stupid yaoi fangirl

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_OuaF, Alexander & dérivés
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_loup.garoux@hotmail.fr
_AIM doctorouaf

oh man oh god oh man oh god.



He was – how did they say already ? – a riddle, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a suit of the wrong color and so many lies that calling him a liar was like calling a bird a flying thing. It was part of him, really – like sniping, except with words instead of bullets, which sounded terribly like the beginning of a lame poem.

Lame poetry fitted him, though. Lame French poetry. Sometimes he muttered something – and of course it was French, so it made no sense to him whatsoever – but he could swear it rhymed in some way. Poems, or songs, he couldn't tell; couldn't ask either, because why would he ask such things ? After all, they weren't lovers. They weren't even friends to begin with.

But sometimes, when they would lay together on the bed, or on the floor, after what he seemed to like calling a very well played conversation, and he would smoke a cigarette or two, or three – something that Sniper couldn't even try to understand, because as much as he tolerated it, lies and cigarettes seeming to come in the package along with the rest, he hated how much he smoked – they would stare at each other for some time. And then there was this time when Spy said something like, love is war, except he said it in French and all Sniper could remember afterwards was how rough and unpleasant guerre sounded compared to the sweet purring of war. He decided to ignore the love part; it was way too complicated to think about, and he had no time for it. He was a Sniper after all; and what he had to think about was sniping, instead of what is acceptable and isn't in terms of loving and/or having sex with the enemy. Spy could think about it on his own. He seemed to enjoy it.

And enjoying it he did; it was as if he could write essays and novels about the consequences of what they were doing. He didn't seem to mean it, though; but Sniper didn't like it either way, and when it was made clear that the only way to make him stop was to kiss him, he started to wonder if he wasn't doing it on purpose. Screwing with his mind, as much as with his body, was apparently his favorite pastime, among others which included smoking, cloaking and uncloaking for no reason, and disguising as him. It was disconcerting, staring at someone who was an exact copy of yourself; and when Sniper had asked why he would always disguise as him, instead of, say, Medic or Engineer, which would have been useful for what he had to do, Spy would always answer, his eyes glittering – or rather, Sniper's eyes – that he liked his body. It was disconcerting; but one could get used to it. Had to, aswell.

Sometimes Spy would tell him how similar their “works” were; how they both relied on strategy. And sometimes Spy would stare at him for a long time, and then ask, his voice so very low : “Why do you keep on killing my teammates ?”

He would say it with a smile, as if it was some sort of joke, but to them it wasn't. Killing wasn't a joke; killing could never be a joke. Killing was their existence.

“They're not only your teammates, they're also my enemies.”

“Then what are you going to do when I'll be ze only one left, love ?”

It was disconcerting – but he was used to it by now – how someone who would give stupid French nicknames to everyone would decide to call him “love”. He tried not to think about it.

Neither did he think about what he was, indeed, going to do then.

Or maybe he did. But it didn't matter; for everyone who was killed would be, sooner or later, replaced. Spy, he couldn't help thinking, couldn't be replaced. But that wasn't a thought he could think. He wasn't in love with his enemy.

But if he wasn't then, what was it ? With his sniper, he could see pretty much anything anyone was doing at any time. And he could see Spy – talking with members of his own team, laughing, smoking, always smoking; except sometimes “talking” was the wrong word, and “flirting” was the right one, and if what he was feeling wasn't jealousy, then there was no word for it. Never did he talk about it to Spy; instead, he would find Medic and spend some time with him, listening to him talking and talking about how proud he was of Heavy's performances, and how he liked being a Medic – healing and killing. And Sniper would always know when his friend was going to stop, and notice the look on his face, and say “Iz zere somezing vrong ?”; and he would always leave right before this moment.

That, too, was strategy.


The others knew, he thought; how could they not ? Sniper couldn't be sure, of course, but it – their relationship - was so obvious to him that he couldn't imagine how they wouldn't notice.

Scout, above all, was the most suspicious. Spy didn't hold him in his heart, and hinted several times that if he wasn't such a speedy midget, he would have killed him a long time ago. Scouts were, indeed, quick little buggers, but when he wasn't busy spying on them – if spying was the proper word since, as Spy liked to point out, he failed terribly at it – he was quite nice, and even funny, in a dumb way, but funny nonetheless. Spy didn't find him funny, only annoying; and Sniper could have sworn spotting, on multiple occasions, the glittering of a butterfly knife very close to Scout's back. Scout always seemed to dodge; whether it was conscious or not, neither of them knew.

Betrayal tasted like crap, no matter what Spy pretended. Sniper felt ill at the idea that someone could find out about them; but, as they say, resistance was futile. He couldn't refuse when Spy started kissing his ears and neck and lips; and he couldn't tell him about his doubts and his fears, because he was a Sniper, and he was a man, and he didn't want to sound like a pussy. What he did instead was avoiding the topic, and he was pretty efficient. Spy didn't mind, and didn't ask, probably because he noticed how tense Sniper was when he would mention it.


Sniping was easy. Lying wasn't; for him at least.

“Am pretty sure I can guess whether ya're tellin' the truth,” he told Spy once.

Spy smiled, obviously finding the idea amusing. “Ah oui ? Let's try it zen. I will say something and you'll 'ave to tell me if I'm lying, or not.”

They were bored; the night was young and the day had been particularly hard. Medic had died on Sniper's side, killed by no less than the enemy Medic, a fact that Spy had found rather ironic. But he had made no comment, considering the friendship he knew Sniper had shared with the doctor.

Sniper nodded.

“Three words,” Spy said, raising three fingers of his right hand.

“Go ahead.”

“I love you .”

That, Sniper thought, was definitely betrayal. The finest sort of backstabbing. He didn't say a word for a long time, several minutes that started to feel like hours, and he could feel Spy's eyes, staring at him, waiting for his answer.

“Ya're lyin',” he ended up mumbling.

Spy was smiling again, but his smile was tender, and Sniper couldn't tell if it was worse, or better.

“Now, who's lying to who ?”

Good point.

There was another silence, and Sniper couldn't find any good line to throw at Spy – neither could he, actually, look at Spy's face anyway. The French man was still smiling, he was sure of it, but what he wasn't sure about was whether he could handle it. It was stupid – and disconcerting – for a man who could stare at someone until he had the perfect angle to put a bullet in his head. He didn't care about them. He did care about Spy, as much as he tried to deny it.

Spy took a cigarette from his disguise kit and lighted it. He stood perfectly still for another moment, and then he spoke again.

“'ow is 'eavy dealing with Medic's death?”

Sniper looked up. Spy was looking somewhere between the gunman's right shoulder and his right ear, but it was obvious that he wasn't paying attention.

“Guy's devastated,” Sniper grumbled, glad that at least they changed topic. “They were pretty close, y'know.”

And there was that smile again, another smile, slightly bitter. He caught a glimpse of a silvery light, somewhere in Spy's hand.

“Do you want me to-” Spy began, but he didn't give him a chance to finish.

“Who d'ya think ya are, the reaper ?” Spy wasn't smiling anymore, but he decided not to notice it. “D'ya find it romantic, dyin' right after the one ya loved ?”

There was a sound he didn't like, the sound of a butterfly knife. It was the sound of betrayal and deceit. But Spy was merely putting it back in his coat. Their eyes met.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Spy murmured.

He had cloaked and left before Sniper could get a chance to say a single word. What had happened exactly, he wasn't sure, but it looked – sounded, tasted - like an argument. Oh, they had had arguments, that wasn't new, but that was a new kind of arguments, a kind that he didn't like at all. The serious, we-are-lovers-now kind.

Maybe Spy, being able to switch side whenever he wanted, wasn't however able to realize the implications of being enemies and lovers at the same time. Sniper did. He did it the best he could.

The day after, Spy didn't come. Sniper headshot the enemy Medic.


Daily life seemed wrong without Medic, and Heavy's grief soon contaminated the whole team. He was pleased that Sniper had killed the man who took away his lover from him, but that wasn't enough. He didn't put as much passion in battle, he didn't care as much about how many people he killed, he didn't sing Russian songs to scare off enemies anymore. He was eating less, too, which probably was the most obvious and alarming proof of the impact Medic's death had on him.

Spy remained, ironically, invisible. Sniper could still see him sometimes, hanging out with his team – and sometimes he was sure Spy was looking in his direction, but it only lasted ten seconds so maybe it was just a stupid hallucination made up to overcome the fact that it had been three days since he had seen him face to face, a fact that he totally didn't care about anyway – but he never crossed the borders between the BLU base and the RED base. How could he, Sniper kept thinking bitterly, after admitting that he loved him ? He was now certain that Spy had lied about lying. It was to be expected.

On the fourth day, Heavy was killed.

He was not mourned, not even by Sniper; instead, they all considered it was for the better, and hoped that they would get a new pair of Medic and Heavy, one that would be even more efficient. It was war, after all.

That evening, Spy uncloaked in Sniper's van, almost killing him in the process.

“Wh- what are ya doin' here ?!” Sniper shouted at the silhouette sitting on his bed. Spy sighed.

“Tu me manques,” he answered; but of course, to Sniper, it was nothing but gibberish.

He sat next to him, careful not to touch him. He didn't know if he was glad or if he was angry, but he was relieved.

“What the hell does that mean ?” he asked. “That French shit ya just said.”

Spy shrugged. He looked tired, and maybe even a little sad. As much as he liked to see him again, Sniper couldn't help noticing how his return coincided with a death they had talked about before it happened. He opened his mouth to ask, but then he closed it.

The gesture made Spy smile. Sniper decided that he was mad at him.

“Did ya kill our Heavy ?” He tried to put as much anger as he could in the question, but failed, as proved by the sheer amusement he noticed in Spy's eyes. “D'ya think this is funny ? Cause it isn't.”

“It is,” Spy denied, shaking his head slowly.

This was definitely worth proper anger. Sniper didn't give himself a chance to think it twice; he punched Spy in the face. Just like that.

It felt really good. Spy's nose was bleeding, and he looked genuinely surprised.

“That was for leaving me,” Sniper grunted. He tried to punch him again, but Spy cloaked before he got a chance to get him. He felt his body brushing his arm and managed to grab something invisible, trying to prevent him from leaving.

Seeing as Spy had stopped moving as soon as he had felt the touch, Sniper stood up and tried to guess where he actually was. He found a hand, and an arm, and a shoulder. He put his hands on both sides of Spy's face, and Spy uncloaked with a faint noise. His eyes appeared first, and they were staring into Sniper's.

The moment didn't last; Sniper pushed Spy on the bed and sat on top of him. He didn't seem to mind.

“Did ya kill our Heavy, yes or no ?” he asked again. Spy smiled. He had missed that smile.

“Do ze ozers know I am 'ere ?”

Sniper tried to put more weight on his body. “Answer the question.”

“Did you tell zem about us ?”

“Answer the bloody question !” Sniper snapped. The fact that Spy didn't seem to care about their position, the blood pouring from his nose or how angry he was was making him even angrier.

“Answer mine first.”

“I asked my question first.” Spy gave him a look that said, don't be so childish. “Why would I tell them about us ?” Sniper gave up with a sigh. “They'd fuck us up if they knew. Both of us. Did ya kill Heavy ?”

Nonchalantly – or, well, as nonchalantly as the situation allowed him – Spy put his hands behind his head.

“If I say oui, are you going to punch me again ?”

“I'll punch ya again if you don't answer me right now,” Sniper responded, as calmly as he could. Spy rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling.

“Soldier killed 'im.”

“Did ya tell Soldier to kill him, then ?” Sniper insisted. This time, the question seemed to make Spy at least a little uncomfortable.

“My tongue may 'ave... slipped, yes. Your Heavy seemed so miserable, it was just a matter of time before he-”

He was interrupted by a growl, most likely coming from Sniper, who stood up, setting him – and his breathing – finally free. Spy took one, two, three deep breaths, and looked up. All he could see now was Sniper's back, staring at the other side of the van. “Are you okay, love ?” he asked.

“If I died, would ya ask someone to kill ya ?”

Oh, right.

He had almost forgotten about that. He massaged his stomach – the man did have some weight. He'd rather not imagine how much Heavy weighted... and how him and Medic managed to do anything at all. He picked up his Spytron from his coat's pocket and lighted a cigarette.

“Don't smoke in the van.” Sniper's voice sounded unusually calm, especially after what had happened. “And answer the question.”

Spy sighed and took a smoke anyway. He didn't like where this was going. He liked when Sniper was angry, and when he was shouting at him, and even when he was punching him. He touched his nose. It was broken, but nothing his new Medic couldn't fix.

He took another smoke, thinking. Sniper hadn't moved, his back still turned. Spy wondered what was so interesting wherever he was looking that he would stare at it for so long.

“You don't really want zat answer, do you ?” he ended up saying, smoke surrounding his face. Sniper coughed, but he didn't seem to want to look at him still.

“Don't act like ya know me.” Spy frowned. “I'm sick of your lies and all those things ya... I told ya not to smoke in the van !”

Spy waited a bit to see if he was going to turn around and be angry, but nothing of the sort happened. He threw the half-smoked cigarette on the floor and crushed it with his feet. The smoke was still there, though, and of course Sniper couldn't open the door or even the window.

All of this had been a terrible mistake from the start, Sniper kept thinking. He did enjoy the sex, and the warmness of a body next to him in his bed, and the whole this-is-dangerous-what-if-we-get-caught business – there was no denying it, it was exciting - but they were not supposed to be lovers. That was wrong.

And now Heavy was dead and it was partially Spy's fault.

“Love...” Spy tried, but Sniper finally turned around. He seemed to suffer; there was pain in his eyes and somewhere at the corners of his mouth. Spy closed his.

“Would ya die if I died ? Would ya die for me ?” He paused and shook his head. “This is serious,” he added, but Spy already knew that. “I thought... I thought ya knew this, this is war, mate, not... we are enemies, ya know that, right ?”

This was not going to end well, Spy realized, and he tried to smile. He stood up, careful not to look at Sniper's face. Neither of them, actually, was looking at the other; they were merely staring at walls or random objets laying in the van. Spy noticed a newspaper, and there was French written on it, and it was his own.

Maybe Sniper was right.

“I'm sorry,” he said anyway, because he didn't have many occasions to say it.

Sniper growled again, another growl, much softer. Spy tried to walk toward him, but there was something in the tension, something in the air that prevented him from going any further than two steps, maybe three.

“Just... just, get the hell out. And... don't... don't get caught, okay ?”

With a faint – sad, bitter, resigned – smile, Spy cloaked and left.


He missed Spy.

He really did. Sometimes, he was not so sure about what he missed exactly – was it the smile, the unalterable joy taken in the idea of deceiving someone and killing them, the cigarettes (why would he miss that, he didn't know either), the accent ? Or was it just having a companion, someone to sleep with and someone to wake up to, someone with whom he could speak freely ? He tried to find the answer by getting close to some of his teammates; Scout refused at first, but then he seemed tempted, and after all, he was tempting as well. He was so different from Spy, Sniper couldn't help thinking; he was so much more obvious and true and fast, and he was young and restless and there was no way they could talk about the subtleties of their kills or how tired they would feel sometimes, tired of being at war and being a killer or a killed.

He tried to prevent himself from spying on Spy – an idea that he found funny and sad at the same time – but he did anyway; the man seemed to overcome their break-up (a term that he found much more appropriate for stupid teenager drama, but what other word could he use ?) pretty well, what with the laughing and flirting and smoking and backstabbing. Sniper had dreams in which Spy was backstabbing him – hot, dark, disconcerting dreams that would wake him up at three in the morning, sweating and panting, next to Scout.

The new Heavy and Medic were nice guys – as much as a Russian giant and a psychotic doctor could be; but he still missed the former Medic, who had been his first friend, and seeing Heavy always made him feel uncomfortable, reminding him over and over of his last encounter with Spy.

Scout was curious; but he knew when to stop with the pushing and questioning, and of course Sniper couldn't explain to him what was making him so bitter and, as Spy would say, morose. He could never admit that his former lover, the one Scout still noticed in his eyes and on his body, was an enemy; a Spy. Avoiding topics he didn't want to talk about was, slowly but surely, becoming an habit.


It took him some time – days, maybe – to understand that the reason why he was looking out for Spy was because he wanted to make sure he wasn't dead. It was, admittedly, his biggest fear; and more than once did he shoot next to one of his colleagues because Spy was too close and he was afraid he might get shot. The others, obviously, always thought he was trying to shoot Spy. It was for the better.

One day – it had been maybe two or three weeks since he and Spy had seen each other for the last time – he couldn't find the French man anywhere on the battlefield, or on the part of his base he could see. No death were announced this evening, a fact that made him feel much better – something that Scout noticed. They walked to his van in silence, but Sniper could feel that the younger man wanted to ask him what was happening.

Scout sat on the bed and watched Sniper took off his hat and jacket.

“Hey, say,” Scout started, and Sniper did his best to keep his eyes on his desk. “Is there something wrong ? 'Cause you look pretty worked up.”

Doing his best to fake a smile, Sniper shook his head and turned around to face Scout, who didn't seem to believe him. He looked preoccupied.

“Seriously man, what's up?”

Sniper shrugged. “Nothin'.”

For a moment, Scout seemed about to insist, but he let it go and took off his cap and shirt. Sniper looked at him; he couldn't help thinking, what had happened to Spy, where was he, why wasn't he here ? He wanted Spy to be here. He sighed and sat next to Scout, who put his hand on his shoulders to give him a massage, or something like that. Sniper tried to relax, but it was a lost cause. Scout kept massaging him anyway.

“I don't like seein' you like that, dude,” Scout said, in a poor attempt to restart a conversation in which Sniper didn't want to participate. “Did someone you loved die or something ?”

Sniper's hands tightened on the bedsheets. “Nah, what makes you think that ?”

He could feel Scout shrugging without having to look at him. “I dunno. I just think you might be hiding something from me,” he added.

Sniper was about to say something, anything – something like, why would I hide anything from you, or don't be ridiculous, he wasn't sure yet – but he was interrupted by the opening of the van's door. Demoman seemed surprised to stumble upon Scout where Sniper was supposed to sleep, but he made no comment; all he did was make a strange face and hiss between his teeth. He blinked his only eye and groaned :

“Hey, Scout, what are you doing here ? I thought you wanted me to show you some moves.”

There was a moment in which Scout looked puzzled; but then he grinned. His big old grin.

“Yeah, well, I changed my mind bro. Can't you see we're busy here ?

With another hiss, Demoman frowned; but he shrugged and closed the door. Sniper couldn't take his eyes off Scout – which was difficult, considering the younger man was still behind him, both hands resting on his shoulder. He moved away from him to stare. Scout noticed but didn't say a word.

Instead, Sniper noticed a faint glittering in his eyes. Oh no you-

“Hey, Scout, what was it Demoman wanted to show ya ?”

Scout shook his head, his smile still wide.

“I don't even know, man. You know he's always half drunk anyway.”

“He seemed pretty clean t'me,” Sniper argued. They looked at each other for a moment – Sniper counted to forty-six in his head – and then there it was again, the glittering. He stood up so violently Scout almost fell to the floor.

The young man didn't even get the chance to protest or sit again properly; Sniper was already on him, pinning him on the bed. He could see his eyes, darkened by anger, behind his glasses.

“Stop torturin' me !” Sniper shouted before letting himself think whatever he was going to say. Scout's eyes were wide, but they were still glittering, like the eyes of someone who was pulling a particularly fun prank on someone else.

“What the fuck, man ! Let me go !” He tried to get away but Sniper was putting all his strength, all his weight in his arms in order to keep him at rest.

“What did ya do to Scout ?” he asked. Scout rolled his eyes, but then they weren't his, and Sniper felt his heart beat faster.

The noise was huge and ugly, and Sniper was certain he was doing it on purpose. But there he was, finally, the same bloody smile, the same bloody suit and the same. bloody. disguise kit. He resisted the urge to punch Spy in the face, because it sure as hell didn't work so well last time.

“I thought you were better than that at disguisin',” Sniper growled. Growling was something Sniper only did for Spy, as far as he knew; it was disconcerting. “What did ya do to Scout ?”

Spy's smile widened but he closed his eyes. He had planned this for days. Oh, everything wasn't going as smoothly as he had decided, but after all, he didn't expect Sniper to cry tears of joy when he'd saw him. Even love couldn't make you that dumb.

“I see you like zem young now,” Spy remarked, his accent as annoying as Sniper remembered it – or was annoying the right word ? “I should 'ave backstabbed zat jerk long ago.”

Of course, Spy had always hated Scout. Maybe, Sniper realized, maybe this was the reason why he chose Scout out of all the others. Because Spy wouldn't have been as jealous of Scout as Medic, Soldier or anyone else. The idea stroke him as both satisfying and disconcerting. He didn't like relying so much on what Spy thought.

This may mean that he loved him, too. He let him go and sat next to him, waiting for him to do the same. The French man was surprised that he gave up so soon; but then he sat too, massaging the shoulders Sniper had pushed so hard into the bed with his hands.

“Did ya kill him ? He was a nice kid,” Sniper insisted bitterly. “If ya killed him, I'm gonna kill ya.”

“Are you now ?” Spy smiled, but Sniper didn't want to look at him. “I merely... well, put 'im to sleep. 'e tried to... bonk me wiz 'is bat, but failed miserably. I should 'ave killed 'im for sucking so bad, but zen I thought you'd be mad at me if I did.”

Oh, how lovely. Spy tried to touch him – was he trying to comfort him ? - but Sniper moved farther away from his hands, and his body, and his voice – but he couldn't escape from his voice.

“Heavy died 'cause of ya, I'm already mad at ya.” It was so childish, and they were both aware of it; everybody had grown out of Heavy's death by now, and everyone was glad he went back to his doctor when he died. This was war. They knew death would happen. It had already happened. It would happen again.