August 26, 2000
Oi...^^; We usually don't write Q and T...eh... ^_^ Help?
AKLW and BCLW
for alma! :D *hugs* happy b-day.
the idea was all hers. we just fleshed it out a bit. and made it
backwards.
song written by real life
pairing: 3x4/4x3
warnings: this got angsty. real angsty.
do you believe in heaven above
His breath came hot and heavy in his helmet, suffocating him with his own moist exhalations. There was something wet and warm dripping down his side, soaking his flight suit. Every bone in his small body ached fiercely, throbbing painfully with the impact of the sudden and forced descent. Even now, he braced himself for the soft whining of a thermal blaster or the roar of a mobile suit, looming up behind him, taking him down and out.
Quatre could make out the soft shifting horizon of the desert, caressed by the changing winds, could see the red sunset. So beautiful; it made him ache for his homelands.
He laid there forever, his ribs straining against the harness straps, afraid to move, afraid not to move. In a strange way, part of him believed that if he simply closed his eyes, he would find himself back in his bed, warm and satisfied, snuggled next to his lover.
Trowa... He didn't even realize he'd said the name aloud. Fighting back a wave of panic that crested over his chest, tightening in a painful grip on his heart, he reached down and began to unbuckle the harness.
do you believe in love
They lay together, sweaty, tendons tied into pleasantly uncomfortable knots, only the sides of their bodies touching. "Trowa," began Quatre, running his fingers through the brown-haired boy's bangs. It was only one of a few casual touches he allowed the blonde. Even that sent giddy tremors through him, knowing that he, and only he, was able to see him so vulnerable.
Though it may have seemed like nothing to another, it meant worlds to him. He swallowed thickly, as if trying to force a stone down his slender throat, and sighed.
"What?"
don't tell a lie don't be false and untrue
"Nothing." Overhead, the moon devoured the darkness and grew fuller before his eyes. A wolf, a predator, stalking. Now Trowa's almost hazel eyes opened, glowing in a feline way in the soft grayness that surrounded their bed, a physical manifestation of the afterglow they both felt.
"You were going to say anything." Quatre blinked at the strange wording. "Weren't you?"
"No," he lied, wrapping a loose arm over Trowa's flat belly, tracing the faint silver-white lines with curious fingers. "I love your scars," said the blonde honestly, trying to make a karmic balance. His love snorted incredulously, but as he spoke, his voice almost trembled.
"I know."
it all comes back to you
If he had been able to curse as colorfully as Duo, as passionately as Wufei, as fluently as Trowa, he might have. There was no room for comparison, so he simply bit his lip and pulled hard again at the canvas straps. They fell away without notice; Quatre fell to the front of the cockpit, landing on his bruised front.
Ignoring the molten fire seeping its way through his stomach, so hot it turned to ice, he pulled himself up by the bar over the screen, his fingers slipping as sweat from his own hands greased the bar. So close... His fingers reached for the metal wheel that would open the emergency escape hatch; the normal one was blocked off with sand. Almost as if feeling its pilot's pain, Sandrock lay prostrated on its stomach.
Again...
open fire!
Clenching his teeth and wincing as he felt some large muscle in his side tear, Quatre hauled himself up, laying on hard metal paneling for a moment as he caught his breath. It eluded him as surely as sand eludes the shore, melting to its demanding embrace but never bowing.
He watched the stars through burning eyes. Tears! What was he crying for? Furiously, Quatre scrubbed the offending moisture with one gloved hand, gasping as a bit of sand caught in one blue eye. "Allah..." How pathetic, that he could only offer a prayer to a God he had forsaken with his relationship with Trowa.
on my burning heart
"I've got a mission in the morning," said Quatre, making a face as several strands of wispy blonde hair stuck to his cheek. Trowa remained silent; he cursed himself for wondering if the boy was even concerned, if he even cared if he came back alive. That's the moon talking, he told his whispering voices.
i've never been lucky in love
Quatre felt around his abdomen, looking for the wound that had leaked all of that blood, had betrayed him with its weakness. It was a long, horizontal slash with small pieces of glass and one large slice of shrapnel, giving it a thorned look.
The thorns on the stem, he thought faintly as he reached down and yanked one of the largest pieces of glass.
His cry of pain echoed through the night.
my defenses are down
His brow was furrowed in agony as he shifted on his back, trying to avoid the worst of the pressure bruises. He'd bound his cuts with the silk of the parachute tucked under his seat; it had been a long time recovering from the agony of climbing back out of his Gundam.
Using a bit of foresight, he had attempted to contact one of the other pilots, one of the Maguanacs, while in the cockpit, but to no avail. Sandrock had no energy stores left for even a short SOS He was on his own.
"I can do it," he said firmly, then promptly burst into tears.
a kiss or a frown
They were lined up to see him go, some twitching nervously, others yawning with the glaze of disturbed sleep. It was early in the morning; the children were still asleep in their beds, except for one colicky baby that cooed and sucked its thumb. Rashid towered over him disapprovingly.
"I must go on my own," said Quatre quietly, not budging. "It would be wrong to endanger your lives as well." To emphasize, he let his soft gaze fall over the woman trying to shush her child, her breasts heavy with milk, her head wrapped hastily in a white silk square. They were so devoted to him; he could not let that trust go misplaced.
"As you wish." He stepped back, head bowed, refusing to look him in the eye. Anxiously, the blonde quickly scanned the crowd and his face fell for only a moment before he stiffened and began to climb into the cockpit of his Gundam.
I can't survive on my own
"It shouldn't matter if Trowa was there," said the blue-eyed boy aloud. "It shouldn't."
if a boy walks in and carves his name in my heart
Allah, he couldn't remember training hurting that much. Lying spread-eagled on his Gundam's back, he waited for the heavy velvet curtain of sleep to draw. Even as the darkness began to seep into his mind, his side would flare up, or his back would ache again. As if designed to torture him.
"My Nanashi," he whispered, wrapping his sleeveless jacket around him tighter. It provided little physical warmth; it was all mental. Someone's arms around him, touching him, holding him, taking away the pain...
I'll turn and run away
"Ow!" hiccuped Quatre, locking his jaw as Trowa finished tending the last of his bruises. His green-eyed companion was watching him expectantly, waiting for him to declare the job acceptable or inferior. He had a feeling more rested on his next words than the meaning of a simple thank you.
"Y-you..." And his tongue, his breeding, his manners all failed him. What could he say that would not sound dramatic and overblown, a simple indulgence of the wealthy? //I know you.// "...I thank you. More than you'll ever know." He held his breath, feeling the skin all over his body flush as the other pilot wiped a tear from his eye.
Trowa's hand came away bloody, reflecting his own visage in its color. It was not a tear, then. "You're hurt," said the blonde eagerly, wanting to return the favor, to feel that smooth, edged skin under his hands. "Let me help you--"
"I'm fine," said Trowa fiercely, drawing back, fading into the shadows. Feeling embarrassed, although he could not ascertain why, Quatre stumbled from the room, tripping over his own feet like a hobbled colt.
every day we've all been led astray
His left eye, the one he had unknowingly rubbed sand into, began to swell later that night. He, deciding to forfeit the beauty of the night sky to the necessity of constant visits to the cockpit, dropped down into the seat, rummaging around for his first aid kit.
His fingers met cool liquid, and for a moment, his mind blanked out in shock. What was liquid doing in his first aid pack? The pilot shoved his hand further under the seat, finding and pulling out the plastic box. The cold compress, he needed the--
The liquid *was* from the ice pack. He cried out in alarm, wiping the liquid nitrogen onto the control panels, trying to ignore the burning in his hand. The skin was red and irritated, and his eyelid was still threatening to completely close. He would not be able to defend himself with one good eye.
Feeling doom's drums sounding in the distance, Quatre slumped down into the seat and fell asleep awkwardly. He dreamed.
it's hard to be lucky in love
"He hasn't been back yet?" Some unnamed promise glittered in the lean pilot's eyes. The Maguanac shook his head, only breaking eye contact long enough to blot the sweat from his forehead. "I see." With that, he spun on his heel and stalked out of the hangar.
His mind was racing, calculating, plotting. He'd been gone only a few hours more than necessary; perhaps he'd stopped for repairs at some remote base.
Why, his mind demanded, why wouldn't Quatre just head back to the Maguanacs' base? It made no sense. The little blonde, while not ruthless enough to be a true soldier, was quick-witted and knew enough that he should have come right back. For Trowa's peace of mind, if not for repairs.
it gets in your eyes
His head fell forward in dismay as a quick scan of the surrounding desert gave no signs as to his whereabouts. Trowa's eyes itched; he reached up to rub the sleepiness from them and encountered moisture, thick like pearls.
"I'm not crying," he said, taking off once more. The rumble of the engine drowned out the rest of his words. "I'm not." Clouds loomed overhead like watchful gods; he soared through them, his flight path determined, his heart racing in time to the irregular thumps as Heavyarms hit turbulence.
it's making you cry
A voice crackled over the intercom. For a moment, he thought the sweet alto was Quatre, that it had all been some nonsensical joke. His first reaction was joy, not anger, fading into hopelessness as he realized it was just that foolish Maguanac.
"Come back, Trowa. You're not going to find anything tonight; and there's a sandstorm coming. You need to get back here as soon as you can." The brown-haired pilot frowned, but simply altered his flight plan around the coming storm. Fingers tripped rapidly over flat plastic keys, taptaptaptap.
"Trowa! I'm not fooling around, damn you! You think you're protected in that Gundam? I've seen sandstorms bury houses, bury castles. Why do you think the base was built on a hill? Don't be foolish!" There was a crackle of static, an ominous beep, and then, softly, "...Quatre will be angry..."
don't know what to do
He froze, eyes flickering back and forth, from the vidscreen, where all appeared to be well, to the tiny window where he could see malevolent winds whipping up sand devils to be reckoned with. And in the end, it was the thought that if anything happened to Quatre, if he died, if he died...
don't know what to do
Trowa didn't let himself think about that. There was only Quatre, only silent blue smiles and that impossible soul, brilliant enough to blind a shadow. His blood burned, his lungs ached for his air. No, he supposed, there was not other plausible option but success.
you're looking for love
You're Quatre.
You're possibly wounded, probably few fuel supplies left, judging from the thermal blaster heat marks scorching the sand. Little ammunition, no radio. Heavyarms inspected the black box that held Quatre's comm-link, blasted from the back of his Gundam, and Trowa shook his head.
You're in familiar territory, but not close enough to make it back to the base. You touch down in the desert...
calling heaven above
"Allah..." It seemed like forever since he'd crash-landed in the desert... Quatre took a deep breath and regretted it as his side whimpered painfully. His nerves had probably all shriveled up and died, he thought almost joyfully. No pain, then.
It was unbearably hot, even for the desert. He shifted on the seat, wincing as the skin of his thighs stuck to the vinyl material. He'd shed his clothing, opting for something heat resistant.
Closing his eyes, he began one of his favorite passages from the Qu'ran, one he had a vague memory of his sister half speaking, half singing. Theirs was a joyful language of soft keening pitches and silence-splitting wails, one that was unforgettable and pure.
send me an angel
"Aren't you coming for me, Trowa?" Somehow, it seemed false to call him Friend Trowa. Trowa was no friend of his. Trowa was leaving him alone to rot in the desert, heat-stroke, dehydration and all.
Parts of Quatre, the parts that ordered his enemies to surrender or fall before his blazing scimitars, knew that he was feverish, hungry and hurt. His wound had gone white-ish red around the edges, a sign that infection had set in. If he'd had any water, he could have cleaned it, but that didn't really matter either. If Quatre had found water, he would have drunk it, letting the liquid trickle down his throat like foaming water down a waterfall.
send me an angel
How many times, thought Trowa dully, how many times had he circled that one oasis, convinced Quatre was there? He half expected a sudden blast of yellow light to fly past his Gundam, missing by spare inches.
Quatre would have gotten down onto his knees, facing Mecca, the holiest of cities, one of the only Muslim holy grounds that had been allowed to exist in the Christian revolution before the Colonies' time, and prayed to Allah. Trowa did not believe in God. He had no faith and no religion in a deity that would allow mankind to stray so far from the lush path of Eden.
So he got down on his knees and prayed anyway, because he had faith in Quatre, faith in that bloody angel chasing the line between black and white, following it into gray. He prayed, and his prayer began like...
I, who have no faith...
right now, right now
Quatre had once visited the remains of a city demolished by earthquakes with his father. He had seen the victims, black and white and gray with dust from the cinder block buildings. One woman had looked healthy. She was dead, though.
He learned that when one laid horizontally for a long time, pressed beneath such weight, the lactic acid began to build up in their bodies, and that could eventually kill one such person, giving a painful end. Quatre wondered dully if that would be his death, or if Allah would not be so merciful to one that had lost faith.
...in cities long since crumbled and decayed...
Empty dreams can only disappoint
He had no false illusions. This was more likely than not, barring a miracle, his death. He had lived a full but short life. He'd had a kind lover, a lover that never doubted him silently as Quatre had. He'd been privileged and empowered, poor and powerless. He'd touched both sides of the coin and discovered it was a triangle, it was sideless, it was shapeless. Life was indescribable and best left that way.
"I've lived a good life," he whispered, still hoping Trowa would make a miraculous rescue like the ones from the trash TV Duo watched. 'Woman extracted from 50-foot deep well'...
...instead leave my trust at your feet...
in a room behind your smile
He could see him now.
Those shining hazel eyes tinted towards green, watching him steadily, his body moving gracefully, led by his narrow hips like a leashed dog. And he would stretch out a hand... Quatre yawned. He was so tired. But...oh yes, Trowa, Trowa would give him that special smile that meant he either wanted to make love for hours or he was telling him that he loved him.
"I love you too."
...though you are not my God...
but don't give up
Have to keep awake, he thought, all too aware that this was his final sleep. Have to keep moving... He stretched restlessly, his foot cramping deeply. Somehow, that aching pain helped to take his mind off the darkness waiting below.
...though I am not your child...
don't give up
you can be lucky in love
It was coming. He heard the shrieking sound of sand being pounded against metal, ducked his head instinctively, though he knew nothing could tear through Gundaniam alloy save a strong thermal blade. Trowa ran his fingers over the screen, willing it to divulge Quatre's hiding place.
All he could do was wait the storm out, and pray that it didn't bury Quatre alive.
...I ask you to safeguard the one who *is* your child...
it gets in your eyes
He watched with blank detachment as the white crystals piled higher and higher, rising far above the large dunes scattered across the moon's width. They seemed larger than life, terrible titans that would fall at any moment and crush him beneath their weight. He had no doubt about it; he had to leave the atmosphere for a few hours, wait out the storm.
...who regards you as his God and Father...
it's making you cry
"Not crying."
//I'm not crying.//
Quatre laid his head on the arm rest, counting the seconds. Sleep with its gold-tipped hands came.
...make the sky a blanket...
don't know what to do
Descending, he thought automatically, then frowned. It would take more, more than he had, than he was. He needed to find Quatre; he needed to find himself. The blackness rushed by him, heady and trembling. Trowa's fingers moved slowly over the tiny keypad, checking weather conditions. The sandstorm was almost over. He could only hope that Sandrock hadn't been completely hidden beneath.
Time to assess damages.
...and the earth a bed...
don't know what to do
He circled again and again, feeling like a vulture. No signs of Quatre anywhere, like he had disappeared from the face of the earth. Inside, hesitance warred with fear, swords clashing. //He could be back at the base, wondering why you're such a baka,// he scolded himself. Or... Or he could be beneath tons of sand, frightened and dying. What a choice.
He circled five more times, telling himself after every pass that it would be the last. And suddenly, his breath caught in his throat. God, how..?
...make the mountains his fortress...
you're looking for love
Quatre was warm. There was something warm over him; he could feel the heat radiating off from it. Blinking glazed eyes open, he was startled to find a green-eyed vision looming above, hands planted firmly to either side of him. "This is a dream, isn't it?" he asked, the tiniest smile gracing his pale face.
"Quatre," whispered the angel, "Quatre..." Then fingers were gently lifting him off the seat, wrapping him in something silky and soft; his shirt. It smelled like him, faintly musky and sweaty. "Let's get you out of here," he sighed.
calling heaven above
"I'm not dead?" inquired the blonde dizzily, smiling as Trowa nuzzled his hair affectionately. He felt like pinching himself, but could not find the strength to raise his hand. "I'm not dead," he said aloud.
"Of course not," scolded Trowa, shifting Quatre on his hip. The Arabian gasped aloud as his wound rubbed against coarse fabric. "You're wounded," he said nearly inaudibly.
"I'm fine," said Quatre stubbornly.
"You might have died."
"I know."
send me an angel
"How am I not dead?" wondered Quatre as Trowa began to climb out the emergency exit. Trowa wondered the same thing. He pressed a button, and a long cord made of some kind of woven metal dropped down. If Quatre craned his neck, he could see Heavyarms flying above on auto-pilot.
"Wouldn't it have just been easier to land?" he asked teasingly.
And Trowa just smiled mysteriously.
...and the sand dunes his guardians in sleep...
send me an angel
As they rose up, Trowa's hold on his waist firm, Quatre could not breathe.
Everywhere he looked, sand was piled in mountains that seemed to stretch up for miles. A sandstorm, he thought, eyes widening. The soft whiteness had formed a barricade around Sandrock, leaving a gaping crater where the Gundam lay. He swallowed as he remembered the stories his father used to tell of sandstorms that entombed men alive in their wake.
Forgive me for not having faith, thought Quatre, and then he disappeared into Heavyarms, losing sight of his Gundam. The Maguanacs would find it later, of that he was confident. Still... He could not stop himself from moving to get one last look at that strange indent in the desert.
A miracle.
Looking down at his sleeping beloved, Trowa echoed those same sentiments silently.
right now, right now.
...amen...
Ariana and Bianca
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