13-Jul-2000
Standard Disclaimers apply.
Two strong hands reached up and pulled him back onto the bed, insistently, gently. The scent of sex and hot wax pervaded their room, candles set up around the bed flickering in the darkness. The pink velvet curtains[1] were drawn, leaving only a crack of light to play on the contours of their bodies.
Pant pant. "Quatre..." Trowa mumbled something unintelligible under his breath, one arm thrown over his eyes as the blonde's fingers worked magic over his body, tracing little hearts on his stomach absently with one finger. Quatre lay on his side next to the brown-haired pilot, watching his lover's body respond to the soft caresses.
"Mm?" A flicker of blue in the shadows turned towards him, and Trowa knew he had Quatre's attention when the teasing finger ceased. The Arabian boy gathered him up into his arms, taking care not to hold him too tightly, but instead raining a storm of light kisses on his back and strong shoulders.
"Do you think Heero's right?" Upon hearing the pilot of Wing Zero enter into the conversation, Quatre's eyes immediately zeroed in on Trowa. There was something about Heero that made Quatre uneasy; that made his uchuu no kokoro uneasy, to be exact.
"Heero has his own problems," Quatre answered vaguely. He'd seen the way Duo looked at him, no better than Relena, as if he were a new toy to be explored and then tossed aside. "Do you think he's right, Trowa? Do you believe that we are only soldiers? That we can only kill and destroy?" He snuggled closer to Trowa, nuzzling his cheek with his nose. It was left unsaid that Quatre believed the answer to be no.
They made love for the second time that day, hesitant, and desperate. As they rested on Quatre's bed, satin sheets pulled up to their waist, hands twined, Trowa stared up at the ceiling, listening to Quatre speak in gentle, soothing tones. They both knew that it didn't matter exactly *what* he was saying; what mattered was that someone was speaking to Trowa. Not about him, as if he weren't even more substantial than thin air, and not speaking down to him.
He wondered what he would do without Quatre. There was a part of him that knew he could only cause the petite Arabian more suffering, more pain. He believed Heero was correct; they were soldiers, and for now, their only place was in the heat of battle, sweat-soaked and focused, eyes drilling the targets. That was their life and their only reality. Quatre didn't understand that, and Trowa hoped he never would.
The blonde boy was changing him. He'd lost his edge, the hardness that made him invulnerable to fear and to anger. The day before, he had cut his finger on a kitchen knife and swore loud enough to rock the walls of the house. A small thing, but it was disturbing to him to see how much of an effect Quatre had on him. 'Be silent, be deadly,' they had told him. It was the only way he knew. His training seemed to have been flushed down the toilet; all he wanted to do was spend time with him, screw the damn mission. Quatre was a bad influence.
Yet Trowa also knew that if Quatre ever died, Trowa would follow with a swiftness that rivaled Heero's. What was the point of laughing, when no one was there to cherish its sound? Why would Trowa want to love when his heart was gone? Either way, Quatre had changed him in a way that was very permanent, very real. He wanted to love him back with all the heart he still possessed, and he wanted to run away and hide in the comfort of the dark.
Damned if he did...
End
Note: [1] Mini, Mini, look what you've done to me...
Ariana and Bianca
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