21 March 2001
Category: Romance
Pairing: 3+4/4+3
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Shounen-ai, sap, appropriation (and probable misrepresentation) of culture.
Spoilers: for the end of EW.
Disclaimer: The boys and the Maganacs all belong to Sunrise, the Sotsu Agency, and Bandai, and I intend only to increase their revenues by contributing this derivative work.
Notes: This fic is all Whimsy's fault! *nodnod* She sent me a copy of Shakira's "Ojos Así," and the dancing scene is what I kept picturing while I was listening to it. It's also a birthday present for La Belle Meph, my favorite fogey. (glomps the old lady very gently, mindful of my own rheumatiz) ^_~
/ denotes thoughts
The question was as old as war, as new as the peace: what do the soldiers do when the fighting is over? Trowa had planned--as far as he had bothered to imagine a life past the war--to go back to the circus. To see if the lions remembered him, and test Cathrine's aim. But as the last cinders settled around the burnt-out hulks of what had been three gundams, he found himself following Quatre. Again. All the way from the white marble and green parks of a European capital to the wadis and scrubby trees of the Tuwayq foothills.
Trowa couldn't have explained exactly why this had felt like the right thing to do--but at the moment of decision, when he faced the choice between a spacebound shuttle or a heavy transport plane headed for Arabia, he chose the latter without even hesitating.
When they arrived in the central square of a sweltering desert town, rolling to a stop in a dusty jeep at the head of a column of even dustier trucks, they were greeted by an excited crowd of the Maganacs' relatives and friends. This village had been one of the Corps's home bases, Quatre explained, his eyes warming with memory as he described how he had hidden away here for a while during the first phase of the war. And true to his generous nature, Quatre had brought along a wounded stray that time, too--which explained why an assortment of starry-eyed girls and blushing young men kept coming up to Quatre to ask shyly after his American friend. They smiled shyly at Trowa, too, and seemed only gently puzzled when he turned away from their smiles to seek his room. He climbed resolutely up the stairs, trying to ignore the questioning look that he knew Quatre must be aiming at his back.
Alone at last, Trowa found himself with time to think for almost the first time since the end of the fighting--and hesitation chose that inopportune time to descend on him at last. The certainty that had overridden caution on that grassy hilltop was gone, replaced by a creeping fear that he detested, but seemed helpless to fend off. Why was he here, anyway? No one had seemed surprised to see him, but no one had seemed overjoyed, either; after all, most of these people didn't know him at all. And those who did--the Maganacs who had been with Quatre at that first meeting, all those months ago--had learned early on not to expect overt friendliness from those cool green eyes.
For a moment Trowa wished he had taken that shuttle after all, and found a cruel fascination in presenting himself with a carefully-tabulated list of his own shortcomings. Where Trowa knew himself to be all shifting shadow, restraint and calculation, Quatre radiated light and warmth--sustained by his connections with others, and sustaining them in return. And Trowa knew very well that if like natures sought one another, there were far better matches for Quatre even if you looked only among the other pilots. It was almost too obvious.
/Of course these villagers remember Duo, even though it's been over a year since the two of them were here. Together./ Leaning on the windowsill to look out over the white rooftops, Trowa acknowledged the twist of anxiety in his stomach as jealousy, and refused to let himself look away from the mental image of Quatre and Duo laughing over some bit of silliness only they could appreciate. /But it's not them I'm worried about--what memories are you carrying around, Quatre? And just how old are they?/
For the moment, it didn't even matter that they had seen Duo off on a shuttle to the colonies only days ago, or that he'd been dragging a resigned-looking Chang Wufei with him up the jetway. What mattered was Quatre--what he felt, what he needed, whether he might be missing the easy friendliness (and more? had there been more?) that he had shared with Maxwell. And for all the open sweetness of his smile, Quatre could be as opaque as smoked glass when it came to his deepest feelings.
Raising his eyes to follow the lazy circling of a high-flying bird, Trowa tried to analyze his own fears. Something drew them together--after all this time, Trowa was sure of that much. But he didn't have a name for that something, and had never quite found the words to ask Quatre what that bond meant to him. Now, with the fighting finally over, he should have felt exhilarated at the possibility of finding out for sure--but all he felt, when he permitted himself to feel anything at all, was a sort of cold dread. If Quatre looked up at him with pity shining in those eyes, or guilt, some part of him that had only just learned to live would be dead; Trowa knew this for a certainty. So far, he had managed to delay the confrontation--busy with planning and travel, they had barely spoken to one another since they parted from the others--but it couldn't go on forever. Suddenly tired at the thought of confronting the inevitable, Trowa turned silently away from the window and stretched out on the low bed to find some respite in sleep.
Outside his window, the welcoming throng gradually dispersed. Most of them would spend that first day in private reunion, as sons and daughters returned to the embrace of parents who had awaited their return throughout the long months of war, and other mothers and fathers returned to their own children and homes.
As the evening slid into night, though, the pensive mood turned celebratory. Trowa awoke to the sound of laughter in the street, and spent a moment of total disorientation thinking he was in his circus trailer before realizing that the smells were all wrong. Instead of canvas and diesel fumes and large mammals, there was wood smoke, and roses, and the warm, earthy smell of mud-brick walls cooling with the setting of the sun. He rolled smoothly to his feet, combing his hair out of his eyes with fingers that even sleep could not make clumsy, and splashed rose-scented water on his face at the basin just inside the door before venturing out.
Lamps lit the perimeter of the rectangular open space that was the town's marketplace, parade ground, and general meeting area, and a bonfire blazed just to one side of its central well. The town's entire population seemed to have turned out into the courtyard, singing raucously, joking with one another, and tossing back draughts of a bittersweet honey-and-herb drink that seemed to be something of a mood-elevator, if not strictly alcoholic.
A little group of musicians had set up operations in one corner of the square, tuning up in a businesslike manner before setting to work in earnest. Some of the women gathered into clusters off to the side, whispering to one another and giggling behind their veils, dark eyes flashing in the firelight. Bands of children wove in and out of the crowd at about waist-level, with all the graceful, giddy purposelessness of swallows in flight. Swaggering for the benefit of all those admiring eyes, the Maganacs joined the men from the village in sword-tossing dances, frantic-looking circle dances, raucous free-for-all dances that looked like little more than an excuse to leap and yell. The exuberant relief and joy on those war-weary faces was infectious--but Trowa wasn't to be lured into the revelry, barely smiling when Abdul danced past with a rose tucked behind one ear and another in his teeth, pursued by a
laughing group of admirers.
There should have been enough commotion in the square to keep anyone from noticing one solitary, detached figure on the fringes of the crowd--but Quatre wasn't exactly an ordinary observer, and had always seemed preternaturally aware of Trowa's presence. So it wasn't all that surprising when Quatre looked up sharply from where he had been adjusting a miniature pair of goggles to fit Rashid's youngest son, smiling straight into Trowa's eyes with only a hint of concern in the tilt of his head. Trowa smiled faintly in answer, nodding toward the child to indicate that Quatre needn't tear himself away on his account. Shaking his head in silent remonstration, Quatre dusted off his knees, patted little Jamil on the head, and began to work his way toward Trowa.
His progress was doomed to be slow, though, since everyone he passed reached out to halt him for a toast, an embrace, or just an introduction. Trowa watched from one side of the fire as Quatre moved through the masses of people, greeted again and again by the old friends who had fought beside him for so long. The blond pilot winced, but kept smiling, when people insisted on ruffling his hair, only laughing when they thumped him on the shoulder heavily enough to rock him back on his heels.
Quatre had made it almost all the way past these affectionate roadblocks to Trowa's side when someone called out to him, a laughing stream of Arabic that seemed to be an invitation to join the dancing. Quatre tried to demur, waving a hand in protest, but then someone else caught his other hand and dragged him bodily into the throng. He raised his eyes to Trowa's with an apologetic smile, before disappearing altogether into the mass of waving arms and rhythmically stamping legs.
Trowa settled back against the wall to wait, arms crossed. Waiting was familiar, after all, and almost welcome. He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the remains of the day's warmth in the rough stone at his back. If he listened hard enough, he discovered, he could pick out the distinctive moan of some stringed instrument amid the many voices--not quite a violin, but still a sound familiar enough to bring a slight smile to Trowa's face. He let his mind slide along the intertwined threads of the music, then up to catch the conversation of a flirting couple a few feet away, then out again to let the undifferentiated wave of music and excited voices wash over him. Once, he would have been content to allow the noise and color of a night like this to fill him until he became invisible even to himself--or else he would have tuned it all out with ruthless efficiency, turning inward except for the minimum of watchfulness required for survival.
But neither immersion nor detachment seemed to be possible, now that he had a focal point--even when that point was momentarily obscured by a horde of fezzes.
Among all those dark-haired heads, Quatre stood out--but he also stood at least a head shorter than most of the other men, so he was obscured by shoulders and swinging tunics until a line of sight opened up. Once it did, though, he was mesmerizing to watch. Laughing, tossing his hair out of his eyes, Quatre seemed to be singing along with the half-chanted, half-shouted melody. Firelight caught at his hair and struck sparks in his eyes, the flames claiming him as one of their own.
Trowa realized he was leaning forward, spellbound--barely blinking, even though his eyes burned from the fire's heat, its smoke, and the effort of trying to keep track of that one golden head in the interlocking circles of dancers. When someone pressed a mug into his hands, he gulped the cool, honey-scented liquid with feverish eagerness, then dragged the back of his hand across his mouth--all without moving his eyes from the dancing.
Above the melody, a high tenor voice rose in an urgent, strangely compelling descant. Then the music sped up, and the dancers stomped and whirled even faster--still laughing, still singing when he could gather the breath for it, Quatre danced faster, too. His eyes were closed, head thrown back, wrists describing graceful little twisting movements between claps.
It was more beauty than he could bear. Trowa pressed his eyes shut tightly, then covered them with his hands--but the image still burned in his mind with all the urgency of living flame. He felt himself swaying, and in a moment he would fall--
"Trowa?" Quatre's voice was hoarse from all the singing, but warm with concern. Gentle hands pulled at Trowa's wrists, urging his hands away from his face. "Are you all right? Here, sit down."
Trowa shook his head, refusing to open his eyes even as he was pulled to the left, then eased back until he was sitting on some cool stone surface. Slim, hot fingers slid through his hair, then cupped his face.
"I'm sorry. I didn't think--you must be so tired. Let me--" Quatre turned to call out to someone in Arabic, his roughened voice oddly endearing. "They'll bring some water, all right? Just rest."
Finally trusting himself to open his eyes, Trowa looked down a little to where Quatre knelt between his knees, meeting his worried green-blue gaze. That was supposed to be a cool color, Trowa thought irrelevantly--so why was it making him so warm? Making him hot and dizzy all over again. So hot--
When the promised water arrived a moment later, Trowa almost expected it to vanish into steam when it touched his lips. It didn't, though, not even when Quatre poured a little from the jug into his palms and then smoothed the moisture over Trowa's forehead.
"Better?" He looked so wistful, so worried, that Trowa tried to reassure him.
"I'm fine."
"Don't be silly. You're shaking. Do you want to lie down?"
Trowa couldn't speak, could only stare at into his face, lingering on his mouth. So close, so open--and yet Quatre didn't even know what he was offering, or what dark, secret things Trowa wanted. /I do. I want to lie down with you, and taste you, and--/ He tried to turn away, or at least close his eyes. /Quatre, get away from me. Run until you're safe, and don't look back./
But Quatre's instincts didn't seem to be telling him to heed that warning. Instead of fleeing, he scooted closer on his knees, sliding his hands hesitantly up along Trowa's arms. "You're not all right. Don't you think I can feel that? Tell me, Trowa. Tell me what you need."
Trowa dimly heard himself moan, but was too caught up in those eyes to pull away. His yearning became almost a living thing, moving in the spaces between them. He knew his eyes were pleading, and hated himself for that weakness--but he offered it to Quatre like a tribute, refusing to bow his head. /Please. I can't ask it, not of you, but if you can hear me, somehow--/
"I can hear you." Quatre was smiling, wonder and new confidence shining in his eyes. "I can feel you, anyway. And I'm not afraid, Trowa--not of you, not of myself." He laughed, and the raspy sound was vibrantly beautiful. "I wanted to come to you for so long, but I didn't know how--and all the time, you were trying not to come to me." He leaned close enough to rest his forehead against Trowa's, blinking at him through the curtain of their combined bangs. "We're idiots."
Trowa wasn't quite believing his eyes, let alone his ears. Clearly, Quatre didn't understand the vastness of the gulf between them. /You could have anyone, Quatre. And you deserve so much better than me--/ Hating the necessity of his next words, Trowa set out to articulate all the things that had been clutching at his mind. "I'm not alive inside, Quatre--not like you. You're like a flame, and I'm--" He shook his head. "I'm nothing but deadwood."
It had sounded much more reasonable, much more inescapable, inside his head--the feeble explanation hadn't shaken Quatre a bit. His smile stayed firmly in place, and his bright eyes filled with delicious promise. "Wood burns, Trowa. Let me show you?"
Trowa opened his mouth to protest, but was immediately and delightfully silenced by Quatre's kiss--warm, slightly salty lips parting to invite him into an almost unbearable sweetness, all his senses overflowing with the sheer joy of holding so much light in his arms at last. He couldn't have resisted if he tried, and he decided he didn't really feel like trying.
With a sigh of total abandonment, Quatre slid both arms around Trowa's neck so he could press even closer. Finally free to touch, to hold, Trowa's hands couldn't decide whether to lose themselves in the golden hair, or latch on to the narrow shoulders. He settled on a compromise, cradling Quatre's head with one hand so he could slide the other arm tight around his waist. It was heaven, except for the unyielding stone against his back.
Suddenly reminded of where they were, Trowa tried to straighten up, cupping Quatre's face to kiss him again when the blond made a low, hungry cry of protest. "People will see--"
Recovering enough to understand, Quatre shook his head reassuringly. "No one will care--they know me, they know you, and they know when not to pay attention. And anyway, they have plenty of other things to look at." Now the slow smile was deliberately teasing. "Though if it really bothers you, we can go up to my room--?"
Still trying to encompass all that was happening, Trowa hesitated. "Are you sure? Can you be sure? There's so much you don't know--so much I never--"
Quatre put a hand over his mouth. "Then you'll just have to tell me. One thing at a time."
"One at a time," Trowa echoed, each word a kiss pressed against those intervening fingers. "This is going to take a while."
"Good." Quatre tugged him to his feet, pulling him insistently toward the stairs. "Come on--the nights are chilly out here, and that fire won't last forever."
/Maybe it won't,/ Trowa answered silently. /But I doubt I'd notice./ And then Quatre threw him a laughing, inviting glance over one shoulder, and Trowa felt warmth blossom inside him with a kind of wonder. /Because I think I have all the heat I need./
-end-
I know, I know--I made the end too easy. But I write sap, not angst! Not usually, anyway. And besides, they're so cute that I had to let them get to the snoodling without further ado. ^_____^ Hope you liked it anyway!
(:./lilias/kindling)
