06-May-2006
Title: Soft Focus 1/1
Author: TB
Archive: GWA and
http://www.geocities.com/brother_maxwell/TB_home_page.html
Category: yaoi, get-together fic
Pairing: 3+4+3
Rating: PG
Spoilers: it's post-EW
Disclaimer: The characters of Gundam Wing are used here without
permission from their creators, but are not being used for profit.
Summary: Everyone's hiding something beneath the surface.
He was almost, almost free for the day. It was half after eight and he'd only been supposed to stay until five, and he was looking forward to a dinner of microwaved mash and peas and then a face-forward flop onto his mattress. If anyone interrupted him before at least six o'clock, he would murder them. Or at least yell. Well, probably not even that, but he would resent it soundly.
He had his briefcase packed and his computer shut down and his keys in his hand when the sound he hated most on in all the universe stopped him from stepping away from his desk.
His phone rang.
For a long, blissful second, Quatre imagined walking away as if he hadn't heard it. It was eight thirty. What were the odds that it was a global emergency? Not high. The odds that it was something that would require him to stay later were mighty higher, but they could only catch him if he answered.
It was a lovely dream, but it was short-lived. Resigning himself to regretting it, Quatre dropped his briefcase, sat down in his chair, and answered the ringing beast that occupied the corner of his desk. "Quatre Winner," he said, flicking on visual. Then he gasped. "Trowa!"
"Hi." It was Trowa, offering him a tiny smile from behind that familiar fall of dark brown hair. "How are you?"
They hadn't seen each other face to face in almost three years, since the leaving party Quatre had thrown for him the week he'd resigned from the Preventers. Trowa had packed up his London flat and shuttled off for Space and his sister's circus. Quatre had made an effort, at first, to keep in touch, but it had gotten harder and harder to remember where the circus was going to be that week, and asking Trowa to call him had been the equivalent of tossing a penny into a fountain and wishing for world peace. Quatre couldn't even remember when their last conversation had been.
"I'm good," he managed at last. "I'm so glad you called. It's totally unexpected."
"I guess I'm not very good at that sort of thing," Trowa said, deadpan but for the little twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "Anyway, I wanted to tell you I'm in town."
"You're in London?" Quatre demanded. "When did you get in? Where are you staying? You know you don't need a hotel if you're visiting, you can--"
"I mean I moved back. Last month, actually."
Quatre blinked. "You moved back a month ago, and you're just now calling me?"
Trowa hesitated. An out-of-focus blur bit into the corner of the screen, something Quatre belatedly realised was Trowa's arm, adjusting something on the screen. "I didn't want you to feel obligated to help," he said. "Like offering me your house and your money and your firstborn son."
He had to laugh at that assessment of his character, largely true. "I can understand," he said. "Well-- where are you, then?"
"Isle of Dogs." It was a poor area of the East End, but Quatre wisely refrained from commenting. Trowa could take care of himself, and anyway, he'd known what he was moving into. Trowa seemed to know what he was thinking, because his little smile made a reappearance. "Anyway," he said. "I have a favour to ask."
"Anything," Quatre replied immediately.
Trowa scratched his hair, a foreign look of-- well, Quatre didn't quite know what it was, but it was apparently uncomfortable. "I do photography now," he said. "I've got a studio going in my apartment. I was wondering... if you would let me take some pictures of you."
"Of me?" That stunned him. "Why me?"
"You're the only person in town I really know." He shrugged, a tiny movement of his shoulders. "I've been offered a show in a gallery. I need some supplementary pieces. I thought of you."
"That's great news," Quatre told him truthfully. "Which gallery?"
"Whitechapel."
"Trowa! Whitechapel Gallery! That's amazing!" Whitechapel was famous for springboarding the careers of emerging artists, and if Trowa had a show there, then the photography was clearly not just a hobby to fill spare time. "Sure," he agreed, "I can come to your studio. When would be good for you?"
"I figured it would be more when's good for you," Trowa responded. "Do you ever leave the office?"
He coloured. "I do make periodic attempts at escape." He opened his briefcase and took out his diary. "I can come on Friday of this week. Unless that's too early?"
"It's fine. I'll email my address and the directions."
He crossed out the many meetings he'd had written in for Friday, and blocked Trowa for the entire afternoon. Then he smiled at the screen. "I missed you," he said. "I'm really glad you're back."
"Thanks." Trowa nodded at him. "I'll see you Friday."
"Good night, Trowa."
"Night." He paused. "I missed you too."
Quatre signed off with a hand that trembled a little. He knew he was just imagining the emotion that had seemed to colour that last sentence, hearing what he wanted to hear-- which was more than a long-distance friend returning a hackneyed, if heartfelt, sentiment. Trowa was back in London. And wanted to see him. And had actually picked up the phone to call him. And had initiated what was probably the longest conversation they'd ever had.
He had until Friday to train himself out of blushing every time Trowa so much as glanced at him. The odds weren't looking up.
The camera clicked as Trowa took another picture. "Can you unbutton the top one on your shirt?" he asked, stepping around the camera to examine the flash.
Quatre obeyed. "I didn't realise this was so involved," he said.
Trowa left the camera and came to him instead, fussing with the lay of Quatre's hair over his forehead, using his knuckles to fan his sideburns a little. "You must have had your picture taken before."
"Never like this, really. A photo shoot once with my sisters, but that was mostly about sitting behind a desk and looking professional."
Trowa stepped back to look closely at his handiwork. He seemed satisfied, and returned to his camera. "You're very photogenic."
He laughed a little. "I'm not really sure what that means, to tell you the truth."
"I think it means you always look good." Trowa flashed him a tiny smile, then snapped a picture as Quatre turned pink. "You're nervous?"
Incredibly. "A little," he said.
"Don't be." Trowa adjusted the focus. "I can put on music if it would help."
"Um-- maybe. What do you listen to?"
"I have some classical." Trowa left the camera again and padded on silent feet to the bookcase that held the stereo. He took a handful of discs from the shelf and flipped through them. "I have Dvorak's ‘New World' symphony."
"All right." He watched Trowa load the disc, and tried to relax his shoulders and spine as the music began to play. The opening strains of the adagio filled the room with tender, drawn-out notes sung by clarinet and oboe and bassoon. It was a moody, nostalgic tonality in the e minor key, a low accompaniment to Quatre's own anxious state. Trowa turned up the volume loud enough to drown out any further attempts at conversation, much less his rambling thoughts.
The clicking of the camera was inaudible now. Quatre sat on a stool placed in the centre of an open floor near the large window bay, with nothing particularly screaming "artists' studio" other than the black blanket tacked to the wall behind him and the camera ten feet way. He let his eyes roam the rest of Trowa's small flat, settling variously on the drape of the dark curtains, the framed prints on the walls, the slight sheen of the folds of the chenille throw that lay crumpled on the corner of the couch. The air flow from the vent in the ceiling was creating a slight breeze on the leaves of the potted tree, and the shadows shifted continuously there. The candles lit on the kitchenette table were flickering, and one was smoking too much; while he watched, the melted wax of the purple one spilled over the edge and began to form a pool on the tray. Trowa's home smelled like incense, a strange combination of roses and balsam.
"Quatre."
He jumped. Trowa was standing right in front of, and from the amused expression he wore, had been trying to get Quatre's attention for some time. "I'm sorry," he said belatedly, embarrassed. "What?"
"I asked if you'd be comfortable taking off your shirt."
"My shirt?"
The green eyes were tranquil. "Or just opening it, if not. It's too white."
"Oh." He fumbled for the top button before remembering he'd already undone it. "I didn't realise, I didn't know it would matter. I'm sorry."
"It's all right." Trowa reached out to help him, and Quatre reflexively sucked in his gut when those hands were suddenly in his space. He tried not to think about how long Trowa's fingers were as he unbuttoned from the bottom, and he dropped his own hands very quickly when they reached for the middle button at the same time. Trowa popped it gently, and tugged at the halves of fabric. He tapped Quatre on the knee, and he obediently propped his heel on one of the rungs of the stool so that Trowa could arrange the shirt tail on his thigh. His chest was a little chilled by its sudden exposure, and he was painfully aware that his nipples were hardening, and it was going to be visible if Trowa wanted him to remove the shirt. But Trowa seemed content for the moment, pulling back on the collar so that his collarbones were more visible, leaving most of his stomach bare. "You keep in shape," he said.
Quatre felt himself go red again, a hot flush up his neck and ears. "Well-- um-- I try."
Trowa returned to the camera, and moved the tripod a little closer and to the left. The light had changed, Quatre realised, as he glanced to the window. How long had he been oblivious? The sun had lowered considerably, splashing a deep alley of warmth across the terracotta tiles. The flash went off while he had his head turned, and he swivelled back immediately. "Sorry."
Trowa looked up and caught his eyes. "It's all right," he repeated patiently. "It's better to be natural. You're fine, when you let yourself forget I'm looking at you."
"It's hard to forget," Quatre admitted. "That you're looking, I mean." He cursed himself for a fool. "It would-- it would help if you talked," he added.
One eyebrow climbed, or maybe it was just a trick of the light. After a moment, Trowa nodded. "What do you want to talk about?"
"I don't know." Trowa chuckled, and Quatre managed to laugh at himself as well. But it was already helping him relax, enough that he wasn't consumed by the need to hold his shirt closed. "Maybe you could tell me about some of the other people you did portraits of."
Trowa snapped a picture. "I started with Catherine."
"Your sister?" He had noticed that one of the women in the prints was familiar. He looked at it automatically, studying the flow of curls over one curved shoulder, the smile caught in a moment of unreserved laughter. She was backlit, and her profile seemed to fade into the light. The fine detail of her lips and thick eyelashes was beautiful.
"She bought me my first camera," Trowa said. "I started with pictures of the animals mostly. The cats and the elephants. Then I did some of the trapeze acts, and I got some really good ones of Catherine during practice. She asked me to do more." He paused. "You like that one?"
"You love her," Quatre said. "She looks so happy."
There was a pause at that, and he glanced back at Trowa, wondering what he'd said wrong. But Trowa was only looking thoughtful, not upset. A moment later, he nodded, and Quatre smiled at him.
Click.
That was when Quatre noticed the music had ended. He really had been in his own world.
"She sent it to a magazine," Trowa continued. "She wasn't going to tell me unless they accepted it, but they did. I even got paid. I used the money to get some more equipment."
"What's it feel like?" Quatre asked him curiously. "I mean-- I've taken some pictures in my time, but I was mostly concerned with keeping my thumb out of the frame."
Trowa's teeth showed briefly in a smile. "It's good," he answered. "It's like, getting to make what I see in my head, on paper so everyone else can see it. I like that part. Because it's... it's harder for me talk it out."
"I think you do fine."
Trowa shrugged, and his fingers worked on the camera for a moment. "I'm not like you. What you said about the picture-- you just knew exactly what to say."
"You have a great voice," Quatre said. "On paper or out loud."
Trowa looked up again, and their eyes caught. Stupid thing to say, Quatre thought. He dropped his chin to his chest and played with the corner of his shirt.
"That's probably enough for today," the other man said after a pause. "Can you come again in a few days? We can look at the prints together."
He slid off the stool and began to button his shirt, his fingers tripping over each other in their haste. "That fast?"
"I may want to do more. Probably will, really."
Quatre nodded. "I can come again. Tuesday? Or Wednesday if you need more time?"
"Tuesday is fine." Trowa capped the lense, and picked up Quatre's jacket from the chair. "I appreciate it."
"Sure." He succumbed to his complex of self-consciousness, and asked tentatively, "Am I doing okay?"
Their hands brushed as Trowa gave him his jacket. "Yes," he said simply.
Tuesday afternoon found him back at Trowa's flat, this time in a black shirt-- he'd spent a ridiculous amount of time online researching what to wear, hoping to avoid errors this time. He'd also been careful to shave early in the morning.
Trowa answered his buzz at the door looking almost unchanged from Friday, except that he was barefoot and the cuffs of his denims were frayed and stained from being stepped on. He smiled his small smile at Quatre as he let him in, then gestured to the bag he was carrying. "What's that?" he asked.
Quatre held it up, aware of heat creeping up his neck. "A change of clothes," he said. "I read that it can be helpful."
Trowa blinked twice in rapid succession. "You were reading up about it?"
"A little." He cleared his throat. "So, how do the prints look?"
Trowa latched the door and led the way into the kitchen. The candles were burning on the bar counter this time, and the table was covered with low-gloss pictures. Quatre leant over them to look, trying to examine them objectively and not remember that they were all pictures of himself. "Do you always do black and white?" he asked.
"Usually." Trowa sat in one of the chairs, nudging the corner of a print in line with the others in its row. "What do you think?" he asked.
There were five of him with his shirt buttoned, and nine or ten with it hanging open. Quatre had to admit he liked those better. And whatever Trowa had done to his hair looked nice, a little more natural. There was one of him smiling that made his heart beat faster-- it was such a blatant mix of affection and hope. And there was one he didn't remember Trowa taking, of him with his head bowed, and his hands in sharp relief against the white of his shirt, playing the fabric between forefinger and thumb. He sat turned just a little away from the camera, and his ear and jaw and neck made a series of clean lines. He touched the juncture just beneath his ear, wondering that his own body had a spot that looked like that.
"I like that one too," Trowa said.
He licked his lips, and just managed to stop himself from chewing on the bottom one. "So, do you want to do more?"
In answer Trowa stood, the heels of his feet settling with little whispers on the hems of his jeans. "Let me look at the clothes you brought." Quatre handed over his bag, and Trowa searched it, his lips pursed as he pulled out the three shirts Quatre had brought, all of them solid, dark colours, with enough variety of design to be interesting. But then he shook his head, and said, "Wait here, I think I have something."
Quatre took a final glance at the picture of his jaw, and turned away deliberately. He unbuttoned his shirt, assuming Trowa meant him to change, and tried to ignore the butterflies making jitters of his gut.
Trowa returned from the bedroom a moment later with a black slip of fabric, which he tossed to Quatre. When he held it up, it turned out to be nothing more than a ribbed cotton muscle shirt, a little frayed in the collar and worn thin with use. In a flash of revelation Quatre knew that this was Trowa's, and that he wore it often. And now he wanted Quatre to wear it.
Trowa was waiting. He said, "I can turn around if you want..."
Quatre swallowed to ease his dry throat. "No, I'm not-- I'm fine." He shrugged out of his shirt, and pulled Trowa's over his head. As he'd feared, it clung like a second skin. He imagined sourly that Trowa could probably see his heart beating far too quickly, the shirt was so unconcealing.
But Trowa was nodding his approval. "Can you take off your belt?"
Why the hell not? Quatre did, and dropped it onto the bag with his shirt. When Trowa pointed to them, he toed off his shoes and socks as well, and finally seemed to pass muster. He followed Trowa back to the "studio." There was no stool this time, and the blanket on the wall was gone, leaving just the rough bricks. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, trying not to notice that his voice wavered.
"Just stand," Trowa replied unhelpfully. He moved Quatre to the middle of the space, then went to the stereo. This time the music was violin, arching eerily over harp and cello in a deep, solemn bass. It had a strong Asian feel, the vibrato limited to the most tender, quiet moments. It was lovely, and not at all what he'd expected. The three instruments wove about each other like waves, rising and falling.
Trowa stood behind the camera. "Just be who you are," he urged softly.
Quatre nodded, though he didn't have a clue what that meant. He tried to lose himself in the music again, but it was harder today; he was too aware of his bare arms and the feel of the cold tiles under his feet. He rested his hands awkwardly on his hips, his elbows jutting out behind him, but that didn't feel right. He scratched the back of his neck and let his arm fall. He even looked at Catherine's portrait again, but it didn't speak any words of wisdom today.
He heard Trowa sigh, and looked back at his friend. "I'm sorry," he said helplessly. "I just don't know what to do."
"What do you do when you're alone?"
"I-- I guess I read. Sometimes I go walking."
That didn't seem to meet the need. Trowa played idly with the camera, one hand loosely curled about the nearest leg of the tripod. Suddenly he glanced up. "Do you still play?" he asked.
"Play what?" Quatre said stupidly.
"The violin."
Oh. "Not much," he confessed. "I don't really have the time to do it right."
"Do you miss it?"
He drew a deep breath and let it out. "Yes," he said. "I miss it a lot. It... it was good not to be me, when I played."
"What do you mean?" Trowa asked quietly.
Quatre gestured to the stereo. "It wasn't my music. It was someone else's work. I had to try to play it well, to reach what they were feeling, to-- to try to connect to it myself, but essentially it wasn't me. When I was really working hard for it, when it was just right, I forgot about everything but just the music. Like I was just there to make it come alive."
"Show me."
He stopped. "What do you mean?"
"Show me," Trowa repeated.
"I don't have my violin."
"Pretend."
Pretend. Quatre drew another breath and let it out fast. He lifted his hands into position, trying to remember the feel of delicate, smooth wood in his palm, the weight against his shoulder, the curve under his chin warming quickly from the contact. He held the bow in his right hand, lightly between the forefinger and thumb, resting against the edge of his palm. Automatically he shifted his feet for the correct stance and straightened his spine. Trowa was nodding his encouragement.
"Play along," he said.
He had almost, almost forgotten how foolish he felt. "I don't know the music."
"Improvise."
His stomach was decidedly unhappy with him. Quatre licked dry lips, and set his imaginary bow to his imaginary strings. He focussed on the music, listening for the time signature, letting the beat settle into him. He closed his eyes, and he played.
At first it was difficult. But the low, warm tone of the cello rolled beneath him, swirled around his legs while the harp made a counterpoint, bobbing about him. It was, he thought, a little like floating in the ocean in the darkness; he felt weightless, but calm, anchored by the rhythm. The notes of his violin were more fluid than in classical pieces, curving, lingering longer. He dipped and rose with the waves, his body twisted gently as he hung suspended. And the emotion of the piece was shifting, darkening, pulling harder at the violin, wrenching angry moans from the cello. When percussion joined them he accepted each beat as a physical impact, letting it rock him, buffet him. The music was growing agitated, taut with sorrow and loneliness. The cello was heartbreaking, the harp and the drum hammering relentlessly, and he cried out high and faltering, stabbing at the strings with his bow--
--and then it broke, and dwindled, and Quatre let it drain away.
He was standing in Trowa's flat, and Trowa was standing ten feet from him, the camera in his hands now instead of on the tripod. He was clicking away, flipping the advance rapidly. Quatre felt oddly still, and empty. He watched Trowa photographing him, until suddenly Trowa stopped. Trowa lowered the camera, and came to him. He lifted a hand, then hesitated; and then he touched Quatre's face with the back of his finger, and brushed away a something hot and wet.
It was as if his mind was suddenly awake. Quatre wiped his cheek, and discovered he'd been crying.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"You don't always have to be sorry," Trowa answered. He hesitated again, and Quatre stared at him, wondering, realising they were standing very close, that Trowa smelled like myrrh.
Trowa lowered his head, and kissed Quatre on the mouth.
He came back on Saturday to see the new prints. Trowa greeted him at the door again, dressed in what Quatre recognised as a Preventers dress shirt with the patches ripped off. Quatre followed him to the table, where the prints were spread out under a lamp that stretched by extension cord from the den area.
They were amazing. Quatre had been unable to imagine what they would look like, but even if he had, they wouldn't have looked like this. They were dark, some of them blurred, some of them bright contrasts of the black muscle shirt and his white skin and gleaming hair. In one the camera had captured the tilt of his head, the slight gap of his lips as if he were breathing hard, while his hand hovered at the edge of the frame cupped about the imaginary bow. In another he appeared full-body, his back bent in a sway, the mimic of playing the violin obvious, while in the one that seemed next in the sequence it was impossible to understand of the strange motion of his hands. And in the last, the one Trowa had taken standing just in front of him, there was only his face, sweat dampening the hair at his temples, his eyelashes clumped together with wet, and the streak of tears visible on his cheeks. Even in shades of grey, his eyes seemed to be begging for-- something. It was oddly devastating to see such naked emotion on his own face.
Trowa touched his wrist. "They're good," he said.
He swallowed hard. "Yes," he agreed. "They are." He looked up. "Did you always have this in you?"
Trowa's shoulders moved in something that wasn't quite a shrug. "I wanted to ask you that," he said softly.
"I don't know," he admitted. He picked up the picture carefully to avoid leaving smudges. "I... don't think I knew I did."
Trowa's fingers were lingering on his skin. "Will you let me take more?"
He'd come prepared for Trowa to ask. "Yes," he answered immediately.
Trowa stood him in front of the wall again, and then retreated to his camera to begin adjusting it. When he was ready, he looked up at Quatre. "Do you trust me?" he asked.
"Yes. Of course."
He nodded. "Take off your shirt."
His cheeks heated. "That's three times you've asked me to strip," he said.
That little grin tugged at Trowa's mouth. "Isn't the third time supposed to be the charm?"
"Fair enough." But his hands still shook a little as he grasped the hem of his tee shirt and pulled. Static arced about his head as the cotton scraped against his hair. He dropped the shirt to the tile, aware that Trowa had taken at least two pictures while he'd done that. Part of him felt bold, but the rest was scared.
"Why are you so modest about your body?" Trowa asked, taking another capture.
"What do I have to show off?" he asked tartly. "I'm skinny and I'm so pale I practically glow."
Trowa took another picture. "That's not the reason," he said.
"I'm scarred."
"So am I."
"I don't-- want to talk about it."
Trowa looked up. "You don't have to do this," he said a moment later.
His heart was beating far too fast. It was a struggle to breathe evenly, but he made himself, deep and slow. "It's all right."
They looked at each other in silence as seconds turned into a minute, and Quatre began to dread Trowa saying something else, like go home. He could do this. He did want to do this. And he wanted to do it with Trowa.
"Take off your pants," Trowa told him.
He undid the button of his trousers as Trowa's dark head bent to the camera viewer again. As he drew down the zipper he wondered why Trowa hadn't put on music this time. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband, and pushed down, taking his undershorts with the trousers. He kicked out of the left leg first and then the right, and when he stood nude he nudged the puddled fabric toward his shirt. He stood straight again, listening to the click of the camera, and waited for the next instruction.
Trowa's fingers went still on the camera. He exhaled softly, and murmured, "I don't see anything to be ashamed of."
His eyes burned. Quatre had to break their gaze and stare at the floor while he willed himself to find control. "What should I do?" he asked.
"Quatre. Please."
He swallowed down the tears, and managed to lift his head. "Why did you leave the Preventers? I didn't really understand."
Trowa considered his answer, idly focussing and refocussing the lense. "It wasn't the right place for me," he answered finally. "I don't like... feeling like I never fit in." He hunched one shoulder. "I've been fighting all my life," he said. "I feel like that should be over now. I wanted to do something else." He checked the flash. "Why didn't you ever join in the first place?"
"My sisters asked me to come back to WEI. And it was what my father always wanted. I owed him to try."
"Does it make you happy?"
"I don't know," he said honestly. "I don't really have a lot to compare it with."
"You should do what makes you happy."
"I was happy you came back. I am happy you're back."
Trowa was frowning. And working on something, working to get it out. Quatre waited, standing still, his hands at his sides, forcing himself to untense every second. He watched Trowa's long fingers curl around the camera case, gripping tightly.
"Why didn't you ask me to stay?" he asked suddenly.
That hurt. It was a physical pain in his chest. "I never knew you wanted me to," he said. "You said you wanted to leave. That you needed to leave. I thought you were telling the truth."
"I was. But-- I wanted you to ask, too." Abruptly Trowa turned away, going into the kitchen and leaving Quatre standing stunned behind him. But Trowa returned a moment later with a water bottle, striding past the camera and straight to Quatre. He twisted off the cap and poured water into his palm. Then he thrust his hand into Quatre's hair, startling him into a gasp as cold water splashed down his neck. He did it again, and a third time, until his hair was dripping down his back. Trowa set the bottle aside, and ran his hands through Quatre's hair, pushing it back from his forehead and slicking it down. And then he bent his head and kissed Quatre.
He was breathless when Trowa released him and turned back to the camera, and he heard several clicks before he registered what they meant. He reached up to swipe at chilly drips raising gooseflesh down his spine, and discovered he was shivering. He hugged his arms close to his chest, then had to wipe away water from his face. The camera was capturing all of it.
"Don't retreat," Trowa told him. "Don't try to hide from me."
"I'm not."
"Yes, you are." He raised his head, and Quatre was shocked to see anger in his face. "I fought a war with you," he accused. "I know how brave you are. I've watched you look death in the face and keep fighting. Why is this so hard, Quatre?"
"You don't know anything about me!" Quatre exclaimed. "You left for three years! And we barely knew each other before that. And in case you haven't noticed, there isn't exactly a battalion of Leos in here."
"No, just one stranger with a camera," Trowa retorted. He left the camera again, this time for the kitchen table. He grabbed the pictures and held them up. "This is who you are. This is what I see when I look at you."
"I don't--"
Trowa flung the prints at him. They scattered on the floor, the crisp photo paper clattering harshly on the tiles. "If that's not real, then take them, and go."
His eyes filled, and he was on his knees before he even thought to move, gathering the prints. "How can you do that?" he demanded, checking each print to be sure none were damaged. "These are beautiful, you can't just toss them away."
"They're just photographs. They don't mean anything."
"They do!" he shouted. He was crying, and he wiped furiously at his face with his arm. "They're beautiful. You made them, and they're perfect, Trowa, you can't just throw them away because I made you angry..." He choked on a sob that ripped up through his chest, and then he was leaning over the prints and weeping convulsively in great wrenching gasps.
Arms went around him and pulled him upright into a warm chest. "I'm not throwing you away," Trowa whispered against his ear. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It's all right, Quatre."
They were both rocking with the force of his shudders. "I'm sorry," he groaned. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for everything I did."
"It's all right." Trowa held him close, rubbing his back soothingly, pressing kisses to his temple and cheek. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have done that." He tightened his hold. "Quatre, you're what makes them beautiful."
It seemed like they'd been kneeling on the floor together forever. It was a long time before Quatre could breathe again, could feel anything but the awful old grief that had been bottled inside him for so long, until Trowa had come back to London and stripped him of all his defences. And through all of it Trowa just held him, giving solace and support while it tore out of him. He felt muzzy, almost groggy, and his body ached and his head was sore, and his eyes and throat were swollen. His cheek was pressed to a soggy spot on Trowa's shirt, but Trowa's fingers were running through his wet hair, rubbing his scalp tenderly, and his arm about Quatre's shoulders was solid and steady.
Trowa's face was wet, too, when Quatre finally managed to pull away and ease back on cramping legs. Unthinking, Quatre touched it, and Trowa turned his head to kiss his palm.
"You must have needed to do that for a long time," he said softly.
His eyes burned dully, but he didn't have enough left in him to really cry again. "I trust you," he said hoarsely.
Trowa kissed him gently on the forehead, and even more gently on his salty lips. "I'm glad," he whispered.
He wiped his face. "What do we do now?"
Trowa smoothed his hair back a final time, and then he stood. "Stay right there," he murmured. Quatre couldn't have moved if he'd had to, but he nodded anyway, sniffling through a clogged nose and weathering the throbs of his overtaxed body. When Trowa returned a moment later, he sat behind Quatre, and drew him back until he was laying between Trowa's spread legs with his back to Trowa's chest.
Trowa's bare chest. And bare legs. Quatre shivered as arms went around him again, an admiring hand tracing a path down his sternum. And the camera flash went off.
Trowa's lips brushed his ear as he turned his face away. "Let it," he said. "It's all right, Quatre."
"I look horrible," he protested weakly.
Trowa kissed his neck. "You look amazing." The camera flashed again. Quatre swallowed thickly, and allowed himself to touch the thigh cradling his. He let his palm flatten against it, suck up its warmth. Trowa's lips moved into his hair as the camera went off again. Quatre dropped his head back to Trowa's shoulder, catching the hand on his chest in his own. He reached back to cup Trowa's neck. He opened his eyes, and looked straight at the camera as it flashed one more time.
Quatre accepted a glass of white wine from the server behind the bar with murmured thanks, and turned back to watch the crowd. The long gallery with its white walls and high, arched ceilings was full of solemn men and women in their evening finery. Some stood in groups chatting with each other, but most were wandering along the walls, examining the huge framed prints. It was a good turnout for an opening night, stuffing the gallery almost to capacity, and the man responsible for it stood at the opposite end of the hall from him, speaking with two older men Quatre thought might be critics.
A throat cleared beside him, and Quatre glanced up to see Lady Une and Sall Po, the Director and Co-Director of the Preventers. Both women looked stunning in lovely gowns, though Sally wore the more daring one, an almost-sheer black that flattered her dusky skin and elegant shoulders. Une was more conservative in a dark blue taffeta with a long, lace-edged sash demurely covering her muscled arms.
"I'm glad you could come," Quatre said sincerely, accepted a kiss from Sally and taking Une's hand briefly in his. "It meant a lot to him when you accepted the invitation."
"I'm thrilled to be here," Sally answered, and her eyes were bright as she looked around. "This is my first gala event," she added, smoothing a hand down her flat stomach. "Did you know he did photography?"
Une had ordered champagne from the bar, and took her glass with a small sip.
"Haven't you seen the brochure?" she asked Sally. "I'd say Quatre knew."
That made him flush a little; but then he laughed, and tossed his head. "Take a look around, ladies," he said. "I hope you enjoy the show." He excused himself with a nod, and began to work his way through the crowd toward Trowa.
When he finally joined the other man, Trowa was standing alone again. Quatre handed him his wine glass, and Trowa drank gratefully. "It's going well," Quatre said encouragingly.
"Yes," Trowa agreed. He slipped his arm around Quatre's hips, bringing him a step closer until they were leaning on each other. Quatre gazed up at the print they stood beneath. It was his favourite, one of the ones taken during their last session. The camera had caught them centred on the floor, Trowa behind him, looking away with his cheek pressed to Quatre's bare shoulder. But he himself was looking directly at the viewer. He had obviously been weeping; his eyes were still darkly rimmed, and his lips were parted and puffy, his face sheened unevenly. But Trowa's knees were drawn up either side of him, and his own were parted shamelessly. The portrait was-- honest, he thought. It wasn't hiding anything-- there was nothing left to hide.
Trowa kissed him on the cheek. Quatre smiled at him, and felt at peace.
The End
(:./erin/soft)
