28-Nov-2004
Title: Tacit
Author: Mookie
Pairing: Trowa/Quatre
Rating: NC17
Warnings: graphic male/male sex
Notes: Written for Raletha, whose request on the back-to-school smutathon intrigued me. Her request was for "something with an atmosphere of surprise and uncertainty" and a variety of kinks. I think I've managed to include four of them... although I like to think I hit six, but it's a matter of interpretation. Nothing that falls outside the umbrella of "graphic sex."
Trowa followed the mysterious blond boy into the entrance of what appeared to be a vast estate, despite the reference to it as a base of sorts. It certainly exceeded everything he'd imagined a base of operations to be.
He was feeling a bit unsettled. It wasn't the surrendering part that bothered him, really. He had a job to do and he wasn't going to accomplish a thing by cashing in his chips this early in the game - not when there was a chance to carry on to fight another day.
He'd heard the other pilot's voice over the video communication link, insisting that they shouldn't be fighting each other. It sparked only the smallest bit of conscience in Trowa - a soft utterance that Trowa was sure he hadn't even realized he'd said aloud.
This isn't right, he'd said, but it was the quietly passionate reiteration that had gotten to Trowa.
The fact that it had was unacceptable. He would see this fight through to the end and purge the threat of weakness before it got out of hand.
He wasn't surprised that the other Gundam grappled with his, refusing to give in. What he hadn't expected was the hatch opening up, and the young man stepping out to confront him face to face.
Trowa had reciprocated the action. More than that, in fact, raising his hands as he ventured out of the cockpit to meet his adversary.
The sunlight reflected off the protective eyewear the other pilot wore, and the same voice told him to put his hands down.
The blond spoke in a very calm tone, although Trowa hadn't expected anything less. Piloting a mobile suit such as that, so similar to Heavyarms, wasn't a task given to someone prone to emotional outbursts in the heat of battle.
The small army of desert combat mobile suits stood behind the other Gundam, giving support to the other pilot, but more importantly, bowing to his wishes by standing down at a moment when they could easily have snuffed out Trowa's life.
Very intriguing.
Which, Trowa decided, was the reason he was now entering their base, rather than retreating with Heavyarms, back to the circus, and slowly acquiring the parts he needed for repairs.
Quatre was incredibly pleased to have the company of the other pilot. He was fascinated beyond measure with the young man's actions in their short acquaintance, and he'd been overcome with emotion when the stranger had opened his hatch and surrendered.
He had trusted Quatre.
It was still difficult for Quatre to accept at times the faith that the Maganacs had in him, especially considering how selfishly contemptuous he'd been when they'd first met. It bothered him that he felt closer to Rashid than to his own father, but then a lot of things that had happened over the past couple of years had taken him by surprise.
Such as assuming control of the Gundam.
Such as going with his gut instincts and trusting in them.
Such as believing that the faith the Maganacs had in him was not misplaced.
Quatre was certain that the faith he had in the other pilot was not misplaced.
He had shown the dark-haired boy to a room and left him to get settled, then headed to the bathroom to perform his own ablutions.
He ran the shower a bit on the cool side, but not too cold. The warmer climate didn't work well with colder showers - the temperature difference was too marked and did nothing but make him hotter.
He adjusted the tap again and thought of the other pilot, wondered if he was comfortable.
It was funny that he still felt just as warm as if the water had been running hot. Perhaps he could turn it a bit cooler.
He soaped up his neck and ran the washcloth over his chest and shoulders. He should have shown the other pilot to the nearby bathing facilities. Perhaps he was as much a need of a bath as Quatre was.
He turned the tap again.
His newfound friend could be taking a shower that same instant. Quatre's hand moved to his stomach and he made small circles with the cloth. He'd first need to strip out of that restrictive shirt, which was far too warm for this climate, and then those jeans...
Quatre hadn't missed the lean legs encased in tight denim. His hand slipped further down his belly and he washed his abdomen.
Then the other boy would slip under the shower spray, and rinse off the dust and dirt from the day, and let the water cascade over his body, and through the dark hair. Quatre closed his eyes and slid the washcloth over the rigid column of flesh, stroking it with the roughened cloth before releasing it and then resuming the action with soap slick fingers.
The other Gundam had pressed its knee between Sandrock's legs, and Quatre's imagination superimposed a shock of rich brown hair and deep green eyes over it, changing the image entirely. He could visualize the other boy's knee rubbing at Quatre's erection, and he increased the speed of his strokes.
He was sweating under the shower spray as he felt his orgasm approaching, and then he bit his lip as the muscles in his lower body tensed. Almost as soon as his hand was covered in thick white fluid it was washed away, and Quatre placed his free hand against the tiled wall and took a deep breath.
Now that he'd taken care of that, he hoped he'd be able to face the other pilot again.
Trowa did a quick reconnaissance of the room and those adjoining. It was hard to believe a place like this was considered a base, but he'd seen stranger things. What puzzled him was the attitude of his host.
He couldn't explain just why he'd capitulated. He'd felt the need, the urgency, to overthrow the opposition, to remove all obstacles - yet all it took was a few words for him to cave in.
It bothered him.
Trowa had known he was outnumbered and outgunned, so it made good tactical sense to surrender, but it should have been a reluctant surrender, not a willing one.
He'd wanted to see the other pilot, not through the tint of a vid screen, but in the flesh.
He'd resented the blond for telling him to put his hands down. Trowa wanted to hate him, to resent him, to disregard him, but not to respect him.
Definitely not to like him.
One of the doors led to an adjoining bathroom and he washed his hands and face, looking at himself in the mirror and shaking his head.
The last time he'd allowed a pretty face to influence his decisions, he'd regretted it.
He frowned at his reflection. He wouldn't call his host pretty. Attractive, most definitely, but pretty seemed too superficial and delicate.
It wasn't unheard of to find physical aspects attractive, regardless of how one viewed one's opponents. He'd not always found that to be the case, but it was difficult to deny the aesthetic appeal of a well-built woman's figure or a set of broad shoulders or a taut wiry body.
With this pilot, though, Trowa found something that didn't fit with what he'd come across before.
Then again, before he was nameless, and before, he'd only been a mechanic on a mobile suit, rather than the assigned pilot for the Gundam Heavyarms.
He'd not cared that the real Trowa Barton had been killed. He'd even expected that he himself would be the next to lay dead on the ground, but he'd volunteered to take Barton's place, and surprisingly that suggestion was met with agreement.
Replacements at such a late date had doubtfully been planned for.
He'd known his mission parameters, and his goal, and he'd thought the blond was an obstacle.
He pushed way from the sink and walked into the bedroom. The sun was setting, and he watched the sky as it turned from gold and red to orange and purple.
He looked at the bed, at the trimmings the soft pillows and the sturdy wrought iron headboard.
He sat on the mattress and threaded two fingers through the curved metal of the headboard. He didn't doubt that he'd be more than comfortable - but would he be able to sleep?
When Trowa had dined with the other pilot, he'd remained silent. His host hadn't shared very much either, a few comments on the base, but nothing that gave away anything Trowa couldn't see for himself. Trowa wondered if that was because the blond didn't trust him or because he didn't want to upset the men who followed him with blind loyalty
They'd taken a brief walk around, and the blond had told him to make himself comfortable. Trowa found himself asking about things like the location of linens, not because he wanted to know, but just to keep the conversation on safe territory.
He would have sworn that his host's stride hesitated just a moment before he turned and told him, in a voice holding a bit more severity, where he could find towels and sheets.
Trowa hadn't actually planned on making himself comfortable - it was foolish to allow himself to be at his most vulnerable around those who had yet to earn his trust.
He ran a hand over the thick comforter, shaking his head at the opulence. His early tour of the rooms in this wing had all been tastefully decorated, but he couldn't remember any of the others boasting the sleek shine of satin. Different sized beds graced some of the rooms, and bedspreads often replaced blankets. Other rooms had been completely devoid of furniture.
It was as if the base was a mansion, a storage facility, and probably a number of other things.
Trowa slid off the bed and decided that if his host had really been his captor, he certainly didn't seem the sort to play a game of cat and mouse. There was something too open and candid about him.
He still hesitated before stripping out of his clothes, hating that being undressed left him feeling far too exposed. He washed quickly, unwilling to allow himself to relax, even with the warm water soothing his tense muscles.
He wrapped the towel around his waist and carried his clothes to the bedroom. He'd wanted to dress immediately, but the idea of having his arm stuck in his sleeve, and his clothes twisting about him as they clung to damp skin, had far less appeal than being clad in nothing but a towel.
That's what he told himself.
Quatre approached the room he'd shown to Trowa and raised a hand to knock. His knuckles froze just millimeters before making contact with the wood surface when he heard it.
Fearing the worst, his fingers closed around the doorknob and he pushed it open, rushing in and freezing in his tracks as he neared the bed.
Trowa had bolted upright as soon as he'd heard Quatre enter, but the sheet over his lap did nothing to conceal the reason he'd been moaning just moments earlier.
Quatre's eyes flicked from the arousal tenting the satin fabric to Trowa's face, and the apology on his lips died as their eyes met.
Trowa took in the shirt clinging to Quatre's body, the exposed collarbone, the compact muscle just barely hinted at. There was definitely more hiding beneath the surface here. He could hear the sound of his own breathing as Quatre approached the bed, reached out his fingertips, and smoothed the hair from his temple.
Not a word was spoken as Quatre leaned forward and pressed his lips against Trowa's neck. Trowa shivered, goose bumps rising on his flesh as Quatre's tongue fluttered against his skin. Quatre's lips grazed along the side of his neck and his breathing was heavy in Trowa's ear.
One of Trowa's hands slipped inside Quatre's shirt, and he slid it down to splay his fingers against Quatre's firm abdomen. This time it was Quatre's body that a shudder ran through. With a gentle push of his hand and a twist of his body, Trowa maneuvered them so that Quatre was lying on his back across Trowa's lap, his legs hanging off the edge of the bed. Trowa's fingers deftly unfastened the rest of the buttons, pushing the shirt open and bending forward to place warm kisses along Quatre's stomach.
Quatre's fingers threaded through Trowa's hair, and he groaned. Trowa's fingers moved to the button on Quatre's fly. Between the two of them and a bit of wriggling, Quatre's pants and shoes fell to the floor next to the bed, and his erection sprang proudly from the thatch of coarse hair, a much darker shade of gold than the hair on his head.
Trowa's fingers stroked Quatre's jaw, and he shifted his weight to nuzzle behind his ear. When he reached his hand down to caress Quatre's balls, he realized that his lips were now grazing the side of Quatre's head.
Quatre's weight dragged the top sheet, and himself, off the bed and onto the floor. He tilted his head back against the bed and looked up at Trowa with a sheepish grin. He scrambled to his feet and back up onto the bed, kicking the sheet off his feet as he stretched out fully. He reached out a hand and grasped the headboard to anchor himself, then placed his free hand on Trowa's hip, grinding their pelvises together.
Trowa slithered down the bed, kissing and licking a trail from rib to navel, dipping his tongue into the small indentation before reaching the glistening tip of Quatre's cock. He breathed on it, hovering his lips over it without making contact. Quatre reached up and grabbed the headboard with his other hand, gripping it tightly as he fought to keep from bucking his hips in response to the proximity of the other man's mouth.
He bit his lip and his arms jerked the moment he felt Trowa's lips surround his head and work their way down slowly to the base of his cock. It felt far better than he'd ever have imagined, and was so much hotter than the fantasy he'd had in the shower. His head tilted back against the pillows and he gave up trying to keep his hips still, arching his back as Trowa's tongue swirled around his length. He was close to climax when suddenly the warmth surrounding his cock was replaced with cool air, and he sat up abruptly, breathing heavily and glaring.
Trowa ran his fingers along the sides of his mouth and looked up apologetically, then wrapped his hand around the base of Quatre's cock, keeping a firm grip as he moved it up and down. He returned his mouth to the tip and applied suction. His hands cupped Quatre's balls and he felt one hand clutching at his hair.
Quatre gripped the curved metal tightly, his knuckles turning white, and his entire body tensed. Saying a silent prayer that he be allowed to finish this time, he sucked in a deep breath, arched his back, and hit the top of his head against the iron headboard as he came.
He didn't bask in the afterglow. He released the headboard, sat up, and pushed Trowa's shoulders so the other man was lying on the bed with Quatre straddling his torso. He latched his mouth onto one of Trowa's nipples, sucking at it and nipping it lightly with his teeth, then turned his attention to the other.
A faint moan escaped Trowa, and Quatre's hair teased Trowa's skin as he lifted his head. Instead of teasing his way down the other man's stomach the way Trowa had done to him, he took a deep breath, opened his mouth wide, and took all of Trowa into his mouth at once, exhaling as he did so.
He'd overheard that little trick, and it worked - but it didn't prepare him for the slight swelling in his mouth or the feel of thick, warm liquid hitting the back of his throat. He'd barely done anything. He fought against his gag reflex, swallowing as much as he could before he pulled back and let Trowa's cock slip from his lips.
Quatre rolled off Trowa and lay for a moment, breathing heavily. Trowa glanced sideways, admiring the way Quatre's chest heaved, feeling a sense of satisfaction in being the one to bring about that sort of unregulated response.
Quatre's fingers brushed the hair out of his eyes and then he turned onto his side and looked down at Trowa. Before Trowa had a chance to process exactly what that look meant, Quatre's hand was on the mattress beside his head and he was pressing his lips against Trowa's, opening his mouth and inviting Trowa's tongue inside.
Trowa didn't have the chance to bring his hand up behind Quatre's head to deepen the kiss further, for Quatre sucked on his tongue, hard, and then lifted his head. He slid off the bed, his shirt hopelessly wrinkled, and bent down to pick up his pants. After pulling them on, he picked up his shoes and walked toward the door. He hesitated, then turned around and looked back at Trowa, who was now lying on his side. A faint smile flashed across his lips, and then he was gone, the door closing quietly behind him.
Breakfast was a quiet affair. They ate in companionable silence, making no references to their actions of the night before.
It wasn't until Quatre stood in the window to watch his guest depart when he called after him "do you really have to leave?"
Even to his own ears it sounded desperate and clingy, and he hastily amended it. "I won't stop you, but at least tell me your name."
A name would at least keep him company when he relived the touch of lips against his throat, his stomach, and his cock.
Quatre watched the boy named Trowa Barton walk away. 'If I must call you something?' he grinned at the retreating back. 'The next time I plan on being a lot more vocal, Trowa Barton.'
The next time.
It had a nice ring to it.
The End
(:./mookie/tacit)
