Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/211721.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Gundam_Wing
  Relationship:
      Trowa_Barton/Quatre_Raberba_Winner
  Character:
      Trowa_Barton, Quatre_Raberba_Winner
  Additional Tags:
      Drama, Angst, Erotica, Established_Relationship, Community:_30_lemons,
      Explicit_Sexual_Content, Explicit_Language, Bittersweet, Newtypes, Canon
      Related, Post-Canon, Romance, Switching
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-06-14 Words: 7849
****** Exceeding His Grasp ******
by Raletha
Summary
     [Postscript arc] [30 Lemons] After the war, Trowa has stayed with
     Quatre to help him recover from his injuries. Increasingly restless,
     he finds he cannot stay with Quatre despite their bond. Original
     story circa 2002, rewritten 2007, latest revision 2011.
Notes
     This is yet another revision of my first fanfic, first published on
     tqml in June of 2002 and titled "Wait For Me". Third time's the
     charm. I rewrote the ending again. I think it is better and finally
     done without significant reservations on my part. It only took 9
     years!
     Previous version also submitted to Livejournal's 30_lemons theme 2:
     Bottoms Up, or, "Surprise! Guess Who's on Top Tonight?"
The dense carpet muffled Trowa's footsteps as he approached Quatre's open
office door. Today in particular it felt like a violation to walk in his heavy
boots across the champagne surface. Behind him he heard the soft clack-clack of
Madeline, Quatre's personal secretary, returning to her typing. From Quatre's
office came the melodic chimes of Chopin's Raindrop Prelude. Quatre always
listened to it while he was working with figures; it helped him concentrate.
Quatre didn't like to be disturbed while he was checking the accounts. It
didn't matter that it wasn't his job to do such work; Quatre insisted he review
such records from all departments on a weekly basis to better familiarise
himself with the workings of Winner Enterprises, Incorporated. His employees--
especially upper management--respected him more for it, it seemed, although it
habitually kept him late at the office on Fridays. Other things kept him late
on other nights. Working through past years' records Quatre restricted to the
weekends.
Trowa paused. He nearly turned around--whether to leave or to take a seat in
the waiting area he did not know. The hesitation, the reluctance, was like
instinct. He'd done enough waiting though, and leaving here to wait until
another time to address the situation would likely mean another week turning to
another fortnight turning to another month of this restless stagnation. He
leaned against the wall next to Quatre's door and closed his eyes.
Indecision was new; this ambivalence was new, and the irrational trepidation
seizing Trowa's heart and flinging it against his ribs was wholly novel. It was
nothing like what he'd experienced during war. Matters of life and death he
could understand; the fear of death was a familiar companion. But this matter
of sanity, self, or some other more nebulous need fed a more complex anxiety.
It seemed petty to Trowa, this desire of his. He'd tried to dismiss it, to
rationalise himself out of its influence, but it crept back always. He needed
to leave. And he needed to tell Quatre.
Today was as good a day as any--perhaps a better day than most. But that did
not ease Trowa's urge to be anywhere but standing here, outside Quatre's
office, assembling words into arrangements he barely understood, to express
this need to Quatre that he could hardly express in silence to himself.
It would have been more appealing to still be waiting in the restaurant. He
could simply have called on his cell to remind Quatre of their date, rather
than come here in person to despoil the clean carpets and calm music. Well. He
was here now.
He stepped into the open doorway. Action was the way to move ahead. That he
could address. Once he knew his intention, he could plan, and the only way to
know its outcome was to take the planned action. Time was the enemy of
decisiveness. Maybe that was his trouble now? He had too much time to think and
vacillate and interrogate himself. In battle, death and defeat always panted
close behind. They allowed no time to ruminate and forced action until thought
was instinct and doubt fled.
But when Trowa lifted his gaze, his doubts roosted heavily upon him, and their
sharp talons dug into his resolve. Centered in the wide glass window behind his
wide wooden desk Quatre sat, his head bent over his paperwork. His right hand
was raised, poised as in mid-thought, clutching his pencil (Quatre insisted on
doing arithmetic by hand) and the Colony's late afternoon sun shone on him,
cutting a sharp-edged swathe of light across his desk, turning both his blond
hair and the white sheets of paper luminous. He'd removed his suit jacket and
sat in his shirtsleeves and tie. Quatre's shirt was dove grey, and his tie
looked to Trowa like an Impressionistic portrayal of cherry blossoms.
Quatre's left hand rested lightly on the desk, and his fingers absently tapped
against the surface as if playing along with the music--or else keeping track
of some running total in his imagination. He appeared the epitome of relaxed
concentration, and again Trowa experienced an impulse to step back, turn away,
and leave before Quatre even realised he was there. Instead he knocked lightly
on the doorframe.
"Come in," Quatre mumbled, lowering his pencil to the paper and scribing
something with care. He did not look up to see who had requested his attention,
but instead swapped his current page for another and stared at it.
Trowa took a single step across the threshold and stood quietly, waiting for--
willing--Quatre to look up. The office smelled--as it always did--of jasmine,
and more faintly of lanolin (the carpets were wool). Trowa never noticed the
smell of the carpets anywhere in the building but in Quatre's office. The rest
of the building's odors were dominated by hot electronics, toner, and ink.
"Madeline?" Quatre said, "Do know what happened to the Novem--?" He broke off
as he finally looked up. "Trowa? What are you...? I wasn't expecting to see you
until--" Quatre glanced at his wall clock. "Oh, damn." He dropped his pencil to
the desktop and ran a hand through his hair. "Oh, God. I'm so sorry."
The pencil rolled off the edge of the desk just as Quatre pushed back his chair
and stood.
"I know, it's okay," Trowa said and met Quatre's sheepish smile with what he
hoped was a reassuring one. But it felt peculiar--like his cheeks had turned to
wax.
"No. It's not," Quatre insisted as he retrieved his jacket from the stand by
the door. He shrugged it on and placed a hand on Trowa's forearm. The warmth
permeated Trowa's sleeve immediately. "But I am sorry."
"You already apologised," Trowa replied, letting his gaze slip free of
Quatre's. He shifted his arm, dislodging Quatre's hand.
"Then what is it? There's something else."
"It's..." He sighed, and this time he couldn't evade Quatre's eyes. "We need to
talk," Trowa said and resented instantly how much like a cliché of a doomed
relationship he sounded.
Quatre peered at him as if trying to read his thoughts on his retinas, as if
staring through his pupils at just the right angle with just the right light
would reveal them--as tiny inscribed words. Trowa turned his head to the side,
and his hair fell between them.
"Over a late lunch then?" Quatre proposed, this time speaking more softly.
"Sure."
Trowa jammed his hands in his pockets and followed as Quatre led them from his
office. When they passed Madeline's desk Trowa offered a short nod to the
woman.
"Going out, sir?" she asked Quatre.
"Yes, Madeline, to lunch," answered Quatre.
"And when will you be back, sir?"
"When I'm back, and absolutely no earlier," he replied with a grin.
"Very well. Enjoy your meal, Mr. Winner." Then she returned Trowa's nod with a
genuine smile, "Mr. Barton."
They made their way to the elevators, wending their way among the artfully
arranged desks and potted plants (most were real, not silk). Trowa walked two
steps behind Quatre, giving him the space to greet employees--always by their
first name and always with a smile and some enquiry or bit of small talk
tailored specifically for that individual: a question after a child's recent
dance recital or a congratulations on a spouse's success or a 'well-done' on a
recent project.
How Quatre recalled such minutiae in addition to the faces and names both
baffled and impressed Trowa. The long hours Quatre had devoted to Winner
Enterprises--not just behind his desk, but also in meetings and dropping in on
water-cooler conversations--were succeeding in demonstrating to the corporation
that it was indeed under new management. Fresh leadership and new ideas had
arrived like the first breeze of spring.
Seeing Quatre here and now, in his elegant suit, smiling and laughing and
shaking hands, Trowa's memories of Quatre in the later days of the war, wan and
worn, exhausted and battling his own encroaching doubts, were like a dream.
In his mind Trowa struggled to reconcile this Quatre with the one of his
memory, the boy who had been sick (to the point of vomiting) of death and
destruction, who had been tired (to the point of tears) of fighting, and who
had nevertheless steadfastly gripped, with broken nails and bleeding
fingertips, onto the tattered remnants of his beleaguered ideals.
But then, it was this same inexhaustible character that drove Quatre to work
with single-minded dedication to demonstrate his diligence, trustworthiness,
and care--that his age and presumed lack of experience were not an issue. Thus,
as Trowa watched the employees responding to Quatre here and now, with
enthusiasm and respect--and even affection--Trowa doubted again his recent
decision.
It was no longer necessary that he remain. They had been spending little enough
time together; Trowa could no longer define his role in Quatre's life as
anything meaningful or essential. Quatre had healed, and he no longer needed
Trowa there, two steps behind him, waiting in a café for a forgotten
rendezvous; or staying up to welcome him home in the evenings.
There was nothing Quatre needed that Trowa could yet give. Quatre entered a
world to which Trowa feared even he might not adapt. Even now, making his way
through the WEI offices, Trowa felt as if he were on some foreign world with
its strange, well tailored and coiffed aliens bustling about with datapads and
file folders. He wondered what they thought of the odd boy who occasionally
moved among them in the wake of their shining leader.
However, once they were alone in the elevator, once its doors had slid shut and
the floor began to sink, both the shine and Quatre's smile faded. He looked to
Trowa again with confusion in his eyes.
It was an expression more easily placed alongside Trowa's wartime memories of
Quatre, and it urged him to reassure. Never mind, Quatre, it was nothing to be
worried about. Everything was perfectly fine. So what had been wrong then? He
was simply worrying about contacting Catherine again, that was all. It would be
wonderful to have lunch together today though. Especially this late, after the
lunchtime crowds had left.
Yes, it was much nicer this way. Wasn't it?
 
After the waitress had taken their orders and their menus, Trowa felt Quatre's
gaze settle on him. "You wanted to talk about something?" Quatre asked, his
voice friendly and bright.
"Yeah, I do. I..." he began, his gaze fixed not on his friend but on his own
hands. He toyed with the drops of condensation pooling at the base of his water
glass and seeping into the starched white linen it rested upon. Trowa's eyes
begin to burn as if he'd gotten shampoo in them. His throat struggled to work
around the lump lodged there to speak, but faltered.
"Trowa, what is it?" Quatre reached across the table to clasp Trowa's damp
fingertips. "You're--" Quatre stopped, took a breath, and when he resumed
speaking, his voice was soft, almost a whisper. "You're worrying me." The grip
on his fingers tightened. "At least look at me? Please?"
Trowa did look up, to find his gaze snared by Quatre's familiar one. There he
saw Quatre's concern, although Quatre still smiled. Trowa forced himself to
look away.
"Quatre," he began once more and found something steadying in those familiar
syllables. Nevertheless, a wave of numbness washed his skull as he pushed the
words forward. His lips felt like a puppet's; he couldn't feel them when he
spoke. "I'm going back to L3."
A pause, and then a neutral, obvious, "You're leaving?"
A nod answered that query, and the part of Trowa that resonated with Quatre
contracted sharply.
"For how long?"
Trowa submerged the ghost of Quatre's incomprehension; it bled too easily into
his own. "I don't know. A long time maybe. I don't know. I can't--" Trowa
swallowed. "--be here any longer."
"I don't understand," Quatre said slowly.
"I don't know what I'm doing here any more. Or even what I should be doing."
Confusion drew Quatre's eyebrows together. "There's nothing here you should be
doing. I thought you wanted this time--to sort out what you did want?"
"I did. But I don't know what to do here. How to be here." Words were useless,
Trowa thought. He couldn't even explain it to himself: some abstract emotional
imperative.
"I thought you stayed because--because, you know, how you feel. For me. I
thought we were doing this together. I thought..."
"So did I. But, Quatre," Trowa said, and paused. He looked at his wrists,
resting on the table: clean hands, a fancy wristwatch, and the cuffs of a
designer shirt. "I don't recognise myself here. Not any more. And I feel--
I don't know--suffocated or something."
"By me?" asked Quatre.
"Not you." Trowa sighed. It made him feel ungrateful, to reject these things,
the designer shirt, the fancy watch... But he wasn't a mercenary any longer.
Quatre wasn't paying him to stay--the gifts weren't coercion or incentive, they
were just Quatre. "I hardly see you as it is, really. You couldn't be
suffocating me. It's everything else, I guess."
Helpless, Trowa turned his hands palm up and shrugged. "It's... It's me,
mostly." Trowa winced around his forced smile, nothing he said felt like it
meant what he wanted it to, but he could find no other words with which to
express--with which to disentangle--the knot in his heart.
"I'm sorry, Trowa," said Quatre, speaking softly--earnestly. "I'm sorry for not
being around, for not spending more time with you. I've been so overwhelmed.
I'm sorry, I--"
"It's not your fault, it's--"
"How can it not be my fault? I keep hurting you. I know I do. " Quatre said and
then continued more softly, half to himself, "Why do I keep hurting you? What's
wrong with me?"
"You're not, you don't. You have things that need your attention right now. I
know this. What you're doing is important. If I'm feeling useless, it's my own
problem."
"No, I've been ignoring you too much, and forgetting things--like today,"
Quatre insisted.
"You're busy. I don't expect to be the centre of your universe."
Quatre sighed, exasperated. "Damn it, Trowa, why can't you admit I've screwed
this up?"
Trowa looked at him for a few breaths. "Is that what you want? To have messed
up?"
Silence met that comment. Quatre sat back and fixed him with a hard stare, his
mouth a thin line of displeasure. When Trowa failed to continue, he spoke, "How
can you say that?"
"It's a valid question."
"Are you trying to play counselor to me?"
"Of course not." Trowa sighed; he didn't like the sharp edge to Quatre's tone.
"But did it occur to you that maybe neither of us is to blame?" He paused to
give Quatre a steady look. "Not everything wrong with the universe is your
fault. Sometimes things just don't work out the way you--or I--want them to or
expect them to. Sometimes you have to understand that the only place you have
any real control is over yourself."
"From psychiatrist to philosopher?"
"I've had a lot of time to think."
Silence. Then Quatre spoke again, this time timidly, "Are we breaking up?"
"I don't know," Trowa sighed again, and the energy drained from his voice, "I
don't know. It's not like I've done anything like this before." He stopped to
take a sip of water, to bolster himself for the next question. "Do you want
to...?" He couldn't say it; he couldn't ask it.
"No." was Quatre's whispered reply, barely audible.
"Me neither," Trowa managed to smile in relief. "But I need to be on my own for
a while. I need to figure things out."
"And I need to do some growing up, I guess," Quatre laughed, but there was
little humour in the sound. "It's ridiculous, don't you think? We've done so
much. But we can't do this?"
The two shared a smile, and the tension between them eased momentarily, until
they both sobered with the realisation of what was ahead. They lapsed into a
difficult silence for the remainder of the meal.
 
"Welcome home... Trowa," said the door in its polite mechanical tones after
Trowa had pressed his thumb into the keypad. With a click, the lock released
and he stepped into the spacious foyer of Quatre's penthouse condominium.
Home. Was it? Trowa didn't know how to answer that question; he knew only that
he still sought an answer. Returning to Catherine was the best place Trowa
could think to start. She remained the closest he had to family. And he had
made a promise to her to return alive.
No, this was not where he needed to be. It was Quatre's: Quatre's new shiny
home to go with Quatre's new shiny job. Once Quatre recovered from his
injuries, he immediately wanted to abandon the Winner familial estate with its
museum-like halls of antiques and herds of too-polite servants. He wanted to
find his own place for himself.
Quatre may have abandoned the family manor, but its legacy remained with him.
Quatre had yet to find peace for himself outside his work, and Trowa understood
that he had little hope of helping Quatre find that kind of peace when he,
himself, still wandered so uncertain in the post-war world. He needed to find,
perhaps even make, his own peace as well.
It would have been nice to stay here, in Quatre's world. But wishing for what
could not be served to do nothing but postpone the inevitable, and since Trowa
did not know when Quatre would be back tonight (they had gone their separate
ways after lunch with Quatre insisting he would be home early, but that he did
have some pressing business he had to take care of first), Trowa deemed this a
good opportunity to collect his few belongings and pack.
 
That evening, from the library where he'd been replacing books, Trowa heard the
lock click on the front door accompanied by the inevitable: "Welcome home...
Quatre." Trowa glanced at the clock. 17:34 it read. About six hours earlier
than usual.
"Hi? I'm home," Quatre's voice came from the foyer. "Um, I picked up takeaway.
It's Indian. I hope that's okay. I know how much you like it—and since they
don't have anything authentic on L3- "
Footsteps moved into the kitchen accompanied by the rustle of bags.
Trowa slid the last book in his stack back onto the shelf and went downstairs.
"Trowa? You're still here, aren't you?"
"I'm still here," Trowa spoke softly, entering the kitchen from the hall. "It
smells good."
"Ah, I'm glad," Quatre said, turning to face Trowa and smiling weakly. He
turned back to the food, removing two shallow plastic containers, and two small
paper bags. "I got some samosas and bhajees... um," he moved to the cupboard to
retrieve some plates. Trowa could feel Quatre's agitation, could see it in the
way his hands trembled and could hear it in the nervous monologue. "And, uh,
that's Palak Paneer," he pointed to first one container, then the other. "And
the other one is that thing with the cauliflower and potatoes and stuff... I
can never remember the name." Quatre pulled out the cutlery drawer with a loud
clatter.
"Aloo Gobi."
"Oh, yeah... heh. Stupid of me to forget," Quatre fixed his gaze on the bouquet
of silverware in his hand.
Trowa moved to stand behind Quatre, resting his hands on his shoulders. Quatre
relaxed slightly and leaned into his grasp. "It'll be okay," Trowa murmured
against Quatre's hair. He tried to convince himself.
"I... I guess."
"We can still visit each other, you know, and talk on the phone."
"Yeah," Quatre sighed deeply. "I'm just- I thought I'd lost you before, and it
was my fault. It was the worst feeling in the universe. I can't lose you again
like that."
Trowa ignored the guilt from Quatre. He couldn't deal with that too right now.
"You're not losing me." Trowa bent his head to kiss Quatre behind the ear.
"I don't want to." Quatre reached up to cover Trowa's hand with his own. "At
least Catherine will be happy to see you."
"Yeah, she will."
"I'm going to miss you though. A lot. Even though I haven't been around much
lately, I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you too," Trowa offered, struggling not to give in to his own
melancholy. "Come on. Let's eat before it gets cold."
They didn't speak during dinner. Quatre fixed his attention on his food, and
Trowa tried to pretend it was a comfortable silence. Afterward, Trowa cleared
the dishes while Quatre put the leftover food in the refrigerator. When they'd
each run out of ways to avoid conversation, they sat together in the living
room. Quatre sat on the sofa and looked out the window at the blue dusk
settling over the colony. Trowa sat in a chair and studied the patterns in the
tiles of the fireplace.
Quatre spoke first: "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry."
Trowa closed his eyes. "Stop apologising to me. It's all right."
"I can't, Trowa. I am sorry, and I want you to know that. Why can't you accept
an apology?"
It was the guilt again. Always, Quatre would come back to the guilt. Slowly a
sort of chill crept along Trowa's skin. The tone of Quatre's voice, the
insistence--Trowa opened his eyes. Yes, he could even see it in Quatre's face.
"You want me to be angry with you, don't you?" Trowa said softly.
"Why would I--?"
"You do. I was right. You want this to be your fault."
"I..."
"Why, Quatre? Why would you want that?" Even as he spoke in disbelief, Trowa
saw the answer in Quatre's wide-eyed silence though, the answer Quatre couldn't
speak: In Quatre's mind, Quatre deserved it.
Quatre said nothing.
"You want me to blame you for something? Or yell at you?"
Still Quatre said nothing.
"I'm not that person. I'm not..." Who? Trowa wondered, Quatre's father? "I'm
not that person."
"You should be angry with me," Quatre murmured at last, "after the way I've
treated you. What I've done."
"Do you think I have any right to feel morally superior to you? You don't know
all the things I've done. If you did, I doubt you'd care for me as you do."
"I could never hate you."
"Then you should understand. Don't try to make me be someone I'm not. I'm not
angry with you. I never have been."
Quatre shrugged and looked as if there were something more he wanted to say,
but he never said it.
"Just. Stop apologising to me."
 
Later that evening, Trowa sat on the edge of the bed fumbling with the hem of
his pyjama top. Dark green satin twisted between his fingers. Quatre had given
him the pyjamas--to complement his pretty eyes, Quatre had said. Trowa had
never thought about whether the clothes he wore went with his eyes or whether
his eyes were 'pretty'. His melancholy feelings were becoming harder to ignore.
Quatre stood backlit in the doorway of the en suite bathroom in his oversized
pyjamas and dressing gown. The stark white of the silk nightclothes under the
dark blue velvet of the robe gave the illusion that Quatre was still somehow
dressed to do business. "When will you go?" Quatre asked.
"Tomorrow, maybe, if I can get a shuttle," Trowa said. "I called a travel agent
today. I'll be traveling stand-by."
"That soon." It was not a question.
They remained in silence for a time. The silence was so dense that Trowa found
himself experiencing a sympathetic discord of Quatre's emotions. They augmented
and reflected his own, and he knew that whatever Quatre sensed from him was
more vividly felt in return, more difficult. He couldn't tell how much of what
he felt was him and how much was Quatre. Or how much was both of them, fused
together in some weird psychic ether between them. However it worked, it was
unfair to Quatre; he didn't need to suffer the emotions of others--especially
not Trowa's.
Dimly, Trowa perceived Quatre moving, coming nearer--bare feet silent on plush
carpet--to stand before him. Slender fingers twined in his hair, coaxing him to
lift his head, coaxing him to tilt his head back to meet Quatre's gaze. Trowa
found him calm, at least in appearance, his features nearly void of expression.
Except for the glisten of moisture, creeping from the corner of Quatre's eye,
striving to become a tear. Trowa made himself meet Quatre's gaze without
flinching.
Quatre stroked his hair back from his face, and Trowa let Quatre look at him
like this--exposed. Trowa felt tightness behind his eyes, and his vision
blurred, but no tears came. Quatre leaned near to kiss him chastely on the
forehead. "I'm sorry," he murmured.
"Quat—"
"Shh. Let me apologise for this."
Quatre lips caressed his eyebrows, his cheekbones, and, with a fleeting grin,
his nose. Trowa returned the grin until Quatre kissed him on the mouth, less
chaste. His lips were so pliant and warm, it took Trowa little time to pull
Quatre nearer--to half-stand, half-sit in Trowa's lap--and deepen the kiss. He
inhaled deeply, inhaling as much of Quatre as he could, like something of
Quatre could permeate his cells, let him understand more, let him feel like he
belonged here. How could he leave this?
Breathless, Quatre pulled away. "Let me," he whispered harshly. "Please. Let me
take you tonight."
Trowa stiffened. Implicit in Quatre's request was something they avoided,
another thing driving Quatre's guilt. The thing they hadn't even talked about
enough for it to have its own mental designation for Trowa. They had no
language between them either for that night. Trowa remembered it though, Quatre
fucking him that first time. Quatre believing that because he enjoyed Trowa
fucking him, the reciprocal was a tautology.
It wasn't that Quatre was insensitive as a lover. Trowa knew this. He didn't
blame Quatre. He knew that evening had turned into a bad one for Quatre too.
Though Quatre's reasons were different: an unexpected midnight encounter with
the Winner family's head maid in the kitchen, and her subsequent harsh
judgement of Quatre's then obvious activities with Trowa, had rattled Quatre.
By the time he came back to his room (midnight snack forgotten), to Trowa
waiting for him, he was hurt, angry, and rebellious. His virgin technique had
suffered. His own upset had blinded him to Trowa's alarm and discomfort at his
immoderate intensity and pace.
Trowa had been vulnerable and, however accidentally, hurt. Since then, Quatre
had never asked to penetrate Trowa again, never even indicated he wanted to.
For this Trowa was glad. He was happy with things as they were sexually, and he
knew how much Quatre enjoyed being the receptive partner. He hadn't expected
this request tonight.
"Trowa?"
Trowa didn't realise he'd looked away until Quatre said his name, bringing him
back from the memory. Trowa registered Quatre's tight smile, the earnest
creasing of his brow. He knew he needed to accept this as well as the apology
tonight--whether he felt it was warranted didn't matter. So for Quatre, tonight
before he left, he consented to both Quatre's body and his apology. And Trowa
hoped, if he let Quatre take him this time, Quatre would receive some more
meaningful sense of the forgiveness that was already his. He smiled. "All
right."
The tension melted from Quatre's face, resolved into a brighter smile. "It'll
be better this time, I promise," he said and dipped his head to kiss Trowa's
neck. "I just," he murmured between shivery kisses. "I want to be able to show
you how good you make me feel."
"Okay." Trowa sighed and took Quatre's hands, to draw Quatre onto the bed as he
fell to his back.
"Okay," echoed Quatre, coming onto the bed with Trowa to straddle his hips,
their fingers still tangled together, Quatre's lips sliding into the hollow at
the base of Trowa's throat.
"I love the way you smell," said Quatre.
Trowa smiled into the air, eyes closed, letting his awareness focus on just
Quatre's mouth, kissing and nuzzling up to his jaw, wandering to his earlobe to
nibble and lick. Ticklish, it made Trowa shudder.
"Good?" asked Quatre.
"Yeah," said Trowa.
Quatre kissed him again: tender slip of tongue between his lips, slow and
thorough.
Breath, warm and humid, puffed over Trowa's face as Quatre pulled back, and
Trowa kept his eyes shut. Their fingers disentangled, and Trowa felt the
tugging of Quatre unfastening the buttons of his pyjama top, the wash of air
over his bared skin as Quatre parted the garment.
Softness of lips manifested on his chest, down his breastbone, over his belly--
warm suction, sharp graze of teeth. Fingers resolved at his waistband, the heat
of a palm pressed over his cock, and he arched against that touch. Quatre's
mouth breathed and kissed lower, down to meet his hands. Quatre's hands fumbled
and pulled Trowa's pyjama bottoms down his thighs; Quatre's tongue flicked over
Trowa's cockhead.
And then gone--just a tease. Trowa groaned, lifting his hips and half sitting
to add his efforts to the removal of his pyjama bottoms. Quatre's weight
shifted, and they grappled together with Trowa's pyjamas, Trowa with his eyes
still firmly shut. At last, he lay nude and breathing heavily, and he could
feel Quatre's warmth still wrapped in velvet and silk above him and next to him
and moving all around him.
Quatre's hands pressed his thighs apart; Quatre's weight settled between
Trowa's spread legs: velvet between his thighs. The position of vulnerability
sped cold up Trowa's spine, prickling through his awareness. He tried to slow
his hastening breaths, but in vain, for Quatre's mouth found his cock,
swallowed him in one swift, slick movement, devoured him into dark, liquid
bliss. His chill dissipated into heat.
It always amazed Trowa how noisy Quatre was when performing fellatio. Quatre,
for all his polite and fastidious table manners was an enthusiastic sucker of
cock. For his part, Trowa enjoyed his partner's evident relish as expressed
through the lascivious slurps, wet suckles, and airy pops. Trowa twisted his
fingers in Quatre's hair and surrendered to it.
And then, too soon, Quatre's mouth was on the move again; hungry lips and
playful tongue slathered his balls with attention. Quatre pushed his thighs
further apart, pushed his legs back and up. Exposed him more. Trowa opened his
eyes, blinked to clear the blur, and looked down his body to meet Quatre's
gaze.
"This is still okay?" Quatre panted, smiling a little in hope, frowning a
little in concern, and flushing a lot with arousal.
"Yeah," Trowa answered. "However you want to do it," he murmured, and then he
added, "I trust you."
Quatre nodded and the concern eased from his features. He relinquished his hold
on Trowa's body long enough to shrug off his robe, letting the dark folds of
velvet pool around his folded legs. He lowered his head once more, kissed the
back of Trowa's raised thigh, rested his forehead where he had kissed, and then
touched with shy fingertips the tense hole nestled between Trowa's buttocks.
Trowa glanced to the night table, spotted the lubricant and reached for it. He
passed it down to Quatre, fell back into the pillows, and closed his eyes once
more. "I trust you," he said again.
Arousal faded with the practicality of preparation. Trowa wished he could enjoy
this as Quatre did, but Quatre's pushing of a well-lubed finger into him didn't
feel all that sexy. It felt exactly like what it was. He had a finger stuck up
his ass.
"Try to relax," Quatre said, and Trowa remembered to breathe. Breathing helped.
But, gentle probings, even welcomed, still felt strange and intrusive. When
Quatre pulled his hand away, Trowa felt guilty for being so relieved.
"Maybe you should lie on your stomach?" Quatre proposed.
Trowa opened his eyes and nodded. As he rolled to his stomach, Quatre passed
him a pair of pillows. "Here," Quatre said, helping Trowa arrange them beneath
his hips. "Is that comfortable enough?"
It wasn't. Despite the addition of cushions, it was too much like the first
time, and this heightened sense of helplessness sapped any eroticism Trowa
hoped to foster. "Wait," he said, pulled the cushions from beneath his hips and
raised himself to hands and knees. That felt better--less passive anyway.
"Okay?"
"Yeah," said Quatre and Trowa heard his smile. Then Quatre's hands returned to
his body. Two slippery fingers wedged him open once more, and Quatre's other
hand wrapped slick about his cock. Discomfort and pleasure vied for dominance
in Trowa's mind. Quatre stroked his shaft slowly a few times before speeding
his hand and masturbating Trowa with clear intent. Quatre's fingers inside him
twisted and shifted and then withdrew. Nothing replaced them immediately, and
an impending orgasm knotted tight in Trowa's balls.
His body, caught in the dominating stretch toward release, did not register the
first pressure and spread of penetration. Quatre was already inside him, edging
deeper, when Trowa expanded back to a broader awareness. His interrupted orgasm
ached even as his erection faded. Quatre held him as he softened. All he could
feel now was the fullness crammed inside his rectum. Too visceral to be sexy,
he felt like he had to use the toilet.
"Breathe," Quatre said. "Breathe, Trowa."
Trowa breathed, and Quatre didn't move but for his hands rubbing Trowa's hips
and lower back to soothe. Slowly, so slowly, sensation changed from invasion to
simple presence. It seemed organs reordered themselves, melding about the shape
of Quatre within him. There was acceptance, not resistance. "Okay," Trowa said.
"I'm okay."
But when Quatre pulled out, Trowa flinched away from the push back in. "Sorry,"
he said.
Quatre bent over him and pressed his lips to Trowa's skin. "No apologies," he
said. Quatre's next push in, Trowa stilled himself to meet. And the next. And
the next. The thick shift and slide, as Trowa relaxed into Quatre's careful
rhythm, became almost hypnotic. Trowa closed his eyes, hung his head, and let
his muscles relax enough that his body swayed with each stroke of Quatre's
cock.
And then, "You feel... Oh, Trowa..." A stifled groan.
Good. Yeah, it felt good, Trowa realised. With each drag of Quatre's flesh
through his insides, more sensation roused: exotic flashes of pleasure which
brought murmurs of 'oh', and 'yes', and 'don't stop' to Trowa's lips. The
orgasm Trowa believed lost Quatre assiduously nudged back to life. Coaxed,
drawn, and spun, it reformed, familiar and strange at once. "More," Trowa
gasped.
As Quatre responded with quicker, surer jerks of his hips, the discrete flashes
blurred into one another, buzzing into a bright continuity. Amazed, incredulous
even, Trowa realised he was going to come soon, and Quatre wasn't touching his
cock. He was going to come from being fucked. Just that. He choked on his
incredulity even as his body banished it. His gasps turned to ragged sobs as he
came, and--incredibly--came and came more; deep, so deep, god so deep, and
different.
Some several heartbeats--or a lifetime--later, Trowa realised he had missed
Quatre's orgasm. Rueful, he twisted about as their bodies separated. He reached
back and touched himself between his buttocks, soft and open, wet with lube and
Quatre's semen. Quatre touched his cheek, fingertips coaxing their faces closer
for a kiss.
After the kiss, "Better?" Quatre asked, setting his sweaty forehead against
Trowa's.
Trowa completed his twist and slumped to the mattress, pulling Quatre down to
rest atop him. "I liked it," Trowa said, " a lot."
"Thank you," Quatre replied, and rolled off Trowa to sprawl next to him, chest
heaving.
Neither spoke for a time. Guilt twisted within, and Trowa opened his mouth to
apologise. He stopped though, almost laughed at the sudden Quatre-esque
impulse. Instead he asked, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," said Quatre: the automatic reply. "Will you stay? At least a little
longer? Maybe," Quatre rolled to his side to face Trowa, "at least think about
it?"
Trowa closed his eyes and shook his head. "I can't, Quatre."
"But I thought...?"
Realisation sunk hard and indigestible into Trowa's stomach, "It wasn't about
this."
Quatre lay on his back once more. "Then what is it about, Trowa? I don't
understand."
"I don't understand either. I just know." Trowa laid his hand over his heart,
where he felt that knowledge, sure even if he wasn't. "I know when it's time
for me to move on."
"Why do you have to? Haven't you been happy here? I've tried to give you
everything."
"What I need isn't anything you can give me."
"I'm sorry," Quatre said.
This time, the apology didn't hurt. Perhaps because it was so uneccessary, or
perhaps because it was simple words of sympathy and not an imposition of guilt.
The words didn't stick and ache, they just were there, warm and softly spoken.
"It's okay," Trowa said, "It's not like I don't want to be here with you. It's
just." Trowa shrugged again, reached to take Quatre's hand. "It's like..." He
tried again to find any words for it, a metaphor or something.
"What's it like?"
"Have you ever felt something, bone deep, something you couldn't name or
quantify, but it was there, aching--like hunger or lust or fear."
"I don't know that I have."
"It's like that, something I don't know how to satisfy, but I can't help but
feel I need to, so it'll go away, this emptiness inside me."
Quatre turned toward Trowa and propped himself up on an elbow, he reached out a
hand and pushed it beneath the hand Trowa rested upon his own heart. "I don't
think I do understand, Trowa." He dropped his head and pressed his lips to the
back of Trowa's hand. His bangs tickled Trowa's skin. "Maybe I can't," he said
against Trowa's knuckles. Quatre's shoulders hitched in a shrug, and he sighed,
warm puff of breath. "But I trust you to know yourself well enough. I can try
to accept this, I can do that much for you."
Trowa had to swallow before he could reply, "Thank you, Quat." His other hand
he pushed through Quatre's sweat curled hair, wove the locks around his
fingers, tight enough to cut off blood flow. He pulled, tugging Quatre by his
hair, up his body, so he could kiss his gratitude into Quatre's mouth.
Quatre whimpered low in the back of his throat, almost a growl, and deepened
the kiss, accepting Trowa's gratitude, his mouth growing fierce, daring to
demand something in return. He raised himself and rolled forward, sliding to
align his body over Trowa's. As his weight settled, Trowa felt the pulse of
Quatre's half hard cock and his rising body heat, felt himself responding in
kind. Quatre withdrew from the kiss just enough to whisper, "Trowa?"
"Yeah?" Trowa freed his hand from between their bodies, slid his open palm down
the plane of Quatre's back, coming to rest in the hollow of the small of his
back, his pinky finger reaching that little bit further to stroke where the
curve reversed, beginning the swell of Quatre's buttocks. "Again?"
A trace of sadness remained in Quatre's gaze, but Trowa was glad to see his
smile, genuine if not wide. And then the smile quirked as Quatre's skated his
legs out to straddle Trowa. "Yeah."
Returning the smile, Trowa slid his his hands down to cup the backs of Quatre's
thighs, tugging Quatre up his body until he could reach between the cheeks of
Quatre's backside. Quatre stretched a hand out for the lube.
Prep was perfunctory--lube only--for Quatre was impatient. Too soon he was
bracing himself with one hand above Trowa and gripping Trowa's cock in his
other as he bore down on it. Without being stretched, Quatre was vice-tight,
and Trowa could hardly breathe with the suffocating grip cinching down around
his cock. He had a terrifying thought that, despite Quatre's nominal
acceptance, that he was now hurting himself on purpose as some kind of wrong-
headed yen for penance. Trowa finally managed to suck a shallow breath and
asked, "Quatre?"
Quatre's head hung low, his eyes pinched shut, his mouth open for deep breaths.
He shuddered, but didn't stop his slow descent. "I'm good," he said. "So good,
he groaned. He lifted his head and opened his eyes. He was flushed from his
cheeks to his chest and his pupils were huge, eclipsing almost completely the
blue of his irises. "Your cock," he sighed. "I love it, Trowa. Want to feel
you. Feel everything. Love you inside me. Just..." He smiled raggedly. "...love
you."
"Me too," Trowa said, it was hard to be eloquent in thought or word when it was
like this with Quatre. He grabbed Quatre's hips, yanked him down the rest of
the way flush onto his cock. Quatre let out a sharp cry, but it wasn't of pain.
Then Trowa pushed Quatre back up and off, not all the way, just a few inches,
but far enough to roll his hips up as he pulled him back down again, snug and
tight. Perfect. "Love you, too."
Quatre grabbed his wrists, his grip upon them almost as tight as his ass.
"Yeah, Trowa. Fuck me." He moved just enough to help Trowa, but let Trowa lead,
let Trowa's hands guide and pace the rise and fall and the thrust and slide.
Slowly, Trowa moved their bodies together, each roll and tug accompanied by a
deep inhale. Exhale on the push back up, the slide back out. Slow, but not
easy, with his body hungering to go faster and harder, to race for its climax
deep inside Quatre. But he knew, knew it would be even better like this. A
concentrated even cadence of breath and motion and pleasure. And then he felt
it, the flickering candlelight of Quatre's own desire, the ache of his
yearning, empty even as he was being filled.
Trowa closed his eyes, but didn't stop the steady march of his love making.
Didn't falter one beat as he reached into Quatre's emptiness with more than
just his body, reached with himself to try to fill the void. But it was never
enough, not the sex, not the reaching. It was never quite enough, there was
always skin and the ethereal membrane of Self barring any true completion.
There were always places that exceeded his grasp. Even so, they could get
close, so close.
"Trowa," Quatre moaned, tapering off into a whisper. "I can feel you, I feel so
much."
Through the backwash and echo of Quatre's empathy, his so-called 'heart of
space', Trowa could feel him reaching back, straining to meet, seeking and
striving, perhaps trying to find the mysterious source of Trowa's need, wanting
to know it and understand it. To look at it and turn it over in his mind and in
his heart, to feel it as if it were his own.
But the orgasm coiling up tight in Trowa's balls anchored him in his body, the
velvet heat and stroke of their physical union tethered him, restricting his
psychic reach. He knew it was the same for Quatre. It didn't always happen like
this, but the times it did, they never came as close as they did during sex,
even if it was never as close as they tried. Friction and embodiment always
pulled them back, snapped them back into their separate selves in the final
rush into orgasm, gasping and sweating and straining and glorious for all its
imperfection.
Quatre came first, head and shoulders bowed, white knuckled and shuddering,
panting and chanting Trowa's name. Quatre's pleasure licked along the edges of
Trowa's impelling him to thrust deeply one last time and be swept along in the
undertow. And he saw it then, naked in a bright flash, the emptiness driving
his need to leave. It was the place Quatre could never reach, could never fill
within him, could never feel or see or know no matter how they came together.
It was the essential isolation of the individual, the place Trowa alone could
seek and fill for himself. He understood. Within that instant of his own, he
felt the dawn of Quatre's comprehension. Quatre did, after all, have those
empty spaces within him, too, and Quatre already knew well the loneliness in
aspects of his own life, the things he had to accomplish and overcome within
himself and by himself.
When Quatre lifted his head to look into Trowa's open eyes, he opened his mouth
to speak, but there were no words he needed to say. Trowa could feel his
acceptance, renewed and sincere, resting easily in the lingering ether between
them.
"I know," Trowa said, before Quatre rallied his breath. “I know.” He pulled
Quatre down to rest upon his chest as Quatre lifted himself enough for Trowa's
softening cock to slip free. He relished the lassitude washing over him, the
solid heavy warmth of Quatre relaxing into his embrace, the small movements of
his body as he shifted to find the most comfortable fit, his slowing heart and
drying sweat, the fading tremors of their sex. The fading echo of intimacy.
After a time, Quatre did speak, "Promise me something, Trowa?"
"I-" Trowa stopped himself from reflexively saying he couldn't. He wasn't a
soldier anymore. Now, a promise he could keep. "What's that?" he asked, sliding
his fingers through Quatre's hair, relaxing his palm against the arc of
Quatre's skull. He pressed his lips to the top of Quatre's head.
"That one day," Quatre said as he rubbed his cheek against Trowa's breastbone,
"you'll come home to me."
"Home," Trowa murmured against the crown of Quatre's head. It still didn't feel
like the right word, but maybe it would become the right word, not for this
place, but for this heart beating above his. When he felt the truth of it, of
course it would end here; it had already ended here: there was no other
possible destination. He was certain it would be Quatre in the end. Which
didn't help him understand the fullness of the task ahead, only that he had an
inkling of the path and faith that it would bring him back. Perhaps he had to
remember all his steps, retrace the winding littered trail of a half-forgotten
life to find out why it had brought him so irrevocably here, but here it led,
and so here must be, if not now, then then: home.
Trowa coaxed Quatre to lift his head and moved both hands to touch Quatre's
face, framing his cheekbones and jaw with grazing fingertips. "I will come
home," he said. "To you. I promise."
 
the end
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