Stages of Love - Emotions
Quatre, in Five Easy Bites
warnings: BL, a little sap
note: written for the fall '06 [ stagesoflove ], for the theme set of emotions: envy, the first of five.
Trowa is on the hillock when the comment is made. For a moment, he is speechless and turns to stare at his companion. But the man continues in his quiet voice, telling Trowa more of his wishes, hopes, and dreams... fantasies, he calls them.
Many months have past since the latest war, and in that time, Trowa recalls many of the places Quatre has shown him. From giant corporate sky rises to factories and warehouses, from luxurious apartment buildings to the conglomeration of hotel chains spanning the spectrum of accommodation stars. Trowa looks out at the view again. His legs are suddenly weak and he is sitting where he stands, his hands holding his head.
"I just know there's something more," Quatre is saying, and Trowa looks at him. Quatre is sitting beside him now, with his knees drawn up close to his chest and his arms folded over the tops. Quatre is watching the bustling activity below them, noisy with hammering and workmen calling to one another. Quatre sighs and rests the side of his head on his arms, turning his face to Trowa.
He is nodding, the tendril idea beginning to weave a pattern. Trowa looks back at the scene below, familiar and comforting in its chaos. The roust-abouts setting up the Big Top, handlers making their animals comfortable, performers staking out their few feet of privacy, and the Manager everywhere at once, shouting his orders and expecting them to be followed.
In almost a rush, before he thinks about it too much and loses its innocent impulsiveness, Trowa touches Quatre's hand. "You can come stay with me, then." His heart is painfully heavy in his throat, and he swears he almost stopped breathing. He drops his head, letting the thick bangs fall over his eyes, hiding his face.
Warm fingers slip into his closed hand, pushing their way to where palm meets palm. "I'd like that."
Trowa can breathe again. Not quite ready to look in his direction, he closes his hand over Quatre's. Some ism or other tries to make itself known, but Trowa isn't listening. Instead, he watches the circus come to life and dreams what the future will bring.
warnings: BL, blow-job, a little sap
note: written for the fall '06 [ stagesoflove ], for the theme set of emotions: surprise, the second of five.
Within sight of the Big Top, the sound of the crowd cheering is loud, but Trowa isn't listening to the cheers and laughter, isn't listening for the Manager to announce the next act or the calliope introducing the clowns. Trowa is completely and thoroughly concentrating on the boy he has pinned against the outside trailer wall; listening intently for more than muted gasps, and swallowed whimpers.
He is on his knees in the dirt, Quatre's cock in his mouth. Quatre is breathing hard, Trowa can feel it through his touch, but he hasn't heard what he wants. The taste of Quatre is strong in his mouth and he urges more with tongue and a raking of teeth. Trowa's left hand squeezes Quatre's hip, and his right works Quatre's pants lower, works its way between Quatre's thighs. His finger strokes over the peridium, and the bridge of skin between sack and anus. Quatre's hand lifts from its position flat against the metal side of the trailer to weave his fingers through Trowa's hair. Trowa sucks deep and Quatre whimpers again.
Trowa peers upward; the passion he longs for looks back at him. But, Quatre is biting the back of his hand, and Trowa nearly commands him not to. Instead, he lets go of his hold on Quatre's hip, lets his hand travel up Quatre's shirt to the sleeve, and grasps it. He is tugging it down and away from Quatre's mouth, his hand follows the fabric to flesh, and his fingers seek out and lace together with Quatre's.
Quatre is gasping in gulping breaths, and he no longer muffles his cries.
It isn't the first time Trowa has had Quatre's cock in his mouth, or Quatre's cock inside him; they are lovers, if only on occasion deep in the night and early morning hours. The return to friends at dawn's light confuses Trowa, but Quatre doesn't quite meet his eyes, and is scarcely seen for the rest of the day if Trowa attempts to be more than. Their sex fills Trowa with a joy beyond everything else ever experienced. But, it is as two blind mutes fumbling in the dark. No sound, no light.
It is impulse only that made him push Quatre up against the trailer, open Quatre's pants, and drop to his knees. Quatre cries out again, sharp and carrying, and Trowa looks up. Quatre's eyes are closed, but he is tilting his head back with his neck arched and his mouth open. His fingers are squeezing Trowa's fingers; his hand is clutching tightly to Trowa's hair. Trowa slips his saliva-coated finger inside Quatre and Quatre is shouting his name. Trowa has to close his own eyes, the passion too much.
The shimmying thrust of Quatre's hips warns him. But still the instant flood of come and tart flavor has Trowa nearly letting go of his hold on Quatre. He begins to swallow, and semen overflows his lips, a line drips down his chin. Quatre's grip on his hair, on his hand relaxes, and Trowa eases his mouth off Quatre's cock, releases Quatre's hand, and takes his finger from Quatre's hole. He has been given the treasure he sought and his arms circle about Quatre's legs, his lips are kissing skin, hair, and the now flaccid cock.
"Trowa." Quatre's voice is oddly serene but compelling, and Trowa looks up from his still kneeling position. Quatre is smiling, is sliding down the wall to kneeling in the dirt with Trowa. Both of Quatre's hands rise. He is caressing Trowa's face, fingertip touches over his cheeks to his lips.
Trowa closes his eyes with a sigh, and collapses into Quatre, his face pressed into Quatre's shirt. Behind him, the calliope begins and the audience is cheering, thunderous in its applause.
He feels the same way too.
warnings: BL, a little angst
note: written for the fall '06 [ stagesoflove ], for the theme set of emotions: compassion, the third of five.
At the other end of the city, Trowa finds him perched upon a large block, a knee drawn to his chest and his chin resting on the knee. The sun is as flames around him, and Trowa pauses to watch. His hands twitch with the need to act, though he knows not what. His heart is beating a slow and heavy rhythm, and it feels as it had in proving his worth and allegiance to OZ. Only, there is a difference.
It is the middle of summer and the circus is touring Europe. Outside the city opposite where he is now, the Big Top rises and camp settles. From one end to the other, the war scars are present - ancient trees still showing damage and destroyed buildings lie in rubble heaps. It is there in the faces of children, the desperation in the eyes of the mothers and the stooped shoulders of the men.
He hears Quatre sigh and sees that he moves to stand. Trowa steps closer, makes a slight noise in his throat, warning of his presence. Quatre's head turns and his smile is swift, but Trowa still sees the hints that are there. He is at Quatre's side; his hand rises to touch Quatre's face.
"Did I ever tell you I was here before?" Quatre asks, his voice so low Trowa almost doesn't hear it. "There was an old man who ran a shop there." Quatre nods his chin toward a broken pile of brick and boards.
Trowa barely glances, knowing well what he'd see. There is no wisdom he can share, no words to ease the pain. Instead, he captures Quatre's hand and holds it to his chest. He sees the despair in his eyes, and pulls Quatre from the block. His arms are around Quatre's body and he holds him as he had held his hand.
The sun is all but gone, and the night brings a light wind. Trowa lifts his face from Quatre's shoulder, his hand rises, and he touches his own cheek. Quatre steps back, gives him a wavering smile and Trowa shows him his fingertip.
"They are like crystal in space."
warnings: BL, more than a bit of angst
note: written for the fall '06 [ stagesoflove ], for the theme set of emotions: regret, the fourth of five.
It is with a sudden awareness Trowa finds himself in space. And like his dreams
it is as he remembers. Cold. Dark. Lonely.
The shuttle slows, and he pushes the gear into a holding pattern. His memory-scape plays the scene so vividly, his arms hug his body; the chill goes deep and his teeth begin to chatter. It is the grayness of that time, the almost memory of what had happened that eats at him. That plagues his sleep.
Forgiveness isn't hard to offer when he doesn't know what there is to forgive.
The silent scream he doesn't remember, tears from his throat and rips open his veins, leaving him exposed and bleeding. And then there is nothing but black stretching from lee to yon.
He rubs gloved fingers over his chin, irritating skin to the point of bleeding, his eyes are fixed to a coordinate just beyond the view screen. Where once there was a colony, one filled with living beings, families, and businesses, now there is nothing. Even the debris has been cleaned or scattered.
A whoosh sounds; the airlock activates and Trowa is pulled from his stupor. He half rises, turning to the shuttle door. There are no weapons aboard the private shuttle, and he wonders how a breech could happen in the security system.
Not even to the cockpit doorway, Trowa stumbles to a stop. A figure is there, dressed in a WEI embossed issued suit. The helmet lifts.
"Quatre!" Trowa cries in whisper.
He is smiling, though sadness reflects in his eyes. His helmet is stowed on the nearest surface, and Quatre moves with determined steps forward. In front of Trowa, he stops and his eyes search Trowa's face. His hand rises but with an impatient sound, he jerks the gloves from both hands and tosses them aside. Quatre's hands are cold on Trowa's cheeks, and Trowa closes his eyes.
The words he wishes to say, words that he wants to believe, fumble in his throat. He utters them not, and trembles with the force. The pain is suffocating; his heart splits, his head drops back out of Quatre's hold, and his mouth opens. He is falling, down to his knees onto the metal flooring. Darkness and cold surround him, pull him back into the nightmare.
There is warmth. There is light.
His eyes open and Quatre is there. Quatre holds him, saying nothing and yet, everything. And Trowa's arms are sluggish in rising to hold Quatre in return.
warnings: BL, mild angst
note: written for the fall '06 [ stagesoflove ], for the theme set of emotions: hope, the fifth of five.
It is with a sigh that Quatre collapses on him, and Trowa embraces his body. A murmur of an endearment, a brush of lips against his neck, and Quatre is rolling off to lie on his back. The loss of heat is instant, and for a moment, Trowa turns with Quatre. His fingers are tangled, interlaced with Quatre's, lying on Quatre's chest. Trowa stares at them, the rapid pants of exertion slowly pass.
He lies back, to stare at the ceiling; his hand moves as Quatre's chest rises and falls. He wants to touch himself, to bring back that instant of blinding light, where all was emotions and touch. His free hand slides up to his belly, its fingers edge the come spent and drying.
Quatre's lips touch his knuckles, and Trowa turns his head. With his eyes closed, Quatre strokes Trowa's hand over his cheek and caresses his palm with his mouth. Trowa is holding his breath; Quatre's movements still, and his breathing begins to even. Trowa watches for minutes longer, and eases himself away from Quatre, away from the bed.
In his soft tread, Trowa pads across the carpet to the bathroom. He doesn't turn on a light; it's a small mess he needs to clean. Light doesn't always illuminate. It is his own reflection he sees, the bedside lamp casting its glow across the distance. His eyes are wide and dark, his lips slightly swollen, and his neck carries a red patch. Quatre needs to shave again.
He is clean, and returns to bed, shutting off the lamp. Suddenly, his legs are cold; the blanket isn't enough.
Quatre murmurs his name, voice heavy with sleep. His body slides closer, curls around Trowa. "Missed you."
He is turning on his side, curling into Quatre; his legs are no longer cold. Quatre's breath comes in soft puffs of air, touching his mouth and rolling across his lips, down his chin. His eyes are sliding closed, and he nuzzles his face into Quatre's. A touch, whispered words, and a brush of lips.
The ache of loss forgotten, he now holds more than a moment's passion ever would.