I don't know where this came from. I don't even like 3x4, I like 1x2, 1x4, 2x4, 2x5, 3x5 and orgies :D but anyway! Enjoy, all you 3x4shippers!
Hot Chocolate and Thunderstorms
Trowa Barton was getting absolutely soaking wet.
The Heavyarms pilot sighed, shifting his sitting position slightly, and upturned his face to the heavens. Fat rain droplets spattered onto his cheeks and ran in rivulets down the sides of his nose, working their way from there into the contour of his lips and then over his chin, where they trickled merrily down his exposed Adam's apple and disappeared from sight beneath the collar of his sopping shirt. His bangs hung heavy down the right side of his face, a constant stream of water pouring from them onto the patio below. He leaned back on his hands, the concrete slabs cold and slippery to the touch, and closed his eyes - partly to shield them from the fierce deluge, but mostly to better immerse himself in the rain noises; from the hissing of it on the grass to the drumming on the dustbin lids, and the gurgling as it rushed through the complex network of gutters and drainpipes adorning the nearby row of student flats.
A vivid flash lit up the inside of Trowa's eyelids, followed almost instantaneously by a low growl of thunder that swelled quickly into a deafening black crescendo. Trowa flicked his eyes open just in time to see a second fork of lightning split the sky across, illuminating the edges of the ominously low clouds. The thunder answered the lightning with its own battle cry, louder and longer than before. The rain came down, if at all possible, harder. The elements raged against each other in simultaneous deafening and blinding fury, and Trowa watched, the faintest trace of a contented smile playing at the corners of his green eyes. Only one thing could make this more perfect…
Barely audible over the storm, a door in the nearest flat slammed.
"Trowa!"
…and here he came.
Quatre sprinted up the slight grassy slope to the patio where Trowa sat, head down against the brutal weather, shoes making squelching slaps on the muddy turf. In the ten seconds it took him to reach the L3 pilot, his blond hair was already plastered against his cheeks, and his shirt was beginning to stick to his back in patches.
"You're soaking!" he sputtered through the downpour. He lifted a bang out of his eye and blew the heavy raindrops from the end of his nose. "Why don't you come inside?"
By way of reply, Trowa rose nimbly and shrugged out of his jacket, throwing it over Quatre instead. "You'll catch cold," he explained briefly, when Quatre attempted to protest. Clamping his hands on the Arabian's shoulder's to keep him from refusing the gesture, Trowa steered Quatre back down the slope towards the flat he had come from, casting one glance back to the solitude he had left behind.
"Arigato," Quatre gasped when the door was firmly shut behind them, and shivered. "Trowa, what were you doing out there?"
Trowa shrugged, moving through the narrow hallway towards the kitchen. "Just watching the storm." There was a pause. "Cocoa?"
"That'd be nice." Crossing his arms over, Quatre fingered the seams of Trowa's jacket and pulled it slightly closer around himself - although sopping went on the outside, it was warm and snug within. It smelt of the Latin pilot, Quatre absently registered, as he followed him into the kitchen.
Trowa gathered mugs, cocoa powder and milk from the cupboards and fridge as Quatre's shivers eased, the brunette seeming none the worse himself although his trousers and the front of his shirt were soaked through, not to mention his hair. Quatre opened his mouth and began to say something, but the thunder chose that moment to inflict a particularly vengeful crash upon the world, and it was drowned out. Trowa cocked his head slightly, silently indicating that he had not heard.
"I said," Quatre repeated, not without a strong air of reproval, "that you're going to catch your death."
Trowa smiled softly at him, and began to heat the milk over the hob. "I'm fine," he said, sounding quietly amused.
"You could at least change…"
Trowa pointedly looked Quatre's own wet garments up and down, making the blond flush slightly, and went back to stirring the milk. Quatre slipped between man and hob, deftly took the wooden spoon from Trowa's surprised grasp, and smacked him lightly on the thigh with it. "Go and change," he said, gently but commanding. "Now. I'll mind the milk."
Trowa shrugged resignedly and left the room, eyes smiling. He knew better than to argue. Quatre hummed to himself as the milk began slowly to heat, pushing his hair back to keep the rainwater it had collected from dripping into the saucepan. The night outside was alternately black as ebony and bright as diamond. He wondered, briefly, how the other three pilots were coping with their mission, but shrugged off any worry. They were all three of them perfectly capable of taking care of themselves.
"Better?" Trowa reappeared in the doorway, dry now save for his damp but neatly-combed hair. Quatre beamed at him.
"Much. Here, would you mind…?" He proffered the wooden spoon, which Trowa took, brushing the other's fingers. They switched places, Quatre slipping off to make himself tidy whilst Trowa began spooning cocoa powder and sugar into their mugs.
The rain drummed a somehow comforting tattoo against the window pane as Quatre carefully hung up his own clothes and Trowa's jacket - comforting, perhaps, because their little flat seemed all the more warm and cosy by comparison. Quatre dried himself quickly and was roughly towelling his hair when he was plunged into sudden and rather inconsiderate darkness.
Hastily, Quatre dragged on a pair of trousers and a baggy jumper and padded out into the hallway. "Trowa?" he called uncertainly. "Is everything all right?"
"Power outage," came the reply. "The whole area, by the looks of it."
"Is the cocoa done?"
"Hai, almost. The milk's hot enough."
"Well, that's something, at least." Upon reaching the kitchen, Quatre put out a tentative hand in the dark and felt his way past Trowa to a drawer. "I'll light some candles."
The thunder answered him in a deep, angry growl. Undeterred, Quatre successfully lit a candle for Trowa to find the marshmallows by and carried the other three through to the small sitting room. The dim, warm glow cast flickering shadows about the more remote corners. Quatre smiled, pleased with the effect, as Trowa brought in the cocoa mugs on a tray, a single marshmallow floating in each and a small pile on a plate between the two.
"Mmn…" Quatre took the green mug, inhaled the aroma deeply and sipped. Then he sighed and leaned back into the sofa as Trowa sat down beside him. "Arigato, Trowa-chan."
Trowa smiled and looked slightly away. "Dou itashimashite, Quatre-chan," he murmured. There was a companionable silence while both sipped at their drinks.
"Could you not have watched the storm from the window?" Quatre said softly.
Trowa blinked contemplatively at his friend. "It's not the same," he said eventually, pushing the marshmallow around his blue mug with a teaspoon. "You aren't in the storm, from the window."
"Why would you want to be?" Quatre asked in bewilderment.
"To be part of it. To share the emotion." Quatre was looking more and more puzzled by the moment, and Trowa shook his head. "Never mind."
"No…" Quatre put an encouraging hand on Trowa's arm. "Onegai, Trowa - I want to understand."
Trowa hesitated, using his spoon to prod the marshmallow thoughtfully. Then, "Have you ever heard of 'pathetic fallacy', Quatre?" he asked. Slowly, Quatre nodded.
"It's when you use weather to represent emotions, ne? In a piece of writing or film, or artwork."
"Correct." Trowa nodded. "Such as having very cloudy weather when a character is depressed." He set the teaspoon down carefully, and rubbed his thumb over the mug handle. "Sometimes, I feel that… weather has emotions. Thunderstorms especially." Trowa frowned. "Is that silly? Childish."
Outside, the wind and rain battered at the window as the sky sparked and rumbled fiercely. Quatre smiled, gazing out with his mug cupped between his hands.
"Not at all," he assured his friend warmly.
Trowa smiled a brief, grateful smile in return. "Storms are loud. They let it all out. Not just the obvious anger that you might associate with a thunderstorm, but…" He hesitated, then sighed. Quatre waited patiently. Trowa made several attempts to continue before shaking his head.
"I can't explain it," he said firmly. "It makes no sense."
"Try," Quatre urged. "I'll help you."
Trowa looked faintly amused again. "And how would you do that?"
"One step at a time. Anger." The blond ticked it off on one finger. "What else?"
Trowa sighed. "Anger. …Despair." Quatre ticked that one off too, and there was a long pause. "Futile rage." Another tick. "Loneliness… sorrow." Pause. "Longing…" Trowa closed his eyes. "Desire. Passion. Hope and hopelessness, fear and panic. Emptiness, bitterness... Jealousy. Insanity, intensity, injustice, lack of control. Being overwhelmed, misery, self-pity, vengefulness, powerlessness." Suddenly they were coming thick and fast. Trowa opened his eyes and allowed his green gaze to settle on a point far distant. "We understand each other," he said softly, "the thunder and I."
Quatre was silent for a long moment. Trowa remained staring at the wall, then shook himself.
"I told you it didn't make any sense," he said humourlessly.
"Trowa…"
"…"
"…Why?"
Trowa shook his head. "It doesn't matter."
"Yes," Quatre insisted gently, "it does."
Trowa turned to look at Quatre, his uncertainty meeting the other's earnest gaze. Quatre's hair was all mussed up, he noticed suddenly. Smiling fondly, he pushed a tousled clump of it away from the clear blue eyes, which softened at the gesture, while the pale cheeks coloured ever so slightly.
"I stopped in the middle of towelling it," murmured Quatre. "I forgot…" Trowa's hand lingered on his cheek, and the blue eyes fluttered closed. Quatre's breathing was irregular, suddenly.
"Trowa…"
Trowa leaned slowly toward the vision of beauty beside him, as if drawn by an invisible string. "Nnh…?" His dark lashes sank shut of their own accord.
"What are you - ?" Quatre began breathlessly. And then Trowa's lips closed unbidden on his, and there were no more words.
The kiss was simple and short, but effective. When they parted, Quatre opened his eyes as wide as saucers and stared at Trowa's blissful face, eyes still shut, lips slightly apart, as though he remained clinging to the experience in his mind. His right hand still hovered near Quatre's cheek, the other had sought rest on the Arabian's waist. Both of Quatre's hands lay gently against Trowa's collarbone. Several seconds passed.
"What are you thinking?" Trowa whispered, without opening his eyes. Quatre's face dissolved into a tender smile that Trowa could not see.
"I'm thinking that perhaps you aren't so bad at explaining things after all," he replied, and the smile was evident in his voice.
Trowa's eyes blinked open and his face broke into an expression of deep relief. "Why didn't you say anything?" he asked, reverently brushing his thumb over Quatre's cheek, which leaned into the caress.
"Why didn't you?" Quatre countered in a whisper. Trowa gave him a jaded smile.
"Touché."
A contemplative silence, in which the two held each other and inhaled each other's scents to the fullest.
"Trowa?" Quatre breathed
"Hai, Quatre-chan?"
"Can you do two things for me?"
"Hai."
"Firstly, can you not go out and sit in any more storms?"
Trowa smiled. "I don't think the thunder would understand me anymore, anyway. I promise," he swore solemnly. Quatre hugged him a little tighter. "And the second?" ventured Trowa.
"Kiss me again."
The storm thundered forgotten overhead as their lips sealed for the second time, and it's slow, unwilling departure went entirely unnoticed as the dawn began to wax. By the time the sun had fully risen, no trace of the storm's effect remained but two half-drunk cups of cocoa, and a blond and brunette tangled around each other in blissful sleep.
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Meh XP Mushy blegh! Ti x