A/N: For Ro, who requested #18 "Bet I can make you come without ever touching your cock" with 5x3.

A/N: And I decided to make this a little Variation in the Pas de Trois verse. This is from Wufei's POV, and is, obviously, a prequel to Pas de Trois.

Warnings: angst, language, sex

Pairings: 5x3

Pas de Trois - Variation 1

"Of course, when we did Les Sylphides, I was… oh, nineteen? Twenty? It was my first year in the corps at New York City Ballet and the soloists were furious."

Michael Barton, Trowa's father, could go on about himself for hours. Days. Weeks. He didn't even need an invitation or an opening. He made one for himself. Every damn time.

I hated these little family dinners - Trowa's parents taking the train up to see his performances, and then insisting on taking him and me out for dinner. I got out of them, most of the time, but I'd had the bad luck to not be working on another show the same week that Les Sylphides opened and when Trowa's mother called me, I hadn't been able to say no.

I doubted there were many people at all who could say no to Sarah Bloom. Even her ego-maniac of a husband.

I had been the one to suggest dinner at Boulud Sud, an overpriced restaurant near Lincoln Center that was as well-known for their bar as their menu, and I had every intention of drowning out Michael's boasts with glass after glass of gin and tonic.

I didn't normally drink this much - I hated the feeling of being drunk, of being that out of control of my body and my reactions - but Michael brought it out in me.

I could still remember the first time I met him, seven months ago, when Trowa's parents had come up to town unexpectedly, knocked on his apartment door, and been greeted by the sight of my naked ass making a beeline for the bedroom. Sarah had insisted that I accompany them to lunch, even though all I wanted to do was crawl in a hole and die from shame.

Michael had been smug and teasing about it, and then had spent the entire lunch going on and on about the new ballet he had just choreographed. He hadn't even asked Trowa what he was rehearsing, hadn't asked about the casting for the Balanchine piece that had gone up yesterday - and when Sarah finally got it out of Trsowa that he would be in the Second Movement's pas de deux, Michael had nodded and turned to his wife with a smirk and asked if she remembered when they had danced the Fourth Movement. He hadn't even bothered to congratulate Trowa - a member of the corps - landing a part that should have gone to a soloist or even a principal.

So, even though I was used to Michael by now, I was still irritated by him - by his need to gloat and reminiscence and outshine even the most minimal of Trowa's hard-fought accomplishments. I was irritated by the way that Trowa would just sit there, silent, nodding along in agreement as his father praised himself. He never demanded their attention, never stood up for himself.

I realized, belatedly, that Trowa was keeping up with me in my race to empty as many glasses as possible. Except, unlike me, Trowa wasn't eating. He was, as always, listlessly pushing food around on his plate and making a very good, almost convincing show of eating.

Neither Michael or Sarah seemed to notice - or maybe they just didn't care. Even though I had been designing lights for dance pieces since I was in high school and first sat down behind a lighting console, I would never understand dancers. And I certainly didn't understand the dynamic in this family.

My mother - I shuddered to even think how she would deal with Michael. She couldn't shut up about me, how amazing I was, how she was sure I was going to win a Tony, an OBIE, a Drama Desk - any day now, she knew, the world was going to give me the accolades she had always known I deserved. I wondered how different Trowa would be, if he hadn't spent his life sitting quietly in the corner while his father walked all over him and his mother offered sympathetic half-smiles but no real encouragement of her own. My mother would have been the dance mom from hell, would have devoted every fiber of her being to making sure that Trowa was a student at ABC two years before they even accepted dancers, and an unparalleled success. She wouldn't have made Trowa go to college and put his dancing career on hold for three years because she didn't think Trowa would make it as a dancer. She wouldn't have offered the paltry excuse that dancers could be injured any day, and Trowa needed to have a chance to be happy.

It was as if she didn't know him at all. The only thing Trowa had ever needed to make him happy was a kind word, some acknowledgement of any kind, from either of them.

The dinner, finally, drew to a close, and I insisted the waiter box up Trowa's practically untouched plate. He hated to eat before a performance, which I could understand, but more often than not, he didn't eat after one either because he was too tired, or too distracted by me - or his parents. Recently, I'd found myself waiting for him to come home to my apartment and then taking a break from my work to make food for him, to sit beside him on the couch and watch him finish it. He didn't appreciate it - three times now he had just grabbed his dance bag and stormed out, crashing on Heero's couch since he had already sublet his room in their apartment. Or maybe he shared Heero's bed with him - another point of contention between us.

Sarah hugged us both, kissed us both, and said we were looking well and she couldn't wait to see us when we came down for lunch in two weeks. I had almost forgotten - Trowa had agreed to let my mother drag him in front of my extended family last month at my cousin's wedding in exchange for my attendance at one of his monthly trips down to Philadelphia to meet his parents.

I forced a smile and nodded, and prayed some emergency came up. I made a mental note to see if my assistant could find a gig - something, anything - that had to be installed on a Sunday morning.

By the time we got home, Trowa was smirking, his hands all over me as he very unhelpfully tried to find my keys for me. I rolled my eyes, but I allowed it. A drunk Trowa was an extremely horny Trowa. I had learned this the first night I met him - when my cousin Meilin had oh so helpfully introduced us in the most humiliating way possible, and Trowa, after three glasses of wine, had suggested we go back to his place and he could show me a better view of his ass than I was likely to get from the audience.

Even drunk, though, Trowa moved with the kind of powerful, effortless grace that had drawn my attention to him in the first place. It fascinated me, the dichotomy between strength and weakness in his body - he was so lean, his movements so supple, but I had seen him leap, had seen him run, had seen him catch other dancers. He was incredible, intoxicating. He stood out onstage as though he had a spotlight on him at all times, and I knew that - even if his own parents, even if Trowa didn't see it - ABT would promote him soon. He was too good to spend his entire career in the corps. They were already, after all, giving him solos in the short ballets.

I locked the door behind us and watched Trowa as he moved through the apartment, dropping clothes in his wake as he made his way to the bedroom. I let myself enjoy the view for a moment, watched the play of muscles in his back and shoulders as he lifted his turtleneck over his head and let it fall to the floor. He was beautiful, so heart-achingly gorgeous from every angle.

He paused at the door to the bedroom and looked back at me, offered one of his too-rare, too-small smiles.

As a lighting designer, I had lit things as complicated as a five-hundred cue musical, or as simple as a three-cue one-act play. There were moments, scenes, looks that all lighting designers had to do. Sunsets. Moonlight. Fire. Hazy shafts of light. Sunrises. Any of these, as simple as they seemed, could be hideously wrong or stunningly incredible if they were done right.

Trowa's smile was like that, like the perfectly-programmed sunrise. Just a small hint of warmth glowing in the distance that flickered into life and then illuminated the entire stage with gold.

"Coming to bed?" he asked.

"Tired?" I knew he wasn't. Well, he probably was - he'd been at the theatre since nine that morning, when the choreographer had called an emergency rehearsal to rework his movement because Iria, his partner in the pas de deux, had looked like a floundering cow - at least in my opinion.

"No." He unzipped his trousers, slowly, teasingly. "But I wouldn't mind if you wanted to tuck me in."

I chuckled and made a detour to the kitchen, putting his food in the fridge and promising myself I would have him eat something before he fell asleep, and then joined him in the bedroom.

He was already naked, which wasn't a surprise - Trowa was as unabashedly comfortable naked or half-naked as any dancer I had ever met, and when he was drunk, Trowa tended to get naked fast - and laying back on my bed, spread out and waiting for me.

He was hard, his cock jutting up from the smooth skin of his shaved groin, curving over the hollow of his stomach, swaying with each shallow breath he took. His eyes were hooded and his lips parted.

God. Or maybe I should be thinking about the devil - I wasn't sure who was responsible for such a tantalizing creature.

He looked down the length of his perfect body and met my gaze as I stepped up to the foot of the bed. He shifted, spread his legs wider and bent his knees, giving me a glimpse of his anus.

"Please."

I arched an eyebrow.

"Please what?"

"Fuck me."

"Hm." I gave him a long, considering look.

I watched as he touched himself, running one hand over his chest, teasing his own nipples into hard, red nubs. He had a tattoo, just over his heart. It had taken a few months for me to finally ask what it was, after I'd given up on being able to figure it out on my own. It was the Stepanov notation for the original choreography for The Sleeping Beauty, the opening variation from the Bluebird's pas de deux.

I watched his hand move across the tattoo, and as he smoothed it lower, over his abs, and I watched him react to his own touch, watched the unsteady breath he sucked in vibrate through his muscles.

"Please," he begged again, his hand moving ever lower, until he was stroking his own cock, his hips flexing, fucking his own hand. "Please."

"Stop." He did, instantly, not even arguing. A lifetime of having dance masters and choreographers telling him what to do had given him the ability to do that, even when he didn't want to. I resented that, some of the time - resented just how pliant Trowa was in bed, and out of it. But there were other times, like tonight, when I didn't mind taking advantage of it.

He waited, watched as I undressed, his eyes hungry as they charted my skin. I was fit - my body nowhere near the condition of Trowa's, but I was a runner, and I boxed. I felt no shame in myself, and a certain amount of pride when Trowa looked at me like that, when he licked his lips eagerly.

I joined him on the bed, climbing over his body and forcing him onto his back again, and I teased his lips with my own, not even really kissing him, just brushing my parted lips against his, until he was moaning and reaching for me.

"No." I smirked when his eyes narrowed.

"You're just going to torture me all night?"

"Not all night. I have to catch the train for Boston in the morning, and I need at least a few hours of sleep."

He gave an impatient buck of his hips, his cock thrusting against my own.

"Please." It was less of a plea this time, almost a command, and I arched an eyebrow at that.

Trowa was very desperate if he was getting bossy.

I sat back on my knees, straddling his thighs, and looked down at him.

"Wufei."

"You're so close already, aren't you? Look at your cock. Were you thinking about me fucking you while we were at dinner with your parents?"

He made a frustrated sound when I batted his hand away from my own cock.

"You're just aching for it, for my cock to fill you up."

"Yes," he agreed.

I laughed. "I bet I can make you come without ever touching your cock."

He shifted under me, no longer annoyed, and I saw the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

"Please." It was a challenge, almost, this time.

I usually had to finish him off, after I came, either with my hand or, when the mood struck me, my mouth. Sometimes he grew impatient, sometimes he wanted to come with me and he stroked himself, then, while I fucked him.

"Touch yourself," I told him, and chuckled when his hand instantly moved to his cock. "Not there."

He sighed, and I reached down to guide his hands back up, to his chest. I brushed his own thumbs over his nipples, pinched them between his fingers, and Trowa arched up into the touch.

I pushed one of his hands away and leaned down, licking his left nipple and then biting down until he cried out.

He was so sensitive, even when he wasn't drunk, and I had always loved the way he reacted to me.

I licked a path down his chest, across his abs and sucked on the flesh, rolling it in my mouth until he moaned and clutched at me.

"Please." He was back to begging, and as much fun as it was to torture him like this, I did want to fuck him.

I sat up again and reached over for the lube. We'd stopped using condoms a month ago, after a second round of tests had finally put Trowa's mind at ease enough for it. I could appreciate his caution, but I was relieved to finally be able to feel Trowa's body around me without the barrier between us. And I took a visceral, primitive pride in seeing my semen leak from his body.

"Roll over," I told him, moving so that he could.

He did it easily, sensuously, presenting his ass to me and taking his weight on his shoulders in one smooth motion.

I stroked his back, smoothing my hand down the line of his spine, the subtle curve of his hips, the swell of his ass.

I coated one finger with lube and teased him with it, swirling the cool gel around the tight ring until Trowa, impatient, pushed back against me.

"So needy."

"Yes. I need you to fuck me."

I laughed at that, at the annoyed tone. I loved the times when I could drive him to this, when he stopped just waiting for me to do what I wanted to him and started to demand, to act on his own.

So I rewarded him by slipping the finger inside, working it deep, finding the spot that made him clutch the sheets and whisper my name.

"Wufei, please."

I added a second finger and let him do the work, sitting back on my knees and watching his body swallow my fingers. I listened to him moan, and I stroked my own cock with my other hand, thoroughly enjoying the show.

Hell, at this rate, I was going to get off before I was even inside him.

"Tell me what you want."

"You, Wufei. I want you. I only ever want you."

I added a third finger, taking over again, making sure he was ready for me, his words doing exactly what he knew they would to me.

"Now," he demanded. "I want your cock now, Wufei."

I pulled my hand free and spread more lube over myself and then aligned the head of my cock.

Before I could move, however, Trowa pressed back, forcing my cock into his body, and I groaned as his tight heat surrounded me.

"Oh, Trowa."

I pushed all of the way in, everything magnified so much now that I didn't have a condom on, and I knew I wasn't going to last long.

I also knew I had to get Trowa to come first.

"Do you want it fast?" I asked, demonstrating with a few thrusts, pulling out and then jerking his hips back to take me in again. He moaned. "Or slow?" Two agonizingly-long rolls of my hips was enough for both of us. Slow was not going to happen.

"Fast. Hard," he panted. "Hard enough to make me scream."

I wouldn't, except that he didn't have a performance tomorrow - just morning class and afternoon rehearsals - and wouldn't be onstage again for another two days.

I could still remember how guilty I felt, the first time I fucked him hard enough to see him wince his way through a tech rehearsal. I had been furious with the both of us, had chewed him out over his dinner break for being so careless with his body.

But class and rehearsals were different - if Trowa wanted to be sore for those, that was his own business.

So I pulled out and adjusted my grip on Trowa's hips, holding him tight, and then shoved back in, the force of it rocking Trowa forward, pushing his face into the mattress.

"Yes," Trowa moaned. "Yes, yes." He repeated it like a mantra, in time with my thrusts, his voice a broken whisper.

"Like that?" I asked, unnecessarily. "Like having my cock splitting you open?"

"Yes. Wufei, let me-"

"No." I pushed his hands away when he reached for his cock. "If you can't get off like this, then you're not going to get off, Trowa. So you'd better concentrate on how good it feels to have me inside you."

I shifted, rolling my hips to the side, and Trowa groaned.

"Yes, like that," he begged.

I obliged him, practically bouncing his body off my cock with the force of our movements.

I could feel myself getting close - my stamina wasn't amazing when I had had this much to drink - and I growled.

"Come for me, Trowa."

"I'm close, so close." I could tell, just from his voice, that he had his eyes shut tightly, that he was close.

"I thought you wanted to scream?" I reminded him, giving a brutal thrust that made him gasp.

"Make me," he grit out.

I was already breathing hard, could already see the glimmer of sweat on Trowa's back, but I redoubled my efforts, fucking him so hard the headboard slammed against the wall and the frame protested.

"Yes, yes, so- Wufei!" He did scream, finally, and I felt his body clench around my cock, drawing me deep as he spasmed around me, and I let myself come with him.

My climax burned through my body, my nerves alight, and I felt nothing and everything all at once.

"Good God." I felt exhausted after - had already been working on so little sleep this week because of the opening of the show - and I let myself fall on top of him for a moment so that I could catch my breath.

"Thank you," he laughed, and rolled out from under me.

I let him, feeling my cock fall out of his body, leaving a wet trail across his thighs, and smirked.

"My pleasure."

"And mine."

He curled against my side, and I pulled him close. I should get up, should clean off and get his food. But I felt so boneless and sated, it was impossible to find the motivation to move.

"I love you."

The words were a whisper, so soft I almost didn't hear them over my own heartbeat.

I tensed.

We had been together for nearly a year - he had been living with me for the last three months, and maybe, maybe it was the time to say it.

But my throat felt thick, and I struggled to form the words, to say it back.

He let the moment pass, and I felt grateful and cowardly when he adjusted the pillow underneath our heads.

"What time is your train tomorrow?" If he was hurt, his voice didn't betray it.

"Eight," I let myself relax against him. "I have meetings all day, and then we load in on Friday and-"

"Tech through the weekend, dress rehearsals on Monday and Tuesday, open on Wednesday, and you'll catch the afternoon train back on Thursday. I do listen to you."

So maybe he was a little hurt, if that tone was anything to go by.

"Trowa-"

"We should sleep. You're always an asshole to your assistant when you're tired."

I sighed, but I rolled away from him and reached for the blanket. I couldn't sleep next to him, curled around him, but I didn't mind holding him, for a while, until he fell asleep.

Except, clearly, he didn't want that right now.

"I'll miss you," I said.

"I know," he sighed, and reached over for my hand, squeezing it before letting go again. "I'll miss you, too."

-o-