Note: Please proceed to AO3 for the uncensored version of this chapter. Thank you.

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Back to One
~ Act Ten

The weeks went by quickly enough and not before long, they were already starting the European tour of their shoot. It was hard to tell how much input Wufei had on their choice of lodgings and also hard to evaluate if he was a shrewd enough businessman when the accountant was probably in charge. All he knew was that production did not spare any expense with the lodgings. They didn't exactly put them up at the Ritz in Madrid, but they did rent out the entire floor of the Westin Palace for the week. Trowa, of course, got the royal suite while the bigger names took up the remaining junior suites. Quatre took residence in a lesser room with a production assistant named Chris. Chris was independent enough that Quatre saw very little of him, leaving him with all the privacy he needed.

That night, a few of them invited themselves into Trowa's suite. In the unnecessary expanse of the room, some watched TV, availed of the massage chair or had dinner served in the eight seat dining room. Quatre himself had refused to join in, wanting to retire for the night in his own room. He was called a few names along the line of spoilsport and killjoy before finally acquiescing to their request.

Currently, he was seated on a lounge chair, taking part in the bonding, as they called it, between the actors. Still dressed for the last scene they shot, he was painfully out of place in a sea of pajamas and sleepwear of all variety. He noted Trowa was busy in the opulence that was the study that came with the suite, but didn't seem to mind the commotion going on around him. When he was comfortable enough that the director didn't mind the presence of a few extra guests, Quatre lightened-up a bit, indulging his current companions by listening to their conversation.

"I love this city. I'm moving here the first time I get a chance."

"All the jobs for you would be in LA."

"Screw it. I'll learn Spanish and find an acting gig here."

It would be an early day tomorrow and Trowa probably needed to focus on what he was doing, but Quatre was reluctant to break up the get-together as it seemed to be helping them gel.

"What about you, Quatre? Ever think of moving here?"

"Really, Jess, you would ask him? He probably has a house in every city in Europe."

"Seriously?"

"Hello! The Winner part of his last name actually means something."

"I thought that rich kid thing was just a premise of that robot show. You're actually loaded? What are you doing holing up in a dingy room?"

Now he wanted to leave.

"Jess, I need you for a second," Trowa came up to them suddenly, interrupting their conversation. He had his glasses on and held a pen and a script in one hand, looking more distinguished than any of them did.

"This constitutes overtime."

"You're not paid by the hour. Get your ass in the study." When his command was grudgingly followed, Trowa gave their circle a once over before pointing a finger at Quatre. "And let him sleep. I need him looking fresh in a couple of hours."

"Oh, calm down."

They didn't take it seriously and Quatre found himself exchanging stories and bits of trivia with them. It was all going well when they brought up the drugs, which he didn't deem a necessary discussion. It was more common than one would think in the business and he wouldn't consider himself a special case in any way. Despite that, he didn't like talking about his experiences for the sole purpose of refusing to glorify it to his younger co-stars. If they were aware of his reluctance to talk about it, they didn't press, instead moving on to the next topic they deemed interesting.

"Dating anyone right now, Quatre?"

He was currently massaging the legs of a petit Ms. Robyn who had demanded he knead her muscles after a day of mostly standing. That was as close as he'd gotten to a woman since they shot the love scenes for the movie. Even before that, he didn't remember. He hadn't dated in a while, not since he'd broken-up with his fiancée of three years. She had her own family now, the same family he imagined with her when he asked her to marry him.

"No."

Ms. Robyn let out a satisfied sigh as she stretched out further in the couch she had relocated him to after her demand. She was enjoying the massage and was broadcasting that to the entire suite.

"What a waste. If you weren't gay, I'd totally go for you right now," she said.

"I'm not - gay, that is."

Quatre didn't think that was such a shock but with the way they all but stopped in their tracks and stared at him, he thought it was a major, life-altering revelation. If it had to do with the show from years ago then he wasn't surprised. He stopped being surprised after they teased him in high school and misunderstood him in college. He stopped caring after the umpteenth guy boldly hit on him and he stopped thinking about it when the second to the last one threw himself out of a building. Whatever happened and might still be happening with Trowa was inconsequential to him.

"I cannot believe I got that completely wrong."

In unison, they all directed their attention to the study visible from where they sat. Quatre was not surprised about that either. He knew they were within hearing distance.

"But you're like the perfect guy - sweet, good-looking with good manners and proper hygiene. Not to mention rich."

"Hey! What are the rest of us? Chopped liver?"

Protests were ignored for the most part as Quatre suddenly became a person of interest. He didn't mean for that to happen. They just happened to stumble upon a topic well-treaded but always, for some reason, relevant to his person. When the women stared at him, he felt uncomfortable, wanting to close in on himself, but he held back. That wouldn't look dignified at all.

"You mean?" one of them asked him. She tilted her head only slightly as if studying him for lies.

"What?"

"I'm taking you with me."

An hour later, there was even less basis for his misconstrued sexuality. Now the last time he'd been with a woman, two women at once, he might add, was but minutes ago. The female roommate had been much too pleased with the development and Quatre's restraint had flown off the window. He would never admit that it was to prove a point because then he would have to admit he was petty. There were always miserly reasons like that and it happened more often than he cared to admit. He didn't consider himself stupid, just overprotective of his reputation, which was tarnished by now since he considered himself a proper gentleman. Too many years of ridicule had done its damage to his decorum. Nevertheless, it was a nice change from having to jump away whenever another guy touched him without warning.

Quietly leaving the room, he was thanked by two rather satisfied ladies. There were no performance issues there either. Quatre Winner was an overachiever, even when it came to drug abuse. He buttoned his frilled shirt on the way out, wanting to leave quickly as it was far too late in the night to be up and about. It was only a few hours until filming and though the ladies he left behind retired late, they were not required to be at the set the next day. He would have to talk to the crew about his schedule eventually. They didn't let him leave until late in the night and expected him to be back by sunrise. Not that Trowa ever complained about his own schedule. Perhaps he was just being too demanding.

"Quatre."

He'd just finished closing the door behind him and secured the third button on his shirt or blouse - from the set, he reminded himself, when he was summoned. He couldn't believe how long he had to stay in the outfit before he was allowed to finally change. Trowa was pointing at him again before using his hand to beckon him back to the suite. He fought the urge to look embarrassed. He certainly did not want to gain a reputation.

"Get in here," Trowa prompted further and he had no choice but to follow.

When he made it into the room, he noticed that it was abandoned, the crew all but gone for the night. It was eerily quiet in the large space with the only indication that there had been people in there being the mess they left in their wake. Chairs were not placed back into their proper positions, plates of room service food were still on the dining table and all manner of emptied or half-emptied bottles of drinks lay about. He had to urge to pick up a trash bag and begin tidying up the place.

"I'll help you clean up," he offered.

"There's hospitality service for that."

He made a face, picking up a bottle of water from the ground anyway and at least placing it on top of a coffee table.

"If that's it, I would like to go back to my room to take a shower."

"There are showers here, in multiples."

"I need a change of clothes."

"The bathrobes come in troves."

Trowa did not mention anything about what had obviously just transpired in the room that was not his, but he seemed intent on keeping him from retiring for the night as he'd suggested earlier. There were no reprimands either since that really was none of his business.

"Thanks for the shower." Quatre delivered his thanks without looking at him, venturing forth into the suite to find a suitable place to wash himself. The make-up came off hours ago, but he still scrubbed his face clean to make sure he got all of it out. Looking at himself in the mirror, he wondered how much closer to a woman he resembled.

"I'll order dinner." Trowa knocked from the door, startling him from his momentary reverie.

"It's late."

"They didn't feed you after the shoot and you didn't eat with the rest of them earlier."

Quatre considered this. He wasn't hungry at all, just parched.

"I'll skip. I just need a drink."

He washed himself quickly, wanting to just go to sleep for the night. A cotton terry robe was waiting for him after the shower just as promised paired with bedroom slippers still in its plastic container. He put those on quickly, ran his hands through his wet hair and exited to find a 'drink' waiting for him. Scotch on the rocks was not what he had in mind when he said he needed a drink.

He didn't inform Trowa that he didn't drink alcohol and knew his host would find no offense in it when he bypassed him for the fridge to grab a bottle of sparkling water. He would have preferred mineral water, but sparkling was all the fridge had to offer.

"Join me," Trowa said in mild suggestion, sounding both wary and insistent all at once. He was nursing his drink of choice, swirling the liquid in its glass container. The nice amber tint of the alcohol looked particularly elegant swirling about around a singular clear iceberg. It looked just as chic as the man holding it. Trowa may have looked tired, but he was regal in his exhaustion.

Quatre did as he was told, accessing a bottle opener from the tray of alcoholic beverages in front of Trowa on the coffee table. His drink was opened with a pop and a fizz. It felt nice but tasted bitter as it went down his throat.

"I thought you wanted me to look fresh for the shoot tomorrow," Quatre started when it seemed Trowa would make no move to explain why he didn't want him to go back to his own room.

"You look fresh right now."

"I mean well-rested."

"Ah."

He offered no explanations, just directed his weary eyes at him in contemplation. The script with the notes was next to him on the couch, probably wanting to take a break from all the work done on it as well.

"You get along better with them than I expected," he said, taking another swig of his drink.

"I'm not unsociable."

"With me, you are."

Quatre considered that accusation. It was merited. It was definitely merited. What excuse did he have to give for that? He didn't know. But he was also unsociable with the other four and his manner of dealing with people really depended on necessity. Growing up a Winner required impeccable social graces no matter what the situation called for.

"I'm more familiar with you," he reasoned.

"Are you?"

That was true, but he was still cautious around him for reasons that involved the show from years ago and the insinuations that came with it. He didn't mind the rumors. What he minded was that they were unfounded. These days, there was some truth to it and he didn't know what to do with that.

"Who got to be the first guy to kiss you?"

Trowa sounded jealous and Quatre, coupled with Trowa's revelation of his teenage crush a few weeks back, was not dense enough not figure out what it meant.

"It had to do with blackmail." It was the only detail he would submit.

Trowa rose from his seat and put down his drink. Like an anxious dog, he walked back on forth within the limited space in front of the coffee table separating them. It may have been the alcohol. It may have been the exhaustion. But Quatre thought, most likely, it was a combination of both. He didn't look drunk at least.

"You should probably rest up for the night." It was probably already morning, by Quatre's estimation, but that didn't matter. They both needed to rest.

Trowa stopped in his movements, left his side of the coffee table to go around to invade Quatre's personal space, a personal space that was so small that Trowa almost tumbled over him. Placing one secure hand to rest in the cushioned backrest just above his shoulder, he leaned down and sniffed, again, just like a dog. Quatre always though he resembled a cat more than any other animal. Today, he was different.

"You still have a woman's smell on you," he said and Quatre almost bristled at that. It was his first mention of the events that transpired only moments before he invited him to his suite. He didn't react, just sat there in stunned silence.

"I understand if I'm not your inclination," Trowa continued and backed away. He seemed to hesitate before taking up his former position, only this time with both hands secured just above his shoulder. Quatre did not feel threatened, only flustered as he remembered how good Trowa had been with him. He had been a good kisser and more.

When Trowa kissed his neck, he did not stop him, just held still enough to smell the alcohol on his breath.

"Are you drunk?" he questioned, not wanting the director to regret it when he become sober.

Trowa laughed then, low and hollow in his throat just a little bit too close to Quatre's ear.

"I don't have to be drunk to flirt with you, do I?"

"You're right. No."

"I haven't finished one glass."

"That doesn't tell me anything."

Trowa moved to kiss the juncture between his neck and shoulder. Somewhere in his mind, he wondered if there should have been a hierarchal order in their relationship. Trowa was technically the boss. He remembered being in this sort of situation before and it dampened his desire to continue on.

"What's the matter?"

"It's going to be an early day."

"It's too late to go to bed."

Trowa's insistence was laudable and very distracting when he reached to untie the knot on his robe. Quatre would make it his resolution to never take Trowa's invitation again. He couldn't resist the skilled hand going for his vulnerable spots like he'd read it in a textbook somewhere and studied it. His skin, engulfed in kisses, felt sensitized and the heady feeling in his sleep deprived brain made no other moves to dissuade his companion. He briefly wondered if his recent promiscuity had anything to do with the drugs, but thought against it. It was probably his sense of rebellion once again taking a hold of him.

"You asked why I didn't… do it back then," Trowa said, rephrasing the question Quatre had once presented but never got an answer to. He looked around the vicinity to check if they were indeed alone and if this encounter was, in fact, as private as he wanted it to be. "I was too shy to even approach you."

He certainly wasn't shy now. Quatre didn't know if it was age that did it or if it was pent-up frustrations from years ago. He could only be victim to its appearance now and it wasn't, as he thought about it further, all that bad once Trowa found purchase on him. He let his head fall back on his seat and closed his eyes. If even possible, he was so much gentler than the women as the lazy movement he delivered brought both lulling relief and budding escalation to the pit of his stomach all at once. He felt warm and comfortable, even as his robe was pushed aside one shoulder. Unlike their previous encounter, he refused to be witness to this. It felt so much more intimate, so much more taboo.

"Forgive me for never asking," Trowa said with both his hands keeping busy, therefore, distracting Quatre from saying anything in response. He didn't know the context of the pardon but he would figure it out eventually. For now, he kept his eyes shut; not wanting to see what Trowa was not asking permission for.

There was quite a bit of movement of which Quatre could only guess the reasons for. He felt Trowa abandon his personal space for a moment, leaving him with his robe halfway down his shoulder and the rest of him unattended. He almost whined, almost, but kept his mouth shut. It was just too much activity for one night and not even in his teenage years did he have this much going on. There was no reason to complain and all the more reason to be patient.

Trowa returned not soon after with mystery sounds and mystery movements. He felt the attention on him again and tried not to fall asleep despite feeling the comforting call of the sandman. What jolted him awake suddenly was the feeling of - for lack of a better word - Trowa. His eyes flew open. Trowa certainly didn't ask. He didn't know if he wanted to forgive.

He was in mild shock when he saw Trowa's chest level with his eyes. It was only so much Quatre could do to stare at him, stare at the body he'd seen so many times in a magazine, splayed with the richness of expensive cloths and accouterments most people could not hope to afford. It was, if he had to describe it, visually appealing with a natural tan and a light sheen of moisture adorning it. His face, however, would remain one of ambiguity as Quatre would not dare allow himself to see what kind of reaction he'd caused on another man. He honestly did not want to find any sort of thrill in it. His closed his eyes again, feeling somewhat guilty at refusing to acknowledge Trowa as he was.

What he was turned out to be skilled and sensual. He was unrestrained and Quatre had to admit that he sounded beautiful. He sounded like the Trowa no one knew, the man so reserved you could barely hold a conversation with him. It pleased him to cause that kind of reaction, causing within himself an intensification of sensations. He couldn't help but grip with firmness and carry on with impatience. He lasted laudably, at least longer than Trowa did, who all but sang praises.

No. He definitely did not know what he was getting himself into and he hoped that the rest of the crew who had their suspicions would keep their mouths shut about it.