LSC / 01-04-12
(Fly on Broken Wings - Chapter Fifty-Three: Risk)
rated: R - language, content, violence
shounen-ai/yaoi
CHAPTER 53
Risk
Reckless was hardly a word Trowa used in conjunction with himself, but at that moment he felt it an entirely apt description of his actions. Maybe it'd be easier if Catherine just knew the truth about Quatre, but whenever Trowa thought about Quatre being taken away, sent back to the hospital or sent someplace worse, someplace Trowa could not follow… those sort of thoughts made his chest ache and stomach twist. As it were, she seemed curious but oddly complacent with Quatre as Trowa's small blonde shadow when they went to pick her up from work. She dropped the two of them off at the apartment and went to run errands. Trowa watched her leave with a flutter of apprehension; she suspected something, he felt sure of it, and her silent acceptance worried him more than any amount of incessant questioning.
Trowa kept a careful hand on Quatre's back as they ascended the stairs. He seemed steadier on his feet now, at least. Earlier, leaving the doctor's office, he'd been stumbling on the stairs, to the point that Trowa almost had to carry him or risk letting him fall. Trowa unlocked the door and urged Quatre inside.
"Here, set your things in my room," Trowa said quietly. He took Quatre's hand in his and pulled him, unresisting, down the hallway.
Once he had Quatre settled on the bed, Trowa studied him for a long moment. Part of him wanted to abandon the whole idea and take off; back to that doctor's office, or maybe somewhere else entirely, like the next town over, since he was being reckless anyway. But he didn't trust the doctor, didn't trust that tall blonde either, and certainly hated the idea of Quatre being out there by himself in such a state - and there was his sister to consider. Trowa reached a hand out and ran it through Quatre's bangs. He felt such an unstoppable tenderness toward Quatre that any amount risk was worth it, but he worried now that the risk was too great, that Catherine would get too curious.
Quatre lifted his face at Trowa's touch. Deep and clear, those aquamarine eyes returned from whatever vacant and empty place they'd drifted and focused in on Trowa. Slowly, a startling sweet and shy smile spread across Quatre's face, as if the boy had forgotten entirely Trowa was there and was just now registering his presence.
Trowa sunk to his knees and wrapped his arms around Quatre's middle. He laid his cheek across Quatre's thigh and tried to reassure himself he'd made the right decision.
After a stretch of silence, Quatre spoke. "Trowa? Can I use your shower?"
Trowa tilted his head back to look at Quatre. "Of course," he said, getting quickly to his feet. Heat like a slow burn crept up the back of his neck.
"Thanks," said Quatre. "Duo and Zechs got to, but I didn't."
The statement made little sense to Trowa, and he did not especially like the dreamy mumble in which it'd been delivered. He got Quatre a fresh towel out of the dryer and told him to use any of the shampoo and body wash he wanted; Catherine owned at least a dozen bottles and would never notice a drop missing from them.
Trowa listened to the rush of water for a moment before going and collecting Quatre's tote bag. He set Sandy on the nightstand and dumped out the remaining contents of the canvas tote into his own laundry hamper. He carried the whole thing to the hall closet, which also served as the extremely small laundry room. He transferred clothes into the washer in great, heaping armfuls. Whites, colors, jeans, everything went in together in a jumble, and Trowa flipped all the cycles to cold water to avoid pink socks.
Trowa took the hamper back into his room and set it back into the closet. He picked up Sandy from the nightstand and studied the bear's plastic eyes. For one wild moment he indulged in the ridiculous fantasy that if he just asked politely, Sandrock the teddy bear would tell him all Quatre's little secrets – but, then, Trowa realized it would be rude of Sandy to tell, and insane of him to keep thinking about it. Trowa gently placed the bear on top of the comforter.
He stepped out into the hall at the same moment the bathroom door opened. Warm steam billowed out past Quatre as stood in the doorway, momentarily distracted by trying to get his wrist brace back in place with only one free hand. He'd redressed in the same clothes he'd been wearing, and the fine gold strands of his hair were already beginning to fluff as they dried. Trowa came over and took the splint from Quatre and gently secured it into place.
"Thanks," said Quatre. He fiddled with one of the straps, pulling the velcro apart and then pressing it back together again.
Trowa nodded and took a step back, forcing himself away from the intoxicating lure of Quatre's fresh-scrubbed skin. The washer thrummed within the confines of the closet. Trowa pulled open the double doors and searched up within the highest shelves for the spare set of linens for the trundle bed in his room. He had to stretch on to his tip-toes to reach them, which set him puzzling to how Catherine managed to get them up there in the first place.
He turned with the bundle of linens balanced between one arm and his chest, and then he nearly bumped into Quatre, who had stolen up beside him unnoticed and silent over the sound of the washing machine. "Oh," said Trowa, and he started to take a half-step back.
Quatre pressed forward, leaning into him so abruptly that Trowa thought immediately that the boy was falling. The bedding dropped to the floor in a flutter as Trowa caught Quatre around the waist. Quatre tipped up toward him and looped both arms around his neck. The kiss was hard and insistent, and startled Trowa so that he could only stand there in shock.
Quatre pushed against him with all that soft, clean skin still slightly damp from the shower. He tightened his arms around Trowa's neck, clinging to him and stretched up on his toes in order to reach. "Quatre," he said. He tightened his hands around Quatre's waist, torn between pulling the boy closer and pushing him back.
Quatre responded with another kiss, searing with intensity and yet also tenderly clumsy. Quatre made a small sound in the back of his throat, something full of need and nerves that unhooked Trowa's resolve and had him clutching Quatre tight against him.
He ran his hand up the back of Quatre's shirt and swept his fingers across the damp skin, savoring the contact. Desire, hot and terrible, flushed his skin to sweltering and scrambled any hope of coherent thought. Trowa picked Quatre up and set him on top of the dryer, so the smaller boy would not have to stand on tip-toe just to kiss him. Beside them, the washer switched into a spin cycle.
Quatre's thigh pressed against his hip. It was all the encouragement he needed. Trowa closed his eyes and dissolved into the sensation of Quatre's mouth, pliable and willing, working against his. A thrill of pleasure shot out from his heart and swirled down, pooling between his legs. Trowa drew his hands to Quatre's side and then up the slim line of his chest, bunching the thin shirt material out of the way as he set to memorizing every inch of Quatre he could reach.
He broke from Quatre's lips and sought inside the soft circle of flesh just behind his ear. Trowa felt Quatre shiver beneath him as he lavished affection on that sensation spot. Quatre tipped his head to the side, exposing a line of pale throat, which Trowa kissed and nipped with abandon. The blonde gasped and tangled his right hand into the fabric of Trowa's shirt.
Trowa locked an arm around Quatre's lower back and gently pulled him off his perch. They stumbled together, the angle suddenly awkward, as neither wanted to separate long enough to walk. Trowa's solution, a rather clever one in his opinion, was to simply carry Quatre the short distance to the bedroom. He nudged the door somewhat closed with a foot before settling Quatre's slight weight on to the bed.
"God, Quatre," he murmured. Overcome with delight and lust, in equal parts wild and tender, Trowa fell upon him. He noted but did not fully appreciate Quatre's sudden silence, broken only by a single soft gasp when Trowa's roving hands found and caressed a pink circle of sensitive flesh. Trowa slowly drew Quatre's shirt up and over the boy's head and then bent his head low, applying tongue and teeth to the exposed expanse of chest.
An electric shock current of arousal ran and rushed along every inch of Trowa's body, filling him with a certain desperate need. He pressed against Quatre, who tossed a hand free and knocked Sandy to the floor with a fumbling gesture. His hand sought and found a fistful of the comforter, twisting it into a tight grip. The teddy bear tumbling to the floor jarred something loose in Trowa, and he slowly took note of the stiff tension in the small body beneath his, the anxious but determined way Quatre held himself.
"What?" Trowa drew a shuddering breath, fraught with the sudden difficulty of halting what had been a headlong rush. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," said Quatre, in a fragile, apprehensive sort of voice. He dropped his eyes away from Trowa's persistent attempts to look at him.
Trowa dropped his face into the crook of Quatre's neck. He nuzzled his lips into the soft fluff of Quatre's hair, which was still slightly damp and smelled faintly of shampoo. "Quatre," he groaned the name with a note of frustration. He felt the boy flinch beneath him and regretted at once his senseless behavior. "Talk to me. What is it?"
"Nothing," Quatre repeated. He dropped his hand Trowa's arm and tapped out a random pattern, betraying his nerves.
Trowa kissed Quatre's temple. "I'm not going to be mad at you, whatever it is. I promise."
The younger boy squirmed, as if to shift out from underneath him, but Trowa held firm. He tangled their legs together and kept a solid but gentle grip on Quatre's shoulder. Quatre shook his head wildly, and Trowa rose up on an elbow to avoid getting hit in the face. "Hey!"
Quatre stilled at once, recoiling at the sharp sound. "I'm sorry," Trowa said quickly. "Quatre, I'm sorry. I swear, I'm not mad. Just, please, what is it?" His heart, a sudden dead weight in his chest, ached terribly with the keen fear that Quatre felt nothing for him, felt nothing like the overwhelming tenderness that filled Trowa at every thought of Quatre. The boy might like him well enough, but… Trowa swallowed a sudden lump.
"I just, the other day. I wanted to make up for it. I thought, maybe, so, I tried. But I got so… and, but, I—" Quatre fell silent, twisting beneath Trowa to hide his face into the bed. "I'm sorry," he mumbled into the blankets.
Trowa smoothed his hands over Quatre's shoulders and carefully turned him back around. "Hey… Don't," he said gently. "I told you, I'm not going to be mad." He stroked a hand over Quatre's forehead, brushing aside the pale bangs. He shifted and stretched until he could reach the football-lamp on the nightstand. Quatre winced and blinked at the sudden influx of brightness, and Trowa quickly turned the light off again. As he suspected, Quatre's eyes had gone almost entirely to pupil again.
Trowa rose up into a sitting position and found Quatre's shirt. "Here," he said.
Quatre clutched the fabric to his chest for a moment before slowly slipping the shirt on over his head. He had his eyes downcast in a forlorn expression that Trowa was loathed to see. "I'm sorry," he said.
Trowa cursed himself for getting carried away. "It's okay. Don't apologize. I should have known better."
Slowly, Quatre traced a finger across the blankets and over the back of Trowa's hand. Even that slight touch rekindled a shiver of longing that traced fire up and down his nerves. Trowa knew he should pull away and put some distance between them, to try and resettle his thoughts and drive away the incessant, hot want that threatened to squish his feeble reticence and resume their earlier pace. He knew that, and yet felt powerless to act.
"I don't understand," Quatre said slowly. "I feel so anxious, but, also, I…" He flushed a furious shade of pink and shifted his knee against Trowa in silent suggestion.
Trowa carefully untangled himself from Quatre and scooted toward the far edge of the bed. "You're not feeling well," Trowa said firmly, as much to remind Quatre as himself. "I shouldn't have done anything."
The blush darkened. "But," he protested softly. Quatre hesitantly lifted those too-wide and too-dark eyes to meet Trowa's concerned gaze. His tongue darted out over his bottom lip in a quick, nervous gesture. "But I…" Quatre turned his face away.
A distant, barely audible noise jolted Trowa's attention toward the door. He tensed, fingers gripping into the edge of the bed. Quatre tilted his face up expectantly when Trowa got to his feet. Trowa ran his fingers through Quatre's hair, quickly setting the tousled strands to right. There was nothing he could do about the boy's eyes, however. He leaned forward and whispered, right up against Quatre's ear, "Stay here."
Trowa picked Sandy up from the floor and set him into Quatre's arms. The little blonde wrapped himself around the bear and gave Trowa a wounded, anxious look. "But," he started to protest, and Trowa laid a finger against his lips.
"Catherine," he mouthed.
Quatre nodded. Trowa took one step to leave and, when Quatre made no motion to follow, slipped out into the hall. He pulled the bedroom door closed behind him and took a deep breath to settle the jangle of nerves swirling around inside him. The sheet set for the trundle bed lay forgotten in the hall, where Trowa had dropped them, and he took the time to fold them into a pile on top of the dryer. He also transferred his and Quatre's laundry into the dryer before going in search of Catherine.
He found his sister in the kitchen, putting away the last of her groceries. "Hi," she said, spotting him. "Where's Quatre? Wasn't he staying for dinner?"
Trowa nodded.
"Oh, okay," Catherine said. She set her hip against the counter and studied him for a long moment.
Trowa swallowed hard against a sudden rush of cold apprehension. She suspected something. He felt more certain of that than ever. He just stood there, silent and stupid and trying to look innocent. Trowa pulled open the refrigerator door and rooted out a can of soda, as if that was the only reason he'd come into the kitchen in the first place.
Catherine banged a large cook pot out from one of the cabinets and set it under the faucet to fill. "Well, dinner will be ready soon. I'm making spaghetti, your favorite."
When he was six, that was true. It was just another out-dated piece of information, like the football lamp that he'd never liked, not even when he was nine, and it was new. Trowa stepped toward her, intending to help, but she waved him away. "I got it," she said with a smile. "Why don't you two watch T.V. or something? Oh, wait, I know. Take Quatre with you to the video store."
She turned off the water and set the full pot of water on the stove. After twisting the burner to high, Catherine wiped her hands on a dishtowel and then breezed past Trowa into the living room. He trailed after her.
"Rent something we can all watch together, after dinner. Doesn't that sound nice?" She pulled the little clutch purse out of her bigger bag and broke it open. Catherine rifled through the assorted card slots until she found a bright orange laminated rectangle. "Here's my membership card."
Trowa reached for his back pocket, intending to file the card away into his wallet, but he belatedly remembered all of Quatre's cash still in his possession. He couldn't let Catherine see that; she had a pretty good idea of exactly how little money he was supposed to have. Trowa slipped the membership card into his pocket.
Catherine smiled and went back into the kitchen. He turned and reluctantly went back to his bedroom. He gave a soft scratch at the door, to warn Quatre, before pushing it open. Quatre lay curled around Sandy, the gold in his hair highlighted by the faint, hazy light that stretched between the weave of the dark curtains. He sat up when Trowa entered the room, shaky and unsure and eyes still too dark.
Trowa showed him the video card as a means of explanation. Quatre looked at it in puzzlement, and Trowa added a few gestures to try and convey what he wanted. Quatre shook his head. "I'll just stay here," he whispered.
Catherine wanted him to take Quatre. If he left without him, she'd be curious why. Trowa took Quatre's uninjured hand in both of his and gave it a slight squeeze of encouragement.
"I can't," Quatre said. "Trowa, I don't feel well. My head hurts. I'll stay here."
Trowa rubbed his thumb into the palm of Quatre's hand. His options were to leave Quatre here and hope Catherine somehow failed to notice, which was a doomed planned and he knew it, or drag Quatre along. That also meant hoping that Catherine stayed in the kitchen and didn't get a good look at Quatre, pale and miserable and clearly unwell. And what about dinner, and Catherine's idea for them all to watch a movie together? Trowa entertained several outlandish plans, most of which involved hiding Quatre somewhere in his room overnight and trying to convince Catherine the younger boy had gone home.
He'd just have to take the risk. Trowa absolutely did not have the heart to force Quatre out the door, and if Catherine noticed than, well, he'd just have to think of something. Trowa nodded and brushed a soft kiss against Quatre's forehead. He tucked his head close to Quatre's ear and whispered, "I'll be right back."
(Author's Notes)
Whew! FFN was messing up and not showing me any story stats for a few days. I was afraid everyone had stopped reading or something weird! Thanks for reviewing, guys. I super appreciate the support!
I'll try to keep updating quickly like I have been. My new year's resolution was to write more!
copyright 2012 - Gundam Wing & Co. (c) Sotsu/Sunrise
LSC - Violet Nyte
