Warnings: All right, here it
is: the 3x4/4x3 LIME!! (err. . . literally!) So, be prepared for some heavy shounen ai/yaoi implications. And of
course, a fair amount of angst to accompany it!
Disclaimer: GW isn't mine, obviously,
or there would've been a lot more Trowa/Quatre action in the series! So please don't sue me. You'll get virtually nothing.
C&C—please.
From Forever to Forever
Part Twelve: From This Day
May 19th A.C.
210—Quatre Winner—1:17 a.m.
After several seconds of staring at the door, I ring the
bell.
Allah, I don't know what I'm doing here. This isn't what I'd planned. Hell, I don't even know if Trowa will be
home. He said he didn't want to do
anything for his birthday, but maybe he just didn't want to hang out with WuFei
or Duo. What if he had plans—a date—and
I'm interrupting? What if he has a guy
over right now? I begin to turn away,
but then I hear the sound of the door being unlocked.
"Quatre?" Trowa asks. He's dressed only in a pair of dark boxer shorts and a white
t-shirt. Now I'm sure I'm interrupting
something. "What are you doing?"
I hold my hands out mutely, offering the white cardboard
box from the diner down the street.
"You brought me cake?" His words are slurred, and I notice the smell of alcohol mingling with
his distinctive scent.
I shake my head. "No. All the bakeries were
closed, so I stopped at a restaurant, but they didn't have cake. I got apple
pie instead—your favorite." Trowa nods
slightly, his eyes seeming to go out of focus. He's completely drunk! He steps
aside and motions for me to enter his apartment.
I peer over his shoulder nervously. "Are you . . . in the middle of
something?" I ask.
He laughs. A
laugh from Trowa is usually so rare and special—this one seems to lack
something. "Yeah. I was in the middle of getting myself
wasted."
He walks over to the dining room table and picks up a
saltshaker. I watch as he licks his
forearm, pours some salt on it, and then licks it off. Tequila shots? I've seen Duo do this, but never Trowa. He gulps down a shot of the foul alcohol and then proceeds to
suck on a slice of lime.
He looks back at me with a smile as he drops the lime
into a bowl with the remains of at least six other slices. "Why aren't you home? With Maja?"
I shrug. "I had a
dinner meeting to go to. She stayed
over at a friend's, so I decided to drop by and see how you were enjoying your
birthday." Evidently this year hadn't
been a winner.
He glances over at the clock. "'S not my birthday any more. 'S tomorrow."
"Nyah," I counter. "You only turn thirty once. You
can enjoy it until you fall asleep."
Trowa snickers rudely. "Do you wanna drink?" he asks, offering his glass to me.
I shouldn't. I
haven't had any alcohol for years—not since that bachelor party so long
ago. I still can't remember what all
happened that night. WuFei often
reminds me that he found me passed out on the floor of the hall closet. I obviously couldn't hold my liquor.
But what can happen tonight? It's just the two of us—no worries about strippers or Duo trying
to play tricks on us. What's the worst
that can happen?
I nod, taking the glass. I follow his lead, taking the salt first. It's a disgusting process—but I have a feeling that tequila shots
are the kind of thing that gets better with each additional drink. The tequila is bitter and nasty—but the lime
really makes up for it. I finish,
wiping a dribble of limejuice from my chin and handing the glass back to
Trowa. I can't help but shudder. This drink is definitely a lot viler than
whatever it was Duo gave me back then.
We do three more shots each, taking turns, until we're
both feeling a lot more . . . unreserved. Trowa's almost smashed, but I can still think straight. I watch him in the dim light as he motions
for the glass in my hands, and I wonder for a moment why neither of us bothered
to find another.
"Why were you drinking, anyway?" I ask him, handing him the shot glass.
He shrugs. "I'm
thirty. And I've got nothing to show
for myself." He drops his head onto the
table, looking dejected. "Heero has
Relena. WuFei has his career. Duo has his family. What do I have?"
I lift his head up, forcing him to look at me. "You've got friends. And you've got Catherine. And you have me and Maja."
He sneers, yanking himself away from me. "No. I've got a string of one night stands and meaningless relationships that
can't ever amount to anything." He
looks back at me, looking defensive. For a moment I expect him to say more, but then his face softens. "But I guess you've had it worse than me,
huh?"
Silvia.
"Bet your nights are even lonelier than mine." Trowa rests his head in his hands.
I let my gaze fall to the table. "You know, people are always so
understanding when you lose someone you love. They know that the emotional void is terrible. But they never think about the physical loss. I miss hugging Silvia. I miss kissing her, making love to her. I hate sleeping alone." I wish it were my turn for a shot. "I can't do it."
"Was she the only one?" Trowa asks. "Was she the only
girl you had sex with?"
"Mm-hmm," I answer, nodding my head. "I can't do it again—I haven't been with
anyone since her. I've considered
it—I've tried flirting with women, going home with them, even. But I can't bring myself to make love to
anyone else. It gets so far and then
I—I can't."
Trowa lifts my chin with his fingers, his green eyes
gazing into mine and looking so much like Silvia's that it hurts. "I've never made love to anyone."
What?
He shakes his head, smiling sadly. "I've had sex—I've fucked more men than I
can count—but I've never made love to anyone."
Something about his words sends shivers down my
spine.
He licks his wrist and begins to pour salt on it. "Oh hell," he murmurs, dropping his head to
the table with a thunk. The saltshaker
tumbles to the floor and he lets his arm fall over his hair. "Why do I even bother drinking this stuff?"
I have an urge to finish the shot for him. I don't know why. But then again, I don't know why I came over tonight,
either. I stare at his wrist, dotted
with tiny white crystals, and I wonder if it'd taste the same as when I lick it
off my own skin. I listen to my mind—my
body—and take his hand in mine.
Trowa
lifts his head, startled. His eyes are
suddenly wide.
I
lower my mouth to his wrist, licking off the salt.
But I can't pull away. I don't want to.
May 19th—Trowa
Barton—2:35 a.m.
The feel of his tongue on my flesh alone is enough to
sober me up. I've been coming down off
this buzz for the last fifteen minutes—but now my mind is plummeting.
The salt is gone. It has to be. But his lips, his
tongue, are still there, gently moving against my skin. Oh God, this is what I've wanted more than
anything. My stomach twists as his
mouth presses more firmly against my pulse.
He's not drunk. I
remember all too well what he's like when he's drunk.
His lips move downward, licking the palm of my hand. I swallow hard.
He pulls away suddenly, grabbing the tequila bottle and
taking a gulp. In the same motion, he
snatches up a lime and crushes it into his mouth. I'm fascinated. His eyes
meet mine as he slams the bottle back on the table, and before I know it, his
mouth is against mine, limejuice seeping from his mouth down my chin and
neck. His kiss is forceful, but I don't
care. Quatre is kissing me. And this time I won't stop him. I can't stop him. He gets to his feet, leaning over so our mouths don't part. His hands press down on my bare legs as I
grab at his shirt—anything to prove to myself that this is really Quatre.
He withdraws, kneeling in front of my chair and staring
at me with wide eyes. "I need this,
Trowa," he whispers. "I need you." I nod silently, excruciatingly aware of his
palms on my thighs.
I cautiously reach out to touch his cheek with my
calloused fingertips. For some reason,
he hardly seems like the man I've known for the past ten years. He's more like the quiet, sweet boy that
caught my attention all those years ago. He makes me feel like the boy who first fell for him. I lean forward and kiss him slowly,
relishing the feeling of his mouth against mine.
For some reason, it seems more real than any of the other
kisses we've shared. They were all
aggressive, forceful. But this tender
kiss makes me tremble inside. The
sensation of his tongue running leisurely over my bottom lip is more
tantalizing that anything I've ever tasted. My head is spinning, and I know it's not from the tequila.
I pull away from him, trying to regain my composure. "Is this just because you need laid—or is it
something else?" I have to know; I
want him to want me—not anyone else. I
want him to make love to me, rather than just having empty, meaningless
sex. I could do that with anyone in the
world except Quatre.
He brushes my hair out of my eyes, staring at me for a
long moment. "I—I don't—it's you. I need you. I want you." His
expression is a mixture of pain and fear. "I want to be able to sleep tonight—with you." His eyes flicker back and forth, focusing on mine intently. He means it.
My body aches with arousal upon hearing his words,
despite the massive amounts of alcohol. I've never wanted anyone more. "I want only you, Quatre," I whisper, lowering my lips to his
again. "For fifteen years, I've wanted
only you." His tongue feels so cool
against mine; he tastes just as I remembered, just as I'd imagined in all my
fantasies. I withdraw slowly, hesitant
to end the sensations. "But you don't
know what a one night stand feels like, do you?"
He shakes his head and moves to pull my t-shirt off; I
raise my arms to assist him. Once
that's accomplished, I'm surprised by the onslaught of his lips on my
chest. I close my eyes, for a moment
forgetting everything I needed to say to him.
No. Not yet. I push him away. "You've never fucked a guy one night and woke up not remembering
what his face looked like, what color his hair was. I've forgotten the names of most of the people I've slept
with." I stand up and turn away from him. I'm sorry my voice is so cold. I'm sorry that I could be preventing the one
thing we both want so badly. "I don't
want you to be just another notch in the bedpost."
"Trowa," Quatre begins seriously, putting his hand on my
shoulder. "Other than my wife, you are
the only person I could ever do this with." He touches my face softly, reminding me of Silvia in his
tenderness. "We'll remember this. It's . . ." he looks away briefly, and when
he glances back, his face is tinged with pink. "With you and me, it's special."
It's still just one night, though. I know we won't be calling each other
tomorrow night, trying to arrange another time to meet. We won't go on any dates. No one will ever know that it happened. Practically just another fantasy.
I look down at him, meeting his turquoise eyes. He needs me. I'd be crazy to turn him down. This is what I've wanted since we were kids. I close my eyes, pulling his body against mine. His lips graze my neck, moving upward to
gently nibble on my earlobe. I cast
aside the last few threads of uncertainty and begin to unbutton his shirt.
"Yes," I finally agree. My hands drift downward, unbuckling his belt. A live-action fantasy is a whole lot warmer than a mental one.
"Trowa," Quatre whispers softly in my ear. "You mean more to me than—" he sucks in his
breath as I yank his pants open. "You're practically a part of me."
I pause, staring at this man that I've loved for as long
as I can remember. For an instant I
think of walking away. Quatre doesn't
get it—he can't see past tonight. I
close my eyes as his hand smoothes my hair from my face. "You're practically a part of me, too."
May 19th—Duo
Maxwell—12:57 p.m.
Trowa's apartment is a wreck. I'm not used to the neat freak being so messy. But with the combination of clothes thrown
around, the remains of a drinking fest, and several things knocked onto the
floor, it kind of reminds me of the room we shared back at the Preventor
barracks—my half.
"I take it you had some kind of wild party last
night?" I don't try to keep the pride
from my voice.
Trowa gives a sarcastic laugh as he comes out of the
kitchen. The first thing I notice is
the nasty bruise on his forehead. Then
I see that he's got water and aspirin. He looks like the wrong side of a brawl.
"What the hell happened to your head?" I ask. "Or do you even remember?"
He scowls at me. "I remember everything. I hit my
head on the table." Man, something's
bothering him today.
I shrug, offering the present I brought. Hilde picked it out, so it's probably
lame—something like a book or music. "It's from Hilde and the kids," I inform him as he takes it. "She's been complaining ever since you moved
out here about how we never see you—but wasn't even able to come deliver this
in person."
He peeks inside the gift bag and smiles slightly. "Be sure to thank her for me," he comments
as he sets it on the coffee table.
I move to get a look inside—I'm really curious as to how
lame this present really is—but something stops me. I see a familiar-looking belt under the table. Trowa doesn't even wear belts. He has those tight-ass jeans. But it looks so . . . familiar. I pick it up and examine it.
"I take it this was a private party?"
He flushes slightly. "Why do you always make inquiries about my personal life?" His voice is dull.
I shrug again, wanting to make him smile. "'Cause it's personal. 'Cause you're the only bachelor—well . . . I
guess Quatre's a bachelor, too." Then
it hits me. This is Quatre's belt.
My eyes snap up to Trowa, but he doesn't meet my
gaze. He's looking at a balled-up
jacket on the couch. Also
Quatre's. What the hell happened here?
No. They couldn't
have. Could they?
I drop the belt with a clatter. The buckle scratches the table surface, but Trowa doesn't seem to
care. He doesn't even look over. Damn. This is bad.
"Trowa," I growl. "Who was here with you last
night?"
His eyes finally meet mine. "Just . . . a guy I met."
He's lying. I
know it was Quatre, and he knows that I know. But I'll play his game. "Was it
good?"
"No." A small
smile tugs at his lips. "It was
amazing." His voice shakes slightly.
I'm happy for him, in a way. I know that being with Quatre is the one thing that can make him
happy—the one thing he's wanted more than anything. But Quatre's not the most emotionally stable guy I know; he's
still screwed up over Silvia. I wonder
if it was Trowa's idea, or if it's something that just happened. "Are you happy about it?" Is Quatre?
He shrugs casually. "Maybe."
He's acting too casual. I know he's just covering up his real feelings, like always. It bugs me—this time it's not just his
emotions I'm concerned about.
"So nothing came of it?" I try not to sound bitter, but I don't like the idea of Trowa messing
around with Quatre—not if there isn't anything to be gained. He might be used to this sort of thing, but
I'm certain Quatre's not so thick-skinned.
Trowa sits down on the couch, holding his head in his
hands. "I don't know . . ." he sighs,
leaning back against the cushions and staring at the ceiling. "I thought . . . It was a one-time thing, I guess."
"You guess?" I ask incredulously. I can't believe his nerve. Not only does he have sex with a guy who's
still in mourning, but he's only letting it be a one-night stand?! "You don't just fuck your friends,
Trowa. You knew what you were
doing!" His best friend.
He doesn't answer; his eyes are still glued to the
ceiling. But his fists are
clenched. His expression scares me—I'm
not used to Trowa being so angry—and something else I don't quite
recognize. But I can't help but be a
little more worried about Quatre—I doubt he can handle one-night stands the way
Trowa can.
"What did you do? Get him drunk?"
"No."
"Were you drunk?" Maybe he didn't know what he'd been doing. Maybe he'd confessed to Quatre in a fit of drunkenness, and all
this came out of it. I kind of hoped
that was the case.
He looks over at me and I'm shocked by his hurt
expression. "It wasn't like that Duo. I love him. We both made the conscious decision."
"Really?" I ask. "Then why am I here? Why isn't
he the one talking to you now instead of me?!"
Trowa glares at me. "Duo—don't blame me for this." His voice is harsh and thick with emotion, and I'm surprised by the
shine of tears in his eyes. Has he ever
cried before? "It wasn't my idea—I'm
not the one who walked out before he woke up."