Okay, before I start, let me note that I've seen a total of 13 (count 'em, 13) episodes of Gundam Wing, in addition to EW (oh! the pain of not having cable and being to poor to buy videos). Please don't hurt me if you notice any plot discrepancies (in fact, please let me know so that I can fix them!).
Gundam Wing and all its little characters do not belong to me, I just borrow them for torture sessions every now and then. Once upon a time, yea many moons ago, this was a songfic to the song "Pretty Boy" is from M2M's CD, Shades of Purple, but lyrics have since been removed in accordance with Freakiness. I blame this all on my friend Blue Jeans, who not only lent me the CD (even though it's not hers...) but also suggested that it be made into a 3+4 songfic. Her fault. Not mine. Hers.
Warnings: shonen ai, 3+4, TWT. Beware mixed metaphors.
By: M.E. (Magnificent Entity)
Shadows danced on the walls, creating dramatic images through a delicate play of the leaved branches outside the window and the moonlight that shined down from above. Though the plays consisted of comedies and romances, it seemed that the only ones that Trowa could interpret easily were the tragedies.
He wished desperately for sleep to overtake him, but it seemed be yet another useless hope in light of the the troubled thoughts that bubbled up in his skull even as he willed them to stop.
Around him the shadows continued their twirling waltzes in black and white, grays ranging in between, ignorant of the heavy atmosphere that surrounded him.
His mind was not distracted by the antics of the shadows for long, and it soon returned to dwell on that which he tried so hard to suppress. Images moved past his staring eyes in a fluid motion, momentary glimpses catching his attention as they passed. One stilled his heart even as it approached, and he strained to watch it after it was gone.
Deep, blue-green eyes. Tranquil pools of aquamarine.
God. He could drown in those eyes- had done so on more than one occasion. When he was around them and their clear, comforting gaze, he seemed to go numb to surroundings, becoming blind to anything but those two eyes.
And yet... even though the Heavyarms pilot felt like a the mouse caught between the claws of a cat whenever those eyes looked in his direction, he couldn't help but hope for the next time they would turn to him. It was as if he was addicted to some kind of drug, one that, even though it was slowly destroying him from the inside out, he couldn't help but continue to seek over and over again.
He had tried over and over again to stop the dangerous game that he had started so many months ago, but found himself to deeply submerged in it. Escape was no longer an option, and so he let himself be caught up in the rapids around him, the current tearing away all remaining restrictions, leaving him free to tumble towards his own ruin.
It was quite obvious that this was no simple crush.
At first he had hesitated to put a name to the destructive whirlwind that had taken him by force, even though he had known from the very beginning what it really was.
Now that he knew there was no escape, he allowed his mind to name that which plagued him day and night, obstructing his sleep and causing him to wander around like a zombie during the day. That which had carved the deep purple bruises of sleep-deprivation under his own tired eyes.
It was love.
He had never experienced such an emotion before, he was sure of that, as he was totally unfamiliar with the paths and patterns that even now it was carving in his mind. Love...
For some reason this thought disturbed him. Not because he felt that his love should be given some more deserving recipient- oh no, he knew that the object of his affections truly deserved them. And it wasn't that he was afraid that Quatre would be turned away if he voiced such feelings.
No, the reason that Trowa was bothered by the thought of love was that he was afraid of pulling the other boy into a relationship, afraid that Quatre might not want it as much as he himself did.
Even as he drowned in his own emotions, he continued to hold onto the small hope that his affections, his love (even now he continued to hesitate at the use of that word) might be returned. As soon as he was sure of that they would be, he would not waver any longer in expressing his feelings.
He just wanted to make sure that he didn't trap the blonde pilot in a cage.
Trowa knew only too well the ins and outs of Quatre's personality, knew that if he told the him how he felt, the Arabian would most likely feel obligated to enter a relationship with him, not so much because he returned Trowa's love, but rather because he didn't want to hurt the taller boy's feelings.
The blonde's unconditional kindness had been one of the many things that had first attracted (and later held) Trowa's attention. Having grown up in an atmosphere of hardship, where the only real emotions that existed was more of a deep feeling of respect that might be felt between fellow warriors, Trowa was amazed by the wide range of feelings and emotions that Quatre quickly introduced him to.
At the moment, he couldn't help but wish that one of those feelings had not been sadness.
No, his decision to not be the one to make the first move had been a good one. Even if it meant waiting forever for some kind of response from Quatre, he was determined not to force the other boy into a relationship.
But forever was such a long time...
In the darkness of his room, Trowa felt his cheeks become hot and turn a bright pink as one of the images that still plagued his thoughts reminded him of something that had happened in class only a few hours before.
The teacher had been lecturing on the wonders of western Europe, and Trowa, bored out of his mind had been doodling on his hand and arm with his pen. When the bell had finally rung, he had been jolted out of his reverie to find that he had somehow managed to to cover almost all of the skin from the tips of fingers to the crook of his arm, and there, right smack in the middle of the back of his hand, was a large red heart (that was strange- he didn't even remember getting his red pen out) framing the numbers "04."
He had quickly shoved the long sleeve of his shirt down, which covered most of the drawings, but left the heart right out in the open for all to see. Even though he had been fast to grab his jacket in an effort to hide it, it was apparent from the strange look that Quatre gave him that he hadn't been fast enough. Trowa had shrugged off the look, and hurried out the door of the class to the nearest bathroom.
It had taken ten minutes, two handfuls of soap, seven paper towels, and God-knows how much water to get that damned heart off.
Sighing, Trowa rolled over, wincing as the mattress squeaked protests and complaints beneath him. His sleep-deprived mind was playing tricks on him again- he thought he could hear the soft sound of Quatre's voice, and the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing.
Most likely it was coming from the room next to his, his mind amended, and he pulled the pillow over his head, willing the ghostly noises of the phantoms in his head to stop, to let him rest in peace. As he lay there, pillow clamped over his ears, his breathing steadied and evened out. For the first time in days, Trowa Barton slept.
In his dreams he was haunted by the likeness of a pale young man with light blonde hair and shining blue eyes. Oddly enough, the presence of this other was not harrying as it had been the last few times Trowa had managed to catch a few z's. Instead, the other was comforting, and seemed to whisper elusive promises into his covered ears.
In the shadows of his room, Trowa's mouth curved into a smile.
So caught up in the creations of his dreaming mind, Trowa was unaware of the soft padding of footsteps in the hall outside his door, and the small book that was slid under his door.
That was okay, he could see it in the morning.