by Raletha
R :: canon, angst, dark, glossy lemon :: 3x4x3
Written for the 'beverage' challenge on gw500. Twilight Dawning timeline.
The words came from behind, easing out of the nighttime silence. "You've been avoiding me."
Trowa.
Quatre didn't turn but instead kept stirring the powdered chocolate into the hot milk. It formed dark lumps on the surface, refusing to dissolve completely.
"I haven't re-" he started.
"Avoiding being alone with me."
The smell of the cooked milk threatened to nauseate. Quatre mashed the bottom of the spoon against the side of the mug to squash the stubborn clumps of chocolate, sighed, and admitted, "Yes."
Trowa came nearer, and Quatre stiffened at the light touch on his shoulder. "Did you want to talk?" Quatre asked.
Fingers that knew him well brushed across the hair at his collar and traced a ghostly line up the side of his neck. "No, I don't want to talk," murmured Trowa.
A darkness loomed, darker than space. It beckoned, seductive in its promises of comfortable, pleasurable oblivion. Trowa's breath was warm against his cheek; his fingers persuasive. Quatre couldn't fight it alone like this. The darkness within sang with a thousand voices raised in exultation when Trowa's lips found the side of his neck, kissing gently and then sucking more greedily. There would be a mark tomorrow.
"The others..."Quatre protested feebly and dropped the spoon. It landed with a metallic clatter and sprayed beige droplets over the stainless steel counter.
"Are asleep," Trowa finished. "It's all right."
"I don't want to use you."
"We can use each other, Quatre."
Nothing more was said. His beverage forgotten, Quatre dropped to the metal floor, to his hands and knees. Behind him Trowa pressed close, his hands busy freeing them both for sex. Quatre closed his eyes, and swallowed against the thickness gathering in his throat, but it didn't stop his eyes from watering.
He gasped at the sudden warmth of Trowa's mouth on his body as his lover prepared him with lips and tongue. Heat crowded into the darkness. It lay over him like a woolen blanket on a summer night, and Quatre struggled to fill his lungs.
Pain flashed but soon spiraled into the sanity choking pressure of full penetration. Quatre's mind caved, collapsing into the hungry darkness. The only light, the only true, clear thing was Trowa: embedded in his bowels, whispering and touching him so tenderly.
He chewed back an angry scream, suffocated it into a frustrated groan, a groan that quickly metamorphosed to a more honest utterance of pleasure.
Trowa found a rhythm quickly, and light blossomed in the dark, squirming and twisting and fighting for space. Quatre concentrated on the dark, the searing friction, the carnal lust. He tried to fend off the other, brighter things harrying him: the affection and desire, and--worst of all--acceptance and forgiveness.
He sobbed when he came and blacked out.
Consciousness found him upright and leaning against Trowa, still on the kitchen floor. Quatre didn't open his eyes. "Don't say it," he said, his voice hoarse.
"I won't." The arms around him tightened. "It's still true."
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the end