Disclaimers and notes in the Prologue.
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Sure Thing Chapter OneOnce upon a time, in a land closer than you think, there was a tiny farm set in a peaceful countryside. Made of simple wood with dark mud chinking to prevent the cold winter winds to whistle through and freeze the inhabitants, it stood alone on a hillside overlooking a lush green valley. The inhabitants mentioned before consisted of three people, a brother and sister and a farm hand. The parents of the siblings had long since passed on to another life, leaving the two to create their own life from what was provided by nature.
The sister, Iria Winner, was the older of the two, had been looking out for her younger brother and the farm since a very young age. But now she had grown much and had many men proposing marriage as she was not only very beautiful, with soft blue eyes and straw blonde hair that fell past her waist in gentle waves, but she was very able around the house and would make a fine wife for any man out there. She even received proposals from those of the nobility, who saw her beauty and sharp mind. However, she stoutly refused to marry until she knew her brother was settled in his own life. There had been many arguments between the two, such as the one occurring now.
"Iria, you're not being sensible. You should have been married years ago. I can take care of myself and this farm without you now."
"I want to believe you Quatre, but it just isn't the right time now. I want to make sure you have a wife of your own, and a solid amount of money that you can rely on."
Quatre, the younger brother (obviously) ducked his head slightly to hide the slight blush that spread across his pale cheeks. He did not look like a man cut out for heavy farming, and appeared to be much younger than he actually was. At eighteen summers, he stood at a mere five feet and eight inches, with silky, gold-spun hair and large disarming aquamarine eyes. His skin was very pale, startling for someone who spent as much time in the fields as he did.
He took a deep breath, unsure of how to tell his sister what he wanted to. He glanced over his shoulder at the farmhand, Trowa, who seemed totally uninterested in the conversation as he dipped a hunk of coarse bread into his dinner stew.(1) It had been many years ago when Quatre had discovered he preferred the male form to the female, though he'd never confessed it to his sister. However, Quatre knew right then he didn't want to say what had been plaguing him for all this time now in front of Trowa.
"Iria, I just don't think I'm ready to get married yet." Quatre murmured evading his dilemma swiftly. He would tell her when they were alone. As much as he liked Trowa, he wasn't sure how much he could really trust the man not to turn his back on him for his little secret. In truth, Trowa was a mystery. He was the greatest mystery that had set foot on this land in years.
It had been two years ago to the day that Trowa Barton had first appeared on their doorstep, asking respectfully if he might spend the night in the barn and take some water from their well. Despite Trowa's dusty appearance from traveling on the road for a long time, Quatre had fallen for him instantly. An enigma of a man, with no known family or past, Trowa, of the same age as Quatre, stood a full six feet and one inch, with cinnamon colored locks that had a funny way of falling over his face and covering one of his shockingly emerald green eyes. It was his eyes that Quatre had first fallen into when he'd seen Trowa that fateful day. Every since then, Quatre could feel himself fall deeper and deeper into those eyes as he learned more and more about the sort of person Trowa was.
Trowa was a man, who can only be described in the horrible clichéd way, of few words. He only spoke when he saw the need to, and then one could clearly tell he had chosen his words carefully and put much thought behind what he said.
"Well, Trowa!" Iria, exclaimed turning to the silent man, "What do you think of all this? Surely you agree with me in that Quatre should get married soon!"
Quatre felt his heart freeze as Trowa looked up from his food and stared at Iria. He was quiet for nearly a minute, and brother and sister knew him well enough to understand he was formulating the most reasonable answer. Please don't say yes, Trowa, please don't say yes. Quatre silently pleaded to any and all of the gods out there. He felt a blush rush through his cheeks when Trowa turned his gaze on him, his expression unreadable.
"I think it is up to Quatre to decide what he is to do and when he is ready to do it." Trowa finally said, his soft baritone filling the small house with a pleasant warmth, at least in Quatre's mind.
Iria threw her hands up in exasperation. "I don't believe this! I'd swear the two of you were in this together, trying to find a way to remain bachelors all your life." She turned away from the two men, and began bustling around the kitchen, muttering under her breath while clanking dishes with more noise than was necessary.
Quatre noticed Trowa's gaze was still on him, and he returned it with that infernal blush once again creeping across his cheeks. After a long moment Trowa looked away, but before he did, Quatre swore he could hear over the clatter of his sister Trowa mutter, "Decide soon, Little One."
Little One?! What the hell did he mean by calling me Little One? Quatre's mind was still reeling hours later as he groomed the old horse they kept in the barn. He was still trying to figure out the full meaning of what Trowa had said. Quatre wondered if he meant that Quatre should get married, or if he suspected Quatre's secret, or what if Trowa had actually said nothing at all and it was simply his overactive imagination that had convinced him Trowa had spoken.
"What do you think, Betsy?" Quatre leaned against the aging mare's side, stroking her neck soothingly, "Should I tell them everything? Do you think they would understand?"
"Tell who what? And why wouldn't they understand?" Quatre froze at the sound of Trowa's voice almost next to him. He looked up to see the taller man peering at him over the low door of Betsy's stall.
"Er…to tell that merchant part of our wool stock was not the finest we could provide, what with the bad season and everything…" Quatre stammered, blushing profusely. Trowa's gaze never wavered and his expression never changed.
"And what have you decided?" Trowa asked glibly.
"What do you think I should do, Trowa? If I do tell, they could either pay us for what they have already or they could refuse our entire stock, meaning no money for the entire winter, except what we've managed to scrape together and save for such an occasion." Quatre felt himself babbling about something he wasn't even concerned with. He knew perfectly well there was no fault with the wool they'd produced that year, and he knew Trowa knew the same as well. He wondered why Trowa was allowing him to dig himself into a deeper hole. "So what do you think I should do?" He finished lamely, repeating his first question.
Trowa was silent for a moment before opening the door of the stall and stepping back. "I'm going to chop some firewood and I need a hand. You wouldn't mind helping out, would you?"
Quatre nearly leapt from the stall in his eagerness. "Sure thing!"
Trowa led the way to the yard and the pile of wood waiting to be split, Quatre following anxiously in his wake. Trowa pointed to the pile. "Just have a fresh one ready each time, okay? And be sure to stand out of the way of the axe, my swing isn't as sure as it should be."
Quatre nodded and ran to put the wood on the block while Trowa hefted the axe and swung down, splitting the wood with expert ease. Both men continued the work in silence, the only sound in the air the sound of cracking wood and cheerful birdcalls.
After some time, Trowa called for a break, setting down the axe and leaning against a tree. Quatre noticed sweat causing his shirt to stick to his back, so he said helpfully, "Would you like some water, Trowa?"
"Sure thing." Trowa said softly and Quatre practically skipped to the well, pulling out the bucket and pouring it into an empty pitcher he'd found nearby. The whole time he could sense someone looking at him, and when he turned he found Trowa once again staring at him. Quatre once again felt the blush race across his face as he handed Trowa the pitcher, trying desperately to avoid the piercing green gaze. They stood for a moment while Trowa drank some of the water, and then he offered the pitcher to Quatre.
"Oh no, you go ahead an have all of it. I can always get more from the well." Quatre said, waving his hand dismissively.
"Take the water and drink it, Quatre. Otherwise you'll be too dehydrated to even reach the well. Besides, I shouldn't drink so much as it is in this heat. I wouldn't want to cramp up." Trowa urged practically forcing the pitcher into Quatre's hands. He watched making sure Quatre took his fair share. "You know what your problem is, Quatre?" He said out of the blue. "You are too giving. You give and give until you have nothing left. Now, I think if you were to have someone here to help you run the farm and prevent you from giving all you have to whomever asks for it next, you would be well off and possibly…" Trowa trailed off, leaving Quatre feeling bowled over. Never had he heard Trowa give such a strong opinion about him, or any other person for that matter. It was quite an extraordinary thing, and Quatre wasn't sure how to respond.
"Possibly what?" He asked instead, prompting the other man to finish his sentence. Trowa shifted a bit, seeming a bit off-guard, and once again Quatre was stunned, for he also had he never seen the tall man uncertain about anything.
"It may not be my place to say this, Quatre…" Trowa murmured.
"Whatever it is you want to say, you don't have to worry about it, Trowa," Quatre exclaimed, "We are the same, you and I. I almost think of you as a brother." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Quatre felt like cursing himself for being a thousand types of fool. That wasn't what he'd wanted to say at all. What he really wished to do was confess to Trowa everything, but his fear of rejection held him back. It was too sudden and too much to make known his deepest feelings to someone he wasn't really sure would be ready to return the feelings.
Trowa paused slightly, his face unreadable as usual, though Quatre thought he saw something glimmer for a second in his eyes' green depths. "Very well, I wanted to say you would possibly be…happy."
Whatever it was Quatre had expected him to say, it wasn't this. "Am I not happy now? I have a wonderful sister, a good stable life, everything I require, what more could I ask for?" He said softly.
Trowa sighed. "You don't have everything, Quatre. You don't have love."
"Love?" Quatre gave a small laugh that sounded almost bitter. "What do I need love for? Oh, I have that capability, for sure, and it's not like I've never experienced it before. That feeling when it seems like the world is at peace, where you hardly know if you're coming or going until you see the person you love. Where you feel hot…"
"And cold at the same time, fire and ice that send shivers and sparks up your spine. When you feel as if you could soar above the clouds and be grounded at the same time like you've never been before." Trowa interrupted. Quatre stared at him. His green eyes were cast to the ground and the melancholy about him was thick enough to be cut by a knife.
"Who have you loved, Trowa?" He asked before he even realized he was going to speak.
"I once loved a childhood friend of mine. We were inseparable, and one day we were on the river bank on a warm summer afternoon and I fell in love. Except…the feeling was not, shall we say, mutual. And now, I am in love with someone I don't deserve." Trowa said, his voice heavy with regret.
Immediately Quatre was in front of him, his fists balled up as if wishing to strike something or somebody. "Don't you ever say you don't deserve someone, Trowa Barton! You are perhaps the most wonderful person I have ever met in my life. You call me too giving. Well, look at you! You may be a bit mysterious and reclusive, but everyone's allowed privacy. No, you speak more clearly in your actions than any eloquent poet, Trowa. I heard what happened last week when you gave that family a ride home in the cart, even though it was nearly ten miles out of your way. No other person I have ever met would be willing to do such a thing. That is what I love most about you, Trowa, your willingness to do the small things that matter to people." Suddenly Quatre froze with the realization of what he'd just said. Trowa looked up at him, his bright green eyes wide with surprise.
"You…what?" He said gently. Quatre clamped a hand over his mouth in horror, and without another word spun and fled into the house, hiding under the relative protection of the quilt blanket on the bed.
He remained where he was until Iria called him down to supper. Initially he refused to move, but some tender coaxing by Iria involving grabbing him by the ankles and dragging him down the stairs to the dinner table convinced him to eat something.
Quatre and Trowa were completely silent during the meal, and though this was the norm for Trowa, for Quatre it was definitely not usual, and caught Iria's attention immediately. Finally, when supper was nearly over, she spoke.
"Tell me, Quatre, are you upset with me for lecturing you on the importance of finding a wife earlier?"
Quatre shook his head, pushing the cooling stew around with his spoon. "No, not really, Iria. You always do it, so why should it bother me anymore?"
"Then would you tell me what is wrong with you? You're never this quiet. And you're hardly touching your food. That's just not like you, Cat." Iria said almost with desperation. Suddenly, something seemed to click in her mind. "Oh, are you in the throws of agonizing love, Quatre? That's it, isn't it!"
Quatre stood abruptly. "I'm going out for a bit. I'm really not hungry." He said, not meeting Trowa's eyes, then walked swiftly out of the house.
The night was closing in quickly, and Quatre sat huddled underneath one of the ancient oak trees dotting their property, listening to the evening birds bid a cheerful farewell to the sun while welcoming the velvety darkness creeping up on the eastern horizon. How could you be so stupid, Quatre? A sour inner voice asked him. Now he knows, and he'll never want to talk to you again. Smooth move there, lover man.
"I didn't mean to…it was an accident." Quatre muttered to himself. Yeah, right. I bet you're a masochist, aren't you? You wanted to bring this pain onto yourself, didn't you? You thought life was too peaceful and you needed a change of pace. Nice job. Well, you've got your change, and how do you like it?
"No…no…" Quatre whispered, feeling tears start to well up in his eyes. And now you're crying. Oh, you poor little wussy man.
"Quatre?" Quatre looked up to see Trowa standing nearby, watching him through the growing darkness. "Mind if I join you for a moment?" At Quatre's noncommittal shrug, Trowa sat next to him, leaning back against the tree and gazing up through the branches.
"Why do you even want to talk to me?" Quatre blurted out before telling himself to just shut up. Stop making things worse for yourself. Just how much more rejection can you take?
"Because I didn't get to finish what I was saying earlier." Trowa said. "You would be happy with someone here to mediate and share with your life. Someone besides your sister, even though she's really wonderful."
"I thought it would've been clear enough I do not want a wife." Quatre muttered.
After a stillness that seemed to last an eternity to Quatre, Trowa said softly, "Who said I was talking about a wife?" Quatre sat up straighter, turning to stare at the man he'd loved for nearly two years.
"What do you mean, Trowa?"
"I didn't tell you my entire story. Just the premise of it. The truth is, when I was little, I had a great friend, Ralph. It was true, we were inseparable. Then, out of the blue it seems, I discovered I'd fallen in love with Ralph. I confessed my feelings for him one day. It was the most difficult thing I've ever done. You wouldn't believe me, but I was afraid, Quatre. Really afraid. When I professed my love, he turned away from me. My heart was broken in two that day. Since then, I've been very careful to hide my feelings from everyone, lest I experience the same dismissal from another person. I also said I am now in love with someone I don't deserve. And I'm still not sure I deserve his love, yet I know he does care for me in return."
"Trowa?" Quatre felt shaky all over, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. Trowa looked at him, giving a small smile laced with a sadness Quatre wished to erase all traces of. And there was only one way he could think of to do it. Leaning forward suddenly, he pressed a small kiss to Trowa's lips.
What started out as a chaste kiss turned deeper as Trowa gave a tiny sigh and moved his lips against Quatre's. When he felt Trowa's tongue on his lower lip gently requesting entrance, he opened his mouth, welcoming it in. Trowa sighed again, exploring and tasting everywhere inside Quatre's mouth, and Quatre felt all his fears fall from him in one rush. There was nothing to worry about anymore.
When the silly need for air broke them apart Quatre held Trowa's face between his two hands. "Can you ever love a coward?"
"Coward, you?" Trowa asked in shock.
"For being too cowardly not to say anything to you sooner."
Trowa shook his head. "No, it is I who am the coward. I've always been on the road, running away from my problems. You are the bravest person I've ever met, Quatre. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
"Fine," Quatre said with a small laugh, "We are both cowards who are in love. I love you, Trowa. Do you love me as well?"
"Sure thing." Trowa said, smiling his small smile, devoid of the sadness this time. Quatre smiled in return, leaning forward to claim another kiss and feeling at once complete.
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(1) Okay, we're thinking Great Britain timeframe here, where dinner is actually at lunchtime, around two in the afternoon. This was like a real curveball to me when I visited England, because when I think dinner I think a meal at 6 or 8 at night, not in the middle of the day. If I am incorrect about this, please let me know, and feel free to call me a vulgar American. Eh, well, not everyone's perfect. ^_~
A/N: That is definitely not the end. There is so much more to get done, but this is actually getting written faster than any of my other fanfics (maybe because the plot is already sort of set up for me…who knows?) Now, why, you may ask, is the horse's name Betsy? Well, I was actually pondering calling her Hilde since she's not going to get any spotlight whatsoever in this story. But some intuition told me not to (especially with all the 2xH shippers out there who might object to me having their favorite girl for Duo being displayed as a "nag" **ahem** no pun intended). So, Betsy is the only other name I could come up with at the moment. Hope you're enjoying this so far. Reviews are welcome, thoughtful critiques enjoyed thoroughly, flamers not so much. I warn all flamers you will be mentioned if you do write, and you will be mocked quite thoroughly. TTFN! ^_^