By StarWolf
6/21/2004
Title: Infinitesimal
Author: StarWolf (elendraug at yahoo.com)
Fandom: Gundam Wing
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst, A/U
Warnings: Slash
Pairing: Trowa x Quatre (3x4)
Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing. I just love it to "infinitesimal" bits. =D
Distribution: Don't archive it. I'll kill you.
Summary: He's surrounded by sand and rock and Sandrock.
Authoress' Notes: This is dedicated to A Thousand Paper Cranes (#292745), because she's awesome. I'm sorry it sucks so much, Mia. x.x
He's surrounded by sand and rock and Sandrock.
Tightly gripping the sleeve of a blue-green shirt, Quatre presses buttons, pulls levers, and tries to keep his head from imploding. Stress -- everything's a headache, and Trowa's his painkiller.
Time slips through their fingers as quickly and irrevocably as sand. Childhood, gone. Innocence, lost (lives soon to be). Their chances were small, but they didn't realise the magnitude until the world ended. Ivory, gold, tan, auburn -- together, they are the desert. In a rush of airborne glass specks, they lose themselves and fall into each other.
They lost the war, but intangible things cannot be stolen. Protected and treasured keepsakes in the form of fragmented memories, worth more than any wealth to be extracted from the ground. Only recollections can be safeguarded.
Stomp, stomp, stomp. Giant footsteps in dunes. Rusting hinges, aching for an unattainable repair.
Quatre remembers hiding in shadowed corridors, clutching a handgun in a sweaty palm, and fighting back the urge to shield his eyes, to bury his face in available, turtleneck-clothed chest until he could hear an erratic, frantic heartbeat pounding against his ear.
Trowa's forgotten, remembered, and longs to again forget. What he doesn't know can't hurt him, as they say. He's tired of being hurt, tired of reliving nightmares.
Emotions are numerous, and they've felt them all. Fear, affection, uncertainty, security, rage, ecstasy, sleeplessness, peace.
Hate. Love.
Now what?
Gundanium alloy: too heavy for the sand, afterall. Sinking, sinking. It's unpleasantly like being in a broken elevator, thinks Quatre, but there's no one to pull us back up. He lets go of the controls, leans back in his seat, and sighs. Eyes: open, closed, open. Aquamarine plus jade equals nonverbal communication.
"I'm scared, Trowa."
Acknowledgement.
"I know."
Tremble.
"...Trowa?"
Nod.
"I'm scared, too."
Kiss.
Mouth-lips-tongue-saliva arms snaking around shoulders clinging crying it's too much it's over this is too dangerous too late we're going to di--
The windowpanes crack under pressure, and in pours the endless sand.