Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing. ::Shifty eyes:: ::whispers:: At least,
not yet! ::Evil laughter::
Author's Note: Hello! Well, I was reading some Gundam Wing fan fiction, and I got the urge to write a sweet one shot about one of my favorite couples. Like with Jin/Touya fics, there aren't that many 3x4 fics, and I think that that is a crime in its own right. They're usually a side couple in 1x2 fan fiction, and don't get me wrong, because I adore 1x2, but I think we need to give 3x4 a little bit more of a shout out. So, here's my valiant attempt. Enjoy! Happy Readings!
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Sleepless Night
By: Obsidian Sphinx
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It was very dark. Was it usually so dark at night? He didn't think so, or at least he didn't remember it ever being so dark. It wasn't that he minded the dark; it was simply that he preferred it when he was sleeping, not when he couldn't sleep. Anyway, it certainly seemed darker. Of course, maybe it only seemed that way because he was tired. After all, everything seemed so deathly silent, more silent than usual, due to the fact that he couldn't sleep. His bed had become dreadfully uncomfortable, and his silken sheets had become a sweaty deathtrap, acting like fly paper and sticking to his body so that he practically had to peal himself off of them.
Of course, after he had managed to escape the dreadful conspiracy that was his bed, he was faced with the empty hallow darkness inhabiting his room. Where as his mattress had been harsh, and his covers had attempted to strangulate him with sticky heat, the darkness simply existed around him in a loose sort of binding, and it ushered in the whole knew problem of the chilly air. What was one to do when neither being in bed or out of bed offered solace?
He felt quite stranded and a little vulnerable in all actuality, which he found to be rather strange, because he was in his house and in his room. There was no place safer, was there? He couldn't imagine there would be. Despite the logicality of his thinking, he couldn't help but consider the more-dark-than-usual darkness to be a little imposing. Things lurked in the dark, weird, unnatural things that couldn't be controlled by other not so weird and unnatural things.
A feeling of sheer uneasiness crept into his mind, and he found himself faced with two undesirable options. He could either risk climbing into his deceptive bed, or he could stay standing on the vast, cold floor, awaiting one of those atypical lurking things of the night to grab him and drag him away. As needless as it was to weigh to two options, he found himself deliberating carefully before he sat down on his mattress cautiously and slowly scooted backwards over his sheets, bringing his knees up slowly until only his toes peeked over the edge, and he soon curled those under as a safety precaution.
He stayed perched like that for sometime, merely waiting uneasily in the pitch-blackness. Inevitably, after a time, his muscles became cramped from sitting so still, and he had to scoot further back towards the middle of his bed. He proceeded to lie out and stretch grandly, which, he thought, felt rather good.
He was not so uncomfortable anymore, and the mattress seemed less inclement toward his body. The sheets, however, still seemed sticky and hot underneath of him. He disliked the feeling of that heat seeping through his pajamas, which were predominately fashioned from cotton. Deciding to make his dislike tangible and apparent, he made an effort of kicking his covers further downward so that they lay in a bunched up, disheveled pile at the bottom of the bed.
After that, he relaxed into his pillow and into the sticky sheets. He closed his eyes with the intention of letting sleep claim him, but something didn't feel quite right. He still felt vulnerable somehow, and instead of hot, moist covers lying indolently atop him, he felt the chilly air acting as an annoying, unnerving canopy. With that realization, he felt unprotected, and his bed seemed ten times its actual size. It made him feel a little lonely and abandoned, and he simply knew he could never fall asleep feeling that way, so he decided to compromise. He grabbed one of the blankets that had previously covered him from the bottom of the bed and pulled it up to his chin as he lay back down.
He felt a sense of satisfaction then, for although the sheets beneath him threatened to liquefy and seep into the pores of his skin, the blanket atop him seemed friendlier and didn't appear to have the same infatuation with strangling him. He supposed he couldn't have hoped for a better turn out. Perhaps then he could, at long last, get some much-needed sleep
He closed his eyes, reveling in the simplicities of contentment. Ah, yes, now he was at peace. He could snuggle into his pillow, and let his subconscious go on a wild rampage while sweet untainted sleep claimed him for its own. That was such a lovely thought, and he waited for it to become a reality, but ten minutes passed, and his closed eyes offered no sweet slumber, only groggy irritation.
How unfair! Hadn't he been a good enough sport all evening? He'd put up with the darker-than-usual darkness, and his homicidal bed, and the chilly night air, and then he'd compromised, and let those torturous covers have him to an extent. Surely, he should have attained sleep for his tiring efforts, but no, that's not what he gained. He merely coveted frustration and resentment toward the entire evening. Was it so wrong of him to want to sleep?
And said frustration boiled within him until he became terribly resentful and angry, and his pillow began to punch at his neck, which was the final thing to break his composure. He quickly sat up, grabbed the evil pillow, and hit it against the bed's headboard. The action seemed to send tremors though out the entire frame, causing it to vibrate with exaggerated exuberance.
Suddenly, a groan emitted from beside the frustrated one, and it was one of grogginess and irritation.
He looked over toward the owner of the sound. Though he could not see the person well, he knew who it was, for that person was constant.
"For God's sake, Quatre. What the hell do you think you're doing?" Trowa asked tiredly.
Quatre stared without actually seeing his lover, and then he looked at his pillow, and back again. "I . . . was softening my pillow?" It was more of a timid question that an answer.
Trowa huffed slightly. "I'm going to 'soften' YOU in about a minute if you don't stop moving," he mumbled unhappily.
Quatre sighed, lowering his pillow down to its original place of origin.
"I'm terribly sorry, love. I've just been having trouble sleeping . . ." the petite blonde said, his sentence never ending, as his voice merely trailed off.
Trowa blinked a certain amount of sleep from his eyes before heavily hoisting himself upward so that he was placing all of his upper body weight on one arm.
"Well, you MUST be. So far I've endured rolling, and kicking, and you getting out of bed and then back in again, and then the covers being kicked down, and then pulled back up, and then, just when I think there will be some peace, you decide to 'soften' your pillow by smacking it against the headboard," he said dryly, yet his voice held a sort of demented amusement.
Quatre felt quite bad for being such a problem. He lowered his head a little. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," he said softly.
Trowa heard the tone of his lover's voice, and gently shook his head. "Nonsense, I would have been up in," he paused to glance at the glowing clock on the nightstand. "About three hours anyway," he finished sarcastically.
Quatre said nothing in reply, and Trowa sighed, feeling a bit guilty for some reason.
"So, since we're both up, why don't you tell me why you couldn't you sleep, Quatre?" He asked.
He felt, rather than saw, Quatre shrug. "I . . . I guess I'm not sure. I just can't seem to get comfortable," he said almost timidly.
The green eyed young man moved upward even more, just enough so that he could wrap his arms around Quatre's slender waist and rest his chin on his shoulder. He hugged him close, and the blonde leaned into the embrace.
"Is there something on your mind? You don't usually have such pains when it comes to sleeping," Trowa suggested.
Quatre thought for a moment. His lover had a point. He had such long days, and he was always quite ready for bed when the time came. His mattress always felt comforting, and his blankets had never tried to strangle him. He never felt the need to get out of bed or to hit his pillow. Maybe it only seemed darker because his mind was enduring some sort of private contemplation that he couldn't pinpoint. It was a logical theory, though he wasn't certain how his mind could be thinking about something and he didn't know about it. That seemed a bit implausible, but, then again, maybe it was something he didn't want to think about, and his mind was trying to force it upon him.
What subject wouldn't he want to address? What subject made him fret? What subject made him sad?
Losing things, important things. He had always had difficulty when that happened. It had been hard for him when he was little and his fish died, and his when his best friend had moved away. It had been unbearable to watch his father die, and to know that he had almost caused the loss of the one he would come to love so deeply. Trowa.
Quatre's eyes widened slightly. Trowa . . . what would he ever do if he left? He barely remembered existing without the tall, green eyed young man. What if . . . what if?
The blonde began to try to avoid thinking about it, and he began to fret, and he felt an over whelming sense of sadness at the thought. Maybe . . . maybe he'd been thinking about Trowa, the very one who currently held him so dearly in his arms; who was waiting so patiently for him to say something in response.
Gently, Quatre reached upward and placed a soft hand on Trowa's cheek. He ran his thumb over the defined cheekbone and the smooth, tender flesh, loving the sensation that it sent through his body when his fingers passed over Trowa's lips.
Trowa nuzzled his lover's pale neck affectionately, nearly forgetting that he had inquired something of him. It almost surprised him when he heard Quatre's voice.
"We're going to stay like this, aren't we?" He asked.
Trowa found himself a little confused by the question, but was relieved when Quatre spoke again.
"You'll always hold me like this, and you'll always let me touch you like this?" The blonde inquired, his voice barely above a whisper. "You won't ever leave me for someone smarter or more attractive, or . . . anything?"
Trowa sighed. Was that what it was all about? Honestly.
Speaking softly, he said, "Quatre, you are the only one in the world who I would ever WANT to hold like this." Trowa tightened his hold on Quatre's waist, pulling his lover even nearer.
As he brought a slender hand upward to cover the slightly smaller one caressing his face, he continued. "And you're the only one I ever WANT to touch me like this."
He gave Quatre's hand a loving squeeze and guided it downward to his lips so that he could place light, butterfly kisses on the pale fingers.
Quatre slowly shifted around so that he could face his taller partner, and he wondered if Trowa could see the tears threatening to spill onto is cheeks.
Trowa smiled into the darkness and placed Quatre's hand back at his side. He then removed his other hand from the blonde's waist and brought it up so that it could caress his cheek, as Quatre had done to him.
"Trowa . . ." The word dropped out of Quatre's mouth and hung in the still, slightly chilly air.
"You are brilliant in your own right and, in my eyes, there is nothing in this universe that could ever match your beauty, both inside and out, Quatre," Trowa said honestly. "So how could I leave to find something more, when everything I've ever wanted is sitting right in front of me?"
Trowa's thumb brushed over dampened skin as tears trickled from his love's aquarium eyes. He wished it weren't so dark so that he could gaze upon those eyes, and that flawless skin. So that he could see AND touch the perfection before him.
He could feel Quatre's slight form shuttering a little, and he enveloped the blonde in a comforting hug.
"I love you so, so much," Quatre whispered as he wrapped his arms around the brunette.
Trowa gradually lay back down, still holding dearly onto the one he loved. Soon, they were positioned so that the blonde was nestled securely against the green eyed one, arms wrapped possessively about one another.
"I know you do, Quatre, and why would I ever let that go?"
Quatre said nothing, merely hugged his love tighter, and soon silence was once again the room's companion. To Quatre, the bed became comfortable again, and the sheets less sticky and less hot. Though the air was still chilly, it did not seem so terrible, because it didn't seem so dark anymore.
Eventually, his tears stopped flowing, and his body stopped shuttering. A sense of satisfaction and relief washed over him. Had he really been worried about that for so long? How could he have been so concerned about something like that and not be aware of it? At least he had an answer, though. Trowa would never leave him, because Trowa loved him, and he loved Trowa. There was no one else for either of them, for they had each other.
"No one else," Quatre whispered, as if to make it final.
Trowa suddenly shifted, and action caused by his wish to glance at the clock. He looked at it and then back to Quatre, who could feel his eyes upon him.
"There are exceptions though," Trowa said, his tone holding a certain, humorous edge to it.
Quatre lifted his head curiously. "What?" He asked, a little baffled.
"I could replace you with someone who DOESN'T keep me up at night," Trowa finished teasingly.
One moment, Quatre was out of his arms, and the next moment he had been smacked brutally with a pillow. Trowa blinked, feeling Quatre's form hovering above him.
"I was only joking," the green eyed young man said in his own defense.
Quatre scowled. "You broke the mood," he said.
Trowa chuckled. "You're right, I'm sorry."
He gently patted the spot where Quatre had previously been lying. "We can try again," he suggested.
Quatre laid down next to him in mock dissatisfaction. Trowa sighed in contentment as he draped an arm over his lover's waist, and the blonde moved closer.
Silence reigned supreme yet again, but the couple found it comforting as they reveled in the presence of one another. Nothing could seem more perfect, and only words could break the delicate, glass like quietude.
"Anyway, you usually LIKE it when I keep you up," Quatre muttered.
Trowa's eyes opened at the comment. Slyly, the hand belonging to the arm that was draped over Quatre began to travel a steady, intended path downward.
"True," Trowa whispered. "And since we're both awake . . ."
The suggestive tone was all it took.
Glass has a funny habit of breaking easily anyway.
-Owari
Author's Note: Hello! Well, I was reading some Gundam Wing fan fiction, and I got the urge to write a sweet one shot about one of my favorite couples. Like with Jin/Touya fics, there aren't that many 3x4 fics, and I think that that is a crime in its own right. They're usually a side couple in 1x2 fan fiction, and don't get me wrong, because I adore 1x2, but I think we need to give 3x4 a little bit more of a shout out. So, here's my valiant attempt. Enjoy! Happy Readings!
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Sleepless Night
By: Obsidian Sphinx
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It was very dark. Was it usually so dark at night? He didn't think so, or at least he didn't remember it ever being so dark. It wasn't that he minded the dark; it was simply that he preferred it when he was sleeping, not when he couldn't sleep. Anyway, it certainly seemed darker. Of course, maybe it only seemed that way because he was tired. After all, everything seemed so deathly silent, more silent than usual, due to the fact that he couldn't sleep. His bed had become dreadfully uncomfortable, and his silken sheets had become a sweaty deathtrap, acting like fly paper and sticking to his body so that he practically had to peal himself off of them.
Of course, after he had managed to escape the dreadful conspiracy that was his bed, he was faced with the empty hallow darkness inhabiting his room. Where as his mattress had been harsh, and his covers had attempted to strangulate him with sticky heat, the darkness simply existed around him in a loose sort of binding, and it ushered in the whole knew problem of the chilly air. What was one to do when neither being in bed or out of bed offered solace?
He felt quite stranded and a little vulnerable in all actuality, which he found to be rather strange, because he was in his house and in his room. There was no place safer, was there? He couldn't imagine there would be. Despite the logicality of his thinking, he couldn't help but consider the more-dark-than-usual darkness to be a little imposing. Things lurked in the dark, weird, unnatural things that couldn't be controlled by other not so weird and unnatural things.
A feeling of sheer uneasiness crept into his mind, and he found himself faced with two undesirable options. He could either risk climbing into his deceptive bed, or he could stay standing on the vast, cold floor, awaiting one of those atypical lurking things of the night to grab him and drag him away. As needless as it was to weigh to two options, he found himself deliberating carefully before he sat down on his mattress cautiously and slowly scooted backwards over his sheets, bringing his knees up slowly until only his toes peeked over the edge, and he soon curled those under as a safety precaution.
He stayed perched like that for sometime, merely waiting uneasily in the pitch-blackness. Inevitably, after a time, his muscles became cramped from sitting so still, and he had to scoot further back towards the middle of his bed. He proceeded to lie out and stretch grandly, which, he thought, felt rather good.
He was not so uncomfortable anymore, and the mattress seemed less inclement toward his body. The sheets, however, still seemed sticky and hot underneath of him. He disliked the feeling of that heat seeping through his pajamas, which were predominately fashioned from cotton. Deciding to make his dislike tangible and apparent, he made an effort of kicking his covers further downward so that they lay in a bunched up, disheveled pile at the bottom of the bed.
After that, he relaxed into his pillow and into the sticky sheets. He closed his eyes with the intention of letting sleep claim him, but something didn't feel quite right. He still felt vulnerable somehow, and instead of hot, moist covers lying indolently atop him, he felt the chilly air acting as an annoying, unnerving canopy. With that realization, he felt unprotected, and his bed seemed ten times its actual size. It made him feel a little lonely and abandoned, and he simply knew he could never fall asleep feeling that way, so he decided to compromise. He grabbed one of the blankets that had previously covered him from the bottom of the bed and pulled it up to his chin as he lay back down.
He felt a sense of satisfaction then, for although the sheets beneath him threatened to liquefy and seep into the pores of his skin, the blanket atop him seemed friendlier and didn't appear to have the same infatuation with strangling him. He supposed he couldn't have hoped for a better turn out. Perhaps then he could, at long last, get some much-needed sleep
He closed his eyes, reveling in the simplicities of contentment. Ah, yes, now he was at peace. He could snuggle into his pillow, and let his subconscious go on a wild rampage while sweet untainted sleep claimed him for its own. That was such a lovely thought, and he waited for it to become a reality, but ten minutes passed, and his closed eyes offered no sweet slumber, only groggy irritation.
How unfair! Hadn't he been a good enough sport all evening? He'd put up with the darker-than-usual darkness, and his homicidal bed, and the chilly night air, and then he'd compromised, and let those torturous covers have him to an extent. Surely, he should have attained sleep for his tiring efforts, but no, that's not what he gained. He merely coveted frustration and resentment toward the entire evening. Was it so wrong of him to want to sleep?
And said frustration boiled within him until he became terribly resentful and angry, and his pillow began to punch at his neck, which was the final thing to break his composure. He quickly sat up, grabbed the evil pillow, and hit it against the bed's headboard. The action seemed to send tremors though out the entire frame, causing it to vibrate with exaggerated exuberance.
Suddenly, a groan emitted from beside the frustrated one, and it was one of grogginess and irritation.
He looked over toward the owner of the sound. Though he could not see the person well, he knew who it was, for that person was constant.
"For God's sake, Quatre. What the hell do you think you're doing?" Trowa asked tiredly.
Quatre stared without actually seeing his lover, and then he looked at his pillow, and back again. "I . . . was softening my pillow?" It was more of a timid question that an answer.
Trowa huffed slightly. "I'm going to 'soften' YOU in about a minute if you don't stop moving," he mumbled unhappily.
Quatre sighed, lowering his pillow down to its original place of origin.
"I'm terribly sorry, love. I've just been having trouble sleeping . . ." the petite blonde said, his sentence never ending, as his voice merely trailed off.
Trowa blinked a certain amount of sleep from his eyes before heavily hoisting himself upward so that he was placing all of his upper body weight on one arm.
"Well, you MUST be. So far I've endured rolling, and kicking, and you getting out of bed and then back in again, and then the covers being kicked down, and then pulled back up, and then, just when I think there will be some peace, you decide to 'soften' your pillow by smacking it against the headboard," he said dryly, yet his voice held a sort of demented amusement.
Quatre felt quite bad for being such a problem. He lowered his head a little. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," he said softly.
Trowa heard the tone of his lover's voice, and gently shook his head. "Nonsense, I would have been up in," he paused to glance at the glowing clock on the nightstand. "About three hours anyway," he finished sarcastically.
Quatre said nothing in reply, and Trowa sighed, feeling a bit guilty for some reason.
"So, since we're both up, why don't you tell me why you couldn't you sleep, Quatre?" He asked.
He felt, rather than saw, Quatre shrug. "I . . . I guess I'm not sure. I just can't seem to get comfortable," he said almost timidly.
The green eyed young man moved upward even more, just enough so that he could wrap his arms around Quatre's slender waist and rest his chin on his shoulder. He hugged him close, and the blonde leaned into the embrace.
"Is there something on your mind? You don't usually have such pains when it comes to sleeping," Trowa suggested.
Quatre thought for a moment. His lover had a point. He had such long days, and he was always quite ready for bed when the time came. His mattress always felt comforting, and his blankets had never tried to strangle him. He never felt the need to get out of bed or to hit his pillow. Maybe it only seemed darker because his mind was enduring some sort of private contemplation that he couldn't pinpoint. It was a logical theory, though he wasn't certain how his mind could be thinking about something and he didn't know about it. That seemed a bit implausible, but, then again, maybe it was something he didn't want to think about, and his mind was trying to force it upon him.
What subject wouldn't he want to address? What subject made him fret? What subject made him sad?
Losing things, important things. He had always had difficulty when that happened. It had been hard for him when he was little and his fish died, and his when his best friend had moved away. It had been unbearable to watch his father die, and to know that he had almost caused the loss of the one he would come to love so deeply. Trowa.
Quatre's eyes widened slightly. Trowa . . . what would he ever do if he left? He barely remembered existing without the tall, green eyed young man. What if . . . what if?
The blonde began to try to avoid thinking about it, and he began to fret, and he felt an over whelming sense of sadness at the thought. Maybe . . . maybe he'd been thinking about Trowa, the very one who currently held him so dearly in his arms; who was waiting so patiently for him to say something in response.
Gently, Quatre reached upward and placed a soft hand on Trowa's cheek. He ran his thumb over the defined cheekbone and the smooth, tender flesh, loving the sensation that it sent through his body when his fingers passed over Trowa's lips.
Trowa nuzzled his lover's pale neck affectionately, nearly forgetting that he had inquired something of him. It almost surprised him when he heard Quatre's voice.
"We're going to stay like this, aren't we?" He asked.
Trowa found himself a little confused by the question, but was relieved when Quatre spoke again.
"You'll always hold me like this, and you'll always let me touch you like this?" The blonde inquired, his voice barely above a whisper. "You won't ever leave me for someone smarter or more attractive, or . . . anything?"
Trowa sighed. Was that what it was all about? Honestly.
Speaking softly, he said, "Quatre, you are the only one in the world who I would ever WANT to hold like this." Trowa tightened his hold on Quatre's waist, pulling his lover even nearer.
As he brought a slender hand upward to cover the slightly smaller one caressing his face, he continued. "And you're the only one I ever WANT to touch me like this."
He gave Quatre's hand a loving squeeze and guided it downward to his lips so that he could place light, butterfly kisses on the pale fingers.
Quatre slowly shifted around so that he could face his taller partner, and he wondered if Trowa could see the tears threatening to spill onto is cheeks.
Trowa smiled into the darkness and placed Quatre's hand back at his side. He then removed his other hand from the blonde's waist and brought it up so that it could caress his cheek, as Quatre had done to him.
"Trowa . . ." The word dropped out of Quatre's mouth and hung in the still, slightly chilly air.
"You are brilliant in your own right and, in my eyes, there is nothing in this universe that could ever match your beauty, both inside and out, Quatre," Trowa said honestly. "So how could I leave to find something more, when everything I've ever wanted is sitting right in front of me?"
Trowa's thumb brushed over dampened skin as tears trickled from his love's aquarium eyes. He wished it weren't so dark so that he could gaze upon those eyes, and that flawless skin. So that he could see AND touch the perfection before him.
He could feel Quatre's slight form shuttering a little, and he enveloped the blonde in a comforting hug.
"I love you so, so much," Quatre whispered as he wrapped his arms around the brunette.
Trowa gradually lay back down, still holding dearly onto the one he loved. Soon, they were positioned so that the blonde was nestled securely against the green eyed one, arms wrapped possessively about one another.
"I know you do, Quatre, and why would I ever let that go?"
Quatre said nothing, merely hugged his love tighter, and soon silence was once again the room's companion. To Quatre, the bed became comfortable again, and the sheets less sticky and less hot. Though the air was still chilly, it did not seem so terrible, because it didn't seem so dark anymore.
Eventually, his tears stopped flowing, and his body stopped shuttering. A sense of satisfaction and relief washed over him. Had he really been worried about that for so long? How could he have been so concerned about something like that and not be aware of it? At least he had an answer, though. Trowa would never leave him, because Trowa loved him, and he loved Trowa. There was no one else for either of them, for they had each other.
"No one else," Quatre whispered, as if to make it final.
Trowa suddenly shifted, and action caused by his wish to glance at the clock. He looked at it and then back to Quatre, who could feel his eyes upon him.
"There are exceptions though," Trowa said, his tone holding a certain, humorous edge to it.
Quatre lifted his head curiously. "What?" He asked, a little baffled.
"I could replace you with someone who DOESN'T keep me up at night," Trowa finished teasingly.
One moment, Quatre was out of his arms, and the next moment he had been smacked brutally with a pillow. Trowa blinked, feeling Quatre's form hovering above him.
"I was only joking," the green eyed young man said in his own defense.
Quatre scowled. "You broke the mood," he said.
Trowa chuckled. "You're right, I'm sorry."
He gently patted the spot where Quatre had previously been lying. "We can try again," he suggested.
Quatre laid down next to him in mock dissatisfaction. Trowa sighed in contentment as he draped an arm over his lover's waist, and the blonde moved closer.
Silence reigned supreme yet again, but the couple found it comforting as they reveled in the presence of one another. Nothing could seem more perfect, and only words could break the delicate, glass like quietude.
"Anyway, you usually LIKE it when I keep you up," Quatre muttered.
Trowa's eyes opened at the comment. Slyly, the hand belonging to the arm that was draped over Quatre began to travel a steady, intended path downward.
"True," Trowa whispered. "And since we're both awake . . ."
The suggestive tone was all it took.
Glass has a funny habit of breaking easily anyway.
-Owari