Chapter Two

*One Month Later*

Quatre loved his new life. Wufei had lent him the spare bedroom of his rather nice, upscale apartment. They shared bills and grocery costs, and as their routines and likes and dislikes were mostly similar, they got along pretty well. Of course, Quatre had knew they would. They'd shared a dorm at Clifton School for Boys and Girls outside of Boston, and gotten along well back then.

True to word, Wufei had managed to get him an interview with the higher ups of Romefeller Corporation. Quate, likable and intelligent as he was, aced the interview and landed a position as a computer programmer in the same department as Wufei. They had gone to college together, with the same majors, though Wufei's minor had been history and Quatre's music.

Most of his evenings and days off were spent quietly reading in 'A Grain Of Sand's little reading nook, or talking about all matter of things with Trowa, the mysterious shop-keeper. He'd learned lots of things in that short month. He'd learned that Trowa was twenty-seven; a few years older than his own twenty three, but that didn't bother Quatre in the least- his mother had been an entire fifteen years younger than his father. He'd learned that Trowa preferred tea to the coffee he provided at his customer's preference; Quatre had no preference and would drink either or. He'd learned that Trowa had worked as a librarian before this, and that the book store was less than a year old, still in the fledgling stages. He learned that Trowa was single, and that he had leased the shop and the small apartment above it, where he lived. And most important of all, he'd learned that Trowa at least harbored some affection of sorts for him. Some little spark of attraction. But so far, all they'd done was talked. And talked, and talked. Mostly it was either idle chatter- the newest book or movie, the latest political scandal, and things like that. Sometimes, it was a little more serious- 'The Arguement' as Quatre referred to his reason for leaving, Trowa's three years spent in the Army in Iraq and the brief bout of amnesia resulting from a roadside bomb that had all forced him to take a honorable discharge. The death of Quatre's mother was brought up, and the fact that Trowa was an orphan- his father dying in a drive-by shooting and his mother walking out not long after. They discovered that their sister's had raised both of them. Nothing was ever really off-limits when they were talking. Each knew how far they could pry before the other clammed up, but each purposely pushed those boundaries little by little. For Quatre, it was always unique and engaging to talk with Trowa- whether it was to debate politics or to lend a ear to the day's woes. Their friendship, while certainly far from cemented, was blooming and growing slowly.

It was a Sunday when Quatre arrived at the bookstore in the evening, as the sun was setting. Sunday's Quatre usually spent with Wufei or with Dorothy, another friend from boarding school. Dorothy, though, he'd been friends with since infancy almost, as the Winner's and Catalonia's were close, and distantly related. Dorothy had just moved to Libra a month or so before Quatre, having completed law school and landing a job with Noventa and Lake, Attorneys at Law.

But Wufei had been called in to finish an important program, and Dorothy was out of town at a convention. And staring at the sign, Quatre almost cried. He'd completely forgotten that the shop was closed on Sunday's. Trowa had told him that he usually spent Sunday evenings upstairs reading, after meeting up with friends for a late lunch.

Trowa would be home, upstairs. And Quatre *really* didn't want to spend the rest of the day alone. So, he walked around the building to the stairs and door that lead to the apartment from outside. He'd never been up there before, but Quatre figured that now was as good a time as any to test the grounds of his tentative friendship with the book-store owner.

Of course the doorbell would be broken, Quatre thought, staring at the remains of the buzzer. So he knocked... loudly.

A minute ticked by, then another. So Quatre knocked again... maybe Trowa hadn't heard him. After another ten minutes, and three more knocks, Quatre wondered what was wrong. Trowa's pattern never deviated. That was a small detail he'd learned in one of Trowa's rare 'open' moments. That Trowa liked routine and schedule and rarely deviated from his set pattern.

So, to Quatre, something must have been wrong. He pulled out his car keys, and the small pin he kept on the ring, for those unfortunate occasions he locked himself out of car or apartment. It was a useful little trick he'd learned from Dorothy years ago in boarding school. Back then... Dorothy had been a wild child with all sorts of hand little tidbits. Quatre had often wondered where she'd learned them... but had thought it better if he didn't know.

It took him only a a minute to pick his way through the lock and deadbolt. He slowly, quietly opened the door, stepped into a dimly lit living area, and closed the door behind him. It was then that the strong arms wrapped around him. One around his neck, the other his arms and chest, effectively pinning him against a strong, hard body.

"What do you want?" a voice hissed menacingly. Quatre pushed back the immediate panic he'd felt. Despite the unusual quality, there was no mistaking that now familiar voice.

"To spend time with you, Trowa," he answered calmly.

"Quatre?" Trowa asked. The hands around him loosened slightly, but still held him tight. Poor Trowa was probably confused at the innocent little blond breaking and entering is home.

It felt... right, Quatre thought. So right to be held tight by those arms. It was a tough thing, but Quatre managed to tilt his head until he could sort of see the man holding him. Trowa was staring down at him in confusion, and a little disbelief it seemed. His hair was slightly wet... oh, he'd probably been in the shower.

Quatre smiled, and Trowa's grip loosened even more. Quatre could have broke the hold if he wanted. If he wanted, that was. Which he didn't. Not in the slightest. He was right where he'd wanted to be for the past month.

Emerald eyes met with Quatre's own teal ones. Quatre snaked one arm free and slowly slowly lifted it, reaching back to slid his fingers through Trowa's still damp hair. It was very awkward, but Quatre managed it just the same, thanking Heaven for all the times he had to accompany Iria to dance class and gymnastics.

Fingers laced in caramel hair, Quatre pulled Trowa down just slightly, until their lips could meet. The kiss was awkward and sideways, but kissing Trowa was more than Quatre had dreamed of. The other man tasted of iced tea and peanut butter cookies and he smelled of a clean, spicy soap and Quatre simply melted.

At first, Trowa remained still, but then he, too, melted into the kiss. Neither knew who did it, but before the kiss ended Quatre was turned, facing Trowa, the kiss a proper kiss. Invitations were sent, received... accepted. Tongues met, danced, entwined. Quatre's hands ran over the bare skin of Trowa's chest and arms, brushing over erect nipples and long-healed scars. Trowa's fingers gripped Quatre's face, tilting him up, into the kiss and opening him for better access to that warm mouth.

"Oh, wow," Quatre breathed when they finally were forced by lack of air to part.

"I'm not going to be that perfect boyfriend you wanted... because I'm not perfect," Trowa said, a little breathless.

"I think you were the one that wanted the perfect boyfriend for me," Quatre smiled. "All I wanted was you. Is you."

"Okay," Trowa said, as if knowing it was useless arguing. "Just so you know."

"I like knowing," Quatre replied, leaning up for another kiss. "Knowing you, that is."

"I keep telling you, I'm not what you think," was the response. Quatre stared deep into Emerald eyes as his hands slipped up and down warm, bare, slightly wet skin.

"I know that," Quatre said. "I don't care, I know enough."

"Then take a look at me, Quatre. Take a look at who you're kissing, holding."

"I am," Quatre said, blinking up at him.

"Look at all of me."

Quatre blinked, confused. He took a small step backwards, and looked at Trowa. The light was dim, but Quatre could make out the skin before him. Dark, swirling. Vines, chains, bones. Knives, guns. Quatre held his breath as the sheer beauty, pain hit him. Trowa held out his arms, turning around. There was a stylized scythe on one shoulder, a pair of snow white wings under the blade. A pair of dice. A series of Celtic knots trailing straight over his spin. A drop of water, or a tear-drop- impossible to tell which. Designs, color, patterns, images. Rising from his wrists, around his arms, over his shoulders. Part of his chest, almost all of his back, trailing down below the low-riding waist-band of his jeans.

There were some scars, pale pink against the tan of the underlying skin, mixed in with the ink that dyed the skin.

Quatre's eyed slowly grew larger, rounder, as he took in the skin displayed before him.

"Trowa..." was his only reply, a simple breath of a name, as a drop of water sliding over the chest, over a small, blood red rose.

"See? I'm not what tyou think. Did you expect this? I keep telling you, you don't know who or what I am."

"I don't care," Quatre said, after swallowing.

Trowa gave a short, derisive laugh. "You don't care. You don't care that I grew up on the streets? You don't care that I spent a year overseas? You don't care that I've *killed* people? The tattoos tell a story, Quatre. My story. Can you read it?"

Quatre at first had just seen the tattoos, the cumulative effect of them. Now, he looked at the elements individually. He couldn't make heads or tails of it. But, listening to Trowa's voice, he paused to think. Maybe it wasn't either, but both. Each individual image and how it related to the others. It was like reading with letters and words linked into sentences. A story painted with pictured, etched into Trowa's skin for life.

Quatre reached out, taking Trowa's hand in his, fingers tracing the outline of the chains, shackles around Trowa's wrists, pausing at the broken link. "You were once bound by something, but no more. Something shackled you down, but you broke free. Your past, maybe? Your origins? Rising above, beyond what was expected of you." Quatre's hand moved to the knives, the gun, the bones. "Again, your past. Maybe you spent time on the streets, fighting. A gang or something equivalent to it. Time spent overseas. You didn't like what you had to do, but you did it. I understand that." Quatre raised his eyes up to Trowa's once more. "I can understand alot more than you give me credit for, Trowa. You're skin is a map of your life... a story. And it's one filled with pain, and very few bright spots," he touched the purple feather on his collar bone. "I want to be part of that story, Trowa. I want to be a bright spot."

Trowa stood rooted to the floor. How could the blond read him so easily? His eyes were wide as he stared into Aqua eyes. "You... you really want that?"

"I do. Will you let me be a bright spot? I just want to make you happy."

"Please," Trowa dropped his head wearily, resting his forehead against Quatres. "I can't promise it'll always be good, and I can't promise that sometimes I won't yell or act like an asshole... but Quatre, I'd never hurt you on purpose."

"I know," Quatre said, leaning up on his tippy-toes to brush another kiss across Trowa's lips. "The same goes for me, too. I'm not always nice and sweet. I'm often moody, I over-work myself, I don't always eat right, and I certainly can't promise that we'll always get along. But I will promise that all I want to do is make you happy, and I'll never, ever hurt you on purpose."

Trowa leaned down, meeting Quatre's lips more firmly.

"One day at a time?" He asked, lips against lips. Quatre's lips curved, and he nodded.

"One day at a time," he affirmed.