by Jenn Abiding
They're going down on each other, first time for the one boy, not just with the other boy but ever; he's sensory overloaded, can't keep sucking, it's all just too much. He wants, he's trying to, just, something, to do something for the other boy, because he loves him, has tried to tell him, wants to show him. And this, what the other boy is doing for him, is, oh!, and yes, he just wants to, and he's licking a little, but then even that is too much, and he's just trying to breathe, breath coming in gasps, he can feel the other boy's name in his mouth and he wants to say it, but he knows the other boy doesn't like his own name, so the boy is trying not to say it, but he can't, he wants, he just, he's whispering it, so softly...
And the other boy hears...
He doesn't like his name, it's true. Doesn't like the person he became when he took it. It's not his own. He doesn't have a name of his own. He's not; he doesn't have a name.
But the whispering catches him. The name. His name. Maybe. When the boy says it: yes.
He wants to hear it now. He wants the boy to call him that, to name him. He wants to become. He tries to coax and provoke it from the boy's lips, with strong, wet, warm strokes; and he feels the boy trembling in his mouth, trembling beneath his hands where they touch; he can hear the tremblings of his name tumbling from the boy's lips...
He wants more.
He wants to hear his name. He wants to taste it.
He opens his mouth wider and slips his finger in, sucks his finger together with his boy's cock. Slips his finger, wet, out of his mouth; touches his fingertip to the boy's hole; wet rubbed circling strokes; and the boy opens; sucks him in just that little bit, and he goes in more. Feels the boy's entire body tremble and gasp his name, yes; and he goes in more. Opens himself, takes the boy deeper inside himself, goes deeper himself into the boy.
Give and take; and even the taking is giving, and he doesn't know how that makes sense, how it's possible; but it is. It is, it is, oh!, it is.
They take each other inside; they're inside that inside, and it comes clear and bright for one moment, a moment too small to be counted in any sort of real time, a moment that expands inside -
and then shatters; and the pieces are falling around him; but they aren't sharp, they don't cut, he doesn't bleed; shatters soft, melts...
He tastes his name, swallowed by the boy in that moment, and then given melted. He tastes his name, swallows, takes it into himself.
Breathes. Breathes.
"Trowa," the boy says. Soft. Soft as shattering.
Trowa moves to him. Kisses his name onto Quatre's lips.