by Jenn Abiding
Quatre pauses at the top of the shadowed stairs. There's no name or number on the building, but he thinks this must be it. It's nondescript, the kind of place you'd pass by without even noticing; even looking for it, Quatre nearly missed it. A path of streetlamp light slants down the middle of the stairwell and he makes his way unaided by the handrail, soles thudding softly with each downward step. His heartbeat footfalls are all he hears; no sound from behind the door reaches out, though faint light seeps from its lower edges.
It's not until he pushes the door open and enters the sublevel bar that he realizes he was expecting something, after all. Something darker, something more colorful. The locals, probably regulars, turn to give him a perfunctory look, gazes glancing off him as they look away again without interest. Except for the bartender, Quatre's easily the youngest one here, by years or maybe even decades; the bartender's roughly his own age, and when their eyes meet, Quatre feels the tug, as natural as gravity.
He takes a seat at the corner end of the bar, hooking his feet under the rung on the stool as he settles himself, and leans forward to fold his arms along the bartop. As the bartender takes a first step toward him, someone calls, "Trey!" With a quick smile for Quatre, a finger asking him to wait, the bartender turns back to refill the pint glass held out to him. Quatre nods, although the man's already turned from him. His hand comes to his mouth, but his fingernails are too short to bite; taking a cue from the antiquated black & white movie playing on the large screen monitor, Quatre rubs his own well-manicured thumb smoothly along his lips, imitating an epitome of cool he doesn't feel. There's a piano in the corner, wood burnished to a shine even in the dull lighting, incongruous amidst the washed out neutrals and sparse décor, and Quatre's fingers itch to roll back the lid protecting the keys, to play it...
The smoke in the air is already clinging to the roof of his mouth, bringing traces of alcohol with it, trickling down his throat. He clears the tickle but the taste lingers, and he swallows.
"Sorry." The bartender, suddenly in front of him, brings Quatre out of his reverie. "What'll you have?"
'You,' Quatre thinks. Knows he could never say such a thing. "Surprise me," he smiles instead, and receives a smile in return. As he watches the bartender pull down a cocktail shaker, Quatre laughs at himself for imagining the man would know what he drinks; of course not, why would he?
The bartender pours another alcohol into the first, blushing it pink, the second real color Quatre's seen in here. He watches curiously as other liquids are added, shaken, and strained into a cocktail glass. As the bartender brings it to him, Quatre can't help noticing the man's confidence in his offering - there's clearly enough left in the shaker to fill a second glass.
So when his is set before him, he casually remarks that he doesn't like to drink alone. With a smile, the bartender pours the rest into a glass for himself, raises it to Quatre in silent toast; their eyes don't leave each other.
It's sweet; that must be the pink, Quatre surmises. Whatever it is, it's good. Good enough to get half through before Quatre sets it down. "So," he smiles, channeling the fidget of his fingers to caress the glass base. "Trey?"
The bartender leans forward, elbow on the bar now, chin resting in the cradle of his palm, hair falling over one eye as he tilts his head, his mouth tilting up into a smile. Quatre gets a hot familiar little flush. "Un," the man unfurls a finger with each word, "due," lashes fluttering as he enunciates with perfect care, "tre."
"Ah! Sě," Quatre nods his understanding, flashes a smile in return, "lo gradisco, Tre." He does like it, that the man before him now is still holding onto something of the boy Quatre knew, that a little bit of pilot 03 is surviving. He touches the still-extended fingers. Hooks his own into a fourth, slides along it as he uncurls that finger until it's pointing at himself: "Quattro." He trills the r softly, savoring the pleasant vibration on his tongue tip.
"You'll always be Quatre to me," Trowa winks, leaning in conspiratorially, and Quatre blushes again, wonders if they're still just flirting.
Quatre downs the rest of his drink; Trowa matches him swallow for swallow, clears the emptied glasses. Doesn't ask if Quatre would like another, or what he would like. He comes back with a couple of shot glasses between his fingers, a bottle in the other, label obscured. Curious about Trowa's incuriosity, Quatre finally asks, "Did Catherine tell you I was coming?"
"Catherine?" Trowa's brow arches, but all he says is, "No." He hovers the mouth of the bottle, untipped, over the shot glasses; Quatre shakes his head, politely declining the chaser. "Did you see her?" Trowa asks, not bothering to look over his shoulder as he returns the bottle to its place.
"No, she wrote to me. Wrote me back," Quatre clarifies, "after I wrote you." He closes his teeth on his tongue before it can give away just how many times he wrote before Catherine took pity on his unanswered letters. "She said this was the most recent address she had for you." Trowa makes a non-committal sound, comes back and Quatre knows he should bite again, but his tongue is quicker this time: "I'm glad you're here."
Even though Trowa's looking right at him, was looking at him when Quatre said it, he gives no indication he's heard. He turns away, and Quatre chastises himself for softening just because he's seen Trowa and Trowa's smiled at him, flirted with him...
Then Trowa leans over the bar and calls to someone out of Quatre's peripheral vision that he's taking his break. "Let's go out back," Trowa says, looking at him again, and smiling at him again...
And as he gets up to follow, Quatre thinks, 'oh, I bet you say that to all the boys.'
Trowa leads him down a narrow back passage, out into an alley. The air hits them, cooler, but not fresher. A dumpster is on one side of the door and they go as far in the other as light permits until it drifts into shadow. There's a wad of bubblegum where they stop, chewed up and spat out, drained of its sweetness, sapped of its pink.
Quatre toes the gum. Not fully hardened, it sticks a little, tries to come with him as he pulls away. He drags his foot along the bitumen, stretching and scraping the clinging strand of gum. "This wasn't the first time I wrote you; it was just the first time anyone wrote back." He looks up, wants to push those strands of hair back so he can see both of Trowa's eyes; focuses on the one Trowa's giving him. "I didn't try for anything during the war, because I didn't want to ruin our friendship." He knows Trowa knows how he feels, didn't need the letters to tell him, and Quatre doesn't tell him now. He just goes on, "But we're not friends now, really." He bites back the words about Trowa leaving like that, just leaving without a backward glance all those years ago, because they'd be bitter in his mouth and, even though there's no sweetness now, Quatre doesn't want the taint of bitterness no matter how this turns out. "So if we're not going to be friends anyhow," he continues evenly, "I'd at least like a night with you, just one, before I never see you again."
He came here because he had to. Because the desire, kept inside, was eating away at him. He just came to say the words.
He's gone beyond this point in imagination, but not in anticipation. So he doesn't know what he's expecting right now - but it's not for Trowa to say "alright" and push him up against the wall. "Like this?" Trowa kisses him; then flips them so his own back is to the wall, pulls Quatre to him, kisses him again: "Or this?" And Quatre presses in, pushes Trowa a little more, kisses him, just kisses him more.
His tongue traces Trowa's parted lips, ventures inside. It's not their first kiss, but it's the first time it's more than a kiss. Trowa's tongue licks at his as Quatre explores his mouth, his teeth, the soft inner walls, finally twining with Trowa in the wet heat. Heat between them, through their clothing, both of them hot and hard; Quatre can feel himself, can feel Trowa; wants to really feel Trowa. He goes under Trowa's shirt, presses a hand to his belly and slides it up over smooth skin, muscles rippling beneath his fingers and palm. Sighing, sharing warm sighs, and Quatre wants to make Trowa moan. He rubs his thumb over Trowa's nipple, feels it hardening; pinch and pull, and Trowa grunts, arches, and Quatre's hand slips away down as he presses himself to Trowa, Trowa to the wall, hard, harder.
Trowa widens his stance, and Quatre's got his thigh between Trowa's legs, nudging, grinding; they're grinding together, fervent rhythm, silence punctuated by more soft moans and sighs, rustle of hair and fingers over ears, fingers silent again on skin. Quatre's hand has fallen to Trowa's hip, his finger curving inside Trowa's waistband for more bare skin. More, finger sliding along inside to the front and he doesn't take his mouth off Trowa's as he undoes the button, drags the zip down. Hand inside, touching, curling around Trowa's cock, more, oh more. Quatre doesn't stroke him, he just holds him, just wants to hold him more. Slips down, Trowa's lower lip between Quatre's, not kissing, just touching, Quatre holding him...
Quatre slides down. Goes down and doesn't open his eyes until he's on his knees. Gazes up at Trowa, Trowa watching him with half-lidded eyes, one naked, the other veiled. Quatre holds the gaze as he follows his hand to Trowa's cock. Kisses him openmouthed, swipes his tongue flatly across the head; and again, tongue tip delving shallowly into the slit, lapping up precome. He feels Trowa's fingers threading through his hair, massaging his skull as Quatre massages Trowa's cockhead.
He goes down a little more as he lets go, uses both hands to tug Trowa's jeans down, exposing him to mid-thigh. He cups Trowa's sac, his other hand curled back at the base of Trowa's cock, still just holding Trowa in his mouth; eyes closed, fondling Trowa's balls, feeling, almost tasting the vibrations of pleasure, the pulse of Trowa's cock against his tongue. Quatre hums his own pleasure, coats Trowa's cock in reverberation, and Trowa jerks, goes into him a little more and Quatre takes him even deeper. His cheeks hollow with the suction, slick soft friction of Trowa's head along the roof of Quatre's mouth and over his tongue as he slides down and up and down Trowa's cock, caressing the underside with his tongue, tracing the thickened vein, swirling around the tip, letting it fill him as it nudges the back of his throat. Savoring the taste and texture and heavy scent, the heat and length and pulse of Trowa, and Quatre opens his eyes again, doesn't know when he closed them because he wanted them open the whole time, must have slipped shut but he's open now and he gazes up through the night at Trowa, and their eyes meet and Trowa's fingers tighten in Quatre's hair. Hitch in the rhythm as Quatre slackens, lets Trowa tug and coax him into the pace he wants.
Once he has it, Quatre reaches for himself, fumbles his jeans open and wraps around himself and smoothly begins stroking himself off to Trowa's rhythm. When he feels Trowa close to the edge, Quatre takes him all the way, down into his throat, swallowing snug around him, milking Trowa's cock with his throat as Trowa comes. Brings Trowa back up into his mouth, holds him gently against the backs of his teeth, licking the last spurts as he spills himself over his closed fist.
They stay like that for another moment. Then Quatre moves, Trowa's cock slips from his mouth and his knee sticks to the ground but comes free as he rises. Both of them are still undone, Quatre's hand in his pants, cradling his softening cock, his other arm slipping around Trowa's waist as he stands. He leans into Trowa, his face pressed against Trowa's neck, inhaling the scent of him, sweat, alcohol tinged, candlewax and citrus and smoke in his hair, human musk beneath it all, just Trowa underneath. Quatre breathes in, trying to block out the alley. Trying not to think about how that was it, that's all. It's not that he's unsatisfied, exactly; this is what he came for, after all, and he did come. It's just, he's wanted this so badly, for so long; and now it's over, and it happened in a back alley, like some casual encounter.
Maybe that's all it really is. And he knows he fooled himself when he got himself to believe this was all he wanted. They're physically here together in this moment, but Trowa still feels so far from him, he's still gone somewhere Quatre can't find him...
And then Trowa's mouth is at his ear, and Quatre unconsciously tilts to be nuzzled. But Trowa doesn't nuzzle him: "Where are you staying?"
Quatre doesn't move, just turns a little, enough to speak clearly. He names his hotel, and Trowa says, "Yeah, I know where that is. I'm off at two tonight."
Quatre feels the tensing of Trowa's muscles, getting ready to move, so he steps back before Trowa needs to tell him to. He gives Trowa his room number, and Trowa zips himself up, says alright with a smile, turns and goes back inside.
Quatre leans against the wall a moment before doing himself up. He follows the alley to the street, brushing the pad of his thumb over lips tender and swollen.
He meant to take a nap while he waited, so the waiting wouldn't feel so much like that, but even after the soothing steam and wet heat of the shower, neither his mind nor his body wanted rest. He tried amusing himself with the hundreds of available entertainment channels, but what he really needed was a physical distraction. So after awhile, he decided to get the gum from the alley out of his trousers.
He's sitting in his button-down and boxers, clean trousers taken off and refolded for tomorrow, soiled ones laid out on the desk, ice melting in the bucket beside them. He's frozen the pink, smashed it, and now he's picking off and throwing out shattered pink shards.
Soft knock at the door; soft, and he's glad he wasn't asleep, might have missed it. He pulls the trousers on again, rubbing at the spot. Anticipation like adrenaline floods him with each step toward the door.
He opens it without looking. Trowa smiles, the hand that had knocked still curled in a loose fist at his side. His hair is damp, his clothes are different, he's in a black turtleneck now. Charmed, Quatre smiles too.
Before he can offer Trowa anything, they're kissing again. Quatre drinks in the dampness of Trowa's hair through his fingers, the heat of his breath, his mouth, moist sighs and moans of their kissing. No words, just kissing and touching, standing in the middle of the room, no one against the wall this time, just pushed up against each other, legs dovetailing, cocks rubbing hotly against each other through layers, touching each other through layers. And then the layers are still there but Trowa's gone inside them, his hands inside Quatre's trousers, cupping his bare ass, pulling Quatre to him; and Quatre goes, pushes into the pull, slides his own hands down the back of Trowa's jeans, kneading him... Quatre can't help noticing the height difference, how he himself got taller, but Trowa still gained another inch on him. And Quatre likes it, because he's always thought of Trowa as taller, so this mesh with reality is good. It's real, it's really Trowa; Quatre's going to come if he thinks about how this is Trowa, here, with him, hot and hard and soft and damp against him...
They're going so fast, and Quatre doesn't want time to catch up with them, to bring them out of night into morning too quickly. Needing to slow down, he turns to nuzzle Trowa's neck, but he winds up with a mouthful of cotton blend, and has to take one hand out of the back of Trowa's pants to pull the turtleneck out of the way so he can nip and lick Trowa's skin. Palm against Trowa's bare throat, he feels the silent purr vibrating inside, kisses it through Trowa's skin.
Quatre wants more, more vibration and more skin, and more. His other hand slides around front, under Trowa's shirt, pushing it up as he caresses the expanse of Trowa's torso, but it's not enough; it needs to come off; he needs Trowa naked. They need to be naked.
Quatre pulls out of the kiss. Steps back and starts undressing Trowa, not ripping his clothes off but taking care with them, with him. Careful as he lifts Trowa's arms, directs them upward, draws the turtleneck off overhead, lets it drop to the floor as he runs his fingers through Trowa's hair, smoothing it, shaping the fall of bangs.
"I bet you played with dolls when you were a kid," Trowa says. There's no judgment, he's not mocking Quatre. He just says it.
Quatre doesn't say anything in response. He doesn't know what to make of it, if it's Trowa's awkward way of starting conversation or if it means something more to Trowa... Another Quatre, the one Trowa used to know, would have tried to find out. This Quatre, the one who only has what's left of this one night to be with Trowa, doesn't. He just smiles and keeps undressing Trowa. Kisses him, undoing the belt buckle, sliding the belt through the loops even though it's not necessary, elongating the moment. He drops to his knees to untie Trowa's laces, coaxing Trowa's feet up one at a time as he slips the shoes off, socks too. Still kneeling as he draws Trowa's trousers down, he closes his eyes as he touches his lips to the glisten of Trowa's cockhead. Then he stands as he leads Trowa out of the pooled clothing, undressing himself with smooth expedience as he guides them to the bed.
Quatre lies back, brings Trowa with him and rolls Trowa onto his back, kisses him. Kissing and caressing, Quatre feels Trowa's hands roaming his body and he arches into the touches, moans into Trowa's mouth. It's close to too much again, and Quatre raises up, disentangling his limbs from Trowa's. Leans down and kisses Trowa again, slowly and deeply, only their mouths touching. He kisses his way across Trowa's body, slow as that kiss, taking his time with Trowa, touching with eyes and fingers, marveling with tongue and lips and teeth, reveling with skin, rubbing his cheek lightly on Trowa's torso as he comes to rest, gazing at Trowa's cock, the tantalizing glimmer of precome...
Quatre shifts between Trowa's legs, kneels up and gazes down at him, the sheen of sweat, skin glistening in the play of light with each breath and shiver. Quatre looks at Trowa, naked, Trowa's body laid out before him: yes, he's gained height, but now it's evident that Trowa's lost bulk since the last time Quatre saw him; he can't weigh more than he did when they first met. He's not gaunt, his musculature is exquisitely defined; he's just stripped down, stripped of everything extraneous. Quatre's undressed him, but he can't strip Trowa more than Trowa's already stripped himself.
Trowa gazes up, catches Quatre's eye with his words: "Do you want to come on me?" Quatre's belly clenches, his breath tangles, he holds Trowa's gaze but doesn't say anything. "Or inside me?" And Quatre's held breath comes out a shuddery sigh, and Trowa smiles, "Okay, inside, yeah. Fuck me, Quat," his legs falling open more, hips canting up, "come on and fuck me."
Quatre reaches for the lubricant under the other pillow, slicks himself up, slickly caresses Trowa's cleft. Hand under Trowa's hips, Quatre urges him to tilt up again, more, then slides the spare pillow beneath his ass. A little more lube and Quatre rubs slick tiny circles against Trowa's hole, slick pressure; pushes as Trowa's muscles suck him in. Begins fingering him, coating him inside, stretching and opening him, watching his own fingers going in and out, a little deeper, a little more, more of them...
Trowa's lost none of the impossible limberness he used to have when they knew each other; it's obscenely manifest now. Every time Quatre touches Trowa's leg, wanting to push him open a little more, Trowa's already moving himself. Opening more, more open than Quatre can push. And Quatre, just - he wants to be the one to do it. He wants to open Trowa up; he wants Trowa to let him.
Trowa's watching him: Quatre feels Trowa's eyes on his face, even when he drops his own gaze to his hands, his fingers inside Trowa, other fingers splayed on Trowa's thigh.
When he slips the fourth finger in, that should be too much. But he feels Trowa's body adjust to accommodate with the barest hitch. Open, so fucking open. He knows what he's going to do; he knows it's going to happen. He knows. He's looking at Trowa's face, and he knows Trowa knows, too.
"Do you want to break me?" Trowa asks, like it's just a question, a normal question you ask every day; and Quatre thinks that maybe for Trowa it is.
He shakes his head. Swallows, and the confession shivers up along his spine to come out with intent as naked as Trowa's skin, desire as naked as his own: "I just want to push you as far as you'll go."
"And then a little farther?" Trowa pushes back, pushes himself down on Quatre's fingers.
It's an invitation and a tease; it's a challenge. Quatre looks at himself touching Trowa, feels Trowa close around him. He wants to feel more; he wants to feel Trowa feeling it, too. He hasn't answered Trowa. Trowa murmurs his name, and Quatre looks up, meets his eyes; shivers at the sight, sees that Trowa wants to be broken, to prove to himself that he isn't already. His eyes are telling Quatre so.
Quatre's going to show him.
He still has just the four fingers inside Trowa. He's felt the channel, found the second sphincter, knows the angle and direction of the curves to follow. He starts to withdraw, but Trowa clamps down around him. "Turn over," Quatre says. "It'll be better that way."
"It's better this way."
"It'll be easier for you," Quatre says.
And Trowa says, "I don't want it to be easy."
Quatre's still hesitating, and again Trowa says, "It's better this way. So we can - so you can see me."
"Alright." Quatre starts to withdraw his fingers again, and again he feels the voluntary clamping down. "No, it's alright," he promises; requests, "let me." And Trowa, already yielding, giving himself over, does.
Quatre slathers on more lube, all over his hand, between his fingers; pushes as much lube inside Trowa as he can with his fingers, pushes his fingers inside. Tucks his thumb inside his fingers, against his palm, and pushes. Involuntary resistance of the inner sphincter, and Quatre courts it with gentle fingers, massaging, widening his fingers slightly as he feels Trowa relax more. Slides his fingers in, out a little, in a little more, mesmerizing Trowa's body with the easy rhythm. Quatre watches his hand, glances up and sees Trowa watching too; their eyes don't meet, but they're joined in their mutual gaze, connected where their bodies meet.
In and out and in, slidecaressing, coaxing: and then the involuntary acceptance, opening: Trowa opens, and Quatre fills him. His hand rests inside Trowa to the wrist. Rests for a moment, "alright?", and "yeah," and Quatre begins to move again. As he goes deeper, following the curvature, he lets Trowa's body fold his fingers over his thumb into a natural fist. He's curled inside Trowa, Trowa so hot and close around him, and Quatre shimmies in him, vibrates his fist without moving it, and Trowa vibrates around him, all over, gasps vibrations, mouth coming open, eyes coming closed. Quatre twists, his wrist rubbing against the ring of muscle, his fist stroking deeper inside; tendrils of vibration wind from Trowa to Quatre's fingers, crawl pleasurably up his arm, slide down his spine; they shiver together.
Watching Trowa's face, Quatre realizes Trowa's eyes aren't really closed. Trowa is looking across his own body at his belly, and Quatre looks too - he watches his hand moving inside Trowa, sheen on his skin become a gloss, the slick slide of skin over muscles, over Trowa's and his own: he can see the shape of his hand, himself inside Trowa. He looks up to watch Trowa watching. Opens and closes his fist slightly, increasing the internal pressure, to watch the feeling of fullness flicker across Trowa's face.
Trowa's breathing is becoming shallow and erratic, he's in danger of forgetting to breathe, and Quatre wants to reach in farther, go up and massage Trowa's lungs, breathe for Trowa with his fingers. It seems possible in here, where he is with Trowa; but in the world their bodies are still in, with the part of him that's still there, Quatre knows it's not. So he tries to reach Trowa from outside, with words: "Breathe, Trowa. You have to breathe." Trowa doesn't open his eyes, Quatre doesn't know if he's heard. He starts to speak again, but then Trowa steadies, he's breathing, yes; and Quatre understands that there is no inside and outside anymore, not right now; right now, in this moment, it's just them. It's all them.
And it comes to Quatre in words: he doesn't want to break Trowa. He wants to show him he's not broken, not by breaking him or trying to, not by trying to put him together and failing, but by filling him. He wants to fill Trowa so full, that Trowa will feel how he's not broken. It's not until he feels it happening that the words for what he wants find him; and then the words are gone, all words are gone, they're far beyond words... Quatre's becoming his hand - it's like his whole self is inside Trowa, taken wholly inside by Trowa, existing in the shimmering pulse and heat of Trowa...
Quatre looks, and sees himself inside Trowa: he's aware that he's looking at himself, seeing himself from a different place than he's feeling himself, and he goes dizzy with dissonance, inside and outside simultaneously, impossibly occupying more than one space at the same time;
And then everything goes inside-out:
Edges melt, blurring and bleeding into each other, and they fall from the melted edges; crossed boundaries cease to exist entirely, and they're beyond themselves, connected more deeply and intricately than spacehearted empathy, they're in a new space, they are a new space, infinite...
They're... they are...
Oh, they are.
They are become.
And they become Quatre and Trowa again.
Quatre's breathing and Trowa's breathing too, on his own, to his own rhythm as Quatre slowly withdraws himself, gently as possible, from Trowa's raw, overstimulated body.
When they've separated completely, Quatre stretches and curls beside Trowa, and they lie together for a moment of indefinite time, their bodies touching, feeling the aftershocks, tremblings gentling into afterglow; another indefinite moment; and then Quatre's mouth wordlessly finds Trowa's cheek before he gets up.
In the bathroom, he cleans the aftermath mess coating his hand, some pink mixed in and he tilts to examine it closely: definitely just a little bit of pink, and that's alright. He wipes it off with the rest, washes up. Dampens clean towels and brings them out to Trowa.
Trowa's still on his back, his arm over his eyes now, as if shielding himself from brightness.
Quatre wants to see Trowa's eyes. Knows he could if he touched Trowa's hand.
He touches everywhere else, soothes Trowa with words and soft sounds as he gently swabs and strokes him clean, reading Trowa's body, talking to him even though Trowa's not saying anything yet. Quatre pulls the pillow from beneath Trowa, lowers Trowa to the warm, dry covers; lowers himself beside Trowa. Touches a fresh towel to Trowa's brow. And Trowa takes his hand away, and Quatre sees that the brightness is in Trowa's eyes, a little of that wet brightness spilled out onto his skin.
Quatre doesn't touch Trowa's tears. He caresses Trowa's brow, strokes his hair. Morning sun bleeds through a crack in the heavy curtains where they're imperfectly joined.
"You did, didn't you?" Trowa's voice comes out little more than a whisper.
Quatre looks at him.
"You did play with dolls, didn't you?"
This, Quatre thinks, isn't something Trowa says to all the boys. Something about it makes him shiver, makes his throat swell so he can't respond right away. In fact, he did play with dolls when he was a kid. But he was always careful with his toys, he was not one of those kids who broke everything. And he hasn't broken Trowa now. But he doesn't want Trowa to think of himself that way at all, as something to be played with, broken or just forgotten about, or kept around just for play.
Trowa's eyes are closed when he says it, stay closed; Quatre looks at him another moment, keeps caressing. Then: "Yeah, I did." And Trowa nods, swallows, keeps his eyes closed. Says every kid should. Quatre doesn't know how to respond. It doesn't seem like Trowa's making fun of him, but Quatre doesn't know what to say. So he kisses Trowa. Just touches his lips to Trowa's; feels the light pressure of Trowa's lips in return.
"Did you come?" Trowa shifts toward him when the kiss breaks.
Quatre nods, "Yeah." Trowa's fingers graze lightly along the soft curl of Quatre's cock. Too spent to go again this soon, Quatre simply luxuriates in Trowa's gentle petting, soundless purr vibrating in his throat. He brushes soft vibrations onto Trowa's lips with his own, and they're both quiet again. Quatre's floating, anchored by Trowa's hand resting on his belly, eyes closed, memorizing Trowa with his other senses, Trowa's breathing rhythms, his weight and warmth...
He feels Trowa stir. Quatre doesn't know if he's going to get up, but he doesn't want Trowa to; he'd not ready yet, hasn't memorized everything yet. Maybe he shouldn't. Maybe the memories will be worse than the fantasies have been. But Quatre wants more of this moment, where memory and fantasy have met, are meeting still.
"You can stay," he says. Tells Trowa he has the room for another few hours until check out, and Trowa can stay.
Trowa nods, and Quatre feels him settle again. Settles himself again too, and again beside Trowa floats...
He doesn't remember dozing off, but he awakens. Trowa's still asleep beside him, and Quatre wants to lie here, just watching Trowa sleep; but he knows it's dangerous to indulge himself like that. So he gets out of bed, doesn't kiss Trowa, just gets out on his side of the bed. Takes out his little suitcase, the one change of clothing inside and he lays it out on the chair before going to shower.
When he's done lathering and rinsing, Quatre stands under the spray for a few extra minutes, letting it wash over him, relaxing himself, relaxing with himself. Not thinking at all, because if anything this night has raised more questions than it's answered... He meditates on the heat itself.
When he comes out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, he finds Trowa awake. Sitting on the bed, already dressed. Quatre asks if he doesn't want a shower, and Trowa says it's alright, he'll have one when he gets home. Quatre nods, and goes over to his clothing. It seems strange to be shy now, after all that's come before, but he doesn't know if he should drop the towel and get dressed in front of Trowa. Stalling for time, he pretends to rummage one-handed for something in his mostly empty bag.
Then Trowa gets off the bed, comes over and takes the shirt out of Quatre's hand, and starts dressing him. He's not nearly as deft dressing Quatre as Quatre was in undressing him the night before, awkward catches and hitches as he moves Quatre into the clothing, missing some of the helpful physical cues Quatre is giving him...
And Quatre realizes that Trowa isn't the doll. That he, himself, Quatre is the doll. That Trowa never played with dolls or other children, that he doesn't know how to; that he's afraid of breaking, not of being broken...
Quatre smiles, chokes on the smile a little, chokes up and smiles, and lets Trowa dress him.
When he's done, Trowa smoothes Quatre's shirt, his lapels, and steps back to give him a once over; he turns to the vase of roses, draws out an autumn damask. Snaps the stem and slots the dark pink blossom into Quatre's buttonhole, "there," touch and small smile.
The walk out is wordless. As they wait for the car, Quatre breaks the smiling silence to ask Trowa if they're friends. Because he doesn't know, they haven't talked about anything, and he really, really doesn't know what anything means or is anymore.
"No less than we were before," Trowa says, and Quatre swallows his sigh, feels it against his lung. He came here because they weren't friends, after all. Then he rebukes himself: he'd carefully planned everything about this trip not to break his own heart, so why is he asking questions now if he doesn't want the answers?
The car arrives and they look at each other, and Quatre smiles as best he can, and says, "Well, I guess this is goodbye."
"Bye, Quat." Trowa gets the door for him.
Quatre realizes he's been caught hoping again. He's been telling himself not to hope, trying to tamp it down so he can't get hurt by it again; but when Trowa says goodbye, Quatre feels how high he'd gotten on hope by how much he sinks now into his own belly. He gets in the car without another word, because what word could there possibly be? He pulls the door shut -
But there's resistance, it doesn't close. He looks up, and Trowa still has his hand on the door, holding it open. "I don't know how long I'll stick around here," he says. "So write to Catherine again. If you want."
"I will," Quatre smiles, feels Trowa's words in his blood, his blood warm in his heart and in his veins, his skin blood-warmed.
Trowa drops his gaze, drops his hand and lets go so Quatre can shut the door himself.
The car pulls away from the curb, and Quatre is still smiling. He tells himself not to look back, don't look back. Don't ruin it by looking back and seeing that Trowa's already gone.
Quatre brushes the petals across his lips. Turns to the back window and looks:
And Trowa. Trowa's looking back at him.
END NOTES:
- The thumb along the lips was a trademark move of Humphrey Bogart, who starred in Casablanca (among many other films), wherein he uttered the line, "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine."
- The drink Trowa serves Quatre is called "Trust." It's made with gin and Grand Marnier Rouge (which gives it the pink); the full recipe is here: http://www.drinkalizer.com/drinks/trust.php
- Trowa is counting in Italian: "Tre," of course, is 3; "Quattro" is 4.
- The "little bit of pink" when Quatre's cleaning up refers to trace amounts of blood. I have been assured consistently and from a number of different sources that this is normal during fisting and is not cause for alarm; it's the darker red that indicates injury requiring attention. In other words, Trowa's fine.
- Although there doesn't seem to be a consensus on the exact meaning of pink roses ("friendship" and "secret love" were the most common suggestions), the sites I consulted did agree that a single rose of any color means thank you. The rose Trowa chooses belongs to the classification Quatre Saisons.