by Jenn Abiding
The room's darkened, but there's enough light coming in through the window to silhouette Quatre. Duo pauses, and then knocks against the open door. "Hey, Q. You want a little company?"
"Sure," Quatre says, and scootches over to make room. "I'm sorry for walking out like that," he adds, twisting to watch as Duo flicks on the lamp.
"It's okay, buddy," Duo says, plunking himself down. Then: "Are you?"
"Yes," Quatre says as Duo's outstretched arm slides from the back of the sofa to drape across his shoulders. "Wufei was right: it was stupid, and I shouldn't have taken it seriously."
"He didn't actually call it 'stupid,'" Duo says. "He said it was a bad idea - wait, first he said it was not a good idea. Then he asked that I let him rephrase, and that's when he said it was a bad idea. He also referred to it as 'foolish,' 'immature,' 'pointless,'" Duo rattles off, chin tilted up and eyes far off as if reading the list off the ceiling or in memory. "Um. 'Not applicable' was one, I think - yeah, right," he snorts in aside, making Quatre's smile widen. "And, oh yeah, 'potentially detrimental.'" For a moment, Duo wishes he hadn't remembered that one; 'Inside voice, Duo,' he hears Sister Helen admonish. "Anyhow," he concludes quickly, cheshirecatting certainty, "he didn't say 'stupid.'"
"Alright," Quatre assents, humoring Duo with a quirked grin of his own, "it wasn't stupid."
"Even if it was," Duo says, "and I'm not saying that it was, I'm just saying if -" He gives Quatre a close look, to make sure no admission is being inferred; satisfied, he goes on, "Even if it was stupid, that doesn't make you stupid, man."
"I know." Quatre lets his hand rest on Duo's knee briefly, and for the first time since the conversation started, his smile is sincere. "I guess I just don't want to be last on everyone's list," he sighs, his hand finding its way back to his own lap.
Duo gives Quatre a pointed look: "Everyone's?"
"Okay," Quatre manages to coax his faded smile back, but the way the corners tremble doesn't escape Duo. "I don't want to be last on Trowa's." The trembles threaten to overwhelm the smile, and Quatre turns to the window again.
Duo suppresses his own sigh. Fucking detrimental, man. "I didn't mean that. I just meant, you weren't last on everyone's. I know for a fact." When Quatre looks at him, Duo says, "I didn't read mine, you know."
"You're just saying that now."
"You're right after Heero," Duo affirms.
An almost smile tugs at Quatre's mouth. "Really?"
"Swear by Deathscythe," Duo grins, and Quatre's smile returns in response.
"I didn't think anyone but Heero was on your list," Quatre says, flashing brighter before his smile fades as he goes on, "I mean, I only put Trowa."
Duo opens his mouth to chide Quatre for violating the spirit of the game - but when Quatre's _expression catches him, he just says his friend's name.
"Well," Quatre shrugs, "he's the only one I want."
"Trowa's a lucky guy." Quatre looks up again, wistful smile. With the mood not right for joking, Duo changes tactics: "You know," he says thoughtfully, trying to reason through it, "Trowa was probably just going by who he thinks has the most experience."
"Maybe," Quatre shrugs. As Duo's formulating the reasoning behind his theory and why it should make Quatre feel better, Quatre breaks the silence: "Well then," he says, "naturally that would be you." Protest is rising to Duo's lips, when he catches the impish sparkle in Quatre's eyes. "I mean, you are the clear and obvious choice," Quatre goes on with a perfectly serious demeanor, save for that gleam, "Oh Master of Osculation, Virtuoso of Fondling; Oh Sexpert Among Mere Mortals!"
"What can I say?" Encouraged by Quatre's teasing, Duo holds out his hands palms-up, feigning helplessness in the face of such incontrovertible logic, "Trowa just wants to be with the best," he proclaims, "and who can blame him?"
Duo's jubilance dies on his lips. Quatre's still smiling, but Duo can't even manage that. Can't take it back, gone too far and he can't take it back, but: "Hey, Quatre, you know I wouldn't - I mean, he wouldn't, either, I'm sure, not really - but you know I would never -"
Quatre cuts him off with another genuine smile that soothes Duo's furrowed brow: "I know, Duo. I do know that."
Their smiles meet in their eyes. Duo leans his forehead to Quatre's; they rest together, still smiling behind now closed eyes.
"Am I interrupting?"
They turn to Trowa, leaned in the doorway.
"Not at all," Duo says cheerfully, hopping up. "I was just going to question Heero about the backwardness of his list!"
"Heero's lucky, too," Quatre smiles up softly.
"I'll tell him you said so," Duo returns, squeezing Quatre's shoulder.
Trowa shifts to let Duo pass, but remains standing in the doorway until Quatre raises his line of sight, which had followed Duo out. "Hey," Quatre smiles; taking it as the invitation it is, Trowa crosses to sit beside him.
"Quatre," Trowa says, after several moments of pointless stargazing out the window.
"I'm okay, Trowa," Quatre says lightly, turning to him with a smile. "It was just a silly game, after all."
"No," Trowa counters, "it was a badly phrased question, though."
"I thought it was pretty straightforward." Quatre suppresses the threatening visceral twinge. "Who you want to sleep with." Refuses to acknowledge the heart cramp. "Not very nuanced, really, is it?" Brave smile.
"No," Trowa says again, "the question was who would you sleep with." Quatre looks at him. "What you want, and what you'll do, are often very different things." Trowa falls quiet, his face turned to the window, his gaze elsewhere inside.
Quatre looks at him a moment longer. Trowa's words, undeniable, sink into him, lie heavy and curdling in his belly, dragging him down. He looks away, down; down. "You wouldn't." He swallows. "So. You don't, you won't ever..." and he can't finish aloud, feels worse than before. He knows he should go, just go now, just...
"Quatre," Trowa says again, softer.
Quatre almost responds to the softness; he wants to. He just...
Shift; Trowa running his fingers through his own hair.
"I want you, Quatre," he says at last, his voice still soft, a little rough now too. "I want you," he says again when Quatre looks at him. "But I don't want to hurt you. I'm all fucked up." Hand through his hair again, pushing back the long forelocks, revealing his face for a moment before the bangs fall over him once more.
Quatre wants to touch Trowa. "All of us are fucked up," he says. Trowa meets his gaze briefly, then slides away.
Quatre wants to touch Trowa. He leans in, and Trowa startles back, and Quatre wants to say "please" but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out, and he wants to touch Trowa:
And he does.
Quatre touches his open mouth to Trowa's. Seeking Trowa, his open mouth - finding Trowa's hair caught between them. He starts to lean back; and Trowa holds him in the kiss, his hand curled around the back of Quatre's neck, coaxing him in deeper. So Quatre kisses Trowa through his hair, he's kissing Trowa's hair, the damp warmth of his mouth on the other side, Quatre can feel Trowa's warmth. He tongues through the strands, licking them, finding his way through to that heat, met by Trowa, invited in by his tongue. Quatre pushes in a little, drawing in soft strands of hair as he goes.
Trowa's fingers caress the whorls at Quatre's nape; his other hand goes through his own hair again, Quatre feels the tug between them, strands pulled against his mouth, his teeth, the flesh of his lips and tongue, saliva slicked and clinging to his skin before coming free -
And then there is Trowa, just Trowa, moving against him, with him, lips brushing and fitting to each other, tongues entwining and stroking -
They kiss, Quatre and Trowa; they start kissing, they're really kissing, and Quatre goes into Trowa's mouth with nothing between them, he's touching Trowa everywhere he can reach with his tongue. And the pull this time is Trowa himself moving back - and Quatre tries to follow, plaintive, urgent whimpers escaping his mouth as it once more seeks Trowa's when the kiss breaks.
"Slow down," soft laugh, Trowa's hand sliding from Quatre's neck to cup his jaw, thumb curving flush to his cheek, "it's not a race."
Quatre bites his own lip, licks it and holds still, lets Trowa hold him. Lets Trowa come to him, find him, his mouth; their mouths moving together again. And when Trowa's tongue flicks over Quatre's lips against his teeth, Quatre yields, opens; and when Trowa flicks and curls around him, curls back into his own mouth, Quatre goes with him.
Their bodies twist as they slip back and forth in each other's mouths; Quatre's leg crooks and rubs against Trowa's, slides up and Trowa pulls Quatre into his lap, Quatre's legs bent and splayed on either side as the boys fit themselves together.
They're fit close now and Trowa's getting hard. He reaches down to rearrange himself so Quatre won't feel how hard he is just from this. Accidentally brushes against Quatre: Quatre's this hard too, Trowa feels it. Feels him shiver and gasp, feels Quatre's moan on his own tongue. He shivers, hot; his blood thrills to it, pulses insistently, demanding; and Trowa does it again, feels Quatre like this and Quatre shiverarches against him, squirms as Trowa starts massaging him through his trousers.
Quatre moans his soft guttural cry into Trowa's mouth, and Trowa laughs, breathes his laughter; it's not fucked up, it doesn't feel fucked up at all; maybe later it will, but right now it's not fucked up, and Trowa doesn't want to stop, doesn't want it to ever feel fucked up, just wants to feel this, with Quatre...
Trowa moans too, starts touching more. Quatre is squirming, a little desperate; and Trowa's a little desperate too. Quatre's mouth slips off, his breath warm against Trowa's cheek, murmurs Trowa's name onto his skin so it clings wetly. There are more words, but Trowa's found Quatre's mouth again, his other hand leaving Quatre's hip to hold his face again but he doesn't stop this time, holding him inarticulate in the kiss...
And when Trowa's hand leaves his face to fumble at his fly, Quatre doesn't break the kiss; even going breathless, he wouldn't stop this kiss for anything. Not even when oh! ohfuck Trowa touches, touches him...
Trowa touches Quatre's cock, wraps around his heat and takes him out. Learns him by touch, tracing length and texture with his fingertips, pressing the pulse of his thumb to the wet pulse of Quatre's cockhead and their teeth clash together as Quatre jerks hard.
Quatre clutches Trowa's shoulders as Trowa wraps around him again and starts stroking, smooth strokes barely slicked by precome and perspiration, sweet friction and Quatre shivers and clings to the kiss, to Trowa, bracing himself as he grinds, finds the rhythm he wants, meeting Trowa in the rhythm of strokes, tongues stroking together too, Trowa kissing him until he comes.
Quatre stays eyes closed when the kiss breaks.
When he opens them a moment later, Trowa is looking down, and Quatre follows him: looks at the slick of himself on Trowa's fingers, just uncurling from his cock. He feels an urge to lick it off, wonders what Trowa would do if he did that; Quatre flushes deeper at his thoughts. But Trowa's already pulled up his own shirt, he's wiping his fingers on the hem and Quatre follows. His downward gaze drifts lower – oh! - and he reaches -
Trowa's hand over his stops Quatre. "But you haven't come yet." Quatre's fingers fold around Trowa's as he meets his eyes.
"I don't have to, it's okay," Trowa smiles.
"I want you to, though."
Trowa looks at him, studies Quatre's open and smiling gaze; and then Trowa smiles too, "Alright." His hand slips from Quatre's as he leans back and takes himself out, starts stroking himself off, Quatre still in his lap. Quatre watching him, watching his face, watching his cock, his hand moving on his cock and Trowa can feel Quatre's eyes on his cock too, caressing -
"Quatre," breath stuttering around the words, "kiss me..."
And Quatre does, and Trowa comes in the kiss.
Hides his face against the side of Quatre's neck. Rests there a moment.
And then they're kissing again, that moment in the kiss when mouths are not flush together, when the kiss is in the touching and breathing part...
They're not going to do anything to fuck each other up. But maybe, maybe, yes: maybe they can kiss some more.