by Lorena
*Cast a pebble on teh water, watch the ripples gently spreading
*Tiny [son] of the Camarogue, we were meant to be together
*We were made for one another in a time it takes to grow up
*If only we were old enough then they might leave us both alone
They called him the devil’s son—and for what? Because he lived alone, untethered to either land or family? Because he was often seen in the area of the woods, where, the old legends said, the souls of the condemned were kept by the devil himself, damned to spend eternity wearily wandering through the ancient clusters of trees and brush?
I laughed at those ideas. I still do.
How would they know, after all? They weren’t there when he—my Trowa (yes, I call him “my Trowa”)—appeared to me while I sat in the clearing, feeling utterly forsaken by my family and, indeed, the whole world. They didn’t see him take the first step in offering his friendship by playing the sweetest music on his flute, the notes serving as the most comforting balm to my shattered spirits.
They weren’t there when Trowa and I sat on the grass, watching the colors change on a nearby flowering shrub, depending on the sun’s angle. They didn’t listen to him speak in that quiet, gentle lilt as he described how the fairies decided what color would be either reflected or absorbed, dictating the dominant shade that would be visible to the naked eye.
They weren’t there when we lay on the ground staring at the evening sky as Trowa insisted that the stars were really the souls of the dead, set up in the heavens to serve as celestial sentinels to the living.
They weren’t there when I laughed at his ideas, bluntly dismissing them with my own brand of philosophy—that of academia and science. They didn’t see him watch me, a quiet, radiant smile forming on his lips.
They weren’t there when he rolled over on his stomach to crawl toward me, looking down at me with that same beatific smile. They didn’t hear him call me “Doctor Quatre” before leaning down to kiss me.
They didn’t see me stiffen from the contact, stunned by its suddenness though not necessarily offended by it. I felt those lips on mine—tasting a little of berries, gentle in its massaging, soothing in its warmth. I’d just closed my eyes and had begun to reach out for him when I realized that he was gone, and I was kissing the air. And Trowa was off, running over the grass, calling out to me to join him.
They’d said that the devil tempted children from their homes and spirited them away, never to return.
* So take my hand in your hand, say it’s great to be alive
* No one’s going to find us no matter how they try
* No one’s going to find us
* It’s wonderful so wild beneath the sky.
My Trowa tempted me out, yes. But I went willingly and with my eyes open. Does that make him a half-demon then? Does that make me one of the accursed?
They weren’t there when Trowa appeared at my window one night, his face glowing as he quietly urged me to follow him to a small meadow where he found a tiny pack of wild horses resting.
He laughed when I, the ever-sensible Quatre Winner, dawdled in my room as I frantically planned our excursion, deciding on what to wear and what other accoutrements to bring for such a trip.
“Just bring a blanket, fool,” he chided, his voice wafting in the room, easily overriding the heaviness of the gloom that surrounded me.
I scrambled out and ran off as quietly as I could, stumbling after Trowa as his legs carried him much more steadily than mine did me.
The devil’s son wouldn’t have stopped to wait for me, watching me in his usual quiet way, the small smile still there. Such a creature wouldn’t run his hands through my sweat-dampened hair, marveling almost at its texture. Such a creature wouldn’t murmur “you’re beautiful” before kissing me, pulling me close to keep me from running away.
As if I really wanted to.
* Sleeping in the open, see the shadows softly moving
* Take a train toward the southlands, our time was never better
* We shall pass the sights of splendor on the door of a new life
* It had to happen soon, I guess, whether it is wrong or it is right.
How could such a creature taste like berries and smell like flowering trees? Demons would’ve given off the stench of decay. Trowa was a far, far cry from the ludicrous creation of their tiny, superstitious minds.
He broke the kiss and mutely urged me on, taking my hand and running forward, with me barely able to keep up, partially weakened by the intimacy we’d just shared.
We reached the meadow, and I saw the horses quietly gathered together in one group. They were beautiful, those creatures. There was an almost mythical quality to them that lent them an air of mystery I simply couldn’t resist.
Trowa took my blanket and laid it down on the grass on which he immediately sat, patting the side for me.
I realized then that Trowa must be a fairy—a spirit of the woods. Why else would he harbor such a strong power over me? The devil’s son wouldn’t have affected me in such a way. He would’ve terrified me. But not my Trowa.
We were kissing again the moment my backside hit that blanket, with Trowa pushing me down on my back. His lips forced mine wide open as well, his tongue snaking in and feeling for mine, which didn’t respond as confidently and smoothly at first. What would a fourteen-year-old know, after all?
Trowa acted like he knew—his confidence gave me that impression. I’m sure, though, that he wasn’t any better educated than I was in the art of making love.
We undressed each other, thin fingers clumsily undoing buttons and zippers, feeling their way under fabric—touching, groping, sliding over skin made hot by newly aroused sensations. We eventually freed ourselves from our constraints, and our clothes lay in a pile beside the blanket.
* So take my hand in your hand, say it’s great to be alive
* No one’s going to find us, no matter how they try
* No one’s going to find us
* It’s wonderful so wild beneath the sky.
Pleasure almost killed me that night. Trowa touched me as no one had ever touched me before, and no one else will.
Our kisses were deep and awkward, a testament to our youth and inexperience, but they made my breath catch in my throat. Trowa’s hair felt like silk in my fingers, and I wove them through slowly, losing myself in the fine texture while my tongue wrapped around his, the initial tentativeness and hesitation quickly giving way to an urgency born of a wellspring of sensations just newly tapped.
The wild horses were forgotten. The night was forgotten. All that existed was this strange fairy lying atop me, his weight pressing down my body made sensitive by the mind-numbing profusion of sensations, his dampened skin massaging, caressing mine as we moved against each other, our ragged breathing filling the stillness of the night air.
They said that the devil’s son took and took and not gave back at all. They certainly weren’t talking about my Trowa then.
He took something of mine, but he gave.
Trowa pulled away, and I thought it was because he couldn’t breathe just as much as I. But he was readying himself.
Sitting on his heels as he knelt between my legs, he coated himself with his spit before he took hold of my thighs and pushed them up against my chest, spreading them out somewhat. Not once did we break eye contact, and I watched this woodland spirit hover above me, calm and smiling in that familiar beatific way. And that would be the last thing I’d see as a child.
He pushed himself in me, making my body jerk reflexively from his intrusion, my voice escaping the rapidly constricting muscles of my throat in a scream of pain as he thrust forward steadily. It was that moment when I began to entertain notions of the validity of the rumors about him. A demon would hurt me, yes, and my pain-wracked mind grappled with that when I forced my eyes to open, letting my gaze rest on the face above me, feeling Trowa’s sweat bathe my cheeks and nose as he paused once he’d gone far enough.
They—my people—would’ve called me one of the accursed—for losing my childhood to this creature. They’d always equated the pain of losing one’s soul with ugliness.
But they weren’t there that night.
* We learned to be so graceful, watching wild horses running
* And from those agile angels, we knew the tide was turning
* For we watched as on the skyway the herons circled slowly
* While we mere mortals watched them fly our sleepless eyes grew heavy.
They didn’t see him soothe me with quiet words and occasional feather-like touches on my cheek, warm fingertips tracing invisible paths here and there.
They didn’t see him take his time to find his pleasure, restraining himself and resisting those urges to simply take me without a thought to my comfort.
He pressed me tightly against the blanket, secure in his hold, and I soon found myself completely lost to my pain as I gazed at him, marveling at how much beauty being so intimately connected to a lover could be absorbed by the human face.
There was pleasure in Trowa’s face, but there was also serenity. Even at fourteen, in the throes of his first sexual experience, he worked with a maturity that seemed incomprehensible to me.
He thrust in and out of me, stretching me open, rendering me vulnerable in the closest, most intimate way possible. But he didn’t pound me open, didn’t savagely saw his way to fruition as I’m sure many men often did. He ground himself in me, and I felt his hips move in a lightly circular pattern, almost as though determined to fully explore, to touch every inch of my insides.
And he moved slowly, deliberately—as one would who knew what it was he wanted.
He watched me all the time, his eyes not once shutting, holding me steady with his gaze. I found myself compelled to stare back, mesmerized by the softening of what I’d come to know as eyes the color of lush foliage. I watched, enthralled, as his pleasure reflected itself in his eyes, darkening them with soft shadows, infusing this woodland spirit with a mystery that left me breathless.
Even the smile that up to that point had lit his face with ethereal light faded, shifting itself to his eyes, melding quietly with the shadows until I saw a reflection of pleasure that went beyond what was physical.
What demon could do that?
* So take my hand in your hand, say it’s great to be alive
* No one’s going to find us, no matter how they try
* No one’s going to find us
* It’s wonderful so wild beneath the sky.
I was pressed again and again against the blanket, feeling the grass’s cushion give way to the stiff harshness of the ground beneath. I felt my body respond slowly, surely—where at first it revolted against the sudden violation of its virgin sanctuary, it now yielded itself to Trowa’s presence, diverting the pain with the awe with which I’d been watching my lover.
I felt hot, but I couldn’t help but suspect the heat to come from Trowa, a release of his energy as he brought us both to the summit with his tireless search for pleasure.
He seemed to slow down the closer he got to orgasm until it felt as though he wasn’t moving at all. I didn’t realize then that he was simply trying to draw it out for as long as he could, making sure that I, too, was feeling every second of every moment he was in me.
Even I couldn’t move. He held me so securely that I was completely locked in, helpless against the onslaught of a rapidly increasing wave of pleasure in my groin, unable to push or thrash or buck wildly under Trowa as my body simply ached to do. No, I was immobilized, forced to confront my release without resistance.
And watching Trowa’s own orgasm happen in those darkened green pupils pushed me further until I was cresting the waves, listening to my small, thin voice tumble out of me in a series of helpless, exalted gasps. My body went rigid as I came, tightening my hold on Trowa’s length and forcing him to relinquish all sense of control
He came quietly, the only obvious expression of this climax being the shallow, rapid expulsion of breath between clenched teeth. His sweat mingled with mine as we were once more earthbound, wearily allowing the breeze to guide us back.
Trowa’s critics were dead wrong. Always were, always will be. They’d equated loss of innocence with ugliness, but Trowa showed me otherwise.
He took my childhood, yes, but he gave so much back. He’d taught me that the loss of innocence meant possibilities that stretched as far as I’d allow them. He gave me pain but tempered it with a beauty I’d yet to see matched. And I doubt if I ever will.
That was a long time ago. He and I had long since moved on together, finding new, unexplored woods and meadows to haunt, following the tracks of those wild horses as they drifted along.
* So take my hand in your hand, say it’s great to be alive
* No one’s going to find us, no matter how they try
* No one’s going to find us
* It’s wonderful so wild beneath the sky.
Original song title: "Michelle's song" (lyrics: Bernie Taupin, music: Elton John)
A minor change has been made to the lyrics to accommodate M/M relationships