by Rachel
A snogfic for Psyche and Draco's "101 Ways to Snog En Route to a Colony"
This fic goes with Rachel's other snogfic, Phantom Kiss.
"I'm crying," Quatre murmured, staring at the screen, which displayed in vibrant detail, the destruction he had just wrought upon Resource Satellite Unit .07U1. "But I'm not sad at all." He switched off the display, then punched in Wing Zero's new coordinates: Colony .06E. It was sparsely populated, old, relatively underdeveloped. Shouldn't matter, he told himself as he took off his helmet, cradling it in the crook of his arm, and adjusted his seat so that he was reclining, staring at the ceiling. I need to show them. I should not be merciful.
The pulse at his temples throbbed painfully. Feeling too lethargic to rise and scour the cockpit for the first-aid kit he'd thought to stow aboard in a moment of lucidity, he turned his head this way and that, willing the pain to go away. It did not.
By and by faces came to him out of his memory. He saw them as plainly as though the people to whom they belonged were actually there before him. There was his father, gray eyes flashing with disapproval. He'd never said he loved him. Had the words been on his lips as he died? Or had he never even thought them? He'd never know, now.
There was Iria, whom he'd only just met. Iria, who had looked after him when he was wounded, who had hugged and comforted him when their father reprimanded him. Who had died protecting him. In his mind he lifted her once again in his arms, cradled her feather-light, broken form against his chest. "Don't die," he whispered desperately, as though his pleas could stop the color fading from her eyes. "Don't die," he whispered again, as though by wishing he could bring her back, undo what had been done.
"This isn't your thing, is it?" said Trowa, fine dark eyebrows quirked over hurricane-green eyes. "You're gentle. You don't belong on the battlefield."
"You're wrong," Quatre told him, forgetting his sister's ghost. "I've suffered as much as you have. I'm as strong as you are. Look at what I've done."
Trowa looked at him and Quatre knew, with a sick shifting in the pit of his stomach, that all he saw was the pale, slender, pretty boy he'd turned down that night months ago in San Francisco.
"I've changed," he murmured. "Can't you see it? I'm like you, now."
Trowa sighed. "But that's what I didn't want."
When their lips met it was as Quatre had always fantasized: tender, slow, and shy. Trowa's skin and hair smelled of leather and oil. His callused fingers traced the delicate bridge of Quatre's nose, the fine slope of his cheekbones.
Tender. Slow. Shy.
That was how he'd wanted it, how he'd imagined it. But--
But it wasn't right. Not anymore. Not after--everything.
Without thinking, he dug his fingers into the other boy's wrists and pulled him closer. He heard Trowa's sharp inhalation and stopped his half-formed protest by pushing his tongue between the other boy's lips.
That's right. See...you don't have to be afraid of hurting me. I'm not as fragile as you think.
He jerked Trowa's turtleneck free of the waistband of his jeans, raked patterns with his fingernails over the smooth, hot skin. He heard the other hiss and groan against him--
Let me show you what I can do...
--Heard the muffled cry of pain and felt the other stiffen in his arms.
No--
No, this wasn't that he wanted, after all. Not for Trowa to be hurt, just for him to understand.
He broke the kiss and drew the other boy's shuddering body close against his own.
His imagined shuddering body.
If he opened his eyes, Trowa would be gone. It would be proof that Quatre had never hurt him, but still, he'd be gone. And Quatre did not want for him to be gone. He wanted the other boy there beside him, to hold him and talk him out of what he was about to do.
"Father--Iria--Trowa--I want to go back. But I can't, can I?" His eyes stung, but he kept them clenched. Imagined he was stroking Trowa's hair, murmuring into his ear, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," as though he'd already lost him.
He had a split second, and then Zero informed him that he was within firing range of Colony .06E.
The spell broke.
Quatre opened his eyes. His arms were empty. He was alone.
What was done could not be undone. The dead could not come back. And the living...made their choices.
Let me show you what I can do. Let me show you the choice you made.
He glanced at Zero's scanners. An OZ transport craft bearing two unidentifiable mobile suits was heading toward him.
"Too late," he said, his eyes quite dry, and he began his descent.