by Rachel
Part of the After Angels Arc
"I have never tired of
manna falling from above.
When conscious thought
Meets careless heart
And two lost souls find one fresh start."
--Cowboy Junkies
Trowa stretched and stared at the ceiling, mesmerized by the slowly rotating fan blades. A warm breeze carried the briny scent of the sea mixed with that of cypress trees through the open window. He inhaled deeply, and sighed.
I'm dreaming, he thought dazedly. Pretty soon I'm going to wake up and find myself back in the barracks. Or in a trench somewhere.
If this WAS just a dream, though, it seemed strange that the soft thunder of the surf should sound so different from how he had always imagined it as a child who had never even seen the sea. It seemed strange as well that his body should ache so--not from bruises, but as though it had been folded fairly recently into unaccustomed positions. He felt fantastic, actually. He ran a hand idly over his bare belly and felt something slippery beneath his fingertips. He frowned.
I just had sex...
And now he heard, muffled by the bathroom door, the sound of someone humming.
. . .with Quatre…
He turned his head on the pillow and blinked in the ruddy late afternoon sunlight that glinted off the ocean visible through the window by the bed.
. . .in Greece.
While this was sinking in, Quatre returned from the bathroom, still completely and deliciously nude, still humming, carrying two towels in his hands. The warm sunlight glazed his glistening skin, turning it deep orange; his hair gleamed like molten gold. Trowa blinked in the brightness.
"I was wondering," Quatre said as he crossed the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, "if it bothers you…" He began to dab at Trowa's thighs and belly with the wet towel, cleaning away the physical reminders of what they had done a short while ago.
"Does what bother me?" Now that he remembered where he was and what he was doing there he realized that he was utterly exhausted. And yet his body responded to Quatre's caresses. He twisted and arched slightly, making Quatre linger on certain areas longer than was strictly necessary.
Quatre's long gold lashes fanned his cheeks for a moment. "…When I scream your name, does it bother you that it's not your real name?" He set the wet towel down, picked up the other one, and began to pat Trowa dry.
"You want me to think right NOW?" he groaned.
"You don't have to think about it. Just does it bother you?"
He sounded worried, and Trowa knew from experience that when Quatre was worried about something he would not stop thinking about it until the problem had been addressed and dealt with.
"Come here," he said.
Quatre quickly put the towel aside and crawled into bed on top of him. Trowa grunted as the other boy's weight pressed him deeper into the mattress, but he didn't attempt to push him off. Even after a year of dating and nearly eight months of living together, he still cherished each opportunity for physical closeness. He knew that Quatre did too, so while he thought about how he would answer his question he stroked him gently, loving the heat and silkiness of his skin beneath his fingertips, and the feather-softness of his hair, the ends still dripping with sweat.
At length he said, "It doesn't bother me."
"No?"
"Not really. It's sort of strange that it doesn't, don't you think? But the first few times it didn't even occur to me. Maybe because in your eyes I've always been Trowa."
Quatre grinned. "I told you what my sister Shajar said when I told her I was living with you, right? 'NOT one of the L-3 Bartons!' she said. When I said you sort of were she gave me a long lecture about being a blot on the family's name. Apparently the Winners did NOT associate with the Bartons. If only I'd known that a couple years ago."
"You wouldn't have fallen for me?"
"No…" Quatre kissed the corner of his mouth. "I'm the family blot, remember? I'd have fallen for you twice as fast."
Trowa smiled. And yawned.
"Tired?"
He closed his eyes. "For a smart guy you ask a lot of dumb questions."
"Still jetlagged?"
"Among other things."
"Other things being…?" Mischievously, he ran a finger from Trowa's collarbone, down his ribs, to his hip. Before he got any lower, though, Trowa seized him and held him against his chest tightly.
"Other things being…things I'm too tired to repeat at the moment."
Quatre laughed and struggled for a moment, but exhausted or not, Trowa was the stronger, and finally Quatre allowed himself to go limp in his lover's arms. When he was certain the other boy was not merely feigning submission, Trowa relaxed his grip.
They lay thus for a long time, Quatre's head on Trowa's shoulder, chests together, legs entwined, enjoying the warmth of the other's body and the fragrant breeze that was beginning to chill as the sun crept closer to the horizon and day moved onward toward night. With their breathing the only sound in the room, Trowa again heard the gentle crash of the waves upon the pebbly beach and the cry of the seagulls. It was a lulling sound, rhythmic, and it wasn't long before Trowa's breathing became synced with the pounding waves and his body and mind felt light as the air. He began to think of the bed as a boat and the sea was cradling him, rocking him and the rest of the island to sleep. Dreams began to take shape around him, perhaps carried to him by the tide. In them he and Quatre were together, not merely on a vacation, but in their own world set apart from every familiar thing. The sea was deep, deep blue and the sky shimmered like the inside of a seashell. Quatre spoke, but the waves were loud and almost drowned him out. Still, Trowa knew that it was his own name Quatre was speaking, not a word he had borrowed or been given for the sake of convenience. He felt the shape of it, the music of it. He could taste it, feel it in the racing of his heart and the turning of the earth beneath his feet. He could almost, almost hear it…
"Trowa?"
Quatre was mumbling in real life, his breath tickling his skin.
"Trowa, are you awake?"
"Hmmm…"
"I found something for you," Quatre murmured, squeezing his shoulder gently. "I wanted to share it with you before, but for some reason…I wasn't sure if you'd like it or not."
Trowa sighed and opened his eyes. The dream receded and the sound of the waves faded to the background. "What?" Quatre was always finding things for him, jokes, thoughts, beautiful things that he had seen when they were not together.
"It's about your name."
"My name?" Hadn't they already discussed that?
"Not Trowa. No-name."
Trowa's breath caught in his throat and his hand clenched in a fist reflexively. "That's not my name. That's not a name at all." He practically spat the words. His own vehemence surprised him. After all these years, it shouldn't still bother him. But it did.
"I know," Quatre said quickly, lifting his head and touching his face reassuringly. "Listen for a minute. This is what I thought of. You said that when the captain of that mercenary unit found you he called you No-name, right?"
Fire and smoke filled Trowa's vision. He closed his eyes, but it was still there, along with the inhuman screaming (horses?), the horrific thunderclap as the earth seemed to crack and crumble all around him. Shrieks…a sound that might have been someone calling his name (the last time he ever heard it)…and then a deathly quiet, and cold starlight spilling down on the smoldering skeleton of…a wagon?
"Trowa."
He opened his eyes and looked up, startled out of his fragmented remembering. Quatre's eyes were filled with worry.
"Sorry."
"What are you apologizing for?" Quatre pushed his bangs away from his face and smiled ruefully. "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, though."
The other boy's gaze was so sheltering, so loving. Trowa found a smile. "No, it's all right." If Quatre had somehow found something that made No-name worth remembering, he wanted to hear it.
"Well, here it goes. I was thinking the other day about how much I hated that mercenary unit for calling you something that was so…so dehumanizing."
Trowa considered reminding Quatre that he didn't like the idea of him hating anyone on his behalf, but he knew that it would make no difference. He simply nodded.
"Then I remembered what you told me once about claiming ownership of things by naming them. Like how you own Spook."
"I don't own Spook. He just hangs out at our apartment on a regular basis."
"LISTEN. My point is No-name isn't a name. The mercenaries never named you."
"So?"
"So…stupid…they never claimed you as one of them. They left that part of you blank because they knew you didn't belong with them."
He sounded triumphant, but Trowa, unconvinced, shook his head. "That doesn't make any sense. I became No-name. No name, no past, no emotions."
"Did you REALLY have no emotions? Or were you hiding them? No-name was like a shield. Like your mask. They GAVE you that mask so the REAL you wouldn't become one of them. And you didn't. Knowing a person's name--or anything's name--gives you some kind of power over them. But they gave you No-name so your REAL name wouldn't be…associated with the battlefield. Do you see?"
He did…sort of. "I doubt that's what they were thinking, Quatre."
"I do, too. But it's a nice thought, isn't it?"
He sounded so hopeful. How could Trowa disappoint him? "It's a nice thought," he agreed softly.
"I had another thought."
"Oh, God."
"No, listen. It's about Trowa." Quatre ducked his head, but Trowa saw the corners of his lips curling upward.
"What about Trowa?" he asked, ruffling the other boy's hair.
"Well…one thing I learned from my tutors is that you should always have a first draft."
Trowa felt something inside him begin to loosen. He tugged Quatre's hair playfully. "You're saying I'm the second draft?"
"The improved version. The final product. It took two tries, but they finally got you right."
He was so pleased with himself, and his pleasure was infectious. Trowa smiled. "THAT'S a nice thought."
"Hey, I'm smart."
"You're brilliant." Trowa wrapped his arms around him and kissed him. "You're beautiful. Wonderful."
Quatre kissed him back and soon they were rolling together on the bed, trading kisses and caresses as the sound of the waves faded altogether and the sun went down into the sea unnoticed. When they finally broke apart again they studied each other by moonlight.
"Mumtaaz," Quatre whispered, stroking his lover's cheek.
"What's that?"
"It's a word. A name. It's yours."
"I think you've called me that before. It sounds Arabic."
"It is."
"But…" He frowned. "I don't get it."
Quatre's eyes were as dark and deep as the sea in Trowa's half-dream had been. "I'm giving you a name," he said solemnly, though his eyes shone in the silvery light. "I'm not claiming ownership, though. You should have a name from someone who loves you. It'll be your secret name until you find your real one."
"But…" Why was it that Quatre could never keep things simple? Sometimes the things he said and did were so bewildering. But Trowa recognized what he was trying to do--what he had been trying to do all along--as an act of love, so he went along with it. "What does it mean?"
"I'm not telling. It's something good, though. All right, it's how I feel when I'm with you."
"Horny?"
"Be serious." Quatre traced his smile.
Trowa kissed his fingertips. "It's hard when I'm with you. Why won't you tell me?"
Quatre shrugged. "When have I ever made things easy for you? There are two ways you can learn what it means. Learn Arabic…" Trowa made a face "…or learn your FIRST name, and I'll tell you. You see, I don't want you to give up searching just because you're content with Trowa."
"I don't even know where to look, though."
Quatre lowered his lips to his brow and kissed him there. "It's somewhere in your head. You KNOW it; you just don't remember it. You WILL remember it, though. But keep Mumtaaz as a reminder that you have a real name that wasn't borrowed and that you have to keep looking. Keep it as a reminder that whatever you call yourself, or whatever you were called, I know who YOU are and that I want what we have to last forever. Do you understand?"
"I think I do," said Trowa, not sure that he did, but once more recognizing what Quatre was trying to do as an act of love. He marveled at the boy gazing down at him, and ran his hands over his long, slender body as he said slowly, "You know, if we had just been friends I would have been content. Really. But that we're more…so much more…it makes me think…" He left off caressing Quatre to gesture helplessly. "It makes me think you're right."
Quatre snuggled against him. "You don't just think it. You know it."
"I know it." He kissed the top of Quatre's head. "You smell so nice. I think we have about an hour until dinner."
"Do you want to make love until then?"
Trowa ruffled Quatre's hair. "You have a one-track mind. I was thinking we could sleep until dinner. Like this."
"Mmm. This is nice, too. Mumtaaz." He kissed him over the heart, then laid his head against his shoulder, and closed his eyes.
With one hand still stroking Quatre's hair idly, Trowa closed his own eyes. Presently he felt the other boy's breathing even out, and he smiled, thinking that it was easiest to love Quatre in moments such as these, when he did not have to think and could simply let his emotions pour from him freely until they enveloped both of them in a nameless, definitionless haze of warmth and light. Again he heard the waves, and fainter still, the call of the seagulls and the wind in the cypress trees. They were singing to one another, as playfully as though they knew a secret. Trowa listened hard, but he did not know their language and eventually, as he grew sleepier and sleepier, all three blended into one wordless voice that sang him to sleep. But the secret was still there, and that was what mattered.