Because all Wing fic sucks
THIS IS NOT: Porn, AU, 1x2x3x4x5, 1x2, 1xR, Shirley Temple fetish porn, Quatre has a vagina, or MPREG. Fandom, I fucking hate you.
These fics are pretty much two sides to the same coin.
03
Trowa Barton, no matter what state he is in, knows that "friend" is a difficult concept that he most likely will never fully understand.
He has no memories from before he was found wandering. Just sensations he feels when he looks at people; unexplained admiration for the Wing Zero pilot, unspoken rivalry towards the Chinese boy, respect for Howard and Sally and Noin, reluctant tolerance (mingled with "mild amusement") of the American, and a confusing tangle of emotions when he focuses on the Arabian who brought him here. His mind attempts to register the word "friend" but fails. Yet, he feels safe with Quatre, just as he felt safe with Catherine.
They were given a room together, just off the corridor for the infirmary on the Peacemillion, in case any unexpected emergencies were to arise. Two beds and spartan lodging, just like every other room on the ship. The other boys had been given their own lodgings, separate from each other. They were all soldiers, though when the option for the peace and solace of a night alone was offered they readily took it.
Ever since he arrived on Peacemillion, Trowa would dream. It was always the same dream, inside the cockpit of a mobile suit he couldn't recognize, a foreign model with foreign controls. He would see Quatre's face, register kindness, compassion, friend and see the blast from the buster rifle hit. His eyes would stare out into space through the gaping hole left in the wounded mobile suit past alloys of metals he could not remember the names for. The pain would come in waves as severed electrical cords sent currents through the suit and through the layers of his combat suit, through kevlar and spun steel and into his skin and core and bones.
He felt the muscles contort, contract, tear from the pain of the volts, unwilling to move his body to save himself. Yelling, writhing in pain from head to toe as his heart thudded and pounded and raced and burned. The sparking consoles and controls caught ablaze, Quatre's face flickering out on the comm, screaming at him though he could not remember nor hear the words. The flames licked the fire retardant materials he wore, the precautions to keep him from burning up. Keeping out the heat was impossible. His body burned and convulsed as meters and sirens lit up and blared. Warning, warning. Danger, danger. That he knew as much.
Yet he was still in the cockpit, trapped? restrained? unwilling? as the suit itself began to fail. There was a reason, a purpose. All he could do was yell, yell at himself to move--to get out of the way. To eject before the explosion.
Then the suit would fail, the blast so forceful he would awake shuddering cold, holding his shoulders with his eyes still closed tightly against the pain. His body would still be on fire, still remembering the feelings of the nightmare. Trowa had no means of placing the sensations or why they were so familiar or why it was Quatre's face on the intercom or why the nightmare was so vivid in his mind.
And then the mattress would sag from the weight of two bodies, arms wrapping around him and pulling him close. "Oh, Trowa." Quatre's accent, heavy in his ear, soft and sweet with tones reminding him of Catherine. It meant safe. This Quatre was not about to kill him. He was protecting him, keeping him close and tight and warm from the war and the death and the destruction in his nightmares.
His body would relax, ever so slowly, breathing evening out to match the body beside his own. Only then would he be able to sleep dreamless, to awake in the morning as alive he had been the day before.
04
It was his duty to take care of and protect Trowa. It was his fault Trowa could not remember anything except vague bits and pieces, even more mechanical in his daily activities as every event was new and unregistered in his mind. Quatre reasoned it was the only way to atone, to give Trowa a shoulder to lean on as he returned the other boy to the war.
They were given a room together, just off the corridor for the infirmary on the Peacemillion, in case any unexpected emergencies were to arise. Two beds and spartan lodging, just like every other room on the ship. The other boys had been given their own lodgings, separate from each other. They were all soldiers, though when the option for the peace and solace of a night alone was offered they readily took it.
It was clear Trowa's case was different. Noin recommended the shared room, with a knowing look that told Quatre she knew all too well the effects amnesia could have on a soldier in a war. He wasn't about to argue. He hardly minded being Trowa's caretaker, watching over him, unable to sleep due to the constant nagging of his conscience, the guilt knowing he caused this--he was the reason Trowa could not remember anything. This was his fault.
Everything was if Quatre allowed himself to consider it for too long. His mind was still busily trying to find a way to blame the entire war on himself--along with the reasons why the sun set every day and the Earth turned and the desert never saw rain. Given time, he would find a way.
It was selfish of him, he knew, to want to have Trowa by his side no matter what state the other boy was in. He had been selfish when he stole the Zero System, blinded by his own anger. Part of him found regret in having taken Trowa away from Catherine, while part of him knew it was necessary. He had changed from when he met Trowa, finding himself more in the shoes of a heartless warrior with each passing day. Yet, Trowa still represented a friend to him, a different sort than the Maguanacs had been his entire life. He was still more innocent when he had met Trowa than he was now. Trowa kept him from losing his own mind as he attempted to retrieve Trowa's from the destruction he had caused himself.
Quatre would lie awake at night, listening to Trowa as the other boy would drift off to sleep. He would count the minutes and the seconds until the nightmare would begin, until he could hear Trowa muttering to himself and writhing in his bed. Even though he had never asked, never questioned--he knew the exact details of the dream. He was incapable of guiltlessly sleeping through it himself.
There were whimpers and hisses, noises of pain he never would expect from Trowa--foreign sounds and names muttered that matched none he ever knew. Dreams and nightmares intermixed, always ending with the same one.
Quatre would swing his legs over the end of the bed when he was unable to take Trowa's suffering any longer, unable to heed the advice of the professionals and simply let Trowa be. He would pad barefoot, feet on steel flooring, to Trowa's bed side. There he would slide in next to the other pilot, wrap his arms around the brunette's thin frame just as Iria had done to himself when he was a young boy, and hold him close.
Quatre would whisper apologies in a dozen different languages until sleep would come for him as well.
These fics are pretty much two sides to the same coin.
03
Trowa Barton, no matter what state he is in, knows that "friend" is a difficult concept that he most likely will never fully understand.
He has no memories from before he was found wandering. Just sensations he feels when he looks at people; unexplained admiration for the Wing Zero pilot, unspoken rivalry towards the Chinese boy, respect for Howard and Sally and Noin, reluctant tolerance (mingled with "mild amusement") of the American, and a confusing tangle of emotions when he focuses on the Arabian who brought him here. His mind attempts to register the word "friend" but fails. Yet, he feels safe with Quatre, just as he felt safe with Catherine.
They were given a room together, just off the corridor for the infirmary on the Peacemillion, in case any unexpected emergencies were to arise. Two beds and spartan lodging, just like every other room on the ship. The other boys had been given their own lodgings, separate from each other. They were all soldiers, though when the option for the peace and solace of a night alone was offered they readily took it.
Ever since he arrived on Peacemillion, Trowa would dream. It was always the same dream, inside the cockpit of a mobile suit he couldn't recognize, a foreign model with foreign controls. He would see Quatre's face, register kindness, compassion, friend and see the blast from the buster rifle hit. His eyes would stare out into space through the gaping hole left in the wounded mobile suit past alloys of metals he could not remember the names for. The pain would come in waves as severed electrical cords sent currents through the suit and through the layers of his combat suit, through kevlar and spun steel and into his skin and core and bones.
He felt the muscles contort, contract, tear from the pain of the volts, unwilling to move his body to save himself. Yelling, writhing in pain from head to toe as his heart thudded and pounded and raced and burned. The sparking consoles and controls caught ablaze, Quatre's face flickering out on the comm, screaming at him though he could not remember nor hear the words. The flames licked the fire retardant materials he wore, the precautions to keep him from burning up. Keeping out the heat was impossible. His body burned and convulsed as meters and sirens lit up and blared. Warning, warning. Danger, danger. That he knew as much.
Yet he was still in the cockpit, trapped? restrained? unwilling? as the suit itself began to fail. There was a reason, a purpose. All he could do was yell, yell at himself to move--to get out of the way. To eject before the explosion.
Then the suit would fail, the blast so forceful he would awake shuddering cold, holding his shoulders with his eyes still closed tightly against the pain. His body would still be on fire, still remembering the feelings of the nightmare. Trowa had no means of placing the sensations or why they were so familiar or why it was Quatre's face on the intercom or why the nightmare was so vivid in his mind.
And then the mattress would sag from the weight of two bodies, arms wrapping around him and pulling him close. "Oh, Trowa." Quatre's accent, heavy in his ear, soft and sweet with tones reminding him of Catherine. It meant safe. This Quatre was not about to kill him. He was protecting him, keeping him close and tight and warm from the war and the death and the destruction in his nightmares.
His body would relax, ever so slowly, breathing evening out to match the body beside his own. Only then would he be able to sleep dreamless, to awake in the morning as alive he had been the day before.
04
It was his duty to take care of and protect Trowa. It was his fault Trowa could not remember anything except vague bits and pieces, even more mechanical in his daily activities as every event was new and unregistered in his mind. Quatre reasoned it was the only way to atone, to give Trowa a shoulder to lean on as he returned the other boy to the war.
They were given a room together, just off the corridor for the infirmary on the Peacemillion, in case any unexpected emergencies were to arise. Two beds and spartan lodging, just like every other room on the ship. The other boys had been given their own lodgings, separate from each other. They were all soldiers, though when the option for the peace and solace of a night alone was offered they readily took it.
It was clear Trowa's case was different. Noin recommended the shared room, with a knowing look that told Quatre she knew all too well the effects amnesia could have on a soldier in a war. He wasn't about to argue. He hardly minded being Trowa's caretaker, watching over him, unable to sleep due to the constant nagging of his conscience, the guilt knowing he caused this--he was the reason Trowa could not remember anything. This was his fault.
Everything was if Quatre allowed himself to consider it for too long. His mind was still busily trying to find a way to blame the entire war on himself--along with the reasons why the sun set every day and the Earth turned and the desert never saw rain. Given time, he would find a way.
It was selfish of him, he knew, to want to have Trowa by his side no matter what state the other boy was in. He had been selfish when he stole the Zero System, blinded by his own anger. Part of him found regret in having taken Trowa away from Catherine, while part of him knew it was necessary. He had changed from when he met Trowa, finding himself more in the shoes of a heartless warrior with each passing day. Yet, Trowa still represented a friend to him, a different sort than the Maguanacs had been his entire life. He was still more innocent when he had met Trowa than he was now. Trowa kept him from losing his own mind as he attempted to retrieve Trowa's from the destruction he had caused himself.
Quatre would lie awake at night, listening to Trowa as the other boy would drift off to sleep. He would count the minutes and the seconds until the nightmare would begin, until he could hear Trowa muttering to himself and writhing in his bed. Even though he had never asked, never questioned--he knew the exact details of the dream. He was incapable of guiltlessly sleeping through it himself.
There were whimpers and hisses, noises of pain he never would expect from Trowa--foreign sounds and names muttered that matched none he ever knew. Dreams and nightmares intermixed, always ending with the same one.
Quatre would swing his legs over the end of the bed when he was unable to take Trowa's suffering any longer, unable to heed the advice of the professionals and simply let Trowa be. He would pad barefoot, feet on steel flooring, to Trowa's bed side. There he would slide in next to the other pilot, wrap his arms around the brunette's thin frame just as Iria had done to himself when he was a young boy, and hold him close.
Quatre would whisper apologies in a dozen different languages until sleep would come for him as well.