[Gundam Wing] [Trowa Barton/Quatre Winner]
title: quatre, in five easy bites, author: merith, pairing: trowa/quatre, rating: PG-13, warnings: BL, more than a bit of angst,
note: written for the fall '06 stagesoflove, for the theme set of emotions: regret, the fourth of five. ~ ♥ ~ Envy ~ ♥ ~ Surprise ~ ♥ ~ Compassion ~ ♥ ~
It is with a sudden awareness Trowa finds himself in space. And like his dreams
nightmares
it is as he remembers. Cold. Dark. Lonely.
The shuttle slows, and he pushes the gear into a holding pattern. His memory-scape plays the scene so vividly, his arms hug his body; the chill goes deep and his teeth begin to chatter. It is the grayness of that time, the almost memory of what had happened that eats at him. That plagues his sleep.
Forgiveness isn’t hard to offer when he doesn’t know what there is to forgive.
The silent scream he doesn’t remember, tears from his throat and rips open his veins, leaving him exposed and bleeding. And then there is nothing but black stretching from lee to yon.
He rubs gloved fingers over his chin, irritating skin to the point of bleeding, his eyes are fixed to a coordinate just beyond the view screen. Where once there was a colony, one filled with living beings, families, and businesses, now there is nothing. Even the debris has been cleaned or scattered.
A whoosh sounds; the airlock activates and Trowa is pulled from his stupor. He half rises, turning to the shuttle door. There are no weapons aboard the private shuttle, and he wonders how a breech could happen in the security system.
Not even to the cockpit doorway, Trowa stumbles to a stop. A figure is there, dressed in a WEI embossed issued suit. The helmet lifts.
“Quatre!” Trowa cries in whisper.
He is smiling, though sadness reflects in his eyes. His helmet is stowed on the nearest surface, and Quatre moves with determined steps forward. In front of Trowa, he stops and his eyes search Trowa’s face. His hand rises but with an impatient sound, he jerks the gloves from both hands and tosses them aside. Quatre’s hands are cold on Trowa’s cheeks, and Trowa closes his eyes.
The words he wishes to say, words that he wants to believe, fumble in his throat. He utters them not, and trembles with the force. The pain is suffocating; his heart splits, his head drops back out of Quatre’s hold, and his mouth opens. He is falling, down to his knees onto the metal flooring. Darkness and cold surround him, pull him back into the nightmare.
But…
There is warmth. There is light.
His eyes open and Quatre is there. Quatre holds him, saying nothing and yet, everything. And Trowa’s arms are sluggish in rising to hold Quatre in return.
*shuffles feet* uh... sorry?
The characters depicted in this work of fiction are over the age of minority.
note: written for the fall '06 stagesoflove, for the theme set of emotions: regret, the fourth of five. ~ ♥ ~ Envy ~ ♥ ~ Surprise ~ ♥ ~ Compassion ~ ♥ ~
It is with a sudden awareness Trowa finds himself in space. And like his dreams
nightmares
it is as he remembers. Cold. Dark. Lonely.
The shuttle slows, and he pushes the gear into a holding pattern. His memory-scape plays the scene so vividly, his arms hug his body; the chill goes deep and his teeth begin to chatter. It is the grayness of that time, the almost memory of what had happened that eats at him. That plagues his sleep.
Forgiveness isn’t hard to offer when he doesn’t know what there is to forgive.
The silent scream he doesn’t remember, tears from his throat and rips open his veins, leaving him exposed and bleeding. And then there is nothing but black stretching from lee to yon.
He rubs gloved fingers over his chin, irritating skin to the point of bleeding, his eyes are fixed to a coordinate just beyond the view screen. Where once there was a colony, one filled with living beings, families, and businesses, now there is nothing. Even the debris has been cleaned or scattered.
A whoosh sounds; the airlock activates and Trowa is pulled from his stupor. He half rises, turning to the shuttle door. There are no weapons aboard the private shuttle, and he wonders how a breech could happen in the security system.
Not even to the cockpit doorway, Trowa stumbles to a stop. A figure is there, dressed in a WEI embossed issued suit. The helmet lifts.
“Quatre!” Trowa cries in whisper.
He is smiling, though sadness reflects in his eyes. His helmet is stowed on the nearest surface, and Quatre moves with determined steps forward. In front of Trowa, he stops and his eyes search Trowa’s face. His hand rises but with an impatient sound, he jerks the gloves from both hands and tosses them aside. Quatre’s hands are cold on Trowa’s cheeks, and Trowa closes his eyes.
The words he wishes to say, words that he wants to believe, fumble in his throat. He utters them not, and trembles with the force. The pain is suffocating; his heart splits, his head drops back out of Quatre’s hold, and his mouth opens. He is falling, down to his knees onto the metal flooring. Darkness and cold surround him, pull him back into the nightmare.
But…
There is warmth. There is light.
His eyes open and Quatre is there. Quatre holds him, saying nothing and yet, everything. And Trowa’s arms are sluggish in rising to hold Quatre in return.
*shuffles feet* uh... sorry?
The characters depicted in this work of fiction are over the age of minority.