[Fic] "The Way It Has To Be"
Title: The Way It Has To Be
Author: a_lifestyle
Fandom: Gundam Wing (3x4)
Rating: PG
Words: 969
Summary:
A/N: For quatredeathlady, part of the Fic Request Meme. I'm so glad that I have so cleverly sucked you back into writing for fandom, muahaha. Now there are, like, FOUR active writers in the fandom! THAT IS ALMOST A WHOLE HAND'S WORTH.
Anyway, enjoy. :D
The Way It Has To Be
“I guess it’s time?” says Trowa, knowing the answer very well by the way Quatre’s eyes shift across his body and to the clock on the nightstand table. At this hotel, it’s a black digital clock with blood red numbers that scream 5:44 PM.
He rests his head against Quatre’s shoulder, and he feels the tendons and muscles contracting and pulling with the nod of Quatre’s head. He closes his eyes and takes a breath in, attempting to remember the moment with his senses. It smells like carpet cleaner and women’s perfume. It is warm, and spring approaches quickly; it’s still light outside at this hour.
Quatre’s arm is around his shoulder, and he feels his four fingers squeeze his arm firmly once, twice. Using every ounce of strength left in his body, he sits upright, hunching over with his feet planted firmly on the not-so-soft carpet, Quatre’s hand dragging across his back apologetically. He knows this is the way it has to be, but as he continues to sit at the edge of the bed, the sound of running water and cell phone alerts are all too familiar. It was just a different place, this time.
The next would be back on L4, when Quatre returned from his travels. They wouldn’t have long before it’d be off to L1 for the World Alliance summit, followed by the Preventers Charity Ball on Earth. His time with Quatre is a calendar of events he doesn’t attend, a collection of barely used hotel keys and free sample shampoos. He knows this isn’t normal.
Then again, when has anything about his life been normal? Should he expect normalcy, now that he flies on passenger shuttles instead of mobile suits?
“Help me with this?” comes the plea from the bathroom that snaps Trowa out of his thoughts. He stands and pulls on the boxers that were discarded on the floor hours before, when time wasn’t quite so precious. He walks to Quatre who stands barefoot on the tiles, dressed to the nines and fumbling with a bow tie. Trowa acknowledges how starkly naked he feels next to him, in every way.
“You just pull this part under,” Trowa says softly, the fabric gliding through his fingers with the ease of practice and tradition. Quatre releases his grip on the tie completely and rests his hands against Trowa’s forearms. Trowa hesitates for a moment, before continuing his work.
“I’ve watched you do this a thousand times,” Quatre trails off, turning his head slightly, arching his neck to stare at their reflection in the bathroom mirror. Trowa knows this, but Quatre’s eyes are not on his handiwork, but rather on Trowa himself. He has known that stare for some time now.
He secures the tie in place and steps back. “There.”
Quatre holds his gaze for a moment. “Perfect,” he says.
The stare is too uncomfortable, and he is still far too naked; Trowa pulls on a robe that hangs from the corner of the bathroom door and walks back to the bedroom. “Get your shoes on; Rashid most likely has the car ready downstairs.”
Quatre slips his wallet and phone into his pants’ pockets, patting them with his hand once before joining Trowa in the bedroom again. He picks his watch up off the bedside table and fingers its latches. “He paged me just a moment ago-I’m surprised the lady was able to be ready on time.”
Trowa’s eyes close and he visibly flinches. To compose himself, he takes a deep breath. This is how it must be.
“I’ll be on my way back to L4 hopefully by midnight tonight,” Quatre says, snapping his watch into place and grabbing his overcoat. “Your flight leaves-“
“Tomorrow morning at seven-thirty,” Trowa finishes, taking the overcoat from Quatre’s hands and assisting him. “I’ve gone ahead and set the alarm.”
6:04 glares angrily at them, and Quatre pulls his arms through the sleeves. He turns to Trowa, mouth open, about to say something apologetic by the look in his eyes and the way his eyebrows are furrowed a bit and how his left land hesitates as it reaches out towards him.
Trowa quickly diverts his attention to the door, turning he latch to unlock the door. “You’ll be late, Quatre.”
Quatre puts his hand back in his pocket, then nods awkwardly. He takes one last look at Trowa and smiles with his teeth while his eyes are filled with worry and regret. “Thank you, Trowa,” he says softly before leaving the room.
Trowa catches the door before it slams shut, holding the handle until it clicks into place. Maybe he would turn on the TV later and see him arm in arm with the woman who can hold his hand in public, who is photographed with him for newspapers, and who has seen the inside of the Winner estate more than just that one time as a teenager on a mission. Maybe he would be angry, and confused, and start to want something else. Something better. Maybe he would leave this lifestyle, the only kind of love he has known, and go searching for something else.
But, he doesn’t. He won’t. He goes to the window, pulls the curtain aside, and sees Rashid waiting outside in front of the car. He opens the car door as flashing lights and two figures emerge from the hotel entrance. The girl smiles, her two-thousand credit dress draped across her blushed shoulders. Quatre’s eyes are squinted and fixed on the car door.
Trowa replaces the curtain before Rashid drives away. He returns to the bed and reaches over to the drawer in the nightstand to pull out the room service menu. He considers a bottle of wine to help him sleep. His flight is early the next day, after all.
-end-
Author: a_lifestyle
Fandom: Gundam Wing (3x4)
Rating: PG
Words: 969
Summary:
A/N: For quatredeathlady, part of the Fic Request Meme. I'm so glad that I have so cleverly sucked you back into writing for fandom, muahaha. Now there are, like, FOUR active writers in the fandom! THAT IS ALMOST A WHOLE HAND'S WORTH.
Anyway, enjoy. :D
The Way It Has To Be
“I guess it’s time?” says Trowa, knowing the answer very well by the way Quatre’s eyes shift across his body and to the clock on the nightstand table. At this hotel, it’s a black digital clock with blood red numbers that scream 5:44 PM.
He rests his head against Quatre’s shoulder, and he feels the tendons and muscles contracting and pulling with the nod of Quatre’s head. He closes his eyes and takes a breath in, attempting to remember the moment with his senses. It smells like carpet cleaner and women’s perfume. It is warm, and spring approaches quickly; it’s still light outside at this hour.
Quatre’s arm is around his shoulder, and he feels his four fingers squeeze his arm firmly once, twice. Using every ounce of strength left in his body, he sits upright, hunching over with his feet planted firmly on the not-so-soft carpet, Quatre’s hand dragging across his back apologetically. He knows this is the way it has to be, but as he continues to sit at the edge of the bed, the sound of running water and cell phone alerts are all too familiar. It was just a different place, this time.
The next would be back on L4, when Quatre returned from his travels. They wouldn’t have long before it’d be off to L1 for the World Alliance summit, followed by the Preventers Charity Ball on Earth. His time with Quatre is a calendar of events he doesn’t attend, a collection of barely used hotel keys and free sample shampoos. He knows this isn’t normal.
Then again, when has anything about his life been normal? Should he expect normalcy, now that he flies on passenger shuttles instead of mobile suits?
“Help me with this?” comes the plea from the bathroom that snaps Trowa out of his thoughts. He stands and pulls on the boxers that were discarded on the floor hours before, when time wasn’t quite so precious. He walks to Quatre who stands barefoot on the tiles, dressed to the nines and fumbling with a bow tie. Trowa acknowledges how starkly naked he feels next to him, in every way.
“You just pull this part under,” Trowa says softly, the fabric gliding through his fingers with the ease of practice and tradition. Quatre releases his grip on the tie completely and rests his hands against Trowa’s forearms. Trowa hesitates for a moment, before continuing his work.
“I’ve watched you do this a thousand times,” Quatre trails off, turning his head slightly, arching his neck to stare at their reflection in the bathroom mirror. Trowa knows this, but Quatre’s eyes are not on his handiwork, but rather on Trowa himself. He has known that stare for some time now.
He secures the tie in place and steps back. “There.”
Quatre holds his gaze for a moment. “Perfect,” he says.
The stare is too uncomfortable, and he is still far too naked; Trowa pulls on a robe that hangs from the corner of the bathroom door and walks back to the bedroom. “Get your shoes on; Rashid most likely has the car ready downstairs.”
Quatre slips his wallet and phone into his pants’ pockets, patting them with his hand once before joining Trowa in the bedroom again. He picks his watch up off the bedside table and fingers its latches. “He paged me just a moment ago-I’m surprised the lady was able to be ready on time.”
Trowa’s eyes close and he visibly flinches. To compose himself, he takes a deep breath. This is how it must be.
“I’ll be on my way back to L4 hopefully by midnight tonight,” Quatre says, snapping his watch into place and grabbing his overcoat. “Your flight leaves-“
“Tomorrow morning at seven-thirty,” Trowa finishes, taking the overcoat from Quatre’s hands and assisting him. “I’ve gone ahead and set the alarm.”
6:04 glares angrily at them, and Quatre pulls his arms through the sleeves. He turns to Trowa, mouth open, about to say something apologetic by the look in his eyes and the way his eyebrows are furrowed a bit and how his left land hesitates as it reaches out towards him.
Trowa quickly diverts his attention to the door, turning he latch to unlock the door. “You’ll be late, Quatre.”
Quatre puts his hand back in his pocket, then nods awkwardly. He takes one last look at Trowa and smiles with his teeth while his eyes are filled with worry and regret. “Thank you, Trowa,” he says softly before leaving the room.
Trowa catches the door before it slams shut, holding the handle until it clicks into place. Maybe he would turn on the TV later and see him arm in arm with the woman who can hold his hand in public, who is photographed with him for newspapers, and who has seen the inside of the Winner estate more than just that one time as a teenager on a mission. Maybe he would be angry, and confused, and start to want something else. Something better. Maybe he would leave this lifestyle, the only kind of love he has known, and go searching for something else.
But, he doesn’t. He won’t. He goes to the window, pulls the curtain aside, and sees Rashid waiting outside in front of the car. He opens the car door as flashing lights and two figures emerge from the hotel entrance. The girl smiles, her two-thousand credit dress draped across her blushed shoulders. Quatre’s eyes are squinted and fixed on the car door.
Trowa replaces the curtain before Rashid drives away. He returns to the bed and reaches over to the drawer in the nightstand to pull out the room service menu. He considers a bottle of wine to help him sleep. His flight is early the next day, after all.
-end-