Time To Eat!

[masquedclown]

Who: Trowa and Quatre
When: This afternoon
Where: Quatre's room, 8A
Summary: Quatre refuses to eat. Trowa refuses to let him continue doing so.
Rating: PG13 for now, we'll see where it goes.
Warnings: Biting, om nom nom. Also teeth-rotting cute. If you don't feel like paying millions of dollars in dentist bills, turn around now.

Comments

[undermywing]

Quatre was huddled up on his bed with the laptop resting beside him, occasionally giving the screen of his computer miserable looks.

He didn't feel good. At all. His teeth hurt a little, the craving to bite down and eat giving him phantom pains, and he was dizzy and felt...well, he just felt sick. Physically...and mentally.

He was honestly considering taking Kouichi up on his offer and that made him feel horrible. But...well, he had said that he had healing abilities. The other gundam pilots lacked those.

Quatre blinked, eyes subtly widening, and he jerked his head up and toward the door. Something smelled...really good. Really, really good and his stomach growled in agreement...but. No. No.

The door opened, but Quatre was already on his feet and backing as far away from the door as possible when Trowa stepped into the room.

[masquedclown]

Quatre's terrified look made Trowa hesitate, but only for a moment.

"I trust you. You need to eat." Was all he said, closing and locking the door behind him before moving forward. He knew that Quatre wouldn't drain him of all his blood, and a little bit of research was all it took for him to know that one feeding wouldn't kill anyone.

As for how many would... well, Trowa hoped he wouldn't have to find out.

[undermywing]

Quatre shrank back even more, eyes darting to the locked door and then back to Trowa's face with eyes wide and scared, but stubborn. His hands tightened into shaking fists as his friend moved closer. "You may trust me, but I don't trust myself right now. Trowa, don't. Please..."

Quatre tried to calm himself as he spoke, tried to even his breathing while keeping it shallow. He could hold his breath getting around Trowa so he wouldn't have to...have to smell him, and he could probably avoid touching him.

The lock would be a problem, but he'd have to manage. He'd have to. Trowa was too close.

Quatre bolted.

[masquedclown]

Trowa moved quickly, blocking off the door and catching Quatre around the waist, holding tightly. "You won't kill me." He muttered, adjusting himself so that Quatre's mouth was close to his neck.

[undermywing]

"It is," Quatre agreed and smiled a bit, leaning his forehead against Trowa's shoulder and tightening his own grip on the other pilot again, firmer and more sure this time.

"It is a bite wound though, and so we should probably clean it out...soon." And soon didn't necessarily mean now. Quatre tilted his head to the side, pressing his mouth against the thin streaks of blood on Trowa's neck. He was careful to avoid touching the bite marks, but proceeded in 'cleaning Trowa up' before he could realize what he was doing and stop himself.

[masquedclown]

Trowa closed his eyes, sighing as a smooth tongue lapped at his neck. It was entirely strange, but he most certainly didn't want it to stop.

He murmured something that could have been the Quatre's name, burying his face in the blond hair beneath his chin and inhaling the clean scent.

[undermywing]

Quatre stilled when Trowa moved, and closed his eyes with a light laugh when he felt the other pilot's breath on his scalp. He returned the affection by nuzzling lightly at Trowa's throat with one last, quick lick.

"Hmm...you're warm." He said softly, affectionately, just for the sake of saying something.

He didn't know what had brought this on, and didn't know exactly where it was going, and didn't really care to think on it too much right now, but it most definitely was not a bad thing.

[masquedclown]

Trowa smiled, the expression hidden in yellow locks of hair. He slowly backed towards the bed, taking Quatre with him; he knew his legs wouldn't keep much longer and he'd rather be sitting on the bed than continue standing and crumple to the ground.

He didn't know what this was, only that he didn't want it to stop. It was like when they'd first met, when they'd played that song together.

Improvised. Instinctual. It required no planning, no practice, it just... was.