[Gundam Wing] [Trowa Barton/Quatre Winner]
title: quatre, in five easy bites, author: merith, pairing: trowa/quatre, warnings: BL, a little sap,
note: written for the fall '06 stagesoflove, for the theme set of emotions: envy, the first of five.
Trowa is on the hillock when the comment is made. For a moment, he is speechless and turns to stare at his companion. But the man continues in his quiet voice, telling Trowa more of his wishes, hopes, and dreams - fantasies, he calls them.
Many months have past since the latest war, and in that time, Trowa recalls many of the places Quatre has shown him. From giant corporate sky rises to factories and warehouses, from luxurious apartment buildings to the conglomeration of hotel chains spanning the spectrum of accommodation stars. Trowa looks out at the view again. His legs are suddenly weak and he is sitting where he stands, his hands holding his head.
“I just know there’s something more,” Quatre is saying, and Trowa looks at him. Quatre is sitting beside him now, with his knees drawn up close to his chest and his arms folded over the tops. Quatre is watching the bustling activity below them, noisy with hammering and workmen calling to one another. Quatre sighs and rests the side of his head on his arms, turning his face to Trowa.
He is nodding, the tendril idea beginning to weave a pattern. Trowa looks back at the scene below, familiar and comforting in its chaos. The roust-abouts setting up the Big Top, handlers making their animals comfortable, performers staking out their few feet of privacy, and the Manager everywhere at once, shouting his orders and expecting them to be followed.
In almost a rush, before he thinks about it too much and loses its innocent impulsiveness, Trowa touches Quatre’s hand. “You can come stay with me, then.” His heart is painfully heavy in his throat, and he swears he almost stopped breathing. He drops his head, letting the thick bangs fall over his eyes, hiding his face.
Warm fingers slip into his closed hand, pushing their way to where palm meets palm. “I’d like that.”
Trowa can breathe again. Not quite ready to look in his direction, he closes his hand over Quatre’s. Some ism or other tries to make itself known, but Trowa isn’t listening. Instead, he watches the circus come to life and dreams what the future will bring.
enjoy!
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: envy, the first of five.
Trowa is on the hillock when the comment is made. For a moment, he is speechless and turns to stare at his companion. But the man continues in his quiet voice, telling Trowa more of his wishes, hopes, and dreams - fantasies, he calls them.
Many months have past since the latest war, and in that time, Trowa recalls many of the places Quatre has shown him. From giant corporate sky rises to factories and warehouses, from luxurious apartment buildings to the conglomeration of hotel chains spanning the spectrum of accommodation stars. Trowa looks out at the view again. His legs are suddenly weak and he is sitting where he stands, his hands holding his head.
“I just know there’s something more,” Quatre is saying, and Trowa looks at him. Quatre is sitting beside him now, with his knees drawn up close to his chest and his arms folded over the tops. Quatre is watching the bustling activity below them, noisy with hammering and workmen calling to one another. Quatre sighs and rests the side of his head on his arms, turning his face to Trowa.
He is nodding, the tendril idea beginning to weave a pattern. Trowa looks back at the scene below, familiar and comforting in its chaos. The roust-abouts setting up the Big Top, handlers making their animals comfortable, performers staking out their few feet of privacy, and the Manager everywhere at once, shouting his orders and expecting them to be followed.
In almost a rush, before he thinks about it too much and loses its innocent impulsiveness, Trowa touches Quatre’s hand. “You can come stay with me, then.” His heart is painfully heavy in his throat, and he swears he almost stopped breathing. He drops his head, letting the thick bangs fall over his eyes, hiding his face.
Warm fingers slip into his closed hand, pushing their way to where palm meets palm. “I’d like that.”
Trowa can breathe again. Not quite ready to look in his direction, he closes his hand over Quatre’s. Some ism or other tries to make itself known, but Trowa isn’t listening. Instead, he watches the circus come to life and dreams what the future will bring.
enjoy!
The characters depicted in this work of fiction are over the age of minority.