Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Forgotten Dreams ❯ Chapter 2

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Title: Forgotten Dreams



Title: Forgotten Dreams
Chapter: 2/?
Disclaimers: Gundam Wing and all characters associated with it is not mine, nor am I making any money from this. This is purely for my personal enjoyment, and the enjoyment of the people who read this. GW is copyright Bandai, Sunrise, etc.




Quatre sighed. Another tiring day, punctuated by Trowa's now-predictable lingering touches. If there was a way to be near Quatre, preferably touching him, Trowa found it. It didn't bother Quatre, or rather, it bothered him because he enjoyed it when he passed Trowa in the hall, and felt the phantom caress of his fingers, or when Trowa sought him out to ask him something Heero or Duo could answer just as well, if not better, than Quatre himself could.
And it wasn't the fact that he was incredibly attracted to Trowa, physically. With twenty-nine sister, some were bound to be at least partially enthralled by other women, so Quatre was no stranger to same-sex relationships. No, what bothered Quatre was the complete silence the tall boy held about himself like a cloak whenever Quatre was near, never saying anything unless he had to, and then saying as little as possible. It was the way Trowa looked at him sometimes, when he thought Quatre couldn't see him; that penetrating gaze, as if he could see right into Quatre's soul. And it did not help matters that they shared a room.
"Oh, well," he muttered, stretching. "Might as well practice my violin." Tenderly pulling the instrument from its case, Quatre smiled. He hadn't had much time to practice, lately, and there was a wonderful tune he'd thought up that he wanted to perfect. He settled on the edge of his bed, set his violin in place, and let the music flow.
He didn't notice hear the door open, and didn't notice when someone settled on the bed next to him, but Quatre's eyes flew open when the sounds of a flute intruded into his consciousness.
Trowa watched him intently, fingers flying along the flute he played in perfect harmony with Quatre's violin. Quatre flubbed a few bars, but the faint hint of humor in Trowa's eyes urged him to keep playing, and he grinned, picking up the speed of the music, letting it go where it would. The challenge was met by the taller plot, who added his own flairs and variations to the music.
An eternity later, by tacit mutual consent, the two Gundam pilots wound their song to a close, a song which had ranged from the most lively of jigs to the most somber of laments.
Quatre set his violin gently in its case, wincing as over-exercised shoulder and hand muscles cramped. He rotated his shoulder and rubbed his hands, grinning at Trowa.
"That was great! I didn't know you played the flute." Here, perhaps, was a way to get through the shell Trowa had built around himself and get to know him. Trowa was moving his lips around, making odd expressions as he loosened lip muscles tense from blowing into the flute for so long, and nodded. "How long have you played?" Quatre tried not to giggle at the faces Trowa was making as the other boy blinked slowly, rubbing his hands.
"Years. You?" He watched Quatre like a hawk, eyes following his every move.
"Oh, since I could hold the violin. I used to want to be in an orchestra, but now . . ." He sighed. "Oh, well. I've got a bottle of oil in the nightstand. It helps relax muscles. Would you get it for me, please?" Silently Trowa retrieved the bottle, handing it to Quatre. "Arigato. Uhm . . ." Quatre looked around, trying to figure out how to get the oil on his back, and hesitant to ask for Trowa's help.
"Take your shirt off." Trowa's voice was soft.
"Nani?"
"Shirt. Off. Lie down." Trowa took the bottle from Quatre's suddenly limp hands and tugged at his vest.
"Oh. Okay, if you want . . ." Quatre slipped out of his vest, acutely aware of Trowa's gaze. He fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, head down, face aflame, and telling himself that it wasn't anything big, that Trowa wasn't going to do anything but put the oil on his back, but that didn't stop him from getting very aroused by the prospect. Once the shirt was off he flopped face down on his bed, burying his face in the pillow and hoping Trowa wouldn't want him to turn over anytime soon.
"You're going to smother yourself."
Quatre "mfphed" into the pillow but turned his head to one side, away from Trowa. He'd been hoping that, by denying himself air, the blood circulation would cease to flow to certain . . . areas. His theory hadn't been working, anyway.
Quatre was tense with more than muscles sore from playing the violin for so long: he wanted Trowa to touch him, wanted to feel this mysterious boy's hands on him with an intensity that unnerved him.
His breathing increased as Trowa leaned over him, and he had to suppress a whimper, squeezing his eyes shut, when he felt the soft touch of Trowa's hands, moist with the oil, on his back. Trowa leaned into his massage, slender fingers expertly finding all the knots in Quatre's back and kneading them out. Quatre shuddered as Trowa moved to his lower back, trying hard not to cry out in pleasure as Trowa's finger ran over his lower back, electrifying his skin and driving him crazy. He wanted Trowa, yes he did.
Finally Trowa stopped his delicious torture. "Too tense."
Quatre let out a small questioning whimper, hands clenching and unclenching his blanket.
Trowa elaborated, ignoring Quatre's obvious discomfort. "You're too tense. Every time I touch you, you tense." Quatre threw his pillow over his head, sure his clothes were going to catch fire from the heat of his full-body blush.
"Nnnnnnhhhhhhhh . . ."
Trowa let out what sounded suspiciously like a chuckle and ran his fingers briefly through Quatre's locks, then patted his head. Quatre whimpered. "Sleep, Quatre." Trowa sighed, then the bed shifted as he got up, and a moment later Quatre heard the door open, the sound of Duo merrily greeting Trowa, and then the door closed.
Quatre waited a while to make sure that Trowa had really left, then sat up, looking down at the source of his discomfort.
"Oh, come on. He's not that attractive, and anyway, I'm sure there are a lot of people at the circus he works at who keep him warm at night. I'm probably not the only boy who's gotten a crush on Mr. Likes-To-Wear-Clown-Clothes Barton, and I'm betting I won't be the last." Quatre kept talking, trying to convince himself. "And he probably thinks I'm just some spoiled rich Arabian kid, bored and looking for some cheap entertainment." He placed his hand on the bed, still warm where Trowa had knelt on it, and sighed. "And if I tell myself that enough, I might start believing it."