Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Home ❯ Home ( One-Shot )

Home

 

Thanatos-Aire

 

30, June

 

More 3x1x3 yumminess. Lemon, profanity, past abuse, Heero's POV, and I guess it's a little OOC with the whole uber-uke thing (but there's reasons for that).

 

I own nothing but an over-obsessive streak.

 

___________________________________________________

 

“Wait,”

 

I pause, rigid, and turn my torso to face her. In front of me, Trowa has a brow raised, eyes carefully watching the girl as she steps up to me quickly. But he stays in the truck, hand on the steering wheel.

 

Then, she's beside me, “Wait…” Sylvia says again, with a little puff of air following. I think it's a sigh, but cannot be sure. Her blue eyes dance around my features but I know I am blank. My face shows no emotion, as does Trowa's, and she cannot find whatever it is she is looking for.

 

Guilt? No, she knows I feel that already, or else I would not have offered her my gun.

 

Why then, why is it she has stopped me? Has she changed her mind after berating me, and has decided to take up my offer? My hand slides towards my gun, nestled in my waistband once more after she refused it the first time.

 

“Mister Yuy,” she begins again, and I tilt my head slightly to show I am listening. Sylvia takes a deep breath, her eyebrows coming together in… worry? I think that is the right emotion. But confusion too, maybe, and hurt. But her words, accented and narrow like Trowa's, pull me from my thoughts.

 

“I forgive you. You do understand that, yes?”

 

I blink. I was not expecting that. In the corner of my eye, Trowa turns away as if to give us privacy. But I do not understand. A moment ago, Sylvia Noventa was upbraiding me for being cowardly and selfish, and now she--

 

“'Twas an accident, no? OZ is to blame, not you, monsieur. It was not your fault and my grandfather would not hold you responsible were he here.” She huffs, pursing her lips in a very frustrated manner, looking away, towards the gravestones. “Though I still think you are stupid… for this,” she adds with a horizontal wave.

 

I nod and open my mouth to tell her it was my fault, I should have known better, but Sylvia takes a step forward suddenly, her hands coming up to my face. Trowa's head turns towards us again, the fastest I've seen him move besides his acrobatics at the circus. I have my gun out but still aimed at the ground with the safety catch on, when Sylvia touches my face.

 

Stupid me, I should have been paying closer attention!

 

But-- She isn't attacking me. I'm not quite sure what she's doing, exactly, but it isn't harmful… Not unless her lips are poisoned, and that's highly unlikely, especially since she only has them on my own for a moment. I blink at her, not understanding still, as she steps back with a smile.

 

Sylvia's hand slides off my cheek and she nods, her blonde hair bouncing in the wind a bit. “Vogue la galire,” she murmurs, then nods at Trowa and hurries away, back up the aisle to the headstone.

 

My gun is still out, but I cannot decide still whether the action was hostile.

 

“Heero?” I turn to him, still confused, and his lips, thin and pale, curl ever so slightly at the ends. “C'mon, `tis getting late.”

 

I nod, still blinking and I am unable to school my features from the knitted-brow expression. I climb into the truck's cab with Trowa, my gun back in its place, and he begins to drive even as I buckle the safety belt.

 

He is quiet, as usual, as we head out of the cemetery, but once we hit the freeway, I can see him snatching glances at me. “You really thought she changed her mind?” he finally asks, eyes not leaving the road.

 

My tongue runs along my bottom lip, and I nod, staring out the window at the blurred scenery, still trying to figure out what happened.

 

“Do you think any of the family will take your offer?”

 

“No. The Noventa family has a history of pacifism. They will not take my life for the one I have taken.” We've gone over this before, Trowa and I, and I thought he understood. Then again, just because he went along with it…

 

“Then why bother?”

 

I take a deep breath and turn to glare him, but my mind's elsewhere. “I've told you. It is their decision, not mine. I made a mistake and I must be willing to deal with the consequences. This… this is punishment.” I look away, wondering idly what Doctor J would think of me being punished with a sweep of lips.

 

“But perhaps one will take your gun, Heero. Like Sylvia, only they will not hold back. What then?”

 

I turn to look at him again, not understanding. He never speaks much to me, and most of it is not on this topic. “Then I will die.” I reply simply, watching his reaction.

 

And I get one.

 

His lips draw into a firm line and his eyes narrow, hands tightening on the wheel. “Maybe she was right,” he comments in a low voice, refusing to look at me. “Sylvia, when she called you a coward. Maybe she was right.”

 

“At least I am taking responsibility!” His eyes glance hurriedly towards me at my outburst. Trowa's still uneasy around me when I'm angry, though I've yet to give him a reason to. “Maybe I am, but this is the only way I know how to take care of this. It was my mistake, therefore I have to rectify it. And if they believe the only way I can do that is by dying, then so be it. At least I'm trying.”

 

A few heartbeats later, he gives me another sidelong look. But he's not so tense anymore. “You don't speak French very well, do you?” Trowa asks softly.

 

“I know enough. What has that got to do with anything?”

 

He sighs, and after a moment, his eyes still on the road, he takes one hand off the steering wheel to settle on my shoulder lightly. It squeezes ever so gently, and he replies, “The last thing she said… She doesn't want you to die, Heero. Both of us would rather have your death be relevant to the war, to mean something in respect to something greater than any one person.

 

“I think she feels you are a coward in that you are offering your life for Noventa's to get out of giving it up for the war. The cause needs you, Heero, not a family of politicians who've accepted the risk of death.”

 

After a few minutes, I still don't have an answer for him, but it doesn't matter because Trowa pulls into a dirt parking lot. “Bed and breakfast,” he murmurs in explanation while shutting off the engine, “We should rest for the night, continue on in the morning.” I nod and follow him out, grabbing my duffel out of the truck's bed to follow him inside the cottage-esque building.

 

Half an hour later, we're giving the room a sour look. It's cosy, for sure, and I've seen worse, but… One bed, twin-sized… and not enough room on the floor for Trowa's long legs.

 

He sighs. “Damn. Should've kept on and grabbed something closer to town.” I nod distractedly, not really caring.

 

Or at least, trying not to care.

 

A Perfect Soldier shouldn't have a preference towards where he sleeps. Perhaps I shouldn't sleep at all tonight…

 

I throw my stuff onto the small table and stalk across the room to draw the curtains closed. When I turn around, Trowa's closing the bathroom door behind him. Since I'm without an outlet for my laptop and alone in the room, there's not much I can do but sit in the chair beside the table and think.

 

The sound of running water reaches my ears, but I'm unused to Europe's plumbing and cannot tell if it is the sink or bath. I strip off my sweat-dampened tank and use it to mop my face and neck before balling it into the corner of the table. I pull my bag across the hard wood surface and open it, searching for a clean shirt.

 

It takes a moment to realize I've passed two shirts thanks to my mental distraction. I'm losing focus here, dammit, and I can't let that happen. But still, what exactly did Sylvia mean?

 

I ghost my fingertips over my lips, trying to understand, but,

 

The bathroom door opens rather abruptly and I start, looking up at Trowa guiltily. He pauses, blinking at me. His brow relaxes and he gives me another one of those barely-there smiles that says he's amused. By what, I've no idea, but he reaches over to take my hand from my face.

 

“You've never been kissed before, have you?” he asks lightly, turning my hand in his so they lay back to palm with mine ontop, open. His thumb brushes across my wrist, but his eyes are still watching my face.

 

I purse my lips, turning towards my bag again, hoping he'll get the hint and let it alone. But he doesn't seem to really notice I'm shirtless and twisted about in my seat; he only tugs my hand up and further away from my body.

 

Turning to follow, ready to strike, I almost miss his other hand coming up. Damn, I need to focus. I'll have to make sure I sleep good tonight so there's no excuses tomorrow--

 

His other hand grabs onto my side, below my arm, fingers on my back and thumb nearly on my nipple. An idea in the back of my head supplies the image of us dancing; but that's ridiculous, there's no music, room, nor need.

 

Still pulling on my wrist, he's able to haul me up off the chair to stand in front of him. I can't untangle my feet fast enough and end up stumbling, one hand caught in his with the other trying to pull my gun out, so I slam into him, nearly clocking his teeth out with my forehead.

 

But Trowa, elegant, sturdy, immovable Trowa, stands his ground. He doesn't even slide back a step as I fall onto him. I look up with a glare, but his green eyes are wide with what I must be mistaking for fear. No way Trowa's afraid of me… not Trowa. Zero-Three is practically immune to my glares, unmoved by and cool in the face of my threats. I've been with him two months now, and not once has he ever…

 

When I yell. When I get angry, he gets that uneasy look about him, tense and leaning, like a cat before it springs away from danger. But still, it's never… fear… only, apprehension. He should know by now, I'd never hurt him.

 

But then why…?

 

“H'ro?”

 

I relax my glare, my face going blank again. It's safer that way. But I still can't help the confusion as his hand tightens slightly on my wrist, the other shifting on my ribs. I blink at him, unsure of what this means. I know he would not hurt me as well, so this… this attack cannot be harmful… It actually feels… nice?

 

But what do I know, the only times I've been touched without harmful intentions is the occasional hug from Maxwell. Or when Trowa redresses my bandages, though those times do bring pain however much he tries not to. I--

 

Green eyes, closer. I didn't see him lean in--

 

“Trowa?!” Damn, my voice wavered. Why the hell can't I stay focused today--

 

He presses his lips against mine. Sylvia had only brushed past, a mere moment of contact, soft and sweet and confident. Trowa, however, is unsure in this prolonged connection, though he is still as gentle. But he is firm, determined in his wariness, hesitant but…

 

… Is he waiting for me to do something back?

 

The only thing I can think of is to press back against him. That or move away, and for some reason, that… just isn't an option right now. I'll figure it out later. Right now, I want more of this... whatever this is.

 

So I lean up, crushing our mouths together. His fingers twitch on my skin, but he does not move except to tilt his head a bit. The angle fits better, and his lips part ever so slightly, pushing mine apart as well. Wet warmth suddenly touches my bottom lip and I start, not understanding and unable to keep myself from moving back a step in startlement. But then it is gone as Trowa lets go and stumbles back a few steps.

 

Wide eyed, he watches me carefully. I think he is worried I will hit him, and I am worried he would let me. But that does not make sense. Why is he so afraid? We've slept shoulder to shoulder, he's taken care of my injuries since I self-destructed; we've touched many times, with more contact than that. Why are lips so different than, say, my bicep?

 

I do not recall the mouth being listed under those `private' areas, those regions it is socially unacceptable to touch on another person. Or is he worried it was over the boundary? When he touches me while fixing bandages, it is out of need. This time, there was no apparent reason.

 

“Trowa?” He flinches, face still blank mostly, bar the wrinkles around his eyes. “Trowa,” I reach for him, not understanding but trying to.

 

“I'm sorry. It was a mistake. It won't happen again,” he replies, voice balancing out with every word until his tone is perfectly neutral again as he assures me, turning towards the window away from me. But that doesn't make sense. Why, how could something so pleasant be a mistake?

 

A mistake is a miscalculation that causes collateral damage. A mistake is faulty info that leads to casualties. An error, a misjudgement, those are mistakes. They have consequences, reactions to your action, punishment. This… what ever this is, it cannot be a mistake. Who then has died because of one brush of lips? That's ridiculous.

 

But Trowa… Trowa believes differently. And through the past weeks we've been together, I've come to trust his judgement on things. So why does this not make sense? We've never had such varied sides on an issue before; different yes, but none so strong as this.

 

And why has he turned away? If he is so worried about me attacking him, he would not have put me behind him where he is vulnerable. He should know better than that… Unless this is yet another of those animal things he does: like a wolf backing down and showing his belly. Surrendering.

 

“Trowa,”

 

Is that what he is doing? Allowing me to go for the kill? By giving me his back, is he giving into the consequences of this `mistake'? I straighten as our conversation in the truck remerges in my mind: This is punishment.

 

“Do it again.”

 

He turns back to face me, blinking rapidly, then stares at me in disbelief. What is it now? “What?” he sounds, voice still that same even manner he's carefully intonated ever since I met him.

 

“Do it again. What ever you just did, that… that thing we were just doing. Do it again.”

 

“But--”

 

With a frustrated sigh, I lunge at him. I half-expected him to block and push me away, and half-expected him to dodge: I am still unsure of his reactions sometimes. But he does neither. He winces a bit, but holds his ground, even as I tackle him `round the waist. After a moment of struggling to keep our balance, we fall into a lump on the bed, legs hanging off the foot of the feather mattress, and I gain the upper-hand by twisting up. He ends up beneath me, laying on the bed with both of us slightly out of breath.

 

“H'ro--”

 

I shove his hands away and slide up across his body to reach his face better since he's taller than I am. His mouth still open to speak, I smash mine against his, wondering why it doesn't feel the same now that we're laying down.

 

Trowa makes an `eep' noise in the back of his throat, his hands slipping up above his head. When I pull away, annoyed at the lack of pleasant light-headedness I had before, I notice his eyes are closed. Even as I sit there, straddling his hips and hovering over his chest, he only moves to breathe.

 

“Trowa… what're you doing?”

 

After a moment, his eyes open enough to see me, enough for me to see the green dance unfocused as he looks me over. Then, they flutter shut again with a wistful sigh. “Trowa…” my voice gets a bit of an annoyed edge. I need to control myself better…

 

He looks at me again, again only after a few heartbeats have passed. “Waiting?” he whispers.

 

That's just about the strangest thing I've heard him say, and it doesn't make any more sense than the rest of this whole scene, so I harrumph, crossing my arms over my chest and raising an eyebrow. Trowa… He watches me steadily, eyes boring into mine as if he can read my thoughts or project his own somehow.

 

Finally, after only a minute or two, I give. “Trowa, do it again. Please?”

 

“…Do what?” he asks, voice still barely audible. He hasn't moved at all, hands still over his head, face upturned from where I angled it.

 

“That thing, with your lips. I want you to do it again.”

 

“Why?” It's bolder this time, and his face doesn't reflect mine so much -- his brow is knitted in confusion, and at the word `lips' he pulled his bottom one in to lick it slightly.

 

I shift, placing his hands back onto my body like before and holding them there as I scootch a bit further down and lean forward so it's easier for him to reach. “Because… it, it was nice.” I finally voice, still not quite understanding myself why I want it so bad. “It… I don't understand what it is, Trowa, nor your reaction to it. It can't be so bad, it was pleasant, and I… I'd like to feel it again.”

 

Green eyes blink in a quick pattern of disbelief. “You… you liked it?”

 

I nod, dropping my hands from his to touch his chest and shoulder. It effectively leans me over him, hovering, my shadow falling over his face. “What was it, Trowa? I haven't felt that… I don't know what you did. It's just skin-to-skin contact, but… it was…”

 

Damn this day to hell! I can't even finish my sentences I'm so unbalanced right now. With the way things have been going, I'll be lucky if I don't over-react and shoot a mouse tonight.

 

But Trowa, in all his hardy, sinewy, quiet splendour, distracts me from my thoughts again as he leans up, pale neck stretching, and brushes his silent mouth to mine again. There it is again -- that feeling, that buzz, that shiver I got when he did this before. Closed-mouth and chaste, it is softer, more hesitant than the other time. But nonetheless, I feel myself getting dizzy and my muscles relax to a point of euphoria.

 

Slumping against him, lost in this sense of floating, flying, my mind barely registers the feel of him moving beneath me. Both his hands are on my shoulders now, pushing me up and away so we can part for air. When had I begun to hold my breath?

 

“Heero…”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Was that-- Is this… Are you sure?” I nod, my eyes opening -- when had they closed, dammit? I'm losing control here, -- to see him watching my face. The scrutiny is very much like the silent studying when he messes with my bandages; making sure I'm okay, if it's alright to go ahead with the next one.

 

“Again, Trowa, do it… Do it again. Please?” It's so nice, comfortable though our positions are a bit awkward. I've never felt anything like this before.

 

Sylvia's motion hadn't stirred me up like this. Nor when I did it to him. Why is it different?

 

Trowa moves again, and suddenly we're on our sides. He slowly rolls us over so I'm on the bed, still ever so gently as if he could break me. I think part of it is he doesn't want to startle me. Whirling me over would probably earn him a black eye just because I wasn't expecting the action. But we're fine, I trust him, I'm forcing myself to pull back those instinctual urges to throw him off of me.

 

With some interesting shimmying, we manage to get all the way on the mattress without anything dangling over the edge. Then, his face is above mine again, and my eyes close of their own volition. Instead of doing that thing again like I was hoping, he whispers, “Have you really never been kissed before, Heero?”

 

Kissed? No… I don't think I even know what that word means. I shake my head, watching him as he frowns a little, his hand twirling a clump of my hair by my ear idly. “That's what this was? Kissing?”

 

He nods. “If… If I do it again, would you…” Trowa pauses, brow crinkled again. His hand slips under me and I start as it slips into my waistband. He pulls back hurriedly, with that wide-eyed look of uneasiness again, but he's got my gun in hand and casually tosses it off to the side. The action was a little nervous, like he expected me to get angry with him for it, but I can still reach it if I stretch, and we should be somewhat secure here, so I'm not. There's not really a need for it at the moment.

 

“Could I do it again?” he whispers, and I nod dumbly, too busy trying to will my hands to stop grasping his biceps in vice-like death-grips.

 

His lips move against mine again, like before, parting them slightly, and I manage to hold still this time as his tongue sweeps across my bottom lip. The foreign sensations are almost too overwhelming, but I still manage to not tremble under him as his hands run up and down my ribs lightly. His tongue again -- between my lips.

 

For a moment, Doctor J's voice rings inside my head. Years ago, I had asked him once why I was not suppose to eat liquorice. Surely it would be alright to have some every now and then if my diet was properly balanced to make up for the extra sugars. His reply was why would I want to eat the candy?

 

The question stumped me for a moment before I answered that I liked liquorice. It tasted good and I liked it. He told me that was why. I was to not indulge in things that made me feel pleasant: it was bad for my health and the mission, that eventually it would become an addiction. It wasn't just the liquorice -- anything that could alter my state of mind was to be avoided.

 

I wonder if this counts.

 

My thoughts on how this kissing thing could be a mistake filter back to the front of my mind. Is that why? Because Trowa's kisses make me weak in the knees, because the feeling of him ontop and in control make me light-headed?

 

Kisses can't be `bad for my health and addictive' can they?

 

Trowa's tongue pulls me from my thoughts -- the rough texture of his taste-buds scrape across the roof of my mouth. His hands have stopped at my hip and ear, pushing and pulling gently to shift my body into a position that fits neatly against his.

 

Maybe Doctor J was right. If this affects my state of mind so completely, it must be a `mistake'. Of course, I never did give up liquorice and have yet to meet the consequences of keeping a hidden stash.

 

Trowa pulls away just enough so that our faces aren't touching anymore. As I watch him peer back at me with mixed expressions, I can feel his breath cool the line of saliva at the corner of my mouth. I wonder idly if it's mine or his, but realize I don't care.

 

Surely, this kissing thing is like my liquorice: I can't seem to get enough, and have no idea why.

 

He pulls back more, putting his weight on his knees instead of my hips. “Heero?”

 

“Do you like it?” I ask, suddenly realizing he's only doing this because I asked him to. Well, except for the first one, but,

 

“Yeah. I guess. … I mean, never really liked this, but it… it's different with you.” I cock my head at him. Green eyes looking down and away again -- I hate how it always seems so hard for him to express himself. I don't mind the silence, the quietness; it's the struggle I see him go through when he's not being silent that worries me.

 

I know English is his second language, as it is mine, but it seems like it's more than just the correct vocabulary. “What do you mean, Trowa? You like it, but you don't?”

 

He sighs, and looks back up at me. He shifts and suddenly leans in to capture my mouth with his own. It's more forceful, determined, than the others. With his hands holding me down enough that I can't escape without a struggle, a strange feeling washes over me and I almost can't help letting my eyes roll up and half-close.

 

I feel relaxed. It… it's like I'm melting beneath him, just melting under his heat in this marvel of actions. I now think it is quite possible to become addicted to this.

 

Trowa pulls away again and I catch the muscles around his mouth twitch as if holding back a small smile. “I never liked doing this before. Everyone I was with… it wasn't like this. You're the only one I would like to kiss, and, uh, I…” He shakes his head, emotions flashing on his face for the few moments it takes until his hair settles back in place again.

 

“I like kissing you.” he whispers, as if ashamed of the admission. “I wouldn't mind staying here, laying with you and just… keep kissing. I, I want to kiss you again, Heero, is that alright?”

 

I feel a smile reveal itself on my face and I nod. “I like it when you kiss me too.”

 

So once more, I feel thin, chapped lips descend on my own, and revel in the sensations it evokes. I find if I smile while he kisses me, Trowa leans in further, and maybe it's his weight on my diaphragm that makes it hard to breath, but it's nice.

 

When I piloted Wing, I sometimes left the gravity generator off because I loved the weightless, floating feeling that made it seem like my heart was in my throat. This is just like that. I feel like I'm flying, even though I'm really pinned to a feather mattress in a French inn.

 

When Trowa starts to stop again, the feeling ebbs away and I can't help but throw my arms around his neck to keep him still. He twitches, I can feel the full-body wince as my action startles him, but Trowa relaxes when all I do after that is keep pushing our lips together.

 

He lets me experiment, shifting to hover over me until I suckle lightly at his bottom lip. Then we're on our sides again, facing each other with a leg of his still thrown over both of mine and a hand palming the small of my back. We have to wriggle around a bit to get comfortable but the lumps in the mattress are inklings in my mind as he opens and closes his mouth while still pressed to my own.

 

It kind of reminds me of fishes.

 

It's like several quick little kisses that slur into each other to make one big wholly amazing kiss. If I'm to avoid anything that makes me feel good and pleasant inside, I'd better pack for Mars and leave him quick.

 

I'm not sure how long it is that we stay like that, wrapped up in each other's limbs and just kissing over and over again, but eventually I have to pull away for air. As I gasp in deep, ragged breaths, I watch him with a soft expression. Trowa's got beads of sweat on his hairline and his hair's all mussed.

 

I never really understood what people meant by the whole physical attractiveness thing. I can't look at someone and say they're cute, or `hot', or gorgeous; I can only describe the physical features of their person. The aestheticness of socially-understood pleasant features was beyond my comprehension.

 

I do, however, understand the concept of beauty as a whole.

 

And Trowa is quite possibly the only person I would describe as such.

 

“Um…” I'm lost in my thoughts again, dammit. Trowa looks at me with that uneasy expression again as his hand trickles up my arm, the fingers dragging along and lifting up like spider legs.

 

“What's wrong?” I ask, figuring his hesitation is not another request for this kissing phenomenon.

 

He actually blushes.

 

“There's uh… there's more to this, you know.” Trowa replies quietly, his voice low and breathy. For some reason I get the idea that he doesn't want to be overheard, but that's a bit ridiculous, so I dismiss it.

 

“More to kissing?”

 

He shakes his head. “No, not really… I mean, yeah, but, kissing is a part of something bigger… There's, well, other things to go along with it.” When he had turned his back to me earlier before I wrestled him to the bed, his body had been tense, rigid and poised. He had been ready to either fight or bolt, and right now, I can see him assuming the same posture.

 

I know he would not suggest these `other things' if he didn't want to try them, but I am worried that maybe he only mentioned them for me. Like he didn't really want to but would go through with it if I asked him to.

 

In fact, just about everything he's done these past couple of weeks has been for me. Every time I ask him for something, he's never turned me down. Even if it sometimes interferes with his own life. Why am I more important to him than himself? He's not exactly neglecting himself, but Trowa hasn't once not dropped his own plans to help me with mine.

 

Perhaps I should return the favour. Especially if he seems so uncomfortable with this more-to-kissing thing.

 

“What do you want to do, Trowa?”

 

Green eyes widen in surprise and he tenses back slightly, wary. “No, really.” I tell him, reaching to wrap an arm around his waist to pull him back to me. “You said before that you'd like to just stay here and kiss, and I think I'd like that.” Beats trying to find the appropriate adapter for my laptop so I can send J a report. “But, if you want to stop or go further or do something else, that's fine too. What do you want to do, Trowa?”

 

After a moment of watching his eyes stare at me in disbelief, the tension in his body ebbs away and Trowa gives me a small smile. “I… I think I'd like to try some more, if it's okay with you.”

 

I nod. “You're in charge.”

 

He starts at that. “What? … Really?”

 

“You obviously know more than I do, Trowa, it's common sense that you should be the one in charge.” Even as I say the words, I understand more -- even though he's always done what I asked, he hates it when I force him. Like when I sat on him and crushed our mouths together, Trowa was distressed, but even when I demanded things of him he was fine when he was the one sitting on me. It wasn't a control issue, I realise, it's just how he is. I was more comfortable when he dominated the situation and felt more at ease following his command; he's more comfortable when he's the one in control.

 

I wonder if it's because being submissive means being at a disadvantage if something goes wrong. I wonder if that's why he's never really disagreed with me… What if he'd been pinned, trapped, when something went awry and he doesn't want to be in a similar situation again.

 

“Besides, I like it when you're on top of me, and obviously you like it better too.” He blinks again -- Trowa does that a lot -- but then gives me the same shy smile he had when I told him I was fine with him helping me bathe, back at the circus.

 

“O-okay…” If it wasn't Trowa, bearer of the steady inflectionless voice, I would say the reply had been shaky. However, his face is more open than I've seen it before, the faint crows-feet in the corner of pensive eyes, the slight curl of one side of his mouth.

 

Both of us I think are letting this situation get ahead of us. And I don't think either of us is willing to stop.

 

“Just… just trust me, okay?” he murmurs, angling his body so that he's still mostly on his side but hovering over me while I'm on my back again. “We'll stop if we have to?” I nod, understanding from Trowa's not-so-neutral-anymore tone that he's talking about himself just as much as me.

 

A hand flits down to my hip, but instead of clasping the pelvic bone there like I expect, Trowa dances his fingers lightly across the width of my hips. Like butterfly wings beating in the air, his long fingers flutter down to play a soft song along my crotch.

 

The shorts I've got on seem to have shrunk.

 

His other hand remains on my pectoral muscle, thumb swishing up and down to repeatedly run over my nipple there. And Trowa kisses me again.

 

I get to feel his tongue in my mouth again, and that euphoric relaxation appears again. He shifts against me, closer, and I catch sight of my gun behind him before my eyes close involuntarily. My hand reaches out to shove the weapon under the pillow just shy of my head, and then I run it along the length of Trowa's back. He shivers under my touch.

 

I work my tongue and lips to return his own actions as my hands trail along his long body. I think the seams in my shorts are going to split, and it's a sensation I've never felt before. Of course I'm familiar with the concept of what's happening under the teasing hand on my groin, but outside of a few mornings with messed sheets, it's never been personal experience.

 

When Trowa moves again to grind a hip into mine, I know he's having the same problem with his jeans. I clasp a hand on a buttock for some instinctual reason, and he gasps into my mouth, pushing against me bodily and his hand spasms from where it's cupping my crotch.

 

Somehow I can breathe again and, panting, I watch Trowa's face as he gives me that look-over to see if I'm alright. He nods to himself and ducks back in for a brief little kiss before moving away. Trowa sits up, still hovering, and gives my hip a light squeeze.

 

“Take off your shoes and socks for me.” he murmurs, and plants a small kiss on my navel. It's an odd request and even stranger action, but I nod and sit up as he leaves the bed. The things he was doing with his fingers and tongue and hips… I'm still slightly out of breath and it is somewhat difficult to untie my sneakers with trembling hands.

 

I'm peeling off my socks when Trowa returns from the bathroom and crosses to his bags. He's blank-faced again and carrying a tea-towel; I watch him rummage through and pull out a first aid kit. From it, he palms a small bottle and tiny square of paper. “What're you doing?” I ask, confused.

 

Trowa comes back to the bed, leaving his stuff open and ransacked to kiss my mouth deeply again. Standing beside the mattress, his hand reaches over my head to drop his three treasures on the pillow, and then he is shirtless.

 

Only rarely have I ever seen him bare-chested. Most of the times were glimpses as he shucked off one shirt to hurriedly tug on a cleaner one. The most skin I usually ever see from him was at the circus when he wore the sleeveless costume for performances, so this is new and novel as much as anything else.

 

I notice he is edgy as I take in his bared skin. I think it is self-consciousness because of the scars there. Though my own are large-and-harsh obvious ones that pepper my body, his are faint and smaller but outnumber my own three to one.

 

Trowa doesn't say anything as he crawls back into the twin-sized bed. As soon as he is close enough, I lean forward to press my lips against the front of his shoulder, kissing one of the darker marks on his body. It seems to relax him, and we sit in each other's laps to practice the wonderful art of kissing some more.

 

He one-handedly removes his own shoes and socks, and then presses forward into me, forcing me on my back again. Trowa kneels again, straddling my thighs, and lays a trail of delicately chaste kisses down my sternum. His hands hold my hips to the mattress and I can't even writhe under his ministrations, let alone buck like my body wants to.

 

The heat and tightness returns rather quickly to the front of my shorts as he -- nibbles? -- makes his way along the contours of my chest. My hands slide up and down his sides and back, finger-pads detecting the raised scars and oddly enough, some dips where it seems the skin had been gouged out. Chiselled lines running diagonally across the expanse of his back make me realize it is worse than his front.

 

But I can feel his breath hitch ever so slightly whenever my fingers stray too long on any particular mark, so I continue sweeping my hands from his shoulders down to his hips. I squeeze his shoulders because it seems like a good idea, and occasionally have the urge to dip my hands along his chest to tweak his nipples like he does to me.

 

By the time I realize Trowa's been slowly working my shorts down my hips, it's hard to breathe and even harder to not squirm. It's an interesting feeling, this helpless urge to move my hips. Sweat trickles down my forehead and drips into the shell of my ear.

 

Then, my shorts are gone and Trowa's got my leg bent at the knee. He spreads my legs apart some more, shifting his own to settle between mine. Fingers grip the juncture where my thigh becomes my butt as he leans up to kiss me on the mouth again. After some more saliva escapes our mouth to glisten our skin like the sweat, he reaches up towards the pillow.

 

I realize he never answered my question before, so I repeat it, a bit breathlessly. “What are you doing, Trowa?”

 

Glass-green eyes glance down at me, naked and sweaty. “You said,” he replies carefully, showing me the tiny plastic bottle of hand lotion, “that it was alright if we went further.” I nod and detect a blush on his pale cheeks. He's flushed, hot, but the pink still shows up this close. “Well, the next part is, uh…” Trowa looks away again, fingers spasming around the lotion, “sex. Is it still alright to keep going? We don't have to--” he says quickly, words tumbling from his mouth with his narrow accent becoming more prominent.

 

But it's not his reaction that makes me blink, it's his words.

 

Doctor J gave me a book to read about sex, but the only thing he actually said about it was to not bother. Perfect Soldiers didn't indulge in corporal selfishness like that, but should at least know about it in case it came up on a mission. It was on the list of things J told me to avoid: recreational drugs, moderate to heavy drinking, my precious liquorice.

 

Sounds like fun.

 

Besides, I've never before felt like this. I love this boneless, floating ecstasy. I want more.

 

I nod. “It's okay. If you still want to do it, then I'm game.” How did one of Maxwell's silly phrases make its way into my vocabulary? Trowa understands its meaning though and nods relieved. He ducks in for some more kissing, his hands caught between us awkwardly as he opens the bottle of lotion.

 

A hand returns to my chest, teasing the hardened nub there, as his tongue invades my mouth again. I like having it explore my mouth, but I want to give as much as get, so my own hands return the favour as I push his tongue back into his mouth with my own.

 

Trowa starts a bit as I run my tongue along his line of teeth, but he doesn't tense up or pull away. I'm still aware of his need for command, so I don't push as far as he has while I lick his palate and tongue. Then a finger, wet and gummy, trails along the inside of my thigh to rest gently, questioningly, on the sensitive skin between my legs.

 

I have no idea what he's doing, but Trowa obviously knows what to do, so I break our kiss and nod. He gives me this sad little one-sided smile that I've never seen before, and quietly give my nose a tiny lick. It's a cute gesture that makes my heart flutter faster than it already was.

 

He drops his head to suckle the underside of my jaw, trailing his lips along my throat to my clavicle as his finger dips lower to circle--

 

“Trowa?”

 

“Ah?” he hums.

 

“That's my ass.” He stops to lift his chest from mine and look me in the eye. After a moment, he swallows and nods.

 

“I know. That's… how this works.” I knit my eyebrows, trying to remember the book Doctor J had given me years ago. Trowa sighs a little and pulls away, but I latch on and don't let him leave.

 

“No, no, it… it's fine.” I assure him, still trying to process the information. The pieces gleaned from the book don't quite fit into this picture I'm building in my head and I'm not quite sure following through would be in the best interest of the mission, but…

 

Trowa looks like he understands, and quietly tells me in a few short, jerky sentences what he was going to do. The phrase “it's going to hurt a little,” doesn't faze me, it's the idea that he's obviously done this before that makes me start. The mental image I have makes more sense with the newly-inputted data, but I'm still confused. The only time I've had a hand there besides the occasional medical exam was for cavity searches, and neither situation was comfortable. How will he make it be pleasurable?

 

He mumbles one more sentence and for the first time since this started, I think maybe we really shouldn't be doing this. There's no way he's going to fit his--

 

“We can stop-- we don't have to do this…” he whispers, still unmoving as he waits for my decision. I shake my head -- everything else Trowa has done has left me feeling good inside. Besides, I trust him, his judgement, and his knowledge.

 

“It would be easier from behind.” I comment evenly, still unsure but unwilling to show him that. Immediately, I feel him go rigid, breath hitching in his diaphragm. Having gotten to know him within the past few weeks, I can tell something's wrong. I have no idea how to make it right, though; I don't even know what it is that--

 

“Maybe. But… I'd like to do it like this? Please?”

 

I search my memory for any other instance Trowa has ever said the word `please' to me. I can find none.

 

“Okay.” I nod and lean up to brush our mouths together. “I trust you. Whatever you want.”

 

Shit, should I really have said that? What if Trowa asks something of me that I cannot do?

 

But he only seems to go limp in my arms, burying his face in my collarbone. After a moment, lips pucker against my heated skin and he slowly works his way back up to kneeling between my legs.

 

Have we done this before? Or is this déjà vu from one of those uncomfortably warm dreams I sometimes have?

 

No, no, I would remember if Trowa had ever worried my earlobe in his mouth.

 

The tacky finger returns with even more hesitance, but it's actually quite pleasant how the lotion glides across my skin, seeping in and allowing Trowa's skin to slip along without any friction hang-ups. His hands disappear for a moment, and then the finger is inching inside. As his lips assault my throat and one hand grips my hips, Trowa smoothes the crinkled edges of the muscle bearing entrance to my innards.

 

It's an odd sensation, but not entirely uncomfortable. “You have to relax,” Trowa whispers, tongue flicking out to lave across the shell of my ear. I thought I was, it's actually the most relaxed I've felt in years, and though I'm a bit wary of what I think he means, I do still believe he knows what he's doing. So I try to at least not be so tense, and the ring of muscle gives under his long, thin finger.

 

But then there are two inside. His middle finger is slick with the lotion too and the fit has gone from not uncomfortable at all to uncomfortable enough that I'm slightly worried. I hope he was right when he said everything would stretch enough to fit without tearing.

 

Idly I wonder if I'll be unable to perform at the next mission. Doctor J would have a conniption fit if he found out I skipped a mission because my ass was too sore from letting another man have sex with me. Probably not as bad as if he found my hidden stash of liquorice though. He always hated it when I went behind his back for something frivolous.

 

Then-- “Ah gawd.”

 

I cannot stop my eyes from rolling up into the back of their sockets, the gasp leaving my lungs with a force nearly as strong as the sensation itself. “It's… never done that before.” I comment shakily.

 

Trowa snorts, his lips in a small smile, and he moves his fingers up again to brush that vile organ inside. It's not as powerful of a sensation as before but just as pleasurable, and I belatedly realize my fingernails are digging crescents into Trowa's shoulders. Didn't even know I was gripping him like that…

 

But he pays it no mind and continues to massage the tight muscle until it's no longer uncomfortable for the two fingers. A few more prods at my prostate, and a third finger somehow -- somehow -- slips inside too. It feels too full, too open; I'm worried there will be a mess of blood and faeces on his hand and on the bed.

 

Trowa doesn't seem to even be `here' -- he's resting his forehead on my collarbone, his breath hitting my skin as they're released in harsh pants from his lips. His other hand is still gripping my pelvic bone like he'll fall off with anything weaker. But then he twists and I jerk at the friction.

 

“Stop, stop! Trowa, wait!”

 

He immediately halts, pulling back to look me in the face wide-eyed. “Are you okay?” he implores hurriedly, looking nearly scared to death.

 

I have to take a moment to breath, my eyes closed. I swallow and nod, “Yeah… just… just don't do that again.” He nods emphatically, pulling his fingers away. He's leaning away again, dammit, like I'm going to hit him, and sure enough,

 

“I'm sorry.” I cannot imagine what the hell it is that makes him so subservient like this. “I didn't mean to hurt you, I--” He's always sorry, he's always afraid he's going to harm me…

 

“No, it's okay, please… I, I want to keep going, I just needed…”

 

He nods and takes a moment to dump some more lotion on his hand. Then the two fingers are back again, turning sideways and pressing down to push in and depress and pull out and… “Better?” I nod, swallowing. It feels nice, though still a little too… loose.

 

That vile third finger returns, but the extra lotion slicks the skin so I don't get another friction burn this time. Cautiously, he repeats the action I asked him not to do, but it doesn't hurt this time and his middle finger hits my prostate again.

 

I take in a sharp inhale and there's a chilly sensation running up my spine. It fades quickly as it spreads out, but Trowa's nose is against the underside of my jaw again. It's ticklish in a nice way and it's another point of contact between the two of us. Where he touches me feels hotter than the rest of my body, even more so that where he isn't touching me feels cold. It's an odd sensation that I don't recall ever having before--

 

“Oh!”

 

Trowa kisses my throat and I can feel his lips curved up into a smile as he rubs that tingling spot inside. I almost wish I hadn't waited so long to do this, but then I figure it wouldn't be the same if it wasn't Trowa. He's so good at his, his long fingers moving--

 

“Tro!”

 

Again he stops, shifting only to look me in the face. “What's wrong?”

 

It takes a moment of breathing to manage, “Nothing… nothing at all…”

 

He nods and pulls his fingers away anyway. Now I'm really uncomfortable about this -- I feel too open, no matter how much I contract the muscles. But he doesn't notice as he's reaching over my head.

 

I watch Trowa take the small square he'd found. It's foil or shiny paper or something, so it rips quite easily even under his slick fingers. For a moment, my stomach rolls -- those fingers were just inside of me. That can't be sanitary…

 

He moves stiffly, reaching down between us to undo the buttons on his jeans. Then, as if he's busy deciding something inside his head, Trowa pauses rather abruptly and takes a few deep breaths. Deep contemplation it seems, since he stops everything he's doing to just close his eyes and breath heavily. Finally, he rolls to lay beside me, lifts his hips and pushes his jeans off, revealing a tight pair of underwear. His legs bend up and his jeans come off, and then he repeats the actions for his briefs.

 

Completely naked now, he rolls back over me slowly and begins to lay a trail of wet kisses down my sternum again. A few thudding heartbeats later, I realize he's struggling to slip the latex on. I don't have any experience in it so I can't help, but I lay my hands over his as if to guide them. He stops trembling so much and slows his movements, and once it's on, I ask, “What do you need a condom for?”

 

Trowa blinks at me, hands still covering his groin as he straddles my thigh. “What?”

 

“You're not going to get me pregnant, so unless you have HIV or something, there's no reason you need to use one.” He licks his lower lip like I've seen him do before, and then sighs.

 

“I… I don't like how it feels without one when I'm bottom… I thought maybe you…” There's that blush again, straight across the bridge of his nose. “Besides… less mess to clean up afterwards…”

 

I nod, pulling my knee up further to give him more room. He leans over and we kiss some more as his hand dances around between my thighs again. I can feel his fingers touch the slick flesh, joined by another latex-covered digit and I take in a sharp breath as he pushes inside slowly.

 

“You have to relax,” he repeats before plundering my mouth with his tongue, his hands stroking at my thighs, at my stomach. He paws my chest and arms, angles my face gently, distracting me from the uncomfortable action. Now I know why he refused to not continue with three fingers -- two would not have been enough, I think. As it is, maybe he should have spent more time with the evil third finger.

 

But then he pauses, and I realize he can't go any further. Shit, if he was any longer… But Trowa begins to pull back just as slowly as he pushed in and all I can think is maybe I should give up liquorice to have more time with Trowa.

 

“H'ro… do me a favour,” he hisses in my ear, tongue flicking out to leave wet trails along the shell. “Move. Don't just lay there, …”

 

It takes a moment to find the strength to lift my hands from where they're gripping the bedcover beneath us, but I grab him like before, running my fingers and palm and heel along the contours of his chiselled body. He pushes in a little faster and I wriggle under him.

 

I like it better when he's moving in than moving out, and he's nipping the sensitive skin under my jaw again so I writhe beneath him with the overload of bliss--

 

He halts, rigid. After a moment, I do too, wondering what's wrong. “Don't… don't struggle.” Trowa breaths, voice cracking and giving out as if he has no air. “Oh gawd, please don't struggle…”

 

“I won't,” I assure, finding it hard to speak as well. “I won't.” An idle though flits across my mind: struggle for what reason? He's not going to slit my throat in the middle of this, is he?

 

No, I can trust Trowa. He wouldn't. But then why--

 

“Don't move against me,” he murmurs, still struggling for words, “move with me, pulling not pushing…” I nod, understanding, and do what he says.

 

The effect is instantaneous. We both groan as our hips and chests come together, pressed up against each other. He nods and mutters something about thanks under his breath as he pulls out again. He lays a palm on my hot flesh, hand curving over so his long fingers are resting on my lower belly, and he digs the heel of his hand in as he pushes upward.

 

Pretty soon I'm clawing at him, embarrassed at my lack of control but unable to stop the mewling and spasming. “Ah, Tro, Tro! I can't-- please…”

 

The sweat on his hairline's dripping down his face in even little lines, his lips bitten down on the inside as cheeks raise to help squint his eyes shut. He's panting, rocking back and forth in an even pattern, quick but gentle rhythm. As my hand latches onto one of his pectoral muscles, Trowa's mouth falls open and out pours a cry that hitches at the end. His head falls forward, forehead against my chest as his hand clasp my hip tight enough to leave bruises with the other shaking around me.

 

I follow the urge to move my bent knee, bringing it up to lay my calf across the small of his back. The toes on my other foot are clenching without my knowledge and I'm half-afraid they'll fall off or something.

 

That stupid spot inside gets hit again as Trowa thrusts in, and it feels like my ribcage caves in, the air in my lungs whooshing out to visibly muss Trowa's brown hair on my chest. He starts to shiver and I get the sudden fear I'm going to pass out from the overload of sensations when he drives in one last time and we both gasp.

 

It's white light exploding, dark closing in, pleasure so good it hurts.

 

My head lolls back and I stretch involuntarily, muscles trembling from the strain. His shoulder ridges arch up and Trowa makes a small noise in the back of his throat. It's so hard to keep my eyes open, so I let them close as spurts of hot liquid coat his hand and my stomach. My lower belly tightens and I get a little dizzy as my leg slips off of his hips, my hands groping weakly at his sweaty flesh.

 

Trowa topples forward, forehead skimming my breastbone as he lays down on top of me limply. For a moment I think he's unconscious and boneless, but then he stirs ever so slightly and I give a quiet moan as he ends up massages sorely sensitive flesh. I can't tell if it's pain or pleasure though.

 

I'm still trying to catch my breath when he gets up onto his hands and knees. He kisses my cheek and I open my eyes in time to see him pull out. “Auh…” is all that I can manage, and he gives me a tired smirk.

 

He pulls off the condom and knots the opening closed before tossing it into the nearby trash-bin. I get my limbs working enough to push the lotion bottle off the mattress, and we wince at the silence-breaking thump it gives when it hits the floor. Trowa leans up and takes the tea-towel he had brought in.

 

I notice now it's damp, and he runs it over my stomach with limp hands, his fingers unable to clench all the way. But I manage to help clean up the mess on our flesh and the towel's shoved off the bed too as he lays beside me. I kiss him on the shoulder since it's the closest without having to move too much, and we smile before falling asleep.

 

When I wake up, it must be only an hour or so later because the sun is still letting in light through the window. But it is significantly darker in room and from the pattern of light streaming through the curtains, it must be evening as opposed to the next morning. Spring in Europe, it could be anywhere from five to nine in the evening. Is it really only that late?

 

I shift, wondering why the hell I'm so sleepy this early, and accidentally jostle Trowa's form beside me. He gives a short, breathy moan but doesn't move. Oddly enough, he's on his side, his back flush with my front, and it takes a moment to register the fact that we're both naked.

 

Still naked. Because we had sex.

 

Because… why? There wasn't a reason to, yet we did it anyway. I don't understand; it was the most relaxed and pleasant handful of hours I can remember ever having, but I still can't find justification for it.

 

Then, an idle thought -- would this be just as much enjoyable if it had been with Maxwell? Or the other pilots, Relena, Sylvia, or that buxom nurse J had at the lab… But I know I'll never find out; Trowa's the only one I trust enough to get this close, and since this was so good, there's no reason to--

 

Was this a one-time thing or will Trowa and I do this again?

 

Maybe not tonight, but tomorrow or after the war…

 

Fuck, what if this was a mistake? I'm not suppose to be having relationships with people, I'm not suppose to compromise the cause by getting involved. This is more than just some hidden stash of liquorice, more than just one little weakness--

 

He mumbles under his breath and I only catch part of a French word, but Trowa turns onto his back. The moment our skins touch, he's almost standing on the floor beside his side of the bed. Our eyes meet and for a second, I think he's going to continue running.

 

But instead, he closes his eyes and takes a deep, ragged breath as he stumbles back into the bed beside me.

 

He mumbles something that I think is an apology with half an explanation, but he's laying on my chest and trying to pull the blanket over and I suddenly feel sleepy. So we scootch around enough to get the covers over us and just hold on to each other for a few silent minutes.

 

Trowa's breath hitches and he nuzzles his cheek into my collarbone. “Okay?” I murmur, wondering if he's thinking it's a mistake too.

 

He nods and whispers, “Best in a long time… You?”

 

It takes a few heartbeats to inventory the swell of pride and comfort, the gentles warmth inside, the itching urge to press my lips to his brow. “Same. I, I like this…” I sigh and run a hand through his hair. The way his hair is soft around my fingers is pleasant. “Trowa?”

 

After a long moment, he shifts, looking up at me. He squeezes my hand and says, “This feels right.”

 

I nod, understanding.

 

His hand not holding mine reaches up to touch my heart where his ear had been just moments ago. “I can feel your heart.” he whispers, then glances away before leaning up to push our lips together for a chaste second before laying his head back down. “I can hear it beat, and see it argue with your head…” Trowa moves his leg, enveloping me some more. “I can feel it, and… and it's nice. Feels… like home.”

 

“Home?” I've never really understood that word either -- just another word people used interchangeably with place of residence but with some underlying connotation I never got.

 

Trowa nods, moving his hand slightly so he can peer at our intertwined fingers. He wriggles his, slipping them around in my grasp, and it's the oddest thing -- such a simple, meaningless gesture yet so significant and uplifting. “Home is when you're safe and cared for. It's a refuge, a sanctuary, it doesn't matter where, as long as…” he snuggles his face further into my chest as if to hide, “as long as you're with someone you l-- someone you trust and care about.”

 

I mull over that bit of information. “Presumably, this person would return your feelings?” He hums affirmative, still fiddling with our clasped hands. If this is a mistake then, I must be the worst Perfect Soldier ever because there's no way I'm giving this up. Liquorice I can live without; Trowa is another story altogether. “Then… then I too feel at home.”

 

Trowa moves again, sliding his body across mine as he lifts himself up on one hand to hover over me. There's a long silence where we just look at each other, and I get the distinct feeling I should share my liquorice with him before he smiles. Trowa nods and kisses my forehead, right between my eyes where the slope of my nose starts.

 

“Then no matter what happens,” he whispers solemnly, as if making a vow, as he lowers himself back down to lay across my chest, “we'll always have this.

 

“If we make it to the end of the war or not, we'll have had this sanctuary.”

 

I nod and bring our clasped hands to my face. He smiles wearily as I kiss his knuckle, bringing my other hand closer to pull him by the waist. “Home.” I agree.

 

And we went back to sleep.

 

___________________________________________________

 

owari