Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ No One ❯ No One ( One-Shot )

No One

by wind_chijmes

Pairing : 3x5

Rating : NC-17

Warning : Yaoi, lemon, angst, POV changes, TWT (I have taken certain liberties with the

GW timeline!)

Archive : Other than site-owners who had already obtained permission, other please

inform me beforehand. Thank you.

Disclaimer : GW belongs to Sunrise, Bandai, Sotsu Agency. NOT ME. Don't sue.

Spoilers : Trowa's past and certain happenings in the GW storyline.

Author's note : This is the first time I've ever attempted this pairing; it just seems more

difficult (to me, at least) than a 1x5 or a 2x5. I pray I've gotten my facts right!
Feedback most appreciated! Flames will be laughed at.

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Sometimes when you look hard enough into the fire, you can see things. Illusionary things…that exist in your mind and dance before your eyes. Fiery-orange, red-gold things…how they flicker, and lick at the edges of your consciousness until you are bound in that dream-like haze between reality and imagination.

I wonder what he sees when he looks into the fire.

I see the circus…Catherine, the ringmaster, every one in the faceless crowd. One image burning into golden ashes, then followed by another. I do nothing to stop them. Not even when the face of the real Trowa Barton finally hovers like a nightmarish glow.

I have chosen my path years ago. I have no complaints.

But what about him? What does he see? His eyes are so dark I can see but the innermost reflections of the flames in those deep orbs. Does he see his life, from the beginning to this moment? Before he became a Gundam pilot…before the duel with Khushrenada, or after? Or is he envisioning the duel itself?

He came in defeat, and I couldn't turn him away.

I hand him a mug. It contains tea - something hard found on L3.

He takes it and holds it in both hands. "Xie xie." He says softly.

We sit in silence after that. There seems no more to say. Perhaps I should get him to talk about the duel…I hear people say it is not good to bottle up one's feelings. But I don't know…I do it so often myself. Is it really not good? If I speak of every emotion to ever pass within me, will it stop blood-streaked nightmares from haunting me? Probably not.

I say nothing.

"Is…is Catherine really your sister?"

I look up at him. He is staring deep into the tea in the mug, as if he is trying to decipher the amber liquescent swirls.

"No." I say honestly. It is true…we are not connected by blood (1). She is my surrogate sister, and mother. She is a miracle - dumb luck and fortune on my part that I have her in my life.

"Do you have any real sister?"

"No." It is true again. Nanashi grew up amongst mercenaries. I had fathers, brothers, comrades…but never a sister until Catherine.

"I did." He says, looking up so suddenly I am caught in that obsidian gaze. "I had many. But I don't remember any of them." He stares down at the liquid again.

I don't have to hear the rest of his unspoken words to guess the meaning in his silence. He had had a family, many sisters, probably brothers…but now he remembers none of them for he was sent away before he could (2). Solitary in schooling, solitary in training. Is that not what your story is, Dragon warrior?

It is a story that is his own, yet it runs on the same axis as mine, and those of the other pilots.

"Do you fight for her, Trowa?"

"Yes." I gaze deep into the flickering flames. "Not just for her. For the circus. For L3."

"For yourself too?"

"Perhaps."

"I fight for myself." He keeps quiet for a moment, then laughs. It is a harsh, bitter sound.

"Only for yourself?"

He does not reply for some time, choosing instead to let my words hang in the air, as if awaiting his judgment. "Yes." He whispers finally.

What liars the war makes of us.

"You can tell me who you fight for, another day."

His breath catches sharply, an audible hiss in the silent air. "Perhaps the day when I return the victor." He stands up abruptly, turning away from me. "It is late, Trowa. We should sleep."

++++++++++

The circus camp is deathly silent by the time we have returned. The night is dark but the moonshine lights our way. The air is still, save for the thrill of crickets deep within the grasses. I have no fear of nights. To me, this is all peaceful. Too peaceful, but it is my solace tonight. I will think no more of my defeat. I will let nothing touch my peace tonight.

His caravan is small, but it serves us well. We do not need much space for a night's rest.

The same moonlight angles into the tiny window in the darkened space of his caravan. I stand to one side, while he pulls out sheets and blankets. I will sleep on the bottom of the bunkers. He has told me this is fine. I stand in the shadow, so he can see by the moonlight as he works silently.

The silvery light catches the strands of his red-brown hair and as he turns to look at me, the single verdant orb that I can see turns silvery-green. It startles me, how he looks so different yet the same under moonlight. I wonder if I look different as well?

The thought has entered my mind and my body reacts instinctively. My eyes slide around to search for a mirror. It is laughable, these reflexes of mine. But oh, how well they serve me in battle. After all, battle is the only thing I am good for.

"Wufei." His voice is so quiet it is no more than a thought.

I would have answer, but something catches my attention. Something unnaturally bright and oddly-shaped. I walk over and pick it up.

It is a half-mask. The bright red half-mouth grinning at me out of a pasty-white base.

"Do you wear this, Trowa?" I say without thinking.

++++++++++

"Do you wear this, Trowa?"

My mouth opens as if to answer, but pregnant seconds pass before any sound comes. "Yes."

"Why?"

His questions get harder with each subsequent one. He is not asking me about that half-mask. No, he is…my breath trembles. "Because I need to."

His gaze is dark even under the moonlight. "Because you want to."

"Because it is me!" Why does he have to ask me such things? "Because I am it!"

He falls silent at my harsh words.

Without my knowing, my heartbeat has tripled in that few seconds it takes me to speak. But it is true, yet again. It is ironic how I cannot get rid of that mask. It sits on my costume chest, and I wear it when I perform. I need it, and somehow I don't need it. I have my own half-mask even when I don't perform. It is my own face.

I am not Trowa Barton.

He turns the mask in his hands, tracing the grotesque clown mouth with his fingers. Strands of escaped hair shields his eyes from me. I watch as he turns it over and over in his hands. The air grows heavy - a weight on my shoulders. Still, his hands will not stop.

His arms rise, and bring the half-mask to his face.

I move before I think and slap the mask away from his hands. "Don't wear it!" My voice sounds shrill in the thickened air.

Somewhere in the darkness, we hear the mask skitter across the flooring.

Sloe eyes look into me. "Who are you?" He says in the barest of whispers.

"Nanashi." I hear myself replying in a voice that sounds unlike mine. "I have no name. And I am no one." The words drag out of me. I do not care if he understands me. I turn blindly to the bed. "We should sleep."

A warm pressure captures my arm before I can move away.

"I want to be no one."

I turn and we stare at each other. The moonlight passes behind clouds, and I cannot see his face clearly. It is but a plane of blurry lines, but his eyes shine clear. His hand tightens on my arm.

"I want to forget."

In that one sentence, it seems years have suddenly fallen away from him and I see not a fierce warrior before me, but a weary child. Children, aren't we all? In years, but not in war. We have never truly been children in this life.

He needs to forget. I need to forget. Perhaps…we can both wear that faceless mask this night.

++++++++++

He moved like the shadow itself, melding into it, becoming it, before emerging again as he stood by the narrow cot. He moved with quick efficiency, wasting no time, no effort. He was beautiful this way, an almost savage beauty that brimmed beneath his gracefulness. His clothes fell to the floor as he shed them. A hand reached up to tug the hairtie off.

Even as loosened raven hair spilled around his neck, he turned and waited. He hid none of himself, allowing the faintest glimmers of moonlight to trail the angles and curves of his body.

Verdant eyes watched in almost awe, before he sought to follow.

Long, pale limbs unfolded. Trowa shed his own clothes, feeling no shame either. What shame could there be, if this was a meeting between friends?

For a quiet moment, they simply gazed at each other, allowing the stirrings of heat ripple through their naked forms, letting the hunger build degree by degree even as they touched with nothing but their eyes.

The Chinese pilot slid into the narrow cot, laying himself on the sheets, still waiting. He spoke nothing, but there was no need for words.

Trowa climbed into the cramped space, fitting himself over the other darker-skinned body, slowly pressing their skin together from arms to chests to legs. When their groins finally met, the pressure dragged ragged moans from both of them.

They did not kiss, not yet; it seemed wrong somehow. Trowa sank his cheek against the other's, and listened to the twinned breathing. The cot creaked with their combined weights.

"We can both forget, Trowa."

As if the words were a catalyst, it drove the surreality from Trowa's mind and replaced it with burning need. He peppered rough, nipping kisses down a corded, slender neck. Strong, wiry arms rose and twined around Trowa's own neck, pulling his head deeper into copper skin.

He inhaled deeply, breathing in the mixed scent of aged youthfulness and bone-deep fatigue, of sweet incense overlaid with salt of sweat, of Chang Wufei who became no one in this shared bed.

As his lips burnt into the column of copper throat, the Chinese boy arched his head, and a soft fall of raven hair splayed on the white pillow.

The air was no longer still. It throbbed with harsh gasps and stuttered breathing.

Copper hands ran over his skin, as if trying to map out every inch with just palms and fingers. And everywhere the touch lingered, it sent another pulse of pleasure through Trowa's sensitised skin. They touched blindly, hungrily, as if they could consume each other with lips and hands.

Their groins rocked together and Wufei tore his mouth away. "Don't wait!"

Trowa's hand scrambled for something, anything, to ease their joining.

"No." Wufei said harshly. His legs raised and curled around the pale waist atop his. "Don't wait."

Pale lips worked in refusal. "I could hurt…"

"No!" The tenor was husky with need and something akin to desperation. "Please!"

He knew not what snapped his reserve. Perhaps it was the plea, and yet it could be his own body taking control of his mind. But he pulled those slim, muscled legs higher around his waist, and surged up to nudge at the tight entrance.

It was hard for both of them. The air trembled with their laboured rasping.

Trowa groaned deep in his throat. His body was so taut he felt he could snap; the tension reverberating in his every vein, until he felt he could control no longer and push himself in all the way. And yet something held him back. The same tension in the body beneath his as it strained to fit him in. Pain that could not be hidden surfacing in sobbed breathing as the tight, hot sheath took him in inch by agonising inch.

The cot whined in protest beneath them, straining just as they were.

Fingers scrabbled at auburn hair. Wufei almost clawing at the pale, dampened forehead that loomed above him, pushing the hair away so he could see into deepest green eyes. He needed to see those eyes, to reach that strength that glimmered behind the emerald glow, to become that strength.

He wondered if all his thoughts were spoken by his own desperate gaze, for he thought he felt sudden understanding even as Trowa began to move.

Then he thought no more. Thrusts slow and drawn out. The rhythm was ceaseless, each heavy stroke sending sparks of pleasure and pain surging in relentless waves through his body. He cried out, clenching and kilting up to meet Trowa.

Their eyes held each other with an all-encompassing grip; an invisible, steady connection in counterpoint to their heaving bodies. So they could get lost in obsidian and verdant. Their minds were conscious only of the escalating tide of pleasure that hurtled them towards the edge.

And they did forget. All they could do was feel, the unbearable sliding of flesh against flesh, the haze of burning pleasure that devoured them both.

Wufei came with a bitten-off cry, and Trowa followed almost after. Their twin cries mingled, before muffling as they sought each other's mouth.

They broke apart only when the need to breathe overwhelmed them, and Trowa's arms could no longer brace themselves. Their bodies still wrapped around each other, they lay in the darkness. There were no more words, but only the sounds of their breathing.

The darkness was warm comfort, a blanket of safety.

++++++++++

He knew once the dawn had broken, they would return to their purposes, go their separate ways. This meeting would be buried deep within the grave of secrets they both carried in their hearts. Maybe they would forget this night in time. Maybe they would not.

He thought of Wufei's words. He thought of Wufei returning as the victor. Maybe then Wufei could tell him whom he fought for.

But until that day…they were no one for the night.

He drew up the thin blanket and covered himself, and Wufei.

~*~ fin ~*~

January 2003

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Ok, the issue of Triton and Catherine Bloom's relationship. I think it HAS been officially declared that they ARE flesh and blood siblings. Just that at this point, I am assuming they do not know of that fact yet.

Sheer fabrication on my part. I know he was a scholar before he became a pilot, and I know about Meiran and their field of flowers. But, does he have a large family as a child? I really don't know! Forgive me if I'm wrong.