Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ orange ❯ Chapter 1

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Title: Orange
Author: Mephisto Waltz
Pairing: 4x3x4
Notes: Part of the Newtype Arc Colour Wheel. A bit SOC. Trowa POV. Post Endless Waltz.
Warning: Psychological Erotica. Mature themes, explicit sexual acts, description of bodily fluids, language. A bit-o squick value.
Rating: NC-17
Thanks to: Raletha for the beta and Alleyprowler for the support. *shnuggles them*

Artwork: http://www.mephistowaltz.net/graphics/orange.jpg


In the time just before dawn, it's easy to think primordial thoughts. It is easy to be primal before the proper waking hour- to think of unclean things. It's also easy to dissect the beauty of intention. Is the intention of kissing to share bacteria? Is its intention to suffocate or to soak the sheets?

When my lover's enthusiastic, his teeth clash against mine and it hurts my ear, but he doesn't apologize. Instead he traces the seam of my gums, tasting the remains of my day, which simultaneously makes me cringe and erect.

When we are consumed by our lust, our kisses are wet and saliva leaks out the corners of our mouths, dribbling onto chests and pillows. It's all water and bacteria and food and air and sharing and invasion.

Such things are not my intention, nor do I think them his. I'm not sure what intention there is in a kiss, if there is any. I feel comfort and warmth when it happens, but when it hasn't happened for a while; in retrospect I dissect it into elements that disgust me- sharing plaque and stale air. He rarely lets up when he kisses- it's as though he thinks there's a tree living in my lungs that turns his waste to oxygen which I'm then to breathe into him. My alveoli sacs are leaves that soak up his carbon dioxide and convert our circulating current into useable air.

Truthfully, sometimes I feel it too- that united with him we are entirely independent of the environment. It's as though we are some asexual thing- or perhaps were. We're daughter cells after fission, trying desperately to fuck each other into becoming whole.

Is that why I feel empty?



The first glimpse of dawn always looks apocalyptic- it turns everything white to orange, like spilled paint water on carpet. Our sheets are turned orange, but an ugly orange because the linen is pale blue- so more of an ochre, I suppose. If my eyes could expedite the time, I would see the orange wash over the lumps in the sheets, formed from my lover's graceless sprawl. My lover-the one I can still taste in my mouth- that fusty, thick taste- sleeps on, oblivious to the fact that the sky is on fire.

When the room is flooded with orange, it's like an army marching, but only the silence between the last and second-to-last unison footfalls. It's like floating in space, but with your eyes closed tightly, facing the radius of a beam cannon- your eyelids are almost orange and anything imprinted on your mind's eye is so tinted.

Seeing my lover- the one who makes my tongue hate itself- drenched in orange scares me, so I cover him. Straddling his hips, I place my hands on the pillow beside his head to handle my weight, and I watch him, eclipsing him with my body.

I protect him from the orange that makes things ugly- that reveals the blood shed during the night. I. . .don't want to see blood on him anymore.

His tongue wets his lips, coating them with remnants of our last meal: my come and whatever else he hacked up during the night. I feel the cold pads of his fingers clamp onto my hips, and his eyes open, still crusty from sleep.

"Gods, Trowa, you're so weird before you have your coffee. What're you doing?" he says, grinning. I wipe the goo from the corner of his eye and brush an eyelash from his cheek.

"Keeping the sun out of your eyes."

"Judging from your position, I'd say you have ulterior motives." Winking, he kneads my buttocks and lifts his hips up to brush my sack with the tip of his morning erection.

"I. . .want to remember why I kiss you, Quatre," I whisper, before pressing my mouth to his. He tastes as vile as I do- worse, since he went down on me before falling asleep- but I remember that it's not about the taste, nor is it about him suffocating me or scraping my teeth. The lust pooling in the pit of my stomach and goose pimples on my arms are the reason I put up with his morning breath.

All night I'd been dirty, leaking out his come, lubricant and whatever else had been loosened during the particularly fervent bout. I'm still leaking- I can feel something cool on my inner thighs and slick when I shift my weight. Leaning back, I entwine my fingers with his on my flanks and I impale myself on him, still staring into his face, still shadowing him with my body while the orange army beats down on my back. My body rarely considers it a foreign object- my rectum has tired of its attempts to reject Quatre's cock, as his has with mine. This act is just a way for us to return to that state of oneness.

"Trowa," he moans, thrusting up. His irises disappear into his head and all I see is blood-shot white. His hips roll up and into me and he fucks me like he's a turbine. Moving with him, onto him and around him, my body assents.


Looking down at my cock, I feel sick seeing it bouncing around in midair, on display. It's dark and wet at the tip and ugly as hell to see. I want to cover it up.

"Quatre? Touch it," I croak out- my voice sounds inhuman, and 'it' comes out like a hiccup when he pounds at some especially guilty place up my rectum. His hand clamps down on my cock and he beats it in time with his pistoning hips, thrusting me into his hand by thrusting into me. The orange is hot on my back and I know it coats his cock every time he pulls out of me. So I impale myself sharply, creating my own mechanism at my own speed. Hollering, he pounds up into me- hard, rough and unlike him but so like us, and I can hear the suction sound of his shaft fucking my cylinder and of his wet sack slapping my arse. My joints creak in my knees and I make idiotic sounds like a dog or a woman or vegetable and I. . .I. . .



I've fallen against his chest, half-sprawled over him with my buttocks saluting the sky. There's semen all over my stomach, chest and leaking out of my anus, tickling my withered sack. The orange is almost gone, but it's seeing me vulnerable now. All that orange is on us- in his eyelashes, gleaming on his teeth, creating prisms from the drop of spittle on his bottom lip. It has caught up to us- that blood-soaked sun.

"A red dawn," whispers Quatre. His voice is breathy and close to my ear. Trembling lips press to my forehead and I look up at him. "You don't like red dawns."

"It's orange, and no I don't." He always rubs my hips after he takes me, and this time is no exception. Back and forth, from thigh to waist, he palms my sides, his fingers skimming my hipbones. Slowly I push my legs back to lie myself flat atop his beautiful, dirty body.

"I think they're mystical," he says, staring at a point behind my head.

"I think they're sinister."

"I love your paranoia, Trowa Barton." He chuckles and coos, fussing with my bangs.

Despite my resolution to share more with my lovers, I decide not to tell him about the orange- about how many people must have died last night. About how the sun was always orange the morning after a full night's work. All through my childhood I'd noticed it, but worshiped it as though it were a blessing for living through the night. Not until my last day on Earth did I realize what the orange was and realize that I-whoever I was- made the orange.

"Mmm, I really love us like this, but I think we need coffee- especially you."

In this little hotel room in Brussels, the coffee maker is set up beside the sliding-glass doors that lead to the balcony. Through the vertical blinds the last rays of orange dissolve, caressing his naked body as he monitors the coffee percolation. There's semen all over his stomach- nearly dried- but he doesn't seem to mind. He notices my stare and rubs his abdomen, spreading my fluid into the indent of his oblique muscles. For some sick reason he's happy about it- that I made a mess all over him.

"You're a perfect lover, Trowa. I wish you could see yourself come," he says, pouring our coffee not into mugs, but into the complimentary wine glasses. As he walks back to the bed, he holds the glasses by the stem and tries to blow cool the coffee. I doubt it does much for the temperature, but it seems to do something to the coffee.

Quatre makes the most amazing coffee.

The sheets feel so much cleaner now that the orange is gone- too clean for our bodies.

"I like it," he whispers, blushing.

"What?"

"When. . .you. . ." He touches his stomach and I know.

"Ejaculate on you?" I ask, downing my coffee. Though the tartar still clings to and between my teeth, the coffee tastes much better than the previous unpleasantness. "We need to buy toothbrushes today." I climb out of the bed to pour myself another glass.

"You think it's disgusting, don't you?"

"I think we need a shower."

"Trowa," he groans, meeting me at the coffeemaker. We stand together bathed in the white light of the early morning sun, and he kisses me. We taste like coffee. "Answer me," he whispers, rubbing my hips as he likes to do.

"Only in theory. When it happens it makes me reel."

At that he smiles and drags his fingers up and down my sides, then kisses my mouth, hungry like the orange. Our teeth scrape together which makes me cringe, but he makes it better by tickling my gums with his tongue, tracing along the line where flesh meets enamel. Sometimes he sucks the air from me, and sometimes he exhales into me and that symbolic tree blossoms in my chest. Thus I remember the Why.

The intention of a kiss is to send you reeling- it has nothing to do with bodily fluids or breathing. The physical act is simply a tangible signifier that tells a person 'be prepared to have your mind blown.' Like the orange that signifies death, it signifies lust-induced stupidity, and it's something to celebrate.



[end of Orange. Continue to Red]