Table of contents for Leather Violins and James Dean

1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two

Leather, Violins and James Dean
by Michalyn
Rating: MA

Quatre slowly released him, and Trowa watched as he moved to the bed and turned back the covers. No expensive silk, just sunny cotton and daisy-printed pillowcases as sweet and unpretentious as the tiny blond who slept on them. And Trowa desperately wished that he could be more for Quatre—or perhaps, less: less cynical, less jaded,less of a coward … less of everything that prevented him from being a man deserving of the gift that was being surrendered to him so simply and unselfishly—no demands, no recriminations … no promises.

If only he could feel no guilt.

Still, Trowa could not bring himself to turn away, to leave the beautiful youth as untouched as he had found him. He dared not move, dared not utter a single syllable as Quatre sat, turning modestly away, as his fingers worked the tiny buttons along his shirt. Trowa’s blood pounded in his veins in bittersweet anticipation, but it seemed wrong —irreverent somehow — to interrupt the ritual with rough, uncontrolled lust, so Trowa watched with heated eyes, passion and pain warring within him with every leap of his flesh.

Quatre shrugged out of his shirt. Folding it neatly, he placed it on the dresser next to his bed. His golden head was shyly bowed, and he didn’t look up, nor did waver in his movements as he set it aside and began to unfasten his pants. The garment dropped, pooling around his ankles. One smooth knee was revealed and then the other.

Cold, black metal bracketed the joint, encircling both Quatre’s thigh immediately above the brace and his calf below, leaving the knee itself exposed, but heavily supported in its metal frame. It was swollen, the joint misshapen and curving faintly inwards. To Trowa, it only made Quatre more beautiful and precious for his obvious strength and determination—only confirmed what he had known from the minute he had laid eyes on Quatre: th blond was made to be cherished.

Feeling his gaze, Quatre bowed his head self-consciously lower. He was left in the cumbersome brace around his knee, the vest tucked demurely into pale blue boxers and the faint blush staining his cheeks.

When Quatre met Trowa’s eyes again, his expression was utterly open, an endearing mixture of determination, shyness and trembling expectation as waited for Trowa to join him.

With the same reverence and slow careful movements with which he had observed the delicate blond, Trowa removed his shoes, his jacket, his shirt … each garment until he stood naked before Quatre’s curious eyes. Quatre openly admired him, hiding none of his wonder and interest as his blue eyes trailed down Trowa’s body, leaving fire in their wake. Trowa kept his hands at his sides, allowing the intimate perusal. Watching as Quatre became flushed and his breathing became shallow, his soft, gasping breaths echoing in the room between them.

The sight of Quatre’s burgeoning passion seared Trowa and he hardened, rising under the younger man’s gaze. Quatre’s eyes widened and he stared, transfixed, at Trowa’s groin. His lips trembled and parted, his eyes sliding shut as tremors shook him and Trowa could no longer content himself with being a spectator. Slowly, he approached the bed and knelt at Quatre’s feet.

Quatre’s eyes flew open at the first heated touch of Trowa’s tongue tracing his knee, dipping between unyielding metal to the soft flesh beneath. He made a panicked, protesting sound, but Trowa’s hands was already worshipping that silken flesh, caressing Qautre’s thigh, and then his calf, freeing him from the confines of the brace to expose his knee. A choked, tortured moan spilled from Quatre’s s throat and his eyes squeezed shut.

“No!”

Trowa lovingly massaged one tiny foot and then the other, kissing each perfect pink toe in turn, then moving upwards, testing the suppleness of Quatre’s calf before trailing downwards again. Abruptly Trowa stopped, releasing Quatre completely and simply admiring the luminous beauty before him.

Quatre didn’t know why Trowa had halted his caresses, but he hoped to seize the opportunity to slide under the covers and shield his leg. He wanted to make love with Trowa, but he just couldn’t with his knee so exposed. He felt too vulnerable, too monstrous next to the ex-soldier’s masculine perfection. Besides, he reasoned, If he slipped in, then maybe Trowa would follow and he wanted so badly to touch all that smooth tanned skin. Perhaps now was his chance.

Quatre cracked one eye open and then the other and found emerald eyes staring right at him. When large thumbs circled his knee and gently caressed the puffy scars on either side, Quatre gasped and turned away, helpless tears smarting behind his eyelids. “Please! Don’t … don’t … touch … it.”

Trowa leaned forward, capturing the salty moisture with his lips. He searched Quatre’s expression with, dark concerned eyes. “What is wrong? Did I hurt you?”

Quatre inhaled shakily. His voice was soft. “Yes … but not in the way you mean.” His mouth turned downwards. “I … it’s too ugly,” he finished, burying his face in his hands.

“No.”

Quatre looked up at the quiet utterance. “What?”

Trowa caressed his cheek. “I said no.” His thumbs followed the wet tracks of Quatre’s tears. “Nothing about you is ugly. And this—” he bent, kissing a puckered scar with love, “this is part of you as well.” Trowa groaned, his hair tickling Quatre’s knee as he bent to suckle the serrated flesh with infinite gentleness. “Beautiful, so beautiful. Too beautiful for a soldier’s hands.”

Quatre shook his head sadly and placed a finger against Trowa’s lips. “Shhh.” He pressed his lips against the brunette’s in a fierce, unschooled kiss. “Let’s not speak of it,” he whispered, tugging Trowa up from his knees and onto the bed beside him. “Not tonight. I want you, but I don’t know how.” Quatre looked into Trowa’s lush irises. “Show me,” he whispered.

Trowa’s throat constricted with emotion at the intimate request, at Quatre’s sweet, abundant passion. He had no defenses against it, nor any desire to build any. Trowa nodded, lifting Quatre and laying him against the pillows. When he cupped Quatre’s cheeks between his palms and began lowering his head to capture his soft lips, Quatre’s eyes automatically fluttered closed and he tilted his face upwards, leaning to toward Trowa like a flower in warm sunlight.

Trowa nibbled at the lush downturn of Quatre’s mouth and the rosebud unfurled, granting him entrance before he even sought to ask it. The taste of Quatre was intoxicating—softness and heat and an elusive hint of spice that tantalized Trowa almost beyond bearing. He licked at the wet insides of Quatre’s cheeks, the slickness beneath his bottom lip … questing for that exquisite flavor, and small hands gripped his shoulders tightly, a soft moan bubbling from Quatre’s throat.

Trowa groaned, pulling Quatre’s precious warmth closer, wanting to draw forth more of those sweet sounds. He devoured him, kissing him tenderly and thoroughly until the gentle blond was crying out and shifting restlessly against Trowa. Trowa pulled away, leaving Quatre trembling, his pale skin damp and sweetly flushed. His generous passion awed Trowa, humbled him. That Quatre would surrender himself so unquestioningly—Trowa nibbled at the soft lobe of Quatre’s ear and Quatre arched, panting—so hotly, took his breath away. His hands smoothed down the length of Quatre’s arms, massaging his shoulders and stopping only when his fingers were entwined with Quatre’s . Bringing their hands to his lips, Trowa brushed a kiss over their knuckles. Quatre smiled and the sadness hovering in his eyes tugged painfully at Trowa’s chest, reminding him how fleeting these moments were.

Trowa released Quatre, brushing the mussed golden strands away from Quatre’s forehead. His fingers traced the arch of a pale cheekbone and Quatre followed the caress, leaning into it until he was nestled against Trowa’s palm. Trowa groaned, and he bent, trembling with restrained passion as he captured Quatre’s lips once more. His hands slid beneath Quatre’s back, holding him arched as Quatre simply melted into the kiss, pale limbs turning to honey. When Trowa pulled away the delicate beauty’s lips were parted, flushed, and swollen from Trowa’s attentions. Quatre was staring up at him with dazed, passion-dilated eyes, pale irises almost completely eclipsed by the dark bloom of his pupils. Another groan spilled from Trowa’s throat.

“Let me undress you,” he pleaded hoarsely.

The words were barely uttered before Quatre was nodding, granting him what he sought without preamble or protest. Trowa shuddered, filled with some sorrowful emotion that threatened to overcome him. He brushed another kiss across Quatre’s lips and lifted him into a sitting position. Tugging on the soft material, he eased him out of the vest.

Quatre was perfect: smooth and petite, yet lightly muscled. His arms were strong and graceful, his chest narrow and sweetly defined, the milky expanse interrupted only by two delicate and rosily pouting nipples.

And never had two nipples so fascinated Trowa or looked so delicious. He stared, entranced at the dusky circles and their tiny rigid peaks. Quatre prickled with heat; the avid, heavy look in Trowa’s eyes stealing his breath away. He glanced down, following the direction of the older man’s gaze.

“What is it?” he gasped.

“These,” Trowa murmured, voice almost guttural with arousal. He leaned forward and circled one tender nubbin and then the other with his fingertip, causing Quatre to gasp and shiver as sensation shot through him.

“Tr—Trowa,” he moaned, shivering again as calloused fingers began to rub slowly at the sensitive buds. Quatre groaned, arching his back, desperately trying to press himself into Trowa’s palm, crying out sharply when the hands were removed and suddenly replaced with a hot mouth. Trowa nursed at him, suckling at one nipple and then its partner until Quatre was whimpering and mewling, tugging frantically at Trowa’s hair.

Quatre didn’t even notice when the hot mouth trailed downward, suckling and gently nipping, tracing patterns between the valley of his ribs and the soft flesh of his stomach, leaving a trail of love-bites on th pale, tender skin. Trowa’s tongue darted into the indent of Quatre’s belly button and Quatre arched, squirming deliciously at the ticklish sensation. Trowa came to the barrier of the younger man’s boxers and he paused, kneading Quatre’s waist before pulling back and hooking his fingers in the material.

Quatre’s erection nuzzled the soft cotton, tenting it, the moisture at tip wetting the thin cloth and rendering it almost transparent to Trowa’s gaze. To Quatre’s embarrassment, Trowa’s knowing fingers immediately found it, spreading the erotic slickness and sending pleasure wracking through his frame. Trowa tugged at the waistline of the boxers, inching it downwards until only that hot tip was revealed, peeking erotically above elastic. He stared hungrily at the erotic picture and Quatre groaned, turning his reddened face into the pillow.

The innocent shyness tugged at Trowa’s heartstrings and he eased the garment off, caressing a pale hip. His hand turned, finding the soft nest of golden curls above Quatre’s sex and Quatre tensed and shuddered, his eyes squeezing shut.

When Trowa began to stroke him, Quatre whimpered and hips lifted sweetly off the bed. Trowa increased the firmness of his strokes and his own flesh ached as he watched Quatre’s flush deepen. The blond’s head thrashed on the pillow and his thighs instinctively fell open as he thrust into Trowa’s grasp, wantonly exposing himself to his Trowa’s hungry gaze. When hot wetness of the Trowa’s mouth enveloped Quatre’s hardness, a long, low moan erupted from him. Quatre’s eyes flew open and he climaxed abruptly, his hot essence spilling against Trowa’sthroat.

Brushing back the sweaty bangs from Quatre’s forehead, Trowa kissed him, murmuring tender endearments against his panting lips as he reached for the bottle of lotion on the dresser beside the bed. Gently, he spread Quatre’s thighs and suckled at the soft inner flesh, worshipping the sensitive skin with tongue and fingers until once more, Quatre began to move restlessly against him.

Quatre froze when a slick finger probed delicately at his entrance, circling the tiny pucker then dipping past the tight ring of muscle.

“Relax, Petit,” Trowa murmured, his voice low and mesmerizing. “I would never hurt you — never” he repeated fiercely as his finger withdrew, then returned, probing more deeply. Trowa moaned as he slid in past the first knuckle, Quatre’s tightness surrounding him in a loving vise.

The invasion rioted along Quatre’s nerves and he cried out, shuddering as he hovered on the precipice of pain and pleasure. Tears sparkled on his lashes and Trowa began a gentle, soothing stroking. Not pressing any deeper, but thrusting shallowly, loosening the tight seal of muscle. He only wanted bring this beautiful creature pleasure. Not pain, he vowed desperately. Never pain.

This time when a slender digit slid all the way in, it was Quatre who moaned. His hips pressed sensuously against Trowa’s palm, the soft cheeks of his buttocks clenching around the invading digit.

Trowa pressed into smooth heat, searching for the bump of Quatre’s prostate. He stroked it once, and Quatre’s hips bucked wildly as husky cries bubbled from his throat. His fingers clenched in the sheets.

“Trowa,” he groaned, “please!”

Quatre almost sobbed in frustration when he felt Trowa pulling away, but Trowa returned, doubling the pleasure, two fingers unerringly stroking that place inside him. The intensity of it rocked the tiny blond and he could only emit an incoherent stream of moans and whimpers as Trowa took him to heights he had never known existed.

Quatre’s scorching sensuality, his passionate cries and his intimate heat spilling over Trowa’s palm ravished the last of his control. He needed Quatre, needed him more than anything he had in his life. To be gifted with such beauty, such passion….

Emotion burned in Trowa’s chest. His hands were trembling as he lubricated his shaft. Mindful of Quatre’s knee, Trowa spooned behind the small blond, pulling him close. He lifted Quatre’s other leg across his hip, opening him. His hands sought the warm crevice, teasing the unfurled bud between the parted cheeks before carefully pressing inwards.

Quatre cried out sharply as Trowa’s length inexorably pushed in, dragging along sensitive inner tissues. He trembled, panting heavily as he struggled to adjust.

Quatre’s heat surrounded Trowa, the clenching of the inner muscles as the blond tried to adjust to holding Trowa within his body almost destroying the older man’s restraint. He kissed the nape of Quatre’s neck and his hands roamed the lithe body, tweaking a nipple then sliding between slim thighs, cradling the softness of Quatre’s testicles and stroking the flagging erection. When Quatre gasped and began to push against him, a guttural groan bubbled from Trowa’s throat as the last of his control unraveled. He began thrusting in a slow, deep rhythm, nudging his lover’s prostate with each rough stroke.

And Quatre welcomed him, took all of him, moved with him, his tiny cries of pleasure echoing in Trowa’s ears, and mingling with the ex-soldier’s own sounds of passion. The sight of Quatre, the feel of him … the heady musk of his passion … Trowa savored it all, locking it away in that chamber of his heart he never thought to feel anything in again. When they shattered together it was deep and beautiful and desperate, fueled by all that was left unsaid between them.

Trowa pulled Quatre onto his chest, showering his face with fierce frantic kisses. And small hands caressed him, lips answering with equal fervor as Quatre pressed desperately into Trowa’s arms.

They made love many times, that night and in the gray hours before dawn and when all had been given and taken, Trowa buried his face in the crook of Quatre’s neck and wept like a child. Wept for all that he was and all that he was not and for the man who had shared his fire with him and tried to ease the darkness in his soul. Quatre held him close and comforted him. Wiped away the rain of hot tears with small, pale fingers.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry,” he cooed soothingly, his own voice cracking with unexpressed emotion. His hands trailed caressingly down Trowa’s back, kneading the supple muscles on either side of his spine. Tremblingly he captured the other man’s lips.

“Don’t cry, sweet soldier,” Quatre repeated softly. “It’s not morning yet.”

End

Table of contents for Leather Violins and James Dean

1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two

Leather, Violins and James Dean
by Michalyn
Rating: MA

“Thanks Heero,” Quatre smiled brightly at the man behind the counter. The aproned store owner grunted and nodded towards the long-haired youth lounging against some unpacked crates of Coca Cola.

“Maxwell,” Heero called sternly, “help Mr. Winner with his bags.”

“Awww man, Heero,” Duo jumped off the stack, his braid swinging behind him. “I’ll never finish the inventory at this rate,” he grumbled, approaching the counter and resting against it in a dramatic pose of weariness. His eyes, a brilliant violet, twinkled with mischief as he regarded the older man.

Heero glared. “Perhaps if you spent less time lolly-gagging and more time working, you would have completed the inventory already.” He shoved a particularly heavy paper-bag into Duo’s arms. “Now go.” Heero’s dark brows lowered and his voice held a definite threatening note.

“Oof!” Duo grunted as he balanced the bag in his arms. “Sheesh,” he said turning to Quatre with a smile. “He sure is Mr. Sunshine huh?” Duo joked, sticking his tongue out at Heero.

Quatre shook his head and laughed, by now well accustomed to the two men’s antics. It was one of the reasons he loved coming to Yuy and Maxwell’s. The prices were better than Harold’s grocery’s down the street, and the two storeowners never failed to entertain. He had heard the rumors about the two men: that they were deviants, freaks, men who shared an “unnatural” love for each other. He had felt the hostility — veiled and otherwise — directed at them and himself by association, but Quatre refused to curb his visits to the store. He did not believe in discrimination of any kind, and he gave no credence to rumors or bigotry.

Besides, how could he hate men with his own inclinations?

Quatre sighed and pulled one of the bags off the counter. Noting that Duo was already overburdened with the heavier of the two, he tried carrying the other bag but immediately released it when his knee protested. He bit his lip as the pain shot through him. Sweat dotted his brow as he rested against the counter. Quatre sat heavily on one of the stools, his vision wavering and blurring for a moment. Immediately Heero and Duo were at his side.

“Hey, Q,” Duo asked, “you okay?” He looked from Heero, to Quatre’s pale, sweating brow, with worried eyes.

Heero’s face hovered before Quatre’s. “What is it?” he asked gruffly. “Are you alright?”

Quatre managed a weak smile. “I’m fine — really,” he panted. “It’s just my knee,” he explained hurriedly. “I should have known better than to try to carry something so heavy,” he breathed, the color slowly returning to his cheeks as the painful throb began to subside.

“Hn,” Heero kneeled in front of Quatre’s khaki-clad legs. His strong hand pressed up his right calf, as he tested for injuries, moving upwards until his fingers touched the heavy metal brace hidden under the soft material.

Quatre’s eyes widened, and he made a soft, choked sound. His hands covered Heero’s. “Don’t,” he whispered. His gaze lowered and his cheeks flushed in embarrassment and discomfort. “Please … it’s fine, really,” he murmured, refusing to meet the other’s eyes as his hands desperately tried to push Heero’s hand away from his deformity. “Just … just a little sprain.”

Heero frowned but said nothing, as he released Quatre’s knee. Duo frowned as well, looking to Heero with a question in his eyes. The dark-haired man shook his head once, slowly and Duo nodded in understanding. He ruffled Quatre’s hair. “Think you can make it home ok Q?”

“Yes.” Quatre nodded determinedly. He stood and reached once more for the bag.

“Ah, that’s ok man. I’ll take care of it.” Putting on his most good-natured grin, Duo darted forward and snatched it from him. “Two trips down the street ain’t gonna kill me ya know. Besides,” he patted his flat belly, “I need it: Been going a little too heavy on those sloppy joes of Heero’s lately,” he added with a wink.

Quatre pierced Duo with a look that plainly said that he was not fooled by his act. “I am fine,” he insisted, “and,” he added when Duo began to protest, “there is no need for you to make two trips when I am perfectly capable of carrying this bag. Plus, you have that inventory to do,” Quatre reminded his friend.

“I’ll do the inventory,” Heero quietly cut in. “Listen to Duo. You need some rest.”

Quatre let out an exasperated sigh. “The two of you are being ridiculous! I….”

Whatever he had been about to say was cut off by the chiming of the bell as a customer walked in. They all turned in the direction of the silvery tinkle, to find a tall stranger looking calmly about the store.

Wearing dusty jeans, a white t-shirt and a black leather jacket, the tall man reminded Quatre of that actor, James Dean, whom he secretly had a crush on, and his cheeks flushed again. This time, for a different reason altogether as the stranger’s singly visible green eye locked with his.

His hair was all wrong, of course. In that strange hairstyle with the fall of bangs that completely concealed one emerald orb, it was nothing at all like the superstar’s wavy blonde coif. And there was that too … the eye color and the different build….

Nothing was blatant, or brashly sexual about this man. He was slim, compact and subtle, moving with the controlled grace of a panther, but the air of quiet negligence, that was the same. There was an intensity hidden beneath the indifferent exterior. It burned in his brilliant eyes and in the way nothing escaped his notice as he wordlessly grabbed a bottle of soda and set it on the counter. He looked from one man to the other as Heero rang up his purchase and his gaze finally rested on Quatre. It traveled from Quatre’s head to the tips of his sensible shoes and back up again, and Quatre suddenly felt very hot; the cotton shirt he wore stiff and confining. He ducked his head, feeling the blush suffuse his neck and face as he tried to think of anything other than the enigmatic man staring unapologetically at him.

That thought steeled Quatre a little, allowing him to dredge up a little indignation amidst his discomfort. Why should he be made to feel uncomfortable? The man had no right to waltz in and ogle him in such a rude manner. He knew he was small for his 21 years and almost childish-looking to boot, and of course, there was his limp, but he couldn’t help that he looked odd. He would never have Duo’s shocking beauty or Heero’s rough masculinity, but that was still no reason to single him out like some attraction in a sideshow.

Bravely, Quatre raised his head and met the stranger’s gaze. He was shocked to find that lonely green eye dancing with hidden amusement and some other volatile emotion that made his stomach flutter dangerously. He swallowed convulsively and an actual smile teased the edges of the man’s full lips.

“Hello Petite,” he greeted quietly in a deep, whiskey-smooth voice that rumbled across Quatre’s nerves like thunder.

If possible, Quatre felt his face grow even hotter. Duo snickered behind the interloper and out of the corner of his eye Quatre could see Heero raising an eyebrow in surprise.

“I … ah—ahem,” Quatre stammered, running a nervous hand through his hair. “Hi,” he said quickly. He looked past the man’s broad shoulder to Duo, who was grinning in total enjoyment of the situation. “Ah Duo, I … I … think I’m ready to go home now.”

“Sure Q-man,” Duo sang as he hefted a bag against his hip.

“Thanks,” Quatre murmured, smiling weakly. “I’ll just get this one.” He cast a weary eye on the bag that was right next to the green-eyed man. Quatre inched closer, feeling very uncomfortable under the stranger’s gaze and unbelievably self-conscious as his right leg dragged against the wooden floor. He wished desperately that he had brought his cane. Quatre reached for the bag, but the tall man snatched it away, balancing it effortlessly in one hand as he took a swig out of his soft drink with the other.

“Please,” he said solemnly, eyes locking with Quatre’s, “allow me.”

Duo’s guffaw was cut short by a hollow thump that sounded suspiciously like a reprimanding slap being delivered to the fun-loving man’s back. He masked it with a cough as he shot a glare in Heero’s general direction. Quatre looked desperately over at the two men for help, but they were engaged in their own silent warfare, each glaring daggers at the other. He sighed and nodded resignedly at the tall stranger, “Sure … let’s go.”

———————————

Duo whistled appreciatively as he eyed the gleaming Harley Davidson parked at the curb. And from the small crowd of girls in fluffy poodle skirts gathered on the other side of the road, it appeared he wasn’t the only one who thought it was special. Duo circled the sleek machine, admiring its leather and chrome finish. “Wow,” he breathed, “she’s a real beauty.” He turned to the tall man standing next to Quatre. “Is this baby yours?”

The quiet man nodded, then paused thoughtfully. ‘Would you like to take her for a spin?” he asked unexpectedly, eyes fixed with little concealed interest on Quatre at his side.

Quatre’s eyes widened and he willed his friend to say no as Duo bit his lip in consideration. “Aww,” he looked wistfully at the vehicle. “I don’t think I could. I’ve gotta help Q with these and then it’s right back to work for me,” Duo explained sadly, and Quatre breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks for the offer though,” Duo added with a smile.

The man shrugged and they continued to Quatre’s house in silence, but Quatre could feel the stranger’s eyes on him all the way there.

When they were standing on the porch Quatre slid the key into the lock with shaking fingers and pushed the door open. He ushered the two men inside, telling them to rest the bags on the kitchen table as he moved to open the windows. He could see the tall brunette quietly observing the room, from its neat flower-boxes on the windowsills, to the pretty wallpaper, but more often than not his attention was fixed on Quatre as he moved about the room. Quatre nervously wrung his hands, not knowing what to make of the man’s strange intensity. Trying to appear calm, he turned to the other two with a smile.

“Thank you so much for your help, guys.”

“No problem Blondie,” Duo mumbled enthusiastically around the cookies he had snatched from the jar on the table. “It was my pleasure.” He munched for a moment longer then stretched. “Well, sorry to say, I gotta run,” he announced as he moved towards the door. “Heero’ll have my hide if I’m late again,” he added with a wink. “I’ll see you later Quatre.”

Duo paused, noticing that the other man had yet to budge. “You coming green-eyes?” he called cheerfully, but there was a note of steel to his voice that made the easy question a command.

“No, I think I’ll stay,” the stranger said softly and just as firmly. He turned to Quatre. “That is, if our gentle host will allow me.”

Quatre’s lips parted, ready to insist that the traveler leave, but the man’s pleading eyes stopped him. There was no menace in those depths — only tenderness and an intense passion. He stared, unable to look away from the verdant irises.

Duo coughed and tapped his foot impatiently and Quatre flushed, tearing his gaze away.

“It’s okay Duo,” he called softly. “You go on ahead. I’ll be fine.”

Duo hesitated, then finally assented — but not before piercing the taller man with an assessing glare. Violet locked with emerald for long moments before Duo abruptly nodded and looked away as though satisfied by what he had found. He looked once more over his shoulder at Quatre. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” he insisted, looking at his friend.

Quatre nodded and smiled. “I promise.”

Duo gave him a thumbs-up and tossed him a cheeky grin as he turned, long braid swishing behind him as he jogged lightly down the stairs and disappeared around the bend.

Silence stretched between the two men, and desperate for something to do, Quatre shuffled over to the table and began to unpack the groceries. He was seriously beginning to reconsider his decision. Perhaps he should have heeded Duo instead. These were hardly safe times, and inviting intense strangers into one’s home was not wise — no matter how magnetic their eyes were — and he hated to admit it, but with his knee, he was less than capable of defending himself from any kind of physical attack. Especially from a man over six foot and easily twice his weight.

Perhaps sensing his discomfort and wariness, the man moved to stand next to Quatre. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to frighten you,” he said quietly. “I am usually neither so forward nor rude.” He extended a long-fingered hand to a surprised Quatre. “My name is Trowa Barton.”

Quatre peered at his companion over the rim of his coffee mug. “So, Mr. Barton—” he extended the sugar bowl to the other man, who politely declined. “What brings you our side of town?”

Trowa leaned forward on his elbows. “I spent three years in the service,” he revealed in that deep mesmerizing voice of his. “After the war, I had no family to return to — no obligations to anyone other than myself. In many ways it was a blessing,” Trowa mused. “When a boy leaves home on the cusp of manhood and spends three years being a killing machine, how can he ever be the same person to those who love him afterwards when his hands are so stained with blood?”

Trowa’s eyes flashed with some hidden emotion. “I have always been rootless — an outsider. As a boy I spent time with a moving circus,” he explained. “It was the closest thing I had to a family,” he added quietly. ” So last year I decided to take up the travel again. I’ve been on the road for six months now, trying to find something of the nation I once believed in.” Trowa’s expression became hard for a fleeting instant. “Besides, it’s hard to have nightmares after spending a day on the back of a motorcycle.”

Quatre was at a loss for words. He had experienced the war as most people had: struggling daily in their homes and not on the frontlines of the battle. His knee had prevented any chance of him being drafted when men his age were leaving their families to fight an enemy on foreign soil. So what could he say to this veteran whose experience denied all his optimism? Could any words be sufficient?

“I’m sorry,” he murmured futilely and Trowa shook his head.

“Don’t be. None of us can change our pasts but when I walked into that store and saw you….” He looked deeply into Quatre’s eyes. ” You shone amidst the others like a candle in the darkness. How could a moth like me but be drawn to your flame?” Trowa asked passionately. “I had to talk to you.”

Quatre shook his head , disturbed and saddened by Trowa’s somber words. “You are wrong,” he said fiercely. “None of us deserves darkness.” He pushed away from the table, eyes stinging with unshed tears. “I have no desire to be the kind of light that destroys,” he said sadly, inexplicably drawn to this man that made his heart ache. He turned on the faucet and began to wash the dishes as tears clouded his vision. Quatre heard the scrape of the chair against the tiles and suddenly Trowa was behind him.

The older man reached over, shutting off the water and pulling a startled Quatre into his arms.

Automatically, Quatre tried to shuffle backwards. His leg banged awkwardly against the cupboards and Quatre closed his eyes, grimacing at his clumsiness. He looked up with wide eyes at Trowa and bit his lip. “Um, I think I better find my cane,” he trailed off, caught in the glare of the other man’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Trowa murmured as he entwined his fingers with Quatre’s smaller ones. “The last thing I want to do is upset you. You are far too special … too pure. I’m almost afraid to touch you,” he whispered sorrowfully,”but oh how I want to taste of your sweetness,” Trowa confessed, his voice equal parts regret and desire. “You make me want to believe again.”

Quatre shoved away from the older man, moving with surprising speed towards the living room as Trowa trailed confusedly behind him. Quatre whirled to face him, uncaring of the pain it cost him. “I may be inexperienced,” he ground out carefully, “but I am hardly naïve. And I refused to be treated like some fragile china doll. We are of an age, and we are both men. I will not be pitied or put on some ridiculous pedestal,” he finished breathlessly, flushed from his tirade.

Trowa stared at the suddenly fiery creature before him and finally had the grace to look sheepish. “Forgive me,” he murmured, “I….” At a loss for words, he spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

Quatre maneuvered over to the couch and sank onto it with a sigh. He rubbed at his eyes. “No,” he said softly, to the older man. “It is I who should apologize. You didn’t deserve that.” He ran an exasperated hand through his hair as Trowa sat next to him. “It’s just that I’m so tired of being so small — so lonely — so innocent, and … and for a moment, I thought….” Quatre looked away. “I … I hoped that you could teach me,” he whispered, as a furious blush climbed his cheeks. “I am drawn to you as well,” he admitted, “but I can’t be your Savior or your Angel,” he said sadly.

Quatre stared at his hands, afraid to see the expression on the other man’s face. Already he regretted his impulsive words. When he felt Trowa rise from the couch, he found himself rapidly blinking back tears. He wiped roughly at his eyes, furious at himself for becoming so attached to a man he knew nothing about.

So much for proving yourself a man, Quatre. It was no wonder that nobody wanted anything but a platonic relationship with a him. It was bad enough that he was scrawny and deformed — but to be bawling like a baby at the slightest provocation was simply pathetic. Shamefully, he buried his face in his hands.

The first strains of music reaching Quatre’s ears shocked him — but not more so than the silent figure standing before him and radiating an intensity that he could not deny.

Trowa reached out his hand, and wordlessly Quatre took it, allowing the man to pull him to his feet and into his strong arms as the gramophone spilled rich, poignant notes. Quatre had listened to the record many times before, and yet never had the violin seemed so sweet — or so sorrowful as it did now. He pressed his ear against the sure beat of older man’s heart, and Trowa’s arms tightened, half-carrying, half-swinging Quatre as they danced awkwardly around the room. Not so much to the music, but to a bittersweet rhythm they found in each other’s arms.

—————————-

Trowa stopped. Cupping Quatre’s face in his hands, he focused every energy on emblazoning onto his memory the curve of soft white cheeks, the splash of marine hidden behind tawny lashes and the soft, trembling lips he would never see again. His chest ached with need and regret as he bent, brushing his lips, once, twice over the enticing pout, suckling tenderly on the firm flesh; tugging gently, savoring the way the tiny blonde gasped and shivered in his arms. When he eased his tongue inside, mating it gently with Quatre’s, the pale beauty’s eyes fell closed, small hands fisting in Trowa’s shirt as a surprised moan escaped him.

Trowa nibbled desperately at Quatre’s lips for a moment, and then abruptly he pulled away. His forehead pressed against Quatre’s, and their breath fanned against each other’s in hot, labored pants.

“No promises,” he breathed desperately. “No promises.”

Quatre’s lashes lowered, shielding the pain in his eyes. His smile was beautiful and heartbreaking as he took Trowa by the hand and led him carefully to his bedroom. Looking into his eyes, he placed a burning kiss in the center of Trowa’s palm.

“No promises,” he agreed softly. He tugged Trowa’s head down to meet his own, and placed a tentative kiss against the his lips. “No promises,” he repeated fiercely. “Just this.”