Author: Maldoror
Disclaimer: The usual, Gundam Wing belongs to its owners (Bandai, Sunset, and a whole host of others, none of which are me) and I'm not making any money off of them. Not a single peanut.
Rated R for language, lots of violence, sexual content

I'm busy writing a couple of serious fics, and this thing kinda tumbled out of my id instead. I've had the story knocking around for ages in my rather twisted synapses. It merged with the GW boys one afternoon of listening to enough Disturbed, Slipknot and Soil to permanently compromise my mental health.

This is a sci-fi/fantasy AU, and there's going to be plots and twists and stuff, but it's mainly an excuse to put the GW bishies on a backdrop of sex and violence and morbid humour (think Saiyuki if you need a reference, heh). This is reserved for mature readers. There's actually not going to be too much weird stuff (I'm toning down the original warning after writing a few chapters and realizing I just can't be that nasty to the GW boys) but the 2x5 is going to be a touch on the SM side. Be warned.

What you won't find here is my usuals: No NCS, no deathfics, nothing too sad or angsty. Some of the boys will be a bit OOC to start with, but will lean towards their normal characters (or an interpretation of such) by mid-story. I only have a faint idea where this is gonna end up, so your reviews might actually influence the story! Have fun!

This is a rollercoaster, so it starts out fairly slowly. Only a mild lemon in this chapter, and you'll have to wait for chapter 3 for some violence.

Pairings are 2x5 (yowza, but you'll have to wait for it), 3x4 (that one you get free from the start), and 1x I haven't made up my mind yet, but due to popular demand, probably add him on to the 2x5.

The Source Of All Things + Chapter 1
The Naked Man On The Rock

Trowa was reaching blind, and that meant he could have grabbed just about anything; a bush, a rock, a rattlesnake...When you're hanging by two toe-holds and three fingernails from a cliff, you don't much mind what your free hand grabs as long as it's firm and can keep you from becoming a big mess at the bottom of a hundred and twenty foot drop.

The ravine he'd climbed ended in a jumble of rocks and outcroppings, and he couldn't see where he was going. His free hand brushed sand and loose grit, and he swore. Then it touched something else. It felt warm, and firm, and too soft to be one of the sun-scorched rocks of the ravine. Trowa patted it once, grabbed it and tugged ­ firm, quite firm, well, whatever it was-

He released the hold of his aching right hand and, relying on whatever was supporting his left hand ­it shifted slightly as he put more weight onto it, but not much- scrambled and heaved himself the last few feet and up the slight overhang, which he grasped with his arms with relief. He squirmed, glanced up, froze.

He was holding on to someone's ankle.

The man was looking at him blankly.

He didn't seem ready to shake Trowa's hold, so, after a second of hesitation, the shaman used it to finish hauling himself up. He straightened slowly, even his finely honed body had been tested by the climb, and brushed himself off, staring down at the silent man.

He was right at the edge of the canyon, sitting on a rock as if he'd hardened from the same primal magma. His eyes were fixing Trowa without interest, his face-

No, to be honest, that was not what Trowa noticed first. What he noticed first ­even when half of him was still dangling over the cliff- was that the man was naked. Completely naked, he confirmed, standing in front of him. Not that clothes  ­Trowa's eyes travelled up and down slowly-  would have been necessary. In fact ­Trowa leaned forward slightly to get a better look, since the strange man didn't seem to mind his scrutiny - clothes would have been a damn shame. They'd have been an insult. Trowa considered himself something of an expert in men. Well, if you'd told him right then and there that he was about to lose his remaining eye, he'd have shrugged and told you that that was okay. He could manage without vision, and he had, after all, seen pretty much all there was to see of the beauties of the earth, as of right now.

The face was just about as perfect as the rest. Strong regular features, though with a hint of softness around the cheeks and a mouth that was - Trowa stopped, because at any moment he was going to start reciting poetry to himself and he left that shit to Quatre. Keep to the facts. Nice face, gorgeous deep blue eyes, brown messy hair, full lips, body to die for. Butt naked. Two days walk from just about anywhere remotely inhabited. 

The man was giving him a blank look. His eyes were... not dull, he didn't think the man was simple, but they were... incurious. Which, considering the circumstances, was very strange.

"Aren't you even going to ask me why I just spent two hours climbing down and then up the walls of a very steep canyon instead of using the bridge that's about a hundred feet from here?"

The handsome man looked at him with the same blank stare. Just as Trowa was wondering if the man could speak Common, or hear, the blue eyes flickered to the left, to look at the bridge which was, indeed, a hundred feet away and perfectly serviceable. Then he looked back at Trowa.

Trowa waited.

The man looked at him as if he had the rest of eternity to stare up his nostrils.

Trowa shook his head. He was not talkative, normally, he let others trip over their own words, and listened instead, but in this instance, they'd be here till nightfall, or possibly the end of the world, if he didn't take the initiative.

"I'm a Nightwalker, a shaman. I'm following a straight line."

He waited. No question, no comment.

"I follow it until I find what I'm looking for. I've been walking all night."


"I don't know what I'm looking for when I start out but if I follow the line and do not deviate for anything, sooner or later I will find it."

Still no comment.

Trowa leaned forward and put a finger in front of the stranger's face. He moved it left and right. The deep blue eyes followed it without curiosity or any trace of damage or paralysis. The man seemed perfectly healthy, un-injured, fit, and, well, strange.

"Looks like I found it."

The man said nothing.

"My name is Trowa Barton."


"And you are... ?"

The man straightened a bit and looked at Trowa with finally a bit of ­ not interest, more a weighing look.

"Heero Yuy."

Trowa felt some relief. He could speak, good. That might make things easier. Maybe.

"That's your name is it? Doesn't sound familiar, where are you from?"


"... No?"

"That is not my name."

Trowa rubbed his sore shoulders and smiled every so slightly. He shook the hair, that sweat had plastered to his face, out of his good eye. Ah, a challenge.

"Okay, so what is Heero Yuy, if not your name?"

The man stared at him, and frowned ever so slightly.

"It means the one and only." He said at last.

Trowa had been passing the time looking at him again and found himself nodding. "Well, I'm already in a committed mating, or I'd be tempted to take you up on that. Are you the one and only of anyone in particular?"


"Do you have a name?"


"Can I call you Heero Yuy then?"

"... "

"Do you want to come with me, Heero Yuy?"

The man said nothing, and his eyes ran over the desert landscape, the cracked and burned earth, the Joshua trees and scrubs sweltering in the heat-waves of a morning sun as if they would catch fire before noon. He seemed to be thinking about it. Trowa hesitated, reached out and took his wrist. Heero Yuy cast an incurious eye at the hand holding him, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

"Come on. If we leave now, we can make it back to my camp by this afternoon."

The man slowly nodded ­the first positive gesture he'd made- and headed towards the cliff. Trowa quickly grabbed his shoulders and swung him towards the left. "No, we don't need to go back that way, we can take the bridge."

"You are following a straight line."

"Only until I find what I need to, and I think I found it. Him. You. Come on, Heero, this way, trust me, the bridge is a lot easier."

Trowa led the other to the bridge, occasionally dropping back to admire the way the other walked, or passing him to glance back and catch a glimpse the other side, which was just as appealing. Heero walked without a hint of embarrassment, as if he'd never known clothes before. Trowa was intrigued, but also prosaic. Considering the uniformly pale smooth skin ­with just a hint of gold tone- the man was going to be roasted by the sun before noon. His back was already reddened. Trowa regretfully dug his cape out of his bag and persuaded Heero to put it on. He had to tie the fasteners himself. Heero followed the movement of his hands with something like interest, then followed him without a word as Trowa once more set out for camp and Quatre. The healer might be able to tell Trowa if Heero Yuy was simply the confused victim of some mugging who'd been dumped naked into the desert, or something infinitely stranger.


Quatre's cries of pleasure suddenly strangled themselves into a squawk.

Trowa gasped as his love went rigid in his arms. "What? Did I hurt you?"

Quatre just shrank further into his chest, as if trying to hide, his eyes fixed, Trowa realized, on a point past the shaman's shoulder.

Trowa turned his head. Heero, recently dressed in one of Trowa's spare outfits, was standing in the afternoon sunshine, a hand lifting the curtain hanging across the vardo‘s low doorway. He was staring at them.

"Heero? What is it?"

"You were screaming."

"No, that was Quatre." In his arms, his lover curled even more onto himself with a groan, drawing his legs back from Trowa's waist as much as he could in the circumstances.

Heero frowned. Trowa waited a few seconds but Heero didn't seem to want to ask anything, or leave. He seemed... curious, in that blank way of his.

"We're having sex." Trowa said, although that would have been obvious to anyone including a blind man, as Quatre was always vocal.

"Sex." Heero's frowned cleared slightly.

"Yes, sex. Do you want to join us?"

"Trowa!" Quatre's voice was scandalised.

"Join you." Heero repeated, as if tasting the words.

"He didn't mean it, Heero, he was joking!" Quatre squeaked, poking a red face past Trowa's shoulders. "He-"

Trowa noticed Quatre's eyes go wide, the colour drain from his cheeks. He glanced back at Heero, who was looking at the rest of the vardo's interior. Then the strange man turned on his heels and left.

"What is it, love?"

"He-... " Quatre swallowed, his eyes troubled. "He wasn't interested at all."

"I'm hurt."

"I meant, at all! No sexual feelings at all. I've never... even a child would show some curiosity, and embarrassment. He's just... not there... "

"You said he had no apparent brain damage."

"I'm beginning to think I should examine him again, he's not normal."

"I should say, anyone who wouldn't even consider joining us is highly-"

That earned him a punch on the shoulder. It wasn't very hard, and Trowa knew that Quatre would be-

"I'm sorry Trowa!"

-apologising less than three seconds later. Trowa smiled, shaking sweat-heavy bangs out of his one good eye so he could look at the Healer in his arms. Quatre was blushing again. This was his natural state when they made love, even after all their time together he was strangely shy about it. Trowa thought it was very arousing, but there wasn't actually anything about Quatre that he didn't find arousing so that wasn't saying much. Quatre could ­and did- make stitching a blanket look alluring. Washing dishes, cutting wood, mixing medicine, drinking and eating, talking to merchants, arguing... there wasn't anything that Quatre could do that Trowa didn't like.

Except maybe try to wiggle away from him just when things were getting interesting, because some strange man had poked his head into their caravan.

Trowa waited until Quatre had practically lifted himself off of his erection, then grabbed his shoulders and gently thrust him back on again.

Quatre gasped. "What-" He tried to get off again, a bit more vigorously this time. Trowa waited once again until the last second, and plunged himself back into that welcoming warm darkness.

"Trowa!" Quatre hissed.

"Quatre." Trowa murmed, only slightly mocking, as he nuzzled the small blonde's ear.

Quatre started to wiggle again. "Let me go, he's still right outside!"

Trowa waited and then thrust once again. Quatre bit the shaman's shoulder, to stifle a cry, then harder, a small nip in anger. Trowa waited three second and, once the blonde had apologized, shrugged.

"So what if he's outside?"

"Trowa!" Quatre hissed, leveraging against his lover's shoulders to lift himself off of his erection again. "We can't- he's listening! Ah!"

Trowa's slight smile lit his impassive face as they were once again back where they'd started.

"So what? He seemed pretty confused-" He bit his lip as Quatre squirmed again, in a very distracting manner, "aaah... - maybe all he needs is a shock to get back to normal."

Quatre gasped as he was once more brought back down. "T-Trowa th-that's n-not how you help people who are confused! Let me off!"

Trowa brought him down again, even harder, twisting to hit the little throbbing pulse of  pleasure within his love's body.

"Are you enjoying this as much as I am?" He panted. Quatre had gone the same pretty red as the roof of the vardo. His eyes were closed and he was biting his lip to avoid making any more noises that Heero would probably come and investigate. The way he was now lifting himself up and letting Trowa pull him down had no longer anything to do with escaping, which answered the shaman's question.

Trowa had grown up a Nightwalker, with the same taboos as the animals which were the tribe's shaman guides and companions, which is to say, very few. Apart from immediate family and those too young to have reached the age of reason, any man or woman was fair game, and he'd had a string of each in the many towns he travelled, anyone who would accept to love and be loved by the shaman, without strings and with very few words either.

He'd forgotten all of them the moment he saw the Healer. He had remembered them during the months of extreme frustration that had followed, but had finally given them all up the moment his love had shyly kissed him for the first time, even though it had looked quite likely that Trowa would, from that moment on, never have sex again.

Quatre was a Healer and had been dedicated as an infant to some god or other, Trowa had never bothered much with the details, except those that mattered. Namely, that the god in question required celibacy from his followers, and that those followers considered sex between males to be one of the seven grievous sins or whatever. Two major hurdles to overcome, and for a long time he didn't think he'd be able to. Quatre had accepted with some trepidation to allow the shaman to stay at his small clinic and help him there. They'd become great friends in the one night of talk they'd had after they'd met, but Quatre was still nervous around him. Most people were nervous around Nightwalkers. They tended to avoid the shamans. Actually, what they'd do was lock up their wives, sons, daughters and pets when they heard one was in town, and then avoid them. Which was stupid. No nightwalker would ever take what wasn't freely given. So Quatre had been perfectly safe, and Trowa the one in grave risk of dying of extreme frustration. And he would have, rather than lose their friendship. And he quite joyfully abstained from sex with anyone else, rather than lose whatever chance he had to gain the Healer's love.

The long months of growing friendship and platonic love ­delightfully highlighted by that one shy kiss- and been abruptly interrupted by those fools in the Healer's religious order. They'd found out that a Nightwalker was hanging around the best and most promising young acolyte they had, and told Quatre to get rid of him, and return to the main cloister to avoid any more contact with the unclean animal.

Trowa found himself, twenty four confused hours later, driving a determined Quatre away in the vardo, away from everything he'd ever known, the clinic, the cloister, the order itself. Trowa had remembered to drop a handful of silvers in the charity box of the temple before Quatre had slammed the door with a determined clang. He owed the old farts that much for pressing the matter and bringing things to a head. He would never have presumed to.

Quatre had admitted to Trowa ­by his decision if not in words- that he loved the shaman more than any future he had in his order, and that was already more than enough for the quiet man. Of course, there still wasn't any sex. Quatre had a martyr streak a mile wide. He loved the shaman ­not that he admitted it outright- but wouldn't compromise his mission in life for that, and his mission was healing. Well, that was fair enough. Except that the young ex-priest believed his healing powers came from the grace of his god, and his god required celibacy... Trowa didn't say anything, merely agreed that Quatre should keep his vow of chastity if that was what was needed to heal the injured and sick they encountered in their nomadic life together.

Trowa never bothered telling Quatre that the shaman knew quite a bit about gods, had met a few of them, and even slept with one during a glorious night of his youth, and so very much doubted that Quatre's god required any oath of celibacy to let the blonde access his healing power. Or if he did, Trowa was pretty sure that here was a god he didn't want to meet, and didn't much approve of. But he didn't say this to Quatre. This was something the young man had to figure out on his own. Chances were that he wouldn't but, well, such was life, and sex wasn't everything in it.

Trowa was content with a life full of love and friendship (and no sex), and would have been for a long time, if Quatre hadn't happened upon him while the shaman was bathing, two months after they'd started travelling together.

Trowa was shaking off the water from the creek, drying himself in the sun at its edge, when he was bowled over by a blonde hurricane with at least six hands. They landed in a tangle in the reeds at the edge of the creek. Trowa had tried to protest and actually managed to finish his sentence, though the way the blonde man was ripping off his own clothes was distracting him considerably. He tried to remind the healer about his vow and his mission of healing the injured. Quatre had snarled something about using band-aids from now on, and leapt on to the shaman who had nothing more to say.

After a very long night, during which Quatre had broken his vow of chastity no less than four times, it turned out his powers were still in perfect working order. Trowa was not very surprised.

Of course, it could still be a little frustrating. The blond could still be absurdly shy for a lot of things, and he clung to many of the taboos and edicts his religion had placed upon him. He went from complete chastity to complete fidelity, for one, and it was much more binding to him. Trowa had once more shrugged and acquiesced. Have sex exclusively with Quatre was better than having sex with any other number of partners, and much better than none at all. He was content. In fact, in the two years they'd been together, he'd only ever felt one niggle of regret. A naked Heero Yuy could distract anybody from such considerations, for a few moments.

Quatre screamed, impaling himself onto his mate as he came, his beauty far greater than any of the stone statues his religious order worshipped in their cold, empty cloisters. Trowa's eyes never left that beloved face as he worshipped that body with his own, once more. No, even a dozen naked Heeros couldn't make him regret this. He'd found his own One and Only, the only one he'd ever need.

The pair collapsed on the vardo's narrow cot, panting and gasping in the afternoon's heat, trapped in the caravan's dark and airless corners.

"I still want to examine him again." Quatre wiped the sweat from his fair skin, but made no other effort to move. "We also need to find out who he is, where he comes from, and why your line led you to him."

"We'll go see Svale. The old crone will know." Trowa murmured sleepily.

"It'll take us three weeks to reach her. Maybe Heero won't want to come with us." The blonde's eyes were darting towards the side of the vardo where they could hear Heero occasionally shift as he sat against a wheel.

"What else is he going to do? He can go sit on a rock in the middle of a desert some other time." Trowa murmured prosaically before rising and preparing for the night.

[chap. 2] [back to Maldoror's fic]