Author: Maldoror
Disclaimer: The usual, Gundam Wing belongs to it's 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
see chap. 1 for more notes

The Source Of All Things + Chapter 8
Intersections, Part I

Quatre bit his lip hesitantly as he looked around. He could hear Svale off in the distance, yelling at Heero to open his door. She'd been at it for a week, you'd think she'd give up! Duo was nowhere to be seen, he often disappeared, but he seemed to spend a good part of the day sleeping anyway, he was probably-

It just wouldn't do. He just had to-

He picked up the things he'd gathered, the small sickle, the herbary, the basket with solvents and pots, some food, some water... the other small pot and the blanket... Quatre darted across the courtyard and into the stable, looking around him carefully, especially eager to escape Svale's keen gaze.

He just couldn't get it out of his head...

Full moon last night. As the shadows lengthened in the hushed breeze of evening, he'd seen him through the window of their room. Trowa had been washing his face with water from the well. He'd straightened up as the first ghost of moonlight stretched a finger out across the twilight. Tall, straight, slender yet so strong. Dressed in leather, dusk and moonlight. A mixture of dark and light brown, russet shirt, leather jerkin knotted around a wiry chest, that hair cascading down his face, unrestrained by the brown leather headband beneath it, knotted in the back, two small beads dangling at different lengths from the leather thongs... The shaman had stretched, leaning his body into the rising moonlight, closed his eyes and walked away, towards the wild hills around them. He'd been there all night.

Quatre knew he had... trouble with physical intimacy. Well, not the intimacy part, really. It was the lack thereof that was the problem. Since Trowa had come back from his Walk with a naked Heero wrapped in his cloak, over a month ago, they'd manage to make love three times, and each time they'd been disturbed, either during the act or with sly comments afterwards. Heero had actually been alright, in retrospect. Duo had been impossible, making odious jokes after he'd overheard them. As for Svale... whatever made him forget the old hag had the entire sanctuary as an extra pair of ears that first night they'd arrived? The relief at being safe and the road through the Reg range behind them had allowed it to slip his mind, he guessed...

Quatre saddled the roan horse (Trowa had no need to name animals, and Quatre was only interested in humans, so they were the roan horse and the stupid horse respectively), led her from her stall, and away from the circle of stone.

It just wouldn't do at all...

He lightly climbed the docile beast, and let his mind wander as he shook the reins, letting another sense guide him. He didn't need to be precise. He'd be found long before he could get close enough to worry about better directions.


Quatre closed the pot on a few herbs he'd picked. The hilly moors around the sanctuary were not all that rich in curative plants. Maybe some roots-... who was he fooling. He was kneeling on a thick blanket laid on the packed sod in the dip between two hills, the contents of the other little pot, with it's fresh herbal scent, could be smelled a mile off by the one who was approaching, and Quatre was already blushing to the roots of his hair.

No sound of footstep behind him. He didn't need any. His heart was a single string, beating to the rhythm of his pulse (somewhat faster now), until someone else came near and then the string began to sway and twitch with another's soul-beat superimposed. It had taken him so long, to start with, to distinguish his melody from that of others. And for one man, he didn't know the difference. There was no difference.

So he knew what his other soul wanted, the way he wanted it, and so he wanted it too.

He put the useless herbs down, and slowly drew off the thick cotton smock he wore without turning. Then he pulled off his shoes, belt and trousers, as if stripping out in the middle of nowhere for no apparent reason was something he did every day. Soft fair skin was a gentle counterpoint to the grey skies and rugged brown hills around him. A wind, wet and fairly cold, tousled blonde hair and made him shiver. He put the pot within easy reach, and leaned forward to get some food from the basket.

He didn't even start as the other body folded over his. Rough leather scratched his back, and he gasped, at the sensation against his cold skin and at the sudden throb of emotions the contact reinforced.


He didn't try to turn, but arched against the body until they were as much in contact as possible. Yours.

The warmth left him briefly, though legs were still in contact with his, as he heard the jerkin and shirt being hastily pulled away, the crossbow, wrist-bow and belts laden with bolts clunking to the ground. The next contact was the delectable tingle of skin on skin, slowly sliding over him again, leaving him breathless. A hand reached past him towards the pot, the little lid flipped onto the blanket in haste. But the first move into him was gentle. Trowa had never hurt him.

The warm presence covered him with just enough weight to hold him still and warm. He gasped as the gentle finger explored, caressed, while the other hand lingered over his chest, brushing nipples, stomach, sides, petting him and soothing him like one of the animal guides the shaman ran with during the nights of the full moon. He leaned into that gentle touch, on hands and knees, fingers kneading the thick blanket. The body above his followed his every movement. He wasn't cold anymore.

A second gentle intrusion, a third, the hand on his body became rougher, more urgent, curling in his hair, around the back of his neck, across his chest. Quatre stiffened as the teasing, kneading fingers caressed a little ball of sensation deep inside, and he found himself surging back to get more of those little gasps of breathless tingling pleasure shooting up his spine and down his groin. He didn't say anything though. When he was ready, he merely shoved back harder, hips twisting slightly, and a little mewling noise escaped him, demanding, accepting.

The response was immediate and fierce, as his lover's member replaced the fingers in a slow, unhesitant thrust. Quatre writhed against the hard chest, rocking back on his knees slightly to make the entrance easier. He shuddered, his whole body feeling like a fluttering pulse as he leaned back slowly until Trowa was fully within him.

Strong hands bent him forward again and travelled down his arms, the leather wristband rasping against his fair skin, until his smaller hands were anchored into the blanket. Strong corded fingers slipped beneath his so his weight leaned on them, and he twined them with his own. Two beaded thongs fell onto his shoulder, slipped into the dip of his neck, cold sharp contact of glass against skin. He twitched his hips back, every nerve singing at the feeling of even greater contact between them, bridging the gap, mind to body, filling him to the brink.

The shaman moved his legs until he was crouched over Quatre, and the blond felt lips on his neck, a gentle stroke, as the taller man flexed hips back and forth, slowly. Quatre licked open lips as he panted, every slow move a new sensation touching a small bundle of intensity in his chest and crotch. No hands had lingered over the later. Most times the joinings were different, but when Trowa was this close to the full moon another instinct drove him, and Quatre gave what was needed. Today his mate's pleasure came first, the claiming came first. He made a small noise in the back of his throat, both submissive and entreating. In response, a small growl near his ear and the shaman took control of the rhythm of their movements.

The mating was fierce and silent. Quatre swallowed groans and shouts, until they gathered deep in his chest, more a vibration than a cry, sending shivers of pleasure and lust to the skin rubbing back and forth against his spine. Finally a groan above him as the rhythm became wild, primal, and lips and teeth fastened gently onto the skin of his neck, possessing. The kick inside, exploding when his lover's wild thrusts hit their mark, was making him pant open mouthed, arching back against his mate, and it blended with the roaring throb of love, lust and pleasure seeping from his lover's mind and into his own, running wild hands over the pulse-string in his chest. Quatre almost came as the feelings rose to a fever pitch, melting in the crucible to one white-hot moment of passion, mind and body convulsing as one.

A gasp in his ear as the teeth left their soft grip on his neck, and waves of warmth, inside and out, made all his skin ache for further touch. Trowa panted behind him, arms rising to gently caress, hold and cherish. No need for words. All that could ever be said, an entire elegy, in one embrace.

Quatre could feel a sensual smile form against his shoulder as his lover withdrew, and the touches were no longer shared, they were all for him. Quatre twitched, sensitive skin suddenly ticklish, and a low laugh brushed his hair at the nape of the neck. He was suddenly lifted - a small startled gasp- and tumbled around onto the blanket, and he was staring up into a knowing green eye. A gentle teasing brush of lips against lips before they dropped to his throat, drinking a bead of sweat before the wind could cool it. Quatre caught his breath in anticipation.

Their way of making love was as different as they were. Quatre knew only how to give, and throbbed in the echoes of offered pleasure. Trowa couldn't read his mind, didn't know what Quatre wanted, and in a way, neither did the blonde. But the shaman focused his own powers, following the lines of the body he knew so well, to see where the greatest source of pleasure could be at that moment, hunting it down and tracking it like a wild animal spirit. Quatre shuddered with lust and anticipation. Where would it be lurking today...

Lips ghosted over his chest, his belly, down further, circling his erection and then a soft touch of fingers and tongue caressed it up, then down, then-

Quatre blinked at the ebb of pleasure. He glanced down, trying to focus on his lover. Trowa's head was down but tilted, his eyes -the green one and the one touched by the moon- focusing elsewhere... his face hardening.

"Get dressed."

Quatre stiffened, then flew for his clothes, checking his shotel in his belt first. Behind him, he heard Trowa pull on pants and belt but he didn't reach for his shirt. He heard instead the ratchet of the crossbow being pulled back and the double click of two bolts being fit in. His lover's soul was as calm and still as the hills around them, and now Quatre could feel the slightest niggling of intrusive feelings closing around them. Still a good distance away, but-

"I think we're about to have company, boys!"

Quatre almost yelled as he spun around, and Trowa twitched his crossbow-


For an instant Quatre forgot the twinges of danger closing in as he glared at the old hag."I can't believe it, you followed me-"

"Silence!" Trowa hissed. As Quatre strangled his cries he could hear and feel the hunters approaching.

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