see part 1 for warnings, notes, disclaimer
the Furnace, Unshrinking + Part 17
Please Please Please
Good times for a change
See, the luck I've had
Could make a good man turn bad
So please please please
Let me let me let me
Let me... get what I want this time
- "Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want" The Smiths
Quatre perched on the end of his bed, lovingly tuning his violin. His
chin molded to the body of the instrument, he carefully turned the pegs
at the base of the strings, altering the pitch just slightly. He didn't
need an electric tuner for this task; after so many years of playing he
could do it by ear. Trowa sat across the room, accordion in his lap. He
waited until Quatre was finished then tried out a few notes, eyes closing
in concentration as he pulled and squeezed. It'd been so many years since
he'd played in front of anyone else...
But he'd done it for Quatre, knowing the boy needed help. And the only
therapy Trowa knew how to administer, the only kind that had ever worked
for him, was musical. So, he'd brought out the accordion and encouraged
Quatre to practice his violin with him. They'd been nervous and awkward
at first, fumbling through a few songs as though they were new lovers,
exploring each other's bodies for the first time. Or at least that's how
Trowa thought of it. Watching Quatre play -- especially once his bruises
had faded and he could move without wincing -- was the most intimate experience
he'd ever had. He felt privileged and slightly out of breath when he caught
the boy's euphoric expression and when he saw slender back muscles bending
and flexing beneath the thin fabric of a t-shirt. And he was frightened
because he knew he was a goner. He'd never been in love before. The only
love he'd ever experienced had been....
Well, it had taught him a definition of normal that probably...wasn't.
He'd been told it was okay for him to like it until he believed that he
did. The transition from mercenary to hustler had been an easy one because
of these teachings. Quatre was four years younger than him. And what Trowa
felt was so utterly and wonderfully new that he refused to put a name
to it; he refused to call it love because Quatre did not fit the profile
of who had "loved" him in the past. Thank god.
He crossed the room in a few strides, once they'd finished warming up,
to stand next to his best friend. Quatre looked up at him, meeting his
gaze and counting off softly, "1,2,3... 1,2,3..." The song was quiet and
slow, an old French Revolution tune that Trowa had taught Quatre when
they first played together. They'd continued to use it as a warm up since
then. They liked that it was sad in the beginning, without hope, but that
it rallied by the end. Mostly though, Trowa new that they just liked to
watch each other play it. He could feel Quatre's eyes on him as his body
swayed gently with the waltzing beat, fingers nimbly pressing keys on
the right, buttons on the left.
And Trowa liked to watch Quatre bend. The boy was classically trained
and his posture was perfect. When he moved with a song, the muscles in
his back flexed and pulled. The curve of his neck remained strong, but
locks of bright hair shifted and fell into his eyes until he twitched
them aside. His heal swung back and forth in time with the tune and sometimes
when he concentrated, his tongue stuck out about a centimeter between
tightened lips. Trowa noticed all these things, catalogued them, memorized
them so he would always have them to call up behind closed eyelids. He
did this without missing a note or a beat.
At least he usually did. But today, when Quatre was preparing to head
into the refrain of their song, something different happened. Later, after
that day, Trowa would try to remember what was different about the way
Quatre played the pickup into the refrain. He would realize that it wasn't
anything that Quatre did, consciously. Just a lean, really. When the song
changed, Quatre leaned into the next part. And that was the sexiest
thing Trowa had ever seen. And very suddenly, he couldn't take it anymore.
He'd been silently drowning for six months and in the middle of their
song, he finally made his fear, pain and excitement known... by totally
screwing up his part. He missed one note, then another, then forgot his
part completely, and just stared at Quatre until the boy realized that
his accompaniment had dropped out. He lowered his violin to his lap and
"What's wrong? You never mess up that part."
Trowa shrugged, knowing he had an uncharacteristically stupid smile on
his face. Quatre's mouth quirked upward, unconsciously mirroring his expression.
"What... did I mess up too? I don't think I- What are you smiling at?"
"You." Trowa had no reason to hide this. In their months as friends, they'd
always been openly affectionate, even though Trowa knew the smiles and
the laughing were a bit of a show, that they wanted to put a good face
on their friendship, even if they didn't particularly feel like being
Quatre laughed a little nervously. "Do I have something on my face?" He
rubbed his nose, cheeks, and forehead as a pre-emptive gesture. Trowa
shook his head, no, snapping his accordion together and sliding the straps
from his shoulders. "Then what?"
Trowa said nothing because he didn't know the words for the sensations
radiating from his chest. So instead he approached Quatre slowly, giving
him plenty of opportunity to move away. Instead the boy slid off the bed
towards him, standing now with the backs of his thighs pressed against
The tall Frenchman looked into bright blue eyes, then down to a small
nose, flushed cheeks, and pale, slightly parted lips. Finally they rested
on the scar in the corner of his mouth. Still vivid and red, it looked
painful. He met Quatre's gaze again. "Does it hurt?"
The boy touched the scar delicately, running his fingers over the ridge
of skin. "No, not really. Only when I think about how it happened."
Trowa reached up and gently pulled his friend's hand away from his mouth.
"Don't think about it then. I'm sorry I brought it up."
"That's okay," Quatre answered quickly. "I'm over it. It happened and
it's over now." He paused, scrubbing a hand through bright hair. "Um...
what were you smiling about before? You didn't tell me."
Trowa made the split-second decision to go with his gut and trust Maxwell's
strategy of talking until it made sense. "I was watching you play and
I got distracted. You looked... different... beautiful. And so I was smiling,
because it felt good."
Quatre was not smiling. This fact made Trowa's blood go still for several
seconds, then all rush to his face. Why did Quatre look so serious?
"I-I mean, I just wanted you to know that you're very beautiful when you
play. That doesn't have to mean anything... else." All of Trowa's considerable
skills of seduction were very suddenly elsewhere and the usually suave
and subtle Frenchman felt large and awkward. 'Note to self: Talking, Bad.'
Quatre abruptly turned away from him and Trowa seriously considered bolting
for the door while his friend's back was turned. Be he squashed that desire
and forced himself to stand still and watch Quatre carefully return his
instrument to its case. Then the boy was back, leaning against the bed,
his usually animated features perfectly expressionless. Quatre was not
offering a smile for anyone's benefit this time.
"Hey, forget what I said. It was out of line; I'm sorry."
"Did you mean it? Do... you think that about me?"
Trowa said nothing for a few seconds, wary of Quatre's meaning. "What-
that you're beautiful?" A slight nod. "Yes, I did mean it, of course I
meant it. Every time I see you -- since you were dragged cursing and kicking
into our car at the club -- I thought you were..." He paused and took
a deep breath. Okay, so much for 'Talking, Bad.' "Yes, I think you're
Another small nod. "Even with...?" He touched the scar again.
Trowa smirked. "Dick is in much worse shape than you. That scar means
you are a fighter. That's not beautiful, but it's sexy as hell." Quatre
seemed to consider this for a moment, rolling the idea around in his brain.
Finally he nodded again, a satisfied and somewhat predatory grin spreading
across his pale features, an expression Trowa had never seen before.
"That's settled then," Quatre said matter-of-factly.
"What i-" Surprisingly strong hands grabbed his arms and firm lips captured
his mouth in a hard kiss. Trowa's eyes opened wide and his senses went
into a tailspin as he found himself suddenly held, kissed, groped, spun
around and shoved onto the bed. Quatre stood beside him, breathing quickly,
face flushed, that smirk tugging at his scarred mouth.
"Was that okay?"
Trowa stuttered something totally ineloquent in the affirmative, propping
himself up on his elbows. He slid further back onto the bed as Quatre
climbed up after him, straddling his legs.
"Oh good, because I've been wanting to do that for awhile now and if it
was the wrong thing, I think I would have jumped out the window."
Trowa laughed. "It was perfect... Please don't jump out the window."
"Can I kiss you again?"
Trowa's lips felt swollen and more than a little tingly. He could feel
bite marks along his collar bone and shoulders. His breath caught in his
throat and he couldn't help a small smile when he thought of Quatre's
mouth on him, biting, kissing, licking. His thick bangs were tangled and
sweaty. He'd lost his shirt somewhere along the way and now, the sheen
of sweat on his chest was evaporating, and he shivered slightly. His fingers
were cold too. The room was chilly and he'd always had poor circulation.
But he also had a warm body pressed flush along his, a tousled blond head
resting against his chest, and cool fingers wrapped firmly around his
ribs. No way in hell was he moving. He didn't even mind the cooling wet
spot in his underwear. Under any other circumstances, he'd be scowling
and heading for the bathroom. He hated that feeling. But not today.
Quatre was dozing lightly on top of him, worn out after their brief but
energetic tussle and hump on the bed. Admittedly, it didn't go quite as
he would have liked. Too fast. Too Frantic. Not enough time exploring.
Just kissing and biting and laughing and grinding and gasps and moans
and, okay, so it was amazing. Trowa smiled up at the ceiling. He knew
he was a sex snob. Christ, he did it for a living; he had a right to be
one. Next time, if their was a next time, they'd do things his way. Slowly.
Carefully. Deliberately. His smile grew wider as he watched Quatre's head
rise and fall with the rhythm of his breathing.
Not just 'Quatre' anymore. "Lover," Trowa murmured, tasting the word,
savoring it. "Quatre, will you be my lover?" he whispered. "Even though
we can't physically be faithful to each other... my heart is yours if
you want. It's yours."
"Hm?" Sleepy blue eyes blinked up at him. "Did you say something?"
Trowa smiled and shook his head, no. "Just wanted to see if you were awake."
Quatre's returned smile was warm and languid and Trowa's stomach still
did a little flip. Even now that they'd... now that they'd shown each
other how they felt, he was still slipping and sliding and falling. The
boy kissed the first skin he could find, lips pressing against Trowa's
breastbone. Then his mouth traveled south, nipping smooth pale skin along
the way. Trowa stretched and arched his back upwards, groaning softly
in appreciation of his lover's expert mouth.
"Quatre..." he breathed, then paused as the phone rang out in the living
room. They shared a quick glance, Quatre poised in a most compromising
position over Trowa's belt buckle. "Probably a job," Trowa said quietly.
"You've got a little more time off, right?"
The boy nodded and gave him a wicked grin. "It's probably for Wufei. His
clients love the new haircut."
Trowa snorted a soft laugh, listening for some clue from the half-conversation
he could hear from Duo. He couldn't make out much -- which was odd considering
how loudly Duo usually answered the phone. He usually said something ridiculously
inappropriate and lewd to the anonymous voice relaying appointments for
them. He heard footsteps approaching their room and together, they stood
up, pulling on shirts and attempting to straighten mussed hair. Then there
was a sharp knock on the door.
"Quatre? You in there? Phone's for you."
Wrinkling his brow in confusion, the boy pulled the door open. "Who would
be..." His voice trailed off almost immediately when he came face-to-face
with wide violet eyes, a pale face drained of all color, and the phone
gripped in white-knuckled fingers. "Who is it?"
"It's the doctor." Without a glance backward, Quatre snatched the phone
and headed straight for the relative privacy of the bathroom, slamming
the door behind him. Duo and Trowa exchanged worried glances but then
Duo turned on his heal, disappearing into his room, reappearing after
a moment with his coat. Quatre emerged from the bathroom a second later,
and the two of them were out the door in the next second, leaving a confused
and hurt Trowa standing alone in the doorway to his room.
"Be home soon, lover," he murmured, guts twisting in anxiety, fingers
absently pressing on his breastbone where, a few minutes earlier, Quatre's
lips had been.
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