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"Hurricane"Written By: Miss Murdered Disclaimer: I don't own the GW characters - am
just borrowing to torment for my amusement Rating: NC 17 Warnings: yaoi, m/m sexual relations of varying
degrees of smuttiness and roughness, angst, language, dark Quat and
Tro' Pairings: 3x4x3, brief mentions of 1x2 Summary: "There is a moment that I think of when we are in bed together, before the reality sets in, when we are lying side by side and he is the Trowa I could be with and I am the Quatre he could love." A/N: I admit, that I am not usually a fan of the
3x4 pairing as I don't see it working long term as the characters
are so different. As such, if you like the pairing happy and non-angsty
then this fic is not for you. If you want to read a darker version
of the Quat and Tro' pairing then welcome… The fic is inspired by the song Hurricane by 30 Seconds to Mars Beta'd by ELLE as always. "Hurricane "
Would You Kill? The remains of snowfall line the streets of Paris. It
is cold and grey slush stains the gutters and the sky is clear as
I walk from the Pigalle Metro, holding my bag tightly to me as I make
my way through the seedier side of this city. I still find the perception
I had of earth as a boy a little naïve, lacking, as I was taught
about great architecture and culture. I was taught about the concert
halls and galleries, the museums and the cathedrals. It doesn't take
being long on earth to realise that great cities like Paris are huge
divides of poverty and wealth, shaped by the millions who have lived
and died in them. The Pigalle district is not only sex shops and cabaret,
there is the history of art and of music that is interweaved into
it but as I walk, it seems, that at night the only thing that is being
sold is anonymous bodies and faceless men and women. I arrive at the place Trowa keeps in Paris. I will not
call it his home as none of these places are his home and each are
just as indistinct as the last. I wonder if he misses the place in
Johannesburg since Duo and Wufei got close enough to find him there.
I wonder if he even cares beyond losing somewhere in that particular
area that he could no longer use as a base for some stretch of time. The landlady of the house lets me in despite not appreciating
the late night interruption. My French is rusty yet I remember enough
to be understood. He does not have an apartment in Paris, only a room
in this house, the expense of it perhaps prohibitive unless he wanted
to be located less centrally but Trowa always lived in the heart of
places. Near airports and shuttle ports and rail stations. Near to
an escape. He would always be about exit strategy, about working out
how he could get out of a situation and I do not know how he can live
like he does. How he's done it for years. This is his life and that
is the reason I can never be in it. I tell his landlady that I know his room and she nods
and lets me find him, his door is locked as it should be and I try
the handle once in some vain attempt. I rap my knuckles against the
door and wait. I don't say his name yet I hear the sound of movement
on the other side and soon there is a rattle and click of the lock.
He only slides it open slightly and I notice the gun pointed at me.
I frown. He is not usually this paranoid. He is usually coldly cocky,
confident and now I worry that he is truly in trouble, that he has
perhaps worked with the wrong people, that maybe someone wants him
dead. "Quatre," he says and I nod as I have nothing
to say yet. He doesn't say anything else as he opens the door enough
to let me through and I smell the room for the first time. I decide
I don't want to know how long he has been holed up in here. There
are empty alcohol bottles on surfaces, remains of meals left to rot
and fester and the only blessing is the window, open to let frigid
air into the stifling conditions. His apartments, his rooms, are usually
kept without anything in them yet here, now, there is an overabundance
of things. Nothing, again, to identify him but enough human debris
for me to question him. I see magazines randomly thrown about, books, and as
I follow him inside I realise the reason why his room is in the condition
it is in. His walk is not his usual stride and the thin white t-shirt
he wears clings to his back enough for me to see the bandaging there. "You're hurt." "It's nothing," he replies as he sits on the
bed, placing the gun underneath his pillow, not looking up at me. It's obvious he's just got up from it, covers rumpled,
his hair endearingly messy in a way that I sometimes think of fondly
when I'm alone. There is a moment that I think of when we are in bed
together, before the reality sets in, when we are lying side by side
and he is the Trowa I could be with and I am the Quatre he could love.
It is a brief moment, a moment where he isn't a mercenary offering
his special skill set for the highest bidder and I am not the heir
to the Winner fortune. It is a moment where I move his hair to one
side and study both of his eyes, when I kiss him despite morning breath
and we pretend that we could have something. It is only a moment. "You need a hospital," I say, knowing that
he will reject that idea straight away. He shakes his head and I reach out to touch a wound,
feel him flinch and hiss. It is subtle, a small gesture but I am aware
he is in more pain than he would admit to anyone but me. I know I
cannot win – he will not go to a hospital, he will not risk that
and if the gun is any indication, he is in a more dangerous situation
than he usually is. "Stay with me." His eyes will not meet mine when he asks and I realise
this is the most he has ever asked of me. That I have known him over
ten years and he has never once asked anything of me. He could've
asked me for money, he could've asked me for employment, he could've
asked for my love and yet it is now, he asks. "Yeah," I whisper and lean to kiss him. We don't fuck that night, instead, I redress his wounds,
search out and apply antiseptic to them, and when we fall asleep,
he spoons against my back, his breath against my neck and I find myself
believing he wants me. I stay in Paris five days. I wonder idly what the company
thinks of my departure, what rumours have passed around the offices
of my whereabouts yet I only contact Rashid who sounds resigned on
the other end of the line as I say I will be back in a few days. I
have never done anything this risky with Trowa – never spent
this long, never slept with him for so many consecutive nights –
and it feels more illicit than any other encounter. I feel secluded
from my life in his room in Paris and become accustomed to a routine,
to having him with me constantly like I have not had since Peacemillion
and that was a period filled with anger and fear and recrimination. After the first night, after the first of my careful
applications to his injuries, we fuck again but like we never have
before. I am careful, avoiding his wounds, fearful of hurting him
like I never have been and he is intense, he is open-mouthed kisses,
he is hot breath and oddly tender touches. It feels like every second
we touch will be our last and it is desperate but not angry. We don't
hurt each other and I get used to him like this. In half light, in
rough cheap blankets, we move against each other and I lose myself
in his arms, in his body and I feel sparks behind my eyes every time
I come. Two days into my stay we start to leave his room and
we walk the streets of Paris together – I loop my arm around
his and we laugh at how we are acting. Normal. Like a couple and we
slip through the streets and kiss in alleyways and I am confused by
every moment. He buys me a scarf when I'm cold and ties it around
my neck. We buy wine and cheeses that are difficult to pronounce and
visit patisseries and I feel this is the vacation I've never had –
the one my sisters demanded I have. Yet I am aware it will not last. One night he asks me, I think I've been in Paris for
four days but those days blur and I am unsure of days and time – "Would you kill again?" I don't answer straight away, I don't have that answer
and I wonder if he purposefully asks that of me to bring us back to
the reality between us. I am laid beside him, both of us on our sides
and I reach out and touch those dog tags and frown. "I would defend myself," I say, vaguely, unsure
of what he wants from me. "Or those who are important to me." He turns to lie on his back and I see his slight wince,
the pain of those barbed wire slashes deep and his dog tags slide
from my fingers. He doesn't say anything else and I assume he has
fallen asleep, that he wants to avoid whatever this conversation is
as much as he has avoided every single meaningful conversation we
could have. The room feels too small for us and it is then that I
wonder whether this time, this gentleness, the roughness gone from
our fucking means what I fear – that it is his way of saying
goodbye. Even as we've walked through the streets of Paris, he has
carried a weapon, even as I sleep by his side, there is a gun underneath
his pillow and I wonder what he is involved in – I think I could
help. I imagine a scenario where I can help, where I can save him
like I never could but instead I turn away from him and attempt to
sleep. It surprises me when he speaks, low, quiet and I don't look
at him. My gaze is towards the wall. "It's the only thing I knew how to do after the
war." I want to say that there is much more he could do, much
more he can do but I let him speak. Let him tell me his reasons. "Now it's the only thing I can do." "You have a choice." He snorts under his breath. "Turn myself in? Prison?" The words hang in the air and I think of Duo's warning
– the rest of his life on an asteroid prison. A former Gundam
pilot wouldn't be sent into the general population. That would be
too high risk – for both Trowa and the other inmates. "No," I answer, "you leave it behind
and hide." "I already do that," he says and I can hear
the slight hint of sarcasm. "From me," I qualify. I want to say that I am his only link, that I would
be the only way he'd be found and that if we broke off all contact
then he would be free. New name. Somewhere deep in the heart of South
America, Africa, Eastern Europe. That the men who chase him, that
the men he is scared of and carries his weapon for would not find
him if he wanted to hide, truly hide. And the only reason he will
not go fully into hiding is me. I feel his hand on my shoulder and I turn onto my back
again and he doesn't speak, instead, he presses his lips to mine and
slides on top of me, our bodies rocking each other, grinding and finding
some rhythm we have never had. I reach up to those dog tags before
we move any further, they bump against my skin often and I want to
know what they mean. "Whose were they?" "Someone important," he tells me using my
own words back at me and I don't understand the brief flash of hurt
behind his eyes. It is gone as his kisses are frantic and I forget my
question after that, lost in pleasurable sensations as our bodies
collide, and the last few days in Paris are spent without us talking
about his injuries, about his job, about anything as it feels definitive.
It feels like an interlude in real life. It feels like our end.
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