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"Room With A View"Written By: The Plotting Housewife Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sotsu
and associated Parties. This work is written for pleasure not profit. Rating: NC 17 Warnings: Humor, Slight Angst, Smut. Pairings: Trowa/Quatre. Summary: It's almost like "Love At First
Sight" was coined just for them. "Chapter 2: Amber Waves of Grain " The blanket was scratchy against his naked skin, the ground beneath him lumpy and uneven, but Quatre simply couldn’t find the will to care. Not when his head was pillowed on a thickly muscled arm while the other wrapped around his back and held him captive. And such a sweet captivity it was. One he was reluctant to leave. One he would happily accept for the rest of his life if he could. The man’s skin was silky soft and stretched over powerful muscles that Quatre had shamelessly watched flex enough times to know them by memory. He could trace the ridges where one lead to the next, the images vivid and tactile inside his mind. He’d expected him to smell like old leather, motor oil, Lucky Strikes, and cheap cologne and was not disappointed when reality matched his fantasy. Trowa smelled like a man. A real man. All rough around the edges, the poster boy for the working class. A man who preferred to make his money with hard, honest labor and dirty hands. Rugged, heady, bursting with masculinity and aggression. The first time Quatre saw him, he’d honestly believed Trowa was the Marlboro Man in the flesh, sans the cowboy hat. Who wouldn’t with the rolled-up sleeves of his t-shirt practically strangling the rounded sinew of his biceps and the faded denim jeans that looked as if they’d been painted onto those buns of steel? He wouldn’t be surprised if one day he discovered Trowa gracing those Sexy Man calendars that neglected housewives often kept hidden among their feminine hygiene products. The one place they knew their husbands would never dare to venture. Maybe he'd be the Sexy Mechanic, or even the Sexy Fireman, or a cop. His Adonis-like body bared but for the hat and a pair of blue chaps. Perhaps he'd dangle a pair of handcuffs from his finger with a cheesy caption that read, "You're under arrest...for stealing my heart!" Quatre's imagination alone definitely provided enough jack off material to get him through his first few semesters of college. Probably more. And he should know about the neglected housewife thing. He accidentally found his mother’s calendar one day while searching for Band-Aid’s. She’d caught him looking through it, bleeding cut on his finger forgotten, and told him if he wanted to see his fifteenth birthday, he’d keep his mouth shut. It was more a mutually beneficial agreement between them. Quatre didn’t tell his father she had it, she didn’t tell his father he was drooling over photos of half-nude men with a boner pitching the front of his trousers. Three years later, their secrets were still safe and with Quatre leaving for college after the summer was over, he wouldn’t have to worry about getting kicked out for being one of those “limp-wristed faggots” his father was always so eager to complain about. “You’re thinking so loudly.” “Hm? Oh,” he blushed and scooted closer towards the warm cocoon of Trowa’s arms and inhaled the intoxicating bouquet of sweat, grease, and tobacco, sweetened with a hint of cinnamon from the Big Red gum Trowa had been chewing before he kissed him. “I was just thinking about my father.” “What about him?” He considered giving Trowa the rundown of his rigid, homophobic sire, but decided he didn’t want to ruin…whatever this was. They barely knew each other anyway. They certainly weren’t dating. They’d seen each other around, ogled and flirted from afar, but never spoke until today. If any of the old fuddy duddies from town ever caught him speaking to “that hoodlum”, the news would have reached his parents long before he’d even have time to cook up an excuse. Information, especially of the scandalous kind, traveled faster than lightning around here. Such was life in this tiny, one horse town of Harrison, Nebraska where the varsity high school football team was inundated with beefy, corn-fed All American lads. Where the earth was flat as a pancake and the women attended church every Sunday donned in their flowery hats and white gloves. Where Fourth of July barbecues took months of planning and wound up looking like Uncle Sam had barfed all over everything. God, it made him sick. “Nothing,” he murmured, burrowing his face into Trowa’s chest like a nesting prairie dog. Just a few hours ago, he’d been walking home after catching an afternoon flick at the town’s theater and now he was here, naked in the arms of Harrison's resident degenerate. There was no seduction. No pickup lines, or inquiring about a date. Trowa simply rode past him on that choppy motorbike he’d been tinkering with for the better part of six months and then stopped several paces ahead. He waited for Quatre to catch up and flipped the visor of his helmet with a, “Get on.” That was all it took. So painfully bored of stuffy, small town life and desperate for a little excitement, he swung his leg over the elongated seat and held on tight, whooping with elation from the roar of the engine, the freeing sensation of wind in his hair, and the adrenaline-pumping thrill of danger. They ended up in a clearing, out of sight from the road, but close to a small creek. Trowa unzipped his leather jacket, shrugged it off his broad shoulders, and reached for him. He grasped Quatre's chin between calloused, grease-stained fingers and tipped his head up for a kiss. Quatre all but offered himself on a silver platter after that. Lying down across the blanket and opening his legs like a cheap whore once Trowa managed to wrestle his clothing off of him. Not much was said, but the fucking was exquisite. The weight of Trowa’s body pinning him to the ground, the thrust of hips between his thighs, and his own whimpers of pleasure syncing with the sound of rushing water and singing birds. Up close and personal, Trowa was none of the things he was relentlessly labeled by the townsfolk. He was just a man. A beautiful man with sparkling green eyes and a smile that Quatre wanted to keep in a little box, tucked close to his heart for safekeeping. He couldn’t imagine why he’d stuck around this place for so long, especially with the way everyone treated him. “Why do you stay?” Trowa propped his head on his hand and stared down at him as he tucked a lock of hair behind Quatre’s ear. “I’ve been watching you for a long time and I think I know you. I was like you once. Alone in a place where you can’t be yourself. I didn’t have anyone and if I left, neither would you.” Quatre blinked up at him in shock. “You stayed for me? Why? You don’t even know me!” “I do know you. I know that look you have on your face whenever you’re out with your folks. How tightly you have to keep yourself coiled, terrified of anyone finding out about your secret. Places like this? They don’t belong to people like us.” He snorted. “Tell me about it. But…oh my God. I can’t believe the only reason you’re still here is because of me.” “Well, once you go off to college, you won’t need me anymore. I’ll be free to go wherever I want.” And for some reason, that hurt. After this, he had no idea what would happen between them, but he desperately wanted whatever this was to continue. He felt like he would suffocate if he never saw Trowa again. He wanted to invite him to come stay with him at State, but…would that be too forward? Hey, I just met you…and this is crazy. But here’s my dorm room so…move in with me maybe? Somehow that just made him come off like some crazy stalker under the delusion that they must now become engaged because they did the fricky fracky. It was most likely just a one off anyway. A pity fuck from someone who’d been just as lonely when he was… “Wait...how old are you?” Trowa, who was sitting up and in the process of taking a swig out of his bottle of Miller Lite, choked on his mouthful and turned away as he coughed into the crook of his elbow. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gave Quatre a strange look. “Why would you ask me that?” He shrugged a naked shoulder and picked at the pilled fabric of the blanket. “Why wouldn’t I? I mean, you just boned me on a blanket that’s probably only ever been used for - never mind. I mean...I don’t even know your last name.” Trowa chuckled, the sound like music to his ears. He took another drink of his beer and then held the bottle out for him to take. “Twenty. I’m twenty. And my last name is Barton.” Quatre took the bottle and sat up, staring down at the label. “How did you get the beer then?” “I stock the freezers for Jeb three nights a week for a little extra cash. He lets me buy it at a discount.” “Ah,” he nodded and took a drink, his face twisting at the bitter taste. “Gross,” he opined and handed it back. “It’s…an acquired taste,” Trowa agreed and finished off the bottle. Quatre’s eyes were drawn to the bob of his Adam’s apple and bit down on his tongue to curb the urge to lean over and run his tongue along the smooth column of his throat. He coughed into his fist to save face, but glanced up in confusion a moment later. “But if you’re only twenty, you would have been a junior when I was a freshman. I don’t remember ever seeing you at school.” “You wouldn’t have,” Trowa said. “I dropped out my sophomore year.” “Oh…sorry,” he mumbled, cheeks flushing. “I didn’t mean to intrude, or bring up -” “It’s okay. Honestly, it’s not that tragic. Fact is, I’ve never been good at school and I needed to work full time when my old man fell off the wagon again, so…” Ah, of course. Trowa’s father was well known for his status as the Town Drunk. Quatre had certainly heard his fair share of Pigeon-Eyed Pete stories, some of which he didn’t believe actually happened. And he wasn’t about to ask Trowa if they did. He changed the subject instead. “So where will you go? What will you do? Will I ever see you again, or was this just a one time thing? Do you think -” he stopped himself there and pressed his lips together, his face flaring with heat. Psycho stalker, Quat. Hellooo. Watch yourself. Trowa blinked at him in stunned silence and then looked down at the empty bottle in his hands, picking at the corner of the label with his thumbnail. “Dunno,” he said. “I suppose I should stick around for my old man. Can’t even wipe his own ass most days.” The dejected, resigned softness of Trowa’s voice went straight to his heart, wrapped around it, and yanked it right out of his chest. This poor, young man. So kind, yet so misunderstood. Shunned and sneered at because he supposedly represented everything a town like Harrison shouldn’t be and it pissed him off. It just wasn’t fair. “You’re too damned good for this town, Trowa Barton.” He looked up in surprise and Quatre was over the moon a moment later when his lips curled up, not quite a smile, but close. Better than nothing. “You think so?” “I know so,” he said with a decisive nod. “These people like to think they’re so perfect, so pure, but they’re not. They have skeletons in their closets a thousand times worse than you and I put together. More like stinky, rotting corpses.” Trowa’s green eyes sparkled with amusement. “You speak as if you know this for a fact.” He smirked. “Do you know my mother? Gossip is her native tongue,” he said with a snort. “She knows that every Thursday night, Phil Jenkins tells his wife he’s going to be working late when in reality, he’s shacking up with Lisa Wells.” Trowa’s eyes widened. “The Lisa Wells? Harrison’s First Lady?” “The one and only,” he drawled, stretching his legs out on the blanket and crossing his ankles. How his mother came to know about the illicit affair of the mayor’s wife was beyond him. He was positive she had a CB radio hidden somewhere in the basement where she and the other town gossips would covertly exchange information at three in the morning like intelligence agents on a terrorist lead. Using “code” words like “Jezebel” and “The Adulterer”. “How in the hell does your mom even know that?” “No clue. She probably has her little spies posted all over town. Wouldn’t put it past her.” “Do you think she’ll…” Trowa gestured between them. “About us?” “At this point, I really don’t care if the whole town knows. Let ‘em gossip.” “But, your father…” He shrugged and crawled forward, swinging a leg over Trowa’s hip. He settled into his lap, hissing as a sharp spark of arousal flared in his groin, ignited by the stirring erection pressing into the crack of his ass. He nipped playfully at Trowa’s cupid’s bow and whispered, “To hell with him. I like you. I want you, Trowa. I don't want this to end. Take me again. Please, fuck me.” Trowa growled and surged up, tipping him onto his back across the blanket. Quatre’s breath hitched in his throat from the erotic probing of his cock that desperately sought the pleasure of his body. He exhaled with an emphatic moan and opened himself up fully, taking every delicious inch inside him with aching acquiesce. Trowa stared down at him as he flexed his hips with impressive tenderness, his eyes full of something so profound, Quatre wasn’t sure what to call it. “You mean that?” He gasped and then shouted when the tip of Trowa's cock collided with his prostate. Nodding his encouragement, he dug his fingertips into thick biceps and held on tight as he was rocked across the blanket. “Of course I do. I - wanted to - to - to ask you to come with me in Sep - September. I - ah! - I know that’s probably too forward -” Trowa cut him off with a hungry kiss and destroyed his train of thought with a particularly well-aimed thrust. He closed his eyes and wrapped his legs around his lover's narrow waist, moaning brokenly as Trowa panted into his ear, “I thought you’d never ask.”
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