by Anne
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sunrise and Sotsu Agency. I promise to return the characters in one piece, more or less, when I'm finished, but hold no liability for any physical injury or psychological trauma sustained by them in my fiction.
Thanks to: the beta team – haraamis, Misanagi and Shadow. Also to all those who gave encouragement along the way.
AC 201
"I'm sorry, Father." Quatre knelt, the dampness of the grass seeping through his trousers and making him shiver. Ignoring the strands of hair blowing across his eyes, he paused to glance over to where Trowa was standing, waiting for him. Trowa had told him that he would wait. It didn't matter for how long; he would be there. This was something Quatre should have done a long time ago; he had always thought that because his father was dead, that it was too late. Trowa had convinced him that it wasn't, that somehow his father would be able to hear him. And even if he couldn't, just saying the words would help Quatre's own peace of mind.
Or what was left of it.
Trowa gave him a smile, nodded his encouragement, but didn't move. They both knew that Quatre had to do at least the first part of this alone.
After returning the smile, somewhat shakily, Quatre forced himself to turn away from Trowa and towards his own memories. He felt a gentle caress against his mind through their shared empathic link, a reassurance that everything would be okay. After the loss of his sister, the nightmares he had finally managed to get under control had returned with a vengeance.
He and Alimah had always been more than just siblings; she had been his mother figure, the one person who had cared for the lonely little boy who had often felt unwanted. Quatre had been a brat when he was younger, he was fully aware of that, but it had been his way of coping with the thought that his father didn't really love him, that a replacement could be made for him at any time. If Quatre didn't live up to the Winner expectations, didn't have pride in himself, then maybe his father would find someone more suited to the task, someone who he could bring himself to love.
Alimah had loved him. The adult Quatre knew that his father had too, but snatched memories of his father smiling and spending time with him, were so few and far between, that he relied more on logic than knowledge to convince himself.
It was ridiculous. Parents were people and they, too, made mistakes, often in the name of love. Logically, he knew that. Emotionally, he still had to accept it.
He knew now that he was more than just a mistake, more than a test tube experiment to make the perfect, obedient son that his father wanted. Alimah had told him about how his mother had died shortly after childbirth, how she had thought the risk worthwhile, in much the same way Alimah had deemed her own risk worthwhile. He had done good things with his life; he had made his father proud. His father would have been proud - if he had lived.
"I'm sorry, Father," Quatre whispered again. "But I'm not sorry for what I've done. I'm sorry that you wouldn't listen, that we wouldn't listen to each other. I had to be myself and fight for those who couldn't. Why couldn't you have seen that?"
The cold wind brushed against his face, sending a shiver through him. "I tried to do the right thing," Quatre continued, "but I wasn't perfect. I couldn't be the perfect son you wanted me to be."
But was that striving for perfection something his father had wanted, or something that Quatre had taken on himself? His father had wanted obedience, someone to carry on the Winner name and ideals.
Glancing again at Trowa, Quatre decided that he didn't care. In choosing to marry Trowa, to be with the person he loved, he had shown his family very clearly where his priorities lay. He would support them, continue to run their business, as he had done since the war, apart from the time he and Trowa had spent as Preventers. But he had stated early on that he would not be providing them with a son or heir.
But if Heero and Duo had a child, so could he and Trowa if they so wished.
While holding Michael in his arms at the hospital, the tiny new life had reached out to touch him, and Quatre had felt something akin to awe. That awe had been followed by yearning, love and sadness all tripping over each other to mingle into one tapestry of confusion. [1]
He had blamed it on the fact that Alimah's death had been too fresh, the wound too painful. While he loved the daughter that she had left behind, she, and Duo and Heero's son, had reminded him of his own losses; of the mother he had never known, and the sister who had taken her place.
"I don't have the control it takes to be a good father," Quatre realised. "I'm not you, I don't want to be you. I'm scared of…"
His father had always been so controlled, so sure of himself.
What if Quatre couldn't stay in control? He remembered asking Trowa six years ago, when Trowa had told him that protectiveness was part of loving someone, who would protect Trowa from him, but Trowa hadn't seen it to be a problem.
Trowa had been proven wrong. The incident with McKenzie had shown that very clearly. Quatre wasn't proud of what he had done; it had been like watching a stranger, someone he didn't know, and didn't want to know. [2]
It was ironic. His father had needed to be in control, and always right; Quatre had vowed that they were mistakes that he wasn't going to repeat, but now…
He wasn't sure what scared him more, losing control or the knowledge of what might happen if he did.
"I'm scared of losing control again. I'm not the person people think I am." Quatre's words came out as a choked sob, and he rose to his feet. "I'm not…" He laid one hand across his chest. "Is this why you never gave in, never admitted you were wrong, Father? Were you just as scared of it as I am? You wouldn't listen to me, you never listened to me." Memories of screaming at his father to stop, just before the satellite had blown up, taking his father with it, replayed through his mind. Quatre swayed and leaned against the headstone to support himself. "I wanted to stop you, Father, and I wasn't strong enough." He shivered. "Not even to stop myself."
A gentle hand rested on his shoulder, another at his waist. "None of what happened was your fault. Your Father loved you; he didn't blame you for what happened. It was his responsibility, his decision."
"No!" Quatre protested, pulling away from Trowa's comfort. "I should have been able to stop him."
"Stop him or stop yourself?" Trowa asked quietly. "Everyone loses control; we all do things we aren't proud of. It's part of being human."
"I don't." Quatre shook his head. "I can't. Not anymore." He turned to face his husband. "It's not an option. You saw me lose control, Trowa. You know that ZERO was only an excuse for me not to take responsibility."
"You've taken responsibility," Trowa protested. "And I thought we'd put this behind us." He closed the distance between them and, taking Quatre's chin in his hand, turned him so that their eyes met. "McKenzie deserved everything he got for what he did to us. You might have used the knife on him, but I would have, given the opportunity." His lips brushed over Quatre's. "I love you, mistakes, lack of control and all. Stop trying to be someone you aren't."
"But I'm scared to be the person I am." Quatre sighed. "What if there's a next time? What if I…I don't trust myself, Trowa." He gestured towards the grave. "I'm not doing a very good job carrying on his ideals. I couldn't save him, I nearly killed you, and I…couldn't save Alimah either."
"Alimah's death had nothing to do with you." Trowa's voice was calm, but Quatre could feel his concern. "She died in childbirth, Cat. She knew the risks she was taking and decided that they were worth it."
"I don't want to watch anyone else I love die." Quatre's voice shook. "I should have realised what could have happened; maybe if I'd…"
"Maybe if you'd done what?" Trowa shook his head. "People die, Quatre, it's part of life. We, of all people, know this. We've killed; we're responsible for death. Life isn't meant to be understood; we just do what we need to, try to protect those we love, and hope like hell it's enough. Sometimes it is, other times it's not. You can't blame yourself; this tendency of yours has got to stop. You're trying to take responsibility for everything and it's destroying you."
"I'm not trying to take responsibility," Quatre snapped back, more harshly than he'd meant to. "Only for the things which are my fault."
"Right," Trowa snorted. "Quatre Raberba Winner, self appointed saviour of the universe, and God help him if he can't fulfil the unreasonable task he's set himself."
"Don't patronize me, I don't appreciate it." Quatre glared at him. Trowa could be a self-opinionated pain in the arse at times.
"You don't appreciate the truth, you mean." Trowa returned the glare.
"Right," Quatre muttered. "Silly me, not recognising the truth when I hear it." His tone softened. "I'm sorry."
"Are you?" Trowa shifted his gaze and examined the grass at his feet. "Sorry isn't going to cut it this time, Quatre. Oh, I know you think you are; that to you, the sentiment is genuine." There was a pause. "But words without any actions behind them, are empty."
"Who the hell are you to tell me whether I'm sorry or not?" Quatre didn't attempt to hide his anger.
"I'm the person who loves you and knows you." Trowa's voice was quiet. "You're not being honest with yourself. You're not being honest with me. You need to let go, to put the past behind you. Behind us."
Quatre snorted. "It is behind us, Trowa. That's why it's called the past."
To his surprise, Trowa laughed. "Remind me again that you're the brilliant strategist I married?"
"I'm the brilliant strategist you married," Quatre replied dutifully. He smiled somewhat sheepishly. "I want to leave the past where it belongs, truly I do, but lately…" He shrugged. "I guess I'm not doing as good a job as I thought I was."
"You thought you were doing a good job?" Trowa raised one eyebrow. "Cat, you've been on edge ever since Ali died." He reached over and pulled Quatre into a hug. "It's okay to let go, to lose control. Damn it, you've lost a sister; you're allowed to break down and show that you're upset."
"I've cried for her," Quatre reminded him. Trowa, at least, should remember that. After all Trowa had held Quatre, stroked his hair, and allowed the blond to soak his shoulder with tears.
"Yes, you have," Trowa admitted. "But since the funeral you've been…" He paused for a moment, and Quatre could feel the mixture of concern and hesitancy from him. "There's a distance between us which wasn't there before." The grip around Quatre's waist loosened, but neither of them moved away. "You're holding a part of you back as though you're scared to let me in. Scared of what I might see." Trowa shook his head. "You're not perfect, Cat, and neither am I. Both of us knew what we were getting into when we got married, but I thought we'd accepted that about each other, about ourselves."
"No, you're not perfect either," Quatre replied. "And neither am I," he amended quickly, not wanting to fuel another argument. He wasn't the only one in this relationship who had hang-ups, but he didn't want to list Trowa's anymore than he wanted Trowa to list his, especially not now. This wasn't why they had come here.
"I know I'm not perfect," Trowa nodded. "I never confessed to be. Ever."
"Are you implying that I have?" Quatre pulled away from the embrace.
"No." Trowa shook his head. "I just… Don't be so hard on yourself, Cat. I love you, imperfections and all. I thought you trusted me. Wasn't it you who gave me the big lecture on communication before we moved in together?"
"Right," Quatre remembered that with all too embarrassing clarity. "But we already know that I don't always practice what I preach." He glanced up at the darkening sky. Night was falling, and there was rain in the air. "And we do need to talk, you're right about that, but not here, not now. One relationship at a time, okay?" He held out his hand. "I know this is going to sound really silly, but I'd like to introduce you to Father before we go."
"Introduce me?" Trowa seemed surprised.
"He never got to meet you when he was alive, so I thought…" Quatre wondered if the idea sounded as stupid as he felt. "I don't even know if he'd approve of our relationship, but I need to do this. Humour me." He allowed himself a sideways look at the expression on Trowa's face, not sure if he wanted to see the disbelief that he knew would be there. "Please."
"It's okay." Trowa's voice was gentle, his lips turning up into an amused smile. "I was the one who suggested that you come and talk to him, remember?" He shrugged. "There's not much of a leap between that and this. You need peace of mind, to sort things out with your Father in death that you couldn't in life."
"Thank you," Quatre replied quietly. He leaned over to give Trowa a quick kiss. "Sometimes I wonder if you know me just a little too well." Wincing at the ache in his chest, Quatre continued hurriedly. "We'll talk later, I promise. I'm…" His voice trailed off. 'Sorry' didn't seem the appropriate word after what Trowa had said.
"I'm going to hold you to that, Quatre." Trowa slipped his hand into Quatre's and squeezed it reassuringly.
Quatre raised his head and met Trowa's eyes directly, giving him a smile. "I expect you to. Otherwise I wouldn't have made the promise."
"I know that," Trowa shook his head. "I have no doubt that you fully intend to keep that promise." Quatre decided to ignore the tone in his husband's voice. Doing this was going to be difficult enough.
Together, they took another step to his father's graveside. "Father," Quatre began hesitantly. "There's someone I want you to meet. He's very important to me, and I'd like to think that if you'd had the chance to meet him in life, that you'd see why. But…" The pressure on his hand increased and the ache in his chest faded in the wake of the warmth flowing through his and Trowa's empathic link. "But because I can't, I'll have to tell you about him." He gestured to Trowa to move closer. "This is Trowa, Father. He's my friend, my lover and my husband. He's pulled me out of the dark places, lit a path for me with his love when I thought I was lost. I know…" His voice hitched. "I'm not sure that you would approve of our relationship, but I'm going to believe that you do, that you approved of something I've done with my life."
"Quatre," Trowa interrupted, turning Quatre so that they were face to face, before kissing him fully on the lips. "Even if he wouldn't approve, it doesn't matter. What's more important? What you choose to do with your life, or what you think your father would have wanted you to do with it?"
The answer was already in his heart but Quatre had never had the courage to voice it aloud before. "It's my life, muHibb, my decision. And you are my life. Whatever happens from here on in, it's our joint decisions that matter, our approval. Not his."
Quatre rolled over in bed to face his lover. "Trowa," he whispered. "Are you awake?" The silence wasn't unexpected, although it wasn't the response he wanted. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. "I know you're awake, and that you've been lying there watching me for the past hour."
"Half an hour." Trowa's eyes opened, and he frowned. "So, why didn't you tell me sooner that you knew?"
"I was waiting for you." Quatre regretted that he had been the one to admit defeat first. Waiting had been worse than watching a staring match between their two cats, and wondering which one was going to back down first. In the end curiosity had won over stubbornness. While he could feel Trowa's nervousness, empathy wasn't a satisfactory replacement for talking about whatever was bothering his husband.
"Waiting for me to do what, exactly?" Trowa wriggled further down in the bed and pulled the blankets around him. The movement took him further away from Quatre, rather than closer.
"Tell me that you were awake," Quatre grinned. "I could feel you watching me…" He paused, sensing Trowa's amusement. "What? You were watching me; I know you were."
"I was awake, yes," Trowa confirmed. "But I wasn't watching you, I was…" Now it was Trowa's turn to pause; Quatre felt a hesitancy coming from him. "I was feeling you."
"I beg your pardon?" Quatre's grin slipped. "Feeling me? I think I would have known if we were lying that close together; the touch of your hand is rather distinctive, and believe me, we'd be doing more than just talking now if you'd spent the last half hour feeling me up."
Trowa shook his head. "I said feel, not feel up." He glanced over at the alarm clock on the dresser. "Your brain needs to wake up, it's obviously way too early for you." Quatre snorted. 5am wasn't that early, even though neither of them generally started his day before seven. Trowa's tone grew serious. "I was trying to feel you empathically, Cat. Our connection runs both ways, and I was thinking that maybe I could get a better idea of how you were feeling as you…"
"As I what?" Quatre propped himself up on one elbow, not sure if he wanted to hear what he suspected Trowa was about to say.
"As you weren't being particularly forthcoming about that conversation you promised me we'd have."
"So you decided to eavesdrop on my feelings instead?" Quatre snorted. "There's this thing called privacy. You may have heard of it."
"Yeah, and there's this thing called communication that you seem to have forgotten." Trowa rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling. "It works rather well with something called a promise."
"You could have asked," Quatre pointed out in a calm tone. "It's been two days. You've had plenty of opportunity."
"Right. So I was meant to ask, instead of the novel approach of waiting for you to volunteer the information?" Trowa muttered something under his breath.
Quatre wrapped his free arm around his pillow and played with a loose thread on the end of the cotton cover. "I was waiting for the right moment. So sue me."
"Sue you?" Trowa laughed. "With the amount of money you're worth?"
"With the amount of money we're worth," Quatre corrected him quietly. "What's mine is yours, Trowa. You know that." He waved his left hand towards his husband, making sure that the early morning light caught the gold band on his ring finger. "We're married, remember? You took my name; we're in this together. In sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer."
"Yes, I did take your name," Trowa didn't move, not even to turn his head to signify that he'd seen Quatre's action. "I'm good at that. Taking names." There was a moment's silence. "At least this time it was with permission, not one stolen from a dead man."
"Trowa, please." Quatre cringed and rubbed at his chest. He edged closer to Trowa, but the other man still didn't move. "We've talked about this before. I don't care who you were, whether your name is Nanashi, Trowa, or whatever; it's you I love, and to me you are Trowa Barton." He ignored the silence and continued. "Or Trowa Winner, or whatever. It doesn't matter. You're still you, whatever name you're using."
"Using?" Trowa's voice was bitter. "That sums it up, doesn't it?" He turned to caress Quatre's cheek gently with one finger. "It's okay, I don't expect you to understand. How could you? You're Quatre Raberba Winner; you have a family that you remember, a name to be proud of. A name that is rightfully yours. I don't." His hand stilled. "I'm no one, Quatre. I couldn't offer you my name because I don't have one to give."
"You don't need a name to give," Quatre sighed. "You've given of yourself, that's enough." His voice dropped to a whisper. "That's always been enough." He snorted. "And yes, I remember my family. I remember a father who had no time for me, who wasn't proud of my actions, who never had the dutiful son he wanted. Are those the kind of memories you'd prefer, Trowa? Are they? Yes, I have a name, but it's also a name I have to live up to. I want people to accept me for myself, not who I am, or who my family is."
"At least with those memories I'd know who I was." Trowa shook his head. "Do you know what it's like not knowing? Wondering where I've come from? Whether I had parents who loved me? Was I abandoned, or were they killed? I don't remember my life before the mercenaries; I was too young. I don't remember, and I don't know."
"You need to focus on who you are now, not who you were." Quatre tried to sound positive. "I love you, and so does Cathy." A thought occurred to him. "Why not have that blood test done? Maybe it would give you that sense of family, of history that you seem to need."
"And what if it's negative?" Trowa sighed. "I want to believe that Cathy's right, that I could be her brother, Triton. But if she's wrong, I've lose my last piece of hope, my last chance to be someone." His voice hitched. "She was my first real family, a sister I didn't have. I don't want to lose that. The mercenaries were good to me, but it's not the same."
"The DNA test might show you who you are, even if you're not Triton Bloom," Quatre pointed out reasonably. "And even if you're not Triton, you will always be Cathy's brother. We both know that."
"Do we?" Trowa didn't sound convinced. "And what if I don't want to take that chance? What if…" He rolled over, and his next words were mumbled into the pillow. "I'm no one, Quatre. You're Quatre Raberba Winner. I'm Nanashi."
"No, you're not," Quatre placed a gentle hand on Trowa's shoulder. "You're not no one. You've never been no one. You're the man I love, the person I want to share the rest of my life with. I love you. I will always love you. I don't give a damn what your name is, where you've come from, who your parents were or are." He whispered his next words with his mouth against Trowa's ear. "You accepted me for who I am; I thought my name didn't matter to you, Trowa. Do you remember when we first met?"
"Yes," Trowa said quietly. "We were fighting and we both surrendered. I didn't know who you were, just that you were another Gundam pilot." He paused. "Nice try, Quatre, but this isn't then, it's now."
"Do you really think I care who you are?" Quatre tried to keep the hurt out of his tone. "Do you think I'm that shallow? I was prepared to give up who I was for you; I told my family that we were together and that they'd have to deal with it. Do you think I would have done that for just anyone? I did that for you, Trowa."
"Yeah, and you just had to remind me of that, didn't you?" Trowa pulled himself up into a sitting position. "Well, I'm sorry, I couldn't match your sacrifice. It's hard to give up what you don't have in the first place."
"That's your answer to everything, isn't it?" Quatre's voice rose in pitch. "Look at me, I'm no one, I have nothing to give. Why don't you tell me what you're really feeling, instead of attacking who I am? Or can't you do that? You say that you were trying to feel my emotions because I wasn't telling you how I feel? But what about how you feel, Trowa? You only ever tell me how you feel when we have some kind of crisis. Sure, you tell me you love me, but…"
"I wasn't attacking you. And you already know how I feel," Trowa snorted. "I don't need to tell you."
"Right." Quatre tapped his chest. "I already know because of this. Not because we sit and talk, and you put your feelings into words, but because I experience them. All of them. Of course I know how you feel. It's because I feel it too. Don't you dare imply that I don't know what you're going through! I don't exactly get a choice in the matter; I can't switch it off, Trowa. Not where you're concerned, not even if I wanted to."
"Are you saying that you want to switch it off?"
"No." Quatre growled his frustration. "You're so bloody stubborn. Don't you get it? I want to know how you're feeling, but I want you to tell me in words, not make me guess the reason why."
Trowa shrugged. "So I'm supposed to talk to you, even though you refuse to give me the privilege? It works both ways."
"We're talking now." Quatre resisted the urge to hit Trowa over the head with his pillow. His husband could be so damned pigheaded when he got into this kind of mood.
"Only because you don't have a choice." Trowa sighed.
"I always have a choice," Quatre snorted. "I wouldn't be talking now if I didn't want to."
"Right, so I should be eternally grateful because you are?" Trowa stretched and yawned. "We're getting nowhere, Quatre. I don't want to argue with you, but that's all we seem to do when I want to talk about your problems."
Quatre stared at him in disbelief. "That's not fair. And changing the subject onto my problems isn't going to make me forget about yours." He shook his head. "Why don't you talk to me about how you're feeling unless we're going through some sort of crisis?" He was aware that he was repeating what he'd said earlier, but he needed an answer.
"You know I love you, and actions speak louder than words." Trowa said simply.
Quatre sighed and waited, fixing Trowa with a determined look.
"What do you want me to say, Quatre? That I'm not one to share my feelings in so many words? I already know that, and I thought you did too. I've never had to, and it's hard to break that habit."
"I know, and I don't like to push you, but there are times when you need to. I might be empathic but I'm not a mind reader. I know how you're feeling, but unless I know why…it's frustrating knowing that someone is hurting, and you can't do anything to help because they refuse to let you in."
"Isn't it?" A flash of something crossed Trowa's face. "You're doing a great imitation of pot calling kettle black."
"I'm sorry," Quatre whispered, knowing that Trowa spoke the truth. "I don't mean to shut you out, but they're my problems. You've seen that side of me already, Trowa. I don't want to…"
"Scare me off?" Trowa shook his head. "Do you really think that would happen? And you have been shutting me out in more ways than one."
"More ways than one?" Quatre stared at him blankly. "I know I haven't been telling you how I've been feeling lately, if that's what you mean."
"There's a reason why I was trying to feel you." Trowa's voice was calm but Quatre could sense the turmoil behind it. He fought the urge to say something but instead nodded and waited for Trowa to continue. "Our connection has always been two way, except for when it's been interfered with by drugs…" Trowa broke off for a moment, and shuddered. Quatre moved closer and placed a reassuring hand on Trowa's knee, guessing that he was struggling with his memories. "Since Ali's death, I've felt as though I'm losing my sense of you; it's been like feeling that part of you slip away even though you're here and I know you're okay." Trowa shrugged. "I don't know how else to explain it, but I don't like it."
"Can you feel me now?" Quatre closed his eyes, and made a conscious effort to lower any shielding that he might have in place. He then projected love and concern through their link.
"Yes." Trowa nodded. "What did you do?"
"I, umm, I'm sorry; I didn't even know I'd been doing it." Quatre lowered his eyes and blushed. How could he have done this without realising? He didn't want to shut Trowa out; could the urge to keep tight reign on himself be affecting him to this degree?
"Doing what, Quatre?" Trowa placed his hand over Quatre's and squeezed it.
Quatre took a deep breath. "You know that I can shield against other people's emotions to some degree? That it's the way I was able to cope with killing during the war?"
"Yes." Trowa nodded. "But you said that you couldn't shut mine out. And I thought that…" The pressure on Quatre's hand loosened.
"I can't shut your emotions out," Quatre confirmed. "But it appears that I can stop you from feeling mine. Empathic shielding works on two levels, receptive and projective, in much the same way an empath can be either projective or receptive. I'm a receptive empath; I can feel emotions. You're the first person I've met who can feel mine, so I've never had to shield my own emotions from anyone else before. While my receptive shielding is strong and operates almost on a subconscious level, I've never managed to get it to work where you are concerned."
"Have you tried?" Trowa asked. His tone was curious rather than angry, and for that Quatre was relieved.
"Sometimes," Quatre admitted. "When things between us aren't good, I wish that I could, but I can't. But," he paused, trying to gauge Trowa's reaction, "it appears that my projective shielding is different."
"You've been deliberately blocking me?"
"Not deliberately." Quatre answered the question quickly. This was one of those times when he wished that he couldn't feel Trowa's emotions quite as strongly. "I'd never shut you out deliberately."
Trowa didn't look convinced. "You've just told me that you've tried not to feel me; how do you expect me to believe that you haven't blocked me? There's a very fine line between the two."
"Because I'm telling you that I haven't." Quatre wasn't sure what else to say.
"And I'm supposed to just believe you?" Trowa shook his head. "I want to believe you; I don't like the idea that you've been lying to me, whatever the reason, but this distance between us of late isn't helping the way I'm feeling."
"I'm sorry. I haven't been the easiest of people to live with lately. Ali's death shook me up; I kept remembering how I nearly killed you when I lost control after my father's death, and I didn't want to lose anyone else I loved."
"So you backed away?" Trowa sighed. "Come here, Cat." He pulled Quatre into a hug. "Just because you lost control once, doesn't mean that you're going to do it again. Your common sense appears to have taken a vacation."
"So could my sanity," Quatre reminded him. "And what's to stop me doing it again? Nothing."
"I will," Trowa said. "I've talked you down before, I'll do it again if I have to. You also need to have more confidence in yourself. You're a strong person, but you can't be in control all the time. No one can."
"I have to be." Quatre could feel Trowa's breath ruffling his hair. He pressed in closer. "I have to be," he repeated firmly. "I can't allow anything to happen to you."
"Sometimes we don't get a choice, Quatre." Trowa kissed the top of Quatre's head. "Life happens, and we can't always stop it."
"I can…" Quatre sighed. "I'm being an idiot, aren't I?"
"Yes, you are." Trowa chuckled. "But you're my idiot, so I'll forgive you this once."
Quatre snorted. "Thank you, I think." He turned to face Trowa, his voice growing serious. "I don't mean to block you, but I don't know how to stop myself from doing it. I've always used shielding to some degree, I couldn't cope without it."
"You said that I'm the only person who can sense your emotions?" Trowa sounded thoughtful.
"Yes, and I'm the only person that you can feel?" Although Quatre knew it to be true, he still needed to hear Trowa confirm it.
"Only ever you, Cat." Trowa grew quiet again, his fingers winding through Quatre's hair, as he worked through whatever he was thinking. Trowa could be quite the strategist, but he preferred to work through things quietly and in his own time, although he could think quickly under fire if the need arose.
Content for the moment to feel Trowa's closeness, Quatre leaned into him and closed his eyes. He hated when they argued, and although they always made up, usually after compromises on both their parts, it was impossible to take back what had been said, especially as it usually had some degree of truth to it. Quatre loved Trowa and knew that he was the person he wanted to spent his life with, but it didn't prevent him wanting to give his lover a swift boot up the arse at times.
Quatre didn't want to go on feeling the way he had since Alimah's death. Trowa was right, this growing distance between them would erode their relationship, slowly eat away at it until all that was left were those things that neither wanted to dwell on. They both had their demons, and it was impossible to fight them alone. Standing together and supporting each other, they stood a better chance of surviving. Of their relationship and love surviving. And that was too important to risk.
"I think we both need to be more open with each other," Trowa began slowly. "I'm not talking about my feelings to the degree you'd like, and you're subconsciously blocking me from sensing yours." He paused. "Do you trust me?"
What sort of a question is that? Opening his eyes with a start, Quatre bit his lip, and didn't answer with the retort on the tip of his tongue. "Yes, I do."
Trowa paused. "Are you sure?"
"I…want to trust you." Quatre sighed. "Even though my subconscious has obviously been entertaining other ideas."
"I don't care what your subconscious wants to do. I'm asking you to make a decision, a conscious decision."
"In that case, yes. I trust you, Trowa."
"Thank you. And I trust you." Trowa cleared his throat. "This idea might seem crazy, but I think it's what we both need."
"What idea?"
"Our empathic connection is at its strongest during sex. What if we tried to build on that, to open ourselves to each other completely, even before orgasm?"
Quatre pulled out of Trowa's embrace and wriggled around to face him. "Are you suggesting what I think you are?"
"It depends on what you think I'm suggesting," Trowa replied, dryly.
"We feel each other more strongly during orgasm than at any other time," Quatre put his thoughts into words slowly as he tried to make sense of them. "It's as though we become one, merge on some level. I'm aware of you totally, every part of you."
"Exactly," Trowa nodded. "I wondered whether we could somehow strengthen our connection and make it more permanent if we made love with the intention of focusing on each other empathically." He paused. "I know it's a lot to ask; if it works they'd be no secrets between us, empathically. I'd know what you were feeling all the time, the same way that you do with me now."
"It has possibilities," Quatre agreed. "And as I said, I'm not blocking you deliberately. I don't want to block you. If you're willing to try this, so am I."
"Thank you," Trowa gave him a quick kiss. "I also have an idea as to how to focus on our connection and to remove other distractions."
Quatre shushed him gently. "Don't tell me. Show me. Later." He shoved his growing nervousness to one side. "It will be okay; it will work."
"I hope so," said Trowa.
"So do I," Quatre replied in a whisper. "So do I."
[1] Refers to events in Expectations
[2] Refers to events in A Dish Served Cold
Close window to return to Author's Index
Return to Dryer Space