Punishing

Punishing: Blood Work

Blood Work

“Did you pick up your results from the clinic?” Quatre asked Trowa after returning home from a fourteen-hour work day.

“Like I would forget,” Trowa replied, and abandoning a few court documents, he held the manila envelope aloft as proof.

Quatre snatched it away, “Gimme.” He broke the privilege seal and removed a thin sheaf of papers.

Despite his nearly perfect confidence in his bio-cleanliness, Trowa still felt a little apprehensive and found it challenging to concentrate on his work. He tried to sound disinterested, “So, what does it say?”

“Congratulations, you’re free of all venereal diseases,” Quatre summed up. “Now, you are free to service me pretty much whenever you like,” he added as a mood kill.

“Service you? It’s your ass that’s going to be on the line,” Trowa replied irritably.

“It’s this ass that keeps your ass on that comfy sofa,” Quatre reminded him.

“This ass would be on its own sofa if your ass had moved to his place instead,” Trowa countered. “Anyway, I know that you’re just stalling because you’re afraid of losing it.”

Quatre’s face flushed, “That’s not true.”

“Whenever you want to avoid a something, you always try to start a fight,” Trowa informed him with a shrug.

Quatre wished that Trowa would turn around to face him, and loathed the thought of walking around the sofa like an angry housewife to get in his face. “Don’t pretend that you know me so well.”

Trowa rolled his eyes, “Well, as much as I would enjoy a congratulatory romp, I’ve actually got work to do. So, you can rest safely tonight in the knowledge that I’m too busy to even think about having sex with you.”

“I’m not scared!” Quatre restated and flung his jacket at the back of Trowa’s head. Before he could see the result, he had stormed out of the room.

He wasn’t just afraid.

He was petrified.

Would it be everything that everyone seemed to want him to believe that it was going to be?

Would it be a major let-down?

Trowa had never seen him naked before, either, and that bothered him, too.

He would rather be the disappointed than the disappointer.

++

Meanwhile, Trowa sat back on the couch, Quatre’s jacket in one hand, an idle pencil in the other.

Similarly, his mind was divided between work and his significant other.

Though, he disliked it when Quatre tried to bait him, he was growing to find their exchanges more humorous than irritating. Their nearly ritualistic bickering was akin to asking, “Are we on the same page?”

He knew that Quatre had sacrificed his more tender tendencies long long ago. It had been a necessary change that had served him at the time of his boyhood in making false alliances and cold determinations, but left him awkward as an adult attempting to hold together a real relationship.

He was never the embracer, but always overly patiently waited for his time to become the embraced.

Trowa wondered whether Quatre ever really wanted to be touched. He was sure that a normal guy Quatre’s age would give a lung to get laid, but, then again, Quatre wasn’t a normal guy.

Rather than follow his gut feeling, Trowa found himself more inclined to check himself when Quatre was involved. Even though he would have gladly deferred the drafting for his opening statement until ten minutes before he actually needed it, if it meant that he could spend an entire night cataloguing every last freckle on Quatre’s body, however, caution made it so that he was more likely to wait it out and see whether Quatre’s curiosity would eventually outweigh his fear.

I’ll wait, he decided, but I’m not a saint.

++

Two soul-searching weeks slipped by.

Quatre seemed content to live on comfortably without the carnal wants that he knew nothing about. He could think hypothetically on the subject that such and such piece of literature said such and such about some sensation and thus an idea about such and such was framed. A few times, he asked Trowa point blank about it, but received little more than a shrug in return.

“It’s been a long time,” Trowa said, “and words are words. It‘s different for every person.”

Those kinds of responses, Quatre suspected, were sneaky ploys formulated for the express purpose of nudging him into bed.

Well, he was a young healthy male, and as such, he did want to have sex at some point, but deciding on that point was becoming a bit of a challenge for him.

He had avoided sex on the day that Trowa’s tests came back, not so much because he didn’t want it, but because the timing seemed inappropriate. If they were going to have sex after every little victory, it would risk becoming an auto response. It seemed too cheap.

He didn’t want to initiate anything, but, then again, he didn’t want to leave it all to Trowa. He was a man, too.

It occurred to him after a while of waiting for the subject of sex to crop up again that Trowa was simply waiting for it. That annoyed him immensely. Trowa must be pretty confident to think that he can just wait for me…As if I‘m not able to resist him! Quatre thought during a rare few minutes at work that he could dedicate solely to himself.

++

At the end of the fourth week after the results came back, Trowa was keenly aware of the pressure that his libido was applying on his mind. The idea that Quatre was finally accessible has been occupying his thoughts for a while. All of the confidence that he had felt for his accomplishments in winning Quatre’s companionship and secondly for presenting himself disease-free was waning in lieu of the stark reality that Quatre might not find him physically attractive. He knew that they matched up pretty well intellectually, but physicality was a different matter altogether.

He wanted to avoid at all costs lame threats of the sort that usually populated soaps and cheesecake movies such as: “If you love me…” “This relationship won’t last unless…” and the last ditch “You don’t want to die a virgin, do you?”
If he was reading Quatre right, he imagined, then it would be right to assume that the entire issue of sex was being taken as a challenge. He was probably waiting for Trowa to make the first move.

Trowa wasn’t above admitting defeat if it meant that Quatre would cave.

Trowa would have to be the initiator.

++

Presenting a new personal concept to Quatre was like trying to run a shopping cart up a brick wall. Trowa figured that he would have to do something either A) embarrassing or B) super extravagant to soften Quatre up to suggestion.

The bad thing about that idea was that Quatre didn’t take well to extravagance, at least in the romantic sense. He didn’t find rose petals sensual, expensive restaurants sexy, or opera stimulating. He had enough exposure to that through his dealings at work. The last thing that Trowa wanted to remind him of was work.

Also, in regard to idea A, Quatre generally took Trowa’s embarrassment to be a reflection upon himself, and was therefore more likely to be insulted than sympathetic.

Trowa dedicated far more brain power than was proper to this problem for the next few days.

++

Sunday was a short day for Quatre.

On Sundays, Quatre usually managed to leave work around five and arrive home between five-forty and six.

Trowa never had work that he to leave the house for on Sundays, and usually it wasn’t enough to keep him occupied for more than four hours, shorter than Quatre’s day.

He decided that Sunday was as good a day as any to marshal his reluctant companion into bed. He hadn’t bothered to make reservations anywhere, buy tickets to anything, or order bouquets of flowers. All things that Quatre, as a general rule, turned up his nose to. That was fine with Trowa, it saved him a lot of hassle.

While he waited for Quatre to return home, he occupied himself with things that he believed would reduce his stress level.

He tried to read a book and gave up.

Then he decided to watch TV, but nothing was on.

His final activity was landed upon by pure chance. He happened to cross paths with the dog (Hazel) whom he snatched up and tucked himself away with on the couch. Hazel was a rather cuddly and impressionable creature that settled down immediately under the slight weight of Trowa’s arm. The warmth of unconditional love eventually lulled them both to sleep, and Trowa was spared hours of pointless anxiety.

The sound of Quatre’s car pulling into the drive didn’t wake him up.

Hazel’s flying leap off of his stomach did, though.

Trowa checked himself quickly in the mirror and wasn’t particularly bothered by what he saw. If he looked too done up, Quatre would get suspicious. Embracing a suspicious Quatre was like embracing a statue. Cold, unfeeling, and unyielding.

Trowa shuddered at the thought of it.

“I’m home,” Quatre announced from the back entryway.

Following in Hazel’s footsteps, Trowa went obediently to greet Quatre. “Hey,” he said once they were in touching distance.

“Working hard on those naps, I see,” Quatre taunted him with a slight smirk.

Trowa gave him a big fake grin before replying, “The lifestyle of the rich and useless demands much napping.”

“I see,” Quatre rolled his eyes.

“It’s good that you understand that,” Trowa said.

Quatre shed his overcoat, “Well, Mr. Rich and Useless, I’m going to go take a shower.”

“What do you want to do for dinner?” Trowa asked as Quatre strode past him.
“I don’t know,” Quatre called back, “Whatever you want is fine.”

++

“Cucumber sandwiches, how nice of you,” Quatre commented.

Trowa shrugged, “You like it, I make it.”

He had thought about dragging Quatre off to eat somewhere out of the house, but the near-certainty of over-sized portions and heavy smells turned him off to the idea. Besides, it was terribly charming to see Quatre consume food that he had made. He enjoyed seeing Quatre dressed down to domesticity, T-shirts, jeans, clothes worn threadbare in places.

Bribing Quatre with cucumber sandwiches wouldn’t guarantee Trowa the freedom to do as he pleased, and of this he was well aware. He had a good idea of the kind of worth that Quatre placed upon his own chastity, and that was what the ‘red velvet’ was for.

If Quatre was a sucker for anything, it was sweets. Trowa generally used this weakness when he needed to be forgiven for something, was seeking a favor, or just wanted to put his companion in a good mood.

Before taking up his fork, Quatre studied his slice of cake in a very serious sort of way. “You’ve done something, haven’t you?” he asked suspiciously. “Well, I won’t forgive you until I know what the damage is.”

Trowa looked away, Ha! You say that now…

Once Quatre seemed immersed in his dessert, Trowa Took from his pocket a modest ring and held it for his companion to notice.

“What is that?” Quatre asked.

“Commitment,” Trowa supplied. He set it on Quatre’s plate, “I had thought about planting it in your cake, but I figured that you’d be more cheesed out than impressed.”

Quatre took it up to examine. It was a white gold band with a muted luster. Half of the exterior of the ring was taken up by hair thin letters that spelled the words: cellar door.

“When did you get this?” Quatre spoke as he slipped it on. His fingers had only once known the frigid shackles of this sort of instrument. He had worn it that day, and not a moment longer. The feel of Trowa’s gift was infinitely lighter and warm.

“Shortly after moving in,” Trowa replied. “I’ve been meaning to give it to you.”
Quatre admired it on his hand a moment before inquiring, “Why does it say ‘cellar door’?”

“Those words, said together, make the most beautiful sound,” Trowa explained.

In college, he had been friends with a girl that had said the exact same thing. Back then, it was interesting conversation, but now, it had completely different connotations.

“Which one of us is the ‘cellar’?” Quatre teased.

Determined not to allow Quatre to undermine the romance of the moment, Trowa thought of a quick reply, “If we are one word, it doesn’t matter.” And to make sure that Quatre didn’t come up with a quip to counter that, Trowa leaned over the table intending to go for his companion’s lips but rethought at the last moment and snatched up the adorned hand instead pressing a careful kiss to the ring finger.

“Do you love me?” Trowa asked as he stepped around the table.

Quatre watched his hand in Trowa’s and replied airily, “Yes.”

“Do you trust me?” Trowa pressed.

Quatre grimaced, which wasn’t reassuring, before responding with a reluctant, “Yes.”

He knew exactly where this was leading.

Trowa lead him from the table, twining his fingers together with his, “I love you too.” He gave Quatre a peck on the lips and added, “Very much.” He looked searchingly into Quatre’s eyes, and found less resistance there than he had initially anticipated. After he was satisfied that he had his companion in a follower’s role, he gave him a lingering kiss.

After weeks and weeks upon weeks of sexual prohibition, it was a given that they would become quite good at the art of kissing.

The first time that Quatre had a tongue stuck in his mouth, his initial reaction had been to pull very very far away from it, which had both frustrated and amused Trowa in his attempt. It was only after a bit of coaxing and explaining that Trowa finally got Quatre to go along with the exercise, and after a few tries that his partner actually seemed to enjoy it, despite how unhygienic he kept on saying that it was.

Now, hygiene was among some of the last things on his mind.

They parted after a spell, and the first word to come from both of their mouths was: “Bedroom.”

All throughout the Winner Estate, there were surveillance cameras to document the comings and goings of various people, and if the time ever came, to catch on tape the commission of a crime. One of the few places not covered by the all-seeing Winner personal security force happened to be the inner bed chambers (both guest and resident). In those particular rooms, only the entranceways were covered (for the obvious reasons).

At the foot of the stairs, there was a short dispute about whose room. Trowa gave in quickly. Since Quatre seemed to be accepting the prospect of sex for the moment, Trowa didn’t want to do anything to change his mind.

Walking up the stairs, Trowa realized that they weren’t exactly what someone would call ‘passionate lovers.’ Their approach to impending intercourse was to stroll calmly around the house with their hands locked together at waist level.

Needless to say, it wasn’t movie material.

He itched to ask Quatre exactly how he wanted things done. Trowa remembered wishing that he could have been asked that question for his first time.

It had been a nightmare.

He hadn’t been torn, but he’d been prepared inadequately and entered far too quickly. The pain grossly outweighed any pleasurable sensations and he’d been manhandled far too much. That landed him with a sore rump for three days and a battery of choice words for the jock that had done it to him.

“Don’t get carried away,” Quatre cautioned him before pushing open the door to his room.

Trowa nodded. He had no intention of going nuts, even if it killed him.

“What now?” Quatre asked after the door closed.

Trowa knew that he had read up extensively on the topic of homosexual sex. He knew that Quatre liked to take an objective eye to everything and had a surgical understanding of ‘this goes here’ and ‘that goes there.’ He supposed that Quatre sensed that his usual flair for the austere wasn’t going to fly in such a situation.

“Now,” Trowa began and took a breath to still his heart, “I honor your trust.”

Quatre’s cheeks burned as he pressed his forehead into Trowa’s shoulder.

Trowa smiled and rubbed soothing circles along Quatre’s back.

It was at this time that Trowa felt the most tender. He was trusted, and above all: loved.

He initiated a slow walk towards the bed, kissing and gently pushing.

Quatre’s room served few functions aside from existing as a space to deposit his body after a hard day’s work. The bed rested against the far wall, and every other article of furniture was pushed up against the remaining walls leaving a lot of empty space for the pair to fumble around in.

The room that had been adopted for the purpose of Quatre’s comfort had previously been a guest room. His boyhood room had sat to the right of the master bedroom, and had, since some years before, been locked up.

The master bedroom rested in a separate wing and hadn’t been opened since the death of Winner Sr..

Trowa assisted Quatre in a careful fall back onto the bed.

By this time, Quatre’s hands had fixed themselves in a death grip on Trowa’s upper arms, which gave a fairly obvious indication as to how freaked out he was getting.

Trowa couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips, “Kat…do you need a minute?”

In an instant, the hands were gone, and a very stubborn voice replied, “I’m fine.”

“Well, I don’t want you to force yourself…” Trowa suggested.

Quatre’s hands found the edge of his T-shirt and tugged sharply upward, “I’m fine!”

Sometimes Quatre lacked finesse.

“Kat!” Trowa protested as he was divested of his shirt and assertive hands shot straight for the front of his jeans. “There’s no rush! Kat!” He arrested the progress of Quatre’s hands and pressed them flat against the bed above his head. “It’s okay to admit that you’re nervous.” He pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I’m a little nervous, myself.”

“Letting you do everything isn’t exactly fair, is it?” Quatre commented tersely.

Trowa rearranged himself to sit slightly to the side of Quatre before dragging him into his lap. “I’m going to do things that you might have to forgive me for. So, it’s fine like this.”

“So…I’m the bottom, then…” Quatre concluded.

“To the point, aren’t you?” Trowa replied.

“Always,” Quatre declared.

“You could…be the top,” Trowa suggested with obvious reluctance.

Quatre tried to turn to face him, but found it hard to do. “Something tells me that you’re not up for it.”

Trowa lightly caressed Quatre’s front as if it could help him to formulate an answer. He settled tentatively on, “It’s alright. I just have a preference.”

“Well I don’t,” Quatre said determinedly.

“That’s good to know,” Trowa replied and then laid Quatre down on the bed.

After Quatre lost his shirt, he wanted the lights off. He and Trowa went back and forth on the subject until they compromised on the bedside lamp. Trowa had to leave the bed to turn off the main lights, which irritated him. He nearly stomped his way back and demanded as gently as he could manage whether Quatre wanted anything else.

Quatre shook his head and tossed his pants at Trowa after hiding his legs under the comforter.

Trowa deflected them with one hand while helping himself out of his own pants with the other, but not before securing a tube of lubrication from his pocket.

“That’s not a lawyer’s body,” Quatre commented from the safety of his sheets.

Trowa sidled up next to him, “It’s the body of a lawyer that deals with the people that I see nearly every day.”

“Angry husbands…” Quatre supplied as the edge of the comforter was tenderly wrested from his nervous fingers.

Trowa handed him the lubrication and silently coaxed him to lay back, “Yeah, those guys.”

“You poor guy…” Quatre mumbled and made a face as a kiss landed on his clavicle.

Trowa liked the rises and depressions of the body before him. The skin was of a fine grain and the suppleness of the sculpture thrilled him. “Oh yeah, I’m a real sob story,” he laughed and applied his tongue to one of Quatre’s nipples. As he thought it would, the body beneath him immediately tensed up. “Did that feel weird?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Quatre retorted. “Ofcourse it felt weird.”

“Good weird?” Trowa asked.

Quatre tossed his head to the side, “Stop talking, you old pervert.”

“I’m only three years older than you,” Trowa frowned and patted the stiffened member under the cotton of Quatre’s boxers. “And, you’re a pervert, too.”

“Don’t compare me to you,” Quatre hissed even as the devirgining part of him leaped for joy at the fleeting pressure applied to his groin.

“I love you, too,” Trowa declared as an ender and fell back to amusing himself with Quatre’s chest and torso. He looked up a moment from his ministrations to observe his partner in a rare moment of indecision.

Quatre’s eyes were tightly shut and his hands hovered in the air, one tightly grasping the item that Trowa had placed in it, and the other as if he would have liked to run it through Trowa’s hair but wasn’t sure whether he should. Poor thing, he thought and smiled. Pride and suppression ran deep with Quatre and needed space to sort things out between the two. Probably before even allowing himself to enjoy the attention lavished upon him, Quatre would weigh the issue out regarding how much appreciation his pride would allow him to reveal and then how much pleasure his self-image would allow him to experience.

Trowa would have liked to have coached him a little, but he could easily see his well-meaning words backfiring on him and opted to stay quiet, contented with what Quatre was apparently willing to put up with so far.

As sneakily as he could, he hooked a finger under the elastic of the very last article of clothing protecting Quatre’s chastity. He had a suspicion that actually touching Quatre beneath his clothes would irritate more than it would arouse him. Clothes, to him, at this juncture, were like locks. To go around them was akin to stealing.

Navigating around Quatre’s taboos was like walking across an iced over lake. Some parts could bear weight, others would crack under the slightest pressure, and though Trowa had a fairly good idea of where these areas were, he knew that he still ran the risk of falling through.

He felt the soft silk of Quatre’s stomach withdraw from his finger as he slowly pulled downward.

“Don’t look,” Quatre rasped, his voice floating down from some other place.
It was a given that Trowa would have himself a good long stare, which only made Quatre’s plea cute-but futile.

“It’s perfect,” Trowa declared after tossing Quatre’s underwear somewhere off of the bed.

Quatre reached down with his free hand to cover the sight of his erection, “Liar.”

Fellatio wasn’t among Trowa’s most enjoyable memories of his past sexual experiences, but he did know how it was done and decided that it was the best way to render Quatre incapable of mouthing off any more than he already had.

“Please,” Trowa pleaded as he worked himself up to it, “don’t say anything.” He knew that if he was given an excuse, he probably would have avoided the exercise altogether. The last thing that he needed was Quatre telling him to stop.

He took a deep breath, snatched Quatre’s hand out of the way, and took him into his mouth.

Quatre let out an alarmed sound while his body moved outside his conscious sphere of control. His back arched and his hips instinctively strained towards the slick heat that had just then enveloped him.

Trowa’s hands snapped into place as if they’d been set on a hair trigger and flattened Quatre’s hips to the bed. He’d nearly forgotten the terror of temporary asphyxia that he’d learned to respect early on in his odyssey into homosexual sex. The moment of fear passed, Trowa had time to be pleased with the honesty of his partner’s body. Though Quatre’s mouth was surly and everything short of encouraging, his body was graceful and eager.

The taste didn’t bother him nearly as much as it did in his memories. Body salt wasn’t anything that he’d sprinkle on his food, but the skin mixed with it was meal worthy.

Quatre’s clean skin by itself yielded nearly no taste at all, but along its surface an aromatic sweetness emanated. Trowa paused a moment to inhale. He heard some half-spoken phrases winging around the room, but nothing that he would call it off for.

He stretched his tongue along the length of the organ in his mouth. The texture was firm, tensile, and sheer.

This feels…kind of good, Trowa thought to himself after hearing a particularly pleasing cry.

He gave the tip a parting lick before raising his head to seek out the lubricant that he’d given Quatre.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Quatre gasped, his face flushed and earnest.

Trowa smiled and seeing that Quatre’s left hand was closed around something, he ran his fingers up the arm to reach it. “I’m just getting something,” Trowa explained and took it from him.

Quatre caught his hand, and for a moment, looked troubled, “Trowa…”

“Yes?” Trowa prompted.

As if snapping out of a daze, Quatre started and looked away, “Nothing.”

Don’t look down on me.

Even though he hadn’t expressed it, Trowa seemed to catch on and declared in a gentle tone, “Looking at you, like this… I think that you must be the most perfect person in the entire universe.” He paused. “…Like a gift from God.”

Quatre smiled to cover up his unease, You don’t have to ham it up on my account.

Trowa pressed a kiss to the side of Quatre’s neck just beneath the line of the jaw before revisiting his task of preparing his partner for penetration. He parted Quatre’s thighs and reached between them to run his finger over the soft susceptible skin of the perineum. Quatre squirmed but kept his mouth shut.

He pressed harder.

“Nnngh,” Quatre whimpered and covered his face with his hands. Trowa watched him move, reading the lines of his body, and they spelled out: What the hell was that?

He repeated the action and once again took his partner into his mouth.

He uncapped the lubricant with one hand and began to apply it to the general area of his end destination. Quatre tried to draw back from the chill wetness, but a hand on his stomach prevented him from going too far. After a few minutes of silent coaching and insistence, Trowa felt that it was time to try a finger.

At times when he was either A) irritated at Quatre or B) concerned for him, Trowa had often mused that this person’s ass was clenched so tight that if he ate coal, he’d produce diamonds. Trowa sincerely hoped that this wasn’t the case presently, or he’d have an extremely trying time trying to fit himself in.

He thought for a moment before even coming within an inch of the ring of muscle that would, given warning, deny him entry to Quatre’s body. He figured that his best bet wasn’t to mess around but to just stick it in. It would be the least painful way.

He coated a finger in lubricant, poised it, and then slid it in. It was remarkably easier than he had expected, but he knew that the real challenge lay in re-entry with a second digit.

Quatre, somewhere above him, was wondering what the heck was happening to his body. He could feel the finger inside of him. He had no real impression of it aside from it being a strange sensation, neither pleasurable nor unpleasant. Though, the idea of things going in there freaked him out a little bit.

“Does it hurt?” Trowa asked.

“No,” Quatre quickly answered back.

Trowa smiled to himself and rested his cheek on Quatre’s inner thigh. He had hoped to hear a phrase along the lines of ‘don’t stop,’ but knew that Quatre’s pride wouldn’t allow those kinds of pleading words to come out, even if he did feel some form of loss at the complete absence of stimulation to his sex. Trowa could feel the muscles deep to the skin under his head trembling, and felt that much more tender.

For now, he wanted to concentrate on the touch of Quatre’s insides. He’d never felt such a pointed curiosity towards the viscera of another human being. Smooth muscle, moist, warm, infinitely soft and pliant pressed his digit from all sides.

I like your insides, he mused to himself with a flair of perverse fancy and began to withdraw his finger.

This got a rise out of Quatre who couldn’t stop the moan that pushed its way past his lips. Now, Trowa could feel the anal muscle tighten around him and worried a little, despite his initial pleasure, that a second insertion would prove painful. He paired his fingers and pressed his way carefully back inside. Quatre made some utterance, but Trowa didn’t entirely hear it. Since Quatre’s body had anticipated him the second time around, it was a challenge to push in. Once he reached the second joint, he couldn’t fit his fingers in any further and began to scissor them to bully the muscle preventing them from continuing further into loosening.

“You’re doing well,” Trowa commented.

“It…” Quatre bit his lip and frowned, “It feels weird that you would be messing around…down there…I knew that it happens…But, it’s weird.”

Trowa grinned to himself, That’s cute.

“Try not to think too much of it. Just concentrate on relaxing,” Trowa coached him, already feeling that the muscle had given enough to permit him. Heat lanced up through the vessels of his inner thighs, and he knew, for the first time, the feeling of desire.

I feel honored, he tried to convey, though Quatre had looked away.

He took his fingers back, and then realized that they had reached the point of another awkward moment.

He cleared his throat as quietly as he could manage, and suggested, “If you turn over on your stomach…it would probably be easier for you.”

Then, Quatre, as stern as ever, returned with, “I wouldn’t be able to see your face.”

“Okay,” Trowa was quick to agree.

It was a little unnerving to have Quatre practically staring holes into his head, but Trowa overcame it. He eased the tip inside, the whole while linking his eyes to Quatre’s. He didn’t want to be the first to look away, even though it made him uncomfortable. Though his body was feeling good, he schooled his expression away from any smugness that threatened to creep in.

“Don’t let me hurt, you,” he panted. “If it hurts, tell me.”

Quatre took a shuddering breath, “It’s fine.”

Trowa checked his progress, unsure of how to respond.

Quatre flexed around him, and they both winced.

“…Deeper, you dummy.”

It didn’t take much of anything to get Trowa to oblige.

However, he was frustratingly careful. At regular intervals during his slow advancement, he would pause and ask for permission to continue. Quatre nearly sighed in relief when he felt Trowa’s hips brush against his thighs.

It was uncomfortable and pleasurable all in the same moment. He felt strained, but no real pain worth any mention.

“You can move,” he offered quietly.

Trowa’s first tentative motions were slow and remarkably calm. Passion didn’t piston his hips, nor did zeal prick his lips. At first he conscientiously observed Quatre’s face, but when Quatre returned his gaze, a pained smile came over him and he resettled his sights on the juncture of their joined bodies. It was cadenced, the vanishing of his organ into the vessel of Quatre’s body and its measured re-emergence, embraced tightly by the very ring of muscle that had been so unwilling earlier. For a while, he seemed hypnotized.

The discomfort dissipated, layer by layer replaced by keener pleasing sensations.

“Faster, Trowa,” Quatre implored him.

Trowa’s reaction was delayed. When the words settled in him, he stopped altogether and blinked hard as if coming out a trance. “Faster?” he asked.

Quatre raised himself up partway on one elbow, trembling at the feel of his insides shifting around Trowa’s member, and nodded, “Faster.”

It started again, the rhythm began slowly as if Trowa was planning to slip into another mesmeric state, but picked up speed and depth with each stroke. He brushed Quatre’s prostate gland, and was rewarded with a tantalizing convulsion and a surprised cry. The reaction was so gratifying that he aimed to produce it again.

The change in speed and depth burned Quatre’s nerves so deep that his fingers shook and wrested his voice from him again and again until it seemed to him that he was creating one continuous sound. How lewd! he thought to himself, then surrendered to it. He did not know what kind of a face he was showing to Trowa.

He no longer cared.

All of the friction accounted for much more than Quatre could have imagined, and he felt it stacking up in the pit of his stomach. It was warm, nearly burning.

He craved more of it.

As if reading his mind, Trowa reached between them and took a hold of Quatre’s erection.

A jolt shot up his body and curved his spine. Tears sprung into his eyes, and he shut them out, and at last he was able to watch Trowa with the eyes of an unclouded sky. The clarity surprised even him who had long felt as if he had already perceived all that there was to perceive. Trowa, you’re beautiful.

And then a fire bloomed, a flower from his core, pushing roots deep into his loins, and he came.

Tremors traced his body even as his hips strained upwards, and he felt complete.

Immediately Trowa untangled his arms from Quatre’s limbs and braced himself as he came to orgasm, burying himself deeper than the flesh allowed him. There was no space between them. They were connected by infinity, a perfect circle, two hemispheres of the same fruit.

He pressed a kiss to Quatre’s lips.

It was returned.

And they formed an immaculate creature.

++

“I really like this ring,” Quatre declared after they had cooled down a bit.

They lay side by side in and out of the covers, enough to be modest and enough to stay cool.

Trowa tossed a tissue into a nearby wastebasket and replied in an absent way, “Oh, really.”

The grossly underwhelming response was enough to make Quatre want to deck him, but he returned with a terse, “Nevermind.”

“No, I was listening,” Trowa insisted. “I’m glad that you like it.”

“I’d wanted to say something,” Quatre began, then pressed his lips together pensively. He gave Trowa a hard look, “Don’t laugh.”

“I won’t.”

“Well…’cellar door’…” he looked at Trowa again to make sure that he was serious, “You’re the door to my heart.”

A warm white smile stuck itself to Trowa’s face.

Quatre reached out and took his hand in his own, and concluded, “It was stupid.”

“No, not at all. I’m really happy.”


FIN


note(s):

1) this took a REALLY long time to write. I started it after the first few reviews of the epilogue, so...that\'s like...two months? give or take a week or so. it\'s ridiculously long, but I\'m too lazy to read through it, and too paranoid to have other people tell me how to fix it.
2) the bit about \"cellar door\" was from a conversation I had last summer with SariL2. I REMEMBER!!!!
3) THANKS AlexOKerry for your homosexual reference materials and advice. It would have been impossible to write without you
4) Please R&R. next update will probably be to West Elm and Bailey. I\'m in the mood for that, now ;>_>