Trinity

BY : mephistowaltz
Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male
Dragon prints: 2760
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing/AC, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

" Trinity" or "The Laws of Passing Sand"


Pairings: 3x4, 1x3, 4x/+3x/+1
Genre: Spiritual erotica.
Rating: NC17
Warning: Series spoilers, New-type exploration, homoerotic content,
spiritual stuff, threesome, angst, slightly disturbing, Waffs.
Summary: Quatre and Heero split the task of helping Trowa find the
enlightenment he's looking for.
Thank you: To Raletha- my beta and one of my most favourite people
in the universe.

An obscure pic that helped fuel the bunny:
http://mephistowaltz.kleigh.net/gw1vs4.jpg

At times like these, I often find myself preoccupied with
the symbolism of the hourglass. A lot can be said about a timepiece
shaped like an eight with transparent walls that actually shows the
flow of time. Each grain of sand relates to a synaptic process-
whether it's simply the act of living, or something more conscious.
When a granule passes through the pinched crux, it goes from being a
thing of the future to a thing of the past, and is only symbolic of
the present for that split second it's caught in the pivot.

That is, of course, until the hourglass is turned on its
head, at which time the material of one's history becomes the focus
of the future, and every grain has a second chance to be the present.

The hourglass symbolizes humanity's dream of restoration and
of perpetuation, which I'll say is a bit idealistic. I haven't come
to a conclusion about life after death and I don't foresee any such
decision in the near future, me being content with my current
philosophies and with my position in life. But, to get back to my
original thought, most lives can't be flipped over like an hourglass-
the sand passes through and the bottom-heavy timepiece is forever
imbalanced. I'm not talking metaphysically- remember, I know nothing
of life after death- but emotionally, intellectually and physically.
I know this, for I've seen people die and I've felt the death of
their emotions. It's not a beautiful thing at all- above all other
negatives it is painful and chaotic.

Yes, it all sounds very sombre and must reflect poorly on my
general optimism. And, of course, I would be very affected by this
had I not witnessed an exception to the rule.

People unencumbered by heroism's yoke say that all five of
us Gundam pilots are like phoenixes, risen from the ashes of Earth's
mistakes to help birth the new era. They're wrong. We bore the
burden, yes, but our past makes us unbalanced, and, truthfully, I
feel a little bottom heavy in the spirituality department myself.
There are things I can't release, or that won't release me, and even
more dark things that have burrowed.

But I have felt the hourglass tip and I have witnessed
rebirth from ashes. And thus he lives now, relentlessly renewing his
previous life and mission after being given the chance to turn his
hourglass on its head.

So here am I, lying in my bed, waiting for one Trowa Barton
to return to me after his latest fit of restoration. I hope that
doesn't sound bitter, because it isn't- I'm happy for him and
anxious for his return, which is imminent. It's been three months,
which is a lonme tme to wait fhe ohe one you adore. I know he's been
well and happy, walking through war-torn Europe as a veritable
mystagogue of present-day philosophy. I know he caught a cold in
Switzerland and was forced to fill his coffee thermos with Echinacea
tea, which turned him into an unbearable sulk. In Italy he met with
the Pope to hear the mystic words from the icon's very mouth, as
he'd similarly met with the Dalai Llama last year. He'd been stopped
just south of Sanc when he realized he needed to return here, to me.

That was five days ago, so I've been preoccupied with the
hourglass since. But my obsession hasn't overshadowed my sensitivity
to the diminishing distance between us.

I know he'll be here tonight.

I've added two extra pillows and a light blanket to the
regular bedding- he gets cold easily and the nights are quite cool
here, even if the days scorch. I've dispensed with my regular
nightclothes, and the Egyptian cotton feels delicious against my
flushed body, though not as nice as it'll feel to lie in his arms
after three months of sexual frustration. More important than that
will be the comfort I get being able to sense him through touching
him, rather than having a third party relay his sensations.

It's late and I begin to nod off. My dreams are affected by
his closeness and reflect my anxiety. I'm generally a light sleeper,
but I don't hear him come in, nor do I feel the stirred breeze from
the door. But that initial touch wakes me, and I open my eyes to a
shadow hovering over my bed.

"Trowa," I whisper, not entirely sure he's real. Without a
word he removes his clothing and crawls into the bed with me. His
cold legs and wriggling toes makes the experience believable, even
when his mouth on mine further inebriates me.

"Quatre, hello," he urs urs between kisses. He flicks his
tongue over my lips then nips at my bottom lip playfully. 'I've
missed you. . .'

God, I've missed him.

His emotions are so inviting, so I dig in. Once upon a time
I felt like a voyeur or an outright pervert intruding on his
emotions like this. But now I know better. I know that he's inviting
me into his private world when he lies back in our bed and reaches
up to hold my face. It's a gift, and my most treasured.

I prehe lhe length of my body to his, delighting in the gasp
it draws from him. We grind together, our hips meeting with our
erections trapped between our stomachs. After a choked moan he pulls
my head to his, knocking our noses together before a bruising kiss.

I slide my hands over his chest, briefly over his nipples,
to which he responds with a thrust of his hips. We moan
simultaneously at the new friction, and I pull away from his mouth,
trying desperately to steady myself. Just as the heady haze starts
to loosen its stranglehold, his lips latch onto my throat and begin
to suck noisily. I'm vaguely aware of his hands- they're either
kneading my buttocks or they're. .. oh hell, I don't know! My body
is burning with pent-up need.

Trowa bucks up against me again, mercilessly rubbing our
cocks together, his whimpering mouth tickling my throat. I reach
blindly for the bedside table and the lubricant but find nothing.
Suddenly Trowa wraps his arms around my waist and rolls us over, so
that he's now atop me, pressing me into the mattress. Even in the
scant moonlight I can see the blush in his cheeks and the dilated
pupils, as well as the lubricant clutched in his fist. Our bodies
are still pressed together, and into me flows his endless strain of
positive emotions. Acceptance, joy, inspiration- they all pulse into
me with his heartbeat, intensifying my adoration.

He squeezes a good dollop into his hand then, without moving
his body from mine, works the lubricant between our stomachs and
over our erections. Our eyes meet and lock and I clutch his hands as
he slowly slides his stomach against mine. . .too slowly. . .

"Trowa," I'm gasping, the torture is so cruel. "Faster. . ."

So he does. We grind against each other, sliding back and
forth along each other's bodiehe fhe friction painfully building
with each pass. Our legs entangle, which renders me helpless, save
for my feeble rearing. The heat steadily builds, and I find myself
crying out, overwhelmed by my lust and his onslaught of emotions. My
desperation is mirrored in his eyes, and I search them for release,
but find nothing so charitable. A deep thrust brings me near to the
edge, intensifying the burning in my belly. I kiss him clumsily
with hiccupping breath, rubbing against his perspiring skin and
still gazing into his eyes.

"Quatre. . ." Suddenly his mind explodes with heat and
light, which sends me reeling. I scream into his mouth, overwhelmed
by our combined passion, and come hard into the vacuum our bodies
have formed. The sexual electricity sends me into spasms and I
clutch at him as we ride out our orgasms.

We lie together for a moment, still clasped in a feverish
embrace. I'm loath to give him up at this moment for so many
reasons, but mostly for his emotions, for they sparkle and cascade
over me in an erotic baptism.

He does the sensible thing and cleans us up before resuming
our embrace. His head comes to rest on my chest and I wrap an arm
around his shoulders to keep him warm. His emotions are still
buzzing, but I don't mind- it's a lover's ego trip, feeling his love
like this.

"I. . .have so much to tell you," he whispers, almost
inaudibly.

I know he does- it has been many grains of sand since I've
seen him.

"Tomorrow. Go to sleep," I say, kissing his forehead. He
looks back at me and gives me that smile he's reserved for our
private moments together.

He falls asleep quickly, but I take a few more moments to
bask in the afterglow before joining him.


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