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Trowa Lin	By : Maureen Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 517 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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.

Chapter List
- 1-Trowa Lin
- 2-2
- 3-3
- 4-4
- 5-5
- 6-6
- 1
- 2
Trowa Lin 1

Pairings: 3x4

Disclaimer: I own nothing, but if you'd like to take
over my car payments, feel free.

Warnings: I have no beta reader, and it
shows....

Rating: PG-13, this part, lemon (or lime) later. Also,
never fear AngstyDepressed!Quatre tones down in later installments....

Authors Notes: First, this fic is based on the
traditional Scottish ballad/poem call "Tam Lin" (hence my totally
unoriginal title...) You can access several versions at this webpage: http://www.tam-lin.org/
. I've always wanted to do something with this, so what's better than
sticking Trowa and Quatre in it? Second, I'll be referring to something
called "banns" which Merriam Webster online (http://www.m-w.com)
defines as: "public announcement especially in church of a proposed
marriage� These were read up to three times before a marriage took place,
usually a month apart each time, then the marriage was finalized. If I'm
inaccurate in anything depicted in this fic, feel free to pelt me with rotten
food. Third, this is AU, and I'm not being real specific about the time
period it's set in, um, a long, long time ago, how's that?

Sun, warm on skin.

Fingers, reaching, just miss with a swift dodge to the
right.

Breath, coming hard, filled with laughter.

His own voice ringing across the spring time meadow,
"Trowa, Trowa, you can't catch me!"

Flowers falling under rampaging feet.

Breath, warm and moist on the back of his neck,
"Caught you!"

Bodies, spilling to the ground in a tangled heap of
gangly arms and legs. Trowa on top, heavy and real.

Sun blocked out, seeping through Trowa's hair, framing
his face with a golden corona. Small hand brushing bangs away to peer in to two
gloriously green eyes.

Eyes meeting eyes, communicating the unspeakable
effortlessly.

Head dipping down.

Lips soft against lips.

Earth shaking beneath, thundering sounding loud
overhead, seeming to speak his name with the voice of doom� Quatre�
Quatre� Quatre�

"Quatre! For the love of all that's holy, will
you please wake up! Quatre!" The voice lost its booming quality as the
dream faded. Quatre resisted the inevitable for a few precious seconds longer,
and then reluctantly cracked his left eye to peer at the person who had
interrupted his happiness. Duo was looming over him, brow creased in
frustration. He began to speak again, but Quatre cut him off, "'Nuff, 'm up
'ready. Jus' five more min�" he trailed off as he attempted to turn over,
intending to snuggle back down and pursue the vestiges of the dream.

Rude hands hauled him back over. "Oh, no, not
today, buddy! I know you don't want to get out of bed, and I don't blame you,
but if you're not dressed and out of this room in a half hour, your father will
have my hide."

Quatre groaned into his pillow, knowing he was
defeated. What Duo said was true, and although Quatre did not know him well, he
was loath to subject the servant to one of his father's beatings. He slipped
from the bed slowly, turning to the window. Red fingers of light were creeping
across the clouded sky, tearing apart the blanket of black night, staining the
dawn sky with all the colors of blood: fresh, faded, and dried. "Happy
Birthday to me" Quatre muttered darkly as he turned away from the gruesome
display, "Happy Birthday to me."

He turned back to Duo, who was busy laying out
Quatre's clothes for the day. The turquoise silk jacket and breeches with
delicate golden embroidery were the finest in Quatre's closet, clearly meant for
a celebration of sorts. He walked over and fingered the jacket sadly. "At
least I'll be well dressed for my funeral." He sighed to himself.

"Funeral?!? Wha' do ya mean, funeral? Is that any
way for the bridegroom to be to talkin'?" Duo had moved to a small table
set near the window and was uncovering Quatre's breakfast. "Come on, sit
down and try to eat a little something � lunch will be a long ways off,
today." Noticing that Quatre was still glaring down at the offending outfit
with hollow eyes, he softened his tone, "At least drink the juice � I
know how you like it, so I asked the cook for extra. C'mon, it simply won't do
if your stomach growls during the service." Quatre met Duo's eyes as the
servant pressed the glass into his hands. He sighed and drained it suddenly, the
sweet taste of fruit momentarily washing away the bitterness in his mouth. The
flavor seemed to conjure fleeting fragments of his dream. "Trowa," the
name fell softly, unbidden from his lips. Quatre shook his head to clear away
the lingering shards of memory.

"Ya know, you kept saying that in your sleep,
too. Who is he?" Duo had perched lightly on the windowsill and was in the
process of finishing of Quatre's unwanted breakfast. It was part of the unspoken
agreement between the two � Quatre's father had long ago figured out that no
punishment afflicted on Quatre's person had much effect on his son. However,
punishing other people, even those Quatre barely knew, in Quatre's name caused
the boy unspeakable pain. Duo and Quatre had therefore worked out a system over
the three years of their acquaintance, wherein Quatre would do all he was able
to keep Duo from being beaten. There had been many confrontations over meals, in
the beginning, until they had come to a mutual understanding � Quatre had very
little appetite, and Duo's was almost insatiable. As a consequence, the servant
ended up eating several of the meals intended for his young master.

Quatre focused on Duo with a look of detached
fondness. "Someone I used to know � although sometimes I wonder if I just
imagined him. I haven't seen him since I was nine. I miss him very much."
The simple admission caused a painful swelling in Quatre's chest, and he rubbed
at the spot above his heart absently. "He was lost on a hunt with his
father, Duke Barton. No one has ever found out what happened to him. He
was�" Quatre's eyes darted around nervously, as if afraid of being
overheard. He lowered his voice to a bare whisper that seemed to echo around the
stone chamber, "He was my friend."

"Hmph! I was beginning to wonder it you'd ever
had any of those. I've always been curious as to why no boys have been fostered
here to keep you company, or why you were never fostered yourself. With all
these sisters around, I'd have thought someone would have seen the need for a
male influence in your life. Yeah, I know, you got those Magunacs guys following
you around all the time, but what about people your own age? Heero and I are the
only ones around here in that category, and it's not like you can pal around
with a servant or your tutor's son." Duo had finished the meal and returned
to Quatre's side, divesting him of his nightshirt and starting the intensive
process of dressing him in the finery. Duo kept up the steady stream of soothing
chatter as he worked the buckles and laces of the intricate outfit, smoothing
the silk stockings over finely muscled calves and flouncing the lacey jabot into
a perky frill around Quatre's delicate neck. He finally stepped back to take in
the full effects of his efforts, returning to adjust the jacket and flick some
non-existent lint from Quatre's shoulder. "There, now look at yourself, and
tell me you are not the vision of perfection." He said, as he steered
Quatre to the mirror, making pleased sounds at the results of his efforts.

Quatre stood before the mirror, hesitant to look up
and meet his own gaze. When he finally did, he choked on the hysterical laughter
that clawed frantically at the back of his throat. He hardly recognized the
figure staring back at him with empty blue eyes. 'A doll,' the thought came
suddenly. 'I look like one of Iria's porcelain dolls.' And he did, his
sun-filled hair tousled with artful intent, a faint glow on his cheeks
contrasting with his otherwise creamy white skin. His mouth, a pouty pink
cupid's bow, looked painted on and incapable of expression. The rich clothes fit
his form perfectly, the golden arabesques of embroidery glowing in the morning
sun. Even the matching blue shoes with gold buckles lent to the illusion before
him, making his feet seem tiny and fragile. He leaned a little closer to the
mirror, wondering if he, looking long enough and in the right light, would be
able to see a thousand tiny cracks just beneath the surface of his smooth skin,
like he had seen in one of Iria's older dolls. "Crazing" she had
called the fissures just beneath the surface of the doll's face. The word, he
decided, fit him perfectly, and he wondered if his own thin layer of glaze would
be enough to hold him through the day. He was beginning to suspect not.

Quatre stepped back and shook his head as if to toss
off the growing feeling of desperation. He walked slowly out of the room, a man
on the way to the gallows, turning back at the doorframe to mutter a soft 'thank
you' to Duo. He sluggishly made his way down the tower stairs and into castle
proper, to face his father, to face his seventeenth birthday, and to face the
reading of the banns that would effectively end to any hopes that he had for
happiness in his life.

*******************************************************

Lord Winner gave his son a bare once over and deemed
him "passable." His sisters, predictably, descended on him like ducks
on breadcrumbs. Quatre had never been more grateful that the majority of his
sisters had been married off and had left home � the fuss stirred up by his
eight remaining siblings was almost too much to bear. If all twenty-nine had
been present, Quatre was sure he would have drowned in a tidal wave of petting
and cooing. As it was, he felt breathless and panicked by the time his father
called out "Enough!" and lead his brood across the courtyard to the
family chapel.

The rest of the morning passed in a confused blur for
Quatre, as he struggled not to dwell on what was taking place around him. As a
result, all he could remember of the service was the play of light from the
stained glass window on the priest's face and robes, the overpowering falsely
floral smell of his intended's favorite perfume, and his father's impossibly
loud and far away voice giving the ceremonial responses to the priest's equally
ceremonial questions. And suddenly it was over, and he was back in the great
hall, where a midday feast had been laid out. A blur of people swarmed around
him, offering congratulations and advice, pinching his cheek and pumping his
hand, preventing him from fleeing as he desperately wished to. One of Quatre's
myriad brother-in-laws was gently teasing him about using his remaining three
months of freedom to sow his wild oats, when Quatre felt a hand clamp down vice
like on his elbow.

"Husband to be, may I please borrow you for a
moment?" The voice sounded sweet on the surface, but undertones grated in
Quatre's ear like broken glass. Quatre was terrified of Dorothy, and not just
because he did not want to marry this woman or any other. She herself alarmed
him in some indescribable yet intractable way. More than once, Quatre had caught
her staring at him with the look a hungry fox would give a wounded rabbit, her
strange forked eyebrows quirking at some inner amusement. He instinctively felt
that marriage to Dorothy would mean being toyed with and slowly devoured, like a
mouse before an especially sadistic cat. Even the warm summer air of the last
day of June failed to hold back the shiver that iced Quatre's spine at Dorothy's
propriety touch.

Dorothy led him quietly and firmly away from the
crowd, out of the castle, and into a secluded rose garden. Her presence seemed
to surround him with an impenetrable film that cut him off from reality,
allowing no sensation to get through. The scent of the roses was dull and faded,
the sunlight was cold on his skin, and the breeze that lightly ruffled his hair
did not to touch his face. The only sound that he could clearly hear was
rustling whisper of her crimson taffeta skirts, and it was painful loud to
Quatre. After glancing about to make sure that there were no others near,
Dorothy leaned against Quatre and breathed in his ear, "Let's start sowing
some of those oats now, shall we?" The moisture from her breath froze in
Quatre's ear, further paralyzing him. She ran her fingernails over his back, the
sensation through the thin silk making him flinch. "Still afraid of me,
husband mine? Oh, the things I'll show you." A single fingernail then
traced its way up the front of Quatre's left thigh, heading towards his waist,
digging a deep furrow. When the nail suddenly turned in and began moving towards
his groin, Quatre snapped out of his daze and pushed away from Dorothy. The
momentum of the thrust was enough to upset his balance, and he fell to the stone
path.

"Are you still so innocent, my sweet
seraphim?" Quatre was afraid to look up at Dorothy and risk becoming
ensnared again. "Yes, perhaps you had better find some mindless village
girl to practice on � there are certain things that I'll expect on our wedding
night. Or perhaps," she drawled, "You'd prefer to practice on the
village boys." Dorothy's imitation of a girlish giggle scraped at Quatre's
ears. "No matter, just prepare yourself for our consummation." She
knelt down and grabbed Quatre's chin and forced eye contact. "Whatever you
do, don't lose that air of delicious submission." She punctuated her
command by dragging her tongue from Quatre's lacey collar to just under his jaw,
where she bit down, hard. "Oh, yes," Dorothy hissed "You'll mark
so nicely." And then she floated away like some disease seed spore on the
wind.

With her departure, all the sounds and sensations of a
normal summer's day seem to flood back into the landscape. The scent of the
roses was immediately overbearing, and Quatre scuttled quickly from the garden
before he could be sick. He ran blindly, freedom the only thought on his mind,
until he found himself leaning against the outside wall of the stables. He
rested there, weakly panting for a moment before he pushed himself up and into
the building, the pure comforting smell of hay and the cool darkness effectively
blocking out the horrors of the past few hours.
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Trowa Lin