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Inside Out of Reflection	By : Raletha Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 619 -:- 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-Inside Out of Reflection
- 1
Inside Out of Reflection
by Raletha

NC-17 :: sex, language, adult themes :: Trowa/Quatre
He stood facing the wide, wide window and looked into it—not out at the stars beyond, but at the reflection of what was inside. The window was so huge the star field surely would swallow him up with vertigo if he looked outside. That's why Trowa didn't look out at the stars. Instead he looked back—inside—at the others behind him, where they sat about the end of one of the tables made for ten in the Peacemillion cafeteria, letting adrenaline and excitement unwind into camaraderie. It was good for morale.
Quatre laughed at something Duo said, but Trowa didn't understand what was supposed to be funny. It had to be an inside joke between the two of them. They'd spent so long together on Earth. Then Quatre said something to Heero that made him grin around the straw of his cup, and Trowa let out a breath. Everybody had their inside jokes with Quatre, everybody, it seemed, except him. Trowa hugged himself and didn't look at the stars.
And Wufei, maybe. But Wufei didn't have inside jokes with anyone. Wufei probably wouldn't want them. But Trowa did. He should have something with Heero; they'd spent enough time together.
But most of all Trowa wanted inside jokes with Quatre. Maybe he would have them, if he remembered more, or remembered better. He remembered a lot of things, but not everything, and not always enough. He did remember that he had never spent as much time with Quatre as he'd wanted to, never talked to Quatre as much as he'd wanted to—and he never had touched Quatre as much as he wanted to.
Duo laughed again and stood, planting a friendly hand on Quatre's shoulder as he said good night. A glance around showed Wufei had already left, but Trowa had failed to notice when. Shortly after Duo left, Quatre said something to Heero that Trowa couldn't hear; and then Heero got up, said his own good nights to them both, and left. Trowa kept watching the inside behind him, until he slid his gaze up the glass and found it halted by Quatre's. Quatre looked into his reflection; their eyes met in some intangible space amidst the stars.
"Hey, Trowa," Quatre said, and he smiled.
Trowa's lips spread and relaxed, but they didn't curve, so it wasn't really a smile. He watched Quatre's reflection stand and walk up behind him. When Quatre put his hand on Trowa's shoulder it was nothing at all like the way Duo touched Quatre, so easy and familiar. It was hesitant—shy—so Trowa could pull away or shrug it off if he wanted. He never had rejected one of Quatre's touches before—not that he could remember them all—but Quatre always left him the option.
Sometimes, though, Trowa wished Quatre would touch him without the hesitation, would touch him out of Quatre's own desire to touch him, and not hold back for respect of Trowa's assumed fear.
"The stars are so pretty," Quatre said. His hand remained on Trowa's shoulder and Trowa looked at its reflection, where Quatre touched him. He didn't look at the stars. He and Quatre didn't have inside jokes; instead they had strange touches and oblique smalltalk.
Suddenly Trowa was so tired of being oblique with Quatre. He was so tired of it; the fatigue burned like irritation. His gaze slipped from Quatre's hand on his shoulder and sought Quatre's gaze, the gaze that was looking not at him, but at the vast yawn of the stars outside.
"I like it when you touch me," Trowa said, softly, but not so softly that Quatre wouldn't hear clearly.
Those words withdrew Quatre's gaze from space to refocus and meet Trowa's. "Oh!" Quatre said—as if he only just realised he was touching Trowa—and then his hand retreated, like a guilty trespasser, from Trowa's shoulder. "Sorry."
But before Quatre could move further away, Trowa reached back between them and grabbed one of Quatre's wrists. "I said I liked it." He pulled on Quatre's wrist, pulled Quatre closer up behind him—close enough that he could feel the warmth of Quatre's body, near but not touching. He guided Quatre's hand with his own, to his belly, and clasped it there under his own palm. He looked down through the glass and saw his hand on Quatre's hand on himself.
"Oh..." Quatre said again, but the syllable came out as a completely different word from before. He didn't try to retrieve his hand.
"I know you want to, Quatre. I can tell." He raised his eyes back to Quatre's to show him sincerity. There were things he just knew about Quatre, knew without being told or shown. He knew Quatre's desire to touch him with just as much certainty as he had known Quatre's desire to have him return to space and the fight.
"Trowa..." whispered Quatre, but his gaze slipped away, resting somewhere indeterminate upon Trowa's back. Trowa could see Quatre's flush even in the translucent reflection.
"I wish you would," Trowa said, "touch me more." With his thumb, he pressed gently upon the side Quatre's hand, coaxing it down to his waistband.
Behind him, Quatre tipped his head forward, brow against Trowa's shoulder. His breath was humid on Trowa's skin through the cotton of Trowa's shirt. Trowa wondered if he stepped back, if he would feel Quatre hard against him—as hard as he, himself, was.
"You can touch me. It's okay."
In reply Quatre said nothing, and nor did he move. If he didn't believe Trowa's words, perhaps he would believe Trowa's own body. Trowa slipped his fingers beneath Quatre's trembling ones and unfastened his button and fly. His own hand trembled as much when he brought his cock out, and then used both hands to move Quatre's hand down, to fold Quatre's fingers around himself, to show Quatre. He held Quatre like that, cradled and soothed with both hands Quatre's touch around him.
Trowa returned his gaze to the window and stared down at the holding of their hands around his cock, stared through them far enough to see the stars filling up their hands, like little points of light under their skin. Quatre wasn't moving, just leaning against him and breathing, but at least he wasn't pulling away. But he wasn't moving either. So maybe this wasn't okay. Maybe Trowa wanted too much. This wasn't an inside joke or a secret smile. It was—
Then Quatre's hand stirred. It tightened and moved, slid up to the tip of Trowa's cock and then back down to the teeth of Trowa's zipper. "Like this, Trowa?" Over his shoulder Quatre's gaze was earnest and bright, filled with even more stars than were beyond the glass.
"Yeah," Trowa said, "like that." Quatre moved his other hand to grip Trowa's upper arm and pull their bodies closer together. And Trowa felt it then, how hard Quatre was too. He wanted to feel it more. Keeping one hand over Quatre's, he reached back with the other, reached between them and twisted his wrist to cup Quatre's erection in his palm. Quatre made a strange whimpering cry in response. Trowa squeezed and rubbed with the heel of his hand to make Quatre whimper more.
He watched the movement he could see: his hand atop Quatre's, Quatre's sliding over his cock. He held only loosely, not guiding or pacing Quatre, just holding them together in space. It wasn't just happening in the translucent space outside though. Trowa abandoned the surreality of reflection for a moment, to verify that same moment. He brought his gaze inside, saw how his real flesh strained toward its reflected ghost, watched the rhythm of Quatre's hand pulling the reflection closer before sliding it back. Pulled and pushed, Trowa fumbled with his blind hand, unfastened Quatre's pants, drew Quatre out, felt him harder and hotter, steady in his grip as he started sliding over Quatre too, his rhythm blind and broken for the awkwardness of the angle.
More than the physcial difficulty though, the unrelenting motion of Quatre's hand kept Trowa out of a regular rhythm. Trowa bit his mouth closed around his own strange whimpers, and let go of Quatre's cock so he could push his jeans down. He shoved at them, but there wasn't enough gravity to help, so they caught and rode low on his hips. It was enough for what Trowa wanted. He took Quatre in hand again, pulled the length of Quatre to nestle snug in the cleft of his ass, felt the wet head of Quatre's cock nudge and slip along his tail bone, felt the silken heat fitting snug against him.
Strange flash of possibility and Trowa wondered if Quatre would like to fuck him, right now, like this. But then, Trowa knew—knew without having asked or been told—that Quatre had never fucked anyone. Trowa knew also that he didn't want Quatre's first time to be like this. Good though this was, it wasn't good enough for that.
Still, Trowa could make it better. He pushed his hips back to make Quatre's cock slide against his skin, slide like their hands were already sliding on his cock. In the window he caught Quatre's reflected gaze again, gone glassy. On his arm, Quatre's hand squeezed his bicep hard, and his hips answered Trowa's suggestion: he began to grind against Trowa, rubbed his cock along Trowa's cleft. That was good; Quatre could probably get off like this, get off on Trowa's skin. And Trowa was getting off on it, too. Quatre's hand was rubbing an orgasm down into Trowa's balls, but his cock, unseen, the thick heat of it against him, was rubbing even more sensations up Trowa's spine, scattering them over his skin like the reflected glitter of the stars.
Trowa reached back further, folded his palm over Quatre's hip, pressed his fingertips into the softer muscle behind the bone and tugged, wordlessly urging Quatre to press harder, move faster. There was so much friction, hands and cocks and clothes and skin, but there were no words—nothing that could later become an inside joke. The only sounds were those of the touching and the moving.
Quatre came first, in shudders and hot splatters on Trowa's skin. He clung, feebly, with both hands as his hips bucked and his knees buckled, and he slid in gasping stutters down Trowa's body to the floor. Trowa was too close himself to pause for Quatre though. He firmed his grip over Quatre's weakened hand, and now he guided and paced—fast, sure strokes until he had to close his eyes against all the stars and reflection, tip his head back, and surrender too.
Afterward, Trowa slid to the floor too, twisted to lean back against the cold glass and face the inside, face—at last—Quatre. Beside him, his ejaculate cooled and dripped down the window. Quatre's come was wet against the denim of his jeans, wet on his skin beneath the denim, too. He looked at Quatre without glass or stars or anything between them but transparent air. Quatre looked back, solid, flushed, and real, as real as everything else. And smiling.
"Hey, Quatre," Trowa said, and he smiled back. It was a little smile, but it was a real one.

the end

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Inside Out of Reflection

Inside Out of Reflection