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Perigee	By : Raletha Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 1381 -:- 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.

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Perigee

by Raletha

Chapter 2

That evening they enjoyed a pleasant dinner in the resort's less formal dining room—ostensibly so Trowa wouldn't have to change from his freshly donned jeans and casual button up shirt, the pastel coral shade of which flattered Trowa's complexion. Quatre, happy to discreetly admire Trowa dressed as he was, changed instead—to a pair of navy cotton slacks and a white polo shirt.

And Quatre wondered as they dined: how had things with Trowa suddenly become so blandly pleasant? The food was delicious with meticulous attention to presentation; their table quiet and private set in a secluded windowed corner. Outside, small garden lamps gently illuminated the lush and colourful courtyard. It was an ideal venue for intimate conversation. However, such conversation neither young man initiated. They talked about the present: the food, the trip, and planned a trip to an historic nature reserve for the following day.

After dinner, they took the long way back to their cabin to enjoy the balmy night and the soothing rhythm of the ocean. As they made their way down to the beach and along the water's edge, Trowa gave Quatre an opening to address other issues with the obvious, but hitherto neglected query: "So what have you been up to?"

"Ah, well, work mostly." Quatre winced at his dull answer, and tried to scavenge some tidbit of work detail that just might be of interest to Trowa. "It's been challenging. Especially since Winner Enterprises went public."

Trowa surprised him. "I bought stock," his friend said.

Quatre pulled his gaze from the mercury reflection of the moon upon the water. "You did? In Winner Enterprises?"

"Yeah." Trowa's smile wasn't the new, easy version Quatre had been seeing since meeting Trowa in the airport. No, it was the old, tentative smile. The one that only tugged at the left side of his mouth in the barest hint of warmth, but what warmth the actual smile lacked could be found easily in the softened aspect of his eyes.

"But we're a dreadful short term investment at the moment, we've been running in the red the last three years." Discussing business with Trowa held something of the surreal. They used to talk about politics, religion, personal philosophies, books, music, history—but never business.

Trowa shrugged. "I wasn't planning on a short term investment."

Something about the way Trowa said those words sent a flush of warmth through Quatre. "You should be okay over the long term, but I don't anticipate us making that much of a profit for some time to come."

"You've been diversifying a lot." Trowa spoke carefully and turned his gaze to the pale sand beneath their feet, as if he wasn't wholly certain the words he used were the right ones.

Hoping to encourage more conversation of substance—even if it were work related—Quatre spoke brightly, "Yeah, well, I really feel that there's a huge opportunity for the Colonies now—now that the wars are over, and freedom of communication and travel has been restored."

Trowa continued to demonstrate his interest with intent eyes and soft spoken questions for clarification of some point or another, and soon, Quatre found himself divulging to Trowa even his most whimsical plans for the future of Winner Enterprises. He talked about his eventual hope to enhance tourism among the Earth, the Moon, and the Colonies. Luxury inter-colony cruises he speculated, would promote investment in outer space, help heal the ideological rift between Earth and space, and move the Colonies beyond their traditional status of economic servitude.

This was more like the old days: talking about dreams and feeling the incredible lightness of being that came from being heard and encouraged—from talking to someone who expressed genuine interest and support of those dreams. Quatre knew he'd missed Trowa, but he'd forgotten so much of what he missed.

One thing remained absent though. Trowa seemed reticent to volunteer his own deeper thoughts and opinions. But then, perhaps that wasn't so different from the past. It always took longer for Trowa to feel comfortable expressing personal aspects of himself. Nevertheless, Quatre began to feel he dominated the evening's discussion too much and gradually allowed silence to overtake his words. It was, at least, a companionable silence.

Silence led Quatre's mind back to other beaches. Having grown up in space, he could easily recall the only other times he'd been on a beach. The first had been with Heero and the dogs after they'd been taken into OZ custody on Earth. After Quatre had believed he'd killed his best friend. Tears of remembrance stung the backs of Quatre's eyes and he glanced at his silent companion to reaffirm his presence now.

The second time he'd been leading the Maguanac Corps in the defense of the Sanq kingdom. That had not been a joyful day either.

Trowa's arm brushed past his elbow and brought him back to the present. With this third time, it seemed that he'd finally made a good memory of a beach.

The next day, as planned, Quatre arranged for a picnic lunch, and he and Trowa headed off to hike through the island's main park. It was what had drawn Quatre to this destination: that St. John had long ago been set aside as a nature sanctuary and had thus avoided the most obscene commercial development which dominated the other Caribbean islands.

They spent the morning following meandering paths, maps and guidebooks in hand. Trowa had a keen eye for spotting any signs of animal life, and so, by the time they'd made it to the highest hilltop in the park and settled down for lunch, Quatre realised he'd easily tripled the number of bird species he'd observed in the wild.

Approaching noon, the day had grown hot. Even with the light breeze they found at the hill's summit, the direct heat of the sun had Quatre sweating. Once they'd laid their picnic blanket in the tall grass, he wasted no time in stripping off his shirt, loosening his belt, and sprawling on his back. He adjusted his sunglasses and stared up at the cloudless indigo blue sky. The still heat on his sweat damp skin, though intermittently broken by the caress of a warm breeze, threatened to lull him to sleep.

Quatre turned his head as Trowa settled beside him. His friend sat, leaning his elbows on his bent knees, his eyes invisible behind the black lenses of his sunglasses. He'd also doffed his shirt and his space-paled skin gleamed beneath a light film of perspiration. Quatre's eyes were drawn to the firm muscles bunched at Trowa's waist, the small ovals of his nipples, and the way the flush of heat and exertion had stained Trowa's lips a dark reddish shade, the colour of a late fall apple.

"I hope we remembered the sunscreen," Quatre said, conscious of his own skin which had not seen natural sunlight for a very long time. The last thing he wanted was for either of them to get burned. He'd been sunburnt once, and once was enough.

Trowa hesitated only briefly before pulling their day pack onto the blanket and rummaging through it. He pulled out the yellow plastic bottle and, his expression unreadable, prompted, "Turn over."

Quatre did so, folding his arms to form a makeshift pillow for his head. Trowa's hands, even after all this time, were a familiar presence on his back as his friend applied the slippery lotion to his skin. The experience was not unlike the massages he and Trowa had traded when on Peacemillion. It had been the pinnacle of their physical relationship: safe seeming and easily excused by the practicalities of relieving stress and sore muscles.

Although, as Quatre recalled, that hadn't stopped either of them from stealing the occasional less practical touch: a hand that slipped to brush across a nipple, or a stroke along a thigh that reached just a little too far up the leg of either's boxer shorts. Of course, a hasty apology always followed, and the minor infractions were quickly forgiven—but never forgotten. The resulting mutual arousal and matching erections never received vocal acknowledgement.

As if saying nothing would keep feelings platonic. As if saying something now were an easy thing? And though Trowa's hands had found a seductive rhythm working the sunscreen over Quatre's bare back, they didn't slip once.

After Quatre had sat back up and applied lotion to his own chest and arms—with Trowa making sure the backs of his arms had received enough coverage—they traded places without speaking. Trowa's back was hot from the sun, and his skin felt smooth as silk under Quatre's touch. He moved his hands, following the lines of bone and muscle. He took more time than was strictly necessary, but Trowa didn't complain.

Once they were both protected from the prospect of burns, Quatre unpacked their food. The hotel had catered the picnic with typical attention to detail. Inside the picnic pack he found real china plates and crystal wine glasses. They had a feast of fresh breads, soft cheeses, fruit, savoury spreads, and salads—all accompanied by a light, chilled wine selected to complement the other flavours perfectly.

Trowa lay on his stomach, propped up on his elbows while cutting a large mango. The juice dribbled over his hands and down his forearms. Quatre watched as he sliced a small portion of the fruit and tossed it into the grass before him.

"There're some ants," Trowa explained without being asked. "Maybe if I share, they'll leave the rest of the food alone."

"I guess it wouldn't be a picnic on Earth without some insect interlopers." Quatre took the mango segment handed to him.

"No," Trowa said, setting his fruit aside and scooting to the edge of the blanket to get a better look at the tiny creatures. "It's nice to be back on Earth. I always forget how sterile the Colonies are in comparison."

"Yeah, I don't care how good the technology is for recycling the air, it always feels cleaner and fresher here." Quatre lowered himself to his side. "Even though it's probably not. It just feels better."

"It does." Trowa rolled to his back, pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. "And the sky. I think I miss the sky most of all. Seeing nothing but blue and the sun above the clouds."

"Have you ever thought about moving back to Earth, Trowa?"

"I have. I want to some day."

"Why haven't you?"

"All the people I care about are in the Colonies."

At that Quatre allowed the conversation to lapse, distracted once more by his own thoughts, and frustrated by his inability to gain any purchase on the emotions of his friend. He wanted to ask if he were one of those people Trowa stayed in space for. He wanted to ask Trowa about those things he could no longer feel. Did Trowa still like touching him? Did he still like being touched? Did he still harbour those feelings that both of them had recognised, but neither had possessed the courage to address five—even six—years ago.

But now—as then—Quatre couldn't bring himself to say anything. How could he ask anything more of Trowa than his friend had already given to him? And given so freely, without regard for Trowa's own safety or sanity. Faith, trust, and deep friendship—a friendship which he himself had neglected. It was more than Quatre had been given by anyone.

"You don't seem that happy, Quatre." Trowa spoke so softly, Quatre wasn't sure he'd heard him.

"Pardon me?"

"You." Trowa didn't look at him. "You don't seem that happy to me."

"Compared to what?"

"I don't know. Yourself?"

Quatre sighed and sat up, leaning forward over his crossed legs to fidget with the hem of his trousers. "I've been busy with work. I'm tired. This vacation has been overdue. I've just been tired."

"So why haven't we seen each other until now?" Trowa said, as unrelentingly direct as Quatre remembered.

"I don't know. I've been busy." Quatre realised he was repeating himself, but didn't understand why he couldn't bring himself to offer a more accurate explanation. "But anytime, Trowa, I would have made time for you."

"I didn't want to add to the feeding frenzy."

"Feeding frenzy?"

"After the war, all the people surrounding you, fussing over you and prepping you for taking over WE."

"Oh." Feeding frenzy was an apt description for those hectic times.

"Yeah."

Quatre caught the tail end of a smile fading from Trowa's lips when he looked at his friend. "I missed you though," he said softly.

"I didn't want to add to the burden, Quatre, or complicate your life any more than it was already."

"Why would you be a burden?"

"You were caged by the expectations of all those people—I couldn't be one of those people."

"I would have liked you to be there."

"You didn't tell me that." Trowa's tone was flat.

Without any other sense of Trowa to rely on, it seemed like he just didn't care that much. But Quatre knew him well enough to know that wasn't the case. "Would it have made a difference?" he prompted.

It was several breaths before Trowa answered with an honest, "I don't know."

"Did you," Quatre swallowed, struggling to work his words around the sudden lump in his throat. "Did you ever miss me?"

Trowa didn't reply immediately, and his lips formed a tense grimace. "More than anything."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Was it what Quatre had suspected—that Trowa was willing to accept missing him if it meant keeping their relationship from growing into anything more?

"Would it have made a difference?" Trowa asked, and though the words mimicked Quatre's, his tone wasn't mocking.

"Yes, it would have," Quatre said, hoping his words held the earnestness he felt.

"That's why I didn't tell you."

to Chapter 3

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Perigee

Perigee

Chapter 2