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Perigee	By : Raletha Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 1380 -:- 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

Perigee

by Raletha

NC-17 :: post-canon, romance, lemon, angst, WAFF :: 3x4x3, references past 3x2x3, 4+OFC

Chapter 1

The US Virgin Islands - Earth - AC 201

To the careful observer the young blond man seated on the tatty airport bench appeared to have missed his flight, since he had been seated there for the past ninety-seven minutes. However, the careful observer may also have wondered why, if this were the case, the young man was not waiting in the first class lounge, for his dress indicated he was a man of wealth and privilege. The even more astute observer may have wondered what exactly had brought one of the wealthiest men in the Earth Sphere to this humble airport on the island of St. Croix.

Quatre R. Winner had not in fact missed his flight. He was rather awaiting the arrival of an old friend, one whom he had not seen for the past four and a half years. A friend for whom—despite the time and distance that had grown in their friendship—he waited with an entire flock of butterflies madly rampaging through his digestive organs.

For what seemed like the three-thousandth time, Quatre exhaled heavily, snagged the chain at his hip, and tugged out his pocket watch. With a tap of his thumb the cover flicked back revealing that only four minutes had passed since the last time he had checked. Trowa's flight was on time and scheduled to land in another thirteen minutes.

Few other people populated the international terminal at this time. Perhaps because June lay in the off-season for the islands, but perhaps also, Quatre had concluded, because this was a tourist destination. No one came to meet arrivals because none of the travelers were returning home. And thus Quatre was the only person (at least so far) waiting for the five-o'clock flight from Miami.

He unrolled the mangled magazine in his lap—the publication had borne the brunt of his fidgeting—and promptly rolled it back up again. His mind was anywhere but on Intersphere Business Week. This was his vacation; he had come to escape such things for the next seven days. Quatre didn't even know what had prompted him to purchase the magazine. Habit most likely.

With a sneer of disgust he tossed the periodical, spear-like, toward the nearest rubbish bin. It easily cleared the opening cut into the top of the receptacle and made a dull clang when it hit the metal side. Quatre smiled.

His attention turned to the wide, peaked arches of the airport's windows. Beyond, like any other airport, was tarmac, adorned by scurrying service vehicles and lumbering aircraft. Beyond that, however, lay palm trees and the bluest ocean Quatre had ever seen. This was the first airport in which Quatre had waited that didn't smell of jet-fuel, but instead of fresh flowers and fresh air.

Five minutes remained, and a handful of new faces had finally accumulated at the arrival gate. Most held signs with the name of the party whom they were to pick up. A few others appeared to be natives, judging by their dress. It cheered Quatre to think that some of the people on the incoming flight had friendly faces to greet them. He still hadn't gotten used to being met at air and spaceports by no one who wasn't on his payroll.

Quatre stood and wandered over to join the tiny crowd scattered near the gate's doors. He remained near the back and straightened his light suit. This was followed by a vain attempt at banishing wrinkles from the linen. No wonder the Caribbean was so relaxed; it was impossible to look professional in this sultry climate.

Dry heat he could manage, but humidity had made the wrinkles stubborn, and Quatre soon gave up. He wanted to look nice for Trowa—it had been so long—but he doubted that his friend would even notice the wrinkles. Quatre blew at his bangs and clasped his hands behind his back to curtail any further fussing. Perhaps Megan was right, that pursuing the past was a fool's venture. Nevertheless she had supported his decision to come, and despite her skepticism, it had even been her idea: to do this—take this chance—before it was too late.

It seemed an eternity before the gate's doors opened, and Quatre's heart skipped a beat as the first disembarking passengers came into view. He had to remind himself to breathe and forced himself to keep his feet flat on the ground instead of standing on tiptoes like an impatient child.

At first it was a mere trickle of passengers, all exiting the gangway and roving through the small expectant gathering without making eye contact. The first class passengers always looked so determined, but they soon gave way to the economy class patrons. Quatre frowned. The tickets he'd sent to Trowa had been first class. Trowa should have been one of the first off the flight. But now there were families, groups of young men or women, and a smattering of elderly couples.

Several times Quatre would catch sight of a promising trait on one of the young men and look at him harder, his pulse accelerating, only to be dismayed when the man in question met someone else or strode away on his own. It was possible that he wouldn't immediately recognise Trowa; the years they'd been apart were those years in which one changed the most. Quatre didn't know how tall Trowa was now, if he'd gained weight, changed his hairstyle—or anything really.

The stream of passengers dwindled until the pauses between succeeding people were drawn into the tens of seconds. Cold gripped Quatre's gut when a pair of flight attendants rolled an elderly man in a wheelchair through the door followed by the rest of the flight crew.

But then, just as incredulous despair prickled along Quatre's spine, a familiar bearing accompanying a tall silhouette came into view from behind the bobbing bodies in the foreground. The flight crew marched off and suddenly Trowa was there, immediately and joyfully recognizable—and, apart from the satchel he carried, looking like he'd just stepped out of a print advertisement for designer jeans.

He didn't see Quatre immediately, and Quatre resisted the urge to jump up and wave his arms in order to catch his friend's attention. Instead he simply raised one hand and called out in a calm, conversational tone, "Trowa!"

Their eyes met, and Quatre saw Trowa's widen as he approached with a few long strides and a surprisingly easy smile curving his lips.

"Quatre, wow..." Trowa's smile quickly broadened to a grin as his eyes swept over the blond man. "You look great."

Quatre felt his face heat and his own smile grow to embarrassing proportions under his friend's scrutiny. "So do you, you look..." Words were inadequate to describe the way the white t-shirt clung to Trowa's upper body, or the way the deep blue denim flattered his long legs, or just how astonishingly vibrant those green eyes were after having not seen them for so long. "Incredible."

They stood grinning at each other for a moment more before Trowa let his bag slip from his hand and in unspoken accord they embraced. "It's so good to see you," said Trowa, his voice weighted with real warmth.

It was, as it had always been, an ambiguous sort of hug between them: friendly enough, but a bit more than that too. Quatre found Trowa's arms slung about his waist just a fraction lower than was strictly friendly; his own arms held his friend just a little more tightly than was strictly platonic, and their torsos pressed together for a lingering moment that sent Quatre's breath fleeing until they broke apart.

But, as Quatre reminded himself, confusing hugs had been the way of things for him and Trowa. At least one thing was the same between them so far. Although, other things had stayed the same as well. Quatre found that, despite his own teenage growth spurt, at six feet he was still slightly shorter than his friend. Likely it was the same two inches it had always been. Standing this close to Trowa, Quatre also found the same tantalising scent clung to Trowa—even stronger than the stale smell of recycled air. He'd never been able to determine whether it was cologne Trowa wore, or just Trowa: warm, vital, and fresh. Quatre resisted leaning closer.

Not everything was the same. The green eyes meeting his no longer hid behind an auburn veil. Trowa's hair, though it remained styled in a similar manner, was shorter in the front, with the bangs hanging just past Trowa's eyebrows. Now fully revealed, were the handsome features Quatre had once only been able to glimpse in fleeting, cherished moments.

The million different words and phrases Quatre had rehearsed to say upon seeing Trowa again vanished in the simple pleasure of standing there, sharing space with the young man whom he considered the best friend he'd ever had. Finally a few words did manage to reach his mouth.

"Do you have a bag?"

"Yeah."

So they headed off, following the large yellow and black signs proclaiming the way to baggage claim. Frequently their eyes met in a sidelong glance, and the smiles wavered from neither man's face. But after a while, it seemed silly—the wide smiles and sparse dialogue. The silence between them tensed with the need to be relieved. With the past five years of scarce communication—and with what communication there had been being of a distinctly non-intimate variety—Quatre felt as if his throat were a dam, holding back the volume and pressure of all the things that had gone unsaid. Especially the things that had remained unsaid from the beginning of their friendship. Where was he to start?

"How was your flight?" Quatre asked as they stepped onto an escalator going down.

"The one from Miami was nice and short. Coming in from the Colonies was less fun, but the food was surprisingly good." Trowa laughed softly, once. "I entertained myself by eating slowly."

They reached the ground floor and glanced around for which carousal would be hosting the baggage from Trowa's flight.

"You arrived yesterday?" Trowa asked while they meandered over to where his fellow flight mates were assembling.

Quatre registered Trowa's question with some delay, having been distracted by the way the cotton of Trowa's t-shirt wrapped his friend's biceps so snugly. "Yes," he said, "I stayed at a hotel in Charlotte Amelie—that's where we'll take the ferry to get to St. John. It's only twenty minutes away. Charlotte Amelie, that is. The ferry takes forty-five minutes."

A loud buzz blared over the hum of conversation, and the baggage carousel lurched into motion.

"So I'm not too far away from a shower?"

"Not too far."

"Good. I can't believe I used to have to go for days or weeks without a decent shower or bath." Trowa wrinkled his nose: an entirely unexpected expression on the face Quatre recalled having been far less prone to extravagant contortions. "These days, twenty four hours is my limit," Trowa said.

"Long flights are the worst, too."

"Yeah." Trowa's attention appeared to be caught by a dark blue duffel bag. "That's mine," he said, and squeezed between two other passengers to collect it as it came into reach.

Quatre watched Trowa and tried to think of things to say, ways to start a conversation. But other desires warred with that intention. He hadn't thought it possible for Trowa—or at the very least, Trowa's body—to have become even more appealing than it had been. It was difficult not to stare at the tight denim-clad rear Trowa presented when bending to pick up his bag, or the tantalising way the contours of his gymnastics-sculpted torso shifted beneath thin white cotton. Quatre raised his gaze to the ceiling and tapped his fingertips against his thumbs, silently cursing himself for being both at the mercy of his baser urges, and thus far unable to say anything outside the realm of banal small talk.

Small talk with which Trowa no longer expressed impatience. It perplexed Quatre that not only did Trowa smile more easily now, but he also tolerated, initiated, and participated in that most frivolous of social niceties: small talk.

When Trowa stepped back up to him, bag in hand, Quatre quickly took it from him and waved toward the exits. "We can get a taxi."

"No limousine?" Trowa asked, abandoning an attempt at taking his bag back from Quatre, who turned and started walking.

"I'm slumming it this week," he said over his shoulder.

Trowa chuckled and followed Quatre outside.

It was all beginning to feel like a very bad idea indeed to Quatre as he jiggled the brass key in the door of their bungalow. Who still used metal keys anyway? Perhaps it was intended to be quaint, but right now, Quatre just wanted into his—their—room. Why hadn't he booked separate cabins—or at the very least a cabin with two bedrooms?

Quatre glared at the doorknob in the hope it might volunteer to take some of the blame. But he knew it was simply that his fantasies about this vacation had run away with him. He gave the door another stern look—the sort he'd cultivated to make even his most stubborn vice president quail—and finally the lock relented. He got the door open, swung it wide, and gestured for Trowa to precede him into their cabin.

One look about the spacious living area and Trowa asked, "This is slumming it?"

Even to Quatre, whom experience had inured to hotel style luxury, the cabin was impressive. Windows, which extended from the middle of the wall to the ceiling, wrapped generously about the cabin's perimeter. Their slatted shutters sat folded at their edges and their glass panes had already been opened to the balmy summer breeze. The rafters of the room were open up into the shallow peak of the roof, exposing wood stained in soft honey tones, below which spun lazily a pair of wicker ceiling fans.

The timber of the floor, buffed smooth as satin, was adorned by a velvety rug in deep reds, greens, and golds. Dark, polished wood made up the furniture while lavish tropical prints covered the chairs, sofa, and cushions. The combination of traditional European styles and native patterns reflected well the island's colonial heritage.

"I probably don't want to know how much you're paying for this, do I?" said Trowa from where he stood in the center of the room, taking in the rich furnishings.

"It's been a while, Trowa," Quatre said, moving toward the open double doors of the bedroom with his suitcase. "Can't I spoil you a little?" he teased and then hesitated at the doors: a single four-posted king-size bed dominated the room; its sumptuous ivory linens and generous array of pillows boldly tempted lovers to linger and play.

"Yes, you can," Trowa said. Quatre quickly forced his manner to nonchalance as he tossed his suitcase onto the wide bed and unlocked it. Trowa's next words came louder, from the doorway behind him. "But only because if our positions were reversed, I'd do the same for you."

"Well, good. You never were that good at accepting gifts. I'm pleased you're coping better now."

"There's only one bed." Trowa's tone was bland enough that Quatre couldn't tell whether his friend thought this a fortunate arrangement or not.

Somehow Quatre managed to remain relaxed; he'd expected a question or comment concerning the sleeping arrangements. Even so, he felt a brief flush of warmth—embarrassment or mild arousal, he wasn't sure. "I guess the cabin design assumes..." he started, but broke off to offer Trowa other options. "I can sleep on the couch or arrange for a cot or something, I'm sure."

"No, don't worry about it. The bed is large enough I doubt we'll end up kicking each other. Anyway, it'll be like the old days when we had to share."

"Yeah, like the old days," Quatre agreed and looked up to see Trowa opposite him across the bed, setting down his own bag and unzipping it.

"I'm going to hit the shower," Trowa said, digging out a toiletry kit and fresh clothes. "If you don't mind. Wash off the shuttle and airplane."

"Of course."

Quatre quickly stowed his clothes in the room's small dresser and wardrobe. In his peripheral vision, he saw the bathroom door open just a crack. True, modesty had never been one of Trowa's virtues—or vices—but that didn't keep Quatre from briefly wondering if the open door were a sort of symbolic invitation. Regardless, he didn't feel comfortable guessing. He moved to the bedroom window and, resting his eyes on the vista of turquoise water and lush terrain, allowed his mind to relax.

It had always been easiest to sense the other pilots, and of the five, Trowa had always felt the most comfortable and immediately accepting. After five years of tight discipline of his empathy, allowing his awareness to diffuse and expand from within his own skull was like sinking into a hot bath on a cold day. He directed his senses to the dripping staccato of the shower and the man beneath the water. Images of slick naked flesh, Quatre banished, concentrating instead on finding Trowa—finding the unobtrusive calm that had always characterised the former pilot.

Where was it? Quatre fumbled, trying to alight his spaceheart on anything not an echo of his own feelings. Just there, a dim shape at the edge of his awareness, slightly beyond his direct focus he found it. But as he tried to bend his mind to attend to Trowa, it slipped out of reach again. He tried again, and failed again. Quatre felt his body tensing as if his physical muscle could affect his extrasensory ability. Like a wet piece of soap, it slipped and skidded out of his grasp each time he reached for it.

He tried to be quicker; he tried to be slower. It didn't matter. By the time Quatre heard the shower stop, sweat had formed on his brow and his breath was short. He redirected his attention back to the view, watching the exotic trees lining the path to the beach gracefully bob and bow in the early evening breeze.

"Cat?" The old nickname delivered in Trowa's gentle tenor pierced Quatre's mental fog. "Are you okay?"

Quatre cleared his throat to reply. "Jetlagged I guess." He wrapped his arms about himself despite the warmth of the air. Even without any empathic sense of Trowa, Quatre could imagine his friend's anxiety. It nibbled along his spine, bored into the back of his head. Maybe it was just his own nerves. Quatre resisted turning around. Instead he continued to gaze across the bay, its blues and greens fading into greys as the sky slowly turned to amber.

He shivered at the light touch on his shoulder that moved in halting progress to his hair, brushing intangible as a breeze across the curls at his collar. And then the touch was gone.

Now he turned, to meet two curious green eyes. He studied Trowa's face for a moment; the shorter hair wasn't so hard to get used to. In fact he liked it, the way it showed off the angular symmetry of Trowa's features. But even with the shorter bangs, Quatre still fought the desire to reach out and brush the shower damp strands from Trowa's forehead. Was there a good reason to keep resisting that urge? Quatre banished his discomfort with a smile and started to raise his hand, but then Trowa stepped back and turned away.

"I told Catherine I'd ring when I arrived, so she'd know I got here safely," he said.

to Chapter 2

Serendipity

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Perigee

Perigee

Chapter 1