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Unfinished Opus	By : Maureen Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 708 -:- 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-Unfinished Opus
- 1
Untitled Fic in progress 2

Pairings:
3x4

Disclaimer/Warning:
FIRST!!! Read all the warnings before you read the fic - 'cause if you don't and
then you get mad at me...

If
you are at all squicked by age differences between sexual partners, don't
read this fic! I'll tell you up front in this that Quatre is not quite 17 and
Trowa is 32, so if that made you go ew! yick! run away now.

Three
other works influenced me in this; "Lolita" by Vladimir Nabokov,
"Belinda" by Anne Rice, and "Don't Stand so Close to Me" by
the Police. The first two because of their delicate and often lyrical approach
to a delicate theme, and the third, because well, I seem to have a hang up about
that theme...

And
lastly, this is NC-17, please don't read if you're too young or easily offended
by explicit sexual material.

"Today,
class, we have a special guest. As you know, we have been discussing subtext in
children's literature this semester, so I am pleased to present you with one of
the foremost children's authors on the modern literary scene, Trowa Barton. Mr.
Barton�s daring combination of ethereal photographs and stark storytelling has
single-handed raised youth fiction to a new level of prominence with critics and
publishers alike. So please welcome him and show that you haven't slept through
the entire semester by asking intelligent, insightful questions. Mr.
Barton." Professor Milton gestured to a shadowy corner, where a silent
figure detached itself from the wall and moved to take its place at the podium.
The lanky man inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement of both the subdued
applause and the introduction.

"Mr.
Barton," A bored looking young woman, dressed all in black began.

"Trowa,
please."

"Well,
yes, um, Trowa. Let's get straight to the issue so prevalent in most of your
works," She continued, feminine features twisted with a debilitating
smugness. "What about the homoerotic, pedophilic subtext in your books? Do
you write the way you do purposely to spite the everyday man whose children read
your stories? I mean, most people probably wouldn't catch the hidden meanings in
your work, without the benefit of a class such as this," she addressed the
last simpering bit towards the professor. "But it's perfectly obvious what
your stories are about, to anyone with the least bit of�"

"Excuse
me, miss, but I think you are reading too much into my work. If you wish to read
anything deep and allegorical into my writing, then you should see simple coming
of age tales. There is no sexual subtext in my work. It is children's
literature, after all." Trowa had always hated these kinds of people and
their assumptions. Pseudo intellectual ramblings of this sort were what had
driven Trowa from academia without finishing his degree, some ten years ago.

"Come
on! You can't deny that all your stories contain elements of a sexual coming of
age!" The black clad girl sputtered.

"Really!"
a high forehead man with glittering eyes across the room interjected "All
those scenes of helpless young boys being pursued and finally caught by shadowy
looming figures. The pattern of pursuit, capture, and ultimate capitulation is
present in every one of your stories - and certainly it can be no coincidence
that it's always an older man who leads your boys through �"

"Stop
being so absolutely assine!" A high clear voice sounded from the back of
the room. "Bothering the author with all this nonsense about text and
subtext - most authors don't purposely sit down to write deep and meaningful
stories that fit into your pseudo-Freudian interpretation template. Authors
write because they feel driven to create, and they want people to read their
works for pleasure, not for psychoanalysis!"

"Read
for pleasure?!?" The balding student sputtered, "What are you talking
about? We are here to suss out the deeper symbolic meaning of the text, to
receive the message that the author really intended us to see! You are na�ve
and foolish if you think that any author writes for your reading pleasure!"

"And
you, my friend, seem to have a comprehension problem!" Trowa's defender
stood up. "Authors do write for enjoyment; their own first and their
readers' second. Authors don't write for the sole purpose of planting hidden
messages of great social or political import in their works. Some authors do
include social commentary and criticism in their writing, but those aren't the
things that we generally enjoy reading. Mr. Barton's work is poetic and
beautiful, meant to be savored and experienced, not picked apart by a bunch of
prurient, parsimonious, intellectually and creatively stunted prudes!" The
voice was lyrical, suppressed rage flowing like hot lava through the impassioned
speech. The greater effect of the words was lost on Trowa, however, as those in
front of the boy parted, allowing him to be seen for the first time. He was
petit but proportional, impeccably dressed in Catholic schoolboy style; a
perfectly pressed white dress shirt topped with a neat navy blazer and matching
tie. The late afternoon sun slanted through the dusty classroom windows and
filtered through the boy's blonde hair, shining above it like a halo. The boy
was simply beautiful; radiant and clean, fresh and new. Trowa wanted nothing
more than to touch him, savage him, and sully him.

The
argument grew increasingly heated, and Trowa virtually ignored as angry words
about his psyche and inner demons began to dominate the conversation.
"Barton�s obviously terrified of his pedophilic tendencies � that�s
why all his little boys are such strong characters � they have to be the ones
to tell the men, and subsequently, Barton, "No." He leaves it up to
the child to know what is right, gives the child the role of the moral compass
and guide, because he can�t control�"

"What
a load of crap � the young protagonist in Barton�s tales represent his own
inner child � he was clearly a victim of childhood sexual abuse, and this is
his way of working through the trauma�"

"All
of you are wrong � these books are nothing more than sanitized versions of the
author�s own sexual fantasies�"

The
words had no effect on Trowa; he was too intent on watching the small blonde�s
reactions to the escalating argument. The boy�s brow furrowed in frustration
at another comment from the balding student, and Trowa could only think of
running a hand over the wrinkled skin, of smoothing the lines away. He wanted to
kiss that forehead, each delicately arched eyebrow, and both paper-thin eyelids,
to feel the movement of those incredibly blue eyes under his lips. He wanted to
bury his nose in that baby fine spun silk hair, to inhale deeply the assuredly
bright, clear scent of it. So new, so unused. He wanted to growl out his lust in
the tender hollow of the boy�s throat � he wanted to paint the boy�s torso
with scratch marks from his nails. Most of all, Trowa wanted to peel away those
immaculately creased khakis, to be the first to taste the treasures hidden
underneath. He wanted to desecrate and defile that purity, to unlock the
sensuality that only showed itself now in the graceful sway of the boy�s body,
the casual gesture of his hand raking back his hair, in his startlingly strong
gaze as he met Trowa�s eyes. Their eyes stayed locked for a measureless
eternity, and the Mona Lisa smile on the boy�s lips indicated that he knew
exactly what Trowa was thinking. For the first time in over twenty years, Trowa
felt himself blushing.

"Mr.
Barton!" The voice sounded far away, like he was hearing it from
underwater, or through cotton. "Mr. Barton, is there anything you�d like
to say in conclusion about authors and subtext in their works?" Professor
Milton�s words finally reached Trowa, cutting through visions of the small
blonde boy contorted in erotic positions. How flexible he�d be�

"Hmmm?
Oh, yes, I�d like to say this. The young blonde gentleman was right,"
Trowa gestured to the boy had been sitting, and was startled to find the seat
empty. He hurried on, "We authors don�t know why we write what we write,
or what it all means. We leave that to the scholars such as yourself." He
grabbed his jacket and rushed out of the classroom, dodging startled statements
and the renewed arguments, his mind only on the possibility of catching up with
the blonde.

Trowa
was nearly at a run by the time he reached the door and pushed through it. The
exit led directly to the outside, and Trowa was momentarily blinded as it
slammed shut behind him, authoritatively cutting off the continued bickering. It
was still 10 to the hour, so the courtyard was eerily quiet. And, to Trowa�s
extreme dismay, empty. He scanned the area, but there were too many sidewalks
leading away, and no way of telling which path the luscious boy had taken.
"Shit." He slumped back against the building, too frustrated to move
farther.

"I
would have thought that you might have put it a little more eloquently, but yes,
I�ll agree, their opinions are shit." Trowa whipped his head up and to
the side so fast that his trademark bangs momentarily obscured both of his eyes.
The boy stepped out from around the corner of the building, a thin red and white
box in his hand. "Do you happen to have a light? I only have one match left
and I was trying to save it." Thin, nimble fingers shook a brown cigarette
from the box.

Trowa�s
mouth dried out as he watched the boy�s bubble gum pink lips wrap around the
cigarette. He had to swallow several times before he was able to speak.
"Aren�t you too young to smoke?" The predator in him surged forward,
"I don�t have anything on me, but there�s a dash lighter in my
van�"

"Then
by all means, let us go to your van! You don�t mind, do you?" And the boy
smiled at him, the sudden flash more blinding to Trowa than the sun. The boy
retrieved his packet of matches from the inner pocket of the blazer, lit the
cigarette, and then came forward to link his arm with Trowa�s. "Oh,
don�t worry, it�s only a clove, not a real cigarette � I smoke them for
the taste." He blew out a thin stream of the smoke up towards Trowa. The
smell was exotic, spicy, and sweet. "And as for being too young," he
shrugged, and pulled Trowa towards the parking lot.

"I
thought you were trying to save your match."

Light
laughter threatened to lift Trowa off his feet, "Silly, that was just an
excuse to talk to you! Just like sneaking into that class. And it worked,
too." The tiny hand circling Trowa�s elbow tightened as the small boy
took two steps to every one of Trowa�s.

The
campus sat on a hill, and the parking lot circled its base. The blonde slid his
hand down Trowa�s arm and into Trowa�s hand as they began descending the
final set of stairs. The childlike innocence, the utter trust implied by the act
was not lost on Trowa. "What�s your name, little boy?"

"Little
boy, hmm? Are you going to offer me some candy to get in your van with you, big
bad man? Quatre. My name is Quatre." He lightly stroked the back of
Trowa�s hand with his thumb, then took the nearly spent clove from between his
lips, snapped off the filter, placed it in his pocket, and dropped the
smoldering remains to be crushed beneath his feet. "Is this yours?" He
gestured with a tilt of his head to the vehicle they had stopped in front of.

"Yes.
Although you don�t need a light, now. And I�m not sure I have any
candy�" Trowa gently let go of Quatre�s hand, and fished his keys out
of his pocket. "But you�re still welcome to come in, to talk, if you
like. I found your opinions fascinating." He opened the side door, careful
to keep his face averted, so Quatre would not see the wolfish grin on his face.
Some small part of his mind was screaming at him � this was such a bad idea;
the boy was clearly underage, the parking lot was much too public, and the
pompous assholes in the classroom had been right�

"So,
it was my �opinions� you found so intriguing � I thought for sure that you
were interested in some of my other fine points." As Quatre stepped into
the van, he bent far more than necessary, pulling the fabric of his pants taut
over his rounded buttocks. Trowa, unable to restrain himself, place a hand on
the inviting curve, and was rewarded by a knowing over the shoulder smirk from
Quatre. All rational thought was left outside the van as Trowa gave the boy a
rough little push and climbed in after him.

The
van was Trowa�s own personal home away from home, customized to give him the
ability to abandon the city and its too many people at a moment�s notice. The
back third of the oversize vehicle was taken over by a bed, and Quatre chose to
perch himself on the edge of it. He removed his jacket and set it neatly to the
side. He then pulled out his tie, and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. The sight
of the newly exposed skin sent Trowa to his knees in front of Quatre. "Do
you know what you�re doing?" His voice sounded harsh and frightening in
his own ears.

"Mmm,
yes," Quatre opened his legs and threw his arms around Trowa�s neck,
pulling him forward to nestle in that sweet space. "I do believe," he
purred in Trowa�s ear, "That I am taking advantage of your weaknesses,
and seducing you." He left a light trail of kisses from Trowa�s ear to
his mouth, where he let his lips linger, pausing to see if Trowa would make the
next move.

Trowa
brought his left hand up to cup the boy�s face, and placed the other firmly on
the back of Quatre�s head. "You have one chance," he growled into
Quatre�s slightly parted lips. "One chance to say �No� or �Stop.�
Because after I kiss you, I won�t care how much you beg or cry, I won�t be
able to stop, little boy." He waited for a heart beat, and then two. Quatre
said nothing, merely smiled against his mouth. Trowa suddenly burned with the
irresistible urge to destroy that smile, to replace the curve of those enticing
lips with a more wanton, bruised look. He tightened his grip on the back of
Quatre�s head and ground his mouth harshly against the boy as the other arm
reached down to anchor around the boy�s hips. The kiss was not kind or
teasing, Trowa immediately forced Quatre�s mouth open under his and began to
drink in the boy�s essence. The clove had left a smoky savory taste that Trowa
chased across Quatre�s lips and deep into his mouth. He felt Quatre�s tiny
fists clenching rhythmically against his shoulders and then a small firm tongue
flicking insistently against his own. Trowa kept his eyes focused on Quatre�s
as their kiss deepened, noting with feral satisfaction the reflexive fluttering
droop of the boy�s lids.

"How
much do you charge?" Trowa asked as he pushed Quatre flat on the bed.

Quatre
eyes flew open wide, "Wha?"

"The
innocent act is a real turn on, I must admit," Trowa lazily unbuttoned
Quatre�s shirt, "And I�ll want you to keep doing it � maybe put up a
little fight even. But we both know it�s just an act. So be a good little
gamin and tell me your rates up front." Trowa smoothed the shirt back from
the slight shoulders, and exposed a hairless but finely toned chest topped with
cotton candy nipples. "Tasty little boy." Trowa murmured before he
lowered his head to sample the trembling confection. Quatre winced and twisted.
"I can be a little rough, do you charge extra for that?"

"Get
off of me!" Quatre punched wildly at him, the diminutive fists surprisingly
effective. "I mean it!" Trowa captured both small hands in one of his
own while Quatre continued to rail at him. The boy bucked up Trowa in a futile
attempt to dislodge the larger man. He continued struggling for a few minutes,
before finally falling limp, trapped hands numb in Trowa�s strong grasp.
"I�m not a whore." He told the bed in a broken whisper.

"Then
what are you?" Trowa stared hungrily at the unshed tears in Quatre�s
eyes. He wanted to lick them as they fell, to taste the salty, sweet flavor of
fear and excitement on Quatre�s skin.

"I
just� You, well, your books� and I." Quatre blinked hard, and the tears
quavered against his lashes. "I see some of the same things in your books
that those people did, but I don�t think it�s a bad thing. And I want you,
to be with you. I want you to be my first..."

"How
old are you, Kitten?" Trowa tired of waiting and leaned forward to drink
the inclement tears from Quatre�s eyes.

"How
old do you want me to be?" Quatre�s words were hot against his neck and
hotter in his mind. His body was pliant under Trowa�s increasingly harsh
hands. He surged into each pinch, each scratching caress, pressing the insistent
fingers deeper into his soft flesh. Quatre whimpered deeply in his throat and
drove his hips up against Trowa�s abdomen. Small hands quickly stripped away
Trowa�s shirt, and the eager young body rubbed against the exposed chest like
a cat. The hands found their way to Trowa�s waistband, and tugged at it
frantically, drawing the man deeper into the bed and boy.

"Shh,
baby." Trowa withdrew slightly and ran a comforting hand over a wildly
trembling flank. He pulled back the last bit of clothing carefully, easing the
pants down impossibly long, light legs, and drawing out the final unveiling.
This was always the best part � the mystery exposed, expectations surpassed or
crushed. The flushed blonde was a burning vision in the dying light; tousled
hair, heaving chest, and flesh that tremored under Trowa�s trailing fingers.
Every curve of Quatre�s body demanded a different stroke, his quaking legs
begged to be bent in a thousand different positions. Every immaculate inch of
the quivering perfection called out to him, demanded hands, lips, teeth. Quatre
called out for his touch as well, his voice an incoherent wail of desperate
pleading.

The
sound frayed what little was left of Trowa�s sanity.

Quatre�s
next words destroyed the rest. "Do you want me to struggle? Do you need me
to cry?"

Trowa
tore into Quatre�s tender young neck, teeth etching a vivid purple trail
across the unblemished flesh. Quatre did cry out then, high and sweet, calling
forth the beast from deep within Trowa. He fumbled momentarily for his stash of
condoms and lube, and prepared himself, but for some reason paused on the
threshold of simply ramming himself into the tight, tender boy below. It was
Quatre�s eyes that held him back; the same trusting innocence that begged for
Trowa�s violation also restrained the tide of reckless destruction that
threatened to drown them both. "Yes, hush now," he begged the softly
pleading eyes as he quickly readied the untried boy for the coming intrusion.
Quatre shuddered on first contact, and drew a deep breath that seemed doomed to
exit as a shattered cry. The sob froze in Quatre�s thrown back throat, and
melted into a whispery sigh as the boy�s body opened to the invasion like a
flower unfurling in the morning sun. Such pliant trust, such utter unselfish
openness� Trowa anchored himself in Quatre�s bottomless blue stare as he
raised and spread the boy�s legs, and slowly claimed the undefiled territory
as his own.

Quatre�s
previous whimpers and moans had been but a prelude to a symphony. Each new cry
and fluttering sigh drew an echoing reply from Trowa � groans that broke
desperate and fragile from his traitorous lips. Quatre�s face contorted in a
crazed collage of pleasure and pain, carving deeper into Trowa�s soul with
each spasm. He had finally found what he had always searched for, this untainted
purity and innocent sensuality that he was breaking down, destroying stroke by
stroke. The guilt drove his rhythm to a fiercer pitch and his desperate
inability to stop turned his groans to sobs that he attempted to muffle against
Quatre�s neck. A heady combination of his own tears and the boy�s
bittersweet sweat fueled a last wild barrage of thrusts, and he came, buried
deep within Quatre�s welcoming body, his ears filled with the crescendoing
call heralding the blonde�s answering climax.

Trowa
resisted the temptation to collapse into welcoming warmth below and began to
back away. He kept his eyes down, unable to face the stained countenance he was
sure he�d find. How could any innocence and purity remain after what he�d
done to the boy? Quatre was what he�d always wanted but never found �
uncontaminated beauty and untested trust. And he�d spoiled him, broken him�
but a dark, unasked for voice from within consoled, At least it was me, I
will always be the one who took it from him, I will always be the one who had
the first taste�.

But
when Quatre grabbed his chin and forced him to look up, Trowa knew that one
taste would never be enough. For here was the boy that he had just practically
raped, smiling in serene beatific bliss as he leaned into Trowa for a brushing
kiss. "Thank you." Quatre breathed as he drew back, eyes filled with
wondrous contentment.

The
sensual curves of the boy�s gloriously nude body did not detract from the
radiant purity that Quatre projected. Rather, the newly awakened sexuality
intensified the innocent aura, bolstered it and added new depths.
"Perfect�" Trowa breathed as he reached forward to run a reverential
host of fingertips over one flushed cheek.

Quatre
languorously followed the touch and purred, "Yes, it was." He nuzzled
his face into Trowa�s outstretched hand and slid forward to nestle in
Trowa�s lap with a happy little sigh. Quietly, carefully, so as not to disturb
the contented air, Trowa lifted them both back to the bed and curled around
Quatre. The light failed as the steadily breathing boy filled his senses and
drew him into a welcoming sleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~**~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~~*

It
was cool and dark when Trowa awoke; his newly exposed chest quickly grew clammy
without Quatre resting against it. "Where are you going?"

Quatre�s
face was jaggedly illuminated by a slanting twist of parking lot light,
rendering it unreadable. "Did you want me to stay?" He had started to
dress; his shirt hung unbuttoned at his sides and his pants waited in his hands.
His skin glowed like smooth marble in the cave like interior of the van.
"Why?"

"Why do you want to go?" Trowa countered, his outstretched arms
demanding that Quatre continue this conversation in the bed. "Did I hurt
you?"

Trowa had never heard anyone laugh like the ringing of bells before, but now he
understood the analogy. "Did you want to? Will I spoil it if I say you
didn�t?" Quatre left the shirt on but dropped the pants to squirm back
into Trowa�s embrace. He rubbed his face across Trowa�s broad chest,
breathing deeply to fill himself with his lover�s heady, sexy musk. "All
my sisters said the first time is terrible, but they must have been with the
wrong men! Because if it gets better than that�" Quatre trailed off
blissfully, and snuggled deeper. Trowa became excruciatingly aware of the heat
slowly rising in the gently writhing body next to his, and of his own body�s
answering fire.

"Come
home with me." Trowa wanted it to be a command, but he found himself
pleading instead.

"Yesss!"
Hissed Quatre as he squirmed a slim thigh between Trowa�s and slowly stroked
with it. "But first�"

"No.
Not here again � there�s too much chance of being caught." Quatre
pouted and drove himself faster against Trowa, jutting insistently against his
hipbone. Trowa slipped a steadying hand under the flapping shirttails to cup one
flexing thigh. "Unless you want to get caught� are you an exhibitionist
or just a naughty little boy?"

"Whatever� you� want�" Quatre panted as he struggle to move
against Trowa�s restraining hand. "I�ll be whatever you want� just
please touch me." His own hands wandered down to demonstrate the touch he
desired, but Trowa caught them.

"I
said not here! If we get caught all you get is a slap on the wrist, while I get
to spend several years in prison." Quatre was making it hard to be
rational, the delicious friction of that nearly hairless thigh rubbing so
insistently between his own, the frustrated little whimpers that bore into his
brain as the boy tried to free his trapped wrists.

"No!"
Trowa pushed himself away from Quatre�s tactile seduction. The effort drained
him of his strength and left him to weakly gasp the next words, "You
don�t know the effect you have on me� please stop�" He fully expected
this plea to go unheeded, to have an armful of trembling Quatre that he would no
longer be able to refuse.

"I�
You� you feel the same way?" There was a dazed, awed cast to Quatre�s
voice. To Trowa�s surprise, the boy pulled fully away and resumed dressing.
"That�s alright, then, if we wait."

"What?"

"It
wouldn�t seem fair, if I were the only one � I mean right now, I feel like
I�m going to die if you don�t touch me soon. And if I thought you would
never touch me again, I would want to die. But since the feeling�s mutual,
it�s okay to wait. In fact, maybe it�s even better that way." Quatre
finished buttoning his shirt and tugged his jacket from beneath Trowa�s legs.
He gave himself a little nod of concurrence as he shrugged it on. "And in a
real bed, it would be too good�" He slid forward to the passenger�s
seat, leaving Trowa to dress in a boggled daze.

The
drive back into the heart of the city began in silence. Trowa was usually
comfortable with the quiet, but it seemed now to be an enemy, and he began to
panic under the weight of his own thoughts. He turned to Quatre for distraction,
"How many sisters do you have?"

Since
they were stopped at a light, Trowa was able to see the full hardening of
Quatre�s face at this question, "Trowa, do you want me to come back just
for tonight, or do you want me to stay with you longer? I don�t mean to
pressure you, but I have to know if I need to tell you the rules."

"Rules?"
The light changed and Trowa accelerated with deliberate care. Perhaps there was
some scam involved in this after all; perhaps he had been too quick to trust.

"There
are rules, if you want me to stay. And one quick way to get me to go."

"Which
is?"

"When
you�re sick of me, and want me to go away for good, all you have to do is ask
me about my family. I�ll understand and leave." Quatre was steadily
staring out the side window now, his voice brittle. Trowa snuck a quick peek at
the boy�s wooden reflection and suffered a sudden thrill of terror.

"I�m
sorry." Don�t go! "For what I don�t know � but I�m
sorry. And I won�t ask again." Please, don�t go! He grabbed
Quatre�s hand in clumsy comfort.

Quatre
gifted him with a fragile smile that was not reflected in his haunted eyes.
"I will tell you this, no one is looking for me. I mean, you don�t have
to worry about anyone having you arrested for touching me."

"Are
you emancipated? Because if you�re not, I do have to worry about it."

"I
left in a hurry� it really wasn�t an option�" Quatre fumbled,
obviously torn between a desire to reassure Trowa and the need to protect
himself. "But they don�t want me back � please believe me." They
rode on for a few minutes with this between them, while Quatre feverishly flexed
his fingers against Trowa�s, desperate for reassurance. He slumped back with a
tired sigh, "Go ahead, I know you want to ask it�" Quatre waited for
a response while Trowa simply waited for him to continue. "You do want to
know how old I am, right? I�m," he hesitated as if calculating,
"I�m almost 17."

"Yes,
Quatre, and I�m �almost� 40. How old are you really?" And Trowa had
been wondering, with that face, Quatre could be anywhere from 12 to 20.

"I�ll
be 17 in less than two months. Does that make it any better for you? And are you
really almost 40?"

"Don�t
make me sound so ancient!" Trowa grumbled, "I just turned 32. And no,
it doesn�t make it any better." His sudden protectiveness over the boy
grew to include a dawning repugnance for his own actions. "Why are you
going home with a pedophile?"

"For
the same reasons I crawled into the back of a van with one!" Quatre�s
expression mutated from incredulity to anger as he realized Trowa was serious.
"You are not a pedophile! And I am not a child � I was fully aware of
what we were doing! If anything I seduced you!"

"According
to the law you are a child! And how do you know what I am � we just met! For
all you know I could be screwing three year olds every day before
breakfast!" Even the words disgusted Trowa, but Quatre�s na�ve trust
bothered him even more.

Quatre
shook his hand loose from Trowa�s and crossed his arms over his chest,
"Oh, and I was under the impression that you�d always paid for it in the
past � I didn�t think hustlers worked quite that young!"

"That�s
right! I�m a dirty old man that pays little boys for sex � you should be
scared of me, not agreeing to go home with me!" Quatre�s blatant
disregard for his own safety was maddening.

A
few moments of quiet appraisal passed before the boy replied, his voice tight.
"But you�ll keep me safe, right? Take me home and make sure nothing bad
happens to me?" Trowa could only nod in reply. "But you�ll continue,"
and Quatre spat the next word out with special contempt, "screwing
me, am I correct? Because I�m some fragile little thing that can�t take care
of himself? Is that what you find so attractive, my vulnerability? Because this
"Kitten" has sharper claws than you might think!"

Trowa
knew he had to proceed with caution, Quatre might appear pedigreed but his
behavior had turned feral. "I�m sure that you can take care of yourself.
But I want you with me." He reached out again but the blonde pulled out of
range. "Please! Didn�t you just say you�d die if you thought I�d
never touch you again? I need you with me."

"I�m
an angsty, over-dramatic teenager, what�s your excuse?" Quatre huffed
against his softening resolve.

"I
think I�m in love with you." The statement lay between them like a
ticking bomb.

"You
read too much." Quatre tried to diffuse the situation with weak humor. When
he failed, he continued in a tired whisper, "Why?"

Trowa
eased his van into an amazingly vacant space in front of his brownstone before
answering. He pulled Quatre close and gently stroked his tensed shoulders,
"We�re home now. Let�s go inside and talk about it, please?" The
blonde head nodded, from relief or in defeat Trowa could not tell, but he
resolved not to worry about it as he lead the weary boy into the waiting house.
- 1
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Unfinished Opus