Faggot

by Raletha

NC-17 :: adult themes, language, sex :: 3x4x3

"Faggot!" came a rough voice through the cobwebs of old memory—a flashbulb instant of recollection. Trowa remembered the guy, the faggot. He remembered his face at least, and the way he'd been when they'd pulled him out of the tent: wide-eyed and sweating with his trousers and underpants tangled around the ankles of his boots. He remembered the bruises they left on the guy's body. But he didn't remember the guy's name.

There'd been a boy too, older than Trowa, but younger than the rest. He'd been nude, and, heedless of his nakedness, he'd twisted free of the others and he'd run. He'd run past where Trowa had been sitting. More than anything else, Trowa remembered the boy's half hard dick and the dark tangle of his public hair. Later and alone, Trowa had jerked off silently thinking about it.

"Hey," said Quatre. A hand and a word pulled Trowa back to the now. Back to Quatre's much harder dick and lighter hair. The boy had been cut; Quatre wasn't. Trowa liked Quatre's cock; he smiled up at Quatre and resumed sliding his hand, wrapped around Quatre's velvet skin. "Sorry," he said.

"Mmm," Quatre said, tipping back his head. "You really shouldn't stop in the middle of doing that."

"Is it good?" Trowa asked. He lay on his back, turtleneck untucked and gathered up under his arms, jeans unfastened. Straddling him, Quatre had his pants dangling sloppily off one calf, and his vest and shirt hung from his chest unbuttoned, swaying with Quatre's little jerks and twists. Outside, stars drifted past the cabin's porthole.

"Yeah," murmured Quatre.

A faggot, Franklin had told Trowa when Trowa asked him, was disgusting. A faggot liked to put his dick in other men's assholes. Trowa wrinkled up his nose at the time, but later and alone, he'd thought about it more carefully. He'd closed his fist tight and snug around his dick and thought about the boy...

"We can do something more," Quatre whispered confidentially and ticklishly near Trowa's ear. "If you want to."

"What?" asked Trowa, even though he knew. His chest heaved with the knowledge and anticipation.

When Quatre caught Trowa's wrist and drew Trowa's hand away from his cock to between his legs, behind his balls, to touch Trowa's fingertips to him there, Trowa thought his heart had stopped. He felt Quatre's trembling against his fingers, hot and tender.

"Open your eyes," Quatre said. Trowa didn't realise he'd closed them. He met Quatre's serious gaze.

"Okay?" Quatre asked.

"Okay," echoed Trowa, but his mind said to him, "Faggot!" and Trowa wished he did remember the guy's name. The guy who hanged himself later. That was all Trowa remembered about him, the incident with the boy and the hanging. The guy had kept to himself.

Trowa didn't try to remember more. Quatre was mixing his fingers with Trowa's, smearing something slippery back there and urging Trowa to push a finger inside. "Yeah," said Quatre, edging a finger in alongside Trowa's, stroking and rubbing and coaxing Trowa to do the same. "Like that."

Trowa stared at Quatre's face, and then Quatre was moving again, pulling their hands free and guiding Trowa's cock back, pushing himself down onto Trowa's cockhead, and... Oh, god...

"Faggot," whispered Trowa as he arched against the mattress. He didn't mean to say it, but there it was. He'd said it. He looked at Quatre, an apology already taking shape in his throat.

"Uh huh," said Quatre, smiling while taking Trowa's hands and leading them from his thighs to his hips. "Faggot," Quatre said, and his smile widened to a grin when he said it.

the end