#ps this is from a post-entropy story that will probably never see the light of day

[acrochetedgundam]

torokatober day 4/31 - circus

He’s only just settled onto the couch of his trailer, flopped bonelessly onto the flimsy cushion with a weary sigh, when there’s a knock at his door.

“Goddamnit, Cathy,” he mutters under his breath, rolling off of it gracelessly. They’d added several new routines over the last few weeks as they prepared for their next circus tour, and with the trapeze, the rings, the silks…he was admittedly sore. She’d better be bringing him dinner. Food would make him more amiable to her chit chat this evening.

When he opens the door, he’s surprised to see Quatre.

“Hi,” the blond says sheepishly. He looks tired, worn. Like he hasn’t slept in days, and Trowa thinks he probably hasn’t.

Trowa wastes no time in gathering him into his arms, clutching him close. “Quatre,” he breathes, fingers of one hand automatically threading through golden strands to tuck his head against his neck, warmth flooding him as he feels Quatre’s arms against his back, his hands gripping him tightly. He presses a kiss to the top of his head. “What are you doing here?” he murmurs.

Quatre’s breath is shaky against his throat. “I just…I just needed you,” he murmurs finally, fingers flexing against Trowa’s back.

He releases his grip on the smaller man, grabbing his hand instead to pull him into the privacy of his trailer. It doesn’t escape his notice that the other man doesn’t appear to have brought anything with him. Just himself. And that sets alarm bells ringing in his head.

“I’m sorry I just…didn’t call,” he explains as Trowa sits him down on his couch. He kneels on the floor in front of him, hands cupping Quatre’s cheeks, looking into his eyes.

“You know you’re welcome anytime,” he murmurs, brushing blond strands away from his face, frowning at how clammy his skin feels. His thumbs trace along high cheekbones, and Quatre’s eyes slip closed. “Talk to me,” he whispers.

Quatre stays quiet, eyes squeezing just a bit tighter before he opens them to look at Trowa. “I don’t know how to do this,” he says finally, his voice shaking. “How to be a person. I…” he shakes his head, and when his eyes close again, a few tears fall free.

Trowa gathers him into his arms, tucking his head under his chin, rubbing soothing circles on his back. They’d had this conversation before, the one that stemmed from a deep childhood hurt. Quatre’s youth had lacked the love that had filled Duo’s, the sense of respect and camaraderie of Wufei’s, the purpose and drive of his and Heero’s. Prior to the Maguanacs, he’d even lacked the sense of personhood, viewing himself as just another, replaceable cog in his father’s expansive machine. While it was easy to look at Quatre and assume that his well-bred status had afforded him an idyllic childhood, Trowa knew better. They all had their own demons that had driven them to pilot the Gundams in the first place. Quatre was just as damaged as the rest of them. He just hid it better.

“I’m so fucking lost,” Quatre murmurs. “I thought going to university would help but it’s just…it feels like nothing. Like it doesn’t matter. Iqra wants me to take over the company and I just…I can’t.” He exhales anothing shaking breath, fingers reaching out to grip at the fabric of Trowa’s shirt. “I don’t want it. I don’t know what to do.”

“I don’t either,” Trowa confesses. “It…being here in the circus feels like where I’m supposed to be, but it’s also…lacking something. I can’t figure out what it is.” There’s a half-truth there - he suspects it’s missing Quatre.

He knows what he wants to ask, but hesitates. He’d been wanting to ask as soon as Quatre had finished his degree. He doesn’t want to put pressure on him, but he knows that they’re better together. That he needs Quatre just as much as Quatre needs him.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs against golden strands. “Now that you’re done with school. Just…stay here. With me.”

Quatre lifts his head to look into his eyes, searching, and Trowa feels his heart hammering in his chest, realizing just how desperately he wants Quatre to say yes. His thumbs trace along his cheekbones again, pushing away the wetness from his earlier tears. Quatre’s hands have reached up, tentative fingers tracing along his throat, his jaw. “You want me to…to stay?”

He leans forward, brushes his lips against Quatre softly in the faintest of kisses. “More than anything,” he whispers. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to be doing with my life. I just know that I want to do it with you.”

It’s Quatre who moves then, kissing him again, fingers catching on the stubble along his jaw, featherlight touches. “Trowa,” he murmurs, and the taller man takes that as an invitation, deepening their kiss, thrilling at the soft moan that escapes Quatre’s throat.

They’ve kissed before, plenty of times, but this was different. Before, they’d been reserved, both knowing that they couldn’t broach this, whatever this was; not yet. But now…now it’s as if he’s opened the dam, releasing his feelings for Quatre because he can’t keep pretending that he can do this without him. Or maybe he can figure this out on his own, but he doesn’t want to. He wants Quatre, all of him, all of the brokenness. He would be fine with having fuck-all else as long as he has Quatre. As long as they were together. He pushes up on his knees, pressing Quatre into the couch back cushions, needing to be closer, groan escaping as Quatre’s fingertips scratch along his scalp, as the blond’s tongue reaches out to meet his.

Trowa breaks their kiss, pulls back to look at Quatre’s flushed face. “I love you,” he says, heart melting at the softness, the fondness in Quatre’s eyes. “All of you,” he reiterates.

“Oh, Trowa,” he murmurs, fingers stroking along a stubbled cheek. “I love you.’ He pulls Trowa’s face back down, brushing their lips together once more. “So much,” he whispers. “So fucking much.”

(on ao3)