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"Keep In Time"Written By: Dentelle_noir Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing AC or the
characters. They belong to Bandai, Sotsu and associated parties. This
is a work of fiction and written for fun, not profit Rating: R Warnings: AU, sap, angst, fluff Pairings: 3x4. Summary: A suspicious accident leaves Trowa without
a skating partner, sentencing him to a year without competition. Quatre
is an injured dancer, trying to find a way to live without his joy.
Together, they make new rules and find a new path. "Keep In Time" Chapter Three “At least you have good taste, Boyska. He’s a looker, alright.” Trowa’s coach had said, making the boy turn bright red, and Quatre felt his own face warm at the compliment. I guess that answered his question about Trowa’s sexuality... Quatre turned to find that the comment had flung his friends into an uproar. Jason, particularly, was striding straight over to Quatre and standing toe to toe, “What the FUCK, Quatre! Why’d you bring that preppy bastard here!” Another friend, Marissa, who was known for always wearing pigtails in her ebony hair, piped up on Quatre’s side, “He wasn’t that bad. You’re just mad because the prep was totally flirting with Quat. And you know what, Jay~son? It looked to me like Quatre actually likes him.” The ‘unlike you’ was unspoken, but loud and clear none the less. The gauntlet had officially been thrown, and he hadn’t even said anything! Quatre wanted to get out of there before the groups began to talk trash to each other over the whole thing. As far as Quatre was concerned, it was none of their business, but of course, everyone had to put in their two cents. Quatre slid around Jason quietly, taking a seat to watch his group clique off. Marissa and a few others had Quatre’s back, while another few took Jason’s anti-prep side to the disgust of the more conservative members of the group. It wasn’t a surprise really. Quatre knew that the outing would fall apart any minute now. Inter-group drama always made outings end early. And Drama was their specialty. Quatre had to smile. He had known it was coming. They hadn’t all cliqued off for an angsty bitch-fest in over a week. It was well overdue. As predicted, not more than 20 minutes later Quatre was saying good bye to the last person at the ice-cream parlor and turning down one girl’s fifth offer for a ride, Quatre promised to ride home with Trowa, and he was looking forward to it. The girl didn’t want to leave him alone though, for safety reasons, since he had a good hour and a half until Trowa’s coach would let him leave and no one else there. As touching as that was, Quatre had no intention of leaving without Trowa, and the girl didn’t want to stay for that long doing nothing. Quatre had to practically shove her out the door, but she finally left. Quatre was the only one in the store now. The huge table looked empty and uninviting, especially with his coat hanging alone over the back of a chair. He made a split second decision, grabbed his coat and scarf, and took to the street. His half formed idea was to check out some shops or go for a walk, but once outside he let out a depressed sigh. There was nothing around to make the walk worthwhile. The highlights of the view were a gas station, some closed office buildings, and a 7-11 which were dotted between houses as far as the eye could see. There wasn’t even any nice Christmas lights up to check out since it was February, and the cold, half-frozen, dirty snow made everything look dreary. Disheartened, Quatre looked back the way he came: the ice cream shop, a bank, and an ice rink. It only made sense to think that Trowa was in there. The temptation to see Trowa was just too great, so Quatre crossed the nearly deserted street and made his way over to the rink. He really didn’t have anything else better to do, and he had never been to Petra’s Rink before. Walking in was nothing special. The outside of the building was completely made out of cold cement, giving the rink an industrial feel. The entryway was large enough to drive a truck through but the vast emptiness just made it feel dull and uninviting despite the obvious attempts to perk it up. There were yards and yards of pictures and trophies running along the walls on either side of the vast cement floor, but even all those pictures couldn’t really make the space look good. Quatre walked to one wall and began to peruse the photos. Some were yellowed with age, depicting old hockey teams with no helmets (or teeth) as they smiled at the camera. Moving on, Quatre saw the teams give way to pictures of figure skaters. One team was featured prominently in the older pictures. In the first photo two people, about 25 years old, were posing on the ice together as they held up medals, ‘Petra and Dimitri Anatolv. Olympic gold’ was engraved under the picture and was dated some 20 years previous. The girl looked very pretty, with her brown hair done up in a sporty, fashionable style and she wore a pretty little sequined costume. The man’s costumed matched hers, and he stood slightly behind her with one arm wrapped around her middle. He was smiling warmly at her more than the camera. It was obvious from the picture that he was head over heels in love with the woman, and her with him. And together they won gold. Quatre had to squint, but he could vaguely make out the resemblance of the male skater to the stately handsome coach who had carted Trowa off for practice. And Trowa had called his coach Dimitri. That must have been him in his prime. Most of the pictures on the left wall were action shots of Petra and Dimitri in various costumes over various years long passed. Most of the trophies on that wall were theirs too. But once Quatre crossed to the other wall in the entrance, he was instantly faced with whole different sets of skaters. There were classes of pre-teen female skaters, medals hanging from a few of their necks as they posed with Petra. A young Trowa, no more than 9 or 10 stood beside Dimitri and held a Gold trophy almost as big as himself in regional junior’s men’s singles competition. Cathy and Petra posed in the next picture, holding a much smaller trophy for woman’s singles--bronze. The pictures continued: another gold for Trowa the next year, and a bronze for Cathy. A silver for Trowa the year after...no picture of Cathy. The next picture, though, was much larger. A huge gold trophy was set down on the ice with a 13 year old Trowa posed on the ice straddling the trophy with Cathy lifted high above his head in a perfect T, both of them smiling triumphantly. But Quatre noticed the gap of a year between the two of them skating singles before the year of doubles. What happened when Trowa was twelve? Then there was another perfect succession of Trowa and Cathy. In some pictured they were just standing, others mid-lift or showing perfectly synchronized twizzles. They placed each time. In most, they held gold, but even though some were silvers or bronze, Quatre could tell by Trowa’s little smiles that they had skated their hearts out and done their best. He noticed quickly that Cathy had the same fake model-perfect smile in each picture, but Trowa’s smile was always genuine. Proud. Sometimes exhausted. But it was obvious that he loved what he did. Suddenly Quatre came to the end of the succession. A block of vaguely-white cinderblock stared at him abruptly, reminding Quatre that this year Trowa wouldn’t skate. There would be no picture this year of anyone; No teasing, victorious smile, no trophy. No medal to fill the case. Nothing. It was so depressing a thought that Quatre felt his heart breaking. Standing there in the foyer, staring at the empty spot of wall, Quatre was desperate to see Trowa on the ice, even if it was just to watch him practice. The foyer led right towards the doors that opened into the rink. He could see the ice through the glass portals on the doors, but he couldn’t see Trowa from his vantage point. He knew Trowa was in there, though. He had to be. Opening the big, heavy doors that lead him into the rink proper, he was bombarded by a driving, heavy beat flooding the rink through every speaker, “All I know is that to me You look like you're havin' fun. Open up your lovin' arms. Watch out, here I come!” A black blurr flew by on the ice, the speeding form of Trowa quickly leaping in time, flipping once in a perfect jackknife and landing squarely on the ice without hesitation and pushed straight into the middle of the rink, crossing his legs, and snapping into a whirl at breakneck speed. His arms moved down from over his head to point his elbows out and continue the drop into a crouch, his whole body spinning on one point so fast that he looked like a perfectly balanced top. Just as abruptly as he snapped into the spin, his whole body sprang out of it: his arms and leg flew open like a broken toy and Trowa came out of the crouch. The spin turned into a backwards glide and Trowa began ringing the outer wall at a demonic speed. “That doesn’t look like laps to me, Trowa!” A woman’s voice hollered over the crashing beat, going unheard by everyone but Quatre, it seemed. She shook her head in slight disgust and angrily stormed into an office situated high above the ice. Dimitri hollered “Elbows IN!” as Trowa pushed off the ice again, flinging himself savagely into the air with an arch as elegant as a dolphin. “You spin me right round, baby, right round! Like a record, baby, Right round round round” screamed the music. Quatre gasped in awe, watching Trowa practically fold backwards on himself to glide across the rink in an impossible-looking stance. The difference in Trowa’s skating from the fun stuff in the school rink to this was obvious. What he did at school was nothing but parlor ticks in comparison to the real skills he had. Trowa was sweating out of every pore as he threw himself head-first into a new movement. He was driven, dedicated, and had sheer gift for movement Quatre hadn’t seen since his days training for Julliard. Trowa slowed to a fierce ringing of the ice, his hand diving into the pocket of his tight-fitting, shiny black pants. Quatre noticed they looked exactly like dance-pants. Quatre used to wear a set of them over the requisite body suit he had to wear for jazz practice. Trowa, too, was wearing a body suit. It was spandex-tight but had long sleeves for added warmth with a high turtle-neck style collar. Under armor probably, designed to keep sweat off the body and keep Trowa’s body temperature regulated. Quatre thought that it looked pretty damn good, especially the way it hugged his muscles up top and made his ass look perfect. The music cued, and then started again. Then stopped and started again as Trowa continued to play with something in his hands. He had some sort of remote control to the music in his pocket, apparently. Quatre thought it was pretty cool that Trowa’s coach let him choose his practice music. “Why don’t you ask Sunshine, there, if he’s got any requests?” Dimitri’s gravelly voice said, bringing everyone’s attention to the intruding Quatre. Whoops. Quatre looked nervous for a moment, then held up a hand (bright pink mittens in place) and waved gently. Was he in trouble for being there? Trowa broke out in to a delighted smile, though, which assuaged his guilt, and waved back excitedly, “Hey Quat! I didn’t think you would want to watch me skate. It’s kinda boring. But I’m glad you came.” Trowa practically purred. Quatre felt himself flush, that warm voice sending tingles all the way down his spine and to the tips of his toes. Quatre was too quickly getting addicted to the way Trowa made him feel. Trowa’s circuit of the rink brought him closer to Quatre, and he was still smiling that teasing, flirty little smile that made Quatre want to go along with anything Trowa had in mind. “I’m doing on the spot choreography. Pick a song and I’ll skate to it.” Trowa said, producing a hand-sized remote from his pocket and tossing it to Quatre over the boards as he skated by. Looking down, Quatre saw that it wasn’t a remote at all, but an MP3 player with a little antenna hooked into the headphone outlet. It must have been rigged into the PA system, because when Quatre started to fiddle with it, the music around them changed. Quatre began to look closely at the music, realizing what a look he was given into Trowa’s soul. Music was all Trowa really did; he preformed to it, he drove with it cranked up, he probably even fell asleep or did his chores to it (and a play list named ‘chores’ cemented that idea). Quatre was being given a free peek into Trowa’s inner soundtrack. It was him...right there in his hands. Quatre began to peruse the ‘training’ list, deciding to stay in the same playlist Trowa had been in so as not to intrude too much. The perfect song scrolled up. Quatre hit it and cracked the volume. The retro beat pumped out loud and clear over the speakers filling the rink with the music. Trowa laughed out loud and began to weave back and forth across the ice to the music. Quatre, unable to stop himself, sang along and moved with Trowa, his feet dancing beside the rink, keeping up with Trowa’s every move. The two of them were totally in sync, lifting their hands up and swinging along to the beat: Flashback, 72, Another summer in the neighborhood,
Hangin’ out with nothing to do I’d be in bed with the radio on Trowa swung deep into a twirl, Quatre following with a turn on the balls of his feet, his form the same as Trowa’s as they both danced to the song, smiling and having fun. “Do you still have your skates?” Trowa called, moving towards him in a slow saunter-like weave across the ice, swinging wide and slow to the beat, gradually coming closer to Quatre with every turn. Quatre nodded slowly, and began to smirk. Quatre lifted a brow, teasing in his own way, making Trowa say it. Quatre waited, watching him move and licking his lips. He knew Trowa was watching every movement he made, and just knowing he was teasing him back made him smirk. “Come skate with me.” Trowa asked. His voice was deep and husky, just like earlier in the car. Just that sound was enough to make Quatre’s hairs stand on end excitedly. He was in his skates (thanking god that he chose to bring them home instead of leaving them in his locker at school) and he was out on the ice before the song quite ended. Trowa took the MP3 from Quatre and repeated the tune. The professional ice felt different from the school’s outdoor rink under his skates. Smoother. Harder. And the stands all around them made Quatre feel like he was on stage again. It was exhilarating. Then Trowa’s arms came from behind and began to pull him along into a turn, swinging with the beat as he pulled Quatre along faster and faster, spinning them together with a mighty push. The whoop of joy was all the encouragement Trowa needed, because he pulled out of the turn and the music sped up, pulling Quatre into one of those tight twirls that sent his hair whipping around his face and his clothes sticking to his body from the velocity. Quatre wrapped his hands around Trowa and locked his skates as close to Trowa’s as he could, instinctively making the twist easier on the professional. It was taking his breath away with the speed and exhilaration. Twirling with him was more fun than Quatre could remember having in a while. A moment later, Trowa broke out of the twirl and before Quatre even knew what was happening, Trowa moved them into a series of long sweeping twizzels. It was just like ballet, Quatre realized. Before Trowa even opened his mouth to warn him, Quatre was leaning into the turn, instinctively knowing the next movement, and together they sped around the rink, increasing speed as Trowa realized how experienced Quatre was. Quatre himself was rediscovering his own talents. He had gone to figure skating classes as a kid with his cousin, although Quatre had moved on to dance and forgot the small skating part of his life. The movement was a little shaky in coming to him, but after class today, and then with Trowa’s arms holding him steady, Quatre began to gets his ice-legs back, finding his ankle strength and movement far better after all the dance experience. He could feel what Trowa was going to do before he did it. He knew where Trowa’s arm was going to anchor next. Together they flew like one, Trowa skating backwards so he could watch Quatre’s face. And Quatre smiled, letting Trowa see just how much he enjoyed this. Trowa’s arms slid down to hold him tight around the waist so Quatre could use his arms, arching in Trowa’s arm to fly together gracefully. Trowa’s hands were gentle, but firm. Quatre knew he could trust him, and with that in mind, he let go of his inhibitions. Leaning back far, Quatre arched his back so his body looked like a cupid’s bow, lifting his leg and then he extended his arms behind him like he was free-falling with only Trowa’s two hands on his waist to keep him safe, keep him moving, keep him from going off course. But the loss of control was half the fun. Quatre slid back upright from the drag, smiling in glee at Trowa’s bewildered expression. He brought his arms up and around to hold at a perfect third position, gliding along, and he decided to try a little something... He shifted his weight to one foot, glad when he felt Trowa’s grip tighten on him, and he lifted his left foot up behind him, bending slowly, carefully as he steadied himself into second Arabesque, the same move he had slid into effortlessly on solid ground earlier that day to show Trowa up. Seeing Quatre’s determined expression, though, Trowa had to laugh, “Seeing first hand that it was a little more difficult on skates then when you were on ground?” Quatre, though, wasn’t giving up. “I’ll get it” he said with determination. He got himself steady, and then locked onto Trowa’s arm. Quatre looked into Trowa’s eyes, and urged the taller boy to let go of his waist and pull him by his arms. Trowa couldn’t say no, and gently slipped one arm off the boy’s waist, grasping his outstretched hand instead and pushed off a little harder and stronger, bringing Quatre along and giving him the room needed to stretch out into the Arabesque. With the extra room, Quatre legs and arms arched perfectly while Trowa used his strength to pull him along for a full lap. As Trowa’s power began to wane, Quatre slowly brought his leg down and his body up, gracefully moving upwards and straight into Trowa’s space before he completely put his other skate to the ice. They were only a breath apart, then. Trowa’s arm was still wound around Quatre’s waist while the other held his hand. Blushing but still smirking teasingly, Quatre pushed gently with his skates to keep himself moving closer into the taller skater’s pace. He could feel Trowa’s warmth invading his cold skin, sending shivers up and down his skin… Trowa responded with a smile and the arm wound around Quatre’s waist tightened, pulling the blonde in flush against Trowa’s chest, their lips only inches away. “What is that kid doing on my ICE!” Petra’s voice screamed in outrage, cutting through the moment like an axe. She had come back out of her office and was leaning against the railings, her face bright red in anger. This time both Trowa and Dimitri heard it and jumped, their attention flying to the very angry woman watching them. Trowa tightened his grip on Quatre’s hands, but slowed them and slid closer to the door. Dimitri had already ascended the steps and was talking with his rather irate wife and calming her down. “Thanks for skating with me. But I’d better get back to those laps before Petra freaks out. She’s the disciplinarian around here.” Trowa said with a smile, stopping in front of the exit and opening the door for him like a gentleman. Trowa went to help Quatre out, putting his hand on Quatre’s bare arm to help him over the step, then stopped abruptly. “Quat, you’re frozen!” Quatre couldn’t help but laugh at Trowa’s concern. Truth be told, Quatre had been frozen most of the day! He didn’t take the cold well at all, but it was winter and all day he had been outdoors or riding with the windows down in Trowa’s car... He was always frozen, “I have a coat up there,” Quatre said instead, pointing to the spot in the bleachers where he had left his things. Trowa smiled, “You’ll get too warm bundling up in a coat. I still have a little less than an hour of practice...” Trowa walked out onto the rubber-protected cement with Quatre, moving a few strides to a duffle bag left on the edge of the bleachers. He sat down gracefully and dug in, pulling out a thick warm sweater in navy blue with “Barton” written across the back and the international Figure Skating League’s logo on the sleeve. He unzipped the front and dropped if over Quatre’s shoulders, rubbing the blonde’s arms to get a little warmth in him. Quatre felt himself blushing, and wrapped himself up in the big fluffy sweater indulgently. It was warm, and soft, and even though it was long and big, Quatre couldn’t help but think of Trowa wearing it, which only made him cuddle deeper into the plush cotton. Petra’s voice became clearer as she neared the door again, Dimitri unable to keep her in the office any longer. Trowa hopped over to the ice like there was a fire underneath him, sending a conspiratorial wink to Quatre as he jumped straight over the boards and took to laps, pretending as if he hadn’t been doing anything different the whole time. “And you’d better be doing LAPS for the rest of practice, Young Man! You were LATE today!” Petra hollered, moving back into her office and slammed the door, effectively locking her husband out as well. Trowa stopped himself from snickering and continued his laps of the rink, waiting for Dimitri to give him the thumbs up to slow down and do a few little twists to keep it interesting. Quatre had slid back to his things, a few more benches up, for a better view of Trowa on the ice. He was beautiful when he skated; just free on the ice and graceful, Trowa seemed to let his guard down and just enjoy what he was doing. Watching him, Quatre remembered how he had felt dancing… Mmm… quick rotations and little steps on his full pointe shoes, completely straight on his toes like only a select few could possibly ever do. He missed it so much. But... Quatre stretched out on the bleacher, sliding down to lay on his side and watch Trowa while he pillowed his head on the sleeve to Trowa’s sweater. But...Quatre had felt that thrill, sliding into an Arabesque on the ice like that. It was a different feeling, having to fight with himself to keep steady and moving on the ice, but skating had that same challenge and drive for perfection as dance. And the movements didn’t bother his feet the way even fooling-around doing demi-pointe bellet did. He could hardly stand on tip toes without his feet bothering him a little bit, which pretty much excluded most forms of dance. But Skating....it hadn’t bothered him at all. The large form of Dimitri settled a few rows ahead of Quatre and a little to his left, the man reclining against the next row of bleachers to comfortably watch Trowa’s improvised laps. But it was obvious to Quatre that the man sat there for a reason. He just didn’t know what yet. “So, how’d you meet Trowa?” Dimitri’s voice asked, unable to force non-chalonce over his inquisition, and he looked straight at Quatre and began to grill him: “Have you dated many guys? Are you using drugs of any kind? Are you a practitioner of some odd voodoo religion? Are you an athletic spy?” Was he serious? In a moment of clarity, Quatre realized what his sister’s boyfriends must have felt like when Quatre’s father had cornered them before a date. He never thought that HE would even be on the receiving end of the fifth degree, and just that thought made him break out into giggles. Dimitri looked confused at the boy, then he must have realized that he sounded like a crazed parent because he started to chuckle as well, “Never mind. The Boyshka’s usually got good taste.” Quatre nodded slowly… and waited for a moment, waiting for the right moment to ask. “What does Boyshka, mean, anyway, If you don’t mind me asking, uh...Sir?” Quatre’s curiosity finally got the better of him. Dimitri broke out into hearty chuckles, holding his sides as he doubled over in laughter and slapped his leg. Trowa, obviously, was listening to the whole thing, because he started to chuckle too, “It’s just ‘boy’ with his stupid endings thrown on. He thinks it’s funny to pretend to be a stereotypical Russian who ends everything in ‘shka’ He calls Cathy ‘Princess’, simple enough, and what do I get... ‘Boyshka!’ It sounds like a dish!” Trowa threw back at his coach. The argument sounded more like a routine between the two than a real complaint. “Ah, but ‘princess’ isn’t a compliment!” Dimitri’s booming voice called back with mirth, “At least ‘Boyshka’ is neutral!” Trowa scoffed and turned into a toe loop, then followed by a one footed turn, continuing his laps backwards now to switch it up. The banter continued while Trowa did his laps as Petra had commanded, Dimitri and Trowa bouncing off each other easily. Quatre was able to jump in a time or two, but all in all he was having a good time listening to the two of them gossip and bicker like old ladies. It wasn’t until a little carpool of tweens started to show up and drop their things on the bleachers that Quatre noticed that the hour was almost up and nine was fast approaching. Quatre noticed Trowa begin to change his skating style, slowing down and doing stretch-like cool-downs instead of the previous strength training. Quatre cleaned up his things into a little pile and moved down to pick up Trowa’s things as well so they’d be ready. Trowa was off the ice at two minutes to nine, and as soon as he was through the exit, four or five other skaters were on, starting warm ups on their own. Trowa slid his skate-guards onto the blades of his boots and moved over to Quatre, smiling while he snatched a towel from his bag and rubbed it across his face and neck. Trowa sat down beside him, unlacing the boots expertly and shoving them into his duffle. He pulled out a pair of backless sneakers, slid his feet into them, and then he was ready to go. Dimitri said goodbye to both of them, shaking Quatre’s hand once politely, and then he went onto the ice with the new skaters. Trowa sneakily put his arm around Quatre’s waist and led him towards the exit to the rink. Quatre didn’t protest. “Sorry you had to wait.” Trowa apologized, grabbing his duffle and swinging it over his shoulder in one fluid movement. Quatre just shook his head and smiled, “I liked watching you skate, and skating with you was a lot of fun.” “I haven’t been a very interesting companion today,” Trowa said with a sigh, leading them out to the cold, darkened parking lot through a side door. When his car wasn’t there he let out a groan, “…I left my Jeep at Hadford’s, didn’t I?” Quatre laughed and nodded, then slid his arm into Trowa’s arm, “…nice night for a walk?” A smile pulled at Trowa’s cheeks, and he nodded softly, “Yeah… Yeah it is. Maybe I’ll take you the scenic way home, too?” “I think I’d like that” Quatre replied
and snuggled against Trowa’s arm, sighing in contentment. He
really could get used to this. No problem at all.
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