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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 5 Dimitri had Trowa doing jump after jump after jump to recreate that triple axel he’d landed so perfectly in the morning. He succeeded in landing it about six times that day, but never as clean as the first time. The next best landing was the first one directly after school. Trowa didn’t mention that he had driven Quatre home, the two of them cranking the music up and speeding all around town before Trowa quickly dropped Quatre off in his driveway and sped to get to the rink in time. He had been two minutes late, but no one noticed because he had changed into his skating gear back at the school. Finally nine rolled around and Trowa wearily pulled himself off the ice. The very late night coupled with the intense practice and hard landings had worn him out completely. He was packing his duffle, looking forward to getting home and in bed, when his cell phone jingled. The number wasn’t Cathy, and his coach was in the room with him, so that only left Quatre. Suddenly finding a spurt of energy, Trowa flipped the phone on and answered with a warm “hello.” He could hear music playing lightly in the background “Nas ne dogonyat...” and the gentle sounds of running water and a few clanks of submerged metal. Doing dishes, Trowa guessed. “Hi!” Quatre picked up, “You done practice now?” Trowa slid his things away quietly, charmed by the sounds of Quatre’s everyday life, “Yeah. It was rough. Dim’s getting me to do axel after axel trying to land it again. I think I’ve bruised my bruises. You doing dishes?” Quatre’s merry laughter rang over the phone connection, but it wasn’t anywhere near the same as hearing it firsthand. Trowa waved goodbye to Petra (who was walking out onto the ice to start coaching the novice students with Dimitri) and went towards his car, sprinting through the little tunnel where he got little reception, and emerging at his car to a static-free conversation. “Sorry missed that?” “I said, I’m finishing the dinner dishes while my food cooks. I made way too much ravioli and Iria’s working nights.” Quatre said, leaving the unspoken invitation in the air for Trowa to take or ignore. Trowa froze, half in his jeep and half out, unsure of what to say at first. “So you have to eat all alone?” Trowa started. The sounds of the running water turned off, and Trowa could hear him moving around the kitchen, “Yeah. I usually have to most nights. It kinda sucks. Do you wanna come over for a bit?” Trowa was already starting the engine in his jeep. Quatre’s house was gorgeous. It wasn’t something that Trowa would expect a hospital intern to own. And Quatre had said that his sister wasn’t married either. Quatre had mentioned that his father had money, but, walking under the chandelier in the foyer and being led into the state of the art kitchen, Trowa began to believe it was more than just ‘a little money’. But once Quatre had Trowa down at the kitchen table and was measuring out portions of ravioli for the two of them, chatting happily to him, with the music playing lightly in the background, Trowa forgot all about his slight inferiority complex in light of the company. Trowa hadn’t realized how much he hated being alone until Cathy had started going out all the time and leaving him. He felt like a lost puppy sometimes, but then he’d just shake his head and do something productive. With Quatre here, smirking and laughing, Trowa felt that missing piece snap back into place with a better fit then before. Quatre put a bowl of ravioli down in front of Trowa, “Perfect, one cup. And did you want a half cup of sauce or a quarter cup?” Quatre asked while measuring out a half cup onto his own. Trowa’s heart warmed at the very idea. He didn’t even have to ask or pick through things. Quatre knew exactly what he could eat and how careful he had to be. He completely understood him because he competed too. “You must miss ballet a lot.” Quatre furrowed his brows, “Every day. It... It was my life.” He shrugged. “I used to do ballet like you do skating. I had practice from 6am, straight until my first class, which I almost always missed because the studio was un-booked for the hour, then I would go to school and spend my lunches doing weight training in the gym, and then more practice after school until time for bed. I hardly knew anything else.” Quatre took a hesitant bite of his ravioli, but continued, “I’ve broken bones before. Hell, I had fractured my toes countless times before that one landing. That’s what hurt me,” Quatre explained, “I was doing a gete--you know, jump from one foot to the other; basic stuff-- and I just didn’t get my foot flat enough for the landing. The tip of my pointe shoe stuck against the floor and didn’t glide. I went forward; my foot didn’t. It was with enough force, and in just the right angle, I guess, that it broke four of my five toes on my right foot.” Trowa winced in sympathy, but Quatre just chuckled and continued, “It didn’t bother me that much at first, I mean I taped them up, got x-rays done, the usual. I’ve broken toes many times before. You just take some Tylenol, take the next day or two off if you can manage it, and come back a little meaner. Well, the next day my whole right foot throbbed. I should have known something was wrong then. But I didn’t want to miss another class. We dance with injuries all the time.” Quatre shrugged and looked to Trowa. Trowa was smiling and nodding empathetically (he had skated with pulled tendons, fractured arms, and sprains nearly everywhere he could get them). Moving to sit facing Trowa, Quatre continued, “So I, stupidly, wrapped the foot, took some more painkillers, and went to the next class. Because I could barely put weight on the one, I over abused my other foot. I don’t even know when or how I fractured those toes, but the doctors said I had. Said I was on so much Tylenol that they were surprised I was feeling anything.” Quatre said with a wry smile. “And that’s how I fucked up my feet. That second break never quite healed right, and the first break was much more serious than I took it for.” Quatre lifted his feet onto the edge of Trowa’s chair and wiggled his sock-clad toes. The movement was all wrong. “Now I can barely stand on my tip toes without a little pain, and to do it for more than a few minutes in a row... The pain’s so bad that it makes my knees weak.” Trowa brought his hand down to touch Quatre’s toes, but the blonde startled, bringing the foot back with lightning speed. “Let me see.” Trowa said gently, almost as if calming a skittish mouse, and held out his hand invitingly. Slowly, very slowly, Quatre extended his leg until his heel nudged Trowa’s palm. Trowa slowly closed his hand around the sock-covered foot and began to slowly and gently rub it; starting from the insole and moving out and up with molasses speed and patience. “I think you must have been a beautiful dancer,” Trowa whispered reverently, “I can see how graceful you are on those shaky skates. You simply glow when you can just move along.” Trowa massaged a little deeper, “Or, when you’re singing along and shaking it in the car,” Trowa said with a light tease, moving a little higher towards Quatre’s toes, “You just smile this huge, brilliant grin and everyone around you can see how much you light up. Dancing is your life. I’m surprised that you could even bear to stop.” Quatre reclined lightly in his seat, grinning wickedly, “I still do stretch classes. They keep me in shape and my muscles ready for dance once my feet allow it. When I first started, I could barely make it through the first half hour. But I kept to it. My feet still bother me when I push them too much, but now I can make it through the whole class. I may not be able to dance on my toes now, but I can be ready and in shape for when I can.” It was just after that when Quatre slid his feet out of Trowa’s hands and leaned himself in close. “Thanks for caring,” he whispered so close to Trowa that he could feel the warmth of his breath against his lips. Trowa closed the distance between them with a passionate kiss. On the way home, Trowa couldn’t stop thinking about what Quatre had said. He kept doing ballet; he kept fighting through the injury. Trowa knew that if he ever broke his leg, he would continue his strength training and concentrate on timing and choreography. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to stay off the ice. He would need to be near it just to stay sane. When he got home it was almost 11 at night and the house was black except for a blue-tinge coming from the living room TV. Cathy was up, munching on popcorn and watching a movie. Trowa didn’t recognize what it was, but there was a stack of movies on the table all bearing the familiar cases from the rental place. She was all alone. Trowa dropped his duffle bag at the door and moved over to the couch. She was sitting curled up on her side of the couch, an afghan thrown over her feet (Trowa remembered how many times she stuck her cold toes into his side when they would watch TV together; Trowa laying against his side of the couch as she sat propped up against the armrest, draping her feet over his lap). “Hey” he said, announcing his presence. Cathy didn’t look up, didn’t say hello back, and didn’t ask him where the hell he’s been for the last two hours. “What are you watching? I don’t recognize it.” Trowa asked, walking over to the couch. Moving to sit down, Trowa waited for Cathy to lift her feet and make room for him underneath them. She pulled her legs in tight to herself, taking the afghan with her. “Of course you don’t recognize it. I know I’ve never seen it before. All the other kids in school have, but not me. I hate being out of the loop. I won’t let them laugh at me again for not getting the joke.” She said moodily, only catching Trowa’s eyes for the last bit of her sentence. Anger was radiating off her, centered on him. Trowa leant over the gap between them and wrapped his arm around Cathy’s shoulders, planning to pull her into his side for a comforting hug. She quickly gave him a tight smile of thanks and neatly shrugged his arm off. Her legs pulled in tighter to her side the minute he brushed against them. He was obviously unwelcome. “I hope you weren’t out with that stupid blonde again, Trowa. Getting involved with him is going to bring your skating down. You’d better get to bed. You have practice tomorrow at six am. If you fell asleep right now you’ll get six hours of sleep. Petra’s going to be pissed.” Cathy said, staring resolutely ahead. Trowa hid the hurt, and gave her a tight smile back. “Okay. Thanks, sis. See you later.” He said, getting up quickly and moving up the dark stairwell to his equally dark room. He shut his door quickly and sagged against it, the overwhelming urge to scream bubbling up in his chest. He slid down the door to sit on the floor, cradling his head in his forearms. She hated him. His sister, his only family, the other half of team Barton, hated him with a passion. She couldn’t even stand to look at him. The urge to cry was overwhelming, but he would not let a tear fall. He was too miserable to care at first, but there was something jabbing into his hip. He tried to shift a little, but whatever it was in his pocket that was poking him was dug resolutely in the soft flesh at the juncture of his leg and hip. After getting mad enough at it, Trowa dug into his pocket to pull the thing out, intent on chucking it through the fucking window, just to take his frustration out on something. It was a slim little deep purple MP3 player; Quatre’s MP3 player. He unwound the headphones, slid them in his ear, and hit play. He searched through Quatre’s playlists until he found the song that had been on that night, after they had sat on the couch; after Quatre moved to sit astride him as they kissed and touched hesitantly, fumblingly. It was the first time he had ever wanted to make-out with someone so badly... Quatre had blushed profusely when he told him that, and just kissed him deeper and hotter. Trowa settled his head against his arms, his exhaustion catching up to him, and he fell asleep, silently mouthing the song as he passed out into fitful dreams. We'll run away, keep everything simple My love for you, always forever Nothing can stop us, not now, I love you
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