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"Secrets"Written By: Honor Disclaimers: All of those who agree that the boys
should belong to me say “Aye!” Pairings: 3x4 Spoilers: Nope. Warnings: Lemon, yaoiness, bit of language, AU,
I wrote it (duh). Rating: NC-17 Betas: Lucy and Velvet Archived: Gundam Wing Diaries Author’s Notes: Driving an hour to and from work is dangerous. It gives the plot bunnies time to play. For people who love a build-up of a 3x4…here you go! Oh, and just so you know, I’m putting a whole new spin on empathy, telepathy and whatnot. *grin* That’s your only hint. /other people’s thoughts/ //Trowa’s or Quatre’s thoughts// <phone> <<mental conversations>>
"Secrets " Chapter Three: Unraveled
/…not natural to be that silent and aloof. When did he become like that? Was it something I did wrong?/ /I’m not too sure that a shrink will do anything but mess the boy up more, but Francis thinks that it’ll do the trick. She’s right, he’s too quiet. He won’t be able to handle the real world if he keeps acting like this. Can’t understand why the boy just won’t talk to us./ /Even now he won’t say a word, just closes himself off. Why—/ /Why did he turn out this way, his sister is completely different—/ Trowa bit his lower lip. //What do I say? What do I do?// + Quatre had just put a spoonful of soup in his mouth when he felt raw panic pour off of Trowa in waves. Choking, he jumped out of his chair and bolted for the door. “Quatre!” Rashid hollered after him from the back door. “Where are you going?” “To Trowa’s!” Rashid shook his head as his charge ran off into the afternoon light. “Sometimes I just don’t understand that boy.” + As Quatre ran, weaving his way in and around fences, trees and buildings, Trowa’s panic became worse. It was beating against Quatre’s sense like a waterfall during monsoon season. //What the hell is causing this?! Trowa’s never felt this strongly before! I can’t even completely block him out right now.// When he was finally at the house, simple courteousies like knocking didn’t even occur to him. He threw the door open and went straight to Trowa, bypassing the adults seated in the living room. Trowa was hunching in on himself, seated on the long couch and facing his parents like a doomed prisoner. When Quatre came in his head snapped up, mouth dropping a little in surprise. Quatre caught him and steadied him with both arms, falling to his knees as his eyes did a quick scan over the other’s body. No visible wounds. It was emotional then. Damn. Catching Trowa’s eyes he demanded, “What is it? What’s wrong?” Trowa couldn’t understand why Quatre was so suddenly there, but he wasn’t willing to question it right then either. He lowered his head onto the blond’s shoulder, feeling himself calming at the contact. If Quatre was there, then everything would turn out alright. Quatre could talk his way out of anything. “They want to send me to a psychiatrist.” “Who does?” Quatre automatically enfolded Trowa into his arms, soothing his back absently with one hand. Slight tremors were going up and down Trowa’s frame, and it was making Quatre anxious to fix whatever was wrong. “My parents.” “WHAT? Why?!” “Because I don’t talk,” Trowa mumbled into his shoulder. “And I don’t associate with people unless I have to.” “That’s stupid,” Quatre muttered. “You talk to me all the time.” “You’re…the exception.” Trowa’s father by this point had found his tongue. He hadn’t expected the blond’s appearance, and he certainly hadn’t expected his son to actually volunteer information to the boy. He wasn’t too happy having this private conversation busted in on, or the idea that someone he didn’t know just waltzed into his house without permission either. “Just who the hell are you?” Quatre twisted to glare at the man over his shoulder. “Quatre Raberbra Winner. And as long as we’re swearing at each other, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Francis Barton put a restraining hand on her husband’s arm. It was apparent to her eyes that whoever the blond was, he was very important to Trowa. There seemed to be a few things that they weren’t aware of, and those things might make all the difference. “I’m sorry, but things are still unclear. Just who are you? What are you to Trowa?” Quatre blinked. “You…don’t know?” She shook her head. “Ah…huh.” Quatre turned to Trowa, brow raised. “Trowa, when do you talk to your parents?” Trowa considered that a moment before answering honestly, “When they ask me questions.” Quatre groaned and let his head thump against Trowa’s shoulder. “You idiot! No wonder why they’re worried about you! You don’t tell them anything!” He crooked his elbow around the other’s neck and dragged his head down, then started rubbing the crown of his head briskly with a fist. “Ow, owowowow! Quatre, quit it!” Trowa struggled to get out of the headlock, but the blond was surprisingly strong. “Nope, this is your punishment for scaring ten years off of me!” When Quatre deemed that Trowa was sufficiently humble for his mistake (although more punishment might be called for later) he relaxed his hold and let his victim up. Turning to the parents, he beamed as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. “Let’s start this conversation again. I’m Quatre Winner, your next door neighbor and Trowa’s best friend.” Francis’s brain had hiccupped at seeing her son being teased—and accepting the teasing. She’d never seen him allow anyone to touch him like his friend was, or touch him at all for that matter. Shaking her head to get it back into working order, she replied “I’m Francis Barton. This is my husband, George.” “Please to meet both of you. Sorry for the way I came in, I don’t normally do that. Now please explain to me why you feel it necessary that Trowa go through psychological evaluation.” It was said in such a reasonable tone that Francis replied before even considering otherwise. “Actually, Trowa stated the reasons. He’s never been close to anyone, and he’s too closed off. Some people actually ask me if he’s mute because he says so little.” Quatre let his head cant to one side. “So because your son is quiet and shy you’re going to toss him to a shrink?” “He doesn’t say a word unless he’s forced to,” George snapped. “That’s nonsense,” Quatre parried heatedly. “He talks to me all the time.” “Oh really.” It was obvious that George didn’t believe him. “Yes, really.” Quatre glowered at the man, daring him to contradict him. “I’ll have you know that Trowa has a very dry and wicked sense of humor, can quote any of the Thin Mans line for line, and can talk your ear off if you get him started on the topic of animals, cats especially.” Francis hadn’t known any of that. Thinking about it now, she realized that she didn’t know anything about her son at all. Turning to him she asked, “How long have you known each other?” “A month.” When Quatre saw that Trowa wasn’t going to elaborate, he elbowed his friend in the ribs. “Ow.” Trowa rubbed at the spot and frowned down at him. “I can see right now that I’m going to have to train you. Give her more detail than that, Trowa.” Grumbling, he looked back at his mother’s confused face. “I met him a week into the new quarter. We just sort of…clicked.” Quatre rolled his eyes. That was more detail? “Any time that he disappeared, he was usually hanging out with me.” “Doing what?” George wasn’t sure what to think of their relationship. They looked closer than ‘best friends’ to him. When guys were best friends, they didn’t hug each other like that. “Watching movies, talking, playing with the kittens, jamming—” “Trowa doesn’t play anything,” Francis refuted. Then she faltered under Quatre’s incredulous stare. “Does he?” “Ah…yes.” Quatre turned his incredulous face to Trowa. “You *really* don’t communicate with your parents, do you?” “I can play the guitar some,” Trowa admitted quietly to his mother—mostly because he didn’t want another elbow in his ribs. “ ‘Some’ he says,” Quatre rubbed his face despairingly. “I’ve been taking guitar for years, and he’s much better than I am. He can play Classical Gas like it’s a piece of cake. Anyway, we’re getting off topic. We just do what friends normally do, nothing special.” Eyeing both adults he added firmly, “And there is absolutely no reason to bring a shrink into this.” “Well, I admit that I do feel better knowing that he interacts with at least *one* person,” Francis admitted. “But Trowa, why don’t you associate with other people as well?” Trowa wasn’t about to admit the real reason. Finally he settled on, “They all want something from me.” Francis wasn’t at all sure on how to respond to that. Neither did George. Finally the older man let out a gusting sigh. “Fine. I wasn’t all for the idea in the first place. Consider it dropped.” Trowa nodded. Quatre looked ruefully at the clock. He’d promised Iria to be home at six so they could talk, and it was a little after five-thirty now. “I’d better get back.” “I’ll walk you home,” Trowa told him, standing. “That’s not necessary.” “Rashid will skin me if I let you walk home in the dark.” A quick glance at the window showed that Trowa was right. It nearly was night outside. He grimaced. “Point taken.” Francis cleared her throat softly. “I would like to talk to you more, when you have the time.” Quatre could just imagine just how many questions this poor woman had. He gave her his most charming smile. “Of course. I can come over tomorrow after school, if you wish.” She nodded, returning his smile with relief. Perhaps she could gain a better understanding of just what was going on. “That would be perfect.” With a polite nod and a goodnight, they made a clean escape into the clean autumn air. Trowa didn’t say a word, but that wasn’t all that unusual. Quatre brought all of his senses to bear on the teenager next to him and let out a resigned breath. Trowa was a pot boiling over with confusion. As soon as they were out of earshot of the house, Quatre cleared his throat. “You’re probably wondering how I knew to come.” “Yes.” Quatre felt a little unsure of himself at that moment. He knew that he could trust Trowa absolutely, that wasn’t the problem—but so many people required proof that he really could do what he said he could do, and he wasn’t really up to that at the moment. “Well…I felt you panic.” Trowa stopped dead in his tracks. Very slowly he turned to Quatre and parroted “Felt?” “I’m an empath,” Quatre admitted quietly, eyes focused on the ground. Whatever Trowa had expected to hear…that hadn’t been it. “How strong?” “Name anyone within three hundred miles, and I can tell you if they had a rotten day at work or not.” “Oh. That’s…fairly strong.” Most empaths couldn’t tell you if there was a person in the next room. Trowa was a little floored that Quatre’s reach extended that far. “I don’t usually feel you,” Quatre offered after a tense moment of silence. “It’s one of the reasons why I like being with you. I don’t have to shield much at all—actually, I really have to focus if I want to see what you’re feeling. It lets me relax and really enjoy your company.” Trowa was a bit humbled by the faith that Quatre was showing him. He had often considered telling Quatre his darkest secret, but had always managed to talk himself out of it somehow. //Like for like.// “I need to tell you something as well.” Quatre frowned. He wasn’t sure if he liked the trepidation he was feeling from Trowa. “I’m listening.” Breath in. Breath out. “I’m a telepath.” For a split second that statement just didn’t compute. His best friend was a telepath?! “…how strong?” Quatre managed to choke out. “I could tell you why that guy had a bad day at work.” “Oh.” Trowa managed to quirk his mouth up into something like a smile. “Oddly enough, I can’t hear you at all. Even if I try.” Quatre was a little dizzy under these revelations. He staggered over to one of the boulders near the ranch’s front gate and sank onto it. “A telepath. Great gods. Of course. It makes so much sense. That’s why you don’t like talking to people, isn’t it?” “It’s boring, and rather pointless. I know what they’re going to say anyway.” Trowa sank onto the boulder next to him. Trust Quatre to immediately see the full ramifications. “Does physical touch amplify things for you as well?” Trowa nodded, a little surprised. He had assumed it was just him. “Yes. How bad is it for you?” “It magnifies everything by a hundred percent. You?” “It might actually be worse than that for me,” Trowa admitted darkly. “When did your talent start?” “It was a little past my eighth birthday. When was it for you?” “Same. How long did it take before you could control it?” “I’m still refining my control,” Quatre admitted ruefully. “Tonight’s episode proves that. But I could pretty much contain it by the time I was eleven or twelve.” “I was fourteen,” Trowa stated in resignation. “And there are days when that control slips a bit. I truly envy you for that. You have incredible shields.” “You can see them?” All of these new revelations were sending Quatre’s poor brain into overload. “Not really… ‘sense’ is probably a better way of putting it. Who taught you?” “Desperation,” Quatre whispered bitterly. “I wasn’t allowed to hide or pull away from people like you did. My father was angry enough with me that I wouldn’t allow anyone to touch me for years.” “So your family doesn’t know either?” “No. Well, a few. My sister and Rashid do, and my cousin Abdul. I had to tell someone just so that they could cover for me when everything went out of control and I couldn’t hold myself together anymore. Thankfully I’m past that stage.” He looked toward Trowa. “I know, because of how you feel, that I can trust you absolutely. But what gives you the same assurance that you can trust me?” “Trust—” Trowa replied with a soft smile “—goes both ways.” ~*~*~*~ *KABLOOOOMMM!!!!*
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