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"100 Themes Challenge"Written By: The Plotting Housewife Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sotsu
and associated Parties. This work is written for pleasure not profit. Rating: NC 17 Warnings: Mild Angst, Sexual Content, Friends
to Lovers, Fluff, Depression, Post-Endless Waltz, Caretaking, introspective
Pairings: 3x4 Summary: Learning to live again requires finding
something, or someone to live for. Quatre only needed to realize that
that someone was right there all along. "Divine Intervention" Godly was a word that Quatre liked to associate with many things. The colors of the sky when the sun set in the west, or emerged in the east. A scenic winter landscape and the reflective, glassy surface of ice that clung to the tree branches and gleamed like a crystalline wonderland. The breathtaking, expansive blues of the ocean and the towering majesty of mountains. It was the universe itself and the miracle of life that could only come from something much greater than himself. It was both humbling and awe-inspiring, leaving him with an urgent need to pray if only to thank whomever was responsible for this short, but poignant existence. He’d never really considered people to be godly, or any one person. Perhaps when he was very young, he’d seen his father that way, but he was certain it wasn’t unlike how most children regarded their fathers. Indestructible, larger than life. He’d found out the hard way how untrue that was. His father had been just as frail and expendable as any of them. Oh, how little humans valued their own lives and the lives of others. Taking this precious existence for granted and squandering it and for what? Greed? Power? Instant gratification? Hatred? All of the above, in Quatre’s experience. Humans were such an oddball bunch. So small and fragile, yet so unaware of their own mortality. In some ways, that was good. In others, a curse. But he supposed that was just how life was. A balance of good and bad. Infinite shades of grey. After the wars, he’d gone through a period of depression which was strange to him considering the reign of peace and prosperity was well underway. Vice Foreign Minister Relena Darlian had announced this significant event as the means towards a Golden Era where mankind unified and came together for the greater good. But Quatre discovered that the elation resulting from the end of wartime was melting into a strange sense of melancholy that he just couldn’t seem to shake no matter how hard he tried. He became lethargic, listless, prone to bouts of inexplicable crying spells and times where he’d completely zone out. Sleeping had become a welcome bedfellow. Something that provided a temporary escape from the endless days, hours, and minutes that blended together in a sea of anguish for which no concept of time could touch. He no longer responded to phone calls, or emails. His frequent uplifting posts on social media became nonexistent and his friends inevitably began to notice. Ten days after his social withdrawal, Trowa showed up at his apartment and picked the lock. He found Quatre lying like a lump in his bed where he hadn’t moved for nearly a week. He hadn’t showered, or eaten in days and his body, slackened with lassitude, was almost completely covered in used tissues. Quatre had simply rolled away to face the wall and told Trowa to leave him alone, but Trowa was having none of it. He batted away the collection of crumpled tissues, scooped a weakly protesting Quatre into his arms, and carried him to the bathroom. Quatre bitched and moaned while Trowa turned the shower taps on and removed the pajamas he hadn’t bothered to change in five days. He sulked petulantly as he was cleaned and tried to ignore the tender way Trowa’s hands massaged the soap into his skin and hair, stubborn refusal not permitting him to give an inch. Trowa was quiet, broody with concern, but he never once lost his patience with him. Once Quatre was dry, he was carried back to the bedroom where he grudgingly allowed himself to be dressed into a clean pair of pajamas and then he endured the trek to the kitchen, too exhausted to put up a fight. He was plopped down onto a stool and he watched with baleful eyes as Trowa rummaged through his refrigerator for something edible to cook. After a meal of scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, and toast with a little caffeine boost from the steaming mug of Earl Grey, Quatre felt stronger and a little more human. He petulantly thanked Trowa who shrugged and assured him it was no big deal, though Quatre got the sense that it was. For both of them. Trowa was worried and he could feel that, palpable in the pressed line of his lips and the tenseness of his jaw and shoulders. Though it didn’t require outward appearances for Quatre to know how concerned he was. Most of it came from the empathetic connection they shared between them and once Quatre got over himself long enough to feel how much his behavior was affecting his friend, he felt worse than dogshit. And he told Trowa so with a burst of sudden tears, dropping his head onto the counter with a thump and weeping until his nose was clogged and his head ached. Trowa held him and rubbed soothing hands over his back as he cried himself out and then he leaned against the broad chest, exhausted and raw and blubbering apologies into his friend’s shirt. Trowa carried him back to bed where he slept for another five hours and when Quatre woke up, he was still there with tiny smiles and saddened eyes. Quatre agreed to get some help and scheduled an appointment with a nearby psychiatrist who prescribed an antidepressant and then set him up with a therapist. After three weeks of the medication and six therapy sessions, he finally began to claw his way out of the black void of emptiness and despair. He had Trowa to thank for his recovery and he promised to make it up him and show him how grateful he was, but Trowa, always so humble only smiled and said, “Just get better and be happy. That’s all I need, or want from you.” It was a staggering turn-around considering Trowa had been the one so deep in his own darkness when they’d met and now he was so steadfast in propping Quatre up and showing him that there was a reason to be alive. That life was worth living. He’d been so patient during Quatre’s recovery, never once losing his temper, or getting annoyed by his crying spells and self-condemnation. He was a rock, a constant reassuring presence, being strong for Quatre when he couldn’t do it on his own. After six weeks, Quatre was feeling much better and he came home from therapy one warm Thursday afternoon, arms loaded down with two giant bags filled to the brim with groceries. He thanked Trowa as he took the bags from him, laughing about how he’d nearly tripped a few times because he couldn’t see where he was going. “What’s all this for?” “Oh,” Quatre huffed, a little out of breath. “Thought I’d make dinner tonight since you’ve been doing it every night for the past month.” “Are you sure you’re up to it? I don’t want you to overdo it and tire yourself out.” He smiled and hugged his friend, humming with happiness when Trowa’s arms closed around him. “I’m quite fine and I want to do this. I’ve felt like such a useless slug lately.” “You’re not a slug, Quat. You were sick.” “Well, either way, it’ll be good for me. Feeling like I’ve accomplished something is food for the psyche.” “Let me help you.” “Trowa, no. You’ve done so much for me already. I want to do this for you.” “And I want to do this with you.” Allah, how could Quatre deny him after looking into those soft, green eyes? Eyes that could be so cold and deadly, but somehow neither of those things were ever present when Trowa looked at him. In those stormy depths, he saw nothing but compassion and dare he say it...love? He conceded and the smile Trowa gave him in return was more than worth it. It really was much more enjoyable when they worked together. They’d always brought out the best in each other, an unstoppable team. After supper, they lounged on the sofa and watched bad sitcoms in their sweatpants and socks, laughing at the terrible jokes and making up their own puns along the way. Quatre couldn’t remember a time he’d ever felt so safe and content and he’d told Trowa so as he leaned against him and rested his head on the other boy’s shoulder. One confession led to another and the next thing he knew, he was being kissed until his head felt light and dizzy. When Trowa wrapped an arm around his back and lowered him down to the sofa, he went willingly, a sigh of surrender on his lips. The experience of Trowa making love to him, from the hips he cradled between his thighs and the press of Trowa’s erection inside him, to the passionate kisses and declarations of love whispered between them was something Quatre could only describe as ‘godly’. He felt as if he was one with Trowa, one with the universe. Transcending the limitations of physical bodies to touch the sky and beyond. Five years later and nothing had changed. He and Trowa were inseparable, two correlating halves created to compliment the other, dovetailed into one divine unit by the building blocks of love and devotion. Every moment with Trowa was an immutable, priceless treasure that Quatre cherished and he tucked those moments into the memory files of his mind and heart. Every touch, every kiss, every word of adoration was recorded and protected, to be preserved throughout the remainder of this life and carried into the next.
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