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"Agglomeration"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: Yaoi, Introspective Pairings: Trowa/Quatre Summary: Trowa contemplates his relationship with
Quatre. "Chapter 23: Reserved " It wasn't easy to find love. It was even less easy to find love that wrapped around your heart with tendrils of spiky thorns. It hurt, but it hurt so damned good and Trowa was hooked like a junkie in need of his next fix. He couldn't get enough. Quatre was the drug that kept on giving. A slow, sweet poison that contaminated the blood in his veins, every nook and cranny of his body, every corner of his essence. His mind was saturated with it, his soul hopelessly caught in the web of intoxication. He needed it, coveted it, his eyes rolling back in bliss when the craving was satisfied. Everything Quatre was, he desired all of it. Ached to possess it, possess him, his fingers curling into his palms with a furious tension until the time came that he could have him again. And the little blond devil knew it. Flaunted it. Thrived off of it. But, that was okay. Because Trowa knew Quatre needed him, too. Needed him like he needed air to breathe. After a long day at the office, long day at the circus, they would come together in the dark of night, tired, but hungry. Ravenous. Starved for the sustenance that they could only get from each other. They fed off each other, from the rasp of calloused palms on silky skin to the nails that gouged into a muscular back. The moist panting mouths and the trembling limbs. The teeth that gripped a bottom lip, an earlobe, to the legs that wrapped around a waist. Afterwords, once the heat of passion had submersed itself in the cooling bliss of orgasm, the touches would turn soft, the kisses tender. They would lay, one on top of the other and breathe and just be. Together. One the same yet two so different. An enigma that had stood the test of time. Eight years now. Eight years that they'd been irreversibly addicted to each other. Maybe it wasn't healthy. Maybe it wasn't proper. But, neither of them could give it up. They simply didn't want to. It simply was meant to be. The moments that stretched from one round of lovemaking to the next were interspersed with the quiet moments of companionship. Those moments were reserved for the press of limbs and soft conversation. Quatre had taken to donning Trowa's old t-shirts, laying across him clad in the worn cotton and his briefs. He would pour over his reports, the papers scattered across Trowa's legs, his feet idly kicking the air above Trowa's head. This was when Trowa loved him the most. The pleasant weight across his body, grounding him, reminding him of why he was alive. It was when Trowa reserved his most gentle touches, his most intimate words. Stroke his hand along a smooth leg, massage the pad of a foot, press his lips against his lover's toes. Quatre would hum in contentment, sometimes resting his head on Trowa's calf, kissing the skin reverently. These were the moments he cherished. The ones that told him he was truly home.
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