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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: Abuse (emotional and physical), Violence,
Unhealthy Relationships Pairings: 3x4 Summary: Sometimes love is ugly. Notes: I have to stress here that this is not
how I believe their relationship would actually be. This was challenging
to write for that very reason, but I wanted to explore the darker
realm of how a relationship can go horribly awry. I also love to torture
my favorite characters. " Corroded" The things that mattered most were sometimes the things that hurt the most. Incompatible was not a word that was often used in Quatre's vocabulary. He was a firm believer that anything was possible. Especially when it was something you truly wanted. Not wanted on the surface like a whim, or an impulse purchase, but something you wanted so badly, you couldn't live without it. Couldn't imagine getting through a day without living and breathing it. It was how he'd come to feel about Trowa. It was the first thing, the only thing that had ever made him ache deep down with a desperate need that couldn't be contained. Being without him just wasn't an option. He knew Trowa felt the same, but the simple fact was, they were like two opposites sides of a coin. Different like night and day. While the opposing forces could sometimes be magnetic, drawing them together in their shared feelings of love, there was a repelling side that left Quatre confused and disoriented. It led to friction between them. There were times Trowa wanted distance. It was something Quatre couldn't quite understand. Not even his empathy could give him insight, though he surmised that might have had more to do with the fact that Trowa had learned to block him when he decided he needed space. Ultimately, when coming together led to a heated confrontation, instead of facing it head on, which was Quatre's way, Trowa's way was to retreat. He would disappear for days at a time, giving Quatre no indication of where he was, or what he was doing. Trowa had the infuriating gift of blending in. Like a chameleon, he could acclimate himself anywhere, into any situation. Merge with his surroundings and move about undetected. It was what made him such an accomplished infiltrator. His acting skills were bar none, fooling even the most shrewd of his enemies. He could go anywhere, do anything, like it was second nature. For him, it was. Unfortunately, that made him impossible to find when he didn't want to be found and Quatre would spend the duration of that time fretting himself into a tizzy until Trowa decided he was ready to return. He never disclosed what he was doing, or who, if anyone, he was with. That left Quatre with his imagination which was never a good thing. The scenarios he'd find himself coming up with would only serve to make his paranoia worse. He convinced himself that Trowa was off somewhere, sharing someone else's bed, which left him irrationally pissed off. It didn't help that Trowa always returned with an unshakable calmness. Under the impression that Trowa was feeling good because he'd spent the past week in someone else's arms while he was pacing a hole in the floor, Quatre began to employ his own gifts in an attempt to get a rise out of his frustratingly placid lover. His knack for finding Trowa's weaknesses and using them against him seemed to be the only way to dig under that hard shell and get to the plethora of emotions simmering beneath. And Quatre was ruthless about it. He held nothing back when he attacked, using his talent with words and his supreme intellect to isolate Trowa's insecurities and rub them in his lover's face. He was unerringly good at it. Too good. He could still remember how his ears rang and his neck ached for nearly a week after an open-handed slap across his face that left him dazed. Despite the pain from the physical blow, he'd been almost sadistically pleased that he'd gotten an actual response instead of the typical stoicism. After a while, it seemed to be the only response he could get outside of arousal and his need for emotional interaction, even negative, took precedent over his ability to rationalize that this was not healthy for either of them. His tongue was his weapon and he wielded it mercilessly, cutting through Trowa's defenses and knocking his walls down with bull's eye precision. He was rewarded with slaps in the beginning, which eventually evolved to punches once Trowa discovered that Quatre was thriving off it. He wanted to hurt just as much as he was hurting, not realizing that Quatre was doing it because he was hurting. Things escalated on a warm August night several months later when Quatre had hit below the belt in a way he'd never done before. Trowa had seen red and before he could even think about what he was doing, he had Quatre by the throat, squeezing the literal life out of him. It had taken seeing those blue eyes, the eyes he loved so much, disappear behind fluttering lids, patches of red dotting the whites, to snap him out of his rage-induced haze. Quatre didn't remember much from that night. Being nearly strangled to death had left a hole in his memory. He took Trowa's word for it. Despite the physical blows, Trowa had never lied to him. Apparently, he'd had to administer mouth-to-mouth because Quatre had lost consciousness and wasn't breathing by the time he was let go. As much as they realized that they were hurting each other, as much as they were both intelligent enough to understand that what they were doing wasn't healthy, they could not find it in themselves to walk away. They loved each other just as ferociously as they hated each other. That was the crux of the matter. The repelling forces were no match for their gravitational pull. It was familiar, it was a necessary evil. They were irreversibly damaged and there was no one else that could handle what the other was ready and willing to inflict. The possibility that they could kill each other was a daily mantra, but it wasn't enough to keep them apart. In a way, it was their own poetic justice. Two unwanted, corroded souls providing the other with what it needed: The need to feel alive until the time came for them to breathe their last breath. Their deaths, just like their lives, belonged to each other.
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