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"Firsts"Written By: Waterlilylf Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing. All rights
remain with Bandai, Sotsu and associated parties. No profit being
made here. Rating: R Warnings: Yaoi, Post Cannon, sap, angst Pairings: 3x2 Summary: How do you get past losing the love of your life, the person you fell in love with when you were just fifteen? Trowa desperately needs someone special in his life, even if he hasn't quite realised it yet..
"Firsts"
Incoming: He's been looking forward to this. A night in, alone. OK, he tells himself resolutely that he's been looking forward to it, to having the lighthouse to himself. It's been two weeks since they got back from Nova, and Duo's stayed over every night; even if he only got there at four am last Wednesday, after a late flight from London, he technically slept in Trowa's bed, and was there the next morning. They haven't discussed it or anything, but he's essentially moved in, and it's not that Trowa minds, not remotely, but he's had years of living alone, and he likes it, likes silence and his own company and the freedom to do exactly what he wants. He has plenty of stuff to do; a book he wants to finish reading, and some paperwork from the office, and a film on TV that's got decent reviews, and he should probably get around to defrosting the freezer at some point. He has the evening all planned out, the sort of evening he enjoys, with a good dinner and some low jazz thrown in. There's something missing, the whole time. Eating alone isn't much fun; he'd just got used to it, to eating with a book propped against his plate, or the TV or radio on. Watching a film by himself turns out to be a bit boring too, when there's no one to discuss the plot with, and the book can't quite hold his interest, although he does try, reading the same page several times before just giving up, and admitting it. He misses Duo, Duo's presence. When Duo is there, it's not like they sit on top of each other the whole time. OK, not all of it. Duo likes tinkering with his latest DIY project- the newest one is a swing seat for outside, which Trowa loves and is really looking forward to trying out, with Duo beside him, on top of him, whatever, and he's started a little herb garden, so a lot of the time he's not even in the lighthouse, but puttering about outside. He's still there, though. Popping in and out for a glass of water, or to fetch something, or just to say hi and press a kiss to Trowa's mouth. Admittedly, that often leads to something else, but sometimes it's just a quick, affectionate little gesture. He misses all of it. All those years of convincing himself that he liked being alone, that he'd never be able to tolerate another person living in his space, and now he can't manage a few hours without Duo Maxwell. If Duo'd been there, he wouldn't have wasted the evening away. They haven't got a routine – their schedules are too different, but whoever finishes work first usually cooks, or sometimes they do it together, if they're both home at the same time. Now the evenings are brighter, warmer, they go for a walk or a run along the beach after, and he's coaxed Duo into swimming with him a couple more times. It's not a ritual exactly, not quite, but they do usually end up on the roof watching the sunset, over a chess board and a drink and easy conversation about how the day went, or plans for the weekend. A holiday together, later in the year, although they haven't decided on a destination yet, but they've both applied for leave. He smiles at the thought. Two weeks, some tropical island maybe. Mexico or the Bahamas. Somewhere with hammocks slung beneath palm trees and warm water, and silly, brightly-coloured cocktails and maybe some kind of ancient ruins or temples to explore. Something to look forward to. He gives up, suddenly, on the book he's been holding, unseeing, and starts to fumble for the remote to switch off the TV. It's almost midnight. He might as well just go to bed. He's thinking about that, about his bed without Duo in it, when he hears the noise. It's not uncommon for Search and Rescue choppers to fly past the lighthouse, so when he first hears the distant, distinctive whirr of rotor-blades, he thinks nothing of it. It's a calm night, but they do training exercises sometimes, so it's not something to worry about. Just that moment of unease prickling down his spine, the just-in-case that never quite goes away and probably never will. He can admit it's nothing more than an old instinct though, lying on his couch half-watching some movie and missing Duo. He totally gets that they both have their own lives and of course Duo's the sociable one and enjoys going out and that's perfectly fine, but still. He misses him. It's when the sound comes closer that he jumps up heading for the gallery, gun in hand, just in case. There's a sudden spike of adrenalin when he sees how close the dark bulk of the helicopter is; it had come in far too fast, and then he notices the Winner logo blazoned on the side, and hears the child wailing even above the noise of the machine. Oh, shit. On balance, he'd probably have preferred an attack. He watches it hover for a moment, and his breath hitches as it heads for the ground. It's a crazy thing to do; it's almost pitch dark, with just a faint light from the half moon; Quat's only been here once before, and doesn't know the terrain, but he lands as neatly as in the heli-pad at his own mansion. Trowa lets out the breath he'd been hoarding, and races downstairs, just pausing to switch on the outdoor floodlights. He makes it outside just as the chopper's door opens and Quat tumbles out anyhow, Auri on his hip and a leather bag hanging from his shoulder. He blinks at the sudden bright lights, and then focuses on Trowa, and then he dumps the bag, and virtually teleports into Trowa's arms. It's bloody awkward; Quatre's shaking and burrowing into his arms, and Auri's squirming and vociferously yelling, demanding to be put down, and he has no idea what just happened. 'You bloody idiot,' Trowa mutters into Quat's bright hair. 'You couldn't have waited one minute for me to turn on some lights?' 'I was nearly out of fuel,' Quat says simply. 'I had to.' Oh, shit. Not like he ever thought this was just a social call, but there's something seriously wrong. Quat doesn't do spontaneous, ever. He certainly doesn't just turn up in helicopters, child in tow, in the middle of the night, looking like that. Looking scared out of his mind and all too obviously clueless about what happens next. He disengages them both gently, leads them inside and turns on lights and the kitchen heater, and gets them a couple of blankets. They're both dressed for the artificial heat on their home colony; Quat in a light linen suit, and Auri in one of those long tunics they dress little boys in on L4, with a plaid rug wrapped around him. Auri's frantic, convulsive sobs finally subside, snuggled on his father's lap, with Quat's arms around him. 'Is he OK?' Trowa asks quietly, out of some idea that the kid is sick and Quat's taking him for medical care, but that's stupid. The clinics on L4 are just as good as on Earth, maybe better. Quat wouldn't drag a sick child across the universe in any case. 'Just tired,' Quat says, equally. 'He didn't sleep on the shuttle and I was piloting. I couldn't spend too much time looking after him. And I think he's hungry. He wouldn't eat anything and he was a little sick on take-off.' 'Right,' Trowa nods. Processing information. Quat had piloted from L4, alone by the sound of it. Probably with the damn kid yelling his head off the whole way. And then changed to a chopper and flown here, from somewhere far enough to have used up most of his fuel tank. Shit. He's running from something. Someone. 'What does he eat? He is eating actual food now, right?' Quat actually smiles at that, or at least the corners of his mouth tilt fractionally. 'He's two, Trowa. He can eat. He eats anything.' That proves to be a wildly optimistic statement; either Auri is too tired and cranky to co-operate with them, or Quat doesn't know very much about his son's eating habits. He rejects, in rapid order and with screams of increasing shrillness; a slice of quiche; pasta left over from Trowa's dinner; olives; and a soft-boiled egg with toast. Quat doesn't help, fussing over him. Finally, Trowa thinks of Cathy's kids and suggests porridge. Quat looks blank but Auri nods enthusiastically. One problem sorted. He puts the pot of milk and oatmeal on the stove to simmer, and mashes a ripe banana to stir into it, and when he does turn around both Winners are fast asleep. Trowa looks at them, considering logistics. It's easier than the rogue thought that in another universe, this could be their lives. Him and Quat and a kid of their own. It's just a tendril of a fantasy and he squashes it hard and fast, and thinks of practicalities. Auri looks comfortable enough, sprawled over Quat's chest, but Quat's in an awkward position, twisted in the chair with one leg bent under him. If he stays like that for any length of time, he'll be in agony when he wakes up. He doesn't fancy carrying the two of them up a narrow spiral staircase, not when the kid could wake up at any second, and but he can't really leave Auri alone in a strange place, even for a few minutes. The worst that will happen is that Quat will wake up cramped. It won't kill him. He drapes another blanket over them, waits for a second to check he hasn't disturbed either of them, and then goes through Quat's bag. There's a layer of soft toys on top. The blue rabbit he remembers from Budapest, and a teddy which is absent an ear, an eye and a paw, and a big, new-looking dinosaur in a vivid, virulent green with purple spikes on its tail. He takes them out and arranges them on the kitchen table, where Auri can see them when he wakes up, and goes back to the bag. There's a neat little stack of fake IDs, and enough hard currency, in used and unmarked notes, to start a small war. He lifts up one wad of cash, and catches his breath. When he looks up, Quat's awake, watching him. 'Jesus, Quat. What's wrong?' Quat shakes his head, arms tightening around the kid on his lap. 'Please. Not yet. I – I can't.' 'Who're you running from?' 'Trowa,' Quat whispers. 'Please.' God. Quat can still look at him, like that, and just freaking liquefy every organ in his body. 'You should go to bed. We'll talk in the morning. OK?' He gets a look of pure gratitude, and, fuck, he hates just how that makes him feel, just before he takes Quatre upstairs and into his bedroom. He tucks Auri under the duvet, and finds Quat is sitting on the edge of the mattress, head tilted to look at the painting behind him. 'Trowa. I'm so sorry.' Trowa nods, not a hundred per cent sure what the apology is for; breaking a promise, breaking his heart; turning up in the middle of the night, kid in tow. 'I didn't know what to do,' he bites out, one hand groping across the sheet for Trowa's. 'Yes, you did,' Trowa says softly, squeezing Quat's hand. 'You came here. I'll sort it out. We will. All right?' Quat nods, or at least his chin does a little downward jerk that's maybe agreement. His fingers are tightly curled around Trowa's though, like he's holding a lifeline. More than that. His eyes are ocean-dark and immense, and it's everything Trowa's wanted, ever, and it's too late. He bends his head and drops a light kiss on their joined hands, just a quick brush of his lips across their knuckles, a little farewell, and then pulls free. 'Sura is divorcing me,' Quat says into the sudden stillness, with everything in the universe waiting to see what happens next, what he'll do. 'Yeah,' Trowa says heavily. It's been coming for weeks, longer probably. Duo's let a few things drop, and he's spoken to Quat himself, once or twice. Yeah, he's still a bit pissed about the whole Heero thing, but – it's Quat. He's miserable and there was no way in the universe that Trowa couldn't have contacted him. He's been pretty sure the end is coming to Quat's stupid fake marriage. He's spent two years dreaming of this approximate scenario. Quat coming to him, needing him. Telling him this exact piece of information. He'd imagined how it would feel. He does kiss Quatre then, because he can't not do it, and because he knows it'll be the last time. He kisses him and then leaves him and the kid, in his bed, and goes to call Duo. There's loud music wherever Duo is; he'd been going to a club, Trowa vaguely remembered him saying. Someone's birthday in his department. He'd asked Trowa to come, and he'd refused. He doesn't mind going dancing with Duo, but he hadn't fancied going out with a gang of people he hardly knew. He'd spent the evening regretting it, mostly. 'Trowa!' he sounds sparkly-bright. 'Hey! So, is this like some late night booty call?' 'You want it to be?' he can't stop himself teasing, just to keep Duo sounding like that, waiting just a second to tell him what's happened. 'Fuck, yeah,' Duo groans. 'But, seriously, you'll have to come and get me. I've been drinking and I don't think I could afford to pay a cab driver enough to trek out to the lighthouse.' 'Quat's here,' he says flatly. 'Just turned up an hour ago with Auri in a helicopter. And enough cash to buy his own country, pretty much, and a nice little assortment of illegal weapons.' 'Shit,' Duo breathes. 'Why?' 'Won't talk about it. I don't know. Something to do with the kid, I think. He did talk about Sura. A divorce.' 'Yeah,' Duo sounds like it's not much of a surprise. 'He's been talking about it being a possibility for the last couple of weeks. I don't get it though. Why'd that make him run off?' 'No idea. Anyway. I think the late night booty call idea might need to be postponed. Rain check?' 'Check,' Duo echoes and the sparkles are back in his voice. Since Budapest, since talking about it, he's been a lot more chilled about Quat being in Trowa's life. Still, it can't be all that easy knowing Quat's suddenly in residence, and Trowa loves that he's sounded more concerned for his friend than anything else. 'Want me to come over in the morning?' 'Want you, period.' It's ridiculous, but he has the 'phone pressed right against his ear, as if it can bring Duo closer. 'Please.' ''Course.' 'Oh, hey. Would you mind stopping off somewhere on the way to pick up a few things? Auri doesn't have any clothes except what he's wearing; can you get a couple of sweaters and pants and stuff? Whatever kids wear. I don't know.' 'Shit,' Duo says, low and heartfelt. 'Q really ran off without even packing?' 'Yep.' They're silent for a moment, thinking about it. What it might mean. 'I'll call the guys, if you like,' Duo offers finally. 'Just in case. You know. And I'll see you tomorrow.' 'OK. See you.' He doesn't sleep much; he stretches out on the couch for a few hours, but he can't quite relax. Quat's upstairs, in trouble. Quat tends to be a bit on the melodramatic side, granted, but Trowa's never seen him like this. He's genuinely terrified of something, and Quatre Winner doesn't really do scared. He's worried about Auri as well, waking up in a strange place and freaking out, or heading down the spiral staircase, probably lethal for a small kid who's still a bit unsteady on his feet. Quat's upstairs. In his bed. In the end, he gives up on even trying to sleep, and props himself against the wall outside his own room, peeking inside every so often, just to check they're OK. At four am, Auri starts stirring. Trowa slips inside, slides him out of Quat's arms before he can wake Quatre up. The kids's still too drowsy to make a noise, snuggles into Trowa's arms and on the way downstairs a warm trail of liquid suddenly spills down Trowa's jeans and he makes the highly unpleasant discovery that the tail of Auri's tunic is soaking wet. Oh, shit. Fuck. OK, probably not words he should be saying out loud in front of Quatre Winner's precious and pampered two-year-old. Well, it's not shit exactly, luckily enough, he thinks wryly. Auri grizzles a little bit as he's whisked downstairs to the bathroom, but he accepts being thrust under the shower and sprayed off. Trowa towels him briskly, and then finds an old tank top in the laundry basket. He's never been alone with Auri before; never with such a small boy. He's used to Cathy's girls; quicksilver liveliness and constant chatter and giggles. Not that solemn, measuring gaze. For the first time ever, he feels sorry for the kid. It must have been a nightmare for him, and with Quat too stressed to offer much in the way of reassurance. 'Hey, kiddo,' he squats down beside the kid and tries for a reassuring smile. 'You OK?' 'Daddy,' Auri whispers. 'Daddy's asleep, shrimp. He's tired. He's just upstairs. You think we can leave him to sleep a little bit? ' He expects a tantrum at that, but Auri seems to accept it. Probably used to being told that Daddy's too tired or too busy or too whatever to play with him. His lip gives an ominous little quiver though, and then he starts to sob in earnest, wanting Megan. Trowa pulls him into an awkward hug and the little boy snuggles against him. 'Megan's at home, Auri,' he says, trying to sound calm and reassuring. 'You're on your holidays, just you and Daddy. Megan stayed home to look after your toys and your Mummy, yeah?' Shit; that was probably a mistake, mentioning Mummy. Auri doesn't react though; it occurs to him suddenly that Auri's never actually mentioned wanting her, just Quat and his nanny. 'How about breakfast? What do you like; pancakes?' That gets an enthusiastic nod. 'Good boy. You can help me, how about that?' His nieces love messing around in the kitchen; well, making messes when they were Auri's age or so, but now they're actually able to make simple stuff. Auri's eyes are like saucers, watching him break an egg into the mixing bowl, and Trowa suddenly realises that he's probably never been in a kitchen in his life; never watched anyone prepare food. Just like his father, at fifteen. He lets Auri smash a couple of eggs into a small bowl, and scoops out the bits of shell, and guides his hand stirring the mixture with the wooden spoon. Auri loves every second of it, fascinated by everything, by the trail the spoon leaves and the texture, when he dips a finger in; by the white cloud of flour descending from the sieve. Trowa grins, dropping a quick, sudden kiss onto the kid's head. 'Only two, and you're already better in the kitchen than your dad. I'll make a chef out of you.' It's the first time he's ever touched Auri because he wanted to show any affection; not just because Quat wanted or expected it. Auri beams up at him, and for the first time, he kind of, sort of, starts to see what Quat gets out of having a kid. 'So, how about some blueberries? You like those?' he asks, and Auri nods enthusiastically. It probably takes thirty, maybe forty seconds max, to turn away from the table and to get a punnet of blueberries out of the fridge. It's exactly enough time for Auri to create two-year-old chaos. Bright hazel eyes are glinting at him when he turns back at the sound of a crash; exactly the way Quatre looks when he's being mischievous. There's not a huge amount of him otherwise that's visible, because he's upended the bag of flour over his head, and the eggs are in a smashed puddle on the floor, and the mixing bowl is in shards, with the batter a forlorn, pale pool at Auri's bare feet. He's dabbling his toes in it, and laughing his head off. He's obviously inherited, in full measure, his father's capacity for destruction. 'Oh, shit!' His own fault, totally; not remembering that you shouldn't leave little kids alone for more than one second, ever. It takes a full hour to clean up everything, kid included and make another batch of batter. Longer than it should because Auri's now decided smashing things is the best fun ever, and if Trowa takes his eyes away for one second, something ends up on the floor, or in someone's hair. Duo arrives at eight am, on the dot, wielding carrier bags in each hand. Auri gives a cry of sheer delight and throws himself off his chair and attaches himself, limpet-like, to Duo's legs, before Duo dumps the bags and picks the kid up, Auri babbling away in what seems to be his usual mixture of English and Arabic and made-up words. It's absurd, but Trowa feels the tiniest little trickle of jealousy, watching them. 'Wow,' Duo marvels, sniffing Auri's hair. 'Were you planning to serve him for breakfast or what? You do get that Quat wouldn't be too pleased if we ate his kid, right?' Trowa grins; it's not an entirely unfounded accusation. Auri has the best part of a bottle of hideously expensive imported Canadian maple syrup in his hair, along with a few bits of eggshell, and a good coating of batter on arms and fingers and toes. 'Don't ask.' Duo just laughs, plonking the kid on the floor. 'I won't. It's kind of obvious. Hey, Auri-doodle, this is for you.' The bag is immediately upended, naturally. There are bright building blocks and a miniature construction set, and a couple of colouring books and crayons, and a big picture book about dinosaurs. Auri dives into the pile, chirping with joy at all the shiny new things, and then takes a selection under the table. In blissful, glorious, blessed silence, apart from a little happy babbling as he explores his new possessions. 'Oh, God.' He pulls Duo into his arms and kisses him. 'Thank you. The peace. I can't believe how much noise he's made since he woke up. I thought my eardrums were going to explode at one point. You have no idea.' Duo laughs so hard at the recital of what the morning's been like that Auri pokes his head out to see what's funny. 'Well, he's kind of had his life messed up, I guess. Poor kid. So, what's the deal? Where's Quat?' 'Upstairs, still asleep I think. I haven't heard anything at least. Not that I would've, over the shrimp screaming blue murder any time I try to stop him doing something. God. I don't know how Quat manages.' 'Quat has a full-time professional nanny,' Duo points out, and presses his lips along Trowa's jaw. 'You're all prickly this morning.' 'Didn't exactly have time for personal grooming. Sorry.' 'Don't be. It's nice.' He nuzzles his way along to Trowa's ear, and presses a light kiss to the lobe. 'You OK? Really? 'Cause you look kind of wrecked.' 'I'll live. Didn't get much sleep. Correction; didn't get any, really.' 'Poor Trowa. Not too tired for this?' His lips slip back along Trowa's jaw-line, plotting an erratic course down his neck, sucking here and there, and then back to his hair. 'Wow. You've got syrup here as well. That kids's a one-man demolition squad, isn't he? Mmm. Pity you don't have a little bit of whipped cream, and that'd be my breakfast sorted.' 'Cream in the fridge, if you want.' He shows just how not-tired he is, backing Duo into the table, and pressing against him. Shit. His bed's out of bounds, but there's the couch, or he could just pull an Auri and dump everything off the table and bend Duo over it and… 'Uh, Tro. We kind of have an audience.' 'What?' He drags his mouth away from the smooth, warm, utterly beguiling skin of Duo's neck, and looks down to find a round-eyed two year old staring up at them. 'Fuck. Cock-blocked by a toddler.' Duo laughs. 'Yeah. For the record, you maybe shouldn't say stuff like that in front of him. Kids repeat everything. And Quat mightn't be too happy.' 'I'm a shitty baby-sitter,' Trowa grins. 'Fu- ah, damn it.' 'Hey,' Duo squats down in front of Auri, who's looking a bit uncertain at all the physical stuff going on in front of him. He's probably never seen anything like that in his life, unless Megan's boffing one of the Maguanacs on the side. 'It's cool, Auri. I just like him a lot. It's something people do. OK? You can go back to your toys.' Auri nods, and vanishes, going back to banging something against the table leg. At any other time, Trowa might find that annoying, but he has Duo in his arms. 'You like me a lot, huh?' he smirks. 'How much exactly?' Duo moans, eloquent and wanting, as Trowa's palm curls neatly around his erection. 'Uh, probably not enough to let you screw me in front of Quatre's two-year-old.' 'Only probably?' Trowa teases. 'Oh, hell. You think he'd be OK if we left him alone for five minutes? Could we tie him to the table or something?' 'Yeah, 'cause Quat'd love that,' Duo grins and then gasps as Trowa's hand slips under his waistband. 'Oh, God, Tro, that's not fair, how am I supposed to...oh, fuck!' 'Don't swear in front of the innocent little child,' Trowa says sweetly, squeezing the firm, hot flesh under his hand. 'Oh, fuck,' the innocent little child chimes in, smiling beatifically. He has his blue rabbit in one hand, and the bottle of maple syrup in the other. The empty bottle, because he's holding it upside down, and there's a puddle beside him, and he promptly squelches through it, and falls down on his bottom, hard. Trowa starts to swear, and then catches himself and lifts Auri up, setting him on the table. 'I thought your dad was a disaster in the kitchen, you brat. He's got nothing on you, I swear. Look at you. I think I'm going to leave you out for the bears.' Auri gazes back at him, uncertain, and then a grin starts to wobble through his sobs, and then they're all suddenly laughing. He catches Auri up into a sticky, squelchy hug and gives Duo a rueful smile. 'Later?' 'Don't have much of an option.' Duo touches the top of Auri's head and grimaces. 'I think someone needs a bath. Want me to take him?' 'Oh, God, please. Just take him away for a few minutes. I'll give you anything.' 'Yeah?' Duo hoists the kid in his arms, and laughs. 'I like the sound of that. Back in a few. And we'll want brekkie then, won't we, Auri-monster?' 'It'll be ready,' Trowa promises. 'And thanks. Seriously. You're a life saver.' Love you, he thinks suddenly, watching them go outside, Duo trying to keep his braid out of Auri's hands. The thought doesn't quite catch him unawares; he's been thinking it at odd moments over the past couple of weeks. Little moments he's been hoarding up and thinking about, after. Duo in bed, of course, or sprawled on his couch and laughing at something on the TV, or frowning over some paperwork he's brought home, or teasing Trowa. Duo just being Duo, really. And now he's got Quat upstairs, in his bed. That's a bit too hard to process, on very little sleep, so instead he goes to rummage for an unbroken mixing bowl to make them all breakfast. ~ * ~ |
