Disclaimers:  I do not own Gundam Wing or any of its characters.

Notes:  Trowa and Quatre stop at an inn so that Quatre can rest.  The two of them share an intimate moment together.

Warnings:  Lime ahead.  3x4.



Servitude, Retribution, and Enchantment



Part Thirty-Six


Trowa frowned as he looked down on Quatre.  They had only been traveling for just over a day and already Quatre was weary.  
It was much too soon for Quatre to be so tired of travel.  Trowa sighed, brushing his fingers through the blonde’s hair in a
delicate manner, worry overcoming him as he felt the distinct heat radiating throughout Quatre’s body, even though he shivered
near constantly.

The weather had become particularly chill this morning . . . the sky dark with thick clouds.  It looked like a storm was on the
way.  And even inside the carriage, Trowa felt the cold.  It seemed as if it affected Quatre even more though.  But of course,
Quatre wouldn’t be used to wearing so little clothing during such frigid weather.

Gently, Trowa lifted Quatre’s slumbering body, easing the blonde to sit across his lap, wanting only to offer him warmth.  
Quatre groaned in reaction, his face contorting into a pained expression, blinking his eyes open.  Trowa smiled, grabbing the
heavy fur blanket - that was draped over the both of them - and pulled it more securely around Quatre.

“Are you feeling ill?”  Trowa asked in concern.  “Is your stomach troubling you again?  Your skin feels quite warm.”  Trowa
worriedly watched the blonde, grazing his fingers across Quatre’s warm cheek.

Quatre frowned, although he turned toward Trowa’s gentle touch.  He tried to smile, but the expression came out as a grimace
instead.  “Not ill . . . it’s just . . . my back pains me.  It burns . . . far worse than before.”  He whispered, then turned away.  “I
didn’t wish to be a bother.”

Trowa became alarmed, not liking the sound of that.  “May I look?”  He asked.

Quatre merely nodded in reply.

Always moving cautiously, Trowa readjusted their positioning, leaning Quatre forward a little as he pushed the blanket down.  
He eased the cloak - that Quatre was wearing - to the side a little, pulling up the sheer tunic and moving aside the bandages until
the blonde’s wound was exposed.  Trowa’s frown only deepened.  The skin around the shoulder wound was angry and red . . .
infection had most definitely set in.  This worried Trowa immensely.  They had no medicines with which to tend to the infection
now.  Trowa could only hope that the blonde’s condition wouldn’t worsen before they reached a village for help.

Trowa eased Quatre onto the seat and set his clothing straight, making sure that all of his veils were correctly placed once
again.  Then he covered Quatre snugly with the blankets to be sure that the cold air would not affect him too greatly.  Trowa
leaned out the window, only to be blinded by a face full of snow . . . he had not known it was snowing.  Still, he called to the
driver.

“How long until we reach the next town?  My slave is ill and needs attention!”  He disliked calling Quatre his slave, but that’s the
way things would be until they reached Meiran.

The carriage driver glanced back, a frown set on his face.  “Storm’s gotten too bad, Sire . . . we won’t reach the next town any
time soon.  We passed a town not too far back, maybe we should turn and head back.  Don’t want to be getting stuck out here
in this weather . . . especially if the little one is ill.”

Trowa nodded in agreement.  “Yes, do that!”  He shouted back, then pulled himself back inside the carriage, shaking the snow
from his hair and shoulders.  Even if Quatre weren’t ailing, he wouldn’t want the blonde to be trapped in a carriage while cold
storm winds blew.

“We’re heading back a ways, Quatre.”  Trowa said, pulling Quatre to lay across his lap again.

“T-Thank you, Trowa.”  The little blonde replied, pressing his face to Trowa’s chest, tenderly bringing the blanket up so that it
covered Trowa’s shoulders as well.

“Sshh . . . you just rest now.”  Trowa hushed, laying his hand against Quatre’s heated skin.  “We’ll be in town soon, and you
can sleep in a nice comfortable bed tonight.”

“Hmm, sounds nice.”  Quatre murmured, snuggling closer.

Trowa sighed, repeatedly stroking his hands along the blonde’s body.  He tried to keep Quatre as comfortable as possible as the
carriage turned around and headed back to the last village they had passed.  Every bump they hit made Trowa wince in
sympathy with Quatre’s silent distress.  He marveled at Quatre’s bravery.  The little blonde was undoubtedly in a great deal of
pain, and yet he never made a single sound.  Trowa almost breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the sounds of a village as the
carriage slowed.  It was obvious that people were doing some last minute things before the storm hit full force.

When the carriage stopped, Trowa didn’t even wait for anyone to open the door for him.  He was out of the carriage, Quatre
cradled against him, and had rushed into the inn before anyone could speak to him.  He trusted the driver to see to the horses’
care taking.  Trowa was more concerned with Quatre at the moment.

All conversations stopped the moment that Trowa burst into the inn.  People turned to him, watching with wary eyes . . . even
the dogs sitting by the fireplace were looking at him.  Trowa did not like all of the attention.  However, Quatre’s hand settled on
his chest, just barely pressing against him, and all fear vanished from his mind.  Quatre just had a way of soothing Trowa . . . he
was a gifted young man.

The inn appeared cozy . . . despite the patrons that were apparently gawking at him.  Trowa turned, finding who he assumed to
be the innkeeper standing behind a rather long counter.  The innkeeper had an open and friendly face that seemed to say
‘Welcome’ without words.  Trowa nodded in greeting to the jovial man, before placing Quatre’s fur-wrapped form on the floor
by the hearth, where a cheerful fire was burning brightly.

“I’ll be right back.”  Trowa said, whispering his words into Quatre’s ear discreetly.  “Try and relax.”

He stepped away from the little blonde and smiled as the group of hounds lying nearby approached and sniffed at Quatre.  They
then settled near him with their tails wagging.  Quatre was reaching out to pet them as Trowa turned to face the innkeeper.

The innkeeper smiled warmly at Trowa.  “Good evening, Milord.  Good to see you’ve gotten out of the cold before the storm hit
us.  ‘Tis not a night to be traveling.  What service can I be?”

Trowa let out a breath.  “I have need of a room.  As you said, this is no weather to travel in.  Also . . . my slave has been
injured, so I will need some herbs and hot water . . . something to stave off infection and fight a fever.”

The innkeeper nodded, frowning at Trowa a little.  After a moment though, the frown vanished.  “I was about to ask you how
the little one got injured, but I can tell you’re not the one who hurt him.  Only a cad would harm one unable to defend himself.  
Such a person would not care to tend to his wounds either.  Do you need anything else?”

Trowa had to smile a little at the innkeeper.  “Now that you mention it, two meals would be most welcome . . . equal in portion
and quality.  I will not have my slave eating poorly when he is ill.  On the other hand, his stomach troubles him . . . so perhaps
the meal should not be too heavy.”  Trowa sighed, not really certain what he could order.

The innkeeper smiled though.  “As you wish, Milord . . . I’ll see to it myself that a proper dinner is made for that gentle youth.”  
He said, flicking his eyes over to Quatre.

Trowa turned, a smile quickly spreading across his own features as he watched Quatre petting the dogs, giggling a little as they
licked at his hands.  Trowa nodded as he returned his gaze to the innkeeper.  “I thank you, sir.”

“It is no trouble, really.”  The innkeeper said graciously.  “If you’ll call your slave over, I’ll show you to your room.”

It was then that a strange voice spoke up.  “Say, how much you want for the little thing?”  A man asked, and Trowa looked
over at him, noting the auburn hair and grey eyes.

“Bite your tongue, Randall . . . we don’t need none of your nonsense now.”  The innkeeper chided.

Randall however, seemed to ignore the man.  “I’ll give you five hundred gold pieces for the slave.  Two hundred if only for a
night to bed it.”

Trowa’s fury welled up, but he restrained himself from killing the man where he stood.  He lashed out, grasping at the man’s
collar and hauling him forward a few paces.  “He . . . is NOT for sale!”  Trowa hissed, pushing the man away with a growl.

Randall stumbled back, his face grim with a glare.  However, he said nothing, only stalking away, his body language clearly
portraying his distinct disappointment.

Trowa took a breath, calming himself before he turned to look at Quatre.  He smiled then, raising his hand as he called out,
“Nadir . . . come.  It is time we retire for the evening.”

Quatre looked up, recognizing the false name they had agreed upon before leaving Mariemaia’s castle the day before.  Trowa
would not have Quatre endangered . . . best that he use another name so as not to call attention to himself.  The Winner house
was a very famous one . . . Quatre’s name could easily be recognized, and Nadir was a suitable and flattering name for one so
lovely and gentle as Quatre.  He was safer this way, safer as a slave called Nadir than he was as a deposed prince by the name
of Quatre.

Slowly, obviously weary, Quatre rose to his feet, clutching at the fur blanket wrapped about his shoulders.  He took only two
steps before he faltered though.  Trowa was horrified as Quatre began to fall and took a quick step forward to catch the ill
youth.  However, he was too far off to be of any help to Quatre.  Thankfully though, this inn seemed to be filled with a number
of kind people.

At least five men and women moved forward, several of them reaching hands out to steady Quatre’s tired form.  The few
women fussed over him, laying gentle hands to his veiled face, clucking about his fever and what should be done about it.  
Quatre remained silent and docile, even as his body was swept into the arms of a large, redheaded man, the first who had come
to Quatre’s aid.

“I beg your apologies if I wronged you by touching your slave, sir . . .”  The man said to Trowa as he approached.  “But I didn’
t think you’d want the little one falling and hurting himself.”  He adjusted his hold on Quatre’s body, cradling his form gently.  “I’
ll be glad to carry him to your room if you like . . . won’t be no trouble.”

Trowa nodded.  “I thank you.”  He said, offering a brief smile.  He set his hand to Quatre’s face, worried as he noticed that the
fever had worsened.  “How are you feeling?”

“I am tired . . . Master.”  Quatre spoke quietly.  “And my back pains me still.”

“Come, your room is this way, sir.”  The innkeeper said, motioning with a wave of his hand for Trowa and the man to follow.  
“Best get you settled so you can tend to your slave.”

Trowa said nothing, merely following the man’s lead.  The innkeeper moved swiftly, leading them upstairs to a room at the
back.  The room wasn’t all that large, yet it had quite a homey feel to it, a low fire going in the small hearth.  The innkeeper
went over to the fireplace, stoking the flames and adding more firewood, building the flames so that it would warm the room
more.  The man that was carrying Quatre set the blonde down on the bed, then departed, giving a polite goodbye before he left.

“I’ll have everything you requested brought up, sir.  You can pay for your room come morning.  Don’t want to trouble you now
. . . not as if you’ll be going anywhere in this weather anyway.”  The man said, bowing respectively as he backed out of the
door, closing it on his way out.

As soon as they were gone, Trowa moved to sit at Quatre’s side.  He unwrapped the fur from around Quatre’s body, throwing
it to the end of the bed.  Carefully, he helped Quatre to shed his cloak and tunic, his slippers, the veil over his hair and the hose
and garters . . . as well as the various pieces of jewelry that he wore, leaving the blonde only in his loincloth and face-veil.  
Quatre sat up and leaned forward . . . and Trowa unwound the bandages from around Quatre’s throat and back, a deep frown
on his face as he looked upon the angry wound to Quatre’s back.

“It’s infected . . . but not too badly.  With care, it should heal properly.  I knew I should have stopped last night.  Perhaps then I
would have been able to treat your wound properly.”  Trowa sighed, feeling sorry for the blonde’s condition.  Quatre was
already ill, and now he was worse off . . . Trowa felt terrible.

“It’s not that bad, really.”  Quatre smiled beneath his veil as he turned a little to face Trowa, raising a hand to settle against
Trowa’s face in a gentle manner.  “It is only a slight ache really.  I swear it.”

Trowa marveled at the bravery that Quatre was showing.  Such a strong heart in one so frail-looking, Trowa thought, smiling
back at Quatre.  “Don’t you worry . . . I’ll see to it you recover your health.  If need be, we’ll stay here for a couple of days
until you get a little stronger.”

Quatre nodded.  “I thank you, Trowa.  You are a good man.”

Trowa fought off a blush that crept over his cheeks.  He didn’t know how to respond to such a sentiment.  Instead of speaking,
Trowa merely brushed his fingers over Quatre’s cheek, doting attention on him.

It was not long before the innkeeper returned with their dinner, a servant of his carrying another tray that contained two basins
of water, as well as some ointments and bandages, soaps and washing cloths . . . a couple of drying cloths draped over one
shoulder.  The meals were set on the foot of the bed near to Trowa, the medicinal items left on the bedside table.

“I thought you might wish to wash after dinner, so I took the liberty of bringing the necessary items for you.”  The innkeeper
said.

“Thank you.”  Trowa replied, rising to his feet.  He took out his coin purse, tipping the innkeeper gratuitously.  “I truly
appreciate your generosity.”

The man’s eyes lit up.  “You are quite welcome, Milord.  If you should need anything else, don’t hesitate to call on me.”  With
that, he bowed and quickly departed along with his servant, pulling the door shut behind them.

Trowa and Quatre ate their meals in relative silence.  It was just a simple chicken stew, yet it tasted good.  During the meal,
Trowa kept an eye on Quatre though, being sure to monitor the other youth’s progress.  Quatre only ate about half of his stew
before he pushed his bowl aside, turning away from Trowa’s gaze as if ashamed of himself.  Trowa finished his stew, saying
nothing about Quatre having stopped.  He didn’t want to upset the blonde.  Once done, Trowa got up off of the bed, taking the
tray with the bowls on it, over to a nearby table and set it down.

Trowa urged Quatre to lean forward again.  He cleansed the area around the wound carefully, trying not to harm Quatre.  Then
he applied the medicine to it, wrapping the wound with the bandages supplied to him.  He checked the injury to Quatre’s throat,
deciding that it didn’t truly need to be bandaged again since it was only a superficial wound.

“Does that feel better?”  Trowa asked, soaking a cloth in the cool water in one of the basins and ringing it out, applying the
damp cloth to Quatre’s heated forehead.  He pulled the veil from Quatre’s face, deciding to give the youth a break from wearing
that.  It wasn’t as if anyone would see his face here in the room . . . the innkeeper would knock if he intended to enter and that
would give Quatre a chance to get his veil on again if need be.

Quatre smiled.  “Yes . . . the pain is dulling now.  I barely feel it anymore.”  He said, nodding his head a little.

“Good.  Now, you lie back and rest.  I’ll tend to your body.”  Trowa said, gently urging the youth to lie down.

Slowly, he removed the loincloth that was Quatre’s only covering, setting it aside with the rest of the clothing that he had
stripped off of the young man.  Trowa retrieved another cloth, soaking it in the warmer water and soaping it lightly.  He then
began to wash Quatre’s form, eyes grazing over the young man’s body as he cleansed his beautiful body.

As he progressed, Trowa’s body grew increasingly warm.  He had never really touched another person in this manner before . .
. and Catherine had tended to Quatre’s needs before they had left.  Trowa had always been afraid of such contact . . . but not
now, not with Quatre.  He didn’t understand.  And the sensations in his body were merely confusing to him.  There was a
tingling in the pit of his stomach, a feeling that seemed to spread out from his abdomen, crawling into every fiber of his being.  
He hadn’t felt like this before in his life . . . well, no . . . there had been one time.  He had felt this way when he had first seen
Quatre, the day that he had taken the blonde’s beautiful body for the first and only time.

Trowa swallowed nervously, pushing aside his feelings.  Quatre wouldn’t want this . . . wouldn’t want him.  Their tryst had
been forced, nothing could ever change or repair that.  Quatre hadn’t really wanted him that night, it had only been the result of
a spell and nothing more.  Trowa let out a breath, trying not to let his eyes linger too long on any part of the blonde’s perfect
body.

Finished with washing Quatre’s form, Trowa tossed the wet cloth aside, grabbing a drying cloth.  He ran the soft fabric over
Quatre’s body, drying him off, knowing that it would be better than to let the air dry him off.  To be sure that Quatre would be
comfortable, Trowa pulled the blankets up and over the blonde.  No, a chill could only injure him now.  Trowa didn’t want
Quatre’s condition to worsen.

As Trowa moved away from the bed, intending to sleep on the floor or perhaps in that comfortable-looking chair near the fire, a
small hand grasped his wrist.  Trowa turned to look at Quatre, feeling a little confused as to why the blonde would stop him.

Quatre smiled sheepishly at Trowa.  “Please, don’t go.  I don’t want to be alone.”  He said, loosening his grasp, and finally
letting go.  “You can sleep with me.  I really don’t mind.”

Trowa returned the smile.  “All right . . .”  He removed his shoes and tunic and was about to get into the bed when Quatre spoke
again.

“You’ll be uncomfortable sleeping in your breeches.”  Quatre said plainly, although quietly.  “When I said I didn’t mind you
sleeping with me . . . I meant it.”

Trowa flushed a little at the implications of Quatre’s statement, but he did remove the rest of his clothing.  He felt his face
flaming with a deep blush, but somehow . . . he was merely embarrassed at Quatre seeing him.  He was not filled with the
overwhelming terror that he’d felt the first time that Catherine had seen him naked, the same fear he had whenever any of the
mercenaries had had the opportunity to ogle his bare form.

Trowa bit into his lip, feeling oddly shy.  He was careful as he crawled into bed, as he didn’t want to jostle Quatre too much.

Quatre smiled tiredly at him.  “That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

Trowa smiled a little, not able to bring himself to answer verbally.  He lay nervously beside Quatre, uneasy with his state of
undress.  For the first time, his ill ease was not due to fear of being harmed, instead it was caused by a deep worry that Quatre
would not approve of him, that he would find Trowa lacking in some manner.

Quatre’s delicate arms came around Trowa’s body, the blonde’s head settling against the taller youth’s chest.  Trowa blinked,
feeling a little nervous as he settled an arm around Quatre’s shoulders, holding him lightly.  There was a comfortable silence for
several minutes . . . and then Quatre spoke.

“Trowa?”  The little blonde asked, fidgeting slightly.

“Yes . . . is there something you need?”  Trowa inquired, his worry coming back to him.

“Trowa . . . will you . . . will you touch me?”  Quatre whispered, pressing his lithe body closer to Trowa’s.  “I mean . . . really
touch me?”

Trowa gulped, not sure if he could trust his voice to reply appropriately.  He merely nodded his head, knowing that he truly did
want to touch the petite blonde . . . he had wanted to for days now . . . over a month actually . . . ever since their one beautiful
night together.  Even though Trowa never wanted to hurt the blonde, he could never escape the memories of how Quatre’s body
had felt against him . . . around him.

He brought his hands up to Quatre’s shoulders, slowly easing his hands and fingers along the creamy, smooth skin of his slender
neck in a soft caress.  His breath hitched as he let his fingers trail across Quatre’s inviting lips, all conscious thought fleeing his
mind as the little blonde opened his mouth and began to suck on the questing digits.


*****


Quatre moaned around the fingers he doted attention on, moving slowly as he tasted Trowa’s delicious skin.  He pulled away
with a smile curling his lips, falling to lie back against the pillows, grasping Trowa’s biceps and pulling the taller youth to lay
atop him.

“Touch me?  Please, Trowa?”  Quatre breathed, arching his body beneath Trowa’s, wanting nothing more than to be caressed
and fondled by the other youth.

For so long now, ever since Trowa had gone to Taura, Quatre had been considering his feelings for Trowa Barton.  And now
that Trowa had returned, now that Quatre had been in Trowa’s company once more, Quatre had come to one and only one
conclusion.  He did care about Trowa, possibly even loved him . . . and he wanted to be more intimate with him.

Truth be said, he had enjoyed their one night together, the feel of Trowa’s strong hands roaming his body, the feel of Trowa’s
lips against his . . . the sensation of being taken by Trowa’s delightfully thick shaft.  Quatre wanted to feel that again, not only
the pleasure of being taken . . . just the intimacy, the feelings of security he got whenever Trowa brushed a hand across his
skin.  He wanted Trowa Barton, wanted him to be more than just a simple friend . . . his heart and soul demanded something
more and Quatre could not deny his wants and desires any longer.

He cared nothing for the spell that bound him as Trowa’s slave, thought nothing of the hatred he had felt for himself before.  
Trowa was a good man, a strong and kind person.  He would never hurt Quatre.  In fact, he had saved Quatre’s life on more
than one occasion.  He was a decent person . . . a person that Quatre wanted more than anything else in his entire life.

Trowa shivered above him, his eyes staring deep into Quatre’s.  Quatre smiled, reaching up and caressing the brunette’s cheek,
wishing to soothe him.  He could sense the fear in Trowa, knew that there was something the young man had hidden away in
his past to taint this moment between them . . . and all Quatre wanted to do was to make him forget the past, to bring and keep
Trowa in the here and now.

Quatre raised himself up, the pain in his shoulder long forgotten as he tenderly pressed his lips to Trowa’s, delighting in every
sensation.  At first, Trowa didn’t respond to the gentle kiss . . . however, he eventually gave himself over to the temptation,
opening his mouth to Quatre’s tongue and pressing forward, urging Quatre to do more.

Trowa’s hands trembled as he allowed them to roam across Quatre’s body.  Quatre arched toward the contact, moaning time
and again as Trowa found his most sensitive places with ease.  This was good, so very good.  This, Quatre wanted.  He hadn’t
wanted that dirty old man, Dekim to touch him ever . . . but he welcomed Trowa’s caresses with pleasure.  Quatre wanted
more . . . so much more.  He knew, however, that Trowa was not ready to willingly give him too much more.  Even now,
Quatre could sense the slight undertone of fear in Trowa’s mind.  Then Trowa started caressing his sac and Quatre couldn’t
focus on anything else . . . his cry of joy broke out uncontained.

He was drowning in the pleasure and welcomed it wholeheartedly.  Quatre could feel his release approaching quickly, with each
stroke of Trowa’s talented hand along his throbbing erection.  He felt happy that he wouldn’t have to promise anything in order
to receive this sliver of bliss.  As he screamed and arched his back, Quatre felt content, not dirty or defiled as he had felt when
Dekim had touched his body that first time.  He lay bonelessly on the bed for a moment as Trowa used one of the cloths to clean
up the evidence of Quatre’s completion.  Quatre was still floating in his post-orgasmic bliss when he felt Trowa starting to prep
him.

Quatre frowned at the shaking in Trowa’s hands and opened his senses to see if it were anticipation or fear that made his hands
tremble so.  Quatre slammed his mental barriers up at the abject terror flowing from Trowa.  He didn’t want Trowa to be
afraid.  He didn’t EVER want Trowa to be afraid . . . not of this.

“S-Stop!”  Quatre said.  It took all of his willpower, but he levered himself up, grasping lightly at one of Trowa’s shoulders.  
“No, Trowa . . . I . . .”  Quatre blinked.  Before he had the time to explain that he didn’t want Trowa forcing himself, Trowa
was across the room and curled in a corner.


*****


Trowa didn’t know what he had done wrong.  He thought Quatre had wanted him . . . that the beautiful blonde had wanted what
had transpired on that first night they had shared.  Even though Trowa didn’t really want to do that yet, the fear still present in
his mind . . . such touches were painful, he remembered from his own life . . . pain was all one got when they did that.

He was well aware of the fact that if prepared properly, there would be no real physical pain . . . but no matter how thoroughly
prepared one’s body is, the mind is another matter . . . and his mind and soul always ached at the mere memory of what those
mercenaries had done . . . he couldn’t shake the faces from his mind, the feel of their hands groping his body.

But Quatre had seemed to want to continue . . . he truly had.  He looked so beautiful in the throes of passion, his hair clinging to
sweat-bathed skin, his eyes shimmering with lust.  So Trowa had begun to prepare him, had started what he knew would lead
Quatre to be happy.  Maybe Trowa had done something wrong . . . maybe he had hurt him.  Trowa whimpered, curling further
in on himself as he cowered in the corner.  He hadn’t meant to hurt Quatre . . . hadn’t wanted to do anything bad.

“I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry . . .”  He echoed, rocking back and forth, each backward motion sending an ache through his back as
he collided harshly with the wall time and again.

He deserved the pain . . . he had hurt Quatre.  He was disobedient.  He was bad.  He had to be.  Why else would Quatre push
him away?  He was worthless little Nanashi, a slave who knew nothing . . . the stupid child who could never do anything right in
the eyes of his saviors, the mercenaries.

Tears sprung from his eyes, his throat closing painfully.  He jerked away as gentle hands fell on his shoulders, raising his hands
to shield his head from any attack.  The reaction was ingrained in his mind, a way to protect himself from more harm . . . a
futile effort as all of the mercenaries had only grabbed him and done worse things than simply beating him.  He was shocked
when those gentle hands turned into equally gentle arms that pulled him into a warm embrace.

“Oh, Trowa . . .”  Quatre’s voice was soft and full of compassion and caring.  “Trowa . . . it isn’t that I don’t desire you.  And
don’t think for a second that I don’t want you to make love to me.”

Trowa shuddered in Quatre’s arms.  “What did I do wrong?  What did I do to displease you?  Why did you push me away from
you?”  He pressed his forehead against Quatre’s shoulder and readied himself to be hit.

“Because . . . YOU don’t want it.”  He said, easing a tender hand along Trowa’s spine, doing nothing more than stroking lightly.  
“Trowa . . . look at me.”  Quatre’s eyes were warm and loving, and a kind smile was on his delicate face.  “You aren’t ready.  
Even though you were preparing me, you were terrified of something.  I could tell.  One of these days, when I am stronger, we
will talk.  You can tell me all about what frightens you so, even though I think I can guess by your reaction . . . and we will
work through it together if you wish it.”

Trowa flinched as Quatre raised his hand, yet relaxed when Quatre brought that hand to his face in a gentle caress.  Quatre’s
words were giving him a spark of hope that he hadn’t disgusted Quatre completely.

“What then?”  Trowa asked, his voice quiet.

Quatre smiled, as if he were truly happy that Trowa was no longer cowering in the corner.  “Then, when you are ready . . . and
no sooner . . . you can pick up where I stopped you tonight.  We have forever . . . or at least a good many years unless you
decide to sell me.  It might not have been my choice of circumstances, but I do think that I would want to stay with you after
having gotten to know you.  I care about you dearly, Trowa.”  He started to stroke Trowa’s arm, his fingers warm and
delicate.  “If you don’t mind, though, I will return the favor you did for me.”

Trowa gasped as one of Quatre’s slender fingers ran the length of his hardness.  Trowa’s momentary distress had not erased
the fact that Quatre’s ecstatic moans and writhing form had turned Trowa on, made him hard beyond imagining with desire for
the pale beauty.  Trowa would have shied away from anyone else in this instance, but Quatre was being so tentative . . . as if he
were afraid . . . truly afraid . . . of causing Trowa any harm in any way.  Trowa’s response was to relax against Quatre, but he
was surprised when Quatre chuckled softly.

“Not here, though.”  Quatre said, removing his hand.  “The floor is cold.”

Trowa allowed himself to be led.  Now that the possibility of actual sex was taken away, Trowa found that he could remain
calm as Quatre kept his touches light and almost teasing.  Trowa knew that any hint of distress would cause Quatre to stop, and
that knowledge in and of itself removed the fear from Trowa’s mind.

Quatre’s firm hand ran knowingly along the length of Trowa’s shaft, touching and stroking, caressing every possible inch.  
Trowa arched into the touch, keeping his eyes focused with Quatre’s, wanting to stay in the here and now, desperate to be
reassured by Quatre’s gentle gaze.  He was rewarded and filled with pleasure at the sight of Quatre’s smile, at the feel of the
little blonde’s hand as he hastened his pace.

Trowa fought to control his breathing, biting his lip to silence his moans as he let loose.  He thrust his hips upward, striving for a
release.  In mere moments, it was granted to him.  He convulsed, opening his mouth in a soundless cry as his seed spewed forth
over Quatre’s pumping fist.

“W-Wonderful.”  Trowa murmured, even as Quatre milked him of his semen.  It was quite a delightful experience, Trowa
discovered, hoping that the two of them would someday be able to progress farther than just simple hand jobs.

Trowa blinked as a cool wetness swept across his stomach, only to smile as he watched Quatre clean the signs of semen from
Trowa’s body, washing off his own hand as well.  He took notice that Quatre was looking a little pale and raised a hand, gently
easing Quatre to lay beside him.

With his foot, Trowa brought the blanket close enough to grab with his hand, settling the covers over their bodies.  Quatre
responded with enthusiasm, laying almost halfway across Trowa’s body, his form feeling as if it were meant to always be
there.  Quatre fell asleep quickly, tired due to their actions as well as to the illness in his young body.  Seeing that Quatre was
resting, Trowa closed his eyes, his arm wrapped around the petite youth, holding him close as sleep claimed his weary mind.



To Be Continued . . .