Trowa's Cure (rewrite)

Disclaimer: don't own em, fanfics are like that. nods It's complicated, no?

Pairs: 3x4x3--or maybe 4x3x4... it's all up to interpretation.

Warning: language, lime, yaoi (boy-boy love), Trowa's POV, past ref to NCS, sappy angst/angsty sap?, kinda pointless in that odd angst-riddled way

Note: My first oneshot and attempt at yaoi, I cleaned this up a little bit because of the recent comments I've been getting about it and the fact that I think it's due for one.I didn't do much to change it other than some grammar and style-related things. Trowa is still somewhat... strange, I think, and though I do like Quatre, he's kinda weird too. I dunno. shrug Dun like it, but other people do, and I redid this one for them. This is dedicated to anyone who's reviewed this fic in the past and everyone else who will (I hope) in the future. We all gotta start somewhere, right? This is where I started.

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The sun is dying, passing one more day before me as I lay down to rest, and perhaps finally die. Memories cling to my flesh like a broken child, tiny fingers wrapped around my thumb, squeezing for comfort and reassurance. A man once said to me that sunsets are like sex. He said nothing ever beats the sun, he said you can't escape it's heat, you can't avoid it. He said the sun is forever, it's the very essence of life. But the sun is dying.

Life is dead.

Quatre sits at the window, patient as he watches the night swallow the sun beneath the earth and into the depths of hell, the place where grown men took a liking to fuck me the wrong way and where Captain had said, "Don't you ever cry, boy. A man doesn't show his tears."

The sky is burning an emotional showdown with the night. The night is hungry, immortal in its thirst for the light of the sun, and the sun cannot resist, bound to the lusts of the night like a hungry slave. But the night is slave to the day as well, to the sun and the luminescence of my angel sitting before me at the windowsill. Slaves to slaves, and masters to masters. I would know something about that, wouldn't I?

He waits, simply breathing life as the night swallows the sun in all its glory, fiery skies burning final retribution as a display to the mortals of earth. I forget to breathe as I watch it burn--as I watch him. He doesn't move. He doesn't blink. He doesn't miss a heartbeat of the war as it stretches the length of the hour. He is frozen in the moment, in the emotion, in the magnitude of such a simple daily occurrence. It paralyzes him.

And before my eyes could regain their focus, my Quatre is drenched in darkness. The night had swallowed the sun into its mighty jaws and the sky was speckled with colorful stars, a beautiful dress of comfort and near safety. Even hell has its moments, doesn't it? In the darkness, my eyes catch Quatre's silhouette still sitting on the windowsill. His skin--always pale--glimmers in the dark. His eyes are distant and calling, nearly lustful as they probe the skies for answers.

An angel. If there ever were such a thing, he would be it. I'm sure of it.

And then that bastard's voice lulled in the moment, destroying my fragile heaven into nothing again. "A nothing can't love, you stupid boy. Don't bother."

Quatre finally turned, a faint smile gracing his lips. His brilliant sea-blue eyes glittered a moment in lazy adjustment, and he yawned, rubbing his eyes in very old way. He blinked slowly, and then finally acknowledged my presence in a surprised manner, his smile evolving into something that reached his eyes and surpassed his face, melting into me. It lit the room and washed away the darkness, but the voice in my mind remained, taunting me. It snickered in amusement. It knew that I didn't deserve that kind of beauty, and it knew I wouldn't bother the attempt.

But Quatre's voice was like silk. "Oh Trowa... how long have you been standing there?"

"Not long." Strange that he hadn't known. He must have been so absorbed in the sunset that he lost all his empathy to it. It is very difficult for me to step into a room without him knowing, but maybe the angel is toying with me. Games of an angel are like that.

That bastard's voice echoed in my head again and I cursed at it, trying to will it away. It laughed and clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Ready to bleed, my boy?"

"What's wrong Trowa?" When I didn't answer, Quatre rose and closed the distance between us. He was wearing a white dress shirt and silk black pants. His eyes were worried, naked and brutally honest as they conveyed a genuine sincerity for his comrade. His lo--"You can't lie to me, Trowa. I know something is bothering you."

I shook my head. Denial?

The bastard's voice cackled again. I felt familiar pain coarse into me, dull and distant--and yet...

"Trowa..."

Quatre eased a hand on my shoulder--one touch and I almost hit him, but I leapt backward before it could connect. I suppressed a scream. A scream? Where the hell did that come from, anyway? I was suddenly wrapped in desperate negative emotions... tangled like a massive spider's web intent to ensnare my angel and devour him lest I ever come to touch him in the wrong--seductive--way. I didn't even notice that I was shivering until he told me so, and I didn't know I was crying until he asked me why I did it.

I didn't answer.

So he kissed me.

And I hit him. I don't know why, but I did. Not to bleed or break. I could never hurt my angel like that. I just hit him hard enough as a warning. I hit him in the jaw. I marked his face. I felt like shit for doing it.

"Sorry..." His voice was gentle and soothing, even after I had punched him. The fact that he was apologizing to me did not escape my conscience. Yes. I really do have one, however boneless that sounds. He lightly rubbed his jaw, eyes grazing my figure. A smile was faint and warm on his lips. "Sorry... but you're so beautiful... Do you know that, Trowa?" His eyes weren't hurt, he simply stood probing, almost searching my very soul for answers as he silently rubbed the pain and watched me gape at him in horror. I didn't mean to hit him and he knew it. I think that's why he had forgiven me so easily.

I wanted to run away. My legs were frozen.

He closed the distance again and I trembled. I wanted him. I really and utterly wanted him, but I was afraid. He grinned almost devilish and gently kissed me again. "You can hit me if you like Trowa, but you cannot hurt me."

"I would find a way." My voice was cracked and it sounded weak in my own ears.

He wrapped his arms around my neck and pulled me down to meet him. He kissed my forehead and stared deep into my eyes, blue pulsing every sense of my body. He breathed for a long quiet moment, breathed me. I shivered.

"Why do you hide behind your bangs, Trowa?" The way he said my name. It was... tantalizing. If I'd known any less, I'd have assumed he was seducing me. But he wasn't.

I grinned a half kind of grin, a very small, very wry looking thing. Before me stood an angel with golden masks of his own. Why should he ask me something so true for the both of us? I brushed the pale bangs from his eyes and stared into him. "I should ask the same of you."

Quatre blushed. "You can't hide from me. I feel you as if you were mine." He wet his lips, his eyes flashing. "It almost hurts." It was then that he let his hand rub at his chest, and I suddenly noticed how pale he was, glittering beads of sweat and breathing steady, slowly. Almost forced. His hand shook ever so slightly as he rubbed at his heart.

"I'm hurting you?"

"I've already told you, you can't hurt me, Trowa. You can't hurt me..." He kissed my lips very softly, gentle and inviting. "...unless you hurt yourself."

"I don't hurt."

"Trowa, I've never felt so much pain from someone before, and if only for one simple kiss." I gave no answer. Quatre wasn't stirred. "Why do you speak so emotionless? You're still hiding from me."

I shrugged. "I've never had emotion to begin with."

"Really?" His voice was raked with amusement, but also concern. "You're eyes tell me that you lie, Trowa. Did you know that?"

I refused to answer. I was growing uncomfortable. I wanted to step away, run away, but I couldn't. I wanted him, I wanted to touch him and smother him with everything that I had, and I wanted to be inside him. I wanted to run away.

"You regret."

I shot him a confused look.

"You regret," he repeated. A statement. A fact?

"No. I don't regret, Quatre. I've killed more people than you can begin to imagine."

His eyes dulled. "And who's to say that I haven't done the same?"

"You're innocent," I said. "You never kill needlessly."

He shook his head slowly, sadly, almost old, too old for my tastes. "No."

"I've killed my own family." I don't know why I've allowed that to escape my lips, but I did.

Quatre simply nodded. "So have I."

I didn't want to explore that thought. Though mine was quite literal, his was more metaphorical in nature, and I have the twisted feeling that he was speaking of his father. That brought forth unpleasant memories. I shivered and he caught me.

"I don't regret it," I said.

He grinned weakly. "Neither do I."

It was an awkward moment where I stood to contemplate running again while Quatre's heat touched me, his body dangerously close, threatening. Before I could explore into the thought, Quatre seized me in a deeper kiss, this one fierce and passionate. I trembled in the action, old fears rising again inside of me, that bastard wailing an armed mockery of cruel intentions. But the angel's embrace was warm, and he soothed my aches as his tongue slipped into my mouth, exploring every crevice, stealing my breath for his as my eyes grew heavier and I--

...ran away.

I pushed him off of me, my fear ripping me apart, and I leapt a good deal across the room from him, keeping my distance even as my heart ached against it. I wanted him... but I feared it. I did.

"You're free, you know. You don't need to run anymore."

I wouldn't answer.

"Fine, you can leave if you like, just don't stare like that. You're not an idiot, Trowa. You're not cold, even if you pretend to be." The angel's eyes were hard but still soft... almost hurt. Sad. "Leave if it's too much for you."

I stared into his eyes. Yes, they were hurt. They were hurt because I hurt. I had hurt him, hurting myself. Imagine that.

Quatre growled, anger finally resonating his voice. "Fuck, Trowa," it was the first time I'd heard him curse. "...if you want a rape, that's fine with me. Anything you want, anything at all... just stand out there on a corner and let the world take you. Let them walk all over you again and again."

Nothing. I wouldn't answer that.

He fell to the floor and buried his face into his knees, hugging himself tightly, as if to squeeze the feelings out of him. "Damnit, Trowa..." came a muffled voice. "It requires energy to live."

I felt like dried shit. I was being an idiot and the angel exposed me for what it was. I stepped toward him. And stepped again. And again. And again, until I finally found myself standing beside him, his pale face buried in his slender knees as he hugged himself, his eyes squeezed shut and grimacing.

I bent down and sifted my fingers through the blonde tangles of his hair, lost in the silky texture as I bent lower to kiss the top of his head. He didn't respond, and I worried. I wanted to draw him out again, I wanted him to look at me. I wanted to lose myself in his eyes again, I wanted to breathe his inner brilliance. I found myself kissing down to his forehead, nudging his chin up so I could reach his face. He cooperated, but his eyes remained shut tightly, angry and a bit resentful. His lips were frowning.

"Quatre... let me see your eyes."

"No."

"Quatre..."

"No."

I kissed his right eyelid gently, then his left and worked my way down the bridge of his nose, finally meeting his mouth. I tried once for tongue and failed, but tried again and Quatre grabbed me with startling strength and pulled my face into him as I felt his fingers claw their way into my hair, our breathes mingling through each other as his tongue suddenly invaded my mouth. We danced together for minutes. Hours. Days. Time was broken, and I lost myself to him for years. Eons.

When he finally pulled away, he was panting desperately, a grin settling on his face. He let his eyes flutter open, something I had been denied for so long, it seemed, and I lost myself again. They were caught with passion. With lust. With... love?

Yes. I'm almost positive.

"Apology accepted," he said. "...and you're welcome."

I drenched him with another kiss. I hugged him, snuggled into him as if to meld with him, become him, and it was then at that moment the bastard's voice in my head screamed with unmistakable fury as it died away, never to be remembered ever again. I let the angel take me away. I let him heal me. I let him cure me. And he did.

END.

A/N -- When Trowa speaks of killing his own family, he's referring to his Episode Zero. I don't remember exactly how it goes, but I'm sure it's not the way Trowa implies here. He didn't actually pull a gun in his comrades, but from Trowa's perspective, it's obvious that he blames himself. Thus why he said it the way he did. And as for Quatre's confession of killing HIS family, this is a play on how Quatre feels about his father. I've always felt that Quatre would blame himself for what happened and, as always, carry the entire guilt on his shoulders. Despite Trowa's insistence, neither statements are true. Okay? Good. ;)