and then again

Wufei had never much liked clubs, but that was before he saw Trowa with his head thrown back, mouth open, eyes closed, and that single image burned itself into Wufei's retinas and remained with him for long after, rising to the surface at the most inopportune times. Like when Wufei was preparing for a presentation to Une and the Board of Directors on the new Preventers Training Program, but lurking past the gray heads and sedate faux-wood conference table was Trowa, standing with his legs spread, shoulders braced, back arched, hips pulsing against Quatre. Wufei never saw Quatre's face; it had been turned away, while Quatre mouthed at Trowa's neck, but the lights in the club had caught Quatre's blond curls and turned them crimson, then jet, then crimson as the lights swept across the crowd. Dry-mouthed, Wufei struggled to remember the statistics to convince the Board, looking anywhere but across the room, forcing himself to meet the gazes of people he normally wouldn't note other than in quick passes.

He saw Trowa on the bus, commuting from his apartment to work; he saw Trowa in the grocery store, pressed against the cans of asparagus while Quatre's fingers gripped Trowa's hips, strangely right next to the can of tomato soup that Wufei had promised to pick up for Duo, who had a cold. Wufei, unexpectedly, wished he felt a cold coming on, himself, so he could too would have an excuse to remain at home, staring into the corners of his room, seeing Trowa lick his lips, unaware of the bodies around him, lost in Quatre's grasp.

Sometimes, never late at night, more often when Wufei got home from yet another endless swing shift of analyzing data and arguing with Heero and dodging Sally's teasing, Wufei would pull off his shirt and throw it in the laundry basket, then collapse onto his bed. He didn't need to close his eyes to see Trowa, that moment of grace, perfect release, lips rounded, curled up a little at the edges, a look that might have been pain if it weren't for the white knuckled-hands holding Quatre close, so close. In his mind, Wufei was still across the room, across the club, watching, drink halfway to his mouth, caught in that moment and remaining there forever, watching Trowa.

Those times, he'd let his hand rest on his bare stomach, feeling the muscles under his skin with an idle sweep of his thumb, before undoing the buttons, one, two, three, laying his fly open to slip a hand into his pants. Sometimes he did no more than that, just cup himself, and close his eyes, letting the late afternoon sun become strobes against his eyelids, the neighbor's incessant spanish pop music become the driving beat of a dark club, the incense he'd burned the night before to drive away mosquitos become the heavy drift of smoke and cloves and sweat and sex, Trowa's sex, seen from too far away.

Other times Wufei would imagine being there again, or somewhere very like it; he was no fool to even remotely fantasize of time repeating itself. He saw no room, no grand environment nor shoddy sofa, only the faint visual of straddling a chair to pleasure himself, letting Trowa and Quatre watch in return. For the few minutes it took him to jerk himself roughly to fullness, then past it into completion, he couldn't imagine their faces, nor did he want to. He only imagined their pleasure, knowing what they had, he'd watched. They accepted the gift of his pleasure in return, but then he'd come to, sticky and splattered, and he'd wipe his hand off on his chest, empty and dissatisfied. It was a hollow thing to imagine creating such a gift, but never bestow it.

He would shower, fix himself some dinner, tolerate Duo's nightly call about Preventer procedure for paperwork, email Quatre on the latest projects, exchange a quick online chat with Trowa, and send confirmation when Heero left a message about their weekend plans. He'd feed the cat, stretch, do some yoga, answer the phone despite knowing it was Sally, promise her he'd eaten a good meal and was off to bed early, then stay up until three reading his latest book purchase. He'd turn out the light, and think of his day, his job, his friends, his book, his cat, his laundry.

He'd exorcised Trowa, and each time Wufei was certain he'd be successful. The lure was gone, no interest in the way Trowa's hair fell against his forehead, revealing both eyes, a long nose, a strong jaw; the angle of Trowa's chest and the bend of his knees, the tilt of his hips: none of it touched Wufei.

For a little while, that is, and then a few days afterward, Wufei would be studying the new fax machine for the proper succession of buttons to get the damn thing to work, and he'd glance over to see Trowa, head thrown back, chest rising and falling in quick breaths, as Quatre supported him, hips moving in time against Trowa's. Wufei's fingers would stumble on the machine's touchpad, he'd apologize to the young assistant waiting her turn, and then he'd hurry away, determined to return later to send off the paperwork, later, when he'd recovered from the ghost.

Maybe some day he'd say something, maybe someday he'd admit he'd watched, maybe some day he'd find a way to show what that one moment had done to him, undone him, done him over and over, standing across a club, watching. And maybe, then again, he might not.