LOVE HURTS
By fancyfigures
Gundam Wing, 4x3x4, NC17, some angst
Warnings : None
Disclaimer : Mine? I wish.



Quatre rolled on to his back, panting; gasping. The mattress dipped underneath him, hugging the tight lines of his ass. A muscle twitched in the dip above his left buttock; a dribble of sweat ran down between his thighs, tickling at the back of his knee. His cock slapped limply at his groin but it still throbbed with the imprint of its fierce climax, a swelling, a bursting, a filling

His head throbbed; his wrists ached. He’d held himself up on his arms, muscles tensed, flesh aching, and he’d driven into the body beneath him, thrusting deeply, again and again, taking his satisfaction for as long as it took. The fierce, ugly sounds had been his - grunts and moans of unfettered desire. It had been his hands that had ripped the sheets inside his fists; his fingers that had bruised the skin beneath him with their desperate grip.

A wave of shock and horror washed over him. He lay as if paralysed, calming his thudding pulse, swamped by a shame he’d never felt before.

The body beside him shifted silently; the bed barely acknowledged the gentle movement.

Quatre briefly closed his eyes. He’d been drunk. That was the only excuse he could think of, pathetic though it was. He'd eagerly welcomed his invitation to this evening's Christmas party, held in aid of his favourite charity. He'd arrived at the chosen hotel early in the afternoon, involving himself in greeting the celebrity guests and marketing the good cause to the the press. Oh yes, he'd been glad to attend, even more so when he saw who else would be arriving later in the evening. It was an opportunity to spend more time with Trowa Barton - something he'd wanted for a long time. Their workplace meetings had been frustrating in their brevity - their shared commercial interests stimulating but not yet fully developed. Nor did Quatre think he'd misjudged their mutual attraction, and an intention on both sides to take it further when time allowed. Maybe his excitement had got the better of him there, too - it had encouraged him to drink more than usual of the splendid wine provided.

When time allowed.

He'd obviously been too eager to relax, to abandon the pressures of work. And then there'd been the champagne. It had been extremely good, a fine vintage and he’d loved the taste of it, savouring it on his tongue, letting its fruity aroma and pale beauty seduce other senses, too. But he drank champagne frequently - he didn't know why, this evening, it should have affected him so strongly. Recent, long hours at work had tired him physically, and the excitement of seeing Trowa had unbalanced him emotionally. Maybe those were the reasons. Maybe…

Maybe he was fooling himself.

The champagne had been a Christmas gift, discovered at the end of the evening under the huge, extravagantly decorated Christmas tree in the hotel lobby. The receptionist had brought it to him with a smile, claiming it had been left by an unknown benefactor – by a Secret Santa, or so Trowa had laughingly called it. Trowa had been with him, then, a warm arm across his shoulders, a hip brushing against his own.

Trowa. Oh my God.

Quatre couldn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t look. He was no child, thinking that if he couldn’t see, he couldn’t be seen. But he could hope, couldn’t he?

No, he couldn’t. He was no child, and his hopes were destroyed. But even if he were a fool, he would be an honest one. He opened his eyes and looked over at the other side of the bed.

Dark eyes looked back at him from under tousled chestnut hair. Trowa lay on his side, staring at him. His own skin was filmed with sweat, his chest lifting with short, shallow breaths. He, also, was recovering.

“I…” Quatre had no idea what to say. Any apology would sound insincere. Any excuse, trite. His eyes flickered over the flushed, pale skin of his bedmate; he felt a lustful excitement clench again in his groin and he was disgusted with himself.

“I’ll go,” he said. He wondered where the hell he’d left his pants; where his socks were. How could he worry about such mundane things? This was all a living nightmare.

He could see Trowa’s mouth out of the corner of his eye. The lips were still damp with saliva; still dark red and ragged in the corner where he’d bitten through the flesh.

Trowa’s mouth twitched gently, as if in amusement. “It’s your room, remember?” he murmured. Quatre realised how much he loved the sound of Trowa’s voice. Very soft but very clear. Rich in so many ways. “If anyone should go, it should be me.” Trowa frowned. “But I wasn’t planning on it just yet. Did you want me to…?”

Quatre flushed hotly. “Hell, no! I didn’t mean that.” What did he mean?

“What did you mean?” Trowa echoed his thoughts, uncannily. “What’s wrong, Quatre?”

Quatre wondered where the hell he'd start. To admit that he'd denied this man his true respect? That he'd abused a friendship that he'd once hoped would be so much more? He’d never realised that humiliation could be so sharp, so painful. “I’m deeply sorry. I behaved… appallingly. You didn’t deserve that.”

Trowa was silent for a moment, just watching him. Quatre felt the slow chill of the sweat cooling on his body. His limbs still ached. He wanted to cover himself up but knew what a ridiculous gesture that would be. Trowa shifted again, moving even nearer to Quatre’s naked body. He looked like he wanted to touch him… kiss him again.

Quatre’s reawakening desire begged for it. His upbringing told him he had no right to it. He tensed up, hating them both with equal despair.

Trowa didn’t touch him. Instead, he moistened his lips and pushed his hair away from his forehead. He spoke slowly and carefully, in that soft, rich voice. “You don’t need to apologise. I think that you behaved…” He smiled then, so slightly that Quatre wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been staring at his mouth with a hopeless fascination. “You behaved superbly.”

What the hell did he mean? Quatre was awash with an irrational fury. The memories of the evening before swamped him – the glint of the Christmas tree lights in the pupils of Trowa's eyes; the dim, seductive atmosphere of the hotel elevator; the laughing in the corridor on their way back to the room; the sudden push against the wall and the rush of desire that consumed him, burning his throat, blurring his eyes. He’d felt the swollen shape of his cock press against Trowa’s groin and all he’d wanted was to have more of it, of him, of the man he’d admired for so long and desired for only slightly less.

He’d humiliated them both, of course. The time between unlocking the door to his suite and thrusting Trowa’s naked thighs apart had been a matter of minutes. He’d barely loosened him enough – barely spoken a word of request, before taking what he’d wanted all evening. No, strike that - what he’d wanted for months.

“Don’t mock me!” Quatre snapped, hot and angry with fear of himself. “I all but attacked you – I was like an animal!”

Trowa spread his hand on the tangled sheet beneath them both, looking down at his lean fingers. Somehow, Quatre felt that his eyes were still staring at him.

“Yes you were.” Trowa was smiling gently like before, though the tone of his voice was strained. “You were… magnificent. Strong. Greedy.”

Quatre was shocked at the description. “I’ve never been like that.” Had he? No… never. No-one had ever made him feel so desperate, so out of control. “It was something in the champagne…”

And now Trowa’s voice grew sharper. “I never drank any of it. You barely had two glasses. Don’t look for blame where there is none.”

Blame? Quatre was momentarily speechless.

“Is that what you meant?” Trowa pulled himself up on an elbow so that he leant over Quatre’s upper body. Their eyes locked. “You didn’t want it? You didn’t enjoy it? The champagne made me do it…?”

Quatre stared up at him. He was painfully aware of Trowa’s bare skin against his own: the muscles of Trowa’s leg pressing against his. He could feel Trowa’s hot breath on his face and his body was stirring in eager response. “My God, no,” he gasped. “I wanted it – too, too much! I wanted you. I enjoyed you.” He tried to close his eyes again, to shut it all out. “Don’t you see? That’s the problem – I used you.”

Trowa laughed, then, though he sounded concerned. “And I thought we used each other. Quatre, look at me.” He waited until Quatre’s eyes opened again. “It's OK. I was the one who suggested drinks in your room. I was the one in the corridor with my tongue down your throat – I was the one broke the zipper of your pants, pulling them off.”

Quatre was struggling to remember it all. “But I took you – I never asked. I never… Trowa, I barely know what you like, where you want to be touched, whether you wanted me inside you or not –“

Trowa hissed softly. He lifted his hand and stroked at Quatre’s thigh. Quatre fell silent, unable to stop the pleasure shuddering through him. “You see?” Trowa murmured. “I know you like this because when I do it, you sigh. You don’t turn away. That’s how we find out about each other – by being there.”

His hand travelled across Quatre’s legs, trailing along the line of the muscle. Quatre felt his cock jerk against his thigh, swelling once more. His back arched instinctively, and he gasped, still speechless. Trowa moved again, lying so that his mouth was back at Quatre’s ear, whispering. “You made me come, and it was the best time I can remember. I came twice. My dick aches with the memory of it. You sucked me off and then you fucked me, Quatre, and it was magnificent.”

“Dear God.” Quatre’s body was alive again with desire and need. He’d never been so aroused before; never been so responsive.

“And I wanted you,” Trowa’s voice continued, lapping across Quatre’s nerves, following the path of the man’s fingertip caresses. “I wanted you more than anything, and I have done for months. Do you hear me? I still want you, Quatre. It's all OK. This is just the beginning.”

“I hurt you.” Quatre blurted it out. He’d seen the pale discoloration on the taut skin of Trowa’s hip. He’d never raised a hand to anyone in sex play – never marked them. Trowa was a treasure to him: a treasure that he’d treated far too carelessly.

Trowa growled from deep in his throat. “Don’t be afraid of this. That’s not how I see you – that’s not how you truly are. Do you really think that’s all it’d take to hurt me? You have no idea.”

Quatre flushed. “No, I don’t –“

Trowa leant over him, covering his mouth with his own, sucking the words into moans. “Sometimes you’re a fool, Quatre Winner,” he whispered, his soft tone denying any true offence.

“Yes,” Quatre muttered back. “I think I am.”

“I like that in a man.” Trowa’s whisper licked its way across Quatre’s throat. “So now I want to fuck again. And again. I want to use you – and you must use me. We can set our own rules.” His teeth nipped at Quatre’s shoulder - hard. “Do you want me to fetch the rest of the bottle of champagne? You carried it all the way up here with us.”

“Did I?” Quatre felt a bubble of laughter in his throat. “My Secret Santa gift, you called it.” But the champagne wasn't his real gift, was it? He wanted time to think things over but Trowa’s mouth was insistent on his, preventing him from thinking clearly; preventing him from worrying; from apologising; keeping him from his fears.

"I don't need it," he whispered, allowing himself to be rolled over under Trowa's body, flat on his belly but arching up his hips as the mischievous tongue ran down his spine, licking hungrily between his buttocks. Trowa's fingers prised his cheeks open, maybe not as gently as Quatre was used to - maybe more in use than in worship.

Quatre gasped and groaned as the tongue flickered around his puckered entrance. He was physically tired; he was emotionally drained and confused; he was fiercely aroused.

This is just the beginning.

And he was a very happy fool.