
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/200308.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Gundam_Wing
  Relationship:
      Trowa_Barton/Quatre_Raberba_Winner
  Character:
      Trowa_Barton, Quatre_Raberba_Winner, Heero_Yuy, Duo_Maxwell, Chang_Wufei
  Additional Tags:
      Community:_30_lemons, Mutual_Masturbation, Frottage, Canon_Compliant,
      Erotica, Drama, Explicit_Language, Friends_to_Lovers, Explicit_Sexual
      Content, Challenge_Response
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-05-16 Words: 1891
****** Inside Out (of Reflection) ******
by Raletha
Summary
     [30 Lemons] Trowa wishes for a change in his awkward friendship with
     Quatre. For theme #25 "The Planetarium" on 30_lemons. Circa 2006.
He stood facing the wide, wide window and looked into it—not out at the stars
beyond, but at the reflection of what was inside. The window was so huge the
star field surely would swallow him up with vertigo if he looked outside.
That's why Trowa didn't look out at the stars. Instead he looked back—inside—at
the others behind him, where they sat about the end of one of the tables made
for ten in the Peacemillion cafeteria, letting adrenaline and excitement unwind
into camaraderie. It was good for morale.
Quatre laughed at something Duo said, but Trowa didn't understand what was
supposed to be funny. It had to be an inside joke between the two of them.
They'd spent so long together on Earth. Then Quatre said something to Heero
that made him grin around the straw of his cup, and Trowa let out a breath.
Everybody had their inside jokes with Quatre, everybody, it seemed, except him.
Trowa hugged himself and didn't look at the stars.
And Wufei, maybe. But Wufei didn't have inside jokes with anyone. Wufei
probably wouldn't want them. But Trowa did. He should have something with
Heero; they'd spent enough time together.
But most of all Trowa wanted inside jokes with Quatre. Maybe he would have
them, if he remembered more, or remembered better. He remembered a lot of
things, but not everything, and not always enough. He did remember that he had
never spent as much time with Quatre as he'd wanted to, never talked to Quatre
as much as he'd wanted to—and he never had touched Quatre as much as he wanted
to.
Duo laughed again and stood, planting a friendly hand on Quatre's shoulder as
he said good night. A glance around showed Wufei had already left, but Trowa
had failed to notice when. Shortly after Duo left, Quatre said something to
Heero that Trowa couldn't hear; and then Heero got up, said his own good nights
to them both, and left. Trowa kept watching the inside behind him, until he
slid his gaze up the glass and found it halted by Quatre's. Quatre looked into
his reflection; their eyes met in some intangible space amidst the stars.
"Hey, Trowa," Quatre said, and he smiled.
Trowa's lips spread and relaxed, but they didn't curve, so it wasn't really a
smile. He watched Quatre's reflection stand and walk up behind him. When Quatre
put his hand on Trowa's shoulder it was nothing at all like the way Duo touched
Quatre, so easy and familiar. It was hesitant—shy—so Trowa could pull away or
shrug it off if he wanted. He never had rejected one of Quatre's touches
before—not that he could remember them all—but Quatre always left him the
option.
Sometimes, though, Trowa wished Quatre would touch him without the hesitation,
would touch him out of Quatre's own desire to touch him, and not hold back for
respect of Trowa's assumed fear.
"The stars are so pretty," Quatre said. His hand remained on Trowa's shoulder
and Trowa looked at its reflection, where Quatre touched him. He didn't look at
the stars. He and Quatre didn't have inside jokes; instead they had strange
touches and oblique smalltalk.
Suddenly Trowa was so tired of being oblique with Quatre. He was so tired of
it; the fatigue burned like irritation. His gaze slipped from Quatre's hand on
his shoulder and sought Quatre's gaze, the gaze that was looking not at him,
but at the vast yawn of the stars outside.
"I like it when you touch me," Trowa said, softly, but not so softly that
Quatre wouldn't hear clearly.
Those words withdrew Quatre's gaze from space to refocus and meet Trowa's.
"Oh!" Quatre said—as if he only just realised he was touching Trowa—and then
his hand retreated, like a guilty trespasser, from Trowa's shoulder. "Sorry."
But before Quatre could move further away, Trowa reached back between them and
grabbed one of Quatre's wrists. "I said I liked it." He pulled on Quatre's
wrist, pulled Quatre closer up behind him—close enough that he could feel the
warmth of Quatre's body, near but not touching. He guided Quatre's hand with
his own, to his belly, and clasped it there under his own palm. He looked down
through the glass and saw his hand on Quatre's hand on himself.
"Oh..." Quatre said again, but the syllable came out as a completely different
word from before. He didn't try to retrieve his hand.
"I know you want to, Quatre. I can tell." He raised his eyes back to Quatre's
to show him sincerity. There were things he just knew about Quatre, knew
without being told or shown. He knew Quatre's desire to touch him with just as
much certainty as he had known Quatre's desire to have him return to space and
the fight.
"Trowa..." whispered Quatre, but his gaze slipped away, resting somewhere
indeterminate upon Trowa's back. Trowa could see Quatre's flush even in the
translucent reflection.
"I wish you would," Trowa said, "touch me more." With his thumb, he pressed
gently upon the side Quatre's hand, coaxing it down to his waistband.
Behind him, Quatre tipped his head forward, brow against Trowa's shoulder. His
breath was humid on Trowa's skin through the cotton of Trowa's shirt. Trowa
wondered if he stepped back, if he would feel Quatre hard against him—as hard
as he, himself, was.
"You can touch me. It's okay."
In reply Quatre said nothing, and nor did he move. If he didn't believe Trowa's
words, perhaps he would believe Trowa's own body. Trowa slipped his fingers
beneath Quatre's trembling ones and unfastened his button and fly. His own hand
trembled as much when he brought his cock out, and then used both hands to move
Quatre's hand down, to fold Quatre's fingers around himself, to show Quatre. He
held Quatre like that, cradled and soothed with both hands Quatre's touch
around him.
Trowa returned his gaze to the window and stared down at the holding of their
hands around his cock, stared through them far enough to see the stars filling
up their hands, like little points of light under their skin. Quatre wasn't
moving, just leaning against him and breathing, but at least he wasn't pulling
away. But he wasn't moving either. So maybe this wasn't okay. Maybe Trowa
wanted too much. This wasn't an inside joke or a secret smile. It was—
Then Quatre's hand stirred. It tightened and moved, slid up to the tip of
Trowa's cock and then back down to the teeth of Trowa's zipper. "Like this,
Trowa?" Over his shoulder Quatre's gaze was earnest and bright, filled with
even more stars than were beyond the glass.
"Yeah," Trowa said, "like that." Quatre moved his other hand to grip Trowa's
upper arm and pull their bodies closer together. And Trowa felt it then, how
hard Quatre was too. He wanted to feel it more. Keeping one hand over Quatre's,
he reached back with the other, reached between them and twisted his wrist to
cup Quatre's erection in his palm. Quatre made a strange whimpering cry in
response. Trowa squeezed and rubbed with the heel of his hand to make Quatre
whimper more.
He watched the movement he could see: his hand atop Quatre's, Quatre's sliding
over his cock. He held only loosely, not guiding or pacing Quatre, just holding
them together in space. It wasn't just happening in the translucent space
outside though. Trowa abandoned the surreality of reflection for a moment, to
verify that same moment. He brought his gaze inside, saw how his real flesh
strained toward its reflected ghost, watched the rhythm of Quatre's hand
pulling the reflection closer before sliding it back. Pulled and pushed, Trowa
fumbled with his blind hand, unfastened Quatre's pants, drew Quatre out, felt
him harder and hotter, steady in his grip as he started sliding over Quatre
too, his rhythm blind and broken for the awkwardness of the angle.
More than the physcial difficulty though, the unrelenting motion of Quatre's
hand kept Trowa out of a regular rhythm. Trowa bit his mouth closed around his
own strange whimpers, and let go of Quatre's cock so he could push his jeans
down. He shoved at them, but there wasn't enough gravity to help, so they
caught and rode low on his hips. It was enough for what Trowa wanted. He took
Quatre in hand again, pulled the length of Quatre to nestle snug in the cleft
of his ass, felt the wet head of Quatre's cock nudge and slip along his tail
bone, felt the silken heat fitting snug against him.
Strange flash of possibility and Trowa wondered if Quatre would like to fuck
him, right now, like this. But then, Trowa knew—knew without having asked or
been told—that Quatre had never fucked anyone. Trowa knew also that he didn't
want Quatre's first time to be like this. Good though this was, it wasn't good
enough for that.
Still, Trowa could make it better. He pushed his hips back to make Quatre's
cock slide against his skin, slide like their hands were already sliding on his
cock. In the window he caught Quatre's reflected gaze again, gone glassy. On
his arm, Quatre's hand squeezed his bicep hard, and his hips answered Trowa's
suggestion: he began to grind against Trowa, rubbed his cock along Trowa's
cleft. That was good; Quatre could probably get off like this, get off on
Trowa's skin. And Trowa was getting off on it, too. Quatre's hand was rubbing
an orgasm down into Trowa's balls, but his cock, unseen, the thick heat of it
against him, was rubbing even more sensations up Trowa's spine, scattering them
over his skin like the reflected glitter of the stars.
Trowa reached back further, folded his palm over Quatre's hip, pressed his
fingertips into the softer muscle behind the bone and tugged, wordlessly urging
Quatre to press harder, move faster. There was so much friction, hands and
cocks and clothes and skin, but there were no words—nothing that could later
become an inside joke. The only sounds were those of the touching and the
moving.
Quatre came first, in shudders and hot splatters on Trowa's skin. He clung,
feebly, with both hands as his hips bucked and his knees buckled, and he slid
in gasping stutters down Trowa's body to the floor. Trowa was too close himself
to pause for Quatre though. He firmed his grip over Quatre's weakened hand, and
now he guided and paced—fast, sure strokes until he had to close his eyes
against all the stars and reflection, tip his head back, and surrender too.
Afterward, Trowa slid to the floor too, twisted to lean back against the cold
glass and face the inside, face—at last—Quatre. Beside him, his ejaculate
cooled and dripped down the window. Quatre's come was wet against the denim of
his jeans, wet on his skin beneath the denim, too. He looked at Quatre without
glass or stars or anything between them but transparent air. Quatre looked
back, solid, flushed, and real, as real as everything else. And smiling.
"Hey, Quatre," Trowa said, and he smiled back. It was a little smile, but it
was a real one.
 
the end
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