[FIC] "The Fall"
Title: The Fall
Author: WickedGame
Genre: Drama, romance
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: 3x4
Warnings: glossy lemon, previous story dealt with underage masturbation, foul language, not beta read
Notes: Written for someone special (she knows who she is). A sequel to my shame-a-thon fic "That Summer”.
When Trowa left, Quatre cried. He cried for a very long time and nothing his parents said or did seemed to make it better. For a kid with very few real friends it seemed like he had lost the only one he’d ever had. He’d moped around until the very first call from Trowa had come. After those scant few minutes of international phone time he had smiled like a fool.
His parents weren’t stupid: they saw how Quatre acted when a new letter or email came. They saw the smiles and the blushes that let them know Trowa had written or was on the phone. And the day that Quatre had turned eighteen the only thing he’d asked for was help paying for tickets to France. His mother and father refused, explaining that they thought he needed to earn the money for that trip himself. So he saved for two years, making sure he not only had the money for the plane ticket but also had the money to stay in the nicest hotel he could find and still have money left over to have one hell of a time while he was there.
Quatre’s hands shook from the time he got up. Then he had butterflies during the entire trip and even threw up once. When he landed he was shaking from head to toe and bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Hey, Trowa. It’s nice to see you. No, that’s not it. Hi, Trowa! No, shit. Shit, shit, shit,” Quatre recited different greetings in the line for customs as he stared at his English-to-French translation book without even seeing it.
The man at customs verified his passport (and its photo of a rather confused looking Quatre), made sure Quatre wasn’t doing or carrying anything illegal and waved him through the line.
Trowa had said he’d meet him at the airport, but Quatre didn’t see him in the crowd of people waiting. He didn’t see a poster board sign declaring his name like when he and his family traveled in the states or the familiar face of his long-time, long-distance love either. He sighed and headed for the luggage carousel.
“If he’s coming he’ll be here. Otherwise, he’s not able to make it and it’s no big deal. He knows what hotel you’re staying at. You know every phone number in his name. Calm is the order of the day,” Quatre said to himself as he walked, attracting more than one stare for not only talking to himself but also for his maturing good looks. He didn’t smile as he stared forward but he didn’t frown either, a business look his father had adopted early on and that Quatre had now perfected.
His luggage was all matching, deep green in color as Quatre had requested when his parents had taken him luggage shopping long ago. Quatre smiled sweetly when he remembered that somewhere in his smaller suitcase there was a rather naughty photo of Trowa wearing nothing but his white swimming trunks and a smile. Getting that letter past his parents without them being curious had been nerve wracking. But then again, they also didn’t know about ten years ago, when Quatre had been so young and ignorant.
Quatre thought he was lucky, though. Trowa had been nothing but kind and patient playing a dangerous game neither one of them knew the full repercussions of. They were lucky they came out of it with a genuine fondness for one another and not hatred or resentment.
They fought, sure. More than once. One of those times ended up with Quatre drinking too much at a party to try and forget their fight before then losing his virginity in the bathroom in some girl’s house.
Quatre cried then too, and wrote Trowa a long letter explaining what had happened and trying to let Trowa know how much he loved him.
And he did love him. Quatre had loved Trowa for years now, even when his mom and dad encouraged him to date and told him he was too young to be in love with one person. Quatre remembered telling his mom and dad that if he could marry Trowa he would. His parents had never been upset that he was gay, they were only upset that he seemed so fixated on a boy that lived in France.
Quatre loved France. Well, he loved Trowa and so he loved France. He had studied French in high school and had watched every French film he could get his hands on, no matter how abstract or stupid. He learned to cook French food and swore that one day he would actually try escargot just to make sure he wasn’t missing out.
Quatre sat down in a chair and waited, but there was no Trowa. Quatre had left his cell phone back home but he had a calling card and so he went to a pay phone and took a couple of minutes to familiarize himself with it before dialing a series of numbers that ended with Trowa’s cell phone number.
All he got was a voice mail.
“Trowa, it’s Quatre. My plane’s arrived here and I don’t see you. I’m going to wait for a little while longer and then I’m just going to take a cab to my hotel and wait for you. You have the info, right? I know you do. I’ll catch you later!”
An hour later Quatre was in a cab and heading towards his hotel. He didn’t know whether to cry or to keep smiling.
The phone was ringing when Quatre came out of the shower, but whoever it was had hung up by the time he picked it up. He sighed and wondered if it was Trowa. He got out his calling card and dialed out, tapping the card against the nightstand.
“Hello?” Quatre smiled when he heard Trowa’s voice.
“Trowa! Hello! Did you just call?”
“I am sorry I couldn’t make it to the airport,” Trowa said, his voice pleading, “Traffic was terrible and I didn’t make it on time and you were gone when I got there!”
Quatre pulled his legs up onto the bed. “It’s all right. I’m at the hotel now, if you want to come up. I’m in room 617”.
“I’ll come as soon as I can, Quatre. I promise. Room 617.”
“617,” Quatre nodded even though he knew Trowa couldn’t see it. “Just knock on the door.”
“I will. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” Quatre smiled. “I’ll see you later.”
“Goodbye.”
Quatre hung up the phone and sighed. He had at least twenty minutes, if his own cab ride to the hotel was any indication.
Quatre stood up and took the towel off his waist and hung it on the hook on the door. He rifled through his suitcase and started to unpack, leaving out a pair of jeans to pull on when Trowa got there. He was only staying for two weeks but he had surely packed enough for a month. No matter how much he packed it never seemed like enough or that he was packing the right things.
The clothing went into the dresser, and just as he was about to hang up his suit in the closet there was a knock on the door.
“Quatre?” Trowa’s familiar voice came through the door, thickly accented with French. “Are you in there?”
Quatre pulled on his jeans, noting that he didn’t have time to go grab a pair of boxers. He quickly buttoned the fly and ran his hand through his wet hair before opening the door with a big smile.
“Trowa!” Quatre barely got out the name before there were arms around him and the sweet smell of Trowa’s cologne, the same one he sprayed once on a letter.
“Quatre,” Trowa’s voice was hoarse and quiet, his mouth buried in Quatre’s neck. “God, I… I just…”
Quatre gasped into the sudden kiss, one that he never saw coming. It wasn’t as if he didn’t want it though, and he kissed Trowa back as hard as he could, trying to convey just how much he wanted Trowa and how much he loved Trowa without saying a word.
Trowa held Quatre’s head still with his hands, delving deep into Quatre’s mouth while Quatre clutched onto his shoulders and then looped his arms around Trowa’s neck.
“Trowa,” Quatre whispered when they finally broke apart. “God, you kiss…”
“No, you kiss,” Trowa said as he practically picked Quatre up in his arms. “You kiss, you suck, you do anything you want to me, so long as I can be with you now.”
Quatre pushed his hands up inside of Trowa’s shirt and smiled. “Do you have the white shorts?”
Trowa undid his jeans and pushed them down so that they pooled right below his ass. And, true to his word there they were: white swimming shorts, with nothing underneath.
Quatre smiled and dropped to his knees, hooking his fingers into the waistband of the shorts and pulling them down with the jeans. From the floor he looked up at a stunned Trowa and smiled the same smile he had smiled ten years earlier when he had been younger and not known any better.
He took Trowa’s cock in hand and pumped it before reaching out with his tongue and licking the tip of it. His eyes peered up to meet Trowa’s and he sucked the entire head into his mouth before massaging the bottom of it with his soft tongue.
“Quatre,” Trowa moaned as his hands tangled in blonde hair. “Quatre, you don’t have to, love. Good lord, you don’t have to.”
“I want to,” Quatre said between longing sucks of his mouth. “I want you so badly, and for so long that I will sit here and suck your cock for two weeks if it makes you want me back as badly.”
Trowa dropped to his knees so that his eyes were nearly even with Quatre’s. He leaned in and pressed their foreheads together.
“Ten years ago you were too small to know what you could do to me, but I knew how devastating you would be to me once you grew into that body and those big, blue eyes. I was lost then and I’m lost now.”
Quatre let Trowa push him back onto the floor, let Trowa lean over him and kiss him senseless. He let Trowa touch him like they couldn’t have done ten years ago and let Trowa fuck him until he was shouting Trowa’s name loud enough to maybe summon security if the rooms next to him weren’t empty right at that moment.
And when they were in bed, after they had both climaxed and were too tired to do anything but sleep, Quatre finally told Trowa how he felt about him. Trowa, for his part, tried not to cry. He tried not to cry and tried not to laugh but he did both instead. He cried and laughed and blessed the day he was sent to America and met Quatre Winner. And he told Quatre so, even as he proved just how much he loved him back.
-The End-
Author: WickedGame
Genre: Drama, romance
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: 3x4
Warnings: glossy lemon, previous story dealt with underage masturbation, foul language, not beta read
Notes: Written for someone special (she knows who she is). A sequel to my shame-a-thon fic "That Summer”.
When Trowa left, Quatre cried. He cried for a very long time and nothing his parents said or did seemed to make it better. For a kid with very few real friends it seemed like he had lost the only one he’d ever had. He’d moped around until the very first call from Trowa had come. After those scant few minutes of international phone time he had smiled like a fool.
His parents weren’t stupid: they saw how Quatre acted when a new letter or email came. They saw the smiles and the blushes that let them know Trowa had written or was on the phone. And the day that Quatre had turned eighteen the only thing he’d asked for was help paying for tickets to France. His mother and father refused, explaining that they thought he needed to earn the money for that trip himself. So he saved for two years, making sure he not only had the money for the plane ticket but also had the money to stay in the nicest hotel he could find and still have money left over to have one hell of a time while he was there.
Quatre’s hands shook from the time he got up. Then he had butterflies during the entire trip and even threw up once. When he landed he was shaking from head to toe and bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Hey, Trowa. It’s nice to see you. No, that’s not it. Hi, Trowa! No, shit. Shit, shit, shit,” Quatre recited different greetings in the line for customs as he stared at his English-to-French translation book without even seeing it.
The man at customs verified his passport (and its photo of a rather confused looking Quatre), made sure Quatre wasn’t doing or carrying anything illegal and waved him through the line.
Trowa had said he’d meet him at the airport, but Quatre didn’t see him in the crowd of people waiting. He didn’t see a poster board sign declaring his name like when he and his family traveled in the states or the familiar face of his long-time, long-distance love either. He sighed and headed for the luggage carousel.
“If he’s coming he’ll be here. Otherwise, he’s not able to make it and it’s no big deal. He knows what hotel you’re staying at. You know every phone number in his name. Calm is the order of the day,” Quatre said to himself as he walked, attracting more than one stare for not only talking to himself but also for his maturing good looks. He didn’t smile as he stared forward but he didn’t frown either, a business look his father had adopted early on and that Quatre had now perfected.
His luggage was all matching, deep green in color as Quatre had requested when his parents had taken him luggage shopping long ago. Quatre smiled sweetly when he remembered that somewhere in his smaller suitcase there was a rather naughty photo of Trowa wearing nothing but his white swimming trunks and a smile. Getting that letter past his parents without them being curious had been nerve wracking. But then again, they also didn’t know about ten years ago, when Quatre had been so young and ignorant.
Quatre thought he was lucky, though. Trowa had been nothing but kind and patient playing a dangerous game neither one of them knew the full repercussions of. They were lucky they came out of it with a genuine fondness for one another and not hatred or resentment.
They fought, sure. More than once. One of those times ended up with Quatre drinking too much at a party to try and forget their fight before then losing his virginity in the bathroom in some girl’s house.
Quatre cried then too, and wrote Trowa a long letter explaining what had happened and trying to let Trowa know how much he loved him.
And he did love him. Quatre had loved Trowa for years now, even when his mom and dad encouraged him to date and told him he was too young to be in love with one person. Quatre remembered telling his mom and dad that if he could marry Trowa he would. His parents had never been upset that he was gay, they were only upset that he seemed so fixated on a boy that lived in France.
Quatre loved France. Well, he loved Trowa and so he loved France. He had studied French in high school and had watched every French film he could get his hands on, no matter how abstract or stupid. He learned to cook French food and swore that one day he would actually try escargot just to make sure he wasn’t missing out.
Quatre sat down in a chair and waited, but there was no Trowa. Quatre had left his cell phone back home but he had a calling card and so he went to a pay phone and took a couple of minutes to familiarize himself with it before dialing a series of numbers that ended with Trowa’s cell phone number.
All he got was a voice mail.
“Trowa, it’s Quatre. My plane’s arrived here and I don’t see you. I’m going to wait for a little while longer and then I’m just going to take a cab to my hotel and wait for you. You have the info, right? I know you do. I’ll catch you later!”
An hour later Quatre was in a cab and heading towards his hotel. He didn’t know whether to cry or to keep smiling.
The phone was ringing when Quatre came out of the shower, but whoever it was had hung up by the time he picked it up. He sighed and wondered if it was Trowa. He got out his calling card and dialed out, tapping the card against the nightstand.
“Hello?” Quatre smiled when he heard Trowa’s voice.
“Trowa! Hello! Did you just call?”
“I am sorry I couldn’t make it to the airport,” Trowa said, his voice pleading, “Traffic was terrible and I didn’t make it on time and you were gone when I got there!”
Quatre pulled his legs up onto the bed. “It’s all right. I’m at the hotel now, if you want to come up. I’m in room 617”.
“I’ll come as soon as I can, Quatre. I promise. Room 617.”
“617,” Quatre nodded even though he knew Trowa couldn’t see it. “Just knock on the door.”
“I will. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” Quatre smiled. “I’ll see you later.”
“Goodbye.”
Quatre hung up the phone and sighed. He had at least twenty minutes, if his own cab ride to the hotel was any indication.
Quatre stood up and took the towel off his waist and hung it on the hook on the door. He rifled through his suitcase and started to unpack, leaving out a pair of jeans to pull on when Trowa got there. He was only staying for two weeks but he had surely packed enough for a month. No matter how much he packed it never seemed like enough or that he was packing the right things.
The clothing went into the dresser, and just as he was about to hang up his suit in the closet there was a knock on the door.
“Quatre?” Trowa’s familiar voice came through the door, thickly accented with French. “Are you in there?”
Quatre pulled on his jeans, noting that he didn’t have time to go grab a pair of boxers. He quickly buttoned the fly and ran his hand through his wet hair before opening the door with a big smile.
“Trowa!” Quatre barely got out the name before there were arms around him and the sweet smell of Trowa’s cologne, the same one he sprayed once on a letter.
“Quatre,” Trowa’s voice was hoarse and quiet, his mouth buried in Quatre’s neck. “God, I… I just…”
Quatre gasped into the sudden kiss, one that he never saw coming. It wasn’t as if he didn’t want it though, and he kissed Trowa back as hard as he could, trying to convey just how much he wanted Trowa and how much he loved Trowa without saying a word.
Trowa held Quatre’s head still with his hands, delving deep into Quatre’s mouth while Quatre clutched onto his shoulders and then looped his arms around Trowa’s neck.
“Trowa,” Quatre whispered when they finally broke apart. “God, you kiss…”
“No, you kiss,” Trowa said as he practically picked Quatre up in his arms. “You kiss, you suck, you do anything you want to me, so long as I can be with you now.”
Quatre pushed his hands up inside of Trowa’s shirt and smiled. “Do you have the white shorts?”
Trowa undid his jeans and pushed them down so that they pooled right below his ass. And, true to his word there they were: white swimming shorts, with nothing underneath.
Quatre smiled and dropped to his knees, hooking his fingers into the waistband of the shorts and pulling them down with the jeans. From the floor he looked up at a stunned Trowa and smiled the same smile he had smiled ten years earlier when he had been younger and not known any better.
He took Trowa’s cock in hand and pumped it before reaching out with his tongue and licking the tip of it. His eyes peered up to meet Trowa’s and he sucked the entire head into his mouth before massaging the bottom of it with his soft tongue.
“Quatre,” Trowa moaned as his hands tangled in blonde hair. “Quatre, you don’t have to, love. Good lord, you don’t have to.”
“I want to,” Quatre said between longing sucks of his mouth. “I want you so badly, and for so long that I will sit here and suck your cock for two weeks if it makes you want me back as badly.”
Trowa dropped to his knees so that his eyes were nearly even with Quatre’s. He leaned in and pressed their foreheads together.
“Ten years ago you were too small to know what you could do to me, but I knew how devastating you would be to me once you grew into that body and those big, blue eyes. I was lost then and I’m lost now.”
Quatre let Trowa push him back onto the floor, let Trowa lean over him and kiss him senseless. He let Trowa touch him like they couldn’t have done ten years ago and let Trowa fuck him until he was shouting Trowa’s name loud enough to maybe summon security if the rooms next to him weren’t empty right at that moment.
And when they were in bed, after they had both climaxed and were too tired to do anything but sleep, Quatre finally told Trowa how he felt about him. Trowa, for his part, tried not to cry. He tried not to cry and tried not to laugh but he did both instead. He cried and laughed and blessed the day he was sent to America and met Quatre Winner. And he told Quatre so, even as he proved just how much he loved him back.
-The End-