Quatre rolled over in his bed, throwing an arm out, flailing blindly for his partner's warm body. The absence of Trowa's lanky figure beside him woke him, and he blinked, then rubbed at his eyes sleepily. His eyes winced at the sharp, bright moonlight streaming into the room from the open window, a cool night breeze rustling the drapes softly. He sighed sadly as his eyes focused on the blocky numbers indicating the time on the clock beside his bed.
Trowa wouldn't be coming, it was too late. Quatre wanted to burst into tears childishly, but he knew he was being selfish, and scowled, scratching a thin red line down his arm absently in punishment with a fingernail. He felt the sharp jolt of pain from scraped flesh, and frowned. Trowa wouldn't have let him do that, he would have knocked his hand away before...Quatre's expression soured, and he rubbed at his arm roughly, his hands dulling the thin line into an overall mass of reddened flesh that would fade.
But Trowa couldn't be there, not now. His silent partner wouldn't intrude on him, he wouldn't even dare to come into the room and slip in the bed, into his accustomed place at Quatre's side so late. He would never be so rude. The blonde boy fisted his palm, and slammed it into his pillow, saddened. Trowa was probably in his room, but Quatre wouldn't intrude on him either, in respect for his partner's privacy.
Quatre shifted onto his back, staring at the pale canopy hanging over the bed. He wondered if Trowa was still awake, or if he was sleeping in the bedroom he had given, despite his preference to sleep with Quatre. The Arabian boy blushed, slightly embarrassed by the turn of his thoughts, even by himself, alone in his bedroom. He scowled, not wanting to think about his relationship with Trowa. Such thoughts always kept him awake until dawn, battling against himself in his mind.
Quatre squirmed under the thin sheets, and drew up a blanket from the foot of the bed to cover himself with. The night air was cold now, from when he had fallen asleep in the evening. He shivered, and stared out the window, onto the dark forest past the safe-house's view. He smiled dreamily, his thoughts reverting to the most favourite subject of Trowa, if not their relationship, before a darker cast shadowed his mind.
It wasn't right, what he and Trowa had, what they were. He frowned, clenching his eyes shut. His father would be ashamed of him, if he were still alive. He was his girlish son, girlish enough to lo-, no, like another boy. Quatre fisted his hands uselessly, curling into himself tighter as he tormented himself. Allah scorned boys like him, like Trowa. Allah, merciful as He was, could not accept such a gross violation of his faith. Were he on Earth in the desert of his homeland, he would have been stoned and rightfully so.
It wasn't right, it was not natural for them to be together, everything in Quatre's mind screamed at him. Yet Trowa just felt so right, so wonderful to be with...Quatre forced his eyes open. He could not reconcile his heart with his faith, and he could not give up either. The first pillar was faith in Allah, and he could not betray that, but nor could he betray his uchuu no kokoro. He shook his head, mussing his blonde hair further, and ripped another red track down his arm, deeper and more painful now of a scrape.
Quatre smiled sadly. He was damned either way, and Duo would advise him to screw it all and just enjoy his time with Trowa before he went to Hell. Yet he felt, and his heart burnt for the Latin boy, to have him with him for life, to never leave his side. Quatre winced at the thought, a flagrant violation of the Koran, but smiled anyway at the thought of spending his life with Trowa. He was being melodramatic, he supposed, his thumb rubbing over the fresh raw skin on his arm, and he allowed himself to dream slightly, of a huge Christian wedding, courtesy of Duo's descriptions, Trowa beside him, his lips forming the precious words of commitment.
Quatre sighed as the dream fell away, replacing itself with the stark vision of the dark room and the bright moonlight. He glanced at his arm, two hot stripes from his fingernails trailing down to his elbow from his wrist, tracing the tender underside of his arm. He gazed at the abused flesh dispassionately, his eyes following the tracks of spidery, needle-thin white scars. He winced slightly, and jabbed a fingernail into his skin, tearing three more tracks across the soft flesh before dropping his hand. Small, tiny beads of blood welled up, and he scowled. He'd have to hide these latest scrapes from Trowa, this momentary weakness. But at least the pain made him feel clean again, his mind clear enough to force his religion to the back of his mind, and the clamour of self-disgust that went with it.
Quatre rolled over onto his arm, concealing it against his chest, so that his dark pyjama shirt could soak up the blood, and there would be no traces on the sheets. Trowa would be worried again if he saw anything, and he couldn't bear to see his partner concerned about the pain, about the mutilation as he called it. The touch of horror that crossed Trowa's face the first time he had seen the scars, and the times he'd caught Quatre hurting himself scared him, and he couldn't bear to see Trowa's expression, the muted touch of terror and concern on the features that moved not an inch when brutally murdering, or glancing at a destroyed body that had once been a person. Not when even the faintest glimmer of such dismay in Trowa's eyes belied greater, much deeper pain within that wouldn't, and probably couldn't be shown.
Quatre couldn't do that to Trowa. He supposed he wanted to stop, and indeed he'd certainly cut back on the self-inflicted injuries since meeting him. There were fewer problems worth hurting himself over since he'd met his partner, and after Trowa had found out, he'd tried not to hurt himself at all. But he was weak, and he glanced against at his weakness, bleeding slightly against his chest. Quatre bit his lip, and closed his eyes, determined to sleep, even without Trowa. He would at least try.
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