Quatre sighed, giving up on sleep. He couldn't, he missed Trowa's presence too much to be content without his lanky frame beside him, even for just a physical comfort and not the companionship. He winced at the thought, the vague scratching of his faith at the back of his mind, and he shut it out viciously, unwilling to mar his thoughts of Trowa with the damnation he levelled upon himself in his moments alone in prayer to Allah.
The blonde Arabian stumbled from his bed, swiping at his eyes drowsily, despite how he couldn't sleep, and wandered across the floor in the general direction of the door. He felt like he was weaving, as if drunken, but regained his balance easily enough, steadying himself against the door before pushing it open, and directing himself to walk towards the communal bathroom, the only one in the safe-house.
Quatre blinked in dazed confusion, staring at the light leaking from about the edges of the bathroom door. Then he pressed a hand to his mouth, suddenly hearing the sounds of vomiting, and interspersed groans of pain. His eyes widened in fear, and he darted quickly to the door, sliding it open. He couldn't leave anyone in such obvious pain alone, it would not be merciful or kind. Quatre's eyes adjusted to the blinding light, and he gasped softly.
Trowa stared up at him from over the toilet, his emerald eyes wide with -- was it terror? Quatre forced himself to breathe as Trowa scuttled away from him against the wall, his eyes reddened, and fresh tracks of acid tears bleeding across his cheekbones. Quatre sunk to his knees, concerned for his lover, but Trowa flinched from his touch, staring widely down at the too-bright, tiled floor.
"Don't touch me!" Trowa wailed softly, huddling away from Quatre. The Arabian winced, sniffling away a sudden teardrop. The Latin boy wrapped his arms about his legs, or tried to, but his breath hitched in the sudden, dull silence. Quatre stood back as Trowa threw himself across the floor, bent over and clutched at his stomach, and emptied pure bile from his throat into the toilet before feebly reaching up and pressing the button to flush. He grappled at the toilet bowl, gasping slightly as he drew his sprawled body quickly away from Quatre's questing hand, curious and concerned. The blonde chanced a touch to Trowa shoulder, pressing against his strong arm, confused on a basic level at Trowa's rejection. Trowa froze, then shoved his hand away violently, staring at the floor in refusal to meet Quatre's gaze. The smaller boy frowned, anxious. What was wrong with his beloved, that Trowa wouldn't even look at him with his dead stare, if not the open looks he gave only to the Arabian?
"No, don't, Quatre, please! No -- don't touch me!" Trowa whimpered softly. Quatre knelt before him, and stroked across Trowa's cheekbone before his hand was flung away. "Trowa what's wrong? Why can't I touch you?" Quatre asked worriedly, his voice trembling on the edge of a whine. His arm burned, he realised sharply, but thrust the pain to the back of his mind. Trowa shook his head vigorously, trying to deny the question, trying to say no to something, Quatre couldn't figure quite what he was negating. He blinked, slightly hurt by Trowa's confusing actions, and scooted forward to draw Trowa into a loose embrace. Trowa shook him off immediately, but not before Quatre captured the Latin pilot's hand.
Then Quatre froze, his lips parted to say something, but he couldn't. Trowa wrenched his hand away, and lowered his head, silent. Quatre blinked, and slowly, almost afraid to do so, raised his hand to look at it. Trowa curled into a ball against the wall, as if having been kicked, and a slight hitching sob escaped his mouth. Quatre breath hesitated, and he stared at his fingers, as if pondering the nature of the whorls on his fingertips.
The blonde Arabian glanced at Trowa, as if seeking some explanation, then tentatively sniffed his hand. His delicate lips curled slightly at the bitter scent, and he gazed as Trowa's huddled form again, his mouth working, pleading silently for some excuse, some reason. He closed his eyes, biting at his lower lip frantically, frozen as if some parody of something, stuck in quicksand. Quatre forced himself to exhale, his slim chest shuddering, and he stared at the sticky finger.
Trowa swallowed in fear, across the room, and reluctantly looked up, unable to not look, not to see his lover's actions. He refused to think, refusing to even ponder Quatre's reactions, the hurt he knew he'd see in his aqua eyes...Trowa shivered slightly, bitterly awaiting his fate. Quatre met his carefully blank green eyes, equal fear quivering on the blonde's lips. Quatre was terrified, and Trowa bowed his head, his mouth twisting in a bitter grimace at the horror he could feel leaking in waves from Quatre's kneeling figure.
Quatre gulped, and flickered his tongue across the largest concentration of the stickiness on his index finger. He frowned, tears welling up at the corners of his eyes. Then he spat the foul burst of taste in Trowa's direction, and stood, shaking. "Iie, no, no...TROWA!" He screamed, his slim hands fisted. Trowa flinched, but didn't move. Quatre stared at him, hearing a clatter from the hallway, and panted, clenching the hem of his pyjama shirt.
"I can't believe- no, Trowa," the blonde breathed, his heart wrenching in agony. His lover, sleeping with another person, cheating on him with a girl. No other gender could leave that taste, that scent on Trowa's hand. His lover, the boy he forsook his faith, his family for, the one person that loved him, that was worth the sacrifice of his soul, had slept with another. Trowa hadn't cared enough to be faithful, he wasn't worth Trowa's fidelity, Trowa must think him so weak, so worthless that he had sought out intimacy with another...
His throat closed up, choking him as he began sobbing, great ugly gasping cries parting his lips and constricting his chest. Quatre's hand reached out along the wall, trying to find support from something, eventually latching on to the towel rack as his vice deserted him, leaving only a wide eyed, betrayed stare at Trowa's bowed head.
"It's- it's not what you think," Trowa whispered, the words feeling empty and vile on his tongue, even as he said them, attempting to fix what he had broken, what he had destroyed. But there was never any salvation for the dead man on a battlefield, so why did he even dare to think he could save what he had killed between he and Quatre? Trowa felt his nails biting through the palm of his skin.
Quatre whirled angrily, meeting his gaze and piercing him, pinning the taller boy to the wall.
"It's NOT what I think?! Then what the fucking HELL could it be, Trowa?! You've got fucking girl's CUM all over your hands, and probably your cock too, and it's NOT what I fucking think?! What the fuck COULD it be?!" Quatre screeched, gritting his teeth.
Trowa winced away, as if hit by the seething confusion and rage in Quatre's countenance. Quatre trembled, unused to the consuming fury, the desire to hurt his lover, to so severely injure him that he'd feel, at least physically, the ripping, searing pain he felt constricting his breath, clenching about his heart. Trowa almost reached out a hand, wanting to calm the quivering figure before- but he didn't want to think about before what.
The Arabian boy turned, crossing his arms, and frantically began scratching at the tender underside of his flesh. Trowa's eyes widened, watching Quatre shivering as if suddenly cold, large, red, bleeding burning trails erupting under his fingers. Trowa gasped, reaching out to the blonde boy, and clasping his wrists, pinning them to the wall behind the blonde's back. Quatre writhed, trying to get away, bitter tears seeping from unwilling eyelids. Quatre twisted, pulling his arms to his chest, and broke one free from Trowa's stunned grasp. Trowa stared in horror at the bloodied pyjamas, the ruptured flesh roughly split on his arms, and murmured, "Iie, Quatre, not this --"
Quatre forced a fit of sobs back into his chest, and smashed his free fist into Trowa's mouth. The Latin pilot stumbled backwards from the weak blow, startled sorrow flitting across his dead eyes before he fell to the floor. He made no move to get up, or roll, from where he fell, instead allowing his head to slam against the edge of the bathtub and lying still, but conscious. Quatre stared at his knuckles, bloodied from where he had torn Trowa's lip, and he fell to his knees, burying his hands within the confines of his palms as he cried. His chest hurt, convulsing violently with each sob. It seemed like he'd been crying for hours, his ribs ached, and his heart hurt more, burning with pained remorse, and betrayal.
Quatre heard more than saw Trowa get up, and crawl over towards him. He felt the slight brush, reluctant and hesitating, against his hair, and looked up, sniffling quickly as he swiped at the tears blurring his vision. Trowa stood up from beside him, but his gaze remained on the floor, fixated there as a dull flush spread across his cheeks. The Latin boy swallowed, a single tear tracking down his cheek, which spoke more than anything of his own remorse.
"I'm sorry," Trowa breathed, and pushed open the bathroom door haltingly, pausing in sheer unwillingness to leave his lover behind in such a state. But he had caused the pain, he'd cause more if he stayed, and that hurt more than any physical strike Quatre could have railed against him. He frowned, wiping away the trickle of blood from his split lip, and stepped into the corridor, keeping his countenance meticulously dead. Dead was a good word for it, mirroring his emotions.
The other three pilots stood in the hall awaiting him, Wufei and Duo staring at him expectantly. Heero, now dressed, glanced away from Trowa's blank stare. The Latin pilot stalked past the group, but paused beside Heero, slowly turning his face to regard the Japanese pilot's averted countenance.
"I hate you," Trowa hissed lowly, enough venom in his voice to make Duo flinch away, and Wufei prepare to retreat if a fight broke out. Heero winced imperceptibly, and nodded dully, lifting his eyes to gaze at Quatre's weeping figure stumbling out of the bathroom, one hand clutched to burning eyes.
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