Disclaimer: Gundam Wing is not mine. Quatre is not mine. (Rats!) Trowa is not mine. (Double rats!) I was not invited to their wedding (sniff!) which is of course not part of the canon timeline anyway. I am making no money off this story (hell, I'm PAYING my ISP so that I can post it!) so it's just harmless fun.
Okay, everyone, here's a 4+3 fic inspired by a fic of Sailor Zoisite's. It has angst, past rape and all that so those who don't like that sort of stuff can take the chance to leave now. ^_~ Sorry, but this fic refused to stay unwritten, and what can you do when your own muse works against you? Argh! Just for reference, "tomodachi" means "friend" and "itooshii" means "beloved", but I think most of you knew that already, ne?
I've slipped in a reference to something that is GOING to happen in a future Peter story, but I've also tried to leave it open enough so that it can be taken both as part of the Peter universe (that kid is taking up a timeline all his own, along with his Papa and Daddy!) and it can also be taken on its own, should the reader prefer.
On with the story!
"I dreamed a dream in time gone by..." Fantine, "The Dream I Dreamed" from "Les Miserables"
Trowa sighed softly as he rubbed his temple before going back to the book he had just begun to read. He was beginning to ache badly, but he wasn't about to complain, not now. Quatre had carefully fussed over him, placing him just right on the sofa, offering him pillows, food, hot drinks, cold drinks and anything else he could think of until Trowa had firmly sent Quatre off for a badly-needed rest. Heaven knew caring for Trowa and his injury would be exhausting for anybody, and Quatre was trying to do that on top of his business, the politics, and helping to look after Peter. Not being able to do everything himself seemed like a foreign concept to the smaller man lately. Trowa shook his head. [I'm not helpless, he shouldn't do this to himself.]
A sound at the door made him turn his head slightly, to see Quatre standing in the door, silent and still.
"Quatre! I told you to go rest! You'll make yourself sick if you don't! Go back to bed!"
Then Trowa took in Quatre's face. Unnaturally pallid, wide-eyed, staring unwaveringly. "Quatre?" he asked worriedly. "Quatre! Answer me! Go back to bed, quickly!" His command was tinged with his increasing worry over his husband's appearance - as if he would collapse any minute.
Instead Quatre crossed the room, his steps sudden and quick. He leaned over Trowa, who quickly grabbed Quatre's arms in an attempt to support. Quatre took Trowa's chin in one softly cupped palm and ever so gently raised his face until green gaze met blue. Those same blue eyes looked at Trowa, into his eyes and face, and though the gaze was anything but brutal, Trowa felt as though Quatre was trying to look into the deepest recesses of his soul.
"What is it, Quatre?" he finally asked, struggling to keep his voice steady against the nagging fear that something was very, very wrong with his Quatre. Hazarding a wild guess, he asked, "Is it your uchuu no kokoro?"
Quatre slipped to his knees and embraced him, burying his head in Trowa's soft hair. "No," he murmured. "Just keeping a promise I made to myself a long time ago." A pause, and then "I love you, you know. Love you so much."
"I know, Quatre. I love you too." Trowa whispered gently. He wasn't sure what was going on right now, but it was obvious that for whatever reason, Quatre needed this more than he needed sleep.
Reaching across, the blond tilted Trowa's chin up and Trowa raised his head obligingly to meet Quatre.
He blinked softly when Quatre began a tender rain of kisses on his face, brushing hair out of the way to kiss forehead, eyes, cheeks, lips, and chin. And between every kiss was the same whisper. "Love you. Love you. Love you. Love you."
"Love you too."
Kiss. "Love you." Kiss. "Love you." Kiss. "Love you." Kiss. "Love you..."
*****Many years before*****
"Oh no, not this again," the nursemaid muttered as she sprinted towards the young master's bedroom. "This is the fifth time in two weeks!"
Quickly fumbling with the door handle, she ran towards the tiny form on the huge bed and tried to shake the screaming boy awake. Mister Winner would be so annoyed at the noise... and it was disrupting the older children as well.
Wrenching into wakefulness with one last anguished cry that sent chills down the maid's spine, tiny Quatre Winner flailed around for a moment, feeling the familiar sensations of his bed, his sheets... his home. Then he burst into wet, messy tears.
"Shh, shh, little master," the maid begged, torn between pity and fear. "Please be quiet." Stroking his head, she asked, "What was it? The same dream?" as a few of the younger Winner daughters started to make their curious way to the noise, crowding around the door.
"Uh-huh," Quatre sniffled as he nodded an affirmative. "The same boy. They're still hurting him."
"I know the dreams are ugly, little one, but that boy doesn't exist. It's only a dream."
"No it's not! He's real! He cries! He calls for help and no one listens! It's CRUEL!" Quatre shouted in a storm of righteous anger that had been built in his soul since he had slipped into his bed.
"Shh. Now, that's enough. You need to go back to sleep now, and not disturb anyone." The well-meaning but frazzled nursemaid wondered briefly what could be putting the images for such horrid dreams in the young master's head. "Would you like me to stay with you for a little while?"
"No, thank you. I'm seven years old; I'm not a baby. I'll stay on my own." Quatre sniffled once more, then pulled his chin up to prove his ability.
"All right," the nurse conceded, somewhat doubtfully. Throwing one last worried glance over her shoulder, she ushered the complaining Winner sisters from the room.
Alone, Quatre lay back onto his pillow and squinched his eyes shut. The boy was real, he knew it. Everything was so real, too real to be a dream. He remembered sadly watching from the side, invisible and not able to touch or be touched, as the other boy was there, alone, keeping a blank look on his face but calling out on the inside for a friend, desperately.
But no matter how much Quatre called to him, tried to take his hand, he never saw him there.
Then there were the times when the boy wished he was alone, where those eyes Quatre had memorised were filled with a look that the blond boy felt was branded onto his soul. He didn't understand some of the things that were done, but he knew that they all HURT. And hurting people was wrong. But the boy never told the men so, never asked to be let go... not with his mouth, anyway. And he never cried. Quatre did enough of that, watching the boy he had come to think of as a special friend have that look in his eyes, only making noise when they hurt him bad enough.
And when they went away... his friend would act as if nothing happened, and curl up to sleep as if it was normal, but Quatre heard his heart.
[Doesn't anyone care? Anyone?]
Quatre sat up in bed, lips thinning, tiny hands pulled into fists. HE cared. And he made his decision.
[I'm going to find him. Some day, I'm going to find him, and when I do I'm going to give him a hug and tell him I care. I'm going to give him the biggest hug in the whole world and call him 'tomodachi' and make him smile. I'm going to let him know that I care.]
"Know you do. Love you too." Trowa pulled Quatre's head down so that their lips met, gently parting.
"Mmmm..." Quatre sighed softly. Trowa noted with some alarm that he was beginning to sway from side to side.
"Quatre, go to bed, love," he said gently, stroking Quatre's cheek as he pulled slightly away.
"Already did. Can't sleep any more."
Quatre shook his head. "No. Not alone in the bed. Not without you there too."
And so it was that when Rashid stuck his head in an hour later to check on Trowa-sama, he found Quatre-sama curled around him, fast asleep on the sofa. Trowa-sama silently signalled him to be quiet, gently supporting Quatre-sama with his embrace as Quatre-sama's sleeping lips were pressed against his husband's cheek.
Asleep, Quatre's arms tightened slightly around Trowa, a burden he had long forgotten about lifted from his shoulders.
[I kept my promise, tomodachi. Itooshii.]