Wounded Soles

Author: Reverand Maynard
Warnings: Shonen-ai; 3+4+3; Angst; Mild WAFF
Disclaimer: I have no legal rights, only stock in perversion.

Note: This is an outtake from an unfinished 1x2
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Sometime before midnight, Trowa awoke, a silent scream in his throat.  Every muscle in his body was tensed, hot breaths rushing in an out of him as he tried to regain some recognition of his surroundings.  He stared at the ceiling, letting reality soothe his nightmares.

His throat was dry, the rest of him slicked in sweat. He needed some water. He sat up, untangling the sheets that were twisted in his legs and around his waist, signs of his struggle, and wondered if that had added to the impact of the dreams.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he held his pounding head for a few moments before getting up to go to the kitchen to relieve his harsh throat.  He only hoped he hadn't screamed.

He must not have, he thought as he padded quietly down the hall.  Quatre would have been there at once, cooing to him, stroking his hair.  A small part of him wished he had.

But, no, having Quatre to comfort him now, his mind fresh with the memory of things he so longed to forget, would lead to his downfall.  Sympathy was a far greater catalyst for the tears he wanted to shed than was ignorance.

He found the kitchen, the refrigerator, easily. Quatre's home was like his second, and he poured a
glass of cold water, lifting it first to his fevered forehead, reveling in the frigid contact.

He downed the first glass eagerly, his throat begging for more.  This time, when he lifted the glass from the counter, it was slick with condensation and it slipped from his hands.

He watched the glass, as if it were in slow motion, fall toward the floor, his bare feet.  He did not cry out when it broke across his toes.  He did not move when the cold water rushed over and between them, nor when the blood came, spilling out and mixing pink with the icy water.

He was perfectly still.

Until he felt a hand on his shoulder.
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Quatre awoke much the same as Trowa had, suddenly and sweaty.

He knew it was not his own dreams that had affected him this way, but rather those of the other occupant of the house.

Trowa was awake.  He knew it.  Trowa was in trouble. He knew that too.

He got out of bed, walked quietly down the hall and as he had suspected, found Trowa standing in front of the refrigerator pouring himself a glass of water.

Quatre felt relieved.  Perhaps he was wrong and the boy was fine after all.   With his mind at ease, Quatre began to enjoy the site before him.

Trowa stood in the dimness of the kitchen, topless and barefoot, his ample musculature evident even in the half-light.  The only clothing he wore was a thin pair of drawstring pants that couldn't have been tied very tightly Quatre realized, as he admired the sensuous cleft peeking from the top of the pants at Trowa's lower back.  His hair was tousled and he seemed to have been perspiring.  It was an awesome sight indeed.

Quatre prepared himself to say something when he saw the glass slip from Trowa's hand and shatter at his feet.

Quatre stared, stunned that Trowa had not moved.  He watched the back of Trowa's head, willing the boy to do something.  Trowa was lost in the gore spreading beneath him.

Concern filled Quatre over again and he stepped forward, reaching out to Trowa's bare shoulder.
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The very instant he felt the touch Trowa was spinning around, catching his attacker's hand.  Fear, fury and the biting sting of memory fueling his rage, blinding him further in the dim light.

He jerked at the hand he held and, catching its twin with his other, pushed his assailant against the far wall of the kitchen, slipping a little in his own blood and the broken glass.  A loud thud as a head hit the hard wall satisfied him greatly.

"What do you want from me?"  he screamed, his voice a coarse roar driven by pain.  He shook the figure he held, slamming it again against the wall. "What?"

His blood rushed in his ears, louder than a thousand oceans.  Yet somehow, over the din in his raging mind, he heard the small voice reaching to him.  He recognized the speaker.

Oh God . . . what had he done?
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Quatre was wholly unprepared for Trowa's violence and even more unready for the barking scream that threw heat in his face, blowing his hair.

His head hurt, but the abuse had not been enough to threaten consciousness, or compassion.

"Trowa--"  he meeked out, still held fast against the unforgiving wall.

Trowa grew still but did not relinquish his hold.  A moment passed, silently, and then realization must have set in.

"Oh God,"  Trowa whispered and Quatre could hear his voice breaking.  He choked on a sob as he released him and Quatre's feet found the floor.  He hadn't realized until then that he had been suspended by the steely grip.

Trowa fell to his knees, pressing his hands against the blood-smeared floor.  He was choking still, as if the cries were there but refused to be expelled.

"I'm . . .sorry," came the broken speech through his heavy gasps.

Quatre's head was swimming and it took several moments to clear his thoughts.  He looked down at the shivering boy at his feet and suddenly became very afraid.

Not for himself.  Trowa had not hurt him intentionally, he knew that.  No, he feared for Trowa,Trowa's life, Trowa's sanity.  How could someone swallow so much pain and hold it inside them without it eventually infecting them?

"Trowa," his tiny voice echoed in the dark kitchen.

"I'm sorry, Quatre," Trowa was still saying, the phrase a mantra. "I'm sorry."

Quatre bent as much as his pounding head would allow, and reached for the shaking form, clutching at Trowa's arm, "Trowa . . .please."

Trowa didn't have to be asked twice.  He fell forward against the smaller boy, hiding his face into the silk pajamas, and cried.

The tears came freely then.  Quatre felt them wetting his shirt, felt the sobs that wracked the larger boy's frame.  Strong hands clutched at his sides and Trowa's face was all but buried in his stomach, his nose tickling Quatre's navel.  The pain that Quatre had sensed, dammed behind Trowa's cool exterior, was escaping its gates, flowing out of him.  Quatre received it hungrily.

He couldn't help it, Quatre began to cry.

They were silent tears at first, Quatre for once being timid with his emotions, not wanting to further upset his charge.  But then, at length, wading as he was through Trowa's pain, he began to whimper and sob.

At the first signs of Quatre's distress, Trowa pulled his face from it's warm comforts and looked, bleary-eyed, up at Quatre.

"Please, Quatre  . . . Don't,"  he was no longer sobbing, but silent tears still trickled over his cheeks, "don't cry for me."

Quatre cried harder for the sentiment and Trowa stood to face his weeping angel, ignoring his bloody feet.

“Quatre, don’t cry for me. Please.” Trowa was stroking the blond’s face now, so close to his own that their bangs brushed each other’s foreheads.

Quatre tried to stifle himself.

“Please, Quatre,” Trowa wiped Quatre’s tears from his cheeks, Quatre was calming. “These are my tears. I-- I love you too much,” he stopped and met Quatre’s startled gaze, “to have you spare me yours.”

Quatre’s shaking subsided altogether as Trowa’s hot breath washed over his face.

Trowa said love. Trowa loved him.

Their bodies were so close, their faces nearly touching. Trowa moved a fraction of an inch, barely perceptible, but Quatre saw it and braced himself for the kiss to follow.

Trowa moved forward even more and to Quatre’s surprise, placed a burning cheek against Quatre’s, taking him into a tight embrace.

Trowa wanted so badly to kiss his angel, to soothe the pain he had caused. He wanted the silk that rubbed against his chest to be the silk of Quatre’s skin, not his pajamas. But even more than that he wanted Quatre to want the same, and he just wasn’t certain that was how the other boy felt.

Quatre was slightly disappointed that there had been no kiss but reveled in the embrace all the same.

They stood there for along moment, and finally it was Quatre who broke the spell.

“Trowa,” he said softly, “your feet. Let’s go to the bathroom I’ll bandage them for you.”

Reluctantly Trowa relinquished the hold he had on Quatre and stepped out of the embrace to regard his feet. Much of the crimson had dried, but his wounded soles were still wet and sticky.

“I can’t,” he said as he sat in a nearby chair, “I’ll get blood on your carpet.”

“Well,” Quatre replied, sighing heavily, his face flushed as he pushed himself off of the wall and headed toward the hallway, minding the glass, “let me get the first-aid kit. I’ll mend them here.”

Trowa caught his arm as he walked by, the sincerity evident in his emerald eyes even in the dim light, “Thank you.”

Quatre smiled weakly.