Table of contents for When It Rains
- When It Rains, Chapter One
- When It Rains, Chapter Two
- Arabian Nights
When it Rains
by Michalyn
Rating: MA
The air was crisp and sharp with the metallic scent of imminent rain. Blades of grass undulated, glinting silver-green under the mottled gray of the heavens, and the fey murmuring of the wind as it frolicked through the trees was punctuated by the ominous rumbling of the pregnant skies.
Inside, the kettle whistled as Trowa set about preparing the evening meal with quick efficient motions. Through the window, he watched the bobbing heads of the flowers Quatre had planted in the small garden on the side of the house. In the month since the war had ended, he and the gentle blond had moved in together. The modest house they’d bought on the outskirts of the city was away from the hustle and bustle of the commercial center, but close enough to allow Quatre to commute to his job on the construction site without difficulty. For his part, Trowa worked part-time for the Preventers as a reserve agent, calling in only when extra help was needed, or in times of emergency. He’d considered continuing his job as a full-time agent, but had decided against it. He found the calm predictability of domesticity reassuring, and after the cold artifice of L3, the quaint rusticity of the area was a balm to his troubled soul.
They’d created a home here, he and his love.
Home…
Even now, Trowa couldn’t quite believe it. He, who had no home, no name, for so long, now had a soft place to fall and a beautiful loving partner to come home to. These few weeks of quiet companionship, his love’s gentle spirit and sharp mind, and most of all, the love he saw in that limpid cerulean gaze were more than he could have ever hoped for. Trowa felt more whole than he had in a long time … could feel the shadows losing their grip with each passing day.
And yet, something was missing. Sex had been a very tentative area for them. His experiences in the past had been …less than pleasant, and he’d shied away from any displays of affection that went beyond hugs and kisses. Quatre had been so patient with him, unstinting in his affections and yet never asking more of him than he was able to give, even though Trowa knew the blond must yearn for more.
For so long the pain of his past had imprisoned him, but he was stronger now, and Trowa thought he was finally ready to share more with his love. His feelings towards the former pilot of the Sandrock were decidedly not platonic, and he was tired of chaste kisses and embraces through the innocuous barrier of clothing—the nights of sharing a bed, but not their bodies. Covertly, Trowa studied the gentle Arabian who lay on his stomach on the sofa, chin propped on his palms as he quietly read. Knees bent, the blond’s legs waved lazily in the air. Quatre’s lips were pursed and his brow furrowed in concentration. Occasionally a slender palm absently stroked the yellowing pages of the tome, caressing them lovingly before moving onto the next page.
Yes, Trowa was ready to share more with his angel. He knew Quatre was innocent, but it would be Trowa’s first time as well in so many ways. He could only hope that he’d be able to give Quatre at least a small measure of the joy Quatre had given him when the time came.
Trowa added a dash of paprika to the gently simmering stew, stirring for a moment before checking on the rolls baking in the oven. Satisfied that everything seemed to be going according to schedule, he poured some of Quatre’s favorite rosehip tea into a delicate china teacup, and moved to join him in the den.
“Little One, would you like some tea?”
Quatre looked up from his book at the softly spoken request. Trowa was standing before him, clasping a teacup of what smelled deliciously like his favorite tea. He gratefully accepted the proffered cup, his heart warmed by the simple gesture.
“Thanks Tro.”
Allah only knew what he’d done to deserve Trowa. Not that he was complaining—far from it. Quatre counted each day as a blessing. He’d known they shared a special connection from the first day they had met. When Quatre had surrendered that day on the battlefield, he had surrendered his heart as well. After the fiasco with Zero, which he still harbored so much guilt over, Quatre had feared that he’d lost his love forever. And yet, here they were, carving out a normal existence (well as normal an existence as ex-gundam pilots could), and most importantly, they were doing it together. He knew that Trowa sometimes worried that Quatre wasn’t satisfied with their relationship, despite his repeated reassurances of otherwise, but Quatre of all people understood demons, and the hold they could have, and he was content to take things slowly. Sex, was admittedly a very vague area for him, and for a long time he had worried that his inexperience would be a turn off for Trowa, and so, his love’s reticence had been somewhat of a relief to him.
Quatre studied the lithe, auburn-haired man over the rim of his teacup, marveling at how beautiful he was. How did Trowa manage to look so sexy in the simple butcher’s apron he’d folded in half and tied about his slender waist? Quatre’s gaze fell to the muscular forearms exposed beneath the sleeves rolled-up at Trowa’s elbows, and to those jeans, which were so tight as to defy logic. An involuntary sigh escaped his lips. Perhaps he was more ready for sex with Trowa than he thought.
When Quatre looked up again, he was horrified to find Trowa staring directly at him. He could feel the blush creeping up his neck and to his face as he tried to focus on anything other than that intense green gaze. His hands were shaking so badly as he brought the teacup to his lips that some of the tea sloshed onto his fingers. Thank Allah it hadn’t been too hot, or he’d have been howling in pain as well. Quatre chanced a peek at Trowa, just in time to see him rising from his seat and heading towards the kitchen.
“I think the stew’s just about done.” Trowa announced, chuckling to himself. His love was so cute.
Quatre watched Trowa’s broad back and lean hips as he retreated. Was that an amused twinkle he’d seen in Trowa’s eye?
“Hmm.” Another sigh escaped Quatre. But his love truly was a work of art…art!
“Oh no!”
He’d just remembered the pad and paints he’d left outside. It had been such a beautiful day earlier that Quatre had gone out with his watercolors to indulge in some much-neglected painting. The pale blue sky with its soft cotton-candy clouds had just been begging to be immortalized. Leaving the painting outside to dry, Quatre had become so absorbed in his book of philosophy that his mind had barely registered the change in the weather. Glancing warily at the storm-darkened clouds, he pelted out the door.
Bare feet slapping against the pebbled walkway, Quatre’s only warning was a final ominous rumble of the skies before the clouds released their burden and he was pelted with a thousand ice-cold needles. By the time he reached the abandoned materials he was already soaked to the skin, and the painting had been converted into a more … abstract piece. Deciding that the paints, which were now swimming in little multicolored pools, were a lost cause, Quatre grabbed the painting—or rather what remained of it—and dashed back to the house.
Trowa, who had seen the small blond suddenly tear outside, turned around just in time to see Quatre rush back into the house, slamming the door behind him, breathing heavily as he clutched the soggy book to his chest, and looking for all the world like a drowned kitten. Their eyes met, and a noise that sounded suspiciously like a giggle escaped Trowa’s lips. He cleared his throat and struggled to maintain a neutral expression, but it was impossible. The absurdity of the situation overcame them both and they dissolved into fits of laughter.
The laughter died on Trowa’s lips, however, when Quatre shrugged out of his vest, abandoning it on the floor with the ruined sketch pad. The cotton shirt was plastered to his body, its rosy hue rendering the garment virtually transparent. Quatre’s delicate nipples were clearly visible, puckered into tight little pebbles by the cold. Trowa mentally groaned. Those nights of sleeping next to the blond were nothing compared to this.
What he wouldn’t give to peel back that shirt and taste that sweet flesh. The rosy nubs would be delightfully cool at first, but they would rapidly warm beneath his lips. He would shape their heat upright until they were painfully erect, and his love was quivering and whimpering beneath the gentle ministrations. His gaze drifted downwards. Quatre’s normally conservative khaki slacks had undergone quite a transformation as well. The material was molded faithfully to every curve of slender hip, thigh and leg. Trowa groaned anew. He had no doubt that it was going to be a very long night.
“Wait here while I get some towels and a blanket.” Trowa’s voice was husky to his own ears and he prayed Quatre wouldn’t notice.
Quatre looked up, puzzled by the change in Trowa’s mood and the suddenly husky timbre of his voice, but Trowa had already disappeared in the direction of the bedroom. Quatre shrugged and attempted to palm his hair dry, giving up when he’d only succeeded in getting trails of frigid water beneath his collar and down his back.
Trowa returned scant minutes later with a blanket and a bundle of towels.
“Here,” he said, handing Quatre one of the fluffy white towels, “take off those wet clothes and dry off with these.” The rest of the towels and the blanket he placed on the nearby table. He brushed a tender kiss against Quatre’s wet forehead before returning to the kitchen. “Dinner will be ready before you know it.”
Humming softly to himself, Quatre did as he was told, stripping off the sodden garments. One towel he used in his dripping hair, the other he rubbed over his body, its rough texture pleasantly abrasive on his sensitive skin. The spot where Trowa’s lips had pressed against his forehead still tingled from the contact and he sighed dreamily, a feeling of contentment sweeping through him. Surely life couldn’t get any better than this.