Chapter One

Leather, Violins and James Dean
by Michalyn
Rating: MA

“Thanks Heero,” Quatre smiled brightly at the man behind the counter. The aproned store owner grunted and nodded towards the long-haired youth lounging against some unpacked crates of Coca Cola.

“Maxwell,” Heero called sternly, “help Mr. Winner with his bags.”

“Awww man, Heero,” Duo jumped off the stack, his braid swinging behind him. “I’ll never finish the inventory at this rate,” he grumbled, approaching the counter and resting against it in a dramatic pose of weariness. His eyes, a brilliant violet, twinkled with mischief as he regarded the older man.

Heero glared. “Perhaps if you spent less time lolly-gagging and more time working, you would have completed the inventory already.” He shoved a particularly heavy paper-bag into Duo’s arms. “Now go.” Heero’s dark brows lowered and his voice held a definite threatening note.

“Oof!” Duo grunted as he balanced the bag in his arms. “Sheesh,” he said turning to Quatre with a smile. “He sure is Mr. Sunshine huh?” Duo joked, sticking his tongue out at Heero.

Quatre shook his head and laughed, by now well accustomed to the two men’s antics. It was one of the reasons he loved coming to Yuy and Maxwell’s. The prices were better than Harold’s grocery’s down the street, and the two storeowners never failed to entertain. He had heard the rumors about the two men: that they were deviants, freaks, men who shared an “unnatural” love for each other. He had felt the hostility — veiled and otherwise — directed at them and himself by association, but Quatre refused to curb his visits to the store. He did not believe in discrimination of any kind, and he gave no credence to rumors or bigotry.

Besides, how could he hate men with his own inclinations?

Quatre sighed and pulled one of the bags off the counter. Noting that Duo was already overburdened with the heavier of the two, he tried carrying the other bag but immediately released it when his knee protested. He bit his lip as the pain shot through him. Sweat dotted his brow as he rested against the counter. Quatre sat heavily on one of the stools, his vision wavering and blurring for a moment. Immediately Heero and Duo were at his side.

“Hey, Q,” Duo asked, “you okay?” He looked from Heero, to Quatre’s pale, sweating brow, with worried eyes.

Heero’s face hovered before Quatre’s. “What is it?” he asked gruffly. “Are you alright?”

Quatre managed a weak smile. “I’m fine — really,” he panted. “It’s just my knee,” he explained hurriedly. “I should have known better than to try to carry something so heavy,” he breathed, the color slowly returning to his cheeks as the painful throb began to subside.

“Hn,” Heero kneeled in front of Quatre’s khaki-clad legs. His strong hand pressed up his right calf, as he tested for injuries, moving upwards until his fingers touched the heavy metal brace hidden under the soft material.

Quatre’s eyes widened, and he made a soft, choked sound. His hands covered Heero’s. “Don’t,” he whispered. His gaze lowered and his cheeks flushed in embarrassment and discomfort. “Please … it’s fine, really,” he murmured, refusing to meet the other’s eyes as his hands desperately tried to push Heero’s hand away from his deformity. “Just … just a little sprain.”

Heero frowned but said nothing, as he released Quatre’s knee. Duo frowned as well, looking to Heero with a question in his eyes. The dark-haired man shook his head once, slowly and Duo nodded in understanding. He ruffled Quatre’s hair. “Think you can make it home ok Q?”

“Yes.” Quatre nodded determinedly. He stood and reached once more for the bag.

“Ah, that’s ok man. I’ll take care of it.” Putting on his most good-natured grin, Duo darted forward and snatched it from him. “Two trips down the street ain’t gonna kill me ya know. Besides,” he patted his flat belly, “I need it: Been going a little too heavy on those sloppy joes of Heero’s lately,” he added with a wink.

Quatre pierced Duo with a look that plainly said that he was not fooled by his act. “I am fine,” he insisted, “and,” he added when Duo began to protest, “there is no need for you to make two trips when I am perfectly capable of carrying this bag. Plus, you have that inventory to do,” Quatre reminded his friend.

“I’ll do the inventory,” Heero quietly cut in. “Listen to Duo. You need some rest.”

Quatre let out an exasperated sigh. “The two of you are being ridiculous! I….”

Whatever he had been about to say was cut off by the chiming of the bell as a customer walked in. They all turned in the direction of the silvery tinkle, to find a tall stranger looking calmly about the store.

Wearing dusty jeans, a white t-shirt and a black leather jacket, the tall man reminded Quatre of that actor, James Dean, whom he secretly had a crush on, and his cheeks flushed again. This time, for a different reason altogether as the stranger’s singly visible green eye locked with his.

His hair was all wrong, of course. In that strange hairstyle with the fall of bangs that completely concealed one emerald orb, it was nothing at all like the superstar’s wavy blonde coif. And there was that too … the eye color and the different build….

Nothing was blatant, or brashly sexual about this man. He was slim, compact and subtle, moving with the controlled grace of a panther, but the air of quiet negligence, that was the same. There was an intensity hidden beneath the indifferent exterior. It burned in his brilliant eyes and in the way nothing escaped his notice as he wordlessly grabbed a bottle of soda and set it on the counter. He looked from one man to the other as Heero rang up his purchase and his gaze finally rested on Quatre. It traveled from Quatre’s head to the tips of his sensible shoes and back up again, and Quatre suddenly felt very hot; the cotton shirt he wore stiff and confining. He ducked his head, feeling the blush suffuse his neck and face as he tried to think of anything other than the enigmatic man staring unapologetically at him.

That thought steeled Quatre a little, allowing him to dredge up a little indignation amidst his discomfort. Why should he be made to feel uncomfortable? The man had no right to waltz in and ogle him in such a rude manner. He knew he was small for his 21 years and almost childish-looking to boot, and of course, there was his limp, but he couldn’t help that he looked odd. He would never have Duo’s shocking beauty or Heero’s rough masculinity, but that was still no reason to single him out like some attraction in a sideshow.

Bravely, Quatre raised his head and met the stranger’s gaze. He was shocked to find that lonely green eye dancing with hidden amusement and some other volatile emotion that made his stomach flutter dangerously. He swallowed convulsively and an actual smile teased the edges of the man’s full lips.

“Hello Petite,” he greeted quietly in a deep, whiskey-smooth voice that rumbled across Quatre’s nerves like thunder.

If possible, Quatre felt his face grow even hotter. Duo snickered behind the interloper and out of the corner of his eye Quatre could see Heero raising an eyebrow in surprise.

“I … ah—ahem,” Quatre stammered, running a nervous hand through his hair. “Hi,” he said quickly. He looked past the man’s broad shoulder to Duo, who was grinning in total enjoyment of the situation. “Ah Duo, I … I … think I’m ready to go home now.”

“Sure Q-man,” Duo sang as he hefted a bag against his hip.

“Thanks,” Quatre murmured, smiling weakly. “I’ll just get this one.” He cast a weary eye on the bag that was right next to the green-eyed man. Quatre inched closer, feeling very uncomfortable under the stranger’s gaze and unbelievably self-conscious as his right leg dragged against the wooden floor. He wished desperately that he had brought his cane. Quatre reached for the bag, but the tall man snatched it away, balancing it effortlessly in one hand as he took a swig out of his soft drink with the other.

“Please,” he said solemnly, eyes locking with Quatre’s, “allow me.”

Duo’s guffaw was cut short by a hollow thump that sounded suspiciously like a reprimanding slap being delivered to the fun-loving man’s back. He masked it with a cough as he shot a glare in Heero’s general direction. Quatre looked desperately over at the two men for help, but they were engaged in their own silent warfare, each glaring daggers at the other. He sighed and nodded resignedly at the tall stranger, “Sure … let’s go.”

———————————

Duo whistled appreciatively as he eyed the gleaming Harley Davidson parked at the curb. And from the small crowd of girls in fluffy poodle skirts gathered on the other side of the road, it appeared he wasn’t the only one who thought it was special. Duo circled the sleek machine, admiring its leather and chrome finish. “Wow,” he breathed, “she’s a real beauty.” He turned to the tall man standing next to Quatre. “Is this baby yours?”

The quiet man nodded, then paused thoughtfully. ‘Would you like to take her for a spin?” he asked unexpectedly, eyes fixed with little concealed interest on Quatre at his side.

Quatre’s eyes widened and he willed his friend to say no as Duo bit his lip in consideration. “Aww,” he looked wistfully at the vehicle. “I don’t think I could. I’ve gotta help Q with these and then it’s right back to work for me,” Duo explained sadly, and Quatre breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks for the offer though,” Duo added with a smile.

The man shrugged and they continued to Quatre’s house in silence, but Quatre could feel the stranger’s eyes on him all the way there.

When they were standing on the porch Quatre slid the key into the lock with shaking fingers and pushed the door open. He ushered the two men inside, telling them to rest the bags on the kitchen table as he moved to open the windows. He could see the tall brunette quietly observing the room, from its neat flower-boxes on the windowsills, to the pretty wallpaper, but more often than not his attention was fixed on Quatre as he moved about the room. Quatre nervously wrung his hands, not knowing what to make of the man’s strange intensity. Trying to appear calm, he turned to the other two with a smile.

“Thank you so much for your help, guys.”

“No problem Blondie,” Duo mumbled enthusiastically around the cookies he had snatched from the jar on the table. “It was my pleasure.” He munched for a moment longer then stretched. “Well, sorry to say, I gotta run,” he announced as he moved towards the door. “Heero’ll have my hide if I’m late again,” he added with a wink. “I’ll see you later Quatre.”

Duo paused, noticing that the other man had yet to budge. “You coming green-eyes?” he called cheerfully, but there was a note of steel to his voice that made the easy question a command.

“No, I think I’ll stay,” the stranger said softly and just as firmly. He turned to Quatre. “That is, if our gentle host will allow me.”

Quatre’s lips parted, ready to insist that the traveler leave, but the man’s pleading eyes stopped him. There was no menace in those depths — only tenderness and an intense passion. He stared, unable to look away from the verdant irises.

Duo coughed and tapped his foot impatiently and Quatre flushed, tearing his gaze away.

“It’s okay Duo,” he called softly. “You go on ahead. I’ll be fine.”

Duo hesitated, then finally assented — but not before piercing the taller man with an assessing glare. Violet locked with emerald for long moments before Duo abruptly nodded and looked away as though satisfied by what he had found. He looked once more over his shoulder at Quatre. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” he insisted, looking at his friend.

Quatre nodded and smiled. “I promise.”

Duo gave him a thumbs-up and tossed him a cheeky grin as he turned, long braid swishing behind him as he jogged lightly down the stairs and disappeared around the bend.

Silence stretched between the two men, and desperate for something to do, Quatre shuffled over to the table and began to unpack the groceries. He was seriously beginning to reconsider his decision. Perhaps he should have heeded Duo instead. These were hardly safe times, and inviting intense strangers into one’s home was not wise — no matter how magnetic their eyes were — and he hated to admit it, but with his knee, he was less than capable of defending himself from any kind of physical attack. Especially from a man over six foot and easily twice his weight.

Perhaps sensing his discomfort and wariness, the man moved to stand next to Quatre. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to frighten you,” he said quietly. “I am usually neither so forward nor rude.” He extended a long-fingered hand to a surprised Quatre. “My name is Trowa Barton.”

Quatre peered at his companion over the rim of his coffee mug. “So, Mr. Barton—” he extended the sugar bowl to the other man, who politely declined. “What brings you our side of town?”

Trowa leaned forward on his elbows. “I spent three years in the service,” he revealed in that deep mesmerizing voice of his. “After the war, I had no family to return to — no obligations to anyone other than myself. In many ways it was a blessing,” Trowa mused. “When a boy leaves home on the cusp of manhood and spends three years being a killing machine, how can he ever be the same person to those who love him afterwards when his hands are so stained with blood?”

Trowa’s eyes flashed with some hidden emotion. “I have always been rootless — an outsider. As a boy I spent time with a moving circus,” he explained. “It was the closest thing I had to a family,” he added quietly. ” So last year I decided to take up the travel again. I’ve been on the road for six months now, trying to find something of the nation I once believed in.” Trowa’s expression became hard for a fleeting instant. “Besides, it’s hard to have nightmares after spending a day on the back of a motorcycle.”

Quatre was at a loss for words. He had experienced the war as most people had: struggling daily in their homes and not on the frontlines of the battle. His knee had prevented any chance of him being drafted when men his age were leaving their families to fight an enemy on foreign soil. So what could he say to this veteran whose experience denied all his optimism? Could any words be sufficient?

“I’m sorry,” he murmured futilely and Trowa shook his head.

“Don’t be. None of us can change our pasts but when I walked into that store and saw you….” He looked deeply into Quatre’s eyes. ” You shone amidst the others like a candle in the darkness. How could a moth like me but be drawn to your flame?” Trowa asked passionately. “I had to talk to you.”

Quatre shook his head , disturbed and saddened by Trowa’s somber words. “You are wrong,” he said fiercely. “None of us deserves darkness.” He pushed away from the table, eyes stinging with unshed tears. “I have no desire to be the kind of light that destroys,” he said sadly, inexplicably drawn to this man that made his heart ache. He turned on the faucet and began to wash the dishes as tears clouded his vision. Quatre heard the scrape of the chair against the tiles and suddenly Trowa was behind him.

The older man reached over, shutting off the water and pulling a startled Quatre into his arms.

Automatically, Quatre tried to shuffle backwards. His leg banged awkwardly against the cupboards and Quatre closed his eyes, grimacing at his clumsiness. He looked up with wide eyes at Trowa and bit his lip. “Um, I think I better find my cane,” he trailed off, caught in the glare of the other man’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Trowa murmured as he entwined his fingers with Quatre’s smaller ones. “The last thing I want to do is upset you. You are far too special … too pure. I’m almost afraid to touch you,” he whispered sorrowfully,”but oh how I want to taste of your sweetness,” Trowa confessed, his voice equal parts regret and desire. “You make me want to believe again.”

Quatre shoved away from the older man, moving with surprising speed towards the living room as Trowa trailed confusedly behind him. Quatre whirled to face him, uncaring of the pain it cost him. “I may be inexperienced,” he ground out carefully, “but I am hardly naïve. And I refused to be treated like some fragile china doll. We are of an age, and we are both men. I will not be pitied or put on some ridiculous pedestal,” he finished breathlessly, flushed from his tirade.

Trowa stared at the suddenly fiery creature before him and finally had the grace to look sheepish. “Forgive me,” he murmured, “I….” At a loss for words, he spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

Quatre maneuvered over to the couch and sank onto it with a sigh. He rubbed at his eyes. “No,” he said softly, to the older man. “It is I who should apologize. You didn’t deserve that.” He ran an exasperated hand through his hair as Trowa sat next to him. “It’s just that I’m so tired of being so small — so lonely — so innocent, and … and for a moment, I thought….” Quatre looked away. “I … I hoped that you could teach me,” he whispered, as a furious blush climbed his cheeks. “I am drawn to you as well,” he admitted, “but I can’t be your Savior or your Angel,” he said sadly.

Quatre stared at his hands, afraid to see the expression on the other man’s face. Already he regretted his impulsive words. When he felt Trowa rise from the couch, he found himself rapidly blinking back tears. He wiped roughly at his eyes, furious at himself for becoming so attached to a man he knew nothing about.

So much for proving yourself a man, Quatre. It was no wonder that nobody wanted anything but a platonic relationship with a him. It was bad enough that he was scrawny and deformed — but to be bawling like a baby at the slightest provocation was simply pathetic. Shamefully, he buried his face in his hands.

The first strains of music reaching Quatre’s ears shocked him — but not more so than the silent figure standing before him and radiating an intensity that he could not deny.

Trowa reached out his hand, and wordlessly Quatre took it, allowing the man to pull him to his feet and into his strong arms as the gramophone spilled rich, poignant notes. Quatre had listened to the record many times before, and yet never had the violin seemed so sweet — or so sorrowful as it did now. He pressed his ear against the sure beat of older man’s heart, and Trowa’s arms tightened, half-carrying, half-swinging Quatre as they danced awkwardly around the room. Not so much to the music, but to a bittersweet rhythm they found in each other’s arms.

—————————-

Trowa stopped. Cupping Quatre’s face in his hands, he focused every energy on emblazoning onto his memory the curve of soft white cheeks, the splash of marine hidden behind tawny lashes and the soft, trembling lips he would never see again. His chest ached with need and regret as he bent, brushing his lips, once, twice over the enticing pout, suckling tenderly on the firm flesh; tugging gently, savoring the way the tiny blonde gasped and shivered in his arms. When he eased his tongue inside, mating it gently with Quatre’s, the pale beauty’s eyes fell closed, small hands fisting in Trowa’s shirt as a surprised moan escaped him.

Trowa nibbled desperately at Quatre’s lips for a moment, and then abruptly he pulled away. His forehead pressed against Quatre’s, and their breath fanned against each other’s in hot, labored pants.

“No promises,” he breathed desperately. “No promises.”

Quatre’s lashes lowered, shielding the pain in his eyes. His smile was beautiful and heartbreaking as he took Trowa by the hand and led him carefully to his bedroom. Looking into his eyes, he placed a burning kiss in the center of Trowa’s palm.

“No promises,” he agreed softly. He tugged Trowa’s head down to meet his own, and placed a tentative kiss against the his lips. “No promises,” he repeated fiercely. “Just this.”