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It didn’t surprise Trowa that the circus began to struggle in peacetime. Entertainment was for diversion and distraction. It was to shake loose the turmoil and weariness of a collective sorrow. With hope and the promise of a better future, people stay at home, celebrate together, and celebrate the coming home of their loved ones.
They don’t clamor for a circus.
So, Trowa began to work odds and ends to keep them afloat. Cathy took on small jobs, but it usually wasn’t enough. Trowa first started as a bartender, preferring to work nights and under the table. However, even that wasn’t as much as he hoped. He had the skills but not the degree for engineering. He had the knack for Preventer work, obviously, but that meant moving around and...well, he didn’t want to do that alone anymore. He wanted to stay with Cathy.
The job came easy to him, a business card one night with a number written in a thick handwriting.
The Eager Eagle paid well and the hours were the same as bartending. He didn’t have to explain why he smelled like sweat and cigarettes, he already did while bartending...And it wasn’t like he hadn’t done things before to get whatever he wanted or needed.
So, he began to strip.
It was good money that he could get fast, easy, and without any documentation.
And stripping was part performance anyway...
***
Tonight, the manager rushes right to Trowa, hands twitching around a cigarette. He quickly spouts, “You’ve got a customer and hooooly Christ he’s loaded. He fuckin’ just tipped me 200 just to get him into a goddamn private room. He wants you and only you and I said, ‘No problem, he’s here tonight’. But, Jesus, he came right before the club even opened-”
“Which room?” Trowa asks, straight-forward. Maybe he could get extra tonight, enough to take Cathy shopping.
“The Ruby Room, duh. It’s the classiest thing we got in this shithole. Go get changed and get in there.”
“Did he have any special requests?” Trowa asks, thinking of attire.
“The only thing is that you stay with him until we close for tonight.”
Trowa almost winced. That was for so long. Hopefully the guy was a talker and he could just listen. He was good at listening, it didn’t take much effort.
Trowa pauses and decides to mention it, “And then…?”
“I know you can take care of yourself, so...Whatever happens to two consenting adults...Just give me ten, yeah?”
“I’ll think about it.”
In the back room, he looks through his very few outfits. The Policeman is cliche and wouldn’t probably do it for someone rich. Nothing really invocative for the wealthy since the police didn’t pose any danger or consequence.
No, he needed something else.
After searching, he just chooses simplicity. Maybe just coming here and getting a rush from watching would be enough. Tear-away black slacks, white t-shirt that he can rip off, and some simple non-skid shoes that are non-descript enough so as not to detract from his body. Thong, of course, of course , although he imagined for enough money, he’d take it off.
He’s only done that twice before...The money was good enough and the men were cute enough.
Finally, he makes his way to the back. It’s the very last room, more secure and private, and the blaring music is muted. He considers his choices in song, but he supposes he can ask. Customer’s always right and all that.
Taking a breath and stretching his neck, he readies himself and opens the door.
“Hello,” he says as he walks through the doorway. “My name is Troy and I-”
He stops talking. Stops moving. Stops blinking. The room itself has stopped.
Everything stops.
His heart drops all the way to his stomach, burning up there.
Quatre Raberba Winner.
It’s Quatre, just sitting on the curved couch next to the small mini-stage with its shining pole. Calm and collected. Looking every part the rich businessman Trowa imagined… Quatre Raberba Winner.
Trowa’s throat dries immediately. He’s blind-sided and doesn’t know how to play this.
“Quatre…” He hears himself say and Quatre’s eyes watch his own until he looks away.
“Hello...Troy,” Quatre breathes out, using Trowa’s own pseudonym.
Trowa feels his dry lips part in surprise. He forces a breath to steady himself. “Hello, Quatre. You don't need to call me that. You can call me Trowa.”
Quietly, mind still racing, he goes to the champagne already ready on a side table. It’s to buy time, though. He’s still piecing all this together.
He pours himself a glass, again, to buy time. He turns his head back, watches himself being watched. Quatre’s eyes are tight on him in a different way that he’s used to here.
“You want something to drink?” He asks, evenly.
“No, thank you,” Quatre replies back, but there’s very little mirth there. He’s a blank slate, which is uncommon. That’s usually Trowa’s role. “I was told that I needed to buy at least two to be able to... meet you like this.”
“So, were you spying on me or is this all a happy accident?” Trowa asks, but still keeps his distance. He’s not exactly sure what this is yet. Obviously money will be brought up and he’s still figuring how he’ll take that.
“I wouldn’t call it spying,” Quatre says, folds his hands into his lap. “But I was curious what you were doing...I didn’t-...I thought it was something else.”
“Didn’t expect stripper then?” Trowa wonders, almost smiles around his glass.
“No,” Quatre admits, almost laughing if just the pure audacity, “No, I didn't expect that.”
Trowa refills his glass. “So, what did you expect then?”
“Honestly...With no trace of you...No identity given...And money coming in here and there, but no taxes...Honestly, I thought you might have been taking...side jobs.”
“A hitman?” Trowa does allow a smirk. “That’s flattering, but no, it’s much more mundane. Maybe just as salacious, though.”
Quatre doesn’t argue that and seems unsure of what his next move is.
“So, what is this?” Trowa asks him, running his tongue over his teeth, tasting the champagne there. “Concern? Looking after me? Curious?...A dance?”
“I was asked...I was asked, Trowa, to check.”
“By Wufei, maybe? Sally? Are they curious about it? Want to make sure I don’t go rogue or anything. Terrific.”
“Out of concern, for you,” Quatre clarifies, steadily. “And it was Heero, actually. He thought-...He asked me to come.”
“Well, you can tell him that it’s not what he thinks, either. Anything else, or are we done here?”
Quatre falters. His face breaks into the concern that Trowa was waiting for. It was predictable.
“Trowa, please...I’m here for you. To make sure things are fine.”
Trowa shrugs. “Things are fine. How about you, Quatre? What's new in your life?”
It’s callous, insensitive even. Trowa knows that, but there’s some resentment at being followed, at being checked out. It’s really none of their business.
And there’s a small part that he hates that makes him regret giving up Nanashi. He had anonymity with Nanashi. He didn’t have strings tied around him. He didn’t have this round-about concern or consequences to his actions. He was free.
“Trowa,” Quatre pushes, “If you need...support. You know that I-”
“I don’t want your money, Quatre,” Trowa scoffs and shakes his head.
Sighing, Quatre licks his lips and tries again. “If you need a steady job-”
“I don’t need your Winner handouts, either.”
That slaps Quatre across the face. It wakes him up. It riles him.
“It’s not a damn handout, Trowa. It’s a job. An actual and real job that you would excel in-”
“You don’t think I excel in this?” Trowa wonders, quirking a brow. “You want me to prove you wrong?”
The disgust on Quatre’s face cools and coils inside Trowa and he numbly takes another swallow of the watered down and cheap champagne. He can feel it slide like sludge all the way down.
“I don’t-...” Quatre shakes his head, face twisted in thought. “I just-...Why? Why won’t you-...”
“Why won’t I take your money?”
“If you need it, why won’t you let me help you?”
“Because I don’t take charity-”
“Good God above! I’m offering you something that you can be proud of. Something that you can feel accomplished at.”
“And I can’t here? You have no idea what I can do.” Trowa tells him and can see Quatre flush even in the dim light. “But you paid for all night, so how about it? How about I show you what I can do? You paid for my services, you might as well enjoy yourself...Mr. Winner.”
The words deflate Quatre. His eyes sink down and away from Trowa. He looks like he might cry, but he doesn’t. No, he just sits there and listens to the muffled music of the bar.
“I just don’t understand, Trowa,” he says so quietly and it doesn't carry the bravado of a CEO. It’s the gentleness of a friend, of someone wanting to be more in his life. Of someone who loves him, or at least did at some point.
“You want a dance, Quatre?” Trowa asks softer this time, walks slowly over to Quatre and stands in front of him.
Carefully, he lifts Quatre’s head up and there eyes meet.
Quatre tries again. “Why…? Why won’t you come back with me-”
Trowa slips his fingers on Quatre’s lips, hushing the questions.
He’s here because he wants to be. Because it’s easier. Because he doesn’t have to think, or be real. He can be anyone here. He can be nameless and formless again here.
But he means it when he asks again, “Will you watch me, Quatre...if I want you to watch me?”
Quatre’s eyes shut slowly, tightly, and in the muted lights, he looks so small and beautiful. And Trowa has to breathe out that ache to kiss him.
Instead, he lets his fingers slip from Quatre’s soft lips.
“Just look at me, Quatre…”
Suddenly, as Quatre nods quietly, Trowa wonders who is he to Quatre anymore. There was a moment once that they shared together, during a war, during a strained exploration of feelings and fumblings. There was once a simple and innocent experience of a kiss that Trowa still holds tight and close to him.
A kiss in the cold halls of Peacemillion before they went off to fight Zechs and Treize. It wasn’t his first...but it was his most tender. It was his most dear.
‘ Be safe, ’ Quatre had said, lips tilting and holding onto his, ‘ Please be safe …’
And he tried to be safe…
Trowa goes to the light switch, dims the lights even more and enters the numbers for the song he wants. It’s all mechanical. He doesn’t even feel himself doing these things. They’re just done.
The routine is familiar, but the eyes watching him scald his skin as he fluidly dances against the pole, as he licks his lips and looks just beyond Quatre.
Slowly, he breathes, without effort tearing off the shirt. It’s all just motions. Motions he’s done before. Motions he’ll do again...
Quatre has seen this before. He’s seen Trowa without his shirt, so many years ago. He remembers so clearly because he committed it to memory. It was the first time he had looked at someone so love-ridden, so passionately. It was the first time he wanted to reach out and touch another boy. It was the first time he felt a physical and not just emotional desire to be near someone.
And now he watches Trowa, and it’s beautiful, he can’t deny that. Just like he can’t deny his insecurity and the fact that Trowa was right -- this wasn’t his decision or business. But, oh, how he wants to give Trowa anything and everything; and always has always wanted to. What is the point in having money if he can’t share it? What is the point of languishing in his opalescence without anyone to ground him and love him regardless?
He once thought that could be Trowa. Just as he once thought that, perhaps with distance and time, that his crush would fade into a steady and worthwhile friendship…
But as he watches Trowa’s naked chest, the way the light hits all of Trowa’s lovely angles and curves, he’s disappointed that time and distance meant nothing. Quatre wants him just as much as ever. Probably wants him even more, in much more concrete terms.
And still, he’ll never have Trowa. That’s what this dance is about. It’s a form of rejection. A form of rebellion against him and his desires. He can only pay an hour’s worth of work just to sit in a sticky booth and watch Trowa rip his pants away. He doesn’t get Trowa in the end because Trowa is no one’s.
And it hurts. Just as much as it hurts that he’ll commit this night, this one and only night, to memory. And then, he’s sure , they’ll never talk about it again. Just like his kiss. Not only unwanted, but an inconvenience.
His love has always been an inconvenience...
Slipping out of his shoes, Trowa deftly steps off the stage and is suddenly in Quatre’s lap, straddling him. Quatre holds out his hands, almost like in surrender, gasping at the weight and pressure. He’s frozen. He can’t even breathe. His heart refuses to pulsate. His mind can’t process this. Everything stops.
“You like what you see, Quatre?” Trowa whispers into his ear, lips touching him. “You want me to make you feel good?”
Quare shivers against him, feels Trowa’s hands against his chest, feeling for nipples. When Trowa’s fingers find them under the stiff, pressed shirt, he rolls his thumbs roughly against them, making Quatre arch and quiver.
Moaning, Quatre feels the heat and pressure building inside him, these hopes and dreams tucked within him for so long. He wants more. He wants that kiss back. He wants to suck on Trowa’s lip, tongue twisted in Trowa’s mouth.
He wants hands all over his body, inside his body...He wants Trowa inside him, wants all the things he couldn’t want before or didn’t understand before when he was younger.
He wants to be inside Trowa, giving himself over and over again, finding every inch of Trowa to possess and to pleasure.
“Yes,” Quatre feels himself whisper. Yes, he does. He wants Trowa to make him feel good, to make him feel like there still might be something beautiful and wonderful between them. "Please..."
Quatre’s soft facade has cracked. Having Trowa’s face so close to his, feeling Trowa’s groin against his erection, smelling the sweat and musk of Trowa, Quatre is overwhelmed. He feels like any deeper shifts and he'll come spilling out. It's all too much, too visceral and real.
Fingers against his shirt, the pressure and heat of Trowa on his lap, and the weight of arousal against Trowa's half-naked body, glistening with sweat.
And it’s too much as Trowa begins to undulate against him, fluid and unaffected. Unaffected.
He’s unaffected.
The realization hits Quatre so hard, he’s breathless. Trowa doesn’t want this. He’s flaccid, Quatre realizes. Trowa is flaccid; he’s not even breathing hard, and not really looking at Quatre. Looking through him. Just as he would with any other customer.
More than just vomit, Quatre feels like his entire soul is about to be purged at the fact that Trowa doesn’t want him. That he's just a dirty man of wealth and objectification, just like any other man for Trowa to grind against.
Quatre pushes, pushes with everything, pushes away Trowa. Just pushes and backs away, even plasters himself against the sticky booth. In horror. In utter disgust with himself. In sheer devastation and heart-break.
“Quat-”
“I can’t,” Quatre heaves, tears now bold and bright in the dimmed light. “I can’t do this!”
“I know,” Trowa says, quietly. “Yeah...I know.”
“I can’t do this anymore, Trowa,” he says again, dropping his face into his shaking hands.
The words confirm the doubt in Trowa’s heart. In a way, there’s relief that Quatre finally understands this. There’s no more hope for Trowa to latch onto anymore. There’s no more in between them to keep dragging around. They're just too different. They're just not made for this.
“I know,” Trowa says on the floor, shifting to kneel.
“I’m sorry,” Quatre responds, wiping his red wet face. “I’m sorry, Trowa. I’m so stupid to think you wanted me. I’m sorry.”
“Wait...what?” Trowa’s confusion cuts through the tension.
Swallowing, Quatre repeats himself. “I, um... I know. We were just children. We were just trying to find comfort. But, uh, I thought you felt something, too. And I know I forced it then. I know it was just me, always just my own foolishness...But I'm sorry.”
Trowa’s face is hard and intense when he asks,“Wait...Are you talking about the kiss?”
Hesitating, Quatre nods. “That was...my first. I should have-...I should have known that it meant nothing. It was just in the moment.”
Trowa sighs loudly, dropping his tight shoulders with that exhalation, and shakes his head. “No...it meant something, Quatre.”
“But…” Quatre’s face folds into confusion, a wild and distraught confusion. “But...? I don’t understand. You just...You left. You left right after the war and again right after Mariemaia.”
“I have a family, Quatre. I can’t leave them. I belong with them.”
“But...But you left me.”
“I didn’t leave you. I went back home,” Trowa slowly explains, feeling the precipice of something big, something so huge that he can barely hold on and it scares him. “We had two different lives. I didn’t have the space. You didn’t have the time.”
“I would have made time,” Quatre asserts suddenly as if he’s woken from a stupor, suddenly feeling something move between them. “Trowa, I would have made time for you, but...I thought that you didn’t...I thought you were done with it. With me. With everything. I thought I reminded you of that...Of war. Of violence.”
“I never said that.”
“But...you left.”
Trowa shakes his head and wipes the sweat away from the back of his neck. “No, think about it. You’re the only heir to one of the most powerful companies in the universe. I would’ve only complicated things.”
“Yes,” Quatre agrees, sitting up and forward, “Of course you would! My sisters would be furious. The board members would make horrid and snide remarks behind my back. It’d be a scandal, but Trowa...Trowa, I would have taken those consequences to be with you. I have...I-...I don’t even know what to say. I just don’t even know what to say...”
“You shouldn’t take that risk.”
“I shouldn’t have piloted a gundam, either, but I’m glad I did, “ Quatre’s voice rises, becoming cemented, “I found my closest friends, friends much stronger than my own family, because of it. I accept those complications and consequences. I embrace them.”
“Are you saying…” Trowa shifts all of this in his head, but still hesitant. “That you would have embraced me?”
“Are you kidding me, Trowa? I’d move the moon for you,” Quatre huffs incredulously.
“Well, maybe I couldn’t ‘embrace’ them...for you.” His voice seems so much softer and quieter than Quatre’s. He knows that Quatre was always the stronger of the two...just as he would always surrender to Quatre. It was just the more sensible thing to do.
“Oh, Trowa,” Quatre breathes, once again completely taken by Trowa, by his raw honesty and smooth selflessness. “How I’ve wanted you... How I still want you…”
Trowa looks down, looks at himself and his near-nudity, now acutely aware. This isn't how he thought this would go, if it ever would go at all. He thought those hopes were just old wounds, best left alone. But now... “Maybe we can try...just like this for tonight. You, being a customer? Me, just someone who happens to be here...”
“I can’t,” Quatre's voice trembles and he smiles. “Trowa, I won’t play around anymore, being worried that I’ll ruin our friendship. I’m laying out all the cards. Trowa, I love you. I loved you then, from the first moment I saw you. Literally the very first moment. And no matter what I do, no matter who I’m with or the things I do, I will never be without that love. I am so utterly and completely filled with you...and I know that...I know you can never be mine. I know that...But…”
“But…?”
“But dammit, Trowa!” Quatre says without anger but desperation, with breakable smiles that hurt and such shameless emotions. “I’m not that kind or compassionate or mature. I want you to want me. I want you to love me and I’m so foolish for wanting it...But I do. God, I do...”
Trowa sighs again, not sure entirely what to do with all of this. He’s been waiting, too. He’s been holding onto that torch, too, and it’s been uncomfortable. It’s been lonely.
After a few minutes of silence, Quatre half-jokes, “I wish you’d say something or just kick me out for being a bad customer.”
“I don’t know, Quatre…” Trowa awkwardly answers, “I don’t really date. I don’t really get involved. I live off the grid. Low-key. And I like that.”
“We can do low-key.”
Trowa struggles. “I don’t know when I’d even see you. You're not exactly accessible.”
“I’ll promise to come to you once a month for a weekend, if you’d want...and to talk on the phone, maybe once a week..”
Trowa sighs, not wanting to even consider this insanity. “I won’t quit my job and take your money.”
“Okay…” Quatre finds that one difficult to swallow against, but knows it’s not his decision.
“Cathy is still angry at you for Zero.”
“I’ll-...I’ll talk to her. See if I can smooth things out.”
Trowa snorts at that, knows how much Cathy worries about him. How much she’d actually be thrilled that he’s not alone anymore.
“I don’t know,” Trowa finally answers.
“Well...like you said. Let’s try for tonight, just tonight. And if it goes okay...maybe we’ll try again tomorrow…?”
“Like...sex?”
Quatre laughs and it reminds Trowa how long it’s been since he’s heard that laugh. It crawls right into his chest and warms the muscles there.
“No,” Quatre explains, hoping he doesn’t sound corny, “No, like being my boyfriend.”
“Oh…”
Trowa thinks for a moment. Maybe...maybe if it’s just for one night. Yeah, he could probably do that. If it’s just for right now. Low-key. Quiet. Unknown. Quatre’s already come this far, anyway…
And it’s not like it’ll be forever. It’s not like Quatre will lose everything in one night. Not with a nobody like him...
“Okay. For tonight,” Trowa hears himself say, “I’ll be your boyfriend tonight.”
The joy in Quatre’s eyes can’t even be explained or even fully understood by Trowa. “Really, Trowa?”
The question makes Trowa feel silly, feel young, feel a little awkward. “Sure.”
“And-” Quatre is hesitant, but pushes out the question because he needs the affirmation. “And you want me?”
‘How could anyone not?’ Trowa thinks, almost offended at the question, but instead answers, “Yeah.”
Quatre doesn’t even know what to say, stunned speechless by hope and a love that he’s carried for so long. It’s all too much. All too wonderful. All too exciting.
“So...what do you want to do?” Trowa stands, wondering at what a date would even mean between them. If it was anything like he’d imagined years ago, it would have something to do with music, with dining, with talking. Something soft and gentle.
“Would you mind if we left?” Quatre carefully asks.
“Would you mind if I put on actual clothes?” Trowa jokes.
Quatre wants to tell him how beautiful he is, how sexy and wonderful he is, but prudently knows that now is not the time. But maybe it’ll be tomorrow. Maybe soon enough.
“You can come with me anyway you’d like,” Quatre says and, of course, means it from the bottom of his heart. "As long as I can be with you..."