misanagi: (Fiction)
[personal profile] misanagi
A Thousand Stars

Fandom: Gundam Wing
Rating: PG
Pairing: Quatre/Trowa
Warnings: Some angst and whumping
Words: 519

For [livejournal.com profile] dentelle_noire

The night air is cold. Quatre shivers as he he walks out of the water, wiping his eyes with the back of his wet hands. He hates salty water and the way the sting never seems to really go away from your eyes. He takes three steps of the shore and then drops heavily on the sand.

He should be going, finding someplace warm and a phone but he’s cold, wet, tired, the graze on his calf stings and he frankly doesn’t give a damn about anything right now. With a heavy sigh he sets to taking off his shoes. Italian leather, a gift from one of his sisters. They are now useless and tangled with some seaweed.

His jacket, he took off as soon as he cleared the explosion. It was heavy and it hampered his swimming. His tie went the same way, now claimed by the sea, but in the cold ocean his shoelaces had refused to cooperate and Quatre had swam in them rather than fight futilely to take them off.

The shivers start to become more violent. He has never liked the cold and he’s notoriously bad at handling it. He knows he should stand up. Time to go. The bad guys are good, the good guys are gone and now is only him, sitting by the shore, unwilling to move.

He doesn’t think of his boat. He thinks of the staff. The captain, a maid and a steward. Dead. The assassins are dead as well, their boat destroyed too but he was too late to help his people. Another assassination attempt. They fail, people die, he lives. It goes on.

He falls on his back and looks up at the stars. Some nights, when the sky is clear, he can see L4. It twinkles less than other stars and it could be overlooked, ignored among all the other shinny dots but Quatre always knows how to find it, knows how to find home. Tonight it’s cloudy. He can barely see the moon as it is.

Eventually the shivers stop. The cold is there, pressing but not bitting. It seems to just be there, just a part of him. The sand on his back is soft and Quatre looks up at the cloudy dark sky.

Maybe he closes his eyes.

* * *

And it’s a voice that won’t let him slip. Persistent, constant, musical. It calls, it repeats and it draws and somehow, beneath the fog, Quatre listens.

There’s warmth too. Almost too warm and he clings to it even as the bite of the cold comes back, even as the shivers make his teeth clatter and his toes hurt. He clings and he listens. The voice is still calling.

* *

It’s later, much later when he opens his eyes and meets green.


The voice. It’s soft and calm and close. It’s all around him, holding him and Quatre is warm, so warm.

Even if its cloudy, even if he can’t see the sky, even if he can’t see L4, he can always find home.

He smiles at the green, the voice, the man.


June 2011

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