Pairing: Trowa/Quatre

Warnings: Sap, m/m sexual references, angsty-sentiments. 

Disclaimer: GW and its characters belong to Bandai (Sunrise) and the Sotsu Agency.  This is in no way associated with them.

Notes:  Okay—it's sad, it's fragmented, and it's in present tense. Forgive the disjointedness and please give feedback, since this is so important to me.  Quatre's POV.  Oh—and excuse the cheesy title.  I only like it because of the three different meanings it has within the context of the fic.

For Matthew… my favorite partner…

Partners

"We can't go on like this."  Trowa's voice is low as he speaks from his chair opposite me.  I knew something was different from the
moment he'd come in, choosing to sit at my desk instead of next to me on the bed.

I say nothing, avoiding his gaze.

"We're from different worlds, Quatre.  I can't ask you to live in mine, and I don't fit in yours."  He sounds desperate, as if he wants my approval.

I look up, meeting his eyes.  "You're right," I say.  My voice sounds colder than I intended.  "This isn't something we didn't know already."

But you said you wouldn't let it get between us.

You said we'd work through everything.

He nods.  "I don't want to."  His mouth twists into a small frown. I can see that his lashes are wet with tears.  It almost feels good to see his pain, to know that he is hurting as much as me.  But then it hurts more, to know that I'm taking some kind of pleasure in his torment.

"How do we do this?" I ask.  "Do we avoid each other until we fall out of love?  Do we pretend it never happened—disregard the past year?"  I choke on the lump that's formed in my throat.  With one cough, I feel all my walls collapse.

Trowa.

Never again will I be able to kiss him, or make love with him, or call him to talk about nothing in particular and wind up revealing my entire soul.

I lower my head, trying to hide my crying behind long bangs.  I try to keep my shoulders from shaking, my chest from heaving.  But it's no good. 

He knows everything about me.  It isn't surprising when he moves from his chair to kneel in front of me, hands on my knees.  He says nothing—what can be said?  He only looks at me, his cheeks stained with the tracks of his own tears, his eyes pained.  Looking at him only hurts worse.  With a low sob, I give in to my emotions completely.

I feel like wailing, screaming—anything to make the pain in my throat and the ache in my stomach go away.  The salty taste of my tears only reminds me that everything is wrong, that my whole existence seems to be teetering on the edge of some jagged cliff. I'm being melodramatic and wallowing—but it feels better to do that than to accept the simple truth that everything will be different.

"I want to stay close," he whispers an eternity later, after my sobs finally subside.  "I can't lose you completely, Quatre.  You've been everything in my life for so long now.  I-I can't go on without being able to see you, talk to you."

I can't go on without being able to love you.

I close my eyes.  For a moment I convince myself that this is a horrible dream.  Nothing so wonderful could end like this.

But was it always wonderful? part of me asks.

No.  It was often infuriating.  Arguments over little things—time spent at work, childish competitiveness, our futures.  They dominate my memories.  Yes, there were the candle-lit dinners and the evenings spent lying in each other’s arms, silent.  But that can't cancel out all the pain.  The physical love, the emotional love, even the love I feel for him that seems to reach down into my very soul—it can't sustain the rest.

"I fell for you the moment we met," I whisper.  How many times have I told him this?

He stands up, smiling wistfully.  "And I was a fool for waiting so long."

It is a dialogue we've shared on so many occasions.

"You were the first person I ever slept with," I state, gazing down at the bedspread.

Trowa takes my hands.  "And you're the first person I've ever loved." He tugs gently, pulling me to my feet.

I still can't look at him.  I know that if our eyes meet, I'll feel the world shattering.  My heart will break.

He lifts my chin with his fingers, forcing me to meet his eyes. "You're my best friend, Quatre."

My heart keeps beating its steady rhythm.  "And you'll always be mine."  The world doesn't fall to crumbles around me. 

His arms surround me in a tight embrace, his head buried in my hair. I hesitate for a moment before returning the hug.

He sways slowly and gently, dancing.  But my feet remain glued to the floor. 

"Dance with me," he whispers.

"There's no music."  Another routine, usually saved for those nights when I couldn't fall asleep after our lovemaking.  We would stand together, wound loosely in a sheet or blanket, dancing to music that was only in our heads and hearts.  I lean my head against his chest, wishing I could fix us.

"I know," he whispers, running a hand through my hair.  I don't know if he's answering my words or my thoughts—but does it matter?

I wonder what will happen tomorrow, the day after that.  Even though I know there's no hope for a future between is, part of me holds onto the on thread that will forever tie us together.

First love.  The phrase meant little to me until I met Trowa.  I'd neither thought much about love nor looked forward to it.  But now that I know it, I wonder how I survived so long without it.

When will the day come that I wake up without thinking of him?

Will love always mean jade eyes and silent understanding?

I allow my hands to run over his tight, muscular back as they have nearly every day for the past year.  I close my eyes, feeling all the differences between the first time and now.  And he tightens his embrace, sighing softly.

"I'm going to miss this, Trowa," I whisper.

"So will I," he answers, his voice thick with emotion.  "So will I."

The end.