Disclaimer: Nope… still don't own Gundam Wing …

Pairing: 3x4x3, brief mentions of 1x2

Warnings: yaoi, m/m sexual relations of varying degrees of smuttiness and roughness, angst, language, dark Quat and Tro'

A/N: I admit, that I am not usually a fan of the 3x4 pairing as I don't see it working long term as the characters are so different. As such, if you like the pairing happy and non-angsty then this fic is not for you. If you want to read a darker version of the Quat and Tro' pairing then welcome…

The fic is inspired by the song Hurricane by 30 Seconds to Mars and as this is complete, the update schedule will be Tuesdays/Thursday until all six chapters are posted.

Beta'd by ELLE as always.

Chapter One

Crash, Crash, Burn

Trowa sheds his clothes with a natural elegance that I could never attain. He stands without any trace of self-consciousness and I find myself thinking that he could be a statue for all that he reveals in these moments. He could be the statue of David – cold and just as still.

He is entirely naked while I wear the remains of my suit, my jacket is gone, my tie, my shirt lies open, my pants open at the fly but I do not have the same unqualified confidence that Trowa has as I kneel between his legs, taking his hard cock in my mouth. I think sometimes when I do this of the mottos that had been engrained into me from my father – perhaps an entirely inappropriate thought as I suck the dick of another man – but then I remember his mantra of the three D's and him telling me that I should apply dedication, determination and desire to all acts in my life. I'm sure he never considered that his son, his precious only born son would apply that to cock-sucking yet I do so as I feel the satisfaction of turning Trowa's silence into moans and gasps when I apply pressure with my tongue, with my lips, letting him slide in my mouth.

He does not touch me as I go down on him – he does not use extraneous touches in our moments like this and I do not ask him for any more than he can give me. I never asked anything of him. I offered him everything and knew that I could never offer enough. I knew that I was never what he needed and the option I provided was the gilded cage, a life with the trappings of wealth and possession, a life of obligation. And he did not want it. Maybe it hurt to watch him walk away at sixteen but we were long past that now and I would accept him as he was now. Accept that this is all that I could have from him.

"Quatre," he says my name firmly, a thumb sliding into my lips and pushing me away from his dick. "Enough."

It is said with such confidence and surety that I obey and he slides further back onto the ratty blankets of his bed. I strip without any of his grace. I fumble with the buttons of my blue striped shirt, him watching me through lidded eyes, and I feel my skin burning. I am embarrassingly hard for him – moisture dampening the front of my briefs and I feel like I am caught, trapped by him. It is at these times he reminds me of the lions that he used to tame. Those big cats that he could raise his hand to and fear no mauling and there has always been something vaguely predatory about him that I cannot define. It is what brings me here – to this apartment – no flat, I will use the correct colloquialism – or another of his blank boxes that he has spread across the earth and colonies. I find it amuses me that he has all these impersonal apartments in different locations, bought with his war reparation money under false names as though the boy with no home and no name wanted to create something in his adulthood that resembled a place to belong. He has never found it.

It is raining outside in the typical fashion of a London day in October. It means the room is dark in the afternoon dusk but we do not turn on a light to see better by. I can see enough. I can see his green eyes, his firmly set jaw, the dips and hollows of his muscles and once naked, I join him on those cheap blankets.

We could do this at the Dorchester, in a hotel at Mayfair, on Park Lane but instead it is against cheap linen that is full of the heady smell of his body. There is the rough feeling of a woollen blanket that Catherine probably knit for him and the base creaks against our combined body weight. I idly think of his neighbours downstairs who will hear every movement of our bodies as we fuck but I am reaching out to touch him and we are grinding our hips exquisitely together.

It has always been rough between us and I will always want it to be that way. Naivety on my part probably played its role that first time when Duo had handed me lube and condoms with a knowing wink aboard Peacemillion. Trowa had just got back his memories and I was willing, so damn willing, and guilty that I let him fuck away his pain, that he could bite down too hard, that his hands could squeeze and bruise and I needed that to remove the image of his mobile suit exploding by my own hand. Yet it never got gentle. Not after all the years.

I fuck him. He fucks me. I have never been passive with him after that first encounter. I sometimes wish that the irritating board members of WEI could see me as I was with him – the way that I scratch my fingers down his back to create more scars against his pale skin, the way I nip at his throat with my teeth, the way I grab at his hips with rough impatience. I had never wanted to make love with him and I always wanted something raw, animalistic, something that made me feel uninhibited.

He wants to fuck me from behind but I want to see him and we struggle against each other for a moment, still sliding against each other, in a rough and tumble game that is far from innocent. He had prepared me without any care for my comfort and I knew that I loved him for that. I spent my time between these encounters sleeping with both men and women who wanted romance, who wanted the glitter and roses that sex with one of the earth spheres most influential men would bring them. He gave me rough and raw, he gave me sex at its basest level without the pretence and artifice.

I ride him instead, the ability for me to be in so control of his pleasure yet still feeling him hot, hard, deep inside me providing a compromise as I slam myself down onto him, his dick twitching inside me, his hands guiding me and I know we both won't last long as we fuck hard and fast.

I don't need to this last long as we will fuck again later and I will have him pliant underneath me, I will claim him as mine with my cock, my body, my hands, my teeth but right now, my world tilts as he uses that impressive grace and elegance to change our position. His dick doesn't leave me and I find myself flat on the bed, my head hanging off the edge as he thrusts aggressively into me, his mouth at my throat and I see the world from an odd angle while he continues to pound me like I need. He jerks me off when he knows he is reaching his end – for all his roughness, he has never been a selfish lover and he always ensures that I come with him. I don't know whether he wants me to feel pleasure with him or if it is his obligation to me as he still uses my body for all his aggression and anger, even after all these years have passed. It is ten years since the wars. And yet I still feel his anger towards me in these moments.

My fingers claw at his back as I come and I know he likes that. I know I draw blood and I would never reveal to anyone how much I like to see the red on my fingertips after our rough sex. He makes a noise low in his throat as he finds his release, sticky cum hitting the latex of a condom inside me, and I don't know whether it was my orgasm that brought him to that climax or the hint of pain that went with it. I will never know – and sometimes I am afraid to ask.

My world is still upside down as my breathing returns to normal. I see the ratty couch of the one room flat, the cheap linoleum of the kitchen area, the opened door to the stained bathroom. There is nothing to indicate he lives here – nothing that says Trowa even if the world was the right way around for me to view it. It is just as anonymous as he tries to be.

He slides against my skin, his tongue against my chest and stomach to the pool of drying cum and he tastes me before moving out of me and away, his cock softening and removing the condom to abandon it to the floor.

It is only four p.m., I realise as I follow him to lie on the bed, the world righted again. He offers tissues to clean up the mess on my stomach and I do so, throwing them to the carpeting with the same lack of care that Trowa displays for his home. It is only now I realise that this flat is cold, that I am cold, as I gaze out of the window at the dull grey rain. He notices and wraps me in the knitted blanket, getting out of the bed and walking unashamedly naked to the kitchen, me watching the ripples of his muscles, the way his scars criss-cross and connect – a spider web of injuries. I am satisfied to see the blood run down his shoulder and I raise my fingers to see the trace of red under my nails.

He returns with beer, cheap and frothy and I savour it more than a glass of vintage Merlot, a cognac, a mimosa served with breakfast the morning after. I find myself downing it quickly as Trowa slides into the bed beside me, wrapping himself partially in the blanket and I gravitate towards him as I will always do. I reason sometimes that is what brings me back here – or not just here – his small room on the worst of the L3 colonies, his place with the iron bars at the window in South Africa, his apartment in Russia with the blood stain on the floorboards. That I am drawn to him irrationally. That there are forces outside of my control that bring us together. I prefer the idea of some pull between us than me facing some of the starker realities in the mirror.

I think he only allows these brief moments of tenderness between us, shared beers and lying together as I make him remember something – remember himself at fifteen or some time before that. Finishing my beer and throwing it to the floor, I inch myself onto his chest, and he doesn't push me away as I use my finger to trace scars, new and old, a tattoo, small of a blade in some traditional style, and I feel his eyes on me despite the fact my head is turned away from him.

"You can ask," he says – permission granted, I suppose.

I raise my head and level him with a stare that he meets neutrally. He takes a sip from his beer and I watch his throat work around the liquid.

"How many?"

He shrugs in response – or maybe the way I asked the question was not what he wanted and he finishes his beer, throws it so that the bottle smashes against the wall. It does not make me wince. He can think of me as domesticated, chained to my duty, yet my body still remembers the thrill of violence, of the kill, and my nightmares still contain the vivid feeling of power contained within the ZERO system. I could hurt him just as easily as he could hurt me.

"How many men have you killed since last time?"

This time, he moves his hair to one side and I recognise it as a nervous tic – he wants me to ask. Craves my judgement and horror. Yet I never give it to him.

"Twelve," he says blandly.

We could be talking about the weather or the prices of stocks but yet we are talking about death. I nod in acceptance and then return to his chest. We lie there, still, wrapped in coarse wool and I watch the rain pour against the window until our bodies lull into a relaxed state against each other. I feel like I could sleep – that I, the workaholic that barely took vacation time, would fall asleep just after four p.m. As I begin to drift, I feel the rumble of words against my ear reverberated from his chest.

"Quatre," he whispers and I hold my breath for I expect something from him. That he wants to tell me why he does what he does. Yet his words falter as they have always done. Then words become irrelevant, I realise, as I feel the insistent push and I find myself on my back, tangled in blankets and pushed to the creaking bed by his body. "Let's fuck around again."

I agree as I always do, take him desperately and I don't think of what we've both become and what we both need from each other. Instead, I feel, I fuck and I forget just like I always do with him.