Epilogue - A Beginning

"You're very beautiful, Quatre," Trowa said to me.

We were in my bedroom. I had pulled back the covers on my bed and undressed to my boxer shorts. "Beautiful?" I asked, with a quirked eyebrow of skepticism. No one had ever called me beautiful before: cute, often; handsome, certainly; sexy, on occasion; and gorgeous, once or twice - but beautiful? Never.

"Yes," said Trowa from where he sat at the foot of my bed, still in his new pyjamas. "The proportions of your body are very close to classical ideals of male beauty, you have sparse body hair, and you are very youthful looking for your age."

"Oh, I see," I said from the closet where I was hanging my clothes. I was amused now, and somewhat flattered. Even if Trowa's evaluation of my appearance were based upon mathematical measurements and Greek ratios, it still affected my vanity and my ego. "Thank you."

"Further, the combination of fair skin, blond hair, and blue eyes is often celebrated."

I laughed softly and came to the bed, where I lay down on my stomach.

Trowa kept speaking, and I held myself up on my elbows, turned my head to meet his gaze. "I find it a pleasant experience to look at you," he said, turning his body toward me and drawing his legs onto the bed. "In some ways, it is even more pleasant to look at you now. Your body is better displayed." He raised himself to his knees and moved to straddle my hips.

The sold warmth of him over my body made me shiver. I caught my bottom lip between my teeth. When he placed a hand on the bare skin at small of my back, his hand was warm too.

Trowa appeared thoughtful; he frowned at me. "Although," he continued, "the clothes you typically wear are pleasing to observe as well."

I laughed again, and, despite the apprehension trampling through my gut, I looked away from Trowa and lowered myself to the bed, resting my head upon my folded arms.

"Except for the brown sweater you wear on occasion after work. The colour isn't flattering to your complexion."

"I know it's not flattering," I replied, amusement twisted with my anxiety. "I wear it because one of my sisters, Iria, knitted it for me."

"So you wear it for sentimental reasons?" Both of Trowa's hands rested on my skin.

"Yes," I admitted, with an involuntary quiver up my spine. "Not that I'm necessarily proud of that."

"Why is that, Quatre?" Trowa asked as he drew his hands lightly up my back to my shoulders.

"Hmm? I prefer not to let sentiment affect my decision making."

"Then it was not sentiment that influenced your decision to keep me?" Trowa's thumbs pressed into the muscle over my shoulder blades.

That felt good. "Uh uh," was the best I could manage, along with a vague attempt at shaking my head against my arms.

Trowa correctly interpreted my growing incoherence as signal for him to cease questioning me. The massage began gently, his fingers probing into my muscles, exploring my back. He prompted me to unfold my arms so he could massage them also. I made sure to give him appropriate verbal cues for the touches I particularly enjoyed. His hands gained surety upon my body, moving with greater pressure and smoothness of rhythm. Heat suffused my flesh, not the heat of arousal - I remained too apprehensive for that - but of relaxation, of muscles gradually melting into bliss.

I lost track of time. I fell into that lovely realm of almost sleep, hung in that purgatory between sleep and wakefulness. Trowa must have spent an hour at least on my back before he spoke softly, rousing me from my relaxed stupor.

"The tension in your back and shoulders is relieved," he said. "Would you like me to continue?"

Yes? No? I silently cursed my ambivalence. "If you like," I said.

"Shall I do your legs as well?" Trowa inquired.

I nodded, and Trowa shifted over me; his hands skimmed over the fabric covering my backside and then smoothed down the skin my thighs. This time, inquisitive heat teased my groin, but I ignored it. I hoped only that Trowa would not ask me to turn over.

"Thank you," I mumbled.

"You're welcome," said Trowa from somewhere behind me. The massage continued for another hour, Trowa rubbing my legs, back, and arms in a seductive, pleasurable rhythm. He made no attempts to seduce me, and for that I was grateful. The massage alone was an indulgence for me. None of my previous partners had ever carried on this long. Eventually they would complain of sore thumbs and cramping hands. Not Trowa. He kept going with perfect pace and pressure, and - best of all - no apparent ulterior motivation for the touching.

I was the one who ended it, not Trowa. I realised I needed to relieve my bladder, and I was growing hungry. I apologised to Trowa for the weaknesses of biology I possessed. He pulled the sheet up over my back, and left me alone to rouse myself.

.

After I'd showered and dressed - back in pyjamas and robe, for it was Saturday after all - I went to the kitchen. Trowa had prepared soup and salad for me. I thanked him, and he seemed pleased. He got his sketchbook and pencils and sat at the table with me as I ate. I laughed when I realised he was drawing an abstract version of me eating. 'Being Biological', he titled the drawing.

"Would you like for me to get you some paints, Trowa? Or pastels? Charcoal?"

"Yes, please," he answered, nothing more specific than that.

"You're so polite," I observed.

"As are you," he countered with a smile.

I returned his smile easily and with a surprising affection nestled close to my heart. Though the feeling was genuine and I didn't challenge it, I still didn't know how to account for it. But I realized, that was something I could look forward to understanding as I came to know Trowa better. It was a start, anyway.

the end