Quatre and the Tree

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing.

Warnings: Shounen Ai (3x4, mentions of 1x2)

Author's Note: A friend drew a quick sketch for arbor day and. . . this spawned. So this is all her fault (even though I love the pic and the story). It's a one shot and something of a drabble.

In case you couldn't tell, I've been saving a few things for after exams when I have time to post. This is one of those things. I hope you enjoy.
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Quatre had no idea how he'd let Wu Fei talk him into this. No idea at all. Sure, it was arbor day, and yes, he loved the environment as much as any other sane person (Wu Fei, who was practically one of those neo-hippie types, didn't count), but still. . . He was a Winner.

Not to mention that he loathed dirt.

He hadn't liked it as a child, he didn't like it through his teenage years, and he didn't like it any more at the age of twenty-two.

Which meant he had to be insane. He'd let his best friend from college, Wu Fei Chang, talk him into helping plant trees for arbor day because it would "look good for the company." And it did. Look good for the company, that is. Quatre had been hounded by reporters, and journalists, and photographers all day. They had pestered him when he arrived; they had pestered him while he attempted to find out where he was supposed to work; they had pestered him while he had dug a hole large enough for a grave and nearly blistered his hands despite the heavy, leather gloves Wu Fei had given him; and they had pestered him while he'd wrestled a tree three quarters his size into its new home.

If anyone else took his damn picture, he was going to kill them. Painfully.

But, even through all that, it was peaceful, now. Quatre was kneeling by the tree, the wind ruffling his soft, blond hair and adding the last of the mulch around the small, somewhat pathetic-looking tree. Wu Fei had claimed it was an oak tree, but it looked too little to be an oak. Oak trees were supposed to be big and mighty. This little tree. . . well, it looked like one good wind would knock it over.

Even so, it was Quatre's pathetic looking, little, oak tree. He smiled, patting the dirt at the base a little, caressing the trunk a little as he pulled his hands away, a soft, gentle smile lighting his delicate features and enhancing the distant look in his teal eyes.

Click.

Quatre started, a scowl forming. "Go photograph someone else," Quatre snapped, turning to see a tall man staring at him, clearly surprised. Quatre blinked at him, a blush lighting his face. The man was lean and strong looking, body clad in tight jeans and a trim tee-shit. The single eye Quatre could see was a deep, forest green. The other was covered by a fall of roan hair. He was obviously not a reporter, the camera in his hands expensive, but not professional. "I'm so sorry," Quatre covered his face with his dirty hands.

The man shrugged a bit, turning to leave. "I thought you were another reporter," Quatre blurted out, quickly, wanting the man to understand he wasn't really mad, just that he'd been hounded all day. "I'm Quatre. Quatre Reberba Winner."

"So you're the one they've been talking about," The man murmured absently, looking the blond over. Quatre fought the urge to dust himself off. There was no hope for his muddy jeans and tee-shirt. They needed washed. He was further embarrassed because, once he'd finished planting the tree, he'd kicked off his shoes and dug his bare toes into the grass. Something he wasn't supposed to do "in polite company."

"I'm sorry?"

"I heard the reporters," The man explained. "I was just getting pictures for. . . well, I'm a senior art major at the college, and I was working on the display I'm supposed to do."

"Oh, but I'm so dirty and. . . you can't possibly want a picture of me like this," Quatre covered his face, cheeks bright red. "I mean, I'm barefoot and everything."

"I know," The man chuckled, then paused, as though remembering something. "I'm sorry. I'm so rude. You've introduced yourself to me, and I never told you my name. I'm Trowa Barton."

"Trowa, hm?" Quatre smiled. "I like your name, Trowa Barton."

"Thank you. I hope you don't mind the picture? I could show you the copy on the camera?" Trowa knelt next to the blond, mindless of the grass stains he'd surely get.

"Please?" Quatre nearly lit up as Trowa settled next to him, his powerful arms settling around Quatre's thin frame so he could better see the small camera screen without Trowa releasing it. He was a photographer. He didn't let strangers handle his camera. Not even cute ones.

"Oh," Quatre breathed, staring at the picture. "It's beautiful."

"I thought so," Trowa turned the camera off to save the batteries. "I hope you don't mind me using it?"

"Oh, no, not at all. It's so lovely." Quatre laughed a little. "But I would like a copy."

"I'll invite you to the showing; if you think you can come," Trowa offered, shrugging. "I mean, I know it's just a little, university thing, but--"

"If everything you have is like this, I would love to see it." Quatre found himself gripping Trowa's hand as he turned to leave. "If you have paper, I can give you my address so you can send the invitation?"

Trowa nodded, digging through his camera bag to find something suitable, but failed, so he produced a pen and offered Quatre a hand. The blond chuckled softly, but wrote his name and e-mail address on the man's hand, squeezing it a little before letting go. Trowa had amazing hands. Calloused from working with the tools of his trade, but not at all rough.

Trowa, himself, was wondering at Quatre's hands. Small, delicate and soft. They'd probably never preformed manual labor in his life. Trowa nearly laughed. His must have felt unbearably rough to the little blond, calloused from years in the circus, and then doing sculpting and painting and woodwork. Hardened from labor Trowa used to pay his bills. Being an as-of-yet-undiscovered artist put precious little food on the table, and Trowa did still have to pay the school.

Quatre smiled at him again, that fey, little smile that had been so perfect, and Trowa nearly wept. Such a perfect smile, for him. Unable to help himself, Trowa smiled in reply and promised to invite him to the opening at the gallery.
oOooOo

Quatre couldn't help but be nervous as he entered the large, university gallery to see Trowa's exhibit. Trowa's section would be small, of course, and a lot of other seniors also had their shows set up in the large building, but Quatre didn't care to stop and look at them all. He just wanted to find Trowa's.

He was surprisingly anxious to see Trowa again. Over the past week, he'd found himself thinking about the handsome man more and more often, wondering what the final print would look like when Trowa was done with it. He'd seen some artists that didn't understand when to let well enough alone and destroyed the pictures, and some that seemed not to know when it wasn't enough and didn't add more. They just hadn't understood the simplistic beauty art could achieve.

"Good evening, Quatre." Trowa's deep voice was near Quatre's ear, and the small blond jumped and yelped in startled fright.

"Trowa!" Quatre hugged him happily. "You look. . . good." Trowa was dressed in soft gray pants and a dark turtleneck. He'd refused to dress up much, worried he'd take attention away from his work. Quatre, however, didn't mind. The clothes fit Trowa perfectly, clinging in all the right places and bringing out his deep, green eyes.

"As do you," Trowa returned the compliment, offering Quatre his arm. Quatre laughed a little, taking it, and followed Trowa through the gallery. Quatre, who hadn't been sure what to wear, was in soft khakis and a pale, pink shirt and purple vest. He'd been to gallery openings before, but he'd always had to wear a tux. Seeing the exhibit of a college student was new to him.

"Thank you. Where's your stuff?" Quatre asked, letting Trowa lead him through the building. "I'd really like to see how it turned out. How your whole exhibit turned out. You have a good eye, and a lot of your classmates. . ."

"Tell my instructor that," Trowa teased softly. "He seems to think bigger is better."

"Oh, please," Quatre rolled his eyes. "Neon orange and puke green do not a good painting make."

"Saw that one, did you?" Trowa laughed outright. "Duo wasn't aiming for good."

"He didn't manage it."

"No, he got his point across."

"Which was?"

Trowa smirked. "Put it this way, the teacher wanted pictures of several stages of the process. . . Duo and his boyfriend were naked for that project."

"What?"

Trowa snickered outright. "I'm not sure what he bribed Hiiro with, but that project was all about them having sex. Duo covered them in paint. . . and, well, you saw the result. His intention was to get the teacher to blush. Let's just say he managed."

Quatre had to bury his face in Trowa's arm so he didn't disturb the entire gallery with his laughter, and Trowa found the gesture oddly cute. When Quatre released him, Trowa let his tired arm drop, but twined their fingers together so Quatre wouldn't get too far away. He didn't want to lose the blond in the crowd, after all. "Here we go. The beginning of my project. Mi Angelito."

"It's me." Quatre breathed, leaning over the figure. The sculpture was wooden, but even though it was stationary, it was in motion. Trowa had used Quatre's face from the picture on the angel, the far-away look in its eyes almost painful. One hand was tucked against its chest, its wings outspread, powerful beats lifting it from the ground and revealing the small, delicate feet under the wind-swept robe. It wasn't moving, yet it was still movement. "It's beautiful, Trowa."

"I had a good subject." Trowa smiled.

"Are you hitting on me?" Quatre smiled at him, squeezing his hand softly.

Of course I am, mi angelito." Trowa hugged the blond his side, and Quatre smiled as Trowa long arm wrapped comfortably around him. Like it belonged there. "Now, here is the picture I took."

As it had in the park, it took Quatre's breath away. Quatre was kneeling over his pathetic-looking oak tree, his soft hands caressing the small trunk as the wind ruffled his baby-blond hair. Teal eyes carried a far away look, and he touched the tree as though he could see the powerful oak it would one day become; the moment Trowa had taken the picture, Quatre looked like something fey, a mystic from legend and dream. "It's so. . . beautiful." Quatre breathed, but didn't move toward the photo.

Instead he moved toward the rough sketch near-by. Trowa had drawn it in class one day, rather absently, and hadn't been able to get it out of his mind. The lines had been rough and imperfect, but the subject had been Quatre. Trowa thought it looked like the perfect being drawn with an imperfect hand. "You like that one, mi angelito?" Trowa was surprised. It was. . . so rough.

"It's like us," Quatre explained, glancing coyly at the man holding him. "Quickly made and rough, but somehow perfect."

Trowa started a little, moving to caress Quatre's cheek with his rough fingers. "You don't mind about the roughness?"

"I told you it was perfect," Quatre whispered as Trowa leaned it, tilting his head back slightly so Trowa could see the seriousness in his soft, teal eyes.

Trowa smiled softly, then pressed their lips together gently, watching those teal eyes flutter closed before his own followed. Like the sketch, the kiss was a little awkward and somewhat rough, but it was still perfect all the same.
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