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Warning: The following story contains scenes of homosexual interaction. Please 
do not read if you feel that you may be offended.

Note from Leslee: This is for those who thought "Revelations" showed Trowa as 
being cold--I want to show that S&M is not the only thing I can write--it's only 
my preference! 



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"It is an endless circle over time/the place inside where I hold and find/your 
sweet and happy music in my soul" --"I don't need a Hero" Concrete Blonde 

Making Music 
Outside, the rain pours down. The thunder and lightning crashes against the 
horizon, causing misery for those who are brave enough to venture outside the 
comfort of their own homes; but inside, the music fills the room with its 
vibrant melody, making the air come alive. Trowa and Quatre enjoy this peaceful 
respite from their normal routine, when together they could make music instead 
of destruction; it is a soothing balm to their battered souls. 
But all too soon, Quatre lowers his bow and his violin, sighing, his shoulders 
hunched, the sides of his cupid's bow mouth turned down. He walks to the piano 
and sits on the bench heavily, placing his well loved violin haphazardly on the 
floor, rather than delicately replacing it in its case, as he was usually wont 
to do. Trowa places his flute on the table and walks to kneel in front of 
Quatre. His fingers come to Quatre's chin, to tilt his head up; their eyes meet-
-Trowa sees in Quatre's eyes a strange melancholy, a deep sadness that seems to 
resonate in those big blue eyes. What could cause such sadness in those eyes, 
Trowa wonders, those eyes which are normally clear and pure as the sea on a fine 
summer day? Why have they suddenly become cloudy with pain?
"What's wrong, Little One?" Trowa asks, seeking answers, "I've never seen you 
look so dispirited. What has happened to cause such pain in those pretty eyes?"

Quatre stares at Trowa for a moment, seemingly hesitant, and shakes his head. 
"Nothing is wrong with me, Trowa. It's just the weather, is all." But even as he 
says this, his full lower lip comes out to form a pout.

Trowa smiles with affection as he looks at that pout. His other hand comes up to 
rest on Quatre's knee. Trowa knows there is something wrong; it is normally he 
who is dejected, and Quatre who's sunny smile clears away the doubts in Trowa's 
heart. Today, it is Trowa's turn to return the favour.
"Quatre, you are my closest friend. You're one of the few, if not the only 
person who truly understands me. I want you to be able to confide in me, as 
well."
"Oh."
Trowa shakes his head with a grin and sits on the bench beside Quatre. "Quatre, 
tell me."

Quatre has never been able to resist Trowa. When he looks at that cajoling grin, 
he can no longer hold out. "I'm so sad. It's so hard now, to do all this. I hate 
having to kill, to injure, even if I know it's all for the best. I'm young! I 
want to be able to do things that I know other boys my age are doing. I want to 
go outside and play baseball, I want to go to school, I want to have my first 
kiss. . . " Quatre blushes at his words; he didn't mean to get so personal in 
his explanation, but he feels so alone, like there is no one who understands the 
way that he feels. . . 

But Trowa does. He realizes the feeling of isolation that the boy is 
experiencing. Quatre's duty, the experiences that he has had to face, all this 
makes him different from other boys his age. Most boys, that is, except Trowa. 
At this moment, Trowa feels a new, tighter bond forged between Quatre and 
himself. This sweet boy, who has managed to stay so innocent, so pure, despite 
the things he's seen and done. Trowa is afraid to touch him, as if his touch 
would somehow sully the little one. He aches to reach out and pull Quatre to 
him; inside him a war rages between his mind, which tells him that he and Quatre 
must not become more than friends, and his heart, which tells him that Quatre 
could possibly be the other, softer half of his soul. Outside, the storm's fury 
howls and lashes against the window, echoing the fragmented thoughts in Trowa's 
mind. Finally, he decides; what Quatre needs right now is for someone to hold 
him, and that is what Trowa wants to do most in the world. 

Trowa reaches out and pulls Quatre onto his lap. Quatre resists, but Trowa's 
strong arms left no room for opposition. Trowa pulls him close, tucking Quatre's 
head under his chin. Finally, Quatre stops struggling and gives in to the 
comfort and warmth and protection of Trowa's welcome embrace. They stay that way 
for long moments, relaxed, utterly content in the still silence, until finally 
Trowa stirs, taking his chin from the top of Quatre's blond head. He ruffles 
Quatre's hair affectionately, smiling slightly, then turns Quatre's head so that 
they were face to face. He lowers his head and puts his lips to Quatre's . . . 

Quatre gasps softly in surprise, his body growing rigid for a moment, before he 
softens and relaxes with a sigh. Trowa takes the opportunity to slip his tongue 
along Quatre's bottom lip, grazing it with his teeth. He whispers into Quatre's 
mouth . . . "open for me, Little One. . . " 

Quatre opens his mouth slightly wider, enough for Trowa's tongue to reach into 
the moist cavity and spar with his own. At first, he is timid, his tongue shying 
away from that of Trowa's, but as he grows braver, he shyly presses the tip of 
his tongue to Trowa's. 

Trowa pulls away, and Quatre makes a little sound of protest, licking Trowa's 
mouth, but Trowa laughs and pushes him away: "There is plenty of time, Little 
One, and we have to be able to breathe. You're certainly very eager to learn. I 
would never have guessed that this was your first kiss!" 

Quatre jumps from Trowa's lap and moves to the door of the room, locking it. He 
returns to sit on Trowa's lap, his hands coming up and around Trowa's neck. 
Trowa unbuttons Quatre's shirt and helps him to pull it off. Quatre's hands 
reach for Trowa's shirt, made clumsy by his excitement, and eagerly fumble with 
the buttons. Eventually, he manages to undo them and he pushes the shirt down 
past Trowa's shoulders, neither boy noticing as it falls to the floor. Quatre 
impatiently disrobes, reaching for Trowa's pants, his fingers brushing against 
the bulge of Trowa's arousal; Trowa sucks his breath in, his stomach growing 
taut with the exquisite feeling of that light touch. Suddenly, he is no longer 
so patient. He lifts Quatre up to sit on the piano, Quatre's feet landing on the 
keys, playing chords that no one understands. Trowa quickly pulls off his pants 
and moves to stand on the bench, his hands moving out to either side of Quatre 
to brace himself as he leans over the boy.

He watches as Quatre's eyes go wide as he takes in the sight of Trowa's length 
before him. "Wow . . . I didn't know they came that big. . . "
Trowa convulses with laughter at Quatre's naivete. He falls beside Quatre on the 
piano, clutching his sides, tears running down his face. "You are such a cutie! 
It really isn't as big as you think it is--I think it's just the angle that you 
were looking from." Finally, Trowa manages to stop laughing. He looks at Quatre 
with a grin on his face; he doesn't think anyone has made him laugh this much in 
his entire life. There hasn't been many opportunities for Trowa to laugh, and 
being with Quatre makes him feel as if there is some beauty in life after all.

His mind begins to turn back to serious thoughts when Quatre's slender hand 
reaches out and touches his hip. He turns to face Quatre; the lie side by side 
on the piano, taking in the sight of each other's bodies, hands exploring 
delicate crevices, luxuriating in the happiness of being together. Out of the 
corner of his eye, Trowa spots a vase with a budding red rose, directly above 
Quatre's head. He wrinkles his brow with concern that Quatre might hurt himself, 
so he reaches out to knock the vase to the floor. In mid-movement, he changes 
his mind, plucking the rose from the vase then taking the vase and putting it on 
the bench.

He pulls Quatre closer to him, pushing him down to lie on his back, while Trowa 
remains on his hip, directly beside Quatre. He runs the rose along Quatre's jaw, 
down his chest, to his right nipple.

Quatre gasps as the delicate petals brush against the wrinkled skin, causing 
shocks of pleasure to run along his spine. Trowa traces a path from Quatre's 
right nipple to his left, twirling the rose around the tender bud, watching 
Quatre's face register these new feelings of restlessness. . . Quatre wanted 
more, but he didn't know what. . . he arched his back, mumbling a silent plea.

Trowa takes the rose from Quatre's nipple. His eyes focus on Quatre's shuddering 
cock. Already, the tip glistened with moisture, and Trowa smiles as he brushes 
the rose against the tip. Quatre shouts with delight and surprise at the 
contact, his hips coming up away from the piano, seeking more than the light 
touch of the rose. Trowa begins to brush the rose along the length of Quatre's 
penis, gently, almost absentmindedly, watching as Quatre writhes on the piano, 
one foot running against the keys, the jumbled chords of the piano reflecting 
the disturbing sensations that Quatre feels inside him.

At long last Trowa tires of this game and stops the caressing motions of the 
rose, he brings the rose closer to his face, admiring the sheen that has been 
given to the flower by the delicate coating of fluid. He throws the rose aside 
and pulls Quatre under him, moving down to place a kiss on Quatre's abdomen. 
Quatre's hands reach out to stroke Trowa's soft hair, to push his head lower, to 
the place where he ached the most. . . .He feels Trowa's hot breath against his 
arousal, and he bites his lip in anticipation of what is to come. 

Oh, the feeling of that wet tongue against his cock, licking the tip, encircling 
the head in clockwise motions, it was almost too much. . . Quatre grabs Trowa's 
head and pushes down, hard, as he cries out, wanting to feel the warmth of 
Trowa's mouth against all of his length. Trowa gasps as he feels Quatre push his 
head down, but he goes along with the movement, feeling Quatre's cock scrape 
against the back of his throat, making him choke, but loving the feeling all the 
same. Quatre's hips thrust upwards, over and over, pressing his cock deeper and 
deeper into the wet welcome haven of Trowa's mouth until he arches back, still, 
feeling he has reached that plateau, and he spurts his seed into Trowa's mouth. 

Trowa grimaces as he tastes the warm fluid; he spits it out into his hand. He 
has plans for this fluid, plans that don't include swallowing it. He feels 
Quatre's hands fall away from his hair, Quatre's body relaxing, falling into 
that state of utter contentment that can only be had in the few moments after 
release. He looks up and sees Quatre's eyes falling shut with the exhaustion of 
his passion, and he quickly smacks Quatre's thigh with his free hand, causing 
Quatre to sit up with a yelp. "Hey boy, you might be done, but I sure as hell am 
not!" Trowa motions to his very erect penis, and watches amused as Quatre turns 
a bright shade of red. "Turn over, Little One." 

Quatre does so, wondering what Trowa has planned for him, on his hands and knees 
on the piano. He feels Trowa part his buttocks and rub Quatre's semen against 
the virgin orifice of his anus. He turns his head to look at Trowa in fright, 
but Trowa is too engrossed in his business to register Quatre's uneasiness. He 
puts his hands on Quatre's hips and pulls him closer. Two fingers of his left 
hand move to open Quatre's anus; somewhere in the back of his mind he hears 
Quatre's little gasp of pain, but he is too far gone to notice; this won't hurt 
him too much, Trowa thinks, I've been on the receiving end before, and I've 
learned to enjoy it. 

He takes his penis in his right hand and guides it to the waiting orifice. He 
sucks in his breath at the delicious tightness; it feels as if someone was 
squeezing his cock tightly, so tightly that he might faint. His hand reaches up 
and strokes Quatre's back comfortingly, as he whispers words of encouragement. 
He feels Quatre begin to relax, and he feels that tight ring open wider to 
accomodate him, slipping his cock in even deeper. He begins to thrust, pulling 
Quatre's hips back in time with his motions, faster, harder, until he tenses, 
knowing he is about to come. . . 

He pulls out gently, not wanting to come inside Quatre, wanting to see Quatre's 
face as he finds his release. Trowa moves tenderly, knowing if anything brushes 
against his painful arousal he would certainly come all over the piano. Quatre 
remains on his hands and knees, eyes shut painfully, mouth a grim little line. 
Trowa is glad that he decided to stop, knowing that Quatre must not have enjoyed 
that at all. He pulls Quatre to him, comforting him, stroking his chest, his 
arms, his legs. "Sorry, Little One; I shouldn't have done that--not for your 
first time, anyways." He puts his lips to Quatre's ear, murmuring softly, the 
vibrations from his voice running along the base of Quatre's neck. " I want you 
to know that next time it will be better for you; it felt so good, being inside 
you. I thank you for taking me in."

Quatre smiles sweetly, and shyly reaches for Trowa's cock, and as soon as he 
grasps its length, Trowa shouts out, coming all over Quatre's hand, his semen 
glistening on Quatre's stomach. Trowa relaxes, lying back onto the piano, 
pulling Quatre down to lie on top of him. Quatre licks the semen from his own 
hand, wanting to taste the essence of Trowa, and makes a face. Trowa laughs and 
kisses him.

Outside, the rain has stopped, momentarily, the clouds clearing from the sky, 
the sun showing its golden rays to the world. The two lovers lie comfortably in 
silence on the piano, rested, content, secure; as they begin to fall asleep, 
both think how lonely they felt before they found the other, and pray that they 
would never be forced apart.

End