The Gift

AN: Random idea that attacked in the night. Usually lock these away forever, but couldn't stop the urge from typing this one up, despite it being a load of tripe. You are warned.

Quatre took a deep breath to calm himself. He'd heard the shuffle of feet outside, the quiet murmur, the occasional laughter. It was almost time.

Another deep laughter from outside the hut. Another shiver up his spine, the woven leaf bracelets around his wrists rustling. He glanced at the hide covering the doorway, crossed his arms and rubbed them. For three days now he'd been in this hut, waiting, meditating, fasting except for the water and weak broth the elders brought him. He'd washed himself many times in the carved trough at the far wall, purifying his outsides as well as his insides in preparation, according to the ritual. His own clothes were gone, their only replacement a ceremonial skirt of stitched-together thick green leaves reaching his knees, the woven bracelets on his wrists and ankles, and a small circlet of flowers. All of it was made the day he entered the hut. Tonight, they would be burned along with an offering to the gods, if all went well.

It was almost time, but that didn't mean he was ready - not for this. Still, he was getting older, and the tribal council had decided Quatre was now worthy of the final rite of adulthood; the one that would allow him to take a mate. As he was now, none of the women in the tribe would even consider him. In their eyes, he was still no more than a child - a talented child, but a child nonetheless.

That would change today.

His stomach rumbled. Without thinking, he touched it, then regretted it. It was a weakness he couldn't afford. Again, he folded his arms, tried to forget how hungry he was - but that backfired as he remembered the banquet that would follow later, the celebration of his adulthood. He clenched his teeth, sighed and made another effort to calm his nerves.

The hide flipped aside. Quatre spun around, saw his father enter, ducking in under the cover. Quatre straightened himself up, but as his father did the same, Quatre was once again reminded he was still a child. The gods had not blessed him with height, at least not yet. He had been reassured by the elders they probably would after the rite was completed, but doubt remained. His father stomped his shaman staff to the dirt floor, rattling the crossed chains of sharp teeth wrapped around the small skull at the top of the staff. "Quatre, my son..." His voice was filled with authority. The soft, patient tone Quatre had grown up with was gone, but Quatre sensed that little bit of sympathy and concern that no one else in the tribe except his mother could. "Are you ready to choose?"

Quatre nodded reluctantly. He couldn't go against the will of the council - especially not when his own father had been the one to make the deciding vote. Indeed, he was of the right age. Some of his friends had already gone through the rite, told him what they thought of it. None wanted to provide details the night they discussed it. In the glare of the campfire, Quatre had read a lot from their faces; embarrassment, excitement, terror and thrill - and a great number of other emotions, varying from one young man to the other.

Man. They were men, he was not.

But that would change.

His father nodded. "Good... Then, go outside and make your choice. I will give the hut the final blessings." He paused, studied the boy before him, his eyes gleaming with parental pride. In his opinion, he had done a good job raising the only son the gods had honored him with. Now it was time for Quatre to become his own man - get a mate, soon perhaps a family. He put his hand on Quatre's shoulder, his strict self-discipline shaken, but remaining. "Choose well," he finally offered.

Again, Quatre nodded, a bit more sure of himself this time. Exchanging one more glance with his father, he stepped away, pulled the hide aside and stepped into the sunlight of early afternoon. His father watched him go. With a deep sigh, the man hit his staff to the dirt again and began a low chant, doing as he had promised.

Quatre blinked to adjust his eyes to the light. What he saw made the leaves around his ankles shiver faintly, and for a moment he fought the urge to duck back into the hut. Once he was fairly sure he had himself under control, he studied the men that were lined up outside the hut. While all were faces of tribesmen he at least recognized, the sheer number concerned him. These many had volunteered to help him with the rite?

Of course, they weren't as much honoring him as they were honoring his father, he presumed. When the chieftain's son went through the rite, there were also many who chose to offer their gift, even more than this. Even so, the turnout was intimidating.

Of all of these, he had to choose one. One man, one adult, to help him become the same. His father had already given him some advice in whom he should select - among those volunteering, he should pick one of the men that he knew were fertile; one who had many children already. While that made sense, Quatre had no desire to go through the rite with most of their kind. He had seen the way some of the women mated to gift givers had looked upon the blessed young men for quite some time after the ritual was completed. He did not want to carry those looks.

Few of these men were unmated, though. None were his closest bloodkin, of course. Everyone knew the rite could not be done between father and son, uncle and nephew or two brothers. While tradition permitted cousins to pass the gift, most looked down on such a choice.

None of his cousins had chosen to offer, though - his extended family was a proud one. Besides, they would have known Quatre would never choose them. As the shaman's son, much was expected of him. To honor the rite in every way possible was definitely among those expectations.

Quatre studied the eligible men, considered which of them to pick. While it went against many of his father's cautions, he ruled out the mated men. That left many younger men he knew not only by name, but rather well as friends. Even with them, he was bound to be uncomfortable following the ritual. Perhaps there was another, perhaps-

He stopped, studied one of the hunters. The young man was tall for his age - Quatre remembered the man had only passed the rite last summer. Even if they were close in age, Quatre hadn't had much contact with him. The man had been one of the tribe's scouts, a hunter, often away from the village. He kept to himself and the other scouts while at home. The man smiled cautiously at him, and Quatre felt a shiver run along his spine. One eye - no, almost half the man's face - was obscured by light brown bangs, adding to the man's mystique. Trowa, Quatre finally remembered. Trowa was his name.

A slight wink of the green eye. Feeling his cheeks warm up, Quatre looked away, down, straight into Trowa's chest. He wore an open vest, the expanse of skin gleaming with a thin layer of sweat. The men had gathered since early morning - by the looks of it, Trowa had been one of the first to arrive, and had not picked a spot further down the line, where the trees gave shade from the burning sun.

Quatre wondered why Trowa would do such a thing, though. He gave a quick sigh and shrugged it off. Most likely, the sentinel only wished to honor the tribe, honor the shaman by offering the gift, not expecting to get picked. Quatre was sure several of the men in the line felt that way. They would gladly perform if picked, but did not expect to be.

He met Trowa's eye again, the sparkling green fixed on him still, the serene smile remaining. Again, Quatre felt embarrassed and quickly looked to the ground. He slowly raised his gaze, studied Trowa's bare feet, his ankles and shins, the loose leather pants the man wore. Trowa also wore a belt, a sheathed knife attached to it, complementing the spear he held firmly in one hand, almost as if he was standing on attention.

Quatre's eyes lingered at the man's belly, not daring to look up right away, instead taking in Trowa's soft, controlled breathing. Again, down a bit, the gift in mind. Indeed, Trowa was not likely to idle for long in the village. There would be few awkward moments in the future. The man looked strong and healthy, and though he had not yet called for a mate, much less sired children, Quatre was certain the man was fertile enough for the rite.

Yes, his father was sure to forgive him for this much.

Besides, Trowa was young. Perhaps the ritual would hurt less, if... Quatre shook his head. The loose pants gave no hints to help him there, of course. He looked up again. The smile had become a slight smirk by now. Quatre gulped, but did not look away. Instead, he straightened himself up as best he could, took a step forward, another, and another, until he was within arm's reach of Trowa, looking straight into the half-covered face.

Trowa softened his smile again, closed his eyes and gave a slow, careful nod, as if to honor Quatre, son of the shaman.

"I..." Quatre begun, voice faint. He cleared his throat, began again, stronger, "I choose you. Will you honor me with your gift of life?"

Trowa straightened himself up, and gave a deep, deliberate bow. "To accept a gift is to honor the giver."

Quatre took another step towards the man, face but a handbreadth away now. He wanted to look deep in those eyes - the one he could see, at least - and search for any malice; to see if Trowa was offering the gift for anything other than out of kindness and respect. Quatre had to tilt his head up to look, though. Once more he wondered when the gods would look favorably upon him and let him grow taller.

A lost moment later, he had still not found anything.

A hand on his shoulder shook him out of his reverie. Jolted, Quatre turned around and saw his father. "The hut is prepared, my son." He looked at Trowa, neither condemning nor particularly pleased. Quatre tried to read his father deeper, but the mask was well worn. "Is this your choice?"

There was no displeasure in his voice. Quatre knew he was merely asking if Trowa was the one, nothing more. The choice was Quatre's. Once the rite was done - once he was alone with his father again, perhaps he would hear a different voice - but that was then, this was now, and Quatre would be a man next time he saw his father.

Unless they failed to go through the ritual, for some reason.

It didn't happen often, but it had happened in the past. Sometimes, the boy could not take the pain, and chose to abandon the rite, instead pleading the council to make a better choice at a later time. Other times, if more rare, the giver chose to rescind on his promise, for whatever reason. This would bring much dishonor to him and his family however, and those unwilling or reluctant to give the gift rarely offered it in the first place.

Trowa touched his hand to Quatre's other shoulder, smiled down at him, nodded towards the hut.

Quatre managed a shaky smile in return, nodded, took Trowa's hand and lead the way to the hut, making sure all could see the choice he had made. A low cheer went through the crowd gathered, doing nothing to calm Quatre's nerves. He reached for the hide covering the doorway, pulled it aside and stepped in.

On the far side of the room a small, smoldering bowl had been placed, lending its scent to the room. Several animal hides were scattered on the dirt floor, an old jar was placed on either side of the bowl. Quatre lead Trowa inside. The man leant down and ducked in, his hand still in Quatre's. The hide fell down again. Outside the voices scattered, but a few remained. The elders that had taken on the duty as observers would not leave; they would wait to ensure the rite progressed as planned. They would not watch, they would not listen, but they would know if Quatre had not been given the gift by sunset, as was the way. If Quatre wished to speak with Trowa, he could do so without fear of others overhearing. What was said between the two of the rite would remain between them; what words of wisdom - if any at all - were passed along with the gift itself would - and did - vary from one ceremony to another.

Quatre glanced at Trowa again, saw the hunter put away his spear, leaning it up against the hut wall. No, Trowa - unmated and young as he was - would probably not have much in the way of wisdom to share, other than what he might have learned during his own rite last summer.

Trowa's calm appearance belied his emotional state. While the hunter certainly was aware of Quatre's uneasiness, he managed to hide his own internal butterflies. Then again, perhaps that was the difference between them - Trowa's mild nerves were from anticipation, not fear of the mystical unknown.

"Will you require me to guide you through?" he cautiously asked, meaning no offense. Certainly, most boys taking the rite already knew the gist of it - he took Quatre's jitters to mean he'd learned the essentials, at the very least.

Quatre slowly shook his head, lead the hunter to the center of the hut, looked down on the bowl, took a deep breath of the burning incense, turned to face Trowa, again forced to look up to make eye contact. Tentatively, he reached up to brush through Trowa's bangs, wanting to see all of the young man's face. Trowa let him, smiled softly, touched his hand to Quatre's chin, nudging it up. Quatre didn't resist, realized Trowa leaned in-

The kiss was light, barely more than a brush of lips. It was enough to make Quatre take a step back, however. He couldn't remember kissing being part of the ritual - nobody had told him, at least. He did not flat out ask if it was, though - Trowa had the experience he did not, and Quatre did not want to offend the one offering to share the gift.

Trowa reached for Quatre's hips, let his hands rest at the hem of the fragile woven skirt. His smile faded away, his face seemed to harden. His voice was steady, earnest, very much serious. "Are you sure this is what you want, Quatre? Will you let me help you through the rite - let me offer you the gift of life?"

A mild shiver danced along Quatre's spine. Still uneasy, he nodded.

Trowa returned the gesture, the thin smile growing back. He picked up the jar on the left, took off the lid and reached inside. He retrieved a handful of dark green leaves.

Quatre had been told of at least this much - chewing the leaves would make the passing of age easier. He did not recognize what plant they came from, however. His father had taught him much of the healing herbs the forest provided, but his education was obviously not complete yet.

Trowa offered the leaves to Quatre, whom accepted half of them. Trowa flashed him a grin, sat down on one of the animal hides and put the jar back in place. He took one of the leaves and put it in his mouth, chewed slowly and swallowed, then looked expectantly at Quatre.

Quatre hesitantly sat down opposite of Trowa, copied him, chewed the sinewy leaf and swallowed the bits, took another, like Trowa had done. The leaves tasted bitter, but not adversely so. Soon, they had finished the minute preparatory meal.

Minutes past in silence. Trowa sat absolutely still, as if waiting for something, or perhaps studying Quatre. This was not comforting for the boy; again he was afraid Trowa would refuse. Granted, the disgrace would be Trowa's, not his - but some of the tribe would still remember it, and wonder why.

When Trowa suddenly started talking again, it made Quatre jolt. "I'm not sure how much you've been told of the rite before coming here, but there are a few things I have to know that you know." He met Quatre's eyes again. "What is said between us at the rite will forever remain between us - neither of us are allowed to tell of what was said here."

Quatre straightened up and nodded. Yes, he was aware of that fact. Still... "Uhm... What about... words of wisdom?"

Trowa cocked his head to one side, the gentle smile returned. "Ah... Those, you are permitted to share, if you ever feel it proper - but they should not be shared easily - they are part of the gift, and should be treasured." He sighed. "...and I am ashamed to say, I'm afraid I do not have any for you. I am not mated, and I only passed the rite last summer. I do not have experience to benefit you." He looked away, clearly bothered by that. "I'm very sorry."

"But - didn't you get some last summer?"

The initial glare was hard, and Quatre leaned back from it. Then, it softened, along with Trowa's expression. "Yes... Last summer, one of the hunters honored me with the gift. His name is Ralph - do you know him?"

Quatre thought about it, nodded. He knew who he was; a hunter a few years their senior, already mated and father of one. While his profession made him a rare sight in the village, his face had stuck with Quatre. He almost suspected him a close relation, as Ralph looked quite a bit like his own father. He'd asked his father, but his suspicion had been wrong. Still, the similarity had intrigued him.

"It is true that Ralph offered me some advice, but I'm afraid that was for my benefit alone - meant to be given a scout and hunter. I do not think they would do you much good. Again, I am sorry."

Quatre hid his disappointment behind a smile of his own. "Don't be..." he said. If the two hunters had shared something only they could use, Trowa was right - that knowledge was not really for him. Quatre took a deep breath, let the scent of incense calm him. His body had begun to relax now, the smoke and the leaves doing their job. He was no longer really afraid, but still somewhat nervous.

"Do you accept me?" Trowa asked again, seeking final confirmation.

Slowly, Quatre nodded, looking away. "Yes..."

Soft smile. "Then I will do my best to make this easy for you, Quatre."

Again, a nod. Hesitantly, Quatre turned to look at Trowa again, noticed Trowa glancing at his midsection. It took a brief moment of uncertainty for him to realize Trowa was looking at his skirt. Quatre reached for the hem.

"Wait," Trowa cut in. "May I?" he carefully inquired.

Quatre looked down, then back at Trowa. He stumbled up on his feet, took the few steps over to Trowa, taking some small solace in that he was finally looking down on the tall, young man, rather than up.

Trowa put his hands on Quatre's hips, and the leaves rustled. The man put his thumbs inside the hem and eased the ceremonial skirt off of the boy, leaving him standing naked, short of the bracelets and the circlet of flowers. Embarrassed by his nakedness, Quatre reached across with one hand to grab the elbow of the other arm and took to studying the dirt floor to the side, avoiding Trowa's eyes even as he felt them take in every inch of him.

Trowa stood up, leaned in and kissed him again, then hugged him close. "You're beautiful, Quatre," he whispered in the boy's ear. "You will make the one you take as a mate very happy..."

Unsure what to do at first, Quatre tentatively returned the embrace. For a few moments, they stood like that, hugging. When Trowa ended it and took a step back, Quatre glanced down at Trowa's skin pants, licked his lips as Trowa moved to remove them. Quatre reached out to put his own hands over Trowa's, looked up to meet the mildly startled expression on Trowa's face, his cheeks growing warm. "Is- is it okay if- if I..." Quatre looked away briefly, then returned to get his answer.

With a soft smile, Trowa slipped his hands free and all but whispered "Please..."

Quatre carefully loosened Trowa's belt and hooked his thumbs on the hem, much like Trowa had done for him. Slowly, he eased the pants off of Trowa, his thumbs and forefingers grazing Trowa's hips and thighs. Trowa's cock was already half-erect and bobbed right before Quatre's face as it came free. Quatre gulped. Trowa was perhaps young, but the gods had surely blessed him in many ways already. Quatre was certain his father would be pleased, should he ever learn of this.

It did little to ease his fear of what was to come, however. Was that supposed to fit- He shook his head, let the pants drop around Trowa's ankles. The man stepped free of them, used one foot to toss them aside, landing them next to the large trough of water.

Quatre knelt down on the animal hides at the floor, turned towards the smoldering bowl and the jars. Another quick swallow. He took a deep breath, leant forward and put his face to the floor close to the bowl, as he'd been told was the rite. After a few seconds, he tilted his neck, looked back at the hunter.

Trowa smiled down at Quatre, at his nervousness. He knelt down behind the boy, caressed his rear with one hand, let the other soothe over his spine. "I'm not going to hurt you," Trowa said softly. "Please try to relax, Quatre..."

That was easier said than done, despite both leaves and incense. Quatre was afraid of the pain - he'd heard a lot of stories from those of his friends already having taken the rite, already having become men. Some had spoken of great pain, though a few of them were obviously exaggerating. Others had said it had hurt, but still felt good. Quatre could not quite understand how that could be, but he had not dared ask. The young men would probably not have told him, anyway. As crucial as this ceremony was to their lives, their futures, it was also a very personal moment, and thus not easily shared.

He was slowly growing accustomed to Trowa's hands on his body, accepted them, accepted his touch, even dared close his eyes, struggling to relax.

He opened his eyes wide again when he felt Trowa lean in over him, though. For a moment, he had thought that marked the beginning of it, and had tensed up - but then he saw Trowa's hand reaching for the right side jar, taking the lid off. Trowa tilted it to let Quatre see the contents.

It was not more leaves, as Quatre had expected. Instead, the jar contained was some sort of ointment. Quatre had learned to make many of those, but none of them looked quite like this. The closest one was the ointment they used to treat insect stings - and surely, that was not what this was here for.

Trowa dipped a finger in the jar, straightened up again. He spread Quatre's ass cheeks, drew the finger down along the cleft, brushed it over Quatre's pucker. "This will help, Quatre. Please, relax."

Quatre did, once the finger left him. Again, weight on his back. Trowa took the whole jar this time, and Quatre soon enough felt more of the cold, slippery salve be applied to his pucker. Tentatively, Trowa pushed one digit inside, pleased to hear Quatre let out a small gasp at that. He dipped the finger in and out a few times, allowing Quatre to get used to the sensation.

"I- What is that-" Quatre strenuously asked following a particularly deep prod. "How would you know-" The digit left his body entirely, but soon returned along with another. Quatre hissed through clenched teeth, again as the two fingers flexed apart.

"How would I know this will help?" Trowa offered with a lopsided smirk. Again, he flexed. "I was taught, Quatre. The rite doesn't require this. Out there, you made your choice - this choice is left to the giver. That is one reason why some say the rite is very painful, and others not."

"But- why?" Quatre asked between soft pants. He didn't have to say more; Trowa knew what he wanted to know. Why would anyone not want to lessen the pain of the rite, if they could?

"Some feel the receiver has to show he has earned the gift - show that he can take the pain, show that he is ready to become a man. They feel this is cheating - a way to make the ritual less meaningful. I disagree." Soft chuckle. "I'm very glad Ralph did, too. He was kind to me. Could I be less to you?"

Quatre put up a shaky smile as the two fingers worked his ass, easing up his muscles. "S-so I made a good pick..."

Again, Trowa laughed. "I should hope so..." Trowa continued to prepare Quatre for a few minutes longer, then withdrew his fingers, coated his cock with a rather generous helping of the ointment and positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging against Quatre's pucker. "Remember to relax," he cautioned again, then gripped Quatre's hips and slowly pushed himself inside.

In Quatre's mind, that brief moment seemed to last forever. He tried to remain as unaffected as he could as Trowa went deeper and deeper. He almost forgot how to breathe, finally taking a few gasps as Trowa's thighs and balls grazed his rear, Trowa now fully inside him.

Trowa waited. The tight heat wrapped around his erection, even flexing against it - finally, he understood what Ralph might have felt during his own rite last summer. He was so glad he'd decided to offer himself to Quatre - but with that came responsibilities.

As Quatre's breath calmed down, as his body started relaxing again, adjusting, Trowa began to thrust slowly in and out of his body. They were in no rush. He was in no rush. This would be his only chance, and he was going to savor it.

Trowa had been right. The ointment did help - there was discomfort, but no real pain - certainly not like what some of his friends had suggested.

They had obviously not chosen all that well.

When Trowa shifted his angle of attack slightly, he touched a sensitive spot deep within and made Quatre let out a gasp. He didn't know what it was, but started thrusting himself back against Trowa, wanting it to happen again. It did, once, twice, thrice... Breathing became difficult.

One of Trowa's arms reached around to Quatre's chest, coaxed him to raise his torso, to stand up on his knees. Quatre did so, and no sooner was he upright did Trowa resume his thrusting, their new position doing nothing to diminish the pleasure Quatre had found.

Trowa touched his lips to Quatre's shoulder, the nape of his neck, used his hands to explore Quatre's body; one slid down to fondle Quatre's balls and lazily stroke his growing erection, the other hand roamed Quatre's chest, played with his nipples. He quickly reached up to tilt Quatre's head, tried to kiss him on the lips. Quatre responded as best he could, but the kiss remained rather lopsided, a quick touch of tongues the highlight of it.

Quatre looked down to take in his stiff cock in Trowa's hand. It was not the first time for that, nor the first time he'd seen droplets like that form at the tip - but it had never felt this good... Reality could not match dreams; his own touch not the caress of another.

Trowa's pace increased, his breaths grew as erratic as Quatre's, his mind dazed by more than incense.

He barely registered Quatre's hisses at first. It took a repeat to realize the boy was trying to tell him something. Reluctantly, he slowed down. "What did-" Pant, "You say?"

"I - I want to see-" Quick breath, "When you give-" Pant, look straight ahead again, cheeks flushed for many reasons. He took another breath to calm himself. "Your face - I want to see your face," breath, "when you give me your gift."

To that, Trowa's smile came close to a leer. Certainly, he could agree to that request... He slid himself out of Quatre's body. His cock throbbed, already missing the tight heat. Trowa tugged at the softest looking skin, patted it. "Lay down here, on your back."

Quatre quickly obeyed. Trowa rolled up another hide, coaxed Quatre to lift his hips, and put the small bundle in under Quatre's lower back. He moved in between Quatre's spread legs, moved them back a bit, and pushed inside Quatre again - one quick thrust this time. Quatre gasped loudly, but accepted it. He wanted this, wanted whatever pleasure Trowa could give him along with his most precious gift.

Trowa did not waste time now, his thrusts fast and hard. Quatre did not mind; he cherished the fact Trowa was still touching him, stroking him almost in rhythm with the thrusts. Trowa was hitting the spot almost every time now, and Quatre thought his blood was on fire, for all he could perceive. Coherency was slipping, his eyes taking in Trowa's chest, how the leather vest flapped against bare, glistening skin. Quatre fixed in on Trowa's face, his eyes - from this angle, he could see in under the man's large bangs, could see every nuance of his face, his smile, his pleasure.

He read his name on Trowa's lips as much as he heard it, felt Trowa's final rush as surely as it was his own - for it was; Trowa's gift was in him now, surging through his body, warming all of it up, delightful shivers along his spine, the heat then returning to his belly, his crotch, his cock, the leaf bracelets shaking fiercely. All but screaming his benefactor's name Quatre came, more powerful than the few times in solitude before, the surest sign of Trowa's gift being well received spread all across his own chest.

Trowa's thrusts slowed down to a halt. Still panting, limbs feeling heavy, he studied Quatre spread out before him. Trowa took in Quatre's sated grin, the smear on his chest, the last pulses of Quatre's cock as he pumped him dry. Trowa leaned down, gave Quatre a sloppy kiss, but ended it quickly to roll over on Quatre's side, not wanting to collapse on the young man.

For Quatre was surely a man now; the gift had been given - One fertile man had shared the gift with a boy, making the boy also a man. That was the rite, that was the way from child to adulthood for men in their tribe, a tradition as old as time itself.

They didn't speak for some time, did not even move, did little other than breathe and relax, give each other relaxed smiles and unfocused glances. The incense and their exertions made them both sleepy, but neither succumbed. The afternoon was already slipping into evening, and Quatre's rite of passage had yet to be confirmed, much less celebrated.

Trowa lazily extended his arm, his palm descending on Quatre's cheek, his thumb smoothing over the blond's cheekbone. "Congratulations," he all but whispered. "Enjoy the gift, Quatre... You are a man now..." Thin smile. "Even though you already were, in my eyes..."

Quatre wasn't entirely sure what Trowa meant by that. Even so, he gave a weak nod. "Thank you..."

They lay like that for a few more minutes, then Trowa withdrew his hand, struggled to sit upright. "We should clean up and go see the elders now..." He nodded to Quatre's chest. "If you don't wash that off now, you'll regret it."

Quatre looked down, knew Trowa was right. Tentatively, he got up on his hands and knees and all but crawled over to the trough. For three days now, he'd cleansed himself from there. Now, it would be his final time doing so, at least in this hut - unless he got to offer the gift at some later point.

Trowa put the jar of ointment back by the bowl and joined him, finally taking his vest off. They washed slowly, used the small pieces of wet cloth in the trough to wipe themselves clean. Once satisfied, they went back to the center of the hut and lay down on the soft hides, wanting to dry off a bit before putting their clothes back on - or in Quatre's case, put on the ceremonial robes carefully folded next to the trough. For three days, he'd lived with the sight of it, banned from touching it. Only now would he be allowed, and only tonight would he be allowed to wear it. His father had worn it once too, long ago. Ralph had surely worn it, as had Trowa. Perhaps some day their sons would don it, too.

Sons... Yes, he could take a mate now; he was an adult. Yet, while he did feel changed, it was not quite in the way he had expected.

Trowa had laid back on one of the hides, his arms folded behind his head, looking into the thatched roof. He was about to close his eyes to rest, waiting for his body to dry, when he caught glimpse of Quatre studying his face. Trowa tilted his head, asked without words what the blond was wondering about.

"Why haven't you picked a mate?"

Quatre's question was honest enough, but Trowa wasn't sure how to answer it - especially not how to answer it without frightening Quatre off. This was not enough; once was not enough. "I... I'm only a young hunter. My stature in the tribe is not great enough yet - few women would accept me if I asked the elders for permission to take a mate. I'm still unproven." He sighed, then smiled at Quatre. "You won't have to worry, though. You're the shaman's son. You are bound to be a great man within our tribe. If you chose to ask, many would respond favorably. You're still young, though - you should not rush that decision. If you do not feel ready for a mate, simply wait with asking the council until you know what you want."

The advice was sound enough, but Quatre sensed there was more to it than just the words themselves. Then there were some other things he'd been wondering about.

"...do you think you will look like your father as you grow older?"

Quatre raised a brow at that, not sure what Trowa meant by asking that. "I don't know. Perhaps. I-" Then it clicked. "Your friend Ralph... he looks a lot like my father, doesn't he?"

Trowa looked away. If anything, that made Quatre believe he was right in his suspicions.

"Trowa, why did you volunteer to offer me your gift?"

The man sighed, turned his head to glance at Quatre again, at length beginning to answer. "You probably didn't notice... but I was the only hunter that came forth."

Weak smile. "I didn't expect to have every man in the tribe come-"

Trowa's face grew overly sincere. "Far more would have come, Quatre. Not only because you're the son of the village shaman, but because you are you. The only reason they did not, was because I asked them not to - I and my friends among the hunters."

Smile gone, mild surprise. "What- What do you mean? I'm not sure I understand-"

After a quick glance away, the green eyes fixed intently on Quatre's face. "Quatre, I wanted you to pick me. I needed you to pick me. I-" Again, he broke eye contact, ashamed of himself. "The reason I haven't asked for a mate is that I already know who I want."

"Oh..." Quatre feebly answered, a bit afraid of the answer. "Ralph... you wanted him, didn't you?"

Not facing the blond, Trowa reluctantly nodded.

"But he was already mated, so you needed to find someone else - someone who might look like Ralph..."

"That..." Trowa sighed, studied the wall. "That's what I reasoned last summer - that's when I first thought of you..." He dared look at Quatre again, surprised and greatly relieved not to see a deep frown or anger on the blond's face. "I've been watching you for this entire year, Quatre. Yes, it started out with the chance you might grow to look like your father - to look like Ralph, but that was before I got to see you..."

"I'm not Ralph," Quatre shot in.

Thin smile. "I know... You could never be Ralph - and he could never be you. Over this last year, I've realized I only wanted Ralph because he was the first to show me... the first to make me understand what I really wanted. It wasn't until I opened my eyes in watching you that I knew who I really wanted..." He looked away again, afraid of disappointment. "As a mate."

Quatre wasn't shocked to hear such a proposal - the tribe was not unfamiliar with the idea of two men or two women becoming mates. In times of little food and hardships, it was even considered noble; these matings very rarely produced offspring, and when famine threatened, having less mouths to feed benefitted the tribe.

At present, the tribe was growing large, and Quatre's father had already warned the council of elders that a new time of troubles might soon befall their tribe. One of Quatre's friends had even offered himself as a mate for another man, and the couple had quickly gotten the blessings of the elders.

Quatre had not considered it - not more than he had considered taking a woman as a mate. He was not sure what his father would advise him to - but that did no longer matter. From today on, he was his own man, and he would have to make his own decisions.

"...was I better than Ralph?" he finally found himself mumbling.

At that, Trowa had to grin. Quatre's expression was much too amusing. "Much better."

"But... that time, you were..."

Trowa nodded. "Yes, I received that time. It was the only time I was ever with Ralph, too."

Quatre cocked his head, inched closer to sit next to Trowa. "Was... giving better?"

Again with the smile. Trowa pushed himself up on his elbows, then sat up straight, rubbed his neck. He reached for Quatre's shoulder, then changed his mind and moved his fingers behind Quatre's neck. "Being with you felt far better to me, at least... I wouldn't know how you would feel in giving, though." He leaned in closer, brushed his lips against Quatre's. "I suppose..." he whispered, "you have to offer yourself to the ritual some time in the future to find out..."

Quatre hesitated, but gave in to what he felt. "...what if..." he mumbled, "what if I wanted to return your gift?"

Trowa flagged a brow. For a moment, he was wondering if Quatre sought to undo the rite - but comprehension dawned on him soon enough. He gave a lopsided smirk, leaned in to kiss Quatre again, far rougher this time, his tongue slowly trailing Quatre's upper lip, at one point briefly touching Quatre's. He pulled back. "Quatre, do you know what you're asking?"

The blond nodded. He knew very well what he was implying - more than implying. Women had never inspired that particular interest in him, and he thought he knew why now.

Trowa's smile dazzled him. "Are you sure?"

Quatre hooked one hand around Trowa's neck, leaned back to lay down on the floor, pulling Trowa along, down for a quick, soft kiss. "I know what I want..."

As they kissed again, and again, Quatre had but one casual thought.

Forgive me, father... I might not bless you with grandchildren after all...

---

Quatre woke up with a gasp for breath, but he barely moved beyond the quick spasm. A thin layer of cold-sweat dampened his skin, the last remnants of a fleeting dream departing him. He didn't need to look to know his boxers resembled a raised circus tent.

His heart began calming down again at the feel of warm breaths against the nape of his neck, at the arms loosely gripping him around the waist, at the firm body spooning his entire backside, a thigh casually sprawled between his own. Breathing easier himself, Quatre touched Trowa's arms, cautiously brushing the skin, not wanting to disturb Trowa, not wanting to do anything to end the embrace.

He was surprised they had been able to fall asleep like this. They must have been truly fatigued from the battle the day before.

Quatre quietly swore to himself never to use the ZERO system again, no matter how upset Heero might get over such a decision. If the system messed up his dreams like that, he would do better without it. Seeing all possibilities in all situations, indeed... Visiting past lives and parallel universes were perhaps not beyond the system, either.

No, far better to cope without it. Between his friends and his own mind, he could probably put up a better defence for Peacemillion anyway.

Closing his eyes, his thoughts drifted back to the dream. No, the gift was nothing as truly trivial and banal as that... The true gift was not to give of yourself, as the dream suggested. No, the true gift was to give yourself completely, mind and body, heart and soul.

He was willing to do that with Trowa.

Lips made a ghostly touch to his neck, and the hold around his waist momentarily tightened. He felt Trowa slowly rock his hips against his rear, once, twice, thrice... Then stop again, a content sigh brushing against the small curly blond hairs of Quatre's neck.

Quatre smiled, stifled a chuckle. Trowa was apparently having a good dream, too...

...and it had better damn well be him that starred in it.

He had no reason to worry, though.

Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow, he would ask. What had started as a fling - a comfortable temporary relationship - had grown and matured into something far greater. Now, as the end of the war approached, Quatre wanted it to last. Tomorrow, he would ask Trowa if they could make the moments they shared into eternity.

He also considered buying Trowa an open leather vest. The pants from his dream would probably be too much - but then again, those would not be needed for what Quatre had in mind. He grinned sheepishly to himself, leaned back against Trowa's warm chest, caressed Trowa's arms, closed his eyes again and ever so slowly fell asleep again. He was left dreamless for the rest of that night.

The real dream would begin come morning.

-end-