Sticks and Stones
By Scheherazade
/Perfect/, thought Trowa. Duo was out with Hilde, Heero had disappeared to god-knows-where, and Wufei had shut himself in the library with a warning that anyone who disturbed him did so on pain of death.
Which meant that left himself and Quatre.
/Quatre…/
Quatre wasn't perfect by anyone's standards, but he came damn close in Trowa's estimation. He was caring, compassionate, warm, loyal, determined, had a core of steel. He had silky blond hair and melting aqua eyes. He could coax some of the saddest and sweetest sounds Trowa had ever heard out of his beloved violin, he spent hours curled up with the slightly battered books in the library, he was fascinated by the art of photography. He was extremely bad-tempered in the cold. His voice took on a funny lilting accent when he was mad; when he was furious, he could only speak in Arabic. He loved soft, grey days and candlelight, the scent of fir trees and the taste of nectarines.
Trowa was absolutely and completely in love with him.
It had taken the brunet several days--maybe even a couple weeks--to admit this to himself, and several more to decide whether or not to do anything about it. Finally he decided it was better to say something and find out if the other pilot felt anything more than friendship than pine away in silence. He hoped.
At the moment, Trowa was supposed to meet Quatre in the "music room", as Duo had christened it, the place they always met for duets. If Trowa was going to say anything, it would have to be now. There was no chance of interruption, and who knew when he'd get another opportunity?
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he uncoiled himself from a soft leather armchair he had long ago "claimed". He had made a decision, so why all this sudden uncertainty? Sighing, Trowa made his way downstairs.
He paused once outside the door, fingering his flute. Then he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and mentally scolded himself. /Brace up, Barton. It's not like Quatre's going to throw things at you./
What was that old saying? "Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me," Trowa quoted under his breath.
He swung the door inward.
Quatre was already there, his violin tucked under his chin He flashed the tall pilot a smile as he tuned the instrument. "Hi, Trowa."
Trowa felt his heart flip over.
The music room was large and mostly bare, so as not to muffle the sound. The only decoration was a group of few matted but unframed pictures on one wall. One that particularly stood out--to Trowa, at least--was a black-and-white photograph of Iria that Quatre had taken himself. She was especially close to him--the photograph was evidence of that. When Quatre immersed himself in music, he wanted to forget all of his real-world problems, including his family. He did have a photograph of each of his sisters--neatly labeled, ordered from oldest to youngest--on the wall of his room where he studied them each day "so I'd recognize them if I ever met them," he had confessed to Trowa. However, only Iria and a few others stood out as individuals, not to be lumped into the vague "family" and something Quatre *wanted* to be reminded of--instead of escape from.
All this and more had been disclosed to Trowa during the long midnight talks the two often shared. It was through these talks that Trowa had slowly and painfully recounted his entire past. He had relived the each cruel experience as he spoke, and only because his audience was Quatre was he able to finish. The Arabian had been silent, waiting patiently when the memories made it too painful to continue or when Trowa was too choked with tears to speak. He supported Trowa with a wordless mixture of understanding, strength, and sorrow for the other's pain. It acted as a healing salve so that when the retelling was over, Trowa felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The memories were still painful, but not with the heart-wrenching pain they used to have.
That was when the idea that he might feel something stronger than friendship for Quatre had first presented itself.
Quatre had finished adjusting the violin strings and looked up expectantly. "What first?" he asked.
/Now or never./ "First…" Trowa began hesitantly, "First, I have to talk to you."
The blond raised an eyebrow but put down his instrument. "What is it?" he asked quietly, moving closer to the brunet.
Suddenly Trowa had no idea what he was going to say. "I…um…" Quatre's eyes gazed at him unwaveringly, showing only concern.
"I'm sorry already," he finally blurted out. "I just have to say *something* and find out if there's any chance--if you--" He swallowed hard. "I just--only--Quatre, I love you." His voice diminished to a half-whisper and he stared miserably at the floor. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, he glanced up through his bangs.
Quatre was staring at him in shock and confusion as the words sunk in. "Trowa…" he breathed. The said pilot's hopes soared upward.
"…I'm sorry."
They plummeted to the ground with a fatal crash.
"I never guessed--I thought--" Those same eyes, staring at him helplessly, seemed to say "I know how hard this was for you; if only I could have said something else!"
Trowa held up a hand to stop the other, raising his head all the way. "Don't be sorry. I never should have said anything---just--just please forget I even opened my mouth." He turned and ran out the door, a few words floating after him.
"I never meant to--"
/You never meant to what? To hurt me? To lead me on? To be so kind to me? To make me fall in love with you?/
/Too late./
Trowa turned into the first unused room he saw, flinging himself into a chair facing the window. With luck, no one would notice him there. Outside, it was pouring rain.
/How appropriate./
He would have to leave. Quatre might say they could still be friends, but his confession had ruined things forever. Quatre wouldn't feel comfortable around Trowa any more, and Trowa wouldn't be able to get over the shame he felt for a very, very long time, which felt like forever just then.
/I wonder where the circus is now./ Maybe he'd take Catherine's offer after all.
He would miss all of them: Heero. Duo. Wufei. Quatre.
/I can't say good-bye to him or Duo--they'd try to persuade me to stay. I'm not waiting for Heero to get back just to tell him I'm leaving. Then I'll talk to Wufei and that's it. I can be gone by evening, at the latest./
Trowa wasn't sure if the landscape outside had blurred because of the rain sliding down the window or the tears filling his eyes.
"Sticks and stones may break my bones…"
/But words can never hurt me./
Right.
--Owari--