Catherine blinked. Crushed into the bin was a poster of Trowa in his circus costume, evidently the ringmaster felt her target wasn't coming back. A quick glance around told her everyone was too busy packing up to notice as she set down her buckets of soapy water and rescued the poster. He would come back, she knows it.
Far away, Trowa sits on his narrow cot listening to the distant sound of rough, warm banter. He is with the Maguanacs, but he's not comfortable with them. They're welcoming enough, but he senses the bond between them, they're a family. This ignites a spark of homesickness. At first he doesn't recognise the emotion for what it is, as far back as he can remember he had no other home and he retreats to his room. He doesn't bother to turn on the light, the silvery Earth moonlight is falling in bars across his pack and he knows he could find the cartridge even in complete darkness. The case is cool and for a while he just holds it, warming it in his hand. A spark of homesickness in his empty heart, like a star in the blackness of space. He unscrews the casing and pulls out a slender curl held together with a small blob of sealant, he can pick out the reddish hue faintly if he bothered to look but his eyes are fixed on the window looking at the night sky. Twisting the hair around his fingers is familiar, comforting and disquieting; each star is in reality a sun, a life source.
Catherine finds herself drawn to the lions, not her usual haunt but during the day she finds it hard to spend too much time in her trailer. The poster of Trowa is stuck inside her wardrobe door and the picture of them taken as they helped setting up the big top was on the fridge. She kept his bed made and a packet of marshmallows in the cupboard. The first time she'd realised she could read him was when she recognised the slight flickering of his eyes in the convenience store towards them. When they ate them beside the fire he was as quiet and reserved as ever but it was like seeing him with a veil removed. When he didn't respond to her jokes it wasn't a snub, he simply didn't know how, when he looked like he was ignoring her he was merely concentrating on her words. Even when he spoke to other people he kept her in his peripheral vision. For all his independence he was so vulnerable, so tough, so mechanical and heartbreakingly human. Catherine thrust her hand into the cage as he once did and stroked the lioness, the big cat's gaze became hostile when the knife-thrower's glance wandered over her cubs but resumed purring. The cat had been distraught when her last cub had been stolen for the black market, the strongman even suggesting they put her down. Catherine fancies she knows what the lioness must have been feeling; she too has failed to protect her own.
A brush past a jasmine shrub momentarily freezes Trowa, it smells like perfume; powerful, yet elusive in the cool, breezy night. He realises the error in allowing the circus to become his home, he's now afraid to die. He's afraid for Catherine. He's afraid of Catherine, the knife-thrower has power over him, has changed him. The wind shifts as soldier ahead of him turns to see what's holding him up; Trowa fakes hearing someone. The capricious breeze turns again and Trowa is swamped by an urge be close to her again. Shaken, he moves on swiftly, carrying a gun he knows she hates.
A hairbrush rocks sinisterly on the table where she has thrown it. In her search for loose change she found it in Trowa's room and a couple of dark caramel strands are caught in it. She again falls victim to dangerous, wishful thinking. The hair could be taken into a lab for testing. The question has haunted her, she wants so badly for Trowa to be Triton that it would be like loosing him again if he were not. Its better, she tells herself, for her not to know, for it to be enough that he needs her. She can't love him any more than she already does, so what does it matter? Even if he was Triton, it can't erase the years he spent away, the terrible things he's seen and lived through. But she doesn't clean the brush; she can't let go of the idea, she desperately wants to know she wasn't the sole survivor. In the next town they're in she sees the lab. An older woman is standing outside crying and hugging a teenager close to Trowa's age, the girl awkwardly hugging back with a smile splitting her face. On her lunch break Catherine yanks a hair sample from the brush and flies down to lab, before her common sense can catch up with her. When she steps through the door, slightly out of breath she feels self conscious. She's dusty, smelling of horses and she's forgotten to take of her stage make-up and feathers. A sour faced woman looks up from her magazine; she has a small kid with her. Catherine smiles at the chubby toddler and the woman reacts with spiteful yank on his arm. Catherine ignores her, she's used to people being suspicious of circus-folk. The lab is very busy and she's told as she signs the forms that the results could take some time. The secretary tells her they'll mail it to her if they don't finish before the circus leaves town. The circus moves twice before she gets the slender envelope and she prays under her breath before she opens it. Negative. She hides it, she won't tell Trowa. She suspects it's wrong.
Trowa's cheeks are faintly flushed with alcohol as he sits by the fire, the Maguanacs don't drink but the Federation soldiers do and he's an expert at camouflage. They're mostly bragging lewdly now and with resignation Trowa observes that they'll be at it for hours. He has a canned story to use if pressed but mostly just holds his drink to his lips when they glance in his direction. He's heard it all before yet he still conceals a weary disgust. Sex repulses him, his first exposure to it came when he was seven, his captain used to make one of the other boys in his company do things to him. He hates when people look at him, greedy and slobbering. One of the other young men is telling his story now, he's well liked and too young for war, a bit like Quatre. There's no sex in his story, he's just talking about this girl he left at home. She plays piano, paints pictures and is waiting for him to come back to her. The other guys quieten; moved despite their crudeness.
Catherine's knife-throwing act has been left out of the circus since Trowa left. The ringmaster tried ordering her to train a new partner but the usually friendly performer became so waspish and unco-operative that he finally gave in. As punishment she's being pushed into learning contortion under a harpy more fearsome than she'll ever be. She still keeps her knife skills sharp though; she hopes to perform again soon.
Noin smirks at him as one of the finely dressed young ladies presses a kiss to his cheek. She has been flirting hard all night and more than a few guys are glaring at him with envy. Trowa responds courteously and allows her another dance before melting into the crowd. He regards the kiss as another one of the numerous discomforts he has to put up with or ignore; less disgusting than cleaning up vomit, more irritating than being caught in the rain. Later, when he's preparing for bed he catches sight of the faint rosy smear, the girl's lipstick was more tenacious then he thought. He touches it and remembers the shocking, sudden pain; the salty sweetness of blood and the piercing crystal of Catherine's tears. The mark she left was like a branding, he could no longer kill himself because he belonged to her. It smashed down the barrier that protected him from emotion leaving him raw and vulnerable. That slap held more love and emotional intensity than any other's kiss. He briefly wonders what her kiss would be like but shuts that thought down with a racing pulse.
When Trowa comes back Catherine can't decide whether she wants to race over to him and swing him around or grab him and shake him till he promises never to do this to her again. Instead of either she waits for him by the entrance to the Big Top, she knows he needs time to adjust to the circus again just as certainly as she knows he's glad to be back. As he walks those last few meters towards her their eyes are already speaking volumes.
It's a quiet dinner, ever since the news announcement Catherine has been waiting for him so it's all his favourites. He notices but hardly tastes it as his thoughts are all on the war and coming home. They talk briefly about circus gossip and Trowa relays all his friend's hellos and promises to visit. It's cosy but its not exactly the same, subtle things have changed between them and both admit to tiredness and decide to have an early night. Catherine knows the value of patience when it comes to Trowa, but when he picks up the tea-towel she thinks 'patience be damned'. She's waited so long for her brother to come home and impulsively hugs him, wet hands and all. While he doesn't move his arms to return it, Trowa's muscles relax and he leans in. By the time Cathy releases him everything is right between them, she has forgiven him for putting himself in danger and he's assured of his welcome with her. She's surprised at the effect of something so brief and feels the familiar surge of protectiveness at his silent need for reassurance.