For my Friend—
I made this for you, the charmer,
so you could spot my trouble from it.
La vie s'arrange . . . mais autrement.
Life always works out . . . not how you expect it.
—Christopher Wood
A quatre mains
—A piece for four hands—
The black car came to a stop in the deserted square before the administration building, and the young man inside stepped out. Polished shoes clicked on the brick as he turned to look up at the name on the building: Ohtori.
The façade was enormous, and imposing in the way it resembled a church. The thick blankets of roses that embraced it gave only a false sense of cultivation, hiding the thorns underneath out of sight. He found it somewhat threatening, but at the same time welcoming—like the hand that beckons in supination while it holds the sword. He was prepared. He regarded the building as an opponent, his stare challenging and searching. Anxiety and eagerness both fluttered in his stomach. Yet he gave no outward sign of either as he stood with one hand on the open door, looking up over the car at his new home.
The other passenger thought she saw a look of hesitation—and doubt— "It's not too late to go back home, you know," she told him in the same careful tone one uses talking to a wild animal; "I mean, if you're having second thoughts."
"No," he answered. The chauffeur stepped out and opened the trunk to retrieve his luggage, and the young man looked down at her with a small smile of reassurance. "No, Cathrine, I'm not. I think this is exactly where I need to be."
But she frowned. In a black dress, in that black car with cream leather seats, she looked like she had the day their mother had been laid to rest, when, dry-eyed, she had worried over where he would live. "That's right," she said. "Your friends are here, aren't they?"
Friends. His real friends were back at St. Gabriels; only acquaintances stood before him now. Except . . .
She scooted over to where he had been sitting and got out of the car to stand next to him. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" She gazed up at the building herself.
Then she shook her head. "Oh, forget what I said," she amended and started to fix his tie, and brush the hair out of his eyes, and straighten his jacket which was already straight. "I'm being selfish. This is the opportunity of a lifetime, being accepted to one of the best prep schools around, and I do want you to be happy. It's just that it hurts to see you go. I'm going to miss you so much."
"Same here."
"Promise you'll write me." She said nothing of her father.
He smiled. "I promise."
At that she hugged him tight, her fingers digging into his back as though to make up for all the future hugs she would miss. He embraced his half-sister back, and laid an appreciative kiss on her crown, and breathed in the scent and felt the softness of her russet curls one last time, as he whispered: "This isn't forever, Cathy."
"I know," she mumbled against his shoulder. "But . . ." How far they'd come, since they first met that autumn day four years ago. How strange that now it seemed as though they had known each other forever. "It feels like it."
When they finally parted, more out of duty than will, he tipped the driver and waved to Cathrine until the black car was out of sight. Then he picked up his luggage and headed up the stairs toward the school entrance.
Toward his new life.
He stood alone by the window when Wakaba saw him, looking down at the people gathered in the courtyard on their lunch break. He was tall and thin, but broad-shouldered, and she could tell there was hard muscle under the old, tawny-brown wool blazer he wore. His hair of the same color was brushed forward and hid one side of his face. But despite a somewhat scruffy appearance, there was a serious and studious, even noble air about him.
"Triton Bloom?" she asked as she approached him.
There was no response.
"Um, excuse me," she tried again with a little added persistence. "Are you Triton Bloom?"
The young man started, but quickly caught himself and turned to look at her.
Her heart skipped a beat. He was gorgeous! —No Utena Tenjou, of course, but handsome in a timid sort of way. He had a long face that reminded her somewhat of Saionji's, with a narrow chin and pouty lips, and a most elegant nose. His brilliant, olive green eyes were gentle and guarded, like his sudden smile. "Yes, that's me," he said. His voice was soft and reserved. "I'm sorry, I guess I didn't hear you the first time."
"Well, that's all right." She cleared her throat and extended her hand. "Welcome to the Ohtori Peers Academy, new student! I'm Wakaba Shinohara, an eighth grade student here."
He took her hand. "Triton Bloom. Tenth grade."
"I know." Wakaba beamed. "They asked me to show you around, so here I am! Did they give you your dorm key?"
Triton reached inside his jacket and took it from his breast pocket to show her.
"Well, then, let's go!" Wakaba grabbed his wrist, and he managed to grab hold of his suitcase before he was whisked away.
She showed Triton to the dorms first so he could drop off his luggage, telling him about the school and its history and pointing out places of interest along the way. Then they were off for a tour of the grounds, and she helped him find his classrooms.
Triton didn't say much of anything the whole time, unless Wakaba asked him a question that required a verbal response. The echoes of their footsteps in the empty halls made those quiet moments awkward. But it was endearing, Triton's silence, and odd; and Wakaba asked him about it as they sat beside the fountain, the vague sounds of a lesson drifting to them through an open window.
He looked puzzled at her question, which instantly made her regret it—what if he never spoke to her again?—but he only said: "I'm sorry. I just don't usually say anything when I have nothing to say."
"Oh," she said, and neither said anything for another minute, though it seemed longer than that to Wakaba. "So," she said at last, "tell me about yourself."
He gave her a strange look. "Like what?"
"I've told you all about the school, but I don't know anything about you. If you don't mind me saying, it's kind of a weird time of the year for a student to transfer. You know? I've heard a little about the Blooms—I guess they'd do something unconventional like that—but I didn't know Mr. Bloom had a son. Unless he just never talked about him. I haven't seen your name in any papers—"
"I don't want to talk about it," Triton said.
"Of course. I have to ask the right questions, right?" Wakaba smiled. "Are you from St. Gabriels?"
"Yes." He seemed to relax at that, a slight smile tugging at his own lips, and he crossed one leg over the other. "But you probably knew that already."
Wakaba blushed. Hard to tell if that counted as flirting, the way he was and how he said it, almost sarcastic but not in any cruel sort of way. "Well, yes," she said. "So you must know Relena Peacecraft and Dorothy Catalonia, right? They transferred here a year ago. So did Heero Yuy, but he was accepted into a technical university this year—"
"What?" Triton's eyes went wide as he turned to her.
"It's true," she said. "Isn't that amazing? Well, I can't say I envy him, but he is a real genius. Do you know him, Triton?"
He was silent for a moment—probably taking a trip down memory lane, she guessed. But when he answered, "He was a good friend of mine," there was no hint of emotion in his voice.
Wakaba beamed. She finally knew something about Triton, and even though it wasn't much—and the way he used past tense was weird—it was a start. There was something in his character that inspired her to want to help him and protect him—to bring out whatever it was that he was keeping locked inside. Like a puzzle just begging to be solved. She opened her mouth to say something more when the bells rang to signal the end of classes for the day.
"Come on!" she said, standing and pulling on his sleeve. "The fencing club meets after class. Let's go!"
Triton had no choice but to follow her—Wakaba was very strong for her age and size—but this time he actually seemed excited about going.
It was a nice day for the club to practice outside, and she led him to a place where they could watch the crowd that had gathered in the square below them. Many of the boys and girls were already dressed in white fencing jackets. Some were watching a fast-paced bout between two women on a strip outlined in chalk. Triton couldn't see their faces, but he recognized one by the thick platinum blond braid that snaked back and forth from under her mask with each lunge and parry.
"That's Juri Arisugawa," Wakaba said beside him, referring to the other. "She's in the student council and captain of the fencing club. I think you have a class with her, too. She's tough as nails, just to give you the heads up, and not exactly all warm and fuzzy off the strip either. Do you fence, Triton?"
"A little," he started to say, but suddenly Wakaba stopped listening—in fact, stopped paying any attention to him whatsoever.
Her eyes were wide and shining as she pushed past him, and literally jumped on an athletic-looking girl in a dark boy's uniform. The other girl looked mortified, and more than a little overwhelmed, and blushed as Wakaba led her over to him. "This is my friend Utena Tenjou," Wakaba said, her voice brimming with pride. "Utena, this is Triton Bloom. He's going into the tenth grade, starting today."
"Nice to meet you," the girl said with a smile and slight toss of her pink hair. They shook hands.
"Likewise," Triton said.
"He just transferred here from St. Gabriels."
"Really?" Utena's eyes widened. "That's so far away! Hey, you must be a friend of Quatre's."
They couldn't have noticed, but at the mention of that name, Triton's heart jumped. He didn't have an opportunity to say anything, however, as Utena looked over the railing of the balcony, searching. "He usually comes to these meetings. . . . Ah." She pointed. "There he is."
Triton looked down, following her finger. Quatre was there sure enough, surrounded as always by girls. In their impossibly short skirts that passed as uniforms in this school. And he was smiling at them as he always had: kind, appreciative, encouraging.
He had grown in the last year of absence, as well. He was taller, with more shape to him than Triton remembered. His uniform—not standard but student council fare, white with fourragere—only served to show off the change. With broader shoulders now over his high, narrow waist and long legs, it was no wonder he attracted such a crowd. And with his radiant smile and sincere blue eyes, and the strong chin he got from his father, he was the epitome of nobility.
Beside him, Wakaba leaned on the railing and sighed. "He's such a hottie."
"I guess," said Utena. She turned to Triton, flashing another smile. "I have to go, but it was nice meeting you. If you ever need anything, feel free to drop by." She waved.
"Wait for me! Utena!" Wakaba hurried to join her, clinging to her arm. It didn't look like she was coming back for Triton, but he couldn't say he minded too much.
Enjoying being alone once again, he turned back to the action in the courtyard, leaning his elbows on the railing. The bout taking place below him must have been exciting by the sound of it—the rapid clink-clink of the foils, the grunts of the fencers—but his attention was drawn elsewhere.
Quatre Raberba Winner.
The sight of him made Triton feel ill, but no one would have guessed it looking at him. Even then, no one could have guessed why.
"Come on, Quatre, do it for me? I want to see you bout!" Misa said as she clung to his arm. Or was it Risa? He couldn't remember all their names. He spent more time being nice to them all than keeping them all straight. "Please, Qua-traaahh?"
"I can't," he said. "I'm supposed to be studying for an exam tomorrow. I shouldn't even be here."
"But you couldn't stay away?"
Quatre looked up to see Miki's sympathetic smile.
And smiled himself. "Yeah, I guess I couldn't." The girls moved away and began talking amongst each other, preferring to gab about the boys than listen in on their conversation. Quatre welcomed the change. But with the blue-haired boy's approach, he was reminded of the ring again, and it felt heavy on his finger. "It's something of an addiction, I guess. This reminds me of my old school. Every time I come I can't help looking for—"
He stopped. All of a sudden, it felt as though someone was watching him.
He turned and looked up above them at the balcony, sure that the feeling had come from that direction. His heart beat twice as fast. But the only one watching was the stone head of a lion protruding from one of the posts of the railing. For some odd reason, a wave of disappointment washed over him.
"What is it?" Miki asked. "Something wrong?"
Quatre shook his head. "It's nothing."
A sky-blue uniform draped over the back of a chair made him ask himself for the dozenth time that day: What am I doing here?
"Triton Bloom" said the card below the number on the door. He would have to get better at remembering that. Already he had forgotten a couple times, but it didn't seem anyone had noticed. They probably just thought he had poor hearing or daydreamed too much.
Sick of unpacking, he turned to the letters sitting on the nightstand. On top, a thick, unopened envelope that said "TROWA" in neat print on one side, and in a rushed scrawl on the back: "DO NOT OPEN till you get to your new place OR ELSE!" The "OR ELSE" had been crossed out with three straight lines, however, no doubt Wufei's work. Grinning at that, he sat down on the bed and opened the envelope to find two letters inside. The shortest was Wufei's, he guessed; he was a man of few, but always appropriate, words.
He picked up the longer one and unfolded the three pages, recognizing the neat, round handwriting as Duo's:
—
Hey Trowa! How's everything going in your new place? Settling in nicely? How are the other students? That bad huh?
But seriously, I know what it's like being in a strange school, being away from your friends and all (sniff-sniff). . . . We miss you, man! GET OUT OF THERE AS FAST AS YOU CAN!
OK, OK, I'll stop screwing around. I'm probably not helping any, seeing as you're the one at the new school.
Which is really the whole point of this letter. Wufei and I thought it might help ease the loneliness a little if we put together a care package of sorts for ya. You know, since we can't be there in person, maybe being able to hear from us like this might close the distance a little.
Thought I'd send along some old photos to keep you company too. Wouldn't want you to forget what we look like!
—
Trowa found said photos folded securely inside Wufei's note, and laughed when he saw the first one. God, they brought back memories. Scenes he thought he had forgotten suddenly came rushing back. A science class trip to the beach in fifth grade. Heero and Wufei trying to fill out their worksheets while Duo put a sea cucumber down the back of Relena's coat. He'd had to sit in the front of the bus with their instructor on the ride back, and received a harsher physical punishment from Dorothy, but it had been worth it.
Going out bowling during summer break. Or to the latest giant robot movies, the smell of stale popcorn and that feeling of anticipation he got in his gut listening to the pre-show music while Wufei acted like a walking behind-the-scenes documentary and film critic in one.
Lunch outside in spring quarter, seventh grade. Feeding Relena's dog bologna sandwiches when she wasn't looking. Heero standing with his first place ribbon at the St. Gabriels Annual Science Fair.
A year and two months ago, the school's spring ball, when his friends had surprised him: Those who had long claimed to hate social events searched out dates, while the one person who seemed to fit in the most had ended up sneaking out with him.
A snapshot of himself with Duo and Wufei and Duo's girlfriend Hilde having a great time. Trowa couldn't remember where it was taken, but looking at the carefree smiles on all the faces, he couldn't help smiling himself, feeling their warmth through the paper despite the pang of longing the memory caused. As he turned it over, he sighed. "So you don't forget what we look like."
How could I?
Then he frowned. A group photo of the members of the St. Gabriels fencing club. Heero was there, as well as Wufei, looking stoic as ever. As the captain, Nichol stood on one side, towering over the rest of them, glancing out of the corner of his eye at student body president Une on the other, who was only really there out of her presidential duties. He found himself in the center, those green eyes staring back at him like they belonged to someone else. Beside him on his left, Dorothy flashed her winning smirk. And on his right—
He scanned the other photos, but he found no other images of the towheaded boy standing beside him in the club photo.
Quatre. Just as Trowa remembered him. An eighth grader with a somewhat androgynous figure and a smile that could charm the most hardened heart, and you wouldn't be able to tell if it was sincere or sarcastic—nor care.
What am I doing here?
The answer was staring him in the face. Dredging up emotions that had begun to feel old and worn out, making them fresh again. Funny that he would travel halfway around the world and change everything he had been just to find an old friend. But then, Quatre wasn't just an old friend. Trowa's goal had been getting here. But now that the goal was achieved . . .
What next?
Setting aside his friends' letters, he picked up the rest of the stack. A letter of congratulations Nichol had sent him during his short break; it had his home address on it. Transfer information from his old school that he had thought might someday come in handy. Addresses scribbled on a piece of stationery. And on the bottom of the stack, the last note he had received from Ohtori before his arrival.
For some reason, Trowa felt a need to keep that letter a secret though there was no logical explanation for it. Even in the privacy of his dorm room he felt reluctant to look at it, in the off chance that another student would walk in and ask him questions. Questions he wanted to ask himself. No signature, and a vague scent of roses. It had been addressed to Triton Bloom, the name under which he had applied in the first place, after the name of his legal, and very wealthy, guardian; yet he had the strange feeling whoever had sent it knew full well it wasn't his real name, and didn't seem to mind.
Probably just paranoia, he had tried telling himself on several occasions. Oddly enough, the thought did not bother him now. But one thing did.
He tipped the envelope over, tapping the edge against his palm until the object within fell into his hand. It was a ring of white gold with an enamel or possibly cloisonné stylized rose with a small star in the center—the same stylized rose he had seen in the stained glass windows around campus. This school seemed to have an obsession with roses.
But so obsessed that they would give away rings to new students? The letter made no mention of it whatsoever—Trowa had read it over several times to make sure. Nor was he sure what the sender—or senders—wanted him to do with it, or seen anyone else wearing one so far. So he decided that, better than wearing it on his finger for all the world to see, he would keep it in the pocket of his uniform just to cover his bases.
Trowa sighed. Whatever it is—he told himself, setting the ring on the nightstand under the stack of letters—you're not going to do yourself any good worrying over it. It was his first night on campus; and nothing was going to change the fact that he had hundreds more ahead of him. It would do him best to clear his mind and try to get some sleep.