Castles to Sand
Chapter 2: Resurgence
Disclaimer: Still don't own Gundam.
Blessedly cold air immediately met the blonde's flushed cheeks. Head throbbing and body aching from stress, the CEO of WEI, Quatre Raberba Winner, stumbled into the bedroom, forgetting about the migraine pills he'd left to get in the first place.
If he'd known that he would have met up with a certain Trowa Barton, he never would have set foot outside the office. The blonde threw himself onto the bed, covering his face in a pillow so as to block the remaining light from his sensitive eyes. He could hear them rolling and straining in his head, squeaking as they moved in thought. It sent an itch up his spine that he hadn't been able to rid himself of since the night he had left the apartment with the full intention of never speaking to Trowa again.
Quatre rolled onto his side and exhaled so dramatically that it could have been mistaken for a sigh. Still, even though it released a bit of the stress tightening his chest, the fury burning cold in his chest refused to give an inch towards release. That form of betrayal was revolting, deplorable and having Trowa use Quatre's trust in him just to play a trick… His brows furrowed and he felt the force of the excess blood to the brain pumping faster. If he weren't careful, he'd seriously hurt himself, so he exhaled again and forced himself to relax.
Closing redlined blue eyes, Quatre felt himself slipping into memory, the silver strands of it lulling him into a sense of security. Images swept past his direct line of vision, blurring at the edges so that they were not quite decipherable, no matter how familiar they seemed. Two figures in the mid-afternoon light, looking over a lake, one to his right, one to his left, the feeling of sadness and completion flowing over him.
Another picture came into semi-focus, the cold interior of a Gundam pressing in around him, a passive indifference pouring over his mind before the panic overtook him and he could see the screen to his left fill with static and he was calling out, the tears he'd shed previously floating through the cockpit, mocking his hectic screaming.
The turntable of his brain shifted again and for the first time focussed, the reality of the past overtaking him into a dream.
Looking out the window, deep, anxious blue eyes watched the desert monsoon flood the street. He hoped that the taxi would be able to make it through the water. Biting his lip, he debated walking to the train station, but he knew full well that they'd not be running during this part of the season.
Three knocks on the hotel door drew his attention away from the open blinds and he worked around the suitcases on the ground to get to it. He was puzzled for a moment. It couldn't be the taxi, he hadn't seen the familiar blue-bodied vehicle pull up…He slid the door chain in and opened the door a crack. A smile immediately appeared on Quatre's face.
Outside the door, Trowa was looking up from his cell phone, no doubt checking the time to see if Quatre was still checked in. A faint grin spread across his lips, but there was a certain sadness in his gaze that Quatre hadn't noticed before… After saying his greeting, the blonde unfastened the chain and let in the taller man.
"Didn't pack last night?" Trowa asked smoothly, like he always did when Quatre went on a trip.
Quatre grinned and made his way back to the other side of the suitcases, pulling articles of clothing from the closet where he'd left them the night before. "I did," He replied traditionally, "but I changed my wardrobe at the last minute." Pulling one of the button-up shirts from off the hanger, Quatre began to fold them and place the shirts one by one into the suitcase designed for the purpose, but upon reaching the last article, he paused.
Slender fingers were running over the collar of the pink shirt, causing the blonde to look up and catch the distant look in Trowa's eyes before he smiled quietly once more, like he always did. "You still take it with you?"
The blonde nodded. "Yeah. I guess it's like a good luck charm for me." He picked up the hanger and looked at the pink and purple fabric, finally handing it over to Trowa. "Maybe you should keep it."
Trowa took the hanger and nodded quietly, laying the clothes on a chair in the corner. Turning again, Quatre could have sworn that Trowa was about to say something, but before he could ask, another knock came to the door and the blonde bit back a curse. (It was a bad habit that Duo had gotten him into when he had visited L2 the previous summer.) He slammed closed the suitcases and jumped over them to the door, almost slipping in his loafers, the soles holding no traction on the carpet. Fingers flying to put in the door chain, he opened it, hearing from the other side "Cab service," and he replied that he'd be right down.
Transferring the suitcases down to the cab didn't take long and pretty soon, Quatre found himself taking the last one in hand and turning to face the boy who had become a man, his best friend and companion in arms. "Well, I guess this is it. I'm off to New York."
Trowa nodded solemnly, vying not to verbally reply. Quatre sighed. "I'll call you up when I get there, okay. I should be arriving around five, so be expecting me." He stood there for a moment quietly, listening to the ceiling fan and basking in the friendship as he had so many times before, now to be the last for a long while. "The next time I'll see you will be at Relena's Christmas party, so I'll see you then." He turned, feeling home fade from him, the heat of welcoming draining from his back and he knew something was wrong before Trowa even called him back.
"Quatre, wait." Trowa pleaded in an outburst so much unlike him that it caused Quatre to turn. "I—You can't go."
Eyebrows furrowed in confusion, Quatre opened his mouth to ask why, but was cut off. "I love you."
Then there was the humming, the ceiling fan and that endless silence…Trowa pulled on the black blazer, paying no outward attention to the hideous shade of orange the chair seemed so fond of displaying. If he looked at it too long, he discovered, his eyes would begin to water and that was the last thing he needed. Before the retina-searing rust colour could grab at him, the silent man turned to the suitcase on the bed, opened it and pulled out a pair of rubber-soled dress shoes so as to provide traction if need be. After all, this party was a big social event for business-goers. Everyone was itching to get an eyeful of the US based Winner mansion. Trowa himself had heard stories, but Quatre had been too modest to go into detail.
Moving to shut the top of the suitcase, a shock of rose-colour caught his eye against the black wardrobe and Trowa slowly, as though handling a precious antique, pulled out the wrinkled pink shirt, the purple vest hanging limply around the wilted shoulders.
Stupefied, Trowa examined the fabric inch for inch. The cloth was smooth against his fingers, but beneath where the vest would have covered were various small stitches holding the bullet holes closed.
Quatre had once said that this shirt was lucky. It must've been damn lucky if it had saved him from so many bullets.
He decided to replace the shirt before he was overtaken by melancholy. Quatre had also said it would be a waste of time if he showed up to the party tonight… but he'd accepted a mission and that was never a waste of time. Trowa picked his key card and shoved it into the inside pocket of his jacket and started out the door. It would be a long walk to the mansion.
He found himself wandering the streets without really knowing why. He'd chosen his best suit, a royal blue with ebony buttons and dual back vents. His shoes clicked lightly on the pavement beneath his feet, the stench of the city rising into his nostrils as he headed mindlessly towards the towering mansion in the eastern district, looking towards Manhattan over the expanse of water separating the cities. Blue eyes sized up the ancient Romanesque pillars dispassionately and slowly ascended the steps. The guards greeted him with a smile and a nod, which he distantly returned without knowing the reason and passed through the great double doors into a foyer. One person took his jacket and another person offered a glass of champagne, which he accepted and made his way out of the enterance way towards the noise and bustle of people.
Before he even caught sight of the banquet hall, he was overcome by the wall of perfume smelling up the ladies until he very nearly gagged.
One of the women near the perimeter caught his eye and nodded away from the gaggling flock He graciously followed, drink in hand even though he hadn't bothered to take a sip.
The room was quieter in the small alcove the woman had chosen and he eased himself into one of the high-backed chairs, taking a look at the woman who had saved him from fainting. She examined him with glittering blue eyes, almost curious; her blonde hair fell over her shoulders in long, curled cascades. She leaned forward a moment, her low-cut green dress revealing her chest a bit more than necessary before sitting down across from him. She propped her head up on one hand with a conniving smile. "Quatre Raberba Winner," she began, finally drawing Quatre from his dream-like spell, "What are you doing out here with the guests? I heard that you were supposed to meet with your guards before coming out onto the floor."
Quatre blinked slowly. "Dorothy, are you trying to imply that I want to get myself into trouble?"
The woman smiled and looked up through her eyelashes. "That could be implied. Or perhaps I'm helping a friend." She stood up and glanced over her shoulder, obviously looking for someone. "You shouldn't be so hard on Trowa. He's done a lot for you and he doesn't deserve to have you worry him."
The blonde man leaned forward to stand and looked casually over Dorothy's shoulder to see whom she was trying to find. "I doubt he's worried about me, Dorothy. He's just…"
"Doing my job…" The smooth baritone finished from behind Quatre and the blonde man turned, upset that he'd let his guard down that far then gave a pleading glance to Dorothy, who winked and disappeared into the crowd. The blonde man turned to Trowa, but didn't meet those walled gold-flecked green eyes.
That's right. His image was more important than he was.
Trowa exhaled a breath that he hadn't realized that he'd been holding and Quatre noticed him turn away ever so slightly. The blonde could see that slight waver in his demeanour that reminded him of when they were fighting outside of the President's mansion, assigned to 50 serpents a piece. "Make this battle count," Trowa had said then, that waver of worry in his eyes the only sign of his instability, "This is our final battle." The reminiscent expression caused a wavering question to hang in his mind. Maybe Trowa had actually been worried.
Maybe Quatre's image wasn't as solid as he had always expected.
"What are you doing here?" Quatre attempted to demand, but his voice came out hardly more than a whisper. "I thought I told you that it would be a waste of your time."
The green-eyed man glanced to the shorter, sharply dressed man and thought a moment. "Do you want to die?"
Quatre's own voice sounded in his mind, demanding an answer from an audience who couldn't even hear. "You're afraid of dying… aren't you, guys?" He murmured to himself and straightened. His answer was obvious, but he would be forced to push aside his grudge and give up the battle. He'd never given up like this, nor had he previously planned to. In fact, if he applied the very same mental structure that he'd had when giving the previous statement, the answer would be that he'd not back down simply because Trowa was standing in his way and therefore was his enemy. Quatre shook his head at his own logic.
"No. I don't want to die, but what makes you think that I'm going to? I'm just as able as the rest of you to take care of myself." This, of course, wasn't true. He could see through his own lie in an instant. The rest of the pilots had been much more physically apt to succeed whereas Quatre himself had to stick to "desk work" rather than many battle situations. Duo and Heero on the other hand were like powerhouses, dragging Trowa into the fray.
Trowa rested a hand on the table and glanced around the room slowly, as though judging his words very carefully. He pursed his lips at the last moment, only replying afterwards. "Just before I left this morning to the shuttle port, I received news from Noin that a conversation had been picked up coming from one of the remote RN Tech warehouses to the main building here in New York." He caught the sight of one of the other guards near the entrance of the ballroom and nodded to him, giving a small motion that Quatre knew to mean "target found and acquired."
"I know." Quatre said quietly. "I knew that they would try something if I planned something." He slid back down into one of the seats, forcing himself to feel sure that his precautions would hold firm and the little jackass that had been trying to force the downfall of WEI would be caught. He'd driven one of his sisters out of New York and Quatre wasn't ready to let it happen to him. "I've put in extra cameras and identification sensors around the mansion. Anyone who doesn't have access in here won't make it through without being found."
After a few moments of silence, Quatre felt a bit of disease rise up in his stomach. He didn't even have to look at Trowa to know that it wasn't outsiders that he'd been worried about.
The feeling turned from an itch, to a scab in his mind and he picked at it diligently. Something had been going on inside that he'd refused to pay much mind to. A hand tightened around Quatre's chest and he lost his breath for a moment. "Where's the guard at the front?"
Upon hearing Trowa exhale and start moving, Quatre stood from the chair and moved out into the open, heading directly for the podium at the front of the room. As he mounted the stairs, the music stopped and the guests began to applaud, oblivious to the strain creasing Quatre's boyish face.
He felt like a President in an Opera House.
Holding up a hand to the audience to quiet them, he adjusted the microphone to give himself time to find Trowa, but he couldn't find him amidst the shuffling groups of people nearing the makeshift stage. He nearly cursed and Quatre made a point to be civil-tongued around guests. "Quiet down please." He asked when the clapping didn't die down. Forcing the best smile that he could, the blonde turned his attention to delaying the double agent's notice of the conspiracy.
All eyes were turned on Quatre, the tall lights at the ceiling turned to act as a spotlight on his face. He blinked into the lights, momentarily blinded by them. "I'm sorry that I've brought you all up here on such short notice," the audience chuckled a bit since the party had been planned months in advance, "but there has been an announcement that I have been needing to make for quite some time. I hope that you will forgive me for not revealing it sooner, but I think that you'll find it of too great importance to rush into."
"Mr. Winner," A voice called from the audience, one of the reporters that Quatre had invited for coverage, "Are the rumors true that you're going to plan your engagement tonight?"
There had been a rumour going around? Quatre was taken aback for a moment, but immediately regained his smile and laughed. "I can assure you that I'm not getting married any time soon and that the rumours of my engagement are completely false. This matter is about inside relations of WEI. It seems that with the current upheaval of the terrorists against our company we've been in a bit of disarray. A need to boost morale has been in great demand, but since we've been focussing on rebuilding, we've been rendered incapable of taking such actions into motion…"
Once Quatre had said the word, Trowa had rushed out of the ballroom in search of the missing guard. Hand on the gun inside his jacket, he rushed down the hallway, green eyes catching sight of a figure at the end of the hall, opening a door disguised as a wood-panelled cabinet. Trowa grit his teeth together, stoically following through the door and up the rusted metal ladder.
When he reached the opening at the top of the ladder, he had to collect himself, the lights were much dimmer than they had been in the ballroom and, looking over the top of the railing on the slim walkway, Trowa saw that it was the catwalk, lights glowing in multiple colours below him. The silhouette further down the catwalk propped up a sniper on the floor. Trowa's eyebrows narrowed. There was no way in hell that he was going to allow Quatre to die this way, not while he was there to keep him from the fate that they all had barely avoided only years before. It's better for him to hate me and live.
Do you want to die? And he'd stopped fighting.
Trowa approached the man and snapped his leg out in a kick, knocking the gun away from the man, who looked up at Trowa with shocked, angry eyes. The ex-pilot stared down stoically, a warning lingering in the night-darkened eyes.
He refused to deny Quatre his newfound love for life having now extended far beyond a mere respect of it.
The man cursed and retaliated in an uppercut, but Trowa ducked back, causing the assassin to stumble towards the railing, gripping at it before throwing himself back at Trowa with fervour. Trowa rolled away, pulling his gun out of the holster in a practised motion, turning it on the man with a warning on his lips, but the man paid no mind, lost in his own thirst for blood. Shocked, the younger man had no time to retreat, but blocked with his arms and supported himself with his feet as he dug them into the grating.
Standing and stumbling away, the assassin pulled out a short knife from the back of his pants and snapped it open, the serrated edges glinting maniacally at him. Trowa pushed himself off the ground, head landing firmly in the man's diaphragm and successfully knocking the wind out of him. He uppercut, sending he man's head to look upwards as he stumbled backwards, knife falling out of his hand to skid across the grated flooring. Trowa pulled back his arm, ready to strike the man in the face with his elbow, supported by the hand still equipped with the automatic, but with crazed eyes, the assassin threw his weight at Trowa in the form of a kick sending him flying through the rusted railing of the catwalk and drifting endlessly to the floor.
He stared up at the scruffy-faced assassin, flaming animalistic pits where eyes should have been. Trowa drifted endlessly towards the floor trapped in a momentary surreal suspension, multicoloured lights shining in his eyes and on his face casting a rainbow of emotions over him. Above these was the ringing thought, voices calling through the past to the beginning of this supposed reign of peace: You should stay "Trowa." It suits you.
Besides, now we have a place to go back to.
Trowa closed his eyes then, giving into the freefall, giving into the Endless Waltz.
"However, with much research we have discovered that in our midst tonight is one that we had thought to be one of our own, but means harm to each and every one of you. The truth is that the time for peace is superficial, no matter how much we want for it to be realiztic." A murmuring began in the crowd and Quatre could see Dorothy working her way to the front, an outworldishly worried look in her eyes. "There are still those out there who will move against all morals to reach their own selfish goals. WEI isn't a company who will support this, so I ask you all to please remain calm and evacuate to the basement by lead of the guards at the front—"
"Quatre!" Dorothy's voice called out frantically, causing shocked blue eyes to follow the silhouette falling from the catwalk. Voice catching in his throat, he watched the body hit the ground, a sick feeling converging over him in a massive wave so that he staggered around the podium.
People were formed in a circle around the form, but were quickly rushing out of the doors in a panic, shrill voices screaming above all the other ruckus of motion. Everything felt as though it was falling into itself, and he no longer cared. Quatre walked in a daze forward, his own breath and heartbeat drowning out all other sound, the internal white noise splashing onto the shores of his conscious mind and shattering the sensibility in him.
The waves parted suddenly, a figure rushing from the centre of the crowd at him and he stumbled backwards, caught off guard by the severe, emotional gold-flecked eyes. We meet again, old friend… But before he could make a move towards the figure, it jolted forward, mouth set in a grimace although the eyes shone with duty.
Then the second shot was fired and Quatre watched numbly as the second silhouette fell from the catwalk, but lay unmoving on the ground.
The sirens had been wailing for a long time, he knew, but it seemed that only now they bothered to do so loud enough to wake him. He blinked at the strange surroundings; distant green eyes took in the metal walls and shaking instruments within with confusion. He grunted and turned to where a scrub-clad doctor leaned over him holding an IV. Down at the foot of the gurney was a pale, strained faced blonde who looked ghostly, the only sign of life was the bright blue eyes set above the dark circles of skin.
When Quatre registered Trowa's questioning green eyes, he nearly leapt from his kneeling position, but soon enough found there to be too little room for that as he would just as soon hit his head on the swinging instruments. Trowa smiled from under the oxygen mask for the first time in a year and Quatre couldn't help but smile back and squeeze Trowa's foot comfortingly from outside the shoe.
This was bound to be the beginning of a very long journey and self-discovery was not something that Quatre took lightly.
