Author's note: This chapter contains a mixture of third-person and first-person (Trowa) POV.


Long tawny bangs fell down over the young man's downcast eyes toward joyless lips. Long lashes threw shadows on his high cheekbones. And when he looked up and met Quatre's eyes through the mesh of Quatre's mask, there could be no question as to his identity. "Trowa."

"I told you," the other said, his voice flat and emotionless, "call me Triton Bloom."

Quatre's vision swam for a moment as the blood pounded violently in his veins. "'Triton Bloom'?" he found himself all but yelling. He heard his own voice tinged with anger barely restrained. A million questions ran through his mind. He yanked off his own mask. "What are you talking about? Trowa, what are you doing here!"

"I've finally beaten you," was the other's response.

But what does that have to do with anything? Quatre thought. What was he supposed to say? Trowa gave him no clue. He simply stared at Quatre with those mournful olive green eyes, the one partly hidden beneath his hair. Lips pulled into a straight line with only the hint of a great tension loosening from them.

Now Quatre heard the muttering around them. The other fencers had stopped their duels and were staring at the showdown of silent stares between the two young men, shocked by Quatre's uncharacteristic outburst, noting the lack of resolution in the bout. The girls who had come to watch began to talk, whispering loudly to one another. Quatre could guess what about. It was staring him in the face.

Then Trowa turned, eyes downcast.

"Wait!" Quatre yelled, moving to follow him—feeling as though he had failed somehow, again—but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"Incredible," Juri said, breathless. Her hand shook on his arm, giving her away where her restrained smile did not. "You know that boy?" she asked Quatre, her eyes staring past him.

"Yeah." Quatre turned again, looking for Trowa. But he had disappeared into the crowd.

Shrugging the captain off, a wave of desperation rising in him, Quatre headed toward the doors. The onlookers parted easily for him, watching him go.

Trowa couldn't have just vanished, Quatre thought, though he felt nagged by the self-doubt of one who thinks he has just seen a ghost. It was like a dream—like a nightmare which defies any attempt you make to apply logic.

Or where the thing you want is constantly moved just out of reach, and if you look right at it, it's swallowed up by the darkness completely. It didn't seem real. If not for the others who had been staring in their direction all the while, watching them duel, or for Juri's comment, Quatre might have thought he had imagined the whole thing.

In his carelessness, he collided with Dorothy as she was rounding the corner of the gym.

"Quatre!" She grabbed hold of him to keep them both on their feet. "You'll never guess who I ran into today! I'll give you a hint: He used to be in our old school's fencing club. I was going to bring him by to show you this afternoon, but I lost him after class—"

"Did you see him? Just now?" Quatre asked her, trying to see over her shoulder.

But she seemed oblivious to his efforts. "Who? Triton?"

"Dorothy," he sighed, closing his eyes in resignation.

"What?" she said. "Did I miss something?" And Quatre hadn't the heart to tell her just how right she was.



Victory looked certain this time. Foils clinked and sneakers squeaked on the hardwood floor in fierce rhythm. He had Quatre on the defensive, pushing him back towards the warning line.

They were even now: One touch would do it. And Quatre was only parrying.

But Trowa's suspicions were raised. He was being toyed with, an instinctual part of his mind warned him. Quatre was taking him for a ride, hoping Trowa in turn would perhaps walk onto his blade. Trowa watched his friend's moves more closely, but the doubt was already building up. When Quatre finally decided to riposte, going for the outside line, Trowa was ready to block it. He moved to parry—

And felt the tip of the foil in his ribs.

Game over.


Quatre always got what he wanted.

He wasn't a Winner for nothing. Every time we entered a bout together, I lost. And as much time as I spent trying to figure out what I had done wrong, I inevitably returned to the same conclusion:

He was simply better than me.

I envied him for it.

But I admired him for it as well. It was a comfort to me—an immutable constant in a life I found unstable in comparison. I'm sure it never started out that way, but it became so our friendship seemed dependent on this predictability—this trust that through everything we would remain exactly the same, our respective strengths and weaknesses intact. I remember worrying that perhaps if I won, he would stop liking me. But it was pointless to worry: That never happened. For all that I was frustrated by my own shortcomings in that one arena in which I felt we were most equal, most at liberty to show our feelings through the channel of swordplay, I had to admit the truth:

I liked it when he beat me.


A single pair of hands rang out a round of applause in the quiet gym, causing the two to straighten and pull apart. "I guess you win again," Trowa said as he reached up to undo his mask.

No handshake was necessary between them. "You almost had me. I thought you'd know better by now." Quatre chuckled, mask coming to a rest on his hip. Those were grave words to be tossed about with such carelessness. They were true, however, and whether because of or despite that fact, Trowa felt a wave of resentment rise up in him.

But only for a moment. Quatre shrugged, smiled, and all was well again. "Well, c'est la guerre."

"Well played," said the club's captain as he approached them—Nichol, a tall, athletic senior with dark, curly hair and a dark look to match. It was from him that Trowa resolved to bury his injury. Their captain had a way of looking at him like he could read Trowa's thoughts, his insecurities. The harshest criticism he reserved just for Trowa, always blunt and precise, knowing just what to say to provoke his sense of shame. And spur him on to try harder.

That was the last thing Trowa wanted now, another pang to add to this undesired smart he felt over his defeat. "Okay, let's pack it up," Nichol said, "so we can get out of here."

Then: "A word, Barton?"

Of course, Trowa thought, what made him think he would escape this time—especially after being defeated by the same old feint? Quatre left him to pack his equipment, and Nichol waited until he was out of earshot to tell Trowa, "I really thought you had it this time. I'm beginning to think you want to lose to him."

Trowa was saved from having to respond by the gym door opening with a sharp creak. Heels clicked on the wood floor, signaling the presence of student body president Une. Nichol snapped to attention immediately, forgetting Trowa was even there. "Afternoon, President Une."

The president smiled. "Afternoon, Captain Nichol. Feels like evening, though, doesn't it?" She was trying to be amiable, but the walls she put up around herself only made her seem awkward.

"Uh, yeah, I guess it does." Nichol was no different, sadly. "Can I do something for you?"

"Actually, I came to discuss the club's schedule for next month."

"Sure."

"You wanted a word?" Trowa interrupted, and, as he had hoped, Nichol waved him away with a distracted: "Next time."

Trowa smiled to himself as he joined Quatre at the bench. The look that passed between them—a knowing grin, a warm sideways glance (he couldn't be sure if it was about their two upperclassmen, but he hoped not)—pushed the sting of defeat from his mind as it always did. Quatre cleared his throat as he reached for his sweater and their shoulders brushed as casually as though by accident, to reassure Trowa his defeat was nothing personal. At the same time, the effect of that minute touch was like a draught of wine, a hot pad on aching muscles, making his skin tingle, his mind drowsy—

Did Quatre know the effect he had? No doubt he did. And yet sometimes Trowa did doubt it.

They left without saying a word to each other, their only utterance when Quatre waved over his shoulder to Nichol: "See you Monday, Cap'n."

Outside, the sky was dark although it was only four, but the rain had stopped momentarily. The smell of it permeated everything—the concrete walkway, the fallen leaves whose mildew scent had begun to fade with the showers. Everything except Quatre, who smelled like fabric softener as he closed the distance between them, and asked, as he was wont to do whenever he invited himself over: "You doing anything tonight?"


"Today we will be looking at the staked echinoderms: crinoids, cystoids and blastoids." There was sporadic laughter over the last name, mostly over the particular relish the professor paid to it. "They were most common during the Paleozoic and only the crinoids have survived to present. Unlike other echinoderms, they had an anchor system and a stem attaching the calyx, where all the internal organs were located, to the sea floor. I want you to pay particular attention to the shape and plates of the calyx when you look at the specimens under the microscope because that's how we tell the types apart. And, yes, Mr. Maxwell, this will be on the test."

There was a rustling among the students as they prepared to divide into groups, already picking out their lab partners from across the room. Dr. S had to raise his voice: "Before that, however, I'll be passing back your tests." And he walked down the aisles as he called their names.

He delivered Quatre's, and immediately Trowa heard a murmur of feminine voices as they congratulated him on his A-. Then there was silence again as the professor announced: "Mr. Barton! Congratulations. Perfect score."

Duo was next, and with a glance at his own paper he groaned. "I hate you," he joked, leaning towards Trowa with a lopsided grin. He looked over at Quatre, who turned, however briefly, in his seat to whisper his congratulations to Trowa as Heero's perfect score was also announced.

Trowa ended up partnered with Duo and Hilde for the assignment, as usual, which certainly made the class period more interesting. Those two spent most of the time debating the most inane things, cajoling their neighbors Heero and Wufei to weigh in on the finer points, only bending over their worksheets whenever Dr. S made the rounds past their station. "I kind of like clowns, actually," Hilde said at one point, with perfect straight-faced conviction, as she adjusted the microscope. "Seriously. I think they're hot."

From across the station, Heero stopped what he was doing and stared at her, and seeing the look of horror on his face Trowa burst into laughter. Trying to hide it from the professor, his body shook silently, and Duo couldn't help joining him, asking, "Dude, are you okay?" It wasn't often anyone got a laugh out of Trowa Barton, and when someone did, it was almost always Heero and for something no one else seemed to find the humor in.

Clearing his throat, Trowa calmed down, though his smile stubbornly refused to go away as he bent his head to work on his specimen drawing. He glanced up and his gaze locked with Quatre's, who was watching him from across the room. He smiled in amusement—a look which made Trowa's heart pause in his chest—and for a moment, for just one split second, it seemed as though no one else existed in Quatre's world. For a moment, it seemed that Quatre had entirely forgotten about his lab partners, two cute girls who happened to be lucky enough to win him that day.

They wouldn't let him ignore them for long, however, as they pulled on his sleeve and asked him if he was listening, or what was the answer to question six. And he had no choice but to turn back, joining in their pointless chatter and enduring their fussiness and promiscuous giggling. Such was the responsibility that came with being the most desired boy in the eighth grade.


I often wondered why he was with me. I don't mean as a friend. That was merely a product of our parents' acquaintance.

I'm not sure how it ever changed into something more. Perhaps it was the first time he kissed me and I realized it just felt right and natural to want him that way—some time in the distant, hazy past. Looking back, it felt as though it had been that way forever between us. And yet it was also so fragile, what we had. I wonder if we knew that then, or if we just fooled ourselves into believing it would last.

I didn't deserve his affection, I was always being reminded. All I had to do was look around. He could have had anyone in the school. Girls flocked to him like butterflies to the most perfect flower—girls who had everything: wealth and status, charm, beauty, an endless flow of enthusiasm. They sent him letters, confessions of undying devotion, and expensive presents, asked him for help in class even when they knew the answers just to have his undivided attention for a few precious seconds—all the silly little things girls do when they think they're in love.

Not that Quatre minded. He encouraged them, whether he knew it or not, because he had a certain savoir faire that drove them wild.

Couldn't he see how it tortured me? Would it have killed him to tell them the truth?

But that's part of the problem. You can't really believe everything someone says, no matter how well you think you know him.

I wanted him to know just how much it was killing me to see him with his admirers. No—to see him enjoying being with them. I don't think I quite explained it well enough, though. He didn't enjoy it, he said. He was just as tortured as I was. But how could I believe it with the evidence so clearly stacked against him? "I was only being polite." Of course he was. He didn't know any other way to be—with anyone other than me.

Except for a clandestine look or a kind word here and there, he would act as though I didn't exist.

Until classes were over and we could be alone somewhere.

It bothered him to think someone might find out about us. For some reason, our relationship got folded into his much larger fear of being wrong. He didn't seem to understand that what I resented the most, what hurt me the most, was that fear. In those moments we had to ourselves alone, he not only denied it outright, he had to prove it didn't exist. He'd brush against me so innocently, murmur something about studying for our Latin exam outside together (it was such a perfect day). And I . . .

All I heard was an invitation I couldn't refuse.

. . . If someone let me go on kissing . . .

The next thing I would know, I'd be laid out flat on my back on a grassy hill where no one else ever came, helpless.

Like clockwork.


The scent of grass filled Trowa's nostrils, green and organic. Over it, faint and elusive, something infinitely sweeter. He buried his face in the thick fabric that covered Quatre's shoulder, searching for that something again as his fingers searched out the last button of Quatre's uniform jacket.

"Mellitos oculos tuos—" were the words mumbled reverently toward the blue sky. "Siquis me sinat usque basiare—" Trowa felt the vibration under his lips. "Usque ad milia basiem trecenta, nec numquam uidear satur futurus—"

"Enough of that," Trowa whispered. Pleaded. Demanded. "Can't you say anything original?" He laid the jacket open, found the buttons of Quatre's shirt underneath.

"What do you want me to say?" Quatre stretched lazily, stalling.

Trowa brushed lips over his shoulder in quiet exasperation. "You know."

The fingers tangled in his hair went still for half a second. He recognized the hesitation. How long it seemed before Quatre finally gave in and obliged him. "I love you."

Trowa pulled Quatre's shirt out of his trousers. "And only me." His hand slid beneath the starched cotton, feeling Quatre shiver against him as Trowa's fingers played with his navel, moving upwards and taking the shirt with them. The worn paperback fluttered on the grass, discarded.

"Of course," Quatre breathed. "Always."

Trowa looped an arm around his bare waist, pulling them together, and kissed Quatre's ear, his lower lip. The fingers crawling spider-like toward his fly lulled him into forgetfulness.


He would have done anything I asked him to at times like those.

Idiot.

He'd sit there coyly, tuning his violin—by ear, his eyes closed. A peaceful smile on his lips as he made it moan under those skilled fingers of his. Whispering lyrics that had long ago lost their music in my ear, like the holy words that impregnated the Virgin Mary, penetrating my soul. . . .

Sometimes I had to wonder what he said when he was in the confession booth. If he was really paying attention to mass when he let his hand sit nonchalantly on the pew, touching my thigh. Or if he guarded those secrets, too, behind the same impenetrable, charming smile.

I couldn't stop needing him. I thought I was in control, an independent person, but then so says everyone who was once addicted.

No. No past tense. I am addicted. He knew it and he fed it. Not entirely aware he was doing it, I'm sure.

And I hated him for it.


"He hates me."

"He doesn't hate you—"

"Yes, he does." Trowa let out a troubled sigh. The shadow of rain running down the dorm room window painted his face with the ghost of tears he would never shed. "You don't know him. He resents me. He blames me for what happened between him and my mother."

Quatre's eyes were suddenly wide with concern at a conclusion hastily made. "He doesn't—?"

"Of course not. He would never lay a finger on someone else's child. And I only have to see him during break. Still. . . ." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I hate that place. That house. I wish I could come live with you instead."

Of course, Trowa already knew the answer to that, and the hush of the wet wind outside the window only seemed to confirm it.

"What if I'm really his son?"

The thought came so suddenly Quatre was at a loss. "What makes you say that?"

The shock on his face, just shy of disgust, wasn't expected. Was it really that horrible to be a Bloom? Trowa lowered his eyes. "I don't know. Me and Cathrine, we . . . Look, just forget I ever mentioned it, okay?"

"But—"

In a second, Trowa's lips covered his. At first just to silence Quatre, to make him drop the subject, but it quickly changed to greed. Trowa stroked Quatre's cheek with one hand, tracing the line of his jaw until his hand came to rest on the back of Quatre's neck. The quiet gasp Quatre made as Trowa slid his tongue into his mouth encouraged him, pulled him in. But when Trowa tried to ease him back on the bed, Quatre started and pushed away.

"This isn't right," he said softly, his words absorbed by the dark room. "Not when you're feeling—"

"Like shit?"

"I should probably go."

"Probably," Trowa agreed.

But Quatre just sat still.

"You're not leaving."

"I guess not."


The year my mother died, and I went to live with Cathrine and my mother's first husband, Quatre was there for me. Just as he had been when I lost my father, when we were both too young to truly understand what death was. When I felt numb and hollow inside, I held him as he cried for me. I needed him so much then. More than I ever had before. More than I ever thought I would again.

But each passing month proved me wrong.


Sheets sticking to their naked skin, Trowa watched him through heavy-lidded eyes. The echoes of Quatre's warm, ragged breaths next to his ear keeping time with the memory of their rocking, still moving him, like the ground after an earthquake, or a day on the water.

Quatre opened his eyes, and that familiar stab of resentment returned. "You're not asleep."

Quatre smiled lazily. "Neither are you."

"I want to make sure you don't disappear on me." Normally Trowa would have kept that thought to himself, but the dark had a way of coaxing it out of him.

The words were all it could coax from him, however. There was no way for Quatre to know what he felt inside just by hearing them. He couldn't see the weight they carried in Trowa's mind. Couldn't feel the pain just the thought of the inevitable return to the normal, everyday routine caused him.

Yet Quatre had the audacity to make promises.

"I'm not going anywhere."


Naturally, just when I needed him most, he did.


"Finally found you. Trowa Barton."

He turned away from the priceless works of art to see Quatre in his most dashing suit, smiling his bright, gentle smile for Trowa alone. His voice, the way he said Trowa's name, his jovial manner, echoed in Trowa's mind as he searched for some adequate reply. "The headmaster has interesting taste in art, doesn't he?"

Quatre laughed. "Yeah, 'interesting' is a good word for it. I hope he didn't pay too much." He glanced up at the painting that hung on the wall between them, some Impressionist scene of nude women bathing in a pond composed practically of slabs of paint, that reeked of slabs of paint. That didn't seem to be the cause of his amusement, however. "So. Where's your date? She must be getting lonely."

The question came out in a rather biting tone, and Trowa matched it. "I don't have one." Quatre raised an eyebrow. "Where's yours?"

Startled, Quatre looked wildly about himself. But he couldn't help his grin as he replied: "I guess I don't have one either. Whatever am I going to do?" His grin transformed into something lopsided and wicked.

No doubt he had received plenty of offers. That thought should have made Trowa feel honored, yet he said: "I thought this kind of thing was right up your alley—"

Laughter from the ballroom, sounding so close to his back, startled him.

But those voices soon died away, and even the music seemed dim in the secluded hallway where the two found themselves. "How do you mean?" Quatre asked.

"You know. Hors d'oeuvres. Waltzing. Ass-kissing. Whatever it is you people do."

Quatre snorted in irritation. "'You people'?"

"Aristocrats."

"Ah," said Quatre. "I see. And here I was under the impression the Spring Ball was just an excuse for the students to have some fun. Then again, why would Trowa Barton know anything about having fun?"

That cut deep, but Quatre allowed him no time to lick his wound.

"I, for one, am bored out of my mind. I would have just stayed at home if it were up to me, and I didn't feel pressured to show up—keep up appearances and all." With a sigh, he leaned back against a decorative table. His stance craved sympathy, but whether he was only being melodramatic Trowa could never tell.

One thing he did know, he didn't want to stay at the ball any longer than he had to, either.

He grabbed Quatre's wrist. Startled—and vaguely self-conscious; Trowa never touched him in public—the other gasped, and Trowa asked him quietly: "What if something urgent came up? They couldn't protest your absence then, could they?"

Quatre grinned. "I thought you'd never ask."

They split up and sneaked out different doors, looking for gaps in the crowds, making their respective excuses to anyone who got in their way, waiting until the girls' backs were turned and the chaperones had moved on before they made their final break. Their hearts were racing with the thrill of imagined danger, the possibility of someone noticing their escape and putting two and two together, and confident no one would. When at last they were reunited, and the cool spring air hit them, they allowed themselves a shared laugh, returning to the closeness they had enjoyed since childhood that even Heero, mutual confidante though he was, never got to see.

They walked aimlessly around the abandoned grounds, the gibbous moon providing all the light they needed as they spoke of inconsequential things. Not that they needed words. The sound of their footsteps falling next to each other was enough during those stretches when they ran out of things to say, and walked with hands in pockets, side by side.

The rhododendrons and azaleas were just beginning to bloom in the South Garden, along with the first Easter lilies, glowing like bones in the moonlight. Their bulbs had been forced to meet the holiday schedule. Quatre plucked off two of the blossoms and put them in their lapel holes, pitching the carnations that had been there into the bushes. The heady, almost too-sweet scent of the lilies made Trowa's head swim as Quatre pulled him down onto the soft lawn behind the rhodies; but any worry he might have had about soiling the suit his guardian had paid for instantly vanished when Quatre kissed him. He must have been waiting on pins and needles all night for an opportunity to do just that.

Some time later, having grown tired of kisses, Quatre lay looking up at the night sky, and Trowa, more concerned with earthly bodies, propped himself up on one elbow over his friend. He couldn't help admiring Quatre Winner as no one else got to see him, disheveled and suit slightly creased—his silk tie looking a little stretched from Trowa's sloppy and ultimately futile efforts to untie it. The lily on his lapel was already a bit squashed. But Quatre didn't care. Its nectar would probably stain his designer suit, but it was like him to welcome it. That was his way of rebelling: just enough to make something real, but not enough to make it look serious.

"Bloom's going to kill me," Trowa murmured as he ran a finger over the sticky, broken petals, thinking of the one he was crushing between them, and the slightly damp grass.

"I'll buy you another suit just like that," said Quatre. His long fingers playing with Trowa's hair was hypnotizing. "I'm pretty sure I know your measurements. I'll just tell Father it's for me. That way neither one will ask any questions." His logic was firm, when it came to covering their tracks. His answer was a smile, and Quatre acknowledged it with one of his own as his gaze briefly went back to Trowa.

And . . . awkwardly. That was unexpected. "What?"

"Nothing. Just . . . I guess you could consider it a present."

And since when did Quatre ever feel the need to give him gifts?

"Trowa," he said with sudden uncertainty, "I think you ought to know. I'm transferring to another school. Starting as soon as the year at St. Gabriels ends. I'm . . . I'm not sure how long I'll be gone."

Trowa sat up like he had been stung. "What? When did this happen?"

"I've known since January—"

"January?"

Feeling vulnerable under his friend's scrutinizing glare, Quatre pulled himself up. Sitting, he could bow his head and didn't have to meet Trowa's eyes, but Trowa knew him well enough to know what he would have found in Quatre's. Guilt, and too little repentance.

"I—I didn't know how to tell you," Quatre muttered. "I knew how you'd take it if you heard I was leaving, so I kept putting it off."

"And when did you plan on telling me?" Trowa demanded to know. "The day you left?"

"Of course not," Quatre hissed. His brow furrowed as he pretended to study a blade of grass that clung to his knee. "Look, I know I was wrong to wait so long, but I only did it because I didn't want to hurt you. I knew you'd react this way. I guess I felt, irrationally, that maybe if I didn't say anything, then . . ." He sighed in frustration. "I don't know."

"That you could just run away?"

"When you put it like that, it sounds so cold-hearted."

"And that's it?" Trowa said. "The decision's final? There's nothing you can do about it?"

"You don't understand. It's one of the best prep schools in the world. It's not easy to get into—"

"You don't have to go." Quatre shook his head, but Trowa continued, "You've been here all your life, you can't be expected to just pack up and leave it all, just like that. Tell him you don't want to go—"

"'Him'?" But Quatre figured it out soon enough. He laughed then, startling Trowa. But it was nothing to joke about. "You think my father put me up to this, don't you?" Quatre said gently, sadly. Amused. "It was my idea. When I heard about everything Ohtori had to offer, and that there were exchange opportunities—"

"Ohtori."

"It's one of the most exclusive schools around. I had to try. To see if I could make it. And then to be accepted, Trowa—I can't just—"

"Yeah." It was Trowa's turn to look away. "You told me already. It's not easy to get into."

"Relena and Dorothy are going too," Quatre said. "And Heero."

Trowa couldn't say he was surprised. When a knife has made a mortal cut, what difference does it make if it's poisoned?

"I know this is all sudden, and that's my fault. I should have told you when I was thinking of applying."

"But then I might have tried to follow you. Clearly you didn't want to chance that."

Quatre bit his lip, but he would neither confirm or deny it. He didn't need to. "It's too late to do anything about it now. I'm going, and the least you could do is try to be happy for me."

"Why?" Trowa asked him. He felt a smile tug at his lips despite what he was feeling inside. Or perhaps, not despite it. A cruel smile to match the wrong that had been done him. "You just want to leave me so you can get a better foot in the door."

Quatre winced. "Don't say it like that."

"I'm sorry. How should I say it?"

Trowa waited, knowing the proper response to a statement like that was rebuttal, whether it was true or not. Some verbal reassurance to allow him room to believe, room to hope. That all this had meant something. That it hadn't been for naught, and he hadn't been just some toy Quatre could put aside when he grew out of it. Quatre knew all too well how important it was to Trowa, to know that this time, he was wrong.

But this time, Quatre did not oblige.

"It's not like it's forever," he snapped. His patience, like a threadbare cloth just before it finally develops a hole, was showing its wear. There was so much more just waiting to break through. Yet Quatre stubbornly refused to say anything more.

Sometime later, having grown tired of the silence, they went back to their separate dorms.



He wasn't sure where he was anymore. He must have been too lost in thought, in the past, not paying attention to the roads in front of him, and taken a wrong turn on the way back to his dorm building. The scenery looked unfamiliar in the late afternoon sunlight, alien.

There was a low wall that went past these dorms, and Trowa sat down against its sun-warmed face to compose his thoughts. Despite the weather, he felt a chill even in his fencing gear. He pulled his knees up to his chest, resolving to wait a few minutes before trying to find his way back again.

That sinking feeling one sometimes gets of not fitting properly, like a square peg in a round hole—or perhaps, that strong push of resistance that comes just before resignation—was beginning to seep back into him when he heard a new voice.

"It hasn't gotten any easier, has it?"

Trowa looked up. Bending down over him was a dark young woman with a small tender smile, peering at him through glasses with large, sympathetic green eyes. Her voice had a siren-like quality, her posture somehow both seductive and innocent at the same time—and yet neither. Strange how she looked at him—rather, through him—like she knew him so well, like they were connected somehow, yet he had never met nor seen her before. No. "Strange" wasn't a strong enough word.

"Excuse me?" he said.

"I said, it hasn't gotten any easier," she repeated in that silky voice, "has it? Finding your way around?"

He smiled, relieved. "I wasn't paying close enough attention to my surroundings, I guess."

"That happens to me sometimes. And I've been here a lot longer. You'd think I'd know better by now." Tittering at a private joke, she leaned against the wall beside him, imitating his mood as best she could. "My mind just goes chasing off after something and before I know it, I've completely passed where I wanted to be. Sounds crazy, doesn't it?"

To her surprise and his, he chuckled. It must have seemed unusual even to a stranger, because at her quizzical look he explained: "If it is, I must be crazy too. I do that all the time."

She smiled again, and he was reminded strongly of Cathrine. "We're two peas in a pod, then, aren't we? Mr., um . . ."

"Triton Bloom."

"What an interesting name!" she said, her face brightening even more. "It has a hopeful ring to it. Triton Bloom. Like something about to unfold. Do you need help with directions?"

"No," he lied. "I should be fine now, but thanks for offering."

"Of course." Then she begged his pardon with the tilt of her head. "Well. I hope you find what you're looking for, Mr. Bloom."


Chapter notes: A calyx is the part of the echinoderm's body that holds the organs, but it is also the outermost protective leaves of a flower. The name "Utena" means flower calyx.

Catullus #48: "Mellitos oculos tuos . . ." This is part of a series of poems about counting kisses and secret love affairs, this one with a homoerotic twist (if you take it as being in the author's voice). It was believed that if a jealous someone knew something concrete about you, such as the exact number of kisses, he could place a curse on you. Guy Lee translates it as such in the Oxford World's Classics edition:

Your honeyed eyes, Juventius,
If someone let me go on kissing,
I'd kiss three hundred thousand times
Nor never think I'd had enough,
Not if our osculation's crop
Were closer-packed than dried corn-ears.