This was a disaster. Three hours of sleep and a speech to give in the colony this morning, and the last thing Quatre needed plaguing his mind was the front page of a tabloid suggesting he and Trowa were in bed together.
"It's a figure of speech." Trowa sighed like he couldn't believe he was even having this conversation, let alone at this hour. "What did you think they were going to say about a couple of ex-gundam pilots working together again?"
It was a good thing they were talking by phone, because with this little sleep, Quatre could have throttled Trowa if he'd been in the same room. "Thank you, but I figured that much out on my own. But the idea they plant in the reader's head—"
"What, that we're scheming together to bring back mobile suits? We more or less are."
"Did you even see the photo on the front page?"
Trowa squinted at his own screen as Quatre held up the paper. He shrugged. "So we look chummy."
"We look more than chummy." Caught in a laugh and rosy-cheeked, standing too close, much too close for two people who were supposed to be just friends, what they looked like was less a couple of conspirators and more a pair of newlyweds off in their own world. So what if they'd only been joking about a spot on Trowa's white jacket? It hadn't shown up in pictures after all, so how could they claim that was the reason for the bashful expression on his face? Who wouldn't read that headline and see that photo and jump to the obvious conclusion?
And how could Quatre honestly deny that, at the moment the picture was taken, nothing in the world had existed for him except Trowa's smile, his rare laughter?
Quatre groaned. He rubbed his fingers over his temples, hiding his face behind his hands. "I can't wait to see what the pundits are going to extrapolate from this. God, Trowa—what is Dorothy going to think when she sees it? Is she listening right now?"
"Calm down, Quatre. No, she's not listening. She's in the shower."
Trowa glanced briefly over his shoulder anyway, just to make sure. It only served as yet another reminder Quatre could have done without that he and Dorothy were officially a couple. Sharing hotel rooms, sharing hotel beds and showers. Probably still awake celebrating their success at four in the morning while Quatre was passed out cold from exhaustion.
And here he was getting worked up over a picture in a newspaper. That reminder was just what Quatre needed to shame him back to reason. Soon enough the Earth Sphere would know about Trowa and Dorothy's union, if they didn't suspect something along those lines already, and when that bombshell hit the press no one would care much to examine Quatre's past history with either one of them. At least, so he hoped.
He glanced at the television news, turned to mute when he made this call to Trowa. Colony News Network had been giving their run-down of the previous night's events at regular intervals all morning, but so far no mention of the damning tabloid photograph. Maybe Quatre was making a mountain out of mole hill on this one.
As if reading his thoughts:
"Look. It's just a photograph," Trowa said. "You and I know what happened. Is this really something you should be getting worked up about, Quatre? Don't you have that fundraiser later this morning—"
"It's more of an 'awareness rally,' really."
"Alright, awareness rally. Whatever. In any event, I really don't think paranoid is the image you want to present to your audience. Are you worried people are going to see this photo and jump to conclusions about the two of us being in cahoots? Or." Trowa narrowed his eyes. "Is this even about the photograph at all?"
It wasn't Quatre's intent to hesitate. But he did. That gave Trowa all the answer he needed.
What little patience he had managed to muster for Quatre this early in the morning evaporated. "I thought we were past this. I thought my showing up here with Dorothy, and your being okay with it, meant this nonsense was over and done—"
"When did I ever say I was okay with it?"
"Then you aren't?" That was news to Trowa, though Quatre didn't know why it should have been. But his old friend shook his head. "God, Quatre, you have horrible timing. You could have— No. No, you had your chance, and you blew it. I'm not going to discuss this with you while we both have campaigns to run here."
"Which is exactly why you shouldn't be so unconcerned with what the press will say about this! Are you prepared for the kind of wild speculation they'll make about your character and your past because of something as minor as that picture? Because they will. That's what the press does, and you have no idea what it's like to be their target. You run around safely behind all your different personas, or Dorothy's little bubble of protection, and you have no idea what it is to actually try and be someone, Trowa! Living under a microscope, forced to justify the most minute decisions you make to people who don't even want to try to understand—"
"I'm ready enough. I welcome criticism, if it's legitimate. But I also know enough not to let some petty rumors about my private life get in the way of realizing my goals."
Unlike one of us, Quatre heard beneath his words. "Well, that's why you're an engineer and not a politician, like you said. If you'd been born a Winner, maybe you'd have a different perspective of the whole thing."
As soon as the words were out of Quatre's mouth, he wanted to snatch them back. After all they'd been through as teenagers, he should know better than to revert to the behavior of a spoiled child. As if he had learned nothing from that night so many years ago, after he swore he would never make the same mistake again. He had no right to speak to Trowa, of all people, that way.
He could see it on Trowa's face as well, that he was thinking the same thing. A subtle tightening in his jaw, a silent hurt in his eyes. He was going to hang up on Quatre, and Quatre wouldn't be able to say he blamed him.
"Wait," he said before the connection could be cut. "That wasn't what I meant to say." He winced at himself. Even that didn't come out the way he wanted. Why was it so hard for him after all this time to just say he was sorry? "Can we— Is there a chance we could talk this over somewhere? In person, not over the phone."
It looked like Trowa was having a hard time not just responding in the negative outright, but he forced himself to say: "What were you thinking?"
"Dinner. Tonight. Somewhere we can actually talk, without having to worry about our words being taken out of context."
Trowa sighed. The amount of time it was taking him to respond, Quatre was certain he had already blown it. Again.
"Fine," Trowa said after a moment. "I'll talk to Dorothy, see if we can get a reservation for the three of us—"
"No Dorothy. This doesn't concern her, Trowa. It needs to be just the two of us. I need it to be just the two of us."
The conversation they needed to have would be hard enough without adding Dorothy to the mix. As much as Quatre respected her as a colleague, as much as he considered her a good friend, he was having a hard time not casting her as the villain in this dialogue. She did nearly kill him once, after all. What Quatre feared most was that her presence there would only make old tensions worse, and increase his chances of making a fool of himself in front of both of them. And didn't he have enough to regret already?
But so far into their stay in the colony, it looked like Dorothy and Trowa were going to be a package deal. "You can tell her Duo will be there, too," Quatre tried, "if that makes you feel better. Guys' night out, or something."
"Is Duo coming?"
"Of course not—"
"So you want me to lie to her now?"
No, that wasn't what Quatre wanted. But he couldn't bring himself to see a problem with the deception either. Not in this instance. "Why don't you just think about it. I'll call you back this afternoon, after the event."
Then Quatre cut the transmission himself, before Trowa had a chance to blow him off completely. Quatre wasn't sure he would be able to handle that. Not this morning. Not today.
The rain was scheduled to return later that evening, but in the colony there was not a cloud in the sky. If "sky" was indeed the proper word.
On the surface-street level, one could almost imagine a blue ceiling of heaven over the city, only without the vague anxiety about slipping out of the pull of gravity that still sometimes gripped Quatre—born and raised in the colonies as he was—upon that first glimpse of a boundless Earth vista after touchdown.
"Sure is good weather for an outdoor event," Sakamoto said. "Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Winner?"
"You could say that again." There were shadows under the feet of those out enjoying the daylight, shades hiding their eyes instead of umbrellas. The bright light sure put his driver in a good mood, and Quatre couldn't deny that he in turn was warmed by it, the dark clouds he had been under earlier that morning being gently shooed away. "We should have a decent turnout thanks to this. I'll have to send the colony administrators a little something to show my gratitude."
"Sir, might I suggest an assortment of coffees grown and roasted on L4. In my experience, you can never go wrong with coffee or local produce. Not least of which because they're almost impossible to misconstrue as a bribe."
Quatre chuckled. He couldn't question wisdom like that. "Then it's decided. I'll make the call when I return to my room."
And stop calling me "sir," he almost said, but stopped himself short. It wasn't his place to tell a man who had been so loyal to his family what to or not to say, even if it did make Quatre feel somewhat displaced to be addressed in the same way Sakamoto had once addressed his father. If anything, it was Rashid who deserved Quatre's gratitude—and his heartfelt apology—for finding the man and reuniting them after more than two decades.
Quatre wondered, if only vaguely, why Sakamoto had ever left his father's service, now that he had seen more than just a glimpse into the man's character. He had been kind to Quatre once—that much was slowly coming back to him from when he was very young—in the way a distant uncle tries to ensure he will be remembered kindly, with favorite candies and an active interest in the childhood obsessions of little boys. If only Quatre could remember those earlier interactions with Sakamoto with greater clarity. Then maybe he could make his driver feel as at home as he did Quatre.
"I don't expect I'll be getting out of there until well after three," Quatre told him when they arrived at the city park where the event would be held. "You shouldn't have to hang around the car for so long. Why don't you go and see the sights. You're welcome to come and watch the presentation, if you're interested in that sort of thing, but I can't guarantee it'll be all that exciting. You should at least be able to treat yourself to a nice lunch in the meantime—"
"Now, Mr. Winner, I appreciate your concern for me," Sakamoto tried to demure, just as Quatre had anticipated, "but I really couldn't—"
"I insist. It's the very least you deserve, after waiting up for me all last night. You should have a chance to enjoy yourself when you're not on the clock."
Sakamoto clearly had more to say on the matter. But seeing Quatre was not about to back down, he finally acquiesced: "Alright, maybe I'll take you up on the offer. But I'll stick close by. Just in case you need me."
That was a fair enough compromise.
A podium had been set up on the lawn of the park, signage declaring the organization's name and its mission: "Seeking a Brighter Future for the Children of Space." A sizable crowd had already gathered. Faithful to the spirit of the event, many attendees had children with them, and some families had set up picnics on the lawn around the periphery. Kiosks handed out information or took pledges from eager donors while the event's coordinators performed their final sound checks.
One of them spotted Quatre and bounced over to shake his hand and thank him for coming. She was an energetic young woman, perhaps just out of university. Not so much younger than himself, but with a fresh exuberance that reminded Quatre she must have been a child in grade school while he was fighting a war. "I can't tell you how much it means to us that you've agreed to speak today, Mr. Winner. It's been an uphill battle for us to make people aware of issues like this, let alone get them to take an active interest. Without more high-profile supporters like yourself helping the cause, I don't know how we would ever get the funding these kids desperately need."
"It's the least I can do," he said, shrugging off her flattery. "I feel like I would be abandoning them if I didn't speak up. A lot of my closest friends were test-tube babies, and now they're struggling to raise their own children in space. I can only begin to imagine the sacrifices they must have had to make for the sake of their families."
"Still, the fact that you took time away from your campaign for us—not to mention, the courage it must have taken after admitting—"
She stopped herself short and turned her eyes.
And now Quatre noticed what had caught her attention: A small group of protesters, gathered at the edge of the park, held picket signs more than one of which, Quatre noticed, had his name or the word "gundam" printed on it. Or both. Not a foreign sight by any means. He was used to seeing groups like theirs at home, outside his office window or the spaceport. Quatre only found out that morning that there had been protesters outside the museum gala as well. (Une must have done her best to make sure they stayed out of the guests' lines of sight, because they hadn't muddied the festive mood.) But the signs that called him a baby killer seemed particularly vicious and appropriate, given the topic of this rally.
"I'm sorry," the young woman said. She seemed embarrassed for Quatre. "You must get enough of that at home."
"I don't mind. They have every right to be here, expressing their opinions. I like to think of this as a sign of the Colonies' healthy democracy at work."
The young woman bit her lip. "I guess. But it's a little insensitive, don't you think, protesting your involvement in a war more than a decade ago at a rally to help the children? Seems to me like they're missing the point."
The rest of the organizers were eager to shake Quatre's hand and express their gratitude when he arrived at the stage. From behind the podium, he watched the crowd trickle in: supporters, many of them mothers and fathers of hard-won children wearing the colors of the cause; others, members of the medical and biotech community in the Colonies; no doubt a few who were only there to catch a glimpse of a celebrity in the flesh. And, of course, the ubiquitous TV journalists, setting up in their section below the stage.
When it came time to start the event itself, Quatre took his chair among the other speakers, and awaited his turn.
"Now I'd like to introduce to you a very special guest," the fundraiser's master of ceremonies said. "You all know him as the scion of the Winner family—and L4's next president elect, if the polls are any indication. A celebrated humanitarian, innovator, and war veteran of the Colonies—" though Quatre noticed he was careful not to say gundam pilot— "who has never been too proud to discuss his own start as a test-tube baby. Please give a warm welcome to Mr. Quatre Winner."
Quatre waved to the attendees as he made his way to the microphone. Their applause and whistles of support easily drowned out the scattered boos of protesters; but even if he had been greeted by nothing but silence, the bright smile still would have come to Quatre's lips as naturally as it did now, it had become so rote ever since his return to public life in place of his father.
"Thank you all for coming," he began. "And thanks to the organizers of this event for their unwavering dedication to the health and happiness of the children of the Colonies.
"With all due respect to that introduction, today I'm not here as a candidate, or even as a citizen of the Colonies. This issue is too important for us to let it become politicized, or regionalized. It's an issue that affects all of humanity, as long as there are those among us who commute to work in space, or plan to live in space for any length of time. Or those who, like myself and my father and grandfather before me, were born and raised in the Colonies. That number is increasing every day—in fact, the fastest growing demographic is space-born Colonists—but the challenges of conceiving and raising children in space remain with us as stubbornly as they did two centuries ago. The longer mankind has a presence in space, the more unique the problems that arise to plague our species, with little precedent for our medical professionals to draw on for solutions. They try their best to keep up with those new challenges, but they can only do so much without the public's support.
"Some of you are probably wondering," he began again after a short pause, "why someone like me, who has no children, would choose to become an advocate for child development, of all things. But some of you, I'm sure, are already aware of my family history. The Winner family has been in space almost as long as there have been permanent habitats in it, and as a result, we've experienced our fair share of difficulty conceiving and carrying children to term. Back in the early days of space exploration, that difficulty was viewed as a source of shame for both men and women, whose society told them it was somehow their fault—something flawed in their own nature rather than a side effect of their environment.
"It still is a source of shame for many people, and one of the few taboo subjects left in our modern age. I know the weight of that shame myself. At the age when most adolescents begin struggling with body image, I struggled with the knowledge that I was among the many citizens of L4 born from an artificial womb."
Alright, so maybe that part wasn't entirely true, but believing it was true had been a genuine source of shame and resentment for Quatre growing up. The truth about his mother and his birth, once he had learned it, somehow even more so.
"But with time I've learned that there is no shame in overcoming adversity. Consider what great lengths human beings are willing to go to in order to bring new life into this world. In order to create families. In order to ensure that their legacy lives on. We should see that struggle as a source of pride, not only as Colonists but as human beings, and engage our scientific community and our politicians in more open dialogues, to ensure that those children and families who need our help most can get it."
Here Quatre paused to take a breath as the crowd broke into applause and cheers of support.
But a particular flash of light among all those faces captured his entire attention, the rest of his speech forgotten as inconsequential. If not for the bright daylight, he would have easily missed it, that certain reflection he remembered well enough after all these years that he did not need to look twice, or second-guess his instincts.
The reflection of light off the sight of a gun.
Quatre didn't think. Standing still, he was dead. So he moved, just as he heard the pistol go off. Once. Twice.
There was screaming. The crowd went into a panic, while behind him the event's other speakers and organizers hit the stage or ducked down, covering their heads. Quatre didn't look back to see if anyone was injured. One knee on the stage, the other leg tensed to take off at a moment's notice, he scanned the crowd for the gunman.
And then he felt the familiar sting that made his breath catch in his chest. He'd been hit.
Quatre could feel the warmth of blood trickling down his back. A dark red spot marred the front of his jacket and was spreading. No matter how inured to bloodshed war had made him, the sight of his own blood still had the ability to make him feel faint. But still he had to see it, he had to see where the bullet had hit. He had to make sure—
The voices blurred into one echoing din. Through it all, someone was calling his name. A shadow fell over him.
"The bullet went straight through," Quatre told the person without looking up, his voice shaking as much from relief as pain. "Don't worry about me. Right now we have to do something about the shooter before anyone else gets hurt."
"Relax, Quatre, we're already on it. He won't get far. But you need to stay calm. I won't have you going into shock before the ambulance gets here, not on my watch."
At that familiar voice, Quatre finally looked up. And blinked in disbelief. "Wufei? What are you doing here?"
He was crouched down beside Quatre, wearing the Preventer colors, his pistol out at his side as his other hand gripped Quatre's shoulder. Hard. Grounding him there. "Right now?" Wufei said. "Just trying to keep you alive."
