Disclaimer: Not mine
Warning: Welcome to the 3x4 (+5) section of the story. Quatre is performing a Salaat in the following stories. In this story, I embrace Quatre's 'space heart' and employ the idea of his being a weak empath. Forgive me?
In the darkness, I don't need my eyes to see
Hiding in the light, I use my heart to guide me
I know he doesn't understand. As simple as it seems to me, it's all shadows and misunderstandings to him. But I have to show him. Maybe not the meaning, maybe not why I care; I just have to show him. We don't need any secrets here. No more secrets, I promised myself. Not since I touched his hand and he touched my heart. I'm going to share. I'm going to show him everything and, someday, he'll understand. He'll understand because I'll never stop explaining. He wants to understand so badly. How can I let him in?
His hand is warm in mine, it always is. I love his long fingers, the way they seem to stretch and the way they curl around my hand automatically. When did we stop thinking about this, when did it become so real? The balcony is waiting. I already know where to look, how to stand, why. But I remember the words my father used and I show him. I show him all the little details, all the little tricks and tips and secrets that don't have anything to do with belief. This is tradition, I try to tell him. It doesn't have to be about blind faith. It's so much more.
But I can't just pray in English. It wouldn't be right. The ideas aren't the same. Gently I release his hand, standing him in the line of the sun. His halo's visible like this, when only I can see. I can see the sun behind him and it's all I can do not to throw my arms around his neck and never let go. But first impulses aren't always right and this isn't about me. This is showing him, explaining to him. My switches between Arabic and English are natural as I touch each part of my body, feel the renewal I've always known. But I can feel the tiny knot in my stomach. Will he understand?
His finger brushes my lips and I'm not sure fig I want to look at him. But my eyes focus and the tiny shake of his head relieves me. He isn't going to walk away. This isn't coming to an end before it even starts. All he wants to do it watch. I can see it in his eyes, in the little movements as his hand lowers back to his side. I breath out, bowing. Who am I bowing to? In this moment, lost, who do I truly want to heed my prayers?
Slowly I lower myself to my knees. Is that a catch in his breath? Or I am putting my own wishes onto his actions? I can't look at him. My eyes are focused on the sun between his knees, the bright light. I don't squint any more. There's nothing brighter than Trowa, nothing that can blind me like his smile. But I can't look at him as the words flow over my tongue. "Subhaana rabbiyal 'Alaa," and I swear my voice should be hoarse. Glory to my Lord. But who is my lord? The Most High; but only he is higher than me right now. We're on the highest balcony and I'm kneeling in front of him. Who can be higher than him?
My forehead brushes the floor and I hear a sound from him. Did I imagine it? Could I have imagined that? I can't move now. I have to keep the ritual. I have to whisper the words the best I can. "Innaka hameedun Majeed." Surely you are Praiseworthy, the Glorious. How can I deny such a thing? I could deny him nothing. And now he has my prayers. He has more than my prayers…
The ritual is over. I turn to each side, to each angel on my shoulder. I wonder… I wonder who is recording this moment.