Oh Christ, I'm tired. And I'm SO SORRY for not updating in a really long time. Life has been super crazy (Graduated from college, working full time, moved back to France, then Christmas). But I really hope you all like this chapter. I have just finished writing it at 5:49 am (didn't sleep tonight!) here in France, so in my tired state it is either ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT or the babble of a girl going off the deep-end. Speaking of the deep-end, Quatre has issues and this story is going into a manic area I never wanted it to go to, it sort of has a life of it's own though. So either I will pull Quatre back from the edge or he's tumbling over. Can't decide. So tired. So tired.
Thnx to D and Fox. And please review if you like it. If I'm really just babbling, be gentle!
I remember when I was little, I use to sit on the balconies with my legs hanging off the side - dangling from the fifth floor and using my palms to balance on the rail as best I could.
No one ever bothered me until one day when my father looked up from the gardens. He yelled at to me to get down, but to do it carefully so to not hurt myself. He panicked and called the servants, telling them to rush over, but not so quickly as to startle me and make me fall. He kept screaming up to me words that were supposed to calm me down, that it was going to be okay and that I shouldn't be scared.
I wanted to tell him that he shouldn't worry about me, that I had never been afraid of falling to begin with. See, I've never really been afraid.
There are certain things, like holding Florien in my lap and looking down from the fifth floor that remind me of how horrified my father must have been. To have seen his only son sitting on the rail of the balcony so many feet above him, resting on his palms like it was the most natural thing he could have done. Sometimes, when I think of those things, I wonder if he loved all my sisters, since he could barely remember their names most of the time. I sometimes wonder if I was the only child my father loved, since I was his wife's son. Most of the time though, I wonder if he loved me at all.
I'm sure he did.
At least, that's what I tell myself.
Would I let Florien be, up on that rail? Just to rest there on his palms like that?
I wonder if he will need to be as fearless as I was.
I hope he can be afraid of things. I hope he will never have to know what it's like to be a hero.
Sometimes when he's sitting with me, I pretend that I'm Zayeed and that Florien is Quatre. That way I can make it all turn out the way it should have been. Sometimes, when I'm having a cigarette, he sits there watching the smoke twirl around my fingers. He stares at me like I'm magic. And sometimes, he sits with Trowa and they watch me together.
Because Florien likes to watch me, because I'm his father, and children idolize their fathers.
And Trowa just likes to watch me.
Sometimes, I make believe Trowa knows what I'm thinking. Because every once-in-a-while, I feel like I know what he's thinking. And because I feel like it would be easier to explain, to make him understand what goes through my head.
Cause I didn't mean to do any of those things.
I didn't mean to try to kill him. I didn't mean to kiss him.
But for some strange reason, I did both of those things. And for some strange reason, I know that no matter how much time Trowa spends staring at me, he still won't read my mind.
And I didn't mean to scare my father. I just thought it was fun.
I can see the way this story is going to end. It's a book I've read too many times, a commercial repeating in my mind, a play in which I try to change the ending. I've played this song, I know this piano. My son is sitting in my lap.
And sometimes, for slivers of time, I forget about Florien. I have to wake myself up again. I have to remind myself that Trowa finding me in my office, with papers snowing all over the floor, with the classical music on so loud it burns, with my tie undone and my eyes sleepy - that isn't life. Life should now be my son, life should be about Florien. Because he's sitting on my lap, and he's flipping through a book, and he's blond like me.
Sometimes, I have to drink a glass of wine so my hands stop shaking and my head stops running. Sometimes when I drink too many glasses I remember Florien's mother. Then I pretend I'm Zayeed. But I don't hate Florien, because Quatre's the one who killed the love of someone's life.
Quatre killed a lot of people, but he didn't mean to do any of that. It was an accident. It was all just a horrible accident.
I work, and I read, and I run, and I drink, and I smoke, and I make music, and I'm a father to my son. And sometimes I feel like I don't sleep. And sometimes I feel like Zayeed. And I hate Zayeed.
I kissed Trowa.
I was drunk. I spent the night on his couch, and I woke up early so I wouldn't have to see him. I wasn't sober, but I drove home anyway. I laid on my bed and thought about how I wanted to stay there all day and smoke and talk. Falling asleep with her on my chest, and waking up to do it all over again.
And my thought back then was, would it have been so bad if Trowa had been in my bed? Would Trowa have been so bad in bed?
No, but she was so soft.
And she had no name.
But neither does Trowa.
I tap my fingertips against the table, Florien squirms in my lap. Trowa is staring at me.
"Quatre?" he says.
No.
"Quatre?" He clears his throat.
My eyes blink towards him. "Hm?"
He looks down at my hand. I curl my fingers and move it off the table slowly.
"I'm just a little stressed."
He nods and sips his coffee. Florien turns the page of his book. I blink and clear my throat. I stare at Trowa for a moment, wondering if I can make him feel the way I do when he watches me. He looks into his mug, he scratches the porcelain.
There is a song stuck in my head.
I put my hand back on the table, sliding it closer towards Trowa's drink. I watch Trowa tap on the porcelain and try to will his hand towards mine. I imagine how it would be if Trowa was here all the time, how he would be with Florien. They get along, Trowa takes him places, watches him sometimes when I'm working. With me he can just speak in French, but Trowa has forced him to learn English. Florien would think it was fun if Trowa was here all the time. I don't think he would even understand why Trowa was here.
But I don't think he knows he'll probably never see his mother again, either.
Zayeed would love Florien, or at least he would have if I'd married his mother. For him, Florien would have needed to be provided for and then kept secret. That being said, the whole situation would only further prove how much of a black-mark I was to his name.
I was planning on leaving the company to one of my sister's children. Florien was unexpected. But so was kissing Trowa.
I guess technically they were both accidents.
"Quatre?"
No.
I look up again. Trowa is still staring. He's always staring.
"You alright?"
No.
I nod my head. "Yes, I'm fine."
I get the feeling he doesn't believe me. He looks back at his coffee.
I swallow. "Why do you ask?"
He scratches the porcelain. "You didn't even seem to notice Florien leaving."
I look down on my lap. It's true, he left. I shake my head.
"When did he leave?"
"Just a moment ago."
"Where did he go?"
His shoulders shrug, "his room I think. His English confuses me sometimes."
I nod. His teachers have been telling me the same thing. I reach out and sip on my red wine. It's barely afternoon, but I didn't sleep last night. I'd been up at all hours - my brain strangely buzzing in the back of my skull. At my computer, listening to music, and writing and writing and writing.
"Quatre."
"Yes?"
He puts his coffee down again and takes a deep breath. He's not going to say that he's worried about me, that he feels as if he needs to check if I'm still there. But that's okay, because I know what he's thinking anyways. I can always read him, even if he can't read me.
I stand up and finish my glass. And when I open my mouth, French comes out. And I tell Trowa I'm shaking, and I tell him I don't sleep.
"I don't understand you".
Clearly.
"I mean, I don't speak French."
I place my hands on the back of my chair and lean towards him, meeting his eye and trying to say to him sentences I can't even form in my head. The words don't exist.
Not in Arabic.
Not in English.
Not in Russian, Japanese, Latin, or Spanish.
Not in French.
And I suddenly feel as if, maybe if I were to touch him again, maybe then - maybe?
What would Zayeed say?
Trowa stands up, rounding the table to stand in front of me. He clears his throat and inches his head down to meet my eyes. I'm shaking and I don't sleep, I tell him this time in Arabic.
He shakes his head, "I don't understand you."
In Russian.
"English Quatre"
I shake my head. Latin
"Quatre"
No. Not English, I can't. You won't understand.
"I can't understand now. Please Quatre, English."
I shake my head, faster this time. I take a step toward him and he straightens up, my hands rest on his shoulders and I reach - trying to stretch my body. I try to be tall.
I kiss him. His hands stay and his sides, his mouth opens. My hands go behind his ears and I lean into him. I feel tiny and fragile. He's tall. My nails dig into his skin, I want to make a mark - and I want it to stay.
I'm breathing heavily and push harder into him. There is nothing for him to fall back on, he stands his ground.
I'm tiny and fragile and he's tall and I don't like it. I bite his lip, he breathes in and brings his head down to me. His hands still rest at his sides. I dig my nails deeper, I bite harder.
And then, for reasons I don't quite understand, I pull away. My hands drop and I stare at him. I reach to the table and grab the wine bottle, I take a sip. His eyes don't blink.
Mine do. And I see the things I never seem to forget, the pictures just under the surface of my brain. I close my eyes and can barely think fast enough for the words to form.
Balconies, deserts, sweaty sheets, hands, smoke, wine, her voice, Florien, green
"Quatre?"
Green, green, green.
"Quatre?"
My eyes open and I stare. "The piano Trowa"
"What about it?"
I blink, "It's all I know."
He shakes his head. "You're not making any sense."
I nod. I hear the thump of the wine bottle on the table and it somehow comes to me that I must have put it down. I breathe and look at Trowa. He looks confused, he looks scared.
It was all an accident. Do you understand that now?
I shake my head again, my hand touches my mouth. I turn and walk away. I watch my feet as they move across the floor. I trip but don't fall and keep going. I wash my face in the bathroom and when I look in the mirror I can see Trowa at the door.
"Quatre?"
"What?"
"I think you should stop drinking."
I swallow and start counting in my head, the numbers are in Arabic. I nod.
"I think you're right Trowa."
