I'm sorry to all my readers for being a huge failure and not posting for over a year. It's been a rough 16 months and I've had no creativity. I pretty much forced myself to write this one, so I hope you like it and it doesn't read like total shit.

Thanks,

Kat

We hadn't been at the party for long before she was introduced to the crowd. A middle aged man came up to us and began speaking hurriedly in French, Quatre pointed out kindly that I only speak English.

"Ah, excuse me!" the Frenchman said genuinely, "I haven't spoken English in some time. I hope you will be able to understand."

I tilted my head towards him, he smiled.

"I was just about to be telling your..." he motioned to Quatre, "friend an amazing story about my daughter."

"Yes, Virginie?"

The Frenchman shook his head "No no Mr. Winner, my other daughter."

Quatre took a drink of wine. He looked down for a moment before he swallowed, then he took a deep breathe.

"Your other daughter?"

"Yes, if you remember...?"

I leaned my head down and took a drink from my own glass. I doubt Quatre ever forgot, I doubt he ever stopped remembering.

He wants to keep Florien tied to his "homeland", as Quatre once said. That, as a child who was lucky enough to be born anywhere on Earth, Florien should spend as much time there as possible.

I have often said that Quatre knows I'd follow him to the ends of the Earth, yet somehow I found returning to France to be difficult.

And I know why, of course.

We've been taking Florien to parks where he can play with children who share his native language. He takes Florien's hand and walks with him through the Jardin des Tuileries, explaining to him points of history as we make our way closer to the Seine. He switches between English and French and has begun speaking in Arabic from time to time. Sometimes I'll take Florien around the corner to the boulangerie for bread or maybe walk with him until we find a particular store he's interested in. He still walks around with his brown rabbit. He still asks questions about his mother.

Sometimes, he'll even ask me.

"Trowa. What happened to Maman?"

We were sitting on a park bench sharing some strawberries the first time I heard the question. I cleared my throat.

"Well," I began after a moment, "you should probably ask your father."

Florien held a strawberry in his hand, he looked at it intently and ran a finger down the side. "Papa never answers."

"Doesn't he?"

He turned to look up at me, his brows close together and his lips pouted. He threw his strawberry on the ground, tugged at his brown sweater, fingered the laces on his black leather shoes

"Non," he said "Papa never answers."

I know that, because Quatre rarely answers questions he doesn't like to hear. He's very good at ignoring things.

If I asked him why he couldn't move on from her, he would never answer me. If I asked him why he kissed me, he would do it again.

Duo and Heero came to France with us this time under the guise of work. I'm sure Duo just wanted a vacation and was more than happy to do it on Quatre's dollar. He's been spending time playing with Florien, who likes how he jokes and the endless supply of sweets he provides. Heero likes having him there for obvious reasons. Quatre enjoys the company of someone who's talkative for a change.

Personally, I wish Duo would just leave.

When we were fighting, Quatre would often stare at his own hands. I was busy staring at him. Not much has changed.

Six months after reappearing from Quatre's two year cocaine addiction, Duo leaned over my shoulder to tell me how our friend had been involved in multiple affairs which centered mainly around sex and drug use.

This time around he has been busy getting me alone, trying to gather whatever information he can about Quatre. He's as intrigued with Florien as anyone else is, and almost as curious about his mother as Quatre is obsessed. I've been fairly descent at removing myself from the situation, but Duo has been surprising me more than usual.

"Quatre told me he kissed you," he said to me at a café one afternoon. We'd been waiting for Quatre, who had taken Heero and Florien to le Louvre for the afternoon. I stared into my espresso for a moment before taking a deep breath and raising my head. He was looking at me, a cheerful glint in his eye and half smile on his face.

I swallowed. "When did he say that to you?"

Duo smiled. "When I asked him of course."

I didn't respond, so Duo continued.

"I asked him if he'd kissed you yet, and he said he had. Twice."

I nodded once.

"How do you feel about that?"

I kept my eyes locked on Duo's for a moment, and wondered if he could read my mind like Quatre can - like Florien can. I wondered if he would respond for me, continuing the conversation as if my opinion had already been assumed.

He shook his head. "Okay, forget I asked."

Duo is not Quatre. He continued.

"I wouldn't tell Quatre what you thought of it anyways", he took a sip of espresso. "I'd just let him know we'd had a conversation. He'd come right to you after that."

I took a sip as well.

"It's not like he doesn't know."

I lifted my head again. "Know what?"

Duo snorted. "Really?"

I stared.

He shook his head and motioned to the waitress for the bill.

"If you don't know by this point," he said throwing money on the table, "I can't help you."

It interested me for sometime afterwards that Duo assumed I didn't think Quatre knew. Quatre has always known.

Since the moment he told me not to surrender to him. Since I helped him bury a body in the middle of the night. Since he touched my scars from the Vayate. Quatre has always known. He has always known, and he has never forgotten.

I don't think Quatre's forgotten a thing in his life.

Not my birthday.

Not the Vayate.

Not his father.

Not the piano.

Not Padam.

Quatre has a long memory.

The night we were invited to the party, he won't forget that either.

I say we but really, of course, it was him who was granted an invitation. Of course, I'm only his security personnel.

"You remember my daughter?" the Frenchman had asked.

"Yes, Virginie?" Quatre responeded.

"No no Mr. Winner, my other daughter" the Frenchman continued.

"Your other daughter?" said Quatre.

"Yes, you remember...?"

And Quatre did not answer, because Quatre never forgot. Instead, he looks in his wine and closes his eyes. Duo's voice is there, speaking to the Frenchman.

"And where would your daughter be?" he asks with his hand on the Frenchman's back. Duo shoots a look in my direction, at Quatre, at the people behind us.

"Why, just there." The Frenchman points to a woman ahead of us. Quatre's eyes open.

Her shoulders are bare. Her brown curls hang from her clip. Her earrings are long and silver. Her dress black. She is laughing. She is so close.

There is broken glass and wine on the floor, black shoes that turn and walk quickly away. Quatre picks up Florien, they're gone a moment later.

I don't catch up with him until he's already back at the apartment. I leave my coat wet in the entry way. The door to Florien's room is open. The light is on. He's sitting on the floor looking at a book. At the end of the hall Quatre is in his room. The door is closed.

"Florien, what's your father doing?"

Florien looks up and closes his book. He shrugs.

"What are you doing out here alone?"

He points to his book. I look at my watch, it's late.

I move to his dresser, opening the top drawer and taking out some pajamas. "It's time to go to bed" I tell him.

He stands up and walks over to me. His shoes are still on. He yawns and holds up his arms. I help him take off his tuxedo and hand him his pajamas.

"I'm sleepy Trowa."

I close his closet door. "Do you feel cranky?"

"Non," he pulls his shirt over his head. "Papa usually helps me into bed."

I pull back his comforter, his bed is large. He must feel small in it when he's alone.

I read him a story. I turn off the light.

The light peeking from under Quatre's door fades when certain shadowed steps walk by. He's pacing.

"Quatre?" I hear myself call out. My breath feels hot, he doesn't respond.

"Quatre?" I say again. There is a thud on the other side of the door, I can hear his deep sigh.

"Sort" He says.

"What?"

"Sort. S'il te plait Trowa. Leave me alone."

Air goes in shaky through my nose. "Are you okay?"

"Il faut que tu part."

"I don't understand Quatre."

"Je peux pas..."

"You can't...?" My hand touches the door knob. Je peux pas. I can't.

"Je peux pas..."

"Quatre," my hand turns the knob. I push but the door doesn't move.

"Trowa," My name sounds quiet in his voice. "Trowa." He whispers through the door. "All I see is green."

I push the handle again, "What is green Quatre?"

"And water, it's so beautiful."

"Green water?"

"No. Tu ne comprendes pas."

Another push on the door. "What are you talking about Quatre?"

"Green. I see green."

I push again. "Quatre open this door."

"And this music. The water."

I push harder, the door bounces against it's lock. "Quatre there is no music. Open this door."

And suddenly there is music. Loud piano, singing. Edith. Violins. Drums. Padam. Trumpets. I push the door again. It bounces. I knock it with my fists.

"Quatre."

Just Edith.

"Quatre open this door."

Just Padam.

I grab the handle. "Quatre" I slam punch the frame. "Quatre open this door!"

Just the piano. Just the drums and trumpets.

"QUATRE"

The lock clicks. Edith is singing. I open the door.

Quatre is at the desk. There is a bottle in front of him.

"I wasn't going to kill myself Trowa. My son is here."

I swallow. It hurts to breathe.

"I wasn't going to kill myself Trowa." he repeats. "My son is here."

I let out air. My face suddenly feels wet, my lips taste salty. He comes closer, leans into my chest.

"I wasn't going to kill myself Trowa," he whispers next to my lips. "My son is here."

His hand winds behind my neck and brings me too him. My eyes close and his don't. My mouth opens. He breathes into me, he tastes like wine.

He bites my lip.

"It was all an accident," he murmurs. His fingers are at my belt. "Do you get it Trowa?" My belt is on the floor. "It was all an accident." His fingers are on my skin. "I didn't mean to do any of it."

And then he kisses me. And he tastes like wine.

He's drunk.