Part 3
LONGVIEW
1:03 A.M. : L-1
Heero felt like the supposed bastard he was, throwing his clothes into a soaked pile in the corner of the bathroom.
Even after being escorted off the Winner estate by the police five hours ago, he still felt shivers alight on his spine at the sight of the peaceful Quatre just staring with absolutely no soul in his eyes, while he sat in his father's blood. Lifeless, almost. He had gone as limp as a rag doll once the police tried to drag him away from the carnage. Pet Semetary came oddly to mind. The image of a demonic child flying down from the attic door past the hung body of a woman lit more fears in him.
He shook it off and his thoughts bounced back to another grim subject. He had overheard from the police that a mounted rifle set on automatic fire had been secretly planted in the ceiling. No person to get caught and interrogate. Nearly a spotless crime. The gun was loaded with only two shots, probably for Mr. Naosaki and himself, not Mr. Winner. Assassination was a brutal tool of the trade and accidents like this happened...
Heero wanted to wash it all away, obliterate that god-awful expression that was burned into his retinas. The boy flung the gold cross of his neck and into the medicine cabinet. Naked, he stood in front of the mirror in the downstairs bathroom of Dr. J's lab.
The coffee had helped to initiate dark rings under his eyes and the horseback riding made his body crick like a man in retirement. He didn't look like that Enrique Iglesias throwback anymore, just a painfully thin and deadbeat boy with a head of cotton-knotted hair. Heero could barely focus in on his own reflection. Jet lag. And when he did, his left eye winced shut automatically. He was not a pretty sight. Gingerly, he felt at the bones starting to protrude along his body. He hadn't eaten for a few days… forgotten for the sake of the mission.
Heero snatched the mouthwash and filled his mouth twice. Spitting it out, he noticed a considerable amount of blood in the sink along with blue mint wash. Funny, he didn't remember biting his tongue. Then he downed more than his usual amount of painkillers, for tomorrow. Dr. J would get on him viciously for letting Mr. Winner get assassinated. He wouldn't be happy to know that he'd been racing horses in the backyard when he might have prevented the murder. The risk of overdosage didn't faze him; he'd done it before. And Dr. J wouldn't be happy if he lied about it.
After turning on the shower, he leaned over the sink, body glimmering slightly in the reflection from a fine sheen of sweat. For a second, he just stared at his reflection, trying to stone up before the beating Dr. J would give him. A hot shower and maybe a few hours of sleep would help.
A knock. Heero jerked his head toward the thick metal door.
"It's locked," he said.
"…Where's Dr. J?" a feeble voice inquired in Japanese through the steel.
"Gone, Yuusuke," he said callously back. "I wouldn't wish for him back if I were you."
A few seconds passed in absolute silence. Heero, arching his shoulders over the sink, snorted and rubbed the tension from his face. When he heard the boy nervously whimpering, his face soured. "What Yuusuke?"
"Um… what's your name?"
"Heero." He was getting impatient and his water was getting cold again. "What do you want?"
"Was all that stuff you said true?" He could hear cupped breathing against the outside of the door, suggesting an on coming hyperventilation.
"Yeah," Heero said distantly. "Now leave me alone."
A swift kick to the door induced the sound of little sneakers running through the cracks. A frown lit on his lips and finally he got into the shower. The water was sadistically cold. Shaking, he dove to the front of the shower, taking short refuge where no water fell. He toyed with the temperature, and it fickly wavered from scalding to cold. He decided on the scalding one, but it had turned artic in that few seconds of turning the knob. Setting with cold, Heero fiercely washed his hair, trying to scrape the memory out of his head. He almost washed his body raw. After getting satisfactorily clean, he got dressed again left for the Gundam cockpit.
Heero was exploring the communication system for errors, since he'd just finished rewiring it, when he got the email. Sitting facing the raftered ceiling in the seat, he growled as he rummaged for a new wire to connect the monitor. The computer itself had beeped, alerting him to a message. It shouldn't have been there; no one gave out the address for this place. Besides, he'd put on a level 6 block, enough to send most hackers clenching their head. Heero suspiciously raised one eyebrow and rushed to connect it. When it sparked and the screen flickered blue, the email intelligently opened itself up. Someone capable had sent it.
'yo. be awake at 4:00. a.m. meet me outside the L-1 airport. hill. it's about the winner incident. be there or i will sever all support from quatre. sincerely, maxy.'
Heero frowned.
And almost smiled at the same time.
He adjusted the wiring for a few minutes then gracefully climbed out of the Gundam and jumped to the floor. His shoes made a loud noise connecting to the cement and he glanced at the closed door of his… or now Yuusuke's room. When no movement caught his eye, he went to the weapon closet. A devilish smile lit his lip as he easily hacked into the lock with the push of a few buttons. Dr. J was underestimating him. One of these days he'd hack into that bastard's personal stuff and erase all his porn.
His dark hair blew around his temples as the door flung open and revealed only a dark corner where all his guns and ammunition should be. He blinked for a second, wondering if he was seeing things, then dove in. Heero angrily rummaged through empty boxes, cases, and a few fugitive shells. Cardboard flew as he stormed back out, glaring around the empty mechanical room. Where the hell had it all gone?! The lanky boy felt for his colt, hoping he'd forgotten it in his pocket, but that was empty too.
Someone had messed with it.
Suddenly, his laptop snapped to life. His Prussian eyes locked on it from across the room, and instantly felt his fist tighten up. Heero jerked up and ran over to his computer.
"You've got—" Heero hit the mute button before that annoying voice could finish.
"Mail, I know," he muttered to himself. Another self-opening message sprung to life.
'un-uh! i know you. come unarmed and alone. sorry if we upset you about all your cork guns… follow the previous orders and you'll have them back fine. and don't think you'll get away with any funny shit. if we can put cameras in the winner's dining room, we can put them in your house too. weapon closet, doorstep, you name it. i think you might wanna take that one down in the downstairs bathroom too. be there. u know where. ciao.'
Heero frowned. He slammed the screen down on his laptop in a rage. There was no possible way they could have infiltrated… was there? Security, himself and Dr. J, the syndicate, how could they possibly have gotten in? But then again, there was the event of the first breaking in, when the Gundam had been destroyed. That always had the chance to happen again if it happened once. And they had known when he checked the weapons closet. Heero massaged his temples for a second. He was constantly hunted by wicked throbbing when something happened like this. It was just automatic. If his brains started working, they started pounding instantaneously.
Standing beside his abused computer, he glared around any suspicious corners for a camera. Rafters, drawers, boxes… everything seemed like a shell for the betraying.
"What do you want from me?" he asked out loud, flashing dangerous eyes to anything that looked out of place. Everything looked different now, when he thought about it.
To his surprise, his battered laptop cried out behind him. Another message. Heero pried the metal from metal and lifted the damaged screen up to light. His already aggravated frown seemed to just deteriorate when he saw the email screen flicker and change into a fresh message.
'ah so you figured out we've got it bugged too, huh? smart boy, aren'tcha? all i want is what is deserved. come to the airport. everything will be explained there.'
"Damn you." Heero said bitterly.
In instant messenger speed, another response was relayed.
'yeah fuck u too buddy. have a good night.'
The Japanese boy's lips lit on a caustic smile. He leaned into the computer screen, slammed it down and turned to face the echoing room behind him. He was laughing to himself for giving in.
The plan was written on a tight schedule, as tight as monkey's ass. If he wasn't going to get caught he needed to get this over with. It was 1:19 presently, after angrily disconnecting the camera he'd found in the bathroom, and he had roughly three hours to get to the airport. Three hours to storm over the mistake he was probably making. Three hours to find and confirm Dr. J's position, so he wouldn't walk in on Heero's leaving. The crippled old professor usually came home from wherever the hell he went at roughly 5:30, but that wavered and anyway it wasn't a lot of time.
Get there, get back.
Yeah, like that was gonna happen. But Heero decided to do it anyway. The boy took his shades, still horribly fresh with the smell from the Winner bedroom, and slipped them on. His nose scrutinized the scent and it was just as vivid as ever. He snuck into his – Yuusuke's room and hoped his clothes hadn't been thrown out to make room for the new; he hated shopping. Opening the door, he saw the lump fast asleep in his bed, in his blanket, even sleeping in one of his shirts. Heero walked over and lifted up some of the heavy, t-shirt fabric to see that pudgy innocent face smeared in sleeping drool.
"Poor lil' bastard," he whispered.
Heero rummaged through the pile of his own clothes shoved carelessly under the bed and pulled out a new shirt. He slipped his off and slipped the next one on effortlessly, and tossed the old onto the kid's head. He snorted and shut the door behind him.
2:07 A.M. : L-4
Maxy watched Quatre sleep where he had collapsed drunkenly into his lap.
Even now, his pain didn't escape him. He saw his flushed-pink pug nose scrunch in his sleep and his cheeks tighten around his teeth. His calloused hand went to the back of the blonde head and he tried to pacify the pained look away. In the moonlit room, the white glow pouring in through the glass door only pronounced the black rings under his eyes and the flamed tear streaks. Rocking the drained boy in his lap, his rage only seemed increase more at the pathetic sobs Quatre gave in his nightmares. The bastard that did this to his friend would pay and burn in the pits of hell if he had anything to do with it.
And he did have something to do with this. He could get revenge, and as long as he was mad enough not to listen to his conscious, he'd get it any way he could. Maxy's leg slowly numbed but he didn't want to wake up Quatre. It'd taken an hour of pacing for him to finally succumb to his tiredness and then a few more minutes of frantic bawling, and one bottle of whiskey slipped into his water for him to actually fall asleep and Maxy didn't want to repeat it. Besides, he didn't have any more alcohol on him.
Maxy frowned and took a fist in the face as he flailed in his sleep. Quatre grumbled under his breath, then began another bout of mumbling. His arm would occasionally reach out for something across the carpet, and the Deuce titled his head to see what. A pillow. He reached forward for him, since he was missing it by a few inches and saw that his blue eyes were open in a sort of sleepwalk. Maxy grunted as Quatre kicked him, trying to get to the pillow, and he got up. The blonde curled up and fell asleep again on the floor.
"Poor kid," he said to himself. "Does he even notice he's sleeping on the floor?"
Maxy took in the more relaxed face of his friend and was satisfied. He glanced around the relatively empty guest room and looked for a mattress in the closet. There was one, hidden under a few unused ceiling boards. He silently dusted it off and pulled it out. Then, grunting, he lifted the boy up by his shoulders and legs onto the mattress. Quatre just rolled in his sleep once he was put down over the other side back onto the floor.
He laughed. "Alright, I tried," he said to himself. "If he wakes up complaining, it's not my fault." He raised his hands above his head and shrugged.
Maxy went to the door and peaked down the hall. There were still blaring lights and sirens and walkie-talkies and analyzing voices annoyingly loud from the other side of the house. The lanky boy ducked his head back in and shut the door. "Hm, I'm not using the door this time, I guess."
Luckily, Quatre's balconies didn't have the best of security. All he needed was the rope he kept in his inside back pocket of his jacket to get up and down pretty easily. The Deuce turned slightly in the moonlight and smiled at the sound of content snoring in the background. From where he was, the darkness was too much for him to see the inside of the room. His hand slipped in and out of his black jeans and he slipped on some leather gloves, black of course. He hooked the metal around the railing and let the rope fall to the ground. A few rabbits scattered from the sudden movement back into the rosebushes surrounding the house. He grabbed the rope and leaped off the balcony, freefalling for a minute before he gripped the rope between his hands and slid down it to a smooth stop.
He liked showing off, even if no one was watching. He glanced at his watch and started off for the airport. He had to be in L-1 in two hours.
He didn't hear the door to Quatre's room open.
5:34 A.M. : L3
The Previous Day
Damn tabloids…
Not only were they the most degrading things to a celebrity, they were fucking expensive…
Trowa would not be happy about this, he knew. But he'd be angrier if he found out a month after it happened. And since he knew the man wasn't the chatty type, with very few friends and practically no technology to his name, he'd thought he'd tell him. The boy walking down the middle of the abandoned street cradled The Star under his arm. In his other hand he had his strong tea for the morning, half finished and spitting steam against the artificial sun of L-3. It was awfully quiet today, even for a sleepy Norwegian town at the less populated end of the colony like this. No dogs ventured the streets for scraps of lutefisk, no old men were rocking their chairs besides the store doors to yell at him. That he didn't miss. But it did unnerve him. Totally silent almost. Typical Trowa territory.
Moving briskly with no need across the street, he came to a run-down three-room house on the opposite side of the railroad tracks, in the grove of pine trees. There he saw his antisocial friend, amusing himself mildly with catching spiders from his porch rafters. From down the dirt road, the lanky Asian boy could see his muscular top torso lost up in the wooden beams, while the stick legs balanced on an old hillbilly-looking chair. A jelly jar filled with writhing black spiders sat on the railing.
The boy folded his arms a bit and smiled. "Catching spiders? What next, watching grass grow? Trowa, my friend, you are becoming very domestic. Don't tell me you cook with an apron. That would be too much."
A brunette head craned out from the porch rafters. A big green eye watched him from beside his unibang. "Wufei. Strange to see you here, but pleasing," he stated. He looked at his watch. "And at five thirty? The sun's only been up for fifteen minutes. I haven't even eaten."
"Yeah, well, it's still dark in L-5 but the tabloids haven't wasted anytime in kicking your old flame when he's down," Wufei said almost flippantly as he stepped onto the porch and sat down in a chair. The word 'old flame' had instantly captured his attention, no matter how jaded it seemed. Trowa looked at him with those stoic eyes for a moment, took the spider in his hand currently and let it go toward some fresh beetles, and sat down also.
Silently, the Chinese boy passed the newspaper to Trowa, who didn't bother to unfold it. He watched the emotions play across his face as his friend read it. First oblivion. The usual show of nothing that the world saw from him came first. Then a bit of surprise, then anger, and finally disturbance took hold of his face. "Quatre." He looked up. "His father died? So… this is where it all leads to, huh? 'Quatre Winner Breakdown, Father Killed, Where Do His Loyalties Lie?'"
"I thought you'd like to know."
Like it?" He frowned. "I hate this. He never wanted so much media attention…"
Wufei folded his arms. "You would know, wouldn't you?"
"Yeah, the whole thing between us was supposed to stay between us, not between us and the rest of the world." Trowa sighed, his exposed green eye flickering dismally across the paper. "I miss him."
His companion nodded and rubbed at his eyes. It was early. Even too early for him. "So… How long?"
The brunette looked up to him. He got a suggestive look. "How long is what?"
How long is it since you last saw him, Trowa? Did you ever talk to him again?" Wufei tilted his bold eyebrows as if to say, don't bullshit me.
The unibang said nothing at first, slowly looking over the tabloid again before setting it on the table and settling his young bones back into his chair. "About nine months now," he admitted. "I was too afraid of ruining his life to keep on with him. So I moved here, where no one had heard of me. I tried once to write him, but I was afraid they'd find it and just expose it to death. So I burned it."
"You know its not good to run away from problems," Wufei said in a wise tone.
"Hn. I know you're right, I just don't think I'll listen anyway," he replied with a smart-ass tone.
"You don't fool me Trowa," the Chinese boy said, playing with a spider that escaped to see on the arm of his chair. "You still love and lust after that kid, and you aren't the unfaithful type."
A few moments passed before Trowa let a bittersweet smile let on. "So what type do you think I am?"
"The persistent kind. You must still have a picture of him, don't you?"
Trowa said nothing; he just sat in his chair with a stoic look. Maybe a yes. Maybe a no. Wufei didn't know for sure. It'd been a while since he'd talked with his friend and his signals had changed.
"Surely you won't give up on him?" The tone in his voice was incredulous. There was no way it was just some teenage infatuation. If Wufei ever saw destiny, it was those two.
"Of course not," the brunette assured him. "I'm just being wise. Waiting out the storm, even if I have to do it away from him. Quatre got pretty on edge through the first bout with the reporters. You know, what he did –" His green eyes flashed up. "– you read about it."
Wufei closed his eyes. "How could I forget?"
"This is getting depressing. You want to come in? I'm not Quatre when it comes to cooking, but you look like your getting pretty thin." Trowa stood up and stuffed the tabloid with the picture of his old boyfriend sobbing in a ball on his floor into his jacket and grabbed the jar of spiders.
"No thanks." Wufei flicked the spider off his hand and stood up also. "I think you got the message."
The brunette silently nodded.
Before Wufei lifted his hand to shake a goodbye, he paused. "I think you're right to wait this out. But don't wait forever. Quatre's sent me too many letters asking about you. Way too many."
Trowa smiled and they shook hands. Watching the slim figure of his friend stroll down the dirt road to the paved one, he was reminded of his 'dark days' with Quatre as he knew them, always ducking the media, always wondering if that hurt look in his koibito's eyes meant he wanted to pull the plug, always meeting in short-lived secrecy. His green eyes took on their monotonous disinterest again, as he witnessed another of his Chinese friend's anger fits at the lack of taxis in this 300 people town. Inside he smiled, but didn't feel motivated enough to let it onto his face. As he sat down, the image o Wufei had disappeared across the street, probably for a few more years. He never really stayed in contact with his friends, and Trowa began to regret it when he went to sleep that night.
After an uneventful day and after a measly dinner of lutefisk for the fifth day straight, he fell into a sick kind of daze, like after eating a thousand pounds of your favorite candy. And that sickening fish was definitely not his candy… nothing was anymore. He didn't want to sleep; it was only eight o clock but his moaning stomach forced him otherwise. The lanky boy dumped his chipped dishes into the equally chipped sink and let it sit there with about twenty of its brothers. He'd wash them later, just like he'd clean the house later. Later seemed to be the only thing he had time for, now that he had all this freetime. He needed no job; the money Quatre'd transferred as a present to his bank account promised him no more financial problems. His hands found his pockets again and he wandered up to his room upstairs. It was early to go to bed, but it didn't matter. He had nothing to do in the morning.
When his socks came off at the foot of his cot, he began to miss the sound of another human voice. It would have comforted him so much just to hear the Chinese man yell at him or something like that, to have Quatre giggle and sweet talk him. He shook his head and insisted that he'd live without it.
The light swung rhythmically over his head, flickering with disrepair, until Trowa reached over and shut it off. Still in his day clothes, he decided he'd wait for morning to shower and change. Even if he wasn't peach smelling, there was no one but himself to complain of it. He fell backwards into the pillow. It was made of goose feathers and he had to pick one out of his hair. He held it in front of his face for a second, and then tossed it off into the black somewhere. His bed creaked under his measly weight and he curled up like a cat against the wood wall. But even as his body slipped into sleep, his eyes kept open and his thoughts still kept the light on in his head.
The words of Wufei kept coming back again and again and he could picture the tone in his voice perfectly. After a few seconds, he looked up at the wall a few feet up. Even through the evening darkness, he could see the outline of his only picture frame in the house. He pulled it down and considered the happy faces in the picture again, coupled with his friend's words of advice.
Trowa bit his lip.
Maybe just once… No. Quatre would get hurt! But how much more hurt could he get? After all, his father had died… the least he could do was offer sympathy. Somewhere in his mental argument, he fell asleep.
The next day he dressed with less attention than usual and he thought it was his lack of sleep he'd gotten thanks to a sudden attack of insomnia. But when the sun finally brought decent light to his room and he turned to see the mirror, it gave him a sort of awakening slap. It didn't surprise him that he looked like shit under his clothes, he'd been on a sort of forgetful starvation diet where he'd wander off into the misty woods out back and forget the concept of meals completely. It had happened enough to trim quite a few percents of total body fat off him. His skin seemed fine and tanned from all the outdoor time, but it only accentuated his dark bags that hadn't gone away. He certainly didn't seemed presentable to his koi now. But it was his choice of clothes that tipped him off maybe he should anyway.
Pink. He didn't even know he owned pink. He even doubted that anyone in the whole town besides him had a pink shirt. And white pants. Quatre clothes. Perhaps he should see his old boyfriend before he became him…
Trowa got clothes that were more characteristic of him, a black sweater with wide cuffs and his trusty Levi's. They may have been a few years old and tight at his hipbones, but they had grown accustomed to his hard-to-shop-for form. Besides, it was the pair he'd worn on their engagement… and the day of the break up, too, now that he thought about it. He caught his frown in the mirror by accident and decided he looked better without it. A breakfast of Cheerios sufficed him for the moment and he wandered back out onto his porch. He briefly passed by his calendar then scribbled with a pencil off the number 2 in the month of August.
Then it was time to walk.
Walk to the airport.
He hadn't expected there to be so many cops on L-4. It'd taken him the entire day and far into the night to get here, and this only was going to slow him down. He didn't expect to get stopped by security a mile away. The incident had obviously been more strenuous than the press let on. He could recognize tons of analysists, their clipboards clutched like crying children to their breasts, rushing back and forth, dashed by the appearing and disappearance of investigators with beer guts and young bodies alike. He didn't expect too many women though. With Quatre's large amount of sister at close hand, he'd have all the feminist support he could survive.
"Excuse me young man but visitors are not allowed. This is an official crime scene and you could be in danger right now. Please leave," commanded a plain-clothes cop.
"I know that." Trowa's face hardened into a front. "I need to go in, immediately. I'm close to Quatre Winner."
The annoyance in the cop's voice was eminent. "I don't know where you should be, kid, but you're not supposed to be here. Go home and go to bed. The last person I could let you see is him. He's under serious trauma right now." Still convinced he was some smart-ass punk, the man reached forward and attempted to push him back toward the road.
Trowa caught his arm firmly.
"That's why I need to see him. I need to see Quatre."
"Hey, you're his ex, aren't you?" The cop almost sounded incredulous. But the disgust was there too. "Now I'm definitely I'm not going to let you in. Come on, you're coming with me. I'm taking you downtown. I think you qualify for some short questioning."
Trowa tore away. "I think not."
"Come on kid. Don't get cocky. All we need from you is a few questions. You are close to him, no?"
"Yes. I don't deny that."
"Good. Then you can come for questioning. Short. No big deal. Water bottles if you're thirsty, even. Maybe a nice meal if you're polite. You want to help your little lover, don't you? Of course you do. Now, help us help him." The cop again grabbed for his arm but the slim boy dodged easily. "Are you resisting arrest?"
"I didn't know I was being arrested. I shouldn't be."
"Dammit, you're the first kid to get on my nerves you know. I said, it'd help you little friend if you come with me for questioning. We just want information… Or do you not want his father's killer to be caught, huh? Did the breakup leave you a little angry? Come on now. You seem bright… enough. You could have planned this don't you think?"
"That sounds a lot like a threat."
"No threat."
Trowa glared a bit, taking in the wrinkled features of this bent-over beer drinker. "Move aside, please," he said, gritting it through his teeth. The white flashing in the night made him look quite like an angry wolf growling a warning.
"I don't—"
The plain-clothes cop's assistant, who kept shouting across a cop car at him that he had a call from the senator, broke up the standoff abruptly. He turned. "Not now, I got a punk to handle!"
"But he says it's urgent."
"Jesus, those politicians, can't they brownnose somewhere else when I'm busy?! Just a second!" The cop turned but the green-eyed boy had eluded his problem by leaping up into the tree branch above him. A smile lit his lips slightly at the bewildered man and he made his way over the streams of cops crowding the road leading up to the Winner Estate by going from tree to tree. Overhead, he caught glances of the night sky, but when he finally climbed over the gate via a towering elm branch and dropped into the right wing balcony, it was beautiful. It was a pitch-black background, like ones on the clearest nights on Earth, dotted with crystal white lights. It seemed superficial, like the backdrop of a movie, but it was beautiful nonetheless.
He weaved his way through the dark hallways, pausing like a cat at the stairway, lit by the chandelier and echoing with the sound of cops busy at work in summit meetings around the conference table. The second floor, directly below him, was busied by the sound of detectives investigating the scene of the crime, which went through the floorboards below him. The smell of the familiar carpet and the ghostly imagery of the impressionist paintings brought back a sense of exhilaration to him, putting him in the same shoes of an old man somehow again experiencing his youth. His body needed no directions; once past the stairway where he might be heard through, Trowa ran silently to the door he had opened time and time again to see a pair of loving arms awaiting him.
It was empty.
Trowa cursed at the emptiness of Quatre's room. He must have moved, because he instantly noticed the pictures strewn across the floor. The entire place smelled thickly and sweetly of violin rosin and wood. The slim boy paused only a second at the doorway, before shutting it silently and moving on. He scouted the other doors silently, just cracking them open one by one and silently cussing as each one turned up empty. Perhaps they had moved Quatre to a safer place or one of more comfort and used the ploy that he was still here for security during the move? Then he'd be lost again. He had to get to Quatre and apologize before it ate him alive in the form of a bored existence in a wooden cottage on L-3.
Finally, he came to the last bedroom on the floor. Hopefully, he hadn't decided to sleep on the second or first floors; he couldn't risk being seen. His hand wrapped around the knob and he swallowed calmly in a dry throat. He was confronted by moonlight, surprisingly bright, poring in an open balcony and the starkness of an empty white room.
Well, not completely empty.
Quatre was sleeping on a mattress, no sheets or anything of the sort, clutching tightly to a pillow. It had been pulled out quite sloppily, judging by the rotated position it was in. It wasn't aligned with anything in the room. His pale skin and light hair made him seem like a pure white ghost. Or an angel, depending on whether he was still accepting of their relationship. Unlike his normal sleep, Trowa could see him tossing from nightmares and his fevered looking face muttering into the sweaty pillow. A concerned look came across him without thought. He walked over silently and crouched down in front of his koi, blocking the moonlight. His green eyes recognized that face instantly and he felt his peace return.
He smiled.
Quatre looked so innocent in his angst and even though the cuteness of the look brought him to a smile, it truly hurt him to see him hurt. His body reminded him suddenly that he was tired. It must be late into the night, he thought drowsily. Trowa stood up and ducked through the door briefly. He returned a few moments later, Quatre of course oblivious to everything, with a blanket from a nearby guest bedroom.
The tall Latin boy found a place on the mattress besides the nightmare-tormented blonde and yanked it up around first Quatre's shoulder, then his. Subtly, he moved his arms under his koi and under his arm and linked them around his fragile-feeling chest. Trowa felt completely at home, fitting his chin gently against Quatre's neck, and curling up to him like a child to a heat blanket. He watched the sometimes irregular rise and fall of his chest with secretly ecstatic green eyes. Trowa breathed out a breath of relief that his love finally stop tossing in his sleep and actually reacted to his presence. From his flushed lips, he heard him murmur, this time in a warm, buttery fashion and cuddle up to his chin. His white skin was hot from alcohol and Trowa mildly smiled at the fact his koi had drunk something stronger than tea.
"Goodnight, Quatre," he whispered into the blonde's ear.
"Hmmmnn," was the half-conscious reply Quatre uttered. But suddenly, he was fully conscious. Big blue eyes snapped open in stalker-movie fashion, dashed with momentary panic, and he turned roughly, about to scream. Trowa didn't move.
"Trowa?" He sat bolt upright. His voice echoed the walls a bit loud, so he whispered. "Trowa, what the hell are you doing here? You are going to get—"
"Shush. You're going to get me caught, Quat. I'm sorry if I surprised you."
From how his koi was breathing, it sounded like he was about to hyperventilate. "How… How… The guards… they—Guns! Police!"
"It's okay. I'm fine." Trowa sat up as well. "You know that cops can't stop me."
Obviously stressed, Quatre kneaded his bangs repeatedly, his blue eyes searching Trowa's face for an answer he knew he wouldn't get without talking. He blinked and sighed, arching his shoulders in a exhausted fashion. The blonde boy relaxed and let his body sag for a minute. "Why did you come?"
"This—" The tabloid was laid down between them. "—and you look like you need comforting."
Quatre didn't even pick the paper up; he'd seen it. He cast his eyes away, shamed by being played by the paparazzi, and rested his arms on the knees he curled up. "You shouldn't have… and that's nothing. You should have heard the things they said to my face. That I was sleeping with the enemy, you know?"
"Were you?" Trowa asked suggestively, his lips instantly forming a tilted smile of sarcasm.
"No." Quatre obviously hadn't picked up on the humor in that. His blue eyes finally met his. "You shouldn't of come. It's a waste of your time, you could be doing a lot of good for someone else, Tro—"
"Or, I could do even more good for you."
"You don't have to."
"I want to. If I still was upset, would I have come?"
"No." The blonde buried his face into his knees, praying silently for his emotions to hold back just once, dammit. "No… you wouldn't." The latter was directed more toward himself.
"Quatre."
"What?!" he nearly screamed back. "What could you still want from me? I have nothing! I don't deserve you… you… for being so damn nice! And what did I do when I had a little pressure on me? I freaked! — I hurt you because I was cowardly, Trowa! You don't deserve me so just leave, okay? I'm fine."
Trowa didn't budge an inch. His hand rested on Quatre's shoulder, despite the cornered-animal looks his blonde koi shot him in confusion. He didn't even have to think. He let his face open up with a reassuring smile. "You're absurdly cute when you lie, not to mention when you're mad." He laughed to himself. "You know that?"
Quatre's lips moved and parted slightly, but made no sound. His marble-shaped blue eyes were framed by confusion, then slowly, serenity. "So… you're not mad? About the incident?"
Trowa shook his head, breathing out heavily. His hand gripped the blonde's and put it up to the side of his face. "See? All healed. No hit or smack could make me stop loving you." He smiled, even if it was his shy one. "…No, I'm not mad."
"It feels good to hear you say that."
"It feels a lot better to say it finally. And now, Wufei won't have to be so worried." Trowa collapsed back on the pillow. Quatre smiled.
"So he talked to you to." The blonde surpressed the urge to shake his head, and laid down, knowing he'd need it with all the stress he'd been through. All the love from Trowa couldn't erase the hangover he was going to have.
"You have been busy, haven't you?"
"What do you mean?"
"The cops may be dumb, but they're thorough. They mentioned you had two people over in the last two days. Wufei, Mr. Nagosaki's son, and some unknown person."
"Trowa, I swear, it's not like you think."
The brunette snorted and wrapped an arm around his koi's waist. "I wasn't thinking it." He again fell in the position he'd been in, this time enjoying it more. "By the way, Wufei said you'd sent him letters, but he didn't tell me that he'd visited you. It was mentioned in the tabloid."
"Wufei's complex. I think he really wanted to see a couple succeed together after Sally's death. He's still recovering from that," Quatre said passively; sleep already clawing at his eyes. He reached up and guided Trowa's hand to wrap around his stomach. "He's living vicariously through us, in a way."
"Hmm. Your wisdom never ceases to amaze me."
Quatre smiled playfully. "That's what you get for falling in love with an empath." The blonde smiled broadly, with absolute sincerity. "Thanks for coming back, Trowa."
Trowa murmured a happy guttural noise. "You know I can't live without you. You're more addictive than drugs you're so perfect, so intelligent and sweet… and you smell wonderful." Trowa's voice slowly lost its emotion, signaling sleep.
Quatre looked over his shoulder to the calmed face pressed against his neck, and smiled again.
"'Just Say No'," he quoted with mirth. And fell asleep.
LONGVIEW
1:03 A.M. : L-1
Heero felt like the supposed bastard he was, throwing his clothes into a soaked pile in the corner of the bathroom.
Even after being escorted off the Winner estate by the police five hours ago, he still felt shivers alight on his spine at the sight of the peaceful Quatre just staring with absolutely no soul in his eyes, while he sat in his father's blood. Lifeless, almost. He had gone as limp as a rag doll once the police tried to drag him away from the carnage. Pet Semetary came oddly to mind. The image of a demonic child flying down from the attic door past the hung body of a woman lit more fears in him.
He shook it off and his thoughts bounced back to another grim subject. He had overheard from the police that a mounted rifle set on automatic fire had been secretly planted in the ceiling. No person to get caught and interrogate. Nearly a spotless crime. The gun was loaded with only two shots, probably for Mr. Naosaki and himself, not Mr. Winner. Assassination was a brutal tool of the trade and accidents like this happened...
Heero wanted to wash it all away, obliterate that god-awful expression that was burned into his retinas. The boy flung the gold cross of his neck and into the medicine cabinet. Naked, he stood in front of the mirror in the downstairs bathroom of Dr. J's lab.
The coffee had helped to initiate dark rings under his eyes and the horseback riding made his body crick like a man in retirement. He didn't look like that Enrique Iglesias throwback anymore, just a painfully thin and deadbeat boy with a head of cotton-knotted hair. Heero could barely focus in on his own reflection. Jet lag. And when he did, his left eye winced shut automatically. He was not a pretty sight. Gingerly, he felt at the bones starting to protrude along his body. He hadn't eaten for a few days… forgotten for the sake of the mission.
Heero snatched the mouthwash and filled his mouth twice. Spitting it out, he noticed a considerable amount of blood in the sink along with blue mint wash. Funny, he didn't remember biting his tongue. Then he downed more than his usual amount of painkillers, for tomorrow. Dr. J would get on him viciously for letting Mr. Winner get assassinated. He wouldn't be happy to know that he'd been racing horses in the backyard when he might have prevented the murder. The risk of overdosage didn't faze him; he'd done it before. And Dr. J wouldn't be happy if he lied about it.
After turning on the shower, he leaned over the sink, body glimmering slightly in the reflection from a fine sheen of sweat. For a second, he just stared at his reflection, trying to stone up before the beating Dr. J would give him. A hot shower and maybe a few hours of sleep would help.
A knock. Heero jerked his head toward the thick metal door.
"It's locked," he said.
"…Where's Dr. J?" a feeble voice inquired in Japanese through the steel.
"Gone, Yuusuke," he said callously back. "I wouldn't wish for him back if I were you."
A few seconds passed in absolute silence. Heero, arching his shoulders over the sink, snorted and rubbed the tension from his face. When he heard the boy nervously whimpering, his face soured. "What Yuusuke?"
"Um… what's your name?"
"Heero." He was getting impatient and his water was getting cold again. "What do you want?"
"Was all that stuff you said true?" He could hear cupped breathing against the outside of the door, suggesting an on coming hyperventilation.
"Yeah," Heero said distantly. "Now leave me alone."
A swift kick to the door induced the sound of little sneakers running through the cracks. A frown lit on his lips and finally he got into the shower. The water was sadistically cold. Shaking, he dove to the front of the shower, taking short refuge where no water fell. He toyed with the temperature, and it fickly wavered from scalding to cold. He decided on the scalding one, but it had turned artic in that few seconds of turning the knob. Setting with cold, Heero fiercely washed his hair, trying to scrape the memory out of his head. He almost washed his body raw. After getting satisfactorily clean, he got dressed again left for the Gundam cockpit.
Heero was exploring the communication system for errors, since he'd just finished rewiring it, when he got the email. Sitting facing the raftered ceiling in the seat, he growled as he rummaged for a new wire to connect the monitor. The computer itself had beeped, alerting him to a message. It shouldn't have been there; no one gave out the address for this place. Besides, he'd put on a level 6 block, enough to send most hackers clenching their head. Heero suspiciously raised one eyebrow and rushed to connect it. When it sparked and the screen flickered blue, the email intelligently opened itself up. Someone capable had sent it.
'yo. be awake at 4:00. a.m. meet me outside the L-1 airport. hill. it's about the winner incident. be there or i will sever all support from quatre. sincerely, maxy.'
Heero frowned.
And almost smiled at the same time.
He adjusted the wiring for a few minutes then gracefully climbed out of the Gundam and jumped to the floor. His shoes made a loud noise connecting to the cement and he glanced at the closed door of his… or now Yuusuke's room. When no movement caught his eye, he went to the weapon closet. A devilish smile lit his lip as he easily hacked into the lock with the push of a few buttons. Dr. J was underestimating him. One of these days he'd hack into that bastard's personal stuff and erase all his porn.
His dark hair blew around his temples as the door flung open and revealed only a dark corner where all his guns and ammunition should be. He blinked for a second, wondering if he was seeing things, then dove in. Heero angrily rummaged through empty boxes, cases, and a few fugitive shells. Cardboard flew as he stormed back out, glaring around the empty mechanical room. Where the hell had it all gone?! The lanky boy felt for his colt, hoping he'd forgotten it in his pocket, but that was empty too.
Someone had messed with it.
Suddenly, his laptop snapped to life. His Prussian eyes locked on it from across the room, and instantly felt his fist tighten up. Heero jerked up and ran over to his computer.
"You've got—" Heero hit the mute button before that annoying voice could finish.
"Mail, I know," he muttered to himself. Another self-opening message sprung to life.
'un-uh! i know you. come unarmed and alone. sorry if we upset you about all your cork guns… follow the previous orders and you'll have them back fine. and don't think you'll get away with any funny shit. if we can put cameras in the winner's dining room, we can put them in your house too. weapon closet, doorstep, you name it. i think you might wanna take that one down in the downstairs bathroom too. be there. u know where. ciao.'
Heero frowned. He slammed the screen down on his laptop in a rage. There was no possible way they could have infiltrated… was there? Security, himself and Dr. J, the syndicate, how could they possibly have gotten in? But then again, there was the event of the first breaking in, when the Gundam had been destroyed. That always had the chance to happen again if it happened once. And they had known when he checked the weapons closet. Heero massaged his temples for a second. He was constantly hunted by wicked throbbing when something happened like this. It was just automatic. If his brains started working, they started pounding instantaneously.
Standing beside his abused computer, he glared around any suspicious corners for a camera. Rafters, drawers, boxes… everything seemed like a shell for the betraying.
"What do you want from me?" he asked out loud, flashing dangerous eyes to anything that looked out of place. Everything looked different now, when he thought about it.
To his surprise, his battered laptop cried out behind him. Another message. Heero pried the metal from metal and lifted the damaged screen up to light. His already aggravated frown seemed to just deteriorate when he saw the email screen flicker and change into a fresh message.
'ah so you figured out we've got it bugged too, huh? smart boy, aren'tcha? all i want is what is deserved. come to the airport. everything will be explained there.'
"Damn you." Heero said bitterly.
In instant messenger speed, another response was relayed.
'yeah fuck u too buddy. have a good night.'
The Japanese boy's lips lit on a caustic smile. He leaned into the computer screen, slammed it down and turned to face the echoing room behind him. He was laughing to himself for giving in.
The plan was written on a tight schedule, as tight as monkey's ass. If he wasn't going to get caught he needed to get this over with. It was 1:19 presently, after angrily disconnecting the camera he'd found in the bathroom, and he had roughly three hours to get to the airport. Three hours to storm over the mistake he was probably making. Three hours to find and confirm Dr. J's position, so he wouldn't walk in on Heero's leaving. The crippled old professor usually came home from wherever the hell he went at roughly 5:30, but that wavered and anyway it wasn't a lot of time.
Get there, get back.
Yeah, like that was gonna happen. But Heero decided to do it anyway. The boy took his shades, still horribly fresh with the smell from the Winner bedroom, and slipped them on. His nose scrutinized the scent and it was just as vivid as ever. He snuck into his – Yuusuke's room and hoped his clothes hadn't been thrown out to make room for the new; he hated shopping. Opening the door, he saw the lump fast asleep in his bed, in his blanket, even sleeping in one of his shirts. Heero walked over and lifted up some of the heavy, t-shirt fabric to see that pudgy innocent face smeared in sleeping drool.
"Poor lil' bastard," he whispered.
Heero rummaged through the pile of his own clothes shoved carelessly under the bed and pulled out a new shirt. He slipped his off and slipped the next one on effortlessly, and tossed the old onto the kid's head. He snorted and shut the door behind him.
2:07 A.M. : L-4
Maxy watched Quatre sleep where he had collapsed drunkenly into his lap.
Even now, his pain didn't escape him. He saw his flushed-pink pug nose scrunch in his sleep and his cheeks tighten around his teeth. His calloused hand went to the back of the blonde head and he tried to pacify the pained look away. In the moonlit room, the white glow pouring in through the glass door only pronounced the black rings under his eyes and the flamed tear streaks. Rocking the drained boy in his lap, his rage only seemed increase more at the pathetic sobs Quatre gave in his nightmares. The bastard that did this to his friend would pay and burn in the pits of hell if he had anything to do with it.
And he did have something to do with this. He could get revenge, and as long as he was mad enough not to listen to his conscious, he'd get it any way he could. Maxy's leg slowly numbed but he didn't want to wake up Quatre. It'd taken an hour of pacing for him to finally succumb to his tiredness and then a few more minutes of frantic bawling, and one bottle of whiskey slipped into his water for him to actually fall asleep and Maxy didn't want to repeat it. Besides, he didn't have any more alcohol on him.
Maxy frowned and took a fist in the face as he flailed in his sleep. Quatre grumbled under his breath, then began another bout of mumbling. His arm would occasionally reach out for something across the carpet, and the Deuce titled his head to see what. A pillow. He reached forward for him, since he was missing it by a few inches and saw that his blue eyes were open in a sort of sleepwalk. Maxy grunted as Quatre kicked him, trying to get to the pillow, and he got up. The blonde curled up and fell asleep again on the floor.
"Poor kid," he said to himself. "Does he even notice he's sleeping on the floor?"
Maxy took in the more relaxed face of his friend and was satisfied. He glanced around the relatively empty guest room and looked for a mattress in the closet. There was one, hidden under a few unused ceiling boards. He silently dusted it off and pulled it out. Then, grunting, he lifted the boy up by his shoulders and legs onto the mattress. Quatre just rolled in his sleep once he was put down over the other side back onto the floor.
He laughed. "Alright, I tried," he said to himself. "If he wakes up complaining, it's not my fault." He raised his hands above his head and shrugged.
Maxy went to the door and peaked down the hall. There were still blaring lights and sirens and walkie-talkies and analyzing voices annoyingly loud from the other side of the house. The lanky boy ducked his head back in and shut the door. "Hm, I'm not using the door this time, I guess."
Luckily, Quatre's balconies didn't have the best of security. All he needed was the rope he kept in his inside back pocket of his jacket to get up and down pretty easily. The Deuce turned slightly in the moonlight and smiled at the sound of content snoring in the background. From where he was, the darkness was too much for him to see the inside of the room. His hand slipped in and out of his black jeans and he slipped on some leather gloves, black of course. He hooked the metal around the railing and let the rope fall to the ground. A few rabbits scattered from the sudden movement back into the rosebushes surrounding the house. He grabbed the rope and leaped off the balcony, freefalling for a minute before he gripped the rope between his hands and slid down it to a smooth stop.
He liked showing off, even if no one was watching. He glanced at his watch and started off for the airport. He had to be in L-1 in two hours.
He didn't hear the door to Quatre's room open.
5:34 A.M. : L3
The Previous Day
Damn tabloids…
Not only were they the most degrading things to a celebrity, they were fucking expensive…
Trowa would not be happy about this, he knew. But he'd be angrier if he found out a month after it happened. And since he knew the man wasn't the chatty type, with very few friends and practically no technology to his name, he'd thought he'd tell him. The boy walking down the middle of the abandoned street cradled The Star under his arm. In his other hand he had his strong tea for the morning, half finished and spitting steam against the artificial sun of L-3. It was awfully quiet today, even for a sleepy Norwegian town at the less populated end of the colony like this. No dogs ventured the streets for scraps of lutefisk, no old men were rocking their chairs besides the store doors to yell at him. That he didn't miss. But it did unnerve him. Totally silent almost. Typical Trowa territory.
Moving briskly with no need across the street, he came to a run-down three-room house on the opposite side of the railroad tracks, in the grove of pine trees. There he saw his antisocial friend, amusing himself mildly with catching spiders from his porch rafters. From down the dirt road, the lanky Asian boy could see his muscular top torso lost up in the wooden beams, while the stick legs balanced on an old hillbilly-looking chair. A jelly jar filled with writhing black spiders sat on the railing.
The boy folded his arms a bit and smiled. "Catching spiders? What next, watching grass grow? Trowa, my friend, you are becoming very domestic. Don't tell me you cook with an apron. That would be too much."
A brunette head craned out from the porch rafters. A big green eye watched him from beside his unibang. "Wufei. Strange to see you here, but pleasing," he stated. He looked at his watch. "And at five thirty? The sun's only been up for fifteen minutes. I haven't even eaten."
"Yeah, well, it's still dark in L-5 but the tabloids haven't wasted anytime in kicking your old flame when he's down," Wufei said almost flippantly as he stepped onto the porch and sat down in a chair. The word 'old flame' had instantly captured his attention, no matter how jaded it seemed. Trowa looked at him with those stoic eyes for a moment, took the spider in his hand currently and let it go toward some fresh beetles, and sat down also.
Silently, the Chinese boy passed the newspaper to Trowa, who didn't bother to unfold it. He watched the emotions play across his face as his friend read it. First oblivion. The usual show of nothing that the world saw from him came first. Then a bit of surprise, then anger, and finally disturbance took hold of his face. "Quatre." He looked up. "His father died? So… this is where it all leads to, huh? 'Quatre Winner Breakdown, Father Killed, Where Do His Loyalties Lie?'"
"I thought you'd like to know."
Like it?" He frowned. "I hate this. He never wanted so much media attention…"
Wufei folded his arms. "You would know, wouldn't you?"
"Yeah, the whole thing between us was supposed to stay between us, not between us and the rest of the world." Trowa sighed, his exposed green eye flickering dismally across the paper. "I miss him."
His companion nodded and rubbed at his eyes. It was early. Even too early for him. "So… How long?"
The brunette looked up to him. He got a suggestive look. "How long is what?"
How long is it since you last saw him, Trowa? Did you ever talk to him again?" Wufei tilted his bold eyebrows as if to say, don't bullshit me.
The unibang said nothing at first, slowly looking over the tabloid again before setting it on the table and settling his young bones back into his chair. "About nine months now," he admitted. "I was too afraid of ruining his life to keep on with him. So I moved here, where no one had heard of me. I tried once to write him, but I was afraid they'd find it and just expose it to death. So I burned it."
"You know its not good to run away from problems," Wufei said in a wise tone.
"Hn. I know you're right, I just don't think I'll listen anyway," he replied with a smart-ass tone.
"You don't fool me Trowa," the Chinese boy said, playing with a spider that escaped to see on the arm of his chair. "You still love and lust after that kid, and you aren't the unfaithful type."
A few moments passed before Trowa let a bittersweet smile let on. "So what type do you think I am?"
"The persistent kind. You must still have a picture of him, don't you?"
Trowa said nothing; he just sat in his chair with a stoic look. Maybe a yes. Maybe a no. Wufei didn't know for sure. It'd been a while since he'd talked with his friend and his signals had changed.
"Surely you won't give up on him?" The tone in his voice was incredulous. There was no way it was just some teenage infatuation. If Wufei ever saw destiny, it was those two.
"Of course not," the brunette assured him. "I'm just being wise. Waiting out the storm, even if I have to do it away from him. Quatre got pretty on edge through the first bout with the reporters. You know, what he did –" His green eyes flashed up. "– you read about it."
Wufei closed his eyes. "How could I forget?"
"This is getting depressing. You want to come in? I'm not Quatre when it comes to cooking, but you look like your getting pretty thin." Trowa stood up and stuffed the tabloid with the picture of his old boyfriend sobbing in a ball on his floor into his jacket and grabbed the jar of spiders.
"No thanks." Wufei flicked the spider off his hand and stood up also. "I think you got the message."
The brunette silently nodded.
Before Wufei lifted his hand to shake a goodbye, he paused. "I think you're right to wait this out. But don't wait forever. Quatre's sent me too many letters asking about you. Way too many."
Trowa smiled and they shook hands. Watching the slim figure of his friend stroll down the dirt road to the paved one, he was reminded of his 'dark days' with Quatre as he knew them, always ducking the media, always wondering if that hurt look in his koibito's eyes meant he wanted to pull the plug, always meeting in short-lived secrecy. His green eyes took on their monotonous disinterest again, as he witnessed another of his Chinese friend's anger fits at the lack of taxis in this 300 people town. Inside he smiled, but didn't feel motivated enough to let it onto his face. As he sat down, the image o Wufei had disappeared across the street, probably for a few more years. He never really stayed in contact with his friends, and Trowa began to regret it when he went to sleep that night.
After an uneventful day and after a measly dinner of lutefisk for the fifth day straight, he fell into a sick kind of daze, like after eating a thousand pounds of your favorite candy. And that sickening fish was definitely not his candy… nothing was anymore. He didn't want to sleep; it was only eight o clock but his moaning stomach forced him otherwise. The lanky boy dumped his chipped dishes into the equally chipped sink and let it sit there with about twenty of its brothers. He'd wash them later, just like he'd clean the house later. Later seemed to be the only thing he had time for, now that he had all this freetime. He needed no job; the money Quatre'd transferred as a present to his bank account promised him no more financial problems. His hands found his pockets again and he wandered up to his room upstairs. It was early to go to bed, but it didn't matter. He had nothing to do in the morning.
When his socks came off at the foot of his cot, he began to miss the sound of another human voice. It would have comforted him so much just to hear the Chinese man yell at him or something like that, to have Quatre giggle and sweet talk him. He shook his head and insisted that he'd live without it.
The light swung rhythmically over his head, flickering with disrepair, until Trowa reached over and shut it off. Still in his day clothes, he decided he'd wait for morning to shower and change. Even if he wasn't peach smelling, there was no one but himself to complain of it. He fell backwards into the pillow. It was made of goose feathers and he had to pick one out of his hair. He held it in front of his face for a second, and then tossed it off into the black somewhere. His bed creaked under his measly weight and he curled up like a cat against the wood wall. But even as his body slipped into sleep, his eyes kept open and his thoughts still kept the light on in his head.
The words of Wufei kept coming back again and again and he could picture the tone in his voice perfectly. After a few seconds, he looked up at the wall a few feet up. Even through the evening darkness, he could see the outline of his only picture frame in the house. He pulled it down and considered the happy faces in the picture again, coupled with his friend's words of advice.
Trowa bit his lip.
Maybe just once… No. Quatre would get hurt! But how much more hurt could he get? After all, his father had died… the least he could do was offer sympathy. Somewhere in his mental argument, he fell asleep.
The next day he dressed with less attention than usual and he thought it was his lack of sleep he'd gotten thanks to a sudden attack of insomnia. But when the sun finally brought decent light to his room and he turned to see the mirror, it gave him a sort of awakening slap. It didn't surprise him that he looked like shit under his clothes, he'd been on a sort of forgetful starvation diet where he'd wander off into the misty woods out back and forget the concept of meals completely. It had happened enough to trim quite a few percents of total body fat off him. His skin seemed fine and tanned from all the outdoor time, but it only accentuated his dark bags that hadn't gone away. He certainly didn't seemed presentable to his koi now. But it was his choice of clothes that tipped him off maybe he should anyway.
Pink. He didn't even know he owned pink. He even doubted that anyone in the whole town besides him had a pink shirt. And white pants. Quatre clothes. Perhaps he should see his old boyfriend before he became him…
Trowa got clothes that were more characteristic of him, a black sweater with wide cuffs and his trusty Levi's. They may have been a few years old and tight at his hipbones, but they had grown accustomed to his hard-to-shop-for form. Besides, it was the pair he'd worn on their engagement… and the day of the break up, too, now that he thought about it. He caught his frown in the mirror by accident and decided he looked better without it. A breakfast of Cheerios sufficed him for the moment and he wandered back out onto his porch. He briefly passed by his calendar then scribbled with a pencil off the number 2 in the month of August.
Then it was time to walk.
Walk to the airport.
He hadn't expected there to be so many cops on L-4. It'd taken him the entire day and far into the night to get here, and this only was going to slow him down. He didn't expect to get stopped by security a mile away. The incident had obviously been more strenuous than the press let on. He could recognize tons of analysists, their clipboards clutched like crying children to their breasts, rushing back and forth, dashed by the appearing and disappearance of investigators with beer guts and young bodies alike. He didn't expect too many women though. With Quatre's large amount of sister at close hand, he'd have all the feminist support he could survive.
"Excuse me young man but visitors are not allowed. This is an official crime scene and you could be in danger right now. Please leave," commanded a plain-clothes cop.
"I know that." Trowa's face hardened into a front. "I need to go in, immediately. I'm close to Quatre Winner."
The annoyance in the cop's voice was eminent. "I don't know where you should be, kid, but you're not supposed to be here. Go home and go to bed. The last person I could let you see is him. He's under serious trauma right now." Still convinced he was some smart-ass punk, the man reached forward and attempted to push him back toward the road.
Trowa caught his arm firmly.
"That's why I need to see him. I need to see Quatre."
"Hey, you're his ex, aren't you?" The cop almost sounded incredulous. But the disgust was there too. "Now I'm definitely I'm not going to let you in. Come on, you're coming with me. I'm taking you downtown. I think you qualify for some short questioning."
Trowa tore away. "I think not."
"Come on kid. Don't get cocky. All we need from you is a few questions. You are close to him, no?"
"Yes. I don't deny that."
"Good. Then you can come for questioning. Short. No big deal. Water bottles if you're thirsty, even. Maybe a nice meal if you're polite. You want to help your little lover, don't you? Of course you do. Now, help us help him." The cop again grabbed for his arm but the slim boy dodged easily. "Are you resisting arrest?"
"I didn't know I was being arrested. I shouldn't be."
"Dammit, you're the first kid to get on my nerves you know. I said, it'd help you little friend if you come with me for questioning. We just want information… Or do you not want his father's killer to be caught, huh? Did the breakup leave you a little angry? Come on now. You seem bright… enough. You could have planned this don't you think?"
"That sounds a lot like a threat."
"No threat."
Trowa glared a bit, taking in the wrinkled features of this bent-over beer drinker. "Move aside, please," he said, gritting it through his teeth. The white flashing in the night made him look quite like an angry wolf growling a warning.
"I don't—"
The plain-clothes cop's assistant, who kept shouting across a cop car at him that he had a call from the senator, broke up the standoff abruptly. He turned. "Not now, I got a punk to handle!"
"But he says it's urgent."
"Jesus, those politicians, can't they brownnose somewhere else when I'm busy?! Just a second!" The cop turned but the green-eyed boy had eluded his problem by leaping up into the tree branch above him. A smile lit his lips slightly at the bewildered man and he made his way over the streams of cops crowding the road leading up to the Winner Estate by going from tree to tree. Overhead, he caught glances of the night sky, but when he finally climbed over the gate via a towering elm branch and dropped into the right wing balcony, it was beautiful. It was a pitch-black background, like ones on the clearest nights on Earth, dotted with crystal white lights. It seemed superficial, like the backdrop of a movie, but it was beautiful nonetheless.
He weaved his way through the dark hallways, pausing like a cat at the stairway, lit by the chandelier and echoing with the sound of cops busy at work in summit meetings around the conference table. The second floor, directly below him, was busied by the sound of detectives investigating the scene of the crime, which went through the floorboards below him. The smell of the familiar carpet and the ghostly imagery of the impressionist paintings brought back a sense of exhilaration to him, putting him in the same shoes of an old man somehow again experiencing his youth. His body needed no directions; once past the stairway where he might be heard through, Trowa ran silently to the door he had opened time and time again to see a pair of loving arms awaiting him.
It was empty.
Trowa cursed at the emptiness of Quatre's room. He must have moved, because he instantly noticed the pictures strewn across the floor. The entire place smelled thickly and sweetly of violin rosin and wood. The slim boy paused only a second at the doorway, before shutting it silently and moving on. He scouted the other doors silently, just cracking them open one by one and silently cussing as each one turned up empty. Perhaps they had moved Quatre to a safer place or one of more comfort and used the ploy that he was still here for security during the move? Then he'd be lost again. He had to get to Quatre and apologize before it ate him alive in the form of a bored existence in a wooden cottage on L-3.
Finally, he came to the last bedroom on the floor. Hopefully, he hadn't decided to sleep on the second or first floors; he couldn't risk being seen. His hand wrapped around the knob and he swallowed calmly in a dry throat. He was confronted by moonlight, surprisingly bright, poring in an open balcony and the starkness of an empty white room.
Well, not completely empty.
Quatre was sleeping on a mattress, no sheets or anything of the sort, clutching tightly to a pillow. It had been pulled out quite sloppily, judging by the rotated position it was in. It wasn't aligned with anything in the room. His pale skin and light hair made him seem like a pure white ghost. Or an angel, depending on whether he was still accepting of their relationship. Unlike his normal sleep, Trowa could see him tossing from nightmares and his fevered looking face muttering into the sweaty pillow. A concerned look came across him without thought. He walked over silently and crouched down in front of his koi, blocking the moonlight. His green eyes recognized that face instantly and he felt his peace return.
He smiled.
Quatre looked so innocent in his angst and even though the cuteness of the look brought him to a smile, it truly hurt him to see him hurt. His body reminded him suddenly that he was tired. It must be late into the night, he thought drowsily. Trowa stood up and ducked through the door briefly. He returned a few moments later, Quatre of course oblivious to everything, with a blanket from a nearby guest bedroom.
The tall Latin boy found a place on the mattress besides the nightmare-tormented blonde and yanked it up around first Quatre's shoulder, then his. Subtly, he moved his arms under his koi and under his arm and linked them around his fragile-feeling chest. Trowa felt completely at home, fitting his chin gently against Quatre's neck, and curling up to him like a child to a heat blanket. He watched the sometimes irregular rise and fall of his chest with secretly ecstatic green eyes. Trowa breathed out a breath of relief that his love finally stop tossing in his sleep and actually reacted to his presence. From his flushed lips, he heard him murmur, this time in a warm, buttery fashion and cuddle up to his chin. His white skin was hot from alcohol and Trowa mildly smiled at the fact his koi had drunk something stronger than tea.
"Goodnight, Quatre," he whispered into the blonde's ear.
"Hmmmnn," was the half-conscious reply Quatre uttered. But suddenly, he was fully conscious. Big blue eyes snapped open in stalker-movie fashion, dashed with momentary panic, and he turned roughly, about to scream. Trowa didn't move.
"Trowa?" He sat bolt upright. His voice echoed the walls a bit loud, so he whispered. "Trowa, what the hell are you doing here? You are going to get—"
"Shush. You're going to get me caught, Quat. I'm sorry if I surprised you."
From how his koi was breathing, it sounded like he was about to hyperventilate. "How… How… The guards… they—Guns! Police!"
"It's okay. I'm fine." Trowa sat up as well. "You know that cops can't stop me."
Obviously stressed, Quatre kneaded his bangs repeatedly, his blue eyes searching Trowa's face for an answer he knew he wouldn't get without talking. He blinked and sighed, arching his shoulders in a exhausted fashion. The blonde boy relaxed and let his body sag for a minute. "Why did you come?"
"This—" The tabloid was laid down between them. "—and you look like you need comforting."
Quatre didn't even pick the paper up; he'd seen it. He cast his eyes away, shamed by being played by the paparazzi, and rested his arms on the knees he curled up. "You shouldn't have… and that's nothing. You should have heard the things they said to my face. That I was sleeping with the enemy, you know?"
"Were you?" Trowa asked suggestively, his lips instantly forming a tilted smile of sarcasm.
"No." Quatre obviously hadn't picked up on the humor in that. His blue eyes finally met his. "You shouldn't of come. It's a waste of your time, you could be doing a lot of good for someone else, Tro—"
"Or, I could do even more good for you."
"You don't have to."
"I want to. If I still was upset, would I have come?"
"No." The blonde buried his face into his knees, praying silently for his emotions to hold back just once, dammit. "No… you wouldn't." The latter was directed more toward himself.
"Quatre."
"What?!" he nearly screamed back. "What could you still want from me? I have nothing! I don't deserve you… you… for being so damn nice! And what did I do when I had a little pressure on me? I freaked! — I hurt you because I was cowardly, Trowa! You don't deserve me so just leave, okay? I'm fine."
Trowa didn't budge an inch. His hand rested on Quatre's shoulder, despite the cornered-animal looks his blonde koi shot him in confusion. He didn't even have to think. He let his face open up with a reassuring smile. "You're absurdly cute when you lie, not to mention when you're mad." He laughed to himself. "You know that?"
Quatre's lips moved and parted slightly, but made no sound. His marble-shaped blue eyes were framed by confusion, then slowly, serenity. "So… you're not mad? About the incident?"
Trowa shook his head, breathing out heavily. His hand gripped the blonde's and put it up to the side of his face. "See? All healed. No hit or smack could make me stop loving you." He smiled, even if it was his shy one. "…No, I'm not mad."
"It feels good to hear you say that."
"It feels a lot better to say it finally. And now, Wufei won't have to be so worried." Trowa collapsed back on the pillow. Quatre smiled.
"So he talked to you to." The blonde surpressed the urge to shake his head, and laid down, knowing he'd need it with all the stress he'd been through. All the love from Trowa couldn't erase the hangover he was going to have.
"You have been busy, haven't you?"
"What do you mean?"
"The cops may be dumb, but they're thorough. They mentioned you had two people over in the last two days. Wufei, Mr. Nagosaki's son, and some unknown person."
"Trowa, I swear, it's not like you think."
The brunette snorted and wrapped an arm around his koi's waist. "I wasn't thinking it." He again fell in the position he'd been in, this time enjoying it more. "By the way, Wufei said you'd sent him letters, but he didn't tell me that he'd visited you. It was mentioned in the tabloid."
"Wufei's complex. I think he really wanted to see a couple succeed together after Sally's death. He's still recovering from that," Quatre said passively; sleep already clawing at his eyes. He reached up and guided Trowa's hand to wrap around his stomach. "He's living vicariously through us, in a way."
"Hmm. Your wisdom never ceases to amaze me."
Quatre smiled playfully. "That's what you get for falling in love with an empath." The blonde smiled broadly, with absolute sincerity. "Thanks for coming back, Trowa."
Trowa murmured a happy guttural noise. "You know I can't live without you. You're more addictive than drugs you're so perfect, so intelligent and sweet… and you smell wonderful." Trowa's voice slowly lost its emotion, signaling sleep.
Quatre looked over his shoulder to the calmed face pressed against his neck, and smiled again.
"'Just Say No'," he quoted with mirth. And fell asleep.