Standard Disclaimer: Not mine blah, blah, blah . . .
Warnings: cross-dressing, shonen ai, strong language, nervous breakdown
A/N: This is one of my favorite chapters. I hope you all like it too.
Renaissance
By skyprincess
Chapter 7:
A light rustle tore Duo from his thoughts. He looked up and saw a blonde "girl" standing hesitantly at the edge of the garden. The look of uncertainty on Quatre's face brought a smile to Duo's. He stood and strolled over to where his friend stood. Foregoing a greeting, the braided boy simply asked, "How'd it go?"
"The rooms? We're in."
"Great! I'll move my stuff up Saturday."
They walked back to the dorms in a subdued silence, and went their separate ways with minimal farewells. Duo unlocked his door, all the while whistling. Tommy sat just in side with a parent's you're-home-past-curfew look on his face. "Where the hell have you been?" he fumed.
"Out."
"With who?"
"What business is it of your?"
"I'm your roommate; I have a right to know."
"Humph. Not for long."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm moving in with someone else."
"When?! Who?!"
"If you must know . . . Saturday. Quat."
"What?!?!"
"I don't have time for this. I need a shower."
Tommy yelled after him as he left the room, "Oh yeah, real mature . . . walk out on our conversation."
Saturday came in the blink of an eye and the two pilots spent majority of the day moving Duo's personal items. They celebrated with dinner; Duo cooked. Quatre savored every bite of the amazingly good stuffed chicken, "I didn't know you could cook, Duo." Duo's only answer was a wink.
The weeks passed in this happy arrangement. As it turns out, Quatre loved playstation, especially epic role-playing games, like Final Fantasy and Vagrant Story. Duo, on the other hand, found a special connection to Dante's "The Divine Comedy."
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On a starless Saturday night, Quatre sat in the room alone, staring into the china cabinet. "Two years. Today would have been two years. I bet you don't think about that though. You're too busy thinking about yourself," the words were mumbled and barely coherent. Tears clouded his eyes, while his thoughts were overcast with grief. The petite frame shook so violently, that it almost appeared to break. He choked on his forceful sobs as his emotional dam broke.
"Was it just a game?!" he screamed into the empty room, "Cute, little innocent Quatre. Don't worry about him, he'll be fine . . ." His rants trailed off and for a brief second, the hurricane of heartbreak seemed to pass, but it was only the eye of the storm.
The azure eyes locked on the large cabinet as if spotting the enemy. Instantly, he was on his feet, lunging at the cherry armoire and practically ripping its doors off.
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"Man, what a great basketball game," Duo told the elevator, "I played like a champ . . . and they say white boys can't jump." He chuckled to himself as the doors prepared to open. Upon entering the hallway, he heard a loud crash coming from his and Quatre's room. Fear gripped his heart. [My God! Quatre!] Without wasting a moment, Duo was in the door and down the hall, but he wasn't prepared for what lay ahead.
Quatre stood in the middle of a pile of broken glass, from the doors he had ripped from the china cabinet. Tears flowed down the flushed cheeks in steady streams. His swollen eyes glazed over and the sounds that escaped his mouth were not words. They sounded more like broken weeping mingled with a strangled battle cry.
Duo watched in horror as his gentle friend extracted a small picture in a glass frame from the remains of the cabinet, studied it for a few seconds, and then heaved it at the wall. Quatre wasn't breathing; it was more like infrequent spasms of the lungs. He pulled out a figurine of a flautist and repeated the process.
He then pulled out a rather large picture in an ornate white ceramic frame. His voice cracked, "I'm not a fucking doll! I am not to be toyed with Trowa! You can't just put me on the shelf, forget about me, and expect me to be there when you get back! I'm not you're precious angel! I'm not perfect and I've got fucking feelings! I'm not so optimistic that it didn't hurt when you left. I'm not the sweet innocent! For you I would have gone to hell and back! I would have been anything you wanted! But it wasn't goddamn enough! Two fucking years, you flushed at the blink of an eye, the drop of a hat, with out a second thought! Fuck you and your selfish pretensions! Oh wait, I already did that!"
Before he could throw the heavy picture at the wall, he felt two strong arms wrap around him; pinning his arms to his sides, yet maintaining a compassionate hug. The smell of chamomile and jasmine flooded his senses, and his rage abandoned him in the comforting touch of his dearest friend. He collapsed, sobbing, into Duo's steady arms.
The brunette held his smaller friend; Quatre seemed to shrink at that moment. Wilted in Duo's firm grasp, the fragile body trembled with every breath. Fragments of incoherent thoughts escaped his lips, "Years . . . today . . . two . . . left . . . over . . . over . . ."
Realization struck Duo. [Jesus fucking Christ! Today was their anniversary!] He softly stroked the little Arabian's back, whispering in his ear, "Shh. I know it hurts and you feel all alone and it seems like there's only darkness, but there's hope. There's always hope. You helped me learn that."
Quatre's own words seemed so far away. He felt like he was falling. He clung to his friend for support, for strength, for . . . hope.
Duo continued, "Don't worry pal, I'll protect you. From this day on, I swear that no one will hurt you like this again. I won't let 'em." He pulled the weeping blonde into his arms and carried him to the sofa. "No one will hurt you ever again . . . I promise."
Just after placing his semi-conscious friend on the couch, Duo realized both of Quatre's feet were bleeding. Immediately, Quatre was back in his arms and he rushed to the bathroom. He sat the small pilot on the bench of the rather large whirlpool tub. The braided boy rolled Quatre's khaki pants up to his knees and studied the delicate blood covered feet. After removing his jacket, the deathscythe pilot began to extract shards of glass, like an expert podiatrist.
The task proved to be a difficult one for several reasons. First of all, the clear glass was hard to spot amongst the slotting blood and folds of skin. Secondly, he had to pull out the pieces without making the wounds worse. The process was tedious and time-consuming.
After all of the shards were removed and glass filled the small plastic garbage can, Duo grabbed the detachable showerhead and began rinsing the crimson liquid from the ivory feet. When he had thoroughly cleansed the appendages, Duo searched the cabinets for topical medications or ointments. All he could find were isopropyl alcohol and bacitrin. [The alcohol will hurt, but he's half asleep, so it shouldn't be too bad.] The violet-eyed boy meticulously poured the hospital cleaner in the cuts. Quatre winced slights in his semisomnambulic state. Duo then rubbed bacatrin on the wounds and pulled fresh cotton socks onto the raw feet. He scooped Quatre up and carried the limp from to his bed. Removing the khakis and button down, Duo tucked his exhausted friend under the covers. Then, with determination, he set to work cleaning up the mess in the living room.