Standard Disclaimer: I wish they were mine . . . I wish they were mine . . . Maybe if I chant long enough, the Gundam boys will be mine, because they aren't.

Warnings: language, shonen ai

[blah] = thoughts

Renaissance

By skyprincess

Chapter 8:

The blonde jumped up in bed. The sun shone through his blinds and birds sang outside his window. He then became aware of stinging pain in both of his feet. [How the hell did I end up here? What time is it? Why do my feet hurt? What happened?" His memory of the previous night passed in a vague haze. [Trowa . . . Duo . . . the cabinet!] Quatre leapt to his feet, but quickly regretted that decision as pain shot up both legs. He limped to the living room to inspect his mess. To both his dismay and relief, it was gone. The glass was swept away and the blood was washed out of the rug. What remained of his pictures stood on a small antique table and a standing cage with two colorful lovebirds sat where the cabinet used to be. The braided boy lay, passed out on the sofa, surrounded by a mop, a broom, a few buckets, and some receipts. Quatre could help but smile at the selfless bundle on the sofa. [Duo took care of me . . . he always does.] A look of sincere appreciation passed over the little Arabian's features. [He must be exhausted. I'll just let him sleep.] He yawned. [Besides, I could use some rest myself.]

He stumbled back to his room and flopped onto his fluffy bed. Reaching up, he twisted the blinds up to keep the sun out of his eyes, and then quickly fell into a deep sleep.

Duo slowly rubbed his eyes. "What a long night," he yawned, "I need to get up and get out." He slowly pushed his reluctant body to a standing position and shuffled to his room. After a quick shower and change of clothes, Duo tiptoed to Quatre's bedroom to check on him. A little golden haired figure laid under three layers of blankets. The steady rise and fall of his chest told Duo he'd be fine.

The deathscythe pilot walked into the living room, eyeing it skeptically and with growing concern. [This isn't the safest place in the world . . . especially for Gundam pilots . . . too isolated . . . but I can fix that.] And Duo set to work making some minor adjustments to the room. About an hour later, Duo stood near the entryway, dusting his hands, "Much better." He then turned and headed for the elevator.

A teal jeep sped down the highway; the driver's braid trailed behind him and his bangs whipped around his face. His carefree driving style belied his present feelings. So much confusion swelled within him. He didn't know who he was anymore. "Once again, Duo you are the nameless lost orphan to the world," he cried out, letting his words get lost in the wind.

He pulled into a spot in the city's parking garage and shut off the engine. Hopping out, he prepared to head into town, but stopped dead in his tracks. Duo had a sixth sense that warned him of impending danger. Perhaps it came from his close connection with Shinigami. He didn't know its origin and, quite frankly, didn't care. All that mattered was that at that moment he felt eyes burning into him. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and his stomach nearly flipped. The violet eyes darkened as the felling hit. [Someone's following me.] This feeling wasn't a fleeting sweat drop, or superstitious achy joint. It was as steady as a heartbeat and it flowed through every fiber of his being as natural as breathing.

He walked out naturally leading this "secret admirer" to a place where they could become more acquainted. Duo, well aware of the figure trailing him, wove through the streets and ducked into the alley. As he walked several steps into the passage, he disappeared into the shadows. He saw a dark figure enter the dimly lit passageway. Duo materialized behind his pursuer. "Looking for someone?" he asked smugly.

"Why yes, Duo, I am," came the coolly calm response.

Duo recognized that voice: deep, still, unwavering, "Trowa! How dare you follow me!"

The tall boy turned to face him, "At least I don't duck into an alley like a common thief."

"First of all, I'm far better than common. Second, I can't believe you would dare to show your face after what you did to Quatre," Duo wanted to ruffle those perfect bangs and smash Trowa's pretty little face.

The emerald eyes clearly displayed pain at Duo's words, "I'm not here to start trouble . . . I want to talk to you."

"Why the hell do you want to talk to me?"

"Can we go somewhere a little more comfortable to have this discussion?"

"Sure, I know just the place," Duo said leading Trowa to a certain corner café.

************************************************************************

"Hey Maggie!" Duo said as he slid into his favorite booth.

"Hi Duo! What can I do for you?"

"The usual."

"Cheeseburger and cherry coke. Okay. And for your friend?"

"I'll have the herbed chicken soup," cam Trowa's nearly monotone response.

"Those'll be right out for ya," she said with a smile and bustled away towards the kitchen.

"Now," Duo began, "What brings you here and why are you following me."

"I . . . I . . . I was checking on Quatre, and wanted to make sure he was getting taken care of."

"Why do you care? You're the one who left him."

Trowa kept the calm façade; a survival technique he had learned long ago, but his eyes gave him away. The emerald depths glistened with tears unshed. Looking deep into them, Duo saw something he recognized: a sadness, a loneliness. Trowa's words came slowly, "Duo, do you think I hate Quatre?"

"Well, after you left him with no warning, how can I assume you like him very much?"

Their conversation paused as Maggie set down their food and they both offered brief thanks.

"Duo, I love him."

"What?!"

"I love him so much that his happiness is more important than my own."

"But he's miserable."

"Now he is, but in time, he'll be happier than he ever could have been with me."

"I don't understand."

"Listen, Quatre is the right person for me. He gave me compassion, support, and love; things I didn't know existed. But I'm not the right person for him. He needs someone who will talk to him, who can make him laugh, who will always be there when he's in trouble. I can't be that person for him, and as hard as it's been to leave him, I know in my heart that he'll be better off in the long run."

"So that's what he meant," the braided pilot murmured thoughtfully.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh! Nothing."

They ate for a few moments in uncomfortable silence.

"Anyway, I love Quatre and I'm sure that a part of me always will." Trowa's expression changed, the softened emotional features shifted to a protectively furrowed brow. "I know you two are . . . close. Take care of him, Duo."

"I swore that I'd protect him, and I will."

"There's far more to it than just protecting."

Trowa's last statement confused the braided boy. [More to what?] He sat glass halfway to mouth, which hung open in unformed words, and he stared at his mysterious comrade.

Trowa smirked at the American's confused expression, stifling a laugh. [That'll get him thinking.] He peered out under his bangs; the green eyes studied the face across the table. He watched the confusion subside as Duo regained control of his emotions. The uncertainty gave way to possessiveness. "I promised I'll take care of him," the deathscythe pilot growled. He knew Trowa was toying with him; he always plays mind games.

"That's what I hoped you'd say," Trowa sighed placing a $20 bill on the table. "Have a good day, Duo. And don't forget your promise." Without further explanation, the Latin boy left the café.