Part 8: Never Love
Author's notes: The final chapter will be up tomorrow or Wednesday at the very latest. ^_^; Sorry, deadline for the school newspaper, and play practice on top of that.
Words between * are thoughts. They got messed up again last time. -_-;
Quatre removed himself from his economy seat on the 7:45 flight reluctantly. His side ached as he unfolded himself, fished for his carry-on, which he had stuffed under the seat. The woman next to him woke with a start, looking blankly at the novel that she had opened on her lap just after take-off. She smiled ruefully and shook her head when she saw that she was still on page one. Quarte watched as she brushed long, lithe fingers through her wispy hair, searching for her hair tie, which was lying crooked against her neck. She started to straighten it but left it as a flight attendant's voice came on stale over the intercom.
"Please make your way to the door at the front of the plane. We hope that you have enjoyed flying with us. Thank you."
Quatre sidestepped into the aisle, clutching onto the back of another seat as one of his legs began to tingle. He couldn't feel his foot on the floor.
Looking up quickly as something dropped past his face, he saw that the woman who had been sitting next to him had pulled her duffel bag from the overhead compartment with a flourish. He started forward as she reached the end of the aisle. They both stopped; the man behind Quatre cleared his throat.
"Go ahead," the woman said quickly just as Quatre was moving backward, muttering an apology. He caught himself, smiled at her.
"Thanks."
"No prob."
***
He wandered into the baggage claim area, studiously ignoring all the people who had someone to greet them. He only had to wait a few moments to collect his suitcase, which was a welcome surprise.
Suitcase straining to slip from his hand, he marched to the customs desk while fishing in his pocket for his passport. He found the tiny blue book, wrinkled and bent and held it tightly in his hand, his fingers ruffling through the worn pages.
It was only when he reached the customs desk that he again encountered the woman from the plane. She smiled at him and did not object when he caught her up after going under the scrutiny of the lizard-faced man behind the counter.
"I hate airports," she announced at once. "Especially ones in other countries."
"What brings you here?" Quatre asked. She seemed startled a little by the question.
"Oh, actually, I'm going to report on a story for the Associated Press.
"Of America," she added. "My boss wants me to see exactly what's going on with the Relena Peacecraft situation."
"I hope you'll have something good to report," Quatre said politely before excusing himself to board a shuttle bus, relieved that she hadn't outwardly recognized him.
***
*Moscow coughs,* Quatre thought as the filthy white bus he was on rattled and bumped its way down a road overlooking the city. The sky above the city was gray; there were no defining edges to tell cloud from sky. The buildings sat forlornly, long used to the dirt that streaked down their sides and the sickly pale brown of their neighbors. The city huddled in on itself, coughing softly, constantly. Quatre wondered why it just didn't give one great heave of effort to clear everything away.
When he had left home, he'd been very anxious to comfort Relena, but now that he had arrived he was feeling apprehensive. The Preventers had been intercepting all the news from Moscow, and he was sure that Noin and Sally were telling him an edited version of what was happening.
He was still eager to help her, like he had been at their wedding. He felt it inside of him; it flowed through his veins whenever he thought of her. Yet, it made him sick to realize that he was wearing down, himself. He wasn't strong enough.
Lately, wherever he went he believed that others could see the same thing. It showed in their gestures, their words. It showed in the silence that shook him, wearing away at him. It spoke: little whispers that seemed to betray him and made him the most ardent believer of his own weakness.
There were wild moments of fear and doubt when he couldn't stop himself from thinking that she would die and that he would fail. Those thoughts, like vipers circling ever closer around him, left him pale and drained. In her absence, he had even sunk so low as to begin questioning their love.
*But it wasn't supposed to be love. Never love.*
Even as the thought blew through his head, he knew it was wrong. It was supposed to have been love. It had been love, for awhile, but there was something pulling at both of them.
Quatre stumbled down the bus' steps, still wrapped in thought. He barely noticed the cracked sidewalk under his feet or the people that walked by him, alone or in groups, all silent. He had just realized with a little shock that he should look up to get his bearings when someone took his bag.
He whirled, dulled fury trying to work its way upon his features. Trowa stood tall and straight before him, Quatre's bag at his feet, his eyes studying Quatre solemnly under the shadow of his hair. Quatre took his friend's hand, smiling wearily up at him. He noticed with an aching relief that Trowa seemed brighter and sharper than the city around him. He was still there. For a moment, Quatre wondered why he was afraid that Trowa wouldn't be.
***
Trowa smiled in spite of himself, though he was glad that he had managed one when he risked a furtive glance at his friend and saw him visibly relax. He walked beside Quatre, carefully matching their steps so that he could keep his friend in sight, hoping that Quartre wouldn't notice that or Trowa's expression. He wasn't sure what showed on his face, but a terrible sense of something missing was dominating his thoughts.
*I can't have expected him to hug me,* he thought, disgusted with himself, and knew at once that that had been exactly, if not what he had expected, then what he had wanted. He looked at Quatre and wanted to take his hand. He wanted a connection. He might have had that from anyone, but it had to be *him.*
Together, they strode quickly up the hill that would take them to the capital. When they reached the top, Trowa put a hand on Quatre's shoulder to keep him from rushing off right away to find Relena.
"Trowa where is she?" Quatre asked, turning to Trowa with eyes bright with anxiety.
"They're holding her in the capital building, itself," Trowa murmured, his voice muffled by Quatre's puckered eyebrows and slight frown. He ran his eyes quickly over the disordered hair, pale skin, and sorrowful mouth. He couldn't look into Quatre's eyes. "But I have to tell you something before you go see her."
"What's wrong?" Quatre asked immediately. Trowa felt and ugly, jealous sort of pride when he realized that all of Quatre's attention was focused on him.
"Come with me," Trowa said in answer, leading Quatre to a stone bench that squatted under the brittle, leafless boughs of a tree that looked as though it had been roughly sketched onto the air with charcoal.
"Heero's here," Trowa said abruptly, almost before they had sat down. Quatre shook out his coat sleeves until they covered his bare hands and turned toward Trowa.
"Wh-Really?" Quatre said, a smile suddenly softening his face. "Trowa, that's great! Have they seen each other yet seen each other yet? I mean…I know he upset Relena, but really, once they talk…and he'll be able to help her, more than I was."
Shadows slipped quietly over his face until he looked as though he was trapped, pressed underneath them. Trowa looked away. He watched a yellow and green splotched leaf skid wildly toward him; it caught on the toe of his boot for a moment before it was pulled away by the wind like a child on a leash.
"They've seen each other," Trowa finally said into the silence that boxed them in, separating them from the others that were walking around the capital. "I…spoke with Heero. He's not been able to completely fulfill his guarding duties. I told him that he should leave, and Quatre, I threatened him. I know you don't like it," he said in a rush, to forestall any questions that would probably disintegrate his control and leave him babbling like an idiot. "And it didn't work, of course. I should have realized that (*but I wanted to protect you,* he thought). He's still here, but he's staying now because he loves her. Quatre—"
The fragile pain in Quatre's face made the comforting words that Trowa had been about to say freeze on his lips.
Quatre turned from him, shoved his hands into the pockets of his black overcoat.
"I probably shouldn't go see her then."
"Quatre, it's not your fault," Trowa said, feeling worse as soon as the words had escaped into the open air. They were so pitifully hollow.
"No," Quatre stated firmly. "I wasn't able to help her like I said I would." His pale, drawn face hung low, and he stared at nothing with hard eyes. "Heero…Heero can help her better than I could ever be able to. I might have been able to get her back to work, but they're in love, Trowa. And that's so much more important."
Trowa nodded. After that he found himself looking at everything else just to avoid looking at his friend. Finally he had to speak or risk losing everything that was keeping them there, together.
"Quatre, I'm sorry." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Quatre jump slightly as if he was pulled from his own thoughts.
***
Quatre had been thinking of how easy it would be, now that everything had been said, to let Relena be with Heero, when Trowa spoke. And he remembered. Not everything was finished yet. *What am I going to do afterward?*
"Why? You shouldn't be, Trowa," he said, puzzled by this feeling that he had more to do.
"I nearly ruined everything." Trowa stood, looking out over the city.
"But…" Then he remembered. The kiss. The way Trowa looked like he was…deteriorating after the wedding. After the brush of memories had faded away, leaving him clear-headed and exquisitely alert, he knew that he had to help Trowa. As much as he could, even if he wasn't able to and fell short again. He had to make the effort.
He stood and moved slowly to stand beside Trowa, noticing in a rush of perfect admiration that he was still standing tall.
"Trowa," he said, looking earnestly into Trowa's eyes as he jumped and whirled to face him. "Trowa, let's take a walk."
***
Relena was sliding her fingers through some loose threads that hung from her coat when Heero came into the room to which they had confined her. Her eyes were closed, and her head rested against the wall. A wisp of hair brushed against her cheek, livened a little by the slight draft that issued from the heating vents on the floor.
He went right to her and touched her arm when she didn't immediately notice him. She stretched slightly and opened her eyes, which seemed to reflect hope and suffering in thousands of crystal pieces. Heero silently reprimanded himself. Even if he finally realized what he wanted and even and had support of one of his friends, that was no reason to become a sappy romantic.
Relena stood, looking into his face all the while.
"Heero," she murmured, surprise stealing softly into her voice. "They let you in? How did you know?"
"Since the first answer is obvious," Heero said smiling faintly, his heart constricting again as she smiled back, "I'll just go ahead with the second one. The governor's secretary told me. You're trial is set for tomorrow."
"That soon."
"You don't seem worried," Heero said, wanting to follow her as she wandered along the opposite wall, running a finger along the bottom of a picture frame, touching the leather-bound books that were scattered across the desk in the corner. She turned toward him, tucked the stray wisp of hair behind her ear.
"I'm trying not to be. I didn't kill him," she said wearily. Heero immediately nodded and saw color wash back into her face. She straightened her posture and smiled at him. "Heero…thank you.
" I saw the man who did it," she continued. "I got there right after. But I don't want to condemn him."
"You won't have to. They don't have enough evidence to convict you," Heero said, protectiveness rumbling through his chest and voice.
"When you came in," she said, waving a hand toward the bench on which she had been sitting. "I was thinking about that. Actually, I was trying to get away for just a few minutes. …It just feels like so much is going to be happening tomorrow." She walked stiffly over to the bench and sank down onto it. "I keep wanting to take today and stretch it out like a rubber band." She sighed. "But it would be better if it were still yesterday."
Heero knew exactly what he should do. He should go to her and hold her, kiss her forehead and let her rest her head on his shoulder. And to his great surprise, that's exactly what he did.
***
Oleena bustled down the hall, Ilya's laundry clutched against her chest as if the thread-bare clothes were a baby's wrappings. She passed the narrow shower door and stomped to a halt when she heard water running. Huffing indignantly, she banged her fist against the thin wood.
"I better not have to refill that cistern when you're done, boy," she growled threateningly.
"Don't worry, 'Leena," called back a cheeky voice from within. "There's still a trickle up there."
Oleena threw up her hands, laundry waving, as Ilya came out with a towel wrapped around his narrow hips. She tried her best to glower at him but couldn't help but notice how his skin was pulled taunt over his cheekbones and the way his smile seemed different, older, more tired.
She pushed the laundry into his arms, "Make sure you change into these clothes soon, boy. While they're still warm from the sun."
She turned on her heel and stalked down the length of the hall, muttering about dishes and washing that had not yet been done, leaving Ilya to stare after her, soaking up the warmth of his clothes against his chest.
***
Ilya trudged down the stairs a few minutes later, the warmth that embraced him making him weak and giddy with pleasure, to hear Oleena's voice boom abruptly through the whole house.
He jogged the rest of the way to the kitchen, falling clumsily against the door when his hand slipped on the catch.
The voices behind the door hushed as he came in. An older man, his beard neatly trimmed, the rest of his hair tucked away under a scarlet fur cap, sat on the edge of a rickety wooden chair, his arms splayed out on the table and his blue eyes flashing. He wore a white shirt and black leggings, all under a thick fur overcoat, its seams encrusted with yellow dirt.
Oleena sat opposite him, looking murderous. Her round face was tinged red, and she moved her feet restlessly, frowning sternly the whole time.
The man jumped to his feet and gestured wildly at Ilya as though he were the answer to an impossible question.
"See!" he shouted indignantly. "This one returns from his mission, and yet my son does not! You are protecting your runts, your waifs, while capable men are dying to save us!
"And even now your plan does not work," he continued, his eyes glinting madly. "In the papers. Today. Did you not see? The governor is dead, and still they hold the festival. Celebrating our deaths." He spat, his mouth twisted in disgust, and folded his arms over his chest.
Ilya took a step back, glanced at Oleena for an answer. She had her hands braced on her wide hips and was glaring down at the floor.
"The trial," she said slowly. "It will be public. When the square is full, and they have brought her out, we will act. When we kill Relena Peacecraft, Moscow's government will have to account for it. While they are making their most sorrowful apologies, Moscow will attack."
