Feel privileged, my cuddly readers! Not only do you get the next chapter earlier than I'd planned, but it's a long chapter! And it's really one of the best, I think. Sorry to those who've been waiting, but the lime won't happen until next chapter. But when it does, oh, will there be hormones a-flying. So now, let us rejoin Trowa and Quatre in part five of Parapsychology. This chapter is dedicated to Anne Olson, who runs a very nice website, writes some damn good 3x4 fics, and sent me a very nice email.
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Though he was not easily frightened, it was a shock to find that Trowa was lodging in the quarters once belonging to Trois Barón. A cold feeling of dread entered the pit of his stomach as he sat down on the bed, surveying his surroundings with unnerved scrutiny. An old, rickety easel propped up in the corner, the wooden palette hooked around the canvas mount, flecks of long-dried paint still clinging to it. A vase of brushes sat on a desk, next to an old inkpot and blotter, as well as a set of quills. A glass case held a lovingly used flute, and a violin that belonged to 'a dear friend' as the metal placard underneath read. A tapestry hung over the desk, one of Saint Jeanne d'Arc, looking glorious and triumphant.
Trowa fell back onto the lumpy pillow, staring up at the ceiling and the iron chandelier that swung around above him, the electric candles flickering cheerily. His gaze snagged on a gilt frame that was just out of his vision, and he rose and turned on his knees, looking at a painting hanging just above his headboard. Seraph, by Monsieur Trois Barón, the metal plaque stated. He choked on his heart, which had risen up into his throat. The subject was smiling beatifically, holding his hands out as if to say, "Fear not," for his beauty was terrifying. Hair like spun gold curled around his face, falling into his eyes, giving him an almost cherubic look. The face was heart-shaped, the curve of the jaw delicately rounded, but did not make him look any less male, and the added femininity made the creature all that more appealing. Long blonde lashes framed aquamarine eyes the blue of placid ocean water, eyes that mirrored the peace and love the seraph projected. Perfect skin, peaches and cream complexion so pale it was nearly translucent, was dusted with a light blush. Slightly parted lips the flawless shade of pale rose begged to be bruised with kisses. And protruding from pale, perfect shoulders were a pair of ivory wings, the feathers glistening with brilliant opulence. All about this creature shone a corona of pure, unadulterated light that gave him a radiance that nearly made Trowa weep for its beauty.
"Quatre…Lord Almighty, Quatre," he murmured, extending a hand to trace the angel's dusty cheek with his fingertips, run them across painted lips. He pulled the box out of his pocket, lifting the ring into his palm. Trowa rubbed the metal on his shirt hem, trying to return its shine. He ran his fingers along the cool surface, rubbing and caressing the soft metal until it glowed as though it were never discolored, revealing a beautiful silver band. It was so very small, Trowa just barely made it fit on his smallest finger. He felt compelled to wear the ring, and somehow having it against his skin made him feel completed. He stretched out his long legs and untied the bow holding the stack of envelopes together, the dried rose dropping to the bedspread.
With trembling fingers, Trowa freed the letter from its envelope, being more than careful not to damage the centuries-old writings that he held in his shaking hand. He'd written these words nearly two hundred years ago…all right, maybe not himself personally, but some part of him.
'Dearest Quatre,
Sending letters to one's own house is unorthodox, yes, but if this is the only way I can truly loose my tongue in your presence, so be it. I am quite smitten with you, Quatre, and if God finds this to be a damnable offense, then at least I will find comfort in Purgatory if only by your smiling visage. I care not that your father wishes to marry you off to some ninny who wants only for your wealth and status, for the greatest treasure you possess is your soul, which has called unto mine own. Do not stare at this letter so, with your disbelief clear on your beautiful face. Coy as you are, I have seen your subtle flirtations and the darling way you blush when my name is uttered. I know that your heart is rebelling against your judgment, as mine is now, even as I pen these words, an outpouring of my soul. If you follow your heart into my arms, I promise I shall take you far from this prison of social arrogance that aggrieves you so. Give me your answer as only you can, beloved Little One.
Always Yours,
Trois.'
Trowa felt his heart bleed, aching for the love he once felt and the rekindled fire within the core of his being. Having read one letter, he now felt a burning addiction, and he sat on the bed for hours, poring over the words written in what was once his own hand. But unabashed admiration and love was soon besmirched with trepidation that became harder to mollify with pretty words. Trois' letters began to run on the desperate side, trying to assuage the growing anxiety Quatre must have been feeling. Trois would voice his concern in his correspondence, grateful that two of Quatre's sisters, Brigitte and Iria, were part of their inner circle, but still worried that the rest would discover their cloistered affair and bring it before the patriarch. And if that should happen, Trois would mention, Quatre's very life would be in grave peril. Homosexuality was still considered in this day and age something wicked and sinful, even though time had yet to banish such imprudent notions.
Soon the envelopes began bearing address, unlike the previous ones, which only bore Quatre's name. Trois had gone abroad, taking his painting of the seraph Quatre and his faerie companions, his sisters, both of whom being the subject of Trois' other portrait. In his correspondence he promised to return by Quatre's twenty-third birthday to collect him and take the young man to Versailles, where he had an eclectic cousin who would be more than happy to take in a pair of refugee lovers. He had sent Quatre the silver ring in another envelope, calling it their engagement ring. And then, by some cruel punishment, he reached the last letter. It was dated the first of July, a full week after Quatre's birthday, the day Trois was supposed to come and collect him.
My Quatre,
I was held up in Corsica by a tempest most foul, and am now on my way to Sanq to take you away from that hellish bondage that has you so fearful. I am, from the pit of my soul, most sorry for the delay. I would've driven straight through the tumult, but it was forbidden. Mail could not even leave the inn I was lodged at during this maelstrom. I hope you are holding out hope, beloved, and have not taken to any extremes. Knowing you, you are waiting patiently by your window, watching the roses bloom; playing a song on your violin that touches me, even here on the path back to France. Oh, to see you again, my Quatre. I will whisk you away to beautiful Versailles and be wed in the company of saints and angels, and perhaps a cleric who will be willing to perform the ceremony. And then you will never have to worry about your father trying to force your inheritance down your throat, for we will be far away. Perhaps we will sail to America; I hear wonderful things about Boston and Salem-town. I am flying to you on seraph's wings, my angel, my Little One; keep your chin up until we are joined once again.
Your loving fiancé,
Trois.
Within the same envelope was a telegraphed message, one that had been sent to Trois by the two Winner sisters who had so faithfully helped their brother and his beloved.
To Monsieur Trois Barón:
Do not come back to Sanq (stop) Quatre threw himself from his bedroom window and has died (stop) If you wish to pay your respects at his funeral you are most welcome to but be prepared to have a very good lie (stop) Father knows all (stop) We will support you in any way because you loved our brother as much as we did (stop)
Respectfully yours: Mademoiselles Iria and Brigitte Winner [1]
Trowa didn't even realize he'd been crying until he brought the back of his hand across his eyes and it came back wet and glimmering with warm, acerbic tears. He drew in a sharp, shuddering breath, glancing sorrowfully downwards at the letters and the desiccated rose petals littering his bedspread.
"Barton? What the hell is your problem?" Wufei asked acrimoniously, leaning slackly against the doorframe, golden-skinned arms folded across a well-toned chest. Trowa's head shot up, ivy eyes red-rimmed and wide, pupils dilated to mere specks of black.
"Wufei! Nothing, it's nothing. An eyelash in my eye, that's all," he replied quickly, trying to mollify his colleague with a careless smile that ended up seeming more forced than anything. Wufei shot him a withering look, as if to say, "You really think I'm that stupid as to fall for something like that?"
"Right. Heero wants to know if you have any explicit instructions for the midnight taping or if we should just proceed as we did earlier."
"Actually, Wufei, tell him to turn off all the equipment. I don't want any feed to the garden, and I don't want anyone going down there," Trowa dictated.
Wufei bristled, looking mildly surprised. "For a minute there I thought you said you didn't want us to do our job, which is to record any behaviors exhibited by a Class Three anomaly and study them."
"That's exactly what I said, Wufei. We're here until Monday afternoon; there will be plenty of opportunities to collect data. I think we need to leave Qu…the anomaly alone for at least one of his haunts. We don't want to do anything that would upgrade him to a Class Three Malevolent, now would we?"
Wufei grumbled something under his breath, threw his hands up in aggravation, and left, quietly cursing and mumbling about injustices.
Trowa's shoulders heaved in a sigh; another ragged breath catching in his throat. Things seemed to be escalating to a point beyond his control. He'd gone from innocent bystander, the unwitting scientist who only came to seek knowledge and the wisdom that his field of study could provide, the knowledge that something exists after death, to an active participant in a drama that continued to unfold some two hundred years into the future. He was torn between the logic of Trowa Barton, parapsychologist, and the unceasing adorations of Trois Barón, nineteenth century painter and paramour. The voice of reason was about ready to figuratively crack him over the head for even considering something so unbelievably stupid as falling in love with something intangible and…well, dead. But his heart of hearts wept for the chasm that was life and afterlife, separating two lovers tossed by time and from windows.
"Someone's in a quandary!" sang a voice in his head. Trowa groaned. He'd forgotten that the voice of revelry and mischief, too infrequently listened to, sounded much like a melding of Duo and Hilde. Perhaps it was Duo and Hilde, he could never tell. Psychics were never really his field of interest.
"Shut up. I don't need to listen to you, I can sort my own problems out," he shot back, bitterly shaking his head while folding up the letters and retying them into their neat little packet.
"Don't need to, or don't want to?"
Trowa wanted to abrogate the whole conversation, but the voice in his head decided there would be no stopping now that it had begun its tirade.
"You're a firm believer in fate, aren't you? It's kind of like you're getting a second chance with this kid, so better not blow it this time, dumb ass."
"Yeah, but Quatre died, I'm still alive," Trowa protested acerbically, though his voice sounded slightly feeble and wavering, as though his heart just wasn't into the debate. "Don't know about you, but that's not something one does."
"So? Didn't Hilde tell you that you were going to score big with some blonde on this little vay-cay? Isn't Quatre blonde? Think about that, Casanova. You're on your own." The little voice retreated back into his psyche after that, leaving Trowa to mull over his predicament by himself, which was what he much preferred anyways.
"Well?" he asked himself, checking his watch and getting up. "Eleven fifty-five. He at least deserves to be heard out. What happens from there, I'll just have to see."
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By the time Trowa had maneuvered his way past his colleagues, down the stairs and out into the garden, it was one minute until midnight. True to his word, Wufei had managed to convince Heero to turn off all of the equipment. Trowa glanced around the setting, taking everything in. Gravel walkways snaked elegantly around the grounds, like a gray river languidly flowing past raised flowerbeds and boxwood hedges, under iron arches and past granite benches. The beds were awash with fragrant roses, the bushes thick and full of life, sharp thorns guarding the delicate blossoms with their petals straining to touch the sliver of moon that hung in the blue-black sky. Small electric fairy-lights marked the paths around the garden, and a fountain gurgled from somewhere on the grounds. Trowa seated himself on a bench placed in front of a bush drooping with white and red roses, one that was below a window in the tower high above, a window still open, a candle flickering on the sill.
From within, the deep cacophony of the grandfather clock dolefully belled out midnight, while Trowa's watch added its own response with a pitiful beep. He sighed gravely, slowly beginning the count. Four minutes to wait, four minutes that felt like an eternity as they sluggishly crept by. Anxious and now gnawing on his lower lip, Trowa pressed the illumination button on his watch. Five minutes, twenty-three seconds past midnight, and Quatre was late. He cleared his throat.
"I'm alone and the equipment is off, Quatre. It's safe to come out."
The roses started nodding to an unseen breeze, their thick scent growing stronger, until Trowa could taste it in the back of his mouth. Gravel crunched under invisible feet, drawing closer. The candle in the upstairs window suddenly guttered out. A bluish haze appeared not far from where Trowa sat, slowly taking form. A young man of not much more than five feet, seven inches drew himself up proudly, bowing slightly with genteel elegance. Though his skin was transparent and had a bluish tinge, and his hair was now platinum-white, the aqua eyes of Quatre Winner shone with as much brightness as they ever had. A smile crossed his too-pale features.
"Good evening, Dr. Barton," he murmured in his dulcet, echoing tenor.
"Trowa, it's Trowa," he corrected, motioning for his companion to sit. Quatre complied, and the hairs on the back of Trowa's neck began to raise from the coldness of the young ghost beside him.
"I see you found my ring. Did you read my letters as well?" he asked quietly.
Trowa nodded. "I think you need to explain a few things for me, Quatre."
"What's there to explain?" was the bitter reply. "My lover abandoned me, and in my grief I committed suicide. You already knew that, Trowa."
"That's not true, Quatre, I know it isn't true. You loved m…him too much to just kill yourself. Please, tell me. You can trust me, Quatre. I want to know what happened, how you really died, why you are at unease."
"Why? So I can move on to my afterlife? I won't go. No scientist can make me."
Trowa smiled, admiring his stubborn will. "I'm not here to make you go anywhere. It's your afterlife; you spend it the way you want to. I was just hoping I could get to know the real Quatre Winner."
Quatre sighed, looking away in shame for a moment, and then turned his soulless eyes back up at Trowa, pain vividly clear on his translucent face.
"I…I was in love with him, with Trois. He was under my father's employ for the longest time, working as an artist and musician, our own personal entertainer. Papa was, at that time, trying to marry me off to the girl with the largest dowry, so I would ensure him of a future and heirs to the Winner family fortune. I didn't care about the fortune, I've never cared about the fortune. Trois knew that, too. So we started sending each other letters within the castle, my sisters Iria and Brigitte the carriers. My other sisters I didn't trust, they were too willing to find fault with me, so that Papa would give them the inheritance.
"Near my twentieth birthday, Trois was called away to tour Europe, his paintings had become such a success, you see. We met on this very bench the night he left, and he promised that he'd return by my twenty-third birthday, and we'd elope. He gave me the ring you wear now, and we sealed our pact with…well…" here Quatre turned his head away, mimicking a ghostly blush. Trowa nodded, understanding what his partner was trying to say.
"It was the last time I'd ever see Trois, while I was alive, that is. He sent correspondence from the road, telling me to be patient and describing all of the beauty that he saw. I waited for three years, Trowa. I could've waited until Judgment Day. Then came my twenty-third year, but Trois did not come for me. I assumed he'd been delayed, and began my vigil. I sat by that window you see up there, with my candle ever burning, not eating or sleeping until I saw that coach pull into the drive. Four days after my birthday, my room was ransacked by my sisters, who'd grown too suspicious of me. They found it all. My packed bags, my ring, the calendar marked for Trois' return, and especially the confessional letter I had drafted, which I was going to leave for Papa. I had figured that by the time he'd found and read it, we'd have been long gone."
Quatre paused, tracks of ghostly tears slowly oozing down his cheeks, sobs hitching in his throat. He bowed his head, retreating into the soft cascade of pale hair that obscured his crying eyes.
"Papa was beside himself with rage…I'd never seen anyone as angry as he when he tore into my room, with his eyes like a madman. In his anger, he picked up a poker on my bedroom hearth and bludgeoned me to death. My own father, Trowa! My own father bashed my skull in! He pounded me until he was certain my brains were leaking out and then he threw my body from the open window to…to…" he gasped for breath he did not really need, sobbing hysterically now. "To make it look like I'd committed suicide! But the part that killed me the most was that when Trois arrived for my funeral, he told my father it was all an elaborate lie, that he'd been secretly courting Brigitte and sending the correspondence to me because I was his hapless patsy. My fiancé stood over my open grave and openly denounced me, and then promptly married my sister."
Trowa felt the bitter intonation of Quatre's voice stab his heart as though he'd been pierced through by one of the roses behind him. The phantasm beside him wept acrimoniously, having lived with the guilt and hatred he'd been feeling for two hundred years.
"We did it for your sake, Quatre!" Trowa suddenly blurted, not quite understanding what had suddenly come over him. "I'd been delayed in Corsica by a monsoon, and by the time I was able to send you any word your sisters had sent me a telegram saying you were already gone. I was willing to die as well, willing to let your father rend me in two if it meant I'd be with you, but Iria and Brigitte wouldn't let me. It was they who told your father you were merely our errand boy in this sordid affair, and I agreed to play along with them if only to honor your memory. I married Brigitte to keep appearances up, but there was no love…to be honest, she was a lesbian. Dammit, Quatre, I died along with you that night!"
Quatre bowed his head in shame, horrified that he could speak so insolently to anyone, let alone his former fiancé. His hands he clutched over the heart that hadn't beat in two hundred years, feeling the ghost of heartache sting. Trowa moved to tilt Quatre's head up to meet his gaze, but the cold thrill that met his fingertips without even touching the spectral form stayed his hand. He could feel the long dormant soul of Trois Barón slide back into its recess, having made his peace with his lover.
"Please look at me, Quatre," Trowa commanded, his voice losing the hard edge Trois had given it. "I…I'm not Trois."
"I know. You are a man of science. He had a love affair with the arts."
"No. I mean, his soul is a gestalt with mine, we are inseparable. Yes, it was he who spoke just now, but he won't be doing that any longer, it isn't in his nature. He has fulfilled what he'd been waiting to do, and now I assume he'll leave some essence of himself with me and move on to better things. I'm not your lover anymore, I'm just a scientist from Massachusetts who lives with his sister, drives a ramshackle old van, loves epic poetry and PBS. I don't paint, I haven't played the flute in decades, and I'm not a conversationalist if I don't have to be," he admitted regretfully.
"So? I've been dead for two hundred years," Quatre pointed out, his shame slowly being transmuted to something like wry amusement. "The only amusement I get is haunting tourists and reading. I used to stand in the corner of Miss Relena's room and watch television, but she only watches trash. I liked the news. And I like you, Trowa. You remind me of Trois, and yet you don't. You're far more intellectual and stimulating, and I've always found myself attracted to intellectual men."
"You're attracted to me?" Trowa asked, an edge of incredulity stabbing his voice.
Quatre blushed again. "As a flame draws a moth. I know I am being so very forward with you, Trowa, we have barely met and yet we've known each other for a lifetime or several. But I…I need you, Trowa. You're the only one to ever really understand me, better than even Trois, and he lived with me for most of my life."
Trowa allowed himself to smile, the mask of cool calculation fissuring. "I think I might have fallen in love with you, Quatre Winner of Peacecraft Castle."
The phantasm beamed now. "And I you, Dr. Trowa Barton of Salem." He reached out with one pale, slender finger and drew a heart on the back of Trowa's hand. The cold scalded him, prickling his flesh, but it was a pleasured pain. Quatre's touch left a red weal on his skin, but he didn't seem to care.
"Can I kiss you, Quatre?"
He nodded gently. "I have waited two hundred years for another man to kiss me. Please do, Trowa. Please do."
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[1] Telegraphs did not have punctuation, so if a sentence was to end one would have to say 'stop' to the telegrapher, who would key in 'stop.'
[2] Two is implied. I thought I'd clarify the definition of 'lime' for anyone who is unfamiliar with the term. A lime is an inexplicit sex scene…meaning that although there is some vivid description, it is not as graphic as a lemon, or NC-17 fic, which, we all know, is no longer permitted. So, it's Quatre and Trowa screwing like bunnies but in a connotation safe for the younger audiences who read mature fiction anyways.
Yeah, so, lime next chapter. I hope to finish the story within the next couple of chapters as well. From here on in, it's going to get far weirder, though. How weird? Oh, I don't know, occult rituals, a little Frankenstein-style madness, and more hauntings than you can shake a stick at.