Long chapter, this. This one is actually a bit more Duo-centric this time around, as he will be playing a crucial role as we get down towards the end of the story. Oh, and there shall be angst in this, towards the latter half, including Trowa going a little Zero on us. But not to worry, he'll perk up sooner or later. Reviews are recommended and appreciated. October is Love Your Author Month. No, really, it is.
Trowa woke the next morning and found that he was in his own bed, though he had no recollection of how he got there. He couldn't remember what had transpired the previous evening, or why he felt like he'd been doped up. He peeled back the covers slowly, languidly relishing in the body-warmed flannel, before realizing that he was both naked and filthy. Appalled, he tossed the covers back over himself hurriedly, feeling his face heat with a blush. How the hell had that happened? Was he the victim of another childish wet dream? He couldn't remember. Sure, he clearly recalled reading the letters he'd once penned, and fighting with Wufei, but after that, everything went blurry.
"Might as well get up before the others beat down my door," he muttered, scooping up clean clothes and trudging off to the bathroom, in hopes of obtaining a decently scalding shower.
Trowa hadn't paid much attention to the bathroom when he'd first arrived at the castle, but now as he flipped on the light switch, he realized that Relena Darlian was a creature of modern comfort. No fifteenth century castle had a whirlpool spa, freestanding shower, and billboard-sized lit vanity mirror, that was for certain. He glanced at his reflection, made pallid by the harshness of the halogen lights leering overhead. And he cringed. The dark rings around his eyes stood out in stark contrast to his pale face and defined cheekbones, making him seem grossly cadaverous. His hair stuck out at awkward angles, and there seemed to be bits and pieces of foliage twined into those russet strands. His whole body was bruised as well, lips swollen and sore, shoulders and hips dotted with little purple-black marks, chest scratched, and…dear God, was that a hickey?
"How the hell did I do this?" he breathed, fingering the suspicious mark at his collarbone. It was then that Trowa noticed the tiny weal on the back of his hand, small and heart-shaped. He remembered it being drawn on there last night, while he was out in the garden…engaged in a torrid love affair with…
"Quatre. Oh my God, I had sex with a ghost. I had sex with a ghost."
He hurried into the shower, letting the water pelt him and wash everything down the drain, his tension, his anxiety, his accumulation of unwanted filth. Rose petals and bits of leaf fell out of his hair as he massaged a dripping handful of herbal shampoo into his tresses, scrubbing meticulously at his scalp.
"The little…and here I thought he was just some sweet, virginal little kid with a tragic death," Trowa groused, lather sliding past his knuckles. "Then again, how was I supposed to know I was his fiancé in a past life?"
And how was I supposed to know I'd fall hopelessly in love with him, regardless of Trois Barón?
He hurried through the rest of his ministrations, pausing long enough to savor the therapeutic massage of the shower water before hurrying into a state of presentable dress. Clad in khakis and a sapphire blue turtleneck that made his green eyes stand out more so than usual, Trowa looked like some sort of deity manifested in a corporeal form. He could've cared less what he looked like at that point, he just didn't want his coworkers to start a mutiny.
~^~
Duo stared sullenly at breakfast. He'd been hoping for one of those huge, seven course breakfasts with pancakes and eggs and perfectly wiggly bacon. Instead, he was greeted by the sight of a huge crockery bowl of lumpy oatmeal. He'd always hated oatmeal. He tried very hard not to throw up, flashing fake smiles at Relena Darlian from across the table, pretending to be very amused by the huge dish of gruel so incongruously dumped onto his place setting. Heero elbowed him.
"Eat your breakfast."
"Hee-chan, I hate oatmeal, you know that," he hissed back, trying hard not to let himself whine. Whining would be ignoble, and it would probably set the moodier-than-usual Wufei off if he heard.
Trowa stalked into the dining room at that point, sitting and shoveling into his oatmeal without a word or a second thought. Catherine raised an eyebrow at him over a glass of orange juice.
"I thought you might've been carried off by banshees or something, Tro. Haven't seen you since yesterday evening," she said nonchalantly.
"Yeah, where've you been, Tro-man?" Duo chimed. This, of course, was a clever cover-up for his real question of, "Who've you been out laying?"
Trowa shrugged nonchalantly. "Nowhere." This translated to something along the lines of, "I'll tell you later."
Two young women walked in, carrying plates laden with hot breakfast sausage and crepes smothered in melted butter and dusted liberally with cinnamon and powdered sugar. Duo tried not to whimper as the two teenage girls took available seating, murmured a "good morning, Miss Relena," and began shoveling in their breakfasts with great gusto. Relena nodded acknowledgment to them.
"Girls, these are the Americans who have come to research our…um, spiritual friend," she said pleasantly, going through the necessary introductions. "And these are our teenage tour guides and assistants, Sylvia Noventa and Mariemaia Barón." [1]
Sylvia was a pretty, petite blonde with hazel eyes. She made some little gesture and tore right back into her meal. Mariemaia, slightly younger, was a short redhead with electric blue, almost lavender eyes. Trowa choked on his oatmeal at the utterance of the girl's last name.
"Barón?" he coughed, thumping his breastbone as a mouthful of oatmeal threatened to slide down his windpipe. The girl nodded.
"My great-great grandfather lived in this castle as a teenager. He married one of the ladies of the castle, my great-great grandmother Brigitte, and she was almost a princess."
Duo noticed the grim expression that Trowa's face had taken on, and watched as he sullenly stirred the remains of his breakfast with disinterest. He himself leaned over to his husband again.
"We're the guests here, and yet those two twerps—who get paid regularly, I might add—get crepes for breakfast. I want a crepe!" he hissed, now blatantly whining.
Heero jabbed him in the stomach. "It's oatmeal or starve. Learn to like it."
"You're no fun. I'm divorcing you for Wufei."
The Chinese man had heard this comment. "I have a wife, thank you. I do not need a husband, Maxwell. Try Barton, that is, if you're in the market for another sullen brunette to hang off of."
"I'm not marrying him," Trowa retorted, his voice expressionless. "Too high maintenance for me."
The way he managed to say this, sounding so completely serious, as though he were in a critical board meeting, managed to cause the table to break up into a fit of hysterical laughter. Even Heero managed a chuckle, which was on the rare side.
"Well," Relena said, wiping a tear of humor from the corner of one eye. "Mariemaia, why don't you take our guests for the proper tour of the Peacecraft grounds? I'm sure it would aid in their research indubitably."
The redheaded girl nodded, shoveling the last of her meal into her mouth and getting up, tugging the hem of her orange sweater-dress down further. "Right this way, please."
The five scientists fell into line, Duo flanking Heero's shoulder. The Japanese man grabbed his partner's braid and dragged him along in that fashion, using the lengthy rope as a leash.
"Come on, Duo."
"Ack! I'm coming, I'm coming! Stop pulling my hair, Heero!"
Catherine rolled her eyes. "Men. Sometimes their stupidity overwhelms me."
~^~
Mariemaia led them outside, touring the gardens and prattling on about which ferns this Peacecraft planted, and that bench was erected for that Winner daughter. Trowa mostly ignored her, caught up in his own thoughts. Quatre's wedding band still glittered coldly on his finger, and the back of his hand was still marred by the little heart-shaped welt drawn on by spectral fingertips. He wondered what his phantom lover did when he was not roaming the castle halls, scaring tourists and romancing scientists, and came to the conclusion that he must sleep somewhere, perhaps floating over his former bed, white-blonde hair rumpled by an invisible pillow.
"And this is the Peacecraft family cemetery plot. We're not quite sure of everyone who's buried back here, but it is safe to say that most of the important Peacecraft royalty figures have been laid to rest here, guarded by the roses they so treasured, and the angel of purity," Mariemaia stated, leaning against a weathered statue vaguely resembling Relena that loomed over the faded and time-worn headstones. A small pathway was cut into one of the bushes in the back of the plot, the aperture shielded by the shaggy overgrowth of zealous rosebushes.
"What's back there?" Catherine inquired, snapping several pictures on one of her many cameras. Mariemaia's gaze went to where the young woman's attention lay.
"Oh, that? That's the Winner plot, they were another wealthy family that lived in this castle during the Industrial Revolution. They say that the heir killed himself and his ghost haunts this castle to this very day," the girl replied, trying to make her voice sound eerie.
"Yes, that's what we're here to research," Wufei pointed out, hardly amused. He found no humor in cemeteries, or in silly girls who took their occupations lightly.
"Right, well, let's head on over this way, where I can show you the water gardens. Miss Relena's great-great-great grandmother had these installed back in the…"
Duo glanced back over his shoulder to say something to Trowa, and found that the tall brunette had vanished. He twisted his way free of his partner's grip and walked back into the cemetery plot.
"Trowa?"
There was silence, save for the soft rustle of rose branches swaying back and forth, as though a body had passed by them. Duo stepped through the path at the back of the Peacecraft plot, into the Winner plot, surveying the area carefully. There were dozens of markers, these not as old as the ones previous, and not as worn. He found himself reading the names aloud as he traversed the rows, still keeping one violet eye out for his comrade.
"Olivier Winner…Iria…Brigitte…Claudette…Nichole…" he muttered. "Damn, this guy had a lot of daughters. Bianca…Helena…Madeline…"
He neared the end of the family plot and found, at the very end, cloistered and hidden from the rest, one small grave at which Trowa was kneeling.
"Marian…Jeanne…Calliope…Penelope…Quatre. So, you came to visit him, huh?" Duo asked. He would have said more, but the actions of his colleague caused any further words that had fluttered on his silvered tongue to fall, crashing into the pit of his stomach broken-winged and silent.
Trowa was sobbing hysterically, the ugly sort of crying that one does not wish others to see, his tears molten and bitter, scalding his face and his throat as he could taste them burning in the back of his mouth. He clawed at the dirt wretchedly, frantically, shoving aside clods of soil writhing with fat pink worms, muttering piteously to himself.
"Trowa, are you all right?" the braided man asked quietly, letting fall his mask of joviality and replacing it with stern consternation. Trowa shook his head, shoulders quaking as another handful of sod sifted between his knuckles.
"I…want to die," he said brokenly, shoving aside another wriggling earthworm.
Duo's eyebrows arched. "You want to die?" he parroted.
"It's the only way I can be with him. He's dead, I'm alive. I want to be dead so I can be with him. I'll lie down in his grave and sleep in his arms, and the worms can take care of the two of us. We can stay here and watch over the castle forever."
"Trowa, you don't know what you're saying. It's crazy talk. Take a couple of deep breaths and you tell old Duo what happened last night that has you ready to fling yourself into a burial shroud," said the young psychic in a tone that made him sound as though he were speaking to a young child. As a psychic, he really didn't need to know what had happened, he'd pretty much found out on his own. It was just better to hear Trowa say it himself than have him angry that he'd been "mind probed" for an answer.
"Quatre and I…we…I love him. I need him. But he's dead and I'm not, and there's no possible way we could be together," Trowa said dejectedly, looking as wretched as he must have felt.
"I see," Duo said thoughtfully. "So you made love with him last night, I'm assuming? Further proving our thesis that ghosts are more than just see-through bits of soul residue that are attached to something in the physical plane."
He could have easily said something more vulgar in his inquiry, but from the pain in Trowa's eyes, it was obvious that this was something far more intimate than certain four-letter words could possibly allude to.
"Right," Trowa responded, calming slightly. He leaned his head against Duo's shin, still sniffling. "But tangible or not, he's still dead, and I'm still not. The only way we could possibly be together is if I died."
Duo refrained from hitting Trowa. He wasn't seeing the forest through the trees, whereas the married man could see the whole damn woods from his viewpoint.
"Trowa, you're burning bridges. You want to be with Quatre, right? He's dead and you're not, nor will you be until you're a crotchety old bastard that shakes his cane at kids to stay off of his lawn. So, you can't be dead. What option does that leave?"
Trowa shrugged. "Eternal misery?"
"Wrong, buffalo breath!" Duo cried, quoting an old Latin teacher of his. "Necromancy! Didn't you read my card when I applied for this job? Deuteronomy Percival Maxwell, psychic and necromancer extraordinaire. Not only can I see dead people, but I have Scrabble parties with them and haul a couple back from the great beyond too. And that, my friend, is also why Heero calls me Shinigami. Cute little Japanese name for God of Death. And in my case, God of Death as in I am not leaving this goddamned castle until I've successfully resurrected your ghost, so there!"
Trowa was speechless, staring up at Duo through the thick fringe of his bangs, green eyes rimmed with brilliant vermilion.
The rosebushes started rattling, as if heralding the arrival of another from their company. The braided man didn't even bother looking back at the entrance.
"Give us a couple of minutes, will you, guys? Trowa's not feeling so hot."
He was met with no reply, though the bushes continued their clamor, the heady tang of roses growing stronger, almost to the point of being tasted in one's mouth. Duo grew annoyed, and jerked his line of sight to the passage cut into the hedges.
"Jesus, you guys. It's common courtesy to give a guy some space when he's not feeling well. So for the last time, take a h…hi there, you're not my associates, are you?" he said, changing his answer as he came almost nose-to-nose with a less than pleased ghost, his pale lips drawn tight.
"Quatre Raberba Winner. Now if you will excuse me for a moment, Monsieur Maxwell…" the pale specter replied, stepping towards his own grave, willing his body to his more tangible form. He threw his arms about Trowa, the older man dropping his head to his lover's shoulder, crying anew.
"Trowa, my Trowa, don't cry, please."
His breath came in ragged gulps. "Quatre…"
"I heard what you were saying to Monsieur Maxwell just now. I'm not letting you die, Trowa. I know what death feels like from a firsthand experience…it hurts like hell…and what's worse, you regret everything afterwards. You think being alive sucks? Try being dead for two hundred years and missing everything."
"But Quatre, how can we…"
The blonde shrugged. "I don't know, honestly. But Trowa, I love you. I love you so much that it hurts, and I'm dead, I'm not supposed to feel pain. And if we can't be together, I'll still love you, I'll love you enough to tie my spirit to that ring you wear and haunt you for the rest of your days."
"Love you too, Quatre," Trowa mumbled into his shoulder.
Duo shifted uncomfortably. "Well hey, I think I'll leave you guys alone for a while. I probably need to research the ritual I'm going to be performing, and I don't think I can just raise the dead without Relena's consent, so…yeah."
He took off at a brisk pace, blatantly uncomfortable with being around the two lovers. As a married man, he very well understood when couples needed time alone. Besides that, the thought of a living, breathing human doing anything to a ghost other than zapping it with a proton beam and tossing it into a trap made him squeamish. That thought got him whistling the Ghostbusters theme as he set off towards the castle again.
Trowa glanced up at Quatre, eyes still glistening with tears. "Quatre? Thank you."
The blue-eyed specter nodded, rocking gently on his heels, cradling his amour affectionately, humming something soft and old.
"You'll always have me, Trowa. No matter what may happen."
~^~
[1] I took advantage of Mariemaia being known as Barton by sticking her with the familial name Barón to make things a little more interesting.
[2] Two is implied. I know Trowa is far too stoical to be hysterically sobbing, but there are a few factors one must take into consideration.
a. He's gotten four hours of sleep at best. Anybody can be weepy due to a lack of sleep.
b. He's standing over his lover's grave. You'd be emotional too if you just had mind-blowing sex with someone and you find yourself standing over his grave.
c. This ties back to b. Trowa realizes at this point how great a separation there is between himself and Quatre. I mean, at that moment in time, there really looked as though there was no possible way for them to be together, harkening back to Romeo and Juliet, perhaps. The only option he can think of is his own death. And so all of this culminates at that particular moment where Duo finds him, and the poor guy snaps.
Next chapter: Quatre goes visiting, and Miss Relena finds out she's going to be having a resurrection in her castle. What does one wear to such things?