Part of the Solace Arc
A Gundam Wing Fanfiction by Raletha
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing is copyrighted by Bandai, Sunrise, and the Sotsu Agency. I am not making any money from this.
Summary: During his attack on the Corsica Mobile Suit Manufacturing Facility, Trowa encounters a kindred spirit, but trust does not come easily to the young soldier.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: shounen ai, 3+4+3, mechanical violence, action, drama, mild angst, introspection
Feedback: geekpuella@yahoo.com
Thanks: To Anne for encouragement, pre-reading, and beta reading!
Notes: Set during/over episodes 3-5.
] Earth - Corsica Mobile Suit Manufacturing Base - AC 195 [
The familiar pulse of the beam Gatling cannon shuddered through Trowa's left arm as the calm of battle overtook him. Eyes scanning the sensor data in the cockpit, he relaxed into the rhythm of the big gun, sweeping aside enemy mobile suits and tanks. He savoured the familiar chemical-metallic scent thick in his nose and its complimentary acrid tang on his tongue, and embraced the violence of the conflict with practiced ease and efficiency.
This was the time he lived. His consciousness expanded to merge with the thunderous machine he controlled so that it seemed as if it were his arms and legs moving through the chaos of shrapnel and smoke, his skin stinging and tearing. Senses heightened until the positioning and movements of opposing units were as tangible as the positioning and movements of his own body, with an agility born of experience the pilot methodically noted and eliminated enemies both on the ground and in the air. Without conscious effort, skilled hands caressed and massaged the controls as Heavyarms unleashed its prodigious arsenal in a blaze of hellish proportions and frightening accuracy.
Through the thrum of the Gundam's engines and the vibration of gears, Trowa experienced distant satisfaction as the returning barrage of fire from the Alliance troops bounced off his dense gundanium armour.
This is much better than fighting in a scavenged Leo.
The smooth whine of hydraulics punctuated by the kickback of loosed missiles and the rapid staccato of the Gatling cannon settled as a comfortable blanket over the young soldier. "Strategically, when annihilating a small number of enemies it's best to block retreat and concentrate your fire," the pilot observed, deducing the purpose of the opposing troop deployments. "The commander's decision to surround and destroy his enemy was probably correct."
The tank unit attempting to outflank him disappeared in a haze of high calibre rounds, erupting in a cascading series of orange blossoms.
"He should not have acted without knowing my potential."
Eventually the steady bass rumble of the Gatling changed to the inevitable tinny clicking that signified a depleted supply of ammunition. Flicking one long finger, Trowa changed fire control to the micro-missiles, on the off chance he had miscalculated and another volley remained. Hollow whirring let him know his count had been accurate.
"That was pretty fast..." Trowa commented as he watched a fresh OZ Specials' Aries squadron forming up ahead of him. He released the heavy barrel of the Gatling on the left arm and deployed the combat blade on the right. Flexing the arm relieved of the strain of directing the big cannon, Trowa narrowed his focus to the few remaining suits converging on him.
As the lead suit loomed over him, the pace of the battle seemed to slow. Bracing himself for the inevitable impact and raising the combat knife to parry the blow Trowa abstractly noted the small tear blooming in chest of the Aries suit. The tear widened, brightened into a deafening, yellow explosion. That volume and accompanying flash of heat jarred time back to its habitual pace as a tremendous hail of bullets pounded into the remaining Aries.
Reinforcements? No... They're attacking the Alliance and OZ troops. Trowa glanced at the latest sensor sweep data -- a few dozen units incoming from the northwest.
A number of mobile suits whose configuration he did not recognise appeared over the horizon, hurtling towards the remnants of the OZ Specials and decimating them with the alacrity and sudden strength of their charge. One suit among the arriving force did look familiar though -- familiar enough, anyway. Despite its differing armament it was too similar to Heavyarms to be anything but another Gundam.
Could they be part of Operation Meteor?
The Gundam took off ahead of the battle line to attack the lone remaining Aries, which had turned and was recklessly charging the newly arrived troops. What's their objective here - the same as mine? Do they know about the insurrection?
The two suits met midair, the larger wrapping the Aries in a fierce embrace of curved, white-hot blades. Trowa fancied he could hear the titanium armour of the Aries groaning in protest as the chunky, beetle-like suit shuddered violently before collapsing and exploding in a tremendous fiery ball; the Gundam dropped gracefully from the inferno, landing lightly before Heavyarms. The other suits came to support the Gundam, arraying themselves about Trowa in an intimidating line of armour and armament.
Out of ammo and outnumbered, facing a fresh pilot in a fresh Gundam -- not much of a chance to survive this time. Trowa counted forty of the desert-coloured mobile suits arranged ahead of him, behind the single larger suit. The Gundam had no battle damage visible that it hadn't incurred since coming into Trowa's view.
It was equipped for close combat, and more heavily armoured than his suit. The other Gundam's pilot had demonstrated well his ability to use the suit with skill and confidence, so even though the Gundam was no longer armed with its pair dangerous, sickle-shaped blades, Trowa did not like his chances of withstanding an assault from the group. Very little chance, he thought sourly, but made no aggressive moves yet. His radio crackled, emitting a clear, youthful voice.
"I don't need any help," it said in a firm tone that brooked no dissent, the inflection indicating the statement was in reply to a comment Trowa had not heard.
The Gundam pilot? He's broadcasting on an open frequency?
Then a pause, as presumably the other Gundam pilot listened to one of his men respond.
"That pilot isn't relying on any firearms," the commanding voice asserted, now carrying a note of respect. Trowa frowned.
If he is part of the original Operation Meteor, I should consider him an enemy. But he must know I can hear him -
The deafening roar of a jet engine interrupted Trowa's thoughts.
"Damn! There goes an OZ aircraft!" the other cried, his Gundam's torso turning as if to follow the progress of the departing craft.
Today is as good a day to die as any other. Trowa quickly seized the opportunity of the other pilot's distraction to attack. Pushing his throttle forward to 100 percent power, he charged, swinging the combat knife in a wide arc to maximise the force of its collision with the other Gundam.
However the other soldier was not as distracted as Trowa had hoped, and he found his blow parried by an astonishingly quick move of the other suit's arm. With a sharp twist of that parrying arm, the other pilot had the right arm of Heavyarms trapped. Trowa pulled the arm hard, attempting to free the limb. But it was held fast; he heard the gundanium shrieking under the strain while the electrical systems in the trapped arm sparked and were torn. Unrelenting in its attempts to seize the advantage, the other Gundam landed a hard punch against Heavyarms' torso before stepping back suddenly, trying to pull the heavier suit off balance.
He's good, Trowa acknowledged with a grimace, following the other suit as if he were a dance partner. Very good, he admitted before quickly bringing up his left arm to parry a second well-aimed punch. Catching the other Gundam's fist in his own, Trowa held tightly as the two machines pushed against each other, hydraulics groaning, and metal shuddering. Silence reigned for a time, broken only by the sounds of mechanical protest coming from the two suits. Neither would prevail, matched evenly as they were.
"This isn't right," came the voice softly over the radio. "No."
Abruptly the other Gundam's attack slackened as its hatch opened. A slim, well-dressed youth ran out onto the platform, pale blond hair tousled by a pair of heavy goggles pushed up onto his forehead, fists clenched at his sides. Looking up at Heavyarms fearlessly, his eyes flashed with determination, "You and I shouldn't be fighting," he called up at the towering behemoth.
He's no older than I am. Trowa felt an odd tugging sensation in his chest. He seems familiar somehow, but I've never seen him before in my life. There's something about him... He's not a threat.
Simultaneously powering down Heavyarms, and unfastening his seat harness, Trowa disengaged the hatch lock. The platform descended before him. Calmly he stood, and stepped out into the sunlight, arms raised. Guarded green eyes were captured in a friendly, candid gaze the colour of the sea.
"Put your hands down. I was the first to surrender and come out, remember," the strange yet familiar boy offered with a smile.
Trowa stood unmoving for a time, his eyes locked with those of the other. But then, without further pondering the inexplicable sense of trust he felt, he lowered his arms with a shrug.
"I don't plan on taking you prisoner," he said to the blond boy.
His reply was light laughter and a bright smile. "Would you consent to being my guest then? I'd like to speak with you," Trowa nodded his assent.
After the other pilot -- Master Quatre, as Trowa had overheard the other soldiers address him -- had verified that all mission objectives had been attained, he had complimented Trowa on his efficiency, "You didn't leave much for the Maguanacs and me to do. Your Gundam in impressive," he had said with a smile as he had stood with Trowa overseeing the loading of their mobile suits into airborne carriers. Trowa had found himself content to remain fairly silent and simply observe the strange dynamic between the other young pilot and the forty veteran soldiers he commanded.
Quatre was clearly comfortable in his leadership role, speaking orders and directing his men with a warmth and authority that had them obeying quickly, efficiently, and with smiles. More than simple obedience, the men seemed to hold the slender boy in quite an affectionate regard. This puzzled Trowa, he'd never witnessed anything like the almost fierce devotion and unflinching loyalty he was seeing play out before him. The soldiers he had known had only been united by their lack of ability to fit in anywhere else, and thus had marketed their fighting skills and sold their loyalty as a means of survival.
Another aspect of the young man that intrigued Trowa was the ease with which Quatre seemed to be accepting him as a potential ally. I'm an unknown, yet he's treating me with respect and trust... is he foolish or confident?
Trowa found himself leaning toward the confident option, nothing about the blond pilot indicated stupidity or incompetence. I suppose with forty skilled soldiers following him, I don't seem like much of a threat...
Once the suits were loaded, Quatre chose to pilot the carrier carrying Heavyarms and his Gundam -- which he called Sandrock -- himself. Trowa joined him in the cockpit, along with the enormous man Trowa believed to be the blond's second in command, Rashid. After noting how the stern man watched him, Trowa decided perhaps he wasn't trusted completely after all.
Quatre handled the ponderous aircraft with the same skill he had displayed piloting his Gundam, and Trowa was impressed to see such finesse in someone as young as he was. Now airborne, Trowa surreptitiously studied the other pilot. Quatre was refined in his features, manner, and dress indicating he was perhaps of aristocratic origin. The determined set to his jaw, and hardness in his eyes though, spoke of someone who had refused to remain sheltered.
Yet, if the boy were from a wealthy and privileged background, a certain amount of idealism must have played a role in his decision to pilot his Gundam - unless he'd been somehow forced or recruited into it? But those latter options seemed unlikely; the youth assumed his roles as both pilot and leader with an ease that belied a great deal of natural talent augmented by a commitment to whatever ideals had prompted the boy to be in his current situation. However it was difficult, in Trowa's experience, to remain naive as a soldier; the other pilot was certain to have those ideals tempered by a healthy dose of pragmatism.
He frowned at the supposed contrary aspects of the youth. It would be interesting to discover how Quatre had come to be piloting Sandrock and how he was affiliated with Operation Meteor - if at all. If Quatre had been involved with the project longer than Trowa, a great potential to gather intelligence existed, it was merely a matter of playing his cards right. Trowa hoped -- as unlikely as that hope may be -- that he and Quatre were fighting on the same side, and that Doktor S had not been the only one to balk at the extreme goals of the original Operation Meteor.
Having satisfied his initial urges of curiosity regarding his host's demeanor and motivations, Trowa found himself attending to the more physical details of the other pilot. He was young, perhaps a year younger than Trowa thought himself to be. His high cheekbones and delicate, squared jaw were softened by that youth, while the intelligence in his unusually turquoise eyes suggested maturity beyond those years. Trowa's gaze repeatedly traced the lines of the other's profile, noting the long, dark lashes framing his expressive eyes and the subtle curve of his lips. Quatre had removed his goggles and now his golden hair hung in random waves about his face, curling slightly where it brushed his collar.
Realising that his observation of Quatre was taking a turn toward conspicuity, Trowa moved his inspection to the instrument panel. They were heading east, over the Mediterranean. Judging by the attire of the soldiers and colouring of the Maguanac mobile suits Trowa supposed they were heading for the Near East: Jordan, Syria, or Turkey perhaps. The independent Middle East Nations had a distinguished history of opposing the Alliance and OZ so it struck Trowa as appropriate; it would be a good location from which to launch an offensive.
"So, where are we going?" Trowa finally asked.
Quatre turned his head to reply, "We'll be la..."
"Master Quatre!" Rashid interrupted, his deep tone an intimidating rumble that was yet deferential.
"Rashid, our guest has every right to know where we're taking him." Quatre asserted, his voice clear with the confidence that his words would be heeded. Addressing Trowa once more, he continued, "We'll be landing roughly 200 kilometres southwest of Ankara. From there we'll take land transport to my Anatolia compound. We should be there in time for a late lunch."
Approaching the base from above, the convoy of large trucks grumbled through the desert mountain pass, descending steadily to where Quatre's compound was nestled among the foothills and plateaus of the jagged terrain. Trowa gazed at the sprawling complex in envious awe. He has a secret base. Dispersed throughout the surrounding area were towers supporting what Trowa guessed was surveillance equipment - or perhaps even EM scramblers to obscure the electronic signatures of the military forces gathered here, and disguise incoming and outgoing transmissions.
The buildings of the base itself were not the least bit militaristic however; rather they resembled more the country retreat of a wealthy family. The architecture of the complex was a subtle mélange of old and new with some structures possessing an earthy, organic sense of having grown into existence where they stood, while others sparkled in the late afternoon, domes of gold and coloured glass scintillating in a dazzling pattern. Throughout were scattered gardens and courtyards; Trowa even spotted several fountains and a pool - truly an indulgence for a place located as this was, in the desert. The convoy, approaching the base, now took a route through a tunnel, to an underground hangar. Examining the smoothly polished walls and the gleaming steel ducting, Trowa decided this part of the base must be a very recent addition.
After the suits had been unloaded in the hangar, Trowa moved toward his Gundam, keen to inspect the battle damage on the suit. Reading his intention Quatre's voice stopped him. "Join me for a private lunch while my men repair Heavyarms?" Quatre asked, though, judging by Quatre's tone, Trowa interpreted the words as more of an imperative than a request. He pushed aside his reservations about leaving his suit with the Maguanac soldiers and nodded to the boy. Rashid opened his mouth, disagreement clear in his frown, but before the man could speak, Quatre did. "Give priority to our guest's mobile suit, Rashid. I want it in brand new condition by tomorrow - and make certain to fully replenish its armaments from our supply."
Rashid closed his mouth, his frown disappearing, and gave a short bow, "It will be as you say, Master Quatre." The towering man moved quickly among his men, barking orders and glaring at those who did not leap immediately to action.
"You'll have to forgive Rashid," Quatre began as he led Trowa up several flights of stairs from the underground hangar. "He can be very... protective of me. Sometimes he questions my judgement, but I'm grateful for his perspective, and I know I can trust him to take care of your suit, so please don't worry yourself over that."
They eventually exited the stairs to a spacious courtyard, lush with verdant fruit trees and flowering shrubs. Trowa inhaled deeply of the fresh, warm air, tempered by the shade of the foliage, and marveled at how distant the ugly violence of the morning's battle had suddenly become in contrast to the peaceful quietude of this desert oasis where the only sounds were those of the wind rustling through the leaves. With a tolerant smile, Quatre indicated for Trowa to follow him across the courtyard, past a burbling fountain and into a nearby building, "We'll take lunch in my study," he explained apologetically as they moved indoors, "We can enjoy the gardens later, if you like."
The meal was a rather exotic affair from Trowa's point of view. He was served a multitude of savoury and colourful spiced dishes, both hot and cold, that left the part of his brain responsible for processing new taste and smell information quite taxed. Though Quatre was amused by his ignorance of the finer points of Middle Eastern cuisine, the blond pilot was happy to patiently answer each of Trowa's curious questions about what constituted each of the dishes. After the main meal - of which his favourite dish Quatre identified as tabbouli, - they were presented with a selection of succulent fresh fruits. Quatre encouraged him to try the apricots. He claimed the fruit had been grown on trees within the compound, and that the Earth grown, tree-ripened fruit was indeed the closest thing one could find to ambrosia.
Once they'd finished their late lunch, the two retired from the table where they had dined to sit more comfortably on the room's plush, burgundy sofa. With uncanny timing, two servants entered, one moved to clear the lunch dishes with quiet efficiency while the other bore a tray with a fine porcelain tea service and a selection of tea biscuits. The latter set her burden down on the low table before the sofa, and Quatre thanked her politely before the young woman withdrew, closing the door softly behind her. Trowa watched all this in fascination, having never been served or waited upon in his life.
Now it was time to talk, for them to sound each other out and determine whether they could in fact function as allies -- or if their missions were actually too divergent for any cooperation. Trowa decided the direct approach would be best with his host. Quatre hardly seemed the sort to take offense, and how he responded would be as significant as what he said in response.
And why do I care if I offend him? Trowa inquired of himself, but failed to discover an answer.
Abandoning that futile train of thought, he turned to speak. But, before he was able, Quatre began, reaching to the table to pour from the teapot into one of the two dainty cups sitting beside it. "What do you know about Operation Meteor?" the blond asked casually, his attention fixed on the level of brown liquid rising in his cup.
Trowa took and released a breath before replying. "How much do you know?" he countered in a bland tone, unwilling to be the first to divulge information. If Quatre were affiliated with the Barton Foundation, things could become problematic.
"Would you like some tea?" the other seemed to stall before tilting his head to meet Trowa's eyes, but as the brunet tried to read the other pilot's expression he perceived a wordless entreaty in the unguarded aquamarine gaze. 'Please, trust me', it said.
Trowa frowned slightly in response, and then spoke slowly, "Yes." That wasn't quite right, so he softened his affirmative by amending, "Please." You'll have to trust me first, was the thought Trowa willed into that word.
Quatre blinked at him, his eyes unfocusing for a moment before he turned, attending to the tea once more. The two sat in awkward silence for a moment as Quatre filled a second cup, "Milk? Sugar?" he asked.
Trowa shook his head silently, and folded his arms across his chest, waiting for the other boy to address his earlier question.
With a barely audible sigh, Quatre leaned back in his seat, cup and saucer balanced easily in one slender hand. He didn't look at Trowa as he took a thoughtful sip of his beverage, "I want you to trust me," he began again. Trowa noted the odd inflection on the sentence, as if Quatre were actually responding to the brunet's prior, unspoken thoughts. "But I don't actually know that much about Operation Meteor," he continued, meeting Trowa's gaze with an earnest expression, "I mean, I know the name, and I know more parties than my colony were involved... I know there was an organization backing the plan, but I don't know who."
"Was?" Trowa prompted, quickly seizing upon that verb tense in the hope he could draw more information from the boy. Does he really not know of the Barton Foundation's role in this?
"Well, " the blond spoke with a grimace, "Instructor H didn't give me the details of who was behind Operation M, only the general purpose -- to destroy OZ. But the organization -- and I say 'was' because H didn't seem to like the direction they were taking with respect to that purpose. He refused to tell me any more about them than that."
Trowa remained silent, processing the new information. If what the other pilot said were true -- and it felt true somehow -- then, he really knew very little about the original goals of Operation Meteor, including the role of the Barton Foundation.
Quatre seemed unhappy with Trowa's lack of response and continued in a sharp, somewhat defensive tone, "If you're affiliated with whatever organization H was opposing, then I'll have to tell you to think twice before taking any aggressive action towards me. You would never make it out of the compound."
Without responding directly to the thinly veiled threat, Trowa replied in a quiet tone, hoping to assuage any doubts the blond might harbour toward him, "It was the Barton Foundation. On L3."
"Was?" Quatre perked up, echoing Trowa's earlier query.
Trowa took a slow, deep breath and decided to trust Quatre with more information, "I took the place of the original pilot when the engineers building Heavyarms had a similar crisis of faith to your Instructor," he explained, "I was put in charge of the new incarnation of Operation M, one that didn't involve committing genocide, and instead was to simply retaliate against OZ and the Alliance for their subjugation of the colonies."
"Genocide?" The blond set his cup and saucer on the table with a loud clatter, his expression shocked. Strangely, Trowa felt a flutter of his own discord answering the emotion in those turquoise eyes.
Putting the unsettling sensation aside, Trowa continued his explanation, "The original Operation M involved more than simple revenge. The Barton Foundation was far more ambitious. They intended to drop the L3 colony onto the planet, and then take over in the ensuing chaos."
"What? That's... that sounds like science fiction! Who would even think to...?" Quatre broke off, his expression one of disgust and disbelief. "But," he amended, glancing to Trowa with a brief flash of a humourless smile, "I believe you." Reorienting his attention to the tea service, he seemed to speak to himself, "No wonder Instructor H didn't want me to know..." Quatre retrieved his cup, fidgeting with it irritably and frowning, "I just wish people would stop trying to protect me like that." Anger coloured his words as he glared at his teacup, lips forming a thin line of displeasure. "How can I take appropriate action if they're holding information back?"
"I can try to tell you everything I know, since it looks like we're both working toward the same goal," Trowa attempted in a lame reassurance, and leaned forward to pick up his own cup and saucer with his right hand. A twinge in his wrist caused the boy to wince, and he quickly changed hands to collect the cup.
Quatre stared blankly, his eyes tracking the movement of Trowa's right hand, before he blinked rapidly and looked up, "You're hurt. Your wrist?"
"It's nothing."
"No, it's not. Let me look at it," Despite his reluctance to recognise the authority in Quatre's voice, Trowa found himself extending his right arm to the other boy.
Gently, Quatre took his hand. The blond's fingers were warm and dry as he moved them gingerly over Trowa's wrist, probing for any swelling. Warm and dry - like this desert, Trowa observed, feeling slightly uncomfortable at the strange tingling sensation Quatre's light touch was inciting in his belly.
"Does this hurt?" the boy asked, rubbing his thumb more firmly along a line of muscle. Trowa shook his head, shifting in his mild discomfort and wondering why his heart rate had accelerated and his breathing was becoming shallow. "What about if you turn it?"
Trowa attempted the movement and winced again as a sharp pain shot up his arm. "Yes, that hurts," he admitted with a small, wry smile.
"And it feels weak?" Quatre still held his hand loosely, though his inspection of the injury had ceased.
"Yes." Trowa allowed his hand to remain cradled in Quatre's; the simple contact felt nice.
"There's no swelling, so it's just a strain, but you should probably have it immobilised until it feels better." Quatre bit his lip, and released Trowa's hand, "Wait here, I'll get something."
"There's no need to..." Trowa began, but the other boy had already jumped up and exited the room.
He simply sat for a moment, sipping the strong, hot tea and looking about the room in hopes of gleaning further insight into Quatre. The room was circular with a glassed dome ceiling and high arched windows. The sunbeams filtering into the chamber were now at an easy angle, beginning to take on a warm pinkish-orange hue as the late afternoon approached sunset.
Trowa stood after having set down his cup, and moved about the spacious room. Quatre's wide desk sat near the wall of one quadrant, flanked by two windows, and facing the sofa positioned in the centre of the room. Against the opposite wall stood several bookcases filled with tomes spanning a number of subjects and cultures. Trowa itched to make several selections from the case, but resisted the temptation. Perhaps Quatre would allow him the opportunity of perusing his collection at some later stage -- if he decided to stay.
For now it appeared that he and Quatre were both operating as semi-autonomous agents on Earth, opposing the Alliance and OZ for the benefit of the colonies. But Trowa remained uncertain as to whether he could tarry here. After observing the steadfast loyalty of the Maguanacs, and Quatre's easy way with his leadership role, Trowa couldn't see how he could possibly fit in with the group. He couldn't become one of Quatre's men, nor would the blond cede his command. Neither option was realistic in the least. Trowa hoped something would occur to him, since he discovered himself pleased to have encountered a potential ally -- a powerful ally at that. And it was comforting that Quatre was of an age and ability on a par with Trowa. For the first time, the young solider wondered if he had found a peer.
As he continued his examination of the room, Trowa was drawn to a large glass fronted cabinet. Within were displayed several instruments, a pair of violins, a clarinet, and -- a flute. Trowa was reaching to the cabinet to open it and remove the slender instrument when Quatre returned. Their eyes met and Quatre smiled brightly, "I'm glad you're making yourself comfortable," he said, moving to set the bandages he was carrying on the coffee table.
"Do you play all of these instruments?" Trowa asked without preamble, his stomach having been reduced to an odd fluttery sensation as he tried to contain his yearning to both listen and play. It had been so long since there had been any music in his life.
"I do. Sort of. Really, the only one I'm good at is the violin -- that and the piano, but I don't have a piano here yet." Quatre gave a self-deprecating shrug and looked at him intently. "Would you like to hear me play?" he offered, approaching Trowa.
"I would," Trowa replied, stepping to the side of the cabinet so Quatre could select one of the violins. Instrument in hand, the blond moved back to the centre of the room while Trowa closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. Still maintaining his outward calm, Trowa -- eager for the joyful escape he always experienced in the presence of music -- nevertheless experienced a swelling of anticipation.
And joyful it was as Quatre began playing in an abrupt and jubilant rising melody -- sweet, playful, and yet longing for a counterpoint in that celebration. Acting more on instinct than any rational thought, Trowa opened his eyes. Quatre was lost in his playing as the brunet stepped forward to open the cabinet. The click of the door roused Quatre, and he stopped for a moment, opening his eyes and looking at Trowa with an expression of pleasant surprise as the brunet removed the flute from the display case. He met Quatre's gaze and was rewarded with a sunny, unaffected smile before he raised the flute to his lips and began to play. Somehow his fingers didn't stumble or waver though it had been a long time since he had even held a flute. Holding the strains of Quatre's improvised melody in his mind, he began to weave a lilting, harmonising tune of his own. Quatre let him play unaccompanied for a moment before lifting his violin back to his chin and joining him.
It was a moment of such unexpected intimacy for Trowa as the two played together, celebrating the dawning of a new friendship without words, and sharing the joy they both found in the spontaneous harmony they created. Playfully they answered each other's improvised flourishes and constructed a wondrous gestalt of something far more beautiful than the intermingling of the two instruments alone.
But it ended all too soon, the youths slowly lowered their instruments and, breathless, turned to face one another. Trowa couldn't keep the smile from his face as their eyes met. Seeing Quatre's answering grin, and looking into those turquoise eyes, something loosened in the weary soldier's heart. He was glad he had not died today.
However, having moved far beyond the bounds of simple practicality and Trowa's capability for interpersonal comfort, the tall pilot found himself growing increasingly distressed under Quatre's unreserved gaze. "Thank you," he stammered, at a loss for anything else to say.
"You play beautifully," was the soft reply as Quatre moved to replace his violin. Trowa passed him the flute when the blond reached for it. Closing the doors of the cabinet, Quatre turned, "I should wrap your wrist for you." The blond gestured to the sofa and seated himself, looking to Trowa expectantly. Trowa joined him, pulled up his sleeve, and offered Quatre his injured wrist.
Trowa kept his eyes fixed on Quatre's hands as the smaller boy reached for the bandage and began to carefully wrap his joint in a firm, elastic embrace. The slender hands were strong, yet gentle; and callused -- as Trowa's were -- from wielding a heavy Gundam, yet the skin was faultless and the nails well manicured. He strenuously tried to ignore the warm proximity of Quatre's bent knee brushing against his own thigh as the blond leaned closer in his ministrations. He further attempted to ignore the tantalising, sweet scent of the blond, shining locks as Quatre bent his head near.
As before, the boy's hands lingered for a time after he'd finished. Holding Trowa's wrist in a tentative grip, and passing his fingertips lightly over the bandaged surface in a vague caress, he tilted his head and raised his eyes to meet the brunet's, veiled as they were behind the soft fall of Trowa's bangs. Quatre's lips curved into a shy smile as he inquired, "How does that feel?"
Trowa's throat went dry, but before he could even attempt a reply, a knock sounded at Quatre's door, followed by the entry of the man Trowa had heard addressed as Abdul.
"Ah, excuse the interruption, but I need to speak to Heavyarms' pilot."
Quatre frowned, releasing Trowa's hand gently, "Is there a problem, Abdul?"
"No, no problem," Abdul addressed Quatre to reassure before turning to Trowa, "We found several modifications to your suit and were hoping you'd join us in the last of the repairs, since we're not certain if some systems need our attention - and we don't want to mess up your customizations."
Grateful for the distraction, Trowa stood. "I'd be happy to. I've done most of the work on that suit myself."
And with that, he murmured a hasty apology to Quatre and left with Abdul, resolutely pushing the peculiar sensations awakened by Quatre's presence from his mind.
It was dark by the time Trowa headed back up from the hangar. He was glad that he kept his belongings stowed with him aboard Heavyarms since, after the activities of the day, he felt in desperate need of a shower and a change of clothes. A butler met him as he entered the main building and politely showed him to a guest suite. After dropping his duffel bag to the floor, Trowa was overcome by the spaciousness of the chamber and the richness of its furnishings. Quatre must be very wealthy, he decided having developed an inkling about Quatre's origins and familial affiliations. However, it seemed rude to assume anything more than what the other pilot had told him, so Trowa ceased that particular speculation.
He took some time to examine the room, both from a practical perspective of determining whether the room was under any form of surveillance -- it wasn't, and then from the baser desire to simply touch all the rich fabrics and admire the beauty of the furnishings. He found one door opening off the chamber led mercifully to a bathroom. Upon this discovery Trowa quickly shed his clothes and unwrapped his wrist before entering the room. Like the bedroom, the bathing facilities were spacious and well appointed. Everything in the room was formed of a rose pink marble swirled with soft caramels and pale creams, echoing the colours of the sunset he'd observed earlier. The fixtures were all polished brass, and the showerhead enormous. He fiddled with the shower controls for a few moments, working out how to cajole the unfamiliar lever and dial to the right temperature and stepped under the dense spray that fell like a fine, heavy rain.
For someone such as he, the luxury of a long, hot shower was nonpareil. It was like being reborn, Trowa mused, as he simply stood under the muscle-melting cascade of water, watching the water flowing down his body as it collected the grimy evidence of the day and carried it away like a bad memory. The shower was already stocked with a selection of shampoos, conditioners, cleansers, and soaps so Trowa found himself curiously examining each bottle in turn, opening it and sniffing the contents before deciding which he wanted to use. He settled on a rosemary scented shampoo with its achingly clean, fresh scent, and a lavender scented soap for a similar reason. Taking his time to bathe, Trowa fastidiously cleaned every speck of dirt and every trace of sweat from himself, paying particular attention to his grease-caked fingernails.
When he was satisfied that he could not get any cleaner, Trowa reluctantly turned off the water and stepped out. Several plush towels hung nearby so he proceeded to dry himself and his hair before moving back to the bedroom and extracting a clean set of clothes from his bag. No sooner had Trowa finished dressing than there was a soft knock at the door of his room. "Yes?" he prompted.
A young woman, dressed in what Trowa had decided was the uniform of the servants here, opened the door and addressed him politely from the hall, "Master Quatre has requested the pleasure of your company on the terrace by the pool. He invites you to swim with him, or should you prefer not to, to just join him for conversation."
Trowa hesitated before nodding, and followed the woman from the room.
Sitting by the pool, still delightfully relaxed from the shower, Trowa found thoughts of war and battle drifting from his mind to be replaced by the simple sensuous pleasures of the desert night. The warm, dry breeze wafting past carried the heady scent of night blooming jasmine; the dappling of light and shadow cast by the movement of lush foliage past the garden's lamps illuminated the terrace; and the canopy of stars stretched far above, their silvery dots twinkling against the velveteen blackness. It had been a long time since Trowa had seen the stars thus. He tilted his head back to look for the familiar constellations he'd been able to identify as a child. Their positioning was different than it had been in Europe, but he still managed to find the Pleiades and Cassiopeia, the Big Dipper and Orion. It was good to be back on Earth.
For this present moment, Trowa indulged in the sensation of being in what he supposed was a reasonably normal situation for someone his age. He took a sip of the chilled mint tea he'd been served. It was refreshing and sweetened delicately with honey. He let the cool liquid roll over his tongue, concentrating on each facet of the flavour. The mint was sharp and cold, the honey mellow and thick, and a hint of a spice Trowa didn't recognise tasted the way some flowers smelled.
He reached to the small selection of magazines he'd been offered, thumbing through them to find something of interest. They were mostly business and current affairs oriented publications so Trowa settled on one whose cover promised an in depth article on Vice Foreign Minister Darlian's role in the Colony Summit of the past week. I guess I can't get that far away from the conflict after all, he chided himself before settling back to read.
Presently, Trowa's concentration was diverted as Quatre exited the pool house, clad only in a pair of small, royal blue Speedos [1] and carrying a towel. The brunet found his attention arrested by the blond's state of near undress. Without the baggy, conservative covering of his previous attire, the youth was striking.
He was slender, with an almost delicate bone structure, but nothing was the least bit frail about his physique. His long-limbed form was lean and smoothly muscled with good definition tempered by the softness of youth. Trowa's eyes traveled the planes and angles of that definition, loitering on the many pleasing symmetries he found. Though Quatre's shoulders were narrow, the muscles across his upper back and chest were well developed, tapering to a slim waist and hips.
Oh God, I'm staring, Trowa realised with embarrassment, and quickly lowered his eyes to the words before him, maintaining the carefully schooled calm of his features.
"Are you comfortable enough?" his host asked, reclaiming Trowa's attention. The brunet looked up as Quatre approached and spoke again, "Do you need anything?"
"No. Thank you. I'm fine," Trowa replied, stumbling slightly over the few words of polite etiquette.
"Okay then," Quatre said with a grin, setting his towel on a nearby table and moving toward the steps of the pool. "But let me know if that changes." And with that, he waded down the steps without ceremony and employed a strong crawl stroke to begin pacing the length of the pool.
Trowa watched Quatre swim laps for a time; powerful, sure movements propelled the boy to glide almost effortlessly through the water. It was a bizarre contradiction to see this son of the desert moving so easily in the water. Or, perhaps it was very appropriate, Trowa amended. Little about Quatre had thus far been simple or predictable.
Lulled by the rhythm of Quatre's swimming, Trowa returned his attention to his reading material and began to contemplate the coming conflict. There would be war, of that Trowa was certain. Powerful though the two Gundams were, they were not sufficient to turn the tide of the Alliance's oppression. Unfortunately the colonies were not well armed. It was conceivable that the current incarnation of Operation Meteor could backfire, causing the colonies more harm than good. But, Trowa acknowledged, there was a growing rift among the powers on Earth with regard to the situation of the colonies' occupation. Some voices in the Alliance were beginning to advocate a peaceful withdrawal from space. It was just possible that Minister Darlian's ideas of reaching a solution through diplomacy could work. On the other hand, OZ was an increasingly sinister force behind the Alliance. As the enigmatic Organization of the Zodiac slowly accumulated more and more power in the wake of the Alliance's complacency, Trowa was certain they would make a move for dominance soon. It was yet early in the game however, and therefore, it was hard to determine which players would be acting next, and in what capacity.
Trowa glanced over the top of his magazine to see Quatre stroking toward the ladder at the side of the pool. As the youth climbed to the terrace, hoisting himself nimbly up the low ladder and panting softly from his prior exertion, Trowa found his gaze captured once more by the sleek lines of the blond's body, glistening with water in the low golden light of the lamps and the rippling, muted glimmer cast by the light in the swimming pool. Quatre walked smoothly to where he'd deposited his towel, water from his body pattering softly to the stone tiles in his wake. Bending to retrieve the item, he remained bowed over, rubbing vigorously at his hair with the terry cloth, and providing ample opportunity for Trowa's regard to linger on his long, well-formed legs and firm posterior.
Heavyarms' pilot tore his gaze away from the other boy just as Quatre straightened and turned to face him. Trowa was certainly not unfamiliar with the male body, but the sight had never affected him quite like this. He shifted in his seat with a grimace, dropping the magazine he'd been reading to his lap to cover his response and looked back up to see if Quatre had noticed.
Fortunately, the boy didn't seem to have, although an enigmatic smile did flit across his face while he met Trowa's eyes and spoke, "The water was lovely. You should have joined me."
Not for the first time since meeting Quatre did Trowa wonder at the possible subtext of his words and the blond's subtle, almost suggestive intonation. Suggestive of what, Trowa couldn't fathom so he simply shrugged in response, swallowed hard, and desperately tried to reign in his surveyance of Quatre's physique as the youth moved toward him, wrapping his towel about his waist with a deft twist.
Quatre sat down in a chair near Trowa's with a sigh, slumping back with a smile on his face. "That's about the only exercise I can stand," the boy admitted sheepishly, "I just love the water." He raked fingers through his damp hair, attempting to reorder the tangled flaxen mess before continuing with a question, "How do you stay in such good shape?"
"I'm an acrobat." Trowa answered softly, as unbidden, his mind wondered how much time Quatre had spent evaluating his shape.
"I thought you were a fulltime pilot?" The blond removed his hands from straightening his hair to rest in his lap. He turned to face Trowa, turquoise meeting green in its unsettling, candid way.
"I guess I moonlight as an acrobat," Trowa amended with a small smile, "but I've been tumbling even longer than I've been piloting mobile suits."
Quatre nodded thoughtfully and was silent for a time, "May I ask you something more personal?" he eventually inquired; his tone and face were serious, intent.
Trowa nodded. "But I might not answer."
"That's fine," Quatre spoke, paused, and then questioned, "Why do you fight? I mean, why are you fighting for the colonies?"
Trowa waited, collecting his thoughts. Looking into Quatre's eyes, he could see that his answer to this question was important to the other boy, but Trowa was afraid his response couldn't possibly satisfy. "I fight because it's all I've ever known," he began, keeping his tone soft, and his voice even, "it seems to me, I've been a soldier my entire life." He shrugged, "And, I'm very good at it." The last was spoken without any trace of conceit. It was the simple truth; he was an excellent pilot.
Quatre's expression turned sad, and then he prompted Trowa, "And the colonies?"
"The engineers who built Heavyarms needed a new pilot. I'd been working on the Gundam as a mechanic," he explained. "I liked the suit, and I have no love for the Alliance or OZ. I've seen too much of their handiwork firsthand to believe their propaganda about bringing peace through their justice and so-called benevolent protection." Trowa grimaced at the flash of associated memories that statement wrought before continuing. "I felt strongly that I could make a difference - I can fight for the people who are unable to fight for themselves." He shrugged and added as an afterthought, "Besides, sometimes I think I'm better suited to the battlefield than anything else. I already have so much blood on my hands."
"I doubt that's true. You're far more than a soldier. I can tell that and I've only known you for a day," was Quatre's honest reply. "But you're right, someone has to fight for the people who can't - otherwise the colonies will never be free." The blond's voice coloured with something akin to regret, "That's why I fight. To spare the others from the sorrow of war."
"The sorrow of war," Trowa repeated, feeling a wash of melancholy overtake him. He was tired. Quatre was similarly affected; sitting slumped in his chair, his bright eyes downcast, and his features set in a grieved frown.
The two sat without speaking for a time before Quatre broke the silence. "There's something I need to tell you." The boy spoke so quietly that Trowa barely heard him, "Especially if I expect you to continue trusting me."
Quatre's tone indicated he had some sort of dark, personal confession to make, and although Trowa wasn't certain he wanted to hear such a thing he spoke to encourage the blond. "Oh?"
"I... ah, well first, I should let you know this isn't something I share with many people, so I'm telling you this in confidence." Quatre's eyes were wide and earnest as he met Trowa's unflinchingly.
Trowa inclined his head, indicating Quatre should continue.
"It's hard to explain," Quatre spoke carefully, "and it's not something I have a lot of control over all the time, but, well, I can feel other people's emotions."
"You're empathic?" Trowa had read reports of such abilities arising in certain members of the population, so it wasn't an incredible claim.
"Yes, I am."
The implications of Quatre's words began to sink in and Trowa felt his blood turn cold, "You've been feeling me?" He did not try to keep the chill from his voice.
Quatre flinched at Trowa's tone before replying softly, "Yes, but I wasn't trying to invade your privacy or anything. I just needed to know if you were lying - if I could trust you."
A million responses rushed through Trowa's head - none of them pleasant. He gritted his teeth against a knee-jerk reaction, and managed to speak with his characteristic calm, "And my words and actions weren't enough for that. I see." He stood stiffly, "Excuse me."
He turned away from Quatre, but not before he saw the shine of excess moisture in the other's eyes. I can't be here, he thought to himself, attempting to justify his callous treatment of his host, and walked to the doors leading inside.
Behind him Quatre protested, "No, I didn't mean... Wait... Please... Damn it. I don't even know your name."
Trowa stalked back inside and made his way unerringly to the guest suite he'd been given. He was sorely tempted to leave now, to get Heavyarms and try to make his way back to the circus tonight. Unfortunately, he was too tired and it was much too late for him to embark on such a long journey. He'd have to stay the night, unpleasant though that thought was. He was manipulating me, the brunet fumed, pacing the large chamber. A less angry, cynical voice countered, like you don't ever manipulate a situation to your advantage? Trowa groaned in frustration, he didn't fully understand why he felt so betrayed - or why he'd even found himself trusting Quatre so readily in the first place. You have to trust someone for him to betray you, he admonished himself, but it was little comfort.
He quickly undressed to his trunks [2] and crawled into the enormous thing that passed for a bed, forcing his breath to even out and his tense muscles to relax. So why are you angry? Trowa demanded as he settled beneath the covers. The mattress was heavenly pliable under him, and the bed linens buttery soft against his mostly bare skin.
He lied to me, he answered, and then corrected, No, he didn't lie; he withheld information. Important information. He should have told me. Trowa frowned at that sentiment, questioning the assertion, and just why should he have told me? Who am I to him? It's his business. He only told me as an act of trust and friendship. Quatre is under no obligation to share his personal details with me.
Still it was unsettling to Trowa, to realise at how much of a disadvantage he'd been with Quatre. An empath... He'd been reading me like an open book. Trowa had long considered his ability to disguise the physical manifestation of his emotions a potent advantage in most situations, but with Quatre, he'd been laid bare. He felt violated somehow. And yet, his stomach twisted in disgust at the mere thought of harbouring any ill will toward the other pilot.
It's not his fault he can feel others' emotions, Trowa admitted, recalling how upset Quatre had been at his rejection. He probably feels like a freak. And I only added to that by reacting the way I have.
When Trowa awoke the next morning, he realised two things: that he needed to apologise to Quatre, and that he needed to leave the desert base. He struggled to visualise himself speaking the words to Quatre that he wanted to, but failed to see himself presenting either his apology or his farewell to the blond verbally. So, he opted instead for a note. A large desk rested near the bedroom's large, arched window. He slid out of bed and sat down. It didn't take Trowa long to locate a pen and some linen stationary. Running his fingertips over the fine paper, he felt reluctant to defile the virgin material with the unpracticed scrawl that passed for his handwriting, but, taking a deep breath, he penned the note as carefully as he could.
"Quatre," he began and paused, struggling with the words. He'd not often felt the urge to express regret to people. He frowned and forced himself to continue, "I wish to apologise for my poor reaction to your confidence." Trowa scowled at the words, wanting to somehow indicate that he did understand the risk Quatre had taken by divulging his empathic ability. "I understand that what you told me was an act of trust, and I hope that I did not betray that trust too grievously," he wrote and hesitated again.
Leaving some blank space, he began a new paragraph. "I'm also writing to thank you for your hospitality and to say farewell." The next part was relatively simple for Trowa and he finished the note with the words, "I cannot remain here with you and your men. You are a leader, but I am not a follower. However, I do not doubt that we'll meet again, and I look forward to that day."
The language sounded a bit stiff to Trowa, but the sentiment was there. His eyes slid down the page to stare at its empty footer, where one would habitually sign his name, and stopped, pen still poised to write. I have no name to sign. He considered signing 'Trowa' but then decided against it. Quatre would know the letter was from him. He set the pen aside and folded the paper in half just as a knock sounded at the door of his room.
"Yes?" It was the same woman from the previous day, and she was carrying a silver tray laden with a pot of what smelled to Trowa like deliciously strong coffee. There was also a peculiar, triangular shaped contraption holding slices of toast, several small covered pots, and a plate of sweet breakfast pastries.
"Your breakfast, sir," she spoke carefully not looking in Trowa's direction as she made her way across the room to set the tray at the edge of the desk.
"Thank you," he managed, feeling bemused at the notion of having breakfast served to him like this. He watched the woman leave before investigating the tray further. The small porcelain pots each held some sort of jam, and a larger held whipped butter.
Feeling a tad self-conscious, Trowa ate his breakfast alone, savouring the coffee in particular - which tasted even better than it had smelled - and momentarily questioned his decision to leave. I could get used to this, he mused, looking out the window and admiring the soft hued palate of the desert mountainside that stretched before him. I could stay. He ran that scenario through his mind quickly, and returned to his earlier reticence. He needed to leave.
Dressing quickly he exited the room, wending his way downstairs and outside to descend to the hangar. A handful of the Maguanacs were already there. After Trowa expressed his desire to depart, they promised that they would have Heavyarms loaded onto a truck and waiting for him at the front of the main manor building shortly. Trowa thanked them and returned to collect his belongings and give his note to the butler, asking that he deliver it to Quatre as soon as he was able.
He found the main entrance of the manor and waited until he heard the grumble of the transport's engine idling outside. Hefting his bag onto his shoulder, he walked out, determined to not look back.
A clear voice rang out behind him, "You're leaving?" Quatre's voice was bright, with no trace of the sadness or hurt from the previous evening. Of that Trowa was glad. He continued walking as Quatre spoke again, "I won't stop you," the boy's tone fell before recovering, "But, at least tell me what your name is. I'm Quatre Raberba Winner."
Trowa stopped in his tracks, hearing that proclamation. He must trust me to be giving out that name. Slowly, despite his resolution, he did turn back and replied in kind to the boy leaning from the second floor window, "I have no name, but if you must call me something then... Trowa. Call me Trowa Barton."
"Thank you, Trowa. We will meet again."
end
Notes:
[1] Speedos is a trademarked brand; I am using it without permission and intend no infringement.
[2] Those tight, boxer-like briefs - I think they'd fit under Trowa's jeans.