] Earth - The Atlantic Ocean on the S.S. Destiny - Spring AC 195 [
Quatre looked at his watch; it was well past midnight. Trowa was late. I shouldn't have left him after lunch. Feeling his stomach sink with dread, he tried to reassure himself that Trowa was more than capable of taking care of himself. Still, the man, Carvey, was dangerous - and arrogant. All he needed was a convenient opportunity to carry out his ill intent. Quatre swallowed and stood, pacing his cabin. He absently removed the compact automatic pistol from the holster concealed under his vest, verifying it was loaded and cocked yet again. He fidgeted with the gun briefly, checking the safety on the slide, before replacing it with a sigh. Quatre had only ever fired it at paper targets, and he hoped he wouldn't flinch should he need to use the weapon in defense of himself or his new friend. He is a friend, isn't he? Quatre wondered. Though, he hoped for a deeper relationship with Trowa, acknowledgment of friendship would be a good start.
It was nearly one o'clock. Should I go look for him?
So lost in his worries was Quatre that he jumped when an abrupt knock sounded at his door. "Please be Trowa", he whispered, unlatching the door with a shaky hand, and drawing his pistol. "Who's there?" he asked more loudly, flicking off the safety on his gun.
"Who were you expecting?" was the low reply.
Opening the door, Quatre was relieved to see Trowa standing without, his posture relaxed, and his expression mildly amused. "You're late." Quatre informed him, imposing a hard edge to his tone.
"It couldn't be helped," Trowa offered by way of explanation as he entered. "He was shadowing me all afternoon, and even joined the poker game. But I'm glad I finally lost him; I wanted to check on our suits before I came to see you"
"You're sure he didn't follow you here?"
"I'm sure," Trowa affirmed with confidence, and then added in a dry tone, "Well, if he did, maybe he'll just think we're having a late night tryst."
Oh, don't I wish... Quatre smiled as his stressed mind, easily distracted, eagerly traveled the torrid avenues of his recent late night fantasies, before Trowa's words fully registered. Hauling his thoughts back to the present, he managed an undignified squawk. "What?"
"Nothing. Never mind," was all Trowa said, his expression resuming its usual, unreadable calm. The brunet moved to sit on the end of the spare bed, as he had the previous night.
Was that a joke? Puzzling over Trowa's unexpected display of humour, Quatre reengaged the safety on his pistol and holstered it while he spoke, "Did you learn anything?"
"He's a sore loser, and he's definitely not friendly." Trowa shrugged. "He was pressing me all evening, trying to get some kind of reaction, I suppose."
"He hates you." Quatre warned, concerned Trowa might have exacerbated the situation by playing with the man's ego.
"I'm not surprised," was Trowa's bland response.
"Why? What did you do?"
"When I left L3, I destroyed a fleet comprised of men from the Barton Foundation. He probably knew a lot of the people I killed."
Trowa's matter-of-fact tone would have given Quatre pause to question the wisdom of counting Trowa a friend, except that the blond had a far better sense of the other pilot than that. The emotion underlying Trowa's words wasn't callous and uncaring; it was weary and resigned. "He wants revenge," Quatre affirmed.
"And Heavyarms, I suspect. The Foundation invested considerable time and resources into building it. They probably want it back."
"So, he'll be wanting an opportunity to get rid of you and steal the Gundam."
"He needs me to access the suit first - though he might not realise it yet. And he won't want to leave any witnesses."
Quatre experienced a chill at the implications of Trowa's words. But it was true. The entire ship would be in danger if Carvey did get his hands on the Gundam. He frowned, speaking his thoughts aloud, "Why here? Why now?"
"Because he believes I'm isolated and trapped."
"Nowhere to run and no back up - at least none that he knows about."
"I'm glad you're here, to back me..." Trowa broke off at the sound of a solitary pair of footsteps in the hall outside. He fell silent, listening.
Quatre grew cold as they approached and stopped outside the door of the cabin. He groped about with his space-heart and turned even colder. Drawing his pistol, he stood. After exchanging a glance with Trowa he approached the door silently, while the other pilot - his pistol mysteriously in hand as well - moved off to the side of the chamber so that his presence would be hidden from the doorway.
The cool metal of the pistol's grip was a comforting, solid weight, yet Quatre found his heart racing. For what seemed like hours he stood motionless, the gun trained on the door; the only sound was the rush of blood through his body. Carvey was there, on the other side, waiting. He felt Trowa behind him, tense and expectant, but not afraid. Quatre swallowed, that simple, reflexive motion suddenly jarring - loud and abrupt.
The shuffle of rubber soles on the carpet outside preceded the presence of a shadow at the base of Quatre's door, the thin sliver of light blotted out as the man outside moved closer.
Through force of will Quatre kept his stance relaxed and his hands from trembling as he continued to hold the pistol at the ready. He slid his thumb up to disengage the safety with a soft click.
A muffled rustle and the slight thump of the door being pushed against its frame indicated Carvey was leaning against the door. Listening, Quatre realised, bending his entire focus to the trigger under his finger, his line of fire, and the door handle.
Quatre counted his heartbeat, coaxing it to slow and even out in time with his breathing. He'd gotten to 218 when the weight against the door eased back, the shadow receded, and footsteps moved off, back down the corridor from whence they had come.
"He's gone," he whispered, hearing Trowa moving behind him. Quatre holstered his firearm and turned back to Trowa. "He's still suspicious of me."
"Or my association with you. Though you offered him an adequate explanation, I thought." Trowa shrugged, replacing his own gun in a holster he had concealed by his loose shirt at the small of his back.
"Maybe we were too quiet then," Quatre joked before he realised what he'd said.
But to his surprise and delight, Trowa only laughed. "I just wore you out already," he teased, green eyes sparkling in good humour, before he seated himself back on the spare bed.
Quatre sputtered and nearly choked on his own laughter at the unexpected innuendo from Trowa. "Are you implying I have no stamina?" he demanded between breaths, trying - and failing - to sound indignant. He fixed his hands on his hips, mock glaring at Trowa, and biting his lips to keep from laughing, though he still shook from the force of containing his amusement.
His companion laughed harder at Quatre's feigned irritation. "That wasn't what I was implying at all," he replied with a suggestive smirk and a raised eyebrow.
Quatre opened his mouth to retort, but then closed it again quickly feeling his face heat at the images conjured by Trowa's words. Well, at this rate, I guess we'll never know. Giving Trowa a suspicious look he steered the conversation away from the sexual implications, "Are you sure you're Trowa? I didn't know he knew how to laugh."
Blinking, Trowa sobered rapidly. "No, I'm not..."
Reflecting on his words, Quatre groaned, "I'm sorry. That was... a really stupid thing for me to say. I didn't mean it like that." He moved to sit on his bed, facing Trowa, hoping that he hadn't damaged the nascent friendship with the other boy. "But to me you are Trowa."
"Do you mean that?" was Trowa's unexpected response as he turned to meet Quatre's eyes, his body language questioning and hesitant, yet hopeful.
"I do mean it. And I'm glad you do laugh."
Trowa gave his familiar small smile and nodded, accepting the answer. His mood changed abruptly though, as he moved back to the dilemma they faced. "I think it'd be a good idea for us to stay together at night - until we've come up with a way to deal with Carvey."
"I'd feel better if you stayed tonight at least. He could still be out there somewhere waiting for you to return to your cabin."
Trowa nodded again, "You're sure you don't mind?"
"Not at all. There's an extra bed anyway."
"Okay." Trowa stood, and began tugging his shirt out of the waistband of his jeans.
Quatre blinked, tearing his eyes away from the flashes of bare skin Trowa's movements revealed. "Um, well, I'll go change in the bathroom and stuff while you get settled." Quatre reached to grab his pyjamas from under his pillow and hurried to the bathroom, trying to banish the tantilising images afflicting his mind's eye. Why couldn't he just be ugly or dull or stupid or insensitive or really anything but the way he is? Quatre complained to himself, gritting his teeth as he changed and got ready for bed. And I have to try to sleep with him so close.
Slowly Quatre exited the bathroom, giving Trowa enough warning that he wouldn't feel his privacy was invaded. "The bathroom's all yours," he said as he stepped around the corner. Trowa was in bed, the sheets covering him up to his waist but his chest and torso were bare as he sat up against his pillows browsing through one of the novels Quatre had on his nightstand. His gun lay on that same surface, gleaming dully in the low light, a potent reminder of the danger they were in. Quatre focused on that sense of danger to keep his eyes from lingering on Trowa.
"Thank you." Trowa set the book aside and moved to toss his covers off and stand. Quatre hurriedly averted his eyes and turned away, pulling the covers back on his own bed, but he wasn't fast enough to miss a glimpse of the other boy's graceful and sleekly muscled body, clad only in a pair of tight black boxer-briefs.
Don't be an idiot, he scolded himself while he crawled under the covers and turned to lie on his side facing the wall and the heavy drapes hanging there. There are other things you should be thinking about that don't involve your only ally being naked. Even knowing the attraction was mutual, and Quatre hoped for more between he and Trowa, he was unwilling to act on his attraction - especially now when any distraction could prove fatal. And there was the matter of the way Trowa shied away from any real intimacy, not to mention the way he seemed to grow uncomfortable about his own attraction to Quatre. Although, Quatre reminded himself with a smile, we did laugh together today. And we really are helping each other.
Fortunately sleeping wasn't as much of a problem as Quatre had been expecting. Now that he could relax from the anxiety of the day, he found consciousness drifting away quite rapidly; he succumbed to sleep before Trowa had returned from the bathroom.
The soft pattering sounds of the shower roused Quatre the next morning. He stretched languorously under his sheets before rolling to his side and taking in the unmade bed next to his. Still resting on the night table was Trowa's gun, and the other pilot's clothes remained draped over the back of the small sofa. Surprised at how well he'd slept while sharing his room, Quatre slid out from under the covers, shivering when the cooler air of the cabin quickly permeated the loose satin of his pyjamas. He yawned as he staggered to collect his dressing gown, pulling it on clumsily while making his way to the window to jerk back the curtains and let the morning sun in. The day was brilliant and clear like the previous, contrasting strangely with the danger that remained. In the fresh light of the morning, it would be all too easy to dismiss the events of the previous day.
The background hiss of the shower had ceased, and Quatre turned at the click of the door opening behind him. Trying to stifle any overt reaction to the sight that greeted him, Quatre nevertheless found his mouth dry as simple phrases like 'hello' and 'good morning' fled from his mind. Trowa stood with a white towel wrapped low about his hips, the brightness of it contrasting sharply with the lightly tanned complexion of the tall pilot. The colour of his skin was like a delectable mixture of caramel and cream, warm and rich, housing the sculpted, lithe contours of his acrobat's physique.
"Quatre?" Trowa inquired while Quatre followed the graceful motion of Trowa's hand, finger-combing his damp hair into a messy variation of its usual style.
"Um... Trowa," Quatre managed, blinking and forcing his eyes to meet Trowa's, and attempted a smile as his vocabulary returned to him. "Good morning."
"May I borrow your bathrobe to go back to my quarters?"
The blond blinked again, his eyes once more roaming over Trowa's exposed state. "Uh... yes. Of course," he fumbled. Receiving a quizzical look from Trowa, Quatre added, "Sorry, I'm, uh, not much of a morning person."
"Okay," was the brief acknowledgment as Trowa turned to retrieve the robe from the bathroom. Once more modestly garbed, the brunet collected his firearm and clothes. "I'll see you at breakfast then?"
Quatre nodded, and Trowa left.
With a frustrated groan Quatre entered the bathroom; it was still steamy from Trowa's shower, the air thick with the familiar smell of his shampoo mingling with the less familiar warmth of Trowa's own scent. I'm doomed, Quatre groused silently as he stripped off his clothes and turned on the water. He shook his head as if that action could somehow banish the increasingly distracting thoughts and feelings he was experiencing towards Trowa, and stepped into the small shower cubicle. It was much easier to reign in those impulses when facing only his imagined fantasies. It was quite another when he was presented with a damply glistening and mostly naked Trowa in the flesh.
Mechanically, Quatre went through the routine of washing while he tried to talk himself out of his unsettling responses to Trowa and the mutual feelings of attraction that were beginning to threaten their still young alliance. Pushing that relationship beyond the bounds of friendship would likely do more harm than good, and Quatre remained uncertain whether Trowa even counted him as a friend, or merely a convenient ally. Quatre knew he wanted a friendship with Trowa more than a romantic relationship, and for now, things between them were still too awkward to risk any action that would damage that potential. Nor could either of them afford to be distracted when Carvey still posed a threat to their mission.
Resolve firmly back in place - at least temporarily - Quatre dressed and headed to breakfast. But before he even got there, he sensed something amiss. A peculiar flutter of malignancy eclipsed a concerned wariness. The latter Quatre recognised immediately as Trowa, and the former - it wasn't much of a stretch to assume it was Carvey. He increased his pace as his heartbeat accelerated. What could Carvey possibly do at breakfast though? Although, Quatre reminded himself, Carvey probably wasn't that worried about witnesses. If his plans came off, everyone on the ship would be dead.
Entering the mess hall, Quatre stopped short. Neither Trowa nor Carvey was there. He gave a rapid second glance around the room before hastily leaving and clambering up the steps to the deck on which Trowa's cabin was located. He broke into a run, drawing his pistol, at the sight of sunlight streaming into the corridor from the open door of Trowa's quarters.
Chaos met his eyes as he rounded the corner, pistol at the ready. Trowa's room had been turned inside out. The other pilot's few belongings were strewn about the place, both beds torn apart, every drawer on the floor, and every cabinet door open.
Swearing under his breath, Quatre entered the chamber cautiously, running on pure adrenaline; he put his fear temporarily aside as he took in the details around him, verifying no one was still here. A hard kick opened the bathroom. It too was in a state of utter disarray, and mercifully vacant.
"The Gundams," Quatre spoke, gritting his teeth against the heat of anger flaring within him. It seemed as though Carvey had realised whatever it was he needed Trowa for in order to access Heavyarms. "Trowa." A quick grope with his empathy led Quatre to the same conclusion. The danger was below decks. He mentally kicked himself for not employing that method sooner - the longer he was delayed, the greater the danger to Trowa.
As quickly as he was able, Quatre raced down multiple metal stairways that led deep into the ship's innards until he came to a familiar door that led into the main cargo hold. Fishing in his pocket for his silencer, he hurriedly affixed the attachment to the barrel of his pistol. Back to the door he listened for a moment. Hearing nothing, Quatre used his left hand to slowly turn the doorknob, while employing his weight to push the portal open, and brought his gun to bear with his right hand.
Grateful for the soft rubber soles of his sneakers, Quatre crept silently into the dimly lit expanse of the ship's cavernous hold. Dark forms of assorted vehicles and wooden shipping crates littered the area, creating a labyrinthine expanse of hulking shapes obstructing Quatre's vision, yet providing plenty of cover.
Deftly, he made his way from car to crate, heading in the general direction of the trucks holding the Gundams. Soon he could make out voices. He paused to listen.
"Come on, Nanashi," Carvey spoke in a harsh, mocking tone. "Help me out and I'll let you live."
Quatre could only imagine Trowa's non-expression as he heard his voice, icy in its lack of inflection. "I don't think so."
A sound of movement was followed by the abrupt bass crack of a gunshot, and then - pain.
Trowa.
"Damn it," Quatre hissed, on the move again, sacrificing some of his silence for speed.
Carvey's voice drew closer. "Fancy moves, kid. But my patience is wearing thin. Drop it, and I might not kill you."
No response from Trowa ensued as Quatre slowed to a halt behind a nearby pile of shipping crates. He'd caught a fleeting glimpse of Carvey, his back to Quatre's hiding place, facing Trowa, who was crouched on top of the bulk of Heavyarms. For a moment, Quatre closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, but he had little time to spare.
He spun out from behind the stack of crates, falling easily into a fighting stance, pistol gripped firmly, trained on Carvey. Ahead of the man was Trowa, his own gun at the ready, facing off against Carvey and his own raised firearm. The other pilot looked pale; Quatre noted the dark stain spreading on the shoulder of his left arm, the tear in his sleeve.
"Don't move," Quatre said, his tone cold, even, and commanding. "Drop your weapon, raise your hands, and turn. Slowly."
Carvey laughed, a cold cruel sound. "Sounds like your little bitch is trying to play the hero, Nanashi." He didn't turn. Rather, Quatre saw the man's arms tense as he raised his gun a hairsbreadth, preparing to fire.
Quatre didn't hesitate. He lowered the muzzle of his pistol and fired. The bullet tore through Carvey's knee with precision, felling the man, and his gun skidded just out of reach. "Sorry, but I did say, don't move," Quatre reminded him, refusing to look at the blood seeping from the man's injury.
Carvey was still, his breath ragged, before he raised his head. "You little fuck," he snarled before lunging for his weapon. He reached it, bringing it up more quickly than Quatre had anticipated and fired recklessly. Trowa leaped. Quatre took aim, higher, and squeezed the trigger again. The muffled gunshot connected with Carvey's prone form with a sickening thud.
After executing an impressive midair somersault, Trowa landed lightly near Quatre, who stepped closer to Carvey's now still form, gun still aimed at the man. The blond forced his attention away from the pain and fear emanating from Carvey, concentrating instead on verifying he was no longer a threat. The second bullet had impacted high, near the centre of the man's back - exactly where Quatre had aimed. Nevertheless, Quatre's stomach twisted at the knowledge it was a mortal injury.
Holstering his firearm, Trowa dropped to a crouch beside Carvey; he pushed the man's gun away and rolled him onto his back, revealing a thick pool of blood. Carvey's glazed eyes fluttered open, his breath coming in a wheezing rattle. "He's dying," Trowa observed.
"I know," Quatre whispered, unable to tear his gaze away from the man he'd killed.
Coughing weakly, a spray of bloody saliva coating his lips, Carvey croaked. "You bastard." With a final broken exhalation, his life fled.
Quatre closed his eyes in the wake of that moment - the horror of black fear and utter despair that accompanied death's claiming of a reluctant victim. That horror was inevitably followed by the awful, sucking void of a consciousness destroyed forever.
Swaying on his feet, Quatre slowly fell to his knees, grappling with the expected wave of nausea that followed, and steadfastly blinking back the tears burning in his eyes. He stared at his hands, still clutching his weapon. Stiffly, he unwrapped his fingers from the pistol's grip, letting the gun fall to his lap.
"Quatre?" came a soft query, prompting the blond to look up. Still crouching, Trowa shuffled toward him, a frown of worry creasing his brow.
"I - I've never killed anyone," Quatre began before clearing his throat, "like that - face to face. So much blood." A pained grimace crossed Trowa's face before he reached to lay a sympathetic hand on Quatre's shoulder. Quatre turned his attention to Trowa's arm. "You're hurt."
"Hmm, yeah. I was just a bit too slow getting out of the way before." Wincing, Trowa ripped the torn sleeve from his injured arm, and folded it into a makeshift bandage. "I'll be fine."
"So, um, what happened?" Quatre asked as he stood, holstering his pistol and firmly pushing aside his discomfort.
"When I got to my cabin, it'd been broken into and searched. After I dressed, I decided to check on the Gundams, thinking Carvey was counting on me to do something like that. I hoped to turn the tables on him."
"You should've waited for me."
Standing, Trowa scowled at the corpse. "I knew you'd be right behind me."
Quatre digested that last statement for a moment. "Oh."
But before he could speak further, rapid footsteps sounded in the hold and a voice called out. "What's going on down here?" It was the captain's voice.
"Damn. What now?" Quatre whispered, exchanging an apprehensive glance with Trowa.
"We explain what happened without mentioning the Gundams, and hope for the best."
"And if that doesn't work?"
"We'll have to make sure it does." Trowa's tone was hard, causing Quatre to grimace in distaste at the thought of what might transpire otherwise.
Shortly thereafter, the Captain and his First Mate stepped into the pilots' line of sight. The two men were armed and wary as they approached. Trowa raised his hands to show his lack of violent intention, prompting Quatre to do the same.
"What's happened here?" the captain demanded, confusion written on his face.
"I found my quarters burgled this morning and came below to make sure my cargo remained secure," Trowa began calmly. "This man ambushed me," he nodded at Carvey's cooling body. "He fired at me, but fortunately Quatre arrived and asked him to disarm. He persisted in trying to kill me, so Quatre shot him, once in warning, and then once more when it became clear the man wasn't going to stand down."
"Is that what happened?" he asked Quatre.
"Yes, sir."
Scratching the back of head thoughtfully for a moment, the Captain continued, "I'm inclined to believe you both. That man had rubbed me the wrong way from the moment he boarded the Destiny. And neither of you seem like bad kids." Quatre let out his breath in relief, unaware he'd even been holding it. "But," the Captain amended. "I don't like the idea of anyone carrying firearms on my ship." He held a hand out to Quatre. "If you'd surrender your weapon?"
So far so good. Quatre complied, slowly reaching into his jacket to remove his pistol from its shoulder holster, before passing it, handle first, to the Captain.
The man took the gun and sighed. "I probably owe you a debt of gratitude, young man. Piracy is still a significant problem for ships like ours. I wouldn't be surprised if this man had been operating in conjunction with one of the Caribbean pirate cartels.
"I'd like to keep this quiet so other passengers aren't alarmed, but I'll need to talk with you both further, and fill out documents for the appropriate authorities to account for a death on my ship."
"Of course," Quatre spoke while Trowa merely nodded.
"But first," he addressed Quatre again. "Take your friend to the infirmary and see to his injury." [7]
Following the captain's directions, the infirmary - or rather, the small room that passed for an infirmary - was easily found. Quatre keyed in the combination given him and the door unlocked with a muted click. Opening the door, he fumbled briefly along the wall for the light switch and indicated Trowa should enter. It was easier to keep his mind from the recent events with a new concern to occupy his thoughts.
"How's the arm?" he asked the brunet who was still firmly gripping the injury with the tattered remnants of one sleeve.
"I've had worse," he replied looking around the small chamber.
"Um, here, why don't you sit on this?" Quatre spoke as he dragged a tall stool from under the counter to the centre of the room, placing it under the single light fixture.
Trowa nodded and then, removing his impromptu bandage, winced and pulled his shirt off over his head. He tossed the ruined garment to the low cot along one wall and perched on the edge of the stool, twisting his neck to examine the bullet graze and prod it gingerly with his index finger.
Quatre could see fresh blood welling up in the shallow wound, "Don't make it worse!" he admonished, carefully keeping his eyes from roaming over the revealed contours of Trowa's back and chest.
Trowa met his eyes before replying, his lips curving into a small, wry smile. "Yes, Doctor."
"Here," Quatre passed Trowa a pad of gauze he'd found in a container on the counter. "Use this while I find something to clean it with."
Quatre rummaged quietly through the cupboards and drawers lining the room, finding and collecting the assorted materials he required to tend to Trowa's bullet wound. In the silence, unbidden, he found images of the dead man flashing past his mind's eye. He could feel Trowa's eyes on him, and he cursed his trembling hands. Damn it. Get a grip on yourself. You weren't even the one who got shot.
"You always seem to be patching me up," came Trowa's low, modulated tone, pulling Quatre's attention back to the task at hand.
"I'm sorry you're always getting hurt." Quatre found a small plastic tray upon which he placed his small collection of items.
"Don't be. It's not your fault." Trowa spoke, his tone warming as Quatre turned to face him. "And, thank you. You have... gentle hands."
"Oh, uh, you're welcome, and thank you," the blond stammered, feeling his face heat mildly at the unexpected compliment. "But I haven't done anything yet," Quatre amended as he set the tray on the counter top nearest Trowa.
"I was just remembering," was the soft, almost shy response. The emotion now emanating from the other pilot was affectionate, vaguely sentimental, and self-conscious.
Steadfastly refusing to consider that particular mixture of feeling from Trowa, Quatre bent to pull a second stool to the side and slightly behind the other boy. "Hm, well, this is going to sting when I clean it, so be ready for that."
"Okay." And with that Trowa fell silent - patient, relaxed, and centered. Attending to those sensations, the blond seated himself and steadied his hands while he undid the cap of the antiseptic. His fingers brushed across Trowa's as he indicated that the other boy remove the gauze pad he'd been holding over his injury. Relinquishing the blood stained material, Trowa's hand dropped to his lap as he closed his eyes and let his head fall forward.
Trowa's skin was warm and smooth under Quatre's fingers as the blond carefully examined the superficial graze across the other pilot's deltoid muscle. Quatre gingerly began daubing at the injury with a fresh bit of antiseptic-moistened gauze, cleaning away the blood that had begun to congeal along with fabric lint from Trowa's sleeve. Once the area was clean, Quatre reached for a fresh piece of gauze and held it to staunch the fresh trickle of blood. While he waited, he studied Trowa's bowed profile, the brunet's features were placid, all tension having slipped away, leaving his lips in the barest approximation of a smile while his long eyelashes rested delicately above high cheekbones. His complexion was dusted lightly with colour from recent exposure to natural sunlight, and Quatre smiled. At this proximity, he could even make out a smattering of barely visible freckles across the other boy's cheeks and nose.
Leaning closer - almost involuntarily - Quatre inhaled deeply. Over the astringent odor of the antiseptic he could detect Trowa's native scent. Warm, fresh, and alive - so alive. Holding the gauze with his left hand, he allowed the fingers of his other hand to trail across the firm surface of Trowa's shoulder blade, abstractly wondering at the faded scar that extended across part of that region.
So warm, his mind murmured while his eyes and fingers hesitantly wandered over the exposed skin before him. He heard Trowa gasp softly, but it wasn't in pain, and the boy didn't flinch from his light touch. There was rather pleasure, mingling with a gently rousing desire. So alive.
His consciousness was drawn inexorably into that whisper of desire; Quatre, his senses reeling, dimly noticed his breathing growing shallow, his heart accelerating, his body stirring. Those newly awakening sensations writhed through him, brushing against the threads of Trowa's gradually increasing arousal. It was such a vital and vibrant force, banishing the recent images of death. He bowed his head near, eyes closed, feeling the heat radiating from Trowa's body on his face as his fingers continued their light caress. Can you feel it, Trowa?
But he wasn't to receive an answer to his unspoken question that day. Abruptly, those relished, sympathetic sensations retreated, retracting to become obscured behind discomfort and apprehension. Quatre pulled his hand away as if burned, blinking his way back to the tangible world. Trowa had lifted his head and was looking at him, his eyes dazed and questioning, but also nervous. "Quatre...?"
"I - I'm sorry." Quatre began, his lips forcing each syllable out painfully, "I was... I was just wondering where you got this scar on your back," he tried to offer a credible explanation for his lapse - a way out for both or either of them. Idiot, what were you thinking?
Trowa sighed in a wash of relief, but his voice was unsteady as he replied, "I don't know. I've had it for as long as I can remember. I probably got it when I was a baby."
Quatre nodded, swallowing, and turned his attention back to finishing the dressing on Trowa's injury.
Neither boy spoke for a time; the silence between them grew weighty. Finally Trowa asked, "Are you okay?"
Failing to suppress an irrational surge of annoyance at the other boy, Quatre spoke in a clipped tone, "I'm fine." What is he afraid of? Why does he keep pulling away?
"You seem distracted - and upset."
Oh, so he does care. What the heck? "I'm fine," he repeated. "I guess I'm just still thinking about earlier."
Trowa opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again promptly with a frown and fell silent again. They remained in awkward silence while Quatre finished bandaging Trowa's arm. Once it was finished Trowa stood, feeling at the dressing with his other hand. "Thank you. It feels better."
"We need to talk to the captain. Identify the body and fill out the forms he mentioned." Quatre grimaced at the thought of seeing Carvey's corpse again. It was bad enough the first time, to have to look again... Quatre pinched his eyes shut as a wave of dizziness passed through him. Reaching for the counter beside him, he steadied himself. Idiot, he scolded, Pull it together before he thinks you're completely incompetent.
"Are you sure you're all right, Quatre? I can probably do this without you." No judgement resided in Trowa's tone; the other pilot felt genuinely concerned, but Quatre was determined to do what he needed to do.
"No. I killed him. It's my responsibility. The captain needs both of us to sign statements. I'm fine."
"Okay," Trowa relented, but then added as he collected his shirt and moved to open the door, "And, Quatre?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. You probably saved my life."
He could feel the tears coming, an imminent pressure accumulating in his chest, head, and throat, due to erupt at any moment now. Quatre needed to leave this place, this refrigerated room in the bowels of the ship, intended for the transport of delicate, temperature sensitive cargo, but which now had been pressed into service as a makeshift morgue.
Though the sheet had been pulled to cover the dead man lying on the table at the side of the room, Quatre could still feel the man's ghoulish gaze on him, accusatory and damning. Trowa and the Captain were still speaking, the latter of whom was filling out yet more paper work. How could they be so calm with that corpse just lying there? Quatre shivered, and moved quickly to the door, "Excuse me, please."
Trowa shot him an alarmed look while the Captain spoke pleasantly, "Thank you, young master. Have a restful evening." The man's tone was sympathetic, but in Quatre's frame of mind, it sounded condescending.
Closing the door behind him, Quatre indulged a moment to sag against the wall and release a painful, shuddering sob. Get a grip on yourself. You're not a child. You're a soldier. Death is part of war. Repeating this silent mantra, Quatre pulled himself together enough to begin walking quickly down the hall to the stairs. He heard the door behind him open and close, footsteps following him, but he didn't slow or look back, rather he increased his pace as he ascended to the upper decks. Trowa's voice came from somewhere below him, echoing through the stairwell, "Quatre, wait."
I'm sorry, Trowa. I need to be alone. But he didn't reply out loud.
"Quatre?"
Leave me alone. I can't let you see me like this. I don't need your pity. Surely Trowa would be disgusted by his weakness, by his cowardice. Quatre felt the first of his tears welling up in his eyes; he couldn't bear to lose the other pilot's respect. He stepped out onto the level of his cabin and headed in that direction blindly, his vision now a blur.
"Quatre!" Trowa's voice was closer and Quatre heard his steps follow him into the hall increasing their tempo to a jog. The blond increased his pace as well, reaching to fumble in his pocket for his keycard. But just as he reached his cabin, a hand closed over his shoulder, pulling him up short.
Clenching his fists and refusing to turn around, "What?" he demanded angrily, his voice harsh with the effort to keep it from breaking. Please, just go away.
"Quatre," Trowa's tone was gentler now, but the hand gripping the blond's shoulder held him firmly. "You're upset. I don't think it's a good idea for you to be alone."
"Why do you care?" he lashed out in defense, uncaring whether his words hurt the other.
But Trowa didn't flinch or let go. A second hand moved to hold his other shoulder. "You're my friend. I care." the brunet said simply. "I'm not leaving you alone like this."
"Why not?" Quatre mumbled miserably as he failed in his battle to contain his distress. He bowed his head while tears began to slide down his cheeks. Friend?
Trowa stepped closer to Quatre, the proximity of his body compelling yet terrifying. The hand on Quatre's right shoulder moved to rub the blond's upper arm in a comforting rhythm. Eventually Trowa replied softly, "Because I know what it's like. No one was there for me when I... after I killed someone the first time."
Unable to think of a better response, Quatre managed in a small voice, "Really?"
"Really." Trowa released him. "Now, we can keep standing here in the corridor, or you can let us into your room."
"Okay," Quatre sniffled, unlocking his door and stepping in. He still couldn't bear to look at his friend. He said we're friends, and Quatre found some comfort in that. Tossing his keycard carelessly to his desk, Quatre moved to lie down on his bed, facing the wall and burying his face against the pillow. He sensed Trowa hovering in some uncertainty behind him. "You must think I'm weak. I'm such a coward," he accused, giving voice to his fears.
"Why would I think that?" Trowa's tone was genuinely bewildered as he moved into the room.
"Look at me! Look at you..." Quatre trailed off, his anger directed inwardly. The other pilot was so controlled, so efficient and experienced. Compared to him, Quatre was like an infant.
A hint of exasperation coloured Trowa's next words. "Quatre, believe me. It's a blessing to be able to cry, to feel like that."
"I'm pathetic," he insisted, wiping his tears on the pillowcase.
"No," Trowa corrected. "You're strong."
Irritated, "How?" was the blond's demand.
Trowa took a deep breath. "You're a good person - you're kind. That you can cry - that you do care... It's harder to care than not."
"What do you mean?" he asked, feeling a small blossom of hope intrude into the anguish and self-recrimination he was experiencing.
"Compassion is a burden that not many people have the strength to bear," Trowa explained, seating himself on the edge of Quatre's bed. "From what I've seen, people handle things like this in many different ways. You could be like Dominic, and embrace the anger, hatred, and violence so that you come to enjoy it, thrive on it. I've seen that far too often." The brunet paused and when he resumed speaking his tone was bitter, "Or you could be like me and refuse to let yourself feel the pain - to let your soul die, bit by bit."
Thinking on his friend's words and manner, a new wave of tears broke through the blond in response to the melancholy of his friend. Quatre whispered brokenly, "Your soul's not dead, Trowa."
The other pilot, however, didn't reply to Quatre's words, continuing with his short speech, "Or you could be as you are - strong enough to act on your beliefs - motivated by compassion, and uncompromising in your personal integrity."
"You see me that way?"
"I do."
"Oh." Quatre turned the words over his mind, evaluating the sentiment for its veracity.
"And you're not a coward either. Only a fool doesn't feel fear. It's how you react to your fear that makes you brave. Real courage is doing what you need to do even when you're terrified."
Quatre fell silent for a time, further contemplating Trowa's words as he stared at the thick folds of burgundy hanging against the wall he faced, and slowly seeing some of the wisdom in them. "I am scared," he confessed in a whisper, and finally, mercifully, released all attempts to control his grief and fear, his body shook with the force of his first ragged sobs. "All the time," he choked out, curling his body in on itself and clutching his pillow to his face.
"It's okay to be scared," Trowa soothed, and Quatre felt the other pilot tentatively place a hand on his back, awkwardly stroking in a broken rhythm.
"He's dead. I killed him," Quatre sobbed into the heavy material, "I mean... I - I don't regret it, but I keep seeing his face," his breath hitched painfully, and he let the pillow drop from his face to continue, "his eyes - they're so cold - I broke him, I destroyed his life. Wh-when they're in a mobile suit I can't see their faces - even though I still feel them die."
There was a pregnant pause. "Oh God... you feel them die?" Trowa's voice was thick with his own emotion, "I didn't even think... Quatre..." he began, full of sorrow, but trailed off, his comfort offered wordlessly by the subtle increase in the pressure of his hand's movement against Quatre's back.
"All of them..." Quatre broke into a fresh spasm of sobs at the admission, of finally putting that agony into words after having kept it carefully under lock and key since he'd started fighting. He brought his hands to his face to hide his grief, but could no longer control the tremors wracking him.
But, he wasn't alone. Trowa's presence was beside him, warm, sympathetic, and quietly supportive. His companion didn't speak for a time, allowing the blond his release, until Quatre began to fear he couldn't stop. His head throbbed, his eyes burned, he was so tired, and yet the tears still flowed. Carvey's dead face leered at him from behind closed eyelids, bloodless and grey, flecks of crimson on his lips, eyes wide and unseeing.
"Trowa...?" he began, asking for something - for some other, greater solace - from the other boy, but not quite knowing how to put his need into words.
The mattress bent under him as Trowa shifted away from him, off the bed. "Look at me, Quatre." Oddly, Trowa's voice came from greater proximity than before.
Somewhat reluctantly, Quatre rolled over onto his back, turning his head in his friend's direction, repeatedly wiping his tears away with trembling fingers, and feeling self-conscious about how he must look - his face tear-streaked and puffy.
Vibrant green eyes met his and Trowa gave him a hesitant, encouraging smile from where he'd moved to sit on the floor, his chin resting atop his hands which were folded together at the edge of the bed. Quatre just looked at him in confusion, blinking through the moisture clouding his vision.
Reading Quatre's expression, Trowa spoke in explanation, "Can you feel me, Quatre?"
"Are you asking me to?" he sniffled, still perplexed. "Or if I'm able to?"
"I thought it might help you if you did."
"But... I don't want... I mean you don't..." Quatre protested, but Trowa cut him off.
"I trust you."
Quatre frowned as understanding slowly dawned. Trowa was offering himself as an anchor, a peaceful haven from the gruesome images and memories that were attacking his psyche. "Are you sure...?"
"I said I trust you," Trowa repeated.
Quatre bit his lip, "May I touch you?"
"Yes." Trowa reached out and took Quatre's hand loosely in his own, still smiling his encouragement.
Given what had been between them, Quatre found himself humbled by the generosity of Trowa's words and actions. "Thank you."
"So, I guess, just do what you do, and I'll do what I do," Trowa proposed, settling more comfortably beside the bed and closing his eyes, his features gradually relaxing into tranquil impassivity.
"I've never done anything like this before," Quatre whispered, mostly to himself, but was unsurprised at the answering murmur.
"Neither have I."
Closing his eyes, even as the dead man's visage mocked him, Quatre let slip his mental and emotional fortifications first. Slowly he shifted his focus from the physical stimuli around him to his other, intangible sense. One by one, sensations left him; he no longer heard the thrum of the ship's engines or felt the mattress beneath him. The gentle sway of the ship on the water faded, as did the smells of wood polish, paint, and seawater. The only physical contact he allowed to remain was that of Trowa's hand in his own. The warmth and security of that touch he concentrated on, tightening his fingers around his friend's and receiving an answering squeeze in reply.
Gently, but with determination he turned his attention away from the turmoil of his own pathos and the hideous imagery of his own mind, which threatened to overtake him in this place of heightened emotional receptivity and vulnerability.
Instead, he found another ocean, the vast expanses of his friend's feelings manifesting in a newly familiar metaphor as he eased his focus to Trowa. The surface was calm, stirred by gentle swellings of emotion, but never broken, erratic, or violent. Quatre permitted his imagined psyche to rest against that surface, to be buoyed and cradled by its gentle movements. He drifted there for a while, curious to delve deeper, yet hesitant and unwilling to cause Trowa any feelings of violation.
He trusts me. Quatre reminded himself in awe. He offered this freely.
He relaxed then, allowing himself to slowly sink beneath the placid surface. Enveloped and caressed by cool viscosity, Quatre imagined he breathed deeply, freely, without any fear of drowning, his body becoming suffused by the substance in which he was submerged. Gazing upwards, the surface glimmered in a balanced and ever-changing, lazy pattern of light and shadow. He remained passive and allowed the native currents of Trowa's emotion to guide his languid journey as he sank deeper.
Strangely, he felt as if he were dwindling, diminishing somehow and yet more whole and well defined than ever before. Drifting in a languorous, random descent Quatre became gradually aware of a light emanating from below him, filtering up around him in dusky golden beams. Heat accompanied the illumination; his back was imperceptibly warming as he fell.
He noticed the light was moving and changing the closer he got to its source. Multihued streams began to twine about him, thickening and intensifying into translucent ribbons of pastel radiance. They flickered and danced as his curiosity finally got the better of him. Quatre's imagined body twisted, rolling over, while eddies of light and darkness, coolness and warmth, wrapped about him in an ethereal caress.
Tears sprang to his imagined eyes and his breath caught at the splendour spreading below him, stretching as far as he could perceive - spanning the width and depth of his view. A spangled field of multifaceted shapes and textures shifted and pulsated with an essential, intrinsic spirit. He was bathed in that energy, feeling it seep through his imagined skin, permeating his consciousness in a peaceful balm of quiet intensity.
What is this? He questioned in wonderment. He'd never before experienced part of another person like this. Truly, he'd never been offered the opportunity - nor had he ever thought to ask. But he knew somehow that the answer was far beyond his ken. He abandoned any struggle for comprehension and simply floated in the enigmatic magnificence that was Trowa.
Quatre surrendered, content, permitting his own consciousness to fragment and dissipate. Fading into pleasurable oblivion, some small corner of his mind realised he was falling asleep. Another portion of his mind, his physical senses, allowed him to distantly feel Trowa's hand gently disentangling from his. He felt first his shoes being removed, then his belt. Now, a flutter of air and the weight of a blanket settled over him.
Though his body was leaden and barely bound to his will, he made an effort to speak, his own voice a dreamlike and abstract mumble. "You're beautiful inside... I can see it."
Snared at the border of wakefulness and slumber, he couldn't tell whether his last sensations were real or conjured by his own mind. But he felt Trowa's breath near his cheek and heard his friend's mellow tone whisper, "Don't let your soul die, Quatre." The warmth of that exhalation drew nearer, a soft contact brushed across his temple, and he slept.
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tbc.
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Notes:
[7] Typically, a freighter has no medical staff (unless they can carry more than 12 passengers, which is uncommon) You must be in good health to travel aboard such vessels - as well as being neither too young, nor too old.