] Earth - The Atlantic & Pacific Oceans on the S.S. Destiny - Spring AC 195 [
Quatre woke abruptly. His cabin was in darkness indicating it was the deep of the night. He was still dressed, lying on top of his bedspread covered only by a blanket. Listening to the deep hum of the ship, he lay for a while recalling recent events and reorienting himself. Images from the previous day rushed through his mind, yet despite their violence, he felt peaceful. Trowa, he remembered. He helped me, and it was wonderful. Quatre struggled to sit up, tossing the blanket off his legs. He said we were friends. He reached for the light switch near his bed and flicked it on. I don't feel scared anymore.
As the small lamp flared to life, Quatre's attention was drawn to the other bed. There, Trowa lay on his stomach, breathing softly in his sleep and looking peculiarly vulnerable. He stayed with me? Quatre stood quietly, pulling back his covers and collecting his pyjamas from under his pillow, taking care not to wake Trowa.
He stepped away from the bed and behind one of the partially closed drapes and tried to change as unobtrusively as he could. Pleasantly bemused and wondering at the continuing presence of his friend, and at what Trowa had shared with him that night, he recalled his last fading impressions. Did he, his mind stammered, did he kiss me? A thrill of excitement accompanied that question, but Quatre was uncertain whether it had been a true occurrence.
Quatre frowned, trying to make sense of the hazy dream disguised as a memory - or was it a memory disguised as a dream? He said something about not letting my soul die, and then I felt - I felt him kiss me? But it was such a vague recollection, and further, Quatre reminded himself, it wasn't that dissimilar from the daydreams and fantasies he'd been pursuing lately. I probably just imagined it.
Shaking his head in confusion, Quatre crept back into bed, pulling the covers back over himself slowly. He lay on his side contemplating his friend for a time. Trowa's face was turned toward him, and not that far away given the short span between the twin beds; he needed only straighten his arm and he could touch the other boy. It was - no, he was - so beautiful. Was that his soul? It was tempting, so tempting, to reach out and brush his fingers across those peaceful features, to gently rouse those eyes to open, and those lips to smile - but something stayed his hand.
I know he's attracted to me. He's interested that way - but uncertain and scared of something. Quatre frowned thoughtfully. At least I now know he likes me - and he trusts me. But then Quatre was confounded as earlier that day in the infirmary came back to his mind. I touched him, and he pulled away. Even though he liked being touched.
After stifling a yawn, Quatre ceased his pondering and reached to turn the light back off. Maybe things will make more sense in the morning, he decided and drifted back to sleep.
His bed was deliciously warm and comfortable - nearly perfectly so - thus it was with great difficulty that Quatre clawed his way to consciousness in response to a shaking of his shoulder and a voice speaking his name. It was a lovely voice, moderate and gentle, matching the touch on his shoulder. "Quatre?"
"Mmph?" he managed, opening his eyes to meet a gaze the colour of a summer forest.
"You don't have to wake up, but I brought you breakfast. I didn't think you'd want to miss it, but I didn't want to wake you any sooner." Trowa explained with an apologetic half-smile.
Quatre yawned and struggled to sit, shedding the cocoon of sheets and blankets as he did so. He's still here, his mind sighed happily, and Quatre was further pleased that he still felt content and calm - although, Trowa was somewhat anxious. He rubbed his eyes asking, "You brought me breakfast?"
"It's on the desk," said Trowa, moving away from Quatre's bedside to collect the blond's dressing gown from the arm of the sofa.
Blinking at his friend in mild surprise, Quatre swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, taking the garment Trowa held out to him and shrugging it on over his pyjamas. He fixed Trowa with a curious look, "You're being awfully... solicitous this morning."
In response, Trowa's expression grew self-conscious. "I was concerned..." he offered, trailing off in mild embarrassment. Turning away, he went to pull the drapes open.
"Thank you. I appreciate it," Quatre tried to reassure while wincing inwardly that he'd caused the other boy any discomfort - especially given what they'd shared. I hope he doesn't regret what he... what we did.
Trowa moved to seat himself on the sofa while Quatre approached the desk and the tray resting upon it. Somehow Trowa had managed to fit a little bit of everything onto the platter, and it smelled delicious to Quatre's sleep fogged brain. He poured some tea before seating himself, turning his chair so he could face Trowa as he ate.
"How are you feeling this morning?" Trowa eventually inquired.
Quatre thought on it a moment, noting how unusually refreshed and simply good he felt. "Wonderful, actually," he admitted with a grin. Peering at his friend over the top of his teacup he was intrigued by the difference in Trowa this morning. His discomfort had metamorphosed from a distance keeping reluctance to the intimate anxiety of personal disclosure. To Quatre's view, he was more real, more attainable - more open. I wonder what it was like for him, if he felt anything? Quatre mused, reaching for an apple Danish.
"I'm glad to hear that."
Careful not to appear too curious, Quatre stole several surreptitious glances at Trowa as he ate. Trowa's usual, balanced posture was marked by a subtle stiffness of his shoulders. Quatre doubted he would have noticed that small difference if it weren't for the slight apprehension he felt from the other boy. "How does your arm feel?" he inquired.
"Stiff, and it aches a little, but otherwise, fine."
Quatre frowned as Trowa turned away to gaze out the window. He wanted to somehow build upon the intimacy of the previous day, and yet, he feared disrupting the delicate mood of the morning. What can we talk about? he wondered, and then nearly groaned at his own insensitivity. Oh God, I can be so self-absorbed. "Thank you again for what you did for me last night."
"You're welcome."
"So... um, how do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Be so calm and balanced. I guess that sounds strange, but you feel so different to me - compared to most other people."
Trowa shrugged. "I guess it's something I learned when I was young. If I was scared or sad or angry, and no one was there to help me or protect me," he began. "I just learned to sort of... " Trowa broke off as if searching for the right word. "Detach myself from those kinds of strong feelings."
"How?"
"I don't know; it's just something I do. I keep my body relaxed, and control my breathing - that helps moderate the physical response, and I..." He paused again with a frown. "I just let the fear - or whatever - move through me instead of getting stuck inside." Trowa's tone indicated the other pilot was skeptical of his explanation.
"That makes sense to me," Quatre replied thinking of his own experiences with the emotions of others. "It sounds a little like how I manage my ability. Sometimes, if there are a lot of strong feelings present, I can't hold them all or I get overwhelmed. It's like," he fumbled for a simile that Trowa would relate to. "It's like trying to listen to a bunch of different pieces of music all at once - I just can't process it."
"That does sound overwhelming." Trowa affirmed. "Dealing with your own emotions is enough of a challenge sometimes." He leaned forward in his seat, expressing his interest and encouraging Quatre to continue.
"It was especially difficult when I was a younger and it - the empathy - was just starting to manifest," Quatre began, and then continued with a wry twist of his lips. "Before I knew what was going on, I thought I was going insane."
"How old were you then?" asked Trowa, curious.
"About ten," he answered, remembering how frightened he'd been at the time, how impatient his father had been with him. "My father sent me to a bunch of doctors who all tried to figure out what was wrong with me. They didn't have a clue, but, of course, they wouldn't admit to that." He shook his head. The medications had been awful. Even when the empathy was nascent, having it dulled, heightened, or distorted had been worse than no treatment. "I was put on all kinds of drugs - some experimental - and subjected to practically every neurological test or scan out there. I hated it.
"But, finally, one doctor remembered reading something in a psychiatric journal. 'Unusual mental aptitudes' he called them." Smiling at that memory, of a doctor who hadn't been cowed his father's impatience and frustration, who had cared about the confused child he'd been, he explained, "We managed to find a specialist, and then I started to learn about the ability and how to control it. It was such a relief to know I wasn't sick.
"Although, it was still hard before I did learn to cope with other people's emotions. I'd get confused and not be able to tell the difference between what I was feeling, and what others were feeling. My father's disapproval and frequent anger toward me were the hardest to cope with."
A lump had formed in Quatre's throat; he swallowed hard, trying to collect himself. He glanced at Trowa and saw sympathy in his eyes. Clinging to that comfort, he continued, "I couldn't escape from his emotions that easily, and he thought I was weak for crying - but I couldn't help it. All his feelings towards me I'd sort of absorb and then project them back onto myself until it was like my own anger and disapproval of myself.
"I still don't really know why I disappointed him so much," he whispered, dropping his eyes to stare at his hands in his lap. "That's why I tried to run away when I was thirteen." Quatre fell silent, the ghosts of those painful exchanges with his father growing ever more tangible.
Gently, Trowa inquired, "Was that when you met the Maguanacs?"
"Yeah. I thought escaping to Earth, that somehow I'd have more freedom, or something. I don't really know anymore. I was a different person then."
"You said that day changed your life."
"It did. I grew up a lot." Quatre didn't want to go into the details. In retrospect, his attitude then had been that of an arrogant, self-pitying brat. "I think that day was the first day I really understood what it means to respect myself - and to be respected by others. I resolved to live a life I could be proud of, and to come back to Earth when I was ready to and not because I wanted to run away."
"For what it's worth, I think you're living a life you can be proud of," was Trowa's soft-spoken response.
When Quatre looked to his friend, he was greeted by a genuine, candid smile. "Thank you," he stammered feeling humbled by Trowa's simple sentiment of support and respect. "That means a lot to me."
"But," Trowa said, standing. "What's most important is what you think and how you feel about it."
"Yeah, I know," Quatre rolled his eyes, grinning at his friend sheepishly. "Are you leaving?"
Trowa nodded. "I'd like to clean up my cabin and take care of some other things. You'll be okay?"
"I'll be fine. Thanks again, Trowa. For everything."
"Anytime. I mean that."
"You too."
"Okay." Trowa moved to the door, but turned back to speak, "Do you want to join the game tonight after dinner?"
"I'd love to. I'll see you then if not sooner."
Early that afternoon the Destiny began its passage through the Panama Canal. [8] The crossing would take a full eight hours, and, as Quatre found out, the series of locks and lakes would raise the massive ship about fifty feet above sea level throughout the fifty-mile journey, before lowering the ship back to sea level and releasing it into the Pacific. The crew brought several deck chairs to the prow of the ship for their guests to enjoy the crossing, and Quatre met Trowa there, along with the other passengers. As they approached the first lock into the canal, Quatre stood at the prow, wondering how the Destiny could possible fit her tremendous bulk through the narrow channel.
"We're not going to fit," he remarked to his friend who'd joined him at the railing.
"It doesn't look like it does it? But the ship's a Panamax [9]. She'll fit."
He and Trowa enjoyed a companionable silence as they each stood, content to admire the vista of the verdant hills of Panama, her dense jungles shrouded in silvery mists beneath the low, patchy cloud cover of the afternoon. Occasionally, upon spotting something of interest, one or the other of them would speak softly and point, sharing the sightings of other ships, the architecture of the canal, or a flock of exotic birds with the other.
The sounds of human activity increased as the ship slowed to a near crawl, easing into the first lock, guided by a pair of tugs until linemen could board and affix guidelines to the Destiny. Once in the lock, the gates closed, and slowly, the water level rose. Alongside, on rails, were the huge steel mules that would assist in pulling the freighter through the lock. Observing the antique brickwork of the canal's structure, and the chunky metal mules, Quatre felt as if he'd somehow been transported back in time. It was hard to imagine how, centuries ago, the engineering ability had existed to construct such a thing - and that it was still in service now.
Throughout the passage - much to everyone's delight - assorted native birds and butterflies, colourful and friendly, visited the ship. A crewman joined them to identify each creature, having experienced the trip many times before. As the wild landscape slipped past, afternoon turned to evening, and all too soon it was time for dinner. Quatre sighed in reluctance, wanting to stay and observe the tail of their journey; he could see the lights of the next lock on the horizon, glimmering in the twilight. Breathing deeply of the humid night air, he leaned into Trowa, their upper arms coming into contact. "I suppose we should go in."
Trowa's answering sigh echoed his, but the brunet didn't move immediately. "I suppose we should."
"Those guys will be pleased to have us off the ship!" Quatre laughed as he and Trowa climbed the stairs to Quatre's cabin that evening after the poker game. "Or at least you. Have you been cleaning them out like that every night?"
"No, of course not. But, it's important to lull them into complacency by choosing to lose occasionally," Trowa spoke in his usual serious tone, but a smug grin tugged at the corners of his lips.
"Well, so long as it's your choice..." Quatre grinned at his friend. It was a shame they had only two more nights on the ship. Quatre was beginning to regret not having joined more of the poker games during the voyage since they seemed to end leaving Trowa in a relaxed and amused mood at odds with his usual reserve.
They came to Quatre's cabin door and paused without, facing each other in a moment that Quatre could only describe as expectant awkwardness. Quatre fished his keycard from his back pocket, fidgeting with the thin plastic while Trowa, head bowed, didn't meet his eyes for a time. When the other pilot did glance up at him from beneath his bangs, his mouth was pressed into a nervous line and his eyes had softened.
Shy? Quatre realised. He's shy. "Um," he began, trying to evaluate possible things he could say or do to alleviate the strange tension. Should I be making some sort of move? It seemed like one of those moments that, had his life been some weird romance film, he'd lean forward and simply kiss the other boy, and then they'd live happily ever after. He smiled at Trowa, nearly afraid to breathe, fearing that whatever he did, he'd destroy this fragile feeling between them. Then don't do anything, he advised himself. Say something.
He opened his mouth to speak just as Trowa did, "I was wondering if you...?" Quatre began.
"Did you want me...?" Trowa started, breaking off just as Quatre did.
"Um, sorry," the blond apologised, feeling his face heat. "You first."
Trowa chuckled, and that sound alleviated some of the tension. "I was going to ask if you wanted me to stay again? In case you're worried about not sleeping well."
"I- I'd like that," Quatre breathed a soft sigh of relief. "I was just about to ask you the same thing."
"Okay then. I'll just get some things from my cabin and be back here in a bit."
"All right," Quatre entered his room as Trowa headed off down the corridor.
With a groan, Quatre walked to his bed and collapsed in frustration. What should I do? Does he even want me to do something? Quatre closed his eyes, collecting his thoughts. Okay, he likes me; I like him. We're friends. Of that much Quatre was sure. And just then, by the door, Trowa had felt receptive to more, to maybe moving things ahead, but yet uncertain. Well, that's not a surprise, I'm uncertain too. He tried to imagine how he could broach the subject with Trowa. Would it be better to talk about it, or to just take action and see what happened? Or, Quatre's rational mind intruded, would it be better to just go with the flow and keep getting to know him? Why risk harming what's going well so far? And on that note, Quatre sat up, deciding that he could try to be patient - and there were still two more nights of opportunity if things changed.
A light knock sounded shortly thereafter, and Quatre sprang to open the door. Trowa slipped past him, a change of clothes over one arm, under which was a toiletry bag. In his free hand he had balanced a small tub of something topped by a pair of bowls and spoons.
"I stopped by the galley to see if there was anything good left, and I found this." With unnatural grace and dexterity, Trowa twisted his wrist around to slide the item and bowls from his palm to the top of the desk before he draped his other things over the back of one of the chairs in the seating area.
"What is it?" Quatre approached, eyeing the container in curiosity.
"Dulce de leche ice cream," Trowa answered before explaining further. "I remember practically making myself sick on this stuff when I was young. One summer, the band was in Spain. One of my friends brought back several huge tubs of this to camp. We had to eat it all before it melted."
"That sounds like it must have been fun."
"Yeah, only in a mercenary camp are adults going to encourage a kid to eat as much ice cream as he wants, and then try to get him to eat some more." Trowa opened the ice cream and began dishing it into two bowls. "I wonder if it's as nice as I remember it being?"
"One of my sisters, Theo, she swears by the healing properties of ice cream. Whenever I was sad as a child she'd sneak me a big bowl of chocolate ice cream to cheer me up."
"You have sisters?" Trowa passed one bowl to Quatre and the two sat down, Quatre sprawled on the sofa, with Trowa sitting in one of the chairs, sideways, his long legs draped over one arm.
"Oh yes. That would be an understatement." Taking a spoonful of the caramel swirled ice cream, Quatre paused to slowly savour the rich, smooth concoction. "Oh this is good! I have twenty-nine older sisters."
Trowa's eyebrows rose. "Twenty-nine? How did your mother manage that?"
Quatre shrugged, prodding at his ice cream with his spoon. "None of us has a mother like that. We're all test tube children from anonymously donated eggs and my father's sperm. I'm not sure if any of us even has the same biological mother."
"Oh." The brunet frowned slightly, swallowing a spoonful of ice cream.
"Pretty weird, huh?" Quatre laughed. It was weird after all, and too late for him to harbour any further bitterness about his origins. In some ways, it was almost a relief to be free from his familial obligations and those ties of his past. At least, if he tried to focus on that feeling, he could deal with the regret, the persistent feeling that he had failed in some way.
In the wake of Quatre's lapse into a pensive mood, Trowa spoke again, "Weird is relative." His eyes sparkled at the pun, and Quatre groaned obligingly. They ate in comfortable silence for a time before he continued. "I had a sister, I'm sure of it."
"What happened to her?"
"I think she and my parents were civilian casualties of an Alliance air raid. But I'm not sure. I was so young at the time. I barely remember them."
Quatre's heart clenched in sympathy. He'd guessed already that Trowa had lost his family - but to hear the boy put it into words, and to feel the echo of the dull pain of loss - Quatre spoke softly, "I'm sorry."
Trowa gave him an odd look.
"What?" queried Quatre, sensing a sort of amused, mild annoyance from the other boy.
"Do you realise that you apologise for things that you have nothing to do with?"
"I'm..."
Trowa interrupted, "Don't say you're sorry."
"But," Quatre protested. "I feel bad about what happened to you."
Trowa's expression grew more odd. "Thanks, I guess." He shrugged. "But there's no need to. We have to deal with things the way they are, not as we wish they were."
"That's true," Quatre acknowledged. "But I can still regret that you lost your family."
"I don't like regret," Trowa said with a short shake of his head for emphasis. "It's hard to move forward if you dwell in the past."
A kernel of truth was in Trowa's statement - Quatre had been dealing with his own regrets enough to appreciate the sentiment. Yet it didn't quite sit right with him. "I think it's part of having a conscience. If people didn't feel things like regret then they'd learn less from their mistakes. Everyone would end up being a psychopath or something." He punctuated the last with a gesture of his spoon.
"I didn't say it's pointless to have a conscience," Trowa conceded in part. "But at the same time, life is full of events we can't control. Guilt and regret over things you can't control can undermine discipline and lead to self doubt."
"Ah," Quatre jumped on his friend's last statement. "But how do you tell the difference between things you control and things you don't? That's a whole other problem."
"Well," the brunet began. "I have control over myself. That's the only control I count on. Everything else has to be evaluated on a case by case basis."
"But for me, when I lead the Maguanacs," Quatre grimaced. "Or hypothetically become the CEO of Winner Enterprises at some point in the future, where does - or would - my control end? That sort of power comes with a lot of responsibility."
Trowa inclined his head in mild accord. "That's why you're a leader, and I'm just a soldier."
Sighing his frustration at the other boy's sentiment of self-deprecation, Quatre injected his statement with some vehemence. "You're not just anything, Trowa. Don't sell yourself short."
"Hm," was Trowa's non-response.
Quatre decided to press the issue further. "What would do if you weren't fighting, or if there were no wars? Or, better yet, what do you see yourself doing after this war?"
"First, I'd probably still be a mechanic. Second, I don't believe there ever will be no wars. Third, I have no plans for after the war. I don't plan for a future I probably won't have."
"That's depressing."
"It's realistic."
Exasperated, Quatre resisted the urge to toss a throw pillow at Trowa. "Okay, then, use your imagination. Pretend we survive this war and the world ends up at peace. What would you do then?"
"Probably be tried before the World Court for crimes of terrorism."
"That's so much less depressing than being dead," Quatre remarked sarcastically. "You could end up as a hero."
"Now that would be truly depressing." Trowa's attention was fixed on scraping the last of his dessert from his bowl.
"Fine, fine, you're not on trial, you're not a hero, the world is at peace. What do you do?"
"I don't know. There's no point speculating."
With a frustrated groan, Quatre set his bowl on the low table before the sofa. "But you need a dream, Trowa. Something to look forward to."
"I told you, soldiers can't afford dreams."
"Hm. Look at it this way then. In the scenario wherein you're not dead, imprisoned, or annoyingly famous - what strategy would you next employ for living your life?"
"Well, when you put it that way..."
"Oh, just try. Humour me."
Trowa tapped his spoon against his lips thoughtfully. "I like being at the circus. I could keep doing that."
"What else?"
"That's not enough?" Trowa raised an eyebrow.
"No, you can't be an acrobat forever. You'll get too old and creaky."
"I could be a geriatric clown," he deadpanned.
With a bright laugh, Quatre shook his head firmly and waggled an index finger at his friend. "Oh no, you're not weaseling out of my question that easily!" Quatre rolled to his stomach on the sofa, fixing Trowa with his most persuasive stare. "What else?" he prompted. "You could go to university, become a concert musician, travel, learn how to make ice cream..."
"Hmm." Trowa met his eyes. "University would be fun. I've always wanted to do something like that someday."
"See! You do have a dream," Quatre flashed his friend an encouraging smile.
"I guess I do," said Trowa with an answering curve of his lips.
"You are a dreamer, Trowa. You just haven't realised it."
Arched eyebrows drew together in a ghost of a frown, and Trowa paused before responding, "How do you mean?"
"I can see it in the way you get lost in a book, and the way you play the flute. And also, in that wistful expression you get when you look at beautiful things, and the way you find pleasure in the small details that make life worth living." Quatre stopped speaking to evaluate Trowa's reaction. The brunet was staring at the floor, and Quatre couldn't make out much of his expression behind the obscuring fall of hair. You're not half as cynical as you think you are, Trowa. It's just armour - a shell to protect your dreams. But I can see through it - you let me.
He raised his head, "Do you see that with your empathy?"
"Partly," Quatre shrugged. "But also from spending time with you and talking."
"It's nice to have someone to talk with," the other pilot admitted. "And, actually, learning to cook could be fun." He let his head fall back and regarded the ceiling in thought. He continued almost to himself. "I miss traveling. I'd like to see the world as a tourist instead of a soldier. Playing the flute, I enjoy. But it's something private. I don't think I'd ever want to perform with it."
"So, you do have things you could look forward to doing after the war," Quatre declared in triumph.
"Maybe," Trowa gave in with a lopsided smile. He looked for a moment as though he would speak further to that point, but instead stood and collected Quatre's empty bowl and spoon. "I'll take these back to the galley."
"Oh, okay. Um, thanks." Quatre stood as well, watching Trowa leave. Running his fingers through his hair, Quatre indulged a private smile. He moved to his bed and retrieved his pyjamas. He stared at the pale blue clothing for a moment, and then headed for the wardrobe. He exchanged the blue pyjamas for his favourite pair. In a rich, deep magenta silk, they indulged what vanity Quatre allowed himself. He felt the colour was flattering to his complexion, highlighted his eyes, and offset his hair. Though he had no intentions of pursuing Trowa tonight, there was no harm in looking good.
As he changed, Quatre rolled his eyes at his own premeditation. Still, it felt nice to be the object of Trowa's interest, even if it was something the other pilot was uncomfortable with. Maybe he's uncomfortable liking another boy? Quatre wondered. And, he realised, he'd been at pains to disguise his own interest in Trowa. He could believe his feelings are unreciprocated. I really haven't done anything to encourage him - quite the opposite. Determining to no longer deliberately hide his attraction to his friend, Quatre settled on top of his bed in what he hoped was a graceful sprawl, grabbing his paperback.
Presently, Trowa returned. Quatre flashed him a smile from over the top of his book and resumed reading even though his attention wasn't fully on the text before him. With a suppressed smile, Quatre tried not to fidget as he felt Trowa's eyes on him - curious, appreciative, and still somewhat nervous. Nervous because he doesn't know how I feel, or nervous because he knows I can sense what he's feeling - or both? Or something else? Try though he did, Quatre found himself struggling to come up with a suitable way to address Trowa's apprehension. Silently, he cursed himself for his impatience while simultaneously cursing himself for his cowardice. He reminded himself of his resolve not to take the initiative yet. Maybe Trowa would do or say something that would help.
Trowa entered the bathroom and Quatre found himself listening, with some pleasure, to the sounds of his friend undressing and brushing his teeth. It was an odd kind of comfort to be sharing space with someone. He'd always had so much physical personal space as a child; Quatre was surprised that he enjoyed having another so close. After Trowa emerged, he set his pile of neatly folded clothes on a chair and crawled onto the other bed, resting on his side to face Quatre. Using his thumb to keep his place, Quatre let his book fall to the mattress and rolled to face his friend.
It was with a mild flush of warmth that Quatre regarded Trowa's reclining form, displayed unselfconsciously by Trowa's habit of sleeping in just his boxers. Now permitting his gaze to linger on the contours of his friend's body, Quatre fought the equal urges to, either stammer an apology and turn away, or to slide from his bed and close the small distance between them. Grateful that the loose drape of his pyjamas hid the evidence of the effect Trowa's body was having on him, Quatre succeeded, and spoke softly, "Thanks for staying again, but I wanted to let you know I won't be prying unless you invite me too."
"I know." Trowa met his eyes with what Quatre decided would pass for a full-blown smile from the other pilot. It was still a subtle expression, but it reached more of his face, sparkling in his eyes and affecting his entire demeanor.
Quatre studied his friend for a time; the way in which Trowa was lying had permitted his face-obscuring fringe to fall aside, revealing elegant features - angular and soft at the same time. "What changed your mind?"
Trowa cocked his head as he inquired, "About what?"
"About me. You trust me now."
Before responding, Trowa took a thoughtful breath, "I realised it wasn't about trusting you, because I did - and I do."
Quatre tilted his head at the rather cryptic response, matching the inclination of his friend's. "Then what was it about?"
"It was more about trusting myself," was Trowa's low reply. He met Quatre's gaze steadily for a time before casting his eyes down to his hand, idly picking imaginary lint from the bedspread.
Trusting himself? Quatre contemplated the implications of such a statement. Was it that Trowa didn't trust himself with an ally? Or something about me specifically? And the trust issue was invariably complicated by the attraction between them. Trowa must know I know how he feels about me. Or would he? Quatre hadn't explained exactly how his empathy functioned; Trowa might think he had more privacy of feeling than he actually did have. Quatre's mood soured at that thought. It had been bad enough when he'd upset Trowa that evening in Anatolia. Or maybe he doesn't feel like he has anything to hide from me?
Trowa spoke again, rousing Quatre from his thoughts. "So, what's the book about?"
"Oh," he lifted the book still in his hand, glancing at the cover. "It's a science fiction story about," Quatre paused to grin. "Ironically enough, teenagers who are recruited to fight a war. All the kids are strategic geniuses and are given command of remote fleets of ships. It's hard to explain, but the précis sounded interesting to me, although I haven't read much fiction." He held the book out for Trowa's inspection.
"I don't know if I've read that one," Trowa spoke, reaching for the novel. As he took it, his fingers met Quatre's sending a brief thrill of electricity along the blond's arm. Pausing at that touch, Trowa looked up. His eyes held a questioning aspect.
Slowly, Quatre released his hold on the book, allowing the contact between them to linger, deliberately prolonging the slide of his fingers against Trowa's. "I'm enjoying it so far," he softened his tone, hoping his words conveyed a second meaning clearly to his friend: Yes, this is okay.
"You are?" His friend's background discomfort was eclipsed by a curious relief.
As their eyes met, Quatre felt the space around him dwindling. "Yes, it's very good."
"Maybe I could," Trowa hesitated, his eyes flicking down to the book in his hands. "Try it too?"
Fairly certain they both knew they weren't talking about the book, Quatre was careful in his phrasing of his next statement. "I really think you'd like it if you did."
"I don't know." Slender fingers traced the lettering on the cover. "It's not the sort of thing I've read before."
A rush of confusion surged through the blond. He's never been attracted to a boy before, or he's never been romantically involved - both, neither? Why is this so hard? "I hadn't either, but I had a strong feeling about this one, from the moment I first saw it."
"The cover art is nice, I guess."
Quatre rolled forward onto his stomach to be closer. He waited to speak until he could meet Trowa's eyes again and, feeling bold, spoke earnestly, "It is. It's beautiful, but that's not the only reason. I like what's inside. The more I read, the more I'm drawn into the story."
"The characters sound like you could relate to them."
"I do. They're strong, fascinating, and complex. It's not a story for a casual reader, and I know you're not. Neither am I."
"It sounds good, but I..." Trowa frowned. "Quatre, I'll think about it." And there was a note of finality in his tone.
"All right." Quatre experienced both hope and doubt at that last statement. Hope that he and Trowa had at least acknowledged what was growing between them, yet, a doubt niggled that maybe the exchange really was just about a novel, and he'd left Trowa thinking his only ally was mentally unstable. "I'll go brush my teeth," he said, getting up. He needed some time to collect his thoughts in private.
That was weird. Quatre took his time in washing his face, brushing his teeth, and combing his hair. What now? He sat on the toilet to trim his fingernails, knowing he was stalling for time. Give him space to think about it. Go back in there and treat him as if nothing had changed. Because nothing truly was different - they were still new friends hanging out and getting to know each other.
When he returned, Trowa had turned off the main lights and gotten under the covers. Lying on his back with his hands folded across his chest, his demeanor was pensive and calm. Despite his determination to continue as normal, Quatre found himself overly self-conscious and hesitant to speak. Say something - anything. "Are you, ah, warm enough? I have an extra blanket in the wardrobe."
"I'm comfortable. Thanks."
"Okay." Quatre climbed into his bed and settled under the covers, staring at the ceiling. "Do you have enough pillows?"
"I have enough pillows," was the amused reply.
"There's nothing you need?"
"No. I said I'm comfortable," Trowa turned his head to fix Quatre with curious eyes. "Are you?"
"Yes," Quatre managed, saw the other boy's small smile, and relaxed before returning it. "Of course." Everything was still fine. In fact, Quatre was hard pressed to detect any discomfort from Trowa at all, leading him to wonder if he'd imagined the entire exchange over the novel - or even that the subtext he'd perceived hadn't been deliberate on Trowa's part.
Shifting to his side, Quatre maintained the eye contact with Trowa, but didn't say anything more. He continued to smile as he studied Trowa's face; his gaze lingered on the gentle curve of his friend's lips. Repeatedly tracing the seductive lines of that rosy flesh with his eyes, Quatre tried to imagine how it would feel to touch Trowa's lips - to brush his fingertips over their delicate shape, to feel Trowa's breath under his touch, and then to lean in and replace his fingers with his own lips...
"I was wondering. Why don't you read fiction?" Trowa's question roused Quatre from his fantasy. The blond blinked, his awareness snapping back to reality while he forcibly ignored the heavy pressure that had been growing in his groin.
Given the duality of meaning in the prior conversation about reading material, Quatre hesitated, trying to decide whether Trowa was attempting to talk about them or his reading habits. Choosing the safe route, Quatre opted to go with a literal interpretation of his friend's query. "Oh, it's not for lack of interest," Quatre explained. "I love reading fiction, but I was never allowed to."
Trowa's eyes widened and a note of shocked incredulity entered his voice, "You weren't allowed?"
"Um, no," was Quatre's embarrassed reply.
"That's absurd." Trowa's tone echoed the sudden irritation Quatre could sense from the other boy.
"I always thought so," Quatre shrugged, relieved that they were once more having a normal conversation. "But I did manage to sneak the occasional novel to read, but it was difficult since I did all my schooling at home with private tutors. Father did not approve of me distracting myself with what he deemed fantastical rubbish."
"Your father sounds very harsh. I can understand why you wanted to leave."
A fragment of guilt gnawed at Quatre. Suddenly he felt selfish for complaining about his family to a boy who had none. "I shouldn't complain so much. At least I had a father."
But Trowa shook his head, turned, and propped himself up on his elbow. "Everything's relative, Quatre. At least I got to read whatever the hell I wanted to. Freedom is valuable too, and I don't mean the political sort."
"It's okay. I understand that, but there's no need to feel bad for me or my life."
"It annoys me that someone would do things like that to you, especially your own father. I wouldn't really know, but aren't parents supposed to help their children be happy and support them?"
"In theory they are. My father?" Quatre made a face. "He didn't want me. He wanted the perfect heir. I think he has control issues."
"From what you've told me, that's an understatement."
Quatre laughed.
"I'm sorry. I don't know your father. It's not my place to insult him."
"Actually," Quatre reflected on his complete and utter lack of offense. "I don't mind. I probably should, but right now, I really don't. And he is a jerk." Quatre shifted to lie on his back before clarifying his thoughts. "No, he's a controlling jerk. In fact, you could even call him a self-absorbed, controlling jerk."
"I don't feel so bad thinking it now that you've said it," Trowa chuckled.
"I did, didn't I," Quatre couldn't keep the big, stupid grin from his face. "I feel better for it too. I'd never be able to say those things to his face."
"If I ever meet him, I'll tell him for you," said Trowa in the dry tone Quatre was coming to associate with his friend's sense of humour.
"You wouldn't!"
"I could..." Trowa mused in mock seriousness, rolling onto his back, hands behind his head.
"He's bigger than you," Quatre informed him.
"Ah, but I'm very fast." Trowa's lips twitched into an amused smirk as he glanced sidelong at the blond.
Laughing, Quatre drew his covers up over his shoulders and sighed his contentment. At this moment, it would be so easy to forget where they were going, and the danger they would be facing. It would be so easy to believe, for just this night, that they were simply two boys enjoying each other's company.
"Well," Quatre spoke reaching for the light switch. "Good night then."
"Good night."
In the darkness, Quatre tried to fall asleep, but he was unable to find that peaceful oblivion straight away. Instead, he found himself listening to the soft sounds of his friend's breathing, the rustle of Trowa's bedclothes as he shifted to find a comfortable position, and the rhythm of his own heartbeat, too rapid as his thoughts scurried about, wondering and hoping.
Eventually, he gave up the desire for sleep immediately and addressed the quiet form in the other bed. "Trowa?" Quatre spoke softly, not wanting to disturb Trowa too much if the other boy were already falling asleep.
"Hm?" was the immediate response, demonstrating the other pilot was still fully awake.
"I just wanted to say that I'm really glad you consider me a friend." Quatre waited for the other pilot to say something in response, but he didn't so Quatre continued, "And, um, since I haven't told you, I consider you a friend too." He shifted to roll onto his side, facing Trowa in the dark. "Can you believe I've never had a close friend my own age before?"
"It's been a long time since I've had any friends. And never one my own age."
Quatre smiled, yet wondered at the hint of sadness he detected in Trowa's mood and tone. Since Trowa didn't seem that sleepy, Quatre decided to initiate more conversation, to try to get to know even more about his friend. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"You said only a fool doesn't feel fear. So, what is it that you're most scared of?"
Trowa didn't reply immediately, his dim form shifting in the shadows. "Maybe I'm a fool."
"I don't believe that."
"Hmm. I don't know. I'm scared of lots of things."
"Like?"
Again, there was a pause before Trowa spoke. His words held a questioning aspect, as if he weren't certain of their truth. "I'm scared of losing."
"Losing?"
"Battles, poker, control, my life..."
Quatre frowned, turning Trowa's words over in his mind. The other pilot didn't seem competitive per se, but then, personal loss was often very different from not winning. "Why?" he asked.
The rustling of sheets and vague movement of Trowa's shadowed profile indicated the other boy had shrugged. "I'm not sure. I haven't really thought about it that much until now."
"I think I'm afraid of failing," Quatre answered his own question, wanting Trowa to know he was open to personal disclosure as well. "I suppose that's a little like losing in a way. I don't know if that's my biggest fear though. I always sort of thought that greatest fears are buried so deeply you don't even know what they are."
"Or they could be too complex to put into words."
"Or both."
"That's a disturbing thought."
"It is. But our subconscious is full of stuff we're not really aware of."
"That, and our baser instincts can suddenly emerge and strip away rational thought when we don't necessarily expect them to," said Trowa, his voice softer. "That scares me."
"Because you would lose control?" Quatre wondered.
"Yeah," was Trowa's reply before they both fell into silence for a time.
"Okay, another question, then," Quatre said. "This one's easier."
In the gloom, Quatre watched Trowa roll over to face him before the other boy replied, "Okay."
"What are your favourite things? And why?"
"Hmm," Trowa began, propping himself up on his elbow. "Music and reading - music is so beautiful, and reading allows me to travel in my mind."
A thoughtful pause ensued; Quatre plumped his pillow beneath him waiting for his friend to continue.
"Tumbling because," Trowa said, stopped for a moment, and added, "I guess because I feel good when I do it. It's exhilarating." The final elements of Trowa's list followed quickly, as if he hadn't had to think about them that much. "Cats because they're so graceful, strong, and independent. And snow, because after a heavy snow, the world looks so perfect and clean. It's just an illusion, but I like that." Trowa lowered himself back down onto his pillow and asked, "What about you?"
Even though he couldn't make out Trowa's expression in the dark, he felt his friend's smile, and returned it before speaking. "Um, music definitely. It's always been an outlet of expression for me - and it is beautiful." Quatre pushed his covers down to sit up slightly, shifting his pillow against the headboard. "Let's see, what else? Wargames - much to my father's displeasure, but he allowed me that indulgence believing that the strategic and tactical thinking would aid me when I took over, or rather when I was to take over the corporation. One of my best games was playing Napoleon at Waterloo and winning."
He heard Trowa's soft chuckle, a gentle, warm sound that trickled through the darkness, before he continued. "Water, I'm discovering is something I love - whether it's in a pool, the ocean, rain, anytime. It's so spectacular. And I love being on the Earth. It's so beautiful and alive."
"I used to hate the Earth," Trowa volunteered.
"Why?" Quatre asked, feeling the other pilot's melancholy.
"I grew up here, and had too many bad memories from the wars."
"Is that why you went into space?"
"Yeah, I thought it would be different in the colonies. There was so much more idealism there, and hope for peace. I thought I could escape the violence and conflict."
"But I thought you didn't believe in peace?" said Quatre, recalling their earlier exchange.
"I guess I used to. But obviously, the colonies are tainted by the same problems as the Earth. I couldn't escape the war." Trowa sighed, a weary sound.
"That's sad," was Quatre's honest response.
"Maybe," Trowa's tone was doubtful. "At least I'm good at fighting."
"But you're good at other stuff too."
"Maybe I'm best at fighting."
Troubled by his friend's sadness - no, it wasn't quite sadness, more resignation again, Quatre fell silent for a time. He remembered something else he wanted to ask Trowa. "Can I ask you something else?" he inquired quietly.
"Go ahead."
"Yesterday, in the cargo hold, Carvey called you Nanashi. Is it a name?"
"No." The warmth was gone from Trowa's voice with that terse syllable.
Hesitating in the wake of Trowa's change of mood, Quatre took a slow breath and pressed ahead, curious, "What does it mean?"
"It's a Japanese word. It translates as 'no-name'"
"You're right, that's not a name." Quatre said, understanding why Trowa hadn't been pleased when he'd asked. It seemed cruel to Quatre, to call anyone such a thing.
"When I was young, a lot of the mercenaries called me that," Trowa explained. "I didn't mind so much then, but later? I wanted a real name, and I don't have one."
"I'm sorry."
Trowa heaved an exasperated sounding sigh. "Don't be. It's hardly your fault."
Quatre winced, but resisted apologising again. "Do you mind being called Trowa?"
"Well, I didn't like the original Trowa Barton very much, but then, that doesn't mean the name is bad. It's good to have something to be known by."
"Do you like it though?" Quatre asked, taking note of the fact that there had been a real Trowa Barton, or rather, a different Trowa Barton.
"I don't know. Do you like your name?"
"Sometimes."
"Trowa's fine," Trowa paused and then spoke again, his voice softer, his mood warming once more. "And the way you say it, it makes it feel like my name."
"Did you ever have a nickname?"
"Aside from Nanashi or kid? Not really. One friend called me Flip, but I hated that."
"Flip?" Quatre's voiced rose an octave.
"Please, don't..." Trowa groaned. "It's awful."
"Sorry."
"It's okay," Trowa laughed, and then steered the conversation away from himself. "Did you ever have a nickname? Quatre's rather formal sounding."
"Formal was the way of things when I was growing up, so no. Just Quatre."
"Hmm."
Something about the tone of Trowa's thoughtful hum made Quatre suspicious. "What?" he asked.
"You need a nickname," Trowa declared, as if this supposed fact should have been obvious.
"Why?"
"Quatre's hard to say when I'm getting sleepy."
At that, Quatre laughed, but was pleased to sense that Trowa's good humour had returned. "So what do you want to call me?"
"Let me think."
Quatre settled back to lie on his back, dragging his pillow with him, waiting for the result of Trowa's contemplation. Impatient, he finally prompted his friend, "Well?"
"I have one. It suits you too, and works with your name."
"So?" Quatre rolled forward, leaning toward his friend in anticipation.
"Cat. I'll call you Cat."
"Cat," Quatre murmured recalling his friend's earlier comments about cats and wondering how it was Trowa felt the nickname suited him. Glad for the privacy bestowed by the darkness, Quatre realised he was grinning like an idiot. "I actually like that."
"Good." Trowa sounded pleased with himself.
"Thanks," was Quatre's reply as he struggled to stifle a yawn.
Hearing the yawn, Trowa chuckled as he rolled over to his other side, facing away from Quatre. "Good night, Cat."
Quatre couldn't resist; he had to say it. "Good night, Flip."
A muffled groan and a dry remark followed. "I'm ignoring you now."
"Good night, Trowa," the blond amended, hoping to express his contentment through his tone. Curled on his side, Quatre remained awake for a time, indulging the warmth and affection of his new friendship.
They spent most of the following day together. Quatre forced himself to remain relaxed with his friend even though part of him was quietly hoping for some opportunity wherein Trowa would let him know if he had been thinking about things between them. In the absence of his friend addressing the issue, Quatre ran through different approaches in his own head. Trowa appreciated directness and honesty. Maybe the double-edged conversation over the book had shaken the brunet's confidence in him somehow. Perhaps, Quatre decided, it would be better to be direct, to speak as plainly as possible and lay his feelings out there as if they were some part of a mission parameter.
But having decided on this strategy, Quatre didn't manage to find a time in which it felt appropriate to address his feelings with Trowa. Despite the closeness of the previous days, today, Trowa felt different. He had grown more quiet again, and distracted. Quatre's attempts to engage him in more personal conversation failed as Trowa's responses became short, and often uninformative, while comfortable silences grew awkward. Instead, they talked about things, the ship, the scenery, the canal, and worst of all, the weather.
That evening, reclined in a pair of folding deck chairs the boys had commandeered to take up to the observation deck, Quatre pulled his blanket more tightly about himself in an attempt to fend off the chilly night breeze, while Trowa remained stretched out quietly beside him, seemingly less affected by the cold.
"I'm going to need a hot bath before bed tonight to warm back up," Quatre remarked.
"Hm," said Trowa, continuing to gaze upward.
Quatre frowned. He'd hoped that a night of stargazing might provide the right setting and mood for personal disclosure, so had happily accepted Trowa's invitation to observe the night sky. They'd been up here on the observation deck for several hours, during which Trowa had pointed out all the constellations he could recognise and had even told some of the stories behind the mythological names and figures.
It had been pleasant enough; except that Trowa continued to grow more distant. Despite his friend's chattiness over the stars, he continued to shy away from more intimate topics. Frustrated and confused by the change in Trowa's manner and mood, Quatre heaved a sigh. "Well, I'm going to go to bed now..." he trailed off, hoping Trowa would join him once more.
"Okay," was all Trowa said, though he did turn his head to smile at Quatre briefly.
Quatre unwrapped his blanket from around his legs and stood to fold it. "Did you want to, um, join me?"
"Oh," Trowa said, as if startled. No, not startled - uncomfortable. "I thought I'd sleep in my cabin tonight, actually."
"Oh," Quatre echoed, bowing his head and blinking back the tears that sprang to his eyes unwarranted. Bringing his childish response under control, he asked, "Are you sure? I don't mind."
"I don't want to impose on you, Cat." Trowa's voice was warmer, and Quatre sensed the familiar affection with the use of the new nickname. He cheered at that.
"I've liked having you there, so it's not an imposition at all," he told his friend.
With another smile, Trowa stood, draping his blanket neatly over his arm. "Thanks, but I'd still feel like I was imposing. We both need our sleep for what's coming."
"I suppose you're right," Quatre admitted with a trembling smile, watching as Trowa stepped toward him. His stomach did a somersault, and his breath caught as the tall pilot closed the short distance between them.
His friend's lips curved into a small, sad smile, and then Trowa spoke again, his voice near a whisper, "I'm sorry, Quatre."
But before Quatre could stammer out a request for an explanation of the apology, he found himself pulled into a brief, awkward embrace. The warmth of Trowa's body, his clean warm scent, and the soft skin of his friend's cheek pressed against his, swam through his senses. He groped to return the hug, wanting it to last a little longer, and made a small sound of protest as Trowa stepped away quickly, speaking a hurried, "Good night."
Rooted to the spot, Quatre stared mutely while Trowa turned to descend to the decks below. Presently, the chill of the night air prompted him to move again. He shook his head and wondered aloud, "What the hell was that?" Should I follow him? Quatre contemplated that for a moment, and decided against it. Whatever it was that Trowa had felt he needed to apologise for implied to Quatre that perhaps his friend needed some personal space. They had been spending most of their time together - both waking and sleeping. There was one more night on the Destiny.
Unfortunately, and all too soon, in Quatre's estimation it was the last night on the ship. He and Trowa had sequestered themselves in Quatre's cabin for the afternoon and late into the evening, pouring over maps and related information regarding OZ troop deployments, and evaluating possible scenarios regarding the New Edwards mission. They shared detailed technical data on each of their mobile suits, planned for different resulting situations, and eventually fell into silence once they'd worn out each other's brains with their strategy session. Quatre still hadn't managed to speak to Trowa about their relationship. Time was growing short.
Seated cross-legged in the middle of one twin bed, Quatre faced the other where Trowa was lying on his back, the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. The brunet sighed and sat up in a single fluid movement that belied the strength of his slender body. "I guess now that we've exhausted all of our ideas for the New Edwards mission, I'll go back to my own cabin and let you sleep." He stood and moved to the door.
With those words, Quatre felt as if his heart would stop and he steeled himself to go through with what he'd planned to do this final night on the ship - to say the things he'd been too scared to say to Trowa for the past few nights. This was his last real chance for who knew how long? "Um, Trowa? Wait a minute, don't leave yet, please?"
"What is it, Cat?" Trowa asked, turning as he stifled a small yawn. Quatre smiled at the yawn. It was a small thing, but the action demonstrated that Trowa was feeling relaxed - and then there was his use of the nickname.
But Quatre found his smile vanish as he spoke again, feeling a flutter of anxiety as he did so, "I, uh, there's something I need to tell you." Pausing for any indication of Trowa's receptivity to the overture, he groaned inwardly as the brunet raised an eyebrow in response. Hurriedly, Quatre spoke to reassure. "Nothing bad, I don't think. No, not like last time anyway, but it's important..." he trailed off, dropping his eyes to his lap.
"What is it, Cat?" Trowa repeated more softly before moving back from the door to sit close beside the blond on the bed.
"Well, you know - you must know - I can tell how you feel, um, about me. Not that I'm trying to assume anything about those feelings, but I know that you - that you like me - a lot." Quatre was staring at his hands, feeling flustered. This was easier when we were talking about the damn book. Just, take a breath and say it, he instructed himself, but failed to feel any less nervous.
"I do. I like you a lot." Trowa affirmed and there was warmth in his voice.
Encouraged by that tone and the words, Quatre continued quickly, hoping speed would even out his awkward delivery. "I think you should know - and I want to be clear about this - that I feel the same way about you." Judging by the heat in his face, he was blushing as he raised his eyes to meet Trowa's. The other pilot's dark green gaze was softer somehow, vulnerable. "I really like you, Trowa. I care for you, and I've really enjoyed getting to know you better during this trip. And I - I'm attracted to you too. So, that's mutual as well." Quatre moved his hand to cover Trowa's in a tentative first contact. "You don't have to be scared about it. I mean, about me not feeling the same way. Or whatever you might be unsure of."
Trowa looked slightly stunned. Or was the subtle expression he wore dread? For once, Quatre wished his empathy were stronger; his own anxiety and anticipation were drowning out his ability to read much from his friend. Still, he resolutely forged ahead in the wake of the Trowa's silence, "So, I was thinking that we could, ah, explore those feelings together...?" The unspoken conclusion to those words was 'tonight'.
A pregnant silence hung between them, fragile yet oppressive. Quatre struggled to keep his breathing even and willed his heart to slow its uncomfortable pounding in his chest. His hand resting on Trowa's felt numb and paralyzed as he waited for the other boy to respond. Please say yes.
Trowa spoke at last, his voice pitched low and barely audible, "That's not what I'm scared of." He answered the earlier statement before replying to the last in a scarce whisper, "And I don't think we should explore those feelings."
That was not at all what Quatre had expected to hear, and before he could stop himself, he'd blurted a demand, "Why not?"
Trowa's expression fell into sadness, "I... I want to, Quatre. I do. And I thought - or rather - I believed for a time that maybe it could work, if you felt the same way. Because I do care about you, and you made me feel like it - like we - would have a real chance. And when I think about touching you... to touch you, it would be incredible.
"But..." Trowa sighed heavily as if all his energy were draining from him in that single exhalation. "Quatre, we have to fight together. I can't ignore the reality of what we're doing, no matter how much I might want to. When it comes down to it, dreams are just fantasies - illusions.
"It's too hard," he continued resolutely, but struggled for a moment, swallowing with difficulty, "It's hard enough to lose a friend. I couldn't bear to be closer to you knowing that I might lose you."
"What about...?" Quatre struggled with his own tears at the rejection, and his hand on Trowa's twitched before he withdrew it to his own lap. "What if this is the only chance we have then? Shouldn't we take advantage of this while we can? Since we both feel the same way? I don't want to lose you either, but if it's a matter of having and losing you, or never having you at all - don't you think...?"
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I somehow led you on. I just can't. Maybe though, if we both survive this."
"I promise I'll try t..."
"No. No promises, Quatre. A soldier can't promise anything. We don't know what we'll be called upon to do, or what mistakes we might make." Trowa's voice sounded far too weary for his age; Quatre shivered in response before speaking in protest.
"But..."
Trowa silenced him with a finger pressed gently over his lips. "Shh. We just have to accept our roles in this, as they are. And do the best we can." Trowa met his eyes with a small smile, "And hope," he said, removing his finger from Quatre's lips. The blond closed his eyes as he felt fingertips pass across his cheek, and through his hair in a trembling caress before Trowa's voice came again, unexpectedly tender and coloured with regret. "We can hope."
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The End
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Notes:
[8] Panama Canal website:
www.pancanal.com/
(if ffnet doesn't strip out the url ^^;;)
Check out the live cam! It's cool. You can see the monstrous container ships that inspired the Destiny going through, as well as private yachts, cruise ships, bulk carriers, tankers, and more! They even have a wee clip of the U.S.S. New Jersey going through the Miraflores Lock.
[9] 'Panamax' is the largest ship size able to fit through the canal... and they're pretty damn huge! Larger ships (mostly tankers) have to take a more dangerous southern passage.