Rapunzel: I'm not taking any chances with you.
M.E.: I made the mistake of buying her off with the promise of a sappy (shudder) sequel to "Dear Diary." She won't even let me kill anyone off...
Rapunzel: Damn straight!
M.E.: (long suffering sigh) Title is from the song of the same name from the Cranberries CD "No Need to Argue" (lyrics removed to conform with funkiness). Gundam Wing and all it's little characters don't belong to me (sadness). Warnings include shounen ai (3+4), sap written by an angst author, what 'Zel-chan calls "T?WT," various references to stuff you might have learned about in school (the result of me writing parts of it while at said institution), and maybe some good old fashioned oddball comedy .
By: M.E. (Magnificent Entity)
It was an enigma, he decided, tasting the word as his mind produced it, rolling it around on his tongue. Yes, that was what it was, an enigma. A puzzle, a question, confusion, unknown.
It was still there when he checked again a few minutes later. Lying innocently next to the door on the dark blue-gray carpet was the book, resting in the exact same position and place it had been in when he'd first awakened. It was not a large book, perhaps no more than half an inch thick; the width being somewhere around five inches, while the height was about eight inches. Leatherbound, it appeared to be a journal of some type.
There was no doubt in Trowa's mind as to who it belonged to. This was not the first time he'd seen the journal, had in fact seen it months before. Trowa knew whose it was- he should, since he'd watched Quatre carry it around just about everywhere.
No, the enigma was not one of ownership, but rather of reason. Why was Quatre's journal sitting on his floor, looking exactly as if someone had shoved it under the door?
Sighing, the slender pilot leaned over and picked the book up. In this situation there was only one thing to do.
–––
Walking down the hall to his first period class, Trowa let his mind continue to dwell on the thing volume tucked between his history and math notebooks inside the school bag that slapped against his leg. His thoughts kept going in a loop, coming back time and time again to a single question: Why had Quatre's journal been in his room?
The same mind had already come up with several answers, the most logical being that someone had found it, and, unable to find Quatre, had returned it to Trowa instead, knowing that the two boys were friends.
Trowa's heart, on the other hand, came up with a more complicated answer, one that the pilot could only wish was true. Maybe, that hopeful organ hypothesized, maybe Quatre wants you to read it and find out how he feels about you. As he turned the corner and entered his trigonometry class, Trowa brushed this comment away, dismissing it as not only improbable but also impossible. What could Quatre, the angelic pilot of Sandrock, see in him- a clown who wasn't even funny?
–––
Sliding into his seat, Trowa sighed. He would return the journal to Quatre at the end of this period, and then the enigma would be over most likely, and he could go back to admiring the blonde from a distance.
He barely noticed as the teacher started in on the day's lecture about the number e, and even managed to ignore the ramblings of the two talkative boys seated in front of him (today they were discussing the band that they were going to start, while wondering how they could get the drummer to wear a monkey suit). Across the room Quatre had his entire body focused on what the teacher was saying, and Trowa felt that he could almost see the blonde consume every word of the lecture.
He himself needed no such sustenance- feeding instead on the actions, voice, and very vitality of the Arabian pilot. Obsessed, much? he asked himself with a soft snort. God, he wondered if he appeared as desperate to other people as he did to himself sometimes. He would have to watch himself carefully, or else he might end up becoming like Relena, forever chasing after an impossible dream, even after it had turned elsewhere.
Another half-laugh escaped his lips. He couldn't imagine himself stalking Quatre and begging the other boy to come and kill him already.
–––
The teacher had finished his lecture, and around Trowa the other students were pulling out their textbooks, starting on the day's homework. Somehow the soft sounds of pages flipping and calculator keys being tapped brought him out of his internal reverie. Blinking behind his bangs, he reluctantly opened his book and began to work.
A few minutes later he found himself staring at his paper, trying to figure out what ln x3 meant. Rubbing his eyes, he sighed. It was a lost cause- he would never be able to get any work done before the class ended.
Only Quatre had the power to distract him to such an extent.
The bell rang, and Trowa silently rose from his seat, making his way towards Quatre and the door. Brushing against the blonde, he handed him the journal. "Here," he said, "someone left this in my room last night." Without waiting for an answer, he waded through the sea of students, leaving Quatre to stand alone in the crowd.
–––
Walking to his next class, journal clasped tight against his chest, Quatre tried hard not to let the pain that coursed through his entire body show. He had been so sure of how Trowa felt, had carefully analyzed the actions of the other pilot before taking this first, small step.
He passed the next period in a state of shock, his body and mind numb to his surroundings. When the teacher called on him to answer a question, he stared at her blankly, not really seeing.
The Arabian pilot hadn't realized what Trowa meant to him until he'd faced the possibility of total rejection. Now that he saw them clearly, his passionate feelings scared him almost as much as the dead look he was sure he had seen in Trowa's eyes.
By lunch he was a total wreck.
–––
While there had been great advances in technology since Quatre's great-great-great grandfathers had gone to school, it seemed that these advancements had never been applied to the experience widely known as "school lunch." As the Sandrock pilot stared down at the sludge on his plastic tray, he had the strange feeling that it was staring back at him.
The most unnerving thing was that the menu listed today's meal as pepperoni pizza. Quatre shuddered in recollection of "Mystery Meat Monday."
He started, glancing up in a panic, as Trowa slid in to sit next to him on the bench. The brown haired boy greeted him with a soft smile, then turned his attention to the gray mass on his own tray. Poor Trowa had decided to brave the vegetarian alternative.
Hesitating slightly, Quatre decided to chance an attempt at reviving the shattered remains of his hope. "Trowa..."
"Yes?"
"Why... why did you give me back my journal?"
The taller pilot looked down at his lunch, his bangs hiding his facial expression. "It's yours... right?"
–––
Studying his food (it was veggie lasagna- or so the the menu claimed), Trowa cursed to himself silently. He was an idiot- he had never thought to look inside the book to check and make sure that Quatre was indeed the owner. He hadn't wanted to intrude on the blonde's privacy, and so had never even opened the journal. Tentatively, he asked, "It's yours... right?"
Smiling shakily, the Arabian nodded, "Yes, it's mine. It's just that... well, I thought you..." He trailed off as a group of jabbering girls sat down across from them at the table. Glancing at them nervously, he shrugged, and stood up. "Can I talk to you after school today, Trowa? It's... important."
"Sure." The brown-haired boy watched as Quatre left, wondering what was on the other's mind. His had automatically carried food from his tray to his mouth as his mind an heart did cartwheels, somersaults, and triple back flips, elated by the thought of spending extra time with Quatre outside of school and missions.
Across from him, one girl leaned her head against another's chest, using her friend's breasts as a headrest. She purred contentedly as her "pillow" scratched her back. For a moment, Trowa's eyes met with those of the victim. She smiled wanly, shrugged, and went back to scolding the purring girl.
Trowa gathered up his now-empty tray and left quickly, having decided that the world had become a strange and scary place. Somewhere deep inside, however, he couldn't help but wonder if he would ever get to show that level of affection with Quatre.
–––
Weary and alone, Trowa stumbled out of the school's large double doors. At the moment his worn-out brain was trying to figure out why the idea of signing up for all AP and honors classes had been so appealing the month before. Between insomnia the night before, general tension as a result of the strange appearance of Quatre's journal in his room, and the school lunch, Trowa was amazed that his brain was still functioning. If it hadn't been for the prospect of seeing Quatre after school, he was pretty sure he wouldn't have been able to make it through the entire day.
Quatre was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, reading a book in the shade of a large oak tree. Glancing up, the blonde smiled when he saw the other pilot approaching. Carefully stowing his book away in the backpack slung across one shoulder, he fell into step next to Trowa. "I really appreciate you doing this," Quatre babbled happily to his silent friend, "we really haven't gotten to talk to each other alone since being posted here last month."
The Arabian rambled on as they walked, talking about whatever came to mind- the weather, school, missions, music, Mystery Meat Mondays... Slowly relaxing, Trowa let his mind wander, content with just listening to the other boy's voice.
–––
"Quatre... what was it you wanted to talk to me about?" They were in a small public playground, having arrived after wandering for around fifteen minutes. Trowa hadn't really wanted to force Quatre to a point, but he felt that it would be better if they brought whatever had been on the blonde's mind out into the open, and ceased this constant avoidance of the subject.
Silence fell, and for a few minutes, Quatre just swayed back and forth in the swing that he had claimed. He asked, hopefully, "Um... haven't we been talking?"
The taller pilot shook his head "no," and the other boy slumped slightly, a look on his face comparable to that of a small child who has been caught with his hands in the sugar bowl. Watching the guilty look on his friend's face, Trowa couldn't help but think how adorable he looked.
Sighing, Quatre pumped harder, letting the swing take him higher. "Well, part of it's about my journal..." Trowa lifted an eyebrow- that didn't surprise him. "And part of it's about you..." Some startlement there, but not much- again, it didn't seem surprising that Quatre might want to talk about him. "And part of it's about... well... us, I guess." Now that Trowa had not been expecting. Us? he thought, confused. Is there an "Us"? As far as Trowa knew, there wasn't. There was him, and there was Quatre, and they were friends and partners-in-arms, but... "us"?
On the swing next to him, Quatre continued to pump back and forth, channeling his energy and frustration into his legs, seemingly determined to get as high as he possibly could.
–––
It wasn't that he was exactly trying to avoid the subject, Quatre told himself, it was just that this wasn't something he really knew how to approach. He had tried the indirect method by leaving his journal in Trowa's room, knowing that any normal person would have it open within seconds to see what they could find out (one didn't grow up in a house with thirty older sisters without learning a few things about human nature along the way)- but the silent clown wasn't any normal person, he was Trowa. Wonderful silent Trowa, whose leaf-green eyes were windows to the soul of a sensitive boy; beautiful Trowa with his graceful long limbs...
It astounded Quatre that it had taken until this morning to realize that he was in love with the other pilot, and that the fluttery feeling in his chest was not that of a passing infatuation. Well damn, thought Quatre, what's the point in having an uchuu no kokoro if it doesn't let you know that you're in love with your partner? There just didn't seem to be any sense in that.
Thinking hard, he began to speak. "...I know how my diary got into your room, Trowa." I can do this, he reassured himself, it's not as if he's going to reject me- I know he won't. But still, in the back of the blonde's mind, the fear of being turned away continued to lurk. "I... I put there."
Trowa blinked, wide-eyed. He stared at the slight pilot on the swing, looking for the world as if this scenario had never occurred to him. Slowly, he turned to look into the eyes of the other boy, somehow able to follow them as they swayed back and forth with the swing. It seemed to Quatre that they were asking him "why?"
–––
"I guess... I guess I'm not really that good at words," he continued, trying hard to not break away from the scrutiny of Trowa's gaze. "I feel like a coward now, but... Funny, isn't it, that someone who is able to slice down mobile suits with ease is afraid to tell someone how he feels." A sharp intake of breath from Trowa's direction. There, it was out in the open, now, he just had to explain himself.
How?
Blinking, he turned his eyes away from Trowa's, unable to watch them as he said what had to follow.
"I guess, some people might argue that it was love at first sight... but it wasn't, not really. Love at first sight is like a joke to me," Quatre went on, knowing that he was rambling, not really caring, "how can you fall in love with someone who you've only just met, just seen? I think that that kind of love is superficial more than anything else, lust really." He had allowed the swing to slow down, and was now dragging his feet in the sand, for once not caring if he got any sand in his shoes. Finally, he stopped the swing completely, and turned to look at the other pilot again.
"It's not like that with you Trowa. Really, it's not. It goes so much deeper than anything spur of the moment. I wasn't sure at first- I mean, you were gorgeous and all, and you're voice could take my breath away, but I didn't really know you. It was just a crush then."
Quatre's face seemed light up like a light bulb, and he quietly whispered, "I didn't really know until this morning, but... It's not a crush anymore, Trowa, it's something much more than that. Much, much more." Staring into the taller pilot's deep green eyes, he searched for some sign of acceptance. If Trowa needed some time to adjust, that was okay, but he had gone so far at this point that he hesitated from waiting much longer.
–––
Brain freeze. That was the only way Trowa could describe what had just happened to his mind. It had become totally numb, incapable of thought, the result of an information overload. He stared off into space as the gears of his mind slowly unstuck themselves and began moving again. So... Quatre had been watching him, too? Watching him in hopes of some sign of a mutual attraction. And he, like an idiot, had carefully tried to hide all signs of his feelings because he didn't "want to force Quatre into anything." There was another term for the entire thing, one that his biology teacher was fond of- brain fart.
He watched Quatre's blue-green eyes, still trying to comprehend what had just happened. If Quatre felt something that was "much, much more" than a crush towards him, could it be... love...?
He felt dizzy again, and, for what seemed like the first time in his life, elated and giddy. The angelic blonde (maybe, possibly, probably) loved him! Him, Trowa, Nanashi, clown, pilot, mercenary, mechanic, student... boy...
And, like an idiot, he didn't know what to say.
–––
Shaking slightly, he stepped behind Quatre's swing, and, when the other pilot came near again, pushed him. In the swing, Quatre relaxed, stopping the furious motions of his legs, no longer worried about keeping himself swinging. Stuttering and talking barely above a whisper (he was amazed that Quatre could hear him), Trowa spoke. "I- I think that I- may- might- no-." After pausing to sort out the confusion in his head, waiting a moment to let his centers of speech thaw out, Trowa tried again. "I know that I like you..." Groping for words, too nervous to say the word "love," he grasped at the words that Quatre had used a few minutes before, "...much, much more than a crush."
Swinging away from him, Quatre laughed lightheartedly, a soft, tinkling laugh that charged Trowa's spirit, causing him to smile.
If his back had not been towards the other boy and Quatre had been able to see the smile, he would have said that it was beautiful.
–––
Quatre swung back into Trowa's reach again, and this time, instead of pushing the blonde away, he hugged him close, bringing the swing to a halt, burying his face in the other's hair. For a moment Quatre froze stiff, and Trowa almost let go, scared that he had been too presumptuous. But the Arabian quickly recovered from his shock, and leaned back against Trowa's chest, snuggling as his hands let go of the swing's chains and he surrendered to the encompassing embrace of his clown.
Something wet hit his face, and, fearing that rain was about spoil this wonderful moment, Quatre opened his eyes and looked up at Trowa's face. Tears were streaming down the other's face, and a worried expression passed over Quatre's face. Touching the tears with his slim fingertips, he frowned. "You okay," he breathed.
Trowa nodded enthusiastically, hugging Quatre closer, hoping that through his actions he would be able to express those feelings that he was unable to put into words.
Smiling, Quatre sighed, and leaned his head against Trowa's chest again, content with just standing there in his love's embrace.
–––
It did rain, eventually, and both boys were soaked to the skin before they made it back to the dorms, where, laughing, they collapsed in a heap in Quatre's room, falling asleep in a tangle on the floor as soon as the door shut behind them.
And, together, they dreamed the same dreams.
---
M.E.: I would like to note at this time that the students mentioned in this fic exist. Their appearance is the result of me writing parts of this while at school. Specifically during trig class... Also, both Rapunzel and myself would like to say once and for all that what was going on between the purring girl and her pillow was not what Trowa thought was going on.
Rapunzel: We personally know both girls and would not wish to have people think that they're in a relationship when they're really not. They're just good friends, and the purring one has no sense of decency, that's all.
M.E.: Really. :Wanders off to eat the three double chocolate brownies that 'Zel-chan gave her as payment for finishing this fic.:
Rapunzel: All comments and criticism are welcomed- this is one of M.E.'s rare attempts to write sap, and she doesn't think that she did a good job.
M.E. (in background): SAP! EVIL! Now, to go write a good angsty suicide fic... That should make me feel better...
Rapunzel: Don't worry, we're trying to get her to seek help.