Trowa couldn't concentrate.
His notes from history class were just a collection of errant scribbles and dark smudges.
His pre-cal homework was non-existent.
His english essay was a heaping pile of shit.
His written physics experiment defied the laws of physics.
And his over-packed lunch was in the process of being shredded by his negligent fork.
He almost lost it when a hand hovered over his to still it. It was Duo.
"Y'know...We're all aware and stuff that you're not a heavy eater, but that doesn't mean you gotta masticate the damn stuff with your silverware," Duo said turning his concerned eyes on his recent friend.
"I'm sorry?" Trowa replied a little off kilter.
"That was maccaroni and cheese, wasn't it?" Duo indicated the orangish goop in the tupper under Trowa's hand.
Trowa looked down, "Oh yeah." He pushed it away, "You want it?"
"Sure," Duo grinned sliding it over to himself.
"That's gross, Duo," Heero made a face of distaste at the grits-like consistency of the meal he'd just adopted.
Duo's grin grew especially wide as he shoveled an overflowing spoonful into his mouth, "Tastes the same!" Then he proceeded to make humming sounds of contentment just as Wufei arrived to sit down with them.
"Having an orgasm?" he remarked taking his seat to Heero's right.
"Oh god," Duo moaned. "It's so good!" He smacked his palms on the table to emphasize his point.
"Well," Wufei sighed pushing the food around his tray, "I've lost my appetite."
"Ditto," Heero said mirroring Wufei's actions.
Trowa seemed off in his own world staring blankly ahead of himself at some faraway place that no one else could see but him. He didn't even register his friends' rude exchange. The only thing on his mind at that moment was that ghost. There had to be a reason he'd met him, if only he could figure it out. There was always a reason for weird shit. It was an unspoken but well known law of nature.
He saw the ghost's smile in his thoughts, his invisible fingers dancing accross the neck of the violin making it sing, and his eyes, those burning lights that had stolen his breath away, never to return again. Absently, he chewed his inner lip finding some theraputic release in it.
What to do...
He was only roused from his reverie when the incessant cloud of banter around him came to an abrupt halt. Looking up, and around, he noticed two girls standing next to Duo and himself. They weren't looking at them, though, their boy-toy darts were aimed at Heero.
Trowa knew he'd seen these two ladies somewhere before, but couldn't place them or their names.
The one with dark-blond hair spoke first, cooties coating every one of her words, "Heero, may we sit with you?"
Heero leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, lifting his chin, and sniffing with brevity. It was universal man language that Trowa recognized immediately as extreme displeasure. Some girls mistook it for contemplation, but, usually, when a guy orients his body like that, his mind has already been made up.
"Relena," he began.
She perked up.
"No," he finished succinctly, and though he wasn't hungry; he took up his fork and stabbed at his food to show her that he was done.
"Please?" she pleaded.
"What part of 'no' don't you understand?" he drawled.
Relena pouted, her lower lip sucked into her mouth, as she stared at him a moment more before her friend guided her away.
"Do you have to be so mean to her?" Duo remarked watching the girls dissapear into the cafeteria crowd.
"I've told her 'no' before. You'd think she'd be used to it by now," Heero muttered vehemently.
"Girls are stupid," Wufei sympathized.
"Amen," Heero agreed.
"Still," Duo said, "you've gotta feel bad for her. She can't help that she likes ya."
"It's a phase," Heero stated starkly. "Lets let it die in peace."
"The sooner the better," Wufei added.
Duo's smile went crooked, and Trowa couldn't decide whether he was upset or not, but then, it evened out, and he said in his casually dismissal fashion, "I guesso."
"Are you coming, Tro?" Duo asked leaning on the locker next to his. Wufei and Heero were already waiting by the double doors at the end of the hall.
"I can't, I'm sorry," Trowa replied. "I have to go pick some things up from the store."
"We can go with you," Duo offered.
"That's okay," Trowa assured him.
"Alrighty then," Duo said. "See you tomorrow."
He joined up with Heero and Wufei and left.
Trowa rifed through his books one last time before he shut his locker and headed off.
He'd purchased a cartload of periodicals, novels, and textbooks that set him back a little over a hundred-dollars.
He still recieved an allowance from Nate, even though he was no longer his guardian. Fifty dollars a month for surplus expenditures and for putting away into a savings account. The details, he left up to Trowa.
Trowa already had a college savings account in the neighborhood of twenty-thousand dollars. Normally, most of the money he got from Nate went into that account, but, today, he'd actually withdrawn from it to splurge on a person that wasn't even copreal.
The words, "I'm crazy" crossed his mind once or twice, actually, more than that, as he paid for his things and hefted them to the house on West Elm.
The door wouldn't open at first. He had to set down his things and put his weight into it, to get it open even a crack. Then it slammed shut on him. He pulled at it again, and it shut again. The snow under his shoes packed down into ice the harder and harder he tried to open the door until, finally, the traction on his sneakers iced over and his body experienced a disorienting moment of zero gravity before he landed on his back with a muffled thud.
He slowly picked himself up into sitting, then kicked the ice off his shoes before he stood on them again.
Muttering curses under his breath, he picked his stuff up and leaned against a rail to think for a moment.
Something didn't want him in that house, and that thing was mobile. He could feel the malevolence seeping out of the house, running down it's ancient exterior like a festering pus and collecting in puddles on the creaky floorboards for Trowa to fall into.
He took a minute or two to remind himself why he had returned, (a) he had made a promise, (b) he was crazy, and (c) he'd spent a lot of money.
With lukewarm satisfaction that he'd made the case to himself, he remembered the window that the cats had come from and went seeking it out.
"Curiosity killed the cat," his mind repeated to him like a mantra as he looked into each windowed room. He had the suspicion that one day his death would be due to his insatiable inquisitive nature and not a natural old-man-in-bed death. Even now, he was fairly sure that he was in mortal danger from some beyond the grave force, but that came only secondary to his over-eager mind.
The idiot in him congratulated him when he found the right window and had a fit of glee when said window yielded easily under his questing hands. For some reason, this room seemed safe to him. He stuffed his things inside before hoisting himself up and in.
It surprised him only a moment when he came face to face with the ghost, still on all fours from when he'd crawled in.
The ghost was crouched and leaning on his haunches looking at Trowa curiously, a smile teasing the edges of his slightly open mouth. "You look like a cat," he commented after a pause.
"You look like a ghost," Trowa countered lamely, but was still rewarded with a smile.
"You've brought books?" the ghost asked looking eagerly at the large bag with a few volumes peeking out.
"Go nuts," Trowa said waving him off. "They're for you."
"Weren't they expensive?" the ghost whispered in excited awe already turning one over in his hands.
"Not really," Trowa replied sitting next to him. "Times have changed."
"I want to read all about it," the ghost declared and Trowa could tell that he meant it.
"Then read," Trowa teased reorienting himself and resting his back against the windowed wall.
"Should I read aloud?" the ghost asked holding up a newspaper.
"Sure."
The ghost set the paper down in front of himself and began to read.
"Civil Unrest in Iran: the Ayatollah pressured to Abdicate..."
The sun was already gone by the time Trowa made it home that night.
Cathy was sitting on the couch with a knitting project she'd picked up shortly after his initial arrival. It was a pale colored crochet that was growing into some sort of blanket. She'd explained it to him before, but he didn't remember very well.
The evidence of his neglect bit at him.
She wasn't even looking at him.
Though he craved to go dump himself in his room and make some sense of his seriously messed up life, he set his keys on the counter and joined her on the couch.
It was soft and cradled him as he laid down on it and dutifully planted his head in her lap, silently demanding her attention. He had little to no experience in familial interaction, but it seemed the right thing to do. And it seemed to work.
Dumbfounded, Cathy set her knitting aside and started stroking his hair. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm okay," Trowa replied his eyes closing partially so that he saw a narrow strip of the coffee table and the opposite wall, the cappucino color bringing a warm ambience into the room, similar to his adoptive sister, in a way, such a warm person.
"Are you okay?" Trowa asked turning his head a little.
"If you are, then I am," Cathy replied flicking his nose.
"Don't do that," Trowa complained annoyedly turning his face into her lap.
She smelled the way a mother should.
"If you don't like it, don't leave yourself open to it," Cathy teased poking his side provoking an immediate recoil.
"Stop," Trowa whined.
"But it's so fun," Cathy grinned poking him more.
Trowa groaned in perfect vexation and caught her hand holding it over his shoulder.
"Don't make me get up," he mumbled digging himself deeper into the couch.
"You can't sleep on the couch," Cathy complained.
"Watch me," Trowa countered.
"You can't sleep on me," she protested.
"Too late," Trowa replied, stifling a yawn.
"Fine, grumpus," she retorted extracting her hand and taking her knitting back up.
It amazed Trowa how fast and completely his worries washed away the moment he sat down next to Cathy. Every time her fingers had run through his hair, another problem had been combed away. After all of his troubles were sifted out, all he was left with was fatigue.
This, he reasoned, was the power of family, as he succumbed to sleep.
As for Catherine, she'd been plenty upset that he had come home late, and even more upset at his habitual mum, but was willing to let all of that go in lieu of the moment. She'd been waiting for sixteen years for this, and damned if she'd ruin it by being bitter over petty, easily explainable things. As long as he came home to her (and occasionally greeted her like this), she'd be content.
"I thought I'd never see you again," she whispered to his sleeping visage. An errant tear traced the contours of her cheek, "It's fine if you don't remember who I am, you were only a baby at the time. I remember you, and that's all that matters."
She dried her eyes on her work-in-progress and then continued to crochet well into the night.
For the first time in a long time, Quatre didn't feel the need to drown his nilistic existence in dreamless sleep. He poured over the books that Trowa had given him, his mind sponging at all the information the volumes contained. Texts on history, boring to most people, were thrilling to him. The world he had been so cut off from for so long, he was finally catching up to.
"I love you, Mr. Trowa," he declared excitedly under his breath, his eyes roving the pages of history he had existed through, but never actually seen.
The door behind him opened.
Rashid stood in the doorframe a moment wondering at the way his ward seemed so happy. It had been such a long time, an unchartable amount of time, since he'd seen that kind of a face. The inquisitive glint in those eyes, and the grim line of childish concentration on his lips. His young master seemed more complete than he was accustomed to seeing him.
Carefully, he backed out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind himself.
Quatre's fingers traced each line that he read, his own natural luminescence making visible the words otherwise obscured by nighttime darkness.
Trowa, "the grumpus," was woken early Wednesday morning on the recieving end of a Catherine instigated poke-fest.
Disoriented, and extremely uncomfortable, he tried to protect himself and scoot off the couch at the same time, suceeding in a pathetic dead-man's roll, landing him dazed and confused face-up on the floor.
"I'm up," he said weakly.
"Gooood," Catherine grinned at him from behind the couch. "You have practice today."
Scowling, Trowa raised his left arm and pulled back his sleeve. His watch read: 5:04AM.
Swallowing his resentment and bitter morning breath, he groped for the couch cushion and hauled himself up as Catherine skipped, rather chipper, into the kitchen.
He was fifteen minutes early.
He was little more awake by the time he got to school than when he'd first rolled off the couch.
Yawning through clentched teeth, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he made his way wearily to the band hall.
Soon, though, his ears perked up to the faint sounds of a violin. Straining to hear it, he followed the sounds to the orchestra hall on the opposite side of the electives building. Covering one last yawn, he peered in through the windowed door.
Alone and sitting on the elevated teacher's platform was Wufei in pinstriped pants and a button-down shirt with a cello.
Not a violin.
A little disappointed, and at the same time impressed, Trowa was about to leave when something bright caught his eye.
He squinted and blinked harshly, then dropped his jaw.
Next to Wufei, the ghost was playing a weeping violin in compliment to the deeper, more somber sounds of the cello. His eyes were closed, and his body swayed a little as if the notes of music were lifting off the paper and caressing him. He looked more robust and sure of himself than Trowa had ever seen him before. Was he looking at an echo?
When the piece ended, the apparition vanished along with its haunting melody.
Wufei took a water bottle from his backpack and drank it dry. Then, he got up, presumably, to fill it in the fountain outside, setting his cello down lovingly on its side before making to leave.
Trowa panicked and hauled ass out of there before Wufei's fingers so much as graced the door handle.
TBC...
His notes from history class were just a collection of errant scribbles and dark smudges.
His pre-cal homework was non-existent.
His english essay was a heaping pile of shit.
His written physics experiment defied the laws of physics.
And his over-packed lunch was in the process of being shredded by his negligent fork.
He almost lost it when a hand hovered over his to still it. It was Duo.
"Y'know...We're all aware and stuff that you're not a heavy eater, but that doesn't mean you gotta masticate the damn stuff with your silverware," Duo said turning his concerned eyes on his recent friend.
"I'm sorry?" Trowa replied a little off kilter.
"That was maccaroni and cheese, wasn't it?" Duo indicated the orangish goop in the tupper under Trowa's hand.
Trowa looked down, "Oh yeah." He pushed it away, "You want it?"
"Sure," Duo grinned sliding it over to himself.
"That's gross, Duo," Heero made a face of distaste at the grits-like consistency of the meal he'd just adopted.
Duo's grin grew especially wide as he shoveled an overflowing spoonful into his mouth, "Tastes the same!" Then he proceeded to make humming sounds of contentment just as Wufei arrived to sit down with them.
"Having an orgasm?" he remarked taking his seat to Heero's right.
"Oh god," Duo moaned. "It's so good!" He smacked his palms on the table to emphasize his point.
"Well," Wufei sighed pushing the food around his tray, "I've lost my appetite."
"Ditto," Heero said mirroring Wufei's actions.
Trowa seemed off in his own world staring blankly ahead of himself at some faraway place that no one else could see but him. He didn't even register his friends' rude exchange. The only thing on his mind at that moment was that ghost. There had to be a reason he'd met him, if only he could figure it out. There was always a reason for weird shit. It was an unspoken but well known law of nature.
He saw the ghost's smile in his thoughts, his invisible fingers dancing accross the neck of the violin making it sing, and his eyes, those burning lights that had stolen his breath away, never to return again. Absently, he chewed his inner lip finding some theraputic release in it.
What to do...
He was only roused from his reverie when the incessant cloud of banter around him came to an abrupt halt. Looking up, and around, he noticed two girls standing next to Duo and himself. They weren't looking at them, though, their boy-toy darts were aimed at Heero.
Trowa knew he'd seen these two ladies somewhere before, but couldn't place them or their names.
The one with dark-blond hair spoke first, cooties coating every one of her words, "Heero, may we sit with you?"
Heero leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, lifting his chin, and sniffing with brevity. It was universal man language that Trowa recognized immediately as extreme displeasure. Some girls mistook it for contemplation, but, usually, when a guy orients his body like that, his mind has already been made up.
"Relena," he began.
She perked up.
"No," he finished succinctly, and though he wasn't hungry; he took up his fork and stabbed at his food to show her that he was done.
"Please?" she pleaded.
"What part of 'no' don't you understand?" he drawled.
Relena pouted, her lower lip sucked into her mouth, as she stared at him a moment more before her friend guided her away.
"Do you have to be so mean to her?" Duo remarked watching the girls dissapear into the cafeteria crowd.
"I've told her 'no' before. You'd think she'd be used to it by now," Heero muttered vehemently.
"Girls are stupid," Wufei sympathized.
"Amen," Heero agreed.
"Still," Duo said, "you've gotta feel bad for her. She can't help that she likes ya."
"It's a phase," Heero stated starkly. "Lets let it die in peace."
"The sooner the better," Wufei added.
Duo's smile went crooked, and Trowa couldn't decide whether he was upset or not, but then, it evened out, and he said in his casually dismissal fashion, "I guesso."
"Are you coming, Tro?" Duo asked leaning on the locker next to his. Wufei and Heero were already waiting by the double doors at the end of the hall.
"I can't, I'm sorry," Trowa replied. "I have to go pick some things up from the store."
"We can go with you," Duo offered.
"That's okay," Trowa assured him.
"Alrighty then," Duo said. "See you tomorrow."
He joined up with Heero and Wufei and left.
Trowa rifed through his books one last time before he shut his locker and headed off.
He'd purchased a cartload of periodicals, novels, and textbooks that set him back a little over a hundred-dollars.
He still recieved an allowance from Nate, even though he was no longer his guardian. Fifty dollars a month for surplus expenditures and for putting away into a savings account. The details, he left up to Trowa.
Trowa already had a college savings account in the neighborhood of twenty-thousand dollars. Normally, most of the money he got from Nate went into that account, but, today, he'd actually withdrawn from it to splurge on a person that wasn't even copreal.
The words, "I'm crazy" crossed his mind once or twice, actually, more than that, as he paid for his things and hefted them to the house on West Elm.
The door wouldn't open at first. He had to set down his things and put his weight into it, to get it open even a crack. Then it slammed shut on him. He pulled at it again, and it shut again. The snow under his shoes packed down into ice the harder and harder he tried to open the door until, finally, the traction on his sneakers iced over and his body experienced a disorienting moment of zero gravity before he landed on his back with a muffled thud.
He slowly picked himself up into sitting, then kicked the ice off his shoes before he stood on them again.
Muttering curses under his breath, he picked his stuff up and leaned against a rail to think for a moment.
Something didn't want him in that house, and that thing was mobile. He could feel the malevolence seeping out of the house, running down it's ancient exterior like a festering pus and collecting in puddles on the creaky floorboards for Trowa to fall into.
He took a minute or two to remind himself why he had returned, (a) he had made a promise, (b) he was crazy, and (c) he'd spent a lot of money.
With lukewarm satisfaction that he'd made the case to himself, he remembered the window that the cats had come from and went seeking it out.
"Curiosity killed the cat," his mind repeated to him like a mantra as he looked into each windowed room. He had the suspicion that one day his death would be due to his insatiable inquisitive nature and not a natural old-man-in-bed death. Even now, he was fairly sure that he was in mortal danger from some beyond the grave force, but that came only secondary to his over-eager mind.
The idiot in him congratulated him when he found the right window and had a fit of glee when said window yielded easily under his questing hands. For some reason, this room seemed safe to him. He stuffed his things inside before hoisting himself up and in.
It surprised him only a moment when he came face to face with the ghost, still on all fours from when he'd crawled in.
The ghost was crouched and leaning on his haunches looking at Trowa curiously, a smile teasing the edges of his slightly open mouth. "You look like a cat," he commented after a pause.
"You look like a ghost," Trowa countered lamely, but was still rewarded with a smile.
"You've brought books?" the ghost asked looking eagerly at the large bag with a few volumes peeking out.
"Go nuts," Trowa said waving him off. "They're for you."
"Weren't they expensive?" the ghost whispered in excited awe already turning one over in his hands.
"Not really," Trowa replied sitting next to him. "Times have changed."
"I want to read all about it," the ghost declared and Trowa could tell that he meant it.
"Then read," Trowa teased reorienting himself and resting his back against the windowed wall.
"Should I read aloud?" the ghost asked holding up a newspaper.
"Sure."
The ghost set the paper down in front of himself and began to read.
"Civil Unrest in Iran: the Ayatollah pressured to Abdicate..."
The sun was already gone by the time Trowa made it home that night.
Cathy was sitting on the couch with a knitting project she'd picked up shortly after his initial arrival. It was a pale colored crochet that was growing into some sort of blanket. She'd explained it to him before, but he didn't remember very well.
The evidence of his neglect bit at him.
She wasn't even looking at him.
Though he craved to go dump himself in his room and make some sense of his seriously messed up life, he set his keys on the counter and joined her on the couch.
It was soft and cradled him as he laid down on it and dutifully planted his head in her lap, silently demanding her attention. He had little to no experience in familial interaction, but it seemed the right thing to do. And it seemed to work.
Dumbfounded, Cathy set her knitting aside and started stroking his hair. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm okay," Trowa replied his eyes closing partially so that he saw a narrow strip of the coffee table and the opposite wall, the cappucino color bringing a warm ambience into the room, similar to his adoptive sister, in a way, such a warm person.
"Are you okay?" Trowa asked turning his head a little.
"If you are, then I am," Cathy replied flicking his nose.
"Don't do that," Trowa complained annoyedly turning his face into her lap.
She smelled the way a mother should.
"If you don't like it, don't leave yourself open to it," Cathy teased poking his side provoking an immediate recoil.
"Stop," Trowa whined.
"But it's so fun," Cathy grinned poking him more.
Trowa groaned in perfect vexation and caught her hand holding it over his shoulder.
"Don't make me get up," he mumbled digging himself deeper into the couch.
"You can't sleep on the couch," Cathy complained.
"Watch me," Trowa countered.
"You can't sleep on me," she protested.
"Too late," Trowa replied, stifling a yawn.
"Fine, grumpus," she retorted extracting her hand and taking her knitting back up.
It amazed Trowa how fast and completely his worries washed away the moment he sat down next to Cathy. Every time her fingers had run through his hair, another problem had been combed away. After all of his troubles were sifted out, all he was left with was fatigue.
This, he reasoned, was the power of family, as he succumbed to sleep.
As for Catherine, she'd been plenty upset that he had come home late, and even more upset at his habitual mum, but was willing to let all of that go in lieu of the moment. She'd been waiting for sixteen years for this, and damned if she'd ruin it by being bitter over petty, easily explainable things. As long as he came home to her (and occasionally greeted her like this), she'd be content.
"I thought I'd never see you again," she whispered to his sleeping visage. An errant tear traced the contours of her cheek, "It's fine if you don't remember who I am, you were only a baby at the time. I remember you, and that's all that matters."
She dried her eyes on her work-in-progress and then continued to crochet well into the night.
For the first time in a long time, Quatre didn't feel the need to drown his nilistic existence in dreamless sleep. He poured over the books that Trowa had given him, his mind sponging at all the information the volumes contained. Texts on history, boring to most people, were thrilling to him. The world he had been so cut off from for so long, he was finally catching up to.
"I love you, Mr. Trowa," he declared excitedly under his breath, his eyes roving the pages of history he had existed through, but never actually seen.
The door behind him opened.
Rashid stood in the doorframe a moment wondering at the way his ward seemed so happy. It had been such a long time, an unchartable amount of time, since he'd seen that kind of a face. The inquisitive glint in those eyes, and the grim line of childish concentration on his lips. His young master seemed more complete than he was accustomed to seeing him.
Carefully, he backed out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind himself.
Quatre's fingers traced each line that he read, his own natural luminescence making visible the words otherwise obscured by nighttime darkness.
Trowa, "the grumpus," was woken early Wednesday morning on the recieving end of a Catherine instigated poke-fest.
Disoriented, and extremely uncomfortable, he tried to protect himself and scoot off the couch at the same time, suceeding in a pathetic dead-man's roll, landing him dazed and confused face-up on the floor.
"I'm up," he said weakly.
"Gooood," Catherine grinned at him from behind the couch. "You have practice today."
Scowling, Trowa raised his left arm and pulled back his sleeve. His watch read: 5:04AM.
Swallowing his resentment and bitter morning breath, he groped for the couch cushion and hauled himself up as Catherine skipped, rather chipper, into the kitchen.
He was fifteen minutes early.
He was little more awake by the time he got to school than when he'd first rolled off the couch.
Yawning through clentched teeth, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he made his way wearily to the band hall.
Soon, though, his ears perked up to the faint sounds of a violin. Straining to hear it, he followed the sounds to the orchestra hall on the opposite side of the electives building. Covering one last yawn, he peered in through the windowed door.
Alone and sitting on the elevated teacher's platform was Wufei in pinstriped pants and a button-down shirt with a cello.
Not a violin.
A little disappointed, and at the same time impressed, Trowa was about to leave when something bright caught his eye.
He squinted and blinked harshly, then dropped his jaw.
Next to Wufei, the ghost was playing a weeping violin in compliment to the deeper, more somber sounds of the cello. His eyes were closed, and his body swayed a little as if the notes of music were lifting off the paper and caressing him. He looked more robust and sure of himself than Trowa had ever seen him before. Was he looking at an echo?
When the piece ended, the apparition vanished along with its haunting melody.
Wufei took a water bottle from his backpack and drank it dry. Then, he got up, presumably, to fill it in the fountain outside, setting his cello down lovingly on its side before making to leave.
Trowa panicked and hauled ass out of there before Wufei's fingers so much as graced the door handle.
TBC...