Disclaimer: I do not own GundamW or its characters.
Warnings: Unbetaed. Hints of shounen-ai.
Notes: After continuous massive rewrites and tweaks (especially to the ending!), I've decided to post. I have a feeling I might revise the whole fic one day to try to make it better. Thank you to the three people that reviewed the main chapter. I hope you guys didn't think I had abandoned this fic. Sorry for the long delay. Please review!
EpilogueTrowa watched the patches of green and the white city grow larger and larger beneath him like a stretch of foam-capped sea waves becoming blurred and indistinct. Somewhere in all that was a mini-Atlantis, and among the pedestrians and motorists, among the school kids and the retirees sunning themselves on golf courses, in the hustle and bustle of the city, was a girl with auburn curls and knives by her hip crying into her hands. Cathy was still there. Trowa had bid farewell to her and the lions two days ago, not knowing if it would be a forever type of good-bye. What Trowa did know was that he hoped to return, but it would not be soon. It had taken days, but he managed to secure a space shuttle to one of Earth's satellites. After slipping away from the circus, he had wandered around town, asking anyone if they had seen a blond Arab youth, until one driver said he had.
"Well there was this one kid. He was rich, judging by the clothes he wore. He was always polite. I remember him because he gave me a good tip. He seemed distressed, the poor kid. You could tell he'd been crying."
Further questioning had confirmed the boy had indeed been Quatre. The height, the clothes, even the mannerisms had matched.
"Where did he go?"
"To the spaceport. Said he was going to the nearest satellite for some business after saying final good-byes to his friend. They way he was carrying on, I wonder just how special this friend was to him."
Trowa had not commented.
The sea collage beneath him spread and became the distinctive shoreline of a continent. Trowa let the small oasis in the desert that was his memory shut down, and all thoughts promptly died of thirst. He turned away from the window, closed his eyes for a moment and reclined into his blue cushioned seat. Nearby, a passenger began to hyperventilate because she was claustrophobic. The errant thought that the room was too open, and that he had been in quarters much more cramp than this came into Trowa's head like a blundering stranger and left quietly, although not without leaving the door ajar.
Trowa blinked and fell asleep.
Trowa blinked and awoke.
He had arrived.
He walked out the spaceport without preamble to search around the satellite, promptly taking up the cheapest residences that he could find in his travels. Trowa didn't have much money, only a small duffel bag with two changes of clothes and the flute. During the nights, he relearned the instrument's contours in whatever was his current hotel room. He sat on the bed with the reoccurring, hastily washed and done sheets, and felt the old mattress sag beneath him like always, with all its spring and youth gone. The rooms were always dim, giving their poor resident as little electricity as possible for his money, but the atmosphere was closed and warm and soothing. No one would hear his toddler stumbles as he learned to play again. So it had been a sweet surprise when his first breath over the mouthpiece had produced a melodious note. But then again, Quatre had said music had seemed important to Trowa. Trowa put his flute down and sat still, remembering all the other things Quatre had said. Many hours later, he clicked off the dying firefly glow of the lamp and lay down. Trowa wondered if he used to play often. Trowa closed his eyes. He would have to ask Quatre when he found him.
Trowa slept and tried to dream of tomorrow, but instead he saw the past – a sharp ball of twisted burnt metal and fire cutting into soft skin. Trowa screamed and the nightmare went away. At precisely 0600, the "sunrise" program of the colony activated. Trowa had already roused hours before when the light symphony begin. He sat by the window side and watched as the vibrant colors melted into his room and tried the chase away not only the darkness outside, but also the darkness in Trowa's soul. The darkness inside lingered still, but in the distance a golden-topped skyscraper winked in the unnatural dawn. It beckoned.
"Excuse me. Do you have a Quatre Raberba Winner registered here?" Trowa asked the receptionist in the golden-domed skyscraper. It turned out to be a glamorous old-wealth hotel that catered to diplomats, those skilled in the art of talk, or the rich, those skilled in the baser persuasion of money. Quatre had given Trowa his full name the first time he had introduced himself. Even though Trowa had few memories, he had heard the gossip about the Winner heir and his fortune while residing temporarily in the places of the circus' circuit. It was likely Quatre would be staying at one of the fancier hotels. He had means enough, and if not, Trowa was sure Quatre could manage to get in with just one heart rendering look, no words needed.
The navy blue clerk finally glanced up.
She peered down above the rim of her glasses and pointedly eyed the fraying seams of Trowa's turtleneck, saw how the material was stretched and softened by age, looked into Trowa plain expression and form, unadorned with anything, and nearly snorted.
"I'm an associate of his." Trowa opened up his flute case with a sudden snap. The Winner seal emblazoned at the back of the instrument's neck dazzled like a diamond as it caught the light of the hotel's chandeliers. It reflected white light onto Trowa's face, and set off the natural emerald in his eyes until one could see how clear they were, how deep they were, without understanding anything at all. Trowa had discovered the insignia the first night he had examined the flute.
"Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I did not realize!" The woman flustered upon registering the three shining jewels, although only one could be literally defined as such. Definitely valuable. "Let me see." Her fingers clacked in well-known routes on the keyboard under the passive attention of Trowa's green orbs. "He's been registered as out just a few minutes ago."
"Can you tell me where he is?"
The woman was just about to reply when - "Are you looking for Quatre?" A grinning bellboy appeared unexpectedly behind Trowa's right shoulder and interrupted their conversation. The interloper had a long snaking braid and a friendly grin.
"Yes." Trowa noticed the boy was carrying something behind his hands. They looked like computer disks. Unexpectedly, the stranger used one scrutinized hand to latch onto an opposite sweater-covered arm and pulled Trowa aside. Trowa almost fell. The receptionist blinked for a moment and then went back to work.
"I thought only Heero could come back from the dead," Trowa's new acquaintance said once they had relocated to a more sparsely populated area of the lobby. He let go of Trowa's arm and noticed Trowa's line of sight. "Oh, these? This hotel gets a lot of Oz's higher officials. Let's just say Quatre mingled around and found out exactly who they were, and I broke into their computer files while they were out being wined and dinned." The boy snickered. His eyes danced with mirth. Trowa decided he was a likable fellow.
"Oz?"
"Trowa." The light in the other's eyes was suddenly snuffed out. "Do you know me?"
"No."
"Quatre told me you had amnesia. When I saw you here, I thought you'd remembered. You're telling me you don't know anything about the mission?"
Trowa blinked in confusion.
The other boy whistled. "Just what are you doing here?!"
Trowa could answer that question without hesitation. "I'm here to find Quatre."
Hours later, Duo Maxwell had finally run out of things to chat about as they landed on Peacemillion. The disks were safely stowed away in hidden pockets under a stylish leather jacket that was currently in fashion for the younger generation, born circa A.C.180 or so.
"Man, that was hard work. You know how hard it was to keep you entertained? I mean, with your face hidden underneath that waterfall of hair, I can't even see if my jokes are funny or not." His melodramatic sigh was punctuated by a stretching of feet. Trowa thought the other might have been wiggling his toes underneath the dark material of his shoes. Trowa brushed over his own bangs in order to meet both of Duo's eyes. Trowa tested his companion's name for the first time.
"I'm sorry...Duo."
Duo grinned as he took Trowa's elbow to guide him off the shuttle, "Well I hope I make a more lasting impression this time. Come on, you have to meet everyone else."
"This is Wufei. And that is Heero."
Wufei eyed him, while Heero gave Trowa a brief nod. Even though their expressions were guarded, Trowa felt strangely at home. He sat down in one of the cushioned chairs as the others discussed the parameters of the new mission and assessed his new friends. Wufei's posture was somewhat stiff. His eyes were moved quickly, assessing and purposeful. He was very self-conscious and observant. Any of his words of disagreement were passionate and Trowa surmised 05 held his ideals very dear. As for Heero, the boy was compact, and his eyes were intense, glinting like steel. But the way 01 wore his skin was a familiar one - as if he had found some sense of self-purpose in a topsy-turvy world in which colonies martyred their own heroes. As for 02, Duo was as lively as ever in his banter. He lounged with his arms spread, his body relaxed and open – a stark contrast to the black-white priest collar that fit snuggly around his neck. Maxwell seemed a bundle of contradictions. A serious soul lurked beneath that accommodating grin.
But as for Pilot 04, he was nowhere to be found.
The Gundam pilots told Trowa that he had been Pilot 03. He had a mecha too, HeavyArms. Maybe he could relearn to pilot it again, but until then, he had nothing to do. Casually, Trowa fingered his flute case.
Trowa Barton didn't remember much about himself, but he remembered he was a patient man.
When the other Gundam pilots began discussing intricacies, Trowa excused himself from their talk. He did not want to intrude, so he found a nice, secretive niche far away, in one of the corners. He sank fluidly into the armchair, and sat there for hours. On a whim, he turned towards outer space. Between himself and the stars, Trowa watched his reflection on the windowpane.
It seemed to Trowa that someone else was desperately trying to peer back.
Trowa had been watching his mirror image intently for minutes when suddenly, a new reflection appeared in the glass. Its owner slowly approached him from the doorway.
"Trowa?" The questioned was asked in bated breath.
Trowa turned. "Quatre."
Quatre was not dressed in the soft pink shirt and brown vest Trowa had remembered. Instead he was swathed in the hugging gray-blue fabric of his space suit. Quatre's hair was matted and his right arm cradled a helmet. A frown line marred Quatre's forehead like a malevolent bruise. Then, suspicious blue eyes began to widen, and the accursed scar above the Arab's brow began to slowly heal. For a long silent moment there was nothing. And then Quatre moved, rushing to embrace his friend before he remembered it would be unseemly, more so since Trowa regarded him as a stranger. The helmet dropped with a thud and Quatre braced himself back. His body became rigid, his face expressionless again –
"I'm sorry."
- his words, so cold.
Although the words were familiar, they didn't sound right. They didn't sound like the Quatre he remembered at all. Where was the boy that had so eagerly approached Trowa, hands and heart held out in offering?
"It was a terrible mistake. I'm sorry. Please, I –"
Trowa rose from his seat, and approached the other boy. Slowly he raised one hand and then pressed it gently against one of Quatre's stiff shoulders. It was an undemanding, faintly curious, soft touch. The lions had purred under that touch for him. But perhaps a human being would need more.
Trowa spoke. "Would you agree to a duet?"
There was shock. Then joy. The sudden small wavering smile that answered Trowa softened Quatre's whole visage, conquered the suit's harsh lines, and melted away the last of the sharpness remaining in Pilot 04's eyes. Most importantly of all, it melted away the last of the rigid stance of a wary soldier just returned from battle. Trowa saw the frown line finally succumb to nothingness, and finally, the Quatre that stood before him was again, the simple, vulnerable boy he had met at the circus.
"Yes, Trowa. I'd love to."
The smile unfurled all its petals in an inevitable sudden burst of light, and shone with the intensity of a thousand suns. The black sharp metal that claimed Trowa's memories, and his very soul, seemed to dissolve under that benevolent smile that deserved an answer. But the one who responded was not the new, unsure and lost Trowa. The one who called back was the boy-soldier who had known the feel of a gun since he was a child. The person saved when a mysterious voice from a mobile suit told him they should not be fighting, and the person who had found someone his own age emerging from the other suit, with kind eyes and bright yellow hair pushed back by a pair of worn goggles.
He was the boy that Quatre had first smiled at so long ago.
That boy was stirring.
Trowa was not envious, because somehow, he was that person, too.
"Thank you, Quatre. Thank you for what you have given me again." He took Quatre's hands into his own and something nice fluttered inside of him at the other's confused face.
"The flute? But it's just a-"
Quatre was suddenly gathered into a gentle hug.
"No. Not just for that. "
"Trowa." Hesitantly, Quatre's warm arms rose to embrace back.
Somewhere in the universe, a dreaming child named Nanashi opened his eyes. But this time, he had been given the gentlest of all beginnings.
He smiled.
A REBIRTH