Chapter 5…I return, and with the most profuse apologies for the length of my absence. My computer crashed and, though much was salvaged, one of the folders which was lost was that which contained all my writings, (including many pieces which were not fan-fiction) along with drawings of mine I had scanned in before giving them away. Those of you who enjoy writing or drawing as much as I do I'm sure will understand how perfectly awful this was for me. I was so disheartened, in fact, that it has taken me a while to convince myself to write again (as ridiculously dramatic as that may seem to some). But what's done is done, as they say, whoever 'they' are. I shall stop rambling irrelevantly at you and return to the story…

Disclaimer: After all this time, I still own none of the characters in this fic.

Heero ran without pause to the nameless park which had become his sanctuary, as if haste would change the reality of what he expected to find there. But immediately as he burst through the line of trees he slowed to a stop, his brow furrowing as the sight before him struggled to sink in.

Blackened and broken timbers and scattered ash on the scorched grass were all that remained of the once lovely gazebo.

Padding out of the trees to his left, he watched the arsonist move to perch on one of the protruding beams, an expectant grin playing about his features.

No tears rose in Heero's eyes though it affected something deep within him, but instead he allowed his body to convert the pain into silent fury as it had been disciplined to for so many years. Carefully he placed his case on the ground and reached for his gun for the second time that day. He hesitated then, surprised to find the holster empty.

'Lost something?' Duo smirked, the pistol appearing in his hand. 'You're in London now, Heero, and this thing'll just get you arrested.' The devil twirled the weapon once, deftly, in his hand before pocketing it with a wink. And, with that, he scampered off into the trees once more.

'Trowa's in London?' The brunette's eyes were wild as she gripped her friend's shoulders with both hands.

'Catherine, please…'

'I can't believe he's been writing to you all these years when I've not had a single word from him. I'm his sister for God's sake.' Catherine began pacing back and forth, gathering essential belongings which she thrust into an impossibly small red rucksack.

'Perhaps he knew you'd react like this. If Trowa wanted you to save him he'd have asked you. You know that.' Lucrezia Noin brushed her fringe out of her eyes in annoyance, only to have it fall defiantly back into place.

'No, trowa would never ask for help; he's just as stubborn as father. He's out there on his own and I'm going to get him back.' Catherine shouldered the bulging rucksack and stormed outside to where her motorbike was propped against a low wall. The older woman followed quickly, arriving in time to see her revving the engine.

'What are you going to do if you find him; do you really think you can bring him back here? You know why he left, and even you won't be able to convince him to come back.' The brunette looked back at her, her expression earnest.

'Look, I know all this, but I've got to try. Please, I need your support in this, not your doubt. He's my little brother - there's got to be a chance…'

'Alright then; I suppose I'd do the same if he were mine.' Noin smiled forlornly and walked over to place her hand on the younger woman's arm. 'Good luck, Cathy. Give Trowa my love.'

'Thanks, Lu.' Placing one foot on the ground to steady the bike, Catherine leant down to embrace her friend warmly, then, wiping her hand quickly across her eyes, she gave a final, brief nod, and with a few more revs she sped off into the lonely distance.

Hindered by his case, which he was taking great care not to damage, Heero was barely able to keep sight of his quarry as he pursued him across the grass, occasionally having to dodge through patches of trees. It occurred to him that this park bore more resemblance to a patchy, ornamented forest, and it was sheer carelessness that it happened to have been discarded in the middle of a city.

At last he reached the far corner of the park where he found his pistol dangling from a rowan branch. There was no sign of the thief. Frustrated, Heero dropped heavily onto the grass beneath the rowan, leaning his back against its slender trunk. And, having replaced his weapon in its concealed holster –and therefore feeling far more at ease – he lay his black case on his lap, undoing the clasps with something akin to tenderness.

He was relieved to find his saxophone undamaged and lifted its pieces reverently from the case, assembling it with practiced ease. Laying the case aside, he uncrossed his legs, allowing the instrument to rest between his knees, then, closing his eyes, he began to play.

Trowa was puzzled as he passed through the park as he had every day since acquiring his new job, three nights after his encounter with an Angel on the streets of London. Each evening he crossed the park in which Quatre had revealed his identity, in the hope that, someday, he would see him again. Today, however, something was amiss; there was no music.

Trowa was accustomed to the sound of a lonely saxophone, pure and melancholy, drifting between the trees. Choosing not to diverge from his decided path, however, he had never seen the musician. Now he walked the route in pensive silence, his feet leading him, without his mind's conscious input, to the spot he paused at each time he reached it, where he had seen great, shimmering wings spread wide, confirming the sum of his hopes and his fears.

Drawing near, he was caused to smile slightly in surprise as the mellifluous tones of a familiar melody floated towards him across the grass. He quickened his pace just slightly, wondering at this sudden relocation of the unknown saxophonist.

He found him sat under a slender tree, his eyes closed, seemingly oblivious to all but his music.

'Saxophone'. Heero had heard footsteps approaching the clearing so the voice did not startle him. He brought the mournful piece he was playing to a close before opening his eyes and turning them on the stranger.

'So yours is the lonely saxophone which accompanies me through this park each night.' Trowa met the musician's gaze and tried to make appreciation evident in voice. Heero's expression remained empty, though it was simply a blankness employed to mask the emotions he had been feeling all too keenly of late.

'The gazebo where I normally play has been destroyed.' he explained bleakly.

'No idea who could have done it?' Heero's impassive mask almost slipped, and Trowa caught the brief blaze in the boy's eyes.

'I'd never seen him before, but he burnt down the gazebo & broke into my apartment to tell me.' Apartment? Trowa thought. Possibly not English then.

'And you don't want to get the police involved.' He made it a statement so it would be clear to the musician that he understood.

Heero studied the stranger curiously for a moment, then extended his hand.

'Heero Yuy.'

'Trowa Barton' Trowa replied, shaking the other boy's hand. Heero nodded to the grass beside him and Trowa sat. 'You're not from around here, are you?' he asked after a moment or so.

'I don't have an accent.' Heero insisted; he had spent years removing any obvious trace of his identity, paying particular attention to his speech.

'No,' conceded the taller boy, regarding him with his unconcealed left eye, 'you just seem like you're from out of town.' Heero frowned at this, glaring at the end of his saxophone.

'My parents were Japanese, though I've spent most of my life in America.' He stopped –it was unlike him to talk so freely, particularly about himself. He turned to face his new acquaintance again, eyeing him with suspicion.

'Were?' Trowa inquired gently, picking up on the subtle phrasing.

'They died. It was an accident.' Heero stated in the bland tone which matched his expressionless mask –the same tone which had been used to tell him the news.

'Same' the other boy said quietly, causing Heero's expression to soften with vague surprise. 'We were circus folk', Trowa continued, 'my parents were acrobats. One of the safety specialists was trying to blackmail them without success. I was twelve at the time so the details were kept from me. But, one day the trapeze wasn't secured properly; it held the weight of one person, but when my mother leapt into my father's arms as he hung upside-down by his knees, their combined weight caused it to give way. They never used a net - they had never needed to - and it made their act even more impressive.

'They fell to their deaths.' Trowa paused, clenching his fists into tight balls. 'We all knew who was to blame, but it wasn't evidence enough. I watched him stand up in court and explain that he was not the only one to inspect the equipment – he neglected to mention that he was the last, and even denied it when questioned – he lied under oath; having sworn on the Bible, he claimed that my parents' death was "a tragic accident". That's when I lost my faith.

'He was acquitted. He lost his job, but his daughter was one of the clowns and a sweet girl. No one felt that they could force her to leave and be stuck alone with that man. But I couldn't bear the thought of seeing him each day, so I ran away. That was on the twenty-fourth of December. My elder sister, Catherine, woke up on Christmas morning to find her little brother gone. But street-life would have destroyed her - I couldn't have brought her with me.'

Heero watched the heavy-fringed boy with grim fascination as the tale unfolded and suddenly felt that he was seeing himself. Trowa related the events in the same dead monotone that Heero used, and only his eyes and the tension in his hands were indication that he felt anything at all. He found himself resting his hand on one of Trowa's tightly clenched fists which had now begun to shake slightly. Was this pity that he felt for this boy?

Trowa turned empty eyes on him, then, relaxing he squeezed the darker boy's hand gently in thanks, causing Heero to shift a little as something stirred within him.

Quatre watched, intrigued, as his devilish friend tormented the mortal, Heero. He disapproved, but was bemused by Duo's antics, wondering at his motive.

The Angel had developed a habit of studying the world below; having looked at extensively at art involving Angels, he had become quite taken with the idea of sitting on a cloud, intermittently aiding the affairs of humans. He now watched from the ethereal gardens, however, having discovered that clouds were actually quite damp and rather uncomfortable.

But when Trowa crossed the park - returning from the job for which Quatre had recommended him to the manager of the restaurant - Quatre began to understand his friend's plans.

He didn't understand the tightness that developed in his stomach as he watched how quickly amity developed between the two boys in the park, or the lump that formed in his throat. He simply knew that none of his half-formed hopes would come to anything more, and, worse, Duo had orchestrated this.

He watched his tears, sparkling as they fell, melt into the swirling design of the marble path.

:You are troubled, Quatre.: The Angel did not raise his head, for he knew there would be no one to see. Instead he drew his arms tighter around himself, welcoming the sympathetic warmth that flooded through him.

'My Lord, my devotion to you is absolute, but I cannot renounce the mortal world even for your heavenly realm. I do not understand what I am feeling, though I realise this means my place is no longer here.' The power washed over him again and more words formed inside his head.

:It was inevitable, Quatre, from the beginning. What you feel is doubt, and that has no place in this realm. Though you have done nothing which can be construed as "wrong", you no longer belong here.

Farewell, Quatre - may you find peace.:

He felt himself falling.

And as he fell, it began to snow.

My modem has had a tantrum and no longer functions; that is my reason for even further delay in posting. Until a replacement is acquired, I shall be posting chapters only when I have access to some other kind soul's computer.

I am rapidly developing a strong dislike of these machines.

Ah well - I hope this chapter was not too confusing. Farewell for now. -Rose