"Did you hear? Did you hear? Another student transferred here from St. Gabriels."
"How could I not? They say he's old money: the estranged son of old Mr. Bloom."
"But I heard that family—what's left of it—is a little backward, if you know what I mean."
"But he seems normal enough. And he's so humble—"
"And incredibly handsome."
Quatre looked up from his sheet music, and immediately the chatter around him began to die down to scattered whispers. Gossipers suddenly found better things to do, last minute adjustments to be made to their instruments. Did they think he hadn't heard?
The tenth grade had been buzzing all morning, and it was only more obvious in the music room where the smallest sound carried like a shot. Part of Quatre wanted to speak up in Trowa's defense, to expel these rumors that had him pegged as a Bloom. But that would mean acknowledging that he had heard. It would mean opening the subject to questions about the nature of his relationship to Trowa. They already stared at him when they thought he wasn't looking. Maybe they were already wondering about the two of them, about the reason for their ferocity on the strip yesterday, and he dreaded what conclusions they might draw.
Quatre knew he was partly to blame. His bewilderment after the bout had been too transparent. Why couldn't he have treated it like any other match? Why did he have to take it so personally when he knew everyone was watching?
The instructor signaled the class to silence with a couple taps of his baton. As he raised it, the class raised their instruments into ready positions.
They only played a few bars before the door creaked open. Quatre didn't need to look to know who it was.
"Triton Bloom," he said before either the instructor or the newcomer could exchange a word. Quatre felt his pulse quicken, but when he glanced up at his old friend out of the corner of his eye, he kept his voice strict. "You're late. Is this any way to start your new school year?"
The instructor ignored him and asked Trowa, "Do you have an excuse?"
"No," Trowa answered quickly. "Sorry."
He took a seat across the aisle from Quatre and started to unpack his flute. The instructor told him, "Try not to let it happen again."
"Yes, sir."
They would have left it at that, but Quatre wasn't ready to let them. He didn't know where the desire to see Trowa punished for such a tiny offense came from, but he stood before he quite knew what he was doing and said coolly, "Sir, don't you think it would be wise to see where Mr. Bloom's skills stand, seeing as this is his first day?"
He was aware of Trowa's eyes on him, and with that satisfaction smiled and cocked his head. "Besides," Quatre added with a sideways glance, "he's already interrupted our lesson. I think it's only fair to let him have his full moment in the spotlight."
His request couldn't be ignored. Standing one white-clad figure against the tiers of blue-green, Quatre's authority here rivaled the instructor's, to say nothing of the great respect the other students had for his talents. "If that's what you want," Trowa said and dutifully stood.
The instructor nodded. "What do you suggest, Mr. Winner?"
"An allegro from Arne's Trio Sonata in B minor."
The instructor raised an eyebrow. "Interesting choice. But do you have the music, Mr. Bloom?"
"That's no problem," Quatre said for Trowa as he took his seat. "He should have it memorized."
He looked over at Trowa, who met his gaze. If his old friend resented being put on the spot, he didn't show it. His only reaction was slight curiosity at the piece Quatre had picked for him, and Quatre knew why. "Whenever you're ready," said the instructor.
Taking a slow breath, Trowa brought the flute to his lips and closed his eyes. He began to play, falling into a quick tempo as the melody rose and fell, his tone rich and natural as a songbird's, attacking the difficult trills with confidence and ease. Quatre watched him closely as he played, finding himself mesmerized by the movement of Trowa's lips and his steady fingers as he enjoyed the familiarity of the piece. They had played it together enough times before, the flute and violin echoing each other as their twin melodies danced up and down the scale together, entwined together, in a friendly competition of harmony.
Quatre couldn't help playing his own part in his head, remembering how it had felt to create the music together. And when Trowa brought the piece to a close, he was reluctant to let go of that feeling—until he heard the instructor's applause, and his classmates murmur their approval.
As Trowa sat, he exchanged a small smile with Quatre, looking for his approval perhaps, a trace of satisfaction in the way his green eyes now sparkled.
But then the instructor quipped, "Maybe you should be up here teaching the class, Mr. Bloom," and Quatre felt his own smile grow stale.
Their schedules were the same that whole morning. After music was physical education, and it was baseball season. The class was divided into two teams, white jerseys against blue, and Quatre and Trowa wound up on opposing sides. The middle school girls stopped to watch on their way back from the track, cheering the boys on and giggling amongst themselves, admiring their upperclassmen in baseball knickers. The chain link fence around the diamond rattled as they pressed close.
From his position behind home plate, Quatre was at an advantageous spot to hear them between plays. Now the blue jerseys already had one man on second—looking like he was tempted to steal—and one out. The pitch: fast and a little too high. But the batter swung anyway. The ball landed with a smack in Quatre's glove, and the coach called the third strike.
When the boy walked back to his teammates, Quatre took a moment to readjust his catcher's mask. As he did so, he saw Trowa standing next to the fence, exchanging a few words with two girls who stood apart from the rest. He recognized one as Utena Tenjou.
Quatre felt a pang of jealousy: Trowa had already made female acquaintances—outside their class, no less—in less than three days' time. He hardly heard those who congratulated his strikeout, but the good lucks those two wished Trowa reached his ears as clearly as if shouted through a megaphone.
"Hit it out of the park, Triton!" said the other girl with the short, bouncy ponytail as his old friend stepped up to the plate, and the cry was taken up by others, mingling with the boos and shouts for Quatre and the pitcher to strike him out.
The first pitch was another high fast ball—Trowa didn't even bother swinging. Quatre signaled to the pitcher to throw him a slider, which the other boy did remarkably well, so that it dropped out just as it passed over the plate.
But Trowa's bat connected with it squarely. It got under the ball, sent it soaring out toward right field. Trowa took off for first base, and the girls behind the fence cheered. It looked at first like it was going to be a home run, but the ball dropped and rolled into the corner, and the right fielder ran toward it. He was nowhere near as fast as Trowa.
"Come on, come on," Quatre muttered under his breath, urging on his teammate even as one run was made, but his eyes were watching Trowa as he rounded second, making a mental tally of all the ways in just one year he had changed.
Trowa paused at third to find the ball, and seeing the right fielder fumble as he picked it up, decided to try and beat it back home. Trowa came in standing up, the ball a full two seconds behind him, and there was a rare wide grin on his face as he wiped the dust out of his eye to see his teammates' ecstatic expressions. They whooped and patted him on the back as he joined them. It wasn't the first time they had acknowledged him that day, but it certainly seemed to cement Trowa in their favor.
After that, he was foremost in the girls' favor as well. Though they cheered when Quatre hit a line drive, they were even louder when Trowa caught it after one bounce and made a double play. And when he stole second after his next time at bat.
Quatre's teammates didn't mind—it was only class time they were spending—and even complimented Trowa on a game well played, both on their way off the field and into the locker room. They grilled him about the sports programs at St. Gabriels, what he played and which professional teams he favored.
Quatre allowed him plenty of room to enjoy his novelty. He didn't begrudge his old friend the attention; he had been in the same position enough times not to envy him that.
And yet he still felt jealous.
They were starting a new play in English and spent the first part of class choosing parts. Quatre scored the lead—not that there was anyone to oppose him. Juri made a half-hearted attempt but was content to play the brash young swordsman, which she had to admit was more suited to her character, while the role of the antagonist went to Trowa.
Relena and Dorothy were there as well. They hardly noticed the chilly silence that hovered between the two young men—not that Quatre was about to point it out to them—and insisted they all have lunch together. Just the four St. Gabriels transfer students. For old time's sake.
They met at a little round table on the cafeteria terrace, and Dorothy suggested Relena try reading their fortunes.
"You do Tarot?" Quatre asked her, showing more interest than perhaps he felt—anything to cover up the palpable tension between himself and Trowa, who felt a thousand miles away though he was sitting right there next to Quatre.
"Not really," Relena said. But she retrieved the cards from her bag as quickly as though they had been sitting on top in anticipation of Dorothy's suggestion. "But Milliardo bought them for me when he was in Venice, so I thought I should at least try to learn." By the backs of them alone they looked fairly pricey, with embossed gold and indigo diamonds. "Who should I read first?"
"Not me," Quatre said with a chuckle. "I'd rather not know what's in store for me, in case I ruin it."
Relena raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know you were superstitious."
"Never underestimate the power of suggestion."
"If you're nervous because she's an amateur, that's understandable," Dorothy said, and the other girl shot her a cross look. "Do Triton," she suggested, pretending she didn't notice.
Relena looked up at the young man in question. "Is that all right with you?"
Trowa looked a little surprised at first at being put on the spot, but nodded.
"Any particular question you want to have answered?" Relena asked as she shuffled the cards. "About grades? Or a girl, maybe?"
"I'd like to see what advice the cards give him for next week," Dorothy said before Trowa could answer for himself. But by his shrug, it was all the same to him.
Relena had him cut the deck, then she laid out three cards in a row, took a deep breath, and turned the one on the left over. On it, five youths mixed in a chaotic bout, but their weapons were harmless sticks. "Five of Wands, reversed."
"Ooohhh." Dorothy leaned forward in interest. "What does it mean?"
"No idea." With a shy laugh, Relena dug back into her bag, from which she eventually pulled a small handbook. "I haven't memorized them all yet. Let's see, Five of Wands. . . . This says it points to competition and conflict, or breaking away from something. Since it's reversed, maybe the conflict is more subconscious, like indecision, or resentment."
Quatre had been paying more attention to his lunch until then, but now he looked up. The card might have been Trowa's, but it seemed to hit so close to home it might as well have been meant for him. He cringed inside, dreading the inevitable question one of them would ask with ignorant carelessness: You resent someone, Triton?
Instead, Dorothy said: "This makes sense. Competition could mean joining the fencing club."
Beside her, Relena nodded. "Or it could be referring to his settling in here, if we're supposed to read it as a breaking away. With Triton here, that makes five of us from St. Gabriels. Well, if you count Heero. . . ."
Those weren't the interpretations Quatre would have made, however. He glanced over at his old friend, who watched the cards thoughtfully and distantly while he ate his salad, as though he were an observer of anyone else's fortune but his own. It hurt Quatre inside to think Trowa had come all this way just to resent him or treat him as an opponent—though on some level, Quatre couldn't help feeling that way himself, after what happened yesterday. It was easy to lose perspective on the fencing strip. And after the circumstances of their parting more than a year ago. . . .
He didn't notice as Relena flipped over the next card, the Page of Swords.
"Well, this is convenient. All the St. Gabriels students at one table."
Quatre started.
"President Touga," the girls said in unison, one with admiration unsuccessfully checked, the other icily. "To what do we owe the pleasure?" said Dorothy, not bothering to hide her distrust.
Touga returned the gesture with a debonair smile, but his attention was clearly with her friend. "Oh, are you reading someone's fortune?" he asked as he casually placed one hand on the back of Relena's chair.
"Trying to," Relena said.
"'Trying'? Am I interrupting?"
At his apologetic tone, however assumed it was, she blushed modestly. "No," she assured him. "I'm just not very good yet."
Touga smiled gently, but Quatre had seen that look enough times to know there was more to it than met the eye. It was that smile that, when Touga met your gaze, said he knew something he wasn't supposed to—said you were being too transparent, putting your own secrets out there free for the taking, but they would be safe with him if you played along. He lowered his voice. "I wonder if your cards say anything about you having lunch with me tomorrow. Say . . . noon-ish?"
On the other side of her, Dorothy rolled her eyes. "She can't," she told him. "We're studying for a French exam tomorrow."
Touga shot her an amused look. "Miss Peacecraft can speak for herself."
"Sorry." Relena had been peeking at the next card in the deck, and she grinned when she recognized it and held it up in front of her face. The Hanged Man: delay. "Like Dorothy says, I already have plans."
After a moment, Touga chuckled and backed off, never one to take rejection poorly. "Fair enough," he said with a sigh. "Maybe next week then." He turned slightly as if to go.
Before he could, however, he added, ever so matter-of-factly: "Oh, and, Quatre, don't forget we have a council meeting today at four."
Quatre looked down at his lunch. He no longer felt hungry. "Right."
When their upperclassman had left and was out of earshot, Dorothy snorted. "Well, you can give him credit for one thing. He doesn't waste time getting to the point."
Beside her, Relena smiled to herself. "I think he's nice."
Dorothy looked hurt. "Don't tell me you actually believe that act." When Relena coyly turned back to her Tarot manual, her friend laughed in disbelief. "Come on, Relena! That crocodile? You told me you only went in for serious boys like Heero."
"And I thought you had a crush on Juri Arisugawa," Relena said with a knowing sideways glance over the top of the book. "Why, Dorothy Catalonia, I do believe you're jealous."
"Am not," Dorothy professed, but it was apparent there wasn't much truth behind it. "I'm just looking out for my friend's best interests. Nothing wrong with that, is there?"
"Oh, no, nothing at all."
While the two girls were busy teasing each other—and trying unsuccessfully to resume their reading—Quatre glanced over at Trowa. The way he had turned back to his lunch, it was as though he was the only one at the table. This was the first time they'd had to talk in more than a year, just the two of them, and he had nothing to say?
"Why have you been ignoring me all day?" Quatre mumbled into the hand on which he was leaning his chin.
"I haven't been ignoring you," came the nonchalant response. Trowa took another bite. "Besides, you haven't exactly been Mr. Congeniality yourself. Putting me on the spot in music—"
"You seemed to like that."
His biting tone wasn't lost on Trowa. "I did. But then you avoided me completely in second period."
"Did I?" Quatre said, not without a touch of reactionary sarcasm. "I'm surprised you noticed with so many people vying for your attention."
Trowa looked up briefly. "Are you jealous?"
Once again Quatre was forced to consider the question that had been weighing so heavily on his mind since their bout the day before. "Of course not," he said, then amended to himself, not of that.
Trowa pushed the greens around on his plate rather than look at his friend when he said, "Or maybe you're still sore that I beat you on the strip yesterday."
Quatre opened his mouth to deny it, a knee-jerk reaction, but something made him stop. "Maybe I am," he said. It was difficult, but he forced himself to admit the truth. If he did, then maybe Trowa would open up to him, and they could go back to how things were before, pick up where they left off. Maybe they could pretend the last year hadn't happened. Quatre sighed. "You're right. I'm sore that you beat me. But can you blame me, after being stuck in a rut for so long? I just got so used to winning, is all. I . . . I can get used to this too."
He winced. Looking down, Trowa stabbed a tomato wedge with his fork. Quatre knew he wasn't fooling either of them.
"Hey," he said louder. "I'm sorry. Are you happy now?"
Trowa stopped, and Quatre held his breath. Those olive green eyes blinked slowly a couple times as he thought it over.
"No," he decided at last.
At least he was honest.
"What more do you want from me, Trowa?"
Across the table, Dorothy looked up. "Why do you keep calling him Trowa?"
Relena leaned her chin on one hand. "You know, that actually sounds more like what I remember."
"Of course, it does," Quatre said, only vaguely aware he was raising his voice. "Because it's his name!"
"Then why'd he tell us it was Triton?"
"Maybe 'Trowa' is short for Triton," Relena suggested, and Dorothy shrugged, though neither of them quite seemed to buy it.
"It isn't short for anything! He lied to you. Trowa," Quatre tried, turning to his old friend, but it was like talking to a brick wall the way he just calmly continued to eat his lunch. "What's the big idea, telling everyone you're this . . . this Triton Bloom guy, who you probably made up? I don't understand. Why is it so hard to just tell them your real name? You're a Barton, for Christ's sake!"
From some well of spite buried deep within himself, he heard himself add: "Aren't you?"
"Quatre."
He stopped. Trowa met his eyes then, but it was impossible to read any emotion behind his stare, or in his voice when he said simply: "You're making a scene."
It was only partly true. Aside from the two girls across the table, some of the nearby students had turned to see what the fuss was about.
But it was enough to make Quatre fall silent out of self-conscious shame, nor did he know how to respond now even if a part of him felt obligated to. He felt the blood rush to his face as he turned back to his lunch, trying to muster up what was left of his appetite. He forced himself to chew and swallow the cold noodles he placed in his mouth. Relena began uncertainly, "Is everything al—"
"Forget it, it's not important." Trowa waved it off, leaning forward and finally taking an interest in his own fortune. "What's this last card?"
"Oh, right." Clearing her throat, Relena turned over the final card.
The image of Gabriel descending from Heaven, blowing his horn for the souls of the deceased: Judgment. It startled Trowa when he recognized it, and in some roundabout way satisfied him as well, but none of the others seemed to notice.
"Mm, this is interesting," Relena said.
"Interesting-bad," Dorothy asked, glancing over, "or interesting-good?"
Relena's answer, however, was cut off by the loud scrape of chair legs on the tile as Quatre suddenly stood.
The three glanced up at him with surprised looks on their faces, but he didn't care. He couldn't stand it anymore, this distance that remained between him and Trowa in every little gesture, every careful word—this distance Quatre so badly wanted to get rid of. Did no one else see it?
As he looked at his hands, his fingertips white as they pressed against the tabletop, he was aware of the hush that had spread to the tables around them, the eyes that must have been trained on his back. "What's the matter?" Trowa asked him cautiously, just low enough for the two of them to hear, and—it seemed to Quatre—with an intimacy he hadn't heard in more than a year. An intimacy that, after the way he'd left, he was sure he'd never hear again.
An intimacy that was a day too late.
"I want a rematch," Quatre said.
Trowa's expression darkened. "I thought you said you were fine with me winning."
"Damn it, that's not what I said—" But Quatre stopped himself, determined not to make this into a decision of passion—even though that was exactly what it was. "Prove to me your win wasn't a fluke," he started again, his tone even, reasonable. "After class today, in the gym."
With a slightly amused smile, Trowa stood. He had to have known how condescending that look was. "Are you challenging me to duel, Quatre?"
"I am. Do you accept?"
Across the table, their two classmates stared at them, lost and more than a little worried, the cards and food in front of them momentarily forgotten. How men could switch from friend to foe so spontaneously was beyond them.
So many students crowded against the wall of the gym as to block the light streaming through the windows—high school boys and middle school girls, brought by gossip and curiosity, but above all the promise of a good fight. Utena even found herself caught up in the excitement. Knowing one of the boys was Triton, she was curious to see if he was as good as rumor made him out to be.
On the other hand, half her grade had a crush on Quatre, if only for superficial reasons, and it seemed Wakaba was no exception, her undying love for Utena aside. The gossip drifted around them as they pressed in to catch a glimpse.
"Did you hear? Did you hear? The new student and Quatre go way back."
"But did you see what happened at lunch? I've never seen Quatre so serious about something like that."
"Well, it's nothing new for friends to turn into enemies. Unless, of course, they weren't just friends. If you believe the rumors. . . ."
"Don't tell me you do! Last I heard Quatre has three girlfriends, all in different grades, and the new student is said to be very close with his sister—well, half-sister—if you know what I mean."
"So who do you want to win?"
"Are you kidding? I can't choose between them!"
They took their places on the fencing strip and saluted in silence. There were no friendly well-wishes this time; those words would have been empty and pointless. Quatre felt no remaining sympathy toward his dear old friend. He was here to win. He had no other goal in mind.
He glanced over at the sidelines, where Relena stood tense next to Dorothy.
"Isn't it wonderful?" the latter said in a dreamy voice. "Old teammates, reunited at last, settling their quarrels with a duel. Blood for blood, eye for eye. And they said chivalry was dead. It's rather romantic, don't you think?"
"I think it's absurd," Relena countered. "I don't see why they couldn't just talk it out." She crossed her arms, unsure whether she was more unimpressed or concerned for her two friends. "Honestly, men just don't make any sense sometimes."
Dorothy's eyes sparkled with excitement, however, as did those of the boys from their class as they rallied behind Trowa. He whipped his épée back to his side with unnecessary flourish to amuse them. Quatre couldn't help thinking they were backing the wrong side. But they would see, soon enough. The fight would bring out their beloved Triton Bloom's true colors.
Assuming the on guard position, Quatre smiled to himself. If it was a show Trowa wanted, that's what Quatre would give him.
Miki, their acting referee, gave them the okay to engage with a nod, stopwatch ready in his hand. It had begun.
Quatre attacked first with quick, short steps. Trowa parried, but as Quatre had guessed he might, he still moved his arms more then necessary, and especially too much for this kind of duel. Quatre hit Trowa's sword arm even as Trowa was thrusting for his chest.
"You've picked up some of Nichol's bad habits," Quatre remarked. "Don't forget where you are."
Trowa shook his head, chastising himself as he moved back into position.
It was warm in the gym—a hot day to begin with, and the closely packed bodies only made it stifling inside. Quatre already felt the sweat trickling down along his hairline, tickling his skin. If his head weren't a target, he would have liked to fight without the mask. He was determined to see this through to its natural end, however, and that end would be his victory.
He beckoned for Trowa to attack him, which he did obligingly, this time with more control. They went back and forth, Trowa successfully keeping the tip of Quatre's weapon away from his body but not attempting any hits himself. Through the mesh of his mask, Quatre might have noticed Trowa's darting eyes studying him, if he wasn't so busy concentrating on the trajectory of his old friend's sword point. He wondered why Trowa hadn't scored a touch when he had had plenty of opportunities.
Then, out of the blue, he made to lunge. Quatre saw an opening and went for it, landing a touch on Trowa's bent knee. With a slight sigh of relief Quatre thanked his quick reflexes: If he had been a half-second later the point would have gone to Trowa. The button of the other épée grazed his jacket just over his breast, halted when the first touch had been made.
Quatre had to find some humor in the significance of it. His opponent was going for what would have been the mortal wounds if they had been using real weapons. But it would do Trowa no good: They were the more difficult touches to make, and pointless when the scoring area was Quatre's entire body. "You're wasting your time."
Trowa just shrugged.
Quatre rolled his eyes. He knew when he was being toyed with. "You always were a showoff."
"And you were always a smartass," Trowa parried. With a cocky tug on his glove, he switched the épée to his left hand. "That's one thing I always liked about you. But don't get me wrong. I despised it too."
When he got back into a ready position that way, instead of taking the sword once more in his right, Quatre held back, confused. "What are you—"
"Another thing I've picked up from Nichol," Trowa explained. "While you were gone, I learned how to fence fairly well with my left hand. Not as well as my right, I suppose, but that should cancel out any advantage the position would naturally give me."
"You're serious?" Quatre asked with a chuckle. While a part of him wondered with trepidation what Trowa had in mind, the other saw it as a sure win. When, with a cautious glance at Miki, Trowa asked if he had any objections, Quatre told him he had none at all.
They engaged once again. Immediately Quatre noticed a difference. Trowa held his arm straighter, but whether out of skill or awkwardness he couldn't say. He had gone up against south-paws before and hated the way their inside line tended to disappear just when he went for it, like water receding before Tantalus. He was thankful on some level that Trowa had waited until they could bout with the épée before he pulled this stunt.
Trowa scored his first touch. It had taken seven seconds according to Miki's count. Quatre frowned. This fight was starting to resemble the last one. But he refused to let the outcome be the same.
"Why does it bother you so much?" Trowa asked him at one point, grunting slightly with the effort of the fight. "That I beat you, I mean. I thought you would be happy that I finally got us out of a rut." He was trying to incite Quatre—even with that sad, apologetic tone of voice—Quatre knew that much. Trying to rile him in front of the crowd, humiliate him, make him resort to threats and insults just as he had criticized Juri for doing in the past. "But then, my win isn't really what upset you, is it? There's something else."
Quatre counterattacked. A sudden flash of anger made him put more energy into the move than he knew was necessary. "You can't come here like this, expecting you can just pick up where you left off," he said. He kept his voice calm. "As though no time has gone by at all."
He thought he saw Trowa smirk through the mask, but his features were just dark blurs behind the mesh.
"But it has. A whole year's gone by, Trowa. The situation's changed. Understand that."
A sharp squeak of shoes on hardwood floor as he forced Trowa back.
"I still haven't forgiven you for not coming that day, when you knew how much it meant to me—when you promised me—"
The point of Trowa's épée hit Quatre's mask solidly, right between the eyes, silencing him.
"When I promised?" Trowa's arm and body were rigid. Quatre could feel his green-eyed gaze boring into him, dissecting him. "I'm the one who should be trying to forgive. Need I remind you: I'm the one who was abandoned by my best friend."
Quatre's jaw clenched painfully, as though his subconscious was afraid incriminating words would force themselves from him at the slightest provocation. Lies that would only worsen the guilt he already felt inside. Truths that would make him look like a fool.
"Why bring that up now?" Quatre hissed between his teeth, too softly for the other to hear him. Wasn't it obvious to Trowa, who had always seemed to know his heart before, that Quatre was in agony? Why open the wound further? Though perhaps, a voice inside whispered, that was the intent. A malicious intent. A tit for tat.
Revenge. The idea angered Quatre more than anything, but he tried to suppress it even as he felt it battling its way to the surface. He didn't need an old argument distracting him from achieving victory.
Although, if Quatre were honest, he didn't want to discuss that old injury at all. He wanted it to go away.
He attacked Trowa's sword arm, slipping his blade under the other. But just as he did so, Trowa brought his sword down on top of it. He slid his blade along Quatre's, forcing them both out of line and far inside as he pushed forward. The students standing closest to the strip stepped back out of the way on instinct.
The move even took Quatre by surprise. Their blades crossed just above the handguards out to his left, their arms crossed awkwardly over their chests. And though Trowa stood just far enough away to avoid bodily contact, there was a menace to his proximity that was as powerful in keeping Quatre where he was as the pressure on top of his sword.
"What's the real reason you wanted to come here?" Trowa asked, his voice so low none of the bystanders would hear it clearly. "It couldn't have been just for the education. I know you always loved a challenge, but you were never that serious about your studies."
"What would you know," Quatre countered, "about my seriousness? You never took any interest in what I thought was important."
"And what about what I thought was important?"
At this distance Quatre could smell him, and count each hard breath. There was a certain cruelty to this closeness that Quatre resented, that mocked his feelings. It made him doubt his control, and he hated that. If he had looked to the sidelines, broken eye contact, he would have been able to appeal to Miki to put an end to the humiliation. A fellow member of the student council, he would have called Trowa's foul in a heartbeat—if he were only given the sign. But, like all the other bystanders, Miki couldn't turn away. A strangely scientific reluctance to do anything that might affect the bout's natural outcome prevented him from speaking up himself.
If he only had the desire, Quatre could have stopped this unfair duel right here and now and no one would have accused him of cowardice.
However, Trowa had stepped over the line. That couldn't be ignored. "Why won't you tell me the truth?" he murmured. "There's something you're keeping back. Are you ashamed you wanted prestige so badly you were willing to sacrifice our friendship for it? Or maybe . . ."
Trowa's tone took a sarcastic turn.
"Maybe it was me you were running from."
"Not everything's about you!"
Quatre shoved himself away. He knew it was forbidden, but the rules didn't seem to have any weight anymore. Shoulder pushing off shoulder, they stumbled away from each other. The crowd's gasp urged them not to trip and fall.
Quatre was first to regain his footing, and as he moved back he brought his épée in line and jabbed. The button scraped the top of Trowa's unprotected sword hand, which he had brought up in front of himself for balance. Though blunt, it cut through the skin as it slid off.
Trowa winced, but other than that offered no complaint as he prepared himself once again. That wound, shallow and slow to bleed, was insignificant next to the one he had suffered inside, and would never show, at Quatre's outburst. It echoed off the surfaces of the gym, off the staring faces—an uncharacteristic vehemence imbuing the words with wounding power. Diplomacy—however halfhearted the attempt—had clearly failed, honor given way. For both sides, it was now a matter of blood.
It was war.
They fought without hesitation. Anger made them quick and less accurate. Both were determined not to lose and guarded themselves closely, each driven by the desire to see his opponent's defeat, and it was no doubt because of this that they managed not to be touched themselves for so long. The clash of metal rang painfully in Quatre's ear, blurring together with his own heartbeat and evasive footsteps. He no longer noticed the heat or the apprehensive faces around them. He felt his emotions rise unchecked within him—the jealousy from earlier that day had bloomed into contempt, into blame, into righteous hate—and it felt good. Free. He no longer cared about their irrationality. He no longer cared if they took the reins from him. He channeled those deadly emotions into his sword as he thrust.
Foibles grazed one another. Trowa leaned toward him as well. Was he going to parry, to attempt a cross?
But . . . no.
The button dug into Quatre's shoulder just as the impact of his own weapon jerked him to a stop. It had hit Trowa in the side. Their violent momentum made the practice swords arch dangerously as they continued to close the distance, protesting their urge to run one another through.
Quatre didn't see the shock on the faces around them, but he heard the collective gasp. It jarred him back to reality, an admonishing sound, a sound of disgust: How could they treat each other so violently? Didn't they know the rules? Weren't they friends? Quatre's cheeks burned with the shame he felt at giving in to his emotions in front of all these witnesses—and not being able to take them to some conclusion more definite than this.
It had been a double touch. Neither of them would refute that. It took only a second for Quatre to recount their scores, and when he did the result angered him even more. It made him increase the pressure on his blade even though it hurt him to do so.
He winced. This wasn't how it was supposed to end.
It was a tie. There was no winner.
All that, and the bout had proved nothing.
"Stop it! Stop this instant!"
Strong arms pushed Quatre away. Unprepared, he stumbled for a second as the pressure on his sword was released. This he realized only reluctantly.
Trowa, on the other hand, like a lion defending his kill, instinctively turned on the newcomer. A sharp clang startled him and he saw his attacker was not Quatre after all but Juri.
His eyes went wide. His épée had come within an inch of her unprotected chest when she batted it away with her own. Ashamed, Trowa backed away. He gasped for air as he tugged off his mask, as though it had been suffocating him and he only now realized his desperation to breathe.
Quatre took off his own, his hand, his whole body shaking as he did so. His cheeks were hot with anger and embarrassment as he looked at his feet. He avoided looking at the bystanders, afraid of what he might see there. Even the admiration he knew to expect from some disgusted him. He expected the punishment to come, like the swift fall of an axe. He was not to be disappointed.
"What the hell do you two think you're doing?" Juri said, turning to him. "Trying to kill each other?"
Her voice carried clearer than an orator's in the gym. It was only right. This was her kingdom, after all, and they had disgraced it in her absence. The unadulterated anger in her voice shook Quatre's into submission, and guilt reared its head within him once again.
"What's gotten into you? You know you shouldn't be staging any duels without consulting your captain! You know Ohtori is specific about that! And taking your private squabbles public, disgracing yourself and this school—and for what? Someone could have been seriously hurt, and then what would you have done?"
It struck them that she wasn't talking about just the two of them when Miki told her, "I had everything under control—"
"Obviously you didn't!" Juri snapped, but her wrath remained focused on the two tenth-graders. "Do you realize how many rules you've just broken? I hope you two are satisfied, because you could both be suspended if I have anything to do with it."
An uncomfortable silence descended the moment her words died away, not even a cough or a shift from a bystander to keep them from sinking in. In his peripheral vision, Quatre saw Dorothy and Relena glancing between the two of them. How disappointed they must have been with their old schoolmates.
Trowa's eyes were downcast, his face dark with shame. He hardly noticed when someone suddenly exclaimed, "Triton, you're bleeding!" A few girls rushed forward then to offer their handkerchiefs, grabbing his limp hand. And then—as if a gate had been lifted—the crowd erupted into chatter again.
Juri's eyes widened momentarily when she saw Trowa's injury, and Quatre feared the look she would give him when she turned. It loomed in his mind like the fall of a whip. He kept his gaze down to avoid the sting when she told him curtly, "Get dressed. Touga wants to see us in fifteen minutes."
Quatre could only find the courage to reply with a slight nod.
When she had passed, he looked up at Trowa, who was now the center of attention. What Quatre would have given to know what was going on inside his mind, but he found he could read nothing in those cold, olive-green eyes.
The next day passed uneventfully. The grounds were quiet and Trowa hadn't heard a word from Quatre—nor had he realistically expected to.
Trowa had been practicing alone in the gym. It was eerily peaceful when there was no one else around, like some other planet of which he was the sole inhabitant. He was bent over one of the fountains outside when Juri approached him.
He hardly heard her footsteps over the rush of water from the gooseneck faucet, too lost in thought to see much beyond the drops that fell from his face and hair, disappearing down the drain. It was only when she said, "I've been meaning to talk to you, but I didn't expect to catch you here," that he looked up. "Are you all right?" Her voice was gentle, not at all like it had been when she had stepped between them on the strip.
He turned off the water, wiped his face with his sleeve. "Yeah," he said simply. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Gee, I don't know. You and Quatre were only trying to run each other through yesterday. I really don't get you two. And your disregard for the rules. . . ." Juri sighed, remembering how she had given them the same speech the day before. Shifted back down a gear. "How's your hand?"
"It doesn't hurt," Trowa said. He hadn't bothered to bandage it again after it had stopped bleeding. "Am I banned from the club? I did attack its captain."
Juri thought it over for a moment. "Not banned," she decided, "but you might have been if anyone had been hurt. You look as though you've reprimanded yourself enough already, though, no need for any official discipline. As it is, I find myself feeling kindly toward you for what you did, on principle." She shrugged. "Quatre told me the duel was all his idea."
"I'm equally responsible for accepting his challenge, and allowing it to get out of hand," Trowa said.
Whether that was what she wanted to hear or not, she smiled. "Perhaps," she said.
"And this . . . kindness. . . . You feel that way toward Quatre as well?"
"There is a mutual respect between us," Juri said coldly. "We've agreed to disagree. I could have him punished, I suppose—the student council has already given him a slap on the wrist—but, to be honest, it's enough of a treat to see him make a hypocrite of himself. That's why I can't be too angry with you two: From my standpoint, it was worth it to see someone take him down a peg."
Trowa smiled. There was something in the way Juri organized her feelings on the matter, so analytically, the way she made the two of them out to be pawns in a game for her own enjoyment that he found himself drawn to. "But don't let it happen again," she added quickly when she saw his look.
"It won't happen again," he echoed.
She gave him a curious look. He thought at first prompted by his cheeky manner, until she said, "Why did you ask about me and Quatre?" She cocked her head. "You seem to know him very well."
"It's a hobby of mine, trying to figure people out."
Juri didn't believe him for a second. "You know him remarkably well. The way you looked at each other—casual friends can't . . . read each other like that. What exactly is your relationship again?" At his raised eyebrow she elaborated, "I've heard the rumors."
"We were best friends," Trowa said. "That's all you need to know." But he saw the questions his response raised on her face. Why the past tense? What happened? Questions he was, on some level, afraid to hear asked out loud. "You're not going to practice today?" he asked to change the subject.
"I was just on my way back to the dorm," she said. Both pretended that was the truth.
"I'll walk you there," he offered.
Juri didn't refuse, and as they walked she asked Trowa about his old fencing club. He was glad for a chance to reminisce—and he avoided discussing his and Quatre's parts in it as much as possible. He told her about Nichol and his methods, instead, the competitions his school had entered, and even sneaked in a good word or two for Dorothy. Her gaze followed the movement of their tall shadows on the pavement as he talked.
When they reached the long fountain that acted as a crossroads between the dorms, Trowa hesitated to pass it so soon. What had been weighing on his mind since lunch the day before could no longer be ignored, not while he still had a chance to address it. Juri stopped as well, waiting for him to speak.
"Actually, I had been meaning to talk to you, too," Trowa said. "I was hoping you could explain something to me. . . ." He fished around in his pocket. "Namely, what am I supposed to do with this?"
He held something out to her that glinted red in the evening light. It took Juri a moment to realize what it was, that it was a pink rose that produced the color. A rose identical to the one that rested on her ring finger. "Where did you get that?" She reached out for it, thinking he would allow her to examine it more closely.
But he pulled it away. She looked up and saw his dark eyes searching her apprehensively, studying her reaction. He was proceeding with caution—and wisely, she noted with some humor, in a school like this. "Where did you get yours?" Trowa countered, and when she said nothing added: "I noticed you had one just like it—and so does the student council president. And Quatre. I didn't feel comfortable asking them, though."
Juri smirked. "You feel comfortable asking me?"
"Not really," he admitted. "But I would like to know what this is, and I'm guessing you have less of a reason to lie to me."
She was quiet for a moment as she sat down at the edge of the fountain and closed her eyes, deciding what and whether to tell him. When she opened them again, they seemed to stare into thin air—into the distant past—and when she spoke her tone was full of a quiet reverence, allowing Trowa a glimpse of a facet of her personality he hadn't seen.
"As the story goes," Juri said, "once a man, traveling far from home, was persuaded by his friend to try his luck against the best fencers in France. Just before his first bout, a woman whose beauty was well known approached and gave him a little bouquet of roses. Everyone else wanted such an honor for himself. So the man pinned the bouquet to his chest then and there and said, 'This I will protect against all opposers!' And that day he crossed blades with many able opponents, all of whom tried to take his prize from him. But the bouquet survived completely intact. Not one leaf, not one petal, was harmed."
She blinked and looked over at Trowa. "That's what we do," she said, "we who were chosen to bear the Rose Seal. The ring designates you as qualified to participate in the duels, and when your time comes you wear your own rose on your breast into battle—to protect against all opponents."
"I don't understand."
"These rings," Juri said, slower and clearer to drive the point home, "are the marks of those who were chosen to be duelists." As Trowa sat down beside her, she raised her left hand to show off her own, twisting it with her thumb so the silver band began to shimmer. "They were given to us by End of the World. Their gifts, if you will, to each member of the student council. And a few select outsiders. . . ."
Such as himself, Trowa thought, thinking back to the letter with no signature. But that still didn't explain why he had received one. As she trailed off, he asked, "What's End of the World?"
Juri smiled to herself at that. He perceived a note of sadness as she repeated that roadblock of a phrase: "That's a mystery."
"No one knows?"
"They—or he, or whatever End of the World is—they set the rules and times for the duels. We simply follow the orders that come down to us. That's all we need to know." She leaned back a little, sighing. "If you win, the Rose Bride becomes yours and so does everything that comes with her, maybe even the power to revolutionize the world.
"Don't get your hopes up; it's probably no more than a metaphor. But there is something great hidden within this school, something that takes a special kind of person—a noble person—to unlock. Even then, though, you may only catch a glimpse of that thing you're searching for. If you're lucky."
She had tried to maintain a professional distance from the details as she told him this, but there was an underlying wistfulness, a very personal passion slipping through. It continued to fascinate him, the slow unveiling of different layers of her personality she tried so hard to repress.
"I still don't understand," Trowa said. Right then, she might as well have been speaking in tongues.
Juri nodded. "You will eventually, if you ever get the chance to see it for yourself. I've probably said too much already without first consulting the president.
"In any case," she told him, "you should wear the ring. It's an honorable distinction. Don't keep it hidden in your pocket. —No, on your left," she added when he started to put it on his right hand.
Like I'm engaged, Trowa thought with a nebulous feeling of dread. But excitement also. Slipping it onto his finger, he admired the ring for a moment. The way it only seemed more brilliant when worn, seemed to shine, as though it was incomplete without a living finger to wrap itself around. It was heavy too. Trowa had felt like this once before, this exciting novelty, he remembered, when he was in love.
"I owe you one," he said to Juri. "If it weren't for your feelings of kindness toward me I might never have known that. Perhaps you and I could have a bout tomorrow after class and I could learn more." He expected either the prospect or the underlying insolence in his tone would amuse her.
She did not respond. Instead he noticed she was staring at him with a queer, distant look in her deep eyes. "What?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Nothing. You just remind me of someone is all. Someone I once—"
But then she caught herself.
"Someone you once . . . what?" Trowa asked, leaning closer. He lowered his voice. "Loved?" He admired the way she guarded herself so closely. Getting to know the real Juri was a game of chess, a challenge of conquests and sacrifices. Perhaps it was his youth, but on an intellectual level, it aroused feelings akin to desire, this uncertainty whether or not he was moving in the right direction. He saw the tug-of-war in her eyes, caught between her wariness and some lingering fondness for things past.
The former won out quickly, however, and she told him: "It's really none of your business, is it?"
If her response had meant to put distance between them, it failed. Trowa chuckled.
Beside him, Juri scoffed. "I didn't think you knew how to laugh," she said. Despite the coolness of her comment, when Trowa looked back at her she was smiling. A sign of approval.
"You're right," he said, relaxing, tilting his head back. "It is none of my business."
He wondered briefly about those rumors around him and Quatre she had mentioned, was curious to know what more had been said about him than he had been allowed to hear. Could he trust her, a stranger in this strange place and hardly a sturdy rock to lean on? Would she still look at him the same way, still approve of his impudent manner, if she knew what he was really like?
Meanwhile she murmured something about Trowa being full of surprises and his inquisitiveness coming back to haunt him—he wasn't really paying attention to the words. He liked the sound of her voice. It reminded him of the virgin goddesses in their Latin stories, who were masculine in their virtues and seductive in their inaccessibility. The thick, heavy curls that framed her face seemed like burnished gold against ivory in the twilight. He could see why Dorothy was so attracted. Juri Arisugawa was something to be worshipped.
Trowa reached up and brushed one of the locks away from her face, never mind that it just bounced back into place. Juri went still under his touch, just as he expected she might. He was trespassing, after all. That never ended well in the myths. Trowa's pulse quickened at the thought. His hand dropped to Juri's shoulder, caressed and then gripped her arm—
And he kissed her.
Chapter notes: Regarding tarot, some interpretations for Page of Swords are communications (news, gossip, letters, etc.); being able to or having a fondness for figuring people out, especially where strengths and weaknesses are concerned; trickery; or new experiences.
The biggest difference between foil and épée fencing is that the latter has an unlimited target area.
The story Juri tells is from one about Domenico Angelo, who is the man credited with turning fencing into a sport.