In the student council's private rose garden, the air was humid and heavy with the perfume of dozens of different kinds of roses mingling together. It wasn't that Quatre hated the smell, however overpowering it was, but it always struck him as a biting scent, the scent of something old and powerful. Something eternal, despite the ephemerality of the blossoms themselves.

He didn't care enough to try to discern the different breeds, but he had to admit there was something about those peculiar blue-dusted white roses Anthy Himemiya loved so much that stood apart. Something softer. Disarming. Unnerving. Something not of this world. That was Ohtori's magic spell. That was what no one could resist.

It was what made resisting so difficult for him.

She stood with her back to him, trimming the wilting, pink-tipped yellow blossoms from one plant. If there was any one thing about her that stood out in Quatre's mind, it was her predictability. It was an endearing quality that at the same time made him feel sorry for her, trapped in this world of hers like a bird in a cage. . . .

No, this was not his problem. He tried to push those feelings of sentimentality from his mind when he went to confront her. It would be enough of a struggle to say what he needed to say without distractions like that. She's just an ordinary girl, he told himself; she needs neither winning nor rescuing.

"Excuse me, Himemiya," he began.

She turned to him, a serene smile on her lips and in her green eyes. "Upperclassman Winner," she said cordially and went back to her trimming, turning herself towards him as she worked so as not to seem rude—though there was nothing Himemiya could do to seem so. "What do you think of this Gold Medal?" she said, cupping one of the blossoms in her hand so he could see it better. "It's a striking color, isn't it?"

"Uh, yes," Quatre stammered. It never ceased to fascinate him how this shy girl could draw him into any subject. Or destroy his momentum.

"I have a Quatre Saisons in here also. 'Four Seasons.' I thought you might find that amusing. Do you know it first grew at the shrine of Aphrodite on Samos, three thousand years ago? Too bad this little one hasn't been feeling well lately. Must be a reaction to this heat." She contemplated the golden flowers for a moment in silence, so that it startled him a little when she said nonchalantly, "President Touga's not here, if that's who you were looking for."

"Actually," Quatre said with caution, "I came to see you."

She stopped clipping, though her eyes remained focused on the roses.

"About the duel this Friday."

When he said nothing else, she looked up and met his eyes. "Yes?" Her movements were so graceful, her manner so unaffectedly pleasant that it was easy to see why she was so precious to the school and its students. It made Quatre feel guilty to be left alone with her in the little forest of potted roses. Even though, on some level he would not have been able to explain, he felt he had more to worry about from Himemiya than the other way around.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to make an official challenge to Miss Utena soon?" The regret, barely perceptible in her voice, jolted him back to the decision that had started to slip from him the moment he set foot in the greenhouse.

Now he was able to reply with conviction: "No. It's not that at all. I thought you might like to know that I refused the invitation."

Himemiya's smile dropped. She truly had not expected his answer.

"Refused?" she asked, as though the word was foreign to her. "I don't understand. You still have the seal?"

Quatre showed her his hand, briefly. The ring still on it. "Touga said I should keep it, since it was a gift."

"Then . . . But it's impossible that anyone would refuse. That is, why would anyone want to be a member of the student council if not for a chance to revolutionize the world? If . . . If not for the Rose Bride . . .?"

He did feel sorry for her.

It had been typical of Trowa these last few days to glance at the rose garden as he walked by on his way to and from classes. It continued to hold a certain mystery for him, that little piece of Eden under glass, and he couldn't help but wonder why its visitors were restricted to members of the student council. His character rebelled against the elitism that kept him from finding out. He would always see that dark-complexioned girl in there, the one who had spoken to him in passing last Friday afternoon, watering and trimming the roses that filled the little greenhouse like a jungle.

Today what he saw stopped him in his tracks. Today she wasn't alone.

Quatre stood beside her, leaning against a worktable as he spoke to her, hands in his pockets in an otherwise casual gesture that belied his anxiety. Trowa watched his lips move, lips he had watched a thousand times before, studied even, but he couldn't understand a word of what passed between them. Quatre was wearing his usual easy smile, but his eyes, the slant of his eyebrows, seemed solemn and serious. His gaze affectionate. The girl returned it, if with some hesitation, and Trowa found that old pang of jealousy ringing inside him again. Only this time its meaning wasn't so clear-cut.

Something moved out of the corner of his eye. A familiar voice said, "Oh, it's you."

He looked over to see Wakaba coming to join him at the window. She seemed disappointed to see him, and explained: "You almost looked like Utena, just now, standing here. —I mean, just that expression! Not that you look that much like her from behind—I-I mean, not that I was studying you from behind or anything!"

At Wakaba's furious blush, he smiled.

Suddenly her eyes grew wide. "Triton," she exclaimed, "I'm so sorry! I heard what happened between you and Juri."

Trowa touched his cheek automatically, feeling the remaining tenderness of a fading bruise, no doubt the focus of her attention. In this school, no detail in your appearance went unnoticed, not least if you happened to be a mysterious and attractive newcomer. "Why are you sorry?"

"Because I should have warned you about her!" Wakaba put her hands on her hips, giving him a chastising glare. "Some students call her the Prince, or the Beautiful Leopard—but I guess you hadn't heard about that beforehand. Anyway, you have to be careful around Juri. Even the staff keeps their distance. You can't just waltz up and start putting the moves on her like she was any other girl, no sir, 'cause there'll be consequences to face, my friend!"

He resisted the urge to grin at her lecture. "Consequences, huh?"

"Damn right!" Wakaba nodded. "You may not think I'm serious, but I am. Totally. Don't mess around with Juri. Any more, I mean."

"Well, I think I learned my lesson," Trowa said, and turned his gaze back to the greenhouse.

Wakaba mumbled something about how she should have told him sooner—"Mother always said I'm too little too late"—as Quatre looked down at his left hand below them. Trowa watched as he began to pry the rose seal from his own finger. Beside him, the dark girl's eyes widened with . . . what was it? Fear? Contrition? Gentleness, at least. She caught Quatre's hand, and her mouth moved as she seemed to plead with him. Quatre was still as he listened, then reluctantly slid the ring back into place. Just what had transpired between them, Trowa had no idea, and that bothered him.

"What are you looking at?" Wakaba asked, leaning over. When she saw, she grumbled, "Oh. Déjà vu."

He glanced at her inquisitively.

"Don't get me wrong," she said. "Himemiya's actually a pretty nice girl once you get to know her."

"Himemiya."

"Anthy Himemiya." Wakaba sighed. "Yep, she's a conundrum, all right. She can be all sweetness and light to your face, but then you can always tell she's hiding something. I don't get it, but everyone here either loves her or loves to hate her. It seems Quatre's hooked anyway." Then she started. "Don't tell me you too—"

"Why?" he asked nonchalantly. "If I was, you wouldn't be jealous. Would you?"

"Well, I . . . No. . . . But . . ."

Wakaba tripped over her words, but when she saw Trowa break into a shy smile and realized he was only giving her a bad time—he had a strange sense of humor, this new guy—she turned her back on him with a huff. "Oh, you wouldn't understand anyway!"

It had taken a bit of repetition to make Himemiya understand that he had no ulterior motives for his decision. But when she at last understood and was satisfied with Quatre's explanation of his motives, she seemed to breathe a little easier, to glow a little brighter.

Her relief mirrored his own, and only made Quatre more confident in his decision. Now that the words were out in the open, he couldn't very well go back on them. He could only ask for her confidentiality.

Hurried footsteps and hurried breathing sounded behind them.

"Miss Utena," Himemiya said, happy to see her friend and champion. Quatre wasn't sure if the tone of relief he heard in her voice was his imagination. He turned to the girl with the pink hair, prepared to disarm the situation with an appropriately apologetic greeting, but she wouldn't let him get a word out.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded to know. Her chest rose and fell quickly beneath the boy's uniform. Suspicion crossed her blue eyes. There was no love between them, but no hate either, and even though Quatre was her senior he was reluctant to keep anything less than a wary distance from Utena Tenjou. There was something about her character, her stubbornness perhaps, that, while admirable, bothered him on a personal level. Though he would never admit it aloud, in some ways they were too similar for his comfort.

"Nothing you need to worry about," he assured her.

"I think I have a right to know!" And Quatre had to acknowledge that as her right. Because he was here. Alone. With Himemiya. Utena was not only engaged to the other girl under the laws of the school's duelists—an unintentional formality—but considered herself Himemiya's best friend also. How could she not be on the defensive when Himemiya was alone with an older boy, given what had happened in the past with Saionji? And on top of it all, "I saw you two—"

"It's all right, Miss Utena," Himemiya said. Her tender, nonchalant tone put a quick end to hostilities. "Mr. Winner was simply informing me of his decision. That's all."

"Decision?" Apparently that was not what Utena had expected.

Quatre took a deep breath. "I've decided I'm not going to challenge you for Himemiya's hand." At that revelation, Utena lowered her eyes, but it was he who felt sorry. For putting them both through this trouble. "I'm refusing the order to duel."

"Sure, for now—"

"For ever," Quatre snapped. His tone surprised them all. He hadn't meant to be so adamant, though he realized it had been intended more for himself than the girls. "I mean it. I've made up my mind."

Utena still looked skeptical. Himemiya looked down at her hands. "You have to understand," the former told him, "that I've heard all that before. I don't like it when people make promises they can't keep."

"Neither do I. Which is why I intend to keep it." Quatre crossed his arms. "I've given this a lot of thought, and I've come to the conclusion that if I go into the duel with the intent to lose on purpose, that wouldn't be fair to either of us and would only be a waste of our time and energy. And then there's a possiblity I could win. That wouldn't be right."

He shook his head, and when he looked up again, caught Utena's eyes, hoping that if she still didn't believe him, she would at least see the sense in his argument. "People who don't want the prize shouldn't be fighting for it in the first place. I know I can't expect you to believe me, with no other proof than my word. All I can do is swear. I tried to give Himemiya my ring, but she wouldn't allow me to. She has more trust in my self-restraint than I do."

Utena looked at her friend to confirm this was true. Himemiya's faith in Quatre, in his humanity with all its virtues and vices, seemed too great for someone of her years and humble, unassuming nature.

Utena said quietly: "Thank you."

It took Quatre quite aback. "Huh?"

"For explaining everything to Himemiya." Utena was blushing slightly, perhaps betraying the pride that would not allow her to apologize for jumping to conclusions. She frowned grudgingly. "That was considerate of you."

"I was just doing what I thought was right. I won't intrude anymore."

He was about to leave when Himemiya pushed something cold and earthy into his hands. Quatre hadn't been paying attention and he flinched instinctively to avoid the thorns and slightly fruity scent. The sickly Gold Medal bush. He blushed as he stammered, "W-what do you want me to do with this?" It wasn't a big plant, but holding it away from himself as he did, he had to turn to the side to see her.

"Take care of it," Himemiya said simply.

Utena was looking between them strangely.

"I can't accept this," Quatre said with a sigh, but his refusal was half-hearted at best. He knew there was no arguing with Anthy Himemiya. "I mean," he amended, "do you really think you should trust me with a sick plant? I don't know the first thing about caring for roses."

Himemiya just smiled. Quatre didn't look away from her face, but he had the feeling Utena was trying not to laugh at him. "It just needs a light watering every morning and a dry sunny spot until the weather changes," Himemiya said. "Don't worry. You can't kill it."

He didn't say another word about it, and the three made their way outside together. It was still early in the afternoon, and the courtyard was bright around them, the sunlight flashing off the light-colored uniforms of the passersby, except for one band of shadow.

It was from that direction that he saw Trowa coming toward them, the girl who had cheered him on at the baseball field hanging on his arm.

It was Wednesday. Two days since Quatre first noticed the faint bruise on Trowa's cheek left by Juri's ring.

At first he had relished the sight. Trowa had gotten what he deserved for pulling a stunt like that.

But the satisfaction faded quickly as Quatre came to understand that the injury was just as much his own: revenge for the cut he had given his old friend in their duel. It was a painful reminder of how Trowa had received it, a tangible sign that any chance they might have had to return to the past was slowly being smothered by their own hands. If Trowa still held any interest in him, it was only to see him suffer. This latest act proved it.

Little did he know the same accusation was running through Trowa's mind.

They had no words to say to each other—none within reach, that is, though the thought did cross their minds that even to acknowledge the other verbally would give away too much. Like pressure building underground, the truth was just waiting for a crack to open and allow it to burst forth with cataclysmic consequences. They feared taking responsibility for what might happen then, and, locked in that silent gaze, thought it safest to leave things as they were.

Beside them, the girls greeted each other, oblivious to the tension.

"Hey, Wakaba. Sorry I missed you after class." In the shadow of the two boys, Utena cracked an awkward smile.

"That's all right. I was just heading off to track, so I thought I'd say hi." Wakaba unlatched herself from Trowa's arm in her true love's presence.

Utena asked her hopefully: "How'd you do on the biology quiz?"

"Not as well as I'd hoped. Got a ninety-two."

"That's still way better than mine!"

"Mine too," Himemiya added. "You're so lucky."

"If you want, I could help you guys with corrections. Want to meet for lunch tomorrow, the three of us?"

The incongruity of Trowa's cold, scrutinizing gaze and the girls' cordiality was almost too much for Quatre; the only thing he could think of that was harder than walking away from it was standing there in silence. He turned his eyes away and brushed past his friend.

Shame welled up inside him, went to his cheeks—shame for taking the coward's way out, for being too weak to face his own fears. How many times had Quatre proclaimed himself a problem-solver, and now he was just running away? Again?

The distance to the edge of the courtyard seemed unusually long then. With students lounging in the sunny patches of lawn on either side of him, he felt he was running the gauntlet.

He saw Nanami, that seventh-grade girl who reminded him curiously of Dorothy when she was younger, waiting under the colonnade with her entourage, and prayed to himself that he could escape past her and back to his dorm undetected. As just had to be the case, however, he was mere steps from safety when she chanced to see him and, breaking away from her hangers-on, trotted over.

"I've been looking for you, Quatre." He wasn't fooled for a moment by her innocent tone. Whatever she had planned to say to him was thrown out the window the second she saw the roses. "What are you doing with those?"

"Himemiya told me to take care of them." Quatre said the words with as much enthusiasm as someone reading from a cue card. "So that's what I'm doing."

"Himemiya?" Nanami could no longer keep the disdain and suspicion from her voice. "Is that why you stood me up last Friday?"

Quatre started. He had completely forgotten. Last Friday he had promised to tutor her in music as a favor to Touga. The way Nanami said it made it sound like a date, and he hoped no one had overheard. Why she had to blow everything out of proportion he didn't understand, especially since her strange affection for her brother was well known throughout the student body.

Normally Quatre would have felt bad for forgetting, but oddly enough, he only felt a twinge of retrospective relief. "Something . . . personal came up," he told her. He thought that would be a sufficient explanation, if she had heard any of the gossip about him and Trowa in the last few days.

Instead, her large blue eyes narrowed viciously under her pale brow. "Something personal?"

"It has nothing to do with you or the roses or . . . or any of this."

"What are you talking about?" she said. "Don't play games with me. I'm not blind. You're going behind the student council's back, aren't you? I saw you talking with Himemiya just now. I know you're hiding something from me and big brother—"

Her hands shot out to his left arm. Thinking she was going for his rose seal, Quatre panicked. He pulled away from her, and as he did so lost his grip on the clay pot balanced in his arms. He caught it again with room to spare, but his book bag fell open on the brick pathway in its place.

A thin book bound in rich Moroccan red leather slipped out from among the notebooks in all the commotion. Just a book, but Quatre felt an instinctual desire to hide it. Maybe it would mean less than nothing to anyone else, but to Quatre, seeing it exposed like that was like being suddenly stripped naked before the other students. He blushed as he detached a thorny stem from the material of his uniform.

Nanami gaped at him, but for all the wrong reasons. She glared at the rescued roses with clear, unadulterated envy. She took no notice of the spilled books.

He knelt, setting the pot down gently beside him, and pushed his books back into the bag. Nanami made no move to help him, just uttered a shocked, "Quatre—"

"Leave me alone, would you?" he muttered.

"Quatre, what's gotten into you—"

"Leave me alone, I said!"

He stood and saw the hurt on her face. This wasn't like him, that look said, and he knew it. Yet this time, he found it strangely gratifying to see his own pain mirrored in someone else's eyes. Especially someone like Nanami. "If you're so worried about me and Himemiya, go ask your brother about it. He knows everything that happens at this bloody school."

Nanami opened her mouth and closed it again. Was she going to cry? This girl who had no problem stomping on others when they were down nearly cracked under a harsh tone of voice. It was embarrassing to watch.

"Quatre?"

Juri approached them. She didn't acknowledge the other girl, nor did Nanami her. And Quatre was unsure whether to be thankful for the interruption when the fencing captain said, "I was hoping you might be able to spare a minute."

"I'm really not in the mood right now." He tried to fake a smile. Here was the woman who had kissed the one person he had loved—however against her will—and he didn't know how to act toward her at all.

Juri crossed her arms. "That's too bad," she said, "because I have a proposition to make. And . . . Damn it all. I owe you an apology."

"An apology?"

"I thought you'd like to take your time and enjoy it."

Quatre hefted his book bag over his shoulder, his quarrels with Nanami and Trowa momentarily forgotten. Through Juri's typical aura of lofty impudence was a shade of empathy: She had been beaten as well. And what she set before him now, waiting for his acknowledgement, was rarer than diamonds. Of course Quatre was intrigued. "For what?"

"For treating you the way I did Saturday. I would have reacted with better judgment if I'd known your friend was such a jerk."

Trowa wasn't paying much attention to the girls. When Quatre walked by, his eyes averted, not a word in passing, Trowa would not allow himself to turn and watch him, to physically acknowledge the pang of sentimentality he had come here to quell.

But he continued to think of his old friend, to wonder what he was feeling. Jealousy? Defeat? There was a time only days ago when Trowa wanted nothing more than to turn the tables, to make Quatre feel as tossed aside as Trowa had all those years before. Now he wasn't so sure. He hadn't expected victory to hurt like this.

He didn't realize that Wakaba was jogging away and waving to the three of them. He didn't realize that he was standing facing Utena and Anthy Himemiya and staring into space.

"Oh. Hey, you're still here?" Utena said to him, and for a moment Trowa could only look at her blankly. He knew he must have looked foolish, or even ill. He noticed the rose seal on her left hand and felt a sense of momentary panic. Despite Juri's insistence he wear it with pride, he found he wanted neither of them to spot the same symbol on his finger, and quickly hid his hand in his pocket.

Himemiya's face lit up when she recognized him. "Why, Upperclassman Triton Bloom, my pod buddy!"

Utena looked at her quizzically. "'Pod buddy'?"

Himemiya nodded. "We're two peas in a pod. Isn't that right, Mr. Bloom?"

There was something about her that didn't fail to lighten his spirits. Her radiance—or her resemblance to Cathrine, perhaps, that made him feel so comfortable around her. At the mention of that private joke, Trowa felt his gloom slowly begin to melt away. "That's right," he said. "We incurable daydreamers have to stick together."

There was no way for him to know the complex nature of the two girls' relationship, so it was easy for him to miss Utena's wary, almost envious glance when she said, "You guys are weird.

"Himemiya," she quickly changed the subject, "we should probably head over to the library and see if we can't find some of the answers to that quiz ourselves. That should save Wakaba some trouble."

Though Utena hid it well, she felt uncomfortable around Triton Bloom now that she had seen him in a different light, first in his duel with Quatre, and now being so familiar with Himemiya. When had they met before? She regretted now the way she'd welcomed him at their first encounter, when he had seemed so removed from her world, never to interfere—when she had invited him into it thinking he would never take her up on the offer.

But now, after the events of the last several days, Triton seemed like two different people, and she wasn't sure she liked the new one. Now she made excuses to get away. It was in that vein that she mumbled, "I hate biology."

"You need help with biology?" he asked. "My afternoon is free. I could go over it with you, if you'd like."

"Thanks, but we'll manage," Utena said.

Unfortunately, Himemiya said at the same time, "Would you? How nice."

It was to Utena that Trowa looked for a tie-breaker. "It's up to you," he said, "but I could save you a lot of time. I'm a biology ace." He said this dryly, unboastfully, stating it as a simple fact. Patiently waiting for her to accept his offer.

Utena had no choice but to give in. For practical reasons, and because Himemiya would be disappointed if she refused, she told herself, and Utena kept telling her she should make more friends.

But underneath was a more personal eagerness Utena couldn't put her finger on. If nothing else, she supposed, she should know what she was up against. Pod buddies, huh?

The three of them went back to the East Hall—this time not by accident on Trowa's part—and spread their homework out on one of the long dining tables where they could study by the natural light. Himemiya made them a pot of Darjeeling tea and brought out a plate of crackers and strawberries, while Trowa explained cellular reproduction, alleles and chance. He had a way of making the subject interesting and easy to understand, and as the girls made their corrections, Utena forgot about her earlier wariness, dismissing it as a byproduct of her conversation with Quatre. Maybe it was a good thing Triton had come over after all.

"You know, you could teach this stuff," she told him.

He just looked down humbly at the table in front of him, where Himemiya's monkey Chu-Chu sat munching on a tea cracker. Under his long lashes, Triton's eyes were like two deep green ponds. Surely Utena was worrying for nothing. It was difficult to believe this timid boy could be at all dangerous.

She leaned her chin on her hand. Struck by curiosity, she asked, "So what brought you to Ohtori in the first place?"

Trowa looked up. He was glad now that he had slipped the ring off his finger on the way over; he didn't know what kind of conclusions the girls would have drawn if they had seen it. Namely Utena, who was clearly a duelist herself. Something told him that revelation would not have gone over well.

"Quatre got me interested." It was partly the truth, and that was enough. "He said this was one of the most exclusive schools around, and I figured, since my grades were just as good as his, why not give it a shot myself?"

"I guess that's as good a reason as any," Utena said with a sympathetic smile.

"You two are good friends, aren't you?" Himemiya asked. "You and Upperclassman Winner."

The innocent and unexpected nature of her question caught him off guard. Trowa nodded vaguely after a moment as he sipped the tea. "Were, in any case."

She tilted her head. "What makes you say that?"

"A difference of opinion," Trowa said.

Chu-Chu's face scrunched up from an unripe strawberry.

"Oh." Himemiya lowered her eyes. "Well, as long as you've been that honest with each other, I guess I shouldn't worry. It's just that Mr. Winner can get so caught up in one thing, he can't concentrate on anything else until he finally resolves it. I feel bad for him sometimes. It's sad to see someone so smart holding himself back."

"Yeah, but he's past that now," Utena said.

Trowa knew they were no longer talking about the boys' friendship. He pretended he didn't see the look of warning that passed between the two girls, and Utena's discomfort with the subject of Quatre Winner. It had something to do with the conversation in the rose garden, something Trowa wasn't supposed to know though he was dying to find out. The girls would shut him out if he asked—or at least Utena would. It was none of his business. Trowa had hoped something crucial might slip out casually in conversation, but so far he remained disappointed.

"How about you?" he tried, changing the subject. When Utena turned back to him, he elaborated, "What made you choose Ohtori?"

He had assumed this would be a safe topic of conversation. Yet it only succeeded in causing her to raise her guard even more. Utena blushed. "Oh. No," she stammered, looking down, "it's . . . kind of personal. You'd laugh."

"I promise I won't." He smiled in encouragement. "But you know, you shouldn't have said it was a secret. I'm even more curious now."

Utena sighed. "It's kind of silly, really," she started with a shy smile. But the long, uncomfortable look she gave Himemiya indicated that wasn't her true feeling on the matter at all. Sensing her mood, Himemiya turned back to her notebook, resuming a doodle started in the margin of the page and acting as though the two weren't there.

"See, my parents died at the same time when I was little," Utena began quietly, "and it was so unexpected I didn't know what to do anymore after that. At the time, I thought it would be easier if I just died with them.

"But then this prince appeared and . . . I guess you could say he saved me. He told me to be brave and not give up hope, that there were so many things left to live for. He was so strong and kind that since then I've tried to be just like him, because it wouldn't be right to let all he did for me just go to waste. He gave me this," she said, gazing fondly at her ring. "Said it would lead me to him again. . . ."

"And that's what brought you here."

Still staring at the ring on her left hand, her expression might have contained an ounce of regret, or even disbelief, for all the ways her life had changed unexpectedly since she first slipped that seal on her finger. Telling him that much, it had been like sharing a dream, it was too personal. There was no way he could understand how real it had all seemed to her, when aloud it sounded like no more than a fairytale.

She felt her heart race a bit faster as Triton stared past her, and it made her self-conscious. He must have thought she was such a child. "I can't believe I just told you all that," she mumbled. What felt so true and beautiful in her heart seemed to lose something in the telling. And how could she have thought it would remain safe with such a near perfect stranger?

Not that Trowa would remember anyway. Something Utena had said had dumped him without a map in his own memories.

The crushing weight of hopelessness abating for a few precious minutes as the sudden vacancy beside him became the opening of the black town car door and a draft of fresh air. The black suit would have made Quatre look like a stranger if not for the white shirt keeping it from contacting his skin, peeking out from under his cuffs as he held open the door. Come on, Trowa, was all he said out loud, but his brave face, pale and backlit by the autumn sun, his outstretched hand, promised something like salvation if Trowa could just find the strength to get up and join him.

No. It certainly wasn't silly.

Something moist hit him.

"Ah! Your jacket," Utena gasped.

"Chu-Chu!" Himemiya scolded. Trowa looked down to see what had startled him out of his reverie, and found a pink smudge on his uniform jacket. A small chewed strawberry was rolling to a stop on the floor. Chu-Chu must have kicked it at him the way Himemiya was glaring at him disapprovingly. "What's gotten into you? Since when do you treat a guest like that?"

The little monkey folded his arms behind his back and proudly stated, "Chu."

"I'm really very sorry. He's usually much better behaved."

"It's all right," Trowa said. It was actually rather funny, though he didn't quite feel like laughing.

"Let me get you something to put on that," Utena offered, and started to rise to her feet.

But Trowa pushed his chair back and stood before she could.

Utena worried he might be offended—and after she had just spilled her past to him; what kind of second impression was she making?—and started to apologize again, but he stopped her with a sincere look. "It's all right. Really. Can I use your kitchen?"

She pointed toward the other end of the dining hall. "On your left."

He nodded his thanks and made a hasty exit.

Trowa was able to breathe a little easier when he reached the kitchen, only then noticing how claustrophobic the other two had made him. Dabbing his jacket with a wet paper towel, he looked through the refrigerator for anything that might keep the stain from setting. Everything in it, as everything surrounding Himemiya did, had its place. Like the carefully set scene of a play. The vase of roses on the counter, or the sheet music in perfect disarray on the piano in the parlor. With only the three of them in the large building—that was, four if he included the monkey—the world felt incredibly lonely.

In Himemiya's home, where he had been made to feel he belonged, he felt incredibly lonely.

This new sense of kinship between him and Utena was hardly what Trowa deserved. So she was one of those fighting for the mysterious Rose Bride too, he thought, wondering once again who the elusive woman—if in fact the bride was a person—could be. He might have to do battle with Utena in the future, he realized, if this whole ordeal with the rose seal wasn't one big mistake.

In light of that, Trowa decided, maybe it would be best if, from now on, he kept his distance.

The sun was beginning to set as Quatre made his way back to the dorms. He had been treated that evening to a private dinner with Juri and Miki, though the affair seemed to him more like an intervention than a discussion of student council business.

"Let us help you," Juri had said. Those words sounded more than a little forced coming from her. No doubt it took quite an effort on her part. A waste, too, because he didn't want her help. "I know you don't think you need it, but let's at least talk this through. If you plan on sticking to your decision—"

"Of course I do."

"—then you should be thinking of someone to take your place on Friday." Quatre thought he almost saw pity in her dark blue eyes, and turned away. "You only have two days left," Juri went on, "and you mean to tell me you haven't even begun to consider naming a second? Quatre, this is your responsibility. We're here if you need us, but . . . Damn it, you should be taking this seriously!"

He could feel their gazes on him, chastising him for his selfishness. But he had assumed selfishness was only natural in his situation. It was his duel, wasn't it? If he ended up being banned from the student council because of his actions, he knew he'd only have himself to blame.

Or was there something larger than himself riding on this, some myth about a castle in the sky no one else had ever seen? If so much more was at stake than Quatre's seat in the council, they should have come right out and said so, told him why, instead of making it seem like his taking an active role in these games was somehow for his own good. Because that tactic was going nowhere.

"I honestly don't know anyone," he said, "who would be willing to fight for me. Why doesn't Touga just pick someone? He knows the ins and outs of this game better than anyone."

"He trusts you to make your own decision."

"Juri and I have suggested drawing lots for it if you still haven't chosen anyone by Friday," Miki said, "but only if you approve. I don't think either of us would mind a second chance to prove ourselves too much." He smiled, but the falseness of it was clear to see. Like a scientist conducting a controlled experiment, Miki was more afraid of skewing fate than whether the proscribed duty was done.

"Do what you want," Quatre told them indifferently, but inside he felt undeserving of such a selfless offer. He couldn't say he would have been able to return the favor, had the tables been reversed.

"But if one of us wins . . ."

They didn't need to finish that thought. Quatre understood. If that happened, the Rose Bride would still officially be his.

Now, at sunset, the melancholy time of the day, the still cloudless sky was a fiery orange. It cast a golden, pinkish glow on the white walls of the buildings around him. A tall mural of roses on a thorny vine rose up on his right. In this light, the cracks in the plaster almost seemed like live veins in the petals.

He turned to look up at it, the crux of Ohtori that hung over him: omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent. His long, gangly shadow looked back. That's right, he thought: He had left Himemiya's Gold Medal in the student council office by mistake. He would have to go back for it in the morning. Maybe by then he would be closer to a final decision, but he doubted it.

Footsteps approached. As he looked up, Quatre's hopes were torn, not knowing whether to rise or sink.

It had to be Trowa, of all times. Of all places. Of course. There was no one else it could be, when Quatre needed the distraction least.

He seemed to carry himself lighter at this hour, his book bag thrown casually over his right shoulder. Lost in his own thoughts, he didn't notice Quatre at first, until he chanced to lift his eyes from the walkway.

Then he halted, as completely as though a poisonous snake had just wandered into his path. Caught off his guard, for a split second Trowa was vulnerable. So he tore his gaze away, rebuilt his defenses. He took a few more steps toward Quatre, who hadn't moved since he spotted his old friend, but quickly realized it would be impossible to pass him by so easily. There was no third party to distract them from one another this time, or act as their excuse.

"Trowa." Difficult as it was for him, Quatre tried to be considerate. "How's your hand?"

"Fine," Trowa said. But even as he said so he was hiding it behind his back. What had changed that he didn't want Quatre to see the wound he'd caused? Quatre would have thought Trowa'd want to rub it in his face. What was he ashamed of?

"I'm really sorry about that."

"Don't be." It wasn't a courtesy. It was a command. "Just forget it."

With that dismissal, Quatre felt the weekend's anger flare up inside him again. He had wanted nothing more than for Trowa to recognize his sincerity.

It didn't quite come out the way he meant, however: "Damn it, Trowa, can't you let me apologize for once! Why is it nothing I say is ever good enough for you?"

"Apologize all you want," Trowa muttered, "for something that actually matters. You seem to think if you just tell me what I want to hear, everything will be all right. Do you really think I'm that naive? You're not serious."

"I am serious!"

"Then come straight with me. Tell me what you really think."

His calm was impeccable. He stood before Quatre with one hand behind his back, the other tight around the handle of his book bag as though waiting for Quatre to take his best shot, literally. Like Sebastian waiting for the first arrow. Trowa always had had a martyr streak, a need to be the victim that only made Quatre feel guilty when he did try to speak his mind.

This time he felt no obligation to pull his punches.

He forced a laugh. "You want to know what I really think? Fine. I think you're a spoiled bastard who can't be bothered to even try to think past his own problems. It's always about what you need, what you think is important."

"Don't stop there. Get it all off your chest."

"That's it, Trowa, that's exactly it! That sarcasm—those little self-deprecating remarks you make as if your problems were the only ones that ever mattered. Let's all feel sorry for you because nothing terrible ever happens to anyone else! Did you ever think to put yourself in my shoes, think about how I feel for once? Isn't that why we're here to begin with? You act like you're the only one who ever feels lonely, or loses someone close—"

As soon as Quatre said that, he recognized the callousness of that remark; yet at the same time, he couldn't help feeling just a little bit satisfied at finally having it out. "But instead of talking to me about it like a normal person, you act like everything's just fine, when it obviously isn't, so I'll feel guilty because I'm not clairvoyant enough to guess what's wrong! Don't you get it? I couldn't take that kind of pressure anymore!"

"So it's true. You left because you could no longer stand to be around me."

Quatre sighed in frustration. "How many times do I have to tell you? It wasn't because of you."

"Then give me some reason to believe that, because so far I haven't heard any."

Quatre bit his lip. Now that he had come this far, in time and space as well as within himself, still he was reluctant to face his own reasoning. Fearful, even.

And he hated himself for it. It would have been so much easier to blame Trowa for everything, however selfish a thing it was to do. Quatre found himself caught between half-truths, and he was never very good at lying. "You wouldn't understand."

"You're not going to tell me?"

"Who said I was obligated?" You'd be offended, he thought. "You'd hate me if I told you."

"I hate you because you won't give me a chance!" The present tense made Quatre cringe. "What, you expect me to figure it out all by myself? I can make up my own mind whether it's a stupid reason. It's still better than being left to my imagination. Tell me, Quatre. Give me that choice. I thought you trusted me that much."

"Trust has nothing to do with it."

"Then what?" Trowa asked.

Was it all in Quatre's imagination, or was Trowa taunting him? Tapping Quatre's foil with his own, just waiting for Quatre to make one reckless move. . . .

"I'm not in the mood to play that old game," he said.

Trowa raised his eyebrows. Whether in mock or genuine surprise, Quatre couldn't say anymore. "Who said it was a game?" He shook his head. He seemed almost amused. "That's right. I forgot: Everything's a game to you, isn't it? You never meant anything. By any of it. What was I, then? Just a diversion? A means to an end—"

"Stop it." Quatre winced. "That's cruel."

"Is it?"

Quatre didn't know how to answer. He deserved everything that was said of him, but no matter how many times he told himself so, it still hurt to hear Trowa say it. That if anyone was cruel here, if anyone was the villain, it was Quatre. How could Trowa expect him to just accept that accusation without a fight?

"You said Ohtori wasn't forever."

"And? Obviously it wasn't—"

"It was to me!"

Trowa's eyes shot up from the pavement. And it was the flash of real injury that was more painful for Quatre to see than any amount of sarcasm or the most scathing judgment of character. "You promised you'd keep in touch. So what happened to all those phone calls you were going to make, Quatre, all those letters you were going to write?"

"I forgot."

"You forgot—"

"It's not like I meant to!" Quatre ran a hand through his hair. "I mean, it seemed like every time I tried to start, I couldn't do it. Like something was holding me back."

He didn't know why he didn't just apologize. That was what Trowa needed to hear—what he needed to do for himself. But he couldn't. It was the one thing he couldn't feel responsible for, no matter how much the guilt ate at him.

"There's something strange about this place, Trowa. I don't know what it is," —it must have had something to do with the duels and End of the World, but he couldn't expect Trowa to understand that, and would rather him not know of those matters at all— "I can't put my finger on it, but it makes you forget there's even a world outside this school. Heero felt it; that's why he got out. I'm sure of it. But he's stronger than I am. I don't know . . . All I can say is, it's like being in a dream I can't seem to wake up from."

Quatre could feel the walls and columns around them like an audience. The rose mural beside them almost seemed to breathe and move like a living thing.

A similar realization had hit him the first day of school but had quickly passed, written off as a figment of his imagination or the natural anxiety about settling into a new place. It had remained a looming question in the back of Quatre's mind since then, a nebulous feeling of anxiety, as though some unseen energy or being was watching him, peering into his heart and reading all the secrets he tried so hard to hide from even himself. As outlandish as it seemed, it was the only explanation that made sense as he attempted to convey his feelings to Trowa.

"A dream."

The gentle tone in which Trowa repeated his words made Quatre look up with the hope of finally finding some sympathy in his old friend's eyes, some indication Trowa had also felt what he tried to describe, even in some small way.

The gaze that met his, however, was colder than any before. "I'm used to you avoiding the truth when it's too uncomfortable," Trowa said. "The denial, even. And I always gave you the benefit of the doubt. But I know better than that now. God . . . do you realize how you sound?"

"Don't tell me you haven't felt it!"

"You can't actually expect me to believe a story like that."

"It's not a story!" Quatre said.

But the downward curve of Trowa's lips showed his disappointment clearly, hinting at the betrayal he must have felt inside. To come all this way just to hear Quatre push new lies off on him.

Quatre knew enough by now to have expected such a reaction, but not at this. It was the one thing he had told the absolute truth about. "Why would I make up something like that? Look, I know I promised. But didn't you promise Duo and Wufei you'd keep in touch with them? And have you, Trowa?

"Have you written to Cathrine yet?"

The answer was a simple yes or no, but now it was Trowa who had difficulty answering. His silence only told Quatre what he already knew. They were equal in that failure without a told-you-so to exacerbate the guilt. Quatre had to admit it satisfied him a tiny bit when Trowa said, the slightest waver of doubt in his voice: "That's none of your business."

Turning his eyes resolutely away again, he seemed as if to go. But Quatre couldn't bear to see him repeat the same move he had perpetrated himself earlier that day. He caught Trowa's arm in a tight grip.

"Look," he tried, one final attempt, "you're right. All right? I broke my promise. But, damn it, just listen to me!"

There was a hint of surprise in Trowa's brows as he stared at him now. Nothing else. The muscles of his arm were completely still—like the expression on his face, giving away no more emotion.

But Quatre could feel the warmth of his skin under the uniform jacket. It had been too long since he had actually touched Trowa with his own hands—more than a year. The sensation was at once painfully familiar and yet alien, and Quatre recalled their first duel last Friday when he had not even recognized Trowa's voice.

He felt bad for it all over again. He should have known right away, at the first spoken word—he should have recognized Trowa just by the way he was standing. . . .

Then again, this Trowa standing before him now was like a completely different person.

Quatre's fingers tightened desperately around the blue-green material. Violently. The same urge he had felt on the fencing strip returned, the urge to hurt his old friend—if that was what it took to make him listen. If that was what it took to force them over the thin line they were treading, one way or the other.

Only now Quatre held him in his bare hand rather than at swordpoint—and it almost felt more deadly. "I know I haven't exactly been a paragon of honesty," he said, "but I'm trying to tell you the truth now!"

Trowa yanked his sleeve out of Quatre's grasp. "Then start by telling me what's going on here."

Quatre started. "About the school?" He couldn't bear to see the questions forming in his friend's blue eyes. About Himemiya and the greenhouse, about the duels. And Quatre couldn't bear the thought of having to try to answer them. How much was he going to have to lie? How much could he lie, and still protect Trowa from the truth? He couldn't explain why he held back what he did, only that it seemed important that he do so. Couldn't Trowa forgive him that much?

When Quatre said nothing more, Trowa shook his head.

"I came here because I believed in second chances," he said. "I guess I should have figured out long ago how foolish that was."

Quatre felt a painful smile creep onto his lips at that—painful because smiling was one of the last things he felt like doing. "Well, you sure picked a hell of a time to look for your second chance."

Trowa nodded slowly. "That's it, then?"

"I don't know, Trowa. Is that what you want me to say?" Quatre sighed, the endless frustrations of the day suddenly hitting him full force. It seemed in that moment, despite everything they'd said and done to one another, that they were back to square one. "Because obviously if you can't even believe in my sincerity, then how can I expect you to believe anything else I tell you?

"You shouldn't have wasted your father's money coming here," he said to Trowa's retreating back, hoping the sting of his choice of words—not "guardian," not "adopted father"—hit home.

Then he added to himself, "Maybe it was all just a big waste of time in the first place."

Nanami had been passing by when she heard the commotion. She recognized Quatre's voice, and he sounded angry enough that she thought it best not to make her presence known. But why so angry, and with whom?

She got closer, and found a vantage point where she could watch unseen. He was arguing with another boy, most likely in his class judging by their similar builds and the familiar way in which they spoke to one another. She didn't remember seeing the green-eyed boy before, so she assumed he was the new student some of her classmates had been talking about. The one who was an excellent fencer.

She couldn't catch all of what they said to each other, but she caught enough to know it was a fight over someone's affections. The oppressive weight of the unsaid, the sense of betrayal, the impossibility for compromise. . . . She would never have guessed otherwise, but it seemed certain now that these two boys' friendship was being strained by the same thing—the same thing that had made Quatre forget all about her last Friday night:

They were both in love with Anthy Himemiya.

"So that's how it is," Nanami said to herself. Everything that had happened earlier that day—the greenhouse conversation, Quatre's attitude, Juri's apology—it all made perfect sense now. She still wasn't sure what Quatre was planning, but at least she knew why. She caught the glimmer of silver on the hand of the new student, which he was shielding from Quatre's sight behind his back, and recognized it even at that distance as the rose seal.

So he was a duelist too!

Touga was on the phone when she returned home. She threw her book bag and herself onto one of the couches in the parlor and waited, listening to her older brother's lighthearted half of the conversation. He was going to be so proud of her when she told him what she had discovered. Nanami looked forward to the smile of unadulterated appreciation he would give her; those smiles had become rarer lately. Maybe he would even be grateful enough to show his gratitude with a kiss. . . .

But when he stepped into the room, a mug of coffee in his hand, and saw her, his expression was indifferent. "When did you get back?" He didn't seem very glad to see her at all, knowing she must have been there long enough to overhear his phone call.

But Nanami began anyway as he took a seat beside her: "I thought you'd like to know, big brother, that Quatre Winner has been acting awfully strange lately. I don't just mean forgetting about our appointment last Friday. He saw Himemiya alone earlier today in the rose garden and I just know they're plotting something behind your back."

She expected Touga to be surprised, but it was she who was surprised when he laughed. "Is that so?"

"You don't believe me." She felt heartbroken. "But . . . I know he thinks he's in love with her and he's going to try something. I'm sorry I can't be more specific. I just had to warn you. He's been acting so secretive and distracted lately."

"Of course, he has," Touga told her in a tone that said she should have known better. "He was supposed to duel for the Rose Bride this Friday. He probably didn't think the matter was any of your business, and I can't say I blame him. I don't know about him being in love with her. . . ." He shrugged.

"She gave him roses!"

"Himemiya gives anyone roses. But it doesn't matter anyway, because he's refused to duel."

Nanami blinked. "Huh? Can he do that?"

"No problem," said Touga, raising the mug to his lips. "The problem is finding someone to take his place on Friday."

"Like a second?" He nodded slightly as he drank. "So who's going to be fighting in his place? Juri?" She had spoken to Quatre before the argument, after all. Maybe it was to offer herself as his stand-in. Nanami remembered the other boy she had seen with Quatre and the seal on his finger. No one had mentioned him to her yet, but that didn't mean they didn't know about him.

Did it? "Is there another duelist?"

"It's up to Quatre to decide, but I don't think he realizes how important it is that he does so. So, to answer your question, no one yet." Touga fixed her with a scrutinizing gaze. "What did you mean by another duelist?" He paused. "Is there something you wanted to tell me?"

She had wanted to, but now she wasn't so sure—now that she knew Touga wasn't aware of the other ring or its bearer. "No," Nanami said innocently.

Touga knew her well enough to know when she was keeping something from him, but he didn't bother to refute her. Instead he said, "Anyway, it's between him and the student council. Promise me you'll stay out of it. I'm serious," he said when she started to open her mouth. "I don't want you trying to fix things for Quatre. This is his affair. If he wants help, he'll ask for it.

"Do you understand, Nanami?" he said, annunciating those three words so she would grasp his meaning.

She was about to say she promised, but the instinct not to lie to her big brother stopped her from doing so. "Understood," she said instead.

That satisfied Touga, who patted her knee indifferently and rose to go to the kitchen.

The pages of the notebook crumpled under Quatre's left hand. He leaned his temple on his right and sighed. He had read the same problem through a dozen times and still had no idea what it was about. Each time he tried to make sense of the figures, his focus shifted unintentionally back to Trowa. Trowa, Trowa, Trowa. He was getting absolutely nowhere.

"Damn it!" he hissed and pitched his eraser across the room with everything he had. It seemed like the safest thing he could destroy at that moment, and not regret it later.

Quatre ran his fingers through his damp bangs, and slumped over the oak desk. He gave up. He had finally got it all out in the open, all the frustration that had been eating at him for the past two years, and it only made him feel worse. And, on top of it all, he was going to fail his math assignment. There was something funny about that, but he wasn't in the mood to appreciate it.

The air in the room was stuffy, and even with the window open there was no circulation, the oppressive heat continuing into the night. Quatre's uniform jacket lay draped over the end of the bed; he was embarrassed that he had nearly torn the clasps off in his frustration earlier. He had put on a light cotton shirt, but even that stuck uncomfortably to his back. This must be my punishment, he thought, for betraying a friend. I can't say I don't deserve it. But I wonder if I'm not the only one suffering.

Into that atmosphere, the first strains of a familiar violin concerto drifted. Quatre could hardly believe his luck; the universe seemed to be conspiring against him these last few days. Somehow, without his trying, the eraser must have hit the right button on his stereo.

Or perhaps it was this haunted school, working its voodoo again. Throwing this new curve ball at him when he needed it least.

It was a quick piece, played martellato, warlike, with sharp attacks and deft trills. He closed his eyes and tried to abandon his troubles to the melody, imagining how it would feel to play the piece. The vibration under his fingers. The friction of the bow. Like a duelist, the violin went back and forth across the scale, across its own path. Unwittingly Quatre's thoughts traveled back to the argument, and to how he had wanted so badly to force Trowa to recognize the guilt he'd carried with him these past months. To speak nothing of the resentment he had carried for years. To make Trowa feel in his bones the very real pain it all caused Quatre, before sinking into the lowest depths of defeat, together.

Then Quatre would finally be justified. Then he would truly be deserving of everyone's disappointment.

But he had hesitated to deal that killing blow, held back too much, said things he hadn't meant, and not the things he'd meant to, and now it was too late to claim that satisfaction.

The recording hit a poignant note.

He had only wounded himself. There was no one else he could blame for that.