Nine Years

"Heero. I need your help."

The ex-pilot's impassive face suddenly contorted into a puzzled look. Heero rubbed his eyes. It was two-thirty a. m. Had he been dreaming? Is this a ghost he was speaking to? No. It couldn't possibly be. Quatre disappeared into the depths of the universe nine years ago.

"Quatre?" Heero asked, opening his eyes wide. On the other side of the videophone, Quatre felt impatient, and was surprised at himself for his lack of emotion towards his fellow pilot. It had been nine years since they conversed. Nine years ago, he warmly greeted his friends and invited them to his house, and today, he felt rather impatient, and besides that, nothing at all. They had worked for the same cause during the war. Heero was going to be one of his groomsmen…for the wedding that never happened.

But Quatre had changed. He had been hardened by destitution and loss. Nine years had been a long time. Toiling away like a slave at that exploitative mine, eager to survive.

"What happened to you, Quatre? Do you know what you've done to her? Relena and I…we were there…she was so sick. My God, I don't even know where to start," Heero choked out. He had changed too. Perhaps it was marriage and fatherhood that had softened him. Maybe it was through Dorothy's example that he had learned the true meaning of loneliness.

Initially, Quatre had been disinterested about what his friend had to say. But as soon as he mentioned Dorothy, the tables were turned.

"What happened to her?"

Heero swallowed, looking pale as he thought of what had passed nine years ago. Quatre straightened himself up, taking a large intake of breath.

"After she heard the news, she locked herself up in her room for a month. Then, we found her one day, standing above the marble staircase where she lived, with her arms held up to the sky, about to jump. According to the maids, she had done that more than twice. That was only the beginning. We found a few revolvers in her room, bottles of sleeping pills and morphine. It wasn't until one day that she stopped and told us she was going to marry this Mocenigo character." Heero didn't add that the marriage had been a romantic failure, but a social success for both. He also didn't add that Mocenigo had several mistresses to give him what Dorothy refused him. And although Heero wanted to, he did not urge Quatre to see the boy.

Quatre felt comfort that she had been heartbroken after all over his sudden disappearance, yet pain that he had caused it, and so quickly decided she would throw him away for another.

"So will you help me?"

Although Quatre had asked, his tone gave Heero no choice.

"What do you need? Weapons and chemicals to dispose of the body afterwards?" Although Heero had been serious, Quatre glared at him, mistaking his seriousness for amusement.

"I need a job, I'd prefer it so that I can stick around here and watch over her," Quatre interjected with a correcting tone, and it made Heero re-think of a few select words to say to his friend. Quatre was no longer the nice guy everybody picked on, instead, he had turned into the curt, businesslike man his father would have wanted him to be. Heero had wondered if Dorothy had seen the change.

After shifting in his seat for several moments, Heero agreed with a nod.

"Actually, Quatre, Mocenigo has had some rather questionable dealings concerning pharmaceuticals. I have reason to believe that he is helping the local street pharmacists in Italy. We've tried to get Dorothy to help, but I also have reason to believe that her husband controls her loyalty. See if you can check into that. That will be your first assignment. I will have a few necessary items wired to you."

Quatre nodded, accepting the mission.

"Oh, and Heero…"

Heero looked back at him expectantly, with one finger about to terminate the connection.

"Don't tell anyone of my emergence. Not a word," Quatre said.

He didn't give his friend the chance to reply as he deactivated the device.

A solitary, lonely violin softly sang its weeping tune, and it seemed to be reaching out into nothingness as the crashing waves swallowed the yearning whole. No response had come back. Still, the little boy kept playing, ever so faithful, ever so hopeful for a ship, a man, a shell, anything, but simultaneously, finding comfort in his music. The boy sat with his toes tucked under his legs and let the wind gently sift his golden locks. From a fairly large distance, the tune had beckoned Quatre to come closer to this boy, and had surrendered to its unassuming power over him.

Quatre had hoped that Dorothy would be at the beach again, ignoring the hurt he had associated with the place, to question her again, not about her choice, but her husband's dealings. The man had committed a crime against him, and he was driven with mad hate to repay him. Before he approached her, he darted back to his small apartment, and researched him thoroughly, like he had been a mad scientist, frantically looking for the cure of some infectious disease.

Sure, this would not take away the hurt of her betrayal, but he had loved her too much that it was easy to forgive her. Besides, he knew in his heart that nine years before, he had meant to her more than anything else in the world. He had hoped that she married this man for some reason. He had taken this job to find out exactly why.

Giovanni Mocenigo had relentlessly courted Dorothy before, during and after her two-year relationship with Quatre. They had kept everything beyond the Libra incident a secret to the public, but certainly their colleagues knew that the two were deeply in love and planning to marry. She had wanted him to wait until he was eighteen for them to marry. She knew that eighteen was a tender age to marry, but she had never loved and been loved this much in her life.

She also wanted to clear her name and make reparations for the damages she and her family have made against the world. Mocenigo was a fool to be blinded by the truth, but it undoubtedly assisted him in the end, when Quatre died and Dorothy had dismissed all of her aficionados. It was all Quatre's fault, she said. Quatre had taken up too much room in her heart and didn't want to share that she couldn't possibly entertain any of these bright, rich young men.

He wondered if the marriage had been a happy one, he hoped in his heart of hearts that it did not so he could save her from the misery. Happiness what she had deserved especially because she had experienced a rocky childhood that left her scars within her heart, but he always thought her happiness rested with him. He couldn't possibly have seen her finding happiness with someone else because he, of course, knew he couldn't possibly be happy without her. And for nine years, he had been hard-bitten by the hungry mouth of destitution, angry and disillusioned without her.

But the music had erased away the tide of mad rage he felt inside.

There were glitches in the tune, and the melody was obviously being played by an amateur, but the onrush of emotion and sincerity within the playing was what captivated Quatre. It had reminded Quatre of his passion to play not so long ago. It had reminded him of the only thing his father accepted as one of his accomplishments. It had reminded him of what solace it brought him during the war. It had reminded him of the bond Trowa and he had formed through music. It had reminded him of what delight it brought Dorothy as he played even the simplest of all tunes for her. The music seeped through his many layers of hardness; it had overcome the iron grip that gripped his heart.

The boy was quickly broken out of his concentration by the thought that someone was watching him. He abruptly stopped and Quatre had been immediately disappointed. Quatre had the idea of running away, but instead, his body moved him to talk to the boy. A surge of nervousness flooded him. As if in slow motion, the little boy suddenly turned to look at him, presenting his oddly familiar profile to him. A close encounter to a heart attack came next.

Instantly, he realized why Dorothy had married so hastily, and so easily deserted her suicidal streak.

The little boy looked at Quatre with the same face.

Why hadn't she told him?

He felt the power to press the boy's cheek against his own and say his papa had come back. He felt the longing to smile for once, for it had made sense after all. But also, he felt the pain within him a second later when he realized he could not hold the boy in his arms, that he could not tell him the truth. It was not as easy as picking his life back up like the table had been set and his wife had been anticipating him with a warm dinner at home for nine years. In fact, for nine years, the wife he should have had, had been playing house as someone else's wife. She had waited for different man every night for nine years. The table had been set by servants and Dorothy had probably awaited this man with rum on the rocks.

The boy stood up, gazing up at the man who he had faintly remembered. There was something comforting yet intimidating about this man. They had the same face, he realized. How could that possibly be? He slowly walked towards him, not once taking his sharp gaze away from him. Slowly, almost laboriously, he raised his hand.

"My name is Quatre. Quatre Mocenigo, señor," the boy said with a tremble in his voice, extending his hand while looking up the man who had the same face as he.

Quatre stared at the boy blankly, his eyes large, filled with fear.

The boy had been so small, looking so frail and almost sickly. Had he been born prematurely? He knew Dorothy had attempted suicide shortly after hearing the news of his disappearance, but quickly turned around and changed her ways. He was thankful the boy had survived.

The boy had left his precious violin and bow carelessly forgotten on the sand. This man had fascinated him, he felt drawn to this man, who had done nothing but look at him. He stood there, for a long moment, his hand getting tired. For some odd reason, he wanted to be friends with this man.

Quatre wanted to be friends with this boy. Although he had desperately wanted to be, and would give anything this very moment to be, he would become his papa later. After all, nine years of absence had been more than abomination to this little boy; he could not do anything to drive away the emptiness the boy must have felt. He sensed through the way he played his music that his childhood had not been a very happy one.

He shook the boy's hand, careful not to say his name, although it seemed as if the boy had no problem with it at all.

"That was very good. I-I liked it very much. I haven't heard a boy as young as you play as well as someone twice your age. I used to play the violin once, when I was a soldier," he said as he pulled his hand back.

The boy nodded, and then lowered his head to the ground, concealing his confusion. No one, except his mother had ever complimented him, or even showed any signs of appreciation towards his playing before. Quatre studied his son's face, completely understanding what Dorothy had meant when she said she instantly fell in love with him. She had raised the boy well without him, and he could see that she took such great lengths not to let Mocenigo spread his influence over his son. The boy raised his head to look at Quatre.

"My mama bought me this violin for my sixth birthday. I didn't want to play at first, but when I realized it made her happy, it made me happy. And now I enjoy making music."

Quatre was bowled over. They had the same face, the same name, the same passion for music, and the same love for Dorothy Catalonia. She had breathed life into him, and now into this little boy. They were carbon copies of each other. Slowly, he brought himself down to eye level with his son and looked into his eyes.

"Where is your mother?"

The boy's lower lip trembled. His eyes immediately became watery.

"She's at home…dealing with my father. Usually, when they…when they talk, she tells me to go out and play somewhere. I don't know why," the boy choked out. Quatre didn't like the word careful word choice and the tone his son had used to explain their situation.

"Look, she's probably fine. She probably sends you away because we adults talk about the most boring subjects and that's why we're so grumpy all the time."

The boy smiled and revealed his teeth, even though he knew it was a lie, but he appreciated the fact that this man could make him smile a lot easier than his father ever could. He knew what went on every time his mother sent him away. He longed to protect her; he knew she was defending him. What had he done wrong? He didn't remember what he could have done to his father for him to treat him indifferently. Little Quatre heard nothing but slurs from him and saw nothing but disgust from Mocenigo towards him.

"While we're here, why don't I take the opportunity to ask you if you wanted me to show you some pointers in playing?" Quatre asked, noticing the masked sadness in the boy's eyes.

The boy certainly knew that he had the finest tutors that money could buy, and this man was certainly no Paganini, but he had the warmth, and the eagerness none of his instructors ever displayed. They all seemed to be impatient and cold with him, obviously only there for the hefty check the Duchess would give them. This man, though he did not even know his name, had gained his trust so easily, without barriers. The two had so quickly formed a rapport within minutes of meeting. There was something extraordinary going on.

The boy looked at Quatre, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I would like that."

Quatre smiled back.

"Good, that's settled then, I'll see you tomorrow, same time, same place?" Quatre asked as he stood up.

The little boy shook his head.

"No, my mother doesn't even know I'm at the beach today. Please meet me at the house. I live in the Mocenigo manor, just near the Piazza. My father won't be there, but my mama…she will be very glad to meet you," the boy blurted out quickly.

Quatre appreciated the welcome the boy had given him. Now he had access to the Mocenigo manor, through his own son. He nodded, and with a wave, he turned around to walk away.

"And señor?" The boy called out to him. Quatre stopped in his tracks and looked at the boy expectantly.

"Are we going to be friends?"

For the first time in a very long time, Quatre smiled and grinned. A chuckle had escaped his lips.

"We're going to be great friends, Quatre. In fact, we're going to be the best of friends."

The boy nodded exuberantly, his blue eyes dancing in delight.

"I like the sound of that, señor."

Have any comments, suggestions, or death threats?

Email them to me!