Nine Years
"I met the boy, three weeks ago," Quatre began, providing an explanation for his three-week absence as Dorothy poured a glass of water for him. She thrust the glass to him, and he took it, covering her fingers with his. He heard her suck in her breath soundly, as she ever so cruelly peeled her fingers from his grasp. She crossed her arms across her chest and watched him, knowing all along that her son had daily meetings with Quatre, silently allowing and encouraging the rapport between the two.
For three weeks, the boy greeted him at the front gate, during his "nap time." He thought that he slipped out of the house unseen. Quatre learned that for the first five years of his life, Dorothy and the little boy took nap time together, for she would always fall asleep at the boy's bedside, unable to tear her attention away from him. The boy was friendly and eager to learn during the first week, yet on the second week, he proved to be difficult and almost bratty, as if he was testing Quatre's patience. He would be late, pretend to be easily distracted, and initiate water fights, among other things. Quatre would be accommodating and understanding, fully aware that his own son was testing him. Knowing that he had estranged himself from his father, due to his loyalty to fight in the war,Quatre Winnerpromised himself that he would not estrange himself from his own son.
On the third week, the boy would be sad one day, happy the next, and at first Quatre thought this was one of his tests. Then, he later found out that the boy had to endure sleepless nights listening to his parents argue.
He sipped the water, eyeing her suspiciously, waiting for her reaction. He knew that she knew that what he had said just a moment ago was not an explanation, but more of an accusation for not telling him the truth immediately. Mocenigo had just left for another "business trip" an hour ago. Instantly, Quatre had found out that the Mocenigo private jet was probably the only plane that frequently came and went as it pleased in the middle of the day. He also found out that the Mocenigo household had little servants, and he assumed that Dorothy had trust issues in the past with servants. The townspeople of the small Italian island did not travel much, and it was easy to hear the flight of a jet not far away from his house. As soon as he heard the sound, he darted from his apartment, where he had been busy clacking away at the new laptop Heero had furnished him with.
The Mocenigo manor had stretched out so that the entire beach could be theirs, and there were no barriers whatsoever from the terrace to the sand. He found her, standing on the terrace, and their gazes met for a fleeting moment, but just enough for him to memorize her face. Her hair had been up in a chignon and she wore a crocheted white dress that barely covered her shoulders and fell down to her knees. The breeze blew by infrequently, and he watched her tuck the blown hair behind her ear. He didn't once blink. She was the first to break away. She turned around and reached for the glass terrace door, left it ajar, allowing the white chiffon curtain to escape, obviously an invitation to enter her house.
Realizing from the expression on her face that she was fighting the battle of telling him the truth he already knew or not, he turned away from her and looked at the veiled window. He pushed the curtain aside, allowing sunshine to pour into the room. "He's a nice boy. I see you've raised him well." He didn't add that the boy looked unhealthy, in mind, body and spirit.
"Thank you," she said as she crossed the room and demurely placed herself on a settee.
"He plays violin," he continued on.
"Yes, I know. I was the one who encouraged it." She continued to stare at his back.
He let the flimsy veil go, enshrouding the room in shade.
"Let's stop it with this idle conversation," he suddenly blurted out. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He turned around, locked his gaze on her and placed the emptied glass on the side table, not once removing his gaze over her. She looked at him just as scrupulously, wrapping her palm around her knee and taking in a large amount of air as he approached her.
"You started it. I'm simply answering your questions," she quietly said, when she finally gained her composure.
"Tell me," he choked out quietly.
She just looked at him.
He finally reached her, lowering himself so that he could question her thoroughly and without hesitation. He placed his hands over hers, and she closed her eyes, to bar the connection they had made. He could tell that she was fighting an inner battle, to keep the truth hidden or finally reveal it. He knew she had trained herself to lie effortlessly and ceaselessly when it came to the paternity of her son, for she had been certain that there would never be a situation when she had to tell the truth. But now he had come and demanded to hear from her what he already knew was true.
"Tell me, Dorothy. I want to know. I need to know, I want to hear it from you," he urged.
"Tell you what? Tell you what you already know? Yes, he's yours. He only looks like you and has the same name as you, of course he's yours. And yes, Giovanni knows. He has known, perhaps even our little boy knows," she said as she tried to keep the rush of tears from crashing down her cheeks. She couldn't tell him any more, especially about her husband's feelings towards her little boy. Quatre could see from the way her lids trembled and her voice quivered that she was horrified. She opened her eyes and he could see the apparent tinges of red appear in her eyes.
"What else would you like to know?" she asked him in a pained tone, looking like the child she had been so very long ago. He looked at her, feeling the hurt he put her though his line of questioning. But he had to know.
He squeezed her hands against his own. "Dorothy, do you care for me at all?"
She blinked once. She tore herself away from his gaze and his grasp and stood up, revealing her back to him. She sighed deeply.
"Surely, you know my answer." He could hear the defeat in her voice.
He stood up and approached her, wrapping one arm around her waist, and placing his hand around her collarbone. He brushed his lips against her ear.
"What is your answer?" he breathed against her skin. He felt her try to pull away, but to no avail. She simply tilted her neck back, signaling her surrender. He dug his fingers into her waist, reveling in the feel of the fabric of her dress.
Impatiently, he spun her around and pressed his lips against hers, hoping she'd tell him what he needed to hear for so long. His one hand cupped her face gently as he kissed her, and the other trailed from where it rested on her collarbone, up to her neck and to her face. He had been disappointed that she failed to respond to his kiss, but equally encouraged when her hands traveled from his chest to form a loose circle around his neck. She allowed him to kiss her, unable to respond fully due to her treatment of her husband and fear of getting caught.
The way he held her and possessed her reminded her of how empty her marriage had been. Giovanni had loved her, but only deserted her in the end when he realized that he would get none from her. Every time he would try to touch her, she would only move away, or comply in fear. But with Quatre, it was different. She neither had the willpower to refuse nor the abhorrence to his touch. In fact, she dreamed of him every night and prayed for just another moment like this with him. But now it had come true, she could neither have the strength to savor it and comply passionately, nor push him away.
She tore her lips from his away, and his lips met the tears that veiled her cheeks. She unclasped her fingers around his neck, and let them slide down his chest, where he assumed she was ready to push him away. She was reluctant to pull away completely for she desperately longed for his touch, yet reluctant to kiss him back, so she pressed her cheek against his lips, savoring what she could not resist.
"We can't do this," she said as she softly dug her fingers in his chest, "it's wrong. I'm married."
She found the strength to push him away then. She turned around and crossed her arms across her chest, gripping her body tightly.
"You don't love him," she heard him say.
"No, but I do owe him," she finished sadly.
"Owe him what? You can't give him what you've already given someone else. If you owe anything to anyone, you owe me." He didn't hide the fact that he was bitter.
She spun around sharply, anger evident in her eyes.
"Owe you what, Quatre? I handed you everything. You disappeared and I was foolish enough to believe that my son needed a name to inherit and that my claim as the mother of your baby would be laughed off by your family, no matter what kind of paternity evidence I would present them. If anything, I would have brought them disgrace by trying to assimilate a baby made out of wedlock into your family. Furthermore, I insulted my husband by naming my baby after you. I should be ashamed of myself." When she finished, she huffed in disgust.
"You haven't got the faintest idea of what kind of hell I've been through trying to get back to you. Why are you feeling sorry for him?"
I come back and not only do I find out that you married that…drug lord, you let him mistreat you and our boy?
"Ever since you've come back, it's always been about you. What happened to you, Quatre? You used to put others before yourself. It seems as if…you're not the man I fell in love with."
There was a long pause. Quatre had hesitated long enough that she quickly felt remorse for her choice of words.
"You can't just…just ignore me, what had happened between us nine years ago, what had just happened between us moments ago."
Her face twisted into a look of disgust.
"I, we, shouldn't have done this. I should never have met you. Not at Relena's school, not at Libra, not even that night."
"It's been more than a year since the war ended, so why are you still lurking under the shadows?" Relena asked Dorothy over tea. It was a bright and lazy Thursday afternoon, and Relena had decided to pay another "quick" visit to her friend's house. Relena sat demurely with her hands folded neatly across her lap. Dorothy curled up in the comfort of her own home, in the comfort of her bathrobe. She bought a penthouse near the headquarters of the Vice Foreign Minister, Relena Darlian.
She managed to keep her present life low key, distancing herself from all but her true friend Relena, and her only living relative, Mariemeia. Although it had been difficult in the beginning, Dorothy had accepted the peace that she discovered had changed her life. She felt that she owed much to the former Queen of the World for forgiving and forgetting her crimes in the past. Soon, she sensed that she would embrace that peace. Like everything else, that too, would take time.
Mariemeia and Dorothy had increasingly grown into friends. The little girl's wisdom captivated Dorothy, and in turn, Mariemeia saw a sister figure in Dorothy. Family was what the two girls had longed for, yet were deprived of this luxury. The two found companionship through each other and their strengthened bond grew from the same admiration of Treize.
"Maybe you should be asking your eternal shadow that." Dorothy pointed out.
Relena chuckled. "In fact, I have, but thank you for your kind suggestion."
"I don't understand what makes this man so attractive. He runs around like a phantom and his pick up lines consist of 'I will kill you.'"
Relena shook her head and chuckled once more. Dorothy was definitely the type of company she enjoyed.
"You could find out what it's like to be attracted to someone, if only you'd go out there and meet people."
Dorothy raised an eyebrow.
"I know how you feel about blind dates and dates in general. But I really would appreciate it if you would just let me set you up with someone--" Relena began, but Dorothy's hand cut her off.
Dorothy rolled her eyes. "Oh please, Relena, the last thing I need right now is--"
"If you would just let me set you up with someone…I am so sure you will be perfect with. He's rich, he's handsome, he's a gentleman, and so sensitive. I think you two will be perfect. Besides, he already thinks you're beautiful," Relena said persuasively.
"Relena, really…I really am not in the mood for a date with some sick, obsequious, fifty-year old pervert. I'm going to end up shooting him by the end of the night."
"Not once did I say that he is a fifty-year old pervert. In fact, he's much younger. He's a gentleman, and he has ten thousand truckloads of his own money, and he has got to be the kindest person I've ever met."
"Relena, if you promote this guy so shamelessly like a slab of meat, why not date him yourself and spare me the trouble of humiliating him?"
Relena shot Dorothy a look.
"I choose not to date him myself because I am shamelessly infatuated with this assassin who desperately needs a hair cut. Please, Dorothy, go on this date as a favor to me. Do this for me, not for yourself; even though I bet in three years time, you'll be thanking me."
Dorothy sighed in defeat. Relena beamed victoriously.
"You can't sit around and ponder what should have been. I've already done that for us for nine years. You can't ignore the pleas of our young son. Have you heard him play? Have you looked at him straight in the eye? It sickens me to know that he's unhealthy in mind and in soul. I know should have been there to stop that from happening," from the shaky tone in his voice, she could tell that he felt extreme culpability for his absence. She couldn't help but feel equally guilty for making the biggest mistake of her life. A sob shook her shoulders.
"Yes, I've heard him! I've seen him. I'm only his mother, after all. All his life, he's been trying to prove himself worthy of his father's appreciation, although he knows he'll never get it from him. He's vulnerable, doesn't have that much of an appetite and has no friends. For nine years, I was haunted… haunted by the fear of having to bury my own son--without even burying his own father! I didn't know where you were… if you were sick, if you were dead, if you needed me, or if you somehow found your way into the arms of another. But my God, I know I needed you."
The tears freely outpoured then. He pulled her to him, and although she tried to pull away, she found herself surrendering to the familiar touch that did not need hushing. His love for her spoke volumes. He felt her hot tears penetrate through his shirt, and he fought the urge to cry with her and pour out his sorrow over the wasted nine years.
They stood there for a long moment, desperately clinging to each other like they had the last time they were together, nine years ago. He held her until the tears in his shirt dried up. Neither of them spoke, afraid to shatter the moment with stark reality.
"I know it's taken me a long time…but if you care for me at all, Dorothy…I will ask one more thing of you," he said ever so softly on the top of her head.
"What will you ask of me?" she whispered like a girl. Quatre felt like he was lost at another time, another place. He felt as if this were nine years ago, when they first started to fall in love, when their dreams were young. He could feel their dreams come alive again. This encouraged him.
"If you care for me at all…leave him and run away with me. I know I love the little boy…I know that he'll learn to love me in time. I know we can't live off of love like we used to think, but you can't live off of this suffering, either. Run away with me," his voice was dripping with the hazy influence that held her captivated no matter what he talked of.
She sighed, and Quatre sensed her defeat against her battle with reason. He tilted her chin so that he could gaze into her eyes. She lost herself as she looked through his eyes, feeling that she could see his soul. She blinked a few times before she closed her eyes allowed him to kiss her. This time, he gave every bit of himself into this kiss. He pressed his body against her, and kept his eyes shut, wanting to feel every bit of her, wanting to join his soul with hers, wanting to melt into her bones, like nothing could stand in the way. And for a moment, it was only he who moved against her, but slowly, he felt her lips start to move against him, hungry yet hesitating.
He pulled away and pressed his forehead against hers.
"Dorothy, I still love you," he whispered with a sigh. He pulled back and opened his eyes to look at her.
In response, she kissed him back gently and began to speak, when a knock on the door startled them. Dorothy gasped and sprang away from Quatre. She grabbed him by the wrist and pushed him down to a crouch behind the plush sofa. Straightening herself, she hurriedly walked to the door and opened it. The butler greeted her with a raised eyebrow, for usually the duchess waited for him to open the door.
"Yes, Pietro?" The butler thought he heard hushed voices in the room, but he could see no one. The duchess had confined herself from the rest of the world ever since she married into the Mocenigo lineage.
"Señor Mocenigo is on the line, he wishes to speak to you."
Surprised, Dorothy nodded, thanked the butler who was equally dumbfounded, and closed the door behind her. Quatre rose from his squatting position and followed the path she took. She then proceeded behind the desk and activated the device.
"Darling," the eerie voice with the rich accent said. Dorothy winced at the word, but forced a faked smile.
"I know you've been searching for a Stradivarius violin for years now. Well, I've finally found one. An original one."
Why would it be her husband's interest to locate an eighteenth century violin for a boy who is his son in name only?
Antonio Stradivari had been a genius, producing about 1,100 stringed instruments of unsurpassed quality. Many attempts have been made to try to reproduce the quality of the sound that Stradivarius instruments generate, but no instrument can ever compare to an original Stradivarius. It is said that the quality of the violin is attributed to the type of wood Stradivari used; he used wood from an old cathedral. The qualities of the instruments are so astonishing that the word Stradivarius itself can be used to describe something of an unrelated field as excellent.
Quatre looked at Dorothy in an appreciative manner. Quatre had expressed a great interest in merely playing a Stradivarius, and particularly recovering some to place in a museum in his native L4. Before Quatre had disappeared, Dorothy had planned on paying a large sum of money for a genuine Stradivarius as her wedding present to him. She'd taken several pilgrimages to Cremona, the birthplace of the Stradivarius instrument, to try to trace an original Stradivarius for her son since then.
"If you're interested at all…" her husband began in a condescending tone as he noticed her begin to slip away.
She snapped back into the conversation.
"Yes, but of course I am. Do you know its name and the year it was made?"
"It's the Ames Stradivarius, made in 1734."
Dorothy shot him an incredulous look. "But that's been missing since 1945! It can't have possibly--"
"—it's quite possible," he interjected.
Dorothy wasn't about to start a fight with him in front of Quatre. "What is the asking price? I'd like to acquire it as soon as possible. Money is no object."
"I've already negotiated with its owner. He's willing to sell, in one condition."
Dorothy wasn't surprised. Musicians were usually the anomalous kind.
"What is it?"
"He has trouble parting with the instrument. He'd like to meet its new owner before he can close the deal."
Dorothy immediately thought the request was ridiculous, the fact that Mocenigo had located an instrument for little Quatre had been questionable enough. She was going to get her little boy a Stradivarius, however.
She shrugged her shoulders slightly and pressed her lips together. "Arrange to put him on a plane back home with you and he can meet Quatre."
"You don't understand, don't you? He's an invalid. He wants you and the boy to come meet him." Quatre's eyes grew large in anger, noticing the way her husband talked to her, and sensing that he never called their little boy by his first name. Dorothy's eyes shifted to look at his for a fraction of a moment, but that was enough to tell him to stay where he was.
"I do not know when he wants to close the deal, but make sure you're prepared to fly to Cremona anytime," he didn't say anymore as he terminated the connection. Dorothy sighed and fell on the seat behind the desk. Quatre approached her.
"Nine years ago, I searched for a Stradivarius to give to you on the day of our wedding…I never bought it," she confessed.
Quatre realized he didn't even make an attempt to search for a present for her. What could he have given her, one of the richest women in the world? A set of platinum foils? He reached for her hands from across the desk.
"Almost two years ago, for his eighth birthday, I took Quatre to see the Camerata de' Bardi in Pavia. There had been this soloist who played the lead part in Nessun Dorma, your favorite. He played a Stradivarius. Quatre immediately took to him and…and…" Her head lolled to her side and pulled her hands away from his grasp.
The Camerata de' Bardi of the University of Pavia had been Quatre's favorite orchestra. He had been a patron of the organization, donating to the cause and funding their projects. He first took Dorothy to see them on the night of their first anniversary, expressing his childhood dream to play with the group. The orchestra was disbanded during the war, but regrouped shortly after the Mariemeia incident.
"And what?"
"Please leave… as you can see, I have things to do," she said as if she suddenly remembered a faint memory. She stood up and looked at him again.
From the edge of the desk, she threw him a haughty glare that seemed all too familiar to Quatre. She hadn't looked at him like that since she was involved with Romafellar. The sudden change of emotion greatly disturbed him; he wasn't going to go without a fight, in fact he wasn't going to go at all.
"No, I can't see it at all! I don't see why you still feel obligated to play the dutiful wife when you don't want to! Remember, I can see through you! What kind of fool do you take me for?"
She slightly tilted her head to her side and pressed her lips together, indicating that she didn't care. He sighed.
"You're the same girl to me, Dorothy Catalonia. You're broken inside. If it wasn't for Quatre, you'd be cruel because you'd be a stranger to a love that keeps you secure. Not one day has passed that I haven't thought of you. You've kept me secure all these years. Does that mean anything to you? It seems to me that you feel the same way about me, but your words give me a different message."
She exhaled sharply.
"Please, I won't ask again…" She didn't dare mention his name again.
"You won't have to," he said before he darted out the glass doors. The wind softly ushered the curtains outside, wanting to follow the path he had taken, but they were bound to the house.
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