- Chapter 5 -
The poignant scent of the wet asphalt was thick in the air, as was the humidity, and Trowa was glad he hadn't bothered to buy a suit jacket to put over the same white shirt and slacks he'd worn to Quatre's last party (and was wearing tonight). Already, he could feel the moisture collecting on his skin, an uncommonly sticky sort of night for the aftermath of an early spring shower.
After receiving the the message from Quatre relaying the location and time they were to meet for dinner, Trowa had opted to walk to the restaurant. Certainly, he could have taken a taxi, but with the idea that the fresh air would do him good and help arrange his thoughts, the tall youth had gone on foot.
It wasn't that he regretted the decision as he rounded the corner, the bistro now in sight. But, he couldn't help wondering if the muggy air had only further clouded his mind, and as he absently brushed off the condensation that had gathered on his upper lip, he momentarily considered calling Quatre and asking for a rain check.
Standing outside of the restaurant, the exiting patrons brushing by his stationary form without a glance, Trowa looked up at the overcast sky, took a deep breath, then entered. There was a reason for this dinner, he shouldn't forget that. Quatre wanted to talk to him. Just him. And that thought alone was enough to get him to go up to the hostess and calmly ask where Mr. Quatre Raberba Winner's table was this evening.
The hostess gave him an odd look, questioning whether or not Mr. Winner really was expecting Trowa, but after disappearing to check, she returned all grins and dulcet tones, leading the 03 pilot into the main dining area and directing him to where Quatre waited.
Quatre was sitting alone at a table far larger than two young men needed, positioned out of the way of the general flow of the traffic of people, obviously the seating reserved for citizens of renown (as was Quatre's league). The blond peered over the top of the menu he'd been glimpsing at, finding Trowa and smiling widely, even going as far as to offer a wave in welcoming.
Trowa gave a bittersweet sigh; he could easily envision more evenings such as this one, meeting his Arabian companion for dinner, and having those eyes solely on himself. It was.. It was nice to know that Quatre was waiting for him, was happy to see him, and enjoyed his company, even if nothing more would ever come of any of this.
He would have liked to sit next to the object of his unrequited love, as the younger couples within the restaurant had situated themselves, but that would have been pointless. Trowa sat across from Quatre instead, trying to keep his thoughts to a minimum; their incessant swirling wouldn't help anyone.
After taking a seat, exchanging greetings, and then giving their orders to the waiter that would be serving them, the two were able to speak freely.
Trowa assumed Quatre would jump a conversation relaying the circumstances that had lead up to his and Relena's relationship, perhaps filling in the missing times between the rare instances they were alone together.
An afternoon spent scrutinizing the meaning behind this call for a meal together had led Trowa to deduce that would be the topic of choice tonight. It truly didn't matter if he didn't want it to be so; facts were facts. What else could have Quatre left unsaid between them?
He was surprised then, when that wasn't the initial topic of conversation.
"Sometimes.. Well, often times, actually, I think about the wars," Quatre started tentatively, gaze averted as he lifted the bottle of wine that sat on the table between them, filling Trowa's glass and then his own. "It feels like an eternity ago, when I reminisce. When it's the one thing not on my mind, it's different. I'll see something, or smell something, or someone will say something to trigger a memory... In those moments, it feels like it ended only a few days ago... And of course, there are other times when it all feels like it was all a long, sad, tired dream."
Trowa remained silent, watching Quatre's pale hands against the glass of wine and the barely perceptible movements of the other's throat as he swallowed an ample portion of the crimson liquid, watching the rise and fall of his companion's chest beneath the rich, black lapels of his dinner jacket. Only when the blond had set his own glass down did Trowa lift his and drink deeply.
There was an unquestionable note of controlled sorrow in Quatre's words, and for the life of him, Trowa didn't know how to react.. But he would certainly try. "That's all it is, to the new generation- an echo of the past," he finally replied.
"True," Quatre agreed, smiling faintly. "I'd always wondered what it would be like when that time came when people would look back on everything like the old, faded pages of a history book... Granted, that's not exactly the case yet, but I think we notice that sentiment more, and have felt it growing stronger."
The silence between them was interrupted only by the soft murmuring of the other conversations going on around them, of other couples or parties enjoying their meal. Quatre's eyes remained fixated on the lace patterns adorning the table-cloth as he took another draught of his drink, Trowa's own gaze still evenly resting on the former, mimicking the movement and drinking more of his own wine.
"I..." Trowa began, cautiously ending his words before he'd finished the statement. He hadn't exactly meant to voice his thoughts, or more accurately, the memories that had surfaced when he looked upon Quatre.
"Yes?" Quatre prompted eagerly, obviously hoping that Trowa would continue. Giving the other a chance to speak, he once again lifted the bottle of wine, refilling their already drained glasses.
"I was remembering the first time we met," the Latin finished softly. When he saw that Quatre was regarding him with a smile brighter and warmer than the sun, Trowa was powerless to stop his own lips from curving gently upward.
"You surrendered to me!" Quatre teased amiably, the endearing smile turning into something of a cheeky grin.
Quatre had no idea as to how many levels Trowa's mind could have taken that comment, and the 03 pilot cleared his throat, once more reminding himself that it was wise to recall everything he knew about Quatre and Relena, and to not forget his place.
"I know," was the only calm response that Trowa offered. He could have said more, about how thankful he was, to this day, that he had, or about how much that moment had altered his existence, but he didn't.
There was a pause as their salads were brought out, and as they ate, slowly the conversation drifted to more mundane things, Quatre picking up the slack in speech as Trowa was more content just to hear him... Winner Enterprises, the Winner sisters, the economy, art, music...
By the time the main course was brought out, the two gentlemen had finished the first bottle of wine, and ordered another. Quatre also removed his suit jacket, finding that the restaurant air was stuffy, a result of the weather, Trowa pointed out, feeling a bit more talkative...
When the plates were cleared away, Quatre ordered a third bottle, as they had finished the last quicker than expected, and Trowa briefly tried to recall which of them had suggested they each move down a chair, so that they could carry on their conversation easier, side by side...
As their desert was placed before them, Trowa absently ate a forkful of the flaky, creamy pastry, hardly tasting it; it was difficult to find anything else enjoyable when the pressure of Quatre's leg was pressed pleasantly against his own as the blond leaned in to grab the now half-empty bottle of wine, and topped off their glasses.
"But, you know..." Quatre said seriously, after having a good laugh at something trivial. "We're getting old, all of us... Nineteen isn't old to most people, but... We aren't most people. And, you know, one thing you learn from everything is that.. You can't let things unfold for themselves. Every second counts."
"Every second counts. Every last one, Trowa," the blond repeated, brows drawn together as though he were thinking quite hard about his words.
"Every second," the Latin echoed, blinking slowly as his sights returned to the plate in front of him, lifting a hand to rub at his forehead.
"The engagement party is next month, and I haven't sent out invitations yet... Relena's upset with me," Quatre said sadly.
Trowa felt his breath hitch in his throat at those words, the icy lump in his gut almost instantly killing every trace of the euphoria that the alcohol had induced, leaving him with just the other side-effects, such as a slowed response time. "What... What do you mean?"
"She's right, you know," the 04 pilot went on, talking more to himself than his companion. "We've worked together for two years now, and we've known each other long before then..."
The brown haired youth's mind stubbornly refused to process anything beyond one word. Engagement. Trowa swallowed thickly, trying to regain his senses. Duo had said dating... and talk of engagement. Not actual engagement...
Quatre's voice dully registered, and Trowa spoke the first response that came to mind, anything that could deny the reasoning behind this. "I've known you longer." His voice was low, hiding his turmoil.
"Our connection is different from what Relena's is to me.. It's very different," Quatre responded, a hand resting on Trowa's leg as he turned to face his friend squarely. "Most people only take their time getting engaged because they don't know the person. And Relena's right, we've known each other long enough."
It was all Trowa could do to not push the innocent hand off his thigh, to flee from a touch that was killing him. "We.. We aren't most people," he insisted in a voice constricted.
Quatre seemed not to notice as he shook his head. "Relena's sweet, and intelligent..." The blond's brows drew together once more, his sea-green eyes clouded by what Trowa would have called doubt, if not for his own desire to see it there.
Wanting something this terribly, wanting it with all his heart, all of his being... Simply wanting something wouldn't make it so.
"It's a good match, isn't it?" Quatre's fingers moved slightly, curving around Trowa's inner thigh as he leaned closer, trying to capture the brunette's averted gaze.
Trowa wanted to say no, and with the amount of alcohol he'd consumed, he might have even shouted it. But as his emerald eyes found Quatre's, he couldn't.
Quatre was his friend, first and foremost.
And now he understood why the other youth had asked him to come here tonight, why the other pilot was staring at him like this, why he felt the blond's hand trembling against his leg.
Quatre sought his friend's blessing.
And Trowa knew that he couldn't do anything, but offer it, unconditionally.
"Yes," Trowa whispered, looking down at the angelic features of his fair friend, storing his grief for another time, another place.
The Arabian hesitated, eyes searching Trowa's expression for a second longer before he gave a shaky smile. Grabbing the edge of the table, Quatre pushed himself up, standing on wobbling legs. Apparently, he held his drink worse than Trowa. "Be right back.. I've got to.. to use the restroom, and.. I think we have to leave," he said, walking in the appropriate direction.
Trowa gave a fleeting look around the restaurant- they were one of the only two couples remaining, and already the busboys were clearing tables, preparing to clean the room once it was vacated.
He stood slowly, testing his balance and finding it better than expected. Just as he was pushing in his seat, the hostess approached him, smiling politely.
"I think it's best if you accompany Mr. Winner home, sir. He's not feeling well," Trowa arched a wry brow at her tactful choice of words, "And we don't want any accidents."
That translated to the restaurant's fear that someone would snap a picture of Quatre falling face down, drunk, outside of the establishment, and that sort of news tended to make headlines, a prime example of bad publicity.
Trowa nodded mutely, cautious steps bringing him to the desk where Quatre had paid, and was now unsuccessfully trying to slip his credit card back into one of the leather slits in his wallet. Carefully taking the items from the teetering blond's hands, Trowa put the card in its rightful place and slid the wallet into Quatre's pocket.
Ignoring the other's protests to being "a perfectly able and capable citizen," Trowa then looped an arm around Quatre's slender waist, and walked out with him.
It was too much to think right then; if he let himself think, Trowa was positive he wouldn't like where his mind went with things.
Numb to the warm, smaller form that curled against his own as they moved down the sidewalk, trying his best to tune out the soft spoken ramblings of his equally (if not more so) inebriated companion, he instead focused on putting one foot in front of the other, and nothing else.
Blind to the environment, it wasn't until one of Quatre's cool hands patted his cheek that Trowa even remembered why he'd physically walked Quatre out of the restaurant to begin with.
"Trowa, this isn't my house," the shorter teen murmured, eyes squinting as he looked up at the building that loomed before them, Trowa's apartment complex.
"We'll call one of your drivers when we get inside."
That made sense, and Quatre nodded with a vacant smile before he promptly doubled over, his body rejecting the alcohol (along with the night's dinner) onto the grass.
Trowa would never be entirely sure how he and Quatre managed to make it up the three flights of stairs but they did it.
Inside the apartment, little more than two rooms that went from living room to bedroom, a nook in the far right making the kitchen and a small bathroom that could have doubled for a closet near the entrance, Quatre curled up on the couch, head resting back against the cushions.
Retrieving the phone, Trowa set the cordless unit onto Quatre's lap before he went to the bathroom, to give the other some privacy as well as to clean himself up some. He cringed when he saw his reflection; alcohol and stress had given him a ghastly pale appearance, and he looked as though he hadn't slept for a week. Letting out a shuddering sigh, Trowa cupped his hands beneath the faucet, gathering water and pressing his weary face into it, still refusing to give way to barrel of emotions he'd put a mental stopper on.
Drying off on a towel, Trowa re-entered the living room, expecting to find Quatre either on the phone or having just finished the call. He didn't expect to find Quatre laying lengthwise on his sofa, arms beneath his head and feet tucked in, out like a light.
A heart-stopping, beautiful, engaged light.
He moved to shake the other awake, but as his hand came to rest on the delicate curve of a shoulder, Trowa knew he wouldn't. Still operating under the pretense of not thinking past the mechanical motions of existing, he slid his arms beneath Quatre, scooping him up and carrying him to the bedroom, where he placed the blond on his carefully made bed. Easing off the dress shoes, Trowa placed his friend's footwear at the base of the bed before he opened a drawer, pulling out a spare blanket and covering the youth in front of him.
Only when he was satisfied that Quatre was comfortable, that the night was over for all intents and purposes, did Trowa press against the wall, sliding down until he was seated on the floor, legs drawn in and his eyes glued to the slumbering form.
Only then did he allow his misery to blossom, and allowed his head to fall forward, brow pressed against the arms he draped over his knees.
Three years he'd had, three years since the wars had ended, since the young pilots had been given the freedom to pursue their own lives, with obligation to no one. That long, and he hadn't said a word, hadn't hinted anything...
Trowa closed his eyes, willing himself to listen for Quatre's rhythmic inhales and exhales, finding them and matching the gentle pace with his own breathing.
His head lifted and he studied the sleeping pilot on his bed, his breathing still matched with that of the other pilot. Things might have turned out different, if he'd been braver... More than likely, it wouldn't have, but regret was a horrid fiend to have to face in the dark of the night.
How often had he wondered what it would be like, to find Quatre in his bed in the morning? How many nights had he been kept awake by that very thought, and other ones that were far less decent? How many times had he imagined what it would feel like to fall asleep with another body against his own..?
Not another body.
Quatre's.
The next thought that flashed through the 03 pilot's mind was shameful enough that he felt his cheeks burn in the dark, and yet, he was already kneeling, hands pressed against the mattress, eyes trained on the steadily rising and falling, covered body. With feline grace, Trowa eased one knee up, the bed dipping slightly from his weight.
His heart beat a painful, guilty tempo against his chest as he moved slowly so as not to disturb the other pilot; breathing that had once been timed with his beloved's now came in short, quick intakes as he drew near.
He was close... So close that he could make out the lines of Quatre's face by the street light that leaked in through the window, so close that he could feel the warmth of his companion's frame, a warmth that he longed to share.
It would be innocent. They had both been drinking, and Quatre wouldn't think anything of finding that he'd shared a bed with Trowa when he woke the next morning.
Eliminating the gap between them, the length of his body but a hands-breadth away from Quatre's, Trowa brought a lithe arm up, slowly lowering it so that he could embrace him, at the same time trying to keep his will from faltering.
Why shouldn't he allow himself this small comfort? No one would get hurt from it, and it wouldn't change anything, and...
This wouldn't change anything.
Trowa would still be the one with the aching heart, and Quatre would still be the one engaged to Relena.
And he didn't want to have to steal a bit of Heaven in order to know what it felt like.
He retracted his loathsome arm, moving away with enough care that Quatre would still remain none-the-wiser. It took far less time to leave the side of his loved one than it had to position himself there, and without delay, Trowa retraced his steps back to the living room.
It was better to suffer on the couch than to wake in the morning to find his angel gone.
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Ohh.. We're drawing to the end of the story, I think... Maybe another two/three chapters?
I haven't decided how this will end for Trowa. I'm into sad endings, but Trowa is my favorite...
Feedback is much appreciated!
- Zangai