Chapter Two
1/
Trowa Barton searched the crowd for any familiar faces. He was up for acrobatic juggling tonight (the Solis twins were both feeling under the weather, though drunk was a far more accurate description), and there were still four other acts before his.
He gave up his search and retreated out of the vivid lights illuminating the big top, away from the cheering crowd and the charismatic ringmaster. The night outside was shockingly quiet in comparison, and Trowa darted past the small trailers and tents, nodding to people he knew, ignoring those he didn't. The trailers were rusted, and the tents a little dirty; some had small decorations, like crucifixes above the entrances or writing in the inhabitants' native language scrawled across the exteriors.
Cathrine's trailer was by far the smallest and the most derelict though she fought an endless war against rust and dust that she could never quite seem to win. "What can you expect?" She'd laughed self-consciously an eternity ago when Trowa had seen her home for the first time. "I'm a woman without a husband or a family, and it's not like my job does much beyond putting food on the table."
"So why don't you quit?" Trowa had asked tonelessly.
A strange, thoughtful smile had crept over Cathrine's pretty features. "Oh, I don't know," she'd sighed.
Now Trowa hesitated by the entrance, his face lifted to the black sky. Her words kept coming back to him when he was too tired and numb to cry, when he couldn't find the strength to care. Not a question but a statement, coated in old desires and a certain understanding that this was as good as it got.
The old wooden stairs that had once led up to the metal door had finally rotted through late last year, and Trowa had to hoist himself up about a meter, swinging his long legs onto the cheap linoleum and climbing gracefully to his feet. The many lamps gave off deep golden light, suspended as they were from the ceiling and the walls, balanced on the edges of tables and counters. Cathrine never could stand the dark.
Trowa was not particularly inclined to be neat, and neither was Cathrine, but they managed to keep their quarters presentable and, thanks to a mutual fear of cockroaches, bug-free. The worst aspect of the place, Cathrine claimed, was that it had no curtains. It was a bit of an obsession with her. She couldn't afford them, though sometimes Trowa tried to save up for a set, always managing to come across the money just as prices went up and wages down.
He was somewhat surprised to find a few lamps tipped over and clothes scattered across the floor, along with a multitude of other possessions. It looked as if someone had dumped out the drawers and cabinets and then stomped all over the mess.
In the center of the room, on her knees, hair falling in soft auburn waves around her face, was Cathrine. Trowa's footsteps were muffled by the clothing, and he was nearly on top of her by the time she looked up.
"Oh, oh Trowa." Something flickered in her expression, and then she was smiling like usual, balling up the sequined skirt she'd been holding. "Aren't you up soon? I mean, isn't your act--"
"I have a while," he replied, his voice flat and emotionless. He wanted to ask if she was all right, if something had happened while he'd been away. He stopped himself, fearing her scorn; anyway he wasn't a soldier any longer, he shouldn't be freaking out over small things. "What are you doing?"
"Oh, I--I'm just straightening up," she said, averting her eyes. Her long fingers burrowed into the soft fabric of the skirt she was still holding. "This place is such a dump, I thought I'd try to organize a bit."
He gingerly picked his way to the tiny room that served as a kitchen, and scrounged around aimlessly, not really planning to eat because he performed best on an empty stomach.
"So. So Trowa, you--you got a call today." Cathrine's voice started out shrill and slowly deepened to her usual calm alto. "I wrote the number--" Sounds of rustling. "--Right here. You should return the call after your act, don't you think?"
And then she was by his side, her arms crossed and a tiny piece of paper poking out of one tightly clenched fist. The golden light caught in her eyes, made them flash gray and blue. "You'd better get going," she said anxiously, and smoothed out the paper and held it out for him.
He took it.
2/
Trowa was sensible even at the worst of times. He'd been a terrorist and a murderer. He wasn't afraid of death or pain, and everything else paled in comparison.
Upon the paper was scrawled a phone number in Cathrine's messy script. He walked to the nearby grocery store and asked if he could make a call.
3/
In the end it wasn't the money that convinced him. He wasn't bitter like some ex-soldiers; he'd never assumed that after the war he'd be rewarded in any way. Money meant nothing to him except as a means to an end.
He told Cathrine that he'd given them a tentative no, and she bit her lip and said, "But Trowa, you must know that there're opportunities outside of the circus." And then more quietly, "We could have curtains."
The next day he dialed the number again, and said yes.
4/
A pair of knives missed the wooden target and clattered to the ground. Patiently Cathrine scooped them out of the dirt and positioned them in her hands again. She'd been doing this for hours. Repetition calmed her down.
She thought of Trowa mostly--what he'd like for dinner tonight, what she had to pick up from town for him, whether or not he'd give in to her brushing his hair back just once. Occasionally a dark thought stalked along the border of her mind, but she stubbornly held it at bay. She had to be smart about this.
I don't want him to go, she thought, and immediately berated herself. Wanting something and having it were two entirely different things.
There had been no phone call, but she didn't feel at all guilty for lying to Trowa about that. There had only been Cathrine answering the door, drowsy from a much-needed nap and wondering how on earth Trowa was back so soon, but it hadn't been Trowa on the ground a meter below her. A man, impossible to tell his age or even anything beyond that he was perfectly average, had politely told her that there were a number of other men in the near vicinity and if she made any sudden moves they would shoot her. Then he'd smiled, and asked if she understood, and she'd said "Yes," though she hadn't.
"I'd like to discuss your brother," the man had said, still impeccably cool, his suit rumpled by the humidity and his eyes friendly. "I'd like to discuss him in great detail."
She knew Trowa would have thought of something cunning at that moment, would have found some way to escape, but she only stood there helplessly-- weaponless and stunned--and told the man what he wanted to know, and listened to his instructions, and wrote down the number.
"We'll be looking forward to his call," the man had said. "And he will call. Because if he doesn't, I don't think he'll like it very much. Neither will you."
And that was as good as a death threat, and hate had welled up inside Cathrine so strong and bitter she'd wanted to hit this man, though that was stupid and suicidal. He'd left, and she'd closed the door, numb. Turned. Found every drawer in the house upturned, her life scattered across the floor. Realized she hadn't heard a thing. Bit her lip, and set to work cleaning it up.
Trowa had called, thinking it was a simple job offer, and had refused, and of course she'd pushed him into rethinking his decision, and he had rethought, and given in, and now he was going to leave. Of course he was going to leave.
She began to hate herself.
1/
Trowa Barton searched the crowd for any familiar faces. He was up for acrobatic juggling tonight (the Solis twins were both feeling under the weather, though drunk was a far more accurate description), and there were still four other acts before his.
He gave up his search and retreated out of the vivid lights illuminating the big top, away from the cheering crowd and the charismatic ringmaster. The night outside was shockingly quiet in comparison, and Trowa darted past the small trailers and tents, nodding to people he knew, ignoring those he didn't. The trailers were rusted, and the tents a little dirty; some had small decorations, like crucifixes above the entrances or writing in the inhabitants' native language scrawled across the exteriors.
Cathrine's trailer was by far the smallest and the most derelict though she fought an endless war against rust and dust that she could never quite seem to win. "What can you expect?" She'd laughed self-consciously an eternity ago when Trowa had seen her home for the first time. "I'm a woman without a husband or a family, and it's not like my job does much beyond putting food on the table."
"So why don't you quit?" Trowa had asked tonelessly.
A strange, thoughtful smile had crept over Cathrine's pretty features. "Oh, I don't know," she'd sighed.
Now Trowa hesitated by the entrance, his face lifted to the black sky. Her words kept coming back to him when he was too tired and numb to cry, when he couldn't find the strength to care. Not a question but a statement, coated in old desires and a certain understanding that this was as good as it got.
The old wooden stairs that had once led up to the metal door had finally rotted through late last year, and Trowa had to hoist himself up about a meter, swinging his long legs onto the cheap linoleum and climbing gracefully to his feet. The many lamps gave off deep golden light, suspended as they were from the ceiling and the walls, balanced on the edges of tables and counters. Cathrine never could stand the dark.
Trowa was not particularly inclined to be neat, and neither was Cathrine, but they managed to keep their quarters presentable and, thanks to a mutual fear of cockroaches, bug-free. The worst aspect of the place, Cathrine claimed, was that it had no curtains. It was a bit of an obsession with her. She couldn't afford them, though sometimes Trowa tried to save up for a set, always managing to come across the money just as prices went up and wages down.
He was somewhat surprised to find a few lamps tipped over and clothes scattered across the floor, along with a multitude of other possessions. It looked as if someone had dumped out the drawers and cabinets and then stomped all over the mess.
In the center of the room, on her knees, hair falling in soft auburn waves around her face, was Cathrine. Trowa's footsteps were muffled by the clothing, and he was nearly on top of her by the time she looked up.
"Oh, oh Trowa." Something flickered in her expression, and then she was smiling like usual, balling up the sequined skirt she'd been holding. "Aren't you up soon? I mean, isn't your act--"
"I have a while," he replied, his voice flat and emotionless. He wanted to ask if she was all right, if something had happened while he'd been away. He stopped himself, fearing her scorn; anyway he wasn't a soldier any longer, he shouldn't be freaking out over small things. "What are you doing?"
"Oh, I--I'm just straightening up," she said, averting her eyes. Her long fingers burrowed into the soft fabric of the skirt she was still holding. "This place is such a dump, I thought I'd try to organize a bit."
He gingerly picked his way to the tiny room that served as a kitchen, and scrounged around aimlessly, not really planning to eat because he performed best on an empty stomach.
"So. So Trowa, you--you got a call today." Cathrine's voice started out shrill and slowly deepened to her usual calm alto. "I wrote the number--" Sounds of rustling. "--Right here. You should return the call after your act, don't you think?"
And then she was by his side, her arms crossed and a tiny piece of paper poking out of one tightly clenched fist. The golden light caught in her eyes, made them flash gray and blue. "You'd better get going," she said anxiously, and smoothed out the paper and held it out for him.
He took it.
2/
Trowa was sensible even at the worst of times. He'd been a terrorist and a murderer. He wasn't afraid of death or pain, and everything else paled in comparison.
Upon the paper was scrawled a phone number in Cathrine's messy script. He walked to the nearby grocery store and asked if he could make a call.
3/
In the end it wasn't the money that convinced him. He wasn't bitter like some ex-soldiers; he'd never assumed that after the war he'd be rewarded in any way. Money meant nothing to him except as a means to an end.
He told Cathrine that he'd given them a tentative no, and she bit her lip and said, "But Trowa, you must know that there're opportunities outside of the circus." And then more quietly, "We could have curtains."
The next day he dialed the number again, and said yes.
4/
A pair of knives missed the wooden target and clattered to the ground. Patiently Cathrine scooped them out of the dirt and positioned them in her hands again. She'd been doing this for hours. Repetition calmed her down.
She thought of Trowa mostly--what he'd like for dinner tonight, what she had to pick up from town for him, whether or not he'd give in to her brushing his hair back just once. Occasionally a dark thought stalked along the border of her mind, but she stubbornly held it at bay. She had to be smart about this.
I don't want him to go, she thought, and immediately berated herself. Wanting something and having it were two entirely different things.
There had been no phone call, but she didn't feel at all guilty for lying to Trowa about that. There had only been Cathrine answering the door, drowsy from a much-needed nap and wondering how on earth Trowa was back so soon, but it hadn't been Trowa on the ground a meter below her. A man, impossible to tell his age or even anything beyond that he was perfectly average, had politely told her that there were a number of other men in the near vicinity and if she made any sudden moves they would shoot her. Then he'd smiled, and asked if she understood, and she'd said "Yes," though she hadn't.
"I'd like to discuss your brother," the man had said, still impeccably cool, his suit rumpled by the humidity and his eyes friendly. "I'd like to discuss him in great detail."
She knew Trowa would have thought of something cunning at that moment, would have found some way to escape, but she only stood there helplessly-- weaponless and stunned--and told the man what he wanted to know, and listened to his instructions, and wrote down the number.
"We'll be looking forward to his call," the man had said. "And he will call. Because if he doesn't, I don't think he'll like it very much. Neither will you."
And that was as good as a death threat, and hate had welled up inside Cathrine so strong and bitter she'd wanted to hit this man, though that was stupid and suicidal. He'd left, and she'd closed the door, numb. Turned. Found every drawer in the house upturned, her life scattered across the floor. Realized she hadn't heard a thing. Bit her lip, and set to work cleaning it up.
Trowa had called, thinking it was a simple job offer, and had refused, and of course she'd pushed him into rethinking his decision, and he had rethought, and given in, and now he was going to leave. Of course he was going to leave.
She began to hate herself.