Chapter 22
The fight had been short and bloody. Not one of the villagers had survived, he knew, he'd checked. Men women, children, it hadn't mattered, maybe it still didn't but he felt guilty, and it was something he definitely didn't want to feel.
The victory celebration was winding down, and with its closing he was trying more and more to inch towards the shadows. He'd set his tent up a hundred yards or so from the others, and he was banking on them being too drunk and high to notice where he'd gone.
Alanzo had traded with him, a few food rations for three hits of L-17 Joy; normally the trade would have been ridiculous, but the old man knew how he'd suffer this night if he couldn't get away so he'd done what he could.
It was enough.
The smoke from the razing was still thick in the air, reflecting the floodlights back to the large jeeps armed with machine guns and a few rocket launchers. Burning bodies polluted the air but he ignored it all-- or maybe not ignored, just chose not to think about it. Ash was heavy under his feet, masking the sound of his footfalls as his steel-toed boots navigated what remained of the once peaceful village. The tree line wasn't thick, but he wasn't a very wide person.
When the jeering quieted and the only thing he thought had followed him were the angry souls of the dead, he ducked into the center of a tree whose trunk had split long ago into two separate beings sharing a common beginning and ending.
He felt almost safe surrounded by the wood and scratchy bark. With his back to the makeshift camp, he brought the syringe to up to the moon's light to examine the tube. A few quick flicks of his finger popped the air bubbles that could stop his heart, and with a last desperate sigh, he closed his eyes and inserted the needle into his left arm. The wave of weightlessness fanned out from his arm all the way through his body. Vision black, head fuzzy, the drug raced through his system shutting down everything that wasn't absolutely necessary to keep him alive--and a few that just might have been. But he didn't care. Nothing mattered but this blissful feeling of nothingness, in fact, the madness of the dead spirits floating around him, the hatred for the people he was told to call family, all disappeared in the cloud of nothingness that invaded his senses.
Slowly, under the weight of a dose high enough to damage, but not high enough to kill, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he felt the world shift away as he slipped into oblivion. But at the last moment he did struggle, with everything he was, because as the wave of darkness rose to encompass him, he heard the sound of branches under steel-toed boots, and he knew they were out there looking for him.
Hours or years later, the feeling of his skin ripping told him he was in a lot of trouble. The pain didn't flood his brain though, instead it was more the knowledge of the pain, the understanding that his body was suffering greatly, and under the influence of his own demise, he could do nothing to prevent it.
His body tore the other way and even against the effects of the drug, he felt a twinge of pain. Against his better judgement, against every instinct he possessed, he forced every ounce of strength he had left in a body that felt like led, to open his eyes and see what was happening.
The sight instantly killed his high so that the tearing pain flooded his senses. But by then the pain was too great, his body to drained by it to defend himself.
The man directly above him, holding his shoulders into the dirt and rock of the forest floor laughed down at him; spit spraying across his face. Those beefy fingers dug into his shoulder bones, and he knew they'd bruise later into perfect handprints.
"Estaban, looky here. The bitch finally decided to grace us with his presence."
Head spinning wildly, pain racing across his body, he felt a sudden jab of pain before another face reared into his view. Covered in sweat and the dried blood of those he'd killed that day, Estaban grinned down at him with his nearly toothless smile. "Just relax, bitch, I know you like it rough." And with that, Estaban shifted away before pushing forward again, this time, pulling down to roughly kiss him, savagely biting his lip and drawing blood.
It was then he knew what was happening. Expertly covered panic flooded his body as Estaban pulled away and he got the first look at his surroundings.
They'd brought one of the jeeps after him. The floodlights were aimed right at him, and only Estaban's now wildly pumping body was blocking the full out effects of that light. But around Estaban, he could see the others, each waiting his turn, some patient, others fighting amongst themselves on who'd be next. He saw the flash of metal as two of them drew knives to decide and the sight caused him to close his eyes even as that warm disgusting flood of liquid filled his cavity and Estaban groaned above him.
His face was neutral, but his teeth ground together as the mercenary withdrew, the removal allowing the blood and seamen to ooze from his body. But at the last minute, before the man who'd won the knife fight could take his place, Estaban leaned down and faced him, his head illuminated by the floodlights. His breath was putrid as he breathed down on him.
"Ya can run all you want, hide in all the best places, but we're still gonna find you, and ya wanna know why? Because by the tenth man, we can see the fight die from yer eyes, and that's the greatest part of the fuck. Now be a good boy, and spread yer legs, bitch. Spread'm real wide Trowa, daddy's coming home to play!"
When the next man took his place, Trowa just closed his eyes and let it happen.
"NOOO!"
Arms flailing, feet kicking, eyes wide with terror, Quatre struggled against the blankets and the arms of Rashid and Abdule who flanked him. With a wild swing he managed to slap Abdule who recoiled just enough for Quatre to spring up and try to dive over him. But at the last possible second to freedom, Rashid's arm encircled his waist and pulled him back onto the bed, pressing him into the mattress.
Quatre's mind flashed back to the images of Trowa pressed into the dirt, the feel of that disgusting man bruising his delicate flesh, the putrid taste of the other's mouth against his, and worst of all that searing tearing pain that could only be one thing.
Struggles renewed, Quatre screamed, his fingers shaping into claws as he raked his fingernails down Rashid's arms. He twisted wildly; the fear of the memory, which he knew wasn't his, but might as well have been for the clarity, raced across his mind's eye. He'd felt Trowa's pain, understood his fears and terrors, and they were his now as well. Quatre understood first hand what it felt like to be raped, the pain, the helplessness, and the underlying shame in knowing it was all his fault, he was intimate with those feelings now, and so he struggled harder, needing to be away from them.
"LET GO OF ME!" The sound of his desperate voice bounced around the room, slamming against the walls and filling his ears with his own terror filled voice. It spurned him on, making his escape all the more desperate until his fingers were drawing blood from Rashid's arms in long rows of ripped skin.
Rashid's voice was nearly as horror filled as his own. "Quatre! Quatre you must wake up!"
But the memory of what he'd just seen threatened to overwhelm him again. As his mind darkened for the replay of that horrific scene from Trowa's life, Quatre heard Abdule calling his name in that desperate wail that meant his brother was very afraid.
So Quatre struggled against the memory of the stench of death, against the morbid thoughts of all those dead villagers and the guilt. Rashid's hands against his shoulders spurned another wave of panic though, and he struggled to get away even as he tried to convey what he needed.
"DON'T TOUCH ME! DON'T! LET ME GO, PLEASE LET ME GO!" He struggled for what seemed like forever, his body tiring against the great strength that was his Teacher. "Let me go, please, please, let me go. I don't want too! Let me go!"
The panic of what he'd seen fogged his brain, and Quatre couldn't help but relive that painful tearing sensation that could only be this thing the Maguanacs proclaimed was wonderful, that Allah Himself had designed Quatre and the others for. Against that thought, Quatre moaned, tears leaking from his eyes.
It couldn't be, it wasn't possible. Allah had made him and the others to suffer in such ways to be together. His sobs caught as the remembered pain came again, and even against Rashid's hold, he managed to bring his hands up to his face to cover his eyes. How could this be? How could Allah make them to suffer so much to be together? What he'd experienced was even worse than what the reprogrammer had described, and Quatre's hope-crushed sobs spoke his misery.
"Quatre, Quatre, I know you can hear me. Quatre I need you to answer me. Tell me what has happened, Quatre. No one will harm you, no one will hurt you." Rashid's voice was pitched low and soothing, offering Quatre the window he needed through the pain to see his Teacher.
Breathing hard, muscles tensed and ready to fight with every last ounce of strength he possessed, Quatre allowed himself to calm into that place Trowa had forced his mind and body into; that soulless state where body did not react, but mind continued to function and calculate the pain. Through this, he looked for the answers, needing to find them in the only place they could be.
Desperately, Quatre's eyes searched Rashid's, and his Teacher must have known some great battle was being decided, because he remained silent under Quatre's scrutiny, moving away from his crowding position of holding his Recruit down. Blue eyes searched gray, and through the mental dialogue, Quatre's face slowly became more and more expressive, until the tears were large and heartbreaking as they traveled down the sides of his face to be lost in the down of his hair.
With arms covered in wells of blood that dripped down to his wrist, Rashid brought his fingers up to caress Quatre's face, slightly hurt when Quatre jerked away from his touch.
Quatre felt the rejection through the skin on skin contact, but it couldn't answer the question that banged around in his head, demanding answers that only one of their kind could give. In the last second, Quatre realized Rashid wouldn't know the answer, he'd never been in that kind of position.
Muscles exhausted, but eyes still wide with hidden fear, Quatre turned his head towards Abdule and beseeched his brother with his eyes.
"Quatre, whatever it is, you know I'll help you. You don't have to be afraid, no matter what it is, you know I'll be there for you, always." Abdule shifted forward, about to lay his hand on Quatre's knee, but the very thought of it brought back the feelings and emotions full force, until Quatre had to pull away from them both, shifting into the pillows until his back hit the backboard. "Oh, Quatre."
But he just shook his head, ducking away from Abdule's searching red eyes, and Rashid's worried and helpless look. Neither one looked like the men who had hurt Trowa, neither acted like them either. He knew that Rashid and Abdule were...intimate--the details having just been explained to him though Trowa's desecration. But could that be all there was too it? Was it possible that it was always so horrible? Did men just learn to deal with the pain? Trowa'd felt no pleasure, only that dissecting pain that blackened the vision and made you wish for death. What if that was all he had to look forward to in this new life he'd agreed to live? What if the best he could hope for was to find someone he could love without the physical?
He had to know! He had to find out!
"Abdule," empowered by Quatre's use of his name, Abdule perked up and shifted closer, "is it ever...does it ever not...I just don't understand." His last statement was a wail, and he buried his head against his knees as he pulled them up to his chest. How could he ask such a question? How would he even begin? Through the muffle of his confusion, Quatre could hear Abdule shifting around, debating whether or not to push the issue.
What was he supposed to do? If what Trowa had experienced was real, how could he ever willingly do that? It was a thousand times worse than what the reprogrammer had said, the guilt, the pain, the knowledge that it was all his fault. All his...fault.
Suddenly, Quatre sat up, his eyes seeking and finding Rashid's even as he began to nearly yell his panicked demands. "Trowa! I have to talk to Trowa! Rashid, you have to find him for me, you have to get him and bring him to me! I have to talk to him; he's the only one that can tell me! He's the only one with the answers! Rashid, please, please, I need Trowa!"
Any doubt about his sincerity was immediately vanquished by the crazed look upon him, and Rashid must have understood because he rose immediately and moved to the other room. The indecision was written across Abdule's face but he rose as well, following Rashid into the other room to make the call to Ralph and Trowa.
Breathing hard, Quatre inched his way across the bed, mindful of the scattered sheets and droplets of Rashid's blood. As his feet touched the ground they buckled and he just barely managed to catch himself on the edge of the bed. One hand came up to his eyes and he rubbed them, trying to eliminate the images he'd received. It wasn't supposed to be like that, it couldn't be. Rashid loved Abdule, and vise versa, neither one would ever hurt the other like that, never!
Maybe there was some hidden way to do it, some trick that those bastards hadn't know to making Trowa enjoy it. Maybe it was different when you loved the other person, something like his own empathy that allowed the one on top to pass on the good feelings to the one on the bottom?
Or maybe there wasn't anything? Maybe it was like that every time, and Abdule and Rashid had just learned to ignore the pain? No! That wasn't possible! Quatre stood, the overwhelming need to cover his own bottom nearly a compulsion. No, it wasn't possible to ignore that kind of pain.
He hadn't taken two shaky steps towards the door when the emotions hit him. Half a second later he was across the room, stepping through the doorway and hearing something that threatened to shatter what remained of his sanity.
"Rashid, thank Allah you called. Trowa's run. He left a note thanking me for being kind to him. I don't know where he went. Security teams are looking for him right now, and the whole camp's broken into smaller teams. I searched the tent, but nothing was taken, just the things he came with. I don't know how he's planning on getting off the colony but he's good Rashid, too good, he'll find a way. We have to stop him! I know he's been agitated since the council gave him his placement, and he told me the other day that he thought everyone was watching him. He's not well enough for this, Rashid, we have to find him!" Ralph's face took up the entire screen. Pale and wide eyes, the man looked half crazed to find his Recruit, to find Trowa.
"He ran." Rashid said quietly, his mind working over this new piece of information. "Can you think of any reason he would try to leave, Ralph, any reason at all? You said he seemed agitated about the placement--"
"No," Quatre interrupted, and all eyes focused on him as he entered the room fully. His voice was airy, the sound almost dreamy, and indeed, Quatre suddenly felt half-awake. How he knew he couldn't say, but for some reason, he felt Trowa's emotions very clearly, as if they were a part of his own. "The placement doesn't bother him. That sort of thing would never bother Trowa. It's the eyes the bother him, the eyes that see."
"Eyes that see? Quatre, what do you mean? Did Trowa talk to you? Did he say he was going to try and leave? Quatre you can tell me, I want what's best for him, you know that. He's my Recruit, I'd do anything to make sure he's happy and healthy--"
How he knew, he'd never really know. Suddenly the knowledge was in his head and his voice gave life to it, knowing it was true.
"You...he kissed you. He kissed you and you let him. You were kind and gentle, not like the others. For the first time ever, he wanted it to happen again. You did that." Quatre looked up, the disbelief hanging thick in his voice as he locked eyes with Ralph. "You made him feel something good. It was sweet and kind, and it was so full of promise, promise that there'd be more sweetness, more hope. It didn't hurt like the others--or taste like blood and something long dead.
"But he kissed you, and then the placement came. Three paths, three different ones. And then the eyes started. Everyone looking at him, everyone watching him to find out what was so special about a boy with AIDS and blood on his hands. Eyes in the camps, eyes in the classrooms, eyes in the places where there was no Teacher to protect him." Quatre moved forward, almost stalking Ralph's picture on the vid. "You started this with one kiss, one thing that was good and physical all at the same time. You started it, and now there are others watching him, thinking how sweet he looks, how yummy he could be. Five against one isn't a problem, but ten, ninety-eight, how could he ever hope to escape that many when they come for him?" He shook his head, wanting to shake out the emotions that were flooding his system. Trowa was so afraid, so terrified. He couldn't defend himself on a tiny little colony built for 10,000, he couldn't protect them on a floating hunk of metal in the middle of outer space. He needed to get them to safety--he had to protect them.
Under the onslaught, Quarter's knees once again buckled and he fell to the carpet, unmindful of Abdule as he came to check on him. Hands over his heart, Quatre rocked back and forth, humming lightly to himself. Something about Trowa leaving was so terrifying, so heart stopping that he felt like a part of him was being ripped away the further Trowa got from him. His heart and mind ached, and some distant part of him knew, without a doubt, that should Trowa leave the colony without him, he'd never fully recover.
"Quatre! Quatre! Can you hear me, Quatre?!" It was Rashid, and while the giant's voice was still pitched low, there was a resounding sound of worry that hadn't been there before. The note shocked Quatre enough to look up. In his Teacher's eyes he saw real fear, fear for Quatre and fear that through Trowa, he'd lose Quatre anyway.
Leaning forward, Quatre stopped inches from Rashid's face. "Find him, Rashid. Find him and bring him to me. More than you, more than anyone else, I have to see him. Bring Trowa back to me, Rashid, or there won't be anything for you to come back to at all." The words flew from his heart to his mouth, bypassing his brain all together. But he didn't care what he said anymore, the ache in his heart was growing, and the panic was starting to settle in.
"GO, RASHID!" He suddenly screamed, causing his Teacher to reel backwards. "Take Abdule with you, take them all with you! Find my Trowa, find him and bring him back to me! Everything hinges on his return! Fail to find him, and all will be lost!" His voice cracked, and with a shudder, Quatre collapsed in on himself, shaking violently and rocking back and forth. Trowa couldn't leave him, Trowa couldn't go away without him, he'd die without Trowa!
"Quatre, let me stay with you. Rashid and the others can search for Trowa, but let me stay." The desperation was thick in Abdule's pleading, but his brother's presence was too much.
"No, go with them, Abdule. You know his pain, you've been through it before. You'll be the one to find him, I know you will." And he did. Somehow, Quatre knew Abdule would be the one to find Trowa. "You are in his mind even when you're with Rashid, because you share the same guilt. Find him for me, Abdule, bring him back to your brother, or you will have no brother to come back too."
"Quatre--"
"Abdule," Rashid's voice was full of authority. "Quatre is trying to tell us something, even if he does not know what it is. You are the key to finding Trowa, and for Quatre, we must find him. I do not believe this is a bluff. This has something to do with the strangeness that follows the both of them. We must find Trowa, or as Quatre has said, we will lose the both of them."
With senses that barely felt past the pain of separation, Quatre watched Abdule struggle with what to do, but in the end, he rose, followed by Rashid. The two moved to the door, but Rashid quickly detoured, grabbing a blanket off the sofa and coming back to wrap it about Quatre's shoulders.
"We will find him, Quatre, and I will bring him back to you. I do not understand this strange connection the two of you share, but I know enough to understand that this is Allah's work. Rest now, Quatre, we will bring him back to you."
Without any form of acceptance, Quatre tightened the quilt around his shoulders before tipping onto his side and curling into a tight ball on the floor. He continued to hum, a song he'd heard a very long time ago. He'd been in a hunger dream, when a tall boy had come to him, playing a beautiful flute. This was the song he'd played to ease his hunger, and while he'd forgotten it a long time ago, the notes drifted into his brain exactly when he needed them.
The fight had been short and bloody. Not one of the villagers had survived, he knew, he'd checked. Men women, children, it hadn't mattered, maybe it still didn't but he felt guilty, and it was something he definitely didn't want to feel.
The victory celebration was winding down, and with its closing he was trying more and more to inch towards the shadows. He'd set his tent up a hundred yards or so from the others, and he was banking on them being too drunk and high to notice where he'd gone.
Alanzo had traded with him, a few food rations for three hits of L-17 Joy; normally the trade would have been ridiculous, but the old man knew how he'd suffer this night if he couldn't get away so he'd done what he could.
It was enough.
The smoke from the razing was still thick in the air, reflecting the floodlights back to the large jeeps armed with machine guns and a few rocket launchers. Burning bodies polluted the air but he ignored it all-- or maybe not ignored, just chose not to think about it. Ash was heavy under his feet, masking the sound of his footfalls as his steel-toed boots navigated what remained of the once peaceful village. The tree line wasn't thick, but he wasn't a very wide person.
When the jeering quieted and the only thing he thought had followed him were the angry souls of the dead, he ducked into the center of a tree whose trunk had split long ago into two separate beings sharing a common beginning and ending.
He felt almost safe surrounded by the wood and scratchy bark. With his back to the makeshift camp, he brought the syringe to up to the moon's light to examine the tube. A few quick flicks of his finger popped the air bubbles that could stop his heart, and with a last desperate sigh, he closed his eyes and inserted the needle into his left arm. The wave of weightlessness fanned out from his arm all the way through his body. Vision black, head fuzzy, the drug raced through his system shutting down everything that wasn't absolutely necessary to keep him alive--and a few that just might have been. But he didn't care. Nothing mattered but this blissful feeling of nothingness, in fact, the madness of the dead spirits floating around him, the hatred for the people he was told to call family, all disappeared in the cloud of nothingness that invaded his senses.
Slowly, under the weight of a dose high enough to damage, but not high enough to kill, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he felt the world shift away as he slipped into oblivion. But at the last moment he did struggle, with everything he was, because as the wave of darkness rose to encompass him, he heard the sound of branches under steel-toed boots, and he knew they were out there looking for him.
Hours or years later, the feeling of his skin ripping told him he was in a lot of trouble. The pain didn't flood his brain though, instead it was more the knowledge of the pain, the understanding that his body was suffering greatly, and under the influence of his own demise, he could do nothing to prevent it.
His body tore the other way and even against the effects of the drug, he felt a twinge of pain. Against his better judgement, against every instinct he possessed, he forced every ounce of strength he had left in a body that felt like led, to open his eyes and see what was happening.
The sight instantly killed his high so that the tearing pain flooded his senses. But by then the pain was too great, his body to drained by it to defend himself.
The man directly above him, holding his shoulders into the dirt and rock of the forest floor laughed down at him; spit spraying across his face. Those beefy fingers dug into his shoulder bones, and he knew they'd bruise later into perfect handprints.
"Estaban, looky here. The bitch finally decided to grace us with his presence."
Head spinning wildly, pain racing across his body, he felt a sudden jab of pain before another face reared into his view. Covered in sweat and the dried blood of those he'd killed that day, Estaban grinned down at him with his nearly toothless smile. "Just relax, bitch, I know you like it rough." And with that, Estaban shifted away before pushing forward again, this time, pulling down to roughly kiss him, savagely biting his lip and drawing blood.
It was then he knew what was happening. Expertly covered panic flooded his body as Estaban pulled away and he got the first look at his surroundings.
They'd brought one of the jeeps after him. The floodlights were aimed right at him, and only Estaban's now wildly pumping body was blocking the full out effects of that light. But around Estaban, he could see the others, each waiting his turn, some patient, others fighting amongst themselves on who'd be next. He saw the flash of metal as two of them drew knives to decide and the sight caused him to close his eyes even as that warm disgusting flood of liquid filled his cavity and Estaban groaned above him.
His face was neutral, but his teeth ground together as the mercenary withdrew, the removal allowing the blood and seamen to ooze from his body. But at the last minute, before the man who'd won the knife fight could take his place, Estaban leaned down and faced him, his head illuminated by the floodlights. His breath was putrid as he breathed down on him.
"Ya can run all you want, hide in all the best places, but we're still gonna find you, and ya wanna know why? Because by the tenth man, we can see the fight die from yer eyes, and that's the greatest part of the fuck. Now be a good boy, and spread yer legs, bitch. Spread'm real wide Trowa, daddy's coming home to play!"
When the next man took his place, Trowa just closed his eyes and let it happen.
"NOOO!"
Arms flailing, feet kicking, eyes wide with terror, Quatre struggled against the blankets and the arms of Rashid and Abdule who flanked him. With a wild swing he managed to slap Abdule who recoiled just enough for Quatre to spring up and try to dive over him. But at the last possible second to freedom, Rashid's arm encircled his waist and pulled him back onto the bed, pressing him into the mattress.
Quatre's mind flashed back to the images of Trowa pressed into the dirt, the feel of that disgusting man bruising his delicate flesh, the putrid taste of the other's mouth against his, and worst of all that searing tearing pain that could only be one thing.
Struggles renewed, Quatre screamed, his fingers shaping into claws as he raked his fingernails down Rashid's arms. He twisted wildly; the fear of the memory, which he knew wasn't his, but might as well have been for the clarity, raced across his mind's eye. He'd felt Trowa's pain, understood his fears and terrors, and they were his now as well. Quatre understood first hand what it felt like to be raped, the pain, the helplessness, and the underlying shame in knowing it was all his fault, he was intimate with those feelings now, and so he struggled harder, needing to be away from them.
"LET GO OF ME!" The sound of his desperate voice bounced around the room, slamming against the walls and filling his ears with his own terror filled voice. It spurned him on, making his escape all the more desperate until his fingers were drawing blood from Rashid's arms in long rows of ripped skin.
Rashid's voice was nearly as horror filled as his own. "Quatre! Quatre you must wake up!"
But the memory of what he'd just seen threatened to overwhelm him again. As his mind darkened for the replay of that horrific scene from Trowa's life, Quatre heard Abdule calling his name in that desperate wail that meant his brother was very afraid.
So Quatre struggled against the memory of the stench of death, against the morbid thoughts of all those dead villagers and the guilt. Rashid's hands against his shoulders spurned another wave of panic though, and he struggled to get away even as he tried to convey what he needed.
"DON'T TOUCH ME! DON'T! LET ME GO, PLEASE LET ME GO!" He struggled for what seemed like forever, his body tiring against the great strength that was his Teacher. "Let me go, please, please, let me go. I don't want too! Let me go!"
The panic of what he'd seen fogged his brain, and Quatre couldn't help but relive that painful tearing sensation that could only be this thing the Maguanacs proclaimed was wonderful, that Allah Himself had designed Quatre and the others for. Against that thought, Quatre moaned, tears leaking from his eyes.
It couldn't be, it wasn't possible. Allah had made him and the others to suffer in such ways to be together. His sobs caught as the remembered pain came again, and even against Rashid's hold, he managed to bring his hands up to his face to cover his eyes. How could this be? How could Allah make them to suffer so much to be together? What he'd experienced was even worse than what the reprogrammer had described, and Quatre's hope-crushed sobs spoke his misery.
"Quatre, Quatre, I know you can hear me. Quatre I need you to answer me. Tell me what has happened, Quatre. No one will harm you, no one will hurt you." Rashid's voice was pitched low and soothing, offering Quatre the window he needed through the pain to see his Teacher.
Breathing hard, muscles tensed and ready to fight with every last ounce of strength he possessed, Quatre allowed himself to calm into that place Trowa had forced his mind and body into; that soulless state where body did not react, but mind continued to function and calculate the pain. Through this, he looked for the answers, needing to find them in the only place they could be.
Desperately, Quatre's eyes searched Rashid's, and his Teacher must have known some great battle was being decided, because he remained silent under Quatre's scrutiny, moving away from his crowding position of holding his Recruit down. Blue eyes searched gray, and through the mental dialogue, Quatre's face slowly became more and more expressive, until the tears were large and heartbreaking as they traveled down the sides of his face to be lost in the down of his hair.
With arms covered in wells of blood that dripped down to his wrist, Rashid brought his fingers up to caress Quatre's face, slightly hurt when Quatre jerked away from his touch.
Quatre felt the rejection through the skin on skin contact, but it couldn't answer the question that banged around in his head, demanding answers that only one of their kind could give. In the last second, Quatre realized Rashid wouldn't know the answer, he'd never been in that kind of position.
Muscles exhausted, but eyes still wide with hidden fear, Quatre turned his head towards Abdule and beseeched his brother with his eyes.
"Quatre, whatever it is, you know I'll help you. You don't have to be afraid, no matter what it is, you know I'll be there for you, always." Abdule shifted forward, about to lay his hand on Quatre's knee, but the very thought of it brought back the feelings and emotions full force, until Quatre had to pull away from them both, shifting into the pillows until his back hit the backboard. "Oh, Quatre."
But he just shook his head, ducking away from Abdule's searching red eyes, and Rashid's worried and helpless look. Neither one looked like the men who had hurt Trowa, neither acted like them either. He knew that Rashid and Abdule were...intimate--the details having just been explained to him though Trowa's desecration. But could that be all there was too it? Was it possible that it was always so horrible? Did men just learn to deal with the pain? Trowa'd felt no pleasure, only that dissecting pain that blackened the vision and made you wish for death. What if that was all he had to look forward to in this new life he'd agreed to live? What if the best he could hope for was to find someone he could love without the physical?
He had to know! He had to find out!
"Abdule," empowered by Quatre's use of his name, Abdule perked up and shifted closer, "is it ever...does it ever not...I just don't understand." His last statement was a wail, and he buried his head against his knees as he pulled them up to his chest. How could he ask such a question? How would he even begin? Through the muffle of his confusion, Quatre could hear Abdule shifting around, debating whether or not to push the issue.
What was he supposed to do? If what Trowa had experienced was real, how could he ever willingly do that? It was a thousand times worse than what the reprogrammer had said, the guilt, the pain, the knowledge that it was all his fault. All his...fault.
Suddenly, Quatre sat up, his eyes seeking and finding Rashid's even as he began to nearly yell his panicked demands. "Trowa! I have to talk to Trowa! Rashid, you have to find him for me, you have to get him and bring him to me! I have to talk to him; he's the only one that can tell me! He's the only one with the answers! Rashid, please, please, I need Trowa!"
Any doubt about his sincerity was immediately vanquished by the crazed look upon him, and Rashid must have understood because he rose immediately and moved to the other room. The indecision was written across Abdule's face but he rose as well, following Rashid into the other room to make the call to Ralph and Trowa.
Breathing hard, Quatre inched his way across the bed, mindful of the scattered sheets and droplets of Rashid's blood. As his feet touched the ground they buckled and he just barely managed to catch himself on the edge of the bed. One hand came up to his eyes and he rubbed them, trying to eliminate the images he'd received. It wasn't supposed to be like that, it couldn't be. Rashid loved Abdule, and vise versa, neither one would ever hurt the other like that, never!
Maybe there was some hidden way to do it, some trick that those bastards hadn't know to making Trowa enjoy it. Maybe it was different when you loved the other person, something like his own empathy that allowed the one on top to pass on the good feelings to the one on the bottom?
Or maybe there wasn't anything? Maybe it was like that every time, and Abdule and Rashid had just learned to ignore the pain? No! That wasn't possible! Quatre stood, the overwhelming need to cover his own bottom nearly a compulsion. No, it wasn't possible to ignore that kind of pain.
He hadn't taken two shaky steps towards the door when the emotions hit him. Half a second later he was across the room, stepping through the doorway and hearing something that threatened to shatter what remained of his sanity.
"Rashid, thank Allah you called. Trowa's run. He left a note thanking me for being kind to him. I don't know where he went. Security teams are looking for him right now, and the whole camp's broken into smaller teams. I searched the tent, but nothing was taken, just the things he came with. I don't know how he's planning on getting off the colony but he's good Rashid, too good, he'll find a way. We have to stop him! I know he's been agitated since the council gave him his placement, and he told me the other day that he thought everyone was watching him. He's not well enough for this, Rashid, we have to find him!" Ralph's face took up the entire screen. Pale and wide eyes, the man looked half crazed to find his Recruit, to find Trowa.
"He ran." Rashid said quietly, his mind working over this new piece of information. "Can you think of any reason he would try to leave, Ralph, any reason at all? You said he seemed agitated about the placement--"
"No," Quatre interrupted, and all eyes focused on him as he entered the room fully. His voice was airy, the sound almost dreamy, and indeed, Quatre suddenly felt half-awake. How he knew he couldn't say, but for some reason, he felt Trowa's emotions very clearly, as if they were a part of his own. "The placement doesn't bother him. That sort of thing would never bother Trowa. It's the eyes the bother him, the eyes that see."
"Eyes that see? Quatre, what do you mean? Did Trowa talk to you? Did he say he was going to try and leave? Quatre you can tell me, I want what's best for him, you know that. He's my Recruit, I'd do anything to make sure he's happy and healthy--"
How he knew, he'd never really know. Suddenly the knowledge was in his head and his voice gave life to it, knowing it was true.
"You...he kissed you. He kissed you and you let him. You were kind and gentle, not like the others. For the first time ever, he wanted it to happen again. You did that." Quatre looked up, the disbelief hanging thick in his voice as he locked eyes with Ralph. "You made him feel something good. It was sweet and kind, and it was so full of promise, promise that there'd be more sweetness, more hope. It didn't hurt like the others--or taste like blood and something long dead.
"But he kissed you, and then the placement came. Three paths, three different ones. And then the eyes started. Everyone looking at him, everyone watching him to find out what was so special about a boy with AIDS and blood on his hands. Eyes in the camps, eyes in the classrooms, eyes in the places where there was no Teacher to protect him." Quatre moved forward, almost stalking Ralph's picture on the vid. "You started this with one kiss, one thing that was good and physical all at the same time. You started it, and now there are others watching him, thinking how sweet he looks, how yummy he could be. Five against one isn't a problem, but ten, ninety-eight, how could he ever hope to escape that many when they come for him?" He shook his head, wanting to shake out the emotions that were flooding his system. Trowa was so afraid, so terrified. He couldn't defend himself on a tiny little colony built for 10,000, he couldn't protect them on a floating hunk of metal in the middle of outer space. He needed to get them to safety--he had to protect them.
Under the onslaught, Quarter's knees once again buckled and he fell to the carpet, unmindful of Abdule as he came to check on him. Hands over his heart, Quatre rocked back and forth, humming lightly to himself. Something about Trowa leaving was so terrifying, so heart stopping that he felt like a part of him was being ripped away the further Trowa got from him. His heart and mind ached, and some distant part of him knew, without a doubt, that should Trowa leave the colony without him, he'd never fully recover.
"Quatre! Quatre! Can you hear me, Quatre?!" It was Rashid, and while the giant's voice was still pitched low, there was a resounding sound of worry that hadn't been there before. The note shocked Quatre enough to look up. In his Teacher's eyes he saw real fear, fear for Quatre and fear that through Trowa, he'd lose Quatre anyway.
Leaning forward, Quatre stopped inches from Rashid's face. "Find him, Rashid. Find him and bring him to me. More than you, more than anyone else, I have to see him. Bring Trowa back to me, Rashid, or there won't be anything for you to come back to at all." The words flew from his heart to his mouth, bypassing his brain all together. But he didn't care what he said anymore, the ache in his heart was growing, and the panic was starting to settle in.
"GO, RASHID!" He suddenly screamed, causing his Teacher to reel backwards. "Take Abdule with you, take them all with you! Find my Trowa, find him and bring him back to me! Everything hinges on his return! Fail to find him, and all will be lost!" His voice cracked, and with a shudder, Quatre collapsed in on himself, shaking violently and rocking back and forth. Trowa couldn't leave him, Trowa couldn't go away without him, he'd die without Trowa!
"Quatre, let me stay with you. Rashid and the others can search for Trowa, but let me stay." The desperation was thick in Abdule's pleading, but his brother's presence was too much.
"No, go with them, Abdule. You know his pain, you've been through it before. You'll be the one to find him, I know you will." And he did. Somehow, Quatre knew Abdule would be the one to find Trowa. "You are in his mind even when you're with Rashid, because you share the same guilt. Find him for me, Abdule, bring him back to your brother, or you will have no brother to come back too."
"Quatre--"
"Abdule," Rashid's voice was full of authority. "Quatre is trying to tell us something, even if he does not know what it is. You are the key to finding Trowa, and for Quatre, we must find him. I do not believe this is a bluff. This has something to do with the strangeness that follows the both of them. We must find Trowa, or as Quatre has said, we will lose the both of them."
With senses that barely felt past the pain of separation, Quatre watched Abdule struggle with what to do, but in the end, he rose, followed by Rashid. The two moved to the door, but Rashid quickly detoured, grabbing a blanket off the sofa and coming back to wrap it about Quatre's shoulders.
"We will find him, Quatre, and I will bring him back to you. I do not understand this strange connection the two of you share, but I know enough to understand that this is Allah's work. Rest now, Quatre, we will bring him back to you."
Without any form of acceptance, Quatre tightened the quilt around his shoulders before tipping onto his side and curling into a tight ball on the floor. He continued to hum, a song he'd heard a very long time ago. He'd been in a hunger dream, when a tall boy had come to him, playing a beautiful flute. This was the song he'd played to ease his hunger, and while he'd forgotten it a long time ago, the notes drifted into his brain exactly when he needed them.