Shrapnel 3/3 (final version)
21 Dec 2005 06:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kaigouShorter than I'd expected, but I decided I liked ending it at this point. I guess if you're not used to reading seriously between the lines, this section may irritate the hell out of you. I'm a bit uncertain about it myself, but hell, it gets the job done for me. Now we wait to see if the recipient wants to kick my ass for it; if she doesn't, good to go.
Includes previous scenes posted, in FINAL version.
--------------
III. January, AC 216
It was the sort of night that Quatre regretted living in the desert; he wanted snow, like he remembered from the war, in Siberia. He wanted the land draped in white, glimmering in the darkness, sleeping, quiescent, waiting. Perhaps if he'd known, he wouldn't have let Heero jibe him into attending Relena's function; perhaps if he'd known, he wouldn't have felt adrift at the corners of bejeweled attendants; perhaps if he'd known, he would have lingered by the door, and slipped away.
And perhaps not knowing let the sudden embrace of winter's depths become a rare pleasure. There was, after all, so much planned in his life, settled, circumscribed by meetings and deadlines and functions like these. Quatre raised a glass to Relena and Wufei as they passed, and bent his head to listen to the representative from Kenya, whispering into his ear about trade agreements. If only Quatre could drop a word on her behalf, with the right people...
And then the only right person was standing there, taking Quatre's champagne glass with a sly smile, that hint of a curve at the corner of his lips. Trowa sipped the champagne, and made a politely surprised face at the delicate flavor before handing the glass back.
Quatre couldn't remember what else the representative might have said in those few seconds. He only knew that he had woken to a world where all recognizable landmarks had been buried by snowfall, and if he stepped out into it, his might be the first footsteps. Or, perhaps—and he stared at his champagne, critically, wondering how many glasses he'd had—the truth was that it was Trowa's footsteps that might change Quatre's landscape, forever.
9pm
"Only for the next three weeks," Trowa murmured, frowning a little at the canapés. "Can anyone actually make a meal out of these?" He paused, and flicked a smile towards Quatre. "Let me guess—Duo."
Quatre laughed. "Took the words right out of my mouth."
"Sometimes I can't see how Heero puts up with him."
"He's mellowed." Quatre shrugged. "They both have."
Trowa's smile grew mischievous. "Are we too old to set off firecrackers under the podium?"
"We're too old to be interrogated by Preventers half our age. Besides, Relena would kill us."
"Perhaps." Trowa glanced away from Quatre's curious look. "I signed for an apartment last week. I'm still recovering from the shock."
An apartment. Quatre nodded, swallowed another cucumber sandwich, and cast about for an answer. A dozen things occurred, but the truth was that each glance from Trowa reminded him only of the feel of skin, a soft gasp, a moaned cry of yes, quiet pleading. Images in the dark overlaid the party's glitter; the brilliant crystal lighting softened the edges from harsh angles, but not so much that Quatre could feign blindness. His mind's eye saw all too well.
"The hardest part wasn't settling visitation or custody rights." Trowa fingered a slice of apple before popping it into his mouth. "It was breaking up the music collection, and trying to decide who got which wedding gifts."
Quatre opted for a neutral tone. "I wouldn't have guessed. Whose wedding gifts to whom?"
"A few were used, of course." Trowa's glance became amused; Quatre had given them a two-week honeymoon in Cairo. "But Lisa insisted she wanted the paintings Relena gave us."
"The Allen triptych?"
"Lisa hated those." Trowa shrugged. "We lugged them from place to place, and they always ended up in the attic, stored neatly. In case Relena ever came to visit, I was told." He chuckled, but it was a bittersweet sound. "She wanted so many things, and in the end, I guess I let her have more than I should've."
"Should," Quatre noted. "Who's keeping score?" He turned to watch Relena and Wufei, waltzing across the floor, weaving amongst other couples without even looking. How was it that Relena and Wufei, or Heero and Duo—the most quarrelsome couples he could name—could have lasted so long?
"Sadie, actually. She's fussed at me a number of times for giving in to Lisa." Trowa moved to lean against the wall, half-hiding behind an oversized planter filled with wintertime greenery. "But I understand."
Quatre had to take a minute, before he understood what Trowa meant: it was there in the sideways glance, the sorrowful look tinged with regret and clarity. Lisa wanted their belongings, all that had defined them, all that made up Trowa's everyday world. She would live with the substitute. Quatre stared down at his hands. He knew the emptiness.
"I'm sorry," he said, and looked away, embarrassed. "For the record, I'm—"
"I regret nothing." Trowa's glance was steady, and too sharp to be melancholy. "Do you?"
"I..." Quatre paused, thought of the days after Trowa had left.
He'd spent a day staring at the walls, certain he'd hated himself for what he'd done. Then he'd called his best friend, and simply said, Trowa came to visit. Heero had said nothing for several minutes, until finally: you had sex with him. Quatre couldn't reply, and that was answer enough for Heero; and the echoes of that compassionate silence, if uneasy, echoed down through the months. Trowa came to visit; no need to complete it: and then he left.
Quatre realized Trowa was studying him, one eyebrow slightly arched, waiting, and he shook his head. "I can't say I regret many things. Not in the past ten years, at least." There were older regrets he would never lose; one night paled in comparison.
"Relena is trying to get your attention," Trowa murmured. "Go on, be the good host."
"You're abandoning me," Quatre retorted, meaning to tease, but the words fell flat in the space between them.
"That depends entirely on your point of view." And as always, Trowa's words could have every meaning or none.
Quatre could only smile, and go to Relena's side, to greet the dignitaries she wished him to meet.
10pm
Quatre bowed to his dance partner, his diplomat's smile in place, and left her with her escort to roam the massive ballroom. Formal gowns and old war medals gleamed from every corner of his sight, and somehow it was no surprise to find Trowa at his shoulder.
"Sometimes," he whispered, and Quatre had to close his eyes, but then he could taste Trowa's skin, "I am quite glad the majority of these people consider me a scum-sucking bottom-dweller."
The comment was so unexpected, Quatre turned with a choking laugh. "I hardly think that's—" But his words dropped away at the sight of Trowa carefully licking a pointed tongue over a slice of orange, then angling his wrist to catch the line of juice running down his thumb. When Trowa finally ate the orange, Quatre smiled, and took a full glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter. "I doubt that's what they're thinking," he said, hoping the moment had passed and wishing it had lasted all night.
"Really?" Trowa arched one eyebrow, stepping back from the edge of the dance floor into an alcove. "Three people have recognized me already."
"If word's gotten out about your marital situation, they may actually be sizing you up as son-in-law material," Quatre commented. He chuckled and sipped the champagne; it wet his lips but his throat was dry. "At least, I suspect this is what Relena may tell you."
"She already has, and no, we've hardly publicized it." Trowa shrugged. "Who would care?"
I do, Quatre wanted to say, and, we all do. But he didn't; it went without saying, he hoped. "Paparazzi," he finally managed. "We are still heroes, last I heard."
"The fact that I don't train top agents and bodyguards from around the Earth Sphere puts me lower on their priority list." Trowa's jab at Heero and Duo made Quatre grin, and Trowa shook his head. "I push papers. I'm not exciting any more."
"How much have you had to drink? Wufei is the maudlin drunk amongst us."
"No." Trowa blinked, and gave Quatre a crooked smile, but his gaze was distant. "That is, very little drink, actually."
"You're still exciting," Quatre whispered, but mostly to his drink. He didn't know if Trowa had heard him.
11pm
In all his years, he'd always noted every detail. It wasn't, as Heero had once remarked in that flat observant way of his, because of ZERO. It was, Quatre had finally realized, simply something drilled into him from birth. A guest's thirst, the placement of a wine glass, the right accent for an unfamiliar word, the tone of voice, the angle of a hand, everything with myriad meanings. Once someone, perhaps one of the Maganacs, had suggested he had a skill almost uncanny in its intuitiveness, and while still a young man, he'd liked to play that up.
The truth, though, was that he'd been trained not as a soldier but as a businessman, though in many ways since then he'd learned the two were not that dissimilar. So he didn't even pause when Trowa's glances grew longer, a certain silence, a shift in weight. He could read it easily, even if he no longer paid attention enough to dissect the reaction.
"Long night," he began, testing.
"Days and days." Trowa's smile was immediate, quicksilver, gone. "I'm afraid it looks as though I've been talked into visiting Relena and Wufei while I'm in the country."
"Afraid?" It was easier to play the diplomat, and assess wit where perhaps none was meant. Quatre was tired, himself, and he'd begun to feel it as the night wore on, but he refused to think of it. That might bring words to his lips, and he'd learned long ago of the pointlessness. It achieved nothing—a true nothing, of an empty bed, a gap in space, the negative of won't you please stay awhile? and I want to be your friend and the whispered parting of a door closing on its hinges, footfalls in sand scattered soon by the wind. Perhaps he was afraid, but he'd done it to himself.
"Babysitting," Trowa's voice called him back from his melancholy.
"I'll see you to the door." Quatre put on a smile, and knew it didn't fit perfectly.
"What manners. How did you know—" Trowa's voice took on a silky, teasing dryness— "I'm ready for my coat?"
There were many things to say. Quatre settled for, "I'm the consummate host."
"Ah. Of course."
At the door, Trowa accepted his coat with a smile to the young girl behind the desk, and she fluttered and flushed, bobbing her head with a "it's nothing, really" and to Quatre, it was nothing. The taste of nothing in his mouth, no skin, no sweat, no sweet sourness. Until Trowa turned and smiled, and jerked his head toward the door.
"My coat, too, please," Quatre told the girl, not even looking at her. If he did, she'd see him laid bare; perhaps the thudding in his heart bore out over the swish and sway of the waltz playing, endlessly, in the grand ballroom. Wufei and Relena, turning eternal circles with eyes and lips only for each other, and he envied that. He accepted his coat, and the help putting it on, and joined Trowa at the door.
"It's such a beautiful night," Trowa murmured, and held the door open for Quatre. "Perhaps I should have apologized to Wufei and Relena for stealing you away."
"I'm sure they wouldn't mind." Quatre chuckled. "They're dancing again."
"They're very good at it."
"Heero taught Wufei. It was a very hard three weeks," Quatre recalled. Then he remembered that had been when Trowa had been in school, distant short emails, never coming to visit, and he clenched his fists in his pockets. "I feel," he said, almost under his breath, "as though I'm walking a tightrope."
"The secret is to never look down." Trowa frowned, slightly, then shrugged. "And don't fall. The second was the more useful of the advice, actually."
"I'll keep that in mind." Quatre brought out his hand, not sure if he should call for a cab. His apartment was within walking distance; the downtown lights glowed in the city's winter blue. He recalled the door where Trowa stood, the angle of Trowa's body against the wall, steps across carpet, and could see it again, wanted it again.
"No, I've got it," Trowa replied. A cab pulled up, and Trowa opened the door; he stood in the way, turning to face Quatre with a sad smile. "I appreciate you walking me out here. It's been hard to hear all night with that incessant music so loud."
I appreciate it, Quatre echoed, and somehow the smile stayed on his face. "Of course." He wanted to say, anything, but the word came out, "any time."
"Perhaps I'll see you again soon." Trowa stared down at the sidewalk, then away, studying the gilded building behind them. He glanced at Quatre, mouth open as if words might fall but there were none. Then he got into the cab, pulled the door shut, and the cab drove away.
Quatre watched until the taillights had disappeared around the corner, fading into a sea of red and yellow lights on a Saturday evening in the desert. Then he began to laugh, at himself, at everything, because there was nothing else he could do. He wished for snow, and imagined Trowa's foot prints, and knew they would change him forever, yet those empty spaces would be all he'd ever have.
12am
The apartment was dark, and Quatre shucked off his dress coat, throwing it over the back of the sofa. Then his bow tie, and halfway through unbuttoning his shirt he grew frustrated and tore it off, yanking viciously at the cuffs. Perhaps if he'd known, he wouldn't have collapsed into the chair and ran rough fingers through his hair; the night's humidity had curled the straying ends and he cursed himself for a fool.
There was no point in calling Heero; besides, it was four in the morning their time. Quatre chuckled, and got up, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, shirt still hanging loosely off his body. He wrestled with it in the kitchen, and dumped it on the floor, kicking it for good measure. Then he took a long swig of whiskey from the bottle, and wiped his mouth. Heat ran through him, and he undid his belt, throwing it on the floor as well. In the dining room, he toed off both shoes, then stripped off his socks, leaving only his undershirt and his tuxedo slacks.
At least no one had ever said he wasn't an idealist, but he'd done his best for so long to hide his romantic streak. He held the bottle loosely between two fingers, and stared down at the city, hand splayed against the glass. The first time he'd met Lisa, he'd wanted to hate her, be jealous, but in fact, he couldn't, he never had. He'd studied her, instead, wondering what she'd done or said or had, that he didn't, that made Trowa stay. Quatre laughed at himself, took another sip of whiskey, and set the bottle on the table by the window.
"Fuck this," he shouted, and undid the top two buttons on his pants. Realizing his shirt was still on, he yanked it off, then spun and threw it straight at the wall of pictures. It caught on one corner, hung for a moment, and dropped to the floor, and Quatre just stared, as if the fall had wiped away the last of his anger. Perhaps he'd stay up, and call Heero at a decent hour their time.
"Fuck," he repeated, in a whisper. He leaned against the wall, head back to stare at the ceiling. He needed to stop this; it had taken two days before and this time he'd not even done anything. A deep breath, then two, and his natural balance began to reassert itself, and he had to grin wryly at how much of an idiot he must've looked. "Fuck," he said again, because it fit. It was what he'd wanted, and what he'd done to himself.
The knock at the door, light, hesitant, made Quatre growl. Shouting at midnight was not reason to send the building manager up to pester him, or to ask if he were okay. Annoying, he crossed the apartment to rip the door open, ready to inform the busybody to get lost.
Trowa lifted his head, opened his mouth, then seemed to take in Quatre's appearance. "Oh," he said, and it was almost ludicrous to see Trowa—of all people—at a true loss for words. Finally he glanced away, gaze lowered. "Did I come at a bad time?"
"What? No. No. I didn't expect anyone." Quatre pulled the door open wider, letting Trowa in, but Trowa hung on the threshold, looking at him with a curious expression. "Are you..." Quatre searched for the right words, any words. "Is something wrong?"
"No. It's right." Trowa began to laugh, and stepped into the apartment, letting Quatre shut the door behind him, but he didn't take off his coat. His chuckling subsided into a soft smile, and he shook his head. "I never realized, but that's why."
"Why what?"
"Why I come back." Trowa's look became rueful, and he stared down at Quatre's bare feet. "Because you're never expecting me."
"You just want to get the jump on me," Quatre retorted, teasing, automatically; then he realized what he'd said, and waited for his ears to start burning with a deep blush.
Trowa's glance was sharp, but amused. "On many levels." He put his hand on the doorknob. "I'm sorry. I am out of sorts. I feel like I put my heart in a box, not killing it, just suffocating it, and I don't know what to do with myself if I take it out. I need...to be able to retreat."
"I understand."
Again, a long pause, and Trowa took his hand away from the doorknob. "You do."
"I always have." Quatre had to be honest; he added with a smile, "I've never said I liked it. But I do understand."
Trowa smiled; for several heart beats they just stared at each other, seeing the wrinkles around the eyes, the vertical lines between their brows, the gray in Trowa's hair, the silver in Quatre's, the shoulders not quite so square, the stomachs more curved, the chests less defined. Quatre nodded toward the living room.
"Would you like to take off your coat and stay awhile?" He paused. "As long as you like."
Trowa answered him with a kiss.
Includes previous scenes posted, in FINAL version.
--------------
III. January, AC 216
It was the sort of night that Quatre regretted living in the desert; he wanted snow, like he remembered from the war, in Siberia. He wanted the land draped in white, glimmering in the darkness, sleeping, quiescent, waiting. Perhaps if he'd known, he wouldn't have let Heero jibe him into attending Relena's function; perhaps if he'd known, he wouldn't have felt adrift at the corners of bejeweled attendants; perhaps if he'd known, he would have lingered by the door, and slipped away.
And perhaps not knowing let the sudden embrace of winter's depths become a rare pleasure. There was, after all, so much planned in his life, settled, circumscribed by meetings and deadlines and functions like these. Quatre raised a glass to Relena and Wufei as they passed, and bent his head to listen to the representative from Kenya, whispering into his ear about trade agreements. If only Quatre could drop a word on her behalf, with the right people...
And then the only right person was standing there, taking Quatre's champagne glass with a sly smile, that hint of a curve at the corner of his lips. Trowa sipped the champagne, and made a politely surprised face at the delicate flavor before handing the glass back.
Quatre couldn't remember what else the representative might have said in those few seconds. He only knew that he had woken to a world where all recognizable landmarks had been buried by snowfall, and if he stepped out into it, his might be the first footsteps. Or, perhaps—and he stared at his champagne, critically, wondering how many glasses he'd had—the truth was that it was Trowa's footsteps that might change Quatre's landscape, forever.
9pm
"Only for the next three weeks," Trowa murmured, frowning a little at the canapés. "Can anyone actually make a meal out of these?" He paused, and flicked a smile towards Quatre. "Let me guess—Duo."
Quatre laughed. "Took the words right out of my mouth."
"Sometimes I can't see how Heero puts up with him."
"He's mellowed." Quatre shrugged. "They both have."
Trowa's smile grew mischievous. "Are we too old to set off firecrackers under the podium?"
"We're too old to be interrogated by Preventers half our age. Besides, Relena would kill us."
"Perhaps." Trowa glanced away from Quatre's curious look. "I signed for an apartment last week. I'm still recovering from the shock."
An apartment. Quatre nodded, swallowed another cucumber sandwich, and cast about for an answer. A dozen things occurred, but the truth was that each glance from Trowa reminded him only of the feel of skin, a soft gasp, a moaned cry of yes, quiet pleading. Images in the dark overlaid the party's glitter; the brilliant crystal lighting softened the edges from harsh angles, but not so much that Quatre could feign blindness. His mind's eye saw all too well.
"The hardest part wasn't settling visitation or custody rights." Trowa fingered a slice of apple before popping it into his mouth. "It was breaking up the music collection, and trying to decide who got which wedding gifts."
Quatre opted for a neutral tone. "I wouldn't have guessed. Whose wedding gifts to whom?"
"A few were used, of course." Trowa's glance became amused; Quatre had given them a two-week honeymoon in Cairo. "But Lisa insisted she wanted the paintings Relena gave us."
"The Allen triptych?"
"Lisa hated those." Trowa shrugged. "We lugged them from place to place, and they always ended up in the attic, stored neatly. In case Relena ever came to visit, I was told." He chuckled, but it was a bittersweet sound. "She wanted so many things, and in the end, I guess I let her have more than I should've."
"Should," Quatre noted. "Who's keeping score?" He turned to watch Relena and Wufei, waltzing across the floor, weaving amongst other couples without even looking. How was it that Relena and Wufei, or Heero and Duo—the most quarrelsome couples he could name—could have lasted so long?
"Sadie, actually. She's fussed at me a number of times for giving in to Lisa." Trowa moved to lean against the wall, half-hiding behind an oversized planter filled with wintertime greenery. "But I understand."
Quatre had to take a minute, before he understood what Trowa meant: it was there in the sideways glance, the sorrowful look tinged with regret and clarity. Lisa wanted their belongings, all that had defined them, all that made up Trowa's everyday world. She would live with the substitute. Quatre stared down at his hands. He knew the emptiness.
"I'm sorry," he said, and looked away, embarrassed. "For the record, I'm—"
"I regret nothing." Trowa's glance was steady, and too sharp to be melancholy. "Do you?"
"I..." Quatre paused, thought of the days after Trowa had left.
He'd spent a day staring at the walls, certain he'd hated himself for what he'd done. Then he'd called his best friend, and simply said, Trowa came to visit. Heero had said nothing for several minutes, until finally: you had sex with him. Quatre couldn't reply, and that was answer enough for Heero; and the echoes of that compassionate silence, if uneasy, echoed down through the months. Trowa came to visit; no need to complete it: and then he left.
Quatre realized Trowa was studying him, one eyebrow slightly arched, waiting, and he shook his head. "I can't say I regret many things. Not in the past ten years, at least." There were older regrets he would never lose; one night paled in comparison.
"Relena is trying to get your attention," Trowa murmured. "Go on, be the good host."
"You're abandoning me," Quatre retorted, meaning to tease, but the words fell flat in the space between them.
"That depends entirely on your point of view." And as always, Trowa's words could have every meaning or none.
Quatre could only smile, and go to Relena's side, to greet the dignitaries she wished him to meet.
10pm
Quatre bowed to his dance partner, his diplomat's smile in place, and left her with her escort to roam the massive ballroom. Formal gowns and old war medals gleamed from every corner of his sight, and somehow it was no surprise to find Trowa at his shoulder.
"Sometimes," he whispered, and Quatre had to close his eyes, but then he could taste Trowa's skin, "I am quite glad the majority of these people consider me a scum-sucking bottom-dweller."
The comment was so unexpected, Quatre turned with a choking laugh. "I hardly think that's—" But his words dropped away at the sight of Trowa carefully licking a pointed tongue over a slice of orange, then angling his wrist to catch the line of juice running down his thumb. When Trowa finally ate the orange, Quatre smiled, and took a full glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter. "I doubt that's what they're thinking," he said, hoping the moment had passed and wishing it had lasted all night.
"Really?" Trowa arched one eyebrow, stepping back from the edge of the dance floor into an alcove. "Three people have recognized me already."
"If word's gotten out about your marital situation, they may actually be sizing you up as son-in-law material," Quatre commented. He chuckled and sipped the champagne; it wet his lips but his throat was dry. "At least, I suspect this is what Relena may tell you."
"She already has, and no, we've hardly publicized it." Trowa shrugged. "Who would care?"
I do, Quatre wanted to say, and, we all do. But he didn't; it went without saying, he hoped. "Paparazzi," he finally managed. "We are still heroes, last I heard."
"The fact that I don't train top agents and bodyguards from around the Earth Sphere puts me lower on their priority list." Trowa's jab at Heero and Duo made Quatre grin, and Trowa shook his head. "I push papers. I'm not exciting any more."
"How much have you had to drink? Wufei is the maudlin drunk amongst us."
"No." Trowa blinked, and gave Quatre a crooked smile, but his gaze was distant. "That is, very little drink, actually."
"You're still exciting," Quatre whispered, but mostly to his drink. He didn't know if Trowa had heard him.
11pm
In all his years, he'd always noted every detail. It wasn't, as Heero had once remarked in that flat observant way of his, because of ZERO. It was, Quatre had finally realized, simply something drilled into him from birth. A guest's thirst, the placement of a wine glass, the right accent for an unfamiliar word, the tone of voice, the angle of a hand, everything with myriad meanings. Once someone, perhaps one of the Maganacs, had suggested he had a skill almost uncanny in its intuitiveness, and while still a young man, he'd liked to play that up.
The truth, though, was that he'd been trained not as a soldier but as a businessman, though in many ways since then he'd learned the two were not that dissimilar. So he didn't even pause when Trowa's glances grew longer, a certain silence, a shift in weight. He could read it easily, even if he no longer paid attention enough to dissect the reaction.
"Long night," he began, testing.
"Days and days." Trowa's smile was immediate, quicksilver, gone. "I'm afraid it looks as though I've been talked into visiting Relena and Wufei while I'm in the country."
"Afraid?" It was easier to play the diplomat, and assess wit where perhaps none was meant. Quatre was tired, himself, and he'd begun to feel it as the night wore on, but he refused to think of it. That might bring words to his lips, and he'd learned long ago of the pointlessness. It achieved nothing—a true nothing, of an empty bed, a gap in space, the negative of won't you please stay awhile? and I want to be your friend and the whispered parting of a door closing on its hinges, footfalls in sand scattered soon by the wind. Perhaps he was afraid, but he'd done it to himself.
"Babysitting," Trowa's voice called him back from his melancholy.
"I'll see you to the door." Quatre put on a smile, and knew it didn't fit perfectly.
"What manners. How did you know—" Trowa's voice took on a silky, teasing dryness— "I'm ready for my coat?"
There were many things to say. Quatre settled for, "I'm the consummate host."
"Ah. Of course."
At the door, Trowa accepted his coat with a smile to the young girl behind the desk, and she fluttered and flushed, bobbing her head with a "it's nothing, really" and to Quatre, it was nothing. The taste of nothing in his mouth, no skin, no sweat, no sweet sourness. Until Trowa turned and smiled, and jerked his head toward the door.
"My coat, too, please," Quatre told the girl, not even looking at her. If he did, she'd see him laid bare; perhaps the thudding in his heart bore out over the swish and sway of the waltz playing, endlessly, in the grand ballroom. Wufei and Relena, turning eternal circles with eyes and lips only for each other, and he envied that. He accepted his coat, and the help putting it on, and joined Trowa at the door.
"It's such a beautiful night," Trowa murmured, and held the door open for Quatre. "Perhaps I should have apologized to Wufei and Relena for stealing you away."
"I'm sure they wouldn't mind." Quatre chuckled. "They're dancing again."
"They're very good at it."
"Heero taught Wufei. It was a very hard three weeks," Quatre recalled. Then he remembered that had been when Trowa had been in school, distant short emails, never coming to visit, and he clenched his fists in his pockets. "I feel," he said, almost under his breath, "as though I'm walking a tightrope."
"The secret is to never look down." Trowa frowned, slightly, then shrugged. "And don't fall. The second was the more useful of the advice, actually."
"I'll keep that in mind." Quatre brought out his hand, not sure if he should call for a cab. His apartment was within walking distance; the downtown lights glowed in the city's winter blue. He recalled the door where Trowa stood, the angle of Trowa's body against the wall, steps across carpet, and could see it again, wanted it again.
"No, I've got it," Trowa replied. A cab pulled up, and Trowa opened the door; he stood in the way, turning to face Quatre with a sad smile. "I appreciate you walking me out here. It's been hard to hear all night with that incessant music so loud."
I appreciate it, Quatre echoed, and somehow the smile stayed on his face. "Of course." He wanted to say, anything, but the word came out, "any time."
"Perhaps I'll see you again soon." Trowa stared down at the sidewalk, then away, studying the gilded building behind them. He glanced at Quatre, mouth open as if words might fall but there were none. Then he got into the cab, pulled the door shut, and the cab drove away.
Quatre watched until the taillights had disappeared around the corner, fading into a sea of red and yellow lights on a Saturday evening in the desert. Then he began to laugh, at himself, at everything, because there was nothing else he could do. He wished for snow, and imagined Trowa's foot prints, and knew they would change him forever, yet those empty spaces would be all he'd ever have.
12am
The apartment was dark, and Quatre shucked off his dress coat, throwing it over the back of the sofa. Then his bow tie, and halfway through unbuttoning his shirt he grew frustrated and tore it off, yanking viciously at the cuffs. Perhaps if he'd known, he wouldn't have collapsed into the chair and ran rough fingers through his hair; the night's humidity had curled the straying ends and he cursed himself for a fool.
There was no point in calling Heero; besides, it was four in the morning their time. Quatre chuckled, and got up, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, shirt still hanging loosely off his body. He wrestled with it in the kitchen, and dumped it on the floor, kicking it for good measure. Then he took a long swig of whiskey from the bottle, and wiped his mouth. Heat ran through him, and he undid his belt, throwing it on the floor as well. In the dining room, he toed off both shoes, then stripped off his socks, leaving only his undershirt and his tuxedo slacks.
At least no one had ever said he wasn't an idealist, but he'd done his best for so long to hide his romantic streak. He held the bottle loosely between two fingers, and stared down at the city, hand splayed against the glass. The first time he'd met Lisa, he'd wanted to hate her, be jealous, but in fact, he couldn't, he never had. He'd studied her, instead, wondering what she'd done or said or had, that he didn't, that made Trowa stay. Quatre laughed at himself, took another sip of whiskey, and set the bottle on the table by the window.
"Fuck this," he shouted, and undid the top two buttons on his pants. Realizing his shirt was still on, he yanked it off, then spun and threw it straight at the wall of pictures. It caught on one corner, hung for a moment, and dropped to the floor, and Quatre just stared, as if the fall had wiped away the last of his anger. Perhaps he'd stay up, and call Heero at a decent hour their time.
"Fuck," he repeated, in a whisper. He leaned against the wall, head back to stare at the ceiling. He needed to stop this; it had taken two days before and this time he'd not even done anything. A deep breath, then two, and his natural balance began to reassert itself, and he had to grin wryly at how much of an idiot he must've looked. "Fuck," he said again, because it fit. It was what he'd wanted, and what he'd done to himself.
The knock at the door, light, hesitant, made Quatre growl. Shouting at midnight was not reason to send the building manager up to pester him, or to ask if he were okay. Annoying, he crossed the apartment to rip the door open, ready to inform the busybody to get lost.
Trowa lifted his head, opened his mouth, then seemed to take in Quatre's appearance. "Oh," he said, and it was almost ludicrous to see Trowa—of all people—at a true loss for words. Finally he glanced away, gaze lowered. "Did I come at a bad time?"
"What? No. No. I didn't expect anyone." Quatre pulled the door open wider, letting Trowa in, but Trowa hung on the threshold, looking at him with a curious expression. "Are you..." Quatre searched for the right words, any words. "Is something wrong?"
"No. It's right." Trowa began to laugh, and stepped into the apartment, letting Quatre shut the door behind him, but he didn't take off his coat. His chuckling subsided into a soft smile, and he shook his head. "I never realized, but that's why."
"Why what?"
"Why I come back." Trowa's look became rueful, and he stared down at Quatre's bare feet. "Because you're never expecting me."
"You just want to get the jump on me," Quatre retorted, teasing, automatically; then he realized what he'd said, and waited for his ears to start burning with a deep blush.
Trowa's glance was sharp, but amused. "On many levels." He put his hand on the doorknob. "I'm sorry. I am out of sorts. I feel like I put my heart in a box, not killing it, just suffocating it, and I don't know what to do with myself if I take it out. I need...to be able to retreat."
"I understand."
Again, a long pause, and Trowa took his hand away from the doorknob. "You do."
"I always have." Quatre had to be honest; he added with a smile, "I've never said I liked it. But I do understand."
Trowa smiled; for several heart beats they just stared at each other, seeing the wrinkles around the eyes, the vertical lines between their brows, the gray in Trowa's hair, the silver in Quatre's, the shoulders not quite so square, the stomachs more curved, the chests less defined. Quatre nodded toward the living room.
"Would you like to take off your coat and stay awhile?" He paused. "As long as you like."
Trowa answered him with a kiss.