Title: Your Imagination
Rating: PG
Warnings: songfic, pov, shounen-ai, slight angst
Pairings: 4+3
Disclaimer: GWing is not mine.  Neither is "Your Imagination," by Brian Wilson [a.k.a. God], Joe Thomas, and S.R. Dahl.
Author's Note: This is a sequel to People Change.  Same odd narration style.  If a lot of people complain that it's too confusing, I'll attempt an explanation.

Another car running fast
Another song on the beach

"See you tomorrow, Duo."

"Yeah, see ya tomorrow, Q-man."

I waved as I walked out the door.  Exiting the hospital, I blinked as my eyes adjusted themselves to bright May sunshine.    The last few visits hadn't been nearly as disheartening as the first few.  Those first few days...  I shuddered, remembering them.  Duo had simply been so... dead.  I did some research on depression and suicide, and everything had said that nearly everyone who had attempted suicide and failed was relieved that they were still alive afterward.

I wasn't so sure with Duo.  His eyes had been muddled with confusion.  I think that part of him, deep inside, was happy to still be alive, but another part of him was still wishing for death.

That memory is still clear as crystal.  Ever since that fateful Thursday night, there had been a persistant ache in my heart.  As I got closer to Duo, though, that ache grew.  Walking through the sterile white hallways of St. Clare's Hospital, that dull ache spread throughout my entire body.  By the time I gingerly opened the door to Duo's room and walked in, I was virtually numb.

"Hi, Duo," I had whispered to him.  He was laying in bed, staring at the ceiling.  Pulling the obligatory uncomfortable wooden hospital room chair closer to the bed, I sat down next to him and gently touched his hand.

I had thought that I had used up all my tears.  I needed to be strong for Duo, I had told myself.  But when he slowly turned his head to look at me and I saw those eyes...  I immediately began crying again.

Through my tears, through the pain, I heard a weak, barely recognizable voice whisper, "Hey... Quatre... don't cry..."  Tears still running down my face, I impulsively reached over and hugged Duo close, those whispered words immediately erasing any and all of my personal vows to be strong and cautious.

Those first few days were tough.  Really tough.  Sitting there with him, knowing that he still wanted to die, was almost unbearable at times.  We got through, though.  With a combination of me, Hirde, a really nice psychiatrist, and lots of lithium, we got through.

I walked across the parking lot and unlocked my car.  I had rescheduled all of my meetings for the next two weeks.  So now, I had a lot of free time, too much on my mind, and nothing to do.

I take a trip to the past
When summer's way out of reach

Driving down Parkridge Avenue, I began contemplating the issue of the other former Gundam pilots.  Hirde and I had some serious discussion about them a few nights ago.  It would probably be good for Duo to see them.  After all, we'd been so close during the war.  Surely the others cared about Duo at least as much as I did, didn't they?  Still...  It was obvious that I was the only one who had kept in touch.  If any of the others had kept in contact, they would have surely found out about this by now.  As for contacting them...  Heero was nowhere to be found, Wufei was with the Preventers and all but un-contactable, and I was having some serious issues with Trowa.

Taking a right onto Milton Drive, I chastised myself.  This was about Duo, not me.  I had no right to be bringing my emotional turmoil into Duo's.  Here I was, being a selfish brat again.  Though really....  Duo and Trowa hadn't been what you'd call close during the war.  I mean, they certainly weren't the best of friends.  In all sincerity, they were probably just joined together as comrades in arms.  Not to mention the fact that Trowa probably wouldn't be much of a help.  That guy is probably the definition of "uncommunicative."  The last thing Duo would need is someone like Trowa standing around, not caring about anything.  What Duo needs is someone to talk with, somone who will support him, not someone who never freaking speaks.  I bet that if someone told Trowa about this, he wouldn't even give a damn, emotionless bastard that he is.

I swung a right into the city park and parked the car.  For a moment, I just sat there, my hands resting limply on the steering wheel.  

'I'm sorry, Duo.  I shouldn't be dragging my angst with me into your life.  Allah knows that you have enough of your own to deal with.'

I got out of the car.  The sunshine whispered gently through the leaves and danced on the pond in the center of the park.  Some children were playing frisbee.  A jogger went running by.  A teenage girl was walking her dog.  An old man sat reading on a bench.

The war is over...  Why do I still feel as if I have yet to rejoin the living?

Another walk in the park
When I need something to do
And when I feel all alone
Sometimes I think about you

I strolled aimlessly through the park, my hands jammed into my pockets.  It was enjoyable, despite the somewhat detatched feeling.  The weather couldn't have been more perfect, the park was extremely well-designed and well-kept, and every single person there seemed to be in a good mood.  It was like a scene from a movie, lacking only "A Summer's Day" playing in the background.

There were two days left.  I idly counted in my head.  Two.  Ithneyn.  Dos.  Deux.  Ni.  Ér.  Two long twenty-four hour periods until I went back to Colony L4cx89 for a couple of days.

I said that it was because I needed to refresh my suitcase and tend to a few matters.  It wasn't entirely untrue.  I'd been on L2caxx06 for over a week now, and on a relatively hasty packing job at that.  And there were a few matters I needed to attend to, inspecting a new manufacturing plant and such.  Additionally, Hirde probably thought that I needed time off from the emotional strain.  Little did she know that caring for Duo was strain I could more than handle.  I had two days until that which I could not handle.

Two.  Duo.  Two.

I'd certainly felt guilty about it.  Two.  Duo.  Duo should be my main concern.  I had a duty, one for one of the best friends that I have in the world.  Come to think of it, he may be my only real friend, who knows.

He certainly should take precendence over my screwed up life.

But how could I not go back?  After seeing that poster, haphazardly posted to a brick wall and glowing like an ember in the setting sun, how could I stay away?

Two.  Two days until the Circus came to L4cx89.  Two days until a clown stood alone in the center ring.

Trowa.  I think that I hate you.  I really do.

You take my hand
Smile and say you don't understand

To think, we had once been the best of friends.  At least I'd thought that we'd been best friends.  Who knows, I could be wrong.  It certainly wouldn't be the first time.  There I go, getting bitter again.  What, you say?  Quatre Raberba Winner?  He wouldn't be bitter.

I'll agree, I'm usually not.  I find resentment to be a waste of time and very unproductive.  There's so much unhappiness in the world, the least one can do is have a positive outlook and discover how much good there truly is.  On a whole, I still have that positive outlook.  The war had chipped away at it some, but it and I emerged pretty much intact.  It was Trowa who destroyed it for me.

But if I told him that, he would just get that slightly puzzled air about him.  I would be treading on ground unfamiliar to him.  Even back during the war, when we'd been close, that had happened.  It stung slightly, but I'd get over it.  Of course I did.  The two of us were, in a manner of speaking, like Pythias and Damon, two peas in a pod.  Naught but death would separate us, right?

Turns out that it only took peace.

To look in you eyes
And see what you feel

Maybe it was just me being naive.  I'd never had any real friends before, and Trowa had just entranced me from the very beginning.  We bonded instantly.  But now as I look back, was I so lonely and so enchanted by this green-eyed stranger that I bonded myself to him, twisting each action into a sign of friendship?  Even into a sign of love?

Maybe if I had looked closer, I would have discovered that I was only deceiving myself.  The emotions that I thought he felt for me might have only been a reflection of my own.  If I looked more closely into those emerald eyes...

And then realize
That nothing's for real

It's obvious that he feels nothing for me, not even a slight bit of kinship stemming from shared war experiences.  If he felt any sort of bond whatsoever, you'd think that during a period of about a year, he would have talked to me once.

Once.  That's all I ask for.  Once.  Just to let me know that he's still there.  Just to let me know that...

'Cause you know it's just
Your imagination running wild

In any case...  My hand darted out to prevent me from being beaned with a frisbee.  The bunch of kids froze and one of them, a slightly chubby little boy of about eight, ran over.

"Sorry, mister!" the kid shouted nervously as he ran over.  I smiled and tossed it back at him.  He slowed his run and caught it, an expression of relief spreading over his face.

"Dustin!" a woman called.  "Be more careful!  You almost hit that young man there!"

"Sorry, Ma..."

Turning around, I walked back to the car.  A child.  That's all that I was.  A child still clinging to his naive hope of a happy ending.

Driving back to my hotel room to pick up my bags, time lost meaning as I drowned in endless, redundant musing.  Redundant...  A redundant soldier.  That's all that I am.  A lost soul attempting to find its way but going in circles, some unknown force throwing it off balance.

It came as shock when I realized that two days from now was today.

Another bucket of sand
Another wave and the pier
I miss the way that I used
To call the shots around here

The palms of my hands were sweaty and sticky on the steering wheel as I drove to where the Circus had set up its temporary home.  I was wearing a pair of khakis, a light blue button-up shirt, and a tan jacket.  I find it important to note my attire for the evening as it had taken me about an hour to decide what clothes to wear.  I'm sure that Miss Nyesha had quite a shock when she went in to clean my room that evening.  Usually there's nothing to straighten up; that night, however, it appeared as though several small bombs had gone off, specifically in the area of the closet and the dresser.

In the passenger seat of the car sat a bouquet of flowers.  (Nothing special- just some brightly colored blooms I could not identify and the usual green fern.)  Granted, most people usually don't throw flowers at the the circus, but I always used to tease Trowa about his being a world-class performer.  He would understand.

There was a small notecard attached to the bouquet.  It was blank.  I couldn't decide what to write in it.  "Long time no see!  Great job!  Love, Quatre."  Or perhaps, "Star perfomance, as usual.  Give me a call so we can get together sometime.  Your friend, Quatre."

Or maybe "Trowa Barton, rot in hell.  -Quatre"

I hadn't decided yet.

In spite of my Grand Dressing Adventure, I managed to arrive about a half an hour before the show began.  The place was already packed.  The circus tent sat there glowing happily, as children scampered about, balloons in hand, parents left to brave this jungle.  There weren't any performers wandering about.  Glancing around again to make sure, I got out of the car, carrying the bouquet of flowers with me.

I had a pen in my pocket.  I'd decide what to write in the card later.

You know it would've been nice
If I had something to do

I sat in the bleachers, about three-quarters of the way up.  I didn't want to be too close.  I mean, what would I do if he saw me there?  More importantly, what would he do?  (He probably wouldn't even care.  Emotionless bastard.)  But I still wanted a reasonably good view, of course.  Might as well enjoy the show.

The bleachers grew more and more crowded as 8 p.m. grew closer.  That particularly circus-y smell of popcorn, cotton candy, animals, and excitement filled the air.  Finally, the lights began to dim.  You could hear the children chatter eagerly in hushed voices.  I sat there, my eyes glued to the darkened arena.

Then, the band started up.  The lights burst on, revealing the Ringmaster, in all his red-coated glory.  The usual "Ladies and gentlemen, boy and girls, children of all ages!" spiel.  (Dammit, couldn't they hurry up?)  I watched rather listlessly, trying to enjoy the show.  Trying really hard.  Really, really hard.  It wasn't quite working, though.

And then...  He came.

I took a trip to the past
And got to spend it with you

I wouldn't say that he took my breath away.  He certainly caused a hitch or two in the respiratory system, though.

He was gorgeous.

Even from my seat, you could see the beauty practically radiating from his body.  The sculpted chest, the strong arms, and the smooth face of a statue...  Over that face fell the perculiar shock of brown hair, gently veiling half of that mysterious face, with those fern green eyes.  (Stupid clown costume.)  The white half-mask only added to the mystery, like he knew something that no one else did and had no intention of letting on.  Surely everyone had to be affected by the glorious sight before them.

Or maybe only I was.

Then, Catherine Bloom came out to throw her knives at him.  (She hates me.  I don't blame her.)  Those sharp, sharp knives, sparkling in the spotlight.  I held tightly onto the edge of my seat as she threw them at that hapless clown.  Part of me prayed with the rest of the audience that no blood would be spilled.  Another part of me prayed that the stupid clown would be hit somewhere where it really hurt.  (That would be difficult, though.  Insensitive bastard.)

He was so beautiful.  I hated him.

The show went on.  There were other clowns, strongmen, and pretty women that handled ferocious animals.  Trowa did some acrobatics in addition to his usual bulls-eye job.  My eyes didn't leave his body.  

The crowd loved him.  For some odd reason, I felt jealous.

You take my hand
Smile and say you don't understand

When the show ended, the crowd was on its feet.  Everyone came out and took their bow.  Trowa bowed in his usual peculiar way.  As the circus members left the spotlight, I saw Catherine go over and give him a little hug.  He turned slighty toward her and gave her a one-armed hug back.  I can't be sure, since I was quite a distance away and he was wearing that half-mask... but I swear that he smiled.

Quickly, I made my way through the crowd, elbowing my way through the sea of happy circus goers, forgoing politeness in my determination.  Come hell or high water, those flowers were going to make their way to that clown's trailer.

The crowd's lively babbel faded into the distance as I walked around back.  The warm May air was heady with the scent of the circus.  The bright lights from the tent reflected off the metal trailers.  Surprisingly, the area was all but deserted.  I could hear the sounds of people laughing and chattering, though, people other than the audience.  The troupe must have been celebrating their successful opening night.

I recognized the trailer that Trowa and Catherine share.  It had those quaint green and white checked curtains in the window.  I walked over and tried the door.  It was unlocked.  I opened the door and stepped inside.

Normally, I would never walk into another person's home like that.  However, I felt that I was justified.  I needed to leave these flowers for Trowa, I reasoned.  But why couldn't I go and give them to him?  Because that was impossible, I continued to reason.

The trailer was small and slightly cramped, but not in an uncomfortable way.  It was more of a cozy feel.  I was standing in what seemed to be some sort of an all purpose living/dining room.  By one wall sat a purple couch, probably a pull-out bed.  A sink and a microwave adorned the other side of the room, along with a couple of wooden chairs and a wooden table.  There were two doors near the end of the room, leading to what I'd assume was the bathroom and a bedroom.

At the near arm of the couch was an end table covered with various picture frames.  I froze, not quite sure what to do.  After what seemed like an eternity, I slowly walked over and looked at the pictures.

One of the pictures was of Trowa and Catherine in their circus get-up.  Another was of a huge lion (who was grinning) and Trowa (who was not).  But it was the third photograph, the one in a plain black plastic frame, that made my heart stop.

It was a picture of five boys.  One was glaring at the camera while another boy, one sporting an extraordinarily long braid and a devilish grin, was giving him bunny ears.  The boy with the braid was also restraining a Chinese boy from impatiently walking out of the picture.  In the back stood a boy who was taller than the rest; he simply stood there, looking impassive as ever.  A blonde beaming a bright smile stood in front of the tall boy.

My hand trembles as I reach over to touch the photo, making sure that it is real.  That picture...

To look in your eyes
And see what you feel
And then realize
That nothing's for real

It would be untruthful of me to claim that all of my bitterness melted away in a bright instant of spiritual enlightenment.  It would not be far off, though.

Gazing at the five of us together, I feel strangely cleansed.  It is an amazing sensation.  I feel lighter than I've felt since the death of my father.  That isn't to say that I'm particularly happy.  The familiar pain- I call it my emotional migraine- still shoots its daggers deep into my heart.  But I can see those daggers now.  I can recognize them.  I can finally differentiate between love and hate.  And I am ashamed of how closely those two had become entwined.

Love feels so much more natural than hate, though.   It feels like a part of me.  Not that hate or bitterness ever truly go away for anyone.  Except for a saint, perhaps, and I am certainly no saint.  Many parts of my being remain darkened, but the at least some has been exposed for my heart to see.

Trowa...  I love you.

If I stay, things will never come to a close.  I'm not ready for this yet.  I realize that.  I'm not sure if you're ready for me, either.

I'm not going to go running into your arms, Trowa.  I have other issues to deal with.  I can deal with you in due time.  But now... someone needs me.

'Cause you know it's just
Your imagination running wild

I realize that if I don't leave soon, I'm likely to get caught.  Gently, I pick up the photo.  I lay the bouquet on the end table and lean the photo against it.  Then, I hurry out to my car.  It's getting late.  I need to be getting home now.  And after that, I need to be getting to Duo.

Your imagination running wild

Come to think of it, I never did end up writing anything on that notecard.  I can picture it now: Trowa walks into his trailer, tired but satisfied after a good performance and a well-deserved celebration.  He wears some hastily thrown on street clothes, carrying the clown costume and mask that were swiftly disposed of after the show.  He closes the screen but leaves the door open to let in the warm night air.  Strolling past the end table to go get ready for bed, he pauses, a bouquet of bright nameless flowers catching his eye.  He walks over to the table, sets down the mask and costume, moves the photo that was leaning on the bouquet, and picks up the flowers.  Curious, he opens up the tiny notecard, but there is nothing written in it.

Maybe that's because there's nothing to say.

Your imagination running wild

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