This story was written in
a mad fit--I think it took a total of three days to reach its final form--and
was inspired in part by the book
SHADES OF LIGHT
by Angela
I knew Trowa
was dead a week before Duo’s quiet voice and tight expression told me on the vid-com, two weeks before Heero
appeared on my doorstep, hollowed-out inside and obviously broken. Later, Rashid and
his men attributed my knowledge to my space heart, some psychic connection
between me and the world around me, but I never was linked to Trowa like that. I
knew because his ghost had come to stay with me, haunting the corners of my apartment
all day, the corners of my bedroom all night.
This fic
is set in a hazy post-series world where Quatre is
evidently involved in some kind of business with his family. I never mapped out the details, even in my
own mind, but I know that Quatre is about eighteen
years old.
It was a midsummer night when I woke to find him sitting
on the floor of my room, bathed in milky-white moonlight. He was naked and pale and comfortingly
androgynous—the area beneath his navel lacked definition or clarity. He reminded me of old-fashioned paintings of
waif-thin children. I didn’t try to
speak to him, knowing instinctively that I’d get no answer—instead I simply
stared, searching his empty eyes for some kind of explanation.
His expressionless gaze made me sad—unbearably sad and
lonely in a way I’d never been before.
Then I knew he was dead, that this wasn’t some illusion or fantasy. I rolled over in my bed, wondering why he’d
come to me, and I what I was supposed to do about the ache that was building
itself inside of me, the pain that I knew would grow until it consumed me. I stared at the wall until the morning sun
had risen and shifted into afternoon.
When I finally got up, I was numb and cold, but I moved
habitually through the routine of showering and getting dressed. Trowa watched me
from the windowsill, his dark eyes never wavering. It took a long time to get used to the deep
intrusion of his presence—days of sitting beneath his watchfulness, letting the
reality of living life without Trowa—but with his
vigilant ghost—sink in.
This opening was all I had to go on, regarding notes. I was inspired while in the shower, and as
soon as I was out, I had this opening scribbled on a piece of notebook
paper--it got blurred because my hair dripped on it. I had a good idea where the rest of the story
was going, but these first paragraphs are pretty much a word-for-word copy of
my first frantic attempt to pin down the mood of my idea.
Rashid called a few times that
first day, then finally came up to the apartment to see what was keeping me
away from my work and my family. I
couldn’t say the words out loud—how could I trust my voice when I couldn’t
understand what my eyes showed me?
Someone would have sent word. My
hyperactive imagination created this. I
looked into the kitchen, where Trowa was perched on
the counter, still watching. A creeping
sort of grief moved through me and I made some bland excuse to Rashid.
The knot in my chest grew larger each day, until I was
more aware of the tightness than of the rest of me. At first I slept and ate by the clock—eight
hours of sleep and a meal for every five I was awake—but as the week wore on,
the days and the nights mingled. The
blinds in my windows made a twenty-four-hour dusk and soon I had crawled inside
of myself, unaware of everything but my own emptiness and Trowa’s
black, black eyes.
Duo called—the sound of the beeping
computer pulled me slowly from my void.
The date on the vid-com screen showed me that
seven days had passed. Duo’s face was
pinched and pale, and I knew he was just going to verify what I already
knew—what I had already stopped struggling against.
“It
was an accident during a Preventor mission; you don’t
want the details.”
For
once I agreed. Gory particulars couldn’t
make this any more real for me.
Duo’s
voice was soft and distant, as though he could guess the impact this news would
have on me. I tried not to get angry—how
could he know how much worse it was for me?
Trowa’s shade had crept close during our
conversation—I could feel his chill on my skin—and I turned, expecting to see
curiosity lighting his fragile face. I
was disappointed by the lack of expression.
“Quatre,” Duo’s voice was gently insistent. “We’re all worried about Heero.” He’d simply left upon hearing the news, just
walked away without anything; even his precious laptop computer was still on
his desk.
I
knew. Rashid
wasn’t far off when he talked of space hearts and psychic powers—what he never
knew was that it was always Heero on the other end of
that connection. For years I’d been
feeling his emotions, living his sensations—and nothing had hurt Heero more than the loss of Trowa. I had been sleeping when he found out—his
panicked despair yanked me from unconsciousness and I was shaking too hard to
get back to sleep.
This is straight from my
take of canonical GW--Quatre and Heero
had some sort of connection, and I wanted to explore that.
Duo
fell silent, uncharacteristic even in tragedy.
He was uncomfortable discussing Heero with
me. I almost thought it funny—no one had
ever told me that Heero and Trowa
had been lovers; they all kept discreetly silent, as though my previous
rejection of Trowa somehow obligated him to love me
forever.
I
promised to take care and get some sleep—the lines on my face were obvious to
my friend, even if their source escaped him—and I unplugged the communicator,
unwilling to go through the same conversation with Relena,
Noin, and then Wufei.
Sometime
that same afternoon, Abdul knocked on my door.
I didn’t answer for hours, but he’d left a box full of soups and
toiletries on my mat. It was heavy or I
was weak—I dragged it inside and leaned on the closed door, out of breath. By the time I stirred again, the sun had set
and Trowa peered at me through almost total darkness.
As
I dragged myself up and into the bathroom, I was consumed by loneliness and
regret—their pangs were almost a comfort after the numb emptiness that I’d come
to expect. By the dim glow of the
nightlight, I studied my unfamiliar face in the mirror. My hair was unwashed and uncombed, my cheeks
were hollow, and my eyes looked flat and dull.
I peeled my clothes from my body, tossing them onto the floor as I
stepped onto the cold tiles. I washed my
hair, then stood under the hard pressure of the shower’s flow, letting the hot
water burn and pucker my skin until it was brilliant red. Trowa once noticed
how fair my complexion was—unusual for a child of the desert. I didn’t move until the hot water had turned
icy and goose bumps pulled at my skin.
I
didn’t bother with a towel, dripping water onto the wooden floor as I made my
way toward the bed. I knew he was
watching me, but I couldn’t tell if he took any interest in my naked body. I paused by the window, pushing it open to
let the warm summer breeze brush past me.
Dropping
onto the bed, I let my fingers mimic the air, sliding slowly over my cool, damp
skin. Years of practice had fine-tuned
my skills, and I knew just where to put pressure, just which areas to linger
over to give myself the most pleasure. I
closed my eyes and let the sensations wash over me as I tried to picture the
prettiest girls I knew. Noin’s lovely face came to mind, and I groaned, imagining
her beneath me, her head thrown back, my hands gripping her dark hair.
Unbidden,
the image shifted, becoming Trowa, his deep green
eyes long-lashed and heavy. My breath
caught and my pulse quickened. The
rhythm of my hands altered, becoming more urgent as my longing intensified. The boy in my mind smiled and whispered—an
old confession of love that I’d memorized and carried with me for over a
year. I was growing dizzy with the idea
of his hands—his mouth—all over my body.
I imagined that the dampness of my skin was from his kisses. Crying out, I let the fantasy come to
shuddering finish and the world momentarily swirled around me.
This bit of
self-gratification (for the 4x4 scene, as I’ve come to think of it) was
inspired by pretty shower-induced nakedness.
The fact that it illustrates issues in Quatre’s
sexuality was actually not the motive here, it just happened to come about that
way.
Still
shaky, I opened my eyes, scanning the room cautiously. As I expected, Trowa
was watching me, crouched at the foot of my bed. For an instant I was ashamed of my
display—was it cruel to take such pleasure in front of a boy who had no
body? How well could he remember these
sensations? Did he think of Heero and the things they had done to each other? I searched his eyes for some kind of hunger,
some sort of loneliness that would show me his thoughts. I found nothing.
He
moved, gliding to his feet as he watched me.
He leaned closer, stretching a pale hand toward me. Still close to my fantasy, I anticipated his
touch, my spine arching toward him.
Crawling over the tousled sheets, he barely seemed to move. His translucent hand skimmed my thigh and
hips, not quite touching me, but making me feel the phantom sensation of his
skin. He looked deeply into my
eyes. I bit my lip, suddenly terrified
at his nearness.
When
his hand came to rest on my abdomen, I sucked back a scream. The room grew impossibly dark and I felt like
I was falling into a deep chasm. Images
swirled behind my eyes—things I couldn’t imagine, much less name. I heard the crunch of bones breaking, of
ligaments tearing away, and I understood the sticky sick sound of death. My breath froze; icicles seared my chest
before it exploded entirely. I heard
myself scream. I heard Trowa’s voice—his last gurgling words before the blood in
his throat choked us both.
How
can I do that? How am I supposed to do
what you ask?
Was
I sure what Trowa was asking? Nope.
I had an inkling it had to do with Heero, but
that’s it.
Panic
made me weak—hot tears streamed down my cheeks and I begged for the pain to
stop. I wanted it all to end; I wanted
to follow Trowa into nothingness.
Suddenly
it was over. I was back. I shivered, aware of the breeze on my naked
body. My skin was damp and my hair still
dripped onto my shoulders and face.
Calming my sobs, I lay still and concentrated on breathing. Trowa had moved away;
his back was to me as he gazed out the window.
I
had just witnessed his death—from the inside.
After
a while I pulled myself up, yanking a sheet from the bed. It was damp with sweat and water and felt
clammy against my skin, but I didn’t care.
I wrapped it close around me as I stumbled toward the dresser. I was freezing—I needed clothes.
I
found a pair of worn-out khakis and a clean white t-shirt. No need to dress up—I wasn’t going
anywhere. I glanced again at Trowa. I was afraid
of him—afraid of what he’d shown me, what he’d asked of me. I wanted to run away, to leave him here in
this tiny apartment and get away somewhere where I could forget. I knew it was no use—Trowa
had come for me. He’d follow.
For whatever reason,
clothes are important to this story. I
think Quatre dresses and undresses more often in this
fic than in all of my others combined. I used clothing to mark time passing, strange
as that might sound.
I
needed to let go of what I’d seen, what I’d felt. I saw my violin—gathering dust where I had
left it over a week before. I picked it
up and started to play, not caring about what time it was or who I’d wake. The instrument felt alive in my hands, the wood
trembling and the strings warm beneath my fingers. I closed my eyes, shutting out the ghost who
had turned to watch me once more, and let the music fill the emptiness that had
grown inside of me.
I
played the dark melodies my father had taught me as a child, while he was still
mourning the loss of my mother. I played
the languorous pieces I’d learned later; the music that kept me playing at a
time when I resented everything my father had ever given me—including my
violin. The music seemed visible in the
air, curling around me in a protective barrier.
Trowa watched silently from the window, or the
floor, or the sofa.
Days
and nights passed.
Rashid called from the hallway but didn’t intrude. I was singing countermelody to a tune I’d
never heard before. I bowed steadily and
my fingers moved religiously up and down the slender neck of the quivering
violin. I didn’t know if I was composing
my own work or if I’d stumbled into the memories of my ancestors, playing the
music I’d been born to, but never learned.
Either
way, I couldn’t stop.
The
sound of the bow scraping, of the notes drifting from the curved wooden body—it
kept me full. I poured all of my energy,
my purpose, into the violin—everything that needed to be said but had no words,
everything that should have been shared but was hoarded, it
came out as music. For hours I stared at
Trowa’s shade, playing for him. My neck grew stiff and painful, my wrist
cramped and spasmed, but I was afraid of what I’d
have to face if I quit. Finally, when
the indentations on my fingers split, when blood seeped down the strings and onto
my bow—I stopped.
I
stumbled to the bedroom, only half-alive with exhaustion. Disregarding the sunlight that strained to
break through the blinds and drapes, I fell onto my bed. For the first time in nearly a week, I slept.
Can someone play the
violin for a week straight out of sheer grief?
I don’t know, but this is the central image to me when I think of Quatre’s grieving.
I’m not a musician by any stretch of the imagination, but I can imagine
how it must feel to pour your emotions into music. I always wished I could draw this scene.
When
I woke, the room was dark. I glanced at
the clock:
Rubbing
my throbbing neck muscles, I staggered to my feet. The rest of my apartment seemed normal—two
weeks’ worth of clutter piled on the coffee table, including the t-shirt I’d
shed while playing. I made my way past
the kitchen and to the door, nearly tripping over the disregarded box of
food. Without being absolutely sure why,
I unlocked the door and pulled it slowly open.
Heero was standing in the hallway, too thin and slightly out of
breath. His shoulders hunched and his
eyes were dull—defeated. It looked like
he hadn’t eaten or slept in days. His
feet were bare and filthy—they stumbled when he saw me—with his weedy arms, he
caught himself on the doorframe. He
looked drained and insubstantial.
“I
heard your music,” he explained hoarsely.
I’d
known he would. “I wasn’t playing for
you.”
It still surprises me when
Heero arrives.
I knew from the get-go that this story had to include him sooner or
later (it’s mentioned in the first sentence that he shows up like this), but I
had no idea what kind of role he was going to play here. I like Quatre’s
matter-of-fact hostility in this moment.
He won’t turn Heero away, but he won’t invite
him in, either. I’m surprised I didn’t
spill too much too soon about this situation.
Somehow
we made it all the way back to my bedroom before collapsing in exhaustion. Heero was out even
before his body had settled on the mattress, hunger and fatigue having beaten
him, finally. I lay beside him and
glanced at Trowa, whose gaze was fixed on the young,
battered pilot. I fell asleep a moment
later, wondering if Heero had even noticed him
lurking in the shadows.
We
slept tangled together like uninhibited children—in the lethargic half-consciousness
between dreams, I noticed his long hair nestled against my chest, my thin arms
wrapped tightly around his narrow body. I wondered briefly how we could sleep
like that, invading each other’s space like lovers, but then I was sleeping
again, aware only of the warmth of another body.
The imagery of this kind
of tangled sleeping is straight from Yoshikawa’s novel, though it’s used in a
totally different way. Similarly, the
ever-present ghost is the most obvious throwback to
Hours
later, when I emerged completely from slumber, Heero
was gone. I missed his body heat, but I
was relieved. I was ashamed of how we’d
slept, embarrassed by the intimacy I’d shared with another man—Trowa’s lover. I
wasn’t sure why he’d come to me—not to be taken care of, I hoped.
I
tried to sit up, but a stabbing pain in my neck kept me on the pillow.
Heero appeared at the doorway, Trowa’s
ghost lingering behind him. He’d
showered and changed—now wearing the one pair of jeans I owned, apparently not
mindful of the paint splattered across one thigh. He looked clean, but not better. His eyes were still hollow, as though someone
had scooped his insides out. Wordlessly,
he came to me, massaging the tense muscles of my neck with his strong fingers
until I was able to move again.
It
was strange, letting him touch me so deliberately. We’d been close once, a long time ago, when
the
“The
sun’s still down,” I noticed, looking at the dark window.
“Again,”
Heero corrected, his voice
distant. “It’s about nine thirty.”
Following
his lead, I took a shower. I was mildly
surprised to see Trowa standing by the door when I
pulled open the curtain. I dried myself
and dressed, watching the ghost curiously.
I thought that with Heero here, I’d be left
alone.
Heero was waiting for me with a first-aid kit. Disinfecting the fingers on my left hand, he
bandaged them up carefully. I tried not
to look at my mangled fingertips; they were still deeply dented with the
impressions of my violin strings, the skin cracked and bloody. “You look like hell,” Heero
commented blandly.
I
felt worse. My neck was still sore and
my fingers stung, both wrists were stiff, and my body was still vibrating with
phantom strains of music. Inside I was
nothing but a tight knot of grief, so painful and unbearable that I was
thankful for the external pain. If I
focused on my muscles and joints, then I wouldn’t have to face the emptiness.
I
watched his fingers shake as he carefully snipped the gauze. His face was lean and sallow; his hair, clean
now, hung limp and lifeless over his eyes.
My old jeans sagged on him; he wore them low on his hips like an
emaciated fashion model. I wasn’t
surprised when, once my fingers were tended, he wandered into the kitchen.
A
few minutes later, he emerged with two Styrofoam cups of instant ramen. Abdul must have left some in that box I’d been
ignoring. Heero
put one on the coffee table in front of me.
“Eat.”
I
stared at the steamy mass of overcooked noodles and underspiced
broth. My stomach lurched,
repulsed. Meanwhile, my guest was
slurping his up with a passion I envied.
“How
long has it been since you’ve eaten?” he demanded.
I
couldn’t remember. Before
the violin. Maybe before Duo’s
call. I picked up the cup and tasted the
broth. It was terrible, but I was
suddenly ravenous. I gulped down the
rest of it within a couple of minutes.
Heero-as-caretaker was a bit of a surprise for me, too. I’m amazed at how much of this story seems to
have written itself.
I tried to get across the feeling that Heero
is in no shape to take care of anyone, but that Quatre
doesn’t care enough about him to object.
04 turned out to be nicer about Heero than I’d
wanted, but that’s okay. 01 was surly
enough, and he’s the one that matters (to me) in the long run.
I
wasn’t prepared for the cramping pain in my abdomen. I doubled over as my stomach tried to reject
the food, somehow managing to keep it all down.
Heero and Trowa
watched, one curious, the other expressionless.
Heero commented that I must be in worse shape
than he was. I doubted it, noting the
crease of pain that lined his forehead.
After
another half-hour or so of pointless attempts at conversation, we fell
silent.
Heero stayed, and I didn’t protest.
Entire days went by without us so much as speaking to one another, but I
think we were both grateful for the company.
It took me about three days to realize that he couldn’t see the naked
spirit that followed me around. Trowa stopped watching Heero once
the novelty of having his former bedfellow in the apartment wore off, making me
realize that he’d come to me alone. I
felt guilty, thinking of how Heero would probably
give up anything to see Trowa just one more time, and
here he was, visible only to me.
Heero and I had an unspoken truce, now that the source of our feud
was gone. He watched out for me, forcing
me to eat when too much time had passed since my last meal, and I made sure he
went to bed from time to time, rousing him from his nearly-permanent position
on the couch. I couldn’t make him blink,
though—some days he did nothing but stare at the blank television screen. I understood those bad days; I longed for a
chance to get back to my music, but even after my fingers had begun to heal, Heero kept my violin from me, insisting that escape wasn’t
the answer.
Then
I didn’t know what was.
It
was probably mid-August when I started to cry.
I didn’t mean to—one morning, tears just came as I stared at the
bloodstained pillow beneath my head.
Once they began, they refused to stop, coursing down my cheeks in
streams as I hiccupped and sobbed. It
was stiflingly hot in the apartment—the air conditioner had broken down days
before, and neither Heero nor I cared to call to have
it fixed—and my tears felt cool on my flushed face. When they finally seemed to run dry, I felt
no better, just weak and emptied out again.
Heero didn’t comment on my red eyes and pale
face—he was busy staring out the window at the clouds.
The passage of time has
always been very concrete to me in this fic, but I’ve
never been sure of whether or not it comes through with the certainty that I
wanted.
Later,
I awoke from a dream sometime in the late afternoon—the clock on the nightstand
was blinking
At
some point, Heero came into my room, roused from his
own sleep on the sofa, either by my muffled chokes and sobs, or by that link
that lets him know when I’m in pain, and vice-versa. He put his hands on my back, whispering
soothing words he must have learned long ago, before they took him from his
mother. He spoke in Japanese, a language
I’d never associated with tenderness, but in such a gentle voice that he slowly
coaxed me from my tears.
Despite
the terrible heat, I leaned against him, enjoying the sweaty comfort of his
chest as he pulled me into his arms. I
didn’t feel self-conscious with him, even as I leaned my cheek against the bare
skin over his heart.
“I
loved Trowa,” I confessed softly. I’d never said the words out loud before, not
even to myself, and I was startled to hear how easily they came.
Heero sucked in his breath, gulping the air like it was
nourishment. I glanced up. His dark blue eyes were glassy with unshed
tears. He nodded curtly. “He knew.”
I
glanced nervously at Trowa’s ghost, who sat on the
floor by my dresser, his knees pulled up to his chest. As usual, he watched me, expressionless. None of us moved for a long time—me, Heero, or the spirit in the corner—and by the time the sun
had set and the room was hidden behind the darkness, I was drifting back to
sleep. Heero
hadn’t slept in my bed since that first night, but he slid naturally onto the
pillow beside mine, not letting go of me until morning.
By this point, I hoped the
reader would be looking at Heero with curiosity. I’ve revealed nothing about his motives, yet
his behaviors are very distinct. Quatre himself is starting to take more of an interest in
his roommate, too.
When
I woke he was in the shower; the sound of the water reminded me how long it’d
been since I’d washed my hair or anything other than my face and hands. I glanced down at the pants I wore—they were
limp with sweat and dirt. I walked to
the mirror, barely recognizing the boy who stared back at me. My hair had grown long and unruly—the
once-golden locks fell over my eyes, their color muted and grimy. My face and body were impossibly thin; I
could easily count my ribs where they jutted out, and my shoulders—once proudly
sculpted—were lanky and narrow.
When
Heero emerged from the bathroom, he looked better—the
heat had given his cheeks a healthy-looking flush, making his leanness look
fashionable. I noticed how his waist
tapered toward his small hips, how he wore my pants gathered and bunched
beneath his belt. I tried to smile as he
walked past me, but lack of exercise made my mouth muscles twitch, and I failed
miserably.
Dirty, hungry, and
sad. I actually had to skip a couple of
meals and listen to depressing music to keep this mood. I didn’t skip the showers though--that
would’ve been too icky. I remember
sulking around the house during my breaks from writing, and having Lisa and Tom
try to cheer me up until I’d wail that they mustn’t make me laugh or I’d lose
the flavor. ^_^;
I
took off my pants in the bathroom and stepped into the shower. Turning the hot water up, I scrubbed myself
from head to toe, enjoying the feel of the grime rinsing away. I was looking forward to slipping into a
clean pair of pants and a crisp t-shirt.
It was the first time I could remember looking forward to anything since
Trowa died.
Heero was waiting for me when I came into the living room. His arms were crossed over his bare chest and
he wore a tight expression on his face.
The smile I’d been practicing slipped, unnoticed. I pushed my damp hair from my forehead,
nervous.
“Why
didn’t you tell him?”
He
was referring to my confession, to that distant day when Trowa
asked me, point-blank, if I cared for him, and I’d said no. I swallowed hard, wondering if Heero really had any right to my secrets. But I’d already begun, the night before, with
my drastic admission.
I
sat down on a chair, painfully aware of the fragile-looking wraith that hovered
nearby. Taking a deep breath, I closed
my eyes, willing another confession to surface.
“I didn’t want him to touch me,” I admitted slowly, trying to keep my
voice steady. “I lied to him because I
didn’t want him to touch me.”
Heero’s sharp intake of breath and sad expression was enough to shame
me. I fled to my bedroom and, for the
first time since he’d come to stay with me, I shut the door. Lying on my bed, I studied the ceiling and
invited in the thoughts I usually pushed from my head.
We’d
fought over Heero.
We were seventeen, newly-made Preventors,
happy just to be working together. Then
he told me his secret: he’d fulfilled
his favorite fantasy. I thought he meant
Sally, or maybe even Une—I was shocked, but proud of
my best friend’s daring. Then he said
it. Heero. I just slept with Heero
Yuy.
I
felt sick to my stomach and terribly betrayed.
I lashed out, demanding to know how he could’ve done such a thing. I couldn’t imagine Trowa—my
Trowa—kissing Heero,
touching him. I was repulsed, disgusted,
and hurt more deeply than I could understand at the time.
He
misunderstood my anger, or maybe he knew me better than I knew myself. A few days later I felt no better—vicious
words kept coming to mind when I saw Heero at
work—but I allowed Trowa to come to my room. I assumed he was ready to apologize and
promise he was just experimenting, that it’d never happen again.
Instead
he confessed. I love you, Quatre. I have since
that day you found me at the circus, when I didn’t know you, but heard music in
your voice.
Trowa’s tactics baffle me, and they ought
to baffle the reader, too. I
deliberately didn’t want to understand Trowa’s logic
here so that I could come at Quatre’s character with
a complete lack of understanding. It
seemed to work--I’ve speculated about 03’s motives a lot since writing this,
but I’ve never quite been able to pin him down.
I’m happy with that.
I
stared at him, shocked. I thought that
everything I’d believed about Trowa, everything I’d
counted on, was wrong. He asked me if I
cared, if I could love him the same way he loved
me. I could tell by the light in his
eyes that he expected me to say yes. His
joy was immeasurable and so was my horror.
I loved him—in that moment I felt the vast swell of my emotions, the
overpowering urge to hold him close and kiss him until we were both drunk with
it.
I
was terrified. I said no.
I
shoved him out of my room as quickly as I could, but not too soon to see the
sheen of tears in his vivid green eyes.
I quit the Preventors and left the next day,
but I was never able to forget that certain shade of light where green looks
like Trowa and it hurts so much.
This is, of course, where
the title (Shades of Light) comes in. I
actually had the title first, because I liked the double-meaning of “shade” to
mean a ghost or spirit as well. I was
happy to wiggle it into the actual text, when the time came.
I
didn’t come out of my room for hours. Heero was working at the computer when I was finally brave
enough to face him. Rather, the computer
was on, but Heero was just staring. The curve of his spine, the glow of the
screen reflected on his face, it reminded me of another day, years ago, when Heero promised to find Trowa for me. Not for himself—he was barely able to care
for his own life, much less someone else’s—but for me.
Somewhere
along the way, Heero had learned to give, and I
learned to close myself up. My heart
hurt suddenly, and he looked up at me, startled. I saw my own pain reflected in his eyes
before I slipped away.
I’d
left a book on the floor of my bedroom weeks before. I’d started it before Trowa’s
ghost moved in. Now, not wanting to
think of Heero or Trowa and
the trust we’d once had in each other, I picked it up and remembered how to
read.
This is the turning point
of the story--I accented it with a storm because summer storms always make me
think about autumn being on its way. The
cold air and the rain are indicative of major changes in the entire dynamic of
a summer.
The
book occupied my entire day. Trowa waited patiently, curled up on the opposite side of
the bed, watching. I looked up when the
light outside dimmed—it seemed too early for nightfall, even to my confused
sense of time. I went to the window and
pulled up the shade, startled by the dust that swirled up and choked me.
The
sky was dark with angry-looking clouds.
I opened the window. The hot,
stale air in the room came to life, dampening with the cool of the storm and
billowing through the drapes. Lightning
cracked—I counted seven seconds before its companion thunder boomed.
While
I stood there, it started raining as it can only in summer. Clouds burst and there were torrents of water
falling heavily from the sky. The air
seemed charged with static, making my hair prickle and my skin tingle. After a while, lightening became more
frequent, the space before the following crash of thunder lessened. It made me feel alive, and I was shocked to
realize that I liked the feeling.
I
stood there for an indefinite amount of time—long enough to feel cold through
and through, long enough for the slanting rain to soak through my clothes and
puddle at my feet. I pushed my hair from
my forehead, idly thinking of those goggles I used to wear—Rashid’s—and
how they’d come in handy, to keep the rain out of my eyes.
Lightning
hit nearby. The windows rattled and the
floor beneath me shook. I could barely
take a breath before thunder bellowed around me.
I
was still enjoying the ringing in my ears when rough hands pulled me from the
window. “Damn it, Quatre!”
Heero disparaged in an uneven voice. “You’re not the one who died!” He pushed me out of the way and slammed the
window shut, turning on me with a glare.
And here’s where I fall in
love with Heero.
I suspect that Quatre’s right with me on this,
though he takes a bit longer to express himself.
I
wanted to agree with him, wanted to explain how the electricity of the storm
made me feel like part of the earth again, but his eyes were dark and wild and
I found myself wondering, instead, if he’d ever looked at Trowa
with such confused fury. My teeth
started to chatter.
Stifling
a curse, Heero yanked my t-shirt over my head; it
landed on the floor with a wet, dull sound.
I didn’t protest, though the feeling of his hands skimming the skin of
my sides and back made me shiver more than the rain. His fingers fumbled with the button on my
pants, but in a moment, those too were shucked off my body and I was naked.
Ignoring
the flush that colored my face and chest, Heero
turned from me, digging his way through the drawers of my dresser until he
found a pair of pajama pants. I slid
into them gratefully, hiding my face beneath my hair. I hadn’t seen those particular pajamas since
I’d moved—Trowa had given them to me for Christmas
two years before, so they’d ended up shoved into a bottom drawer, unused since
I ran away. I didn’t bother to tell Heero that I wasn’t supposed to wear them anymore.
The
room shook as thunder clapped nearby.
Pulling down the shade, Heero quieted the room
with darkness. I crawled into bed,
suddenly drained of the lightning’s energy.
To my surprise, he joined me.
We
didn’t speak. I turned away from him,
closing my eyes against the shade of Trowa who
lingered beside the bed. Heero settled against his pillow. I listened to the arc of the rainstorm—how it
intensified before fading slowly into the evening. Soon I could hear only the water dripping
from the soaked drapes and the gentle sigh of three people breathing.
From
that night forward, Heero slept in my bed each night,
only to have disappeared by the time I woke in the morning. Awake, we kept a respectable distance from
each other, but I suspected—I knew—that in sleep our bodies found one another,
twining together as they did that first night.
I tried not to think about it too much.
The
next weeks were quiet, almost routine.
We didn’t talk, but his silent company was satisfying. We ate together and moved within the same
forty-two foot square that was my tiny apartment. Each day was no more interesting than the
last, but I rediscovered my passion for reading and Heero
spent more and more time on the computer—communicating with the outside world
in a way I wasn’t quite ready for.
Slowly,
very slowly, the knot in my chest began to loosen. We had our bad days—days when I cried into my
pillow for hours, missing the way Trowa used to
communicate with just his face and that quirk of a smile that never failed to
make me laugh—days when Heero climbed out the window
onto the roof, not moving at all except to watch the clouds with his eyes. Trowa still hovered
in the shadows. Still, we got
better. I remembered how to smile—albeit
wistfully—and waking each day was less of a chore.
It
was nearly autumn when Heero
opened the door. I had been in the
bedroom, reading, when the knock came. I
jumped to my feet; Rashid was back for his weekly
check—I usually called out through the closed door these days, not ready to
face him and the life I used to lead.
When I got there, Heero had already unlocked
the stiff bolts and pulled the door open.
Trowa clung to the shadows behind him,
observing.
This opening of the door
is another *huge* step in their recovery.
I put in Rashid for that punch-in-the-gut
reaction, and to put Quatre’s behavior in perspective.
Rashid’s large body crowded the hallway, filling the
doorway in a way that would have been menacing, if it weren’t so comfortingly
familiar. I froze, feeling a little like
a naughty child facing his father.
The
lines on his face had deepened—I could see that concern for my well-being all
these months had taken a toll on him. He
stared at me, and I suddenly felt very small—too skinny with my naked chest and
shaggy hair. His face broke into a
half-relieved smile and tears welled up in his eyes. It hurt.
I was glad I’d gotten back into the habit of showering each day—the
grimy, unkempt behavior of before would have worried him more.
Rashid didn’t speak—or maybe he couldn’t. Blinking furiously, he handed a steaming
paper sack to Heero, nodded affectionately at me, and
left.
He’d
brought us Chinese food. For months we’d
eaten nothing but canned soups and instant ramen—Heero
and I attacked the sesame chicken and pepper steak with vehemence. After we’d devoured every morsel of rice and Heero dropped his chopsticks on the table next to my fork,
I got up to make tea.
I
was still thinking of Rashid and the paternal pain
that was etched on his face.
“Have
you called Duo?” I asked softly, handing
Heero a cup and saucer.
He
nodded, sipping the steaming drink.
“Last month. I told him we’d be
okay.”
I
nodded too, studying the scarred grooves in the fingertips of my left
hand. We would be okay, in spite of
everything. His hand reached out, his
fingers covering mine suddenly. I looked
up, startled by the gesture.
“You
do believe me, don’t you, that we’ll be all right?” His eyes were wide beneath the fringe of his
hair, which was longer than mine.
“Yes,”
I whispered.
So when did Heero learn to be okay?
I don’t know, but I suspect that the ghost makes it a bit harder for Quatre to move on.
That
night when I slipped into my pajamas and covered myself with the sheet, I found
myself staying awake, looking forward to Heero
turning off the computer screen and coming to bed. My heart beat erratically when the light in
the other room finally blinked out.
Heero stretched languidly, yawning as he unbuttoned the shirt he
wore—it was one of my favorites, and the light blue that always made my hair
more golden enhanced his eyes in a way that made me nervous. He threw the shirt onto the pile that had
formed in the corner and stepped out of his pants. He had no pajamas to wear, so he wore just
his shorts. I closed my eyes as he
climbed onto the bed.
His
breath didn’t alter, even as his body relaxed.
I opened my eyes, looking at Trowa and
wondering why Heero’s mind was staying alert.
“Quatre.” His voice was low, almost inaudible. “You know I’ve always felt you here.”
I
rolled over to face him. He was tapping
his chest with two fingers, a soft look on his face. “But lately, since I heard your music and
followed it here,” he took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving my face. “Lately I haven’t been able to tell where you
begin and I end.”
I
took stock of everything, gripping the sheet to keep the room from
spinning. I thought of Trowa’s declaration—his confession in simple words that
weren’t anything like Heero’s—and I realized that I
couldn’t let myself make the same mistake twice. Panic edged its way into my mind, but I
stomped it down.
Licking
my lips, I tried to speak, stopping only when I realized that I had nothing
worked out to say. Heero
had become important, a fixture in my life lately that I hadn’t even noticed
until it was too late to change things.
Over time I’d found myself looking forward to meeting his eyes over
breakfast, to finding the shower stall already wet and smelling of soap in the
morning. I listened for the clack of his
typing when I read, watched for the telltale droop in his shoulders at night
when he got sleepy. Though I’d denied it
for a long time, I slept better now that he shared my bed.
I’d
come to depend on him, to care about him.
It
scared me.
I
had to say something. “Heero,” I managed, my voice more
of a croak.
He
put his finger on my lips. “Shh,” he urged softly.
I had a hard time not tasting his fingertip. “Don’t say anything. Just sleep.”
He
rolled over and I stared at his back for what seemed like hours. The skin was thin, exposing his knobby
backbone and shoulder blades. I wanted
to trace words over the smooth part near his waist. I love you, Heero
Yuy.
His
breathing deepened and his muscles relaxed as he fell into sleep. In the darkness, I learned the subtle
tapering of his waist to his hips; I memorized the slight swell of his triceps,
the curve of his neck muscles that tightened when I breathed on him. Careful not to wake him, I gathered him close
to me, spooning against him as I leaned my face in his hair. He instinctively nestled closer, and for a
mortifying moment I thought he’d wake to discover my erection against his
backside. He didn’t.
I was afraid that to use
the word “erection” would be too hard for this moment, but now I can’t imagine
it any other way. After all, Quatre’s a boy--even if he’s just now coming to terms with
being attracted to another boy, he’d still be *way* more comfortable with his
own erection than I am writing about it.
Using his voice, there was no other way for me to describe this moment.
The
next morning over breakfast, he suggested we go for a walk.
After
a lot of coaxing and pointing out all the reasons that it would be good for us,
Heero convinced me.
I showered and put on shorts, a t-shirt, and running shoes. While tying my shoes, I looked at Trowa meaningfully—I was afraid he’d be gone when we
returned, so I tried to let him know that I wanted him to stay.
It
felt strange when we stepped out of the apartment, watching Heero
carefully lock the door and slip the key into his pocket. We sneaked past the posted Maganac—I wasn’t surprised to see that the apartment
building was being watched. Clearly Rashid wanted to know if we left, but it was important to
me that no one found out about our excursion—I wasn’t prepared to move on with
life the way it used to be.
This whole outing was an
after-after thought. I wasn’t ready for
the end yet, and I’d run out of planned moments, so suddenly an excursion to
the park was the only option. Given
that, I’m shocked at how well it works.
The sunshine dazzles my eyes, I’m so not used
to them being outside.
The
air was clear and held just a hint of autumn that excited my senses. I’d never gotten used to temperate
seasons—the idea that summer could change into fall was still new and
exhilarating to me. Heero
and I walked to a nearby park where children were running around while adults
played tennis or chatted on benches. We
followed a running path that wound through a wooded area. Beneath the deep green awning of the
treetops, Heero’s hand brushed against mine. My senses burst to life; then I spent the
next twenty minutes wondering if it had been intentional. The woods opened up to a clearing with a
small, man-made lake. There weren’t too
many people on that end of the park, and those that were there were reading or
napping in the grass.
Without
a word, Heero and I clamored up onto a rock that hung
out over the water. It was warm with
sunshine, so we lay down, soaking up the nutrients we’d neglected by staying
inside all summer. We had been pretty
quiet all day, but it was the good kind of silence, where nothing needed to be
said. Lying in the sun, however, the
mood shifted, and somehow I knew that Heero had
something to tell me.
I
prompted him, wondering if it had anything to do with what he’d said the night
before. Maybe he’d changed his mind, or
hadn’t meant to say anything at all. My
pulse raced at his tense expression as he knit his eyebrows together. I smiled anyway, hoping to encourage him.
“I
used to resent you so much,” he began. I
was startled by his words, but managed to nod slowly. “That night—” He faltered, sitting up a bit. “The night you broke up with Trowa,” he clarified.
“I took him to bed. You see, he’d
left me once, just a few days before, and I wanted to make sure he wouldn’t
leave me again.”
My
chest tightened at the sound of shame in Heero’s
voice. The story was an old one, but it
had to be told. I understood.
“He
said he loved you, that he knew you loved him, too. He wanted to go back, that night, to talk
with you again. I seduced him. The next day, you were gone. I thought I’d won.” Heero squinted his eyes, looking at the sky near the sun. “But he still loved you. I loved him for a long time that way, knowing
that he would rather have been still sleeping with you.”
Still? I sat up, shading the sun from Heero’s
eyes with my shadow. “Trowa and I were never lovers,” I corrected him
slowly. I felt my face turn red with
embarrassment. “We never even
kissed.”
He
looked at me a moment, disbelieving, but soon a small smile crept onto his
lips. “Never?” he asked softly.
I
shook my head, lying back down to study the water. I’ve never really kissed anyone.
Later
that evening, I reclined onto my pillows, exhausted. Heero was making
dinner out of groceries we’d bought on the way home from the park. Sharp-eyed Abdul was keeping watch this time,
so we had to come up with a tricky plan to get back inside. It turned out that neither Heero nor I were in as good shape
as we had been—climbing up the side of the fire escape really wore us out.
I was relieved to see that Trowa was still haunting the apartment when we
returned. I was afraid of him leaving,
especially if it was because Heero and I were getting
along so well. As I closed my eyes in
the dim bedroom, listening to the bang of pots and pans as Heero
fumbled in the kitchen, Trowa appeared in the room, kneeling
on my bed. Looking at his blank green
eyes made me sad and lonely.
“Hey, Trowa,”
I said softly, half-afraid of startling him.
I knew he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—talk back, but there were things I needed
him to know. “You’ll always be my best
friend, Trowa.”
I could feel tears stinging the corners of my eyes, but I was determined
not to cry. “I want you to understand
that I was hurt, and the change in my feelings really scared me. It’s different now; I understand—” I gulped, stumbling
over the words. “I understand who I am,
now.”
Trowa’s
ghost moved closer, his arms and legs looking pale, but solid. He was beautiful. Even without any expression on his face, his
features were perfect and lovely. I lost
my breath, looking at him. “Trowa,” I whispered.
“I loved you. So
much.”
I had to use Heero’s honesty as a model for Quatre’s,
and I was surprised when this love confession came out sounding almost
platonic. I think, for me, it all goes
back to that mental connection with Heero. I think in this story, Heero
is Quatre’s true love, and Trowa
just complicated it. I didn’t really
intend that, but that’s how it seemed to turn out.
The phantom raised his hands—white
like ivory in the dim evening—and touched my face gently. I closed my eyes, half-afraid of a repeat of
the last experience with Trowa’s hands. I was equally terrified that I’d live to
forget this moment. His hands were cool
and smooth on my face—they were shaking.
“Quatre?” Heero’s voice intruded; I opened my eyes to see him standing
in the doorway, oven mitts on his hands.
Trowa’s spirit dissipated, reappearing next to
Heero in the next moment. Something flicked in Heero’s
eyes and he glanced around the room.
“You okay? I thought I heard you
talking.”
I shook my head, mumbling something
about being tired. It was time to eat,
so I followed Heero into the other room. A backward glance verified that Trowa still watched.
Heero
didn’t come to bed until late that night.
I lay awake for hours, listening to the rhythmic clacking of his fingers
against the keyboard—by
Ah, Quatre’s
big seduction! He’s such a ninny! I mean, this is a perfect example of someone
using sex to solidify/clarify/achieve love.
If Quatre’s very sexuality hadn’t been on the
line through this whole story, I don’t think I would’ve taken them to this
point. But, as it were, Quatre’s not only affirming
his love, but he’s expressing his homosexuality for the first time, so sex is
warranted.
He didn’t notice I was awake. I held my breath, wondering if I’d been wrong
about his words the night before, wrong about everything. He’d avoided coming to bed for so long. I stared at the closet door, where Trowa sat curled on the floor; I wondered what I should do.
After a moment I noticed how
irregular his breathing had become, how stiffly he held his body. Heero was nervous.
I was encouraged.
“Heero,” I
began softly, not shifting my position or taking my eyes off the glint of the
closet’s mirror. “Heero,
I want you.”
I heard his sharp intake of breath,
that Japanese word that always sounded like swearing. He didn’t move either, but I could feel him
watching me. “Are you sure?” The words came out in a growl, and startled,
I flipped over to look at him.
He was shaking. His eyes were glassy in the darkness and he
clutched the sheet unconsciously in two fists.
“Are you really sure?” he asked again, his eyes searching my face.
I’d thought this through. I loved him.
I lay awake at night fantasizing about his lean body and soft
mouth—about the things he could do with them.
Trying my hardest to keep my hands from trembling, I touched his hair. He closed his eyes. I slid my fingertips down his face, over his
jaw, and onto his throat. When they
rested on his collarbone and my heart was pounding so hard that it hurt me, I
answered him. “Yes,” I whispered. “I’m sure.
I want you.”
He opened his eyes slowly, and I was
startled to see naked longing gleaming in them.
His breaths came in short bursts, as though he’d been running. I stared at him, not knowing what to do, how
to funnel the passionate love I was feeling into action.
Leaning up onto his elbows, he
touched his lips to mine gently—more softly than I ever imagined a kiss could
be. He tasted me slowly, running his
tongue along my bottom lip. I thought
I’d explode with the pleasure of it, all focused into a spot as small as my
mouth. I kissed back instinctively until
he pushed away, breathless.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he
whispered against my mouth, his voice husky.
I still couldn’t move, so he kissed
me again, pressing his mouth against mine. He moved his lips slowly, so that, this
time, mine opened beneath him. He tasted
like toothpaste, like water, like everything delicious I had ever eaten. His tongue slid around mine, curving up to
brush against the roof of my mouth. I
shivered as shockwaves coursed down through my stomach and lower.
“I’m here,” I answered, blushing as
his thumbs flicked over my nipples, making them hard. I could hardly bear the almost painful
urgency of my body’s arousal, but Heero was
determined to take it slowly. He stared
at me through the darkness, apparently learning my face by heart. In all the years I’d known him, I’d never
seen such fierce elation in those moody blue eyes. For an instant, it made me feel like a fraud
for making him think I was so significant.
But then he smiled as he kissed my throat, my chest, my stomach, and I
knew not to question the luck—or providence—that brought us there. He licked a trail across my ribs, sending
shudders through me.
I looked away when he hooked his
thumbs beneath the waistband of my pajamas, stretching the elastic so they’d
slide smoothly over my hips. His blatant
admiration embarrassed me, as did his lively attempt to even things out by
shucking off his own shorts and flinging them aside. I’d seen naked men before, but not when they
were aroused. Certainly
not aroused by me.
Heero was
a surprisingly playful lover; he kissed me all over, refusing to allow me to
touch him in return. “For you,” he
insisted, gradually focusing his calculated caresses—a fantasy come to life as
his tongue skimmed over smooth skin.
I was dizzy with the sensations,
feeling like I was falling and at the same time flying. Heero’s mouth drove
me wild, his hair felt sleek and smooth in my hands. Everything was building around me, spiraling
upward, and I realized too late that I couldn’t control things—I fell back
against the pillows, crying out as warm tremors washed over me.
Why did I have Heero act out Quatre’s Trowa fantasy? I
guess it was because it seemed a logical step before full-blown (no pun
intended) intercourse, and I sort of wanted to mirror that other experience to
show that Quatre’s finally allowing himself to have
what he always wanted.
Surfacing from my ecstasy, I
realized that I’d done it too soon. My
face grew warm as I recognized the consequence of my inexperience.
Heero
looked delighted. He swallowed hard and
smirked as he licked his lips playfully.
“Guess I should’ve saved that, huh?”
He laughed, crawling up to kiss me on the mouth before snuggling against
my chest. “There’s always more where that
came from, though,” he added reflectively, his hot tongue flicking out to tease
my skin.
Garg! Who the hell is this
guy?! He’s way too OOC to be Heero, suddenly!
That’s the problem with citrus, especially when you try to keep up a
dialogue.
Hours later, when the pale blue
light of early dawn teased the edges of the shaded windows, Heero
finally fell into an exhausted sleep. My
own eyelids were heavy, and my muscles were already tightening into knots of
soreness, but I couldn’t sleep. I was
too wound up to do anything but think. I
rolled the whole night through my mind—already a cherished memory. Heero had
overwhelmed me with the frequency of his smile, the laughter in his eyes. He’d looked gentle and beautiful and
terribly young. My chest felt saturated
with the comprehension that someone so breathtaking could care for me, and
gradually, the emptiness that had lurked inside of me for so long was filled.
I gazed around the gray room—Trowa had stopped watching during the night, slipping away
to wherever ghosts go. Now I wondered if
I’d get to see him again—I didn’t know if it’d hurt him to see me so intimate
with Heero. I
rolled over, pulling the thin blanket up around my ears. Still, I was only mildly surprised to find
him there, stretched out on the bed next to us, his hands casually tucked
behind his head.
Trowa was
smiling.
Voyuer!Trowa is an odd chap, but I had
to put him here or else the story would’ve dragged too far from its
climax. I guess it’s sort of Trowa’s big moment, too, getting what he wanted and
all. For such a steady presence in this fic, he’s been rather a non-entity in these notes. Sorry, Trowa!
A lump filled my throat as I studied
the subtle expression I thought I’d never see again—the smile I thought I’d
lost any rights to. For so many months
he’d been blank—I hadn’t known he was able to smile.
He reached for me, pushing my hair
from my eyes as he gazed at me. His eyes
were green even in the dimness. I closed
my eyes, leaning into his hands to learn the texture of them on my face. His voice echoed in my mind. Quatre, take care of Heero. Love him for me.
I nodded, finally able to agree to
my best friend’s last words.
Trowa
leaned forward, brushing my mouth with his phantom lips—a feather-light feeling
that left me giddy.
A moment later, the heady feeling
intensified—Trowa’s hands, his face, even his body,
were disappearing before my eyes, falling into me until I could feel him
inside, occupying the vacant spaces left in my soul. A warmth like relaxation spread through me,
and I realized that he wanted to stay there, to love
me from inside for as long as I’d let him.
Trowa’s breath within me felt like heaven.
I was afraid that this
ending would be corny. I’m still afraid
of that. Truth be told, I didn’t know
what to do with Trowa now. He’s been far too selfish in life to fade
away quietly here, and yet, he couldn’t hang around forever.
It wasn’t until I looked at Heero that I knew how much Trowa
longed to keep him, too. An overpowering
rush of emotion filled me as I gazed at my sleeping lover, and I
understood. My friend had love enough for us both.
Tears filled my eyes as I nuzzled Heero’s neck, basking in the smell of my shampoo in his
hair, the feel of his warm skin close to mine.
He blinked at me, groggy but
startled by the hot moisture that slid across his skin. “What is it?” he asked, alarmed. “Did I hurt you?” He twisted and put his hand on the back of my
head, cradling it protectively.
I shook my head—it was my turn to be
sheepish. “It’s just—” I didn’t know the words, if any
words existed, to explain the wide range
of emotions that flooded me in that instant.
About us, about Trowa; I didn’t know where to
begin. “Heero,
I—“
Heero
covered my lips with his own, silencing me. “I know,” he whispered. “I feel it, too, remember?”
And I knew I would love him for a
very long time.
I hope you enjoyed my
annotations. It’s been fun visiting my
early muses and rediscovering why I wrote this story. Thanks to Rachel and Lisa for the idea!