This is a really difficult story for me to write—hard because it hurts, and hard because I’m trying a new style of narration.  Because of this, I’m really anxious for feedback on this one.  The story itself, or rather, Trowa’s part in it, was inspired by Mika Yoshikawa’s “Phillip” in One Hundred and One Ways.   If you haven’t read the book, please do—it’s wonderful.

Special thanks to Q-sama for her helpful character psychoanalysis and to Lilias for keeping me on my toes.

This story takes place about two years after Endless Waltz.  I imagine Quatre’s about eighteen.

 

SHADES OF LIGHT

by the Space Pirate Ryoko

 

            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.

            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.

            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. 

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.

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?

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.

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.

When I woke, the room was dark.  I glanced at the clock:  four forty-seven.  Trowa kept his silent vigil near the closet and I groggily searched for the source of my disturbance.  My pillow and sheet were spotted brown with dried blood from my fingers, but otherwise, nothing in the room had changed.

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.”

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.

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 Sanq Kingdom was more than a historical footnote.  Since then, things had changed.  We’d avoided each other, barely speaking for more than a year.

“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.

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.

Later, I awoke from a dream sometime in the late afternoon—the clock on the nightstand was blinking twelve o’clock from a power outage about a week before.  The dream had been about Trowa, a long time ago, when he and I had been such good friends, before the complications.  I woke up to find I’d already begun to cry—this time because I missed him, because I regretted everything that had come to pass since those days.  I sobbed until my stomach hurt and my head spun.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.”

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 two o’clock I was convinced that I’d be able to recognize Heero’s typing in a line-up.  It was a little after three when he finally pulled off his clothes and slid into bed.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.