This little ficlet was originally going to be about Quatre and Trowa, but halfway through, I changed my mind and made my narrator Duo, instead.  It seemed to work more.  It suggests shonen ai, but it could just be about friendship—you decide.

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Quatre’s Rain

 by the Space Pirate Ryoko

 

It was the sound of rain that pulled me from my book, leading me to my window to shut out the damp.  I saw Quatre, arms tight around himself, alone in the downpour. 

            I hurried downstairs and out the doors to the garden, unmindful of my shorts and t-shirt, ready for bed.  It was a black night, save the garden light that cast more shadows than it illuminated.  I shivered in the cold, watching my small friend shake in the torrential weather.  His back was to me, and his clothes hung, soaked, on his narrow frame.

            “Quatre?”  I asked softly, not wanting to startle him. 

            He turned to me, his eyes red and wide.  Rain and tears mingled, coursing in rivulets down his smooth cheeks.  He opened his mouth to speak, but only a sob came out—one that sounded like my name.

            I pulled him close.  He was too cold.  What on earth had happened to him?

            “The war is over,” he sobbed against my shoulder.  “What is there now?  What do I do?”  He clutched my shirt in his fists as I looked down at him, helpless.  We were both soaked, freezing.  It didn’t matter.  It was disorienting, seeing such tormented emotion from my little friend—no one I’d ever known had been able to cry like that.  I was in awe, a little envious.

            Something hurt inside, watching the way he shook with the force of his own sobs.  I tried to steady him, tried to offer him my strength, but suddenly I didn’t feel so strong.  Quatre’s tears were making me sad—confused.

            He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching mine.  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he confessed, hiccupping.  “I just don’t want everyone to leave.  I—I had no purpose, before.” 

            I pushed his head back against my shoulder, my fingers staying in his hair.  I understood a lack of purpose.  Without my gundam, without Deathscythe, Shinigami didn't really exist.  But Quatre?  I glanced around the manicured garden, up at the lavish mansion.  His family owned everything.  I blinked furiously as the rain pounded against my face.

            “You weren’t made for fighting,” I protested, leaning close to his ear.  “You'll be happier, now—with this.”  I motioned toward the house, the warm sanctuary that was so unlike any home I'd known.  Quatre had love here—he had family.  A guy wouldn’t need purpose if he had that.  A lump formed in my throat that I recognized as jealousy.

            He looked up at me, his blond hair soaked and dripping in streams down his temples.  His lashes were damp and matted with tears and his eyes glistened aquamarine in the dimness.  I felt my chest tighten at the trust in his gaze.  I was jealous of his sisters, of the Maganacs, of the servants in the Winner home.  They all had a claim on him that I'd never have.

            I let my arms tighten around him, trying to stop his violent shaking.  “You belong here, with your family.”

            “But. . .” He closed those eyes and looked away.  “But it’s not me . . . anymore,” he said softly.  “My family is Heero, Trowa,” he turned back to face me, his cheeks flushing pink.  “You, Duo.”  His damp lips were trembling from the cold and I had to close my eyes against them, against the insane possibilities that swirled in my head.

            Quatre’s cold body seemed warmer, pulled against mine.  His narrow frame fit perfectly against my chest; his breath was hot on my chin.  For a foolish moment I let myself wonder what it would be like to stay with him, like this.

            Suddenly his nearness unsettled me.  I pushed him away, more roughly than I’d intended.  I laughed, tasting the bitterness of the sound.  “I’m not anybody’s family, Quatre.”  I turned away and walked toward the door, my heart hurting more than it should’ve. 

I put my hand on the fancy doorknob and suddenly I was stuck.  I could feel him watching me—it made me feel guilty.  The runoff from the eaves fell heavily over me like a waterfall.  I was freezing.  But I couldn’t move.  Quatre was right to cry.  There was nothing left.

“Duo,” he whispered, suddenly close to me.

I spun around, my wet braid smacking my cheek like a whip.  He was right in front of me, impossibly small with tears still running down his flushed cheeks.  His eyes widened, his brows knitting together in quiet dismay.

He touched my cheek where the smack of my hair still burned.  I froze, alarmed by his thin fingers, his gentle touch.  Using his thumb, he wiped tears from my eyes.

I hadn’t known I was crying.

            “We could have each other, “ Quatre suggested quietly.

            For a long time we stared at each other, less and less aware of the icy rain that pounded the stone terrace around us.  I didn’t ask him to explain.  I just agreed.