Rain
By: Kitty E.
Trowa's eyes snapped open at a flash of light, his body curled around itself in preparation for an explosion. Several moments passed and there was no impact, not even a vibration, only the sound of a loud crack followed. He lay utterly still for a moment, letting the last remnants of sleep melt away from his consciousness. There was another flash and a low rumble. Thunder? he rolled over slowly, and looked out the window. The sky was almost black, gray clouds and dim light. Rain?
His brow creased tightly, and he threw his arm over his eyes, blocking it out. Rain... it always takes me back to another time, another place. God, no matter where I go it's still with me, *he's* still with me. All these years and I still hear his voice, feel him, smell him. Why can't I just *forget?* A scene played again, for the hundredth time within his mind, serving as his reminder that some pain went down further than he could hide.
~~ Some of L3's colonies were lucky enough to have rain. Whenever water supplies were sufficient, the colony released the excess through a pipe along the roof, letting centrifugal force create an artificial, though refreshing, shower for the colony and its life, both plant and animal. Such a pleasant thing it could be to those with a house, and garden, but to those who had no such things it was merely a pain.
Nanashi stood at the opening of the tent, shutting himself down, gradually letting pieces of himself float away. It wouldn't be long now, would it? A voice pierced the haze in his mind. "'S raining, Nanashi, nothing to do really, but you... come here..."
If he ran he'd no doubt be beaten with an inch of his life, if he stayed he'd want to die. Either way, he'd be left to fend for himself. It was his job to procure his own meals, and no matter what he was still expected to earn his keep. The healing process of a beating would only slow him down, expose him to the threat of being left behind. Instinct told him to run away, but logic made him to stay. He forced himself to walk away from the entrance, towards his tormentor, getting as close to the man as he could before fear froze him into place.
"Good," he smirked, catching him by the jacket. "You've caught on so quickly... now if you'd only make a little noise." He pushed Nanashi down, all but slamming him into the ground. "I'll see what I can do about that tonight."~~
Eyes closed, listening to the sounds of coming rain Trowa could almost feel the dirty, calloused, heavy hands closing around his neck. ~~Beg me, damnit. Beg me to stop, beg me to spare your life!~~ He hadn't uttered a word, barely a sound, but the longer he waited for death the more he came to realize there was only greater pain to be found.
His hands, his breath, his stench won't ever fully be washed away, not even the rain could clean *that* from me. He felt a tear squeeze between his lashes, pooling in the corner of his eye before sliding down to wet the pillow. Other visions came to him, each one ripping at a piece of him, nothing he could do would make them stop. Every thought led into another source of pain.
With each thunderclap, his stomach clenched and he found himself almost trying to hide again from a man long dead, killed in battle but not soon enough. If only it would stop, I could forget again! Thunder rolled over the roof again, and he tried to block out the noise, filling his mind with a mantra of silence. In the quiet that followed the thunder, he heard the soft strains of music. He opened his eyes, and sat up slowly, listening to it intently. It wafted in like an odor, Pachelbel, played slowly. Quatre? he wondered. Lightning crashed again, but he failed to notice it. Hai, this is Quatre's home. We have another shared mission tomorrow... It must be Quatre's music.
Slowly, he dressed, tying himself to the present with the music he heard, ignoring all else. He stepped outside his room and followed it, down the hall and into the study where he watched Quatre in silence, and unseen. The music died, and was replaced with a variation, Quatre's inevitable changes, and twists on the melody, making it into something brighter, sweeter.
It was some time before he stopped, but the moment of serenity stretched past the music as he let his shoulders sag a little as he rested. Turquoise eyes opened, and spied him, a small smile appearing on his features, quickly replaced by a concerned look.
"You're up early... Did I disturb you?" he asked, leaning his violin against a couch cushion.
Trowa shook his head, "No... the rain."
Another one of Quatre's smiles burst forth, and he moved towards the window, pulling back the curtains a bit more. "Oh, isn't it wonderful? A real desert storm is coming in. Rashid say's that it's an awesome thing to behold, the skies will just open up with rain and pour for hours. And that afterwards, everything, literally everything, goes into bloom. It's the first one I've seen," he turned back to Trowa. "I'm glad I get to share it with someone, all the Maganacs are preparing for tomorrow, and I thought for sure you'd sleep in."
Trowa could think of nothing to say in response, managing only a week nod and noise of acknowledgement. He enjoyed being in Quatre's presence as always, and was even vaguely comforted by the kindness Quatre radiated.
"Trowa?" Quatre asked, when the moment of silence drug on far too long. "Would you like to play? I was so impressed by your talent last time, could we try again? With the rain as a background?"
Trowa didn't really feel like playing, but Quatre's expression was so earnest he found he couldn't refuse. Perhaps if just listening to his music helped me, playing some myself would do even more. He nodded shallowly, and moved to retrieve the flute from the instrument case.
"I said you could have it, you know," Quatre said, as he rifled through his music for a suitable duet. "To be honest, I was never any good with woodwinds, and now that I have even less time to practice, I doubt I'll ever get to the kind of level you've reached. Where did you learn, by the way?"
"A friend," Trowa replied a little lately. He continued to speak as he reminded his hands of the fingering needed for each note. "We managed to... find a flute one day, and he knew how to play it well enough to teach me. He gave it to me, but... I don't like to play it."
Quatre looked as though he were about to ask why, but the haunted look on Trowa's face, the sudden flatness of the eyes made him hesitate. "All the more reason you should accept mine."
"That's kind of you," he said in a non-committal tone.
Quatre handed him the music, letting him arrange it on the stand. He took a few steps away and raised his violin his cheek again.
"You don't need it?" Trowa asked.
Quatre shook his head, "I know them all by heart. It's become my refuge, nothing can spoil music, not even the war."
Like you, Trowa thought. Quatre looked up at him suddenly, a knowing look in his eyes. For a moment Trowa wondered if he had said the words aloud, or if perhaps Quatre could hear them just as well when they were spoken. He abandoned such musings as Quatre led him into the song. He followed the notes on the paper until Quatre broke away, then closed his eyes and immersed himself in the music.
The melody was climbing higher and higher, until suddenly, with a great crash of thunder, rain began to fall. He played a sour note, forcing Quatre to pull back, and lead them into something simpler. Playing with Quatre was always challenging, but now with his thoughts and nightmares railing against him with renewed force he found himself unable to keep up. He tried to continue, but after the third error, he gave up.
"I'm sorry, Quatre, I just can't right now," he apologized.
Quatre nodded, "It's all right, but... is something wrong?"
Trowa shook his head hastily, the rain was falling harder, and even though he knew there wasn't any danger around, he still felt fear gripping his heart, mashing his stomach.
There was another flash of lightning, and Quatre must have caught his frightened look. "Trowa, are you okay?"
With one hand, the blonde reached out to touch his shoulder, and Trowa took a few steps back involuntarily. "I'm sorry, Quatre, I... I'm sorry." Trowa put the flute away and left quickly.
"Trowa?" Quatre called after him, but Trowa was already too far away to hear him. Fighting to keep control of his fear, Trowa hurried down the hall, back to his room. The sound of the rain followed him, beating down on the roof, against the walls, the sound was softer against wood than it was on canvas, but it was the same noise. The same sound he'd try to feel his mind with whenever the man came for him.
Thankfully, he made it his room without meeting anyone. Once there he sank to his knees, curling up in the corner furthest from the window, and willing the rain to stop pouring, to stop making him remember. Time ticked slowly by, and Trowa began to drown his thoughts. There was nothing, no ray of hope, or promise to grab on to. He barely heard the soft knock at his door.
"Trowa?" Quatre sounded tentative. He stood up slowly, contemplating what to do next. A sharp refusal would probably send him away for good, but as he opened his mouth, the words caught in his throat, and suddenly he wasn't so sure he wanted Quatre to leave. His hesitation lasted so long Quatre took it as an invitation, and opened the door.
"Trowa, daijabou deska? Iie, I won't even ask it, I know something is wrong. Is there any way I can help?" It was clear he was sincere, he would have to be concerned to override his courtesy, to silence the part of him which had gotten the message that Trowa wanted to be alone.
"Quatre, I-" he stopped. What is there to say? 'I want you to go away because you're making this so difficult?' 'I'm glad you came because I want you to hold me until I'm safe?' 'I want to pretend nothing ever happened, that nothing ever frightens me, and that there's nothing between us?' Which would be the correct response?
"Trowa?" Quatre asked when it became clear Trowa was lost again. He moved forward, and took one of Trowa's hands into his own, hoping to ground him enough to the physical world to get a response. "You can tell me," he insisted.
"It's got nothing to do with you," Trowa said, but his voice was soft, distracted by their joined hands.
"I know," Quatre said resolutely. "I just want to help you." He began to stroke Trowa's fingers beneath his thumbs. Touching had always comforted him as a child, being held and cared for by so many sisters, it came naturally. Perhaps, he only needs to see that he's not alone.
Trowa shivered slightly, terrified at the sensation, horrified that he liked it. A sudden urge came to him, to run, to lash out, and beneath an endless need to pull Quatre into his arms. It was simply too much, and he felt now was the time to exit gracefully, to leave his secrets hidden, and his fear unchanged. "Thank you for caring, but-"
"I do care, Trowa, very much. Too much to let you chase me away when I know that you're in pain. If you would only let me try to understand, I could try to help." As he said these words, he focused on Trowa's limp fingers, afraid his eyes would tell even more than what he said. Once finished, he dipped his head down to place a light kiss on the long, slender fingers that had neither been pulled away, nor intertwined with his own.
A second later he seemed to realize what he'd done. He looked up to gauge Trowa's reaction and was dismayed to see even more fear, more regret at the bottom of his deep, emerald eyes. "Shimatta," he swore at his mistake. "I'm sorry. This...this wasn't the time to-I-" he stammered. At last he lit upon the appropriate statement, "Forgive me, I'll leave if you like."
Trowa felt his hand drop down to his side, and blinked. Now seeing Quatre walking away, a sense of permanence all around him, he called, "Don't."
Quatre turned, and regarded Trowa carefully. He seemed immobile, incapable of coming toward him, or even holding out his hand, at war with himself. Still in doubt...if only you knew. He went to Trowa this time with a purpose which spoke in his every movement, To show that I care... He stopped just short of touching the taller boy, and put his hands on his shoulders. To show how much I love you. Gently, he pulled Trowa towards him, and claimed the taller boy's mouth for his first kiss.
Quatre had never kissed anyone before, other than the occasional peck on the cheek for one of his sisters. Trowa had been the first person he'd known that made it almost impossible not to reach up and touch those lips. The first kiss was small, one closed mouth pressed against another. Quatre pulled away slightly, and tried again this time opening his mouth enough to nip at Trowa's bottom lip. In spite of himself, the other boy's lips parted for a sigh, and Quatre's tongue found its way inside.
Trowa froze, almost not breathing as Quatre ran his tongue over his, and along the roof of his mouth tentatively. Trowa waited for a sense of fear to overwhelm him, for the dirty feeling to sully something so sweet. They never came, only a growing warmth from everywhere within him. It felt so wonderful, his chest began to ache, he still felt frightened only now he was scared of when this moment would end and he would be thrust back into to the pain to which he was accustomed. Quatre slipped his arms around Trowa's waist, but he found himself holding a rigid form. He broke the kiss, and looked up at Trowa. One arm still around Trowa's waist, he reached up a hand to brush Trowa's bangs aside slightly. For the longest moment staring evenly into Trowa's flat, green eyes, assessing the gaze.
"Trowa?" he almost whispered. "Doushitanda? Is there something wrong with this?" His fingers now left Trowa's hair to cup his cheek.
Trowa shook his head, inadvertently pressing his skin even further against Quatre's hand. There's nothing to fear from those hands, he told himself. They'll never bring harm, never take without asking. These touches... are the ones I never thought would be for me.
Quatre's eyes dropped, "Why did you leave, then? What were you running from if not from me?"
Trowa jerked into motion, one of his larger hands coming to cover Quatre's briefly before pulling it away. He couldn't speak when Quatre was so close, couldn't function. He took two steps back, "It's nothing, just... memories. The rain makes me remember things... I'd rather not talk about it," he said. He regarded Quatre, waiting, but he didn't know for what. Part of him still wanted to be left alone, and still other parts demanded to be held again.
"Memories?" Quatre murmured. He glanced over to the window, at the rain still pouring down. "The thing about memories, Trowa," he took Trowa's hand and pulled him towards the window seat. "Is you can you make new ones, better ones." He sat down and tugged Trowa after him, after some coaxing they were spooned together in the small space, Trowa's head resting against his shoulder. He held Trowa tightly, "This is what I want you to think about when it rains, you and I..."
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