Hard edged glass and steel behemoths loomed over the brunet boy as he craned his neck to look up at them from his seat in the back of an L3 civic taxi. Five minutes into the cab ride the driver had abandoned his attempts to engage the silent youth in small talk. Of this, Trowa was intensely grateful. Normally he could tune out the mindless prattling of others, but right now, his psyche felt too raw and unprotected; he just wanted to be left alone with his thoughts.
He could feel the distance between himself and Quatre. It was a tremendously elongated sense of inversion reaching the thousands of miles back to the L4 colony. Trowa imagined it like a funnel, or one of those computer generated images of the way a black hole punctures space-time. He was at the wide open end, and that opening narrowed and stretched, its hollow tail dwindling off through some weird psychic ether that eventually ended up wherever Quatre was. He wondered if it felt the same way to his lover, or if he just had an overactive imagination.
This sense of distance was aggravated by the landscape differences passing by the windows of the taxi. Although Trowa had been intimately familiar with the L3 cluster's more industrial and modern architecture, the harsh lines and cold materials struck him sharply after the warmer earthy tones of L4 and the softer lines of its buildings. And here, instead of gardens and parks there were uninterrupted swathes of concrete and asphalt. Taking the place of trees and graceful arches were rusty girders and abandoned scaffolding. Rather than displays of abstract geometric tile work, boarded up windows and graffiti lined the sides of the occasional building.
That was something that had changed since the war. He remembered L3 as a newer colony in the midst of an economic boom - the colony had been conceived as primarily an industrial base, and many industries contracted by the Alliance and Oz had set themselves up here. After the multilateral disarmament of the Earth Sphere, those factories producing materials and goods for the military powers had to have been shut down. The new construction on the colony halted; businesses were abandoned. Now, structures sat decaying, unfinished and forgotten.
Why did the circus stay here? It's so oppressive.
There was very little activity on the streets. The only pedestrians he saw were the handful of people who shuffled past bowed in dejection. Most likely they were trying to find shelter in the vacant construction sites. The traffic was light - predominately other taxis - probably ferrying passengers to and from the spaceport.
It was such a stark and abrupt change of context. Only yesterday - less than twenty-four hours ago - he'd been warm and cherished in his lover's bed. At this moment, he was in the worn back seat of a ratty taxi driven by a complete stranger, hurtling towards a reunion with someone who wasn't quite family and who may or may not be pleased to see him.
Did you do the right thing? His doubts insinuated a cold grip in his belly. What if something happens? What if you never see him again? What if he forgets you. They persisted, clamping down on his soul, gathering his unspoken fears to their breast. You may have just thrown away your one real chance of peace - for what? Some bizarre notion that it wasn't enough? You wanted more? How could you want more - you never had much to begin with. You should turn around now and plead for his forgiveness for your selfishness.
"No," he whispered to himself. That's not right. There's nothing to forgive. Quatre understands. I have faith. Trowa repeated this to himself until the doubts crawled back to their miserable corner and he believed again. [1]
******
The increase in traffic, activity and other signs of normal life was a relief to Trowa as the taxi trip took him through the more central areas of the colony. Traversing a roundabout followed by a left turn took the cab to the park where the circus was located. As that familiar peaked tent and its associated complex of caravans and animal cages came into view, Trowa found himself leaning forward, his heart beat accelerating.
"Well, kid, we're here," the cabbie said bringing his car to a halt at the curb.
"Thank you," the boy replied, pressing a handful of bills into the driver's hand before opening the door, hefting his duffel bag onto his shoulder and stepping out. Without pause, the cab pulled away with a grumble. He didn't move immediately. Instead he stood on the footpath, looking ahead, up, and around - soaking in all the details which had once been as common as the back of his own hand, but now, after the passage of time, seemed as if they were being seen for the first time. He glanced at his watch; it was just past three o'clock. He was unsure where Catherine would be; I probably should have let her know I was coming.
Securing the strap of his bag more securely he stepped forward onto the grass and began his search for Catherine. Trowa made his way through the maze of colourful caravans, trailers, and tents, occasionally running into the familiar strangers of the circus. They were familiar in that Trowa recognised their faces and knew what they did at the circus, but strangers in that he'd never gotten to know anything more about them than that. Each person would smile in surprised greeting; he'd nod in acknowledgement and then quietly inquire whether they knew Catherine's whereabouts.
Following the string of brief reported Catherine sightings and speculation from the circus members he eventually found her among the animal cages. She was just brushing her hands on her jeans after having dumped fresh hay into the enclosure for the elephants. Aside from having her auburn curls pulled back in a messy ponytail, she looked exactly as she had the last time Trowa had seen her, wearing jeans and a small T-shirt that flattered her tall willowy frame. He paused for a moment to see if she'd notice him straight away. When she didn't, he called out, "Cathy?"
She froze, "Trowa?" a note of disbelief in her voice. Turning slowly, she hesitated for only a moment before more joyfully acknowledging him, "Trowa!" Seeing his answering smile, the redheaded woman fairly flew across the short span of lawn between them to launch herself into his arms. Trowa was forced to drop his bag to embrace the slender thing that had just wrapped her arms fiercely around his neck and was now firmly attached there, feet dangling a few inches above the ground.
"Cathy..." he managed, breaking out into a wider smile and holding her tightly. She felt impossibly thin and fragile, like a porcelain doll, yet he didn't relinquish the embrace immediately, surprised as he was by the surge of genuine affection and warmth that rushed over him. Some small part of himself that had been tense simply relaxed.
"You came back; I can't believe you came back... Trowa, it's so good to see you. You're alive, I knew you were but since I didn't hear from you... I can't believe you're really here," she gushed in a rapid string of words that left Trowa disoriented.
"I promised..." he said in response before gently releasing her and stepping back. She was grinning, grey eyes sparkling.
"Come on, let's get you settled. You are staying, right? You can't just drop in like this and not stay." Trowa was reminded suddenly of how Catherine seemed to provide enough dialogue for the both of them. It had always been like this talking to her. She'd fill in his thoughts - or what she assumed his thoughts were - and then respond to them.
"I was hoping to stay for a while," he commented noncommittally, collecting his bag and following her lead as she retraced part of the path that had led him here.
"How long? Everyone will be so happy to see you - the crowds still miss you," she spoke over her shoulder as she walked slightly ahead of him.
"I'm not sure. How long I'll be staying, that is."
"I still have a spare room. Consider it yours for as long as you'd like."
Eventually they arrived at Catherine's trailer, delayed only by her excited exchanges with nearly everyone they passed by. Trowa just tried to be invisible. Now, entering that modest space, Catherine reoriented her attention to the him.
"Is there anything I can get you, Trowa? Something to drink, something to eat? Do you want to have a nap?"
"Actually, Cathy, may I borrow your phone? I need to make a call back to L4. I can pay you for it."
"Sure, um, but I still don't have a vid link. It's audio only."
"That's fine, thanks."
Catherine gifted him with another warm smile before disappearing into the back of her trailer to prepare her spare room. Trowa's hands trembled slightly as he picked up the receiver and dialed Quatre's office.
"Mr. Winner's office. How may I assist you?" Madeline's familiar voice answered.
"Hello, Madeline. May I speak with Quatre, please?"
"Of course, Mr. Barton. He's expecting your call. Just a moment"
"Thank you"
The usual pause of being on hold waiting for Quatre to complete whatever task was at hand before answering the phone was absent. Instead, the transfer went through immediately.
"Trowa!" Even through the brittle sound imposed by the satellite relay, Quatre's voice was bright and affectionate.
"Hi," Trowa spoke softly, releasing the breath he'd been unconsciously holding.
"You're there." the bright tone was more quiet, falling slightly.
"It's good to hear your voice, Cat." It truly was; it felt like millennia to Trowa since he had heard that musical voice speak his name.
"You too..." Now, Quatre sounded painfully thin and distant.
Trowa paused, uncertain what to say in response, but didn't have to think any further than that because after a few breaths Quatre spoke up.
"How was the flight?"
"It was fine. There weren't any babies, so I managed to sleep." Small talk is safe.
"That's good."
Now they both seemed at a loss for words. The silence between them was pregnant with the frustration of only being as close as the pathetic electronic connection allowed.
"I miss you," Trowa forced out at length.
"I miss you too. This morning was awful, without you..." Quatre managed to sound somewhat relieved at Trowa's admission, but as he trailed off, the tears in the blond's voice were impossible to ignore. He could easily imagine Quatre waking alone and lonely - reading the paper in silence, eating his breakfast in silence, leaving an empty home.
"I'm sorry," was the low reply as Trowa struggled with the constriction forming in his throat. Another period of silence ensued, punctuated only by each other's breathing.
Then Quatre offered, "Don't be. It's okay."
"I'm still sorry."
Once more they lapsed into awkward silence. Trowa was content in some way just to hear Quatre breathe, but also wanted so much more. This is weird, he decided.
"How's Catherine?" came another attempt at normal conversation.
"She's well. Happy to see me."
"That's good. Oh, before I forget... Do you have a phone number there for me?"
"Um, just a sec." Trowa examined the phone for the small card on its front panel with the relevant number, "Yes, it's 033-229-253"
"Thanks"
A normal conversation just didn't feel possible. The pain of separation was too fresh to put aside easily. It was uncomfortable, but Trowa didn't want to give up this feeble link just yet.
"I'm not sure what else to say; but I don't want to hang up."
"You feel so far away, Trowa."
"I'll call again," he promised.
"Okay, whenever you want to - really, I mean that. Um, I'll call you too - it's probably easier for me to, anyway. Tomorrow evening perhaps? Do you think you'll be in or performing, or something?"
"I don't think I'll be performing again straight away. I'm a bit out of practice. I think I'll need to reintroduce myself to Aslan."
"Aslan?"
"The lion I used to perform with." I keep forgetting he's never really been here or seen this part of my life.
"Of course... from The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe."
Trowa had to smile then in fond recollection of sharing his old favourite book [2] with Quatre. His friend hadn't been permitted to read anything so fantastical as a child and had thoroughly enjoyed the novel when Trowa had read it to him while Quatre was still in the hospital. "Yeah. He didn't have a name before - so I named him."
"That was nice. It's a good name."
"Well, you know about me and names."
Trowa winced as the exchange lost momentum once again, and the line hung between them in silence.
"I love you."
"I love you too."
This was too difficult, the longer they lingered on the line, the worse the distance seemed to become. It was bizarre to be talking to Quatre but not feeling him. Cat probably needs to get back to work anyway. "I should probably go..." Trowa said finally.
Quatre paused before responding in a resigned tone, "Okay then. I'll call you tomorrow."
"Okay."
"..."
"..."
"Bye."
"Bye."
"..."
"..."
He forced himself to hang up. With a sigh, Trowa sat and simply stared at the phone - as if he could somehow still capture the ghost of Quatre there - before hastily blinking back the few tears that had sprung to his eyes as Catherine reentered the room. Glad though Trowa was to see her again after so long, he felt intensely uncomfortable under her scrutiny now as she stood at the end of the short, narrow hall, a pile of folded towels in her arms. They were the towels with the small yellow flowers Trowa remembered from the last time he'd been here; it was a comforting detail. The smile she'd been wearing faded to be replaced by an expression of concern.
"Trowa? Are you okay?" she asked setting down the pile of linens on a tiny console table moving toward him, hand outstretched slightly, hesitant.
"I'm fine," he replied trying to mentally fold in on himself - to become small and unnoticed. Please don't look at me like that. Please don't touch me. He knew that if she did reach out to him in his current state his resolve would crumble and he'd be left sobbing on her shoulder like the child he'd never been. I can't handle your sympathy right now, Cathy.
"You don't look fine. Who were you talking to?"
"Quatre..." his voice sounded oddly distant and detached to his own ears. Quatre...
"Who's that?" a note of mild impatience had crept into her voice. I guess I am being difficult from her perspective...
"He's my... my...," Trowa fumbled, uncomfortable with the revelation, but Quatre deserved to be acknowledged, "I'm in love with him."
"Was he the blond pilot?"
"Yes."
"I thought... yes, there was something between you two," she began her expression still stern, but continued thoughtfully, remembering, "The way he looked at you when he came for you. And the way you left to go to him..." Now her voice coloured with suspicious concern, "Why did you come back here, Trowa? Did he hurt you?"
"No... it's nothing like that," he replied, his voice sounding a bit too harsh to his own ears. Never that.
"Then why?" her tone now echoed his.
"I don't really want to talk about it." Please just let it be for now.
"Trowa, you can talk to me about it. If you're upset about something..."
"I just don't want to. I'm tired." It was true, Trowa felt as if he'd just been blasted halfway across the solar system by a squadron of Mobile Dolls.
"Trowa... " she pressed more gently.
"Could I be alone for a while?" it came out sounding more like cold demand than a plea for understanding. Catherine's face hardened in response as she walked past Trowa to the door.
"Fine. Whatever you want. I made the spare bed for you. You can put your things in there. I'll be around..." Catherine spoke opening the door. She gave Trowa a measured look and then walked out, closing the door softly behind herself.
She doesn't seem happy. What am I doing here? he groaned to himself as he entered the small second bedroom of Catherine's trailer. The room was like the towels - just as he remembered it. The same faded blue chenille bedspread covered the single bed with its plain imitation wood headboard. It was still squeezed against one wall to accommodate a small desk and chair on the opposite wall, and a small white-painted bureau at its foot. Thin pink and blue flowered curtains fluttered at the room's only window, pulled back from the half open aperture to permit a light breeze to enter the chamber. A table lamp made from a large conch shell - a memory of Earth, and a wide-framed oil painting depicting an oceanscape were the only decorations in the room. Trowa supposed it went with the lamp thematically, but he couldn't account for the floral curtains.
He moved to more closely examine the art piece. It looked to be an original rather than a print, but he didn't remember ever paying it much attention before. The artist had employed the native texture of the paint to give the waves and the beach grasses a more vivid appearance. He hesitantly reached up to brush his fingertips over that texture and further marveled at how well the play of sunlight through the waves had been captured. They appeared truly translucent, the deeper blues fading to pale greens at the thinnest section of the wave, latticed with the shadows of sea foam. The colours, they were the colours of Quatre's eyes - those dark, almost black depths lightening to crystalline turquoise. Looking for a signature, or initials on the canvas, he finally spotted one, nearly hidden by the frame. "R. Bloom," it read. Her father...? Catherine never had spoken about her family much in the time Trowa had known her. He only knew that she, like he, had lost her entire family on Earth when she was quite young.
Finally, dropping his duffel bag on the floor with a dull thud, Trowa flopped down upon the bed. Now what? Here he was; he'd left Quatre and embarked upon this journey of presumed self-discovery, and had no clue what to do next. Maybe that's a good thing - I should just 'roll with it' and follow my emotions, as Heero advised. So, what do I feel like? Trowa frowned; the ceiling tiles were sagging and marred by a number of brownish water stains - not that that particular detail seemed exceptionally relevant to anything - except that it bothered him. I could install a new ceiling...? That seems boring, but at least it's a place to start... I miss Cat... Trowa permitted his thoughts to drift to his lover, and then eventually to sleep.
******
Catherine returned to her trailer at dusk deciding that by then Trowa must have had enough time to himself - and it was after all her home; she didn't plan to sleep outside. She'd walked to the grocer at the corner to pick up some things for dinner and then gone for a walk to the other end of the park to sit and watch the season's new ducklings. It had been unsettling to have Trowa arrive so abruptly, and in such an obvious state of emotional disarray - not that emotional state was something easily determined when it came to the impassive boy, but that he displayed even the smallest signs of distress meant to her that his upset must be grave indeed.
He must have fallen asleep, she noted; no lights had been turned on in her trailer. Quietly she entered and set her bag of groceries on the counter in the kitchenette. The small space was silent. Walking the few feet down the hall, she paused to listen at the spare - no, Trowa's - door. Nothing. She knocked softly, waited for a response, got none, so carefully opened the door. He lay sprawled on his back in his clothes, chest rising and falling with slow even breaths. Asleep, his features had relaxed into the illusion of harmless innocence. He was neither she knew, and wondered why it was that she had never once been afraid of him - not even when she had faced him down while he was piloting his Gundam. That day he'd been prepared to take his own life to protect the colonies from OZ's retaliation. She must have been a fool to have run out into the battle zone and challenge him. But, she'd been overwhelmed by an unexpected protective urge toward the strange young man. He was so alone, so resigned to die - it just wasn't right.
Closing the door she returned to the kitchenette to prepare dinner, her mind still on her new houseguest. Houseguest? Friend? Brother? What is he to me? Catherine couldn't fathom why the enigmatic boy had captured her heart the way he had; it happened at an almost instinctual level. Even when his silence and stoicism had bordered on rude, she still felt some odd core of affection and acceptance of him. I didn't think he'd be back after his memories returned. He could have been angry at my presumption. Another thing she didn't fully understand was why she had told him they were siblings. That rainy night when she'd bumped into him here on L3, he'd looked so bedraggled and lost. He didn't have anywhere to go. There was no one to care for him or care about him. No one shouldn't have anyone like that. It had broken her heart to see him so forlorn - of course she'd taken him in, cared for him, and helped him recover to some semblance of normalcy. And, as disoriented as he'd been without his memories, he could still perform - could still excel at that. She thought she'd given him a place to belong and a family, far from the violence that had been in his past. Maybe I just wanted that for myself?
Contemplating that thought, Catherine noticed that she hadn't made much progress preparing any food. Shaking her head, she returned her attention to shredding lettuce for a salad.
Half an hour later, she was quite pleased with the result - a fresh salad, angel hair with a homemade tomato and basil sauce, and garlic bread. I hope he'll think my cooking has improved. I've branched out beyond soup, at least. She set the table and then proceeded to knock firmly on Trowa's door.
"Trowa? Are you awake?"
There was a sound of movement then the door opened abruptly. Trowa stood there looking a bit groggy, his hair poking out at several interesting angles.
Catherine resisted the impulse to giggle at the sight, and instead said, "I made dinner if you're hungry."
He gave her a somewhat wary look before replying, "I am actually, thanks." Then, mercifully, he dragged his fingers through his hair until it flopped back into its usual face obscuring style.
"Um, hey, Trowa..." she began as they seated themselves at the narrow built in dining table. "I wanted to apologise if I made you uncomfortable before. I didn't mean to pry into your personal affairs."
"It's okay, Cathy," he replied, hesitated somewhat, and then continued, "I'm just not feeling very... " he seemed to be groping for the right word, but gave up. "... good." He then noticed the meal. "Did you make this yourself?"
"Yes, I did. Your lovely and candid comments regarding my kitchen skills prompted me to buy a few cookbooks after you left."
"It looks edible," he judged the food after poking it suspiciously with his fork. Catherine replied by poking her tongue out. He ignored her; and took a tentative bite of the pasta. Chewing thoughtfully while she glared at him expectantly, he eventually swallowed and said, "It's not bad."
She shot him a hard look, which he also ignored, before beginning her own plate. They ate mostly in silence for a time until Catherine's curiosity just had to be satisfied, "Trowa, can I ask you something, um, not about your, ah... friend, but..."
"Lover," he corrected softly.
"Okay..." Catherine felt her face heat slightly. It wasn't that she was bothered necessarily, it was just the thought of Trowa being in an intimate relationship like that. It was odd; he was such a hard person to get close to in even just a friendly manner. I guess I really don't know him that well. She rallied and continued, "um, well, not about him, but about you."
"Go ahead, but I might not answer."
"Sure... So, Trowa, why did you decide to come back here? Other than your promise. You must know that I wouldn't hold you to that - especially not after your memory returned."
Trowa shrugged placidly. "Why did you tell me you were my sister?" he asked, answering with his own question.
"Well, I... I don't really know," she began slowly, trying to gauge his reaction before continuing. "It just felt like it was true. And you were so hurt, so vulnerable... you needed someone. I guess I just thought that... that somehow I could be there for you.. And since we're both orphans..."
"Does that answer your question, then?"
"Are you saying you feel that way about me?"
"I'm not sure," he said and then paused as if considering his next words carefully, "I do feel safe with you." he fell silent again to chew a mouthful of food and swallow before continuing, "And that you care about me means a lot."
"Oh. I - I'm glad of that." It was a tremendous relief to discover that Trowa didn't feel strangely toward her - about them and the entire adopted sibling relationship - and that he perhaps even wanted it for himself. "You know, you're welcome to stay as long as you want to, Trowa."
"Thanks. Sis." He accompanied the familial endearment with a small smile that was answered by a warming of Catherine's heart.
"It's nice to hear you call me that again."
They shared a moment of comfortable affection before resuming their meal. Catherine did most of the talking. Trowa just listened as she spoke about the latest goings on at the circus, being sure to update him on all the latest gossip. She eventually found him not really attending to her words. Having finished his meal, he seemed content to simply enjoy the rhythm of her speech, leaning back in his chair, his eyes becoming more and more reluctant to open after each increasingly languid blink. Presently, she was concerned he'd fall asleep at the table so addressed him directly, "You still look tired. Jetlag?"
"I guess," he mumbled struggling to sit up straight again and open his eyes more widely. "But it doesn't usually effect me this much," that last was punctuated by a stifled yawn.
"Well, don't stay up on my account. We can hang out tomorrow."
******
Lying in bed now contemplating his sagging ceiling in the shadows, Trowa found his thoughts drifting back to a time when he still remembered his real sister. It's weird that I remember remembering her, but that I don't have any memories of her now. She had been the reason he started tumbling, he could recall that much. Straining to focus his mind's eye, to glimpse some greater shadow of recollection, Trowa concentrated on his younger self. The mercenaries had laughed at him when as a clumsy short-limbed toddler he'd struggled to perform cartwheels and back flips. But he'd kept at it, willing his body to obey the directives of the image in his mind - the image of his sister. Maybe he did remember still, though it was just a fragment, but...
"Li'l Brother! Watch this!"
The small boy now called Trowa had watched with great glee as his older sister - a gangly redhead - had performed her latest tumbling tricks for him and then rolled on the ground in hysterical giggles when he tried to copy her.
"You're too little, silly. You have to grow," she would say, eventually helping him to stand up again and picking bits of grass and twigs from his hair.
... and then, as a comfort or a way to hang on to that small joy, he'd tried his hardest to do what she did. He could do it. He wasn't too small. Yes, the mercenaries had laughed and joked at first, teasing him for his dogged - and as they believed, futile - persistence, but then, slowly, as he'd mastered his young body and grown, the laughing had turned into silence, and then to applause. Respect, Trowa realised in retrospect, They grew to respect that kid because he didn't give up; he hadn't been intimidated by their laughter or disheartened by his failures. And he hadn't given up. It didn't matter how many times he fell, or got hurt; he would pick himself back up and try again and again and again. And I'm still here trying. I will figure this out and return to Cat. Rediscovering that small piece of himself, the small confidence which had nothing to do with his abilities as a fighter, as a killer, Trowa was able to fall asleep nurturing a nascent sense of optimism.
******
to be continued...
Notes:
[1] No, Trowa is not schizophrenic. I'm attempting to describe a sort of cognitive self-counseling technique [challenging your own internal dialogue and emotions] Trowa may have developed as a means of survival. It's actually a fairly healthy thing, I think. I was also hoping to provide a contrast between the way Trowa copes with his negative thoughts, and the way Quatre beats himself up over his own.
[2] I just thought it might be a good way to explain Trowa's affinity for the big cats - as a 'child' (like he ever really was...) his favourite book was The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis. It'll be brought up again - that book and Trowa's reading habits.
