Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Clown ❯ Chapter 1

Clown

Warnings: angst, shonen ai

Disclaimers: Gundam Wing characters belong to Mixx Entertainment, Koichi Tokita, the SOTSU Agency, Sunrise, Kodansha and anyone I may have forgotten, not to me. I make no money off of this.

"Trowa, get ready! We're on next!"

The tall brunette glanced up sharply, startled out of his reverie by his friend's voice. He could see her silhouetted in the tent opening, knives gleaming in her hands. In a few minutes she would be throwing them directly at him, with a smile on her face.

"I'll be there in a moment," he said softly, nodding once. Satisfied, she turned and disappeared into the darkness, leaving him again to his quiet contemplation. On the tent's surface, rain drops slammed down in little explosions and dribbled down the sides to make mud outside. Sometimes performing on earth was more trouble than it was worth, especially during these nighttime shows.

Sighing reluctantly, he stared at the mask in his hands, the harsh red grin plastered on the smooth surface mocking him. The plastic polymer was light in his hands, but its weight was heavier on him than just about anyone could ever guess. Trowa looked into the mirror in front of him in another vain attempt to see someone behind his empty eyes. When he slipped on the mask, he felt even farther from that unnamed someone hidden behind multiple masks. He sighed, and stepped out to wait for their entrance.

With practiced precision, Trowa and Catherine stepped blindly out into the dark center ring, standing straight as the spotlight hit them. The crowd gave their customary applause, eager to see what this pair would do as a follow up to the previous act. They bowed to the audience, then took their positions, Catherine at her post, Trowa at his. He pressed his back against the wooden wheel and held his hands out, offering himself up as a sacrificial victim for the crowd's momentary amusement.

The first knife solidly embedded itself on his right side, almost a foot away. A tremulous gasp went through the audience and they leaned forward, holding their breath in mutual anticipation, both wanting to see the clown escape death and see him crumple under a single, lucky blade.

Trowa never moved once, and he seemed completely at ease where he stood. In truth, he could not bring himself to care. Knives slipped to the hilt in the wood, mere inches from his body as Catherine worked the crowd. Danger increased with the audience's excitement as the lethal weapons came to rest beside him. Trowa didn't flinch.

Memories wanted to flood in on him, sharp remembrances that were crystal clear despite the passage of time. Trowa could feel them pounding on his mind, and he effortlessly shut them out. He shut out OZ, he shut out HeavyArms, he shut out Trowa Barton, he shut out Nanashi...

Only an empty vessel lined with pain looked out fearlessly at the approaching knives. What did an empty soul fear from death? One image stood out in his mind, but he pushed that down to the bottom of his consciousness. He didn't even know why that face stayed in his mind, refusing to leave completely.

Roaring applause pulled his attention back out of himself, and he stepped forward, knowing the routine was over. He bowed beside Catherine, and then they both left the stage.

Half an hour later, he stood at the entrance again. It was the last performance of the night, just a few acts after the knife routine. Catherine came out into the light, waving to an ecstatic crowd happy to see her again and especially delighted at the sight of a powerfully built lion at her side. Raised by her since it was a little kitten, there was no danger here, only an illusion of danger that the crowd didn't understand.

She let her grip on his mane slacken, cueing the creature to trot lazily once around the ring. After the first circuit, it picked up speed until it was running at full tilt. Flashes of green and blue zipped up from the darkness outside of the lion's circle, catching the audience's attention as they recognized the tall clown flipping through the air. Landing on the lion's back with one hand, he listened impassively as the crowd cheered. He sighed as he continued the performance. Just a few more minutes before this would be done.

*****

"That was great, Trowa!" Catherine smiled, looking in on her "little brother" as he sat in his dressing room. Peace was good for business, and almost every performer had even a small private room. Times were so good..."I'll see you later!"

He nodded with a small, fake smile until she left again. Staring into the mirror, he blinked at his own reflection. The painted mask leered at him, hiding his face from view. His own skin was unexpressive and flat, nothing like the garish fake smile. He reached up, gently grasped the mask, and pulled it down. One more look into the mirror told him what he knew already. It was still there.

Unconsciously he put his hands up to remove the next mask, but it wouldn't move. With a brief flash of nervousness, he ran his fingertips over the mask's surface and found himself running his hands over his own cheek. His shoulders dropped down in a gentle slope and he lowered his head. His eyes fell on the clown's half mask again.

Easing his hand beneath the light plastic, he lifted the mask to his face again, holding it up properly. Manic, hysterical laughter on one side, desperate tears welling up on the other. Both of them trying to suppress the pain again, only it wasn't so easy now. Wasn't so effortless. And that image, that face that wouldn't go away, was floating back up to the surface again.

"Trowa?"

He turned, responding to the name out of habit, and for a moment thought that he was hallucinating. There was the face, staring in on him from the darkness.

"Quatre?"

Something in the haunted expression, the death grip Trowa had on the mask, and in the way he gasped the word, called Quatre forward. The diminutive blond stepped inside the room and softly closed the door, giving them both a rare moment of privacy. Rain drops still droned on above them, occasionally punctuated by bursts of lightning, but the room was quiet now.

Quatre sat down beside Trowa on the small bench, his hands going up to smooth back Trowa's hair. It was an intimate gesture, one of few that Trowa had ever received, and he barely noted that Quatre's skin was cold and damp. Bits of moisture dropped from his hair as he shook it, and Trowa followed a bead of water trail from Quatre's finger to his wrist, down his arm as the Arabian kindly took hold of the white mask. After a slight tug, he pulled it free and set it down on the table, out of Trowa's reach.

"There is no need for masks," Quatre whispered, laying one hand on Trowa's shoulder. "I did not come here to stare into your masks."

The tall boy looked at him, hollow eyes full of confusion.

"You don't have to hide from me. I'll accept whatever you want to show me, whoever you want to be."

For nearly a minute, Trowa did not move, only staring into the other boy's eyes. Then, with a shaky gasp of Quatre's name, he sank into the soft and comforting arms.

"Quatre," he whispered in a dry voice, tears finally spilling onto his cheeks. He lay his head on the smaller shoulder, happy to have a little solace even for a few seconds. A moment later, he tried to push away. "I'm...sorry, I shouldn't..."

"Hush," Quatre responded warmly, wrapping him up even closer. "Don't hold back. For once, just let it out."

Trowa shook his head, unwilling. "I...can't be what you want. I can't give. I don't know how to love..."

Quatre favored him with a calm smile, unperturbed by this display. "I choose what I want. I want you. You can give me what I need, you're giving it to me now. I will show you how to love."

Lowering back into his arms, Trowa truly allowed himself to give into his feelings with the one person he trusted enough for it. Tears flowed freely into Quatre's shirt, and he placed a small kiss on Trowa's forehead.

"It's all right. Let it all out. Don't worry about the masks, or the memories. You aren't alone anymore. You'll never be alone again."

The End