Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Forgotten Dreams ❯ Chapter 6

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Title: Forgotten Dreams



Title: Forgotten Dreams
Chapter: 6/?
Disclaimers: Gundam Wing and all characters associated with it is not mine, nor am I making any money from this. This is purely for my personal enjoyment, and the enjoyment of the people who read this. GW is copyright Bandai, Sunrise, etc.



"I can't do this." Quatre shook his head and looked around once more. People milled about; some were in a line to get their tickets, some were buying candy and such at various stalls, but all of them were happy. Children ran about, laughing as their parents watched with smiles. "I can not do this. Now way, no how." He backed up, then turned around to leave. There was no way he could talk to Trowa, absolutely no way, especially after his episode at the dance. Trowa had felt his presence, said his name. He'd looked at Quatre oddly when Quatre, Heero and Duo had returned from the dance, and Quatre hadn't seen him since. He shook his head and walked faster.
"Mr. Winner!" The female voice stopped him in his tracks. That voice . . .
"Mr. Winner?" Her voice became hesitant; she was right behind him. Quatre swallowed and turned slowly, knowing what he would find.
Brown curls. Violet eyes. Pink and purple outfit. Quatre blinked, then cleared his throat. "Hai?"
"You're Quatre Winner?" She looked around as if the real Quatre Winner would step forth at any moment.
Quatre nodded. "Yes, I am."
A look of relief crossed her face, and she smiled brightly at him. "Oh, good! I'm so glad you could make it! We weren't sure, Trowa and I. Oh, I'm Cathrine, Cathrine Bloom." Quatre took her hand, managing a polite smile. "I'm Trowa's sister. He said you probably wouldn't be here, something about you being busy. He was pretty vague about it. Anyway, I'm glad you're here. Would you like a tour? The show doesn't start for another half-hour."
Quatre nodded again. "Yes, I'd like that."
"Great. Please, come this way." She led him through a door marked "Employees Only" and spoke to one of the people milling about. He looked at Quatre, then nodded and walked off. "Over here. This is the backstage area, as if that wasn't obvious, where we go immediately before, or immediately after we're on. Uhm . . . Oh! These are the lion cages. Careful, they're mean to everyone, except to Trowa. They never growl at --- well, speak of the devil!" Cathrine waved to someone in a clown suit. "Trowa! Trowa!" The boy looked up from where he sat by the cages, and the eye not covered by his half-mask widened slightly when he saw Quatre. He slowly got up and walked over to them.
"Cathrine." He reached out and touched her face gently, and she smiled. Quatre tried to sink into the floor. Trowa turned to him, and Quatre looked up, startled to find Trowa mere centimeters away from him.
Trowa tilted his head to the side, and Quatre made the mistake of looking into his eyes; green pools, the dry, glassy surface of which Quatre longed to dive into, to cause ripple across their surface. He wanted to reach out to Trowa, to seek the soul behind the mask, and as he looked into Trowa's eyes they widened again
---Painfearlonelinesshurt---
Trowa touched Quatre's face as Quatre stared up at him, running his fingers along Quatre's jawline in wonder as his lips formed a wordless question
---Anguishabandonmentmistrust---
Quatre was drowning in that green gaze. He grasped the hand on his face as Trowa leaned down
---Nonodon'tleaveI'malone---
Trowa's lips hovered over his, their gazes still locked together
---NonotheyallleaveIdon'twanttobealonebutIamangelmyangeldon'tl eavemeithurts---
"Trowa!? Quatre?!" The frantic sound of Cathrine's voice intruded into the whirlwind of emotions and not-words, distracting Quatre; the touch of her hand tugging at his arm dragged him back to reality.
Trowa and Quatre both stumbled backward, eyes wide and staring at each other in shock, mouths open. Quatre backed into a bench and sat down heavily on it as Cathrine supported Trowa, eyes wide with fear.
"What happened?! Trowa, are you all right? Talk to me!"
Trowa shook his head sharply, then looked down at his sister, dazed. "I . . . I don't know . . ." He looked at Quatre. "I don't know." He shook his head again, and repeated softly, "I don't know."
Cathrine pursed her lips, eyes narrowed as she looked intently first at Trowa, then at Quatre.
"Well . . ."
Quatre managed a genuine, if small, smile. "Really, Miss Cathrine, we're fine." Cathrine looked at Trowa.
"We're fine," he echoed, face gone blank.
Cathrine 'hmph'ed. "Well, I don't believe either of you, but if you say so, fine." She sighed. "I've got work to do. Are you both going to be all right if I leave you?" She touched Trowa's arm gently, concern written on her face.
"Hai, Miss Cathrine," Quatre said as Trowa nodded. Cathrine closed her eyes briefly, nodded, then went about her business. Quatre got up and paced, wringing his hands, then turned to Trowa. "Trowa, I---"
"Stop." Trowa was rubbing his arms as if he were cold. Quatre blinked at him. Trowa looked off, eyes distant. When he spoke, it was low. "When I was young, ever since I could remember, I was in a mercenary group." His mouth twitched slightly. "It was . . . rough. Being the youngest, the smallest, I mean. Painful. They, the men saw me as a potential threat when I got older. They-they made it so I was scared of them, so I wouldn't try to usurp them later . . ." He turned away abruptly, arms crossed over his chest. His shoulder shook. "I was five." His voice got softer, and Quatre crept closer to hear him better. "Five. It hurt. It hurt so much." Trowa was whispering, voice rough with emotion.
Quatre's eyes widened. Could he be talking about---?
"It hurt, but I started noticing something, some sort of presence during the hardest times. It-it seemed like an angel's presence; it was comforting, it was loving, it gave me hope. Someone knew. Someone cared." Trowa turned his head slightly, not quite looking at Quatre. "I heard, too. Music. Sweet, innocent music. It was a violin." He turned fully to a wide-eyed Quatre and placed both hands on the slightly smaller boy's shoulders. "It was---"
"Trowa!" Both boys' heads jerked to the side at the sound of Cathrine's voice. "C'mon! We're up!"
Trowa looked back at Quatre, eyes still full of emotion. He sighed, closed them, then leaned down and rested his cheek against Quatre's for a moment. Quatre placed his hands atop Trowa's and tried not to cry.
"Trowa!"
Trowa straightened, his mask, both physical and emotional, once again in place.
Quatre squeezed Trowa's hands gently and smiled softly up at him. "Good luck," he whispered.
A small smile tugged at one corner of Trowa's mouth and he nodded slowly, then backed up, turned around and exited to the arena. Cathrine looked at Quatre with an unreadable expression on her face, then followed her brother.
Quatre was shown to a place he could watch the performance from, and leaned against the railing. He gazed down at Trowa and Cathrine, his mind wandering.
'He knows,' he thought. 'He knows. He heard my music, and he remembered. It helped.' Quatre smiled. 'It helped.' Then he sighed. 'But I've got to get a hold of myself! What is it about him that makes me lose my grip? We're linked, aren't we? Somehow, we're linked.' Quatre touched his breast, over his heart. 'It used to start hurting, I remember now. Then I would open up, and he would be in pain. I'd play my violin . . . And it would get better. I sent love and compassion with my music. It got through, and now Trowa knows it was me. He seemed glad, but nothing is ever as it seems with Trowa.' Quatre sighed and closed his eyes. 'I need to stop thinking.'
He looked down at Trowa and Cathrine again, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Oh, Trowa," he whispered. "I care about you. I care. I can feel you hurting; let me in, let me help." Trowa looked up as if he had heard Quatre, blinked once, then returned his attention to the knives Cathrine was hurling at him. Quatre sighed again. "No use talking to thin air." And he settled in to enjoy the show.