Part 2: Damage Control

Idiot.

Couldn't you see it coming?

Imbecile.

What makes you think you're that special?

You've ruined the only close friendship you've had in years.

'Wait. Catherine cares... doesn't she? And the others, too--'

Ha. She only felt sorry for you. Just like the rest did--even the other pilots thought you were useless... lousy gundam always running out of munitions. And when you couldn't even protect yourself--you've always been such a joke. First a nobody, then a tool, and now some guy who just makes people laugh.

'No... it can't be true.'

It is and you know it. I'm not sure what disgusts me more: how you've bumbled your way along, latching onto anyone and attempting to prove your self-worth; or the the fact you've been mooning over this unattainable boy.

Each day you were apart, you'd think of him and wish he were with you. Even when you were together, you were weak. Constantly following him... saying with your eyes "Look at me," each grudging word yelling "Speak to me," your body urging "Touch me." Don't deny how you felt every time he would say your name.

One by one, you've collected them--words, glances, gestures--and turned them into some perverted scrapbook, memories with no real significance save that which only you place upon them.

'...'

Yes, I will allow for your pathetic fantasy, but why did you push it? Everyone has a dream or two, yet somehow they all keep themselves from acting out. Ordinary people have no trouble distinguishing what is reality, you know.

"Stop. Just.... please stop." The brunette pushes away from the sheltering wall and stalks into the early morning pedestrian traffic. Weariness hangs on his spare frame as he slumps into a cafe chair, the metal cool against his back. Hailing a waiter, Trowa orders coffee and a daily paper.

Unsure of what he should do or say to repair the obvious rent in the relationship, he seeks a moment's escape in the bitter brew. Columns of newsprint waver and blur as his damaged armor crumbles. The mocking tone whispers ceaselessly as the boy's mind tries to wade through black and white rivers.

It was a voice from his earliest memories. Callous and cruel, it destroyed him piecemeal from the inside; always insisting that everything would be better, easier if only he didn't care.

If you aren't human, you don't feel... and if you don't feel, you won't get hurt.

Born of lonliness and a quiet desperation, it had become his primary, sometimes only, companion. At least, until--

With an internal scream of defiance, Trowa pulls his thoughts out of their circular path and focuses again on the paper. He carelessly scans headlines--endless political debates, massive restructuring of the global community and the reconstruction of both cities and colonies--only by checking the date below the main banner could one distinguish this edition from that of previous days, even weeks.

Traffic outside the cafe begins to pick up as both citizens and tourists start their day in earnest.

Contentiously refolding the paper, he leaves it on the wrought-iron table next to a pile of coins and trudges of to face Quatre. Clearly, he would have to apologize since the smaller youth had been so angry when last they were together. But say he's sorry for what--taking advantage of the situation? That just made it all sound so much more sordid than it was.

'Plus, it's not as if it were anything more than a kiss. Totally acceptable behaviour between two close friends. Right. Nothing at all to be ashamed of, so it's time to stop being childish and go back to the hotel. Just act like everything's fine.'

But it's not, rebutted the niggling voice. There's no going back now.

Cursing that he could not repeat the last twelve hours, Trowa searches for an explanation, an excuse, any words that would serve to span the painful gap. However, he finds himself in the lobby far too soon without another plan of action but to leave.

Fishing out the elevator key, he slips it in the keyplate and gives it a turn. He stares ahead, listening to the motor hum until the car stops at their floor. An entire level, occupied by a handful of people--Quatre had refused the large retinue his father had tended to travel with, but his safety was an issue on which key aides could not be swayed. Still, it was a security measure he would not have to live with much longer, reflects Trowa as he walks into his sitting room.

He notices the door connecting his rooms to Quatre's is closed. Ordinarily left standing open, it had been an invitation to informality. No matter which hotel or city they were in over the past few weeks, the Arabian had always arranged for their sleeping quarters to be adjacent, if not part of the same large suite.

Now, in light of his most recent blunders, Trowa could see only rejection and hatred in the wood grains.

Crossing into the bedroom, he pulls a duffel from the wardrobe and starts to pile his clothes in. As half the garments had been gifts, formal and leisurewear, it does not take long for the brunette to pack.

With a final sweeping look around the room, he spots a note lying flush on the bedside table. He can read the envelope's neat, even writing from the bed's foot. It is addressed simply to 'Trowa,' nothing more or less. Stepping closer, his hand trembles almost imperceptively as he examines the single loose sheet inside. Firm, deliberate strokes stare up at him from the hotel's heavy cream stationery.

Please forgive the absence. Urgent corporation affairs have
come to my attention. We expect to resolve matters within
the week. I shall return at their conclusion. Until then,
these accommodations shall be held at your disposal.
Feel free to utilize the enclosed expense account.
--Quatre

He sinks onto the bed, numbly clentching both envelope and letter in confusion. A soft thud from the carpeted floor draws his attention to a tiny plastic rectangle. His own visage smiles up from a corner, beneath the Winner Corporation logo.

At the outing's start, Quatre had jokingly added Trowa to company payroll as "travel advisor/companion." Claiming it was the easiest way to officially bypass lengthy background checks for what was nominally a business trip, the blonde's final argument had been "you wouldn't be registered if you were a security risk--listen, do you want to go some time this century or not?"

The scene still brought a smirk to Trowa's lips. It had taken longer to coax a reluctant smile for the identification card than to enter a falsified record into the system.

Breaking so many rules just to be publicly linked--he had read this as a sign of Quatre's willingness to explore a more intimate relationship, another nudge in a long series of coy remarks, knowing glances and feather-light touches. Now they meant less than nothing.

Leaning back, he sprawls on the bed and tries to block out the voice clamoring fo him to run. He said he'd be back. He doesn't break promises. Leave before you embarrass yourself again.

"No. I'm expected to stay, so I will. I'll wait... then we'll talk out any misunderstandings and go from there..."

Laughter rings hollowly through corridors of his mind.

Nearly a week later, the former mercenary pauses before a small stone grouping of a winged male and a reclining female. Tucked away in one of the museum's larger galleries, he takes it at first as just another example of Neoclassical Italian sculpting: pleasing to the eye, but lacking a concentrated simplicity and focus on the human form characteristic of most Renaissance masters. Still, something about the sculpture calls to him. He flips through a guidebook, moving further into the corner as a loud group of tourists passes through.

Trowa sits on an empty plinth's edge ("Removed due to restoration efforts.") and balances a small journal on one knee. Reading the abbreviated criticism of the statuary's history and artistic significance, he jots down an occasional entry. He adds a rudimentary sketch of the two figure's faces before closing the journal.

"Ah, Canova." A dissonant voice directly behind him startles the youth. The speaker steps around and peers more closely at the exhibit's placard. "Yep. One of the better pieces, but still not my favorite depiction of these lovebirds. Takes all kinds, though." Twirling about in a garish display of brightly colored silks, the gray-haired matron pegs Trowa to his seat with a toothy grin.

"Dr. Machina. Eugenia Machina of the University of Kentucky. That's in America, you know. Well, it was until that Peacecraft girl decided to turn us into one happy world-nation." She thrusts out a hand, stubby fingers covered in rings. "Anyway, good to meet ya."

He ignores the outstretched hand. With a shrug, she drops it back to her side. "So, Romeo, what do you think?" she drawls, hooking a thumb over her shoulder.

"It's certainly very nice."

"Nice? What's ailing you, boy? That's not all you can say, is it," she queries. "A representation of the moment when love transforms the human soul into a thing of everlastin' beauty." She sweeps a hand toward the statue. "Nice," she spits.

"Okay, you're probably preoccupied with your own romantic entanglements (oh, to be young again *sigh*), but you could still learn a few lessons from these guys.

"Budge up and give an old lady some room to spin a yarn." Without a pause to see if he had moved, she plops herself down on the plinth and launches into a lengthy retelling of the myth captured in stone.

Fortunately, Trowa is able to feign polite interest throughout the recitation, earning just one elbow-jab to the abdomen for a moment of inattention. "... curiosity, while an admirable trait, can sometimes lead to one's downfall--especially if it's provoked by jealousy like here. Keep awake, boy, 'cause that ain't the 'take home' message; that's a little later. So, anyway, next night he appeared under a cloak of darkness, like each time before..."

'Just another example of someone not knowing when to leave well enough alone,' he thinks as she drones on.

"... though her foolish actions had caused so much trouble, even to the point of physically injuring him, he still felt such love for her that his mother relented and allowed them to be reunited. The girl was awoken and they lived happily ever after, as all sparkly couples should." The dame shakily regains her feet. Amiably patting the brunette's head, she gives a final bit of advice before tottering off.

"Few things in life are truly worth fighting for: family, friends, and love. Do whatever you can to keep and protect them." Unknowingly echoing another's words, she leaves him to ponder in silence.

Hours later, Trowa stops by the front desk on his way to a solitary dinner ensuite. "Any messages for a Mr. Barton on the fourteenth floor?" he asks.

Each evening he had repeated the ritual, hopeful that there would be some word from Quatre, either negative or positive. Each night he had been tossed back into a state of uncertainty, again to wait. As he stiffened his resolve for another dismissal, the receptionist turns from a bank of pigeonholes.

"Indeed, sir," she replies, passing over a folded sheet before gliding off to assist a second guest. She returns to the former pilot. "Anything else I can do for you, sir?" she questions.

"Do you know who left this?"

"Well, it's not hotel stock," indicating the paper, "so I'd say it was brought in by the writer. We could check the lobby camera logs if you wish, Mr. Barton."

"No. That won't be necessary." He crumples the leaf in one hand, obscuring all three inked words of the message. "I believe I am familiar with the author. You could say we have something of a history."

Back to Part One: Some Enchanted Evening? .

Please proceed to Part Three: Misty, Water-coloured Memories... or e-mail the author with questions or comments.