Quatre raised his head from his pillows at the hoarse shriek from the corridor, then slumped again. His mind began screaming at him to get up, to find out, to help ease the pain of whatever that had happened, but his body wouldn't obey, simply flopping weakly back to the bed in renewed sobs. He supposed the fresh acid tracks were for the shock he could feel from the other rooms. He supposed the other pilots would expect him, always happy, cheerful helpful Quatre. He didn't have the heart for it; such a cliché phrase. He sighed mournfully. His heart had shattered, still left in broken bleeding shards with the Latin boy in the room next to his.
Trowa. His thoughts were circling, embedded in torn ruts of betrayal and shame and horror, but always centring about Trowa, as they always did. His beloved, his illicit lover, the one he damned his soul for, the one for whom he forsook the faith of his family. The dark-haired, enigmatic young man that he still loved, despite the crushing agony now rising bile with the word. He felt disbelief towards the entire situation, but the evidence could not be denied, and Trowa had even affirmed his suspicions.
He had been over this before, though, he knew. It came back again, battering at the insides of his head until he wanted to tear the precious organ out and throw it against the wall. He hurt, simply hurt at the betrayal. He thought Trowa had loved him. He apparently still cared enough to apologise, or at least cared for the group's unity, and Quatre's continued piloting skill, the Arabian noted morosely. It was a kind apathy to slip into, ever the emotional side drowned out by cold battle-hardened logic and reason.
He scratched another sharp trail guiltily on his arm, adding to the coarse mesh he was drawing on himself. Perhaps, in his mercifully twisted fashion, this was Allah's way of punishing him, with the unending spiralling emptiness growing within him. And yet, if he chose, he could take the escape Allah offered through this. How revolting, Quatre shuddered. His most compassionate Lord gave him torment and forgiveness in one breath from his lips.
He saw the logic, and wanted to make a decision upon it, if only just to end the pain. Allah had given him a genuine escape, a forgiveness of his sin with Trowa, a reasoning he could honestly apply to ending his sinful actions. He should've been grateful, he should've been praying in praise and thanks to Him for the opportunity, the sign that he was not completely forsaken for his disgraceful desire -- no. It had been love, as awful and condemning as that was, but it had been. Quatre shuddered. He wasn't sure if it could be called love anymore.
His heart, however, protesting vehemently at the very concept of leaving Trowa, and accepting Allah's cleanliness. The blonde boy trembled slightly, sniffling into the pillows clutched to his face. He didn't want anyone to see him, so torn and betrayed. He still cared deeply for Trowa, and, he sighed, he probably still loved him. It just seemed so one sided now, like it had before Trowa had accepted his affections. Were they returned to that bumbling, nervous stage of their relationship again? Did they still even hold a relationship?
Trowa didn't think so, he sneered softly, the unfamiliar gesture hurting his lips. Trowa thought so little of him, apparently regarded him with such a small amount of devotion that he sought out a girl's embrace, a girl's body. Quatre wasn't good enough for Trowa's love, not any more. He had been foolish to think that Trowa cared, now that he gazed upon the past with a critical thought. Trowa had never said he cared, yet Quatre had brushed it off to Trowa's silence and emotional problems. Trowa had always seemed distracted when they had slept together. Quatre frowned in sadness at the though. They never had made love, really. Trowa's mind always seemed someplace else, trying to avoid Quatre's gaze, sudden, unexplained blushes a constant phenomenon. The more he pondered their history, the more clear Trowa's reluctance became.
So Trowa, by his thoughts, had never cared for him. He wondered if he wasn't being objective, but the more he thought about it, the less real reasons could he find for why Trowa would care. He was spoiled, innocent rich boy, after all. Everything had been given to him without question. He knew that real life wasn't like that, he had experienced enough reality as a pilot to understand that. Was he so childish, then, to expect Trowa to love him, without question? Had he really expected Trowa's heart to be given to him like everything else? How pathetic. Quatre sighed at the self-deprecation, and scraped his nail again down his arm, finally tearing off enough of the battered, reddened skin to begin bleeding slightly. Tiny red drops met his gaze, blackened liquid in the dark room, slowly rising to stain his skin.
Quatre winced at the pain, wishing vaguely that he wouldn't do such damage to himself. He yanked his shirt sleeve down over the bruising flesh, and curled up tighter on himself. He deserved the pain, for expecting so much from Trowa. He couldn't maintain his rich boy attitude, it couldn't possibly hold in reality. He knew enough of reality, and he was tasting more now, and it hurt. At least the physical pain distracted him. His father would be furious, if he had known about Trowa. His sisters would never speak to him again. He, if meeting himself upon the street, would shun their relationship. He deserved the pain, even though it hurt so much. It was justified, it was right, so he wouldn't be a snob, so he wouldn't be the rich fool, the privileged little boy with the silver spoon in his mouth. The pain would cure him of that.
Quatre grimaced as someone knocked on his door. It sounded frantic, but he couldn't manage to get up and answer it. It wasn't worth it, to disrupt the precious agony, to expose the others to his sorrow. They needed him cheerful and happy. He rolled away from the persistent knocking, and stared at the wall, clutching his arm absently. The sharp rapping n the door ceased momentarily, and the Arabian sighed, relieved. They didn't need him, or else the others would have simply barged in. Unless they were respecting his sorrow...and if they were, he had the right to decline to join them. They gave him that option by simply not intruding.
Then a few slow, silent seconds passed, and someone with heavier hands pounded on the door. His heart clenched abruptly, sudden anguish filling his lungs and throat. He knew that pounding, that familiar cadence on the wood. "Trowa..." he breathed morosely, and buried his head in the cushions, vaguely aware that he was being childish. The pounding resumed, hectic and fast, then paused once more.
"Quatre, please come out. I know you don't want -- we need your help!" Trowa called softly through the door, the words sounding forced and painful. Quatre winced at the ache inspired in his uchuu no kokoro by his lover's -- or was it former lover? -- plea. Something didn't feel right, but he hadn't felt right since he had gone to bed. Likely caused by Trowa's still unknown unfaithfulness, but it had continued...
The door creaked, opening, and Quatre looked up blearily. Trowa's lanky figure stood in the frame, as if afraid to enter the room, likely unsure of his reception. Quatre blinked sudden tears from his sore, red eyes, and let his face fall into the cushions again. He didn't want to see or talk to Trowa, not yet. He didn't feel ready, he hadn't examined everything, and he hadn't felt enough anguish to break him of being snobbish and rude, so awful and horrendous a stuck-up as he knew he surely was, as had driven Trowa from him. He heard halting, soft footsteps, and tensed as Trowa -- it must be Trowa -- sat down on the bed beside him. He drew away from him bitterly, still smelling the foul scent of vomit upon the Latin pilot, and scowled at the bedspread. The expression felt foreign to his face, and hurt slightly.
"Quatre. Duo needs your help...as does Heero," Trowa's soft voice stumbled over the Japanese pilot's name, and he stood quickly, face flushing. Quatre watched him stride to the door, clutching his elbows across his chest tightly. The Arabian sniffled, and pushed himself from the bed after the swiftly retreating pilot. Duo and Heero...what could they need his help on? What could have happened? Quatre's face creased with concern against his desire to stay in his room and sulk, and he fled the dark room.
He gasped at the brightly lit hallway, and Trowa gazing blankly at the open bathroom door. Duo was slumped on the toilet seat, mumbling something, but his hair was askew and eyes wild with panic, his arms hugging his knees. Wufei was trying to calm the American pilot, to get him out of the bathroom, but every time the Chinese boy approached Duo, the American swung at him, shrieking. And Heero was no where to be seen, conspicuously, and therefore dangerously, absent.
Yet Trowa's eyes regarded only the floor, and Quatre glanced worriedly at the carpeting himself, then jumped back, yelping in shock. Bright red liquid traces stained the corridor floor, drying and staining brown into the thin, worn carpet in foot-shaped markings. He calmed himself, and gulped, kneeling to find out what the substance was. Trowa's soft statement stopped him, "It's blood."
Quatre followed the trail of footprints with queasy attention to Heero and Duo's room, then back into the bathroom, his eyes sweeping across the barren cement, bloodied and frightening. He glanced at Wufei, fiercely not wanting to speak with Trowa, but decided against interrupting the dark pilot's persuasions with Duo, attempting to dodge blows and convince the American to leave the bathroom. He grimaced, then looked up at Trowa. He caught the Latin boy gazing at him with a profound sorrow on his face, but the expression smoothed itself away at Quatre's glance too quickly.
"Duo didn't cut himself, did he?" The Arabian asked softly, keeping his eyes firmly on said boy's trembling, shocked figure, and averted from Trowa. "We don't know. Duo's not making any sense, but -- whoever it was, they lost a lot of blood. I don't think Duo would be conscious," Trowa replied quietly, his voice cracking suspiciously. Quatre shot him a hurt gaze, then blinked. "Heero wouldn't. No...why would he? What possible reason would he have?" Trowa shrugged in reply, his arms tight and defensive across his chest.
"She might," Trowa murmured, sending a masked glance at the firmly shut door to the room that Duo and Heero shared. Quatre looked at the Latin boy oddly, curious about the strange mistake he had heard. Perhaps he had misheard Trowa, since the boy hadn't meant for him to understand. Maybe it was a slip of the tongue...Heero wasn't a girl, they all knew that. The boy wandered about the house without his shirt on far too often to be mistaken otherwise. Trowa must have been thinking of someone else while mentioning Heero.
Quatre scolded himself silently for reading too much into such a common casual mistake, and walked towards the door of Heero and Duo's room. Trowa looked at him, and Quatre nodded, pushing the door open slowly. The Arabian boy didn't know what to expect, except perhaps Heero. In what state Heero would be was...debatable. Trowa, he guessed, would assume it was an outsider that Heero had attacked, and Heero had got soaked with the blood of. Yet, Quatre had the most awful feeling that Trowa wouldn't say that, and that his own queasy suspicions of Heero being the owner of the carnage in the hall was affirmed by the Latin pilot.
The room was empty.
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