July 27, 2000
Wah! Almost done...::sniff sniff::
AKL
Warnings: Angst. Stupid authors.
That night, he took his violin, his precious, beloved child, his soul and his art, into his arms and played for Lily. She never spoke a word, not of praise nor of criticism. But he heard the soft cries from her room and knew he had again done something to cause her pain, though he knew not what it was.
His fingers twitched as his eyes fell over the violin case, longing again for the touch of the smooth strings. It had been so long. Drawing aside the sheets, he lifted the case from the floor, grunting as a muscle in his back protested. He was out of practice, but the old habits were there, the passion, even now, barely contained. To be truthful, there were moments when playing, when creating harmony out of discord and joy from exquisite pain, seemed more attractive than sex, than food, than the act of drawing breath into his lungs.
He was half tempted to start playing again, but knew as the tendons along his arm complained that it was not a good idea. Rest. He needed to rest. He slept with the violin curled alongside of him, one arm looped around the case like a lover. Now that he could touch it again without fear, he desperately needed the connection, the proof that someday soon redemption was coming.
The next night, he went downstairs for dinner, only to find Lily, standing beside the kitchen table, violin raised, her brown eyes boring holes into his soul. "Play with me," she commanded, and there was nothing he could do but run upstairs and snatch his violin from the case.
She began, a long note that distilled the very essence of sadness. After a moment, Quatre joined in, his violin singing with hers, twining around the pattern that was slowly emerging. Somehow, as music filled the house, he began to see that she had somehow, despite his selfishness, despite the pain of seeing her father's lover, fallen in love. Not with him, but with his music. If he could bear to, he would give it to her, let her take it all in and drink his soul until it overflowed into the moon's craters.
When she was finished, she laid down her bow, moving towards him with the softness only youth could give, her eyes filled with tears. And he understood, then, why she had cried. He found that he too was crying, and then she was moving into his arms, burying her face in his neck. Was it too much to ask for, a little happiness for two drifting souls? They didn't belong together, but they had no one else.
She leaned up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips, letting him feel the fire that burned within her, not even barely quenched by her passionate music. Yet when she pushed for more, he moved away, shaking his head.
He led her upstairs and pulled back the covers. Awkwardly, still holding her close to his chest, he kicked off his shoes and laid down in the bed. Lily stared at him for a long moment, then tugged off her own black flats and laid down beside him, still fully clothed. They slept for a long time, neither wanting to wake to find that emptiness again.
But when Quatre woke, she was still there, her scarf twisted around her arm. He smiled down at her, and knew that, perhaps in a different world, they might have been lovers. They slept in the same bed every night, just guarding each other against the sorrow. She never tried to kiss him again.
And fall turned to winter, and winter to spring. The nights became warmer, and it was no longer a plausible excuse to sleep together for warmth. So they didn't try to give any excuses, and simply enjoyed each other's company in the daylight, and at night, continued to share a bed.
Then one morning, he woke to find Lily gone. He ran downstairs, fear clutching at his heart, and saw the diminuitive player curled up on the couch, not quite crying, but not composed. "Lily," he murmured, wrapping his arms around her. She made a pained noise, and he let go, trying to convince himself that his feelings weren't really hurt. "What's wrong?"
She just shook her head. Quatre gave a little huffing sigh, and stroked her brown hair with calm fingers until her breathing steadied and she began to speak in halting, low tones, as if she were ashamed. Lily was never ashamed of anything she did; the young woman didn't know the meaning of the word.
"It's all a lie," she whispered. "I've lied to you, Quatre. I've done terrible things to you." The blonde boy laughed. "Don't mock me, boy. It's true. This whole thing; it's just a farce." Quatre shook his head, unwilling to believe.
"You healed me," he said kindly. "How can that be terrible? You saved my life. I will always be in your debt." Lily laughed, reaching out with a trembling hand to touch his face.
"Debt is a terrible thing. I owe you a large debt."
"Lily," Quatre said softly. The look on her face was so self- recriminating, so full of hatred and self-pity it tore at him. To see such a confident, masterful violinist reduced to a whimpering little girl...
"He wasn't dead, Quatre." For a moment, the Arabian was struck dumb; she laughed bitterly again. "You see what I mean? I've lied to you. Stefan is alive, but comatose. He--he didn't want you to ever see him like that."
"How?" whispered the boy in disbelief.
"He had a stroke. The fancy doctors and their fancy treatments came along and they didn't help. It was a minor stroke; he couldn't play the violin anymore, but he could get along. He depended on me more than ever, then." She sounded almost proud, then ashamed as she realized her pride came shining through.
"Then he had another stroke, and he went into a coma and never came out. Gods, Quatre, you don't know how lonely it is!" she cried, burying her face into the black silk of her sleeves. "Waking up to an empty house, making breakfast in the morning and pulling out two plates before you even realize what you're doing. Never hearing his violin sing. I never touched it. It's yours, you know, in the attic where he fell." Where he was felled by his own body, Quatre thought. He knew she was thinking the same thing.
They sat in silence for a long time, pondering their own thoughts and doubts. At last, Quatre spoke with determination. "I have to see him." Her eyes opened wide. "Don't try to stop me; it's something I have to do. Call it paying last respects; call it what you want. But this is something I need to do." He touched one hand gingerly to his chest. "Something here tells me that I need to."
Lily nodded deliberately. "I'll give you the address, but I won't go there. I can't." Her face hardened. "I've already said my goodbyes."
He looked the same as always. His hair, if that was even possible, was even wilder and shaggier than the last time they'd seen each other. Quatre smiled down at his former lover, at the familiar peak and dips of his face, his nose, his lips. Gods, he was still beautiful.
He brought his violin up. "The war was horrible," he said. "You were right. It broke me. But you fixed me. What you taught fixed me. And I know there's no way that I can fix you; but maybe you can hear me play what you taught me." I'll always be grateful... But he didn't say that. That was too much of a goodbye.
And he played for Stefan, ignoring the prognosis, the odds, and the doctors as they came to inspect his body, prodding his arms with needles. He played through it, and some part of his soul came to the light, filling with the passion of musicians past, making him not quite Quatre, and a part of something so great only music could express the pains and joys wreaking havoc inside.
And then the music changed and he was no longer playing for Stefan, he was playing for himself. And for Trowa. Beautiful green- eyed Trowa who understood. He had taken Stefan's place, filled the aching hole that longed for sound and touch and fury. He loved both of them, but could only belong to one. And he chose the living.
It was a goodbye more powerful than any other.
Five hours later, visiting hours were over and a candy- striper came by to inform him that he had to leave, but wouldn't he come back soon? His cheeks flushed at her praise; it had been a long time since anyone stroked his ego like that. Stefan said... His cheer deflated as he glanced back at the unconscious figure on the bed.
"Goodbye, love," he whispered, not bothering to kiss his forehead in the way they always had as they parted. This was a separation far more brutal, one Quatre wasn't sure he would be able to withstand. This was forever.
Oh, he knew that Stefan lived on in his music. But it didn't ease the feeling of betrayal as he walked out of that little, dusty room, turning down the crooked hallways and past the bitterly plump woman working as a receptionist. He didn't stop until he had reached the doors, where Lily's red bike was chained to the bike rack.
He opened the door, expecting the sounds of strings being tuned or played. Instead, he was greeted with silence that seemed all the more ominous for the person responsible for it. "Lily," he said, inclining his head respectfully towards her. He could not feel anger towards Stefan's daughter. She had suffered exquisitely. He would always remember her for that perfect martyr's look she bore, waiting for his condemnation.
She reached out to touch his face, hoping for a kiss goodbye. He turned away from her tentative plea. There was nothing left for him in the house. Expressing his thanks in a way words could not, he crushed his body against her and slid his tongue inside her mouth, trying not to compare her to Trowa. But she was the one who drew away first, half smiling, half crying, and retreated to her room.
Quatre watched her go, smiling sadly. Then he picked up the phone to call Trowa--he was, at long last, going home.
End Part Three
Ariana
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