August 1, 2000
This has not been beta'd or proofread or anything like that, so mistakes are all mine...
AKL
Warnings: Sap, angst. Thieving little boys.
"Hello?" That strong, masculine voice...! He had steeled himself against its effects, but it appeared they had gone right through his defenses and pierced his balloon with a pin. "Hello?"
"Trowa," said Quatre gasped, blinking back tears. "It's me, Quatre." There was a pause and then he heard his smile over thousands of miles of telephone wire. "I'm coming home."
The train station was milling with people. He was vaguely reminded of the day the three of them had split up, Duo heading as far away as possible from Heero to L.A., and he and Trowa to his small home on South Street. Normal and ordinary, it had two stories and two bedrooms, just like every other home. There was one TV. It was wonderful.
Something hard connected with his shin; clutching the red leather of his violin case, he glared at the offender.
"Watch it!" the other boy growled, and walked away, a look of disgust coloring his countenance.
Quatre sighed, then grinned unashamedly as he spotted a familiar shade of chestnut. "Duo! What are you doing here?!" The brown- haired boy ran a hand through his slow-growing hair and smirked. "Heero...?" He'd meant to visit him again, or send a card...but his selfishness had taken priority. He deserved to be a little selfish.
"He woke up."
Quatre's face froze into a half smile. "What?"
"Heero's awake! It's a miracle, waking up from a coma and he's fine! Still as grumpy and chaste as ever, but I'm working on the latter." His violet eyes twinkled with a love for life Quatre hadn't been witness to in a long time. "Gods! It makes you think, you know? How many poor saps never wake from their comas?"
A lot more than you'd think, he thought bitterly, but he didn't want to rain on Duo's parade. "That's wonderful!" he cried, throwing his arms around Duo with a cheer he didn't feel. "When's the wedding?" he teased. "Who's wearing the pants in the relationship, anyway?"
The American smiled foolishly, head filled with thoughts of brown haired popstars and Prussian blue seas. "It was nice talking to you, man. Hope things with you and Trowa work out," he added knowingly with a tilt of that entrancing heart-shaped face. Then, two anonymous arms wrapped around the American's waist and a mop of messy brown hair came to rest on his shoulder. "I've got to get going," Duo grunted, trying to disengage himself from his enthusiastic lover. "See ya around!"
"Bye," Quatre whispered, watching Heero and Duo depart, that stifling air of happiness enveloping them in a shelter.
"Ticket, sir," the ticketmaster said with an air of boredom as Quatre stood, waiting to board, clutching his violin in one hand. "Sir?" Quatre felt his heart skip a beat as he ran his hands over his back pockets; his *flat* back pockets. His wallet was gone.
He felt like stomping his foot. No! To get this close, only three feet from salvation, and to have it denied. "I had my ticket, I've paid for it and everything--" The older man looked at him skeptically, eyes flowing down his frayed clothing, his unbrushed hair and his wild eyes.
"If you don't have your boarding pass, you can't get on the train." The man seemed to apologize with his eyes one moment, then brush Quatre aside callously the next. He moved aside, feeling slightly red, futilely searching for Duo and Heero. He knew exactly when he'd lost his wallet, just before he'd seen Duo. That kid...!
"Damn it."
He had no money, no ID, no family, no way of contacting Trowa. He would have left for the train station by now... He could sing for his supper, he thought bitterly, then paused. It was an idea...
He waited a few more moments; more and more people were rushing by, trying to make the train... Forty six dollars. He needed forty six dollars... Trying to control his trembling shoulders, he snapped the case open, jumping as the metal latch bit his fingers. He worked the finger free gingerly, sucking on it absently as he opened the violin case all the way for donations.
'People are stingy,' Stefan would have said if he'd been there. In a strange way, it was as if he was, his long fingers wrapping surely around Quatre's, his strong body comforting the line of his curved back. 'It takes some kind of magnificence to get them to open their hearts...and their wallets.'
He began to play, wincing as several older women shot him dirty looks for disturbing the hectic riot with the soft, sweet sounds of strings being drawn with the utmost care. "Fuck off," one woman snarled and kicked the violin case. Quatre swallowed hard, but forced himself to keep playing.
Lily would have said that he was whoring his soul. Quatre knew that if he didn't make it onto that damned train before it left, he would be losing his soul altogether. What would Trowa think, standing by the rusty metal fence, waiting for someone who never arrived?
He heard a soft plink and saw a shiny, silver quarter. His teal eyes shot up, fixing on a little girl no older than five, holding her father's hand, looking solemnly into his face. He smiled at her; she grinned back unashamedly, revealing a mouth full of gaps and dips and no less lovely for it.
And then the money just seemed to trickle in, quarters and dollars and one five, even, money lining the silk of his case. His arm ached from playing, and then the whistle was blowing and the conductor was slowly moving towards the front of the train. His heart lurched--he snatched his violin from the hard ground, fisting the bills in one hand, and ran as fast as he could, his breath sobbing from a constricted throat.
He saw the wheels trembling, about to start turning, and took a flying leap onto one of the last boxcars. Out of breath, he walked down the aisles to an empty row and collapsed, his eyes sliding shut of their own volition. Public performances always took so much out of him...
It wasn't until he was almost asleep that it occurred to him that his fingers hadn't hurt one bit.
"Sir?" Quatre was shaken awake gently. He blinked blurry eyes into a younger woman's face. "Do you have your ticket?" He blushed, fishing into his violin case for the money. "You don't--?"
"It got stolen in the train station," he explained. "Along with my wallet. I needed to get on this train." She nodded, sympathetic, and took the money reluctantly. "Thank you." Then Quatre fell back asleep, even as the landscape blurred into colored lines of light and shape.
Eventually, the train pulled into the station, rattling and shaking. And Quatre was the first one off. He jumped onto the solid cement, his knees nearly buckling under the sudden weight, his violin slapping his thighs brutally. Trowa! Where was he? Involuntarily, his eyes swept through the crowd, straight to one person leaning casually against the brick wall.
Quatre Winner was running to someone.
His breath hitched in his throat as he saw him. He hadn't changed very much; grown a few inches, maybe, but he still wore that skimpy mesh shirt and those black dress pants. Those soft brown bangs still hid one jewel-bright eye.
"You're different," Trowa said softly, holding Quatre's hands in his tightly, smiling as the blonde boy flexed them without wincing. Quatre nodded. Trowa was different also. A year was a long time.
"I am." He kissed the brown-haired boy gently and pulled away as breathing made itself a necessity. "I still love you." Trowa only smiled sweetly.
He nearly jumped as he felt his violin being pressed into his chest. "Play for me," he said with his quiet strength underlining every word, not quite a request, and not quite an order. He wanted to know what had happened to Quatre in that one year of separation, what had put the old glint into his sea-blue eyes.
Closing his eyes tightly, he lifted the violin and pulled the bow over the strings, smiling as it sang sweetly for him. He played his sorrow and his anger, his joy and his eventual revelation, until darkness covered the sky, and then he only stopped as he felt a hand cover the one holding the bow.
"Come on, the car's in the parking lot," Trowa said, wiping the blood from Quatre's fingers with the hem of his shirt. The strings had cut into the soft flesh, staining them red. He hesitated, then added, "I'm glad you're back. I missed the sound of your voice."
I did too, Quatre thought silently.
End Part Four
Ariana
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