28-Mar-2005
Title: Knell
Author: Mookie
Pairing: Trowa Barton/Quatre Winner
Rating: G
Notes: Written for LJ community 100 Themes. Theme #51: Dirt
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust... "
Trowa didn't stay for the rest of the funeral service. He'd lingered on the fringe of the crowd, feeling for the first time in a long while like he did when he'd infiltrated OZ.
The mourners were few outside the circus family. If death had been something sensational - a lion mauling someone to death, a fatal plummet from a high wire, then there was no doubt in Trowa's mind that the crowd around the modest cemetery plot would have been easily been quadrupled.
The thought disgusted Trowa.
As he slipped away unnoticed, he felt a slight pang of guilt. Not for leaving early, or for not truly mourning the passing of a member of his newfound "family", but for the fact that he didn't feel guilty.
A paradox, but no less true.
Trowa's steps along the cobblestone path were assured and evenly paced. The exterior of the bungalow had a foundation of larger stones, similar in color and appearance to those under his feet, with dark wooden clapboards continuing from midway to the roof. The shutters on the windows were all open, and he rapped on the Plexiglas door without looking at it. His gaze was fixed on the lawn ornaments, a pair of bright pink flamingos stood sentry in the grass near the house and a couple of resin squirrels chased each other just inside the small white lattice border.
When no one answered, he frowned. It wasn't like Quatre to be out when he was expecting company. He retraced his steps until the path forked to a small gate leading to the backyard, and that's where he found Quatre.
His steps across the lawn were softer and less precise as he approached. His shadow reached Quatre first and he hesitated before dropping to a crouch beside him.
"I'm sorry."
Quatre was still squatting under the tree, his arms hanging over his thighs and hands dangling between them. He smiled but didn't turn to face Trowa.
"Nothing to be sorry for. Being right doesn't mean it was your fault."
A stray breeze blew by, ruffling through their hair and freeing some of the leaves from the branches overhead. Quatre brushed his fingers over his bangs, leaving a smudge across his forehead, then slapped his hands against his knees and got to his feet. He looked away, his gaze on some distant spot beyond their shadows and the longer one of the tree. Trowa moved a step closer and rested a hand on his shoulder.
One of Quatre's hands came up to cover Trowa's, hooking two fingers underneath them and leaving them there. When he turned toward the house, Trowa went with him, stopping when they reached the back door and turning to look out at the yard.
He pressed two fingers to his lips and tipped them toward the tree, and to the small mound of dirt underneath it, before following Quatre into the house.
The End
(:./mookie/knell)
