The Chains We Wear

A/n: Greetings to all my wonderful wonderful readers and reviewers. I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday and will have a splendid new year.

Now I'm sure many of you are glaring at the screen, wagging your fingers and going "It's about damn time, Yein. It's been over two months!" To this, I bow and beg your pardon. I'm afraid that life decided to turn on my, and stress became a ruler over my life. I know stress exists in all life and in everyone, but...well this has been pretty bad lately. A lot of problems at home, and some at school, and with my friends and just general sadness and anger. But I perserver. You don't need to hear my sob stories.

Behold! I bring you chapter 7, which took me forever to write! And I was going to make it longer, but decided finally to cut it off where I did and take the other ideas and figure a way to weave them into chapter 8. I have some plans in the making.

This was a very difficult chapter for me to write...but you all kept my spirits high. Sometimes, I wonder if my talents are really anything to appreciate...but as long as I can entertain and keep you happy, then I find reason to do that which I love all the more. Writing is my passion, and without a reader, just one, to say they want to know more, then it becomes more difficult to write.

To my readers and reviewers, thank you. Your interest keeps my passions strong.

To Lunarsong, thank you for your strong review, and all the assistance thus far you've given me.

So without further ado, chapter 7 of "The Chains We Wear" the bitchest chapter to write to date.

But I kinda like it anyway

Enjoy

Chapter 7: Pain

His ceiling appeared most unforgiving. The shadows that slid languidly across the white surface mocked at him in the midst of their dance, as they had for the last two days. He pulled the pillow over his head; he hadn’t slept well again. Trowa hadn’t slept well for those very long two days. Groaning, he peered out from beneath it to the clock on his dresser. If he didn’t get up now and get ready, he would be late. Surprisingly he wasn’t sure whether or not he was happy about the idea. Work was not someplace he really wanted to go…

But if he had to spend another day in this room in lonesome silence, Trowa swore he would go completely insane. He really wouldn’t have minded it all that much: Quatre’s popping in and out of the room at intervals in the morning and evening to check on him hadn’t bothered him that much. Heero’s occasional lingerings along his bedside were, mostly, a rather welcomed affair. And Duo’s almost incessant offerings of anything that he “needed” had been rather heartfelt and considerate. Trowa hadn’t minded them, or wouldn’t have if that tense atmosphere hadn’t settled over the room each and every time.

Every since Trowa had come home with them, leaning a majority of his weight over Heero’s shoulders from the immense nausea that being vertical caused, there was this darkened aura of hesitancy over the house, or at least every room that Trowa wasn’t alone in. It had followed him from the medical floor of the headquarters and lingered over the house. Surely, they all did their best to keep it from showing; things tried to proceed as normally as they had before.

Normal is gone… It never was and it’s sure as hell never coming back.

Trowa, sitting up in bed without dizziness, swung his legs over the side and cradled his head in his hands. Normalcy. Before, normalcy had been his paranoid mind merely coming up with the delusion that they were speaking behind his back, disgusted by not only Trowa’s presence but his mere existence. Now, now an awkward silence fell over them when he stepped into the room. Glances were averted, whispers followed when he found some reason to excuse himself. Humiliated blushes painted their faces at the knowledge of what Trowa had been hiding. He had never thought that he would actually long for those delusions his mind painted up for him. They were far better than the real thing.

He didn’t want to think about them, what they considered him now. He didn’t want to think of Wufei’s silence, Zech’s mutual indifference that barely shadowed disgust. He didn’t want to think about Quatre’s pity and somber eyes, Heero’s cold aloofness and occasional inquisitive glances. Trowa didn’t want to think of Duo’s offended glares and dark mutterings as he moved about. He couldn’t make up his mind as to what he hated the most out of them. They hurt…

Those last two days, in the midst of the fever and the severe headaches and lingering nausea, had given Trowa far too much time to reflect on himself and the days prior. Seclusion was not something he had wanted; he hadn’t had the strength or will to get out of bed to wander about the house more than once or twice those few times when he could stand without falling down. They had left him alone. It hadn’t been on purpose, at least he didn’t want to think so. They worked. It was understandable. But they continually kept to themselves even when they were about, leaving Trowa to his own thoughts. It drove him to strange edges.

When he was alone, he wanted someone’s company. When they were about, he wanted his solitude. His mind couldn’t decided which was worse; it forced him to suffer both.

He rose shakily; Trowa’s knees quivered slightly at the weight they hadn’t truly felt for nearly three days. He bit his lower lip slightly as a dull pain shot up his leg. God damned heels. He was lucky he hadn’t shattered his ankle on those things. They had been returned to Lena; he assumed she wasn’t exactly happy with the set of scraps and scratches that marred the fabric. Luckily, she hadn’t called him up on it.

His steps were slowly and only slightly wobbly though they grew stronger with each step to the dresser. Pulling the thin material from his torso, he shivered in the room’s cold. He had felt quite feverish during those few days of rest and decided that adding blankets would be better than suffering through a hot flash in wool pajamas, Trowa folded it and set it softly on the dresser. He opened that same drawer as he did almost every morning. The corset felt heavy in his hands. The fabric was cleaned. Une had returned it to him before he had been allowed to return with the others. She must have had it cleaned for him. Perhaps she had thought he would have seen it as being considerate. Trowa knew that he should.

A shame that all he could feel was a heavy, constricting hallow.

With a shake of his head, Trowa tossed the corset onto the bed while retrieving his uniform from the closet. That had also been returned to him, cleaned and pressed. He bit down the strange feeling, something almost akin to heavy guilty, that welled within him at the sight of it. Instead, Trowa tossed the articles on the bed. Sighing shakily, he slid the remainder of his night attire from his hips and pulled on the pressed uniform pants. The cloth felt slimy against his thighs; he shuddered while his stomach twisted. Damn nausea… Trowa paused before taking the corset back into his hands to press inquisitively against his ribs and back. There was a fair amount of bruising there, and a jolt of pain would spread on occasion from beneath his probing fingers. Despite it, he managed to pull it on and tightened it to the norm. He gripped the edge of the bed as he doubled over from the spasmodic pain the constriction caused. Even after it settled it would flair again, briefly though, when he straightened, twisted, or bent. The bruising wasn’t due to fade for sometime still…

Those stupid buttons slid through his fingers as he tried to fasten them. He had to stop himself more than once while he tried to gain some sort of control over his quivering hands. It took nearly five minutes to get them to function properly; Trowa sank onto the mussed bed and, after crushing the oxygen from his lungs once again, managed to fumble his socks onto his feet. Sounds drifted quietly through the crack beneath his door. Quatre was up and about now, bustling around the kitchen as though nothing had ever changed. Did he want to be responsible for the destruction the serenity Quatre must have been feeling in his daily ritual by forcing his existence upon him?

He stayed off the inevitable for just a short while longer by dwelling more so than usual upon his hair. He had missed the safety its coverage had once provided; three days had felt far longer. The soft brushing of the strands against his cheek calmed him, if only for a moment. For even with half his vision shadow in a brunette veil, Trowa could see them. Grotesque bruises, shaded in sickly purple, tinged with a nasty yellow. They seeped across his cheek and down beneath his jaw to his neck. They spread like fingers. The gash of his split lip had, at last, stopped bleeding; now it was merely a blackish red, glistening with the forming scab. His entire face felt sensitize. They tingled and twitched when something ever-so-lightly brushed against the flesh. If he closed his eyes, the feelings intensified, mutated, and he could feel again that large hand snapping across his face. The man’s touch lingered still.

The gentle smell of porridge wafted warmly from beneath his door, and stronger still through the quiet hall he entered from his bedroom. It was a bit of a habit of Quatre’s to make this intriguing concoction of his a short time before the winter holidays began, normally a week or so. Before, Trowa had never been quite able to stand the stuff; it was something about the taste and texture that merely disagreed with him. Yet, Quatre did something to it. It was sweet and smooth, more than bearable. Too bad that he felt as he did, that the tension in the air was so palpable. He’d be able to enjoy it otherwise.

Even with Trowa trying to be deliberately quiet in his steps, Quatre still seemed to hear him. Or perhaps he merely sensed him. He found himself frozen beneath that soft cerulean stare of his; there was a hesitance beneath its kindness. The smile Quatre imparted to him seemed strained.

“Good morning, Trowa.” he piped, just a faint pitch higher than his norm. Trowa’s lips parted for a moment, and almost instantly closed after. His throat had constricted, swallowing whatever voice he had thought he had. “Are you alright…you look ill.” Trowa could hardly believe that he could set aside the spoon he had been using to stir the mixture and come to him with that look of concern. Slip the back of his hand up beneath his hair and lay it in mock tenderness against his forehead with that look of general worry. At least he didn’t flinch. “You feel a little warm…”

“…I’m fine, really…” he answered. Quatre worried at his lower lip only slightly, stepping back as he did so. He felt a spreading chill from the abandoned flesh.

“Are you sure? If you’re still not feeling well, I’m certain Lady Une will-”

Trowa shook his head. Not another day. I can’t stand one more day of this… “I shouldn’t. I feel well enough, I should go back to work…”

“If you’re sure.” answered Quatre. Trowa’s gaze shifted to the floor when he turned back to the kitchen. Was he sure? Absolutely not. The tension distorted everything. “Breakfast isn’t quite ready yet, so…”

“…Can I help?” There was a brief silence before he turned about to face him. His head was tilted curiously on his neck; Trowa wondered if perhaps that had been the wrong thing to ask, considering.

“What?”

“Nothing. Never mind.” he muttered, surprising himself since he actually managed to get the stutter to stay away from it. Turning, he took a step or two towards the table and wished there was a wall or something to steady his uneasy body. Don’t exact your presence on him any further… Things are bad enough. Quatre, apparently, did not agree. His hand slid along the farthest part of Trowa’s shoulder from behind, hesitantly; he nearly leapt out of his abused skin.

“…Help me set the table?” he asked in a soft voice. How could he be smiling like that? At him? The touch lingered, but twitched. Those narrow fingers of his continually twitched and hesitated, hovering uncertainly above his shoulder. “P…Please?” There was something in that voice that made his color drain. He could only nod, throat constricted to near suffocation. Smiling as warmly as he could, Quatre parted with backward steps into the kitchen. Trowa followed staggeringly behind him. He did not look at Trowa again as he bustled about the pot on the stove. Taking it as a sign that Quatre merely needed his assistance, not his actual presence, Trowa busied himself with pulling mugs and glasses from the cabinets, setting them in proper places, and pouring already prepared coffee into three and tea into his own. He bit back a hiss as a drop of hot tea splashed back out of his mug and onto his hand. He suckled on the heated skin lightly before returning to the kitchen to set out the necessary utensils. Trowa had just managed to set his own place when Quatre called back to him over his shoulder.

“Trowa?” He lifted his head at the beckoning. “Give me a hand real quick?” Setting the spoon down, he walked back towards the stove. Quatre, smiling, held out a small spoon. “Try this for me?”

He wished he would stop looking at him that way. Sighing inwardly, he took the spoon with a steady hand and swallowed the mushy contents. Cinnamon and nutmeg swirled pleasantly in his mouth.

“How is it? Too sweet? I’m never very sure if-”

“It tastes fine to me.” Trowa cut across softly. Quatre let out a sigh of relief as he turned back to the pot. Trowa, after depositing the used spoon in the sink, opened the cabinet near him and retrieved several bowls.

“Thank goodness. I know I don’t make this all that often, so I’m never very sure if I remember the exact measurement of what I use. But as long as you think it’s good, then the others will too. Hand me a bowl, please?” He requested. Trowa held out the bowl he had pulled down for him. Nothing moved between them until Quatre, having finished ladling the warm breakfast into it, handed it to him. Trowa didn’t even need the smile. He abandoned the others in a small pile beside Quatre and lifted the warmed ceramic bowl to carry to the table.

A shame he never made it that far.

“Hey something smells really good. Are you making that porridge again, Quatre?” Duo’s voice chimed just before he entered. They both froze mid-step; Trowa’s fingers tightened about the edges of the bowl to steady himself. Had he been a different person, the dark look that flashed through Duo’s normal jubilant violet eyes would have frightened him. Thankfully, he maintained his mask of tranquility, though just barely. The dark shadow of hurt and anger that flickered briefly through Duo’s gaze, directed straight to him, sent a rush of ice through his blood. It hurt, really, to think that he had been the cause of that typical mirth that had before resided in Duo’s eyes to flicker out and die.

Heero slid out from behind him; there was no anger or betrayal on his face but an aloofness which he passed on, making him feel no better. He took soft, determined steps to him. Trowa’s knees locked to hold him in place. He swallowed hard and waited. Is he going to hit me… He wouldn’t be surprised, or offended, if Heero did. Will he?…

His hands dropped to beneath the bowl and lifted it from his gripping fingers easily. “You look like you’re going to drop this.” Heero told him matter-of-factly. Blinking, Trowa stepped backwards while his hands dropped lifelessly to his sides.

Quatre poked his head out of the kitchen. “Good morning, Heero. Duo.” he smiled. Heero, after setting down the bowl at a place, walked over to him to take the bowl he had been holding. “Oh thank you, Heero.”

“Of course.” Trowa side-stepped away from the table to offer a path to the table’s place. Without a glance to him, Duo ducked around Heero to take another. “And yes, I made porridge, Duo. I thought it would make a nice breakfast.”

“Well it smells really good.” Silently, he slid himself along to his place and waited behind the chair, gripping the back lightly. It wasn’t until all the bowls were set down and the sound of chair legs scrapping on the floor began that he pulled out his own chair to sit. Cinnamon scented vapor drifted from the porridge’s surface into his face with a tender caress. He felt sick again. “I love it when you make this stuff. Always puts me in a good mood.” Heero merely nodded, lifting his mug to his lips. Quatre, blushing ever so slightly, smiled back at them.

Trowa wondered how rude it would appear if he merely decided to go to work early today; surely retching at the table would be far more so.

“Mm, good as it is every year, Cat.” he complimented, grinning widely at the annoyed expression Quatre gave to Duo’s chosen nickname. “Seriously, you need to make this much more often.”

“I’ll consider it, Duo, if you stop calling me that.” bit back Quatre. Sniggering, Duo took another spoonful. Quatre played slightly with the surface before taking one himself. “And I’m glad you like it. Trowa helped me out a bit with it this morning.”

Oh how Trowa wished he hadn’t mentioned that.

Duo seemed to choke on his porridge. Heero glanced at him shortly over the rim of the mug. Trowa managed to maintain the level of his bent head. He dared not raise his eyes. Instead, he tried to open up his throat enough to actually partake in breakfast, which it stubbornly refused to do.

A silence settled over them, far different from the calm silences that usually took place when Trowa ate breakfast with them before. There was a terseness all about, that was real. Tangible. No longer was this sense of hatred and uncomfortable-ness a byproduct of the delusions of his paranoia driven mind--centering and expanding from his very presence. His hand shook around the spoon twined in his fingers. This is all your fucking fault… If he had just managed to get through that night like he should have… You fucked up everything…

Quatre cleared his throat, which sent a slight jump through all of them. He praised whatever may be that he was striking up some sort of conversation. The monotony would be most pleasant.

“Oh, tell Lady Une that I should have all the information she needs by tomorrow afternoon.” he said. Heero glanced over at him, spoon dangling.

“Really?” Trowa let out a quiet sigh and swallowed his own spoonful. It was bitter.

“Yes. It’s taken a bit, especially since I needed to edge slowly and tread cautiously to avoid unwanted suspicion, but I have all she needs against him.”

“Hm…I’m impressed.” he replied, sipping his coffee thoughtfully. “Well good, we can tell Une today when we see her. She’ll be pleased.”

Duo’s head perked up to nod. “Yeah, she’s been in the absolutely most bitchiest mood lately. It’s about time some good news pulled that stick out of her.” Trowa set his spoon down as calmly as he could before taking a hard swallow of tea. Gee, he wondered why.

“Well that’s pleasant, Duo.” Quatre muttered with a wrinkled expression. He snorted.

“That’s the nice way of putting it, man. People have been muttering a helluva lot worse behind her back…outside the building, of course.” he sighed. Quatre glanced over to Heero, who simply shrugged and continued to eat.

“Well I’m sure she’ll be much more agreeable after she hears this.”

“I sure as hell hope so.”

Trowa doubted it. He doubted very much that Lady Une’s apparently horrific mood was going to improve at all despite whatever information Quatre had managed to scrounge up for her. He doubted anyone’s mood was going to improve as long as he was within earshot. Resting his cheek on his hand, and biting back the wince, Trowa stared absently into the small hills and valleys that lined the surface of his meal, creating more as he lightly prodded it with his spoon. He was just ruining everything, wasn’t he? It didn’t help at all that no one was going to admit it.

He stabbed at it viciously. No one. No one would admit to it. No one seemed to want to openly acknowledge that which everyone finally knew. They skated around him, left him to his own devices. True, he had been sick in bed for the last two days… But they kept him at a distance now where as before it had been him who held them away. They, all of them, refused to acknowledge it, acknowledge his abnormality. They held him at a distance, they sidestepped around it, they ignored it. They pretended that it didn’t exist, that it hadn‘t happened. Trowa wasn’t used to this. He wasn’t used someone feigning to such an extent. I can’t tell what they really are thinking when they look at me… All I see is disgust, and hesitance…but they say nothing… He actually almost wished they’d scream at him, curse him. Abuse was something he could understand, something he could accept; he had experienced so many times before.

“Trowa?…Is something wrong?” Quatre called across to him. Blinking, Trowa focused again and glanced at his bowl. He had made several little stab wounds into it.

He set the spoon along the edge. “Yes…Yes I’m…yes fine.”

“A-Are you sure?” He asked. Heero and Duo watched, one less discreetly than the other. Trowa nodded slightly. He sat a little straighter and looked them straight on with his schooled face. He could feel the cracks in it begin to widen.

“Yes…I’m fine. It’s very good, Quatre, as always.” assured Trowa, taking a bite the moment he was finished to emphasize his point. He smiled softly back at him and returned to his meal. Heero and Duo returned to their own meals as well, although Duo continually glanced at him when he was certain Trowa couldn’t “tell.”

Trowa had only managed to finish perhaps half of the bowl before the others deemed themselves done. He could hardly stomach it as it was. Quatre, glancing at his watch and cursing beneath his breath, gave him a perfect excuse to abandon the remnants of it. He left it, sipping at his tea as Quatre stood while running fingers through his bangs.

“I should go. Relena is having a meeting in an hour and a half, and I really should prepare a little more for it.”

Heero nodded. “Be careful. There’s probably a lot of black ice this morning because to the ice rain last night.”

“Alright.”

“Yeah, although I bet some of those old geezers you work with would love it if you ran your car off a bridge. Stop you from ruining their lives.” Duo chuckled. With an amused roll to his eyes, Quatre pushed his chair in. He paused just after throwing his winter coat on and gathering up his keys and things.

“Will you-”

“We’ll handle the dishes and the leftovers, Quatre. We do pretty much every day.” Duo said with a wave. Quatre smiled more and bid them a quiet farewell. The three of them winced slightly at the biting wind that rushed through the door as it opened and closed. They remained there, seated with Trowa sipping his tea and Heero and Duo both looking thoughtfully into either an empty bowl or empty mug, until the engine turned over and pulled away as it did every morning.

Only then did Heero nod and stand. “Let’s get started so we aren’t late for work, either.”

“Yeah, that’ll just put Une in a great mood.” Duo snorted. Trowa stood and gathered empty bowls. His hand brushed across Duo’s as he reached for an empty mug. They retracted quite quickly. Heero sighed audibly as he retrieved a towel and mopped up the slight coffee and porridge mess they had left on the wood. Neither moved until after the mess was gone and Heero was wringing it out over the waste basket. Only then did Trowa carry the bowls into the kitchen and run the warm water for washing. Duo dumped the mugs in without a word. Trowa looked over at him just once after he turned away, but he was already deeply engrossed in putting the leftover porridge away in Tupperware bowls.

“Done?” Heero called moments later. Duo muttered something to him while pushing shut the refrigerator door. Trowa nodded and wiped off his hands. “We should go then.”

A wicked wind rushed through the three of them viciously, although Trowa seemed to be the only one who visibly cringed. Icy rain pelted from angry storm clouds hanging overhead. Hunching his shoulders slightly, Trowa pulled the neck of his coat closer to him. He glanced over at his bike with a frown. At least it would be protected from this weather by being under that covering he often threw over it. But there is no way in hell they will let me take it in this weather.

“Damn, I sure hope Quatre’s doing okay on the roads.” Duo voiced over the rush of rain and wind.

“Well let’s hope we do the same.” answered Heero. He walked a quick stride to the car and slid into the driver’s seat. Duo skittered along behind him, slipping along the ice coated gravel. Sliding to a stop on the passenger’s side, he stared at Trowa from the car’s roof.

“…Well? Are you getting in, or do you want to walk?” he called. Heero stared at him with a hand on the ignition. Trowa’s shoes held almost no traction when he sped walk to the car.

Honestly, he had never enjoyed the prospect of riding, or even driving a car. Convertibles were almost too confining for him. There was just something about a motorcycle, about the connection of one’s own body to the metallic frame. It was an extension of the self; it was he himself that sped down a highway at 75 mph, currents sliding across the streamline the melded two created. Cars were soulless. Even worse, they were without body. They were monsters, a waste of metal and nonsensical engine parts. They muted the world around it. Cars distorted it. They interrupted the wind, the flow. Cars were cages.

The seat belt cut deeply into his neck. Gnawing on his lip, Trowa shifted slightly to lessen it and when it refused merely snuggled back into the seat. He pressed his arms into his stomach. A cold air was rushing through a crack somewhere, and the heat hadn’t kicked in just yet. By the time it did, they would be so near the headquarters that it would be pointless anyway. Trowa leaned his head against the cold interior of the window, listening to and feeling the drone of the struggling engine. He wished they would talk about something. At least listen to a traffic report on the radio. The humming silence was driving him crazy. Of course, when they hit some sort of pothole in the road, an awful ringing replaced it. Rubbing his forehead, he wondered which had been worse.

He watched the sheeting ice fall outside the window, tensing his body into the seat each time he could feel the car’s traction lessening. Because of the weather’s nastiness, it took nearly ten more minutes than usual for them to complete their commute. In continuous silence. He was almost ecstatic to scramble out of the car when they pulled into the parking garage. Almost.

Upstairs, Trowa felt something cause a slight bristling feeling to shiver up his spine and cause the hairs on the back of his neck to stand. Following the two out of the elevator he noticed that there was a definite decrease in the momentum of action around him. He slowed a bit to better watch, albeit slyly, the other operatives and try to discern just what was causing their stagnation. It didn’t take him long to know the cause. Me. They were watching him, some more discreetly than others. It wasn’t the same stares as before when he had come with his hair down. Those had been inquisitive, a bit shocked. These were searching, probing. They pierced and dissected him, searching for something foreign. Something that separated him. Perhaps whatever had caused him to fail the mission. Perhaps they searched for the weakness.

Perhaps they knew too.

Slipping quietly up the row to his cubicle, Trowa did his best to ignore the rising in his blood pressure and heart rate from the unrelenting scrutiny. He pulled his jacket off and, after folding it slightly, draped it over the back of his uncomfortable chair. It sent a familiar sensation of rough support against his back, almost causing a sigh. A pile of folders and papers sat patiently at the end of his desk. Like they had just a week before. Trowa stared at it for a moment. His pen rested along side it. Never moved. Shifting slightly in his chair, he took it back into his hand and flipped open the first folder, scanning it before beginning the first line.

Although he did lose sense of the passage of time, Trowa found that he could not fall into that trance as he usually did. His mind couldn’t wrap around that which wasn’t connected, in someway, to where he was. Endless streams of whisperings drifted in and around his cubicle; he didn’t need to guess just what they were muttering. The scratching of his pen increased, digging into the paper more and more as it wore on. He was almost thankful when Duo nudged him just enough to remind him that he was dangerously close to missing his own lunch; it distracted him from the whisperings and gave him a prime excuse to disappear into the still raging storm.

Trowa paused for just a moment after stepping back out of the elevator with the convenience store bag tightly in hand. Further down the hall, they were gathered close around Wufei’s desk, talking in hushed voices. Heero’s eyes locked momentarily onto his as they turned as a group to leave for lunch in the lower cafeteria. He didn’t even resist when Duo pulled him along beside him. Trowa, after having watched them leave together, wandered back to his desk, dropping the plastic bag into a wastebasket along the way. So much for hunger.

His focus dwindled further and further throughout the day; the whisperings and mutterings nagged at the back of his mind along with his own body’s reminders of its ills. More than once he had to put down his pen to hold his aching head, wincing as he brushed wounded skin. He wished he kept some ibuprofen in his desk. Perhaps I’ll bring a bottle from home next time.

The hours wore on with a slow monotony. He flipped back through his paperwork several times; he had been making mistakes for the last hour or so, one he normally didn’t make. He was redoing a paper for the third time, in pencil this time around, when he heard the distinct clicking of flats along the floor. Glancing up a bit, he watched Lady Une move purposefully down towards his desk. Trowa bent his head back over his work. Perhaps she was coming to speak with him in “length” as she had told him that night. His eyes raised slightly to watch her strides through his bangs; she walked past him without a glimpse. A small knot formed in his lower stomach at her disregard. Trowa made a face as he looked back at his paperwork. With a heavy sigh, he erased the mistake, the exact same mistake, he had made once again. I’m going to need a new sheet soon. All this erasing is going to put a hole in it.

Trowa noticed no one else’s comings or goings, quite a feat if he said so himself, and actually managed to finish quite near his typical workload by the time that Duo nudged the back of his head with a dull pencil. He started slightly, rubbing the spot lightly before looking up at the small group around his desk. Trowa and Wufei tactfully ignored each other’s attempts to not look straight at the other. Just how ugly did those bruises look now? From the faint sympathetic look on Zechs’ face, fairly bad.

“Hm?” he sounded with a faint tilt to his head. Heero gestured slightly with his head.

“Time to head home. It’s getting late.” Ah yes, that’s right. He was depending on them to make it home. Unless he felt like catching a bus, but he wasn’t even sure if a bus went anywhere near the house. Or if he wanted to, pay the heavy cost of a taxi ride from the city. He set the pencil down and pushed the folder aside. Trowa would just have to finish those tomorrow.

“Coming.” he muttered just loud enough. Rising and clicking off the desk lamp he had turned on a good deal before, Trowa zipped his coat up beneath his chin while bring up the rear of their small procession to the elevator. They were talking softly about something or other, what he chose to ignore. He scuffed his shoe toe against the floor quietly until the elevator carriage arrived. They dropped heavily. A wicked cold seeped steadily within. Burying his hands deeply into the pockets, he watched the floor, felt it rattle almost violently beneath his feet. Which surprised him, really. He was quite happy when it shuddered to a stop in the basement garage, even if he did stumbled. At least he wasn’t the only one.

“Jesus. Think we should tell Une about that?…” Duo asked. He held the door opened for them to file out. “Don’t want this plummeting to the basement with people in it.”

“It will not plummet to the basement.” Zechs sighed. “Elevators are specifically designed to not do that when they malfunction.”

“Yeah? Well then why do you hear all those stories about them plummeting to the basement of office buildings?”

Wufei glanced at him. “When was the last time some elevator anywhere did that?” Trowa slid out from behind Heero and hovered along the edge of the conversation. “But by all means, take it back up to warn her of that, and if it plummets to the basement on the way, we’ll tell her ourselves to get it looked at.”

“I’m not going to take that back up.”

“Fine, take the stairs.” Wufei smirked lightly.

Duo didn‘t hold back his sneering look. “Hah, hah. So very funny, Wu.” Zechs shook his head slightly, and with a draped arm over Wufei’s shoulders, pulled him slightly in the direction of their own ride to prevent something from happening.

“Good night.” he prompted. “We’ll see you all in the morning. Watch out for black ice.”

“You too. Good night, see you tomorrow.” Heero answered. Nodding, they separated from one another to head for their respective vehicles. Trowa slowed to a crawl as he watched them wander through the sparse cars lining the rows.

“…Good night.” he gently muttered; he wasn’t sure if they heard him or not but he didn’t wait for a response. Heero had turned the engine over already.

Trowa managed to doze at least lightly as the car took its time commuting back to “home.” He only really started once when the car hit a patch of black ice that nearly sent them into a harsh spin. Trowa was quite surprised by how well Heero had managed to regain and maintain control. He didn’t feel at all nervous, really, when he snuggled back into the seat a second time and listened dazedly to the quiet muttered curses of Duo. All of which Heero ignored.

Gravel scrunching beneath the tires and sending a rush of jolts through the car pulled Trowa from the deep sleep he had managed to sink into after that first stomach-dropping ice spin they experienced. He winced slightly at the overheard light that always flashed on when doors were opened. Suppressing a yawn, he climbed out the car behind them and trailed behind as they walked towards the house. The exhaustion settling over him surprised him; it was amazing how much stress and paranoia took out of a human being.

Quatre lifted his head from the book he was skimming on the couch when they entered. He smiled, albeit tiredly, and rose to meet them. Trowa took his time closing the door on the cold and latching it and shrugging off his winter wear.

“You look exhausted.” Heero told him. Quatre flashed him a limp smile.

“Well I could say the same about you three. Long day?”

“You know it.” Duo yawned, tossing his coat on a hook. “You?”

“No longer than the days before, really.” he answered. “I made dinner a little bit ago. It’s staying warm in the oven for you. I thought it be nice if you had something warm to come home to.”

Grinning, Duo draped his arm over his shoulders and squeezed lightly. “That sounds great. Thanks, man.”

“Of course.”

“You didn’t wait to eat until we got home, did you?” Heero asked. He observed Quatre with one of those searching stares; Quatre’s cheeks flushed just a shade or so. “You didn’t need to wait for us.”

“I know that. I just decided to. I didn’t mind…besides, I wasn’t that hungry right away when I came home. I don’t mind waiting.” he assured. With a grin, Duo turned him towards the table and gave him a push.

“Well, since you were so nice to make dinner and wait for us, I’ll set the table and serve and stuff tonight, so go sit at the table, take a load off. Relax.”

Quatre stumbled to the table, laughing slightly. “Okay, okay I’m going I’m going.” Heero, shaking his head, followed along behind him. Trowa strayed slightly. He glanced slightly between the table and his bedroom, weighing his options.

“…Are you coming?” he called back. Trowa blinked himself out of his decision-making thoughts to look at them. They were watching him. Ignoring the prickling at the base of his neck, Trowa slid himself ever so slightly towards his room with a light shake to his head.

“I’m not feeling very hungry, actually.” he began with caution just barely concealed. Trowa ignored the knotting protests of an empty stomach. “I think I might just go to bed.”

He did his best to look unperturbed by their curious stares. “Are you feeling alright?” Quatre finally asked. Duo snorted and busied himself in the kitchen; if the noises were any indication, he was rather annoyed.

“…Just tired, that‘s all.” Trowa assured. Nodding, Quatre smiled just a bit. Heero walked into the kitchen to see what Duo had dropped. Again.

“Okay then, Trowa. Good night, sleep well.”

“Thank you. Good night.” he said. Trying not to look as though he were retreating, like he knew he was, Trowa walked in a mock casual manner to his room, throwing in a fake yawn or two along the way. He paused for a moment at the door to glance back over his shoulder. Quatre noticed and waved at him, mouthing a second “good night.” He nodded back, straining to form even a weak smile.

A dull thunk accompanied the silence of his black shadowed room; Trowa’s head throbbed slightly from where he banged it back on the closed door. Something didn’t seem to mesh suddenly. Trowa tilted his head so his ear rested upon the wood. He found it so strange that there was almost no sound coming from the rooms beyond. Not even the chink of utensil on china. Were they listening? Trowa pushed himself away and rummaged about for his sleep things quietly in the dark. Just as he was pulling the pajama top over his head did hear the faint sounds of silverware.

So they were listening…

He breathed only slightly easier without the corset. Taking his time, Trowa pressed the tips of his fingers across his ribs, judging just how much damage he had probably done to himself. Pain spread rapidly through his chest. The corset would have to be even looser tomorrow. He was pulling his socks off to toss into the laundry when he heard it. It was soft at first, but the longer he stayed still the louder it grew. Suddenly curious, Trowa rose slowly, to keep the mattress from making any sort of noise, and crept towards the door, guided by the light pooling beneath it. His ear pressed against the wood lightly, body balanced along it with his hands just lightly resting on the doorframe. The voices were just clear enough.

“Quatre, don’t make that face.” Heero chided softly. Trowa could hear a soft sigh.

“I’m not making a face…”

A spoon clattered softly somewhere. “Quatre.”

“What? I’m not.”

“Siding with Heero on this one, man. What’s the matter?”

He was surprised by how vindictive Quatre’s voice sounded through the wood. “I could ask you the same thing, Duo, with the face that you’re sporting.”

“I know I’m wearing a face, and I’ll be the first to admit it. I happen to be extremely pissed at the moment and decided to wear it on my sleeve like a normal person.”

“Hmph.” A chair squeaked from one of them moving slightly.

“Come on, Cat…tell us what’s wrong. I mean I could take a wild guess and I’m sure as hell that I’ll be right, but I’d rather hear you tell me.”

“…I-I just don’t know what to do to help.” Quatre began after a long pause. “He always looks so distant…I don’t feel like I can get close enough to help him…”

An annoyed sort of snort came from Duo. “Yeah well he ain’t asking so I ain’t bothering.”

“A lovely sentiment.” Heero growled out. “Any wonder why he won’t talk to any of us longer than a minute?”

“Honestly, I really don’t give a damn right now.”

“That’s rather harsh, Duo…” Quatre muttered.

“An attitude like that isn’t exactly going to make him want to talk with us, Duo.”

“Oh don’t act so high and mighty, Heero. You’re not exactly tripping over yourself to make chitchat with him either.”

“When he wants to talk to me, I’ll be willing to listen.”

“Oh yeah, because he’s always been so fucking keen to talking about his personal life.”

Something clattered to the table. “Please. Just stop talking about him like he isn’t even here…and lower your voices, he’s trying to sleep.” begged Quatre wearily. Silence followed; even the silverware was quiet. Trowa’s nails dug painful grooves into the frame.

“…Sorry Quatre, I’m just…you know, I’m mad, really.” Duo supplied meekly, a resounding clang reverberating from the stabbing motion he must have made with his fork on his plate. “I think I have a right to be, you know? I mean, he fucking lied to us-”

Trowa pulled his head from the door slowly, balancing himself on the heels of his feet for a moment until he staggered backwards into equilibrium. Head ducked beneath validity’s weight, Trowa stumbled his way back to his bed, not bothering to try and be sly about his movements; they would probably assume he was shifting about in his sleep. Sure enough the dull murmurings died for a moment as they waited in bated breath to see if some other sort of noise would come. Trowa held his head and sat motionless on the edge of his bed. After a short time, the sounds continued and dwelled. It wasn’t for another hour that the light beneath his door flickered with passing footsteps as they bade each other a peaceful good night before it was extinguished completely.

He hadn’t moved.

*-----*-----*

Trowa buried his head under the pillow as far as he could; perhaps if he just lay there long enough, whomever was knocking incessantly on his door would get the hint and simply move along. He could hear them calling out to him, beckoning him to at least come to his side of the door. Trowa pressed it hard over his ear. The pounding was just barely audible.

He knew that he was being unreasonable. He knew that he was causing even more tension to arise, that same unbearable tension had been steadily building about him throughout the week. Trowa understood full well that he wasn’t doing anything remotely productive to rectify his situation. Nothing that he was doing was going to be of any assistance to any involved. Trowa also realized that at the moment, truthfully speaking, he honestly didn’t give a damn. The week had drained nearly all the common sense from him.

Peeking out slightly, he watched the ominous gray clouds that dropped heavily beneath an equally dark sky beyond his window. Perhaps it was actually going to snow today, like the weather had been predicating it would all week. It would be a welcome change, he thought, from the abysmal sleeting rain that had been dominating the skies for the last four days. Although, Trowa had to admit that the weather had mirror his mood with such bittersweet perfection.

Honestly, Trowa couldn’t explain even to himself why he had been acting as he had been. Maybe it was a vengeful spite that was underlying all his actions, all his silence and darkened looks. Ever since that conversation he had just hardly overheard through the shadowed wood of his bedroom door, Trowa had been distancing himself further than ever before from his housemates. It had come to the point that he hardly stayed near them for longer than a few seconds; he politely declined rides to work with them, excused himself from conversations after barely even a greeting, and had gone so far as to miss nearly every single meal that was presented to him that he would not be alone to partake it. A tactic that his stomach was now heavily objecting to. The furious piece of his persona applauded his removal; how dare they speak of him like that behind his back? Had they no tact, no compassion? How could they even begin to possibly understand anything that he had gone, or was going through? How could they justify their anger towards him with no understanding of the hell that Trowa had suffered? Could they be less sympathetic?

Then again, as the logical side of his brain always started with when he choose to let his mind wander to this, hadn’t he brought all of this upon himself? After all, Trowa had had been the one to hold it all within, to keep his secret, his abnormality, to himself for years. Secrets never last forever, it reminded him. They had been bound to find out eventually. Wouldn’t it have been better, it always suggested, to have just tell of it straight out, instead of the constant dancing that Trowa had always done? Or at least confessed truthfully, and with due shame, to it when it had been unveiled and then sat down like a good boy and take whatever questions or accusations they would have thrown at him with a stout heart and a steady voice? Wouldn’t that have been the higher road, the better road to take? Wouldn’t he had been happier than?

As always, he despised that line of thought.

Pillow pressed over his ear to drown out the knocking that seemed to have gotten louder, when will they get the point?, Trowa peered irritated into the shadows in front of his face. He had to wonder, now that he had gotten himself started once again, that if it was just spite, silly as his logical mind reminded him to was to feel, that motivated his actions, why did he continue to do it? Why did Trowa continue to lean against his doorway in the night’s cover and subject himself to it? To the increasingly cruel passage of words those three held when they thought that he wouldn’t hear them. Why Trowa considered it to be something cruel he really couldn’t say; he had often suspected that they spoke of him behind his back. So why did it hurt him so, to realize that what his paranoia-driven delusions had always insisted to be true was in fact just so? The reality of it was…hard to bear. At least he supposed it was. If it was so hard and painful to hear all that they truly thought of him, if it was so agonizing to realize his own distrust had been right all along, then why did Trowa nightly subject himself to such a torture?

…Perhaps it’s the masochist in me come to light… Oh, now there was a horrifying notion.

He paused suddenly. Something had interrupted his train of rapidly spiraling thoughts so thoroughly. Sitting up slowly to keep the springs from squeaking, Trowa looked across the gloomy gray-tinted room with a curious expression on his face. It took a moment for him to finally place it. Quiet. Silence save for his own gentle breathing. They had stopped, had they finally understood? He crawled across the bed slowly to listen to the whispered conversation floating through the door.

“He’s doing this on purpose.” Duo sneered with something that sounded like a stamping of his socked foot.

“That can’t be right. Trowa wouldn’t do something like that…” Quatre replied. His typical assurances seemed to have lost their certainty as of late. “He’s probably just asleep.”

“Quatre, I don’t think even Zechs could have slept through that display of door abuse, and Zechs could sleep through a hurricane if he wanted to.”

“Yeah, the only thing that can wake that guy up nowadays is Wu. And I don’t even wanna think about how he does it.”

Trowa could almost hear the face Quatre was making. Was it any like his own? “Duo.”

“Well anyway, I’m damn sure that he heard us and he’s just ignoring us.”

“Why would he do that, Duo?”

“I don’t know, for the same reason that he’s been ignoring everyone for the last week? Surely you haven’t written off his every single excuse to be rid of us as something normal, even for him?”

“Well no but…”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Heero interrupted the impending fight. “We’re going to be late as is. If he is awake, then he’ll know that we’re going over to Wufei’s and Zech’s like we were asked to do and that he’s invited to come along whenever he pleases. And if he sleeping, as hard as I find that from the sheer force Duo put into his onslaught, then we’ll leave a note for him on the table and he’ll get it when he gets it.”

“Sounds good to me.” Duo said. Quatre merely muttered something that he couldn’t catch. Shadows passed by beneath the door way, socked feet padding out of sight. After releasing the breath he had been holding with a defeated sigh, he sank onto his mattress head first; Trowa seemed to lack the arm strength to keep himself up.

A quiet call brought his head up. Quatre, he was still standing beyond the door? Certainly he had heard the creaking springs that time.

“Trowa.” he started quietly. Such uncharacteristic hesitancy lingered in the name. “…Please just be asleep. Please…” His own feet disappeared from the shaft of light along the floor when someone called out to him. Trowa held his head up to watch in a blank stare until after the front door clicked closed and the car’s engine finally managed to turn over properly in the cold.

His head dropped after that. It was quite an uncharacteristic way for him to lay on his own bed, with his chin dangling over the foot of the bed to give him an ample look at his carpeted floor. His arms lay lifelessly along his sides, which was probably a good idea on his part; spread arms most likely would have aggravated his sore ribs far more so than laying on his chest already was. He was wincing enough as it was each time he breathed. An unusual thought sifted through the stabbing pain. “Are you completely moronic, Trowa Barton? Only you would lie like this with bruised ribs! Ugh, what did I do to get such a foolish little brother?” Mmm…that sounds about right.

Lifting his head from really noticing that he ought to vacuum his carpet, Trowa followed the train his thoughts had taken. Catherine would certainly say something like that, now wouldn’t she? If she knew, that was. Which she didn’t; Catherine had no knowledge of anything that had transpired over the last week, thankfully. He hadn’t called her. That was either a very intelligent, or very idiotic, decision. That is until she discovered that he was being dishonest with her. …It’s not dishonesty, really…I’m with holding information, not lying about it.

Wasn’t that exactly what had gotten him into this situation in the first place?

Trowa, rolling over onto his back, stared off into space through his ceiling as he mulled it over in his head. On the one hand, he could continue to keep his sister in the dark as he had been planning on. She would never be the wiser…until he went to see her, that is. For some reason, unbeknownst to him, Catherine could always tell when something, anything unpleasant had happened recently in his life. And call him upon it. Honestly, Catherine was the only person Trowa could name that could see straight through his face and pick up whatever he was trying not to show. On the first try. She called it “a woman’s intuition.” Trowa called it a pain in the ass, albeit only in his head.

So if he didn’t want her to know about this, which Trowa knew he didn’t, he could simply forgo any sort of contact with her until he managed a level of control over himself. Or at least until the bruising went away. Of course, who knew how long that would take? It could very well take several weeks for him to fully heal. And Catherine tended to worry needlessly; if he didn’t try to contact her in some manner for weeks on end, she’d definitely worry and probably contact him. Or worse, take matters in her own hands and visit herself.

Perhaps he should at least call her. Really, what was the worst that could happen? Worst possible scenario was that she’d hit him with something or other for his stupidity and lecture him endlessly. Now that he considered it, that was probably the best case scenario, and a given one. He really didn’t want to think of what the worst case would be. So he should call her. She’d lecture and sneer and sigh and beg him not to keep all this to himself as normal but at least she’d know. Besides, Catherine would find out herself eventually; she was painfully nosy. And if Trowa wasn’t the one to tell her, he’d certainly be the one she’d yell at afterwards.

He didn’t fully realize until after he had stood just how sore his body truly was. It had been almost a full week now, if Trowa chose to think about it. One would think the aches and pains would start to subside. He pressed the heel on his palm into the tender muscles of his back, hissing at the knots he found. The ones across his chest were even worse. He padded across the floor cautiously, his ankle still feeling rather weak to weight, and made a point not to so much as glance at that god-awful mirror.

A phone call. That had been Trowa’s original plan, to make a phone call to his sister, at least to leave a message. He would of course prefer Catherine being home, even for just a short while, to hear the soothing sound of her voice through the crackling the phone always made when the weather was harsh. To sit in the kitchen, perhaps curled slightly into a corner, listening to his sister’s good-natured belittlement through an awful connection, appeared to be a pristine idea. A shame, really, that he never made it that far.

That small paper stopped him. That one sheet of slightly crinkled up lineless paper, standing strikingly against the dark cherry wood of the table, stilled him, drove from his mind all thoughts of phone calls and comfort offering corners. Even from a distance Trowa could see the coldness of the message. It was short, a few lines at best, written in that mechanical style that Heero was known for. Trowa dangled it between two fingers while reading it:


Trowa-
Went to Wufei’s and Zechs‘, as we said we would. Come along, if you like, whenever you get this. We’ll see you later.

Heero


Trowa snorted softly. It sounded more of an order than a request, he mused while watching the note drift back to the table top. What good would come of it, anyway? Trowa was certain the tension couldn’t get any worse in the house if he didn’t go. And if he did, did he really wish to subject himself to that sort of awkwardness, again? Didn’t he get enough of that at work, and home? Sneering inwardly, and slightly outwardly, towards the innocent messenger, Trowa made to continue towards the kitchen phone. He paused once more to glance at the pen idling beside the sheet. Staring down at it, lifting it up to twirl between his fingers, Trowa wondered.

Finally, he made up his mind. After scrawling down a note half as long, and just as unfeeling, as the one above it, Trowa dropped the pen to the table and retreated back to his room long enough to pull on a sweater and pick up his wallet and keys. He checked to see that the windows and doors were properly secured before lacing up his boots that were beside the backdoor; he had made a point to wear them often this week seeing as they supported his ankle a bit better than his other shoes. Trowa zipped his coat up to his neck before opening the door to the biting wind and freezing rain. So much for snow.

He wasn’t going to lie to himself as he sped down the highway on his bike in the middle of the winter rain storm; the note had been a complete lie. But unless one of them actually called Catherine to see exactly why she had “called” him and “asked” him to come by, no one but Trowa was going to know that. And not even Heero is that paranoid, to check up to see if a damn note I wrote is accurate or not. They might not even care, or they might even think that it was a good idea for Catherine to call him away. Trowa could just imagine something along the lines of “she always knows how to get him to open up” popping out of Quatre’s mouth. Of course, that didn’t mean they weren’t going to feel, at least to some degree, disappointed and offended by Trowa’s complete “ignorance” of the “plans” they had made for the weekend. Too fucking bad.

The rain pelted savagely into asphalt, metal, and flesh alike, showing no mercy for the soreness he had felt before and the stiffness he was experiencing now. It cared little for the danger it subjected Trowa to. His hands slid clumsily along the throttle. His boots barely gripped the body of the bike which was slipping more and more often on the quickly slicking surface. The ice rain drummed along the outside of his helmet in a distracting rhythm. It caressed him with its sting, sliding beneath the small gaps in his clothes to settle upon the unprotected skin, chilling him fully. The storm was laughing at him. It taunted him openly, trying to unseat him with all it possessed in its limitless arsenal. A wicked wind whipped up from beneath him and slammed into his side. Trowa tightened his grip and adjusted his balance, saving himself from a possibly deadly spill barely. It swirled away with a banshee shriek of laughter.

A smarter person would have taken nature’s not-so-subtle hints and pulled over until the storm had passed. Smarter people would decide that tempting so fickle a mistress as fate was a bad thing and taken the safe path. Trowa was not a smart person; revving the engine against the thundering wind and rain, he hiked the speed up another 10. If nature wanted to taunt him, let it. If nature thought it could frighten him with a wicked fate, it was mistaken. He had spent his life tempting fate. Sometimes, Trowa liked to think she rather favored him.

His rebellious attitude towards nature was less enjoyable by the time he reached the circus ground. True, the storm was no longer mocking him with its strength; now it seemed to be shaking its head at the result of Trowa’s tenacity. Clambering off his bike onto the rain soaked, abandoned grounds, Trowa realized just how foolish this endeavor had been. His ankle immediately turned inwards despite the sturdy material around it. Tightening his grip on the handle bars and allowing his boots to slip about in the mud were what kept him upright. The walk towards his sister’s home was a trying one. He was quite happy when he could lean his bike against the side beneath the awning and stagger up towards the door.

No one answered.

Trowa shivered slightly, rain dribbling down the back his neck, as he stood in front of the door after knocking for the umpteenth time. Catherine wasn’t that heavy a sleeper. She isn’t home?… Bouncing lightly from one foot to the other, and immediately regretting it, Trowa considered the day. What would his sister possibly due on a Saturday afternoon? Practice. Or go shopping. He took a quick glance across the lightless grounds. It didn’t take much to realize which was probably true.

A growling sigh escaped him, along with a series of shivers. Who knew how long his sister would take if she was on a shopping trip? She had dragged him along one time. All he really cared to remember was it had seemed like a waste of several hours. Several hours. Groaning, Trowa glanced at the door. Catherine wasn’t like most people; she would never agree to leaving a spare key somewhere around her property. It was actually probably a wise decision, seeing as every few months the troupe packed up and moved on. How easy it would be to lose the key. Trowa examined the door knob and lock through the rain dripping off his bangs. If he wanted to, he could easily jimmy it open or, if he could find something suitable, pick the lock and allow himself into at least a dry area. Catherine wouldn’t mind.

Kicking his helmet as he passed, which only sent another wave of aches up his leg, Trowa squatted down beside his bike. The rain drummed over his head, dripping down the edges of the small canopy, walls of water encasing him on all sides. Without it though, Trowa felt the true chill of the drive. He huddled upon himself and winced at the new winds which assaulted him. As long as he kept himself balanced and not falling into the mud he at least wouldn’t worry about getting all that much wetter. I just might catch pneumonia if Catherine takes her sweet time coming home… Precisely what Vincent warned him not to do.

Trowa lifted his head from his folded arms slightly to watch the waterfall before him. If Vincent or Lady Une found out that he was crouching beneath on old awning in the middle of rainstorm during December to wait for his sister to come home from wherever the hell she was, they’d kill him. Vincent and Lady Une had made it quite clear to him that he was supposed to…how had they put it? “Take it easy; you’ve ‘been through a lot‘.” If they ever learned of this, they’d kill him. Head dropping back beneath his arms, he sighed with a heavy set of shivers. Catherine had better come back quickly before he caught something. Une would certainly be able to tell when he went to work, or at least when he returned after an undisclosed amount of sick days had passed. Then there would be hell to pay.

Of course, Trowa could spare himself that misery by one simple act of breaking and entering. It was after all his sister’s house, a place that had been his own for quite some time. Catherine probably would care less if she came home to find Trowa waiting in the house. She would obviously make a small noise about it, saying she’d prefer him to call in advance or something along the lines but that would be the end of it. Finding him squatting by his bike in this weather was another story. He imagined a very Une like reaction for that. An agonizingly long reprimand he would have to sit through attentively. Grimacing at the very notion, Trowa knew he would very well love to avoid another one of those. And he could, by just breaking quietly into his own sister home; so simple a task really, he could do it in less than five minutes.

Not that he was going to. After all, breaking into the computer system and altering his medical records had been a “simple” task, and look where that had gotten him. I’ll be better off freezing…

Although after another dragging set of minutes, at least fifteen if he was any sort of judge, Trowa was less inclined to sit patiently. Muscles seizing up, Trowa rocked back and forth slightly on his heels to try and circulate the blood and still keep his body’s warmth held within himself. It wasn’t working.

The droning hum of ice on the canopy wore on until his mind could no longer wrap around its rhythm. He stared into the cold blackness of his soaked, heavy clothes while the shivering never-endingly increased. Ribs ached as his chest rose and fell with shaking breaths; his blinks were steadily slowing, and becoming more and more pain-stricken. Mud squelched beneath his boots as he tried to adjust his crouched stance. It was everywhere now, deep wet puddles of it surrounding him and closing tauntingly. Balance teetered as he tried for the umpteenth time to hold himself steady. Must he really put himself through this? Did Trowa will have to sit out in this cold wind infinitely? For some reason which he hardly remembered now? His neck cricked as he tried to raise it. Why was he waiting once again? He was sure he had forgotten…

“Trowa Barton, are you insane!?” If he hadn’t been so cold, the remarkably familiar voice wouldn’t have startled him as badly as it did. Balance finally abandoning him, Trowa slipped backwards into the muddy grass. A soft grimace crossed his face while the filthy wetness wicked up through his half-frozen clothes. Wonderful. Not only was he sore, stiff, cold, and wet. Now he could add filthy to the list. Exactly what Trowa had been trying to avoid. Whipping the mud off his hands a bit, Trowa glanced through his limp bangs towards the voice, and swallowed. Catherine stood above him wrapped tightly in a winter rain coat complete with scarf, an umbrella in one hand and two rather heavy looking plastic grocery bags in the other, and an awful look on her face. A horrible mixture of surprise, slight, very slight, happiness, and complete undiluted rage. Her pale complexion was taking on a shocking tinge of red; she was actually trembling. “What is the matter with you!? Are you crazy, or do you have some sort of bizarre death wish I’m not aware of!?”

He winced lightly. Maybe he would have been better waiting inside… He would have to tread cautiously, lest he accidentally cause her to release her growing wrath. “Catherine…” Trowa muttered. The words had barely made it to his lips before she really erupted.

“It is not even ten degrees outside, and I come home from grocery shopping to find my little brother sitting outside, in the wet grass! In the middle of the rain! In December! You are absolutely soaked! You’re going to catch pneumonia! Are you stupid!? You must be because I have never before seen someone stupid enough to sit outside in the rain and muddy grass in the middle of December! Get inside the house right now!”

“…The door’s locked.” Trowa said softly through his wet bangs. Taking deep breaths through her nose, Catherine looked from the door to him at least twice before sighing exasperatedly. She was grumbling darkly beneath her breath, stomping her way to the door. Trowa thought she might actually yank it from its hinges and was very thankful he was beyond grabbing distance. She glared at him over her shoulder from the doorway.

“It’s open now. IN.” Catherine snarled. Trowa sighed silently; this was going to be a very long lecture. Wonderful…I should have just called and stayed in the kitchen…

He barely heard Catherine’s startled gasp after he managed to get to his feet. The world had tilted on its axis sharply and far too quickly for him to adjust. Blood rushing from his head along with his color, Trowa staggered backwards until his back bumped into the bike’s body. Quivering hands struggled to find some sort of leverage to hold onto. After failing to right himself with the bike’s handles, Trowa felt himself falling sideways. He sidestepped, hoping to keep upright long enough to at least fall away from the mud. The filth latched onto his skin and hair, slide across his clothes and beneath, chilling him. So much for staying out of the mud…

“Oh my god, Trowa are you alright? What‘s wrong?” Catherine asked. Kneeling beside him in the muddy grass, she brushed the dirty bangs from his eyes. Genuine worry lined her face, pushing the rage back into its standard dormancy. Hated it, Trowa hated that look. He tried to speak, to assure her of his health, truly he tried. But his throat tapered; the awful taste of bile rose. Closing his mouth quickly, Trowa let his head drop slightly and breathed. It was proving to be a trying task. His coughs quickly turned to rasps. “God, okay. Come on, let’s get you inside and cleaned up… It’ll be alright.” Her hands encircled his bicep and pulled upwards gently. A long ache traveled across his chest. Hissing, Trowa followed his arm, feet slipping as he attempted to get upright with Catherine’s help. She never slackened on her grip, something Trowa was immensely thankful for. His legs trembled as he tried to walk. It frightened him to think that he not only might he not make it under his own strength, but not even with her assistance. Yet Catherine, through a gentle but stubborn grip and soft coaxing, guided him into the dark house.

He shivered to himself. Catherine, after pulling out a chair from the table and pushing him into it softly, closed the door to the biting wind. She flicked on a light or two before turning the heater on as high as it could go, and only then did she pull off her wet shoes, lean her umbrella against the wall, and pick the grocery bags off the floor to sort through on the counter. Water trickled down the back of his neck. Trowa tightened his arms against his waist and doubled over to try and warm himself. Vertigo reared; he dug his fingers into the base of the chair to keep his seat.

“It’ll take a couple minutes to heat up in here…I haven’t been home since this morning. Oh you should have told me you were going to come. You should‘ve called at least. I would have left it on and unlocked the door so you could get inside.” She sighed. Trowa barely heard her over the chattering of his teeth and the sounds of running water. Another set of chair legs appeared in front of his limited vision along with his sister’s feet. I didn’t know she had green socks… “Here look up…”

Obeying, Trowa raised his head. He hissed softly at the hot, wet towel she pressed to his cheek. Her hand tightened about his wrist to keep him from moving back from it. Shushing him, Catherine ran it carefully across his skin. It took quite some time before he could relax his tensed muscles and accept the burning heat against his face. By then, the care was beginning to feel quite good. It was getting easier to forget Catherine was treating him like a child, again.

With his eyes closed, sighing quietly at the comfortable warmth spreading from his cheek to the rest of his cold body slowly, Trowa didn’t notice the shocked look crossing Catherine’s face. He didn’t notice anything out of sorts until something cold pressed against his cheek. Eyes snapped opened and focused on the chilled hand tracing an outline along his cheek. Shit.

“Trowa. These are…bruises. When in the world did you get these? Were you in a fight? God, they’re awful looking.”

Trowa brushed her hand away harsher than he probably should. “They’re nothing to concern yourself over. They’ve been there for almost a week, they’re--”

“A week!?” she demanded. Trowa cursed himself; he needed to stop putting his foot in his mouth. “You’ve had these for a whole week and didn’t tell me? Trowa, they’re horrible looking, I don’t even want to imagine what they looked then--”

“Then don’t.” He mumbled. Catherine was ranting on with increasing strength so she hadn’t heard him. Good for him.

“What did you do, bash your face into a door handle for kicks?” He gave a baneful snort at that.

“Yes, Catherine, I decided just to smash my own face into a door handle for kicks and not tell you about it.” Sinking back into his seat slightly, Trowa folded his arms over his chest with a glance in an opposite direction.

“Well then what happened? Did you get into a fight?” Catherine demanded. Trowa focused on a large crack in the wall, wondering if he remembered where it came from. “You got into a fight, didn’t you?” He bit savagely on his cheek while following the crack’s path with his eyes. “God, what is the matter with you? Why didn’t you call me earlier?” Blood slipped along his tongue. “Trowa, will you look at me--”

“I didn’t call you earlier because it’s none of your business!” he found himself snapping. Catherine slid back in her chair at the angry look flashing through Trowa’s eyes. “What happened to me this week is none of your damn business, alright!? I didn’t call because it’s none of your concern what he did to me! So just--”

He gasped softly, finding his oncoming tantrum muffled by the warm wool of Catherine’s dark colored sweater. Her arms were locked tightly about his chest, pressing into his bruised ribs so hard his breath began to constrict. But her fingers were gliding through his tangled hair, trailing down the back of his neck and back again. It was comforting, if he made Catherine move her arms, would it alter that comfort? He’d rather deal with the sore ribs. It wasn’t long, though, that the pressure she had on his ribs and soaked clothes began to affect him. A series of heavy shivers wracked his aching chest. Catherine seemed to have notice, for she loosened her grip, albeit reluctantly, and settled back a bit. Her fingers trembled while brushing the bruises lightly.

“You’re still wet and filthy…” she managed. Smiling weakly she smacked his cheek lightly. “Out of those clothes so I can get them cleaned up, and go take a shower. That’ll warm you up a good deal, I actually got the good water heater this time around.”

“…Yes Catherine.” He answered quietly. Catherine leaned back slightly to watch him. A sad looking smile crossed her lips as she brushed the dirty strands out of his face again.

“You really aren’t feeling like yourself.” she sighed. Trowa tilted his head questioningly. “You’re not even fighting me on this.”

He sighed softly, offering just a shrug. Patting his cheek as lightly as she could, Catherine stood and went to her grocery bags. To the sound of stacking cans and food products did he duck down and finally manage to take off his completely sodden boots. He grimaced; even his socks were soaked through. Not wanting to soil his sister’s floor anymore than he already had, Trowa folded them into his boots to sit them by the door against the wall. He grimaced at the cold floor and the dull aching of his ankle. Catherine didn’t notice at least, with her back turned to him, which was good; she’d never leave him alone if she noticed the limp.

The bathroom seemed much different than he remembered. Then again, the absence of his normal mind could account for the difference. The familiar green pain did seem strangely more chipped and worn than his last visit, but Trowa was certain it had been just as worn, even if he couldn’t recall it. Sliding the door closed with a soft push, he searched absently along the handle for the lock…before he remembered that Catherine’s bathroom door never had one. They had trusted one another fully; that and she always locked the rest of the doors and windows so anyone would have a bit of trouble getting in. Unless they have a crow bar… With a sigh, and trusting Catherine’s cheap locks, Trowa pushed himself away from the door, nearly stumbling over the toilet and cracking his head on the sink. He grumbled softly while turning on the hot water; despite Catherine’s assurances, he remembered all too well the winter showers he took during his cover at the circus. He’d let the water run a minute or two first. It would take him that long to get out of his clothes anyway, might as well make some use of it… The mud soaked clothes, as he tried to pull them off, clung to his skin like a second skin. It pulled viciously on his trembling flesh with no remorse and he quietly hissed at the lingering sting.

Shivering and arm slung tightly across his waist, Trowa set the soiled clothes on the floor by the door. It seemed like the best place for them. They couldn’t possibly get any dirtier. He managed to find a towel in the cupboard under the sink, right next to the tissue box and spare toilet paper roll. He also managed to bang both his head and his elbow trying to stand back up. How Catherine could stand such a small bathroom was beyond him. Trowa had hated it when he lived with her but now… I suppose living with them has nearly spoiled me.

If he wasn’t miserable before, he certainly was now. Did his thoughts really have to trail back there?

The fact that the shower curtain didn’t rip from its pole with his vicious tug surprised him only for at most a second. Warmth, strong and pulsing, driving itself into his bruises and sore muscles drove nearly every thought from his head. The longer he stood beneath the torrent, the more relaxed his muscles became. He tilted his head up towards the spray, not even wincing at the dull pain the pressure on his bruises caused. A gentle sigh escaped him, emerald eyes drifting closed. His hand slid along the wall, the other up through his hair in efforts to loosen the clumped, muddy strands. Mud pellets slithered down his back and arms. In his mind’s eye Trowa watched them making their brownish trails, marking him with sloppy lines, before swirling down that rusted drain beneath his feet. He slid his foot just a bit for a little extra balance. It ached, tremors resonating from the injured area. A cracked skull wasn’t exactly something he longed for, nor did he want to leave this spreading warmth just yet. With a soft grunt he slid himself down along the wall. Legs stretched out before him, Trowa leaned himself against the wall, relishing in both the heat and the ache‘s departure. So good, to have something to soothe these awful aches and pains.

Even if only the physical ones.

As much as he wished he didn’t have to, Trowa knew he couldn’t stay sitting beneath a hot water pour forever. To steal the limited amount of hot water these tended to have from his sister’s shower, whenever she decided to take one, would be exceptionally rude of him. He sat in the swirling water, the shower necessities were just low enough for him to reach with little struggle. Trowa didn’t waste his time getting clean, and he felt exceedingly better with the mud coming off his skin. Rising slowly, he gave a short glance to the swirling; the brown slowly ran into clear while spinning into the drain. Well that was good--they wouldn’t have to clean the tile then.

Shivers ran up and down his spine the moment he pulled aside the curtain. The captured warmth rushed and spread to the far corners of the tiny bathroom before being crushed by the room’s chill. The towel did little to quell his shivers, probably because it hardly covered all of his torso. Teeth chattering, he sank onto the toilet seat, biting back more shivers, and dried himself off as quickly as trembling hands would allow. He draped the damp cloth across his shoulders when he finished then glanced to where he’d left his clothes. Only slightly surprised to find they were gone, replaced by clothing he only briefly recognized. He shook his head. …She does too much for me…

Catherine’s head looked up from whatever she was making when he stepped out of the bathroom. It had such a powerful smell, whatever it was she was preparing, that he started salivating the moment its wonderful scent struck him. She gave him a small smile with a quick glance over. Trowa’s gaze turned quickly to the side, shifting in the clothes lent to him. Warm though they may be, they were just a little large on him and offered neither the protection or deception his own allowed. The dark red and greenish-brown material scratched lightly at the skin it covered and he shuddered at the grotesque feel of it against sensitive parts.

“I thought those would still fit. Just a little big, you’ve must’ve lost weight. Again.” she chastised sisterly. Trowa offered a faint shrug. It would be prudent of him not to mention his lack of “hunger” over the last week, although if his stomach continued to growl and churn as it did she’d figure it out soon enough. “Don’t just stand there. Come sit at the table, I’m almost done.” He didn’t bother to argue, and truth be told sitting down again felt good. She took a moment from the food to fluff at his hair, grinning at the annoyed noise he made. “Sorry, no hair junk left over from when you were here last. You’ll just have to wait to reshape your hair. But I happen to like it like this. You look so handsome with it down.”

Trowa bit his tongue savagely to silence himself, hands clenched in fabric of the pajama pants. Catherine hadn’t noticed having gone back to stir whatever was making such wonderfully torturous smells.

“You still like soup right? Because I made some tomato soup, since I know that even though you say my chicken noodle is good you’re lying to me since you hate chicken.” Catherine said. Whether or not she expected a reply, she didn’t miss a beat. “And I fried up some of the leftover vegetables I had and there’s some fruit if you want it. I just bought it today, nice and fresh, nearly had to beat an old bat with my purse to get at it. You wouldn’t believe how crazy people get around this time of year when it comes to fruit. Or heck, just shopping in general. And there’s some bread if you want because what’s soup without a little bread.”

“That’s fine Catherine…” he managed, arms wrapped over his stomach in a bizarre belief that if he pressed hard enough it would shut the hell up. So far, it wasn’t working. When she set a bowl of soup, steam visibly wafting from its surface into his face with its tantalizing aroma, and those little side dishes she’d mentioned to him, hunger grew ravenous and he swore his stomach was going to digest itself before the food even had a chance. Fingers tightened into his stomach and palm; he had to try to keep his will…

“Well go on, eat it. I didn’t make it to be stared at.” she said with a wave. Trowa passed her a brief glance before staring at the food before him. “I’m pretty sure there’s still some of that tea left. I’ll make you a mug, and if you’re not all warm and toasty after that, then nothing’s going to help.” Turning back to boil water and root through her cabinets, she didn’t notice at all when Trowa pounced on the food with all the vigor his manners would allow. If it was possibly to have the appetite of a starving man and still maintain some level of etiquette, Trowa managed it--all the while telling his brain to shut up and let him enjoy the satisfaction he’d been denying himself.

Catherine gasped softly; he paused long enough to be impressed by the fact she hadn’t dropped the mug of tea all over the floor before returning to the warm and sinfully-delicious food. “Jesus, Trowa. You never ever eat this fast.” Trowa stared briefly at the cup of tea she set for him; he’d deal with that after he quieted his stomach finally. “I certainly hope you’re actually chewing my food. I don’t think I’m strong enough to perform the Heimlich on your hard stomach.” Catherine, cup of coffee in hand, sat across from him and made herself comfortable. Obviously, a reply was the last thing she expected. A quiet settled while she observed his hunger dissipating over the mug’s rim. Her soft chuckle managed to grab his attention again. “Goodness, you’d think you hadn’t eaten in three days, the way your eating. It must be pretty damn good, or you have had a home-cooked meal in--Trowa why did you wince?”

I hate her observant ways… Nothing escaped Catherine’s eyes, at least it seemed that way. He set the spoon in the nearly empty bowl with a surprisingly steady hand to meet the narrowed scrutiny. Their staring contest lasted less than a minute before, with an aggrieved sigh, Trowa broke the gaze.

“You have eaten for the last three days, haven’t you Trowa?” she asked, just daring him to lie to her.

“Catherine…”

“Trowa. Tell me you have been eating.” she snarled. Hands folded in front of him, he pressed his forehead to them and shook his head minutely. If he had to be honest he’d rather not look at the god awful expression coming up. Trowa swore he could hear Catherine’s teeth grinding. “…Did you eat these last three days?” he shook his head vaguely. “Dare I even ask how long it has been since you’ve eaten?”

He shrugged, pressing his forehead into his hands to stay off the building headache. “…A week, give or take…” If Trowa hadn’t been expecting it, the slamming of her coffee mug on the table would have surprised him. Amazing, it didn’t break…

“Trowa Barton what is the matter with you?! Are you insane?!” her shrill voice pierced. Trowa clenched his eyes; didn’t he hear this speech before? “A week, you haven’t eaten in an entire week!? Well no wonder you completely inhaled it, and no wonder you collapsed outside! I’m amazed you even made it here in one piece!” Fingers clenched against the bridge of his nose, he endured. Surely she couldn’t scream too long at him. He winced slightly when he heard the chair legs screech against the floor, half expecting her to come over and smack him with something. For her to stomp towards the ugly mustard yellow wall phone, muttering angrily to herself, that was the absolutely last thing he anticipated. “This is absolutely insane. Those roommates of yours should be making sure you eating, for crying out loud. God forbid, they should know your habits since you spent so much time with them--” This could not be good. “Oh I’m going to give those boys a piece of my mind.”

No. Definitely not good. He scrambled out of the chair and made it across the floor just in time to press his hand over the phone cradle, ceasing Catherine’s dialing. She was far from pleased.

“Trowa Barton! What in the world--”

“No.” he said. Taking the phone from her hand, he set it back. She bristled, inflating with rage.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“No. Don’t even think about calling them.” he said icily. Catherine glared after him as he walked back to the table, but at least she didn’t go near the phone again. Yet.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because.” He snapped. The murky surface reflected his agitation. “They’re not home, anyway.”

That cold her a bit. “They’re not?”

“No. They left this afternoon to visit Wufei and Zechs, and I highly doubt they’re even home yet.” he muttered. Catherine, head tilted slightly, sat across from him, wiping the coffee mess absently with a dishcloth.

“…Zechs and Wufei work with you, don’t they? They’re your friends, aren’t they?” Trowa nodded and took a sip. The jasmine had a bitter bite. “Why didn’t you go over there with them? They invited you, didn’t they?” It was getting even more vile. “They invited you, right Trowa?”

“…Yes, I was invited to go.” he supplied woodenly. Catherine blinked confusedly.

“Well then why didn’t you go see them?”

“Because.”

“Because why?” Catherine pressed. Trowa shrugged and sipped again. Still bitter. “A shrug is not an answer, Trowa.” Where had he heard that before? He sneered at her through the bangs which flopped into his face.

He whipped them from his face. “Because I didn’t feel like it.” Apparently that wasn’t an appeasing enough answer either.

“Well why not?”

“I didn’t feel like doing that to myself…” Obviously, the answer made less than any sense to her.

“Doing what to yourself?” she questioned further. A look of dawning understanding seeped across her face. Reaching across, Catherine cupped his face in her hands to lift it. Those eyes were full of renewed concern. “Trowa…did something happen? Did you guys have a fight?” I wish it had been a fight, he sighed to himself while shaking his head. “Well what is it then?”

It was a long while before he decided to say anything. Truth be told, he didn’t want to break the soothing warmth which passed from her to him; and he knew the moment he let this pass his lips, it would be gone. He weighed it in his head: if Trowa kept the silence, Catherine’s suspicions would only grow all the more. She wouldn’t cease to pester and probe, continually worrying about what had happened. She might even call them herself to get the story. If anything, he would rather tell her how he felt than have them tell her everything.

It would be better this way…wouldn’t it? Even just a little? It would relieve some of this awful pressure over him, wouldn’t it? He sure as hell hoped so.

“…They know.” Trowa finally muttered through numb lips. Catherine blinked and leaned closer. Trowa winced inwardly. He’d rather not have to say it again but obviously she couldn’t understand mumble. “…They know. All of them, they know.”

Audible, yes. Clarified, apparently not. “Know what?” Trowa closed his eyes. He moved his head from her hands to better rub his aching temples. “Trowa, what do they--”

“They know, Catherine.” He snapped, glancing through his fingers. He was glad the palm was covering his trembling lips. “…W…What I am…they know.” Much to his dismay, Catherine’s face lightened a good deal. She took his hands and squeezed gently, smiling with something that looked almost like excitement.

“You told them. You finally told them, Trowa. Oh thank god, you finally told them you’re--”

He practically ripped his hands from hers and nearly toppled the remain quarter of his tea. Was she out of her mind!? “No, I didn’t tell them! I never told anyone! And if I had my way, no one would ever know!”

“Well if you didn’t tell them,” snarled Catherine, unabashed by his sudden rage. “then how did they find out!?” His tongue seemed to have swelled. Unable to speak, he looked away. Catherine’s eyes roamed over the bruises on his face and neck; he could see the eyes narrow again. “…Did they do this to you? Trowa, did they beat you up, for this!?” Trowa wished he hadn’t said anything. His thoughts swirled and wrapped around the dreams and memories. Kader’s face swam across his eyes, flashing that smile. He could almost feel his skin again. Trying to resist the burning and bruising, Trowa took his mug and went to dump it in the sink. “Those bastards, I’ll kill them! After everything you all went through together, they do this to you! Their friend! Oh if they think they can get away with this they--”

“They didn’t, Catherine… They haven’t touched me…” Trowa sighed. It was so much worse than if they had. His knuckles whitened while he gripped the sink’s edge to the point of agony. Catherine hovered along behind him. “…They saved me…”

“Saved you?…From what?”

As the words attempted to leave his mouth, a tender gasp fluttered from his throat. Glancing into the wall ahead of him, Trowa felt her fingers tracing the trail that was shivering its way down his bony cheek. He followed her fingers with his own. What strange wetness was this? It tasted salty to his tongue, full of agony and sorrow. It twinkled in the light as he examined it decorating his fingers, falling ever faster down his face. A cacophony of memories were strengthened by its presence. Voices from the past, near and distant, roared and bellowed in his ears. Such pain, what familiar pain he felt. A second trail appeared, paralleling the original path.

Crumpling to his knees, he rested his head on the cabinet in front of. Catherine’s arms snaking around his waist in attempt of comfort, Trowa screamed in startling and sudden agony.

How could tears be so painful…

A/n: He was bound to break soon enough. He is, after all, only human, tramatized though he may be. but not to worry my lovely readers! Trowa will be back to his normal pessmistic self in chapter 8. At least for a little while, and then the fun REALLY starts

Soon enough, what I've done to him here will seem almost tame.

Next chapter will definitely have some sickness to it, so I warn you in advance, and hopefully spark your interest.

Until next time, my readers. I take my leave of you.

~LadyYeinKhan~