The Chains We Wear

A/n: Yeah…so you remember how I said I’d have chapter 8 done and ready for you by the end of the semester? Well it’s a week after the semester ended so I was a little late. But I got something out for you!

You know what: the last four months fucking blown. What between school and family and theatre and writer’s block, I swear to God was going out of my mind. I don't know whether I was becoming depressed or bipolar or just losing my fucking mind. I can’t count the number of times I wanted to scream and kick and cry and rip out either my hair or someone else’s. But listening to my sob stories is not the reason why you’re here. Things have calmed down (at least a little) so you don’t need to listen to me bitch and whine and complain. I don’t want to put that on you.

Now, on to the fic. Personally? I HATE this chapter. Well…maybe hate is too strong a word. I’m disappointed with myself. I don’t think this is anywhere near my usual standards and I feel like I’m embarrassing myself and you by even considering posting this. But you guys have been so patient with me and so supportive I feel I need to give you at least something…being well prepared for a massive influx of disappointed reviews. I promise though, the later chapters will not be of such poor quality. I swear this.

So…onwards to chapter 8. Again, my apologies with the poor quality…

Chapter 8: Weakness

“So what'll be? Name your poison, pal," said the bartender, an attractive looking male who Trowa noted was not-so-subtly giving him a once, and then a twice, over. If Trowa chose to pay him any attention at all, he might have found the other's obvious Native American genetics (he had to be at least half) extremely appealing. But Trowa was finding it hard to notice anything at all, besides the bizarre world he had chosen to stumble upon.

The aromas in the room were so potent that Trowa swore each time he breathed in they clung to his lungs, coating them with an ever-increasing layer of filth. The crowded room reeked, with cigarettes and something a bit more illicit mixing with the scent of various alcoholic drinks and human body odor both natural and artificial. The room's sauna-like temperature certainly didn't help; the heat only emphasized the putrid smell. Trowa fought the urge to crinkle his nose or shove his helmet back over his head. How had he managed to stumble into this?

A shape flashed through his peripheral vision, and something struck Trowa's arm lightly. He looked up into the annoyed of the bartender. In the awful lighting, Trowa could hardly tell the color of the man's eyes, although he could see the several piercing he had on his ears and eyebrow. The bartender tilted his head slightly as he tossed the towel back onto the bar and leaned over towards Trowa. With a sweeping motion he gestured behind him.

"You hear me the first time?" he asked. "What'll it be? I don't have all night to wait for you; other people are going to need drinks and refills too, you know." Trowa's gave wandered around the packed room and back to the bar. With only five people, including this agitated tender, manning the bar and providing drinks, Trowa supposed the man had a point. He sat down, setting the helmet down and planting his foot on it to prevent theft, and glanced at the list of drinks and line of bottles.

You're in over your head… Trowa didn't have a clue what the hell was what. Why should he? Drinking had never been something which had interested him, even mildly. A couple popular beer products and some high class titles of wine, that was about the extent of his knowledge--the former thanks to Duo and the latter Quatre.

Wincing inwardly at the thought of the pair, Trowa waved the tender off with perhaps one of the dumbest things he could have possibly said. He wasn't stupid; he knew the risk. Russian Roulette without the gun. I must've lost my mind back there… "Surprise me."

The bartender must have agreed for he blinked several times before laughing and shaking his head. "Famous last words. You sure about that?" Trowa glared at him through the hair which had fallen into his face again. The other shrugged. "Alright, your liver, man. I'll fix you something."

Trowa sighed to himself after the other left, hardly able to hear the sound over the other patrons' raucous conversations and nigh on eardrum-shatteringly loud music. Glancing around, Trowa squinted through the haze of cigarette smoke. There was a hodgepodge of people hanging around, laughing drunkenly, arguing fervently, flirting shamelessly. At the table closest to him he noticed a group of business men, celebrating free-spiritedly. It was a striking difference to the table not too far away with the smaller group of extremely depressed looking suits sulking over their half-touched drinks. Perhaps the rival company or something moronic like that. Further back, three girls clinked glasses in an incoherent toast--a girls' night out? They didn't seem to notice the group of men at the next table who were ogling their "goods" and obviously plotting pickup lines. Trowa watched with mild interest as the one of them, not the most pleasing of the group, downed his drink, stood up and strutted towards them. He looks like an idiot. The women apparently thought so too. Their conversation was short and vile, ending with him scampering back to his table like a beaten dog, with a soaked shirt, to screeching laughter.

"Here you go," the bartender interrupted then. Looking up from his observations of the insanity around him, Trowa glanced up at the man. The bartender was grinning a bit as he set a glass in front of Trowa. "Think you might like this, pal. But if you don't, not my fault; you're the one who said 'surprise me'."

Trowa replied with just a short nod. It was only after the other left to deal with another customer's order that he turned to his drink. Trowa didn't think they made glasses that tall. The liquid was a dark color, impossible to discern in the muted lighting. A thin layer of foam floated on its surface but it was dissipating at a rapid pace. Trowa gave it a curious sniff, purely out of habit; if there was something off with it he certainly wouldn't be able to tell. He glared at it and, tensing his shoulders, swallowed a good portion in the first sitting.

And nearly choked it back up.

It burned its way down his throat, and inadvertently into his lungs as he did his best to keep from coughing out loud. It felt like he had swallowed acid, the way it burned. Shudders quivered up and down his spine as he tried to stomach the awful aftertaste. Coughing under his breath, Trowa glared at the drink in his hand, then at the tender, who was occupied elsewhere. He had to have done something to it, Trowa though, slipped something into the drink. There was no way in hell that a drink could taste that badly normally. Not even beer--

It might have been a few months ago, but Trowa remembered it vividly. Well, he did now, anyway: Duo opening a bottle of beer, the brand name escaping him, and pestering him endlessly to share it with him. That first sip of half a glass had been horrendous: it had burned… Like an acid. He remembered how Duo had nearly squirted beer out his nose from laughing at Trowa's coughing fit. "First sip's kinda hard and nasty but don't worry, Tro. It gets better by the third," he had chuckled, pounding Trowa's back with his fist. Wine had been a similar experience, although in the quiet company of friends and acquaintances. Quatre had slipped up behind him with a glass of some Merlot in the middle of the holiday party. The taste hadn't been so bad initially but the burn had still been there. "It is a bit of an acquired taste, but I thought you might like to try some. Who knows, you could grow to like it. The taste does grow on you after a bit."

Trowa watched the surface of the drink ripple with the beat of the heavy bass. He wondered if the same sort of theory applied with all drinks. Alcohol is alcohol. Just with varying degrees… Perhaps a second sip would taste different, maybe even better.

Not a change until his sixth.

"Good lord," the bartender chuckled. Trowa looked at him over the rim while finishing his seventh sip. "You have a bad day or just a death wish?" What was that supposed to mean? "You don't even know what the hell I gave to you and you're almost half way done. You either put a lot of trust in absolute strangers, or just don't care if shit happens to you." Trowa snorted softly. "Well alright then, I'll see you in about half an hour. The drug should have kicked in by then and we can go in back and have some fun."

Alcohol ran up through his sinuses and almost out his nose. Choking, Trowa glared at him from over the hand he had against his mouth. The other stumbled back, waving his hands defensively.

"Jesus, chill out. I was kidding, okay? I didn't put anything fucked up in your drink. All things considered, I happen to like this job and the last thing I want to do is lose it by doing something so stupid. Besides," he said, smiling charmingly, "I can get any girl or boy I want naturally." Trowa stared unblinkingly at the hardly subtle attempt. The man made a soft defeated noise and returned to his glasses.

The music thumped on, rippling the surface of the drink, with the loud conversations and antics of the people around him; several sets had come and gone while he nursed his drink. It was only when Trowa had just about a fifth of it left that he noticed the newest group to mingle with the cigarette smoke and alcohol.

They could hardly be older than himself, crowding around one end of the bar and a couple tables in the room. A few bore messenger backpacks, although those were soon dropped unceremoniously to the probably filthy floor. The kids delved momentarily into their bags and pockets, new cigarette cartons and the like joining the preexistent. Trowa watched one's ID card flicker under the lights. Another, with headphones glued into his ears, flashed something smaller at the tender. There was hardly any investigation at all before drinks were poured and served. So it really was that easy for minors to obtain cigarettes and alcohol. I guess investigative reporters have to be right sometimes.

"A shame really," the bartender sighed upon returning. "To be honest, I frown upon the whole serving to minors things. I've seen enough of those after school specials and "red concrete" movies to know what's what. But we have one of those 'don't ask, don't tell' policies going on here. And if I want to keep my nice job, I just have to sit and bear it." Smiling at him, he set a second glass in front of him. "Fresh one?"

Trowa looked at it then his own practically empty glass. He handed it towards the tender. "Sure…thanks."

"No worries. Just don't tell me your age or anything, alright?" With a nod, he made his way up the bar to a customer. "Flag me down if you want a refresh, 'kay?"

Fresh drink in hand, Trowa rested his chin in his hand. A spike of pain shot through his cheek and neck. Snarling, Trowa knocked back a fourth of the drink. Thank whatever power for the low lighting, he thought. The last thing he wanted was some college student or drunk business man pestering him about his appearance. He took a smaller sip, letting the sweet tang of the alcohol run down his throat. All burning was gone and only its deliciousness remained. He closed his eyes, breathing its scent with slow intakes. Quite pleasant, to be true. Perhaps I should ask him what this is, or what he put in it. Once used to it, it's good. Quatre would surely en-

A hand seemed to wrap around his throat, squeezing it closed. Another pressed its weight heavily against his ribs. Phantom fingers pressed, cutting off his breath, before twisting against his ribs, sending knifing pain up them. Trowa lowered his head and breathed shakily, almost a sob. His hand pressed over the aching pain he had just finally managed to quell, if only for that meager hour. A solitary hour of peace, that was all the time granted to him to not think about that agony?

Shit… Cradling his head, he dug his fingers into his skull as deeply as he could. How could I have been so blind?…

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

Three. This would make three times thus far that Trowa had woken up since Catherine had tucked him into the couch to gain what she called "some much needed rest." How she actually expected him to rest after his display earlier was beyond him. Then again, Catherine had always been the optimistic sort.

Trowa ran shaky fingers through his hair, pushing mussed and knotted strands back off his face. He could feel cold sweat clinging to the tips of his fingers. His chest seemed to resonate with pain. Shivering, Trowa pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and tried to breathe deeply. It was a trying task, what with lurid images flickering across his mind's eye. Someone was whispering in his ear. It wasn't real, it couldn't be real. It was over, it was past. These were just figments of his imagination come back to torment him. They weren't there. They couldn't hurt him. They couldn't touch him.

As if he believed any of that.

Trowa shot up off the couch after he started to doze once more; phantom caresses drifted away under the stabbing pain of his quick movements. Groaning softly, Trowa settled himself more comfortably and glanced at the bedroom door; it was swathed in darkness, and everything was silent. Well at least he hadn't woken her up. Again.

Trowa hugged his knees to his chest. The faint scent of the now ice-cold jasmine tea on the table next to him wafted to his nose. He hadn't managed to drink all of it the first time before nodding back off, and he had forgotten it was there the second time he'd woken up and fallen back to sleep. Shivering, he wrapped the blanket tighter around his shoulders and glanced at the mug. Even in the dark he could see it and he knew that if he wasn't going to drink it he should at least dump it out; the tea leaves and dregs would stain the mug otherwise. The cold kept him huddled on the couch. Besides, he would surely wake Catherine. And I've kept her up enough already.

It had been very late by the time Catherine and Trowa had decided to try and get some sleep for the night, mostly because of how long it took Trowa to calm down and how long the conversation afterwards took. It had taken him nearly an hour to cease embarrassing himself; his throat still hurt from his sudden screaming and crying. Shortly after he had collapsed before the sink, Catherine had forced his body up and practically dragged him to the couch--an infinitely more comfortable area to be hysterical. Still, it had been difficult for her. He had outright refused her presence at first, not that he understood even now why. There was just something about another's touch that had…horrified him then, whether it was Catherine's or not. He didn't want to feel anything on his skin, near his body. In his air. She had him practically pinned to the couch by the time he managed to accept her presence as merely innocent and comforting. And then he had clung to her with frightening desperation.

Just thinking about it had Trowa wanting to smack himself for his pathetic behavior. How could he have broken down like that? He knew he had more control than that (I've dealt with more than this! Worse than this!) and still he had crumbled. It was difficult to describe; something seemed to have cracked (or perhaps shattered was a better verb) and every ounce of his hard-fought-for calm evaporated into sheer chaos. Sadness and fear and agony had washed over him with such an overwhelming tide, it startled him. And most likely explained why he was still feeling the heavy aftereffect: mind numbing exhaustion.

Of course, it wasn't as debilitating now as it had been after the fact. The lethargy he felt at the moment was mild compared to before, where he could hardly find the strength to keep his head up. It had swept through his entire body and mind. Trowa hadn't even found the strength or will to refuse Catherine's fussing, letting her wrap him up in a wool blanket that captured the heat of the hot cup of tea in his hands quite nicely. Not that he had even had a chance to sip said tea. The moment he tried to, Catherine, who had seated herself across from him, decided it would be a good time to question him. It was a strenuous interrogation session, for the both of them, even if Trowa only rarely actually answered her quires; most of her inquiries could be answered with any of a variety of gestures. And for once she didn't chastise him for such "improper" answers.

She had been too busy hugging him to the point of chest pain to bother with chastising. Not that he had minded then. Burying his face in her fleece covered shoulder had been a welcoming experience, and a good way to hide the second wave of imminent hysteria.

With a groan, Trowa slipped onto his side, curling his body beneath the wool blanket entirely. He could see next to nothing through the darkness and the blanket's thick weave but nevertheless, he watched where he knew the door to be closely. If the light flickered on, Trowa should be able to see it. Feigning sleep would be much easier if he could see her before she peeked her head in to check on him. The silence stretched on, a howl from the night's wind the only noise along with his own quiet breathing. He cast the blanket off soon enough. With his fingers, he loosened his once again knotted hair while staring into the hidden ceiling. His arm fall back behind him when finished, the knuckles connecting on the wooden table with a quiet thunk and a somewhat less easily-dismissed pain. The ache subsided with a bit of fierce rubbing. Letting his arm down more gently this time, Trowa leaned his head back into the cushions to look at the side table and mug. Grabbing it while slightly upside down was slightly difficult, but he managed. Sitting up again, Trowa swallowed the contents, sniffing the cold jasmine fragrance and tapping the ceramic.

A shudder wriggled down his spine while the tea seeped down his throat. As he had predicted, it was unbelievably bitter. Don't know why I thought it would taste good cold.

He left the half filled mug on the floor for a moment to grope blindly for the socks he had pulled off before trying to fall asleep. They were cold, but Trowa could deal with it. It took a little struggling to get himself to stand; he felt stiff and unbelievably sore, not to mention the mere idea of being upright sapped a good deal of energy from him. Exhaustion and the desire to let Catherine sleep undisturbed made him far slower than normal -- that and the fact that he didn't feel like walking headlong into furniture and hurting himself further. He navigated his way around the table safely and at least didn't make a sound when he banged his knee into the sink cabinet. Trowa instinctively looked in towards the shadowed door. Waited.

You're being ridiculous, Trowa scolded himself. He leaned over the sink after resting the mug inside, tilted on its side to empty the contents silently. Bangs fell into his eyes and he brushed them back with a quick hand, You're not being nearly loud enough to wake her up even if the door was open. Door closed, and with how tired she has to be by now, she wouldn't hear me if I decided to juggle her plates. With how tired he was, he shouldn't be able to hear someone juggling chainsaws. And instead, I'm trying to do dishes in the pitch-black without actually running water. His head fell back, eyes drifting closed. It was surprisingly comfortable. He could even disperse his weight by leaning back, granting himself an almost weightless experience which was, surprisingly, extremely pleasant.

"I do believe I prefer you like this." Trowa gasped sharply at the voice in his ear. His grip on the sink slackened. Feet tangling together as he tried to regain his balance, Trowa toppled backwards onto the floor. That laugh sent him scuttling backwards across the floor, painful though that was. "I don't know whether to laugh or fuck you mindless." Heat and blood rushed from his face, and he whimpered. Darkness pressed in around him, restrained him with its heaviness. Trowa tugged against it violently. It grinned in his ear. "But I think I know which to choose."

Trowa didn't manage to get a cursing plea past his lips; sharp pain erupted from the back of his head along with a resounding crack. Sprawled upon the floor, he panted, quivered. His darting eyes fell upon the heavy shadow looming above him, looming over him tauntingly. Legs kicked worthlessly while his hands groped for some leverage to pull himself away. Small pain drifted through his fingers from hitting something in the dark. Trowa grabbed it in desperation; anything that he could use to beat him off!

It screeched against the floor when he pulled, moving far enough to knock him in the head. When the white stopped lining his blackened vision, Trowa really felt it within his grasp. It was hard and smooth, whatever was in his hand. And it was slender… Cylindrical. Breathing a bit more gently he slid his fist along it in a curious manner; it was familiar, Trowa knew it. But the name escaped him. He arched an eyebrow in the dark when his hand hit resistance. Fingers danced up another slender cylinder which ran perpendicular to the first. The shadow which threatened him seemed to sharpen.

A leg. A chair leg to be exact. Trowa stared at the wood for a moment with only slight confusion. He ran his hand back behind his throbbing head. He must've knocked the chair over, yes that had to be it, and it would certainly explain the loud crashing sound accompanying his aching head. Trowa must've have bumped back into it when he was trying to escape…

Escape what? he sneered venomously at himself. The night, the cold? A fucking shadow. Anger, with a good deal of self-loathing mixed in, made him rise to his knees. He righted the chair with a quiet snarl. How stupid, how completely stupid could he be?! How could Trowa have trusted his moronic, over-active imagination? Allow it to reduce him to a pleading, quivering child from a disembodied voice dredged up from the farthest depths of his perverted mind? Trowa had been close to begging. Begging what, a fucking chair he'd knocked over not to hurt him?

"This is pathetic." he growled, beating his fist into the floor. The pain was almost refreshing. "You're pathetic, you know that? Get over it. It's over, it's done." Still his heart was beating fiercely, growing stronger each moment. "He attacked you, fine. He hit you, big deal. He r-raped you and l-left you for dead." He couldn't even get the words out properly!? "So what! He's not the first. You weren't even a virgin, it's not like you had something to lose. He wasn't the first and you know what, he probably isn't the last. Nothing's changed, you're still the same used, fucked up freak you've always been. Get the fuck over it."

Even as Trowa chastised and berated himself, he could feel wetness sliding down his cheeks. Damn it, haven't you done this enough already today? Apparently not. The tears were falling faster, dribbling off his face and splashing on the floor. This isn't something to cry over. Which didn't stop them in the least. Breath hitching, he pressed his forehead into the floor. His fingers dug into his shoulders as the sobs started again. This wasn't fair, just wasn't fair. He had never done this before, not since he had managed to teach himself such reactions would get him nowhere. This was no different than then. So why can't I control myself? Why do I keep doing this!? What is so different!?

Back then, Trowa didn't have anyone to lose.

Cursing beneath his breath, he dragged himself upright, steadying his swaying body on the table. He rubbed furiously at his eyes with the back of his hand and still the tears persisted. Their filmy remnants clung to his skin as a reminder of his weakness. The sliminess spread with each hand swipe. God damn it. Trowa wheezed softly; he could hardly breathe. What drove his steps, or what even got him to move, Trowa didn't know, but he found himself leaning against the wall by the door, looking down at his shoes. They were surrounded by a dark puddle of water that had drained from them. Trowa couldn't believe how cold they were, even through the thick socks. At least they're dry… His jacket was no better. The water hadn't fully drained from the fabric, so it clung like a skin too small for him. Still he bore it, zipping it tightly with quaking fingers. Catherine's light was still out but for how long Trowa couldn't be sure. He was certain he could hear her beginning to move about, curious about the racket he caused. If he went out now… It would be dark -- perhaps she wouldn't notice?

Nodding to himself, dazed, Trowa crept backwards to the door and felt about for the handle. He opened it only so far as to let him out, and closed it noiselessly. After making sure the door was unlocked, of course. Locked out of the house… If I wasn't completely frozen, Catherine would kick me in the morning.

He was not prepared for the world he stepped into. Leaning back into the door, Trowa stared in amazement at the…ethereal beauty of it. The roaring shriek of the northern wind was replaced by the absolute silence of storm's end. Sheeting ice rain had dissolved into a gentle waterfall of snow, swirling at leisurely pace from an obsidian sky. Tentative (was he dreaming something pleasant for once?) Trowa stepped into the fresh snow, feeling it cushion his trembling steps. Beautiful… Pristine; snow shimmered on nights such as this, reflecting the full moon's brilliance in a thousand little bursts. Head tilted to the sky, he counted innumerable stars. His eyes slipped closed while snowflakes landed on his skin. Their chill caressed his heated face while the cold trickles of water removed the remnants of his weakness from his face. They slipped down the back of his neck in a leisurely fashion, beneath the coat and down his back. Shivers went through him. The cold slowed the racing of his heart.

The serenity left him…dazed. Trance-like, in a bizarre way. With the snow to cushion his steps, and only the filtered moonlight to light his surroundings, Trowa could wander through the slumbering grounds in blissful solitude, with drifting snowflakes as a welcomed "company." He walked around the camp slowly, drawing steadily inward. And with the snow falling as it is, it won't be long till my steps are covered. With a fresh dusting, no one would ever know he'd been about so late, or rather, early.

Trowa picked his way carefully, mindful of whatever might be hidden beneath the snow. He sidestepped the wires which lay beneath his feet, remembering their placement surprisingly well for someone who hadn't been around for so long. The shrinking circle led him past tents and small homes he recalled easily, but which were closed to him, their occupants sleeping peacefully like normal people. Not that Trowa really cared. The snow was good enough company for him. Besides, he wouldn't be out that long. The grounds weren't all that expansive. He'd reach the center of his spiral soon enough, and then what he would he do? Sit in the snow until morning? The cold isn't that alluring…

With snow in his lank hair and settling over his slowly shaking shoulders, Trowa closed his eyes and let the spiral guide him. He was shivering badly, not as pleased with the thought of cold but still unwilling to curse it, when he met resistance. Staggering back, Trowa stared at the canvas in his way. It rippled faintly in the wind, snow drifting across the bottom of it. What part of his subconscious decided to lead him here?

It seemed fitting, though. A step into the past, as it were. When insomnia had reared its head before, and the tea Catherine so loving prepared could do nothing for his overworking mind, this was the one place where he could quiet himself enough to try again to sleep.

Trowa paused before the fastenings of the tent, taking short glances left and right. With only filtered moonlight for illumination, he didn't think anyone would see, and it was late. Who could possibly be out now? Another insomniac is a start. He'd rather not risk it. An arrest for "trespassing on private property" or "harassing potentially dangerous animals" was something he could do without. Only when Trowa was entirely certain no one who would see did he undo the clasps holding the canvas. The edges fluttered in the wind with a snapping sound. Trowa slid himself through the small gap quickly, pulling it tight behind him.

A warm musty smell invaded his senses, eliciting a dozen more pleasant memories. Fur and animal sweat mingled with the aroma of old and fresh hay and the numerous varieties of sustenance used for the animals' meals. Through the heavy darkness he could hear the faint sounds of the creatures, their quiet cries and grumbles of slumber. Relying only on his sense of touch, Trowa fastened the tent flaps from the inside; it was quite warm within, due to the number of animals resting in their cages. And he didn't want to wake them with such a drastic drop of temperature. Or have someone snooping around, thinking some delinquent or someone snuck into the animals' tent to cause havoc.

Hay crunched quietly beneath his boots, water soaking into the hay and changing the scent into something a bit less pleasing but bearable. He ran his fingers through his hair and across his shoulders, spare flakes fluttering off or melting on his hand. Animals grunted in their sleep, twitched their ears or paws (or hooves) as he passed by them. Straying, he watched the shadowed forms of the tigers for a moment, noting the way their faces, from what he could discern, seemed to contort into an almost human-like expression before fading into another. What did animals dream of, he wondered, to warrant such contortions? What sort of nightmare can a tiger have, to look so uneasy?…

If he were a tiger, Trowa would probably find it, whatever it was, horrifying.

He was quite close to the cage he wanted to stop before, but he was diverted, if only momentarily. He had been using an outstretched hand to better guide himself, not fully trusting his memory, and felt something strangely cold. Metallic. It wasn't cylindrical so Trowa knew they it wasn't a cage bar. So what is it? When he felt the long handle, he knew. Trowa pulled open the refrigerator door, just enough to illuminate the contents and not disturb the animals. Wincing against the excruciating brightness, he scanned the shelves, finding what he wanted quite quickly. He balanced the plate and was just about to close the door and bask in darkness when he saw it: the crisper seemed to have been filled recently. It only took less than a minute of rummaging to find something he really wanted. When was the last time he got to eat an apple anyway?

Adjusting to the dark again took some time but finally he could see the shapes in the shadows. Plate in one hand and apple hanging from his mouth, stem between his teeth, he moved on the last little way to the cage. Trowa could very well put the apple on the plate and save himself some trouble and aching teeth, but there was no way he would do that to himself. I'm not going to eat an apple that smells like raw steak.

The lion lifted his head at the sound of his cage door opening, a low growl rumbling from his thick throat. Trowa strayed in the doorway. He was stepping into another's territory, a protective animal's territory. Former friend he might be, but if he was angry at Trowa, for waking him so suddenly or for not being around for so long or for some transgression he didn't even know, he didn't want to take a chance. The glittering irises held Trowa's gaze for long moments, scrutinizing the stranger who had entered at such an unheard of time. Trowa's teeth were starting to ache from the weight in his mouth.

Snorting, the lion lowered his head back to his paws resting on the hay covered floor, the glittering vanishing as he closed his eyes to Trowa's presence. Well, at least the lion wasn't outright rejecting him. Trowa could deal with a little bit of snubbing; he'd been dealing with it a lot lately. Besides, he thought as he glanced at the plate, maybe he'll be a little more accepting of my being here if he gets a little out of the deal.

Trowa took slow steps towards him, mindful of his soft snarling at the approach. Stopping just outside the reach of a sluggish slap of a paw, he crouched down. He could feel the chill emanating from the floor. With the eye watching him closely, Trowa leaned forward just enough to set the plate down into the hay, nudging it forward. Trowa took a step or two back, crab walking to stay on the other's level. They stared at one another, occasionally casting stray glances to the offering between them. When so much time had passed that his legs were starting to numb and muscles cramp, Trowa started to wonder if perhaps even a late snack couldn't put him in good graces.

Scuttling back was a reflex he somehow fought off as the enormous creature rose unwillingly to his feet. Growling low, and fixing him with what Trowa imagined to be quite an exasperated expression, he stalked closer. Trowa's brain decided it was a good time to remind him that his paw was just a little larger than his own face, and those claws could tear through his skin easier than soaked tissue. Lovely image there… He didn't have enough time to duck out of the way, although doing so could avoid some damage to his face. But what about his organs? Perhaps I didn't think this through eno--

He dropped back to the ground suddenly, too suddenly to not startle Trowa with the slight trembling that went through the ground. Falling backwards, Trowa stared at the ferocity with which the lion devoured the raw meat. A wisp of a smile began to spread across his face. He could feel the tips of his hair tickling his neck as he shook his head.

"Well I suppose this means you aren't that mad at me…" he said softly, apple dropping into his hand. He ran a tentative hand through the thick mane, relaxing and sighing almost pleasantly at the rumbling purr resonating up his arm. "What Manuel doesn't know won't hurt him, right?" The lion grunted his concurrence. "Besides, everyone deserves a treat every now and again. One late snack isn't going to do much harm."

Crates of varying sizes cluttered two of the corners and sides, some of them quite chewed up and clawed apart. Trowa's eyes were well adjusted to the lack of light by now, so he found one which would support weight with little difficulty and took a seat. Trowa cradled the apple in one hand and brushed it along his wet sleeve, a stupid habit but one he was unable to break. The loud sound of his initial bite into the juiciness brought the lion's head from the plate. Trowa was wiping some of the juice from his mouth when he noticed. Was it his imagination or did the other just shake his head?

"I don't say anything about your preferences, so don't give me looks about mine," Trowa said. To emphasize the point, he took a larger bite and fixed the lion with a stare of his own. The lion snorted in return and continued to devour the bloody meat.

For some time, as long as it took them to finish their foods, it was quiet. Trowa closed his eyes as he made his way around the circumference of the apple. Surprisingly, the stench of raw meat and the sound of teeth ripping through it didn't bother him so much. He still felt nauseous but could dismiss it.

The other animals weren't reacting to the sensations either. Rather odd, if Trowa considered it, since an animal's sense of smell was far superior to a human's. If it was making him feel a little ill, why weren't they making any sort of reaction? Not a whimper or whine of hunger, nothing? Perhaps they were immune; meat was so prevalent in the diets of several of the circus animals, the smell might have been infused into the canvas and the air. And they were on such rigid eating schedules the presence of food outside of their "eating time" probably no longer drew their attentions. Or they could be too tired to really care.

The latter seemed too far-fetched.

A weight settled over his thighs, sending a shock through his entire system. Trowa jumped only a bit, though, looking down at the head currently resting on his lap. Trowa frowned. This was…different. The two of them had always been close, as close as a human and lion could hope to get, but…

Unaware of what actually drove his actions, and even less aware of the consequences, Trowa leaned himself over the lion's head, letting his hands find their way into the warm mane. He twined his fingers into the thick strands, mindful not to tug, and waited. A low rumbling went up through his hands, down through his legs. A familiar quiver went down his spine; he ignored it, bending himself over the lion's neck. The fur was soft, lush and warm and thick against his face. Trowa let out a gentle murmur of appreciation before trying to bury himself further into such bliss.

A sharp pain went down his neck, from those bruises. Those damn bruises, still fresh even after a week! They painted his skin with blotches of sickly yellow and blue, speckled it with the grisly black of healing scabs. They were bruises which drew stares of pity, suspicion, anger. Which reminded him daily, whether through sight or touch, of his failings. His abnormalities. His weakness. God fucking damn it, not again he cursed as they started again. The lion started slightly at the feeling of tears slipping down the strands of fur onto his skin. Trowa gasped softly when he moved his head, jarring Trowa from his hiding place.

“…I’m sorry.” he sighed, hand going across his eyes. He fixed him with a hard stare, searching Trowa’s face; he glanced away slightly. A growl rumbled in Trowa’s ears at the avoidance. “It’s been a hard couple of days.” His head nudged at his thigh. “…No I really don’t want to talk about it. I’d rather just forget about it.” The pressure became more insistent. He spared a glance down at the head on his knee. “I said no…” A sharp pain went up through his thigh. Yelping softly, Trowa stared in amazement at the fang just barely drawing blood through the flannel pants. “These aren’t mine, you know. And Catherine won’t appreciate you putting teeth marks in her pajamas.”

The tooth retracted from his skin but still glimmered softly from a light Trowa couldn’t place, a warning about his disobedience. Don’t I get a choice in anything?

He grunted softly when his back hit the hard wood of the crate. Arms flew up over his head and a cold descended over his suddenly exposed stomach. Trowa stared towards the black ceiling with just upside down tilt to it, knuckles scraping at the hay. The large paws padded to the side of him; he stared up at the face blocking his view of the invisible ceiling.

“This week just…” he paused with a quiet sigh. Had been just what--dreadful, awful, agonizing? They seemed to pale in comparison to the truth of what his brain and body were still putting him through. Well, to coin a phrase from Duo… “This week just fucking sucked, in every sense of the word.” Trowa bit back a soft mumble as the head nudged his bruised cheek. Eyes slid closed with a little sigh.

Words tumbled slowly from his lips, dropping to the floor in quiet whispers. Why he was relating his story, again and to a lion no less, he couldn’t begin to fathom. It wasn’t as though he could understand half of the words coming out of his mouth. Emotion, however , was tangible.

“And of course,” he groaned through the hands which, sometime during his recollections, had risen to his face. “I had to go and completely break in front of Catherine. Just blurt out…ugh. Don’t know why I did that, how could I have possibly let myself fall that far?... She’s never going to leave me alone, now. She’ll hound after me incessantly after this; Catherine’s like that, after all.”

A soft brush of warm, moist air ruffled his dangling hair, caressing his face with vague warmth while a quiet grunt accompanied. Well, at least he agrees.

Hands dropped carelessly. The callused tips brushed the straw-strewn ground. Even upside-down, Trowa could see the constant, stern gaze of the other, eyes reflecting a source less light. Those eyes; they held a strange sense of foreboding. The knowing look of regality drove through the cracks with an experienced calm.

“How? How could I have told her?” he, wondering aloud, watched the other tilt his head upon his neck inquisitively. His eyelids fell heavily closed. “I never told her, never spoke of…the other times. And this wasn’t the most aw--pain--wasn’t the worst of them. So why did I tell her?” The baneful laughter was his. “Well, I couldn’t very well leave that abysmal display unexplained; Catherine never would have let me.” Nor even consider lying while in that wretched state, let alone actually succeed. What could he have done? Other than—

Teeth worried at the cut-up inside of his cheek. Again. His mind had to go there again? Hadn’t he gone through this enough? Apparently not.

“…I just don’t know why.” The admittance was soft, timid. “Why I acted like... started to… Why I became… Why I showed such weakness.” Trowa bit the word out. The vile word. His palms pressed his eyes back into his skull; the pain was satisfying, if only for a moment. “There’s nothing different about it. It’s happened before, they’ve done this to me before, I’ve dealt with this before!” You dealt with it a hell of a lot better, too it taunted. “I don’t get it. I don’t understand…what is it?”

His silence was unnerving. The patience he exhibited, while waiting for Trowa’s mind to accept what was true without resistance, was infuriating. True. What was real, damn it!… Real, maybe he didn’t want to accept it? Maybe he couldn’t. It was…wasn’t…

“It isn’t fair…” the distinct roughness of sorrow colored his voice, again. “They aren’t supposed to know, any of this. It’s not supposed to be this way.” I-I can’t do it. I can’t deal with this, not like this. They aren’t supposed to know!…

Hitting the straw-strewn ground was much more painful than Trowa would have first suspected. If he had remembered he was sprawled atop a crate, maybe he wouldn’t have tried to curl up on such a narrow space. He certainly wouldn’t have knocked with breath from himself. Still, now that he had… Amid the soggy and frozen sheaves, Trowa bent his knees and trembled. His jaw clenched in a futile attempt to still the chattering teeth. Soft puffs dissipated while the cold sought his flesh through whatever crevice exploitable. In his breath was sorrowful bitterness, his tongue tasted the salt. Trowa ducked his head to push out the sound. His cries demanded attention.

A solid weight dropped deftly behind him. Trowa’s entire body twitched against the sudden warmth pressing along his back. It smelled of life, and along his spine a strong heart kept a steady pace. Trowa unfolded himself slowly, wincing as the cold and heat combated, and shifted. A bothersome prickling went through the limbs. Whatever. I’ll manage… The softness of the fur was too important, too alluring. It embraced him, where he buried against what Trowa imagined to be the stomach, without question. He breathed as deeply as he dared, although the other didn’t seem to mind. Not noticeably anyway. He just let his head rest on the crossed paws before him and stared into the darkness, giving Trowa both the comfort which he needed and the privacy which he craved.

Which Trowa was thankful for, along with the shroud of darkness. Explaining to any passer-by exactly why he was spooning with a lion of all creatures would have been embarrassingly difficult.

A sharp pain roused Trowa from the ethereal bliss he’d found himself. The second one actually made him open his eyes--one simply did not ignore a lion’s growl when their head was so close to one’s own. Something like a childish whine passed his dry lips. Legs curling up into his chest accompanied it. They tightened when the warm mass decided if growling wasn’t going to work, moving would. The swat to the top of his head, claws retracted, worked pretty well too.

“What…?” Trowa whined groggily. He stretched out on the straw, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. A soft snort turned his head towards the other. His glare was far too sleep-laced to be effective. “Is there a specific reason you woke me up? Or am I just getting bothersome?” He padded forward. Ducking his head, he butted at Trowa until his nuzzle made its way to his back and pushed him up. “Okay, okay! I’m up, I’m up. You can stop now--”

Light. Seeping across the floor in pale golden lines. It streamed from beneath the tarp and through the small gaps of the bound flaps. …I fell asleep? Shit how long was I asleep? Small streaks of orange and pink melded in the gold; it had to be early morning, not necessarily late but late enough that someone was going to be up and about. Very soon. Had to have been a couple hours, at least. Trowa glimpsed back. He was watching Trowa intently. Slowly, he reached his hand out. Laying it lightly on the mane, he ran his fingers through a couple times. The gaze softened beneath the gesture.

“…Thank you. Would have been quite suspicious.” They’d go completely ballistic. Best to go back now.

One more stroke, for good measure, Trowa stumbled to his feet. His legs were both worse, and surprisingly better. Stiffened by cold as they were, he could stand on the ankle much better. Trowa still took his time walking, just to be safe. A hand was on the bars when he decided to take one final look. He was on his feet still, pacing about the area by the crates in a lethargic manner. Eventually, he dropped down as delicately as exhaustion allowed, crossed his paws before him and lowered his head. Trowa wondered, as he sighed and his chest began to rise and fall deeply, whether or not he had actually kept the other from sleep with the late night visit.

The eyes opened suddenly and fixed him with a frustrated stare. Shaking his head, Trowa slipped out of the cage, locked it silently and walked towards the door. Too smart to be normal. Well, least I think so.

His eyes were assaulted the moment Trowa stepped out of the tent and secured the flaps. The sun had risen just high enough to cast light over the entire grounds. And with the cleared sky above him, there was nothing to lessen the glare. Maybe later in the day, he could better appreciate the beauty of fresh, level snow. At the moment, he was too focused on not destroying his retinas and trying to make as light footprints as was possible.

How exactly Trowa got himself back onto the couch, he couldn’t quite remember. Splotches of ugly colors had painted his vision the moment he closed the door to the striking morning. He had gotten his boots and coat off and made his way back to that uncomfortable couch without waking her somehow. It was strange though…it didn’t feel so awful now. There was a strange warmth to it, and the mustiness of the cushions wasn’t as suffocating…

There was almost a sweetness to it. He breathed in slowly, moving his cheek drowsily against the warm fabric. What was that gentle, beautiful aroma? There was a floral essence emanating from its sugary scent. Jasmine, subtle but abundant, spring from the overwhelming fragrance of…cinnamon? Since when do the couch cushions smell like cinnamon?

A soothing weight fell feather-lightly on the side of his face. Sighing softly as the satin feel slid up and down his cheek leisurely, Trowa curled himself beneath the blanket. The strokes became a little harder, just a little--to grab his attention. Grumbling softly, he forced his eyes to open and hissed softly from the light.

Catherine moved a bit closer, covering his face with her shadow. He thanked her with a satisfied sigh. “Good morning, Trowa.” she said mildly.

“Mm…” Trowa, yawning, opened his eyes further and looked into her cheerful expression. His greeting tumbled gracelessly from his parched lips. Catherine chuckled in good nature. Trowa just rubbed the sleep from his eyes, or tried to. With a motherly smile, she moved the hair from his face, tucking strands behind his ears.

“I’ve made some breakfast. Are you hungry?” She asked. The words were hardly out both heard Trowa’s stomach’s desperate cry for food. Dutifully ignoring his embarrassed flush, Catherine patted his hand. “Well, it’s not quite ready yet. Still needs a few more minutes. So why don’t you go get dressed? Your clothes are in the bathroom, they should be dry by now.”

“Thank you, Catherine.” he sighed. She left him with a smiling nod. He took his time to get up, feeling the familiar stiffness in his back; at least it hadn’t made it back to his legs. The trip to the bathroom was uneventful. They were there. He found them, hanging across the shower curtain rod. She was right, they were dry. Taut and unbelievably cold, but quite dry. He didn’t exactly want to imagine what it would feel like against his skin, but seeming ungrateful would be worse. He’d manage.

Breath stagnated as Trowa turned back, jeans over his arm, to close the bathroom door and keep some privacy. He had seen it so many times before, yet by the look an observer would think it was Trowa’s first. It sat serenely on the putdown toilet sit, the black fabric glistening lightly. He passed a quick glance towards the kitchen after having stared at it for nearly a minute; Catherine’s back was still to him. A gentle hum was resonating from her throat, a nameless tone which accompanied the final preparations of breakfast. Her thoughtfulness, though never ceasing to amaze him, could not outweigh her tactful nature. Trowa would have to thank her somehow. Someday, anyway…

For now, he simply shut the door.

“Well someone looks better.” chuckled Catherine when Trowa stepped back out some ten minutes later. He shrugged. “Well, I think you do. You look much healthier in your normal clothes.”

“If you say so.” Trowa muttered with a second shrug. Pouting with a distinctly playful manner, she swatted at him with the dishtowel he hadn’t noticed.

“Oh go sit down and eat something before your stomach makes anymore of a racket.”

Dodging, he took his normal seat. And stared in absolute amazement at the table. How long had Catherine been making breakfast, and just who had she been expecting? There’s enough food to feed a small army, or maybe Duo after a workout. He had never seen so many plates for only two diners--nor had he been assaulted with such tantalizing aromas. Swallowing once or twice kept the salivation semi-controlled.

“…Expecting company?” he asked, hands wrapping around the mug in front of him.

She chuckled softly over the pan. “No, why?”

“Then I think you got a little too happy with the mixing bowls this morning, Catherine.” he muttered through the sip. She blinked her question. “You can’t honestly expect us to finish all this.”

“It’s called ‘leftovers’ smart-alec, and considering how hungry you were last night, and how loudly your stomach is going now, I think you’ll eat the mass majority of it.” He couldn’t think of anything to retort with; starving himself had greatly increased his appetite once he broke the fast, and an apple in the middle of the night could hardly be considered true sustenance…

Trowa shrugged his concession.

Halfway through his tea, and the roll he’d swiped and was picking at discreetly, Catherine set a bowl in front him, smiling maternally at the bread Trowa had been quasi-hiding his lap. He stared at the contents to keep her from seeing the slight flush, and ignored the ruffle she gave his hair. A familiar smell wafted and ensnared his senses. She didn’t notice as she went about getting herself a bowl.

The smell of cinnamon…and nutmeg. Trowa choked the lump of bile down.

“Don’t just stare at it, it’s not going to jump up and bite you, Trowa. Eat it before your stomach eats itself.” Catherine prodded. He glanced at her across the table before complying. The first spoonful was difficult. The images it brought forth made the next several even worse.

But she made it well. Not Quatre well, but well. If I make it through this bowl without screaming… He was going to. There was no way in Hell he was doing that again.

“This is very good, Catherine.” he choked out in almost a normal voice. If Catherine noticed the trouble, it didn’t show on her face. Her smile widened around her own spoon.

“Well thank you, Trowa. I actually got the recipe off of Quatre--” she certainly noticed that; the wince would have been impossible to hide. Silence descended heavily, punctured only by the sounds of an awkward breakfast. Both seemed to have lost their taste for it, though. Trowa particularly found the repast…suddenly dissatisfying. He could say nothing for Catherine, nor anything aloud, but there was a potent bitterness to everything. Bad moods could seep into food it seemed, turning sweet bitter and sour.

Still, his stomach wasn’t complaining. Just his tongue, and his chest which had tightened as both dreaded and expected.

It was Catherine, some minutes later when both were perhaps halfway through their porridge and Trowa was contemplating getting another cup of tea, who broke the silence. She treaded cautiously, seeming to take extra care over her word choices: a dubious sign.

“Trowa. Listen. I know it’s…difficult but don’t you think--”

“Catherine.” the cut was quick. Kind, but quick. She closed her mouth and waited. Trowa, staring down in the dregs floating in the last mouthful, tried to sort the swirling thoughts. They slipped through his understanding too quickly. All he managed finally was a heavy sigh. “…I r-really just don’t want to talk about this. Not right now…”

The warmth encasing his clutching hand so suddenly startled him. His mug clattered along with his body’s jerking motion. Her eyes shed unlimited understand and patience, squeezing lightly in case Trowa didn’t understand just yet.

“When you’re ready.” Even if that’s never, Catherine?

He took it upon himself, since his appetite was seemed sated quicker than hers (and the fact that swallowing drew up the desire to vomit strongly), to start cleaning. Catherine only protested for a short time, until she realized he wasn’t going to be swayed and then fell into a long narrative. It seemed there was a multitude of stories she had been waiting to share, and with the…events of the night before, now was the soonest and most appropriate time.

The conversation was mostly one-sided; most of theirs were. Catherine prattled on, changing the line of thought however she saw fit and asking little of him as far as response. Trowa, busying himself with the leftovers and dishes, offered noncommittal response--shrugs, the occasional shake or nod--just so Catherine was aware that he was actually listening. He muttered a quiet “is that so?” once, while refilling her coffee mug. She’d been telling him about some new idiocy of Thomas’. That man. He never ceased to surprise him with his stunts.

Water was sloshing quietly in the sink, moving with Trowa’s searching hands, when Catherine changed the topic, again. He had just managed to grab hold of that elusive plate and she had just finished the remains of her second cup when she spoke. “I have some errands I need to run today, Trowa.” she started. Trowa glanced over his shoulder and washed. “Shouldn’t take more than a couple hours, but I do need to get them done.” Nod and rinse. “So you can just relax here for a few hours, or take a walk and see everyone again, and when I get back I’ll make us a great early dinner and you can head back before dark. You have work tomorrow, right?”

The word dried his mouth. “Mm, yes I do.”

“I’ll be sure to come home by, at latest, one or two. We can have a nice dinner and you can have a nice relaxing day.”

“…Actually,” Trowa started--there had been a short silence in which he had searched shortly for a dish towel-- “is it alright if I come with you?” Her face was rather humorous. If she hadn’t already finished her coffee, Trowa wouldn’t have been surprised to see her spray it out her mouth in shock.

“Trowa.” said Catherine, torn between amusement and confusion. “You hate shopping.”

Hate was such a strong word. So was loathe, and abhor. All of which befitting. He hated shopping; it was such a pointless endeavor: going to a tightly-packed room reeking of some overpriced, overpowering scent and having to deal with incompetent, arrogant salesclerks while trying to buy something which you either don’t need and get anyway or something you do need and can’t exactly find and then paying an arm and leg for it? He’d rather let Duo perform oral surgery on him. Without painkillers. He didn’t enjoy shopping for others, and shopping for himself even less (something which neither Duo nor Quatre quite understood). Only if it was absolutely necessary--only if there was NO ONE else who could do it--would Trowa subject himself to that unpleasantness. Of course, considering the alternative (a run-in with Thomas who would have none of the tact or compassion of Catherine when it came to his appearance and how it came to be) shopping was a godsend.

He stared into the shimmering plate he was rotating in the dampening cloth. “Well, I’m sure you’re going to need a hand carrying things. And I don’t know when I’ll be able to come by next so--” Trowa’s fingers tightened reflexive to keep the plate from falling. Catherine’s arms snaking around his waist startled him. She hugged him firmly but sweetly with her head resting between his shoulders.

“You’re such a liar. A sweet one, but a liar nonetheless.” She had certainly meant it in an affectionate way, a little jibbing that sisters (particularly older sisters) were prone to give. Liar, though, had a bitter tasting validity. “Well let’s just finish up here and we can get going.”

The remaining work, mostly the replacement of dishes into cabinets and drawers, passed quickly with four hands moving instead of two. It was hardly ten minutes more before they were pulling on boots and Catherine was complaining quietly about not having an extra hat or set of gloves for him. Knowing she wouldn’t find any, he let her. She was still sighing about it when they went outside--the sunlight had gone from painfully blinding to a more subtle headache-inducing sheen--and Trowa locked the door after them.

Morning hadn’t gotten far underway, and with the heavy coating of snow it seemed that the troupe was taking it’s time, for once, with rising and starting the day. They passed only a few crossing the grounds: the circus master, who rose with the sun come hell or high-water, greeted them cordially if not a bit curtly (“honestly! A little snow and they take it as an A’OKAY excuse for a holiday. Never seen such laziness.”); Renee gave Catherine an icy “morning” while pointedly looking past and above Trowa--quite a feat considering she was nearly half a foot shorter than him; Sophia squealed and nearly crushed his ribs in one of her hugs He almost fainted.

The one person they didn’t see on the morning grounds was Thomas. So there would be no incessant questioning and prying into his personal life, no snide remarks about his “lifestyle”, and no inner turmoil as to whether or not he would feel guiltless over beating a crippled man with his own crutch. Then again, if Thomas did decide to come out for a “chat” there could be very humorous results. How much traction and balance did thick snow provide? But I really shouldn’t laugh if he falls flat on his face. He could break his leg again. Oh but wouldn’t that be so satisfying?

Close to the edge of the grounds, they did run into one more person. Thankfully, not Thomas. Manuel stepped out of the animals’ tent, brushing the flap back behind him with a peculiar expression on his face. He was looking at a plate bemusedly. Trowa’s back stiffened; he hadn’t forgotten it, had he?

Of course he had.

“What’s the matter, Manuel?” Catherine asked upon approach. The tamer jumped, he had apparently been very deep in thought. “You look like something’s wrong.”

“Oh Cathy.” He said with a wary smile. She ignored the nickname, despite her dislike. Catherine had tried time and time again to explain to Manuel her loathing of “Cathy” but he almost always forgot. Eventually, she conceded and the name stuck. “Nothing’s wrong, per say. Just…”

“Just what?”

“Well I think I’m losing my mind.”

She blinked, laughing as she spoke. Trowa just blinked. “What makes you think that, Manuel?” He scratched at his head for a moment, looking down at the plate. He prayed his face was impassive. Please, please let it be impassive.

“It’s the strangest thing, really. I feed him last night, I know I did. Typical portion, maybe a little less with the inactivity from the snow, but I feed him. And I took the plate and I cleaned it and stuck it back in the cabinet, I swear I did. But I come in this morning to get him his breakfast and there’s a plate sitting in the cell right by his paws!”

“That’s not that strange. You might have just thought you took it out and really forgot it.” Catherine suggested. Manuel shook his head vigorously.

“No, I know that I took the plate. I remember because I burn the hell out of my fingers while washing it because the hot water came on way too fast.” he insisted. He shook the plate, grimaced. As though the plate had done him a personal wrong. “I took the plate with me! I don’t get where this plate came from. Where’d it come from, because it wasn’t from me!” Something manic entered his gaze, a sort of primitive territorial need. “Somebody was in there last night and gave him something and when I find them, I’ll--”

“Oh Manuel, quit being such a drama queen.” sighed Catherine.

“But Cathy--”

“No buts. Obviously, you must have been mistaken because you know as well as I do no one goes near him without you around. Especially in this weather. You of all people know how temperamental he gets when it’s cold.” Hands brushed hair off her shoulder before resting on her hips. Manuel’s pout was almost comical. “If someone had snuck in last night, even to give him a midnight snack--which isn’t such a bad thing on occasion--we’d be cleaning up the misguided soul’s remains right now.” Trowa stared off across the grounds. If he held the gaze… They’d know. Of course they would. “Manuel you must have just forgotten the plate and burned yourself washing something else. Or slept walk and feed him a little extra in the middle of the night.”

“…I don’t sleep walk, do I?” he asked. Catherine shrugged good-naturedly.

“I wouldn’t know, now would I?”

“No,” he agreed, running his hand back behind his head. “you wouldn’t. You’re right, I must’ve just forgotten it.” It was said more to himself than to her, trying to affirm her explanation without belief. She gave his shoulder a light pat. That seemed to wake him from the new thoughtfulness he’d fallen into. For the first time, it seemed, he noticed Trowa standing apart, gaze still to the reflecting snow. “Trowa? Good morning, when’d you get here??”

“…Just yesterday evening.” he replied. Through the short silence he continued to stare out, offering Manuel only the faintest glimpse at the side of his face. He could almost see the confusion that had to be on his face. Withholding a sigh, Trowa braced himself and turned an expressionless face to him. “How have you been, Manuel?”

It could have been worse. Manuel could have uttered a horrible gasp of abject disgust and shock while demanding at the top of his lungs to know how those bruises came about. All he did was drop his mouth and stare wordlessly. How almost kind of him.

“I-I’ve been alright, can’t complain really. Other than hating this cold I-I been good really. All things considered. Yeah.” Trowa nodded faintly. An awkward silence fell between them, punctuated by the soft swishing of Catherine’s hair when she looked from one to the other and back. “…A-And you? How you been?”

“Fairly well, all things considered. Had a small incident earlier, but nothing to concern yourself with.” Trowa lied. Well, not a lie…more of an omission. Something he had developed a bad habit of, it seemed. Manuel looked relieved by the answer though. Or perhaps it was just the fact that Trowa had acknowledge them first, painful and difficult as that had been.

“You’re not looking too hot though. Did you get jumped or…” his voice trailed. Manuel probably noticed either the tension in Trowa’s jaw or the stiffness which ran up his entire back. He kept his hands not necessarily relaxed but at least they didn’t tremble.

“…Something like that…” his voice was gritty. Manuel choose to dismiss it.

“That sucks man.” Trowa nodded difficultly.

Catherine’s interruption was far from unwelcome. With her placing her hand on Manuel’s arm and drawing his attention, he could drop his head and shudder deeply without witness. She was saying something, bits and pieces about errands and Trowa’s limited time, but it flittered in and away. Regaining control took most of his attention, but eventually he could breathe without panting. By then, Catherine was putting her arm through his and waving at Manuel.

“So we’ll just be back in a few hours. He promised to help me with these errands. And then he’ll be around for maybe another hour or two before heading back.”

“Alright. Well it was good to see you again, Trowa. Tell your friends I say hello when you get back.” he asked, smiling. Trowa lifted his head. The blank expression rested naturally.

“I will, Manuel. Good to see you again.”

Manuel nodded himself out of the conversation with a quiet “now to wash the plate, again”. Catherine tightened her grip over him and led him to the edge of the grounds and beyond. They were on the sidewalk, walking towards the more provincial part of the area through others’ snow trails when she spoke up.

Her hand squeezed his forearm lightly for Trowa’s attention. “So…how was your little midnight outing?” There was a smirk in her voice. He glanced at her but said nothing. “I heard you knock over the chair last night,” Of course she did. Could I have been anymore of a disruption? “and when I went to check on you, you were gone. As well as your coat and shoes.”

“…I went for a walk.”

“A walk.”

He nodded and looked ahead. “Yes. The quiet and the cold…I think I needed it.” I needed the solitude. The cold snapped me back to normal.

“I see, I see.” Catherine nodded. They passed a book store and a small café, barren, before she made him nearly trip. “Well next time be sure to take the plate with you.” Trowa stared at her curiously once he’d righted himself. She only smiled. “Who else would leave a plate for a lion in the middle of the night? Besides, those footprints went only from my door to the tent.”

“…Sometimes, Catherine,” he started. When she looked at him, waiting expectantly, he couldn’t really think of what he wanted to say. “Sometimes.”

She laughed, a loud and sweet sound, tugging his arm almost out of his socket and dragging him down the street.

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

“Whoa. Okay, I think you’ve had enough.” The hand capping his half-finished drink seemed strangely…fuzzy. Blurred. The fingers melded together in a fleshy glove, melting over the lip of the trembling glass and pulled it from his equally trembling fingers. Trowa blinked--a strange film descended over his gaze with each--and glared up at the tender through his bangs. His hand didn’t want to obey; damn it he wanted the fucking glass back. Come on, move damn it.

He pulled the glass from his reaching fingers. When had they separated from his palm?… “Sorry, man. You’re done for tonight.”

“Give back that glass.” he muttered, tongue thick in his mouth. The tender smirked slightly. With the glass on the bar, and his arm pressed over the mouth, he reached out to him. Trowa leaned back from the floating hand.

“Alright. Tell you what, you answer my question right and I’ll give you back your drink and pay your whole check out of my own paycheck, kay?” he offered. Whole paycheck? Trowa must have nodded, or done something at least remotely humorous, because the spinning smirk widened. “Good, good. Alright, easy question. Ready for it? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Of all the stupid questions, he sneered. How stupid did this man think he was? How many…of all the moronic things to ask. Trowa opened his mouth to tell him just how many god damned fingers the idiot was holding up (it was four!). His lips stood faintly parted, frozen around the word stuck in his throat and brain. It was…four, wasn’t it? Or was it six? That was impossible; humans couldn’t have six fingers on one hand. He’s cheating. That was the only explanation for how someone could have six--eight, four, six again--fingers on one hand. Somehow, he was cheating.

Damn it, if only he would stop spinning around like that!

“S-s-six.” he decided. The moron was fucking cheating, and he’d call him on it. The tender, glancing between his fingers, Trowa, and back again, closed his hand and nodded sagely. Hah!

“You are so completely trashed.” he sighed. Trowa blinked as he pulled the glass out of reach again, this time taking it towards one of the several sinks behind the bar. Why was he tipping it in such a… A soft, crying growl escaped his throat; if he could get up without the floor falling out beneath him, Trowa would kill him. “Don’t whine at me,” he called over his shoulder. “it’s not my fault you can’t hold liquor.” Wiping the glass and his hands on a towel, he finally turned back, hand outstretched again. The palm upwards this time. Trowa stared. “Keys, please.”

The bastard had to be fucking kidding. Hand over the keys to his motorcycle, which not even Duo was allowed to touch, to a total stranger who just happened to have yanked his half finished drink from him and dumped it down the damn drain? Trowa would rather chew nails. Sneering at that snide, rotating face which sent a wave a nausea, he pushed himself back from the bar, and nearly pushing himself off of the stool. The tender’s hand lashed out, wrapping around his wrist and pulling him forward. He grunted, chest against the edge of the bar, and glared at the hand still holding tightly.

“Please, don’t be difficult, okay? I really don’t want to cause a scene, but if I have to, I will. Just give me your keys. I’ll call you a cab, hell I’ll book a room at the nearest hotel for you, but I can’t let you keep those keys.” He yanked his hand out of the grip, holding tightly to the edge to keep his seat. “Dude, you’re fucking wasted. I doubt you could even make it to the door, let alone your bike. But if you did, it’d be all of three seconds before you’d go headfirst into a telephone pole. Give me the keys. I’ll give ‘em right back, I swear.”

“Fuck off.”

The other sighed as Trowa, scooting back on the stool a bit, reached down. He felt blindly for his helmet while the tender shook his head. Where was it… He had put it down on the floor, hadn’t he? “I didn’t want to have to do this, but you leave me no choice.”

He expected a blind-sided, cheap punch to the face. Maybe the side of the head, or the ear. Trowa anticipated the smart ass bartender with those absolutely hideous rings and ball bearing-earrings lining his brow would strike him. Actually, Trowa thought he might prefer it. The two of them would probably end up on the hard floor, amid the stool legs and countless feet. To smack the jerk’s head back into the floor, might be fun. He expected that sort of violence, so the cool smoothness of the bar surprised him. The faint wetness from the glass drippings and occasional spills felt good against the heat he wasn’t aware of. Trowa nuzzled into its comfort. Dimly, he became aware of the light weight running across his hair and the gentle vibrations resonating up through the varnished wood.

“So glad that actually worked. Guess you’re more of an affectionate drunk, otherwise you probably would’ve decked me.” he chuckled. Trowa meant to snarl something nasty at him but the words garbled and slurred over his ever thickening tongue. “Yes, yes, I’m sure I’m whatever fucking mean-spirited thing you just called me. I won’t hold it against you; you’re trashed. Now, just stay right here for a minute while I--”

Trowa lifted his head. Someone was barking from down the bar, loud enough to drown out the beat and pull the tender’s hand from caressing his hair. The tender bit his lip. His hand pressed on Trowa’s head, setting his cheek back down on the wood.

“God damn it, does it have to be now?” he mouthed beneath the noise. Trowa grunted as the pressure increased. “Sorry… Um… Okay. You just rest here. Yeah, rest here and I should be back in, I dunno, couple minutes? Well, I will be back, and then I can call a cab for you and you can get home, so just stay. Alright? Stay.” He grumbled beneath the patting hand, eyes slipping closed with the dizzying nod.

It sloshed. Reverberated against glass walls, drips of multicolored, shimmering alcohol splashing down onto the varnished bar, exploding on impact. Flecks landed on his hands, on his cheeks. They spread across the skin, trembling with the thundering that resonated beneath him. The coldness made him shiver. A faint groan passed through his drying lips. The thundering… Squirming slightly, he slid his arms beneath his head to cushion the beat. A few moments later, one struggled out from the weight and pressed over his ear and eyes. White flashes flickered sporadically to the beat of his pounding headache. Ow. Ow, ow, ow, okay turn off the fucking music now! Huh…that rhymed.

“Well now. Isn’t this a pleasant surprise?” The heavy voice accompanied an equally heavy pressure on his
shoulders. Normally, it would have at least startled him, but the heavy numbness spreading kept his shock at a mild twitch. Shrugging the weight off, he settled himself again, curling his back and shoulders and burying his head in his arms. Trowa ignored the rumbling chuckle; it was easy, what with the fading quality of it and the dizziness and the exhaustion and…

He growled and swatted at the hands pulling him upright. Seemingly unable to keep himself centered properly on the stool, Trowa slipped sideways and backwards. Tight arms locked about his chest kept him off the probably filthy floor.

“How many drinks have you had?”

Trowa shrugged, muttering out what. at least in his head, sounded like “a few”.

“A few, huh. A few of what?” He recognized it. Who’s voice? I…I can’t quite… Trowa knew that he knew this voice, as well as the pair of strong, steady hands currently holding him on the stool. Oh well, obviously it didn’t matter too much. And he was obviously a friend since Trowa could lean back into the hard body without fear. He shrugged at the question. “You had a few but don’t even know what the ‘few’ were? You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Trowa only groaned. No more questions. He couldn’t bring himself to answer them, his tongue was far too thick. The dizziness and vertigo was worsening. The nausea too. Stop asking questions. Talking is…just stop.

“Alright, alright. Let’s get you out of here.” the voice suggested. The hands shifted, gripping him beneath his biceps and pulling surprisingly gently. Trowa’s legs tangled and he stumbled forward. “Easy now.”

“Hey, hey! Get your hands off him!” The tender snapped. Trowa watched with mild interest as the graceful slide had been attempting to pull off turned into clumsy trips and staggers. He swallowed, made a show of straightening his clothes, and gestured shakily. “I-I mean y-you…he…look. You really need to let him go.”

“Is that so?” he asked. Trowa grunted at the ensnaring grip but was not unwelcome. There was a strange sense of protectiveness to the constriction. Or perhaps possessiveness? No, no. Protectiveness. Yes, that was it. It sounded better.

“Look, he’s drunk. He’s not thinking clearly so just back off, okay? I’m calling him a cab right now.”

“Not necessary.” he growled out, squeezing his shoulders tightly. Oh how mildly interesting: that look of nervousness is melting beneath sheer disdain. Trowa blinked, watching the other’s fist tighten along his side and a twitch develop in his jaw.

“What do mean ‘not necessary’? You think I’m going to let this guy just walk out of here? He’s completely trashed, he’ll fucking kill himself. Don’t tell me it’s ‘not fucking necessary’.”

“Calm down, there’s no need for anger.” he said, holding Trowa steady as he swayed forward again. “I’m wasn’t suggesting that you let him go home alone like this. You’re absolutely right. He’d kill himself. What I meant was it wasn’t necessary for you to call a cab when I’m perfectly capable of taking him home myself.”

Now the fingernails were digging in. Hard. Trowa swatted at them (or where he assumed they were, he was hitting something). The tender was smirking.

“Doesn’t seem like he wants to go with you.” he was smiling, a politely strained sort of smile which made him look positively grisly. “So I suggest just letting go and letting me get him a cab.”

Surprisingly, he just chuckled. His fingers ghosted along the side of Trowa‘s neck and face to sift through his hair, ruffling it. “He can get like this when he’s drunk. Not surprising, really, considering how wasted he is.” Trowa, snarling, batted at them. The fingers retracted. Inwardly, he cheered at his small victory, then sneered as the hand came back to pat and caress his head, like a dog. “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. I’m going to call his roommates on the way so they know where is he and can decide what to do with him.”

Oh my god… It’s Zechs!! Zechs, it absolutely had to be Zechs. Of course, the voice was different than remembered--deeper…almost accented differently--but everything sounded different with a heavy bass and throbbing headache attached to it. Had to be Zechs: he had developed this absolutely infuriating habit of messing with Trowa’s hair recently. Never to the extent of Duo’s (he doubted anyone could be that aggravating) but still, often enough to be annoying. Usually, Zechs fluffed it or patted his head or some other inanity while walking past his desk. Actually, the treatment had increased ever since he had spent that week with his hair down. Yes. Yes, it had to be Zechs, yes. Hadn’t Wufei complained, well more like mentioned exasperatedly, to him before about his occasional habit of bar hopping? Rare occurrence really. Trowa must’ve have picked the bar Zechs had chosen to stop off in tonight. Yup, it was Zechs, had to be Zechs. No one other than Zechs--

“Look, I can’t let you do this.”

“I don’t really think it’s up to you.”

--Because Zechs was at least keeping his head about him over this. Trowa didn’t want to consider (he wasn’t sure he could) what any of the others would do if they found in such a situation. Despite the fact that Quatre wouldn’t be caught dead in a bar, his disapproval at Trowa’s presence in such a place would have be unbearably tangible. Duo wouldn’t have been able to get a word in edgewise to the bartender; he’d be laughing his ass off too hard, or hell, he might even join him. Heero and Wufei wouldn’t get much in word wise either; then again, they wouldn’t try. They’d either drag him out or beat him unconscious and bear him out like an old rug.

Yeah. Zechs was good. Good thing, good thing. Hooray for Zechs and his fucked up drinking habits.

“I’m not buying it. I’m not letting him out of here, not with you, and that’s the last of it.” Trowa tilted his head; he’d missed a large portion of this conversation. The tender looked absolutely livid, snapping just loud enough to vaguely overshadow the music. A couple of the other bartenders glanced over nervously, and customers around the bar watched with unabashed interest at the possible confrontation.

“It really isn’t your decision, now is it? You just can’t let him drive out of here. You can certainly let him leave in the care of a close friend. And please refrain from shouting, we wouldn‘t want to cause a scene.”

“Yeah, well I really don’t believe you are a close friend.” he sneered. “And I’ll cause a scene if that’s what it takes to get you out of here. I work here, you don’t.”

Trowa winced slightly as the fingers buried themselves into his shoulder. “That may be the case, but I don’t think he’d appreciate you yelling at the patrons. That’s an excellent way to lose business, and to save business I wouldn’t put it past him to fire your obstinate ass.”

“Then let him fire me.” he growled, head thrown back with his chest sticking out. With his hands on his hips, Trowa thought he looked like a stubborn toddler. He couldn’t hold back a soft snort of laughter. Neither heard it. “I’m following regulations, and plain old fucking common sense. He is not leaving with you. He‘s getting in a cab and either going home or to a hotel, and that‘s that.”

“To hell with that.” he growled back.

Rolling his eyes, Trowa swayed backwards and rested his head against the strong chest attached to the voice. Zechs was certainly letting this get out of control. Normally, he would have won this guy over to his side of thinking with just a few choices words and phrases. Tonight he was off his game. Badly.

And they were ignoring him! Fighting over him--and giving him one fucking hell of a headache--yet completely oblivious to his continued presence between them. They expected to come to some sort of decision as to how he was going to get home without even consulting him? In the end, wasn’t it Trowa’s choice? Didn’t he get to have a fucking say? Damn fucking right I do.

“Shut up already, and let‘s just go.” the words tumbled over each other. Still, they heard him over the music, their own anger, and Trowa’s thick tongue. They stared down at him (well he assumed Zechs was, the tender certainly stared) with mixed expressions. He ignored the looks, gripped the bar tightly between his shaking fingers and tried to find the spinning floor with hesitant feet. Zechs only let him flounder for a moment, then he grabbed him lightly under the arm and around the waist and standing him straight. He ruffled his hair and only when he was certain Trowa could stand on his own did he duck down to get his helmet. The tender, damn near pouting, ran a hand through his hair. He bit lightly at his lip and played with that ugly piercing absently.

“Are you sure about this? I mean, man, come on. I can call a cab, it’s not a problem. Just give me a minute and--”

Zechs stuffed the helmet in Trowa’s hands, nearly knocking him backwards off his feet. Arm about his shoulders, he helped him make a shuffled turn before addressing the tender again. “Just put his bill on my tab and go back to serving your guests.”

How the hell could walking be this difficult? The dull ache of his twisted ankle had vanished beneath alcohol’s weight, but debilitating vertigo replaced it. Trowa was fairly certain he preferred the former. The first two steps had been fine, a little lopsided and staggering but he stayed upright. His knee turned inwards at the third. Only Zechs’ quick snaking arms kept him off the floor. Trowa sneered at the chuckle; how dare he laugh at him. Trowa shrugged off his grip with a growl and took another defiant step forward, and would’ve at least broken his nose in the fall if Zechs hadn’t caught him, again.

“Alright, that’s enough of that. Let’s try getting out of here in one piece, hm?” he suggested, arm tight about his waist. Trowa, shrugging, followed along beside him, legs slipping out every so often. Zechs ushered them through the jostling crowd. It was far thicker than Trowa remembered it being when he first stepped it. Just how long had he been at the bar? Someone bumped into him. More like ran straight into him. Trowa fell heavily into Zechs, who kept both their grounds and snapped at the offending drunkard. Odd. He didn’t know Zechs could speak a foreign language. Or at least it sounded like a foreign language. There wasn’t much time to dwell on it as Zechs pushed him through the crowd and the front door.

Outside, in the cold and the quiet, Trowa could feel the full effect a night of drinking took on his senses. The thundering and thudding of his head persisted; actually it seemed to have worsened. Standing beneath the brilliance of several streetlights didn’t help much either. He dropped his head with a wince and watched the multicolored bursts erupt behind his eyelids. Zechs chuckled softly, sending waves of pain across the back of his head, and pulled him to the side. Legs tangled and Trowa fell forward, into Zechs’ waiting arms.

“As if I didn‘t expect that.” he sighed. Odd. The music wasn’t what made his voice sound so much deeper? Must be this headache… “Let’s try a new approach.”

It took him a moment to realize the startled yelp he heard was his own. The very ground seemed to have fallen from beneath his feet; who could blame him for being surprised? Zechs chuckled, letting him snake his arms around his neck and cling as the weightless sensation threatened to send his stomach up past his throat.

“We’ll get back a bit quicker this way. And don’t worry about your bike, we’ll come back for it in a little bit.” He assured. He didn’t reply, just tightened one arm about Zech’s neck and held his helmet in his lap with the other. Maybe he should ask Zechs to take it and leave it with his bike. The weight was doing nothing good for his churning stomach.

The walk to Zechs’ car was quick, sickening but quick. Although he had never spent much time on a boat, or in open water for that matter, Trowa had heard enough in passing conversation to assume he was seasick. Every jarring step sent his stomach reeling. He kept his eyes shut tight to streetlights, spinning and spiraling above him and giving off the distinct sensation that he was falling. By the time they reached the car, Trowa was sure he was…and that he was sure he was going to be sick before he hit the ground.

“Now if I sit you down for a second, do you think you can stay up?” he asked. Trowa swallowed, not trusting himself to open his mouth. Zechs took his silence for affirmation; Trowa felt ice cold metal beneath his legs and then his hands. The larger hands--almost too large--capped and held his to the trunk of the car. He folded Trowa’s fingers to grip the metal himself. “15 seconds. Think you can manage that?” He didn’t wait for an answer, only squeezed his hand before moving away.

Trowa dug his fingertips into the trunk, trying to lessen his swaying even marginally. He kept his head down in hopes of suppressing the rising lump pushing upwards in his throat. Eyes shut tight, every teeter this way or that sent his remaining senses careening. Trowa could feel himself shivering from sickness, doubling over with his legs pulling up and sliding on the slick metal. The muscles in his fingers seized up as the grip tightened. Shit, he was either going to fall over and be sick, or be sick and then fall over.

He gasped sharply at the vice suddenly around his forearm, pulling him forward. “I don’t care if your drunk. Don’t you dare throw up all over my car.” Trowa stumbled up against his chest. The spin Zechs put him through sent his stomach over the edge. But by then, he was doubled over with an arm around his waist and a hand tight in his hair, holding the strands back and holding him up. Tears pricked at the edges of his eyes as the contents of his stomach, meager as they were, hit the pavement. Fingers ran lightly along his hip, up and down. Soothing. “Come on, almost done. Stop tensing up and just let your body empty out.”

Stomach muscles cramped and throat sore, he coughed. The constrictions in his throat lessened little by little as the last was dredged up. Trowa wiped his lips with the back of his hand when nothing else came. The limb trembled; he could feel the Goosebumps dotting the skin. Zechs pulled him upright. He chuckled deep in his chest when Trowa slumped against into him.

“Well if this is all that it takes to get you to cooperate.” He murmured, although Trowa might have misheard. It was hard to hear anything over his chattering teeth and heavy throbbing. Zechs tightened his arms about his chest. The warmth felt good. He curled into it, desperate for it. “Alright, alright. In the car so you don’t freeze.”

The exhaustion was overwhelming. They got him to the passenger side without Zechs having to pick him up but getting inside was a whole different matter. He was patient, let Trowa entertain the notion he could handle himself up until the point that he practically cracked his head open.

“If you didn’t have a headache before, sure as hell have one now.” sighed Zechs. Trowa gritted his teeth, palm pressed into the source of pain. It hurt too badly for him realize just how embarrassing that had been. Zechs took his shoulders and eased him down into the seat. The slight reclining position did wonders for the lingering nausea, and at least balanced out the pounding. He heard a soft click through it and felt a tightness over his hips. Trowa, hand slipping down from his eyes, watched him pull the seatbelt and move the shoulder strap out of the way.

Odd… With the headache and the nausea and the poor lighting halo Zech’s hunched form, Trowa could have sworn… But of course, that was impossible! He would never really see that face again. Only when he closed his eyes, then it would come to him. Like before. Like all those before…

Zechs smiled at him softly. At least, Trowa thought he smiled. He couldn’t be sure, what with his vision fading with insistent exhaustion. Leaning forward, he cupped Trowa’s cheek and guided his head to the side. “Sleep. You’re going to need it.”

Sleep. Yes, sleep sounded very, very good. With the weight and warmth of his hand on his cheek, thumb rubbing faint circles at the corner of his mouth, Trowa succumbed to the pressing exhaustion. The briefest of thoughts drifted through the haze; it had been nagging at the back of his mind: when did Zechs get such a dark tan?

By then, it really didn’t matter.

A/n: Yeah, remember how I said this chapter would have some perversion to it? Well I lied. No perversion yet. But next chapter is where things do start to get…weird. **chuckles**

And internet cookies and bragging rights to whoever figures out the end of this chapter.