Notes: Yes, I'm still working on "Endless Summer". AND "Sacrifice". AANNND "Bound". But don't get impatient on these, because I'm in college now and my output might slow down a little bit. This fic here is just another pet project to keep me from going crazy from 1x2itis.
Life and Death in Africa Part 3
Whisper
Trowa half-awoke in the pre-dawn stillness to the feel of Quatre's warm lips on his forehead. The Arabian was moving rapidly, and was already dressed, as if he had been called in the middle of the night.
He swallowed to clear his throat, then spoke hoarsely. "Quatre... what..."
Quatre's voice was just a soft whisper in the darkness. "Shhh... go back to sleep, Trowa. I have to go, but I'll be back. Just rest." Someone opened the bedroom door-a Maguanac-and called softly across the room to him. The Arabian was gone in an instant, like a hurrying shadow.
Convinced that it wasn't anything of terrible emergency, Trowa sank back into unconsciousness, green eyes fluttering closed beneath mussed bangs as he sank lower into the covers.
~*~
When he woke again, sunlight was piercing the calm of the bedroom, falling in bars along the quilt covering him. He was alone in the huge bed, wrapped in blankets and sheets, feeling warm and content. The pain had dulled to a low, almost insignificant thing. He was engulfed in the smell of Quatre, a fragrance comforting enough to roll in, a light scent of sandalwood and myrrh.
He sat up, feeling his muscles creak with that almost satisfying soreness that comes only from good sex. There was a note on the bedside table in Quatre's elegant, sprawling handwriting:
Trowa -Had to go to an emergency meeting for 102X resource satellite, sorry I couldn't be there this morning. Oxygen generators are down. Will be back as soon as possible. Catherine said to call at 458-203-2839. If you need to go anywhere, the keys to the Mercedes are where they always are. But don't tire yourself out, stay at home and rest. Sally left a message on the machine. You need to call her back. I love you.
-Quatre
Trowa smiled a little, folding the note in half and placing it gently back on the table before he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, stretching his arms over his head. As he did, he caught his own gaze in a mirror across the room and saw the bruises across his chest and shoulders. His smile faded.
This was his home, his lover, his life. It wasn't an entirely happy thought to him, because it was mixed with a pride and love so fierce it was almost overwhelming.
This was mostly because he had once been a nameless seven year-old boy, once a long time ago. And that weary, hurt boy had been denied entry into a refugee camp, even after his parents were killed by Rwandan soldiers, and he had nowhere else to go.
This house, Quatre's house, with its sparkling blue pool and the tennis court and the large, comfortable bed he now slept in made that better somehow..but not entirely better. That was all over now.
For a part of him, it would never be better.
Part of him would always be walking back down a dusty road in Zaire, listening to the sounds of the falling night as he walked with his bare feet bleeding in the dust. Part of him would always be walking away from his own hope of refuge, his head up. He had not cried. But even then he had understood that he was not walking away; he was slinking away.
The fear and shame of it all was still there, and not even being accepted by the protective Rashid into this sprawling, quiet mansion. It couldn't drive away the seven year-old part of him that was still walking into the bloodied twilight with Kiswahili curses in his ears.
But sometimes when he heard the Maguanac soldiers talking amongst themselves, when one of them was angry or unexpectedly hurt, and he heard that quick, rapid cursing, the short hairs on the back of his neck would stand up and his hands would clench to fists at his sides. Because he would remember.
Shaking himself out of his mood visibly, he walked over to where the phone was sitting on a low chest of drawers and pressed the button for the answering machine to the vidphone.
His sister's face appeared on the vid-screen, hair pulled back into a ponytail. She looked hectic. In the background, he could see the other performers as they packed up the circus; it was time to move along. The movements were slow, from delay-time.
"Message 1... *beep* Trowa, give me a call later if you're there, and you better be there, because if you're out roaming around when you're sick, I'm going to kick your ass. I'm serious, Trowa, You scared me to death last night. Call me on the cell phone so I know you're okay."
The screen faded out, and this time, a young woman he didn't know came on, sitting at a desk. Her voice was no-nonsense, impersonal.
"Message 2... *beep* Mr. Trowa Barton, this is Amanda Colberg, secretary at L4's Preventer Medical Corps. I was told to inform you that Dr. Sally Po has requested that you come down to speak with her in person. We must stress that it is urgent, Mr. Barton, that the doctor sees you immediately. Please come as soon as you receive this message. Thank you."
He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Steeled himself.
He'd come.
He didn't know what else to do.
~*~
Trowa could tell there was something seriously, seriously wrong when Sally came into the examination room where he was patiently waiting. Her face was almost as pale as his. Her hands were shaking.
For her, to see him so composed and calm, sitting there as if he could wait a thousand years if that was what was required, was the worst thing of all.
She sat down across from him, and he could see she was obviously having a hard time trying to make a start. He put a hand on her shoulder to steady her, treating her like he would one of the animals if they got skittish in a new place.
"Just tell me what's wrong with me, Sally."
The overhead lights were flashing too brightly in her eyes. Crying? Was she crying?
Her voice was not the strong, confident baritone Trowa had gotten used to over the years. It was cracked, whispering. "Why didn't you see someone, Trowa? You must have been suffering for months, even years... Why did you try to hide it for so long? Why?"
Trowa blinked, burning green eyes blazing above the dark smudges beneath them. "I'm a soldier. Pain is irrelevant."
She grabbed him by the arm, but not forcefully. It was almost as if she was treating him like he was made of glass. "You're not a soldier anymore You haven't been a soldier for over a year "
Trowa scowled a little. "Once a soldier, always a soldier, Sally. You know that. Now just tell me what the hell is wrong with me. And how long I have to live."
She let out a shaky sigh, leaning back in her hair. She put her hand to her face for a moment, composing herself, and then spoke again. Five condemning words that Trowa had suspected himself and could not bare to voice.
"It's leukemia, Trowa. It's cancer."
Trowa took a deep breath, then let it out. Another. He was perfectly tranquil, like the eye of a terrible storm. Sally felt like bursting into tears just from the sight of him.
He was washed out, pale. There were dark bruises under his eyes. But it was his eyes that did it. Those catlike green orbs blazed out of his face like green lanterns, roaring with life and light and fierce determination. They were the raging eyes of a predator. How such eyes could exist in such a wasted face was beyond her. She had never seen it in all her years as a military physician.
"You still haven't told me how long I have."
"It isn't over yet, Trowa. You could still survive, at least for years longer." Sally's voice was desperately optimistic. "There's drugs you can take, and chemo-"
"No." Trowa's answer was clipped. The quiet boy crossed his arms over his chest defensively. "No chemotherapy. No drugs. You said they can only prolong my life, not save it. I'm not going to die in a hospital somewhere with radiation sickness on top of everything else. I'm sorry, Sally. I just won't do it..."
"That's the only thing that can save you, Trowa. Without drugs or chemo, you have six months. Just six months at the most." Her voice cracked. "Please, Trowa. Please do this."
"No. Will you write me a refillable prescription for a painkiller, Sally? I'm going to have to go away for awhile...and I won't be able to come back for another prescription when the first one runs out."
Sally's eyes narrowed a little, and her voice was forced. "No. Trowa, I want you to go into the hospital for treatment."
Trowa swallowed, then nodded his head gently, as if it was the answer he had expected, and stood. Sally stood with him and put a hand on his arm. Her blue eyes were angry. Desperate.
"Trowa. Please. Don't do it for me. Do it for Quatre."
"He's the reason I won't." Trowa took her hand gently, patting it, before taking it and moving it from his shoulder.
He started to walk out.
"Dammit Trowa! You aren't Heero!"
Trowa jerked as if he had been slapped. But it made him pause. He was still and statuesque, standing in the middle of the room, as if he had stepped into a painting and become frozen by it. He didn't turn around.
Sally spoke again, hoping maybe, somehow, her words would rope him to this place. Hold him there with her. Where she could try and help. But she already knew her words would do no good here. He was as far away from her as the space between stars.
"You aren't Heero," Sally repeated softly. "And Quatre isn't Duo. If you disappear like Heero did, Quatre is not going to just sit around and wait for you to come back. He'll travel to the ends of the earth looking for you. It'll kill him."
"Take care of it," Trowa said, his voice docile. "Please."
"What am I supposed to tell him, Trowa? What am I supposed to tell any of them?" Sally walked up gently behind him, putting her hands on his shoulders and resting her forehead wearily against his back. Her voice was barely a whisper. "I can't do it, Trowa. I can't..."
Trowa's gaze was cold, resolute. He would not turn back to look at Sally. He would not be denied. "You can. You have to."
"So what do I tell him?"
Trowa gently pulled away, heading through the office doors, taking his jacket off the coat rack and slinging it over his shoulder. He stopped in the doorway, turning his head back slightly to cut his eyes at her.
"Anything. Anything but the truth."
~*~
When he got back from the hospital, Quatre was nowhere to be found. Rashid told him that Quatre had been called away to a meeting over a power outage on one of the resource satellites, leaving over a hundred miners on emergency generators. Trowa thanked him politely before retiring to the room the two of them shared whenever Trowa could find time to visit him.
He grabbed a piece of stationery from the desk with the Winner seal at the top; Trowa ran his finger over the scorpion relief, reading the Latin motto there: Nemo me impune lacessit. Let no one attack us without consequence.
He wrote "Dear Quatre" at the top in his flowing, almost simple cursive. It was the only part of the letter that came easily.
He wrote his parting letter one painful word at a time, thinking that Quatre would be back before he could finish it. But the house was still except for the hum of ceiling fans and the rustling of a passing servant out in the hall every once in a while. So he wrote alone:
Dear Quatre,I know this is cowardly, but you must forgive me, little one, for writing, rather than waiting for you to come home. I could not bear to tell you face to face. By the time you read this, I'll be gone. I don't know exactly where, and I don't know for how long, but I probably will not be back. It's best this way. Take care of Catherine for me. And tell the others I'm sorry I couldn't see them before I went. If something happens, I will try to let you know somehow. In the meantime, don't worry about me. Don't come after me. Don't try to find me. But do believe that I will always love you with all my heart. And that you were one of the only things I found in this world worth loving.
Always yours, forever
Trowa Barton
He put the letter in an envelope, closed it with a golden yellow wax seal from the stationery box, and laid it down in the center of the desk. He packed his bag and walked down the long drive to the Winner estate, thinking the whole time that Quatre would drive down the road in his limo, pick him up, and he would be forced to confront the little Arabian about everything.
But Quatre did not come.
Trowa was almost glad for it, glad that the last time he would see Quatre would not be with the Arabian young man in tears, but with a hurried good-bye kiss before he had to leave for his meeting.
Talking would only make things harder.
And they were hard enough as it was.
TBC...
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