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IX.

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Trowa was glad that Quatre had started to spend a lot more time at the boathouse since he'd replaced Otto on the rowing team. Quatre had proven to be invaluable in a pinch and had taken to his new position as coxswain with an admirable ease. The other rowers, though a little wary at first, had quickly come to accept Quatre as one of their fold, and Quatre was jubilant at this introduction to a new crew of friends.

It was late, and most of the team had already taken their leave for the evening once practice was through. Trowa had stayed behind to work out on the rowing machine and Quatre stayed to keep him company. He hadn't been planning on starting his homework anytime soon anyway.

"Trowa," Quatre said, settling down nearby, intrigued by the way Trowa's body stretched and coiled with every stroke he took. The low hum of the machine's gears thrummed in tune with the soft chorus of crickets that was starting to gather outside. "Heero asked me a question the other day," he said. "I thought you might know the answer."

"Oh yeah?" Trowa asked between regulated breaths. "What sort of question?"

"It was weird," Quatre prefaced, leaning back on the heels of his hands. He was sitting on the floor with his jacket spread out beneath him like a blanket. "He wanted to know if Duo had ever mentioned a Sister Helen to me."

The thrum of the rowing machine whirred to silence as Trowa stopped, his eyes burning like twin lamps in the growing darkness. "Where did Heero hear that name?" he countered, his voice soft but carefully guarded.

Quatre was taken aback a little, worried that he was treading on a subject he shouldn't. But Heero's curiosity had only piqued Quatre's curiosity, and now the blonde wasn't sure he could let it just incubate - especially now. "I'm not sure, really," Quatre admitted with a shrug. "He came out of the clear blue sky with it when we were studying in our room together. Just looked up from his book and stared at me for a few minutes like he was trying to decide if he should ask or not, and then, there it was."

"I see," said Trowa, his hands tightening slightly on the rowing machine's handles as he prepared to start his exercise again. "Well, he sure is an odd fellow, isn't he?"

"Maybe a little," Quatre admitted, not so keen on talking like this about another person. The crippled conversation was replaced with the sounds of the rowing machine as Trowa went back to his routine, back and forth, back and forth. Quatre's eyes followed his powerful movements silently. At length, he spoke up again: "So you know who she is? Or was?"

Trowa kept rowing, perhaps in an effort to make his answer seem more nonchalant. "She used to be the headmistress here about two or so years ago," he informed Quatre. "Things were different here when she was in charge. It felt a little bit more like a school and a lot less like a jailhouse. She was big on keeping the community spirit alive and well, treating everyone equally, like family, and all that kind of jazz. She didn't even like it when people called her Mother Superior; she insisted she remained Sister Helen, despite the position."

Quatre took a few moments to digest that information before wording his next question. "So then why would Heero ask about her in regards to Duo?" he wanted to know. "Were they particularly close or something?"

Again, Trowa stopped, this time twisting his body entirely so he could counter directly, "Since when did Heero start caring about things in regards to Duo, anyway?"

Trowa's tone was a little crisp, but it only spurred Quatre onwards. Clearly there was a lot more to Saint Magdalena's history than it would initially seem. "I think you'd be surprised by how much Heero cares about things," he said smoothly, thinking about some of the times he'd seen Heero by himself and looking very lonely.

Trowa let out a complacent sigh, though he seemed vaguely annoyed. "Sister Helen was Duo's aunt, if you have to know," he said. "She was a lot more understanding to Duo than his father ever was, so he confided in her a lot." Trowa turned his chin upwards as he added thoughtfully, "I think he thought that her approval would save him from hell."

"I thought Duo wasn't religious," Quatre pointed out, now definitely intrigued.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," mused Trowa, still finding something very interesting in the shadows of the boathouse rafters. "I think Duo's just torn between the letter of the law and the spirit of the law, for lack of a better explanation. Helen made him feel better about all that, I think." Trowa's chin dropped down, his eyes suddenly locked with Quatre's again. "Not that it's really anyone's business, really." He took up the rowing machine's handles like he meant to start up again, but he remained still, staring blankly at the rack of shells in front of him like he was trying to ascertain what they were.

Quatre spent a few moments mulling that over as well. He supposed the fact that this woman clearly was no longer around had triggered Duo's fall from grace and had bred the Duo he and Heero had come to know. Before he even realized it, or even had a chance to think about the appropriateness of the question, Quatre blurted out, "Then where did she go?"

Trowa took his time responding, slowly focusing on Quatre once more. His eyes were stern and guarded, an expression Quatre was not used to seeing on the tall rower's face. "I don't know if Duo would appreciate us talking about her like this," he said carefully.

"Not talking about it isn't going to make it go away," Quatre scoffed, crossing his arms firmly. He understood Trowa's reservations, but now he was committed to finding out what made this place tick with such a despairingly slow rhythm; he was certain Helen held the key.

Trowa hung his head, clearly defeated by this logic. He dropped the handles of the rowing machine and clambered off of it, moving to settle down next to Quatre on his blazer. "No, you're right; she's not going away. Duo would never let her," he said, clasping his hands over his knees. He took a few deep, steadying breaths, preparing himself to tell the sensitive tale. He trusted Quatre enough that he'd appreciate the gravity of the story. "Helen was Duo's father's sister. She was teaching here for quite a few years before she became headmistress, so Duo's history here predates his actual freshman year," Trowa began slowly. A light chuckle riddled Trowa's speech as he sidetracked a little: "Oh man, you'd have laughed if you'd met Duo back then! He was still a bit of a cynical bastard, yeah, but he was a lot less jaded - kind of a dork, really. He seemed a lot more a part of the world than broken by it, I think."

"What happened, then?" Quatre asked, watching Trowa's profile in the softly lighted boathouse. "Even a guy like Duo has to have a reason for such a change." Despite the subject of their conversation, Quatre was enjoying the moment. He liked the way he could feel the warmth of Trowa's body clinging to his body. The salty scent of his sweat clouded the dank air around Quatre's head as well.

Trowa sighed heavily, his whole posture drooping a little. "The last time anyone around here saw her, she was leaving to do some missionary work in space. L2 cluster, I think," he said. His speech slowed a little, suggesting to Quatre that Duo probably hadn't been the only one who held Helen in high esteem. "There was a shuttle accident or something - I don't really know," Trowa continued in as steady a voice as he could muster. "She never came back."

"Oh, God, Trowa...." Quatre tentatively lifted a hand and, after a moment of internal debate, laid it upon Trowa's shoulder blade and rubbed it soothingly. "I didn't think the explanation would be so tragic." Though he'd never known Helen, Quatre's heart throbbed empathetically for her and the students she'd known.

Trowa shrugged, though he made no effort to throw Quatre's comforting touch. "What around here isn't tragic? I guess you could say we're used to it," he said, fisting his hands in his lap, shaking his head. "I mean, it was sad, sure, but I can't even imagine how it was for Duo... to lose a family member and the only person he could ever really talk to around here.... Needless to say, Duo was never really the same after that."

"What about you?" Quatre asked, his hand still upon Trowa's back. "I thought you and Duo were close?"

"He only tells me so much," Trowa shrugged again. "And besides, it's nothing like what he used to have with Helen. That was thick as blood. I mean, if Duo had a problem, he could always count on Helen to help him. When his father was giving him shit, Helen was there to stand up for him. She was the only adult Duo ever told about his... his..." Here, Trowa trailed off a little bit, eyeing Quatre in a gauging manner.

Quatre eyed him right back, lingering on Trowa's last word. "His...?" he pressed, though he already had a pretty good idea of what Trowa was going to say.

Trowa closed his eyes and took a brave step forward, praying all the while he wasn't making a mistake in telling this secret facet of Duo's character to the blond exchange student. "His preferences," he finished softly. "That he likes other boys - kissing them and all."

"Oh," Quatre hummed, his hand pausing a nervous moment on Trowa's back. He had the decency to blush but didn't comment too much on the statement. "I kind of had an inkling of that, I think," he admitted with a tiny smile. "But I didn't think it was my place to say anything."

"You don't have a problem with that, do you?" Trowa asked a little too quickly, this spark in his eyes threatening to betray him.

Just as quickly, Quatre vigorously shook his head in the negative. "Of course not," he insisted. "I've got no right to."

Trowa nodded, letting out a very subtle sigh of relief. Having cleared that hurdle, he returned to his previous topic. "Well, that's that," he summed up. "Duo lost his mind, the school took a nosedive, and here we are." Trowa tried to play it off casually, like telling the story really wasn't such a big deal, but Quatre wasn't blind. He let out a long sigh, leaning his cheek in one hand as he stared dejectedly forward. "It's been a while, anyway. They say time heals everything, so maybe things will finally be softened by next year..." Another defeated sigh ghosted past his lips. "...Some year...."

Like thousands of marbles had suddenly fallen from the heavens, the quiver an unexpected rainstorm shattered across the roof of the boathouse. Outside, the plunking of the plummeting raindrops in the river clamoured up in the evening air. Quatre perked up in surprise, biting his lower lip with a hint of agitation. "I think God hates us," he commented in an effort to lighten the heavy mood.

"He sure does," Trowa agreed, though his answer took on a more morose connotation.

Quatre had no idea what to say to Trowa; everything he came up with rang false to him. Such an old wound wasn't something Quatre felt he had the therapeutic power to aid. Listening to the rain outside, Quatre found himself wishing he had been able to cleanse in the same fashion. It ailed him to see Trowa so distraught over something he clearly couldn't ever hope to help or change. While Quatre knew that the loss of this Sister Helen clearly had an impact on the entire student body, it was also apparent that Trowa's current state had more to do with Duo. "Look, Trowa, I know Duo's just about your best friend," he started tentatively, hoping what he was about to say didn't blow up in his own face. "But that doesn't mean that his pain has to be your pain as well."

"Maybe," mumbled Trowa, rolling onto his feet and standing up again in one, sleek motion. He folded his arms behind his back and walked over towards the open door of the boathouse with footsteps that creaked upon wood floor as he moved. He leaned tiredly in the dark mouth of the doorway, ignorant of the raindrops splattering across his chest as he silently watched the light from inside spill out across the dock and eerily lap across the surface of the river. On the other bank, just over the hill, the town emanated a soft, pale coral illumination upon the bellies of the gray storm clouds that thickened the arc of the evening sky overhead.

Quatre lingered on the floor for a few moments, knowing Trowa needed a little bit of space. The golden glow of the lights inside flickered across Trowa's back, highlighting the muscular planes beneath the tight cotton of the damp shirt he was wearing. Quietly, Quatre also got to his feet, padding over towards the place where Trowa stood with footsteps that also groaned on the wooden planking as he moved. He leaned against the other doorpost, crossing his arms over his chest as his gaze toggled between the waterscape and the side of Trowa's stoic face. Sometimes the raindrops would splash into his eyes, causing him to squint; he wondered how Trowa could stand to face the steadily falling downpour without so much as a blink.

"I'm a terrible friend," Trowa said at length, finally reaching up to dry his face with the back of his hand. His long bangs, which were sodden to a dark red colour, stuck to his forehead.

"So am I," murmured Quatre automatically. The water was starting to glue his hair to his face also.

Trowa's head jerked in Quatre's direction, his eyes a bit wide. "You're not...."

A tiny grunt made Quatre shrug his shoulders as he let a tiny smile overtake his mouth. "No, really, I am. A terrible son, too, for the record," he insisted, shaking his head. Clusters of water droplets leaped from his bangs and splattered this way and that. "I upset you by forcing you to tell me about Duo and Helen. I still feel bad thinking about all the times I've ditched Heero in favour of people a little more suited to social situations. And Wufei thinks I'm some kind of irresponsible lush ever since he had to deal with me the night after I went drinking with Duo...." Quatre could feel how matted the rain had made his hair as he nervously ran a palm through it.

Trowa quirked an eyebrow at Quatre, his dark green eyes flicking over in Quatre's direction and softening in the dim light. "And you think that makes you a bad friend?" he wondered. He angled himself a bit more towards the other teen, leaning his back comfortably against the doorpost as he pushed his heavy fringe out of his eyes, molding the slick hair against the top of his head with a slide of his fingertips. "Because you go out of your way to help a moody guy like Heero or because you try to entertain Duo's senseless revelries? Even I got burned out from that whole scene pretty quick. Duo runs people into the ground without even realizing what he's doing."

"That doesn't make you a terrible friend, either," Quatre countered glibly, also turning to face his companion a bit more. "I think you're one of the few people that keeps Duo grounded, really." Quatre shrugged, adding, "Even if he doesn't say it, I think that means a lot to him."

"That's true," mused Trowa with a light sniffle. The rain was warm, but the wetness was starting to make him shiver a little. "What else do you think Duo has trouble saying?" he asked curiously, wondering what else Quatre could perceive with his prophetic skill.

Quatre made a show of thinking about his response, though he knew almost immediately what the answer to Trowa's question was. "Hmm, you mean how he can't admit even the most obvious things to himself? Things that everybody else has no problem seeing?"

Trowa's mouth split into a wide grin and he laughed. "So you noticed that, too?"

Quatre's expression mirrored Trowa's. "You mean that he's been looking at -"

"Yeah," Trowa nodded wryly, glad that he now knew he could talk about that with Quatre. Privately mulling over it in his own spare time wasn't really helping anybody. More specifically, he was concerned for Heero, wondering what might happen if Duo managed to seduce Heero into his bed. Heero seemed to be on the fringes enough as it was; he had a bad feeling that there was no way Heero could ever be prepared to handle Duo's distasteful habit of rolling his prey out of bed seconds after he was done having his fun. "You don't think Heero's realized...?"

Quatre spent a few thoughtful moments just watching the rain again. "Well, we already determined he was an odd fellow," he said slowly. "I'm sure he knows how to take care of himself." The water in the river was starting to swell a little above the banks, and Quatre watched the churning waves with a blank stare, all the while trying to decide if he believed that or not.

"I'm sure he does," replied Trowa, who had also taken to watching the river. The twin electric lamps that adorned the dock cast a white luminance over the thrashing water, just bright enough to define the black shape of some misplaced item being tossed downstream. He squinted at it, trying to discern what it was beneath the thin mist that hung over the water.

"Oh dear! Poor thing!" Quatre suddenly exclaimed, running out into the rain and towards the edge of the dock without much more explanation than that.

Trowa took a few tentative steps into the downpour after him, wondering what had come over Quatre, who was now crouched low with one arm around a nearby post and the other extended out over the river in an effort to snag the floating object as it drifted by. An ambitious pass at the item sent Quatre nearly toppling headfirst into the river and Trowa rushing from the safety of the boathouse to Quatre's side, a steadying hand grabbing an amble fistful of Quatre's sopping shirt. "...from the jaws of death," he panted a bit hoarsely, watching nervously as Quatre reached out to grab at the object again, his swatting fingers managing to only bat the book upriver a little. Now much closer, he could see that it was a very tattered paperback book, its cover obscured by muck and dirt.

"Nearly got it," Quatre reported, swiping at the book once more. He reached out further, feeling a knot of pressure against his back where Trowa was tightening his grip on his shirt. At long last, after what seemed an eternity of anxious tension for Trowa, Quatre finally managed to clamp his fingers down on the book and reeled it in to safety, though Trowa didn't let go of Quatre's shirt until Quatre was well away from the water.

Facing each other in the relentless rain, Quatre smeared the mud off the cover of the book on the breast of his shirt, already resigned to the fact that it was hopelessly soiled. "I wonder what it is," he mumbled to himself as he held it out between them in both hands. Large circles of water expanded on the flimsy cover as the rain assailed it with sharp pellets. Beneath the grime was the title 'The Golden Bough' in a yellowed typeface.

"Well?" Trowa pressed. "Was it worth it?"

Quatre seemed shocked at the suggestion. "Of course," he said, hugging the book to his chest protectively, though it really didn't do much to keep it any dryer. "A word is worth so much. Always." The nearby lights on the dock reflected in Quatre's eyes like the round moon disc high overhead.

"Not as much as an action," Trowa answered automatically. Truth be told, he'd been riveted by the way Quatre had nearly plunged into the water after that damn book. He wasn't sure he could thrown himself forward like that in the name of an ideal like Quatre's, but for a person like the blond exchange student, he just might. Perhaps it was because Quatre acted in such a manner that he would. "Words are ten a penny. I'd give a thousand to see someone do something truly impressive."

"Really, now?" Quatre expression was one of challenge as he bent a hand against each hip. "Tell me, then, what impresses you, Trowa Barton?"

Trowa wasn't sure what possessed him to be honest. Perhaps years of keeping most things bottled up were finally catching up to him. He instinctually blurted out the foremost thing on his mind as of late. "You, Quatre," he said. "You impress me."

Quatre's lunar eyes were wide, glinting brightly in the darkness. "What?" he gasped, suddenly finding it very hard to speak. The book fell limp in his fingers, threatening to fall to the ground.

Eyes closed, Trowa exhaled slowly, knowing there was no going back now. Rescinding such a statement was a moot point. "You heard what I said," he murmured so softly, the hiss of the rain almost completely drowned him out. His chin dropped against his chest, a little afraid to look Quatre in the eye lest he see something he didn't want to. His long bangs flopped wetly over his forehead and drooped across his line of sight. It wasn't until he heard Quatre speaking that he even dared to look up again.

"What about actions, Trowa," Quatre said, his voice deceptively calm.

"What do you mean?" Trowa wondered, still caught up with how he was going to save this situation. He thought Quatre was probably not receptive to the things he was trying to insinuate. Thinking on it, maybe it was better that way.

Quatre tightened his grip on the book again, his arms dropping to his sides. "You said an action was worth a thousand words," he reminded Trowa. "And yet you're telling me these things...."

Before Quatre realized it, a pair of dank hands were suddenly on his shoulders, their warm palms burning through the thin, soaked cotton of his shirt, which was sticking uncomfortably to his skin. Quatre's eyes followed the line of the wrist and arm attached to one of them up to Trowa's face, which was obscured by the wet hang of his bangs. Despite the aching curiosity that motivated him, Quatre tentatively lifted his free hand to Trowa's face to push his bangs across his scalp again, startled by how stunningly green the dampness in Trowa's eyes made them. "Trowa, I...."

Quatre wasn't permitted to speak much further, because before he knew it, Trowa had followed through on his instincts and had pressed his lips against Quatre's. His skin was cold due to the weather, but his tongue and the inside of his mouth were searing with passion. Quatre let his eyes slide closed and received the kiss openly as the book slipped from his fingers, all the while thinking that while love sought was good, love unsought was better.

Still wet and cold, the rain kept pouring down across the sodden earth, cleansing it with her soothing touch. Quatre had never before felt so rejuvenated and alive.

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"Fuck," cursed Walker, stepping high to keep his shoes from being sucked too deeply into the mud. He hadn't expected it to rain out of nowhere like this, and, to make matters worse, he'd dropped his book bag on the riverbank. He'd sullied most of his belongings and had managed to lose the text he needed for his Monday literature class to the damned river. At least he was nearly to the boathouse; if he was lucky, he could hang out there until the worst of the rain had passed by.

But just as he was rounding the river bend, the boathouse directly in front of him, he saw something on the docks that caused him to falter. He could make out the outline of that tall rower that had gotten to be so buddy-buddy with that damn exchange student who had embarrassed him in front of Treize and the choir. Involuntarily, his fists clenched in anger until he got a bit closer and realized the true nature of the scene. Apparently the rower had gotten much closer to that stupid blonde than he'd thought. Bunch of faggots - he'd known it the entire time.

Rain no longer a circumstance, he abandoned his plans to wait out the downpour and hoofed it back to the dorms as fast as his legs could carry him.

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