Butterflies
June 2000 by Meerchen
Rating: G

I get paid?"

Trowa stared at the check Catherine held out at him, not quite
comprehending the words she spoke, although she had already repeated
the word "salary" twice. The magazine he had been paging through lay
forgotten in his lap, as he tried to grasp the concept of this
totally new thing happening to him. To be presented with a pay
check, for real work he had done. It had never happened before, and
he didn't know how to react.

"Of course you do, silly. It just took you some time to pay for that
tent you ruined a couple of years ago, or you would've seen this one
earlier," Catherine winked.

"Oh," he mumbled, while accepting the check out of Catherine's
hands, eyeing it curiously.

Five thousand credits, the check stated in bright red letters. Trowa
had no idea how much money that was; he couldn't remember ever
paying more than a few copper coins for a daily meal or a cup of
coffee. Most of the time, he just stole what he needed, although he
had dropped that particular habit after the war; everything he
needed he got at the circus anyway. What was he supposed to do with
this money? He had no use for it here.

"Why don't you go buy yourself some new clothes," Catherine
answered, as if she had read his mind.

"Do I need more clothes," he asked, a bit confused. What was wrong
with his current set?

"Well, for starters, I can see the colour of your underwear through
the tear over your butt," she swatted his behind playfully to
highlight the problem, "and although it's very modern, I doubt you
really want to show off that sexy posterior of yours to just about
anyone who walks by" she concluded, smirking slightly.

Trowa turned his head around, attempting to eye his behind for the
said holes, but failed because of the angle. A hand manually
confirmed Catherine's findings however; there was a tear right
through the fabric on the top of both legs. Absently, he wondered
why he hadn't noticed it before. Probably because he didn't
particularly care. But Catherine thought it strange...

"Oh," he frowned.

"Men," Catherine sighed, "I swear you're all the same. Do what you
want with the money, Trowa, but please at least try to have some
fun. The circus isn't everything; you haven't been off the grounds
for months. Go out and see the world! Shop! Live a little!"

Trowa smiled at outburst of the purple haired circus performer he
called his sister, "if you insist, madam," he curtsied playfully.

Catherine sagged. "You know I worry about you, Trowa. I only want
what's best for you, please forgive your old sister. Do what you
want without asking yourself if it would be the most successful
route to take," she gestured. "Life isn't a battlefield, there is no
great strategy needed here, you have to let go of it sometime. Get
yourself a normal life," she whispered, eyes averted to avoid anyone
seeing the beginning tears.

"Catherine, I'm fine," he pulled a strand of her hair behind her
ear, smiling reassuringly.

"What's that smell?" someone suddenly yelled from outside, and
Catherine's eyes widened.

"Oh no, my soup!" and Catherine was gone out of their trailer in a
whirlwind.

/I'm fine,/ he repeated to himself, smiling for no apparent reason
other than that it felt good. It wasn't a habitual lie, and it felt
like the right thing to remind himself of. He was fine. It felt fine
to be alive, just for once. Although he still didn't know what to do
with the money. /Live a little,/ he thought. Catherine didn't think
he really lived, although he was quite content himself. How did one
live anyway, outside the battlefield, and outside the circus? He
honestly couldn't tell, and all of a sudden, a rare curiosity took
control over his mind. What did normal people do anyway? He decided
to go exploring.

* * *

Trowa found himself at the main street of the little town the circus
was visiting, just after lunch the same day. Catherine hadn't pushed
the issue about clothing, but when he thought about it, he realised
she was right. The current pair of jeans had lasted over four years,
and was nowhere near the colour they had once been when he acquired
them. Not to mention they were starting to feel a bit too tight. He
guessed he had put on some weight after the war.

/I'm getting fat?/ he wondered, and pinched his stomach. /This is
what normal people do, I can do this too,/ he smiled inwardly at his
discovery, remembering Catherine doing the same and complaining. /No
extra layers of anything there though,/ he concluded, and attributed
it to the acrobatic training he went through every day. Still, the
jeans hugged his legs like a second skin, and had to be replaced
before he could no longer take them off at night.

The shops displayed their merchandise in the windows, and from the
small price tags, Trowa could tell that his first pay check would
not last long in this part of town. He wasn't stupid, the people
crowding the streets were young and fashionable, and the shops
probably sought to take advantage of them by rigging the prices, no
doubt. Despite this, he found himself staring at a blue tuxedo in
one of the windows, as it mixed with his reflection in it, and for a
moment he wondered how it would look on him. The price tag informed
him that it was way out of his reach, and he marvelled at the little
feeling of disappointment that flicked through his mind. Until only
hours ago, he could care less about clothing, now he found himself
desiring a tuxedo he would never have any use for anyway? The
realisation made him smile a little, and he took it as another sign
he was in fact normal after all. Or at least getting there.

Suddenly, a movement inside the shop, just behind the blue fabric,
caught his attention, and he gasped a little, quite involuntarily.
The blond hair and the pink shirt quickly disappeared behind the
stalls of clothing, but his mind had already made the connection.
Quatre? His body reacted before his mind could, a little jolt of
something forming in his stomach, heart picking up the pace. For
some reason, he couldn't move, so there he stood, frozen in his
tracks, staring at the tuxedo in the window. His mind screamed at
him to do something, anything - enter the shop and talk to Quatre,
run away, or simply leave, but his body would not obey such
commands. He couldn't remember how long ago it was since he had last
seen Quatre, surely over a year.

A feeling of... anticipation, he thought the right word would be,
settled firmly in the pit of his stomach, and he wondered if this
was normal? Did normal people feel this way too? He focused on the
feeling, and decided he rather liked it. Proud of himself for
finding another normal thing to do, Trowa was startled out of his
daydreaming as the door to the shop opened, and the bell on it bid
the visitors farewell.

Before the feeling of expectation could be dispelled, the young
blond that had just exited the shop turned around, revealing a young
woman that didn't look like Quatre at all. As she turned towards
Trowa, he realised he was staring, and still smiling. Quickly
turning away, his smile faded, and he suddenly found the window of
the shop very interesting. The blonde woman and her friends giggled
before they ducked into another shop, and left Trowa in the silence
of the street.

The feeling of disappointment he had previously experienced
returned, only much stronger this time. Trowa quickly moved onwards,
puzzled. It hadn't been Quatre. Suddenly he didn't feel like
shopping at all anymore, but purposefully picked up his pace,
intending to leave the town as soon as he could. He couldn't
identify the new feeling that nearly tore his mind apart, and he
didn't particularly want to be normal if this was how it would be.
It hurt, he thought, only it was a mental pain, not a physical one.

But why? He couldn't come up with a really good excuse, other than
he hadn't seen Quatre in over a year, and perhaps missed him a
little. But only a tiny bit, he told himself. /This is normal,/ his
mind informed him, and he dimly wondered about it. /I wanted it to
be Quatre, so my mind played a trick on me,/ he concluded. Quite
normal. But why would he miss Quatre like this?

Feeling tired, disillusioned, and a bit lost, Trowa eventually
slowed down his near running pace, to stop outside a cafe. He could
use something to drink. Situating himself by a table outside the
shop, he ordered a cup of black coffee, and was persuaded to have a
bun to go with it. As the hot liquid warmed his throat, he thought
of what had just happened. He thought he had seen Quatre, /you
wanted to see Quatre, so you did/, his mind reminded him, and he
had... overreacted. It was a totally new thing happening to him, but
then again, he rarely left the circus in the first place, and the
sordid bunch of performers that gathered there surely didn't lend
themselves to any easy mix-ups with his former Gundam allies. Still,
he couldn't remember this happening before, and decided to test a
theory.

The crowd slowly pulsating through the veins of the city easily
became subjects for his test of comparison in order to provoke
further reactions. Different cultures mixed in front of his eyes,
some looking more exotic than the others did. He decided that a
black haired woman in her early thirties could have been Wufei, the
hairstyle was similar, only a bit longer. Trowa examined the woman,
and waited for the fluttery feeling to return. Nothing happened,
although she really looked like Wufei if he squinted his eyes. He
even averted his gaze, and then sharply turned his head back towards
the woman, to surprise his senses. Still nothing. Beside a puzzled
look from the woman, who hurried away with a wide eyed look, that
is. He decided to be more discreet. After 10 minutes of testing, his
cup of coffee was empty, the bun eaten, two Heero's had passed, one
woman with a braid that would make Duo jealous had been scared away,
but still the flutters in his stomach refused to return.

It was odd. Both the feeling and why it was so random and
unpredictable confused him. It felt like being caressed on the
inside, he thought, by something soft like flower petals, or
butterflies flying about. Butterflies sounded like a good comparison
  - he would have as little control over them as he had over his new
feelings. Being no closer to solving the mystery, Trowa decided to
finally go shopping for some clothes. Cheaper clothes. He asked the
maid in the cafe, and was given directions for a local shop of one
of the bigger store chains, that would have affordable clothing,
according to the girl. He thanked her for the advice, and was
eventually on his way to why he had come to the town in the first
place.

* * *

Endless lines of clothes lined the floor of the big store, and Trowa
felt possibly more lost there than trying to solve the mystery of
butterflies a little while ago. The shop seemed to be sorted after
type of wear; he had just passed the shirts, and was now staring
helplessly at more black jeans than he had ever seen before. He
peered at the other customers in the shop, but no one else seemed to
be lost or have problems finding what they wanted. He guessed this
was one of those normal things he had to learn, and quickly attacked
the closest rack of jeans, with the mission to find the perfect
pair.

A few minutes later, he gave up. Not only were the trousers sorted
by length, but also width, and while Trowa could easily measure the
length of the trousers as they hung on the rack, to find the right
width he had to first pull the garment out of the rack, and it was
difficult because they were all so closely packed he'd almost pulled
the whole thing down while first attempting the task, but then he
had to remove the hanger too, to try and see if the waist line of
the jeans fitted his waist. And it didn't, of course.

Three attempts later, and Trowa found himself experiencing what he
thought must be yet another natural reaction - frustration. Battling
down the unpleasant feeling, he grabbed the nearest pair of jeans,
and purposefully strode to the counter where an elderly woman
waited.

"I need help," he stated his mission.

"Why of course," the woman beamed at him, "what can I do for you?"

"I think... I need a whole new outfit."

"Mission accepted," the woman winked at Trowa, and he couldn't help
but to smile at her total innocence. Would she had said the same
thing if she knew she was standing in front of one of the men OZ
only three years ago had labelled one of the most dangerous ones in
the current era? He doubted it, and doubted she would be so familiar
with him as to grab his arm and pull him towards the awaiting
clothes had she known his true identity.

The lady had apparently decided exactly what he needed, as she
navigated through the racks and stopped with frightening accuracy to
pick up an article of clothing she thought he would want. The
mystery of the jeans' sizes was solved within moments, a green shirt
picked out even quicker, and the assembly of socks, T-shirts, and
underwear had been passed down into the basket with only a wink.
Shoes and a jacket had taken marginally longer, but in all, Trowa
had been totally equipped with a new set of clothes in less than 20
minutes. The old lady smiled, obviously pleased with herself, as she
led them both back to the counter.

As she started to add his things up, and pack the clothes away in a
large bag, Trowa extracted the check from his pocket, and eyed the
slip of paper with the beginning of a proud smile playing on his
lips. He had never been shopping for himself before.

"Oh no, dearie, you must go to the bank first and cash it in, then
you can come back here," the woman commented as she saw his bank
only check.

"Oh. I'm sorry," he apologised for his mistake.

"That's ok, young one. 'Tis your first pay check, yes?"

"Yes," he confirmed, and smiled as she did.

"I will reserve these clothes for you then, just go to the bank
across the street and they'll help you," she informed him, and Trowa
nodded.

Check still in hand, Trowa set out to his new normal life mission.
He found the bank quickly just across the street, and only had to
observe proceedings for a moment to realise he should stand in line,
and wait for his turn. When it was his turn, he presented the piece
of paper to the woman behind the security glass.

"You want to cash it in, or deposit the money," the dark haired
woman asked him, and as he hesitated, not quite sure of what he
wanted, she added "do you have a credit card account with any of the
big banks, it would be the easiest way to securely handle money?"

He shook his head, and asked "can I open one now?"

"Sure, just fill out this form and I'll process it right away," she
handed him an application.

He filled out the fields, leaving the circus' post box in Monte
Carlo as his address, then returned the paper. The bank lady quickly
scanned his application, and nodded at him.

"Just a moment, Mr. Barton, I'll be right back," she spoke before
hurrying out to the back of the bank, application in hand.

As he waited, Trowa discreetly scanned his surroundings, mostly out
of habit, but also to pass some time. In two of the corners, there
were security cameras, yet the door to the vault was open. Trowa
supposed they didn't expect anything out of the ordinary here at the
small town bank. Soon, the woman returned, now with more papers in
her hands. He signed some of them, and received the bank account
rules, as well as an envelope with his secret code, and the plastic
card to use in shops. He thanked for her assistance, and left the
bank.

Outside the bank, he eyed the piece of white plastic in his hand a
bit closer, and for the second time that day, his stomach bottomed
out, all by itself. He had to read the name of the financial
institute again, just to make sure he didn't purposefully mix up
letters, but sure enough, the bank that guaranteed the money was
called "Winner Inc." He didn't know what amused him the most, the
possibility that he had opened an account in one of Quatre's bank
without really noticing first, or that the butterflies in his
stomach had returned with a vengeance. /Probably just a
coincidence,/ he thought, /Winner Inc would be a suitable name for
any kind of successful establishment,/ yet he smiled inwardly at the
strange cards faith was playing him; he had thought of Quatre twice
this day, and it was still early. The butterflies remained.

Less than an hour after he had first entered the shop, Trowa left it
again, equipped with bags that contained enough clothing to quiet
Catherine for a while. Or at least he hoped so, the clothes buying
mission just wasn't his thing. Tired and feeling remarkably
satisfied at his attempt to live a day as a normal human being,
Trowa turned his steps towards his mobile home.

But apparently destiny had something else planned for him, for Trowa
found himself suddenly lost in the little town. He had turned left
where he thought the street down to the harbour was, but instead he
found himself facing a narrow street, only sparsely populated with
pedestrians. Trowa frowned, a bit disoriented, but decided he
couldn't really get lost in a town this small, all streets had to
lead somewhere. He stopped outside a little shop, and tried to track
his steps backwards, find the erroneous turn, when an object at the
corner of his eye caught his attention.

It appeared he had stopped in front of a little gallery, and a
shiver went down his spine as he stared at the painting displayed in
the window. Although the motif was hardly very original - a man
walking down a street, not unlike the one he was currently standing
on - his mind froze as he identified the lone man in the painting as
himself.

For an eerie moment, it all felt surreal, and Trowa wondered if he
had been tossed into one of those ridiculous TV shows Catherine
insisted on watching, where someone was set up for humiliation and
amusement of the audience, never realising the trick until this
famous man revealed his presence. Apparently it was all supposed to
be amusing, but Trowa couldn't help but to feel nervous at the
prospect of being publicly exposed on TV for whatever the reason.
Still, he discreetly eyed his surroundings through the corners of
his eyes, looking for any mysterious men or hidden cameras, before
shrugging of the idea and turning his attention back to the
painting.

There was no doubt the man pictured was him, or at least someone
with a startling resemblance. Too startling, he thought. Searching
the painting for a signature to give him a clue of who had done it
gave him nothing, as it wasn't signed. He tried to remember the many
people he had met over the years who not only knew how to paint, but
also knew him well enough to remember the finer details of him that
he now started seeing in the painting. And all of this from memory,
as he had never posed for any painting before, or even had his photo
taken very often.

There really was only one alternative, although he had never
actually seen the young man display his skills - Quatre. This time,
the butterflies remained silent, as the coincidence was too weird
for his mind to easily digest. He remembered their first meeting,
how Quatre had showed him his studio, equipped both with musical
instruments and various painting articles such as half-finished
works. Searching his memory, he couldn't recall ever seeing this
particular work in the room, though. He debated with himself for
only a moment, before stepping into the little gallery to find out
what was going on.

The gallery keeper was a distinguished gentleman, Trowa supposed, as
he greeted the elderly man and stated his mission, gesturing towards
the painting in the window. /I should stop thinking about everything
as missions, this is supposed to be normal life, I can do things
myself without being ordered,/ he thought, before the man replied.

"Oh, you're interested in that painting, huh?"

Trowa only nodded. "Do you know who did it?"

"I'm afraid I cannot give you a name, as he never gave me his, but I
can tell you he sold me four or five paintings a few months ago."

Trowa nodded again, a little disappointed with the man's words.

"I only met him twice, and both times he seemed troubled by
something," the gallery keeper continued, "I got the feeling he
didn't really need the money either, just didn't know what to do
with his productions," the man added thoughtfully.

The gallery keeper looked from the painting, then to Trowa, and back
to the painting. "It does look like you, doesn't it? Do you know the
artist?" the man queried.

"Maybe," Trowa answered truthfully. A sudden impulse, and Trowa knew
he had to have this painting, it was important. He had only wasted a
few hundred credits on the clothing, and hoped he had enough to
purchase the painting from the man. "Can I buy it?" he asked the
shop keeper.

"I was going to keep it, but you seem desperate enough," the man
laughed. "Since I got them for nearly nothing, it will only cost you
1 000 credits."

"Do you take credit cards?" Trowa smiled faintly at himself, as he
found himself repeating a line he had seen on TV once, thinking it
would fit the situation.

* * *

"Oh I don't believe this! You got a painting for your first earned
money? A painting?!" Catherine groaned.

Trowa had returned home, and discarded the bags of clothes on his
bed to unpack the painting instead. He put the canvas, no larger
than a daily magazine, on the desk of drawers where he was supposed
to keep his new clothes. Eyeing the painting once again, he
completely lost interest in the purchased articles of clothing, and
just stared at the scene in front of him.

The young man, the copy of him, was walking down a street with one
hand in his pocket, the other one by his side. Strangely enough, the
hand was angled peculiarly, and the figure was situated oddly on the
picture - a little to the left of the middle. Trowa didn't know
anything about art, but thought it odd that the artist would
position him-- the young man slightly off the middle. It reminded
him of Catherine's camera technique, where the people in the
pictures frequently missed half a head, or the angle was all wrong.
He bit down a little laugh, and reminded himself to never make the
comparison in front of his adopted sister.

"I got some clothes too," Trowa gestured indifferently towards the
unopened bags on his bed, still not taking his eyes off the painting
on the desk in front of him.

Something about it didn't make sense, something was wrong with it,
but he couldn't quite put his finger to exactly what it was that
bothered him. He wondered if Quatre had actually painted it, and if
there were any clues in the painting in that case. Before he got
very far into his analysis, Catherine interrupted him, with some low
muttering words not meant for his ears.

"You don't like it?" he asked her.

Catherine sighed, and defiantly crossed her arms as she stood beside
him, glaring at him before she turned her attention to the paining.
Trowa watched her from under his bangs, searching for any form of
unguarded reaction.

"That looks like you," was Catherine's calm assessment.

Trowa smiled as he nodded; at least it wasn't just him that saw the
resemblance.

"It's not signed," Catherine noted.

"I think I know who did it," he commented. "Someone I know from the
war. You've met him," his eyes returned to the painting.

"Oh? Not the quiet one, eh?"

"No, the sad one."

"Ah, Quatre. You think he did this?"

"I don't know," he confessed. "Perhaps."

Catherine shrugged. "It's still a strange thing to buy, and you
should come eat now."

Trowa nodded and entered the kitchen after the scantily clad young
woman.

* * *

Later that evening, Catherine watched the local TV, as Trowa sat
down on the couch opposite of the now silent girl. He eyed her
thoughtfully, before grabbing an apple from the bowl on the table
between them, polishing it on his arm. From his position on the
couch, he could easily see the picture he had acquired, and noted
with satisfaction that every time he watched it, the butterflies
returned, even if only for a short moment. It was more than just a
fluttering in his stomach, he noted, the "butterfly thing" included
several other reactions, such as a slightly quickening pulse, and an
odd sense of happiness. He couldn't figure it out.

"Catherine, what's the feeling of--" he hesitated, suddenly aware of
how strange it would sound.

"What," she answered, only half paying attention to him through the
soap opera on TV.

"Butterflies in your stomach?"

"Butterflies?" Catherine echoed, now watching him.

"Yeah..." he felt stupid now; it had been a stupid question.

"You mean like when you meet someone after a long time, and that
person makes your stomach go all funny on you?" Catherine queried,
all serious looking.

Trowa nodded, yes, that was it.

"And you suddenly feel a bit warmer? And strangely happy, all of a
sudden?" Catherine's beginning smile should probably have warned him
that something amused his sister, but the accuracy with which she
pin pointed his feelings was more remarkable and interesting to pay
attention to.

"Yes, exactly," Trowa replied, curious over his new discovery.

"Trowa! You're in love!" Catherine screeched, before tossing a
pillow at him. Caught unprepared, it hit him straight in the face.

"I'm not!" he retorted eventually, a bit too late, and tossed the
pillow back at her. In love?

"How would you know if you don't even know what butterflies are?"
Catherine laughed, and tossed another pillow in his general
direction.

Trowa fell silent, knowing it was impossible to argue with
Catherine, especially about something he didn't know the first thing
about. Love? She thought he was in love? Wouldn't he have noticed it
himself before? He thought back at the different feelings he had
experienced during the day, seemingly for the first time. Perhaps
she was right anyway... He felt his cheeks go warm as he made the
connection between the butterflies and what had caused them in the
first place - thoughts of Quatre. He was in love with Quatre? His
eyes went to the painting still sitting on the desk beside him. Sure
enough, the jumble of feelings returned, and he simply knew he was
blushing.

"So, who is this mystery girl you've been hiding from me this long,"
Catherine's deliberately velvety voice tried to lure the secret out
of him.

Girl? Oh, right. Normal people fell in love with girls. Well, not
all of them, he supposed, at least not the girls themselves. But
then it wasn't love after all, because he was a boy and Quatre was a
boy too. He felt strangely relieved and disappointed at the same
time. Relieved that it wasn't yet another complicated feeling to
learn, disappointed for the same reason. He figured he might as well
admit, and get the proper feeling identified.

"Actually, it's a boy," he spoke as nonchalantly as possible, and
took a bite out of the apple.

"Oh," Catherine's short reply came. "I suppose that works too," she
mused. "Still the same thing, see. Love."

Trowa nearly choked on his apple.

Suddenly a sly smile spread over Catherine's face. "This doesn't
have anything to do with the painting, does it?"

Trowa was at a loss. How did she always know everything?

"Oh! I should have known this ages ago," Catherine berated herself
between laughing fits.

"You should?"

"Yes... Quatre. Of course," she replied cryptically.

Trowa was confused now; Catherine had known this for a long time? He
fell silent, and Catherine eventually turned back to her TV shows,
smile only slowly fading from her face. If possible, Trowa was even
more confused now than earlier the day. He didn't know until two
minutes ago that he was in love with Quatre, but Catherine had seen
it ages ago? He stopped to reflect a bit on the former part of the
equation... he was in love with Quatre? The butterflies in his stomach
was love. His mind fell silent as he digested this new piece of
information. It felt nice - the fluttering feeling, the warmth. And
still, there was something missing...

"Now go to bed, it's late," Catherine startled him out of his
thoughts, much later.

"Yes mommy," he quipped teasingly, and earned yet another pillow
flung his way.

* * *

Although his mind was firmly set on achieving what Catherine called
a normal life, his body had yet to become accustomed to a life in
peace. Trowa, always on schedule, woke up every 90 minutes
throughout the night, half expecting one of his former comrades tap
him on the shoulder and let him know it was his turn to take the
night watch. Although it hadn't happened for years, he still had
problems sleeping all night, and this night was no exception.
Outside the open trailer window, crickets chirped softly in the
summer night, and the room was dimly lit from the streetlight
outside.

Trowa sat up in his bed, stretching a bit while waiting for his
sleeping cycle to realise it was neither morning, nor his time at
the watch. The painting caught his attention again, and now he felt
like he could gaze at it without Catherine's disapproving glances or
teasing words. She hadn't told him, but he knew that when he had
watched the painting for over an hour earlier the day, she was
probably starting to think him a bit obsessed with it. Maybe he was.
He just couldn't let go of the thought that maybe Quatre had
actually painted it, and for some reason wanted Trowa in the
picture. Quatre and Trowa... the butterflies returned, again.

It puzzled him that Quatre would think so highly of him at times,
and even want him in a painting. Quatre puzzled him. Quatre made him
feel warm, right now. He thought back at the last time they had met,
at a Preventer meeting back in space last spring. It had been over a
year ago, and the last time he spoke with Quatre. He didn't really
know why, despite the obvious fact that Quatre didn't know where the
circus would travel, and Trowa hadn't used the phone number given to
him by the blond. He couldn't tell why he had never done that,
perhaps he had just not been ready for any kind of normal life.
Thinking back at the past year, Trowa supposed he had actually been
hiding from real life, licking his wounds as Catherine had called
it. He hadn't even touched the flute Quatre had presented him with,
Trowa realised with a little pang of guilt.

Guilt; this was how it felt. This was what plagued Quatre back then.
The feeling of having let someone down, although he really could
have done much more to keep in touch with Quatre. They were friends,
after all, weren't they? He turned his eyes back to the painting,
sighing. Quatre had looked melancholy, the gallery keeper had said.
If it had been Quatre, of course. Somehow, Trowa knew it had to be.
His eyes flew over the barely lit painting, watching the details
under the guise of midnight. Then he noted an anomaly in the texture
of the surface. Just to the right of where he was in the picture,
and partially overlapping his painted hand, the surface was a bit
dimmer, less shiny. He moved around in the bed to see the part in
different lighting, but every angle revealed the same - a part of the
painting looked different.

Trowa dragged himself out of bed, not bothering to wrap a blanket
around his half naked body, and padded silently over to the
painting. He picked it up, and went to the little kitchen area of
their trailer, where he switched on the light. Blinking before his
eyes adjusted to the blinding light, he waited a while before
examining the painting more thoroughly. In the stark light, he still
couldn't tell any difference in the surface. He wiped his hands at a
towel before examining the surface with his fingertips, trailing
them over the edge of the different area. Still no difference.

Frowning, Trowa realised his hands were too callused to be able to
pick up the finer differences, and tried the more unorthodox method
as he held the painting to his cheek. He felt weird standing there
in the middle of the night, almost naked, in their kitchen, rubbing
his face to a painting, but it produced the desired results. Or so
he thought, at least. Maybe it was like with that woman he thought
was Quatre; he only thought he felt the difference in surfaces on
the painting because he wanted to. He decided to go back to bed, and
just ask Catherine in the morning. Burying his face, and the
accompanying smile, in the pillow, he once again reflected over the
day. The smile widened, a little tingle went through his body - he was
really in love with Quatre!

* * *

Grudgingly, and only after she had her morning coffee, Catherine had
agreed that there was indeed a difference in the two areas on the
painting, but had seen nothing strange in it. She suggested that
perhaps the artist had used different paint for that part only, but
Trowa thought that sounded strange. After having been yelled at
again for paying too much attention to a painting when he had other
things to do, and mildly been accused of insanity when he suggested
Quatre may have changed in the painting, Trowa finally pushed it to
the back of his mind, intending to solve the puzzle at a later time.
Maybe he would even take it back to the shopkeeper and ask for
advice.

Which was exactly what he found himself doing, late in the afternoon
that day. The old man nodded a greeting in recognition, and welcomed
Trowa into his office in the back of the shop.

"You back already? Changed your mind?"

Trowa shook his head, and put the painting on the cluttered desk. "I
want to ask you something," he explained.

"I've already told you what I remember, but go right ahead, son."

Trowa smiled before he continued. "Do you see anything unusual with
the surface of the paining," he asked the old man.

The shopkeeper squinted his eyes, and Trowa realised this was the
wrong strategy. Much like his own hands had not been sensitive
enough to pick up the shift, the old man's eyes were weak by old age
and less useful, although he must once have been able to pick up
what Trowa wanted him too with his bare eyes. Instead, he touched
his fingertips over the surface, and motioned the man to do the
same.

"Do you feel the different textures?"

The man ran his fingers over the painting a couple of times, eyes
closed, and then nodded. "Yes, this painting has been altered.
Different temperatures when the same paint was used would typically
cause these kinds of shifts. That's very perceptive of you, young
man," the old shop keeper nodded his approval of Trowa's observation
skills.

"Altered?" Trowa asked. "In which way?"

"It's likely that someone, probably the artist as there is no change
in theme or style, added this part after the painting was finished,
for some reason. Perhaps he changed his mind on the motif," the man
nodded to himself.

"So there might be something else underneath these dim parts?"

"Yes."

"Could you restore it for me?" Trowa asked, hoping he used the right
vocabulary borrowed from yet another TV movie. He never thought they
would become so handy..

"Of course, but you have to be aware that this will probably ruin
the value of the painting, and possible the painting too. It's
easier to just x-ray it to see what's underneath."

"I see. Please restore it anyway," Trowa asked the old man, certain
that whatever was covered up would be worth it, and possibly reveal
the secret of the paining.

"Naturally. It will take a few days, come back on Monday, I might be
finished by then."

Trowa nodded and left the shop.

* * *

The remainder of the week went painfully slow, Trowa thought, and he
realised he had learned another one of life's little secrets -
impatience. Stifling the urge to run to the shop at the end of every
day, he worked himself tired enough to just be able to fall into the
bed and sleep for a whole night, without interruption and dreams. If
Catherine noted any difference in his behaviour, she didn't comment
on it. First thing Monday morning, he stole out early after having
fed and watered the lions, and went back to the town. He glanced at
his clock, and realised he was five minutes early for the shop to
open, but decided against knocking at the door and publicly display
his impatience. Two minutes past the hour, the shopkeeper opened and
let him in.

"Here already? I take it you're serious about the painting then,
young man?"

Trowa smiled, and followed the man into the office. Presented with
the sight of the now restored painting, he could only utter one
word, too stunned to think clearly.

"Quatre..."

"Oh, that's his name then? This is the youth that sold me the
painting," the man grinned, and gestured towards the new, but still
the same painting.

The painting that had previously only showed Trowa, now featured the
smiling Quatre by his side, in the spot where he had felt the change
in surface. The first thing he noticed was the blond hair and shy
smile, gazing up at Trowa, and the butterflies that seemed to have
adopted his stomach lately returned. He didn't mind much at all, and
couldn't help but to smile back at the painting. Then he noticed the
painted version of him was holding Quatre's hand, and that his
previously sad looking face had been replaced with a smile to match
Quatre's...

"I take it he's a friend of yours?" the man commented.

"Yes..." Trowa managed, still too stunned to be able to make any more
intelligent comments.

* * *

Later that day, Catherine once again found him lost in thought,
blankly staring at the painting in front of him.

"Really Trowa," she started, then went quiet as she noted the
changes in the painting.

"You had it changed?" she asked.

"No, it was painted over before the gallery got it, I had it
restored," Trowa explained.

"Hm. It really was him then, huh?" Catherine eyed the blond that had
been recovered in the picture.

Trowa didn't think a reply was needed, but nodded nevertheless. It
had been Quatre, and the purpose of that whole day had been to find
the painting. His mind spun at the thought of the coincidences that
had brought him to it - if he hadn't seen the blond girl in the shop,
he wouldn't have felt the butterflies, and wouldn't have sat down at
that cafe to wonder about them. Without the girl at the cafe, he
wouldn't have found the cheap shop, or the bank... and he wouldn't
have got lost on the way home, or found the shop on the narrow
street. It all had begun with the girl he thought was Quatre. He
felt dizzy.

"Trowa!"

Catherine's words snapped him out of his reverie, and he realised
she'd been talking to him. "Hm?"

"You're holding hands with blondie here, is there something you
haven't told me?" she winked.

Despite himself, Trowa felt his face go all warm, as he tried to
explain. "No... I mean... no." He managed, and Catherine's' loopy smile
told him he had failed to convince her. He tried again, "No."

"Sure, fine, whatever," she elbowed him gently and winked, before
returning back to the kitchen to prepare an early lunch.

It had been the truth, so why did it feel like he was lying? There
hadn't been anything between him and Quatre. Except a few stolen
glances, perhaps. Maybe even an errant touch... Thinking back of
what he and Quatre had done together, the smallest details suddenly
seemed to come alive. How their hands had touched almost by mistake
quite often, how they had accidentally brushed past each other while
passing in corridors, the sound of Quatre's voice when he had been
freed from the zero system, thanks to his blond friend. /He had been
crying, I know it./

Their music, the touch of Quatre's skin under his hands as he
bandaged the injured blond up, the radiant smile as Quatre woke up
again at the hospital, finding Trowa by his side. More and more
details unravelled before his mind's eye, details that formed a more
complex picture of friendship. The things Quatre had said, the way
he had responded to them. It had been a form of courting, and he had
responded, in his own quiet way.

/It is quite possible,/ Trowa thought with a start, /that I have
been in love all this time without realising it./

But then they had drifted apart. Or had they? Perhaps it was he that
hid from Quatre, not yet able to acknowledge the full extent to what
he thought was only a friendship. And Quatre had no way to find him,
as he had never left any notes. Trowa suddenly felt his heart sink.
If there had been something more between him and Quatre, surely it
was all gone by now. Forlornly he gazed at their entwined hands on
the painting. Why hadn't he seen it earlier? He felt a complete
failure again, anyone normal would have seen this years ago. Even
Catherine had said she'd seen it long before him. Almost without
noticing it, Trowa slowly slipped back into the blessed numbness
again. /Anything is better than the knowledge of that you've lost a
friend without even seeing it. I'm not normal./

* * *

Lonely notes from the flute that Quatre had given Trowa a year ago
drifted over the open field where their circus trailer was parked.
Two days had gone since the painting had been returned to him, and
they had moved on to the next city on their schedule. While the
others were unpacking, Trowa found himself temporarily out of work,
and his melancholy mood slipped back in place. He hadn't touched a
flute for over three years, but found he remembered the notes of
Quatre's song by heart, and played what once had been a joyous
melody in a much slower and sadder tempo. He opened his eyes again,
to see Catherine sitting cross-legged in front of him on the lawn.
She probably had been there for a while. His mind screamed at him,
/she saw you, deny everything at once, deny every feeling,/ but his
heart didn't obey the order. Trowa simply averted his eyes, avoiding
Catherine's questioning gaze.

"How long do you plan on torturing yourself like this, Trowa?"

Ever perceptive, Catherine had of course already noted his change in
attitude. He sighed; did nothing escape that woman?

"Why don't you just call him? Talk to him?"

"I don't have his phone number," he tried feebly, not putting much
effort into the conversation.

"Liar," she frowned.

"Catherine, I can't just call him after all these years, he probably
has a life now."  He turned to disassemble the flute again, and put
it back into its case. "And why would he want me anyway?" he
continued mentally, before realising he had actually spoken it
aloud. He scolded himself for the slip, but Catherine didn't notice
it.

"Then write him a letter, tell him how you feel. If he doesn't want
you, he doesn't have to reply. Safe enough," she tried.

"I suppose," he answered, without any real conviction.

"I hate to do this to you, Trowa, but do you remember what you told
me when you left me for him on L2?"

Trowa knew Catherine's lecturing tone of voice well, and chose the
wise route of not replying, she would tell him what was on her mind
anyway, whether he wanted it or not.

"Humans are supposed to act according to their feelings, or
something like that. So, why don't you right now? You did back then.
Your heart knew what it wanted, even if your memory was gone."

Trowa didn't know what to say, so he kept quiet.

"So think about it, at least. Or big sister will have to take
drastic measures to ensure happiness," she grinned, and he had no
doubt in his mind that she really meant it.

He laughed a little at her attempts, before returning to
disassembling the flute, quietly considering her words. She was
right, of course, but that didn't mean he had to do the right thing
in return. He wanted to see Quatre, and sometimes he was pretty sure
Quatre would want to see him too, yet he hesitated. He wondered if
this was part of being normal as well, then discarded the whole
concept of trying to be something he had never been in the first
place. He would just settle for being himself, normal or not. Not
that he knew what he really was anyway.

Trowa snorted at himself, /your mind is walking in circles/.

/Well at least I'm considering changing old patterns,/ he tried.

/So what do you want,/ he asked himself.

Silence.

Did he really not want anything? For the first time he could
remember, he was free to do as he pleased, which naturally would be
confusing to anyone. He thought of the lions, brought up in a cage,
and wondered what they would do if he just opened their cage to set
them free. They had their instincts, he supposed, even if they had
been made to suppress them in order to survive this life. He
wondered if he was the same.

/I want to see Quatre again, even if it's only for a short moment./

Still feeling the need to justify the decision to himself, Trowa
rationalised. He hadn't been normal, hadn't been ready back then.
But it felt better now, he felt free. He was free. Quatre had
dropped numerous invitations of various kinds on him back then, he
realised on hindsight. He just hadn't been experienced in life
enough to realise it. A day of being normal was all it took to
change his perspective... Once again, he felt stupid for not seeing it
before. But now...

It was time to reply.

* * *

"Did you decide what to do?"

Catherine dropped the basket of laundry on the lawn, and reached for
the wet garments, pinning them up on a line, one by one. Trowa
handed her the wet clothes, quietly considering his words.

"I'm sending him the painting," he replied, softly.

Catherine laughed a little, "well if he doesn't understand an
invitation card of that size, he's not worth your time, most
precious brother."

"You think it's a bad idea?"

"No, not if your heart has already decided," she said, sincerely.

* * *

Trowa had checked their dates and schedules, and since they would
stay there for another two weeks, he had jotted down their current
location on the contact card for the circus. More than that wasn't
needed; the painting should be message enough, and the card provided
Quatre with the address. In two weeks, they would go to Monte Carlo
for the festival, but he didn't think Quatre needed that long time
to get the message. Either he wanted to talk, or he didn't. Two
weeks should be enough. He hoped. Then he started thinking it was
too short notice, it was presumptuous of him to think Quatre would
come running, just like that. Insecurity invaded his mind, and the
days went slowly by.

* * *

It was early in the morning one of those dazzling days that promised
heat and no escape from the Mediterranean sun. Already busy with the
early morning chores of watering the animals, she saw him long
before he entered the circus area, and Catherine smiled as she
recognised the blond slowly approaching their home. Dressed in
casual clothes suitable for a hot summer day, the young man could
have been mistaken for a tourist just like any other, but the bag in
his hand told her this person was going somewhere, unlike the
customers of the circus.

The blond stopped by the entrance to their inhabited area, before
spotting her. She imagined that the little delay in his steps was
hesitation, perhaps he was gathering up courage, before approaching
her. Catherine pretended she hadn't seen him, and let him walk right
up to her, before acknowledging his presence.

"Hello, I think I recognise you," he said as she had put the hose
down.

"Hi there!" she winked with familiarity to make the hesitant boy
feel more at ease. "I'm Catherine, and I think you're Quatre?" she
continued.

"Yes. I..." the blond faltered, obviously searching for words.

/He's nervous,/ Catherine assessed. /And every bit as embarrassed as
Trowa was when I teased him about the butterflies./ She smiled her
most maternal smile, and gestured to the boy to come closer.
/They're both filled with butterflies./

"It's ok, you don't have to explain to me, I'll take you to Trowa,"
she motioned for him to follow her.

"Uhm, thank you," Quatre managed, smiling a little.

* * *

Trowa squinted his eyes in the bright morning sun, closing the cage
to the lions again, after having provided them with their breakfast.
He was starting to get hungry himself, and thought of getting a
snack before returning to the animals. Trowa washed his hands in a
bucket of ice cold water, and then poured some of the cold liquid
over his already sweaty body. Wiping his hands on a terry cloth, and
then rubbing it against his face, he heard Catherine approaching,
talking to someone. Breakfast forgotten, his heart skipped a beat as
he recognised the other voice. He lowered his towel.

"Quatre..."

"Hello, Trowa," the said blond smiled at him.

* * *

"So this is the butterfly boy?" Catherine winked.

"Catherine!" Trowa cringed, embarrassed.

The were both seated around a table in his trailer, introductions
and greetings having passed without too much embarrassed silence,
and now Catherine had insisted on making them both a proper
breakfast. The young woman peeked her head into an open window,
before disappearing again, snickering.

"Butterfly boy?" Quatre echoed her words, amusement playing on his
voice.

"She's just teasing me," Trowa quickly explained, not sure if the
words had any other connotations he wasn't aware of.

Quatre nodded with a smile, and the room went quiet again. From
under his bangs, Trowa regarded the blond, and watched as his smile
faded, replaced with a decidedly more sombre looking mood.

"I don't know if you want me to explain the painting, but I won't
deny anything if you ask..." Quatre began, and Trowa thought it
sounded like he had rehearsed the phrase many times before. "I
suppose I shouldn't have done it, it was foolish of me. Just an
impossible dream," Quatre trailed off, eyes focusing on the plate in
front of him on the table with particular interest, and this time,
it was Trowa's turn to smile.

"No, that's not true," Trowa smiled, before folding his hand over
Quatre's on the table. "I... I've waited too long already. I have to
tell you what happened that day I found the painting," Trowa smiled
at Quatre, who looked positively stunned.

Quatre smiled back, and as his mind made the connection that Trowa's
hand was still on his, his cheeks suddenly caught colour.

"Please do," Quatre breathed, eyes searching Trowa with hopeful
curiosity.

-end-