"He's still sick. He shouldn't be disturbed."
"I just wanted to see how he's doing."
"He's doing better, and he's resting."
"I'd like to see for myself."
"I'm sorry, my lord, but I just can't let you in. I'd really hate for anyone to disturb him right now."
An exasperated sigh rattled the door. "I'm not disturbing him, for heaven's sake! I'm just taking a look!"
"My lord," Dorcas replied firmly, "he's in a very delicate state, and I don't want to excite him unnecessarily."
"Excite? What do you mean by that?"
A moment of silence followed, with Quatre blinking and frowning as he listened. Then…
"Dorcas, I asked you a--oh, for God's sake!"
The boy let out a soft chuckle as he tried to imagine the look on Trowa's face at the realization of Dorcas's meaning. The conversation was held outside his room, and with the relatively thin walls and door, Trowa and Dorcas's voices carried quite well.
"I'm sorry, sir, but you know how it is."
Quatre felt his face burn in spite of himself, and he instinctively pulled the covers farther up until only the top of his head and his eyes peeked out from under them.
I'm starving, he thought, now staring fretfully at the door. I hope they settle things soon so I could eat.
The boy had just spent the entire Christmas Eve afternoon lost in a deep, fitful sleep and awoken to the hot, stifling layers of blankets with which Dorcas had seen fit to cover him. He also realized as he lay drenched in sweat that his stomach was demanding gratification. Unfortunately for him, he was not only laboring under the debilitating effects of his fever still, he was completely isolated as well. And he'd been spending the last hour hoping like hell that someone would bring him the relief he so desperately needed.
Dorcas eventually arrived, raising the boy's hopes. She checked his temperature and then went out to fetch him some food. But she was about to re-enter the room when Trowa appeared and--well--pretty much kept the boy in a state of annoyance and frustration.
"Dorcas, I promise you I won't get him excited," Trowa said, a note of both urgency and impatience now in his voice.
"Begging your pardon, my lord, but I really can't see that happening. I know how you young people are."
"Dorcas!"
"Trowa? You still here?" Catherine's voice suddenly broke in. "I thought you'd be fussing over Quatre by now."
"I would've, but…"
Another brief pause followed, and Quatre could only guess that Trowa was finishing his response with non-verbal cues.
"Oh, please hurry," the boy muttered as he felt his stomach rumble.
"For heaven's sake, you two," Catherine presently huffed.
Then the bedroom door flew open, and Catherine marched resolutely in, unceremoniously shutting it behind her and leaving both Trowa and Dorcas standing, amazed, out in the hallway still. She walked over to Quatre's bed, a smile forming on her lips when her eyes met his. She didn't even bother pulling up a chair. She simply plopped herself down on the floor and scooted over to the boy.
"Hello, love," she chirped, covering his hand with hers as it peeked out from under the blanket. "Oh, you're still a bit warm. Are you feeling any better?"
"A little, yes, thank you," he replied trying and failing to look as cheerful as he felt.
"Good. I came to see how you're doing and to give you a message."
"Oh?"
"From Gabriela--she and her mother just left for home."
Quatre pulled the covers down a little in order to hear his companion a little more. "I'm sorry to hear that."
Catherine nodded. "She's sorry she missed saying goodbye to you, too, and she wanted me to tell you that she appreciates everything you've done for her, that she wishes she had a chance to get to know you more, and that she hopes you won't forget her."
"I wonder why she says it like she's not going to see me again."
"I don't know. I found it a little odd myself, but then again it could've been a small error on her part in the way she said her piece."
Quatre frowned a little. "What did she really say?"
"Her exact words were 'Please tell Quatre that I value his company and the little kindnesses he's shown me and that I only regret not knowing him sooner. I hope he remembers me as I was in Siddell and not before.'"
A brief pause followed as Quatre mulled over Gabriela's message. "I don't see how she could be mistaken in the way she worded her message."
Catherine shrugged, shaking her head. "I don't know, Quatre. We could be reading too much into things for all we know. I'm personally inclined to think that she meant nothing by it."
"It's a nice message at any rate. She's a sweet girl."
"She is." Catherine smiled and reached out to feel his forehead. "And you're pretty damp. Looks like Dorcas's treatment's working."
"You mean subjecting people to intolerable heat?"
"She thinks it's best to sweat out a fever as well as the cold."
Quatre couldn't help but break out into a pert smile and ask, "Does she believe in feeding patients as well?"
Catherine laughed and mussed up his sweat-soaked hair before standing up. "She's got your dinner outside," she replied. "I'll tell her it's okay to come in."
The boy shifted under the covers and stretched his weary limbs languorously. "I'm amazed they haven't barged in on us yet."
"That's because they know better than to interrupt me." Catherine wiggled her eyebrows. "I just wield absolute power over everybody here." With that, she turned her heels to waltz over to the door, opening it and motioning for Trowa and Dorcas to enter with a majestic sweep of her hand.
"He's all yours," she said before quitting the room in a rustling of silk and lace.
Quatre beamed as he watched the two enter, looking a tad bemused. Dorcas was carrying a tray with a bowl of steaming soup and a little basket of rolls on the side. The mere sight of it sent the boy to nirvana.
"Made you some soup, dear," Dorcas said as she gingerly laid the tray down on the table nearby.
Quatre struggled to get up, eliciting exclamations of surprise from the housekeeper and protest from Trowa. With an impatient wave of a hand, the boy stopped them in their tracks.
"I'm not completely helpless, you know."
Laboring under light-headedness and hunger, Quatre pushed the blankets away, ran his hands through his tousled hair, and rubbed his eyes. He felt his spirits sink a little at the sight of the table. Even though it stood a mere ten feet away, it seemed to be perched on the edge of the universe to the boy. With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself up, and, teetering unsteadily on his feet for a second or two, he lurched forward with a determination usually found in martyrs undergoing torture.
He finally reached his dinner and settled himself shakily on the chair, glancing over at Trowa and Dorcas as they stood nearby, watching everything with a mixture of concern, pity, and amusement.
"I told you I'm not helpless."
"In that case then, Dorcas shouldn't worry too much about my getting you excited."
The housekeeper threw Trowa a look that well nigh defied description, and she shrugged. "Very well. I'm off. You can just leave the tray on the table, Quatre. I'll be back for it in a couple of hours."
She walked toward the door and paused before stepping out. "Did you have any requests for tomorrow's Christmas dinner, dear? His Lordship wants to know."
"Uh--no, I don't. Anything's fine with me."
"Anything's fine? Hmm. I see you're working your own magic on him, my lord," she replied with a pert half-smile directed at Trowa.
"Dorcas…"
"I'm leaving."
She threw Quatre an amused wink and was soon gone, the door closing behind her quietly.
"She can be very teasing with me sometimes," Trowa said as he walked over to the table, bending over the soup and inspecting it critically. "Don't mind her. I'm used to it, and she knows I don't take exception to what she says. Just be ready for it now that she knows about us. She can hit you when you least expect it."
"I thought I was your first."
"You are. She's just been teasing me forever about finding someone. Now she's going to be teasing me for finding someone." Trowa broke off as he burst out laughing. "I can't win here, can I?"
Quatre picked up his spoon and started to play with his soup. "I meant what I said yesterday," he presently said after a moment of silence. "At the jail cell. I really made a mess of things."
Trowa sighed and sat himself on the floor beside him, gazing up at the boy, who continued to fiddle around with his soup thoughtfully.
"It was all my fault. If I didn't run away, I wouldn't be here right now."
A shot of realization tore through him the moment the last word left his lips, and he quickly glanced at Trowa--in time to catch the young man wince a little from his words.
"No--I didn't mean that," he sputtered. "I meant--I wouldn't be here, turned out by my own parents and all."
"Quatre, they drove you to this…"
"But I made a choice, didn't I? I could've stayed and dealt with things, but…"
"That doesn't guarantee anything. You know that. You still could've been turned out, and you still could be wandering around the countryside, begging for shelter from complete strangers…"
Quatre watched him, a pained look marking an otherwise gentle, ethereal countenance. "The point is that I never gave them a chance."
Trowa shook his head slightly, his eyes sparkling softly in the dying afternoon light. "They never gave you a chance, either."
"Nobody made the first move for a compromise, right?" Quatre paused to wait for a response but only got a pensive, expectant look from his companion. "Well--I still think it should've been me."
Trowa reached out and covered Quatre's left hand, which lay on his lap, with his. "Quatre, there's no use beating yourself up over this. I'm not taking anything lightly, though, all right? I'm just worried that dwelling so much on what you should or shouldn't have done would only make things worse for you. All I want is for you to get well--physically and emotionally. And there's nothing more I want than to help you through all this…"
Quatre fell silent, staring deeply in Trowa's eyes, searching for comfort, for a guarantee of security. Then he nodded, feeling a wary kind of relief set in.
"And that brings me to my next point. Quatre, I want you to know that you're not being kept here against your will." Trowa cleared his throat. "I know that I--um--said that I'd rather have you come back to stay. But I want you to understand that I was angry and resentful. It would be wrong for me to expect you to stay. It isn't fair for me to put this kind of pressure on you. You're free to leave at any time, and I won't stop you."
Quatre watched him pause once more, swallowing and forcing out a small, awkward smile. "Hurts like hell just thinking about it, but I love you too much for me to not let go."
The boy nodded silently then took Trowa's hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it. "I know," he said. "And I love you too much to put you through that."
Trowa, seemingly unable to say anything more, averted his eyes, and Quatre thought he saw a hint of a smile cross his face.
"You'd better eat your dinner before Dorcas has a fit."
Quatre hesitated and decided to ask one last question. "What'll happen after Christmas?"
"Dad's leaving for London to open Parliament, and Catherine and I would be leaving for the university."[1]
"Oh? What university?"
"Oxford for me. Margaret Hall for Catherine."[2][3]
Quatre smiled wryly after downing a spoonful of his soup. "I was slated to go to Oxford next year. Just finished Eton, as a matter of fact." He glanced, wide-eyed, at Trowa. "How's Oxford? What do you do there? I've always wondered how university life was all about."[4]
Trowa shrugged, still holding on to Quatre's hand. "It's not what it's cracked up to be, Quatre. It's really nothing much but a bunch of spoiled undergraduates running around in caps and gowns, getting drunk and raising hell."[5]
"Have you done that?"
"No, but I've been rusticated one time for ditching chapel for a week," Trowa chuckled, eliciting a broad, bright smile from the boy.[6]
"You're just like your father. When are you leaving?"
"Hilary term starts on January." Trowa regarded him keenly and then added, "I do come home for holidays, and I'll write you as well--give you all the sordid details of undergraduate life at Balliol College."[7]
"I'll miss you."
"You won't. You'll be too busy raiding Dad's library."
A light danced in Quatre's eyes. "Yours, too, I hope…"
"No. Stay away from mine. Not one book gets burnt from my shelves, do you understand? I keep an inventory list of all the titles hidden there, so don't even think about it."
Quatre laughed and leaned down, kissing him squarely on the lips. He pulled away to lean his forehead against Trowa's.
"You're stiff, you're bossy, and you're a sad killjoy," he murmured.
**********
Quatre's dinner was whisked away at about seven o'clock, the time when the family gathered for their dinner. His fever had gone away by then, and he felt relatively stronger, but he was still made to stay in his room.
"Rest--that's what you need, dear," Dorcas said as she dragged him back to bed. "I guarantee you you'll be as good as new tomorrow, just in time to celebrate Christmas."
"But I'm bored! There's nothing to do here!"
"Better to be bored than to be sick, Quatre."
Dorcas stood before him, placing her hands on her hips as she gave him the once-over. The boy stared back fretfully but didn't push things.
"Well--am I allowed to wash at least?"
"I suppose so. I reckon you've been sweating all day."
His bath was ready in half an hour, and Qautre indulged himself in the warm water gratefully, feeling the last traces of yesterday's psychological grime get washed away along with the sweat and the dirt that clung to him.
He put on fresh clothes and combed his hair. He was about to drag himself back to bed when his eyes happened to fall on the window, and they widened.
"Snow!" he cried, hurrying over to peer out.
It was, indeed, snowing--albeit lightly. Quatre watched the tiny flakes descend, capturing the light coming from the house and floating off in delicate, luminous crystals before disappearing once again in the darkness.
"That's it," he muttered, rushing to the bed and tearing off a thick, woolen blanket. "I'm going out, and I don't give a toss if I get my backside roasted by Dorcas."
He threw the blanket around his shoulders and scurried out of his room, taking care to pause at every corner of the hallways and peer cautiously around. Then, trying hard to keep himself from making too much noise, he hurried in the general direction of the front door.
He was about a dozen feet from it when he heard the voice.
"Stop right there!"
Quatre skidded to a halt and turned around, muttering a small curse. He locked eyes with Trowa--who was leaning against a nearby wall, half-hidden in the shadows--and smiled.
"Nice try," the young man said as he pushed himself away from the wall and ambled over to the boy, who stood squirming impatiently under his blanket.
"It's snowing."
"I know."
"And I feel better."
"I know."
"I'm bored."
"I know."
"But I'll just die in my room if I stay another minute!"
"I know."
Trowa had now reached him and was staring at him, a look of no small amusement lighting up his face. Then he nodded in the direction of a nearby window.
"You can watch the snow from there," he said. "Come on."
Taking the boy's hand in his, he led Quatre to the window and stood beside him as they gazed out in silence. Quatre watched the snow lightly dust every surface it touched, feeling that familiar sense of comfort set in at the sight and at the memories the crystalline flakes stirred in him. There was that sting, of course, that inevitable regret. But along with it came a vague sense of hope as well, of knowing that he can still pick up the pieces and make the best of the path in which he'd now found himself.
Without even knowing it, he moved his hand in Trowa's, shifting it until he had their fingers intertwined, and he held on tightly.
"Carolers are here," Trowa presently said, and sure enough, just beyond their visual range, a chorus of voices rang in the night, sending shivers up and down Quatre's spine.
"Here we come a-wassailing
among the leaves so green
Here we come a wand'ring so fair to be seen
Love and joy come to you and to your wassail too
And God bless you and send you a happy new year
And God send you a happy new year.
"We are not daily
beggars who beg from door to door
But we are neighbor's children whom you have seen before
Love and joy come to you and to your wassail too
And God bless you and send you a happy new year
And God send you a happy new year.
"We have a little purse
made of ratching leather skin
We want some of your small change to line it well within
Love and joy come to you and to your wassail too
And God bless you and send you a happy new year
And God send you a happy new year.
"God bless the master of
this house likewise the mistress too
And all the little children that round the table go
Love and joy come to you and to your wassail too
And God bless you and send you a happy new year
And God send you a happy new year."[8]
"I've been meaning to tell you," Trowa said, still looking out, "that I've finished your wreath. It took some doing and a lot of glue, but I finally made it--without Catherine's help, either."
"Glue?" Quatre blinked. "You're supposed to use wire to hold them together."
"Glue's more secure."
"Must've been pretty messy."
"Don't even go there."
Quatre smiled as he continued to watch the snow fall. "I'm staying up tonight--you know, to meet Christmas."
"I'm locking my door. No one's waking me up at midnight for whatever holiday."
"God, you really are a sad killjoy, Trowa Barton."
Trowa only laughed lightly in response, squeezing the boy's hand gently as he did. And with the sound of youthful voices raised in glorious melody filling the night outside and the quiet falling of snow peppering the darkness, Quatre thought he'd just caught a glimpse of heaven.
~*~The End~*~
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
[1]Peers were members of the House of Lords and, along with the House of Commons, met at an annual session--the period between January or February and August.
[2]This fic being set somewhere in the middle parts of England, I figured that the most sensible place to send Trowa would be Oxford, not Cambridge.
[3]Margaret Hall was my own invention. Women at this time didn't enjoy the benefit of higher education. Thought I'd change history a bit here.
[4]Eton was (and still is, I believe) a private school that catered largely to the children of the wealthy.
[5]Oxford really benefited the "real" scholars--that is, students who were poor and who were able to attend the university through a scholarship. Children of peers were notoriously dissipated and didn't care a jot about their education, seeing as how college was never really needed in taking over the father's seat and in ruling over tenants. Oxford and Cambridge were essentially "finishing schools" for the sons of the well-off.
[6]Being "rusticated" means being suspended.
[7]Hilary term was one of four terms in Oxford, the rest being Easter Term, Trinity Term (begins in June), and Michaelmas Term (begins in October).
[8] "Here We Come A-Wassailing"