I Will Corrupt You
By karei
Chapter 15
Another peaceful and uneventful week had rolled by, and by the end, there was hardly any remainder of tension between Quatre and Trowa. Things had gotten so quiet around the house that the two of them were bored out of their minds come Friday, and they decided that they had to get out of the house and do something different, even for two hours.
"We could go to a bar," Trowa suggested.
Quatre shook his head. "You don't want to see me with alcohol. It's not pretty."
"Um, all right." Trowa snatched the Calendar section of the paper and began flipping through it. "We could go see a movie."
"We always go see movies."
Trowa growled in frustration, ready to chuck the paper at Quatre. "A play?" he said tensely.
"What's showing?"
"Well, there's a show at the Children's Rep. We could go see that."
He nodded. "That sounds good. Let's go."
As they drove to the Children's Repertory Theatre, Quatre mused silently about how wonderful it was that the pieces between himself and Trowa had fallen together so neatly. 'Something must be keeping us together,' he smiled, thinking of Lucinda as the words rolled through his brain.
He turned to Trowa, "I hear this show should be really cute. The highschoolers are putting it on, and they've been working pretty hard, so people say."
"What was it called, again?"
Quatre thought for a moment, trying to remember. "Narnia, I think."
"You mean, those books by C. S. Lewis?"
"I believe so," he shrugged. "At any rate, it should be interesting to see how they pull it off."
"Definitely."
A few minutes later, about fifteen to be exact, Quatre was pulling into a parking spot, smiling in satisfaction that he had actually managed to find a place to park in the overcrowded city. They stood in line for tickets, sighing in relief when it wasn't sold out.
"Looks like they've drawn quite a crowd," Trowa commented.
"Yea," Quatre replied quietly, sort of distantly as he was focusing on the ticket. "Hey, Trowa, we got pretty good seats."
Trowa glanced over his friend's shoulder, checking the seats they had received. "Third row. Not too shabby."
They entered the theatre, promptly claiming their seats as they waited for the show. Reclining into the plush seats, they waited only shortly before the house lights dimmed and the show's opening number began. They watched as the exaggerated characters, who often times made the audience laugh out loud, danced across the stage with vivid and sometimes frivolous motion. Quatre even gasped as a member of the evil choir was suddenly right in his face, staring at him with an odd look, which read neither benign nor malignant. He laughed when she, mere centimeters from his face, exhaled a very soft "boo" and whirled away. As they saw the hero fall, two young girls produced a beautifully harmonized piece which reflected the anguish of the scene.
Bear him as a fallen hero
With solemn honor and dignity
But bear him to a greening meadow
Let spring itself be his eulogy
For spring means rebirth
Though each flower dies
The seeds fall to earth
Take root
And rise
So lay him in a field of flowers
And flowers will bloom
Where he liesSo touching was the moment that when Trowa looked around, he was not surprised to see a few members of the crowd dabbing their eyes with tissues, some forgoing the Kleenex and wiping with the back of their hand. He turned to Quatre to comment, but stopped, seeing the glittering within his friend's eyes.
Quatre was focused solely on the touching moment on stage, so enraptured that he jumped slightly when Trowa tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to see what he wanted, surprised to see Trowa holding out a tissue he got from God knows where. "Thank you," he whispered, smiling as he took the tissue; he was grateful for the darkness in the theatre as he blushed slightly, taking the opportunity to brush Trowa's hand with his own.
"You're welcome," Trowa whispered back, taking his hand away and folding it in his lap with his other hand. When he saw that Quatre was refocused on the stage, he gingerly touched the place that Quatre's hand had brushed his, surprised at the slightly electric sensation that still lingered there.
Later that evening, they returned home, basking in the afterglow of a very well-done show. "I thought that was really cute," Quatre smiled. Trowa merely nodded in accord. "I'm hungry," Quatre continued as he felt his way into the dark kitchen.
"Me too."
"I think a sandwich is in order."
As they sat at the counter, Quatre chewing on a bite of peanut butter and jelly, Trowa taking the crust off his tuna salad sandwich. Trowa looked up across the room momentarily, casually returning his gaze to the task at hand. "You have a message."
Quatre looked back and saw that, indeed, the light on his answering machine was blinking. He got up and hit play, hopping up onto the counter beside it while he listened to the machine spit out its recording.
'You have one new message.' The stale automatic voice of the answering machine gave way to a harsher, more unstable sound. 'Winner, I recommend you call your lawyer.'
Quatre shrugged and slid down off the counter. Trowa looked up with mild concern, but did not catch Quatre's eye, much to his own relief. "How many messages does that make?"
"I don't know. Twenty, I think. Maybe more"
"What's it all about?"
"He's a bit upset with me because I'm smarter than him and he got sacked."
"You seem to be taking his lunacy kind of lightly."
Quatre shrugged again, taking a sip from a glass of water he had poured himself. "He's crazy, but he's not stupid. I don't think he'd do anything rash."
"I don't know about that. That man sounds a bit off in the head. And anyway, isn't this borderline stalking?"
He waved his hand, forcing Trowa to stop. "Really, it's nothing. He's a businessman. A very shrewd one at that. He's not exactly going to go out and attack me or anything." Trowa gave him a look that said 'I don't believe you,' so Quatre continued. "Really, Trowa, I mean it. If he was going to get me, he'd do it his way: legally. Unethically, mind you, but legally."
Trowa shook his head. "If you're certain." However, the look on his face revealed his deeper worry.
Quatre looked back down at his sandwich pensively. He paused for a moment before he spoke. "However, I appreciate that you're watching out for me. Thank you."
"Anytime. That's what friends are for." His eyes went from side to side, with a sort of 'who in hell said that?' expression on his face. It threw him off to call Quatre his friend out loud, but the sort of protective feeling was what startled him most.
He shifted in his seat at this. "Thanks." Quatre was also made visibly uncomfortable by this concept. Having Trowa as his friend was something that he took great pleasure in, and the fact that Trowa had vocalized it made him yet happier; and still, he found himself deeply wishing for something more. But what confused him was the strange newness of this friendship; he only then realized why it was so strange.
Trowa read the discomfort in his tone. "Something wrong?"
"It's just that..." He looked up at Trowa, unable to phrase what he wanted to say. "This is going to sound really stupid, but I've... I've never really had friends before."
"Really?"
"Yea." He traced his finger around the rim of his glass, staring through it.
"Well, that's okay." He turned his face away from Quatre, wanting to laugh at the absurdity of his own statement. "I never really had any either." Suddenly, his heart felt heavy, as if the sadness of his life only just hit him.
"What about your family?"
"Well, I guess Cathy was a good friend," Trowa sighed. "But it was hard to get close to anybody in my family. I had to work all the time, so I barely saw her or anybody else." His mind flashed to the more joyful memories of his youth, which now seemed rather pathetic. Coming home with his first paycheck and seeing the proud look in his parents' - both his parents' - eyes. How his sister and he would sometimes sneak out Friday nights and see a movie, coming home as quietly as possible, avoiding the living room because they feared what they might see in there. They were happy memories then, but they seemed so sad now.
"At least they were there."
"Hardly," Trowa replied bitterly. "Cathy, most of the time, and my mother, sometimes." He sighed deeply. "But let's not play whose-childhood-was-worse. I'm not as big a fan of that game as I used to be."
"Fair enough." Quatre took a bite from his sandwich. "I only wish," he commented between chews, "that I had at least known my family. I'd give anything to see my father or my mother."
"Really?"
Quatre nodded. "Even for five minutes. Just to see them and talk to them. They wouldn't have to be nice or perfect or wonderful; I just want to see them, more than anything I've ever wanted before."
"I guess if I was in your situation, I'd want the same."
"Yea."
"It's just as important to know where you come from as where you're going."
An uncomfortable silence fell between them as neither Quatre nor Trowa knew what to say. They ate their sandwiches wordlessly and Trowa took care of the plates, the slight clinking of ceramic the only sound in the kitchen.
Finally, Trowa, rinsing off the plates, spoke. "Have you been sleeping any better?"
"Huh?" The question threw Quatre off, more by the unexpected break of silence than the question itself. "Oh. Well, yea, I am," he lied.
"Well, that's good." He toweled off the dishes and replaced them in the cupboard. "At least you're not seeing things now," he muttered softly. His eyes widened a little at this. 'Did I just say that aloud'
Quatre quirked an eyebrow. "Implying that you are?"
"You weren't supposed to hear that," he said with a small laugh. "I didn't want to bother you with it, bad dreams and all."
"It's no bother."
Trowa sighed. "This is going to sound stupid, but I think your house may be haunted."
"Haunted?"
"Is there an echo?" Trowa joked. Yet again Quatre was caught by surprise by his jest, but Trowa continued. "But, yes, haunted, by someone dressed like a priest." He looked over and caught Quatre's incredulous look. "I told you it was stupid."
"No, it's not that..." Quatre trailed off, not sure how to frame his question. "Did he happen to have light blonde hair?"
"Yea, how did you know?"
He shrugged. "Lucky guess."
"Quatre?"
"Lucky guess," he repeated firmly.
"All right, I get the hint," Trowa replied, rather coolly. "I just had to double-check that you weren't mis-speaking. I think we know how that can go." He shot Quatre an angry yet knowing look, hoping inside that for once, Quatre would just stop hiding things from him.
Quatre bowed his head sadly. He didn't want to make Trowa worry about his stupid nightmares, but they did still haunt him. He knew of the priest Trowa spoke of, the one with ashen hair and mercury eyes, how he fell, why his soul was destined to wander the earth forever; he knew every detail of that spirit's life. And he wished he could forget it.
"Maybe I should ask a different question," Trowa said slowly. "You still having those nightmares?" His eyes were still fixed on Quatre, his icy look melting only slightly.
Quatre sighed, his face still down. "That priest you were talking about... he was in one of my dreams."
"I figured as much. Why do you think you have to keep hiding things, Quatre? Do you not trust me?"
"I'm sorry. I just didn't want you worrying."
"I understand. I just wish you could be more honest with me."
They fell silent once more and didn't speak again until the next morning. It was the first night that Quatre didn't suffer through a nightmare, but he still slept fitfully. There was a tense knot in his stomach, as if he was standing at the edge of a cliff and was worried he was about to fall in. He woke up when his shoulders hit the floor.
"Hey, Quatre. You awake?" Trowa heard a general moan of discontent from inside. "There's someone here to see you."
Quatre lazily got himself up, throwing on a robe and a mismatched pair of slippers. He sauntered out of the room tiredly, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he made his way to the front door. He was met by a middle-aged man in a khaki-colored police uniform.
"You Quatre Winner?"
"I am. What seems to be the problem?"
The man gruffly held out an envelope for Quatre. "Have a good day, sir," he said when Quatre took the envelope.
Trowa walked into the hallway as Quatre shut the door. "What was it?"
He held up the envelope for a moment so Trowa could see, before proceeding to open it up. When he began reading the letter inside, his face fell in bewilderment. He was mumbling as he re-read the letter, words like 'hearing' and 'defamation of character' coming through in the muttering. Trowa looked over his shoulder, trying to read the letter, but Quatre turned it away, trying to absorb it before he related the information to Trowa.
Eventually, his arm fell, gripping the letter at his side. Trowa looked at him concernedly, seeing the tense expression on his face.
"Is something wrong, Quatre?"
He looked back down at the letter once more to make sure. "I'm being subpoenaed. Johnson is suing me."
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