Part of the Solace Arc.
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing is copyrighted by Bandai, Sunrise, and the Sotsu Agency. I am not making any money from this.
Summary: Trowa and Quatre meet again as they leave Europe together by freighter and travel to San Francisco. Trowa finds feelings of betrayal resurface while Quatre attempts to convince him that they can work together and become close. Finally, a mysterious stranger complicates things for the two young pilots during their transatlantic voyage.
Warnings: shounen ai, 3+4+3, violence, action, drama, angst, introspection, language, empathic weirdness
Thanks: To Anne for her support and enthusiasm throughout the writing of this fic, the beta reading, and for giving the fic its working title: 'Love Boat'. Thank you to Lady Bast as well for her insight, comments, and support.
] Earth - Marseilles, France - spring AC 195 [
Reaching up and slamming closed the door of his transport truck, Trowa considered the vehicle he'd parked next to in the ship's hold. It was a near twin to his, and the tarp-covered bulk in the back also mirrored his own cargo. The chances of running into Quatre in Marseilles seemed remote but... A voice came from behind him as if cued by that thought.
"Hi! So, we meet again!" Quatre's cheerful greeting echoed throughout the expansive cargo hold of the freighter, unmistakable and somewhat unwelcome.
Trowa knew another meeting with the blond pilot was inevitable, and even though he had been looking forward to such an encounter, he had hoped it wouldn't happen so soon. He still required time to sort out his feelings where the other boy was concerned. In the intervening weeks since he had first met Quatre Raberba Winner, Trowa had spent a great deal of time reflecting upon their meeting and his subsequent stay at Quatre's Anatolia compound.
He didn't do anything wrong, Trowa reminded himself, but the feelings of betrayal lingered despite his best efforts to dismiss them. He'd concluded that it wasn't that Quatre had betrayed him - on the contrary, the other boy had conducted himself in good faith and had demonstrated a remarkable tolerance. What angered Trowa was how easily he had betrayed himself. He'd let his guard down, accepting the other boy as an ally so quickly and without question, only to find that trust had been - however unwittingly - misplaced. Unnerved, he didn't want to put himself back in a position where his confidence would be vulnerable to further exploitation.
It was under the influence of this discomfort that, with a surge of irritation, Trowa gritted his teeth, frowned, and turned to face the other pilot. But he was unprepared for the reality of actually seeing Quatre again. He had not anticipated the way in which his stomach lurched in a giddy, almost pleasurable way, the way his breath caught unexpectedly, or the way his vision suddenly hungered to devour the sight of him. The boy's posture was open and non-threatening, his smile genuine and bright as his voice. Pale hair shining in the harsh light of the cargo hold, and blue-green eyes sparkling in enthusiasm, Quatre was even more beautiful than Trowa remembered him. Beautiful? What are you thinking? Trowa's frown deepened.
Unaffected by the glower, Quatre continued as if Trowa had greeted him warmly, "Isn't it funny how we've ended up in the same place?"
In an attempt to distance himself from the friendliness in the blond's voice, and also to reign in his own disconcerting reactions to the boy, Trowa turned to the side, placing his hands on his hips, and replied coolly, "I'm doing this alone." And he meant it as he said it. Trowa fully intended to remain an independent actor in this next mission against OZ. Regardless of how things stood between them, he would not follow Quatre; he would not become one of his men.
Quatre's smile became a grin as he moved to mimic Trowa's stance, "Of course you are. So am I." The other pilot paused for a moment and added, "But it would be better if we helped each other."
Is he mocking me? Trowa wondered. But, despite the apparent flippancy of the comment, Quatre's words implied two things that were not the least bit teasing. First, the boy was undertaking the mission without support from the Maguanac Corps. That alone piqued Trowa's curiosity. Second, Quatre had just indicated that he had no desire for Trowa to follow him, but rather for the two of them to cooperate, to fight as equals. Slowly Trowa turned his back. Let's see how serious he is, he thought, and spoke as he began to walk away from Quatre. "Think so?" He kept his tone carefully neutral, and his steps slow. Convince me
Before he could reflect on his next words or actions, Quatre found himself moving to follow Trowa and calling out, "Two is always better than one." After a few steps, however, he stopped with a scowl, staring hard at Trowa's slowly retreating figure. The tall pilot was moving deliberately, casually; his gait and carriage dared (or did they beckon?) Quatre to follow him.
Does he want me to follow? Or expect me to? Quatre resisted delving beneath the surface emotions he could passively detect from Trowa in an attempt to answer those questions. The brunet may not know of, or appreciate, the courtesy, but Quatre would know, and his conscience demanded that he treat Trowa with as much respect as possible at the moment. Calm and balanced were the dominant and prevalent emotions Quatre detected, although Trowa's demeanor had been briefly punctured by a confusing succession of what Quatre thought he could identify as annoyance, mild arousal, determination, and then finally curiosity. At the moment, nothing stronger than cool self-possession was present.
Puzzled, Quatre watched Trowa exit the hold via a door which likely led to the upper decks of the ship. When he'd spotted Trowa guiding his truck onto the ship, Quatre had been pleased to see the other pilot. Since Trowa had cut short his stay at Anatolia, Quatre had been anxious for a second meeting; there were so many things he wanted to discuss with him. He had expected a warmer greeting from Trowa than he'd received, however. As Trowa had left Anatolia, he hadn't seemed overly upset - more resigned and vaguely hopeful. Yet on this evening, Trowa's demeanor had been bordering on hostility. Only at first, Quatre noted. Trowa had relaxed and grown curious after their brief exchange.
With a sigh, Quatre shook his head and decided to give Trowa his space for now. Whether the other pilot had desired that Quatre pursue the matter between them immediately was of secondary importance; he didn't want to be pushy - and, on this trip, there would be plenty of opportunity for talking. They were scheduled travel aboard this ship, a container and cargo freighter, the S.S. Destiny, for eleven days to the port of Oakland [1] - two days before the scheduled OZ meeting at the New Edwards Air Force Base.
After collecting his suitcase and verifying his cargo was secure, Quatre made his way to the same door Trowa had used. It did in fact lead to a narrow stairway that would take him to the upper decks of the ship. As he reached the main deck, Quatre was met by the ship's steward, a youthful looking middle-aged man who greeted him politely in German accented English, "Welcome aboard, Master...?"
Quatre set his suitcase down to shake the man's hand, "Winner, Quatre Winner."
"Yes, of course. I should have realised." The man took Quatre's luggage, and indicated Quatre should follow him to the nearest stairwell. "You see, it is uncommon for us to have passengers your age. There is another young man traveling with us. Perhaps you will enjoy each other's company?"
"I'll look forward to making his acquaintance," Quatre replied, following the steward up several flights of stairs to the level where his cabin was located.
"I hope you will find everything comfortable. Two decks down, the galley is open to the passengers at all hours, but meals are served only at appointed times. Breakfast is served from eight-thirty until nine-thirty each morning." The man unlocked the door and set Quatre's suitcase just inside before passing the keycard to the boy. "I shall leave you to get settled since it's late. If you would like a tour of the ship tomorrow or another day, let me know. The ship will be underway within two hours, after the remaining cargo has been loaded and passengers are aboard."
"Thank you," Quatre inclined his head briefly as the steward turned and left, and moved to enter his new home for the next week and a half. [2]
The cabin was far larger than he had expected, Quatre was pleasantly surprised to note the presence of a large desk, a comfortable seating arrangement complete with a vid screen and disc player, and a slightly separate sleeping area containing a pair of single beds. It was framed by heavy drapery in a deep burgundy - presumably for keeping out the light or providing extra privacy should two people find themselves sharing the chamber - and flanked by a built-in wardrobe. The furniture was all fashioned of a real, dark-grained wood and protected by thick layers of glossy varnish. The upholstery was a rich, navy blue and the hardware gleaming, polished brass. At the single starboard-facing window, the curtains were drawn. Quatre stepped over to the window, holding back the drapery to peer out into the night. On the quay the last few vehicles were being rolled into the cargo hold while above, the towering gantry cranes swung large shipping containers onto the deck.
Bringing his suitcase to one of the beds, Quatre busied himself with unpacking. Going through that rather mechanical procedure he found his thoughts wandering back to Trowa.
Trowa Barton, Quatre mused, letting the syllables of the enigmatic youth's assumed name tumble through his mind. What do I know about you? His chosen name coincided with his past dealings with the Barton Foundation. But since the young pilot was now at odds with the organization, he must have taken the name as a sort of cover? Was there a real, original Trowa Barton? Had there been? Quatre remembered his father speaking only of the Foundation with scorn. Father felt they did more harm than good for the colonies, that their politics bordered on extreme - though their propaganda machine skillfully concealed it, Quatre recalled. That opinion was certainly borne out by the information Trowa had imparted regarding the Foundation's role in Operation Meteor.
So, Trowa was not a political radical. That wasn't much of a revelation. Quatre had sensed in the other boy more of a kindred spirit in terms of their motivations for fighting for the colonies - even though Trowa had ascribed much of his reasoning to a cynical estimation of his own abilities and experience. He's a closet idealist, Quatre decided, smiling now as he cast his mind back to those revealing details of his meeting with Trowa. The other pilot had been wonderstruck by the beauty of the desert, intrigued by the food and the architecture at the compound, and overjoyed by the music they had played together. Those were not emotions one would associate with a burnt out cynic.
But, he hides it so well - even from himself. Quatre frowned as he considered again the weary fatalism that had accompanied the other soldier when he'd launched his attack on Sandrock. It had been a similar feeling by the pool when Quatre had asked him why he fought, and the next day when he had left.
The dreamer who despairs, Quatre chuckled at the contradiction. However, this apparent dichotomy of Trowa's nature was truly no stranger than his own. The pacifist who fights.
Maybe that's part of the attraction? Quatre pondered with a self-conscious smile. Though he was reluctant to indulge such romantic notions, he knew the attraction he felt for the other boy was more than amply returned. And further, the feeling - at least on his part - seemed to run deeper than just a raw physical response. When he'd first sensed Trowa, and when he'd first laid eyes on the other boy, he'd had a peculiar feeling of recognition. Something had been immediately compelling, comfortable, and familiar; though Quatre had thus far been unable to isolate that element. There'll be plenty of time to pursue this - and other things, Quatre hoped silently, and returned his attention to the present.
After closing his suitcase, Quatre stowed it in the bottom of the large wardrobe and collected his toiletry kit, keen to evaluate the bathroom facilities next. Polished white porcelain, shiny chrome, and mirrored walls met Quatre as he flipped on the light in the ensuite. Grinning at the comfortable and roomy design, he was thrilled to see there was even a capacious bathtub. Since the freighter was equipped with its own desalinization plant below, water usage wouldn't be problematic. I wonder if there's a swimming pool? And with that thought, Quatre decided he was feeling far too restless to settle in for the night; a brief excursion to explore some of the ship was in order.
Remembering the chill that had been carried on the early spring breeze, Quatre traded his vest for a cabled sweater in a dark, heathery blue and slid his key card into his back pocket before heading out into the corridor. He intended to at least find the officers' mess and lounge before he retired for the evening. It didn't take him long to locate either, two decks above the main level. The lounge unfortunately faced forward on the ship and its view was obscured completely by containers. The officer's mess faced starboard, like his quarters.
Around him, the ship came to life as the engines were readied for departure. A steady bass vibration permeated the surrounding surfaces, and so it was with a thrill of excitement that Quatre headed to the nearest door leading to the exterior stairway, hoping it would take him to the topmost observation deck. He quickly clambered up the steep metal stairs, his footsteps ringing loudly over the deeper thrum of the ship's engines.
Slightly breathless he arrived at his destination and hurried to the rail to take in the sparkling lights lining the graceful, wide crescent of the Marseilles Port [3]. The myriad architecture of France's oldest city was unfortunately obscured by the night, but the colourful display of the city's illumination more than made up for it in Quatre's estimation. He stepped back from the rail, rotating in a slow 360-degree arc, taking in the other ships arrayed in the harbour, the drawbridges, and the artful curve of the levee beyond which stretched the vast darkness of the Mediterranean. With a contented sigh, Quatre threw his head back to gaze up at the stars; their brightness, diminished by the city glare, was nevertheless spectacular. There was no sky in space.
Turning his attention to the vast span of the ship's deck extending forward, Quatre watched in fascination as the last of the containers were secured and the gantry cranes fell still. The activity at ground level had ceased, and behind him, the ship's smoke stacks were beginning to belch out their thick exhaust. On the sea-side of the ship a pair of valiant looking tugboats was approaching. Dwarfed by the massive freighter, they were there to help guide the cumbersome ship around the breakwater to exit the harbour.
A set of approaching footsteps echoed on the stairs; Quatre turned to greet the newcomer, only to see Trowa arrive. The brunet hesitated, a brief expression of surprise flitting across his features, before he stepped forward, and offered a short nod in greeting. Quatre smiled in return, uncertain how to best respond to the other boy's presence. Giving an imagined shrug, Quatre turned back to the rail to watch a large ship in the distance being guided out to sea on the other side of the levee - it looked like a luxury cruise vessel, lit up like a Christmas tree and brilliant as it approached the dark horizon. A short distance beside him, Trowa came to lean on the railing, his body language slightly wary as his eyes followed Quatre's earlier observations.
Attempting a discreet observation of Trowa, Quatre turned slightly toward the tall pilot but continued to observe the activity on the water between covert glances at the other boy's profile. Trowa had donned a black wool pea coat to fend off the nippy night air. Its high collar obscured the line of his jaw and chin while the dark colour of the fabric contrasted with his skin tone, making the boy look ethereally pale in the dim light and enhancing the shaded curve of his cheekbones. A fluttering breeze ruffled through Trowa's hair revealing his expression, which was typically placid, and yet there was a hint of something more in his eyes as they gazed straight ahead into the night. Something sad almost - something quietly wistful - tinged their aspect.
Trowa's earlier hostility had vanished, to be replaced by a pensive expectancy. Quatre wondered if this was Trowa's attempt at an overture of amicability - or at the least a proposition of alliance if not friendship. I should say something, he realised as his mind nervously scoured itself for what exactly he should be saying. Let's see... how about, 'Hello! How are you? How's your Gundam? Impressive as always, I presume. Killed many bad guys lately?' Quatre bowed his head to stifle an amused snort against his sleeve, receiving an odd look and raised eyebrow from Trowa. He coughed, attempting to cover his outburst. Don't be daft, he admonished himself. This is important.
While Quatre was still floundering for just the right words, Trowa surprised him by speaking. "We could help each other," he began in a soft, even tone, gently stressing 'could' to make it clear that the potential arrangement, was just that - only potential.
Quatre sobered immediately, the delicacy of the situation weighing heavily upon him as he considered his reply. "We have complementary capability," he pointed out.
"I agree. Whatever else may be between us, I respect your capability and skill." Trowa spoke frankly, and Quatre realised the compliment was genuine and not an attempt at manipulation through flattery.
Quatre caught his breath and held it. If Trowa were going to be this direct with him, then he should be as straightforward as he could be too. A lot was riding on his ability to convince the other pilot that he was not being manipulated either. "But you're not sure you can trust me again? Is that the problem?"
"Something like that," Trowa gave a vague smile. "But I think we..." He broke off with a sharp frown and turned abruptly as what sounded like a herd of feral monkeys began ascending the stairs.
Loud and drunk, feral monkeys, Quatre amended his estimation when a group of three twenty-something youths burst onto the deck. Two men and one woman dressed as backpacking tourists and smelling of alcohol, giggling and talking far too loudly stumbled over to the rail, oblivious to the platform's other two occupants. Quatre felt a light touch on his arm, which drew his attention back to Trowa whose fingers rested at his elbow.
"We can talk later," the brunet said before removing his hand, heading back to the stairs, and disappearing below deck. Throwing a disappointed sigh over his shoulder, Quatre presently followed Trowa's lead and trudged back down to his cabin.
Quatre missed breakfast the next morning. Disappointed that he'd overslept and had missed not only breakfast but also the ship's passage through the Straits of Gibraltar, Quatre struggled out of bed with a groan. Bleary eyed, he staggered to the window of his cabin, pulling the curtain back and looking out in curiosity. The deep blue of the Atlantic stretched, nearly featureless, as far as he could see, fading and blending with the paler blue of the sky at the horizon. Patchy clouds scudded above, indicating the presence of a strong wind. I wonder if I'll get to see a storm at sea, he pondered idly, half hoping for such a dramatic event, but knowing that the owners of ships such as the Destiny spent fortunes on reliable weather prediction to avoid such complications.
Determined not to miss any more of his day, Quatre hurried to shower, dress, and take some time to wander the decks of the ship before lunch. He received an impromptu tour of the engine rooms - a rather hellish catacomb of sublime and antiquated machinery - and found the swimming pool, sheltered inside on the main deck. It was small, but it would suffice.
He saw Trowa only briefly that day, at lunch when he shared a table with the other pilot and a middle-aged couple who actually lived in Marseilles. Though their English was heavily accented, Quatre enjoyed hearing Claude and Marie tell of their multitude of voyages throughout their lives. Apparently, traveling by assorted cargo vessels had become a passion for them in their early twenties. Trowa remained quiet, but Quatre could see he was attending to their tales with great interest.
The remainder of the day was restful and lazy for Quatre. Most of his time he spent at the prow of the ship soaking in the scenery and fresh air, hoping to spot any signs of indigenous sea life. In the evening he looked for Trowa, but the other boy wasn't to be found - at least not easily. Maybe tomorrow we can talk, Quatre thought that night as he allowed the rhythm of the ship to lull him to sleep.
He made it to breakfast the next morning, albeit a little late - too late to catch Trowa, in fact. He was just coming around the corner approaching the dining room when he saw the other boy exiting the corridor through an exterior door. Calling out to catch Trowa's attention was an option, but Quatre didn't feel comfortable pursuing the enigmatic pilot in such an overt fashion. Instead, he just watched Trowa leave, hoping their paths would cross later that day.
After breakfast, where he ended up meeting the three backpackers (all of whom were nursing hangovers) more formally, Quatre wandered the decks aimlessly, hoping for such a chance encounter with Trowa. But still he didn't see him, nor was he at lunch that day. He did say we could talk later. Is he avoiding me? Later, he went for a swim to burn off his frustrated energy.
The ship was blessed with a small, well-stocked library of which Quatre decided to avail himself, in the desire to both fend off his increasing irritation at Trowa's elusiveness and his own encroaching boredom. There he briefly encountered the eighth passenger traveling aboard the Destiny. As he entered the library, a red haired man of indeterminate age looked up at him with ice blue eyes, but said nothing. Quatre made a move to speak a greeting until something in the man's demeanor made him hesitate. Instead he forced a smile and quickly turned his attention to the bookshelves grabbing the nearest text of interest - an art book of murals dating from when the Panama Canal was under construction - and hurried back to his room.
At dinner that evening, Quatre was invited to sit at the Captain's table and was again stymied in his hopes to speak with Trowa. If I didn't know better, I'd think there were a conspiracy afoot, he groused silently while listening to the Captain regale him with stories of pirates and historical drama on the high seas. Something peculiar caught his attention that evening, though his mind didn't linger on it for long since he was attending to the dinner conversation of the ship's officers. The red haired man seemed to be watching Trowa, and nothing in his eyes struck Quatre as remotely friendly.
By the time the meal at the Captain's table had wrapped up, much to Quatre's dismay, Trowa was already gone. I will find him tonight. He checked to see if Trowa were in his quarters first. Then he went to the library, the officer's lounge, and walked around the deck - again. Eventually, Quatre had covered all the familiar territory of the ship, including a brief sojourn below deck, and was now experiencing more than a little annoyance.
Stopping inside near the stairs for a moment, Quatre closed his eyes. It wouldn't be a violation of trust to just feel around for Trowa, surely. Quatre let his mind relax slightly, concentrating of the murmuring of emotion that existed as a constant background whisper in his mind. As he focused his attention he began to disentangle the threads of feeling around him, to discard the unlikely candidates in search of that calm balance he associated with Trowa - like a scent serving to identify the other boy. It was down - beneath him. Quatre opened his eyes and descended to the deck housing the crew lounge and crew mess. The engineers had invited him to join them one evening for cards - could that be what Trowa was doing?
He found the door to the lounge and hesitated for a moment. Would the other pilot be upset at his presence? Or think that he'd been followed here? Not necessarily, after all, Quatre reminded himself, he had been extended an invitation. He put his hand on the cool metal of the door handle, took a breath, and entered.
Although he was immediately assailed by a hazy cloud of tobacco smoke, Quatre managed to keep from coughing. People still smoke that rubbish? He glanced about the room, taking in his surroundings before he made a decision. One man was sprawled on a long sofa snoring quietly with a magazine draped over his chest while in the corner three men and Trowa sat around a small round table. He is here! Quatre sighed in relief, smiling as the brunet raised his eyes to meet Quatre's.
"Hey, it's young Master Winner!" the bearded man seated to Trowa's right called out gesturing to Quatre to join them. It was Jim, Quatre recalled from his tour of the engine rooms.
Seated on the other side of Trowa was Barney, who gave a pleasant wave. "Are you gonna join us tonight, kid?"
"I was hoping to," said Quatre.
"We'll see if you live up to your name," the third engineer, Stefan, teased in his thick German accent.
"Please, call me Quatre..." He approached the table, meeting Trowa's eyes again.
"Hello," the other pilot spoke softly in greeting, and seemed - if anything - pleased to see him.
"Yeah, get over here, pull up a seat. We were just about to deal. Stefan can redistribute the chips." Jim gestured enthusiastically, while Stefan collected the chips on the table to divide them into fifths. Quatre grabbed the chair indicated and dragged it to position himself between Jim and Stefan, and opposite Trowa.
"We're playing Jacks to Open - do you know that game?" Stefan asked as he counted out the blue chips.
"Um, no, I don't.... I haven't actually played cards much," Quatre admitted with an embarrassed grin. "But I'd love to learn."
"You know five card draw poker?" Jim prompted, shuffling the cards with an astonishing dexterity.
"No, I'm afraid I don't..."
"That's okay, the rules are simple enough - The skill is all in how the game is played." [4]
Barney explained the game to Quatre, making sure the blond understood each point before going onto the next. Aside from keeping track of the jargon, there wasn't anything complex about playing - and it was easy to remember the ranking of the hands just by considering the probabilities of each arrangement. Declining the beer Jim offered him, opting instead for water, Quatre settled and waited for play to commence.
As everyone anteed and Jim dealt the first hand, Quatre was interested to note the different ways each player handled their cards. Trowa allowed his cards to lie face down until he had all five, and then he picked them up to give them a bland examination. Barney eagerly collected each card as it was dealt to him, and made a big show of rearranging his cards with each successive addition to his hand. Stefan simply took his cards one at a time, arranging them in the order they were dealt, spreading them in a tight fan, which he held with both hands. Jim picked his cards up to look at them after he finished dealing, frowning at them contemplatively and then setting them back face down on the table. Quatre followed Stefan's lead during the deal.
Quatre was pleased to end up with a pair of Kings in his first hand - but the other three cards were of no help, a Jack, a two, and an eight - each a different suit. Now Jim went around the table, asking each player if they could open. The rule was, someone could open only if he had a pair of Jacks or better. All three men before Quatre declined to open, so he had to. Looks like I might have the best hand so far, he realised - though the option had never passed to Jim.
"I'll open with ten," the blond said, placing his modest bet in the center of the table with the antes.
Jim tossed his bet to the pile as he spoke, "I'm in." Trowa folded, leaning back in his chair; the others added their chips to the pot.
Quatre asked for three cards in the exchange round, though he didn't receive anything helpful. Thinking about the odds of the game, a pair of Kings seemed like a fairly good hand, but Quatre wasn't confident. He noted a surge of pleasure as Jim examined the three cards he requested. Barney showed a single Ace and asked for four cards - optimism followed by disappointment came from the man as he examined his new cards. Finally Stefan asked for just two cards. He's going for a straight or a flush, Quatre thought. Or he's bluffing that he is?
Trowa's eyes were on him, calmly observing. He's evaluating me? Quatre met the brunet's gaze evenly but Trowa didn't look away, rather he quirked an eyebrow, and gave Quatre a miniscule, lopsided smile.
The bet was to Quatre. Still feeling conservative about his pair of Kings, Quatre placed another white chip in the pot.
Jim smiled at him, "I'll see your ten and raise you ten." Quatre nodded and looked to Barney, who folded.
Stefan hesitated, pursing his lips and studying his cards, "I'll fold."
Curiosity prompted Quatre to see the raise and call Jim's hand. Revealing three fours, the engineer won the hand, "Better luck next time, kid" he said with a wink, collecting his modest winnings as everyone tossed their cards back to him to shuffle and deal.
Everyone anteed and received their cards; Quatre was disappointed with his lot - there weren't any strong possibilities even if he decided to draw new cards - an Ace, a King, and rubbish. Trowa on the other hand was radiating a quiet confidence and opened the bet with twenty. Hopeful, Barney stayed, while Stefan was nearly giddy with anticipation as he tossed his bet in and resumed a discreet fidgeting with his cards. Quatre folded in the wake of the emotions he detected from the others, and Jim stayed feeling comfortable with his hand.
Asking for two new cards, Trowa's confidence increased to something bordering on smugness. Barney received two new cards as well, and feigned enthusiasm, but Quatre could detect his hidden disappointment. He's trying to bluff, but Trowa's got a good hand. Quatre turned his attention to Stefan as he nervously asked for just a single card indicating a strong potential for a flush or a straight. Turning over the new card, Stefan stiffened and rapidly stifled a grin. His emotions were now euphoric. He got it. Quatre struggled not to grin sympathetically, but rather looked back to Trowa, who was also observing Stefan's glee. Finally, Jim took three cards and indicated his disgust by taking one look and tossing the cards down onto the table in a preemptive fold.
Quatre found himself leaning forward in anticipation as Trowa opened the next round with a bet of thirty. It was more than the previous openings had been, but not too much. He's wanting to grow the pot, and since Stefan is so happy with his hand, he can do that - and find out just how confident Stefan is. Predictably, Barney stayed in the game, rather recklessly in Quatre's estimation, but then, Barney didn't have the same insight as he did.
"I'll see your thirty, and raise you fifty," said Stefan, tossing his chips into the pile with a clatter.
Jim gestured at his cards dismissively, indicating he had indeed folded.
Trowa deadpanned, "I'll see that and raise you another fifty."
Barney, trying to exude confidence, met both raises.
Stefan stared at Trowa, his eyes narrowing. "I'll call..." He carefully placed another fifty in front of him.
Quatre held his breath, waiting for Trowa to reveal his cards. A straight flush? Four of a kind?
Four queens were laid on the table. Stefan groaned in frustration tossing down his eight high straight.
"Oh ho!" Jim crowed, "Four ladies and a straight!"
Spreading his cards on the table the third engineer confirmed Quatre's hunch. He had nothing.
While the others offered him congratulations, and Stefan condolences, Trowa pulled the chips towards himself. Quatre was beginning to see the appeal of the game.
The next few hands were dealt and discarded since no one could open the betting and the pot slowly grew from the antes. However, Quatre found himself feeling more confident, and was eager for a hand he could play with. His inexperience could be used to his advantage, he decided.
When he was dealt two pair, Quatre began to feel quietly optimistic. It was far more likely to win this game with such a modest hand than with the far less likely but flashier sort. Although, Quatre did hope he'd get to see something like a flush or a full house in his own cards that evening.
Trowa didn't open, so it passed to Barney who did, betting twenty. Promptly, Stefan folded; the man remained mildly irritable since his straight failed to win him the earlier round. Quatre put in his twenty, and then raised the pot by ten. A modest, but confident move, he hoped. Jim and Trowa both stayed, with Trowa feeling hopeful.
Receiving three cards in the draw Barney swore softly, eliciting laughter from the other engineers and an amused look from Trowa. The emotion was genuine, Quatre anticipated Barney wouldn't stay in this hand long - despite his recklessness. Quatre received but one card, a King. He'd be able to bluff a straight, a flush, or a full house, he decided. It was worth a try. Jim was most pleased with his three cards and Trowa was, once more, optimistic after receiving two new cards.
Barney folded.
Now, eyes turned to Quatre. He pursed his lips thoughtfully and raised his eyes inquisitively, asking, "Which is higher? A flush or a full house?"
Answering first, Jim said, "A full house."
Quatre raised his eyebrows, nodded, and made his bet, "Thirty then. No... Forty."
Jim stayed.
Trowa regarded Quatre thoughtfully and then put his bet on the table before speaking in a carefully inflected, yet bland tone, "And I'll raise you forty."
Eyes locked for seemed like an eternity, Quatre resisted a deeper reading of the brunet, relying only on surface feelings, body language, and past experience to evaluate the other pilot's strategy. He knows I'm exaggerating my hand but is hoping to grow the pot and get Jim to fold. He must have a good hand though, so it's not a complete bluff.
"I'll fold," Quatre said and laid his cards down, refusing to lose any more of his chips to Trowa.
Glancing between the two boys in puzzlement, Jim sighed in resignation, placing his hand face down in the table. "It's all yours," he said to Trowa.
Again, several hands were dealt with no one able to open the betting until Quatre received with great pleasure two pair - Queens over Jacks. He was prepared to open the betting, but to his surprise, Barney did when the option passed to him. The man felt happy with his cards. Trowa was contemplative, Jim bored, and Stefan - still grumpy.
Barney's bet had been twenty, modest, yet it was enough to begin encroaching on the dwindling piles of chips resting before most of the other players. So far, Trowa had accumulated the most winnings, while Barney intermittently glared at his sparse collection. However, Stefan was the only one to fold. The others stayed in but no one raised the bet. Playing it safe, waiting for their new cards.
Exchanging but a single card, Barney didn't seem terribly interested in the card he received. He's probably got two pair as well - but it's unlikely to be stronger than mine. Quatre declined any new cards, deciding to let the others believe he had been dealt a strong hand. After showing an Ace, Jim drew four cards, which he seemed conservatively pleased with. Trowa exchanged two and was disappointed.
In a bid Quatre deemed rather overzealous, Barney opened the next round of bidding with a bet of fifty. He bets too much too quickly... Quatre frowned. Predicting that Jim and Trowa would fold regardless of what he bet, the blond met and raised Barney's bet by twenty. The other two did fold, Barney called, and the young pilot won the hand as he'd anticipated. I think I'm getting the hang of this. Quatre was pleased as he collected his winnings, stacking the colourful chips carefully before him.
Eventually, each hand began to blend together. At times the pot would grow very rich - especially in the wake of several hands wherein no one could open. As Quatre settled into the give and take of the game, learning how to evaluate the strategies of the other players and to subtly vary his own in response, one by one the three engineers dropped from the game. Between he and Trowa, they won the majority of the hands. Quatre discovered that Trowa was most adept at carefully pacing his betting and choosing when to bluff versus when to fold in order to maximise the contributions of the other players to the pot. Whenever Trowa's hands were called, they were good, but a number of times, Trowa would win by scaring the others into folding, but his cards would not be revealed, leaving Quatre to wonder how often the other boy was bluffing. In fact, Quatre found it increasingly difficult for him to tell when the other pilot was bluffing. He knows about my empathy, Quatre realised. He could be manipulating that.
At times, Quatre found himself staying in the game longer than he should, adopting a strategy sympathetic to Trowa's, aiding the other boy in his game. Other times, Quatre began to feel as if Trowa were doing the same for him. He found himself under the enigmatic pilot's scrutiny quite often. And whenever Quatre's hand was genuinely good, it seemed as if Trowa were subtly aiding him in terms of how much the brunet bet, how he hesitated - or not.
Once it was only he and Trowa however, it was apparent neither of them would prevail soon, it became more like a game of ping-pong with neither of them missing their strokes. Giving a jaw-cracking yawn, Jim interrupted, "I don't think anyone's going to win this one, kids - at least not tonight! We're all working men here and need to get some sleep, so why don't we start over again another night?"
Both boys stayed to help tidy up after the game, and much to Quatre's delight he found Trowa leaving with him. They walked side by side in silence for a time before Trowa spoke. "Are you sure you've never played poker before?" he inquired with a sidelong glance at Quatre as they ambled down the corridor towards Trowa's cabin.
The blond was exceedingly pleased to find Trowa in a receptive and amicable mood. Perhaps the relaxed setting of the ship was helping the other boy overcome his reservations. Or it's just my stellar personality and good looks, Quatre silently joked to himself, though he couldn't ignore the feelings of attraction that he had been experiencing from Trowa any more than he could deny his own attraction to the other boy.
Quatre laughed, partly at the oddity of the situation with Trowa, and partly in response to the brunet's question. "Quite sure," he confirmed. "Gambling's not something I was ever encouraged to pursue..."
"It was a good game. I enjoyed it." The way Trowa delivered that statement, it sounded almost like a guilty confession. This puzzled Quatre, but then many things about Trowa were puzzling to him.
"Me too. But I think I'll leave you guys alone next time. I don't think the others were having as much fun as we were." Quatre stopped with Trowa as he halted at the door of his cabin.
"No, I suspect they weren't." Trowa's lips curved into a ghost of a smile, and he unlocked his door, "Did you want to come in for a minute?"
"Yes... I've been wanting to talk to you for a while now."
Trowa nodded and they entered the room, which was similarly appointed to Quatre's. Trowa turned on a lamp in the sitting area and perched on the arm of the sofa. "Do you always play to win?"
Quatre sat in the chair near the sofa. "Not always, but most of the time."
"And the other times?"
"Sometimes it's a better strategy to just stop my opponent from winning."
Trowa's smile broadened and he nodded. "Not many people understand that difference."
"'Invincibility lies in the defense...'" quoted Quatre, interested to see Trowa's response.
The other pilot continued smiling as he finished the quote, "'...the possibility of victory in the attack.'"
So we've both read Sun Tzu, Quatre realised, trying - and failing - to ignore the warmth blossoming inside him and the way he couldn't stop grinning at Trowa. I really like him, he admitted. But there was still the matter of the New Edwards mission; Quatre didn't want to be distracted from that. Taking the direct approach, he prompted, "So, are we allies in San Francisco?"
"I certainly don't want to be your opponent," was Trowa's cagey assent.
"Nor I yours." Quatre acknowledged, and then pressed for a more overt commitment from Trowa, "We'll help each other then?"
"As you said, two is better than one. So, yes."
"Good!" Quatre spoke with more enthusiasm he had intended, wincing inwardly, and hoping he wasn't offending Trowa with his eagerness.
Trowa wasn't offended, but he was growing uncomfortable. He stood, indicating their conversation was at an end. "I'll see you tomorrow then."
"When?" asked Quatre, as he stood and moved toward the door. After the last few days of trying to track down Trowa, he was unwilling to leave such a meeting to chance.
"After breakfast." Trowa spoke with promise in his voice.
Good, he wants to see me tomorrow. Maybe we can get to know each other better - we still have nine days. "Ok, see you then. Good night, Trowa"
"Good night... Quatre."
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tbc.
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Notes:
[1] Nearest freighter port to San Francisco - it's actually is a longer trip nowadays, but I'm assuming some tech advances in ship speed - even though they're still using older engine designs.
[2] I'm using a photo reference of an actual cabin on a container ship to inspire Quatre's cabin here - I was surprised at how posh they really are! For more miscellaneous info on traveling by freighter check out:
www.freightertravel.info
[3] Want to see the Marseilles Port? Check out the Marseille Port Authority's web site at:
www.marseille-port.fr/ANGLAIS/INDEX.HTM
[4] For poker rules and info: