Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ In the Arms of the Angel ❯ Quatre - 4 ( Chapter 8 )

Part VIII

Breathe.

The powder shifted like dunes as Quatre twisted the baggie in his fingers. He watched as fine powder slipped over itself, filling another corner. He liked playing with the Dust while it was still in its package, for some reason it grounded him. It soothed him, almost hypnotizing him. The Dust called out to him seductively, like a woman waiting the return of her lover. He reclined on his couch, the balcony doors open to let the October breeze in. He had been back at work for a week, now, and he never wanted to go back. It was hell being in that office staring at paperwork all day long. Quatre knew that he would never last if he continued to work at Winner Enterprises. But he knew that there was no where else for him to go. He was twenty-three going on fifty. He reshaped the baggie in his fingers, a raptor gaze on the shifting Dust.

He wasn't good enough. That much was obvious, especially when he looked at himself in the mirror. He leaned his head back, gazing at the freckled ceiling. He stretched his arms out along the back of the couch; the baggie still danced in his fingers.

When was it that he had realized the futility of his life? When was it that he knew that no matter what, he would always fall short? His eyes roamed over the textured ceiling. It had to have been when he was still a child, at least before he met Instructor H. That had been a large part of why he had become a Gundam pilot. He felt that maybe, just maybe he could prove himself to people, show that he was at least worth something, but in the end he had still fallen short. He closed his eyes against the onslaught of memories -- the ever-present cold glare in Wufei's eyes after the ZERO incident that never went away, the blank stares that Trowa still gave him, the lack of confidence that radiated in waves from his members of the board -- it was all there waiting for him to see. He wasn't able to not see the memories, the proof of his failure; he had to look. Everyday. It wasn't that he wanted to wallow in the pain or feel sorry for himself -- he wasn't really sure why he had to watch his failures repeat themselves everyday, but they did and he had to watch. He wished that he could just let everything go and move on -- whether in life or in death, it didn't matter to him. He just wanted to be at peace.

He hated himself, what he had become, what he was born as, who he was. He couldn't have stopped it or prevented it; it was just who he was.

Did he even know who he was?

Quatre sat up at that, propping himself up by his elbows resting on his knees. The baggie twirled between his knees. The last time that he had really, honestly felt good about himself was in the last battle piloting Sandrock. A part of him had remained in the machine as it burned in the field after the Eve Wars. A part of him would never return, and he feared that it had been the best part of him. A part of him had died, smoldering in the fading flames. Ever since, he had immersed himself in the corporation, slowly being eaten alive by the same people who didn't trust him. He had given everything up to be Winner Enterprises, and he never knew why. He thought that it might have been because of his Father's death, but it didn't really strike him as the complete truth. After all, why, if he didn't obey his father in life, why would he obey him in death? It didn't make sense, and it was slowly strangling Quatre. His mind turned back to the last question -- did he know who he was?

No.

He had no clue. He could list off several things that he was, but they didn't define him. He had been a Gundam pilot, true, but that wasn't who he was. Though it was a part of him, he was so much more -- unless he wasn't anything. He could be nothing, and all of the things he had done were just masks, like the joker that Duo wore, or the silence that so befitted Trowa. His mask was his life. He thought that there had to be something to him, but he couldn't find anything to prove the claim. All he could find was that he was Mr. Winner, CEO of Winner Enterprises, a company and a persona he had never wanted in the first place. Ah, the scars from our childhood, the mould from our parents.

Breathe.

Tears were falling down his face as the baggie twirling in his fingers blurred in and out of focus. He wiped his eyes with the back of his free hand as he forced himself to breathe. He would suffocate if he went back to work, he was never meant to be there. He was an artist, a musician, a lover, a dreamer, not a politician or a CEO. But he had no music left inside him, and he certainly had no one to love. His heart twisted and his stomach plummeted, as the tears became sobs. He couldn't even dream anymore.

Breathe.

His shook his head, he didn't want to breathe. It took too much effort to breathe, and if he breathed, then he would have to continue to face life, and he surely wasn't up to that standard. He really didn't care anymore; it wasn't as if he had anything to live for. Who would miss him if he left? He leaned back against the couch bringing the back of his hand holding the baggie, to his eyes. Trowa would care, unless he was putting on a wonderful act for Quatre's benefit. Quatre closed his eyes, silently negating his last thought. Sure, it was true, Trowa had disappeared after the last war, leaving not a trace, and even Heero hadn't been able to find him. Slowly, after about a year, calls began trickling in, and short, but wonderful conversations with Trowa had brightened up Quatre's day.

It hadn't been enough.

Breathe.

Quatre forced himself to remain calm as his thoughts inevitably took him back to those teetering days of uncertainty -- just before he had first danced with the Angel. He had been depressed already from the constant drain on him from work. Everyone expected him to be God and he had stepped up to the plate. How he had wished, with all his might that he might be free of the wretched company, but no such saving firestorm plagued Winner Enterprises, and he was forced into another day of pain.

He couldn't talk to anyone, Heero and Duo never returned his calls, and Wufei would have just lectured him. He thought about Relena, but she was such a bitch that he really didn't think he could have kept himself civil in her presence. He couldn't unload all of his problems on anyone else, anyway, even if he had been able to talk to someone. They were his shortcomings, and he had to deal with them, so he smiled warmly at Trowa on the rare occasions he would call, lying as he reassured Trowa that he was fine.

Then the Angel came.

Breathe.

No.

Breathe.

Quatre sobbed into his hands, face tilted up to the sky, hands slipping as they became coated with bitter tears.

Breathe.

He thought of his friends, especially Duo. If anyone could understand what he was going through, it would be him, but Duo's whereabouts were unknown, and he had given up trying to find him almost five months ago. It was a fruitless search, and Quatre had had his own problems to deal with. But he knew that Duo would understand. He and Duo were too similar; it was just that their masks differed.

Breathe.

Quatre's façade was simple -- one of kindness and love. It was easy to wear the mask because he was raised with the idea anyway, however, he didn't know anymore where the façade ended and He began. Was he nothing more than his façade? Did he, as in Quatre, no longer exist? Was he just Mr. Winner now?

Breathe.

He wished that Trowa were here now. Maybe he could talk to him. Trowa had been understanding ever since they had returned from the hospital, and he had actually been listening. Quatre smiled at the kindness that had been radiating from Trowa in the past few months. It didn't seem as if Trowa hated him or thought that he was weak. But, Quatre knew. His smile faded as he stared at the ceiling. He was nothing, and no one could change that, not even himself.

Breathe.

Whatever had once been at the core of him had long since disappeared leaving Quatre dangling in space, trying to gather the pieces of himself together again.

He always fell short.

Breathe.

He was nothing.

Breathe.

It wasn't fair that he should be left floating without an anchor. But then again, life was not fair. And if there was anyone who understood that sentiment, it was Quatre. So many things had gone wrong in his life that he had lost count, and the only thing he knew for sure, was that he a failed everyone he had ever met.

He had failed himself.

Breathe.

He watched the baggie dance through his fingers.

"What the fuck is in your hand?" The door slammed punctuating Trowa's anger. Quatre cowered, gazing at the Angel Dust. He could see Trowa moving toward him. "Fuck, Quatre, what the hell is going on?" Quatre closed his eyes; tears streaming down his cheeks. Didn't anyone want to listen? Didn't anyone care?

Obviously not.

"It's Angel Dust. I was watching it. I was thinking." His voice was worn and soft from crying, but he didn't care. If no one cared about him, then why should he care about himself? Trowa's fingers closed around his wrist, yanking the bag out of Quatre's vision. Quatre raised his eyes to look at Trowa.

"What were you going to do with it?" Trowa's voice was deadly calm. Quatre shivered, he hadn't ever heard Trowa this angry before.

"Nothing. I was just watching it." Trowa's eyes flashed.

"Where the fuck did you get it?" Trowa yelled, his anger reverberating around the room. Quatre shrank back; wrist still caught up in Trowa's hand.

"I already had it from before." Trowa leaned close. Quatre could feel his hair moving with Trowa's breath.

"You've been using this whole time, then? You've been lying to me?"

Breathe.

Quatre went numb. How could Trowa think that he was lying? How could Trowa accuse him of such madness? He shook his head violently from side to side, unable to find his voice. His mouth worked as Trowa's face twisted into an angry mask. No. He hadn't lied to Trowa; he couldn't lie to Trowa. Not since he OD'd, he couldn't even think of lying to Trowa. Despite everything that had happened, he couldn't even bring himself to hate Trowa. No. He tried to get his voice to work, but only shocked air fell from his mouth. Trowa's grip on his wrist grew tight and Quatre whimpered at the pain.

Breathe.

"How could you, Quatre? How could you?" Trowa's voice broke with emotion, one that Quatre couldn't identify. Quatre shook in Trowa's grasp and glare.

"I didn't." Trowa narrowed his eyes.

"Don't lie to me Quatre, don't fucking lie to me." Trowa's words hissed through clenched teeth. "You were caught, you'll only hurt yourself more by lying."

"I'm not!" Quatre cried out. "You're hurting me, Trowa! I haven't done anything! I promise!" Trowa released his wrist and he fell back against the couch, still clutching the drugs.

"I don't believe you. I can't believe that you would lie to me. How fucking hurtful can you be?" All of Quatre's fear washed away as his anger came surging forward. He jumped up shouting at Trowa.

"Me?" Incredulity colored his anger. "You can't believe me? When have I ever lied to you Trowa? I've never lied, and I've never hated you until now." Quatre willed his body to stop shaking, but it refused to listen.

Breathe.

"Yes, Trowa, I do feel this desperate need to waltz with the Angel, again, but I don't! It's hard, Trowa, everyday having to go into that God forsaken place and pretend that I'm happy! I can't take it anymore! That's why I took this shit," he threw the baggie at Trowa as hard as he could, "in the first place, because I was alone. No one listened, no one cared, least of all those who were supposed to be my friends!" Quatre turned away from Trowa, who was standing there in shock, holding the Angel Dust in his hand. Trowa moved to talk to Quatre, placing a warm hand on his shoulder.

"But I'm here now." Quatre turned to Trowa with dead eyes, void of all life and backed toward the front door. He opened the door and shook his head.

"No, you're just reminding me of why I took that shit in the first place. If you were really here for me, you wouldn't have jumped to conclusions. You would've listened." The slamming of the door was final as Quatre turned away from his own home.

Breathe.

Fuck you.