Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ In the Arms of the Angel ❯ Crossing Paths - 3 ( Chapter 20 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Part XX

He was still--too still. He should be moving, perhaps tossing in his sleep. His face should scrunch up from time to time as pictures passed fleetingly through his mind. He should sigh periodically as he was known to do in his sleep. But instead, he was silent and still. His face showed nothing, his breath was regulated. The pulsing of his heart echoed on the solemn monitors.

It had been three days since the Incident. Trowa couldn't think of what had really transgressed, so instead he just referred to it as the Incident. Quatre had been in that coma for three days. He wasn't waking up--why wasn't he waking up? He was too still. Quatre moved in his sleep. Why wouldn't he wake up?

"Quatre…" He whispered into the silent air. "Where are you?" He brought the limp and cold hand that he held to his lips and gently brushed them across the back of Quatre's hand. He could feel the weak pulse in Quatre's wrist where his fingers rested. "Why won't you come back to me?" He waited for an answer, but there was nothing. Only oppressive silence and the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.

There was nothing.

His breath hitched in his throat and his eyes began to sting as if the heater in his car was turned up too high and pointed at his face. His eyes were dry and his throat scratchy. What if Quatre never woke up? What if he passed away? Where would he be then? Trowa almost dropped the flaccid hand he cradled as the implications finally sunk in. He couldn't control his tears and they rolled down his flushed cheeks. He loved Quatre, and Quatre had told him that he loved him. How could he go on?

He heard the door open. He didn't turn around to see who it was. If it were important, they would make themselves known. Whoever had interrupted his solitude stepped into the room and slowly approached him. The door closed softly on its own.

"How are you doing?" The soft feminine voice drifted along the currents of circulated air. Trowa thought that he recognized the voice, but he couldn't place it. He couldn't do much of anything. "You may not remember me, but I gave you advice a while back. My name's Becky." Her voice inquired, rather than spoke. Her statements were questions. He remembered her now. And he turned to face her.

"It wasn't his fault." He felt the urge to defend Quatre from her. After all, the last time he had seen her, Quatre was a drug addict. She smiled sadly and shook her head as she knelt in front of him, modestly smoothing her uniform over her knees.

"I know. I read the report." She looked at Quatre. "The doctors aren't optimistic." She trailed off and Trowa felt and sudden rush of anger toward the woman. How dare she pronounce Quatre's sentence? How dare she say anything but hope? He kept his raging and fluctuating thoughts to himself. Becky reached a hand toward the bed, resting it on the rough blanket that covered Quatre's still form. "You will wake up, though. I have faith in you." She whispered this to Quatre, and Trowa's anger dissipated. But instead of returning to his stagnant stoicism, he fell even further into anguished despondency. His tears doubled and his lungs heaved as they tried to contain the sobs pouring forth. This was his incubus--this felling of helplessness as the only person he truly loved lay waiting for death. Tender arms encircled his trembling body and soothing nonsense was breathed in his ear. He leaned into the comforting embrace and turned his face into the offered solace.

"I love him, Becky. I want him to come back." He sounded like a two-year-old, but he didn't care. His only care was about Quatre, and Quatre's life. He continued to sob into Becky's shoulder as she whispered that everything would be all right. But somehow he knew that it wasn't going to be all right. The doctors had even said that the longer Quatre clung to the coma, the less likely he would ever wake up. But how could he give up hope so easily? What kind of person, of lover, did that make him, if after only three days he was preparing himself for Quatre's death? Quatre wasn't dead--he couldn't die yet. "Wake up."

"You should go home." She spoke again before Trowa could protest. "Just for an hour. I can call you if Quatre wakes up, but Trowa, you need to get out of here. You need some rest, and a shower--and a change of clothes. I'm worried about your health, and I would think that Quatre would want you to stay healthy." Trowa opened and closed his mouth trying to think of some protest, but his mind wouldn't function properly. Becky stood up and tugged gently on his arms, silently telling him to get up. "Just go home, take a shower, get into some clean clothes and stop by a fast-food restaurant and get something to eat on your way back. An hour. I'll call you if Quatre's condition changes." Trowa found himself nodding and standing up and allowing Becky to push him gently out of the room. He looked back at the translucent form of Quatre.

"I'll be back soon, love." He whispered before Becky opened the door to usher him out.

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Duo watched the pretty nurse guide Trowa down the hall. He was peeking out of the smallest of cracks, so it wasn't long before Trowa was out of sight. He cautiously opened the door just a bit further until he was satisfied that Trowa wouldn't see him sneaking across the hall. He glanced back into his room and made sure that Heero was still asleep before silently slipping through the door and tiptoeing across the hall to Quatre's door. He let himself inside and sat down in the chair that Trowa must have recently vacated. He kept his gaze at the floor so he wouldn't have to see the damaged that he had inflicted quite yet. He was afraid, afraid of Quatre's condition, of Quatre's wrath, and of the possibility that Quatre wouldn't make it. He slowly raised his eyes to the still figure beside him.

He needed to throw up. His stomach churned before twisting and turning upside down. His insides clenched and his nostrils flared as he tried to keep the rapidly rising bile in his stomach. It wouldn't stay, and he soon found himself rushing to the bathroom and hurling himself at the toilet, heaving and retching his pain and disgust. How could he have done that to his best friend? How could he have caused this much damage and pain? How did he ever get here--to this dismal point? He spit sour saliva from his numb mouth as he gripped the edge of the toilet. The porcelain was cool to the touch and served to calm his angry fever. He slouched in front of the toilet, turning his head to rest his heated cheek on the seat. He needed to face Trowa--to tell him that he was sorry, to offer himself to the firing squad. Maybe Trowa would put him out of his misery and everyone would be happy. He sighed as he slumped against the toilet. Heero wanted him--loved him, and would miss him, but how could he ever face anyone again? How could he face Quatre, knowing that he had forced a death sentence upon him? How could he continue on living? And how could he survive without the Heroin?

He grasped blindly for the counter and pulled himself up. He glanced at himself in the mirror and scowled at the pale and feverish face that haunted the reflection. It was him and yet it wasn't him--he had never looked so disgusting in his entire life. He turned away from the mirror and approached Quatre's bed once again. This time he was able to keep still and calm. He gently reached out and brushed Quatre's limp bangs from his closed eyes. Quatre didn't react--he had hoped that he would, but there was no hope for him now. He clasped his hands in his lap.

"I know that sorry isn't enough--I've felt that way before, so I understand. But it's the only thing I can think of to say. I wish I could take the last few days back--to take back what I did to you, but I don't know how." Duo paused, feeling his voice about to crack. He swallowed roughly and continued with his thoughts. It felt strangely better to be talking to Quatre. He could confess his soul. "I'm cold, Quatre, so cold, and I can't get warm. And everything inside is raging like a storm. I just want to be calm again, to have some peace. Heroin did that--it gave me that calm. It's like sitting by a still lake, its surface unmarred by any movement--no wind, no nothing. There are no birds calling out to each other, and nothing dares to even show itself in the reflection of the mirrored water. There is nothing moving above the water, and nothing moving below it. It is calm, serene and peaceful. I am content. But I'm not content now. I can't hear because everyone is screaming in my ears. I can't feel because the wind is blowing too strongly. I can't stand because the earth is shaking too violently. I can't see because there is too much color, movement and light. Its like an explosion has gone off in my hands and I'm in the blast forever--never dying, only feeling. Its storming and I can't get away from the violence and rage. I just want that clam before the storm where everything is still. But I don't want the Heroin. Not after what I did to you." He trailed off, no longer sure where he was going.

He stroked Quatre's clammy cheek. "I'm never going to feel calm again, am I." It wasn't a question; it was acceptance. "I love you, Quatre. You're my best friend, almost a brother, and I killed you. I hurt you. I understand if you can't forgive me. I can't forgive me." He looked off to the side at nothing--he no longer saw the walls of the sterile room, he could only see Trowa's face covered with bloody fingerprints and smudges as he screamed at Quatre to wake up. He could smell the blood and vomit that had spread over the bathroom floor like fire spreading over gas. He slowly stood up and left the room in grim silence. He walked out of the hospital, making sure that no one saw him. He couldn't afford to be held back at this point. He had to make his peace with Trowa--or meet his fate. His sentence; his punishment. He reached into his jeans and pulled out a set of keys that he had slipped off of the receptionist's counter. He pressed the disarm button and followed the faint beeping sound that signaled the disarming of a car alarm.

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Trowa rinsed the last of the shampoo from his hair. Becky was right, he did feel better. He had stopped by a burger joint on his way home and eaten the greasy food in the car. A full stomach and now cleanliness had actually improved his spirits. He'd have to thank Becky later. He shut off the tap and stepped out of the shower, groping for the towel that lay waiting for him. After drying off he stepped into the bedroom and slipped on fresh clothes, reveling in the texture of clean cloth. He moved in the living room to pick up his keys and return to the hospital, when he stopped dead in his tracks, his stomach plummeting to his feet. Duo stood in the center of the living room watching Trowa sadly. Trowa didn't say a word. He had nothing to say to Duo. In his mind, Duo wasn't a person. He was nothing.

"I'm sorry." Duo's voice was soft, almost like he couldn't speak any louder for fear that he would start to cry. Trowa found that instead of sympathy, he felt nothing but anger to his once vibrant friend. He wanted to hurt Duo as much as Duo had hurt Quatre. He stayed rooted to the spot, praying that Duo would make the smart move and leave without saying anything else. Trowa wasn't sure how long he could contain his anger. "I know that's not enough, but I don't know. And I hate myself." Trowa closed his eyes, moving forward against his better sense. Duo moved toward him, meeting him halfway.

"Fucker. You aren't welcome here." Duo nodded his head with tears in his eyes.

"I know." Trowa snarled and lashed out at Duo, grabbing him firmly by the shirt and hauling him up and throwing him against the wall.

"Motherfucker! How dare you." Trowa pressed the words out between clenched teeth, teeth that were grinding together with the raging force of Trowa's fury. Duo was crying openly now.

"I'm sorry! I don't know why! I love him, and I did that…I'm sorry!" Duo's litany repeated to the point of incoherency, and that only served to enrage Trowa further. This was the man who had destroyed Quatre. This was the man who had destroyed his life.

"I was happy! And you fucked it up. You little shit." Duo's voice rose in urgency and pitch as he wailed from the wall, held up by Trowa's force. "Shut up!" Trowa screamed. He couldn't take it anymore. Duo had killed Quatre, how was he supposed to put up with the murderer. Duo killed Quatre. Duo had to pay. Duo needed to feel pain--just like Quatre had felt pain. "Eye for an eye, Duo. What goes around comes around." Trowa hissed out, and in a sudden flurry of rage, echoed with an animalistic scream of vehemence he tossed Duo onto the glass coffee table, sending him crashing through the glass.

Duo cried out in surprise as he tumbled through the glass, and glass shards exploded everywhere, raining down onto the carpet and the two men. Trowa shielded his eyes from the flying shards as he dropped into a crouch at Duo's feet. The glass settled and Duo moaned from the remains of the table. Trowa glanced up at the dying sound, staring in disbelief at the wreckage, and Duo's limp body in the epicenter. Blood spotted the white carpet, and slowly began to stain the carpet by Duo's side. Trowa watched in horror as Duo struggled to maintain consciousness. He couldn't even move to help Duo. He couldn't do anything but watch as the slowly seeping blood stopped.

"Oh, fuck." Duo raised a glass-covered arm and felt his head, checking to make sure everything was intact. Trowa hugged himself.

"Duo?" He whispered. "Duo, are you okay?" He asked with a little more power. Duo groaned and mumbled out a slurred yes. Trowa accepted this and slowly collapsed backward against the wall. He slumped against the wall and buried his face in his hands. He didn't even bother to fight the tears. He had done this. He had lost control. He had hurt a friend. Duo groaned again and attempted to push himself into a sitting position. He stumbled a few times as Trowa watched through blurred vision and parted fingers. When he finally succeeded in sitting up, he shook his head gingerly, touching the back of his head and wincing. He finally looked at Trowa and Trowa reluctantly dropped the protective barrier of his hands.

"Fuck." They watched each other for what seemed like an hour before Trowa finally opened his mouth.

"I'm so sorry, Duo. So sorry." Duo nodded solemnly.

"Me too." Trowa surveyed the destruction as Duo looked down to do the same. Duo sat in the middle of a shattered field of carpet and glass. Duo swiveled his head before looking back at Trowa. "Wow." Trowa numbly nodded his agreement as he fell to his elbow, leaning awkwardly against the wall, one leg stretched out, the other pulled in close for protection. He held onto his stomach with the hand that wasn't supporting him because his stomach churned from the shock of him throwing Duo into the table. He watched Duo warily as he huddled against the wall. Duo just sat in middle of the wreckage with his jaw hanging slightly open, as if he too were in stunned disbelief. "Wow." He repeated, and Trowa nodded his head again.

"How did we get here, Duo?" He whispered between dry and cracked lips. Duo's eyes fastened on his own. Duo blinked slowly before answering.

"I wish I knew. Maybe then we could fix this."

"Yeah."

"Ever wish you had a time machine, like that one guy in that book?" Trowa blinked a couple times trying to understand Duo. Then it clicked. The Time Machine by H.G. Wells. Trowa found himself chuckling cynically.

"All the time. All the time."

"Yeah."