Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Don't Push Me Away ❯ Mourning ( Prologue )

Title: Don't Push Me Away

Genre: alcohol abuse, rehab, angst, mental stuff, sap, tear jerker (if I write this right)

Pairing: 3x4

Summary: After his father's death, Quatre begins to have a downward spiral in health both mentally and physically.

 

A/N: Okay, this is my first 3x4 fic and my first really, really serious one too

 

Chapter 1: Mourning

 

Trowa stared down at the youth that was once the passionate, pacifist otherwise known as Quatre Rebarbra Winner. The blonde heir to the Winner Company didn't meet his eyes. His aquamarine eyes were shadowed by his once well kept bangs staring down at the still form of his father. The never ending monotonous `beep' of the heart monitor hooked up to the elderly man echoed through the confined pastel blue room.

 

“He's gone, Quatre.” Iria, Quatre's older sister, said. Her pained sky blue eyes stared in the direction of her younger and only brother. She felt so sorry for him. After living through two wars and seeing so many terrible things, she hoped that her brother could live without anymore pain like any other nineteen year old boy. Instead, she had to watch helplessly again as the young boy's heart was torn apart.

 

Quatre's eyes left the body that was once his father's to stare at the older woman. Iria was the closest in resemblance to their mother. Long blonde hair that swept well pass her waist and kept up in a tight French bun. She was dressed in a wine colored feminine business suit with ash grey pantyhose and black pumps.

 

His eyes left his sister to stare at Trowa. His gaze silently asked for the stoic pilot to tell him otherwise. To make his father not dead.

 

Trowa was dressed in a simple forest green sweater. The collar of the white t-shirt underneath the garment peeked out just enough to let one know it was there. He wore a pair of loose fitting khaki pants that fell over polished male dress shoes.

The Latin European teen met his former comrade's gaze. His emerald eyes flickered in pain at not being able to do anything to relieve the slighter boy's pain. They'd been on a date when they received a call that Quatre's father had taken a turn for the worst. His plan to tell the young Arabian what he felt was placed on the back burner instantly.

 

Now looking at how pale and hurt Quatre was, Trowa's heart ached along with every fiber of his being to take the boy up in his arms and tell him it was okay.

 

Quatre's eyes dropped and slowly trailed back to his father's body. His lips parted as if to speak but made no further movement. His hands hung limp over each of his knees and his body hunched in around itself. His white button up shirt was black slacks were showing the aftermath of holding the position that long.

 

“Quatre,” Trowa began. He stepped forward hesitantly and placed a hand on the pale teen's shoulder.

 

“He's dead.” Quatre said. His voice was broken and barely above a whisper. A tremor went through his body and stopped where Trowa was touching him. Helpless sobs fell from his pale pink lips and sorrowful trails of tears crept down his cheeks. “Why does everyone have to die, Trowa? The war is over. Why can't I have happiness like everyone else? Is it too much to ask?”

 

Trowa's chest clenched at the barrage of questions. He wished he had the answers to the questions being asked. In reality, there were no real answers to why. He felt angry suddenly. At the Mad Five rotting in their graves and at whatever deity up there that was making them have to suffer.

 

The taller teen wrapped his arms awkwardly around the wrecked form of his best friend leaving leverage if his gesture was welcome. It was. Quatre fell into him clinging to his sweater like a drowning man. After a while the warm feeling of the sobbing youth's tears seeped through the two layers of clothing to soak his chest.

 

Iria watched them with growing pain and interest. Maybe Trowa was what Quatre needed to make it through his loss. She silently grabbed her purse and walked out of the room to make funeral arrangements for their father.

**

“I'm Joel Martines here reporting from the funeral service of multi millionaire, Jon Winner. The owner of the Winner Co. died early Wednesday, November 21, 196 A.C.

 

The funeral service was held on L4 where the twenty-nine daughters and son gathered to pay their respects along with several close friends and co-workers. The service was two hours long with the reading of Mr. Jon Winner's will. He had left his position in the company to his son, Quatre Rebarbra Winner. Oh, and here he is……”

**

“Look at him, Heero.” Duo said with a strained voice. The guilt in his chest began to well as he took in his best friend's state. The always optimistic Arabian teen looked pale and in shock standing there in a jet black tuxedo with a white undershirt. “I wish we could've been there for him.”

 

“We would've if it wasn't for Mueller screwing up his case. Une needed someone to cover for him.” Heero growled and stared at the digital image of their friend. If they'd put off the case they were working on more people would've died. They were so close to a breakthrough, they couldn't afford to take a break.

 

No matter how much the Perfect Soldier reasoned with himself seeing their friend's lost expression only made him want to tell Une to `fuck off'.

 

“I…I guess you right.” Duo sighed and grabbed for his trusty rope of hair. He twirled the tussled end restlessly and watched as the former Sandrock pilot suffered through the pestering of news reporters.

**

Quatre fought through the endless sea of reporters. His head and eyes hurt from crying, his chest hurt from the lost, his soul ached, and he was so tired. There had to be a way out of it. The sight of the well polished jet black limo he'd arrived in provided to shed a little light on his dismal settings. He climbed in without waiting for the doorman to open the car for him. He slumped tiredly against the leather.

 

“You're not looking too hot, Sir.” The driver called back. He was a man in his thirties with no wrinkles to back that fact up. His short black/brown hair was hidden under the black uniform cap on his head turned slightly to the side just for a bit of originality. His narrow chocolate brown eyes reflected from the rearview mirror to stare at the youth in the back seat. “You look like you need a bit of a pick me up.” He said absently.

 

Quatre stared back at the reflection of the man's eyes. “Several pick me ups would be more like it.” He mumbled and began to curl up in the chair.

 

“I shouldn't be doin' this bein' that you're a minor but if you can fight a war, you ain't never been a minor, ne?” A bottle of something was sent to bounce against the chair just above Quatre's head. The Arabian came out of his fetal position to grab the oddly shaped bottle. “It's my own special concoction.” The driver said proudly. “Got some brandy, tequila, three different vodkas, and Sky.”

Quatre half listened to the man's rambling as he unscrewed the cap. He took a gulp and gagged.

”Take it easy!”

 

Quatre recovered quickly from his coughing fits. The liquid was hot molten lava going down his throat and settling into his stomach. He took another long swig and doubled over again.

 

“What are you crazy?” The driver came out of his seat to twist around. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

 

“If it'll make the pain go away, yes, I am.” The youth answered solemnly. He took another gulp this time not being very affected by it anymore. The ache in his head and heart dulled. He looked at the half empty bottle. This was the answer to his problems.

 

 

TBC……

 

A/N: What do you think? Is it worth continuing? I think there'll be five or six chaps in all but I haven't decided whether to go into certain details or not.