Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Entertaining Angels ❯ Chapter 1

Standard Disclaimer: The characters of Gundam Wing are not mine. I'm just borrowing them for my little story. I'm not making money off of this, thanks much.

Warnings: AU, Trowa's POV, shonen ai (1+4 so far), language, mild-angst, messed wtih heights

A/N: This story takes place in the here and now. It's not a song fic, but it was inspired by a song. The lyrics will be in italics. I don't own Eve 6 either. I just like their music. My warnings and pairings will be updated with every chapter. Thanks much. Enjoy!

Dedication: For my wonderful little Gunnmsangel. I love you sweetie. Here's a pairing of your two favorite characters. Yum! It also goes out to Harmonie Des Anges, who told me I needed to write something happy for once. I promise it'll be fluffy, not angsty by the end. You two are the best!

Entertaining Angels
By Solanum Dulcamara

Part 1:

Open Road Song
By Eve 6
Tonight I feel ambitious and so does my foot as it sinks on the pedal I press it to the floor I don't need a girl don't need a friend my friend lonesome's unconditional We're flying forever bored And for a moment I love everything I see and think and feel I love my broken side view mirror Cause it's so perfect I'm so perfect you're so perfect you're not here I hear the change in gears My pile shakes as I hit eighty on the open road This is an open road song The night is beckoning although I have nowhere to go but home Feels good to be alone With every turn comes a new frame of mind if I could frame my mind where would it hang I crack a window and feel the cool air cleanse my every pore as I pour my poor heart out To a radio song that's patient and willing My volume drowns it out But that's O.K. cause I sound better than him anyway any day yeah my voice is sweet as salt I search for comfort and I find it where I've found it many times before Times before can be forgotten My pile shakes as I hit eighty on the open road My pile shakes as I hit eighty on the open road This is the open road song


His voice vibrates through the soft reverb of the phone-line, "Yeah, Quatre and I are going out tonight."

My voice sounds detached, "Again? Have a good time then." It's my voice, but I'm not answering.

"Are you upset?"

"Huh? No. Of course not."

I hear him sigh deeply into his receiver, "I know I've been really busy lately... I haven't been much of a friend..."

I don't want to hear another "I'm sorry, but..." speech so I cut him off, "Heero, really, it's no big deal. You haven't had time for him either. You two have a great time tonight."

"Thanks, Tro. Talk to you later."

"Bye," I listened as the line went dead before letting the phone tumble into its cradle. It's not like I haven't spent dozens of nights alone. It's no big deal. Besides, how could Heero understand? After leaving his perfect programming job every day, he returns to his perfect home, and the arms of his perfect boyfriend. His imperfect best friend, who's waiting tables to get his degree, doesn't really fit into the perfect picture. The fact that I introduced Heero to Quatre is unimportant... trivial, really.

Note to self: Never introduce beautiful friends to your perfect best friend. Well, isn't this the beginnings of a pleasant pity party? Despite the connotated melodrama, I allow myself a deep sigh and await the barrage of good-natured nosiness that always follows any utterance of my displeasure. Sure enough, she bustles into my room half dressed and unashamed with a worried expression on her face. Assessing the heavy makeup, half adorned dress, and curlers, I conclude that Cathy must be going out with some friends. She opens her mouth to speak, but I can anticipate the familiar question, "I'm fine, Cath."

She rolls her eyes in exasperation. I'm often on the receiving end of said gesture. "You need to get out more," she begins the familiar lecture, but I don't hear the rest. My attention has turns to the mesmerizing bob and sway of the rollers on her head as she speaks animatedly to me. Engrossed in the sporadic motions of the styling tools, I don't realize she's stopped speaking. She now stares at me with her arms crossed, and her lavender eyes flash as they scrutinize me. Releasing her stiff posture, she sighs, "I give up," and pulls her dress over her upper torso. Turning and offering her back to me, I zip the proffered garment instinctively.

She walks to the door wordlessly, but pauses in its frame. Without looking back, she quietly adds, "Live a little, Trowa. You're way too young to be so dead." She continues out of the room and down the hall. Within several minutes, enough time to yank out curlers and slip on the stilts she calls shoes, I hear the soft creak and click of the front door to our apartment opening and closing.

I sit exactly where I was, staring straight ahead. "So they all fell sorry for me?" I wonder aloud. "They shouldn't. I'm fine," I tell the empty room, "Besides, they obviously don't care... they don't have any qualms with leaving me behind regularly." I don't like where this train of thought is headed, and decide I do need to get out. Standing, I cross the room to retrieve the set of keys on my nightstand. I pause en route to examine myself in the mirror over my dresser. The royal blue t-shirt and jeans do little to improve my tall, lanky frame. White letters emblazon the shirt, proclaiming, "Politics suck." What can I say; I'm an art major. So, I've pretty much accepted the prospect of being poor my entire life. My green eyes are probably my best feature, but they are, unfortunately shaded by a chunk of unruly brown bang. I sometimes wonder if my hair is a genetic accident. The mirror critique gives the usual results: yuck. I swipe my keys off of the dresser and move towards the door. Locking the cramped yet cozy apartment, I head to the parking lot downstairs.

My dilapidated car is parked at the back of the lot, but you can spot it from a mile away. The monstrosity looms in the distance, a beacon of my college-student poverty. I approach the kelly-green Civic Hatchback that Heero had affectionately named The Toad; easy for him to say, considering he just bought a 2004 Z3. I attempt to ignore my missing passenger side mirror as I climb into The Toad. I really can't explain its disappearance. I have no idea why it fell off, but I can't afford to have it replaced. Oh well, wish I gave a shit.

I hit play on the CD player as I pull out onto the boulevard. The sounds of a slightly sarcastic Eve 6 fill the air in and around my car. I leave the windows down so that the wind can ruffle the anomaly that is my hair. I hit the old highway, and I hit the pedal. It feels great not to have to listen to anyone. I can just drive and let it all out on the road. This car, old and crappy as it may be, has an amazing ability to sustain speeds above 70 mph. I watch the speedometer climb: 75... 77... 79... 80. 80 mph feels good. The Toad and I zip along the ancient unlit road and the soft hum and rattle of the ride are surprisingly comforting.

Heero's too busy these days, and Cathy means well, but she's got her own life. Maybe she's right; maybe I do need to get out more... maybe I just need to get out. I could find my own place... nobody would yell at me for leaving out my easel. Maybe. I allow my thoughts to trail and sing along with the music. The words are amazingly melancholy for the upbeat tune. It suits me, and I continue to serenade the open road.

I blaze my trail down the abandoned highway, speeding away from the city and everything I know. It feels amazing just to be out alone despite the protesting sounds of my engine.

I can see blinking lights on the shoulder of the road in the distance. "Cops," I dismiss, until I get a little closer and realize it's someone's emergency flashers. Knowing that I'm probably the only person that'll be passing by for hours, I pull up behind the parked car. I get out of The Toad just in time to hear a slightly husky voice shout from under the hood, "Damn, good for nothing piece of shit!" And with that exclamation the hood slams shut to reveal a boy about my own age. His wide violet eyes look at me curiously for a moment before lighting up with relief. He rushes around his car to where I stand and I note that a thick sun-streaked chestnut braid trails behind his slender frame. Before I have a chance to think, he's at my side gushing in that delicious voice again, "Gee! Am I glad you came along! I thought I'd be out here forever. My car sucks and it picked the absolute worst time to break down. Oh well, kinda fits the theme of the day. I don't have a cell phone and all I could do was pray that someone would come along. Do you have a phone I could borrow?"

As I watch him speak, I absorb how expressive he is. I also note how incredibly attractive he is, as he stands looking at me expectantly. I wish I had a phone, just so I could grant this stranger's wish. I'm not sure why, but I feel driven to take care of him. Weird. I take a deep breath before answering, "No, I don't," his face begins to fall, "But I could give you a ride." And then, it happens. He smiles, and oh God, I knew that is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and ever would see. I would drive this boy to Alaska if it meant that I'd get to see more of that smile. I look down into his beaming face and suddenly realized how short he is. He can't be more than 5'3", and I can't help but think it's cute.

His face sobers slightly and he looks at me uncertainly, "Really? Are you sure?"

"Really. To wherever you want to go."

He chews his lip thoughtfully for a moment, it's adorable, before asking, "Where are you headed?"

I shrug and answer, "I don't know. Nowhere?"

He beams at me again and I think I might melt, "Great! Me too! Can I get my stuff?"

I nod and he heads back to his car, a gold Saturn in none too wonderful condition. I wait quietly and watch his graceful body lean into the remarkably large trunk, removing a duffle and a camera case. As he walks back towards me and The Toad, his faded bellbottoms scuffle around the partially obscured Adidas. He tosses his braid over his shoulder uncovering the message on his gray t-shirt. Written in the trademark York peppermint patty print is the word "Dork" with the registered slogan "Taste the sensation" scrawled beneath. I smile, he's got the same twisted sense of humor that I do. He returns the gesture, pausing at my passenger door and looking back towards his car. Mirth flashes in the amethyst depths as he looked back at me, "Our cars have the same mirror amputation. Perhaps they're soulmates."

I look to the Saturn and notice that it too lacks a passenger side mirror. The humor of the situation does not escape me and I add my own soft chuckle to his uninhibited laughter. Our eyes meet across the top of The Toad, and I'm awed by the complete understanding and familiarity he radiates.

"It's open," I tell him as I pull my own handle. He only nods and opens the door. He pushes his seat forward, adjusts some of the clutter in the back of my car, and tosses his bags in back before flopping sown next to me. "Where to?" he asks, mouth curved in a mischievious smile.

"We'll know it when we see it," I answer and start off down the road.