Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Melancholy ❯ Melancholy ( Chapter 5 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

December 23, AC 199

Duo Maxwell is insufferable when he's had a massive dose of sugar, caffeine, and holiday cheer. He started out the day with coffee, then he proceeded to devour the cookies he had forced Trowa to help him bake, then he bounded off to decorate the poor fir tree. I could not bear to watch.

Instead, I got into my car and prepared to speed off to the hospital. Even a suicidally depressed Gundam pilot would be a relief after that. Before I could take off, though, the passenger door opened and Trowa slipped into the shotgun seat. He appeared to be grinding his teeth.

"Are you sure, koi?" I asked.

"I just want to see if his rash has cleared up," he said in that low, cool voice that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

I could not suppress a chuckle. "I'm sure that Heero has intimidated enough nurses to ensure that Quatre is under the best of care."

"…and I can't stand another minute in that house with Duo." He snapped his shoulder harness into place with a little more force than was absolutely necessary.

"Understood."

As soon as we arrived at the hospital, Trowa draped himself over the small sofa in Quatre's room and proceeded to catnap. Quatre, who was sitting cross-legged at the foot of his bed reading a tattered paperback, threw me a questioning look.

I sighed and rubbed my forehead. "Duo. Coffee. Sweets. Christmas tree." I said, putting a forced note of weariness into my voice. Quatre reacted to my theatrics by letting the corners of his mouth twitch up for a moment in the barest hint of a smile. I took that as a sign that he was willing to let his guard down a bit, and I took his chin in my hand. "Let me see your head."

I'd like to think that Quatre trusts me at this time because he senses that I am an honorable man, but that would be flattering myself. It's because, of the four of us, Quatre has had the least emotional involvement from me. Trowa, Duo, and Heero had all, at one point or another, made friends with him during the war, and had maintained that friendship in the years afterward, but I, ever the solitary one, had always kept myself at a slight distance from him. I believed it was necessary. My personality can be a bit, well, abrasive at times ("you're a goddamn grouch, Wufei," I hear the echo of Trowa's voice in my head), and I'd always been afraid I would somehow hurt Quatre if I tried to get close to him. It had never occurred to me that I was hurting him even more by keeping my distance.

"It's still red," I said after I'd examined the irritated patch of skin over his ear. "Does it hurt? Itch? Anything?"

"No, it's not like that," he said, and his voice trailed off as if he was hunting for words. "It bothers me, which is why I keep scratching at it, but it's not a physical thing."

"I don't understand."

"There's something there, Wufei. Something weird."

I looked at the rash closely, combing through his pale hair with my fingers. I saw a faint white line on his skin. "Winner, how did you get that scar there?" I asked.

"Scar?"

"Right here." I traced the neat line with a finger. "It looks like a surgical scar. Have you ever had a head injury that required surgery?"

"No, not that I'm aware of."

I didn't like that scar. There was something sinister about it. I'm not really given to premonitions; I'm just suspicious about head injuries in general. "I think someone needs to take a look at this," I said. "Where do you suppose that idiot doctor of yours is?"

I didn't wait for an answer.

December 23, AC 199

It was probably rude of me to fall asleep the minute I walked into Quatre's hospital room, but I was tired and I had a headache and I wasn't going to be very good company until I got a nap.

I slept for about an hour. When I woke up, Wufei was gone and Quatre was sitting by the window, holding the model of Sandrock in his lap like a talisman and gazing out into the rain. I cleared my throat to get his attention. "Where did Wufei go?"

For a moment I thought he wasn't going to answer me, but as soon as I'd given it up as a lost cause, he said, "He wanted to talk to Dr. Whitman."

It took me a while to remember that Dr. Whitman was "that idiot doctor" who was looking after Quatre. "Why? Aren't you feeling well?"

He shrugged. "I'm fine." He got up from his chair and went to go stand in front of the window. He put one hand against the inch-thick, shatterproof pane as if he was trying to touch the rain, and it made me realize how imprisoned he must be feeling, trapped as he was in the psychiatric ward with watchful staff scrutinizing his every move. Christ.

I got up and stretched, then I went to go stand behind him. "Quatre…." I started to say, but then I couldn't finish my sentence. What could I say? Cheer up? Everything will be okay? I couldn't think of one single intelligent thing to tell him, so instead I just put my hand on his shoulder and looked out at the rain with him.

December 23, AC 199

I finally got that idiot doctor to agree to examine Quatre's head thoroughly--today. Not after Christmas, not tomorrow morning, but Right. Fucking. Now. There are times that I really wish that I hadn't had to destroy Nataku.

Trowa drove us home. He said I was way too wound up to drive, and perhaps he was right, but dammit! I fought too hard and gave up too much to let anyone jeopardize the family that I now have with my fellow warriors.

This is possibly the most draining battle I have ever taken on, but I will win it.