Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ That I Would be Good ❯ Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing or its characters. 'Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie' and 'That I would be Good' belong to Alanis Morissette.

 

Can be read without trouble alone, but is also a side-fic to 'Not the End of the World' set between Parts 1 and 2 (which can be found at my ff.net account, under `Taigne').

 

Warnings: Quatre POV, heavy angst/depression

 

Italics = lyrics

 

 

 

That I Would be Good

 

 

That I would be good even if I did nothing

 

Quatre grimaced, there was a pale film of white on the top of his coffee where it had been left sitting on the floor next to where he lay on top of half read newspapers and unopened envelopes. He stirred the liquid with a spoon, it was probably because of the powdery milk substitute from the back of the cupboard he'd had to use. He'd run out of milk a few days ago, but he hadn't felt like going out. Hadn't felt like doing anything, no motivation, no drive or purpose, it had all abandoned him at once, to leave this horrible emptiness.

 

That I would be good even if I got the thumbs down

 

That probably made him an even less worth while person, but he cared too much for any further self-recrimination to make much of a difference right now. Cared that he hadn't been able to save his relationship, cared that he was being so pathetic about everything, cared that all his friends were siding with Trowa, cared that none of this was really Trowa's fault, cared that Duo was still coming round regularly to check up on his sorry carcass, and mostly cared that Trowa had probably never loved him.

 

That I would be good if I got and stayed sick

 

Did they think he really wanted to be this way? Did Trowa, was that why he'd left? Well, he'd been the one to tell Trowa it was over, but only because Trowa had wanted it. Of course he didn't want this for himself, for anyone. He wished that Trowa hadn't been desperate, at the finish, to bring them to this end, to not have deal with him. He wouldn't wish for anyone to put up with him like he was now, it was abhorrent to even be him sometimes. But he couldn't help it. He hated that he couldn't seem to do anything right, could 'snap out of it' like they all wanted him to, but he got to the point where his guilt at not being what they wanted merely added to his despair and dragged him further down the spiral. He was drowning every day and it slowly got too much; it would only get worse. But he wished it wouldn't. And he prayed that this would end, that he could get better. He couldn't go on like this for much longer. It wasn't a startling realisation, just a suddenly final one.

 

That I would be good even if I gained ten pounds

 

Quatre felt his stomach growl as he sat up from his prone position. He didn't know why he was getting up, it wasn't like he wanted to do anything, anyway. He supposed he should eat, he hadn't for nearly a day now. But he didn't dare tempt himself, he would binge once he got so hungry that the thought of food didn't repulse him any more. He'd be damned if he wasn't developing an eating disorder to go with his general fucked-upedness. Why was he so pathetic? He flung an old TV guide across the room in disgust and forced himself to stand up. And looked at the mess that was his living room.

 

The apartment was done up in an old style, Art Deco, minimalist compared to the current tastes, but he was horribly rich and inclined, on occasion, to random eccentricities. The place was in disarray; he gritted his teeth to keep from crying again and set about rearranging the room, gathering the cluttered papers and magazines, slotting them into the rack by the sofa. He took the scattered CD cases and clicked the disks back in, with their worn lyric sleeves. That was another oddity of his, keeping old music; though you couldn't even buy the equipment to play them anymore, he had a fairly impressive collection of late pre-colony music in the original format. As it was meant to be. But events, life, love and all that jazz, didn't seem to follow his desires for such perfection. He sighed as he gathered up the plate from his dinner yesterday and checked his watch. 14.46, he'd thought it was still morning.

 

Odd that no one had called; but then, who would? He had told his secretary not to call unless something very important came up that his sisters couldn't deal with. Most of them were better at his job than he was, there would be no calls. All his associates knew that he only came to his apartment on the outer suburbs of New London when he wanted to be alone, or with Trowa, who had a small flat only thirty minutes walk away. He wasn't going there, he grabbed at his half-full coffee cup which still lay on the floor at his feet and contemplated upturning it all over his nice clean, cream carpet. It wasn't as if he couldn't hire a cleaner, or buy a new carpet, or a new house. God it was scary the money he had, he could waste so easily.

 

That I would be fine even if I went bankrupt

 

But was he himself worth anything? Sometimes he seemed to be, to his sisters, to his underlings and advisors, but was it only because through him they wielded the riches and power of the Winner estate? Poor little rich boy. Quatre sneered, knowing the expression gave him a hard, uncaring look, nothing like his usual pretty facade. He heard it all the time, 'more money than he knows what to do with' and 'can't be bad, all he did to earn it was get born' and it piled up and buried him under the weight and he wanted to throw it all away. But it would disappoint people; he did that so often lately, he couldn't seem to help it. He'd even taken this time off to 'refocus his ideas' and regain his original 'enthusiasm'. He'd had no intention of doing either, he'd known he couldn't cope with work and breaking up with Trowa at the same time. And he couldn't very well refocus ideas he didn't have or regain enthusiasm that had never existed. He was a fraud and he knew it. He shook his head and bit back tears that welled up too easily.

 

He took another disgusted look at his coffee cup, and took it and the dinner plate through to the kitchen, throwing the dirty brown contents forcefully down the sink. Droplets splashed back out, over the worktop to wet the crumbs there, and onto his dark blue jumper. Cursing quietly, Quatre again forced himself not to panic or give up to despondency at something so trivial and so important right now. Biting his lip, he got out a cloth from the packet in the cupboard under the sink. He held it under the tap to dampen the new chequered fabric and scrubbed roughly at his jumper, getting the worst of the stain out so that it didn't show, and turned his attention to the dirty laminated surface that ran halfway around the kitchen walls. The crumbs from the last few days were quickly collected into the bin and the coffee splashes wiped up with them. The frenzy of activity helped clear his mind from the funk he had been sinking into and Quatre surveyed the rest of the kitchen in a new light. It was a mess as well, and he decided to use this new drive which had surfaced to clean it up before he was recaptured by the lethargy and dulled world view he fell into more and more often these days.

 

The effort provided a good distraction for the next hour, Quatre was able to forget to brood, to worry and take his problems in circles, but it was too soon over. He felt the clouded state threatening to return as he put the cloth and disinfectant back into their places in the cupboard. Fighting down the slight alarm, he quickly took the freshly washed cup from the draining rack and made himself an instant coffee, the real stuff required too much standing about for right now.

 

That I would be good if I lost my hair and my youth

 

Quatre was almost afraid to look in the mirror as he made his way, with his steaming mug of black coffee, back to his living room. He had avoided it for the last few days and it took a lot of willpower to not do so now. He looked like shit, he realised with a sinking heart even though he'd known that it had to be pretty bad. He looked about forty, not eighteen, lines around his mouth and eyes, and dark smudges under his lids. A dark blond stubble was showing on his upper lip and down his chin. His hair was stringy with a week's grime and his clothes were a day old, crumpled and now slightly coffee stained. He thought he should shower, but that was too much right now. The coffee in his hand was smelling appealing and his stomach growled slightly. Continuing to the living room, he grabbed the last remaining pear from the bowl on the newly cleared glass coffee table and took a bite, his mouth watering at the slightly bitter taste of the skin and juicy white flesh beneath.

 

That I would be great if I was no longer queen

 

Quatre shuddered as he sat down again, gazing in the cup in his pale hand. There was dirt under his uneven nails, he should scrub them, cut them even, but sometimes it didn't seem to matter so much. He wasn't perfect, he never would be, he knew that now, it was futile to aim for such things. The dirty feeling wasn't going away though; maybe he should shower. He really wanted to talk to someone, not about anything in particular, just to talk; but he didn't want to call Duo over and have him try not to look pityingly at his sorry carcass. And no one else would have any desire to come round. No, he wouldn't inflict himself on Duo again, not in this state.

 

That I would be grand if I was not all knowing

 

There had to be a way out of this, he just knew it. Despite all the little things in life that kept threatening to overwhelm his fragile self-esteem and worthiness, he still grasped onto that final positive goal. It just got hidden under so many problems these days. His confidence in himself was hard to keep up, when everyday, businessmen and politicians looked down their noses at him and barely disguised their contempt. He ran from their disapproval whenever he could, ran from their assertions that he would never be his father. Ran to Trowa, or he had, until Trowa couldn't take it anymore.

 

It wasn't that surprising; Trowa couldn't deal any better than he could. So maybe he had been selfish and unfairly placed too much of a burden on his ex-lover. After all, Trowa had not known he would be like this, even Quatre himself hadn't imagined that things would get this bad. It wasn't surprising that he had felt overburdened and had in turn, run away from Quatre's problems. Why should Trowa deal with them, when Quatre didn't want to? Didn't know how to. Maybe he could blame Trowa for all this, or maybe he could accept the fact that he and Trowa had both changed in the last two years and neither of them had handled the situation well. It didn't make things better now, but it stopped the pain and anger growing any further. For now, perhaps, it was all he could hope for.

 

That I would be loved even when I numb myself

 

Quatre put his half empty mug down on a coaster at the edge of the table before him. Where was he now? Lost in this quagmire of misery and trapped by a seemingly perpetual fatigue. His whole body felt half asleep as his mind felt surrounded and clouded by a bad-dream state that he couldn't quite shake. It was cloying, sticky and made him a little sick at the thought, but it wasn't all he had, and it wasn't the lowest he had been. At any rate, it was better than what he had been reduced to the last time he'd seen Trowa. He'd been desperate, and unable to break the cycle of mistake after mistake, apology after senseless apology, craving any sort of contact. It had reached the point where even the usually calm man's angry words to him were a relief from the drowning self reproach and the loathing he was consumed by whenever he was alone.

 

That I would be good even when I am overwhelmed

 

So much negativity was within him. More than he ever knew existed until the war was over and he had to face himself and his decisions and adult life. He felt the insistent tug of depression in his chest and shook his head vigorously, standing abruptly. His eyes stung and he grimaced against the roiling emotions, refusing to let the almost physical hurt take him down again.

 

He gulped down the last of the cooling, bitter coffee and took the mug back to the sink. He wasn't going back there. He was going to take a shower and at least try to get out of this. He deserved it. He wasn't a terrible person, he wasn't perfect and that was okay. Even if it didn't feel good to fail, everyone did, and he had to damn well accept that he could too. His friends weren't disappointed in him because he wasn't a great CEO and tight-fisted, cold-hearted business didn't come naturally to him. But they had every right to be disappointed that he let it get to him like this, and didn't even try to help himself.

 

He made his way through to the bathroom, adjusting the shower dial to hot and stripping quickly as the dirty feeling of his greasy hair on his face made him cringe. Yes it was hard to deal with everything, and there was nothing he could do to feel better about his father's death and how he had dealt with everything since then. But he could put it behind him and deal with himself now. He stepped into the shower, the hot water a satisfyingly metaphorical cleansing, helping him tear away his self-pitying shroud.

 

That I would be loved even when I was fuming

 

And sometime along the way, he started crying, but it felt good for once, not taking him further towards despair, but away from it. It was a release; clichéd and it felt good all the same. And the crying turned into a scream and that felt better. And cursing a blue streak at the world, at himself and at everything was good too. It was better than good, it was wonderful. Stepping out of the shower, Quatre noticed the time again on the wall, 16:50, noticed his wrinkled skin, clean and bright pink from the heat, his cheeks flushed. He got out his razor and shaved and felt free and sighed, wishing that it would last. Perhaps he could hold onto it for a while though. Even as all these thoughts crowded around in an effort to be heard in his head, there was a nagging feeling of hopelessness. Maybe it was lessened and chastised for now, but it still remained, still caught up by the split with Trowa and his fear of failure.

 

That I would be good even if I was clingy

 

But that was why Trowa left, or partly why. There were so many reasons, so many lies Quatre had told himself, over and over, until he nearly believed them. He couldn't fully accept his falsehood though, he was too true to himself for that. Quatre set his jaw resolutely and continued his task, gathering up his discarded clothes and dumping them in the laundry bin. He then took up his toothbrush and the toothpaste tasted better than the coffee had. He had to get some milk. Tomorrow he would, definitely. He just prayed that he wouldn't run into anyone in the store. Wouldn't run into Trowa. That was not something he could deal with yet.

 

He knew he had called an end to things with such pretty words, all an act, to make him appear philanthropic and caring. The trouble was, he did care. So much. Too much, and it had hurt him so much to let go. And even then he hadn't made Trowa happy. What a tearing confused shell had he been left with that day. He'd been hoping that self-sacrifice would give him some feeling of generosity and goodness, but he was still alone and in pain and feeling shitty by the end of the day. Shame still hung over him and then he felt even worse. And it made him hate Trowa just a little bit. Which was not a good thing when he still loved him so damn much. He wished he could bring himself to blame Trowa a bit more, but he was a fair man. And he wished it wasn't so much his own fault.

 

That I would be good even if I lost sanity

 

Maybe Trowa had loved him, after all, he had seen the best and worse in him over the course of the war. Quatre shivered as the cold of the memories from the war, from his father's death, from his own actions, chilled him as he huddled into the side of the sofa. It would be so much easier to give up, to let go and let everything that hurt, that pressured and weighed down on him, drift away until he didn't care anymore. But he couldn't let that happen, not with people depending on him at work and not with people who he respected, who he desperately wanted to regain the respect of, still expecting things of him. Still waiting for him to pull himself together and give them a reason to help him out of this. Again he moved in front of the mirror, just to over come the fear of looking. If he could keep things together long enough to deserve it.

 

He did deserve this, Quatre told himself, glaring at his reflection in the mirror; but more importantly than that, he deserved more than this. And he owed it to himself to work for it. Nodding, he turned from the glass and strode to his room, barely containing the urge not to run. He pulled a pale blue shirt and a pair of jeans from the closet and dressed quickly. His hands shook slightly as he buttoned up the shirt, the eagerness rushing through him was almost too much for him to take. But just as suddenly, the energy left him and he sat down on his bed heavily, unable to stop the sigh escaping his lips. He squeezed his eyes closed against the familiar pain that reasserted itself in his chest, mocking him again, for ever thinking that he could be let off so easily. It was still there, still eating at him, it wouldn't go away.

 

That I would be good whether with or without you

 

Without him. It was all he could think of sometimes, Trowa was gone, and this hole was so large and dark and easy to fall into. But was he stronger than that? He had to believe that there was another way out of all this. He was not the fragile, dependant, little boy, scared to be alone and to be judged, that Trowa had left. He couldn't be. He had to find the strength that had brought him through the war, and make it his again. He needed a new focus. Something to keep him grounded and upbeat. Duo kept offering to help, kept encouraging him to find new things to focus on. A hobby to look forward to, even though he couldn't give up his job, he should have more to do, to be, than just the job, big and horrible though it may seem, may be.

 

He'd showered, he'd cleaned the place up, he was trying. Maybe he deserved a little help now he'd helped himself. Sure, keeping yourself and your apartment clean was only what regular people did all the time, but he hadn't managed what 'regular people' did for a while now. Perhaps Duo would come round, be pleased, be surprised and happy that he'd sorted the place out. He squashed that hope, not daring to wish when there was every chance that he'd be disappointed. But he got up anyway, the moisture in his eyes making them shine with determination, and hit an instant dial button on the phone on his dresser, the number for Duo and Wufei's flat, hoping that he wouldn't have to go through the Chinese man as he had last time. Not that Wufei had been unpleasant, but he knew that Chang was on Trowa's side in all of this, and he felt dirty and useless when he'd pathetically asked if Duo was available to come over.

 

He finally got lucky and trembled with relief as Duo picked up, his image small and slightly blurred on the low-resolution screen. He hesitated for a second, then attempted a smile. Attempted to hold onto the delicate resolve that was holding him together right now.

 

"Hi, Duo, um, are you busy this evening? I was wondering if you wanted to come over?" Quatre winced as he saw Duo searching his face worriedly, he didn't want to only incite anxiety when he asked his friends over. But Duo seemed to approve of what he saw, his grin was genuine, rather than the somewhat forced smiles he'd been reduced to as he saw Quatre fall apart over the last few months.

 

"Sure Quat, I've not got any plans. You want me to bring some food over? I could get some Indian takeout from that nice place by yours." And Quatre realised that half the food he'd eaten for the last several weeks had been what Duo brought with him. He thought desperately, he needed to prove that he was going to change.

 

"No, that's okay, I was going to make a stir-fry, I've got some vegetables and an bit of chicken to finish off. If you like stir-fry?" He said quickly. Duo grinned again and Quatre felt a surge of warmth in his chest that made him smile too.

 

"You know I do Quat, sounds great. How about I bring some ice-cream for desert, then?" Like friends normally do when you invite them for dinner and cook for them. Like you do when you're normal.

 

"Yeah, do you have that strawberry kind?"

 

"Yup, shall I come by about seven?"

 

Quatre checked his watch, it gave him just over an hour, he nodded and hung up with a 'see you later'. Turning from the phone unit, Quatre let out the breath he'd been holding and swallowed.

 

One step in the right direction. And there were so many more to take. But he'd made a start, at last.

 

 

 

I love this song, especially the raw flute solo which unfortunately doesn't come across in text. It seemed to fit Quatre's state very well, but more importantly, it has hope, and that's what I was trying to give Quatre in this. I see him as a very strong, despite having been through so much and so hopefully this isn't OOC for him. Let me know :)