Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ The Other Side of the Coin ❯ Take a Bow ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: Gundam Wing isn't mine blah, blah, blah.

Warnings: yaoi, language, dysfunctional relationships, angst and drama

Award: Third Place Angst in the Vault's Spring Songfic Challenge

Fandom: Gundam Wing

Pairings: 3x4 (part 1), 1x2 (part 2)

Acknowledgments: Many thanks to Harmonie Des Anges for being my lovely support and even lovelier beta-reader!

A/N: Lots of authors have "perfect couple" fixations. I, as an angst-whore, couldn't resist the opportunity to write something that destroys the whole perfect couple image. The title was taken from the old saying "They are two sides of the same coin." Do not look for a happy/sappy ending. You won't find one. What you will find is closure/resolution. Both parts were inspired by Madonna songs of the same titles. Lyrics will follow each part, as per regulations, and will be italicized.


The Other Side of the Coin
Part 1: Take a Bow
By Solanum Dulcamara


Trowa artfully ducked as another plate sailed across the room, shattering on the wall just behind where the Latin boy's face had previously been. Lamenting cries echoed through the short hall as the shards of china fell to the small dinnerware graveyard that was forming on the rug around Trowa's feet. He barely managed to dodge to the right as a teacup met the same fate against the wall. The heavy sobs haunted every room of the condo with their sorrow. Trowa simply stood, ramrod straight, not at all encumbered by the clinking piles of glass that continued to grow. He kept his hands in his pockets and his head lowered, usually the body language of submission or remorse. His lover knew better.

On that downcast face, two beautiful emerald eyes could freeze the very carpet they stared at. Distant, detached, cold, they never returned the love shown in the bright blue ones. No matter what smile was painted on the perfect lips or frown wrinkled the often impassive brow, his eyes always remained devoid of any emotion. They never gave any indication of feeling, and Quatre knew that they didn't lie.

When the screaming stopped, the barrage of dishes had ceased, and the blond man had collapsed to a shuddering mass crouched on the floor, the green eyes scanned the room. Trowa approached his broken lover like a trite scene out of a cheesy soap opera, complete with patronizingly open arms. "Quatre..." The name came out a soothing plea, but the two syllables sent a chill down the Arab's spine.

The taller boy bent, extending a hand to the shaking boy on the floor, "Quatre... come here."

Quatre promptly smacked the offending hand and scrambled to his feet as far from Trowa as he could get. The blond leaned against the wall on the far end of the kitchen for support. His breath hitched and his body trembled. The tear streaked face twisted into a scowl of disdain. His words slipped through clenched teeth as a hiss, "Don't touch me!"

"But Quatre I..."

"You what? Love me? Ha! That's bullshit and you know it."

The blond sank into a chair at the nearby table. The tired lines of his face formed an expression far too old for the youthful former pilot. Weary hands cradled his head in a futile attempt to hide the unrelenting tears. Trowa betrayed no emotion.

He stood by the kitchen door... just watching. He just stood, and watched, and never said anything, and never felt anything, and that irritating fact wormed its way under Quatre's skin. Crawling all over him in the stale tension of the room, until the volatile blond wanted to scream, just to restore some semblance of life to the dying apartment... the dead relationship.

Trowa blinked. He couldn't have heard right... was Quatre laughing?

A quick inspection of his Arab companion proved that he was, in fact, laughing. But not the usual melodious giggle. A harsh and bitter chuckle grated its way from the empty chest.

With a final sigh, the petit man looked up with red eyes. "Do you feel anything at all?"

The Latin boy was taken aback by the bluntness of the question. He and Quatre had never even had a fight before... now this? What happened to the little blonde angel? "I... I... I feel things..." Trowa's voice faded uncertainly.

"Things?" Quatre countered. The bitterness and sarcasm in the challenge were undeniable. Trowa almost winced at Quatre's tone... almost. "So, these... 'things,' are they emotions? Or are they purely physical? You sure seem to feel 'things' when you fuck me. But you obviously don't feel many 'things' when you roll over and turn your back to me afterwards. Completely shutting me out, after I've opened myself up to you physically and emotionally." A heartbroken sob escaped the dry lips.

Unable to form coherent thoughts, Trowa numbly stood, accepting Quatre's words as they were thrown at him. He could not dodge the truth, and it hurt far more than any dish.

The aqua eyes had once again filled with tears. Quatre's voice cracked as he attempted to speak, "I can't feel you."

Trowa froze, posture more upright than usual. The small boy continued between choked breaths, "I always feel Duo. I've felt Heero. I've even felt Wufei... but I've never felt anything from you and when I try... when I try..." Quatre's voice trailed off as his head dropped into his hands again.

Pain etched through the normally empty green eyes. He'd tried... he'd tried so hard. With hesitant, heavy steps, the Latin boy made his way across the room and collapsed into a chair facing Quatre.

They sat that way for some time, the silence hanging over them like a shroud. Forlorn green eyes, dulled by fatigue, stared across the table at the bowed blond head. Quatre never looked up, and when he finally spoke, his voice was hushed, but clear, "Why did we always pretend?"

Trowa absorbed the many levels of the question, unable to formulate an exact answer. Not trusting his voice, he allowed the inquiry to fade into the rhetorical.

The mass of rumpled platinum hair bobbed slightly as its owner let out a shuddering breath, "Why did we put on such a show for our friends?"

Trowa continued thinking for several minutes.

Expecting no answer to his questions, the Arab jumped lightly as the melancholy baritone swept across the room, "I think... we were trying to live out what everyone expected... what we expected... and it all became a habit."

"A twisted game of pretend," the blond added sadly.

The two weary frames resigned to the former silence as all of the facades slipped away, leaving the truth cold, bare, and vulnerable. Quatre finally lifted his head and looked across the table at a man he barely knew.

His irises were tinted a greener shade of blue, as the crying left his eyes red and swollen. Sorrow had dashed dark circles under those bloodshot eyes. His voice traveled in a hoarse whisper, as if he was afraid to speak, "It was like some depraved carnival's carousel that you've been on too long, and the spinning is making you sick. So, you want to get off, but you can't. The conductor won't ever let it stop... Why couldn't we let it stop?"

"We didn't know how."

They stared at each other as silence once again consumed the room. Not even the soft sound of breathing permeated the air. Quatre's eyes traveled over the form across from him. The lean acrobat slouched in his chair, bent over, with his forearms leaning across his legs. No trace of coldness remained in the green depths... just fatigue, and something else... was it regret?

Trowa watched the smaller man bow his head once more. Even in his disheveled state, Quatre was beautiful. He saw the faintest glimpse of the movement of the pink lips sending sounds so soft, they barely reached Trowa's ear. "I did love you."

Trowa nodded. Whether it was a nod of acceptance or a nod of acknowledgment, he himself didn't know.

"Quatre, I never meant to hurt you." Trowa suddenly found speaking clumsy and cumbersome.

The blonde smiled softly, sadly, "I know."

Trowa looked up and Quatre followed his gaze around the apartment, taking in the familiar sights and sounds that harbored so many painful memories. After sighing deeply in the general direction of a picture of the five former pilots that hung on the fridge, Trowa looked back at Quatre, "What now?"

The ivory forehead crinkled a bit in thought, before the blonde responded slowly, "I think it would be best... if you left... and I left... and we both started over."

Trowa nodded, this time in agreement.

Quatre stood, "I think we should go now."

He walked out of the kitchen, through the living room, down the hall, towards the bedroom, past items and trinkets that once held dear memories, now tainted with reality.

Pausing at an open door, blue eyes roamed the room's contents. It contained two stands. Atop one, perched a shiny violin, and the other glinted with a silver flute. The only sheet music in the room sat on a small piano in the corner, written in his own flowing handwriting.

A familiar pain scratched at his throat, as he bit back tears and quietly pulled the door closed. He continued down the hall to the bedroom, joined shortly thereafter by his noiseless companion.

The two went around the room, silently collecting clothes and other necessities; one placing these in a duffle bag, the other in leather luggage. There were no words, no expressions, and no pretensions. As he zipped his suitcase closed, Quatre didn't look up, saying, "Leave the rest. I'll have it cleared."

Trowa made no response but heaved his duffle over his shoulder. The two walked out the door and locked it without looking back.

The elevator at the end of the hall was taken to ground level. As the doors parted with an overly cheery "DING," two paths lay before them. Trowa immediately stepped out and headed away from the building.

Before the tall boy took three steps, a sensation gripped Quatre. Severe pain welled in his chest and it felt as if he was being pulled inside out with guilt and remorse, but not his own. His eyes darted to the retreating figure and his breath caught. The blond stumbled from the elevator calling, "Trowa!"

The Latin boy turned quickly, his bangs swishing slightly with the sudden movement, and looked at the other expectantly.

Quatre offered a wan smile, "I... I can feel you."

Trowa returned the gesture with a melancholy smile of his own, "Is this goodbye?"

"I don't know."

Satisfied with the shrugged response, the green eyes disappeared behind a sweep of bang as Trowa continued his exodus to the streets of the city.

Quatre watched the figure of his former lover grow smaller and smaller before turning towards his car; away from the apartment, away from the memories, away from the tears.

Quatre looked once more towards the looming building as he climbed into his BMW, the soft hum of the engine offering little solace. "Goodbye conductor, goodbye carousel," the soft sigh was caught in a gust of wind as the silver car pulled out of the lot, getting lost in the bustle of traffic.

Part 1: Fin

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Take a Bow
by Madonna and Babyface

Take a bow, the night is over
This masquerade is getting older
Light are low, the curtains down
There's no one here
[There's no one here, there's no one in the crowd]
Say your lines but do you feel them
Do you mean what you say when there's no one around [no one around]
Watching you, watching me, one lonely star
[One lonely star you don't know who you are]

Chorus:
I've always been in love with you [always with you]
I guess you've always known it's true [you know it's true]
You took my love for granted, why oh why
The show is over, say good-bye