"…The smile of love—soft friendship's charm—
Bright hope itself has fled at last,
'Twill ne'er again my bosom warm—
'Tis ever past. …"
--Edgar Allan Poe
Hot tears flowed steadily down his face. He knew he wanted to stay, yet he couldn't find it in himself to look back.
This is simply a horrid nightmare…perhaps it'll all dissipate…if I ever wake up.
Hundreds of thoughts bombarded his aching brain and sent throbs of pain to the center spot behind his eyeballs. He closed his eyes stressfully and bowed his head.
Even grief wouldn't stop him from completing his mission. He swore they would pay…
"Quatre?" a low tenor gently nudged its way into the doors of his closed soul. He slowly raised his blond head to the sparkling amethyst eyes in front of his.
"Quatre, listen to what I have to say." Duo's voice was pleading, almost to the point of tears. The Sandrock pilot silently leaned forward and let his head thump against his comrade's shoulder.
"Duo…"
"Trowa didn't die because of you." Duo put a work worn hand on Quatre's small, boyish shoulder and breathed deeply as if his words were suffocating him. "He died to save us…to save you. It's a fact we all have to live with…He's gone, Quatre. Even though he is, he wouldn't want us to be like this." Duo knew his words were hopeless against the rage, agony, and grief inside his young friend. There was nothing more to say.
The Sandrock pilot's heart churned wrathfully; the empty void in him grew with every passing moment.
"I know!" the shrill cry was unnatural and pinched. The sound echoed off the stained glass, the rows of seats, ricocheted around the entire room.
"Hey now--" Duo started, taken aback.
Quatre bolted past Duo, who instinctively shielded his stump of an arm with his good hand, which was heavily bandaged and in a sling. One eye was completely swathed in sterile white and was starting to bleed through; his lower lip was split open and festering. He made a half-hearted attempt to chase Quatre, who was limping away as fast as his mutilated leg would take him.
"Hey, wait!!"
The blond pilot ignored his call and disappeared into the dark corridors beyond the wake.
"Damn…" Duo fidgeted with his sling and sighed heavily. "I'll show those bastards." The Deathscythe pilot fumed, and stalked into the darkness after Quatre. Behind him stood a bier, upon which was a brilliant green coffin bathed in scented bouquets of flowers and a framed black and white photo of a teenage boy.
His poised lips were soft but sealed, long bangs shrouded half his face. His quiet eyes were penetrating, yet seemingly sad and forsaken. The sleekly muscled neck was encased in stern military regalia and his shoulders, though broad and masculine, were those of an adolescent boy forced to grow up. Trowa Barton, soldier and pilot of the Gundam Heavyarms, didn't live past his seventeenth birthday.
"He didn't get to even live like a normal kid would." Duo seethed, his bones ached with fury and weariness.
"In fact…we all never lived like normal kids would…Cruel, cruel world…" Duo's eyes darkened defiantly. "I embraced it with open arms. I'll never let go." He tore his eyes away from the solitary casket and winced as his arm throbbed hellishly.