Picture Perfect
By Chichi
Notes: This is a 3+4 deathfic. I was very depressed when writing this fic so...
The picture book was always my worst enemy. All the photo's are old, however, and the book hasn't received a new photo for years now. Or more specifically- since I changed. Leafing through the pages was like revisiting anothers past- not mine. But it was mine and I the only one who knows it. For the others who shared it with is dead. Only I can see the story hidden behind the photos- and the stories with out photos.
The picture is only the trigger. From there your memory takes over.
As did fate.
I fully realize I am hiding behind that excuse. I was never a believer in any sort of destiny.
But it's the only reason I could come up with for why.
Why he got sick.
Why the doctors couldn't save him.
Why I couldn't save him.
Why I changed.
Why I sill hide.
I had been so happy once.
So different.
Quatre did this to me. He changed me once.
And his death changed me again.
When the disease had been diagnosed my denial couldn't have been stronger. It couldn't be, I told myself. This photo of him was so much a like the others, his happieness was still the same. He wasn't worried.
At least that's what the photo said.
But I know differently.
He forced the smile. He forced the happiness. The cancer was still working on him. Every second it grew.
And never stopped.
Until he died.
They said that they could save him. They said there was a chance.
A chance.
A small chance.
An impossible chance.
The physicians couldn't have lied more.
My finger traces around the smile. The bright sunny smile. It never left him. Even now. It's still here
.
In my heart.
My broken heart.
Who would have thought that in just a few months I could be so taken by Quatre. Who would have believed I was so carefree?
No one.
Quatre was so loveable. So kind. So easy to love, everyone loved him.
I remember the time I smiled. Every day. Every moment I wasin his company.
But that was before.
Before the war.
Before he died.
Once diagnosed with cancer, time was short. Life was short.
Page after page of happy photos of Quatre and I doing happy things. Pretending to be happy. We traveled around the Earth, around the colonies, hitting all the popular entertainment. No expense was spared. Quatre had all the money he could ever want.
But never the time.
These pictures could never express the deep sorrow, deep pain, I felt.
And none were of the hard nights. So close together in bed, yet so far apart in our minds. We wouldn't admit it but the worry would keep us up till dawn. Waking up later and later became customary.
Until he never woke up at all.
It was then I broke. The reality too close to be denied.
Once the doctors told Quatre he couldn't be cured, even though he had gone through thousands of dollars of treatment, Quatre refused to stay in the hospital. He wanted to spent it with me.
Life had been so full of happiness. Laughter so common.
Now it's unheard of.
Even after the war I mourn. I would never go back to the way I was. That was a Trowa of the past. I am the Trowa now.
Or rather, the Nanashi.
One not even Quatre would love.
For I've grown to hate myself as well.
I hate pictures. They're so perfect. They only show the happiness, yet act as triggers to the past.
I hate triggers.
Perhaps that's why I chose to pull this one. One last time.
I'm so tired of mourning