This fic is for Nivla.

Author's note: Whoever reads this, please review it. This is a true story, and it's not particularly the happiest one. In fact, it's still going on right now. Please, take a little bit of time and review. Updates will be added. Thanks,

~Nanashi

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When he got home, Quatre dropped his violin near the front door and sprinted for his room. He finished his homework, but didn't touch the violin. It hurt every time he saw it, and every step he took that made him closer to the little block of wood, it was as if ten thousand jagged knives were stabbing his heart, tearing it to shreds. He didn't practice that day.

Before he fell asleep that night, he discovered something he had already know. "I'm just a puppet, aren't I?" he whispered to himself, "I've been used for the six years I've known him, and now that Mrs. Barton's gotten what she wanted for her son, I get thrown into a cardboard box, never to be opened again. I'm just shoved to the side, where none of the limelight shines. He's got it all now. With my chair goes my name, and one again, I am Nanashi. No longer Quatre Raberba Winner, but Nanashi, with nothing. Not even a name to go by."

***

The blonde went through the doors of Kemps Landing once again, refusing to cry, and came back out of them at the end of the day, concertmaster once more. Damn that orchestra teacher, he had made a mess of everything!

Seven years of practice also means seven years of sight reading skills. Three years of practicing meant only three years of sight-reading skills. Face the facts. Trowa couldn't sight-read, or play the solo. This was Mr. Driab's reason.

Quatre felt betrayed, hurt, and completely unhappy. Mr. Driab forced him to take back the chair, and Trowa did say he was uncomfortable in it. It was a lie. The whole thing was rigged. When orchestra first started, they were playing Folk Song and Shanty by Richard Meyer, and there was a solo which went up into the higher positions and required vibrating. Trowa wasn't allowed to vibrate yet, and he could play the solo. Quatre ran to the bathroom right after they had finished playing the Folk Song part. When he entered the doors of the school, tears formed at the edges of his eyes, but they never fell. Sighing, he walked back to orchestra. And that was when the accursed orchestra teacher pulled him and Trowa aside.

***

They talked outside the portable. Mr. Driab explained to the two how they played-one would play better one day, and another would probably play better another day. /This makes no sense,/ Quatre thought to himself, trifling, /Mrs. Snillum said that I was by far better than Trowa, with a huge gap in between. This isn't right-this whole thing was rigged./ At that point, Trowa was saying that he was uncomfortable in first chair, and Mr. Driab asked Quatre to take it back. The blonde shook his head.

"Why?"

"Because," the blonde whispered, close to tears, "because of his mom."

"His mother will get mad at me, not you. Do you want first chair?"

Quatre shook his head.

"Too bad. It's yours." He stomped back into the portable, floor bending under his enormous weight.

Quatre's tears began to leak from the corners of his eyes. "You don't understand...I can't take it back." he whispered.

Trowa was still leaning against the side of the portable. "Why?"

"Trowa, I've known you for six years. I've been used by you mother for those six years that I've known you. I'm a puppet, Trowa, used by everyone. And now, I'm thrown back into a cardboard box. Your mother has always wanted you to have first chair-once she finds out, that's where all the trouble starts. I'm sorry, Trowa. She compares so much, and I can't stand it. I wasn't joking when I said my name belongs to my violin. Without it, I'm just Nanashi, locked away in the dark. I don't know if you'll ever understand. I can't even believe I'm telling you this. Just take this warning, Trowa. My mother is a very wise woman, and she had a gift. This gift was the ability to see through people's masks of emotion and want. I inherited it from her, and I see a lot of things down your path of life...Trowa, I hope I'm wrong. I hope what I see will never happen."

Quatre wiped his eyes, blew his nose on a tissue, and walked back into the orchestra portable, with Trowa right behind him.