Warning: Massive shounen ai warning!! Ahh, now the plot thickens . . .
Disclaimer: GW is owned by Sunrise and the Sotsu Agency. I am affiliated with neither. (Hence the name: fanfiction)
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From Forever to Forever
Part Eight: For Poorer
March 19th, A.C.
206—Duo Maxwell—9:24 p.m.
Ah, there's nothing quite as nice as a bachelor
party. I never got one, since I was
already happily living with Hilde and our kids when we got married. Quatre didn't get one, since he eloped after
knowing Silvia for less than a month. And Heero didn't want one. Now,
I personally think that's just strange. But, hey—when has Heero Yuy ever been normal? Since he started dating Relena he got a little more normal. Married life has made him kind of
prudish. He didn't even want to come to
this bachelor party—he wanted to stay home with Relena and their new daughter,
Irina.
That's another thing that bothers me—I know Relena and
Heero are big on their pacifism thing—but to name their kid something that
means "peace"—I think that's a bit much. Then again, my daughter's name means "reaper." I guess I don't have much room to talk.
Anyhow, this bachelor party is for Sapte [1], a guy who used to be on my Preventor Team—along with Heero and
WuFei. He's getting married in two
weeks. I tried to warn him, but then
Quatre butted in, gushing about how terrific married life is. Once I saw Sapte's eyes glaze over I knew he
was lost. Yet another perfectly good
Preventor down the drain. They really
need to change that stupid rule. They've lost the best three they ever had—Heero, Quatre, and me. I won't be surprised if WuFei's the next to
go. He and Sally are pretty
serious.
The strippers are coming in a half an hour. I can't wait. Of course, once Hilde realized there'd be strippers she insisted
that I keep an "eyes only" policy. Women just don't understand that strippers are strippers—nice to look
at, nice to fantasize about—but not the girls we keep going home to. Ah well. I promised her that I'll be good. I guess I'll have to live vicariously through the others. But who?
Not Trowa. WuFei? Nyah, he wouldn't know
how to have fun with a stripper. He'd
probably call her a stupid woman and tell her to put some clothes on. God, I don't know how Sally can handle
him. Heero? No way. Every time I see
him he's on the phone, talking to Relena or cooing at his "Widdle
Rina." I hope I wasn't that
annoying when Tresa and Judas were born.
Will Quatre be willing to have some fun tonight? Probably not. He's beyond faithful to Silvia.
Of course, I can always try to get him drunk. That'll be harder than any mission I've ever
attempted. But it'll be fun.
I make my way over to the couch, where he's talking to
WuFei. "Want a drink?" I ask
them. WuFei shows me his bottle of beer
and Quatre shakes his head.
"You know I don't, Duo," he says, turning back
to WuFei.
I insist. "Aww, just try it for once. If you do, I promise I won't ever ask you to do it again."
WuFei snickers. "Isn't that how you ended up with children, Maxwell?"
Actually, he's not far from the truth. But I ignore him. "Just this once, Q?"
"Muslims don't drink." He's not even giving me a chance.
"Some do," I answer, leaning closer. "Or did you not notice Ahmed and Abdul
doing shots at your wife's last Christmas party?" Ha! I knew I'd be able to put that info to good use!
He takes the bait. "Really?"
"Mm-hmm. Here—try this." I hand him
my screwdriver. Nothing like vodka and
orange juice to convince a fellow that drinking is a good thing.
He takes it and smells it. With a shrug he takes a small sip. "It's . . . not . . . that bad." His lips curve into a hesitant smile and he
takes another sip.
"What are you gaining from this?" WuFei asks,
glaring at me.
"You wouldn't understand," I laugh, patting him
on the shoulder.
"That was very good, Duo," Quatre says, setting
down an empty glass. He drank it that
quickly? This might be a hell of a lot
easier than I'd thought!
March 19th—Quatre
Winner—10:39 p.m.
"So what's your name?" the redhead asks,
putting on her coat. Her voice is
husky.
"Quatre. You?"
"Alexia. Give me a call if you need me for anything, honey." She hands me a business card, but the words
keep blending together. Is it
English?
She leans forward and brushes her lips against mine. She smells like perfume and cigarettes, and
I deepen the kiss. It's nice. Not as nice as Silvia, but nice.
Silvia?
I pull away suddenly and button her coat up for her. The other women are buttoning their coats,
too. They were nice. All of them. I can't help but laugh as I remember their dancing. It was fun.
Rough hands grab me by the shoulders, pulling me
backwards. "What are you
doing?" It's Trowa.
I stumble, but I never hit the parquet closet floor. Trowa caught me? I giggle. "I'm
saying goodbye to the nice strippers." I laugh some more, grabbing onto a nearby coat. We're in the closet?
"How much have you had to drink, Quatre?" He turns me around so I'm staring into his
eyes. No. His eye. He looks
fierce. Does he growl? I've always imagined that he would growl
like a lion, if he was mad. Or excited.
"Lots," I answer, finally answering his
question. "I've had lots of
drinks. Ask Duo. He gave 'em to me." I brush Trowa's bangs back, looking back and
forth between both of his eyes. They're
pretty.
"You need to sober up," Trowa says, grabbing
the door. He's leaving? I like it here. It's nice. I step closer
to him, but he pushes me away.
"Wait!" I don't want him to go just yet. "Let's talk."
He pauses, leaning against the wall. "What do you want to say, Quatre?"
I like it when he says my name. It always sounds best coming from him.
I grab the long string attached to the light above and
yank on it. We're surrounded by
darkness. I giggle.
"Quatre." His voice is fierce, like he's warning me. I wonder if he'll growl if I don't turn the light on. I step closer to him, feeling the darkness
around me. My hands make contact with
his chest, and I fall forward.
"I wanna know if you're still mad." I drop my head onto his chest, listening for
his heartbeat. I can't hear it.
"Mad about what?" Does he ever say sentences with more than three words?
"The time you kissed me on the balcony and I pushed
you away." There's his heart. I tap my fingers in rhythm against his
collarbone.
"No," he answers, his hands are placed firmly
on my shoulders. "You're
married. You're straight. You had every right to push me away."
A band of light is visible at the bottom of the door, and
it's bright enough for me to see Trowa's eyes. I push his bangs back again.
"I should've kissed you back," I whisper. What am I saying? The room feels like it's spinning again, so I hold on tighter to
Trowa. If I keep looking at his eyes, I
know it will stop.
His hands move up to rest gently on the sides of my
face. "What are you saying,
Quatre?"
I lean forward, brushing my lips against his. They're even softer than the stripper's
were. Very nice. I laugh as I pull away from him. For a moment I wonder if he could ever growl
for me. I kiss him again, this time
it's fierce. And nice. I wrap my arms around his neck as the world
spins around me. Luckily he's holding
me up.
March 19th—Trowa
Barton—10:44 p.m.
God, I don't know what has happened, but I don't want it
to stop. He tastes like orange juice
and vodka and that unique bit of Quatre that I'd thought I'd forgotten years
ago. I still love him. I can't deny it anymore. I close my eyes as he leans against my
body. My head feels like it may burst
with sheer joy.
But this isn't
right.
I tear myself away from him, immediately regretting the
loss of his mouth against mine, the warmth of him. But he's drunk—really drunk. I can't let it happen like this.
But if it doesn't happen like this, how will it ever
happen at all? By pulling away from
him, I'm keeping myself from ever having Quatre Winner in my arms again. I peer at him in the darkness, hating myself
for being loyal to his family. Hating
myself for wanting to betray them.
"What's wrong, Trowa?" Quatre asks. His words
are slightly slurred and he gazes at me through sleepy eyes. I've never seen him look quite so
enticing. "I thought you liked
me."
"Stop it, Quatre." I try to keep my voice harsh. I can't let him know that there's nothing I'd rather do than stand in a
hall closet kissing him. I try to push
him away, but he resists.
He tightens his arms around me, nuzzling against my
chest. My stomach lurches. He obviously doesn't know how close I am to
giving in to him. "But,
Trowa—"
"No!" I cut him off and push him with much more
force. He stumbles backward, hitting
the opposite wall. "You have
Silvia. You love her. Don't screw things up just because of a few
drinks."
I can't wait for his response. I open the closet door and step out, not looking back. My hands are shaking and my insides feel
like they've been beaten up. I lean on
the wall for support.
"Hey Tro—finally coming out of the closet, are
you?" Duo asks, laughing at his own joke. He's drunk, too. He probably had
two shots for every one Quatre took. "You didn't see Wuffie or Quatre in there did ya? I can't find 'em and I've run outta places
to look. Maybe they ran off with the
strippers. Lucky bastards."
I shake my head. "Maybe they're with Heero?" I suggest. Even as drunk as he is, Duo would draw the
right conclusion if he knew I'd been in there with Quatre.
"Nyah," Duo answers with a sneer. "Heero's gone. I think the strippers made him miss
Relena." With a snicker Duo heads
off toward the kitchen, calling WuFei's name loudly.
I sit down on a nearby chair, holding my head in my
hands. Eight years for nothing. I'd tried so hard to convince myself that I
didn't really love him, and now where am I? Back at the beginning again, wishing I hadn't said anything to him in
the first place—no, worse. Now I know
that somewhere inside of him, Quatre's interested.
*Author's note*
[1] The name "Sapte" is derived from the Romanian number
"seven", and is pronounced "SHAHP-tay". Why this name? To stay with the
GW-number theme, and because Romanian is my favorite of all the languages I
know. Why seven? Well, it was going to be "Patru" but that
means four. Then I thought: 3x4=12, so
it would be "doazeci" (doe-ah-zech), which is kinda weird. So I settled for 3+4. ^_^