Disclaimer: Don't own it.
Warnings: Angst, Spouse Abuse, Future yaoi. *Strong language* appears in this chapter.
Author notes: ^_^; Wow, this took a long time to get up. Heh heh, oops. I've got the next part written already. ^_^ I'll post it soon. Oh, and did I warn you...? This fic is a little OOC for Quatre. But hey, the way I figure it, it's six years since Endless Waltz and he's twenty-two now -- his personality could have changed since then, and I'll interperet it as I damn well please! So there!

Good Enough
(working title)
by: Burn


***

Work was the same as always.

Fake smile and cheer. Pretend to be happy. Offer a wave and a meaningless explanation for all the pain.

It was all so ridiculous. Since when had he grown so bitter? It didn't used to be like this. It wasn't always simulated sunshine and laughter. It was real, once upon a time in a fairy tale somewhere far away...

Trowa.

The name came unbidden into his mind.

It was all just so fucking ridiculous! He thought: I'm not supposed to be like this! His insides tore and his mind turned to mush and slapped against the barriers of his skull. I'm not, I'm not, I'm not...

Since when am I so bitter?

Ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous. He didn't have time to think about false happiness or what could have been or perhaps sharing a genuine smile with someone equally genuine and special. He was the only son, the only heir of an important family, and he had to carry on the family name... Had to.

He had to do so many things. It was ... it was ...

It's was all just so fucking ridiculous.

He screamed silently inside he depths of his soul, so loud and long and heartfelt, but still unheard. 

It wasn't supposed to be this way.

He let his body slump into his chair, his shoulders shaking as he choked on the invisible sobs he always tried to put behind him. His mushy brains sloshed inside his skull.

Why can't it stop...

He thought desperately, so desperately: I can't do this! I can't be what they want me to! But I have so much to do, so much responsibility. There's so much riding on these thin shoulders...

Then another thought -- a quote floating from somewhere in the back of his mind. He mumbled it into the stuffy office air, watching helplessly as all the stress and pain and unhappiness in his life pressed against their restraints, waiting, just waiting to explode.

"The best way to avoid responsibilities is to say, I've got responsibilities."

It was an old quote from an old book, written by some Richard fellow, or something along those lines. Rather good book, actually. Something about Messiahs... not exactly up his alley, but amusing nonetheless. It calmed him. He fished out another quote from somewhere in the messy depths of his mind.

"... Long neglect has worn away half the sweet enchanting smile. Time has turned the bloom to grey, mould and damp the face defile..."

Brontë. Good poet. He straightened in his chair, pausing to gather the next verse to mind, then recited it quietly to himself.

"But that lock of silky hair, still beneath the picture twined, tells what once those features were, paints their image on the mind."

The last remnants of stress faded from his veins, and he smoothed a fold of wrinkle away from his pants. A sigh, and he looked towards the large wooden door leading into his office. It was surprising no one had asked about his injuries yet that day. He was grateful.

And if they asked later on that day…

Well, it wasn't like one more lie would matter. He was too far gone to ever be saved, anyway. He'd blown up an entire colony, countless soldiers, and even came close to killing his best friend – and what happened?

Nothing.

Repent and thou shalt be saved, he recalled one of Duo's old bibles saying.

Well, what did you do if no one asked you to repent? What did you do if people knew all the things you did and people you killed, and called you a hero for it? What did you do if you almost killed your best friend and he forgave you, then saved you from the same horrible fate you almost caused him?

How did you repent then?

Dorothy.

His slushy brains did a full belly flop.

Dorothy.

She was the whole reason he could go on with his life. She made him feel pain for the chaos he made. She repented for him. She was the difference in his crazy world. A black, shiny thing that he didn't know whether to love or hate...

But still he didn't, he couldn't feel complete. He was missing something.

Trowa...

Why had he forgiven him so easily? He'd come close to killing something so precious to him ... and that precious thing had shrugged it off like they were discussing the weather.

I don't want to lose any more precious things.

Small, pale hands clutched at the material of his shirt, desperately. Get a hold of yourself, Quatre, he scolded. You can do this. It'll go away in time.

So he squared small shoulders, lifted his chin into the air, and turned back to the previously ignored papers on his desk. Read, sign, read, sign. That was all to do for the day, then leave. Tomorrow he'd be back for more self-inflicted torture, and he'd again return to his shiny black thing ... his Dorothy. His savior.

Another quote, this time from one of Duo's old songs.

"Tell me now, who's my savin' one?"

Duo always had listened to morbid stuff. He smirked. "Jesus or a gun…?"

He chuckled to himself, pulling a paper from the impressive stack on his desk.

Since when had he grown so bitter, anyway?

***