Warning: Shonen Ai, AU. That's all for now. More warnings for later chapters.
Disclaimer: Both Gundam Wing and Touched by an Angel do not belong to me. I am simply borrowing them. That done, on with the story!
Christmas Music - Chapter Two
After dinner, Mr. Winner persuaded Quatre and his friends to join him in his workshop. Proudly showing him his latest work, the violin from before, he announced, "I call it Quaterine - after your mother. Originally, I made it for her, but I think you will make better use of it."
Quatre smiled weakly, and took the violin in his hands. Softly stroking the elegant instrument, he smiled. Suddenly, his expression turned into stone, and he placed it back on the table, "It's not Christmas yet, father. And besides, you know I stopped playing."
"Why, I've never understood," Mr. Winner sighed disappointed. "Please, can't you just play one piece for me? You used to love playing for me. Please?" he repeated, seeing that his efforts were failing, "Make it my Christmas present - that's all I want!"
Quatre coughed softly, causing the others to share a few worried glances among themselves.
"Maybe later. I'm not up to it at the moment," he replied softly.
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Back in his room, Quatre lay down on his bed, exhausted. Trowa was seated beside him, stroking his head absent mindedly.
"I never knew you played the violin," Trowa said, breaking the mild silence.
"I don't," was the short reply.
"Why not? It would make your father happy."
"Could we just drop the subject?" Quatre suddenly yelled, making Trowa wince. He had hit a rough spot.
"I'm sorry."
"No, don't be." The blonde's voice had become softer. He weakly propped himself up with his elbows, in order to look his lover in the eyes. Unfortunately, this just caused him to cough violently, and he quickly lay back down.
"I don't understand why you refuse to get treated," Trowa said after the coughing died down, a hint of anger in his voice.
"I don't deserve it," Quatre stated, and turned away from the tall boy.
Suddenly, a knock was heard on the door, and Iman Winner's voice sounded outside, "Quatre? May I come in, please?"
Quatre quickly sat up, and Trowa left his seat in order to open the door.
"Oh, good evening, Mr. Barton," Mr. Winner said, surprised at finding the boy in his son's room this late in the evening.
"I was just leaving," he replied, and did just that.
Not occupying his thoughts with Trowa's quick departure, Iman entered the room, closing the door behind him.
"Quatre--" he began, then stopped himself, unsure of what to say. He took a deep breath, and tried again, "I'm sorry, Quatre. I do this every year, don't I?. It's just that... I finished the violin in the selfish hopes that you'd regain your love for music." The old man walked closer, and sat down next to him on the bed.
"Don't worry about it, father. I know you mean well."
Mr. Winner sighed in relief, then, after a moment's silence, smiled broadly, "What did you think of Relena? She's pretty, isn't she?"
Quatre shrugged, "Yeah, I guess so." Then he eyed his father suspiciously, "You're not trying to set me up with some rich girl you've only met a few hours ago, are you?"
Iman looked at the boy defensively, "Who, me? Nah! 'Course not!" Then he grinned, "She's perfect for you! She's visiting this university somewhere in England - can't remember the place - and she's studying to be a lawyer. She's really ambitious, and her views on politics fascinate me!"
"Politics?" was the not-so-enthusiastic reply.
"Yes, son. Also, she does a lot of work in charity and such. I think she's perfect for you!"
"I think not."
"Why's that?"
"I've just met her. I can't really base a whole future on that!"
Mr. Winner sighed in frustration, "Quatre, you have to commit yourself sooner or later. Someday, I will be gone, and I need an heir to take over the business when I am. I'm not going to live forever!"
The blond rolled his eyes, "Yes, yes. We've had this conversation before. But I'm only 21, father."
"And when are you going to be old enough? In five years? In ten?" the old man's voice started rising, now.
Suddenly Quatre decided that this was it. He had to tell him sooner or later, and it may as well have been now.
"Dad... I won't be there in five years..." Looking up to see his father's expression, he saw plain confusion on his old features.
"What do you mean by that? Of course you'll be there in..." he trailed off, a strange lump of fear forming in his throat. He hoped that this wasn't what he thought it meant. Yes, he had noticed that the boy was strangely pale and weak, but he had simply dismissed it as tiredness from the journey.
"I... I have acute Leukaemia," Quatre said softly, almost inaudibly.
A thick wave of silence followed that phrase, as father and son both looked each other in the eyes, one pair filled with sadness, the other with shock and fear.
"Leukaemia?" Mr. Winner finally managed to say. Quatre nodded weakly. "How far is it?"
"I'm at the early stages, I think. I'm not sure. I haven't seen the doctor since the diagnosis."
"You mean you're not being treated?" was the horrified reply. Another nod. "Why not?"
"I don't deserve it," Quatre repeated what he said to Trowa, and felt a sudden jolt of guilt. He shouldn't have come home. All he was doing was ruining the festivities. He was such a failure. A failure to Trowa, and a failure to his family. He would never be the son his father wanted, and could never be enough for someone so kind as his lover.
"Don't be stupid! What do you mean 'you don't deserve it'? Of course you do! You're my son!" Iman ruffled the boy's blond bangs in affection.
Here it came.
He had to tell him, now. Quatre hated lying, especially to his father. He took a deep breath, held, then slowly released it. Starting to fiddle with the tail of his shirt, a sure sign of nervousness, he started to speak, "I am not the son you want... I... " another deep breath, "... I-I am ... gay." There, he said it. All of a sudden, he felt a huge weight leave his chest, and he felt a strange peacefulness at finally coming to terms with it. Smiling, he repeated, "I am gay!"
He looked up at his father to see his response, and hoped to find the same relief in his expression, as he had now found in himself.
But instead, he found something very different. The old man's face showed an expression mixed with shock, anger and disgust. Without saying a word, Mr. Winner stood up and left the room, leaving Quatre more confused than ever before
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Ooh, dramatic. Sorry, but I hope you liked it. Too much dialogue? Not
enough description? The other way around? Please tell me! And please review!