Warning: Shonen Ai, AU. Deathfic.
Disclaimer: Both Gundam Wing and Touched by an Angel do not belong to me. I am simply borrowing them.
Christmas Music - Chapter Five
"May I come in?"
Looking up, Quatre found Iman Winner shivering in the doorway, tiny white snowflakes resting on his coat and dark hair.
Surprised at finding him there, the blond nodded dumbfoundedly.
Closing the door behind him, Mr. Winner took off his coat and shook the snow off it. Placing a small, black violin case at the end of Quatre's bed, which the boy hadn't noticed before, he sat himself down on a chair.
"Are you... mad at me?" Quatre asked finally.
"No."
Silence.
Neither one knew what to say or do, and both were trapped within their own thoughts. Wild words and phrases raced through their minds, but none seemed adequate enough for the situation. Adding to that was the fear of rejection, that both men felt.
Finally Mr. Winner sighed and softly spoke, "I'm sorry."
The boy looked up. Those quiet words had been spoken with a tone of voice which said volumes more than anything else possibly could. Quatre could hear the shame and sadness in that phrase, with a tiny hint of deep-rooted fear which he couldn't quite place. The blond knew exactly how his father felt, and his eyes started to shimmer with bright, new hope.
"I'm sorry, Quatre," Iman repeated, "For everything. I didn't realize how... stubborn I was, until Irea and Mr. Chang knocked some sense into me." Quatre chuckled softly.
"It's ok. I understand."
Iman smiled, "I though I'd play you something, so I brought Quaterine with me."
The old man opened the violin case, and took her and the bow out of it. Turning the violin in his hands, Mr. Winner frowned at the dark mark at the back.
"I don't know what to do about this," he said, gesturing towards the offending area.
"It looks fine, really. As long as she can play her own tune, she is perfect," the blond promised. "May I?"
Iman hesitantly handed the violin to his son, who lightly plucked it's strings and let his fingers glide along the polished wood.
"It was the day before you were born," Mr. Winner explained, "When she and I went for a walk in the forests to find a tree that had been hit by lightening the night before. It was an oak tree - once towering and majestic - had been reduced to a few splinters of wood. Of course you won't remember it, though. It was truly magnificent. Quaterine was saddened when she saw that it had been destroyed. She asked me to build a violin out of its remains, and so I took a few pieces of wood with me.
"But when she died the next day, I had a lot more to worry about. Over time, I forgot about it, and only recently, I started my project up again," nodding at the instrument in Quatre's hands, he said, "That was why I wanted you to play it."
"Then I will make it your Christmas present," Quatre decided, and put the delicate violin to his chin, and softly placed the bow on its strings.
Staying that way for a moment, he took a deep breath, and hoped he'd remember how to play. Slowly and hesitantly, he started moving the bow downwards, a soft note filling the air. Smiling, the boy realized that he wouldn't have to remember, for his body would simply flow with the music. Letting the bow sink further into the violin, he continued moving from one note to another, slowly forming a magical tune, mixed in with improvisation and emotion. It was a sad tune, telling a story of pain and sorrow, ended with final peace, a few crescendos working up to the finalé. Quatre could feel the vibrations under his chin, and nothing seemed to exist, but him, the violin and the sweet music that filled the air. He was lost in it. The fluid movements, the sounds, the emotions... everything.
And he loved it.
This was where he wanted to be, and stay for eternity - within the tranquility of his soul.
But slowly, the tune came to an end, the last note dying down with the movement of his arm.
And everything stopped.
Azure eyes slowly opened, as if waking from a dream, and looked up into mirroring dark ones.
Iman smiled proudly, but did not want to spoil the moment with unnecessary words.
Quatre laid the instrument on his lap, and sank his head back into his pillow, tiredly. Smiling weakly, he asked, "What did you think?"
"It was beautiful."
Sighing in content, the boy closed his eyes again, "What time is it?"
Iman glanced at his watch, and smiled, "00:04"
"Merry Christmas, father."
"Merry Christmas," the old man replied.
Mr. Winner picked up Quaterine, and positioned the instrument into a ready pose. Stroking one of the strings softly, he too played his little tune, and music, once again, filled the air.
Quatre, with his closed eyes, listened to the enchanting music, and felt the magic of it within him. Feeling his consciousness darken around him, all he was aware of now, were the ups and downs of the bow, as he imagined the violin and its musician standing in a spot light, all on their own. Nothing else existed. Nothing else seemed important, and the boy felt a strange peacefulness overcome him.
Within this momentary bliss, his breathing slowed, becoming shallower, and slowly, slowly... seized.
This was truly the best Christmas, ever.
-----
Opening his eyes again, Iman Winner's gaze rested on his son. The boy looked so peaceful... as if he were sleeping. His cheeks were still palely rose, but his chest did not move up and down. All he did was lie there, still and motionless.
Realization creeping into the old man's head, his eyes widened in shock, and he carelessly let the violin fall to the ground. Clumsily, he rushed over to his son's bedside, and took the pale hand in his. He cried out the boy's name repeatedly, but in vain. No one answered.
Behind him, he heard the door open, and soft gasps escape from someone's lips. Ignoring them, Iman dug his head into the white sheets, and sobbed. Warm tears spilled from his eyes, and spotted the fabric with moisture.
"Quatre?" a wavered voice behind him said, recognizing it as Trowa's.
A loud thump sounded, as the tall boy dropped to his knees, unable to do anything else. His eyes were glazed over with threatening tears, and his body shook violently. He wanted to scream. He wanted to yell. Kick, punch or die right here and now.
But all he did was kneel there, too weak to support himself. Memories of him and his lover flashed through his mind; tiny displays of affection, hugs and kisses. The long hours they had spent in bed simply talking about everyday life... all those moments he had treasured so dearly.
But now it was all meaningless. His life had become meaningless.
His friends were standing around him, each of them too shocked themselves to say anything. The whole room was silent, except for the soft sobbing sounds that came from the old man.
Trowa suddenly squeezed his eyes shut, and put his hands on his head in frustration.
He opened his mouth, and screamed, the twisted tune of a tortured soul.
--------
What did you think? Dramatic enough? If not, blame it on insomnia. Wrote this at about 00:40 in the morning. Not late for some people, but late for me. *Yawn* Better get the epilogue done, huh? And please review - it boosts my ego. Really, it does. Actually, that's not a good thing, is it?... Errm. Anyway, g'night.