Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
-Robert Frost
His hair had once been blond. The effect of ten years, a half-dozen different dyes, and far too much heroine had been its bleaching to a full white. The hair was now brittle, broke off almost if one looked at it the wrong way. The same could be said of the man who grew it, almost.
His skin, once tanned darkly and heavily calloused on the hands had now faded to a white just a shade darker than his hair. His eyes once blue, large, and full of passion even seemed to have shrunk. There was a hardness about them, and one of them now failed to work properly, focusing a moment or two after the other.
Quatre was a changed man, living in the ghetto of New York. Not the ghetto, really, so much as a bad part of town. His current real estate was not located in a neighborhood where people were regularly shot and the cops could care less about the occupants by necessity. It was because it made life easier for him.
Rising to a sitting position from the uncomfortable bed he lay on the man once known as Quatre fumbled along his dresser. He was feeling bad again, starting to sweat a bit, and had to feel better. He reached for the only thing that would make him feel that way.
His fingers closed on a small, cylindrical syringe and he managed to prick his thumb on the sharp tip as he lifted it.
Popping the top off of it off he reached to the stand once again to produce a small packet of what looked like Chinese Duck Sauce and which the package proclaimed was as much. In reality it was heroine and the small restaurant didn't exist. It was just a small cover up provided by the man in the back alleys.
Ripping the package with his teeth Quatre managed to slosh a bit of the fluid onto himself, but for the most part was careful enough not to spill as much as he used to. With an unusually steady hand for how much the rest of him shook he poured the contents of the package into the syringe before screwing the top back on. Sinking the needle beneath the skin of his left wrist he found the vein and felt the soothing effects of the drug upon his systems as it flowed into his blood.
With a slight shudder he laid back on his bed again, the frame creaking in protest to having been used for the umpteenth time and the old spring mattress nearly touching the floor as a result of the weight put upon it.
Quatre closed his eyes, relaxed, and reveled in the feeling of peace, calm, and joy that this drug brought him once more. Somewhere out below his apartment on the third floor a gunshot rang out. It was followed by a cry of pain, another gunshot from a different location, another cry of pain, and third shot, and then just one voice hissing off swear words on its own.
Still just barely lucid the former prince took a moment to consider how at one time he would have cared about those shots and wondered whether the man below was dead or if he had simply passed out from blood loss.
Most likely the latter, he thought, succumbing to the peace that flowed through his veins.
The letter was written with a shaking hand, and tear drops stained parts of it. It was a reply, and corresponded to the one Quatre had sent a mere week ago.
You don't need to worry about asking for too much. It's impossible for me to repay you for all that you've done for me. If you need more, ask.
-Dou
The letter was short and to the point. The only variety that the man would now read. Enclosed within was a check made out to one "Triston Maxwell", an actual cousin of Duo's who, until Quatre had needed the name, had been dead, found face down in a back alley. The brown-haired youth had succeeded in pulling enough electronic 'strings' to bring the cousin back to life, and the result was a new identity for the Arabian.
Pocketing the check Quatre took the letter and set it aside with the other ones. They made great kindling during the cold winter time in New York, and despite the money being sent by his friend, Quatre had little for such things as fire wood, much less spare paper to burn.
He'd probably head to the bank and cash it in fairly soon as he was running low on money from his last drop off. He'd noticed that, even though Duo always sent him money, he never seemed to have enough. He'd started losing it. Ever since he stumbled, blinded by tears of self-pity into an alley, been mugged, nearly beaten to death and found the drug on one of the members he killed he'd started running into these financial issues.
He knew just how incredibly stupid he was being in purchasing these drugs, but he couldn't help it. Every time he sunk that needle beneath his flesh he didn't have to think about the world around him.
He led a troubled life, now, with no job lest he be recognized and hardly ever allowing himself to be seen in public except for the purpose of buying groceries.
Wrapping himself up in these thoughts was a bad thing. Every time he did it things got worse. And the only cure for it was heroine, was that needle and that god-sent liquid.
Stumbling under the weight of his own thoughts Quatre arrived at the stairs and grasped the railing, forgetting that the first step going down had broken and briefly lodging his foot within. With a vicious yank he freed his ankle, the action embedding a number of splinters within his flesh, though he didn't even notice.
He needed his 'medicine' too badly to even worry about his physical self.
Like so many other parts of his past, Quatre didn't even remember the short walk of two blocks over to Vispechi's home, but when he arrived his heart instantly lightened. With a quivering hand Quatre extended the bills and received those wonderful packets of heroine that would save him. Without even waiting for the Italian to close the door to his home Quatre ripped open a packed and poured it into the injector, sloshing it on himself in the process. After three successive packets he managed to fill the injector and jabbed it into his arm, reveling for the umpteenth time in how he calmed down, how all of the colors around him settled and how he felt so much better.
Better than he felt way back when, and much better than he felt right now.
"Name?"
"Uh, Maxwell… Triston… Triston Maxwell," Quatre slurred, having difficulty remembering his new name. The cops had picked him up, and he couldn't help but berate himself for his stupidity. Not just for getting drunk over all that had happened, but for trying to drive home afterwards.
It was his second year here in New York, and yet he hadn't figured out to stay away from the police. He was a wanted man, for Christ sake! The up town apartment was nice, but he'd have to leave it eventually. He was too conspicuous, there, too likely to be seen by someone who watched the news and would recognize him.
"Well, Mister Maxwell, if you don't mind I'm going to run a few tests on you, okay?"
"Um, okay."
"Right, now, first off, we're gonna have you walk in a straight line. Just walk over to the median, here, and…"
Stupid. Fucking stupid. That was the reason he was here, drunk, on the side of the road with a cop who, odds were, was going to take him in for drunk driving. His ID ought to hold up to any scrutiny seeing as Triston had been a real person, but if a DNA test or AFIS search were utilized he would show up both as Triston Maxwell and Quatre Rebaba Winner.
"Alright, now I want you to just follow my finger, here, alright? We're gonna check how your eyes focus, and…."
Fucking STUPID! He shouted the word inside his own head as he attempted to follow the finger, but kept getting hung up and seeing something distant that his eyes fixed onto regardless of what he told them to do.
"Alright, Triston, we just have one more test we need to do. If you pass it you can go. This is called a Breathalyzer. You just blow into it and it will tell us everything we need to know," the cop said as if speaking to a small child. "Though a match would probably work just as well," he added to himself.
Failing the test Quatre looked the man straight in the eye and accepted his fate.
"Mister Maxwell, I'm going to have to ask you to put your hands behind your back, face the vehicle, and do as I tell you to do…"
Can't risk it. They could find out if they search. They shouldn't need to, but if they search they'll know…
But you're drunk. Things will just get worse if you put up a fight! Another voice shouted.
And if you don't you're facing lethal injection at the least.
Possibly facing lethal injection. They might not find out!
"Mister Maxwell, hands behind your back, please."
Quatre did as he was told, silently promising himself that, in the event that he wasn't found out, he would find somewhere to live where he wouldn't have to worry about being arrested for drinking away his sorrows.
"Hey, you didn't leave me any cake!"
"Sorry, but we couldn't wait for ya. What can I say? Turns out that Heero has an iron-lined stomach. Man went through half the cake all by himself!" Duo flashed off a grin in the former Gundam pilot's direction, hoping to goad the man into actually showing an emotion or two. He was met with a blank stare.
"Besides, we're late as is," Duo added, grabbing a woman in a bride's veil and a white wedding dress as she walked close enough for him to do so. "Hilde and me have to get to that conference for the opening of the Deathscythe exhibit. Any cake in you and we might not get to the airport in time!" He rolled his eyes. "As if kids in ten years are going to give a damn about the Gundams and everything we went through."
Hilde patted her swollen belly and grinned up at her new husband, "What do you want to bet junior doesn't even find out what a mobile suit is until he gets into school?"
"Oh, right," Quatre said, surprised by his tactlessness. "I hadn't seen you since I found out Hilde was pregnant- what's the kid's name going to be?"
"Well, if it's a girl we figured we'd give a suitable name, like Quatre or Wufei," Duo said before Hilde could open her mouth, grinning at both affected pilots. Quatre chose to take it in stride and laugh while he noticed that the skin around Wufei's eyes tightened slightly, accentuating his oriental features.
Hilde gave her husband a playful punch, pretending to look horrified at his choice. The result was that both dissolved into a fit of giggling. Quatre and Trowa exchanged looks which quite clearly stated Newly Weds!
Clearing his throat somewhat loudly Quatre said, "My car's out front. You two had better get going or you really will miss your plane."
"Ah, fine. Spoil our fun!" Duo said, pretending to sulk, sending his wife and himself into a giggling fit once more.
They proceeded out to the car, Quatre taking the back seat while the newly weds filed into the front.
"She's pregnant and you're making her drive, Duo?" Quatre remarked as Hilde took the driver's seat. Hilde merely grinned.
"We already established that I'm a better driver. He may be able to fly a hunk of metal and dodge beam cannons, but he can't stay in his lane for the life of him."
"That was because-" Why exactly it was that Duo couldn't drive was cut off as he sat down, the act nearly strangling him as his bowtie tightened around his neck cutting off any words he might have said. All three laughed at it as Hilde pulled out of the parking lot of the chapel.
"Jeez!" Quatre exclaimed, clutching his seat. "This isn't an Indy car you're in! Slow down!"
She just laughed. "You pilot a Gundam through enemy fire thicker than mosquitoes after a hurricane, yet you think that doing fifty in a forty zone is terrifying?"
She took her eyes off of the road for a minute to show him her smirk. "I'm starting to wonder if maybe you made everything up rather tha-"
With a solid bang the car smashed into a street lamp, bending the metal of both and sending the occupants lurching forward, Hilde into the steering wheel and Duo into the dash.
Relatively unaffected by the crash Quatre leaned forward in between the seats to check on the occupants. Hilde's face was deep within the driver's side air bag while Duo was attempting to force his way out of his own, sneezing on the corn starch-like powder that encompassed his air bag.
"Bleh!" He said, spitting out the sour taste in his mouth and attempting to wipe the powder from his face. "Wha- Oh God. Oh God, no." He was looking beyond Hilde in the steering wheel and directly at what lay between the car and the warped street lamp. A body lay there, limp, bloody, and crushed.
"No…" Duo whispered the word, looking back at Hilde who was now going to be facing murder charges. "This can't be happening. It can't. It CAN'T! NO!"
"Duo… It did, Duo. But it doesn't have to have."
"What?" The brown haired man turned to look at the car's owner.
"This is my car. I could just as easily have been driving you two there rather than the other way around. In fact, I should have been. Clean off Hilde's air bag, put her in the passenger's seat, and claim that you were in the back. I'll get out and make sure I leave plenty of DNA evidence on that corpse. Tell them that I got out, examined the body for a moment, and ran away."
"Quatre, no, I can't-"
"DUO!" Quatre shouted the name. "This is the only way. You just got married. You two have your whole lives ahead of you, and thanks to me distracting Hilde, your lives could be ruined. You have to let me do this."
Duo remained silent for a moment, marveling at the fact that nobody had come to investigate the crash yet. This being the wee hours of the morning, he couldn't exactly say that he was surprised at the lack of people about.
"Tickets," he finally said.
"What?"
"Tickets. I have two tickets for New York for the exhibit opening. Take them and get to the airport, fast. Take a cab or something. Here." Duo produced the tickets and all of the money he had on him out of his pockets. "Take this. It isn't much, but it'll get you to New York where you can…. Can… Hide," he finished weakly.
Quatre took the money and pocketed it. "Wait, no, Quatre, I can't let you do this! I can't just-"
"You can. Just move Hilde. That's all that's required of you. Just tell the police what happened."
"What didn't
happen, you mean."
"No. It will go down in the history books
as me who hit this woman and ran away. It has to."
Duo remained silent again. "You'd better get going, then. Don't want to be late," he said with a small, unconvincing laugh. "Here," he said, scribbling an address onto a sheet of paper. "Write to me at this address as soon as you can. I'll… I'll help you figure out what happens next."
The prince nodded, opening the door and stepping out onto the street toward the woman, ripping a few follicles of hair out and sprinkling them on the body, dripping sweat on her limp form.
"One more thing, before you go." Quatre turned back to look at Duo for the last time he would ever do so in person. "The baby's name. It's going to be Quatre. Quatre Rebaba Winner Maxwell."
Quatre nodded and ran into the darkness and a new life.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
-Robert Frost
End
A/N: As much as I would love to take credit for the storyline in this, it isn't mine. I stole it, though I can't find the original author of the very similar fic in the CSI section of FanFiction. At any rate, I really liked the plot and, as a result, applied it to Gundam Wing R&R. R&R or die! (Seriously, you'll get involved in a car crash like everyone in my one shots seems to!).