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99 Ways to Say Goodbye	By : Maureen Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 489 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing/AC, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-99 Ways to Say Goodbye
- 1
99 Ways to Say Goodbye

Disclaimers/Unsolicited advice: If you are feeling at all depressed or suicidal,
please seek professional help and don't wait for a housecall from Dr. Trowa...
Also, nothing Gundam belongs to me.

Warning:
Extremely bratty Quatre, mentions of suicide. THIS IS NOT A DEATHFIC.

Pairings:
3+4

Author's
Notes: And a special thanks to Bast for reminding me of that oh-so- pithy
"Mom-ism" - "Winners never quit, because quitters never
prosper"

Quatre
Raberba Winner sat, alone and empty, on the floor of his study. A drift of
crumpled papers tumbled from an overfilled wastebasket and covered one of his
splayed feet, notes that he would never finish because there was really no good
way to explain what he planned to do. He had sent the staff away a week ago,
wanting no interference with this, his final plan. The gun was an antique, a
Colt .45 and it was heavy and frighteningly real in his hand. Slowly, for what
was possibly only the second, or perhaps the hundredth time that day, he raised
the barrel to his head and willed himself to find the last bit of courage needed
to end it all.

Quatre's
world had narrowed considerably since the war, everything important, good, and
beautiful falling away until all that he had left was the gun in his hand and
the guilt in his heart. He had ended thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of
lives while fighting, and though he knew that his own was a poor substitute; he
was determined to give it in penance. For what he hoped would be the last time,
he began to apply steady pressure to the trigger. A split second before the
final bit of weight necessary could be added, the gun was knocked from Quatre's
hands, and he found himself confronted with an angry pair of burning green eyes.

"What
in the hell do you think you're doing?" Trowa wrenched the gun away and
uncocked it.

"Killing
myself, what does it look like? And here I always thought you were one of the
smart ones, Trowa." Quatre turned away, unwilling to see the disappointment
in the other's face.

"Why?"

Quatre
spoke in monotone, "Do you know how long I've been waiting for someone to
realize what a monster I am? For months after, every time someone came to the
door, or called, I was sure that it would finally be someone coming to arrest
me. I watched the war crimes tribunal, and knew that I should be on trial as
well. But they never came, Trowa. And for a while I was even relieved � I
thought I had gotten away with it." He laughed bitterly at Trowa's look of
shock. "You always did have the wrong impression of me, I'm afraid �
exactly like everyone else, you thought I was some noble innocent. I'm a
murderer, Trowa, plain and simple. And there's nothing sweet and na�ve about
that, is there?"

"Quatre,
we all killed during the war, that's what soldiers do� and you are na�ve if
you think your death will change anything now." Trowa awkwardly squeezed
Quatre's shoulder, unfamiliar with the language of reassurance.

"Oh,
and how many colonies did you blow up Trowa? How many civilians did you spread
across space? And do you know what I feel the worst about, now? You, Trowa. No,
not that I nearly killed you � but because that's all I could think about
after. All those lives that I destroyed and all I could think about was you�
What's wrong with me, Trowa? Didn't those other people deserve my remorse, too?
It wasn't even guilt over killing you that made me feel bad. I was upset because
I had a crush on you � I was only worried about my own hurt feelings. Ha! Bet
you didn't know that, did you Trowa? I'm nothing but a self-centered, spoiled
little brat."

"I
knew, Quatre." Trowa sat back against the wall with a sigh, "Would you
call a volcano a murderer if people knew it was going to erupt and still didn't
leave the mountainside?"

"You
can hardly compare me to a force of nature or an act of God. I killed them in
cold blood."

"Quatre,
you warned them. Those that didn't leave share at least part of the blame. And
what good is your death going to do now? It's not going to bring anyone
back." Trowa spoke with the same patient tone he used to soothe frightened
lions.

"No,
but I can't live with myself any longer. And no one will ever prosecute me; I've
got too much money for that. So I've acted as my own judge and jury, and now
I'll be my own executioner." A slightly mad gleam grew in Quatre's eyes,
"Unless you'll do it. For old times sake, Trowa, please? Yes, that would be
the ultimate justice, for you to kill me � and that way I won't have to worry
about any messy mistakes."

"You
want me to shoot you? You are being a self-centered brat, Quatre. I'm
done with killing. And a friend would never ask me to do it again."

"You
think I'm your friend Trowa? When have I ever been anyone's friend? But I
applaud your conviction. I, too, will be done with killing if you'll kindly hand
over my gun." Quatre's voice was tired, resigned.

"You
can have the gun back, Quatre, after I'm done with it." And with that,
Trowa placed the barrel to his own head and pulled the trigger with none of the
hesitation that Quatre had shown.

If
Quatre had been anyone but a former Gundam pilot, if his reflexes had been the
slightest bit slower, Trowa would have surely died. As it was, a shallow furrow
creased Trowa's brow, and blood began to pool in it and spill down his face,
tracing tear-like tracks across his ghostly pale cheeks. "What are you
doing?" Quatre shouted as they struggled for the still hot gun. "Are
you insane?"

"I
only wanted you to understand, Quatre, what's going to happen if you kill
yourself." Trowa won the battle for the gun and slipped it in the back of
his jeans. "If you die, I die."

"What
are you talking about?" Quatre ripped a large strip from his shirt and
attempted to staunch the bleeding.

Trowa
grabbed his hand and his attention, "We're connected, Quatre, and if you
die, I'll shortly follow. If you shoot yourself, I'll use the same gun. If you
drink poison, I will too. Cut your wrists and I'll do the same�"

"Stop
it! You're crazy � I'm not worth it."

"Who
are you calling crazy, little boy? I'm not the one sitting on the floor in weeks
worth accumulated filth too cowardly to end my own life." He released
Quatre's hand with a small sound of disgust. "Besides, there are so many
more elegant ways to go than by gun. There must be at least 99 different ways to
say the final goodbye."

"So
now I'm being chastised because my method of suicide isn't refined enough? Leave
me alone Trowa, and take the gun if you want � I'm still going to do it."

"Fine,
we'll discuss methodology in the morning over breakfast � for now, go bathe.
You smell terrible." Trowa pulled him up from the floor and propelled him
out of the room.

"What?"
Quatre squawked, too offended to notice that he had been distracted.

"Really,
Quatre, what use are social niceties to men standing on the edge of oblivion?
" The reached the nearest bathroom and Trowa shoved him inside and shut the
door. "Make sure to scrub well, you absolutely reek."

"You
can't tell me what to do! There are razors in here! I'll slit my wrists and you
won't be able to do a thing about it!" Quatre twisted the lock shut as he
yelled.

There
was silence for a few moments, and then a low, dangerous sounding chuckle.
"You don't seem to understand, Quatre," Trowa rammed into the door and
it shook on its hinges. "I might not be able to stop you, but I'll join
you." He struck the door again and the wood creaked. "So stop making
idiotic threats and Take � The � Damn � BATH!" Each of the last four
words was punctuated with a heavy kick and on the final one, the wood around the
doorknob splintered and the door flew open with a resounding crack. Quatre
cowered as Trowa strode in and reached for him, "I'm not going to hit you,
stupid! I'm the one trying to keep you alive, remember?" He roughly pulled
the dirt-encrusted clothes away from the smaller man and dumped him in the
shower. "Now, will you wash yourself or do I have to do that, too?"
His hands were paused at his own belt buckle, and he glared at Quatre who
finally picked up the soap and began to lather.

"Why?"
Quatre's head hung down as he watched the water cut paths through the grime on
his body, which swirled off in dark clouds and circled the drain.

"Because
I've had enough of killing and dying. Be sure to wash your hair at least twice
� you could start an oil well on your head." And Trowa left him alone to
finish.

Quatre
bathed as instructed, all the while fluently cursing Trowa in every language he
knew. And although he wondered briefly what sorts of emotions were motivating
the usually taciturn man, he refused to lower the barrier he had built between
himself and the feelings of others. He stomped off to his bedroom, determined to
let his uninvited guest know how displeased he was. Trowa was waiting there for
him. "I should explain something to you before we turn in for the night.
Don't try to leave this house, because if you do, I'll be forced to assume that
you've gone off to kill yourself in private. And, of course, I'll do the
same."

"What?
I'm a prisoner here? What if I want to take a walk?" Quatre gritted.

"Then
leave a note, or you'll come home to a messy corpse. Good night, Quatre. I'll
see you at breakfast." And Trowa slid quietly from the room.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

As
promised, Trowa was waiting patiently for him in the kitchen the next morning. A
fresh brewed pot of Earl Grey tea sat at the spot opposite him, and he held a
mug of thick black coffee in his own hands, "You still drink tea, don't you
Quatre? And what would you like to eat � there's not much here, but I can fix
you some oatmeal."

Quatre
merely glowered as he poured himself a cup of the tea. "How long do you
intend to stay here? Because you can't forever, you know."

"Oh,
I can't? Let me tell you something, Quatre, more stubborn men than you have
learned the hard way not to tell me what I can and can't do." He rose to
fix the unwanted oatmeal. "I'll stay as long as necessary. Until you remove
your head from its current position in your ass."

"Well,
aren't you delightfully crude? The things you never know about a person�"

"Exactly,
just like I never knew you were a self-pitying, self- centered bastard.
Eat." Trowa slammed the bowl down in front of him and the oatmeal oozed
over the side in a most unappetizing fashion. "And we'll go shopping later,
because of all the ways to die, starving to death is an unnecessarily prolonged
way to go. Let me explain how this arrangement is going to work between us �
every morning you will come down and eat your breakfast like a good boy� go on
now," Trowa gestured to the lumpy mass. Quatre shook his head vehemently,
lips pressed into a thin line. "Do you want me to force you? Good," he
said as the blonde stuffed a grudging spoonful into his mouth. "Where was
I? Oh, yes, after you eat, you may tell me your suicide plan for the day � and
it has to be a different method everyday. When you finally come up with a
technique we both can agree on, we'll end it."

"What
are you talking about?" Quatre asked between bites. He was not about to
tell Trowa, but the oatmeal actually tasted good � as he rolled it around on
his tongue he could sense hints of cinnamon, nutmeg, and brown sugar.

"I've
already told you more than once, Quatre � if you kill yourself, I'm going to
commit suicide in exactly the same fashion." Trowa explained in a tone
people generally reserved for small children or belligerent drunks. "You
might at least be gracious enough to allow me to have a say in the way I end my
life."

"Why
don't you go home and leave me alone? Forget about me, Trowa." Quatre
pushed the empty bowl away and concentrated on the leaves floating at the bottom
of his teacup. They told him nothing.

"I
can't do that, Quatre. We're connected." Trowa said with same gentle
patience. "Now hurry up and tell me today's plan, your garden is in sore
need of attention, and I feel like pulling some weeds."

"Pretty
cocky, aren't you? Maybe I'll come up with the perfect method this
morning�" Trowa only laughed at this assertion. "Fine, then �
hanging. A good choice for criminals, and it should go quickly if done
correctly� why are you staring at me like that?"

"I
guess I forgot to mention � whichever way we pick, you have to watch me do it
first. Now are you sure about hanging?"

Quatre
unwillingly envisioned Trowa's lean form swaying from a tree branch and
shuddered. "Okay, not hanging then. And you know it's cheating when you
keep adding more rules as we go."

"But
Quatre, I'm playing for keeps." Trowa swept the table clean. "And I
intend to win."

Trowa
spent the remainder of the morning and most of the afternoon in the garden, and
Quatre sat in a sheltered window and watched him. Trowa had grown since he'd
seen him last, filled out and matured in ways that became even more evident when
he stripped off his sweat stained shirt. Quatre felt an echo of his wartime lust
for the acrobat returning, and tried to smother it in the resentment he
struggled to maintain. And although his curiosity clamored to be answered, he
refused to open his heart to read what lay in Trowa's. If Trowa thought he could
be stubborn, Quatre would clearly have to teach him the true definition of the
word. And he said so that evening over the simple dinner of grilled steak and
salad that Trowa set before him. "My father had a saying, you know. Well,
it wasn't his, but the family adopted it all the same: 'Winners never quit,
because quitters never prosper' and I'm a Winner, Trowa. I'll outlast you on
this, you'll see."

"That's
a strange definition of prosperity you have there, Quatre." Trowa commented
before excusing himself for the night.

Their
days fell into the same pattern for several weeks; each morning Quatre would
suggest some new way of dying, and each morning Trowa would find a reason to
refuse it; poison was too painful, slit wrists were too messy, car crashes too
uncertain. And although Quatre did not realize it, he was slowly growing
accustomed to the quiet rhythm of their shared life; Trowa's endless puttering
in the long neglected garden, the uncomplicated meals he prepared with
understated flair, his habit of merely being there that somehow lent plain
comfort to Quatre's otherwise empty life.

Eventually,
Quatre let his resentment fade away enough to ask one morning over breakfast,
"What about the circus? Don't they need you there?"

"No,
not really."

"What
about Cathy?" And Quatre wondered at the jealously that colored the words.

"What
about her? She found someone else to throw knives at, if that's what you mean.
One of the clowns went blind and needed something to do � we figured it was
the perfect job for him. I miss the lions, sometimes, but other than that�
stop trying to get rid of me, Quatre. It's not going to work."

"How
did you know � to come here, I mean."

"I
told you already, Quatre, but I'll say it slower so maybe you'll understand �
We� Are� Connected. Now what's this morning's plan?" Trowa asked with
his usual nonchalance. "And try the strawberries, they're from the
garden."

"You
grew these?"

"You'd
be surprised at what I'm finding buried under the weeds and neglect out there,
Cat. Everything needs a good pruning once and a while to thrive." Trowa
wore a strange half smile that he obscured with his coffee cup. "So?"

It
took Quatre a moment to realize what Trowa was asking for, "Oh, I thought
I'd try something different today � how about we go out into space and do it?
There's lots of ways � we could let all the air out of the shuttle, or crash
into some unoccupied �" Quatre paused when he saw the color drain from
Trowa's tanned face. " What?"

"Quatre,
I have absolutely no desire to die in space." He replied in a perfectly
inflectionless tone, but slammed his coffee cup down with enough force to crack
it before he fled to the garden.

And
for the first time since he had shut down and refused to feel his emotions or
anyone else's, Quatre knew true regret. Trowa did not come in that evening to
fix dinner, and late into the night, Quatre could hear the dull thud of an axe
against deadwood. However, the next morning, breakfast proceeded as it had on
every day before. "What were you doing out there so late, Trowa?"
Quatre timidly breached the hard silence between them.

"Some
things are harder to cut away than others."

"I
could hire someone to take care of that, you know � you don't have to do all
that hard work by yourself."

"No,
Quatre, there are some things you have to do on your own." And with that
the morning meal and conversation were at an end.

Most
of the morning had passed before Quatre realized they had neglected their daily
discussion of ways to die. "I suppose I owe him a day off," he told
his hushed study. When his long silent phone clamored for attention, Quatre was
hard pressed not to scream in surprise. He cautiously flicked it on, and was
both relieved and aggravated to find Duo staring back at him.

"Quatre!
Man, it's about time you answered the phone! Tell Trowa thanks, by the way �
he told me I'd be able to catch you if I called about now!"

"Trowa?"

"Yeah,
he called last night, said he needed some comic relief. What happened, you two
have a little lover's spat or something?" Duo was as blatantly cheerful as
always.

"Lovers?"

"Whoa,
you have been around long, tall and silent too long � what's with all these
one word responses? Yeah, Tro told me the good news about you two finally
shackin' up together. `Bout damn time if you ask me!"

"What
are you talking about, Duo?"

"You
know, he loves you, you love him, you're living together�" Duo frowned
and blinked slowly at Quatre' puzzled countenance. "I'm sorry man, I sorta
assumed � it's not like Trowa's a big detail telling kinda guy, but when he
said he had moved in with you � I mean you two always had it so bad for each
other� what's a guy supposed to think?"

"Well,
sure, I had a crush on him� but he's not in love with me�" Quatre tried
to sort through the sudden angry clamor in his mind.

"Yes
he is." Duo flashed a Cheshire grin.

"How
do you know? What did you do, ask him or something?" Duo nodded. "You
asked him?!?! When?" Quatre's long pent emotions were battering at his
shields, demanding to be let out.

"On
Peacemillion, right after he got his memory back� I asked him why he ended up
following us. He said it was because you two were `connected.' And I told him to
cut all the mystic mumbo jumbo crap and say it plainly � and he did�"
Duo rolled his eyes at the blank look he received from Quatre, "And I
quote, `Because I love him, Duo.' Hey!" It was Duo's turn to look confused.
"How come you didn't know? Forget to pay your dues to the `Psychic Friend's
Network' or something?"

"No,
I turned it off after the war. I was tired of feeling so much all the time �
it was like I was drowning in emotions� so I built a wall around everything,
to keep my feelings in and everyone else's out." And Quatre began to wonder
precisely which action of Trowa's over the last few weeks hadn't said
love.

"What
about before? I mean during the war? Didn't you ever pick up on it then? He told
me he loved you from the first time he met you� and the way you acted around
him, I figured you knew. I just thought you guys were waiting `til after."

"I
never looked � it would have been rude."

"Yeah,
and I suppose you're the kind of sap who wouldn't go through his boyfriend's
medicine cabinet either! How do you expect to find anything out about the guy if
you're not willing to snoop a little?" Duo finished with a dismayed little
chuckle, "Yeah, well I guess you've got some thinking to go do now, so I'll
let you go. Bye, Quatre."

After
a few minutes, Quatre mumbled `goodbye' to the mute phone and drifted over to
the window. For a few panicked moments, he could not find Trowa in the lush
jungle his backyard had become, but eventually he spotted Trowa's rich
hazelnut-brown back flashing in the sun. It took him longer than he could have
imagined to make his way through the flourishing green labyrinth that had once
been his overgrown and stunted garden. Trowa had coaxed blooms out of long
dormant roses, trained obstinate clematis to wind around trellises, and reminded
hibernating bulbs how to break the earth. A rich cacophony of smells assaulted
Quatre from all sides and the blazing colors of countless flowers filled his
eyes. Eventually, he found Trowa in the back corner of the property, re-shaping
forgotten topiaries into all manner of beast both mythical and mundane. Quatre
watched for a time, still reluctant to cut a chink in his imprisoning wall.
Trowa eventually straighten from his stooped posture and wiped the sweat from
his forehead, "Well, what do you think?"

"I
don't know�" Quatre started to say, but when their eyes met, he knew,
without even the benefit of his muffled space heart, he positively knew that
what Duo told him had been true. "It's beautiful, Trowa� it's so
beautiful�" was all he could manage to gasp out as the barrier crumbled
and fell away, leaving him naked and receptive for the first time in far too
long. Trowa approached him in obvious concern, and when his hand moved to
support Quatre's elbow, the contact strengthened the emotion flowing out of him
and over Quatre� For one overwhelming moment, Quatre was sure he would drown
in it; it was all too much after so long. But then the flood subsided and became
a steady stream. Quatre could discern several different emotions; a current of
concern, a swirling eddy of hope, and a broad riverbed of steady love and
devotion. And, he found, the longer he bathed in Trowa's emotions, the more
buoyant he felt � supported and not weighed down and pulled by the undertow.
But still, it was too much, too soon, and with a small nod of apology, he turned
from Trowa and fled.

After
dark, Trowa knocked softly on his door, "Are you alright in there, Quatre?
Dinner's ready."

"I'm
not hungry, Trowa." He managed to croak out, his throat stressed from the
sobs of remorse and recrimination he had buried in his pillow for the last
several hours.

"I
thought we agreed that starving to death was not the way to go!" Although
Trowa's voice joked, Quatre could only hear the worry from the other's heart.

"I�
I have a headache. I promise I'll eat double in the morning, but for tonight I
just want to rest. Please?"

Trowa
hesitated for a long moment, a swift countercurrent of anxiety cutting across
the surface of his strong, steadily flowing emotions, then answered,
"Alright, Quatre. Goodnight."

Quatre
did not sleep at all that night, instead he spent his time turning over
memories, savoring new found feelings, and packing away old regrets. Around 2 am
he began to wonder how to make it all up to Trowa, and by 4:30 he knew. He made
himself wait until 5:30, and then crept quietly down the stairs to make
breakfast.

Trowa
joined him less than an hour later; monosyllabic until he had down the first cup
of the mud he called coffee. "What prompted all this, Quatre? I don't mind
cooking for you."

"I
know, Trowa." Quatre smiled and placed a plate piled high with pancakes in
front of him. "But I wanted to do something for you."

"Thank
you." And the gratitude and warmth that enveloped Quatre were better than
any spoken word. They ate in silence and after Trowa asked, "Well, what'll
it be today? How about death by gluttony? Keep making pancakes like that and you
might convince me that's the way to go."

"First,
let me make sure I fully understand the rules." Quatre was unable to
restrain the smile that insisted on spreading drunkenly across his lips.
"You'll die in the exact way I pick? Promise?" Trowa warily nodded,
and Quatre sensed growing concern, so he quickly continued. "Because I've
finally thought of the perfect way, and I know that this time, you'll
agree." He reached across the table and rested his hand over Trowa's
calloused fingers. "Old age."

"What?"
Trowa was confused, but whether it was from his hand or from his words, Quatre
could not tell.

"I
want to die of old age, Trowa. With you."

And
of all the millions of kisses that followed afterwards in their long life
together, both agreed that the most magical was the one shared that first
morning, sticky with maple syrup and drenched in joyful tears.
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99 Ways to Say Goodbye