Warning: uh…there’s a little bit of, ah, death and angst in this section.
Disclaimer: They’re not mine; please don’t take legal action!
C&C always welcome!
From Forever to Forever
Part Ten: Do Us Part
June 29th, AC 208—Trowa Barton—5:39 a.m.
I wake up with a start. Glancing at the clock, I notice that it’s not even six.
Something’s wrong.
For a moment I wonder if someone has broken into my apartment—everything feels strange. But it’s quiet, except for my pounding heart.
Was it a nightmare? I vaguely recall hearing something—someone—calling my name.
It must’ve been a dream.
I lay back down, hoping to catch another hour of sleep before I have to get ready for work. But every time I close my eyes, my heart and my head begin pounding again.
Danger. Trouble. It’s like a flash—a red alert going off subconsciously. Vague sensations from my dream still course through my mind. I can fell my muscles tensing involuntarily, and somewhere in the back of my mind, it all feels familiar. I’ve felt this way before—when we were fighting on the Libra.
I keep thinking that I can almost hear someone calling my name again.
Quatre.
His face. His voice. Both flash into my mind.
What if it’s not a dream? What if there’s really trouble?
It’s probably just my reoccurring nightmare—the one where I don’t make it in time to save Quatre from that bullet.
But this feels remarkably different.
I get up and pad my way to the kitchen, taking a bottle of water from the refrigerator.
I turn on the tiny television set; it’s still on the twenty-four hour news channel.
For a moment, the images don’t register. My mind is still floating somewhere between dreams and confusion. Then reality hits me.
Quatre.
I set down the water and flip off the TV, making my way to the bedroom.
Pulling out an old suitcase, I begin to pack everything I may need for my trip to his colony.
"Wait for me, Quatre."
June 29th—Heero Yuy—8:14 a. m.
"Good morning," Relena says with a sigh as she walks into the kitchen. She’s already dressed for work and looks like she’s been awake for hours, though I know she’s hardly been up for twenty minutes.
"Morning," I reply, handing her a cup of coffee. "How’s Rina doing?"
"Better," she answers, taking a sip. "Her fever has gone down and her cough is almost gone. I was going to ask you to let her sleep in again today; she needs her rest."
"Do you want me to call you if anything changes?"
She smiles wearily. "Only if it’s drastic. You always take better care of her when she’s sick, anyway." She leans against me, offering a quick kiss before sitting at the table.
I sit next to her and pass the newspaper to her. I usually don’t have anything for breakfast, but today I pour myself a cup of coffee.
Relena immediately turns to the business section, ignoring the front-page headlines. It’s all sensationalism anyway, I can hear her telling me in my head. I can barely make out the picture of debris floating in the ocean, and a Preventor salvaging crew. Part of the headline is visible: "148 People Killed in Shuttle Crash Off Spanish Coast."
Damn. There hasn’t been anything like this in the past few years; safety regulations are too strict for accidents of this magnitude.
Relena turns the page, and suddenly I’m able to read the article’s subheading: "Among the casualties is L-4 Representative Noventa-Winner."
Silvia.
I grab the newspaper from Relena, showing her the feature article. She says nothing, just holding one hand over her mouth and reading with wide, tear-filled eyes.
"W-when did it happen?" she asks, scanning the page frantically.
"It says it was around 5:30 this morning." The article doesn’t mention Quatre. Was he there? Certainly they’d mention his name if he was. And what about Maja?
I scan the columns again, looking for any mention of the other casualties.
Oh God.
Casualties. My chest aches just thinking about it. Silvia is dead. Gone. And Quatre and Maja could be alive, possibly discovering it all right now.
Oh God.
I look at Relena; she’s rereading the front page, shaking her head in denial. "No," she murmurs, wiping at her eyes. "It can’t be—I just talked to her yesterday . .. "
Oh God, I can’t help but hope, for Quatre’s sake, that he was with her on that shuttle. How can he live without her?
Could I live without Relena, now that I’ve devoted my life to her? Just Irina and me?
No.
Life would be meaningless. Empty. Cheap.
I take the paper, noticing a small biographical article about Silvia’s accomplishments in the Parliament. The last line catches my attention. "Rep. Noventa-Winner is survived by her husband, multi-millionaire Quatre Winner, and their daughter."
Oh God.
Quatre has to continue his life without Silvia, taking care of Maja alone.
June 29th—Sally Po—8:12 p.m.
I feel sick. We’ve been working for the past fifteen hours, along with some former members of the Sweepers and other salvaging teams. Digging up parts of a destroyed shuttle isn’t fun. It’s frustrating work, even when you’re detached.
But I don’t have that advantage now, do I?
I didn’t want to accept leadership of this particular project. But we have to look for evidence of sabotage or any signs of foul play—and Une had pointed out to me that no one in the Preventors was more experienced or more adept at salvaging than me.
And WuFei came, too.
I told him not to, but I think he wants to see it all for himself—it will force him to accept the truth.
Silvia’s gone.
I hand WuFei a cup of coffee and he lifts it to his lips with trembling hands. His face is pinched; his eyes are bloodshot.
"Do you want to call Quatre?" I ask, laying my hand on his shoulder.
He shakes his head. "Trowa’s with him, I’m sure."
He stares vacantly across the deck of the ship, watching the crew work diligently.
"We don’t think the shuttle was tampered with. It looks like it was a malfunction of the thrusters or the fuel injection. We won’t know for sure until we find the flight recorder."
He closes his eyes, dropping his Styrofoam cup and bringing his hands to his face. For a moment I don’t understand—I thought it was better that it wasn’t foul play.
But then again, I know WuFei. I know how he thinks; he can wear his heart on his sleeve, much to the surprise of others.
He’d rather have someone concrete to blame.
His crying hurts me more than anything. I pull him into my arms, feeling his entire body shake. I let his grief seep into me and I begin to cry with him.
"There’s no use, is there?" he asks through his tears. "Even without war, deaths are meaningless. Quatre—Maja—what do they do now?"
He mumbles incoherently, clutching my shoulders as sobs rack his body. I know that he’s lost in his own nightmare, thinking of her, and remembering what it’s like to feel useless while losing a loved one.
I lead him to our cabin, below deck, wiping my own tears on my sleeve. As I fumble for my keys, he gently lifts my chin with his calloused fingers. His dark eyes are glistening and red-rimmed.
"It could’ve been you," he whispers insistently. "And I’m so ashamed for being relieved." New tears course down his cheeks and I pull him close again, burying my head in his neck.
Overwhelming surges of love and relief floods through my mind, making my grief multiply tenfold. I feel like my heart is swelling, ready to burst with an overflow of pain.
And I know that someday I’ll be able to look back without pain—and that makes me cry harder.
We stand there, sobbing in the corridor and clinging to each other like life preservers.
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