DISCLAIMER: GW's not mine, don't sue *sigh*

A/N: I'm halfway finished on writing the next chapter to SK when this idea popped on my mind (and I blame it all to My Chemical Romance's song entitled 'Kill All Your Friends'). I actually wrote this story with original characters of mine, but I wanted you guys to read it here so I kinda manipulated it a little and throw my favorite GW characters in. It was a little dark and depressing. Do expect OOC's. R&R please!!!

"Weddings and Funerals"

by Schizoid Sprite

"We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell" - Oscar Wilde

And they said I'm the wealthiest kid in the universe.

They were wrong, of course. First, I'm not really wealthy. I sure am the heir to the vast Winner empire, but I do not have that thing that I only need to continue to live.

Second, I'm not a kid. Because if I am I should have been delighting myself with toys and other child stuffs, not obsessing over her, wasting my life thinking about her and scheming how to see her again.

They were wrong, because now I'm here again to satisfy my selfishness…to quench my thirst of drinking in the sight of her.

I know that apologies were not enough to atone for my sins. And I can't make amends if I continue in making mistakes after the same mistakes after the same mistakes. I am aware of that.

I'm a demon. I'm still alive but my soul was now being engulfed in the flames of hell.

But at the moment I didn't care. She was just a couple of feet away from me, but I knew that I'd die first before I could even lay a finger on her. That was the punishment I set for myself. I wouldn't let this dirty, bloody hands of mine touch her. I'll just mar her purity.

If I said this back in the war, people would have thought it's the other way around. But almost ten years later, this was the undeniable truth.

I watched her as she struggled to force her tears back. Her hair was still the lovely curtain of the finest golden silk I always loved, swaying to frame her delicate profile. She was this ivory sculpture I worshipped in my dreams, the goddess I am so addicted with. She was the perfect personification of all the abstract emotions welling in my system.

Dorothy Catalonia.

I swallowed the small lump that gathered at my throat, then shifted my eyes to the thing she was leaning over. I couldn't see the body, but I knew who was resting there.

The casket shone under the faint sunlight of the gloomy afternoon. Everyone was quiet with held-in tears and sobs. I think the whole Romefeller bloodline was trained to put on a strong face to the world. The other businessmen and politicians were just as silent and I saw Relena comforting my goddess by holding her hand.

I do feel remorse, but what I am doing this for is a necessity. I need to see her.

She's my life.

I never peeled my eyes off her until the funeral was over. She whirled around with slumped shoulders—sight that was atypical of her during the war—and lifted her eyes to study my face. Her mouth was pulled down in a frown and her whole countenance offered no warmth. She tried to give me a smile, but it turned out sour.

If only I could stop the time at that moment, I certainly would. It was one of the rarest times that she would acknowledge my presence. But before I even notice it, she, along with the swarm of black-clad people, was gone, and I was standing all alone in the graveyard. It took me an eternity-long minute before I convinced myself that I should retreat to my prison they called my office to work for the betterment of my company.

And to plan how I would see her again.

I do not have any choice. Dorothy was more important to me than the air I breathe, more valuable than all my money and heirlooms combined. And what am I for her? A former enemy whom she gradually accepted as someone who could be considered as a remote acquaintance. Just a human who when she would look at would bring her pain for reminding her of the years of war.

And I know she was happy. I am updating myself by reading the papers on how she and her husband managed their own businesses, how they enjoyed living together, how they took care of their lovely daughter.

Memories rushed back. I remembered how long it took me to convince myself that it was all real, not only a nightmare, when Dorothy announced her engagement to Trowa.

I thought I'd die then. I knew I couldn't live to witness how my best friend and my only love vowed their love to each other. I laughed bitterly at the scene, having encountered them in soap operas. Boy meets girl, boy falls in love with girl, girl falls in love with boy's best friend, boy's best friend and girl get married. The end.

Boy's heartbroken, and there's nothing that could be done. The show was meant to pinch the hearts of viewers.

The thought hurt so much to a point that I refused to believe anything. I couldn't trust anyone, and no one understood the real cause of my behavior. Rashid even sent Trowa to check on me everyday since I started to act a bit strange. As if it would make me feel better, huh?

I realized I couldn't just sulk in one corner. I realized that I was but a mass of flesh and bone to signify what Dorothy disliked the most: weakness. And I couldn't stay like that.

But no, I do not plan to steal Dorothy away from Trowa. I love them both, I shouldn't hurt them. If they were happy, I should be happy too, right?


I attended their wedding. Oh, and I was flattered to the hilt, could you guess why?

I was the best man.

Just like in the movies. I watched and learned to plaster fake smiles on my face, time and again stealing glimpses of my lovely princess, but quickly turning away when she and Trowa would exchange warm looks, sweet smiles, and the kisses I wish I could have…

By the end of the ceremony, she approached me, her face blissful. I was quite shocked when she gave me a hug to thank me for attending. She had heard of my condition lately. I just smiled at her and lied that I was happy for them. What else could I say?

I went home with the shards of my heart crushed to smaller bits.

Days passed. I still worked hard to put the company in the pedestal. I was successful in these kinds of things.

But I was terribly not me anymore.

I knew I could never have Dorothy. She loved Trowa so much, and Trowa returned her affections equally. But I just need to see her. That was the only thing I could do now. Not own her, not even touch her. Just see her. Not in her business photographs in the internet, not in her few TV appearances.

I need to see her personally.

The image of their wedding day replayed on my head. And then the thought struck me. I knew there would be some things that I could use as an excuse for seeing her…

At first I'm a good guy, a matchmaker, if you will. I helped Heero and Relena realize their feelings and aided them to confess to each other without thinking about whatever anybody would say about them. It was a hard task, but soon they decided to settle down.

So at the wedding, I saw her again. I was mentally erasing Trowa as she hung on his arm, and for that I blushed and silently apologized to my best friend.

I did the same plan to Hilde and Duo. To Wufei and Sally. Zechs and Noin needed no help, of course. In these little ceremonies I would be rewarded by the sight of her. And I thought I was happy then.

Of course yes. Of course no.

When everyone had settled down, I was left with no one to use as a decoy for another chance of my desperate need. But I'm not one to give up that easily.

I set up my own wedding.

It was mad, I was well aware, but what could I do? I allowed myself to agree on an arranged marriage set by Iria. It was a Muslim wedding that we had—the girl was a little crazy about me, and just for the sake of marrying me she converted into my religion. My fiancée was beautiful, an heiress to a large empire akin to mine, but she was no match to Dorothy's beauty. She couldn't replace my only love.

Mrs. Barton did attend. There wasn't a second that passed that I didn't imagine the woman in my arms as her.

For a time I convinced myself that it should end here. I've read somewhere that the heart could be taught how to love. I should try to teach my heart to love my wife then.

Hell, I couldn't make a fool of myself this time. My heart's different.

My wife loved me, and I pretended that I felt the same. But as always, I was transparent; she soon realized that I didn't love her as much as she did. And we had never slept together.

I only plan to sleep with only one woman in my life.

No one would believe me, but this was an honest statement: I was beyond sorry to what I did to my dear partner. She got herself depressed, disregarding all the Muslim practices that she should be following, drowning herself in alcohol, overdosing with sleeping pills. To her dismay, I was always there to keep her alive no matter how much she wanted to die.

I knew what that feels like.

I cursed myself for being the guy that was me. There was no solution to my wife's misery, and I couldn't give her my love. It was up to Allah how He would punish me.

Dreadfully, I need to drink in Dorothy's image again. I'm going to give anything I've got just to see her.

So I shifted to the 'bad guy' plan. I hired assassins, and paid them as much as I could. I knew this process would hurt her, but for the moment I didn't really care. I was hurt too and there was no one to comfort me—you couldn't count on a depressed woman, though I never really expected for her to soothe me after what I'd done to her. Dorothy has Trowa so I could be assured that she would be alright.

So I witnessed how one by one, the Romefeller bloodline shed one member after another.

In every funeral I was there, offering condolences and staring at the dead men that I indirectly killed, muttering prayers that I know Allah wouldn't bother heed. I was the worst man to live.

And of course in every funeral she was also there. I could see how my selfishness crushed her, brought tears to the eyes that legends said could not manufacture such fluid. There wasn't really a large number of members left in her clan, and I was the secret culprit behind all of this killings.

I indirectly killed my wife, too. Her suicide attempts had finally paid off one night I wasn't around the house. She was found lifeless on the floor of our bedroom, knife in hand, wrists slit.

Who would rank as worse than me?

I love Dorothy, and I let my love for her destroy who I am supposed to be.

In the burial of my wife she was also present. She enveloped me in an embrace to comfort me. It was a heartfelt gesture.

I have nothing left now. I couldn't bring myself to kill my friends, and when the thought crossed my mind I wanted to cease existing. So I am here now, gasping for air as I slumped against my couch, wondering how in the hell I would see her again.

Oh, well.

Perhaps my own funeral would do. At least on that day, she would cry for me the way I cried for her all my life.

The end. T.T

Sorry! I don't mean to do this to Qua-chan. *sniff*