Disclaimer: I do not own GW and its characters. Period.
A/N: This is a break from my other usually fluffy and fairytale-like works, and was written originally for the LJ community gw_dark. And when I say dark, it's definitely dark. No, really. This month's challenge was about having no options left, poverty, a psychological fist in the face, blah, blah, and was coupled with February being Quatre Torture Month (which was primarily caused by my fic Weddings and Funerals).
This is kinda twisted. X3 Enjoy.
Seven Deadly Sins
by Schizoid Sprite
"As somebody once said, we're not punished for our sins, we're punished by them. "- Hugh Leonard
He was thinking of her.
The lips he was kissing were cold and chapped, the flesh he was groping unresponsive and limp. This woman underneath him wasn't the woman he wanted to make love to, but he knew quite well that this is all he could do to slake his thirst for her.
He was aware that she could never love him.
Pain rushed through his body like an electric shock when the thought reverberated against the walls of his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut as tears threatened to fall. He sobbed against the woman's mouth, entangling his trembling fingers with the dark curls as he attempted to make her image in his head clearer, ignoring the dull throbbing of a stab wound on his side.
He wanted her so much, so badly that it hurts. He longed to play with her golden locks, to kiss her breathless, to show her the love he stored for her and only her. No one ever made him feel like that before, ever. And this time he wasn't going to go on self-blaming. It was all her fault, not his, that he's fallen so hard for her.
Her fault why she was so beautiful for a normal human, why she seems to be made not of flesh at all but of magnet that draws him to her, her fault why now he was feeling as if he's defying the law of gravity, floating far, far away from normality.
Something salty had stopped his desperate kiss for a while, then noticed that he was weeping. Again. He didn't bother to wipe the tears away and resumed to his activities, rocking gently and polishing the already clear picture she has on his head. His distressed need and lust crescendoed its humming in his system, and soon, after a few bucks, he spilled his soul into the woman, leaving him panting, leaving him with sheer anger and disgust with himself.
He wasted no time in holding her after that. He got up quickly, pushed himself off the table and put himself back together. It took him a couple of minutes fumbling to insert the buttons of his shirt into the right holes, and another attempting to comb his tousled hair back to normal with his shaky fingers. His face felt sticky with tearstains and he tried to rub them off, only sending him crying again when his hands touched his cheeks. He covered his face and moaned to himself as the tears cascaded down to his chin and neck.
Two quick raps on the door received no answer from him, so whoever the knocker was took that as a sign to enter in his own will. Trowa emerged from the doorway, his usually deadpan countenance now twisted with concern. He looked over to the woman before he shot his head to the disheveled blonde.
"Quatre," he muttered. The blonde didn't answer, or even acknowledge his presence and just went on crying. They stood yards from each other for a few chilly moments, until Quatre suddenly swirled around and started punching the wall with his clenched fists. The taller man gasped at the sudden action. He quickly jumped and enveloped the boy in a forceful embrace from the back, telling him to stop. By the time Quatre did, his knuckles were coated with a sheen film of red.
"I'm such a horrible monster, Trowa. I—I'm not human," he whispered shakily, absently looking at the slowly oozing blood from his hands. Trowa released his hold and turned Quatre around to face him.
"You're not," he said sotto voce, tugging out a hanky from his pocket and swaddling one of the boy's hands with it. "You'll be okay soon enough, Quatre. You'll be cured."
"But I'll never be saved," Quatre managed between stiff lips. He stopped to think for a while. "Oh, doesn't matter. I think I've lost the desire of being saved, anyway. But I need..I need her..."
Trowa didn't say anything, scrunching his lips together in a thin line. No, Quatre's never going to be cured if he kept on being like this. But who is he to tell him to stop loving Dorothy Catalonia? He himself believed that one should always follow whatever your heart tells you, and he has no intentions of egging his friend to violate that.
Quatre attempted to flash a smile but a grimace came to his face. It was not so nice a sight, with those tears flooding down his unwholesome pallor. He turned to look at the woman lying on the cold metal table.
"Suicide," Trowa answered the unspoken question lingering in Quatre's face. "She committed suicide. Seems like no family members were coming to claim her, according to the diener."
Quatre sighed. "I see. I'll set up the burial for her. Or do you think she should be cremated?"
Trowa absently fixed his eyes on the toe tag hanging from the foot of the corpse. "Yes. Cremated."
Quatre silently nodded in agreement, then followed when Trowa turned on his heels to exit the morgue.
She was called everyone's paramour.
And she was proud of it.
Now that the war was over, she found herself utterly bored—and somewhat undernourished. Not in the literal sense, of course. Back during the war she fed on the sights of combats and battles, on the fears of people. They fuel and stimulate her system like some kind of a drug, as if telling her to go on because her primary goal in joining the war was not so far from being achieved. Now, her source of 'soul-food' has dwindled away, so she pushed herself to find something else that would make her feel strong again.
She decided to feed on the manly desire for flesh. To intoxicate herself with other women's extreme jealousy and hatred.
Which led to some calling her a whore, a rich bitch at that. She seduced a young senator once, broke a marriage of a perfect showbiz couple, ruined the dreams and future of newly graduated studs. One of her favorite snack is Lucrezia Noin's rage after finding her and Milliardo Peacecraft making out in their dimly lit backyard. Noin's quite a kind woman—too kind and forgiving for her own good. Which means more and more supply of that precious meal. Milliardo was actually too kind for his own good, too. He's kind enough to welcome her with open arms no matter how many times Noin cried for him, and she would plunge in and begin to work on throwing conscience away from his mind.
Everyday, she gets to eat, different flavors at a time. But there's a set of meal she's just waiting to taste: the young, refreshed Gundam pilots.
Only, she just couldn't bring herself to flaunt her body to them for a reason she didn't know well. She starved for them like no other, that even a multitude of other weak men couldn't do anything to satisfy that hunger. She'd love to taste the elusive Heero Yuy, and she knew that the effect she'll get from Relena Peacecraft will be sizzling, priceless. Duo Maxwell wasn't exactly her type, mainly because the reaction will be coming from a useless former oz soldier, but she'd like to know his flavor as well if she'd be given a chance. Trowa Barton seemed to be lusciously delicious to her, and one of these days she'd go to the circus and attempt if she could bring herself to seduce him. As for that Chinese pilot, she bets it'd not be that easy, especially with that medic he proudly says was his only woman.
Then there was Quatre Raberba Winner. For more than once she imagines him with her in bed, and more than a thousand times when they'd meet at social functions she clamped down her desire to walk over to him and tug at his collar and lead him to her room. Combine her craving for the four other pilots and magnify that a hundred times: that's how bad she wants to devour Quatre.
But whenever she gets nearer and nearer to him, she'd suddenly wince in pain: guilt was burning her.
Which was weird. If the remorse was for the stab wound she gave him, it's quite not right, for in the past she'd even killed a lot soldiers and felt no regret whatsoever. She couldn't understand that and it scares her. Because of that, she has to eat and eat and eat a lot, receiving desserts from women's broken hearts. She couldn't afford to starve herself to insanity for that certain blonde.
In truth, it's just a matter of discipline. She was used to pain, and the caustic air that spews out from him whenever she decides to go near was actually nothing compared to the aches she felt before. She knew that one day, she wouldn't be able to resist the temptation—temptation that was fueled by something more heartfelt, something she couldn't bring herself to admit. Yet unconsciously she's letting that something grow bigger and bigger, to a point that she couldn't hide it anymore.
Everybody thought she was perfect. Well, she'd been doing all her best to solve the minor problems mushrooming every now and then about the laws of co-existence of Earth and colonies. She'd also been involved in charity works and was actually in charge of at least ten homes for the aged on Earth. Her perfect princess image made everybody thought that she's never capable of doing anything bad at all.
A little do they know, she's doing all her best to gain everything that she wants, starting from money to everyone's love and attention. The Winner Company was her main source of money. Apparently, the Winner heir seemed a bit too thoughtless lately, and she took advantage of that. Now she was publicly known as Quatre Winner's fiancée. No, she doesn't love him and he doesn't love her too, but for some peculiar reason they agreed to settle down. It was mainly for the betterment of their political and business careers, both of them told each other rather rationally.
She confessed this to her best friend, Dorothy Catalonia, who approved, though with some hint of disapproval. She was suspecting Dorothy of having a crush on Quatre, and she teased the lady that she's free to do whatever she wants to him. Dorothy merely smirked at that, and to her surprise, Dorothy never attempted to seduce Quatre.
Eventually she discovered her soon-to-be husband's necrophiliac tendencies, that he's been transforming morgues into his personal motels. This didn't bother her one bit, but when she discovered that he's secretly fallen in love with Dorothy (thanks to Trowa), she couldn't bring herself to feel okay anymore. She thought of breaking up with him, but the idea of the loss of money stopped her. She never informed her own best friend about this.
She knew who he truly loves, and vice versa. Quatre knew her feelings for Heero never faded from the very day they first met. The selfless heir granted her the free will to do whatever she wants—that was the deal anyway. They're only a couple in titles, and they must enjoy the freedom as long as they want, especially that they're not yet married. Heero was informed of the deal. He was, however, too caught up in his blind pride to even follow his feelings.
That meant Relena doesn't really have anything that she wants. The billions of money, the countless mansions scattered over the solar system, her collection of cars, they really meant nothing. The only thing she truly wants was running away from her.
She was pretty crazy about him. He knew that since the beginning, since that very day he was washed over to the shore of Japan. He sure was crazy about her too, but he couldn't nurture his feelings for her, now that everyone in the Solar system knew she's engaged to Quatre Raberba Winner. He learned from Quatre himself that the arrangement was purely for business and politics, and that no heart was involved.
But he was too proud a man to understand that.
So he walked away, closed his heart to everyone, let a mask of apathy cover his whole self. He slouched against his own world watching how the time rolled by, letting cobwebs of extreme jealousy and anger and pride swaddle his emotions he thought was finally coming back during the war. Time and again Relena would come to see him, but for him she's just a hologram, someone who's there but not for real. He taught himself not to work, told his heart not to care. And he was successful in doing that.
He's done this many times in the past, and he guessed it's the only thing he wouldn't be lazy on doing. He immersed himself into the tub of cold water and breathed in. Idly, he let the blade's sharp kiss deepen on his wrist. Red beads blobbed out of the cut, and soon the fall of the fluid became unstoppable. As if just leisurely killing time, he sprawled on the tub and closed his eyes, trying hard not to notice his suddenly labored breathing.
He knew that he's got no reason to envy him, but he felt it anyway. And it was somewhat irrational, if he would consider his protected principles in life.
He knew that Quatre's unhappy in his current situation, that he thought he's the unluckiest man on earth because the woman he loves couldn't recognize his feelings for her.
Trowa thought he's just becoming too melodramatic.
Why, he's got everything. Money, an endless line of women begging for his affection, hordes of faithful servants and guards, endless source of love and care from twenty nine siblings, success in business and politics—practically everything! He's got the looks and he's kind, too, and Trowa almost thought he's perfect, only if he hadn't known about his sexual abnormality.
Back during the war, he would have thought that these ideas weren't his. It never occurred to him that he's going to desire material things, especially not from Quatre.
But he's not going to be defeated by the feeling. He's Quatre's best friend, and the boy needs him more than anyone right now. He's going to help Quatre get over his disorder and eventually over Dorothy.
It was quite a surprise to him when the woman phoned him that night. Dorothy Catalonia was beautiful, he couldn't deny that, and the thought that this woman didn't jump on the bandwagon of females pining for Quatre made him feel a little smug. He cursed himself for feeling that way.
Dorothy told him she's got something to offer him. Curious, and a little remorseful for the rash, selfish thoughts towards his own best friend that were popping in his head, he agreed to meet her and planned on knowing how this woman would react if he'd tell her about Quatre. It's just a try, and who knows if she'd return his feelings?
Dorothy met him right after his last circus performance. He thought that his selfish propensity had gone away then.
It was by choice that he went to see Trowa this Saturday night, for he felt as if he needs someone to listen to his blathering. It was by accident that he saw them dueling near the lion cage. It was by choice yet again that he let rage gush through his veins.
How could he?! And he thought all this time that he's his best friend!
He could feel cold beads of sweat racing down his temples and chin before dribbling to taint his collar. He gently yanked the gun out of the holster as he swallowed the bile that gathered at his throat. He shivered at the cold metal, wondering why after all this time he wasn't accustomed to the sensation yet. Another bucket of chill sweat poured over him as he released the safety, cursing soundlessly before dabbing at his eyebrows where perspiration threatened to spill over his eyes. Shakily he pulled the slide with his other hand. He loaded the cartridge into the chamber and put the hammer back, the metallic sound it made slightly making him jump.
Trowa and Dorothy were paying no attention to him. Not yet, at least. She was pushing Trowa against the cold rails of the lion's cage, her hands fumbling to undo his shirt while she joined his uncontrollable moans in their kiss. The lion was unusually quiet, its golden eyes a pair of fiery balls that were the other witness to the passionate exchange.
His own blue-green eyes were filmed with tears. He blinked them and felt their warmth trail down his face. A sob broke out from his mouth, and that finally attracted attention. The look on Trowa's face was priceless when Quatre aimed the gun at them.
"Quatre," he gasped as Dorothy turned her head to look at the blonde. "L-let me explain—"
"No," he said in a trembling voice. "I won't listen to you. Not anymore."
The barrel of the gun quivered a little. Dorothy's face curled in shock at first, but after some moments it was twisted once again in her trademark smirk.
"I'm so sorry, Quatre dear," she said mockingly, tossing her hair back. "But I promise to return your boyfriend after our little duel. Please, let us finish?"
Trowa and Quatre's expressions mirrored each other.
"No, Dorothy we're not—"
She stopped Trowa's explanation with another kiss. Trowa pushed her back forcefully. "Dorothy, we're not a couple, Quatre's—"
"Stop!" Quatre yelled. The shaking of his hand was visible now. With a low growl, he pulled his hand back and placed the tip of the gun to his temple.
When Trowa pushed Dorothy away and motioned to run towards him, he swished the gun back to the previous position, the barrel shaking a little as it pointed right at Trowa's face.
"I trusted you, Trowa," he sobbed. "How c-could you?"
He told the taller man not to move anymore, and when the latter disobeyed, he pulled the trigger and the shriek of a bullet sent all the animals around to make a babel of noises.
Quatre knew he's a perfect marksman. He is, but that's when he's concentrating, when his emotions are in control. He's obviously teeming with unrestrained feelings now, and it's expected that his aim was poor.
He watch incredulously as a dark flower of blood blossomed on Dorothy's stomach. The woman froze on her position, then stumbled forward, headfirst onto the grass.
"Dorothy!" both the men screamed. They rushed to the fallen blonde. Quatre held Dorothy in his arms and turned her face up.
"I'll call an ambulance," Trowa volunteered.
He was gone before Quatre knew it. He let his tears fall onto her face, and she grimaced at that.
"Your tears are annoying," she whispered between gnashed teeth, her hand over her wound. "You're so weak. Stop that."
Quatre cried some more. An uncontrolled string of hiccups came soon, much to Dorothy's ire. He didn't know what to do at first, but when the thought flashed across his mind, he executed it without hesitation. He brushed his lips against Dorothy's, pushing her head deeper into the weeds. She was too weak to struggle now, but he knew she was trying to fight him off.
"I love you, I love you," he whispered deliriously as he nuzzled her neck. Dorothy's eyes widened at the words, and as if those very statements were an aphrodisiac, she felt heat wash over her and she began to retaliate savagely, ignoring the pain and the rush of blood that was spilling out of her body.
By the time the ambulance's siren rang, the two blondes were lying unconscious in each other's arms.
Dorothy lied on her side, scowling at the horrible hospital smell that wafted across the room. Her accidental intake of a lungful of air—antiseptic scent mingled with that typical claustrophobic quietness, faint fishy smell of blood staining her bandage, and the too-cool air-conditioning—made her cough, and she winced when the pain intensified.
"Dorothy," she heard Quatre muttered from the other side of the bed. She didn't turn to face him. "I'm so sorry."
She permitted herself a snort of disdain but didn't move. "Sorry? What for? The shot you gave me? You got even, and that's fine with me."
Quatre balked. "Yes, but also for…"
Despite the ache, she bolted up to a sitting position and faced the boy. "Mr. Quatre Raberba Winner, I do not believe you don't know what kind of woman I am. I've been in countless illicit affairs, and just so you know the one-night stands I have before were far better than the one I have with you. Please don't be offended, but I think Trowa's a better kisser too."
She could see the visual injury those words inflicted. She expected the tears.
For a few minutes she just watched how he wept, and she told herself not to break the new defenses she built after the same boy before her destroyed them. Deep beneath the hard and thick shells, her soft self was yearning to throw her arms around him and comfort him. She couldn't let herself show such weakness, even if that means her own happiness.
"I and Relena are getting married," he announced in a shaking voice when he somehow stopped the flowing fluid. He dabbed his face with a white hanky and tried to coyly cover his bloodshot eyes. "That'll be three months after Heero's funeral. Trowa's going to be the best man. I hope you could come."
Quatre Winner knows how to exact revenge, she thought. The very words, especially the first and last sentences, were much, much stronger than any expletives she'd ever heard in her life.
She thought her own tears would come, but fortunately they didn't. She plastered a smile she both hated and loved to show, and proudly held her chin up.
"Of course. Thank you for extending the invitation."
"Now," she haughtily stated, lowering herself to her pillow, "If you don't mind, I want to have some rest. Thank you for the visit."
Quatre hesitated for a while. When she sent him a glare, he finally gave up, his shoulders slumping. "Alright. Get well soon, Dorothy."
She wasn't able to complain when he bent to plant a kiss on her forehead. He marched out of the door without paying her one last glance. The moment he slammed the door shut, she let out a whimper and she cried against her pillow, knowing that three months from now she'll be dead at heart. Forever.