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"It Could Only Be You"Written By: The Plotting Housewife Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sotsu
and associated Parties. This work is written for pleasure not profit. Rating: NC 17 Warnings: Yaoi, Fluff, Romance, Angst, Humor,
Post-Endless Waltz, Canon Compliant Pairings: 3x4, 4xOC, 2xH, 5xS Summary: Trowa's become accustomed to hearing
about Quatre's whirlwind romances, but when Duo informs him that the
blond has decided to tie the knot, he begins to regret the choice
he made two years ago. "It Could Only Be You " "You look splendid, my good Sir. If I may be so bold." Quatre resisted the urge to roll his eyes and fiddled with the black cummerbund wrapped around his middle. "You may," he said with a barely audible sigh and could not resist adding under his breath, "Allah knows you've already got your head so far up my ass, you can see what I had for lunch." "Beg your pardon, Sir?" "Nothing." He turned away from the mirror and stepped down from the carpeted platform. The tailor immediately rushed over and began fussing over nonexistent imperfections. Quatre bit down on his lip to keep from snapping at the man whose hands fluttered over his person like a fretting grandmother. He endured adjustments he really didn't need and clenched his hands into fists, fighting the temptation to deck the simpering sycophant when he felt a pin poke into the skin of his thigh. "My apologies, Sir." "Don't worry about it. I've had worse." It was strange, but even after ten years, the stab wound he'd survived still ached when the air turned chill and damp. And, ironically enough, when Dorothy Catalonia was in sniping distance. "If I may, how did you get that injury, Sir?" Now that was a can of worms Quatre was not thrilled about opening any time soon. Sufficed to say, just thinking about it drudged up memories that were much better off being laid to rest. Weeks of unbearable pain, a perpetual drug-induced haze, and at the center of it all was a young man who, when Quatre confessed his undying love, ran for the hills and never looked back. "Long story. Are we finished?" The tailor hesitated, uncertain, as if he was still itching to tweak Quatre's tux, but he seemed to sense the blond's slightly agitated state and wisely decided to back off. "Yes, Sir. If you are happy with it -" "Happy is a strong word," Quatre muttered and left the fitting room without elaborating to change back into his street clothes. Stephen would be happy with it and he supposed that would have to be enough. Trowa was the reason he was in this whole mess to begin with. Actually, that wasn't fair. Quatre made his own choices, but he couldn't pretend that those choices weren't rooted in the festering soil of unrequited love. It was Trowa he loved, Trowa he wanted, but he could not have him so he'd settled for the next best thing. Several next best things, if he were honest. It was embarrassing now when he looked back at the last ten years, his decade-long history of flighty romances. He couldn't help but flush with mortification when he wondered what Trowa thought about all this. Especially after his fourth attempt with yet another brown-haired, green-eyed doppleganger, one who went by the name Darius. The jilted former fling immediately ran to the press armed with an Oscar-worthy performance complete with stolen, private photos of the two of them and a bucket of crocodile tears. In the wake of that disaster, the media had finally sniffed out Quatre's "type" and with that revelation, the speculation about who he was pining over began to spread like wildfire. He had no idea if Trowa kept up with the news, or the latest gossip, but prayed he didn't. If Trowa didn't think he was a complete flake already, he'd surely keep an entire earth's hemisphere away from him if he'd ever managed to catch sight of a damning headline, or Allah forbid, dared to venture into an op-ed. Quatre vaguely remembered him bitching about Cathy's celeb gossip shows and held out hope that if she still watched them, she did so when he was not around, though he knew that he was probably deluding himself. Trowa wasn't stupid, or blind, nor did he exist in an isolated vacuum out in the middle of nowhere, sans technology. He knew, as surely as Quatre knew he knew. His admittedly disturbing obsession with Trowa was laid out for all the world to see. In essence, he'd dug his own metaphorical grave. Not that he didn't have one foot in it already. Trowa's rejection was proof enough of that so what did he really have to lose? At least, that was what he told himself in the quiet hours of endless sleepless nights. Trowa didn't care, so why should he? The problem was, these men that he'd been with, though they shared similar physical traits with Trowa, well, they still weren't Trowa. Not even close and Quatre couldn't find the will to move past that. It wasn't always obvious things either. The differences were significant all the way down to the smallest details. Idiosyncrasies, mannerisms, gestures, even their body language and facial expressions were all wrong. There was no substitute for the real thing and that left Quatre with no other option than to settle for second best. And really, Stephen was a good guy. Probably the one man he'd dated that looked the least like Trowa and maybe that was a good thing. Now that he was actually getting married, he had to start doubling his efforts to forget about Trowa. Commitment inevitably changed the game, though he was finding it exceedingly difficult to get his heart to listen to his brain. He slipped his shirt on and leaned forward, thumping his forehead against the mirror with a groan. "What the hell am I doing?" He wasn't even aware he'd told Stephen yes until after the fact. It just slipped out and Stephen looked so damned happy, he just didn't have the heart to take it back. "Fine mess you've gotten yourself into, Quat. Real fine mess." "Sir?" He jerked his head up and quickly rubbed the smudge his forehead left behind on the mirror with his sleeve. "What?" The tailor paused at the hasty bark and then cleared his throat. "I just wanted to let you know I have your tux bagged and it's at the front whenever you're ready. No rush." "Okay, thank you." He listened to the soft shuffle and jingle of keys fade as the man walked away and sat down on the small bench with a heavy sigh, sliding his feet back into his booties and lacing them up. From here, it was lunch with Iria and then home to get some work done. Stephen was staying late at the office to finish up some last minute things before they left for their honeymoon Saturday evening which was just as well. He needed some time alone. And a drink, or five. *** "Are you sure you're doing the right thing?" Iria asked him after the waiter brought their ice water and took their orders. "I mean, you're getting married the day after tomorrow. Aren't you supposed to be over the moon? With your head in the clouds? The ecstatic, blushing bride?" Quatre yanked the wrapper off his straw, shoved it between the ice cubes floating in his water glass, and glared at his sister. "You ever call me a "bride" again, I'll write you out of my will." Iria dipped her fingers into her own water and then flicked them at her glowering brother. "Not much of a threat, alhabiba. As one of L4's top surgeons, I'm not exactly hurting for money. Besides, you're the one in white, are you not?" He pouted and toyed with his lemon wedge. "It's the principle of the thing." He paused, glancing over the iron railing and down towards the bustling plaza below. "The white was Stephen's idea. He's wearing black." Stephen's chivalrous suggestion that Quatre wear white on their wedding day was kind of flattering, albeit rather sexist. Stephen was traditional, old school as Duo would say, and Quatre didn't quite know how he felt about that yet. "If we're talking principles, now might be a good time to question yours." He glanced up sharply, not sure if he heard her right. "What?" Iria leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. "I can't help but notice you seem less than thrilled about your upcoming nuptials." "How perceptive of you," he muttered. She chose to ignore the sarcasm, at least for the time being which he was grateful for. "You getting cold feet?" "Doesn't cold feet apply to last minute jitters?" "So that's not what this is?" Quatre didn't answer, but he looked like someone had just accused him of kicking a puppy. A light bulb flickered on over Iria's head. "Oh, Quat..." "Iria, please don't. Not -" "It's him, isn't it?" He paused and looked away, feeling the heat burn his cheeks. "Him who?" "Don't play dumb with me, al'akh al'asghar. I'm a Winner, too. I know that look." "What look?" "That faux guileless expression our family has mastered down to an art form. Winners can fool anyone except other Winners." Her blue eyes, dark like the ocean, twinkled over the rim of her glass. "It's that kid, isn't it? Trevor?" Damn. He should have known better. Iria was sharper than a rusty tack as were all thirty of the Winner children, contrary to their late father who was quite obtuse at times. He supposed that old saying, ‘talent skips a generation' had some merit. He was fairly certain their name meant 'bullshitter' in their native tongue. "Trowa," he admitted. "And he's hardly a "kid". He's twenty six." "I'm forty two, alhabiba. Trust me, you two are kids." She leaned forward and reached for his hands which he placed into hers. "You can't spend your life wasting away, waiting for a man that will never come." "Why the hell do you think I accepted Stephen's marriage proposal?" "Yes, but you're still thinking of Trevor -" "Trowa." "Trowa," she corrected. "You've got to let him go, alhabiba." "I'm trying!" Now he was getting defensive and he pressed his lips together when his shrill proclamation drew a few curious stares. "Do you love Stephen?" Allah, why did she have to ask him that? Granted, it was a valid question and he knew it was coming. He'd sensed the impending doom and tried to prepare himself when it was inevitably voiced. Now, it hung in the air between them like a volatile thundercloud and Quatre had no idea how to answer it. "I - I think - I don't know," he admitted and rubbed his hands over his face in aggravation. He supposed he did, in his own way, and he hoped he would grow to love Stephen as time went on, actually love him. He was a good man. Kind, attentive, sexy, hard-working, dedicated. He was damn good in bed. And he loved Quatre. "He adores you," Iria echoed his thoughts. "Worships the ground you walk on. I can see it in his eyes every time he looks at you. If you marry him without reciprocating that love, you are doing a wonderful man a terrible disservice. He deserves someone who will love him in return." Quatre winced and sucked the lemon juice off his fingers, needing something to do and something to ease the guilt rising like a cresting river. The bitterness was a welcome distraction and he used the reprieve to organize the chaos in his mind. "I...don't want to break his heart, Iria. You didn't see him the night he proposed. His face...he was so happy. I couldn't take it back. I just couldn't. It would have crushed him and I - I know what that feels like." He couldn't stomach making Stephen feel the way Trowa had made him feel. It felt almost barbaric to do so. "Alhabiba..." Iria's voice was solemn, sympathetic as she took his hand in hers. "I can understand that. But don't you think you'd be doing more harm than good in the long run? He may hurt now, but at least he'll have a chance to get over it, over you, and find meaningful love." "You mean like I did?" Quatre asked, more bitter than he had a right to be. He was being selfish, he knew that. And Iria was right. "I didn't mean it like that, easal. You know that, don't you?" She waited for his reluctant nod and continued, "And just because Stephen's not The One doesn't mean you won't find him someday." "I just don't understand why I can't love him. He's wonderful! The perfect man and here I am still stuck on my childhood crush who ran out on me as soon as I told him I loved him. What's wrong with me?" "Love makes us do funny things, Quat. Matters of the heart aren't something that's easily understandable. You have to try to let him go, though. For your own good as well as Stephen's." "I'm trying to. I just...don't know why I can't. It's not as if he cares about me, but I'm still holding onto this little flicker of hope that he'll come back -" "And whisk you away like they do in those cheesy romance films? Yeah, I get it, believe me, but life doesn't work like that." "Well, it should," he grumbled petulantly, leaning back to give the waiter room to put his salad down. He picked up his fork and pushed around the colorful green foliage. His appetite seemed to have hitched a ride to a better place. Iria chuckled and speared a cherry tomato. "It would be nice, wouldn't it? Listen, alhabiba. I would like nothing more than to see your dreams come true, but sometimes things just don't happen the way we plan." He suddenly felt like crying, chest tightening and eyes stinging. Damn, but why did he always feel like he was five steps behind everyone else? Like he was being offered chances at happiness, but kept missing them because he was perpetually nodding off in the proverbial pilot's seat of life. He took a long sip of frigid water to soothe the burning lump in his throat and forced himself to ask the million dollar question. "How do I get out of this?" Iria shrugged and popped the tomato into her mouth. "You have to tell him the truth and let him decide what he wants to do. You have to give him a choice. There is no other way." He felt a rising rush of anxiety twisting his belly and gave up the pretense of eating altogether. He set his fork down and folded his hands in front of his mouth, his voice muffled when he said, "I hope you have a good return policy on your dress then." ~ * ~ Notes: "Al'akh al'asghar" ~ Little brother. "Alhabiba" ~ Sweetie. "Easal" ~ Honey.
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