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"Satin and Lace "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: Gender Identity, Genderqueer Character,
Angst, Drama, Yaoi, Romance, Fluff, Post Endless Waltz, Canon Compliant,
Feminization, But we're talking about Quatre here so it's not much
of a stretch. Pairings: 3x4 Summary: He didn't know when it started. He didn't understand why it was considered bad. All he wanted was to feel pretty. To feel the silky satin and the rough scratch of lace against his skin. All he wanted was to feel loved and accepted. This is a story based on a personal headcanon
that Quatre may identify as genderqueer, genderfluid, or androgynous.
This headcanon is based solely on his behavior and mannerisms in canon.
Obviously, it's not confirmed by an official source and neither is
his sexuality, but I've long held the belief that at the very least,
Quatre is not straight and could very well identify as something not
exclusively male. Personally I believe he is nothing short of a Kinsey
6/identifies as homosexual based on his interactions in the canon
universe. Ergo, you will never see me ship him in a romantic/sexual
relationship with a female unless I venture down that dark road into
the genre of genderswap fic and I am twisted enough to do just that.
xD "Satin and Lace "
Quatre wasn't able to see Trowa until after the final battle. At least not in person. He'd been able to witness Heavyarms perform its magic, keeping a watchful eye on it during the fight to make sure he was okay. Though, if something had happened to him, Quatre would have felt it. They kept their communications strictly focused on their job. There was simply no time to catch up. There were many losses, but in the end, they won. As they'd done before, they decided that if they wanted a world without war, they would have to remove the tools of war. It was the first time Quatre came face to face with Trowa after ten long months. He'd been hoping for a warm reunion, filled with enthusiasm and hugs, but Trowa stayed a good distance away and was emotionally closed off. Despite the pang in his chest, Quatre tried to remain positive. "Trowa sounds like as good a name as any to me," he said with forced cheerfulness. Duo stood between them, almost acting as a barrier though not deliberately. It was Trowa that seemed to be using their friend as a physical shield. Duo waved his hand with his typical que sera sera attitude. "Eh, what's in a name? In the end, it doesn't really matter anyway." Trowa nodded and looked out over the crater where Heavyarms, Sandrock, and Deathscythe once lay, now no more than three piles of ash. "Yeah. You're right, Duo." Quatre swallowed down the jolt of pain that came with the sense that he was being ignored and smiled brightly. "You guys want to go do something? It's been a while since we've seen each other and were able to talk. I know a great place just down -" "Ah sorry, Kitty-Quat. I'd love to, but Hilde's waitin' on me. I don't really feel like gettin' my balls busted. Especially since she keeps 'em in that little tangerine hand bag she carries around all the time. And yes, it's tangerine. I called it "orange" once and nearly got my ass chewed off." Quatre chuckled and nodded his head. "It's alright, I understand. Tell Hilde I said hi." "Will do! See ya around sometime...maybe." He walked away, waving over his shoulder and Quatre's heart sunk. He didn't get to see Heero, or Wufei before they took off, much to his disappointment. Off on their own like they always were. That was three friends down. His stomach churned with nerves as he looked across the twenty foot space between himself and the one he loved. The one he wasn't sure was even his friend anymore. He smiled at Trowa and held up his hands. "What about you? Haven't seen, or spoken to you in a while. How've you been?" Trowa nodded, but continued to look out over the crater, his eyes distant. "Alright." Quatre waited another few moments to see if he'd say any more. He cleared his throat as the silence grew. "How's Catherine?" "She's doing fine." "Oh, that's good." He looked down and shuffled his feet. He wanted to approach, but for some reason was convinced Trowa would retreat if he did. "I tried calling you." "I know." Well, that blew the theory that Catherine was just forgetful. There was a distinct lump in his throat and a sting behind his eyes. He pinched himself in the arm, hard, trying to stop himself from blubbering like an idiot. "I missed you. You look great." "Thank you." He bit his lip and nodded. "Do you want to go somewhere and catch up? I'm sure you have a lot of stories from the circus. I'd love to hear them -" "I can't. Sorry." "Oh." His eyes were getting wetter and he blinked furiously, his fists clenched in frustration because he just didn't understand what was wrong. He chanced a step closer and when Trowa didn't move, he took another cautious one, then another until they were only a few feet away from each other. Quatre stared at his handsome face, wanting to scream, Just look at me! Why won't you even look at me, Trowa? What did I do? "Trowa, did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, only a minute movement. "No." "Then...what is it? We were so close and then...what happened?" "Nothing happened, Quatre." And that pissed him off because obviously something did. "Don't insult my intelligence, Trowa." The venom in the blond's normally pleasant voice surprised the other boy and he looked up at him finally. Finally. "I'm not." "So what happened? I - we were so close we were almost - I felt something...between us. I think you did, too. But, even if you didn't, we're still friends, aren't we? Friends talk to each other and hang out and -" "I'm seeing someone, Quatre." He froze, too stunned to respond right away. His body felt encased in ice, his heart frosty and cold, lifeless. He opened his mouth, closed it, at a loss for words, then opened it again, managing only a tiny squeak. "Oh?" Trowa looked away, his face flushed. "Yeah." Quatre had to look down at himself to confirm there weren't actually a dozen knives sticking out of his chest and was surprised to find nothing. It certainly didn't feel that way. He tamped down on the rising tsunami of agony and despair with all the energy he had within him, feeling utterly drained by the time he was able to school his expression into one of false cheer. "Oh! Wow, that's - that's great! I'm so happy you found someone." Am I really saying this? Or am I being possessed? It stung like thousands of bees with every fake sentiment out of his mouth. It felt like his teeth, his fingernails, every strand of hair, was being yanked out of his body the more he pretended to be happy for him. But there was nothing else for it. Trowa didn't love him, didn't want to be with him. He'd found someone he did want to be with and it wasn't him. He winced as his voice wavered and cleared his throat again. "I'm - I'm really happy for you." Trowa's head dipped in a vague nod. "Thanks." "So...who?" God, Quat! Why are you torturing yourself by asking who? Who cares? It's not you, so what does it matter? Because I need to know who captured his heart. I need to know. "Her name's Miidi." "I see." A girl then. Of course. A girl was the only one who could give him what he really needed, what he craved. A home, a family. He tried to picture the girl. He was sure she was beautiful, why wouldn't she be? He tried to imagine what their kids would look like and wondered how much of a masochist he really was. I'm sorry, Trowa. I'm sorry I couldn't be what you wanted. "Well, I'm sure she's a lovely girl. I'm happy for you both and I - I really wish you the best. I'm sure you'll be very happy together." Trowa nodded again and turned away. "I really have to go. I'm sorry." "Oh, yeah, no. Don't let me keep you. I'm sure she's probably waiting and Catherine is, too. Say hi for me." "I will. Bye, Quatre." His mouth trembled as he pulled it into a smile, certain that it looked more like a grimace. He nodded and waved, "Bye, Trowa. Best of luck to you." He was already walking away. Quatre stared at his retreating back, the tears becoming increasingly difficult to hold down. The first one escaped once Trowa had disappeared from sight, followed by another and another. He sucked in a shaky breath, still trying to hold the dam together with the last fragile tendrils of his strength. "Be happy, Trowa. That's all I want. I wish it could have been me. But as long as you're happy, that's what matters. I...love you. I love you so much and I wish you nothing but the best." The sun was beginning to set, but Quatre wasn't ready to head back to his campsite yet. He walked to the edge of the canyon and sat down on the grassy knoll, his legs dangling over the cliff. He stared at the still smoking ashes that had once been their Gundams. Sandrock had become such a huge part of his life. So had Trowa. So had his friends. Now, they were gone and he was alone once again. He'd never told them that they were his first and only real friends. He'd never had any before joining the war. His father insisted there was no time for children's games. Not when Quatre had so many things to learn. Being groomed to run the largest resource satellite company in the world, possibly being considered as a future representative for their colony, there was no room for distractions, or friends, or toys. He'd only had his friends for two years and despite being in the midst of fighting a war, his life had never felt so fulfilled, so...significant. In the blink of an eye, it was all gone again. Over so quickly, he hadn't really had time to appreciate it. Now, all he had were memories. They would have to do. There was no time for anything else anyway. It was back to WEI he went. There was damage from the battles to take care of, construction to oversee. It was time to rebuild. He remained on the edge of the crater until deep twilight before finally finding the energy to move. He trudged back to camp, too tired to build a fire, and climbed into his tent, crawling inside his sleeping bag. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised at how things had ended. Despite his attempts to stay in contact with his fellow pilots, they had other things going on in their lives. Duo and Hilde were now shacking up and running their own scrapping business. Heero was going to be traveling with Relena, acting as a bodyguard, and Quatre could foresee a burgeoning romance between them. He'd heard Wufei had been offered a position at Preventers and was apparently going to be partnering up with Dr. Po. Trowa was going back to the circus and now had a girlfriend. Quatre wasn't so naive to think they'd all remain close, but he wasn't expecting to be kicked to the curb without so much as a, "We'll talk soon!" He dreaded being lonely again. Lonely like he was before the war and lonely like he'd been in the last several months. Trowa was taken, starting a new life with a girl. And that was that. That meant Quatre had to move on, too. He just wasn't sure how. He rested his head on the foam pillow and stared at the inside of the tent wall, illuminated slightly by the full moon. The songs of the crickets and frogs were soothing to his ears and tumultuous mind and he closed his eyes, allowing them to sing him to sleep. The disappointment and heartache would be painful to deal with, but at least he could say he had closure. He returned home the next day and decided he deserved a pampering. He still felt raw, hadn't slept well in the tent, though it had nothing to do with the inconveniences of "roughing it". It was more the dreams that plagued him in the night. Dreams of Trowa shunning him. Dreams of Trowa asking that Miidi girl to marry him right in front of Quatre. He distinctly remembered one where he was duct taped to a chair and forced to watch them exchange vows. He was unable to close his eyes, or turn his head away. His protests were silenced by the reinforced stitches threaded through his lips. And all the while, his friends pointed and laughed at him as the priest repeated over and over and over again, If there is anyone who does not believe these two should be joined in matrimony, speak now, or forever hold your peace. That was when Quatre gave up on the concept of sleep and walked down to the river bank instead. He sat until the sun came up, tossing pebbles and rocks into the water with his knees drawn up to his chest. He ran himself a bath, using his favorite jasmine scented oils and poured himself a glass of Pinot. With Chopin playing softly in the tiny wireless speakers, he sunk down into the soothing heat and inhaled the aroma of his favorite flower. After the long battle, the stress of his job before that, and the prospect of finding himself alone again, it was nice to carve some time out for himself and do what he felt like doing. He pondered the possibility of dating though it didn't quite appeal to him yet. The media speculation would continue unless he found a girl to have on his arm, if for no other reason than to get them off his back. He was well aware of the concept of "beards" which were people used by high profile politicians and celebrities who were still in the closet and wished to remain that way. But did he really want to do that? There was, of course, no harm done if the person doing the bearding was aware of the situation and willingly agreed. It was essentially a business agreement. A contract in which the "beard" would have to sign a nondisclosure agreement, a legally binding document admissible in a court of law, that they would not disclose, or leak any information about the other party's sexuality to the press, or anyone else. He could do that. It would protect him for a while at least. The only problem was, that could lead to new complications. Bearding contracts usually only lasted a few years, but during that time, he would have to dodge marriage questions and pregnancy rumors, then fake a breakup when the contract expired. He sighed and tipped his head back onto the inflatable bath pillow. He had a few options. Continue on the way he was and simply not respond to the press' niggling about his romantic life and let speculation continue. Get a beard and deal with having to spend the next few years living a public lie, putting in appearances and pretending he was actually interested in the girl. Or, he could just throw in the towel and come out. In reality, none of those options boded well for him. He was tempted to just come out, sick and tired of the heteronormativity, but that could potentially complicate his life just as much as the other two choices. For one thing, his reputation and his position would be at stake and it wasn't as if the media would just decide to leave him alone after that. In many ways, it was juicier than him hooking up with a girl. Scandalous. The media would be even more oppressive than they were now and he could forget about frequenting gay bars and clubs. He would become a major spectacle, his life turned into a circus of homosexual stereotypes. He picked up his wineglass and swirled it, inhaling the bouquet of cherries and a hint of "barnyard" due to its age. He took a sip, tasting the fruitful notes and the slight musk of its undertones on his tongue, glad he'd chosen this particular vintage from his cellar. The hot water and the orchestral music playing softly in the background, combined with the fine wine finally began to work its magic on his nerves. He felt more relaxed than he had in months, the tension in his muscles fading, melting like butter. He had time to come to a decision. He'd hoped that he and Trowa would get together. If that had happened, Quatre was planning on coming out and proudly announcing their relationship. At that point, he really hadn't cared what the media, his family, or the people at WEI thought of it. Now that that was out of the question, he had to pick one of the other options to fall back on. In the meantime, there was work to do. He supposed he could count himself lucky that he was going to be far too busy to dwell on losing Trowa. You didn't lose him, you fool. You never had him. He scoffed and drained his wine glass, feeling bitter and petulant. It hurt. He remembered the way they'd looked at each other. The way Trowa gazed into his eyes, the way he'd touched and held him. Quatre hadn't imagined it. It was all there, obvious even to the people who knew them. So what really happened? Trowa clearly changed his mind, but why? Had Quatre done something wrong? Not like he's going to tell you now, is he? He's already moved on. Time for you to do the same. He set his glass down and rubbed his eyes, pushing back the tears that wanted to surface. He supposed the only thing he could do was take it day by day and see how things played out. Maybe he'd find someone, or maybe he was destined to be alone. A relationship would be tricky no matter who he was with. He had his other secret to protect. Would he meet someone whom he could share it openly and be loved for who he was? Would he drive away every relationship by having the nerve to be honest about himself? Or would he have to keep it closely guarded and never tell his romantic partner about it, still living a lie and hiding who he really was? And who could he trust? If he felt comfortable enough to be open with someone about it and it freaked them out, what would stop them from taking it to the press? Would he be forced to require anyone he dated to sign a nondisclosure agreement? The reality just completely sucked the fun out of the prospect of dating. He laughed, but it was bitter, lacking in humor. The truth was, just being who he was guaranteed that he would never have a "normal" relationship with anyone and of course Trowa wouldn't want any part of that. Who could blame him for finding someone else, someone who didn't come with all the baggage Quatre did? Nothing says I love you like, 'Sign here on the dotted line'. He dried off, hung his towel on the rack, and grabbed the wine bottle and glass before leaving the bathroom, starkers, and heading through the adjoining door to his bedroom. He opened his dresser drawer and picked out a burgundy chemise with matching panties and slipped them on. His skin was smooth and soft from the bath oils and the satin of the chemise felt glorious. He ran a hand up his leg, enjoying the feel of hairless skin. He began shaving just six months ago once the hair on his body began to thicken and become more noticeable. He'd invested in laser hair removal two months prior, and was glad he did. There were no longer any bumps, or nicks, or rashes from the razors. Just baby smooth, creamy skin. He'd decided to go all out and have his entire body treated, and though he'd only just begun showing signs of peach fuzz on his face, he'd had that treated as well. It was something he simply did not want to deal with, ever. The fact that he would never have to shave his cheeks, chin, upper lip, and neck was wonderful and made getting ready for work in the mornings a cinch. He walked over to his vanity, slid the chair out, and sat down, examining his reflection in the mirror. It really didn't take much to make himself look like a girl. He was already pretty and he lacked the hard lines and edges in his face that his copilots had already begun to develop. Trowa, most especially, was developing quite the masculine, chiseled look similar to what Quatre had seen grace the covers of men's magazines. The soft cheeks of his childhood had thinned out, making his cheekbones far more prominent and his jaw, while still nicely curved, had started to square out a little. He was stunning, if Quatre was honest, and he mourned again for all the things that just weren't meant to be. Perhaps his own face would do the same someday, but for now, it was soft and pleasantly rounded. The lack of facial hair also gave him the perfect canvas for which to apply his makeup. He realized, as he looked around his room, that having a relationship at all would be a miracle in of itself. His room was rather feminine, the walls covered in flowered paper and his bedding was a pale blue, the top of the comforter overlaid with lace. At the head of the bed sat an abundance of different sized and shaped throw pillows with a variation of lace, ruffles, and flowers. Instead of a manly desk, he had a vanity made of imported cherry and inside was his vast collection of cosmetics. His dressers were filled with panties, bras, stockings, and different types of lingerie. Good God, but there was no way he could ever bring a date home without barricading his bedroom door and coming up with some kind of excuse as to why they couldn't go in there. Either that, or he'd just have to take everything that was incriminating out and put it into storage. He huffed and shook his head, wondering not for the first time, why he was the way he was. But tonight was not for dwelling on such things. Tonight was for pampering. Tonight was for Quatre. He pulled open the drawers on either side of him and selected a tinted moisturizer, a tube of blush, lipstick, and mascara. The lipstick was a deep, rich red. Not something he typically wore, but he'd bought it on a whim right before this second war had broken out, in anticipation of seeing Trowa again. He wasn't actually planning on wearing it for him. It was more just a fantasy that he'd allowed himself to indulge in. One that included getting all gussied up for the man of his dreams and Trowa finding him irresistible, which would inevitably lead to passionate lovemaking on a bed of rose petals. Okay, maybe it was over the top, but what were fantasies for? He massaged the moisturizer into his skin. It had a fair tint to it and also a bit of shimmer which left his face with a pretty glow. He was too tired to go full makeup, but settled on swiping some pink rouge over his cheekbones and brushing some mascara onto his lashes. He finished himself off with the lipstick, dabbing the waxy stick over his lips and pressing them together to blend it in. He stood up, stepped over to the full length mirror, and studied his reflection. Like this, he simply looked like a flat-chested girl. His body was petite, almost curvy instead of sharp like a man's. The other pilots, even Duo had begun to develop very masculine bodies, corded with muscle and squared edges. Duo and Trowa had grown the most, a good four to five inches. Heero and Wufei, perhaps due to their Asian ancestry were lagging behind in the height category, but they'd still grown more than Quatre had in the last year. Hair was sprouting on their faces, legs, and underarms, and their voices had deepened quite a bit since he'd seen them last. Quatre's had also deepened, but only slightly. He wondered when he was going to get that inevitable boost of testosterone that would no doubt bring him up to speed with other boys his age. He was sixteen now. Not abnormally behind, but could easily be considered a "late bloomer". His father had been tall and very masculine, but Quatre figured he must have resembled whoever had donated the egg to conceive him. He didn't know who she was, or what she looked like, but considering he looked nothing like his father, he assumed he took after her. It wasn't that he wanted to be a woman. He had no qualms about being male and even dressing and acting the part when he needed to. He didn't believe he was transgendered, but his sister had once mentioned the terms "genderqueer" and "genderfluid", which he was pretty sure more accurately described him. He figured his burst of manliness would come eventually, most likely within the next two years and while he wasn't adverse to that, he felt like he would almost mourn for the body he had now. He still couldn't find words to describe how it felt when he indulged his feminine side, but he knew it was as much a part of him as his leadership skills, or his musical abilities. It was as much a part of him as his blond hair and his blue eyes and even the appendage that rested between his legs. It was elation, euphoric, joy. He felt happy and sexy when he allowed himself to bask in his female side. And as if on cue, his cock began to throb and swell within the confines of his panties, though not quite visible yet beneath the loose fabric of the chemise. He walked back to his vanity, grabbed his wine glass, and stepped back over to the mirror, watching himself lift the glass to his lips and take a drink. He glanced at the red print left behind when he pulled it away, smiled, and drank again. It was his third glass of the night and his head was now pleasantly fuzzy, allowing him to slip into the perfect mindset for a hot fantasy. Typically when he masturbated, it was a quick wank in the shower, maybe a clumsy fingering if he had time in the morning. Moments like these though, were much more special and deserved special attention. These were the times when he luxuriated in the glowing feeling of sensuality and romance, where he slipped into a state of mind that bordered on a pleasant dream. Where his dream lover would pleasure him in ways that made him weep with loss once it was over. Of course, that dream lover always possessed silky brown hair and the most beautiful green eyes he'd ever seen. Before now, the real thing had been a possibility, something within reach. On this night, and for many nights to come, it was no longer attainable. Something only to be savored and cherished in his most treasured fantasies. It would hurt once the come cooled, but it was a drug, a poison he could not escape and didn't really want to. So instead of tainting it with reality, he let that depressing knowledge go and completely submersed himself in what would never be. It was all he had left and he would take it. Take it like a starving man gorging on stale bread crusts thrown onto the street by a careless shopkeeper. He reached under his bed and pulled out the wooden box containing his vibrator. It was reserved only for special times like this. He opened the box and lifted the toy out, his mind already drifting to a place where Trowa loved him, wanted him, desired him with every bone in his body. He took out the tube of lubrication that was nestled beside it and coated the toy until it was nice and slick, then dropped the tube back into the box and crawled onto the bed. His hands shook as he slipped the panties off. His erection sprung free, bouncing against his lower belly. He closed his eyes and opened his legs, not for the dildo, but for his broody lover who devoured him with stormy green eyes. When the toy touched his opening, his mind conjured up his lover's cock seeking entrance inside him. He imagined that beautiful musculature, a work of art with sun kissed skin as smooth as it looked, hovering over him, those eyes looking deep into his own. He sucked in a soft breath, mouth falling open as the vibrator slid deep inside and he held it there for a few moments while he adjusted to its girth. When the burn subsided, his legs relaxed and fell open, in his imagination, on either side of Trowa's breathtaking torso. When the toy slid out, so did his dream lover. When it was pushed back in, it was Trowa's hips driving his cock home where it belonged. He didn't dare open his eyes as he thrust the toy into his body, not wanting any part of reality invading his most precious fantasy and ruining the magic of it. The vibrator was warmed by his body heat, feeling almost lifelike and he kept it turned off, at least for now, so that he could play out as much of his delusion as he could before the buzzing current forced him to remember that it was not Trowa fucking him. He twisted the dildo, the curved tip touching him where he needed it most and he lifted his hips into the stimulation, fucking himself with abandon. Whimpers and pleas fell from his lips, cries of pleasure and declarations of love that would never reach the ears of the one they were meant for. In the fantasy, Trowa was repeating the words back to him between rapturous groans, his hips driving hard and fast into the blond beneath him. It seemed so real that Quatre could almost hear the slap of skin if he concentrated enough. He tossed his head from side to side, his skin coated with a thin layer of sweat as his hips jittered and his legs shook the closer he got to the peak of climax. He sucked his lip into his mouth, moaning and slurring in near incoherence, his body just on the cusp of release and needing just one last thing to push himself over. He threw caution to the wind and let it all go. "Oh...oh, Trowa. I love you s'much. Fuck me..." In his mind, Trowa leaned down, whispering huskily into his ear and tickling the fine hairs around it. She could never make me come like you do. Quatre's back bowed like a tightened string, going rigid. He yelped as the pleasure reached its overwhelming crescendo and he pushed the dildo all the way in and flicked on the vibrator. His entire body convulsed, cock twitching and shooting liquid heat up his belly and chest. He screamed Trowa's name as his orgasm swept over him, launching him into a dimension where time and space and heartache no longer exist. He panted and mewled his way through it until he'd drained himself out. His body melted against the bed and he lay boneless for several minutes as he caught his breath. He blinked his eyes open and the real world rushed back in, bringing the fantasy his mind had created crashing down around him. He flicked the vibrator off and slid the toy out, blushing furiously at how carried away he'd gotten. God, I'm pathetic. This is how far I've fallen. Getting off to a man who wants nothing to do with me and is probably fucking that Miidi girl as I lay here and recover from the fantasy of him fucking me. The thought left him feeling raw, hollow, and strangely ancient. He looked down at himself, taking in the hairless skin, the satin lingerie, and the come streaked all over him, and felt like the biggest loser alive. He was overcome with a deep sense of guilt and self-loathing. Suddenly hating himself for being the way he was. His sister may have told him he wasn't sick, but he felt sick. He felt like the disgusting deviant he was. He fought back tears as he climbed out of the bed, pulled the lingerie off, and flung it across the room, not wanting it anywhere near him now. He was painfully conscious of the makeup on his face, feeling like a mask of ugliness and perversion, and he rushed towards the bathroom, suddenly desperate to wash it off. He tried to avoid looking at his reflection, but the impulse to do so was overpowering. He was met with a parody of his own face, red lipstick and black mascara smeared over his skin. His hair was rumpled from rubbing it over the pillow and he was instantly consumed by a black rage, much deeper than what he'd experienced when his father was killed. It was fueled by shame, humiliation, and self-hatred. Before he was even aware of what he was doing, he unleashed a furious scream, releasing all the agony he felt inside. His fingers curled into his palm and seemed to be driven by some unseen force as it smashed into the mirror, once, twice, three times. He punched at his reflection, lashing out at himself until his reverse image was no longer recognizable. He dropped to the floor, weeping and bleeding over the tiles, his hand throbbing with pain though not hurting nearly as much as his heart. He cried himself out until there was nothing left and then washed his face, tended to the cuts on his hand, and cleaned the blood off the floor. Feeling numb, lifeless, he dragged himself back to the bedroom and flicked off the lights. He dropped face first onto the bed and immediately passed out, the nothingness of oblivion never more welcoming.
~ * ~ Chapter 4 |
