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"Here We Go Again"Written By: Mookie
Disclaimer: I don't really need to be Captain Obvious here, do I? No ownership, no money being made. Written for fun, not profit. Pairing: Trowa/Quatre, others may be implied. Warnings: Slash, angst, language, plot contrivances*, possible liberties with canon based on faulty memory Rating: NC 17 *Let's just say that I think this would have qualified for the 2011 (or was it 2010?) Moments of Rapture contest, "everything old is new again". Notes: I heard the song Here We Go Again by Demi Levato many times on the Radio Disney CD, and it eventually spawned a fic idea. The more I listened to it, the more I pictured the protagonists just had to be Trowa and Quatre. While lyrics from the song precede each chapter, this is not a song fic, nor will the chapter content be forced to fit the lyrics exactly. Summary: It hadn't always been that way. In the beginning, they'd all been scrambling to put their lives back together...
I tell everyone we are through January AC 199 "Mr. Winner?" his assistant asked for the third time. He looked up, blinking a few times as if he didn't recognize her, and then smiled wearily. "I'm sorry, Vanessa. I was just..." "I understand," she said, tentatively patting his shoulder. "And if I may say, Mr. Winner, you've been working yourself too hard. You always work yourself too hard, but especially the past few weeks." He knew. Trowa had often told him the same thing. It had led to a few arguments, when Quatre had gone home to a cold supper and an even colder boyfriend. It hadn't always been that way. In the beginning, they'd all been scrambling to put their lives back together. Heero and Quatre fell into the roles expected of them, while Duo had gone into the salvage business with Hilde, and Wufei had allowed Sally and Noin to recruit him into Une's Preventers. In Quatre's opinion, Trowa had struggled the most. The circus was the one place Trowa seemed to thrive, but a circus performer spent most of his life on the road. Trowa had given that up in an attempt to end his nomadic lifestyle, and Quatre had gladly found him a position. It wasn't just because Trowa was his friend, although he'd have done so anyway, but because he knew Trowa could be trusted. He'd known that even when Trowa had worn an OZ uniform. He didn't think there had ever been a time when he hadn't believed in Trowa Barton. Quatre had always been a little empathic, although when he was younger, angrier, and more self-centered, he chose to ignore any hints of it. With Trowa, he felt it more strongly than with anyone else, and once he'd allowed himself to feel, it was like a faulty tap. Sometimes he would only get a brief spark in his chest, a hint of emotion. Other times, especially in a crowd, it was like a flood, overwhelming to the point where Quatre experienced near panic. Those were the times when he struggled to sort his own feelings out of the mire, when they became too jumbled up with everyone else's. He'd gained a little control over it, but he tended to let it slip when he was with Trowa, the only person he truly trusted with his feelings, because they often closely mirrored his own. He supposed in a way it was a violation of trust, but he'd never considered it that way, and he'd never deliberately tried to determine what Trowa was feeling. It had always just been there. "Mr. Winner," Vanessa said, using the singsong tone of voice she used when she'd been trying to get his attention for a while. "Would you like me to cancel the rest of your meetings for the day?" Quatre shook his head. "No," he said, reaching for his coffee mug. He drained the cup, not caring that it had been sitting there since morning. "I just need to take a walk around the building and I'll be fine." Vanessa looked at the dark ring remaining at the bottom of the mug and picked it up. "I'll bring you a fresh cup," she said cheerfully. "Thanks," Quatre said, pushing his chair away from the desk and getting to his feet. "I'm going to need it."
"Mr. Winner, clearly you see that there is no market for it." Quatre pointed the remote at the overhead projector, ending the slide show presentation. "If that were the case, this meeting would be a waste of your time as well as mine." Nathan Burns, president of sales, spun his chair in a circle, making a sweeping gesture around the room. "And where is Mr. Barton? I expect he would have told you the same, were he here doing his job." "It so happens that Mr. Barton has been called away on urgent family business." "Called away?" Nate asked. "Or resigned?" Quatre bristled at the implication. Over the past eighteen months, Quatre had learned the lexicon. Resigned meant one of two things; either someone found a job with more money, more power, or more creative rein - or more often, they were asked to resign to avoid the stigma of termination. "Mr. Barton's whereabouts are-" he clamped his mouth shut, but it was too late. "None of my concern?" Nate asked. "I'd say the whereabouts of my VP of sales is very much my concern, especially when there's been no word from him, or from you, for the past five weeks. Be straight with me, Quatre," he said, dropping the formality. "If I need to bring a replacement up to speed, I should be the first to know." One look at Quatre's expression, and he added, "After you, that is, sir." Quatre stared at the last slide on his laptop, a blueprint of an old-fashioned feline hip replacement, intended for pet owners who could not afford the more sophisticated bio-electrical prosthetics. He turned the computer off and closed the screen. "I'll have Vanessa post the position first thing in the morning." He stood up and tucked the laptop under his arm. "If there are any candidates you feel are best suited, please forward their names to me before the end of the week." He didn't wait for Nate to respond. There was no need to. Back in his office, Quatre sorted through the papers on the conference table without seeing them. He'd behaved terribly to Nate, who had been more like a father to him than a mentor. Quatre might be able to lie convincingly to most people, but Nate had known him since he was a boy. He shouldn't have even tried to cover up Trowa's absence. Nate deserved better than that. It was just that he hated hearing anything that reminded him of those fights he'd had with Trowa, the ones where Trowa belittled his own abilities. No matter how often he tried to tell Trowa that he was good, damn good, at the job, Trowa refused to see it. He took to heart the rumors, and he refused to listen when Quatre tried to refute all the criticism. He'd heard it all before, when his sister had worked for their father; when he'd taken over the company himself; when any woman who wore a C-cup or larger earned a promotion of any kind. He'd tried to explain to Trowa that it was no different than the cutthroat culture of OZ, something that Trowa had surely seen or heard while he was there. That conversation had come out all wrong, and somehow he'd either insulted Trowa or questioned his loyalty, He'd felt the waves of anger emanating from Trowa, hot and stifling, and Quatre had been unprepared for it. The more he tried to explain, the more he stammered and the angrier Trowa got. The problem was that Trowa's background, his experience blending in with so many people, gave him a unique insight into what people really wanted. He was perfect for the position in sales, and if Quatre hadn't owed Nate so much already, he'd have given Trowa the position of sales president without hesitation. Quatre felt like Trowa took the VP position as some sort of consolation prize, but if he had made Trowa sales president, he probably would have resented it even more, as if he'd slept his way to the top. Their relationship was never a secret, per se, but they were never blatant about it at work, keeping their private life as private as one could when they were famous Gundam pilots and executives of a multibillion credit, intercolonial conglomerate. Everyone at Winner Enterprises knew that they were friends, at the very least, and that any time one of the former pilots was in the building, they were to be treated with the utmost respect. Which they were, to their faces, but there would never be any stopping of the rumor mill. That particular manmade invention had been around since before the telegraph, and no matter how well treated or well respected an employee was, there would unfortunately always be envy and back stabbing among coworkers, because the grass was always going to be greener. As CEO, there was only so much Quatre could do without treating his employees like school children. He owed Nate an apology, and perhaps a bottle of that pinot noir he was so fond of.
He spent most of the next morning with his Chief Financial Officer, questioning a few entries on the balance sheet and later, when Nate joined them, arguing over the sales projections, but by lunch he felt much more accomplished. The feeling of accomplishment lasted until after lunch, when Vanessa knocked on the door before poking her head in. Quatre hadn't been expecting it, but he got a brief flash of pity, and he knew even before she approached his desk that it had something to do with Trowa. "Mr. Winner," she said, holding her fist to her chest. "Something arrived for you today." There was only one thing that could have arrived that would be small enough to fit in her hand and that would evoke pity in his assistant. He held out his hand and waited. The key was warm and slightly sweaty, showing that she'd worried about giving it to him, but inside he felt nothing but cold. "Thank you, Vanessa." "Sir," she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "If I may..." He wanted to put his head on his desk, in the protective circle of his own arms. He wanted to clap his hands over his ears like a stubborn child refusing to listen to another side. No, you may not, he wanted to scream at her. He tamped down the pain and gestured for her to continue. "Sir, you deserve so much better," she blurted out. "You were ever so nice to me when my mother fell ill, and you always remember us on with a birthday bonus, and you always say just the right thing, and I think that it's his loss, and if he couldn't see that, then he doesn't deserve you anyway. Sir." He held the key by its bow and flicked the blade up and down. "Thank you, Vanessa, but let me assure you, it was mutual." Whether she believed him or not, he couldn't tell; after detecting her pity earlier, he'd blocked her feelings. It didn't matter if she meant it when she smiled at him. He had enough to deal with, as far as his own feelings, when she patted the hand holding the key. "Doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt," she pointed out. "No," he whispered to the door as it closed behind her. "I don't suppose it does." He turned off his computer and reached for his jacket, tailored specifically for him and made from the same bolt of fabric as his dress pants. He slid his arms through the sleeves, smoothed the lapels, and placed Trowa's key in the inside pocket. It was a chilly night, but he decided not to call ahead for his car. The wait outside would do him good, and the cold air might clear his head. That was the plan, until he got outside and felt the frigid air on his cheeks. He welcomed the numbness and decided to walk a few blocks before having the car come around to get him. Then he decided to walk a few blocks more, and by then he'd nearly traveled a half-mile, so another half-mile wasn't out of the question. He arrived home an hour later, ignoring the exclamations of his butler. He reached into his pocket to withdraw the key, shedding his jacket somewhere on the way up the curved staircase leading to the bedroom. He closed the door behind him, shoved Trowa's key into the lock, and turned it. Despite the concerns of his well-meaning servants, he didn't want to be disturbed tonight. His fingers reached for the light switch automatically, but the sight of the satin duvet reminded him of the wicked things he and Trowa had done with it and he slapped at the wall to turn the light back off. There was a swing arm wall sconce near the dresser, in brushed copper to match the scroll metal headboard, and he strode toward it purposefully. His fingers shook as he fumbled with the turn switch. When he finally managed to get the lamp on, he turned to stand in front of the three-way mirror in the corner, staring at the reflection of the room behind him. Trowa hadn't said much of anything when he'd left. Quatre knew he hadn't given him a chance, but he'd sensed Trowa's indecision - not with his space heart, but his real one. He'd seen the pain on Trowa's face and he remembered the sampler one of his sister's had cross-stitched. If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it's yours. Trowa wasn't a thing; he was a person, but the sentiment applied nonetheless. If Trowa needed to leave, he was clearly unhappy, and anything Quatre could do to change his mind would be coercion and would only prolong the inevitable. The fact that Trowa's drawer had been half open, with the bulging knapsack on the bed next to him leaving no doubt of Trowa's intent, was further proof of how determined Trowa had been. He wasn't sure he believed that Trowa ever intended on saying good-bye. The olive branch he'd tried to extend, allowing them both time to calm down and think things over, had been snapped in half and flung back at him. Don't. Don't call me. Quatre had ignored that the same way he ignored the snide comments at work. He wasn't entirely surprised that Trowa hadn't answered his phone or returned his messages. Maybe Trowa just needed more time. He glanced over at the key sticking out of the lock in the door, and he knew. A bitter cold settled into his bones. He was kidding himself. Trowa had indeed finally answered him, and the message couldn't have been any clearer. Quatre laughed, a dry, mirthless sound. Trowa had been right about one thing. He was too naive. Too naive, too trusting, too optimistic that things would work out if a man just put his mind to it and figured out how to overcome the obstacles in his path. He wasn't sure what hurt more, losing the man he knew in the depths of his soul he was meant to be with, or losing his best friend. His vision blurred and he snapped his gaze to his own reflection, studying the man he saw there. He took in the sight of the custom tailored suit, the tie chosen because it was the exact color of Trowa's eyes when he was happy. He saw the starched tips of his shirt collar, the gold cuff links Trowa had given him for Christmas. At first he didn't recognize the man in the mirror, and then he realized with a shock that he did. He was staring at his father. A younger, blonder version, but of his father all the same. His hands were shaking as he reached up to loosen his tie. He'd always dressed the part, always. He was the only pilot who overdressed for battle. Button down shirts, dress pants, and a waistcoat, for heaven's sake. He might as well have worn a school uniform. If clothes made the man, then he was nothing more than a cog in the machine, just like he'd been as a Gundam pilot. His life had been nothing more than fulfillment of someone else's expectations. He might have taken a different path, but his destiny never had been his own. The only thing he'd chosen himself was his pursuit of Trowa, and he hadn't been subtle about it. He'd followed his heart - both hearts - and despite the pain he felt now, he'd grudgingly admitted that he'd never known such joy. Was he a better man for it? The most famous lines of Tennyson's In Memoriam A.H.H. flitted through his head. He'd spent time with enough tutors to know that when Tennyson had written "Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all", he'd referred to the death of a beloved friend rather than an ill-fated romance. Trowa hadn't died, but the man Quatre had believed him to be had. Quatre's tie was finally unknotted, and he yanked it off and threw it aside. He was tired of it. So damn tired. The man he'd believed Trowa to be hadn't died, because Trowa had never been that man. If admitting that was the first step, then it was time to the truth and move on. It was better to know this now than to go through life blindly as Trowa had so succinctly pointed out. Another line of Tennyson's poem, the only other verse he knew by heart, came to mind, and he covered his face with his hands. Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before. It didn't matter that it was out of context. It reminded him too much of how he'd felt that day he and Trowa first played together. He'd known then that they were meant to be together. He'd felt it - he'd seen it, and he rarely saw a person's aura - as clearly as one could see his reflection in a still pond. Quatre lifted his head and began to unbutton his shirt. He despised the man in the mirror, although not quite as much as he despised the man who had walked out on him. With every button that slipped free, his anger flared, fueled by a sense of betrayal and the knowledge that his freedom was an illusion. After he'd removed every bit of clothing, he stood there, studying himself critically. He ran his fingers down over his ribcage and abdomen and ignored the memory of Trowa's talented fingers playing his body as if he were a flute. There was no six-pack there, but neither was there a trace of fat. His fingers slid over his hips. His frame was narrow, but not feminine. He'd never resemble any of the Maganacs, but with some hard work, there was potential. His fingers moved further south. The reminder of those long slim fingers trailing over his skin had only aroused him slightly, but he would indulge in the fantasy one last time. He wasn't doing this out of pleasure; he was doing it out of anger, and there was no way he would reach climax this way. He focused on the image of their last time, biting his lip viciously to keep from crying out Trowa's name. The deed over, Quatre felt none of the warm after glow he was used to. He wiped his sticky fingers on his chest and didn't spare his reflection another glance. On his way to the shower, he gave the pile of clothes he'd shed a malicious kick. It barely moved them, but he felt better all the same. Twenty minutes later, dressed in nothing but a pair of sweatpants with the cuffs rolled up, Quatre stood in the workout room, an oversized water bottle in one hand and a towel in the other. He set them down on the bench press closest to the dumbbell rack and chose the two at the top. It wouldn't do to push himself too hard right away, and he planned on being here a while. He lost count of how many hammer curls he'd done before taking a sip of water, but it didn't matter. His muscles felt tired but he wasn't in pain. He put the water on the floor, flung the towel behind his neck, and laid down on the bench to begin a series of flat chest flies. He'd get there. He just needed to take it one step at a time.
Rashid found him there in the morning, slumped against the wall and snoring. He cleared his throat, suppressing a smile as his young master's head shot up. Quatre wiped his hand across his mouth and Rashid tactfully glanced down at the papers in his hand lest he feel obligated to comment on the swollen lip or the smear of blood and saliva that indicated Quatre had drooled in his sleep. "I've arranged everything you asked," Rashid said, tapping the sheaf of papers. "However, there is still the matter of your signature." Quatre stared at him blearily. "I didn't sign them last night?" Damn, he'd thought he'd finished everything during the break he'd taken between upper body and lower body. Maybe Vanessa had been right about his not getting enough rest. "No," Rashid replied, pointing to the blank lines on the application forms. Quatre stumbled to his feet and scribbled his name each time Rashid turned a page, and then looked up. "Have you informed Nate?" "Of course, Master Quatre." Rashid held out a bottle of water. Beads of condensation trickled down the plastic. "It's cold," Quatre said in awe, accepting it gratefully and twisting the cap off. "You are a godsend, Rashid." He lifted the bottle to his lips and drank greedily. "Will there be anything else?" Quatre held up a finger as he continued to drink until the bottle was completely empty. "One more thing," he said, gesturing around the room. "Know anyone who would like to serve as my personal trainer?" He grinned up at the Maganac. "It would be my pleasure, Master Quatre," Rashid said. "But first," he stepped behind Quatre and pushed him toward the door. "Breakfast. I hope you like whey souffles." They sounded dry and tasteless, and Quatre grimaced at the thought. It didn't matter, though, because if that was what it was going to take, he would damn well learn to like them. He glanced over his shoulder at the increasing sizes of dumbbells on the rack and straightened his spine. Fuck that. He was going to learn to love them
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