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"When You Said Goodbye"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: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con,
Drama, Angst, introspective, Yaoi, PTSD, Suicide, Tragedy, AU, Abuse,
Psychological Trauma, Mental Disintegration, Mental Illness, Not A
Happy Ending Pairings: 3x4 Summary: Sometimes the price of loving someone
is too high. " When You Said Goodbye "
"Can you tell me your name, at least?" "I have no name, but if you must call me something, call me Trowa. Trowa Barton." "Goodbye, friend Trowa. Hope we meet again soon!" That was the first time Trowa told him goodbye. Quatre distinctly remembered the aching disappointment as he watched him walk away, everything he owned slung over one broad shoulder. He told Rashid he almost hoped Trowa would attack their base because then he'd get to see him again. He'd meant that, too. Trowa hadn't said much during his brief stay, but that was okay. He didn't need to. The Heart of Outer Space had told Quatre everything he needed to know. After sneaking away from the Maguanacs for the mission at New Edwards, he saw the boy again, but Trowa was cold, dismissive when Quatre approached him. "I'm doing this alone." "So am I. But we might be more successful if we work together." "Think so?" "Two is better than one!" Trowa continued on like nothing had been said. Quatre hesitated for only a moment, then followed him. To his mild surprise, Trowa did not protest further. He even slowed his stride, those long legs that Quatre had to jog to keep up with. They said nothing further as Quatre assisted him with setting up the tent. He stood outside, awkwardly shuffling his feet as Trowa crawled in and was ready to turn away when the brown-haired boy's head popped out between the flaps. "Are you coming in, or not?" Quatre nodded and crouched down, crawling through when Trowa moved to the side to give him room. It was small, cramped, only intended for one person and there was only one sleeping bag to go around. Trowa kicked his shoes off and held the open end of the sleeping bag up, nodding to Quatre. He tentatively pulled his own shoes off and stuck his legs inside the bag, scooting down onto his side. He jumped a little, heart thumping against his rib cage as Trowa's legs slid in next to his and settled down behind him. They laid in stillness, silence, neither of them the least bit tired. Quatre held his breath when Trowa shifted against him, the obvious press of an erection rubbing his backside. His own groin responded in kind and within minutes, the quiet of the tent was broken with the sounds of labored breathing. It wasn't long before Trowa was rolling his hips and humping against him and Quatre's hand flittered down to cup his own arousal. Trowa's breath was hot, shaky in his ear. "I don't have any lube." Quatre automatically reached for his bag. "I have lotion." "Of course you do." He'd been fucked only once before, by the son of a family friend. A few years older than Quatre, he was the first person he'd ever come into contact with that shared his same sexual preferences. During a time when their fathers had been too immersed in their political debate, Quatre and the young man had gone off on their own. The boy kissed him and felt him up, whispering that he wanted to try something. Something that would feel good. Twenty minutes later, Quatre had found himself bent over the foot of his bed with his trousers around his knees, his teeth clenched around the bedspread to muffle his cries as he was fucked into the mattress. Their sires had found out thanks to a nosy servant and the boy and his father were essentially banished from the estate after a heated confrontation about the boy's wicked attempts to tarnish the Winner heir, and Quatre's apparent easiness. Quatre's father had been convinced he was coerced into it despite Quatre's insistence that he'd been a willing participant. His father had slapped and berated him, his voice laced with disdain. "That is what deviants do, Quatre. You will never partake in that disgusting behavior again." Deviant, or not, he was disowned so it really didn't much matter if he acted on his desires and he eagerly pressed the tiny bottle of hand cream into Trowa's palm. He had no idea if he'd ever see Trowa again. Knew one, or both of them could die tomorrow, or at any time during this war. They remained on their sides, working their pants down their thighs. Trowa fingered him just enough to loosen the resisting muscles and then pressed inside. The tent quickly became muggy with their exhalations, their skin beaded with sweat. Trowa panted in his ear and squeezed him tight when he climaxed, Quatre following close behind. They said nothing as they cleaned up and redressed, but there was a sense of familiar comfort, despite only knowing each other for a week. Quatre slept in his arms that night and prayed that Trowa would survive the war. He did. They both did, despite many close calls. Whether it was the Devil's luck, or divine intervention was anyone's guess, but they survived all the same. The question was, how much damage had been done by the time peace was declared. They both went back to their own lives after that. Trowa back to the circus and Quatre returned to serve his purpose as the head of WEI. They skirted around each other for a few years, pretending to satisfy their cravings for each other with video chats and text messages. When Duo proposed a reunion on the five year anniversary of the end of the war, they came face to face again. Quatre was elated to actually see Trowa in person and he blushed and smiled like an adolescent girl on her first date. After an hour of flirting, they escaped to Duo's bathroom where Trowa bent him over the sink and fucked him. It was incredibly hot trying to muffle their moans so the guests outside wouldn't hear and Quatre got off on watching Trowa in the mirror, his muscles moving and flexing beneath smooth golden skin. Two years later, they were living together. It was nice, for a time. Full of cheesy romantic moments, soft touches, loving words, comfortable companionship, and incredible sex. They woke up with coffee and kisses in the mornings, and made languid love in the moonlight. For the first few years, it was perfect. Until the nightmares began. Quatre had no idea what triggered them, but he soon found himself holding a shivering, terrified lover, trying to soothe him back into calmness in the dark of night. He hoped it was just some kind of phase, something that Trowa would eventually overcome. Quatre provided all the unconditional love and support he needed and he foolishly believed it would be enough. It wasn't until a warm, summer night a few months later that he turned over to comfort his trembling lover through another night terror, only to be forced onto his back, fingers like steel claws wrapped around his throat. His eyes rolled back into his head as his brain lost precious oxygen, his lips gasping desperate pleas. He stared up into unseeing eyes, those beautiful green eyes that didn't recognize him and Quatre felt as though he'd been plunged into a vat of ice water. The suffocating grip released him just as he reached the cusp of unconsciousness and he sucked in greedy lungfuls of air, choking and coughing around a spasming throat. Tears spilled down Trowa's cheeks and he scooped Quatre up, still struggling to breathe, into a crushing embrace, sobbing into his hair and murmuring mournful apologies. Quatre weakly patted his back with a shaky hand, trying to reassure his lover, though his mind was consumed with fear and dread. It was then that Quatre realized this was beyond the scope of his abilities. He dragged Trowa, who vehemently protested, to a therapist, and explained the situation regarding Trowa's night terrors and the violence he'd endured as a result. The psychologist informed them that Trowa was suffering from depression and PTSD. Quatre was told to record any further incidents and if there was ever any moment where he felt his life was in danger again, to seek help immediately. They went home that night, sullen and silent and Trowa went to bed early. Quatre stayed up and tried to continue his research on the effects of PTSD, needing to figure out the reason behind the sudden onset years later. He was beyond tired, having not been able to sleep well lately. He found himself frequently waking up at night, jolting out of a deep sleep, entrenched in a deep terror unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. He would glance over at Trowa, relieved when he was still, peaceful, and then he would roll over and try to relax his mind enough to go back to sleep. His research revealed that PTSD could happen days, months, years, even decades after a person's trauma. It frightened him, but Quatre was determined to help Trowa get through it. He loved him, there was no other alternative. He went to bed that night, gingerly lowering himself into the bed, trying his hardest not to disturb Trowa. He froze when his lover turned to face him and abruptly sat up. Quatre's heart dropped into his stomach when he realized Trowa didn't recognize him. He raised placating hands, soothing words of reassurance on his lips that never came to fruition. He flipped over backwards, tumbling off the bed from a right hook to the jaw, nearly snapping his neck when his head and shoulder took the brunt of the fall. He scrambled dizzily to his feet when Trowa leaped off the bed and Quatre made a desperate run for the bathroom, slamming the door behind him and locking it. He pressed his body against it, his eyes squeezed shut, praying that the wood wouldn't give under Trowa's pounding fists and kicking feet. Prayed that the episode would be over before Trowa managed to break the door down and kill him. It only lasted a few minutes, as they always did and Quatre slid down to the floor, weak with the adrenaline rush. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he listened to Trowa's sobs through the closed door, his whimpering apologies. He was really at a loss as to what to do. In a last ditch effort for advice, he contacted Duo who solemnly told him he may need to have Trowa committed. Quatre refused. He'd heard what those hospitals were like and he knew he could never subject Trowa to that hell. What Trowa needed was to be around people who loved him and cared about him. People who wouldn't let any harm come to him. He did not tell Cathy at first, not wanting her to worry about her brother. He feared she would want Trowa with her and he didn't know how to tell her that Trowa became dangerously violent while in the throes of his episodes. Trowa became more and more withdrawn as time when on. His fear that he would hurt Quatre, or worse, causing him to keep his distance. Quatre could see the guilt in his eyes when he gazed at the bruises on his face and body, the cuts and scratch marks. It broke Quatre's heart because he knew Trowa couldn't help it. Eventually, Trowa was prescribed an antidepressant and an atypical to not only lighten his mood, but to decrease his aggression. Unfortunately, there was no treatment for the episodes, but the medication did help for a while. The violent incidents decreased for a couple of years and Quatre finally reached a point where he believed it was doable. It wasn't a relaxed, or happy time. He was under constant stress, his body always wrought with tension and anxiety. He didn't sleep well and the bags under his eyes were proof of that. But, Trowa seemed lighter now, a little better than he had been and that gave Quatre hope. Unfortunately, it was only a temporary reprieve. In December, they attended a Christmas party hosted by Relena and Heero. Trowa took to the festive punch, which was spiked with vodka and vermouth. Quatre strongly advised caution as he didn't know how the alcohol would mix with his medication. But Trowa had been more cheerful than usual, almost chipper. He was unusually talkative, chatting up everyone he came into contact with. Looking back, Quatre would realize that should have been an omen, a red flag. But at the time, he'd been thrilled to see Trowa looking so happy for once, though he ended up drinking more punch than Quatre was comfortable with and was rather tipsy when they bid their goodnights. Trowa was exceptionally amorous on the drive home and Quatre had to keep gently maneuvering his groping his hands away so he could focus on the road which was icy and snow-covered. He managed to get them home safely, growing increasingly uncomfortable as Trowa's behavior became more and more erratic. He helped him with steady hands as Trowa stumbled over clumsy feet and giggled at the plastic Santa that stood on their porch. He got Trowa inside and removed his coat, turning to hang it in the closet when arms wrapped around him from behind. His breath hitched when a prominent erection rubbed against his backside and he turned in the embrace, intent on letting Trowa down gently, not really in the mood and more than a little uneasy about Trowa's odd behavior. He forced an apologetic smile when Trowa pouted, almost childlike in his protests. Quatre gasped as he was backed into the wall, rough hands pulling at his clothing and he reached for them, wrapping gentle, but restraining fingers around his lover's wrists. "Trowa, no. Not tonight." "But, I want you." "I know you do and I want you, too, but you're not in the right frame of mind right now." Quatre's pulse accelerated when the light in Trowa's eyes changed from playful petulance to something darker, more sinister. "How dare you. How dare you treat me like this!" "Trowa, I'm not -" "Shut up! Shut up, you don't know a damned thing. You think you know me? You think you can deny me?" "I just need to rest tonight. I'm very tired and so are y -" "Why are you always trying to hurt me? You're always hurting me. You want me to die, don't you? You want me gone. Out of your life. You hate me. You always have." Quatre knew Trowa wasn't seeing him now. He was seeing something else entirely. When Trowa had an episode, the world around him didn't exist. It fell away until he was immersed in his own personal delusions, completely unaware of reality. He was fearful, paranoid, and violently enraged, nothing like the real Trowa. "Trowa, you know that's not true. I love you, you know that." Quatre tried his best to maintain his calm, desperately hoping to diffuse the situation before it escalated. "I promise we can make love soon, but just not right now. Let's just get some sleep." "I don't want to sleep! You're always making me sleep! Why?!" He flinched, involuntarily, when Trowa suddenly roared in his face. His hands tore at his clothing and Quatre darted out of his grasp, heading for the bedroom where he could lock himself in until the episode passed. Trowa grabbed for his legs and he tripped, landing face-first on the carpet. He shouted, the air whooshing out of his lungs as Trowa dropped onto his back, effectively pinning him to the floor. "Trowa, please. You're not yourself. Please, just...don't do this. Think about what you're doing!" But, Trowa was beyond talking at that point and Quatre clenched his jaw as his pants were yanked down to his thighs. He forced his body to relax, knowing it would hurt more if he was tensed up. He braced for the inevitable penetration and buried his face into the carpet, resolved to just let it happen, knowing Trowa would be beside himself once he realized what he'd done. With monumental self-control, he parted his thighs and tried not to scream when the thick cock pierced him, the invasion eased by only a little saliva for lube. It only lasted a couple of minutes and Trowa never even ejaculated. He knew it was over when the oppressively heavy body on top of him suddenly went limp and he closed his eyes in relief when Trowa sobbed into the back of his head. "Oh, God! Oh, fuck, Quat! I'm so sorry! I don't know what came over me. What's happening to me? What's wrong with me?" Quatre nudged him until he lifted up and rolled over, cupping his love's face with trembling hands. "We're going to get you help, okay? This isn't your fault. You're sick and we're going to get you help. I'm going to do everything I can to help you get better. Alright?" "Why? Why would you even want to help me after this? I just raped you!" "Because I love you and I know this isn't you. You are sick and you need help and I love you too damned much to leave you like this." Trowa keened, his face contorting in agony. "I love you so much, Quat. I'm so sorry." "It's alright, baby." Quatre held him against his chest and let him weep. "It's alright. We'll get you better. I promise." Despite Quatre's misgivings, Trowa was admitted to a psychiatric facility. It was probably the most painful decision he ever made and his heart was crushed by the hopeless look on Trowa's face when he left him that day after promising he would visit him tomorrow. He wept in the car, sitting in the parking lot gulping great, gasping sobs at the thought of leaving Trowa in there. But there was simply no other option. Trowa's episodes were far too dangerous and they had to get to the bottom of it and get them under control before it was safe to let him out. Trowa needed professionals now to get to the root of his trauma and try to treat it. He went home that day and finally decided to fill Cathy in on what had been going on. She was furious with him, which didn't surprise him. "How could you do that to him? How could you leave him in that horrible place?" "Cathy, he's sick. He needs help." "I could have helped him! You should have brought him to me! You just didn't want to do that, did you? You couldn't stand the idea of me doing a better job taking care of him." "With all due respect, Cathy, he would have hurt you, too. Maybe even worse than he hurt me." "He would never hurt me! I would have made him better. Made him happy again. It's you who's made him like this and when he finally becomes too much of a burden, you just dispose of him like trash! You bastard!" It occurred to Quatre after that disastrous conversation, that she didn't seem altogether there herself and wondered about the predisposition of mental illness within families. Cathy was completely irrational, bordering on delusional. It may have been just her initial reaction and that maybe she would eventually come to her senses, but Quatre wasn't naive enough to actually believe that. He'd known Cathy long enough now to know that she was also prone to fits similar to Trowa's, though as far as he knew, they hadn't resulted in violence. And if Trowa had a predisposition for mental illness, then the trauma he'd suffered during the wars would have even more of a profound effect on his psyche. His doctors at the facility had likened it to shell shock. They'd determined, as Quatre had already known, that Trowa was prone to three different personality traits during his episodes. The onset of the personalities didn't seem to follow any particular pattern, seemingly coming in random sequences. The most dangerous personality was his violent one, of course. But the other two were less so, more disturbing than anything else. One was a childlike personality, one where he seemed to revert to the mental age of a toddler, or preschooler. He was incapable of taking care of his own needs when in that state of mind and Quatre found himself needing to supervise him constantly until the episode passed, which included assisting him in even the most basic forms of self-care. The second personality was more akin to catatonia. He was silent, sullen. He was able to accomplish tasks, but he did so mechanically, almost as if he was running on autopilot. Being home was bittersweet. He missed Trowa, but at the same time, he relished in the peace and quiet, the not having to worry about what state he would find Trowa in next and whether he would find himself beaten to a pulp, or needing to help his lover feed himself, or use the bathroom. He'd gotten so used to walking on eggshells all the time, he hadn't even realized it until after he'd been able to get away from the source of his stress. He realized he'd been living with a ticking time bomb for years, always watching his step, not knowing when his lover would blow up next. Those feelings of relief were always followed by a deep sense of guilt. Guilt that Trowa was suffering. Guilt that he'd had him committed. He second guessed his decisions in the dark, quiet of night as he tossed and turned, desperate for sleep that just wouldn't come. Had he acted too quickly? Should he have given Trowa more time? Was he selfish for actually enjoying the respite? He felt rotten, like he should have been suffering just as much as Trowa. He sought out Duo for a much-needed reality check and Duo didn't fail to put things into perspective. They met at a nearby cafe and took their drinks to the patio for some fresh air. "You know, Hilde struggles with depression." "Does she?" Quatre was surprised at the revelation. "Yep. Runs in her family. Her mom had it really bad, I guess." "How does Hilde deal with it?" "She's got antidepressants she takes and she tries to channel it into productive things. She's got it under control, but she had a relapse a few years ago. It was tough." "How did you get through it?" "It wasn't easy. But it took time and patience, and a med adjustment. She's doing much better now." "Well, that's good." He paused, fiddling with his straw. "Cathy thinks it's my fault Trowa's like this." "Oh, Quat, you know that's not true right?" He sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I don't know. I can't help thinking...Zero..." "Zero didn't cause this. At least not all of it. From the sound of it, it seems like there was already something there to begin with." "I know he was depressed when I met him. Suicidal. He had a rough life." "We all did, Quat. Including you. But we haven't gone off the deep end yet." "Don't talk like that, Duo." "Hey, you know I love Tro and I would never say anything bad about him. Hell, even Hee-chan got his shit together which just goes to show, in Trowa's case, there's something there, genetically, that's causing all of this. I think the war just exacerbated it." "I think you're right about the genetic aspect. Cathy seems...I don't know. Not right. I mean, I know she never really liked me, but..." He trailed off and glanced away, watching a few skateboarders get shooed away by a shop owner. "Quat, this is not your fault and it's not Tro's fault. Shit just happens and sometimes there's nothing we can do about it. Despite what Cathy thinks, she wouldn't have done a better job taking care of him and in her case, you probably did her a favor. It doesn't sound like she's in any shape to take on that kind of burden." "You're probably right. Trowa's stronger than both of us, but I'm definitely more capable of taking his blows. One punch could have killed her." "He almost killed you a few times." Quatre smiled, the irony not lost on him. "Then I guess we're even." Duo went with him to the hospital that day to visit Trowa. He was unfortunately in his catatonic state and was virtually unresponsive, but Duo spoke to him anyway. "I don't know if you're in there, buddy, but just hang in there. We're all pulling for you and we want you to get better. We miss you, man." Quatre blinked back tears as Duo ruffled Trowa's hair and rubbed his shoulders, carrying on a complete one-sided conversation. When Duo glanced up at him, he offered a helpless shrug and an apologetic smile. He sat down beside his lover and took a hand in his, trying not to feel despondent when Trowa's fingers didn't curl around his. He brushed back a lock of brown hair and kissed his cheek. "I'm here, baby, and I love you so much. I want you to get better soon so you can come home. It's not the same without you there. And hey, when you get better and you get out of here, how about we take that trip to Ireland you've been dying to go on. How does that sound? Good?" Trowa stared straight ahead and didn't respond. Quatre swallowed the lump in his throat and pressed a tender kiss to his love's forehead. "Okay, well it's something to think about. It's good to have a goal, isn't it? Something to look forward to." They left a short time later and Quatre cried on Duo's shoulder as they stood in the parking lot. "I'm losing him, Duo! He gets worse every day." Duo stroked his hair, his own voice choked up. "I'm so sorry, Quat. I'm so sorry. I wish there was something more I could do." "I just don't know how to reach him. I don't know how to get him to come back to me." "That's up to Tro now. But hey, don't lose hope. There's always hope, okay? I'm sure he's going to come out of this." He cupped Quatre's face and tried to smile. "He's a tough nut to crack. We all are. Tro's strong and he's got the best support system. I'm sure he's gonna be okay. You gotta keep the faith, alright?" Quatre nodded and wiped the tears from his cheeks. "Thanks, Duo. I'm really glad you came with me today." "So am I. Even though it was hard to see him like that. I should have come sooner." "It's okay. What matters is that you came." "How are you holding up?" Quatre shrugged. "Best I can, I suppose. I'm here every day. Sometimes he's lucid, sometimes..." "He's like that." He nodded. "These bad spells are getting worse. It's like he loses more and more of himself. I know he's in there somewhere, but he just...I don't know. It almost feels like he's given up." "Hey, you can't think like that. And don't you give up either." "I'm not. I could never give up on him." That night, Quatre was plagued by vivid nightmares that involved him running through the vacant and somehow endless hallways of the hospital, desperately trying to find Trowa. There were no doctors, no nurses, no patients. The place was empty, the floors strewn with papers and other debris, swirling around by some unseen draft. The florescent lights flickered erratically, hanging precariously from their fixtures, the occasional spark exploding beneath them. While it was the hospital, it was also a maze in which he knew, in reality, the corridors did not go on and on like that. He ran from room to room, shouting his love's name, frantic because he knew, he knew something was terribly wrong. After what seemed like hours of searching, he reached a dead end and stopped short. A figure stood against the far wall, clad in a standard hospital gown, their back to Quatre, shuffling from foot to foot. There was a strange scratching sound. At first he thought it was Trowa, but he quickly realized the figure was much smaller, the hair longer. Hello? The figure stopped fidgeting and slowly turned and Quatre sucked in a sharp breath when Cathy turned her sightless gaze on him. Her eyes were gone, black holes in their place, and there was blood on her face, coming from a gash somewhere on her head. He noticed the blood on the wall and realized she'd been banging her head against it. Her lips curled back over snarling teeth, her voice like gravel. You killed him. You bastard. It's all your fault. I could have made him better, but now he's gone and it's all...your...fault. He bolted upright in bed, covered in an icy cold sweat, on the verge of hyperventilation, and startled by the ringing phone beside him. His chaotic mind, still half in the dream took a moment to realize what the shrill sound was. He turned to the night table, his eyes catching sight of the time. It was three o'clock in the morning and when had phone calls at this time of night ever been good? His hand trembled as it reached for the phone and he swallowed down the growing lump of terror in his throat. He picked it up and looked at the display, praying it wasn't who he already knew it was. Ardmoore Psychiatric Hospital. He was overcome with a strange sense of otherworldliness, his body feeling like it was not his own as he flipped the phone open and brought it to his ear. His voice failed the first time and he cleared his throat. The second time his voice came out in a raspy croak, shaking, not sounding like himself. He knew what he was going to hear. He knew this call was going to change his life in ways he wasn't prepared for. "Hello?" "Mr. Winner?" "Yes, this is he." "This is Dr. Byron. I'm sorry to call you at such a late hour and I'm sorry to have to bring you bad news." Quatre held his breath, his heart already breaking, the shattered pieces floating down and stabbing him in the gut. "Mr. Barton...I'm not sure how, but he got out onto the roof. We're still trying to figure out how he escaped." Quatre nodded absently, but he knew better. There really wasn't anything that could hold a Gundam pilot for long and if Trowa had really wanted out, nothing was going to stop him. "He, I'm sorry to say, he jumped. He didn't make it. I'm so sorry." Quatre flipped the phone closed without a word. It dropped from his fingers into his lap. He swallowed and stared at the wall without actually seeing it, his eyes starting to sting. He brought a hand up and ran it shakily through his hair and huffed out a soft breath. Trowa. Trowa was gone. Jumped off the roof of the hospital. He didn't know how to process this information, staring dumbly at the wall as if it held all the answers, his mind going every which way. His beloved Trowa was gone. So, what happened now? How did one come to terms with losing the love of their life? How did one go on from here? His insides curled in on themselves, the agony overpowering. He reached up, grabbing handfuls of his own hair and pulled, trying to drown out the searing wound in his heart. His head tipped back, his mouth opening, and without even realizing he was doing it, he unleashed a blood-curdling, anguished scream, desperate to rid himself, his mind, his heart of the monster inside, this all-encompassing pain. His hands closed over his chest, nails clawing at the skin over his heart, and he doubled over, the scream fading as his voice shorted out. His lips were drawn back over his teeth, still screaming, though nothing came out but a faint hiss of breath. He pushed all the air out of his lungs and then sucked in another, hating the fact that he was still breathing when Trowa wasn't. The second scream was more broken, wavering, infused with layers upon layers of devastation. He screamed and cried himself out until he had nothing left and he lay, sprawled in his bed, their bed, completely numb from shock, the occasional tear dripping over his temple. His head was throbbing something fierce, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. Not anymore. His love was gone. He was alone and there was nothing that could cure that. That was the second time Trowa told him goodbye.
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