SCHADENFREUDE
by Ash Wednesday Lee

The characters of Shin Kudoseki Gundam Wing
belong to Sotsu Sunrise Agency. I am sure they are
wonderful people who I don't want to mess with ^.^.

Genre: Drama, Angst, Fluff
Pair: 1xR mainly, though you might pick up some others here and there.
Keywords: 1xR, non-yaoi, Sylvia Noventa, Quatre Winner
Warnings: Rated R for some language, scenes. And basically everyone's
          in need of prozac ^_^ (read: OOC)

CHAPTER 4: FORCE MAJEURE

Timeline: The day after Relena's resignation

A random memory resurfaces to the tune of the heavy
oak door's groan of protest as Trowa Barton slowly pushed 
it open. He remembers kneeling in front of a child upon her 
demand. She had touched the unmasked half of his face then the soft
fall of hair on the other half and declared him strange.

He took pride in that word. A reality to hold on to for once.
He remembers the certainty in the child's expression as though
she spoke from unparalleled experience and unquestionable
wisdom. It was him. The child said so.

It was only after, that he realized how much of the word 
he is. How he longs the welcome arms of the night and waits
eagerly for the coming winter. The solace he finds in the cold 
and the happiness he sees in the dark validates much. It 
validates him. 

But allowing himself to be enfolded in the dark room's
embrace, Trowa couldn't find comfort nor feel any happiness
as he became one with the shadows. The chill permeating
the walls evokes nothing more than a proverbial shiver
down his spine. The shadows he harbor within himself refuse 
to liberate themselves and become one with the room's 
surrounding darkness. There was nothing but
the feel of air entering then exiting his lungs.

'I am a strange, strange man'

But then, his trained eyes soon took notice of the still made
bed, the untouched dinner and the heavy drapes sheltering this
space against the world outside, and began to feel again. 
He's lived a lonely life but never really understood it, unless
he steps into the other man's room. Not only did it smell of sadness
but the misery within was so thick, one could taste it at every breath.
The air feels heavy with unanswered prayers and unheeded wishes. 
While the walls, the floor, the ceiling hold trapped visions 
and sounds of suffering. Suffering in the midst of loneliness, 
Trowa thought.

He walked to the table closest to the ignored bed and
watched the embers on the tips of the remaining sticks of 
incense beat weakly. The pungent scent of burning roses 
flooding his senses, creating a balm for the memories 
evoked by the scent. It was both for remembering and 
soothing the sorrow that it brings along. But knowing 
him, it only served its former purpose. For no solace 
finds its way to his friend's heart. Solace fears his very heart. 
And his heart fears it back. As peace
found in his heart would only mean his death.

'Peace,' he thought bitterly. They've survived hell for that
ideal and yet they were here, trapped in a room, drowning
in the wars waged by memories that refused to be forgotten;
voices that refused to be silenced.

"Trowa." the state of the other's sleep-deprivation no 
more evident in his voice than the stories held by it. 

This is as normal as they can get.

Trowa took several steps closer to his seated form. He was
facing the only unclothed window in the room, smitten by
the play of reds and oranges in the distant horizon along
with the dying shadows of a night that will soon join
yesterday. The cavorting colors of dawn echoed in his
child-like features while an arm rested on the 
table beside him. His violin lay on the path of his 
fingers' lazy, mindless ministrations. A woman stretching her 
body, yearning for that long missed touch from her master. 
His fingers caressed the length of its strings, before gliding 
its way across the smoothness of its belly,
then resting on the curve of its hip, then back to
the strings. 

"She quits." he answered.

There was a pause in the frolic of his skin against the
smoothness and taut strings of the violin, whilst his glazed eyes kept
its fixture on the distance. And with these mutest of gestures, 
Trowa felt like he was sixteen again. When 
everything fell under logic and made sense, and he was in the middle, 
finding that sense in the vast of everything at instinct. 
When he could stand on the edge of a thirty-foot 
building and be certain that when he jumped off it, he'd 
die upon landing. When he could still say that he 
knew and understood Quatre Winner.

"I know," his voice soft and distracted, killing Trowa's
follies. Already, his mind has lost interest in the subject 
Trowa raised, drifting further... further...

"Rashid and the rest will be informed at your will," he
began, hope kept concealed in his monotone as he gripped 
for his attention before leaving him in the austere room. 
Quatre's roving hand moved to join the resting other in a 
loose clasp on his lap, eyes still distant, together with 
his thoughts.

Or so Trowa was made to believe.

"Yes," he began, "they shall be so informed." 

Glassy blue eyes soon lost purchase of the bursting dawn
and chose to hide beneath golden lashes. "Together with the
details of their mission." Trowa blinked as Quatre's last words
began to sink, figuring into pieces, then into a single thought.
A niggling probability he had dismissed, even before
coming into the room, in favor of reason. 

And Quatre *is* a reasonable person. 

Or maybe that was also how he was made to believe as well.

"You need Relena to be on that seat," he said, his tone betraying
any emotion. Quatre sinuously got up, the violin cradled between
his two hands. Gingerly, he touched the strings one last time
before leaving it to the cold embrace of its casket. 

"They are considering Sylvia Noventa to take her place," he
stated, not missing the slight cock of the unconcealed eyebrow.
Enough to disclose his interest on how matters are turning.
"Yes, Sylvia Noventa," he smiled mirthlessly.

'Marseilles,' Trowa thought. Few things could escape his 
memory, having very little. And few things can escape 
Quatre's capacity to understand with so little knowledge. 
Fairly certain that he disclosed nothing about that day to 
anyone, Trowa kept the 'how's' to himself and chose to point 
out the obvious and the pertinent.

"It doesn't change the fact that Relena is no longer in office,"
Trowa pointed out, though he knew the point was a sterile 
attempt to keep him, them, from treading the obtuse path
beyond. 

"Yes," Quatre said, "nor does it make me any more favorable
to the people of the colony." He kept watch of the clouds 
racing languidly from the horizon, easily eating away the
remnants of the past night. The sky's palette brightening
at the steady exodus of dawn, making way for the coming morn.

Trowa crossed his arms and leaned on the nearest wall, 
resigning to the shadows. The matter has been decided even 
before he brought it up. He couldn't help but feel a certain
degree of remorse at his inability to do anything about it.
Such are the situations that reminds what the past
six years has molded him to be. There's a bigger, and more
powerful reality beyond the four corners of a mobile suit's
cockpit. Peace, in all its noble ideals and beauty, 
has made him an inept onlooker as fate had its
way with their lives. With *his* life.

Another random memory, of him watching his sister teach 
a new ward in the circus on how to work the trapeze, filled 
in the silence and distance yawning between him and Quatre.

"If you let go and accept your own incapacities, you will
have an extra hand to hold on to your strengths," Quatre said
out loud, reminding Trowa that he was standing beside him
that day and he was sharing the memory with him.
Quatre favored him a shadow of a smile, "your sister
loves that line. Proud that she made it up all by herself."

Trowa refused to go where Quatre's words were drawing him. 
Refused to remember and wallow in the pain.  "Is this
your incapacity?" he asked instead. The finger that was tracing
invisible objects on the window's glass paused in mid-stroke
at the question. Quatre turned and regarded him evenly, "I find
myself incapable of failing what is expected of me." 

"And your strength?" he countered. Quatre allowed himself
a familiar smile. But nothing more.

Trowa turned towards the door, the sound of his shoes shuffling
against the floor escorting him. "And what of your strength 
and incapacities, Trowa?" Quatre asked. His steps changed from
purposeful, to erratic then finally to a stop. Fully in the 
middle of the room, Trowa turned to meet the other's placid, cold eyes. 

"You are both."

The smile returned.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

-- the day after last chapter's events

She should've stayed in bed. 

The mere fact that she's staring at her bed's canopy
at seven in the morning, should've been fair warning.
She should've tried to shut her eyes a bit more tightly
and exerted a bit more effort in trying to get back to
sleep. The fact that she stopped pretending to be asleep
only two hours ago; the fact that she's barely felt the entire
surface area of the bed's sheets in that short span of time;
the fact that the Preventers' building is still closed and
the janitor who opens it is probably still snuggled close
to his wife should've been more than enough to keep her
fixed on the bed.

Instead she chose to listen to the sound of tires and engines
in a perfect urban symphony, of automobile doors being opened
to be closed then to be opened again-- and heed their call for her 
attention.

And so, behind sleep-hazed eyes and morning fogged windows, 
Relena watched the last of the vehicles from the ESUN make a 
queue along the Peacecraft Mansion's vast driveway
and wondered in instinct, what she had done wrong this time. 
But as soon as the familiar sleek limousine of the new
Vice Foreign Minister came into view, she was reminded this
wasn't about her. Not anymore. She no longer mothers an entire planet 
and plays nanny to a host of colonies. No, the world stopped 
revolving around Relena Peacecraft a week ago. She can't help the
bitter aftertaste in those thoughts, but dispelled it
quickly and placed it in her mental list of things that
she needs to learn to get used to.

She paused right there. 

It took her five seconds to take in everything, 
her brain lurching to function began to imbibe what her eyes 
were seeing and throw herself in a mad rush
for downstairs in a flurry of silk and lace. Unspoken
fears pounded in her ears like prayers for the dead.
Hushed, but loud enough for both heaven and hell to
hear. 

'I never invited her yesterday,' she thought, her adrenaline 
pumping through her veins in beat with her feet as it ate away 
distance. 'And even if I did, certainly not at seven in the 
morning,' the halls were unusually empty, save for the lobby 
where she found everyone in the household, watching in curiosity 
at the beeline of men, renderred faceless by boxes that 
burdened their arms. The muscles of her legs protested 
against the heavy and sudden strain she imposed on them as 
she hurriedly treaded the stairs' steps in three's and two's.

'And even if I did, moving trucks are certainly not needed
in the Vice Foreign Minister's convoy,' Her run broke into
a stunted pace as she approached the door. Several sheets of
paper from some of the open boxes littered the floor. Their 
letterheads screamed as though they were ten times larger 
than they actually were. 

It was either a bad dream or a sick joke. 

Relena decided it was the latter. With her as fate's jester.

Again.

'No,' she thought in desperation. 'You can't do this
to me,' she clutched her heart at the fear that gripped her
there. 'I've given up so much,' she groped for the door's
knob as she tried to remember how to breathe. 'Worked so hard.'

Everything else was a blur. Someone was calling her from a 
distance, fragmented words such as 'cold' and 'sick' remained
fragmented in her brain. A few of the men carrying boxes were
staring at her near-state of undress. She didn't realize how
cold she was until she felt someone embrace her from behind.

"Miss Relena?" one of the maids had draped a blanket over
her shoulders. A blanket. She gripped on its ends before it 
slipped and almost laughed at Zechs and Noin's expression 
as they turned to look at her in ill-concealed shock and 
concern. And yet she stood there, barefooted, embraced by 
no one but the blanket and its faint smell of detergent. 

While Heero Yuy stood behind the immaculately and fully clothed
Vice Foreign Minister. 

"Good morning Miss Relena," Sylvia Noventa greeted, a perfect
smile adorning her perfect face, framed by her perfect hair.
She was sizing up the former Queen of the World, with her 
blanket cape and tangled crown of golden tresses, in expertly
masked distaste. 

She could hear Zechs telling her to get back upstairs to get
dressed and Noin, requesting someone to get her some slippers.
But her attention was drawn from the cold smile of the Vice
Foreign Minister, to her small hand gripped in the safety
of Heero's own. 

These are the things that perfect nightmares are made of.

"Do you imagine you will suffer less because you love goodness
and truth?"

Her eyes jerked up at the sound of Heero's familiar, 
acerbic voice. Realizing it wasn't him, a 
second too late, she found herself instead, fall prey to his eyes. 
Not finding the usual lack of emotion in them, she had 
to bite the inside of her mouth to keep herself from crying.

Heero Yuy was looking at her in pity.

			* * *

In what seems like aeons, Relena finally broke into a
smile, keeping sure that confidence emanated from her 
every pore. Back straight, chin up, eyes set on the 
person on the other end of the conversation and every bit 
the diplomat she has been trained to be. But in her current 
state, she knew she looked more like a ruffian, with nothing
but her pride, standing up to an aristocrat. 'Just breathe,' she 
reminded herself, 'this can't go any worse.'

"Good morning, minister," then with an ephemeral
glance, "Col. Yuy."

"I'm terribly sorry for disembarking on your doorstep
unannounced," Sylvia began, "but I'm sure, at my current
state, it's," she paused, "understandable."

While keeping a smile plastered on her face, Relena
made a sideway glance at her brother. She will
not play the fool she has been made into. Not in front
of her. And most certainly not in front of *him*.
She nodded in agreement, "perfectly."

'Breathe,' she reminded herself again.

Sylvia favored her a bemused look, subtle 
so as not to offend, but evident enough to cut.
'This will be *very* interesting,' one look at the colonel's 
hardened, impassive features reassured as much. 
Her grip on his hand tightened.

Relena went about the usual dynamics of being the
good host, asking them about their trip and discussing
a few issues that went missed yesterday. She smiled 
intuitively at Sylvia's last comment. Having not the
least bit of clue what the other was talking about. "The
Vice Foreign Minister is very much welcome to stay
as long as she wishes," she glanced briefly at Zechs
who chose to recede in silence, not wanting to make
the palpable discomfort any more palpable than it 
already is. 

Sylvia smiled at her. "Thank you," the words enunciated
slowly and with much relish, Relena wondered how it tasted. 

Clearing her throat, Noin finally found her voice to
interrupt. "Relena," she began, bent on instructing
the younger woman to get dressed at the risk of her
getting ill. But the graceful turn of her head towards
her and the inimitable calm in her pale features made
Noin say otherwise. 'She's trying so hard,' she thought.

"It's almost eight, you'd be late for work," she reminded
softly. Relena smiled, "yes." A final bow of apology
to both Sylvia and Heero before she began to head back to the 
house. As how fate's jester would curtsy at her fine
performance, she thought wryly. A canned laughter with 
applause wouldn't have surprised her anymore. 

Instead, she caught a vexed Noin glancing furtively at 
her now bluish feet. She tried to smile reassuringly, but
fell short and had sadness peeking in the corner of
her lips. 

'I *am* stronger,' she almost insisted, remembering the older 
woman's words the morning before, 'I'll make everyone proud.'

'I'll make myself proud,'


TSUZUKU

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AUTHOR'S NOTES:

1. Force Majeure - (fr.) a circumstance beyond human control

2. Do you imagine you will suffer less because 
   you love goodness and truth? - from the Terrence Malick film, 
   The Thin Red Line ( why do I love using lines from movies? Because
   I love them and I am *that* trite ^^;)

3. If you let go and accept your own incapacities, you will
   have an extra hand to hold on to your strengths - this is a slightly
   modified line from a local folklore ^^;

4. Thanks to all those who bothered to drop words of encouragement ^_^
   Very much appreciatd, minna.

5. I know that this fic suspiciously sounds like something that has       been written for the nth time, but I hope youd give me a chance to     prove otherwise ^__^. It will sound more and more cliche for the       next two-three chapters --o, but I hope whoever's been reading would 
   bear with me. But sadly, these banalities are quite necessary
   for the er... plot.

Thanks for the time and whatever else you can spare.