(fic) Suppressive Maturation (oneshot)
Suppressive Maturation
A Gundam Wing fanfiction written by Masamune Reforged
Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing or the characters. Borrowing a bit from George Eman Vaillant.
Rating/Warning: General audiences. Angst and a bit of slash (unrequited 3x4)
Setting/Type: Post Endless Waltz (the boys are all "grown up"). Quatre centric. Slice of Life. There may be more of these, but there's not going to be an over-arching story or progression or anything like that. If anything, they'll just be one-shots all set in the same time period.
Words: 700
After Colony 209 - L4 - Winner Residence
Quatre's POV
When I was a child, I was always paralyzed by the fear that somebody, my father, my sisters, my so-called friends, would take something away from me. I would spend hours of my life in fearful rapture over the idea of someone breaking into one of our houses and whisking away one of my ridiculously unnecessary possessions. But until today nothing like that had ever occurred in my life. And so here I am, a sensible young man in what they call my prime, and I have to figure out how to deal with it.
It's this defense mechanism that arises naturally in me at this time. I believe it's called thought suppression. And, for me, this is how it works: If you don't want to think about it, you won't. Or, rather, you'll stop thinking about it, about whatever it is that you're just so grossly scared of deep down in some small underbelly of your submerged subconscious. It doesn't matter what it is. That's how thought suppression works best for me. I simply tell myself that whatever it is it doesn't matter.
I tell myself this by forcing myself to focus on the things that aren't my thoughts. The broken window panes. The glass crunched sandy under half a dozen pairs of intruding combat boots. I am not scared. The sound of the air drifting through the blown-out hole between the garage and the garden. I am not angry. I almost can reach my hands into my head and push away the wrinkled parts that are focusing on thoughts, on those thoughts. I get all the others to work overtime. Eyes, ears, nose, hands. I lick my sand-papery lips. Sea mint lip gloss that tastes like the beginning of panic.
I take a step back from the scene and reach my hand into my pants pocket. I brush past the cool leather of my wallet as it catches the clammy sweat just budding from my pores. My personal communication device is small, round, and always buzzing with heat. I pull it out and force myself to think about the time I bought it, when Dorothy and Duo were agreeing and insisting that blue had to be the color for it, but I went and picked out green. That way I could almost look into his eye (always just one eye visible) even when I didn't have the guts to actually call him.
I want to stop thinking about that now.
That's the rare China plate Wufei gave to me, in twenty nine pieces on the ground, near where the entertainment system used to be. Looks like they used an asteroid lasso to rip out the massive wooden display, along with everything that was bolted to it. The ceiling is bowed a little in the center right above where it used to be. That plate is irreplaceable.
I take the comm device out and avoid looking at it. I put it in my ear and say, "Three." They play some Beethoven over the line as I wait for a moment. My father hated Beethoven. I loved Beethoven more than I-
I'm sort of glad I get to buy an entirely new set of instruments. It was never easy trying to play anything more than somber music, or blue jazz when I couldn't stop thinking about my father having given them to me. Perhaps a Kemper cello this time...
"I'm sorry. The party you have dialed is unavailable at this time."
He must be busy. He just doesn't have time. It'd be too far for him to come just for a stupid thing like this. I'm not sad at all. It was just some pathetic Gundam haters, and all they did was take some stuff. It doesn't matter.
I pick the comm device out of my ear and turn it off.
He's probably just busy right now. He's probably helping Catherine with something.
I head back to the surface car outside, suddenly very much in the mood to take in a film on what's left of this Thursday afternoon. It'll take my mind off things.
It's subjective, this kind of suppression. That's why I'm an emotionally healthy, effective, mature adult these days.
-end Suppressive Maturation
Feedback is love. This is the first thing I've been able to "finish" (and it hasn't been betaed...) in months, so I'd be very appreciative on this one. Thank you for reading.
A Gundam Wing fanfiction written by Masamune Reforged
Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing or the characters. Borrowing a bit from George Eman Vaillant.
Rating/Warning: General audiences. Angst and a bit of slash (unrequited 3x4)
Setting/Type: Post Endless Waltz (the boys are all "grown up"). Quatre centric. Slice of Life. There may be more of these, but there's not going to be an over-arching story or progression or anything like that. If anything, they'll just be one-shots all set in the same time period.
Words: 700
After Colony 209 - L4 - Winner Residence
Quatre's POV
When I was a child, I was always paralyzed by the fear that somebody, my father, my sisters, my so-called friends, would take something away from me. I would spend hours of my life in fearful rapture over the idea of someone breaking into one of our houses and whisking away one of my ridiculously unnecessary possessions. But until today nothing like that had ever occurred in my life. And so here I am, a sensible young man in what they call my prime, and I have to figure out how to deal with it.
It's this defense mechanism that arises naturally in me at this time. I believe it's called thought suppression. And, for me, this is how it works: If you don't want to think about it, you won't. Or, rather, you'll stop thinking about it, about whatever it is that you're just so grossly scared of deep down in some small underbelly of your submerged subconscious. It doesn't matter what it is. That's how thought suppression works best for me. I simply tell myself that whatever it is it doesn't matter.
I tell myself this by forcing myself to focus on the things that aren't my thoughts. The broken window panes. The glass crunched sandy under half a dozen pairs of intruding combat boots. I am not scared. The sound of the air drifting through the blown-out hole between the garage and the garden. I am not angry. I almost can reach my hands into my head and push away the wrinkled parts that are focusing on thoughts, on those thoughts. I get all the others to work overtime. Eyes, ears, nose, hands. I lick my sand-papery lips. Sea mint lip gloss that tastes like the beginning of panic.
I take a step back from the scene and reach my hand into my pants pocket. I brush past the cool leather of my wallet as it catches the clammy sweat just budding from my pores. My personal communication device is small, round, and always buzzing with heat. I pull it out and force myself to think about the time I bought it, when Dorothy and Duo were agreeing and insisting that blue had to be the color for it, but I went and picked out green. That way I could almost look into his eye (always just one eye visible) even when I didn't have the guts to actually call him.
I want to stop thinking about that now.
That's the rare China plate Wufei gave to me, in twenty nine pieces on the ground, near where the entertainment system used to be. Looks like they used an asteroid lasso to rip out the massive wooden display, along with everything that was bolted to it. The ceiling is bowed a little in the center right above where it used to be. That plate is irreplaceable.
I take the comm device out and avoid looking at it. I put it in my ear and say, "Three." They play some Beethoven over the line as I wait for a moment. My father hated Beethoven. I loved Beethoven more than I-
I'm sort of glad I get to buy an entirely new set of instruments. It was never easy trying to play anything more than somber music, or blue jazz when I couldn't stop thinking about my father having given them to me. Perhaps a Kemper cello this time...
"I'm sorry. The party you have dialed is unavailable at this time."
He must be busy. He just doesn't have time. It'd be too far for him to come just for a stupid thing like this. I'm not sad at all. It was just some pathetic Gundam haters, and all they did was take some stuff. It doesn't matter.
I pick the comm device out of my ear and turn it off.
He's probably just busy right now. He's probably helping Catherine with something.
I head back to the surface car outside, suddenly very much in the mood to take in a film on what's left of this Thursday afternoon. It'll take my mind off things.
It's subjective, this kind of suppression. That's why I'm an emotionally healthy, effective, mature adult these days.
-end Suppressive Maturation
Feedback is love. This is the first thing I've been able to "finish" (and it hasn't been betaed...) in months, so I'd be very appreciative on this one. Thank you for reading.