As Imperceptibly as Grief

Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing and am making no profit from this work.


Maybe I should care. Maybe there should be a part of me that regret what’s happening. Maybe I left that behind when she called me. She called me. An old friend I haven’t seen in years phones me up early in the morning to tell me my father is dying.

And so I left. I grabbed my duffel bag, glanced at the boy still sleeping in our bed and left, scribbling a hasty note and leaving it on the table where he is bound to find it alone with the newspaper. I could always call him from the hospital, after all. I haven’t yet, but maybe I will. Maybe. I should, he’ll be worried.


What happened to all the determination in my life? I was a stubborn child and an even more stubborn adult. So where did that sense of resolve go? Yes or no; black or white, no shades to mar that fierce sense of right and wrong. I think it must have fled as soon as I stepped out of our apartment and back into the memories.

I don’t want to talk to him. He’ll be worried, caring, and considerate and then I’ll feel bad for not loving him. I should, there’s no reason not to. I remember us after a year of half-hearted dating. He decided that his apartment was too small, and mine was in a bad neighborhood. So we went hunting for a trendy little loft on the cafe littered streets of chic East Street New York. He carefully inspected each building, questioned each landlord while I stood outside smoking a cigarette and trying to understand him.

Meanwhile my father was being eaten away by the cancer in his bloodstream.

We’ve known about the cancer for some time. Unfortunately, it has now metastasized. There’s nothing we can do now. Just wait for the inevitable.

It was no surprise. The man had smoked most of his life. They had diagnosed the cancer just over a year ago. He had refused all treatment. It was so very much like my father to go out with that stubborn sense of angry mutiny.

Relena kept a silent vigil by his bed. That was more confusing than the dying man. He had never been particularly kind to her. He had accepted her as one of my friends, maybe hoped that she was something more. They both did. But after a while, maybe after I left, they must have realized. Relena could never be anything but a sister to me.

Maybe I’ll call him, tell him to come down here. I don’t need him, but I might as well make him think I do. I know he feels awkward when I distance myself from him. Some part of him wants to know he’s necessary. Maybe there’s part of me that feels bad for not needing him. That’s why we moved in together; that’s why I still take him out every other weekend; that’s why I pretend to care and he pretends not to notice that I don’t.

I wonder as I dial the number if he’s at home. Maybe he went to the fresh market, or Rich’s. It would make sense, he tends to go shopping when he’s bored, always returning with at least one bag of overpriced clothes or a new set of Egyptian Cotton sheets that he paid way too much for, but he would never know or care. AS long as he can stack those clean starched sheets in the linen closet with all the others. Every color of the rainbow he decides he wants to sleep on.


“Hi Quatre.”