Song by Stephen Lynch

Distorted story by Chiizu

~

/Had to see you one last time/

Quatre Raberba Winner, one of the most powerful and influential people in the Earth Sphere, twitched in annoyance as his phone calls were left unanswered.  He stared at the phone forlornly, wondering how he could get a hold of Trowa.  He hadn't seen nor heard from the former Heavyarms pilot since Trowa had walked out on him.

He sat down and rubbed at his temples, trying to alleviate the headache that seemed to have blossomed there.  Quatre chanced a glance up at his computer screen, eyes widening when he saw the mail icon.  Moving his mouse to click on it, he almost laughed aloud as he read it.  Finally, Trowa had replied to his—Quatre glanced at the mail statistics in the corner of the screen—two hundred and twenty-eighth letter.

/There's something on my mind/

'Quatre

'Meet me in the street in front of your house in ten minutes.

'Trowa

'P.S. Stop e-mailing me!'

/How do I say what needs to be said?/

Quatre arrived at the designated location nine minutes later, his chest heaving with ragged gasps as he put his hands on his knees in an effort to catch his breath.  Trowa's e-mail had seemed innocent enough...if you overlooked the fact that his mansion had a mile-long driveway.

His efforts proved not to be in vain, however, as Trowa stepped out from behind some decorative shrubbery.

"Ow, those things have fucking thorns in them," Trowa muttered as he walked over, cursing himself for wearing only a t-shirt due to this warm night and rubbing the scratches on his bare arms.

/Words are...hard to find/

"Trowa," Quatre breathed, his voice trembling.

"Yes," Trowa agreed.  "Now what do you want?"

Anger crossed Quatre's face as he met Trowa's gaze, quickly chased by shock and the visible pain of loss.  The loss of something so precious to him.

/How about bitch, give me my money/

"Trowa, you goddamn, son of a bitch, gimme back my money!" Quatre yelled, lunging at his ex-boyfriend.

"Holy shit!" Was all Trowa managed as he was suddenly under attack by a very vicious and very angry politician.

/I want my money and I want if fast/

Quatre gave a roar and swiped his claws—er, fingers—at Trowa's eyes.  Said eyes widened in fear upon seeing the angular flesh of doom heading towards them before Trowa grabbed Quatre's wrists.  With an almighty heave he managed to flip them over, landing on top of the Arabian.

Quatre fought like one possessed by a pissed off and drunk Russian spirit.  He growled as he squirmed, attempting to free his hands.

"Quatre, calm down!" Trowa yelled, struggling to keep the wrists pinned.

"You took my money!" Quatre screamed again.

/Hey, bitch, give me my money/

"What?" Trowa asked, confusion seeping into his expression.  "I borrowed ten dollars to buy some McDonalds."

"You took my money and left me!" Quatre roared, bucking his hips to remove the heavier man from on top of him.

"I ate there and did some paperwork on my laptop!" Trowa exclaimed as he backed away from the feral businessman.  "I was barely gone two hours!"

"My money!!!" Quatre shrieked, lunging.

/Else I'm 'bout to take it out your ass/

Police and an ambulance arrived at the scene twenty minutes later.  They were left to wonder how such a petite young man could beat someone half to death, as they couldn't get an answer out of the Winner heir, who was reportedly seen stroking a dollar bill and whispering, "my precioussss...."