The Dawn of Peace (breaking up with Quatre)

 

 

Earth.  January 15th, A.C. 196

            We never meant for things to go this far.  When we began, it was supposed to be temporary and soothing.  Healing.  Now, four long months later, I was fresh out of the shower, getting ready to go out with Quatre.  I didn't feel soothed; I felt sick.

            The war was over; our Gundams were gone, now somewhere between the earth and Venus, heading toward the sun.  Their pilots were gone, too, except for the two of us.  I knew I should be happy about the new peace, about going back to my life with Catherine, but I wasn't.  My head hurt; I felt heavy.  Quatre and I had dragged our feet for two weeks now.  It was time to come to a decision.  It was time to end things.

            I combed my damp hair, for the thousandth time contemplating cutting it all off.  I stared at the face staring back at me from the mirror.  He was a stranger—not the familiar reflection I'd come to depend on during all those years when there was no one else.  This new Trowa looked fragile, fragile in a way that even a childhood spent with mercenaries couldn't explain.  I didn't reach for the scissors.  I had a feeling that without my hair, I would lose myself today.

            I brushed my teeth, glancing out the tiny window.  It was snowing.  I wondered how Quatre liked it.  I didn't think he'd ever seen snow before.   When we met, he'd only just seen Earth for the first time—he had been so captivated by its beauty.  That spring seemed so long ago, but the image of Quatre as I first saw him was fresh in my memory.  This enemy who surrendered to me—me in a Gundam that couldn’t harm him—had already awed me, but the sight of him with his blue-green eyes and golden hair really stunned me.  He looked so young, so perfect.

            We became friends immediately.  Even Catherine has rarely heard my flute, but something about Quatre made me trust him; I played for this friendly stranger.   That night I stayed over and I lay awake for hours, wondering who was this boy and why it mattered to me.  I worked alone.  I didn't need to become friends with a boy who could easily become my enemy.  I left because I didn't want that to happen.  I wanted to remember Quatre Winner as my friend.

            I almost laughed, walking into the dim bedroom.  Funny how things turn out.  I pulled a t-shirt over my bare chest, the chill of the room making me wish I'd thought to dress in the bathroom.  I wore a white button-down shirt over it, tucking it into my jeans.  I wanted to look good for this last meeting with Quatre.  This would’ve been easier without formal goodbyes.  After everything that had happened, I knew that we wouldn't cross paths much in the future.  I put on my shoes and glanced in the mirror.  Was this Quatre's shirt?  I twisted my wrists, checking the buttons as if they would offer some clue.  I couldn't remember.  His stuff and mine tended to blend together in my memory.

            Was my memory really so poor, or was it just that I didn't want to think about which things belonged to whom, or the circumstances behind their getting mixed?  The amnesia I'd suffered after my first run in with the Zero System didn't help.  I still couldn't remember anything about that battle—Quatre said he nearly killed me.  All I could remember was his voice, screaming at us to stay away and an urgent need to protect both him and the other friend I'd made—Heero.

            I put on my overcoat and unlocked the door.  I'd be going back to Catherine soon—I'd left her so suddenly to go fight with Quatre and Lt. Noin on the Peacemillian—I was sure she'd find me much changed.  When I left her, I’d believed she was my sister, that I'd spent my entire life with her in the circus, that I'd learned only recently the mechanics behind war and mobile suits.  The person I'd become couldn't believe in that anymore.  Things I'd remembered when the Zero System finally gave me my memory back affected me in frightening ways, but that wasn’t the only force behind my change.

           

 

Aboard the Peacemillian. September, A.C. 195

            I'd read the page before, probably twice or more.  The light was dim and yellow in my tiny room, making it hard to concentrate on the printed words.  Duo would laugh if he knew I was trying to read a book—why waste my time with reading when I could be sleeping?  Maybe he was right.  I put my book on the nightstand, forgetting why I'd decided to stay up and read in the first place. 

            A knock at the door kept me from switching off the lamp.

            "Yes?" I called, wondering who would be visiting at this hour.  Maybe Sally was feeling protective, checking on us like a mother hen. 

            The door opened a fraction, and Quatre stuck his head into my room.  "Trowa?" he asked softly.  "Trowa, are you asleep?"

            I sat up.  "Maybe."  It was hard not to smile—a visit from my friend was always a welcome intrusion.

            A smile twisted his lips.  "Good."  He came in and softly closed the door, leaning against it hesitantly.  "I'm glad you're up."  His smile faded, a slight frown creasing his brow.  "I need to talk to you."

            "Is it about the White Fang?"  Quatre was always serious about business.  I couldn't imagine what else would keep him awake all night.

            He shook his head. 

            "What then?"  I made room for him to sit on my bed, since the room was too small for a chair. 

            He shook his head again.  "I'm sorry Trowa!" he burst out suddenly.  "Now you remember and you know what I did and I'm sure you can't forgive me, but I'm sorry!"  His eyes filled with tears, and he put a fisted hand up as if to keep them from spilling over.  "I just wanted you to know that I didn't mean it.  I'm going to do everything I can to atone for what I've done to you."  He put his hand on the door, ready to bolt.

            "You didn't do anything to me."  I didn’t want him to leave thinking I was angry.

            "Wha—” Quatre spun around, looking confused.  "Trowa, I-I caused your amnesia!  I blasted you right out of your mobile suit!"  He took a step toward my bed.  "Don't you remember?"

            I motioned once more for him to sit down.  He ignored me.  "I remember you warned me to stay away from you.  I remember that Heero was going to kill you."  I studied him seriously.  "I can't see that anything was your fault."

            Quatre finally sat down.  I shifted to make more room for him on the narrow bed.  "But I hurt you," he whispered.  "I caused you pain."  He turned his face away from me, but I could see the thin trail of wetness from his eye. 

            "No," I assured him again.  "You didn't do anything to me.  Any pain I've felt was caused by others.  Long, long ago."  I took a deep breath, alarmed to discover that my voice was shaky.  "You've never hurt me, Quatre."  I studied my hands in the dim light.  My fingers were ragged, the skin and nails torn from years of mechanical work.  The mercenary Barton family trained me, and for as long as I could remember, I did just one thing—work on machinery.  It was the original Trowa Barton who called me "no-name," making me forget whatever it was that I had been named as a child.  It was also Trowa Barton who closed me up, made me untrusting—I could still remember his arms, wrapping around me so casually when I was still too small to fight it.

            "Trowa?"  Quatre's voice was soft.  He put his hand on my shoulder.

            "Don't touch me!"  I jerked away, noticing for the first time that I was trembling.  He stared at me, stricken.  I felt bad for snapping at him, for losing control of my thoughts and reactions.  "Sorry Quatre," I apologized, forcing lightness into my voice.  "You startled me."

            He didn't accept my answer.  "What's wrong?  Who hurt you, Trowa?" he asked evenly.  "If it wasn't me, then who?"  His tears were gone, replaced by stern protectiveness.  As if he could change things for me.

            I didn't answer, knowing that saying it out loud would make it worse.  After a while it wasn't even so bad, but Quatre would think it was horrible.  He was a prince on his colony—if anyone touched him it could mean death.  He wouldn't understand that when you're all alone you cling to whoever takes the most notice of you, even if it's Trowa Barton. 

            "It's okay to have your secrets, Trowa," Quatre said softly.  "I'm just concerned about you.  You've become so important to me—my best friend really—and just don't want you to feel you can't trust me."  He reached out again, deliberately putting his hand on my shoulder. 

            I didn't flinch this time.  The warmth of his hand seeped through my t-shirt.  "You're important to me, too," I explained in a low voice.  "That's why I can't talk about this with you."  Moisture on my cheeks made me start.  I was crying?  I didn't understand what was going on with me, except that to have Quatre here, his hands and voice gentle, confused me so much.  I put a hand up to my face, catching my own tears to look at them.  Trowa Barton never cried.

            While I was still contemplating this, Quatre slid closer, pulling me close to him.  "It's okay to hurt, Trowa," he whispered in my ear.  "It's okay to cry."

            I dropped my head onto his shoulder, feeling secure in the strength of his arms.  This was new to me—the only other time I'd felt like this was with Catherine.  She had wrapped her arms around me and let me cry out my confusion.  I could still hear her soothing voice, promising that she'd always take care of me, her hands smoothing my hair.  But Quatre wasn't Catherine, and I remembered who I was now.  It wasn't right.

            "No," I murmured, putting my hands on his chest to push him away.  "Quatre, you don't need to look out for me.  You're not my sister."

            He didn't budge.  "I don't want to replace your sister, Trowa," he said softly.  "I just want to be your friend."  He pulled back, looking me full in the face, his eyes unwavering.  He touched my cheek, smearing away the tears.  "Let me."

            His fingers on my face moved me.  They were soft and healing.   I couldn't look away from him, his eyes, his face.  I nodded, finally giving in.  The tears were unstoppable now, anyway—if Quatre left, I'd just have my pillow for solace.    A sob choked me, and I clutched at his vest, hanging on as if he were my only link to sanity.

            He held me more firmly, his hand moving to the back of my head to guide me to his shoulder.  I don't know how long I clung to him, or what was spoken between us in soothing tones and whispers.  I don't know how much I confessed about the real Trowa Barton and my nameless past, but Quatre cried too, maybe for himself and maybe for me.  By the time my sobs subsided, Quatre was quiet, lying beside me on my bed.  His eyes were closed, his long lashes damp on his cheeks, but I knew he was awake.

            "Do you feel better?" he asked, not opening them. 

            "Yes."  My voice was ragged, husky.  I put my hand on his shoulder with a gentle pressure.  "Thanks, Quatre."

            When he opened his eyes, they were shiny and rimmed with red from crying.  I was sure mine looked no better.  "I feel better too, Trowa.  Thanks."  To my surprise, he leaned over and kissed my cheek.  It was brief and alarmingly soft and made my skin prickle into goose bumps all over my body.  Where I came from, boys didn't kiss other boys; maybe in his culture it was all right.

            Partly to return the favor, and partly because I was really curious to feel what his skin felt like, I planted an identical kiss onto his cheek.

            Quatre blushed.  Maybe that had been the wrong thing for me to do.  I blushed, too. 

            At that moment, he started trembling.  He lifted a shaking hand to my face and turned it gently.  Then, with more tender care than I had ever received, he kissed my other cheek.  This time it was different, lasting longer and with slightly more pressure than the first.

            "Quatre," I breathed.  My heart was racing and my mind was tumbling back in time, remembering how Trowa Barton's hands felt on my skin and how his breath would tousle my hair.  I remembered looking forward to my encounters with him as much as I'd dreaded them.  And now Quatre's eyes and mouth were making me feel the same fluttery, jittery feeling.

            I kissed him, full on the mouth, skipping the next step in Quatre's game.  I didn't know if my friend had known where his innocent kisses would lead, but I took him there.  For an instant, he tried to pull away, his eyes widening in shock, but a moment later they drifted shut and his mouth was moving against mine, our tongues meeting passionately.  I let my own eyes close, reaching a hand into Quatre's hair.  It tickled my wrist and felt softer than anything I'd known—even Catherine's hair.  For an instant I wondered what it smelled like, but at that moment Quatre slipped his hand around my shoulder, pulling me more securely against him.  I found myself leaning into him, trying to get closer.  I'd never realized a kiss could be so intimate—it felt like he was an extension of me; I didn't know how much that should scare me.  It scared me a lot.

            I pulled away.  Quatre and I were lying close together on my bed, my blanket bunched up between us.  I'd never been so close to him—he smelled like water and the mildest soap.  He opened his eyes groggily. 

            "Trowa?"  His voice wavered.  I didn't have the courage to test mine. 

            He dropped his face into the pillow.  "Darn it, Trowa, I'm sorry!"  His voice was muffled, but I could tell he was gritting his teeth.

            I put my hand on his back.  "Sorry for what?"  I asked softly.  "For letting me kiss you?"  My heart was pounding, but I tried to stay calm.  This wasn't like it had been before.  Quatre was my friend. 

            He lifted his head from the pillow, his cheeks stained red with mortification.  "What are we doing?" he asked slowly.  "I don't understand this at all, but I feel like—like I've done something very wrong to you."

            Wrong to me?  I'd invited him to sit on the bed.  I was the one who cried until Quatre put his arms around me.  I initiated the kiss. 

            Everything about what I'd done to Quatre was wrong—all he did was follow me.

            I pushed his hair out of his eyes, shaking my head.  "I think we both knew what we were doing."  I paused.  "Or neither of us did."  I rolled onto my stomach and stared at the wrinkled sheet beneath us.

            We didn’t say anything for a long time, so I figured he'd accepted my answer, even though I wasn't at all certain that I did.  I wondered what was wrong with me, that I couldn't get close to him without making it into something sick.  But it didn't feel sick.  Quatre felt warm beside me, his breathing was steady and quiet.  Peaceful.

            "Are you gay?"  It'd been nearly twenty minutes since we'd spoken, but his voice didn't startle me.  It was a natural question.

            "Are you?"

            He swallowed hard.  "I-I don't think so," he stammered.  "I mean, until tonight I never—"

            "Me neither."  The stuff before didn't count; nothing that warped could be considered to be in the same league as this kiss with Quatre.  I didn't believe I was gay, though, just because I'd enjoyed a kiss.  Because I'd wanted more.

            "Maybe you should go."  I didn't want to kick him out of my room, but I was too aware of him to let him stick around.  A single kiss could be forgotten, but who knew what else could happen?  The last thing I wanted was to ruin a friendship—a friendship with Quatre—over a disturbed impulse rooted in my disturbed childhood.

            "But," Quatre began hesitantly.  "If you're not gay, and I'm not gay, then what harm is there in our talking for a while?"  Something in his voice made me look up at him—his eyes sparkled with curiosity.  "It's not like we'll let this happen again, right?"

            I twisted toward him, sitting up.  "Right.  I'm sure it was just a stupid impulse, because we were upset."  I wished I were as certain as I sounded.  Still, if Quatre wasn't going to kiss me, then there wasn't much chance of me trying to kiss him.  "What do you want to talk about?"

            Another long silence was my answer.  I understood.  I didn't want him to leave either, even if we didn't have much to say just then.  The memory of his mouth against mine kept me from offering up a topic—I was satisfied just to sit there.

            Again, Quatre spoke first.  "Why do you suppose we did it?"

            "I don't know.  Are you lonely out here?"  Is there a girl you're homesick for?  I realized that I didn't know very much about his life before the war.  I didn't even know for sure what place he called home.

            Quatre looked at the ceiling.  "Not lonely, exactly.  I'm too busy to be lonely.  But I miss the sunshine, and—"

            I was sure it was a girl.  I wondered what she was like, how wonderful she must have been to earn Quatre's affection.

            "What about you?  Don't you miss Catherine?"

            Catherine?  I'd never thought of her in the context of a kiss.  What would it be like to kiss Catherine?  I shook my head.  "It's not like that with her, " I assured him, wondering why I felt like I had to assure him of anything.

            He studied me carefully, rolling onto his stomach.  "Then who," he began slowly,  "are you lonely for?"  His hands held onto the edge of my pillow and it crossed my mind to wonder why he was still lying on my bed.  He looked down at his hands, watching them clench and unclench the downy fabric.  Gold hair and shadows masked his face from me, but I could tell by the way he kicked his feet that he was waiting for an answer.

            "I've never been lonely," I murmured, knowing it was a lie.  I couldn't remember a time when I hadn't been—especially right then, talking to Quatre.  After that kiss, that feeling that he and I could easily be just parts of a whole, how could I not be lonely?  The fact that Quatre was going to walk out the door and forget all about it, the fact that I knew it was wrong and I still wanted to hold him, this just made it worse.

            "I envy you," Quatre whispered, turning his face to me.  In the shadows his eyes seemed to shine like the sea.  "Being here with you makes me lonely."

            His honesty hurt somewhere in my chest—it lodged there like a bullet and wouldn't let up.  My pulse raced and alarms sounded in my mind.  This was all wrong.  He shouldn't say that.  I couldn't take my eyes off of him, I couldn't breathe.

            "Trowa?"  He reached up, putting his hand near my heart.  I gasped at the heat of his small palm.  "Don't you feel it too?"  With his other hand he picked up mine and held it to his chest.  I could feel his heart rapidly thudding beneath the surface.

            Wordless and choked, I nodded. 

            "Would it hurt us?" he asked softly, his voice barely audible and his body trembling.  "Would it hurt us, just for tonight?"

            I didn't know.   I couldn't answer him.  I had a feeling that a night with my friend would be either my salvation or my undoing.  I couldn't remember the last time I'd been so out of control.  All I wanted was to tell him that it'd be okay, that we'd come out of this closer friends, but independent.  I wanted to believe that.  I wanted to sleep next to him, feel his breath in my hair.  I needed someone to hold on to.

            By the time I found my voice, his question had been hanging in the air.  "Do you realize," I asked raggedly, "what you're asking?"

            His gaze remained steady, unwavering as he nodded his response.  He looked solemn and intense.  "Please Trowa.  Tell me you want me to stay."

            I cupped my hand beneath his chin, absorbing into my memory his sea-blue eyes, golden hair, upturned nose.  He was beautiful.  "Yes, Quatre," I whispered hoarsely, my mind made up in the curve of his lip.  "I want you."

 

 

Earth.  January 15th, A.C. 196

            The snow was getting thicker, making the late afternoon light that much dimmer.  It would've been beautiful if I didn't feel so cold.  That first night with Quatre had been amazing—I realized that there was something very powerful about falling asleep in the arms of someone who really cared about you.  The next morning was awkward, embarrassed.  We agreed that nothing like that should ever happen again.  But as he slipped out of my room, all I wanted was to kiss him goodbye.

            The chill I felt wasn't just because of the winter weather.  I was about a block from the cafe where I was supposed to meet him, and I still didn't know what to say.  Of course it was over—it should've been over that first morning—but how would I explain that to Quatre?  How would I explain it to myself so that I could believe it, too?  I kicked a mound of snow, getting the icy slush in my shoe.  For all I knew, Quatre might matter-of-factly say goodbye and head off for the colonies before nightfall.   I didn't believe that.

            For a couple of days after that night with Quatre on the Peacemillian, things looked like they would go smoothly.  We kept busy and avoided being alone together; I doubt anyone even suspected that our relationship had changed.  The peaceful feeling Quatre had brought to me in bed lingered.  The war didn't seem quite so bad when you had an ally.  Our shared secret bonded us, and for two or three nights I was able to sleep soundly and dreamlessly, not plagued by the nightmares that usually kept me awake.

            But of course, nothing lasts forever.  I looked up into the sky, growing dizzy with the swirl of snowflakes.  I'd missed Quatre.  I didn't want to admit it, even to myself, but as the days passed it was more difficult to fall asleep.  By the fifth day, it hurt to see him leaning close to WuFei as he explained some complicated strategy.  I daydreamed about his kisses, his hands.  And finally, the nightmares came back.

            I had dreamed that Heavy Arms had the Zero System.  I was killing my enemies, everyone who had ever hurt me.  My parents, the Bartons, Trowa Barton—they all fell under my gundam's assault.  Suddenly Catherine was there, screaming at me to stop.  All the bloodshed had made me crazy.  I raised my cannon, my fingers lightly caressing the trigger buttons.  And then it was Quatre.  He had knocked Catherine out of the way or had replaced her in my nightmare, but it was too late, as soon as I saw him, he was gone.

            I leaned against a tree, still overwhelmed by the memory of the nightmare after all these months.  I had awakened in a cold sweat, not sure whether or not I'd screamed out loud.  I told myself over and over that it had been just a dream, that Catherine and Quatre were okay, probably fast asleep.  But I knew firsthand how fragile memory could be.  I didn't know whether or not I could trust that I knew what was real.

 

 

Aboard the Peacemillian. September, A.C. 195

            Of course he was in there—it was just a dream, nothing more.  I tried to make myself believe it, but as I stared at the closed door of Quatre's room, a tiny doubt lingered in my head.  I'd forgotten things before; who could tell if my mind wasn't tricking me again?  I had to see for myself.   I slid the door open, quickly stepping into the dark room and closing it behind me.  The light from the corridor might wake him, and all I wanted was to reassure myself that he was there, not get into a long explanation of why I was there.

            It took some time to adjust to the near-total darkness of Quatre's quarters.  The only light came from the illuminated numbers on his bedside alarm clock—3:43.  It cast a blue light over the tiny room, making it possible to see the sleeping figure in the bed.  I breathed a deep sigh of relief.  He was there.  My mission was accomplished; I could go back to bed and sleep for another hour and a half.

            But I didn't move.  I'd never seen Quatre sleeping before—on that night he had fallen asleep last and awakened first.  He was beautiful.  His hair fell over his face like a veil, and his breathing was so soft that it took several minutes for me to notice the rise and fall of his chest.  He was sprawled across the bed, defenseless with his blanket twisted around his body.  I felt a twinge of jealousy when I noticed how protectively his arms encircled his pillow—that's when I realized that I'd been staring and that five minutes had passed.

            I didn't know what I was doing, why I was frozen in place like a shuttle in a tractor beam.  My feet felt like they had rooted themselves into the floor, leaving me to stand there forever.  Anything that had transpired between Quatre and me was over.  I tried to remind myself that it had been a mistake.  To let things continue would mean that I wasn't normal.  If he woke up he would think that I was trying to go against our promise.  It would mean that I'd disregarded Quatre's part of the decision to stay away.  I knew it wasn't like that, that my feelings for him weren't lustful, but I didn't know what word to use to describe them.  I remembered the brutal and lecherous grins from my childhood and couldn't attribute any of my own emotions to them.  That kind of lust is what a man feels for a boy.  I looked at Quatre, his mouth parting slightly as he breathed.  What word stands for what a boy feels for another boy?

            Panicked, I spun around, fumbling in the darkness to open the door.  I didn't look inside myself enough to know why, but I knew that I had to get out of there as quickly as possible.

            "Wait, Trowa!" 

            Quatre was sitting up, his gentle breathing now violent.  Not a trace of sleep lingered in his wide eyes and I was startled to see what looked like the butt of a pistol sticking out from under his pillow where he had reached for it upon waking.  I closed my eyes and crossed my arms, pulling myself into myself as I waited for him to demand to know what I was doing there.

            The question never came.  I braced myself for an accusation.  Silence.  After a long time, I opened my eyes.  Quatre was still on his bed, kneeling in his pale blue pajamas, watching me.  His eyes weren't angry; they weren't outraged.  His face was peaceful. 

            "Please don't pull away from me like that."  His mouth was serious in the indigo light.  "Don't be defensive with me, Trowa."

            I let my arms drop to my sides, the wall I'd hastily built around myself crumbling, invisible, to the floor.  "I'm sorry, Quatre," I mumbled, stepping backward and reaching for the door.  "I'll go now."

            "No!"  His assertive tone startled me.  I stared at him, wide eyed.  Didn't he realize what was going on, that I'd sneaked into his room and watched him sleep?  Didn't he know how that violated him?

            His expression softened.  "Please, Trowa, stay a bit.  Let's talk."  He patted the bed next to him, inviting me to sit.

            I couldn't stay, much less sit on Quatre's bed, barely a foot a way from him.  He was more beautiful awake than he had been asleep, and we'd promised not to do anything again.  I wanted to stay—to sit close where I could share his space.  I wanted to talk all night and listen to him laugh at the things I said.  But that wouldn't happen.  I didn't remember how to be that casual with him.   I shook my head, turning away.  He didn't know what he was asking of me.

            I had the door open when he spoke again.  "I dreamed of you."  I froze, listening.  "We were walking in the surf, on the beach.  You were trying to explain snow to me."  He laughed merrily and my heart constricted.  "You were so frustrated because I didn't get it at all!"

            I didn't turn back to face him, but I couldn't get myself to leave, either.  Quatre's dream was going to haunt me as much as my own had—I was already fumbling to figure out what it could mean.  "I want you to show me snow someday, Trowa."  He knew as well as I did that it could be months before we could go back to Earth.  What did he want from me?

            "I can't."  I fought to keep my voice steady.  What did he want from us?  "Quatre, I need to leave.  Now." 

            His voice was a whisper.  "No.  Stay."  My heart started pounding.  "Talk to me."

            His words were more powerfully persuasive than the gun he kept stashed under his pillow. 

            I turned slowly, looking at him for a long time before speaking.  His hair was tousled; his pajamas were too big and slid too low on one shoulder.  He looked too open, too vulnerable.  I knew it was deceptive.  I knew the control, the fierceness behind the mask.  "What do you want to talk about?"  I asked softly, repeating the words from before.

            Quatre smiled.  It made me smile, in spite of the queasy unease I felt at not knowing what he wanted of me.

            I closed the door.

            This time he really did want to talk.  He began hesitantly, motioning again for me to sit next to him.  I refused, leaning against the closed door.  I could talk, if that's what he wanted, but he didn't understand how close I was to losing it—his bed could break me.

"After what happened—the other night," he stumbled, "I wondered if maybe I really was just—I mean, I'd never kissed a girl either."  He pulled his blanket up over his shoulders, shivering a little.  I wasn't at all chilly in his room—in fact, my shorts and t-shirt were almost too warm.  "I wanted to know for sure, so I tried getting close to WuFei and Duo.  Just to see if—if I reacted the same way."  He looked down, embarrassed—I was surprised at the flash of anger I felt with his confession.  "Then I kind of—I kind of tried flirting with Miss Noin."  He twisted the blanket in his fingers.  "I'm not gay, Trowa."  He looked up at me, his eyes meeting mine in the pale blue light.  "It's just with you."

            Now I was shaking, but not with cold.  I couldn't do this again.  We shouldn't be like this, though I wanted so much for it to be okay.  "I should go, Quatre," I protested.  I wasn't interested in any other guy, either.  Lately, I hadn't been interested in much of anything besides watching Quatre.

            "This war is making us crazy."  He continued as if I hadn't spoken.  "I'm a pacifist and you're the most gentle person I know.  We're not fighters.  I need . . ." he trailed off, falling silent.

            His shoulders hunched and lowered his head, almost touching the sheets with his golden hair.  He looked defeated and small.  Hurt.  It wasn't right that I was the one who could heal that pain, yet I refused.  It wasn't right that I was pretending to be so strong when all I wanted was to pull him close to me.  I walked over to the bed, unable to help myself—sick of self-control and rules.  "You need what, Quatre?" I asked softly, standing in front of him.

            He looked up at me, his blush visible even in the dimness.  "I need to be close to you, Trowa.  I need to know that you and I are the same."  Tears pooled in his eyes.  "I want to be close to you, but this is the only way I know how."  He reached out to touch my leg, but let his hand fall short.  His voice became louder, his words hurried, "I know we promised, that it's crazy to be together like this, but—"

            I got onto the bed, kneeling in front of him, just inches away.  His words cut off and he bit his lip nervously.

            "Trowa?"

            Cupping his face in my hands, I kissed him, unable to control for another second the feelings raging inside of me.  Maybe I was just like Trowa Barton, maybe I was gay or abnormal or selfish, but Quatre was right.  Things all around us were going insane, so why should we fight it?  I absorbed the feel, the smell, the taste of him.  How could I have thought for a moment that I could forget?  He snaked his arms around my waist, holding me tightly as he deepened the kiss.  The feel of him, ardent and impassioned in my arms, rid me of my fears about what was right and what was forbidden.  For that moment I was content with just touching him, reassuring myself that he was right there, with me.

            "How long can this last?" I asked, pausing between kisses to push his hair away from the perfect curve of his forehead.  "How long can we stay ourselves if we stay together?"

            Quatre put his hands on my face, his fingers in my hair.  "As long as we need to."

            I studied his face in the darkness, the contours of his cheeks and the waves of his hair.  I felt good there, with Quatre.  I knew I was going to need him for a long time.  "Until the war is over?"  I asked, somehow still needing to put a limit on this. 

            He nodded, a smile gracing his swollen lips.  "Stay with me until then?"  He lowered me to the bed.

            It was agreed.

 

 

Earth.  January 15th, A.C. 196

            After that night, things became clear and things became muddled.  There were things I never shared with Quatre.  Sometimes, when he was asleep and I was trying to talk myself into slipping back into my own room while no one was awake to notice me, I'd think of the kind of person I'd become.  If I hadn't already known what it was to kiss a man, I would have never thought that Quatre's mouth could be mine for the taking.  He wasn't gay—his curious and mortified attraction to Noin had reminded me of that constantly.  I was different—at least, that's what I thought in the lonely hours of the morning when sleep, even sleep next to Quatre, evaded me. 

            We hid our relationship well, I think.  We got no bad reactions from the others, so I assumed they never knew.  I had to lie a little and hide a lot, but it was the kind of thing I'd grown up accustomed to.  It was a bit different, trying to hide feelings as well as actions, but Quatre helped by making everyone care about him—my affection didn't seem so out of place.

            I suddenly noticed that snow was piling up on my shoulders.  I had been standing beneath the same tree for a very long time—the afternoon had shifted to evening and it was almost time to meet him.  Funny, but I wasn't even cold.  I didn't want to talk to Quatre—it seemed so much easier to stand perfectly still and become just one more frozen tree.  Still, I forced myself to take the steps toward our meeting place.  I was afraid of what my friend would have to say to me.  I didn't want to be the one to say goodbye—I was afraid of his eyes and his trembling mouth and terrified that he would ask me not to leave and, like before, I would be powerless to deny him his desires. 

            I was even more terrified that he would say goodbye.

            For Quatre and me, the days on the Peacemillian had been long and filled with the work of war and peace, but our nights lasted longer, sustaining us through the next twelve hours.  It was never about the sex, exactly—the ten seconds of physical ecstasy following our lovemaking paled in comparison to Quatre's smile over breakfast, to the knowledge that when we finally got into our gundams to fight, we would be fighting as a team.  Some nights we eased each other's strain with gentle hands and soft skin.  Other nights we talked until we fell asleep in each other's arms, exhausted in mind more than in body.  We leaped into the affair knowing that it had no future, and we went on from moment to moment because we needed it and we were absolutely sure that in a short time, we would look at each other and have nothing to say and that would be that.  That time never really came.

            The war ended sooner than we'd anticipated.  Even when I helped Quatre to his feet, damp with his blood after his duel with Dorothy, I thought we'd have more time.  Knowing that he was hurt, possibly dying, horrified me in a place that I thought no one had the power to touch.  Somehow, Quatre had found that secret spot inside of me and taken root, wrapping himself around my heart like a vine. 

            I thought I'd have a chance to tell him.

            I stood at the end of a snow-covered block, the street lined with shops that still twinkled with Christmas lights.  He had been gone for Christmas, off with Duo getting rid of the gundams.  I'd missed him, but understood that his going without me was the first step in our separation.   The war was over, after all; it was good that he was getting back into his normal life.  Since then, we'd both been too busy to meet, and messages from Catherine came every day, demanding to know why I hadn't come home.  I stayed because Quatre did.  He didn't go back to his colony; he didn't rush away to ease his home of their post-war traumas.  Finally, in one of our hurried phone conversations—the kind that might be dripping with hidden meaning, but also might not—we agreed to see each other.

            Turning the corner, I saw the sign for the cafe.  I stopped walking, my heart thudding wildly.  He was already there, waiting for me.  He was bundled up in a heavy overcoat, a dark blue scarf wound around his neck and chin.  I smiled softly.  He was probably freezing.  The light from cafe window illuminated the snow around him, washing him with golden light.  I noticed for the millionth time how beautiful he was.  He was gazing across the street, watching a little girl walking with her mother.  I wanted to call out to him, to make him notice I was coming, but my breath died in my lungs.  It was better to keep this moment a little longer.

            I walked faster, anxious to see him, to talk to him—it'd been so long since we were face-to-face.  It occurred to me that I suddenly wasn't afraid of the outcome; I just wanted to be with him one more time, to share one last meal.  Maybe that would be enough, maybe it wouldn't, but I certainly didn't want to deprive myself of this last chance to belong to Quatre. 

            As I came closer, I noticed the distinctive figure of his man-at-arms, Rashid, sitting at a table by the window.  I stopped.  If Quatre had brought Rashid, then this wasn't a date.  He had come intending to say goodbye—nothing else.  I couldn't tell if it was the cold wind off the street or my disappointment that made my eyes water, but a warm tear escaped my eye.  I felt sick again, but this time it was bitter.  Until then, I hadn't realized how much I'd hoped that it wasn't really going to end there, that we'd have just one more night together to decide.

            I thought about leaving, standing Quatre up so he wouldn't have to see how I felt, so I wouldn't have to hide it.  Watching him in the dimming light, I wondered if he'd be hurt.  Probably.  Quatre was sensitive.  A cold gust pushed past me, blowing Quatre's hair and scarf.  He wrapped his arms around himself.  I could see him shaking, even from as far away as I stood.  If I didn't show up, he'd probably stay out there for hours, waiting.  I started walking again.

            I was just a few feet away when he finally noticed me.  He looked up, a smile gracing his trembling lips.   I was startled by how tired he looked, his eyes dark and his cheeks pale.  "You're here," he said softly, reaching out to grasp my hand.   Even through our gloves, I could feel how cold he was.  I pulled him close, hoping that my warmth would infuse him.  "I was afraid you wouldn't come," he whispered into my collar.

            A tap on the glass beside us made me look up.  Rashid scowled his disapproval.  After a moment, Quatre pulled away and looked up into my face.  His sea-colored eyes were brimming with tears—he blinked hard to keep from shedding them.  I noticed that his eyelids were red and puffy, a sure sign that he'd been crying before this.  He shook his head forcefully, swallowing hard to keep his composure. 

            I was having trouble with my own.  I'd never seen him look so upset and small.  I'd never seen him so diminished by anything.  My chest hurt and my eyes stung.  "Quatre," I murmured softly, trying to smile, to reassure him.

            He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  I tried to harden myself against what he was about to say.  For a long time we just looked into one another's faces.  "I guess," Quatre began, his tears spilling over.  "I guess the war is over."