Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this story, or any of the events alluded to in this fiction. I make no money off of this, and all rights belong to the respective owners.

**Note – YAY! Finally updating these. Man…looking back, they're pretty bad. Look for the next chapter sometime soon. **

Chapter One: In the End

"This is goodbye, Quatre."

Thunder echoed through the small room as the bullet made contact with his chest, sending him falling back. The impact tore clean through his chest, leaving a small hole in its wake. He felt his shoulder jerk as the bullet collided with his shoulder blade, saving him from a rather nasty exit wound. He shifted back, finding the wall with a thud, as the pain exploded across his vision; a white-hot flash that left him gasping. Those words, those few simple words, were all that he had left as the world shook around him and the shock took over.

Quatre was not a stranger to pain – the draining sensation, and exquisitely horrid pain didn't surprise his mind, even as his body started to shut down. All that he had left was the pain, as the words slowly faded into darkness.

With cold certainty that only came with experience, Quatre could say that Heero had not missed his mark. With his right hand, he slowly reached into his pocket and removed a small handkerchief, wrapping it around his first two fingers. He pressed the cloth against the wound, letting half an inch slide into the sucking hole, left by the bullet that still sat within his chest. His back arched faintly and he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out, before he accomplished his task and sagged with relief. If Heero was still within earshot, he wasn't going to let him hear his screams. He had at least that much pride left.

In a haze, he thought over what he'd seen again, his eyes sliding closed as he concentrated on breathing and trying not to panic. Heero had been quite a scene to behold as he stood there: eyes cold, jaw set, with the gun pointed effortlessly at him. His hand was steady as he took aim and fired the shot. He'd shown no regret…at least, that Quatre had seen, before the world went mad, and he'd landed on the floor against the wall.

The perfect soldier had just missed all of the major arteries around his heart…meaning that he would not die within moments. Quatre would be dead within the hour, perhaps less than that. Quatre would be forced to wait, suffocating slowly with one punctured lung, for death to find him. He would either feel his life slowly drain across the floor, or drown in his own blood once his lungs filled with it. This fate, handed down the barrel of Heero's gun, was either a bizarre kindness, granting him precious minutes to attempt salvation, or a cruelty that would mock him to his last.

Resigning to the fact that, rescued or not, he would most likely die in one way or another, Quatre relaxed the hand that was putting pressure on the rag in his chest. It had filled in the first few seconds with blood, and served no purpose now. He would die here and be forgotten – just a few more lines in the tabloids; Pacifist murdered over petty argument. He could almost read the words now, as he had in the past when some poor soul had been similarly murdered. Another burning pain took him over, as he felt the struggling flesh in his chest finally collapse under the strain of trying to pull air into him again. He was foolish enough to believe that love was enough.

How could he have been so blind? How could he have ever believed that the 'perfect soldier' could be anything but what he was trained to be? Silently, he scolded himself for his arrogance and his mistrust. His desire for Heero, and his intense devotion, had blinded him to the truth of what surely lay in front of him.

Hot tears of shame made a salty trail down his cheek as he realized his mistake – no one could ever love him the way that he wanted to be loved. He had once believed that the kind of love he longed for was fulfilled with Heero, but of course he had been a fool to believe those lies. Heero didn't love him…how could he? He was no Raelena Peacecraft. Rage attempted to take hold, but sputtered out. Even now, he didn't have it in him to hate that completely. He was vaguely aware of the pool of blood starting to collect on the floor near his left hand – the hand that had been holding the small, black velvet box. The fingers now lay open; the box had slipped free and now sat, washed over in the vivid red-blue wash of his blood. He had been prepared to offer his everything to Heero…and this was what he had to show for it.

How could it have been anything other than some sick, twisted game to Heero? If he was willing to do away with him like this, it could be nothing more than some…mission. It was a death so cold, so cunning, so devoid of the emotion that Quatre had come to see behind those deep blue eyes, that he felt disgusted. And yet, that didn't diminish his own feelings, nor did it change the hard burden that was his sorrow over having lost it. He loved Heero. He loved him, even though he would never get to tell him that to his face again. It only made the sense of betrayal worse. He would go to his grave seeing those beautiful eyes, once so full of joy and hope, empty and hard as they had been during the war.

The darkness finally settled over him like a fog, leaving his mind empty. He was left with only his fading memories to comfort and confuse him. He floated, his heart fluttering in his chest, and listened as he faded in and out. Like echoing dreams, long since passed, he could still hear their secret, unguarded laughter, and bitter tears. He still held onto their dreams and hopes for a better and brighter future together, though they were all but gone now. He recalled their tender moments, when they had been the only two people in the world, and longed for that to be his undoing. If he had just died there, in Heero's arms, he wouldn't have to taste the bitterness of his own mortality alone and cold. He wouldn't be looking down the tunnel of his doom, with the bitter taste of betrayal on his lips. How could it have been a lie? How could he have been so tricked into believing every word that came out of the other's mouth? He'd played right into Heero's hands…though, to what end, he couldn't make his mind fathom. How could the words be so honest, and his touch be so very tender, if it was all a game?

Quatre could still smell him…could smell Heero on his skin and in his hair. Heero was all around him now, touching him in the softest ways as he floated closer and closer to oblivion.

All pain dissolved, and his mind quieted.

Suddenly, he felt a rising sensation in the pit of his stomach. He felt strong arms around his legs and shoulders, and he could hear a familiar voice which he couldn't place in his addled state. It was cooing to him, as if he were a wounded animal, to be wooed back from death.

Quatre wished that he could open his eyes for only a moment, and see who was carrying him. He wished to see who he could thank for at least attempting to save his life. Where was he being taken? Quatre was trapped in the confines of his own head, and was unable to even know his fate, much less to do anything about it.

All of a sudden, there was a loud clamoring of voices, and he was placed on something cold. His clothes were stripped away, and something was placed over his mouth. His breathing became easier as he strained to hear the familiar voice in the jumble of words. There it was…still calming and strong, though the arms had fallen away.

Something touched his skin, and he wanted to jump or protest. The pain in his limbs and torso came screaming back to life, following his blood back to his chest and the wound. He felt his muscles tense…and everything went still.

He could no longer feel anything. It was as if he were weightless and floating away. He gazed downwards…and could see his own body, covered in blood and frightfully still. Paramedics stood over him, speaking quick and jumbled words that he couldn't understand.

Duo. Duo Maxwell was standing in the ambulance with him, screaming at the doctors. All the words were lost, but Quatre could see his tears. Guilt washed over his heart at the thought of making a dear friend cry – especially when there was really nothing now that could be done for him.

Doctors pulled a defibrillator machine from its compartment and quickly charged the paddles. Quatre suddenly found himself back in his own body, and in the darkness of his own head. Everything was dark…everything was empty. But, he thought, at least he was still alive for the moment. He felt his heart pulsing in his ears, and when the pulsing grew too loud, he tuned that out, and drifted into a comfortable darkness.