He wasn't sure exactly when the idea hit him; somewhere between Bergen and Oslo. The radio was playing his favorite song. Funny, before he moved in with Quatre he never had a favorite song. Music was just part of the ether surrounding the planet—part of the world he walked through but didn't really belong in. The world was colorless then, and music was just a white noise that occasionally interrupted his thoughts.
It was Quatre who brought the music into his existence, always putting a romantic symphony on the stereo when they made love, playing a CD whenever he worked around the house, even humming in the shower...filling Trowa's life with song.
Trowa turned up the volume and looked over at his passenger. The wind was blowing through his blond locks, whipping them into a crazy halo of white fire. Quatre turned toward Trowa and smiled. He always smiled whenever Trowa looked at him that way, a half smirk of self-satisfaction that he'd somehow tamed pilot 03. There was something arousing about that smile, an unspoken challenge in it that reminded Trowa of the old days.
It carried him back to his gundam and the feeling of flying through space. Unrepentant speed. He used to miss it—the thrill of battle—until he discovered that Quatre could take him there with a simple caress, a kiss at the base of his throat, warm breath on the nape of his neck. Their frenzied lovemaking consisted of all the elements of a duel—first a confrontation, then a challenge issued and accepted, followed by a struggle and eventual surrender. There never seemed to be a victor or loser in these battles, but there was a strange diplomacy at work. Quatre was nothing if not a diplomat.
Diplomacy began with a smile. Trowa studied that smile now. He was suddenly glad he'd given in to the other's suggestion that they buy a convertible instead of an SUV. "You're only young once," had been the argument. That simple statement of fact had saddened him at the dealership and it saddened him now. It was depressing to imagine Quatre's beauty fading with age, and these days in the sporty convertible long forgotten. He wanted this moment to last forever.
And it was then that the idea struck him. It was a moment of strange joy to suddenly know how you wanted to spend the rest of your life. Flying through time and space in a convertible with the one you loved more than your own life, listening to your favorite song on the radio. To never grow old, to never lose this moment. Somewhere between Bergen and Oslo Trowa made a decision to hold onto this instant for eternity, to play for keeps. He never wanted to watch his lover grow old and weak, he never wanted to forget the days of music and speed, he never wanted the song to end.
To ask the question would have been more fair but he knew the answer, and he had no wish for logic now. Better to remove the choice and spare his lover any fear for his sanity. In an idle moment in the distant past they'd discussed it momentarily, the way all couples do.
"When your time comes, how do you want to go, Quatre?"
"Eh, I don't want a spectacular death, just quick and painless. How about you?"
"I wanted to die in my gundam, but it's too late for that now."
Is it?
Quatre would never know it wasn't an accident, and the next day the papers would call it exactly that: an unfortunate tragedy caused by excessive speed on a mountain road. The song eventually came to an end, and so did the road.
But Trowa kept going.