Title: The Day Before
Author: Lady Rune
Genre: Shonen Ai/Yaoi, pwp, one-shot goodness
Pairing: and ruin the surprise? 4 x ?
Rated: PG-13
Warnings: implied, language
Archives: fanfiction.net under Lady Rune.  And if you want it, ask and you got it.

Disclaimer: Not mine, but the twisted ideas are.
Notes: Setting should be obvious, but during Quatre's and Heero's stay at Relena's little "academy of peace".  Created during a bout with a migraine.  The migraine won, but I got to amuse myself.  Sorry if it's been done before, but I liked the idea, so :P

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The small blond stretched his arms over his head groggily, absolutely refusing to open his eyes despite the warm spill of sunlight over his bare chest that let him know it was at least late morning.  Instantly, he was sorry as the slight movement sent off a shock of pain in his skull that had him wrapping his arms around his head.  The sun was suddenly too warm on his skin, and his mouth tasted like he had been drinking from the toilette.  Not only that, but he ached all over like he had run the entire distance to the Maguanacs' desert base and back in the span of a night.  What exactly happened last night anyways?

            The Arabian boy remembered vaguely swooping in for a late rescue attempt in one of Noin's personal Taurus suits.  Almost too late, really, if Heero's Wing hadn't been so fast, his dedication to Princess Relena's protection so complete.  Oh yes, and then the argument that lapsed into dinnertime about the armed defense for the pacifist Sanq Kingdom in the first place, with Relena enacting the final blow when she insisted that she was funding the search for Trowa and, giving Quatre a nasty look, added that at least the pilots could defer to her judgment.  The teen was useless after that, hanging his head in shame as Noin took up his argument.  Heero put in his two cents in the form of grunts and nods at certain points, finally doing the smart thing and motioning for the servants to begin serving dinner while Relena's butler Pagan poured wine all around in an attempt to diffuse tempers.  Even after a week in shoddy safe-houses with Heero's military rations, Quatre couldn't attempt an appetite, merely picking through the various courses that would put many 5-Star hotels to shame, which, at any other time, he would be enjoying with a good natured relish.  He barely noticed when Pagan nudged his elbow to fill the wine glass, or when he emptied the glass in one swallow and another servant glided up to refill it with a silent efficiency that his current partner would envy were he not looking very pale as Noin and Relena yelled over his head.  Nor did he notice the third or the fourth times, when, reaching absently for the glass, he raised it, full, to his lips.  All that the Sandrock pilot wanted was for the women to stop arguing and for the dinner to be over so that he could, quietly and politely, retire to his room before his careful composure was broken.  Wincing again as Trowa's name was thrown around the table, Quatre sighed while the servant patted the boy's shoulder and, smiling apologetically, filled the glass once more and left the half-full bottle next to his plate.

            It all went downhill from there when, sometime later, the blond jumped up, declared that Relena was an unrelenting, harpy-faced toad and collapsed back into his chair, empty bottle clutched tightly in his fist, weeping pathetically.  Luckily that had the desired effect, stopping both Relena and Noin mid-complaint.  Heero grunted in a way that sounded suspiciously like laughter and the dinner party dispersed.  Strong hands pulled the drunken teen to his feet, who in turn latched onto the warm body that was guiding him to his room.  His vision was still blurred with tears, but he had the overwhelming need to feel reassured, to feel wanted, to be touched and cared for and have all those things that were denied him as a soldier and a terrorist and a feared Gundam pilot.  He asked all those things of the warm body that held him, and in turn, that warm body responded…

            Shit.  Quatre only cursed when there was no other way to express his ideas, and this was certainly one of those times.  His head protested, and on some other level of hangover-induced consciousness, was laughing at him, but he ignored it to reach out tentatively, his fingers encountering only rapidly cooling bedding over a human-shaped depression.  "Shit," he said again, out loud, bringing his hand back to press into throbbing temples. 

            A rustling in the corner caught his attention, his ingrained reflexes still active despite the situation.  Slowly, he opened his eyes, peering through yellow lashes at the man adjusting his bowtie in the boudoir mirror. 

            "Ah! Master Quatre, I see you're finally awake," Pagan said quietly, clapping his hands together so as to make the least amount of noise possible.  The butler made his way around to the teen's side of the bed where someone had already placed two tablets of aspirin and a glass of water. 

            "I took the liberty of ringing the kitchen, and they'll have breakfast…ah, lunch brought up to you shortly."  His speech was flourished with a slight bow.  "I should imagine you are quite hungry after last night's activities."

            Despite himself, Quatre's mouth gaped open as the butler bowed again, his eyes twinkling from beneath his heavy brow and glided from the room.  Was it just him, or was the look in his eye almost…suggestive? 

            "Allah," he cursed softly at the pain in his head.  "No more wine for me…" He mentally added it to the remarkably long list in his head of things he should never, ever do.  But through the haze, he remembered the shadowy touches and the distinct feeling of, for once, being loved.

            "Maybe never is a bit much."  The pilot smiled.