Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, blah blah blah, belongs to Sunrise Entertainment here in the states, blah blah blah.
Warning: Implied shonen-ai.
Escapism
Oneshot
\\\\\\\
As depressing as a memorial service could get, this was the pits. Holed up in a drearily artifically heated (and more heated by the populace) building, surrounded by stuffy air and even stuffier dignitaries - not to mention all of the gaudy baubles and lights and tinsel proclaiming the Christmas season.
There wasn't a worse way, on Earth or on the colonies, to spend a Christmas.
And pacifistic as Quatre was, he admitted to himself that he'd rather be outside, flying around, hitting targets in Sandrock than being bored to tears by the speaker of the moment. He respected those who died, yes, but the best way to celebrate someone's memory is to celebrate, not sit around and wish. Christmas is meant to be a celebration.
The blonde yawned into his hand, blue eyes drooping and threatening to close. Sighing in boredom, he recited in his mind how much he'd rather be outside right now, standing still in the snow and opening his mouth wide to catch the falling flakes; how much he'd prefer being home, relaxing with a hot cup of cocoa and marshmallows, sitting back by the fire and orchestral music on the sound system. Something calm and relaxing would definitely trump the snoozefest he was currently attending.
Beside him, sitting as they nearly always did, was Wufei on his left and Trowa on his right. The Chinese pilot stared ahead boredly, giving a huff and crossing his legs, hunkering down into his uncomfortable folding chair to find a better sitting position. Quatre felt lucky; he wasn't the only person here who was utterly bored out of his mind.
On his right, one arm slung over the back of his chair, sat the ever-stoic Trowa, who he could tell was only half-paying attention to the ceremony. Even though he was the most convincing of them all trying to pay attention, Quatre could still see that he was bored as well. The brunette cast a sideways glance at Quatre, a silent plead on his face, "Can we get out of here?"
Whoever was tossing out their apathetic speech at the time had finished, and the crowd stood, applauding. One look at Trowa and a whispered "follow me", and Quatre took his hand to lead him through the audience, weaving, ducking their heads low and clutching their jackets.
The frigid Christmas air was a welcome change from the overheated auditorium, and Quatre let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He'd been on sneakier operations before, both as a pilot and occasional aid to the Preventers, but this had to be the most fun. He let out a laugh, watching his breath billow upward like a classic steam engine's smokestack, diffusing into the crisp blue truly-Earth sky. There was something about the air on Earth, besides the completely natural weather and the completely natural air that made the young Arab resigned to the fact that this truly was home.
Amusedly watching his friend's almost childish reaction to the air, Trowa smiled in spite of himself. The glistening snow on the ground and falling around them was what caught his eye; how uncountable amounts of perfectly unique snowflakes, each a small miracle in its own right, littered the ground and sparkled in the faint sunlight as it attempted to peek through the clouds. Reaching down, the formerly nameless teen touched the white stuff gingerly, then diving his fist in and collecting enough to form a roughly constructed sphere. Twisting the ball and staring at it in mild fascination, he suddently turned and hurled it at Quatre's back.
Startled, the blonde turned, an almost perplexed look adorning his features, eyes questioning. Trowa laughed, genuinely; with that look on his face, who wouldn't? But as he bent over, hands resting on his knees, chuckling, the circus performer didn't see the younger pilot grin devilishly and bend down, collecting snow to retaliate.
A few tossed snowballs escalated into full-out good-natured war, with Trowa stationing himself behind a park bench and Quatre behind a plow-made snowbank opposing the seating area, on the edge of the building's parking lot. Exchanging balls of snow and laughs, triumphant smiles when a hit was made and determination mounting for every miss, they made their childish war until each of them was, in turn, soaking wet from sitting in (and getting hit by) snow. Trowa invited Quatre back to his car, which happened to be all the way on the other side of the packed lot, to go back to his apartment and dry off, order some take-out for lunch, and generally sit around.
Rubbing his hands together to get rid of the cold-numb feeling a barehanded snowball fight induced, Quatre nearly tripped over a chunk of ice that had fallen out of a plow-pile; instinct kicking in, the brunette reached out and grasped his junior's hand, thereby preventing him from falling. "You alright?" he asked, blushing at Quatre's stuttered thanks and his blank stare.
By the time the two were halfway to Trowa's car, Quatre realized that the entire way across the parking lot, he hadn't dropped the brunette's hand; and he didn't seem to notice - or rather, didn't seem to mind. With another bout of childishness and a grin on his face, Quatre started to whistle and gently swing their conjoined hands back and forth, to the tempo of their walking; he was answered with not a word from Trowa, but a smile.
He couldn't help but notice that his own hand seemed small in comparison to Trowa's, but resigned himself to the fact that Trowa was a gifted flute player and also a pianist, the need for larger hands and more stretched fingers greater for those than his own violin. It also amazed him that the taller teen's hand was a great deal warmer than his own, and the heat was comforting. Subconsciously, Quatre squeezed his hand, as if to extract even more warmth, and he felt a gentle squeeze in response.
A blush, a glance downward, a hesitant look back up at Trowa's face; the next thing Quatre knew, he was leaning against the other pilot's car, being kissed gently and innocently, a feeling spreading over his body that could only ever be explained as "warm and fuzzy". He thought about objecting when Trowa pulled away for air and to open the door for him, but decided against it. 'There'll be plenty of time for that later,' his mind whispers. Despite the cold air outside and being soaked to the bone, he knew that next to Trowa was a place that he very much liked to be, and wouldn't want to leave it.
There wasn't a better way, on Earth or on the colonies, to spend a Christmas.