Disclaimer/Note: I do not own Gundam Wing, or any of the characters used in this story. They belong to the series' creator, and whoever he sold his soul to. No money is being made off this story; it was written purely for the amusement of my friend, Kay, and anyone else who decides to read it. This story, and all original concepts, are original (duh), and belong to me. Do not steal it, or archive it without my express permission. This fic takes place sometime after the events of Endless Waltz. Enjoy.

Snow

Snow fell in white clumps on the ground, easily turned to slush by the uncaring bustle of the street. Cars drove through these wet areas, sending up sprays from their back tires that always seemed to hit more than one unfortunate civilian. Harsh words drifted up to the window, a cacophony of hate that he watched from on high. He sighed, agitated at these mindless machines of routine, the ungrateful populace of the Colony.

It was not fair.

He had given his life for these wretched little people, his heart and soul. For them he had sacrificed everything that he had ever held dear; his family, his friends, his very beliefs. And yet. . . A wistful shake of the head, pale hand dropping from the glass and his dark blue eyes fixated on the smudge of oil that it left behind. And yet, two years later, everything had returned to the way it once was. Certainly the war was over, weapons and the soldiers who used them either locked up or thrown away. No army existed, no war was being held or lay brimming on the horizon. But people had not changed.

Well, in a way they had. They were crueler, more violent and inconsiderate during peacetime. In war, at least, people were banded together by a consensual need, cared for each other to hold back death. They were polite because they worried that someone might die angry with them, and they would have to cast a superstitious glance behind to check for the vengeful ghost that may follow. But there was no war, and so people felt no need to show kindness to their fellow man. Or woman, he supposed.

"Master Quatre, we are ready to leave," came the deep voice of Rasiid from the office doorway. It was odd, though, because Quatre did not remember hearing that door open, did not remember hearing the broad shouldered Arab walk in. He fingered a lock of his blond hair thoughtfully, wondering if perhaps his own callous cynicism had begun to make him less cautious, more unaware of his surroundings. That did not seem to be a likely prospect, so instead Quatre decided that over the years he had simply stopped caring. True, that this probably was not wise; what with him being the only heir to the Winner Estate and one of the five Gundam pilots. Plenty of Romefeller supporters were still alive, not to mention any individual hoping to carve his or her name into history by starting up another war and purging both Earth and space of those who might pose a threat to their plan. . .

Halfheartedly, he allowed Rasiid to gently guide him out of the room, the big man's hand on his shoulder. Down the hall and into the elevator he was led, all the while asking himself why he felt so much more like a prisoner here, right now, than he had ever felt in the war.

-----

A set of pointless meetings, faceless businessmen, and inane conversations followed Quatre after he left the office building. It had been a boring afternoon; one which faded into an equally uninteresting and "eventful" evening. Yet another sigh escaped him, and he crossed his arms over his stomach, holding himself tightly. Snow still fell on the too-slick ground outside; his radio turned to a news station that droned on endlessly about a recent car accident. Somehow it made him feel better, knowing that he was not alone. Knowing that he was not the only person in the Colony who had just finished crying. Maybe it was wrong to think like that, to wish harm onto others just so he could feel a little better. But right now he did not care that it was wrong. Right now he needed it, those voiceless cries of agony to still his own.

Strong arms were wrapped loosely around the blond's waist, and Quatre felt the other young man gently kiss his neck, neither of them pulling away when he was done. Again he was a prisoner, and the question came to him, as it had everyday since they started.

Why? Why were they doing this, why had they gotten into this? Just. . .why? Was he doing this because he felt drawn to this man; was it all just some kind of manifested masochism, a need for empathetic trauma? Had all this stemmed from the desire for the heart of a soldier? Or was it just him wanting to comfort a lost soul, his misconceived maternal drive kicking in?

But Quatre did not know, and in a way he did not care about half-lost motives that he never really had in the first place. The young man behind him pulled away slightly, giving Quatre the opportunity to turn around in his arms. Looking up into black eyes, the fair-skinned Arab had to wonder if this soldier would ever leave him.

"I hate you. . ." he whispered, turning his stormy gaze from the young man to the floor. It was not quite a lie, and carried enough truth for him to feel safe saying it. Honestly, he expected some form of reprimand, at the very least for the other to let go. He was thoroughly surprised when the young man held him closer, like he was the most precious thing in the entire world, and he started to cry again when he heard the Asian's own whispered response, half-choked with emotion:

"So do I. . ."