Soldiers First

Disclaimer: Gundam Wing is property of Sotsu, Sunrise, and a whole bunch of other really wealthy, creative people. I, however, am not one of them. No profit made, no profit desired.

Warnings: Shonen ai, sticky-sweet sap, and my best (pitiful) attempt at angst.

Pairings: 4+3/3+4, 2+1

Overview/Premise: This is just an angst ficlet I wrote a long time ago. Based somewhere in the series timeline. Please note that Heero and Duo are not a couple in this fic.

Author's Notes:

Set in a pre-relationship status, Quatre's hesitation to open up and get attached to Trowa takes a major hit when he suddenly falls ill. This is my ode to the quintessential weepy Quatre fic, because it seems every good author has at least one Quatre cry-fest in their repertoire.

Note: In this fic, Heero and Duo have a running bet on whether or not Trowa and Quatre are "a thing", and all references made herein refer to that.

(Oh, and I had to throw a boypile in there somewhere. The opportunity was waving itself in my face, so I took it. Enjoy the cuteness! =D)

Soundtrack to this fic brought to you by…

"Die Without You," PM Dawn

"Words That We Couldn't Say," Cowboy Bebop soundtrack

"All My Love (Symphonic Version)," artist unknown

For this fic only:

Emphasis

'Thought'

'Thought emphasis'

Prologue:

The word had come down with a new mission for the pilots of Deathscythe, Sandrock, Wing, and Heavyarms. It was nothing unusual: Another day, another raid, it seemed.

During the conflict, enemy opposition had successfully isolated the Gundams into pairs. Maintaining confidence in his fellow pilot despite their struggle, Quatre had briefly contacted the Heavyarms pilot.

"Be safe, Trowa," he had simply said. The words held much deeper meaning than their face value would imply, but in times of war and battle, there was no room for such sentiments.

It wasn't long before Heavyarms ran out of ammunition. Trowa knew the territory, and used melee attacks, lunging at his enemies and besting them at close range. From Sandrock, Quatre did his best to keep an eye on his comrades while battling his own foes. Out of the corner of one eye, he could see Heavyarms get hit from behind and fired upon at point blank range.

With a small growl, the blonde dispelled the enemy mobile unit. "You okay, Trowa?"

Heavyarms was slow to move, obviously damaged. "Thanks Quatre. Yeah, I'm okay," its pilot answered.

Deathscythe and Wing rejoined the pair, having defeated their enemies.

"That about does it!" Duo chirped, "Who's up for some grub?"

…

Back at the safehouse they had called home for weeks now, the war-worn pilots gathered in the kitchen briefly for dinner. In a move that wasn't notably uncharacteristic of him, Trowa departed back to his room first, leaving the others to converse.

"Huh, that's odd," Duo commented, looking at the plate next to his blonde-haired companion, "Trowa didn't even sniff his food."

Quatre shrugged it off without a second thought.

…

Back in the privacy of his room, Trowa was miserable. Where had this headache come from? It was to the point of making him dizzy and nauseous. In fact, the Heavyarms pilot couldn't recall having a worse pain in his head than this one. Cold water, he thought; that's what he needed: Just a cool, damp cloth. He padded over to the adjacent bathroom to retrieve one, and the room suddenly twisted and jerked out from underneath him. At once, the nausea bested him, and it was all Trowa could muster to make it to the toilet to lose the contents of his empty stomach.

Feebly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he then reached for the lever to flush when something in the bowl caught his eye.

Was that…blood? Unusual…

'I just need some rest,' he reassured himself, 'I'll feel better in the morning.'

Pulling off his turtleneck, Trowa threw himself down on his dusty futon and waited for the room to quit moving so damn much.

…

"Trowa!" Quatre called, barely in the general direction of the closed door to Trowa's room. "Come on! Breakfast!" In the kitchen, Heero and Duo were already chomping away on freshly-made eggs and bacon while Quatre's plate—and one next to it he made for their missing companion—sat cooling.

"Trowa, are you coming?" The blonde questioned. No answer. He looked to Duo with a perked eyebrow. "You think maybe he's still asleep?"

Duo snorted in reply. Trowa was always one of the first ones awake, regardless of the circumstance. "I'm gonna go see. Maybe he's in the shower or something…"

This time, the long-haired brunette out-right guffawed, nearly choking on his mouthful of food. He elbowed Heero to his right harshly. "See? What'd I tell you?" Duo crowed. "Now pay up!"

"Baka," Heero grumbled, and inched out of the reach of Duo's elbow, "that proves nothing."

…

Quatre padded softly over to Trowa's door.

"Trowa?" He listened for an answer. There was only silence. No water running, either. Cautiously, he turned the brass knob on the door. It'd be locked, for sure, but it was habit to attempt entrance nonetheless. To the blonde's surprise, the knob turned and the door opened.

"Trowa..? It's Quatre. You hungry?"

No reply.

Going against the manners he'd been taught, he poked his head in. On a dusty old futon was the topless frame of the Heavyarms pilot, curled into a fetal ball, hands together under his head in lieu of a pillow which had fallen to the wayside.

Quatre gulped. 'So beautiful,' he thought, 'I almost can't bear to wake him.' Still, the others were waiting, and he had already violated Trowa's privacy just by making entrance, so he figured he may as well finish the job.

The blonde quietly approached the futon, unconsciously basking in the rhythmic respirations of his companion before reaching out a hand to give his shoulder a gentle shake. "Trowa," he whispered softly, "wake up." The sleeping pilot didn't make a single movement. Quatre shook him again, harder this time; again, no reply. 'Guess he must be a sound sleeper,' thought the blonde, who knelt before his companion's partially hair-shrouded face.

"Trowa," he tried again, his voice louder than before.

Quatre's knee was wet…from what?

Instinctively, the Sandrock pilot pulled the shock of red-brown hair from the sleeping pilot's face.

Thick, dark blood poured from both of Trowa's nostrils. Quatre looked to the floor; his weight-bearing knee was covered in it.

The blonde cried out to his comrades, panic resonating in his voice. "Heero, Duo! Come quick! Something's wrong with Trowa!"

Despite the commotion, Trowa still slept.