Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, it's characters, setting, story, or technology. It is the property of Bandai, Emotion, Sunrise, Sotsu Agency, and a whole other slew of people and cold-hearted companies. However, this story is my idea, so if you steal it I shall be very displeased, and sic Hikari on you! (To steal a story is to outright take the exact words, or to lift (for a short story) more than three scenes, or to simply take the text and alter, replace, or reconfigure a few words, and pass it off as your own.) Don't bother suing me as I have no money to speak of. Oh, and I don't own MKR either, I've just stolen the dog for protection.
Warning: angst, sap, mild shonen ai, Duo in boxer shorts.
War Games
A Fic by K. N. H.
Silence, only silence. It was always quiet in outer space,
but this was different. No sound, not even a rattle or buzz from
the equipment in his pressurized cabin. How long had it been?
He had lost consciousness of time, waiting for the radio to crackle, for
the voice to come declaring his partner's status as a living being.
Two weeks earlier:
Quatre Rabereba Winner woke to a room illuminated by the bluish-gray
glow of the cloudy sky. He went through his morning routine- washed
his face, pulled on his bathrobe. He poked his head, as always, into
Duo Maxwell's room next door.
"You awake?"
"Mmph."
"It's time for breakfast."
Yet again, an answering snore was his only response. This
was going to require drastic measures. Walking purposefully over
to the bed, Quatre yanked the blankets off the boy, then opened the window,
letting in the chill air. Leaving the room, he closed the door softly
behind him, waiting patiently for the boxers-only clad Duo to react to
the icy wind on his bare chest.
"YEEEOOWWW!!!!!!! COLD!!"
Quatre smiled, and continued down the hall with his usual good
humour.
Trowa Barton was seated with his morning coffee. Quatre
flashed him a smile as he retrieved the teapot from the cupboard.
"Good morning, Trowa!"
"'Morning." The greeting was barely audible.
"Too bad it's raining."
"……"
Quatre's smile faded. He turned back to the kettle, raising
the lid.
"Ow!"
"Daijoubu…?"
Quatre nodded, turning to face the other boy, focusing his slightly
teary eyes on his face. Trowa flinched slightly. He hated to
see the "little boy" cry. Though he was as old and skilled in combat
as the other pilots, there had always been an aura of fragility, a delicate
air, around Quatre, as though he were a china doll to be treated with the
utmost care. He was beautiful, a blond angel, and for a moment Trowa
wondered. What would it be like, to kiss an angel?
Quatre, mind swimming from the tall boy's touch, caught only the shudder.
Lowering his eyes, he pulled away, mumbling a frantic apology. He
was still gibbering when Trowa took his hand and drew him forward, clasping
the boy to him in a gentle embrace. Quatre relaxed slowly, resting
his head on his friend's shoulder, breathing in the mixed scent of Trowa
and coffee.
"Yo! What's for food?" Duo bellowed as he banged down the stairs,
interrupting the tender moment.
The two sprang apart, Trowa returning to his coffee and leaving a dejected
Quatre to continue preparing his tea. Both were blushing profusely,
trying not to catch the other's eye. Duo, displaying a rare sense
of tact, chose not to mention anything.
Trowa got up from his seat, dumping his half-finished coffee into the
sink. Time to check the computer for new missions. Once he
had left, Duo turned to Quatre.
"So," asked the braided one, "What were you to up to in here?"
He winked lewdly.
"Nothing," sighed Quatre despondently, not noticing Duo's joking face.
His friend's violet eyes went from laughing to concerned. "No,
I'm serious this time. What happened?"
"I told you, nothing." The blond-haired Arab sat down heavily.
"Nothing important…"
"You know," Shinigami turned to the sink and began to wash his hands,
"life, and everything in it, is a game really. Love, war, even death.
They're all really just a game. It's not whether you win or lose,
it's how you play the game." The boy gave a morbid chuckle.
"Somehow, I always considered that part of the play."
Quatre's response was cut off by the sound of boots on tile.
Trowa stood in the doorway, holding a sheet of computer paper. Wordlessly,
he handed Quatre the printout. He studied it for a minute before
raising his eyes to look questioningly at Trowa. The boy nodded.
"Suit up."
*************
The silence continues. There is nothing to snap the grief-stricken
pilot out of his reverie. He remains sitting, remembering.
He remembers his promise to reveal his feelings. He remembers his
partner's words, just before they left. "I have something to tell
you, but it will have to wait until after we return." He remembers
the explosion. He remembers sobbing hysterically into Duo's arms,
breaking free from the embrace, racing to his Gundam. He recalls
why he has been out here, searching. Why he is playing this game.
This game of life and death. This war game.
"For love," He whispers, his voice cracking. "I love you, my
Doukeshi."
With that, Quatre activates Sandrock's self-destruct sequence.