AN: Hello everyone! I feel so strange posting a fic here. The last time I wrote Gundam Wing fanfiction was fourteen years ago—which makes me how old?—but upon re-watching the series, my nostalgia got the better of me, and I just had to make a contribution to one of my favorite fandoms of all time.

This story takes place nine years after Endless Waltz and in a universe of assumed peace. I wanted to try writing a domestic drama to explore the pilots exclusively outside of a war setting. Disregards Frozen Teardrop. Not all chapters will be this long and filled with exposition, I promise! This was originally supposed to be five different chapters, but it felt insufficient that way. Title is a grateful nod to e.e. cummings' "anyone lived in a pretty how town," which I love dearly.

Story warnings: Violence, language, angst, 1x2, 3x4, semi-graphic and graphic sex, NCS, liberties with the series.

A Pretty How Town
by JellyBob

"—so then Pagan bumps into her with a tray of blue cheese gougères, except it's not just a tray, it's like a flying fucking saucer. I mean, this is the mother bitch of amuse-bouches. So now there's this unholy choux pastry rain pouring off the balcony, and Relena completely loses her shit and grabs the first waiter who—"

"Maxwell."

"Yeah?"

"As riveting as this is, my phone credit is severely limited, and—"

"Ah! Sorry, Wufei. Sorry, everyone. It's just been forever since we've all made it to the same planet for a real-time conference call, you know? I feel like tomorrow can't come soon enough. Okay, so we're set on…"

"Oh six hundred."

"Look, some of us actually sleep, Heero. Oh nine hundred work for everyone? You still with us, Trowa?"

"Mm."

"Oh nine hundred at my place."

"Duo, that reminds me, Andrej has still got that villa in Bora Bora. I haven't had a chance to sit down with him and discuss the logistics, but I'm sure we'd be welcome there next week if you wanted a change of scenery."

"Kinda high-brow for a casual reunion, isn't it? Remember that the rest of us are just lowly war vets, Mr. Doroshevich-Winner."

"Just don't want to cramp your style. And don't call me that, please."

"I can barely even pronounce it, Quat. Anyway, my style is unequivocally uncrampable. Times haven't changed that much. See you gents at oh nine hundred. Travel safe!"

Two thousand miles away, Trowa Barton hung up the phone and reached for the pack of cigarettes in his front pocket.

The piers at Eastport were bustling with activity. All around him, people were laughing and unloading cargo ships, the water speckled with yachts and bulk carriers for as far as the eye could see. It was a brisk, gray morning. The air had an edge to it, salty and bracing. Trowa tapped a cigarette out of the pack and placed it between his teeth, studying the receipt where he had scribbled down Duo's new address. Duo had apparently bought a house in a statutory town just south of the Sterling Hills Preventers base, which was about as far away from his dilapidated apartment in L2 as one could get. If he was anything like the rest of them, a tender part of him was still tethered to his birthplace. It had more to do with obligation than nostalgia; few of them were sentimental about their childhoods, taboo as they were. But the other part of Duo Maxwell—the 25-year-old part that built custom motorcycles now, as painstaking as art pieces—was probably aching for a new beginning.

Trowa understood the feeling. He himself had done everything he could to keep moving for the last few years, hoping to find home. L3 had sufficed for a while. Traveling with the circus allowed for some of his nomadic proclivities, and Catherine remained unfailing in her kindness, her wisdom. It was at her reluctant insistence, in fact, that Trowa moved on in the first place. Maybe home isn't a place, she'd suggested one night, not meeting his eyes. Maybe home is something—someone—more complicated than that.

But Trowa didn't think about that anymore.

His flight wasn't until the evening, so he had a whole day to kill in Eastport. Although quaint, it certainly had its charms—one of them being its antiquated audio-only phone booths, of course. Trowa had been relieved at the lack of a vid screen when he went to call Duo. It'd been, what, six months since everyone had seen him? Even longer than that, in the case of Heero and—well. Trowa knew there was no avoiding them tomorrow; they would be free to look upon his pale skin, the disinterest in his eyes. At least by then he'd have time to shave.

Strolling along the line of shops along the wooden plank pathway, Trowa smoked and breathed in the smells of salt and fried oysters and popcorn. A faint breeze had picked up. Children wove in and out of the crowd, giggling. Trowa paused by a used bookstore. He absentmindedly picked up a battered copy of War and Peace before he noticed the newsstand, tucked against the opposite wall and manned by two young girls in sarongs.

How long had it been since he'd seen an actual newsstand? Printed media hadn't had much of a place on L3; it was all digital these days. Trowa put down the book and scanned the rows of chewing gum, tourist trinkets, and magazine names. A wall of words and fonts. Life Style. Business Today. Off-Planet Parenting.

He paused when he reached the human-interest section.

Andrej Doroshevich's stupid goddamn face was splashed over the cover of every tabloid, pop culture, fashion and celebrity gossip magazine in existence. The eldest son of the late Michail Doroshevich, the foremost peace delegate of the ESUN capital of Belarus, Andrej had since inherited his father's reputation, financial power, political potency—and good looks. In other words, he'd done absolutely nothing to deserve his fame except drink Dom Perignon at a few important parties. Parties where he'd rubbed elbows with people like Relena Darlian, Dorothy Catalonia.

And Quatre, of course. Quatre Doroshevich-Winner.

"They're cute together, aren't they?"

Trowa glanced up. The girl in the orange sarong had picked up a copy of Genre and was paging through the glossy pages, hunting for the advertised post-wedding interview.

"I can't get enough of them," she said. "I'm so mad they kept the ceremony private. I wanted to see them in their little white suits."

As if their engagement hadn't been publicized enough. Trowa had heard about it on the news before he'd heard it from Quatre—a fact that still stung, despite Duo's comforts that he hadn't been told, either. Quatre apologized during a call with the two of them a week later, radiant with shy excitement. "It was so sudden and unexpected," he'd explained. "When he got down on one knee, I joined him on the floor because I thought he'd dropped something."

The rest of it was a media feeding frenzy. Doroshevich Heir Picks a Winner. Billion-Dollar Beaus Jump the Broom. There were photographs of them together everywhere; Andrej's smug white grin, Quatre so beautiful under his new fiancé's arm that it made Trowa ache. In that way, it was a relief when they only extended wedding invites to family members and government officials. Trowa didn't know if he could watch Quatre stand hand-in-hand with that self-important prick. As it was, it was hard enough being alone at this newsstand, regret coursing off of him in slow, sick waves. He was 24 hours away from seeing Quatre for the first time in nine months. He was a chain-smoker, an insomniac, and a cynic. He hadn't been good enough for him four years ago, and he had no chance in hell with him now—Quatre Raberba Winner, stunning husband of Andrej Doroshevich, his blond hair like a flame on the black-and-white cover of Genre.

"Did you want to buy this?" asked the girl, noticing his interest in her magazine.

"No," said Trowa. He wanted a picture of Quatre that hadn't already been circulated around the galaxy. On a whim, he added, "I know him. Quatre. We used to work together a long time ago."

The girl's eyes narrowed in skepticism, but in the end, her curiosity won out. "Seriously? Is he nice?"

Trowa didn't hesitate. "He's incredible."

"How about Andrej?"

"He's losing his hair and reeks of urine," said Trowa, and walked away.

He had forgotten about his cigarette. It had already gone out. He trashed it and slid a new one out of his pocket, hands shaking, chasing the tip of it with the flame of his lighter until he finally got it to catch. The paper felt solid between his lips, familiar and real. He inhaled hard. Fire in his lungs. His heart.

Quatre was happy now. That was what Trowa had to focus on—the assurance that he was being taken care of, that someone had been around to say the words that Trowa couldn't. He didn't begrudge Quatre for anything. After all, his life was more than one unrealized romance—there were his odd jobs and travels, the beauties he had seen, the joys, the terrors. Quatre was just one more thing to add to the long list of things he would never have. Trowa cradled those losses in some quiet, damaged part of himself, bitter but navigable, knowing with conviction that at least his deficits shaped him.

The sky had finally cleared, and the sun was warm on his shoulders. Trowa sat down and smoked and watched the ships come and go.

"Well, hot damn," said Duo Maxwell, leaning back against his closet door. "I can't believe we pulled that off."

Heero Yuy's only response was the faintest of smiles. Duo returned it a thousand-fold, feeling crazed with relief. Quatre, Wufei, and Trowa had disconnected from their call, leaving Heero alone on the screen. It was startlingly intimate. Duo ran a hand through his hair, his fingers still a little shaky with adrenaline. That could've gone worse, he decided. It could've gone a lot worse.

Thirty seconds before the vid-phone had started ringing, Duo and Heero had been rolling around naked on the bedroom carpet. Unsurprisingly, their preplanned conference call was the last thing on Duo's mind—he was too busy mouthing Heero's sweaty bicep, eyes closed, trying to coax out the hungry hitches of muscle in Heero's abdomen with his fingertips. Duo took it as a compliment, those tiny shudders. Heero was a resolute lover, reciprocal but stern, and every involuntary response of his well-trained body was delicious.

"I can't wait anymore," Duo panted, tightening his legs around Heero's waist. "C'mon. Quit it with the foreplay and just—"

Beep.

They stopped.

"The hell's that?" said Heero, not letting go of Duo's waist.

Beep.

Realization and horror dawned in Duo's mind. "Oh, shit! Shit! What time is it? Our conference!" He slapped a reflexive hand backwards to accept the call, still straddled between Heero's thighs, then smacked his forehead when he realized what he'd done. "Shit!"

"Duo?" It was Trowa's voice. He sounded rightfully confused. "Is that you?"

"Smart," Heero said dryly, but Duo was already scrambling up off the carpet, struggling to think of a logical explanation for his being naked and pinned under an aroused Heero Yuy. They were—practicing wrestling, maybe? And, uh, Heero was beating the pants off of him. Fuck. When he saw that the screen was still dark, he froze, not daring to hope.

"Trowa, you're—you can't—are you audio only?"

"Yeah, it's an old phone," said Trowa. "Did I hear Heero's voice?"

Duo's breath whooshed out of his lungs. He dropped to his knees and began salaaming wildly in gratitude, giving Heero an excellent view of his bare ass in the process.

"Uh," Heero managed.

"You're already there?"

"No!" Duo shouted, making Heero recoil. He cleared his throat and inhaled slowly, fighting back a peal of nervous laughter. "I mean, no. He's in, you know. Transit. I added him just now."

"Ah," said Trowa. "I'll contact Quatre and Wufei. One sec."

"Okay," said Duo in a small voice. He looked desperately at the video screen, his mind racing, then scooped up an armful of clothing and flung it at Heero. Laptop! he mouthed, gesturing in wide, frantic motions. Kitchen!

If they were in the same room, the décor would give them away, not to mention there would be an echo. Heero understood and disappeared immediately through the doorway. Duo leapt to send him an invite from the console. An instant later, Heero appeared onscreen against the white-wall anonymity of the kitchenette, smoothing Duo's gray nightshirt on over his sweat-slicked ribs.

Fuck, that was right—clothes. Duo swiped Heero's black tank top off the floor and yanked it on over his head, then leaned against his desk, struggling to look casual. Not half a second later, Wufei and Quatre's faces joined Heero's on the monitor, their expressions blessedly unaware.

"Duo, Heero!" Quatre exclaimed. "Hi!"

"Hey," said Duo, breaking into a wide, honest smile. He felt a flood of relief wash through him. Or maybe it was just sweat. "Man, is it good to see you guys."

The rest of the call went off without a hitch. Conversation was fluid, with not one sign of suspicion, and Duo quickly forgot about both his panic and the throbbing problem between his legs. It had been ages since their last live chat. He couldn't have had a better distraction. Quatre talked about his recent wedding and his new estate in Vitebsk, the preparations he was making to take on a less intensive role in his father's business. Trowa sounded fine, if slightly hoarse. Wufei was tired, as he always was these days, but today there was the added delight of his son on his lap—a sniffling one-year-old with a gorgeous swatch of dark hair. The hour they had allotted for last-minute planning flew by too fast. Duo was only able to bid them farewell because he knew he'd see them tomorrow.

Now he terminated the connection and padded into the kitchen, feeling suddenly awkward in the house's silence. Heero glanced up at him when he arrived. He hadn't had time to put on pants either, and the sight of his flaccid sex aroused Duo in a rare, complicated way. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted not to want to kiss him. The mood was different now, and touching him felt too much like a promise he couldn't keep.

In the end, he refrained.

"Hey there," he said, quieter than he'd meant to.

"Hi," said Heero.

Duo crossed the room and took a seat two chairs away. He'd scrubbed down every square inch of the house in preparation for the reunion. It was actually the first time he'd seen the place clean himself—the last month had been more about settling in, doing repair work, and breaking in the new furniture. Heero, of course, had helped him with the bed. And the sofa. And the bathtub, for that matter.

Pursing his lips, Duo thought back to the conference call. He kept in touch with most of them regularly enough to know what they were up to—suspected, actually, that he was the only one of them who was consistent in his correspondence—but the little details still managed to catch him off-guard. The slight regional differences emerging in their inflections. Quatre's stiffening proprieties, Wufei's slackening ones. Wartime definitely didn't provide for ideal assessments of character, but for many years, they were all Duo had to work with. Independent of combat, he was still getting to know his fellow soldiers as—well—people. And they were turning out to be pretty tricky ones, at that.

"Did they seem okay to you?"

Heero glanced up at the question, let it hang for a long moment. "What's 'okay?'" he asked at last.

Duo hesitated, then sighed. "Not a clue, Heero. Not a damn clue."

Later, after they'd made love, Heero caught Duo's elbow as he tried to slip out of the bed for his typical post-coitus shower. "Stay," he said. Trying not to beg. "Sleep."

Duo leaned over, planted an absentminded kiss on his cheek, then stood up anyway with a smooth, languid stretch. Heero rolled onto his elbows to watch him. A blade of light had sneaked through the curtains, catching the supple arch of his lover's back and buttocks. The scars, the sweat. The tiny errant hairs by his neck, honeyed by the sun. Duo yawned and freed his braid with one casual sweep of his hand. The slow tumble of his shampoo and cologne was Heero's favorite part, and he always closed his eyes to memorize it, because he knew that it meant it was almost over. Duo re-braided his hair in quick, efficient strokes. All business now. The softness in him honed back down into claws and teeth.

"Why don't you want them to know about us?"

Even from the bed, Heero could see Duo's shoulders still. He'd paused in the process of fastening his elastic, mouth taut, fingers spread.

"Know about what?" he said after a beat, meeting Heero's eyes in the mirror instead of turning around. His voice was preternaturally even. "That you drop by sometimes? That we fuck? It's not exactly the most original story in the world, Heero. I honestly don't think they'd be all that interested in what the two of us do behind closed doors."

That they 'fuck.' Heero hated that word. Fucking was for rabbits and prostitutes, bar bathrooms, back alleys. When people fucked, did they always begin with control words? Did they swab sweat from each other's faces, touch hands at climax? Heero remembered their first time in L2. Duo had arched up against him with his lips silently parted, eyes shut, his long dark lashes beaded with tears. They hadn't spoken about it afterward because they both knew what it meant. It hadn't been fucking then, and it wasn't fucking now. So what had changed? Why did Duo take two steps back every time Heero took one step forward?

"Got a lot of shopping to do today," said Duo into the silence. "Better get to that. I want everything to be perfect."

Heero nodded. His chest felt heavy with the weight of the things he couldn't say.

Duo's smile was wide and artificial, but he blew Heero the tenderest of kisses, which almost made up for some of it. "Thanks, Casanova," he said, his eyes soft. "Let yourself out if you get bored." And then he was gone, letting the bathroom door tap gently shut behind him—a gesture as clear as if he'd slammed it in Heero's face.

Quatre Raberba Doroshevich-Winner lived a charmed, sumptuous, beautiful life. Ask anyone. A woman walking down the street could confirm it, and even if her word wasn't enough, Quatre had the house, the headlines, and the husband to prove it.

Standing beside the enormous bed that he shared with Andrej, Quatre folded his clothes into careful parcels and placed them in his suitcase. It had been a blur, these last few days. These last few years, really. There was his father's business to attend to—always the business; his only constant—but there had been magnificence, too, and healing. He had been thrilled when he received Duo's message about a possible reunion. His work and his high-profile relationship had prevented him from keeping in touch as diligently as he'd meant to. Duo's inclusion of him felt like a gracious acceptance of the apology Quatre had yet to give, and it had all culminated with the conference call that morning. Those miraculous, familiar faces sharing the same screen, even if Trowa's nonappearance hadn't been ideal. I can have this, Quatre had thought then, suddenly overwhelmed by the fortuity of it all. I can have everything a person could ever want.

His life was perfect.

The unexpected celebrity was perhaps the craziest part. Quatre had always been well-known because of his family's eminence and his efforts on X18999, but nonpolitical distinction was something quite different. He hadn't been looking for fame when Andrej Doroshevich kissed his hand at an ESUN reception. The resulting coverage of their romance was astonishing, mortifying. It required a terrifying exactness of him, of his words and image. He remembered his dismay when Duo had forwarded him his first ever tabloid feature: Winner Wasted? The Magnate's Mai Tai Mania! It'd been two years since that 'drunken' photograph had made its rounds, and Quatre still couldn't convince Wufei that he'd only been sneezing.

Of course, it was Andrej who had ultimately won him over. Not the popularity. Not the doubling of his already-exorbitant wealth. Their courtship was brief, but every moment of it felt set on fire. Quatre was engaged and married before he'd even really had time to say yes.

Or no, for that matter.

"Going somewhere?"

Startled, Quatre glanced up. Andrej was slouching in the doorway, robe open, the smooth muscles of his chest glistening in the light. Quatre felt a familiar tug of longing in his stomach, complicated by the telltale slur of Andrej's words. He smiled anyway, luminously. It was the least he could do to be worthy of his good fortune.

"Hi. Yes, I'm getting ready for the reunion I told you about."

"Which reunion?"

"Tomorrow morning. Me and my four favorite classmates." His exact involvement in the war was the only secret between them. It bore down heavily on his conscience, but he couldn't tell the son of a renowned peace delegate that he was an ex-Gundam pilot. So few people knew their identities, even now. It was part of why Quatre needed to see them. That cathartic lack of walls.

Andrej swaggered toward him. "I don't remember," he said languorously. "You never told me."

"I've been talking about it for months now," said Quatre.

"No. You never told me." He drew further a little into the room, his paces measured.

Quatre smelled the alcohol before he saw it. The unmistakable bite of vodka, strong enough to turn his stomach, setting off the soft alarm bells in his head that he'd ignored for the slur alone. Andrej saw that he knew and brought the glass out from behind his back, draining it and setting it on the dresser with a defiant thunk, as if daring Quatre to comment. Quatre said nothing. It didn't happen every time. When he was careful, it didn't happen.

"You're leaving me," Andrej accused, eyes narrowing. "All this shit you're packing. Do you think I'm stupid, Quatre? Do you think I'm fucking stupid?"

He was barely comprehensible, barely standing. Quatre dropped the shirt he was holding and inched toward him, offering his hands in peace. "Andrej, let's go to bed."

"All this shit," he repeated. "For what? Some classmate you used to fuck?"

Quatre felt his cheeks burn. "They're the best friends I've ever had. I would never—"

Andrej struck him.

Quatre barely managed to catch himself against the dresser. The maple feet screeched across the marble. Andrej's glass hesitated for a moment on the edge of the antique finish, then toppled to the floor, shattering in a bright shockwave of crystal and ice. Quatre gulped in deep breaths as he fought for equilibrium, his head swimming.

A backhanded slap from an OZ officer was one thing. You could roll with a blow like that, duck or deflect it, and Quatre still had the reflexes to dodge anything he felt coming. You couldn't undo the instincts of self-preservation you developed during a war. Not for your husband, not for anything. But this wasn't a battleground—it was his bedroom. And Andrej hadn't backhanded him. He had used his fist.

"Andrej," was all he managed. "Stop—"

Andrej seized his collar and swung him into the wall. It took him both hands; he was too drunk to get a good enough grip with just one. Quatre cracked his elbow hard against the dusty blue wall they had painted together last fall and slipped to the ground, dazed. The pain in his arm and eye was a faraway thing, dulling beneath the more urgent pulse of his confusion, his anger. Andrej was eight and a half inches taller than he was. He outweighed Quatre by a good hundred pounds or so, all of it muscle. Quatre had taken some decent hits in his lifetime—God knew that—but people who opened with a sucker punch usually only got one freebie.

He'd just given Andrej two.

When Andrej raised his arm again, Quatre braced himself against the doorjamb and kicked him square in the kneecap. Andrej went down, roaring in pain. Quatre scrambled upright and bolted for the bed, sweeping his clothes into his suitcase so he could snap it shut. He'd only laid out enough to last him about five days. Whatever. That would have to do.

He expected Andrej to take his time fumbling around in a drunken rage, like usual, but he was already up when Quatre turned around, hand in mid-swing. He'd taken it way too wide. It doubled Quatre's fury. He blocked the blow easily with one forearm and thrust the heel of his other hand into Andrej's face, feeling his nose break with a neat snap. Andrej collapsed onto his back, screaming. Blood spluttered from his nostrils and mouth, the lips that he loved to kiss. Quatre held his gaze as he hefted his suitcase off the bed, stepping over him, not quite sure when he had started trembling.

"Don't follow me," he said. Even his voice was shaking. "Okay? Don't come after me. Don't try to contact me. I'll talk to you when I come back, if I come back. Do you understand that?"

The blood seeped down Andrej's beautiful chest in rivulets as he struggled to sit up. Already the madness was gone from his eyes. He extended both hands like a child, pleading. "Quatre—"

"No," said Quatre. He began walking toward the hall.

"Quatre, please—I'm sorry! Please—"

"No."

Quatre shut the door behind him. His legs were quivering with adrenaline, but he managed to get all the way to the staircase, then down the exquisite black sisal rug runner with the tiny gold flowers. Through the sitting room and the drawing room. Into the opulent atrium, where dusky orange light sliced grimly through the glass. Quatre consulted his wristwatch as he walked, struggling to hold his throbbing arm still enough to make out the tiny hands. It was too early to leave for the airport. If he caught a flight immediately, given the time difference, he'd probably get to Duo's a good twelve hours too soon.

Shit. He was so damn stupid. Why had he trusted Andrej again? Why had he believed that he was worth enough to someone to magically cure their addiction? Quatre choked back the sobs in his throat, sickly furious with himself. He didn't know which fact he was more ashamed of: that it had happened three times before—twice before their marriage—or that this was the only time he had fought back.

Their chauffeur had heard him coming. He was hastening up the walkway now, his footsteps echoing bell-clear in the ridiculous fucking entryway. Quatre snatched a pair of Andrej's oversized sunglasses off the hall tree and jammed them on over his face. His right eye had swollen shut, but he pasted on a wide smile as the chauffeur opened the front door, ignoring the pain that shot from temple to chin. He could rent a hotel room, so as not to impose on Duo early. It was fine. This was going to work.

"Hi. Sorry for the change of plans, but can you take me to the airport now? I've decided to leave early."

"Of course, sir." He collected Quatre's luggage, puzzled over its minimal weight, then paused to examine him for one long, abrupt moment.

Quatre held his breath.

"Good glasses on you, sir," the chauffeur added, after what felt like an eternity. "You look like a film star."

"Thank you," said Quatre.

He held onto his smile as he followed the man to the car, holding his stiff elbow casually by his side. This was easy. So easy. He'd been smiling for years now. A few more weeks wasn't going to kill him. He was Quatre Raberba Doroshevich-Winner, and his life was perfect.

The child had stopped crying.

Chang Wufei tilted his head back minutely, not daring to believe it. It was—asleep? This child? The child that had had once instigated a four-floor evacuation of a Preventers office, having been mistaken as a bomb threat siren?

A quick evaluation confirmed it: the infant's face was pillowed in the crook of Wufei's neck, eyes shut, one half-curled baby fist resting against the military identification tag that hung just below Wufei's sternum. Its mouth was open, too. Drooling copiously. Wufei sighed and leaned back into his chair. He had already changed shirts three times that day. It turned out that squeamish one-year-olds and Greek takeout did not mix—which he supposed was obvious enough, if one really thought about it, but he still wished someone had told him that.

In fact, he wished someone had told him a lot of things. That one must aim the penis into the diaper, for example. That babies could roll off of their changing tables and into clothes hampers, effectively scaring the shit out of you, and themselves. That they meant no offense when they tried to breastfeed from your pectorals.

Okay, so that last one still had him a little miffed.

Wufei rubbed his eyes with his free hand, biting back the urge to yawn. The child had roused him around four in the morning, a good six hours before the conference call. Wufei hadn't managed to get back to sleep. His comrades had gotten the baby to quiet down momentarily, though—a not-inconsiderable achievement, especially through a video-phone. Maxwell kept making absurd sounds and faces, and Barton's husky voice seemed to have a calming effect on the child. It had been…nice to see all of them. Hardly painful at all. Wufei hadn't expected that.

Tomorrow was the reunion. Just thinking about it made something in his chest tighten. Barton, Maxwell, and even Winner had made it to the funeral nine months ago, and Yuy, mid-mission, had sent a white lily casket spray that Wufei could still smell in his dreams. As far as he knew, that had been the largest gathering of ex-pilots for at least six years. It had been uncomfortable. Wufei had sensed the tension between Winner and Barton, palpable even through the eyes of a grieving widower. He hoped that the conflict had since been resolved. Life was too short to hold grudges. One had to speak when there was still time left. And cause.

Wufei lowered his cheek to the infant's soft head, resting. The flight was scheduled for the following morning. He knew how it played out now, every time: the call for the first-class ticketholders, then the disabled, then the mothers with small children. Wufei would wait in line like an ink blot on a landscape. The attendant would crane her head behind him, and she would see no mother.

There's only me, Wufei would say. Truer words were never spoken, but he would say them with pride, always: There is only me.

End of Chapter One

Thank you very much for reading! Please do tell me what you think. Suggestions and concrit are greatly appreciated.