Disclaimer: I don't own anything. All gundam wing and related material belong to their respected owners.

Black Satin

But as time goes by we can only replay now and then with the forces we gave

When we were young to the thoughtless chase we once thought was fun

The cling of champagne glasses is the bell that brings you to life for

The bitter of the liquor, not the aftertaste of love.

April 18, 198 A.C.:

A svelte figure slipped out of the room, her satin dress trailing behind her in a long, flowing train. Her hair fell in gentle, golden waves over her bare shoulders, an accent to the black that enveloped her. With a frivolous flick of her wrist, she wiped away a solitary tear and tiptoed down the hallway.

The dim lights in the hotel glinted off the flecks of gold inlayed into the tapestries and fringe of the carpeting. She leaned her flushed face against the elevator door, the soft whirr of gears behind the metal somewhat soothing.

We can't keep doing this. I can't keep doing this…

Another tear found its way rolling past her chin and she swore silently, biting the inside of her cheek. The elevator opened with a mechanical crunch, a young blond male stepping into the corridor.

"Oh, excuse me," he apologized as he saw her. He frowned. "Are you all right, Miss?" His eyes were soft and caring, unlike the cold, hardened jade eyes of a few moments before. She nodded hesitantly, shoving past him and jamming the button to close the doors. Hell be damned if she wanted anyone else to see her in such a state. Before the doors slammed shut, she saw the man enter the same room in which she had just left. She fell to the floor, overcome with tears.

Quatre entered the hotel room and closed the door silently. The room was dark, but he could hear the hum of rickety fan blades in the bedroom. Picking his way through the discarded bits of clothing, he rounded the corner and stopped.

Trowa sat atop the bed, sheets twisting around his legs like shackles. His hair was matted to his forehead, and the small trickling of moonlight that filtered in through the window highlighted the thin sheen of sweat covering his bare chest. His arms hung limply at his sides, his breathing shallow.

"Trowa?"

He looked at Quatre with eyes dead of emotion. Beads of perspiration slid down his jaw line to be lost in the folds of fabric nestled around him.

"I told her," he whispered, the words lifeless on his lips. "I told her I couldn't see her, that we couldn't be together anymore." Quatre tired to hide the glimmer of hope that danced in his eyes. It wasn't that he had anything against the mysterious woman Trowa had been courting for nearly six months, but it just seemed to him that Trowa had never been the same since she'd arrived.

Trowa shifted on the bed, reaching for a pair of jeans thrown across one of the massive wingback chairs. He moaned, grabbing the pants and laying them across his legs. Slowly he began to massage his neck, working out the knots that had begun to form.

Quatre treaded lightly over the carpeting, casting a quick glance over the room. It was dark, not only because the lights had been turned off, but also because each fabric in the room was either a shade of black or deep carmine. He sat hesitantly on the stool next to the waste bin. Quatre looked inside and cringed. No wonder clothes were thrown everywhere and Trowa looked as if he had just stepped from a sauna.

"Why are you here, Quatre?" Trowa asked finally, leaning back into the pillows propped against the headboard. "One would think that being the head of Winner Industries would keep you on a rather short leash." He ran his fingers shakily through his chestnut bangs and stared at the ceiling absently.

Quatre shuffled anxiously, his grip tightening on his knees. "Because I was worried, I suppose. No one's heard from you in awhile, and Cathy was especially concerned," he said cautiously, casting another scrutinizing gaze across the room. The air had assaulted him from the moment he'd walked in, but now it seemed as if it had settled in around him and was beginning to pick his pockets as well. He wrinkled his nose in slight disgust. "Is it so wrong to worry about a friend?"

"Is that all you were doing?" Trowa mused aloud, inhaling deeply. "You know," he began, closing his eyes as if in deep meditation. "It's women like her that drive men to murder." Quatre sat straight, concern knitting into his brow.

"What are you talking about Trowa?"

Trowa rolled his head around in small circles, stretching the muscles in his neck. "She's the classic damsel in distress, Quatre. Everyone wants to help her, everyone wants to save her, but no one really knows how." He stopped, pondering momentarily. "Or maybe it's just that everyone is just too damned scared to do anything. But whatever it is-" He stopped again.

"I loved her, you know?" he spat suddenly, leaning forward. "I've never loved a woman before; never before and never like that." A rare smile inched across his face, accenting his features. "I loved her and I loved to make love to her. Is that the same thing? Is that wrong?" Trowa tottered forward, catching his head in his hands. "I don't know. Nothing makes sense anymore. Then again, when did it ever?" He cast a glance toward Quatre. "I'm sorry. You came all the way here and now you have to listen to me complain."

Quatre shook his head. "That's not how I see it at all. I'm just glad that you're moving on. You can become yourself again, Trowa. You can return to being the nice guy I once knew."

Trowa laughed quietly and smiled, realizing his own words had been turned against him, and slid from the bed. "I suppose you're right." He cast a rueful glance at the door, then began to collect the scattered bits of clothing thrown haphazardly about the room. Within a few moments he was fully dressed and was pouring a cup of coffee for the both of them.

Two Weeks Later:

The rain pelted outside the small café, the morning sky covered with thick, black clouds. The shop was brimming with people, all anxious to avoid to downpour. Some sat huddled in groups, sipping on lattés or taking their espressos like shots in an attempt to stay warm.

Trowa eyed the group in the far, left-hand corner. Each was dressed in dark, skin-tight clothing. He watched them with mild amusement, reading their lips as they recited verses of Virgil, Shakespeare and Poe. One of the waitresses behind the counter waved playfully at them, asking if anyone needed a re-fill. They politely refused and continued reciting poetry. The redhead had begun a poem by John Donne, and it was rather entertaining to see her stumble over the old English pronunciations.

"Is something amusing?" Quatre asked quietly, twirling his straw leisurely in his tea. Rain still clung to his bangs, but he hadn't bothered to brush it off.

Trowa turned to him, grasping his own mug to warm his fingers. "What do you mean?" Quatre smirked and nodded toward the cult in the corner.

"You were watching them and smiling. I didn't think you were one for poetry." Trowa watched him for a moment then looked away, making sure to erase the smile from his face.

"I don't like poetry, but I like watching them try to recite it." Quatre shrugged, taking a delicate sip.

"Whatever you say."

The bell strapped to the door clanked noisily as another entered, trying to escape the rain. Quatre glanced over his shoulder.

The woman was completely and utterly drenched. The black shirt she wore clung to her and displayed her every curve without the slightest thought to modesty. She shivered, ringing out her golden hair and tossing it over her shoulder with a quick flick of her wrist.

"What are you looking at?" Trowa asked quietly. The poets had gotten into an argument over the works of Catullus', and things had started to become boring. He lifted the mug to take a sip, following his friend's gaze.

The mug fell to the floor, shattering into pieces.

The woman looked toward him, panic instantly reflecting clearly in her eyes. Each watched the other for a moment, before she turned and fled.

"Trowa?" Quatre spoke quietly, trying to grab Trowa's arm as he chased after her. "Do you know her? Why did she-" Trowa threw him off, skirting through the crowd. She was already out the door and running down the block.

"Wait!" Trowa shouted, sprinting down the street after her. Rain puddles splashed up around his feet. The downpour hadn't lessened yet either. "Wait!" he yelled again, coming up behind her. He grabbed her shoulder, shoving her against the wall.

Her mascara had begun to run and her cheeks were flushed, but she still looked as beautiful as ever. "Why didn't you stop when I called you?" She flailed against him, her breathing a mix of gasps and sobs.

"Let me go," she pleaded, pounding her fists against his chest. "Let me go, damn it."

Trowa leaned close, trailing his lips against the chilled skin of her neck. She inhaled sharply through her teeth, her attempts to escape subsiding. He began to plant kissed up and down her jaw line, grinning when she shuddered.

"Midii…" he whispered.

Midii began to sob again. "Trowa, what are you doing?" she cried pitifully. She dropped her hands to her side, letting his fingers work their way down her shoulders in a gentle caress. It felt so wonderful to be near him again. His scent was that of the falling rain, mingled with the spices of the café. She breathed him in slowly.

"Please stop crying," he mouthed against her skin. "I can't stand it when women cry." She bit her lip before throwing herself against his chest and flinging her arms around his neck.

"I've missed you so much," she mumbled, running her fingers erratically through his hair. "Why, why didn't you want me anymore?" Trowa pulled back a bit, gazing into her eyes.

"But I do want you," he growled, leaning closer and capturing her lips with his. He began sliding his fingers up her shirt, brushing against her freezing skin. Midii moaned, pressing closer.

"But why," she repeated, gasping for air. "You told me yourself that we couldn't keep doing this…that you couldn't keep doing this." She tilted her head back as he began to nip at her collarbone. The rain felt refreshing against her flushed cheeks. Trowa stopped, his eyes watching her hungrily.

"I change when I'm around you," he confessed, brushing a lock of wet hair out of her eyes. "I…I don't act as everyone expects me to. Hell, I just ran out of a café after you." He leaned against her, capturing her between his body and the brick wall. "My sister, Cathy, started to worry about me constantly. I'd see her watching me with such sad eyes, and I couldn't bear the fact, knowing that I was the one causing her such pain. Everyone at work watched me suspiciously, wondering if the wars had somehow started to finally take their toll. The way they whispered behind my back, the glances they thought I didn't see. And Quatre-" He stopped, glancing guiltily at the ground.

Midii took his chin in her hands, stroking his face. "What about him?" Trowa shook his head, dismissing the thought.

"He was worried most of all; always calling, making surprise visits…I thought for sure that someday the two of you would meet. I don't think I could have handled that situation very well." She began to ask a question, but he nipped at her earlobe, trying to divert her attention.

Midii's brow furrowed, but she didn't press the matter. "If you're so worried about everyone," she mused, "Then why did you come back to me?" Trowa pressed her harder against the brick so she could feel him.

"Because…I'm happy with you. I've sacrificed so much in this damned world just to make sure that everybody else is content with his or her own life. Now it's my turn." He stared at her with eyes brimming with sorrow. "Is that selfish of me?"

A tear rolled past her chin, blending with the raindrops. "Of course not, because if it is, I'm guilty of the exact same sin." She wrapped her leg around his, pulling him forward to lean on top of her. Trowa slid his arms around her waist.

"Let's go," he mumbled, a growl rising in the back of his throat as she began to rub against him. Midii nodded wordlessly, letting his embrace guide her.

Quatre watched them leave as he peered around the corner. He'd known that he'd seen that woman before from the moment she'd entered the cafe. She was same one he'd run into in the hallway a few weeks back. She was crying then, and now he knew why.

"Trowa," Quatre said sadly to himself, clutching the front of his shirt. "Why are you doing this? Don't you see she's hurting you? Don't you care?" He sat dejectedly on a nearby crate. Smells from the dumpster next to him wafted through the air, though he hardly noticed. He leaned his head against the back wall.

"I just don't understand, Trowa. Why…what is it about her that makes you so happy? I thought you were happy before, but now…" He looked down the now abandoned alley and sighed.

"She's twisted your mind, Trowa, but you just can't see it. My god, why can't you just understand that?" He stood and kicked the bits of trash in front of him. "I suppose I won't be seeing much of you anymore then…" he uttered. He spun and kicked the wall, pain ricocheting through his leg. "No. Trowa, if you can't help yourself, then I'll do it for you."

He jammed his fists into his pockets and began the long walk home.

One month, 3 days later:

The wine glasses next to the bed were chipped and bore serrated edges from the constant clinging of cheers. Midii lifted the bottle, swirling it pitifully. "We're out."

Trowa smiled from the other side of the bed. "But our glasses are still full." Midii crawled next to him, snuggling into his side. "I know...it's just the concept. That was our fourth bottle today." She pulled the black satin sheets up around her ears. Trowa kissed her forehead, offering her his glass. She sat and rested her bare back against the headboard, taking an elegant sip with pinky up. She swirled the wine in her mouth to taste the vintage before swallowing.

"Is it to your liking?" Trowa mocked. Midii grinned.

"Of course, I'm sharing it with you." She placed the glass on the bedside table and kissed him. In the next instant he was kissing her back, hard enough to leave bruises on her lips.

"Trowa…" she moaned, her skin tingling.

"Have I told you I love you?" he asked, rocking her back and fourth. She groaned as his lips trailed down from her mouth to her collarbone and below.

"Not within the last twenty-minutes." Trowa sighed and stopped.

"I should get us more wine," he said, sliding off her to collect his clothing. Midii nibbled her bottom lip.

"Now?" Trowa smiled again and pointed out the window. The streetlights had flickered on hours ago, and the moon was already high over the clouds.

"The store is only right next door. And if I don't go now, it may be closed later."

"But is it really necessary?" she wondered aloud, twirling a strand of hair around her finger seductively. Trowa watched her eagerly, his glance ravenous.

"Midii, you know that this is more fun with wine." Midii blew the stand away from her face and shrugged her shoulders.

"I suppose." She took the wine glass from the table, spinning the liquid around in the glass, watching the swirls absently. "Such a deep, pretty red," she murmured. She looked up at him. "Promise me that you'll come home soon."

Trowa nodded. "And promise me that you won't leave my while I'm gone." Midii grinned and giggled, the alcohol going to her head. She stood, the sheets wrapping around her slender frame in a makeshift dress. "Of course. Now go," she said, shooing him out the door. "The sooner you leave, the sooner you can come back."

Quatre sat in the lobby patiently, perking up as he saw Trowa leave out the massive spinning-glass doors. He'd been waiting for hours for a chance, and he had begun to think that the two of them would never separate. Coolly he walked to the maî tre d'hô tel. The man behind the counter looked up from his computer expectantly. His hirsute mustache curled up at both ends. He twisted the ends with his white gloves, blinking slowly.

"May I help you sir?"

"Ah yes, I am inquiring as to a Mr. Barton?" The man smiled and pointed toward the doors.

"I'm afraid that you just missed him. Only a few moments ago he stepped out, though I don't expect him to be long, seeing as how he did not have his lady friend with him. Did you not see him?"

"No, I supposed I didn't," Quatre lied, shaking his head. "Tell you what, will you do me a favor? As soon as he gets back, will you let him know that I'll be waiting for him up in his room?"

The maî tre d'hô tel smiled and nodded. "And whom should I tell him is waiting?" he inquired.

Quatre thought a minute. "Just a friend. That should suffice."

"All right, Sir. I shall tell him." Quatre thanked him politely and made his way up to the hallway.

The corridor was deserted when he arrived. Quatre glanced at his watch. Most people would probably be sleeping by now. His heart raced.

He paused outside the door, debating momentarily before he rapped on the door.

"Trowa, is that you already?" a female voice called. Midii rushed to the door, throwing it open. "You weren't kidding when you said- Oh, I'm sorry." She clutched the sheet tightly around her body, her face turning crimson. "I thought you were someone else," she apologized. "May I help you?"

Quatre bowed. "My name is Quatre Winner, I'm a friend of Trowa's. But I'm assuming that he's not in."

Midii opened the door a bit wider. "Mr. Winner?" she repeated hesitantly. "Yes, Trowa's out at the moment, but he'll be back shortly. Would you like to come in? I know that I'm not particularly decent, and the room is a mess, but Trowa, like I said, will be back soon." Quatre inclined his head toward her, bowing again as he did so.

"I would love to. This is an unannounced visit after all, so I don't expect anything extravagant. Cathy always was the one to keep Trowa's things straightened." Midii stepped aside as he entered, watching him suspiciously.

"I would offer you something to drink," she apologized again, "But we don't have anything at the moment. Trowa's stepped out to get us more wine." She sat on the edge of the bed as he took a seat across from her. "Oh, forgive me. How rude; I've never formally introduced myself." She held out her hand to shake his. "My name is Midii Une."

Quatre shook her hand, shuddering at her touch. Her skin felt so warm compared to his own. "It's nice to meet you," he said, trying not to choke on his words. This was the woman that was destroying Trowa's life. The so called damsel Trowa had tried so hard to save… It hurt Quatre to even look at her.

"So you're the famous woman I've been hearing so much about," he began, listening for any sounds outside the room. Trowa would be back within a few minutes, and Quatre knew he needed to finish what he had come to do quickly. He watched as Midii blushed again.

"Does Trowa really talk about me that much?" she questioned, rubbing her shoulder, still eyeing him uncomfortably. Quatre smiled and laughed.

"Of course, you've practically become his life." Midii recoiled slightly, narrowing her eyes.

"Oh, please excuse me," Quatre said hastily. "I didn't mean it the way it sounded."

"I'm sure," Midii responded awkwardly.

"If you don't mind my asking," Quatre began again, "But do you really, truly love Trowa?" Midii's head snapped around.

"Yes, though I don't see how its any concern of yours. I love him more than my own life." She stood, sheets rustling. "If you'll excuse me, I-"

"Oh please don't leave," Quatre said quickly, grabbing her arm. "I just wanted to make sure. Trowa's a wonderful man, it's only natural that I be worried about the woman he makes love to every evening." Midii jerked her arm away.

"I don't mean to be rude," she spat. "But I would appreciate it if you left. I'll be sure to let him know that you stopped by." Quatre shook his head again.

"I'm sorry," Quatre mumbled despondently, "But I can't just leave yet. Not when I've waited all this time to finally meet you." From his vest pocket he pulled a pistol. Midii stared at the gun, her eyes growing wide.

"Mr…Mr. Winner, what are you-" Tears were streaming down his face.

"I didn't want to have to kill you, but it's the only way that I could think of. Trowa would never leave you, I probably know that better than anyone. But you, you've corrupted him somehow. He's not the same as he used to be."

Midii's chest heaved as she backed up slowly, bumping against the foot of the bed. "Please, think about this. If Trowa is your friend, you won't do this. You know this isn't what he would want!"

Quatre cocked the pistol. "It might not be what Trowa wants, but this is what he needs." Quatre licked his lips. "He compared you once to a damsel that no one could save. I'm sorry that he was right." Tears began to pour down Midii's cheeks.

"Please-" she repeated pitifully.

"Enough," Quatre snapped. "I care about Trowa more than you ever could. Just let him live the rest of his life the way he did before you ever came back into it. I'm doing this to save him. How could he possibly hope to save you, when he can't save himself?" Quatre sniffed. "I'm sorry…" he whispered inaudibly as he pulled the trigger.

Midii screamed, falling onto the bed and smashing her hand into the half-full wine glass in the process. The liquid covered her palm, shards of glass slicing into her skin. "S-Such a deep, p-pretty red," she murmured, the last bits of tears clinging to her lashes. "Trowa," she mouthed, world turning dark. "I…lo…"

Trowa burst through the door, panting and out of breath. "Wha-" he began, coughing. Then he saw Quatre, the purple smoke still curling out of the barrel of his gun. Midii lie on the bed, motionless, the black satin sheets still draped around her body concealing her blood.

"No…it can't be. Midii!" He rushed to her side, brushing away the hair that veiled her face. "Midii, wake up! Midii!"

"I had-I had to do it, Trowa," Quatre sputtered. "She changed you. You're not the same." He was near hysterics as she dropped the gun and took a step closer. "Don't you understand, Trowa?! I've saved you!" He put a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Don't touch me," Trowa growled, cradling Midii's lifeless body. He turned to Quatre, tears spilling down his cheeks. "Why? Why did you do it, Quatre?"

Quatre staggered backwards as if he'd been struck. "Don't you understand, Trowa? You didn't see it, but she was slowly killing you. You were never the same! Everyone was so worried! Me, Cathy, everyone at Preventer…"

"Shut up," Trowa snapped. "Quatre, you knew I loved her. You knew that better than anyone. And yet still," He hugged Midii closer, her blood staining his hands.

"Trowa…I'm sorry."

Trowa kissed her forehead. "Leave."

"But…Trowa!"

"Just leave!" he shouted, refusing to look at him. Quatre nodded, picking up the gun from the ground and placing it gently on the table, next to the empty wine bottle. As he hung in the doorway, he looked back at Trowa.

"I hope that someday you'll understand why I did this for you," he mumbled before leaving.

Trowa held Midii's limp form in his arms, rocking her back and forth. "You promised me you wouldn't leave me while I was gone," he sobbed. He glanced at the table; the symbols of happiness and despair placed so closely together.

"Midii," he cried again. "Won't you come back to me?"

He is not afraid of you or your damage. Your capacity for queenishness

Or that you'll break down and wrap vine-line around his leg

Pull yourself in because you know he can bottle up wounds like wine for the purpose

Of aging, preserve them in glass like the last hundred hugs, your minted kisses

Bitter and sweet.

The End

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Author's Note: Credit goes where it's due. Thanks to Brenna for "corrupting" my mind. We all know this wouldn't have been written if it hadn't been for you. And thanks to Andrew; the bits of the poem were written by him.