(grapples for the almighty intermission/epilogue piece) Just had to abuse this song again.

Note; /blah blah blah/ indicates it came from the letter (the prologue of this story.)

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. Don't sue; I am simply an E5 in the USN, and therefore have no money. So ha.

-BEGIN FIC-

Trowa rubbed the towel hastily over his thick hair, his eyes closed and a sigh upon his lips. The room was pleasantly warm and humid, the thick steam from his lengthy and hot shower hanging in the air like a ghostly vaporous cloud, swirling about him with any small movement sending it spiraling madly away. Large droplets of water gathered and fell from the tips of his long bangs as he squeezed his brown hair with the plush white towel, falling helplessly to splatter upon the tile floor.

Shaking his head once he'd finished vigorously rubbing and squeezing as much water as he feasibly could out of his locks, Trowa ran the thickly woven towel over the rest of his body, softly stroking his tanned flesh to lift the gathered beads of moisture from his skin. He took many long minutes in accomplishing this task, enjoying the calm atmosphere and the soft touch of the fabric against his freshly scrubbed and cleaned body, taking almost orgasmic glee in the fact that there was nothing worrying him that evening and there was no apparent reason for him to be hypersensitive in awareness of his surroundings. They were in Barstow, hundreds of miles away from their enemies, at the moment alone and not in the least bit threatened.

Walking out of the bathroom, wrapping the thick towel around his waist and leaving his still damp hair to cling to his temples and his neck and dribble water down his back, Trowa stopped as his breath hitched in his throat.

Familiar music was playing in the air, coming from the nightstand that rested between the two beds the hotel room was furnished with.

Indeed, the little RCA CD alarm clock that Quatre had purchased was on and pouring out a soft, sad melody from its tiny speakers, letting the rich piano sound in tinny notes throughout the room.

It was a song Trowa instantly recognized, one that had bored its way into his heart the first time it had ever caressed his ears with its solemn message and its heart-wrenching softness, one that he knew and could easily hum each of the harmonic dances of the flute and synthesizer while the piano's quiet drumming still rang through his soul.

His eyes drifted to the occupied bed, that which sat closest to the hotel room's bathroom and fell upon the lump that rested underneath the covers there, unmoving and breathing heavily in the depths of slumber, curled position showing that the person under those sheets was laying on his left side, favoring the injured and crudely stitched right shoulder he bore without complaint or cry. Closing his eyes, Trowa let a quiet sigh leak from his lungs.

'Why is it you still feel this way, Quatre? Even when we are together, here and now, you play this song. This song, which encompasses your hopelessness and your sorrow.

'That's what you wrote me in your letter, isn't it? That's the message you gave me.

/So now I sit, alone and lonely, at my home office desk in my house, writing to you even though I know you'll likely forget about this letter after filing away with the rest of your junk mail. You are having your happy life with that girl, Catherine, and your circus.

I envy you.

You're never truly alone./'

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Trowa gently brushed long, limp blonde bangs away from the boy's pale face, opening his eyes but a sliver to take in the sight of the young man sleeping fitfully under those thin covers.

'/I still love you, Trowa.

I fear I always will.

I wrote this song for you, about you./

'I will never forget that letter, Quatre. I will never forget the meaning behind this song.'

'So why do you play it now? Why are you so sad?'

'Someday, I will make it unnecessary for you to have to express yourself with this type of music.'

'Someday, I will abolish this song completely from your heart.'

Trowa let himself scowl as his heart desired, closing his eyes once more before he laid down beside the boy and gently draped his arm over the slender form under those sheets, taking care not to upset his injured arm.

'Of every song I've ever heard, I hate this one the most.'

'This damned, horrible song of loss and pain….'

'"Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness."'

tbc...