Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the GW universe and make no monetary profit from writing.

Note: Many thanks to KS for editing, and to everyone who has been kind enough to leave a review.

Chapter 84/94: That Night, in San Francisco:

Dratted, infuriating, impossible man.

Quatre said 'damn' very loudly, and then 'shit' much more quietly. It didn't do any good. He'd never really understood why swearing was supposed to help anything, although Duo claimed it did.

Since Trowa wasn't there to yell at, he settled for glaring at the portrait on the wall.

'Honestly, Trowa,' he grumbled, perfectly aware how petulant he sounded. 'What exactly is the point of me going to all this trouble to get you away from here, when you come running back at the first chance? It's ridiculous, really.'

The picture didn't say anything. It didn't need to. It was all shades of grey and black with a single shaft of sunlight cutting diagonally through the shadows. He'd commissioned it after they'd seen an exhibition by the artist on L3. Trowa had always claimed not to like it.

Can't not.

Oh, he could just imagine Trowa saying that; all resigned and exasperated and stubborn. Quatre had always been the one to make the flowery romantic speeches.

'Fine. Fine.' He'd had a plan, damn it to hell. There had always been a plan, even if it hadn't exactly played out the way it was supposed to. But that didn't matter all that much any more. Nothing did.

It was a shame he'd never had a chance to say goodbye properly. Not to any of them. His sister was dead, and Sarab, who'd sworn a blood oath to him, and betrayed it. He knew he should feel sad about that.

'Right.' He brushed one hand across his eyes.

Can't not.

No, he'd think about that later, and what it meant.

Instead, he got off the bed, flinching a little when his ankle met the ground, and crossed the room. The chest was one his ancestors had brought from Earth, so many years ago. It was hand-carved and inlaid with precious stones and gold leaf. Of course, the contents had been searched, both by the Preventers and then Barton's men, but they hadn't found the hiding place. There was a narrow compartment just under the lid; less than half an inch thick.

A couple of fake passports and some credit cards. Some notes Trowa had written him; two from the war that had grease stains on them, and a few printed-out emails, and the little message from that night in San Francisco.

He'd been so happy to see Trowa again, so unexpectedly, but the other boy hadn't seemed remotely pleased. He'd just turned his back on Quatre and walked away.

'I'm so sorry,' Quatre whispered to his retreating back, not understanding. He'd thought Trowa liked him. Trowa had been remarkably easy to read the first time they'd met, but now there was only focus on their mission and mild irritation at Quatre's presence.

He hadn't meant Trowa to hear, but he apparently did, swinging around and glaring at him.

'What the hell are you apologising for?'

'I don't know, really. Whatever I did wrong.'

Trowa sighed and took a few steps back toward him. 'You didn't do anything. This just isn't a good idea.'

'I don't understand. What isn't?'

'Us.'

'Is there an 'us'?' Quatre asked, utterly charmed.

'No.'

'Oh! Of course not. I'm sorry.' Well, of course there wasn't. He'd just thought that maybe he'd made a friend but that was idiotic.

'Quatre. Take this.' Trowa was suddenly back in front of him, proffering a grease-stained rag.

'No, thank you. I have a handkerchief.' He fumbled in his pocket for it, and in the meantime Trowa reached up and clumsily patted the grubby square of fabric across his face. It was the first time they'd ever touched.

'Why d'you say sorry so much?'

'I don't know. I suppose I'm always doing stupid things.'

'Yeah, well,' Trowa gave him the faintest glimmer of a smile. 'Everyone does. Where's this hotel of yours? You shouldn't be walking around here alone.'

'I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself!'

Trowa laughed outright at that. 'No offence, but cute blond guys in pink shirts should not be hanging around places like this after dark. Come on. Let's get away from the docks. Then I'll walk you to where you're staying.'

'You think I'm cute?' Quatre asked breathlessly, hurrying to keep up. No one, ever, had said anything like that before, although one of his nannies had once told him he was the politest little boy she'd ever met. But Trowa had actually paid him a proper compliment.

'You're OK.' It was accompanied by a wink, and Quatre blushed.

Oh, Allah. His father would kill him if he knew about this. It was even worse than running away to fly a Gundam. Worse than the empathy.

'Which way?'

'It's called the Star Regent. Here, I've got a map.' He handed it to Trowa. 'I looked it up on the internet. It looks quite nice; the brochure says it gets a lot of custom from tourists and people from cruise ships. Oh! What's that?'

A pile of garbage to their left had suddenly…moved and a sleek grey creature shot out in front of them. Quatre jumped, not able to help it, and his hand banged against Trowa's. 'Sorry!'

'It's just a rat,' Trowa sounded amused, but he'd wrapped his fingers around Quatre's. 'You don't have them on L4?'

'I don't know. I've never seen one, only in books. I didn't think they were so big.'

Trowa grinned. 'Earth's not all flamingos and unicorns, you know.'

'I know,' Quatre said feelingly. 'Scorpions and spiders. Ick. Horrid things.'

'Oh, Quatre.' Trowa squeezed his hand. 'Please, tell me you're not scared of bugs.'

'Well, of course not. They just look very strange. I'm not at all scared.'

They turned a corner and were suddenly in a wide, well-lit street, with elegantly-dressed men and women strolling past restaurants and boutiques.

'Look. There's your hotel.' Trowa pointed down the street.

'Yes. Thank you. You can still come and stay if you like. It would be like a sleepover! I've always wanted to have a friend and do that. I'm sure you can call where you're meant to be staying and cancel.'

Trowa shrugged. 'I was just going to sleep in my truck.'

'You can't! It'll be cold and you won't have a proper bed. Please, come with me. It'll be fine. I've told them I'm a minor but I'll be staying alone because my father got held up on a business trip, and they didn't mind. I can just say you're a friend from school or something.'

'Quatre. Did it ever occur to you just to lie about how old you are?'

'Well, actually, no. I don't like telling lies.'

Trowa just shook his head, as if he'd said something ridiculous. 'I'll walk you up to your room anyway. Make sure you stay out of trouble.'

Quatre tipped the porter who'd carried up his small bag and they were alone in the room. It was suddenly awkward again. The room itself seemed rather ordinary to him, apart from the real fireplace, but Trowa looked impressed, wandering around to look at the furnishings.

'Now, what would you like to do? We should probably order room service instead of going down to the restaurant, don't you think? And then we could watch TV if you liked or listen to music? Or we could just talk? Unless you'd rather go straight to bed if you're tired?'

'Look, I shouldn't be here,' Trowa said abruptly. 'This was a mistake. We can't just take the evening off.'

'I don't understand. You have to eat something! And I've gone over the mission orders a hundred times, haven't you?'

'I don't just mean tonight. I mean this whole thing. The two of us. We're fighting a war, Quatre. We can't have distractions.'

'I don't think anyone's ever called me a distraction before.' Quatre slipped off his shoes and settled in one of the armchairs. For all his complaining, Trowa wasn't actually making any moves to leave. 'Trowa, it makes sense for us to work together. As far as I can tell, we're the only two Gundam pilots in the universe. I don't see why we can't be friends. We can help each other.'

'I work alone.' Trowa was suddenly bent over him, hands gripping the arms of his chair, and he suddenly wasn't hard to read at all. Ah. He'd known from the beginning that Trowa liked boys. He'd known Trowa was attracted.

'You can kiss me, if you want.' It wasn't easy to say; he had to drop his eyes and he could feel his skin flaming.

'D'you even know what kissing's like?'

'No. How could I? I'm only fifteen. But I've read lots of love stories.'

'It's like this.'

The touch of Trowa's mouth to his was both less than he'd expected, and much, much more. He put up one finger and touched his lips, the place where Trowa had kissed.

'Oh. That was lovely. And it didn't hurt at all! I thought it might, the first time.'

'It's not supposed to hurt.' Trowa his head bent a little lower, resting his forehead against Quatre's.

Quatre reached up and put both arms around the taller boy's neck. 'Am I really a distraction?'

'A hell of a one, yeah.'

'Is that bad?'

'Probably. I don't think we're supposed to be doing this.'

'I know.'

It was punishable by death on L4. His whole family would be shamed. His father would probably choose to kill him, to spare his sisters the disgrace. Trowa had kissed him.

'So?' Trowa had pushed his hair back; both green eyes were challenging him.

'I don't care. I told Rashid that I didn't care if you were an enemy, once I got to see you again.'

'He must have been pissed.'

'He wasn't happy, no. I got a lecture that went on for days.'

'Didn't do much good, apparently,' Trowa commented. 'So. Us then?'

'Us,' Quatre agreed firmly, and Trowa kissed him again. It was even better this time, with their arms around each other.

'Tell me one thing. Do you make a habit of inviting strange guys up to your bedroom to spend the night? Or is it just me?'

'No.' Quatre shook his head. 'Just you.'

'Oh. That's OK then.'

Trowa worked out how to light the fire, and they spent the evening sprawled in front of it and ordered pizza. They ate with their fingers, straight out of the box, like a picnic. They didn't mention the war even once, just talked about books and films and music. The whole conversation was jewelled with exclamations of 'Oh, I love that too.'

They had a cheerful, oddly domestic little argument over who would take the bed, which Quatre won, pointing out that Trowa was his guest, and that he was too tall for the couch anyway. Trowa found extra blankets and pillows in the wardrobe. It had reminded Quatre of Rashid, making up a camp-bed for him.

He insisted Trowa use the bathroom first, as an officially invited guest, but that turned out to be a mistake, because after his shower Trowa came back to the bedroom with only a towel knotted around his waist.

Quatre bolted for the bathroom, but not before taking a greedy, guilty look at the other boy.

Oh, Allah.

It was real then, he thought, resting his forehead against the cool tiles. This thing that had been words on a psychologist's report when he was only ten; a dictionary definition of 'homosexuality; scattered dreams and yearnings.

It was all real.

Quatre turned the shower to the coldest possible setting and shivered his desire away. After he spent an inordinately long time flossing his teeth; the most unromantic thing he could think of, although the Winner family's dentist would be pleased. Hopefully Trowa would be asleep when he went back outside.

He was still awake though, lying back and flicking through a tourist magazine. He was probably naked under the duvet; his clothes were neatly folded on the chair, with the bath towel on top.

'Do you have everything you need?' Quatre asked politely. 'There are some bottles of mineral water in the fridge. Would you like one?'

Trowa gave him a lazy little shake of his head. 'I'm OK.'

Quatre took a few steps closer and then stopped. 'You don't need more blankets or anything? In my guide book, it says it gets cold at night here.'

'You have a guide book?' Trowa's eyebrow – the visible one – arched at him.

'Well, yes. I like reading about new places. Don't you? You can borrow it if you like. It's in my bag.'

'Hey.' Trowa propped himself up on elbow, patting the bed beside him. 'Quatre, come here. What's up? Nervous about tomorrow?'

'Oh.' He'd actually forgotten. 'No, not really.' He was, somehow, standing beside the bed.

'You sure you want to sleep on that couch? All by yourself? Like you said, it gets cold at night here. You don't want to get sick before a mission, right?'

Quatre swallowed. He'd been taught, his whole life, that this was wrong. The only other person he'd ever known who was like him, a young garden boy on his family's estate, had been raped, and had killed himself the following day. The other servants had clucked over the tragedy, and said it was for the best, really, that he was dead.

His father had said it was a timely lesson, when he'd found Quatre crying over Nasir's death. A warning of what evil, perverted men could do to hurt little boys.

Trowa didn't want to hurt him, though. He knew that as clearly as he'd ever know anything in his life. He let Trowa take his hand and pull him down, and then Trowa kissed him again. This time, he let his tongue dart out to touch Quatre's bottom lip and that was strange and scary and tremendously exciting. Exciting more than anything.

'OK?' Trowa asked.

'Oh, yes!' He'd known that tongues were involved, somehow, in kissing, but not precisely how. He took one of Trowa's hands in his, kissing the palm and then turning it over to brush his lips across each knuckle in turn. He had beautiful, musician's hands, with calluses from the controls of his Gundam in the same places that Quatre had. The same blisters and half-healed scabs and broken fingernails.

'OK?' His turn to ask, this time.

Trowa nodded, looking expectant and unsure and a little nervous. The way he felt. The same way Quatre himself felt.

Quatre kissed the inside of his wrist, giving a little dab of tongue to skin and felt Trowa shiver. 'Is it…all right for me to do this?'

'Yeah.'

Quatre smiled at him, watching Trowa smile back, and then lifted the hand to his lips to kiss the fingertips, and then turned it over to press his lips against the palm again. 'Does this feel nice?'

'It's great.' Trowa sounded a little breathless. 'Not complaining or anything, but I wouldn't mind another kiss. A proper one.'

'Like this?' Eyes sparkling, he bent down to brush his lips against Trowa's.

'Something like that. Quatre. C'mere.' Trowa reached up, arms encircling Quatre's neck and tugging him down, very gently, to lie beside him. 'You're so…'

'So what?'

'I don't know the word,' Trowa told him, a mixture of wry amusement and frustration. 'I don't know if there is a word. You've never done anything like this before, have you?'

'No.'

Half-formed fantasies, certainly, and guilt, and sheer terror, and the quick, bright smile of one of his father's young assistants. A couple of websites that he'd looked up, but never dared log on to, in case someone found out. The heroes who swaggered across the covers of his sisters' books. That morning in the desert when he'd walked unannounced into Sarab's tent and found him still dressing.

Never this, though. He'd lived fifteen years and never known just how much he'd ached for someone to hold him like this, so carefully.

'I don't know how it's supposed to be, even.'

'Like this, I think,' Trowa said softly.

'Oh. I think I can do this.' Just because he could, he rested his head on Trowa's chest, listening to the quick beats of his heart. The other boy wasn't guarding his emotions, for once. Quatre felt the drowsy, sweet contentment, spiked with the sheer wonder of it all. All the things Quatre felt, and something deeper, something else that was indefinably dark and scared, and made him shudder.

'What's wrong?' Trowa curled that long body around his and no force in the entire universe could have stopped him from pressing closer. 'Quatre? We can just go to sleep if you like. Is that you want?''

Quatre shivered with sheer pleasure from the touch of that other body.. 'I – I don't know.'

'Well, it is getting late,' Trowa considered, mock-serious. 'Early start tomorrow. We should probably just go to sleep. Get a good rest. Don't you think so?'

'Trowa!' To his intense embarrassment, it came out as a whine.

'Quatre?' Trowa's eyes danced and then suddenly Quatre was flat on his back with Trowa leaning over him. 'One goodnight kiss, OK? Before we go to sleep?'

'Oh, please.'

Then Trowa's hands were cupping his face, stroking his hair gently, and Quatre closed his eyes, savouring the feel of him. 'Please,' he managed, 'please, don't stop doing that.'

'Never want to,' Trowa promised. 'Never ever.' He swept one hand down the length of Quatre's jaw, the side of his neck, and a little further down.

Quatre's eyes flew open. 'What are you doing? I thought you wanted to kiss me.'

'I do.' The gleam in those green eyes was purely piratical, those long, clever fingers toying with the top button of his pyjama jacket. 'I really, really do. Just never said where.'

'Oh! I – I don't know…'

'Hey,' Trowa looked at him, expression sobering, let him go, suddenly and sat back on his heels. 'Quatre, listen, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I was just teasing, OK? I wouldn't do anything you didn't want me to.'

'I know that!' Oh, Allah, so much pain in the other boy's heart. Fear that he'd scared Quatre away. He flung himself into Trowa's arms; something Trowa very clearly hadn't expected, and they both collapsed on to the mattress.

Trowa managed a grin. 'So you wanted to be on top, huh? Should've just said.'

Quatre shook his head, not understanding what that meant. 'I wasn't scared of you,' he repeated, because it was very important for Trowa to know that, not to feel guilty. 'It's just that this is the first time I've ever done anything like this, and it's all a little…confusing.'

'Yeah. We don't have to do anything. I can go, if you like. Or sleep on the couch.'

'But I don't want you to go.' Quatre said it so forcefully that he surprised himself, and then – another surprise – found he was half-sitting, half-kneeling across Trowa's chest. Trowa's very naked chest. 'You owe me a kiss,' he said cheekily.

'Better collect then.'

'Oh, yes.' Quatre placed on hand on Trowa's heart. The empathy didn't need it – it either worked or it didn't – but he liked that extra contact, and very few people in his life had ever let him touch them.

'I wouldn't ever hurt you either,' he whispered, and dipped his head. Trowa parted his lips at the first touch of Quatre's tongue. It couldn't be wrong, this feeling. It couldn't. It was like the first time Rashid had let him pilot Sandrock alone; he was nervous, yes, but he wanted it more than anything in the universe.

It was perfect, the slow glide of Trowa's tongue against his, and then he caught Trowa's bottom lip between his teeth and bit down gently, loving the feel of the soft, slick flesh. Trowa moaned, deep in his chest, and Quatre jumped back.

'Did I hurt you? I'm sorry!'

'Didn't hurt.' The words were just a little slurred; Trowa's eyes were darkly dilated as they stared up at him. 'It felt…really good.' He reached up and took Quatre's hands in his, holding him in place. ' You can…touch me, if you want. Anything. Do you want to?'

'I don't know what to do.'

'You were doing pretty good, just then. You could lie down with me again. You liked that, right?'

'Very much.' Oh, he could do this. He could. He slid back into Trowa's arms, curling close, and listening to the other boy's heartbeat.

'This OK?' Trowa's hands slid up his back in light, feathery strokes, and then down. Up and down, several times, before one hand slipped under the hem of his top, and rested on bare skin, at the small of his back, stopping when Quatre tensed. 'Quatre? Can I touch you?'

He swallowed, and then nodded, not quite sure what he was agreeing to. Trowa wanted it though, to put his hands on him, and Trowa wouldn't hurt him.

Trowa's hand stroked him gently and he leaned in for another kiss. 'You're gorgeous. Let's just lie like this for a bit, will we? And talk, if you like?'

'Oh, yes please. I'd love that.'

Quatre kissed him on a sudden surge of relief and gratitude. Such kindness. One day, maybe, they could do more than this. One day, but for now it was more than enough to be held, to learn how to kiss properly, to learn what they both liked.

He fell asleep with Trowa's whole body encircling his.

He woke the next morning to the door closing quietly. At some point during the night, Trowa had told him that he had to leave early, to carry out some last minute adjustments to his Gundam. Quatre had felt a twinge of guilt at that. Rashid always insisted that he and his men work on Sandrock, while Quatre concentrated on mission plans or rested.

There was a note on his pillow.

'No more strange guys in your room. OK? T. x.'

In contrast to the other large, scrawled letters, the x was self-consciously small and neat. A kiss. His first ever love letter, Quatre thought happily.

Years later, on the other side of the universe, Quatre folded up the note again, very carefully, and then slipped it in his pocket. A little talisman.

'Right,' he said again, addressing Trowa's portrait. Ludicrous, how often he'd been speaking to it lately. Quite ludicrous. 'I think this has all gone far enough, don't you? Time to do something about it all.'