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AC 199
One crisp and beautiful September morning...


PART ONE

      Things were taking a turn for the erotic. Quatre turned his head on the lace-and-satin pillow and moaned his lover's name, his entire body relishing the exquisite marriage of pain and pleasure as Trowa's long, clever, oil-slicked fingers worked between his legs and his sweet, moist lips burned kisses down the back of his neck. “I love you,” he crooned, twisting his fingers in the silk sheet that clung to his sweat-drenched body like a second skin. “Take me,” he whimpered. “Take me, now!” That was all he wanted. Earth, the Colonies, his investments could all turn to dust and he would not care, as long as Trowa was fucking him.

     He sucked in a sharp breath as Trowa withdrew his hand. The other boy lifted his lips. “Are you sure, Quatre?”

     “Yes! YESSS!”

     “But...” and Quatre could HEAR the quirk of those brushstroke-fine eyebrows as he said, uncertainly, “...on your office desk?”

     Quatre's head shot up. That WAS odd. His pillow was gone. And the silk sheets beneath his heretofore writhing form felt more like polished mahogany than they had a moment ago. A LOT more. Well, it was odd, but it seemed fairly unimportant. “Yes, on my office desk,” he said sultrily, attempting to roll over; it hurt too much lying prone. “In bed, on my office desk, everywhere! Take me!”

     “But...” Trowa's thin, petal-pink lips folded into a frown, “...in front of your investors?”

     “Eh?” Confused, Quatre struggled to rise, but Trowa's thighs, straddling his hips, kept him anchored. He swiped at his bangs and peered about. They did indeed appear to be on his desk in his office at the main building of Winner Enterprises. There were his file cabinets, his Oriental rug, his high-backed leather chair. And there were his chief investors looking like a flock of pigeons in their dull grey suits.

     “Mister Winner,” one of them said disapprovingly, “you promised you would stay ON TOP of your investments.”

     Quatre flushed and attempted to hide under Trowa.

     Just then the line of grey suits parted for Duo, Wufei, and Heero in a kick line. Duo was belting, “Here he comes/ it's Quatre's clown!” [1] while Wufei and Heero sang the backup, each in his own key.

     “Something is WRONG,” Trowa intoned ominously.

     “You THINK?!??” Quatre spluttered.

     “I mean this isn't the stuff I said to bring,” Trowa explained, waving the bottle of what should have been lubricant in front of Quatre's nose. “This is olive oil. You're supposed to use canola oil. Quatre, you CAN'T substitute one for the other.”

     Quatre dropped his face into his hands. He KNEW he shouldn't have used so many onions making the pasta sauce last night.

      He lifted his head in utter horror when a bass voice rumbled, “Master Quatre! Don't you know you're not supposed to wash lights and darks together?” Rashid stood above him holding up two skimpy thong undies, one bright scarlet, the other as pink as Quatre's blush. “Clearly you can not live on your own. That is why we, your loyal guardians, have decided to move in with you. Right, men?” And the thirty-nine Maguanac warriors standing stoically behind him bellowed, “Yes, sir!”

     Quatre screamed.

     He woke with a strangled gasp, his heart racing. It took a moment for it to register in his dream-fogged mind that it was linen sheets his legs were hopelessly tangled in-not silk, and definitely not polished mahogany. He sighed with relief and dropped his cheek back against his pillow. A slit in the curtains revealed a sliver of silver-blue predawn sky. Good, he thought; He had at least another hour of sleep before he had to get up for work. He closed his eyes again, wrapped his arms around the pillows, and snuggled into the mattress as deep as his body could press.

     A slight pressure on the small of his back drew him back from sleep. “Trowa, is that you?” Well, who else would it be? he thought. “Stop that,” he mumbled sleepily.

     The pressure moved from the small of his back, over his backside, to settle between his blanket-covered thighs.

     “You're rotten,” he murmured, but he was secretly pleased. Trowa disliked getting up almost as much as he disliked going to sleep; he was almost never amorous in the morning. Quatre, on the other hand...

     He lifted his hips to make room for his sudden arousal. As Trowa's hand-or foot, or whatever-rubbed against his raised backside, a sound very much like a purr escaped Quatre's lips. “You're NEVER like this in the morning,” he whispered. “Not that I'm complaining. What's the occasion? Did I forget an anniversary?” He grinned. Trowa had barely touched him, and already his body was wailing for the other boy. Just imagining what his handsome, green-eyed lover might have in mind was enough. Well, for the moment. “You're so quiet, love,” he teased. “Not that you're usually so loquacious. Do you remember,” he said, chuckling at the memory, “that time your flight back to Earth was delayed for hours and hours and I fell asleep waiting for you, so you woke me...kind of like this? That was SO nice...” He frowned. “You weren't this slow, though. Why don't you kiss me, Trowa?”

     Instead of a kiss, he received a sharp stab in his left thigh, as though from several tiny razors. With a yowl of surprise and pain, he rolled onto his back and found himself facing two harvest-moon eyes mounted in what appeared to be the largest dust bunny ever to crawl out from under a bed. “Spook!” Quatre spluttered. The tomcat blinked up at him, with no pretense of innocence. Quatre flopped back against his pillows, all too aware of his throbbing erection. “Twice in one morning,” he muttered. “This really isn't fair at all.” He tried desperately to think of something else. Like, where in the world was Trowa? The other boy slept as lightly as his cat; Quatre's thrashing and cooing ought to have woken him long before this. Turning his head on the pillow, he saw that Trowa's half of the bed was empty. Reaching out with his hand, Quatre found the portion of the mattress usually claimed by his lover to be cold; Trowa had not been there for a while.

     Spook padded up over his chest and thrust his dry, pink nose in Quatre's face. “Go away, Spook,” he said, trying to push the cat aside. “Come on. Go to the one you REALLY love.” Spook remained seated on his chest. Had Quatre not believed cats to be incapable of facial expression, he might have deemed Spook to have an insistent look about him. “Go on,” he said irritably. “Go to Trowa.” He had to do something about his erection. While Spook was sometimes present when Quatre and Trowa made love (although usually he dashed out of the room the moment he lost his adored owner's attention), Quatre felt oddly self-conscious alone under those orange eyes. “I'm going to kick you, Spook,” he warned. “Even though Trowa hates that.”

     The cat miaowed plaintively. Compassion, unbidden, touched Quatre's heart. He sighed. “You know, if you were a dog, I'd think you were trying to tell me something. Is that it? What do you want, kitty? Do you want to go outside?” He looked doubtfully at the shaggy, soot-colored creature who'd lost the tip of one ear long ago to a fight with one dog, and gained a scar running from the corner of one eye to the middle of his forehead, courtesy of another one. “Pretty Spook?” he tried. Spook miaowed again and Quatre suddenly remembered something Duo had said once: ‘Trowa, that there is the Lassie of cats. At least where you're concerned. If you ever fell down a well, rest assured that cat would either run and get help or find a ladder and rescue you himself. Quatre on the other hand... Hope you got your water wings and a good set of lungs, buddy-boy.'

     “Is it Trowa?” he asked the cat, feeling ridiculous. Spook kneaded his chest, claws unsheathed. “Ow! All right, fine, I'm getting up,” he grumbled. He may as well, he decided. There was no way he was getting back to sleep. If he got up now, he would have time to find out what was possessing Spook, where Trowa had disappeared to-and to take a nice, long shower (preferably not alone).

     He elbowed the cat off his chest, threw the blanket aside, and slid out of bed. Spook jumped off the bed, scampered to the quarter-open bedroom door, and looked at him over his shoulder. Quatre shook his head in bewilderment. “I'm coming, I'm coming.” He grabbed his bathrobe from the chair by the bed and followed the cat.

     The light was on in the small kitchen, but Trowa was not there. Nor was he in the den. No sounds issued from the bathroom. Quatre crossed his arms over his chest and frowned, puzzled. “Trowa?” he called. No reply. He shivered. The apartment was oddly cold.

     An imperious yowl from Spook brought his attention to the large open window beside the sofa in the den. “Well, no wonder it's cold in here!” He went to the window. Spook hopped out and onto the fire escape. Hugging his arms tightly, Quatre followed.

     Once Quatre was outside, Spook abandoned him for the tall, slender young man leaning against the railing at the opposite end of the fire escape. Quatre shifted from one foot to the other; the metal beneath his bare feet was bitingly cold. “Trowa?” The other boy lifted his face and even from that distance and shrouded in the steel-blue shadows of dawn, he looked pale to Quatre.

     “Go inside, Quatre,” Trowa commanded. His voice sounded oddly thick.

     “Good morning to you, too,” Quatre said mildly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his robe and crossing the fire escape. Trowa backed away. Quatre halted three feet from him. “What?” Sudden apprehension seized him. “Did something happen to your sister?” he asked fearfully, although, he told himself firmly, if anything had happened to Catherine, Trowa would have wakened him at once. Still...

     Trowa shook his head quickly and Quatre sighed with relief. “What, then?” He started forward again.

     “Just admiring the morning.”

     Quatre glanced over the railing at the shadowed city stretched out below them. Tall, rust-colored buildings blocked the view of the bay, but Quatre could hear the distant screaming of seagulls, and the air tasted faintly briny. Lemon-yellow dawn rays fell on the white and brightly colored laundry that hung on clotheslines between the apartment buildings, and glanced off closed windows, but night still clung to the street far below. The air was cold, autumn-tinged, though it would probably grow warmer later in the day. A crisp breeze pushed the few wispy clouds and tingled through their hair.

     “Bullshit,” Quatre said, grinning. “You hate mornings.”

     “I like mornings. They're great for sleeping.”

     Quatre put a hand on the other boy's arm, felt the shiver that rippled through his frame. Shivering? Through that thick sweater and-he couldn't guess how many layers? It wasn't THAT cold. Concern flooded him again. Ignoring Trowa's protests, he touched his pale cheek, and inhaled sharply. Trowa's skin was searing.

     “You're sick!” he exclaimed accusingly. “You idiot, what are you doing out here? You should be in bed!”

     Trowa shrugged away from him. “You know Mrs. O'Carroll downstairs? Her younger daughter, Tina, has the flu. She needed me to watch her two kids while she had a doctor's appointment the other day. I guess she didn't realize... Anyway. I came out here because I didn't want you to catch it.”

     The next three minutes were devoted entirely to Quatre's loud and-considering who he was-fairly inventive cursing. Trowa flinched at the initial outburst, but as Quatre's tirade wore on and his voice grew high-pitched and tattered and he began to repeat himself, a corner of his mouth worked itself up into a little grin.

     “DON'T SMILE!” Quatre fairly screamed. “Dammit, Trowa-”

     “HEY!” someone in the apartment below theirs bellowed and rapped angrily against the stepladder leading up to their fire escape. “People are trying to sleep, here!”

     Quatre leaned over the railing. His “Sorry!” earned him a snarled curse. Flushed, he turned back to Trowa.

     “I'm okay,” the other boy said weakly. “Really. Come on. Let's go to work.” He let go of the railing and almost toppled over.

     Quatre regarded him witheringly. “You macho idiot. Get inside.”

“I'm okay, really.”

     “Please. You're under five blankets and you're still shivering. You're feverish. Just a moment ago when I asked you if anything hurt, you said ‘yes', and when I said ‘what?' you said, ‘everything.' Just admit that you're sick. I guess I should just be thankful it wasn't the pasta sauce last night.”

     “So that's what that was. You're so cute when you fuss like this.”

     “Nice try.” Quatre pulled the blankets back up to Trowa's chin and held them there firmly. After a moment Trowa ceased struggling and sank back against the sofa cushions. Quatre straightened and began to walk toward the kitchen.

     “I mean it,” Trowa said, his voice ragged but full of appreciation. “You really are adorable.”

     Quatre glanced at him over his shoulder, a smile lighting his face. “Yeah?”

     Trowa nodded.

     Quatre stood for a moment, glowing under his lover's praise. Then his smile became a smirk and he stuck his tongue out at Trowa. “In that case, I guess I'll just keep being adorable-and keep fussing over you.” He laughed at Trowa's dismayed expression-all sweetness and light gone-and continued into the kitchen.

     Trowa grumbled. He was not TRYING to be difficult. When Quatre was being overly solicitous (such as now) he treaded a thin, strange line between utter irresistibility and being a pain in the ass. Normally, Trowa knew how to handle his lover when such moods struck him. (Usually he simply muttered “Control freak” and rolled over on top of him, preventing him getting up and making coffee, straightening the sheets, finding the shirt he'd flung carelessly aside twenty minutes before, or whatever else he seemed to think required doing at that very moment.) It bothered him that there was nothing he could do, in this instance. He pushed the heavy blankets aside, swung his legs over the sofa's edge, and rose carefully. Spook regarded him disapprovingly from the arm of the sofa.

     “Trowa,” Quatre called from the kitchen, “you're not thinking of getting up, are you?”

     “No,” he grunted. He felt so weak! He grabbed at the sofa to retain his balance.

     A high pitched whistle from the kitchen pierced his skull and alerted him to Quatre's imminent return. He shut his eyes and willed his limbs to stop trembling. He had to compose himself. He had to show Quatre that he was fine, that he was able to function. He took a step away from the sofa.

     It was as though a huge, invisible hand had grabbed him around the chest and was squeezing hard. He gasped. With his other hand, his invisible assailant proceeded to hammer at his temple with what could well have been an ice pick. Black spots danced before his eyes. He sat back down quickly, clutching his head in pain. Spook abandoned his perch on the arm of the sofa to pad over to him and fix him with a “Well, I warned you,” look that Trowa did not appreciate.

     Quatre appeared a moment later, a mug of tea in his hand, while Trowa was still trying to rearrange his blankets. He took one look at Trowa, made a small “tsk” sound, then set the tea down on the low coffee table in front of the sofa, and went to assist him. “You're sick,” he said.

     “I know.”

     “So deal with it.”

     Trowa tilted his head back against the sofa cushions and accepted the mug Quatre put into his hands. He inhaled deeply; the lemon-scented steam felt good against his sore throat.

     “It's lemon-ginseng-honey-eucalyptus-acacia-I forget what else,” Quatre informed him. “No sugar.”

     “Thank you.” He took a sip.

     “Wait until it's cooled a bit; you'll burn your tongue.”

     “Oh, stop babying me.” He glanced up, saw the hurt in Quatre's eyes. “I'm sorry.” He reached out to touch the other boy's hand, then froze as he remembered his reason for spending the morning and half the night out on the fire escape. He let the hand fall against the blankets. “I guess I'm not a very good patient.”

     “You're terrible,” Quatre agreed warmly, completing the gesture by closing his hand around Trowa's thin, fevered wrist and giving it a squeeze.

     Trowa attempted to pull away. “Don't-” he protested. Quatre held on. “I mean it. You shouldn't. I don't want you to get...” He sighed helplessly.

     “You ARE terrible,” Quatre observed, his brows knitting together. “I would think you'd be used to it, with Cathy as your sister. Being babied, I mean.” He quirked his eyebrows. “Or maybe you're this way BECAUSE she babied you?”

     “No, I was always this way. Kids catch everything, you know. But when I was with the mercenaries, it didn't matter how sick I was. If I couldn't keep up, I would be left behind. If I complained, I'd be told to keep quiet, or to get lost. The thought of being completely alone...” Strange how the memory brought sadness, when it never had before Quatre. The other boy had found the lost key to his heart, his emotions, his memories, and set them free. And he was so grateful. But at the moment he did not want Quatre to fuss over him. His head hurt too much.

     Quatre seemed to sense his need for calm and quiet. Instead of hugging him convulsively and showering him with sympathetic words, he simply placed his other hand on Trowa's brow and stroked the dry, hot skin gently. “That's terrible,” he murmured. “I remember being sick as a kid. My sisters took care of me.” He laughed fondly. “Sometimes it's not so great to have six older sisters who are studying to be doctors. Looking back, I appreciate it, though. Even my father was concerned when I was ill. I don't think it was just because I was his heir. I can't imagine what it must have been like for you. Poor Trowa...”

     Trowa wrinkled his nose and tried to shake him off. Quatre smiled grimly at his efforts. “Give it up,” he said finally, when Trowa fell back, panting. “I love you.”

     “I know.”

     “I'll call Headquarters, tell them we're not coming in today.”

     “ ‘We'?”

     “YOU'RE not going anywhere. And I want to stay here and take care of you.”

     “Mmm.” Trowa covered the hand that still rested on his brow. “I can't let you do that.”

     “Why not?”

     “Because I love you too much to wish this on you. Please, Quatre. I love every stubborn bone in your beautiful body, but, please.”

     Quatre seemed to mull that over. His eyes sparkled as he shook his head, after a very brief moment. “I'd rather be sick with you than healthy without you.” He grinned impishly at Trowa's groan of defeat. “I love taking care of you. You know that. I'm yours in sickness and in health.”

     “Quatre, NO.”

     “Well, give me one good reason why I shouldn't. And I'm sorry, catching your flu isn't good enough for the hopelessly smitten.”

     “ ‘The hopelessly smitten'?” It was so easy, but Trowa pretended to think hard. Finally, when what seemed an appropriate time had passed, he forced the corners of his lips upward. He let go of Quatre's hand and reached up to muss his wispy blond bangs. Physical contact was risky, but Quatre was a temptation he could not resist. “Well,” he said, knowing Quatre thought he would not be able to come up with anything self-sacrificing enough to mollify him, “if you catch what I have...once I'm well again...if you're sick, I won't be able to fuck you.” He sipped his tea and watched Quatre's reaction over the rim of his mug.

     It was as priceless as he had known it would be. Quatre's fair skin went approximately the shade of a very ripe strawberry and his turquoise eyes darkened to teal as his lashes swept downward to shadow his burning cheeks. His breaths became shaky, shallow. Trowa's hand left his hair to investigate his lap. Sure enough, his prediction was correct.

     “Three,” Quatre mumbled, which Trowa did not understand. “It's not fair. You know me too well.”

     “Well, I know where your brain is,” Trowa teased weakly. “In your pants.”

     “No, dummy, it's in yours!”

     “You have my number.”

     “Of course.”

     “I want you to call me every hour.”

     “Quatre.” Trowa rolled his eyes.

     “Well, if you feel any worse. Or if you get lonely. Or if you just want to talk. For any reason. And you have Duo and Hilde's number, and Relena's private number, and Sally's, in case you can't reach me. And I put the number for the doctor on the fridge. I mean, there's one at Headquarters, but Dr. Tetenbaum's office is closer. And I called Mrs. Brown upstairs and she said that if you need anything from the store, you can just call her and she'll send her son...”

     From where he lay on the sofa, Trowa nodded absently. He half-heard what Quatre was saying. The pills he had swallowed were beginning to take effect and he was becoming drowsy. Quatre scrutinized the Post-it notes on the refrigerator once more, decided he was satisfied with the roster of names and numbers Trowa could call upon in case disaster struck, and moved to the now-cluttered coffee table. He examined its contents critically.

     “I wish I had time to run to the store. I'll go on the way home, okay? Anyway, you have plenty of aspirin, cough drops, cough syrup, and tissues. Do you even have a cough? I took all the tea out of the cupboard and put it on the counter. Herbal, since caffeine is bad when your throat hurts, I think. I left the honey out, too. Umm...I know you said you're not hungry, but there's a few cans of soup in the cabinet above the sink.”

     “I know where they are.” Trowa flashed him a very sleepy smile. “I put them there.”

     Quatre glanced down at him, his brow furrowed. “I'm being obnoxious, huh?”

     Trowa yawned. “No, you're being adorable. I can't wait to get better.” He said, softly, as his eyelids went down, “First thing I'll do is tear your clothes off with my teeth. Then I'll cover your entire amazing body with honey, so you'd better buy some more while you're shopping, later. Then I'll lick it off...slowly.” If he hadn't been an inch away from sleep, and if his body had not ached so terribly, he would have pantomimed what he intended to do once he was well again.

     Quatre made a gurgling sound. He had his body under control, however. Instead of melting, he moved around the coffee table unsteadily, and bent over Trowa's stretched-out form. He laid a hand on one blanket-covered shoulder and squeezed. “Sleep, Trowa,” he said gently, and kissed his temple. Trowa was too weak to protest. “I'll be back, love.” That was the last thing Trowa heard before he fell into a drugged, fitful slumber.

     Quatre stood over him for a moment, gazing at his sleeping lover's face, listening to the faintly rasping breaths. They had been living together for almost a year, now, and in that time Quatre had come to realize what power and spirit belied his lover's slender frame. He was a truly strong person. Which was why it wounded Quatre so deeply to see him this way; huddled under those thick blankets, with those dark smudges like bruises under his closed eyes, he seemed so frail. He understood Trowa's fear of appearing to be helpless. He had been conditioned, for years, to rely upon himself alone. What could he do when his own body failed him?

     Quatre did not want to leave. He wanted to give Trowa what he had never had growing up, which was the comfort of knowing that someone was always standing by. But neither did he want Trowa angry with him. And he would be, if he remained. Trowa wanted to appear self-sufficient, at least in his own eyes. And he knew that the other boy had a point, one that appealed to more than his libido. Trowa's hand rested limply on the pillow beneath his head. Quatre kissed the delicate gold ring that circled his lover's finger. Except for the language of the inscription on the inside of the band, it was identical to the one Quatre wore on his own hand. (It had taken him so long to find a second ring in that same rare sunflowers-at-sunset gold, but the look on Trowa's face when he had presented it to him on their one-year anniversary had been more than worth the trouble. “You know what this is going to look like,” Trowa had said as Quatre slipped the ring onto his finger. “People are going to think we're married.” “What's wrong with that?” Quatre had countered. Trowa had sighed and smiled. “Not a thing in the world.” And then they'd made love on that white-sand beach in Santorini. It had been a perfect day.)

     The thing was, Quatre thought, he really did feel as though he were married to Trowa-in his heart, if not in fact. If he ever told that to Trowa, the other boy would probably laugh (an occurrence that had become almost frequent since they'd begun living together) or become shy and embarrassed. He had meant it, when he'd told Trowa that he was his, in sickness and in health. And it hurt him a little that Trowa had not KNOWN that he would fuss over him when he was sick, although he supposed the other boy had a point. All right, a good one, Quatre admitted. Still, he was not pleased.

     He glanced down at Spook, seated on the floor by the sofa. For such a disheveled-all right, ugly, Quatre thought-cat, Spook could look exceedingly prim when he wanted to. Quatre waggled a finger under the orange, unamused eyes. “Just this once, you and I have to be on the same side. I want you to watch over him.” Knowing what a risk he was taking, he put his hands under the cat's arms and lifted him to the sofa. Once he felt something solid beneath his hind paws, Spook wriggled free and positioned himself in the curve of Trowa's back. Amazed that he still had skin, Quatre said, feeling silly, but finding an outlet for his anxiety in babble, “Stay there. I want someone with him when he wakes up. I'm going to leave the window in the kitchen open a crack so you can go out if you have to, but if he wakes up alone because you're fighting or sniffing around that calico tart across the street, I swear I'll bring home a dog. A big dog. A wolf.” He gave Spook his most professional, business-like look. “Do we have an understanding?” He did not wait for a reply; he was too afraid he might actually get one. He kissed Trowa one last time, then went to retrieve his jacket from the kitchen. He knew that if he looked at Trowa again he would not be able to leave, so he walked swiftly out of the apartment and closed the door softly behind him.

It really was not fair that Trowa was sick on such a fine autumn day, Quatre thought as he walked aimlessly though the park near the Preventers' Headquarters, sipping his chai latté. It was about two in the afternoon, and the brief midday heat had passed, leaving the air crisp and fresh. The cloudless sky gleamed like a polished jewel and held a powdery indigo hue, a color Quatre more often associated with the sea than the sky. The leaves on the trees were still green, but gilded around the edges, as though the change of season was creeping up on them slowly, like a wave on a beach. Chrysanthemums had replaced the roses and Queen-Anne's-lace of a month ago. He missed the hum of summer insects, the cicadas and the June Bugs; only a few hardy Monarch butterflies remained, drifting through the park like tiny flame-colored kites.

     Quatre paused by a small, flagstone-rimmed pond. Between the clumps of dead flower petals floating on the surface, the water was dark green, almost black. A month ago, it had been full of green frogs. Quatre picked up a stick that lay beside the pond and began to push the petals aside. As he did, he caught a flicker of movement as a turtle, its cover exposed, dove deeper under the water. “Not warm enough for sunning, huh?” Quatre sighed and dropped the stick. “Wonder when you start hibernating. Seems like everything's going into hiding.”

     Trowa loved the autumn. It had taken him long enough to choose a favorite season, but after much prodding from Quatre he had finally made his selection. Quatre was not completely thrilled, but he thought Trowa's reasoning made some sense, if only because he knew the other boy so well. (“I don't get it,” Quatre had said. That had been back in mid-October of last year, while they were still hunting for the perfect apartment. “You told me summer was depressing because it didn't last. Why is autumn better?” Trowa had looped an arm through his, and smiled his shy, secretive smile. They walked in silence a little way down the leaf-strewn path before he replied, “Well, by the time autumn rolls around I've resigned myself to the fact that winter comes next, so it's not as depressing. And it's not as hot. And you wear that cute sweater.” “What, this one?” Quatre looked down in surprise at the oversized, cider-colored wool sweater. “What's so special about this one?” Trowa put his hands on his waist and pulled him close. “You look adorable in it.” His green eyes glittered. “And it comes off.” He lowered his hands to the bottom of the sweater and lifted it over Quatre's denim-clad backside. Quatre blinked. “Right now?”)

     One would think, Quatre thought, that he had spent the entirety of the past ten months making up for all the years he had spent not even knowing what sex was. And one would be very nearly correct, he decided, with a grin. He could not help it, and he had no regrets. He loved Trowa with his whole heart. The other boy fulfilled him in every way possible, not merely sexually. He missed him so much today. Trowa's love of autumn went beyond his predilection toward Quatre's sweater and having sex in piles of colored leaves. Quatre wished he were there to appreciate this day with him. He knew there were fine points he was missing. Probably the day was even more beautiful than it seemed. Trowa could point out to him all the small things he had overlooked, and together they would make a complete picture.

     It was some time before he realized someone was calling his name. He looked up, startled. On a bench across pond from where he stood, Hilde Schbeicker and Relena Darlian sat with a girl whom he did not at first recognize, sharing a picnic lunch. He waved. Hilde beckoned to him, so, grateful, he downed the remainder of his latté, dropped the empty cup into a nearby trashcan, and hurried to join them.

     He recognized the third girl as soon as he drew close enough to see her face. Though they had only met once, at that party in New York City back in December, he had taken a quick liking to her, so he had never forgotten Sylvia Noventa. She had been endearingly awkward, but he supposed the presence of all those snooty, self-important rich people was not something that would bring out the best in a sweet, shy girl like Sylvia. He, Trowa, and Dorothy Catalonia had had a good time that night, poking fun at the other billionaires in their too-tight dresses and tuxedoes, making her laugh. She looked as though she did not need his help, now. An easy, self-assured smile warmed her pretty face, and her eyes sparkled merrily. On her purple sweatshirt were the words SMITH COLLEGE: THREE CENTURIES OF WOMEN ON TOP. [1] He remembered Relena telling him in the spring that her friend was interested in colleges. Apparently, she had followed through with that interest and it had been good for her.

     “Sit down,” Hilde commanded from her perch on the back of the bench. Once Quatre was seated between Sylvia and Relena, the petite, raven-haired girl handed him a brown paper bag. “Take one.”

     Quatre reached into the bag and pulled out a small, lumpy, powder-covered white mound. He eyed it suspiciously.

     “EAT it,” Hilde said, rolling her eyes. “They're Mexican wedding cookies. Sylvia made them. They're incredible.” As though to further persuade him, she snatched the bag back, took a cookie, and popped it into her mouth. “Mmm.” Her eyelashes fluttered as though she were experiencing a paroxysm of ecstasy.

     Aware of three expectant gazes upon him, Quatre took a dainty nibble of his own cookie. It WAS very good. When he told Sylvia so, her cheeks reddened. He was glad she had not changed all that much; he liked that there was someone in the world whom he could make blush. (He remembered what Trowa had said to him-well, one of many things Trowa said to him-as they walked back from the party to the Plaza Hotel that night: “She has a crush on you.” Quatre denied it hotly. “No way! You're the one she has a crush on. You saw her face when you asked her to dance with you.” “But all she did was talk about you,” Trowa informed him with a slightly superior air. Quatre harrumphed. “Probably because she was too shy to talk about you to your face. You're the one everyone ogles. I look like I'm ten years old. You're sexy. I'm just cute. Who gets crushes on me?” “Idiot, I do!” Trowa laughed as he thwapped him.)

     Almost as though she sensed his turn of thought, Sylvia said, politely, “I heard you got back from Greece a few weeks ago.”

     Quatre lit up at once. “Five weeks ago,” he said, smiling. What a vacation that had been: long, sunny days of sailing, swimming, fishing, exploring ruins, long nights lying in Trowa's arms in a hammock, listening to the gentle waves, watching the stars...

     “Did you get to Athens, the Acropolis, all of that?” the girl asked.

     “We were in Athens for two days. Actually, it wasn't that great. Athens is big and crowded, and confusing. We got so lost! But the Acropolis was nice. We saw the Parthenon and Erektheion, and the temple of Poseidon at Sounion. And there are some great restaurants in Plaka. Mostly, we went island hopping.”

     “The joys of the company jet,” Relena said, grinning.

     “Well, we rented a boat,” Quatre corrected. “It was so funny. Neither of us had ever been on a boat before, but Trowa wanted to do something athletic, but not TOO athletic, and I wanted to go to an island. So we took a crash course at the marina about a month before the trip. It's not THAT hard, steering a boat.”

     “Not for a mobile suit pilot,” Hilde put in proudly, as though she had played some role in Quatre and Trowa's nautical adventure. All three girls had by then hitched quite close to him. Quatre felt self-conscious under their rapt gazes, but to his surprise, he found himself enjoying the attention. He had always adored Hilde and admired Relena greatly, and he felt quite comfortable with Sylvia. Rather stage-struck, he continued. Hilde, of course, had heard all about his Greek vacation, but she seemed not to mind as he regaled Relena and Sylvia with his tale of romance and adventure on the high seas.

     “Did Trowa really save you from a shark?” Relena asked at one point, in a hushed, awe-struck tone.

     Before Quatre had a chance to answer, Hilde jumped in with a triumphant, “I've seen the scars! And I've watched enough dumb nature shows with Duo to know what shark attack scars look like. He didn't get those honeys shaving. I mean, if he shaved his legs.”

     “It was a small shark,” Quatre amended. “I might have been able to fight it off myself. But I was so surprised! I shouldn't have been swimming there, anyway. And I'm NEVER going to swim in the ocean ever again!” he swore vehemently.

     “Yeah, but listen to what Trowa did!” Hilde exclaimed, almost falling off her perch in her excitement. Sylvia, Relena, and Quatre swiveled to look up at her. “He was in the boat and he saw the shark coming, so he grabbed a knife-” Hilde brandished an invisible blade high in the air “-and he slashed his own arm and jumped into the water so the shark would go for him and not Quatre. That's love.” Sylvia clapped a hand to her mouth in horror and wonder.

     “Did he kill the shark?” Relena wanted to know.

     Here, Quatre reclaimed the reins. “No. He just hit it with one of the aluminum oars from the lifeboat.”

     “And the shark decided it would be better to try and get his nibblets elsewhere,” Hilde finished. She sighed thoughtfully. “I wonder if Duo would do that for me. I asked him if I jumped into the shark tank at the aquarium and he said, ‘Of course', but I don't know... Maybe if I tied the TV remote to my head.”

     “Was Trowa badly hurt?” Sylvia asked anxiously.

     Quatre shook his head. “No, thank...everything. The shark bit his leg, but the slash he gave himself was actually deeper. We just hurried to the next island as quickly as we could and went straight to the hospital. We were only there for a few hours. Still, I don't think I've ever been so terrified in my life.” The girls breathed a collective sigh of relief, even Hilde who often wondered why SHE didn't get to have exciting vacations like that. “It wasn't ALL traumatizing,” he assured them. (Actually, he had a sneaking suspicion Trowa liked that he had been given the opportunity to save his lover from a vicious predator. His eyes always took on a soft glow when he remembered the incident. Quatre, on the other hand, would be happy to forget the whole thing. Watching the foam that hid their writhing bodies turn red, and knowing it was because Trowa was bleeding would always give him nightmares.) “Actually, most of it was wonderful. The Aegean Sea is so blue, it's almost purple. We saw all these great ruins. The islands were so beautiful. We got to Mykonos, Delos, Santorini, Meteora, Rhodes, Crete...” Sylvia did not seem convinced. Her face was still pale.

     “I can vouch for that,” Hilde said, seeing the other girl's uncertain expression. “Every few days Duo and I got these postcards from Quatre of sunsets and beautiful, beautiful white-sand beaches. All they said was, ‘WE ARE STILL ALIVE; WISH YOU WERE HERE.' And then underneath someone with entirely different handwriting wrote, ‘BUT WE'RE VERY GLAD YOU'RE NOT.'”

     Relena laughed. “I believe you. I'm glad you had a...memorable anniversary vacation, Quatre.”

      “We swam with dolphins!” Quatre exclaimed. He sensed his tale was drawing to a close and he did not wish to relinquish his spotlight, yet. He pulled his wallet from his trouser pocket and flipped through the pictures. He found the one he wanted and handed it to the girls, deftly covering his favorite picture with his hand-the one of Trowa lying supine in the sand, sound asleep, a dreamy smile curving his lips, a pair of very wet, very transparent white swim trunks clinging flimsily as sea foam to his otherwise bare bronzed body.

     The girls cooed over the picture of Quatre swimming with the dolphins. Passing it back, they informed him that the dolphins were cute, but he was cuter, and that he and Trowa were both very lucky. He already knew that, but he blushed and thanked them, anyway.

     After another round of Mexican wedding cookies, Relena asked, “So, where is your taller half?” She peered about the park. “How come he hasn't rescued you from us girls, yet?”

     “Us evil chickies?” Hilde giggled.

     “He's sick,” Quatre said, glumly. He had not forgotten how keenly he missed his lover, but the girls' interest in his story had been a welcome distraction. Now, thinking once again of the person he loved, lying ill and uncomfortable back at their apartment, his spirits sank abruptly.

     “Is it serious?” Hilde asked, worriedly. Quatre had made no effort to hide his woeful expression.

     The boy shrugged. “It's the flu. And it's-Trowa. He's not used to being sick. He's so stupid!” he burst out, suddenly, startling the girls. When he had finished telling them what Trowa had done that morning-standing outside in the freezing cold so Quatre would not be exposed to his germs, and then not allowing him to stay home and take care of him-instead of siding with him as he had hoped, Hilde, Relena, and Sylvia sighed dreamily.

     “That's so...sweet!” Sylvia exclaimed passionately, her dove-grey eyes going soft.

     Relena's light brown braid swung about her slender shoulders as she nodded her head vigorously. “Oh, Quatre, he loves you so much. I mean, even if he hadn't wrestled a shark for you... Wow. To have a boyfriend like that...” She blinked suddenly, and looked away and Quatre wondered if she and Heero were having problems.

     “It's adorable,” Hilde allowed. “But it's really dumb, too.” Of the four of them, she was the least romantic in nature.

     Quatre flashed her a quick smile of thanks. “He's the most wonderful person in the world. I want to do something for him. It would be the first time anyone's ever done anything for him when he was sick.”

     The girls looked shocked. “Never?” Relena demanded, her sky-blue eyes flashing.

     Quatre shook his head. “When he was younger, he traveled with a troop of mercenary soldiers. None of them had the patience or the kindness to look after a sick kid. If he complained, they threatened to leave him behind.”

     Hilde tore her trademark raspberry-colored beret from her head and slapped it against the bench, angrily. “That's disgusting!” she snarled. “I remember being sick as a kid. I got to stay home from school. My grandma took care of me. She made me grilled cheese sandwiches, bought me soda, let me play my big brothers' video games. Being sick as a kid is...it's a right! It's a goddamn privilege!”

     “Pargan always looked after me when I wasn't well,” Relena put in, smiling at the memory. “He would carry me downstairs and let me lie on the sofa in the drawing room, and talk to me while he did the books and things. And he had Mrs. Linden, our cook, who I used to be so afraid of, make me tea and cookies.”

     “EXACTLY,” Quatre said. “I have stories like that, too. But Trowa never got to know what it was like to have someone take care of him. That's why I want to do something really special for him, to show him that from now on, he DOES have someone.” He cast his gaze skyward in frustration. “I wish I could call his sister, Catherine. She knows every home remedy in the world. But she's touring with the circus right now, and I want to do something! But I can't think of anything! Do any of you know,” he said, turning to them in appeal, “what's the best, most universal thing you can do when the person you love is sick?”

     Relena and Hilde thought about it, but Sylvia replied, immediately, “Chicken soup.”

      Quatre blinked. “Chicken soup? That's it? You're sure?”

     Sylvia nodded. “Absolutely. It's the best possible thing you can give a person who's sick.”

     “But that's-so easy!” Quatre's eyes widened in amazement. He was so relieved; this was something he could do! “I was planning on stopping by the store anyway, on the way home,” he said excitedly. “I can just pick up a few cans... What?” Sylvia, Hilde, and Relena were looking at him, aghast, and shaking their heads.

     Hilde hit him with her beret. “You can't BUY chicken soup!” she snapped, as though she were belaboring the painfully obvious. “I mean, you CAN, but it's not the same. You have to make it yourself. With your own sweat! With your own blood!”

     “Well, anyway, you have to make it yourself,” Sylvia said, laughing, as Quatre looked at Hilde in dismay.

     He turned to the blonde girl. “I can't,” he said, softly.

     “Why not? It's so easy.”

     Quatre lowered his lashes in shame. He said in a low, embarrassed tone, “I just-I can't. Seriously, I'm a disaster in the kitchen. I can't even fry an egg. The first time I tried to cook for Trowa, I almost poisoned him. Anything I tried to make for him would only make him sicker. I would do anything for Trowa, but I can't do that. There has to be another way.”

     Sylvia shook her head, her eyes wide with empathy. “There's really nothing in the world like having someone who loves you cook for you when you're sick.”

     Hilde slapped her own forehead, as though struck by sudden inspiration. “I know! Sylvia, you were going to teach us how to make your grandmother's Ultimate Amaretto Chocolate Cheesecake this afternoon. Why doesn't Quatre come with us? We can help him out!”

     Quatre brightened. “You'll make the soup? Hilde, that would be so-”

     Relena raised a peremptory hand. “Whoa, Quatre. We'll tell you what to do, but you're making this thing on your own.”

     “But-no! I can't!” He looked, beseechingly, at Hilde, the girlfriend of his closest friend, after Trowa. A memory flashed in his mind, of Trowa oh-so-trustingly swallowing a dollop of the sauce that Quatre had asked him to try-then almost tripping over the kitchen table in his mad dash for the sink, clutching his seared tongue, his eyes wide and tearing with surprise and pain. He grabbed Hilde's hand. “I can't do it. I just can't. No, Hilde! No!” Hilde clouted him again with her beret and yanked her hand free. He bit his lip and made a small, despairing sound in his throat.

     The three girls looked at one another, and then back at him, crossing their arms over their chests and grinning in triumph. “Yes,” they said together. “Oh, yes.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PART TWO

     "The place is kind of a mess," Hilde announced as she balanced her bag of groceries on one knee and unlocked the door to the apartment she and Duo Maxwell shared. She did not, however, apologize.

     Once inside, they were assaulted by a long, dripping, pink tongue, attached to a shaggy mass of tan fur. "Down, Kali!" Hilde snapped, shoving her way past the dog, which was nearly as big as she was, and into the kitchen. Relena followed her, but Sylvia and Quatre remained in the hallway, entranced.

     "I want a dog so badly," Quatre said as he held his palm out for the animal to lick. "Trowa promised we'll get one, eventually, but his cat-oh, well, our cat-is old and mean, and he'd probably eat any dog we brought home. It doesn't matter how big. Trowa said he killed a stray rottweiller, once. Well, the rottweiller attacked, first. Trowa says."

     Sylvia smiled and scratched behind the dog's long, tufted ears. Kali tilted her head back and whined adoringly at the girl. "A collie named Kali," [3] she mused. "Duo's idea?"

     "Who else's?" He laughed. "Hilde says the only reason she went along with it is because she can use it as evidence against any assumption of Duo's intelligence."

     While the girls unpacked the groceries in the small kitchen, Quatre called Trowa from the telephone in the bedroom. He twisted the phone cord around his fingers anxiously while he waited for the other to answer. Three rings...and still nothing. Pick up, he commanded silently. Come on. Just let me hear your voice so I know you're all right. So I know you haven't done something stupid like decided you're well enough and left the apartment. After five rings, though, all he got was their answer machine. "Well, this had better mean you're asleep again," he said, less than pleased. "You SHOULD be, after staying up all night. So dumb." He flushed with contrition and whispered earnestly, "Sorry, Trowa. Just...if you DID decide to be stupid and go out, PLEASE lie to me when I get home?" He considered telling Trowa what he was doing at Duo and Hilde's apartment, but decided to keep it a secret, at least for now. If this latest foray into the kitchen ended in disaster (as, given his previous forays, there was no reason to believe it would not), he did not want Trowa to know. As softly as though he were imparting vital information, he added, "Love you."

     Once he had replaced the phone in its cradle, he flopped back against the haphazardly made bed and stared at the ceiling. Three soprano voices fluttered to him from the kitchen. With the door between him and them, he could not tell what they were saying. He wondered if they were discussing him. He felt uneasy. Not only about the cooking. He wished Duo were home; Not counting the few weeks he had spent in the Sanq Kingdom four years ago, he had never before been alone with so many girls who were not his sisters. He did not know how act. He had no experiences to draw from.

     His memories of the girls in the Sanq Kingdom were no help. They had been very young, and too excited by the presence of two male students to do more than whisper, giggle, and then back away shyly the few times he had tried to talk to them. And his sisters did not count. With the exception of Iria and a few others, they had never been more than distant, dimly remembered figures in his life. The youngest, Zubeyda, had discovered rock stars and perfume and boys and other strange things while his bedtime was still six in the evening. As the youngest in the family, and the precious, much-protected male heir, he had hardly been their equal. He had a number of nieces and nephews who were actually older than he was; he supposed it was only natural his sisters saw him as another baby to be bossed around.

     There was his strange friendship with Dorothy Catalonia. He believed they had reached a tenuous understanding while he was recovering from the stab wound she had inflicted upon him during their fight on the Libra. He had forgiven her-how could he not, when she seemed genuinely sorry and when Trowa had so readily forgiven him for the things he had done during his own Zero System-induced rampage? Since then, she seemed to drift in and out of his life, somehow managing to appear when he most needed a very different perspective. He would never have found Trowa's ring in time for their anniversary without her help. Still, he had never once in the nearly five years of their acquaintance assumed Dorothy was a typical girl.

     Catherine was not his friend, he thought bemusedly, despite their mutual devotion to Trowa. He had earned her respect, he felt, but until he convinced her brother to quit the Preventers, bought him an actual palace complete with servants, valets, and whatever else she imagined he could afford, she would never count him as a friend. Remembering his past attempts at winning Catherine's approval gave him an idea. Suddenly energized, he jumped off the bed and hurried to the kitchen.

     The girls were still setting things up. He poked his head through the doorframe. When they looked up, he said, excitedly, "Hilde, do you have a telephone directory?"

     "Under the bed. Why?"

     He was gone in a second. When he returned ten minutes later, Hilde was pouring spiced tea. She passed him a mug. "There's sugar...er, somewhere in all of this." She gestured expansively around the kitchen. Both counter and tabletop looked close to overflowing with cooking implements. "Trowa feeling better?" He shrugged and inhaled the tea's delicious aroma. It was still too hot to sip. "So, who else did you call?"

     "The florist on Park Street." He grinned. "Trowa loves the autumn and it's such a beautiful day, I'm sorry he can't enjoy it. So I sent him a huge bouquet of chrysanthemums and-I forget what else. If it comes while he's still sleeping I asked the delivery boy to have our neighbor...what?" Relena and Sylvia had turned away abruptly and made themselves very busy with something in the sink.

     Hilde rolled her eyes. "They're pathetic." Aimed at the other two girls, "He's TAKEN, you realize?"

     "We're not that pathetic." Relena heaved a sigh and turned around. "Although I might send Heero to you for lessons. Actually, we feel badly because, through no fault of your own, Quatre, you're the world's sweetest guy, and we feel pretty bad about what we're about to do to you."

     Sylvia laughed at Quatre's utterly blank expression. "Feel ready to dissect a chicken, Quatre?"

     "Er-" he replied.

     While Sylvia explained what he was to do Hilde and Relena pressed close to him, as though they expected him to bolt if they gave him room to. He couldn't have, though, and if he could have found his voice, he would have told them that. He was petrified-unable to move or speak.

     "It's only a chicken, Quatre," Relena said in an attempt to sooth him.

     "At least we didn't make you kill it," Hilde added mischievously.

     "Watch closely," Sylvia said, rolling up her sleeves, "because I'm only going to start this for you. You have to do the rest." He managed to swallow and nod. Sylvia grasped the chicken by its drumsticks and lifted it so that the tail was pointing upward like a lumpy arrow. A thin pinkish juice dribbled down its wrinkled, yellow sides. "You want to take off the fat," she told him, "but not the skin, since that'll make the soup nice and rich. This," she said, digging her fingers into the skin and peeling it back, "is fat." She indicated the slimy globs that clung to the underside of the skin. "That's what you want to slice off and throw away." She held out a hand. "Knife?" Hilde fashioned her with one from the drawer under the counter. While Quatre watched, she slid the knife under the skin and began to slice away at the clinging fat.

     "That's disgusting," said Relena.

     "I'm so glad Duo never gets sick," said Hilde.

     "Ulp," said Quatre. Then, his voice heavy with incredulity, "This is going to heal Trowa?"

     Sylvia nodded vigorously. Wisps of pale blonde hair fell in her eyes as she did; she swiped them away with the back of her forearm. She glanced over her shoulder at Quatre and fixed him with a challenging eye. "You think that was disgusting? Watch this." She put the knife down. Once again she grasped the chicken by its drumsticks and, while Quatre looked on, utterly horrified, spread what had once been the bird's legs-wide. "Hand?" Quatre blinked at her dumbly. "Yours, silly," she said. Hilde shoved him forward. His pelvis hit the sink and he found himself looking directly down into-he did NOT want to think about it. He did not realize Sylvia had taken his hand in her own until his fingertips touched slimy chicken skin. Suddenly he was able to move. He recoiled violently. Relena and Hilde were anticipating his reaction and stopped him breaking away.

      "It's already dead, Quatre; you can't hurt it," Hilde pointed out not very helpfully.

     "He looks sicker than the chicken," Relena observed.

     "It's okay," Sylvia assured him, gently. She did not, however, let go of his hand. "This is the really disgusting part, so I figured it would be better to get it over with, first. That means once this is done you can do nice, easy things like chop vegetables." He nodded mechanically. He couldn't tear his gaze from the chicken. It occurred to him-unfortunately-that he was staring straight into its ass. Dimly he heard Sylvia say, "They put the giblets-that's the heart and the liver and, well, everything else-in a paper bag. It's somewhere...down there. You have to take it out before you cook it. They're good for flavoring the soup. Then you throw them away." She added, as though struck with a sudden, brilliant idea, "Or bring them home for Trowa's cat. He'll love you forever. The cat, I mean."

     Hilde thumped him on the back. "Ready, lover boy?"

     Quatre swallowed again. "This is for Trowa," he said softly, almost to himself. "I love Trowa." With more conviction, "I love him. I'd be lost without him. I would do anything for him. Except this." He fixed his most appealing gaze on Sylvia.

     "Quatre!" Hilde exclaimed disappointedly.

     "You want me to pull out the heart of a dead chicken!"

     "Wouldn't Trowa do the same for you?"

     Quatre flashed Relena an extremely exasperated look. Then he thought about it. "You know," he admitted finally, reluctantly, "he would. And Duo and Heero would do the same thing for you," he added quickly. He sighed. "I can do this. I can. I love-you swear you're not trying to trick me? No, you wouldn't," he concluded almost to himself as Sylvia and Relena shook their heads emphatically; Hilde just laughed. "I love Trowa. I love him. I do." He repeated the words, over and over like a mantra as, scrunching his eyes shut and twisting his lips into a grimace, he slipped his hand into the chicken.

     It was slimy and cold. It was impossible to pretend his hand was anywhere except up a chicken's ass, so to keep from thinking about THAT, he thought about other things. Like Trowa. He thought about how the other young man would laugh if he knew what his lover had gotten himself into for his sake. That imagined laugh was worth this, wasn't it? Everything about Trowa was worth this, he decided. All the minor things-like the way he tilted his head so he could look at Quatre with both eyes unimpeded by his bangs, even the way he tried to convince him that cats really were wonderful creatures after Spook jumped between them in the middle of a furtive cuddle-were worth this. The major things, like his fluid grace when he moved or the way he always sounded surprised when he told Quatre he loved him-as though he were amazed to find himself capable of such strong emotions-were worth more than a hundred times this.

     On the outskirts of his imagining he heard Relena say, "He's smiling," and Sylvia say, "I wonder what he's smiling about," and Hilde add naughtily, "I wonder what he's pretending he's doing."

     Quatre flushed deeply and almost lost his concentration, but-

     Green eyes. Not hard like emeralds, but a softer, deeper green, like mint leaves in shadow. That wonderful, smooth olive skin...

     His fingertips brushed something papery. Ah! That must be-

     No, no. Smooth olive skin scented like-like-a secret forest clearing steeped with deep green shadows. Touching that skin, looking into those eyes, and knowing that all the sweet and exciting mysteries of the world were no farther away than his fingertips.

     His hand closed around something made of thoroughly soaked paper. "I've got it!" he gasped. He opened his eyes. During his fantasizing, the girls had been busy. Someone had set a large pot full of water on the stove. Someone else had set up a cutting board on the table, with a knife, peeler, and assorted herbs and vegetables.

     Sylvia flashed him a dazzling smile over her shoulder. "That's wonderful, Quatre!" she enthused. "Just throw that into the pot, without the paper, I mean, and get rid of the fat, and the hard part's over!"

     Hilde and Relena were looking at him so frankly desirously that he flushed again. "It really wasn't that hard," he said quickly, and turned away, embarrassed.

     Hilde blinked and shook herself. "Right. Duo. Wonderful guy. So hot. So straight."

     Next they had him slicing vegetables. "This is the easy part," Sylvia said, demonstrating the peeling of a carrot. "I KNOW how to do that," he informed her pointedly. She colored and quickly pressed the carrot and peeler into his hands. To take the sting out of his remark he added, a little nervously, "I have a tendency to add too many spices and things, though." The girl brightened at his apologetic tone and promised she wouldn't let him poison Trowa inadvertently.

     Hilde, meantime, had slipped her own apron over her head and was helping Relena tie hers in back. When that was done she turned to Sylvia. "Okay, kid. Where do we begin with this romancer enhancer of yours?"

     " 'Romancer enhancer'?" Quatre glanced up. He wondered if now he would finally learn what had brought these three together this afternoon. To his surprise and immense curiosity, Relena smacked Hilde in the arm. "What?"

     "Don't," Relena pleaded, when Hilde opened her mouth.

     The black-haired girl regarded her friend. "Why not? I almost feel as though we owe him an explanation after what we've put him through. And anyway, we can say anything in front of Quatre."

     "But he wouldn't understand. He's...he's a guy!"

     Hilde rolled her eyes. "He's not a guy; He's Quatre."

     Quatre took umbrage at that. "Excuse me," he said, rising. "I AM a guy."

     "Is he going to prove it?" Hilde wondered, her eyes sparkling mischievously.

     It was Quatre's turn to roll his eyes. "You sound just like Dorothy." He realized he still held the half-peeled carrot in his hand. He waggled it at the grinning girls. "If Relena doesn't want to tell me something, she doesn't have to. But I'd like to help, if there's anything I can do. And I AM a guy," he added, at Hilde.

     "As evinced by your ineptitude in the kitchen," Hilde retorted.

     "Oh, please. That's not true at all. Heero can cook," Relena defended her boyfriend. "He's a lot better than I am, in fact."

     "Yeah, now if only he excelled in other rooms of the house," Hilde sighed gustily and, laughing, held up her hands to fend off Relena's assault.

     "There is nothing wrong with Heero's...abilities," Relena insisted as she whapped Hilde with a dishrag. "Ow!" The other girl had seized her long, glossy braid, and given it a sharp yank.

     "Then why are we here at all?" she squealed and jumped behind Quatre. "Peacecraft, you're supposed to be a pacifist!"

     "Let's talk about you, hiding behind a man, Lieutenant Schbeicker!"

     "He's not a man, he's-oif!" Quatre, tired of being a human shield, had grabbed the girl by the wrist. He unwound her arms from his waist, pulled her around to his front, and, with his free hand, held her wriggling form against him-tightly.

     Meanwhile, having heard the commotion, Kali came loping to her mistress's succor. The dog skidded into the kitchen and rammed her nose into Relena's knees, knocking her to the linoleum.

     While Sylvia simultaneously calmed the excited Kali and helped Relena to her feet, Quatre relaxed his grip on Hilde. He had not hurt her, nor had he meant to do anything other than restrain her, but he wondered, nervously, if he had been within his rights to do anything at all. It was one thing to tackle (or try to tackle) Duo in a game of football. It was quite another to tackle Duo's girlfriend. "Sorry," he said, putting Hilde from him gently.

     "Gee, I'm not." Hilde smoothed the sleeves of her shirt and flashed him a smile. She glanced over her shoulder at Relena, who was likewise straightening rumpled clothing. "I'll stop teasing. But I think after witnessing that almost-catfight-not to mention prepping a chicken for cooking-Quatre deserves to know what this is all about."

     Sylvia looked thoughtful. "Most men would consider witnessing an almost-catfight to be a reward in itself."

     "Quatre hasn't been to college. His brain isn't corrupted, like yours. Anyway," Hilde said, turning back to Quatre and laying a hand on his arm, "he may be a guy, but he's a very decent guy. He's a gentleman. Insofar as a former mobile suit pilot can be a gentleman." She smiled up at him. "I'm sorry about what I said, before."

     Her smile was bright, almost deceptively so. Quatre sensed a brittleness to it and felt a twinge of anxiety that he knew was Hilde's, not his own. "It's all right," he assured her, warmly, wondering what Hilde was anxious about. Not about what she had said, surely? Duo teased him all the time. She knew that. He had not been truly offended; he knew not to take anything Hilde-or Duo-said too seriously.

     Relena regarded him hesitantly. He met her gaze frankly, hoping she knew by now that she could trust him. He had gone away to Greece only a few weeks after she and Heero had become a couple, and he had not seen much of either of them since his return. Moreover, Heero was not exactly open when it came to his private life. So if there WAS a problem, it was unlikely Quatre would be aware of it. That bothered him. He wanted so much for the people he cared about to be happy.

     Finally, Relena shrugged and smiled, having decided, apparently, that Quatre was trustworthy. "First of all," she said, and to Quatre's surprise, her smile deepened, even as her cheeks went bright red, "I want to make it known to everyone present that Heero is second to none in-in bed. Second to none." Quatre, Hilde, and Sylvia kept their opinions to themselves. "However," she said airily, reclaiming the dishrag and twisting it in her hands, "he's not exactly, um..."

     "A romp?" Hilde suggested.

     "He is everything a woman could want." Relena tossed her hair. "He just lacks a certain... Well, he doesn't have much in the way of a sense of...fun." She turned away, blushing from the collar of her sweater to her hairline.

     "Which is where my grandmother's Ultimate Amaretto Chocolate Cheesecake comes into play," Sylvia said, putting a comforting hand on Relena's shoulder.

     "A cheesecake is going to cure Heero?" Quatre was skeptical.

     Sylvia fixed him with a confident glance. "This is my grandmother's Ultimate Amaretto Chocolate Cheesecake. My grandmother is Italian; she knows food. She knew what she was doing when she perfected this recipe. My grandparents had a very...healthy relationship."

     Quatre wondered if either Relena or Sylvia thought it ironic that Sylvia was so eager to help the person who had brought an end to her grandparents' healthy relationship, albeit unwittingly. Although the fact that she was so willing and forgiving elevated Quatre's good opinion of her.

     "And we're going to test it on Duo!" Hilde bubbled. "Not that Duo needs any help," she added hastily. "Well, not in that department." She turned to Quatre. "Want to bring some home to Trowa?"

     "Um...that's all right." Blushing brightly, Quatre sat down quickly and resumed his carrot peeling with great industry.

     It was a learning experience, and an unexpectedly pleasant one. Duo and Hilde's apartment was one of the few places where he felt truly comfortable, where he did not feel as though some great responsibility rested upon his shoulders. The apartment had not changed, despite the fact that Duo was not there; the walls were still adorned with photographs of their circle of friends and Hilde's very good (sometimes very interesting) sketches and paintings. The surroundings were familiar, calming. Afternoon sunlight streaming through the gingham curtains and delicious cooking smells filling the air made him feel a little sleepy, too. It reminded him slightly of those long ago times when he had sat with the Maguanacs around their cooking fires, the distinct taste of the desert air mingling with the aroma of the food, listening to songs and pleasant conversation, forgetting for a while that once the sun rose, they would all be fighting for their lives.

     The awkwardness he had anticipated never really materialized and it was not long before he retracted his wish for Duo to appear and rescue him. The girls welcomed him into their little circle, not as a novelty or as a baby bird who needed mothering (as his sisters would have done), but as an equal. Possibly they censored themselves in his presence, but Quatre neither noticed nor minded. Relena told them about Heero's finer points, and then asked Quatre about Trowa. (It did not take them long to discover his favorite topic of conversation. They agreed that Trowa was a little selfish for making Quatre wait on getting a puppy for the sake of some psychotic cat. They assured him that he was right to berate his lover every time he left the toilet seat up. And they pleaded to hear the shark story again.) Hilde dispensed another round of spiced tea, and entertained them with some of the gross-out jokes she had learned in training as an OZ officer-some of which made Quatre's chicken ordeal seem insignificant by comparison. Even Kali ("Ooh, Quatre, another girl!" Hilde snickered) seemed to adopt him. The collie draped herself across his feet under the table, moving only to snatch slices of vegetables that occasionally fell to the floor.

     Sylvia was so patient with his ineptitude, although she never once called it that. "Anyone can cook," she told him as she leaned over his shoulder to help him measure out the parsley and dill. "You just have a mental block. Which we're going to cure today. Heero has a mental block, too," she said, aiming a smile at Relena, who stood at the counter mixing almond paste and Amaretto liqueur in a small bowl and trying to keep the partially made cheesecake filling from Hilde's eager fingers. "Hilde, your boyfriend is mental." She laughed as the other girl made a face.

     Quatre was just turning the stove dial from high to simmer when Duo came home. He hadn't heard anyone on the stairs, but suddenly Kali, heretofore lounging at his feet, let loose a cacophony of happy barking and nearly plowed over everyone in the kitchen in her haste to reach the door before her master.

     Duo's deep voice carried above the ruckus: "All right, I'm home, where are my girls-oif, there's one," as Kali slammed into him with a soft thud.

     Hilde hurried to rescue her mate. Quatre watched her unbury him from the mountain of dog, remembering that slight twinge of anxiety he had felt when he held Hilde against him, a short while ago. He detected no tension from Duo as he bent to plant a quick kiss on his girlfriend's cheek, calling her "mein strudel," [4] and grinning. Hilde tweaked his braid playfully as she replied, "liebling." [5] Kali sat by their feet, her tail sweeping back and forth. They looked, Quatre thought, as though they belonged together, all three of them. More than that, he realized with a sudden, strange twinge of his own-they looked like a family. But still something was not right. An undercurrent of worry tainted the pretty tableau.

     Duo glanced up just then, noticed the other three people in his apartment, and waved in greeting. "Yo, m'lady! What the hell are you doing here, Q-ball?" He blinked at Sylvia, his mouth half-open as though he had been about to greet her ebulliently, as well, then realized he did not know her.

     "Sylvia Noventa," she said, holding out a hand.

     "Noventa..." He snapped his fingers as he placed the name. "Like Field Marshal Noventa, the guy Heero killed. Oops." His face went bright red and contorted with abashment. "Note to self: open mouth, insert foot. Both feet. Yeesh."

     Sylvia's smile wobbled, but did not fall. She took the cheesecake-filled cake pan from where it sat cooling on the counter and held it toward Duo. "Try some," she said.

     Duo looked warily from the cheesecake to the girl's face. "It's not poisoned, is it?"

     Relena grabbed a fork and offered it to him. "It had better not be poisoned, since it's for Heero."

     Duo pouted. "HEERO gets a cheesecake? What do I get? Typical. I guess what's good enough for the Flawless One is good enough for me." He took the fork from Relena's hand and dipped it into the cheesecake. He had apparently forgotten his fear of poisoning, Quatre thought dryly, as he gathered as much as his fork could hold and popped it into his mouth, frowning thoughtfully.

     "Well?" Relena asked eagerly as he swallowed.

     A surprised smile broke over Duo's face. "Hey, that's not bad stuff!"

     "Not bad?" demanded Relena. She shot Sylvia a worried look. "Isn't it supposed to be...well, more along the lines of divine?"

     "It's not quite ready yet," Sylvia said, moving the cake pan out of Duo's reach. "It needs to cool. Just wait."

      Duo, having realized that a sampling was all he was apparently entitled to, had moved to the refrigerator. After a few moments of deep scrutiny he emerged with a jar of pickled herrings in one hand, a jar of hot fudge in the other, and cold half eggroll between his teeth. He kneed the door closed.

     Relena's eyes widened when she saw what he had chosen as his snack. "You pregnant, Duo?" she laughed.

     At that moment, several things happened at once. Quatre felt, rather than heard or saw Hilde's wince, Duo and Relena began to banter in a friendly, teasing manner, and Sylvia exclaimed with sudden interest, "Who's that?"

      She was staring at one of the many photographs of the refrigerator door. From where he stood, Quatre could not tell which.

     Duo glanced over his shoulder. "Wufei Chang, Justice Avenger," he said with relish and he and Relena resumed their simultaneous chatter.

     Hilde said, in a low, heavy voice, "I think I'll walk Kali, now." She started for the door, waving her hand for Kali to follow.

     "I'll go with you," Quatre said immediately. Hilde shot him a tired look over her shoulder and shrugged.

     "I'll just hang out with Relena and Sylvia," Duo announced with a slightly impudent grin. "Help with the cheesecake."

     "You'll do no such thing," Hilde snapped. "This kitchen is off-limits. No guys allowed."

     "Ahem?" Pointing his half-eaten eggroll in Quatre's direction.

     Hilde rolled her eyes. "Quatre's here by special dispensation. Aside from him, women only." She left the kitchen, Kali frisking after her. Quatre followed. As he passed through the kitchen doorway into the hall he heard Duo ask Sylvia in an indulgent tone, what her interest could possibly be in the absent Wufei. Sylvia's demurral was very low and impossible to catch.

     Hilde shrugged into her overcoat.

     "It's not that cold out, I don't think," Quatre said.

     "I'm cold." She took Kali's leash from a peg on the wall beside the front door and held it toward the collie. "C'mere, girl. You don't have to come with me, Quatre," she said without looking up.

     "I want to." He retrieved his Preventers' jacket from the closet. As they left the apartment Duo and Relena were telling Sylvia all about Wufei's recent heartbreak over Sally Po, and his sudden need to return to his own Colony Cluster of L-5. "The thing is," Duo was saying, "if she'd left him for a schmuck that would be one thing. But Wàn [6] is a really cool guy. And she knew him before she even met Wuffie. Heart-twanging..."

      The air had cooled since he had last been outside, and a breeze had picked up, sweeping through the gold-flecked leaves on the trees that lined the sidewalk. The sun had turned a ruddy gold and was creeping lower on the horizon, onward toward evening. Quatre realized with surprise, as he gazed at it and at the scant crimson clouds, that he had completely lost track of the passage of time while he had been in the kitchen with the girls. He hoped Trowa had bothered to check the answer machine and was not worried about his failure to return. That thought, though, was periphery to the anxiety that captured his mind now. He had no idea where to begin, what was tactful.

     Hilde's breath came out in little white puffs as she walked beside him in silence. When Kali was tempted to investigate a tree or post box, she simply gave the leash a sharp tug and continued her brisk pace.

      "Duo doesn't know, does he?" Quatre burst out, finally, because he could not stand the taut silence any longer.

     Hilde glanced up, her eyes wide with surprise. "Doesn't know what?" she demanded.

     Quatre bit his lip and shoved his cold hands into his pockets. In his head he heard Trowa, Duo-all his friends, really-saying, Tell me, Quatre. Give me WORDS. He said, quickly, and stumblingly, "When Relena teased Duo about what he was eating-about being...you know-you reacted...you..." He freed his hands from his pockets and waved them in the air, as though they could bring forth what he was having trouble articulating. "You felt-upset." Wrong word, he knew, but it was so hard sometimes to put impressions and emotions into words.

     Hilde glared at him through narrowed eyes. "How do you KNOW what I felt?"

     Quatre took a deep breath-and then he told her about the Heart of Outer Space. Hilde listened in wondering silence while he spoke of his strange ability to sense strong, pure emotions, shaking her head sometimes, but never laughing outright as he had half-feared she would do. When he had finished she looked away, blinking her lashes rapidly. "If you can tell what people feel-what do I feel, right now?" she asked in a trembling whisper. "And if you say disbelief, I'll fucking kill you."

     "I don't know whether you believe me or not," Quatre said gently. "You're scared, though. That's all I can really tell."

     "I want coffee," Hilde announced suddenly.

     There was a small coffee shop a few blocks west of the apartment. They ordered and then sat in the wrought iron chairs outside the shop, sipping their drinks. Quatre was glad for the warm cup in his wind-chapped hands, the hot liquid in his stomach. After they had sat in silence for a few minutes he said, "I can understand if you feel uncomfortable talking to me."

     Hilde studied the contents of her cup. "I guess this is what I get for teasing you, before, huh? Can you blame me, though? I mean, you're my boyfriend's best friend. My boyfriend's gay best friend."

     "Does that make a difference?"

     She looked up and flashed him a wobbly smile. "No. I mean..." She sighed. "I mean, okay, when I first met him I thought he was the greatest guy in the entire world. I still think so, but now-now I guess I have some evidence to back up my claim." She was shaking, but did not seem to realize it, until some of the coffee sloshed over the rim of her cup and onto her wrist. She stared at the dark brown droplets that flecked her skin. "I think I'd better put this down." Quatre put his own coffee cup down, then took hers from her hand, and set it on the table. "I guess what I'm trying to say," she went on, avoiding his eyes, "is...well, look at me." She waved a hand in front of her face, as though to sum herself up. "I'm not really pretty. I mean, I'm not-well, Relena Darlian. I have no chest at all. I'm not super smart like Sylvia or super funny like Sally. Well, I guess I draw. But really, I'm this scrappy tomboy who still has to buy her clothes in kids' sizes-and somehow I wound up with this wonderful guy. How the hell did I pull that one off?" She lifted her gaze. Tears tangled in her long black lashes. "I figured something had to be wrong. There had to be something. And no, stupid me didn't think being a Gundam pilot was enough of 'something.' He had to be gay. I mean, he idolizes Heero, and he loves you. Not in a sexual way. He just-he loves you. But he's not gay. He really cares for me. And I really, really love him."

     Quatre felt her pain and near panic like little icy pinpricks all over his heart. On impulse he leaned across the table and covered her small hand with his own. Sensing her mistress's distress, Kali whined affectionately and dropped her head into Hilde's lap.

     "Duo loves you," Quatre said. "He may not say it very often, but I know he does."

     "I know he does, too. He says so, and Duo never lies. But he also says he loves watching Captain Zippy and the Rocket Rangers on Saturday mornings." She shook her head, then glanced down at Kali. "I know there's a difference. It's just that...I'm only nineteen. It's sort of soon to be starting the rest of my life."

     "So, you're sure?"

     She nodded. He pressed her hand gently. Sounding almost angry, she burst out, "I swear, two years I'm sleeping with a guy, I'm on a mission and forget my stupid pill ONCE, and-bam. That was all we've been using for-for a while." Her voice was becoming higher pitched, her cheeks redder. "I trust him, he trusts me. I'm the one who messed up. Stupid pill was supposed to give me bigger boobs. Damn it!" She jumped to her feet, jerking her hand out from under Quatre's, and Kali's head from her lap. The dog barked in surprise, then began to follow her as she paced back in forth in front of the table.

     Quatre felt himself floundering. He watched her pale, trembling form helplessly. Finally, when he could think of nothing better to say, "Do you WANT the baby?"

     Hilde looked down at him, her eyes tear-filled. "I don't know! I mean," she amended, running a hand through her hair distractedly, "I guess so. I mean, YES, of course I do. When I was a kid I fantasized about having a family of my own. I know Duo wants a family. Some day! I didn't think some day would be NOW. Quatre, I don't even know if we can AFFORD it." She stopped, stricken. "Quatre," she wailed, "I'm talking about it like it's a fucking appliance. It's not; it's a baby." The tears overflowed suddenly and slid down her cheeks in thin, but steady streams. Quatre was on his feet in a second, one arm tight around her trembling shoulders, the other bringing her head down to his chest in a comforting, protective embrace. It was the way he held his young nieces and nephews when they fell off their bikes, and he felt it was utterly inadequate, but he didn't know what else to do.

     It seemed a long time before he realized she was speaking. It took slightly longer for him to discern her words. She was apologizing.

     "I'm sorry, Quatre," she mumbled, her head still bowed against his breast. "I shouldn't be dumping this on you. I should be dumping it on Duo."

     "Don't apologize. I asked. You should tell him, though" he murmured. "You HAVE to tell him. Do you think-you don't think HE wouldn't want the baby, do you? Or that he wouldn't understand?"

     She sniffled. "I don't know. Would you want a baby at nineteen?"

     "I don't know," he said, softly. "I thought about it when I was younger, too. I don't know if other guys do, but I fantasized about having a child of my own, sometime. A normal child-not a test tube baby, like me. I haven't thought about it for a while now. Not since Trowa."

     She looked up, finally, her eyes wide and full of chagrin. "I'm sorry, Quatre. I didn't think-"

     He tried to smile. "Why are you sorry?"

     "Well... It was one of your dreams. And it's not going to come true, is it?"

     He brought her head back to his chest and rocked her, gently, to her let know he was not angry, not offended, not even really bothered. "It's okay. You see," he began, and even before he finished the sentence he was smiling, "I have Trowa, now. That's a dream I never expected. It means I've had to modify my older dreams, but I'm glad the way it's turned out. I don't wish it were different."

     "That's how I feel about Duo," Hilde said, her voice muffled by his jacket. "We joke a lot, him and me, and I guess sometimes we don't seem as...you know, lovey-dovey as you and Trowa. But I'm so in love with him." She sighed. "You're right; loving him has meant I've had to modify a lot of my dreams, too. Nothing has happened at all the way I planned it. But it's been worth it, so far. I just hope this latest-modification-will be worth it, too. God, what a way to talk about a kid! My kid. Oh, shit, Quatre." She wrapped her arms around his waist and clung tightly, but she did not seem to be crying.

     "I think Duo will probably take it well," Quatre offered.

     "Duo takes pretty much everything well. It's one of his many fine qualities. This just-isn't the way I pictured what my life would be when I thought about having my own family. I probably had some impossible fantasy in my head, where everything was perfect."

     He pressed a light, brotherly kiss into her hair. The scent of lilacs filled his nostrils. Funny, it was not a scent he would immediately have associated with her; it was so delicate, so feminine. He said, softly, "I thought my life would be perfect once I found someone to love who loved me back. But Trowa and I-we're not perfect. It took me a while to acknowledge that and to accept it. We argue about everything. I think I spent five minutes straight just swearing at him this morning. I mean, he deserved it. And you should have seen how he got me out of the apartment. Once-we almost broke up because I was trying to pretend that we were perfect and he was afraid of what would happen when I found out he was only human." He drew a deep breath. "But we didn't. And we love each other." He looked up over her head at the tall buildings, their upper stories already grey with the coming night, their lower windows still ablaze with sunset copper. The cool breeze laced his hair and tingled along the back of his neck. He thought of Trowa, safe and warm, sitting alone in their apartment, glancing out the window at the same sunset, and felt a pang of longing. He wanted to be home. He said, firmly, "Whatever happens, Hilde-if you need a dogsitter or anything, really-we'll be here for you. Both of us. I don't know what else to say except if you and Duo decide to keep this baby, make sure you love him or her."

     She lifted her head, and he was relieved to see that her eyes were dry. "God, I love you. And I mean that in a platonic sense. Some time I want to hear you swear for five minutes straight. Trowa and Duo are very, very lucky that you're gay."

     Quatre thought about that for a moment. Then his lips quirked into a little smile. "Yes," he said, "you're probably right."

When they returned to the apartment, Sylvia and Relena were cleaning the kitchen. Quatre and Hilde heard their muffled chatter as they came up the stairs.

     "Where's Duo?" Hilde asked as she entered. Kali answered her question; once free of her leash the collie bolted for the half-open bedroom door at the end of the hall. Hilde shrugged, then flushed when Quatre started to help her out of her overcoat. She covered her suddenly bright cheeks with a tart, "I'm still tough as nails, Winner." Quatre smiled.

     Sylvia looked up from the sink, where she was scrubbing dishes. "Didn't you tell Duo the kitchen was off-limits? No guys allowed?"

     Relena laughed as she stood on her toes to replace canisters in the cabinets above the counter. "That's not what scared him off. Sylvia mentioned cleaning and he wilted."

     Hilde made a small, derisive sound. "Typical." She slumped into a chair. "So, how can we torture Quatre, now?" She winked at him, with a wisp of her small, bright smile.

     "Actually," Sylvia said, stepping away from the sink and pulling off her rubber gloves, "the soup's done. I took out the parsley and dill sprigs and added a little salt."

     "Did you try it?" Quatre asked. "Is it all right?"

     Sylvia shook her head. "It's for Trowa. Let him be the one to tell you how it turned out."

     Doubts assailed him suddenly. "But what if it's awful? What if...?"

     "Have a little faith in yourself, Quatre," Relena said. She took a large bowl from the cabinet. "Hilde, is it okay if Quatre borrows this?" The black-haired girl shrugged.

     Kali's return preceded Duo's, giving them a moment's warning. The collie scampered into the kitchen, whining piteously and went straight to Hilde, pushing her wet nose into the girl's hand. "Duo?" Hilde shouted. "What the hell did you DO?"

     A low chuckle from the hallway answered her query. "Nothing! I swear! Okay, well maybe not quite nothing." Duo sounded as though he were having a very hard time containing his laughter. "Hilde," he called, "that no-guy policy still stand? Okay, it better because if I'm only doing this for your amusement..." They heard him draw a deep, resolute-sounding breath. "I'm comin' in!"

     Duo strode into the kitchen.

     Quatre, Relena, Sylvia, and Hilde stared. Kali whimpered and hid under the table.

     "It's the hair, isn't it?" he said in a miserable falsetto and pouted. He shook his head and waves of copper-threaded chestnut hair swung against his back like a veil of autumn leaves. Unbraided, it fell nearly to his knees.

     "No," Relena said faintly, "I'd say it's the chest. And the skirt."

     "Didn't have time to shave," Duo apologized, lifting a hairy leg as though they somehow required proof.

     "I don't think," said Quatre, quite honestly, "that it's possible to isolate the strangeness."

     Duo pointed an index finger at him in warning. "This isn't leaving this kitchen, Q-man. You got that?"

     Quatre nodded solemnly.

     Finally, Hilde burst out, "That's MY skirt!"

     "Well, it's certainly not mine." Duo winked.

     "But...but...WHY?" she wailed and buried her face in her hands.

     "Isn't it obvious?" he said in his normal voice. "I wanna hang out with you, Hilde-mine." Sylvia, Relena, and Quatre cleared his path as he crossed the kitchen floor and bent over Hilde's bowed figure, cupping her small shoulders with his hands. His skirt rode up as he did, revealing the bottoms of his soccer-ball-patterned boxers. "Hilde-baby? Sweetums? Schnookie? Come on, Hil." He shook her gently.

     "You...are...an...idiot!"

     "Hey, tell me something I don't know." She all but vanished as he wrapped his arms around her and tilted her head back to plant a light kiss on her brow. "You and me babe, how about it?" he sang in her ear and kissed her again, on the cheek. "Hmm, how about it?" [7] She tried to appear cross, but couldn't suppress a squirm and a giggle as he nibbled her ear playfully. The look she threw at the others now clearly read, "So now who has the best boyfriend?"

     Watching them, Quatre again felt a pang of longing. He glanced out the window. Clouds were gathering, their undersides dusted indigo with evening. And it had been such a lovely, clear day... Suddenly he wanted to be out in the air, running home. He wanted to be with Trowa again, warm in his own lover's arms before the clouds choked out the last of the beautiful day. He wanted to look into his face and if he couldn't show him, then at least tell him how much he loved him.

     As though he had read his thoughts, Duo looked up from kissing Hilde and said, "Hey, don't the rest of you have better places to be at the moment?" He said it laughingly, but the slight lift of one eyebrow informed them that he was serious. Bending back to Hilde he said, "So, how about a little lesbian action tonight, babe?"

     Hilde elbowed him. "I like MEN," she told him haughtily.

     "Hold on a sec." Duo reached into his t-shirt, pulled out the sock balls that comprised his chest and tossed them over his shoulder, to Kali's excitement. "See?" Again he lifted his eyebrows suggestively.

     "I told you, I like men."

      "Hussy."

     "Bitch."

     "Your bitch."

     Hilde smiled. "Yeah." She leaned back to give him an upside-down kiss on the chin. Her slim arms went around his neck as he claimed her mouth with his own.

     "Is this the cheesecake?" Quatre wondered, hastily schooling his gaze.

     "God, I hope so," Relena whispered. "I mean, I hope Duo's always like this with Hilde, but..." She too turned to Sylvia. "Is it the cheesecake?" she hissed.

     Sylvia smiled mysteriously and shrugged.

     While Quatre retrieved his jacket, Relena finished ladling soup into a bowl for easier transport. By that time Hilde and Duo had come up for air. "Hey Quat," Duo said, "when are you going to tie the knot with Trowa? We need an excuse to get Wuffie back from L-5 so we can introduce him to Sylvia." Quatre ignored the jibe. He took the bowl from Relena and held it tightly and securely against his chest. Sylvia had removed the giblets and wrapped them in aluminum foil. She placed the small package on top of the bowl. "Anyway," the violet-eyed young man went on, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was being ignored, "if you ever want to scare the love of God into Trowa's attack cat, you know who to call."

     "Kali?" Sylvia said dubiously, glancing at the dog who was gnawing on Duo's discarded sock ball.

     "Yeah. C'mere, girl." Kali abandoned her toy and trotted eagerly to her master. "Sit." She sat. "Now, be Cerberus!"

     Before Quatre, Sylvia, and Relena's astonished gazes, Kali, heretofore gazing dumbly and adoringly at Duo sprang to her feet, her back arched, and growled low and menacingly in her throat. Duo laughed crazily.

     "Oh, my God," said Relena. "Duo, what did you DO to that dog?"

     "I'm leaving," Quatre said, heading quickly for the door.

     Duo left off protesting his innocence to call, "Give Trowa a big smacking kiss from them" (gesturing toward Sylvia and Relena) "and...er, a nice, platonic handshake from us" (squeezing Hilde).

     Quatre turned in the doorway. "Guys, thanks for..."

     "Go home, already! Go home!" they replied.

     "I'm going!" Grinning, he walked out the door.

     The street lamps were lit when he stepped out onto the concrete sidewalk, forming paths of gold light that went off in either direction. Wind blew the collar of his jacket against his neck. He clutched the bowl of soup protectively and looked at the sky, which was now the color of the ocean just after the sun had gone down. He heard the soft rustle of leaves as the wind blew them down the sidewalk, westward toward the last faint light of day, toward his home. Quatre followed them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PART THREE

     Quatre fairly ran home, his precious parcel clutched to his chest. He knew he could have hailed a cab, but he wanted to be outside. The final rays of day warmed the undersides of the clouds, thinning, hurrying him on. The wind was crisp and sharp in his lungs. It was exhilarating.

     He could barely contain himself as he rode the elevator up to his apartment. He hopped from one foot to the other, peeked under the aluminum foil that covered the bowl in his hands, sniffed its contents-and earned himself a few concerned glances from the people who saw him. He smiled at them, but really, he did not care.

     When he reached his floor he resumed his brisk pace, almost crashing into his own door in his enthusiasm and nervousness. Holding the bowl in the crook of his arm, he fished in his pocket, produced the key, fitted it into the lock, and opened the door, slowly.

     Trowa was awake. He lay where Quatre had left him, stretched out on the sofa, his head propped up with pillows, several blankets drawn up to his chest. The television was on, but he heard Quatre enter, and looked up. He was still pale, but the smile that curved his lips brought color to his white cheeks and his eyes were warm as spring leaves. Quatre stood in the doorway looking at him for a long time without moving. He thought, This is what it's really about, living with a person. It's more than the whirlwind vacations, more than the tempestuous lovemaking on the floor of the den. It's coming home to that smile. All my life, I've never really come home till now.

     Trowa's voice, hoarse and low, brought him back to Earth. "Thank you for the flowers. No one has ever..." His voice thickened abruptly. "I missed you." There was that little lilt of surprise that both troubled and warmed him.

     "I missed you, too." Quatre walked over to where Trowa lay and sat down on the coffee table beside the sofa. Trowa picked up the TV remote and turned off the set. Spook, curled up against his side like a small, hairy storm cloud, lifted his head and glowered sleepily at Quatre, as though to scoff, "And you doubted me?" Quatre did not, but he did say, with a careful eye on the tom, "Has he been there all day?"

     "Most of it. He was lying on my back when I woke up the first time, around noon." Trowa lifted a thin hand to scratch behind the cat's ears. Spook threw his head back, his eyes narrowing to slits, a low purr rumbling in his throat. "That was nice. It was almost as though... Anyway, it was very nice." Had anyone else told him, Quatre would not have believed it, but he was certain he saw the corners of Spook's tiny mouth curve upward in a self-satisfied smile.

     Fine, Quatre sent silently at the animal who was fairly glowing under the attention of the one he adored, no wolves for a while.

     Trowa said, as he continued to scratch the ecstatic Spook, "He went out twice. Thank you for leaving the window open, by the way. I was going to get up to let him out, but-"

     "I couldn't let you do that." He stroked Trowa's hair tenderly. The other boy's skin still felt hot, but not searing as it had been that morning.

     "Long day?"

     "You have no idea. I feel like..." He felt as though he'd been through more difficult tasks than ever were found in a fairytale. And he had made it home alive, and with the object of his quest. "I made something for you," he said, shyly. He showed Trowa the foil-covered bowl in his hands.

     "What is it?"

     "Chicken soup. Someone told me it's the best thing to give the person you love, when he's sick."

     "You made me soup?"

     Did he have to look so wary? Quatre thought, a little dismayed. Well, he supposed he deserved it, considering the times he had nearly poisoned Trowa with his attempts at cooking. "Have a little faith in me," he said, forcing a smile. He stood. "I'll be back in a minute." To Spook, less lovingly, "I have something for you, too." Spook lifted his head in curiosity.

     Trowa shoved the cat onto the floor. "Go with him."

     Quatre took the bowl into the kitchen. Spook followed him. While Quatre reheated the soup on the stove he dropped the giblets into Spook's food dish. Spook immediately buried his face in the dish. Squishy chewing sounds met Quatre's ears as the cat devoured his offering. Quatre regarded him bemusedly, leaning against the counter the crossing his arms over his chest. "I want you to know," he told the cat, "that you're only getting this treat because I wanted to do something for Trowa. I didn't make any special effort on your behalf." He sighed. "So, you're under no obligation to acknowledge the fact that I also live in this apartment. But I'd like it if you did, because like it or not, you're stuck with me for however many lives you have left. I love Trowa, and I'm never going to leave him. He might leave me if this soup is a disaster, but it won't ever be the other way around. In fact, I'm going to marry him some day. But don't tell anyone-especially not Trowa. Just get used to it." He granted the cat no further attention, but turned to the soup. It was just about boiling. He turned off the burner, ladled some of the soup into a smaller bowl and, drawing a deep, brave breath, walked back into the den.

     Trowa smiled at him again when he returned, causing little butterflies of agitation to dance in his stomach. What if the soup was awful? What if he'd somehow forgotten an ingredient, or added too much of another? What if... He sank onto the coffee table and put the bowl and a spoon into Trowa's hands. "It's a little hot," he cautioned.

     Trowa blew over the liquid, to cool it. "It smells delicious," he said. "Have you tried it?" Quatre shook his head. "So, how do you know if it's safe?"

     Quatre swallowed the constriction in his throat. Softly he said, "You once promised you'd always trust me. I'm just asking you to keep your promise. If the soup is awful-then you don't have to trust me again." He let out a ragged, resigned breath.

     Trowa's eyes flew wide. "Quatre, I-"

     "No pressure," Quatre said, with some difficulty. "Just eat your soup."

     Trowa cast Quatre one last sad, loving glance. Then he dipped his spoon into the hot liquid and took a hesitant sip. As Quatre watched fretfully, his fine brows drew together in a little frown. He took another sip.

     "Is it terrible? Tell the truth-it's all right."

     Trowa removed the spoon from his mouth. He looked up at Quatre. "You know," he said, "no matter what, I'd always trust you."

     "It's awful."

     "No. It's not." Trowa studied Quatre's face, then the soup, then Quatre's face again. A surprised smile stole slowly over his features. "Actually, it's-the best thing I've ever tasted."

     Quatre, his mouth open to utter another self-deprecating remark, blinked. "It is?"

     "It is. Quatre, you're-amazing." A genuine smile lit his face. "This is better than anything Cathy made. You have to try some. No, don't use my spoon. Get your own bowl and come eat with me."

     Utterly dumbstruck, Quatre rose from the table and walked back into the kitchen. By the time he returned with his own bowl of soup, he had recovered his ability to speak. "You're serious?" he said as he resumed his cross-legged position on the coffee table.

     Trowa nodded so enthusiastically that his long bangs bobbed up and down in front of his eyes. Smiling, Quatre reached over and brushed them back. He believed him. He knew Trowa well enough to know when he was shading the truth for Quatre's benefit. At that moment all he read in the other boy's eyes was perfect honesty. It was in his other features as well-in his smile and in the sudden flush of color in his pale cheeks. Though he was curious as to how the soup tasted, Quatre was content to let it sit by his side on the table for a little while, so he could continue to watch Trowa as he ate.

     After a few more sips, Trowa noticed his scrutiny. "What?" he asked shyly.

     "Nothing." Quatre shrugged. A smile tugged at his lips. "I just like looking at you. I missed you."

     "I missed you, too. I wish I could have had you with me, but I don't want you to catch my flu. Tell me about your day."

     "Well..." Before he could begin, Spook came bounding back into the den and with a flying leap, landed on the sofa by Trowa's feet. He then proceeded to walk up his human's legs to his chest, which he claimed as his demesne, curling into a ball and glaring imperiously up at Quatre. Quatre glared back.

     Trowa looked from one fierce face to the other, unsure of how to interpret the exchange of hostile looks. "He really likes you," he ventured doubtfully.

     "No, he doesn't." Quatre laughed helplessly. "Well, I give up. You want to know about my day. Well... I realized something today, Trowa. I really like girls! Don't choke-" as the mouthful of soup Trowa had just taken went down the wrong way. "I don't mean that way. I meant that they can be quite good friends. And Sylvia Noventa doesn't have a crush on either one of us, by the way. We were both wrong. It's Wufei."

     Trowa regarded him weakly. "Why don't you tell me what happened while you were out?"

     And so, he did.

It was a beautiful night. There were no stars, but the underbellies of the clouds were soft and non-threatening and silvery-lavender in the faint moonlight. The air held a champagne-tingle that made Relena think winter was not such a distant prospect. With her face turned toward the ocean, she found it possible to imagine she had stumbled on an unexplored stretch of coast and that she and the young man whose head she cradled her lap were the sole inhabitants. There were some lights, belonging to ships many yards out, but she chose to pretend they were stars fallen low on the horizon. She could not see the waves, but she heard their soft hiss as they splashed the beach and then withdrew.

     Heero spoke, his voice almost as soft as the lapping waves: "Here's an appropriate one. Listen:

'All the sky is aflame
With resplendent evenings clouds
Glowing above the sea.
Bright and clear the moon will shine
O'er the glassy sea this night.'" [7]

     "Sappy," was Relena's verdict. "But very pretty. Aren't there any...I don't know, sexy ones?"

     "Sexy?" Heero tilted his head back and raised an eyebrow doubtfully. "Feed me more cheesecake."

     "I like this sweet tooth of yours," Relena laughed, running her fingers through his coarse, shaggy hair. "It's not something I would have expected. It's funny."

     "So, I'm funny?"

     "Not really," said Relena. "But I love you, anyway." Still stroking his hair, she scooped up some of the cheesecake with her free hand and brought it to his lips. She shivered slightly as his tongue flicked out and touched her fingertips. She closed her eyes. "I really love you, Heero," she murmured as he licked the cheesecake off her fingers. "When I was younger, I thought I loved you. But all I loved was the-the idea of you. You were so exciting, so daring, so...so different from the life I was accustomed to. I was so bored with that life, and you were this breath of fresh air. You showed me what I was capable of doing on my own. It wasn't until a long time after, though, that I really go to know you. And so now-it's you I love, and not just an idea. I know I say that a lot, but it's true." The cheesecake was long gone-had to be-but he continued to run his cool tongue up and down her long, slim fingers. She gasped softly as he drew one digit into his mouth and sucked gently. Her hand clenched in his hair. "I just hope," she said, her voice trembling, "that it's not just the cheesecake that's making you act this way, tonight." She felt cold air against her saliva-slicked fingers as he took her hand from his mouth. He did not, however, release it.

     "What are you talking about?"

     "The cheesecake," she stammered, her cheeks going hot. "It's not just any cheesecake. Sylvia said..." She sighed guiltily. It was no good. As pleased as she was with his current amorous mood, she couldn't stave off the awful feeling that she had somehow tricked him into it. He had told her he loved her several times in the few months since they'd begun dating, and since that night last summer when he had shown up on her hotel balcony so unexpectedly and ended up reading Noyes' "The Highwayman" to her by moonlight, reading poetry to each other had become a frequent activity. Still, she had never seen him so...relaxed, before. So seemingly carefree. She was glad, and at the same time she worried and began to wish Sylvia had never mentioned her grandmother's Ultimate Amaretto Chocolate Cheesecake.

     Heero rolled over, pressing his chin into her knee. "Relena, what exactly was in that cheesecake?"

     She frowned as she tried to recall the recipe. "Amaretto. About ten ounces of these delicious Italian macaroons. Sugar, unsweetened and semi-sweet chocolate. Umm, sweet butter, almond paste...ah...cream cheese, of course, four eggs, heavy cream..." She looked down at him. "That's it, I think."

     "Relena, there's nothing unusual in that cheesecake. It's just really, REALLY good." He reached up to cup her cheek with his hand, smoothing her frown into a little smile with the pad of his thumb.

     She felt a rush of relief. "You're right. I was just so torn up by the thought of...well, it doesn't matter, now." He rose to his knees, taking her face between his hands and bringing her lips to his. She tasted the liqueur on his breath. "Mmm." When he broke the kiss, she was able to smile without assistance. "You're acting differently, though."

     "In what way?" He began to trace light kisses around her lips, making it very difficult for her to speak. While she stammered, his hands drifted around to her back and began to unbraid her hair.

     "You're acting-" Her breath came out in halting little gasps. While his hands worked, his lips trailed upward over her face, tracing the shape of her cheekbones, up to her temple. "-Drugged!" she exhaled, finally.

     Heero laughed. It was still odd to hear. He didn't laugh the way normal people did. There was something of twigs breaking in the sound that met her ears, and something, maybe, of dawn breaking, she thought romantically. It was as though he had not quite mastered the sound. But he was working on it, and that was all that mattered. "I'm immune to most drugs and poisons, Relena," he told her. He ran one hand through her now unbound hair, looping the silky stuff around his wrist. He wrapped his other arm around her waist and guided her into a supine position. She felt the coldness of the sand through her thin sweater and another shiver rippled through her frame. Only for a moment, though. Presently Heero's body came down over her and she was enveloped in a blanket of warmth that spread from her face to her bare toes.

     "Do you think," she murmured, brushing locks of hair out of his face, "that there'll ever come a time when we don't feel the need to make love every time we're alone on a beach?"

     His voice was muffled against her skin. "I hope not," he muttered into the hollow of her throat. While she stroked his hair, neck, and shoulders, he lifted his head and turned back to his book of poetry. Thumbing through the pages with his free hand, he said, "I'll find you a good one. Ah-" as he did. He kissed the soft skin above the neckline of her sweater one last time, then began to read:

" 'Would my darling were
A soft undergarment.
When the autumn wind
Sends a chill up my spine,
I would wear it next to me.'"

     He lifted his gaze to hers, waited for her reaction.

     "An undergarment!" she exclaimed, somewhat indignantly. "Your boxers, in other words? Thank you, but, no."

     He set the book aside. "Why not? I wouldn't mind being your undergarment." She caught a brief flash of white teeth as he grinned. Slowly, he began to undo the buttons of her sweater. Huskily, he said, "I could be your bra, for instance. Now that you've brought peace I need a new occupation." She felt his hot breath on her breasts as he peeled the sweater away. A small moan popped from her half-parted lips as her nipples went almost painfully taut. Heero raised his head abruptly. "Are you cold?" he asked.

     She tossed her head in the sand, showering them both with her long hair in her fervent denial. "No, no... Ah!" As he pushed her bra straps down over her shoulders and lowered his mouth to the hollow between her breasts. Not willing to let him do all the work, she tugged his turtleneck free of the waistband of his jeans, pulled it up, and ran her palms over the smooth, heated skin of his chest and back. She heard his sigh of pleasure and again a flush of warmth suffused her. "When we first met-on a beach, just like this one-" she said, "I thought you were the strangest, most alluring person I had ever seen. I was so sheltered back then. I couldn't have imagined I would ever be doing this with you. Four months ago, even though it was one of my fantasies, I still couldn't have believed I'd some day be doing this with you." A strong gust of wind rolled over the beach just then, freezing her. Heero fell on top of her, gathering her against his chest, shielding her bare body from the cold. She clung, swallowing hard. Heero did not let her go, even after the wind subsided. Instead, he rolled onto his side, still holding her close against him, and wrapped his jacket [9] around her. She said, shakily, "We might have to stop this-if it gets much colder." She leaned up to kiss the pulse below his jaw, then snuggled closer into his arms, pillowing her head against his shoulder.

     "I never answered your question." His warm breath tickled her ear, stirred her hair.

     "What question?"

     "Maybe it wasn't a question." Stroking her again, kissing her, his rough, callused hands kneading the soft skin of her lower back. "You said I was acting differently. I never told you why." His hands continued their exploration of her skin, but he lifted his gaze to meet hers. He always looked her in the eye when he was confessing something. Always. And it always sent thrills of excitement coursing through her. It was those deep probing looks, somehow more than the touches, that made her feel exhilarated, free, and vital as any young woman who had never been the Queen of the World, or the Vice Foreign Minister at sixteen. "I was thinking," he said, "about that thing I told you a long time ago, about how I couldn't be with you because I could never be sure whether or not I would have shot you if Duo hadn't shown up, that time at the military base, years ago. You told me it didn't matter, and maybe it didn't to you, but it still bothered me." He drew a deep breath. She watched him, her eyes wide. Finally, he said, in a low voice, which she barely heard above the surf, "I was thinking about it again earlier today, while you were away. And I realized that if Duo hadn't shown up, I still wouldn't have hurt you." His lips quirked into that odd smile he had, which she found amusing and sexy and frightening simultaneously. He breathed, his breath warm against her face, "I finally know enough about myself to know that I wouldn't have hurt you. I needed to know that. So now that I do-" He shrugged and his smile deepened, brightened. "I'm immune to drugs, poisons, and even cheesecakes. But not to you." He leaned down and kissed her.

     For Relena it was as though the world had tipped and sent everything on it-which was only herself and Heero and the sand and the waves-tumbling out of control. She accepted his kiss, his hands, his warmth, everything he gave her, and gave back her own in return. She had never felt him so uninhibited before. She relished it, relished him. She was not so surprised that he had found his answer on his own. That was the way he operated. So long as he shared his discoveries with her...

     No room now, for thought. He rolled her again onto her back and resumed, with trembling hands, his undressing of her. Softly, very softly, his eyes tender, and dark as the sea, a whispered, "I love you."

     Fighting tears, she whispered back, "I know."

     And now, she truly did.

"What the HELL was in that cheesecake? Uh! I...am so...ughnh!...glad...I never became...a priest!"

     "So am I! So am I!"

     "Do you love me?"

     "Yes!"

     "Do you want me?"

     "That-ohmygod-is the suh-stupidest question I have ever-"

     "Will you marry me?"

     Hilde gave a strangled scream, came, and fell off Duo. When the world finally ceased spinning she was lying on her back, her body so slick with sweat she forgot for a second that they had started off in bed, and wondered how she had come to be lying in the bath. Duo lay beside her, noisily gulping air into his lungs. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his chest still heaving with the exertions of a few moments ago. Then what he had said truly sank in and she jolted upright, grabbing the tangled, damp sheets and clutching them to her chest. She felt his fingers trail up her spine, tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and swallowed hard. When she could speak she said, her voice rough and low, her eyes unopened, "Who told you?"

     The hand stroking her back paused. "Told me what? Hey, I asked you a legitimate question, Hil." His hand went to her shoulder and he began to pull her back down to him.

     She wriggled away, spun around and snapped, "Who told you? I only told Quatre. I thought I could trust him!"

     Duo looked up at her, his incomprehension obvious, even in her fury and hurt. "Quatre didn't tell me anything," he said, frowning. He lifted a hand to touch her again, but something in her expression made him pause, the hand left suspended in the air. "Told me what, Hilde?"

     She stared at him. Even had she not known he abhorred lying above almost all other things, she would have believed him. There was something so open about his expression. There always had been. She thought of the old cliché about the eyes being the windows to the soul. Well, Duo had the largest eyes she had ever seen. Maybe that was the reason she found it so easy to see at least to the surface of his soul. Maybe that was why she found it so hard to keep her own secrets from him. She tucked her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs. "About the baby," she said simply.

     He still did not understand. His thin copper brows drew together in puzzlement over eyes that, in the dark bedroom, were the color of the sky during a hurricane. Once more Hilde found herself pondering the incongruities of her lover. He had the long, lithe body of a dancer, the callused, clever hands of an artist, the dark smile of a fallen angel, and the eyes of a child. The eyes, the smile, the hands and body, were all deceptive, though he himself never was. That was one of the first things she had learned about him, that had first drawn her to him. He was not an artist, not a dancer, not a fallen angel, and he had never, she thought sadly, ever been a child. He was the best, strangest person she had ever known, and she loved him.

     After what seemed an eternity, he said, "What baby?"

     "Mine. Ours." She shrugged; she didn't know what else to do.

     Though he was already sunken into the mattress as deeply as was possible, he seemed to sink a bit further. He tilted his head back on the pillow so that all she could see was his chin and throat, not his eyes. Panicking suddenly, she said, desperately, "Tell me what you're thinking, Duo. Duo, I'm sorry, I only just found-" She was cut off when he surged upward, pulled her against him, and flopped back against the pillows, holding her tightly.

     His voice shook: "I thought you were going to tell me you were sick or something."

     "What!" She tried to push away from him, but he held her securely. His breath rushed in and out of his lungs unsteadily. She felt his heart trembling erratically against her own. "Sick? Why would you think that?"

     "I don't know." He tucked her head under his chin. "I just thought- You looked so solemn, all I could think was I was going to lose you."

     "Oh." She stopped resisting him, let her cheek drop to his chest. "You still always think of death first." She turned her head to plant a comforting kiss on his throat. "What are you thinking, now?"

     Distant: "I don't think I am."

     "What are you feeling, then?"

     Her body rose and fell with his deep sigh. "Too much, Hil. Overwhelmed, I guess." He ran a hand messily through her hair.

     "When you asked me-you know-I thought Quatre might have told you, and that's why you were asking. He found out-sort of inadvertently-this afternoon. I didn't exactly tell him not to tell you, but I sort of thought it was understood."

     "He didn't tell me anything. Quatre's a good guy."

     "I know. I'm sorry I doubted him." Extremely confused, now: "But then Duo, why did you asked me--?"

     "Because I wanted to. Because I love you. God, this is the most fucked up proposal in the history of proposals. Which I guess makes some sort of sense."

     "It's not the cheesecake?"

     "Huh? No, it's not the stupid cheesecake. It's not the baby. It's YOU. If it were the cheesecake, I'd be-I don't know, proposing to Sylvia, or something. If it were the baby, I'd be psychic. And we both know I'm not. The only thing I know-the only thing I KNEW when I asked-is that I love YOU and want YOU to be with me-always." He lifted her face between his hands, massaging from her chin to the nape of her neck with the pads of his fingers. The hurricane-violet clouds in his eyes parted and she was staring all the way down into the deepest part of his soul. And then she was crying. She wasn't aware of starting, the only reason she knew was that suddenly he was bringing her close to kiss the tears from her cheeks. "Hil..." She loved the way he breathed her name, as though he were inventing the word and did not intend to share it with anyone except her. "You're really...pregnant?" He said it in the palest ghost of a whisper. "When did you find out?"

     "Three days ago."

     "Why didn't you tell me?" A slight lift in his voice told her he was hurt.

     "Well...I was scared." She lifted her hands to frame his face between them.

     "Of how I would react?"

     She shook her head. "No. Just-of the whole idea. I thought that by telling you I was somehow making it real. I mean, it IS real. But now it really FEELS real. I knew you wouldn't be angry. I mean," feeling more confident, flashing him a weak smile, "it's partially your fault."

     "Yeah. Do you know when...?"

     "Remember that summit meeting we were covering in Stockholm four weeks ago? And all hell broke loose? We were up for more than twenty-four hours. I didn't have a chance to take my pill. That was AFTER we were messing around in the kitchen. That's the only time I ever forgot, so that's when the deed was done."

     "Jeez. I'm glad SOMETHING good came out of that fiasco. Wait-four WEEKS? As in almost a MONTH?" She had time to yelp, but not time to protest. He rolled her over so that she was lying against the pillows, rose to his knees, and made a big show of retrieving their discarded blanket from the floor and tucking it around her shoulders.

     "Hey, I told Quatre I'm still tough as nails. I'm not an invalid." She was secretly amused by his ministrations, and deeply touched.

     "Let me pretend, huh?" he said as he stretched out beside her, propping his head up with one hand and running the other over her slim, blanket-covered form. "You're my family, now. You're the first family I've had in a long, long time." She thought she caught the sheen of tears in his eyes, but she could not be sure it wasn't moonlight filtering in from the window. She caught his roaming hand, held it against her cheek. He murmured, "For that one second, when I thought you might be sick, I thought-I don't know." His voice sounded gruff, so perhaps they were tears after all. "I thought, God, how could I deal with losing you? Sometimes I think you don't really know what you mean to me, Hilde. It's like-I told you I chose to fight so other people wouldn't have to, right?" She nodded, wide-eyed. "What I didn't tell you, all those years ago, was that all the people I was fighting for-they were ghosts, Hilde. All of them. My original family, the friends I had as a kid, Father Maxwell, Sister Helen. Christ, even the peace of the Colonies. They were all ghosts. You were the first-you ARE the first-living soul I ever fought for. Don't you see? Before you, everything I've touched, I've lost." He choked; he WAS crying. She kissed his palm tenderly. "I didn't want us to get close, at first. I was so scared, the whole time we were together before the Eve Wars ended, that I would lose you, too. I TOLD you to stay out of the fight. When you were hurt bringing back that info from Libra, I had never been so scared in my life. You didn't get it."

     "I'm sorry."

     "Shh. When I didn't lose you, and then the war actually ended, I decided it was maybe time to have a little faith, finally. That's what this relationship has been for me. One big, wonderful leap of faith. It's been slow, I know. There are still things about my past that I haven't told you. But I want to." He threaded his fingers through hers. "You can probably tell I'm about this close from flipping out." He managed a grin, eliciting one from her, as well. "I'm not going to flip out tonight, though. Maybe tomorrow. In the next few days, anyway. I'll try to keep it contained, but you know me."

     "I know you."

     "I'm freezing!" He threw the covers over his naked body and pulled her against him. "You didn't answer my question, by the way. Are you or aren't you?"

     "Huh? Oh, yeah." She smirked. "Why should I marry you?"

     "I don't know." Settling his chin in the dip between her neck and shoulder. She felt the curve of his lips against her skin as he whispered, "For fun."

     "Sounds like a good reason." She twisted her head on the pillows, smiled up at him.

     "If it's a girl can we call her Helen?"

     For reply she wrapped her arms around his neck, whispered, "I'll never leave you, Duo," and drew his lips to hers.

It was some time before Trowa became aware that he was awake. He knew when he started to hear the sparse night traffic outside his window and when he began to feel the coarse material of the sofa cushions through his flannel pajamas, but at first he thought they were part of his dream. Then something heavy and solid landed on his chest and wakefulness broke over him like a splash of ice water. Which was just as well, because in his dream he was making love to Quatre in the middle of the circus's main ring while Catherine hurled knives at him and Relena Darlian, Hilde Schbeicker, and Sylvia Noventa, disguised as theater critics, informed him of everything he was doing incorrectly. He jerked upright, spluttering and blinking. He glared down at Spook. "What?"

     The cat jumped off his chest and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway without glancing back. Too tired and confused to think of reasons not to, Trowa wrapped his blanket around his shoulders, slid off the sofa, and followed his cat.

     A glance at the glow-in-the-dark clock hanging on the wall in the hallway told him it was 3:04 in the morning. A glance at the bar of light under the black rectangle of the bedroom door told him Quatre was still awake. Frowning with mild anxiety, Trowa rapped lightly on the door with his knuckles. He heard a muffled, "T-Trowa?" and opened the door. Spook, heretofore invisible in the shadowed hall, darted between his legs and bounded into the room, bouncing onto the bed, then turning to stare up at his human, his pumpkin eyes glowing with superiority-which Trowa ignored.

     Quatre lay in bed, propped up against a small hill of pillows, the down-filled blanket and the quilt Catherine had made for them when they'd first moved in together pulled up to his chin, a weathered-looking hardcover resting against his tucked-up knees. He looked tiny under those heavy blankets, delicate, and pale. Trowa crossed to him in three quick strides and, ignoring his protests, placed a hand on the other boy's brow. "You're hot. How do you feel?"

     "Like crap. I was fine when I went to bed. Then I woke up at about one and just felt so...bleh." He made a face.

     Trowa lowered his lashes. "Sorry. I should have..."

     "Should have what?" Quatre took Trowa's hand in his own ice-cold one and smiled wanly. "Nothing you could have said or done would have kept me away from you for long. It's my own fault."

     Trowa brushed Quatre's fine, silky bangs aside and kissed his forehead gently. "Can I get you anything?"

     "You can get into bed with me."

     "Move over."

     Quatre made room for him while Trowa took the abandoned book, set it on the night table, then flicked off the light and slid in beside him under the covers. Quatre snuggled against him, felt the other boy's strong, slender arms wrap around his waist and pull him closer. "Missed you," Quatre murmured.

     "I'll call Headquarters tomorrow, tell them neither of us is coming in."

     "Knew you'd see it my way."

     Trowa hugged him. "Think cough syrup makes a good lubricant?"

     Quatre elbowed him. "Quatre," Trowa said softly, a hint of worry in his voice, "do I tell you enough times that you have my heart?"

     "Please let's not talk about hearts for a while."

     "You're my whole world. You're my life. You're my home."

     Quatre turned his head on the pillow and offered his lover's lips a tender kiss. "I feel it all the time."

     He was almost asleep when the mattress dipped ever so slightly as Spook came to join them. Instead of taking his customary position by Trowa's head upon the pillow, he slipped between them and draped himself over Quatre's waist. Quatre tensed, unsure whether or not he should tell the cat that he had the wrong person. He heard Trowa's soft, low chuckle behind him in the darkness. "So you do love him, after all," the other boy said. "Your secret's safe with me." Spook, to Quatre's infinite relief, made no reply.

     Quatre lay awake only a few moments more. His hold on his own thoughts was beginning to loosen and he felt his body sinking against Trowa as the other boy's warmth seeped into him. He thought about unkind mercenaries, knife-wielding sisters, grief-crazed pilots, misunderstandings, dangerous assignments, sharks, flues. He felt the strong arms around his waist go limp as the warm breath that stirred his hair steadied. He thought about lovingly made, warm quilts, forgiveness, gold rings, chicken soup, good friends, and sparkling autumn days still to come. His hand found Trowa's in the darkness, held it against his heart. And slept.



The End.

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