Part 1: Some Enchanted Evening?

Two figures stroll through dark Parisian streets beneath the ancient cathedral's protective gaze. The shorter one stops at the end of a bridge, leaning against a stout railing. Moonlight glints off blonde hair as the figure takes in the city's nighttime scents and sounds. In awe of the sight of twinkling stars and a solitary passing cloud, it speaks to its companion in hushed tones.

"The Earth is so beautiful, Trowa. I don't think I'll ever get tired of it. I only wish it hadn't taken a war to get others to appreciate it so." His partner gracefully perches himself nearby on the stone railing. His unusual hairstyle creating a most singular silhouette, he stares not at the surrounding natural glories, but at the softly lit figure beside him.

'But this war brought me to you, my heart.'

"To think it could all have been destroyed so easily. We must not ever forget how fragile life is. Or how delicate the balance between peace and war."

'To think you could have died just a few short months ago. This world would still have been saved, but mine would have perished with you. How could someone as seemingly delicate or fragile survive after that attack? There was so much blood everywhere... you were so pale I was afraid there wasn't a drop left inside... I can still see it in my nightmares.'

They lapse into a comfortable silence, each lost in their separate trains of thought until the blonde notices the other's scrutinizing looks. "Well, Mr. Chatterbox, credit for your thoughts?"

Shaken from his reverie, Trowa turns toward the lazily flowing river below. "I was just remembering the last time I was here," he quickly lies. "Years ago, before I even went to space, much less heard of a Gundam."

Curious to learn more about the secretive boy's past, the gentle Arabian begins to lean closer with each question, unknowingly closing the physical distance between them in his eagerness to narrow the gap between what was and what is. Haltingly at first, but then with greater confidence and ease, he recounts his life and adventures with the first mercenary company.

Throughout the recitation, Trowa was madly scrambling ahead, trying to protect his angel from the darkest elements while still desiring acceptance of his true self. "There's not much after that except hopping a transport, a long string of odd-jobs, then Doktor S and Heavyarms."

"I... I never knew. I'm so sorry," his companion stammers, choking back tears.

Confused, Trowa glances over. "Don't be, Quatre. None of it was your fault." He slides from the railing to comfort his friend, only to be weakly pushed back.

"But--Midi Une's betrayal. Then when I nearly killed you and Heero with Wing Zero... how can you ever forgive me?" Quatre turns away, presenting his downcast profile to the setting moon. "How can I ever be forgiven?" he whispers, heedless of countless tears spilling from his aqua eyes to the uncaring pavement below.

"Quatre, please don't be foolish. Midi Une made her choice and stood by it. You weren't well when I was hurt. No one could ever blame you for that." He hesitantly reaches out, wiping away a tear and secretly luxuriating in the brief touch. "I forgave you long ago... don't be so hard on yourself.

"Besides, friends always forgive each other's mistakes. Otherwise, Heero would have really shot Duo on Day 3 of Operation Meteor." Several moments pass before the two collect themselves and stop laughing at the mental images of Duo's abundant pestering antics.

Considerably cheered, Quatre is struck by a simple observation: "You have a very musical laugh, Trowa. I'm not sure I've ever heard it before."

"I've never had much reason to try it out." 'Not before I met you.'

"True enough," stifling another giggle. "Still, this forced vacation has done us both a world of good, wouldn't you say?" The lanky soldier nods in agreement as cathedral bells begin to divide the morning from the dark night. As if it were summoned, a breeze rustles along the waterfront, causing the blonde to shiver beneath the light jacket.

"Are you alright? We should head back if you're not feeling well." Trowa clutches his friend's hand and draws it close, his fingers drifting to the wrist, searching for a steady pulse. "You're frozen solid," he admonishes.

"Don't go to any trouble," Quatre protests as Trowa begins to gently chafe his hands. Gradually, circulation improved and even his fingertips warmed, he pulls away to face the city lights again. "The doctors said it will take time to completely heal, but I feel fine. I've just always been cold- natured."

Responding to the underlying hint of steel he heard, Trowa quietly replies, "You're the most warm-hearted person I know." The unforeseen compliment makes Quatre blush alarmingly. He is quite glad the dark night obscures his face, or he would have been mortified. As the ensuing silence grows heavier, he thrusts his hands into his pockets and tries to distract himself by tracing constellations.

"Spending your life among them alters you perception, doesn't it?"

"I suppose so," comes the distant reply.

"Long ago, people believed so many things about the stars. That they had magical powers and could influence everyday life. Great victories or disaster could be foreseen. There are even some legends about heroes and warriors being immortalized in the patterns."

"Heroes and warriors? Perhaps we'll be named among them one day, along with the real Heero Yuy and the Peacecrafts, of course," he says, tone only slightly mocking.

"Perhaps. I don't feel very heroic, really." Again a tiny pause threatens to lengthen dangerously. "Then again, they have many formations about dear friends and devoted couples, so I still have a shot at that category, right?" His self-deprecating chuckle hurts Trowa more than he would care to admit.

"I think you've been a wonderful friend, Quatre."

A near silent "Thank you" wafts to him.

Picking up the conversational thread, Trowa searches the sky and points to a pair of stars close together. "I'd like to have that one, if I'm to get one at all. Then the observatories or whoever decides these things will just have to give you the one next to it. It wouldn't do to break up a set, after all."

With a smile, Quatre turns to his friend. "Silly Trowa, those two are already named. That's Gemini, or Castor and Pollux from the Age of Fables."

"Never heard of them. Gemini sounds like a mobile suit model, though."

"It shall never cease to amaze me that they go around still using those names when they don't keep the classics in every school curriculum."

A discrete cough was necessary before the wealthiest boy in known space remembered his friend's unorthodox upbringing.

"Of course, many see them as just another outmoded remnant of a less enlightened time. Both views are perfectly valid." Stumbling so much and then launching into his "superior/pedantic" tone. Quatre is stunned by this change, this nervousness.

Why does he care so much when it comes to Trowa's approval? The two are on equal footing in every way that matters, even if their social circles are light-years apart. He had only craved acceptance like this from one other person. And now that person was gone...

"Anyway, Castor and Pollux were two brothers of divine birth in ancient Roman times. Their sister was the fair Helen, later of Trojan fame. They even rescued her from Theseus, but that's another story. The two boys were the best of friends, playing together when children and fighting by each other's side when adults. After many adventures, Castor was killed in a war. Pollux, consumed with grief, bargained with his father, the chief of gods, Jupiter.

"He would give up his own life as ransom for that of his brother."

The blonde pauses and interlaces his slender fingers, seeming pensive for a moment. Snapping back, he ploughs on.

"Here, the versions split: in one, the brothers are united, alternately spending their time in the dead Underworld and in the Heavens; the more romantic tale (I'm quite partial to this one) has Jupiter rewarding the filial attachment by placing the brothers among the stars as Gemini the Twins. There are many stories like that one, people being preserved in one form or another for all eternity as a testament to their fair hearts, loyal friendships or brave deeds."

Now ashamed by the thought he was showing off his education, Quatre once again turns away. "At least, that was how I was taught at Father's house. We were rather old-fashioned, I think. Yes, it would be a good thing to rename the old stars. Maybe it will make them sparkle all the more, ne? It seems that once we started to live among them, the mystery seemed to fade away. Somehow, though, I feel that the mystery and wonder grow when you get closer to them, make them your own."

"That they do," murmurs Trowa, edging nearer.

Craning his neck to take in the entire marbled sky, Quatre, lost in the spheres, begins to lean back. Just on the verge of losing his balance, he feels two hands gently catch him from behind. Slowly, they slip underneath his arms and join, allowing his partner to step even closer. He leans into the welcome warmth before looking up into his friend's eyes with a laugh.

"Sorry about that. First time I've been swept off my feet by the universe's beauty." A puzzling new look crosses Trowa's normally staid countenance. Honest, passionate emotions soften his angular features.

Later, when he would look back on the next few minutes, Trowa could not tell what force compelled him to act; perhaps it was the uncustomary wine at dinner, an indulgence Quatre had tried to talk him out of. Maybe the stars could influence human actions. He might even be able to use Duo's ordinary excuse and plead temporary insanity. To act after so many months of denial was, to say the least, surprising. Whatever the case, two people's lives changed on an empty Paris bridge.

"That's funny... I was swept away by you the moment we met."

It's no more than a puff of air, but the exhalation sends a shock of another type down the trapped Arabian's back. Stunned, he furrows his brow over this unexpected behaviour. He starts to turn out of the embrace. After a feeble struggle, he ends up still rooted to the spot, but facing his captor.

With a genuine smile, Trowa leans down, brushing lips against those of his beloved. Gasping slightly, the blonde numbly allows the touch to deepen, his wide eyes sliding closed. Slow as an ice age, quick as lightening... they finally break apart. With a sigh, the clown frees himself of a final defense and rests his head against the Arabian's.

Nuzzling the silken strands while occasionally ghosting kisses on the pale flesh of his dearest's neck, he murmurs, "My angel, I've wanted to tell you, to show you, how much you mean to me. Now... a New World is being built in the ashes of the old. Will you let me stand by you, help you?"

Quatre's eyes snap open. Staring unseeing into the night, he shakes his head. He violently shoves away and rounds on Trowa. "I can't. I don't want..." he screams at his stunned friend.

"Don't say it... please. You don't love me. I can't love you," he hisses. Slapping aside a questioning hand, the former pilot rushes off.

"I don't even love myself," he gasps as cool air dries salty trails beneath dull orbs.

Left behind, a slim shadow stands holding moonlight; hears not quickly fading footsteps, but rather the consuming roar of shattering hopes; sees the golden saviour of his humanity disappear into the darkening maw of oblivion. Brash youth, beaten down, replaces a familiar mask, hiding his vulnerability again.

Please proceed to Part Two: Damage Control or e-mail the author with questions or comments.