For someone supposedly trained in the subtle arts of diplomacy, he sometimes acts like such a naive child. That's what I love about him--this interesting dichotomy.

They're ouside the door, just like every other evening. This time there are only four girls with him instead of the usual half dozen or more. An apparent lull in the conversation is followed by a short burst of feminine chatter interspersed with laughter. His voice is so soft it didn't carry through the wall like their shrill tones. Only when he opens the door do I hear him.

"I'm sorry to have kept you all up with my idle prattling. You should have mentioned the time long ago." Sincerity flows through his speech.

"Never you mind about that, darling. It's not every day a gal can be so lucky as to get her hands on such a cute and wealthy fella. That's not something you let go of easily." Of all the attempted seductions I've been witness to, that one has to rate as the most blatant. Not to worry though; he takes this drastic change of tactics in excellent stride.

"Why I do declare," he responds, imitating her drawl admirably. "You're trying to turn my head with sweet nothings, aren't you, Eugenia? If I didn't know better, I'd swear you only want me for my brains."

"She's not the only one," a second girl purrs. I can pick out his self- deprecating chuckle amid their harsh squeals and tiring giggles.

"That's so true. What would we do without your help? I feel completely lost in lecture; but when you explain it afterwards, it's absolutely clear. Who would have thought... now how did you put it?" a simpering girl asks.

"The widespread economic ramifications of North America's unification, which initially fueled the first stable mining colony's development, would eventually lead to a total disintegration of the internal power structure, causing a reversion to older boundaries once plebian colonization became commercially feasible."

"Oh, I'm sure I never made that crucial link, sir." I cringe at the fawning attitude of this newest sycophant.

"Please, we're all just humble petitioners trying to learn the keys to peaceful management of the future." He bids goodnight to these hangers-on, promising to continue their discussion at a later date. The pack reluctantly drifts off toward their established dormitory in an adjacent wing, laughter occassionally reaching us before they turn a corner.

There are some privileges when it comes to being one of the two male students at a private school; administrators do their best to keep the sexes separate, even to the point of lodging us in the visitor's quarters where security is at a discrete maximum. Of course, one drawback is the constant attention we both get from nearly every girl. I don't like the way he seems to encourage it, always so friendly and obliging. Still, when he acts that way around just me, I can't say I want to complain.

Locking the door, he drops a stack of history texts on a table and falls onto the common room's couch. Forearm across his brow and one leg lazily hanging off the cushion's edge, he is the very picture of exhaustion.

"Long day?" It has been pointed out, rather rudely, that my conversational skills leave much to be desired. I just need the proper motivation, that's all.

"Yeah." He pushes himself up and sits back, both feet flat on the floor and hands folded in his lap. So formal.

"I think it's better to be a freedom fighter than a student. At least OZ doesn't expect a twelve-page essay the day after a strike. The worst they can do is kill you by inches, not by paragraphs."

I grumble my displeasure at his joke and continue typing. Curious, he stretches and walks over, peering over my shoulder to read the screen. "Ethics. That one's been giving me problems, but it seems like you're almost done. When's the assignment due, anyway?"

"Next Tuesday... nearly a week from now." I don't stop to look up at him, afraid he'll notice something behind the mask I wear.

Ever since I first realized these new... emotions, I've been careful to keep them hidden; terrified that if they fully emerge, he won't respond in kind. There's too great a chance for failure, so I must keep my distance. It's incredibly difficult to maintain my composure as he reaches around me to correct a misspelled word.

"Wouldn't want you to get marks off, would we?" Giving me one of those gloriously radiant smiles that is so familiar but treasured for its inherent beauty, he straightens. His brilliant aqua eyes are the tiniest bit dim and there is a deepening darkness below. Visible signs of fatigue seem to grow every day. "Well, I guess I'll head off to bed. Don't stay up too late." He stifles a yawn and leaves for an adjoining room.

"Goodnight, Quatre. Sweet dreams," I whisper, positive that were he able to hear my request, it would not change the likely course of tonight's events.

By the time I've finished my work on the school's computer, he's been asleep for at least thirty minutes. I switch off all the appliances and go sit in my dark room. An hour. Two. Two and one-half hours later, I make my move. Creeping through the suite on a well-known path, I ease open Quatre's bedroom door.

Each night I feel like an intruder, a voyeur into his most private self. Each night I vow this will be the final time. Each morning my resolve crumbles with the coming dawn. Then am I sure that I could no more keep the waves from crashing to shore than I can stop these visitations.

This... obsession began some months ago. When I was to duel with Zechs Marquise, shortly before we all returned to outer space, I chose to use Trowa Barton's Gundam. We had reached an understanding and, while not exactly friends, we acknowledged the importance of maintaing a coherent resistance. Familiarizing myself with the machine's controls as Trowa arranged for a full set of ammunition, I noticed a tiny rectangular piece of heavy card stock wedged in the lower corner of a monitor.

At first I though it was a monochromatic photo, but upon closer examination I discovered a small range of muted colors. Obviously taken under natural low-light conditions--at the close or start of the day. The subject was simply breath-takingly beautiful: lying tangled in white sheets was a slumbering angel, his golden hair the truest glinting pale shade. The unmarred upper body was partially exposed while his head was turned to one side. His face an example of classical perfection, I stared long at the rosy skin, slightly parted lips, and delicate nose. Somehow, somewhere I had seen this person before.

Glowering down at me, arms crossed over his chest and one foot tapping the gantry in anger, Trowa took me by surprise. He extended one open hand toward the photograph, palm up, his eyes flashing a defiant challenge. I flipped it over in passing it to him, noting on the obverse a quote from Boccacio in his handwriting: "The mouth that has been kissed loses not its freshness; still it renews itself as does the moon."

He never alluded to the silent exchange in our remaining time together. Only later did I recall the worried face of 04 from one transmission during a major battle. Apparently, he and Trowa were very close. However, that fact did not stop my pursuit of him as I began to learn more about the unlikely pilot.

Each new bit of information, every observation inevitably called forward a comparison between Quatre and the two other individuals who so intrigued me: Relena Darlian and Duo Maxwell.

Relena--the first person I met on Earth, my current 'protector' from certain death in the hands of Romefeller, and someone who embodies all my cause holds dear. Espousing an ideal peace, she is in every way a beauteous thing and I am honored she finds me important enough to be so attractive. However, it's more the dangerous and powerful mystique she senses surrounding me that draws her to me--not a true bond of two equals. For her own safety and the stability of the colonies, I must keep this figurehead free from harm. Including that which I might cause her.

Completely opposite in many superficial ways, Duo is annoyingly vibrant, overflowing with an undeniable zest for life. With a characteristic sense of irony, he likens himself to sources of destructive finality in his passionate crusade to save humanity.

Trying to keep him out of my life, I gave him more reason to continue the attack. Under an assualt of sheer, manic, cheerful determination, I let down my defenses... but he continued, unforgiving in his reach. Never ceasing his severe demands, his efforts became overwhelming. It was an overload of so many foreign sensations that I could barely keep my head. Moving quickly, our relationship--if one could dignify with such an affectionate term the constant struggle of wills we experienced--it burned hotly to consume what little capacity for emotional expression I then possessed.

Finally, one day he delivered the crushing blow. Accusing that I didn't understand the nature of love, this two-way exchange we both so deperately craved, he confirmed a nagging suspicion. "You're so empty inside, Heero. Always begging to be filled up--always needing everything I can give. Well, here's a surprise, kiddo--I need more than this, more than what you're ever going to be capable of giving."

To say this to me, he revealed how little he understood me.

I, who am giving all in return for nothing of substance.

I, worth nothing as an individual; failed as a person.

I, programmed to take any measure necessary to achieve even the most insignificant goal.

I am someone who must be loved and respected, not just an object of lust or fantasies.

These obvious deficiencies of both Relena and Duo do not diminish them when they are called to their respective roles. Instead, they excel at their tasks because of these qualities. What the world needs in this time of crisis and what I desire in a lover are a list of attributes neither fully possess. The closest match I have found lies before me now, unaware of the attention I lavish upon him.

His appearance deceptively frail, he has demonstrated the strength of character to defend his ideals. He is afraid of his mortality, but is willing to risk everything to end the suffering and sorrow of those he cares for.