Because he was hurt. Because he was almost killed inside the Mobile Suit and his body lay in pain. That's why he was standing outside the door to his room, holding a tray of sweet tea, feeling his body shake slightly, hoping the boy inside was awake by now.

Quatre opened the door slowly, almost afraid to. He smiled to himself. Trowa was awake.

The curtains of the window swayed in the breeze over his bed. Soft, golden light came in from the window. Quater stopped as he let himslef inside, holding his breath.

Trowa was staring out the window, his back propped on the pillows. He didn't notice the boy's presence. There were a few cuts on his face, his hands lay over the covers, bandaged, his fingers trailing the sheets absent mindedly. Quatre set the tea tray on a small table by the door. He took a tea cup, after filling it, to his friend. Trowa blinked, his eyes finding Quatre. Once more, his face devoid of feelings.

"Good morning," Quatre said. He gave the tea cup to him, smiling. Trowa nodded as he took it. He sipped it slowly, closing his eyes. He let his head fall back on the pillows, tired. Quatre pulled over a ratan chair, sitting next to him, his hands folded over his lap.

Quatre frowned slightly. Trowa's eyes. He could see the intensity in them, the previous mission still in them, the base, the Mobile Suits. His hands clawed his pants. He blushed.

Trowa was looking at him, giving him back the empty cup.

"Mercy," he said. Quatre took it back to the table. He saw Trowa's drop head back on the pillows painfully. He bit his lip.

"Trowa," he said. "Will you return to..."

He fell silent. Trowa's eyes were fixed upon him viciously. Quatre swallowed his words, lowering his eyes. Of course he'd return to the mission. It was far more important than anything else. He wanted to go back to his Suit, to the war. To get there first, before the OZ could recall to arms. Before any more people got hurt.

Trowa smiled grimly, blushing at his meaness. He handn't meant to hurt the young man. He lifted his hand, looking at it. He frowned, clenshing his fingers. The last battle had jarred his whole hand. His fingers were numb, inmobile. Quatre lifted his eyebrows sadly. He walked over to his friend, taking his hand in his own. He lifted it to his cheek. Trowa looked at him, surprised.

Quatre had not told him how amny long hours he stayed up last might. He could see lines around the young boy's pretty face. Trowa frowned. He was no one to be given such attentions. Quatre let his hand go, moving away from him. The young boy went into the bathroom connected to teh bedroom. Trowa lay back on the pillows, closing his eyes. He was no one.

Quatre returned a wash basin in his hands, and a towel. He smiled at the young man, as he reached and washed his face with it. Trowa could see that the little boy was blushing, his eyes awerting conciously from his body. Trowa frowned. Quatre was so nice to him. Always ready to put his life in danger for him. Trowa could feel the young boy's shaking hands, tired from the war, run the towel over his temples. He reached up a hand and caught the young boy's wrist.

Quatre gasped, drawing away, his face blushing.

Trowa looked at him quietly, his whitened lips pressed. The young boy lowered his eyes. Trowa knew Quatre had been by his side ever since they brough him in. The boy hadn't slept at all. His blue eyes faint, the young looked like a dead shadow, leaning agaist teh table next to his bed.

"Why, Quatre?" The young blond blushed harder. "Why do you do this?"

Quatre smiled, taking the wash basin from the table. He looked at Trowa's eyes. Trowa's green eyes burnt. He bowed his head, excusing himself.

Trowa wanted to ask again, but Quatre opened the door, taking himself out. And he was so tired. He felt his body give way beneath the covers. The young boy looked back at him before he left. His blue eyes shinning, his blushed face happy.

Both boys stared at each other silently for a long time. The soft humming of the base's lighting sistem came from the walls. Along the hall outside his room, some of Quatre's men headed toward the hangar. Trowa smiled at him, making his mind stop his questions. He let his body relaxed back into the pillows, his mind defeated by pain.

The sound of fire woke him. The base was shaking madly, the thundering of air machines above it. He got up in his bed. He wasn't listening to what his servant was saying. About his safety, about how the Mobile Suits were ready. Thousands of footsteps rushed on the hall leading away downwards into the hangar.

His head was swimming. He reached up to make it stop. Trowa. The servant was telling him how the Mobil Suits had engaged the enemy outside, how the enemy had found them and opened fire without sending a warning. How his friend had left his bed and had insisted that he'd fight. His Gundam Machine was not yet ready to engage in battle, but the young man had flown off to fight.

Quatre's eyes widened in fear. How to stop all this from becoming reality ? His servant looked at him, worried. His master looked so disturbed.

"I'm alright, Majib," Quatre said. He drew the covers away from himself, finding his shoes. "How's our situation ?"

The servant helped into him into his robe. "Not good, Master," he answered. Quatre bit his lip. The sound of gun fire, of crashing machine pieces was so near. The floor began to vibrate with every booming blast.

Quatre reached for his goggles, pulling them over his head. He opened his small closet, searching for his fighting suit.

"No, Master," Majib said. Quatre turned to him, questioning. The servant shook his head. "The young pilot told us not let you follow him."

"Naze ?" Quatre clenched his fists. He lowered his head, closing his eyes. Not even in battle could he do as he wished for Trowa. He felt so helpless, so stupid. He ripped his goggles from his head. He could feel his servant's worry. The young pilot didn't care. He was so tired. Tired.

"Leave me, Majib," Quatre closed his closet. The servant bowed his head and left. The door closed softly as he exited.

The footsteps outside reverbrated on the halls, hurting his ears. Quatre turned, leaning back on his closet, his eyes wide. Why ? Why couldn't he go after him ? Or was it that Trowa feared for his safety ? Or was it because he felt that it was his mission, and that only he could do it ?

Quatre flung open his window. The smell of fire came to him from the distance. The battle was not that faraway. He held his shoulders tightly, closing his eyes. The wind blew his hair wildly, his white robe moving madly around his naked legs. I'm helpless. So helpless.

Quatre tried to find the shape of Heavy Arms in the dark battle field. Tried to make out the outcome. He could feel that his men were dying. Butchered for him. He gripped his arms tighter. All for him, so he could be safe.

Trowa. Tears trailed down into his lips. Bitter and salty. He reached up to brush them away, but they wouldn't stop. Not one colony was any better for any of the things he'd done. Not one man was free that he wasn't already. It was all so useless.

His hands gripped the curtains, his eyes open wide, his blue cristal eyes. Trowa would die. He was not ready for this. Heavy Arms was not in shape to battle. His throat hurt. Trowa would die. And he'd never told him how much he meant to him. He'd been too afraid, too helpless.

Not anymore. He turned away from the window, his hands brushing his tears away roughly. He flinged the closet open, bringing out his fighter suit. He wrapped his goggles around his head. The face that stared at him from the mirror was not his own. Those haunted, dark eyes, those pale lips and sunken cheeks were not his own. That was not him. He tossed his robe on the bed.

"Gomen nasai, Trowa,"

The Gundam took the enemy down mercylessly and fast. But not quite finishing it. The monster crashed into him, burying the Gundam's legs into the earth.

Heavy Arms swinged his torn hand at the heavy machine, trying to get it off from himself. The huge Mobile looked like a withering stem, the enemy machine bearing it down, pityful. Heavy Arms went down fell. Trowa beat at the controls.

"Naze, Heavy Arms?!" He pulled franticaly at the control stick. "Ikuso, Heavy Arms!" His numb broken fingers cracked on the preasure, blood from his nose sprinkled on the monitor. One of Quatre's men fell beside him, his Mobile Suit crashing into his own. He snarled silently as his fingers broke in the impact. His back smashed on the seat, the bealts cutting his neck.

He brushed his nose with his usuless hand, recoiling rapidly a shis enemy rushed up to him. The fallen Gundam was easy target half buried as it was. Heavy Arms raised it's bruised arms slowly.

"Ikuso, Heavy Arms!" Trowa screamed. "Or we'll be killed!" The Gundam was innert. The pilot's eye's widely horribly, his mind scared.

He crashed into his seat, his head slamming hard. He screamed. No! He opened his eyes. Quatre was screamed. He gasped. Sandrock had put himself between the incoming enemy and Heavy Arms. The Golden Gundam reeled in pain, as the blast hit his back. Trowa looked at the battle coldly. Quatre. Sandrock turned about, slashing at the furious savage machines. One of his men covered his side. The uncoming enemy's machine moved fast. They were true killer machines, ramming Sandrock blindly. The Golden Gundam cut them down, but in trying to cover Heavy Arms, his moves were weakened, and cut in half. Trowa gasped as Quatre's Gundam lost it's left arm. It crashed loudly next to his Gundam's leg.

"Quatre." Sandrock reeled backwards, using his other hand to cut down his attacker.

He grinned darkly, as another enemy machine tried to get a dammage point from him. He yelled in pain. The enemy shot got his Mobile Suit's chest. Between his pain, he saw the same machine take down some of the Mobile Suits of his people that were coming to help him. He cried out to them, his tears blinding him. So many of his people were dying in this senseless madness.

"I hate you!" Sandrock's other arm was torn off from his body, his enemy lifting the Gundam powerfully with it's massive hands. Quatre smiled as the enemy pilot's shape came into view. "I hate you all!" He blasted the machine to pieces, the Gundam's full power smothering it.

Heavy Arms struggled to its feet. He reached with his broken limbs to steady Sandrock's shaking body. Quatre gasped. Trowa!

"Master!"

Quatre screamed out, his voice coarse. The Mobile Suit his servant was driving crashed on to his own, as the balst of an enemy sent it across the field. The pilot shot off from the driver's seat, through the machine's body, seat and all, smashed into pieces. His servant's killer opened fire on Sandrock. Quatre gasped, his movements slow from the shock. He had no time to react. He looked behind at the fallen shape of Heavy Arms.

Trowa. Trowa will be killed. There was no time to fire at the enemy, but he wouln't let Trowa get killed.

Trowa gasped as Sandrock enfolded his machine's body with itself. The full power of the attack hit him savagely. Sandrock was taking all the force of the blows, guarding Heavy Arms beneath his huge frame. Trowa smashed into his seat. He could hear Quatre screaming as the enemy shot again. And again. And again. Sandrock's back hull flew off, the boosters craking, the alloy torn from it's place. The whole machine was being butchered as it remained kenaling over the other one.

Trowa gritted his teeth. He gasped as Quatre's face flashed on his screen, faint, among the static lines. The young pilot's yellow hair was caked with his blood, but he was smiling.

"Trowa...you'll be...fine..."

The shot blinded him then as the view went white, the huge machines folded one on top of the other. Trowa couldn't see when Quatre's men finished off the enemies that had attacked Sandrock. He couldn't see The Maguaranak fighters' eyes bloodshot with tears, as they drove in to help the dying shape that was their young master. The falling Mobile Suits caught fire. He heard the Maguaranak fighters snarl, as one of their machines came closer and lifted Sandrock by his shoulder blades. The fighter removed his dark glasses, watching pityfully as he separed the Golden Gundam from Heavy Arms.

"Master Quatre!"

Sandrock's driver's door flew open, the young pilot falling. His small body crashed down on the Gundam machine under his own, banging hard on it's chest.

Trowa opened his eyes. He saw the body of his friend crash into his Gundam's body loudly.

Quatre!

The door of his Gundam Suit didn't want to open. He slammed his broken arm at it several times until it gave way. One of Quatre's kinsmen helped him out. He didn't see his face. His eyes hurt because of the flames around the Mobile Suits. He shook his head trying to focus.

He searched for the dark silhuete of Quatre's body among the torn form of his Suit. His eyes widened with fear.

He found him. Five of Quatre's men were next to the young boy, some bent over his body. One of the men held the young boy's crumpled body in his arms, his little head sagging backwards. Tears fell hidden by the man's dark glasses. Trowa broke free from the man that was helping him down. He ran towards his friend. He pushed his way through the huge bodies of the fighters.

The man holding Quatre's body gasped. Trowa grasped Quatre's shoulders, taking him away from the arab's arms. Removing his shades, the arab bowed his head sadly. The young pilot pressed Quatre's body to his chest, his heart racing. The arabs turned their heads away, wanting to give them some pricacy, knowing that they couldn't take this anymore.

Trowa brushed a silent tear from his face. He craddled Quatre's limp body in his arms. He brushed the dirt from his face with his useless hand. He frowned. Quatre's eyes moved weakly.

Trowa blinked. Quatre's eyes opened slowly, their blue darkened with the pain. Trowa swallowed hard. A faint crooked smile formed on Quatre's bloody lips.

"Why, Quatre?"

The blond pilot smiled, his face blushing. Trowas beautiful eyes were searching his face, his soul. He could feel the arabs looking down at him, admiering their master. He looked at Trowa silently.

He smiled softly, his lips parting and gasping for air. "Trowa," he said.

He reached a shaking hand, fingers bloody and crumpled, to Trowa's face, carresing him tenderly. His blue eyes smiled. Trowa's cheeks colored. The arab next to him had put his shades back on, despereatly hidding his flowing tears.

Quatre ran his small fingers on Trowa's soft lips. Trowa closed his eyes. Quatre closed his eyes, feeling his friend next him, his arms holding him. This moment, Trowa. This small moment, alone, in this nightmare war field, in your arms, Trowa. This is why.

He doesn't say that. He doesn't speak at all. He doesn't have to. Both young men stay silent, staring at each other, feeling each other's warm life. Each other's deep friendship.

Trowa understands his silent words.