I should be resting. I know I should be resting. In fact, every cell in my body that has been thoroughly trained is screaming bloody murder at me that I should be in my bed, laying down and trying to sleep. Even if that means staring at the ceiling for countless hours, waiting for the next mission to come through, keeping the sense of anticipation to fight at bay.

I don't like blood. I never liked killing either, but there is something different about being in a Gundam that is almost God like. Maybe because in Wing, I'm not human. I mean, don't get me wrong, alot of people seem to think I'm not human anyway. Namely Duo Maxwell. But when I'm in my Gundam, that "not-human" status becomes an attribute rather than a wall. It makes me a god, albeit a weak god.

My feet, bare, pad down the halls of the Peacemillion but I don't bother to silence them. I stopped doing that a few months ago when in the company of those I could finally call allies, people other than myself. I have always been my one and only ally, my one and only source of strength. Well, united with my Gundam that is.

On my feet, looking up at a mobile suit, there is a sense of terror at the sheer immensity of them. Perhaps not to me because I've been around them for all of my life, but I know that just seeing a Gundam instills a sense of fear into the enemy.

The only thing that scares me is when we're all on the ground, fighting each other with our hands and with our weapons. Because it is then that we are all human, fighting a human's dirty war without ideals, hoping to God that you don't get some part of your body blown off. Fighting on the ground makes me human, regardless of how I react or fight. It's all just fighting in the end.

I turn the corner sharply, not really knowing where I'm going or why I've even bothered to try and alleviate my insomnia by walking around at all hours of the night. I'm sure that all the other pilots are sleeping soundlessly, and they'll be prepared when the next battle starts. Deep down, I know that I'm being self indulgent and allowing my restlessness to conquer my self discipline.

But for some reason, right now, I have a feeling that the end is nearing. It's not a foreboding feeling, or one of impending doom, but rather a quiet realisation. I simply know that the end of this war is near, that my time will come when I will have to fight my last fight, be a god for the last time with Wing Zero. So I allow myself the luxury of strolling around, knowing that it may be the last time I can do such a thing.

And that revelation doesn't frighten me or instill some sudden urge to fight harder; I've been fighting as hard as I could from the beginning. There is no effort left, no reserves that I have stored up. I have given everything to this war, everything. The thought that it will end soon, perhaps that my life will even end soon, gives me some cold comfort. I resign myself easily to it because I know that there is nothing left undone.

I turn another corner, realizing that without even noticing I've come to the mess hall. Its various shadows dance and play along the tables, the normally fluorescent lights off and the only source of light coming from some lamp someone must have left on in the kitchen area by accident. Then there are the few small, porthole windows with the stars shedding some beams of their own colorless, pallid light.

I've been walking in circles for hours now, turning down hallways that I know like the back of my hand, following straight lines and then curving back on my own path. Taking the luxury to stop, I finally just stand in the middle of the large room, casting my gaze out of one of the windows and passively observing the stars that I'd seen so many times before. I know those stars better than I know the earth or any colony.

Stretching, suddenly wishing that I could stop thinking and sleep, a few of my vertebrae crack as I raise my arms above my head like a cat and roll my neck slightly. It's a satisfying sound, to hear the crack of your own bones; it reminds me of my own weakness, that I'm not indestructible. The worst mistake a soldier can make is thinking that he is invincible. And there is no better wake up call than hearing your bones crack, or snap and break as the case may be.

My train of thought is suddenly interrupted as the hushed sound of rustling fabric is heard; someone else is in here. My awareness peaks dramatically as my eyes start to dart around the room systematically, refusing to let whoever is in here escape. There is a little voice in the back of my mind that I've learned to heed after a while, telling me that there isn't any danger.

Then I notice someone sitting next to one of the windows, almost casually lounging against his seat but not quite meeting the necessary requirements of posture to convince anyone that he is relaxed.

Trowa's silhouette is a series of angles against the stars' cold light, all straight lines and rigid posture as he sits up to look straight at me, mild surprise flickering across his normally dormant features.

Crossing my arms, I regard him silently for a moment, wondering what he could possibly be doing out here at this time of night, staring into space. To catch Trowa in a moment of his own introspection is rare, and I know that he was most definitely not expecting anyone to interrupt him. In fact, I have to admit that I am somewhat surprised to find him here like this.

Walking towards him, studying him as I grow closer, I suddenly realize to my consternation that he is wearing a flight suit. My heart flutters in anticipation, hoping that he is not planning something.

He reads the look as soon as it crosses my face, and I can see his down turned lips quirk slightly in amusement. I'm getting paranoid.

"Why the flight suit?"

He shrugs slightly, almost indiscernible, his face turning back towards the window to continue staring outside, "It's always good to be prepared."

I just raise an eyebrow that he doesn't see; so he can't sleep either. Is he sensing this strange, almost unnerving calm that I am? Only if he views death in the same way, I suppose.

We just stay there for a moment, me standing and him sitting, looking out onto the black landscape of distant dusty galaxies and stars that we are equally familiar with. I'm surprised at him; I've never taken the time to actually just stare into space so openly, letting the empty dark sky stare back at me. It's daunting in a way, although probably not as daunting as meeting another person's gaze.

Especially for Trowa, who has had a tendency since I met him to look straight at you for a few moments that are almost uncomfortable and then look away, not meeting your eyes for the rest of the conversation. I was always slightly curious about that habit of his. Not as to why he did it, but rather how he managed to do it without seeming impersonal. In fact, when Trowa's eyes met your own you were pretty much lost for a few ticks of the second hand until he released you from his impassive gaze.

Yes, most people would describe Trowa as impassive; his body language, his gestures, his eyes, even the way that he fights. He does it efficiently, strongly, perfectly, but without intensity. I suppose that has always been a major difference between us. But there's something in those depths of green that you can't tear yourself away from, as if by simply looking at him, he's snaring you somehow without even meaning to.

Of course, I could have also come in and out the spatial decompression chamber one too many times. Such observances of my own aren't worth anything, just thoughts I store up at the back of my mind, not really knowing what I mean to do with them.

Not really knowing why, I decide that for once, to have some company might be more beneficial in the long run than to keep wandering aimlessly around the Peacemillion for God only knows how many more minutes, hours, seconds. Tick...tick...tick...time is ticking by so slowly, I'm surprised it hasn't driven everyone insane.

He looks at me and I can tell he's slightly startled as I turn to lean against the wall, crossing my arms and slouching slightly. I'm impeding on his peripheral vision, not quite in the way of his gaze out the window but prevalent enough at the outer fringes of his vision to hinder his concentration. I can tell that he's unnerved by my unexpected presence, and masked by his totally motionless face, deep down he's just dying to know why I have come and graced the mess hall with my presence at 2 am for no apparent logical reason.

Well, Trowa, it's kind of funny you should ask that. There's no reason really other than sheer boredom, and I have stumbled upon you by chance. And no, I don't know why I've chosen to stay.

He's torn between looking at me, addressing my nagging presence, or continuing to stare blankly out the window. Apparently he gives up trying to ignore me, because even if I am looking off into the distance at the doorway where I had entered, he knows that I'm watching him anyway and if someone is watching him, he will not continue his thought process.

If there's anything Trowa hates, it's be scrutinized. I can tell. And the fact that Trowa even has personal, introspective moments is news to me. I suddenly feel foolish, knowing that such a fact surprises me. Did I expect him to be a robot? Expect him to be like me?

"What's out there?" my voice stirs him out of his internal debate of whether or ignore me, and he turns, meeting my gaze yet not quite looking directly into my eyes.

I can feel the weight of his eyes on me as he studies me, probably trying to decide whether I have any ulterior motives in being here. Apparently he decides that I'm not a threat as he chooses to respond noncommittally, "The Earth."

Moving to look out the window, I can feel his body retreat away from mine as we come dangerously close to touching, although I'm used to that. Trowa has a tenuous relationship with any kind of contact or touch that he doesn't initiate himself.

Pressing my palms to the glass, I can see the great blue sphere in the distance, half of it shrouded in night and the other half enlightened by the sun. It's strange, a planet where half of it sleeps and half of it wakes, as if the entire thing will never be conscious together, as a whole.

Shooting a mild look at Trowa, I back away and return to my former place, leaning against the wall and letting him shift almost imperceptibly back into his original position before I had invaded his personal space.

Settling into the fabric of his flight suit, the slender red stripes on it look slightly worn. He's worn that thing so many times it's like a second skin. It seems to give off an aura of safety somehow, allowing him to hide behind its stiff exterior while reminding him of his Gundam. I know because I get the same feeling whenever I wear a flight suit; it reminds me of space, of being weightless and of being powerful, secreted within the confines of a great metallic monster.

Although I've started to wonder if the human heart of the monster is less feeling than its hard mecha exterior.

"Libra is over there," he adds on second thought, stirring me out of my thoughts as my eyes follow where one of his fingers is pointing, "around that side."

This whole exchange is so mundane, it's silly really. I mean, here Trowa and I are, and he's pointing out different points on the horizon that I've seen a thousand times. But again, that nagging feeling that this is one of the last times we will be sitting like this together on Peacemillion crawls sluggishly up my spine, and I calm my judgmental mind. It won't hurt to indulge in a little ordinary conversation for the few remaining hours until whatever is going to happen actually happens.

"Have you seen it?" I hear myself asking, humoring this little charade of normalcy.

Trowa's one visible eye glances at me, seeming to realize this paradoxical little game of wholesome conversation that I'm playing with him, and I can tell that he's amused at my attempt. And I realize that, just as I do, he senses some sort of imminent conclusion is coming soon.

"A few times," his voice is still monotonous, but he is less tentative than before, "it keeps changing position."

"Hn," is my lucrative response.

Trowa ventures a small, secret smile in my direction under the cover of his hair, and suddenly the heavy, immense proportions of our situation are lightened. He is the only one who could ever carry on this little facade with me and then smile about it, understand what it is, what it's worth.

For a few minutes, there is no sound except the interspersed buzzing of the light left on in the kitchen area. The few beams of light that fall through the cracks in the door highlight the floor, glaring off of its polished metallic surface. Forgetting about Trowa for a moment, suddenly my suspicions of someone being on Peacemillion flare back up. Like I said, I'm too paranoid for my own good.

Stalking toward the door where the light is, Trowa looks at me strangely as every muscle in my body tightens. Catching on, although not looking nearly as suspicious, he silently stands up and follows me, his form practically gliding across the room as he silences his tread. Trowa fit right in at his cover-up position in the circus with his natural grace and balance, long wiry limbs hiding the strength that he uses to pilot HeavyArms. He has a tendency to surprise people with his aggressive fighting skills.

Steeling myself, my trigger finger twitching, I push open the door slowly to reveal whoever has infiltrated Peacemillion.

Expecting to face down someone bigger than me, which has never been a problem, I am stopped dead in my tracks as I am faced with Noin who is sitting calmly at a table, drinking something that she probably retrieved from the kitchen.

She must notice the look on my face, because her only response is to blink and raise an eyebrow over one soft eye that holds no ferocity.

"Heero...Trowa?" her voice increases a note when she sees Trowa cautiously follow behind me, clothed in his flight suit, "what's going on?"

We look at each other, then look back at her and I make up the first excuse that comes into my head, suddenly terrified of interrupting this calming stillness that Trowa and I have managed to create between ourselves at such ungodly hours of the morning, "I thought someone had infiltrated."

She looks as if she is resisting the urge to laugh, but I know she senses it too. And she can't sleep because whatever will happen soon will surely involve Zechs. Setting down the empty container in front of her, she begins to leave, shaking her head slowly, "Sorry to alarm you Heero, but it's just me. You two should be resting," she raises her eyebrow a second time, pausing at the doorway, "I'll see you in the morning. I think...I think something will happen by then."

Then she is gone, the tension in her voice echoing our thoughts. Unlike me, she has not resigned herself to such a fate of destruction willingly. Probably because she loves him, and love hampers the purity of accepting your fate, making you want to change it.

I turn, realizing an hour has already passed since I had wandered down here and found Trowa, and find myself to be all too alert. The former surge of adrenaline is still running wildly in my veins, and Noin's presence had shattered all semblance of comfort.

Trowa is looking at me blankly, startled by Noin's words and the fact that we are one hour closer to the end of this time in our lives. Or perhaps even the end of our lives.

Without saying a word, I walk back out into the mess hall, flicking off the light as I go to leave Trowa standing alone in pitch blackness. When he doesn't follow, probably disoriented from having two unexpected people invade his time of silent nightly reflection, I finally speak, "Are you coming?"

My voice is quiet. I don't know why I am so quiet, but the former comfort is now descending into something else, something colder and unforgiving. My resignation is staying firm, but there is something else waning in the back of my mind. Something I have never questioned before that has been brought to the surface with the knowledge that something irreversible is going to happen once this night is over.

Then it dawns on me. I will never see Trowa like this again, standing in the Peacemillion's mess hall in his flight suit, diverting his gaze to the floor as I study him. It's not the idea that I will never see him again that bothers me, but that I will never see him like this, in this world that is almost perfect for both of us. Achingly perfect, a double edged sword.

We belong on the battlefield, we have both known fighting, been raised on fighting and war. That is our purpose, that is probably the only thing that has allowed us to accept each other's presence. And out of any of the other pilots, as much as I've come to regard them as close comrades, I realize that Trowa is the only one who I could stand with in silence at 2 am in near total darkness and simply know that he isn't judging me.

I don't say anything to him as he follows me back to the window where we were before, although he doesn't sit back down. He stands rigidly with his arms hanging at his sides, all former comfort totally extinguished. It isn't enough now, to have us standing here, both knowing of the imminent yet undefinable change that will occur so soon. It isn't enough for me anymore to stand there dumbly, just looking at him. God, it isn't enough anymore to not know him like he knows me.

Without thinking, I take a step towards him and stop, gauging his reaction out of morbid intrigue. He doesn't appear to even notice as he stares to the side out onto space. I take another.

And another. And then another, until I'm two steps away from closing the gap between us completely.

He looks at me suddenly, his eyes meeting mine without meaning to, and I snap that gaze up before he can shy away. I focus all of my intensity into my stare, leering at him as if seeing him for the first time. Of course his only reaction is to stare back, but I can see a flicker in the bottomless green and I know that I've caught him in a moment of vulnerability.

In a silent strange dance, he takes a step back at the same time as I take a step forward. He does it subtly, as if not even acknowledging that the reason he is retreating is to get away from me, escape me. I will not be deterred.

I take another step, and then all vantage points for him are gone as he takes a step back and is stopped suddenly by the wall. For now, the distance between us has been even, us moving together but staying apart. Now he's stuck, and I'm not.

If take another step forward, if I proceed when he cannot, I will have changed everything. I will have changed my personal resignation toward the future, I will have changed Trowa, I will have changed myself. I will have altered my entire philosophy, all with that one little move towards him.

I take a single, last step forward.

Now there is nowhere for me to go and nowhere for him to go. We are trapped, trapped by each other. His gaze is still locked with mine; it has been since he started to back away from me, and I don't move my eyes from his. And then he blinks, finding himself in darkness and opening his eyes to see me.

He is slightly taller than me, his flight suit making him seem more solid, but suddenly he seems small. Suddenly he isn't Trowa Barton, pilot of HeavyArms, who saved my life, who returned me to the living, the stolid soldier who doesn't speak of anything frivolous.

No. Now he's just Trowa, and he's scared. Probably of me.

My arms encircle him, slowly, very slowly until he is loosely held against me, his entire body totally unwilling to respond and his face a blank mask. I don't say anything, just standing there with Trowa trying to cement himself against the wall although not fighting to get away from me. He never did fight contact, he just shied away from it.

Finally, I let my fingers lightly brush the back of his neck, and the stillness is broken. He shudders softly, his eyes closing and his body suddenly losing all stiffness as he lets himself lean bonelessly against the wall.

I don't know why I'm doing this; what did I mean when I said I need to know him? Is this how I feel about him? I suddenly have a flicker of realisation of why Noin cannot resign herself to the future because of what she feels for Zechs. I understand. Just as I know something will happen soon that will forever change all of us, I know that Trowa is...Trowa is...

Trowa is the only thing that I'm afraid of.

He takes a quick breath in and releases it, and I can feel my own heart hammering in my ears. Please, let me touch you...

I forget who I am for a moment, letting my fingers reverently whisper over his neck, moving their way up to comb through his short hair. He flinches as my other hand, as if of its own accord, falls lazily down to his shoulder and snakes around so that my fingers graze across his throat underneath the collar of his flight suit, although I meet another barrier of the turtleneck shirt he's wearing underneath.

I know I should stop, know that this will change me, but I can't; he feels too good against me. So solid, so real, and so right.

We stand there in the darkness against each other, highlighted by the starry sky through the window, the sound of Trowa's shuddering breath the only thing breaking the silence. A memory trails through my mind of Trowa's solitary silhouette sitting there, alone, all harsh angles. But god, he is tangible now, and I suddenly realize that I have been lost since I first met his stoic gaze. It's ironic really, the fact that such dispassionate eyes ignite such a force within me, a force that negates my acceptance of fate.

One handed, I manage to unzip the front of his flight suit, removing his only source of protection and my hand fumbles clumsily inside as I encircle his waist. He makes no move to shrug it off of his shoulders, just standing shock still and trying desperately to control his erratic breathing.

He's fighting himself now, not me.

My head removes itself from his shoulder, leaning back slightly as I look at him. His eyes are still closed, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration as he tries to regain his composure. He's trying to escape, and I just know that in his head he is screaming "get away from me" over and over again.

I lean forward, my hand tightening its grip at the small of his back as I pull him towards me. My lips brush against his as I kiss him, not caring when he doesn't respond. I don't expect him to.

He sags against the wall, slumping out of my embrace and lets himself slide down so that he's sitting on the floor, knees drawn loosely to his chest. His body rips away from my grip as he simply collapses, leaving me standing, suddenly feeling very alone.

His forehead is resting on a knee as he refuses to look at me, staring at the floor and probably wishing he could disappear, shoulders crunched together and sagging in defeat. It's as if he's trying to make himself as small as possible which is really altogether useless because of his long limbs.

I find myself crouching down next to him, ignoring his dismissal of me, suddenly totally indifferent if he won't react. All I want is to touch him, to feel him and make sure that he's real. I knew from the moment that I took that first literal step towards him that I'd be lucky if he even made eye contact with me.

I won't pretend it's enough. I might have expected it, but it's not enough. And for the first time, I experience an injury off of the battlefield that could rival every broken bone I've ever had combined.

My hands are there on him again, smoothing over his back, down his spine and kissing the back of his head possessively. He turns his head to the side, looking at me apathetically, but again I see something flash in his eyes. Drawing him up bodily, he lets me move him as if he's a mannequin, and I draw the flight suit off of his shoulders, down his arms.

That's all that I can do on my own; I need his help for anything more. And he's not offering it. So I am just content to kiss him, my lips finding the skin of his forehead, his cheek, his lips, his throat through the cloth of his shirt.

"Trowa," I say his name quietly, giving up a piece of myself as I speak.

He knows what it cost me to say that, to admit that I want him to respond, that I need him to touch me like I'm touching him. He knows what it cost me to admit that I need him.

He looks at me, really looking at me. I dip my head, my lips meeting his motionless ones, and then suddenly, he responds.

It's as if I have been seeing the world in black and white for most of my life, and suddenly someone just shined a light and the entire universe has burst into colour. His lips move against mine, and a moan is lost deep in the back of his throat, barely audible but there.

What was a listless, melancholy step into chance suddenly becomes a whirl wind of stormy emotions. I'm kissing him feverishly, the flight suit drawn off of his shoulders until it is hanging at his waist where he sits. His arms are locked tenuously around me, but they are a comforting weight.

By the time I've gotten over the shock of his response, I've managed to push him onto the floor so that he's underneath of me, his eyes modestly downcast as he refuses to meet my gaze which I'm sure by now is a very intense shade of crazed blue.

My hands are everywhere before I can even think about stopping them, running across his collar bone, down his chest and then back up to trace the contours of his face. His thumbs are clumsily stroking the base of my spine where his hands are locked, unmoving, but it feels so good. I never knew anything could be this staggering.

Seemingly without his permission, his hips weakly drive themselves up against my own, and then he cries out, throwing his head back and forgetting his inhibitions. He is too lost in this moment, and I am lost in him.

I know we can't do what our bodies are asking for; it's not the right time. Maybe for me, but not for Trowa. I know that without even looking at him, simply by feeling his body's sporadic responses to my own, his twisted facial expressions torn between shame and rapture.

I stop moving, and almost immediately Trowa does as well. He's finally looking at me, for once him caught in my own gaze rather than the other way around.

He takes a deep breath in, holds it for a moment and then slowly lets it ease out of his lungs. His face is flushed, his mouth slightly open as he breathes and his brown hair sticking out wildly every which way, revealing both green eyes which are vulnerable for the first time I can remember.

I'll always remember him this way.

There's nothing else to do now, both of us against the floor, me still on top of him with my head resting against his chest. So I wrap my arms around him, as if protecting us both from the change that will come with the dawn.

Outer space's version of dawn is the same as its version of night, but as half of the earth lights up and its residents awake, the other half darkens and sleeps.