Disclaimers: I still don’t own anything.
Author’s notes: Here’s the final part. Hope you all like it.
Quatre opened his eyes, his stomach grumbling in hunger. He had been there two days, with no food, no water. Peter hadn’t
returned. His mouth was dry, his throat parched. He wished that somebody would come and help him, even Peter.
The pungent scent of urine caught his attention and he felt ashamed at himself for not being able to hold it in any longer. But it
couldn’t be helped. It wasn’t as if he could get up to go to the bathroom.
His arms were sore, his body shivering. No matter what he did, he just couldn’t get comfortable. Of course he didn’t want to
fall asleep. He was afraid that Peter might come back and do something to him while he was unconscious. The only reason he
had fallen asleep last night, or early that morning, was because of exhaustion.
He couldn’t believe that Peter had just left him like that, handcuffed to the bed. What if he didn’t come back? Quatre
shuddered, thinking that he could die like this. This was definitely not the way he pictured himself dying. He had thought that
he’d die in a fight, or at least he had when he was still a pilot.
Quatre snapped his head up, hearing the unmistakable sound of the doorbell. He yelled at the top of his lungs, hoping that
whoever it was would help him. Moments later, he was relieved to hear a voice.
“Mr. Winner?” The voice said. Quatre didn’t recognize it, but he didn’t care who it was, as long as they helped him.
“Up here!” Quatre yelled.
A young man stepped into the doorway, and Quatre was thrilled beyond belief. It was Jack, an intern in his corporation. “Good
lord, Mr. Winner, what happened to you?” He asked as he walked over to the bed.
“Just get me out of here. Hurry, he could come back any minute.” Quatre replied, frantically. He didn’t care that he had no
clothes on. He just wanted to get out of there before Peter returned.
Jack ran to his side. “Where are the keys?”
“The table.” Quatre answered.
Jack picked up the keys and fumbled around with them, trying to unlock the handcuffs. “When you didn’t show up for work
yesterday or today, everyone got pretty worried. I guess Rasid was right to send me here.”
Quatre’s gaze was fixed on Jack’s hands as the young man tried to set him free, so he didn’t see Peter until it was too late. His
eyes went wide, as Peter grabbed Jack’s hair and pulled his head back. Then there was a glint of metal as a blade was slid
across Jack’s throat.
Quatre wanted to scream, but before he could even open his mouth, Peter threw Jack’s slowly dying body onto him. He could
hear the gurgling sounds as Jack struggled to breathe. Jack’s blood flowed from the wound in his throat. The warm red liquid
seeped from the wound quickly, covering Quatre’s body.
Quatre couldn’t breathe as the weight of Jack’s dying body pressed against his chest and face. His heart raced with panic, as he
tried to regain control of himself, tried to breathe. Jack’s body eventually stopped moving, as he died.
Relief washed over Quatre, as Jack’s body was pulled off of him. But still, the fear remained. Quatre looked up at Peter, his
body trembling in terror as he listened to the older man.
“Let that be a lesson to you. No one can help you now. You’re mine. And if you tell anyone or even attempt to leave me, I’ll
do this to everyone you care about. I wonder how quickly Trowa Barton will die after I slash his throat open.” Peter said, his
voice never wavering, never showing a single hint of emotion.
Peter picked up the keys, from where they had fallen from Jack’s hand. He uncuffed Quatre. Forcefully, he grabbed Quatre’s
wrist and pulled him from the bed. Quatre didn’t have a chance to stand, to try and lift himself from the floor, as Peter roughly
forced Quatre to lie on his stomach.
Quatre knew what was coming. He mentally yelled at himself to fight back. But he was so tired, so scared. Behind him, he
could hear the unmistakable sound of a zipper being undone and clenched his eyes shut, trying to prepare himself for what was
It felt like he was being ripped in half, as Peter plunged his penis into Quatre. He hadn’t done anything to prepare Quatre, no
lubrication, no nothing. Quatre bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood, to keep from screaming in pain. But Peter didn’t stop,
didn’t even seem concerned about Quatre. He just kept pushing himself in and out of Quatre.
“You’re mine, Quatre. You'll never get away from me. Say you’re mine.” Peter said, punctuating each of his statements with a
hard, and painful, thrust of his hips.
“I’m yours.” Quatre said, his voice barely audible, as tears fell from his eyes.
“And you’ll never leave me, right?” His voice was venomous, as he thrust his hips once again, pushing himself deeper into
“I’ll never leave.” Quatre cried, not wanting Peter to be angry. He just wanted the pain to stop, and agreeing with Peter seemed
to be the only way to get that to happen.
One more thrust of Peter’s hips, and it was all over. Once his orgasm was over, he pulled out of Quatre, pushing the young ex-
pilot away from him as he got up. He stood, pulling his pants back up as he walked over to Jack’s body.
Quatre pulled his knees to his chest, hugging them close to his body. He couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop the tears that
flowed from his eyes. Quatre couldn’t believe how wrong he had been about Peter, how horrible he turned out to be. He
watched as Peter knelt beside Jack’s body and slung it over his shoulder.
He stopped next to Quatre on his way out of the room. “Clean yourself up.” Peter spat. “And while you’re at it, clean up the
room too. It’s filthy.” With that said, Peter left the room, carrying Jack over his shoulder.
Quatre shuddered as he forced himself to his knees. He looked down at himself, knowing what he would see. Blood, there was
so much blood covering him. It was his fault that Jack was dead. If he hadn’t called out for help, if he had just kept his mouth
shut, Jack wouldn’t be dead.
“Allah, forgive me.” Quatre said, as he covered his face with his hands, trying to wipe his tears away. But he only succeeded in
smearing the blood that was on his face.
Quatre stood, his legs shaky. He walked into the bathroom, his legs threatening to give out on him at any minute. His body hurt
so much, but he knew he had to get cleaned up, had to do whatever Peter told him. He couldn’t risk anyone else’s lives.
He stepped into the shower, turning the water on and letting it wash over him. The water rinsed away the blood. Quatre
watched as the blood mixed with the water, swirling around the drain before finally going down.
After several moments, he picked up a washcloth and began to clean himself off. Once cleaned, he dried himself and got
dressed. Then he set about cleaning the bedroom, washing away every trace of blood.
As he worked, he cried. He cried for Jack, whose life had been ended so abruptly. He cried for all those others that had been
hurt by Peter. But he didn’t cry for himself. How could he worry about himself, when it was his fault anyway? He should
have listened to Rasid in the first place, should have listened to the other man’s warnings.
The shuttle docked with the colony. Trowa looked out the window, wishing it hadn’t taken him so long to get there. Quatre
was in trouble, at least that’s what Rasid had told him. It had taken him four days, a day longer than he had expected. But he
just hadn’t been able to get away, or get a seat on a shuttle, until yesterday.
Thinking of Quatre, brought up emotions he had tried to force away. How would he be able to see Quatre and not tell him of his
feelings? How would he be able to be in the same room as him and not touch him?
Trowa didn’t think he could do it. He knew that if he saw Quatre, he would want to do just that, would want to let him know
that he did love him, that he had just been too scared to say anything.
He pushed those thoughts away, as he exited the shuttle. He knew he had to keep his mouth shut, if only for Quatre’s sake.
Quatre didn’t need him coming into his life after so long and ruining it. If he was happy with his new love, that Peter guy, Rasid
had told him about, then he couldn’t tell him. He wouldn’t cause Quatre any pain, wouldn’t want to hurt him, by proclaiming
He got into a taxi and headed for Quatre’s house. Soon he would see if Quatre was all right. If he was, then Trowa would
leave, wouldn’t bother him ever again. But if Peter had hurt him, in any way, Trowa would kill the bastard.
Quatre had just barely been able to get through work that day. Rasid had asked him where he was those two days. Of course,
Quatre lied, telling his old friend that he had been sick. He didn’t know if Rasid believed him, but he was relieved when Rasid
hadn’t asked him any other questions.
Now, Quatre sat at the dining room table, his hands in his lap. Peter was in the kitchen, making dinner. Quatre stared down at
his empty plate, trying not to do anything that might anger Peter. He was struggling against the fear that left him frozen in
place. How could he go on like this? He had to get away from Peter. But he wouldn’t put anyone else’s lives in danger. He
couldn’t leave and let Peter take out his wrath by killing the people Quatre cared about. Quatre was torn, not knowing what to
The doorbell rang and Quatre jumped in his seat, startled. “I’ll get it.” Peter said, as he walked out of the kitchen. “You stay
here.” He added as he strolled past Quatre.
Quatre did as he was told, afraid to do anything else. He turned his head, looking toward the entrance to the other room, toward
where the front door was. He heard the mumbling voices of Peter and someone else. The other voice sounded familiar,
although he couldn’t place it.
A moment later, Quatre’s heart filled with hope as Trowa walked into the room. “Look.” Peter said, as he placed a hand on
Trowa’s shoulder. “We have company.”
The second he saw Peter next to Trowa, all his hope vanished. There was no way he was going to let Trowa get hurt, no way
he was going to tell him what had happened.
“How wonderful to see you again, Trowa.” Quatre said, covering up his fear with the largest smile he could manage. He
couldn’t let Trowa see how scared he was.
“Hello Quatre.” Trowa replied, his voice as calm as Quatre remembered it.
“Why don’t you have a seat, Trowa?” Peter said, gesturing to a chair across from Quatre’s.
“Thank you.” Trowa replied, as he sat.
“Well, I think I’ll leave you two alone to talk. I still have to finish preparing dinner.” Peter walked away, back into the kitchen,
leaving Quatre and Trowa alone.
“What are you doing here?” Quatre asked.
“Rasid called me.” Trowa replied. “He was worried about you. He said you’ve been coming to work with bruises.”
Quatre averted his gaze, not wanting to get into that particular conversation. “I’m fine.”
“Is Peter hurting you?” Trowa asked abruptly, his voice lowered to a whisper.
Quatre looked over Trowa’s shoulder, to the kitchen, wondering if Peter could hear them from in there. His heart began to race
as he saw Peter standing in the doorway, holding a butcher knife in his hands. Quatre looked back to Trowa, knowing what
Peter would do if he thought Trowa suspected anything. Peter would slit Trowa’s throat just as quickly as he had Jack’s.
Quatre couldn’t let that happen.
At that moment, he realized that he had never gotten over Trowa, never forgotten his feelings, only buried them for a short
time. Quatre couldn’t let anything happen to him, not when he still loved Trowa more than life itself.
“Of course he’s not hurting me.” Quatre replied, trying to sound as convincing as possible.
“Then how did you get those bruises?” Trowa asked, apparently not letting him drop the subject.
“I was just clumsy, that’s all.” He hoped Trowa would believe him, hoped he wouldn’t pressure him into answering truthfully.
“I’m fine.” Quatre said, smiling as brightly as he could, although his heart was still racing with fear.
Quatre looked back to the kitchen and watched as Peter backed away from the door. A few moments later, he came back out,
carrying dinner out with him.
“Dinner’s served.” He said, cheerfully. Peter turned to Trowa. “Will you be joining us?”
Trowa stood. “No, I really should be going.” He answered, all the time never taking his eyes off of Quatre. “We should talk
again sometime.” Trowa said.
“I would like that very much.” Quatre replied. “We could have lunch or something.”
Peter led Trowa to the door. A few seconds later, Quatre heard the front door open and shut. When Peter came back to the
dining room, Quatre stared down at his plate, once again afraid of what Peter would do.
“So, that was Trowa Barton?” Peter asked, grabbing Quatre by the arm and forcefully pulling him from the chair.
Quatre stared at the floor, knowing that this would end badly for him. Peter was jealous, he could see that. “Yes.” He replied
in a whisper.
“Come on!” Peter shouted, dragging Quatre out of the room and up the stairs.
It was hard for Quatre to keep his balance, as Peter was roughly pulling him into the bedroom. He threw Quatre onto the bed.
Quatre backed away from him, afraid of what he was going to do. He put his hands up, in an attempt to defend himself.
But this only seemed to make Peter angrier. He got onto the bed, approaching Quatre quickly. He slapped Quatre’s hands away
and grabbed his hair, pulling his head back. “Did you tell him that you wanted to talk with him again? Have lunch?” Peter
asked through clenched teeth. He let go of Quatre’s hair.
“I’m sorry.” Quatre said, trying to avoid getting hurt. “I didn’t mean it. It just came out.”
A punch to his stomach stopped any other words that he might have said. Quatre fell to his side, clutching his stomach and
attempting to take in a breath. Before he could force himself to breathe again, Peter hit him again, this time in the face.
The punches kept coming and coming, One to his nose. Another to his mouth. Several more to his stomach. And still they
came. Peter showed no signs of stopping as he repeatedly beat Quatre.
Then Peter spoke. With each strike to Quatre’s body, Peter said one word. “You . . . will . . . never . . . see . . . him . . .
again!” He shouted. He grabbed Quatre by the collar, finally stopping his assault. “Do you understand me?”
Quatre’s head bobbed as he struggled to stay conscious. “Yes.” He replied, blood dribbling from his mouth. His words came
out slurred, as his tears stung the corners of his eyes. “I understand.”
“Good.” Peter huffed, as he dropped Quatre back down onto the bed. He grabbed Quatre’s clothes and tore them from his
beaten and bloody body.
“No, please don’t.” Quatre begged, not wanting this to happen.
“What did you say?!” Peter asked, fury blazing in his eyes. He struck Quatre again, this time slapping him hard across the
“Nothing. I’m sorry.” Quatre said, finding it hard to speak. His face hurt so much.
“I thought so.” Peter replied, as he removed his own clothing.
He quickly plunged himself deep into Quatre, again not bothering to get him ready for it. This time Quatre did scream out as the
pain tore through his already sore body. He couldn’t contain it, couldn’t stop the scream from leaving his lips. He dug his nails
into the sheets, wishing for it to end.
As Quatre’s vision slowly faded into darkness, he thanked Allah for letting his mind slip away. At least when he was
unconscious, he wouldn’t feel the pain. He wouldn’t hear the moans of the man he had once loved but now despised, as he
used his body as nothing more than a toy. The welcome blackness overcame him, and he silently slipped away, once again
thanking Allah for the relief from the pain.
Trowa walked up to Quatre’s secretary. “I need to see him.” He said to the pretty young woman.
“He isn’t taking any appointments today. You'll have to come back tomorrow.” She said, politely.
Trowa couldn’t wait that long. He had to see Quatre right now. He had only seen him yesterday and not for very long. But in
that short time, he had seen all he needed to see. Quatre was in danger. Peter was hurting him.
He and Quatre had only talked for a few minutes last night, but that was enough. Trowa recognized the signs immediately, the
look of fear in Quatre’s eyes, the way he constantly looked to the kitchen where Peter was. He was terrified of the man, afraid
of something terrible.
And when Trowa had left, he hadn’t gone far. He was standing across the street, using his binoculars to see what was
happening inside the house. To his shock and horror, he had seen what Peter had done to Quatre, had watched as he beat and
It had taken all his strength to keep from running into that house and killing Peter. He couldn’t go in there while Quatre was still
there. He couldn’t take the risk of Quatre getting hurt.
Besides, he had to confront Quatre, to get him to see that he needed help. He had to ask for help before Trowa could come to
his aid. Trowa knew from experience that these things had to be handled carefully, or he could hurt Quatre very badly.
Trowa slammed his fist down on the secretary’s desk. “I want to see him now!” He shouted.
Before she could argue, Trowa stormed over to the door of Quatre’s office and threw it open. Quatre rose from his seat behind
his desk, slowly.
“I’m sorry Mr. Winner, but he wouldn’t listen.” The secretary said, grabbing Trowa’s arm.
Trowa pulled away from her, not taking his eyes away from Quatre. He looked to be in so much pain, his face covered in
bruises. His lips were cut open in several places, his cheek red, and both eyes black. By the way he moved, Trowa could tell
that his body was in pain, probably from the number of punches to his abdomen.
“That’s okay, Celeste. I’ll see him.” Quatre replied.
Celeste left the office, closing the door behind her. Trowa was glad she was gone, because now he could talk to Quatre in
“What do you want, Trowa?” Quatre asked, as he sat in his chair.
“I know he’s hurting you Quatre.” Trowa replied, quickly walking over to stand in front of the desk.
“Oh this,” He said, gesturing at the bruises on his face. “I fell down the stairs, that’s all.”
“Don’t lie to me. I saw what he did. I was outside, watching through binoculars.” Trowa replied, hoping that Quatre wouldn’t
hate him for not helping.
Quatre’s face suddenly went white and he looked away from Trowa. But he didn’t answer. He didn’t say one word.
“Why didn’t you ask for help? Why didn’t you leave him?” Trowa asked. He walked around the desk and turned Quatre’s
chair around so that he faced him.
“You don’t understand.” Quatre mumbled, still averting his gaze.
“I understand better than you think.” Trowa replied, bringing up the painful memories of his own past, the way he was treated
by all those mercenaries when he was a child. He told Quatre all of this, about all the beatings, all the rapes by the men that
hadn’t even thought to give him a name. By the time he finished speaking, he was reduced to tears, struggling to finish his
sentences with choked up sobs.
Quatre’s eyes were also filled with tears. But at least now he was looking at Trowa. “I had no idea.” He whispered, laying a
hand on Trowa’s shoulder.
“That’s why I couldn’t tell you how I felt, all those months ago. I was afraid that you might hurt me, that you might hate me
for what had been done to me.” Trowa said, trying to keep his eyes on Quatre’s.
“What are you telling me?” Quatre asked, as he took his hand away from Trowa.
Trowa took hold of Quatre’s hand, pulling it close to his chest. He took a deep breath, then began speaking. “I love you,
Quatre. I have loved you ever since I first met you. I know you can’t love me back, not after the way I treated you. But I just
had to tell you, had to let you know.”
“I love you too Trowa. I never stopped loving you, not even when I was with Peter.” He took his hand back, and stood,
turning his back to Trowa. “But you still don’t understand.”
“Then tell me. Make me understand why you won’t leave him.” Trowa also stood, happy in the knowledge that Quatre still
loved him. But he was still worried for Quatre’s health, wondering what he was hiding.
“I can’t risk anyone else’s lives. He killed someone just to teach me a lesson. I watched a man die and I couldn’t do anything
to stop it.” Quatre said, his voice quavering.
Trowa grasped his shoulders, wanting to offer some comfort but not knowing what to say.
Quatre turned to him, burying his face in Trowa’s chest as he sobbed. “Oh Trowa help me. Please.” He pleaded.
“Of course.” Trowa answered. After a few moments, he pulled Quatre away from him. “Have you been to a doctor?” He
“No.” Quatre said, shaking his head.
“Sit down.” Trowa said.
Quatre did as he was asked, not even attempting to put up an argument.
Trowa slowly began unbuttoning the shirt Quatre wore, concerned only with checking his wounds. He took in a sharp breath,
seeing the massive bruise on Quatre’s abdomen. “Good lord, Quatre.” He whispered. He gently prodded the bruised area,
checking for broken ribs.
“How bad is it?” Quatre asked, gasping every time Trowa touched him.
“You really need to see a doctor. It doesn’t look good.” Trowa said, as he fastened the buttons again.
“Come with me?” Quatre asked.
He sounded so scared that Trowa couldn’t deny him anything. “Of course I will.”
Trowa stood by Quatre’s hospital bed, watching as the young blonde slept. Quatre’s injuries had been severe. A few broken
ribs, internal bleeding. If Trowa hadn’t brought him to the hospital when he did, Quatre might be dead by now.
Thinking that he could have lost Quatre, filled him with a deep rage. He wanted to go teach that bastard a lesson, to punish him
for all the pain he had caused Quatre. But he just couldn’t bring himself to leave the side of the man he loved. He couldn’t
abandon Quatre now, not leave him here alone.
If Quatre woke up alone, he’d be terrified. He might think that Trowa abandoned him. Trowa couldn’t let that happen, wouldn’
t let Quatre be hurt or scared again. Revenge would just have to wait a little while.
For hours, Trowa stayed by Quatre’s side, holding his hand. Gently, he brushed Quatre’s bangs away from his sweat
dampened forehead. His hand brushed across his soft skin, feeling the fever that burned within him.
As he took his hand away, Quatre’s eyes slowly fluttered open. “You're still here?” Quatre asked, his voice sounding a little
“Of course. I’ll never leave your side again.” Trowa murmured, giving Quatre’s hand a gentle squeeze.
Quatre smiled, his eyes reflecting happiness. “Thank you.” He said. Then his eyes grew dim as his smile faded. “Do
something for me?”
“Anything.” Trowa replied.
“Make sure Peter doesn’t hurt anyone else. But don’t kill him, unless you have to.” Quatre said.
“You still show him mercy, after all he’s done to you?”
Quatre smiled again. “I can’t help it. It’s who I am.”
Trowa knelt over and kissed the back of Quatre’s hand. “For you, I’ll show him the mercy that he doesn’t deserve.”
He stood and slowly walked to the door. Before he left, he took one last look back at Quatre. He sighed, seeing that the blonde
had already fallen asleep.
Trowa walked through the quiet house, searching for any sign of Peter. The man had to be brought to justice for what he had
done to Quatre. But no matter how much he wanted to, Trowa wouldn’t kill him. He had promised to show mercy. Even
though the bastard didn’t deserve such kindness.
The house was dark and silent. But he didn’t turn on a light, didn’t want to warn Peter of his presence.
“I know you’re here.” A voice called out. Trowa recognized it as Peter’s. “This house has a very good security system, made
by one of Quatre’s companies.”
“Damn.” Trowa muttered to himself. He should have thought of that earlier.
A bright flash filled the room as a loud bang was heard. Trowa grasped his shoulder in pain as a bullet tore through his flesh.
The lights came on and Trowa could see Peter, at the other end of the hall. Trowa ducked behind a corner as several more
shots were fired. But he didn’t shoot back. He couldn’t risk killing the man. He had to be punished.
Eventually, Trowa heard the clicking of Peter’s gun, telling him that the man had run out of bullets. He turned the corner and
ran out. Running at full force, he tackled Peter to the ground, knocking the gun from his hands.
“You bastard!” Trowa shouted as he began to pummel Peter.
He threw punch after punch, hitting Peter in the face as many times as he could, before Peter was finally able to throw him off.
Peter got up and ran to the stairs as Trowa landed hard on the ground, sending a sharp pain throughout his shoulder.
Quickly he got up, trying to ignore the pain. He chased Peter up the stairs. He found him in a spare bedroom, in one of the
upper floors, searching for a way to escape.
“You're not getting away. You’ll pay for what you did to Quatre.” Trowa fumed, barely able to control his rage.
“Oh, no I won’t.” Peter replied.
Trowa rushed forward, realizing what Peter was about to do. As Trowa moved as fast as he could, Peter threw himself out the
window, shattering the glass completely. Trowa reached out, and grasped Peter by the wrist, his own body hanging halfway
out the window. He clutched the window frame to keep from falling out, his shoulder burning with pain from the pressure of
the extra weight he was trying to hold up.
“Let me go.” Peter demanded, glaring at Trowa.
Trowa’s grip was slipping as Peter’s wrist was slick with fresh blood. “Never. Now give me your other hand.”
Peter only smiled. He didn’t raise his other hand, didn’t even look as if he wanted to.
“Give me your hand!” Trowa shouted.
“No.” Peter replied, simply.
Then Trowa lost his grip. He watched as Peter fell, his body landing on the ground in such a way that his neck was broken.
Trowa closed his eyes, after hearing the snap of bones. He was glad that the man was dead, but hated the fact that Peter had
gotten out of the punishment he deserved. He should have rotted in jail for everything he had done to Quatre.
Quatre rolled over onto his side. Peter was dead, would never hurt him again, and for that he was grateful. The months had
passed by slowly, while Quatre was healing from his wounds. But now, almost a year later, everything was wonderful.
He opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was the sleeping face of the man he loved. Trowa was so handsome, so
wonderful. Without him, Quatre didn’t know how he would have survived all that therapy, all those sessions with the
psychiatrists. They all kept telling him the same thing anyway, that none of what happened to him was his fault.
Quatre smiled, tracing his fingers along Trowa’s arm, then up his neck. He moved his fingers along his jaw, watching with
amusement as a smile appeared on Trowa’s face.
“What are you doing?” Trowa asked, as he opened his sparkling green eyes to stare directly into Quatre’s.
“Just memorizing everything about you.” Quatre replied, brushing the back of his hand over Trowa’s cheek.
“Why? It's not as if I’m ever going to leave you.” He pulled Quatre closer to him, wrapping his strong arms around him.
Quatre loved this, waking up with the man he truly loved. He felt safe with Trowa, knowing that nothing would ever hurt him
again as long as Trowa was by his side. And Trowa would never leave him.
“I love you.” Trowa said.
“I love you more.” Quatre replied.
He pressed his lips to Trowa’s relishing the taste of the other’s mouth, like he did with every kiss. This was what he had
wanted for so long. This was what he had always dreamed of ever since the day he had met Trowa Barton. He was happy,
truly happy for the first time in his life, and knew that he would be for the rest of his life.