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"2 am"Written By: Dentelle_noir Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing AC or the
characters. GW belongs to Bandai, Sotsu and associated parties. This
is a work of fiction and written for fun, not profit Rating: PG 13 Warnings: AU, sap, angst Pairings: 3x4 Summary: 2am on New Year's Eve, and stuck in an
International airport was not Quatre’s idea of a great night.
But sometimes surprises were waiting at every gate. "2 am" “Happy New Year, too. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it,” Quatre said into his phone, the sounds of his family’s annual New Year’s Eve party still raging in the background even though it was nearly two am. The Winner New Year’s Party was notorious, and nearly every year they were all there. But not this year, because Quatre was in Moscow International Airport. His plane had been canceled. And he was 16th on standby. His only consolation was that number 13, 14 and 15 didn’t get to go on any plane either, so at LEAST he wasn’t the one person left. Mr. 13, Mrs. 14 and Mr. 15 ended up renting a hotel room for the night. Not him. He was too depressed about it to leave, and he still held that spark of hope that he’d be called for some random midnight flight. But even then, why would he bother? He missed the party, he had to go back to university in 4 days. His father told him not to bother. They missed him, of course, but why take the better part of a day to get there, battle jet-lag for a day, then pack again to spend another day going back. At least he held out hope. Or something. A stream of travel-weary people came out of the adjacent gate. At least they were home. How boring. Quatre still sat there, watching as the last of them left. Then one stewardess, then another. They got to go home. He didn’t. He hadn’t gone home in nearly four months. He shouldn’t have put the traveling off, but he thought that he could stay around campus and get some work done. And he had. But looking back now, getting a few more days of work time was not worth this near-debilitating homesickness. He missed them all. So much. He hadn’t even realized he was crying until he saw one of those airplane-issue Kleenex boxes put in his vision, and a concerned looking Steward stood there, appearing a little uncomfortable, but worried. He was tall, slim (like all hosts, since tiny fit through those small plane isles easier), and had a shock of cinnamon hair falling over his expressive green eyes. “You shouldn’t cry. It’s New Years Eve,” he said, a soft French lilt in his voice. He was gorgeous and standing over Quatre as if he cared. Which was sad because Quatre was too tired, upset, and grumpy to care. He had to dash his dreams. “It was officially New Years two hours ago,” He informed him dryly. The handsome man bent down at the knees, and gave the blond a smile the Mona Lisa would be proud of: like he knew something Quatre did not. “Then celebrate New Year’s with me.” That warm voice nearly purred. Huh? The steward stood, “C’mon! We don’t have much time,” he said, moving through the airport like a pro (it did not escape Quatre’s sarcastic thoughts that he WAS a professional at airports), with Quatre barely trying to catch up. He didn’t even know why he WAS catching up. He should have just left the crazy, handsome man to his crazy handsome ways. But he hadn’t been thinking. Just maybe hoping? Hoping for a little fun? The steward walked into the Duty Free store there, and the woman behind the counter already had something ready. It was a small mickey of scotch. Then he ran back out into the main airport hall where he could see at least one of the large screen TV’s. 1: 58: 04 pm. Okay? Trowa snapped the cap off the bottle, smiling brightly. 1: 59: 35 pm. “I’m from Eastern France. Saint Etienne. My name is Trowa, ” he informed the blond with a mischievous smile. 1:59: 45 pm. “I don’t get it,” Quatre responded. 1: 59: 50 pm. “Dix … neuf... huit!” The steward—no, Trowa—started counting down with the clock. Quatre didn’t really know why but he joined in, counting along in English, “Seven… Six… Five.” Suddenly it clued in, and Quatre nearly died laughing at his stupidity. HELLO! France was two hours behind Russia! Trowa grabbed his hand (apparently his earring had been a good investment after all) and Quatre found himself leaning in, “Deux…UN!” And there was no scream of Happy New YEAR! Or BONNE ANNEE! Because Trowa leaned in, and captured his lips hotly, eyes closing and tongue delving deep. Trowa pulled back after a moment, smiling smugly, “I always love to kiss a beautiful stranger on New Year’s,” he purred. Quatre laughed, blushing all over, humming from the kiss and the beautiful man looking at him. But he wasn’t finished, Trowa held up the little bottle of scotch for the blonde to see, “I also hate to drink alone… why don’t you come with me? I ship out tomorrow morning for New York at seven but there’s five hours to go.” Quatre blushed even hotter. “…I’m on that flight,” he said, then licked his lips. What was he thinking?! But he knew better than to look a gift-horse in the mouth, “But let’s celebrate anyway.” Quatre’s phone rang again, another sister. But he didn’t answer it, how could he? With such a turn of luck in his favor he really didn’t feel all that terrible about missing the party. They would have another next year, after all.
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