DISCLAIMER – Damn the Man! I do not own Gundam Wing.

I hate parties. I don’t know why. I just do. I guess I hate them because, despite what people may think of me, I’m a very private person. Parties just don’t suit me any longer. Before the war, I used to think that parties were the most fun, now I realize that life is more than just a party.

Tonight is Relena’s Post-War, Pre-Peace, thank the gods the wars are over Party. I’ve been to about ten of these in the past three months. All of us have, my fellow comrades and I. Can you image? Ten parties in three months: now I really feel like a college student. I hate parties. I hate the bureaucracy of them. I guess I just hate these parties. The type of parties with stuff-shirted, big nosed, combed over generals from the war and patrons from the Romefeller foundation all trying to act as if they are chummy. Not to mention that Relena uses the Gundam pilots as figureheads toward peace. Why go then? you may ask. I guess the only reason why I go is because of Catherine. Yes, you heard me right. Catherine Bloom, Trowa’s sister.

She’s absolutely gorgeous. I know, I’m about to go on a long rant about her russet locks and sapphire eyes that turn a ferocious gray when she’s upset. The way her ivory skin carries a slight tan, even during the winter, and the way her cheeks are always blushed a rosy hue. Hopefully she will be wearing that midnight blue dress that accentuates her eyes and her skin, the one that also shows off her perfect collarbone and the round slopes of her breasts. I could stare at her all night thinking of us in different carnal situations, and I probably will.

Yes, I do have illicit thoughts about women, and only women. Contrary to some beliefs, Trowa is not the object of my sexual affections - we are only friends. I know this is a shock to some people, but no, I am not gay. Surprise! Surprise! Listen and you will learn more about me than you ever wanted to know.

Oh yeah, back to Catherine. The first time we met was horrible; she was very inhospitable. Granted I’d shot Trowa and given him amnesia, but I was also feeling very guilty about it and her anger with me didn’t help. Even then I noticed her beauty. I also noticed something else: her extreme courage. She’s no Hilde, that crazy, raven-haired vixen who was insane enough to risk her life on the Libra for us. Even then Catherine hurt my pride to no end. I noticed the strong-willed, albeit, stubborn way she guarded over Trowa; and the saddened heart when she let him go fight once more. I instantly fell in love with her and with her mind and soul and heart. I know I’m lost when she’s around. She doesn’t even know that I exist; yet she’s such a large presence in my world that I don’t think I can continue to go on without her. Or at least without her knowing how much I need her, want her, love her. I’ve told Trowa, and since my friend is as silent as the grave he didn’t say much in return except for "I know Quatre. I’ve always known." That didn’t help me much; it only made me realize that I am as transparent as glass. Tonight will be the night. Tonight will be the night that I tell her and she either rejects… no, I will think positive, she will love me.

So, here I stand, staring at myself in the mirror. I am not ready to go to that party. It started ten minutes ago and I’m still at my home, looking at my current existence. I need to go, but nothing is here to push me, not even the fact that my Catherine is going to be there. I need to go. I sigh, close my eyes and send a gentle prayer to Allah for my nerves. I call Rashid and tell him that I’m ready to leave for the party, and we head for the car.

We arrive at the dull gathering and I try to make merry with the same boring faces, the same boring voices, the same boring conversations as in the last party. I scan the room for any sign of my comrades. I see three of them and Bogart my way through the crowd to reach them. I hear the whispers, the uncontrollable voices of the snobby women, talking of me and my bachelor status. The rumors fill my ears constantly. That is jealousy. That is envy. Those are the people I’ve seen ten times in the last three months, with the exception of my comrades and Catherine who doesn’t know that I exist. I see her and my resolve of telling her quickly fades in the glow of her magnificent beauty. I am a coward, my legs are jelly and even as Duo comes to embrace me in a friendly hug, I cannot tear my eyes away from her dazzling beauty. I half-listen to Duo drone on in my ear about his and Hilde’s upcoming marriage. I smile and nod so that he will think that I’m listening. All the while, my eyes are on her. She is dancing with Trowa, what a lucky brother. My thoughts shift from Catherine to the rumors. They talk of me as if I can’t hear them, as if I’m transparent, oh yeah, that’s right, I am. I’m shallow and empty; I should fit right in with these people.

I wonder, if when I am old will they talk of me like this. Will they carry on about how adorable I used to be, how my blonde hair, which will soon be gray used to shine like a golden coin, not like the sun, but like a coin? Will they talk about how my young body has gradually degenerated into a decrepit old man? Will they talk about how my aquamarine eyes- who the hell notices that I have aquamarine eyes anyway- don’t sparkle like the sea after a storm? Will my eyes go dull with this life, with my existence? I hear them now; I hear the whispers the rumors about my sexuality, about my dress, about my hair and my looks. Do they ever stop? Will they? I guess these people have made me insecure about telling my sweet, dear, Cathy how I feel.

She’s beautiful as I stare at her. I can feel her jubilance in the air. I focus all of my energy on her tonight. She deserves it. But my thoughts shift back to the rumors. What will these people think if I ask her to dance? Will they think me repugnant because of my friendship to a "common" woman? How I hate that word. "Common": having ordinary qualities; undistinguished by special or superior characteristics; pertaining to or characteristic of ordinary persons, life, language, etc.; ordinary. Yes, I am quite the accomplished scholar. Cathy is none of those things. She means the world to me; I want to be everything that she is. I want to see the world through her eyes. I want for her to witness the world through mine.

I gaze at her being spun around the dance floor by her brother, and I see the contentment and peace on her face. How I wish that I could see what she sees! How I wish that she could understand how much I love her! Yet, the whispering and the rumors hold me back from attaining my goal, like they have so many parties before. I wonder what the world would be like with her. I wonder if she would rock my world as I plan to set hers off-kilter when I finally find the courage to tell her. I wonder.

I walk towards her, not giving a damn of what those whispering wenches think of me. I have found my courage. I have found my strength. But I hear them again, the pressings in my mind that tell me to stop! Halt! My vanity is killing me, so I stall, a foot away from the dance floor, frightened by my own vanity. I’m a fucking idiot. Yes, I do know words like that. And sometimes, I can have vulgar conversations in my mind that rival Duo’s loud ones.

One minute. One minute of walking and my resolve fades with a swift wash of vanity. I could kick myself. I should kick myself, it would give the gossipers something else to chat about. I go and sit, disgusted with myself for yet again not following my emotions. My problem is that I’m too nice. Too kind for my own damn good. Wow, that is my second curse word. You should be impressed. I order tea. I hate fucking tea! Rashid thinks I like it because father liked it. But I hate the stuff. Maybe if I were more assertive to my kiss-ass babysitters then I wouldn’t have to drink tea any longer. Maybe this is my life: listless and boring, destined to drink endless cups of fucking tea until I die a horrible death of being choked by a tea leaf. Yes, I do have a sense of humor. I chuckle at my own joke in my head and turn my gaze back to Catherine being whisked around the dance floor by her brother. She doesn’t even know that I exist.

I am a bug. Not a cool bug like a spider or a scorpion or a praying mantis, but a boring bug like an ant or a worm. Yes, a worm; spineless. I am restrained against the wall of my vanity and of my kindness. I wish I could throw all of those things off and reveal to the world my true self. I wish that I could be as forwards as to ask Cathy to dance, but my fear of what the gossipers would say contains me like a worm on a hook. I am wriggling around, trying to find my place, trying to find my happiness. No, I know where my happiness is, it’s in the beautiful, russet-haired woman that is presently being spun around the dance floor by her brother. My happiness lies with a woman that has no clue as to who I am.

I see her again, coming from the dance floor. She is pouting, no one has asked her to dance. Her sapphire eyes have lost their luster. She looks upset that her fun had to end so abruptly. My tea comes, I barely touch the stuff. I only notice that she walks to the punch bowl and gathers two glasses, for her and Trowa I presume. I should walk over there. I should. I should say hello to Trowa. I should. But I won’t. Her beauty frightens me. Her perfection frightens me. Like I said before, I am spineless. But she looks so unhappy.

I hear the whispering about her. My ears are inflamed and so is my temper. The gossipers calling her that horrible word. Common. Common. They can talk about me, but not about my jubilant, beautiful, perfect, mind-blowing Cathy. Not her, not ever her. I gather my resolve that had fallen somewhere in the vicinity of my feet. I also gather my heart, because if she refuses, I will sulk until I’m sixty-five. I pass through the crowd, the sound of the gossipers so loud in my ears that I can’t bear to listen anymore. I think she hears them too, the evil whispers that stab your vanity and pride like daggers. Yet, she doesn’t show it. I pass Trowa and walk right up to her, her back to me. I tap her on the shoulder and she turns and smiles.

"Cathy, may I have this dance?" a minute passes.

It seems like an hour and I shake and almost crumble under the deafening silence of my mind. I hear nothing, everything is focused on her reply. My heart has officially stopped.

"Of course you can Quatre, I have been waiting to dance with you all night." I breathe again. My heart beats. She takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor. She knows that I exist.

I hear the gossipers whispering, the sound no longer burning in my ears. Me being with Cathy is disturbing to them. It wrecks their lives, rocks their perfectly placed, made-up worlds. I am disturbing. Who’d have thought that I would disturb them? I smile and spin Cathy around the dance floor. I do believe that I see more blue in her eyes than I did when Trowa was dancing with her. She leans in and kisses me on the cheek. I blush, I can’t help it. I’m pale, I’m embarrassed and I blushed. This is not disturbing, this is where my life starts, with this woman, in this ballroom, at this party. I will disturb her universe, and I tell her so.