This was not the conversation Quatre wanted to have, especially at a party that had, as far as Quatre knew, been going very well. It wasn't the time or place for this. His shoulders sag, the emotions he had been quietly reading from Trowa finally hitting him, threatening to drag him into the same mood as his partner.

Which was exactly what Quatre did not want to happen. He did not want to make the rest of his time here spent miserably wanting something - someone - that he suddenly wasn't allowed to have because of reasons he still failed to understand. His safety was at as much risk here as it had been back home, and the irritating feeling that Trowa didn't trust him to be able to take care of himself did not make him feel any better about it.

Quatre opened his mouth to say something, his features settling into a defiant glare, the same one that he had regularly given anyone that saw fit to try and tell him how he had to live his life. As if he were too immature or weak to do it himself. The leather gloves he was wearing made a sound in protest as he clenched both hands into fists.

He was not going to let Trowa do this, giving into the selfish, childish want.

"No," he managed, nearly choking on the word, wishing for the power to stifle his own emotions, feeling the angry burn of potential tears already.