Cabernet Sauvignon
By: ShinigamiForever
A/N: Inspired by the works of Team Bonet. They dedicate themselves, it seems, to Oz and the darker areas of the GW boys. This is a strange fic, and probably my one and only Oz fic. In this, Romefeller is not a military organization, but a high society, and Relena Trieze are part of it. No particular pairing. No, Relena and Trieze are not in love, just as a note. Enjoy!
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He wove his way through the crowds, brushing past and avoiding the women with their startling dresses and unbearably high heels. Their mouths, painted a brilliant red, opened and closed, displaying white teeth that gleamed nervously in the chandelier light. Long fingers supported fragile glasses filled with wine and lemon water. Social butterflies, he thought grimly, smiling with false cheer and nodding. Dresses of silk swirled past him, teasing his legs and arms with flashes of fabric, but he ignored it, heading away to the empty tables dotting the edges of the huge ballroom.
He surveyed the crowd with slits of blue in the dim light, away from the glare of the overhanging lights. Spot of dark blue and black dotted the bright flurries of color, the men who flirted and danced, chatted and laughed, pecking the cheeks of their lovers or wives. A bitter bile rose up in his throat as he tried in vain to grasp his fleeting smile.
A waiter passed by, his hand lifting a tray of glasses. Wine the color of dark red glinted like faded jewels in the diamond cut glass,. He swiftly snagged one, watching the wine in his cup swirl, sending small droplets, like blood raindrops, to flutter and dance in an arc that flew only in the cup. The view through the wine was a red haze, impossible to decipher the strange floating shapes that were the people.
He thought red was the color of anger, passion, and love, of course. But red, he thought, was mostly the color of anger. It somehow suited him Anger was ugly. He knew with perfect clarity how anger was hidden behind masks of calm and tranquillity. In a way, he had grown up in a world so false truth eventually was a falseness replaced by a false idea. Nothing, to him, was truth. They were all lies. Believable lies, but still a façade to hid truth. It was how Romefeller had survived that long, through manipulation and deceit. Through the long gilded image of beauty and peace.
"Trieze." He turned, a bit shocked to here a female voice, so young and innocent like his own, call his name. He hadn't expected anyone to be here, the darkness so much less inviting than the cheerful light.
She was dressed in a pale pink dress, a gentle shimmering fabric that reflected like moonlight. It was strapless and puffed out into a wide cloaking umbrella, like all the others. Her hair was swept back in a bun, golden blond glinting a white yellow. One wisp of hair, curled, was slipped in front of her right ear. Eyelids were touched with a faint pink white, and lips were lightly painted with a soft pink. She held a cup of wine that looked pink. White zinfandel, he thought, noting how it suited her well.
"Mademoiselle Peacecraft," he replied, almost bitterly, bowing and reaching for her hand. A flash of emotion, both pity and anger, and yet disdain, passed her eyes and she lifted her hand with scorn. He placed it in his, and then lifted her pale thin hand to his lips, a formal old greeting. Her skin was cold, slightly translucent in the dark, glacial like ice. She withdrew her hand quickly. His lips felt like a lick of fire.
"Trieze, please." There was a slight pleading tone to her voice, but mostly it was flat. He turned around again, facing the dancing crowd. A soft sigh escaped her lips, and she watched the dancing couples with him. The silence was sudden, the distant churning of the waltz music floated like a distant circus. The light and laughter called to Trieze, enveloping him in its warmth and empty promises, but he kept himself aloof.
"Shall we sit down, mademoiselle?" He gestured with a slight sweep of his hand to the abandoned tables, lit with candles and decorated with a rose centerpiece. She hesitated, trying to read his expression in the quasi-darkness and failing miserably. His eyes remained closed, windows to the soul they were, and his lips were caught in a grimly fixed smile. She inclined her head, a slight nod. He walked in front of her, pulling out the chair and inviting her to sit down before he did. They placed their wine glasses on the table, silent, still.
The roses were complimented with sprays of babies' breath. A light perfume, the scent of spring and sophisticated elegance, wafted out from their velvet enclosures, dark black-red in the dim lights. The candles were protected with glass walls, barely lifting the curtain of shadows, and their faces were trapped in the quiet obscurity.
"What is it, mademoiselle?" he asked, face still turned, watching the dancing crowd. A nervous hand drew circles around the rim of his glass, long slender fingers a sign of opulence. His hair was a dark ginger in the absence of light.
She bit her lip, her hands folded on her lap and fumbling with the fabric of her dress, twisting it and rubbing her fingers to be sure of the solidity. She hastily reached for the glass and took a hurried sip. "Tell me, Trieze. Why are you so bitter all of the time?" she asked, hands once again folded in her lap. She watched the face of the young man. He had said nothing, his unwavering gaze held by the dancers, but his jaw was clenched. He had his entire body turned in that direction, legs crossed at the knees as was his custom. He was dressed in a white silk shirt with ruffles at the chin and wrists, a dark blue embroidered vest over it. His pants were stiff and a matching blue. For a moment, she wondered if he was some old-fashioned man who was trapped in time. But the ruffles on his neck were pinned with a fancy R, for Romefeller.
"And you tell me, Relena," he replied softly, "why are you bitter?" She looked up, noting that for the first time, he called her Relena. His figure had not changed, face dimly lit. Not for the first time, she wondered what thoughts passed in that glorious head. He slid a glance at her, hard and cold and distant. She watched him, then turned away, lips parting in a rueful smile.
"Well?" His head turned too, staring at her. His eyes glowered with almost dark fervor. The darkness made his crystalline blue eyes a dark midnight blue that stared into her. She averted his eyes, staring instead at the light that filtered through the wine.
"I cannot answer that," she finally said, a hitch in her voice that made her sound on the brink of tears. But her face and eyes were dry.
"I see," he murmured. She raised her glance slightly. Trieze now turned his head back to look at the dancers. The music was drifting into a slow waltz, and the two young aristocrats watched the couples who were clinging tightly to each other dance in a slow floating manner. Trieze held in his bitterness, tasting the green bilious spite bubble up.
"Trieze," Relena said quietly. He turned, watching her. She was capable of wounding hurt souls without meaning to. Or in this case, meaning to. He knew her. Her eyes held a rare sense of naïveté, but there was intelligence beyond her years. There was a trace of sadness too. She was not beautiful; actually, she was simply pretty, not exactly the prettiest. Her face had an uncomfortable blend of angles and curves, childishness and maturity.
"Is there someone you would like to dance with?" she queried, reaching for her glass of wine. He closed his eyes, also picking up his glass, wrapping his 4th and 5th finger around the stem of his glass. He allowed his mind to drift away slowly, dwelling on the scent of dying roses and fresh powder, but the placed the glass against his lips. The scent of nostalgia and flowers was overwhelming.
"No," he replied curtly. "I have not danced for a long time." Gently, the blond youth tipped the glass further into his mouth, letting the red liquid tilt in. The taste was bitter and sweet, dry. Relena sighed inwardly, putting down her glass and smoothing out the tablecloth in front of her. He watched her curiously, taking in the expression of aching on her face.
"Is there someone you would like to dance with?" he asked mellifluously, a melodic sound to his question. She looked up sharply before smiling, a tender longing look.
"Yes, but he is not here now."
Trieze turned his head back to the music, a fluent and painstakingly insightful song that flowed from the piano, flute, and violin. With slow movements, he got up and offered his hand to her.
"May I have this dance?" he asked, aware of the consequences and stupidity of his actions. She looked into his face with wonder and amazement, trembling slightly.
"You may," she replied, getting up and placing her small hand in his. He led her off onto the dance floor, moving instinctively with music, her doing the same.
They both felt that the rhythm they danced was meant for someone else.
~Owari~
A/N: Uh…….. Yeah………..