Sorry it took me almost a year to come out with the next chapter of this, but I've been busy at work and producing other fics in other genres. Many apologies!
I took the time to rewrite this chapter after watching all of Gundam W again, so I think I got most everyone actually on track so far as their characterizations are concerned. If you see glaring problems, let me know. I love Duo. And I especially love the combustible chemistry between him and Heero. Heh heh.
Disclaimer: I in no way own Gundam W. Don't sue me; I'm simply an E6 (and frocked at that) in the USN, therefore I have no money. Ha.
-BEGIN FIC-
Moonlit Meeting
The waif notes of a flute danced upon the air.
Music softly and delicately seeped from speakers secreted about the humongous manor, filling the air completely yet quietly, allowing for conversation yet being of substantial enough presence to still be audible despite the dull racket.
I sipped lightly from my glass, my eyes partially closed.
As much as I hated the man, I had to admit – my dear Quatre's little pet did have a touch with that flute.
He was nothing compared to my sire. Of course, he'd not had the time my sire had under his belt to perfect his music. And in my opinion, he didn't have the natural talent Quatre has, either. But some would say I'm biased. Perhaps they're right.
I let a quiet sigh seep past my lips, the breath drawn for that exhalation being more for dramatics than anything (see, sire? Being around you for these last hundred and forty-odd years has been teaching me the proper way to be a Toreador. I was never such a drama king before) as I truly had no necessity to breath. Shaking my navy-blue suit jacket's and accompanying silver-sheen shirt's sleeves a bit down my arm and away from my hand, I checked the time on my platinum Rolex wristwatch. Ten o'clock. Still the Ventrue primogen had yet to show. Quatre was certain to be in a raging foul mood.
No one but no one shows up two hours late for one of the Prince's parties. Not unless that someone wanted to dig his social grave.
I stuffed my hands into my Italian suit's front pockets, skulking down the plush ruby carpeting that lined the grand eggshell-colored corridor with its authentic golden scrollwork along the baseboards and ceiling panels highlighted grandly by flickering golden oil-lamps. I was determined to travel towards the great ballroom where the grand festivities were in full swing. Giving a cursory glance to one of Rashid's, and thusly by association and Bond Quatre's numerous ghouls who stood beside the door, I gave the creature a slight nod as he opened the door to ease my progression to my sire's side.
I was always courteous to Quatre's ghouls when I was in their presence. Those thirty-nine men he had follow him to his various estates, his loyal entourage of subjects gathered from the driest deserts of Arabia, were hard customers to deal with. Even with the amount of proficiency I've garnered in my Art these last fourteen decades I've practiced since meeting my Quatre, I had serious doubts about how many of his highly trained and wonderfully maintained ghouls I could get through in a serious fight. They battled to the eternal death when it came to their dear Master Quatre, each armed with swords when we first met and trained and equipped with the latest firearms once rifles and muskets proved to be effective and reliable. Now these bastards were fitted with Desert Eagle Magnums and Beretta AR 70/90s, all with illegal phosphorous ammunition to boot making them horribly dangerous against Kindred, human, changeling and wolf alike. On top of that, each had partaken of Rashid's blood when they were at the height of their physical capabilities – not a single one of his personal army was over middle-aged, each fit and able as hell with rippling muscles, perfectly preserved flesh and hard onyx eyes. They couldn't begin to look ridiculous in their vests and pantaloons, or with each curly haired head bearing a red fez.
Not exactly a force one wants to be on the bad side of. Especially not when one had already been threatened with a stake through the heart and being lashed to the chimney to say 'Hello' to Mr. Sun if one dared to strike against Quatre's new little pet, as that would make Master Quatre unbearably sad. No one dares make Master Quatre sad, damn it all.
I had no doubts that Abdul, Ahmed and Auda would not hesitate to do it, either. Rashid, that bastardized Assemite that let lead the fez-patrol of Doom and had been bloodbound to Quatre since only God knows when (long before my time. Impossibly long before my time. Seeing as how these damned personal servants of his have been lapping at the Assemite jackass' heels since the Crusades, who the hell knows. He could've been bound to my sire for hundreds of years prior, for all I'm aware), would approve of it, too.
He appreciated me taking his place as Quatre's premier vampiric protector as much as I appreciated that damned mortal pet taking my place in Quatre's bed.
Dark eyes looked not unkindly at me as I walked past. "Your sire awaits. Please ease his spirits; the Ventrue primogen has made him quite irate," he quietly said.
"Hn," I acknowledged with a slight nod, stepping past the most junior ghoul of the self-proclaimed Maguanac Corps with silent footfalls.
I stepped into the grand ballroom and was swept into the artistry of the Toreador party.
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A Toreador party can be one of the most wondrous yet horrible events one ever has the pleasure or sheer misfortune of attending.
Upon its most superfluous layer, it was a grand and glorious array of riches and artistry, unmatched in even the most spectacular of museums about the globe. My sire's parties were always the stereotype against all other parties were compared.
Richly outfitted, these parties were meant to be an extravagant show of wealth and impossibly good taste. Only the most lavish mansions were utilized for such events. For this particular party, we weren't using our manor in the City, but rather Quatre's beach house, a 'simple' five thousand square foot complex sprawling upon lush grasses in a private cove upon the Pacific's front with the whitest, purest sands upon California's coastline lapping invitingly against the back porch's bottom wooden steps. It was a single-storied masterpiece of modern architecture with grand swept ceilings towering nearly twenty feet at their peeks, lavishly sided in the most expensive of hardwood and painted a tasteful soft eggshell white as to not clash horribly with the greenery or the startlingly blue sea behind it. The roof was laid out in brick-red ceramic tiling with sculpted edges, each individual plate screened to prevent birds, insects and debris from daring to taint Quatre's hideaway's roof. The porches were cut of hard white oak and varnished perfectly, maintained by private servants who lived in the impressive villa's expansive capacity for the sole purpose of preserving it for those moments the house's Master wished to utilize it. Beach furniture was set out back at all times, umbrellas tastefully designed by private designers.
Inside it got even more ridiculous.
Not a single window was without beveled edging. Not a single wall lacked gold accenting along its baseboards or along the junction between ceiling and drywall. Not a single ceiling lacked fanciful scrollwork along its panels, making a person feel as if they were walking underneath some golden representation of Heaven's clouds. Gold lanterns, burning real oil and lit by electrically driven pilot-lights, lit those glorious corridors, the flames held within meticulously cleaned crystalline orbs topping those lanterns causing dancing patterns to skitter along those gold-laced ceilings. The carpeting throughout the entire house was plush and ruby in color, fading only in the kitchen and the ballroom to black marble tiles. The walls were painted eggshell as the outside of the house was, once again fading in the ballroom and kitchen to a more silver sheen to accompany that dark tile. Kitchen appliances were top-line, black with silver trim, and astonishingly seamlessly put together. The ballroom featured chandeliers sculpted from platinum and white gold with crystalline shards dangling from hooks, with diamond accent globes hanging from long white-gold chains from the center of those chandeliers. Small electric lights made those chandeliers glitter in soft white display, casting dazzling light everywhere the eye dared to look.
And not a single wall was left bare.
Every piece of artwork that hung within that beach house was a masterpiece. Every piece was original. And none was shipped to any other manor when Quatre chose another location to throw a party in – that was just another tool to display his power and taste; repetitious usage of a single location or a collection or art would be distastefully tacky at a Toreador function. Therefore, every portrait, painting, sculpture and tapestry that hung within the manor's confines, hid in softly lit alcoves or simply seated out in a massive room's spaces for viewing were specific to that house alone. The beach house's theme was 'Heaven', so most of his pieces here were Renaissance and Gothic in nature, though a few from ancient Islam and some renowned Buddhist artists were amongst the conglomeration. Yes, it was Heaven, walking amongst multitudes of cultures' artists' renditions of Angels, the Eternal Afterlife and the Father in that gloriously lavish arena.
All of that was simply the stage – background for the events taking place.
Parties were not just gatherings of good friends and potential allies to talk art and sip fine drink (most of my sire's parties were exclusively Kindred and their personal ghouls only, so blood was available for all to partake in), but a place to pretend to relax and feed without fear of repercussion or disruption of the illusion that maintained our safety from those who would see us terminated – the Masquerade.
They were also the biggest political staging grounds ever created, making them some of the most dangerous places to be. People were made and broken. Allegiances were wrought and demolished. Fates were crafted and sealed. One minute a young neonate could be the talk of the rising stars of the City, the next a crestfallen castaway destined for exile or perhaps even death at the moment the sun rose from the east.
Especially when the Prince of the City was the one throwing that particular party.
To be at a Toreador party was to be in the midst of a cloud of double talk, of lies and deceit and half-truths, of allies and enemies who could change their persuasions in an instant. It was an environment where a verbal stab was just as deadly as a stake through the heart, where social ostracizing could spell certain doom for an individual within the City.
I was amazed that I've managed this long.
Of course, considering who my sire is, I don't have much to worry about. Perhaps that is my only saving grace.
This particular party had a plethora of different functions. First off, it was to display some of Quatre's newest requisitions from Europe. He'd just acquired a previously unknown piece by Monet (I personally have never been one for the earliest – correction, any – Impressionistic art, so I didn't like it), and a sculpture of Archangel Uriel that had finally fallen from and hence been sold after refurbishing from Notre Dame Cathedral. I thought it was a bit much to put such in a beach house – indeed, to put one on a wall overshadowing a grand piano and the other in the northern corner of a dining room – but I kept my opinions to myself. I'd always been of the opinion that art belonged in museums.
Not that I fault my sire at all. I realize that it's a powerful display of wealth and ability on the part of the Kindred, and that such an ostentatious gathering for the eyes of Kindred alone is key in cinching allies and command within our hierarchy. Power is everything, and the more rare and original and unique art a Toreador has, the more obviously powerful that Toreador is. Power is the key to safety and realization of ambitious goals.
Not that art alone is power. The possession of art is an allusion to the amount of influence one possesses, thereby an indicator of the power of the Toreador over others.
Not to say Quatre doesn't have his own personal power. I for one wouldn't tangle with him.
Or his personal army.
Or, if I was someone other than myself, me.
Or, to a lesser extent, his allies that dwell within the City and obey his whims if not for their own personal safety then for their own personal agendas.
I'm still at heart a simple man who believes in museums is all. That's one thing I appreciate my sire for over all other Toreador – when he runs out of room in his mansions and acquires new pieces, he sells off the old to such civil establishments. Hence how he obtained his fortune (that, and his 'family business' of architecture and general contractor building doesn't hurt to bring in a steady cash flow, either).
My master had recently replaced an Egyptian sarcophagus with a tasteful sculpture of Isis upon its lid and a Picasso painting (hated that one) for these two new pieces, and felt the need to flaunt them.
Also, his silly pet had just composed the symphonic piece that was flowing throughout the manor during the party. That piece had already won considerable recognition. The entire damned musical community was breathing the name Trowa Barton like a prayer, and my sire was lavishing in it.
Trowa.
Nngh.
Silly brat, barely in his twenty-eighth year. Talented youngster, I suppose. Had a ridiculous fall of hair dangling in his face that he could not fix to save his worthless life, and horridly bland green eyes. One thing I've always been attracted to are eyes; my Quatre's glimmer with passion and at times love and at other times misery and sadness, that Duo's glisten with life.
Funny that I should recall the boy with his chestnut braid while wandering through my sire's ballroom, trying to find him and that moron who's replaced me as his love.
Passing the elongated table that rested along the room's western wall, I slid my emptied glass onto its silvery-fabric covered top. The bowl with its steaming, fresh vitae called to me to sample its goods, but I couldn't bring myself to lift another dripping ladle-full. I had things to do, after all, no matter how inviting that topless head with its bloody contents was.
I narrowly avoided conversation with one of Quatre's guests; Dorothy always was a royal pain. A true Brujah to her very depth. At first I'd not been able to figure out why the warrior Clan would take one as seemingly delicate as her into their fold, but upon further investigation I'd found that she had a bloodlust that was almost unmatched in the world of the Undead, an eye that appreciated the spilling of blood not just for feeding but also for sport, and a taint that screamed of wrongs done to her in the past that had driven her to lust for the deaths of all who might wrong or hurt her. She was a capable creature driven by vengeance and sorrow, deadly with a gun and deadlier with her mind in all plots and politics.
I almost would say that her Clan would be more to my liking, but they see fighting as a simple means to an end, a tool for gathering power and strength. They don't see it as anything elegant or unifying. They don't see the Art resting in its folds. All they see is the potential for grasping territory. So very animalistic, almost upon the level of the mutt-Gangrel. So very sad.
Dorothy Catalonia fit into that caste perfectly. Her obnoxiousness so far as me? I couldn't stand it. Always prattling on about me being a 'true soldier' and regretting my loss to those 'pathetically weak frivolous art-worshipping fools.' She never did realize that I would fail to be a part of the Brujah ideology, that my sire saw in me my devotion to the harmony between mind, spirit and body and not simply a devotion to power. That my sire realized the truth behind my desires.
Her ghoul was no better, though similarly annoying for entirely different reasons.
I pitied that girl, really. She was so clueless, so innocent, so fooled by the conniving Brujah whose blood she'd devoted herself to. She was no creature who should be bound to darkness, her naivety stolen by the Kindred of the Camarilla. She was a peace-loving vision, a pure princess enmeshed in a Masquerade she could now never hope to escape from with her paltry life.
Poor girl.
The fact that she looked to me as some sort of hero, some rescuer of the fallen innocent, had me on edge though. She never looked at me as I am – another of the Kindred, another who feeds upon her kin for my own survival. She's taken it into her mind that I am above all those who surround her because my heart still moves with some measure of humanity (that in of itself is for the simple fact that the ideologies of the Toreador allow the human heart to continue to 'live' – it is, after all, the inspiration for all Art and the only thing capable of understanding and appreciating it). So while she'd defend Dorothy to the bitter end being hopelessly enamored with her, she breaths my name in soft appreciation and longing.
If she ever screamed my name from the top of a skyscraper again, I swore to have one of Rashid's fez-patrol abduct her and toss her into a river.
I don't really mean that. I couldn't harm the girl, no matter how much some tiny measure of my mind cackles when it comes up with diabolical thoughts such as that one. She's too pure, too innocent, too much of a victim of the world of darkness to destroy. Rather, she's a being to be protected from further degradation, if for simple principal. There are many I've had the misfortune of having watched Kindred destroy – if I could save even one innocent, perhaps I could remove a small measure of the darkness that taints my own soul, that prevents me from perfecting my own heart.
Just because I desire to protect and perhaps save her some day, though, doesn't mean I want to converse with her. One dance two parties ago, and the girl is infatuated.
I fought desperately to slide my way through the considerable crowd, utilizing the present members of the Ventrue Clan to make my escape.
A moment later, I spotted the person I was looking for. No one could miss that waterfall of bangs. Especially not when that waterfall was atop a head that crested over six feet in height. And Quatre would be with him; these days, they were obnoxiously inseparable.
I approached them, hands still stuffed in my expensive designer suit's pockets, ignoring the urge to reach to my neck and loosen my crimson-red tie with its diamond tie tack.
"Heero!" Quatre called out, his voice bright and his sea-blue eyes sparkling vividly. "There you are!"
"Aa. Quatre," I greeted, letting my jealous eyes look him over.
Quatre always looks regal, whether or not he's trying. When he does try, the result is phenomenal.
Dressed in a solid black silken suit cut to fit every angle of his lithe body and joined with black leather shoes, his pale skin and soft platinum-blonde hair shone brilliantly in contrast. His shirt, as black as his suit, was discernable only by the simple fact that it did not share the barely-visible thin dark-gray pin striping that lined that suit. Laid atop of that shirt was a sea-blue tie, matched perfectly to his eyes, the only shot of color on that impressive ensemble. His rings, light and golden to match his hair and his house's accents, glittered upon thin fingers and sported delicate blue-topaz gems, chosen not for any worth but for their color. A golden hoop looped through his left earlobe, a delicate golden chain running from its bottom to a small hole atop that ear's curve, highlighting his ear's gentle bend artistically. And, fitted to his house's theme, small soft black wings crafted of real black swans' feathers and looking from every angle impossibly genuine sprang from that suit's back, the harness that held them in place hidden behind the jacket's fabric with only those grand testimonies to my sire's eccentric but oddly lovely tastes poking through slits deliberately cut in his Giovanni clothing.
He belonged in his collection of angels.
It was difficult to hide my lust, considering that with the amount of blood I'd already consumed within the last two hours since the party's commencement my body had more than enough stock to be ready and roaring to go. However, one glance to his companion was enough to freeze what warmth flowed through my veins.
"Doesn't he clean up nicely?" Quatre chirped, noting the direction of my gaze and ignoring (or perhaps spiting) my heart.
Yes, he did clean up nicely. As nicely as a gangly, horrible little mortal brat can. Quatre had managed to get the barbaric beanpole to slither himself into an emerald green silk dress shirt (the lout still refused to wear a tie). A simple gold-colored, obviously not authentic wristwatch looped around his wrist. His shirt tucked into black silk slacks that were held in place by a black belt sporting a tasteful gold-colored buckle. He had black dress shoes shoved on his feet in place of his typical combat boots, completing an almost tasteful package.
Now if only he could do something about that horrible head (and get himself out of my rightful place at my sire's side), he might almost be attractive.
I shrugged in response to Quatre's statement. "Hn," I replied as I returned my gaze to him. "You look stunning."
He ducked his head, his cheeks coloring – he'd had more than his share of the bowl's fresh liquid as well, it seemed – and smiled. "And you. I can't believe you wore a suit instead of your workout clothing."
"Give me some credit, Quatre," I blandly stated.
I froze as his hands lightly pulled on my jacket's lapels, straightening them. "I do. It's just that you showed up to my last event in your tank top and those spandex shorts of yours. I like this much better."
"I thought you liked the spandex."
Trowa cleared his throat, looking between the two of us.
I glowered at him, hoping desperately to freeze him to death with the chilly daggers I prayed my eyes were throwing.
"Oh, come now, Trowa. Don't be jealous," Quatre said with a smirk, glancing over his shoulder. "Heero's my childe. I'm allowed to be as forward with him as I damned well please."
A snort escaped my nostrils, my eyes reflecting my pleasure that for this moment I held station above the unibang. Looping an arm around Quatre, I gave him a tender squeeze – not too much, of course. He'd been Trowa's for the last five years now.
I just had to be patient; Quatre would eventually be mine again.
Until that time, I had another who needed my protection….
I wondered what he was doing at that time.
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The focal point of the third of my sire's party's objectives finally arrived, a full two and a half hours late.
I was thoroughly disappointed even though I knew that the man's arrival was actually one of Quatre's premier focuses. I had been enjoying a little bit of time with Quatre, having firmly removed him from the Barton-brat's side and left the green-clad moron standing about with Dorothy and Relena. We'd gone to the piano, thick and hot drinks in slender champagne flutes, to converse with one of Quatre's Venture allies that he held incredible sway with. He'd been leaning against me, allow me to wrap him in a protective embrace, pressing his winged back to my chest as he settled the back of his head comfortably against my shoulder. The moment the man got close, though, my sire removed himself from my grasp and straightened his suit jacket, his pleasant and relaxed smile and calm eyes vanishing into the glistening slits and veracious sneer of a predator on the trail of a wounded animal.
After all, this man was a reason for our little party. Toreador parties are never thrown without purpose, and are never as innocent as they may appear to be.
Toreador parties are some of the largest political scheme-pits to be had. I used to think that the primogen meetings were fierce, that watching my sire lord over those who headed the separate Clans of the Camarilla was cutthroat and vicious. Ha. That was before I'd been witness to what truly goes on under the finery and alcohol-laced blood of a social gathering of the artistic Kindred.
Quatre's purpose behind the party, beside displaying the aptitude of his slave and his new possessions to further enhance his untouchable power and incredible status within his City, was too investigate the Ventrue primogen. Quatre had been holding suspicions concerning the elderly Kindred's loyalty to him as the City's Prince for quite some time, and recent events had him on edge enough to attempt to engage the man in a setting more convoluted and coerce than that of a formal meeting.
Since my sire and I had arrived in the newly settled lands that would be referred to later in time as the state of California, since he had established his City of Angels and firmly planted his foot as the reigning Kindred of the region, he had initiated and enforced simple rules reflective of every other City that rested under Camarilla rule. The Masquerade was to be revered and adhered to at all times. Diablerie, the cannibalism of Kindred by their own, was forbidden unless performed by the Prince himself, and then only under the permission of the Judicars. The Prince's word was to be law, regardless of Clan ideologies said word might violate. All in all, standard fare. The only additional rule that Quatre had bothered instituting upon the City's inception was that no phosphorous was to be permitted within the City's boarders without his explicit approval.
Phosphorous, after all, is unusually deadly to Kindred. Quatre wisely judged that it would be best if he, the ruling force within his territory, were to have knowledge of where the fatal substance is and who's hands it was in.
As a result, there were very few persons who could be found with the flammable ammunition so frequently toted by Slayers. Quatre's Assemite friend had his Maguanac Corps outfitted with it. A young detective in the LAPD who'd had far too much exposure to the prevalent darkness that permeated his mortal city had a mysterious connection outside of my sire's City – his possession of the substance was known to the Prince, though, so he was in no danger for his smuggling of the ammunition into our terrain. So far as my sire was concerned, those afore mentioned individuals were the only persons allowed to tote it.
When a young woman had brandished a pistol seventeen years ago against one of those crazed Malkies that my sire retained contact with and brought him down with phosphorous bullets, an immediate investigation was commenced. I'd gone to New York to study for a possible connection between the Sabbatt ringleader of the Big Apple who was known for his ties with phosphorous rings and the lady who'd gunned down our would-be ally who happened to be a liaison of a ghoul of the prominent Venture primogen.
We've been covertly tracing the possible connection for the better part of two decades with next to no leads. Quatre was getting antsy for results. Hence the party and the invitation extension to the Ventrue Clan.
I couldn't help but narrow my eyes and glower as the huge doors to the grandiose ballroom of Quatre's beach manor swung open, one of Rashid's ghouls bowing politely and announcing the arrival of Duke Dermail, primogen of Ventrue.
There has always been something about this man I couldn't stand.
Since his initial arrival in the small boomtown Quatre was overseeing the development of, he and my sire have butted heads fiercely. The antiquated Ventrue believed as many of his Clan do – that theirs is the Clan meant for rule and any who would dare stand in their way are naught but frivolous dreamers and fools to be disposed of. The man, most unfortunately, had the weight of prestige and experience along with centuries worth of history behind him and the backing of some very influential members of his Clan. Such never swayed Quatre; indeed, my sire would just laugh when the ancient Duke's venerable status was brought to the forefront of concerned conversation, winking mischievously and telling us all not to give another care to the matter.
Embraced in the late sixteen hundreds, the man was trapped forever in the throes of aristocracy and Renaissance flair. He was never seen in any attire, at least publicly, differing from what he arrived to Quatre's modern party in.
I looked from one to the other, scoffing internally at the difference.
Compared to the heavenly beauty of my sire, the Duke was sorely misplaced. Whereas my dear golden-headed angel was weightless and bright, the heavy ruffles, puffy pantaloons and tight white stockings of the aristocrat made him so very earthy and heavy. His clunky loafers thumped heavily on the ground as he walked in, his loosely sleeved arms spreading to the sides as he smirked, his grayed moustache curling with his facial expression and his thick, neatly trimmed beard passing from his neck attire to display the slightest hint of wrinkled flesh. With his ridiculous ruffle about his neck and his hefty cape trailing behind him all in the most garish of clashing blues and reds, he looked as those men in the Renaissance paintings I could almost bring myself to appreciate (almost, as they were all so stiff and boring. No life, no glitter of any spirit at all was ever captured in those painted eyes) always did. Primp, proper, excessively dull. A horribly overdone and stalwart portrait brought to life – a terrible contrast to the glowing frivolous energy that constituted my sire.
Once Quatre had told me the history of the Duke, preparing me for what I was considering going up against when I first began to suspect the Ventrue primogen's affiliation with the phosphorous wielding criminal who'd intruded in our City. I hadn't cared enough to retain that much of it – just that the man was embraced due to his vicious nature and his business genius, that he'd owned half of jolly old England back in his day and was a trusted comrade of some random King, blah blah blah. All I had to know was that the man was nine generations removed from Cain; I knew I had him in sheer power provided by the hypocritical 'purity' of the taint in my veins. My sire, I had discovered in the nineteen forties when he'd first started forging his alliance with the childe of the ancient primogen, was much closer to our Father, and thus so was I; I would have him in ability and strength despite his two-century lead on me in age.
The Duke swaggered in, his small dark eyes bright and glistening as he chuckled brightly. "Quatre, I apologize for arriving so late. Traffic was simply terrible."
"Oh, I'm certain it was, dearest Duke Dermail," Quatre smoothly returned, his sneer deepening in ferocity as he lightly crossed his arms over his chest. "Especially at this time of night. Why, your dear childe was an entire ten minutes late himself. Worry not. I have pardoned him for his tardiness."
Ouch.
I forcibly suppressed the shudder I felt attempting to work itself out onto my skin. Quatre was being blunt and forward – this wasn't going to be a pretty meeting at all.
Clearing my throat, I nodded once to Quatre. "I'm heading out, sire. I've still got things to finish before the night's over."
Quatre flashed me a brilliant smile, lifting a hand to grant me a lighthearted wave. "Of course, of course! Dearest Heero, please feel free to leave with my blessings. I expect to see you come sunrise."
"Hai," I responded with a slight bow in recognition of the order. With a passing glance to the smug Duke, I stepped out of the grand hall and away from the deadly party that had just fully swung into reality.
That was a situation I didn't want to be within a ten-mile radius of.
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I nearly wiped my brow as relief washed over me, feeding from my relatively safe distance finally obtained from the dangerous coastline where my sire's manor was situated. I'd finally parked my car in a massive parking garage just off of Hollywood, making my way with slow and determined steps past the Manse Chinese Theater. Perhaps I was indeed a little overdressed for the area given the looks that were continually falling upon me from the eyes of curious late-night tourists and party-goers, but I couldn't be bothered with changing into anything more appropriate. The longing to escape what was certain to be a figuratively explosive detonation of fury from Quatre and the repercussions that would pour from the venerable Duke was more overwhelming than any concern as to what intrigued stares or social blunders I would be making by wandering the avenues of Tinsel Town in the late evening wearing an obtusely expensive Italian designer suit and a Rolex.
My eyes swept over every star that lined my path, the curiosity I had in the treasured walk burned from years of passage down this very road. I could hardly care any longer about whose names were enshrouded in immortality by the silly associations that maintained the area. When the concept had started and been new and fresh, I had found it fascinating and had actually devoted my attention to it. However, as true talent faded from sight and mediocre poseurs were granted stars to be trod upon by the common man, I quickly lost interest. If something was not going to make eternal those with true artistry and talent, then it was worthless.
The only true immortality for those of greatness lay in the beauty of the embrace, the reception of the cursed taint we herald as our salvation and damnation with every missing heartbeat. Not some silly star on a sidewalk. Not some slab of concrete that's been stepped in.
My shoes scuffed loudly over the pavement as I pressed effort into every step. I didn't want to move silently, damn it all. I wanted to make noise.
Noise drew my mind from its hyperactive imaginings and worrying.
Quatre and I knew quite well the villainous intentions of the Ventrue primogen. We knew he was responsible for the smuggling of phosphate into our City. We knew his desires to rule our precious City of Angels and his longing to see my Quatre staked and spit before the flames of the sun. We knew his depreciated appreciation of the Toreador, granting us only a vague acknowledgement that the City we'd built was something quite great for something so very young.
He would stop at nothing to wrest it from my sire's fingers.
Such is to be expected, even amongst the Clans of the Camarilla. Funny, I'd always found it.
We Kindred are threatened from all sides, from all possible vectors at all times.
The wolves and the graceful dead have never been on civil terms with one another, both blaming the other for the superstitions of the human populations of the cities and townships we rely on for survival. Both of us most intriguingly rely on humans for survival, for their blood and flesh to sustain us and their imagination and artistry to motivate us. Yet we can not bring ourselves to share our territories or share our prey. They bumble as autistic imbeciles through the night, their graceless figures scrawling terror through human hearts that makes them shun all creatures of the night. They flail visibly, failing to hide their true natures, drawing nightmarish fright down upon us all.
The changelings? The mages? Neither one of them would be stricken with sadness to witness the death of all Kindred. Rather they would assist any who would make it possible. To the changelings we are a threat. To the mages we are a gathering of like power. We threaten their artificial superiority, our natural abilities the envy of those magi who must struggle to harness anything of our like, our cunning and Clannish embracement and protection of one another the bane of those wild pixies who lust to take our position as top run of the echelon of mysticism.
The Settites, wretched worshippers of their ancient snake god, are another thorn in our proverbial sides. Like the wolves they lust for our territories. Like the mages they are jealous of our power. Like the ghosts and wraiths they find our dismissal of true death and our ability to continue to walk the world of the living baneful. Like the humans they fear our power, striving to overpower and demolish us rather than to flee as they should into the shadows of obscurity where they truly belong.
The Sabbot – those Kindred gone foul, those Kindred who cannot rightly be called Kindred any longer, are perhaps one of our greatest external threats. Tainted to monstrous extents, their hearts completely demolished and their brains twisted to absolution by the touch of Cain's maddening darkness, they can not distinguish the remains of humanity they once may have had from the animalistic beasts they have become. As us, they bond together – however, their loose gatherings are marked by betrayal, by mad diablerie, by knives through backs and allegiances held only for prey or power. They had no honor remaining in their entire collective – but as they were Kindred as we were, rogue as they might be, they hold considerable power. Their wild natures embraced and unleashed, they're a remarkable force.
Last but certainly not least were perhaps the most hilariously dangerous of all of our external adversaries – those who had their humanity intact, their hearts still beating thunderously within their breasts. Those who were mortal, their years slowly ticking away, their eyes viewing the world in both day and night's lights. Those who set their eyes upon the truth, who realized that the tales of the denizens of the moon's reign were not simply fantasies and fairy tales wrought to frighten children into praying to a deity or obeying their parents. Those who chose to not submit themselves to their rightful roles as prey for we who would hold superiority over them, but who chose instead to fight back against those who would hunt. Like that officer in the LAPD whose phosphorous bullets were known to our Prince. Like the woman who'd destroyed the Malkavian ally we'd had seventeen years ago. Slayers.
Quite silly that with so many external threats to our continued prosperity that we should fight amongst one another.
Just because we were all of the Camarilla did not mean that we ever saw eye to eye.
Every Clan was different – every holding an individual ideology, every holding a remarkably unique history and viewpoint of the truth of power.
And every Clan believed it was completely in the right. So very ridiculous.
Perhaps one day the Camarilla would realize the truth – the views of the Toreador were the most pure, the most promising, and the least tainted visions by which to lead an everlasting existence. Only by the ways of the Clan to which I belonged would we Kindred come to perfection and peace and ultimate power.
I cringed as I very nearly ran into a still figure.
A graceful, perfectly executed step and a slight shift of my right shoulder cleared me clearly of the breathing obstruction to my impromptu journey. To casual observation, it might have looked completely intentional, deliberate, planned. To my calculated glower, it was a mark of my lack of effective watching of my surroundings, a sign of a blunder I should not be committing after so much time dedicated to the perfection of my senses.
"Woah, sorry sir!" the person I'd so very nearly come into physical contact professed.
I merely grunted in response, taking a scant moment to lift my gaze from the walk I trod upon to set my eyes upon the individual who'd dared to speak to me.
I was frozen in place.
Eyes wide, simulated breath halted as my focus on the continuance of my curtain of false mortality slid away, I felt my dry mouth slag open slightly leaving naught but my upper lip to cover the light points of my fangs. My hands slid impotently out of my pockets to dangle uselessly at my sides, my shoes scraped indignantly upon the sidewalk I had been traipsing over.
Cobalt blue eyes, so very dark they were nearly violet, blinked at me. A sheepish grin curled the corners of a long mouth sporting thin yet expressive lips. Full cheeks verily puffed out with the smile that was pushing them, a smile that exposed glistening white teeth. Chestnut bangs brushed over slender, gracefully arched eyebrows that sported casually above those full eyes and their thick black lashes. A long, thick braid of brown strands touched with honey and gold wove its way over a slim right shoulder, its tendrils brushing along a plain white t-shirt. Sneaker-clad feet inched about on the ground, the motion of the jittery legs that connected those feet to the boy before me barely made known by the rustling of baggy blue pants with more pockets than any person should ever rightly need.
He was lively, his breath bright and buoyant as it billowed in and out of his lungs. His eyes shined brilliantly in the pale moonlight that cast its dim glow over us. His slim, delicate fingers fidgeted nervously with the end of that luscious braid, betraying his nervousness.
He was beautiful.
I let my head sag into a nod, shaking myself deliberately out of the trance the vision before had so very nearly spiraled me into. I drew a deliberate breath through my nose, clearing my throat roughly before my voice would return to me. "No need to apologize."
With a bright turn of that nervous smile into a bright grin, he turned to walk away.
"Wait," I found myself calling a moment later.
I blinked, shocked with my own behavior.
He turned, staring at me curiously. "Yeah?" he responded after a pregnant pause stilled the air between us.
Well, I'd already added a few more nails to my already existent coffin. With a determined sigh, I focused my gaze on those marvelously expressive violet eyes. "Where are you off to?"
He crossed his arms, one eye remaining wide and curious while the other narrowed slightly, his lips twisting from that pleasant and friendly grin into something considerably more mischievous. "Why do you ask?"
A snort burst from my nostrils. "I was thinking to apologize for almost running into you with a drink. But if such is the attitude I'll receive from you, forget it."
As I turned to walk away, I heard the tamping of his sneakers on the sidewalk, rapidly approaching. His hand found its way to my suit's jacket. "Hey, buddy! Just hold up a minute here," he said with a flippant, friendly tone. "Now, do my ears betray me or did I just hear some strange guy I almost ran into in the middle of the night on Hollywood Boulevard offer to get me a drink?"
"Come to your own conclusion."
He planted his sneakers, chuckling as he practically forced me to stop my progression down the roadway. "Huh. You are a strange one. So, where are you taking me?"
I turned my eyes, staring at the odd child who held my sleeve.
"Going to answer me some time this century, pal?"
"You're not appropriately dressed for many of the establishments I know," I blandly replied.
"Oh, ha de dah. Who said I drink at any of those snoody joints? C'mon. If you don't have something in mind, I know the perfect place."
I grunted even as I followed his lead, the boy having decided to march off in a direction quite different from the one I'd previously chosen. Ah, going into the more decrepit areas of the City, I noticed.
"So, what's your name? Or do I just call you 'short, stoic and glaring' all night?"
I huffed brightly. "Heero Yuy."
"Duo Maxwell. Now that we're acquainted, it won't feel so odd to get smashed together," he cheekily replied.
to be continued…
Review Replies:
demonsbaby69777: Thanks much for the review! It's a year late, but here's an update.
SkittleGoddess: I fear that fics like this may have become quite commonplace by this time, so your praise about this being unlike anything you'd read before might be moot by now. Sheesh.
MornMeril: Eh heh heh… sorry it took so long to get the next update out. Next one won't take so long if it's asked for. Promise! (whimper)
