He struck her as moonlight, a gentle glimpse of the pale light hovering in the shadows of dusk, and she blinked at him, staring against her will across the hundreds of bobbing heads confined to the vast, delicately furnished ballroom. The voice of her father snapped through the unwanted trance she had drifted into, wondering who this man was that he could have her forget, even for the briefest of moments, her revulsion for the opposite gender and its hidden motives. She turned her head respectfully, playing the role of obedient, demure daughter perfectly to another of his many bachelor friends, men with prominent stature in the higher society and all wealthy. Her hand was caught in the large one of the man some ten years her elder, his hands enclosed in flaunting ivory gloves composed of satin, and she forced a smile to her lips, well instructed in the art of false appreciation. The silver man spun of golden-threaded moonbeams was gone when she finally escaped, under the pretense of tracking down one of the many servants for glittering glasses of wine, peering amongst the conforming suits and slinky evening gowns.
Pretending she did not feel the sting of inexplicable disappointment in her breast, she touched the tuxedo sleeve of one of the servers, inclining her head politely and taking two swan-necked glasses from the tray. She made her way through the pulsing crowd, shifting her hips once as a slightly drunk executive stumbled dangerously close to her waist, and called forth that horribly brilliant smile, false and leaving her eyes dryly lonely, handing one glass of wine to her father, who took it as granted and never looked at her, and the other to his companion, who also took it for granted but used it as a greeting for him to smile lasciviously at her. Hatred choked in her throat and she nearly gave in to the urge to slap both men, dashing the glass to the ground and speaking her mind without hesitation. She loathed the dress her father had chosen for her, undoubtedly in hopes she would attract a suitor he approved of, one inevitably older than she by at least seven years, and the silky red fabric clung stubbornly to her every curve, too tightly for her to wear even a strapless brassiere. Under the foul man's gaze, she felt mortifyingly naked, exposed uncomfortably to all who wished to see.
"Ah, here he is," she heard her father rumble in an oily voice, his dark eyes glimmering with unabated slyness at a figure walking quickly to their unpleasant trio. This, then, must be the owner of the construction company her father was currently in negotiations with for the building of a new corporate skyscraper, and she pitied the poor man for having to deal with the cheating ways of her sire. "Be polite, dearest." And she wanted to scream at him, wanted to be herself, be argumentative and sarcastic, but she smiled docilely in reply, dipping her head sweetly.
"Hello," a soft voice spoke, and she lifted her head, feeling raven waves twisting over her shoulder, and she saw, with a soundless inhalation of air suddenly too thin to properly aid her nerves, the silver being lost earlier to the crowd. He shook her father's hand, then the other man's, speaking his name to the latter and accepting his name in return, but she could not hear what he said his name was. The thick cloud of regret that he would ignore her presence was surprising and she tried to ignore the heat burning in her cheeks.
And then he smiled at her, grasping her hand in his, a hand slender and small, but still larger than her own hand. "I am Quatre Raberba Winner," he informed her in a gentle tone, his beautiful green eyes fixing to her dark violet, and that heat suffused her entire face, thrumming in her veins and jumping her heartbeat in her throat.
"I am Rachelle Hino," she replied, grateful for her strong voice, and finding her lips were curving up truthfully, brightly. She tucked her hand down into its opposite, watching through the fringe of her eyelashes as he began speaking, ever respectful, with her father, and she could not suppress the smile threatening to conquer her face when he sneaked glances at her, always beaming at her like a lovely boy just leaving his childhood. For the moment, she did not mind the sleek sheath of her dress nor the excited flutter in her stomach.
--
Requiem: Memoriam Deux
--
She was exacting her righteous fury out on the innocent tomato - or, at least, he assumed it had at one point been a tomato, but as it was for the most part an indescribable mess of juice and sliced innards, he could not be entirely certain. The depth of her anger, whether self-directed or meant for him, was merely accentuated by the sharpened knife she used to deal unfair retribution, and he paused in the doorway of the cabin's kitchen, seeing her haloed by the reflective light of the snow drifts piled angelically outside the sliding windows on the opposing side of her profile. He rather hoped she was not mad at him, as they had only been married for all of four days, and he came close to retreating in fearful shame, worrying he had somehow failed in an aspect of being her husband, shallowly touching on a subject best suited for Duo's far dirtier mind. Fervently, he wanted her to be happy, and he could feel his chest unravel slightly, seeing the slender opalescent beauty, cords of ebony hair twisted into a sophisticated bun with trails of unwound hair slipping around her neck. A soft cry interrupted his thoughts and he narrowed blonde eyebrows, seeing her drop the knife to the cutting board and bring her index finger to her mouth, lips pursing at the skin.
"Rachelle," he offered, voice melting into deep, unnecessary concern, and he pushed off the door frame into the kitchen, crossing the polished wood floor in his dark pajama bottoms and contradicting yellow polo. Her beautiful eyes, seeming as if chipped from black diamonds tainted by fire, flickered to him, glistening portals to her soul, traced through by mild pain but reassuring in their affection. Taking a seat on one of the bar stools before the cooking island situated in the center of the snow-lit room, he grasped her wrist in a firmly tender grip and studied the cut with amusing seriousness, tilting his upper body over the bar. "Oh," he sighed in dismay, and she smiled a tiny softness at his down-turned head, "you're bleeding."
Prying fingers from her other hand, palest white in the winter chill, touched his chin and she lifted his face from her mildly wounded digit, granting him the look of her trying to swallow a smile, her lower lip pinched so it was tucked beneath her upper lip to hide the quiver of her mouth. He found it remarkably endearing, one of the unexpectedly cute things on her usually haughty face. "I'm bleeding," she agreed, leaning forward to knock her nose on the smooth skin of his forehead, "but you've got tomato on the front of your shirt."
Quatre glanced reflexively down and made a face, seeing he had, in his fit of comic worry, pushed his lower ribcage directly into the remains of the graphically butchered tomato. Quickly pressing his lips to the thin cut on her finger, he stood and held his shirt from his torso by pulling at the hem, walking to the rolls of paper towels held thankfully on the near wall by a hefty wooden dowel. He ripped several large squares of the quilted paper and rubbed furiously at the stain, and she laughed, very quietly, at his back, her hand pressing to her mouth in a suppressing motion, her eyes lit. He could sense the change in his chest once more, the warmth and the desire to keep that happiness alive in her, and he dabbed again at the unwelcome redness, content he had collected all the bits and most of the moistness. Dropping the wadded paper into the small trash bin hooked under the dowel, he slid across the floor and took his seat again, folding his arms on the counter, but checking to see he had not placed them in the tomato she was scooping away with a cupped hand and a drooping washcloth.
"You're such an idiot," she said lightly, teasingly, and he wrinkled his nose at her, frowning playfully. Rachelle laughed and spun on her heel, the trails of dark silk swirling in a mist of black, placing the washcloth in the silver sink and snapping her wrist over the warm water knob. A fountain of cool water tumbled forth, pouring coldly for the span of a half-minute before slowly beginning to steam, shifting into heat, and she shook the cloth out under its steady wetness, wringing it as she flipped the knob back into place. She draped the cloth over the partition between the halves of the sink, smoothing a stubborn wrinkle over with her palm, and turned back to the countertop, another tease dying in her throat as she met his unusually strong gaze, one nearly melted in with aggression in place of the standard gentility he sported.
"Come here," he asked without questioning, his voice maintaining the soft meekness it seemed to be made of, though an undercurrent of some powerful metal stood behind it. Raising an eyebrow and schooling her features into the pursed lips and raised chin used as defense, she strolled over the floor, feet padding silently on the boards in the black slippers adopted in the morning, leaning over with her eyebrow still raised. His hand grazed her cheek, raising and barely touching skin to skin, and she started, narrowing her eyes in speculation, as he brushed his mouth to hers, his lips passing sweetly over her yet pursed ones.
"I love you," he whispered, his lips moving against hers, and he was left confused, unsure as to what he had done, what boundary he had violated, when she yanked away. Her good mood wiped away as a tide at dawn, her back suddenly facing him. His fingers curled where his hand was held, frozen, in the air, and he blew air out in a low stream, fingertips squeezing to the swell of his palm, eyes watching the shuddering play of muscles along her shoulders, the upper bit of her back exposed by the low hanging long-sleeved shirt she wore. Her hands fussed in the sink, working the washcloth free of every drop of the sticky tomato sauce improvised on the island, and the streams of dark thread flowing from her bun were stark on her white skin, intimidation written without motion for her movements were simple and curt.
He moved from the stool, bare feet flinching fractionally at the mild cold hibernating in the boards, and crept to her side, playing with the strands abandoning her twist though she jerked her shoulder dismissively. "What's wrong, Rachelle?" and she switched her gaze sharply, practically throwing the dampened washcloth into the sink for an unsatisfactory wet slap, her eyes piercing him like molten daggers.
"You can't say things like that!" she screamed, her hand clenching into a taut fist, hovering at her shoulder, her arm bent upwards, and she clutched at the sink like she would a lifeline, begging support from it as she forced herself to meet his face, his features already contorting with emotional pain. "You can't, oh, God, you can't say you love me," the words were expelled with effort, and she cursed the cabin, the isolation, for her loss of control, her loss of elegance, and could find no way to explain why he was never to say he loved her, not during the moaning of night, not amidst the banter of day. She could feel, in her heart, the distrust for all men she had fostered for years, from the day her father took her from her grandfather's care, and it burned to see the ache in the leaf green eyes watching her sadly.
"Then," he said slowly after a moment, leaving her hair and smoothing his palm flatly on the dip betwixt her shoulder blades, "I hate you." And she could not hold back the stunned look, overwhelmed by the flashing agony spearing her entire existence caused by his words, her lips parting and eyes growing wide, frightened, in surprising innocent betrayal. He smiled softly, pressing his mouth on her jaw, and said evenly, in the voice used for tenser meetings at his office, "Is that what you want me to say?"
She breathed shakily, answering, "No," and he laughed, a breathless sound that untied the hateful knot in her belly, hooking his other arm around her front and moving her about to face him, hugging her gently.
"I'll wait," he promised devoutly, "for as long as it takes for you to believe me. And if you don't want me to say it until then, I won't."
--~--
*
--~--
The slick cold of snow, wet and pressing, slipped down his back and he stiffened, rolling his shoulders back uncomfortably to shift it off his skin, shooting an unappreciative glare at his cherubically smiling wife. He was thankful, deeply, that he was alone with his wife on the mountain usually dotted with skiers, in an isolated pocket of the woods; he could count on one hand the times he had seen her act in such a sneakily charming manner. It was as if she was striving to make up for the childhood she had lost, and those few times, they had been left to their own devices, from a stranded sailboat to a quiet date thrown by Relena. Although, technically, the first had engraved into his mind as a remarkably unpleasant bout of seasickness and the latter resulted in his then-fiancee discovering she had a weak alcohol tolerance.
"It wasn't me," she said divinely, the glorious image of a fiery angel as she touched a sleekly gloved finger to her lower lip in an elaborate show of innocence. "I've heard these tales of mountain specters--" and she deliberately closed her sparking eyes, giving him a blind shoulder as he unzipped his coat and shook the tendrils of stubborn snow free, "and abominable snowmen, as any well-read person should--" he slipped the woven plastic of his coat over his arms, leaving it open, and began marching toward her, feet sliding through snow drifts, "so it absolutely could not have been me, for I am far too much of a lady to do so, and what the hell are you doing, Quatre?"
This tumbled from her lips the moment preceding his motion of grabbing her about the waist and, twisting in a looping circle as she shrieked and swore at him in angry surprise, tossed her into the snow. He overbalanced a second or two later and collapsed beside her, flurries of whiteness molded into clumps limply rising and cresting to the snowy mounds once more. A stiff chuckle resounded in her throat and she slipped into a leaning position, bracing her weight on her elbows and looking at him with a splendid merriment creasing her features into upward loops. She laughed, softly at first, almost derisively, then louder and freer, specks of ivory dotting her violet-streaked darkness, and moved off of one arm to grab his. Rolling him into a sitting stance, she continued laughing, patting his wet cheek and tapping his effervescent grin with her thumb.
"You're so silly," she finally spoke, tilting her mouth in offering, a sacrifice he willingly accepted, kissing the pair of crimson lips chastely. Pushing her back, he leaned over, touching his mouth to one cheek, then the other, and she slapped him half-heartedly across the nose. "Pig," Rachelle said in a voice clearly contradicting her solitary word, pinching his cold-reddened nose delicately between her rounded knuckles. "I simply can't stand men, and it's because of examples like you." She crossed her arms over her chest, fitting the giving coat perfectly to indicate the chosen note of teasing disdain, her lips pursing in hauteur.
"I don't believe I'm being given a fair trial," he found fit to inform her, purposefully lowering his long eyelashes, a shade more brown than the rest of his hair, into a lulling angelic appearance. "The judge is biased and I think she's using her beauty unfairly to sway the jury." He smiled and, reaching with gloved fingers, twisted a small bunch of hair into a swirling braid.
"Well, the defendant," she retorted in her snobbiest voice, lifting her nose as best she could whilst on her back and giving her lips a serious expression, "is behaving in a most unbecoming manner. I suspect he's bribing the judge - possibly even sleeping with her!" A tiny smirk twitched her face slightly, a private laughter thick with sly wit and personal knowledge.
He frowned at her and flicked the makeshift braid with his index finger, scowling, "The prosecutor, too! How terrifically shameful!" Finding the small stretch of pale skin flashed by her collared coat suitably intriguing, he scooped, still pinning her to the ground with his arms and upper body, a significant amount of the cold winter downfall and promptly dumped it on her neck. She shrieked and bolted up, raven hair long since taken from its elegant bun and bouncing in flaming waves as she patted her neck, fingertips plucking clumsily through the leather gloves to rid herself of the chill discomfort.
"Oh, you bastard!" she fumed, ripping the buttons tracing the length of her coat open, and she wriggled her fingers into the neck of her sweater, feeling the cold trickle of melted snow trailing a thin stream down her spine. Surrendering the battle, she ran a hand through her mussed hair to straighten it somewhat, and glanced to see Quatre studying her with an emotion akin to surprised hurt. Guilt wormed through her and her hands fell into her lap, unsure of what to say to take away that hateful betrayed look, and she cupped his chin in her hands.
He smiled softly and planted his hands in the snow, leaning forward to kiss her forgivingly, and she, after escaping the initial confusion, laughed in muted tones. "I hate cursing, Rae," he told her and she smiled back, then rung her eyebrows together, tips looping up as she eyed him in a way almost wondering.
"'Rae,'" she echoed, moving her hands up to push the lightest degree of pressure to his cheeks, rolling the word on her tongue before she joined her mouth to his. Quatre was lost for a moment or so, attempting to catch the train of thought he had managed to miss, and decided that, so long as she was not yelling angrily, it must have been a rather good thing, what he said. "I've never had a nickname before," she confessed when she pulled away, her words as close to shy as they could ever be, and he beamed at her.
--~--
*
--~--
Author's Notes: I'm not sure I have anything to say at this point...*fidgets* Does anyone out there like chocolate on tortillas? I do, but everyone else I know says it's weird to eat choco-tortil--*brained by Ryan*
Quatre/Rei is apparently liked by many people. I /still/ don't know why I've never used it before...
Huggles to Kaiya-chan for checking this baby over, and commenting there weren't as many errors as per norm. *sheepish look* 'Chapter Ten: Chord' is probably going to get rid of my improvement. 0o;
According to the copyrighting laws, I don't own the characters I didn't create, and they belong to their respective owners instead of me. (Curses!) Distribution is to www.FanFiction.net, various places scattered throughout the solar system, and my own website, if I ever get around to buying my own damn domain and posting it on the Internet. I do, however, own the Sailor Mercury plushie I bought two years ago. My Roronoa Zoro plushie keeps her company, as I haven't been able to find a Duo plushie yet (double curses!).
Feedback: still massively desired (with ENORMOUS thank-yous to the people who've been steadily reviewing, those who have e-mailed me, Kaiya-chan, and the readers who pop up with a comment whenever they get the chance). I am incredibly grateful for the response you all have shown me, and it means a lot to me. :] Thanks. [Comments can be left - because I'm obligated to write this contact-me-thing, sorry - via the review button supplied below, or at alien_wolf@sailorjupiter.com.]
Manga Plug: Go read 'One Piece' in the Viz translation of 'Shonen Jump.' This is not a request, this is an order. Buy the Japanese volumes at www.sasugabooks.com, especially volume eleven (lurvely Zoro on the cover, Sanji smokin' and in a large armchair/throne, and all with Luffy/Nami hints galore inside!), and download illegal translations off the Internet. Visit eBay.com, collect Japanese DVD collections and fansubs. Bug Funimation at their website to get off their butt and translate the anime already, because they've /bought/ the rights! (For those of you holding out suspiciously, cease your hesitation: for fangirls, Zoro is drool-worthy; for fans of men who can't get any no matter how hard they try, check out Sanji; for feminists, there's always Nami. And Luffy in and of himself is worth reading it for.)
Response to Feedback: *inhales deeply and chokes* I know I promised individual thank-yous this chapter, but I'm undergoing some trouble right now. I absolutely /swear/ I will next chapter! Just know that I seriously am honored by each and every comment I read, and it means a great deal that I'm getting such lovely support from you all (and I'm very thankful to those who catch my mistakes). It's wonderful knowing that people enjoy what I write. Thank-you all. :]
Pretending she did not feel the sting of inexplicable disappointment in her breast, she touched the tuxedo sleeve of one of the servers, inclining her head politely and taking two swan-necked glasses from the tray. She made her way through the pulsing crowd, shifting her hips once as a slightly drunk executive stumbled dangerously close to her waist, and called forth that horribly brilliant smile, false and leaving her eyes dryly lonely, handing one glass of wine to her father, who took it as granted and never looked at her, and the other to his companion, who also took it for granted but used it as a greeting for him to smile lasciviously at her. Hatred choked in her throat and she nearly gave in to the urge to slap both men, dashing the glass to the ground and speaking her mind without hesitation. She loathed the dress her father had chosen for her, undoubtedly in hopes she would attract a suitor he approved of, one inevitably older than she by at least seven years, and the silky red fabric clung stubbornly to her every curve, too tightly for her to wear even a strapless brassiere. Under the foul man's gaze, she felt mortifyingly naked, exposed uncomfortably to all who wished to see.
"Ah, here he is," she heard her father rumble in an oily voice, his dark eyes glimmering with unabated slyness at a figure walking quickly to their unpleasant trio. This, then, must be the owner of the construction company her father was currently in negotiations with for the building of a new corporate skyscraper, and she pitied the poor man for having to deal with the cheating ways of her sire. "Be polite, dearest." And she wanted to scream at him, wanted to be herself, be argumentative and sarcastic, but she smiled docilely in reply, dipping her head sweetly.
"Hello," a soft voice spoke, and she lifted her head, feeling raven waves twisting over her shoulder, and she saw, with a soundless inhalation of air suddenly too thin to properly aid her nerves, the silver being lost earlier to the crowd. He shook her father's hand, then the other man's, speaking his name to the latter and accepting his name in return, but she could not hear what he said his name was. The thick cloud of regret that he would ignore her presence was surprising and she tried to ignore the heat burning in her cheeks.
And then he smiled at her, grasping her hand in his, a hand slender and small, but still larger than her own hand. "I am Quatre Raberba Winner," he informed her in a gentle tone, his beautiful green eyes fixing to her dark violet, and that heat suffused her entire face, thrumming in her veins and jumping her heartbeat in her throat.
"I am Rachelle Hino," she replied, grateful for her strong voice, and finding her lips were curving up truthfully, brightly. She tucked her hand down into its opposite, watching through the fringe of her eyelashes as he began speaking, ever respectful, with her father, and she could not suppress the smile threatening to conquer her face when he sneaked glances at her, always beaming at her like a lovely boy just leaving his childhood. For the moment, she did not mind the sleek sheath of her dress nor the excited flutter in her stomach.
--
Requiem: Memoriam Deux
--
She was exacting her righteous fury out on the innocent tomato - or, at least, he assumed it had at one point been a tomato, but as it was for the most part an indescribable mess of juice and sliced innards, he could not be entirely certain. The depth of her anger, whether self-directed or meant for him, was merely accentuated by the sharpened knife she used to deal unfair retribution, and he paused in the doorway of the cabin's kitchen, seeing her haloed by the reflective light of the snow drifts piled angelically outside the sliding windows on the opposing side of her profile. He rather hoped she was not mad at him, as they had only been married for all of four days, and he came close to retreating in fearful shame, worrying he had somehow failed in an aspect of being her husband, shallowly touching on a subject best suited for Duo's far dirtier mind. Fervently, he wanted her to be happy, and he could feel his chest unravel slightly, seeing the slender opalescent beauty, cords of ebony hair twisted into a sophisticated bun with trails of unwound hair slipping around her neck. A soft cry interrupted his thoughts and he narrowed blonde eyebrows, seeing her drop the knife to the cutting board and bring her index finger to her mouth, lips pursing at the skin.
"Rachelle," he offered, voice melting into deep, unnecessary concern, and he pushed off the door frame into the kitchen, crossing the polished wood floor in his dark pajama bottoms and contradicting yellow polo. Her beautiful eyes, seeming as if chipped from black diamonds tainted by fire, flickered to him, glistening portals to her soul, traced through by mild pain but reassuring in their affection. Taking a seat on one of the bar stools before the cooking island situated in the center of the snow-lit room, he grasped her wrist in a firmly tender grip and studied the cut with amusing seriousness, tilting his upper body over the bar. "Oh," he sighed in dismay, and she smiled a tiny softness at his down-turned head, "you're bleeding."
Prying fingers from her other hand, palest white in the winter chill, touched his chin and she lifted his face from her mildly wounded digit, granting him the look of her trying to swallow a smile, her lower lip pinched so it was tucked beneath her upper lip to hide the quiver of her mouth. He found it remarkably endearing, one of the unexpectedly cute things on her usually haughty face. "I'm bleeding," she agreed, leaning forward to knock her nose on the smooth skin of his forehead, "but you've got tomato on the front of your shirt."
Quatre glanced reflexively down and made a face, seeing he had, in his fit of comic worry, pushed his lower ribcage directly into the remains of the graphically butchered tomato. Quickly pressing his lips to the thin cut on her finger, he stood and held his shirt from his torso by pulling at the hem, walking to the rolls of paper towels held thankfully on the near wall by a hefty wooden dowel. He ripped several large squares of the quilted paper and rubbed furiously at the stain, and she laughed, very quietly, at his back, her hand pressing to her mouth in a suppressing motion, her eyes lit. He could sense the change in his chest once more, the warmth and the desire to keep that happiness alive in her, and he dabbed again at the unwelcome redness, content he had collected all the bits and most of the moistness. Dropping the wadded paper into the small trash bin hooked under the dowel, he slid across the floor and took his seat again, folding his arms on the counter, but checking to see he had not placed them in the tomato she was scooping away with a cupped hand and a drooping washcloth.
"You're such an idiot," she said lightly, teasingly, and he wrinkled his nose at her, frowning playfully. Rachelle laughed and spun on her heel, the trails of dark silk swirling in a mist of black, placing the washcloth in the silver sink and snapping her wrist over the warm water knob. A fountain of cool water tumbled forth, pouring coldly for the span of a half-minute before slowly beginning to steam, shifting into heat, and she shook the cloth out under its steady wetness, wringing it as she flipped the knob back into place. She draped the cloth over the partition between the halves of the sink, smoothing a stubborn wrinkle over with her palm, and turned back to the countertop, another tease dying in her throat as she met his unusually strong gaze, one nearly melted in with aggression in place of the standard gentility he sported.
"Come here," he asked without questioning, his voice maintaining the soft meekness it seemed to be made of, though an undercurrent of some powerful metal stood behind it. Raising an eyebrow and schooling her features into the pursed lips and raised chin used as defense, she strolled over the floor, feet padding silently on the boards in the black slippers adopted in the morning, leaning over with her eyebrow still raised. His hand grazed her cheek, raising and barely touching skin to skin, and she started, narrowing her eyes in speculation, as he brushed his mouth to hers, his lips passing sweetly over her yet pursed ones.
"I love you," he whispered, his lips moving against hers, and he was left confused, unsure as to what he had done, what boundary he had violated, when she yanked away. Her good mood wiped away as a tide at dawn, her back suddenly facing him. His fingers curled where his hand was held, frozen, in the air, and he blew air out in a low stream, fingertips squeezing to the swell of his palm, eyes watching the shuddering play of muscles along her shoulders, the upper bit of her back exposed by the low hanging long-sleeved shirt she wore. Her hands fussed in the sink, working the washcloth free of every drop of the sticky tomato sauce improvised on the island, and the streams of dark thread flowing from her bun were stark on her white skin, intimidation written without motion for her movements were simple and curt.
He moved from the stool, bare feet flinching fractionally at the mild cold hibernating in the boards, and crept to her side, playing with the strands abandoning her twist though she jerked her shoulder dismissively. "What's wrong, Rachelle?" and she switched her gaze sharply, practically throwing the dampened washcloth into the sink for an unsatisfactory wet slap, her eyes piercing him like molten daggers.
"You can't say things like that!" she screamed, her hand clenching into a taut fist, hovering at her shoulder, her arm bent upwards, and she clutched at the sink like she would a lifeline, begging support from it as she forced herself to meet his face, his features already contorting with emotional pain. "You can't, oh, God, you can't say you love me," the words were expelled with effort, and she cursed the cabin, the isolation, for her loss of control, her loss of elegance, and could find no way to explain why he was never to say he loved her, not during the moaning of night, not amidst the banter of day. She could feel, in her heart, the distrust for all men she had fostered for years, from the day her father took her from her grandfather's care, and it burned to see the ache in the leaf green eyes watching her sadly.
"Then," he said slowly after a moment, leaving her hair and smoothing his palm flatly on the dip betwixt her shoulder blades, "I hate you." And she could not hold back the stunned look, overwhelmed by the flashing agony spearing her entire existence caused by his words, her lips parting and eyes growing wide, frightened, in surprising innocent betrayal. He smiled softly, pressing his mouth on her jaw, and said evenly, in the voice used for tenser meetings at his office, "Is that what you want me to say?"
She breathed shakily, answering, "No," and he laughed, a breathless sound that untied the hateful knot in her belly, hooking his other arm around her front and moving her about to face him, hugging her gently.
"I'll wait," he promised devoutly, "for as long as it takes for you to believe me. And if you don't want me to say it until then, I won't."
--~--
*
--~--
The slick cold of snow, wet and pressing, slipped down his back and he stiffened, rolling his shoulders back uncomfortably to shift it off his skin, shooting an unappreciative glare at his cherubically smiling wife. He was thankful, deeply, that he was alone with his wife on the mountain usually dotted with skiers, in an isolated pocket of the woods; he could count on one hand the times he had seen her act in such a sneakily charming manner. It was as if she was striving to make up for the childhood she had lost, and those few times, they had been left to their own devices, from a stranded sailboat to a quiet date thrown by Relena. Although, technically, the first had engraved into his mind as a remarkably unpleasant bout of seasickness and the latter resulted in his then-fiancee discovering she had a weak alcohol tolerance.
"It wasn't me," she said divinely, the glorious image of a fiery angel as she touched a sleekly gloved finger to her lower lip in an elaborate show of innocence. "I've heard these tales of mountain specters--" and she deliberately closed her sparking eyes, giving him a blind shoulder as he unzipped his coat and shook the tendrils of stubborn snow free, "and abominable snowmen, as any well-read person should--" he slipped the woven plastic of his coat over his arms, leaving it open, and began marching toward her, feet sliding through snow drifts, "so it absolutely could not have been me, for I am far too much of a lady to do so, and what the hell are you doing, Quatre?"
This tumbled from her lips the moment preceding his motion of grabbing her about the waist and, twisting in a looping circle as she shrieked and swore at him in angry surprise, tossed her into the snow. He overbalanced a second or two later and collapsed beside her, flurries of whiteness molded into clumps limply rising and cresting to the snowy mounds once more. A stiff chuckle resounded in her throat and she slipped into a leaning position, bracing her weight on her elbows and looking at him with a splendid merriment creasing her features into upward loops. She laughed, softly at first, almost derisively, then louder and freer, specks of ivory dotting her violet-streaked darkness, and moved off of one arm to grab his. Rolling him into a sitting stance, she continued laughing, patting his wet cheek and tapping his effervescent grin with her thumb.
"You're so silly," she finally spoke, tilting her mouth in offering, a sacrifice he willingly accepted, kissing the pair of crimson lips chastely. Pushing her back, he leaned over, touching his mouth to one cheek, then the other, and she slapped him half-heartedly across the nose. "Pig," Rachelle said in a voice clearly contradicting her solitary word, pinching his cold-reddened nose delicately between her rounded knuckles. "I simply can't stand men, and it's because of examples like you." She crossed her arms over her chest, fitting the giving coat perfectly to indicate the chosen note of teasing disdain, her lips pursing in hauteur.
"I don't believe I'm being given a fair trial," he found fit to inform her, purposefully lowering his long eyelashes, a shade more brown than the rest of his hair, into a lulling angelic appearance. "The judge is biased and I think she's using her beauty unfairly to sway the jury." He smiled and, reaching with gloved fingers, twisted a small bunch of hair into a swirling braid.
"Well, the defendant," she retorted in her snobbiest voice, lifting her nose as best she could whilst on her back and giving her lips a serious expression, "is behaving in a most unbecoming manner. I suspect he's bribing the judge - possibly even sleeping with her!" A tiny smirk twitched her face slightly, a private laughter thick with sly wit and personal knowledge.
He frowned at her and flicked the makeshift braid with his index finger, scowling, "The prosecutor, too! How terrifically shameful!" Finding the small stretch of pale skin flashed by her collared coat suitably intriguing, he scooped, still pinning her to the ground with his arms and upper body, a significant amount of the cold winter downfall and promptly dumped it on her neck. She shrieked and bolted up, raven hair long since taken from its elegant bun and bouncing in flaming waves as she patted her neck, fingertips plucking clumsily through the leather gloves to rid herself of the chill discomfort.
"Oh, you bastard!" she fumed, ripping the buttons tracing the length of her coat open, and she wriggled her fingers into the neck of her sweater, feeling the cold trickle of melted snow trailing a thin stream down her spine. Surrendering the battle, she ran a hand through her mussed hair to straighten it somewhat, and glanced to see Quatre studying her with an emotion akin to surprised hurt. Guilt wormed through her and her hands fell into her lap, unsure of what to say to take away that hateful betrayed look, and she cupped his chin in her hands.
He smiled softly and planted his hands in the snow, leaning forward to kiss her forgivingly, and she, after escaping the initial confusion, laughed in muted tones. "I hate cursing, Rae," he told her and she smiled back, then rung her eyebrows together, tips looping up as she eyed him in a way almost wondering.
"'Rae,'" she echoed, moving her hands up to push the lightest degree of pressure to his cheeks, rolling the word on her tongue before she joined her mouth to his. Quatre was lost for a moment or so, attempting to catch the train of thought he had managed to miss, and decided that, so long as she was not yelling angrily, it must have been a rather good thing, what he said. "I've never had a nickname before," she confessed when she pulled away, her words as close to shy as they could ever be, and he beamed at her.
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Author's Notes: I'm not sure I have anything to say at this point...*fidgets* Does anyone out there like chocolate on tortillas? I do, but everyone else I know says it's weird to eat choco-tortil--*brained by Ryan*
Quatre/Rei is apparently liked by many people. I /still/ don't know why I've never used it before...
Huggles to Kaiya-chan for checking this baby over, and commenting there weren't as many errors as per norm. *sheepish look* 'Chapter Ten: Chord' is probably going to get rid of my improvement. 0o;
According to the copyrighting laws, I don't own the characters I didn't create, and they belong to their respective owners instead of me. (Curses!) Distribution is to www.FanFiction.net, various places scattered throughout the solar system, and my own website, if I ever get around to buying my own damn domain and posting it on the Internet. I do, however, own the Sailor Mercury plushie I bought two years ago. My Roronoa Zoro plushie keeps her company, as I haven't been able to find a Duo plushie yet (double curses!).
Feedback: still massively desired (with ENORMOUS thank-yous to the people who've been steadily reviewing, those who have e-mailed me, Kaiya-chan, and the readers who pop up with a comment whenever they get the chance). I am incredibly grateful for the response you all have shown me, and it means a lot to me. :] Thanks. [Comments can be left - because I'm obligated to write this contact-me-thing, sorry - via the review button supplied below, or at alien_wolf@sailorjupiter.com.]
Manga Plug: Go read 'One Piece' in the Viz translation of 'Shonen Jump.' This is not a request, this is an order. Buy the Japanese volumes at www.sasugabooks.com, especially volume eleven (lurvely Zoro on the cover, Sanji smokin' and in a large armchair/throne, and all with Luffy/Nami hints galore inside!), and download illegal translations off the Internet. Visit eBay.com, collect Japanese DVD collections and fansubs. Bug Funimation at their website to get off their butt and translate the anime already, because they've /bought/ the rights! (For those of you holding out suspiciously, cease your hesitation: for fangirls, Zoro is drool-worthy; for fans of men who can't get any no matter how hard they try, check out Sanji; for feminists, there's always Nami. And Luffy in and of himself is worth reading it for.)
Response to Feedback: *inhales deeply and chokes* I know I promised individual thank-yous this chapter, but I'm undergoing some trouble right now. I absolutely /swear/ I will next chapter! Just know that I seriously am honored by each and every comment I read, and it means a great deal that I'm getting such lovely support from you all (and I'm very thankful to those who catch my mistakes). It's wonderful knowing that people enjoy what I write. Thank-you all. :]