Warnings: 5x4, implied 3xC and 1x2; character death later on
Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing or the characters in this story (except for those not in the series); I don't own the poem quoted below; it belongs to Pablo Neruda.
Author's Notes: Written for the OTP contest. My first completed Gundam Wing fanfic! Though I have taken numerous artistic liberties (and know next to nothing about politics and etc.), I hope the plotline hasn't veered too far from the plausible, and that I have kept things fairly in character. Also, a little AU as far as the history of the Winner family goes. A thousand thanks to my beta reader/editor, Kiyakotari-san; any mistakes are mine alone.
The plant that never blooms
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
--Pablo Neruda
Chapter One
1/
"Who are they?"
Quatre Winner was surprised by how even his voice was. It contained no frightened quaver, no heavy pause. Just calm. Control. This was the most control he'd had in a long time.
"We don't know," Rashid admitted reluctantly. He was head and shoulders taller than anyone else in the room, and his angular face was lined with worry and age. He was noticeably irritated. "They didn't leave names, and we haven't been able to track the call. There was only that damned message."
"Could you play it again?" Quatre asked the man nearest the computer. Earlier Rashid had explained that every communications port in the building was hooked up to computers that recorded all data sent and received. A nervous techie had added that this particular computer, a rather old model that was mostly used in reception to keep up with daily appointments, and was the only one that had been able to retain the short voice message. "The other computers is flashin blue and sayin ain't no messages received today, sir." The techie had held out his hands in a what-can-you-do gesture.
A soft whirring sound filled the room. Quatre fixed his eyes upon the floor, ears straining for any sound beyond the quiet static. Suddenly a low muffled man's voice filtered through.
"Thou shalt not consent unto him, nor hearken unto him; neither shall thine eye pity him, neither shalt thou spare, neither shalt thou conceal him: but thou shalt surely kill him; thine hand shall be first upon him to put him to death."
2/
They walked silently down the hallway, a small boy with a halo of golden hair and a man almost too big to be possible. Rashid risked a glance down at his young master, who had not said a word since they'd left the conference room.
"Master Quatre--"
"Don't," warned Quatre, a little sharply.
Rashid didn't reply. He was thinking that before today, any threat to Quatre was vague and somehow distant--impersonal hate, because he was rich, because he was a killer (hard to believe, but true all the same), because he was the only son of the late head of the Winner family. Quatre was never short of invisible enemies.
This was different. This was a specific threat. It was too close to home, and it was clear to Rashid that something had to be done.
"Have my sisters been notified?" Quatre asked softly, his fists clenching tight.
"Yes," said Rashid.
3/
His bedroom was cool and dark and quiet. He could finally hear himself think without a ringing telephone or a worried voice interrupting.
The window was open, and warm damp air danced lazily with the white curtains. The artificial weather system was imitating spring, but somehow it wasn't as wonderful as spring on earth, despite the fact that he'd lived most of his life on L4 and had only been to earth a couple of times.
A plain black piano stood proudly near the window, its polished surface reflecting the pale sky and gray walls of the world outside. Quatre gratefully sank down onto the wooden bench, his fingers automatically resting on the keys, which were cool despite the weather. He fooled around a bit, playing with chords and made-up melodies, and then launched into a simple song he'd learned years ago, when he'd first started taking piano lessons. The sounds felt old and flat.
When his interest waned, he tried to sit at his desk and write letters to people he hadn't spoken to in years, but he couldn't find anything to say.
"It never ends, does it?" he wondered aloud.
Finally, unable to stand the silence, he switched on the radio, flopped into bed, and hid under the covers.
4/
"Bodyguard?"
Quatre's face went very pale when he said it, and his hands were starting to roll up into fists, as they often did when he was nervous or tense. Or both, Hana Winner amended, watching her little brother with some amusement.
"Well, you must know after that awful incident yesterday, we had to take a few preventive measures," Hana said carefully. She tried her best to look serious and unflappable, but her stomach was twisting painfully. Of course Quatre would end up going along with whatever she ordered, but if he wasn't happy with it he'd end up doing his whole passive-aggressive thing and run off any bodyguard that dared to show its face.
"I--I don't think--the Maganac Corps are perfectly capable of--"
"Oh surely you aren't suggesting that the most capable fighters in the entire colony cluster abandon their posts and rush to your aid, Quatre?" She frowned. "What you need is someone who can watch you at all times-- someone who won't stick out."
"But Hana--"
"I've already found the perfect man!" She exclaimed, a huge smile spreading over her face. She'd once taken a course in advertising, and presentation was the crux of any sale.
"M-man?" Quatre said faintly. Now he was decidedly pink.
"A woman wouldn't exactly be practical, would she? I mean, she couldn't accompany you to the restroom or anything like that."
"I . . . see."
"I couldn't trust my dear, innocent little brother with a woman, anyway." The smile became real for an instant, and then she hurried away.
5/
He was not so much a man as a man in the guise of a boy. Two years had lent him neither height nor width--only his eyes betrayed his age. When he'd accepted this job, he'd been a little out of his head; too much beer and not enough sleep, as well as the fact that he was poor and alone in an apartment on L3, wasting his time hanging around the circus with Barton when it came through and doing errands for local businesses, neither of which were honorable pursuits.
Still, it was good money, and good money was the only thing that could buy good alcohol, which he'd grown rather fond of.
Now he regretted his rash acceptance. He'd never known Winner very well even when they'd both piloted Gundams, and two years could do a great deal to a person. Hell, he was living proof.
He'd been told to meet Winner at the estate, and then remain with him indefinitely until the danger had passed. It had seemed such a fine idea when Winner's representative had approached him with it--generous pay and a chance to get away from L3, thank the gods. But what was he supposed to say to the guy he'd once fought alongside of, someone he'd called comrade even though he hadn't really known a thing about him besides that he was rich and seemed to really like tea?
"No looking back," he muttered, and stepped out of the grubby taxi, handing the driver a couple of the strange coins that served as money on L4. It had been a bitch to have to switch all of his cash (okay, so it wasn't much) over from L3 notes, but it wasn't as if he'd had a choice; he suspected he'd be here for a while.
"Hey kid, you're short," accused the driver.
For a stunned moment the boy thought this was an insult. Then he noticed the outstretched hand and had to fight back his hot embarrassment. He pressed another coin into the man's hand and quickly retreated into the shadows cast by the manor house as the cab roared away.
No guards stood by the doors, but he caught sight of a telltale blinking red light concealed by shrubbery--there had to be tons of surveillance equipment positioned all over the property. He stood for a moment, wondering if he should knock, and then the door decided for him by swinging open and revealing a petite blond boy who could only be Quatre Winner.
"You must be--" Winner said, then did a double take. "Chang Wu Fei! What are you doing here?" Before Wu Fei could think of an answer, Winner had taken hold of his arm and led him through the elaborate, European-style entrance hall into the parlor. In no time at all, both boys were seated at a glass coffee table, Winner sipping his tea and Wu Fei absently sniffing his (he didn't like whatever it was the tea was flavored with).
"I haven't seen you in forever! What brings you here?" Winner asked eagerly.
Wu Fei assumed wryly that none of the other ex-pilots had been much in contact with Winner, either, and that the boy was desperate for news of the outside world. He also supposed that Winner had not been informed who his bodyguard would be, if he had been informed that he was to have one at all.
"Business," he said simply.
"Oh! Do you have a position at one of the plants...or are you a technician-- "
"Getting colder," interrupted Wu Fei dryly. Imagine, him, a technician! Not, he amended mentally, that it was any more preposterous than him being an errand-boy.
"Forgive me," Winner said. "Of course you wouldn't be here if you'd . . . well, why are you here? Business can mean a thousand different things."
"I'm--"
A door near the rear of the room swung open and admitted a ragged bear of a man who was so large he dwarfed everything else. Wu Fei experienced a brief moment of disorientation, then realized the guy was one of the Arab henchmen that Winner carted all over the place. He remembered them vaguely, and they always put him on edge because he didn't completely trust people who depended so absolutely on one another.
"Master Quatre," said the Arab man, nodding respectfully to Winner.
Wu Fei stood and bowed politely. He kept his eyes warily on the other man the whole time.
"Mr. Chang. I trust you encountered no problems on your trip here?"
"No," affirmed Wu Fei. He'd arrived on a public shuttle, first class, after having spent nearly an hour eating peanuts and debating whether or not to aim a couple at the man sitting behind him, who had snored so loudly Wu Fei could feel the vibrations. Besides the hassle with switching over from L3 currency, it had been a rather tolerable trip.
"Wait, you--you knew Wu Fei was going to be--" Winner frowned. "But--"
"Mr. Chang will explain everything to you as soon as he is settled--your things should be arriving soon, by the way," this said to Wu Fei, who had been wondering about that, anyway. He didn't have many possessions, but what he did have was very important and he regretted not transporting the bags himself.
"'Things'--Wu Fei, you're not staying here, are you?"
"It's part of the job description," said Wu Fei evenly. "I'm afraid we'll be spending a great deal of time together, Mr. Winner."
"You . . . you're my bodyguard?" Winner ventured hesitantly, his voice cracking a little on the last word. The color drained from his face.
"Yes," said Wu Fei, leaving no room for argument or even conversation.
6/
When Quatre had first settled down to life on his family's L4 estate, Hana had naturally assumed he'd want the beautiful master bedroom with its elegant furnishings and elaborately painted ceiling, which depicted a mischievous god and his gang of wild angels, a masterpiece that was full of irony, considering the Winner family's religious position. It had been the late Mr. Winner's room, and the traces of him still lingered there, from the faint scent of aftershave to the wooden floors scuffed by his pacing feet.
But to the surprise of the manor's inhabitants, Quatre had chosen to take up residence in a room on the fourth floor, which had never been used because it had never been needed. The entire fourth floor had fallen into a mild state of disrepair; its doors were squeaky and its surfaces dusty, though once or twice a month a maid came up to deal with the latter.
Gradually the fourth floor came to life. Two servants were assigned to tidy it up and make sure all of the young master's needs were met. Quatre himself had an old well-loved piano transferred from the parlor to his new room. He spent many afternoons belting out sad melodies on its ivory-white keys, the cries of long-dead soldiers still resounding in the secret chamber of his heart.
Quatre's room was small by Winner standards, but Quatre liked it that way; he liked being able to get from the bed to the piano in seven steps, from the piano to the door in nine. Set in the eastern wall was a simple wooden door, and beyond that a tiny, closet-like room adjoining its larger counterpart. It was into this diminutive room that Wu Fei stepped now, his black eyes expressionless.
"Er, I'm sorry," Quatre said awkwardly, watching the Chinese boy scrutinize his new home. "I never expected anyone would live there, so it's a little...stark." The walls of the room were white and unadorned, and the only furniture was a chair from one of the downstairs rooms and a futon one of the servants had brought in until a bed could be wrestled upstairs.
"This is fine," said Wu Fei quietly. He was carrying his only bag; after it had arrived, Rashid had arranged to have it sent up to the room, but Wu Fei had insisted on taking it himself. Now, he set about unpacking, laying his clothes neatly in a pile near the foot of the futon.
Quatre sank to his knees and watched silently, unsure of himself. It was rare for him to be at a loss for words, having essentially been brought up by diplomats and revolutionaries. But something about Wu Fei commanded silence and thought; it was akin to the way certain scholars made him feel.
How many years had it been since he'd seen this warrior-boy? A little more than two? Yes. The last Quatre had seen of him was after Mariemaia was dealt with, when Wu Fei had joined the Preventers, presumably (according to Duo Maxwell, whose theories were admittedly a bit far-fetched) to be with his older girlfriend, Miss Sally Po. Not that Quatre completely believed Duo's claim. He was sure that Wu Fei was genuinely interested in the well- being of the universe, which raised the question--what was Wu Fei doing here, of all places? Sure he was qualified to be a bodyguard--probably more so than those many years his senior--but why wasn't he still with the Preventers?
Wu Fei pulled from his bag a small brown box with black Chinese characters painted on the lid. Gently he placed it at the opposite end of the futon, where his head would rest. Then he neatly folded up the bag itself and placed it next to his other possessions.
"I'm finished," he told Quatre, who nodded and stood, somehow unable to ask Wu Fei any of the questions plaguing his mind.
7/
Hana knew her little brother by his soft knock. It wasn't brisk and no- nonsense, like her business contacts; nor was it lazy and unhurried, like her other sisters', even the seven that had abandoned the family business in favor of a penniless, artsy life on one of the other colonies (they visited every so often to ask for a little financial help, which Hana couldn't refuse because then they'd ask Quatre, and he'd give them absolutely anything).
"Come in," she called, shutting out of the accounting program on her laptop. Despite being glad to see him, she hoped he wouldn't stay long; she still had a mountain-load of work to do.
He was still shorter than she was, and his blond hair hadn't darkened, though hers had. I should've been the son, she thought wryly. He approached the desk, very sincere, very Quatre-like.
"How are you? Not dead yet?" She smiled.
"Why Wu Fei?" He said flatly, ignoring her salutation.
She was tempted to ask him where his manners had gone, and why he was taking this so seriously, but she thought she knew the answer. She knew, but she didn't understand. "Obviously he's very talented; he was a pilot, wasn't he? And I assumed it would be easier for you if the bodyguard was someone you knew, rather than a perfect stranger."
"But why him? Why him specifically? Is there...is there even a reason? Was it just chance, Hana?"
"Not really," she laughed. "I tried to contact the other pilots, but couldn't get to any of them. Even that Barton fellow. Chang was available. He doesn't have any attachments as far as family goes, and he doesn't need to be trained because he's already the best of the best." She shrugged. "Like you, right?"
Quatre gave her a look full of something she couldn't name, and left.
8/
"What's your daily schedule?"
Winner looked up, spoon halfway to his open mouth. It had come as a surprise to Wu Fei that Winner, legal owner of a multi-million dollar company and ex-Gundam pilot, still seemed to like fairly normal things like chocolate milk and the sort of cereal that had marshmallows in the shape of dinosaurs.
You learn something new every day, he thought.
Wu Fei himself had been appalled at the thought of eating something so full of sugar, and he'd asked if there were any rice or eggs or something.
"Well, yes," Winner had said, smiling. "But I don't know how to cook."
Wu Fei had raised an eyebrow.
"I've never really had to, have I?" Winner had said defensively. "Abdul had a monopoly on the food supply in the Maganac Corps camps, and here at home we have servants."
"How did you manage when you were on your own?"
Winner had shrugged. "Restaurants."
So Wu Fei had made his own breakfast (there not being a servant in sight-- Winner said they generally only made meals at certain times during the day, and ten in the morning wasn't one of them). Now he was finished with it, though Winner was still playing with the dissolving marshmallows in his bowl.
"Since I've been assigned to stay with you indeterminately," Wu Fei said briskly, "you must give me a detailed list of all of the places you frequent--work, school, et cetera."
"Oh." Winner blinked. "I usually work during the day. I used to go to the headquarters, but recently I've been doing all my paperwork here. And I'm being tutored until I can be sent to university."
"Tutored?" Wu Fei felt his face drawing up into an expression of disbelief, but quickly schooled it back to cool indifference. He'd always imagined someone as rich as Winner would go to one of those posh private schools. "If you're at home all the time, what do you need a bodyguard for?"
"I don't stay at home all day," Winner said. "In my free time I usually just go wherever I please."
"Really," said Wu Fei. "Like where?"
9/
It was an ocean, but not really. For one, far off in the distance was the barely visible line of the horizon, jagged with trees. And the air wasn't quite right. It didn't smell like salt and sand and all of the other smells that make the ocean special.
But the dunes were real enough (though undoubtedly man-made), and it was atop one of these that the two boys sat, backs to the shiny black car they'd arrived in and the patiently waiting driver.
"My father loved this place," Winner said in the quiet, thoughtful tones of one who is lost in memory. "He commissioned it years and years ago, though he hardly ever came here himself. He was too busy with the upkeep of the rest of the colony. I've known about it ever since I was a small boy. My sisters and I used to play on the beach when the weather was hot. This is the off-season, but I like being here anyway... " His rambling trailed off into silence.
Wu Fei breathed in deeply. No, the air wasn't quite right. "You realize you must stop coming here," he told the other boy. "No doubt whoever is after you is well aware of this place, and any other place you frequent."
"Oh no," said Winner softly. "It's quite safe--I own this beach."
"Exactly. And I'm sure everyone in the colony cluster and probably beyond knows that." Wu Fei stood and brushed sand off his pants. They were plain, sensible black, and he'd made a point of tucking in his western-style shirt, though Winner dressed more casually in t-shirt and jeans. Vaguely Wu Fei was curious at this change; there had been a time when Winner's attire was immaculate, rich-boy slacks and button-down shirts.
"Yes, well . . ." Winner seemed to purposely avoid Wu Fei's gaze. "You are my bodyguard."