Chapter Five

1/

Quatre took to joining Wu Fei in his bedroom after all the lights went out, the two boys sprawled out on the futon, legs hanging off for lack of room, a bottle of wine or beer or sometimes whisky propped between them. Usually Quatre did most of the talking if they talked at all--half-bitter stories of days before the war and his father's death. The fact that he never mentioned Trowa Barton, who he had seemed so taken with two years ago, or his Gundam, Sandrock, did not escape Wu Fei's attention, but the Chinese pilot wisely chose not to bring this up. He himself never spoke of Nataku. The memories were still raw.

One night Quatre said, "Do you trust me, Wu Fei?" His eyes glittered in the moonlight, brighter even than the alcohol swirling in the bottom of the bottle he lifted to his lips.

Wu Fei felt something inside of him twist. Did he trust anyone? Of course not. Trust was a sharp knife, and as with all knives it was far better to have a hold on the hilt than on the blade. For some reason he couldn't bring himself to say this to Quatre. Instead, he said, "Do you trust me?"

"With my life," affirmed Quatre, smiling.

After that Wu Fei paid close attention to himself, and to how he acted around Quatre. Gradually he realized that he did indeed trust the Winner heir, though probably not in a way that the other boy would have appreciated. He trusted Quatre not to purposefully kill him, and to listen to him when he thought they might be in danger. But that sort of trust only went so far, and Wu Fei had almost no experience with the other kind. The only people he'd ever trusted had betrayed him in death and dishonor.

Still, it was easy to give in to Quatre. He had a boyish charm, mixed with a gentle maturity far beyond his years. He was intelligent and wise, and had learned how to make a hell of a daiquiri, endearing himself to Wu Fei forever. Considering that the boy was supposedly of Arabic descent, his blond locks and pale blue eyes were almost otherworldly. Yet even at the peak of his idealism, Quatre possessed a comforting down-to-earth quality that never truly left him.

Wu Fei had to struggle to keep himself at a distance. It was his duty to keep this boy alive, and he intended to focus entirely on this objective, especially in light of that last message. The Winners' phone number had been changed, and the security about the manor heightened. Quatre was rarely allowed out any longer, not even to travel to the headquarters of Winner Enterprises. Hana Winner informed him that she would be taking care of all of the aspects of the business now, and if she ever needed him she'd come see him personally.

"But what am I supposed to do in this elaborate prison?" Quatre had asked desperately, still longing for action of some sort on his part.

"Wait," said Hana, worry lining her features.

2/

Rain splattered against the windowpanes, and only gray skylight illuminated Quatre's bedroom. He had enlisted a few servants to clear the center of the room, where Wu Fei now sat in silent meditation. Quatre himself pressed ivory piano keys experimentally, creating musical joy and tragedy by turns.

He launched into a fierce Beethoven piece, then changed his mind and fell back into a soft, quiet song he'd learned years before. The composer was an only recently deceased Chinese man, and Quatre thought Wu Fei might appreciate the serenity of the composition.

"I was on an L3 colony," Wu Fei said abruptly, without opening his eyes.

"What--?" said Quatre, caught off guard. His fingers stalled on the keys, but he quickly resumed the song.

"Before I came here--before I was your bodyguard. I was somewhere in the vicinity of L3. Not," he added, apparently reading Quatre's thoughts, "that I was undercover or anything. I was living off of a tiny income--I was a grocery boy and a messenger. I did odd jobs for whoever was willing to pay a few coppers. Nothing as glorifying as, say, spying or working for the colonial government."

Wu Fei smirked and Quatre realized that his mouth was hanging open. He hastily hid his surprise --he'd never expected . . . well, he'd thought Wu Fei was surely involved in some sort of covert operation somewhere--

"Oh, did you ever--" Quatre felt his face heat up. "--see Trowa? Trowa Barton?"

"Yes. He was still with that carnival thing."

"Circus," Quatre corrected automatically.

"Whatever," said Wu Fei. He stretched out his legs, peering through hooded eyes out at the dreary world. "So now you know what a failure zero-five turned out to be."

"Not such a failure," Quatre protested softly, abandoning the piano to come sit next to his bodyguard. "Look at you, you're a brilliant Gundam pilot-- well, ex-Gundam pilot--and you've been through more in eighteen years than most people ever dream of. So what if you went into a bit of a slump." Quatre exhaled. "Maybe we all did. After the fighting was over and done with, maybe we just all sort of gave up, even if only for a little while. Nothing wrong with that, as long as we don't linger in those moments forever."

Wu Fei said nothing for a few minutes. Then, "You know, you can be really wise for someone not yet two decades old."

"No. I just sometimes hit the proverbial nail on the head." Quatre grinned.

3/

The servants were all over themselves with glee. Gossip filtered from mouth to mouth, and it seemed the hallways were forever filled with shrill feminine laughter and low boyish chuckling. Not a day went by that fuel wasn't added to the fire--and a fire it was by now. Within a week of the first shy murmur, every servant down to the last lowly stable-boy knew that Master Winner was absolutely starry-eyed for his quiet Chinese bodyguard.

"An' ain't it obvious?" a young maid whispered to her scullery maid friend, both ignoring the scolding eye of the head cook. "Never d'you see them one without t'other--never for even an hour's time!"

"'S'not fitting to speak so of the master," the cook sniffed angrily.

"You wouldn't expect Mr. Chang to leave Master Winner alone, wouldja?" The scullery maid blushed. "He's responsible for Master Winner's life, yeah?"

The maid rolled her eyes. "They're together durin' Master Winner's lessons, an' his dinner, an' his bath--"

"No!" The other girl covered her hot cheeks with her hands, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Yes," said the maid with a triumphant smile.

4/

Wu Fei sat with his back to the closed door, listening to the sound of water tumbling into a porcelain tub. Absently he scratched the back of one heel with the opposite foot, smiling when he heard a splash and Quatre's soft cursing. The water must have been too hot.

Eventually the water was turned off, and Quatre climbed into the bathtub amid a symphony of tiny waves.

"You're still there, Wu Fei?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." For a while they said nothing to each other. They were so used to being in one another's company that words were not always necessary, though as for Wu Fei, he certainly didn't mind Quatre's cheerful chatter or subdued monologues. He found he enjoyed Quatre's company no matter what mood he was in.

"So . . . how was Trowa, when you last saw him?" There was barely concealed eagerness in Quatre's voice.

"He was himself, I think," said Wu Fei flatly. At Quatre's frustrated huff, he admitted, "I never had much time to catch up with him--I was . . ." He cleared his throat. "I was skipping out on one of my part-time jobs."

"Oh, really?" Quatre's tone was light, as if he were trying not to laugh.

Wu Fei cleared his throat again, implying that the matter was to be dropped.

Quatre got the message, and instead of harping on at the other boy, said, "I should like to see Trowa again. And of course Heero and Duo as well. I used to keep up a fairly steady e-mail correspondence with Duo, but we gradually gave it up. I guess he's just as busy as I am--er, was, anyway. Now that I'm under house arrest I'm only too eager to be busy once more."

"I'm sure you are," said Wu Fei dryly.

"Trowa . . . he was attached at the hip to that girl," Quatre murmured, reflexively changing the subject. "Catherine, I think her name was."

"Cathrine," Wu Fei corrected.

"Yes. She was very protective of him. And, I guess, he . . . Wu Fei . . ." Quatre sighed audibly. "Wu Fei, do you think that he loves her? Did he seem to--"

"How should I know?" Wu Fei crossed his arms peevishly, unsure why the desperation in Quatre's voice disturbed him so deeply.

5/

Night was heavy on the world, and Wu Fei couldn't find peace. He kept going over and over that conversation in his mind. Never before had he cared so much what another person thought, but he knew that he cared a ridiculous amount when it came to Quatre Winner. Who was currently sound asleep in his bed, snoring softly in the satisfied way that only wealthy boys can, though Quatre's brow was furrowed with perpetual worry.

Almost affectionately Wu Fei smoothed back damp curls from Quatre's pale forehead. "Arabian, my ass," he muttered to himself, lips curling into a sardonic smile.

He wanted to ask Quatre if he'd loved Trowa Barton--and if he still did. Just the thought of it made him itch all over, made him hot and angry, though he didn't know why. Maybe because he didn't think Barton deserved Quatre.

No one deserved Quatre.

"What're you thinking?"

Wu Fei gave a violent start, and then realized the sleepy voice was Quatre's. He tried to salvage what dignity he had left, and said, "Nothing important."

"About me?" Quatre went on as if Wu Fei hadn't said anything.

". . . No. Yes. Does it matter?" Wu Fei got up from where he'd been kneeling, but Quatre caught his wrist in a surprisingly hard grip.

"It matters to me." Slender aristocratic fingers dug painfully into Wu Fei's skin, and he tried to wrench his hand away, but Quatre was stronger than he'd expected.

"Quatre--"

"Do you think I'm useless?" Wu Fei could only see a dim outline of the other boy in the darkness, and he couldn't decide just from the voice if the question was serious.

"What?"

"Do you, Wu Fei?" Deadly serious, and unbearably desolate. An unspoken fear that Wu Fei nevertheless picked up on.

"Come on," he said without thinking, and pulled Quatre up and out of his bed, leading the boy expertly through the dark. He never stumbled or faltered--he knew this room and the one next to it, where he was taking them, too well for that.

He flipped on a light, and caught his breath when Quatre came into focus, excruciatingly vivid and...

Beautiful.

A blush stole across his face, and he fought to compose himself but found that he couldn't. Trying to hide his agitation, he said firmly, "We are going to get so smashed we can't see straight," and produced a rather expensive wine from a tiny refrigerator he'd purchased only days before. Quatre's blue eyes were huge.

"I don't know . . ."

"Here." Wu Fei handed him the bottle, not even bothering to procure glasses. He watched as Quatre reluctantly swallowed the sweet liquid, and then he reached for the bottle himself.

"I think you're trying to make me an alcoholic," Quatre muttered, accepting the bottle back from Wu Fei. They traded back and forth until there was not a drop left, and Quatre was falling-over tipsy, and Wu Fei was getting there.

"Y'know, that was from your own stores," Wu Fei said. "Got it from the kitchen staff."

"Mm," said Quatre, his blond head resting upon Wu Fei's rather bony shoulder. Wu Fei glanced down at him, and on a whim tangled his fingers in that soft, sweat-damp hair, inhaling the familiar soapy, boyish smell. He wanted . . . he wanted to touch this boy in ways he'd never wanted to touch anyone in his life ever before.

It was this more than anything that made him pull away, shrugging off Quatre's weight and climbing unsteadily to his feet. The room spun, shadows cavorting about him teasingly, reaching forth invisible fingers to dance along his spine--he shuddered and collapsed, aching head cradled in shaking arms.

Warm hands grabbed at his, and he kept his eyes tightly closed because he couldn't stand Quatre seeing him like this, and oh gods, he swore he'd never have another drink again if only Quatre would go the hell away--

Quatre's arms were around his neck, breath hot and moist against Wu Fei's sensitive skin. The Arabian boy's body was whip-slender, light and comforting and something just snapped within Wu Fei--years of denied loneliness and the always present yearning for a kindred soul--and he pulled Quatre into a rough, clumsy embrace, burying his face in hair and skin and cloth.

He'd never been so close to another person. He'd never felt a heart beating in sync with his own. And he'd never felt so excited, so elated, so frightened, or so sad. It was the single most brilliant moment of his life, and even as he realized this he wondered if Quatre felt the same, or if this was just some stupid over-reaction.

"Oh," said Quatre, and jerked away, hand covering his mouth. Then he staggered out of the room, and all Wu Fei could hear for a few minutes was muffled gagging from somewhere down the hall. He stood and dutifully followed after the other boy, his ankles threatening to give out from under him.

6/

Pain seared across Quatre's vision when he opened his eyes. Sunlight drifted in through his open window, sending shocks of agony throughout his aching head. He groaned and rolled over, only to end up sprawled across a warm, pliant body that grunted and shoved him away moodily.

"Ow, Wu--Wu Fei!" Quatre yelped, and instantly regretted it--tiny explosions went off behind his eyes.

The Chinese boy's eyebrows were knit together so tightly they formed a delicate V. "What?" he muttered in a raw voice.

"Wu Fei, you--" You're in my bed! "You really need to get up."

"Why on--" Wu Fei cracked open one eye, and closed it again quickly. "Shit." Before Quatre could think of anything else to say, the other boy had ripped the blankets away from himself and tumbled to the floor, only to stand erect a second later, his smooth black hair in loose strands around his shoulders instead of in its usual ponytail. He took a few deep breaths and was instantly in control again.

"You were sick on the bathroom floor," he said calmly, "and your sister is going to kill you for getting so drunk. Actually, your sisters, because if your family is anything like mine used to be, they will all know about it by noon today if we don't hurry and clean it up ourselves. Thank the gods those air-headed servants never come up here so early in the day."

With that, he turned on his heel and left Quatre's bedroom, a picture of cool composure.

7/

"Iria is coming home," Hana said that evening, ignoring the sound of her little brother choking and his bodyguard patting him hard on the back. She serenely cut into her steak--forbidden to Muslims, but no one really had to know except for the servants, and she paid them too well for them to gossip about it. It wasn't as if she adhered to the faith in any other sense. As long as Quatre himself made a show of at least partially conforming to it in public, there really was no need for the rest of them to go to extremes.

Which, she thought sourly, was what had gotten Quatre into this whole mess to begin with. Radical Christian assassins--as if she needed any more on her shoulders what with running Winner Enterprises and dealing with both business partners and families with close ties to the Winners--the aristocracy drove her positively batty, and she couldn't wait until Quatre was in and out of University and able to deal with this on his own.

"Wh-what?" Quatre leaned forward, his blue eyes (so like his mother's, but Hana resolutely pushed the thought away--she had never really liked her father's wife, though she loved her brother to distraction) serious for one still so young. "Why?"

"You act as though you aren't looking forward to seeing her," Hana said shrewdly.

"Oh, for the--of course I should like to see her." Quatre stabbed at his steak viciously. "Only I do wish she wouldn't . . ."

Hana leaned back in her chair, folding her napkin neatly and placing her dirty utensils upon it. "She can be a little overbearing," she admitted softly. She noticed that the bodyguard was pretending not to hear, and thought better of him for it. "Have you been keeping up with your studies?"

"Oui," said Quatre a little mockingly.

"You know she only wants you to be your best--we all do. So that one day you'll be prepared for--well." Hana stood without saying anything further and left her brother to his meal.

As she climbed the stairs to the second floor, where her wing of the manor was, she found herself remembering the days when her father had been head of the household, and his wife had made everything beautiful and light--no matter how Hana had despised her for stealing her father away, because she couldn't think of Catherine as her mother. She had no mother. But Catherine had made the Winner family what it was: powerful and respectable. Whoever happened to be in the house came to the enormous dining room, and all ate together like a real family.

Then Quatre had been born, and Catherine had died, and with her whatever semblance of "family" the Winners had possessed. All of the sisters had left the Winner estate, except for Iria and Hana herself, who was the fifth eldest and was, as her father had often told her affectionately, an excellent businesswoman. Iria had helped their father raise Quatre--Hana had taken over as their father's second-in-command at Winner Enterprises. Eventually Iria finished college and by the time Quatre was nine, she was a well-respected figure on the medical scene. Often she'd complained to Hana when they both lived on the estate about Quatre's small rebellions--he'd believed that he was a tool of the company and of their father, and he even went so far as to run away from home at thirteen years of age.

Yes, tensions had always run high in the Winner family, and Quatre's resentment of Iria's over protectiveness was only one more rung added to the ladder. Hana had to admit that she more often than not sided with Iria-- Quatre had to be ready when the time came for him to take control of the Winner family and all of its assets, and he could only do that if he had a solid education. Still, Hana was glad that Iria had taken on the responsibility; she rather enjoyed being in Quatre's good graces.

8/

Quatre kicked savagely at the floor as he walked, ignoring everything around him, not even checking to see if his bodyguard was following him. Wu Fei was, though he was wary of the black cloud he imagined forming over his companion's head.

He knew at least one reason for Quatre's bad mood: a hell of a hangover that was only now dissipating, thanks to time and a few aspirins. And he thought he knew the other reason, though he'd never met Iria and so couldn't pass a judgment either way on her character.

Presently they came to a part of the manor that Wu Fei had never been in but once, when he'd first arrived and had explored every room looking for possible weaknesses in security. He hadn't been outside in so long that the sunlight streaming in through the windows temporarily stunned him. He stood and blinked owlishly, vaguely aware of Quatre's hand on his arm. Beyond the windows a verdant garden separated this wing of the manor from other buildings on the property and the rest of the colony. The colony weather control system was simulating late spring, and the day had been full of sudden showers and abrupt silences during which the giggles and startled exclamations of the inhabitants of the manor could be heard clearly.

"This used to be a ballroom,"Quatre said impassively. "There haven't been any balls for a long time, and no one ever comes in here except for me--I used to hide from Iria when I was very small because she loathes this place. It's haunted, you know. Can't you feel the ghosts in the air?"

Wu Fei didn't know about ghosts, but it was colder in the ballroom than in any other part of the manor. Nevertheless it was a gorgeous room--besides the windows, which were traced with gold curlicues, the walls were a pale pink edged in white. Expensive crystal chandeliers hung from the white and gold inlaid ceiling, and small lace-covered tables edged the outside of the room unobtrusively. The floor was pale marble. It was all very delicate, very European.

Quatre approached a raised dais along the southern wall, behind which was a long, rosewood cabinet. He pulled open the elaborately carved doors and reached inside, only to pull out a beautiful old violin which he cradled in his arms like a child.

He stood for a long while, just staring at the instrument. Then he raised it above his head; by the time Wu Fei realized what he was doing, Quatre had already pitched the violin across the room. It hit the marble floor and shattered into many slivers of wood, the bottom separating from the top completely so forcibly had the boy thrown it.

Wu Fei sprinted across the room before Quatre could grab another instrument from the cabinet and wrestled the boy to the floor, both of them grunting and swearing. Finally Wu Fei succeeded in pinning Quatre to the floor, holding down his arms and legs so he couldn't free himself easily. "What the hell d'you think you're doing!" he gasped furiously. His bad temper went up a notch when Quatre wouldn't even look at him. "I didn't think senseless destruction was your strong point, but I guess I was wrong."

Quatre stared somewhere off into the distance, expressionless. "Every . . . everything I once treasured . . ." he muttered, and suddenly shoved at Wu Fei, struggling to get away. A punch landed upon Wu Fei's gut and he rolled away, groaning. He grabbed Quatre's ankle before the boy could dash away and pulled him roughly to the floor, hearing the frightening thunk as Quatre's head connected with solid marble.

Cursing, Wu Fei crawled to the other boy, taking his face in his hands and inspecting his scalp for any bumps or abrasions. When he found none he allowed himself to breathe again.

The same creepily calm atmosphere surrounded Quatre. He still wouldn't look at Wu Fei; instead he blinked as if looking into some other place or time. "It's all so useless."

"Listen to me," said Wu Fei firmly, squashing his fears down. "I said listen!" He forced Quatre to meet his eyes, fingers brushing back strands of blond hair, noses almost touching. He could smell dinner on the other boy's breath. "I'm only going to say this once. Do you remember when you asked me if I thought you were useless? Do you?"

Quatre nodded slowly. "You got me drunk."

"Yes, I did. Because I thought you were being stupid. No one should have to tell you what you are worth, but since you can't seem to figure it out, I guess I have to pound it into your thick Winner skull. If anyone is worthless, it's those idiots out there who never dream of anything beyond themselves. I've been one of those idiots, so I know. But you, Quatre. You contribute to freaking bat charities, as well as human ones, not to mention that you've saved the colonies and, and the earth from total destruction-- twice. I'll bet you don't even walk downtown without giving coins to those street-performers that always hang around for saps like you. Do you know how desolate the world would be without you in it?"

"Oh," said Quatre in a small voice, his gaze completely focused on Wu Fei, who became conscious of the fact that he'd been nearly shouting. "You over- estimate me," the Arabian boy said meekly.

"I have a high opinion of you. Well, I did, anyway."

And with that Wu Fei stood, brushing off his pants and pointedly not looking at the ruined violin.