Chapter Seven
1/
Hana leaned back in her chair, a habit that she knew annoyed the hell out of Iria. As expected, her younger sister begged her to sit up straight. Iria had always been the more serious of the two of them. Still, Hana believed that there was such a thing as being too serious, and she ignored Iria's request, instead inspecting the other girl up and down.
Iria seemed thinner--stressed-out, dark circles under her pretty Winner-blue eyes. But a bright smile settled pleasantly on her lips as always. She'd been their father's favorite daughter for a reason.
"How has Quatre been?" she asked right off.
"Eh," said Hana, grimacing. "As well as someone in his position can be."
"Yes," sighed Iria, her smile fading a little. "I thought as much. He's such a gentle boy, and he's been forced to deal with so much."
"Not so gentle," argued Hana under her breath. She'd seen Quatre caught up in fits of adrenaline and lost in helpless rage. People didn't give the boy enough credit.
"This business with the extremist Christians . . . I don't know what to make of it," Iria went on. Her hands were crossed demurely in her lap, but she kept tapping her fingers worriedly. "You know Mother was Catholic--"
"Catherine was not our mother," Hana protested coldly.
Iria ignored this. "--and I keep thinking there must be some connection between that and the current state of affairs. Does the private investigator know about Mother?"
"No," said Hana. "I don't think Catherine's religious practices have anything to do with these threats."
"You never know," said Iria tentatively. "She kept it private for a reason. That old altar in the cellar--is it still there? I remember she used to have a priest over secretly every Sunday morning, before most of us where awake. Used to have mass and she clinked through those rosary beads whenever she had a moment to herself. I was fascinated by that rosary. It was made of the finest, darkest wood, and had a little gold Christ on the end, his holy mother only four or five beads above him--"
"You wax poetic," criticized Hana sharply. "The altar was stripped and destroyed soon after you left. Father couldn't stand having it under his feet, knowing that she'd loved it so well. You know he boarded up her old bedroom and forbade any of us to speak of it."
"So much pain." Iria stared at her knees. She had that peculiar ability to feel other people's grief for them--the same ability, to a lesser degree, than that which Quatre also exhibited. "You should inform the investigator. Of Mother, I mean, and her being Catholic and all. It might help in some way, and . . ." And Catherine is dead now, anyway, so what does it matter if her secrets are uncovered?
Hana nodded, unsure whether she really would tell Investigator Jordan or not.
"So Quatre is well taken care of?"
"Oh yeah." Hana grinned, confident in this, at least. "I hired a bodyguard--don't look at me like that. This guy is the real deal, Iria. He was a comrade-in-arms back in 195--a Gundam pilot, like Quatre."
"Are you quite sure he's . . . stable?" Iria plunged ahead despite Hana's doubtful glare. "I mean, none of the Gundam pilots came out of the wars quite right in the head. War never changes, darling." Hana scowled at the use of the pet-name, but Iria didn't notice. "It's forever pulling in innocents and churning out madmen afraid of their own shadows and ready to jump at air. Once a soldier, I'm not sure a return to normalcy is possible."
"Chang Wu Fei is a master of the martial arts, and can shoot a man dead faster than he can blink," said Hana flatly. "He's no more unstable than Quatre is. And all men are a little mad, anyway."
". . . I worry about Quatre all the time. And not just because you think I'm neurotic, Hana. He carries the future on his shoulders." "He's only a boy," Hana argued.
"He's never been 'only a boy'," Iria said sadly.
2/
Quatre sat in the parlor, uncomfortable in his most formal clothes. Even more awkward was the silence that had settled over the manor--servants' chatter no longer buzzed in the hallways; for once, if Hana spoke it was softly; and worst of all, Wu Fei didn't speak at all, in his own circle of silence though never far away.
He was ashamed of his own actions in the ballroom, and Wu Fei's words still stung, but he wasn't sure exactly how to go about apologizing to the Chinese boy. He'd tried to start a conversation once or twice, but had been met with stubborn resistance--Wu Fei was disappointed in him, he knew; hell, he was disappointed in himself. He still wasn't sure exactly what had brought on his fit the other day--stress, frustration, the prospect of having to face Iria. All of it thrown together. It reminded him disturbingly of the Zero System--that feeling of being outside of himself, watching himself lose control and being unable to do anything about it.
He pushed those thoughts away to be picked through later. Now he had to prepare himself to deal with (or be dealt with by) Iria.
Iria was the closest thing to a mother he'd ever had, and he both loved and dreaded her. She was only eleven years his senior, and very pretty in form and figure. Like most Winners (except for perhaps the artsy girls who'd long ago renounced the lifestyle of their more materially bound siblings) Iria wore the traditional full-skirted dresses that most women of aristocratic birth were accustomed to, as well as the latest casual fashions.
Quatre knew only a little of Iria's professional life--she tended elderly patients at a special treatment center on another colony. Sometimes Quatre was even proud of her for being so young and so talented, a respected doctor at only twenty-nine years of age, graduated top of her class, never had a bad thing to say about anyone. But most of the time he was so fed up with her prying into his business and babying him that the pride evaporated in the heat of his anger. He rarely welcomed her well-meaning advice or her fond caresses. Though he himself was often prone to being overly affectionate, somehow Iria grated on his nerves like no one else. Only when he'd been a very small boy and when he'd returned to his home colony at fifteen for the first time since he'd run away from it had he felt absolute love for her, untainted by repulsion.
Worst of all, a great deal of the time he couldn't read her like he could read other people--she was like an emotional dead zone to him.
"Good evening, Quatre."
Quatre leapt to his feet, startled. The object of his thoughts stood at the parlor entrance, her slim figure clad in stiff, formal garb. The long, frilled skirt was scarlet, the top low-cut and made of lace and soft vanilla-colored fabric--it brought out the blush in her cheeks, and dulled her usually startling blue eyes. She entered the room unpretentiously, taking a seat across from Quatre, who bowed and then also sat down. His hands clenched into fists unconsciously.
"Comment allez-vous, mon petit frère?" She smiled, her French faultless.
"Uh, ça va bien . . . merci." He struggled a little for the words, caught off guard, though his French was usually pretty decent. "Et vous?"
"Wonderful! You're coming along quite nicely, brother."
"Thank you."
"Keep this up and you'll be able to progress to German or Chinese--in a year or so, of course." She fanned herself with one well-manicured hand, gaze shifting to a window that had carelessly been left agape by one of the servants. "Oh, don't you know any better than to leave this open? The humidity will ruin our clothes."
Biting back a sharp reply, Quatre rose and closed the offending window, pausing to collect himself. He wanted to make a good impression on his sister; her approval meant worlds to him, and he also secretly hoped that she would leave sooner if she saw that he was getting on well without her.
"Have you found a university that appeals to you?"
He avoided her eyes, though they were polite and not at all accusing. "Not yet."
If she had been anyone else, she would have thrown up her hands in despair. Every time they met she asked him the same question, and every time he deterred her with short, curt answers that weren't really answers at all. But since she was Iria Winner, she just nodded and calmly inquired what exactly he was looking for in a university. If he wanted she was sure that Alexandria would accept him without even a placement exam; traditionally the eldest Winner son attended there with other wealthy students his own age.
"Iria, I just . . . I just don't want to go there," he interrupted, unable to put into words what he was feeling.
"Ah," she said, knowingly. "Because Father--"
"It has nothing to do with Father! I don't want to go to some school where they only look at my lineage to determine my worth." His words fell like iron in the room.
"Then what is it you want to do, Quatre?" Iria's voice was more heated now. She didn't think he had a set plan for the future, and he realized she was right. The old feeling of uselessness descended over him, dark and endless. What could he do? Was there really anything that he loved--painting, music, computer sciences, none of it was something he'd be allowed to make a career of. After all, he was being molded to take over the Winner family legacy someday.
"Give me time," he said.
3/
The unnatural silence was even more profound at night. Quatre lay tense and restless in his bed, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows drift past each other slowly as the moon moved out from behind a cloud outside. For hours he thought of nothing, waiting for something to happen.
The soft pad of feet upon a wooden floor brought a smile to his face. The faint whoosh of air as a fist struck out--rough slide of one foot past its twin--a breathless shout, wordless by necessity, which when used loudly in a real fight was meant to take an opponent off guard. Quatre imagined most of this, knowing how Wu Fei's forms looked and sounded and felt from hours spent watching him execute them in perfect order.
The sudden longing for his Chinese friend nearly brought him to tears, but he doggedly resisted, unwilling to succumb to emotion. He couldn't risk Wu Fei hearing and thinking him even more unworthy. More than anything he wanted to creep across the seemingly endless miles of carpet and push open the door dividing Wu Fei's little chamber from his. He wanted to say all the right words, do all the right things, make Wu Fei think well of him once more. And then Wu Fei would, as always, produce some golden-red or sparkling white liquid from his extensive collection of intoxicants, and they'd both get dead drunk, and regret it like hell in the morning.
Before Quatre could do any of this he had to actually get up the nerve. Which wasn't easy, because Wu Fei could be quite intimidating. He was like thunder: startlingly vivid, sound and sensation, bigger than he really was.
Quatre was just pushing back his covers decisively when out of the darkness came a crash, glass and metal screaming and shattering. Quatre stumbled away from his bed, landing awkwardly on one ankle and colliding painfully with his bedside table, in the process knocking his alarm clock and lamp to the floor. The light bulb in the lamp burst, illuminating the room for a fraction of a second. Frantically Quatre tried to both rise to his feet and find something that even vaguely resembled a weapon. It was then that the ceiling light flickered on--Quatre was temporarily blinded, but he knew that Wu Fei was rushing into the room, gun jutting out from his large brown hands.
When the world came back into focus Quatre finally became aware of the full extent of the damage. Besides the upturned table and busted lamp, every window in the room had been shattered, broken glass glinting in the artificial light. Wu Fei (who was barefoot amid the glass, Quatre was dismayed to see) motioned for Quatre to get down, meanwhile flattening himself against the wall. His sharp eyes examined the jagged edges of the windows and the midnight-dark yard outside.
"Damn it," he muttered. "Should've left the lights off, might've got the bastards--" He stopped, and Quatre cautiously peered around one bed post.
It looked like a necklace tied around a large rock. Now that Quatre was looking, he noticed other, smaller rocks scattered about the room. Apparently these were what had destroyed the windows. But the rock that had caught Wu Fei's eye was darker than the others, and the necklace was--well, it looked familiar somehow. He started to edge forward, but a gesture from his bodyguard stilled him.
"What is it?" Quatre asked softly.
Wu Fei started to answer, but before the words got past his lips the door into the hallway swung open, and what seemed to be a whole troop of uniformed officers filed in rapidly, armed and ready for anything. At their head stood a man of nearly forty years, shabbily dressed in a brown trench coat, a floppy cap perched atop a mess of wiry black curls. His simple yet slightly eccentric garb marked him as an outsider--born on earth, or perhaps on a small out of the way colony. He directed his men to surround the room and the area around it (a few of the eager followers ran out and reappeared some time later twenty-seven feet below the windows, waving to their comrades and then splitting up to investigate). Once they'd begun their investigation, the strange man turned and bowed respectfully to Quatre, his brown eyes glinting.
"Mr. Winner, I'm Private Investigator Harold Jordan from the United Kingdom." His English was strongly accented, and Quatre had a little difficulty understanding it. "Half an hour ago we received a message--a Bible verse, like every other message in connection with this case--that seemed to indicate your well-being would be in immediate danger. We rushed here as quickly as possible. Are you hurt anywhere?"
"No, I-I'm fine, my bodyguard, he--case? You're the investigator my sister has been talking about?"
"In all likelihood, yes."
Quatre tried politely to hide his disbelief. This man looked as if he would be more at home at a seedy bar or working with a construction company along the roadways. Certainly not like a professional investigator.
"I see you are alarmed by my appearance," Jordan observed. His sharp features twisted into a smile--there was a tiny scar that split his upper lip, white on his dark flesh. "I won't take offense, I swear. Now, how long ago was the attack, and exactly what--"
"I'm sorry," Wu Fei smoothly intervened, stepping between the investigator and Quatre. His posture was unusually stiff, even for him. "Mr. Winner cannot answer your inquiries at this time."
"Oh, I assure you he can and will," said the investigator, his smile fading into a rather menacing scowl. "I've been authorized--"
"And I couldn't care less," interrupted Wu Fei, throwing courtesy to the wind. He took Quatre by the elbow and began to maneuver him out of the now stifling bedroom, leaving behind a furious investigator and his crew.
The two boys made their way down three flights of stairs to the first floor, Quatre's heart racing all the while. The way he felt about Wu Fei seemed almost trivial in the light of what had just occurred, but he couldn't control his fevered thoughts, nor the pleasure of physical contact--Wu Fei was still grasping his arm, though his eyes were fixed firmly ahead.
"It was a rosary," he said quietly as they were descending the first floor staircase. The sound of people up and about filtered to them from downstairs--the whole manor was alive with fright.
Quatre blinked, confused. "A rosary?"
Wu Fei came to a sudden halt about halfway down the staircase. They could see neither end of the house--only dark stairs. "Near my family's home on L5 there was a church. Missionaries saw to its upkeep. They also frequently attempted to sway us from our spiritual customs--they succeeded with one of my elder brothers, who became Catholic and gave up his birthright. He told me all about his god, and his god's human mother. There is a--a sort of ritual prayer that is said over a set of beads. It's called the rosary. That's what was wound about that rock in your room."
When Quatre didn't say anything, he went on. "It's a clue. That person--or perhaps I should say people--that are after you must be members of the Catholic Church. But the Church itself may not have anything to do with it . . ." He frowned. "There's just no way to be sure yet."
Footsteps were fast approaching. Hastily Wu Fei resumed directing Quatre down the stairs.
4/
Iria and Hana Winner flanked Quatre on either side. Behind them stood Wu Fei, who was dressed as modestly as possible, a gun in a holster around his chest. The two sisters spoke in soft, fearful tones, unintentionally ignoring their stoic younger brother. Wu Fei pretended not to listen, staring into the distance, looking for some invisible enemy.
"What can we do about the ball?" Iria was asking. Her usually sleek blonde hair was sleep-tossed and apparently hadn't seen a brush since the day before. "It's three nights from now, but with the attack--"
"It wasn't an attack," Hana protested. "It was another threat. The investigator advises we transfer Quatre to a room far from his current one. He doesn't think a change of location is necessary at this point."
"Naturally," agreed Iria. "But the ball, darling--!"
"We can't cancel, the invitations have been sent, and it is going to be his birthday . . ."
Here they both looked down at Quatre, who seemed to be apathetically counting the floor tiles.
"I suppose, if we post guards at every entrance and plan an escape route in case something dreadful should happen . . . I suppose it would be all right." Iria sighed.
"Imagine seeing the twins again--oh, they'll be furious that all this has been going on without them. And Mona will positively have a fit, she's terrified of anything remotely violent, she simply hated that Quatre went off to war without so much as a by your leave from Father--"
"Pa-ci-fist," Iria teased in a sing-song voice.
"Aren't we meant to be?"
"May I be excused?" Quatre asked suddenly. He didn't wait for their answer, just stood and left the room.
"But Quat--"
"No, let him," said Iria.
Silently, Wu Fei followed.
Quatre avoided the occupied rooms, surpassing them for the stillness of the upper floors. His own room was under constant surveillance, and he had been moved to the second floor, near to where his sister Hana slept. He passed the guards, who ignored him. At the end of the hall he made a right, entering a tiny wooden cubicle; hanging from the ceiling was a long thin cord, and he yanked on it. A square door popped out, and a ladder unfolded awkwardly. It was rickety and had not been used in quite a while--for a long time his room had been his sanctuary.
He scrambled up the ladder and into the dusky attic. A single window overlooked the northern section of the estate and allowed in pallid daylight. The Winner attic was habitually messy, boxes and boxes piled atop one another. Quatre knew that some of these cartons contained souvenirs from the many locations his father had traveled to on business trips, as well as his and his sisters' old toys and clothes. In the midst of this chaos a space had been cleared long ago, now covered only in dust. Here Quatre sat, his back to a large box, head bowed.
5/
Quatre didn't look up when Wu Fei appeared over the rim of the opening in the floor, his black eyes cautious and searching. He hauled himself over the edge, staring around at the wall to wall boxes and dust rising in the air like a wordless cry. Shaking off sentimentality, he gratefully sat next to Quatre, sighing in relief.
"You know, that investigator's been on my ass all day."
"Yeah?" Quatre didn't sound very interested.
"Claims I'm not qualified for my position. Bullshit. If I know how to kill a man, I certainly know how to protect one."
"Mm."
"You never mentioned your birthday was in three days."
"It's not." Quatre refused to meet Wu Fei's eyes, instead gazing at the opposite wall, the dark wood familiar and comforting somehow. "I don't really have a birthday because I wasn't born. I'm a . . . a test-tube baby. My family's always had difficulties bearing children,"he went on in a rush. "Ever since we came to space...anyway. My sisters made up a birth date for me. I assume it's the day my body was complete."
"I . . . understand." Wu Fei rested his head upon his hand, eyeing Quatre broodingly. "I'm sorry for what I said the other day. About not having a high opinion of you."
"You merely spoke the truth," said Quatre dismissively, though his face showed how hurt he'd been.
"No, I was upset. You caught me by surprise, and I...Quatre, I--"
". . . You really . . . think highly of me?" Quatre looked up hesitantly.
"You . . . look at you, Winner, you're--" Wu Fei swallowed. "--very good company. Not quite so clueless as all the other fools I've had to deal with over the years. And you're . . ." He'd been about to say "gorgeous" but snapped his mouth shut, cheeks ablaze with shame. He wasn't sure what had come over him lately.
But Quatre's mood was very much lighter, his sea-blue eyes no longer overshadowed by a lowered brow. The sunlight caught in his hair, and for a moment he reminded Wu Fei of one of the beautiful, Anglo-Saxon angels forever trapped within a stained glass window in the church on L5. He'd snuck in many times to look at that angel when he was much younger, but when his grandfather caught him at it he was given a severe beating and warned never to do such a thing again. He was overflowing with that sense of guilty adoration now, desperately trying to hide it because he couldn't bear the thought of Quatre knowing.
"Wu Fei, are you all right?"
Wu Fei nodded so hard his head knocked against his knee, and he cradled his forehead in pain, so embarrassed he couldn't speak. When he tried to rise to his feet, he tripped and fell nearly in his companion's lap, face tomato-red and eyes wide. "Oh, oh shit, I'm sorry--"
"It's fine, Wu Fei." Quatre laughed despite himself. "We're not even drunk this time."
"When I'm with you I feel like I am."
A heavy silence fell between the two boys, and Wu Fei could have killed himself. Oh gods, why couldn't he control his damned mouth? He had to move away from Quatre, who wasn't saying anything, wasn't agreeing or disagreeing, only watching Wu Fei and looking so young.
Unnerved and humiliated, the Chinese boy uttered a jerky apology and made a clumsy effort to stand, only to be pulled down into an uncomfortable position, head and shoulders balanced on Quatre's crossed legs, his own limbs spread out like four long tentacles.
Quatre's blond hair fell around Wu Fei, obscuring his vision, but all he wanted to see was the boy with him now, whose hot clever hands were resting upon Wu Fei's chest, and whose lips were suddenly a whisper away.
The kiss landed on the side of Wu Fei's mouth, dry and chaste. His blood pounded in his ears, a ragged drumbeat. Then Quatre's lips were on his own, softer than he'd thought they would be and he'd never even allowed himself to dream of this. He'd gladly hand over his life for this boy--all of his life, because without Quatre life suddenly lost its worth. When had the little heir of the Winner family become such an integral part of him?
Wu Fei's eyes were slits, watching the blur that was Quatre, loving every part of him and for the moment not worrying whether the feeling was returned or not. Inexperience was written in every movement of his body, and Wu Fei couldn't help but be satisfied by that--no one had ever been so close to Quatre as he was now.
Hard brown hands cupped Quatre's face, forced him down further until their mouths were welded together. Wu Fei's lips parted, his tongue experimentally edging along the fold of Quatre's lips, tasting milk from breakfast and some sort of fruit and the unique flavor of Quatre himself. The blond boy sighed shakily, his arms convulsively wrapping round Wu Fei, breath coming in short little gasps as much from excitement as from his uncomfortable position, bent over almost double.
Never in his life had Wu Fei been so full of emotion--in any other circumstance he would have berated himself as a weakling, but here all things seemed right. Quatre's tongue hesitantly met his, slick and alien, probing within the hot recesses of Wu Fei's mouth. It was a universe away from the one cool kiss Wu Fei had shared with his wife, Nataku. His bones hadn't quaked with longing then. Longing which moved like lightning down his back and between his legs, infiltrating every part of him.
"Oh," said Quatre, pulling away, flushed and panting.
"Don't--" Wu Fei twisted around, hands sliding up Quatre's thighs and coming to rest on his hips. He locked gazes with the other boy, intensity flaring up between them like fire. "Don't doubt the sincerity of my actions."
"I--I won't. Wu Fei, why--"
Wu Fei silenced him, placed a brotherly kiss upon Quatre's brow, willing his own body to calm down. "It doesn't matter. Let's go downstairs before someone comes looking for you."
6/
Though there was plenty to keep Wu Fei occupied, his thoughts invariably strayed to Quatre, and how good kissing Quatre had been, and how much he would like to do it again. At odd moments he would pause and press his fingers to his lips, wondering if it was simply a fantasy he'd given in to--how could Quatre allow advances from someone like him? He was going mad with desire and curiosity, walking on eggshells for fear of anyone discovering what he was thinking.
They did not speak much at all through the day, but occasionally one of them would glance at the other and smile slightly, or their hands would brush together and both boys would shudder pleasantly. This was only marred by the fact that every hour seemed to bring with it another estranged Winner sister. They were of course all invited to Quatre's "birthday" ball, and most took it upon themselves to arrive a day early. Wu Fei had to endure adoring, rambunctious girls handling Quatre as if he were a small but endearing animal, ruffling the boy's hair into a frizzy mess and kissing his cheeks affectionately. Quatre received all this graciously, though he did protest when one of the younger, more eccentric sisters insisted he try on a ridiculous costume she'd made for him. It was a rabbit suit, complete with bunny ears and tie-on tail.
"O-oh my," Quatre stammered, backing away.
"Cuuute!" the sister squealed, and had to be led away by level-headed Hana, who was behaving a bit like a hostess and a bit like a guard.
Wu Fei chuckled and Quatre gave him a dark look.
Worst of all, Private Investigator Jordan seemed to be always nearby, watching Quatre (and, by association, Wu Fei) with his unfriendly eyes. The man was kept busy with the investigation and often reported his findings to Iria, who hadn't slept at all since the incident in Quatre's bedroom the day before. Beneath the cheerful festivities lay a tense expectation--the investigator's men stood at every doorway, backs straight and minds alert.
Wu Fei didn't know what to believe. Whoever was after Quatre had proven himself adept at terrorist tactics--and surely there must have been a spy within the manor itself. How else could anyone have successfully infiltrated such a well-guarded house? Wu Fei wore his gun at all times, staring at a group of servants so severely that they scuttled away in fear.
At last Quatre informed a servant that he was retiring for the night, and he didn't wish to be disturbed under any circumstances. He said this confidently but not unkindly, in the tones of a boy born to privilege, and Wu Fei secretly admired his conviction.
The stairways and corridors were no longer dark--Iria had ordered that the entire manor be well-lit, and now the windows shone like miniature suns in the night outside.
A hard nervous knot formed in Wu Fei's gut. Quatre was pressed close to him as they walked. Every contraction of every muscle, the soapy boyish scent of him, the heat from his thigh and his arm brushing innocently against Wu Fei's--all of this only further provoked Wu Fei, who was fairly trembling by the time the two entered Quatre's twilight-dim room.
The last rays of light made bars upon the unfamiliar floor, its thick carpet soft and deep blue. The bed was made so well, the curtains pulled so close together, the atmosphere so cool that it was clear the room was rarely used. Someone had hauled in a cot and placed it against a wall far from the large bed, and Wu Fei stood anxiously by the door even after Quatre approached his own bed, unsure of what his next move should be. What did normal people do in this sort of situation? Admit mutual (hopefully) desire and get to it? And to what, exactly? Of course he knew all about sex--on L5 his grandfather had instructed him in the many artful ways to have sons, though he'd never put any techniques into practice with Nataku and, indeed, probably would not have had he had the chance. But Quatre was . . . not female. And not Nataku by a long shot. Wu Fei knew he wanted to do something with the other boy. He just didn't know what that something was.
"Wu Fei?" A stream of dying light crossed Quatre's face, illuminating first his lips and then his nose and just his eyes. They were unguarded and hesitant at the same time. So Quatre didn't know what to do either.
Wu Fei tried to laugh but the sound went flat. "They, uh, made me a place to sleep--right over here, see, it...um."
"Yes. I can . . . see that." Quatre stared at his feet.
"I, uh--"
"We have a long day ahead of us, so we should get to sleep soon."
" . . . Yeah." Deflated, Wu Fei turned too quickly, intent on disappearing beneath the thin sheets of the cot and never thinking of the damned obviously one-time-only kiss.
"And, you know, with all that's been happening . . ." Quatre paused, and hope grew again within Wu Fei. "Maybe you could move your bed over here near mine, and in case something happens--something bad--you can protect me."
In the dark, Wu Fei's heart resumed its irregular pounding, and with each beat he felt more and more that he was losing control. The world spun. Wu Fei found himself nodding and pushing the cot across the soft carpet, the quiet swish of its wheels the only sound. He pretended to be absorbed with the way the two mattresses, one enormous and one flatter than the sky, fit together. White sheets against blue. Quatre was shyly and discreetly shedding his clothing.
Buttons undone, one shoulder bare and strangely tempting, turning away from Wu Fei as the room filled with the cold sound of his zipper being pulled down.
This was a thousand times more thrilling than it should have been, for Quatre had never undressed in Wu Fei's presence--always a bathroom or closet door had separated them from one another's view. Now Wu Fei was seeing Quatre almost entirely disrobed. It was like having been shown a photograph for years and years and then one day discovering that it was only part of a larger picture, that there were details there you had never been aware of, though you thought you knew the photo inside and out.
What first struck Wu Fei was that Quatre had knobby knees. If he had ever taken the time to imagine what Quatre's knees looked like, he would not have imagined them so childishly large and awkward. He grinned. The slender calves were turned nicely, with just a hint of muscle. Boyishly square hips, clad now in plain white boxer shorts, and over that his now open shirt, concealing the upper half of his body. Quatre looked over his shoulder, a sheepish smile stealing across his face, and Wu Fei thought that no one had ever been so beautiful.
"There's only one pair of pajamas," Quatre said suddenly. A pile of white material spilled over the edge of the nearby dresser, and he carefully unfolded a large shirt and drawstring trousers. "I suppose I'll wear the top bit, and you can wear the bottoms--that way we'll both be comfortable."
Wu Fei deftly caught the pants thrown his way, and then couldn't bring himself to change into them. Quatre, sensing his uncertainty, coughed and pointedly turned away. The two finished dressing in silence. Though Wu Fei didn't have the heart to tell him, Quatre looked like a wayward schoolboy in the long nightshirt, his face flushed and blond hair awry.
They stood in silence, both waiting for some sign, and when none came they felt all the worse for it. Finally Quatre wheeled around, back straight and tense, and strode for his own bed purposefully. He ducked under the covers and disappeared from view. Sighing noiselessly, Wu Fei approached his cot on tip-toe, unsure what had caused his own sudden reticence. After taking out the band that held his hair in place, he crawled between the cool sheets, listening to Quatre's breathing.
Quatre was only a foot away, but a wave of loneliness overtook Wu Fei. He quickly repressed it, shuddering. What a mess he'd gotten himself into.
Then something warm settled over his wrist, and he realized it was Quatre's hand, twining around his. Looking up, he saw worried blue eyes that were nevertheless affectionate, and his heart went into his throat.
"Your hair--" Thin white fingers brushed past his ear. "--I've so rarely seen it down, Wu Fei."
Wu Fei ducked his head. He'd forgotten that now they were sleeping so close, Quatre would of course notice him without his customary pony-tail. His hair fell smoothly around his face, like black water.
"May I . . . ?" Without waiting for an answer, Quatre sat up, at the same time pulling Wu Fei up after him. On his knees and a head taller, Quatre ran his fingers through the silky black locks, trailing across the sensitive scalp, mussing and fixing and sending shivers down Wu Fei's spine. Another first: he'd never let anyone touch his hair before except his mother when he'd been a child. It was strangely pleasurable--even erotic in a crazy way. The front of Quatre's shirt kept brushing up against his nose, the curve of his neck so close Wu Fei was sure he could lick it if he tried.
Quatre rested his chin upon Wu Fei's shoulder, his hands stilling. "I want to kiss you again."
"I know," Wu Fei heard himself say, and they both moved at the same time, their foreheads and noses getting in the way but finally, finally, their mouths met in a wet hot mash of tongues and lips and swallowed words. All sense flew from Wu Fei--he couldn't remember who he was, or what he was doing here, only that Quatre was warm and real in his arms. For so long he had desired this, wondering all the while why exactly he wanted this boy so much--wordlessly this need had overtaken him, without warning. The days piling up, hours spent not so much keeping Quatre alive as watching him live--all of it came together in this instant. The whole picture was laid out before him, and he decided that it really wasn't a bad picture at all.
Soft fabric against his bare chest--skinny legs locked around his waist--pale eyelashes brushing feather light against his cheeks as Quatre's eyes closed.
1/
Hana leaned back in her chair, a habit that she knew annoyed the hell out of Iria. As expected, her younger sister begged her to sit up straight. Iria had always been the more serious of the two of them. Still, Hana believed that there was such a thing as being too serious, and she ignored Iria's request, instead inspecting the other girl up and down.
Iria seemed thinner--stressed-out, dark circles under her pretty Winner-blue eyes. But a bright smile settled pleasantly on her lips as always. She'd been their father's favorite daughter for a reason.
"How has Quatre been?" she asked right off.
"Eh," said Hana, grimacing. "As well as someone in his position can be."
"Yes," sighed Iria, her smile fading a little. "I thought as much. He's such a gentle boy, and he's been forced to deal with so much."
"Not so gentle," argued Hana under her breath. She'd seen Quatre caught up in fits of adrenaline and lost in helpless rage. People didn't give the boy enough credit.
"This business with the extremist Christians . . . I don't know what to make of it," Iria went on. Her hands were crossed demurely in her lap, but she kept tapping her fingers worriedly. "You know Mother was Catholic--"
"Catherine was not our mother," Hana protested coldly.
Iria ignored this. "--and I keep thinking there must be some connection between that and the current state of affairs. Does the private investigator know about Mother?"
"No," said Hana. "I don't think Catherine's religious practices have anything to do with these threats."
"You never know," said Iria tentatively. "She kept it private for a reason. That old altar in the cellar--is it still there? I remember she used to have a priest over secretly every Sunday morning, before most of us where awake. Used to have mass and she clinked through those rosary beads whenever she had a moment to herself. I was fascinated by that rosary. It was made of the finest, darkest wood, and had a little gold Christ on the end, his holy mother only four or five beads above him--"
"You wax poetic," criticized Hana sharply. "The altar was stripped and destroyed soon after you left. Father couldn't stand having it under his feet, knowing that she'd loved it so well. You know he boarded up her old bedroom and forbade any of us to speak of it."
"So much pain." Iria stared at her knees. She had that peculiar ability to feel other people's grief for them--the same ability, to a lesser degree, than that which Quatre also exhibited. "You should inform the investigator. Of Mother, I mean, and her being Catholic and all. It might help in some way, and . . ." And Catherine is dead now, anyway, so what does it matter if her secrets are uncovered?
Hana nodded, unsure whether she really would tell Investigator Jordan or not.
"So Quatre is well taken care of?"
"Oh yeah." Hana grinned, confident in this, at least. "I hired a bodyguard--don't look at me like that. This guy is the real deal, Iria. He was a comrade-in-arms back in 195--a Gundam pilot, like Quatre."
"Are you quite sure he's . . . stable?" Iria plunged ahead despite Hana's doubtful glare. "I mean, none of the Gundam pilots came out of the wars quite right in the head. War never changes, darling." Hana scowled at the use of the pet-name, but Iria didn't notice. "It's forever pulling in innocents and churning out madmen afraid of their own shadows and ready to jump at air. Once a soldier, I'm not sure a return to normalcy is possible."
"Chang Wu Fei is a master of the martial arts, and can shoot a man dead faster than he can blink," said Hana flatly. "He's no more unstable than Quatre is. And all men are a little mad, anyway."
". . . I worry about Quatre all the time. And not just because you think I'm neurotic, Hana. He carries the future on his shoulders." "He's only a boy," Hana argued.
"He's never been 'only a boy'," Iria said sadly.
2/
Quatre sat in the parlor, uncomfortable in his most formal clothes. Even more awkward was the silence that had settled over the manor--servants' chatter no longer buzzed in the hallways; for once, if Hana spoke it was softly; and worst of all, Wu Fei didn't speak at all, in his own circle of silence though never far away.
He was ashamed of his own actions in the ballroom, and Wu Fei's words still stung, but he wasn't sure exactly how to go about apologizing to the Chinese boy. He'd tried to start a conversation once or twice, but had been met with stubborn resistance--Wu Fei was disappointed in him, he knew; hell, he was disappointed in himself. He still wasn't sure exactly what had brought on his fit the other day--stress, frustration, the prospect of having to face Iria. All of it thrown together. It reminded him disturbingly of the Zero System--that feeling of being outside of himself, watching himself lose control and being unable to do anything about it.
He pushed those thoughts away to be picked through later. Now he had to prepare himself to deal with (or be dealt with by) Iria.
Iria was the closest thing to a mother he'd ever had, and he both loved and dreaded her. She was only eleven years his senior, and very pretty in form and figure. Like most Winners (except for perhaps the artsy girls who'd long ago renounced the lifestyle of their more materially bound siblings) Iria wore the traditional full-skirted dresses that most women of aristocratic birth were accustomed to, as well as the latest casual fashions.
Quatre knew only a little of Iria's professional life--she tended elderly patients at a special treatment center on another colony. Sometimes Quatre was even proud of her for being so young and so talented, a respected doctor at only twenty-nine years of age, graduated top of her class, never had a bad thing to say about anyone. But most of the time he was so fed up with her prying into his business and babying him that the pride evaporated in the heat of his anger. He rarely welcomed her well-meaning advice or her fond caresses. Though he himself was often prone to being overly affectionate, somehow Iria grated on his nerves like no one else. Only when he'd been a very small boy and when he'd returned to his home colony at fifteen for the first time since he'd run away from it had he felt absolute love for her, untainted by repulsion.
Worst of all, a great deal of the time he couldn't read her like he could read other people--she was like an emotional dead zone to him.
"Good evening, Quatre."
Quatre leapt to his feet, startled. The object of his thoughts stood at the parlor entrance, her slim figure clad in stiff, formal garb. The long, frilled skirt was scarlet, the top low-cut and made of lace and soft vanilla-colored fabric--it brought out the blush in her cheeks, and dulled her usually startling blue eyes. She entered the room unpretentiously, taking a seat across from Quatre, who bowed and then also sat down. His hands clenched into fists unconsciously.
"Comment allez-vous, mon petit frère?" She smiled, her French faultless.
"Uh, ça va bien . . . merci." He struggled a little for the words, caught off guard, though his French was usually pretty decent. "Et vous?"
"Wonderful! You're coming along quite nicely, brother."
"Thank you."
"Keep this up and you'll be able to progress to German or Chinese--in a year or so, of course." She fanned herself with one well-manicured hand, gaze shifting to a window that had carelessly been left agape by one of the servants. "Oh, don't you know any better than to leave this open? The humidity will ruin our clothes."
Biting back a sharp reply, Quatre rose and closed the offending window, pausing to collect himself. He wanted to make a good impression on his sister; her approval meant worlds to him, and he also secretly hoped that she would leave sooner if she saw that he was getting on well without her.
"Have you found a university that appeals to you?"
He avoided her eyes, though they were polite and not at all accusing. "Not yet."
If she had been anyone else, she would have thrown up her hands in despair. Every time they met she asked him the same question, and every time he deterred her with short, curt answers that weren't really answers at all. But since she was Iria Winner, she just nodded and calmly inquired what exactly he was looking for in a university. If he wanted she was sure that Alexandria would accept him without even a placement exam; traditionally the eldest Winner son attended there with other wealthy students his own age.
"Iria, I just . . . I just don't want to go there," he interrupted, unable to put into words what he was feeling.
"Ah," she said, knowingly. "Because Father--"
"It has nothing to do with Father! I don't want to go to some school where they only look at my lineage to determine my worth." His words fell like iron in the room.
"Then what is it you want to do, Quatre?" Iria's voice was more heated now. She didn't think he had a set plan for the future, and he realized she was right. The old feeling of uselessness descended over him, dark and endless. What could he do? Was there really anything that he loved--painting, music, computer sciences, none of it was something he'd be allowed to make a career of. After all, he was being molded to take over the Winner family legacy someday.
"Give me time," he said.
3/
The unnatural silence was even more profound at night. Quatre lay tense and restless in his bed, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows drift past each other slowly as the moon moved out from behind a cloud outside. For hours he thought of nothing, waiting for something to happen.
The soft pad of feet upon a wooden floor brought a smile to his face. The faint whoosh of air as a fist struck out--rough slide of one foot past its twin--a breathless shout, wordless by necessity, which when used loudly in a real fight was meant to take an opponent off guard. Quatre imagined most of this, knowing how Wu Fei's forms looked and sounded and felt from hours spent watching him execute them in perfect order.
The sudden longing for his Chinese friend nearly brought him to tears, but he doggedly resisted, unwilling to succumb to emotion. He couldn't risk Wu Fei hearing and thinking him even more unworthy. More than anything he wanted to creep across the seemingly endless miles of carpet and push open the door dividing Wu Fei's little chamber from his. He wanted to say all the right words, do all the right things, make Wu Fei think well of him once more. And then Wu Fei would, as always, produce some golden-red or sparkling white liquid from his extensive collection of intoxicants, and they'd both get dead drunk, and regret it like hell in the morning.
Before Quatre could do any of this he had to actually get up the nerve. Which wasn't easy, because Wu Fei could be quite intimidating. He was like thunder: startlingly vivid, sound and sensation, bigger than he really was.
Quatre was just pushing back his covers decisively when out of the darkness came a crash, glass and metal screaming and shattering. Quatre stumbled away from his bed, landing awkwardly on one ankle and colliding painfully with his bedside table, in the process knocking his alarm clock and lamp to the floor. The light bulb in the lamp burst, illuminating the room for a fraction of a second. Frantically Quatre tried to both rise to his feet and find something that even vaguely resembled a weapon. It was then that the ceiling light flickered on--Quatre was temporarily blinded, but he knew that Wu Fei was rushing into the room, gun jutting out from his large brown hands.
When the world came back into focus Quatre finally became aware of the full extent of the damage. Besides the upturned table and busted lamp, every window in the room had been shattered, broken glass glinting in the artificial light. Wu Fei (who was barefoot amid the glass, Quatre was dismayed to see) motioned for Quatre to get down, meanwhile flattening himself against the wall. His sharp eyes examined the jagged edges of the windows and the midnight-dark yard outside.
"Damn it," he muttered. "Should've left the lights off, might've got the bastards--" He stopped, and Quatre cautiously peered around one bed post.
It looked like a necklace tied around a large rock. Now that Quatre was looking, he noticed other, smaller rocks scattered about the room. Apparently these were what had destroyed the windows. But the rock that had caught Wu Fei's eye was darker than the others, and the necklace was--well, it looked familiar somehow. He started to edge forward, but a gesture from his bodyguard stilled him.
"What is it?" Quatre asked softly.
Wu Fei started to answer, but before the words got past his lips the door into the hallway swung open, and what seemed to be a whole troop of uniformed officers filed in rapidly, armed and ready for anything. At their head stood a man of nearly forty years, shabbily dressed in a brown trench coat, a floppy cap perched atop a mess of wiry black curls. His simple yet slightly eccentric garb marked him as an outsider--born on earth, or perhaps on a small out of the way colony. He directed his men to surround the room and the area around it (a few of the eager followers ran out and reappeared some time later twenty-seven feet below the windows, waving to their comrades and then splitting up to investigate). Once they'd begun their investigation, the strange man turned and bowed respectfully to Quatre, his brown eyes glinting.
"Mr. Winner, I'm Private Investigator Harold Jordan from the United Kingdom." His English was strongly accented, and Quatre had a little difficulty understanding it. "Half an hour ago we received a message--a Bible verse, like every other message in connection with this case--that seemed to indicate your well-being would be in immediate danger. We rushed here as quickly as possible. Are you hurt anywhere?"
"No, I-I'm fine, my bodyguard, he--case? You're the investigator my sister has been talking about?"
"In all likelihood, yes."
Quatre tried politely to hide his disbelief. This man looked as if he would be more at home at a seedy bar or working with a construction company along the roadways. Certainly not like a professional investigator.
"I see you are alarmed by my appearance," Jordan observed. His sharp features twisted into a smile--there was a tiny scar that split his upper lip, white on his dark flesh. "I won't take offense, I swear. Now, how long ago was the attack, and exactly what--"
"I'm sorry," Wu Fei smoothly intervened, stepping between the investigator and Quatre. His posture was unusually stiff, even for him. "Mr. Winner cannot answer your inquiries at this time."
"Oh, I assure you he can and will," said the investigator, his smile fading into a rather menacing scowl. "I've been authorized--"
"And I couldn't care less," interrupted Wu Fei, throwing courtesy to the wind. He took Quatre by the elbow and began to maneuver him out of the now stifling bedroom, leaving behind a furious investigator and his crew.
The two boys made their way down three flights of stairs to the first floor, Quatre's heart racing all the while. The way he felt about Wu Fei seemed almost trivial in the light of what had just occurred, but he couldn't control his fevered thoughts, nor the pleasure of physical contact--Wu Fei was still grasping his arm, though his eyes were fixed firmly ahead.
"It was a rosary," he said quietly as they were descending the first floor staircase. The sound of people up and about filtered to them from downstairs--the whole manor was alive with fright.
Quatre blinked, confused. "A rosary?"
Wu Fei came to a sudden halt about halfway down the staircase. They could see neither end of the house--only dark stairs. "Near my family's home on L5 there was a church. Missionaries saw to its upkeep. They also frequently attempted to sway us from our spiritual customs--they succeeded with one of my elder brothers, who became Catholic and gave up his birthright. He told me all about his god, and his god's human mother. There is a--a sort of ritual prayer that is said over a set of beads. It's called the rosary. That's what was wound about that rock in your room."
When Quatre didn't say anything, he went on. "It's a clue. That person--or perhaps I should say people--that are after you must be members of the Catholic Church. But the Church itself may not have anything to do with it . . ." He frowned. "There's just no way to be sure yet."
Footsteps were fast approaching. Hastily Wu Fei resumed directing Quatre down the stairs.
4/
Iria and Hana Winner flanked Quatre on either side. Behind them stood Wu Fei, who was dressed as modestly as possible, a gun in a holster around his chest. The two sisters spoke in soft, fearful tones, unintentionally ignoring their stoic younger brother. Wu Fei pretended not to listen, staring into the distance, looking for some invisible enemy.
"What can we do about the ball?" Iria was asking. Her usually sleek blonde hair was sleep-tossed and apparently hadn't seen a brush since the day before. "It's three nights from now, but with the attack--"
"It wasn't an attack," Hana protested. "It was another threat. The investigator advises we transfer Quatre to a room far from his current one. He doesn't think a change of location is necessary at this point."
"Naturally," agreed Iria. "But the ball, darling--!"
"We can't cancel, the invitations have been sent, and it is going to be his birthday . . ."
Here they both looked down at Quatre, who seemed to be apathetically counting the floor tiles.
"I suppose, if we post guards at every entrance and plan an escape route in case something dreadful should happen . . . I suppose it would be all right." Iria sighed.
"Imagine seeing the twins again--oh, they'll be furious that all this has been going on without them. And Mona will positively have a fit, she's terrified of anything remotely violent, she simply hated that Quatre went off to war without so much as a by your leave from Father--"
"Pa-ci-fist," Iria teased in a sing-song voice.
"Aren't we meant to be?"
"May I be excused?" Quatre asked suddenly. He didn't wait for their answer, just stood and left the room.
"But Quat--"
"No, let him," said Iria.
Silently, Wu Fei followed.
Quatre avoided the occupied rooms, surpassing them for the stillness of the upper floors. His own room was under constant surveillance, and he had been moved to the second floor, near to where his sister Hana slept. He passed the guards, who ignored him. At the end of the hall he made a right, entering a tiny wooden cubicle; hanging from the ceiling was a long thin cord, and he yanked on it. A square door popped out, and a ladder unfolded awkwardly. It was rickety and had not been used in quite a while--for a long time his room had been his sanctuary.
He scrambled up the ladder and into the dusky attic. A single window overlooked the northern section of the estate and allowed in pallid daylight. The Winner attic was habitually messy, boxes and boxes piled atop one another. Quatre knew that some of these cartons contained souvenirs from the many locations his father had traveled to on business trips, as well as his and his sisters' old toys and clothes. In the midst of this chaos a space had been cleared long ago, now covered only in dust. Here Quatre sat, his back to a large box, head bowed.
5/
Quatre didn't look up when Wu Fei appeared over the rim of the opening in the floor, his black eyes cautious and searching. He hauled himself over the edge, staring around at the wall to wall boxes and dust rising in the air like a wordless cry. Shaking off sentimentality, he gratefully sat next to Quatre, sighing in relief.
"You know, that investigator's been on my ass all day."
"Yeah?" Quatre didn't sound very interested.
"Claims I'm not qualified for my position. Bullshit. If I know how to kill a man, I certainly know how to protect one."
"Mm."
"You never mentioned your birthday was in three days."
"It's not." Quatre refused to meet Wu Fei's eyes, instead gazing at the opposite wall, the dark wood familiar and comforting somehow. "I don't really have a birthday because I wasn't born. I'm a . . . a test-tube baby. My family's always had difficulties bearing children,"he went on in a rush. "Ever since we came to space...anyway. My sisters made up a birth date for me. I assume it's the day my body was complete."
"I . . . understand." Wu Fei rested his head upon his hand, eyeing Quatre broodingly. "I'm sorry for what I said the other day. About not having a high opinion of you."
"You merely spoke the truth," said Quatre dismissively, though his face showed how hurt he'd been.
"No, I was upset. You caught me by surprise, and I...Quatre, I--"
". . . You really . . . think highly of me?" Quatre looked up hesitantly.
"You . . . look at you, Winner, you're--" Wu Fei swallowed. "--very good company. Not quite so clueless as all the other fools I've had to deal with over the years. And you're . . ." He'd been about to say "gorgeous" but snapped his mouth shut, cheeks ablaze with shame. He wasn't sure what had come over him lately.
But Quatre's mood was very much lighter, his sea-blue eyes no longer overshadowed by a lowered brow. The sunlight caught in his hair, and for a moment he reminded Wu Fei of one of the beautiful, Anglo-Saxon angels forever trapped within a stained glass window in the church on L5. He'd snuck in many times to look at that angel when he was much younger, but when his grandfather caught him at it he was given a severe beating and warned never to do such a thing again. He was overflowing with that sense of guilty adoration now, desperately trying to hide it because he couldn't bear the thought of Quatre knowing.
"Wu Fei, are you all right?"
Wu Fei nodded so hard his head knocked against his knee, and he cradled his forehead in pain, so embarrassed he couldn't speak. When he tried to rise to his feet, he tripped and fell nearly in his companion's lap, face tomato-red and eyes wide. "Oh, oh shit, I'm sorry--"
"It's fine, Wu Fei." Quatre laughed despite himself. "We're not even drunk this time."
"When I'm with you I feel like I am."
A heavy silence fell between the two boys, and Wu Fei could have killed himself. Oh gods, why couldn't he control his damned mouth? He had to move away from Quatre, who wasn't saying anything, wasn't agreeing or disagreeing, only watching Wu Fei and looking so young.
Unnerved and humiliated, the Chinese boy uttered a jerky apology and made a clumsy effort to stand, only to be pulled down into an uncomfortable position, head and shoulders balanced on Quatre's crossed legs, his own limbs spread out like four long tentacles.
Quatre's blond hair fell around Wu Fei, obscuring his vision, but all he wanted to see was the boy with him now, whose hot clever hands were resting upon Wu Fei's chest, and whose lips were suddenly a whisper away.
The kiss landed on the side of Wu Fei's mouth, dry and chaste. His blood pounded in his ears, a ragged drumbeat. Then Quatre's lips were on his own, softer than he'd thought they would be and he'd never even allowed himself to dream of this. He'd gladly hand over his life for this boy--all of his life, because without Quatre life suddenly lost its worth. When had the little heir of the Winner family become such an integral part of him?
Wu Fei's eyes were slits, watching the blur that was Quatre, loving every part of him and for the moment not worrying whether the feeling was returned or not. Inexperience was written in every movement of his body, and Wu Fei couldn't help but be satisfied by that--no one had ever been so close to Quatre as he was now.
Hard brown hands cupped Quatre's face, forced him down further until their mouths were welded together. Wu Fei's lips parted, his tongue experimentally edging along the fold of Quatre's lips, tasting milk from breakfast and some sort of fruit and the unique flavor of Quatre himself. The blond boy sighed shakily, his arms convulsively wrapping round Wu Fei, breath coming in short little gasps as much from excitement as from his uncomfortable position, bent over almost double.
Never in his life had Wu Fei been so full of emotion--in any other circumstance he would have berated himself as a weakling, but here all things seemed right. Quatre's tongue hesitantly met his, slick and alien, probing within the hot recesses of Wu Fei's mouth. It was a universe away from the one cool kiss Wu Fei had shared with his wife, Nataku. His bones hadn't quaked with longing then. Longing which moved like lightning down his back and between his legs, infiltrating every part of him.
"Oh," said Quatre, pulling away, flushed and panting.
"Don't--" Wu Fei twisted around, hands sliding up Quatre's thighs and coming to rest on his hips. He locked gazes with the other boy, intensity flaring up between them like fire. "Don't doubt the sincerity of my actions."
"I--I won't. Wu Fei, why--"
Wu Fei silenced him, placed a brotherly kiss upon Quatre's brow, willing his own body to calm down. "It doesn't matter. Let's go downstairs before someone comes looking for you."
6/
Though there was plenty to keep Wu Fei occupied, his thoughts invariably strayed to Quatre, and how good kissing Quatre had been, and how much he would like to do it again. At odd moments he would pause and press his fingers to his lips, wondering if it was simply a fantasy he'd given in to--how could Quatre allow advances from someone like him? He was going mad with desire and curiosity, walking on eggshells for fear of anyone discovering what he was thinking.
They did not speak much at all through the day, but occasionally one of them would glance at the other and smile slightly, or their hands would brush together and both boys would shudder pleasantly. This was only marred by the fact that every hour seemed to bring with it another estranged Winner sister. They were of course all invited to Quatre's "birthday" ball, and most took it upon themselves to arrive a day early. Wu Fei had to endure adoring, rambunctious girls handling Quatre as if he were a small but endearing animal, ruffling the boy's hair into a frizzy mess and kissing his cheeks affectionately. Quatre received all this graciously, though he did protest when one of the younger, more eccentric sisters insisted he try on a ridiculous costume she'd made for him. It was a rabbit suit, complete with bunny ears and tie-on tail.
"O-oh my," Quatre stammered, backing away.
"Cuuute!" the sister squealed, and had to be led away by level-headed Hana, who was behaving a bit like a hostess and a bit like a guard.
Wu Fei chuckled and Quatre gave him a dark look.
Worst of all, Private Investigator Jordan seemed to be always nearby, watching Quatre (and, by association, Wu Fei) with his unfriendly eyes. The man was kept busy with the investigation and often reported his findings to Iria, who hadn't slept at all since the incident in Quatre's bedroom the day before. Beneath the cheerful festivities lay a tense expectation--the investigator's men stood at every doorway, backs straight and minds alert.
Wu Fei didn't know what to believe. Whoever was after Quatre had proven himself adept at terrorist tactics--and surely there must have been a spy within the manor itself. How else could anyone have successfully infiltrated such a well-guarded house? Wu Fei wore his gun at all times, staring at a group of servants so severely that they scuttled away in fear.
At last Quatre informed a servant that he was retiring for the night, and he didn't wish to be disturbed under any circumstances. He said this confidently but not unkindly, in the tones of a boy born to privilege, and Wu Fei secretly admired his conviction.
The stairways and corridors were no longer dark--Iria had ordered that the entire manor be well-lit, and now the windows shone like miniature suns in the night outside.
A hard nervous knot formed in Wu Fei's gut. Quatre was pressed close to him as they walked. Every contraction of every muscle, the soapy boyish scent of him, the heat from his thigh and his arm brushing innocently against Wu Fei's--all of this only further provoked Wu Fei, who was fairly trembling by the time the two entered Quatre's twilight-dim room.
The last rays of light made bars upon the unfamiliar floor, its thick carpet soft and deep blue. The bed was made so well, the curtains pulled so close together, the atmosphere so cool that it was clear the room was rarely used. Someone had hauled in a cot and placed it against a wall far from the large bed, and Wu Fei stood anxiously by the door even after Quatre approached his own bed, unsure of what his next move should be. What did normal people do in this sort of situation? Admit mutual (hopefully) desire and get to it? And to what, exactly? Of course he knew all about sex--on L5 his grandfather had instructed him in the many artful ways to have sons, though he'd never put any techniques into practice with Nataku and, indeed, probably would not have had he had the chance. But Quatre was . . . not female. And not Nataku by a long shot. Wu Fei knew he wanted to do something with the other boy. He just didn't know what that something was.
"Wu Fei?" A stream of dying light crossed Quatre's face, illuminating first his lips and then his nose and just his eyes. They were unguarded and hesitant at the same time. So Quatre didn't know what to do either.
Wu Fei tried to laugh but the sound went flat. "They, uh, made me a place to sleep--right over here, see, it...um."
"Yes. I can . . . see that." Quatre stared at his feet.
"I, uh--"
"We have a long day ahead of us, so we should get to sleep soon."
" . . . Yeah." Deflated, Wu Fei turned too quickly, intent on disappearing beneath the thin sheets of the cot and never thinking of the damned obviously one-time-only kiss.
"And, you know, with all that's been happening . . ." Quatre paused, and hope grew again within Wu Fei. "Maybe you could move your bed over here near mine, and in case something happens--something bad--you can protect me."
In the dark, Wu Fei's heart resumed its irregular pounding, and with each beat he felt more and more that he was losing control. The world spun. Wu Fei found himself nodding and pushing the cot across the soft carpet, the quiet swish of its wheels the only sound. He pretended to be absorbed with the way the two mattresses, one enormous and one flatter than the sky, fit together. White sheets against blue. Quatre was shyly and discreetly shedding his clothing.
Buttons undone, one shoulder bare and strangely tempting, turning away from Wu Fei as the room filled with the cold sound of his zipper being pulled down.
This was a thousand times more thrilling than it should have been, for Quatre had never undressed in Wu Fei's presence--always a bathroom or closet door had separated them from one another's view. Now Wu Fei was seeing Quatre almost entirely disrobed. It was like having been shown a photograph for years and years and then one day discovering that it was only part of a larger picture, that there were details there you had never been aware of, though you thought you knew the photo inside and out.
What first struck Wu Fei was that Quatre had knobby knees. If he had ever taken the time to imagine what Quatre's knees looked like, he would not have imagined them so childishly large and awkward. He grinned. The slender calves were turned nicely, with just a hint of muscle. Boyishly square hips, clad now in plain white boxer shorts, and over that his now open shirt, concealing the upper half of his body. Quatre looked over his shoulder, a sheepish smile stealing across his face, and Wu Fei thought that no one had ever been so beautiful.
"There's only one pair of pajamas," Quatre said suddenly. A pile of white material spilled over the edge of the nearby dresser, and he carefully unfolded a large shirt and drawstring trousers. "I suppose I'll wear the top bit, and you can wear the bottoms--that way we'll both be comfortable."
Wu Fei deftly caught the pants thrown his way, and then couldn't bring himself to change into them. Quatre, sensing his uncertainty, coughed and pointedly turned away. The two finished dressing in silence. Though Wu Fei didn't have the heart to tell him, Quatre looked like a wayward schoolboy in the long nightshirt, his face flushed and blond hair awry.
They stood in silence, both waiting for some sign, and when none came they felt all the worse for it. Finally Quatre wheeled around, back straight and tense, and strode for his own bed purposefully. He ducked under the covers and disappeared from view. Sighing noiselessly, Wu Fei approached his cot on tip-toe, unsure what had caused his own sudden reticence. After taking out the band that held his hair in place, he crawled between the cool sheets, listening to Quatre's breathing.
Quatre was only a foot away, but a wave of loneliness overtook Wu Fei. He quickly repressed it, shuddering. What a mess he'd gotten himself into.
Then something warm settled over his wrist, and he realized it was Quatre's hand, twining around his. Looking up, he saw worried blue eyes that were nevertheless affectionate, and his heart went into his throat.
"Your hair--" Thin white fingers brushed past his ear. "--I've so rarely seen it down, Wu Fei."
Wu Fei ducked his head. He'd forgotten that now they were sleeping so close, Quatre would of course notice him without his customary pony-tail. His hair fell smoothly around his face, like black water.
"May I . . . ?" Without waiting for an answer, Quatre sat up, at the same time pulling Wu Fei up after him. On his knees and a head taller, Quatre ran his fingers through the silky black locks, trailing across the sensitive scalp, mussing and fixing and sending shivers down Wu Fei's spine. Another first: he'd never let anyone touch his hair before except his mother when he'd been a child. It was strangely pleasurable--even erotic in a crazy way. The front of Quatre's shirt kept brushing up against his nose, the curve of his neck so close Wu Fei was sure he could lick it if he tried.
Quatre rested his chin upon Wu Fei's shoulder, his hands stilling. "I want to kiss you again."
"I know," Wu Fei heard himself say, and they both moved at the same time, their foreheads and noses getting in the way but finally, finally, their mouths met in a wet hot mash of tongues and lips and swallowed words. All sense flew from Wu Fei--he couldn't remember who he was, or what he was doing here, only that Quatre was warm and real in his arms. For so long he had desired this, wondering all the while why exactly he wanted this boy so much--wordlessly this need had overtaken him, without warning. The days piling up, hours spent not so much keeping Quatre alive as watching him live--all of it came together in this instant. The whole picture was laid out before him, and he decided that it really wasn't a bad picture at all.
Soft fabric against his bare chest--skinny legs locked around his waist--pale eyelashes brushing feather light against his cheeks as Quatre's eyes closed.