DISCLAIMER: As Gundam Seed was created by Mitsuo Fukada, and Twelfth Night was created by William Shakespeare, so is this fic created by me (Ruru Kitsuneko)…
AUTHOR'S NOTES 8.1: This is a pretty intense chapter. Don't fall off your seats.
CHAPTER 8: TROUBLE ON DELIVERY
Caleb Atha's report to the Duke of Illyria regarding his audience with Lacus—Countess Clyne—left a lot of room for interpretation.
He had been so flustered and on edge during his accounting of the visit's events that he failed to realize he'd been calling the countess by her given name halfway through his recitation. When he had somewhat finished, the duke raised his hand—
"Correct me, if I'm wrong," Athrun began, "but did you just say 'Lacus'?"
The disbelief in his tone made the color drain from Caleb's face. 'Oh, God,' was his horrified thought. He had completely no realization of half the words coming out of his mouth. "Your Grace," he nervously began. "This is— That is— Well— Lacus—the countess—bade me to make use of her name—given name—and, it would've been rude not to— Thai is to say— I mean—" 'What do I mean?' he thought desperately.
"I see," Athrun replied; his green eyes piercing Caleb with their scrutiny. He was silent for a moment, then— "I suppose she does have a point," he mussed.
"What?" Caleb asked, his eyes wide with shock. 'What point? That he should just give up before his rejected proposals number eight? I seem to be missing something here…'
"You should call me by my given name as well," Athrun stated.
"I should?" Caleb parroted.
The duke's right eyebrow rose superciliously. "Do you have a problem addressing me with my name, 'Caleb'?"
Caleb's pale face flooded with color—whether it was because of the duke's blunt question or because he looked so devastatingly attractive when he raised his eyebrow, he wasn't exactly sure. "I don't know," he breathed blankly.
"Come again?" asked the duke.
Caleb mumbled something under his breath.
"Are you, perchance, going mute, Caleb?" the duke inquired.
"I said there would be no problem, Athrun!" he answered loudly.
"There's no need to shout," Athrun remarked dryly. "I can hear my name just fine."
Caleb was torn between wanting to throttle him, and wanting to stomp off the premises and kiss his employment a joyous goodbye once and for all. Of the two, he'd say the former would be the most appealing choice at the moment: the duke—Athrun—would make a handsome corpse.
Athrun interrupted his morbid thought processes by remarking, "All in all, I'd say your visit went very well, indeed."
"Indeed," Caleb parroted. Crossing his arms across his chest, he challenged, "And what, pray tell, makes you come to this august conclusion?"
"She seemed to like you," Athrun answered, beaming.
'You really shouldn't say that,' Caleb thought with an inaudible laughing gasp. He still had a bad feeling about the tea—not that it wasn't excellent—it was, but that wasn't the point.
"We'll leave her hanging for a while," Athrun continued, oblivious to his employee's less than confident thoughts regarding the whole bloody courtship. "It's better not to be too pushy. That maybe why she's refused all these years. Let's just find some other ideas for my next message." So saying, he rose from his desk and made his way towards the bookshelves.
For the next half hour, both of them browsed through the books without any particular urgency, since it wasn't imperative for them to finish today.
Caleb was idly thumbing the book he was holding, when a particularly striking passage caught his eye. "Athrun," he called out. "Take a look at this."
Athrun stepped towards him and looked at the passage he was indicating in the book over his shoulder. He unwittingly took a deep breath, and was assailed by a pleasant scent emanating from Caleb, which caused a jolt to pass through his body. He blinked rapidly to clear his head, thankful Caleb seemed to find nothing out of the ordinary. He attempted to concentrate on what Caleb was showing him, but something seemed to be blocking it from entering his brain. He finally blurted— "Do you wear perfume?"
Caleb looked at him oddly. Why not? What kind of question was that? "Uh, no."
"Right," Athrun said briskly, attempting to revert back to his dignified state—which he totally failed, as he muttered almost under his breath, "Then I do wonder why you smell so good?"
Caleb looked at him as if he was insane—he probably was, though. This was his fault anyway—damn, but he smelled good. "I take baths," he answered softly.
"Baths, of course," Athrun answered jerkily.
"Did you have your bath today?" Caleb inquired politely.
"Of course I did," Athrun snapped back.
Caleb's lavender eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you alright?" he asked, concerned. He reached out his hand towards Athrun's forehead saying, "You might be running a fever—"
Athrun grabbed his wrist and jerked—the wrong way: Caleb's face was now barely an inch from his. He looked closely at his face—more precisely, his mouth. He could feel a light breath every time he breathed out—it smelled good, too. He could almost kiss—
Utterly horrified at his train of thought, Athrun reacted reflexively: he gripped both Caleb's arms and pushed him away from him—too hard.
Caleb yelled, as the momentum propelled him backwards, sending him crashing onto the desk, sliding over and falling with a hard 'thud' on the other side, just as the door opened and Yzak Jule, the Marquis of Oceania, walked in.
Yzak stared in astonishment at the scene he had just witnessed. He had finished his business early and decided to make good time by returning to Athrun's earlier for their visit, though he had to almost drag Dearka, Baron Elsman, into accompanying him. His friend seemed to be preoccupied with something, but he was more worried about Athrun and so didn't think much about it. He glanced at his friend and said the first thing that came to mind. "What is this: a lover's quarrel?" he asked with astonished sarcasm.
Wrong thing to say…
Athrun, still reeling from the unprecedented emotions that seemed to be assailing him from all directions, didn't think twice—he grabbed a thick hardbound book and hurled it with all his might towards Yzak.
Though surprised, Yzak's quick reflexes allowed him to dodge to the side as it flew past him—and hit Dearka square on, knocking him unconscious.
The other three occupants in the room stared with shock and horror at Dearka's prone form on the floor.
"Dearka!" Yzak yelled.
"Oh, my God!" Athrun breathed in horror.
"Speak to me, mate," Yzak called out slapping his friend's cheeks simultaneously.
"I didn't mean it," Athrun said desperately.
"Oh shut up," Yzak snapped irritably, as he continued in his attempt to rouse his friend.
"I killed him," Athrun ranted.
"If you do, I'll kill you, too," Yzak replied sharply.
Just then, a soft moan came from Dearka, causing both friends to sigh in relief. They both lifted Dearka to his feet, and slung an arm over each of their shoulders as they half carried, half dragged him inside.
"I'll see you tomorrow," Athrun told Caleb in a clipped voice.
Relieved, thankful, and terrified of the dismissal all at once, Caleb left without another word.
Athrun paced the floor of his study as Yzak slopped a cold cloth wrapped around ice the butler had brought onto Dearka's head. When he had finished, Yzak turned to his friend.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Yzak snapped.
Athrun replied with a glance. Yzak could see the barely leashed wild uncertainty in his friend's green eyes. He ran his fingers into his silver hair in frustration.
Dearka mumbled something under his breath. Yzak moved closer to change the ice cloth on his friend's head. As he did so, Dearka suddenly lurched up and threw his arms around Yzak in a crushing embrace. "My Miriallia," he muttered burying his face in the crook of Yzak's neck.
"What the hell!" Yzak yelled utterly furious and baffled.
Athrun stared with shock as Yzak pried Dearka's arms around him, and let his fist fly.
"Er," Athrun began uncertainly, as Yzak flexed his fingers, "Are you sure you didn't make it worse?"
"He'll survive," Yzak responded curtly. Walking towards the sidewall, he opened the liquor cabinet and uncorking a bottle of whiskey, put the mouth straight to his lips and drank. "This is insane," he muttered taking another swig of the burning liquor. "What's gotten into all of you?"
"Damned if I know," Athrun answered ironically.
Inexplicably, the hit Yzak administered seemed to rouse Dearka from his stupor and groaning loudly, pushed himself up into a sitting position. He shook his head slightly; wincing at the pain he felt throbbing at the center of his forehead and at his left jaw. "I don't know what happened," Dearka began, "but I know you two hit me. Care to tell me why?"
Yzak glared at his friend. "You attempted amorous actions," he snapped. "Whoever this 'Miriallia' is, I can assure you I'm not her," he finished icily.
"Right," Dearka mumbled, blushing. "I see."
Yzak turned his furious gaze over to Athrun. "And you," he snapped. "What's your excuse? Insanity?" he finished, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
Athrun shot him an agonized look. "I need a drink," he said tightly.
Yzak rolled his eyes, and grabbing another bottle of whiskey, hurled it at his friend. Thankfully, he caught it. It took him three huge gulps of whiskey before he felt he would be coherent enough to do any explaining.
"I almost kissed him," he announced starkly.
" 'Him'?" Yzak and Dearka asked in unison.
"My new messenger," he clarified.
His friends looked at him in blank disbelief.
"It's not normal," Athrun muttered taking another swig of whiskey.
His friends still couldn't say anything.
Yzak's dazed blue eyes were unfocused as he stared at his friend. Shaking his head slightly, he took a gulp from his bottle, and attempted to make sense out of that bizarre—and shocking—statement. "Was he the one you threw around?" he asked calmly.
"I did not 'throw him around'," Athrun hissed indignantly.
"It's a metaphor, Athrun," Yzak snapped sarcastically.
"His name's Caleb," Athrun continued jerkily, ignoring Yzak's retort.
Perhaps the blows to his head had somewhat addled his brains, but Dearka's question was straight and up to the point: "Why would you want to kiss him?"
Athrun looked blank for a full minute, before he answered flatly, "I don't know. I just felt" —he ran a distracted hand through his blue hair— "that I had to."
" 'You had to'?" Yzak and Dearka parroted in unison, their voices both abject with disbelief as they regarded their friend.
Athrun closed his eyes in confusion and embarrassment. He had no idea what was wrong with him; not even the prospect of marrying Lacus made him as uptight as he was now. In an uncharacteristic second of pique, he wished Caleb to be as miserable as he was now.
He wasn't so far off the mark; Athrun wasn't the only one confused and irritable after the incident. Caleb was also feeling edgy and jumpy as he walked briskly towards home.
As his luck would have it (he must've broken a mirror in a past life), both Ledonil and Erica were home, and his agitation wasn't lost on them.
"What happened?" Erica asked concerned.
"I don't want to talk about it," Caleb snapped sulkily.
But of course, he talked about it anyway.
"…then he just threw me over his desk—"
"—and had his way with you?" Erica improvised in a shocked voice, as Ledonil spewed his coffee all over the table.
"No!" Caleb shouted. "What are you two thinking?"
"At least we're thinking," Ledonil interjected wiping the mess he had made. "You don't seem to be."
"I'm thinking just fine," Caleb snapped, and stomped towards the doorway to go in the direction of the stairs. Before he could complete his somewhat remarkable exit, the butler appeared in front of him—
"Master Caleb," he began gravely.
"What?" Caleb asked startled.
"A pouch has arrived for you, sir," he answered.
Caleb automatically held out his hand, whereby the butler promptly placed a soft red velvet pouch in it. He stared at the cloth bag in his hand as if it would coil up and strike him.
"It is only a pouch, sir," the butler intones gravely.
Caleb glared at him, and walked around him to climb the stairs up to his room. He slammed the door loudly enough to be heard downstairs by Ledonil and Erica, and flopped down onto the bed with enough force bounce him like a trampoline for about five seconds.
Curious, he opened the lacing that kept the pouch closed and immediately saw a letter inside. Reaching inside, he flipped it open and starting reading—and paling. Shock and disbelief in his face, he put his hand inside the pouch once more and pulled out a beautiful silver ring with an oval ruby embedded in it.
Caleb:
This ring has been passed on in my family for generations, and is given only to someone very special.
With all my affection,
Lacus"Oh, my God," Cagalli breathed in horror. "This can't be happening. Please God, let this be a dream." She flopped backwards onto the bed, with her arm thrown across her face. "This is a nightmare," she groaned, "I should've drowned at sea. I. Am. In. So. Much. Trouble…!"
A/N 8.2: Special thanks to: Ryo Kazunine—as much as I would love to kill Flay, almost nobody dies in a romantic comedy; purple1—here's you're update, sorry it took so long, I actually finished a couple of days after chapter 7, but I didn't get a chance to post it; Mrs. Nozomu Sohma—I'm glad you think so, I like having all my characters having equal roles; and Swt. Harmony—glad you liked it, and sorry about the shipwrecks, it was just a last minute addition. Next up: we go back to Lacus' entourage. I've decided to kick thing up a notch: steam things up a little… Ja!