Disclaimer: I own nothing of GS/GSD. R&R Please.

Chapter 26

The evening drew near and PLANT was going mad with excitement. Those not invited, otherwise known as civilians, were in their homes, eagerly waiting for the live footage of the event to be aired on national television, and the guests of the event were getting ready in their own homes. If they weren't from PLANT and ZAFT, those invited who had been shuttled over from various regions in the world were now in their hotels where the world-class designers and dressers were carting in and out.

Athrun noticed a whole host of designers, either shouting shrilly for this to be done and that to be fixed or shouting at each other for snagging a certain key political figure and that sort of thing which basically screamed intense rivalry.

'At least they're comitted to their art,' He mumbled.

The cameras were being hauled out of hotels nineteen to a dozen per minute as the paparazzi tried to sneak them in. Mere minutes after Athrun arrived and fielded off dozens of question pertaining to the night, he felt as if he had finished a day of training with guns, exhaustive and very brain-dead. The only difference was that he was forced to keep cool, cologned, and very suave.

"Sir, where's the Princess?" one reporter asked eagerly.

"In Mediator Clyne's home," He told them politely, trying to move on, and they shouted with glee, scribbling down his short answer and another yelled, "She doesn't want you to spoil the surprise?"

"Far from it," Athrun said humorlessly, although he might have suspected that Lacus didn't want to spoil it for Kira, "I agreed to meet the world-renowned designed and haute couture specialist Demente Du Maurier here to accede his special request with Commander Kira Yamato and myself."

There you go, Du Maurier, Athrun thought dryly, I've given you all the publicity you need. The reporters were exploding with excitement and tried to ask more questions but he pushed past them with some help from the staff which had been roped in to assits the guests who were being dressed in this hotel, and proceeded on. Two of them were bodyguards the PLANT headquarters had assigned for him, and they were starting to get on his nerves. Not that they were incompetent or rude, they were just too eager to ask him about everything, from how many dates he had a year to how they could modify their pistols.

Car after car drove up and guest after guest was ushered in. It seemed ridiculous to Athrun that the designers all wanted to snub each other in the noses by personally bringing in the guests, fully knowing that the other designers were here with their respective patrons as well, effectively making the place a hellhole of reporters, califare, and slightly stiff guests like himself.

And Athrun looked at the French master of couture, or so he had introduced himself, and remarked, "Er, are those your helpers?"

The rather petite, slim-built man with a shock of grey hair, deep set wrinkles, electric, insanely-lit eyes in a pale face with very skilled, delicate hands whirled theatrically around to scrutinise the crowd of people around him. Two of them were holding combs and aruging which had a better texture, another pair was ironing something that looked like Kira's outfit, another was polishing some shoes and yet another pair was wiping something that looked suspiciously like a sword. The rest were holding out drinks and things like that, not for Athrun, but for Du Maurier as he pranced around screaming things in French.

"My entourage, yes," Du Maurier replied nonchalantly in his thickly-accented voice, "But for you they will be servants."

He bowed very low and Athrun wondered if he ought to do likewise. He was far too used to the salute, and he reckoned that would have been rather odd. Therefore he settled for a polite, somewhat stiff smile. After all, he could hardly move his torso in the chair he was seated in, with a large white linen cloth around his neck, let alone bow.

"Come now," Du Maurier shouted insanely, and Athrun wanted to stuff his fingers in his ears, this man was far too explosive and too queer for his liking, "It is the event of the cosmic century, is it not? Although if Chairman Zala had told me of your need for dressing," He looked displeased that Athrun had not, "I would have designed something for you and the Princess. Something outrageous, very magnifique, very, what is the word you people use nowadays, glorious!"

'Thanks, we'll just take one of these that Lacus selected for us," Athrun said hurriedly, pointing at a random sketch, and Du Maurier looked outraged at his lack of interest, shaking his head and saying sadly, "Politicians nowadays all think they are not celebrities. You and your wife other delusional, and anymore of you in the population would mean that the world is doomed."

Athrun tried not to choke with laughter.

"You know, Chairman," Du Maurier was saying loudly, making a fabulous gesture or two for him to be seated and an assistant to comb his hair, "I do not understand why you and the Princess are willing to take one of the rejects of Mediator Clyne and her beautiful husband."

"Er-beautiful?"

"Why, very!" Du Maurier screeched, "Chocola-tte hair," He paused here to glare at Athrun, as if daring him to disagree, "Eyes that were made to kill the gods that tried to compete with him, of course Miss Clyne is ve-ry beautiful herself, but Commander Yamato is the moon surrounded by stars such as herself, and he is but the only-," He trailed off in some choice French superlatives Athrun understood very little of, and he thought to himself, 'This man has been named correctly. He's demented he is.'

The hotel he was in was filled with people rushing in and out, and he knew Kira would be joining him soon. He thought humorously to himself, how horrified Du Maurier had been when Kira and him suggested that he tend to Lacus and Cagalli and 'the men would settle their own things.'

Du Maurier had gone ballistic, insisting that they show up in a posh hotel with many other guests and competing designers, 'rivals', Du Maurier had snarled, for him to handle them, 'like dogs,' Athrun said tactlessly, and then he would go on to Kira's residence to tend to the ladies, 'like flowers,' Kira said, politically-correct for once.

They did not fail to neglect, however, that Kira's mock French accent had certainly not been politically-correct.

While there were other guests of the event being dressed in the hotel, most ostensibly the male, since the females did not want to be seen by the others, 'peacock syndrome,' Du Maurier explained very knowledgeably, Athrun felt highly isolated in his case of being dressed.

It was understandable, he supposed, since there were more dressers than the person to be dressed. They kept combing his hair to different ways until they decided a certain one was the best, and when he saw his reflection, it was the exact way he always combed his hair in the morning, and he was glad this was all free of charge and all for Du Maurier's publicity.

Kira arrived five minutes later in a daze, he had been stopped by the media with a few other guess in the lobby and they had to reveal what they were going as, and Kira, in the confusion, had said, 'Fish monger,' when he had merely meant, 'Fish merchant," and there had been an uproar below, hence the latecoming.

"Oh well," Kira said calmly, never ruffled, "I'm late but better late than never."

"This god has the attitude we should all learn from," Du Maurier crowed over the top of Athrun's head, "Be fashionably late!"

"You didn't say that when I came late for work by three minutes!" One hairdresser piped up, and a hairbrush flew over Kira's head and hit her, resulting with a loud, 'Oww!'

"Hold your mortal tongue and remember that silence is golden!" Du Maurier commanded, "Now fetch me the masterpieces."

Well, technically, Athrun thought, they were. At least the insane old man was committed to his craft. Kira was soon decked in the traditional Kyoto clothes with a dark blue haori, a sort of jacket with fine white piping on his large sleeves and his pants were tied together firmly with a knot directly in line and below the intersection of his folded collar of the jet shirt. He looked remarkably handsome, in navy, grey, black socks, straw sandals and a boyish grin, Athrun thought, noticing the female dressers and Du Maurier swooning over him.

Kira just looked bemused, and then he called Lacus on his phone and asked, "How's it back there?"

"We're taking a walk in the garden with Leon," they all heard her say sweetly, and the entire room froze.

"Tres abominable!" Du Maurier screamed, "Taking a walk five hours before the event is like training for a marathon after the gun has been fired!"

"Aren't we exaggerating a little?" Athrun asked weakly, adjusting the stiff collar around his neck and feeling someone's fingers already helping him to it. He smiled courteously at the woman helping him and she blushed madly and he dimmed his smile a bit to not encourage her. Kira snorted with laughter.

"I will rush over there," Du Maurier exclaimed, "If they need my help so badly, I will abandon even a god and rush over."

"He means you," Athrun told Kira pointedly, and the girl who had spoken up before piped up loyally, "Chairman Zala, he means you too!"

"True, you do deserve your place in the list of 'men-of-the-Cosmic-Era,' " Kira said humorously to Athrun, both of them ignoring Du Maurier who was shouting instructions in rapid-fire French to his assistants to move and get to Commander Yamato's residence immediately to rescue the 'poor, petite mam'zelles who cannot manage without Du Maurier and must resort to taking walks to kill time,'.

"I feel like I belong to another timeframe," Athrun explained helplessly, "At least it's a suit of some kind, never mind the tailcoats and the cravat."

He glanced at himself in the mirror- he was supposed to be a medieval English aristocrat except his tunic, coat and pants were devoid of the usual scarlet and earth colours but entirely done in full black, even more striking, but very, very, warm.

He fanned himself a bit, "Damn, I'm sweating."

"I like my sandals," Kira said unhelpfully, "They're really airy."

"Shut it, you," He said enviously, "You got a sword to go with that?"

"I do," Kira offered, pulling it out and showing him the rounded edge of the katana, "Just the sheath, I think, but it's heavy enough. And weapons are prohibited for tonight, although I know you still have your gun somewhere in that suit of yours, never mind the English sword they gave you. Old habits are hard to die anyway."

"Right," Athrun conceded, lifting his coat and confirming it was there, "It's a good thing they've all left so we can relax until we're sent there."

They looked at each other and burst out in helpless laughter. And Athrun kicked off his highly polished boots and flopped onto a bed like a suffocating fish, which figuratively, he was.

Instead of doing likewise, Kira sat down more composedly into a chair which Du Maurier had vacated and watched his friend looking bored, handsome yes, but very bored. White linen, pure and fine with a horiton lace cravat and a moonstone or something like that pinned to his throat, and a long jet coat with tails atop an ebony tunic that accentuated Athrun's enviable height and stature, it was all very dashing in the medieval fashion. While Kira adorned grey hakama in the Kyoto style, Athrun wore the attire of an English aristocrat in Medievial fashion. Du Maurier was diverse, Kira supposed.

"What's Cagalli tuning up as?" He asked Athrun who was rolling here and there in a bad imitation of the Haros. He assumed that Athrun was doing this only because Du Maurier was absent.

"I don't know," Athrun replied briefly, "I never asked."

He thought about her honeyed arms being encased in the soft linen of her ridiculous pajamases and wondered if Du Maurier would have a fit if he saw her like that in such unglamorous attire.

"She didn't mention anything?" Kira said puzzled, imagining his twin swearing uncontrollably to Athrun about the dress she would be stuffed into.

A little prick of irritation darted at Athrun, he had been so busy imagining Cagalli's golden hair and eyes that stared, transfixed with him, and the button that she had failed to realise that was out of its slit. But he kept his tone even, it was Kira he was dealing with.

"No," Athrun repeated patiently, "But Lacus didn't tell you anything either, did she?"

"No," Kira echoed thoughtfully, "We'll just have to wait and see."

He had asked Cagalli a while back there whether she wanted to stay with Lacus or follow Athrun, and just like he had expected, Lacus persuaded her to stay and 'let Kira and Athrun sort themselves out,' she had smiled, 'I want to sort you out, Cagalli.'

And now, Kira leant back, reached into his navy outer coat and took out a stagnant haro, the blue one. And then the pink one from the other side. They were sleeping until he woke them up, he had frozen them temporarily so they wouldn't be a nuisance.

"No wonder your coat looked so baggy," Athrun remarked, "Nice wave pattern by the way."

"Oh," Kira said absently, noticing the woodprint-style emblem and motifs on the sleeves in printed white and some gold thread, "Tell that to Du Maurier. He likes his work being praised."

"By a god," Athrun said nastily, "Yes, he does."

A haro hit him squarely in the face.

"He likes Cagalli too," Kira said slyly, rolling the blue, un-throwed haro in his two hands as he surveyed Athrun who was holding off the pink one and looking carefully at it to see its condition over the past decade or so. At this, Athrun started up and said pointedly, "She never told me she had a fan who was insane and a bit touched in the head."

"Well, she does," Kira pointed out, flapping the haro's ears aimlessly, back and forth, "And he told me that he thinks that she's remarkably handsome."

"Just like how you're beautiful," Athrun mocked, and another haro hit him in the face. Grinning, he threw them back at Kira who caught them, one in his hands, one that settled nicely in his lap. He reached down and scratched his foot a little; the ebony toe-socks were a bit itchy.

"You know, Athrun," Kira said carefully, lolling the haros here and there as he observed his best friend reclining, "She loves you very much."

"You really think so?" Athrun started to say bitterly, but he stopped himself and nodded in response. His smile was tight.

Kira, thankfully, left it at that, and proceeded to doze off, as Athrun did the same.

Exactly four hours later, Athrun's secretary came in, without knocking, and studied two very handsome men in their attires, one peacefully dozing on a bed, one quietly nodding to himself. And she hurriedly woke them up, although she had paused to admire them for about two minutes, yelling hastily, "The car's here!"

They started up and stood up, stretching about and picking lint of their clothes. Du Maurier would have been horrified, Athrun thought dully with a grin, and saw that Kira was thinking the same as he straightened himself.

His secretary was going as a gypsy, hence the rather risqué show of flesh and the circlets of gold around her. At least, Athrun noted staring at her, she was wearing a full gown-skirt although it was admittedly very short in the front with hanging gold coins down the hem with deep emerald scarves. All Athrun could think about was that he was glad she would not be in the car he and Kira were designated to with a separate driver, she was tiresome enough as herself, let alone the rather hapless gypsy from the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

"You don't like her?" Kira asked cluelessly, once they were in the car and out of earshot.

"I'd like to cast her leg in the iron shoe and tighten it to break it like Esmerelda's foot sometimes," Athrun replied grimly.

They arrived amidst wild applause and immediate recognition of who they were, even though neither of them broke their silence. The entire arena around them was terribly noisy, and Athrun was willing to bet that he couldn't hear himself think. They stood graciously for a few photographs, well, not a few, and then retreated into the castle-like opera theatre and proceeded up a few staircases to stand above the crowd and observe safely.

The guests were coming up the stairs into the theatre, and they were ushered in by two men each and a sea of cameras, but thankfully, Athrun thought as he endured the blinding flashes everywhere, the rest of the guests would have to bear with these too, especially the more well-know, key figures. The common ZAFT soldier would simply enjoy a glamorous night of theatre, fine dining, and to see and to be seen in an event like this.

And then Athrun became aware that Kira was tugging at his arm and pointing to someone, and he turned to see Barty Robin, Meyrin and presumably their colleague arriving. Barty looked ridiculously bubbly in his bottle-green suit and top hat, their colleague looked like the rabbit except like what Meyrin had said, she looked distinctively female and something out of a men's magazine but only with a full train, and Meyrin looking very fresh and pretty as Alice.

He called out to her and she hurried over, her eyes wide with excitement and the novelty of being at something as high-profile and well-covered as this. Some bodyguards looked concerned, but they kept staring at Meyrin and were quite male, so Athrun assumed it was natural.

"You look pretty tonight," he told her smilingly, and she grinned unaffectedly and said, "So do you."

Kira studied her politely, Meyrin was dressed in a sky blue gown with its hem made entirely out of cream and white lace that tapered short to the front, giving her the traditional Alice outfit with its pinafore except that this was an updated, quirky gown. Her feet had large black bows tied to them, as did a large one sitting on her hair, and her red hair was very striking in the ensemble.

"Commander Yamato!" Barty exclaimed, running up to them like an excited young boy, "You look fantastic! Like a god!"

Kira paled and Athrun laughed.

The cameras were snapping like hungry crocodiles, but at least it wasn't just them. The politicians were arriving from everywhere; it was almost like a movie premier but more prolific, less gossipy, and even more highly anticipated. The cameras weren't the only things flashing, the jewels the women wore and some of the men even, were blinding and some worth millions. There were crowds of people gathering and trying to force their way into the theatre, but the guards kept them back in case a better look at the key figures of the political and military scene meant a gun or two and a few brains blown out and a few assassinations to mark the event.

"Why don't you go in?" Meyrin asked curiously, tilting her head and studying them, her friend remained tongue-tied at seeing them both, and she was staring openly at Athrun for reasons he did not want to think about to much.

"We're waiting for Lacus and Cagalli," Kira explained politely, "But don't wait for us, I'm sure there are plenty of others waiting for you as well."

He gestured to the side and a few men who Athrun barely recognized were gawking at Meyrin. She laughed, a clean and bright sound that scythed through the thick layer of conversation, greetings and laughter and applause as people stepped out of the cars and hurried after Barty who was speaking to the minister of finance.

They stood at the side of the entrance, glad that nobody would notice them now that they were out of the foray of the arriving guests, having arrived themselves already, and spotted. From the high window of the side tower they stood at, Ezalia Joule sweeping out in dazzling white, heavy sapphires and silver adorning her neck, wrist and gown with the white fur muff and a tiny crystal crown the Snow Queen was expected to have, and Athrun thought wryly, house arrest long forgotten. The crowds were cheering and she was immediately kissed by some key figures of PLANT and someone led her in.

She ignored most of the crowds, very in tune with her character as the Snow Queen, but then it was nothing less than what Athrun would expect.As she glided in, she noticed Athrun and Kira and smiled very politely, but they knew she was a force to be reckoned with.

Dearka came by their stairway, dressed as a wild pirate with sweeping feathers in his grand hat and a grin from ear to ear. "You would have thought they'd be more interested in political alliances than an event like this," he remarked cheerfully to both of them as he passed them by on the landing, "But no, they like seeing us like this."

He moved off, whistling merrily and causing a few girls at the side to stare appreciatively.

When Yzak Joule marched out in deep sepia and blood-reds, a few fine falcon feathers pinned in his hat as the scarlet of his cloak gleamed engimatically as a Falconer, the crowds exploded into screams complying to their appreciation and applauded like people who couldn't control their hands. It was getting darker already, and the camera flashers were still getting brighter in the darkening of the evening.

And then he paused, bowing to the person who was stepping out, and proceeded to lead Shiho Hahenfuss out. The world became an explosion of noise and cheers and Athrun noted with some cheek, that the rumors that Yzak Joule liked men more than women were finally being squashed to a pulp.

Shiho passed by them and she smiled a little stiffly at Athrun who saluted. She started to do so, but thought better of it and offered her hand for him, and grinned sheepishly as he obligingly took it. And Yzak snatched it off and kissed it instead and said snappishly to him, "Hands off, Zala!"

They grinned at each other and punched each the opposite on the shoulder. It looked strange, an English aristocrat punching a very striking Falconer and then being socked in return while a Japanese man or rather, Kira who was decked in that attire, and Shiho, in a deep scarlet gown with emblems of gold and auburn feathers of a phoenix, started exchanging tips about improving operational systems. In no time, they moved off to meet Ezalia Joule.

From their little corner at the side balcony of the theatre, they watched car after car move up to the steps, bearing the most important figures of the day from EA, ORB, and PLANT.

The two men watched the arrivals silently; a glittering water serpent, a Russian princess they recognised as Eileen Canaver, a few eighteenth century English court jesters who juggled the crowds and the high-ranking officials who spoke to them, a few regal Belgium Emperors who graciously accepted that their costumes were of the same central theme, a few Shakespearean characters, a couple of European vampires that were from ORB's financial cabinet, a troupe of gypsies, including Athrun's secretary, ministrels who were really ministers, some beautifully dressed Flamenco dancers, a Mona Lisa and some other well known characters of famous paintings, a few miscellaneous Greek and Scandinavian gods, some Roman soldiers, various types of mythical animals and birds, a mermaid or two with fish tails hanging from their sparkling gowns, and strangely enough, a Lacus Clyne.

"Weird," Kira said curiously, I never thought she'd be a subject of fancy-dress."

Athrun merely smirked.

And then as they watched, a car amidst all those piling up approached, and he glanced at Kira and nodded. They knew which car it was.

And they raced down the spiraling staircase into the navy and royal purple of the evening and stood at the steps as the Mediator of PLANT and the Supreme Commander of ORB stepped out. The air ignited into applause, wild, uncontrollable and screams of delight, and both men could see why.

The other key figures were gathering around the two newly arrived like courtiers around their queens, and figuratively, this was the case. Lacus, resplendent in a beautiful plum colored gown with a kimono collar adorned with imprints of nightingale on her large, furisode, swinging sleeves, all a perfect compliment to Kira's. She paused, beaming politely at the reporters and the cameras, her beauty epic and her hair pulled up and strung with gold pieces to mimic a bird's plumage.

The photographers were taking in every inch of her appearance, and Athrun thought humouredly, that Du Maurier would be pleased. Her skirt was bell-shaped in the Western tradition, pure white and quaintly held by golden rims that cascaded and entrapped the material, cage-like in mimicry of the legendary bird of the Japanese folklore, the Emperor's Nightingale. The cameras were moving around them like sharks around some sort of prey, but she fended them well, turning just slightly for all cameras to catch a glimpse of her while Cagalli remained hidden by the crowd of people shaking her hand and congratulating her on her recent achievements and that sort of polite protocol.

But Athrun knew better. They wanted to be close to her, to touch her soft hand as she stood and Kira led Lacus away, both of them railed by cameras that were desperately trying to fix them both in the same picture as they smiled comfortably at each other. Only then did Athun's voice return to him as he called out, "Cagalli!"

And it seemed that the entire world turned to him, and the faces he could not see, surrounding her, fell away to reveal Cagalli Yula Atha.

She looked at him, smiling shyly, and his breath caught and stuck somewhere as all of those who had seen her. 'It wasn't fair,' he thought enviously, 'that they saw her before he did.'

The crowds had seen the ORB Princess, her torso clothed in milky-pearl white silk that started a mere inches above her bossom and tapered down to her feet, darkening, rusting to a soft grey, like liquid metal that was malled into a gown with a voluminous satin-grey train and exquisite embroidery of flat, tasteful black thorns around the hem trailing up to her abdomen in inky black. And a collar of metal which was reminiscent of the armour collar rested on her neck. The arch of her collarbones were left tantalisingly bare, and he had to fight the urge to caress each one with his fingertips and lips, her arms were tasseled with silver chains acting as straps caressing shoulders, each leading to a mail gauntlet glove on each hand. And a blinding sword was hanging around her waist, saddled in by a soft brown leather belt with a distinctively medieval pattern. Her blonde hair had been unadorned, save for a very delicate bouquet arranged behind one year with trailing black ribbons. Joan D'Arc.

And now, Athrun Zala saw her and wondered why he had let her go in the first place.

He found himself on bent knee, kissing her hand gallantly as a courtier would, and when he stood, loud cries of approval and immediate, deafening applause erupted out everwhere again, his ears were ringing with the applause, but the cameras did not bother him anymore than a slight flash of fire would.

As he led her away with him, he jolted back to where they were, and one reporter was gesturing wildly and the cameras were focused on her hand, or more specifially, ring finger, that he could see, an a rising ire swept up in him as he watched them as they tried to force their way forward for a better view of it. She looked unsteadily at him, and said awkwardly, "I-,"

She had removed his ring a long time since then, she hadn't worn it tonight either. But he cared little for this, he cared more that the reporters were hounding upon them and closing in like a pack of noisy, laughing hyenas with snarling jaws, and he paused and took something out of his own pocket. It wasn't as beautiful as the ruby he had given her, but it would suffice now, his own simple band of silver, and he raised her hand and slid it very securely on her finger, almost as if claiming her again.

"You're ready now," He said calmly, watching her eyes grow wide with surprise and the glint of silver on her finger. It had no blood-coloured ruby, but she would be his even then, and he ignored the sputters from the media, as if he had robbed them of a column of gossip filled articles that were being planned to fill the front pages of the newspapers. He smirked, thinking sardonically, 'I guess I did.'

"What are you smirking about?" She whispered, suddenly insecure in the place where all the eyes were fixed on her. She wanted to run and hide, she wasn't used to being like this, even though she had thought she could have handled it after being in the limelight for so many years after the war.

"Nothing," He lied.

The sounds of the world were being left far behind, it was muting into some faraway waterfall as the sweeping strings of the orchestra resounded louder and louder as they moved forward, his hand firm around hers.

Only Cagalli and he existed in this world from that moment onward.