by Lorena
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing is the property of Bandai Enterprises. All characters are used solely for the purpose of entertainment and not profit.
Notes: Looks like the Donger and Farmer Ted do get their chance, after all. ^^
For fablespinner.
By the time Quatre found Iria, the boy’s system had shut itself down—a protective move, one could say, done to ensure the brain’s survival. Things seemed to have gone from bad to grotesque well within a twenty-four hour period, and it was all Quatre could do to wander the winding hallways of the sprawling Winner house in a stupefied daze, hoping for the handful of aspirin pills he’d just taken to do their wonders.
Iria, as it happened, was in the dining room, looking on the verge of madness. She sat at the table, her head in her hands, her hair disheveled and resembling a gigantic cotton ball that had just been picked at, a stupendously large (and conspicuously empty) margarita glass just within arm’s reach. The young woman was poring over a little stack of papers, which Quatre could only guess to be somehow related to the dreaded wedding.
The boy hesitated as he stood at the doorway, peering in. But he had questions that simply needed to be answered, so he drew in a deep breath and knocked quietly though resolutely, effectively shattering his harried sister’s attention.
Iria glanced up, momentarily startled. “Yes, Quatre, what is it?” she asked. Her tone had lost its usual tender lilt; she spoke with an abruptness that sounded far too alien for comfort.
The boy stepped in.
“I just wanted to know—um…”
His sister stared at him for several seconds, the expression on her face practically indescribable. “What?”
“Well…” Quatre paused as he tried to turn words over in his mind. There wasn’t any easier way to convey what he needed his sister to know, he quickly realized. No, in this case, he simply needed to adhere to facts. So he did. “The thing is that I just saw a Chinese guy in the spare bedroom, and I wondered if he might be some kind of long-lost cousin. Is there something you guys aren’t telling me?”
Iria blinked and looked utterly lost for a while, and after what felt to be a very excruciating eternity, she finally spoke. “Oh. That’s Wufei Chang. He’s an exchange student who’s visiting with Uncle Qaseem.”
“Ah. I see.”
Silence fell on brother and sister for a brief, disjointed moment.
“Oh, no.” Quatre’s jaw dropped at the sudden realization. “He hasn’t met Katrina yet, has he?”
“I doubt it.” Iria’s gaze changed from weary confusion to mild indignation. “Quatre,” she quickly pursued, “nothing’s going to happen to the boy, all right? Wufei’s a scholar. He’s smart. He’s extremely serious and balanced, and he’s got a pretty strong set of principles. I really doubt if Katrina’s going to make a dent in him.”
Quatre shook his head vehemently. “Are you kidding? She’d have him drunk or stoned within an hour of meeting him! Uncle Qaseem shouldn’t have taken him along in the first place!”
“Will you stop worrying? He’s going to be fine! Good grief, Quatre, give him some credit here! I’ve met him, and he’s not the kind to take crap from anybody. Look, I’ll bet you a pizza dinner that Katrina and her happy brownies don’t stand a chance against this kid.”
Two voices suddenly invaded the conversation, and Quatre turned to look at the doorway. As though on cue, the aforementioned paragon of virtue appeared, and close behind him sauntered Katrina in all her tie-dyed and dreadlocked glory. She grinned, glassy-eyed, and waved at her siblings.
“Dudes,” she drawled. “Got any chocolate on you?”
Wufei Chang regarded Quatre and Iria in placid silence. He was, indeed, every bit the magnificent scholarly type about whom the Winner girl had boasted. He stood at about the same height as Quatre, his well-pressed dress shirt and slacks signifying good taste and a careful attention to detail, his tightly pulled hair indicating an almost ascetic brand of discipline. His features were magnificently calm and vaguely thoughtful—as though his mind lost itself in its intricate workings even when he was at rest.
Quatre was forced to concede. “Wow,” he muttered, glancing at Iria. “I’m impressed.”
Katrina suddenly and playfully gave Wufei a nudge. “Go on,” she urged. “Don’t be shy. Say hello to them.”
Wufei blinked as though being suddenly jarred from his thoughts. He then shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the doorframe (stumbling a little as he did), a lopsided grin suddenly breaking out, his eyes rapidly glazing over. “What’s happening, hot stuff?” he slurred, and Katrina flashed them a peace sign.
Quatre glanced at his wristwatch. “Forty-eight minutes since Uncle Qaseem got here, Iria. You owe me a garden pesto pizza. Thick crust.”
How Quatre had managed to escape what happened next, the boy didn’t know. All he did know (other than the sound of a raging Iria thoroughly chewing out a half-stoned Katrina) was standing in the dining room, gaping in stunned disbelief at their foreign guest one minute and then standing in the middle of Lavinia’s bedroom the next minute. An obscene amount of clothes was hanging off his arms, shoulders, and head, and he could barely see through the satin material that draped over his face. It was all he could do to stand, unmoving, and hold a conversation with his sister as she ran about in a frenzy, tearing her hair out over which dress to wear that evening.
In brief, she’d just caught her brother in the hallway, dragged him into her room, and proceeded to use him as a human coat rack, seeing as how her bed was completely buried under boxes and boxes of jewelry, accessories, shoes, and makeup. Blouses, skirts, slacks, and scarves were tossed on him with every negative decision she made. And it looked as though she wasn’t going to be making up her mind anytime soon.
Quatre sighed as he listened to Lavinia curse and complain her way through the wardrobe decision-making process. All the same, the boy couldn’t help but feel as though this was a good moment for both of them. After all, Lavinia had never been close to him and in fact had always treated him like an unnecessary nuisance, shrugging him off or simply ignoring him whenever he happened to be in her presence. As a teenager, she’d protested passionately against babysitting her little brother, making good her threats by picking him up, carrying him off to the nearby field, and dumping the squalling child in the middle of some rather itchy weeds, sailor suit, teddy bear, and all.
Quatre had since blamed her for recurring nightmares involving gigantic flesh-eating pods.
Conversations were uncommon experiences for brother and sister, limited by and large to bland greetings and smart-alecky exchanges, in which one simply refused to be outdone by the other. Quatre kept tabs on their scores, and as it stood, they were both tied, a situation that seemed destined to remain fixed that way.
Quatre then was the “rash-inducing blond spore”, while Lavinia was the “uterine contraction on two legs”—appellations that would be recorded in the family annals for posterity and the entertainment of generations to come.
All the same, with his sister leaving the family so soon, Quatre thought that he ought to take advantage of what little time they had left, regardless of their ongoing verbal sparring. And if he had to do so while enduring this new brand of humiliation, so be it.
“So—Lavinia,” he began, his voice muffled under the woman’s designer pile. “If in case I’ve never said this before, congratulations on your wedding.”
“I don’t remember if you did. Thanks,” she panted, rushing past him and making some of the fabric dangling in his eyes flap lightly in her wake.
“I hope you and Michael will be happy.”
“Of course we will!”
The boy hesitated as he pondered his next move. He felt as though he were about to explode, his mind and his chest swelling rapidly at the ongoing burden of his current personal situation. It was one thing to confide everything to Dorothy, of course, but as his friend, she realistically could only offer him so much support. At the moment, what he thought he needed the most was the ready ear and shoulder of family, which was now proving to be more and more difficult to come by.
“Do you mind if I ask your advice on something?” he presently queried, feeling another blouse thrown over his arms.
“Look, Quatre, I really don’t have time for this,” Lavinia brusquely replied. “I’m set to have dinner with Michael and his family, with Dad and Iria coming along. I can’t find a damned outfit to wear. Why don’t you go and corner someone else?”
“Well—I just thought that you might be able to help out since you’re the only one in this family in a serious relationship.”
Lavinia sighed impatiently. “What about Iria?”
“Too busy working over last minute stuff for your wedding.”
“Olivia?”
“She hasn’t come back from her Wiccan retreat yet.”
“Katrina?”
“Probably out shopping for a new bong.”
“Paulina?”
“In the university library as usual.”
“Esmeralda?”
“At her therapist’s—with her dogs.”
“Tsk!”
Quatre fell silent, feeling the earlier wave of bitterness return with greater force. From where he stood, even with all the layers of clothes hanging from him, he could hear all the activity going on throughout the massive house. Guests walked to and fro, their voices raised in friendly conversation. Staff hurried about, busily dispensing their duties and satisfying their employers’ every whim in between chores and errands. Family members—those who were present, at any rate—bustled around, each lost in her own agenda. Mr. Winner himself was catching up with his siblings and wasn’t about to be free for some much-desired father-son moment anytime soon.
Quatre was surrounded by so many people—so much life. And yet the boy couldn’t help but feel all too keenly his isolation from the rest of the world.
“Lavinia, do you remember what day it is today?” he blurted out, bile lacing every word.
“Oh, spare me the games.”
“No, really. Do you?”
The boy’s sister let out a little yelp of pain. The sound of heavy furniture suddenly being jarred from its place indicated that Lavinia had bumped into it—possibly stubbed a toe against it.
“Damnit!” she cried. “Of all the—today’s Friday, Quatre! Friday! Plain, boring, uneventful Friday! All right?”
The boy nodded and shrugged. “All right.”
It didn’t take much effort for Quatre to convince his family that he needed to go to that evening’s dance at his school. His aunts and uncles, at least, were delighted with his willingness to bring Wufei along and to introduce him to his friends. Of course, Quatre had to make sure that the initial effects of Katrina’s happy brownies had dissipated before taking the Chinese student along. He was very grateful that Wufei merely sampled a small amount—the effects might have been palpable, but they didn’t linger long, and by the time the dance began, he was quite himself again.
The two boys met Dorothy at the door, and Quatre promptly introduced them.
“Pleasure, I’m sure,” Dorothy remarked lazily as she eyed the newcomer with vague interest.
Her haughty detachment seemed to strike a chord, and Wufei cocked an eyebrow at her, returning her look with one of calm derision. Quatre winced as he caught the subtle exchange between them. No, this was not a promising beginning.
“So, Winner,” the girl presently said, turning her attention to him. “Are you going to be asking Barton for a dance?”
Quatre flushed. “No! What are you talking about?”
“Quatre, I’ve been watching the dance floor since I got here. I’m counting four gay couples out there, and no one’s raised a fuss over them.”
“Trowa’s not gay, Dorothy.”
“Neither am I, but I’d dance with whomever asks me.”
Quatre merely shook his head and moved forward, only barely taking notice of Wufei suddenly (and rather curtly) offering his arm to a startled Dorothy, who took it in spite of her amazement and usual disinclination to be chaperoned about. The trio entered the main gym, pausing once they reached one side of the massive area. There they all watched the students as they moved in time with the music that blared from the dj platform across the way.
Quatre’s gaze skimmed over the crowd, and he half-dreaded, half-hoped to find Trowa Barton busy with his date. He knew all too well how much it would sting to see the other boy lost in an intimate conversation with Une, but observing the happy couple as they went about their business had the excruciatingly irresistible pull of a train wreck, and the boy found himself helplessly yearning for a glimpse of that which he’d long known to be well beyond his reach.
And sure enough, after several minutes of squinting through the dimmed lights and the never-ending movement around him, he finally spotted Trowa and Une dancing in each other’s arms, moving languidly in time with the slow, romantic music currently being played. Even from where he stood, even with all the intervening figures of dancing youngsters that occasionally blocked his view, he thought he could see every detail there was to be seen.
He watched the way Trowa bowed his head against his partner’s, the way he rested his cheek against Une’s hair. He saw the dip of Trowa’s bangs, which only added deeper shadows to his features. He saw the way the taller boy’s arms were wrapped around his partner’s waist, the way his hands rested against the small of her back almost possessively. Trowa’s lean figure, encased in a smart suit that must have cost the near-penniless boy an obscene amount of money, shifted gracefully with the music, strength and power lying quiescent beneath understated cotton and silk.
All thoughts of Dorothy or Wufei had long gone clean out of his head as he stood there, mesmerized and awe-struck and heartbroken. And around him, students conversed and laughed and danced.
A small elite clique—that is, the brightest members of the science and math clubs—had laid claim to a part of the eastern wall of the gym, from where they could observe the goings on in detached amusement. Within that group, someone had brought an illicit pack of smokes, and the youngsters were passing around a lit cigarette, taking quick, furtive puffs and enjoying the experience.
“You’re all a bunch of criminals,” Heero Yuy noted dryly as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed on his chest. He’d been regarding his companions for some time now, bemused and at a loss.
“Carpe diem, Yuy.” Hilde Schbeiker wrinkled her nose at her friend before taking another puff and surrendering the offensive instrument to the source of her evening’s biggest vice. “You live only once, and I’m not about to blow my chances.”
“Ignore him,” another boy said, taking the cigarette from her, his gaze not once leaving the crowd. “He’s just bitter and repressed.” He stuck it in his mouth and expertly blew little rings of smoke as though he’d been doing this all his life.
“Bitter and repressed, my ass. Unlike you, Maxwell, I don’t plan to get kicked out of school and blow my chances of getting into MIT.” Heero paused as he glanced around. “I’m actually surprised that no one’s snitched on you yet. This corner reeks cigarette smoke.”
“That’s because everyone else is too busy taking hits, sneaking drinks, or making out,” Duo Maxwell replied a little absently as he strained his eyes and stood on tiptoes, his efforts at scanning the crowd growing more emphatic. He fell silent for a second or two as he craned his neck and turned his head, his cigarette dangling from his mouth. His eyes brightened, and a grin broke out. “There!”
“Where?” Hilde quickly followed his pointing finger. “Oh, yeah! I see him!”
“Duo, he’s out of your league,” Heero noted without once moving from his spot—or changing the tone of his voice. “Give it up.”
Duo turned around and regarded his friend incredulously. He didn’t even notice Hilde reaching out and quickly swiping the cigarette from his mouth and claiming it for her own, sinking back into the shadows with a sigh of contentment as she puffed away. “Dude, there’s no such thing as being out of anyone’s league,” he declared with a little smirk, “unless you believe it.”
Heero cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? Are you saying that you’ve got just as good a chance as a hotshot millionaire in getting Quatre Winner to go with you?”
“Of course.”
“Talk about delusions of grandeur here.”
Duo snorted. “You think so, huh?”
“Yes, I do. Duo, he’s up here, and you’re down there. See the social difference?”
“Fuck classism. I can’t believe you even buy that shit, Yuy.”
Heero shrugged. “Fact of life, Maxwell. No matter what you say or where you go, money talks.”
“He’s baiting you, Duo,” Hilde laughed from her spot.
“No, no, he’s got something to prove, and so do I.” Duo’s grin broadened as he stepped toward Heero. He paused before the other boy, who remained impassive throughout the exchange. “What do you say?”
“What do I say to what?”
“I’ll bet you ten rewriteable CDs that Quatre Winner and I will…”
“CDs are passé,” Heero quickly broke in, narrowing his eyes at his friend, a small, expectant smile forming.
Duo watched him for a moment in amused silence. “All right then, what’s your suggestion?”
Heero and Hilde exchanged glances before dissolving in quiet, conspiratorial laughter.
Quatre continued to watch Trowa, savoring the masochistic pleasure that could only be had in observing one’s crush in an intimate moment with his partner. He thought he heard Dorothy say something to him, but he could have been mistaken.
He glanced over his shoulder and found himself alone, both Dorothy and Wufei having abandoned him, but none of that sank fully into his mind. He turned his attention back to the dancers, only to find Trowa staring back at him with a look of curiosity mildly tinged with guilt.
Quatre, finally roused from his meditative state, felt the blood drain away from him at the realization that he’d just been caught gawking, and he quickly turned and walked off, his face burning.
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