[gw fic] Misguided Angels 3/3
Misguided Angels
Fandom: Gundam Wing
Rating: PG-13
Ships: Trowa/Quatre, Zechs/Noin, Duo/Hilde, Wufei/Sally
Summary: Desperate to prove that he isn't in love with his best friend, Quatre gets flirty with Lucrezia Noin and ends up on the double date from hell.
A/N: This part is approx. 4,900 words. Possibly of interest: in the original outline, Wufei had a crush on Duo. I changed it because I thought that would be too sad and because his secret adoration of Sally was fun to write.
Part One
Part Two
The sun had set an hour ago, but the faint afterglow of twilight still lingered in the sky, tinting shadows deepest purple and dusting the undersides of the few clouds warm magenta. The city was twinkling to life; a few tiny golden lights winked on like fireflies against the dark buildings, then more, until finally it seemed as though the city lights were the reflections of billions of stars in a vast black ocean. Threads of music began to filter through the air from all directions as bars and dance clubs opened, and the smells from restaurants and street venders were carried on the crisp, glittering night breeze. The sounds of the day turned to the sounds of the evening as groups of kids began to gather on street corners with their radios, and street performers staked out their plazas and began to draw crowds. People hurried about in couples and groups, taxis screeched, and the long silver line of the monorail flashed above the city like a snake.
There was a small park outside the Preventers' Headquarters. From where he stood by the park entrance, waiting for Noin, Quatre could see most of uptown spread out before him like a giant switchboard. He felt very far removed from the view for some reason. Fortunately, he did not have long to wait and wonder at his loneliness. He heard the click of heels on the sidewalk behind him, then Noin's soft, slightly husky voice said, “Admiring your handiwork? All this is because of what you Gundam pilots did, you know. Earth wouldn't have beautiful cities to be enjoyed if you hadn't fought as hard as you did. You should be proud.”
Quatre smiled and turned to tell her she had as much reason to be proud as he did-but his voice caught in his throat the moment he saw her.
Noin had always been beautiful whether she wore her gym sweats or her military uniform. Tonight she wore a dress Quatre had never seen before. It was of crushed velvet the same deep, twilight color of her eyes, modestly short, and clung perfectly to her graceful, lissome form. Beyond the dress, though, there was something about her, some sparkle Quatre had never seen before. She hadn't styled her hair differently, her makeup was not heavy, although her lips shimmered soft pink, and she wasn't wearing any jewelry besides the little diamond studs in her ears. Light from a nearby streetlamp glanced off her black leather jacket and her high, aristocratic cheekbones and seemed to illuminate her figure. The smile that she was giving him was gentle, a little shy, but completely free of any worry or regret. She was truly, truly stunning and Quatre decided then and there that after himself, Zechs Merquise was the world's biggest idiot.
When he could speak again he stammered, “Miss Noin, you look-beautiful.”
Her smiled deepened and her cheeks dusted rose. “Thank you. I guess I got a little excited about an evening out with a new guy. You look wonderful, too, Quatre.”
It was his turn to blush. “Thanks. I, er, I got these for you.”
“Oh, Quatre.” She held the bright yellow and white bouquet to her nose and inhaled softly. “No roses. You remembered. They're so beautiful. Thank you.” And before he knew what she was doing, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek.
He stumbled back a pace, blushing furiously. “Miss Noin-I-I'm not-I told you-”
“I know, Quatre. I'm sorry. Well-I'm not sorry I kissed you.” A mischievous dimple flashed in her cheek. “I know we're going as friends, though. I won't do anything else. Well, I'll try not to,” she added and her dimple deepened.
“Miss Noin...”
“Quatre, my name is Lucrezia.” She looked at him pointedly. “We've known each other for three years; please call me by my first name.”
He sighed. “You're asking a lot of me, you know.”
“I know, I ask SO much of you. Compliment my dress, enjoy a concert, split a cab fare, call me by my first name. Oh, and SMILE, Quatre.”
He wasn't going to last the evening if she kept up like this. She was altogether TOO good. He dredged up a smile. If he could just keep his face frozen in this expression...if he could just not think about anything...just for a few hours...
When she seemed satisfied, he said, “Oh, Miss-er, Lucrezia, we don't need a cab. I took care of it, already.” He gestured down the block to where the limousine waited, sleek and black as the night itself. Behind the steering wheel Abdul lifted his fez in salute.
Noin's eyes widened and a surprised smile touched her lips. “Oh, wow. Oh, Quatre.”
He shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I thought it would be nice.”
“The royal treatment. The hell with Zechs.” She grinned at him. “Sorry. I'm not going to think about him for the rest of the night. I'm with you. And you're with me. Shall we?” She offered him her arm.
“I'M supposed to do that,” he chided her and bumped her elbow with his own. She wrapped her arm around his and leaned against him slightly.
Abdul leaped out of the limo to help them in. Once they were settled and Abdul had resumed his seat behind the wheel, Quatre began to feel jumpy again. He gazed out the window at the passing streets, tried not to inhale Noin's delicate perfume, and tried not to think about Trowa and Sally.
“Hey.” Noin's cool fingers pressed his hand gently and he almost jumped. He turned to give her a wan smile.
“I'm sorry.”
“It'll be okay.” The pressure of her fingers and the sweet smile were meant to reassure him. He tried to relax and put on a happy face - for her. But in his heart he knew it was an act and nothing either of them could do could ward off the fast-approaching disaster.
“I know a trick! Watch this, watch this.” Sally turned to glare at Trowa sharply. She waggled a finger. “Now, Trowa-don't smile! Don't you DARE smile!”
Sure enough, first one, then the other corner of Trowa's mouth, quirked upward into a small, slightly reluctant smile.
Sally raised her eyebrows imperiously across the table at Noin and Quatre, who bowed their heads in acknowledgement of her superior skill. Then she tossed her head back so that her tawny curls splashed her back like a wave, and coyly sipped her beer.
Even Quatre had to admit she was radiant. Unbound, her long hair bounced about her shoulders in waves of burnished gold, making her appear very leonine. The brilliant emerald of her high-necked tank top brought out the vivid blue of her charcoal-lined eyes. Her cheeks were flushed and perspiration glistened along her neck and her bare shoulders. She looked, Quatre thought glumly, as though she had had a marvelous time dancing.
Why had he sent Abdul home after he'd dropped them off at the pub? Then he could have made his excuses-said he wasn't feeling well, which was very true-and fled. But he'd had such a nice time at the concert with Miss Noin that he'd been lulled into a false sense of security. The concert had been great, and Miss Noin had been better. She truly loved music, as he did, and they'd talked animatedly over drinks during the intermission, about favorite composers, singers, and performances. They had never really seen one another outside of work, so he had never gotten to know her as anything besides a Preventer. She was delightful. She was very shrewd, and funny, and so kind. He knew she was trying to distract him, but he appreciated it. Everything would be fine, he had decided. And everything WAS fine until they arrived at the pub to find Trowa and Sally already inside, waiting for them, drinks in hand. The happy, comfortable look on Trowa's face as he sat there beside Sally, had thumped into Quatre with such force that had Noin not been holding his arm, he'd have bolted.
Trowa must have noticed the uncomfortable look on Quatre's face because he asked politely, “How was the concert?”
Quatre, jolted out of his misery, began to stammer, but Noin jumped in and rescued him. “It was wonderful! Well, Quatre insists one of the violins was flat, but I couldn't tell.” She elbowed him playfully.
“He WAS,” Quatre insisted.
“-But at the end they did this suite from Carmen which was just heavenly. Well, the tenor and the soprano didn't do much for either of us, but the mezzo was amazing. And the baritone...what a voice! And besides that, he was rather good-looking.” She sighed. “I think we both had a crush on him by the end of the Toreador Song!”
Quatre kicked Noin's ankle under the table. What in the world was she doing? Trowa was looking at him curiously.
Luckily, Sally put in, leaning forward on her elbows, “Granted I haven't seen much in the way of opera, but it's been my observation that certain physical types tend to go with certain voices. Am I right? I mean, most of the tenors I've seen were these short, round little guys, while the basses and baritones were all pretty tall, and decently built.”
“I think it depends a little on the kind of opera,” Noin said. “You get different physical types for lyric and grand opera, right, Quatre?”
Quatre nodded absently. Sally shrugged. “I'm not what you'd call musically inclined.”
At that Trowa made a small sound of derision. “Don't believe her. Anyone who can dance as well as she does has to be musically inclined.”
Sally grinned and wrapped an arm around Trowa's slender shoulders. She bent toward Quatre and Noin and said in a conspiratorial manner, “That's quite a compliment coming from Marcel Marceau, over here. Let me tell you: THIS one can really shake it.”
Trowa blushed and looked down at the table, but he was obviously pleased.
Quatre said, suddenly decisive, “I think I want a drink.” He glanced at Noin. “Would you like anything, Miss Lucrezia?”
“I'd love a gin and tonic. Do you want me to come with you?”
“No thanks. I can do it on my own.”
Sally caught his sleeve as he stood up. “I'm just going to lay one rule on you, Quatre. And don't worry-it's the same rule I laid on Trowa and he proved himself admirably. The rule is this: you have to order your drink yourself, and you have to be able to say the name without blushing.”
Quatre shrugged away. “Can I get YOU anything?”
Sally rested her chin on her fist and blinked her blue eyes up at him innocently. “Now that you mention it, I'd love another Screaming Orgasm.” At his look of utter horror she burst out laughing. “Quatre, I was kidding! No, I promise I didn't mean it. Don't look like that. I'm sorry. Just get me a pint of Harps.”
Quatre clenched his fist at his side. “What about you?” he asked Trowa.
“I'm good.”
“Fine.” Quatre turned and stalked through the smoke-filled pub toward to bar. The pub was crowded. Sweaty bodies pressed against him and he stepped on a number of toes, mumbling apologies. The smoke made his eyes smart and the dim lighting made his head hurt. He felt as though he were being suffocated. When he reached the bar he pressed himself against it and clung to its side to hold himself up. He peered through the smoke at the chalkboard above the bar-and almost fell over when he read some of the names of drinks scrawled there. Sally's joke had been bad, but he realized now it could have been much, much worse. He didn't even know what some of those words meant. What in the world was IN a-he couldn't say the name, even in his mind.
“What can I get you?”
Quatre stared blankly at the woman behind the bar.
She frowned. “Hey, can I see some ID, kid?”
Quatre began to fumble in his pocket for his wallet. His hands were sweaty and kept slipping on the leather. When he finally produced his drivers' license and handed it to the woman he was trembling. The woman glanced at the license for a long moment, then warily back at his face, before sighing and returning it to him. “Uh, sorry, Mr. Winner. What can I get you?”
Quatre's mouth felt dry. “Umm...what's a Long Island Iced Tea?”
“You don't want that,” a soft voice said in his ear. “It has eight shots in it. Try a Bailey's.”
Quatre glanced up at Trowa and felt a flood of gratitude warm him. Trowa smiled, making Quatre's heart flutter wildly. He glanced from the bartender to Trowa and back, uncertainly. “Go ahead.”
“Umm...I'll have a pint of-er, Baileys'. A gin and tonic. And a pint of Harps.”
“Make that a shot of Baileys'. And some nachos,” Trowa put in. “Sally decided she's hungry,” he explained, leaning against the bar.
“You look as though you had a good time,” Quatre said accusingly.
“I did.”
“She's really something, I guess?”
“She's great,” Trowa said noncommittally.
Quatre sighed. “I'm glad, Trowa.”
Trowa frowned. “Are YOU all right, Quatre? Is it too smoky in here? We could go outside for a minute...”
“I'm fine,” he snapped. He didn't mean to snap. Trowa's inquiry was polite concern for a friend. And Quatre couldn't ruin his evening with Sally. “I'm fine,” he said. “Just fine.”
But he wasn't. If things had been getting fairly bad since Monday afternoon, they at last decided to take the final plunge and were hurtling downward toward certain doom at a breakneck speed while Quatre watched and tried not to wonder how in the world he would crawl back up. He sat close to Noin, but he felt miles away, on a remote satellite in outer space, watching while three people ate and drank and talked far below. One of them had dark green eyes that glanced occasionally in his direction, and that kept Quatre from drifting off into space on his own.
He had argued with Trowa when he'd seen how small his shot was. Now he realized dimly that Trowa had been right to reduce his order. The drink tasted wonderful-it was cool, and smooth as cream-but he hadn't felt like eating, despite Noin and Sally's insistence that he should, and the drink was very swiftly going to his head.
The world below his little satellite had dwindled to a dim black and gold cavern, with little patches of reality-a spurt of laughter, a crash as someone dropped a glass-flecked here and there. Two of the three people he seemed closest to-the ones with black and blonde hair-chattered a lot between themselves. The third, the one with the green eyes, said very little, though he laughed when the blonde one told a bawdy joke. Quatre's gaze kept drifting to that one, and though at first he tried to fight it, told himself that it was somehow wrong, he realized that there was no real point.
He was beautiful, this person with green eyes. Really, really beautiful. If they had been the only two people in this strange blurred world, or up on Quatre's satellite together, he would have told him how beautiful he was. He would have told him all about the tilt of his neck, the slope of his shoulders, every movement slow and graceful but suggesting a hidden swiftness. He would have explained what the flickering of the firelight against his fair olive skin did to him, or the movement of his hands, long and white as doves' wings. The very delicateness of his wrists made Quatre want to cry. And those eyes- They changed in the light, and with his moods, pure emerald one instant, pale as new spring leaves the next. Now they were like smoky jade in the dim light. They rested upon him sometimes, when the boy they belonged to had trouble articulating what he wanted to say-which happened fairly often. They seemed to say, as though seeking assurance, “But YOU understood me.”
And somehow, Quatre always did. You shouldn't look at me like that, he wanted to say. That look ought to be for the woman he sat next to, the gold-haired one with the deep, throaty laugh. She has to learn to read you, now. He wondered vaguely if maybe he was only an extension of this other person. When he smiled, Quatre found himself smiling, too. When he didn't smile, Quatre wished he knew a joke, so he could make him smile.
But, no, he had to be a separate person, because the black-haired woman with the wine-dark eyes was saying his name: “Quatre, you really should eat something. That stuff is going to go right to your head if you don't...”
“He looks pretty spaced,” Sally said. “Honey, drink some water.” She was folding his fingers around a cold, slippery glass. He almost dropped it, but Noin steadied his hand.
“I'm fine, really-” he spluttered. He sat back to draw a deep breath-and his gaze fell on Sally. She was leaning across the table, her brows drawn together worriedly. The base of her throat was exposed. Light from the candle on their table flickered along the delicate gold chain peeking over the collar of her top. His insides twisted painfully. The ring. Trowa had given her the ring. His glance flew to Trowa, wordlessly accusing. Trowa loved HER. He couldn't breathe. Trowa looked back at him, puzzled.
Noin caught the direction of his glance and drew a long breath of understanding. She looked at Sally and said, in a level voice, “I think we should go. He needs to go home. I think we all do.”
Trowa nodded. “Let's go.”
Sally looked at them all uncertainly. “Sure.”
Out of that smoke-filled, noisy room, it was easier to breathe, easier to think. Noin held Quatre's arm as they walked to where Sally's red convertible was parked down the street. He tried to shake her off, protesting that he could walk, now (and he almost could, really), but she held on.
Then, everything happened very quickly. Quatre and Noin reached the car and Quatre turned to see what was taking Trowa and Sally.
Sally and Trowa still stood framed in the light of the pub's entrance. As Quatre watched, not quite comprehending, Sally seemed to stumble on the doorstep. Trowa caught her. For a moment they remained like that, their faces close together, but still a little space between them. Then Sally wrapped an arm around Trowa's shoulders, pulled him closer-
Noin stepped in front of him, quickly, grabbed him and kissed him, full on the mouth. The sweet scent of her broke over him like a wave, but he found himself struggling in her grasp. He pulled away abruptly. Noin tried to get in front of him again, but it was too late. He had already seen-
Sally's face, tilted up to Trowa's, no space between them, anymore.
Sally kissing Trowa-
Trowa-
Trowa broke the unexpected kiss, looked up in time to see Quatre's reaction. He was staring at him, stricken. The turquoise eyes were wide with comprehension mingled with horror and betrayal. Trowa's mouth worked soundlessly, helplessly. Noin put a hand on Quatre's shoulder, but he shook her off angrily.
“I'm sorry!” he mumbled, backing away from Noin. “It-it's not you. I'm sorry. I just can't.” He cast one last tearful, shattered glance at Trowa. Then he turned and ran.
The complete and unmistakable heartbreak in Quatre's eyes drove daggers into Trowa's heart. All his own yearning, the hopeless anger, and the sorrow that he could never have what he truly wanted-had been mirrored right there on Quatre's face in that single, honest instant. Quatre-
“Hey.” He had forgotten Sally. She laid a hand on his shoulder, turned his face to hers with her other hand. She didn't seem to be having any trouble with coordination, now. “You're a great dancer, you know, and an even better kisser. You're a wonderful guy.” She sighed. “But I think we both know you're with the wrong blond.” She kissed his cheek. “Go on. Go.” She pushed him gently away.
Trowa cast her one quick glance of thanks, then he turned and ran in the direction Quatre had taken.
It did not take him long to overtake Quatre. He was still not quite sober enough to be walking at any great speed and had gone no great distance. “Quatre!” He had to shout his name twice before he turned. The tears that streaked his cheeks gave mute testimony to his heartbreak. Trowa could not say anything. He didn't have to. Quatre's gaze met his, saw in his eyes what he could not put in words. They looked at one another, not touching, but inhaling one another's warm, shaking breath, reading one another's silence. Hope stole over Quatre's pale features, slow as a sunrise, though tears of doubt still trembled in his lashes.
It was like that afternoon two days before when they had stood together, but so far apart, on an empty street while the shadows lengthened around them. He'd been stricken with indecision, wanting Quatre, but too afraid to say anything, in case he was wrong, in case he ruined what he already had. There was love in Quatre's eyes. It had been there that other day as well, but he had missed it. It was so easy to miss. But there was no sun in his eyes, now.
He pulled Quatre to him. Quatre had time only for the smallest chirrup of surprise before he was up in Trowa's arms, his lips pressed to Trowa's. It was an innocent, hesitant kiss that deepened as the last of their uncertainty fell away and warmth swept over them, enveloping them.
Neither of them were expert kissers. Quatre, in fact, had never kissed anyone before that night. Even so-
It was amazing.
Quatre tasted of honey and mint, gentle summer evenings, spices and innocent promises. His lips were soft as rose petals, but ones made of fire. His tongue flicked out cautiously to taste the inside of Trowa's mouth. He stiffened slightly as Trowa's tongue slipped alongside his, stroking and caressing. His hesitation melted as he decided he liked the sensation, and he clung all the tighter. Trowa had never been so aware of anyone as he was of Quatre; every movement, every sigh flooded his senses-the wild pounding of his heart, the flutter of his long eyelashes against Trowa's cheek, the strength of his grip on Trowa's shoulders. It fueled his own desire, made him want to bury his hands in Quatre's hair, to hold him so close he forgot where he ended and Quatre began.
When they broke apart, finally, they were breathless. Quatre stood blushing and trembling, his lashes swept downward dreamily, his lips half-parted. Trowa drew something from his jacket pocket. His gaze never leaving Quatre's, he took his hand in his own, brought it to his lips. Then he slipped something cool and hard around his finger.
Quatre stared at the ring. It flashed brightly in the light from the streetlamp. “I thought you gave it to Sally!”
“I gave her the chain.”
“But-but I thought you got it for her!” Quatre exclaimed a little inanely.
“I DID get it for her,” Trowa said, as though he still had something to prove to Quatre. “But...I think in my heart I always knew it was for someone else. For my sole desire,” he whispered huskily. “Stupid,” he said, shaking his head, while Quatre hiccupped. “You knew you'd get it eventually.”
“I didn't-really,” Quatre protested, not sure anymore whether he should be laughing or crying. “Honestly. But-I wanted it,” he admitted.
“I'm sorry,” Trowa whispered. His voice shook. He gripped the lapels of Quatre's jacket, drew him closer as though to prove to himself this was really happening. He was crying. He never cried. Why should he cry now, when he was happy? But the tears were sliding down his cheeks, falling into Quatre's hair. He murmured shakily into that soft, wonderful-smelling hair, “I'm so sorry. I didn't know.”
“Well, I didn't tell you.” Quatre tilted his head back and smiled just like the sun breaking through the clouds. He stood on his tiptoes to kiss Trowa's tears away. “And I'm not REALLY stupid, Trowa. I'm just very slow, sometimes.” He bowed his head against Trowa's chest. “I thought I'd found my love just in time to lose him,” he choked. Trowa held him tightly. “I thought if I denied it enough it would go away. Funny, everyone else saw right through us. I thought they were wrong. I thought IT was wrong. But now I think,” he said softly, stepping back and looking deeply into Trowa's eyes, and meaning every word with all his heart, “now I KNOW...that I'd have to be the world's biggest idiot not to love you.”
Trowa's smile flashed suddenly, stopping Quatre's breath. “Funny,” he said, cupping Quatre's face in his hands, “I was thinking the same thing.” Quatre's smile was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It was pure happiness he held in his cupped hands. “My sole desire,” he said, awestruck.
Quatre's arms went about him and drew him close for another kiss, this one considerably less innocent than the one before.
Back at the convertible, Sally and Noin watched them from a distance, until they started to walk away together down the street.
“Should we offer them a ride?” Sally wondered.
Noin shook her head, a smile touching her lips. “I don't think we exist for them, anymore. They'll find their own way home.”
“Poor dumb bunnies. How much do you want to bet, Lu, come tomorrow, they'll have decided they figured it all out on their own?” Sally pouted. “Well, so much for our feminine wiles.”
“You did the right thing,” Noin consoled.
“I guess...” Sally grumbled. “But it would have been a LOT more fun to do the wrong thing.”
“No, it wouldn't,” Noin assured her. Sally shrugged.
“Well, what now?” she asked. “The night's still young, and I'm not even slightly drunk, yet.” She flopped into her convertible. “God, that ass. Where am I going to find another guy with an ass like that? Or those lips? Silent and sexy. That's how all men should be.”
“There's always Wufei,” Noin teased.
Sally laughed. “Wouldn't he just love that! I can hear him, now: ‘You've made some queer choices in the past, woman...' Damn, he's cute when he's self-righteous. Nah, though. He'd never forgive me, bothering him on a school night.”
They looked at one another and grinned. “Older men? Next time?” Sally suggested. Noin giggled. “Older men. Agreed.”
Noin began flipping through radio stations. A lonely harmonica filled the air. Noin leaned back, tilting her face up to the starry sky, and sang along:
“‘Misguided angel hanging over me
Heart like a Gabriel, pure and white as ivory
Soul like a Lucifer, black and cold like a piece of lead
Misguided angel, I'll love you till I'm dead.'”
Sally glanced at her. “You're thinking about Zechs!” she accused.
Noin sighed. “I love him. I always have, and I always will. Some day I'm going to make him come to his senses.”
“I have a baseball bat under the desk in my office that should work nicely. Or maybe Trowa's not the only one who almost got the wrong blonde...” She lifted her eyebrows roguishly.
“Tempting,” Noin said. “In view of tonight, very tempting. But it's not my thing.”
“S'all right, it's not mine, either.” Sally stared out at the city lights. “Anyway, though, true love is all very well and good, Lu, but you don't have to pound it into him tonight, do you?”
“I guess not,” Noin said, glancing at her. “Why?”
“Because,” said Sally, “this whole date strikes me as a perfect precursor to a chicks' night out. We have a red convertible, we're both dressed to kill, and I know where all the random, cute, former OZ boys like to hang out. You up for it?”
Noin thought about it. The city lights really were dazzling from where they sat. A silken breeze laced with music tingled her shoulders. Perhaps her sometime-boyfriend could stand a little heartache of his own. “Sure,” she said, grinning.
She cranked up the radio as Sally put her foot on the pedal and floored it.
(2/13/01)
Fandom: Gundam Wing
Rating: PG-13
Ships: Trowa/Quatre, Zechs/Noin, Duo/Hilde, Wufei/Sally
Summary: Desperate to prove that he isn't in love with his best friend, Quatre gets flirty with Lucrezia Noin and ends up on the double date from hell.
A/N: This part is approx. 4,900 words. Possibly of interest: in the original outline, Wufei had a crush on Duo. I changed it because I thought that would be too sad and because his secret adoration of Sally was fun to write.
Part One
Part Two
The sun had set an hour ago, but the faint afterglow of twilight still lingered in the sky, tinting shadows deepest purple and dusting the undersides of the few clouds warm magenta. The city was twinkling to life; a few tiny golden lights winked on like fireflies against the dark buildings, then more, until finally it seemed as though the city lights were the reflections of billions of stars in a vast black ocean. Threads of music began to filter through the air from all directions as bars and dance clubs opened, and the smells from restaurants and street venders were carried on the crisp, glittering night breeze. The sounds of the day turned to the sounds of the evening as groups of kids began to gather on street corners with their radios, and street performers staked out their plazas and began to draw crowds. People hurried about in couples and groups, taxis screeched, and the long silver line of the monorail flashed above the city like a snake.
There was a small park outside the Preventers' Headquarters. From where he stood by the park entrance, waiting for Noin, Quatre could see most of uptown spread out before him like a giant switchboard. He felt very far removed from the view for some reason. Fortunately, he did not have long to wait and wonder at his loneliness. He heard the click of heels on the sidewalk behind him, then Noin's soft, slightly husky voice said, “Admiring your handiwork? All this is because of what you Gundam pilots did, you know. Earth wouldn't have beautiful cities to be enjoyed if you hadn't fought as hard as you did. You should be proud.”
Quatre smiled and turned to tell her she had as much reason to be proud as he did-but his voice caught in his throat the moment he saw her.
Noin had always been beautiful whether she wore her gym sweats or her military uniform. Tonight she wore a dress Quatre had never seen before. It was of crushed velvet the same deep, twilight color of her eyes, modestly short, and clung perfectly to her graceful, lissome form. Beyond the dress, though, there was something about her, some sparkle Quatre had never seen before. She hadn't styled her hair differently, her makeup was not heavy, although her lips shimmered soft pink, and she wasn't wearing any jewelry besides the little diamond studs in her ears. Light from a nearby streetlamp glanced off her black leather jacket and her high, aristocratic cheekbones and seemed to illuminate her figure. The smile that she was giving him was gentle, a little shy, but completely free of any worry or regret. She was truly, truly stunning and Quatre decided then and there that after himself, Zechs Merquise was the world's biggest idiot.
When he could speak again he stammered, “Miss Noin, you look-beautiful.”
Her smiled deepened and her cheeks dusted rose. “Thank you. I guess I got a little excited about an evening out with a new guy. You look wonderful, too, Quatre.”
It was his turn to blush. “Thanks. I, er, I got these for you.”
“Oh, Quatre.” She held the bright yellow and white bouquet to her nose and inhaled softly. “No roses. You remembered. They're so beautiful. Thank you.” And before he knew what she was doing, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek.
He stumbled back a pace, blushing furiously. “Miss Noin-I-I'm not-I told you-”
“I know, Quatre. I'm sorry. Well-I'm not sorry I kissed you.” A mischievous dimple flashed in her cheek. “I know we're going as friends, though. I won't do anything else. Well, I'll try not to,” she added and her dimple deepened.
“Miss Noin...”
“Quatre, my name is Lucrezia.” She looked at him pointedly. “We've known each other for three years; please call me by my first name.”
He sighed. “You're asking a lot of me, you know.”
“I know, I ask SO much of you. Compliment my dress, enjoy a concert, split a cab fare, call me by my first name. Oh, and SMILE, Quatre.”
He wasn't going to last the evening if she kept up like this. She was altogether TOO good. He dredged up a smile. If he could just keep his face frozen in this expression...if he could just not think about anything...just for a few hours...
When she seemed satisfied, he said, “Oh, Miss-er, Lucrezia, we don't need a cab. I took care of it, already.” He gestured down the block to where the limousine waited, sleek and black as the night itself. Behind the steering wheel Abdul lifted his fez in salute.
Noin's eyes widened and a surprised smile touched her lips. “Oh, wow. Oh, Quatre.”
He shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I thought it would be nice.”
“The royal treatment. The hell with Zechs.” She grinned at him. “Sorry. I'm not going to think about him for the rest of the night. I'm with you. And you're with me. Shall we?” She offered him her arm.
“I'M supposed to do that,” he chided her and bumped her elbow with his own. She wrapped her arm around his and leaned against him slightly.
Abdul leaped out of the limo to help them in. Once they were settled and Abdul had resumed his seat behind the wheel, Quatre began to feel jumpy again. He gazed out the window at the passing streets, tried not to inhale Noin's delicate perfume, and tried not to think about Trowa and Sally.
“Hey.” Noin's cool fingers pressed his hand gently and he almost jumped. He turned to give her a wan smile.
“I'm sorry.”
“It'll be okay.” The pressure of her fingers and the sweet smile were meant to reassure him. He tried to relax and put on a happy face - for her. But in his heart he knew it was an act and nothing either of them could do could ward off the fast-approaching disaster.
“I know a trick! Watch this, watch this.” Sally turned to glare at Trowa sharply. She waggled a finger. “Now, Trowa-don't smile! Don't you DARE smile!”
Sure enough, first one, then the other corner of Trowa's mouth, quirked upward into a small, slightly reluctant smile.
Sally raised her eyebrows imperiously across the table at Noin and Quatre, who bowed their heads in acknowledgement of her superior skill. Then she tossed her head back so that her tawny curls splashed her back like a wave, and coyly sipped her beer.
Even Quatre had to admit she was radiant. Unbound, her long hair bounced about her shoulders in waves of burnished gold, making her appear very leonine. The brilliant emerald of her high-necked tank top brought out the vivid blue of her charcoal-lined eyes. Her cheeks were flushed and perspiration glistened along her neck and her bare shoulders. She looked, Quatre thought glumly, as though she had had a marvelous time dancing.
Why had he sent Abdul home after he'd dropped them off at the pub? Then he could have made his excuses-said he wasn't feeling well, which was very true-and fled. But he'd had such a nice time at the concert with Miss Noin that he'd been lulled into a false sense of security. The concert had been great, and Miss Noin had been better. She truly loved music, as he did, and they'd talked animatedly over drinks during the intermission, about favorite composers, singers, and performances. They had never really seen one another outside of work, so he had never gotten to know her as anything besides a Preventer. She was delightful. She was very shrewd, and funny, and so kind. He knew she was trying to distract him, but he appreciated it. Everything would be fine, he had decided. And everything WAS fine until they arrived at the pub to find Trowa and Sally already inside, waiting for them, drinks in hand. The happy, comfortable look on Trowa's face as he sat there beside Sally, had thumped into Quatre with such force that had Noin not been holding his arm, he'd have bolted.
Trowa must have noticed the uncomfortable look on Quatre's face because he asked politely, “How was the concert?”
Quatre, jolted out of his misery, began to stammer, but Noin jumped in and rescued him. “It was wonderful! Well, Quatre insists one of the violins was flat, but I couldn't tell.” She elbowed him playfully.
“He WAS,” Quatre insisted.
“-But at the end they did this suite from Carmen which was just heavenly. Well, the tenor and the soprano didn't do much for either of us, but the mezzo was amazing. And the baritone...what a voice! And besides that, he was rather good-looking.” She sighed. “I think we both had a crush on him by the end of the Toreador Song!”
Quatre kicked Noin's ankle under the table. What in the world was she doing? Trowa was looking at him curiously.
Luckily, Sally put in, leaning forward on her elbows, “Granted I haven't seen much in the way of opera, but it's been my observation that certain physical types tend to go with certain voices. Am I right? I mean, most of the tenors I've seen were these short, round little guys, while the basses and baritones were all pretty tall, and decently built.”
“I think it depends a little on the kind of opera,” Noin said. “You get different physical types for lyric and grand opera, right, Quatre?”
Quatre nodded absently. Sally shrugged. “I'm not what you'd call musically inclined.”
At that Trowa made a small sound of derision. “Don't believe her. Anyone who can dance as well as she does has to be musically inclined.”
Sally grinned and wrapped an arm around Trowa's slender shoulders. She bent toward Quatre and Noin and said in a conspiratorial manner, “That's quite a compliment coming from Marcel Marceau, over here. Let me tell you: THIS one can really shake it.”
Trowa blushed and looked down at the table, but he was obviously pleased.
Quatre said, suddenly decisive, “I think I want a drink.” He glanced at Noin. “Would you like anything, Miss Lucrezia?”
“I'd love a gin and tonic. Do you want me to come with you?”
“No thanks. I can do it on my own.”
Sally caught his sleeve as he stood up. “I'm just going to lay one rule on you, Quatre. And don't worry-it's the same rule I laid on Trowa and he proved himself admirably. The rule is this: you have to order your drink yourself, and you have to be able to say the name without blushing.”
Quatre shrugged away. “Can I get YOU anything?”
Sally rested her chin on her fist and blinked her blue eyes up at him innocently. “Now that you mention it, I'd love another Screaming Orgasm.” At his look of utter horror she burst out laughing. “Quatre, I was kidding! No, I promise I didn't mean it. Don't look like that. I'm sorry. Just get me a pint of Harps.”
Quatre clenched his fist at his side. “What about you?” he asked Trowa.
“I'm good.”
“Fine.” Quatre turned and stalked through the smoke-filled pub toward to bar. The pub was crowded. Sweaty bodies pressed against him and he stepped on a number of toes, mumbling apologies. The smoke made his eyes smart and the dim lighting made his head hurt. He felt as though he were being suffocated. When he reached the bar he pressed himself against it and clung to its side to hold himself up. He peered through the smoke at the chalkboard above the bar-and almost fell over when he read some of the names of drinks scrawled there. Sally's joke had been bad, but he realized now it could have been much, much worse. He didn't even know what some of those words meant. What in the world was IN a-he couldn't say the name, even in his mind.
“What can I get you?”
Quatre stared blankly at the woman behind the bar.
She frowned. “Hey, can I see some ID, kid?”
Quatre began to fumble in his pocket for his wallet. His hands were sweaty and kept slipping on the leather. When he finally produced his drivers' license and handed it to the woman he was trembling. The woman glanced at the license for a long moment, then warily back at his face, before sighing and returning it to him. “Uh, sorry, Mr. Winner. What can I get you?”
Quatre's mouth felt dry. “Umm...what's a Long Island Iced Tea?”
“You don't want that,” a soft voice said in his ear. “It has eight shots in it. Try a Bailey's.”
Quatre glanced up at Trowa and felt a flood of gratitude warm him. Trowa smiled, making Quatre's heart flutter wildly. He glanced from the bartender to Trowa and back, uncertainly. “Go ahead.”
“Umm...I'll have a pint of-er, Baileys'. A gin and tonic. And a pint of Harps.”
“Make that a shot of Baileys'. And some nachos,” Trowa put in. “Sally decided she's hungry,” he explained, leaning against the bar.
“You look as though you had a good time,” Quatre said accusingly.
“I did.”
“She's really something, I guess?”
“She's great,” Trowa said noncommittally.
Quatre sighed. “I'm glad, Trowa.”
Trowa frowned. “Are YOU all right, Quatre? Is it too smoky in here? We could go outside for a minute...”
“I'm fine,” he snapped. He didn't mean to snap. Trowa's inquiry was polite concern for a friend. And Quatre couldn't ruin his evening with Sally. “I'm fine,” he said. “Just fine.”
But he wasn't. If things had been getting fairly bad since Monday afternoon, they at last decided to take the final plunge and were hurtling downward toward certain doom at a breakneck speed while Quatre watched and tried not to wonder how in the world he would crawl back up. He sat close to Noin, but he felt miles away, on a remote satellite in outer space, watching while three people ate and drank and talked far below. One of them had dark green eyes that glanced occasionally in his direction, and that kept Quatre from drifting off into space on his own.
He had argued with Trowa when he'd seen how small his shot was. Now he realized dimly that Trowa had been right to reduce his order. The drink tasted wonderful-it was cool, and smooth as cream-but he hadn't felt like eating, despite Noin and Sally's insistence that he should, and the drink was very swiftly going to his head.
The world below his little satellite had dwindled to a dim black and gold cavern, with little patches of reality-a spurt of laughter, a crash as someone dropped a glass-flecked here and there. Two of the three people he seemed closest to-the ones with black and blonde hair-chattered a lot between themselves. The third, the one with the green eyes, said very little, though he laughed when the blonde one told a bawdy joke. Quatre's gaze kept drifting to that one, and though at first he tried to fight it, told himself that it was somehow wrong, he realized that there was no real point.
He was beautiful, this person with green eyes. Really, really beautiful. If they had been the only two people in this strange blurred world, or up on Quatre's satellite together, he would have told him how beautiful he was. He would have told him all about the tilt of his neck, the slope of his shoulders, every movement slow and graceful but suggesting a hidden swiftness. He would have explained what the flickering of the firelight against his fair olive skin did to him, or the movement of his hands, long and white as doves' wings. The very delicateness of his wrists made Quatre want to cry. And those eyes- They changed in the light, and with his moods, pure emerald one instant, pale as new spring leaves the next. Now they were like smoky jade in the dim light. They rested upon him sometimes, when the boy they belonged to had trouble articulating what he wanted to say-which happened fairly often. They seemed to say, as though seeking assurance, “But YOU understood me.”
And somehow, Quatre always did. You shouldn't look at me like that, he wanted to say. That look ought to be for the woman he sat next to, the gold-haired one with the deep, throaty laugh. She has to learn to read you, now. He wondered vaguely if maybe he was only an extension of this other person. When he smiled, Quatre found himself smiling, too. When he didn't smile, Quatre wished he knew a joke, so he could make him smile.
But, no, he had to be a separate person, because the black-haired woman with the wine-dark eyes was saying his name: “Quatre, you really should eat something. That stuff is going to go right to your head if you don't...”
“He looks pretty spaced,” Sally said. “Honey, drink some water.” She was folding his fingers around a cold, slippery glass. He almost dropped it, but Noin steadied his hand.
“I'm fine, really-” he spluttered. He sat back to draw a deep breath-and his gaze fell on Sally. She was leaning across the table, her brows drawn together worriedly. The base of her throat was exposed. Light from the candle on their table flickered along the delicate gold chain peeking over the collar of her top. His insides twisted painfully. The ring. Trowa had given her the ring. His glance flew to Trowa, wordlessly accusing. Trowa loved HER. He couldn't breathe. Trowa looked back at him, puzzled.
Noin caught the direction of his glance and drew a long breath of understanding. She looked at Sally and said, in a level voice, “I think we should go. He needs to go home. I think we all do.”
Trowa nodded. “Let's go.”
Sally looked at them all uncertainly. “Sure.”
Out of that smoke-filled, noisy room, it was easier to breathe, easier to think. Noin held Quatre's arm as they walked to where Sally's red convertible was parked down the street. He tried to shake her off, protesting that he could walk, now (and he almost could, really), but she held on.
Then, everything happened very quickly. Quatre and Noin reached the car and Quatre turned to see what was taking Trowa and Sally.
Sally and Trowa still stood framed in the light of the pub's entrance. As Quatre watched, not quite comprehending, Sally seemed to stumble on the doorstep. Trowa caught her. For a moment they remained like that, their faces close together, but still a little space between them. Then Sally wrapped an arm around Trowa's shoulders, pulled him closer-
Noin stepped in front of him, quickly, grabbed him and kissed him, full on the mouth. The sweet scent of her broke over him like a wave, but he found himself struggling in her grasp. He pulled away abruptly. Noin tried to get in front of him again, but it was too late. He had already seen-
Sally's face, tilted up to Trowa's, no space between them, anymore.
Sally kissing Trowa-
Trowa-
Trowa broke the unexpected kiss, looked up in time to see Quatre's reaction. He was staring at him, stricken. The turquoise eyes were wide with comprehension mingled with horror and betrayal. Trowa's mouth worked soundlessly, helplessly. Noin put a hand on Quatre's shoulder, but he shook her off angrily.
“I'm sorry!” he mumbled, backing away from Noin. “It-it's not you. I'm sorry. I just can't.” He cast one last tearful, shattered glance at Trowa. Then he turned and ran.
The complete and unmistakable heartbreak in Quatre's eyes drove daggers into Trowa's heart. All his own yearning, the hopeless anger, and the sorrow that he could never have what he truly wanted-had been mirrored right there on Quatre's face in that single, honest instant. Quatre-
“Hey.” He had forgotten Sally. She laid a hand on his shoulder, turned his face to hers with her other hand. She didn't seem to be having any trouble with coordination, now. “You're a great dancer, you know, and an even better kisser. You're a wonderful guy.” She sighed. “But I think we both know you're with the wrong blond.” She kissed his cheek. “Go on. Go.” She pushed him gently away.
Trowa cast her one quick glance of thanks, then he turned and ran in the direction Quatre had taken.
It did not take him long to overtake Quatre. He was still not quite sober enough to be walking at any great speed and had gone no great distance. “Quatre!” He had to shout his name twice before he turned. The tears that streaked his cheeks gave mute testimony to his heartbreak. Trowa could not say anything. He didn't have to. Quatre's gaze met his, saw in his eyes what he could not put in words. They looked at one another, not touching, but inhaling one another's warm, shaking breath, reading one another's silence. Hope stole over Quatre's pale features, slow as a sunrise, though tears of doubt still trembled in his lashes.
It was like that afternoon two days before when they had stood together, but so far apart, on an empty street while the shadows lengthened around them. He'd been stricken with indecision, wanting Quatre, but too afraid to say anything, in case he was wrong, in case he ruined what he already had. There was love in Quatre's eyes. It had been there that other day as well, but he had missed it. It was so easy to miss. But there was no sun in his eyes, now.
He pulled Quatre to him. Quatre had time only for the smallest chirrup of surprise before he was up in Trowa's arms, his lips pressed to Trowa's. It was an innocent, hesitant kiss that deepened as the last of their uncertainty fell away and warmth swept over them, enveloping them.
Neither of them were expert kissers. Quatre, in fact, had never kissed anyone before that night. Even so-
It was amazing.
Quatre tasted of honey and mint, gentle summer evenings, spices and innocent promises. His lips were soft as rose petals, but ones made of fire. His tongue flicked out cautiously to taste the inside of Trowa's mouth. He stiffened slightly as Trowa's tongue slipped alongside his, stroking and caressing. His hesitation melted as he decided he liked the sensation, and he clung all the tighter. Trowa had never been so aware of anyone as he was of Quatre; every movement, every sigh flooded his senses-the wild pounding of his heart, the flutter of his long eyelashes against Trowa's cheek, the strength of his grip on Trowa's shoulders. It fueled his own desire, made him want to bury his hands in Quatre's hair, to hold him so close he forgot where he ended and Quatre began.
When they broke apart, finally, they were breathless. Quatre stood blushing and trembling, his lashes swept downward dreamily, his lips half-parted. Trowa drew something from his jacket pocket. His gaze never leaving Quatre's, he took his hand in his own, brought it to his lips. Then he slipped something cool and hard around his finger.
Quatre stared at the ring. It flashed brightly in the light from the streetlamp. “I thought you gave it to Sally!”
“I gave her the chain.”
“But-but I thought you got it for her!” Quatre exclaimed a little inanely.
“I DID get it for her,” Trowa said, as though he still had something to prove to Quatre. “But...I think in my heart I always knew it was for someone else. For my sole desire,” he whispered huskily. “Stupid,” he said, shaking his head, while Quatre hiccupped. “You knew you'd get it eventually.”
“I didn't-really,” Quatre protested, not sure anymore whether he should be laughing or crying. “Honestly. But-I wanted it,” he admitted.
“I'm sorry,” Trowa whispered. His voice shook. He gripped the lapels of Quatre's jacket, drew him closer as though to prove to himself this was really happening. He was crying. He never cried. Why should he cry now, when he was happy? But the tears were sliding down his cheeks, falling into Quatre's hair. He murmured shakily into that soft, wonderful-smelling hair, “I'm so sorry. I didn't know.”
“Well, I didn't tell you.” Quatre tilted his head back and smiled just like the sun breaking through the clouds. He stood on his tiptoes to kiss Trowa's tears away. “And I'm not REALLY stupid, Trowa. I'm just very slow, sometimes.” He bowed his head against Trowa's chest. “I thought I'd found my love just in time to lose him,” he choked. Trowa held him tightly. “I thought if I denied it enough it would go away. Funny, everyone else saw right through us. I thought they were wrong. I thought IT was wrong. But now I think,” he said softly, stepping back and looking deeply into Trowa's eyes, and meaning every word with all his heart, “now I KNOW...that I'd have to be the world's biggest idiot not to love you.”
Trowa's smile flashed suddenly, stopping Quatre's breath. “Funny,” he said, cupping Quatre's face in his hands, “I was thinking the same thing.” Quatre's smile was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It was pure happiness he held in his cupped hands. “My sole desire,” he said, awestruck.
Quatre's arms went about him and drew him close for another kiss, this one considerably less innocent than the one before.
Back at the convertible, Sally and Noin watched them from a distance, until they started to walk away together down the street.
“Should we offer them a ride?” Sally wondered.
Noin shook her head, a smile touching her lips. “I don't think we exist for them, anymore. They'll find their own way home.”
“Poor dumb bunnies. How much do you want to bet, Lu, come tomorrow, they'll have decided they figured it all out on their own?” Sally pouted. “Well, so much for our feminine wiles.”
“You did the right thing,” Noin consoled.
“I guess...” Sally grumbled. “But it would have been a LOT more fun to do the wrong thing.”
“No, it wouldn't,” Noin assured her. Sally shrugged.
“Well, what now?” she asked. “The night's still young, and I'm not even slightly drunk, yet.” She flopped into her convertible. “God, that ass. Where am I going to find another guy with an ass like that? Or those lips? Silent and sexy. That's how all men should be.”
“There's always Wufei,” Noin teased.
Sally laughed. “Wouldn't he just love that! I can hear him, now: ‘You've made some queer choices in the past, woman...' Damn, he's cute when he's self-righteous. Nah, though. He'd never forgive me, bothering him on a school night.”
They looked at one another and grinned. “Older men? Next time?” Sally suggested. Noin giggled. “Older men. Agreed.”
Noin began flipping through radio stations. A lonely harmonica filled the air. Noin leaned back, tilting her face up to the starry sky, and sang along:
“‘Misguided angel hanging over me
Heart like a Gabriel, pure and white as ivory
Soul like a Lucifer, black and cold like a piece of lead
Misguided angel, I'll love you till I'm dead.'”
Sally glanced at her. “You're thinking about Zechs!” she accused.
Noin sighed. “I love him. I always have, and I always will. Some day I'm going to make him come to his senses.”
“I have a baseball bat under the desk in my office that should work nicely. Or maybe Trowa's not the only one who almost got the wrong blonde...” She lifted her eyebrows roguishly.
“Tempting,” Noin said. “In view of tonight, very tempting. But it's not my thing.”
“S'all right, it's not mine, either.” Sally stared out at the city lights. “Anyway, though, true love is all very well and good, Lu, but you don't have to pound it into him tonight, do you?”
“I guess not,” Noin said, glancing at her. “Why?”
“Because,” said Sally, “this whole date strikes me as a perfect precursor to a chicks' night out. We have a red convertible, we're both dressed to kill, and I know where all the random, cute, former OZ boys like to hang out. You up for it?”
Noin thought about it. The city lights really were dazzling from where they sat. A silken breeze laced with music tingled her shoulders. Perhaps her sometime-boyfriend could stand a little heartache of his own. “Sure,” she said, grinning.
She cranked up the radio as Sally put her foot on the pedal and floored it.
(2/13/01)