August 23, 2000
a random fic by bianca and ariana
warnings: ooc, yaoi, au, twt, pwp, lemon, lime
pairing: 6x1
A falling star.
Not a shooting star.
And most definitely not a little prince.
No, the way he fidgets in his place, discomfited by the pomp and the circumstance, is too reminiscent of the blonde soldier who once sat in that same chair as a small child. It didn't fit me then. It doesn't fit him now. He looks like he belongs on a soft pillow bed or a four poster, smoking a cigarette after the fact. Those listless blue eyes circle the room, memorizing the emergency exits and escape routes on instinct.
And my sister, surrounded by ten of her swooningest ladies in waiting, lectures him on how if he is to become a member of her cabinet--and it is truly in her best interest if he does, since no other man in the entire kingdom has the guts to tell her exactly what he thinks--he must act a proper gentleman and politician.
He looks unhappy, but there is still that burning desire below the sapphire, a need to be of some use. That Asian stubbornness in him has convinced him that this is the way to do it. And in some way, I am glad he chose this path.
Never have I been able to study an enemy so closely, been able to reach out and touch with my fingers. I stand behind him, looking down at the rumpled mess of dark hair that seems to want to go in every direction at once. Humanity has lost something with its insertion of mobile suits into the equation; justice, honor, they mean nothing in a meaningless battle.
She looks satisfied, now, and turns her attention to me. "Now Mirialdo," she says in that all too kind voice, "would be happy to assist in getting you up to speed. We've got the Winter Ball in a week. I want Heero to be there." Then she leaves, her hair trailing a blonde, flowery scent.
Her giggling girls follow after her like love-sick puppies. And we are left alone. I almost wish that he would say something, pull a gun on me, show me that famous spark that wouldn't let me destroy him in that cold hell. My hand rested over the control stick several time, fingers curled around the buttons that would end it all. I couldn't do it.
Perhaps that makes me weak. I no longer care.
The only thing I want is to understand this person who sits stiffly before me, peering up through jagged bangs that seem like they could reach out and cut you on their own. I want to know what happened to him as a child, want to compare sob stories and maybe cuddle in the dark. I want to possess him, to have that control, to protect him, to have power.
I suppose I also simply want him. I extend a delicate gloved hand, smirking as he glares at me and rises, ignoring the proffered gesture of friendship. The ladies will have a ball with this one; instead of protesting court games, he simply clears the board.
The door slams behind him.
So it begins, then.
Bianca and Ariana
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