August 23, 2000
a random fic by bianca and ariana
warnings: ooc, yaoi, au, twt, pwp, lemon, lime
pairing: 6x1
I see him later that afternoon, cornered by a group of anxious young men, a bit older than him, assured in their fluffy ascots and slick hair, trying to ascertain what inspires such obsession in my younger sister. "...father's name?" one asks.
I note the slight tic beating beneath one bright blue eye and stifle a laugh. "Have the court vultures descended so soon? Heero hasn't been here but a day." The boys move away, eyes low, clearly resenting my interference. I know the type. They'll be back.
Heero glares at me, arms crossed insolently across his flat chest. I laugh carelessly, though it is anything but, and pick a rose from the nearby rosebush. "It's amazing the things they can do to cultivate roses. Like this yellow one, for example." I hold it out to him, and for a moment I think he will refuse to take it, and then those long and slender fingers reach out and wrap around the stem. "The species was dying from disease, and they crossed it with this blue rose here so that it would be able to withstand winters here."
He looks unimpressed, standing there with a single rose in his hands, looking for all the world like he'd rather be falling out of another building. "What does this have to do with court behavior?" he asks, and before I can answer, he bolts, taking off into rose gardens.
I can see the chocolate brown of his hair, gliding smoothly down the even rows and then into the labyrinth, and I curse under my breath. Even *I*, who grew up in this palace, never stray there without a guide. It is nearly impossible to navigate.
The sun is fading in the afternoon sky, making all the rose petals, the white, the blue, the yellow, the pink, look red. I pause and strain my ears, listening for the soft sounds of shoes pressing on mossy earth, but there is nothing. Sometimes I forget that the object of my pursuance is a former Gundam pilot.
Although, thinking of the dangerous way his face closed off to mine as I pushed the rose at him, it shouldn't be too hard to remember. I suppose it's a transference of desire; I know what it's like to always be seen as *that soldier*, *that terrorist*.
A rustle in the bushes, and then he comes through, a stray leaf stuck in his hair. I want to take it out, but I know how any further movements will be interpreted. So cautious am I as I look down at him, trying not to smirk, trying not to do anything. It's his move now, and I have forced his hand.
Or so I think. He brushes past me, the soft cotton of his shirt strange against my skin, used to silk, used to satin and metal.
I listen to the wind with her fervent beauty. Unseen fingers ruffle Heero's hair, pushing cloth tightly against his body. I can make out the outline of deceptively thin arms tapering into narrow hands that have killed thousands.
I see him the next day, gazing out the window torpidly. "Heero," I say. He looks at me and his gaze burns like a spotlight on my back. "Walk with me to the rose gardens?" He looks ready to refuse, but instead he tucks those mysterious, somehow clean, hands into his pants pockets and walks beside me.
We pass a group of visiting emissaries from Eurasia, the remnants of the Romafeller Foundation combined with the new upper class merchants that suddenly found themselves powerful and wealthy with the economic boom at the end of the war. I feel faintly green as Heero suddenly detours, smirking at me, and heads straight for them.
A disaster if I ever saw one.
//Well, hello vice-foreign minister Kakaroff, how are things after the war? I pray I didn't blow up *all* of your mobile suit factories, haha, haha.// That's one of the better scenarios playing out in my mind as I follow reluctantly.
But he is politely insolent, always smiling slightly, taking their ill-disguised barbs and delivering cutting remarks of his own. "It was good to see you," he lies softly. To me, long after they have rounded the corner, he adds, "I despise fools."
Desperate longing wells up in me. Intelligent *and* drop-dead-gorgeous. With him by my side, we could oversee things in the Sanc Kingdom well enough so that none of Relena's eccentric ideologies about ruling could ever endanger the country. Battle is a necessity, even to peacemakers, and she will never understand that.
And if she cannot understand the necessity of war, how can she understand the vague creature who now leads me in a merry chase to the sunken gardens? He embodies war and battle, every slight motion and gesture given power and meaning by the truth behind it. He is a naked blade and she will not be able to sheathe him with peace and hang him on a trophy wall next to the animal pelts and moose heads.
He runs and I hear his soft chuckle, trailing back to me. "Heero!" The Japanese boy takes the corner at a sprint, looping one arm around the grounding pillar and swinging himself out into the garden. He spreads his arms and legs and for a single, breathtaking moment, I feel as if he is ready to take flight and soar into the clouds.
I make it to the ledge, my heart pounding fast, until I see him surface from the koi pond. He pulls himself out, kicking off his shoes and socks, stripping down to his pants. They cling to his round ass in a way that should be illegal; as he bends over, I feel my nose threatening to spurt blood in a very unroyalty-like way.
"Why," I demand as I descend down into the rose gardens, taking measured steps over the slippery marble, the fragrance of the flowers somehow stronger, "did you do that?" He looks at me as if it is the stupidest question ever to grace his ears, and I must say, I'm starting to agree.
This isn't good. *I'm* the one who's supposed to be in control; I'm supposed to be controlling him. I can feel my tentative hold over him slowly breaking. "I don't need you to help me," he says, breaking me out of my contemplative mood. "Relena's--"
I laugh. "Is that what this is about, Heero?" The faint coloring of his cheeks tells me, yes, it is. "If you think you're fine on your own, by all means, go out there and get yourself engaged to some half-brained blonde bimbo because you don't know the intricacies of court games. Do you know," I ask, fingering the stem of a white rose slowly, "what it means to accept a dinner invitation from the Countess of Newark?" He glares at me.
Ah, insubordinate and rebellious. I don't know if he knows he's doing it, but when he glares, his lower lip sticks out slightly like a sulking child. If you ignore his eyes--and that is the problem of it, they're impossible to ignore--he looks almost...cute.
"No. Explain." Commanding. Is this how you will regain control? By ordering me around? It is acceptable...for now. I take a step forward, and exhale slightly in disappointment as he refuses to move back. Part of me wants him intimidated, wants him to cower at my feet.
"It means that you are loose with your favors, for everyone knows the Countess of Newark regularly drugs her guests into her bed. Unless," I say with the utmost care, lest I offend him, "that is the sort of thing you enjoy. There are three major political camps, and they will all try to use you to gain power over the others, to get a foothold of influence with Relena. They care nothing for you." His eyes widen slightly, but his voice never betrays him.
"And those camps are?"
"Tomorrow." Those blue eyes flash, infuriated with my teasing, and he turns to glide away like a wraith. "Into the lion's den," I whisper to myself, smiling.
End Part Two
Bianca and Ariana
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