01-Jun-2000
Title: A Quatre and Wufei Out-take
Author: TB
Archive: Yep to GW Addiction
Catagory: sappy? non-yaoi
Pairing: none
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Spoilers: none
Notes: Just a bit that was knocking about in my
hard-drive and finally made it to a post. I always
wanted to do a Q and Wu scene; this didn't turn out
exactly how I wanted it to, but it didn't change no
matter how many times I edited it.
Feedback: at brother_maxwell@yahoo.com or on the list, thanks
Disclaimers: I am using copyrighted materials in this
fic, but I'm not profiting from it; my
internet-provider is (all that time online, you know)
Quatre knocked on Wufei's door. After a long hesitation, during which he did not receive any acknowledgement despite the fact that the light was on, he knocked again.
On the third knock, the Chinese pilot opened the door.
"What?" he said flatly.
Quatre swallowed hard. "May I come in?" he asked.
For just a fleeting second, Wufei was obviously tempted to say "no." But he did not; courteously he stepped aside and held the door as Quatre moved in, though his expression indicated that he would rather be walking barefoot over hot coals than entertaining company at the moment.
Quatre looked around the sparsely decorated room, and frowned. "My servants should have prepared this suit for you," he protested, half to himself. "At the very least they should have given you a few ornaments--"
"They did," Wufei grunted. "Too many." He pointed to a corner partially hidden by a small antique sofa, and Quatre, puzzled, followed his finger until he saw the pile of paintings, wall-hangings, vases and dried flowers and lamps and statuettes...
"Didn't you like them?" he asked uncertainly.
Wufei's features hardened into a distinctly cold expression. "No," he replied decisively.
Quatre tried not to be hurt. "I'll remember that," he promised. "I'm sorry... I'm afraid I didn't realise that you might not feel comfortable here."
Something flickered in Wufei's eyes, and then slight shame crept over his bronzed face. "It's not important," he said, and turned away.
Quatre bit his lip as silence grew between them. He desperately wanted to find the common ground he knew he shared with the other Gundam pilots, the foundations on which friendships could be built, strengths complemented and the occasional weakness bolstered-- He knew, just knew, that these strange and precocious children who must be just like him could be his friends.
The war could not be allowed to destroy something that simple and pleasurable. That simple, and that necessary. Quatre knew that the day he gave up trying to find that common ground with each new person who touched his life, he would have good reason to die.
Wufei focused suddenly on the package in Quatre's arms. "What's that?" he demanded.
Quatre came to himself with a start and a drew an almost shaky breath. "Um," he said, and winced at the squeaky, adolescent tone. "It's a gift. For you. I guess if you don't like fancy things--I honestly didn't know. You don't have to keep it if you don't want to, but I noticed--" He held out the paper-wrapped bundle, and slowly, Wufei took it from his hands, uncertainty radiating from him. "I noticed your clothes are getting a little worn," he finished shyly. "So I had some replacements made, and one especially nice one, because--because I know that I like to wear something nice sometimes, even if it's just for me and no one else will see me... But don't keep it if you don't like it."
The Chinese pilot awkwardly balanced the bundle in his arms, his head bowed to hide his expression.
*He doesn't want anything from me,* Quatre realised. Embarrassed fully now, he began to inch toward the door. "Well," he said, "um, I'll have someone come and remove those things from behind the sofa--no, it's no trouble. Really. Anything I can do to make you comfortable, please do tell me. Really. And, ah, later tonight there's a celebration with the Manguanacs, and they asked me to invite you. They want to honour you, for helping us today."
Wufei was watching Quatre now, his dark eyes impossible to read and the set of his mouth foreign to the radiant little blonde's vocabulary. He was holding the package to his chest now, but Quatre was dismally sure that when the servants came to clear Wufei's room, they'd find the gift, unopened, chucked in with all the other "unnecessary" items.
"Good night," he mumbled, and left.
Abdul tilted the open locket to the light. "Isn't she beautiful?" he demanded proudly. "A perfect princess!"
Quatre's admiration was unfeigned. "Your daughter is lovely," he agreed. The many glasses of strong liquor that had somehow made it into his stomach had also loosened his tongue, and he leaned over to tease the man, "Sure didn't get those looks from you, though!"
Abdul laughed, and clapped Quatre on the shoulder, nearly bowling the tipsy boy over. "Can't argue with that! Say, you're not available, by any chance--"
"Leave him alone," Rashid interrupted, lifting a hand to hide his grin. "Your wife will have your head if you handfast your daughter without asking her opinion."
"She'll object only until she meets the fine young man herself!" Abdul grinned, steadying Quatre, who returned the gesture with a wide, unfocused smile and an unsteady giggle. "The heir to Winner himself, a Gundam pilot, and a hero among our people! What finer bridegroom?"
"Better watch what papers you sign this week, Master Quatre," Rashid rumbled, chuckling.
Quatre's smile suddenly became a radiant beam of happiness, and he shot to his feet, nearly stumbling over Abdul's out-stretched legs. "Wufei!" he cried.
The Chinese pilot stood at the open entrance to the tent, gazing around at the scene within in faint shock. He looked sharply to Quatre when he heard his name, taking in the wobbly stance and the flushed face--and grudgingly smiled.
"I hope I'm not too late," he softly began.
"Not at all!" Quatre managed to make it to the other boy's side in one piece, and grabbed Wufei's hands, engaging an unshakable grip. "I'm so glad you came! I was sure you wouldn't."
"I'm not planning on staying long," Wufei warned. He tried to extricate his squished digits, and looked mildly annoyed when Quatre did not even appear to notice his efforts, much less release him. He heaved a sigh, and simply waited for Quatre's next move.
Which was to drag him over to the giant Manguanac figher, Rashid, the one who seemed to lead this band of... Wufei wasn't even sure how to describe them. Good fighters--loud drinkers. The huge man thundered a greeting and laid a meaty hand on his shoulder--Wufei was starting to wonder if he'd have any free body parts by the time Quatre and his Middle Eastern corps got through with him--and soon he was surrounded by a group of sun-browned men who all shouted their names and asked questions and led ragged cheers to congratulate the two young Gundam pilots on Wufei didn't even know what--head spinning, he finally allowed himself to take the seat Quatre led him to, and realised that the other boy still had that death-grip on his hands.
Once they were in relative peace, Quatre began to offer him every conceivable foodstuff available in a desert. Wufei cut him off.
"Just some water," he firmly replied.
A little slip of a girl dressed in flowing silk robes and noiseless slippers fetched it for him, and did not bother to hide her intrigued stares. The Chinese pilot found her kohl-rimmed eyes and henna-laced hands disconcerting; few women dressed as this girl did on his colony, and he'd never seen anyone so... exotic, and yet enticing and alluring, all at once. He transferred his gaze to Quatre determinedly, but his eyes kept drifting back to the girl, who wove through the crowds of the men with strange grace, bringing bowls of food or jugs of the heady-smelling alcohol.
Quatre said, "Her name is Sabah."
Wufei looked over. "What?"
The little blonde was gently smiling. "Sabah," he repeated. "It's her name."
Wufei tensed. "Why should I care about a girl's name?" he demanded, retreating into the gruff shell he imagined kept such perceptive and useless observations at bay.
Possibly Quatre was too drunk to notice, though--or too drunk to let it stop him. He only laughed, a bright little laugh, and leaned over until his mouth brushed against Wufei's ear. "I'm glad you came," he murmured, and despite the noise in the tent, Wufei heard him perfectly.
"I wasn't going to," he admitted slowly. Quatre's head was still close to his, angled to catch his words, and he found himself inhaling the scent of the boy's golden silky locks. Wind and the musk of spicy herbs, even the smoky smell of the opium which was in free, but moderate use throughout the party.
Quatre's soft, flushed cheek brushed his. "Then why did you come?"
The over-heated, damp interlocking of their fingers had receeded to a tolerable ache, and a rather pleasant feeling of closeness, which he had only rarely enjoyed with his few friends in better times. Unthinking he replied, "Because I knew it meant a lot to you."
Quatre tilted his head back slightly, and when his eyes met Wufei's, they were deep and warm. "Thank you," he whispered.
Wufei freed a finger for the purpose of brushing a tumbling lock out of the Arabian's wide blue eyes. He opened his mouth to reply, and was interrupted by an even more faintly voiced question.
"Wufei? Will you make me a promise?"
He was wary. "It depends."
"I want to be your friend. This war, this great and awful thing that we're doing--we must all do it *together.* Our souls are all the same, our beliefs and personalities aside--our souls must be one soul. Will you let me be your friend, Chang Wufei? Those who fight together must love each other, even if they don't always like each other."
The impassioned speech took him aback... and touched him. This earnest little child had a strength and wisdom to him that appealed to something within Wufei. Slowly, he nodded. "I will," he replied. "And let me be yours."
Quatre smiled. "Then I swear to always love you, as a fellow warrior, a brother, and a soul-mate."
Later Wufei would rage at himself for saying such foolish things, on such an inane impulse to please this oddly entrancing angel--but his fury would only be half-hearted, and his ranting would lose its biting edge. "I swear," he said, and meant it.
The End
(:./erin/4and5)
