24-Jan-2001
Title: The Rose Masque 1/?
Author: Hotaru
Category: Humor/Deviant Mischief
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Slight lang.; rude humor
Spoilers: None; takes a few liberties with series timeline, gomen
Feedback: Yes please!
Disclaimers: A. I don't own any part of Gundam Wing; this fic is non-commercial.
B. You want to remember that nobody loves a litigious bastard.
Five Gundam pilots sat around a table on a sunlit deck of the Winner desert estate. None of them spoke. Instead each stared, warily, at a smallish black envelope in the center of the table.
More to the point, they stared at the delicate rose-shaped imprint in the sealing wax.
The boys had seen that crest before.
"Open it," Quatre said, finally.
"Burn it," Wufei said, emphatically.
"Screw it," Duo said, and snatched the envelope off the table. He raised it to his ear, shaking it tentatively. "He's not the mail-bomb type, is he, Heero?"
"No," Heero said. "That's more his personal secretary's style."
Trowa chuckled.
"Okay, then," Duo sighed as he snapped the rose seal and lifted the little flap. "Here goes nothin'."
The four boys rose and clustered behind Duo's chair, leaning in to peer at the black notecard Duo had pulled from the envelope.
/Colonel Treize Khushrenada/,
read elegant, gold-embossed script,
/requests the honor of your presence
at an All Hallow's Masque to be held
on the evening of October the Thirty-First,
One Hundred and Ninety-Five A.C.,
in celebration of the temporary truce
occasioned by current peace negotiations.
R.S.V.P.; Please present your pass at the gate./
Duo upended the envelope and shook. Five small black discs, each embossed with a gold pumpkin and the name of a Gundam pilot, slid into his palm.
"Neat," Heero said, sourly. "But I think I'll pass."
"I'd sooner gouge an eye out," Wufei declared.
"No frigging way," Duo agreed.
Quatre murmured something, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
"What?" Heero demanded. "What was that?"
Quatre looked up, his cupid's-bow mouth set in a determined line. "I think we should go, I said."
The others gaped at him.
"Well, really," he huffed, crossing his arms, "I mean... Is fighting all we're good for? Are we so inflexible that we'll risk our lives in mobile suit battles, but won't spend an evening mingling with a few OZ officials in the interest of fostering peace?"
"Under the /pretext/ of fostering peace," Heero corrected. "This could be a trap, you know."
Quatre shook his head. "I really doubt that, Heero. Look--" he snatched the invitation away from Duo and flipped it over. "The address is his Luxembourg estate, neutral territory right now because of the peace talks there. He'd consider it poor form to sabotage his own negotiations with an act of aggression, wouldn't he? The head of the Treize Faction is not about to gratify OZ by spilling blood on his parlor floor." The Arabian's lips curved in a tiny smile. "Not even the blood of the notorious Gundam pilots."
"This truce does protect us, too, even if we're not represented at the talks," Duo reluctantly agreed. "He's already told the media so. And Quatre's right--that guy may be oily, but he's a stickler for form."
"We should go," Quatre repeated. His voice was quiet but firm. "It's the smart thing to do. And the courteous."
Heero stared into space for a moment, clearly assessing the situation. Finally, he gave a tiny nod.
Wufei was looking mutinous. "No. No, no, no. No way."
"Yes way, Wu," coaxed Duo. "Come on. Quat-man's right, much as I hate to admit it. 'Sfor a good cause. Time to show Khushrenada we're more than a bunch of clowns with beam cannons--no offense, Trowa."
"I say yea, too," was Trowa's only reply.
"What!" Wufei howled his indignation. "Barton, you don't mean to tell me you /trust/ that insufferable kisama?"
"No indeed." Trowa sank into his chair, leaned back, and crossed his long legs beneath the table. "I just think it'll be fun."
Now four boys gawked in surprise at the European. Wufei sputtered as Duo, suddenly dejected, flung himself onto his stomach on the wooden deck. "Bet you're wrong," Maxwell grumbled. "Bet it'll suck the hairy root. How much fun can a bunch of decrepit old paper-pushing career officers be, anyways?"
"Cheer up," Quatre threw over his shoulder, grinning, as he ran inside to R.S.V.P. their acceptance. "They might bring their daughters!"
Heero was still gazing upwards, calculating intricate probabilities on an invisible blackboard. "Khushrenada'll want representatives from every group," he said, softly. "A ballroom full of Oz, Treize Faction, and White Fang soldiers. What will that be like?"
"Explosion in an epaulette factory," Duo muttered, chin in hand.
Wufei threw up his hands in surrender and paced around the table, completely disgusted. "I expect we'll need dress uniforms as well."
"Mais non," Trowa murmured. The others looked at him. "Didn't you read this? It's a masque." He quirked an eyebrow. "We'll need costumes."
A slow grin spread across Duo's face.
Heero blinked.
"I think," Wufei said, distinctly, "I'm going to be sick."
They had two weeks to prepare.
As Quatre was their protocol droid, fashion expert, and goodwill ambassador all rolled into one, the other boys surrendered themselves--with varying degrees of willingness--to his tender ministrations.
"Right, you lot." He looked sternly at them over breakfast the morning after he'd faxed Treize an acceptance note. "You have thirteen days to put together your costumes. I don't care what you pick, as long as it's not likely to make nice ladies swoon. Or instigate a war."
"We're already in a war, Quatre," Duo reminded him.
Quatre scowled. "Not until the truce is broken, we're not. Which reminds me: You--" he pointed at Wufei, "and You--" at Heero, "are not to bring along any guns."
"Fine, Quatre," Wufei agreed.
"Or swords."
"Crap," muttered the Chinese pilot.
"Agreed, everyone?" He glanced around at them, allowing an anxious note to creep into his voice. "No weapons. Nothing that could be interpreted as an act of aggression."
Slowly, all four pilots nodded.
"Excellent." Quatre beamed. "Now, masques have traditionally meant wearing actual masks--"
"Insert Zechs Marquise joke here," Duo piped up.
"--But these days, just about any old disguise is acceptable. The main thing is to make an impression." He winked at them. "We may not be the richest guests there--well, maybe I will be," he added, blushing faintly, "but anyway--we'll certainly be the highest profile, since we're young and generally regarded as renegade terrorists, et cetera. So, let's give them a good show. My sisters' tailors and personal stylists are at your disposal. Oh yeah, and I almost forgot..." he backed nervously out of the dining room, grabbing a piece of toast as he went. "I've hired a dance instructor. Anyone who doesn't know how to waltz, don't make any plans for next Wednesday and Thursday mornings!"
This announcement was met with a volley of explosive curses. Quatre ducked out the door with a squeak as a grapefruit smashed into the wall by his head.
"Got any ideas?"
"Have you?"
"I asked first."
"Maybe I'll just come as myself."
"Good idea, you're already in costume with that priest's getup."
"Eat my shorts. Hey, Quatre, do you know what you're wearing yet?"
"...."
"Fine, be that way. Yuy isn't telling either."
"There's nothing to tell. I'm not wearing a costume."
"Hey, no fair! If we have to, you have to!"
"Quit whining, baka."
"Perhaps I'll go as a pirate...what is so amusing, Maxwell?....Oh, to hell with you."
"Ignore him, Wufei."
"To hell with all of you!"
"Arrr, that's the spirit, Wu-matey!"
"God, I hate Halloween."
All Hallow's Eve began with a freak sandstorm. Enormous gusts blotted out the desert sun and flickered at the candles in the jack o' lanterns Quatre--after a consultation with Pilots 02 and 03--had placed throughout the household. All the boys were well-travelled enough to have heard of Halloween; but none, except Duo and Trowa, had ever celebrated it. Trowa said Western Halloween was different from Eastern Ancestors' Nights.
"But it has to do with honoring your dead, doesn't it?" Wufei asked, confused.
Trowa and Duo exchanged a glance.
"More to do with ghosts in general," Trowa said.
"And candy," Duo added happily.
"Children wear scary costumes. The point is to ward off witches and demons."
"And to get candy."
Wufei looked at one, then the other. "Ludicrous," he said at last. "The entire Western hemisphere should hit a glacier, break into tiny pieces, and sink into the ocean. We'd all be better off."
"We love you too, Wu. Now go get your butt in costume." Duo wiggled his eyebrows. "Or do you want me to give Nataku the old soap-n'-toilet paper treatment?"
"MAXWELL!"
Half an hour to departure.
Wufei swept into the front parlor, scarcely noticing Heero--uncostumed, as promised--hunched over his laptop in concentration. The Chinese pilot grabbed a small weight and began lifting, the repetitive motion easing his tension and soothing his flustered mind. He was nervous, though he would never admit it to the others. He could face Khushrenada, Marquise, and the rest of the bastards on the battlefield, but... in a ballroom? This was uncharted territory. Opulence terrified Wufei.
However... he was forced to admit, glancing down at the outfit he had devised with the help of Quatre's designers, that he would fit in just fine with the Rich and Shameless this evening. His costume was lavish and sleek, a red silk suit very like his white wedding robes, but piped in gold. There was also a matching mask on a stick, patterned after the pictures he had given the designers of dragons in traditional Chinese theatre. He was particularly pleased with the slippers he had commissioned, red-and-gold satin confections that must have cost a small fortune. Looking at them now, he wiggled his toes and vowed to repay Quatre someday. Dressing up had turned out to be an unexpected pleasure...
Just then, Trowa entered from the kitchen. Wufei started, gave a shout of horrified laughter, then clamped his hands over his mouth.
Pilot 03 was dressed as Lady Une.
The greater part of his voluminous bangs were swept back from his face and artfully twisted into the crazy onna's signature braid-buns. The uniform, Wufei saw, was a modified version of Trowa's own from the days when he had masqueraded as an Oz soldier. The resemblance was uncanny, from his neat cravat to his high-heeled boots. But he had forgotten--
"The glasses," Wufei chuckled. "You don't have her glasses."
Trowa smirked. "I will have," he promised quietly, "before the night is over."
"You aren't serious!"
"Oh, but I am. I owe her one. I'm on a mission." The tall boy grinned evilly at Wufei as Quatre, also still in his customary clothing, his blonde hair in disarray, strode into the room, glanced at Heero's laptop screen, then breezed into the kitchen.
"Quatre?" Trowa called after him, peering at his watch. "It's almost time to go, why aren't you ready?"
"Oh," Heero piped sweetly, echoing Trowa's line from a moment before, "but I am."
Wufei and Trowa froze in confusion, then turned--very, very slowly--to stare at the boy on the sofa.
He rose just as slowly to stand before them, savoring his friends' astonished expessions. Their eyes travelled slowly from his sneakered feet... up long, finely-muscled legs... to the familiar skintight spandex shorts... upwards to the clinging green tank top. Blue eyes flashed dangerously under heavy brows. The dark hair was tousled, wild-looking; even the defiant stance was vintage Heero Yuy.
Trowa squinted in disbelief. Those eyes, they were too light--and the shape of the face was wrong, more like--
Suddenly, the fierce scowl split into a sunny smile, equally familiar.
It was Quatre.
"Oh my God!" Wufei sagged against the wall, clutching his chest. "How in the--you look exactly--"
"Wait," Trowa whispered, "wait--that means--"
Trowa and Wufei turned in unison, again, as their little blonde angel sauntered through the kitchen door.
There stood Heero Yuy, prim as a dish and neatly groomed in khaki trousers, a high-collared Oxford shirt starched gleaming white, and a demure tailored vest. He returned their gazes with a shy, self-effacing smile as he smoothed his platinum tresses into place.
"Oh... my... God..." Wufei repeated.
Heero wandered casually over to stand next to Quatre, polishing an apple against the vest and chuckling softly to himself. Now that they were so close to one another, their true identities seemed obvious. But the disguises were still good. Damn good. The two exchanged a satisfied look.
"Devious," Quatre explained while Trowa and Wufei gathered their wits, "but harmless. Our images are plastered on Oz's wanted posters from one end of the universe to the other, right? Yet only a handful of the guests tonight will have met us in person."
"You were right, Trowa," Heero said in a low tone, almost a growl. In that instant he was unmistakably himself, peroxide notwithstanding. "This is going to be fun."
"Good clean fun, though, right, Heero?" Pilot 01's doppelganger asked, a bit nervous now. "We don't want to antagonize anyone unnecessarily..." He tried not to look directly at Trowa's costume as he uttered this plea.
Heero nodded, still smiling secretly, then bit into the apple.
Trowa cleared his throat in an obvious attempt to compose himself. His eyes kept flicking from Heero's shining golden hair to Quatre's thighs, encased in that soft second skin of spandex. This was too disorienting. "I'm almost afraid to ask, but has anyone seen Duo?"
The Japanese pilot frowned and glanced at the expensive gold watch strapped to his wrist. "Baka. We need to go now," he growled. "This is not a night to be fashionably late."
"I'll go get him," Quatre sighed. "He'd better be ready, we can't w--"
"I think he's ready," Wufei interrupted quietly.
The others crossed the room to where Wufei was standing, mesmerized, his eyes round as an owl's. One by one they all followed his gaze up to the top of the master staircase. For a few moments, the four pilots could only stare in silence.
Duo looked down on them, his expression mild but somehow veiled, difficult to read. His body was wrapped in a thin, sleeveless silk shift--the softest-looking garment they had ever seen--the color of space. Dark sandals peeked from beneath its hem. Silver cords criscrossed his chest, wound around his left bicep, and were woven through his hair to create a makeshift circlet. The overall effect was a bit androgynous, a bit Roman, and completely entrancing.
It also happened to complement, quite perfectly, the jet-black wings which jutted in splendor from his back.
The reach of the wings, the softness of their ebony feathers, framed Duo and seemed to lift him up. Just for a second, the four boys watching him entertained the notion that he might rise off the staircase--simply flutter those wings and float, angel-like, through the airy foyer to land before them on the parlor floor.
"Honoring the dead." Wufei's whisper was almost inaudible.
"Well," Heero managed. There was a suspicious catch in his voice. "Aren't we self-referential tonight?"
Duo did a double-take at his fellow pilot, eyes widening in shock. "H-Heero? Oh, whoa!"
The stately illusion was shattered as Maxwell bounded down the stairs, three at a time, his robes billowing behind him as he leapt. He skidded to a halt in front of the others. Flurries of black feathers floated in his wake.
He gawked at Heero and Quatre, then at Trowa, before looking Wufei up and down with a low whistle. The trademark grin slowly surfaced. "Maybe this shindig'll be fun after all," he chuckled.
"Uh huh." Quatre took a deep breath. "Jet's fuelled and the storm has settled enough for takeoff. We're good to go. Any last-minute questions?"
Heero slowly raised his hand. "Yeah."
The four boys looked at him.
"Why didn't someone /tell/ me those shorts were so damn revealing?"
tbc...
(:./hotaru/rose1)
