Chapter Text
Quatre: Don't be ridiculous Wufei, you can't skip it. Relena would be heartbroken.
Wufei: You can fuss over her delicate feelings all you like. I don't care.
Quatre: You don't mean that.
Wufei: Try me.
Quatre: Please? For my sake, at least? I need someone to be miserable with.
Wufei: Or you could just talk to her already.
Quatre: You could talk to him.
Wufei: The last thing he needs is ammunition.
Quatre: Come. Please.
Wufei: I'm bringing a book.
Quatre: Bring a library. Thank you.
I've always liked the sound of a party in full swing. The swell of music, the indistinguishable murmur of voices, the bright flashes of laughter. Being surrounded by people like that, happy people, it's a way of disappearing.
I don't get many chances to disappear.
"Relena?" It's Quatre. His touch is gentle and polite on my elbow; his smile is sunlight. "How are you? The party looks lovely."
It does. Appearance and substance, they're not opposites. My father taught me that. The way you dress, the acoustics of a room, the color of the tablecloths. It all matters.
And so, there are musicians in velvet dresses and tuxedos. There are crystal chandeliers casting rainbows on the walls. There's an enormous Christmas tree, star topped and dusted with fake snow. And I am, appropriately, standing just in front of it. The tablecloths are deepest navy, the silver shines, and the wine is very, very good. I do know how to throw a party, even when I'm celebrating breaking my mother's heart.
"Thank you," I say, but I must have the intonation wrong, because Quatre frowns.
"What's wrong?" he asks, tilting his head slightly toward me.
And I want to tell him. Oh, to lay my head on his shoulder and pour out the whole stupid story. The money (or lack of it, it turns out). The engagement my mother's somehow dug up. The very nice young man who's apparently been expecting to marry me since the day I was born. These worn ties of love and the older ties of blood. And me, trying once again to forge my own path. This time, there's no Heero to throw myself on like a particularly ineffective blade. (But he and Trowa are so besotted with each other I can hardly complain, can I?)
I want to tell him, but I can't.
If this is to work, and it has to work, then I have to keep it close. Those of us who made it through the war together, we're connected by so many lines of love and blood and anger that even I don't know which strands are safe to walk. Better to be still, to keep this secret small and safe, until the danger passes.
"Nothing," I say.
"I don't believe you."
"Well, that's not very nice of you, is it?"
His laugh is low and dry. "As Duo will happily tell you, I'm not the nice one."
"Who is?"
"I don't know. Maybe we all take turns."
Together, we scan the room for the other Gundam Pilots. Trowa and Heero are tucked into a corner, heads close, not talking. God save me from the specter of what I once wanted. Don't get me wrong, Heero was delicious back then, and he's only improved. Short still, but lean and muscular, with a stare like the barrel of a gun. But what did I think we would talk about?
Trowa matches him nicely. Taller, more angular, but equally reserved. I'm sure there are stories in their silences. I am equally sure I wouldn't care to read them.
Duo is where he should be, right in the center of the dance floor, moving from one partner to the next with easy grace and enthusiasm. He's dressed for the occasion, overdressed even, a tux and tails while everyone else has settled for suit jackets or cocktail dresses. Wherever he moves, the light of the room seems to follow. For all the darkness he lays claim to, Duo knows how to play the part of sunlight.
Sensing my gaze, he glances up from his partner and grins. I hide my own smile behind my hand.
"Where's Wufei?" I ask. "He did come, didn't he?"
Quatre nods toward the stairs. Wufei's on the second floor, standing by the railing. Impeccably dressed with posture that would have made my dance instructor weep with joy, he's got his head bent over an open book. But his eyes are on the dance floor.
"Should I ask him to dance?" I ask. "He looks wistful."
"I think he wants to be left alone to brood."
"But should he be?"
Quatre lays his palm flat on his chest and sighs. "I don't know. I've learned that sometimes it's easier to be left alone to hurt."
"Easy isn't always best, though."
His eyes are blue and bright and then he's looking away, shaking his head. Maybe I should be asking him what's wrong.
"No, it isn't. But we've all had enough of doing the difficult thing."
It's a hard point to argue, so I leave Wufei alone. There's no time, anyway. The band's current song is coming to an end, and I know what they'll be playing next. I scan the room, for my mother this time. She's by the window, talking to Zechs. I try not to wonder what they're plotting. It won't matter, anyway.
Quatre's fingers brush my palm. "Would you like to dance?"
It's tempting. Of all the pilots, I think he's changed the most. From fragile looking, sad-eyed teen, he's grown tall and broad, with the sort of wide shoulders and strong arms that make you want to snuggle close. But maybe what's best about him are the parts that have stayed the same. Gentle eyes, sun gold hair, and a smile that always means comfort.
Tempting, yes. But tonight, I need to be strong. And there's something about the comfort of a trusted friend that just undoes me.
"Later," I say and feel him shift away from me, posture closing. "Soon. I promise."
He relaxes again. "Can I get you some wine?"
"I--"
But then Duo is pushing his way through the remaining dancers, making a show of it, drawing murmurs. There's a slow swell of strings from the band, just loud enough to be heard but not noticed.
"Hey, Relena!" Duo grabs a glass from a passing waiter and taps it a few times. A handful of people glance up, but it's not quite enough to quiet the chattering. With a shrug, he lets the glass fall, crystal shattering against the marble, wine soaking into his socks. When a few people still insist on talking, he whistles, high and sharp.
All eyes on him. He winks at me.
I am lucky in my friends.
"That's better," Duo says. "Don't want anyone to miss this."
"What's he up to?" Quatre hisses in my ear. I shrug, pretending confusion.
"Yes, Duo?" I ask, pitching my voice to carry. "Did you want to dance?"
He closes the distance between us, light on his feet, practically dancing already. I sneak a glance toward the windows. My mother is still there, watching. She's likely been watching since he first said my name. Zechs is there too, arms crossed, already glaring daggers.
Good.
"Maybe," he says, grinning that warm, wild grin of his. "First, I thought I'd say a few words. Wanted to be sure everyone heard them."
"Yes?" Should I look puzzled? Expectant? I settle for a smile.
"I wanna thank you for everything. For getting everyone together like this. For keeping everyone together. For caring about people no one else cared about. For believing in us. In everyone. I didn't used to believe in peace. Didn't believe people really wanted it. You changed that. You believed for me. For everyone. We all love you for that. I know I do."
The room, already silent, feels like an in-drawn breath. Everyone waiting on his next words. I shift, smoothing my skirt, looking away despite myself. He's selling this better than I expected. My eyes are wet.
"Anyway. That's why I figured I'd ask. Think you might marry me?"
A collective gasp followed by a rising susurration of murmurs. Approval? Disapproval? It's impossible to tell, but I can guess. My mother's hands clenching into delicate fists. A book falling from the second floor and hitting the ground with a dull thud. Duo's eyes, blue-purple and gem bright. His smile like a promise.
Like a gift.
"Of course." It comes out so genuine, through a throat closed with emotion. I love him in that moment, and I think he loves me. Like a brother. Like a comrade in a war. Like a cage door, opening. "I would be honored."
Well, Mother. Let the games begin.