by Sandpiper
Disclaimer: The title came from a song on my Punk O Rama Vol. 8. I don't remember the artists' name, so pardon me that.
Notes: Originally written for the "May I Have This Dance?" challenge at the LiveJournal community Temps Mort (http://www.livejournal.com/community/temps_mort/). The first draft, posted to Temps Mort, was written in about 75 minutes, but I've since gone back and revamped it. Because it both deserved and needed it, in my opinion.
Another day, another social function.
Another social function, another inevitable rejection.
And such is life.
Quatre knew that his father didn't intend to make him miserable by attaching his arm to that of every eligible female, and he knew that when one had a large corporation in one's grasp, one was very obstinate about verifying the steadiness of the hands it would one day be passed into. So it wasn't really a matter of blaming his father for not knowing him or his desires better than a schoolmate or coworker could be expected to. He was a busy man. Quatre could understand that.
And so his days passed. He took his lessons from his tutor, he practiced his violin, he mingled. But he wasn't happy. And one could hardly fault him for it. He was not lacking in attention, from both his attendants and his peers. With his fair skin, light blonde hair and aquamarine eyes, he attracted females like dogs to fresh meat. They cooed and giggled over his good manners, his light humor, his angelic features.
Quatre figured that was mostly where they went wrong. He was just a little social butterfly to them; wealthy and a good business prospect. But he didn't want Winner Ltd., he didn't want to ride a desk and come home every day to a fluttering wife and two kids, and he definitely didn't want to be put on a pedestal. He wanted to be a normal fifteen-year-old boy. His biggest problems should be worrying about the history exam the next day, not trying to make sure he established all the right connections and danced with all the right daughters and didn't sabotage his father's image.
He wanted to escape.
But that wasn't going to happen any time soon. Tonight he was tagging along with Father at some upperclass party, if the mass of aging men and women chatting and drinking champagne could even be called that. True, there were a few girls his age that he actually might enjoy talking to. Occasionally there were young men as well. But tonight wasn't looking even slightly up. His mission was the usual; improving relations for his father, exchanging pleasantries (no one really meant them) and generally being miserable. At least he didn't have a date. But better not jinx himself. One never knew...
He leaned against a large, picturesque window- ignoring the rest of the hall's occupants- and stared out over the city lights, picking at the cuff of his gunmetal grey tuxedo jacket (the light blue silk blouse underneath was really starting to itch at the seams but he wasn't about to itch at his shoulders in public) and nursing the glass of champagne that he wasn't really supposed to have.
~but oh, isn't he cute, isn't he that Winner boy, he's growing up, how responsible he is, did you hear, oh what a little gentleman, just a doll, the boy's becoming a man~
The mansion was perched up on a hill, overlooking the whole of Damascus. He didn't rightly know why here, why this mansion, why Damascus of all places, but did the reason ever change, really? Unwanted responsibility loomed over him like the heavy air and sickly green clouds that heralded a tornado's imminent arrival. His father would trap him, a nice girl would trap him, being CEO of one of the largest corporations in the Earth Sphere would trap him.
He so desperately wanted to escape.
"Oh, Quatre, there you are, boy." Mr. Winner, dark brown hair and mustache impeccably combed, approached, followed by a hopeful, quite- rotund business associate and the ever-present simpering daughter. This time it was a red head, petite and pale-faced with bright green eyes. She might have been pretty, if only she hadn't been gazing at him quite so ravenously. Quatre forced himself to smile.
"Quatre, this is Mr. Marnellini and his daughter Charity. Mr. Marnellini has been working with me on negotiating the finer terms of our contracts with resource providers in L3. I'm sure you won't mind escorting Charity for the evening." His father's tone booked no argument. In fact, it stated quite plainly, don't mess this up. The anxiety radiating from him was hard to miss. But Quatre could take a challenge. He did it everyday.
"It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Marnellini," he shook the business- man's large hand, and bowed to Charity, taking hold of her slim, pale hand and placing a light kiss on the back of it. He ignored her giggle and continued. "And you, Miss Charity. It would please me greatly to accompany such a fine lady." Quatre turned to his father and Marnellini. "I trust your negotiating is going smoothly, gentlemen?"
Mr. Winner seemed to narrow his eyes in suspicion at his son, (or did he just feel his father's doubt?) before grinning broadly. "Yes, quite. Well then, that's settled. You two have fun now." And with that, he was gone.
Charity giggled, brushing imaginary pieces of lint off her green dress. Funny, he hadn't even noticed what she was wearing until now. Whoops. Maybe he was more the typical male than he thought.
"You know Quatre, I'm not accustomed to the weather here in Damascus. It's so much different than Oxford. I do believe I am quite a bit parched."
Quatre bit his tongue to keep himself from making a rude comment, annoyed at her pronouncing his name wrong, annoyed at the night, annoyed at his inability to stand up for himself.
Just once, all I need is once. One chance.
In any event, the lust radiating from her was starting to sicken him. He smiled again. "Well, wait right here, and I will be more than happy to bring you some champagne." At least that was partly true. He couldn't wait to get away. Turning before he could see her saccharine smile, Quatre headed towards the tables set up on the sides of the room. As he meandered and wove through the crowd of designer bags and stilettos and oiled moustaches, someone caught his eye.
A young man, about his age, which wasn't too unusual in this setting, though his purpose for attending the event was a mystery. He was taller than Quatre by a few inches, with a curtain of chestnut hair that concealed one of his eyes (and probably proved very useful at times.) The boy was tie-less, dressed in a simple black suit with an olive blouse. The latter, Quatre noticed, accentuated the fact that the boy wasn't porcelain-skinned like himself, but looked rather like he was born of the Mediterranean.
A cloud of boredom and mild repulsion surrounded him, but Quatre felt something irresistible in his aura. Each person had his or her own sort of mental watermark, and no matter their mood, that little watermark let him identify the person even when he could not hear or see them. Some people were easier to think of as colors, some as elements, many were scents, and others still were tastes in Quatre's mind.
This boy felt fluid and cold, like mountain spring water, but Quatre received a strong sense of both cool melon found in the street markets of Paris, the famed tea and varied spices of India, and even the rich, layered wines of Italy. It was without a doubt the most completely oxymoronic persona he had ever encountered. It seemed as though the boy would clash with himself, but he simply transcended such trivialities.
His watermark was both gentle and ferocious, controlled and untamed, and as he walked by, Quatre noticed the inherent grace that accompanied his every movement. It reminded him of a cat, albeit a very layered, enigmatic one, and he wondered if this intriguing youth would laugh if he knew Quatre's thoughts of him.
He didn't think he would.
Quatre managed to tear his eyes away mere moments before he nearly ran into an elderly woman. Offering multiple apologies, he finally made his way to the table he had been seeking. Retrieving two new glasses of champagne, he turned about, only to find that he couldn't see Chanel? Charity? Charlene? anywhere. The curse of being horrendously short in a crowded room.
He sighed and noticed an exit to a balcony at his right. Feeling particularly impulsive, Quatre slipped through the heavy wooden doors to outside. The night air was dry but cool, hinting at the temperature it would take the next midday. If only he were able to enjoy the night more often.
Well, never mind that, you're here now. Take advantage.
Quatre set the champagne down on the railing and stared at the night sky. The stars were clearer than they would have been down in the city, and he tried to find a familiar constellation; something he hadn't been able to do often, up on L4. The colonies only had an illusion to offer him. He thought that he could stay forever on Earth, if only Fate would let him.
"Do you mind if I join you?" A smooth and masculine voice asked.
Quatre spun around. The boy he'd been practically ogling earlier stood a few feet from him, silhouetted by the light from indoors. The doors closed shut, and the only light came from glowing Damascus, the stars, and the almost-full moon.
"I, uh...er, no, you're more than welcome" Quatre blinked, confused by the sudden turn of events and temporarily caught off his guard. He didn't think the boy even knew he existed. That was a new feeling, he had to admit.
The boy walked forward and stood beside Quatre, resting his arms on the rail two feet away. He might have been all well and fine with the following silence, but Quatre itched to talk to him.
"My name's Quatre." He said, impetuously. His over-eagerness probably came through in his voice, Quatre thought as he inwardly winced.
The boy looked at him, and the hint of a grin curved the side of his (rather attractive) lips. "And mine is Trowa."
"Trowa..." Quatre said, testing out the name. It fit him, he decided. "That sounds sort of familiar, though I know I would remember meeting you."
"Though I have heard of you in passing, I was just thinking the same. Very interesting." Trowa nodded slightly, turning back towards the outside world. "So you don't live here in Damascus, I see."
Quatre sighed. "No, I live in many places, but usually I'm up on L4." He motioned skyward with his head, using the motion to cover up his sneaking a look at the boy. "This is yet another check mark on my father's campaign list, I'm afraid. I'm simply making the rounds with him."
"Ah." Trowa said more in that one utterance than many people did in five sentences. "Do you like it here?"
Quatre nodded, sneaking another look at Trowa. "From what I've seen, yes. I've always had an affinity for the desert, I suppose. It would be so nice to always stay here. It's so...I don't know, grounded, if you know what I mean. The colonies are just drifting out in space it seems, but here it feels like home."
Trowa smiled also. "That is exactly how I feel. The colonies hold nothing for me."
Quatre shrugged, sighing. "Well, business is business I guess. Never mind the fact that I more-often-than-not feel like a caged animal. Speaking of which, I do believe I have a certain Chastity Marnellini to be returning to..." He trailed off regretfully. Despite the fact that they had only exchanged a few sentences, he knew he much preferred Trowa's company.
"Her name is Charity, I believe." Quatre couldn't miss the amusement surrounding the boy. He was pleased to see that Trowa was no longer bored, and...was that attraction he felt coming from his fellow escapee? Must be reading him wrong, he couldn't dare to hope... He wasn't supposed to even think about males in that sense, he was in the public eye, very not good.
"Oh. Well, she didn't seem much like a Chastity to me anyway." Quatre commented, half wanting to cover his slip, half wondering if he could make a decent joke.
At this, Trowa actually laughed aloud, and Quatre felt happiness bubble in his chest. He was so afraid that Trowa was too much the silent type. "No, I'd have to agree with you on that. I've only had the pleasure of spending a few extended moments in her company, but the girl apparently feels she has to latch onto every eligible male in the vicinity."
Trowa flicked his eyes towards the door for the briefest moment, before leaning over and whispering conspiratorially, "I assure you, that is not the case with me. I'd like to think that I have some standards."
Perhaps it was just the champagne, or the closeness, or even Trowa's warm champagne-laced breath hitting his neck and ear suggesting he more than surpassed those standards, but Quatre suddenly felt very giddy. There was no mistaking the attraction coming from the other boy. He had read the signs right after all.
Trowa suddenly seemed much more like the hunter than the prey.
Then Quatre remembered something very useful.
"Oh, I almost forgot. Would you like some champagne, Trowa? I'm afraid it will be much too warm by the time it reaches dear Charity." Quatre could hardly keep the smirk from his voice, and the grin accompanying it.
Trowa's expression mirrored his own, having caught Quatre's acknowledgment and acceptance of his advances. "Well, wouldn't want to waste good champagne, now." He accepted the glass from Quatre, letting his fingers brush over the blonde's for a moment longer than was considered decent. At Quatre's raised eyebrow, he grinned, his whole face shining in the dim light.
"I'm not being very subtle, am I?"
Quatre shook his head. "No, you're not."
"Well, in that case," he took a small sip of his glass before setting it back down. Performing a half-serious bow, Trowa held out his hand.
"May I have this dance, Quatre?" His voice flowed over the other boy like silk; smooth and very enticing.
Quatre's heart felt like it was cavorting about his chest.
oh this was good yes I will I would love how I want but no business can't sorry forgive me can't not here people are here I can't mess up now it's not allowed please don't hate me I just
"I...I'm sorry. I would love to but...erm,..."
"Would you let me unlock your cage, Quatre Winner?" Trowa caught his eyes, and Quatre noticed that although they were a deep shade of green not unlike those of the girl inside the mansion, these eyes were bright and beautiful and warm and more importantly, offering him freedom. They were Trowa, and they were waiting.
And he made up his mind.