Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Scissored Kismets ❯ Of Shadows and Wrong Assumptions ( Chapter 5 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

Chapter 5: Of Shadows and Wrong Assumptions

“Jealousy is the tie that binds, and binds, and binds.”-Helen Rowland

The faint sheen of her lips beneath the meager shadow of her mardi gras mask was luscious. She twisted her mouth into a leer that intensified her features, and upon stepping into the ballroom, she seemed to have defied all the other laws of nature as attention was magnetized towards her and breaths were held in.

Even though they wore masks, she could see the awe in their half-shadowed—and in some cases, half-lidded—eyes.

She was both hated and loved. Her powerful charisma and seemingly eternal exquisiteness was the main reason why she was nicknamed the enchantress by the majority of the public. The green-eyed female population had generally tagged her as a witch, lots of them picking on her trademark eyebrows. People spoke of her as a legend, a femme fatale pulled out from legends and dolled up to complement with the After Colony era.

The mask was useless, for apparently, everyone still knew she was Dorothy Catalonia. The large white feathers attached to it concealed almost half of her head where her hair was bunched up in a French twist. Noodle-like strands stubbornly spilled down to emphasize the shape of her face. Her one hand was elegantly folded around the golden stick that held the mask in place while her other hand was idly twiddling with the black cross pendant of the choker that hung from her ivory neck.

Her smirk grew. She was conscious that every masculine eyes present there were sailing over her figure, feasting on the snugness of her curves against the velvet gown, but she was too amused by her own thoughts to bother herself about that.

She knew that the place could have caught fire and she would continue laughing to herself. She left her choker to tuck an annoying strand behind her ear. Still twirling her fingers around the handle, she strode on and recalled what she had just done earlier.

Her escort had showed up early at her estate to pick her up. He seemed to be nervous when she accepted his arm, but it didn't mar his features. In fact, it made him look a little cuter with those slightly trembling lips and his ever-present blush. His jumpiness seemed to increase when they were already settled on the backseat of his Rolls Royce. Rashid, who according to Quatre had insisted on driving them to the Peacecraft mansion, kept glancing at the rearview mirror to look at them.

Quatre would bite his bottom lip after each nervous laugh and nonsensical blabbing that he irritatingly put on just for the sake that no uncomfortable silence would come between them. He would rake his hair with his fingers and sometimes would secretly throw sideways glances at her when he thought she wasn't watching.

She'd wondered what the matter was now. The last time they saw each other he seemed to be just okay; he was even so confident to assume she'd already agreed to let him be her escort even if she didn't make any utterance in response to his offer. He was so terribly jittery that he almost shrieked when their hands accidentally touched on the leather seat.

It irritated her to no end. What the hell was his problem? She wouldn't gainsay the fact that she herself was a bit tense—her heart marching away with that drumbeat that was the theme song whenever he was around—but not to the extent that she would go paranoid. She huffed and stared outside the window, counting inwardly to keep herself calm…

She was close to giving up when she realized that she couldn't. That's when she was hit with a completely mischievous idea.

Angry? No. Excited was actually the right term, but she wouldn't show him that she had something up her sleeve.

“Uh, Quatre dear?” she'd asked in a seductive breath, snaking her arm around his. He'd stiffened at the contact, and probably also at the endearment, and smothered whatever pathetic reaction his system would supposedly draw out his mouth.

“Hmmm?” he'd asked in reply instead, teeth digging onto his lip. Dorothy had felt how he was gently attempting to tug his arm away. She'd tightened the hold.

“I'm just wondering,” she'd grasped a handful of his collar and started to pull at it, “if ever you've really healed,” and drew him closer, despite the pinch of embarrassment that she'd felt when the act reminded her of their first meeting after the war, “from the wound that I gave you.”

Dorothy had flinched inwardly at her last words. She was terribly sorry for that, and if possible, she wouldn't bring that subject back up when he was around. But she needed it now to accomplish her little evil scheme. It wouldn't be successful if she let her emotions rule over her.

Quatre had actually gulped, never once suspecting that this was some sort of trap. The little pink stains on his cheeks bloomed into magenta-colored flowers. “O-of course. It did leave a scar, but it didn't hurt anymore.”

She'd arched one brow, lazy fingers fumbling to loosen the ribbon at his neck. “Really?”

The blonde boy had been shocked when the ribbon disconnected from his tux. He'd gasped and pulled away, but Dorothy wouldn't let him ruin her little enjoyment that minute. She'd disentangled her arm from his and looped it around his neck.

“I don't believe what I don't see,” had been her words that widened the already wide eyes of her poor cupid. She giggled inches from his face, and proceeded to undo his first button.

“D-Dorothy—“

She'd laughed at his bland efforts of pushing her away. That was the main disadvantage of being too much of a gentleman—you couldn't use much force when it comes to a lady. Dorothy wasn't exactly sure if that applies to her, not ignoring the fact that this boy knew she wasn't an average lady. But apparently it does, in Quatre's poor case.

The giant driver had tried to interfere. His big hand had peeled off from the steering wheel to jostle the blonde away from his young master, but one deadly glare from her and a warning look from Quatre had stopped whatever he planned on doing. Quatre's reaction suggested that Rashid must have planned something that contained a little violence.

The blonde Arab had caught her wrists when her hands fell on the last button.

“It's not proper,” he'd said firmly. Amused, she'd looked at his face that held newfound confidence. So the shaky Quatre was finally gone…

A smirk had touched her lips. “Don't try to tell me what's proper and what's not,” and with that, she'd jerked his hands away and continued to undo the button.

Quatre had sighed tiredly, hands held up in mock defeat. She'd smiled devilishly in approval and wasted no second to lift his shirt and undershirt. For a moment she'd just stared at the scar. It was a bit shorter than her thumb, its coloring a bit paler than its surrounding buttermilk skin. Remorse washed over her; she was sure she'd grimaced. Quatre must have noticed this, because he'd shifted on his seat in an effort to gently slide away from her grasp. But she'd held on, eyebrows gathered.

`Head over emotions, head over emotions,' she'd told herself over and over again. Her strong will won.

When she was sure she wouldn't give away any weak response to whatever she wanted to do, she'd run a finger over the slightly embossed mark. Quatre had shuddered at the touch but hadn't tried to squirm away, positively engrossed on what she was doing—or probably, what she was thinking. She'd felt his stare on her and she was sure he was trying to infiltrate into her thoughts again.

Then the part she'd imagined in her head arrived. She'd curled her lips in a copy of his one-sided smile before sliding her hands to his sides. His intake of breath was audibly satisfying to her. She leaned nearer and nearer while he pushed himself deeper and deeper into the seat, his large pupils widening a little more so that his sclera was almost invisible. Confusion, tinged with disapproval, could be read in those eyes.

She'd touched her nose to his and angled her head in a way as if she was going to kiss him. A sensation of triumph lingered in her when Quatre scrunched his eyes close.

An inward laugh. She pushed the idea away, but she couldn't help but think about it: he'd looked as though he'd thought that she wouldreally kiss him!

Oh yeah, like she was going to repeat that biggest mistake in her life.

She'd snickered.

“Quatre,” she'd breathed to his mouth, to which the other blonde had given no answer. “I've got one sincere opinion that you ought to know.”

The Arab didn't move, but one eyebrow had twitched. Dorothy amusedly put her lips centimeters away from his ear. Oh, she'd liked to see his reaction to this.

“Ever heard of working out? I think your baby fat wouldn't be shed without a little help from you.”

The little barb had plowed in at once. He'd flipped his eyes open and stifled something that had half-escaped his lips—a groan. Of disappointment because it wasn't a kiss or because of the gibe itself, Dorothy didn't know, but she speculated that it was because of both.

She had detached her hands from his sides and placed them to cup his cheeks.

“Not that I'm saying you didn't look good with them,” she'd explained nonchalantly, thumbing the portion of his cheeks that were the reddest. “If not for them, I personally think that you wouldn't look as cute as you are now. Only this time I think it's time to say goodbye to childish tubbiness. If I haven't seen the successful heir of Winner empire before, hell would freeze over before I'd believe that you're him.”

They'd fallen silent after those words. It was Rashid's booming laughter that had broken the hush. Quatre, obviously controlling himself not to jerk her hands away from his face, pried her fingers with the gentlest force he had. Dorothy had bitten back her giggle when he pouted.

“I don't see anything funny, Rashid,” he'd gloomily remarked.

Dorothy had triumphantly held her chin up, and Rashid had to smother his next laugh if he didn't want the boy to turn the whole corps against him.

After that, the car had gone thick with held-in laughter neither Dorothy nor Rashid dared make, as apparently the embarrassed multi-billionaire was completely absorbed in his own presumably not-so-nice thoughts, muttering something under his breath. They'd reached the mansion in no time.

“At least Miss Catalonia found you cute, Master Quatre,” Rashid had commented, eyes bouncing from the rear view mirror to his pockets as he dug in for the keys.

“Read between the lines,” had been Quatre's bitter reply, said in a fashion as if Dorothy wasn't there. “It wasn't a compliment, it's sarcastic.”

“I believe it's an honest statement,” the giant had countered. “The Maguanacs shared the same opinion.”

Dorothy had twirled one finger around one stray strand as she listened to how the other occupants pretended that she was invisible. She permitted herself a short chuckle.

Quatre had heard her insulting little showcase of enjoyment and continued to ignore her. “That I'm cute? I'm sorry, but I can't force myself to feel flattered.”

“No, not that. We think that you need to go to the gym every once in a while.”

The peal of chuckles Dorothy had hoarded in her throat had spilled out at that comeback. She'd tapped Rashid playfully on his shoulder and waved haughtily, deciding that she would go ahead while her escort put himself back together. She'd slammed the door shut in his face when he motioned to complain, sauntering proudly towards her best friend's mansion.

She blinked twice, still laughing at the memory. The present came slowly into focus. She caught some of the people there still staring at her and her frosty eyes prompted them to look away.

“Dorothy,” came a soft call from her back.

She didn't need to turn around to know who it was. “Remember, I'm mad at you. It's bad enough that I have to attend this stupid ball of yours, and I'm being escorted by that brat to boot. I do not wish to engage in any kind of conversation with you.”

“You actually are now,” the honey-blonde happily answered, gracefully stepping in front of the angry woman. “But I don't see your escort with you. Where's Quatre?”

Relena was beautiful as always. Her hair was elegantly curled at the ends, hanging loose over her skin exposed by her off-shoulder gown. The ever-present aura of royalty was lingering around her, intensely bright tonight, and she was practically glowing. Dorothy noticed a light tinge of pink on her cheeks that wasn't caused by the make-up. It left her wondering if the elusive Heero Yuy was actually at the ball. The mask Relena wore glittered with sequins, but the brightness of her blue eyes beneath it was far more luminous.

Dorothy shrugged innocently. “Gone to fix his tux, I think.”

Relena arched one delicate brow. “What? What happened? Or…I think the better question should be—what did you do?”

Dorothy shot her an improvised incredulous look. “What did I do? I can't chew his expensive tuxedo off. Dogs can.”

She laughed when Relena's jaw dropped. “D-dogs? Is Quatre alright?”

She'd thought to add another lie, but both of them turned to the entrance to see the blonde in question striding in. He was wearing a black mask now and his paces were uncharacteristically languid.

“Dogs over a former Gundam pilot? Wasn't that idea absurd?” Dorothy patronizingly stated. Relena smiled at the implication.

“Yes, yes, I know. Now you better get to Quatre before he decides to go home,” she said, her eyes following the boy who went straight to the balcony. “Lately, I'm noticing that he's quite uncomfortable in attending parties. He always seems to be nervous but I don't know why. He leaves early and he certainly would if he wouldn't see you right away.”

Dorothy mused over the statement. Always nervous? She brushed it off and chose not to worry herself over unimportant things. “Miss Relena, I don't know why you keep on putting us together every chance you get. Now, if he gets homesick right at this very minute, I wouldn't bother following him or stopping him. I also don't think that my presence could crutch him away from his nervousness. He's free to go wherever and whenever he liked, with or without me.”

Relena sighed. “Dorothy, quit that attitude already and find him. You know it's hard to play hide-and-seek in a masquerade ball. And as to why I kept playing cupid over you two, well, the reasons are mine alone.”

Dorothy opened her mouth for a witty response, but Relena beat her to it. “Speaking of cupid, how's our little god? When will I meet him? Does he look better than Quatre?”

She cringed at the last question. What's with this girl? Weren't the Earth and colonies' problems enough to tire her head? If she was trying to help by barging into her love life, Dorothy didn't like it one bit.

“He's well, I think,” she answered coolly. “The last time I saw him, though, he was undeniably pissed off with me.” She inserted a chuckle, hesitating only for the briefest moment before she decided to answer one of the last two questions. “And I don't think you should meet him.”

Relena gaped. “Why not? I'm your best friend! And wait—are you two dating? I mean, you're meeting each other, and does that mean that Quatre doesn't have a chance—”

“Excuse me, Miss Relena, but I think you're right. I should approach my escort now.” She vaguely waved a hand and left the vice foreign minister with a smothered sigh that would have indicated the amount of impatience with the topic she had at the moment. Relena didn't try to stop her.

The clacks of her heels set a rhythm as she walked towards the open door leading to the balcony. She idly wondered why Quatre would go straight towards the balcony without even looking around to find her, barely noticing the people who once again turned their heads to acknowledge her powerful presence. She directed predatory smiles to the men who greeted her, and before she stepped out, the smiles were twisted into a sour sneer. Are all males the same? Always seeking pleasure by ogling every shapely figure that would pass them?

A small voice in her head answered that there were definitely some exemptions. One of them would be, hopefully, the one she was looking for right now. She darted her head from side to side, only greeted at first by shadows cast by the clouds drifting over the moon. She lowered the mask from her face and shook off the sneer and replaced it with a frown. She was positive he trudged straight here…

Then she heard a boyish sigh, followed by the sounds of tickled laughter—which, to Dorothy's surprise, were feminine. The noises continued and she followed them, curiosity brimming in her chest.

What she saw made her feel as if the passageway of air in her system had been permanently clogged.

Roofed by the slightly moving shade of the large clouds, Quatre was leaning against the railing, his hair disheveled and tux ribbon still not in place, moaning and sighing against the lips of a brunette woman in his arms. The kiss looked messy, but the woman was enjoying it, obvious in her giggles that were muffled by his attacking lips.

For a moment, she was rooted to her position. God, what would she do? Would the same shadow that towered over the couple be enough to hide her? Why couldn't she move her legs? She knew she ought to turn away now, but she simply couldn't. Her fingers coiled around the mask handle in a death grip while her other hand balled up into a tight fist, a small portion of her velvet dress trapped in it. Her heart drummed painfully again, so intense that she thought it would break out of her rib cage. She almost wished it would.

Then her eyes stung. A prickly wet feeling touched them, and before she knew it, tears were flooding down her cheeks. She quickly let go of her gown to cup her mouth when a sob threatened to escape her mouth. She tightly squeezed her eyes shut, but the image before her still glowed even behind her eyelids.

“Dorothy Catalonia?”

Her eyes flicked open at the dimly familiar voice, and for a second her attention was drawn away from the kissing couple in front of her. She wiped the tears dry with a trembling hand before she turned around, sugarcoating the hurt with a smile. The emerald green eyes of the man in front of her shifted from her face to the passionate exchange between his friend and that woman. They narrowed before they swung back to her face.

“Trowa Barton,” her voice croaked and she had to cuss under her breath. “It's been a long time.”

The tall man cocked a nod, face deadpan as ever. He took one short glimpse at the couple again before he spoke. “Just so you know, Quatre's looking for you. He's waiting at the punch table.”

What?

She pulled her eyebrows together at his news. Completely confused, she slowly turned her head back to the pair. The two had separated already and the shadow was gone. The tightness in her chest faded away and fresh air cascaded to her lungs when she realized that the man wasn't Quatre at all. His hair, which was a darker blonde, was a bit longer at the back. Though he has the same complexion as the Arab, his physique was more muscular. He does resemble Quatre from afar or under shade—counting the fact that they were wearing tuxes of the same color—but they were utterly different in any other aspect.

She felt the hot surge of blood to her cheeks at the realization.

Trowa discreetly cleared his throat to arrest her attention. She refused to face him just yet, willing the blush to disappear, but she figured it would take a long while for that to happen. Relenting, she faced him coyly.

The couple quietly walked back into the ballroom in almost the same way children would behave when caught with the candies they stole. So that left her and Trowa alone.

The unpleasant mix of emotions in her irritated her. The shame was there; she was sure that Trowa had noticed the similarity between the man and Quatre, and he had witnessed how she attempted to display her naturally sarcastic self even if her tear-laden eyes betrayed her as she turned her back to the sight. It was a good thing that his countenance held no amusement or anything, but she couldn't help but believe that he knew she'd gone jealous.

Her inner nagging voice was screaming at her as well. As far as she could remember, she had never been jealous of anybody or anything until now.

Then there was this distinctive feeling of meshed fear and admiration. It was real that she was standing face to face with Trowa Barton now. Back during the night that changed her life, he had pierced her with an insult of being a woman who couldn't weep. The taunt had hurt deeply and been buried deep within her ever since. It was actually like a grave; the words were settled beneath the earth, but the ghost was haunting her, to slap her on the face until she could prove that it wasn't true.

The problem was, when she let loose the floodgates, she couldn't control the gush anymore when it comes.

“What are you doing here?” Trowa cut through her thoughts. “Quatre thought you actually ditched the ball.”

She bitterly permitted herself a chuckle. “I'm just getting some fresh air. I felt the need to clear my headspace.”

Trowa gave a serene smile to that. He knew she was bluffing.

“You haven't changed that much,” he said.

“As if you've known me well before,” she retorted.

He took three paces towards her and offered her his arm, and though hesitant at first, she accepted without another word.

Quatre let his eyes roam around the room but there was no sign of Dorothy. He felt his brow getting slick with sweat under his mask. The jibe she gave him back in the car was still raw. Yes, he took a childish offense to it, and by that he allowed her to have the delight she obviously wanted. Right now, however, that wasn't important. He just wanted to know that she hadn't really run away from him again like she did during their first meeting after the war.

“Quatre?”

He snapped his head towards the voice and beamed warmly. “Miss Relena.”

The glowing vice foreign minister returned his friendly gesture. She took her place next to him and sipped her wine. “I thought you're to escort Dorothy? Why did she arrive here alone?”

Quatre's smile faltered for a while, but when it came back it was far wider and hopeful. “So she's here?”

“Indeed,” Relena answered immediately. She majestically took another sip from her glass and ran her eyes over his somewhat crumpled tuxedo. “And she'd implied that you'd been some kind of a chew toy for the dogs. Only I don't see any serious damage to your clothing…never heard of toothless canines, though…”

“What? I've been a what?”

Relena snickered. “Dorothy told me you're fixing your tux so you were going to arrive a little later. She said you got into trouble with the dogs.”

He incredulously looked at the former queen and uttered a mirthless laugh. “No, not dogs, Miss Relena. One big bad wolf and a small sly fox, not dogs. They thought I look…healthy, they're feeling a little…hungry of sorts, and they tried to tear my clothing.”

Relena looked lost.

“It's was the fox's idea at first,” he pouted at the statement, “then my friendly wolf turned against me.”

Relena was giving him a funny `what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about' expression. Quatre couldn't help but laugh at that. “Never mind,” he managed between hearty chuckles.

The honey-blonde shrugged in defeat. “At least they didn't inflict much damage to you. Anyway, I assume you haven't met Dorothy here yet? I thought she left to follow you to the balcony.”

“Balcony? I've never been there. I just entered a few minutes ago. I bumped into Trowa, and he must have noticed my worry so he decided to help me. He said he'll find Dorothy. That's so typical of him, always wanting to help me even if the situation calls for a happy reunion…”

“But we thought…” she swung her confused sight at the open door leading to one of the balconies, breathed in as if readying to ask another batch of questions, then sighed. “I must be seeing and hearing things lately.”

Quatre smiled silently.

“Anyway,” Relena tossed her hair over her shoulder, “I don't think I should inform you of this at the moment because we're meant to enjoy the ball…”

He waited expectantly. It must be important, noticing that she shifted from a somewhat light tone to a serious one.

Relena's eyes brimmed with meaning, only he didn't get what they wanted to say, so she spoke up again. “But I think the sooner you know this, the better. Has Dorothy ever told you that she's meeting—if not really dating—somebody?”

The words were carefully laid out, but the meaning violently dug into his chest like a cold shovel. “N-no, she hasn't told me anything like that...”

Was she telling him that the sooner he knew he didn't have a chance, the better because it wouldn't prolong the hurt? He never expected that Dorothy…

Relena watched him warily. “I think she's quite fond of him, even if there were times in the past that he'd kind of hurt her. Dorothy sounded like a masochist when she told me their story. One minute she said she couldn't hurt him anymore—yes, there's an anymore, so I think they do fight sometimes—and then she's blushing when she mentioned him in the next.”

Quatre trembled. “S-since when…”

“Dorothy told me about it the first time on..” she hesitated, then gave in. “on the same day you blind dated, minutes before you met.”

His eyes widen. The throbbing pain was getting more intense. “You should have told me right then and there. I could always back out, you know. Dorothy didn't know she was going to meet me anyway…”

“I'm sorry,” Relena readily apologized, “But I can't do that. Dorothy never told me that this person was special to her, so I just have to take chances. They're not a couple, she'd implied that more than once, and she never tried to mean that she's got feelings for that man. And you might wonder why, after I learned that, I still set you two up for this ball.”

She batted her eyelashes as she emptied her wineglass. “I don't know if it's only me, but I think I saw something mysterious lighting up in her eyes when I mentioned your name back after she visited me in Brussels. That's also the first time I saw her smile a genuine smile, not her usual smirk that held sarcasm. I don't know what happened during your blind date, but I assumed whatever took place there was a good thing. Remember, she even agreed to me when I sent her to personally invite you to this ball.”

If that was supposed to make him feel better, it didn't work. “Who's the man?”

A noticeable slumping of Relena's shoulder caught his eyes. “She never told me his name. She gave him a codename, though. Cupid.”

“Cupid?” he asked so low that she barely heard it.

“I'll tell you about the other details later,” she quickly spoke when he motioned to ask another question. “Dorothy's coming.”

He followed her gaze. Trowa and Dorothy were approaching them.

“Don't think too much about Cupid,” Relena muttered, placing her mask back and tapping him on the shoulder. “Dorothy likes you, and I'm not saying this to make you feel better. She really does, I can see it.”

With that, she swished away from him to blend with the crowd.

“Good evening, Mr. Winner,” Dorothy greeted mockingly, detaching her arm from Trowa's. She curtsied.

Quatre just stared, silently thankful that he was wearing a mask to somewhat cover his eyes. If not for it, they would have seen the extreme jealousy that was writhing in the blue-green depths.