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Anime/Manga Fan Fiction >> Gundam Wing

The following is a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.

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Conversation
By Ken Hidaka

 

Conversation
by Team Bonet
1997

The steps were silent on the stairs. He did not even turn his head as he heard them approach. From
each carefuly measured footfall, he knew who it was. From above him, he could hear the echoing
laughter of the party he had abandoned for the shadowy comfort of the rose bushes lining the back
stairway. Bright golden light lay in still pools above him, held at bay by the dewy roses, the edges of
their petals kissed a pale yellow. He could hear the clink of many wine glasses, the whisper of skirts
and frock coats.

"Bored?" The voice was pleasantly humorous. He smiled softly to himself and made room on the
step where he sat. He heard a slight grunt, and then that voice came again.

"I don't blame you. If Madame What's-Her-Name offered me one more damn Nipple of Venus, I
was going to scream."

He smiled to himself, secretly amused by his companion's tortured pose of abject martyrdom. "I
thought you liked those."

His companion spread out his legs before him, clicking his slippers together in dejected boredom.
"Thought, yes. But that was before I swallowed about forty of the damned things. I swear, I may
never have vainilla again."

"You always say that, Treize."

Treize laughed and leaned back on his elbows. "I know. It's part of the boring parties tradition. You
always rush out, I always complain about the candies."

Looking up at the silent stars, the young man smiled. Leave it to Treize to make running away from
parties some sort of inherent method of survival. Behind him, he heard Treize chuckle, but he had no
time to wonder what about before he started slightly, a shoe whistling past him. Perplexed, he
looked back to see Treize grunting, his hair becoming disheveled, as he pulled off the other one.
When he realized he was being watched, Treize stopped, grinning.

"They're too tight. I refuse to hurt my feet any longer." So saying, he finally pulled off his other slipper
and tossed it out into the darkness, where it clicked hollowly as it found its companion. Treize
looked into the darkness for a moment, as if making sure that his shoes were comfortable, and
enjoying each others company. At length, appearantly satisfied at the social prowess of his discarded
footwear, he turned to his companion on the steps, grinning.

"Aunt Mathilda picked those out."

"You're strange, Treize."

"No, I'm not. My shoes hurt me, I toss the wretches out into the night. Perfectly natural. At least I
don't go around wearing a mask, Mirialdo."

Sighing, Mirialdo drew his knees up, resting his chin on them. "Please, Treize. Zechs. It's hard
enough already."

Treize pulled at a pin nestled amidst the lace at his throat. He gazed at it a while, twirling it between
his thumb and index finger; gazing at it as if it held some dark, wonderful secret. He slipped it into his
sleeve, its secrets forgoten, and loosened his lace collar. "Forgot," he murmured. He undid two
buttons on his shirt, delighting in the feel of the cool night air on his bare throat, and sighed.

"I like Mirialdo better. Forgive me. Zechs it is."

Mirialdo spread his legs out before him, wishing he dared to remove his own slippers. He hadn't
noticed how tight they were till Treize had brought it up. He sighed. He wished he could undo his
shirt's tight neck as well. Raising his hand, he ran it across his hair, reaching back to massage the
nape of his neck, pulling absentmindedly at the ribbon that drew his hair together. He wondered why
it was so hard to remove his shoes and coat, but not his mask.

It lay beside him on the steps now, glimmering silently to itself. It seemed to grin impetuously at him.
He hated it. But it was a necesary thing. He was afraid to take a single step without it. Besides, with
it, no one could see his eyes. He had found it advantageous to be able to close or roll his eyes at
certain people without fear of discovery. It certainly made him seem entertained at these parties the
Romafeller so loved to give. Just thin your lips and nod.

"I think my Mother likes you."

Mirialdo looked up at Treize, slightly disoriented, his thoughts scattering into disorder. The older man
had drawn one knee up to his chest, one arm wrapped around it, and was gazing out into the
darkness. One more thing that Mirialdo could only wish he could do. Relax. When Treize noticed
Mirialdo's confussion, he smiled.

"You were talking to her all night. She must like you."

"We were talking about you," Mirialdo answered. He saw Treize's lips draw back in a wry grin of
unbelieving amusement. "Really? And what did she say?"

"She wishes you'd visit her more often, that is all. She still loves you very much."

Treize brought his other knee up and pulled iddly at his stockings, already folding down his legs. "I'm
sure she does. She loves everyone."

Smiling, Mirialdo reached out to place a hand on Treize's shoulder. But Treize only looked at him
quietly, his eyes muted. Mirialdo's hand felt much too heavy upon his shoulders, his eyes too bright.
Sighing, he turned his gaze towards the darkness again. The Estate's northern maze spread out
before him a few steps away. It loomed huge in his sight, seeming to turn and twist unto itself,
swallowing the darkness and making it into its own monstrous shapes. Voices whispered inside its
walls. Laughter. Femenine laughter. He shook his head.

"My mother thinks I'm little more than a womanizing, lying bragant. How civil of her to speak so
highly of me to you."

Mirialdo thinned his lips, his eyes narrowing. He took his hand away from Treize's shoulder and
turned away. He folded his arms over his knees, feeling his voice become trapped in his throat.
Reaching up, he pulled his neck loose, hearing the faint ring of the pin that held it in place sound upon
the steps. He closed his eyes.

"Have you done anything to prove her wrong?" His words sounded far away to him, his voice much
too deep, strained. He felt Treize tense up beside him, then relax into his tenseness. His words came
out hushed and even.

"I am twentyone years old, Zechs Marquise. Old enough to do my own things."

"Perhaps."

Tugging once more at his neck, Mirialdo turned to look into Treize's eyes. The older man seemed
taken aback for a moment, his cool composure shattered. Mirialdo saw him take a deep breath
through gritted teeth, his shoulders squaring. "Treize. Forgive me. I shouldn't have said that."

Treize's voice came as a whisper, caught in his throat, and gasping for air. "No. But it's all right. I
was being rude."

Mirialdo stood up. Silently, he bent down to pick up his mask, the metal cool against his fingers.
Straightening, he looked down at Treize. The older man gazed back at him, his clear blue eyes silent,
impassive. Mirialdo bit his lip, but squared his shoulders.

"Talk to her, sir."

Treize started. He had not expected Mirialdo to say anything like that. He looked into the younger
man's eyes. They glimmered slightly, liquid blue. They bore silently into his own, urgency mingled
with a sadness Treize could not comprehend. He frowned.

"What for?"

He watched as Mirialdo turned away, the dark ribbon that held his hair in place fluttering slightly in
the wind. His shoulders dropped momentarily before he brought them back up sharply, his body
tensing. His voice trembled slightly as he spoke.

"Sir. You do not know how lucky you are. To have a good home, to be comfortable. You have the
freedom of mind to fling your shoes, to complain about eating too many candies. Many do not even
have voices with which to complain. Many do not have mothers to hate, and to scorn for worrying
about their sons."

"Mirialdo..." Treize tried to sit up, one hand reaching towards Mirialdo's back. The ribbon fluttered
again as the younger man took in a breath, his shoulders threatening to drop again.

"You can't know how much I envy you, Treize. Every day I come down the steps of this mansion for
breakfast, the memories threaten to suffocate me. I hear my Mother's voice calling to me. I can feel
my Father..."

Mirialdo turned to face Treize then, and Treize could see the unshed tears glistening in his eyes. "But
you. You have your parents beside you, and you cannot even speak to them. You are a fool, Treize.
Can't you see your mother loves you? Go in there and talk to her."

Standing up, Treize reached out for Mirialdo, but the younger man stepped back, his eyes flashing
momentarily. He straightened up, holding his mask in his hands, his lips thin. He gazed at Treize
coldly, and the older man could feel his throat contract painfuly for a moment. There was a strange
light in Mirialdo's eyes, quiet and intense.

Mirialdo turned away again, his hair swishing against his coat. He stood straight, almost impetuous.

"A good evening to you, Lord Treize."

With that, he walked away, the click of his slippers on the pavement seeming much too loud. Treize
did not try to go after him, but watched as his figure was embraced by the darkness, his platinum hair
glimmering a pale silver by the light of the moon.

Looking back up the stairs, Treize could see the balcony that encircled the Estate's ballroom. The
golden glow of a thousand lamps spilled out into the night, onto the upper steps. The rose bushes
lined around the steps enveloped Treize in darkness, and he frowned slightly. He turned to look at
the distance into which Mirialdo had dissapeared and sighed.

He placed one hand on the stone banister of the stair, feeling the cold granite bite into his skin.
Laughter drifted down towards him from the party above. He thinned his lips, squaring his shoulders.
With a silent curse to Mirialdo, he took the first step. A smile spread across his lips.

It had been a long time since he'd spoken to his mother.
 
 
 

 

The preceeding was a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.

Please see the Terms of Service for more information.

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