capeandcowllogs | (no subject)

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Who: Moonybase and YOU
When: 23 December 2009. 8am - 10pm
Where: Moonybase.
Summary: An open invitation to a party never looked so good. Check your weapons and powers at the door.
Warnings: Probably everything. Please see this post for details.
Format: Whatever works. Don't forget to add your tag.
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Remus had been to enough Christmas parties in his lifetime to know when one would end disastrously, including those that had been specifically dated to avoided interfering with other Christmas plans that the guests might have. This was one of them. But his tolerance had kept him quiet, the happy act of cleaning and decorating taken to as easily as any other task he did.

The twins had also been enlisted to help, given the important task of stringing a length of bright red ribbon and pine up the staircase to the second floor. The soft white lights that followed were magic. In fact, none of the lights, save for whatever lamps or overhead lights that Miles insisted upon, were run by electricity, and many were candles, kept only from setting anything ablaze by a flame-freezing charm.

By the time the morning of the party rolled around, the house looked as if it had been pulled straight out of a Christmas card, Remus borrowing from what he remembered of Christmases as Hogwarts and the Burrow, including a single bit of mistletoe in the entry. The snow helped, piling nicely (if in an oddly organized fashion) outside thanks to a little help from Miles, adding to the image; if nothing else, Remus was happy with it, the certainty that he would wind up having to transfigure another person into some sort of object nagging at the back of his mind.

Tin whistles, toy rocking horses, and sprigs of mistletoe were likely going to be very common later in the evening, he mused, tapping his wand rhythmically against the palm of his hand in thought as he checked everything over once more, walking through the sitting and dining rooms and out into the backyard where the tree house had been built out of ice and wood into the tree there. The floating green structures that Kyle Rayner had promised to provide were still missing, but they would be there soon enough.

He pocketed his wand and walked back into the house, shaking free the snow from his boots, and glancing at the clock. People who had offered their assistance had been asked to come early, which meant that the kitchen was soon going to turn into a madhouse, the extra stove only offering so much help. It also meant he had best make tea before he was banned from the room.

ooc; alkdsjfa you guys are amazing <3 For your convenience, links to the separate comment sections. To keep the death to your bandwidth down a little.

EARLY ARRIVALS: VARIOUS PREPARATIONS
TIMELY ARRIVALS: CHECK YOUR MOTIVES AT THE DOOR
SOCIALIZING FOR FUN AND PROFIT
GO AHEAD! TALK WITH YOUR MOUTH FULL!
I'M GOING TO PISTOL-WHIP THE NEXT GUY WHO SAYS 'SHENANIGANS'
THIS IS WHY MANKIND INVENTED THE 'GUEST BEDROOM'
AND THEN EVERYTHING ELSE HAPPENED HERE
TAKING YOUR TOYS AND GOING HOME

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The silence isn't exactly unnerving, but it bothers him far more than he had expected it to that Trowa would hesitate so much over what he assumed was an easy answer. He watches him, confusion turning quickly into concern as Trowa pulls into himself, physically, and from what he can tell, emotionally as well.

It's painful to watch and he has a hand on Trowa's arm almost immediately, trying to offer some kind of comfort while waiting for the silence to come to an end, however Trowa sees fit.

"Here?" he asks when the answer is presented, and a half second later he understands just before Trowa has motioned to the neighborhood around them.

He understood that desire, knowing what waited for him back home, the scar on his stomach where he had been stabbed the daily reminder he did not want. Staying here meant life, a chance to redeem himself for the mistakes he had made - and there were so many. It meant the friends he had made here and the possibility that their friends might be brought back, and, selfishly, it meant Trowa.

Their world had only death.

"I don't think we can," he admitted finally, painfully. "I want to, too."

There is an awkward pause between when Quatre agrees with him and when Trowa mutters an "I know", uncomfortable with the hand on his arm but unwilling to shake it off; it makes what he has to say more difficult now that he's aware that he hasn't been the only one too selfish to do what's right. It'll hurt the blond if he talks about it, and even though he knows he has to, knows that he can't leave this kind of thing lurking in the shadows behind them waiting to devour them both whole, he has found that the idea of doing anything to cause the other pain has become anathema to him. That was why he couldn't fire the gun, when the undead thing had taken over the other teenager's body, although he thought now that if he could go back and do it again with the knowledge of what would happen were he to fail, he would--but then again, if he could bend time like that, he would have taken Quatre to a healer the moment he'd seen the bite wound festering instead of waiting until it was too late.

On occasion, Trowa had cursed the Porter for giving him powers that had given him so much trouble instead of something he would have found useful. All the lions and acrobatics in the world wouldn't have saved the other boy, but that was what he had. No healing powers, no flight, no time travel, no foresight--just two stupid tricks up his sleeve that made life more of a hassle than they were worth. And he hated them.

Then, as now, he was having to hurt Quatre. The only thing that comforted him this time was knowing that it would save them both in the long run. He couldn't subject the blond to the things Starscream might try to pull for revenge. He didn't know if another of the mad events within the City would pit them against each other again. He refused to let something he couldn't control get him killed in front of Quatre a second time, and knowing the dirty tactics used by OZ in his world he absolutely did not want a weakness like this to become a problem. Nor did he want to have to do something to the blond just to keep himself alive--it was an unpleasant situation he'd come across before. Friends turning to enemies that had to be destroyed. People becoming obstacles in the way to making sure he succeeded in his missions. What would he do if he had to kill Quatre, there? If he had to do it in a place where he knew no-one ever rose from the dead a day or three days or a week or however long but the point was that in the City they still came back later?

And what would he do with all the emotion he'd learned to express? Not nearly as much as a normal person would, and not half as well, but more than he'd had to his name before--and he was no Heero. He couldn't separate himself that way without killing his feelings again. If he went back to war the way they were fighting it at home, he would have to lock it all away again. Become an empty shell.

Completely unacceptable.

"...We can't do this."

This was not the conversation Quatre wanted to have, especially at a party that had, as far as Quatre knew, been going very well. It wasn't the time or place for this. His shoulders sag, the emotions he had been quietly reading from Trowa finally hitting him, threatening to drag him into the same mood as his partner.

Which was exactly what Quatre did not want to happen. He did not want to make the rest of his time here spent miserably wanting something - someone - that he suddenly wasn't allowed to have because of reasons he still failed to understand. His safety was at as much risk here as it had been back home, and the irritating feeling that Trowa didn't trust him to be able to take care of himself did not make him feel any better about it.

Quatre opened his mouth to say something, his features settling into a defiant glare, the same one that he had regularly given anyone that saw fit to try and tell him how he had to live his life. As if he were too immature or weak to do it himself. The leather gloves he was wearing made a sound in protest as he clenched both hands into fists.

He was not going to let Trowa do this, giving into the selfish, childish want.

"No," he managed, nearly choking on the word, wishing for the power to stifle his own emotions, feeling the angry burn of potential tears already.

The brunet rarely saw that glare; as often as they disagreed over a concept or subject or plan or even just whether or not grape leaves should be considered edible, they tended to keep the debates relatively calm and controlled, speaking peaceably instead of with anger. It barely showed even when Trowa was too protective or Quatre too intrusive. The few times that he had witnessed the expression settling into place, it was in situations that were incredibly volatile and about to get worse; Trowa abruptly found himself dumbly repeating the blond's words in the format of a question, bemused and caught off guard.

"...No?"

What kind of reply was 'no'? Could Quatre even say that? Wasn't there some kind of etiquette dictating that the other had to let him have an opinion over whether or not he stayed part of... whatever this was? As the shock wore off, he rivaled Quatre's glare with a cold and sullen glower of his own. How dare the other interrupt him? He was his own person, just as the blond was. And this was--he had to say it. They had been ignoring the subject and it was important, damn it!

"We can't," he repeated, more firmly this time around. "Not at home. It'll be impossible there."

That was the only conclusion everything he'd thought led to. Every time he followed an idea, the path twisted itself differently, but the end result was the same each time. So many times.

He killed off the parts of his voice that wanted to suck in emotions and feed from them, leaving little trails of them in his words; he couldn't allow himself to listen to the weaker, softer, irrational side that liked to kick its feet and scream that everything was fine and everything would be fine and nothing was wrong all because that's how he wanted it to be. Life never, ever worked like that, and he knew it better than almost anyone else. When he spoke, his words were blank and careful.

"And we shouldn't, here. So we can't."

Quatre was used to being in control of himself and since being disinherited, used to living his life as he saw fit. Here, there was no exception. He would have fought Trowa's point about home, and very nearly did, making a protesting sound, ready to say that after the war - after there was peace - but caught himself, the memory surfacing as quickly as he tried to forget it.

His fist uncurled, flattening unconsciously over the thick jacket protecting his stomach, and the scar beneath it. That would have been a lie. There would be no after the war for him, even if there was peace. None of this mattered because once he returned home, there would be nothing.

"If here is all we have, then why can't we?" he asked finally.

He turned so that he and Trowa were sitting side-by-side, mimicking Trowa's position without really realizing that he had before his hands dropped into his lap, boots scrapping across the shingles and snow hollowly as he straightened his legs.

"Why can't we have this here if there's nothing for us together when we go home?" he could hear the childish demand in the question as he asked it, the whine that edged too close to tears, that he knew Trowa would be more than capable of hearing.

For a single, blinding moment when he considered just how close he was to losing one of the only people he had completely opened himself up to, the emotional build up was too much, picking up the stray thoughts of the inhabitants of the houses around them. He ignored it, pushed it away, and the glare, not directed at his own hands, seemed to get worse.

There was another question, more childish than the one he had already asked. What had he done wrong? But, he didn't say anything else, just waited in silence for Trowa to speak, the anger still ready to surface, to defend, and keep what he had already fought to gain.

The new closer proximity to the blond made him uncomfortable, given their topic of debate just then--especially since he could no longer look Quatre in the eye if they were sitting in such a way--and he turned, watching his partner protectively cover the scar he knew existed at that one spot on the other teenager's belly.

Trowa couldn't help remembering how he'd first found out about it and shut his eyes, nearly feeling as though it was no longer his privilege to have such memories; even if he did have the right to think about it, it didn't seem right to do so. Not considering what he was saying, and in any case, things like that were what had altered his emotional state. Made him as weak and soft as he'd gotten. Brought them to the point that they were now at, where continuing could only cause more problems than ceasing altogether.

The cold did a great deal to help him shut those thoughts off and he forced himself back to the focus with which he was comfortably familiar, using it to push past the guilt that Quatre's words were trying so hard to inspire--to ignore the hurt and the confusion in the other's voice and keep to the facts. Keep his own feelings out of it. They complicated everything far too much, and he had enough of a bad time trying to get his thoughts out of his mind and into the air in front of other people as it was.

"If we have to go back, I can't fight--not like this. I need to be the way I was."

Certainly the truth, that; what good was a soldier that sympathized with his enemies? That tried to help a Decepticon instead of destroying it? What use was someone who hesitated in battle when a mere second was all it took to be a pile of scorched scrap metal instead of the biggest walking armory on the block?

"And I'm--"

Trowa chewed on his own words for a few moments, trying to tell the truth without being insulting. He knew Quatre wouldn't listen to him if he came off that way; would probably derail the entire issue into his ability to protect himself and about how he was always too worried and smothering about the ramifications of his work as a double agent.

"--They're not--Some of them won't hesitate. To use you against me. Maybe hurt you."

The boy gestured to Starscream, who had just burst into flight overhead.

"He'll do it because it's fun."

Trowa allowed himself to glare with hatred--with full-on, fiery, unchained pent-up rage--at the Seeker for a good few seconds before twisting the heat out of his anger and replacing it with the colder kind, easier to control and far less problematic to bottle up again.

So much would be different--would be better--if Starscream didn't exist.

Shockwave would become less of an uncontrollable variable; for better or worse, Trowa would be able to finally pin his intentions down. Skyfire wouldn't need to be walked around on eggshells for fear of ruining that contact. Soundwave could be free to leave himself to his more human side and explore broader concepts of loyalty and family. Winner Corp. would have less competition for superiority. Waspinator would no longer need to fear quite so much. His eardrums would be less tormented by every time the bot posted. And trying to ensure all of these things would not require him to put Quatre directly in harm's way just by association, never mind that the blond hadn't actually done anything other than help Trowa with the original construction of the fake Cybertronian.

"...I don't want that."

Quatre stayed silent, even as Trowa moved, putting a few inches between them, and he shivered slightly in the cold, wanting to go inside, where it was warm, and he might be able to pretend this conversation wasn't happening. Because he'd done this before, only it had been Cathy then, trying to protect Trowa by keeping him away from the fighting.

He'd walked away then, to keep Trowa safe, and he could understand, glancing up when Trowa gestured, following Starscream for as long as he was in sight, wondering if the Decepticon had even noticed them there. It also didn't help that Trowa had gone into space anyway, fighting despite having no Gundam to pilot, because he had something to protect.

"Ending this isn't going to make me any less important to you, Trowa," he pointed out, voice more gentle than he'd thought it would be.

He paused, finally looking back over at Trowa, the worry easy to read in his eyes. Would Trowa cut him out of his life completely to protect him?

"My part in the war is over," he admitted finally, looking away, speaking slowly, trying to keep the emotion out of his words. "I want to fight by your side as long as the Porter will let me. No matter what the consequence. You're trying to protect me, I know. But, you keep forgetting that I'm trying to do the same thing. We can't just making things go away, no matter how much we want them to. It doesn't work like that.

"If it did, I wouldn't be who I am, and neither would you."

Trowa glanced over at Quatre, noticing the shivers; he did nothing until the other had stopped talking, at which point he forcibly swallowed his pride and shifted over a little bit to sit behind the slightly shorter teenager and pull him in close. He couldn't give over his sweater, as that would leave him far too exposed to the chill himself, but he could share body heat; it didn't have to be seen as a gesture of any emotion. If he thought of it like a mission--if this was them escaping from an enemy and needing to say alive--he could accept that. It was just a necessity to keep the other physically safe in case of emergency. Nothing else.

Temporarily freed from his desire to detach himself by the pretense, Trowa mulled over what had been admitted, putting several pieces together. The scar, the way Quatre avoided the subject of what had happened, how much the blond had buried himself in his life here--'his part in the war was over'?

Then that meant he'd...

Trowa's arms tightened around his partner reflexively at the realization, and he hid the half of his face not covered by his hair in Quatre's neck, breathing softly, more unwilling to face an emotional life than he'd already been; how was he supposed to take that news? Why would he want to go back and have this in his own world if he knew how it would end? He couldn't. He was weak, now, too soft even in this place, even just hearing about the eventual outcome. To do it again where they could spare no time for grief? Where he wouldn't see? Couldn't hold the other? Couldn't save him?

End it. Make him leave. Make him change the other world. Then it doesn't have to happen.

"I don't have anything for you," he said, finally, not moving; the words were warm on Quatre's skin. "Not here. Not there."

No emotion threatened to break through now; he had to do this without leaving a way for Quatre to get in. With no cracks to be slipped into and no rips in the armor to be pulled wider. He knew the other would try, and they couldn't afford it.

"You're... rich. I can't comprehend how much--even more, in our world. And you have obligations. A reputation: Quatre Raberba Winner. Pacifist. Genius. Heir to a fortune. High society butterfly." He refused to let anything sneak in his tone as he added an afterthought, aware of the blond's family traditions. He'd researched the equivalent of his partner's home source while in the City, and knew that he himself wouldn't be acceptable in any way. "...A lot of wives. Hopefully, an heir."

Trowa inhaled, and pulled his head away from the other's neck, his eyes shut, settling back a little to keep himself out of Quatre's line of sight.

"Penniless clowns and bloodstained soldiers don't cut it."

Quatre recognized the gesture before Trowa had even touched him, leaning back into his arms with the same sort of ease that he always did. It didn't matter what Trowa was forcing himself to think of the gesture, he had made it, and it gave Quatre the energy to stop thinking about the cold, and consider the matter from each side.

He had stopped behaving as was expected when he was six and he planned to continue to for as long as whatever was keeping him alive stopped doing so.

"You," he emphasized, tilting his head so that the breath there would reach more skin. "What you've found of yourself. That's all you've given me and I don't ask for more."

It was confusing to have Trowa holding him like this, each word sending a warm chill down his spine until he finally gave in, reaching up to grasp Trowa's arm. What he was saying only irritated him and he dragged one heel back, bending his knee up, and sighed.

"I was disinherited by my father when I chose to be a Gundam pilot. Until I'm no longer one, I won't own my father's company, and all of it will go to my sisters and their children. Not me," he had taken care of the business aspects as a duty, to his family and his sisters, but the decisions for the company where left in his sisters' hands. "I won't sacrifice who I am for anyone, not even my father."

He fell silent as Trowa pulled away, dropping his hand back down as he closed his eyes, thinking. No, this wasn't working on him, and he was pretty sure that Trowa knew that too.

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself, Trowa?" he asked.

Edited 2010-01-10 05:07 (UTC)

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I'm sorry this tag sucks.

that tag does not suck so be quiet

I could have done a better job is all I'm sayin'

rubbish, rubbish. even if that's so, we all have our off moments

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