On the Lawn

The humming began at the end of the line, lengthening itself out in slow, measured cadences until it had risen, like a wave, over all gathered on the green. Feet shifted within their shinny, patent shoes. Umbrellas were arranged and rearranged; now standing straight, now resting in an elegant dip over the shoulders of vibrant young women in pale, muslin dresses. The men, the stoic elders and the impatient youths, straightened and tugged and fretted over their cuffs, their fingers twisting and turning in a futile attempt at pulling themselves into respectability.

Without warning, an elderly woman, a large, plumed hat perched atop her head, stepped forward. Her sharp, crystalline blue eyes swept over the buzzing, shivering crowd, and her voice rose over the din, drawing every well kept head present towards her.

“We shall,” she intoned, “now proceed towards the lake. You are all to walk in two, neat lines, please. The young women on my right and the young men to my left, directly behind my Albert.” At the pronunciation of this name a wizened old octogenarian standing to the lady's left nodded his head, snowy white curls bobbing in the bright, warm, early afternoon light. The elderly woman, after arranging her hat, continued. “There shall be no untoward business during our stroll, and any student found disregarding this order shall be turned back to the academy forthwith. Is that understood? Forthwith.”

Drawing in a sharp breath, her cautionary soliloquy now finished, the old lady shook open her own parasol and, linking her arm through that of her Albert's, took the first step. Movement was immediate. The lines shifted forward as if all involved drew breath from the same lung, life from the same heart. The still air was at once filled with the rustling of skirts over grass, the crunching of leather shoes over stones and twigs. The humming picked up from where it had left off, growing in intensity now that the wait was over. Giggles, guffaws, snorts, sneezes, smothered laughter, sighs, coughs, wheezes, each and every human noise imaginable rose to greet the warm air above their heads.

There was one boy, however, who walked without a word. He held his head straight, his eyes fixed steadily upon the dark blue of the uniform jacket before him. He stepped forward as if he was mechanical, and, to anyone observing him, he certainly did look mechanical. A silver mask, the pale white skin below it seeming to be cut of marble by contrast, covered the upper half of his face. His lips were set in a straight, impassive line. Humourless. Lifeless.

The young man walking behind him cocked his head thoughtfully to the right as he drank in the silent, masked youth. He had never seen him before. This was the first time the entire student body of the Jonathan H. White Academy for Young Men and Women had done anything together since the beginning of the school year in May. The academy directors had deemed it a good idea to foster friendship and a general knowledge of each one of its students to their fellows by means of a leisurely Sunday stroll along the academy grounds. Both upper and lower class members, their ages ranging roughly from fifteen to twenty two, were now walking along the grass. Still, it seemed improbable that no one had noticed a young man wearing a mask before now.

Frowning with curiosity, Alfred, for this is the name of the young man walking behind the masked student, leaned back to whisper to the one behind him.

“Have you taken a good look at the fellow in front of me? He's right strange, isn't he, Funf?”

Funf craned his neck and, having caught a glimpse of the silver mask, whistled. “I'll be dammed. What in blazes is he thinking, going around in broad daylight with that… that thing on?” He smirked, shifting his gaze to Alfred. “He must be some sort of special case. You know,” he lowered his voice, “one of those crazy little jungle boys they train for guerrilla warfare. How'd he wind up here, though?”

“Dunno,” Alfred whispered, fearful of being overheard. “But I reckon he's not much of a jungle boy. Look at his hair. It's silver, Funf. Have you ever seen silver hair on anyone that young?”

Funf took a deep breath, ready to whisper back his reply, but had to swallow his words as the masked student turned his head to the side. Funf couldn't tell if he was looking at them or not, but the sight of his profile was strangely unnerving. It was unreal. When he had turned his face forward again Funf let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Alfred had leaned back again, his eyes fixed on the boy in front of them.

“Keep your voice down,” he hissed. “I think he can hear you.”

“Oh, no kidding? Bet you he has some sort of hearing aid under that thing. Army stuff. Secret weapons. He'll be jamming every ham radio in the dorms by nightfall.”

Alfred shook his head. “You're absolutely ridiculous. It's all war to you, isn't it? The war's far away, Funf. It's in France, in America, in Italy, in bloody Morocco. But it's not here in England. Not yet anyway. Prime Minister Fine declared us neutral, remember?”

“Not yet,” Funf intoned. “This fellow here might just be the yet that hasn't materialized up till now. Hmm? I mean, come on, a mask? What's it for if not war?”

“Religion, for one.” But Alfred's voice betrayed his disbelief in his own words. The young man walked on in front of him in silence, his silvery mask becoming, in Alfred's eyes, bigger, wider, rising up like a bright shield to blind everyone, to bury them beneath it. Alfred shook his head. Funf was nudging him from behind.

“Why don't you ask him, eh, Alfie? Ask him why he wears it.”

“I couldn't, I…”

It was too late, though. Funf had already pushed him forward, sending him tumbling against the dark blue of the masked youth's uniform. It smelled of mothballs, a hand-me-down. The fabric scrapped against Alfred's face as he attempted to regain his balance without actually having to touch the boy. He had barely pushed himself back to a standing position when the boy turned and, darting out one quick hand, steadied him. Alfred's mouth wouldn't work, his cheeks glowing red with an embarrassing blush.

“Be careful,” the boy said. His voice was deep, with the faint trace of an accent. From where? Not French, not German, not Italian. But that was as far as Alfred's knowledge of accents went, and it was a while before he realized that his frantic desire to place the accent had drowned out more of it, flowing smoothly from the boy's lips. “… be cross. I don't want to get into trouble.”

“What?”

“Professor Twyborn is going to get cross if she sees us stumbling about. I don't want to get in trouble.”

“I didn't mean to stumble into you,” Alfred protested. “Funf pushed me.” He regretted his words immediately. They sounded childish. The eye holes of the mask regarded him in silent, foreign disapproval. “Right,” Alfred murmured. “I was just…”

“Just watch where you're going.”

Alfred frowned. “Right,” he repeated, more forcefully. “I'll keep that in mind. Please excuse me.” If he sounded at all peevish, he didn't care.
 
 

In the Common Room

“He's infuriating,” Alfred grumbled, sinking into a plush, comfortable sofa in the dimly lit, shadowy common room, a tennis racket clutched in his hands.

A cleverly planned yet seemingly impromptu game had broken out while the student party picnicked by the lake, and Alfred had found himself in the middle of a rather strange match. A friend of Funf's, a fairly striking and somewhat popular brunette imported from France, Treize Khushrenada, had decided to play a double set between Funf, Alfred, himself, and, to Funf and Alfred's surprise, His Majesty the Masked Mystery. To their even greater surprise, Treize referred to the boy by name. Zechs, he called him. His Royal Majesty had a name.

Zechs wasn't all that bad at tennis, either. He was, in fact, quite good. Too good. He flattened Funf and Alfred beyond all pride, his racket catching every ball, serving them back with an intensity that made Alfred's hairs stand on end along his arms. He shivered with repressed anger at the sight of that silver mask, curving down towards impassive, cold, detached, damnably straight lips. Not a smile, not a pout, not the slightest acknowledgement of having any idea of how good he was, or how infuriated his opponents were. Alfred refused to shake his hand, storming out of the court and towards the common room without a word.

“He's so bloody infuriating,” he said now, twirling his racket in jerking, annoyed circles.

Across from him, Treize flipped a page in the mathematics manual he was pretending to study and didn't say a word. Funf shrugged his shoulders and proceeded, undisturbed, with his inspection of a dung beetle he had caught tangled in a girl's hair. Alfred hated them both. He ceased twirling his racket and fixed his gaze on Treize.

“Was it you who got him transferred here?” he demanded. “Got lonely for a fellow foreigner?”

Treize shut his book. “I didn't think you had anything against foreigners, Alfie.” Then, with barely concealed reprimand. “He beat you at tennis. It's no big deal. You can play against me and Funf and John tomorrow, and then you'll be the victor again.”

“It's not about tennis. It's about that damnable face of his.” Alfred slumped down in his chair. “What you can see of it at least,” he murmured. He sat in silence for a while, as if turning his words over in his head, running his tongue over them slowly. At length, he leaned forward. “Do you know why? That mask, I mean. Do you know why he wears it?”

Funf raised his head, interested in the conversation at last. “He's some sort of special soldier, isn't he? He's Romefeller, like you, Treize, isn't he? I heard your family's putting money into weapons development, building some sort of spiffy new war machine. A new stealth plane, maybe? He the pilot, then?”

Treize shrugged. “I don't know. He's never told me.”

“Impossible,” Alfred said. “You know his name. You know him well enough to play a frigging game of tennis with him as your chosen partner, for pride's sake. Don't come tell us you don't know why.”

“Well, I don't. That's the truth, regardless of your decision to not believe me. If you want to know why he wears it, you'll have to ask him yourself.”

Funf grinned at Alfred, winking. “I can make you bump into him again if you'd like.”

Alfred sank further down into his chair, gazing at the fire someone had started to ward off the perpetual chill of the common room. He frowned, pouted without even realizing he was pouting. “You're boring. Both of you. No sense in talking to you at all.”
 
 

In the Dinning Hall

The weeks proceeded like a game of cat and mouse. At times, Alfred couldn't rightly tell if he was the cat or the mouse. He followed Zechs relentlessly, shadowing him in the halls, trailing him across the lawn, gazing at him across the dinning hall tables as he dined on salad and bread with butter. He told himself he was curious, determined, perhaps, to learn the boy's secret and break that icy silence of his. But he couldn't explain why his whole body looked forward to the chase with a tingling, almost maddening desire for movement. He was fascinated, without daring to admit it to himself, by the silvery glimmer of the boy's mask, of his hair. He was enthralled, caught in a net of voyeurism that infuriated him at the same time it thrilled him.

“Does he sleep with it…?” he murmured, while sitting at dinner.

Funf stirred his mashed potatoes and sighed, rolling his eyes. “Alfie, old chap from my mostly glorious youth, you're starting to worry me. Look at someone else for a change, will you? Have you forgotten White's is an academy for both young men and women? There're plenty of blond beauties out there if sickly coloured hair's your preference.” Funf himself was a flaming carrot head, and proud of it. He took a spoonful of mashed potatoes and pointed across the table with his unused fork. “The charming Gwynedd, for one. Pale as pale, blond as blond, and smiles to boot. A welcome change from your masked tennis champion.”

Alfred dismissed the entire speech with a quick little frown of distaste. He speared half a carrot with his fork and gazed evenly at Funf. “Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting? Because I'm not. I don't feel anything towards him beyond curiosity.” He bit into the carrot, turning his gaze towards Zechs’ table. “He's strange. He's strange and unnatural, and I want to know why.”

“Suit yourself. Just don't bore me with the details, all right?” Funf reached over and took a loaf of bread from its basket. “And for God's sake, don't stare at him so openly. You're practically drilling holes into him.”

But Alfred didn't hear. Zechs was dabbing his lips with his napkin, artlessly, rubbing away a smidgen of salad dressing, and Alfred's own words were tumbling in his head, mingling with Funf's. I'm not. Look at someone else. I want to know. And women. I'm not. You're starting to worry me. I'm not. With a gasp, he broke free of the assault of words, only to realize Zechs was gone. He had left his table. Alfred rose to his feet as if in a daze. His head was swimming under the weigh of thoughts he didn't want to, couldn't process.

“Where did he go…?” he heard himself whisper, as if from far away.

Funf dabbed at his lips with his cloth napkin and regarded Alfred in silence, his face growing stony and detached. His eyes remained locked on Alfred as his companion dashed from the dinning hall, looking about him for his precious Zechs. Funf set down his napkin, slowly, and resolved to have a talk with Treize.

This had to end.
 
 

In the Dorms

Funf brushed his teeth and looked at Treize through the reflection in his shaving mirror. “He's starting to freak me out,” he said, whipping the excess toothpaste from his mouth. “Follows him around everywhere like a love sick puppy. That Zechs is, what, barely sixteen? He hasn't even declared what he'll be reading yet, for God's sake. Alfie's a senior, a damn good student, a promising athlete, the son of a prestigious military family, twenty-one years old, and my friend. He shouldn't be stumbling through the campus chasing this masked acquaintance of yours.”

Treize pushed his reading glasses up his nose, looking up from the political science book he was attempting to read in bed. “That sounds like an accusation. Are you saying it's my fault Alfie's so taken with Zechs? You know I didn't have him transferred here.”

Funf crossed his arms, leaning against the bathroom door. “But you invited him to that soddin’ tennis match. Alfie's been obsessed with him ever since.”

“What about our walk towards the lake? He seemed pretty interested then as well.”

“Christ's sake, what does it matter? The point of this chat wasn't to blame it on you. I wanted to ask you a favour.” Funf walked over to Treize's bed and sat at its edge. His eyes bore into Treize's with an intensity Treize had never seen before. “You have to keep that Zechs boy away from Alfred.”

Treize frowned. “That Zechs boy, as you put it, is my friend. I'm not going to treat him like an enemy just because you're jumping to conclusions about Alfie's interest in him.”

“Well tell me this, then. Is he one of us?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know,” Funf whispered, darting a disgusted look around him, as if something unknown and unpleasant had suddenly seeped into the room. “Is he queer, is he a sissy, a faggot. Is he friggin’ gay?”

Treize's frown deepened.  “No,” he said evenly. “And even if he was I wouldn't care.”

“God,” Funf murmured, pushing away from the bed. “I do. It's not natural. Alfie says it all the time, you know. He's unnatural, he says. Bloody hell, he sure is, isn't he?” He looked back at Treize, his eyes narrowing to suspicious slits. “You're sure you don't know why? The reason for that mask?”

“I told you already, I don't know. I'll tell you exactly what I told Alfred as well. If you want to know, ask him. He doesn't bite, you know. He's just aloof and infuriatingly quiet.”

“Oh, and you really think he'd tell me. I'll just waltz up to the boy and say, hey, whadda ya know, they served Caesar Salad again today, oh, and by the way, why do you wear that mask?” Funf snorted. “A right fool I'll look. Listen,” he leaned in closer to Treize. “Just tell that Zechs to… I dunno. Convince him to drive Alfie away.”

“I can't do that.”

“Why not, huh? Why not? What's Zechs to you, anyway? Just tell him to keep Alfie at bay. His little obsession isn't bound to score Zechs any points within the academy either, you know. It's not just Alfie we've got to help.”

Treize closed his book and removed his reading glasses. He laid them out carefully over the book, stroking them as if to keep them calm and in place. He didn't want to look at Funf, at the ugly, angry frown on his face; at the way he paced the room in quick, annoyed strides. He thought of Zechs, framed by the sunlight coming in through the music room windows, playing the piano but distracted by a figure crossing the lawn outside. Alfred, heading towards class, framed in his own right by the light, by the seemingly endless green ocean around him. Golden, youthful, petulant and undeterred in his drive to figure out Zechs, hold him down and cut him open and discover everything that made him tick.

Zechs’ hands slipped on the piano, losing their place. His mouth was working beneath the mask, murmuring to itself. Treize could barely make out the words then, but now they came back to haunt him, throwing Funf's heated accusations into sharp focus. Be careful. Be careful. The words rose up towards Treize as if from a dream, draining the colour from his face. He stroked his glasses more urgently and spoke to the bed covers arranged around his legs.

“I'll tell him,” he murmured. “I'll tell Zechs to keep away from Alfred.”
 
 

In the Music Room

At five o'clock on Tuesdays the music room was deserted. Professor Fry's last class for the day, intermediate piano, adjourned at 16.15 in a relieved rustle of skirts and the clap-trap of patent leather shoes. Discarded or forgotten notes lay strewn about the floor, blanketing the room with an almost palpable melancholy.

Alfred found Zechs bent over, busy picking up and arranging the notes, as he passed by the music room on his way to the library. Before he had made up his mind entirely he had already stopped, leaning against the door frame. He watched the deepening afternoon's light reflecting off Zechs's hair, running down the brass buttons on his dark blue jacket. He swallowed, running his lower teeth over his lips in quick, meditative strokes.

“You take piano?” His voiced rang out loudly.

Zechs looked up at him in silence. He continued on his round of the room, tapping papers into straight lines against the desks. He didn't seem perturbed in the least, in any way put out by Alfred's presence. It gave Alfred hope, a strange little humming in the back of his head.

“Stupid question, huh? You do take piano, don't you, or you wouldn't be picking up the room.” He pushed away from the doorway and walked into the room, standing a few feet away from Zechs. “I'm not much good at music. I'm studying the French horn, but I couldn't play a note to save my life.” He laughed a nervous little chuckle.

The sun glinted off the silver mask, splintered into blinding pops, as Zechs put the last of the papers on top of the professor's piano. A quiet voice filled the room. “I'm not good at it.”

Alfred shifted his feet. “Ah,” he said. The word, the sound, hung in the air between them, filtering out into noise as Alfred hunted for better words, for anything to say. He raised his head, vague sentences forming in his head, only to find that Zechs was looking straight at him. He looked different, somehow. Tense, as if poised at the edge of a cliff, feeling the loose dirt beneath his shifting feet. Meditating before the leap. Alfred swallowed.

The quiet voice came again. “Aren't you going to ask me why?”

“Pardon…?”

“Aren't you going to ask me why I wear this mask?”

Alfred found he was blushing. He hated it. It made him appear vulnerable. “I don't care why—“

“Treize told me you were curious. That you've been following me.”

This was too much. It made Alfred appear more than vulnerable; it made him look ridiculous and petty. It didn't matter to Alfred, at that moment, that it was the actual, embarrassing truth. His eyes flashed as his stare fixed itself on Zechs’ unflinching features. “For your information, I haven't been following you at all. It's not my fault first and sixth years eat at the same dinning hall, or that everybody's common room can be reached by only one staircase, or that you keep visiting Treize in the sixth year common room! I haven't been following you at all. Not at all!” His breath came out in a gasp of hot air, his chest rising and falling in anger. In shame. “I don't care about your stupid mask.”

“I see.”

Alfred spluttered, reeling from the cool detachment in Zechs’ voice. “You're… You're infuriating! You know that? Who do you think you are, anyway? Traipsing all over campus with that… that thing covering your face, as if you were some sort of criminal.” He took a step closer to Zechs. He was pouting again. He was being peevish again. But he didn't care. “You're boring. God, you're boring all of us with your little secret.”

Zechs's eyes were levelled with his. They were so close. His eyes were blue, sharp sky blue, like an eagle, impassive as it tore into its victim. Screaming his victory over the weaker prey. Alfred couldn't look away. He felt more than heard the quiet voice he knew to be Zechs’, washing over him, over both of them, drawing him closer.

“I want to tell you.”

Alfred staggered under the blow, stumbling backwards into a desk. He steadied himself with difficulty, his eyebrows working furiously over confused, unbelieving eyes. When at last he found his voice it didn't seem to belong to him. It wasn't even a word. It was a sound, a petty, insignificant sound, ringing out into the silence in deafening simplicity.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh.”
 
 

Behind the Garden Wall

They met next day at the maze built within the south lawn's garden. Alfred dearly hoped that Zechs wouldn't mind if he mixed the confidences with a little picnic. He arrived at the entrance to the maze with a chequered blanket draped over his left arm, a handsome picnic basket in his right, and an apologetic smile on his lips. If Zechs minded, Alfred couldn't be sure. He merely bestowed the basket with a quick, unreadable glance and turned to lead the way.

The maze was deserted. Only lovers and smokers ever visited the maze, and both of these only wandered into it at night, after dinner. Privacy was assured. Alfred spread out the blanket, smoothing it out with a whistle trapped in his throat. He arranged the plates, distributed the fruit, and finally settled down to slice the goat cheese and give Zechs one last, wavering smile of apology.

He spoke at length, giving up on Zechs being the one to provide the opening statements. “So,” he said, hoping to God he sounded natural, glib. “Why did you decide to tell me?” Now that Zechs had agreed to divulge the secret, it was only natural that Alfred be glib, happy, honoured. He bit into the goat cheese. “Why me?”

Zechs remained silent for a while, his fingers working over the edges of the chequered blanket. “I'm not… I'm not sure. There's something… about you. I feel I can trust you.”

Alfred lowered his knife. He hadn't expected anything like that. What could he reply? Should he reply at all, or merely nod and hope that Zechs would continue? He was at a loss. Strangled little noises were coming from his throat. He hoped at least one of them could be salvaged and interpreted as thank you or at least I'm honoured. It was with warm, thankful relief that he realized Zechs had begun to speak.

“My father,” he said quietly, “is Colonel Marquise. My foster father is Colonel Marquise. My real father is, was, Bernard Peacecraft.” He paused, waiting it seemed. When it became apparent that Alfred had nothing to say, Zechs continued. A humourless little smile played across his lips. “My father, my mother, my house were destroyed during the war. An army sent by the Federation attacked us when I was barely five years old. They destroyed everything. They killed my parents.”

Alfred tried to swallow. His throat had gone dry. “K-killed…? That's impossible. Why would the Federation…?” His words died out in a whisper. He was remembering, his brain working backwards in quick, precise leaps, searching the darkened recesses of his memories until they had extracted flashes Alfred could recognize. Newspapers. A.C. 181. The Peacecrafts. The royal family of Cinq. Front-page news his father had read over breakfast, his father the Earl of Hertfordshire, admiral in Her Majesty's Royal Navy, at the service of the Federation Armed Forces. His father who had folded the newspaper slowly and shook his greying head, his voice infinitely sad. They've done it, then. God have mercy on their souls, they've done it.

“Your father was Bernard Peacecraft? The pacifist…?”

Zechs spoke in a murmur, his words barely audible. “My father was assassinated. He opposed the Federation's insistence that Cinq relinquish its spaceport to the Federative forces. Cinq would have become the prime gateway to the space colonies. The launching pad for the virtual enslavement of everyone who had fled Earth.”

“Assassinated,” Alfred whispered. “Oh God…”

“I know,” Zechs said, his fingers twisting impassively into the chequered pattern of their blanket, “I know who gave the orders for the attack. St. Just. Lieutenant General St. Just of the Federative forces stationed at Nice, France.”

He left the last word disintegrate between them, wearing itself out slowly as it grasped hold of Alfred's mind, nestling amongst his memories. It rose like a thick, impenetrable wall between him and Zechs. Iron, cold, blocking out the silvery light Alfred had come to love, to delight in. Alarm rose within him, his heart beating faster and faster as the unspoken meaning of Zechs’ words materialized before him in dreadful, clear strokes.

“You can't!” His voice shattered to splinters within his head.

Zechs was no longer looking at him. His fingers had untwined from the blanket. Although he sat still, it seemed to Alfred as if every minutiae of Zechs’ body, of his person, his spirit, exuded movement. Frantic, frightening movement, a dizzying spiral towards a fatal, unstoppable end.

“I know who he is,” Zechs murmured. “I know where he lives. I'll know if he is transferred, demoted, elevated in rank. I know what he eats for breakfast, which opera house he likes to frequent.”

“You can't,” Alfred repeated. “Zechs, you can't do it…”

His words stumbled within themselves, frozen in his throat. Zechs had risen to his feet, his hands reaching, inch-by-inch, towards his mask. Alfred couldn't move, hardly dared to breathe. He felt his throat contract, painfully. Zechs removed his mask, the silvery flesh giving way beneath his hands with ease. He held it nestled between his fingers as Alfred lay below him, tears streaming down his face. They fell, heavy and salty, into the rivulets of his mouth, snaking a path down his smooth, white neck.

Zechs was surprised. “Why are you crying…?”

“I don't want you to… I don't want you to die. You can't die. You're so young and full of life. You're… you're beautiful. You can't die.” Then, in all the naivety of youth. “I won't let you die.”

Alfred had stood up. He swayed on his feet, the tears blinding him, distorting the image of Zechs as he stood, unbelievably whole and silvery pale, beyond his grasp. He stumbled forward to close the distance between them, his hands grasping at Zechs’ shoulders. He felt much too large, clumsy. He felt bold, a thrill coursing through his body. He grasped Zechs’ shoulders tightly and drew him forward, drew him towards his lips. He pressed them against his in blind desperation, drawing breath for both of them, tearing aside the weeks of conjecture, of cat and mouse, of waiting.

“I won't let you die,” he whispered. “I won't.”
 
 

In Treize's Car

The antique, copper Austin wound around the country in rapid yet languid motions. The early morning breeze, magnified by the speed, played across Treize's hair, throwing it into a fantastic state of disarray. It would take him hours to settle it back down again, but he knew of no place within the Jonathan H. White Academy where he could talk with any true peace of mind.

Zechs sat to his left, his hair drawn into a ponytail, his mask arranged carefully beside him on the seat, a pair of bottle green goggles covering his eyes from the occasional sputter of the Austin's engine. They doubled as protection if anyone should see them. Treize –himself outfitted with goggles— would have preferred it if he had kept the mask on, but Zechs had surprised him with an unprecedented show of petulance that morning. I want the damn thing off, he had hissed. Treize had decided it would perhaps be better if he complied with the young man's wishes.

“You wanted to tell me something,” Zechs said now. “We wouldn't be driving around the deserted English countryside at 6:00 am otherwise.”

“Mhm. Perceptive, as usual. I always said you'd make for a boring partner at charades, didn't I?” Treize laughed. “You should give up a planned career within the Federation Armed Forces and enlist as a spy for the Romefeller Foundation instead.”

“Amn't I already…?” Zechs smiled, a humourless twitch at the corners of his mouth.

Treize drummed his fingers over the steering wheel. “Perceptive,” he repeated. “Perceptive and infuriating. Whatever else Alfie might think of you, he's straight on the mark in that particular assessment of you.” A sudden turn materialized, and Treize veered to the left with a low curse. “Alfie,” he murmured. “Alfie is precisely what I need to speak to you about.”

“Nothing happened.”

Treize cast Zechs a sideways glance, two pairs of blue eyes locking momentarily before Treize turned his gaze back to the winding, gravel road. “You removed your mask, Zechs. That qualifies as something. I hesitate to say stupidity.”

Zechs winced. The control, the confidence, the aloofness he could pull off with ease around Alfred and everyone else at the academy were meaningless when face to face with Treize. The mere sight of him reminded Zechs, painfully, almost daily, that he was only sixteen and still frustratingly far from his goal. He had made a stupid mistake. He knew it. He never should've removed his mask. Especially not for Alfred.

“He loves you,” Treize said, deadpan. “You know that, don't you?”

Yes, he did. He ran his fingers over his lips, and he knew. He could still feel Alfred's lips pressed against his own, salty, wet with tears, desperate. He closed his eyes. It pained him to remember the look in Alfred's face, the raw, bleeding need, the adulation, the unadulterated love. Pure, uncomprehending, so damnably proper in its impropriety. Zechs knew Alfred loved him. Oh yes, he knew.

“He's just infatuated,” he told Treize. “He'll realize sooner or later that he's more in love with the mystery of me than with the reality.”

“The reality is pretty damn romantic, wouldn't you say? An exiled prince, the son of a respected pacifist, seeking revenge for his family's assassination. I couldn't have fashioned you out to be more of a romantic hero if I'd tried.” Treize spread out his right hand over the countryside tumbling past them, a strange glimmer in his eyes. “Scores of soldiers, believers, fierce visionaries will lay down their lives for you. You, their silver god, their personification of all that is glorious and human and heroic. You will set history dancing about you with a single note from your golden horn. You: Zechs Marquise.”

“Stop it.”

“You can't fight it, Zechs.” He pronounced each word slowly, with the certainty of a prophet, a proud, beautiful Methuselah who had seen everything that had been and would see everything to come. “It is what you were born to do. Your destiny is to soar above us all on the breath of the gods themselves.” He turned his gaze towards Zechs. “You already have Alfred worshiping the ground you walk on.”

Zechs scowled, twisting his body towards Treize. “And whose fault is that? I never fashioned myself out to be a hero. That was your doing. Your propaganda. You think I don't know how you're whispering my name to every headmaster at every military school from here to New Zealand? No particulars, no details, just the promise of a golden youth, backed by the prestige and intrigue of the Romefeller Foundation. The foundation you've secured for yourself. The meeting ground for every important figurehead the military world can think of.” He took a deep breath, his teeth flashing. “It's you. You're the one who's made me into a hero.”

Treize spoke softly. “I never asked you to wear a mask.”

He watched, not without satisfaction, as the childish rage siphoned out of Zechs’ eyes, his shoulders slumping in embarrassed defeat. Treize tapped his fingers against the steering wheel again and sighed, his chest rising and falling under his motoring coat.

“Don't encourage him,” he murmured. “Don't encourage Alfred to worship you. For Alfred's sake as well as yours. Don't let him believe he has any chance of ever truly loving you.”

To gather his thoughts, Zechs gazed down at his hands, folded on his lap. He couldn't bring himself to tell Treize of the words Alfred had whispered so insistently. I won't let you die. How could he stop himself from encouraging Alfred? He had already done the worse he could do: he had mesmerized him, dazzled him with the privilege of knowing why he wore the mask. Worse, of knowing whom he was beneath the mask. It had seemed so right, so natural at the time. Alfred had been so concerned, so open. Now Zechs recognized what he had done as a mistake. A potentially fatal one. He pressed his hands against his goggles.

“I'll try,” he murmured.

Satisfied, Treize nodded. “Good. I apologize if I seem harsh to you, and especially to Alfie's feelings, but this is truly for the best.”

To save him. The thought forced itself into Zechs’ mind before he could revise it. To save Alfred from rising with him on the breath of the gods. To save him from tumbling down to the earth, arms clasped about Zechs. Icharus burning against the sun.
 
 

In the Locker Room

The excited rumble of the Jonathan H. White Academy football team was deafening. It hurtled itself across the locker room as easily as Dylan Quigley tossed his sweaty, knee length socks above his team-mates’ heads. John Miller had leaped upon a bench, his arms stretched towards the ceiling, his face scrounged up in the ecstasy of victory. “Goal!” he bellowed. “Goal and it's a three point lead for Johnny White's boys! Fucking bloody amazing!” The call was picked up, regurgitated, passed along as if they were still on the field, one kick closer to the victory cup.

Alfred endured the pats and shakes and crippling bear hugs of his team-mates with a grin he couldn't help. He was goalie. He had blocked a pass everyone was sure St. Mary's would score. His arm tingled from the exertion, but it was sweet pain. They had won.

“One more game like this,” John grinned. “And Johnny White's the champion for its second year in a row. We're talking massive recognition ‘ere, mates.” He flung his hands above his head. “We're talking massive quantities of beer at the Tallow Pub tonight gents! My treat!”

Funf flung his arm over Alfred's shoulder. “You in, Alfie? We owe the victory to you, old chum.”

Alfred's locker came open with a shudder, his tennis rackets threatening to obliterate any room left. He stuffed in his football jersey and shook his head. “Can't. I've got a very important exam scheduled for tomorrow morning.”

“Get off! Who in blazes schedules a test after a football match?”

“Professor Twyborn, that's who. The old goat.” Alfred shut his locker and sat on the bench to pull off his shoes. “Can't be helped, though. I need to be up bright and early tomorrow at 8.00, without a hangover.”

The bench creaked as Funf sat down beside him. “Aw come on, Alfie. You don't have t'drink. Just sit there and look sociable.”

Alfred shook his head. “Oh no. No no no. I know what that means.” He poked Funf's chest with his index finger. “It means you're going to keep offering me pints till I cave in and then I'll finish off six pints of Guinness for no reason whatsoever and I'll be so drunk you'll have to carry me back home.”

“Not in my arms,” Funf mumbled. The tone of his voice was strangely curt, laced with a distaste that surprised Alfred. He could feel a frown begin to spread over his eyes, and he lowered his head to clear it away.

“Anyway, I can't go. I'm sorry.” He hoped his voice sounded natural.

“I know why you're not really coming,” Funf hissed. Alfred's head snapped up to reveal Funf's lips drawn back over his lips in a grotesque, threatening smile. His hands were gripping the bench so hard his knuckles popped up white and sharp. Alfred drew back, the frown he had tried to keep at bay materializing between them.

“Look, Funf, I told you—“

“Hey!” John's voice cut in on them from the doorway. “Me an’ the rest'a the team are shoving off f'r Tallow's. You wankers coming or not?”

“In a minute,” Funf called, his eyes still fixed on Alfred's. “I've got to show Alfie something first.”

“Can't show it at Tallow's then?” A couple of boys sniggered. “Pictures of some bird he doesn't want us t'meet?” Laughter tickled out. “Well, you blokes take care of yer business. We'll be taking extra good care of ours. Ain't that right, mates!”

The team left with a few, good placed howls and whistles, stampeding down the stairs in an ocean of jerseys, mud, and song. Funf heard them leave without ever taking his eyes off Alfred. His smile had remained fixed, the corners of his lips stretched out like stiff, tanned leather.

“You're gonna go see him, aren't you?” he hissed.

“I don't know what the hell you're talking about, Funf. You're acting like a regular arse.” With a shove, Alfred moved from the bench, flinging his shoes and socks into a growing heap on the floor. “See who? I never see anyone but you and Treize and maybe John if he's not drunk.”

Funf held up a photograph. “See him,” he said. He emphasized each word with a little shake to the photograph. “See that precious little mask wearing tennis player of yours. Zechs Marquise.”

The photograph stood between Alfred and Funf in vivid, unbelievable colours. Alfred stared at it, hoping that his stare would somehow rearrange the image, transform it into something different. The image remained. Zechs, his mask dangling from his fingers, eyes wide, surprised. Him, leaning against Zechs, eyes closed, lips locked. A hand trailing down Zechs’ shoulder. He covered his mouth, staggering into a sitting position on a bench across from Funf.

“How did you…? When…?”

Funf waved the photograph. “Followed you. You were so starry eyed you never even bothered to check.” He grinned, all mirth gone from his eyes. “I caught you two red handed.”

“Funf, please, you have to destroy that picture. Zechs, he—“

“No fucking way! I intend to duplicate this picture and pass it around to every soul I meet. Maybe shower ‘em down from the bell tower.” His grin slid away, and he fixed his eyes on Alfred. His voice was low, menacing. “Unless you promise me you'll never talk to that homo again.”

Alfred's mouth was dry. His teeth clenched and unclenched rapidly, his mind in frenzied commotion. Funf loomed before him, ugly and huge and red, the photograph glinting in the overhead lights. Alfred wanted to snatch it away, to ram his fists into Funf's face, obliterate that look of maddening superiority he wore like a badge. He took a deep breath.

“Funf—“

“Promise,” Funf growled, low in his throat. “Or I publish the fuckin’ picture. I'll do it. You know I will.”

There was no way out. The photograph rose up between them, sharp and real, evidence. Not only of his feelings but also of Zechs’ secret. Oh God. What had he done? He felt tears threatening behind his eyes and he dug his fingernails into his palms to keep them from spilling. He didn't know whether to laugh or scream or both and tear into Funf's face. He shuddered. His mind was reeling, clawing against the reality crashing into its walls. There was no way out. He knew it. Funf wasn't stupid. He had negatives, extra copies. Alfred knew this. He knew Funf would carry out his threats. Obliterate him. Obliterate Zechs.

Alfred set his lips into a straight line. His voiced was husky. “I promise,” he murmured. He saw the triumph spread over Funf's face and it made him sick. He saw Zechs’ eyes looking out at him, trusting him, and he forced himself to continue.

“I promise. I will never see Zechs Marquise again.”
 
 

In the First Year Dorms

A lanky young boy opened the door, one hand rising to scratch at his chin as Alfred smiled down at him, the very picture of calm and sixth year confidence.

“Marquise?” the boy said, looking behind him at the first year's common room, enviably well lit and infinitely warmer than the common room Alfred had just left behind. “He was here, but I think he retired to his room.” He turned a brilliant pair of green eyes towards Alfred. “Want me to fetch him? Must be mighty serious business if they've sent a sixth year after him.”

“A bit serious, yes.”

The boy's eyes widened, his lips curling back into an interested half smile. “Oh wow. He's not in trouble is he? He sure never caused us any trouble. On the contrary, that mask of his is quite the spirits raiser, y'know?” He considered Alfred for a split second, his eyes narrowing. “Hang on. I'll get him.” He paused one last time, his hand hovering over the banister, as he began the climb up to the dorms. “Who should I say wants him…?”

“Oh, ah… Khushrenada. Treize Khushrenada.”

The room seemed much too warm as the boy disappeared around a bend in the stairs, the other first years gathered around the fire, the chess boards, the mini library, craning their necks towards Alfred. He could tell they didn't want him to notice their stares and, too mentally fatigued to really care, he gladly pretended he couldn't see any of them. He hoped they would read the detached aloofness of a senior student in the stiff set of his shoulders, the way his fingers kept twitching within his gloves. He cleared his throat.

Zechs appeared at the stairs in a battered, mothball eaten dressing gown. It was obvious that the tattered appearance of the gown wounded his youth's vanity, his fingers gripping the gown closed tightly beneath his throat. It was obvious that he had truly expected Treize, a rapid twitch to his lips betraying his surprise. Alfred begged him silently with his eyes not to give him away. Zechs chewed on his lower lip once and turned to the green-eyed boy who had fetched him.

“Freddy, I'll be meeting with Treize in my room. Make sure no one disturbs us.”

With that, he motioned for Alfred to follow him. They climbed the stairs in silence, Zechs turning to shut the door to his room securely behind him before he turned to Alfred with eyebrows raised. Alfred couldn't see his eyebrows, but the subtle widening of Zechs’ eyes alerted him to the younger man's likely mood of confusion.

“Why did you say you were Treize…?” Zechs whispered, casting a look at the door.

Alfred walked over to the bed and sat heavily on its edge. He pulled at the edges of his gloves and shrugged with his lips. “Funf is threatening to publish a picture of you,” he said flatly. “Of you and me. Kissing.”

The colour drained away from Zechs’ face. Alfred heard him swallow, his Adam's apple seeming to scratch against his skin. Despite of the fear, the discomfort and the tension Alfred felt, he couldn't help but smile at his first glimpse of Zechs’ momentary loss of his cool composure. It settled back into Zechs’ lips soon enough, and he had crossed over to Alfred's side.

His voice was low, urgent. “Does he still have the photograph?”

Alfred collapsed back into Zechs’ pillows. “Yes. Yes, he does.” He brought one hand up over his eyes. “God, you weren't wearing your mask when I… when we…” He sighed and looked at Zechs. “I'm so sorry. If I hadn't insisted on… on hounding you till you broke, this wouldn't have happened.”

Zechs was pacing the room, his fingers curled around his lips, pinching them as he thought. “Don't be sorry. It wasn't your fault. I never should've taken the damn thing off.”

“I never should have kissed you… I never should have…”

The bed creaked as Zechs sat next to Alfred, one hand rising to rest against his knee, not unkindly. “Stop it. It's not your fault. You're not to blame for Funf's inflated sense of morality.”

In spite of himself, Alfred smiled. A sweet, sincere smile of happiness. It broke out slowly over his face like warm, welcome sunlight streaming into the darkened room after an uneasy, terrifying night. His voice was barely above a whisper. “You mean… you don't mind…? You don't mind that I… that I love you…?”

Zechs turned his face away. The smile wavered, the light flickering and fading in his eyes, as Alfred raised himself on his elbows. He watched as Zechs walked away, his shoulders strangely stiff, his feet dragging over the carpet. Alfred's mouth twitched at the corners, his emotions battling for control. Disappointment, acceptance, logic, the strength to understand what he was seeing and to understand that he knew it could never be any other way. He looked down at the rumpled covers and tried to chuckle.

“But you don't love me, do you…?” he said.

“No,” Zechs said. “Not in that way.”

“What other way is there…? It isn't love when you're just friends, is it? Not really. Not for me.”

“Alfred…”

He held up his hand, his eyes still fixed on the covers. He hoped to God his voice wouldn't betray the tears he could feel choking his throat. To drive them back he flexed his fingers, drawing his hand into a loose fist. “It's all right. Really. I knew it wasn't meant to be. I'm not that big of a fool.” He cleared his throat, mindful of Zechs’ eyes on him. He wished he'd look away. He turned his gaze towards the far wall and mustered up a serious tone of voice.

“Anyway,” he said, “I didn't come to tell you about this.” He wanted to turn and look at Zechs, but he didn't dare. “I wanted to warn you. About Funf. He said he'd forget the whole thing if I promised never to see you again.”

A chair was drawn back, and Alfred heard Zechs lower himself into it with a dull thud. “Never…? That arse. That arsehole.”

Alfred grinned humourlessly. “My so-called friend. He's in complete shambles now that he reckons I'm a puff. He reckoned correctly, of course. He figured it out faster than I ever did…” He chuckled, his eyes muted and sunk. Tired. “I seem to have figured it out at the worst possible moment.”

He could sense Zechs was about to object, so he swung his legs out of the bed and sat up, his eyes searching for and finding Zechs’. The younger boy held his stare steadily, with all the composure and assurance Alfred had come to recognize and respect and love from him. They sat like that, their eyes locked, for an indeterminate amount of time, the seconds stumbling into minutes threatening into hours.

“Come with me,” Alfred said, urgently, gambling. “We both have to leave this place. As soon as possible.”

Zechs frowned. “I can't do that.”

“Why not?” He sounded peevish again, spoiled. It angered him, but the words kept stumbling from his lips, mingling with the scowl he could feel growing over his eyes. “You're always so cool, so collected. You really think you can deal with everything yourself,” he spat. “Funf really plans to publish that picture of his. Don't you believe for one minute my promise will mean anything to him. He can be brutal when he wants to, and right now all he wants to do is hurt you. Don't you see? We have to leave this place!”

“And give Funf a perfect example of eloping lovers? Don't be stupid!”

Alfred stepped back. The colours had rushed to his face. “Don't call me stupid!” he shouted. He saw Zechs stiffen, look towards the door in worry and alarm. He didn't care. Anger and impotency were rising in him like a sickness. “You're the only idiot here! You can't see Funf is capable of anything. If we stay here it won't only be eloping he'll talk about. He'll hound us like animals. He'll make sure everything we do, everything we say gets twisted into scandal!”

“So you'd rather give him the scandal of the two of us disappearing mysteriously at night? Is that it?”

“No! No, I…” Alfred stumbled back onto the bed. “God damn it! What are we going to do then?” His head fell into his hands; tremors subsiding slowly down his arms. “I can't stay here,” he mumbled. “I just can't…”

With a start, he realized Zechs had risen to place a hand on his shoulder. He smiled down at Alfred gently, the eldest of the two although he was five years younger. Alfred blushed in shame.

“We can't leave,” Zechs murmured.

His words had a finality Alfred couldn't contest. He lowered his head, his shoulders slumping. In silence he removed Zechs’ hand from his shoulder. Emptiness rushed in to fill the space. Urgent, malicious, pitiless emptiness.
 
 

In the Presence of Treize

Alfred woke the next morning with a dull, steady ache in his chest. He woke drenched in sweat and staring at the ceiling. He could feel, in the periphery of his mind, the shapes of Treize and Funf as they lay in their own beds. Asleep. Peaceful, oblivious, cocooned in blessed silence. Alfred placed one hand over his heart and pressed down on his flesh. The ache would not dissipate.

It followed him, droning, insistent, as he performed all of his early morning rituals: washing his face, patting it dry, brushing his teeth, pulling on his uniform, combing his hair. Treize and Funf came and went at the corners of his eyes, like shadows leaping and dancing around a flame. Neither of them spoke about Zechs, as if he had somehow ceased to exist. Alfred hated them both. He picked up his books and left the room in silence, mindful of having let it slam shut.

He walked down the halls at 5.00 as if in a daze, one hand raised in an absentminded gesture over his heart. He was so tragic, so lonely, so much a wounded animal. He had to snap out of it. But the will just wasn't in him. He so wanted to be hurt. His feet were encased in lead, slowing him down across a bog of faces.

Treize caught up with him on the second floor, the early morning greys still lingering around them. “You're acting like martyr, Alfie. It doesn't suit you.”

“Go away,” he murmured. “I'm not in the mood.”

“I'll say. You've been mooning about campus as if the firing squad had you in their sights. It's depressing.” Treize stopped walking, sighing. “I hate to see you this way.”

“What do you want me to do, then?” Alfred turned about. He held Treize's gaze as if daring him to walk away. “Zechs doesn't care about me. Not that it matters. Funf has seen to it that I never get to see him again. So forgive me if I'm a little bit hurt. After the appalling way my friends have treated me…”

Treize sighed. “Appalling,” he murmured, as if tasting the word. He seemed about to say something, the words threatening on his lips, receding almost at once, resurfacing a split second later. He stood in an attitude of indecision for a long while. Finally, he raised his head.

“Alfred,” he said. “Zechs is no longer at the Jonathan H. White Academy. He was transferred last night.”

A deafening roar had built itself within Alfred's ears, filtering Treize's words through a funnel. He tried to grasp their meaning, his mind racing to make sense of them before his heart. Gone. Zechs is gone. But he said... He wanted to laugh, but the only sounds he could muster were weak little splutters. He swallowed and looked at his feet.

“That bastard,” he whispered. “That lying bastard. He said he couldn't leave. He…” Alfred's head snapped up, his voice accusing. “You had him transferred, didn't you? Didn't you, Treize?”

Treize's face betrayed no emotion; he merely stood his ground, his books tucked under his arm as if he held a taskmaster's whip. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Alfred shook his head, taking one step forward. He set his lips into a thin line. “Where did you send him? He didn't need you to transfer him!”

“You're not making any sense, Alfred.”

“Get off it!” His voice echoed across the deserted hallway. “Zechs is Romefeller, like you! He hopes to infiltrate the Federation Armed Forces. And you're the one who's helping him. You brought him here, to keep him within neutral ground till he was of age. Only things got ugly here, didn't they? You never expected Funf, or me did you? So Zechs had to go someplace new.” He took one more step forward, his lips set. “Where did you send him? For God's sake, you've got to tell me.”

Treize remained impassive. Slowly, he pulled a pair of reading glasses from his uniform's breast pocket. Next, he removed a small black notebook from within the jacket's inner lining and, settling his glasses on his nose, flipped a few pages. Alfred watched the entire performance as if in a trance. Treize seemed bathed in shadow, silhouetted sharply against the tall windows of the hall. He was larger than life. The judge of the world.

His voice was gentle in its firmness. “If you insist on following Zechs, dear boy, read this. Read it carefully, then return the notebook to me and forget that I ever showed you.” With a languid stretch of his arm, Treize passed the notebook to Alfred.

It trembled in the boy's hands as he read Treize's neat rows of letters. Zechs transferred to Lake Victoria Military Academy. A date had been printed below the words. Yesterday's date. Orderly, precise. Alfred re-read the words slowly, digesting them in their fantastic reality one last time before passing the notebook back to Treize in silence. It disappeared within Treize's jacket so fluidly that Alfred could not be sure if it had ever existed or not. A spell seemed to have been lifted from him.

“Lake Victoria,” Alfred murmured. “Africa…? My God. You mean it's true…? I was right?”

Treize cocked his head to the left. “About what?” He seemed confused, yet pleasantly charming. Alfred found his attitude unnerving. But, somehow, at the same time, he found himself inexplicably drawn. By both of them: Zechs Marquise and Treize Khushrenada. They filled him with an urgency he had never known. Fingers shaking, before he had time to logically explain what he was doing or why, he tore a page from one of his notebooks. He scribbled a few words on it quickly and handed it to Treize.

“Thank you, Treize,” he said. “For cheering me up from my martyr's mood.”

Treize read the note silently and smiled, slipping it within his breast pocket. “I'll see you, then?”

Alfred returned Treize's smile. It broke over his face in frenzied, unadulterated waves, filtering into his eyes until his whole person seemed altered. He was youth. Golden youth. Icharus setting out to try his wings. He raised one hand in salute and turned on his heel.

Treize watched him go, following the line of his body until the darkness of the hall had enveloped him in its silence, until all he could hear were his footsteps. The sweet rustle of his wings, as they were unfurled. Alfred transferred to Lake Victoria Military Academy. Treize knew Alfred had no doubts, no reserves. No regrets. Only a mounting excitement, a rising tide of emotions, of raw need, growing in intensity until they rose to wash him away, to make him new.

Icharus had taken flight.
 
 

During Breakfast

The humming began at the end of the hall, lengthening itself out in slow, measured cadences until it had risen, like a wave, over all gathered around the dinning tables. Heads craned for a better look, benches scrapping against the floor as student turned towards student, murmuring, conjecturing. Headmaster Nyman, standing at his place at the head table, had to clear his throat several times before the tumult settled itself down.

He ran his gaze over the hall, over the first years and the sixth years. His eyes lingered on Treize Khushrenada, the French import, sitting in unperturbed peace at the end of his sixth year table. It wouldn't be long before his seat would be empty. The headmaster knew this. He cleared his throat.

“I know this morning's news has come as quite a surprise to all of you. Nevertheless, it is the truth, and I only wish for us to pause in our breakfasting to briefly honour those who are no longer with us.”

Treize reached forward for the wine glass that had been placed before him, as it had been for everyone assembled in the dinning hall. He held it poised before him, waiting for Headmaster Nyman's words. Funf sat beside him, stiffly, but with his head held high. Treize knew Funf had no regrets, and he couldn't hate him for his devotion to what he believed to be ultimately right. No, Treize couldn't hate Funf. But he couldn't sympathize with him either. He turned a blind eye to the scarlet blush spreading over Funf's nose and cheeks, spilling into a pinkish rim beneath his eyes. The tears would have to fall in loneliness, supporting Funf in the ditch he had dug for himself.

“We raise our glasses,” the headmaster intoned, “to the health, prosperity, and ensuing success of two very bright, very promising young men. This morning they have both been called away to their homes, summoned by their illustrious families, who have need of them. Need, yes, as indeed we all shall if these threats of war prove themselves to be truth.” He paused. “It is, yes, a sad occasion. But it is also an occasion of hope, for our trust is placed firmly on the might of Her Majesty's Royal Armed Forces.”

Treize bit down an urge to laugh. It wasn't the armed forces of England that had benefited from the entire ordeal. Two very bright, very promising young men were now joining in the ranks of the Romefeller, the Federative Armed Forces’ Specials Unit. The OZ. His OZ. His bright, promising young men. He sighed in contentment and listened to the rest of the speech Headmaster Nyman was delivering. Flawlessly, he recognized. Almost word by word. Treize could have sworn his own little black notebook lay open before the headmaster. As it had the night before.

“We toast,” Nyman continued, majestically, “to the recruitment of two fine young men into the service of Her Majesty's Royal Armed Forces. We drink, ladies and gentlemen, professors, students, to Zechs Marquise and Alfred P. Werker. Hear hear.”

The answer, the toast as it was passed along from mouth to mouth, was deafening, every voice drowning out the next. Drowning out Funf as he set down his glass, untouched. Drowning out Treize as he laughed, clear and free. Anticipating. Hoping. Believing. Rising on the breath of the gods themselves.
 
 

Alfred Werker died in A.C. 195, at the age of twenty-four and under the military command of Lt. Zechs Marquise, during a minor battle between the OZ Special Forces and the Federation. Treize Khushrenada died a few months later, in battle against a pilot from the space colonies’ resistance movement and the White Fang faction, led by Zechs Marquise under the name of Mirialdo Peacecraft. Funf Schiller died in A.C. 251, at the age of eighty, having risen to the post of headmaster at the Jonathan H. White Academy.
 
 
 

+ Author's Note

+ Alfred Werker was, for this story at least, modelled after British actor Jude Law, particularly on his roles as petulant, privileged young men such as Bosie Douglas in Wilde and Jerome Morrow in Gattaca. Hence, the presence of the words “you're boring.” I trust any Jude fan reading this will realize why and have a good laugh. John Miller wasn't exactly modelled after Johnny Lee Miller, but he certainly borrowed his name.
 

> top

> mail

© August 12-19, 2001 Team Bonet. All original Gundam Wing characters are © 1995 Sunrise and Bandai. Thank you for reading.