Quatre stared at himself in the mirror. He was back to wearing his regular clothes, being ordered to look less of a drudge and more of a future earl's companion. And even though he wasn't comfortable with the idea of shedding his rather feeble disguise, he couldn't help but feel relieved all the same at being able to see himself again.
He wasn't, however, too thrilled at his recent conduct toward Trowa. It was the first thing that hit him the moment he'd woken up, and he'd been riding wave after wave of guilt for being so abrupt and downright insensitive to his young master.
"I don't even know his story," he told himself, withering visibly as he stared at the small, pale boy in the glass before him. "It wasn't fair to snap at him the way I did. But I just couldn't help it…"
"Quatre?" a voice called outside his bedroom door. "Are you up? Are you alive, even?"
The boy hurried to the door and opened it and found himself standing face to face with a red-faced and panting Angus. "You're needed in the dining room," the man gasped. "The earl wants you to have breakfast with the family, and they've been waiting for you for--oh, hell--five minutes now."
Quatre's heart dropped. "Breakfast? With them? But why? I thought I was going to eat with you!"
Angus stared at him incredulously. "You're not getting this promotion thing, are you, kid?" he asked. "You're not one of us now, can't you see that?"
"I'm not one of them, either!"
"Oh, sure--you're eating with them, aren't you? Look, if you don't move your little promoted backside, I'll have to haul you over to the dining room myself. And don't think I'm kidding around."
Quatre, still in a bit of a shock, quietly followed Angus down the hallway toward the main dining room. He hesitated a little as he stood outside the door, taking in a deep breath to brace himself and drawing himself up some more so as to look less cowed and overwhelmed by the whole thing.
"Are you ready yet?" Angus asked dryly as he rested his hand on the door handle.
The boy nodded. "I suppose so."
"That's good enough."
The burly servant swung the double doors open with a mighty heave and marched in, with Quatre following closely behind, scooting a little behind his companion in a desperate and vain effort to shield himself from the new environment. Having been used to the plainness and functional drabness of the servants' mess hall, he felt downright intimidated by the sudden richness and splendor of the family dining room. Like the conservatory, the room was drenched in mahogany both in color and material, to be broken up by the occasional sconce and delicately tapered candle. Massive ancestral portraits lined the walls throughout, the pale, elaborately costumed and bewigged figures within the antique gold frames staring serenely at all those gathered around the table.
"Mr. Winner, sir," Angus announced as they neared, abruptly stepping aside to expose the boy to the critical gaze of the earl and his two guests.
Catherine beamed reassuringly as their eyes met. Trowa gave him a careless, cursory glance and immediately looked away. Quatre felt a sting as he watched his young master turn his attention to his fork, listlessly playing with it as he waited.
"It's about bloody time, Quatre," the earl snorted from one end of the table. "Where on earth have you been?"
"Getting ready, my lord," the boy stammered, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks.
"That was an awfully long time to get ready."
"I didn't know that I was going to eat with you."
"Whatever gave you that idea?"
"Daaaaad," Catherine broke in, rolling her eyes as she playfully tapped her father's hand with the back of her fork. "Stop picking on the poor boy, for heaven's sake. He's here. That's what matters." She turned to him. "I'm sorry, Quatre. Dad's just grumpy this morning. Go ahead and take a seat, please."
"Grumpy, hell," the earl huffed, shifting in his chair. "You always say that."
"Because it's true, Dad."
Everyone--save for Trowa--watched the boy take his place beside Lady Gabriela, who was sitting directly across the table from Catherine, Trowa, and Lady Dummfield.
"You look much, much better," the earl suddenly piped up as he reached out for the bread basket.
"You still need to learn the value of punctuality, young man," the viscountess added, scowling at him from across the way. She clasped her hands stiffly above her plate as she regarded him through severe, narrowed eyes. "Keeping people waiting--especially your host and employer--is in very bad taste, indeed. Shows the marks of poor breeding."
Quatre wasn't sure, but he thought he saw Trowa wince at the word "employer." But the young man continued his rather bored inspection of his silverware, not once acknowledging Quatre's presence.
"He didn't know, mamma," Lady Gabriela said, her tiny, almost whisper-like voice barely discernible following her mother's loud, authoritative tone. "We'd all do well to leave him alone."
Then she turned to smile at the boy. "How do you do, Quatre?" she said with a graceful bow of her head, sending the countless golden ringlets piled up on top of her head jiggling playfully.
"Very well, thank you, madam…"
"Gabriela," the young lady quickly corrected, prompting a small gasp of outrage from across the table. "Just call me Gabriela."
"My dear!" the viscountess broke in, her voice harsh and grating as it echoed throughout the room, making Quatre and the young lady flinch. "How could you encourage that sort of familiarity?"
"Mamma, he's Trowa's friend…"
"He's not your equal."
"In a very important way, he isn't," the earl broke in, giving Quatre a significant glance. "At any rate, this isn't the time and place to argue over technicalities. We're all hungry and desperate for breakfast, so let's get a move on here."
"Theodore," Lady Dummfied said, leaning over the table to catch his eye, but her host was now too absorbed in filling his plate with bacon.
She looked dumbfounded at being ignored, and she cast a stunned glance around the table and found that everyone else, including her daughter, had begun to have breakfast. Quatre didn't move a muscle as he watched her anxiously, waiting for her next move. She was obviously the sort with whom no one should dare trifle.
She finally gave up and with a helpless shrug, muttered, "No prayers, even. How can anyone begin a meal without prayers? Arabella would've kept everyone in line were she still here."
Quatre was sure that everyone heard her (especially since she muttered rather loudly) but chose to ignore her. And he assumed that Arabella was the late Lady Bethelford.
"As I was saying decades ago, Quatre," the earl suddenly piped up, "you look much improved. I assume you got rid of that ugly shirt you kept wearing?"
"Uh--no, sir…"
"It's 'my lord,' young man," Lady Dummfield hastily corrected, throwing him yet another severe glance. "Don't forget your place."
"I prefer 'sir,' as a matter of fact," the earl replied in a rather blasé tone. He seemed to be used to his guest's almost psychopathic adherence to niceties. "I don't like the sound of 'my lord.' It's almost like I'm a slave owner. I want it used sparingly."
"It's only proper, Theodore."
"Not in this household it isn't. So Quatre--where was I?"
"Um--you were talking about my horrible shirt, sir."
Catherine started snickering, bowing her head as she tried to spread some butter on her rolls. Trowa remained impassive and completely oblivious to what was going on around him.
"Oh, yes--have you burnt the nasty thing yet?"
"No, sir. Should I?"
"You should," the earl replied, waving his butter knife at him. The mischievous light in his eyes belied the fact that he was really enjoying himself this morning. "Bring it with you to the library before tea. You can torch it along with another book I found."
A collective gasp rose from all around, and Quatre sank down in his chair, mortified as hell. His eyes fell on his plate as his hands, functioning on automatic, began to fill it with rolls and whatever else he could grab nearby.
"You burnt a book, Dad?" Catherine breathed, shock just oozing from her words. "I can't believe you did that!"
"Theodore!" the viscountess cried, her voice increasing its grating quality several notches in intensity. "How could you?"
"Quatre showed me, if you want to know," the earl replied with a laugh as he took a huge bite of his bacon and followed that with some eggs.
"Quatre!" Catherine echoed.
"Oh, but it was brilliant!" her father broke in before anyone else could do anything. "Brilliant! Richardson went down in a blaze--literally! Ha-ha-ha-ha!"
The boy wanted to just die right then and there as silence filled the room at the discovery of whose work had fallen victim. Only the earl's amused snickering broke the tense stillness, and Quatre suddenly felt a light touch on his arm. He turned to find Gabriela looking at him in no small surprise, her blue eyes practically popping out of her head.
"You burnt Richardson, Quatre?" she whispered, almost in awe. "You really did?"
Now mortified to unbearable levels, he could only give her a barely perceptible nod and a shaky, whispered "Yes, I did."
"Dad," Catherine finally said, horror tingeing her voice. "Did you just say that you found another book to destroy?"
"Yes, my dear--I found Pamela, as a matter of fact, and I'll have to say that that book should've taken the same path as Clarissa a long time ago."
Lady Dummfield looked about ready to faint. She gazed at the earl in complete and utter shock, her severe features now exaggerating themselves to an almost surreal, distorted mask as she gaped and struggled to comprehend the abomination that was being so casually discussed in her presence.
"Pamela?" she finally cried out. "That book's a classic! That book's the epitome of feminine morality! How could you even consider doing such a thing to this book? It's--it's--it's sacrilege!"
She went on and on for a full minute, ranting about the misguidance of the younger generation, heartily chastising Quatre for encouraging such shameful behavior in his superiors, and bemoaning the need for more upright, virtuous souls to revive the old-fashioned notions of chivalry, and so on and so forth. She was, for the most part, embarking in a long-winded and rather pointless stream-of-consciousness soliloquy that soon didn't even have anything to do with the subject at hand.
She finally ran out of gas and sat, panting, her breakfast growing colder and colder by the second as it lay untouched before her. Her eyes, with furious sparks shooting out of them, scanned the table and rested on Quatre, mutely warning him of dire consequences if he even dared touch Richardson's book.
Everyone at the table knew better than to challenge her, especially now that she'd pretty much ruined breakfast for them. They all continued to eat, with Quatre keenly feeling his companions' moods as well as thoughts about him without their even having said a single word.
In the ensuing silence that followed and that lasted through the rest of the meal, the boy noted a sense of defiant amusement in the earl in the way he'd stifle an occasional snicker and shake his head at what obviously was his opinion of the viscountess. He also noted a degree of both surprise and eagerness in Catherine in the way she'd alternately raise her eyebrows at him and then flash him a broad, playful grin. He sensed an undercurrent of shock and awe in Gabriela as she'd throw him surreptitious, wide-eyed, inquiring glances. He knew of the growing disapproval the viscountess harbored toward him through the scowls and warning stares he received from her. And as for Trowa…
…he continued to ignore the boy, holding quiet, whispered conversations with Catherine every so often. Not once did his eyes wander in Quatre's direction. Not once did he acknowledge or respond to a request the boy would make to pass the bread basket or the ham plate or whatnot.
All through breakfast, Quatre simply didn't exist to him.
**********
The morning came and went. Lunch followed in its heels. Then came the early afternoon, which saw the three women gather in the drawing-room for some old-fashioned female bonding. Quatre felt a little sorry for Catherine, who was likely going to be stifled like hell in the company of her two stiff guests. He'd already caught a weary expression cross her face when Lady Dummfield called her over to join her and Gabriela. He'd also heard her respond a touch lifelessly as she dragged her feet over to their side.
The earl had shut himself away as usual, firmly reminding Quatre to keep Trowa company. And it was with a loudly and erratically beating heart that the boy traced his young master's whereabouts, finding him at last in one of the lesser-used sitting-rooms near the rear of the house.
Quatre stood by the door, swallowing hard, before finding the courage to knock lightly on the dark, heavy wood. He waited and held his breath until the door was opened, and he was soon staring dead-on at Trowa, who looked back in some surprise.
A tense moment of silence followed. How does one proceed from there? With Trowa obviously still smarting from the callousness with which Quatre had treated him the previous night, the boy simply didn't know how to get things rolling for them.
He was, after all, trying to do a job, wasn't he?
"Is there anything you need, Quatre?" Trowa finally asked. He still seemed more distant and cold even though he'd placed the question gently to the flustered boy.
Do it, you fool! Do it! You owe him an apology! Quatre screamed at himself. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, planting his hands in his trouser pockets for security. Then he cleared his throat.
"Uh--is there anything in particular that you wanted us to do today?"
That wasn't exactly what he had in mind.
Trowa regarded him in silence for a few seconds. He was completely unreadable. "I'm sorry, Quatre," he finally replied. "But I'm going out with Gabriela this afternoon--well--once she's done with whatever she's doing with Catherine and Lady Dummfield."
Quatre felt himself gutted again. "Oh, that's all right," he said in an obviously forced cheerful note. "Of course--I understand. Well--I hope you have a good time doing--uh--whatever it is you're planning on doing."
Offering Trowa a painful smile, he turned around and walked off. And when he rounded the corner and made sure that the coast was clear, he leaned against the wall, striking his head repeatedly against it as he spat out self-directed abuses.
"You were supposed to apologize, you idiot," he hissed as he stared helplessly at the ceiling. "Now he's walking around thinking you're the biggest bastard ever to be born." He sighed heavily as he looked down at his shoes. "You've hurt him, and now you're going around acting like nothing happened. Why would he even bother giving you the time of day after this?"
"Quatre."
The boy jumped at the sound. He quickly turned around and found Trowa standing a few feet away, regarding him curiously and with a touch of concern.
"I keep frightening you, don't I?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowing.
"No, no," the boy stammered, listening to his heart hammer loudly in his chest. "I was just off in my own world. I didn't hear you come."
Trowa hesitated. "Are you sure? I mean--you don't look too well."
"I'm sure. Um--thank you."
The young lord nodded though he still looked a little uncertain. "I forgot to ask you--would you like to join me in the parlor tonight? After dinner?"
"To talk?"
"Yes, that--and--well--I've got something I want to show you."
Quatre blinked.
"Is that a problem?"
"No," he quickly blurted out, feeling the heat in his face rise up in intensity. "No, of course not. What is it?"
"I'll show you," Trowa simply replied with a small, cryptic smile. "Just wait till then."
The young man was gone before his words could fully sink in Quatre's muddled mind.
**********
The family decided to have dinner out. They were pretty much forced by Lady Dummfield to spend the early evening mingling with an old friend of hers who lived at a nearby estate and who was a not-too-close acquaintance of the Barton family. Promises of card-games, impromptu dancing, and a sumptuous dinner feast were used as baits and were really flatly rejected, but she would've hounded them mercilessly had they adamantly refused. After the preliminary 'No,' she worked her magic on them--that is, she irritated them to hell--and persuaded them to sacrifice if only one night to mingle with one of their neighbors. And if she weren't such a long-standing friend of the family's, she would've been thrown out, bags and all, on her face.
Quatre therefore was free to join the servants for dinner, feeling some relief at the familiar company and surroundings. And to their great credit, no one once badgered him about his new position or about being "elevated" above everyone else.
He stayed in his room afterwards, waiting for the family to return and to settle in. And after what seemed like an eternity, he heard Dorcas being summoned to help the ladies to bed, and he knew that Trowa would be waiting for him at the parlor.
He hurried out the room, making sure to check himself in the mirror if only for a second or two, chuckling quietly at his own vanity. The dimly-lit hallways led him to the parlor. He knocked lightly and was invited to enter.
The parlor was warm, the entire room softly lit up and made cozy by the fireplace. None of the candles were lit. The Christmas tree stood in all its glory, the tinsel and glass ornaments catching and reflecting the light, serving almost as earthbound stars as they sparkled softly in the dimness.
Trowa was sitting on the floor beside the fire, and he was hunched over something. He looked up, locked eyes with Quatre, and with a small smile, waved him over.
"How's your wreath going, Quatre?" he asked even before the boy could cross his legs under him and sit down.
"I've pretty much given up on it," Quatre replied, a little surprised. He'd completely forgotten about his little project, after all, and it had been sitting in a forlorn heap on his table in his bedroom.
"I remember that you were having problems with it."
The boy colored, grateful that the dimness would hide his blush even if just a little. "I wasn't having a good night then." It was the night, he recalled, of the party--right after he'd gone through hell over how he felt for Trowa.
"Well--how about this?"
The young man handed him a wreath that was made purely of ivy. Quatre took it from him, gazing at it in amazement, feeling some wonder set in at how dramatic ivy could look as an ornament.
He raised his eyes at Trowa, who was now watching him closely. "What's this? Did you buy it somewhere?"
"No," his companion laughed, looking embarrassed. "I put it together myself."
Quatre gaped at him. "But--how? I mean--where did you--you mean to tell me you used the ivy outside…" he sputtered and failed to continue and simply waved his hand in the general direction of the door.
"Yesterday--when Catherine and I went out riding. We ended up at Siddell…"
"Oh--the Christmas fair?"
Trowa's smile broadened a little at the brief interruption. "Yes, the Christmas fair. I found a booth that carried a bunch of things you can use for putting together decorations with and--well--I thought of you, and--here you are."
"This is for me…"
"Sure. Why not?"
Quatre looked at him, feeling himself melt under Trowa's stare and hating himself for being a complete git (as the earl would likely call someone behaving that way). It was excruciating, this feeling--of knowing how much he felt for Trowa, of having him so close, of realizing that he was meant for someone else.
"What?"
The boy snapped out of his daze, his eyes widening. "What?"
"Well--what do you think of it? I put it together--with Catherine's help, of course, since she's done this sort of thing before."
"I think it's beautiful."
"Really? Well, that's a relief. I didn't think you'd go for ivy as a base for a wreath."
"Ivy's just as good as anything, I think."
Trowa looked back down on the wreath, shaking his head and letting out a low chuckle. "I'm surprised you think it's beautiful considering it doesn't have anything on it yet." Then he looked up, his eyes mirroring the soft glow of the nearby fire. "It needs something, don't you think? Like pine cones? Berries? Fruit? Holly?"
He went on and on, giving the boy a seemingly unending list of suggested embellishments for his "plain" ivy wreath. Quatre, in the meantime, barely listened. He was much too entranced by his companion's presence before him as well as much too overwhelmed by the realization of how far gone he was with him. As Trowa spoke, everything about him seemed to become magnified beyond reality, beyond reason. He became the epitome of all that Quatre had held sacred and had wanted in his life.
The boy knew he was lost--completely, unarguably--perhaps forever. His mind barely registered Trowa's words as the latter continued to speak. And when he'd done, Quatre raised himself up a little, and, almost as though he were watching himself through a soft mist, he found himself leaning forward and kissing Trowa squarely on the lips, feeling his face burn at the touch and the taste and especially at the young man's gentle reciprocation.
He pulled away after a brief, painful moment. And, resting his forehead against Trowa's, he smiled sadly.
"I love you," he said, his voice barely heard even in the silence of the room.