The two were barely out of the servants' side of the house when a rather miffed Catherine accosted them.
"Trowa," she said with a glower, "we've got a problem. The guests--oh--hello."
She'd just spotted Quatre, who stood behind her brother, watching her with some interest. She immediately walked around Trowa and stood before the boy, looking down at him curiously. "You must be Quatre," she said.
"How do you do?" he replied, and before he could bow before her, she quickly stuck her hand out to him.
"No bows, no curtsies," she said with a broad grin. "Just a simple handshake would do, Quatre."
He took her hand with some hesitation. Formalities seemed to be an alien concept to this family.
"I'd like to get to know you better," Catherine chirped as she shook his hand vigorously, startling him a little. "But right now, we've got a problem."
"What's wrong?" Trowa asked.
"They all want a dance."
Her brother blinked. "A dance?"
"Yes, and they're pretty insistent on it, too. Trowa, let's just give them what they want and get them out of here. They're driving me crazy."
"Well--where can we have it? None of the rooms are large enough except for…"
"Dad gave me the key to the ballroom," Catherine cut in with a withered look as she held up the massive antique key. "He wants them all to get what they want and leave him in peace. Now they're pushing me to find you and get everyone assembled."
"They harassed Dad for it?"
"Indirectly, yes. Jane and Lydia were practically groveling in front of their dad to get our dad to give in. It's bloody annoying."
"Since it looks as though things are already in order, what's the problem then?"
"No band, no musicians, no instrumentalists…"
"Oh, come on--I'm sure there's someone there who's willing to play for the group."
"Nope. Uh-uh. Not one of them wants to be sitting at the piano while everyone else has some fun. They've all paired up, and no one's left. And no one wants to give up her spot to play music or even rotate with the others after each song."
"You're kidding."
"I wish I were, Tro. But they're pretty damn stubborn, and they're all acting like overdressed babies."
"What about your friends?"
"They refuse. Dances are below them," Catherine replied dryly, rolling her eyes. "They've barricaded themselves in the sitting-room. Tro, you know how they can't stand the others."
Trowa ran his hand through his hair. "This is ridiculous," he said wearily. "Well--let's head on down. I'm sure we'll find someone. Where'd my friends go?"
"Search me. The minute they heard the word 'dance,' they were off like the wind, too. And I haven't a clue where they hid themselves."
Trowa sighed. "Fine then. Let's have a dance. There's no help for it once these people decide on something."
The three then hurried down the hallway toward the ballroom, which was situated at some distance from the main parlor near the manor's east wing. The double doors were thrown wide open, and Dorcas and Angus were flying in and out, frantically doing some touch-up cleaning in the rarely used room. Both of them looked about ready to shoot someone.
Seeing this, Quatre sidestepped his companions and darted forward, planting himself before Dorcas and offering his assistance in anything.
"Here," she said, shoving a handful of match boxes in his hands. "Light the candles. Then uncover the piano and see if it needs some more dusting."
The boy immediately set to work. And as he passed his companions on his way in the ballroom, he noted Trowa watching him in surprise, and judging from the shift in his expression, his young master was about to protest, but he ignored him. He was still a servant, after all. He had a job to do.
Excited guests began to crowd nearby, eagerly awaiting the ballroom's preparation, and Trowa was obliged to join his sister in entertaining them while they hovered. The room was ready within minutes, and the young people poured in happily.
There was still the matter of the invisible piano player with which to be dealt, and it seemed to take forever for this to be settled. To be sure, no one--absolutely no one--wanted to play for the group, being adamant at dancing every number with her chosen partner until it was time to go. The young ladies, being high-born and therefore well-trained in the arts, were all natural candidates for the job, but every single one stubbornly refused, clinging all the more to her partner as though for protection. There were no older or unpartnered women present to whom they could appeal, and Catherine, although she'd stepped forward for the purpose, was firmly refused the job. She was, after all, the hostess, and although she laughed off the formalities in this case, people still kept her back.
Nerves were starting to get frayed and tempers grew shorter, and still no sign of relief was in sight.
Quatre watched all this with some concern--not so much for the guests' sake, but for his master's. The last thing he wanted was for a long-anticipated event like this party to go sour over a frivolity such as a spontaneous dance. He looked in the young lord's direction and saw him engaged in one serious conversation after another as he approached certain young ladies in the room, no doubt appealing to them to play for the group. And every fretful negative he got was received with a frown that grew darker every minute.
"Oh, I do hope someone would just give in and do it," a girl whined nearby, stamping her foot. "Tonight's the perfect night for a little holiday dance, and no one's cooperating."
"Humph. Some party," another grumbled. "Why they didn't even think of hiring musicians is beyond me. You'd expect a host to do something so simple as that for a silly little party. Did they think that guests would just eat and run? How ridiculous!"
"They just don't know how to do things."
Quatre held off for another minute, listening to whispered complaints from fidgety and self-absorbed guests nearby, before deciding to do something about it. He hurried over to Trowa, who at this point had made the entire circuit around the room with absolutely no luck in finding someone.
"Sir--Trowa--may I have a word, please?" the boy asked as he sidled up to him.
"Not now, Quatre," came the impatient reply. "I'm a little busy."
"No, you don't understand. I can do it."
"What? What are you talking about?"
"I can play--if you'll let me."
Trowa stopped and turned to stare at the boy. A host of perplexed expressions crossed his face, causing his companion to stifle an amused grin. "You want to play?"
"I do." Quatre almost added "I'll do it for you" but wisely checked himself.
Trowa excused himself from the company of the young lady with whom he was talking at the moment and, taking Quatre gently by the arm, he led the boy out onto the now deserted hallway.
"Quatre," he began, lowering his voice despite the privacy they had, "you know it isn't something a boy does."
Quatre blinked but managed to keep his humor. "What does it matter? So long as someone's playing music, things should be fine."
Trowa still looked uncertain. A thought then struck the boy, and his smile slowly faded as visions of his own irate father dragging him away from the harpsichord flashed before him. "Unless you're afraid that I'll embarrass you," he said, flushing.
It was Trowa's turn to blink. Then a smile grew, broadening into a grin and quickly erupting into laughter. "Quatre, I don't give a damn what anyone thinks of me," he said, his shoulders shaking as his laughter slowly died off. "As a matter of fact, I know that half the people in the ballroom right now hates my guts, and the other half thinks I'm no better than a mummy in a fancy suit. And it doesn't bother me one bit. Do you think having a boy at the piano during a dance would kill me?"
"Then what's the problem?"
"William and his friends. Quatre, I'm worried about what they'll say to you. After what happened earlier, I expect them to do just about anything once they see you playing in there."
"But I don't care. Really."
"I hate to see you get hurt."
"I can handle it."
Trowa bit his lip, frowning at the boy. "I don't know…"
"I thought you wanted to get rid of your guests. You can't do that if we stayed out here arguing over this. And you can't order me not to play, either. I answer to His Lordship, and he wants the guests to be happy."
"You've gotten this little spiel of yours planned out, haven't you?"
Quatre grinned and shrugged without responding.
Trowa was also smiling at this point. Then he shook his head with a small sigh. "How can I argue with you, Quatre? All right then. But promise me you'll let me know the moment something happens. Promise me."
"I promise."
Another amused shake of the head from his young lord, and Quatre was soon walking back to the ballroom. Along the way, he confessed to knowing only three pieces of music suitable for informal dances, and Trowa assured him that they were enough, reminding him that they didn't want to keep anybody any longer than what was necessary. They parted ways at the door, with Quatre hurrying over to the waiting piano in the corner and Trowa striding to the center of the room, drawing everyone's attention with a loud announcement regarding the music.
People, naturally, looked absolutely amazed at the notion that a boy was going to play for them, but Trowa firmly (and rather irritably) noted that as no one was willing to do it, he was obliged to ask for Quatre's help in this.
"Well, at least we've got our music," Catherine said with a reassuring smile thrown in the boy's direction. "We ought to be grateful to Quatre for being such a good sport for our benefit."
That seemed to work. People quickly forgot the strange set up--then again, they were finally about to have their dance, and none complained. Within seconds after Catherine spoke, the guests took their places, beaming with anticipation. Quatre waited until everyone had settled down, and once the hubbub died away, he struck the first notes of a lively waltz, sending a wave of cheers through the pumped-up crowd.
Young gentlemen and young ladies twirled around in each other's arms, buoyed by Quatre's music, laughing and talking and squealing as they made their dizzying circuit around the room. Quatre himself, though at first a little stiff from anxiety regarding taunts he might endure from the guests, quickly relaxed. The heady mixture of laughter, movement, music, and the holiday air possessed him, and he threw himself into his playing with all his energy. The music grew louder, more passionate. And the guests fed off its magic and swirled before him in a flurry of color and silk.
He tried, whenever he could, to find Trowa, but with the number of people in the room as well as all of the moving that was going on, he never got so much as a glimpse. He knew that the young lord never left the room since his friends had joined the dancing, anyway, despite their intellectual aversion to the idea.
"Ah, hell, why not?" one of them was heard to say. "It's Christmas. Besides, I'm all talked out."
Quatre repeated the waltz and gave the dancers a fairly lengthy amount of time to catch their breath once it was over. He sat patiently at the piano as he watched everyone chatter happily and get their bearings together for the next number. They soon took their places once more, and Quatre indulged them with the rousing and crowd-pleasing strains of the "Sir Roger de Coverley." Another cheer went through the dancers, and the boy couldn't help but laugh in delight at the sight of young people advancing and retiring and then weaving through lines of other dancers, their faces glowing in the golden candlelight that illuminated the room.
Quatre managed to spot Trowa during this dance, his face aglow like the rest, his eyes sparkling as he laughed along with the others. He'd paired off with a young lady, who was a friend of Catherine's. This fact, however, didn't serve to alleviate the tiniest pang that hit Quatre's gut as he watched them.
It was a pang of--what--jealousy?
He was certainly thankful that he had to focus on playing the piano. It forced him to limit those stolen glances and by extension his growing discomfort. All the same, he almost felt a masochistic need to watch the object of his now growing affection dance with someone else, compounding his misery further.
Despite all that, however, he managed to keep the rhythm of the music as lively as it could ever be played, therefore maintaining the general mood and energy of the dancers. The song ended--a little too soon to the dancers, but certainly not soon enough to the despondent boy. As before, he sat patiently waiting for people to catch their breath, mingle a little, and relax before the next and final number.
His eyes scanned the crowd in the meantime, searching tirelessly for Trowa. He found him chatting, standing across the room with some of his friends as well as some of Catherine's, and he felt his spirits fall.
He deserves the best, he thought. I hope whoever ends up with him makes him happy.
He didn't know how long he was staring, having lost himself in his thoughts for some time. But the next thing he knew, Trowa was staring at him as well while his companions chatted on, snapping Quatre back to the present. He immediately tore his eyes away and looked back down on the piano's ivory keys, feeling his face burn.
He couldn't bear to raise his eyes for the next several moments, listening instead for people to get ready for the final number. And once the dancers fell into an excited hush, he practically threw himself against the piano keys as he played the opening lines of a lively polka.
Maybe it was because of his mortification. Maybe it was because of his growing misery. Maybe it was simply sheer exhaustion. At any rate, Quatre found himself playing the music to a time that was a touch faster than the two-fourths signature that characterized a polka. It was certainly more than a lively number, but the dancers were up to the challenge. Laughing and shrieking as they went around the room with almost manic energy, they took to the faster-than-usual pace quite well. And it was no small wonder that none of them tripped on anything or slammed against other dancers from their exertions.
And despite his best efforts to curb his tendencies, Quatre often looked up from the piano to watch Trowa dance. His young master danced to about half the song, begging off afterwards. His partner seemed a good enough sport and obliged him, cheerfully tripping off to find refreshments. From there on, Trowa was free to simply watch the dancers--as well as Quatre.
The boy caught him looking directly at him almost every time he raised his eyes, whether willfully or instinctively. At first Quatre thought that Trowa might want to talk to him and even waited with bated breath for the young lord to find his way to the piano, but he never did. He simply stood in one spot, leaning against the wall, his face flushed and his eyes brilliant from the activity, watching the boy with a thoughtful smile playing up his face. And the most maddening bit about this was that he never seemed to mind that Quatre had caught him several times. He continued to look with an air of self-assurance and curiosity, only to avert his eyes whenever someone would engage his attention.
It was certainly a far cry from the awkwardness with which they'd made each other's acquaintance earlier that day. Maybe Trowa was getting more and more comfortable with him. Or maybe he was bolder from the energy that pervaded the room at the moment. Whatever the reason was, Trowa's inexplicable interest was making the boy uncomfortable and more and more self-conscious. He could barely keep his mind on his task, and as his fingers deftly flew over the keyboard, he hoped and prayed that the song would end soon so that he could make a hasty retreat back to the kitchen.
Time seemed to stretch forever, but the end came eventually. Quatre banged on the final notes, signaling the dance's conclusion. The dancers cheered and gushed over the fun evening they'd had, and Quatre took this opportunity to make himself scarce. He immediately jumped up from the bench and hurried over to the door, accidentally bumping someone's shoulder along the way.
He gave a quick apology and was rewarded with a muttered "Like hell you're sorry. Little freak. Only girls play the piano."
He raised his eyes and barely caught a glimpse of William walking off with a sidelong glance and a sneer.
**********
It was about two in the morning, and Quatre was still awake, lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling. He couldn't sleep, and he'd been tossing and turning under the covers for the last three hours.
He felt his insides being eaten up, and try as he might, he couldn't get himself to overcome all the apprehension and confusion that were plaguing him for some time. Finally he sighed, turning his head and letting his eyes rest on the half-finished wreath on a nearby table.
"I suppose I could work a little more on that," he said and raised himself up.
He picked up his tunic that lay neatly folded on a stool, put it on, and then staggered over to the table for the wreath. Dorcas had told everyone that all the necessary materials needed for their Christmas decorations would be found in a basket tucked safely away in one of the cupboards in the mess hall. Quatre took his candle and tiptoed through the darkened and silent hallway toward the kitchen, lighting several more candles once he got there.
He found the basket and pulled it out and went about heating up water for tea. He felt the full brunt of physical exhaustion set in, and he could barely manage to stumble back to the stool where his work awaited him. His mind, however, wasn't as merciful as he wanted it to be.
He tried to work on something that had always given him so much joy and peace, but he didn't find it to be true this time. He either fell into a stupor of sorts, staring in silence at the wreath before him, his mind wandering in every and all directions--or he fussed endlessly over the tiniest and most unnecessary details possible. He'd put some gold-dusted fruit or a poinsettia or two on the wreath, painstakingly rearranging every leaf, flower, or berry as he did--only to pick the whole thing apart with an irritated huff.
He simply couldn't focus, and it was driving him mad.
"Damn it!" he finally cried as he tore off a little holly bough and hurled the wreath clear across the room…
…narrowly missing Trowa's head as the young man walked through the open door.
"Whoa," he said in surprise, his eyes following the festive projectile as it smashed against the wall just two feet from where he stood. Then he stooped down and picked it up, looking at it in silence for a little bit before walking over to the table.
"What's the matter?" he asked, pulling out a stool and sitting down. "Your wreath not going together the way you wanted?"
"No, no," the boy stammered as he took the wreath from Trowa's hand. "I'm just tired."
His companion nodded. "Can't sleep, can you?"
"No."
An awkward pause followed as Quatre bent over his work, determined not to make eye contact at all with his young master. And it turned out to be the most damnably frustrating thing he could ever do. His discomfort, goaded on by his now heightened awareness of his feelings for Trowa, was growing intolerable. He wished his companion would just leave and give him some peace of mind.
"Are you making tea?"
"I am. Would you like some?" he replied, still not looking up.
"I can get it, thanks."
"All right."
Another moment of silence. Quatre couldn't imagine what was going on through Trowa's mind right now. His companion seemed to have reverted to his more withdrawn state now that the party was over. But it didn't matter to the boy. The less they had to talk about, the better. It would be a godsend to him, as a matter of fact. No conversation meant he didn't have to look at Trowa, and he didn't have to--well--bond with him. The idea itself was utterly ridiculous and wholly inappropriate for someone in his position, after all.
"I've been meaning to tell you that I thought you played very well tonight," Trowa finally said, breaking up the deafening silence.
Quatre shrugged, his eyes still glued to his work. "I enjoy playing music. That's all."
"People were impressed, too…"
"Not everybody," the boy cut in. "William told me how he thought about the whole thing."
"I hope you didn't listen to that blockhead."
"I couldn't help but listen to him, Trowa. He was only a foot away from me."
Trowa cleared his throat after another minute of silence followed Quatre's rather abrupt and dry response. "Is anything wrong, Quatre?" he asked, a hint of unease in his voice that made the boy look up.
Quatre stared at him, feeling that pang in his gut again as he did. "No, nothing's wrong. Why?"
"Well--you seem a little distant."
"I'm just tired. I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't even be here right now."
Trowa looked away, biting his lip as he mulled something over. Then, without looking back at his companion, he said, "I'm going off for a ride tomorrow. I'd really like it if you'd join me."
Quatre shook his head. "I've got too many chores to do tomorrow. And I don't think Dorcas would let me, anyway…"
"I'll talk to Dorcas then."
"I don't think it's a good idea."
"Why not? She works for my dad, doesn't she? Aren't I entitled to make this…"
Quatre fumbled some more. "The chores--I'm just thinking about…"
"Damn those chores!" Trowa suddenly blurted out, startling the boy. His eyes fell on Quatre, a look of annoyance flashing from them. "What's the matter? Do you think you aren't allowed to enjoy yourself around here every once in a while?"
The boy fell silent. He watched Trowa's expression change to one of confusion. "It's not that, is it?" the young man asked, his voice falling. "Does my presence offend you, Quatre? Did I do something wrong--or say something wrong?"
"No, no, you didn't," the boy quickly replied, feeling a wave of remorse sweep over him. "Really--I'm just--I'm just tired. You didn't do anything, I swear."
Trowa nodded, still looking puzzled, even a tad hurt. "Well--I shouldn't keep you up then," he said as he stood up. "Just let me know in the morning what you've decided on. Good night."
Quatre watched him hurry to the door and disappear, realizing that he shouldn't stay any longer. The party was over, after all, and there was no reason for Dorcas to keep him.
There was no reason for him to stay.