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The Twelve Days of Quatre	By : presserkun Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male > Trowa/Quatre Views: 752 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or its characters. This work of fiction is written and shared freely without any attempt to profit financially from it.

Chapter List
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Wednesday, December 22, AC 202

Trowa blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the semi-darkness of the indoor pool room. What light there was seemed to undulate in the air. He looked up. The ceiling was dotted with tiny white lights winking like stars.

"Follow me."

Quatre led Trowa directly across the pool, which was covered with interlocking slabs of polished pine flooring used to transform the space into a ballroom. Against the far wall stood a softly lit stage. To the left sat a chamber ensemble of twenty players. Directly in front of the stage were two chairs, comfortably padded like those found in upscale movie theaters. In before these was a long table skirted in holiday colors and decked in silver garland and golden globe ornaments; between the chairs stood a small end table. As they neared the seats, the orchestra conductor quieted her players.

"Quatre..."

"Shh." He put an index finger to his lips. "The show's about to start."

Trowa lowered his voice to a whisper.

"You said there'd be at least sixty people here."

Quatre motioned Trowa toward one of the seats.

"Who says there won't be?" he said as he sat beside his life partner.

The orchestra conductor nodded to the concertmaster, who in turn tipped his bow to the oboist. A clear A-natural sounded, and the ritual tuning of instruments commenced.

"Well," Trowa said, "you've certainly thrown me for a loop. I'm completely at sea."

"Good," Quatre whispered with a devilish grin.

The orchestra fell silent. The lights faded to black.

Violinists touched bows to strings, and the ethereal sound of a single pitch, high and lonely, sang through the darkness. Other instruments joined, moved to different pitches, and harmony bloomed, growing thicker, richer, more complex.

A soft blue spot appeared center stage. Trowa turned his head the slightest bit to glance at Quatre, whose eyes shone above lips parted in a smile of anticipation.

Brass and percussion entered, and the music swelled toward a climax.

The spot moved stage left to capture the entrance of the first performer, and Trowa's mouth fell open under eyes wide in astonishment as Dorothy Catalonia stepped from the wings. She wore a blood-red, floor-length sequined gown that glittered with purple sparks in the gentle blue light. Her long blonde hair was done up in an intricate arrangement with a large diamond centered above her forehead. She moved gracefully to center stage, reaching her mark just as the orchestra sounded a dramatic chord.

"Perfect," Quatre said under his breath. "Just like we rehearsed it."

The conductor gave a cutoff, and there was a suspense-filled moment of silence. Suddenly the percussionist struck one of the timpani hard, then immediately dropped the drum roll volume almost to nothing. Dorothy spoke in a clear, rich voice amplified by her wireless headset.

"Trowa Barton, tonight is a special night. Christmas comes in three short days, but for you, it comes early. Your life partner, Quatre Reberba Winner, has prepared an evening like no other expressly for you. Our job is to entertain you; your job is to sit back, relax, and enjoy a Christmas gift unique among all you've ever received."

Quatre looked at Trowa, who sat ramrod straight, his shoulders a full six centimeters from the back of his chair. He put a hand on Trowa's arm, which startled him. Quatre giggled and said, "Will you relax? Just let go and enjoy."

Trowa took a breath and willed himself to release the tension in his shoulders. He leaned back, but slowly.

The timpani roll grew, and the orchestra began the introduction to a song. As soon as Trowa recognized the tune, he lurched forward, turned to face Quatre, and said,

"No. Tell me you're not doing this."

Before Quatre could answer, the intro finished and Dorothy began singing.

"On the first day of Christmas my true love sent to me a condom in a jock strap."

The moment Dorothy finished her phrase, a young boy dressed in a French maid's outfit entered stage right and hurried down the steps to floor level as the orchestra played a short interlude. He walked briskly to the table in front of Trowa and Quatre, a square pillow with long tassels at each corner in his hands. On it was a jock strap and condom. He put the pillow on the table, placed the gifts of the first day in front of Trowa, and curtsied, his face red. He put the pillow under his arm and quickly returned to the stage, disappearing behind the curtain stage right just as the second verse began.

Quatre beamed at Trowa, whose face was as red as the young boy-maid's. Dorothy sang.

"On the second day of Christmas my true love sent to me two lace panties and a condom in a jock strap."

On the first beat of the interlude, the first boy-maid appeared stage right again, this time accompanied by another dressed in the same outfit. Each held a tasseled pillow. They hurried to Trowa and presented him with two pairs of lace panties along with another condom and jock strap. They curtsied and returned to the stage. As Dorothy began the third verse, Trowa bowed his head and rubbed his temples with the thumb and forefinger of one hand.

"On the third day of Christmas my true love sent to me three French ticklers, two lace panties, and a condom in a jock strap."

Three boy-maids with three pillows hurried to the table, deposited the third verse gifts in front of Trowa, and returned to disappear stage right.

Trowa looked at Quatre. He was beaming with delight over how well the show was going. As four boy-maids turned from piling yaoi mangas, French ticklers, lace panties, condoms, and jock straps in front of him, he said,

"They look awfully young."

"Don't worry," Quatre whispered. "They're all legal."

Five boy-maids brought five sets of gifts. Trowa had to push the growing stack of sex paraphernalia to the side to see the action on stage. As he did, a few manga and panties fell to the floor.

"Is all this in addition to the collection I have at home?"

"Of course," Quatre said. "I wasn't about to bring what you've got there. They've been unwrapped. What kind of a show would this be if we used those?"

We? Trowa thought as he rolled his eyes.

He sighed loudly, leaned back, and crossed his feet under the table. He decided that there was no point in further protestations or embarrassment. As he laced his fingers together behind his head, Quatre said,

"Good. You're finally getting into the spirit of this."

Trowa threw a sidelong glance at his lover and cocked one eyebrow.

"Why not," he muttered soto voce. "Not much I can do to stop it."

As Dorothy sang verse six, Trowa sat up again.

"Quatre," he said warily, "you didn't buy six more geese, did you?"

His lover laughed.

"I doubt I could have. Gay ganders are rare, you know. I had Jared swing by your place and collect them."

Six boy-maids entered, three stage left, three stage right. Each had a gander on a leash. They led their charges to center stage and unhooked them. They honked and flapped wings as they paraded around Dorothy, flustered by the music, bright lights, and strange surroundings. Eventually Alex found Sasha, George found Percy, and Casey found Connor.

Trowa was so stunned by this that he didn't realize Dorothy had sung verse seven until Quatre elbowed him. On the end table between them were two martini glasses containing freshly made Pink Flamingos. He turned around to see Anthony in formal dress, a towel over his arm, standing behind him. Next to him was a portable bar discreetly rolled in while the geese were brought on stage.

Anthony bowed.

Trowa's mouth dropped open.

"Well," Quatre said, "go on, go on. Only this time I'm going to have one, too."

Quatre picked up a drink and held it out. After a moment, Trowa took the other. He blinked.

Quatre clinked his glass against Trowa's and said,

"Here's to an evening you'll never forget."

Maybe, Trowa thought, I will if I have enough of these.

Quatre sipped.

Trowa downed his in one go and turned to Anthony, who refilled his glass.

"Now," Quatre said, "we're finally getting to the last five gifts, the ones you don't know about."

He wiggled in his seat, unable to contain his excitement.

Half of Trowa's second drink was gone. He finished it with a second swallow and smiled. Anthony's hand appeared to take the glass from him and replace it with a third he had poured in anticipation.

Trowa raised his glass and smiled broadly at Quatre.

"Bring it on," he said. "Nothing you can do after this will surprise me."

Quatre's grin was as wide as possible.

"We'll see about that."

Trowa leaned back in his seat and saw that Dorothy had exited. The six boy-maids led his ganders to an open pen that had been assembled in front of the stage.

The orchestra began a new arrangement of "The Twelve Days of Christmas," each verse in a different style, shifting from pop to rock to alternative country, from classic jazz to hip hop and more.

"Things get special from verse eight on," Quatre said.

"You're going to top this?"

Quatre burst out laughing.

"That's absolutely perfect, Trowa."

He gleefully clapped his hands.

Suddenly Dorothy was directly in front of Trowa. The music slowed and softened. A boy-maid pushed the pile of condoms, panties, and manga out of the way to clear a spot for Dorothy, who sat a hip on the table. She leaned down to Trowa and put an index finger under his chin. She sang slowly and seductively.

"On the eighth day of Christmas my true love sent to me eight boy-maids milking."

She held the last syllable for a long time. When she released the note, she lowered her finger and stood.

Trowa took a sip of his fourth Pink Flamingo as the curtains at the back of the stage parted to reveal eight young boys in French maid costumes. Four were in doggy position, knees straddling a partner on his back with his head up the skirt of the boy above him.

Trowa sprayed a mouthful of liquor which Dorothy managed to sidestep.

"Don't worry," Quatre said. "They're not really doing it."

Trowa sat with his mouth open, utterly speechless.

Dorothy sang slowly over a suspended chord from the orchestra.

"On the ninth day of Christmas my true love sent to me nine drag queens dancing."

The orchestra stopped, then jumped into an urban dance beat version of "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" as nine drag queens entered in single file from behind the ensemble, each with a wireless mic, hamming it to the hilt as they moved to form a semi-circle in front of Trowa and Quatre. They did one verse and chorus and then split to form two rows. Each raised a hand in showgirl fashion as the music morphed. Dorothy moved to stand at the end of the open column, directly in front of Trowa, and sang.

"On the tenth day of Christmas my true love sent to me ten lords a-leaping."

A wild Scottish dance leapt from the orchestra.

The drag queens moved to the front of the stage and pantomimed singing along.

The eight boy-maids stood and scattered as ten young men in kilts ran onto the stage and began fake shagging, some in pairs, some in threesomes.

The orchestra dropped the volume and Dorothy sang verse eleven that somehow weirdly fit with the Gaelic punk beat.

"On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me eleven shotas shagging."

The music continued unabated as eleven boys wearing only red silk short shorts and bright green thigh-high stockings joined the ten kilted men on stage. They, too, began faking sexual intercourse.

"Oh, god," Trowa said to no one in particular, "these're can't be eighteen."

He turned to Quatre.

"Ur you serus?"

"They're not really doing anything, so it's not a problem. Besides, it's all just for fun."

Trowa slumped into his seat, slid his butt forward, and put out his hand.

"Anthy..."

#

Trowa cautiously opened his eyes. He could tell the light sneaking between the sheets and the pillow over his head was bright, so he assumed it was midday. He slid a hand from under the covers and grabbed the pillow. As he pulled it away, he scrunched his eyes against the light.

He lifted his head and immediately lowered it. Blood vessels too narrow for all the alcohol still in his system pounded.

He opened his mouth. Sticky lips parted unwillingly.

He raised his head again, very slowly.

He gingerly pushed up, brought his legs under him and crossed them to sit up. He weaved from side to side.

"There you are."

Trowa looked around. He saw that he was in Quatre's master bedroom. His lover was at the credenza across the room. He swiveled his chair to face Trowa.

"You okay?"

Trowa blinked.

"My hair hurts."

Pause.

"But, yeah, I'm okay. Or will be eventually."

Quatre smiled sweetly.

"So, did you enjoy it?"

Trowa blinked again. He started to say Enjoy what? then remembered.

"Last night?"

"Of course last night, silly."

"Yeah."

"You don't sound too enthusiastic."

Trowa smacked his lips and yawned.

"Well, I don't exactly remember all of it."

"I think," Quatre said, "you made it almost to the end. What's the last thing you remember?"

Trowa thought back to the show in the pool room.

"I remember the pile of panties and condoms. And the orchestra. And Dorothy singing to me."

He took a breath and puffed it out.

"Anthony. Being horribly embarrassed, then stunned, then deciding to finally take your advice and just enjoy the show."

Quatre smiled again.

"Let's see. After the geese, there were the last five days of gifts that I didn't know about before the -- before the --"

"I think maybe extravaganza is a good word."

Trowa raised an eyebrow and grinned crookedly.

"Yeah, yeah. There were boys in French maid outfits, and drag queens, and Scottish boys in kilts, younger boys in red shorts -- those just about did me in."

"You were on your fifth Pink Flamingo by then."

"And we both know what those do to me now."

Quatre giggled.

"That was which one? Eleven?"

"Uh huh."

"So the last one is the only one I don't remember."

"I tried to help you focus." Quatre pushed away from the credenza and scooted toward the bed, using his heels to help pull him forward.

"But you got hot and started undressing. That's another thing we know now about you and alcohol."

Trowa blushed.

"I did?"

Quatre reached the bed. His knees bumped the edge of the mattress. He leaned forward and put his elbows on the bed, and the chair rolled backwards. As he slipped to the floor, Trowa lunged forward to try and catch him, but slumped to the bed and groaned.

"No quick movements for a while, huh?" Quatre said, laughing.

He scrambled into a kneeling position and leaned over the edge of the bed. Trowa was face down, head to one side, his crossed legs pushing his butt into the air.

"That can't be comfortable."

"More comfortable than trying to move right now."

Trowa moaned.

"Head hurts."

"Well, let's get you up. Jared has a hangover helper for you in the breakfast room.

#

"Tell me again."

Trowa sat at the small table in the nook that looked over the wooded field at the back of his lover's property. He was dressed in gym pants and an oversized tee shirt. He held a mug with both hands, enjoying the warmth of it.

Quatre sat across from him, a foot crossed over a knee, smiling.

"I just told you."

"Yeah, but I don't believe you."

Quatre sighed and obliged his lover. He quietly sang the last verse of the song.

"On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me twelve boys in bondage, elev --"

"You don't have to go through the whole thing. I was conscious for the first eleven, remember?"

Quatre smiled.

"Boys in bondage, huh? How were they dressed?"

"Oh, nothing too outrageous. Like I tried to tell you last night -- several times, I might add -- nobody did anything for real. It was all pantomime, just for fun."

"Go on."

"The bondage boys were in, um, different styles of underwear and restraints. Leather, chains, silk ribbons, soft rope, and I think there were three who --"

"And what was I doing?"

"By then you had had your sixth drink. I told Anthony --"

"Anthony, yeah. I really like him."

"I told Anthony to stop serving you and pack up. When I turned around, you had most of your tux off -- everything except the pants -- and --"

Trowa hung his head and mumbled,

"Oh, god ..."

Quatre stopped and blushed.

Trowa spoke with his chin on his chest.

"And?"

"Well, like I said, the last day was twelve boys in --"

"Quatre," Trowa said in a warning tone of voice, "did I do anything embarrassing?"

"Well, um, I -- I tried to stop you before you did."

Trowa looked up and yelled.

"You tried?"

Quatre's face grew redder.

Trowa grimaced.

"Everything except my pants?"

"By that time there were the sixty or more people I promised you would be there. Nine drag queens and more than forty boys, plus the twenty in the orchestra."

"Brilliant."

"But," Quatre hurried to add, "they were so busy performing that I'm sure none of them saw you undressing...um...until...."

Trowa put his mug down and leaned over the table.

"If you don't tell me --"

"Okay, okay."

Quatre sighed again.

"You were sitting there, grinning like a fool, all your clothes off except your pants. The orchestra finished the song, and most of the cast stopped what they were doing because they assumed the show was over. But by that time you had finally gotten into the, um, mood. You unzipped your pants before I could stop you and stood up and yelled,

'Looks like I'm the only one here who isn't fucking somebody.' "

"Your pants fell, and everybody saw that you were wearing the lace garter and panties I made you put on. It was like that scene in "Old School," where Will Ferrell is jogging naked down the street, thinking he and a bunch of people were streaking, but he was alone in the middle of traffic.

"You turned to me, threw your arms out wide, and shouted as loudly as possible..."

Quatre's face was now bright and hot.

"Come on, lover, let's get it on."

Trowa's mouth dropped open. His eyes were wide as could be.

"I said that?"

Quatre nodded.

"In front of sixty people?"

Quatre said, "Erm..."

"While I was naked except for lace panties and a garter belt?"

Quatre nodded again.

"Well," Quatre said sheepishly, "they were all dressed suggestively. And they were fake fucking all over the place. Besides," he added in a low voice, "I think, maybe, they knew you had had a little bit to drink."

Quatre winced.

"What did you do?"

"I caught you when you fell on top of me."

"I didn't."

"You did."

Pause.

"And I did."

Trowa blinked. After a moment of silence, he drew a noisy breath.

"Well," he said casually, "at least I enjoyed myself."

"You're not mad?"

Trowa grinned.

"No."

"Really?"

"Really."

"I, uh..."

Trowa took his lover's hands in his.

"I can't say I'd have asked for any of this if you had asked me what I wanted for Christmas. But, you know, maybe what you did helped me loosen up a bit."

Quatre held his breath.

"And besides, it sounds like I really did enjoy myself. Even if I don't remember doing it."

Quatre winced slowly.

"So you're not --"

"No, babe, I'm not. How could I be, with someone who'd orchestrate a present this -- this -- gigantic, and elaborate, and --"

"So you liked it? You really liked it?"

Trowa pushed his chair back and patted his thighs.

"Come here."

Quatre jumped up and ran around the table. Trowa pulled him onto his lap and put his arms around the slim boy's waist. Quatre put his arms around Trowa's neck.

"God, Trowa, I was so worried. And excited. And -- and --"

"Sounds like I got excited, too."

After a moment of silence, both burst into gales of laughter. After it subsided, they hugged again. Quatre put his head on his lover's shoulder and sighed in contentment. Trowa stroked the back of his head, then pushed him upright.

"Just one thing, though."

Quatre raised his eyebrows.

"Anything."

"Next year, can we give gifts that don't get me drunk, naked in public except for lace lingerie, and also don't come with goose pellets all over my house?"

Quatre tumbled out of Trowa's lap as both doubled over in laughter again.

Fin

#

Thanks tons for reading, GW friends.

I hope you had fun with this one, and that you have the happiest, most stress-free, and peaceful holiday celebration, and tons of prosperity in the New Year.

Hugs to all,

presser-kun
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The Twelve Days of Quatre