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"Band of Steel"Written By: Kaeru Shisho Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Gundam Wing
or its characters, nor do I make any monetary profit off this story. Rating: NC 17 Warnings: AU, shounen-ai, yaoi in later chapters,
some language, drugs Pairings: 1x2x1, 3x4x3 Summary: With the Sanc battle of the bands contest on the horizon, do the GW boys need the exciting singer from L2 to give them the winning edge? Other credits: Songs are credited in the chapters they are used. Recognition should go to the late Mitch Hedburg for a couple of his wonderful one-liners used. In chapters 7, 11, 12, 15, 17, and 18, dialog from the anime was incorporated directly into the storyline. Acknowledgment goes to someone else for the 'cats are gay', 'knowing color names is gay', and other gay jokes sailing around the Internet. And the New Age affirmations are not mine, but may seen and heard everywhere, even in the GW universe. (Original version 2007 - this is the rewrite version
2009) "Band of Steel " Chapter 1 - The Last High "Again." "But we have been over that ending three times now. We have it nailed." The blond, blue-eyed boy shot a glance towards the bass player, silently imploring the other boy to come to his defense. He must want to take a break, too, right? Please? Trowa said nothing and hid his expression behind a shock of long bangs. He shifted his bass guitar to ease his grip, but otherwise did not acknowledge that the argument required his input. Quatre felt both disappointed and angered, muttering "coward" beneath his breath. "Not yet, my rhythm was imperfect. I was off the beat," the half-Japanese boy insisted with an angry scowl. "I agree," the Chinese boy said, folding his drumsticks back like a pair of katanas. "Until we are disciplined musicians, we have no business inflicting our music on the paying public." "Okay," Quatre said, sighing, "but if I don't get a break soon, my fingers are going to freeze up and that will be the end of the keyboard contribution." Heero nodded in the bass player's direction, giving him the cue to begin setting the rhythm. On the next downbeat, Wufei set a highlight with a crash of cymbals, and Heero fingered his final riff of the song. Quatre's fingers flew over the tabs and keys, changing voices mid riff from flute to bells. He worried about Heero. As lead guitar, he set excruciatingly high standards for himself and the rest of the band. Quatre knew how Heero felt. He wanted to be the best. He wanted to win the Sanc Kingdom Battle of the Bands, and there wasn't much time left to prepare. What worried him most, though, was the singing. The keyboardist knew he had the clearest enunciation and the finest voice, but sitting behind the wall of synthesizer and keyboards made him hard to see, and audiences liked to see their lead singers perform as well as hear and understand them. He envied the guitarists who could stand and be seen at times. Wufei pealed off the final roll and crashes as the squeal of guitar rose and fell, the bass ended, and the cords faded away. The faint tickling of bells and scent of patchouli signaled the arrival of their manager to the practice room. "Perfect! That was perfect," the man said. Quatre, cheered by the support, smiled and said, "I thought so an hour ago. Thank you, Zechs!" He liked their manager, who was four years older, already graduated from college, and beginning post-graduate courses next fall. At first, the band had asked him to be their lead singer, but Zechs had said he could only do that wearing a mask; he suffered from intractable stage fright. His suave, outgoing, and persuasive personality, not to mention his strikingly handsome features, contributed to Zechs' perfect fit as the band's manager and sometimes sound engineer. He also owned the estate which housed them and had his signature on the papers assigning him to be their guardian. "It wasn't fit to listen to an hour ago," Wufei said, "but it is passable now." Heero nodded with a nasal, "Hn." Trowa's concurrence was a nod. He didn't even grunt as loudly as the Japanese boy. Zechs smiled and toyed with the clear crystal hanging from his earring. "Good, because we need to hurry if we are going to make it to the club in time." "Club! We're not performing tonight!" Quatre was absolutely certain they had no engagements this weekend. "No, but there is someone else who is. His act doesn't begin until ten, but it's a two hour drive away and I want dinner." Zechs checked his watch, tapping it to set a timer. "If we leave now--" "Who." Heero didn't ask the question, he demanded an answer to the obvious unstated question hanging in the air like an eagle about to strike. "I think you should see him first, but his act goes under the name Shinigami." Heero sniffed and Wufei snorted indignantly. "Never heard of him." Trowa said, speaking for them all, which was extraordinary. He rarely expressed any opinion. Nevertheless, the four young men turned off the amps, locked up their instruments, and shut down the power on their way out the door to Zechs' minivan. Quatre sat up front beside Zechs, the designated driver. He knew the others wanted more details before seeing this "Shinigami," and he could be pretty good at teasing out information from reticent speakers. He could empathize well. "Trowa is right. I've never heard of him either. Is his band better than ours?" Quatre asked. "His band? I don't know, but he is." Quatre made a face. "He is not in a band then?" "He is, but the band's not here. Just him and a sound technician that plays synthesizer to back him up." "What's the band's name? Maybe we've heard of that." "Not likely." "What's the damn secret, Zechs?" Heero's limit reached on an empty stomach. He had had enough evasiveness. "No secret!" Zechs chuckled and turned into a fast food takeout line, vegetarian only. All five placed their orders, let Zechs pay, and waited until they had eaten and were on the road again before trying a new tactic. This time, Wufei was in the front passenger seat. Quatre hoped the two men's competitiveness would rile Zechs a little and get him to reveal more. He envied how the other boy could stand up to anyone, and wished he could be more assertive like Wufei Chang. "Where's this singer's band, Zechs?" "I honestly don't know." "This is stupid." Heero snarled from the back. Quatre knew Heero was mad because his vegi-burger with sprouts had waxy, tasteless white cheese instead of waxy, tasteless yellow-colored cheese. Heero couldn't have actually tasted the difference. It was the principle. Quatre bit his lip to contain a giggle. "This is a waste of our time and you know it," Wufei said, challengingly. "If we knew the whole story, we wouldn't have agreed to come along, and you are a controlling man. I wouldn't put it past you to have engineered this entire escapade just to make us take that 'necessary break' you keep harping about." "Done?" Zechs asked. He smiled at Wufei, and Quatre just knew that would only to irritate him more. "I am when you concede to this deceit." "I am not making this up on the pretense of making you take a break, although, that's a good point, too." "Then why not tell us what we need to know before seeing this...Shinigami singer?" Wufei took pains to pronounce the foreign word with precision. "The God of Death." "What was that, Yuy?" Zechs asked. Heero glared in the rear view mirror. "Shinigami is a Japanese word meaning the God of Death." "Oh, dear," Quatre said. He couldn't help but think the singer must be terribly egotistical to go by a name like that. His other team mates, well, barring the silent Trowa, were bad enough to be around at times. Another swollen ego to butt heads with, they did not need. Zechs was laughing. "Well, that's interesting." "If you don't slow down, I will drive," Wufei snapped. Zechs slowed the car. "You don't know where to go." "I would take us home by any way possible. Heero could navigate." "Your inner knowing is your only true compass," Zechs canted. This nugget of wisdom was greeted by moans then silence reigned for a few miles. "Where'd you say he was from?" Trowa asked. He didn't press. He asked as if he had missed the other conversations and just thought of the question. "His band is the hottest thing on L2. Called the Sweepers. That's all I know," Zechs said. "But it's him that's playing tonight. It's him that we are seeing." He shoved in a CD, cranked up the volume, and ended any further discussion, which was a good thing because most of talk turned to whining and moaning that everything out of L2 was practically garbage. Now Quatre understood why Zechs delayed telling them until they were on the highway and committed to going. Arrogant and trashy. Oh, my. (o) Quatre was surprised at the crowd. Zechs wasn't, apparently, because he had ordered tickets beforehand. He passed by the line of young people, decked out in an array of clothing from average to deviant -- black, ripped, nearly naked, pierced, and almost beautiful-- ignoring whistles and angry complaints as he pushed to the front of the box office window. "I have tickets waiting for 'will call'." He flashed a dazzling smile and an ID. Quatre held back a laugh. As if the Prince of the Sanc Kingdom needed to show an ID! Of course, the privileged position of prince no longer held power, since the government of the Federation of City States had been established, but he and his sister were all that was left of the royalty, and people loved royalty, beautiful royalty. And what beauties they were! Relena's sweet but serious demeanor and her dedicated role in the student government of her high school endeared her to her public, but that gave her no privacy. For that reason, she had transferred to a school overseas for her last two years. Quatre wondered when she would be returning. The line moved and Quatre followed along deep in thought. Poor Zechs. Always in the public eye. The scandal-hungry paparazzi hounded the platinum-haired, towering young man when he was in town, which he rarely was for that reason. Relena and Zechs' faces were as familiar as the ones on the paper money, not that you saw much of that any more. Plastic held sovereignty over all in the realm. "Quatre!" "I'm coming!" Quatre shouted, dashing to keep up with his band mates, who had disappeared into the throngs waiting to be admitted. Advance ticket holders entered first. Prince Zechs, naturally, could be the very first, if he liked, and he did. Locating their seats was easy-- front and center. Between them and the raised stage was a roped off area for dancing, Quatre assumed, although he hadn't seen many similar venues. For a rock band member, his wealth of experiences was slim; he hadn't been clubbing at all. After that, it took another hour to fill the hall to near capacity, and an hour more to patiently sit through a forgettable local opening act before the lights dimmed. Quatre sucked in his breath as an oppressive air of expectancy surrounded him, threatening to overwhelm his sensitive nature. He held his breath, the anticipation unbearable, and then just as he thought he might burst, the curtain rose again, revealing a dark-haired girl standing at a simple, outdated synthesizer. Out poured the distinctive pounding of a well-known hip-hop number, flooding the airwaves with BEAT, and driving the audience to shouting and clapping in sync. He eased the air from his lungs, relaxing with the release of tension around him. "Gods, not this garbage. Really, Zechs, you know we hate this," Wufei groaned. Wufei was loud enough to be heard over the rising noise and around Heero, whose body blocked Wufei from Quatre's sight. Quatre could feel Heero bristling in agreement. On his left, Trowa loosened up, moving to the beat. "L2, music of the streets," Trowa said. Quatre looked over and met his smile, shyly. "I like the dancing best." "Me, too," Trowa said, his tone mild. He winked at Quatre in a shared moment of camaraderie before centering his attention on the stage. With an effort, Quatre withdrew his eyes from the other boy and followed his gaze. He couldn't read much from Trowa. His emotions were so tightly kept under wraps. He wondered if maybe that wasn't what made him so attractive. A beacon of solace? Was that even possible? The spotlight moved, as if searching for the enigmatic star of the show. One minute nothing, the next-there he was! Dancing. Loose, tan pants, slung low on his gyrating hips, sloppy red shirt that was rolled up at the sleeves, bare feet slapping on the hardwood floor, keeping time with the music, and the longest, past-the-ass braid Quatre had ever seen. He traded grins with his equally pleased band mate. "Dude's good," Trowa said. "He looks fifteen at most," Quatre noted. Not that he and the rest of the band looked their ages. Trowa nodded and turned back to the show. The dancer started to sing, or rap, his poem to the crowd. "It's
not where you're from... His diction was flawless; what he had to say was bleak. He spoke to the darkness inside everyone. "Before
it all comes together, Quatre felt from the encouraging and enthusiastic shouts and reactions from his audience that the words struck to the core of how they felt. "Just chalk it up and add it to the elevation...!" "Hip hop," Wufei said with a sniff, making it sound like an insult. "Rap!" Quatre snapped in return. "The music is rap; Hip hop is a way of life." Wufei leaned around Heero, his eyes glittering and his tone cutting. "As I said, hip hop." Heero, seated between the two feuding boys, pushed them both back in their chairs with a hissed "Shut up!" filled with lethal intent. The next number was another of the same genre, but sassier and funnier, but from the look on Heero's face, Quatre would have guessed the performer was insulting him personally. He was happy Wufei was out of his line of sight. Zechs met his gaze over the heads of the other two boys with a sly smile, and with a shimmer of gleaming, silver hair, turned his head back to the performer. Trowa smiled in wry amusement, and bumped shoulders, causing Quatre to grin in return, pleased to have someone to share in the fun. The music altered unexpectedly, throbbing to a traditional rock and roll beat. The singer launched into a raunchy cover of several songs back-to-back, all the time dancing and swinging that long, brown, braid. His voice soared powerfully over the synthesizer, demonstrating a phenomenal range of highs and lows. And could he emote! Dancing youth crowded into the limited space to bounce and writhe with The God of Death. Shinigami had every right to be proud of himself, Quatre thought. He was exciting. Lusty. The music faded at the end of a song, and the braided singer spun and faced the audience, grinning rakishly, and bowing slightly in recognition of their support. "Be back in ten," he said in a low sexy voice that caused Quatre to blush. "Don't go away." "Like I could," he whispered back. He was thankful for the momentary darkness in the hall, while he recovered his composure. That guy oozed magnetism, pulling everyone in the crowd into his musical universe while he was on stage, and holding him under the illusion that he was their god. Bow down, heathens all! Wufei stood. "Well, thank you, Zechs. I think we've all had enough for the evening." Heero grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back into his seat. "Sit." "W-what! Y-you..." Wufei stuttered, unable to fathom that Heero could host an opinion of the singer in defiance of own. "... like that noise and blur on stage? I thought you were a musician who appreciated the better things in life." Quatre was taken aback by the ferocity in his band mate's tone. Not that Heero needed or would appreciate his words, but Quatre felt driven to come to the defense of both Heero and the performer. "He's electrifying, Wufei! Can't you tell how his performance affects the crowd here? I wish I could deliver lyrics like that." "He's right," Heero said. "He is what the band needs," Zechs affirmed. "Sex appeal, talent, allure." "Sex appeal?" Wufei's lip curled into a smirk. "I wouldn't know." "That is your shortcoming, Chang," Zechs said with a long, slow sigh. "People come to be entertained, not just to hear the music. Give them both and you win the prize." "He's very appealing," Quatre put in. "That braid-do you think it's real?" "Sex with a braid." Everyone turned to stare at Trowa, who had spoken. He held up a flyer and waved it. "A reviewer said that." Wufei's face scrunched up into a frown. "I don't find boys appealing, Barton. You might, or might not, but I don't. If his second half is as coarse as his first, I don't care what the rest of you think-I won't consider him worthy of carrying our equipment." "I doubt he'd want to join our band anyway," Quatre said. Saddened by Wufei's unwarranted prejudice against the boy from L2, he didn't want to get his hopes up. What would this engaging personality gain by joining their band? It wasn't as if he needed them. No, Quatre didn't think this boy would give up his success just so he could become some mythical, magical bean elevating them to stardom. "He's not traveling with his band," Heero said. "He might want a change." "He probably wants a ticket off L2," Wufei said. He looked pleased to have discovered another way to criticize the singer, leaving Quatre mystified as to why his friend was so adamantly negative. "You know, the natives can't come planet-side without a solid job and place to live, and once they lose that snap back they go." "That's unjustified!" Quatre blurted out. "We are all from the colonies. If it weren't for Zechs and his...compassion, we'd never have been provided for and given this chance. Don't disparage another for wanting the same opportunity, if, in fact, he actually does!" Wufei's chin elevated and his face cracked a smile. "Gods, you are in love with the street rat. Your kind is so easily seduced; it just slays me." Quatre felt the heat from shouting continue to rise, coloring his neck and face all the way to his scalp. "My kind--?! That's not true-- any of it! I'm not easy. I'm in love with a boy, but not that one, not somebody I don't even know! Oh!" Quatre slammed a hand over his mouth. Trowa's feet shifted. Heero's glare shot from one face to another, ending with Wufei. Zechs coughed discretely. "Well, now that we've cleared that up. How about we sit back and enjoy the second half of his set?" Quatre sank lower into his hard-backed seat. He had just succumbed to Wufei's malicious remarks, out-ed himself to his band mates, and intimated he had a lover. Mortified about summed up how he felt. All he didn't reveal was who he had fallen for. Wouldn't that have been the end-all revelation of the evening, he thought to himself. It certainly would have meant an end to the band. He closed his eyes and wished himself capable of falling in love with the pretty girl his sisters' had chosen for him to date. He'd be married, in charge of a worldwide company, and faraway on colony L4. Instead he was a child, gay, single, in love with a member of his own struggling band-- who had said, maybe, twelve words to him-- and living off the benevolence of the ex-Prince of Sanc. It would take a miracle to make his life better. He was somehow, however, an optimist who whole-heartedly believed in miracles. He remained huddled in on himself as the lights dimmed, flickered as a warning for the show to begin. Quatre ignored his friends sitting around him. He blocked out all empathic lines of communication. He didn't want to know how they were feeling about him. All he wanted was to enjoy the entertainment. As if the entertainment couldn't get any more strident or wilder, the lighting flashed in alternating colors, washing the stage in a kaleidoscope of changing hues, and signaling the return of Shinigami. The music ratcheted up as the dancer exploded onto the stage. His costume had changed. His loose khakis were replaced with daringly ripped black jeans clinging tenuously to the dancer's hips. He was wearing no underwear, Quatre could tell, or at least no underwear he'd ever seen. Imagining for a moment how skimpy the underwear would have to be caused an immediate physical reaction in his body. He was glad it was too dark for anyone to notice. Besides, the show on stage had everyone's attention. The shirt's bright color warranted wearing it a few more seconds, before the dancer ripped it off and flung it to the stage floor, revealing a clingy, skimpy black tank and very toned shoulders and arms and chest and everything Quatre could see. Sex with a braid, no - "Shit." Quatre straightened but he couldn't tell whether Heero or Trowa or both had finished his thought. Both band mates were staring, mesmerized, by the dancer, enthralled to the voice that was tearing into a rocker without consideration for his vocal cords. One song blended disharmoniously with the next, until he broke into a falsetto for a cover of Darkness' "Hazel Eyes" that made Quatre's skin break out with goose bumps. Thinking about eyes, made him remember the statistics he'd looked up one day. Only two percent of humans have truly green eyes, making them the rarest color to have. He rubbed his arms, shivering with a sudden frisson only an infatuation could arouse. Only when the nearest green eye widened in question, did Quatre realize he'd been staring brazenly at his band mate and missing the escalating show on stage. How embarrassing! Shinigami danced in a fevered madness, the techno music deafening. As he spun and circled, a hand loosened the tie restraining his braid in its tight configuration, freeing the strands to fly and fly and fly like ribbons on a May pole, becoming just as phallic a fertility symbol. The hair tips licked the floor, untamed like the feral dancer who wailed and screamed the lyrics to earsplitting intensities. Quatre wondered where that slim body hid the reserves. The expenditure of energy had to be tremendous. He thought of Medusa. The sweat-soaked hair whipped into ropes that slapped against the singer's back. Or whips. What must it feel like to be whipped bloody by your own hair? Shinigami fiercely ripped out a lung to surpass the thunderous roar of the song's finale. He collapsed on one knee, his sides heaving, hands flattened on the floor, arms spread, shaking to support his weight. Sweat joined hair to puddle at his feet and hands, forming a complete circle around his body. The roar from the mosh pit was deafening as the music that had driven it. The audience was on its feet shouting a rhythmic "Encore! Encore!" more out of habit and respect than out of any hope that the poor kid could belt out one last note. Still, the pleading continued, the people, beseeching their god for one last attempt at spiritual enrichment. He struggled to stand one more time. The small, black-haired keyboard player flicked a switch, setting a steady, throbbing beat, and then she stalked off stage. Shinigami was alone, head down, pulling energy from the air, the beat, the souls charged with expectation. Quatre felt a rush of cooler air and noticed a dark gap where Heero had been clapping moments before. He looked around, even down. Wufei was looking under his seat, but possibly he was looking for his dignity amongst the detritus, Quatre thought. An elbow nudged his ribs and Trowa cocked his head toward the front. To Quatre's disbelief, he spotted Heero pushing through the mosh pit. Okay, Heero slamdancing in the pit was unreal, and, on second glance, Quatre saw that he wasn't grooving but he was shoving his way to the stage. Before he made it, however, Shinigami bowed elegantly to his fans, threw them a kiss and wearily walked off, stage right. What had Heero wanted to tell the performer, Quatre wondered? He was about to go drag his band member back, when the lights softened to a warm, glow, painting the stage in honeyed hues. Shinigami was back. With only the thrumming drum beat to back him, he was going to sing. As he stood, counting out the beats, preparing himself, he looked amazing, like a living, breathing effigy, shining with sweat, awash in molten gold, cinnamon tresses draped over and around his shoulders and tumbling in loose waves to his knees. He parted his lips. His soft voice was raw, throaty and sexy. "I
am alone, Is he more like a primitive idol or an insect encased in amber, forever trapped, Quatre wondered? He turned slightly to his left when he thought he heard Trowa made a choking sound. "Yeah, like...that's like our signature song," Trowa said. Quatre nodded, "We only cover it. It's not ours. He has every right to do Dandy Warhol's 'The Last High.'" "And
I have known love When he started the chorus, the entire audience joined in on the "Hi-ii-igh;" at least, Quatre did, and it wasn't his part. He had sung the lead with his band, but hearing the self-proclaimed God of Death, charging the lyrics with pain, slowly extracted from his gut, Quatre knew he'd never sing it again. Not now. Not after hearing it sung by the husky voice of a god. Heero had not moved away from his hard-fought position at the edge of the stage. Anyone daring to push or nudge him was subjected to his assassin's death glare. Shinigami had nothing over him when it came to murderous stares. When Quatre caught sight of him, he started, jerking his arms out, ready to vault over the rope to get to Heero. He felt strong feelings from Heero, mixed, confused. Hate and love were both strong and often confused. Quatre took one step, but a firm grip on his shoulder kept him in place. "Stay back." "But, what if..." Quatre blinked at his green-eyed friend and cleared his suddenly taut throat. "Er... ah... I won't let Heero hurt that beautiful boy!" "He won't." Trowa closed his eyes, concealing his inner thoughts, before looking away. He didn't know about the sensitive young man's empathic abilities, or he wouldn't have bothered trying. "When
you were the last high Once the singing had begun, Quatre had forgotten to block the feelings around him. He rode the wave of excitement along with the audience of fans. Lulled into the rising and falling of the moods to match that of the emotive singer, the sensitive boy jumped when stung by a nearby counter emotion. Jealousy? Quatre wondered if he'd read that feeling correctly. Had he made Trowa jealous over Heero? No, he'd called attention several times to the striking singer, and how he moved him. It wasn't love, though! He had to correct that impression. "I mean, it could get him into trouble and that would be bad for the band. I have no personal interest, other than that." Quatre bobbed his head, putting on his stern face to underscore his lack of interest in either the singer or Heero, beyond the welfare of the band. Beside him the silent boy shrugged indifferently. Trowa offered no remarks to comfort or relieve his anxious friend. Uncertain what more he could say, Quatre turned his focus back to the performance. He envied Wufei's directness right then. He wished he could be bolder. He sighed, resigned to appear pathetic and weak again. Shinigami was in no way weak. The long-haired boy was bending over, grazing the fingertips of fans pressed close to the stage, while continuing to sing. His raspy voice grew hoarser with each verse. He sounded on the verge of tears. He reached the stage where Heero stood, and knelt as he sang the words: "So
maybe you loved me but now He was almost nose-to-nose with the blue-eyed, Japanese boy when he sang: "And maybe you'll call me..." He paused, skipping a few beats, his wide expressive, violet-colored eyes locking onto Heero's, and held ... two...three...four... then smiled, singing: "Maybe you won't." In a single fluid movement, the God of Death stood, shrugged, and ambled away finishing the song. He even danced a little, turned, but caught himself in a graceful near-fall. He grinned and stepped dance-like, swaying to the rhythm of the steady beat, reaching now the far side of the stage. He paused to shut off the synthesizer, waved one last time over his shoulder, and left for good. It was over. The crowd roared its approval knowing they had been blessed. They had offered him their admittance fee, and their god, in turn, had given them everything he had, heart and soul. Quatre was afraid to say anything in fear of desecrating the moment. Wufei, totally unabashed by his earlier deprecating remarks, acknowledged that the spell was broken. "Well, he certainly is loud." Quatre nearly slapped his face, but again, a calming spirit loomed close. He didn't want to make a scene. He reigned in his annoyance, and said nothing. Let the drummer make an ass of himself. He was, after all, the only one that didn't get the jokes about drummers. What do you call a drummer with half a brain? Gifted. What do you call someone who hangs around with musicians? A drummer. Quatre chuckled as he remembered more jokes. What's the difference between a drummer and a drum machine? You only have to punch the information into the drum machine once. Trowa once told this one, he recalled with a smile: Why do bands have bass players? To translate for the drummer. Laughter bubbled up and threatened to overflow as he remembered one of his favorites, told by Heero, of all people: Why do guitarists put drumsticks on the dash of their car? So they can park in the handicapped spot. "What's so damned funny, now, Winner?" Wufei asked. Of course, that kind of attitude tipped the scales in favor of hysterical laughter, and the blond sank into his seat. Zechs, meanwhile, wrapped an arm over both Wufei and Trowa's shoulders to get their attention. "I have backstage passes." Wufei opened his mouth, and then closed it, his eyes following Heero's movement a short distance off. "Where does he think he's going?" "Ha, looks like Yuy's got his own pass," Zechs said. "Shall we join him and the singer backstage, then?"
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