Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Personal Ads ❯ Mail Call ( Chapter 2 )

Title: Personal Ads

Part: 2/? :: Mail Call

Author: Oriana

Notes: This came to me while listening to the song "Single White female." The concept is to blame on country music. All typos may be blamed on me. ^^

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Quatre sat anxiously by his box in the post office, wondering why no one had replied to the ad. //Why would there be no replies?! The ad was well written; it described Duo perfectly...// He looked up as a loud clang sounded from outside.

"Is there a Mr.Winner here?"

He stood hurriedly and peered out the door. "Yes?"

A man gestured to several bags marked 'U.S. Postal Service'. "These are yours. Who are you, Sant'y Claus?" He thrust a clipboard at the bewildered young man. "Dun' look at me like thats, ya gots to sign for them, remember? I can't just give away large loads like this."

Quatre came out of his daze and grasped the pen handed to him, quickly scrawling his signature on the line. "What do you mean, these are mine?" He felt a sinking feeling in his chest as reality crept in.

"Unless you have a twin, they're yours. Now take 'em. We need room for more shipments." The man swaggered away, clearly annoyed at the disruption in his work progress.

The blonde eyed the bags of mail warily and then hoisted them over his shoulders, resigned to his task as transport vehicle. He arrived at his apartment hours later, exhausted and sweaty. "Damn..." He rubbed his wrists and shoulders in a well-deserved massage and then turned the key in the door and flung it open. "Trowa...we have a problem..."

He looked up from biting into a juicy red apple. "What's wrong?" Trowa glanced past his partner, his eyes widening slightly when he saw the mail bags piled behind the other boy. "Oh, I see." He rose and carried the bags into the living room, sitting down and ripping open one of them.

The letters poured out of their own accord, tumbling across his lap and unto the floor. "I see, we DO have a problem." He repeated, sifting through the letters and postcards. He glanced at one in turn. "Here's one -- 'Hey, sexy, what say you and I go over to my place and--'" Trowa's face flushed a bright red and he discarded the note.

Quatre sat down beside him and began to sort the mail. Letters, on the coffee table, postcards, on the floor by the easy chair, porn advertisements into the wastebasket or, if they looked interesting, into Quatre's personal stash.. He propped his head in his hands and sighed. "It seems like none of these people are seriously interested in dating Duo. All they want is a warm body."

A comforting arm wrapped around his shoulders. "You shouldn't generalize like that. Here, look at this one." He handed his partner a neatly printed letter, the signature could have been typed as well, it was so uniform.

Quatre read from the letter. "Greetings, Mr.Maxwell. My name is Chang Wufei...I would like to request your company for a date on the twelfth...Regards...Chang Wufei." He grinned and picked up another. "This one has a picture...damn, he's cute! He's in for sure."

"What's his name?"

Quatre squinted at the back of the photo. "Zechs Merquise."

"Hunh. Sounds foreign. French, I think." Trowa slit open the last envelope a while later and pulled out a hastily scribbled note. "Hey, listen --

Dear Mr. Maxwell...

I don't usually answer to this sort of thing-- I'm being put up to this by a friend, who also responded-- his name is Chang Wufei? Anyways... the ad sounded...intriguing, to say the least. I've enclosed a picture for you to judge me by.

--Seeking a companion with exuberance to balance out my quiet nature--

"He didn't leave his name. That could be bad..."

Trowa slid the picture out and looked at it. Messy brown hair framed a carefully chiseled asian face, deep blue eyes set off by his golden skin. A slight smile-- or was it a smirk?-- crossed his lips and his features seemed to have been carved in stone otherwise. But altogether--Trowa mused -- he looked like a nice guy.

Quatre gazed over his shoulder and grinned. "He's a hottie. How's his letter?"

"I like it. He seems down to earth, that kind of person."

The blonde looked over at the letter and snorted. "He sounds like a schoolboy, yet looks like a trained assassin. Interesting. He sounds like Duo's type, eh?"

"Now you sound Canadian... I thought you were Arabic..."

Quatre shrugged sheepishly and blushed. "I am. I just used to hang around with a Canadian and..."

Trowa plugged his ears. "I don't want to know. I truly don't." He took the three letters and placed them in a neat pile on the coffee table. "So, we're going with these?"

His partner nodded, looking out their apartment window at a large dumpster in the alley. "Hand me the bags."

"What, are you just going to dump them out there?"

Quatre shrugged. "Well, why not? Would you rather carry them all downstairs?"

Trowa rolled his eyes and took the bags, heaving them out the window. "Good point." He rubbed his hands together and gazed down at the smaller male. "Now, where were we?

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Three days later, Duo Maxwell's doorbell rang...

--tbc--