Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ VIVA ❯ The sound of one hand clapping ( Chapter 16 )

Note: Again, thanks to Holly. She prods at the just the right time and these parts get done as a result. A apologise for how slow I've been writing lately. I have no real excuse.

 

17: The sound of one hand clapping

 

People perform for different reasons. The act of taking the stage is never without reason. Some want it, others would do anything to avoid it, but there is something in the very air when a group of people who live for it, live for that brief moment as the first toe crosses the line and you step into the light that should be too bright; when those people take that step together, you can feel it. At that moment it's not an act, it's a fact and whatever they choose to show you will be more real in those moments than anything you might have thought to do outside the doors, beyond the stage. When these people take the stage together you are a part of it, whether you are with them or watching them. You are taken for a ride wherever the composer cares to take you.

 

He is the key; the painter of the performance, the maelstrom force behind the stage. The Maestro. There are many kinds of performers, many kinds of performances. Throughout time, we've seen them, witnessed their greatness and been awed by them, devastated by them, without ever truly understanding why. We watch them and we know it cannot be outdone, until the next finally comes and outdoes itself, again and again, until at some point we come to the conclusion that all our ideas have died, all our creativity bottled, sold and devoured until the vendors are dry. And the Maestro's lock themselves up in neat little rooms, scratching their heads wondering what to do until the very lack of their own response drives them mad and they give up, like the rest of us.

 

How many times have you been told it's all been done? How many times have you said it yourself?

 

People take the stage for many reasons, but it's still just a stage and what they perform has already been seen, so why? Is it for the pleasure of it, the off chance that something might be different, that the lines of the play might miraculously change and bring forth a new age? How can that be so, when we refuse to forget? No. We take the stage for a different reason. In our souls, which we never listen to, we know that we've lied. It hasn't all been done.

 

When a group of people who live to take the stage take the stage together, you can feel it. When a team of Maestro's who live to take the stage take the stage together, nobody knows what happens. Because Maestros have never done it; never swallowed ego and pride to accept that others are equal to themselves.

 

Maestro's are unique creatures. Masters of their instruments, instinctively perfecting an art as old as humanity itself. As old as the world we live on. As old as sound, breath, eternity. They are tapped into a source unknown even to themselves; that primal urge that demands uniqueness, struggle; the search for the last chord. The last note. The last echo of its passing.

 

One figure stands in the middle of the stage, without ego, facing one lone figure, in the front, dead center, and there is laughter spilling from his lips.

 

“It's odd, but I don't find this overly amusing. Intriguing, but not amusing.” Lady Une raised a brow behind her thick lenses and waited for a response, but there was only laughter for a long while. She had not truly expected anything else. In time, it slowed and she waited for it. She had spent years honing it, developing it, dragging it loose from its shell. She wondered if the time had finally come where she was obsolete, never having been a Maestro herself, in her own mind.

 

“It's fun, isn't it?” She asked at last, watching the mirth in bright green eyes.

 

“Yes,” Trowa replied at last. And that seemed to be all that needed to be said. He watched her leave, not sure why she had come, and then he simply stood there, staring at the empty seats with a faint smirk fusing his lips.

 

*

 

Heero Yuy glared at Michael Standish. Solo just laughed at the both of them. The trumpet in Standish's hands was shaking like it was meant to be a parade baton and his upper lift was covered with a thin shroud of sweat that thoroughly annoyed Heero.

 

“Standish…all you have to do is stand here. Right here, and play. You are not to stop for any reason. If I hear you stop, and I can guarantee I will hear you, then I'll take your mouthpiece and let fatty Jenkins use it as his Catheter tomorrow morning while we have a little talk. Understand?”

 

Heero reconsidered his estimation of Standish. Maybe he was only two planks thick, because he nodded. But he was still thick. Confident the little bastard was going to give the school and its staff enough of a distraction, Heero turned and headed into the main administration building, Solo following close on his heels.

 

There was something about the way Solo walked that annoyed Heero. He lacked the grace Duo had, yet he still had that sneakiness, but while Duo's was quiet and a bit mysterious Solo's was brash and just plain annoying. He walked like he owned every scrap of ground he walked on.

 

“You've been here before.”

 

“You don't say. You know, I do work at the school, contrary to popular belief. I don't just live in the garage. I come up here to collect my pay check once a week, and to file a report on what work I've done, and to make a request for any supplies I need.”

 

“You keep cars…what the hell do you need supplies for?”

 

Solo just winked as if a wink held all the answers to the world's questions. That annoyed Heero too. There were a lot of things, in the end, that annoyed Heero Yuy when it came to Solo, which was strange because a lot of the time they were things that didn't annoy him in Duo Maxwell. An observer would probably have several explanations, but Heero certainly did not make a habit of observing himself.

 

They made their way through the halls to the Dean's office just as they heard shouting down below, the poor trumpet faltering, trying to argue around the mouthpiece and Heero almost felt admiration for Standish, that he could mumble something while still steadfastly tooting his horn. It seemed a skill that would come in handy in…other circumstances.

 

Even the secretary was missing from outside the door, which made sense in so far as the dumb bastard would have sent her down to deal with it first and then followed when he got too annoyed. Heero pushed past Solo and entered the office quickly, heading straight for the filing cabinet behind the desk. He had always wondered what it was for, since all the student records were held in the administration area two doors down. He had assumed it was for holding particular records he might have been looking at, or admission forms and the like, but not once in the whole time Heero had spent at the Wing College of the Arts had he seen it open. Everyone knew Dermail was not that much of a private person.

 

It was Solo who pulled out…a seriously odd looking contraption, all metal wires and bent turns of steel, a cocky grin on his face that no longer surprised Heero when it annoyed him.

 

“I told you I needed supplies…never know when you might accidentally lock keys in your car…”

 

“And you need to pick the lock to get back in? I thought that was what coat hangers were for.”

 

“And scratch the perfect paint job I do on those babies? Yuy…you wound me.”

 

Heero was sure he didn't. The cabinet slipped open and they took a draw each, arms diving in to pull out the various piles of paper. Heero stared at a folder of assignments that didn't really belong with any of the subjects taught at the school, but he had seen several of them before. Among Duo's school folders, some of the pretty dance students, a classical guitar major…All of them very pretty individuals.

 

A small stack of photos dropped in front of him and Heero stared coldly at familiar faces in the photographs, all of them obviously taken from the Dean's office windows. He thumbed one loose when he saw a familiar jacket sleeve and stared at Duo's face. He could feel Solo's fury not a meter away and wondered why it suddenly didn't annoy him that the guy was so close.

 

“The wrong sort of person…” Heero whispered softly.

 

“He's always right about it,” Solo noted coldly.

 

They gathered what they could, shoved it in a bag and un-picked the cabinet, leaving the office just as they had found it. They went straight to the little post box by the cafeteria, typed a quick letter to the Board of Trustees, stuck in half of what they had collected, keeping the other half for evidence in case the Trustees ignored it, and then posted it off.

 

They were just turning to leave when someone stumbled through the doors, horn loose at their side, looking pale, frazzled and at a loss for air, of all things. Heero was about to go offer a hand, since the state Standish was in was at least partly his fault, when of all people, Dorothy Catalonia stepped through the door, took one look at him and burst out laughing.

 

“Bugger blowing his horn, you look like you've had fun blowing something else, kiddo!”

 

Standish's face looked rather like whatever the slop the cook's had brewed for lunch was. Red and sickening. He stepped away too slowly and Dorothy had one arm slung over his shoulders, the other clutching the trumpet.

 

“I'm intrigued, Standish. Do explain to me how you blow your instrument?”

 

There was dead silence in the room. Standish really did look like he was about to pass out, but Trowa chose that moment to stroll through the doors, quirked a brow at Dorothy and strolled by, grabbing a plate, for the first time first in the lunch line.

 

“Mouthpieces are sexy…”

 

Heero slumped back in his chair as Dorothy finally released the poor boy, her attention now completely on Trowa as they both served up their lunch. Heero idly watched Standish move off to the corner where he collapsed with a group of boys Heero could only assume were his friends. Odd, he hadn't known Standish had friends.

 

*

 

Chang Wufei collapsed against the front of the large desk and sighed in relief. He took in the wide semi-circle of computers, mixing desks, racks and effects modules and quirked a small smile. It had taken all day just to move everything into one room, and another to hook it all up so it would work but they had finally managed it.

 

“Is that the last one?”

 

Wufei nodded to Treize, motioning him over with the large box of instruments he had collected over the week. They dumped them near the effects desk they had set up near the percussion den at the edge of the stage and left it at that; Wufei would go through it tonight when he had some spare time alone. He really had to pull out the score Trowa had given him and work out what he thought would go best before bringing Trowa in to have a run through and discuss the original aesthetics of the piece.

 

So much left to do and they really were running out of time.

 

“What does this do anyway?”

 

Wufei glanced across at Treize, who had moved to where Sally was playing with the lighting effects. They shared a knowing grin as Sally flicked it on and turned up the drum kit. Wufei snatched the drum sticks off the edge of the stage, hoping Relena wouldn't mind as he sat behind the kit and started pounding out an even bass note as he slipped on the helmet, needing to test it anyway.

 

He watched the light show through the goggles of the helmet and frowned, adjusting the microphone to talk to Sally.

 

“Turn up the gain on the signal for the bass.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Wufei nearly jumped out of his skin as Treize's voice came back over the headset, but he smirked a little, wondering what Treize thought of what he was seeing.

 

“The gain on the desk in front of you; the one with all the pretty lights turned on? Turn channel one up to eight, set two and three at six, set four, five and six at seven and set channel seven to five.”

 

He could hear the slight click of the channels changing, the whirr of the light machines at his feet gaining power as they adjusted to the new settings.

 

“You ready for a show, Treize?” Wufei smirked, rolling the sticks over the back of his palms as he pounded into the bass drum again, checking that he had indeed guessed the correct levels, which he had. With a loud whoop he brought the stick down on the hats and snare, driving into a random rhythm, then having a go at the chart Relena had left; Trowa's piece for the concert. The damn thing was a monster and he could only pick out several of the rhythms and none of the rolls but it was still incredible, the rush that ran through him as the beat erupted in gold and silver light all around him. Since the drums played through most of the performance he had set the majority of the light to the kit; the other instruments would be the aesthetic colours he and Sally had decided, after much disagreement, best represented them. Reds, blues, greens, purples, every colour of the rainbow, with gold and silver on the kit to highlight them. All around him danced flashes of silver glitter, stabs of gold, flashing across the stage in menacing rays. And he wasn't even playing the right stuff.

 

Gently putting down the sticks, Wufei slipped the helmet off and stalked back off the small drum stage they had constructed at the back of the stage, elevated so everyone could see Relena when she played. Drummers were too easily forgotten, but Relena always look spectacular on concert night and the EO did their best to show everyone off.

 

Treize was waiting at the edge of the stage, Dorothy's helmet in his hands, studying it carefully.

 

“Rather ingenious, Wufei. But then I've come to expect that. Still…I think we can decorate these without damaging the wiring, if you want? What's the theme?”

 

Wufei quirked a brow. If they could make the helmets reflect the costumes the dance and theatre troop would be wearing that would be more than he had hoped for and if Treize said it was possible then it was, simple as that. Sally was already collecting the helmets, shutting down the system, a massive sign on the desk warning anyone off attempting to turn on the hundreds of live wires simply lying around.

 

“A glamorous macabre paint job is required,” Wufei noted softly, already picturing what he had in mind. “The helmets should match the colours of the lights.”

 

“Solo probably has some mica and metallic paints in the garage…the lights would refract against that, create some interesting effects,” Sally noted and Treize simply stared at them. Wufei wondered if they had finally exceeded even his expectations and could only smirk. Trieze was yet to see the full impact of what they had all slaved over, and there was no way he could imagine the score Trowa had completed. Wufei wished he had been there when Trowa ran the final copy past Une. Her face would have been worth it. She probably even took off her glasses.

 

“I know a few art majors who might be interested in doing the paint job for you,” Treize noted carefully, turning the helmet over in his hands carefully.

 

“Are they good enough?” It was the only true concern Wufei had. He didn't trust himself with permanent paints to do what he wanted done. Sally, also, was under no illusions. They were theatre majors, not artists.

 

Treize pointed at the backdrop Duo had had completed over the week by some of his friends. It was spectacular, and exactly what Wufei had given instructions to.

 

“They saw that and got jealous…they make that look like the work of amateurs. Good enough for you?”

 

Wufei had a vague idea of who Treize was talking about. The recluse twins who hadn't left their rooms since they arrive five years ago. Swallowing dryly, Wufei just nodded.

 

“Do they want payment?” Because he knew what they were getting was more than a paint job. The recluse twins had created works heralded as the new great works of their day; surpassing Rembrandt, Monet, Van Gogh….perfect precision in the arc of every stroke. Unheard of in the history of art.

 

“Tickets to the show,” Treize laughed softly, took the helmets and headed for the doors. “I'll have these back to you in a few days for the dress rehearsal. Which I want tickets to, as it happens.”

 

Sally laughed as they watched him leave, leaning on Wufei's shoulder.

 

“Fuck me,” Wufei finally breathed out, still slightly shocked.

 

“Anytime. But can we fuck that man too, because damn he's sexy as all hell.”

 

Wufei eyed Sally stoically then smirked, not bothering to say anything else as he turned back to the desk. Set the gain of the Cello to six, the violin to eight and a half…”