A/N: MFM is canon plot, and this is my first AU baby, thanks to ... so blame her if you don't like it.

This will be 1x2, with 3x4 as a background relationship. There will be later chapters with somewhat explicit encounters, but I will warn at the beginning of those chapters.

Duo Maxwell hears the phone ring in the other room as he leans in toward the light bulb-haloed mirror in front of him. His heart-shaped lips part slightly as he raises the eyeliner toward his left eye, lining the amethyst orb with a streak of ebony liquid. He notices his mouth open as he finishes the line with a small flourish and chuckles quietly to himself. It must be some sort of rule that no one could put on eye makeup without looking like a dumbfounded fish. The door creaks open behind him as he is drawing down his other eyelid, and he murmurs an inquiry at the mirror.

"Duo, phone's for you."

"Gimme."

His bassist appears beside him, silvery blond hair tossed effortlessly across his brow. Duo drops the eyeliner onto the cluttered surface of the desk and spins his chair, running one long-fingered hand down the other boy's arm. The boy gives him a warning look, softened somewhat by the innocence of his features, and plucks his arm from Duo's playful grasp. He folds the phone into Duo's hand and turns to go, shifting himself quickly out of the way as Duo swats at him.

Duo spins back to the mirror, grinning at his reflection as he tucks the phone between his shoulder and ear.

"Shini here, shooting star of rock, billionaire playboy, and all over intensely attractive dude. How may I serve you today?"

"Duo." A man's voice drifts over the phone lines, dry but not unamused.

"Zechsy! 's great to hear from ya!"

"And it's a pleasure to hear your voice, as always. Listen… that Home for Every Child charity has been increasing their campaign efforts. You know they want you for that auction event that they hold every year. You're their idea of a perfect poster child."

A frown creases Duo's face, carefully shaped eyebrows drawing together. The piercing through his left brow twitches with the sudden movement, ring twisting crookedly, and he absently reaches up to straighten it. "You know I don't do that stuff," he says quietly.

"Usually I would accept that answer, Duo, but they're extremely persistent. I'm not sure it will look good for you to continue to refuse, especially with your background…"

"I don't give a damn about my background, Milliardo. I'm not going to pose on a stage for a bunch of rich bitches to throw money at me. And I'm certainly not going to sell myself, even for a night, no matter how much good the charity does," Duo's voice has dropped to a growl, his free hand curled into a tight fist.

There's a pause, as the man processes his sudden irritation. Duo only calls him by his formal name when he is crossing the line from playful into legitimate anger. "Just think about it, Duo. I'll talk to you again after the show. I'm sure you need to be getting ready," Milliardo Peacecraft's voice is low, soothing, and Duo knows that the discussion is hardly over.

"Whatever," he snarls, and he slams the phone down.

He props his elbows on the table, scattering the myriad of products that transform him from Duo Maxwell, L2 orphan and street rat, into Shinigami, God of Death, singer and lead guitarist of the Gundam Pilots. Dropping his head into his hands, he lets his eyes slide closed and laces his fingers through his hair, uncaring of the gel that streaks his skin. He knows that he's wrecking an hour of careful preparation, wrestling his three feet of hair into a concert-appropriate creation, but at the moment he couldn't care less.

A tentative tap sounds at the door and he grunts his acknowledgement, peering at the mirror through his fingers. Quatre slips in again, concern written in his gentle blue eyes. He nervously adjusts the deep blue vest hugging his torso as he pads across the room, settling into a chair beside Duo.

"I hear the phone hit the desk… again. Everything okay?"

Duo lifts his head with a soft sigh, fixing his eyes on the mirror as he attempts to remedy the damage to his bangs. "Yeah….. no. Peacecraft wants me to go through with that charity thing… the auction thing… the, ya know, look pretty so people buy a couple of hours with you." He snorts. "Zech's decided that Imma cheap hooker. Or a not-so-cheap hooker, as there's sposed to be some high rollers at this stupid event."

"Oh, Duo… I know you don't necessarily want to expose that part of your history, but you have to give them a reasonable answer. It might be time to just tell them."

"I am not going to tell those bloodthirsty sharks that I was almost sold into child slavery on L2!" Duo's eyes are lit with fury and disbelief that one of his closest friends, one of the few that knows his secrets, would even suggest that.

"If you would let me finish…" Quatre continues mildly, unaffected by Duo's outburst or violent expression. Duo waves a hand in reluctant capitulation, and Quatre tilts his head in wry acknowledgement. "I was going to say that it might be time for you to reveal your sexuality. They can't expect you to date a female if your tastes clearly lie in the other direction."

Duo forgets what he is doing and runs a hand through his bangs, eyes wide with frustration. "That'll be more trouble than it's worth, Quat. Part of the reason I'm so popular is because all the ladies think they have a happily ever after with me. I won't have a snowball's chance in hell if I let them down."

Quatre smiles slightly. "I think you'll find that your female fans are more than willing to delude themselves. They'll just have to change from 'he'll pick me above all other women' to 'I'll be the only women he ever chooses, because I'm so beautiful that he forgets he's gay'. You just have to put a different spin on it."

Duo rolls his eyes, spinning a tube of lipstain between his fingers. He glances down at it, pulling the top off, and then drops his mouth open to brush the crimson color across his bottom lip. Pressing his lips together, he pops them apart. "You're right, Q. I'm just that sexy." He mimes a kiss at his bass player, grinning mischievously as a blush rises on the other boy's cheeks. He would never endanger the relationship between Quatre and his drummer, but he just couldn't resist teasing the boy. Something about the charming naiveté just made it too easy.

"You're better go get yourself and your lover boy ready," Duo murmurs, beginning to strip off his shirt. He snickers as he hears the door open and shut rather quickly. Quatre had such a strange sense of morals. He was completely uninhibited around his partner, Gundam's drummer, but God forbid anyone other than Trowa show some skin. Then again, Duo muses, it was kind of cute… loyalty and fierce possessiveness and all that jazz.

Pausing in front of the mirror, he glances over his shoulder at his back, pulling his braid over his shoulder to drape across his bare chest. Lines of ebony ink streak across his pale skin, stark outline of batwings stretching over the length of his back. The edges of the wings dip beneath the waist of his pants, shadowed and strung with gleaming chains. A sad smile touches the edges of his lips, the sorrow deepening as he turns to see the elaborate cross etched on his bicep. Wings for death and cross for life, though at this point they almost match as far as the deeper meaning is concerned. He runs his fingers over the sharp, elegant edges of the cross, eyes half-closing in pain. He murmurs the names of each memory as they drift across his mind, tiny faces with such sad, agonized eyes. As always, he ends with the same name. Solo.

Shaking himself free of the drowning-deep waters of his past, he shrugs a skintight shirt on, fabric clinging to his lean body. A low v slashes the fabric in front, revealing the hint of a scar on his chest. He tugs the shirt over to cover the chalk-white line, reaching over to the chair to pick up a pair of decadently soft leather pants. He begins the painstaking process of wiggling into them, as they fit like a second skin, practically painted onto his muscular legs. He's afraid that one of these days he will split the seams, but it hasn't happened yet.

He slides a metal cuff up onto his unadorned bicep and straps a thick leather band around each wrist, small spikes gleaming on the heavy bracelets. Glancing in the mirror, he adjusts the line of rings running up the shell of one ear, the matte black cross dangling from the other ear. His face falls for a moment as he takes in the whole picture. A pretty little sex god, lips lined in carmine, purple eyes glinting from a haze of black shadow, body hugged by black fabric that leaves little to the imagination… All of this, pretty little mask. Not bad for a homeless brat from the poorest, most forgotten colony. Well, not so poor since they dragged me from the garbage and realized it might look good for the top of the charts rock star to have a less illicit hometown. Still… none of them have any idea. They want this body, but they have no idea what it would cost them. They don't call me God of Death without reason.

Duo sighs, mood plunging again as he plops gracelessly onto the cushioned chair. He stretches out one leg, shoving his foot into the knee-high leather boots that complete his outfit. He'll be sweating bullets by the end of the first song, but Zechs would be horrified if he ever suggested that basketball shorts and a pair of Converse would suit him just fine. Lacing up the boot with quick, decisive movements, he eyes the clock and shakes his head. Just about showtime.

Closing his eyes once more, he lets the hum of a phantom crowd run through him, manic energy rising in his veins like an eager lioncub. When he opens the violet orbs once more, they are lit with anticipation, his face alight with animation and excitement. There is a certain feral darkness lifting from his skin, a certain devious sensuality in the way he rises from the chair and stretches, spine popping with the motion. He stalks towards the door, footsteps silent, and pauses to reverently lift his guitar from its stand by the door. It is battered, surface shined up as best as it could be, marred with scrapes and scratches. He runs a hand lovingly down the neck and lifts it to his lips, whispering that last name again. Solo. It's always for you, buddy.

The first time Heero Yuy hears of the Gundam Pilots, he is running all-out on a treadmill at the gym. It's three o'clock in the morning, and it isn't the first time that his insomnia has made him grateful for the invention of 24-hour gyms. There's no one else around, and Heero is stripped down to shorts and running shoes, body moving like a well-oiled machine as he paces on the endlessly circling belt. Sweat gleams on the tanned surface of his chest, trickling down the crevices of his constantly shifting muscles. The tiny screen attached to the treadmill rumbles in the background, bass humming through the headphones he's plugged into the machine. He'd left it on the music channel, as he only uses it as background noise. He's zoned out, focused on each measured intake of breath, each rapid beat of his heart.

He's beginning to come down from his full speed when a heavy, addicting beat slams down the line into his ears, and his eyes flick to the screen as the video starts. The screen goes black, and if not for the hypnotic beat rumbling through the headphones he would have assumed that it was broken. A single spotlight flicks on, screen panning up the leather-clad back of a single figure. Heero's feet slow as his eyes take in the slender but well-muscled legs and the quite frankly decadent ass, poured into a pair of low-slung crimson jeans. The tail end of an insanely long braid brushes against the person's tailbone, swaying slightly as the camera pauses on hips that have begun to twist back and forth, slow, tantalizing circles that leave Heero's mouth dry.

His hand reaches out to lower the treadmill's speed, acknowledging that his focus has been completely eclipsed by the video in front of him. The view pans up, following the twisted strands of hair, revealing a back that is bare except for one of the most intense tattoos that Heero has ever seen. He doesn't generally find tattoos appealing, having seen many that are distasteful and poorly done, but the dark ink highlights the shifting muscles of the man's back in an incredible way. At least Heero assumes that the figure is a man, considering that he doesn't think media has evolved so far as to allow a topless woman on a popular music network.

Heero's guess is confirmed as the man turns his head, flicking a seductive gaze over his shoulder at the camera. Heero stumbles on the belt beneath his feet as the strangely colored eyes seem to bore straight into his own, and the man's tongue flicks out to slowly trace his reddened lips. He jumps his feet to the unmoving sides of the treadmill, lifting his bottle of water to his lips and taking a long drink. His respiration is still accelerated, and he can hear his pulse pounding in his ears. A frown creases his face as he monitors his vital signs, noting that they should have been down to his resting rate by now.

All thoughts fly out of his head as the man turns fully around on the screen, revealing a sinfully muscled torso. The man runs a hand slowly down his chest, fingers dancing teasingly down his abdominals. Heero swallows painfully, mouth dry again, and curses his body's involuntary reactions. So many years of being completely undistracted by the people around him, and he is unmanned in an instant by a half-clad pretty boy in a music video. The long-haired figure on the screen drops his hand to the noticeable bulge in his jeans, winks one black-rimmed eye, and rolls his hips into his palm with a distinctly heated expression on his heart-shaped face. Just as Heero is convinced that this awkward moment couldn't possibly get any worse, those crimson lips part and the man begins to sing. His voice is like oil slicked over steel, a low rumble that shoots straight through Heero's veins.

He fumbles with the headphones, yanking the end out of the connector, eyes absently noting the song information as it pops up on a corner of the screen. The man is twining himself around the mic stand, fingers sliding down the metal length, and Heero slams his hand down on the buttons, fumbling until the screen fades to black. He drops his head, chest heaving, and picks up his towel in shaking hands to wipe his face and chest. Ridiculous. I'm being ridiculous. He's bred for sex appeal, that's all. It's not unreasonable that I've reacted to carefully planned marketing.

Heero sits down at his desk, rolling the chair in toward his computer. The tech floor is quiet, a pre-workday silence settled over the empty cubicles. He's one of the highest level programmers, so he'd been gifted a coveted corner desk with a view of the waking city beneath him. He would have been in a higher position, in an office with a door and a suite of windows, but he chose to stay out of the spotlight. He much preferred to be left in peace to do his programming and software repairs than to be buried in the administrative nonsense that came with being head of the department.

His desk is empty, cleared of the clutter and photo frames that litter the desks of his coworkers. Visitors often assume that his desk is empty, are startled to find that a long-time employee of the company occupies the space. It amuses him, in a strange sort of way. He doesn't feel the need to keep the reminders of what is important to him in physical form, displayed for any passing stranger to see. He doesn't have anyone to keep photographs of, anyway. His closest friend is Wufei, but he would find it somewhat awkward to have a framed portrait of a friend on his desk… not to mention that he'd have to field questions of whether or not they were lovers. Techies are surprisingly open-minded, and the teasing wouldn't be about his sexuality so much as they would be about the fact that he had a sex life at all. Still, it wasn't something that he wanted to deal with.

And beside that… he offers a wave over the side of his cubicle as Wufei strolls into the still abandoned office. They are always the first two to arrive. Wufei has been his best friend since college, ever since he rescued their computer science teacher from Heero's scathing assessment of their insufficient technology. It had only been the first week of school, but the teacher had little true knowledge of the inner workings of computers and, well, Heero had never suffered fools gladly. Wufei had pulled him aside, suggested that he speak to the dean about being excused from the class, since he clearly didn't need to be taking it, and explained that professors generally didn't take it well when their students had superiority complexes.

Yet it went even deeper than that. Heero and Wufei had bonded over their mutual interest in the complexities of computer programming and gradually moved onto spending time together when not actively involved in classwork… though Heero was always carrying around some sort of textbook, and Wufei rarely went anywhere without a tablet filled with digital copies of his class notes. It only took a few breaks before Wufei noticed that Heero never left the campus to go home. He'd cornered Heero after Thanksgiving, when he'd inquired about the other boy's holiday only to discover that Heero had spent the week holed up in his room.

Heero shakes his head, remembering Wufei's quiet horror at hearing that Heero didn't have anywhere to go. Wufei had insisted that Heero come home with him for the winter break, and Heero had reluctantly agreed, since Wufei didn't seem inclined to let him stay without a fight. Wufei's family had taken Heero under their extensive wings as another son, giving Heero the first family he'd had in over a decade. The L1 foster system had ridded itself of him at the first available opportunity, shipping him off to college on earth as soon as he'd been granted a generous scholarship. He didn't have any family to speak of, having lost his parents at a young age. No foster family would touch him. He was violent, anti-social, and saw no reason to tone down his intelligence to suit the lesser brains of the people around him. L1 housed him, educated him, and encouraged him to go as far away from them as possible.

It still stung a little bit, that utter rejection. It almost wiped out the fond memories of his parents, the accepting environment, the encouragement to learn everything he could get his hands on. And when he came to them with some impossible tidbit about evolution or physics, they were never horrified that it was beyond their comprehension or beyond his age. They were only proud that their son was so brilliant. They were always proud…

"…Heero."

He lifts his head, startling a little bit. Peeking his head over the edge of the cubicle, he notes that most of his coworkers have finally arrived and seem to be gathered around Noin's desk. Wufei waves him over, and he stirs from his chair to join the group of people. Hanging back a little bit, mindful of his need for personal space, he shifts until he can see the computer screen. The few girls in their tech group are gathered closest, giggling to each other and pointing at the figures in the video. The men hang back, shifting restlessly from foot to foot, trying to avoid watching the people on the screen. He leans in to get a better view, pushing down his discomfort at the proximity to the women, and quickly realizes why none of the males are interested. Standing up slowly, resisting the urge to jerk away from the scene as if stung by a horsefly, he turns toward the men gathered at the edge of the cubicle.

One of them jerks his hand at the speakers, avoiding looking at the screen. "I'm not much for the video, 'cause, you know, I'm not into that, but the music is pretty good."

The others mumble agreement and Heero nods stiffly. Noin turns around, lifting eager eyes to their uncomfortable group, and a grin lights her face. "What's wrong, boys? Threatened that he's prettier than you and still has women flocking to his side?"

Heero grunts, some of the others grumble in irritation. Wufei casts an annoyed glance at his girlfriend Sally, who is still enraptured by the figure on the screen. "I'm not threatened by anyone. He's attractive and walks around half-naked. Of course women are going to be drawn to him," he comments snidely.

Reno elbows Heero, a smirk curling his face. "What do you think, Heero? Are you a fan of the oh-so-stunning Shinigami? This heavy rock music is your type of thing, isn't it?"

Though Heero usually tolerates their joking, he twitches away from the contact and levels a glare at the other man. They're always commenting on the fact that they've never heard him talk about a girlfriend. The fact that he is constantly turning away overtures from Relena, a pretty girl who works with the public relations section of their international company.

"Maybe he's a little starstruck," Drake comments, eyeing Heero's ever more rigid stance. "Heero, I've heard Relena is planning on going into politics. Maybe you'll climb her once she starts climbing the ladder, eh?"

Heero snorts underneath his breath, easing up once the topic has turned away from the lithe figure shimmying on the computer. "I'd rather die," he mutters, face expressionless, but the mood lightens as the tension drains away.

Their boss drifts onto the floor and people begin to dissipate, moving back to their own work with an absent sort of purpose. Lady Une is relaxed on most days and generally gives warning on her off-days. They call those 'glasses days'. When the Lady appears on the floor with her hair up and her glasses on, it's going to be a rough day for the tech crew. Today she sweeps a genial smile over their early morning gathering and leans over the back of Noin's chair to watch a clip of the video.

"I haven't heard this song yet. Did you hear that the Gundam Pilots are coming into town soon?" The women murmur excitedly at the news, and as Heero sinks into his chair he hears the frantic tapping of keys from Noin's corner.

He can't help keeping an ear on their conversation as he opens his email, watching the new messages flood in. Dorothy's voice rises above the hum of discussion. "It says that they're holding a contest… offering VIP tickets… backstage passes." The voices meld back together again, rising and falling in eager repartee. Heero shakes his head, violently, telling himself that he is absolutely not interested in Shinigami or the Gundam Pilots or how exactly he fits into those scandalously tight pants…

Another email pops up on his screen.

From: Chang Wufei

Subject: Closets and Pilots

Come out, come out wherever you are. I saw the way you jumped away from that screen. You're allowed to like people, you know. It won't kill you to be a normal human being.

He grins. No one but Wufei would dare mention anything of the sort to him. He suspects that most of the floor assumes that he is asexual or secretly gay, since they've never seen him show anything but disinterest in women… or other people, for that matter. No one would ask him, particularly not at work, and he makes a point of avoiding his coworkers outside of the tech floor. The tech group at Alliance Corps. is a close-knit group. They always make an attempt to invite Heero out for drinks or over for barbeques in the summer, and Heero will allow Wufei to drag him along every once in a blue moon. But honestly, Heero doesn't see much of a point in letting work friends get into his personal business. The last thing he needs is rumors at work to distract from him doing his job.

He hits reply and types in only three words. As the response pops up on the opposite side of a cubicle, he hears Wufei's quiet laugh. Fuck off, Chang.

From: Chang Wufei

Subject: Closets are for clothes, not for people

Your birthday is coming up, Yuy. Watch out that someone doesn't enter you in that contest.

Heero's eyes widen in alarm. Don't you dare. He snaps back, sending the message with a decisive poke of his mouse. He doesn't get a response, and a frown tugs down the corners of his lips. A tiny voice in his head whispers that it wouldn't mind meeting Shinigami, and he shoves it ruthlessly aside before it can manifest more images of that silken hair, the high cheekbones, the muscles moving restlessly beneath a pattern of wings… he makes a low click at the back of his throat, a frustrated noise, realizing that he had a mound of emails waiting to be read while he was dwelling on the appearance of a certain rockstar.