Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, wish I did, just enjoy
writing about ‘em for free etc
Pairings: 1x2, 3+4
Category: AU, romance
Warnings: Yaoi, lemon
Spoilers: None
Word count: 91,970
Notes: Duo
Maxwell had a glowing future ahead of him, a young man full of talent and a
lust for life; but it was all slipping through his fingers. Heero Yuy already had the successful life;
but was struggling to enjoy it to the full.
Neither knew what to do to change things; to find what they were
missing. But then, neither of them had
met the other yet.
Written
for gwyaoi’s OTP Novella Challenge 2004.
With
*huge* hugs for Steph’s invaluable beta-ing, and title suggestion!
Also,
with my usual apologies for any poor research – all errors are mine own!
Feedback: If
you liked it, PLEASE let me know!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Sooo… whaddya think it is?” The thin, pretty girl with the spiky hair leant her head to one side and peered at the giant canvas on the wall in front of her. “Funny title – 4:0045. There’s all that blue – and the green spots. Can’t see anythin’ properly…”
“’S a
metaphor, yeah?” replied her friend. He
pushed the thin wire glasses up his nose, and squeezed at her arm, in sympathy
for her ignorance.
“A what?”
“Metaphor – a
symbol for somethin’ else.”
“Sooo… ‘s not
a thing then? Like a pet?
Like his house?”
“Christ, Jo,
y’are so not in tune with art! This ain’t paint-by-numbers. This guy is angry, y’know? He’s yellin’
at us – he’s demandin’ we stand up and be counted! It’s a comment on the c’mplexity of modern
socialism – on the diversity of p’litical issues in the context of failing
economic standards and the rav’ges of war –“
Jo felt a soft
hand at her shoulder, and she turned to see bright blue eyes staring at
her. They flickered to her companion,
then back to her. She saw a cute nose
crinkling in amused distaste; chestnut hair brushed away from a wide brow. She registered it was a guy, and she ran her
eyes quickly down a tall, slender, muscular body, dressed in a wickedly brief,
vivid blue vest, and skin-tight leather pants.
He looked like one of the art students; perhaps one of the
caterers. Who cares? she thought, with a
rush of excitement that went straight to her head. The leather pants on the long, lean thighs
were compellingly gorgeous – dammit, gushed her next thought, so was he!
Then he spoke to her, in a low, easy voice.
“It’s a
picture of my last hangover, actually – uh – Jo, isn’t it? That’s the time I got thrown out of the
bar. The main thing is, though – do you like it?”
“It’s cool,”
she nodded, feeling a flush high up on her cheeks. “Bright.
Bold. Makes me feel sorta tingly
–“
Her companion
made a snorting sound.
But the
blue-eyed guy didn’t seem annoyed at her naiveté – rather, he nodded back, and
his expression widened with pleasure. He glanced again at her friend, and then
turned deliberately to face her. “Sooo, Jo,” he drawled. “I dunno who the patronising prat is on your
arm, but I think we’ve both listened to more pretentious twaddle tonight than
either of us deserves – wouldn’t you agree?”
There was a
brief moment of shocked silence.
The mystery
guy grinned, and pressed his hand back on the girl’s shoulder. “You wanna talk feeling tingly – call me,
OK? Number’s with the blond guy at the
front desk.”
“Now wait up!
– Aren’t you –“ spluttered Jo’s friend.
His glasses bounced on his nose, awkwardly. He waved the brochure in his hand towards the
other guy’s face; it was folded open at the publicity photo of someone.
“Yeah,” smiled
the guy. “I am. So get over it! Enjoy the exhibition!”
And he’d gone,
weaving back into the crowd.
“He’s –“ came
another splutter from the young man.
“Didn’t you see, f’God’s sake?
He’s -!”
Jo wasn’t
really listening. She stared at her
friend instead, and wondered exactly why she thought she’d liked him in the
first place. He never listened to her,
he talked too much himself, and when he did
talk, he really was a prat! It wasn’t as if he had anything going for him
in the looks department, either, as some kinda compensation for having the
charisma of a clothes peg…
And then the
call for hush came from the gallery director, and the chattering around the
room slowly ceased.
“Ladies and
gentlemen – your attention please? This
is the opening night of the gallery, as I’m sure you all know –“ Polite
laughter from around the room. “I’m sure
we can already see that this will be the first event of many - that this brave
but thrilling venture will have a glorious future ahead of it! It is supported, of course, by the brilliant
family whose name it bears – the two incandescently talented brothers, who
bring some of their own pieces for us here tonight, to hang amongst some pretty
prestigious company.” Eyes wandered
round the room; murmurs of appreciation followed.
“Unfortunately,
the older brother is unable to join us tonight – a European tour, you
understand!” More murmurs; heads
nodding. “But let’s just raise a glass,
in amongst all this fun, to the younger of those two inspired young men, who is
already making quite a mark in the art world, and is sure to become as famous
and as respected as his brother, and who is –
most luckily! – here with us tonight!
Indeed, he has favoured us with the best
pieces of his recent work on these walls, and one of the main aims of this
gallery is to become a show place for his own collection.”
There was some
light clapping.
Jo heard the
quiet buzz around her.
“They say he’s
a charming kid – “
“…exciting
talent, exciting ideas…”
“He designed
this whole show himself, y’know?…”
The gallery
director’s speech resumed. “So we welcome
the latest addition to the art world, another of this famous family, and wish
him more of the success and praise that he already commands. And – of course! – we look forward to his
coming season of new works, and many more following that!”
More clapping
– more enthusiasm now. A couple of
whistles from the more bohemian of the guests.
“Ladies and
gentlemen – Duo Maxwell!”
At the back of
the room, an entranced Jo stared at the tall, handsome young man who moved
quickly to stand beside the director; whose unconventionally long, braided
chestnut hair swung heavily behind his back, brushing at those same leather
jeans that she’d earlier admired.
He stood with
the same swaggering confidence that he’d shown before; waved the same hand that
had settled firmly on her shoulder as he spoke.
And he gazed around the room with the same bright blue eyes that had
teased her earlier, full of the same amusement.
As she stared, open-mouthed, he caught her eye.
And he winked
at her.
_____________________________________________________________________
Two young men
and a young woman stood outside the entrance of a building that had just been
sold, and stared up it. It had a
visually stunning façade; wide, high windows; cool, pale brick walls. The upper storey had a single picture window
spanning the whole front of the building; it embraced the sunlight like a
welcome lover. Downstairs, there were
the remnants of shop fittings and demonstration materials, showing that it had
once been busy with visitors of one kind or another. There were a couple of broken chairs; a
single bulb still intact in a modern light fitting set into the ceiling. There was a mounted board that stretched
across all of one wall – hanging precariously from only one corner’s fastening,
now.
At the back,
there was a door through to other rooms; to the upstairs apartment. The door was ajar.
It was all
viewed through dusty windows; all viewed past derisive graffiti on those same
pale walls.
The woman
peered distastefully through the nearest window. “It’s in an appalling state,” she said. She was almost model-thin, with a gauntness
to her face that proclaimed her figure was hard-won rather than natural. She had perfectly coiffured blond hair – a
designer suit and shoes. Her eyes were
sharp, intelligent – and cynical. She
sounded as if she’d made up her mind even before arriving. “I can’t see what use it’s going to be to the
Corporation.”
The taller of
the two men turned to look at her.
“Malia, you’ve read the documents as well as I; as indeed have the three
sets of lawyers. Please don’t imply I’m
a fool. We want the access – and we need
the opportunity to expand the current operations. That means we need this side of the street as
well. This whole block is perfect for
our purposes. This unit has obviously
been totally neglected, but it can be redecorated – it’s basically sound.”
“But the
Corporation’s never considered a gallery, Heero. Why don’t we convert it into another set of
offices? Legal Services needs some new
space – “
The man beside
her cleared his throat. He didn’t need
to do any more. Malia Trent flushed a
deep pink – he was the only man she’d ever known who could do that to her,
outside of orgasm – and her mouth pursed shut.
“It was built
as a gallery – it’s perfect for its purpose.
I’m not one to pass that up, Malia.
You know my opinions on waste. I
have an art collection – this can be a promotional showroom for it; a
frontispiece for Media Services. We’ll
use it for the entertainment of clients, and for presentation events. That – of course – is your particular
department.”
It wasn’t that
he was asking her opinion. The decision
had already been made.
Malia sneaked
a look through her false lashes at her boss.
He was young; probably mid-twenties – but no-one would ever have accused
him of being immature. Heero Yuy was a
fairly private person – but his name and reputation were known to anyone who
followed the financial papers. In his
early teens, he’d become the sole heir to a large trust fund, set up when his
wealthy parents died, and the tabloid press had waited hungrily to see how this
rich young child would fritter it away.
However, his lawyers had appointed him an eminently sensible financial
advisor, and although Heero Yuy had left school at the earliest opportunity,
he’d moved swiftly into employment, to learn about commerce.
He showed an
astonishing aptitude and determination, and had been promoted as the youngest
Board Director of the firm where he trained.
Over the next few years, he was one of the youngest traders on the
Exchange; the youngest man to manage a successful acquisition of a publicly
quoted corporation; the youngest man to make a million dollar fortune from his
personal portfolio. Everyone admitted
that he had an amazing talent that was beyond his years. The trust fund remained substantial, and well
invested.
He was
self-controlled, in both business and his personal life. There was no scandal in his young life –
there was no controversy. Business rivals
both hated and feared him, and even though he was still young, they
underestimated him at their peril. When
they sold to him, or negotiated with him, they knew that the compensation
they’d receive would be commercially fair, but very aggressively priced.
And as an
employer? He was often cool to the point
of coldness – could be hard to the point of harshness. Again, he was not to be underestimated. He paid extremely well – but he expected 24/7
commitment, much as he gave himself. His
decisions were rational and carefully measured, but he was fair to his staff;
he’d listen to feedback and reasonable suggestions. His business instincts had been proven to be
accurate, time and again; so his people stayed with him. As a result, most of them had the experience
of their lives.
Malia could
only guess at his personal wealth, for no-one in the company came near to those
details. And he was bloody hot! she
thought. Wore his designer clothes like
they’d been tailored solely for him.
Tall, tight body – limbs that moved like liquid steel. His skin was dusky, with the shine of
excellent health; his hair was dark, cut beautifully, but still a shaggy, sexy
mass on his forehead. And he had such
incredible eyes! A mixture of deep blue
and purple; dark pupils that reflected the subject, but never exposed the
watcher. They were fabulous even when
they were like flints, as they were now.
Yeah… he was gorgeous! she sighed to herself. She felt the familiar flush in her groin, and
fought it down. She wondered – as she
often did – why she never saw him with the same girl for more than a month or
so. Wasn’t he dating that supermodel at
the moment? Internationally famous –
supernaturally thin. Malia Trent seethed
with jealousy.
Half of her
was damned glad that Heero Yuy had never made a pass at her. The other half lay awake at nights, tempting
her with erotic dreams of what she might have expected if he had.
“The Maxwell
Gallery,” murmured the third member of the group, a young man who had been
hovering behind her.
Heero Yuy
turned to the pale, blond man, and focussed his eyes on him. “Do you see a sign there, Tony?”
“N – no,” Tony
stammered. “Sorry, Mr Yuy. That’s just what everyone knows it as –” He
hopped from one foot to another; paler than ever, and wishing that he could lie
down and melt into the pavement, to escape that glare. Which was worse, he thought miserably –
Malia’s acidic tongue-lashing, or Mr Yuy’s cool contempt? Not for the first time, Tony wished he’d
taken a different choice at college, and stayed at home to run the family
business. Might have stood more chance
of living to see his twentieth birthday.
But Heero
Yuy’s anger never materialised; he even seemed to relax a little. There was a thoughtful twist at the corners
of his mouth. “You knew Solo Maxwell?”
“Knew of him, sir. The story was all over the city at the time;
when he died, y’know. He was a hell of a
character – always at an event – always in the public eye. Brilliant artist – presented works to the
President himself, they said. Bought
this building for his family – for his younger brother.”
“The brother…”
murmured Heero.
Tony was
gabbling on, in his nervousness. “I
thought the kid still lived here – though he doesn’t show; doesn’t even paint
anymore. Just hides out here, since –
well, you know. They said he – the
younger brother - had a brilliant talent of his own. Very different from Solo Maxwell – much
bolder; a different medium altogether.”
“It was,” said
Heero. Tony was rather surprised that he
offered his comment.
“Duo Maxwell,
he’s called. A black sheep…” murmured
Malia, a little acidly. “I met him
once…”
“Yeah, more
than a little wild, the papers always said,” said Tony, more confidently
now. If there was one thing he was good
at, it was garnering gossip! “This
gallery was gonna be his launch into the art world – his ticket to his own
success.”
“But that
didn’t happen, did it?” said Heero, his voice suddenly sharp. Tony looked up at him, startled. Not sure whether he was angry or upset. “And that was well over a year ago.”
“Yeah…” sighed
Tony.
Heero tugged
gently at the cuffs of a beautifully understated jacket. It fit him like it had been made for him –
which, in fact, it had. “It’s never mattered to me why it’s on the market, Tony.
I just needed to know that it was, and that my price was accepted.”
He stared once
more at the grimy windows, and his voice settled again.
“I have no
interest in buying ghosts.”
_____________________________________________________________________
The tired
barman sighed as the panelled door to the outside world creaked and swung open
again; it was past midnight - he’d been about to lock up…
But then he
saw who it was, and he knew he’d not be serving any more drinks tonight. He half-raised a hand to the slim,
brown-haired man who’d slipped into the bar, and nodded him towards the only
other inhabitant of the room.
“Asleep again,
I guess. He’s not asked for more since
eleven. I was gonna call you…”
“’S OK,
Marty,” murmured the newcomer. “I went
round his place, and he wasn’t there, so I guessed he’d be here. Anyone else -?” The question wasn’t fully spoken, but the
barman knew only too well what was meant.
“Nah. There was a kid with him earlier, they were –
y’know – kinda interested in each other, so much ‘s I had to ask him to keep
his hands on the table for the sake of the other customers getting irate. But the two of ‘em had words, and the kid
left hours ago.”
“Fine,” sighed
the man, in a tone that showed it was anything but. “I’ll take him now.” He wore jeans and a loose tee shirt, and the
weary expression on his face seemed to say that he’d had a hard time of the
night himself. He rummaged in his jeans
pocket, pulled out a few bills, and placed them down for the barman. They nodded to each other, closing whatever
arrangement they had between them. Then
the brown-haired man moved quickly towards the guy they were both talking about
– a chestnut-coloured head, dropped on to arms that were folded on top of a
stained table. A face hidden in folds of
a cotton shirt; the slight sound of a low snoring. A lean young body, folded uncomfortably on a
seat in the booth – but obviously not uncomfortably enough to prevent him
sleeping where he sat.
The slim man
moved the half-empty beer glass to one side, and looked down on the
sleeper. “Stupid asshole,” he murmured,
though without any particular anger, and not as if he expected his words to be
heard. “You’ve got a bed at home,
haven’t you? And a friend to come visit
and see to you. A real one – not the
kids you pick up and caress when the fancy takes you. So why’re you hanging out here again?”
The sleeping
man must have heard him, though, because he stirred. Groaned.
One of the arms peeled itself out from under his heavy head, and
stretched itself straight with an ominous crack of the joint.
“Shit, Trowa –
is that you? Where the fuck am I -?”
“Where d’you
think?” muttered the brown-haired man.
He sat himself down on one of the other seats, with a sigh. “Thought you’d given this up, after the last
time. Drinking yourself stupid at
Marty’s.”
“Am not –“
protested the other. “Not stupid at all
– else he’d be yammerin’ at me for the bill…” His face could be seen now,
though he kept rubbing a hand over it, obviously trying to wake up properly. There were tired bags underneath the bright
blue eyes; the smooth, tanned skin was dull in the dim lights of the bar. His fringe hung limply over his forehead –
and now he tugged at a weight at the nape of his neck; it was a long, thick
braid of hair the same bronzed colour.
“Fuckin’
hair…sat on it, Trowa! It’s killin’ me…”
“Something
is,” said Trowa, grimly. “Go home, Duo.”
Duo Maxwell
groaned again, and sat up straight; it seemed to nag at some pain in his lower
back, because he grimaced a little. “Got
no home, though, have I? Gonna sign it
all away tomorrow. Lose the whole
fucking lot tomorrow –“
“Duo, you did
that some time ago; lost it all - or drank it away! You’re no fool – you can’t play the innocent
victim with me. You had a chance – but
you fucked up. You’ll get another. So get over it!”
“This your
Kindly Friend approach, Trow?” sighed Duo, wearily. “Or you practising for Oprah?”
“Duo…” sighed
his friend. “Do you want me to go on
lying? Go on pandering to you? You know you’re a bright, smart guy with
talent the rest of us’d kill for.
Instead, you drink your checks away, bury yourself inside a filthy
apartment, and snarl at anyone who gives you the time of day – or try to fuck
‘em, seems those are the only two options you’ve got in your repertoire –“
Duo growled at
him, but half-heartedly. “I kinda feel
you’re pissed with me, Trow. I can walk,
y’know – you won’t need that fireman’s lift you used last time –“
“I’m not gonna
carry you anywhere, Duo. Physically or
metaphorically. Drop the past - move
on. I’ve tried, haven’t I?”
“Guess so,”
replied Duo, a thread of anger in his own voice now. He pushed at the table, and got up on
unsteady feet. “Guess you think you’re
better ‘n me. But this was just a
farewell drink, y’know? ‘Cos I am making the break, ain’t I? Changing my life! Ain’t you pleased with that?”
Trowa’s deep
green eyes stared at his friend, with unfathomable emotion. “I don’t
think I’m better than you, Duo…”
“Sure!”
replied Duo. He looked steadier on his
feet now, and his mouth quirked with a sly smile. “You ain’t got the looks, boy! And I bet the last thing you painted was somethin’ your mam put up on the door of the
‘fridge…”
Trowa smiled
slightly, responding to him. “You’re a
real pain as a friend, Duo Maxwell.”
“Yeah… I
am. Guess if I had more friends, they’d
tell me that as well as you,” came the sigh in reply. “Can I come home with you tonight, Trowa?”
Trowa
started. “I –“
Duo’s deep
blue eyes latched on to him, and the depth of misery Trowa saw there took his
breath away. It was all so very
reminiscent – heart-wrenchingly so.
“’S corny,
fella, but I don’t wanna be on my own.
Don’t get excited – I ain’t making a pass at ya!”
Trowa slipped
an arm round his shoulder; for a second, his fingers brushed at Duo’s sallow
cheek. “I’m far from excited, Duo. You’re not exactly at your best right now –
I doubt you’d do yourself justice in bed.
Or me, for that matter…“
“Fuck that!”
said Duo, but rather fondly. “C’n still
get it up, y’know…I like boys ‘n
girls, Trow…never been one to restrict my options…”
Trowa smiled;
a strange mixture of emotions in his face.
It was perhaps a memory of some other time; some other voice. “I’ll give it serious thought, bright boy. But – not tonight, eh? Come away now, if you’re coming back to mine -
though I’ve only got the sleeping bag.”
He dropped his
arm down to hold on to Duo’s waist; it didn’t look quite so obvious that he was
helping him stand up. Not that he and
Marty didn’t know the score – but Duo had his pride; even if he used to drown
it rather too regularly.
Duo coughed;
Trowa felt the shake of his body through his own. “I am doing the right thing, Trow? Ain’t I?
It was all the past – you’re right, I’ve gotta drop it, and find
something new.”
“He said the
same, Duo. Solo. All the time.
Find something new – move on. No
regrets.”
“Easy for him to say, eh? Mr Happy Corpse. Mr Leave it All Behind for some other poor
fucker to suffer, and sign over the worldly goods –“
“Duo – “
warned Trowa.
“I know,”
hissed Duo. “But that’s where I’m a
little more honest than you, eh? I got no fucking interest in ghosts,
Trowa. None at all…”
_____________________________________________________________________
The cab pulled
up at the front entrance of the Park Gate Apartments, and the doorman bent
quickly to get the door. Heero Yuy
stepped out, smoothing down his jacket, and allowing his case to be lifted out
for him. The doorman greeted him
formally, and Heero moved quickly and with familiarity past the desk
inside. The receptionist turned away
from another resident who was asking directions, to confirm to Mr Yuy that his
laundry was ready for him, cleaned and pressed, and that his mail was in an orderly
pile for his collection. There were no
messages. He nodded thanks.
The apartments
were even more than select, in that they had their own in-house
facilities. There was a gymnasium – a
reasonably sized pool. They also had a
prestigious restaurant, and a bar and lounge for the residents. Tonight, Heero wandered over to the bar, and
the bar manager was ready at once with his favourite rum and coke. The restaurant manager was at his elbow, with
a respectfully murmured offer to bring over the menu, to take his order for
dinner. Heero accepted the service
quietly and calmly. He’d been living in
this block for a year now. It was what
he was used to.
As he debated
the salmon over the sole, he leant against the bar and watched other residents
arriving. He knew few of them by sight,
and none by name; most of the individuals were as select as the apartments
themselves. He saw the sudden grin on
the doorman’s face, as a younger couple joked with him about the weather. He saw the receptionist lean forward at the
desk and blush, as her previous customer complimented her on something or
other. Behind him, the bar manager
flicked a peanut at his new barman, and they smothered an instinctive laugh.
When he turned
back to pick up his glass, the respectful quietness had returned around him.
He noted the
contrast, and not for the first time. He
didn’t know why it made him feel a little depressed.
“Lookin’ a
little morose there, Yuy!” came a familiar voice at his shoulder. Heero jumped a little, startled. He’d not been aware of any of his thoughts
showing in his expression. “Wishin’ you were a man of the people? They’re scared of you, y’see…”
“Scared of
me? They barely know me.”
“OK,” sighed
the speaker. “Maybe not scared of you. Just
scared of displeasing you. They got jobs
and loans, y’know? They need happy
tenants. They need the regular income
from your exorbitantly priced suite!
Upset Mr Yuy, and watch all that go bye-bye…”
Heero’s eyes
tightened. “That’s crap, Winner, and you
know it! I only expect what other
clients do – the best care; attention to every detail. It should be the standard. Don’t you agree?”
His companion
walked around to face him, laughing softly.
He was a slim, blond man, of a similar age; dressed far more casually
than Heero, but no less expensively. His
pants were crisp linen; his silk shirt was open at the neck, and sported an
aggressively multi-coloured pattern that barely obscured a famous designer
name. His hair curled behind his ears,
giving him a more boyish look – but his light blue eyes were as sharp and
astute as Heero’s own. As he moved, his
hand trailed gently against Heero’s arm, and when the dark-haired man shook it
off impatiently, he laughed again. His
voice bubbled with a sense of fun – with confidence and mischief. His drawl was obviously exaggerated, but
attractively so. It was noticeable that
several staff were drawn to watching him – each movement followed with
fascinated eyes.
He’d have been
amused, and nothing more. Quatre Winner
was used to the mesmerising effect he had on people; indeed, he often
cultivated it for his own entertainment.
“You bite
every time, don’t you, Yuy? Chill
some. I’ve been waitin’ a whole hour for
you. Didn’t we agree on dinner tonight?”
Heero sighed,
and ran a hand through his hair – it was an uncharacteristically confused
movement. He turned, and lowered himself
into one of the plush armchairs in the bar.
The blond man dropped into another one beside him.
“What is it,
hon? Hard day at the office?”
“Christ,
Quatre,” growled Heero. “Every damn
phrase you use is loaded with innuendo, isn’t it? Don’t you get tired of the lounge lizard
act?” But his voice didn’t sound as
angry as the words themselves. And
Quatre Winner didn’t seem to take any offence.
“Guess I was
right,” the blond smiled. “Come and eat
with me, Heero. Eat, drink, and I swear
to God I can make you merry. Gonna let
me?”
And then Heero
laughed. Only a short laugh – only the
ripple of amusement that would have been dismissed by many as nothing
special. But from Heero Yuy, at his most
severe, it was a precious gem.
“You’re the
only one who can do that, Quatre Winner!
Amuse me in the most unexpected way… How the hell d’you get away with
such outrageousness?”
Quatre looked
candidly into Heero’s eyes. For a
moment, the dilettante act was dropped, as if that’s all it ever was. “It’s good to hear you laugh, Heero. Glad to be of some service!”
“Quatre…”
protested Heero. “I didn’t mean to –“
“Forget it!”
laughed the other man. His eyes were brighter than before. “That’s why I’m one of your few and priceless
friends. You can say what you like to me
– and I accept it without judgement.
Just – relax a bit, OK? Let someone close – let someone know what
you’re really like. Let the damned world touch you on its own
terms. It’s not weakness to join in, sweetheart…!”
Heero’s
expression told him exactly the opposite, and Quatre had seen it for too many
years to think his argument would hold any influence.
“OK, Yuy. I pass.
I’m as rich as you – I’m as bored as you. No-one tells me what to do; not even
you. And I guess it works both ways,
eh? So you can play your hardass act
with me, your Mr Big Business; but I can make you laugh at the end of another
fourteen-hour day. Then I can stretch
these long, limber legs out on your king-size bed, and drink your best brandy,
and maybe you’ll let me massage those knots out of your too, too generous
shoulders.”
Heero stared
back, unfazed. “What are you really
like, Quatre Winner?”
The blond
shrugged elegant shoulders. His playboy
mask was scooped up and worn afresh. He
unfolded himself from the chair and waved an aimless hand at the hovering
restaurant staff. “I’m damned hungry,
darlin’! For anything else, ask the
gossip papers. They tell me what I’m
doin’, how my stocks are climbin’; which of my horses are winnin’. Even who I’m fuckin’…Oh, especially that!” He grinned, instantly looking much younger. “And I can’t remember the last time they got
it right, OK? Like you should try
reading the info on yourself, sometimes…”
“Let’s eat,”
said Heero, firmly. He stood up,
smoothly.
Quatre rolled
his eyes, and linked an arm into Heero’s.
They were ushered towards the exclusive hotel dining room. “That saucy little stick of supermodel ass
joinin’ us tonight?”
Heero tsked,
but his heart wasn’t in it. “Don’t
pretend you like her, Quatre, I know what you think. Anyway, Remy is busy, as I recall. Another photo shoot. A magazine interview. She said something like that.”
Quatre pursed
lips that wanted to spit out a caustic comment.
But, unusually for him, he bit it back.
From the look on Heero’s face, it had really been a bummer of a
day.
“I’m not
bored,” said Heero, suddenly. “Am I?”
Quatre’s
expression was a strange mixture of emotions.
He had known Heero Yuy one hell of a long time. The guy didn’t trust many to get close to him
– though the two of them had shared history that was a bond between them
both. Even so – there were places in
Heero’s life that even he dared not go.
He answered with a question of his own – one that he’d asked several
times before; and had received a variety of answers over the last few
years. “You wanna try some place else
after dinner?”
There was a
flash of something in Heero’s eyes. He
took a deep breath. It was more like a
sigh.
“I’ll take
that as a ‘yes’,” smiled Quatre. “I
gotta invitation to a new place that’s very discreet – very fresh. Very wild…”
“You said
discreet?” asked Heero. The maitre d’
was showing them personally to Heero’s usual table.
“Hon,” drawled
Quatre. “I don’t do anythin’ else where
you’re concerned. Slip me that wine list
and call me up a Greek salad, OK? I’m gonna be needin’ some sunshine in m’
veins if we’re goin’ out a-huntin’ illicit excitement.”
_____________________________________________________________________
Heero looked
round him, with a small twist of distaste to his mouth. It was eleven a.m., he’d been offered nothing
but lukewarm instant coffee, and he was suffering a mild background hangover
from the previous night. The lawyers’
office was a study in faded elegance – a building that had been built for more
glorious use, but was now cluttered with cheap office furniture and mis-matched
drapes. Heero sat on a chair with a
painfully sagging seat, glared at his embarrassed lawyer, and wondered where
the hell the five hundred dollars an hour chargeout rate was spent.
There’d been
some trouble at the gallery property – a break-in.
“Musta used a
teaspoon,” hissed a third man, slumped in a chair opposite Heero. “Musta taken all of twenty seconds to crack
the state-of-the-art locks…”
Heero turned
to look at him. The man was tall and
lean, and his legs were folded awkwardly around the legs of his own chair. He wore his hair almost ludicrously long,
tied back in some kind of a braid. His
expression was a scowl, but Heero saw how striking his looks were, even through
that barrier. His body looked fit, and
coiled around some internal energy source; his slim, muscular arms were folded
tightly across a broad chest. His
clothes looked like they came from a thrift shop – but Heero admitted
grudgingly that he brought a style to them that even Remy and her designers
would be envious of. He stared at the
guy for longer than he felt comfortable with.
He knew who he
was, of course he did! This was Duo
Maxwell, the owner of the property that his careful signature had just agreed
to buy. The owner of a reputation for
rudeness and aggressive harassment. The
owner of a dwindling collection of once-lauded paintings. The owner of a debt the size of Heero’s
generous apartment block.
There were
many stories about Duo Maxwell, grown up over the last few years of his
chequered life. And about his older
brother, the late Solo Maxwell. Heero
Yuy didn’t see any reason to let the man know how much he knew about his
life. After all, the information had
only been gathered in order to facilitate this deal. A specific, one-off deal.
“Is the
problem dealt with now?” He directed his question back to the lawyer. “Was anything taken or damaged in the
burglary?” He ignored the deliberate
snort from Maxwell.
“There was –
nothing taken, that we know,” said the lawyer, slowly. He flushed slightly.
“Fuck all to
take!” announced Duo, almost cheerfully.
His voice was loud in the sterile office, and was rich with tone and
layers of emotion. “That’s what y’mean,
ain’t it? The gallery was stripped out a
year back, by the loan jackals – and my apartment boasts the sumptuous total of
three of my unsaleable paintings, a kettle and an exclusive collection of beer
bottle tops. Oh – and there were
probably some empty pizza boxes there last night. I ate before I went out to – ah – celebrate my new, homeless status. Then I stayed out at a friend’s
overnight. You wanna check my
alibi? Wanna check whether I even knew the
name of this one? I guess I don’t
usually bother askin’…”
The presiding
lawyer’s mouth bobbed like a goldfish’s.
Duo’s own lawyer – one of the more junior clerks of the practice - sank
his head a little further into his hands.
He was becoming used to this sort of scene; he’d worked for the Maxwells
since the boys’ parents had died in an accident, and he always seemed to draw
the short straw on attending any negotiation meetings with them. Solo Maxwell had been smart enough, but never
reliable; he’d been difficult to deal with.
Duo Maxwell was just damned
impossible!
Heero moved on
his less than comfortable chair, acknowledging him. “Mr Maxwell - I’ve seen your work.”
Duo Maxwell
flashed him a look of pure suspicion.
“So whoop-di-doo! Bet that enriched
your day, Mr Yuy.”
Heero examined
the strange vibrations that Duo’s hostility seemed to provoke in him. There was never any excuse for rudeness, of
course. His reply was carefully phrased,
and he felt rather than saw the shudder of nerves through his lawyer’s
frame. “I see. I can understand that you don’t wish to talk
about your work. About your lack of it,
in recent months.”
Duo flinched.
Heero
continued. “I merely wished to ask what
your personal plans were now that we’ve exchanged contracts. I’m aware that the gallery is also your
apartment, and I have no particular plans for the living quarters, so they are
still available. I know they include a
studio room. Will you wish to paint,
yourself?”
“Paint
myself? Like greasepaint, y’mean?” said
Duo, insolently, deliberately misunderstanding.
“This place may stink of a circus, but I ain’t joinin’ up myself just
yet.”
The lawyers
winced at the rude hostility. Heero was
unfazed. “It was a civil enough
question, Mr Maxwell, whether you are currently pursuing your artistic talents
or not. The offer is still there,
tenancy of the studio apartment. I sent
the terms to your lawyers.”
Duo’s lawyer
coughed in the background, confirming it.
He didn’t dare explain what his client had actually done with the
covering letter from Heero’s lawyer. It
was probably considered a crime in some states.
Duo scowled
even further. “You’re not interested in
my welfare, Yuy. I’m just an
investment. Yeah?”
Heero’s voice
was stronger; it was sharp-edged. “Your
building is the investment, Mr Maxwell.
You would merely be the tenant.
You are correct about the negligible level of my interest in you.
Yeah?”
There was a
shocked silence. Lawyers exchanged
glances across the room, over their clients’ heads. Papers were shuffled, nervously.
Duo recovered
himself well. Six months of sinking,
socially, from enfant terrible to embarrassing acquaintance had prepared him
for such snubs. “Sure. Whatever.
Guess I gotta live somewhere.
‘Til I get something better.”
For a moment,
they glared at each other. There was
no-one else in the room, as far as they were concerned.
“All done,
then?” Duo said abruptly. “I can unpack
my toothbrush – Mr Yuy can expand his empire unchecked.” He rose to his feet, in a slightly shocking
rush of limbs and barely controlled emotion.
Heero couldn’t tell exactly what emotion it was; but then he’d never
pretended to be perceptive where people’s private lives were concerned. And he was certainly not interested in Duo
Maxwell’s.
He didn’t know
what possessed him to speak again to the man.
“You’re no friend to yourself, are you, Mr Maxwell?”
Surprisingly,
the chestnut-haired man laughed aloud.
“Fuck all interest it is to you, Yuy.
You won’t be the first to say it, either! But maybe I’m not lookin’ for a friend – like
I think you weren’t lookin’ for a tenant when this whole project started.”
Heero stared
at him, wondering what he meant. The
mixture of hostility and anxiety in the other man’s expressive eyes confused
him. Meanwhile, Duo turned towards the
door, and his lawyer leapt to his feet to follow, bending to scoop up the
dropped papers from his lap.
At the
doorway, Duo paused. His hand pressed
against the doorframe; his legs bent slightly.
Heero’s eyes were drawn to the creases in the tight black jeans, up
behind his knees; the slim band of naked skin shown above his waistband, where
the skimpy shirt rode up over his belly.
“So, Mr Yuy –
you say you know my work?”
“Yes,” nodded
Heero. “I have two of your paintings.” He didn’t state it as either a boast or a
challenge. Just a fact.
“Right… “
drawled Duo. A look of surprise had
darted across his features; but now he had settled back to his previous
cynicism. “They were a recommended
investment once, eh? Let me guess which
ones…”
He expected
Heero to protest – to be embarrassed at such a childish party game. Neither happened; Heero just continued to
stare at him.
Duo swallowed
hard. “It was 4:0615 and 4:TXTS.”
Heero’s eyes
widened slightly. “4:0615 – yes. You couldn’t have known that, as I bought
through an agent. You’re more perceptive
than I would have thought.”
“Nah,” grinned
Duo, as if he forgot he was meant to despise this man and all he stood
for. “It fits your profile! 4:0615 for a smart new day! Rich yuppie; modern abstract painting. What every condo needs on its bathroom
wall. Goes with the chrome fittings and
the jacuzzi. And 4:TXTS? For those who substitute real life with new,
electronic gadgets -?”
“No,” replied
Heero. His look was almost a
challenge. “I have 4:DRMS, actually.”
Duo looked
stunned. It was the last thing he’d
painted, before – before it happened; all that shit with Solo. The last time he’d used those colours – the
last time he’d thrown himself so deeply into that maelstrom of obsession and
creativity. He’d dreamt vividly for days
– never knew which came first, the painting or the troubled nights. They’d fed off each other. Nothing else he’d ever done had compared with
it, for pure, raw, emotional impact.
Almost as if he’d known what was gonna happen in his life…
“It’s full o’
– violence - that one,” he stammered
slightly. “The colours disturbed even
me. It sorta took me over…I was never
sure how I felt about it. Christ, the
schemes were just plain crass – I was
fucking amazed when somebody bought it, to tell you the truth! And I can’t see it fitting on any o’ your apartment’s oh-so-understated
wallpapers…”
Heero’s voice
was low, and flat. “I’m colour blind, Mr
Maxwell.”
“Huh?”
“I chose it
for the very violence that you say disturbed you. I chose it for its movement. I thought that it illustrated turmoil far
more clearly than any mixture of shades or dyes. Which, of course, I would never have
appreciated.”
He also stood,
and moved swiftly past the astonished Duo.
“And, of course, I need hardly say that you have no idea how I’ve
decorated my apartment, so your assumptions may well have been offensive. However, I also assume that doesn’t disturb
you. I’ll send an engineer round to fix
your broken lock this afternoon, and to collect the first month’s rent. Good day, Mr Maxwell.”
TBC