Part 1
"No, of course I'm not trying to harass you." Quatre's
voice is very calm, very soft. He insists he's not here to annoy me, nor to
interfere with my life. He doesn't appear to realise that he's causing the very
effect he's trying to avoid. I often wonder about this empathetic skill he's
meant to possess.
"It's just a friendly word, Heero. Don't be defensive. It's
just that your friends can see you ... objectively, as it were. And we
worry about the impression you give to others."
"Impression?" He's sitting carelessly on the side of my
couch. I'm worried that his boot buckle will snag on the fabric. The upholstery
is new, and cost a large proportion of my last six month's salary.
"Heero, are you listening to me?"
"Do I have any choice, Quatre?" I place my drink back
down on the co ordinating coaster, straightening the top right edge of it so
that it lines up with the base of the lamp. "Look, I'm fine about the impression
I give people. People can like it, or ... get over it. If they don't have the
wit to cope with an alternative point of view, then that's their problem."
He gives one of those long-suffering sighs that I seem to provoke
so frequently in him. His whole demeanour is one of compassionate
disappointment: I think he must practice it in his leisure time. I suggested
that once to Trowa and he spat his drink out all over the table. Thank goodness
it wasn't actually in my apartment. Red wine stains can be a nightmare to get
out. Trowa had growled a protest at me, though his eyes had been laughing. After
all, I'd only been trying to help Quatre gain a deeper empathy.
Quatre's face is rather flushed. He seems frustrated. "God,
Heero, but that's exactly what we're getting at! Your total lack of tolerance
for -- or interest in -- the rest of the human race! How the hell are you ever
going to meet anyone new, or, God forbid, someone romantically, if you
show them no more respect than you do a piece of furniture?"
I stare at him, pityingly. "Actually, Quatre, I consider a
fine piece of antique furniture far more worthy of respect than most of the
pieces of human detritus that you persist in thrusting my way in the name of romance.
Please leave me to organise my own social life and choose my own
companions."
"But when was the last time anyone passed that interview?"
he snaps back. He looks annoyed and confused -- I think he's struggling to
remember the meaning of the word detritus. "You've lived here for six
months, yet you have no idea who your neighbours are. You have no involvement
in neighbourhood committees, no regular account at the grocers or a tab at the
local bar --"
"I have a place of my own, surrounded by my own things,
arranged just as I like them."
"Arranged!" Quatre is standing up now and his
whole body language appears tense. "Hell, you can't always arrange
everything in life! You've got to loosen up a bit -- be receptive to new
experiences, to new relationships. Things can be ... irrational, sometimes, you
know? People, too. Heero, you are so anally retentive that being around you
makes me want to clench up! Will you please listen to me, for
once?"
He really does look distressed now. This is usually how our
conversations go, I must admit. It's another observation I've pointed out to
Trowa. Quatre has a low emotional threshold -- a tendency to overreact. Or
maybe that's just around me. Trowa smiles whenever I mention it, which leads me
to assume that Quatre's excitable reactions are no problem to him.
"I'm listening," I say, seeking to keep his exclamations
down below an offensive decibel level. "If it makes you less outraged,
I'll try to ... loosen up a bit." His eyes are rolling now, which is
always a bad sign. I cast around in my mind for some consolation prize for him.
"There's a notice on the communal board downstairs -- an apartment-sitting
scheme, for when tenants go away for weekends. That would be useful for me, I
admit, for when I go to auctions. I'll sign up for that, OK? Just to show some
public spiritedness. But nothing more. I don't want to join the book reading
clubs or the Christmas carol concerts." I'm trying to explain my feelings
to him, but maybe my small shudder does that just as well.
He nods gently -- it appears to be some kind of surrender.
"That's a good start, Heero. Well done. We just ... I'd just like to see
you enjoying life a little more. You're good-looking; you're witty and clever,
and you're good company." He catches my glare at such a ridiculous resume.
"OK," he says, with that eye-rolling thing again. "So you can
be, if you try. Really hard. But I just think that you have a lot to offer
someone, if you'd just ..."
"Quatre," I say, carefully. He's a good friend, I know.
Even if he does disturb the feng shui in my apartment every time he comes
around. "You don't need to make me your mission in life. You have your own
idea of happiness and I'm pleased for you. But I have sufficient enjoyment of
my own, already." He knows enough to let the subject drop, and we chat
more generally before he's called away to meet up with Trowa.
I wait until the door closes behind him before I rush to tidy up
his glass and smooth the couch where he sat. Then, to be fair to him, I look
around the apartment, trying to see my life with his objective eye. All I see
is ... me. The room is delightfully tidy -- soothingly quiet. The pale cream
colour on the walls really does blend pleasantly with the chrome and dark
tapestry fabrics of the furniture. I like the sparse, plain effect, and so I
keep telling my friends. I have no desire to tolerate the vibrant colours of
Quatre's modern art, or the loud volume of Trowa's latest music.
Of course, when Quatre talks about my enjoyment of life, he really
means I should be dating, as he is with Trowa. But I've tried this in the past,
albeit tentatively, and I've found it mostly unsatisfactory. And confusing ...
and messy. In fact, everything I abhor. After all, there's nothing wrong with
wanting people on my own terms. Nothing wrong with enjoying one's own company.
Nothing wrong at all.
Wufei has a damned colourful portfolio of Chinese curses. That's
the second time he's fallen over that packing case of assorted china and
stubbed his toe. I'm learning all kinda new words.
"Dammit, Duo, can't you clear this away? You've been here for
months now, but it's like you only moved in yesterday." He's looking
around with a wild expression in his eyes, rubbing surreptitiously at the
injured foot with the other. "Look at it all ... everything a mess, no
order to it. How the hell do you live here?"
I bite my lip, because after all, this is, indeed, where I live.
It's just as I like it. I never see the need to unpack my stuff into cupboards
and on to shelves because it just doubles the work. Stepping over boxes doesn't
bother me. There's always something going on that's more interesting than
cleaning -- beyond a basic spit and polish, anyway.
Wufei's a good friend, you know? He admits that he feels relaxed
at my place, but he's been known to wander around after me, picking up stuff.
That makes me laugh, of course. And I like to laugh. Today he's balanced
gingerly on the only kitchen chair that's secure on all four legs and is
looking around for a clean glass. I'm drinking from the bottle, as usual,
perched on the edge of my table.
"I guess you can find your way around this place OK," he
sighs. He's making that big effort again -- the one where he tries not
to lose his temper and call me a slob. That happens on a regular basis. Still,
it keeps him occupied, and as for me -- it's water off a duck's back, right?
"But what do guests think?"
"Guests?" I grin, happily enough. "You're here,
aren't you?"
He stares. "No, Duo. I meant other people -- people who
aren't ..." Here comes that look again. "... who aren't used
to your pathological hatred of housekeeping." He gives up looking for a
glass and settles for drinking from the bottle like me. When he leans back in
the chair, one of the legs bends crookedly with an ominous creak. "Where
do you entertain? You never finished decorating the lounge -- you still don't have
a decent couch."
I shrug. "I couldn't decide in the end between the crimson
flock wallpaper and the purple paint. If I keep the two of 'em up on the wall
there together, it may inspire me one day. And I don't see why I need a couch;
it'd just be a waste of furniture. I work long hours; I work a lot of weekends
away from home -- and I've got chairs. What are you, the Apartment Makeover
Police?"
He smiles, but it's a little forced. "If you don't see
why you might need a couch, I'm the last one to tell you. I mean it, Duo --
what sort of impression do you think you're giving to people? How will you ever
make new friends? Sometimes it exhausts me, nagging you about your careless
dress sense and your slovenly apartment and your lack of healthy male pursuits."
I find I'm looking down at my clothes rather defensively. I never
see the need to iron tee shirts when they get creased again so quickly. And
last time I caught a fashion programme on TV, wasn't it hip to have rips in
your jeans? "You really mean I should be chasing other guys and gals. You
mean I should be dressed like a gigolo, smelling like a brothel, lighting
scented candles in the bathroom --"
This is way too familiar an argument, but it's an entertainment
for us both, and I don't hold it against Wufei personally. He's a good looking
guy and he has no trouble in attracting plenty of company. Of course it's a
pity he likes girls rather than boys, or things could've been different between
us -- if only to put a stop to all these 'elder brother' type talks. I mean,
it's not that I don't like the thought of having some fun like that. It's just
that dating's a hell of a lot of bother for a fairly unreliable outcome, and I
don't often have the time or energy for it.
"Look, Wufei," I say, carefully. "Chill. I'm fine
about the impression I give people. People can like it or receive it
diagonally up the most appropriate orifice. I'm not bothered."
"That's just what I mean," he groans. "You don't
seem to be bothered about anything. You never settle to one thing at a time --
trying to keep up with you is like watching mercury wriggle through someone's
fingers. If you could just demonstrate some self-control, you'd show yourself
to a much better advantage. I mean, you're good looking, you're always
enthusiastic, and you've got a fine, creative brain, albeit your education
seems to have bypassed interior design. I'm sure you've got a lot to
offer."
"Thanks for such a glowing vote of confidence," I say
wryly. "You want supper before you go?"
His eyes narrow with regret. "No thanks." He's my main
test subject for all my inventive recipes, and I know it's the one area he
never criticises me. But today, he has no time and gets up to leave. Cheats me
of the fun of kicking that loose chair leg out from under him and dumping his
ass on to the floor. "Just try a little harder, Duo, OK? I only want you
to enjoy life to the full."
"I'll give it some thought," I promise him, showing him
out of the apartment. "You've been a man on a mission for long enough --
though the last thing I need is another guy's guidance. Look, I saw a
notice downstairs about apartment-sitting at weekends, maybe I'll sign up for
that, make some new friends." It'll be useful for me when I'm on long
shifts. And the return favour will be sort of like helping out -- but not
having to go far out of my way. Won't have to dress up or anything; won't be
beholden to anyone beyond a weekend or two.
When Wufei's gone, I feel a little unsettled. The way I live, it's
a lifestyle choice -- that's what I try to tell my friends, though none of 'em
really gets it. I can't bear feeling trapped -- bored -- obliged. My apartment
is just that: mine, to do with what I wish, when I wish. Or not, as the
case may be. I guess spontaneity's not everyone's idea of fun -- that might account
for my rather dormant social life recently.
I drag a couple of boxes to the side so that I can get at the
cupboard under the sink. I think that was the last place I saw my home brew
equipment, and I remember that's what I was going to start this week. A pile of
assorted papers falls off the counter and showers me; the door of the cupboard
tilts on a single hinge and hits me on the foot. I'd been planning to mend that
last week; guess I got distracted again.
When I straighten up, some dust in my braid and my arms full of
grubby equipment, I catch a sight of the room with fresh eyes. It's like every
other room in the apartment: full of stuff; jumbled together; piled up; a
glorious jetsam of my life. All I see is ...me.
There's nothing wrong with being a free spirit, is there?
Nothing wrong at all.
Part 2
There's no way I think Quatre's amusement is justified -- no way
at all. I suppose I imagined that he would share my horror at the experience
I've just been through. No -- suffered, is the appropriate word.
"Was it really that bad?" he laughs. "Come on,
these are smart apartments; the tenants have money and they have to clear some
kind of police check before moving in. It can't have been a hell-hole,
as you so graphically describe ..."
"It was." I'm still shuddering at the thought.
"Dammit, I thought the place had been burgled. I've never seen such a mess
in my life. Everything jumbled together; nothing labelled or cleared
away." Quatre's still laughing at me, and I'm not sure I approve of his
levity. "There were dirty plates, Quatre. And not just in the sink! I
found a full set of cutlery in the bathroom, and there was some correspondence
pinned to the wall in the lobby with a fork. Like a ... spear. A most
aggressive vision. There was dust on the top of every door frame, and a very
disturbing colour scheme on the walls of the lounge. I had a headache after my
first evening visit."
"So what do you have to do? Do you have to live there while
the owner's away? All the time?"
I catch the glint in his eye. "Very amusing, I'm sure. No, I
only have to check in on a daily basis. Collect up the mail, check the alarm's
set -- things like that."
"Mail?" Quatre's still provoking me. "I believe you
can tell a lot by a person's mail."
"I believe so," I reply dryly. "But if that's the
case, I'm not much the wiser, having waded through a mass of free flyers and
invitations to various gourmet events. Oh, and there were some gaming magazines
with lurid covers of impossibly-cantilevered, scantly-clad animated
women."
"How the other half lives," murmurs my so-called friend.
"You sorted it through for the owner, then?"
I can feel a slight flush on my cheeks. "Of course I did,
among other things. The owner obviously needed some help clearing up. I sorted
a total mess of CDs into alphabetical order. There was a hideous smell in the
laundry room, so I disposed of a filthy bottle of stagnant liquid I found in
there. Then there was some particularly challenging washing up -- the tenant
appears to cook several times a day and uses some very eccentric ingredients
..." I notice Quatre's raised eyebrow. "I was just looking to pass
the time, you understand. You're the one told me to show some
neighbourliness."
Quatre's grinning at me again now. One would think he assumed some
ulterior motive in me, like common curiosity. Or something.
"So who owns this apartment?"
"I have no idea," I shrug. "The owner never turned
up for the introductory meeting. The management committee provided the key and
the details. I'm not sure all of this meets your criteria of making new friends
and influencing people, so perhaps I should just let it drop ..."
Quatre raises an eyebrow sceptically. I think we've been friends
for too long, or else his empathy is improving.
"OK," I sigh. "I'll persist with it. Actually, I
had some ideas for a shoe rack in the hallway and some modern storage units in
the kitchen -- he might be interested in that. I've never seen so many
ill-assorted utensils -- I'm very glad I have the delivery service for my
meals. And a formal message board would also be an excellent idea ..."
"He?" Quatre's eyelids flicker. His interest would be
imperceptible to anyone else, but maybe my empathy is improving, too.
"I saw his apartment, remember? I saw the mail. And ..."
I'm wracked with another shudder. "I saw the piles of unfolded laundry.
It's a male tenant. Please don't ask me to elaborate."
"Underwear?" Quatre is relentless. "I believe you
can tell a lot by a person's --"
I glare at him and he bites back the rest of the sentence. "I
didn't stay any longer than necessary," I insist. "I was going to
play the CDs that had been left out of their cases, just to check whether they
were still serviceable, but I couldn't get the equipment to work."
Quatre frowns. "It was broken?"
"No, no." I'm impatient with him now, and although I
like his company, I'm hoping he'll go soon. There's something disturbing my
thoughts and I need to wipe the whole apartment-sitting episode from my mind. I
need to settle back in my own place, on my own, with my things around me. I
need...
I sigh. "The place was the most appalling jumble, Quatre. I
just couldn't find the remote control. Then when I was about to lock up and
leave, I found it under the --" Now it's my turn to bite off my unfortunate
words, but it's too late; Quatre's all but pouncing on me.
"Where, Heero? Where did you find it?"
"Under the laundry," I admit. The flush is all over my
neck now. "If you must know, it was under a pile of boxers illustrated
with a character called Link."
Wufei is laughing at me and I'm pretty pissed at him. "For
God's sake, what's the joke? This is your fault, for bullying me into doing
something that I should have known wasn't my thing. I do my Good
Samaritan act and all I get in return is being creeped out!"
"Duo." He's shaking his head. "This is a good
neighbourhood, a smart apartment block; you don't get ghouls here. You sound
like a kid at Halloween."
"Hell, I felt like one!" I'm nearly hysterical, I
know, but I reckon I'm suffering from some kind of post-traumatic stress
disorder. "It was like no one lived there at all, you know? Place was cold
... and it was too frigging quiet." I let the shudder run all through me,
exorcising it all from my system. "The tenant's got nothing in the
cupboards -- no food, no extra pots and pans. Must eat out all the time, though
there wasn't a single pizza box in sight. No magazines open at a favourite
page, no pile of shoes in the hallway for quick and easy use, no souvenir
glasses -- or any ornaments at all. And no notes pinned up anywhere. I
don't know how the hell anyone manages life without some gentle reminders
..."
"So you had a good look around," says Wufei, wryly. He's
grinning at me again, though I don't know why the hell he's getting such
entertainment from my distress. "Aren't you just meant to drop in
occasionally over the weekend, check it's safe, collect up the mail --?"
"No mail," I shrug. "Well, nothing interesting. All
I found were unopened offers for new credit cards and a magazine featuring old
bits of furniture. Boring cover, and that's before you even look inside. No
animated logos or Tomb Raider types shooting up oak dressers or anything
..."
"Antiques," murmurs Wufei, approving of the subject if
not my attitude.
I scowl. "Like I know what antiques are, thanks. Place is
full of old, expensive stuff like that. In fact, the lounge felt like some kind
of mausoleum -- pale walls and dark furniture, nothing to look at except books.
I got a tension headache just listening for something to crackle or spit or
fart, just to break the tedium."
"There were plants to water?"
I shrugged. "Not so's you'd notice. There were some fat
little things in pots, looked plastic, all twisted and suchlike, I left them
the hell alone. Well, apart from having to shift 'em to one side to look for
some bearable music to play. Which was a futile quest, I can tell you. I feel
sorry for the owner, in all truth, obviously having no time to make the place
personal, or friendly."
"So you ...?" Wufei's voice is a murmur, trailing off.
"Well, yes, I did think I should help out a bit, just in
passing. The pale walls were a great backdrop for some prints I found behind
the couch -- not sure why they hadn't been put up before; I love modern art
like that. And I gathered a few bits and pieces from my kitchen here and
rustled up a batch of goulash for the week ahead. Nothing like home cooked
food. Bit tricky, working in an unfamiliar kitchen, but most of the mess
cleared up OK."
Wufei's eyebrows are raised in that supercilious way he has, where
he pretends he knows me better than I know myself. "So did you meet this
mystery tenant?"
"No," I grumble. "Didn't bother to come to the
introductory meeting."
"You didn't go either, Duo, I suspect." Wufei states the
obvious. He knows me far too well. "You're not giving this a proper
trial."
I sigh. I feel kinda tired after a couple of weekends away myself,
and then my weekend duty as Mausoleum Curator. I'm just really glad to be back
amongst all my own stuff, cooking some new recipes I found, music playing
loudly in the lounge. Though I was pissed to find my CDs were all out of order
... I can't imagine Wufei would try such a scam on me, but you never know.
It'll take a helluva long time to sort them back into my special chronological
system.
"OK, I'll give it another try." Wufei only wants the
best for me -- albeit that's by his standards. And it had been kind of
cool to see someone else's place, even if it was like stepping into a show
home. "I wouldn't mind finding out some more about that art work -- and
I've got some more ideas I could share about easy weekday meals if there's time
pressure. Though I can't see what I'll have in common with a guy who stacks his
underwear in colour coordinated piles." I notice Wufei's surprised look
for the first time. "I was looking for a towel, OK? I spilled some water
on the kitchen table. Well, quite a lot, actually, the water pressure's
different in the apartments on that floor ..."
Wufei's frowning at me. Maybe it's because he fell over that
packing case again when he came in. "He, Duo? "
I shrug again. "Yeah, it's a guy."
"And you knew that, how --?"
"The mail," I protest. "Obviously. You think I'm
going to go nosing through someone's washday piles solely to find out if they
wear a bra or boxers?"
"Yes," says Wufei.
"Be sure not to slam the door on your way out," I snap
back. "And turn the music up for me, will you? The remote control finally
turned up; it's on the hall table." I turn around in the kitchen, looking
for something, unaccountably restless. "Hey, you haven't seen a vat of my
home brewed sloe gin, have you? I thought I left it in the laundry room. It was
just reaching the critical fermentation stage ..."
Part 3
Quatre has been standing in the doorway to the lounge for two
minutes forty-three seconds. He appears to be rooted to the spot. If he
extended both his arms to the side, I would suggest utilising him as some kind
of new age coat stand. He makes a gargling noise in his throat as he stares at
the wall ahead of him.
"It's one of my pictures," he says. He sounds
breathless. I nod in reply: I need to get past him to go to the kitchen. I
don't see that his statement requires any clarification.
"You've got one of my pictures on display. On your wall."
Quatre is making a new conversational style out of stating the
obvious.
"I know," I say, rather curtly. "The ... sitter put
it up when he was here. I haven't had time to take it down."
"You said my art made you nauseous," says Quatre. He
looks a little disorientated. No -- stunned is perhaps the word.
"You said the mix of colours and shape was like a particularly messy and
aggressive migraine. You said I wasn't to take it personally, but that if I
were looking for your professional opinion, you'd rather cut off your left arm
and let the blood spatter across your clean ironing than have to face any of my
work on a daily basis --"
"All right, I think you've made your rather tortuous point."
I nudge past him a little brusquely. "I was obviously in a bad mood then.
I'm sure you'd be the first to agree that any man can occasionally change his
mind." He's muttering something behind me about how only a lunatic would
consider Heero Yuy to be any man, but I may be mistaken. "Do you want tea,
soda, or just to stand there gawping until the Holidays?"
He follows me into the kitchen, still clutching his jacket. He
looks around, puzzled, waving it aimlessly from one hand.
"Just drop it on the chair," I say. "You can hang
it up in the hall when we've had our supper." When I look back at him,
he's got that startled rabbit look again. I suspect that it's another
expression he practises regularly. "What's the matter now?"
"I should have hung my jacket up already," he says. He
stares at me. "On the third hook from the left. Over the umbrella. You
always insist on that exact placement. Now you say just drop it on the chair."
He glances around the kitchen and his eyes widen further. "There's all
sorts of food in here, Heero, that I've never seen grace your counter before.
Since when have you bought fresh ingredients? Since when have you owned a food
processor?" He peers at me now, and there's a smile creeping across
his face. "Who are you, and what have you done with my borderline
obsessive friend Heero Yuy?"
"Don't be ridiculous," I snap. "I just thought I'd
invite you around for supper and cook it myself. He left a particularly
interesting recipe last weekend --"
Too late to bite back the careless words. Quatre pounces, as he is
so fond of doing. "He? He? Do you mean this mysterious apartment
sitter?"
"Not mysterious, for God's sake. Don't be melodramatic
--"
"Have you met him, then?"
I purse my lips. "No. Not exactly. We keep missing each other
-- we both seem to be away a lot. He ... leaves me notes." I recall the
bold, scrawling script, the signature of smiley faces -- all on creased scraps
of paper that I might have previously thrown out as rubbish. The first note had
astonished me ... since then, I'd come to look out for them, albeit rather
warily.
The gleam in Quatre's eyes is relentless. I'm disturbed to feel a
blush on my cheeks, and so I busy myself with the mixed salad to try to
distract us both. "Do you know, when he first visited, he had the effrontery
to bring some personal items into my kitchen. I never managed to contact him to
demand they be removed. Dammit, Quatre, he cooked while he was here! How
outrageous is that?"
"Appalling ..." my friend murmurs agreement, but I can
tell his heart's not in it. He sits at the kitchen table in front of a brand
new pasta bowl, his head resting on his hand, giving the impression of hanging
on my every word. He looks like he's struggling not to grin.
"So," I continue, measuring the exact proportions of oil
and vinegar as appropriate for the dressing, "I decided to use them as
they were obviously intended. Since then, he's left a couple of other recipes,
and the necessary ingredients each time."
"But you don't cook," Quatre stated, softly. "It
makes mess -- you never have the time for it. It's a waste of energy,
apparently. Food is nothing but a mandatory refuelling."
I shrug. The pasta is almost at the correct consistency and I
silently count the remaining seconds to completion, balancing the fork and colander
comfortably between my hands, assessing the distance to carry the pan to the
sink for draining. My nose wrinkles with instinctive pleasure as I smell the
tang of pesto in the bubbling sauce.
"I'm quoting you, Heero Yuy," Quatre says. His
tone is gentle. "Or at least, the Heero Yuy of yesteryear. Personally, I'm
very pleased to see some colour brightening up the place, and the smell of
home-cooked food is very welcoming. And a new ... friendship ... is also very
exciting."
"Exciting?" I look at a small drop of spilled water on
the floor and I know I should mop it up quickly before it stains. Of course,
before I started cooking for myself, the issue rarely arose. "As I
remember, you considered it your mission to socialise me, to bring me out of my
shell. To have me mix with the rest of the human race." I smile,
wryly. "I'm quoting you, now, Quatre Winner."
He laughs, and holds his plate up to be filled. "Those are
two of your virtues, Heero: your wit and your honesty," he says.
"They're very attractive. I suspect that other people will also admire
them, when you give them the chance."
"Don't labour the point." I can hear myself growling. I
pour some good red wine into Quatre's glass, and he looks down at it.
He gives a strange snort. Then he holds up the glass, pointing to
it, shaking with laughter and perilously close to spilling his drink. "I
left my heart in San Francisco, it says! Let me guess - your sitter left
this behind on one of his visits, as well!"
"I'm in the lounge!" I call out because I can hear
Wufei's key in the lock, dropping in on his way home from work. I'm engrossed
in reading a rather interesting magazine review of a fashionable city
restaurant. Considering I spent three weeks there last season in my best
trouble-shooting role, it's rather disappointing to find that they still can't
manage to serve up a good menu without over-cooking the shellfish or getting
caught with beetle droppings in the side salad.
There's a muffled curse from the hallway, and the thump of a
well-built body hitting the wall. Wufei has to be one of the clumsiest guys I
know. He lurches into the lounge, waving his jacket at me. "Where the
hell's the case in the hallway gone?"
"And a good evening to you, too, friend," I say, dryly.
"It's gone. I unpacked the stuff inside and now it's cleared away. I
thought I'd help you out -- I reckoned you'd fallen over it once too
often."
"I expected it to be there," he says, his expression
bemused. "I make allowances for it when I come into the apartment. But
today there was nothing there --"
" -- and so you fell, regardless," I sigh. "I'll
get you a drink."
I get up to go to the kitchen, but he's blocking the doorway. He's
staring. I wonder for a minute if he's suffered concussion of some kind,
tripping over a non-existent obstacle.
"Duo, what's that?"
"No, sorry," I say, slowly. "I'm going to need more
of a clue than that."
"You've got a couch!" He glares at it like it's an alien
object just been beamed down onto the bridge of the Starship Enterprise. I
mean, I like the style, obviously, but I didn't think it was that
striking. "You've bought a couch!"
I nod. I didn't find it under a gooseberry bush, did I?
"And the walls ..." He turns his head slowly from side
to side, like one of those nodding dog toys. "I mean, the colour is great.
It's very ... tasteful."
"Autumn umber, it's called." I'm trying to sound
careless, but it comes out more like defensive. "Of course, I may still
keep the crimson flock wallpaper in the hall."
Wufei nods sagely, oblivious to my teasing. He peers back at me,
as if looking for evidence of spots from some fatal disease, then his face
grimaces with compassion. Guess that means, in his mind, I've already been
diagnosed. "It's an astonishing change, Duo. But excellent progress. I
never thought you'd get yourself together like this."
I shrug. "No big deal. I just thought it was time to settle
in a bit. A bit of painting and decorating -- a bit of clearing up. You may
also have been right about needing some more furniture. On his last visit, he
left a recent copy of 'Antique Design Monthly', and it gave me a few ideas
..."
"He?" Wufei spins round as I pass him on the way out of
the lounge. "You mean the apartment sitter? You've met him?" He seems
to have sprung back into life, he's on my heels as I walk through the
apartment, trying to catch my eye. He keeps dodging to avoid cases, boxes and
shoe heaps, then realising they're just not there any more. It's quite amusing
to see him confused like this.
"No," I say, with exaggerated patience. "We're way
too busy, both of us. He ... leaves me notes." We've both reached the
kitchen and when I go to turn on the kettle, I can't help glancing towards some
papers piled haphazardly by the cooker. Thick, expensive paper with careful
script, full of excessive politeness, but also evidence of firm opinions. Made
me laugh out loud the first time ... then made me think again.
"So, Duo, are you exchanging housekeeping hints with him
now?"
I'm slow to turn around because I just don't need Wufei's smirk
right now. "Don't be ridiculous. The guy's got some weird ideas about
tidiness, and I draw the line at colour coding my herb pots. But he's actually
suggested a few very sensible things, like the new storage arrangements in the
laundry room and the recycling of my different types of household waste
..."
A muted snigger from behind me alerts me to Wufei's lack of
enthusiasm for such significant changes in my life.
"As far as I remember," I say, slowly, and with a chilly
tone that gives out a clear warning, should he choose to listen, "you've
given me plenty of grief in the past about my slovenly apartment, and my
lack of healthy male pursuits. You've made it your mission to hound me,
demanding I expand my horizons beyond work and sleep. So now when I venture
into something new --"
"Someone new," he murmurs, but I ignore him.
" -- so now I'm doing that," I continue," and
you're still not satisfied, scorning my attempts to bring some order into my
life, debasing every innocent comment of mine with your lewd and cynical
attitude --"
"Oh for God's sake," Wufei sighs. "I surrender, OK?
I didn't mean to offend you." He peers at me, trying to see if I'm
serious. Our friendship thrives on this banter, and inspires this backchat
between us. But that's no reason not to catch him off-balance now and then.
"I'm really pleased for you, Duo, if you're happy with it. I guess I've
just got used to teasing and nagging you, and you taking not a blind bit of
notice of me, treating it all like a joke yourself. But I never think of you
as a joke -- and I'm pretty sure that anyone worth a second look from you is
going to think the same as well."
I'm afraid that I'm blushing at this unexpectedly flattering
reference, so I scowl instead. I pass him a mug of herbal tea, and when he
looks around aimlessly for a spoon to stir it, I reach immediately to the
appropriate drawer and pass him one. Such unusual efficiency makes his eyes
widen again, but he's still looking apologetic. And then I grin at him.
He breathes more easily, and smiles back at me over the rim of his
mug. "Is that a new shirt?"
I sit down opposite him. "Nah. Just one I found in the back
of the wardrobe I never wore before. It happens."
"It used to," he says, quietly. "Maybe now
you'll be colour coordinating your clothes, too."
"Colour coordinating my ass," I say, cheerfully. Like
I'm going to stop being me ...
"He may have colour swatches for you to examine for
that," smirks Wufei.
"You may like to feel the print of my knuckles on your
sarcastic jaw," I snap back.
"Just being supportive," he protests.
I wonder how long it'd take me to restore all the boxes and cases
along Wufei's path back out of the apartment.
With any luck he might break a supportive ankle.
Part 4
I open the door to go out for the papers and he's there -- a tall,
slender guy with big blue eyes and a surprised look. He has a hand raised, and
a key tight in his fist.
"Hey!" His voice is quite loud, but at a pleasant pitch.
He grins, very broadly. "Scared the shit out of me," he says,
cheerfully. "You looking after the place this weekend?"
I wonder what he's talking about. "This is my
apartment," I say, slowly. He'd been looking me up and down, which is
disconcerting in the first place, but at this, his eyes snap back up to my
face. A band of colour appears on his cheeks.
"Shit," he says, sounding flustered. "I mean, I
never imagined you'd be ..." He stops talking, takes a deep breath, and
before I can even begin to reply to the last comment, he's starting again.
"Look, I'm sorry, I thought you were another guy like me, sitting this
apartment, and that maybe I'd got fired or something and nobody bothered to
tell me, or probably I didn't get the call, or missed it -- I'm away a lot --
and when I'm not away, I'm always doing something else, you see. Anyway, I
thought you were away this weekend and I was on duty, but obviously the
management got it mixed up, or maybe I did - that's not such a
ridiculous premise, because as I may have said, I'm --"
"Please," I say, quite loudly. That seems necessary to
get his attention. "Please tell me who you are and what you're doing
here."
He's looking at me again, really closely. No one does that around
me. It's ... odd. Then he sticks out his hand so assertively that I flinch back
a little. "Your apartment sitter -- Duo Maxwell. Well, you know my name
already, don't you? But we've never been formally introduced. Pleased to meet you."
I shake the hand, automatically. His palm is warm, the grip
confident. My apartment sitter. "I'm Heero Yuy. You know that too,
of course, having ... collected my mail for me over the last few months."
"Ah," he says. "Of course. Sorry about that problem
with the telephone bill and the squashed spider. I hope the company sent you a
fresh one. Document, that is -- not bug!" The skin at the side of his eyes
crinkles when he smiles.
"It's fine," I say. It hadn't been at the time, but over
a period of weeks, my indignation has faded. Though the memory of the big black
stain on my mail -- a couple of legs still attached -- will be deeply ingrained
forever.
"And you ..." he starts, a little tentatively. "Of
course, you've been returning the favour for me all this time."
"With the spider-squashing?" I say, dryly. I'm not
usually so ready to offer jokes to people I haven't met before.
He laughs, quite loudly and freely and I'm startled. "Hey, no
way! You don't strike me as the kind of guy who's spooked by a spider and
lashes out without thinking ..." His words dry up suddenly and the flush
on his cheeks deepens.
For a moment, we just stand there, and then I remember Quatre's
compassionately disappointed expressions and my promise to be more sociable.
I'm pretty sure that extends to real life, not just through correspondence.
"You're right: I was due to be away, but the antiques auction was
cancelled at the last minute, so I'm still here. Obviously."
"Obviously," he repeats, grinning at me. This
apartment-sitting arrangement has been in place for a few months now, and both
of us have taken full advantage of it. But it's surprising that we've never met
before -- I suppose that realisation accounts for my current disorientation. I
think anyone watching us as we stand there at the door, both rather bemused,
would wonder just what kind of connection we had.
"Would you like to come in anyway?" I ask, and when he
nods back, I'm surprised to feel a smile on my own face. He saunters past into
the apartment and I notice his hair is very long and braided down his back.
It's ... very unusual. He's wearing a tee shirt with a provocative slogan that
I assume is in some kind of street language, and jeans that seem to have been
badly damaged around the knee area. The ensemble seems to suit him in some
outlandishly stylish way. He certainly doesn't look like it bothers him. His
legs are quite long and his stride is very ... assertive. That word keeps
cropping up in my mind.
I can't remember when I last invited a stranger into my apartment,
though I daresay Quatre has been keeping a diary, just to torment me with it.
But then, Duo Maxwell isn't exactly a stranger, is he?
I mean, I thought he'd be much older, didn't I? A guy who likes
old furniture: one who couldn't manage to cook for himself, who didn't have
much of a life. But he's not. I was way wrong. Heero Yuy -- cute name.
And a cute guy as well. Bit of a shock, really, to find myself face to face,
just like that.
I make my way to the kitchen by habit, and he follows me in.
"You've got some new pans!" I can't help the exclamation, though I
imagine Wufei'd be wincing at the way I open a conversation with a new
acquaintance.
Or perhaps ... not so new.
Heero Yuy nods slowly. He looks like a guy who takes his time over
things -- who's careful, and probably always right. "I ... well, having
tried out a couple of your recipes, I needed some more equipment. I appreciate
you leaving the details on the notepad in the kitchen now, rather than pinning
them to my door, using those unusual toothpicks. The ones with the States of
the Union flags on them."
I can feel myself blushing. "Ah, yes ... my own special
recipes. I don't know if I ever explained, but that's what I do, you see --
freelance chef. I travel around a lot, do some lecturing, do some contract work
at restaurants. Cooking is what I love, to be honest." One of the few
things I give my full attention to, according to Wufei. "But that was
pretty rude of me when I first came around, cooking for you when I didn't know
you; didn't know if you wanted me to. Made a bit of a mess, too, I'm
afraid."
He moves his foot almost surreptitiously. Underneath it I can
still see the tomato stain from my first batch of goulash, a clumsy red splash
on the pale wood of his kitchen floor. But he's trying to cover it up, which
surprises me. People don't usually care about embarrassing me. "It's
fine," he says, like he did at the front door. Cute voice, too: quite deep
and quiet, but every word carries well. "I've practised it a few times and
I complete it quite successfully now. Also the risotto recipe -- and the
Spanish omelette."
Now I'm flushed all over. "Shit," I say, and then wish I
hadn't. "Sounds like I'm taking over your whole menu."
When I catch his eye, he's not smiling anymore. "I thought that
too, at first," he says. "There's no doubt that you've been an
intrusion in my apartment, Duo Maxwell. Firstly, there was all that activity in
my kitchen, then there were Quatre's -- my friend's -- art prints that you put
up on my walls without permission. And of course there's my bonsai collection
that has been left to dehydrate on a regular basis."
"Those little trees? You're meant to water them?" I
nearly groan out loud. My gut lurches with embarrassment; I want to sink into
the floor and vanish.
"Several of them have sunk into dormancy, but I've been able
to save a couple." His eyes are blue and bright, and he's watching my
every movement. Seems like he's got a catalogue of complaints to bring to the
party. Shit, I think. I wish I'd kept out of the way; I wish we were
back to the polite, interesting little notes... I wish I weren't a blob of
abject self-pity right now. I know the time has come to make myself scarce,
which is a real shame. I'd got sort of used to this place and its cool, clean,
peaceful atmosphere. And I would have liked the chance to get to know Heero Yuy
better. Really liked it.
"Look ..." I start to apologise at having caused such
trouble in what is, after all, his place, but his expression has changed
and now he's smiling again. It's a cautious smile, but he looks much less
stern, and so I bite back my inevitable babble. He's still watching me, but
it's a curious look, not confrontational. He's tall and athletic, and I must
say he's an attractive man when he relaxes -- I reckon he doesn't do it often
enough to realise. There's a sensuous movement throughout the whole of his
body, like he's letting out a deep breath.
"Duo Maxwell," he says, as if trying out my name again
for size and shape on his tongue. "It's about time I met you in
person."
He's been here for an hour or so now, sitting on the other end of
my couch. Duo Maxwell ... it's a bold, strong name and it suits the man in
person. He's drinking his second cup of tea -- tea that he's brought into the
apartment himself on previous visits. He drinks an unusual blend of
blackcurrant and herbs, and each time I come home I find new sachets scattered
over my kitchen counter.
Actually, I find a lot of things scattered.
He's an example in himself: he's sprawling on the couch, one leg
tucked under him, the other stretched out and nudging at the leg of the table.
He exudes energy, even when he's presumably at rest. When he puts his cup down,
he knocks the lamp off its base, and I instinctively reach out to stop it
falling. He catches it himself, though, his face creased with an apologetic
smile. He stands it back up, a few centimetres too far to the left, but the
misalignment doesn't seem to worry me.
Perhaps his attitude is contagious. I'm not sure how I feel about
that. The confusion makes me feel a little dizzy.
"So tell me what you do," he asks. "We've
been in touch all this time but never really found out these kinds of
things." I'm usually reluctant to talk about myself, and I can feel the
muscles tensing across the back of my neck. Perhaps he sees my hesitation,
because he leans forward and touches my arm. "Sorry. Sometimes I'm too
blunt -- I'm not polite enough for other people. You don't have to tell me a
thing."
"I source antiques for clients," I say, in a bit of a
rush. My voice sounds a little uneven. I can't stop staring at his hand on my
arm. "You've seen my catalogues and my own collection -- but I work in the
field as well. I'm hired by a corporation or a particular individual, and asked
to find something special for them at a price they specify. I travel a lot to
regional antique auctions and shows. Well, you know I'm often away, that's why
you're here ..." My throat is a little dry, so I swallow, and continue.
"I've always been good at determining the value of a piece, and I can
evaluate the bidding accordingly. I get great satisfaction out of knowing a
client can display the right item in the right place for them."
He draws back his hand, biting his lip, and suddenly I'm worried
for no apparent reason. Did I say something wrong? Wasn't that what he wanted
to know?
"The right thing in the right place," he says, slowly.
His face is a bit flushed, and I don't think it can be from the tea. "So
is that what you've been doing at my place, Heero Yuy?"
I stare. My stomach feels nauseous. I don't understand what kind
of person he can be, who can create this disorder inside me. "I think that
you've found me an intrusion as well."
"You think damned right," he answers. His voice is very
soft, but there's wariness in his eyes. I often see that look when I meet
people, but I thought that was because of business, not ... whatever this is.
"At first, I couldn't find the things I wanted -- and some of the things I
didn't want to find kept appearing in front of me at every damned turn.
Then I started to look at things differently, all over. Perhaps you'll have
noticed the changes I've made; the reorganisation that's gone on in my
apartment. Since I don't have a whole lot of through traffic there, I can only
conclude that the upheaval in my life is due to you."
For some strange reason, I find myself staring at one of Quatre's
pictures, one of the selections that Duo Maxwell put up on my wall on his first
visit here. It's marked the pale paintwork quite badly; it's very bright and
very obtrusive, and it's constantly in my line of sight when I come into the
lounge to rest. Quatre still comments on it, teasing me about my initial
intention to remove it. I wonder to myself why it's still there ... and why I'm
rather used to it now.
"You threw out my gin," Duo Maxwell's voice says,
quietly. "You cleared up things that I didn't need -- nor want --
cleared up. We don't all live the same way as you, Heero Yuy."
"I'm sorry." That's my voice speaking -- it sounds
miserable. It's the first time for a long while that I've felt so wrong about
something.
When he jumps up in a burst of long limbs and noise and movement,
I know he's going back to his own place. I feel very disappointed. But of
course I understand that I have overstepped a mark, even if I wasn't entirely
sure where it was. For maybe the first time ever, I curse my preference for my
own company.
"Hey, forget it," he says. "It's fine,
OK?" I think he may be mimicking me, though it doesn't sound malicious.
"So will you come back to my apartment now?" He has to repeat
the invitation, and that makes him smile. He's still smiling. He doesn't seem
angry anymore. I'm aware that I'm staring quite rudely, but he doesn't seem to
mind. "My turn to welcome you, Heero Yuy, now that we've met
properly. Hell, any guy who can find my remote control when it's been missing
for weeks can't be all bad!"
And when I keep staring, totally confused, he laughs aloud again.
The noise fills my apartment, louder than an auctioneer's call, and more
warmly, too. I think I can recognise some good-natured teasing when it's
shining in Duo Maxwell's wide, vivid blue eyes.
Heero is really an astonishing guy. I mean, I've learned some
things about him just from his notes and being around his apartment, but
there's no substitute for meeting someone face to face, is there? We've had a
browse through some of the albums of my demonstration shows and my lecture
appearances. He's put me straight on a few things about design around the apartment
-- oh, and he helped me fix that cupboard door in the kitchen at last.
He wasn't too sure about my couch at first -- hell, he was civil
about it, which I think is pretty much the way he is, but I could see it didn't
meet his professional expectations. But when he sat down in it, his eyes did
that dark widening thing that shows his emotions. He was pleasantly surprised
with its comfort, and after all, that's what I want it for.
We're sitting here now, and have been for an hour or so. Time
flies and all that. He's really easy to talk to, but every now and then I catch
him staring at me with that confused look. When I know him better, we can talk
about it. Or maybe not. Doesn't matter to me, so long as we're cool with each
other.
"You want some supper?" I ask, ready to dash about for
us both. "There's a combination of chicken and tarragon that I'm working
on ..."
"No," he says, sharply, and then grimaces. Guess we're
both a bit blunt sometimes. "I meant, not yet. I'm comfortable here,
Duo."
I'm happy with that. I sort of like staring back at him, to tell
you the truth. We must look like a couple of idiots, grinning at each other and
sinking gradually down into the couch. I can see what Wufei meant about its
uses; it's damned good value for money if you want somewhere to sit comfortably
with ... a friend. At one point, I worry that Heero might be getting a back
ache, and I lend him a hand to settle himself more comfortably. He makes some
protest, but he doesn't let go of my arm afterwards for quite a while.
I realise I'd quite like to develop that particular kind of cool
with each other. The feeling catches me by surprise.
"You have to get back? I mean, you've probably got stuff to
prepare for work next week, or calls to make --"
"No."
"Me neither," I say. "I've got a couple of days
leave, actually. I'm between contracts."
"I ... might be off work, too." His face looks kind of
flushed. "I don't have any appointments confirmed for the next nine
days." His knee is brushing against mine, touching the skin where the
fabric is split.
I want to ask if he's dating -- or going steady, or whatever. It's
a long time since I felt that interested. It's rare that I'd actually welcome
Wufei's advice, but I'm not so confident in this area. I kind of want to know
if Heero likes boys, rather than girls. The look in his eyes encourages me, but
I don't think we're quite ready yet to exchange past sexual resumes.
"We could get together again, then," I say, slowly.
"Soon. We could take a look at that Ideal Apartment exhibition in the
city."
"We could visit the new Spanish food market on the
harbour," he replies, just as slowly.
"Or just ... apartment sit," I say, even more
cautiously. "But together." I grin, so that he can take it as one of
my jokes, if he wants to.
We stare at each other. The air feels suddenly warmer; my
breathing is shallow. He isn't smiling back at me, and I'm not entirely sure
what the expression on his face means -- he's not the easiest guy to read. I
think of his cool, tidy apartment, and then I think of my place that's still
pretty chaotic, despite all my attempts. I can only see the differences, not
the similarities between us. "Look, Heero, sorry about that. Obviously
it's not --"
He interrupts me, words all in a rush. "Are you scared of
stepping on my toes, Duo?"
I draw a sharp breath. "Are you scared of falling over mine,
Heero?"
We do that staring thing again, and then we both smile.
Broadly. It feels pretty good.
He stands up to leave, but he's still gazing at me. "Come
around tomorrow," he says, rather shyly. "When I'm in, I mean. I can
arrange things for us."
"Good," I reply, scrambling to my feet as well. "As
arranging's not my particular strength."
I see him to the door, where he pauses. He picks up a pad of
sticky notes abandoned on the hall table and the purple marker beside it, and
he prints a number on the top sheet. "My private cell number," he
says. "For ... future reference." Then as I watch with surprise, he
peels the sheet off and attaches it very deliberately to the wall at the side
of the door. It's now a bright fluorescent square framed by a random strip of
crimson wallpaper that I keep meaning to remove. He grimaces at the shocking
contrast, and he spends a long time carefully lining up the paper with the
doorframe, but it's the way I'd leave a message, and so I appreciate the
gesture from him.
I stand at the door and watch Heero Yuy walk back up the corridor.
I'm in no rush to go back into my apartment, and things feel very -- very
-- good. If this is what it means to enjoy life to the full, I'm not gonna
bitch to Wufei about his brotherly mission ever again.
Part 5
Wufei struggled past several groups of chatting guests, clutching
his collection of champagne-filled glasses. The function room was full of
people from all parts of the media world, all gushing over piles of the new,
glossily-printed bestseller. He passed one particularly tall pile and stared at
the vivid picture of his friend on the cover. "Maxwell's Menu: from
Minestrone to Mousse," he groaned to himself, shaking his head with
wry amusement. He finally reached his own table with a sigh of relief, sat
down, and handed the glasses around.
"Have you seen Duo yet?" asked Quatre, one of his new
friends. "He went off to autograph some books but I haven't seen him
since."
"Nor Heero," added Trowa. He sat beside Quatre, his arm
casually around the back of his partner's chair. "They'll be together
somewhere. The pair of them are like bookends nowadays."
"They've just developed a good friendship," protested
Quatre. His back arched gently as Trowa teased at the hair in the nape of his
neck, nuzzling into the protective caress. "Though God knows, they seemed
to have little enough in common at first."
Trowa nodded. "On the one hand, Heero's obsession with order
and control ..."
"Versus Duo's desire to be free of anything remotely
resembling discipline," countered Wufei.
The three young men grimaced at each other. And then grinned.
"Things have definitely changed since then. Did you see that
designer shirt Duo was wearing tonight?" Wufei sounded impressed.
"Smart dressing is no longer a nauseating concept to him."
Trowa smiled back at him. "And Heero nearly arrived tonight
wearing mismatched socks. He was scandalised when I spotted it and made a pile
of excuses from not having the full laundry facilities around at Duo's
apartment, to losing the matching items down the back of that sagging couch of
Duo's --"
"You know Duo's thinking of getting rid of that couch?"
said Wufei. "Says the springs have collapsed. He can't have had it longer
than six months. He wants to replace it with one just the same -- said
something about sentimental value."
"And apparently," added Quatre, excitedly, "Heero's
antique
They watched the rest of the party milling around them for a
while, sitting companionably and watching for their mutual friends to reappear.
"The book's doing well in
Wufei nodded. "It's to be illustrated with antique novelties,
discovered and collected by Heero. An attractive combination."
They could see two young men peeling themselves out from among a
cluster of reporters and publishing assistants, laughing their good-natured
protests and insisting on a break to draw breath and have a drink themselves.
They were both waving hands vaguely in the direction of their friends.
Trowa glanced at Wufei over the table top and he winked.
"
"Yes," sighed Quatre, still gazing at the couple on
their way over. His expression could best be described as compassionate
approval. "A very attractive combination."
I'm so proud of Duo, and of his creative success. It was a contact
of mine in the publishing world who gave him the chance to put his proposal
forward, but it's Duo's own work that's in that garishly illustrated book. I
haven't been able to look at anyone but him all night. He's flushed and
laughing and he's never looked more vibrant. I struggle to remember what my
life was like before I met him. Whenever he's with me, it's like a fresh burst
of energy: he's light and colour and noise, and maybe sometimes uncontrollable.
But I can learn to live with that. I am learning to live with that! And
enjoying the experience more than I could have believed possible. We've been
surrounded by representatives from the publishers since we arrived, and we'd
already decided not to show too much public affection except around our
friends, but he still has that way of looking straight at me and smiling that's
almost better than an arm around me ... or a kiss.
By the way, it's been three hours and eighteen minutes since he
last kissed me, and that was merely a snatched moment behind the makeshift
bookshelves. I'm only prepared to last another hour or so before asking for
another. From the look in his eye, I think he's already guessed at my
dishonourable intentions. As he turns to sign some more autographs, he grins,
rather too knowingly.
He refused to wear anything smarter than his jeans, despite the
fact that the knees have worn completely through by now. It never ceases to
confuse me that he doesn't care about his clothing the same way that I do. He
says the jeans are his favourites -- he says they're the ones he was wearing
when we first ... anyway, he has a strange and robust capacity for
sentimentality that I'm learning to treasure. At least he looks good in his new
shirt. It's a beautiful, sensual fabric. I want to touch it where it clings to
his torso.
Dammit, I want to touch him!
I feel transparent when he turns around again to catch me watching
him. His grin is even broader. He has a whole portfolio of smiles, in fact, and
I can recognise almost all of them by now. The knowledge amazes me.
And it thrills me to realise how much I enjoy smiling back.
The only reason I'm at this damned embarrassing book launch is
because it's a chance to see Heero in a suit and then grope him shamelessly
behind the refreshment table. Otherwise I'd be out of here, faster than either
of us could spit. Well, not that Heero would spit, of course -- he's far
too well behaved for that.
I don't know if success is going to go to my head. The champagne's
doing that already. Thank God Heero's here to keep an eye on me. And my ass.
Hell, that's the champagne talking.
I'm so glad he's here with me. I like to turn around and see him
there. I like to hear his calm voice, listen to his dry jokes, tease him when
he slips back into his most rigid ways. I like his weird antique stuff and his miniature
trees and his cool sanctuary of an apartment. All of it -- I've always liked it
... always will. It's fun, getting to know each other. Well, I think it
is! Heero occasionally looks a little left behind, but he doesn't seem upset
about it. Kinda likes being swept along sometimes, I guess.
I feel a bit sentimental. I blame the champagne. Good to have something
to blame.
He moves beside me at last, and his hand brushes oh so gently
against my back. "I just spoke to your agent ..." he murmurs in my ear.
"She said something about a European tour. For both of us."
I start to grin with the anticipation of a trip full of adventures
and discoveries and cute accents and -- of course -- luxury hotel rooms with
baths big enough for two slim guys and a mess of bubbles. I might even toss in
some scented candles. But Heero's eyes are dark and still, the way that they
sometimes go, and I pause for a moment.
"So ... how do you feel about that, Heero?"
He slips his hand under my belt at the back of my jeans and tugs
me very slightly towards him. "Only one problem, Duo Maxwell."
Oh God, what? "What's that, Heero Yuy?"
He smiles that smile that makes my flesh melt against my bones and
the champagne bubbles pop under my very skin. "Who the hell are we going
to ask to apartment sit for us while we're gone?"
The End