Chameleon
By Jillian Storm
(Disclaimer: Gundam Wing characters do not belong to me. This is a strange little ficlet that I wrote when I needed to write something and nothing artistically coherent was coming. So, I fell back on a reliable Catatonia song and thought I'd try to write Quatre and Dorothy into an unfamiliar story. Valerian's lyrics belong to Catatonia. Alternate Reality-where I make most of my mischief.)
The push-pins have fallen everywhere. Some of them are stuck into the soft wood panels of the floor. Others have fallen between the cracks. This home is rather not what he was used to, but he'd come to find a new muse, and when he'd found her on the beach and had asked her to take him home-to her home, well, what else could he expect?
He is down on his knees, picking them up one by one, gingerly. Picturing in his mind each one stabbing him and drawing blood, before he grabs the plastic end safely and drops it quickly into the glass container. When he had tried to sit on the only seat available-an old stool-he'd bumped the table and caused the tiny objects to project themselves in all directions.
She's giggling behind one amazingly pale hand.
Never meant you no harm, never meant you no harm, yeah, yeah.
She doesn't do much more than laugh at him, but he doesn't mind. Most people wouldn't dare to laugh at someone with such position as Master Winner. What they did do was smile becomingly on plastic faces, and harbored sarcastic comments and cruel jokes for later. He was rich, and this is what happened. He was used to it.
But there was something oddly comforting and refreshing about how her eyes sparkled gleefully when he messed up. Immediate, honest, responses. Nothing more, nothing less.
The floor, he realized, was damp. And his pant legs were beginning to soak up the outlines of that contact. His palms, the tools of his art, were indented with the pattern of the driftwood.
She lived in a house of driftwood. A grey, yellow-grey color that seemed to match the yellow-grey hues of the girl. The stool was cool, steel. Grey. The table, more yellow-tan. The dishes, silver tones. The bed, a compatible dust-colored brown.
Outside he could see similar shades overlapping the sky. Even the water was reflecting grey-greens. A chilly breeze was hardly held back by the thin walls. It whistled a little, laughing at him as well. Quatre Winner felt the urge of his being. Paint. Paint this. Paint her.
He had found his muse.
Never spun you no yarn, never spun you no yarn, yeah, yeah.
"My name is Dorothy."
"The people in the village call you the Cockroach Girl."
"My eyebrows are grey. My hair is gold. They say it makes me look like a cockroach."
"So, you don't secretly stash cockroaches in their kitchens. Like the rumors?"
"I leave them alone, ok?"
"Do you live here, then? On the beach?"
"Yes."
"Can I see?"
"I don't know. I don't know if you can see. If you can see it. It's where I live."
"Right. I'd like to visit you."
"Why?"
"Because you're exactly what I've been looking for. My muse."
"Muse?"
"I'm an artist."
"An artist?"
"I paint. I'd like to paint you."
"Me?" She tilts her head all the way to the side, observing, quietly. Her eyes the richest blue, but he isn't certain if they see him at all. Then she reaches out with one slim, white-grey arm.
And she stands still, just like that, just like an immobile statue. Until he takes her arm and then she leads him toward the ocean.
And she'll go yeah, where he goes yeah
The supplies he brought were mostly yellow and grey. He tried mixing blue in the grey and red into the yellow, but the simplicity of the vacant gaze she made for hours while he painted her demands simple-ness. The sound of water played music for his inspiration. The occasional cry of a lonely bird echoed the sounds of rocks breaking the cold waves. Waves broken on the rocks.
"What have you done? I'm done. I'm finished. This is it. I'm leaving. Good-bye."
Quatre started when the silence was suddenly broken. Just as quickly, when he peered over the edges of his glasses to look at his model, she appeared not to have moved a muscle. She stared simply into the far corner, down toward the sandy covered floorboards.
He's afraid to speak, but he's curious. "Did you just say something, Dorothy?"
She blinked. That's all. Quatre smiled a little thinking to himself. *My little cockroach girl.*
Now he has a title for his painting. It's time to finish it.
We all go where nobody knows our name.
The waves are coming, noisier now that the sun is low and the moon is high. The moon is grey. The stars are white gold. And Quatre sits along the shore. On a rock high enough that the foam doesn't reach him, but wraps around his dry seat instead.
He's curious about this new muse. She oddly reminds him of his sisters. Of his mother. Of his fiancé. Only a ghostly version of their warm gold smiles. A quiet echo of those women, one without oppressive opinions.
"An artist, Quatre? Oh dear."
"You're leaving me? You're not leaving me? Where are you going?"
"I'm sorry, we'll just never understand you."
The wind, cold, deliberate, touches his face and chills his skin. Quatre closes his eyes and knows that his skin is turning grey in the evening light. The voice of nature takes away his words and leaves him contentedly empty.
Empty to be filled with something else.
Suddenly, his eyes, darkly reflecting the night-time waters, open. He knows. He stays.
Turning, he sees her standing to one side. Walking into the water until it begins to wash over her shoulders. She's singing, something unintelligible. Water, imagine how cold, fills her mouth. And she laughs.
If I step out of line, I'll step out of line, yeah. Over land, over sea. One step. Two.
He stayed with her a day. A week. A month.
And every morning, when he woke up she would be watching him. Her head propped up on one arm, and studying his face with those vacant eyes. As if her nightly bathe washed away every memory from the day and let her rediscover him every morning. Her constant renewal made it easier for Quatre to stay. Her acceptance, despite everything else, made life worthwhile.
He filled every canvas with yellow and grey.
"Nothing. Nothing. See? Seeing nothing hurts." She spoke suddenly. Quatre was used to her outbursts. She'd gaze at the floor and whisper harsh things. Then, as sweetly as ever, she would lift her pale face and look around as if she might have heard someone calling her. Interrupting. Calling her away.
"Dorothy."
"Yes?"
"Do you have any family?"
"I did, just yesterday. I must have misplaced them. Somewhere around here. See anyone?"
"Why do you stay here then?"
"What?"
"What if you could go some where else?"
"Somewhere different? Away from here?"
"You could see my home."
"Your family?"
"No. No." *laughs* "I don't live with my family. Near them, yes. But not with them. I am a little old for that."
"Near you? . . . yes." Something about her eyes sparkles.
And she'll go yeah, where he goes, yeah.
She insisted on bringing her push-pins. He helped her pack a few things, promising her new clothes and a new pillow. A new chair and a new table. "You can leave these things. They'll still be here when you get back."
"No kidding?" She laughed.
"No kidding."
Quatre led her to his car. Opened the door and began to instruct her on the seatbelt. She laughed. "I know how to do this." He's a little surprised.
The grey of the rock turns only yellow. And the yellow shifts to orange and green. The sky becomes blue and the rocks are red. And where there was water, now miles are full of desert. And heat, unlike the cold. A touch of purple.
"So why did you decide it was time for you to leave?" Dorothy's voice came from where she's resting her head against the prop of her arm. A crack in the window circulated the air and wisps and strands of her hair got caught up in it almost like she were swimming in the sea again.
"Leave?"
"Leave the sea. Or better yet, why did you ever come to it?" She turned to look back at him. Her eyes narrowed. Something inside her remained chill, reminding him of the unfriendly rocks that break the waves reaching for the shore.
"I'm a painter. You know that." Quatre shrugged, even though he felt the answer to those questions were the most important things he could ever discover about himself. "I was looking for a different muse. My old one, the desert, was so dry."
Dorothy continued to study him. But her gaze wasn't vacant or innocent. The distance between them narrowed as she leaned closer. "Am I your muse, Quatre?"
"y-Yes."
"And is that why you've kidnapped me to come back with you?" Her breath was hot against his ear.
He concentrated, determinedly, on the road. "Dorothy, I thought it was time for me to show my art. And I wanted you to be there."
"A show?" Dorothy settled back into her seat. "How nice."
We all go where nobody knows our name.
Quatre took her to her room, a complete wing of his mansion. Independently wealthy, he could afford the lifestyle of an artist. The sculptures in the foyer were his favorite efforts from the academy classes he attended.
The paintings in each room bore his characteristic style and signature. But when they stepped into the room he had prepared for her, the walls were filled with a new, consistent, mature art.
He had shipped each of his paintings home and had them arranged in that room. A room full of yellow and grey.
Dorothy studied the wall transfixed. As if she were seeing them, seeing herself, for the first time.
"Is that who you think I am?" She leaned one hand just outside one canvas, leaning in closer so that her vision settled on the particular spots of paint. "Deliberate, familiar strokes."
"I've had clothing put into the closets for you. Wear whatever you like. Tomorrow, remember, is the show. We'll move the paintings to the gallery in the morning." Quatre smiled, feeling at ease back in his desert again. "I thought that for the first night away from home, that the colors would be comforting."
"I see." Dorothy turned from those colors and went to the closet. "Oh good." She sighed. "I simply love wearing black to parties."
The dress she wore through the gallery was simple and black. She was a charmer and several guests complimented Quatre on her company.
"Have you forgotten Sylvia, already, Quatre?" One gentleman whispered, suggestively. "Not that I blame you."
"I've," Quatre thought a moment, then thought better. "I haven't spoken with Sylvia regarding anything."
"Well, I'd hurry, if I were you." A subtle motion, and Quatre was directed to glance Dorothy's direction. She was in the center of an eager group of finely dressed men. They offered her drinks, they laughed at her jokes, they kissed her hand before making their exit.
And each one of them was buying one of her portraits.
"She seems so different in them, though." The guest spoke, and Quatre looked back at him. Puzzled. "In the pictures, I mean. Something seems rather different, in her eyes. But, maybe that's how you see them."
*No,* Quatre took a sip from his drink. *That is who she is. That's what I saw . . . that's what I saw.*
And don't cry if crying means you're sorry
"Everyone is gone. We are alone."
Quatre sat, wearily, in one of the plush chairs at a round table that held the remains of well-enjoyed appetizers.
"After today, not one of those paintings remains to be sold. I'm sure you did very well for yourself. I'm sure you didn't really need the money though."
"I am an artist." Quatre whispered. "I represent what I see through the oil, through the water color, through the pencils and the acrylic."
"I am an artist." Dorothy whispered. "I represent what I see through the language of my body, the tone of my voice, the subtle shift of my eyes or my lips."
A pause before Quatre asks, "Who are you?"
"I am a person who is very very lost. No, rather, a person who is very very unhappy."
Whatever the case I always felt out of place.
She couldn't remember her beginning. Yet, who does? And first memories are so layered with photographs and family stories that reliability in the past is shadowed with fantastic flourishes or wilting pains. Faces overlapped with other faces. One woman becomes another becomes another.
And who remembered her? But instead put over her the mask they wanted her to wear. To become the person that they thought she was. And, in time, she realized there was nothing she could do. But recognition, resignation, that is a strength. And she veiled herself under the skins of a chameleon.
Blended into her surroundings, siphoning the energy of the atmosphere, transfixed by the expectations of others.
And she was successful. And loved. And welcomed. She thought.
Until one day, the vague memory faces and she traveled to the beach. To the village which noticed her coloring and saw a cockroach girl. The cockroach girl was a bum on the beach who made a house out of drift-wood and waded into the water at night to howl at the moon. She was vague and vacant and peacefully happy. But if someone looked to long for her or stayed by her too long, she would turn into the cockroach monster and devour the village until her peace was restored. Then she would swim out into the sea until the water filled her mouth and she would laugh to the moon, her inconstant sister. Happy.
She had found a peace. Unlike before, this peace was singular and real.
Whatever the case I always felt out of place, as a matter of fact I always felt like that around you.
"So I trapped you." Quatre says sadly. "I captured you in paint and made you what I saw. And now you've become the chameleon again."
"I've followed you home, I've done what you've wanted." Dorothy says, submissively. She kneels by his side and rests her cheek against his trousers. "I can be this for you."
Quatre snorts and stands. "I'm sorry. I can't do that." He frowns. "I've already suffered from too many opinions myself. It'd be too easy to put mine upon you."
"Remorse, Quatre?" Dorothy stands, careful and graceful in her midnight dark gown. Her hair pale and fragile curls of silk wash against her shoulders like waves. He remembers how she slid into the salt water and let the moonlight reflect off her hair.
She steps up and fingers the collar of his jacket, sliding her slender fingers along the fabric. Her eyes are lowered. He stands still for a moment. Watching her face for anything familiar. Then pulls away. Leaves.
I'm disinclined to toe the line under your thumb where I've become unwanted.
He left the keys to the car for her and sets her box of push-pins where she can find them. Then Quatre left. He went to several doors and hesitated before knocking. His mother. Sylvia. The sisters. At each doorway, he could feel the affection, the sincere, dry, changeless love.
And inside, he felt obligations, entrapments. He wondered if conflicting feelings were purified by distance. At each he turned and left without a word.
Discovering that his art wanted inconsistency. If inconstancy would unveil honesty.
Returning to his own house, he discovered the messages of several visitors. A note from his mother mentioning his suspect diet and consequential health problems. Several instances of sisters inquiring after the success of his art showing. Sylvia who knew that he had been searching for someone better and had heard about his companion and she was fine with that.
*How little they know* Quatre shook his head.
Then he was struck by something deeper.
*How little I know*
He hurried up the stairs to the room where he had put Dorothy. She had left no trace. The artwork was removed.
Quatre went to sit in his own room. On the edge of the bed. Letting his useless hands dangle between his weary knees. Looking ahead with a vacant expression on his face.
On the wall, capturing his absent attentions, was a canvas of yellow and grey.
So pick your way down to the sea, pick your way to the sea, yeah
The water's noise becomes so familiar that he hardly hears it at all. This will be his baptism, and the world hushes to recognize his decision. His ears are quiet to hear it.
The grey of the water is touched with faint yellow, the moon is watching. His feet shuffle against the bottom. His movement is steady but his confidence is uncertain.
Appearance and reality. He wonders if they would ever meet, join and clarify.
The water fills in the gaps up to his knees now.
Cold, dragging down on the ends of his pants.
He feels embraced, hugged. What had she said she had wanted? To be loved? Welcomed? Was this it? Had he found it?
Around his waist now. He puts down his arms and lets his hands be taken. It becomes harder to move forward. Numbed and exhilarated. Which is it? What will it be but whatever it is?
Then he remembers the nights on the rock. Checking the tones of the sun, yellow, and the moon, grey. Remembering them. Needing them for his art. And then turning. To see her in the water, letting the waves wash over her shoulders. Just starting to pull the bottom curls of her hair back. And she'd laugh.
He laughs, feeling the caresses against his neck.
It's not the tide you gotta watch it's me, not the tide you got it's me, yeah
He sings, and as he does, something unexpected happens. Water fills his mouth. He releases it with another laugh. Tossing back his head, the foam teases the tips of his hair so that when he shakes his head tiny droplets of water dance out around him. Nipping projectiles. Push-pins.
Quatre had never felt so secure. Even as the water's force was strong, his legs were planted, determined. Push-pin.
And she'll go yeah, where he goes yeah. We all go where nobody knows our name
Something warm. Something cold.
He's comfortably awake, and his eyes open to see the shapes of driftwood overhead. His eyes become focused on the pattern. He's seen it before. The colors appeal to him. They seem so familiar.
After a moment, he hears breathing. He turns, propping his head with one arm, and sees a girl. She's sleeping and her lips are slightly parted with breath. Wisps of pale silk hair trace past her closed eyelids just under oddly shaded brows.
He wonders who she is. He wonders why she's here.
Where nobody knows out name.
The end.
(7/13/2002 This is one of my older fics, and a while back I rewrote it as an original story and polished it up quite a bit. But the fanfic itself, Quatre and Dorothy, some of the subtle GW in it, still amuse me. I figured I'd post it along with my other fanfics in the original, rough form. If you want to comment I'm still using the e-mail stormy812@hotmail.com)
Valerian
By Catatonia
Never meant you no harm
Never meant you no harm yeah
Never spun you no yarn
Never spun you no yarn yeah
And she'll go yeah where he goes yeah
We all go where nobody knows our name
If I step out of line
I'll step out of line yeah
Over land over sea
One step two to Ynys free
And she'll go yeah where he goes yeah
We all go where nobody knows out name
And don't cry if crying means you're sorry
Whatever the case I always felt out of place
As a matter of fact I always felt like that around you
I'm disinclined to toe the line
Under your thumb where I've become unwanted
So pick your way down to the sea
Pick your way to the sea yeah
It's not the tide you gotta watch it's me
Not the tide you got it's me yeah
And she'll go yeah where he'll go yeah
We all go where nobody knows our name
Where nobody knows our name
By Jillian Storm
(Disclaimer: Gundam Wing characters do not belong to me. This is a strange little ficlet that I wrote when I needed to write something and nothing artistically coherent was coming. So, I fell back on a reliable Catatonia song and thought I'd try to write Quatre and Dorothy into an unfamiliar story. Valerian's lyrics belong to Catatonia. Alternate Reality-where I make most of my mischief.)
The push-pins have fallen everywhere. Some of them are stuck into the soft wood panels of the floor. Others have fallen between the cracks. This home is rather not what he was used to, but he'd come to find a new muse, and when he'd found her on the beach and had asked her to take him home-to her home, well, what else could he expect?
He is down on his knees, picking them up one by one, gingerly. Picturing in his mind each one stabbing him and drawing blood, before he grabs the plastic end safely and drops it quickly into the glass container. When he had tried to sit on the only seat available-an old stool-he'd bumped the table and caused the tiny objects to project themselves in all directions.
She's giggling behind one amazingly pale hand.
Never meant you no harm, never meant you no harm, yeah, yeah.
She doesn't do much more than laugh at him, but he doesn't mind. Most people wouldn't dare to laugh at someone with such position as Master Winner. What they did do was smile becomingly on plastic faces, and harbored sarcastic comments and cruel jokes for later. He was rich, and this is what happened. He was used to it.
But there was something oddly comforting and refreshing about how her eyes sparkled gleefully when he messed up. Immediate, honest, responses. Nothing more, nothing less.
The floor, he realized, was damp. And his pant legs were beginning to soak up the outlines of that contact. His palms, the tools of his art, were indented with the pattern of the driftwood.
She lived in a house of driftwood. A grey, yellow-grey color that seemed to match the yellow-grey hues of the girl. The stool was cool, steel. Grey. The table, more yellow-tan. The dishes, silver tones. The bed, a compatible dust-colored brown.
Outside he could see similar shades overlapping the sky. Even the water was reflecting grey-greens. A chilly breeze was hardly held back by the thin walls. It whistled a little, laughing at him as well. Quatre Winner felt the urge of his being. Paint. Paint this. Paint her.
He had found his muse.
Never spun you no yarn, never spun you no yarn, yeah, yeah.
"My name is Dorothy."
"The people in the village call you the Cockroach Girl."
"My eyebrows are grey. My hair is gold. They say it makes me look like a cockroach."
"So, you don't secretly stash cockroaches in their kitchens. Like the rumors?"
"I leave them alone, ok?"
"Do you live here, then? On the beach?"
"Yes."
"Can I see?"
"I don't know. I don't know if you can see. If you can see it. It's where I live."
"Right. I'd like to visit you."
"Why?"
"Because you're exactly what I've been looking for. My muse."
"Muse?"
"I'm an artist."
"An artist?"
"I paint. I'd like to paint you."
"Me?" She tilts her head all the way to the side, observing, quietly. Her eyes the richest blue, but he isn't certain if they see him at all. Then she reaches out with one slim, white-grey arm.
And she stands still, just like that, just like an immobile statue. Until he takes her arm and then she leads him toward the ocean.
And she'll go yeah, where he goes yeah
The supplies he brought were mostly yellow and grey. He tried mixing blue in the grey and red into the yellow, but the simplicity of the vacant gaze she made for hours while he painted her demands simple-ness. The sound of water played music for his inspiration. The occasional cry of a lonely bird echoed the sounds of rocks breaking the cold waves. Waves broken on the rocks.
"What have you done? I'm done. I'm finished. This is it. I'm leaving. Good-bye."
Quatre started when the silence was suddenly broken. Just as quickly, when he peered over the edges of his glasses to look at his model, she appeared not to have moved a muscle. She stared simply into the far corner, down toward the sandy covered floorboards.
He's afraid to speak, but he's curious. "Did you just say something, Dorothy?"
She blinked. That's all. Quatre smiled a little thinking to himself. *My little cockroach girl.*
Now he has a title for his painting. It's time to finish it.
We all go where nobody knows our name.
The waves are coming, noisier now that the sun is low and the moon is high. The moon is grey. The stars are white gold. And Quatre sits along the shore. On a rock high enough that the foam doesn't reach him, but wraps around his dry seat instead.
He's curious about this new muse. She oddly reminds him of his sisters. Of his mother. Of his fiancé. Only a ghostly version of their warm gold smiles. A quiet echo of those women, one without oppressive opinions.
"An artist, Quatre? Oh dear."
"You're leaving me? You're not leaving me? Where are you going?"
"I'm sorry, we'll just never understand you."
The wind, cold, deliberate, touches his face and chills his skin. Quatre closes his eyes and knows that his skin is turning grey in the evening light. The voice of nature takes away his words and leaves him contentedly empty.
Empty to be filled with something else.
Suddenly, his eyes, darkly reflecting the night-time waters, open. He knows. He stays.
Turning, he sees her standing to one side. Walking into the water until it begins to wash over her shoulders. She's singing, something unintelligible. Water, imagine how cold, fills her mouth. And she laughs.
If I step out of line, I'll step out of line, yeah. Over land, over sea. One step. Two.
He stayed with her a day. A week. A month.
And every morning, when he woke up she would be watching him. Her head propped up on one arm, and studying his face with those vacant eyes. As if her nightly bathe washed away every memory from the day and let her rediscover him every morning. Her constant renewal made it easier for Quatre to stay. Her acceptance, despite everything else, made life worthwhile.
He filled every canvas with yellow and grey.
"Nothing. Nothing. See? Seeing nothing hurts." She spoke suddenly. Quatre was used to her outbursts. She'd gaze at the floor and whisper harsh things. Then, as sweetly as ever, she would lift her pale face and look around as if she might have heard someone calling her. Interrupting. Calling her away.
"Dorothy."
"Yes?"
"Do you have any family?"
"I did, just yesterday. I must have misplaced them. Somewhere around here. See anyone?"
"Why do you stay here then?"
"What?"
"What if you could go some where else?"
"Somewhere different? Away from here?"
"You could see my home."
"Your family?"
"No. No." *laughs* "I don't live with my family. Near them, yes. But not with them. I am a little old for that."
"Near you? . . . yes." Something about her eyes sparkles.
And she'll go yeah, where he goes, yeah.
She insisted on bringing her push-pins. He helped her pack a few things, promising her new clothes and a new pillow. A new chair and a new table. "You can leave these things. They'll still be here when you get back."
"No kidding?" She laughed.
"No kidding."
Quatre led her to his car. Opened the door and began to instruct her on the seatbelt. She laughed. "I know how to do this." He's a little surprised.
The grey of the rock turns only yellow. And the yellow shifts to orange and green. The sky becomes blue and the rocks are red. And where there was water, now miles are full of desert. And heat, unlike the cold. A touch of purple.
"So why did you decide it was time for you to leave?" Dorothy's voice came from where she's resting her head against the prop of her arm. A crack in the window circulated the air and wisps and strands of her hair got caught up in it almost like she were swimming in the sea again.
"Leave?"
"Leave the sea. Or better yet, why did you ever come to it?" She turned to look back at him. Her eyes narrowed. Something inside her remained chill, reminding him of the unfriendly rocks that break the waves reaching for the shore.
"I'm a painter. You know that." Quatre shrugged, even though he felt the answer to those questions were the most important things he could ever discover about himself. "I was looking for a different muse. My old one, the desert, was so dry."
Dorothy continued to study him. But her gaze wasn't vacant or innocent. The distance between them narrowed as she leaned closer. "Am I your muse, Quatre?"
"y-Yes."
"And is that why you've kidnapped me to come back with you?" Her breath was hot against his ear.
He concentrated, determinedly, on the road. "Dorothy, I thought it was time for me to show my art. And I wanted you to be there."
"A show?" Dorothy settled back into her seat. "How nice."
We all go where nobody knows our name.
Quatre took her to her room, a complete wing of his mansion. Independently wealthy, he could afford the lifestyle of an artist. The sculptures in the foyer were his favorite efforts from the academy classes he attended.
The paintings in each room bore his characteristic style and signature. But when they stepped into the room he had prepared for her, the walls were filled with a new, consistent, mature art.
He had shipped each of his paintings home and had them arranged in that room. A room full of yellow and grey.
Dorothy studied the wall transfixed. As if she were seeing them, seeing herself, for the first time.
"Is that who you think I am?" She leaned one hand just outside one canvas, leaning in closer so that her vision settled on the particular spots of paint. "Deliberate, familiar strokes."
"I've had clothing put into the closets for you. Wear whatever you like. Tomorrow, remember, is the show. We'll move the paintings to the gallery in the morning." Quatre smiled, feeling at ease back in his desert again. "I thought that for the first night away from home, that the colors would be comforting."
"I see." Dorothy turned from those colors and went to the closet. "Oh good." She sighed. "I simply love wearing black to parties."
The dress she wore through the gallery was simple and black. She was a charmer and several guests complimented Quatre on her company.
"Have you forgotten Sylvia, already, Quatre?" One gentleman whispered, suggestively. "Not that I blame you."
"I've," Quatre thought a moment, then thought better. "I haven't spoken with Sylvia regarding anything."
"Well, I'd hurry, if I were you." A subtle motion, and Quatre was directed to glance Dorothy's direction. She was in the center of an eager group of finely dressed men. They offered her drinks, they laughed at her jokes, they kissed her hand before making their exit.
And each one of them was buying one of her portraits.
"She seems so different in them, though." The guest spoke, and Quatre looked back at him. Puzzled. "In the pictures, I mean. Something seems rather different, in her eyes. But, maybe that's how you see them."
*No,* Quatre took a sip from his drink. *That is who she is. That's what I saw . . . that's what I saw.*
And don't cry if crying means you're sorry
"Everyone is gone. We are alone."
Quatre sat, wearily, in one of the plush chairs at a round table that held the remains of well-enjoyed appetizers.
"After today, not one of those paintings remains to be sold. I'm sure you did very well for yourself. I'm sure you didn't really need the money though."
"I am an artist." Quatre whispered. "I represent what I see through the oil, through the water color, through the pencils and the acrylic."
"I am an artist." Dorothy whispered. "I represent what I see through the language of my body, the tone of my voice, the subtle shift of my eyes or my lips."
A pause before Quatre asks, "Who are you?"
"I am a person who is very very lost. No, rather, a person who is very very unhappy."
Whatever the case I always felt out of place.
She couldn't remember her beginning. Yet, who does? And first memories are so layered with photographs and family stories that reliability in the past is shadowed with fantastic flourishes or wilting pains. Faces overlapped with other faces. One woman becomes another becomes another.
And who remembered her? But instead put over her the mask they wanted her to wear. To become the person that they thought she was. And, in time, she realized there was nothing she could do. But recognition, resignation, that is a strength. And she veiled herself under the skins of a chameleon.
Blended into her surroundings, siphoning the energy of the atmosphere, transfixed by the expectations of others.
And she was successful. And loved. And welcomed. She thought.
Until one day, the vague memory faces and she traveled to the beach. To the village which noticed her coloring and saw a cockroach girl. The cockroach girl was a bum on the beach who made a house out of drift-wood and waded into the water at night to howl at the moon. She was vague and vacant and peacefully happy. But if someone looked to long for her or stayed by her too long, she would turn into the cockroach monster and devour the village until her peace was restored. Then she would swim out into the sea until the water filled her mouth and she would laugh to the moon, her inconstant sister. Happy.
She had found a peace. Unlike before, this peace was singular and real.
Whatever the case I always felt out of place, as a matter of fact I always felt like that around you.
"So I trapped you." Quatre says sadly. "I captured you in paint and made you what I saw. And now you've become the chameleon again."
"I've followed you home, I've done what you've wanted." Dorothy says, submissively. She kneels by his side and rests her cheek against his trousers. "I can be this for you."
Quatre snorts and stands. "I'm sorry. I can't do that." He frowns. "I've already suffered from too many opinions myself. It'd be too easy to put mine upon you."
"Remorse, Quatre?" Dorothy stands, careful and graceful in her midnight dark gown. Her hair pale and fragile curls of silk wash against her shoulders like waves. He remembers how she slid into the salt water and let the moonlight reflect off her hair.
She steps up and fingers the collar of his jacket, sliding her slender fingers along the fabric. Her eyes are lowered. He stands still for a moment. Watching her face for anything familiar. Then pulls away. Leaves.
I'm disinclined to toe the line under your thumb where I've become unwanted.
He left the keys to the car for her and sets her box of push-pins where she can find them. Then Quatre left. He went to several doors and hesitated before knocking. His mother. Sylvia. The sisters. At each doorway, he could feel the affection, the sincere, dry, changeless love.
And inside, he felt obligations, entrapments. He wondered if conflicting feelings were purified by distance. At each he turned and left without a word.
Discovering that his art wanted inconsistency. If inconstancy would unveil honesty.
Returning to his own house, he discovered the messages of several visitors. A note from his mother mentioning his suspect diet and consequential health problems. Several instances of sisters inquiring after the success of his art showing. Sylvia who knew that he had been searching for someone better and had heard about his companion and she was fine with that.
*How little they know* Quatre shook his head.
Then he was struck by something deeper.
*How little I know*
He hurried up the stairs to the room where he had put Dorothy. She had left no trace. The artwork was removed.
Quatre went to sit in his own room. On the edge of the bed. Letting his useless hands dangle between his weary knees. Looking ahead with a vacant expression on his face.
On the wall, capturing his absent attentions, was a canvas of yellow and grey.
So pick your way down to the sea, pick your way to the sea, yeah
The water's noise becomes so familiar that he hardly hears it at all. This will be his baptism, and the world hushes to recognize his decision. His ears are quiet to hear it.
The grey of the water is touched with faint yellow, the moon is watching. His feet shuffle against the bottom. His movement is steady but his confidence is uncertain.
Appearance and reality. He wonders if they would ever meet, join and clarify.
The water fills in the gaps up to his knees now.
Cold, dragging down on the ends of his pants.
He feels embraced, hugged. What had she said she had wanted? To be loved? Welcomed? Was this it? Had he found it?
Around his waist now. He puts down his arms and lets his hands be taken. It becomes harder to move forward. Numbed and exhilarated. Which is it? What will it be but whatever it is?
Then he remembers the nights on the rock. Checking the tones of the sun, yellow, and the moon, grey. Remembering them. Needing them for his art. And then turning. To see her in the water, letting the waves wash over her shoulders. Just starting to pull the bottom curls of her hair back. And she'd laugh.
He laughs, feeling the caresses against his neck.
It's not the tide you gotta watch it's me, not the tide you got it's me, yeah
He sings, and as he does, something unexpected happens. Water fills his mouth. He releases it with another laugh. Tossing back his head, the foam teases the tips of his hair so that when he shakes his head tiny droplets of water dance out around him. Nipping projectiles. Push-pins.
Quatre had never felt so secure. Even as the water's force was strong, his legs were planted, determined. Push-pin.
And she'll go yeah, where he goes yeah. We all go where nobody knows our name
Something warm. Something cold.
He's comfortably awake, and his eyes open to see the shapes of driftwood overhead. His eyes become focused on the pattern. He's seen it before. The colors appeal to him. They seem so familiar.
After a moment, he hears breathing. He turns, propping his head with one arm, and sees a girl. She's sleeping and her lips are slightly parted with breath. Wisps of pale silk hair trace past her closed eyelids just under oddly shaded brows.
He wonders who she is. He wonders why she's here.
Where nobody knows out name.
The end.
(7/13/2002 This is one of my older fics, and a while back I rewrote it as an original story and polished it up quite a bit. But the fanfic itself, Quatre and Dorothy, some of the subtle GW in it, still amuse me. I figured I'd post it along with my other fanfics in the original, rough form. If you want to comment I'm still using the e-mail stormy812@hotmail.com)
Valerian
By Catatonia
Never meant you no harm
Never meant you no harm yeah
Never spun you no yarn
Never spun you no yarn yeah
And she'll go yeah where he goes yeah
We all go where nobody knows our name
If I step out of line
I'll step out of line yeah
Over land over sea
One step two to Ynys free
And she'll go yeah where he goes yeah
We all go where nobody knows out name
And don't cry if crying means you're sorry
Whatever the case I always felt out of place
As a matter of fact I always felt like that around you
I'm disinclined to toe the line
Under your thumb where I've become unwanted
So pick your way down to the sea
Pick your way to the sea yeah
It's not the tide you gotta watch it's me
Not the tide you got it's me yeah
And she'll go yeah where he'll go yeah
We all go where nobody knows our name
Where nobody knows our name