Renaissance
By skyprinces
Disclaimer: Don't own much, especially not gundam wing, so don't sue me.
Warnings: shonen ai, language
Chapter 2:
Quatre unlocked the three locks to his penthouse suite on the top floor of the dormitory, and walked inside the dark room. He rhythmically reached to the right, flipped up three switches, turned back, and locked the three locks starting at the bottom on the nob, then the dead bolt, and the chain lock. One could say he likes his privacy.
He walked down the corridor into his living room, which was decorated plushly in Victorian furnishings with predominately purple and gold accents. Beyond the sofa, loveseat, and large fireplace stood a cherry wood china cabinet catty-corner to a large velvet chair and ottoman. The breakfront was filled with pictures of Quatre and Trowa and memorabilia of the time that the two has spent together. The Arab spent many a depressed evening sitting in that chair, gazing wistfully at the cabinet's contents, and drowning himself in nostalgia.
He sighed and walked to his large bay window, where his music stand and violin waited. He sat down on the cushiony bench and looked at his violin, "You've been my only constant friend all these years." The blonde picked up the instrument to play, but the sunset caught his eye. He gazed out at the watercolor sky and his eyes fell on the gardens in the distance. This window gave him a perfect view of the west side of campus. He looked at the beautiful marble fountain and matching benches and remembered the brunette boy that he often saw sitting there. [He always seems so sad.] Empathy filled the young pilot's thoughts.
Sighing in the general direction of his sheet music, he dismissed the written notes, "I can't concentrate right now." He placed the violin back in its case and pushed himself to his feet. He walked over to his mini-bar and poured himself a glass of Martini and Rossi Austi Spumanti. "So much for nonalcoholic champagne," he snorted, collapsing into the familiar burgundy velvet chair. He kicked off his shoes and their thick soles landed with a thud on the ornate Iranian rug. Propping his feet on the ottoman, the blonde slowly sipped the bubbly beverage. His thoughts slowly slipped down that familiarly depressing pathway. [Why Trowa?] And, against his better judgment, Quatre let tears freely fill his eyes.
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A loud bang snapped a certain braided pilot from his thoughts. He spun the chair around to find Tommy walking towards the fridge. "Jesus Tommy! You scared the shit outta me!" he berated his roommate.
"Well I'm not the one staring at the computer like a zombie. You should come hang out with us. The girls are always asking about you. How do you do it? You don't talk to hardly anyone, yet the girls still love you!"
"My natural charm I guess," Duo joked, knowing the statement was partially true. The lavender-eyed boy never had trouble getting a date, but second dates . . . therein lay the problem. It's not like they aren't nice girls, it's just that none of them seem right. [Nobody just clicks. There are no bells, or fireworks or yummy tingly warm fuzzies. Probably why I'm still a virgin.] He sighed audibly and then looked to his roommate with hope, "Hey Tommy, do you know anything about a girl with short blonde hair and blue-green eyes?"
"Well, there are plenty of blue-eyed blondes in the world, but if you're talking about who I think you are, take a number. Her name's Quatrina. Nobody knows much about her, except maybe Sissa . . . but anyway all the guys would absolutely love to get even one date with her. She's like untouchable man."
"Maybe I will go out with you guys next time," Duo offered as he stripped down to his red silk boxers.
"That's the spirit!" Tommy encouraged. He then chugged a coke and punctuated the act with an earthshaking belch.
Duo climbed into his bed with a shadow of his former grin tugging at his lips. [Maybe then I could meet her . . .] His thoughts slowly trailed off as he drifted off into dreams, allowing fatigue to overwhelm his body.
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The intricately carved crystal glass slipped from the now limp fingers. And slowly tumbling top over bottom to the floor, it shattered into unrecognizable pieces. The crash rang the large room and the sleeping Arab woke with a jump. He rubbed his face wearily before standing.
"I can't believe I did it again," the blonde scolded himself as he expertly stepped over the broken glass on his way to the kitchen. He returned to the living room with a dirt devil and quickly vacuumed up the tiny shard. [I'm so sick of this.] He slid the minivac into its case on the wall.
"Four A.M.," he sighed glancing at the clock on his microwave, "I'm never going to be able to fall back asleep." He trudged to the bathroom; shedding his clothes along the way, in a manner reminiscent of Hanzel and Gretel's breadcrumb trail. His feet slid across the cold marble floor to the shower. He grasped the golden handle and pulled open the glass door. The petite Arab turned on the faucet and held his hand under the stream long enough to be sure the water has warmed up. Then he climbed into the stall.
Standing under the spray, he simply let it run over his body. Washing away last night, rinsing away the regret. His slumped posture and melancholy expression as he stood in the sprinkle, have him the appearance of a little lost child in a display case.
After about 15 minutes of this quasi purification, he shut off the water, pushed the door open and stepped out onto the white terrycloth rug. Pulling a towel off of the nearby rack, he quickly rubbed himself dry. He folded the towel neatly in thirds and draped it back over the rack. Upon reaching his bedroom closet, he swung the door open. He grabbed a random pair of jeans and white undershirt. [At least I don't have class today.] He yanked the slightly rough fabric up his legs and over his hips. Buttoning and zipping the pants, he bent to grab his tee from its resting spot on the floor. He pulled the shirt over his head as he left his seldom-used bedroom.
Strolling into the living room, the Sandrock pilot returned to his perch at the window. He picked up his old friend and placed it under his chin. He plucked each string to tune: E, A, D, G; perfect, as usual. He closed his eyes, disregarding the sheet music, and raised the bow to the strings. As he ever-so-gently pulled the rosin-covered horsehair across the strands of metal, a warm soft sound filled the room. Instinctively, he paused long enough to nudge the window open with his elbow. Quatre breathed in the cool spring breeze and released the breath with a low sigh. Soon the air of the campus was filled with the sweet sound of his playing. Quatre never needed to look at the music because every note came from his heart. The tune was sad and slow; telltale of a broken heart. The mezzo piano notes rang out legato chords with a strong vibrato. But the melody quickly increased in tempo and complexity. His nimble fingers danced along the neck of the violin with perfect precision. Trills, triplets, and crescendo into 16th note slurs and 32nd note runs. Quatre quickly let his heart escape with the melody as his dexterous hands caressed the bow and strings.
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Bits of light peered over the treetops, streaking the previously dark sky. Duo sat in the garden, eyes trained on the unfolding sunset. He knew, as he sat, that his heart was searching for something. But what? As the changing colors of the horizon entranced him, the cool morning air became saturated with the soft sound of a distant violin. The braided pilot's mind and body relaxed into the vaguely familiar melody. The song crept into his heart and ran through his range of emotions. Duo's brow furrowed as he suddenly felt the loneliness of the piece. As the notes circled his heart, he knew something was missing; someone was missing. The music grew in intensity, drawing him deeper into the melody until it ended in one last dying note; half of a beautiful chord. His heart cried out for the song and its musician. He sensed an intimacy; an understanding, as if he and the musician shared a tacit bond.
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The blonde violinist found a subtle solace sitting on his bay window in these early hours. He looked out to the garden, saw the melancholy brunette, and a half-smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. [I bet you can relate.] He laid his violin in its case gently, as if it were an infant, and retired to his chamber. There he spent the day trying, rather unsuccessfully, to distract himself.
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Weeks passed and Duo still had not spoken to Quatrina. He had seen her several times around campus, but every time he saw her, his usually reliable knees went weak. She always looked even more glorious than before. And surprisingly, Duo completely lost his gift of gab and found himself utterly speechless in the background. He soon began to think that he would never meet her. But as always, fate intervened.
One sunny Wednesday afternoon, Duo was walking out of the main classroom building in his usual posture: hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, and head down. [I know that this is a comm link for Neo- Oz, but I don't know any details. How exactly are they using this school for their dastardly deeds?] He became so engrossed in his ponderings that he did not notice that he was quickly approaching a petite blonde waving goodbye to some friends. As she turned around to walk, she was met head-on by a freight train named Duo Maxwell.
The Deathscthye pilot crashed into someone and his thoughts immediately returned to the problems at hand. Reflexes in full effect, he reached out and wrapped his arms around the blonde's waist before she fell over. He pulled her to her feet and found himself conveniently close to her. Unfortunately his face was red with embarrassment. She slowly began to lift her head and he fumbled for a clumsy attempt at an apology, "Well, I . . . that is . . .er . . ." But before he could form any coherent sentences, she lifted her head to fully face him. Duo looked deeply into the large aqua eyes, his arms still around the slender waist, and his jaw hit the ground.
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Quatre's eyes widened and blinked in astonishment as he came face to face with a pair of violet eyes. "Duo?! What are you doing here?!"
To be continued. . .
Please review. . . I crave feedback.