Disclaimer: You know the drill. Don't own 'em. Never will. Hey, that rhymed! ^_^
Rated PG for language and shounen ai content. This is my second 1+2. Um, let me know if I should continue this or not...I don't really know. So, read and review, people! ^_^
Artist
Chapter One
The night was young. He watched and loved the way the sharp twilight of the sun cascaded over the clouds and the mountains. It was his favorite time of the day; sunset. It had been ever since he had moved to the Earth. Earth had much more to offer than the colonies, in his eyes. He didn't like to look up only to see the artificial sky, that *same* artificial sky that never changed, whether it was dark or day. The clouds never shifted and the same blue color you saw when you looked up at any hour between six and eight, could drive you absolutely mad. The sun sets and the sun rises were magical. In his eyes.
The young man leaned back on the old, wooden swinging bench, throwing his arms back to rest against the top of it. He sighed a sigh of content and closed his eyes for a brief moment, remembering why and how he came to be where and more importantly, *who* he was. At fifteen he had been a gundam pilot, sent from the colonies to engage in a war on Earth. He never would have guessed he'd come to be where he was now. The Earth had always been beautiful to him, but the thought never crossed his mind to actually live on it.
It was only his battle ground. Nothing more. Now it was his home.
Here he was almost twenty-one, taller, thinner, but still not changed much. He made good money as well, after he finally settled down in one job. He had changed his name and got an ID. The day he turned eighteen he went searching for a decent job, an adult's job. However, he stilled looked like a boy. The hadn't grown a lot; was barley five foot four, and still had those boyish features: The chubby face, the stalky body, no facial hair, it was hard to find a job when people still thought you were fifteen. He got his first real job when he hit twenty, and had shot up nine inches. His collage basketball coach told him that he had a shot at the pros once, but he wasn't interested. There was only one thing he was interested in, art.
He had first realized his talent while walking through an art museum. He saw the most beautiful drawings and paintings he had ever seen in his life. It was hard for him to believe those works could be made by the bare human hand. He made long trips to the museum every week, each day studying something new about ancient and modern art. He took tours when they were available, curious eyes and ears gathering as much information as he could about the works.
Not long after that, he began to take art classes. He studied art at collage as well as city classes, most of his leisure time being taken up by his fascination for drawing. He spoke with other artists about their talents, watched them create their art, then *only* when he was sure he was ready, picked up the brush himself. Painting was not difficult for him, as he thought it would be. It was surprisingly easy. He used the primary colors; red, blue, yellow and white, to make the most enchanting and magnificent colors his mind could come up with. Flushed pinks, royal purples, outstanding yellows and radical oranges. Every color of the sunset.
His first painting was just that. He had gone home, bringing all of his supplies; brushes, canvas, paint thinner, brand new paints and just one stick of charcoal. An eraser wasn't needed. The extra lines in a sunset had no need to be erased. There are never too many streaks of colors in a sunset. So he let his hand lead him, eyes shifting back to the sunset to his paper in split seconds, drawing everything that his eyes saw and more. The charcoal was down to a tiny nub once he was finished with the sketch. His fingers were black from smearing and there were beads of sweat tricking down his neck in anticipation. Then he waited. He waited for the perfect time, when the sun was in the perfect spot, casting an array of thousands of shades of reds, oranges, and yellows all over the mountains and the horizon. The clouds turned beautiful shades of purple and the sky a wonderful mix of blue-orange. After that prefect moment, he picked up his brush, and painted until the sun went down.
Of course, his paintings were not simply limited to landscapes. He painted everything from the natural to the supernatural. Self portraits, animals, still life, sometimes even made his own creations. His paintings were auctioned off at a building called "Memories," an antique store. It was always quiet there. There were no children allowed inside of the building. It was size of enormous theater, with grand staircases and all. Paintings flourished inside, as well as other forms of artwork. Sometimes he'd walk inside, feasting his eyes on all the wonderful paintings. It was far greater than the museum, because only the finest art could be submitted to their store. He never thought or dreamed that he would become a professional artist, but it was happened before his eyes, and all too quickly. The fans demanded more and more everyday, but he didn't mind. He would simply paint them what they wanted. *That* was easy. It was what *he* wanted to paint, that he found the most difficult.
Day after day he dreamed of painting someone he loved, someone beautiful, someone who let all his emotions flow out into that painting as he drew the object of his affection. Sadly, there was no such person in his life. He was tired of self-portraits. He was tired of drawing the same blue eyes, the same tall, slender body and long silky brown hair that cascaded over hi shoulders. It was rarely he would let his hair down to paint a picture, though. He usually had it tied back in a braid, sometimes a loose ponytail. He thought wearing it down would be too feminine, and people would start to suspect things, so he didn't sell the painting of himself with his hair down. He kept them in the small room he marked in his home for storage, along with his first landscape painting of the sunset. He had vowed to never sell that one. He was most likely the most beautiful work he had ever done, and wanted to keep it for himself, or for his love, that he was waiting for.
Although it may sound like the man was a starving artist, depressed and waiting for his long lost love, he was actually quite happy how he was living. He was somewhat alone. He had a couple acres of land, although he didn't exactly need them, and his nearest neighbors were a mile away. Town was about five miles away, where he would drive every day to deliver his paintings. He could dish out two a night, on rare occasions three, if he really had that much time. He would spend nights working on paintings to meet a deadline, and cherished the time he had off. During those days he would work care free, knowing that no one but himself would have any effect on what he was painting. Almost no one..
Yes, life was pretty good. He had almost a week off starting today, and he planned to do some chores around the house. The grass hadn't been cut in weeks.
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He watched the sun until it disappeared behind the mountains, and the cool night air washed over his skin. Then he lifted himself up off of the bench, and after a good stretch, headed towards the house, his braid swinging and bouncing on his back as he walked. Once inside he went straight to the kitchen to fix up something to eat. He liked to have dinner late. It gave him some energy before he went back to his room to paint. Digging through his cupboards, he could only find a box a cereal that he was actually in the mood for. He set the cereal aside and went to see what he could find in the fridge. Grunting, he pulled a frozen TV dinner out of freezer. The usual. God, how he wished he could cook. God, how he wished he had someone there with him to cook.
The phone rang as he was putting the dinner in the microwave. That was an unfamiliar sound in his household. He didn't often give people the number to his personal line. Usually it was only his business line that gave him a ring once in a while. The only people that had the number to his personal line was his business manager and his attorney. Leaving his dinner to warm up, he grabbed the phone off the counter.
"Hello?" He said, praying that it wasn't his business manager calling him in tomorrow. His hands *did* need a break from all of that painting once in a while. Sometimes if people didn't get their orders in fast, his business manager insisted that he paint them a whole new picture for free. Artist lived a hard life, and his business manager wasn't making it any easier. He was actually thinking of just doing like the other artist did; paint when they wanted to and get less money, but he couldn't bare to loose his house on the Earth. It was one of the few things that mattered now.
"Mr. Smith?" He man smiled to himself. Yes, the name he had chosen wasn't very original, but original was the least he wanted. He wanted to be known as a commoner, and he was sure there ha to be thousands of Mr. Smiths. For his first name though, he had chosen Mitchell, which wasn't as common as Tom or Dan or Chris, but was common enough so that people wouldn't get suspicious.
"Yes, who's calling?"
"Duo. Duo Maxwell."
The phone was slammed down.
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It was the voice on the phone that kept him up all night, the voice he had longed to here since he moved to his new place. The voice that he never thought he would here again. 'How did he find me?' The man asked himself. He thought he could escape Duo Maxwell. He thought he moved to Earth, changed his name and kept a low profile, Duo would never find him. It was the low profile part of the plan that he had slacked off with. He was one of the most popular people in the city. He dared anyone to try and paint two or three beautiful paintings each night. It was how he had to make a living, and unfortunately, it didn't agree to his plan that involved hiding from Duo.
It was true, he had once been the gundam pilot known as Heero Yuy, and now that he had changed, almost completely, *would* Duo remember him? It had been five years. Five years since he saw the braided pilot's face. As a matter of fact, that last thing he did to Duo was knock him out cold and hand him over to the enemy. How could he face him? How could he tell him the truth? How could he tell Duo about what he'd been feeling for the longest time now?
He remembered the first time he laid eyes on Duo, and first time he saw those eyes. Those, gorgeous violet eyes and that long, beautiful brown hair. He kept everything from Duo, even tried not speaking to him. Sometimes he caught himself staring at him, not listening to what he was saying, just the sweet sound of his voice. Nevertheless, he was sure Duo didn't have the same feelings for him. Even if he *had* the slightest trace of feelings for his fellow gundam pilot, they were gone now. Everything was over. The war was over. They were no longer comrades, not even friends. Most of all, they weren't fifteen anymore. They were more mature now, and now of those naive feelings had subsided over the years; but not his feelings for Duo. He thought about him constantly, especially when he was painting. He wished he could paint the color of Duo's eyes. Just once, it would be enough for him.
He had even made changes to himself that reminded him of Duo. He had grown his hair out for past five years. It wasn't as long as Duo's, but it was getting there. He was surprised about how much his hair looked like Duo's when it was long. That's when he started wearing it in a braid; after he learned how to braid hair of course. Many times he had thought of cutting it. It would only take a little while to get it back to way it used to be, the way Duo remembered it, but he wasn't sure that Duo would want to remember it. When he painted self-portraits, he thought of Duo, and how it would feel to paint his hair down instead of his own. It was *just* his dream. It was a dream he had thought was so far away. Now Duo had found him. He could easily change his phone number, but what would take for him to do it? He kept asking himself, 'Do I want to talk to Duo? Or do I want to lose all communication with him *again*?' The latter would be easier, but the former was more tempting. Of course, that was if Duo decided to call again. He had hung up on him, maybe Duo thought he had the wrong house. God, he hoped not.
Heero, or rather, Mitchell Smith, decided to sleep on it, hoping his mind would be less clustered in the morning. Plus, it was late. Maybe Duo would try again tomorrow. That's when it hit him. Maybe Duo didn't know who he was after all, maybe he had just read about him somewhere and wanted a painting. He had gotten calls before on his personal line, from people who refused to use his business number for obvious reasons. Maybe Duo *just* wanted a painting. That, in a way, would be easier. Heero wished for the best. If Duo did want a painting, he would gladly paint him one, even if it *was* his week off.
Getting to sleep that night was a bit of a struggle. He couldn't seem to get comfortable, and he kept thinking about Duo and the phone call. It was a hot night, probably cloudless. It would be an excellent night to paint the stars. Maybe that would keep his mind off of Duo for a while.
Tossing the covers aside, Heero slipped out his large bed, yawning softly before getting up to get a glass of water and his painting supplies. He stopped by the bathroom to grab a rubber band, and tied his hair into a low ponytail while walking to the kitchen. In the kitchen he spotted his phone, and his gaze shifted to the small black box next to it. He had forgotten. Caller ID! He had Caller, ID! Walking barefoot on to the cool tiles of the kitchen floor, Heero leaned over the counter and hit a button on the box that read, 'Previous call.' The box brought up the name and phone number of the caller. Sure enough, it read 'Duo Maxwell.' Taking the time to hit 'Save message.' Heero grabbed a pad of paper and then went on a mini scavenger hunt for a pen lying around. An artist without a writing utensil, isn't that something...
Finally giving up, Heero went to his art supply closet and pulled out a pencil, some charcoal and a canvas, and went back to kitchen. He scribbled Duo's number down on the pad with the pencil, then set it beside the phone. Just in case Duo didn't call again. 'Baka. You shouldn't have hung up.' Sighing, Heero walked out onto the porch. It was near midnight, and the sky was as black as the charcoal in his hand, and each and every star was visible. That was another thing he liked about where he lived. The cool night air felt wonderful on his sweat covered skin. The sweat from stress of thinking of Duo. That night, Heero drew by the light of stars.
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Sunday evening, just as Heero was finishing up a painting of a humming bird that had been hanging around of his porch, he heard the phone ring. His personal phone line again. It had been two days since it had rung last, and he had begun to worry if Duo was going to call back. Leaving his art supplies on the bench, Heero got up and jogged to the house, sliding the kitchen door open and picking up the phone. His hands were trembling as he grasped it.
"H-hello?" There was silence on the other line, than a deep voice, deeper than he remembered came.
"That really is you, isn't it?" Heero drew in a breath. He could almost feel Duo's grin plastered on his face as he spoke. 'He must have been looking for me. There's no other explanation.' Taking another deep breath, Heero spoke.
"How did you find me?" There was a pause, as if Duo was thinking of the right answer to give him. Heero was about to ask him again when Duo said,
"I'll tell you if you invite me over." Alarms went off in Heero's head, and he felt his gut tighten. See Duo again? After five, long, drastically changed years? Actually, he was grateful that Duo had called first, if he had just showed up at his doorstep, he would have probably died of shock; using the term 'died' very lightly.
"Y-yeah, all right." Heero couldn't refuse him. Not if he was actually asking permission to come over to his house. He didn't know how it would effect him, but this could be that last chance Heero could tell him about his feelings. If he refused him, that would be the end. "The address is-"
"Oh, I've got it." Duo interrupted. There was dead silence for a moment. Then Duo said, "I'll come over around noon. I'm in town right now so it shouldn't take me more than ten minutes to get there." Heero wasn't sure if he could trust his voice to speak, and nodded absentmindedly. 'Baka. He can't *see* you!'
"O-o-ok." 'Damn stuttering baka.' There was an awkward pause after that, neither one knowing what to say. Heero's hands were trembling even more than before as he gripped the phone, and he was turning around without knowing so, and the phone cord was slowly wrapping around his body. It finally snapped out of the plug. Heero gasped and looked down at the phone cord coiled around him. 'You are such a baka. That's the second time you've hung up on him.' Sighing, Heero clumsily untangled himself from the cord and snapped it back into the phone. The man gave a sigh and leaned against the marble counter. Just as he was beginning to relax his racing heart, he glanced at the clock. 11:30. He nearly screamed as the realizing occurred; that Duo would be there in only thirty minutes.
He raced around the house, checking each room to see if it was perfectly tidy, no loose underwear or socks hanging around. Oh, yes, that was just what he needed. He could just imagine Duo saying, "Hey Heero, long time no see. Nice..underwear." Fortunately it was soon to Heero's knowledge that his house was in perfect shape, everything looked nice. Even though he wasn't a decorator type, the nice, expensive rugs on the floor and clean, marble counters and tables were a nice touch to his home. Sighing, Heero ran his hands through his hair in relief. 'My hair!' He thought, 'I hope I have time to braid it.' Looking down at himself, he realized that his hair wasn't the only thing that needed touching up on. He was wearing nothing more than a pair of denim cutoffs. Grunting, Heero rushed to his bedroom to change clothes.
Ten minutes later he was ready, and still ten minutes to spare. He walked to the kitchen, briefing catching a glimpse of himself in the dining room mirror. He had dressed in a dark maroon button up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and black dress pants, which were the only ones that would match the dress shoes he had chosen out. His hair was done in a perfect braid that hung down to his lower back. Sitting down a kitchen stool, the thought of his paintings crossed his mind. Duo would certainly want to know what he was doing with his life, but could he show Duo the paintings? He wasn't he even sure Duo knew he had a soft side. In the war duo only saw him toying with guns and computers, but art? That was completely out of character for someone like him. On the other hand, maybe that was a good thing. Maybe Duo didn't like the *old* Heero. The cool, calm, antisocial Heero that wore spandex shorts and jumped off of high buildings without releasing his parachute. There was only one way to see if Duo would like the *new* Heero better. That was to show him who he really was.
Heero was so dazed in his own thoughts he didn't hear the doorbell ring. His eyes shot wide open as it rung for the second time. Nearly tipping the stool he had been sitting upon, he jogged to the door. He took a deep breath and straightened his shirt.
'All right Duo Maxwell, I'm ready for you.'
TBC