End It On This
By Jillian Storm
(Disclaimer: So I tried to do something different. I'm sort of in the middle of writing a longer fic, and I needed a break. So I thought I'd attempt something off beat and a bit twisted. Actually, someone challenged me to give it a try-and this is as close as I could get. Lyrics are from No Doubt's "End It On This." Alternate reality for the Gundam Wing characters. Enjoy.)
It began, in a rather poorly lit room. The shade pulled back from the large front window, but the sun, hidden by so many clouds, shed little light to separate the shadows from their objects. It was a grand library, books from floor to ceiling over most of the walls. A mobile ladder allowing access to the top most selections from the ground. A spiral staircase passed that point leading up to a narrow walkway, granting a closer view of the books at that level.
The master of the house leaned back into his study chair, a dark maroon color where the light from a table lamp escaped it's shade. The sickly yellow glow outlining the features of the man sitting there. His fingers stretched out and pressed tip to tip and outward from between his eyes that observed his companion with intent silence. His only movement, the tips of his thumbs pressing against his lower lip. Waiting.
For most interviews, the man would tape the conversation. He tipped the device outward to allow a moment for any sort of objections, and then set the contraption on the dark cherry red table in front of him. He was used to interviewing the elite, but none of the aristocrats even in this neighborhood lived with the seclusion and the almost absolute isolation of Heero Yuy.
"You see in the past I had a dream . . . a fantasy."
Heero spoke first, before words could even formed on his lips. Easing the pressure on his fingers, he instead wrapped them together and set them in his lap, a strange light coming to his eyes. A shine from the dark lampshade reaching past his dark hair, which fell as long fingers wrapped around his Asian colored skin. He'd changed in the years since his closest friends had seen him last. From a reckless and brooding youth, to more passionate and solitary years. All explored from the comfort of family wealth which the orphaned man acquired when he was twenty-one.
His closest friend had been his roommate at the private school, Trowa Barton, who'd also been born into the obligations of money, and their classmate, Duo Maxwell, who managed on the finances appropriated to him by a wealthy aunt-provided that her nephew continued to please her. Barton had been an obvious friend, the two having similar parentage and prospects, as well as compatible philosophical viewpoints. Maxwell had been more of an antithesis. A necessary yin to yang balance. Good for a debate, fun for the variety, perspective for academic purposes.
Maxwell also introduced the turning point for Heero Yuy's life-Hilde. From romantic indifference, Heero found himself swept off his feet by the young woman's pessimistic enthusiasm. Yuy had never cared for idealists, and Hilde, for all of her common appearance, provided the most feminine spin on his own morality and ideological standards to actually become a romantic possibility. She had been overcome by his forceful presence, deliberate words and uncommonly attractive dark looks.
"I thought that we would last. Become a little family."
In spite of the subject, Heero's voice did not shift from it's deep, yet expressionless quality. The writer leaned back, recognizing that this was where the story would begin. The light, fine layers of vision, dimmed as the evening hue gradually darkened. Until all that was left was the brilliant burnt orange escaping from the single bulb, concealed by the thick shade.
"Then one, two, three, four--the years were flying by--they soared." Heero continued:
Trowa, always the deviant, had taken a lover publicly and as a consequence, had to find somewhere to live since his parents were less than pleased with the slight blond poet, a fair-skinned boy with a sweet voice. After the initial wariness, we all warmed to Quatre Raberba Winner and, with Hilde's approval, we opened up a wing of the mansion I had seldom used.
"Thank you." Trowa had set down the last of his belongings and began to appreciate the bedroom more thoroughly. Hilde had made sure that everything had been cleaned, polished, washed, and dusted before they came that summer. The window to the back gardens had stood open and the smell of an assortment of finely groomed roses carried on the breeze.
"Of course." I had shrugged, standing in the doorway. Barton had been the best of friends during school. Even when his interest in Maxwell during our college years had gone badly, causing somewhat of a rift between them, Trowa had done his best to mend the situation. And there had always been an understanding in our relationship, he quite simply wasn't attracted to my type. To my fortune, Hilde was, and we'd been married six months at that point.
"Your friends are so generous," Quatre had added, poking his head around the doorframe leading to their own sitting room and library. He still was unfamiliar to us, but tried very hard. In the next six weeks he'd written fifty-some sonnets, some to me, still more of them dedicated to Hilde to whom he'd formed a rather dear friendship.
I still remember Hilde teasing me that my words were never as eloquent on the ear. Otherwise, I knew that between us, one was all that the other needed. The way her head fit into my neck, and how her curved nose would push warm breath against my skin.
". . . and it's my gut feeling . . ."
Putting their heads together, Hilde and Quatre found enough of a social life to urge Trowa and myself from the estate as much as possible. Especially on warm days, we'd picnic in the garden often enough. But our fairer halves kept us in the social circles. Pulled most often into the intellectual, literary lime-light. Quatre was publishing his work, becoming rather well-known beyond the rest of us. Giving frequent readings in the city and at private, yet powerful, occasions.
"It almost doesn't matter what he says," Hilde curled around my arm as we sat in the back of some wealthy person's gathering. She was implying of course that Quatre could sing nonsense and intrigue the most doubtful of critics. On my other side, Trowa sat with his legs crossed, one arm wrapped around himself, the other covering his lips and chin. I was struck again with how uncommonly thin my friend was and how much he depended on his charming companion, but overall I was unalarmed since it was nothing new.
Glancing down, I almost smiled with affection at the dip of Hilde's nose and the angle it sat above her lips. In that moment of thought, I wondered at how valuable and fragile she was.
At dinner, conversing the latest political fever at the capital, I was suddenly struck by how Hilde pushed her food around with an unhealthy spirit. How her skin seemed hollow and grey beneath her shimmering eyes. Glancing at the others, I wondered if they noticed.
"You're so gentle tonight." She breathed into my neck later. If only she knew how breakable she seemed beneath me. My mind was troubled, even as she slept close by. Her life beating into my arms.
Unable to keep my growing concern to myself, I found Trowa and Quatre in their rooms. Quatre settled on the piano bench, playing some delightfully somber piece, Trowa seated with him, reading, leaning his back against his lover's right arm. Quatre grumbled with affectionate disapproval, pushing Trowa out of his way with his elbow to manage the entire spectrum of keys for his song.
"See how he interferes?" Quatre noticed me first. "I'm sure Heero wouldn't treat Hilde this way." The blond deliberately bumping his head against Trowa's as they leaned back like the tide returning at the pull of the moon. "Perhaps if I were a woman . . ." Quatre started, and chuckled in a satisfied manner as Trowa finally reacted, by cuffing at Quatre's still playing fingers.
"Do you need something?" Trowa asked, some disapproval still lingering in his usually opinion-less tone.
"Or is this just a friendly visit?" Quatre softened Trowa's comment, acting diplomatic as normal.
I wasn't certain how to begin. I wasn't used to worrying about anyone's well-being. I hadn't offered my home to Trowa, he had to ask. And granting favors I understood better than asking for them. Trowa raised one eyebrow with his familiar patience stretching a bit. Quatre smiled optimistically, trying to make everyone more comfortable, changing the subject.
"Why don't we all go sit in the library, and take a drink? It's quite pleasant there this time of day."
Not that I found it any easier to face my questions in their library, the drink sliding past my teeth all too easily with the practice of an insensitive man. I didn't allow myself to react to anything. My feelings for Hilde were the closest thing to love I could say I might have achieved, but concern? That was unfamiliar.
"Should I guess?" Quatre studied my face closely, we were sitting on either side of a small end table, Quatre somewhat twisted in his seat, comfortably appraising my discomfort. I looked at him from the corner of my eyes, shifting them to study Trowa's silhouette standing against the bright window, and back to Quatre again.
"Guess?" I growled a bit, more frustrated that I'd put myself into a situation where Quatre would become concerned for *me* and that my oldest friend would see it as a step toward weakness. Vulnerable, but that was exactly what Hilde had done to me. I'd exposed myself to her more than anyone else, even Trowa couldn't suspect I might bleed so easily if she were ever hurt.
"Alright," Quatre pondered a moment, even though it was obvious to all that my comment had not been an invitation. "You're worried about Hilde."
I reacted abruptly, but outwardly, I simply squeezed the arms of my chair more tightly. At the same time, I was glad it was over so simply. To my relief, Quatre continued to answer my unspoken questions.
"She's been a bit under the weather for about a month now, at first-and while it hasn't been ruled out completely, she thinks . . ." Quatre paused, before speaking more rapidly than before. "Well, anyway, she thought she might be pregnant. But after seeing the doctors, about three of them now, she's almost certain that she's not." Quatre took a deep breath, somehow not allowing me to speak, even if I had known what to say, "She's not keeping it from you, as much as waiting for something definite to answer your questions with-in fact, she'll most likely be quite relieved that you noticed on your own. Still, she won't want you to worry."
"I'm not worried." I growled, controlling my temper the only think I could manage to do at that point. Powerless, my fears confirmed. In that moment, with Trowa blocking the window, drinking, and Quatre watching me intently, I knew, I knew that she was dying.
I've, I've not tried to remember much. Yet, I recall, just as the doctors were taking her and in the sterile-ness of the unfeeling white room, all hope of miracles far gone. Stretching over her, as she was strapped down to the bed forever by nothing more than a sheet, her voice. Small, absorbed into my skin. Sinking into my blood. Passing into my heart.
"It's not happening for me, so . . . let's end it on this."
"Give me one last kiss . . .
"Let's end it on this . . .
"Let's end it on this . . ."
"You weren't expecting a story with a happy ending were you?"
At some point, the room had become increasingly dark. The writer took a few notes, but it wasn't until that moment, when Heero Yuy addressed him directly, that he glanced down and found he could read nothing on the page. If he'd managed to write anything on the page at all. He picked up the recorder; it was working fine, nearing the end of the tape. They paused as he replaced the tape and set it down to record again.
"No, happy endings aren't the stories we read these days. And I didn't read happy stories then either." Heero Yuy stood, in sound only, until he'd crossed the room. In an instant, he was displayed in full light. Standing next to the switch that changed everything once used.
Dressed in an elegant suit, with a high collared shirt pulled up to his long and pointed chin. His cheeks hollowed with age under the violent, stormy eyes, taking more energy from the full power of the chandelier. His fingers, long and mostly knuckles, found their way confidently into his smoking jacket's pockets. Crossing back to his chair, Heero Yuy brought his hands out again to again press them tip to tip. Thumbs pressing into his lip.
"More, there is more. Would you like to hear it?"
Heero Yuy contemplated his words a moment before continuing, then, almost nervously, ran his fingers through his hair.
"You see it's hard to face the addict that's inside me."
I was never overly emotional, never overly social, but without her . . . I was neither. And the longer the time was that I did not have her, I found how fast I could fall. With each second, I was forgetting her.
Quatre was beautiful, quite honestly filling my time from morning until evening with conversation, outings and readings. His music, while somber, was never sad. Nevertheless, the void that had been created was bottomless, and Quatre's efforts were essentially useless.
Moreover, detrimental.
They kept their quarrels from me, but I can imagine. Quatre's attention was guaranteed to carry with it honest affection. Therefore, Trowa's jealousy, once touched, lingered powerfully. The vibrations of their emotional force unsettled any moment I found them together. Isolated, Trowa was civil. Quatre as accommodating as always.
In a moment of insomnia, I had wandered the corridors of my home, inevitably ending at my old room. I never spent another evening in that bed, choosing instead to haunt a spare guest room. I was a specter in my own home, walking in the shadows of my house. Lost in thought, any thought that wasn't about her. And in avoiding her, I fell sleepless on the bed. But that night, I wasn't alone.
"You can't keep coming here, expecting her."
"Expecting who?" I asked Trowa, in my sleepless frustration. They were the most words we'd shared in some time. He fell on the bed as heavily as I had, as if pulled down by the same pressure I sensed on the air. Collapsing my lungs. Making it difficult to breathe, let alone speak.
"And Quatre . . ." The words hovered; I could make no sense of them.
"What?" I said dumbly, feeling my vision spin, sinking deep into the bed. Almost sensing a body near me, shaking my head I realized it was only Trowa. His voice echoing in the mostly empty room, recalling memories of late conversations during out school years.
"He's not yours." Trowa sat up, the pressure releasing him. I, however, felt it strangling my throat. Trowa continued, "Put a splendid kink in everything. Losing her. And God knows I've tried to understand your feelings. But I'll be damned before you start thinking he's your replacement. I've seen it coming." I made no comment. His accusations were new to me. At that point, I gathered why they were quarrelling. "We're leaving, eventually." Trowa added ruefully, "Quatre wants to make sure you're taken care of, so you don't do anything . . . foolish. I've promised . . . but we'll be leaving as soon as that happens."
I didn't answer, so I'm not certain when he took his leave. At that point, my mind became very clear. I could almost hear them, across the entire house, whispering. One wanting to know where the other had been, what had been said, doubtful.
And that's when it became interesting. See, I knew, even as my awareness stretched beyond my normal perceptions, I was not alone in that bed. A weight remained, shifting toward me with a rolling motion. A touch on my arm, breathing against my neck.
"I want to fill my glass up with you constantly."
Good to his word, Trowa stayed for a few months longer. The strain between us becoming more and more obvious, even to myself. Quatre, obligingly, gave and gave even when I did not realize I was asking. To which, Trowa would watch with a guarded gaze. Allowing, supervising, overseeing. Which did not amuse Quatre at all.
"Who'd have thought he could be so . . . possessive?" Quatre actually complained one evening, playing one of his unique songs. Comforting me considerably. For that evening, Trowa was with his club. A group of political strategists interested in protecting personal liberties. Barton was always a marvel at strategy. It shouldn't have surprised us that he'd use it on his boyfriend if and when he might feel the need to. "Honestly, Heero. I don't know why I stay with him sometimes. Have you ever felt that way?"
"Never." I responded dryly.
"I'm sorry." Quatre spoke a tad more sharply, "I didn't mean . . . well, anyway. Not every couple is ideally matched." His music picked up an unusual beat. "I know we don't talk about it much, but I was always overwhelmed by your ability to live as if Hilde were still here. Especially as of late. Trowa seems to think that you still need someone different, but I'm not so sure. Perhaps, it's simply the two of us that get in your way. Or perhaps. Am I . . . " Quatre broke off. His chin drooping to his chest, pulling his hands back from the keys, letting them rest in his lap. "If I stayed . . . if only I stayed, would you forget . . . would you forget her?"
By the time Quatre finished speaking, I finally realized what he had said. Trowa was mistaken; I wasn't the one guilty of acting as the seducer in that moment, his most dreaded scenario.
Suddenly indignant, I stood and walked toward him, watching his blue eyes widen, hopelessly. "I'm sorry," I said with cruelly put on innocence, "Who would I be forgetting exactly?" I let the question weigh on the air.
"You don't have to . . ." Quatre's face flushed and his voice cracked, "Enough. Don't look at me that way." I'd never seen Quatre fight back his frustration. It all was quite a surprise for me. Everything, everyone had become so strange and different. Something was missing.
Was I forgetting to breathe? Was that it?
Conveniently for Quatre, at that very moment Trowa came waltzing in, clearly not expecting to find me intimidating the blond artist. My friend's expression, without changing, darkened with more ferocity than I'd ever attributed to him before.
"Trowa . . ." Quatre whispered, succeeding to sound more guilty than anyone I'd ever heard before or since.
I suppose honesty didn't reconcile their budding differences. I never saw Quatre again. Trowa, when he returned, told stories occasionally about how the blond man had quit publishing for a while to tour with a talented singer. And how the pianist had been finally seduced by the woman's persistence. I couldn't help but remember how Quatre would take the lead when he played the piano, and decided that if this Dorothy Catalonia woman had stolen Quatre away . . . he might not have been as reluctant as Trowa liked to imagine.
I never told him what really happened, I saw no need. And again, there was something queer about the way everything felt in that moment. To be honest, in the moments before, if I hadn't turned so indignant . . . if Trowa hadn't come just then. Well, I've never thought of another man like that. What appeals in a moment, can disappear just as quickly. It was something like that.
Besides, Trowa had come just that moment to give me a bit of news. The news that temporarily allowed him to leave with Quatre.
They'd found someone for me. And as she walked into the room behind Trowa's blazing presence, everything suddenly shifted.
"I've been here before, but I've never ever felt this sure."
Sylvia Noventa wasn't quite a princess, but somewhere in her ancestry she descended from one. She gathered she was being set up as she walked into the room, sensing, if not understanding immediately, the tension among the rest of us. Her royal blood allowing her to smile graciously, and introduced herself when, justifiably, Trowa neglected his duty.
She'd been a fellow club member and friend of Trowa's, a rather brilliant young woman of good means. Her pretty blond hair cascaded free from its clips, framing a rather soft face. Her lips were tentatively smiling, and quite delicate. I remembered rowdy kisses and dangerously dark eyes. Sylvia was much more beautiful.
She was nothing like . . . yet, I hoped.
"And now I know I've been dreaming and your actions have inspired me, so . . ."
"So?" The writer looks up from his busy pen. Heero Yuy had become more animated and fevered, while his skin began to glisten with over warmth, he still wrapped the layers close to his body. Seeming to fight back chills.
"Her actions. Her actions inspired me." Heero blinked, his eyes regaining direction as he corrected his pronouns. The writer watched intent for a moment. "And there was something familiar to me. She was nothing like . . . but still. They could have been identical. Feature to feature."
The writer glanced around. Empty spaces on the wall suggested that artwork was removed from its place. Glaringly naked between the books.
"I open up, you ignore me."
Slowly things changed.
She found it too perfect, convenient, and, she must have thought she loved me, just a little. Just enough to indulge my fantasies, while I dreamed that she seemed interested in my conversation. While I dreamed that she brought out those things in myself that I had enjoyed before, and those things I was afraid I was losing.
In addition, we looked good together. People were quick to say so, some quite convinced that I'd mourned enough and that the young aristocrat might do some good for the community if he were happy again. Not that I'd particularly cared for the community. I couldn't have really told you who any of them were. Except for the schools I'd attended, constantly soliciting for money-offering to construct trust funds, buildings and statues in my honor. I indulged them enough to set them aside until their next monetary needs.
Sylvia fielded the rest. We made a good team when it came to the public. So that when we got married, the only person who suspected our discontent was Trowa, who came back for the wedding-without Quatre.
"You look like shit, pal." I let Trowa come back to the mansion after the wedding celebrations. I'd sent Sylvia ahead to find someone to put together Trowa's room. Fortunately, she had the good sense to prepare one of the anonymous rooms. Rather than the room he'd shared before.
"It's awful kind of you putting me up," Trowa's words were almost slurred, he stood tall, but was spinning slightly. I guided his elbow, Sylvia waving the direction she wanted us to follow. "But it's your wedding night and all . . . you shouldn't be home."
"We're not making a big fuss about things." I distracted. "When have I ever been that sort? The pomp and circumstance was for the city, that's all."
"S'fine." Trowa fell on the bed I steered him toward. Falling as if a huge weight had been put around his neck. I suspected it was the same weight he always carried, not very surprised when I heard the story about Quatre later.
I turned off the light, after making Trowa at least take off his shoes. Pulled the door closed, and saw Sylvia leaning against the nearby wall, her arms crossed.
"He's pretty badly off." Sylvia commented. "Not too many people noticed tonight, fortunately." She began to walk past me, pausing a moment to politely touch her lips to mine. "See you in the morning, dear."
I closed my eyes.
Burning, trying to replace that feeling with one from long ago. One that had mattered so much my heart might have stopped without it. How I never drew back even for breath, drinking in her taste. The wild commonness of her.
How could I forget?
"You're not the same at all."
"Who'd have ever put the two of you together?" Trowa said, with the all the appearance of good-natured observation. He'd been sleeping in the spare bedroom for two weeks. He had to have noticed that he wasn't the only person in the mansion who slept alone.
"Well, I think it was *you*, darling." Sylvia smiled sweetly over her french toast. The formalities were flawless, breakfast at eight, lunch at noon, dinner at six-community events: any time not scheduled for a meal. The Yuy name not only was backing the largest grant program in two different schools, I was having my portrait hung in the foyer of the science building which had been christened with my name.
"Was it me?" Trowa mused, chewing solemnly. He suddenly shrugged, "Perhaps it was. Who knew?" He continued chewing.
"And what a lovely agreement it was." Sylvia still smiled, and I tried not to hate her. It wasn't so much that the consummation was lacking, it was the way she acted as if we'd actually reached some sort of agreement. I hardly thought I agreed with her on anything at all. Only, did I care enough to do anything about the situation?
"It's like college again," Trowa prowled the main library, sitting on the landing with his feet dangling over the edge. Balancing a book in his hands, arms propped on the railing.
"How so?" I was drafting a letter in response to a request to sponsor orphanages overseas. It struck me as peculiar--as far as orphans went, I was well off. To feel any discontent seemed arrogant beyond even my own standards.
"Living drab, loveless lives." Trowa said simply. He closed the book, and looked down on me. "For myself, it's to be expected. I just never thought *you* would."
"Ah, but now I'm only married to the sham that you gave me."
"Yuy, always blaming the ones you love!" Trowa chuckled darkly, he brushed his auburn hair back and sighed. "Nothing ever is your fault is it?"
"What are you trying to say? You're the one who always . . ."
"I can't very well hate you when you're as miserable as I am." Trowa interrupted.
"Listen, I'm sorry about Quatre, but you've got to move on from that. He wasn't good for you." I examined the final copy of my letter and blew on the letters to assure myself that they were dry.
"When will it ever be good for me?" Trowa said mockingly, and without self-pity fortunately as he immediately retorted, "But you, you had it good. You had the best, and a few others in the meantime."
It's the way warm water feels when you've been cold for so long. The shock that overwhelms you because your skins forgotten what warm is. The split second when you know it's not cold, but you don't notice that it's warm. Trowa's words splashed senselessly against my ears, and in that moment of sunlight breaking through the glass into a stream of sparkling dust particles. I remembered the comfortable coolness of an upturned nose, burrowed into my shoulder. The way her laughter felt pressed against my arm.
"And if I could turn back the pages of time, I'd rewrite your point of view."
"You'll fall and fall hard for this one." Whether it was a threat or a promise, Duo Maxwell had told no lies. I remember watching the girl glance up at me, when I stood just behind her at the café. Finding her buried into a book, a paperback of something by Henry James.
"Hope you don't mind if I finish this." She kicked out the chair across from her with a sneaker. Flipping a page after a long pause while I watched her eyes dart back and forth. Her priorities intrigued me.
"For class?" I mused, smiling with a devilishly. I had always subscribed to the practice of taking the upper hand when relating with women.
"Damn it!" She surprised me by slapping the book onto the table, recklessly neglecting her page. "I can't read a blasted word with you looking at me like that. God, you're gorgeous!"
"Well, I hope . . ."
"Duo said I should try to be coy, but really!" She grinned, leaning across the table with only a shred of bashfulness. "Would you like coy? I could try . . . but . . ." Her eyes crinkled. "Why don't I start out proper?" She stuck out her hand, sliding her fingers into mine for a first touch. "Call me Hilde."
"And the book?" I questioned.
"Well," Hilde turned her eyes toward the sky, "Honestly, some things are better than books, wouldn't you say? Would I rather go to class happy . . . or with my work completed?"
"Happy?" I repeated, quite confused. She wasn't what I expected, but Maxwell had mentioned firecrackers.
"Me too," Hilde snapped her fingers. "I just knew there was something about you when I saw you at the jury for the Junior Ombudsman." She suddenly melted, resting her head in her hands, "I must be out of my mind, but would you feel comfortable going out, perhaps doubling with your roommate and Duo?"
If her comment hadn't been so ludicrous, I might have believed her. If I hadn't known Trowa well enough to discover the intricate plot meant to benefit himself. Barton had carried a torch for the caramel braid boy as long as we'd known Maxwell.
Hilde's smile twisted as she realized I'd seen through the plan. "C'mon now, you don't like me at all, straight boy? And here I had to be all wily in order to get Duo to think it was *his* idea to set us up."
I had to admire her resolve, as she began to pitch the plan to me with sincerity. "Don't you want to see Trowa happy?" She raised her eyebrows and appeared so earnest.
"I've been down this conversation before, and it's not going to happen. Trowa will only get hurt. There's not only Duo to persuade, but his aunt . . . " I frowned, crossing my arms resolutely. I shook my head as she formed another protest on her lips, "Did he really go so far as to arrange for you to meet Duo in order that . . ."
"Duo hasn't a clue." Hilde chuckled wildly amused. I followed the trembles of her mirth as they crossed her petite figure. Her black hair vibrated with humor. One free hand shook her coffee cup.
"And the enthusiasm at my arrival?" I added, a tad insulted, but she amused me.
She pursed her lips, "Scripted, down to your reaction and potential unraveling of the plot. Trowa knows you pretty well." She tapped her cheek with her small index finger. "He's a cutie, wish he'd reconsider his preference and all."
"So, he suspected the whole thing would fall apart." I wondered how closely the scripting had gone, but felt in such a humor to actually follow it. Perhaps Trowa would only learn the hard way. "Hell, why don't we play along? Give Trowa what he wants."
Hilde squealed triumphantly, "He knew you'd say that!"
"Washed up on the shore . . . given one last chance to try some more."
"But the second chance wasn't really a true chance." Heero slipped in and out of a dreamlike daze. The bright lights only adding to the surreal contrast from the thick darkness just outside the window. "Not when the circumstances haven't changed. Duo still felt the pull of his aunt's chains, and Hilde . . . or was that different after all?"
"She was gone, but I never truly felt her leave. Indeed, I almost felt her more plainly than ever before in my memory. So specific. I was never alone. Hilde was always with me, I just had to look."
The writer chewed a thought before speaking his question, "This all happened how long ago? Your graduation was almost twenty years ago. The Yuy Institute is at least ten years old. When did . . ." His eyes glanced to the bare wall shining with brilliance, "How did you come to be alone now?"
After the question, Heero laughed, with a wild vibration loosening his wayward hair.
"The truth?" His laughter frightening and lingering in each word, "Truth is what sorts us all out in the end you see. Those things that we try to forget, eventually we find them scribbled for us on the wall-in bits and pieces to be seen more clearly from some distant perceptive present."
"But I'm tired, I'm freezing . . ."
Each day felt like I was falling into the deep sleep of hypothermia. I seldom crossed paths with Sylvia, and Trowa built up walls of research and study. Not even the sun or the summer breeze could remind my skin what it felt like to be warm. The pretense of my public person was dismissed by whatever excuse Sylvia managed to spin, I was frightfully ill, seeking my solitude and studying my confessions. Perhaps that was what she told them. Later, rumors came back that I was struck with madness resulting from the indiscretions of my reckless youth.
The only madness I could see was the exhaustion of comforting smells that occasionally pressed upon me as I passed a familiar corridor or the suggested breath of a word whispered by my ear. The madness that never let me rest from wanting her. My only joy.
Time. And they stopped coming to breakfast. I wonder how long it took me to notice, since I didn't need them any longer. I had her.
"It's what's not there that makes what's there what's there."
One day, no different from any of the others really, I wandered to the room I had shared with her. Remembering how thickly that place filled me with her vitality. How I crumbled to that bed with relief at the weight crushing into me, keeping me from drifting.
"It's what's not there that makes what's there what's there."
Perhaps it always had been that simple. I had never meant to be with anyone else, so much feeling of what I had with Hilde lingered in each corner of each room. And mostly in that place. The place where she finished whatever I left off.
Another weight came to the bed.
"Don't be so hard on yourself."
"Give me one last kiss . . .
"Let's end it on this . . .
"Let's end it on this . . ."
Had I heard those words before?
I think so.
"Let's stop and call it history."
"I knew, and then I knew for sure, that whatever she had given to me, had never left. And if, in moments I thought were filled with loneliness, I tried to take from others it was only what I didn't need. Because she had completed me regardless. She's still here, you see."
"Thank you, Mr. Yuy." The writer bent to put his things into the satchel he'd brought and left resting against his chair.
"He probably won't even remember that he spoke with you." Trowa opened the door and let the perplexed man into the hall. "So don't worry that he thought you were detailing a book. He won't ask about it."
"It's an interesting case you've got here with your friend, Mr. Barton, but he does seem to be strangely at ease. He knows the truth, and this is simply how he has learned to cope with it. I'll reassure the authorities that you and Mrs. Barton will be plenty of supervision for him. Mr. Yuy is really no trouble for the general populace. And should be no trouble for you either, as long as you're willing to keep checking on him."
"Thank you, Doctor." Trowa found a small smile of gratitude, "Losing Hilde truly changed him, but staying here in his home makes him most content."
"Give my best to Sylvia then, and little Quatre." The psychiatrist continued to let Trowa escort him from the grand home. Once in the foyer, the last word hovered with a thick suggestion.
Trowa's eyes closed with aged amusement. "Simply put, Doctor, Heero's not the only one who has yet to come to terms with everything in his past."
Closing the door to the dark, Trowa retraced his steps. Looking into the library, he found Heero still sitting in his chair, this time he'd taken a book to read. Hearing the footsteps, Heero looked up, his cheeks pulling into a welcoming smile.
"Trowa, I hardly expected to see you. How long has it been?" Heero began to stand until Trowa held out a hand to release him from the duty.
"Simply checking in on you before I go home for the day," Trowa smiled, keeping the sadness from his voice. Reassuring himself with Heero's expression of happiness. "I'll be back tomorrow. We've had your portrait of Hilde reframed and I'll bring it by."
"Ah yes," Heero turned back to his book. His profile framed by the glow from the lampshade, from above formed a halo of light to crown him. "That's what was missing."
The end.
By Jillian Storm
(Disclaimer: So I tried to do something different. I'm sort of in the middle of writing a longer fic, and I needed a break. So I thought I'd attempt something off beat and a bit twisted. Actually, someone challenged me to give it a try-and this is as close as I could get. Lyrics are from No Doubt's "End It On This." Alternate reality for the Gundam Wing characters. Enjoy.)
It began, in a rather poorly lit room. The shade pulled back from the large front window, but the sun, hidden by so many clouds, shed little light to separate the shadows from their objects. It was a grand library, books from floor to ceiling over most of the walls. A mobile ladder allowing access to the top most selections from the ground. A spiral staircase passed that point leading up to a narrow walkway, granting a closer view of the books at that level.
The master of the house leaned back into his study chair, a dark maroon color where the light from a table lamp escaped it's shade. The sickly yellow glow outlining the features of the man sitting there. His fingers stretched out and pressed tip to tip and outward from between his eyes that observed his companion with intent silence. His only movement, the tips of his thumbs pressing against his lower lip. Waiting.
For most interviews, the man would tape the conversation. He tipped the device outward to allow a moment for any sort of objections, and then set the contraption on the dark cherry red table in front of him. He was used to interviewing the elite, but none of the aristocrats even in this neighborhood lived with the seclusion and the almost absolute isolation of Heero Yuy.
"You see in the past I had a dream . . . a fantasy."
Heero spoke first, before words could even formed on his lips. Easing the pressure on his fingers, he instead wrapped them together and set them in his lap, a strange light coming to his eyes. A shine from the dark lampshade reaching past his dark hair, which fell as long fingers wrapped around his Asian colored skin. He'd changed in the years since his closest friends had seen him last. From a reckless and brooding youth, to more passionate and solitary years. All explored from the comfort of family wealth which the orphaned man acquired when he was twenty-one.
His closest friend had been his roommate at the private school, Trowa Barton, who'd also been born into the obligations of money, and their classmate, Duo Maxwell, who managed on the finances appropriated to him by a wealthy aunt-provided that her nephew continued to please her. Barton had been an obvious friend, the two having similar parentage and prospects, as well as compatible philosophical viewpoints. Maxwell had been more of an antithesis. A necessary yin to yang balance. Good for a debate, fun for the variety, perspective for academic purposes.
Maxwell also introduced the turning point for Heero Yuy's life-Hilde. From romantic indifference, Heero found himself swept off his feet by the young woman's pessimistic enthusiasm. Yuy had never cared for idealists, and Hilde, for all of her common appearance, provided the most feminine spin on his own morality and ideological standards to actually become a romantic possibility. She had been overcome by his forceful presence, deliberate words and uncommonly attractive dark looks.
"I thought that we would last. Become a little family."
In spite of the subject, Heero's voice did not shift from it's deep, yet expressionless quality. The writer leaned back, recognizing that this was where the story would begin. The light, fine layers of vision, dimmed as the evening hue gradually darkened. Until all that was left was the brilliant burnt orange escaping from the single bulb, concealed by the thick shade.
"Then one, two, three, four--the years were flying by--they soared." Heero continued:
Trowa, always the deviant, had taken a lover publicly and as a consequence, had to find somewhere to live since his parents were less than pleased with the slight blond poet, a fair-skinned boy with a sweet voice. After the initial wariness, we all warmed to Quatre Raberba Winner and, with Hilde's approval, we opened up a wing of the mansion I had seldom used.
"Thank you." Trowa had set down the last of his belongings and began to appreciate the bedroom more thoroughly. Hilde had made sure that everything had been cleaned, polished, washed, and dusted before they came that summer. The window to the back gardens had stood open and the smell of an assortment of finely groomed roses carried on the breeze.
"Of course." I had shrugged, standing in the doorway. Barton had been the best of friends during school. Even when his interest in Maxwell during our college years had gone badly, causing somewhat of a rift between them, Trowa had done his best to mend the situation. And there had always been an understanding in our relationship, he quite simply wasn't attracted to my type. To my fortune, Hilde was, and we'd been married six months at that point.
"Your friends are so generous," Quatre had added, poking his head around the doorframe leading to their own sitting room and library. He still was unfamiliar to us, but tried very hard. In the next six weeks he'd written fifty-some sonnets, some to me, still more of them dedicated to Hilde to whom he'd formed a rather dear friendship.
I still remember Hilde teasing me that my words were never as eloquent on the ear. Otherwise, I knew that between us, one was all that the other needed. The way her head fit into my neck, and how her curved nose would push warm breath against my skin.
". . . and it's my gut feeling . . ."
Putting their heads together, Hilde and Quatre found enough of a social life to urge Trowa and myself from the estate as much as possible. Especially on warm days, we'd picnic in the garden often enough. But our fairer halves kept us in the social circles. Pulled most often into the intellectual, literary lime-light. Quatre was publishing his work, becoming rather well-known beyond the rest of us. Giving frequent readings in the city and at private, yet powerful, occasions.
"It almost doesn't matter what he says," Hilde curled around my arm as we sat in the back of some wealthy person's gathering. She was implying of course that Quatre could sing nonsense and intrigue the most doubtful of critics. On my other side, Trowa sat with his legs crossed, one arm wrapped around himself, the other covering his lips and chin. I was struck again with how uncommonly thin my friend was and how much he depended on his charming companion, but overall I was unalarmed since it was nothing new.
Glancing down, I almost smiled with affection at the dip of Hilde's nose and the angle it sat above her lips. In that moment of thought, I wondered at how valuable and fragile she was.
At dinner, conversing the latest political fever at the capital, I was suddenly struck by how Hilde pushed her food around with an unhealthy spirit. How her skin seemed hollow and grey beneath her shimmering eyes. Glancing at the others, I wondered if they noticed.
"You're so gentle tonight." She breathed into my neck later. If only she knew how breakable she seemed beneath me. My mind was troubled, even as she slept close by. Her life beating into my arms.
Unable to keep my growing concern to myself, I found Trowa and Quatre in their rooms. Quatre settled on the piano bench, playing some delightfully somber piece, Trowa seated with him, reading, leaning his back against his lover's right arm. Quatre grumbled with affectionate disapproval, pushing Trowa out of his way with his elbow to manage the entire spectrum of keys for his song.
"See how he interferes?" Quatre noticed me first. "I'm sure Heero wouldn't treat Hilde this way." The blond deliberately bumping his head against Trowa's as they leaned back like the tide returning at the pull of the moon. "Perhaps if I were a woman . . ." Quatre started, and chuckled in a satisfied manner as Trowa finally reacted, by cuffing at Quatre's still playing fingers.
"Do you need something?" Trowa asked, some disapproval still lingering in his usually opinion-less tone.
"Or is this just a friendly visit?" Quatre softened Trowa's comment, acting diplomatic as normal.
I wasn't certain how to begin. I wasn't used to worrying about anyone's well-being. I hadn't offered my home to Trowa, he had to ask. And granting favors I understood better than asking for them. Trowa raised one eyebrow with his familiar patience stretching a bit. Quatre smiled optimistically, trying to make everyone more comfortable, changing the subject.
"Why don't we all go sit in the library, and take a drink? It's quite pleasant there this time of day."
Not that I found it any easier to face my questions in their library, the drink sliding past my teeth all too easily with the practice of an insensitive man. I didn't allow myself to react to anything. My feelings for Hilde were the closest thing to love I could say I might have achieved, but concern? That was unfamiliar.
"Should I guess?" Quatre studied my face closely, we were sitting on either side of a small end table, Quatre somewhat twisted in his seat, comfortably appraising my discomfort. I looked at him from the corner of my eyes, shifting them to study Trowa's silhouette standing against the bright window, and back to Quatre again.
"Guess?" I growled a bit, more frustrated that I'd put myself into a situation where Quatre would become concerned for *me* and that my oldest friend would see it as a step toward weakness. Vulnerable, but that was exactly what Hilde had done to me. I'd exposed myself to her more than anyone else, even Trowa couldn't suspect I might bleed so easily if she were ever hurt.
"Alright," Quatre pondered a moment, even though it was obvious to all that my comment had not been an invitation. "You're worried about Hilde."
I reacted abruptly, but outwardly, I simply squeezed the arms of my chair more tightly. At the same time, I was glad it was over so simply. To my relief, Quatre continued to answer my unspoken questions.
"She's been a bit under the weather for about a month now, at first-and while it hasn't been ruled out completely, she thinks . . ." Quatre paused, before speaking more rapidly than before. "Well, anyway, she thought she might be pregnant. But after seeing the doctors, about three of them now, she's almost certain that she's not." Quatre took a deep breath, somehow not allowing me to speak, even if I had known what to say, "She's not keeping it from you, as much as waiting for something definite to answer your questions with-in fact, she'll most likely be quite relieved that you noticed on your own. Still, she won't want you to worry."
"I'm not worried." I growled, controlling my temper the only think I could manage to do at that point. Powerless, my fears confirmed. In that moment, with Trowa blocking the window, drinking, and Quatre watching me intently, I knew, I knew that she was dying.
I've, I've not tried to remember much. Yet, I recall, just as the doctors were taking her and in the sterile-ness of the unfeeling white room, all hope of miracles far gone. Stretching over her, as she was strapped down to the bed forever by nothing more than a sheet, her voice. Small, absorbed into my skin. Sinking into my blood. Passing into my heart.
"It's not happening for me, so . . . let's end it on this."
"Give me one last kiss . . .
"Let's end it on this . . .
"Let's end it on this . . ."
"You weren't expecting a story with a happy ending were you?"
At some point, the room had become increasingly dark. The writer took a few notes, but it wasn't until that moment, when Heero Yuy addressed him directly, that he glanced down and found he could read nothing on the page. If he'd managed to write anything on the page at all. He picked up the recorder; it was working fine, nearing the end of the tape. They paused as he replaced the tape and set it down to record again.
"No, happy endings aren't the stories we read these days. And I didn't read happy stories then either." Heero Yuy stood, in sound only, until he'd crossed the room. In an instant, he was displayed in full light. Standing next to the switch that changed everything once used.
Dressed in an elegant suit, with a high collared shirt pulled up to his long and pointed chin. His cheeks hollowed with age under the violent, stormy eyes, taking more energy from the full power of the chandelier. His fingers, long and mostly knuckles, found their way confidently into his smoking jacket's pockets. Crossing back to his chair, Heero Yuy brought his hands out again to again press them tip to tip. Thumbs pressing into his lip.
"More, there is more. Would you like to hear it?"
Heero Yuy contemplated his words a moment before continuing, then, almost nervously, ran his fingers through his hair.
"You see it's hard to face the addict that's inside me."
I was never overly emotional, never overly social, but without her . . . I was neither. And the longer the time was that I did not have her, I found how fast I could fall. With each second, I was forgetting her.
Quatre was beautiful, quite honestly filling my time from morning until evening with conversation, outings and readings. His music, while somber, was never sad. Nevertheless, the void that had been created was bottomless, and Quatre's efforts were essentially useless.
Moreover, detrimental.
They kept their quarrels from me, but I can imagine. Quatre's attention was guaranteed to carry with it honest affection. Therefore, Trowa's jealousy, once touched, lingered powerfully. The vibrations of their emotional force unsettled any moment I found them together. Isolated, Trowa was civil. Quatre as accommodating as always.
In a moment of insomnia, I had wandered the corridors of my home, inevitably ending at my old room. I never spent another evening in that bed, choosing instead to haunt a spare guest room. I was a specter in my own home, walking in the shadows of my house. Lost in thought, any thought that wasn't about her. And in avoiding her, I fell sleepless on the bed. But that night, I wasn't alone.
"You can't keep coming here, expecting her."
"Expecting who?" I asked Trowa, in my sleepless frustration. They were the most words we'd shared in some time. He fell on the bed as heavily as I had, as if pulled down by the same pressure I sensed on the air. Collapsing my lungs. Making it difficult to breathe, let alone speak.
"And Quatre . . ." The words hovered; I could make no sense of them.
"What?" I said dumbly, feeling my vision spin, sinking deep into the bed. Almost sensing a body near me, shaking my head I realized it was only Trowa. His voice echoing in the mostly empty room, recalling memories of late conversations during out school years.
"He's not yours." Trowa sat up, the pressure releasing him. I, however, felt it strangling my throat. Trowa continued, "Put a splendid kink in everything. Losing her. And God knows I've tried to understand your feelings. But I'll be damned before you start thinking he's your replacement. I've seen it coming." I made no comment. His accusations were new to me. At that point, I gathered why they were quarrelling. "We're leaving, eventually." Trowa added ruefully, "Quatre wants to make sure you're taken care of, so you don't do anything . . . foolish. I've promised . . . but we'll be leaving as soon as that happens."
I didn't answer, so I'm not certain when he took his leave. At that point, my mind became very clear. I could almost hear them, across the entire house, whispering. One wanting to know where the other had been, what had been said, doubtful.
And that's when it became interesting. See, I knew, even as my awareness stretched beyond my normal perceptions, I was not alone in that bed. A weight remained, shifting toward me with a rolling motion. A touch on my arm, breathing against my neck.
"I want to fill my glass up with you constantly."
Good to his word, Trowa stayed for a few months longer. The strain between us becoming more and more obvious, even to myself. Quatre, obligingly, gave and gave even when I did not realize I was asking. To which, Trowa would watch with a guarded gaze. Allowing, supervising, overseeing. Which did not amuse Quatre at all.
"Who'd have thought he could be so . . . possessive?" Quatre actually complained one evening, playing one of his unique songs. Comforting me considerably. For that evening, Trowa was with his club. A group of political strategists interested in protecting personal liberties. Barton was always a marvel at strategy. It shouldn't have surprised us that he'd use it on his boyfriend if and when he might feel the need to. "Honestly, Heero. I don't know why I stay with him sometimes. Have you ever felt that way?"
"Never." I responded dryly.
"I'm sorry." Quatre spoke a tad more sharply, "I didn't mean . . . well, anyway. Not every couple is ideally matched." His music picked up an unusual beat. "I know we don't talk about it much, but I was always overwhelmed by your ability to live as if Hilde were still here. Especially as of late. Trowa seems to think that you still need someone different, but I'm not so sure. Perhaps, it's simply the two of us that get in your way. Or perhaps. Am I . . . " Quatre broke off. His chin drooping to his chest, pulling his hands back from the keys, letting them rest in his lap. "If I stayed . . . if only I stayed, would you forget . . . would you forget her?"
By the time Quatre finished speaking, I finally realized what he had said. Trowa was mistaken; I wasn't the one guilty of acting as the seducer in that moment, his most dreaded scenario.
Suddenly indignant, I stood and walked toward him, watching his blue eyes widen, hopelessly. "I'm sorry," I said with cruelly put on innocence, "Who would I be forgetting exactly?" I let the question weigh on the air.
"You don't have to . . ." Quatre's face flushed and his voice cracked, "Enough. Don't look at me that way." I'd never seen Quatre fight back his frustration. It all was quite a surprise for me. Everything, everyone had become so strange and different. Something was missing.
Was I forgetting to breathe? Was that it?
Conveniently for Quatre, at that very moment Trowa came waltzing in, clearly not expecting to find me intimidating the blond artist. My friend's expression, without changing, darkened with more ferocity than I'd ever attributed to him before.
"Trowa . . ." Quatre whispered, succeeding to sound more guilty than anyone I'd ever heard before or since.
I suppose honesty didn't reconcile their budding differences. I never saw Quatre again. Trowa, when he returned, told stories occasionally about how the blond man had quit publishing for a while to tour with a talented singer. And how the pianist had been finally seduced by the woman's persistence. I couldn't help but remember how Quatre would take the lead when he played the piano, and decided that if this Dorothy Catalonia woman had stolen Quatre away . . . he might not have been as reluctant as Trowa liked to imagine.
I never told him what really happened, I saw no need. And again, there was something queer about the way everything felt in that moment. To be honest, in the moments before, if I hadn't turned so indignant . . . if Trowa hadn't come just then. Well, I've never thought of another man like that. What appeals in a moment, can disappear just as quickly. It was something like that.
Besides, Trowa had come just that moment to give me a bit of news. The news that temporarily allowed him to leave with Quatre.
They'd found someone for me. And as she walked into the room behind Trowa's blazing presence, everything suddenly shifted.
"I've been here before, but I've never ever felt this sure."
Sylvia Noventa wasn't quite a princess, but somewhere in her ancestry she descended from one. She gathered she was being set up as she walked into the room, sensing, if not understanding immediately, the tension among the rest of us. Her royal blood allowing her to smile graciously, and introduced herself when, justifiably, Trowa neglected his duty.
She'd been a fellow club member and friend of Trowa's, a rather brilliant young woman of good means. Her pretty blond hair cascaded free from its clips, framing a rather soft face. Her lips were tentatively smiling, and quite delicate. I remembered rowdy kisses and dangerously dark eyes. Sylvia was much more beautiful.
She was nothing like . . . yet, I hoped.
"And now I know I've been dreaming and your actions have inspired me, so . . ."
"So?" The writer looks up from his busy pen. Heero Yuy had become more animated and fevered, while his skin began to glisten with over warmth, he still wrapped the layers close to his body. Seeming to fight back chills.
"Her actions. Her actions inspired me." Heero blinked, his eyes regaining direction as he corrected his pronouns. The writer watched intent for a moment. "And there was something familiar to me. She was nothing like . . . but still. They could have been identical. Feature to feature."
The writer glanced around. Empty spaces on the wall suggested that artwork was removed from its place. Glaringly naked between the books.
"I open up, you ignore me."
Slowly things changed.
She found it too perfect, convenient, and, she must have thought she loved me, just a little. Just enough to indulge my fantasies, while I dreamed that she seemed interested in my conversation. While I dreamed that she brought out those things in myself that I had enjoyed before, and those things I was afraid I was losing.
In addition, we looked good together. People were quick to say so, some quite convinced that I'd mourned enough and that the young aristocrat might do some good for the community if he were happy again. Not that I'd particularly cared for the community. I couldn't have really told you who any of them were. Except for the schools I'd attended, constantly soliciting for money-offering to construct trust funds, buildings and statues in my honor. I indulged them enough to set them aside until their next monetary needs.
Sylvia fielded the rest. We made a good team when it came to the public. So that when we got married, the only person who suspected our discontent was Trowa, who came back for the wedding-without Quatre.
"You look like shit, pal." I let Trowa come back to the mansion after the wedding celebrations. I'd sent Sylvia ahead to find someone to put together Trowa's room. Fortunately, she had the good sense to prepare one of the anonymous rooms. Rather than the room he'd shared before.
"It's awful kind of you putting me up," Trowa's words were almost slurred, he stood tall, but was spinning slightly. I guided his elbow, Sylvia waving the direction she wanted us to follow. "But it's your wedding night and all . . . you shouldn't be home."
"We're not making a big fuss about things." I distracted. "When have I ever been that sort? The pomp and circumstance was for the city, that's all."
"S'fine." Trowa fell on the bed I steered him toward. Falling as if a huge weight had been put around his neck. I suspected it was the same weight he always carried, not very surprised when I heard the story about Quatre later.
I turned off the light, after making Trowa at least take off his shoes. Pulled the door closed, and saw Sylvia leaning against the nearby wall, her arms crossed.
"He's pretty badly off." Sylvia commented. "Not too many people noticed tonight, fortunately." She began to walk past me, pausing a moment to politely touch her lips to mine. "See you in the morning, dear."
I closed my eyes.
Burning, trying to replace that feeling with one from long ago. One that had mattered so much my heart might have stopped without it. How I never drew back even for breath, drinking in her taste. The wild commonness of her.
How could I forget?
"You're not the same at all."
"Who'd have ever put the two of you together?" Trowa said, with the all the appearance of good-natured observation. He'd been sleeping in the spare bedroom for two weeks. He had to have noticed that he wasn't the only person in the mansion who slept alone.
"Well, I think it was *you*, darling." Sylvia smiled sweetly over her french toast. The formalities were flawless, breakfast at eight, lunch at noon, dinner at six-community events: any time not scheduled for a meal. The Yuy name not only was backing the largest grant program in two different schools, I was having my portrait hung in the foyer of the science building which had been christened with my name.
"Was it me?" Trowa mused, chewing solemnly. He suddenly shrugged, "Perhaps it was. Who knew?" He continued chewing.
"And what a lovely agreement it was." Sylvia still smiled, and I tried not to hate her. It wasn't so much that the consummation was lacking, it was the way she acted as if we'd actually reached some sort of agreement. I hardly thought I agreed with her on anything at all. Only, did I care enough to do anything about the situation?
"It's like college again," Trowa prowled the main library, sitting on the landing with his feet dangling over the edge. Balancing a book in his hands, arms propped on the railing.
"How so?" I was drafting a letter in response to a request to sponsor orphanages overseas. It struck me as peculiar--as far as orphans went, I was well off. To feel any discontent seemed arrogant beyond even my own standards.
"Living drab, loveless lives." Trowa said simply. He closed the book, and looked down on me. "For myself, it's to be expected. I just never thought *you* would."
"Ah, but now I'm only married to the sham that you gave me."
"Yuy, always blaming the ones you love!" Trowa chuckled darkly, he brushed his auburn hair back and sighed. "Nothing ever is your fault is it?"
"What are you trying to say? You're the one who always . . ."
"I can't very well hate you when you're as miserable as I am." Trowa interrupted.
"Listen, I'm sorry about Quatre, but you've got to move on from that. He wasn't good for you." I examined the final copy of my letter and blew on the letters to assure myself that they were dry.
"When will it ever be good for me?" Trowa said mockingly, and without self-pity fortunately as he immediately retorted, "But you, you had it good. You had the best, and a few others in the meantime."
It's the way warm water feels when you've been cold for so long. The shock that overwhelms you because your skins forgotten what warm is. The split second when you know it's not cold, but you don't notice that it's warm. Trowa's words splashed senselessly against my ears, and in that moment of sunlight breaking through the glass into a stream of sparkling dust particles. I remembered the comfortable coolness of an upturned nose, burrowed into my shoulder. The way her laughter felt pressed against my arm.
"And if I could turn back the pages of time, I'd rewrite your point of view."
"You'll fall and fall hard for this one." Whether it was a threat or a promise, Duo Maxwell had told no lies. I remember watching the girl glance up at me, when I stood just behind her at the café. Finding her buried into a book, a paperback of something by Henry James.
"Hope you don't mind if I finish this." She kicked out the chair across from her with a sneaker. Flipping a page after a long pause while I watched her eyes dart back and forth. Her priorities intrigued me.
"For class?" I mused, smiling with a devilishly. I had always subscribed to the practice of taking the upper hand when relating with women.
"Damn it!" She surprised me by slapping the book onto the table, recklessly neglecting her page. "I can't read a blasted word with you looking at me like that. God, you're gorgeous!"
"Well, I hope . . ."
"Duo said I should try to be coy, but really!" She grinned, leaning across the table with only a shred of bashfulness. "Would you like coy? I could try . . . but . . ." Her eyes crinkled. "Why don't I start out proper?" She stuck out her hand, sliding her fingers into mine for a first touch. "Call me Hilde."
"And the book?" I questioned.
"Well," Hilde turned her eyes toward the sky, "Honestly, some things are better than books, wouldn't you say? Would I rather go to class happy . . . or with my work completed?"
"Happy?" I repeated, quite confused. She wasn't what I expected, but Maxwell had mentioned firecrackers.
"Me too," Hilde snapped her fingers. "I just knew there was something about you when I saw you at the jury for the Junior Ombudsman." She suddenly melted, resting her head in her hands, "I must be out of my mind, but would you feel comfortable going out, perhaps doubling with your roommate and Duo?"
If her comment hadn't been so ludicrous, I might have believed her. If I hadn't known Trowa well enough to discover the intricate plot meant to benefit himself. Barton had carried a torch for the caramel braid boy as long as we'd known Maxwell.
Hilde's smile twisted as she realized I'd seen through the plan. "C'mon now, you don't like me at all, straight boy? And here I had to be all wily in order to get Duo to think it was *his* idea to set us up."
I had to admire her resolve, as she began to pitch the plan to me with sincerity. "Don't you want to see Trowa happy?" She raised her eyebrows and appeared so earnest.
"I've been down this conversation before, and it's not going to happen. Trowa will only get hurt. There's not only Duo to persuade, but his aunt . . . " I frowned, crossing my arms resolutely. I shook my head as she formed another protest on her lips, "Did he really go so far as to arrange for you to meet Duo in order that . . ."
"Duo hasn't a clue." Hilde chuckled wildly amused. I followed the trembles of her mirth as they crossed her petite figure. Her black hair vibrated with humor. One free hand shook her coffee cup.
"And the enthusiasm at my arrival?" I added, a tad insulted, but she amused me.
She pursed her lips, "Scripted, down to your reaction and potential unraveling of the plot. Trowa knows you pretty well." She tapped her cheek with her small index finger. "He's a cutie, wish he'd reconsider his preference and all."
"So, he suspected the whole thing would fall apart." I wondered how closely the scripting had gone, but felt in such a humor to actually follow it. Perhaps Trowa would only learn the hard way. "Hell, why don't we play along? Give Trowa what he wants."
Hilde squealed triumphantly, "He knew you'd say that!"
"Washed up on the shore . . . given one last chance to try some more."
"But the second chance wasn't really a true chance." Heero slipped in and out of a dreamlike daze. The bright lights only adding to the surreal contrast from the thick darkness just outside the window. "Not when the circumstances haven't changed. Duo still felt the pull of his aunt's chains, and Hilde . . . or was that different after all?"
"She was gone, but I never truly felt her leave. Indeed, I almost felt her more plainly than ever before in my memory. So specific. I was never alone. Hilde was always with me, I just had to look."
The writer chewed a thought before speaking his question, "This all happened how long ago? Your graduation was almost twenty years ago. The Yuy Institute is at least ten years old. When did . . ." His eyes glanced to the bare wall shining with brilliance, "How did you come to be alone now?"
After the question, Heero laughed, with a wild vibration loosening his wayward hair.
"The truth?" His laughter frightening and lingering in each word, "Truth is what sorts us all out in the end you see. Those things that we try to forget, eventually we find them scribbled for us on the wall-in bits and pieces to be seen more clearly from some distant perceptive present."
"But I'm tired, I'm freezing . . ."
Each day felt like I was falling into the deep sleep of hypothermia. I seldom crossed paths with Sylvia, and Trowa built up walls of research and study. Not even the sun or the summer breeze could remind my skin what it felt like to be warm. The pretense of my public person was dismissed by whatever excuse Sylvia managed to spin, I was frightfully ill, seeking my solitude and studying my confessions. Perhaps that was what she told them. Later, rumors came back that I was struck with madness resulting from the indiscretions of my reckless youth.
The only madness I could see was the exhaustion of comforting smells that occasionally pressed upon me as I passed a familiar corridor or the suggested breath of a word whispered by my ear. The madness that never let me rest from wanting her. My only joy.
Time. And they stopped coming to breakfast. I wonder how long it took me to notice, since I didn't need them any longer. I had her.
"It's what's not there that makes what's there what's there."
One day, no different from any of the others really, I wandered to the room I had shared with her. Remembering how thickly that place filled me with her vitality. How I crumbled to that bed with relief at the weight crushing into me, keeping me from drifting.
"It's what's not there that makes what's there what's there."
Perhaps it always had been that simple. I had never meant to be with anyone else, so much feeling of what I had with Hilde lingered in each corner of each room. And mostly in that place. The place where she finished whatever I left off.
Another weight came to the bed.
"Don't be so hard on yourself."
"Give me one last kiss . . .
"Let's end it on this . . .
"Let's end it on this . . ."
Had I heard those words before?
I think so.
"Let's stop and call it history."
"I knew, and then I knew for sure, that whatever she had given to me, had never left. And if, in moments I thought were filled with loneliness, I tried to take from others it was only what I didn't need. Because she had completed me regardless. She's still here, you see."
"Thank you, Mr. Yuy." The writer bent to put his things into the satchel he'd brought and left resting against his chair.
"He probably won't even remember that he spoke with you." Trowa opened the door and let the perplexed man into the hall. "So don't worry that he thought you were detailing a book. He won't ask about it."
"It's an interesting case you've got here with your friend, Mr. Barton, but he does seem to be strangely at ease. He knows the truth, and this is simply how he has learned to cope with it. I'll reassure the authorities that you and Mrs. Barton will be plenty of supervision for him. Mr. Yuy is really no trouble for the general populace. And should be no trouble for you either, as long as you're willing to keep checking on him."
"Thank you, Doctor." Trowa found a small smile of gratitude, "Losing Hilde truly changed him, but staying here in his home makes him most content."
"Give my best to Sylvia then, and little Quatre." The psychiatrist continued to let Trowa escort him from the grand home. Once in the foyer, the last word hovered with a thick suggestion.
Trowa's eyes closed with aged amusement. "Simply put, Doctor, Heero's not the only one who has yet to come to terms with everything in his past."
Closing the door to the dark, Trowa retraced his steps. Looking into the library, he found Heero still sitting in his chair, this time he'd taken a book to read. Hearing the footsteps, Heero looked up, his cheeks pulling into a welcoming smile.
"Trowa, I hardly expected to see you. How long has it been?" Heero began to stand until Trowa held out a hand to release him from the duty.
"Simply checking in on you before I go home for the day," Trowa smiled, keeping the sadness from his voice. Reassuring himself with Heero's expression of happiness. "I'll be back tomorrow. We've had your portrait of Hilde reframed and I'll bring it by."
"Ah yes," Heero turned back to his book. His profile framed by the glow from the lampshade, from above formed a halo of light to crown him. "That's what was missing."
The end.