Notes:  Wow!  How long has it been?  A year?  Well, almost… not quite a year, but very nearly.  Why have I waited so long?  Does anyone even remember this story?  I wonder… well, for the first answer, I've been uninterested.  Terribly, terribly uninterested in this story and in Gravi.  However, after someone emailed me and reminded me of the story, I started thinking about it – I decided, "hey, why not try and finish it?"  Plus, I want to start working on another long fanfic and really cannot do that with a mammoth like Roses looming over me, smacking me on the head and saying "Bad Bunny Fufu!"  As for the second answer… I really don't know.

So… yeah.  This might be a bit of a rusty chapter, but that's to be expected I suppose.  Anyway… review it if you're glad it's back, or review anyway.  Or not, whatever floats your boat.  Though, if I get zero reviews, I doubt I'll write another chapter XD

Chapters left, approximately: 10

Character names: Check previous chapters.

Pairings explored: YukiShu, RyuTatsu, TohmaSakano, HiroNoriko (…I don't know HOW that happened)

How long until next chapter is out: A few days (2-5), hopefully.

Quotes in italics: Means they're talking in French.

Roses

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Chapter 16

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 "'If you love him so much you'll find out without my help.'  What's that supposed to mean, Hugh?"

Hugh sighed and glanced up at Stuart.  Just a few minutes ago, the young man burst into Hugh's place and kicked over some furniture.  Some babblings about an insane sister later and he was lying on the ground, crying his eyes out.

"What happened after you left?  You just… ran out of the theatre without talking to anyone - "

"I talked to Mr. Savage."

"Oh, like that counts.  Stuart, be coherent and tell me what happened."

Stuart looked up at Hugh, a forlorn look in his eyes.  "He's gone."

"What?"

"GONE, Hugh!  I went to Mr. Savage's house, because, you know, that's where his sister is, and she said he left!  But will she tell me where?  Noo, she says that I have to find out for myself."  Stuart sat up and gripped Hugh's pant leg, "If I do that, he may run off and marry a… turkey, for all I know!"

"…A turkey."

"Yes."

Fighting off the urge to fall over laughing, Hugh knelt down and patted Stuart's arm, "Well, I'm assuming that you're talking about Mr. Young." Stuart nodded, "Alright, well, did you talk to Mr. Young's brother?"

"He's gone too!"

"Don't you think they might've left together?"

"But," Stuart blinked, "Why?  Is Timothy going to be best man?"

"Forget about the turkey!  Where do you think they could've gone to?"

"How should I know?"

"Stuart… please, just," Hugh stood again and paced around the room.  Deep down, in that dark, dark part of his heart that he suppressed with every fiber of his being, he was glad, no, ecstatic, that the author disappeared.  But, guessing by the tears that wouldn't stop flowing down Stuart's face, he knew that there was nothing good about Mr. Young's disappearance.  "Think about where they could've gone.  Maybe they had a family emergency?  Where do their parents live?"

"With the turkey?"

"Stuart…"

The redhead sighed and stood up, "I don't know… Timothy has a French accent, though."

"France?"

"Wait… he did say that's where their family came from!"

"Well, then, that's where they are."

"But, oh…" Stuart collapsed on the ground again, "Even if I know that, how am I supposed to know where in France?  I mean, the country is pretty big, and Timothy never said where exactly they live."

"Ask around."

"Like who?"

"Mr. Savage?"

Stuart looked up and smiled, "Mr. Savage!  Of course, why didn't I think of that?  Thank you, Hugh!"  He jumped up and gave Hugh a peck on the cheek.  "Where is Mr. Savage?"

D-did he… just… Hugh stared incredulously at Stuart.  "Uh, well, I, uh…"

"Theatre!  Right!  This'll all work out, trust me!  I'll go talk to Mr. Savage, then I'll go to France and get Mr. Young back!"  His smile grew and he grabbed his coat, rushing out of the room.  Hugh stared at the place where Stuart had been standing.  Stuart… had kissed him.  Well, sort of… it's not like the odd boy had never kissed him on the cheek before, but still.  Hugh smiled and collapsed into a pile of mush on the floor.

"No.  Absolutely not."

"What?"

He was actually still at the theatre, talking to some of his many clients.  Mr. Savage always stayed after a debut performance for several hours, well after all of the important people left.  Stuart found him backstage, talking to a pretty young woman.  Immediately, the actor-slash-poet rambled on about where Mr. Young's home in France was.  He finally got out an intelligent sentence - 'Tell me where he lives!'

"I will not, Mr. Shubrook."

"But you have to!"

"I have no such obligation to you."  He smiled at the young woman and tried to pick up their conversation again.

"You do too!"

"Mr. Shubrook!" He sighed and asked the girl to excuse them for a few minutes, "Mr. Shubrook, you are my client.  I decide whether your career sinks or floats, I decide whether or not you're allowed to be seen with anyone, and I decide whether or not you can pursue Mr. Young.  I've let this charade go on long enough, I think, my patience has been very thin but very forgiving."

"Mr. Savage, I – "

"Do not interrupt me, Mr. Shubrook!  Mr. Young is obviously no longer interested in you and, I believe, it's about time.  I advise that you to his house, get your things, and proceed to have nothing more to do with him.  Good evening, Mr. Shubrook.  Oh, and a lovely performance you gave."  He smiled disarmingly and motioned for the woman to come back.

Stuart stood there, staring at the two.  Obviously, Mr. Savage thought the conversation was over.  Obviously, he was jealous of Stuart.  Obviously, Stuart wasn't going to give up.  He won over Marianne; he could win over Mr. Savage – he hoped.

"No."

"Excuse me?" Mr. Savage turned and looked at Stuart.

"No.  I won't let you."

"You… what?"

"I won't let you dictate my life, Mr. Savage!"

The publisher laughed, a cruel and biting sound, and waved the girl away again.  "I don't think you have much of a choice."

"I don't care!  I love Mr. Young and I'm not going to listen to some, some, jealous, married man!"

Mr. Savage froze.  The people surrounding them stopped any and all activity and turned their attention to the two men.  This wasn't happening – this very scene was exactly why he'd not wanted Edward and this brat to continue seeing each other.  Somehow, someway, he knew that this kid would ruin his reputation.  "What are you implying?"

"You know damn well what I'm implying."

He chuckled nervously and took hold of Stuart's arm, "Mr. Shubrook, come over here and we'll talk."

"No!  Listen, I know I'm not the smartest person you know.  I'm probably not the most cunning, either, but I can tell that the only reason you'd keep me from Mr. Young is that you're jealous!"

"Jealous?  Me?  Of what, your insanity?  Of the fact that you, and Mr. Young, are two very sick people?  No, I think not."

"Admit it, Mr. Savage."  Stuart glared at him, defiantly.  He knew he was overstepping his bounds – tomorrow, if he were still in the country, Mr. K was going to come after him with a rifle.  But he had to stand up for this – if he didn't, he had a feeling that he'd never see Mr. Young again.

"Mr. Shubrook," he lowered his voice and glanced at the other people.  Well, at least they're just actors. "If I tell you where he are, will you calm down?"

"Yes."

"Fine."  Mr. Savage sighed and pulled Stuart aside.  "You have to swear that you won't tell a soul about this conversation we had.  If Edward asks, Marianne told you."

"But she wouldn't – "

"Marianne told you."

"Alright."

Stuart looked up at the ship in front of him.  It wasn't that far to France – just a sea away, but he'd never been off the island.  The farthest from home he'd ever been was Scotland, and that was just a hop-skip-and-jump away.  He sighed and looked at the water – it's not that he couldn't afford to make tons of trips, it's that he hated the water.

"No turning back now…" Stuart boarded along with countless other people.  The earliest ride he could get was in the morning – no other night boats were going out the previous day.  Stuart rubbed his eyes – he'd gotten zero sleep that night; his eyes were bloodshot.  "I just hope that turkey stays away from my Edward."

Stuart smiled, giddy.  'My Edward.'  He liked the sound of that.  What if I call him that when I see him?  Oh, right, I won't live to call him anything again.  Stuart gathered himself and gripped the handle of his suitcase.  He could handle a little water.  A wave splashed up against the dock.  Ok, a lot of water.  Gulping, the young man walked towards the boat.

"You're not good on boats, are ya?"

Stuart gulped down the bile rising in his throat and turned to look at an older man.  He was certain this guy was a stalker – this was the third time he'd been within two feet of Stuart.  Shaking his head, he leaned over the railing again.

"It's worse inside."

"That's nice."

The old man extended a gnarled hand, "Name's Barker, James Barker."

The redhead glanced down at the hand, then at the man's face.  He mouthed the name, not liking how it formed in his mind.  Retching, he turned back to the railing.  'Barker, James Barker' coughed and pulled his hand back.

"You don't look too good, sonny."

"'m not your sonny."

"I call all you kids 'sonny.'"

Stuart nodded meekly and started to walk away from the weird man.  He didn't have time for this - there were places to go, people to throw up on, boyfriends to win back.

'James Barker' rushed after Stuart, running in front of him.  "I think I have just the thing for you.  It'll clear this problem of yours right up."

"I don't want any medicine from you.  Thank you, though."  Stuart turned to walk away, only to run into the odd man again.  "What do you want?"

"Oh, I don't want anything.  It's what you want."

"What… I want?"

James Barker nodded fervently and reached into his coat, pulling out a leather bound book.  "It's what everyone wants, really."

"… a book."

"Oh, no, no, no!  Not just any book, Mr… uhm… what was your name again?"

"I never told you."  James Barker stood there, looking at him expectantly.  "Stuart."

"Mr. Stuart!"  Stuart twitched, "This isn't just any book, it's a book that everyone would want.  Why, I could sell it for millions!"

"Do that, then."

"But I want to sell it to you, Mr. Stuart!"

Stuart sighed and clutched his stomach, rushing over to the railing again, "I don't have millions.  I don't even have thousands!"

"Well, that's no big deal.  I'll give it to you for the low, low price of two hundred dollars."

"Two hundred dollars?!"  Stuart blanched and wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve, "No one in their right mind would buy a book for that much money.  That's absurd."

"Don't you want to hear the story behind this?"

"Not really.  I think you're a con artist, Mr. Barker, James Barker."  Stuart rushed away from him, breaking into a sprint as he saw the man running after him.  For an old guy, he sure was fast.  Stuart skidded to a halt as he saw James Barker standing in front of him again.

"I'm not buying it!"

"Then take it!  I don't want it anymore, you take it!  You need it."  He deposited it into Stuart's reluctant hands.  "There, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

Stuart looked down at the book and ran a finger along the embossed rose on the cover.  "Right…" he glanced at the blue, sparkling water and clamped his mouth shut.  The red head walked up to the railing and chucked the book over the side.  "You are a sick, sick man, Mr. James Barker!"  James Barker let out a tiny scream and ran to the railing, trying to jump off before some of the crew ran and pulled him back.

Stuart clutched at his stomach and staggered into the bellows of the ship.  That man needed an asylum very, very badly.

Edward sighed as his father rushed out of the chateau.  He was wearing an old, red silk robe and fuzzy slippers.  His hair, what was left of it, was an absolute mess.

"Edward!  You came back!  I knew you had it in you, son."  He patted the younger man on the back and led him into the house.  "How'd Timothy get you to come back?"

"I have my ways."  Timothy smirked and followed the two.

"Not that monk story again, Timothy.  I already told you I was joking."  Edward stopped short and looked at the two.  They were laughing at that statement, patting each other on the back.  A joke?  He came back over… a joke?  He probably lost the only person he'd really cared about in years over… a joke?

"I'm leaving."  He turned and started to walk away from the crazy old man, crazy priest, and likely crazy chateau.

"Wait, Edward!"  His father grabbed hold of his arm, "You came all this way; you must stay a little while.  For my health."

"Who cares about your health?"

"Edward!"

He sighed and lowered his head, defeated.  His father was right – he had come all this way.  He didn't much feel like getting on another boat anytime soon.  Besides, knowing Stuart, the boy would probably stay at his house, crying, for days.  No reason to rush.

"Fine.  But I'm not staying long."

"I don't ask you to!"  The three men walked towards the house again.

"Timothy?"

"Yes, brother?"

"You're not lasting the night, you know that, don't you?"

Timothy sighed and nodded demurely.

            He walked along the center garden path.  Their chateau was a mile away from the church.  It was a large house – twelve bedrooms, two bathrooms, a parlor, a lounge, a study, a dining room, servants' quarters, kitchen, and a large garden.  Edward glanced around the garden – this was the only part of the whole place that he liked.  His home in England didn't have a big enough yard for a garden.  When his father died, he'd inherit all of this.  The arrangement the Ulysses family had was an odd one – two men in the family were required to stay behind.  One man became the head priest at the church; another had legal ownership of the church and stayed at the chateau.  He wasn't sure how they owned a church – something about a ferret, but he hadn't been listening when his father told the story.

            He stopped at the end of the path and plopped down onto the iron bench.  He wasn't looking forward to owning the big house, but he didn't have much of a choice.  Timothy was required to be the head priest; Edward had to take care of the legal matters.

            "Well, at least the garden will be a nice place to write in…"

            Timothy stared wistfully at the poster for Reece Smith's most popular performance – Stuart's prized possession.  He snickered; he'd taken the poster from Stuart's hiding place before he left.  It's not like Stuart was going to be able to get it back, anyway.  He smiled, running a hand along the drawn image of his idol.  Next time… next time, he'd meet him.

            A servant knocked on his door, mumbling something.  The teenager sighed and walked to the door, looking out, "Yes?"

            "Someone here to see Edward, sir."

            "So go tell Edward."

            "He asked not to be disturbed, sir."

            Timothy sighed – all the servants were afraid of his brother, for some reason.  They left him alone unless someone stuck a hot poker up their butts and hypnotized them to go see him.

            "Well, who is it?"

            "I don't know, sir.  He hasn't called before."

            Sighing again, Timothy left his room and walked downstairs, "Where is he?"

            "The parlor, sir."

            Timothy turned down a corridor and stepped into the large, red room.  His father loved the color red – all of the rooms he could get his hands on were covered in red velvet and red curtains.

            "Bonjour!"

            A redhead turned and looked at Timothy.  The teenager blanched and stared at Stuart.  "I, I didn't mean to take it without asking!  Honestly!"

            "Well you should've asked!  I was so worried!"  Stuart rushed up to him and shook him by the shoulders, "You don't just take someone without asking!"

            "I'm sorry, I didn't think it meant that much to you!"

            "Didn't think he meant that much?!  Are you insane?!"

            "Well, no, I – wait, 'he'?"

            "Mr. Young!  Who did you think?"

            Timothy laughed nervously and shrugged the actor's hands of his shoulders.  So it wasn't the poster!  "What a relief!  He was going to come back, you know."

            "And I went through all this trouble, so you'd better let me – he what?"

            "Mmhmm, he just left for a little while."

            Stuart blinked.  "Well, he… he still missed my performance!"

            "Oh, I'm really sorry about that.  Our boat was leaving that day, and father hates it when I'm late."  Timothy stepped over to a desk and poured some sherry into a glass.  "Would you like some?"

            "Oh, I don't drink."

            "I'm sorry."  Timothy downed the glass and poured another.  "Edward's 'not to be disturbed' or something.  I don't know where he is.  The place," he gestured around the room, "is so huge that you can't find anyone most of the time."

            "Is this… your house?"  Stuart looked up.  The parlor itself was huge – several couches, chairs, a pool table, a fireplace, darts, and card tables were littered throughout the room.  You could still see the Asian rugs.

            "Well, it's my father's house.  Then it'll be Edward's house.  So no, it's not mine, but I do live here."

            "Mr. Young's house?"

            "You really need to stop calling him that."  Timothy set the glass down, "It's really disturbing to hear you say that so much."

            "He won't let me call him 'Edward.'"

            "So what?  I call him Eddy if I feel like it."  Timothy smiled and took hold of Stuart's arm, leading him out of the parlor.  "You shouldn't worry about him getting angry too much."

            "Easy for you to say!  You're his brother!"

            "Ahh… yes, that does have its perks, doesn't it?"  Grinning, the teenager led Stuart out the back door.  "He's usually outside.  Hey, brother!  Someone here for you!"

            Stuart ran forward, seeing Edward sitting on a bench a few yards away.  The writer blinked and glanced at the two men before him.  He almost smiled when he saw Stuart.  Almost.  Then he remembered where he was and who else lived in the house.  He remembered what that other person did, and that other person's beliefs.

            "Oh no… not this, anything but this."

            "Edward!"

            "No, no, no!"

            The redhead barreled into Edward's chest, wrapping his arms tightly around the man's waist.  Edward sighed and tried to pry him from his arms.  "You can't be here, get out."

            "I'm not letting you walk out!"

            "Stuart!  Get off!"

            "What's all this, Edward?"  The two looked up, seeing an old man leaning heavily on a cane.  "Who's that?"

            "This… is bad."

~*~

My name is Barker… James Barker.  Stirred, not shaken.