The old watchful grandfather clock announced the inevitable chime of ten
o'clock, time being impeccably-and sometimes annoyingly-reliable as it
always was. Trowa sat on the edge of his bed, each of the ten chimes
signaling a new image of his life with Heero to flash before his eyes in
the blink of an eye.
//One.// His first meeting with Heero-the first introduction to the smooth intense cobalt eyes he had felt bore into his very soul, as if reading his every reaction and need.
//Two.// The walk to Heero's house, in the rain-how the rain seemed to clear up as soon as they stepped out onto the main road as if clearing a way to a new beginning.
//Three.// The first glance out of Heero's kitchen window, looking down on the hustle and bustle of the people he had once belonged to, looking up at people like Heero and wishing they were there-and knowing that he was where he had always wanted to be.
//Four.// When Heero had left the formal clothes on Trowa's bed, Trowa fingering the fabric that was so unlike anything he'd ever felt.
//Five.// The first time he posed for Heero and the look on Heero's face, a look he'd never been familiar with before. He was to learn later that it would be a look of desire.
//Six.// Heero's face as he thrusted into Trowa's body, a face of severity and lust, the sweat from Heero's forehead dripping onto their bodies as Heero continued to rap into his constricting chasm.
//Seven.// Catherine's eyes as they sparkled when Heero had announced that he planned to buy her a new dress.and remembering how just days before, people of Heero's status were the people they, the gypsies, had once condemned.
//Eight.// Catherine's eyes, full of fear as she was wrapped in Heero's bed sheets, darting across the sight of Heero kissing her brother on the floor of the bedroom.
//Nine.// Heero's hesitant, then forceful hands groping his young body hardened from the gypsy life, embedding into his skin as he screamed for anything and nothing.
//Ten.//
The final chime awakened Trowa from his dazed state; Trowa shook his head lightly, then adverted his gaze to his sister who slept soundly beside him on the bed. He looked down on her slumbering form. She looked happy, happier than he had ever seen her before. He smiled, brushing away an auburn curl from her face and rising from the bed. He proceeded to Heero's room with a confident countenance and a pounding pulse.
He raised his fist to knock on the door, but he let his fist hover in the air to avoid hitting a note that was tacked to the door.
"Come in, close the door - H."
//So personal, Heero,// thought Trowa, quietly turning the knob.
Upon entering, he saw that the entire room was awash in the light of a single candle that burned ardently on the table where Heero placed his watercolors. Heero sat still, opting for an arm chair instead of his usual stool, and Trowa could only view the back of the man's head as he closed the door just as quietly as he had opened it.
"Come sit," he heard Heero say, his voice somewhat hoarse, a quiet susurration that resounded throughout the large studio space. Trowa took cautious steps towards Heero, his feet bare and nearly inaudible as he advanced. He took a seat in front of Heero, his eyes struggling to focus on the artist.
Heero's head rested against the back of the chair, his hair hanging in his face like dried tobacco. Through the strands, Trowa saw tired, almost dead, dull blue eyes. The first feeling that stirred within Trowa was fear; he had never seen Heero's eyes anything but intense. They were almost indifferent, nonchalant.
What made Trowa's face twist in confusion was Heero's hands. One rested on a satin-covered thigh; the satin pants of a gypsy. The other hand reached out to Trowa, asking for acceptance as it hovered in the air in front of Trowa's face.
They sat close, Trowa slowly reaching up to grab Heero's hand, clasping it in his own tightly. Heero pulled on Trowa's hand, forcing the boy to lean closely towards him. Heero pulled Trowa's hand to his face, leaning his jaw line into the gypsy's calloused hand. Heero closed his eyes.
"It has seemed so...long since I felt your touch," Heero said, his voice hardly above a whisper, yet it seemed still to echo forcefully throughout the room.
Trowa said nothing, his face shooting questions at Heero. Why was he dressed this way? Why was he being so kind? So different?
"I don't know how you feel," Heero said softly. "But the past few days have been long ones. Something about you." He stopped rubbing his face against Trowa's hand and opened his eyes, locking with Trowa's confused emerald gaze.
"With you, I don't feel alone. Your sister brings me joy; joy that I've never experienced before. Her childlike naïvete, her love and appreciation for new things; those are possessions I could only dream of having.
"But you, Trowa.you give me something far different. You give me life. I was so...so lonely, I suppose. And I had made myself that way." He kissed each of Trowa's knuckles, Heero's hands trembling as his fingers grasped Trowa's hand carefully. "But you gave me a chance not to be lonely anymore." He smiled as he released Trowa's hand. Heero stood, walking away from where he and Trowa sat, and began to circle the room in a lazy, disorganized pattern.
"I found the albums in my library out of place on the shelf; I suppose that's what you've been questioning. From the look on your face, I suppose it's what you're questioning now."
Trowa couldn't see Heero's face as he talked, only the silhouette of Heero's sturdy, agile figure as it paced around the room. He listened closely to the soft, throaty growls that emerged from Heero's throat. His own throat had suddenly become dry, the air giving every word he tried to speak a hard, thin flavor; he decided to remain silent.
Heero stopped pacing to stand by the window. He gazed down at the cobblestone streets, hearing the faint clomping of horses' hooves approaching. The song of the cobblestones became louder and louder, Heero closing his eyes once again.
"I don't have any recollection of my past, of my parents and, if any, brothers or sisters I may have had. I don't know my family." He ran his hands along the window sill, scratching his fingers nervously against the wood. "From what I was told, my father worked in the oil industry; his company was put out of business by Rockefeller and he had to move to find more work. They left me behind, on our old doorstep, until someone took me in-the gypsies.
"From then on, they were my family. They loved me like a brother, and it was how I had always known it to be. When I discovered what `real' families were, I didn't really question why I had only known the gypsies as my family; I just assumed that there was always a good reason that I wasn't with my real family anymore.
"My skill, my talent-the flair I needed to live on-was art. Painting. I discovered I could paint rather well by the time I was ten. I was painting for a living by the time I was twelve, and sold my paintings for a nickel each, perhaps a dime. A quarter on a good day. The rest of the train was glad that I had found something that I liked to do that paid rather well; I was one more mouth to feed among the lot of us.
"We stopped here, in New York, when I was fifteen. We had set up in front of a square. There were more people than I had ever laid eyes upon, which meant more money than I'd ever hoped to possess." He stopped speaking, opening his eyes and looking out the window at the lone carriage that rolled by, the horses' pace growing loud, then soft again as it disappeared into the distance.
"I was greedy then; I didn't know what I wanted, only that I wanted something more. A man approached me and placed five hundred dollars in my hand, asking if he could mentor me. He told me his name was Milliardo, and he asked me if I would work under his supervision. In those days, money...well, it was everything. And I accepted, leaving the gypsy train that night. I.I haven't seen them since.
"Don't get me wrong," Heero said suddenly. "I cherish the life I had with the gypsies. They gave me a family-a place where I felt I belonged. And that was what I needed most of all, I guess, although I didn't realize it until I was much older; home is a very difficult place to define.
"Milliardo and I...we learned to accept each other's lifestyles, learning to know about how each of us became the people we were. He was fascinated with the gypsy life; he wanted to learn as much as he wanted to teach me. His family owned a community theatre that was soon becoming the largest theatre company in the nation. He'd been an artist for as long as he could remember; but he had been infected with an incurable disease...a disease of the muscles. He couldn't steady his hands; they shook and convulsed. How was he to hold a paintbrush? A charcoal?"
Heero closed his eyes, images of the times spent with his mentor flashing through his head like a picture show at the nickelodeon.
"So he opted to teach. He would live vicariously through me, I suppose, the life he wanted to have but just could not.
"He taught me everything I would need to know about how to succeed. Among other things.he taught me more about art than what I would have learned with the gypsies. And as I grew older...the relationship we had grew stronger, I suppose. I learned that in some areas of the field, I could surpass him. We were no longer mentor and student; we were teacher and teacher, student and student. Most importantly, as the years passed...we became lovers."
Trowa's eyes widened, but he said nothing, continuing to listen, engrossed.
"Milliardo was my first lover; the one who taught me more than just the art of a brush. He taught me the art of appreciation, the art of learning-the art of loving. He was a beautiful man; so learned in everything, so...venerable in his young age. He was in his late twenties; to some it would be considered immoral. But to us...it was an expression that could not be captured by a paintbrush, far too sacred for a canvas. We gave each other the things we needed in life-I, a family, and he, a talent-and we shared these with each other."
In the barely lit room, Trowa could just glimpse the way Heero's eyes began to darken as the hoarse voice began to speak again.
"He had another student, by the name of Judas. Judas was...of the jealous sort. He possessed talent, but he didn't...love it the way Milliardo did. Milliardo taught him to better himself with each stoke of the canvas; Judas threw all his words away, calling them fairy tales and rubbish. Soon, Milliardo became upset with Judas and refused to teach him unless he learned to appreciate what painting was, what it represented-a world unlike any other.
"Judas refused to submit to Milliardo, and chose to retaliate. He and I had never questioned Milliardo's past, his family, accepting what Milliardo had told us as truth. The truth was discovered that before Milliardo's family had come to wealth, they were gypsies as well."
Trowa's breath caught in his throat. It was all so similar...so familiar...
"Judas revealed this to the appropriate people; Milliardo's parents were shunned from society, their rapidly growing theatre company shut down. Gypsies were about as accepted as mules, in those days, and it still continues today. Milliardo had nowhere to go. I realized why Milliardo would be sympathetic to the gypsy life. I realized why he loved me all the more. And I realized that I think I loved him more as well."
Heero swallowed, turning towards Trowa, pointing his focus to the wall behind the confused boy.
"Milliardo is the man you see there." Heero nodded his head towards the portrait of the man with the flowing blonde hair. He approached the painting carefully, fingering the frame. "I painted this when we first met. He was beautiful. He was a masterpiece himself. He was art." Heero looked down, then made eye contact with Trowa.
"Later on, Milliardo and his family were driven away from the city; I haven't seen him since. The last night we spent together was in the Ruins, on the outside of the city. We painted together; I guided his hands so he could paint once more. The dream he could never fulfill."
He knelt before Trowa, suddenly, clasping Trowa's hands in his own. "Trowa, I don't expect you to fulfill my dreams. I don't expect to fulfill yours. But perhaps we can learn from each other what we've lost-or what we haven't had the time to want. What I had with Milliardo was love; I thought I'd never find it again. But I found it in you. Perhaps...perhaps one day..."
He choked, his throat stricken with sobs as he cried in Trowa's lap. Heero felt so weak, so tired, so...relinquished. He cried in great heaving sobs, crying into Trowa's leg, soaking Trowa's pants with the tears that had been held back for so many years. They were free now, flowing heavily down Heero's cheeks. Trowa tentatively put a hand on the back of Heero's head, sliding his fingers through the brown silk of Heero's hair.
Trowa didn't know what to do. He didn't know what he could do. But he continued to sit, stroking Heero's hair, murmuring comforting noises into Heero's ears that were drowned out by Heero's continual howls of pain and sadness and helplessness.
Heero heard his own voice screaming at himself. //Why are you crying? What do you cry for? Do you have no dignity? No pride? No stability?// Heero continued to cry, finding it difficult to breathe as he heaved for each strangled breath.
"Heero," Trowa finally said, after several long minutes. Heero refused to look at Trowa, sobbing into Trowa's lap.
"Heero," Trowa repeated, with more force. He tilted Heero's head up with an index finger, and Heero looked into Trowa's eyes, lips still trembling and small mewling noises emerging from the back of his throat.
Trowa had never seen anything like it.
"Heero, you have to get a hold of yourself," Trowa said softly and carefully, so as to not break the already fragile state Heero had fallen into. "Why are you crying?"
Trowa's voice echoed Heero's own that continued to scream at him, harshly. "I don't know," he answered softly, his cries dying down. "I don't know."
"I don't know what you want from me, Heero," Trowa said, brushing Heero's hair from his face and out of his moist blue eyes.
"Please..." Heero said. "Pose for me...just once more. I want to show...you so much...so much of something I can't put into words-only into art."
Trowa considered Heero's request, then nodded. He saw the glow of Heero's eyes as the candlelight caught up to them, and Heero attempted a smile, failing. He leaned forward, Trowa pulling away slightly.
"Not yet," Trowa said. "You asked me to pose for you. I agreed. Maybe, after the sitting.I'll decide to grant more of your wishes." Trowa smiled slyly.
Heero returned the smile, Trowa's eyes reflecting the candlelight like cat's eyes. "Yes."
-----
Heero had never felt so concentrated, so fierce, as his brush darted across the canvas, splashing color across the once white spans. His brow furrowed, sweat beading on his forehead, some dripping off his brow and onto the painting itself, causing the oils to blend together. He worked by the light of a single candle, whose flame was almost burned out as the wick grew shorter and shorter, the hours flying by.
He captured every detail, every specific feature of Trowa's form, taking delight in sculpting the sharp angles of his muscles, the softness of his hair, and the strong, determined jaw of Trowa's face. Everything about Trowa screamed power and elegance; Heero would have him no other way.
Trowa skin was bare, the single light from the candle casting odd shadows across the planes of his chest, his legs, his arms, and his face. He lay atop the draperies that once hung from the wall, lounging across them on his left side. He sat up on his elbow, muscles in his sides flexing and rippling. His left leg was stretched out, the other leg bent so that his right foot was snuggled in the draperies. His chin was up, defiant, and he smiled seductively.
By his left foot lay a violin, propped up against and placed atop of aged sheet music, yellow and thin at the edges. His right hand held a single red rose, dried and so fragile that Trowa felt if he didn't hold it as delicately as possible, the entire flower would crumble in his fingers.
Trowa felt dominant, prevailing. His head held high, hair falling instinctively over one eye, his lips curled into an alluring smile as he watched Heero become more and more intense with every stroke of the paintbrush on the canvas. He watched, engrossed, as Heero dipped the paint- stained brush into a clear jar of water to be rinsed, the color staining the water in clouds of blacks, browns, greens.
Heero felt more anxious, more passionate than he'd ever felt in his life as his eyes darted back and forth from the provocative man who lay before him and the canvas that held the purpose of his heart. He detailed every strand of Trowa's chocolate hair, each bead of sweat that fell from Trowa's forehead as the room was suddenly smoldering from the single candle that flickered across Trowa's form, each ripple of smooth bronze skin. He carved every muscle in Trowa's agile body, the petals of the rose laying against Trowa's taut stomach and casting an ever-present shadow across Trowa's chest.
Heero drank the images with fervor. Equipped with his paintbrush, Heero's fingers created the god Heero thought Trowa to be, displayed on the canvas as honest and as true and pure as Heero wanted him to be. He finished the painting, sitting back to scrutinize his work. He found that something was missing. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
Trowa eyed Heero with a puzzled look, noticing that Heero was staring at the painting quite strangely. Suddenly, a look of realization hit Heero, and he looked up at Trowa and smiled slyly.
He dipped his brush into ink black paint, twirling the brush in the solution so that each side of the brush would have an equal amount of paint. He slowly and carefully, beginning at Trowa's right shoulder, began to draw wings. He almost chuckled to himself; making Trowa the god of love, Eros, was the last thing he'd ever think of doing. But somehow it fit. Eros brought love to those who searched and yearned for it, as Trowa gave him that gift as well. He outlined each exquisite feather, each subtle hint of the wind catching each quill. The wings spread out and around Trowa, hovering over the boy's body like a shield.
He stood, approaching the corner of his room where he kept various, trivial things he didn't want to throw away. He searched through the area thoroughly, Trowa frowning and cocking his head slightly, questioning Heero's reasoning. Heero emerged from the corner with two small, thin walking sticks.
"Keep your hand the way it was.only hold these," he ordered, positioning Trowa's hand just right and closing the man's fingers over the canes.
Trowa nodded, not understanding everything but trusting that Heero had good intentions.
//Trust,// Trowa repeated to himself. //Do I trust him?//
Heero resumed his seat in front of the canvas, picking up a towel that lay in a bunch by his paints. He used it to wipe the sweat from his forehead, then discarded it on the floor. With careful precision, he sketched out the walking sticks, avoiding the curved ends. Instead of handles that were held onto, he painted arrowheads made to pierce flesh. He painted Trowa grasping the arrows of the god of love, lazily holding them between his fingers. They threw sharp shadows across Trowa's chest that Heero immediately fixed, wanting each and every detail of the elegant boy to be portrayed magnificently.
He pored over his painting, eyes roaming frantically and with concentration.
His masterpiece was complete.
He sat back with a long sigh, smiling with ecstasy. "I'm done," he announced.
Trowa smiled a softer smile, placing the walking sticks aside and stretching out on the draperies. His muscles were sore and cramped, and he arched his back languidly, small mewls emerging from the back of his throat from the effort.
None of this went unnoticed by Heero who watched his subject stretch before him captivatingly. His thoughts were interrupted by Trowa's request to see the painting. Trowa took a robe that hung from the bedpost and wrapped it around his body, keeping his arm crossed over his chest. Heero nodded, scooting his chair back against the wooden floor to invite Trowa to view himself the way Heero saw him.
Trowa approached the canvas with no expectations. What he found startled him at first; the understanding of meaning caught his breath. He examined himself, sprawled out and exposed among the blood red draperies. It was the first painting where Trowa actually looked the part of a gypsy, instead of pretending to be a nobleman. His head was proudly held high, his shoulders elegant.
What fascinated Trowa were the wings that spread across his back. Beautiful silken feathers sheltered him, framing his body appealingly. He discovered the walking canes were arrows; upon this realization, he turned to Heero, a look of astonishment on his face.
"Eros?" Trowa questioned.
Heero nodded, eyes adverted. "Does it please you?"
Trowa looked on, not taking his eyes from the canvas. "Yes," he said quietly. "It does."
He saw a look of relief wash over Heero's face and a smile of satisfaction settle along the artist's lips. "Thank you, Trowa."
Trowa approached Heero, taking a seat on one of Heero's legs. Heero looked up at Trowa, startled at the man's actions. //Is Trowa....is he...what does he mean...does he want to...what does he want?//
Trowa cradled Heero's face in his hands, the rough pads of his fingers sliding along Heero's jaw line. Heero looked into Trowa's eyes, eyes darting from one of Trowa's emerald eyes to another. Trowa's own eyes scanned over Heero's face, as confused as he once was. Trowa found that he wasn't confused at all.
Slowly, taking his time, Trowa pressed his lips to Heero's. Heero's lips were as soft as they had been the first time they'd kissed, the first time they'd made love. They both closed their eyes involuntarily, reveling in the sensations they didn't realize how much they grieved for. Heero's hands came up to grasp Trowa's waist, sliding down to take hold of a creamy thigh, exposed by the part in the front of Trowa's robe. They parted to gaze into each other's eyes, azure meeting verdant.
"I love you, Heero," Trowa said softly, affirming everything he had questioned the past few days.
Heero's eyes brightened, his lips forming an honest smile that would be embedded in Trowa's mind forever. "And I you."
Trowa shifted his weight, straddling Heero's hips as he brushed his lips to Heero's again, their tongues tasting each other's mouths, drowning in the unique flavors they found there. Trowa ground his groin into Heero's, both men releasing a sigh as the room became blistering, the air having a vehement flavor of its own.
The single candle that had watched over the two men the entire night finally died out, the light growing dimmer and dimmer until finally the room was rich with darkness.
-to be continued-
//One.// His first meeting with Heero-the first introduction to the smooth intense cobalt eyes he had felt bore into his very soul, as if reading his every reaction and need.
//Two.// The walk to Heero's house, in the rain-how the rain seemed to clear up as soon as they stepped out onto the main road as if clearing a way to a new beginning.
//Three.// The first glance out of Heero's kitchen window, looking down on the hustle and bustle of the people he had once belonged to, looking up at people like Heero and wishing they were there-and knowing that he was where he had always wanted to be.
//Four.// When Heero had left the formal clothes on Trowa's bed, Trowa fingering the fabric that was so unlike anything he'd ever felt.
//Five.// The first time he posed for Heero and the look on Heero's face, a look he'd never been familiar with before. He was to learn later that it would be a look of desire.
//Six.// Heero's face as he thrusted into Trowa's body, a face of severity and lust, the sweat from Heero's forehead dripping onto their bodies as Heero continued to rap into his constricting chasm.
//Seven.// Catherine's eyes as they sparkled when Heero had announced that he planned to buy her a new dress.and remembering how just days before, people of Heero's status were the people they, the gypsies, had once condemned.
//Eight.// Catherine's eyes, full of fear as she was wrapped in Heero's bed sheets, darting across the sight of Heero kissing her brother on the floor of the bedroom.
//Nine.// Heero's hesitant, then forceful hands groping his young body hardened from the gypsy life, embedding into his skin as he screamed for anything and nothing.
//Ten.//
The final chime awakened Trowa from his dazed state; Trowa shook his head lightly, then adverted his gaze to his sister who slept soundly beside him on the bed. He looked down on her slumbering form. She looked happy, happier than he had ever seen her before. He smiled, brushing away an auburn curl from her face and rising from the bed. He proceeded to Heero's room with a confident countenance and a pounding pulse.
He raised his fist to knock on the door, but he let his fist hover in the air to avoid hitting a note that was tacked to the door.
"Come in, close the door - H."
//So personal, Heero,// thought Trowa, quietly turning the knob.
Upon entering, he saw that the entire room was awash in the light of a single candle that burned ardently on the table where Heero placed his watercolors. Heero sat still, opting for an arm chair instead of his usual stool, and Trowa could only view the back of the man's head as he closed the door just as quietly as he had opened it.
"Come sit," he heard Heero say, his voice somewhat hoarse, a quiet susurration that resounded throughout the large studio space. Trowa took cautious steps towards Heero, his feet bare and nearly inaudible as he advanced. He took a seat in front of Heero, his eyes struggling to focus on the artist.
Heero's head rested against the back of the chair, his hair hanging in his face like dried tobacco. Through the strands, Trowa saw tired, almost dead, dull blue eyes. The first feeling that stirred within Trowa was fear; he had never seen Heero's eyes anything but intense. They were almost indifferent, nonchalant.
What made Trowa's face twist in confusion was Heero's hands. One rested on a satin-covered thigh; the satin pants of a gypsy. The other hand reached out to Trowa, asking for acceptance as it hovered in the air in front of Trowa's face.
They sat close, Trowa slowly reaching up to grab Heero's hand, clasping it in his own tightly. Heero pulled on Trowa's hand, forcing the boy to lean closely towards him. Heero pulled Trowa's hand to his face, leaning his jaw line into the gypsy's calloused hand. Heero closed his eyes.
"It has seemed so...long since I felt your touch," Heero said, his voice hardly above a whisper, yet it seemed still to echo forcefully throughout the room.
Trowa said nothing, his face shooting questions at Heero. Why was he dressed this way? Why was he being so kind? So different?
"I don't know how you feel," Heero said softly. "But the past few days have been long ones. Something about you." He stopped rubbing his face against Trowa's hand and opened his eyes, locking with Trowa's confused emerald gaze.
"With you, I don't feel alone. Your sister brings me joy; joy that I've never experienced before. Her childlike naïvete, her love and appreciation for new things; those are possessions I could only dream of having.
"But you, Trowa.you give me something far different. You give me life. I was so...so lonely, I suppose. And I had made myself that way." He kissed each of Trowa's knuckles, Heero's hands trembling as his fingers grasped Trowa's hand carefully. "But you gave me a chance not to be lonely anymore." He smiled as he released Trowa's hand. Heero stood, walking away from where he and Trowa sat, and began to circle the room in a lazy, disorganized pattern.
"I found the albums in my library out of place on the shelf; I suppose that's what you've been questioning. From the look on your face, I suppose it's what you're questioning now."
Trowa couldn't see Heero's face as he talked, only the silhouette of Heero's sturdy, agile figure as it paced around the room. He listened closely to the soft, throaty growls that emerged from Heero's throat. His own throat had suddenly become dry, the air giving every word he tried to speak a hard, thin flavor; he decided to remain silent.
Heero stopped pacing to stand by the window. He gazed down at the cobblestone streets, hearing the faint clomping of horses' hooves approaching. The song of the cobblestones became louder and louder, Heero closing his eyes once again.
"I don't have any recollection of my past, of my parents and, if any, brothers or sisters I may have had. I don't know my family." He ran his hands along the window sill, scratching his fingers nervously against the wood. "From what I was told, my father worked in the oil industry; his company was put out of business by Rockefeller and he had to move to find more work. They left me behind, on our old doorstep, until someone took me in-the gypsies.
"From then on, they were my family. They loved me like a brother, and it was how I had always known it to be. When I discovered what `real' families were, I didn't really question why I had only known the gypsies as my family; I just assumed that there was always a good reason that I wasn't with my real family anymore.
"My skill, my talent-the flair I needed to live on-was art. Painting. I discovered I could paint rather well by the time I was ten. I was painting for a living by the time I was twelve, and sold my paintings for a nickel each, perhaps a dime. A quarter on a good day. The rest of the train was glad that I had found something that I liked to do that paid rather well; I was one more mouth to feed among the lot of us.
"We stopped here, in New York, when I was fifteen. We had set up in front of a square. There were more people than I had ever laid eyes upon, which meant more money than I'd ever hoped to possess." He stopped speaking, opening his eyes and looking out the window at the lone carriage that rolled by, the horses' pace growing loud, then soft again as it disappeared into the distance.
"I was greedy then; I didn't know what I wanted, only that I wanted something more. A man approached me and placed five hundred dollars in my hand, asking if he could mentor me. He told me his name was Milliardo, and he asked me if I would work under his supervision. In those days, money...well, it was everything. And I accepted, leaving the gypsy train that night. I.I haven't seen them since.
"Don't get me wrong," Heero said suddenly. "I cherish the life I had with the gypsies. They gave me a family-a place where I felt I belonged. And that was what I needed most of all, I guess, although I didn't realize it until I was much older; home is a very difficult place to define.
"Milliardo and I...we learned to accept each other's lifestyles, learning to know about how each of us became the people we were. He was fascinated with the gypsy life; he wanted to learn as much as he wanted to teach me. His family owned a community theatre that was soon becoming the largest theatre company in the nation. He'd been an artist for as long as he could remember; but he had been infected with an incurable disease...a disease of the muscles. He couldn't steady his hands; they shook and convulsed. How was he to hold a paintbrush? A charcoal?"
Heero closed his eyes, images of the times spent with his mentor flashing through his head like a picture show at the nickelodeon.
"So he opted to teach. He would live vicariously through me, I suppose, the life he wanted to have but just could not.
"He taught me everything I would need to know about how to succeed. Among other things.he taught me more about art than what I would have learned with the gypsies. And as I grew older...the relationship we had grew stronger, I suppose. I learned that in some areas of the field, I could surpass him. We were no longer mentor and student; we were teacher and teacher, student and student. Most importantly, as the years passed...we became lovers."
Trowa's eyes widened, but he said nothing, continuing to listen, engrossed.
"Milliardo was my first lover; the one who taught me more than just the art of a brush. He taught me the art of appreciation, the art of learning-the art of loving. He was a beautiful man; so learned in everything, so...venerable in his young age. He was in his late twenties; to some it would be considered immoral. But to us...it was an expression that could not be captured by a paintbrush, far too sacred for a canvas. We gave each other the things we needed in life-I, a family, and he, a talent-and we shared these with each other."
In the barely lit room, Trowa could just glimpse the way Heero's eyes began to darken as the hoarse voice began to speak again.
"He had another student, by the name of Judas. Judas was...of the jealous sort. He possessed talent, but he didn't...love it the way Milliardo did. Milliardo taught him to better himself with each stoke of the canvas; Judas threw all his words away, calling them fairy tales and rubbish. Soon, Milliardo became upset with Judas and refused to teach him unless he learned to appreciate what painting was, what it represented-a world unlike any other.
"Judas refused to submit to Milliardo, and chose to retaliate. He and I had never questioned Milliardo's past, his family, accepting what Milliardo had told us as truth. The truth was discovered that before Milliardo's family had come to wealth, they were gypsies as well."
Trowa's breath caught in his throat. It was all so similar...so familiar...
"Judas revealed this to the appropriate people; Milliardo's parents were shunned from society, their rapidly growing theatre company shut down. Gypsies were about as accepted as mules, in those days, and it still continues today. Milliardo had nowhere to go. I realized why Milliardo would be sympathetic to the gypsy life. I realized why he loved me all the more. And I realized that I think I loved him more as well."
Heero swallowed, turning towards Trowa, pointing his focus to the wall behind the confused boy.
"Milliardo is the man you see there." Heero nodded his head towards the portrait of the man with the flowing blonde hair. He approached the painting carefully, fingering the frame. "I painted this when we first met. He was beautiful. He was a masterpiece himself. He was art." Heero looked down, then made eye contact with Trowa.
"Later on, Milliardo and his family were driven away from the city; I haven't seen him since. The last night we spent together was in the Ruins, on the outside of the city. We painted together; I guided his hands so he could paint once more. The dream he could never fulfill."
He knelt before Trowa, suddenly, clasping Trowa's hands in his own. "Trowa, I don't expect you to fulfill my dreams. I don't expect to fulfill yours. But perhaps we can learn from each other what we've lost-or what we haven't had the time to want. What I had with Milliardo was love; I thought I'd never find it again. But I found it in you. Perhaps...perhaps one day..."
He choked, his throat stricken with sobs as he cried in Trowa's lap. Heero felt so weak, so tired, so...relinquished. He cried in great heaving sobs, crying into Trowa's leg, soaking Trowa's pants with the tears that had been held back for so many years. They were free now, flowing heavily down Heero's cheeks. Trowa tentatively put a hand on the back of Heero's head, sliding his fingers through the brown silk of Heero's hair.
Trowa didn't know what to do. He didn't know what he could do. But he continued to sit, stroking Heero's hair, murmuring comforting noises into Heero's ears that were drowned out by Heero's continual howls of pain and sadness and helplessness.
Heero heard his own voice screaming at himself. //Why are you crying? What do you cry for? Do you have no dignity? No pride? No stability?// Heero continued to cry, finding it difficult to breathe as he heaved for each strangled breath.
"Heero," Trowa finally said, after several long minutes. Heero refused to look at Trowa, sobbing into Trowa's lap.
"Heero," Trowa repeated, with more force. He tilted Heero's head up with an index finger, and Heero looked into Trowa's eyes, lips still trembling and small mewling noises emerging from the back of his throat.
Trowa had never seen anything like it.
"Heero, you have to get a hold of yourself," Trowa said softly and carefully, so as to not break the already fragile state Heero had fallen into. "Why are you crying?"
Trowa's voice echoed Heero's own that continued to scream at him, harshly. "I don't know," he answered softly, his cries dying down. "I don't know."
"I don't know what you want from me, Heero," Trowa said, brushing Heero's hair from his face and out of his moist blue eyes.
"Please..." Heero said. "Pose for me...just once more. I want to show...you so much...so much of something I can't put into words-only into art."
Trowa considered Heero's request, then nodded. He saw the glow of Heero's eyes as the candlelight caught up to them, and Heero attempted a smile, failing. He leaned forward, Trowa pulling away slightly.
"Not yet," Trowa said. "You asked me to pose for you. I agreed. Maybe, after the sitting.I'll decide to grant more of your wishes." Trowa smiled slyly.
Heero returned the smile, Trowa's eyes reflecting the candlelight like cat's eyes. "Yes."
-----
Heero had never felt so concentrated, so fierce, as his brush darted across the canvas, splashing color across the once white spans. His brow furrowed, sweat beading on his forehead, some dripping off his brow and onto the painting itself, causing the oils to blend together. He worked by the light of a single candle, whose flame was almost burned out as the wick grew shorter and shorter, the hours flying by.
He captured every detail, every specific feature of Trowa's form, taking delight in sculpting the sharp angles of his muscles, the softness of his hair, and the strong, determined jaw of Trowa's face. Everything about Trowa screamed power and elegance; Heero would have him no other way.
Trowa skin was bare, the single light from the candle casting odd shadows across the planes of his chest, his legs, his arms, and his face. He lay atop the draperies that once hung from the wall, lounging across them on his left side. He sat up on his elbow, muscles in his sides flexing and rippling. His left leg was stretched out, the other leg bent so that his right foot was snuggled in the draperies. His chin was up, defiant, and he smiled seductively.
By his left foot lay a violin, propped up against and placed atop of aged sheet music, yellow and thin at the edges. His right hand held a single red rose, dried and so fragile that Trowa felt if he didn't hold it as delicately as possible, the entire flower would crumble in his fingers.
Trowa felt dominant, prevailing. His head held high, hair falling instinctively over one eye, his lips curled into an alluring smile as he watched Heero become more and more intense with every stroke of the paintbrush on the canvas. He watched, engrossed, as Heero dipped the paint- stained brush into a clear jar of water to be rinsed, the color staining the water in clouds of blacks, browns, greens.
Heero felt more anxious, more passionate than he'd ever felt in his life as his eyes darted back and forth from the provocative man who lay before him and the canvas that held the purpose of his heart. He detailed every strand of Trowa's chocolate hair, each bead of sweat that fell from Trowa's forehead as the room was suddenly smoldering from the single candle that flickered across Trowa's form, each ripple of smooth bronze skin. He carved every muscle in Trowa's agile body, the petals of the rose laying against Trowa's taut stomach and casting an ever-present shadow across Trowa's chest.
Heero drank the images with fervor. Equipped with his paintbrush, Heero's fingers created the god Heero thought Trowa to be, displayed on the canvas as honest and as true and pure as Heero wanted him to be. He finished the painting, sitting back to scrutinize his work. He found that something was missing. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
Trowa eyed Heero with a puzzled look, noticing that Heero was staring at the painting quite strangely. Suddenly, a look of realization hit Heero, and he looked up at Trowa and smiled slyly.
He dipped his brush into ink black paint, twirling the brush in the solution so that each side of the brush would have an equal amount of paint. He slowly and carefully, beginning at Trowa's right shoulder, began to draw wings. He almost chuckled to himself; making Trowa the god of love, Eros, was the last thing he'd ever think of doing. But somehow it fit. Eros brought love to those who searched and yearned for it, as Trowa gave him that gift as well. He outlined each exquisite feather, each subtle hint of the wind catching each quill. The wings spread out and around Trowa, hovering over the boy's body like a shield.
He stood, approaching the corner of his room where he kept various, trivial things he didn't want to throw away. He searched through the area thoroughly, Trowa frowning and cocking his head slightly, questioning Heero's reasoning. Heero emerged from the corner with two small, thin walking sticks.
"Keep your hand the way it was.only hold these," he ordered, positioning Trowa's hand just right and closing the man's fingers over the canes.
Trowa nodded, not understanding everything but trusting that Heero had good intentions.
//Trust,// Trowa repeated to himself. //Do I trust him?//
Heero resumed his seat in front of the canvas, picking up a towel that lay in a bunch by his paints. He used it to wipe the sweat from his forehead, then discarded it on the floor. With careful precision, he sketched out the walking sticks, avoiding the curved ends. Instead of handles that were held onto, he painted arrowheads made to pierce flesh. He painted Trowa grasping the arrows of the god of love, lazily holding them between his fingers. They threw sharp shadows across Trowa's chest that Heero immediately fixed, wanting each and every detail of the elegant boy to be portrayed magnificently.
He pored over his painting, eyes roaming frantically and with concentration.
His masterpiece was complete.
He sat back with a long sigh, smiling with ecstasy. "I'm done," he announced.
Trowa smiled a softer smile, placing the walking sticks aside and stretching out on the draperies. His muscles were sore and cramped, and he arched his back languidly, small mewls emerging from the back of his throat from the effort.
None of this went unnoticed by Heero who watched his subject stretch before him captivatingly. His thoughts were interrupted by Trowa's request to see the painting. Trowa took a robe that hung from the bedpost and wrapped it around his body, keeping his arm crossed over his chest. Heero nodded, scooting his chair back against the wooden floor to invite Trowa to view himself the way Heero saw him.
Trowa approached the canvas with no expectations. What he found startled him at first; the understanding of meaning caught his breath. He examined himself, sprawled out and exposed among the blood red draperies. It was the first painting where Trowa actually looked the part of a gypsy, instead of pretending to be a nobleman. His head was proudly held high, his shoulders elegant.
What fascinated Trowa were the wings that spread across his back. Beautiful silken feathers sheltered him, framing his body appealingly. He discovered the walking canes were arrows; upon this realization, he turned to Heero, a look of astonishment on his face.
"Eros?" Trowa questioned.
Heero nodded, eyes adverted. "Does it please you?"
Trowa looked on, not taking his eyes from the canvas. "Yes," he said quietly. "It does."
He saw a look of relief wash over Heero's face and a smile of satisfaction settle along the artist's lips. "Thank you, Trowa."
Trowa approached Heero, taking a seat on one of Heero's legs. Heero looked up at Trowa, startled at the man's actions. //Is Trowa....is he...what does he mean...does he want to...what does he want?//
Trowa cradled Heero's face in his hands, the rough pads of his fingers sliding along Heero's jaw line. Heero looked into Trowa's eyes, eyes darting from one of Trowa's emerald eyes to another. Trowa's own eyes scanned over Heero's face, as confused as he once was. Trowa found that he wasn't confused at all.
Slowly, taking his time, Trowa pressed his lips to Heero's. Heero's lips were as soft as they had been the first time they'd kissed, the first time they'd made love. They both closed their eyes involuntarily, reveling in the sensations they didn't realize how much they grieved for. Heero's hands came up to grasp Trowa's waist, sliding down to take hold of a creamy thigh, exposed by the part in the front of Trowa's robe. They parted to gaze into each other's eyes, azure meeting verdant.
"I love you, Heero," Trowa said softly, affirming everything he had questioned the past few days.
Heero's eyes brightened, his lips forming an honest smile that would be embedded in Trowa's mind forever. "And I you."
Trowa shifted his weight, straddling Heero's hips as he brushed his lips to Heero's again, their tongues tasting each other's mouths, drowning in the unique flavors they found there. Trowa ground his groin into Heero's, both men releasing a sigh as the room became blistering, the air having a vehement flavor of its own.
The single candle that had watched over the two men the entire night finally died out, the light growing dimmer and dimmer until finally the room was rich with darkness.
-to be continued-