Trowa stood, back against an upright wooden board. His breathing was
slow and rhythmic, his pulse steady and sure. He began to close his
eyes, then decided to stare dead ahead at his attacker—his sister. Yet,
he made no move to resist, just stood defiantly and fearlessly.
Catherine held the knives in her hand, a few onlookers behind her curious enough to stay until the act was finished; then, some would leave some spare pocket change, others would simply leave. She held the knife in her hand, visually marking the knife's path in her head. She let her arm pull back and fly forward, releasing the knife with nimble, precise fingers.
Trowa didn't flinch as the knife slammed into the board, inches away from his cheek. He had never flinched before, and wasn't going to anytime soon.
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Trowa awoke, eyes shooting open. He blinked twice and he realized he was in Heero's room, Heero's chin resting on top of his head and Heero's arms around him securely. He sighed, closing his eyes again and attempting to return to the realm of sleep.
Heero sensed that his lover had awakened and gently nudged Trowa's shoulder, letting the other know that he was awake as well. Trowa lifted his head to gaze at Heero, only to meet Heero's soft, gentle kiss. Trowa closed his eyes as their lips met in a tender, lazy kiss.
Heero couldn't have thought of a better way to awaken and be awakened; with Trowa in his arms. They broke the kiss, gazing into each other's eyes thoughtfully and meaningfully. Heero was the first to speak.
"Good morning," he said, his voice hoarse and throaty as he awoke. He shifted his weight so that he propped his elbow on the mattress to support his head, leaving one arm around Trowa's thin waist. Trowa accommodated Heero's movements with his own, letting one arm rest on Heero's which snaked around his body and curling up against Heero's chest.
"Morning," Trowa mumbled, his breath blowing warmly against Heero's chest. Heero looked down at the boy whose cheek lay against him, smiling a rare smile.
"Did you have sweet dreams?" he asked Trowa, the hand around Trowa's waist lifting to settle in Trowa's soft brown hair.
"Somewhat," said Trowa. "I dreamed of my life with the gypsies." Trowa sighed, tracing his fingers over the defined muscles that sculpted Heero's chest and stomach. "I hadn't thought of it in awhile, I suppose. I don't miss it. But I realize now that I just haven't thought about it in a very long time."
Heero frowned, sliding down from where he lay to come face to face with Trowa. "You've never told me about it," he pointed out, fingers tangling themselves in Trowa's locks. "I'm not saying you have to, but I just became conscious of the fact that you never have."
"I don't see the need, I guess," Trowa said. "I could tell you—but what would be the purpose? It doesn't have any effect on you."
Heero nodded. "I understand."
They held each other in silence until mid afternoon.
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A week had passed. It was day of Heero's showing, which would be taking place downstairs at his virtually unused ballroom, hidden below the kitchen on the first floor of his building. Heero stood alone in his studio, the night sky dimming the room and only a few candles shown, flickering in Heero's eyes as they scanned his surroundings.
Over the past week, he'd painted with a burning fuel he thought had disappeared long ago, with the loss of Milliardo. The time flew in a blur, a flurry of brilliant color, pale white canvas, and sweat-induced bronze skin.
He had awakened early every morning to begin painting; Catherine was his subject in the mornings. At night, however, Trowa joined him to paint. Heero kept the portraits of Trowa a secret from everyone but he and his subject. After the sitting, they made love until the candles extinguished themselves in pools of wax and heat.
Heero blinked and was snapped back into reality, as he examined each of the paintings to be displayed that night. All of them were of Catherine; he wouldn't dare exhibit the paintings of Trowa to the intolerance of high society. He approached a portrait of Trowa,
covered by a thin white sheet. He lifted the sheet delicately, to view Trowa staring back at him; Trowa's eyes were shining brightly, despite the thin line his lips formed.
Heero placed the sheet back down upon the painting, bidding a small farewell to the painting itself before regarding the paintings which were to be displayed that night. He took hold of one painting, framed that morning, and held it in two hands, gripping the heavy gold frame. He placed it by his feet, using his free hands to open the door, calling to Sebastian to help him set up the paintings for their showing.
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Trowa sat on his bedroom floor, his back against the bed. He looked up at Catherine, who was fastening the buttons on the front of her new gown Heero had bought for her the day before. She was getting ready for her grand entrance to the party, nervously buttoning her dress with less than nimble fingers—nothing like the fingers she once had that threw knives with precision and accuracy.
"Calm down, Catherine," Trowa advised her, smiling the tiniest bit at his sister's anxiety.
"I can't!" Catherine said, exasperated. She fastened the top clasp to the dress and stared at herself in the mirror. The dress was a light blue color, with a high neck and pointed sleeves; the same pointed sleeves she wished she had had during her gypsy days. She
stood, almost in disbelief at the woman she was now; a few months ago, she would have never thought she'd be here, in the home of one of the most highly respected and generously paid artists in the nation.
"Try, Catherine," Trowa counseled, standing behind Catherine as they both gazed at her form in the mirror. Trowa had to admit that Catherine cleaned up very well, her face pale and her makeup subtle but effective.
Catherine made a noise of disgust and plopped down on the bed, reaching for the bottle of wine she'd placed on her bedside table. She ground her teeth together as she twisted the cork, opening the bottle with a satisfying "pop." She picked up a glass, also on her
nightstand, and poured a generous amount of red bubbly liquid into it.
"How much have you had to drink today, Catherine?" Trowa asked, staring down at his sister.
She took a hearty gulp of wine, placing the glass back down on the table. Her lips were stained red from the alcohol. "This is only my second glass, Trowa. I'll be alright, I promise." She peered down at her high heeled shoes, which were already beginning to pinch her toes. She finished off the glass of wine, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Well, just be careful, Catherine," Trowa said, taking a seat beside his sister, patting her on the back protectively. "There's going to be a lot of people there tonight—"
"Don't worry about it, Trowa," Catherine snapped. She instantly turned towards her brother, a look of apology in her eyes, her fingers over her lips.
"It's alright, Catherine," Trowa said. He embraced an astonished Catherine, who let her head rest against her brother's chest.
"I'm sorry, Trowa, I don't know what came over me," Catherine said, her voice muffled against the fabric of Trowa's shirt.
"It's alright," Trowa repeated. He released her, wiping her cheek of smeared makeup. He smiled at her broadly. "Go have a good time. Heero's probably waiting for you downstairs. You'll get to greet guests. All sorts of people; people with a lot of money who are going to buy paintings of you to put in their homes."
Catherine blushed accordingly, looking down at her lap. "Thank you, Trowa," she said. She stood to leave, holding her brother's hands in her own, wobbling a little on the thin heels of her shoes.
"Have a splendid time," Trowa said. "I'm tired, I think I'm going to go to sleep soon."
Catherine nodded. "Alright, then. Goodnight, Trowa." She kissed the top of his head as she exited the room, quietly closing the door behind her.
Trowa watched her leave. His face was full of concern, and he decided he wasn't going to go to sleep quite as soon as he thought he would.
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"Hello, Mister Yuy!" greeted another voice in the crowd. Heero whirled around to put a face to the voice, but found no one.
More people had attended his exhibit than he had invited—that was alright with him. With Catherine attached to his arm, the night had gone rather well; he had gotten numerous offers for his paintings, and met many new people—people that were eager to buy his paintings.
He looked around his surroundings once more, still happily surprised with the work Sebastian had done on the decaying ballroom. The windows were all replaced, the glass clearly reflecting the socializing happening all around him. New curtains framed the windows, an elegant purple to match the smooth table cloths over two long tables that lined opposite ends of the room. The floor had been polished, the tile revealing its true cream color instead of the murky yellow it had taken on over the years. All in all, it was a magnificent change, and Heero had thanked Sebastian over and over again, promising his long-time butler, and friend, an increase in pay.
He looked down, realizing Catherine was gazing at him quite happily; he realized instantly that she was drunk, her eyes a little hazy and her lips stained with red wine. He took her to a table where she could sit, and they were immediately surrounded by guests that were eager to know the subject found in every one of Heero's displayed portraits.
"Good evening, Mr. Yuy!" greeted one. "How are you this evening?"
"Very well, thank you," Heero answered, offering a small smile as he rubbed Catherine's back. Catherine sat next to Heero, letting her head fall on his shoulder and her eyes close briefly.
"I should think so, Mr. Yuy!" said another, shaking Heero's hand. "Your paintings are being very well received." They all turned towards Catherine. "And how is your beautiful subject?"
"Very sleepy," answered Catherine, producing many laughs from the crowd around them. Heero looked down at Catherine, who smiled up at him happily.
"How long did it take for you to paint this many beautiful portraits, Mr. Yuy?" asked someone in the crowd out of Heero's line of vision.
"About two weeks," Heero said. The crowd gasped simultaneously.
"But, sir, there has to be at least ten paintings on display!" exclaimed a shocked member of the crowd around Heero. "All in two weeks?"
"Yes," Heero said modestly. "But Miss Catherine here was very cooperative through all the sittings." The two smiled briefly at each other, Catherine reaching for a glass of wine that sat on the table. Heero frowned for a split second, then turned his attention to the guests.
"Do you believe your style has differed since you first began painting?" asked an additional guest.
"From when I first started? Most definitely," was Heero's answer.
"Oh, well, I don't think it's differed all that much."
Heero looked up, curious to see who had followed his career long enough to know what they knew. The crowd parted to reveal a tall, broad shouldered man, dressed in a silk suit. His blonde hair flowed down to his waist, creating a curtain of silken locks around the man's body. Heero's eyes widened as they locked onto the man's frosty blue eyes.
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Trowa sat in his bedroom, leaning up against the closed door. He could hear guests that entered through the front door, Sebastian there to greet them and take their coats if they so wished. Down the hall, he heard people chatting by the restrooms, talking small talk that sometimes made him laugh at the stupidity of it all.
When one becomes wealthy, I suppose they lose their minds,Trowa thought, listening to two ladies discuss the differences between broiled and boiled chicken; it wasn't as if they were the ones who made the meals in the first place. Out of sheer boredom, Trowa decided it might be amusing to continue listening in on the ladies' conversation.
"I prefer the painting where the young miss is sleeping in the chair," said one.
"Oh, the young miss must be dreadfully embarrassed about that one!" said the other.
"I don't believe she would be embarrassed, did you see her tonight? Drunk out of her little mind!"
They both giggled, Trowa's face turning red with rage. Not only at the women that talked about his sister in such a terrible way, but at Catherine herself. He knew as well as she did that their bodies couldn't have a high tolerance of alcohol, and she completely ignored the fact. But his anger did not last long, as he continued to listen in on the women's conversation.
"And did you hear that Judas DiAndretti is going to be here tonight?" asked one.
Judas?thought Trowa, his head spinning. THE Judas?
"Yes, I did hear that! And I also heard that Mr. DiAndretti has been following Mr. Yuy's career for quite some time now. Apparently, he's known Mr. Yuy for quite some time now."
It has to be him!thought Trowa, contemplating how to react. Should I tell Heero?He decided against it; he and Heero had agreed that Trowa wouldn't show himself in public quite yet.
"Has he really?" the other responded. "Well, this should certainly be interesting, having one of New York's finest artists and art critics in the same room!"
Trowa narrowed his eyes. It certainly will be.
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Heero was speechless. The crowd thinned out, leaving Heero sitting down, Catherine leaning lazily on his shoulder, staring at his former teacher, his former lover.
"Milliardo," he said breathlessly. A million thoughts raced around his head; he didn't know how to react. It was such a shock, he didn't know if it was a good surprise or a bad one.
"Well, not anymore," said the blonde, smiling down at an astonished Heero. "If people knew that Milliardo Venire was here, they'd have me thrown out, just like last time."
Heero excused himself from Catherine, who was busy pouring herself another drink for the night. Heero was beyond caring as he stood to come face to face with Milliardo, their eyes meeting in a heartfelt stare. Silently, they took a seat at the table in the far corner of the room, where they wouldn't be bothered for some time. A bottle of wine and a few empty glasses were placed on the table; Heero took one glass and filled it halfway with alcohol, gesturing an offering to Milliardo, who held his hand up in polite refusal. Heero took a small sip, pressing his lips together to taste the lingering flavor.
"It's been so long," Heero began. He began to touch Milliardo's hand, but Milliardo pulled it away with resistance, but not repulsion.
"It has," was all he said. Heero understood Milliardo's intentions, and placed his hand flat on the table in front of him.
"Where—where have you been?" Heero asked, his voice cracking with nervousness.
"I've been...I've been away, Heero," said Milliardo. His eyes gleamed with mystery and life as he tried to explain to Heero what he couldn't put into words. "I see your painting has improved."
Heero smiled, embarrassed, and looked down at his fidgeting hands. "Not really."
"Oh yes, you have," said Milliardo. "A great deal. But, as I mentioned earlier, your style hasn't changed at all. I could look at any picture here and say to myself, this was a work of art created by the one and only Heero Yuy.'" Milliardo smiled again; Heero realized that in contrast to the polite smiles he received from his other guests, Milliardo's was genuine.
"Why are you here?" Heero asked slowly.
Milliardo sat back in mock surprise. "You think I would miss your first showcase of only your paintings? Never! I was your teacher, Heero. I would like to think I've taught you something." He sat forward again, his voice full of kindness, a paternal kind of kindness Heero didn't realize he had missed. "That and I was just granted access to New York again a few days ago."
Heero cocked his head in confusion, silently asking Milliardo to continue.
"A good friend of mine has granted me a new life," Milliardo said. "A new name, a new career, a new home. My name is now Victor Andro. I'm a carpenter." He smiled slightly. "I know, me, a carpenter. With these hands." Heero looked down for the first time and realized that Milliardo's hands still convulsed involuntarily, shaking slightly as Milliardo spoke.
"Do your parents have new identities as well?" asked Heero, trying to take in almost ten years worth of lost time and memories.
Milliardo's lips formed a different kind of smile. "They both died over the years."
Heero's heart sank. "I'm so sorry I brought it up." He stared at the glass in his hand, the red liquid swirling around slowly.
Milliardo waved his hand. "It's nothing. Father died five years ago, Mother right afterwards. I just don't think they could handle... the failure, I suppose." He looked up from where he stared at the table and smiled heartily. "Well, look at you. Wealthy, prosperous, and—" he nodded towards Catherine who spoke among a group of people
who sat around her. "—and a beautiful wife, I must say."
Heero shook his head. "No, we aren't married. To tell you the truth, I'm not quite certain if we're in love at all."
Milliardo frowned. "She makes a beautiful subject. There's something about her that stands out."
Heero nodded. "She was a gypsy."
Milliardo's eyes widened. "A gypsy?" He raised a concerned eyebrow. "Do these people know that?"
Heero's voice lowered. "Of course not."
Their conversation was interrupted by a shriek of laughter coming from Catherine. They both turned towards the young woman, then turned back. Heero shuddered.
"She's had too much to drink tonight," Heero apologized. Milliardo's eyebrow remained raised.
"And you have as well, Heero," he noted. "I can tell."
Heero nodded. "Probably. It's been so goddam stressful. I just want to make a good impression on these people I guess." He took another generous sip of wine.
Milliardo sighed. "You're forgetting the things I taught you, Heero," Milliardo said.
Heero shot his former teacher a confused stare. "What do you mean?"
Milliardo reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette. He lit it on the candle that sat on the table, smoke filtering through his nose and disappearing into the air. "I taught you that whatever you do, you do for yourself. The only person you have to please is yourself."
Heero sighed. "How am I supposed to make any money that way?" he argued.
Milliardo sighed, flicking the ash into the ash tray on the table. Some of the ash floated to rest on the royal purple tablecloth. "Another thing I thought I taught you, but I suppose over time one forgets." He leaned in closer to Heero. "Before we were artists, what were we?"
Heero nodded, understanding.
"And how much money did we have?" Milliardo questioned.
"Not nearly as much as we have now," Heero sighed.
"And were you still happy?" Milliardo asked.
"Yes," Heero said. He smiled. "I could always count on you to put things into perspective."
Milliardo inhaled through his cigarette again, exhaling as he spoke. "And I could always count on you to help me put things into perspective." He smiled. "Do you love the girl?"
Heero shook his head. "I really don't know," he said nonchalantly.
Milliardo sat contemplatively, taking a drag from his cigarette and letting the smoke flow from his mouth lethargically. "There's something you're hiding from me. You don't have to tell me, but I know that you're hiding something from me. I could always tell."
Heero finished his glass of wine, grabbing the bottle for another glass. After he was done pouring the glass three quarters of the way full, he sighed, taking a sip large enough to drain the glass of its contents. "I am seeing someone. But it's not Catherine."
Milliardo nodded, pressing the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray. He allowed Heero to say what he wanted to say, not prodding the man for information that Heero didn't want to reveal.
"His name is Trowa," Heero said slowly, his voice low despite the fact that the guests at his party were well out of earshot. "Catherine's brother."
Milliardo raised his eyebrows, but said nothing more.
"He's...exquisite," Heero said, not finding the words to describe the captivating Trowa Barton. "He was a gypsy also...I found he and Catherine in the city, where they were performing. And even then, I realized he's just...radiant."
"And I suppose you've painted him?" Milliardo asked.
"Yes," Heero said. "Numerous times, in fact." He downed another glass of wine, finding a strange comfort in the alcohol that evening.
"He intrigues you?"
"Yes," Heero said. "He does."
Milliardo nodded. "It sounds like he's had quite an effect on you."
Heero hesitated before he spoke. "As you did," he said softly.
They sat in silence for a few precious minutes, regarding each other and remembering what they once had together, what they once shared. It was special, and silently they agreed it was not to be touched again. It was a memory, and would stay a memory. And they both realized that it would be better that way.
"You'll stay in contact more often, I hope?" Heero said, breaking the sacred silence.
"Yes," Milliardo promised. "I will."
"Heero Yuy!"
Heero turned around in his chair to see a group of guests eagerly grinning and flashing their expensive jewelry and cuff links. "Do you have any more to display?"
Heero gulped down half of another glass of wine, and glanced at Milliardo who sat beside him with a look of worry on his face.
"I wouldn't recommend it, Heero," Milliardo said under his breath.
Heero tossed his head. "No, you were right before. I don't paint for anyone but myself." He smiled at the enthusiastic faces across the room.
"I do, in fact," Heero heard himself say.
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"Hello, Mr. DiAndretti," greeted Sebastian.
Judas DiAndretti peered around the foyer, handing his coat to Sebastian without a return greeting. He had brought his assistant with him, who nodded thanks to Sebastian for the both of them.
"I need to use the restroom," said Judas.
"It's to your left, sir," Sebastian said politely. "And when you're ready to go to the main room, you take the stairs to your ri—"
"I know where to go," Judas interrupted.
So, this is where Heero Yuy lives nowadays,Judas thought, walking down the hallways lined with oriental rugs. Impressive. Pitiful, as well.
"Mr. DiAndretti?"
"Yes, David?" Judas answered his assistant without turning around.
"What do you suppose we do now?"
Judas whirled around, eyes darting back and forth to see if anyone was remotely close by. Seeing no one, he grabbed his assistant by the collar, shaking him violently.
"Do you realize that if there had been people around—"
"But there aren't, Mr. DiAndretti! I looked!" His assistant's eyes were full of fear, the way Judas liked them to be. Judas released David's collar, straightening his own attire.
"Listen, I want you to go downstairs while I figure out just what the hell I'm going to do about that fucking gypsy in there who thinks he's a goddam artist. When I come down, I need you there to tell me what the hell's going on." His eyes began to shine, a smile forming on his lips. "I, however, need to look my best as I denounce our favorite artist."
Nodding, David made his way down the stairs while Judas, sneering, opened the door to the powder room.
"Your career is finished, Mr. Yuy," Judas smirked to himself.
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Trowa's eyes were wide, his ears disbelieving what he had just heard. He's going to ruin Heero,thought Trowa. Just like he wrecked Heero's teacher. Trowa's head began to throb with the many different thoughts that seemed to pulse in his skull. His eyes darted around in the darkness for a tangible solution.
His eyes rested on Catherine's throwing knives.
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His paintings were brought out, all from his studio. They were also all covered by thin white sheets, some of the bolder color showing through the whiteness of the sheet. Heero's head felt light due to the amount of alcohol he'd taken in that night. He managed to smile coyly as each of his paintings of Trowa were revealed to the public.
Milliardo sat by Heero's side, taking careful glances at the slightly drunken man next to him. He viewed the first portrait of who he assumed to be Trowa. Indeed the boy was beautiful, his green eyes captivating. His skin was flawless; his own was marred from the
stress the gypsy life had on his body. The boy had a hint of hesitance beyond the dominant smile that graced his face.
Milliardo looked around him, gasps of disbelief and surprise coming from all directions. He looked at Heero for some kind of reaction, and found none. Heero seemed almost indifferent. Quiet.
"This is outrageous!" Milliardo heard. "Disgraceful!"
He looked over at Heero whose face still showed indifference. With his peripheral vision, he noticed a figure who ran out of the room and up the stairs. He got up to follow them.
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Judas stood at the mirror, inspecting his flawless form, when David burst through the door, breathing heavily.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, David?" Judas snapped, straightening his tie. "I told you to wait downstairs, and I would come down there in a minute."
"But, sir, Heero Yuy is embarrassing himself as we speak!" David smiled, knowing the news would please Judas.
Judas raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a smile. "Oh, really?"
"He's added...other paintings to his showcase this evening," David continued. "Ones of a very controversial nature."
"The fucking faggot," Judas spit. "That's what he painted, am I correct? Naked little boys, the goddam dishonorable pervert." He smirked in the mirror. "Go downstairs, I'll join you in a minute. Heero Yuy could use as much deprecation as possible."
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Trowa waited until the one called David descended the stairs before opening the door quietly, a cloak he had used to keep warm during his winters as a gypsy. He peered around the corner to find the door to the powder room closed.
He crept around the corner, hidden in the darkness of the unlit hallway, clutching a knife in his hand so hard that his hand was trembling.
What am I doing?a voice screamed inside his head. You're defending Heero's honor,he answered himself.
He stood at the entrance to the powder room, back against the wall. He tried to control his breathing; it was heavy and hard and labored. He closed his eyes, trying to decide if he wanted to turn back. He didn't.
The door swung open, Trowa coming face to face with the one known as Judas. Judas was handsome—wavy brown hair atop his head, a chiseled jaw and cheekbones, and deep set chocolate eyes. Judas regarded Trowa with a nod before Trowa darted his hand out to punch Judas in the stomach. Judas fell back, clutching the place Trowa had hit.
Trowa jumped onto Judas' body, straddling the man's stomach and holding Judas down. With the pounding adrenaline that ran through his veins like fire, Trowa raised the knife above his head, holding down Judas' body with the other. The last look Judas had on his face before his murder was one of fear—so different from the pride he flaunted.
Trowa sunk the knife deep into Judas' chest, the pressure causing blood to squirt from the wound, splattering across Judas' clothes and Trowa's face. Trowa laid his hand over Judas' mouth as the man began to scream violently, feeling the vibrations and the choke in every scream as he plunged the knife into Judas' body over and over again.
Trowa watched the array of emotions play along Judas' face. There was the fear—then there was confusion, anger, hope, and finally defeat as Judas' eyes rolled back into his skull, body going limp under Trowa's body.
Breathing heavily, Trowa pulled the knife from Judas' body, shaking off the blood from the dirty blade. He remained seated on Judas' body, looking around his surroundings carefully. No one was around, save a table beside him with a vase of roses. On the wall above the table was a mirror, the only witness to the crime.
Slowly, Trowa stood, gazing into the mirror. Blood was splattered across his face, matted in his hair. Filthy blood. The knife was still in his hand, different than it was before; his hand was no longer trembling, his hand stained with blood. He took a rose from the vase, placing it carefully on Judas' body. He turned to return to his room, only to find a figure standing at the stairwell, staring at him.
The stranger's blue eyes appeared to pierce his very soul. He narrowed his eyes in curiosity and fear. It was Milliardo.
-to be continued-
Catherine held the knives in her hand, a few onlookers behind her curious enough to stay until the act was finished; then, some would leave some spare pocket change, others would simply leave. She held the knife in her hand, visually marking the knife's path in her head. She let her arm pull back and fly forward, releasing the knife with nimble, precise fingers.
Trowa didn't flinch as the knife slammed into the board, inches away from his cheek. He had never flinched before, and wasn't going to anytime soon.
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Trowa awoke, eyes shooting open. He blinked twice and he realized he was in Heero's room, Heero's chin resting on top of his head and Heero's arms around him securely. He sighed, closing his eyes again and attempting to return to the realm of sleep.
Heero sensed that his lover had awakened and gently nudged Trowa's shoulder, letting the other know that he was awake as well. Trowa lifted his head to gaze at Heero, only to meet Heero's soft, gentle kiss. Trowa closed his eyes as their lips met in a tender, lazy kiss.
Heero couldn't have thought of a better way to awaken and be awakened; with Trowa in his arms. They broke the kiss, gazing into each other's eyes thoughtfully and meaningfully. Heero was the first to speak.
"Good morning," he said, his voice hoarse and throaty as he awoke. He shifted his weight so that he propped his elbow on the mattress to support his head, leaving one arm around Trowa's thin waist. Trowa accommodated Heero's movements with his own, letting one arm rest on Heero's which snaked around his body and curling up against Heero's chest.
"Morning," Trowa mumbled, his breath blowing warmly against Heero's chest. Heero looked down at the boy whose cheek lay against him, smiling a rare smile.
"Did you have sweet dreams?" he asked Trowa, the hand around Trowa's waist lifting to settle in Trowa's soft brown hair.
"Somewhat," said Trowa. "I dreamed of my life with the gypsies." Trowa sighed, tracing his fingers over the defined muscles that sculpted Heero's chest and stomach. "I hadn't thought of it in awhile, I suppose. I don't miss it. But I realize now that I just haven't thought about it in a very long time."
Heero frowned, sliding down from where he lay to come face to face with Trowa. "You've never told me about it," he pointed out, fingers tangling themselves in Trowa's locks. "I'm not saying you have to, but I just became conscious of the fact that you never have."
"I don't see the need, I guess," Trowa said. "I could tell you—but what would be the purpose? It doesn't have any effect on you."
Heero nodded. "I understand."
They held each other in silence until mid afternoon.
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A week had passed. It was day of Heero's showing, which would be taking place downstairs at his virtually unused ballroom, hidden below the kitchen on the first floor of his building. Heero stood alone in his studio, the night sky dimming the room and only a few candles shown, flickering in Heero's eyes as they scanned his surroundings.
Over the past week, he'd painted with a burning fuel he thought had disappeared long ago, with the loss of Milliardo. The time flew in a blur, a flurry of brilliant color, pale white canvas, and sweat-induced bronze skin.
He had awakened early every morning to begin painting; Catherine was his subject in the mornings. At night, however, Trowa joined him to paint. Heero kept the portraits of Trowa a secret from everyone but he and his subject. After the sitting, they made love until the candles extinguished themselves in pools of wax and heat.
Heero blinked and was snapped back into reality, as he examined each of the paintings to be displayed that night. All of them were of Catherine; he wouldn't dare exhibit the paintings of Trowa to the intolerance of high society. He approached a portrait of Trowa,
covered by a thin white sheet. He lifted the sheet delicately, to view Trowa staring back at him; Trowa's eyes were shining brightly, despite the thin line his lips formed.
Heero placed the sheet back down upon the painting, bidding a small farewell to the painting itself before regarding the paintings which were to be displayed that night. He took hold of one painting, framed that morning, and held it in two hands, gripping the heavy gold frame. He placed it by his feet, using his free hands to open the door, calling to Sebastian to help him set up the paintings for their showing.
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Trowa sat on his bedroom floor, his back against the bed. He looked up at Catherine, who was fastening the buttons on the front of her new gown Heero had bought for her the day before. She was getting ready for her grand entrance to the party, nervously buttoning her dress with less than nimble fingers—nothing like the fingers she once had that threw knives with precision and accuracy.
"Calm down, Catherine," Trowa advised her, smiling the tiniest bit at his sister's anxiety.
"I can't!" Catherine said, exasperated. She fastened the top clasp to the dress and stared at herself in the mirror. The dress was a light blue color, with a high neck and pointed sleeves; the same pointed sleeves she wished she had had during her gypsy days. She
stood, almost in disbelief at the woman she was now; a few months ago, she would have never thought she'd be here, in the home of one of the most highly respected and generously paid artists in the nation.
"Try, Catherine," Trowa counseled, standing behind Catherine as they both gazed at her form in the mirror. Trowa had to admit that Catherine cleaned up very well, her face pale and her makeup subtle but effective.
Catherine made a noise of disgust and plopped down on the bed, reaching for the bottle of wine she'd placed on her bedside table. She ground her teeth together as she twisted the cork, opening the bottle with a satisfying "pop." She picked up a glass, also on her
nightstand, and poured a generous amount of red bubbly liquid into it.
"How much have you had to drink today, Catherine?" Trowa asked, staring down at his sister.
She took a hearty gulp of wine, placing the glass back down on the table. Her lips were stained red from the alcohol. "This is only my second glass, Trowa. I'll be alright, I promise." She peered down at her high heeled shoes, which were already beginning to pinch her toes. She finished off the glass of wine, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Well, just be careful, Catherine," Trowa said, taking a seat beside his sister, patting her on the back protectively. "There's going to be a lot of people there tonight—"
"Don't worry about it, Trowa," Catherine snapped. She instantly turned towards her brother, a look of apology in her eyes, her fingers over her lips.
"It's alright, Catherine," Trowa said. He embraced an astonished Catherine, who let her head rest against her brother's chest.
"I'm sorry, Trowa, I don't know what came over me," Catherine said, her voice muffled against the fabric of Trowa's shirt.
"It's alright," Trowa repeated. He released her, wiping her cheek of smeared makeup. He smiled at her broadly. "Go have a good time. Heero's probably waiting for you downstairs. You'll get to greet guests. All sorts of people; people with a lot of money who are going to buy paintings of you to put in their homes."
Catherine blushed accordingly, looking down at her lap. "Thank you, Trowa," she said. She stood to leave, holding her brother's hands in her own, wobbling a little on the thin heels of her shoes.
"Have a splendid time," Trowa said. "I'm tired, I think I'm going to go to sleep soon."
Catherine nodded. "Alright, then. Goodnight, Trowa." She kissed the top of his head as she exited the room, quietly closing the door behind her.
Trowa watched her leave. His face was full of concern, and he decided he wasn't going to go to sleep quite as soon as he thought he would.
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"Hello, Mister Yuy!" greeted another voice in the crowd. Heero whirled around to put a face to the voice, but found no one.
More people had attended his exhibit than he had invited—that was alright with him. With Catherine attached to his arm, the night had gone rather well; he had gotten numerous offers for his paintings, and met many new people—people that were eager to buy his paintings.
He looked around his surroundings once more, still happily surprised with the work Sebastian had done on the decaying ballroom. The windows were all replaced, the glass clearly reflecting the socializing happening all around him. New curtains framed the windows, an elegant purple to match the smooth table cloths over two long tables that lined opposite ends of the room. The floor had been polished, the tile revealing its true cream color instead of the murky yellow it had taken on over the years. All in all, it was a magnificent change, and Heero had thanked Sebastian over and over again, promising his long-time butler, and friend, an increase in pay.
He looked down, realizing Catherine was gazing at him quite happily; he realized instantly that she was drunk, her eyes a little hazy and her lips stained with red wine. He took her to a table where she could sit, and they were immediately surrounded by guests that were eager to know the subject found in every one of Heero's displayed portraits.
"Good evening, Mr. Yuy!" greeted one. "How are you this evening?"
"Very well, thank you," Heero answered, offering a small smile as he rubbed Catherine's back. Catherine sat next to Heero, letting her head fall on his shoulder and her eyes close briefly.
"I should think so, Mr. Yuy!" said another, shaking Heero's hand. "Your paintings are being very well received." They all turned towards Catherine. "And how is your beautiful subject?"
"Very sleepy," answered Catherine, producing many laughs from the crowd around them. Heero looked down at Catherine, who smiled up at him happily.
"How long did it take for you to paint this many beautiful portraits, Mr. Yuy?" asked someone in the crowd out of Heero's line of vision.
"About two weeks," Heero said. The crowd gasped simultaneously.
"But, sir, there has to be at least ten paintings on display!" exclaimed a shocked member of the crowd around Heero. "All in two weeks?"
"Yes," Heero said modestly. "But Miss Catherine here was very cooperative through all the sittings." The two smiled briefly at each other, Catherine reaching for a glass of wine that sat on the table. Heero frowned for a split second, then turned his attention to the guests.
"Do you believe your style has differed since you first began painting?" asked an additional guest.
"From when I first started? Most definitely," was Heero's answer.
"Oh, well, I don't think it's differed all that much."
Heero looked up, curious to see who had followed his career long enough to know what they knew. The crowd parted to reveal a tall, broad shouldered man, dressed in a silk suit. His blonde hair flowed down to his waist, creating a curtain of silken locks around the man's body. Heero's eyes widened as they locked onto the man's frosty blue eyes.
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Trowa sat in his bedroom, leaning up against the closed door. He could hear guests that entered through the front door, Sebastian there to greet them and take their coats if they so wished. Down the hall, he heard people chatting by the restrooms, talking small talk that sometimes made him laugh at the stupidity of it all.
When one becomes wealthy, I suppose they lose their minds,Trowa thought, listening to two ladies discuss the differences between broiled and boiled chicken; it wasn't as if they were the ones who made the meals in the first place. Out of sheer boredom, Trowa decided it might be amusing to continue listening in on the ladies' conversation.
"I prefer the painting where the young miss is sleeping in the chair," said one.
"Oh, the young miss must be dreadfully embarrassed about that one!" said the other.
"I don't believe she would be embarrassed, did you see her tonight? Drunk out of her little mind!"
They both giggled, Trowa's face turning red with rage. Not only at the women that talked about his sister in such a terrible way, but at Catherine herself. He knew as well as she did that their bodies couldn't have a high tolerance of alcohol, and she completely ignored the fact. But his anger did not last long, as he continued to listen in on the women's conversation.
"And did you hear that Judas DiAndretti is going to be here tonight?" asked one.
Judas?thought Trowa, his head spinning. THE Judas?
"Yes, I did hear that! And I also heard that Mr. DiAndretti has been following Mr. Yuy's career for quite some time now. Apparently, he's known Mr. Yuy for quite some time now."
It has to be him!thought Trowa, contemplating how to react. Should I tell Heero?He decided against it; he and Heero had agreed that Trowa wouldn't show himself in public quite yet.
"Has he really?" the other responded. "Well, this should certainly be interesting, having one of New York's finest artists and art critics in the same room!"
Trowa narrowed his eyes. It certainly will be.
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Heero was speechless. The crowd thinned out, leaving Heero sitting down, Catherine leaning lazily on his shoulder, staring at his former teacher, his former lover.
"Milliardo," he said breathlessly. A million thoughts raced around his head; he didn't know how to react. It was such a shock, he didn't know if it was a good surprise or a bad one.
"Well, not anymore," said the blonde, smiling down at an astonished Heero. "If people knew that Milliardo Venire was here, they'd have me thrown out, just like last time."
Heero excused himself from Catherine, who was busy pouring herself another drink for the night. Heero was beyond caring as he stood to come face to face with Milliardo, their eyes meeting in a heartfelt stare. Silently, they took a seat at the table in the far corner of the room, where they wouldn't be bothered for some time. A bottle of wine and a few empty glasses were placed on the table; Heero took one glass and filled it halfway with alcohol, gesturing an offering to Milliardo, who held his hand up in polite refusal. Heero took a small sip, pressing his lips together to taste the lingering flavor.
"It's been so long," Heero began. He began to touch Milliardo's hand, but Milliardo pulled it away with resistance, but not repulsion.
"It has," was all he said. Heero understood Milliardo's intentions, and placed his hand flat on the table in front of him.
"Where—where have you been?" Heero asked, his voice cracking with nervousness.
"I've been...I've been away, Heero," said Milliardo. His eyes gleamed with mystery and life as he tried to explain to Heero what he couldn't put into words. "I see your painting has improved."
Heero smiled, embarrassed, and looked down at his fidgeting hands. "Not really."
"Oh yes, you have," said Milliardo. "A great deal. But, as I mentioned earlier, your style hasn't changed at all. I could look at any picture here and say to myself, this was a work of art created by the one and only Heero Yuy.'" Milliardo smiled again; Heero realized that in contrast to the polite smiles he received from his other guests, Milliardo's was genuine.
"Why are you here?" Heero asked slowly.
Milliardo sat back in mock surprise. "You think I would miss your first showcase of only your paintings? Never! I was your teacher, Heero. I would like to think I've taught you something." He sat forward again, his voice full of kindness, a paternal kind of kindness Heero didn't realize he had missed. "That and I was just granted access to New York again a few days ago."
Heero cocked his head in confusion, silently asking Milliardo to continue.
"A good friend of mine has granted me a new life," Milliardo said. "A new name, a new career, a new home. My name is now Victor Andro. I'm a carpenter." He smiled slightly. "I know, me, a carpenter. With these hands." Heero looked down for the first time and realized that Milliardo's hands still convulsed involuntarily, shaking slightly as Milliardo spoke.
"Do your parents have new identities as well?" asked Heero, trying to take in almost ten years worth of lost time and memories.
Milliardo's lips formed a different kind of smile. "They both died over the years."
Heero's heart sank. "I'm so sorry I brought it up." He stared at the glass in his hand, the red liquid swirling around slowly.
Milliardo waved his hand. "It's nothing. Father died five years ago, Mother right afterwards. I just don't think they could handle... the failure, I suppose." He looked up from where he stared at the table and smiled heartily. "Well, look at you. Wealthy, prosperous, and—" he nodded towards Catherine who spoke among a group of people
who sat around her. "—and a beautiful wife, I must say."
Heero shook his head. "No, we aren't married. To tell you the truth, I'm not quite certain if we're in love at all."
Milliardo frowned. "She makes a beautiful subject. There's something about her that stands out."
Heero nodded. "She was a gypsy."
Milliardo's eyes widened. "A gypsy?" He raised a concerned eyebrow. "Do these people know that?"
Heero's voice lowered. "Of course not."
Their conversation was interrupted by a shriek of laughter coming from Catherine. They both turned towards the young woman, then turned back. Heero shuddered.
"She's had too much to drink tonight," Heero apologized. Milliardo's eyebrow remained raised.
"And you have as well, Heero," he noted. "I can tell."
Heero nodded. "Probably. It's been so goddam stressful. I just want to make a good impression on these people I guess." He took another generous sip of wine.
Milliardo sighed. "You're forgetting the things I taught you, Heero," Milliardo said.
Heero shot his former teacher a confused stare. "What do you mean?"
Milliardo reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette. He lit it on the candle that sat on the table, smoke filtering through his nose and disappearing into the air. "I taught you that whatever you do, you do for yourself. The only person you have to please is yourself."
Heero sighed. "How am I supposed to make any money that way?" he argued.
Milliardo sighed, flicking the ash into the ash tray on the table. Some of the ash floated to rest on the royal purple tablecloth. "Another thing I thought I taught you, but I suppose over time one forgets." He leaned in closer to Heero. "Before we were artists, what were we?"
Heero nodded, understanding.
"And how much money did we have?" Milliardo questioned.
"Not nearly as much as we have now," Heero sighed.
"And were you still happy?" Milliardo asked.
"Yes," Heero said. He smiled. "I could always count on you to put things into perspective."
Milliardo inhaled through his cigarette again, exhaling as he spoke. "And I could always count on you to help me put things into perspective." He smiled. "Do you love the girl?"
Heero shook his head. "I really don't know," he said nonchalantly.
Milliardo sat contemplatively, taking a drag from his cigarette and letting the smoke flow from his mouth lethargically. "There's something you're hiding from me. You don't have to tell me, but I know that you're hiding something from me. I could always tell."
Heero finished his glass of wine, grabbing the bottle for another glass. After he was done pouring the glass three quarters of the way full, he sighed, taking a sip large enough to drain the glass of its contents. "I am seeing someone. But it's not Catherine."
Milliardo nodded, pressing the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray. He allowed Heero to say what he wanted to say, not prodding the man for information that Heero didn't want to reveal.
"His name is Trowa," Heero said slowly, his voice low despite the fact that the guests at his party were well out of earshot. "Catherine's brother."
Milliardo raised his eyebrows, but said nothing more.
"He's...exquisite," Heero said, not finding the words to describe the captivating Trowa Barton. "He was a gypsy also...I found he and Catherine in the city, where they were performing. And even then, I realized he's just...radiant."
"And I suppose you've painted him?" Milliardo asked.
"Yes," Heero said. "Numerous times, in fact." He downed another glass of wine, finding a strange comfort in the alcohol that evening.
"He intrigues you?"
"Yes," Heero said. "He does."
Milliardo nodded. "It sounds like he's had quite an effect on you."
Heero hesitated before he spoke. "As you did," he said softly.
They sat in silence for a few precious minutes, regarding each other and remembering what they once had together, what they once shared. It was special, and silently they agreed it was not to be touched again. It was a memory, and would stay a memory. And they both realized that it would be better that way.
"You'll stay in contact more often, I hope?" Heero said, breaking the sacred silence.
"Yes," Milliardo promised. "I will."
"Heero Yuy!"
Heero turned around in his chair to see a group of guests eagerly grinning and flashing their expensive jewelry and cuff links. "Do you have any more to display?"
Heero gulped down half of another glass of wine, and glanced at Milliardo who sat beside him with a look of worry on his face.
"I wouldn't recommend it, Heero," Milliardo said under his breath.
Heero tossed his head. "No, you were right before. I don't paint for anyone but myself." He smiled at the enthusiastic faces across the room.
"I do, in fact," Heero heard himself say.
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"Hello, Mr. DiAndretti," greeted Sebastian.
Judas DiAndretti peered around the foyer, handing his coat to Sebastian without a return greeting. He had brought his assistant with him, who nodded thanks to Sebastian for the both of them.
"I need to use the restroom," said Judas.
"It's to your left, sir," Sebastian said politely. "And when you're ready to go to the main room, you take the stairs to your ri—"
"I know where to go," Judas interrupted.
So, this is where Heero Yuy lives nowadays,Judas thought, walking down the hallways lined with oriental rugs. Impressive. Pitiful, as well.
"Mr. DiAndretti?"
"Yes, David?" Judas answered his assistant without turning around.
"What do you suppose we do now?"
Judas whirled around, eyes darting back and forth to see if anyone was remotely close by. Seeing no one, he grabbed his assistant by the collar, shaking him violently.
"Do you realize that if there had been people around—"
"But there aren't, Mr. DiAndretti! I looked!" His assistant's eyes were full of fear, the way Judas liked them to be. Judas released David's collar, straightening his own attire.
"Listen, I want you to go downstairs while I figure out just what the hell I'm going to do about that fucking gypsy in there who thinks he's a goddam artist. When I come down, I need you there to tell me what the hell's going on." His eyes began to shine, a smile forming on his lips. "I, however, need to look my best as I denounce our favorite artist."
Nodding, David made his way down the stairs while Judas, sneering, opened the door to the powder room.
"Your career is finished, Mr. Yuy," Judas smirked to himself.
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Trowa's eyes were wide, his ears disbelieving what he had just heard. He's going to ruin Heero,thought Trowa. Just like he wrecked Heero's teacher. Trowa's head began to throb with the many different thoughts that seemed to pulse in his skull. His eyes darted around in the darkness for a tangible solution.
His eyes rested on Catherine's throwing knives.
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His paintings were brought out, all from his studio. They were also all covered by thin white sheets, some of the bolder color showing through the whiteness of the sheet. Heero's head felt light due to the amount of alcohol he'd taken in that night. He managed to smile coyly as each of his paintings of Trowa were revealed to the public.
Milliardo sat by Heero's side, taking careful glances at the slightly drunken man next to him. He viewed the first portrait of who he assumed to be Trowa. Indeed the boy was beautiful, his green eyes captivating. His skin was flawless; his own was marred from the
stress the gypsy life had on his body. The boy had a hint of hesitance beyond the dominant smile that graced his face.
Milliardo looked around him, gasps of disbelief and surprise coming from all directions. He looked at Heero for some kind of reaction, and found none. Heero seemed almost indifferent. Quiet.
"This is outrageous!" Milliardo heard. "Disgraceful!"
He looked over at Heero whose face still showed indifference. With his peripheral vision, he noticed a figure who ran out of the room and up the stairs. He got up to follow them.
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Judas stood at the mirror, inspecting his flawless form, when David burst through the door, breathing heavily.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, David?" Judas snapped, straightening his tie. "I told you to wait downstairs, and I would come down there in a minute."
"But, sir, Heero Yuy is embarrassing himself as we speak!" David smiled, knowing the news would please Judas.
Judas raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a smile. "Oh, really?"
"He's added...other paintings to his showcase this evening," David continued. "Ones of a very controversial nature."
"The fucking faggot," Judas spit. "That's what he painted, am I correct? Naked little boys, the goddam dishonorable pervert." He smirked in the mirror. "Go downstairs, I'll join you in a minute. Heero Yuy could use as much deprecation as possible."
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Trowa waited until the one called David descended the stairs before opening the door quietly, a cloak he had used to keep warm during his winters as a gypsy. He peered around the corner to find the door to the powder room closed.
He crept around the corner, hidden in the darkness of the unlit hallway, clutching a knife in his hand so hard that his hand was trembling.
What am I doing?a voice screamed inside his head. You're defending Heero's honor,he answered himself.
He stood at the entrance to the powder room, back against the wall. He tried to control his breathing; it was heavy and hard and labored. He closed his eyes, trying to decide if he wanted to turn back. He didn't.
The door swung open, Trowa coming face to face with the one known as Judas. Judas was handsome—wavy brown hair atop his head, a chiseled jaw and cheekbones, and deep set chocolate eyes. Judas regarded Trowa with a nod before Trowa darted his hand out to punch Judas in the stomach. Judas fell back, clutching the place Trowa had hit.
Trowa jumped onto Judas' body, straddling the man's stomach and holding Judas down. With the pounding adrenaline that ran through his veins like fire, Trowa raised the knife above his head, holding down Judas' body with the other. The last look Judas had on his face before his murder was one of fear—so different from the pride he flaunted.
Trowa sunk the knife deep into Judas' chest, the pressure causing blood to squirt from the wound, splattering across Judas' clothes and Trowa's face. Trowa laid his hand over Judas' mouth as the man began to scream violently, feeling the vibrations and the choke in every scream as he plunged the knife into Judas' body over and over again.
Trowa watched the array of emotions play along Judas' face. There was the fear—then there was confusion, anger, hope, and finally defeat as Judas' eyes rolled back into his skull, body going limp under Trowa's body.
Breathing heavily, Trowa pulled the knife from Judas' body, shaking off the blood from the dirty blade. He remained seated on Judas' body, looking around his surroundings carefully. No one was around, save a table beside him with a vase of roses. On the wall above the table was a mirror, the only witness to the crime.
Slowly, Trowa stood, gazing into the mirror. Blood was splattered across his face, matted in his hair. Filthy blood. The knife was still in his hand, different than it was before; his hand was no longer trembling, his hand stained with blood. He took a rose from the vase, placing it carefully on Judas' body. He turned to return to his room, only to find a figure standing at the stairwell, staring at him.
The stranger's blue eyes appeared to pierce his very soul. He narrowed his eyes in curiosity and fear. It was Milliardo.
-to be continued-