"Mister Yuy, the press is at the door."
Heero stood next to the window, looking down at the street. A crowd gathered around his front door, some with cameras, and he closed his eyes in defeat. A situation like this had never occurred before. For once, he needed someone. And the two most likely people he would turn to were no where to be found.
"Yes, Sebastian, I know." Heero let his fingertips press against the window, leaving oily streaks as his hand returned to his side.
"Shall I let them in?" came Sebastian's experienced, comforting voice.
"I see no reason not to let them in. But keep the visitors to a minimum, please."
Sebastian bowed slightly and sadly as he left the room. Heero stood contemplative. He took a deep breath and prepared himself for the daily onslaught.
/Mr. Yuy, you knew Mr. DiAndretti on a somewhat personal level, did you not?
Mr. Yuy, there are rumors of a rivalry between yourself and the late Mr. DiAndretti, is that correct?
Mr. Yuy, did you have a relationship with Mr. DiAndretti of the same themes as your recent work?
Mr. Yuy, does your recent work reflect your personal life?
Mr. Yuy, are you aware that your actions are questionable by the church?/
Heero sighed and turned to make his way downstairs.
-----
Trowa awoke slowly and softly, not bothering to clear his throat or open his eyes. He felt the warmth of a fire on his face, and the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He was warm...he felt a rough, but comforting blanket over his body, covering him like...like wool. Shifting positions, he realized that he was no longer in Heero's bed, or on the floor.
His eyelashes fluttered open, and his blurred vision prevented him from seeing anything but images with faded edges and warm undertones. He shifted positions again, and bolt of pain shot down his back.
He let out a small gasp of pain; almost simultaneously, a hand was at his shoulder, pushing him gently back onto the bed. Trowa looked for a person, and found only colors, like he was looking through water.
"Lay back," a voice said. It was a beautiful susurration that echoed softly in Trowa's ears.
Everything came back to him at once. The murder of Judas. Running away from Heero. Running away with the man that was once Heero's teacher and mentor. And lover.
Trowa blinked rapidly, begging his eyes to recover from sleep, and he squinted slightly, looking up at Milliardo.
Milliardo's hair fell against his own shoulders, and as he looked down upon the fragile boy, some of his hair brushed against Trowa's bare stomach, causing the muscles to involuntarily quiver. Milliardo sighed and reached for a ribbon to tie back his meddlesome—
"Don't," Trowa said, his voice weak and filled with sleep. Milliardo looked down at Trowa, who looked like he was about to pass out, but the boy gripped his arm that reached for the ribbon, gripped it like a vice. He saw the boy's muscles ripple underneath smooth tan skin and began to think of Heero again.
Milliardo shook his head, more of his hair falling across his shoulders and covering his back like a soft curtain, which was comforting. He smiled slightly. "You're hurt mildly from back at Heero's house. Nothing horrible, just some bruises and sore muscles. Tomorrow, you can start walking around and you'll feel better—"
"How long have I been here?" Trowa said weakly.
"Almost three days," Milliardo replied, the fire beginning to pop and die out.
Trowa cleared his throat, his voice newly determined and desperate at the same time. And I've been asleep?"
"Yes," said Milliardo. "Don't waste your breath. You may need more sleep—"
"I think three days is enough," said Trowa with a little laugh, and he began to sit up, sucking in his breath at the sharp pains in his back and his shoulders.
"Don't, you're not fully—"
"Don't be ridiculous, I'm fine." Trowa pushed Milliardo's hand away and sat up, leaning against the wall and resting his head there as well.
Milliardo watched as muscles moved beneath taut skin and he looked away, instead standing to tend to the fire which was almost completely burnt out. He fed the fire slowly, throwing in one log and watching it long enough until it began to catch fire. Another log was added, and he turned, satisfied with is work.
He looked back at Trowa, whose head rested against the wall, his throat exposed, his adam's apple jutting out, his breath coming in short gasps. Every now and again, he'd pause to lick his lips or keep his mouth from going dry.
Suddenly, Trowa lifted his head from the wall and pulled himself to the edge of the bed, planting his feet on the ground.
"Where is this place?" Trowa asked.
"About thirty kilometers outside of town," Milliardo replied. He begged for Trowa to look at him.
"How is Heero?"
"He is going on trial for the murder of Judas DiAndretti today... however, he's obviously not guilty, considering there were hundreds of witnesses to say that he was downstairs in the ballroom the entire time. However, they will be looking for DiAndretti's murderer for quite some time. He was an established figure of society. So, you're going to have to stay out of the public for awhile."
"I'm always out of the public," said Trowa softly.
They were quiet for some time, listening to the crackle of the fire and the silence the spread between them.
Trowa stood, quickly regretting his decision as he immediately grabbed his shoulder in pain. He sucked in a breath quickly.
"What are you doing?" Milliardo asked.
"I have to go to Heero," said Trowa, as if it were obvious and apparent. He began searching for his shoes, when he realized that he wasn't wearing anything at all in the first place.
He felt his face become very hot, and he grabbed the woolen blanket that once covered him, and wrapped it around his waist. He snuck a glare at Milliardo, only to find the blonde man turned with his back facing Trowa.
"Where are my clothes?" Trowa asked as quietly as possible.
"They're in the bathroom, hanging above the tub. They should be dry by now." Milliardo continued to stare at the fire, refusing to turn around.
"Thank you." Trowa walked to the bathroom, the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, warm from where he had slept in it thoughtlessly and obliviously for the past three nights.
Milliardo continued to look at the fire, his face becoming too hot, and he looked away for second. He found himself looking at the full length mirror that hung from the wall. The mirror had a crack in it, and he used to always joke to himself that it was because he looked in it one too many times.
But just below the crack in the mirror, he gazed upon the beautiful lithe form of Trowa.
Milliardo turned his attentions back to the fire, but his eyes kept adverting towards the mirror in spite of himself, as if begging him to look just a little longer. Trowa had a gypsy's body, muscles that were not apparent at first, but made their appearances subtly and beautifully. Milliardo watched Trowa step into his pants, watched the boy wince as he moved a muscle the wrong way.
Milliardo cleared his throat, eyes snapping back to gaze at biting flames. "I don't think it's a wise choice to go back to Heero now. I—I know that he means a great deal to you, Trowa, but if you showed up, it wouldn't be good for him."
Trowa pulled on the coarse shirt he'd worn for years and had a hole under the sleeve that was now repaired. "What do you mean? If Heero's not doing well, then I should be there for him. It's only what I should do."
"Listen, Heero isn't just in trouble with the law, he's in trouble with the church."
Trowa furrowed his brow, walking slowly into the room where he had remembered passing his shoes. "Why?"
"Because he was a drunken idiot during that party he threw three days ago and decided that he was going to display all of his paintings."
Trowa sat down painfully and used his foot to drag the shoe in front of him. "And..?"
"And that included...paintings that he has done of you."
Trowa stopped in the middle of stepping his foot inside his shoe. "...what kind of paintings?"
"Ones of a controversial nature."
Trowa felt a blush spread across his cheeks rapidly. "He did?"
"Don't see this as a reflection on Heero himself," Milliardo said, turning around quickly, stepping towards the bed. "Do realized that he was under the influence and wasn't really thinking as clear as he normally does—"
"He hasn't been thinking too clearly to begin with," Trowa said softly, hardly a whisper, barely loud enough for Milliardo to hear... but he heard it loud and clear.
"I see," Milliardo said, not wanting to pry. He sat on the bed next to Trowa, hands on his knees. He let out a large sigh. "Heero isn't perfect. Just like you and I aren't. No one is. It just proves how human we are. The decisions we make in life affect who we are, as in our character. Learning mistakes, the decisions we think we regret... that is what makes you human. The learning process, being able to mature. Heero...I don't know what he's learned, who he's learned from, what he's been taught, how he's grown. I talked with him shortly before and I probably know him just as well as you do now. And we both know that's not too much. I can't apologize for Heero's actions. I once could, seeing as I felt that I was his influence in his life, in his work, in the way he lived and loved. But I can say that Heero is confused. That's not to say that his confusion is an excuse. But Heero is confused; he doesn't know what he wants until—"
Milliardo stopped as soon as the boy threw himself at him, the boy's chest against his own, hands grasping his shirt.
"Tro—"
"Don't say anything," Trowa gasped, his chest heaving, tears beginning to form at the sides of his eyes and he didn't know why.
Milliardo didn't say anything, but wrapped his arms tightly around Trowa, who instinctively straddled Milliardo's lap and crossed his legs behind the man's broad back. Trowa didn't know why he felt this way. He felt empty and needed to be whole again. He felt like everything was an intricate puzzle, and that he was just about to finish this puzzle, but there were no more pieces left and there still remained a few holes where pieces had been lost.
Maybe Milliardo was a missing piece to the puzzle.
-----
Catherine's hand shook as she attempted to place the empty glass on the night table, but she couldn't control her hand, the way it was quivering, quaking. Before she could prevent it, it shattered to the floor, in so many pieces that there were so many Catherine's looking up at her.
She looked at herself. She was tired. Obviously drunk. There were red stains on her cheeks from the trail of tears that had run down her cheeks. She never wiped them away. She let them burn.
She began to rock slowly on her bed, her arms wrapped around her legs and her chin resting against her knees. She didn't dare leave the room. There were always people outside...strange people...
/Mr. Yuy, do you believe that your recent work is a bit unnatural?
No, I do not. I paint what I feel I am intrigued to paint.
Are you saying, Mr. Yuy, that your relationship with Miss Catherine is not stable?
This is not a question of my relationship with Miss Catherine.
May we speak to Miss Catherine?
Miss Catherine isn't feeling well. And your visit will not make her any better. Please leave, and let her gain her strength back. The murder has affected us all, especially Miss Catherine./
No, Heero, thought Catherine. The murder hasn't affected me. You have. Trowa has. And now that he's gone, all I have is you. And you're not here either.
Catherine stopped crying, and stopped her gentle rocking. She lay flat on the bed, her head resting against the soft pillow.
You never had pillows, Catherine, something inside of herself said.
Catherine tore the pillow out from under her head and tossed it on the ground.
You never had a bed, Catherine, the voice said again.
Catherine violently threw herself to the floor, some of the glass ripping into her skin. She didn't cry out.
She reached for the liquor on her bedside table and gasped as it fell to the floor, shattering in large chunks of glass as the liquid burst from its broken structure.
Catherine became maniacal. She tried to cup the liquor in her hands, licking it off her fingers. She put her lips to the ground, sucking it from the wooden floor. Her lip split on a piece of glass, and she cried out, bringing her hands to her lips, the salt from her fingers stinging. She cried out again, and pressed her lips together, tasting the blood on her lip.
She looked up at the ceiling, and began to cry again.
- to be continued -
Heero stood next to the window, looking down at the street. A crowd gathered around his front door, some with cameras, and he closed his eyes in defeat. A situation like this had never occurred before. For once, he needed someone. And the two most likely people he would turn to were no where to be found.
"Yes, Sebastian, I know." Heero let his fingertips press against the window, leaving oily streaks as his hand returned to his side.
"Shall I let them in?" came Sebastian's experienced, comforting voice.
"I see no reason not to let them in. But keep the visitors to a minimum, please."
Sebastian bowed slightly and sadly as he left the room. Heero stood contemplative. He took a deep breath and prepared himself for the daily onslaught.
/Mr. Yuy, you knew Mr. DiAndretti on a somewhat personal level, did you not?
Mr. Yuy, there are rumors of a rivalry between yourself and the late Mr. DiAndretti, is that correct?
Mr. Yuy, did you have a relationship with Mr. DiAndretti of the same themes as your recent work?
Mr. Yuy, does your recent work reflect your personal life?
Mr. Yuy, are you aware that your actions are questionable by the church?/
Heero sighed and turned to make his way downstairs.
-----
Trowa awoke slowly and softly, not bothering to clear his throat or open his eyes. He felt the warmth of a fire on his face, and the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He was warm...he felt a rough, but comforting blanket over his body, covering him like...like wool. Shifting positions, he realized that he was no longer in Heero's bed, or on the floor.
His eyelashes fluttered open, and his blurred vision prevented him from seeing anything but images with faded edges and warm undertones. He shifted positions again, and bolt of pain shot down his back.
He let out a small gasp of pain; almost simultaneously, a hand was at his shoulder, pushing him gently back onto the bed. Trowa looked for a person, and found only colors, like he was looking through water.
"Lay back," a voice said. It was a beautiful susurration that echoed softly in Trowa's ears.
Everything came back to him at once. The murder of Judas. Running away from Heero. Running away with the man that was once Heero's teacher and mentor. And lover.
Trowa blinked rapidly, begging his eyes to recover from sleep, and he squinted slightly, looking up at Milliardo.
Milliardo's hair fell against his own shoulders, and as he looked down upon the fragile boy, some of his hair brushed against Trowa's bare stomach, causing the muscles to involuntarily quiver. Milliardo sighed and reached for a ribbon to tie back his meddlesome—
"Don't," Trowa said, his voice weak and filled with sleep. Milliardo looked down at Trowa, who looked like he was about to pass out, but the boy gripped his arm that reached for the ribbon, gripped it like a vice. He saw the boy's muscles ripple underneath smooth tan skin and began to think of Heero again.
Milliardo shook his head, more of his hair falling across his shoulders and covering his back like a soft curtain, which was comforting. He smiled slightly. "You're hurt mildly from back at Heero's house. Nothing horrible, just some bruises and sore muscles. Tomorrow, you can start walking around and you'll feel better—"
"How long have I been here?" Trowa said weakly.
"Almost three days," Milliardo replied, the fire beginning to pop and die out.
Trowa cleared his throat, his voice newly determined and desperate at the same time. And I've been asleep?"
"Yes," said Milliardo. "Don't waste your breath. You may need more sleep—"
"I think three days is enough," said Trowa with a little laugh, and he began to sit up, sucking in his breath at the sharp pains in his back and his shoulders.
"Don't, you're not fully—"
"Don't be ridiculous, I'm fine." Trowa pushed Milliardo's hand away and sat up, leaning against the wall and resting his head there as well.
Milliardo watched as muscles moved beneath taut skin and he looked away, instead standing to tend to the fire which was almost completely burnt out. He fed the fire slowly, throwing in one log and watching it long enough until it began to catch fire. Another log was added, and he turned, satisfied with is work.
He looked back at Trowa, whose head rested against the wall, his throat exposed, his adam's apple jutting out, his breath coming in short gasps. Every now and again, he'd pause to lick his lips or keep his mouth from going dry.
Suddenly, Trowa lifted his head from the wall and pulled himself to the edge of the bed, planting his feet on the ground.
"Where is this place?" Trowa asked.
"About thirty kilometers outside of town," Milliardo replied. He begged for Trowa to look at him.
"How is Heero?"
"He is going on trial for the murder of Judas DiAndretti today... however, he's obviously not guilty, considering there were hundreds of witnesses to say that he was downstairs in the ballroom the entire time. However, they will be looking for DiAndretti's murderer for quite some time. He was an established figure of society. So, you're going to have to stay out of the public for awhile."
"I'm always out of the public," said Trowa softly.
They were quiet for some time, listening to the crackle of the fire and the silence the spread between them.
Trowa stood, quickly regretting his decision as he immediately grabbed his shoulder in pain. He sucked in a breath quickly.
"What are you doing?" Milliardo asked.
"I have to go to Heero," said Trowa, as if it were obvious and apparent. He began searching for his shoes, when he realized that he wasn't wearing anything at all in the first place.
He felt his face become very hot, and he grabbed the woolen blanket that once covered him, and wrapped it around his waist. He snuck a glare at Milliardo, only to find the blonde man turned with his back facing Trowa.
"Where are my clothes?" Trowa asked as quietly as possible.
"They're in the bathroom, hanging above the tub. They should be dry by now." Milliardo continued to stare at the fire, refusing to turn around.
"Thank you." Trowa walked to the bathroom, the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, warm from where he had slept in it thoughtlessly and obliviously for the past three nights.
Milliardo continued to look at the fire, his face becoming too hot, and he looked away for second. He found himself looking at the full length mirror that hung from the wall. The mirror had a crack in it, and he used to always joke to himself that it was because he looked in it one too many times.
But just below the crack in the mirror, he gazed upon the beautiful lithe form of Trowa.
Milliardo turned his attentions back to the fire, but his eyes kept adverting towards the mirror in spite of himself, as if begging him to look just a little longer. Trowa had a gypsy's body, muscles that were not apparent at first, but made their appearances subtly and beautifully. Milliardo watched Trowa step into his pants, watched the boy wince as he moved a muscle the wrong way.
Milliardo cleared his throat, eyes snapping back to gaze at biting flames. "I don't think it's a wise choice to go back to Heero now. I—I know that he means a great deal to you, Trowa, but if you showed up, it wouldn't be good for him."
Trowa pulled on the coarse shirt he'd worn for years and had a hole under the sleeve that was now repaired. "What do you mean? If Heero's not doing well, then I should be there for him. It's only what I should do."
"Listen, Heero isn't just in trouble with the law, he's in trouble with the church."
Trowa furrowed his brow, walking slowly into the room where he had remembered passing his shoes. "Why?"
"Because he was a drunken idiot during that party he threw three days ago and decided that he was going to display all of his paintings."
Trowa sat down painfully and used his foot to drag the shoe in front of him. "And..?"
"And that included...paintings that he has done of you."
Trowa stopped in the middle of stepping his foot inside his shoe. "...what kind of paintings?"
"Ones of a controversial nature."
Trowa felt a blush spread across his cheeks rapidly. "He did?"
"Don't see this as a reflection on Heero himself," Milliardo said, turning around quickly, stepping towards the bed. "Do realized that he was under the influence and wasn't really thinking as clear as he normally does—"
"He hasn't been thinking too clearly to begin with," Trowa said softly, hardly a whisper, barely loud enough for Milliardo to hear... but he heard it loud and clear.
"I see," Milliardo said, not wanting to pry. He sat on the bed next to Trowa, hands on his knees. He let out a large sigh. "Heero isn't perfect. Just like you and I aren't. No one is. It just proves how human we are. The decisions we make in life affect who we are, as in our character. Learning mistakes, the decisions we think we regret... that is what makes you human. The learning process, being able to mature. Heero...I don't know what he's learned, who he's learned from, what he's been taught, how he's grown. I talked with him shortly before and I probably know him just as well as you do now. And we both know that's not too much. I can't apologize for Heero's actions. I once could, seeing as I felt that I was his influence in his life, in his work, in the way he lived and loved. But I can say that Heero is confused. That's not to say that his confusion is an excuse. But Heero is confused; he doesn't know what he wants until—"
Milliardo stopped as soon as the boy threw himself at him, the boy's chest against his own, hands grasping his shirt.
"Tro—"
"Don't say anything," Trowa gasped, his chest heaving, tears beginning to form at the sides of his eyes and he didn't know why.
Milliardo didn't say anything, but wrapped his arms tightly around Trowa, who instinctively straddled Milliardo's lap and crossed his legs behind the man's broad back. Trowa didn't know why he felt this way. He felt empty and needed to be whole again. He felt like everything was an intricate puzzle, and that he was just about to finish this puzzle, but there were no more pieces left and there still remained a few holes where pieces had been lost.
Maybe Milliardo was a missing piece to the puzzle.
-----
Catherine's hand shook as she attempted to place the empty glass on the night table, but she couldn't control her hand, the way it was quivering, quaking. Before she could prevent it, it shattered to the floor, in so many pieces that there were so many Catherine's looking up at her.
She looked at herself. She was tired. Obviously drunk. There were red stains on her cheeks from the trail of tears that had run down her cheeks. She never wiped them away. She let them burn.
She began to rock slowly on her bed, her arms wrapped around her legs and her chin resting against her knees. She didn't dare leave the room. There were always people outside...strange people...
/Mr. Yuy, do you believe that your recent work is a bit unnatural?
No, I do not. I paint what I feel I am intrigued to paint.
Are you saying, Mr. Yuy, that your relationship with Miss Catherine is not stable?
This is not a question of my relationship with Miss Catherine.
May we speak to Miss Catherine?
Miss Catherine isn't feeling well. And your visit will not make her any better. Please leave, and let her gain her strength back. The murder has affected us all, especially Miss Catherine./
No, Heero, thought Catherine. The murder hasn't affected me. You have. Trowa has. And now that he's gone, all I have is you. And you're not here either.
Catherine stopped crying, and stopped her gentle rocking. She lay flat on the bed, her head resting against the soft pillow.
You never had pillows, Catherine, something inside of herself said.
Catherine tore the pillow out from under her head and tossed it on the ground.
You never had a bed, Catherine, the voice said again.
Catherine violently threw herself to the floor, some of the glass ripping into her skin. She didn't cry out.
She reached for the liquor on her bedside table and gasped as it fell to the floor, shattering in large chunks of glass as the liquid burst from its broken structure.
Catherine became maniacal. She tried to cup the liquor in her hands, licking it off her fingers. She put her lips to the ground, sucking it from the wooden floor. Her lip split on a piece of glass, and she cried out, bringing her hands to her lips, the salt from her fingers stinging. She cried out again, and pressed her lips together, tasting the blood on her lip.
She looked up at the ceiling, and began to cry again.
- to be continued -