I'm SO sorry it took so long to get this up! I promise tomorrow or Friday to put up the next one. It's just like, everytime I tried to upload for like the last 2 weeks it kept giving me an error message. I was so pissed off. But now here is chapter 7 and 8 will be here soon!I promise!
The next afternoon Trowa entered the coffee shop and saw Hilde sitting by the window. She was probably on break, so he figured he'd sit with her. "Hey Hilde."
"Hey Trowa, Quatre," she replied without looking. Trowa bit his lip. When she didn't hear Quatre's response she turned around. "Where's Quatre? You guys always come in together."
"I think he's teaching a lesson," Trowa fibbed. Hilde knew he was lying, but knew it was not her place to ask.
"I want to apologize to you Trowa."
"For what?"
"Catherine never responded to my email. When I called the people on the other end said she had moved out. I guess it was her… your stepmother. She must've just changed her email when she left. You must have been feeling so… well not so great," Hilde explained.
"Actually, that makes me feel a little better. At least that means she doesn't know. I was under the impression she didn't want to speak to me any more," Trowa said.
"I know if she knew you were here, she'd be here as soon as she could. She talked about you a lot."
"How did you meet her?"
"I went to school in L.A. for about a year before I decided to go here. She was teaching a self defense class. We got to talking and hanging out after class. She had a picture of you two in her room. She told me you were a great artist. She found your mom finally and asked where you were going to school and she said a lot of horrible things about you. But I know Catherine really cares about you. We stopped talking as much when I came to New York, but she knows where I'm staying. So hopefully, she'll come visit me, and you two can have a reunion."
"At least I'll have that back on the list of good things," Trowa muttered.
"What's going on Trowa? You seem so sad."
"Just feeling a little lonely."
"I know what that feels like. Everything is just so hectic. I don't really have time to go out or even see my brother. I have to keep my grades up or I lose my scholarship and I won't be able to go to school. It's a lot of work… You should be glad you have natural talent, I've got to work at everything to look good."
"Sometimes talent is a curse," Trowa said softly. Hilde put a hand on his shoulder and sighed.
"How about I get us some hot chocolate to drown away our misery, huh? On me," Hilde suggested. Trowa nodded. Next time he would have to buy her a drink, a real one. She was someone he knew he could confide in if needed, and he was thankful she was there. Hilde was really one of his only friends, and they barely knew each other. It made him feel even worse.
"Thank you," he whispered, sipping the hot drink. He spent the next two weeks coming to visit her, making small talk. It wasn't until the next Saturday morning rolled around that she brought up Quatre. He was upset that Quatre still had not called him. He thought he might have done or said something wrong, but all he could do was wait. He didn't want to drive Quatre any farther away.
"You know, Quatre hasn't been here all week. Did you two have a fight or something?" Hilde asked. Two blonde girls were seated at a table by the counter since he'd come in. Trowa sat in a chair next to the counter, glancing over at them occasionally. One of the girls looked curiously at them. The other stared at Trowa.
"I don't know what happened. We were irritating each other or something," Trowa said quietly so the girls could not hear. The first blonde stood and walked to the counter.
"I couldn't help but hear you mention Quatre. Quatre Winner?" she asked.
"Well, who are you?" Hilde asked defensively.
"I'm Dorothy Catalonia, me and my friend Relena and friends of his family. We were told he was staying in New York, but we haven't been able to catch him," she replied.
"Why are you looking for him?" Trowa asked.
"Haven't you seen the paper?" Dorothy asked, putting it on the counter. 'Winner Enterprise names 4 heirs.' "He's not one of those four. We were just wondering what happened. If him and his father got in a fight about…"
"About what?" Hilde asked. Relena got up and joined them.
"Well the last party we attended at the Winner house, my brother made some advances on him. We thought that maybe his father found out he likes boys," Relena whispered.
"Well he hasn't been in all week. If you hang around here, you're bound to run into him," Hilde replied.
"You look very familiar to me. I can't remember from where, but…" Relena said as she continued to stare at Trowa.
"I don't believe I know anyone rich aside from Quatre. And apparently he's not going to be that rich from here on out," Trowa replied snidely.
"Aren't you an artist?" Dorothy asked. Trowa was losing his patience. It seemed like this was all rehearsed. Something about Relena did seem very familiar though…
"Yeah, that's it! Your picture was in the paper a few years ago. Mr. Winner bought one of your pieces for 5 million dollars," Relena said. Trowa swallowed hard. He put a hand on his chest as he remembered the bloody mess of 'Of Despair.' "What was your name again?"
"Trowa Barton," he replied. He was feeling dizzy. He was feeling hot. He needed to get out of here and go to the apartment. He started to feel angry and betrayed, and he needed to paint. "I've got to go Hilde," he said, standing and pushing past the two girls. The world was spinning outside. He felt like he was losing it. He could even swear he saw him across the street. He started running back to the apartment. If he had been paying more attention he'd have noticed that Dorothy following him.
He screamed once inside his room. He pulled open the closet and pulled out the three canvases there. He set up the easel and the paints and could not stop. He painted one of Quatre in all red and pink hues, bleeding, dying. Paint was falling and staining the floor, his clothes, but he could feel nothing. He cringed as he felt his skin being caressed by Zechs.
"I wish I could take you home with me," he whispered.
"I want you to be mine," he whispered.
"I want to drive you crazy," he whispered.
He painted Quatre's smooth back, arms bound behind them. He was kneeling, looking back at him with shame. He painted the wooden floor beneath him and the sun fading in the background.
"Would you like it if I tied you up?" he asked, already holding Trowa's hands behind his back. "I know it would turn me on…"
"Please don't tease me anymore," Trowa begged.
"You're intoxicating you know. I think I'd rather feel your nails on my back," Zechs whispered, flipping him over. He pressed into Trowa, making him whimper. He pulled his nails up Zechs' back, arching up. He did whatever he wanted, and all he asked in return was to capture him eternally in the pencils, pastels, clay, paint. If he were bolder, he would ask him to spend the lonely nights with him…
Trowa finished the third, breathing heavy. He pulled off his dirty shirt and dropped the paintbrush and the paints to the ground. He shook and backed away. He had not painted Quatre at all… He was on the canvases, hair hiding his face which was pointed down. His cut was open and bleeding. The knife was on the floor beside him and his hand was shown, reaching with blood to touch something that was not before him anymore. He was captured finally on the canvas as he had been caught by Wufei all those years ago. He made it to the bathroom and turned the hot water on. He sunk to the ground as the water burned him, scalded his skin as he tried to wash away the paint that seemed like blood to him.
Had he cut himself again? He shook violently again as he started to cry. He touched his scar but the paint or blood from his hands just smeared the substance on his chest. He needed to get to the phone and call Wufei, or Quatre. Quatre was only a few floors away. Or was he? Maybe he wanted time off so he could be with someone else. Relena's brother that was the guy he'd fooled around with and it would make sense for them to be seeing each other. It wasn't like he had made any moves on Quatre, and he was a beautiful boy.
He thought things were starting to make sense. Quatre had obviously known who he was, his father had his painting. He wasn't sure as to Quatre's true motives anymore. Everything was blurring together in a bad way. He didn't want to believe Quatre was against him. He would have to go find out, now, before he either bled to death or had a panic attack.
He still had on his pants though they were soaked. He grabbed Quatre's key and shakily made it to the elevator. When it got to 21 and the doors opened people gasped at him. They asked if he was ok but he was deaf to their voices. He made it down to 2121 and banged on the door. He felt weak suddenly, like his legs were about to give out. A blonde opened the door, but it was not Quatre, it was Dorothy.
"Oh my god! Are you alright?" she yelled. She moved back quickly and Trowa fell into the room. He erased her from his existence. Quatre ran over to him, leaning him up off the ground.
"Are you bleeding Trowa! What did you do!" Quatre cried out frantically.
"I don't know! That's not the point! You knew me! Didn't you?" Trowa yelled, resting in the blonde's arms.
"Dorothy get some towels and warm water. Find something in the medicine cabinet!" he cried. His vision blurred as tears fell. He held his heart and started breathing erratically. His heart hurt, as though it were trying to rip its way out of his chest. "What happened Trowa? Why didn't you call me!"
"You're not answering me!" Trowa yelled. His eyes fluttered for a few minutes until tears made them moist.
"Trowa, please, tell me what happened. I'll tell you anything you want to know later!" Quatre pleaded. He wiped at Trowa's chest unable to tell where the wound was. "I'm so sorry Trowa!"
"I don't know! I just, I was painting! And I… I don't know what happened. I tried to wash it off but it just won't come off!" Trowa said varying between near whispers and shouting. Dorothy helped Quatre try to clean him up.
"He's not bleeding Quatre. It's just paint," Dorothy whispered putting a worried hand over her face.
"I think you should go. We can talk tomorrow. You've got my number just call. Tell Relena and Milliardo I'm sorry I wasn't able to see them," Quatre replied. Trowa's eyes finally closed and he calmed down.
"It's a shame really; they're only in town today. I'm… sorry for your friend…" she said, going to grab her pocketbook. "I'll give you a call tomorrow then."
"Goodbye Dorothy," Quatre said softly as she closed the door behind her. He picked Trowa up and walked to the bathroom. He detached the showerhead and turned the water on warm. He soaped up Trowa's body and washed away all the traces of the paint from his chest and arms. He ran his fingertips along the length of the scar. His hand was shaking when it lifted from his skin so he balled it into a fist. He could see the image of the knife and the blood and all the suffering inside of Trowa that had caused this… "I guess it's only fair to tell you now…"
"No, I… I didn't mean to accuse you. I… I went crazy again… I thought I saw Zechs, and then that girl was with Relena in the coffee shop. They said they knew me; your father bought my painting. I just didn't know what to think," Trowa mumbled.
"Fuck," Quatre cursed. He never really liked Dorothy. She was always scheming. He should've known she had something to do with this. "You have a right to know, and it's been 5 months since we started this relationship. It's about time I think, for you to understand my reasons…"
"Are you sure?" Trowa asked with a sad expression. He was so weak and drained. He was so vulnerable. Quatre was ashamed of himself. He was every bit responsible as Dorothy and whoever else was involved in this.
"My father bought your painting, 'Of Despair,' while in California on business. He had actually bought it under the impression that I would appreciate the powerful emotion in it. He hung it in the hall my bedroom was in. As I passed it I felt a severe pain come over me, I needed to go to the hospital because my heart wouldn't stop racing and I almost passed out. I could see nothing but blood.
When I got home I would spend a few minutes staring at it when I passed it in the hall. My father told me you were an up and coming artist and he expected to see many more masterpieces like that one from you. He was disappointed to learn you were not painting any longer. I knew that at some point in my life I wanted to help Trowa, to know what had driven him to paint with blood.
Then I started going to school in New York. I made friends with a girl named Hilde and I watched a quiet, sad boy who frequented the same shop. I wondered what made him so sad, and why he seemed so familiar to me. I actually grew attracted to the boy in the shop. Hilde told me that boy's name was Trowa, but that didn't really mean anything. It wasn't until later that night, when she called and told me you were Trowa Barton, and that you wanted me to model for you that I confirmed it. You turned out to be the person I wanted to help since I was 18. That is why I so readily accepted working with you.
And there's something else I need to tell you, even if it ruins everything," Quatre explained.
"Tell me," Trowa whispered after a few minutes of contemplating.
"I'm falling in love with you Trowa. I wanted to take a break so that I didn't do something I would regret. It was getting hard not to touch you and I didn't want to drive you away," Quatre confessed.
"That's why you haven't called?" Trowa asked. Quatre nodded.
"Every time I picked up the phone I couldn't dial. I didn't think I was being fair to you," Quatre began. Trowa sat up and pulled Quatre's face close to his.
"I need you Quatre. I don't know why, but when you're not with me, I don't feel anything," Trowa said. He pressed his lips gently to Quatre's. "I need your warmth and your love to help me. I need your touch even if my body refuses it my mind is begging you."
"If that's what you want," Quatre whispered, pressing his lips to Trowa again. "I'll go get you some dry clothes and you can sleep here tonight. I don't think I want you to be alone."
"I don't remember if I even closed the door…" Trowa said absently.
"I'll be right back." Quatre went down to Trowa's apartment, which was closed but not locked. He saw the traces of red all over the apartment. When he got in the bedroom he saw the paint all over the floor, and the three paintings. He looked at the two on the floor, one of Trowa in red and pink, he could feel pain from this one. Then the one of Trowa with his back turned, with rope on his hands. He could feel the desire exuding from that one. When he saw the one still on the easel he felt like he might need to go to the hospital. The gash was opened on Trowa's chest, and he was reaching out to paint with the blood. His heart started racing and he fell backward onto the bed. He couldn't take his eyes off it.
"I should've warned you," Trowa said stepping into his vision. He put his hand on Quatre's heart. "I should clean all this up so it doesn't stain too bad…"
"Your paintings, they're so powerful. There's so much depth and detail in them, so much feeling," Quatre murmured.
"When I was doing 'Of Despair' I can't even remember getting the knife. I remember being very calm and I remember putting the knife to my collar bone, but then I just remember the pain. I put my hand to my chest and started using it. I felt dizzy and then Wufei came in. He did what he could to stop to bleeding and bandaged me up. I refused to go to the hospital and get put in some asylum," Trowa explained. "Today when I was painting, I thought I was painting you. When I finished the last one I suddenly saw what I had really done. I thought maybe I had gotten a knife or a razor and cut myself again because I had so much red paint on me. It brought me back to that moment I painted, to seeing my hands full of blood…"
"They say the most brilliant people are the most eccentric. I think it's only paint that takes you over the edge. It brings you to an extreme emotion, and helps you put it on a canvas. It's usually when you're heading toward the peak of emotion that you start to paint isn't it?" Quatre proposed. Trowa thought about it for a few minutes. "It's why you don't start painting anything. You start with pencils and pastels, then water colors, then probably an assortment of materials, before you even touch paint. You're building up the emotion toward your subject until you're passionate enough about it."
"I… I never thought about that. I guess in my mind I thought I was trying to perfect my subjects before I painted them. I feel that when I paint on the canvas it's very permanent. It's not something that can be fixed or redone or erased. It is whatever it comes out to be and I want to make sure I can make it perfect," Trowa explained looking at the canvas. But as he thought about it, Quatre's logic also made sense. "Do you think Zechs left me because my painting was driving me crazy?"
"I don't think that at all. I couldn't give you an alternative reason though. I would assume that most of the emotion going into your paintings of Zechs was passion. And from what you've told me, he seemed pretty eager to have sex, so I can't see where that would've been a problem," Quatre answered. Trowa blushed.
"I wish I knew," Trowa said despondently.
"Do you still love him?" Quatre asked. Trowa turned to face him slowly.
"I don't think you could call it love. There's a part of me that will never let him go, he stole something from me. It's like something I'm taking from you when I draw you, it's undefined, you can't take it physically. It's a mind game I suppose. You lure the innocent spirit and soul out of a person on to paper. Zechs found a way to take it back and use it against me…" Trowa tried to explain.
"So I'm no longer a mental virgin?" Quatre joked. Trowa cracked a smile.
"I haven't painted you yet, so you're still safe. It doesn't really matter much, unless you plan on modeling for someone else," Trowa said. "But somehow, I don't think I could steal that glow you give off," he said caressing Quatre's face. "Let's get this place cleaned up and I'll change and we can go let Hilde know I'm alright. They scrubbed the paint off the floors, and luckily it didn't stain badly. Quatre was sure they could hire someone to refinish the floors and get the color out.
"Good thing you don't have much carpet," Quatre kidded. Trowa stared at the paintings.
"I don't know what to do with them… I don't think I'll sell the last one; it's a little too personal. Do you know where we could take the other ones?" Trowa asked.
"Actually, Dorothy came to invite me to an art show. She said they're collecting pieces from people living in the city. It's a shot at fame and fortune for most of the snobs who think they can paint. They're likely to be judged and then sold to the highest bidder. Would you be comfortable doing that?"
"Only if you'll let me paint you."
"Just one for now," Quatre said. Trowa nodded. "I assume we'll have to buy more canvas?"
"Yeah, I used the last of them."
"We'll go after we see Hilde."