Thanks for all the reviews I have been getting for this story.

Madampeach: "In the past I've read too many stories that don't include all the guys so I didn't figure this fic would be one I would find interesting."

Actually most of my stories include most the GW characters; sometimes it just takes a while before they make an appearance. In this one Milliardo is clearly the main character but Duo and Wufei will keep popping up.

Anonymous: "So if I'm reading this right, Millardo's birthday is June 13th. I getcha"

OMG, I swear I did not even realize that intentionally. I picked those dates purely by chance, but I guess the mind works in mysterious ways :)

__________________________________________________________________________________________

The Portrait

Part 4

"Octavian…Octavian!"

As Milliardo looked up he stood right in front of him, the man from the portrait. He was not in uniform, but wearing a light overcoat over a dark grey cashmere suit, yet there was no doubt that it was him. He smiled softly as he looked at the younger man, his eyes as blue and piercing as in the painting.

"I have been waiting for you, Octavian. It has been a long time."

Milliardo tried to speak; tell the man that his name was not Octavian, but somehow he felt paralyzed and could not even open his mouth. So he just stood there, staring back at the man who seemed to confuse him with someone else.

Suddenly the image before him started to fade like an apparition or mirage; Milliardo woke with a start and somewhat disoriented. He sat up and looked around, slowly recognizing his surroundings and remembering what had happened.

What a dream. The young man swung his legs over the side of the couch and blinked away the last traces of sleepiness. How long have I been sleeping anyway? He briefly gazed at his watch. Wow, almost noon. I'd better get home, get myself a shower and some real sleep before I have to get ready for work again.

When his eyes fell onto the candles on the table Milliardo frowned slightly. He could for the world of it not remember if he blew them out before he fell asleep or not. I guess I must have. The young man shrugged as he rose to his feet and stretched. He picked up the diary that had slipped to the floor while he was sleeping, and for a moment he considered taking it with him and continue to read it at home. But for some reason it didn't feel right and so he changed his mind and set the journal down on the little table, next to his makeshift candle holder before he left the house.

###

Milliardo frowned slightly as he turned off his car. After work he had stopped to grab some coffee and a couple of breakfast burritos, and then without even thinking, he ended up making the short de-tour to Kensington plaza instead of driving directly to his apartment.

"Well, since I'm here already, I might as well go inside," he mumbled to himself as he climbed out of the car and grabbed his breakfast. Juggling a 20 ounce latte and a bag of burritos, while trying to wrestle with the old door-lock, proofed a little difficult, but he somehow managed.

Last night at work is mind kept drifting back to his strange dream, the mysterious painting and most of all the diary entries. Something had bothered him about it, to the point that he almost instinctively came back to this place.

Even today, there would be no way that my father would let Relena go on an overnight trip with some guy she just met a few weeks ago. Oh hell, it wouldn't matter even if she knew the guy all her life. But back then, from what I know about etiquette and social rules, no unmarried woman would accompany a man who wasn't a close relative, without a chaperon. I should have noticed it right away. But I guess I was just so tired I couldn't even think straight.

Milliardo walked into the entertainment room and set his breakfast down on the small table, next to the leather bound diary. He dropped onto the couch with a sigh of relief. His feet felt like lead after a long night at work, and he felt inclined to kick off his shoes, but reminded himself that if he made himself too comfortable he might end up conking out again like the day before.

He reached for the matches to light the candles and it wasn't until he looked up again, that Milliardo noticed something strange. On the wall over the small fireplace, where there was nothing but empty space yesterday, hung now a painting; not just any painting but the portrait of the blue-eyed stranger they had found in the attic.

How… Milliardo's brows knitted. Hmm…I guess the guys came back yesterday after I left, or maybe Relena. Yeah I can see her putting that picture up there. I'll ask her when see her in school tomorrow.

A low growl in the pit of his stomach reminded the young man that he still hadn't touched his breakfast, and he finally unwrapped the first burrito filled with scrambled egg, sausage and cheese and took a big bite. As he reached for his coffee his gaze wandered once more to the portrait over the fireplace. A few thin rays of sunlight that made their way through the window fell onto the picture, painting little streaks of gold into the young man's hair. He looks stunning…and he seems very well aware of it.

His eyes still on the painting, Milliardo's hand searched for his coffee blindly, but somehow he miscalculated and ended up knocking the large paper cup over. Startled the young man reached out, trying to grab the diary before the hot liquid could spill onto it. But before his fingertips even reached the book, it suddenly moved by itself, just far enough to avoid the disaster.

Milliardo froze. Im…Impossible. He swallowed, mouth suddenly gone dry, and raised his hand to rub his eyes, convinced that his mind had played a trick on him just now. How could the book have moved by itself? There had to be some kind of logical explanation. The table is probably tilted and unstable and when I knocked the coffee over it shook and that caused the diary to slide to one side. Yes, that has to be it, the young man told himself. Still, he had trouble keeping his hand from shaking when he slowly reached for the journal.

There was really only one thing he wanted to confirm; the identity of the diary's owner. After a brief moment of hesitation he checked first the front than the back of the book. And sure enough, on the end paper, printed in the same elegant and fluid handwriting as the rest of the journal, was the name Octavian T. Peacecraft.

In my dream he called me Octavian. And since dreams are created by our subconscious, I guess somehow I already knew…

###

Most of the on campus living students used the large cafeteria near the dorms not only as a place to get their meals, but also as a kind of common area to hang out with friends, play games or do homework when the library was too crowded. So it was no coincidence that Milliardo checked the place first when he was looking for Maxwell and Wufei after classes on Monday.

Sure enough, the two freshmen were sitting at a table in the back of the room playing cards with a third guy; Milliardo didn't even remember his name.

Duo looked up when the tall, young man approached and gave him a grin. "Hey, Milliardo, wanna join us?"

With a look at the pile of pennies in the middle of the table the older youth huffed. "Not until you grow up and start playing for real money." He tapped the third kid on the shoulder. "Hey you," he told him as he pulled a ten dollar bill from his pocket. "Get me a Green Tea latte, will you? Get yourself something, too."

"But the coffee shop is all the way down by the library."

"I know. Take your time."

As the young man put down his cards and shuffled off, Milliardo turned one of the empty chairs around, straddled it and rested his crossed arms on the back.

"You know, you could have just told him to 'take a hike' instead of having him run all the way to the coffee shop," Wufei told him.

"Now that would have been rude, wouldn't it? Besides, I really do want that Latte. Say, did you guys go back to the house later on Saturday?"

Duo shook his head. "No, why wouldn't we? But Wufei here did some research…Tell him Wu."

Milliardo looked at the young man curiously. "Oh?!"

"Yeah. That painting, the man we couldn't identify, the library's historic section has some information on him," the Chinese youth explained. "Turns out, he once owned that house. And now hear this; his name was Alexander…Alexander Khushrenada. He was…"

"…my great grandfather's lover." Milliardo completed the sentence. "You see, I have done some research, too."

"Your…great…grandfather?" Duo seemed to have a hard time wrapping his brain around the idea.

"We assumed that the diary we found belonged to my great grandma. But in reality, it was her husband's. I guess that explains why the trunk was kept under lock and key."

"But wait, we got more."

"More?" the blonde echoed.

Duo nodded. "Mister, I don't believe in ghosts, here found another interesting piece of news."

"I still don't believe in ghosts," Wufei huffed with a glare at his friend. "At least not in the way most westerners do; poltergeists, possessions and other superstitions fed by an eager media. However, I do believe in ancestral spirits that occasionally can get lost on their way into the afterlife. In any case, according to old newspaper bits and pieces I found from back then, Commander Alexander Khushrenada; he served indeed in the navy aboard a vessel that escorted merchant ships between Europe and the new world, died on September 21st 1902…"

"That's…the day my great grandparents were married," Milliardo realized.

"Unfortunately I could not find any more information beyond that. The city library might have a larger collection of old newspapers, might be worth checking."

"Do you think…," Duo lowered his voice, "that maybe there really is a ghost in the house? It was HIS house after all. Maybe that's where he died."

Milliardo didn't answer. In his mind he was replaying all the things that had happened since they discovered the portrait in the attic, the diary's lock opening on its own according to Maxwell… the gusts of cold air although all the windows were closed… the painting showing up downstairs and yet Relena and his friends claimed not to have been put it there … and the diary moving apparently on its own… Were those just strange coincidences, or could there possible be more to it? The idea of his spirit haunting the house seems difficult to believe, but maybe Maxwell is right, maybe there are things between Haven and Earth we are not meant to understand.

###

Moments after ringing the doorbell Milliardo could hear the sound of familiar footsteps on the marble flooring, just before Paigan opened the door.

"Master Milliardo," the old man gave him a friendly smile. "It's nice to see you again."

"Nice to see you, too. Is Father home already?" Milliardo asked, but before the butler could answer his father stepped out of the downstairs office, dressed in a dark-gray house-suit, his eyes glued on a stack of letters he was sorting through.

"Who is it, Paigan?"

"It's the young master, Sir."

"Milliardo?!" The other man finally looked up. "Since when do you ring the doorbell?"

"Since I left the keys in my car in the driveway." His son grinned sheepishly.

"Thanks Paigan."

With a silent nod the old man retreated, leaving father and son to talk privately.

"You will be staying for dinner? Your mother is making Beef Stroganoff."

"Ah, that's what smells so good. Yeah, I'll stay." Milliardo nodded. "But first I was wondering if I can use your study for a while?"

"My study?" the older man echoed.

"That's where you keep all the old family records and photo albums, isn't it?"

"Are you looking for something specific?"

"No, not really." Milliardo lied. "It's for a report I am working on for my history class. Since our family has been living here in town for so many generations I thought there might be interesting facts in our genealogy."

"Good idea. There probably are," his father agreed. "Use whatever you need, but make sure to put everything back exactly where you found it. I have started scanning some of those files and photos onto my computer and if they are out of order I won't know where I left off."

"Of course," the young man nodded. "I'll probably use the computer too; email the stuff that I find interesting to myself."

"No problem, but…make sure to say hello to your mother first."

#

"Who is that?"

Milliardo nearly jumped when his sister suddenly leaned over his shoulder to get a better look at the old faded photograph he was holding. He had been so absorbed in what he was doing that he didn't even hear her enter the room. His father's desk was littered with photographs and old documents; marriage licenses, birth and death certificates.

"Geez Lena, are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Sorry," she laughed. "Mom told me to get you. Dinner is ready. What are you doing anyway?"

"Just looking through some old family stuff," her brother replied evasively.

"So, who is the guy in the photo?" she repeated.

"That… is our Great Grandfather Octavian."

"Really? He looks a lot like you."

"Yeah," Milliardo confirmed quietly. "He and I seem to have a few things in common. Tell mom I'll be there in a minute."

#

"So, what is it you are doing; writing a paper on the Peacecrafts?" his mother asked as Milliardo joined the rest of the family at the table.

"No, nothing like that, just some research for a history project," the young man lied.

"And, did you find anything useful?" his father wanted to know. "Thanks Relena." He took a freshly baked roll from the breadbasket before passing it on to his son.

"Yes, I did. A lot of great photos and documents," Milliardo nodded. "I still have to scan a few more, though."

"You know where you might find even more photos, at grandma's old house. She used to keep anything and everything."

The young man looked at his mother with a soft grin. "Yes, so I've noticed. And since you are bringing it up…" His gaze wandered to the other side of the table. "Dad, why do you want to sell that house anyway? I mean, it has been in the family for several generations from what I understand."

"Because it has been standing empty since almost three years now, but I keep paying property taxes on it. Relena made it already clear that she had no intention on living in that part of town after she graduates, and you have your own apartment already."

"The house it closer to school than my apartment, though. I have been there a few times lately and it really isn't a bad place."

"The house is almost a hundred-fifty years old, and it hasn't been maintained very well for the past fifty or so," his father pointed out.

"I know," Milliardo nodded. "But If I'd take the money that I'm spending on rent right now and put it into improvements I could have it fixed up again in no time. I could do most of the stuff myself; I think it would be fun."

His father looked at him, a slight frown on his forehead. "Are you trying to tell us you want to move there?"

"I'm not sure yet, but I'm thinking about it. So, for the time being could you please put the sale on hold?"

"I'll call the realtor first thing tomorrow morning," the older man promised, "but under one condition. I'll have an independent inspector check the house. If there is any structural damage or anything that would proof to costly to fix, the place goes back on the market."

"Fair enough," Milliardo agreed. "Say, Dad, do you know when and how our family bought that house?"

"Not the exact date, no. But I know one of your ancestors inherited it from someone outside the family."

"Great grandfather Octavian, right?"

"Umm, yes. How did you know?"

"Something I came across in my research, but I wasn't sure."

With that the conversation died down and after a few minutes of silence they talked about Relena's upcoming debutant ball and school in general. Finally while they were waiting for dessert to be served the elder Peacecraft looked firmly at his son.

"There is something else I want to talk to you about, Milliardo."

"Yes?" the young man looked at his father questioningly as he reached for his glass of iced tea. "What about?"

"The other day I went to that place you work at. Son, I really don't think that is the right way for you to make money."

Milliardo coughed, nearly choking on his tea, and exchanged a stunned gaze with his sister. "You went where?"

"To that…what is it called…Internet Café? I wouldn't exactly call it a café, though. What exactly is it you do there, sit around and watch people play games where they kill each other over the internet?"

"That's not exactly all people do there." Milliardo breathed a silent sigh of relief as he exchanged another look with Relena who was trying hard not to burst out into laughter. She was the only one in the family who knew that he wasn't working at the café anymore. "Many of them are students who come there to do their homework or research when the campus library computers are occupied."

"That's not exactly the point. I want you to come and work at the office for me. I can be flexible with the hours so that there will be no problems with your class schedule, and I'll pay you more than you will ever make at this …internet place. Besides, it might be a good experience for you to get a look into the family business…"

"Dad!" Milliardo raised his hand to stop him. "Hold it right there. We talked about that before, many many times. Relena is the business major, not me. I have no intention to ever take over the family business."

"Are you just being stubborn or…"

"Alright, alright," his mother finally intervened. "I want to hear no more of that. You know the rules; we don't talk shop at the table. Now let's find something else to talk about, shall we?"

__________________________________________________________________________________________

T.B.C.

Author's Note: