"Yestermark"

Written By: Asymphototropic

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam wing.

Author: Asymphototropic (attracted toward the light, but never quite arrives there)

Email: asymphototropic@aol.com

Rating: NC 17

Warnings: extreme Asyness

Summary: Mingling of possibilities occurs at this vortex source. Don't leave home without your Ticket firmly in your fist. Else you may never return.

Pairings: 1x2 other GW characters may appear upon progression

 

"Yestermark "

Part 6.

Heero thought for just a moment he heard the doctor's voice replying in the darkly sparkling void.

"Jay?" Heero called out eagerly.

"The pale one is Zechs Merquise. And the other is Treize Khushrenada. Try hard to ignore them, and especially, neglect whatever they say to you. They will contaminate your mind if you let them. And they have their own agenda which is not necessarily ours. You must concentrate on your search for the boy. I'm relying on you. Don't let me down, there's a good lad."

"Just tell me if you're alive," Heero pleaded.

"Tsk, tut, Heero Yuy. And you, a seasoned Ticketeer? Time is infinitely infinite in every direction. How can I die?"

Yuy groaned.

It took a few moments of gradually settling vertigo before he felt capable of glancing at his surroundings. He found himself at the back of a large crowd.

Why did he feel an almost painful surety that he would discover Duo Maxwell at the front of it?

Choosing the flank, where the throng was thinner, he wedged himself between bodies until he could catch a glimpse of the attraction. There was a wheeled wooden platform representing a stage. Behind it flapped gaudily painted dropcloths, serving to suggest settings, and shielding the backstage proceedings from view. Upon the cart-stage was a lively scene. It seemed to him some sort of Punch and Judy story. But instead of puppets, there were actors wearing masks. He noticed with interest that the female parts were played by women, who's faces were painted, not masked, in contrast to the men.

The audience was uproarious, laughing and jeering, making lewd suggestions, urging misbehavior onto the story's characters.

When the lazzi players appeared, suddenly interrupting the stage tale, the mob called its vociferous approval.

There were two young actors, both dressed in bright motley costumes. The first character was a beautiful green eyed boy with a mop of auburn hair. The boy stopped the elderly miser, Pantalone by name, just in time to prevent the old man from discovering his daughter, Rosaura, kissing her illicit lover.

The boy, bent upon distracting the miser away from the lovers, turned the most amazing flips and back handsprings, meanwhile juggling. Every once in a while, he twirled a wooden baton, and used it resoundingly to slap the old man's buttocks, without Pantalone being able to catch him in the act of assault.

Meanwhile, the second lazzi character had Yuy's attention transfixed by his long brandy colored braid, which hung seductively down the boy's lean back. This pretty clown kept picking Pantalone's pockets. Several large and unlikely household items came out of the old man's clothing, smoothly purloined by the clever pickpocket. Each of these ridiculous items got tossed to the first boy, to be incorporated into the cloud of objects being juggled.

Finally the braided boy stole a bulging purse full of coins. This he kissed loudly before hiding it in the blouse of his jester's costume. Then the juggler, without interrupting his catches, tossed each of the silly household items back to his partner. The pickpocket proceeded to smoothly replace each into the miser's attire. When at last the old man finally perceived the pickpocket's presence, and turned to apprehend him, the boy did an elegant handstand and slapped Pantalone's outraged face with the sole of his slippered foot. Then he uprighted himself gracefully and scampered offstage. This seemed the juggler's cue for an exit in the opposite direction, which he performed by walking out on his hands.

The audience clamored its hearty approval of this performance.

Yuy marveled at how the two boys could appear simultaneously angelic and rapscallion. He felt utterly charmed by them.

Their departure left him the opportunity to study the audience as he wove his way through it.

The women were clad in multicolored velvets and brocades, with plenty of lace, ribbons, thin veils and jewels, their hair revealed in elaborate coifs. Long flowing robes ended at their ankles, the absence of trailing trains allowing them to walk without collecting the abundant dirt churned up by the crowd. The men wore patterned fabrics in doublets and hose. Yuy felt the setting resembled the early Italian Renaissance, but was unwilling to hypothesize an actual date and geography, considering how haphazard were the Lines of his recent Ticketed Travels.

Covertly, he approached the backstage area, where the two young men were changing out of their costumes.

"I vow, Trowa, the old man was tipsy again," Duo chortled to the juggler.

"I vow, the old man is perpetually drunk and debauched," Trowa retorted.

"How am I to pick his pockets smooth, when he be staggering about? Let alone placing my dainty foot upon his face without beheading the fellow, or in the least, blackening his eye?"

"You should cease complaint. And pay you instead more attendance to your juggler's catches. I nearly brained you with the flying candlestick."

"Well, at the least, thank the gods, it were not a flaming candle."

"I've juggled flaming tapers. Tis a mob roarer, surely. Though a strong storm gust ruins the stunt, accompanied by a seasonal shower of rotten eggs and such like."

"Trowa, you do slay me, verily," Duo chuckled. He grasped the other's willowy neck, and pulled the boy over for a sweet kiss upon the lips.

"Ahem," Heero interrupted. "Do you know me?"

"Ahem. Should I like to?" Duo grinned in response. "Nay, stranger art thou to me. But kiss me, churl, and we become fast friends."

Heero instantly kissed him with a great slurping noise. Blushing, Duo wiped away the drool with the back of his hand.

"Lovelies!" came a deep baritone voice.

"Maestro," Trowa replied.

The newcomer seemed balanced exactly in the middle of life, at the prime of his virility, a handsome figure. He had tumultuous curling brown hair, glittering intelligent hazel eyes, a strong aquiline nose. A powerful jawline came somewhat incongruously into a dimpled chin. The sensuous lips were ever poised upon a good natured guffaw. His mellifluous voice seemed to tease over every phrase.

"Delicious my cherubim. You promised to pose for me, recall?"

"Was it supper and a coin?" Trowa demanded wryly.

"Apiece?" Duo added, rubbing his hands together in a parody of miserly Pantalone.

"Oh, aye, my robber baron brats. Supper and a coin apiece. But only bring your exotic friend as well, lest he yearn tragically for your company."

"An he like it, he may come," Duo shrugged agreement.

They stalked down the middle of the streets, those portions being the least littered with nightsoil and flung garbage. But they had hastily, repeatedly to dart aside at the sound of horses' pounding hooves, joining the free pigs and poultry in temporary stampede to avoid being trampled.

The inside of the artist's domicile surprised Yuy by the lowness of its ceilings, and the darkness of its rooms. The maestro, being a tallish fellow, had to stoop to pass through his doorways.

But his high studio had two bright windows, affording the man enough natural light for his life's work. Unfinished paintings hung upon every wall, and stood upon more than one easel. Stacks of sketches littered every table and chair surface. He had scarcely entered his studio when paint smudges appeared upon his fingers, as if an extreme affinity existed between the pigments and the man.

"Work while there is light, my delectables. Supper is already ordered, most sumptuously."

Meanwhile he placed a stool for Yuy's perching.

The artist drew off his outer tunic, rolled his under sleeves above his elbows. Then turned his attention back to the two actors.

Who had meanwhile stripped to their breechclouts.

Heero licked his lips.

Duo winked at him.

The maestro posed his subjects, a dozen different stances in as many minutes, greedily devouring their features, again and again. The boys' bodies were well worth the staring, and as hors d'oeuvres, promised a delicious supper to follow. Heero sat patiently upon his rather uncomfortable chair. But otherwise, he did not mind the passing of time in this occupation.

Even more enthralling than the models, was the artist's mastery of his depiction. He seemed to behold the boys with a dissecting analysis that eviscerated them, layer by layer, and then reassembled them. Yet his drawing and painting seemed to pulse and breathe lively. And the presentations were extraordinarily affectionate, as if the artist's fingers had caressed his subjects.

Heero found himself craving ownership of a drawing or painting of Duo.

The maestro seemed to read his mind, handing him a quick daub, that nevertheless was a brilliant likeness of the boy. Heero held it carefully to dry, and as soon as possible, placed it inside his shirt for safekeeping.

Much to his disappointment, Trowa and Duo dressed for dinner. There was heady lambrusco to drink. Vast crusty loaves of fresh bread. Dewy slabs of white cheese and butter. Pasta and fish and roasted fowl. Followed by little sweet pastries for dessert.

As Duo was licking honey from his fingertips, the maestro grabbed the boy and cuddled him onto his lap. "You will make a brilliant angel, my love. Centuries later, people will view your image and weep for desperate longing of you."

Heero wondered if the artist weren't a little tipsy. His own head felt slightly abuzz from the drinking of wine, with no other beverage apparently available to quench a huge thirst.

Trowa was smiling gently at him. When Heero nodded in return, the graceful boy drew nearer, and draped his arm across Yuy's shoulders.

Suddenly, a clatter came from the street door, and thundering footsteps up the narrow dark stairs. A burly man flung himself into the room, grasped a carafe of wine, and drank directly from it, a huge draught. "Sandro," he commenced speaking.

"Giovanni," the artist nodded jovially. "My big brother," he explained in an aside to Heero.

"The Brimstone Abbot. He is at it again. Cannot you hear the chaos from the streets?"

"Oh, ah, now that you mention it, yes. Before this, I mistook it for the braying of donkeys at the local stable."

Giovanni roared with laughter at his brother's drollery. But then grew sober. "There is a great conflagration, terrible in its scope. A huge bonfire. The mob has lit it, and has amassed around it. They sway, they chant, they scream and cry. They gnash their teeth and tear their hair. Tis a ghastly sight." And the large man drank another vast swallow from the wine decanter. "Oh my, that's better."

"And whatever is that to me?" Sandro sneered, hugging Duo to him.

"They call for the vanities, see you? Sinful objects all, so they say. We are to purge the city, thereby saving it from imminent disaster. Else the Lord's wrath descendeth upon us in horrible punishments. Plagues, pestilence, war."

"Like that of the priestly orders, with their perpetual virulent word jousting, for instance?" the maestro chuckled wryly.

"One supposes, they mean other plagues than that," Giovanni laughed again. "But seriously, my little brother. Citizens are burning their most prized possessions. Books, musical instruments, jewelry. The ladies. Ha, the ladies. They tear off their silken robes and cast them upon the flames. And then they dance naked, in a religious fervor. Tis quite a sight, that." The big man nudged Heero with a meaty elbow, nearly knocking the boy from his chair, with the vastness of his humor. "Think you the good Mother smiles on such views?" he wondered, somber for the fleeting moment.

"I possess me no vanities," Sandro declared. "Only truthful beauty."

"Nay, but we must sacrifice."

"Bah. Why should we?"

"I fear me, brother, that the crowd may come to your door. And then they might burn all the paintings. All your lovely pretty pictures. Instead of only just the one."

"That would be a great sin, in truth!" Trowa proclaimed angrily.

"Thank you lad, a million thanks," Sandro smiled fondly at his model. "Well then, we must choose the one who dies, that the others might live." The artist set Duo gently upright, and then wandered about his studio, gazing upon the paintings.

"Greatest saints! Not the Venus," Giovanni protested, suddenly leaping up to join his brother, staring fixedly at a gloriously glowing nude.

"Ha. I have made love to milady before, many's the time. And I shall kiss her again, of a surety. Besides, this one smirks a bit too freely. Sometimes, I think she mocks me somewhat." And so saying, the maestro cut the painting from its frame and rolled it into a careful scroll.

He turned and kissed Duo softly on the boy's downy cheek. "Wait here, my dears, where it is safe. Who knows, but the crowd next may take to casting virgins upon the flames, in their crazed idiocy. Vanities, indeed. Fuck the vanities."

The two brothers thundered down the stairs, and out into the night of conflagration.

"I want to go watch," Duo declared, eyes dancing wickedly.

"You want to go pick pockets," Trowa retorted.

"Nay. I shall refrain. In case the mad Abbot doth have the Saints' attention upon him. Come along, the both of you," Duo urged. "There be naked ladies, dancing in the streets."

It took no stronger argument than that, and the three were off, following upon the trail of the maestro and his brother.

The streets were lined with pedestrians, shouting and running, crying out excitedly. The ugly light of the bonfire could be seen from quite a distance, and even the heat could be felt from afar. As the boys neared the raucous gathering, the emotional turmoil itself seemed palpable.

At last they drew within view of the wicked flames that snarled and snapped, devouring enlightenment and beauty.

The encircling crowd proved a fearsome sight, a huge mass of humanity, for the most part crazed with religiosity. They stood shoulder to shoulder, swaying and crying in some sort of terrified agony. All manner of madness was there, praying and moaning before the flames. Women who had indeed torn their clothes off, though they seemed more pitiable than attractive in their moaning fits.

Men in contortions of rage, frothing at the mouth like rabid dogs. Holding within their power the wit and wisdom of ages, handed down, generation by generation. They rent the pages from their books, tossing the pathetic scraps to swirl and dance before rising into the night, painful cindered souls of knowledge, destroyed.

And over it all, the mad Abbot, shrieking furious invectives against the sinners and their worldly treasures.

The whole scene seemed far closer to a hellish than a heavenly view, to Heero's perception.

Duo stood, stricken with a sudden dismay, as he watched parents drag their tearful children up to the front of the mob. There, they forced the sobbing youngsters to cast their pretty little painted toys, ragdolls and carved horses into the fire. "Gods. Why did I come here?" he muttered to himself, and turned away from the churning insanity.

Trowa put a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder, meanwhile grabbing Heero's arm and pulling on it, urging them both to walk away. "I fear me, tis truly not a safe place just now," he explained softly into Yuy's ear. "If they burn the comedic books, may not they follow up by casting the jesters themselves upon the fire?"

Heero nodded his understanding of this very real fear, and they hastened away from the place.

"Strike a little light, coz, for the road homeward," Duo suggested, pulling a small candle from his doublet. "Though perhaps we are better off in the dark, considering the source of fuel we have witnessed this night," he added ruefully.

Trowa struck his flint, to light the taper, and Heero thought the wick burned strangely blue above Duo's fist. They continued onward, the flickering flame trembling upon their way. The further they drew from the ugly bonfire, the quieter and darker were the streets, until the very shadows seemed to menace them. Trowa and Heero huddled closer to Duo, and they hurried their pace.

Sudden confrontation.

"I see you have found him again," Merquise commented.

Heero's first foolish thought was how good the man looked in doublet and hose. And Treize, in a black velvet cloak and broad plumed hat. Better not get that anywhere near the bonfire crowd, Yuy told himself, else it be burned for a vanity.

Khushrenada pointed and fired. Duo, captured in blue flames, disintegrated.

Trowa threw himself at the assassins, but they had disappeared as well.

He turned a reproachful stare on Heero, just as his comrade felt the encroaching Vortex.

This time Yuy did not even bother to rant against his fate.

~ * ~

 

Chapter 7

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