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"The Bottle Painter"Written By: Kaeru Shisho Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Gundam Wing
or its characters, nor do I make any monetary profit off this story. Rating: NC 17 Warnings: AU, male/male pairings, language Pairings: 1x2 Summary: Heero Yuy’s life as a winery artist takes an abrupt turn when he meets a lowly delivery boy. A/N: My deepest thanks go to the kindness of WaterLily
for painstaking editing and Snowdragon for encouraging me. "The Bottle Painter " Chapter 1 This year's bottle painter was allowing visitors to watch him work over a three-hour period on one afternoon. I signed up first thing because his was the job I wanted to get. Each vineyard had only one, if they were in the exclusive boutique wine competition. I wanted to be that one and only someday. I had been an employee at Barton Vineyards since I was a teenager. Wayward boys were brought in to do chores. Some stayed, like me, if they worked hard enough and showed promise. In the summer months, the boys worked the fields under the tutelage of the permanent workers, men trained to know just which branch to clip. In fall, there was the harvest and all the employees pitched in to haul crates of messy fruit to the crushers, to scrape out the crushers, and haul, haul, haul. Winter was the contest, but that only required the participation of the head wine maker, the bottle painter and Mr. Barton. The rest of us cleaned, burning the trash, scrubbing the place inside and out. Spring was for holidays and extending the vineyards with fresh seedlings, and summer we started all over. We didn't just work; they sent us to school. The bus arrived four days a week to take us to the schools in town. I always sat beside my best friend, even though he was the son of the vineyard owner. Trowa Barton would inherit the vineyard and estate. His cousin, and next closest relative, was a young girl who would inherit "the summer house and beach property." This I knew, because he told me in that off-hand manner of his. None it mattered to us. As boys, we ran through the rows of grapes, vines whipping at our legs, swatting with imaginary swords and laughing. He was a dour boy most of the time, but with me he laughed. Some boys stayed in the fields where their abilities and hearts led them. Others left for further education. I wanted to be a bottle painter. One of my teachers had recommended me for art school, and the Barton family paid for my training. I was very fortunate. Fortunate to have been treated as well as the son of the owner, fortunate to have had my art studies paid for, and fortunate to have been an extremely good painter. I concentrated on becoming the best painter I could be, worked hard, and did not socialize. There was no value in making connections, since I'd never again see any of my classmates. I accounted for every penny of Mr. Barton's gift, making certain that what I spent went toward my education exclusive of all else. He got his money's worth, and I was not a popular student, but I graduated as a very fine painter. I returned from art school ready to paint bottles for contests, only to discover I'd be washing them instead. I would have to wait for an opening, a long wait, because the new bottle painter I was watching was no older than me. And he was very, very good. Chang Wufei-- all the way from the L5 province of China. Before my eyes, a gold and purple dragon took shape, glowing from the dark green glass. Behind him, a shelf lined with matching bottles, showing off his magnificent technique. Gilt claws. Iridescent eyes. Some purple like the one he was painting now and others in a rainbow of hues. I liked the purple-blues best against the green. Bottle green. Trowa had been my first lover and his eyes were the color of the bottles at the Barton winery. Maybe lover was too strong a term. We were just kids discovering sex and our changing bodies. Still, I'd loved him. He was the hot summer sun, dusty sweaty sex, and cooling swims in the streams. He told me I was his only friend and that he loved me. Someday we would run the vineyard and winery together. That sounded good to a fatherless boy like me. It might have even happened that way, had he not met the son of the largest wine distributor company. Even Dekim Barton, his father, the patriarch of the vineyard, approved of the match, and so I lost my best friend and first lover to a turquoise-eyed, blond boy named Quatre Winner. I had to concede, he was a better match than me, and Trowa and I parted friends when he left to study business, and me to study art. I hadn't seen him since then. My chest still ached with the remembrance. "That red would look better with more yellow added to it." I said it before thinking; I couldn't help myself and now I couldn't take it back. I'd corrected THE bottle painter. A pair of dark-as-obsidian eyes riveted on me. "What did you say?" the painter asked, though his expression added, "ignorant boy." He looked as if he'd smelled something rotting. He looked arrogant. "You're missing coral. Look at your collection. There's carrot and ruby but no coral." I must have had a convincing look or tone of voice, because I convinced the bottle painter to put down his brush and look. I could see the back of his head. His hair was long and black pulled back into a tight ponytail. I could see his tension rise as the silk tunic tightened across his shoulders. I finally started to worry about what might happen to me. He could have me thrown out, I supposed, but could he force Mr. Barton to cut me loose? I had insulted him. He could do anything. There was nothing I could do but watch and wait for him to dash my hopes and dreams forever. His head turned and he fixed me with those black eyes. He didn't look pleased at all. "If you think you know so much. You do it!" And he stood, gesturing toward his stool at the table. A thousand things ran through my mind to say, but nothing that would alter the situation. Words were not my strength. I would either show him I knew what I was talking about or that I was a total fool. "Okay." I wouldn't attempt to emulate his style. That would be impertinent. Instead, I used the chosen color and painted full-blown roses, billowing across the glass. I concentrated on keeping my hands from shaking more than anything and pictured what I would paint. I let the image flow from my mind through my arm to my hand. It was my best effort. I was glad to see that I did my best painting under pressure, because if I ever did become a winery bottle painter (and I was bewildered enough at the moment to think I still might have a shot at it) I would have to endure each year's excessive pressure to complete the required hundreds of especially painted, limited edition bottles. "This color fits in between the others," I told him, handing the bottle over. I had the presence of mind not to place it beside his masterpieces. But he did. "You are correct." He surprised me again. "I'm allowed an assistant. You shall be my assistant; otherwise, I shan't complete the requisite order. Say something!" Thank you? "I'd be honored, Master Chang-" "That's one of my dusty old ancestors. I'm Wufei." "I'm Heero." "Yuy, I know. Trowa told me about you." What? "A time-consuming story. Quatre Winner and I... knew each other... intimately. I was part of the nuptial trade package; at least, I believe so." "That's... I'm sorry." We'd both been hurt by a young man I'd never met, and who probably was completely unaware of his role in our lives. I never wanted to meet Quatre Winner who took away my Trowa and cast off the striking Wufei. "I'm not. It's a prized position, bottle painter, as you are aware of. I was lucky." "I know I am; lucky, that is." And then he kissed me and one thing led to another, and I had my second lover. For a few months I walked on air. I was an assistant bottle painter and I had an ardent lover. At the time I felt I could have lived my life that way forever. Wufei was well educated, cultured, and brilliantly intelligent. He smelled of paint and thinner and the exotic incense he burned. Winter made sense. Winter was Wufei. He contrasted sharply to the white sheets and dusting of snow we got that season. His body was completely tanned all over, virtually hairless, and I discovered how much I loved the feel of long silky hair sweeping my belly. But our love didn't have a chance at longevity. The next year, our bottles won the kingdom's highest award for beauty. They were his bottles, and his honor, but he demanded I be acknowledged. That it was the Just thing to do. And it brought us to the notice of Zechs Merquise, head of White Fang Winery, Barton Winery's chief competitor. Mr. Barton didn't need two esteemed bottle painters. He could not, Merquise told him, afford two. He, Merquise, proposed to buy out one of our contracts. To my surprise, agreed to this, but only if Wufei or I accepted the deal. We weren't slaves to be bargained over. Since I was considered the most disposable, with the least binding contract, I was interviewed first. Naturally, I turned him down. I didn't want to leave the only place I'd ever called home, or Wufei. I'd rather be an assistant and remain where I was than to become elevated to the job I'd dreamed about and leave. Wufei left. I was old enough to understand his reasoning; it was a great opportunity to elevate his position, but it left me heartbroken. I'd made my choice and he, his. He explained that there was more to the exchange; he would be a bottle painter and the lover to a prince-a prince. I forgave him, but it hurt. I would advance to become a bottle painter, but also, he hadn't pointed out, the rejected lover. At the time, I felt the poorer. I had the job I'd always wanted now, elevated from assistant to master the day Wufei left. I demonstrated respectful gratefulness, but couldn't explain to Mr. Barton why I wasn't outwardly a great deal happier. I took a holiday. I stayed in my room for the spring, coming out only to eat every so often. When I had the thought to return to painting, I couldn't look at a bottle. I walked in the sun and soaked up the outdoors for inspiration. I thought about Trowa and Wufei and wondered how much pain a person could take-- a heart could take, and decided it wasn't much more for me. I wouldn't look for love. I'd paint my heart out. So, I started painting. That was my black rose period. By the end of spring, I'd run out of black and then red and then blue paint. Yellow was sunny and bright and so I dabbled in that. Soon, I had new colors and more paint, and I was entranced with water. Sun sparkling off water. Summer also turned into my sparkle period. With the regress of summer, came the time to prepare for the contest. I ordered bottles. The painting and wine competition would be sometime in winter and it was time to begin my first solo limited edition. My dream come true; and I never felt so discontented with how my life had turned out. Oh, I loved my studio that smelled faintly of musty wine barrels and paint. The old wood floors held an odd fascination for me-- scrubbed and waxed, splattered with a history of the artists before me, warmed by the sunlight coming through a wall of windows running waist-to-ceiling high, and a moving shadow...? "Um, hey? Ah, where do ya want me to put these?" It was my bottle order. Stacks of boxes on a cart and a young man staring at me expectantly. "Okay, you got me," he went on to say before I could answer. "I'm new here and don't know the high road from the highway, so don't yell at me. Just give me the directions to the, ah, bottle painter studio." "I'm the bottle painter and this is my studio. You can unload the boxes onto the shelves." "I found it on the first try? Gimme a high five!" I would have, had I known what he wanted, or at least the denomination. "I haven't any money on me. Don't you get paid here?" His blank expression and mine crossed in the air, comingled, and cancelled one another out. "Um, I'll just put the boxes on the shelves," he said with a weary shake of his head. "The bottles go there. Take them out of the boxes, line them up on the shelves two deep, and take away the empty boxes." He nodded and proceeded to carry out my command. "Gotcha. So, you paint these? They look green already." "I decorate them." "What's the point in painting bottles? You're only going to drink out of them and throw them away." "You're an ignorant idiot. You've never heard of the limited edition bottle competition?" This he found hilarious, although, I failed to see why. He had a bottle in each hand and danced about in circle cackling. "It's neck in neck. No, Green Bottle inches into the lead. Oooh, Other Green Bottle rams Green Bottle, sending its cork down its throat. I guess that answers the age old question as to the inferiority of synthetic over premium cork material, but argues the point for screw caps." "It's not that kind of competition." "Oh?" "It's both an art and wine contest. The winners are judged on the basis of the quality and beauty of both the bottle and its contents." "No shit? You're serious? You ARE, aren't you?" "Very. It's my job. It was my sole aim in life, to become this winery's bottle painter. I shared an award for my work last year." "Oh, yeah? You gonna win this year, too?" "Probably not." "Well, not with that attitude, you're not." "Idiot! You have no right to say that to me! You don't know anything!" I just exploded. All that anger at the world I'd pent up just came ripping out of my mouth. He staggered back a couple steps, but didn't yell back. "Yeah, you're right. I don't. Like I said, I'm new here. I should keep my stupid comments to myself. Sorry, man." He set the two racing bottles on the shelf and leaned down for more. "I'll just finish up here like you asked." And as quickly as the anger hit, it faded, and I was left with that hollow feeling I'd had before-that, and a handsome young man unpacking my order of wine bottles. "It that real?" He scowled at me. "Is what real? My ass? 'Cause, if you mean my ass the answer is 'yes'. It is mine, all mine. If, however, you mean--?" "Shut up, will you!" At the mention of 'ass' my eyes' line-of-sight slid south to the called upon anatomical location, but because he turned, what he caught me staring at was his crotch. His jeans set off all his assets perfectly. "I meant this," I said, cradling his braid in my hand, and was only made aware of that when he tugged at it. I had no idea how I had moved that fast. "Let go," he demanded. The hair came free and he whipped the rope over his shoulders. "And yes it is real. Real hair. Real long hair I keep hygienically out of the way in a braid, not that it's any business of yours. Geez, I'll never get this done at this rate and I gotta ton of corks-and a ton of corks is a hell of a lotta corks I can tell ya-a ton to sort 'cause they come unsorted and the long ones fit the tall thin bottles and the shorter ones are for the dessert wines and the in-between ones-" "I KNOW." "Oh, yeah, sure ya do. Sorry 'bout that." "You talk a lot." "Sometimes, when I got someone to talk to, and lately I haven't 'cause I don't know nobody here, except the old geezer, Howard, who's in charge of the trucking. You know him? Flowered shirts? He got me this job, in fact." I stopped him with a question. "Where did you come from?" "The city. Yeah, what's a city boy like me doing out here in the country, you ask? Well, it's a long story, but for you I'll cut it short." "Your hair-or your story?" I smiled so he'd know I was joking. Sadly, I failed to convey that message clearly, because he still grabbed the braided rope and wrapped in around his hand. "Story. Not cutting this off. Not by choice, anyway. Maybe to save my life." "You were going to tell me your story?" "Oh, yeah. That. I have no family, the streets had gotten to be really dangerous, and I needed a job. I also needed a place to sleep and Howard's truck was perfect." "Not perfect or you wouldn't be here," I pointed out. "Perfect for a day and then he caught me and we got to talking and he said I could pay for my sleeping place by unloading the truck and he brought me here and got me a job at the loading dock. " "And you sleep in his truck?" This thought interested me and alarmed me, but mostly sparked my interest. That could be a fun adventure. Who knew where you'd be when you awoke in the morning? I hadn't had a lot of fun or adventures in my life. "I was happy to, but the folks here put me up with the other workers." "Oh, that's too bad." "No," he assured me, which made me even more curious about his previous living conditions. "I get my own bed and food and pay! It's all dormitory style, but the other guys aren't perverts or anything so I feel safe, not that I'm not into guys, but I like to pick and choose, if you know what I mean." He was gay, is what it meant to me. I nodded. "--This one guy snores like a train and another jerks off to the rhythm, but I'm on the far side of the room, top bunk." It sounded terrible to me, but I'd always had a private room. I think I'd scared the other boys when I was younger. I may have pulled a gun on them. I remember it being taken away from me, but not how I'd gotten it in the first place. Trowa had let me borrow his when we'd go shooting rats in the vineyard. "You're a real sharpshooter. The best," he'd told me, and I still treasured his complement. "--So, it's all good, but only if I get my work done and I'm taking way too much time here." "Go then. Leave that last box." "Really? That would be cool. I could-" "Go! I can un-box the rest." "You da boss! I'd come by for the empty box later." He paused at the door and quipped over his shoulder, "Maybe when we get to know each other better I'll tell you more." And suddenly my studio seemed larger and quieter than ever before. I didn't even know his name. He was just my size and weight and, I guessed, age. He had no family, just like me. He was from the city. And had lived in a truck. What did he look like? I studied things, examining things to paint and yet what could I recall of his face? Brown hair, bangs shading his eyes so I couldn't see the color but they weren't brown. Something gold glinted around his neck. A chain? Big mouth. With nice lips. Erase that. Smart mouthed and quick but not educated like Wufei. Wary but not introverted like Trowa. The guy with the braid was unlike any other man I'd met. I shouldn't be interested; he was just a dock jockey and probably wouldn't last out the month, but I dreamed about him that night anyway. I woke up before dawn panting after having been nearly strangled by my sheet, which had been yards of hair in my dream. I had a novel idea for my bottle painting and ran to the studio to get the image onto glass while it was fresh in my mind. I had been thinking of the art nouveau period, a head turned away with long hair, tendrils hanging free, some coiling and taking on a life of their own, intertwining with flowers. I could vary the flower colors and keep it simple to produce different versions. Was the head a man's or a woman's? I made it impossible to tell, but most people would think it was a woman. Only I would know it was not. After two trial bottles, I had fixed the features and knew exactly how it would have to be composed to balance exactly right. The fifth was nearly like the fourth, only one flower had been added and another angled just a bit lower. The sixth was a duplicate of the fifth and the seventh and eighth color changes only. I felt confident I had a winning design. A beauty executed beautifully. Maybe Mr. Barton would audaciously bottle a Beaujolais Nouveau to play up the art? Probably not. No one ever won with a short lived wine. A bold red. Gypsy. I felt a smile tug at the corners of my mouth. Yes, Gypsy would be an appropriate labeling. I decided to suggest that. Wouldn't do any harm to try. I arranged the painted bottles on the window sill to dry, filling the space, casting the room in a green glow. Later, they would get a protective finish and be sent on to have their labels attached and eventually be filled and corked. But before I got too far along in my daydream, I planned take the best example to Mr. Barton and pitch my idea. After the paint dried. In the meantime, I absolutely had to find out who that young man had been. His name. At once. Before he found a lover and took off like the others. Erase that. I located the dormitories, but they were empty, naturally, since everyone was at work. Next, I tried the loading area. The trucks were gone, so I suspected he, whoever he was, would be out making his deliveries. Where would that be? The Winery. There were clarifiers, chemicals, tools, any number of things they'd use. The bottling plant? He had been busy with corks. A hasty perimeter search proved devoid of braided workers. The vineyard sheds stored herbicides and pesticides and fertilizer and... he could be just about any place within a five mile radius of where I was standing. That wasn't so bad. I could cover that area in no time at all, especially if I started with the most likely, and closest, locations first and circled out from there. I nearly passed him. He was eating dinner. I should have thought of that except that I hadn't eaten regularly for some time. Suddenly, I was starving. Meals were produced in a central location and served cafeteria-style, except in the grand manor where the Barton family lived. I'd dined there on occasion with Trowa and once with Wufei after our win. I preferred the comfortable informality of the refectory. More of the polished oak gleamed from the floors, walls and tables. If it hadn't been for the high ceilings and exposed rafters, it would have felt like the inside of a wine barrel. "Hey! Meatloaf with mashed potatoes and gravy night. See if they've set out more cobbler. It was scraping bottom when I went through." Taking orders from a delivery boy was not appropriate for the bottle painter, but no one seemed to pay us any attention, so I ignored him and took up a tray. I chose fried chicken and green beans, maybe just to deny him the satisfaction of having any power over my choices then took the seat across from him at the table. "Chicken? It's pretty good, but I had it last night. No dessert yet?" "I wouldn't know. I don't eat dessert." Why was I so mad at him? Oh, yes. He didn't treat me like the important person I was. No one had bothered to tell him, probably. "By the way, you can't go and order me around. It's not done. I'm the-" "Bottle dude. Yeah, you told me. Sorry. I thought maybe we were buds." Buds, as in buddies. That sounded nice. Had I ever had a buddy? Trowa had called me his friend and we shared good times, but we were socially mismatched. Not buddies. And in no way were Wufei and I 'buds'. I'd had sex partners, but not 'buds'. It had been Trowa and Wufei who had made the first move, I recalled. I shouldn't expect this delivery boy to do that. It was all up to me, if I wanted to move forward. "We can be friends." I hoped. "You think, mister?" He loaded up a fork with meat and potatoes and waved it at me. "You've made it perfectly clear where we stand. I'm trash and you reign supreme. My friends treat me as an equal." His fork rang as it hit the plate. "On second thought-" He was on his feet. "See you 'round." "But you haven't finished eating!" "Lost my appetite." "Please, sit down. And later... I-I want to show you the new design for my bottles." His eyes narrowed under a luxuriant fringe of dark lashes, but not before I noticed the glint of color-- blue with the hint of purple like the sky just before a sunset. "That's the lousiest pickup line I've ever heard." "It's not a line-" "I know! Geez, you probably just painted some bottles and mean to show them off, right?" "That's what I said." "You're about as funny as a hole in a lifeboat, you know that?" He insulted me. I wanted him to apologize. Say he was sorry and then sit back and eat and then follow me to my room. I had had no experience to deal with a man like him. He crammed more food in his mouth and folded the rest of the meat in his dinner roll, but didn't sit. I guess he chewed. He washed it down with the last of his grape juice. "Gotta go. Two hours more work then I'm off for the night." With a wink he was dashing for the door. "Wait!" I called after his receding back. But he was out of hearing and I was left feeling frustrated. I hadn't even learned his name. I'd failed to do even that much.
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