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"Greeting Cards"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: Yaoi, funeral practices, AU, fluff Pairings: 1+4, 1x2x1, 3+H, 5xH, 3x4, 6x9 Summary: Each chapter is based on Heero’s
greeting cards and Duo's mortuary. "Greeting Cards " Chapter 2 -- Catch my Heart, part 2 I was sorry to have to shutdown my computer at three AM, but the performance utilities were lining up, screaming for a chance at the CPU. When I balanced FLASH, Photoshop, Word, and fifty other processes for ten hours or more, either I or my laptop would require a break. I knew everyone else would be asleep, which meant it was safe for me to go downstairs and rummage for food. I was saving up. Saving up my need to eat, my energy reserves, my money, all that. Saving all I earned for a place in the country where I could work surrounded by something not urban. Where I could be inspired by something not man made. Where I could share a quiet moment or two with a lover. It was my dream to have some purpose and have someone love me and make the world a better place in some small way. I realize I'm very repetitive. When something works I use it until it breaks, even when it doesn't work. Relena claims I could bend steel with my bare hands. Hardly, it would snap in two first. She says all the time, "Branch out and try new things, Heero." I do, but it only shows up in my work. I design greeting cards. Artsy ones. Very pretentious ones. I also do freelance illustrative work that's art, creative and thought-provoking. I also artfully fight off the advances of the most eligible female in all Sanc. God knows why Relena likes me. Well, I saved her life once. A thief pulled a gun on her and I took it out of his hands and brained him. Knee jerk reaction. If I'd let him shoot her, then I'd be floundering on my own. Not so bad, maybe. Oh, I didn't have to take the free room and board she offered, but it was easier than arguing. And she was nice. Is still nice. She believes my artistic sensibilities make me the way I am. "Heero, you are so aloof," Relena says. I am gay, not aloof! Not that she believes that. I felt good about the latest run of cards for St. Patrick's Day. I'd completed them all and loaded up a DVD to take to the printers the next day, which was here already. The new cards would be processed, paired with matching envelopes, already supplied, and on the shelves of the cutting edge gift shops by Tuesday afternoon. Everything was carefully timed. I dealt exclusively with the one printer, and they never let me down. I made them tons of money, too. I could pull up the figures and calculate the exact amount when I wanted to. I planned to work some today, but I'd take Sunday off. Sunday I would take a stroll through town. I would get my best ideas on Sunday, and carried a notebook with me at all times to record them. I sketched pictures and jotted notes. I had filled two notebooks with pictures of the man with the long braid since January. It doesn't matter. Notebooks are cheap. Under a dollar when I buy them in bulk. Monday, I'd finish the spring line of on-line greeting cards. Having completed most of the dime store varieties months ago, left me time now to concentrate my efforts on those few "one of a kinds" for the specialty market. I already had a couple ideas for new April Fools' Day cards. Bunch of baby bunnies running around—"the man promised me the clearance ones were all boy rabbits!" Heteros like to flaunt their reproductively. I knew I wouldn't see the braided boy at coffee shop on Sunday, but I'd go there anyway. He took that day off and wouldn't need the coffee. I liked to people watch there and went every day of the week. People liked to buy cards about their coffee-drinking habits, too. "Heero, you should get out more and meet people," Relena frequently told me. Well, I did; at least, I saw people. I wasn't a total recluse, just picky and I'd picked the man with the long braid. So, I had my plan. Sunday, I'd people watch. Saturday, tomorrow which was already today, I would catch up on my sleep, personally deliver the DVD of cards to my printer, and color that special card, a St. Patrick's Day card, for the braided one-- and add the inscription. Brilliant, arching rainbow leading to a pot of gold - "Feeling lucky?" No, too obviously lame. Brilliant, arching rainbow leading to a pot of gold - "Can you find my heart of gold?" Better. Brilliant, arching rainbow leading to a pot of gold - "Can you win my heart of gold?" That would do for now. I would leave room to add something else, when I thought of it. The Valentine had been my best effort. I'd put my heart into that one. He would have loved it and seen me, had I not lost it. I wonder what happened to it all the time now. (o) The next morning, when I awoke, I did my usual and in three action-packed moments I was out the door, on the bus, and on my way to my coffee stop. Saturday morning and I had the place to myself. Didn't anyone else have to get up but the one lone coffee jockey and me? Didn't seem like it. Even the gloomy artist, who sat in the back seat like he had reserved seating looking mysterious and oh so sexy, never showed up on Saturday mornings. Opening a funeral home in the morning was an ordeal, mostly because I made it that way with my security and precautionary measures adding on the most time. First thing I did when I bought the building (thanks Howard, I'll never be able to repay ya,) was to install a refrigerated, concrete vault in the basement to store bodies in caskets overnight. For one reason, I wanted to be safe in case a fire ever broke out. Each night, the casket and contents were safely secured in the basement in the vault by me or my intern. And speaking of interns and assistants, I was currently one short, having fired the last one for doing drug trades at the back door—asshole. Anyway, the bodies in the vault added to my morning routine. When I opened, I had to go down to get the body and bring it up to the viewing chapel. Also, any other remains stayed in the vault until time for the funeral. The security and cold protected against all sorts of things besides just fire, like deterioration, but primarily, it protected against desecration of the bodies. How likely is that to happen? You wouldn't believe how often folks just go berserk. See, when someone dies, it's safe to say there's going to be someone who's upset. A family member could be distressed with the person for dying or offended 'cause the dead guy failed to mention to them they were going to die in the first place. Then there are the folks feeling wrongly left out of a will. All of these situations can have another person lashing out at a body. It's crazy, I know, but I've seen it all-- from someone stealing jewelry off of fingers, to cutting keepsake locks of hair, to knocking a casket off the stand. When I got into the business, one thing I decided was not to cut corners where it counted. A lot of funeral homes do. I planned long and hard and was really fortunate to get the loan I needed from a guy that charged me near to no interest for the first couple years (I owe ya Howard). When I had my place built, I designed a chapel which everyone thought would be too big. It might be for the average circumstances, but I've had viewings where upwards of two thousand people showed up in my chapel. It's a common situation in smaller towns where everyone knows everyone or where a favorite teacher or a well liked businessman passes and many folks wish to pay their respects—but it could happen here, too, and Sanc was a really big city-state. As I said, when I had mine built, the understanding was that there would be a line out the front door of the home and down the street around the block, and out past L2 if need be to accommodate the visitors. And I can tell you, if you've ever done that in the driving rain, during a white-out blizzard, or under a blistering hot sun, then you understand what I'm saying and can appreciate the benefits of a big chapel. I have done it all and I have one hell of a kick-ass, non-denominational to boot, chapel. Personally, if you asked me what I prefer, I'd tell you there won't be a viewing or a service for my remains. Quite honestly, I think a lot of people's last memories of a person is that person resting in the casket. I'd prefer someone's final memory of me to be of me in life enjoying my moments with them. That's why there won't be a funeral. Cremation and send my ashes into the sea. Getting off that subject, this was Saturday and the funerals on today's docket were going to have meager attendance. My two o'clock wouldn't even be interred. She was a state mental home client who passed. In this instance, her body had been donated to science for medical purposes. When the dissection or surgical practices had been completed, they had sent the body to me for "fixing up." So today a simple viewing was scheduled. Afterwards, the body would be cremated and placed in a small lot reserved for those interments. The reason I was here so early was because I had a funeral first thing. It would be small, but I imagined there would be some people attending. Sadly, the matron had outlived all her family and most of her friends. When the last goes, the only mourners were folks who might have known the person and the "hobbyists." That's what we call the people who feel it's their duty to honor anyone who died, whether they knew them or not. They just show up spontaneously and attend randomly. Weird, huh? Needless to say, my day was short. I was home way before four that afternoon, which gave me time to pick up the place, make some cherry flavored jell-o, and do the laundry before Hilde's visit. (o) Quatre and I agreed to an informal-type date, so I wore black Dockers and a blue pullover sweater, which would match his eyes, if I recalled the color properly. I figured I'd be early if I left now, but since I had nothing else to do and had no idea what parking might be like around there on a Sunday, I snagged my keys and wallet and danced out the door—literally. I think it was a two-step. I'd be damned if that cool looking tea drinker wasn't there guzzling his endless supply of brew and writing in his little notebook. For the love of God he lived there. I swear! What I needed now was a film crew to descend upon us. The director late, muttering under his breath in a diatribe against the traffic, the weather, and the lack of proper ambiance. He would specialize in black-and-white mood films. The story... an examination of Dante's Inferno. It opens with an introspective on the newest, Ninth Circle, depicted here as the bottomless cup, whose sole occupant wore loose black sweaters over white t-shirts and for whom "bad hair day" was first named. Now for a camera close-up on the eyes. OhmyGod! They matched my sweater. They were beaming in on my sweater. Now on me! He was staring at me! Then, we were interupted. "Duo! Hi, I'm Quatre. This is real, isn't it? The braid?" One tug on the braid and I was spinning in a circle and shoving the "tugger" down on a table. I may be short and slender, but I'm strong. Try moving dead bodies for a living and you'll see how weight lifting pales in comparison. "Eeek! Sorry?" he squealed, but he did release the braid so he could hold up his hands open-palmed by his face in about as non-threatening a submissive gesture as I could imagine. I was sorry, too, but, man, don't ever yank on my braid. I gave him a no-hard-feelings hand up and brushed the crumbs off his back. I heard a strange gurgling sound and looked up in time to catch Mr. Bottomless Cup chuckling in his dark little corner window seat. Okay, so the director just wanted to misdirect the film from noir to comedy, or something weird. While his crew was helping itself to coffee and doughnuts, the film was going down, sucked beneath the earth, sinking down, down. Dear God! The sweater was all wrong. My date's eyes were turquoise, big, HUGE, and staring at me, while the sweater was cobalt blue. The sweater-matching eyes from the other side of the room were almond-shaped, an odd combination that would make the guy memorable even if the rest of him faded into oblivion. I saw his expression alter, which, for a moment, I thought was an open invitation. Then he looked down to contemplate the scribbles on a page of his notebook. Change of script? "What was that?" Quatre asked. Had I been rambling aloud? "You want to change you shirt, Quat? There's a stain forming--." He didn't reply to this, relegating my remark to the conversational quicksand in which I was generally sunk, as he dabbed at the spot with a napkin. "Okaay... I'll bet you didn't want to rinse your hair in coffee dregs right off the bat, right? Sorry about the reflexes. Ah, can I buy you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?" "Or me?" Quatre said then he laughed. "No, thanks. I just got off work, remember? I've seen enough of food and drink for awhile. Can we go someplace else?" "Sure, ah—" Quatre surprised me with a sweet kiss on the cheek. He wasn't all that shy, after all. It would have been okay, had we not been out in public in my regular place. I didn't like scenes. I made them, but I didn't like them, and here's why. For some reason, I looked over at the window seat just in time to catch that pair of sharp, blue eyes whip around at me quick enough to cut. "—Ah, so where to? Museum? You like art?" I asked. I was throwing up words like a shield before me. In a voice a little bit louder than I would have use, my date replied, "I may be gay, but I'm not that stereotypical! How about we go bowling?" "Bowling? (gag) Oh, okay. I'm not very good, I gotta warn ya." "That's okay. I'll teach you all the moves." Yes, he said that. Aloud. In public. In my regular place. I tried to say something smooth and move quickly and invisibly to the door, but the leading man with the only script and the deadly, cobalt-blue eyes were wrestling me to the mat. And then over into the quicksand. Thunk, suck. Next thing I knew, Quatre was wheeling me out the door in a triumphant arm-in-arm kind of waltz. Luckily, my car was parked right there. We hopped in. "Is this a hearse?" he asked me. "Yes. Yes, it is," I told him, because that was what I drove. "So, where's a bowling alley?" (o) At least I had one burning question answered—well, two. The man I was attracted to-- the man with the astonishingly long braid-- was named Duo. As a sidebar, he was gay. Also, I believe I witnessed his first meeting of a new date prospect, and fuck if he wasn't hot, too. If I hadn't lost my Valentine's card, it would have been Duo leaving with me instead. We would have understood the import of my message, fallen in love instantly, and asked me out. We would have visited the museum and after that, if he was interested, I'd have taken him for target practice. Or the zoo. Or to the computer store to shop for a new external hard drive. Whatever he wanted. I lost interest in my day off after he exited with his date, so I returned to the Peacecraft's palace to listen to music and think. Relena blocked my progress at the anteroom. "Heero, you're home early. Come in here. Dorothy's here and we need another for bridge." I agreed, if only to distract my mind from the vision of the man named Quatre kissing my beautiful, woven-haired Duo. (o) "Yes, Hil, I had a good time. We had a good time together, once I got my head together." "He was that distracting, eh?" "Well, kinda, but there was this other guy, a regular at the coffee shop. He was there watching." "So, you and Quat were that entertaining?" Okay, I didn't want to answer that for any number reasons. First, Quatre "outted" me to my place, entertaining staff and patrons alike. Second, I can't remember. Third, I wasn't about to tell my buddy how distracted I'd been by the presence of the arty guy with the killer eyes. "What do you mean by 'killer eyes'?" Oh, damn. Talking in my head and aloud at the same time again. "I don't know. I had this feeling we were being filmed." "What has that to do with his eyes?" "Ah, nothing much. I said I didn't know!" "Uh, huh. And who is this guy? Anyone I might know?" "Just some guy. An artist or poet or something. He's just a guy I see all the time at the coffee shop, that's all." "With 'killer eyes'. You say he was part of some film crew?" "I don't know, do I?" Now I'd made her mad, I could tell, but, damn, I was stuck. "That guy laid his exotic eyes on me and I went crazy. There. I said it." "When you say 'film', this isn't another Infernal Inferno nightmare, is it? What is it with you and that book?" "You gotta be kidding? You ever read about the Circle Seven? He lumps sodomers right up there with murders and bandits!" "Duo, honey, we've been over this before. Dante's inclusion of sodomy--understood here as sexual relations between males but not necessarily homosexuality in terms of sexual orientation--was consistent with strong theological and legal declarations in the Middle Ages condemning such activities for being 'contrary to nature.' Still, and this is the important part, it obvious wasn't 'contrary to nature' because it's stood the test of time. And we all know how nature cuts the weak out so the strong can carry on. It was natural for those dudes as it is for men like you today, and we know it was a widespread practice because in Dante's day, male-male relations were common despite the denunciations. Penalties, including confiscation of property and even capital punishment, didn't stop the practice." I had to laugh. "You just can't fuck with nature." "That's right. Although the poet met with Brunetto in hell, the Dante-character and Brunetto showed great affection and respect for one another during their encounters." "Who knows how far that went?" "Not me. Now, that we're done examining your inner brain cavity, it's back to discussing your day. So, you were waiting for that drool-worthy, blond bombshell for your first date, and you get off on this other guy? Are you insane?" "Oooh, not so loud! Man, jeesh! Quatre was there. Remember? He "outted" me when he kissed me and grabbed my hand and towed me out the door. 'Course, I was stuck in quicksand at the time so he had to." "What is it with you? Feast or famine. No boyfriend then you're beset with two!" "Hilde, Hilde, Hilde," I said in a sing-song manner. "Not two, not even one. Quatre and I had a nice time, but it's too soon for the boyfriend honorific, and as far as the artist dude is concerned... I think he's homophobic, if the death glare he gave me subsequent to the kiss thing was any indication." "Oh." "Yeah, oh." "So, what did you and Quatre do?" "Bowled. He golfs, too. Shit rich with a membership in a country club." "No!" "Yes!" "And he's working at Chili's? No!" "Okay, his family's loaded and he's really a great guy trying to earn his way into the real world. He's liable to quit as soon as he gets a paid TA position at the university. We had a good time. Shared some laughs. I think we meshed pretty good. He wants more than a fast fuck and values friendship, so at least there's some potential. We're meeting for drinks after my work and his classes this week, and then we'll take it from there." "Oh, so it's got possibilities?" "Yeah. He's intelligent, independent, and I can envision getting hot and heavy with him in the future." "But Mr. Killer Eyes made you lose your mind with just a look." Don't remind me. "Yeah, well. I don't wanna lose any body parts so you can lose that look of yours and forget me pursuing a fag-hater." "Putting a new spin on the "killer" part of his eyes. Okay, enough of you," Hilde said. After that we discussed her upcoming date with Trowa and her latest hospital gossip. I had a busy week with a pile up of work, so I signed off early and caught up on my sleep. I cleared my mind of blonde bombshells and exotic-eyed artists, kicked out the film crew and their manic director, swept my mind clean of all sexy males and their attendant posses. Thus vacated, my brain shut down and let me rest. (o) Duo's visits to the coffee shop were short-lived all week long. This was nothing new. He dashed in, ordered, and, with his whipped-cream-topped cup in hand, he dashed out. His usual activity, except he added a little gesture on leaving Monday morning. It was like a salute with two fingers held stiff and straight, clipping his right eyebrow. Quick and sharp and directed at me. And then he skipped out the door. In this way we connected, however briefly, and this was difficult to explain, because he never got my Valentine card and we'd only crossed paths, so to speak, by accident the day before. But connect we did. Tuesday, I returned his salute with one of my own. I'd given this a great deal of consideration overnight and came up with a unique move. I tapped my forehead with my mechanical pencil. This was both manly and friendly. It was also different from his and yet evocative of my penchant for writing at the table. I'm certain he noticed and appreciated the trouble I'd gone to for him, because he cast me a smile. He smiled and looked a little surprised and pleased at this stepping up of our game. We greeted one another with our special signals again on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. I never once saw him that week with Quatre, or any other person, man or woman. Our connection made, I wondered if the new card I'd created for him would even be necessary? I decided I'd take the next day off to celebrate my little victory. I would begin with tea then at nine, when the museum opened, I would visit the new exhibit of over 1,400 glass paperweights spanning all periods, designs, and techniques. Should Duo wish to go in the future, I'd be happy to see it again, I was sure. (o) "Hey, Hil! You okay?" "Yeah, just tired. Friday ... long week... It's after midnight. Tired, you know?" "Tired? You? It's not that late; was the date a flop?" "No, not really. Trowa's a very nice guy, it's just... he's so quiet." "Well, you're not. That should work out." "Yeah, I guess it did at that. He took me to dinner and a movie after that. It was fun. He's not crazy about his job at the hospital. Lab work is so repetitive and exacting." She sighed into the phone so I could hear it. "He's got this sexy voice. I wish he'd use it more." "Hey, don't worry. You had a good time, right? Some guys have a hard time talking to girls, at first, until they get comfortable. And you knew he was introverted to start with." "You're right. I don't know why I'm so blah. Hey, I got an idea!" "Why do I know I should hang up about now--?" "Shut up and listen. Maybe Trowa'd be more comfortable, as you say, if it wasn't just him and me—just for a date or two." "Oh, no... I thought he was asocial or something like that." "Shy, Duo. He's not neurotic about it or anything. C'mon, just meet him. Help me out." "Ehhh--." "Coffee shop in the morning. He told me he has work in the morning and it's not that far away." "Weeell..." "Well, yes. Better yet, invite Quatre! That would be like hanging out together." "I don't know if he can make it. He's got classes. And Saturday morning's probably his only sleep-in time." "Ah, c'mon, try! You don't want to make him think you've forgotten about him, right?" "Right. He knooows I think about him. I called him and we have a date Sunday, so there." "Duo,pleeease?" "Okay, I'll call and see." "Now! Then call me back right away and I'll call Trowa." "Okay." I don't think Quatre was excited about missing his Saturday sleep-in to meet me for coffee, but he was a good sport about it all, especially since he'd just fallen asleep when I'd called. A better natured dude I've never met, but apparently I would, because Hilde's new date was also game to gather at the coffee shop, despite of his so-called lack of natural societal clumping drives. I had an evening interment, but Saturdays, well, I never knew in my business. So, I turned in all the while wondering if Hilde and I weren't overcomplicating things too soon. (o) Imagine my surprise when not just Duo, but the blond man I'd seen him with once before, Quatre, a young lady, and another sexy, athletically built man were gathered at a table. It was a Saturday morning and Duo beat me to the coffee shop. I don't know how long I was standing in line for my tea. I might have remained there all afternoon, had Duo not stepped up to place his own order. "Hey." He spoke to me! My throat tightened up so hard it threatened to crush my vocal cords into vocal threads. I cleared it roughly. "'Lo." "Um." He looked at me and then at the coffee jockey. "If you're not having anything, think I can cut in front?" Of course. I stepped aside and gathered my wits, while he ordered something complicated. When I was ready to speak intelligently again, he was moving to the side to wait. Once again, he caught me off-guard by speaking to me directly. "Ah, I noticed your place was taken, you know, by the window? We gotta couple extra chairs. Wanna join us? We, ah, pretty much just all met, 'cept me and Hilde, who's been my buddy for years. Oh, I'm Duo Maxwell." "'Eero, um," I coughed and tried again. "Heero." "Heero? Cool. So, ah, looks like my order's ready, and look! They made up yours, too. You do have some kind of arrangement with the owners here, don'tcha?" I nodded, even though I meant to shake my head "no", and followed him to his crowded table, even though I intended to find a solitary spot near where I usually sat. My excuse? He was carrying my tea and I followed that. He kept my tea just out of reach as he conducted introductions, so I paid close attention to his words. "This is Heero, who hangs out here more than anyone I know. Heero, this is Hilde..." "Hi, Heero." "And this is Trowa... and Quatre, who I think you've met." Quatre smiled and held out a hand. "Not formally. Hi, Heero." "Hello." "Quat's going for his MBA and waiters at Chili's," Duo told me. It didn't explain how they met and what their relationship was, though. "Tro's a lab techie at the hospital with hours as terrible as mine, it seems." Again, what was this new acquaintance to Duo? "Hil runs a lady's boutique, volunteers for at the hospital, and moonlights at the dump--." "That's salvage garden, to you. Sheesh! My uncle owns the salvage business on the edge of town—" "The far edge,' Duo put in. "And I've worked out there all through school and sometimes now and then when he—" "When he's desperate!" Duo said for her. "Huh?" Duo reached for his cell phone and stared at it a moment before taking the call. "Duo Maxwell, here. Yes. Yes. Sure. What's the address? Oh, yeah, I know the place. Okay. Right. Bye." He pocketed the disturbance then said, "Guys, I gotta split soon. I have a 'pick up' not too far away, but I gotta run back and get my, ah, vehicle first." "A pick up? What's that?" Trowa asked. Hilde looked at Duo who looked back at her, clearly trading "who would provide the background material" back and forth. She lost the bout. "He has to pick up a dead body and take it to the funeral home." Then the name dawned on me. "You are the Maxwell of Maxwell's Mortuary." "Bingo!" he said. If he was afraid everyone might get up and leave, he was wrong. Trowa's eyes lit for the first time since I'd joined them. He looked to me for support, I think, so I nodded. That did the trick. "Just so you know, there is nothing you might tell me that will hurt my feelings about my business or that I haven't heard before. Funeral-related work has been called the Dismal Trade for years. At one time it was overrun by sanctimonious conmen and carpetbaggers, insidiously exploiting the bereaved at the moment of their greatest weakness." Trowa chuckled. "Well, the same could be said of the medical industry," he said. He recalled an instance of the useless droning of a doctor that perfectly illustrated his point. It was the most he said the entire time we were at the table. Quarter joined in, describing academia as if it were— "...deserving of one of Dante's categories in Hell," I inserted. Duo must have been deeply offended, because he looked as if I'd struck him a blow to the solar plexus. But I didn't know what I'd said that could have affected him that way. Before I could apologize, his phone beeped again, and he announced that he had to leave. At the last minute, he turned at the door and saluted me with a half smile. I guess I was forgiven, partially. "Well, if you boys will excuse me a moment, I've got to visit the 'lady's'," Hilde said, standing. I moved and let her out from her booth seat. This left me with Quatre and Trowa. We sipped our drinks and avoided eye contact until Quatre finally asked me how long I'd known Duo. "We are both regulars here," I said truthfully. "I see," he said. But of course he didn't. I didn't. Who would? But then he broke down and spoke openly and honestly. "Oh. It's just that Duo and I just met, really, and it seems like everyone has known him for some time, except you, Trowa. I'm just a bit insecure. He's a very entertaining personality. I think I've just seen the top layer. Still, he and I have some things in common that can't be denied." I had to ask. "What's that?" "Well, we're both gay. Does that make either of you uncomfortable?" To my surprise, since he was dating the girl, Trowa shook his head, and offered, "I'm bi." Which left me to say something. "Gay." "Well," Quatre said. "Isn't that remarkable?" "What is?" Hilde asked on her return. "Sorry, but there was a line, if you can believe that, and the cleaning lady was there. What did I miss?" Trowa's cell phone jingled and he shot out of his seat. "Work!" "Oh, that's right. Bye! Call me later..." Hilde's voice trailed off as he disappeared out the door in a blur. Quatre stood to leave. "It's been pleasant meeting you all. It's nice to be included as one of Duo's friends. I hope we can all get together again." He smiled amiably, leaving Hilde and me to say goodbye and watch him part. When I stood to go, she reached out and held me in place. "He's right. You do have killer eyes." As I removed her hand, carefully so as not to break the bones, I asked, "Who? Duo said that?" "Yeah, he couldn't stop talking about you last week. I don't think he expected to see you here this morning, but I could tell he was pleased. The thing is, he's my best bud and I won't let anyone get on him because he's gay. He's had a rough life and made something of himself and just met a great guy with potential. I don't want some guy with a chip on his shoulder wrecking his chance at happiness. Get my drift?" I did, but I didn't. "Why would I interfere with Duo achieving his happiness? I hardly know him." "He was under the impression that you didn't approve of the gay lifestyle." I couldn't think of a reason why. "That's not true. I don't know what that lifestyle entails in your mind, but I'm gay. It's not something I flaunt, though." I couldn't read her expression, something between confusion and enlightenment, I'd guess. We were saved from further revelations and conversation by the incessant ringing-- her cell phone this time. "I gotta open the shop. Sick employee. I want to talk to you more, but later." I noticed my window seat was open and immediately claimed it as she left. After being out of my element for half an hour, the familiarity of my spot with the accustomed point of view, no-nonsense surroundings, and relaxing feel was comforting. I had a lot to think about. For one, Duo talked about me to the girl who was his best friend. He was interested in me even though he thought I wasn't gay, which was odd. He thought about me all week. Another bit of information came from Quatre. He and Duo had just met, as I'd thought, and weren't a couple. Not yet. Not. Yet. This meant that I had a chance. And Trowa was new to the grouping. He was dating Duo's best friend, who was a girl, but was bisexual. How did he fit in, I wondered? I dwelt among my thoughts in my place by the window, collecting myself, when I realized how late it was. If I didn't hurry, I'd miss the opening of the museum. I was always on time. I hated being late. Now, I'd have to rush to get there on time. (o) The next week was a replay of the week before, but Duo added a verbal greeting to our exchange of salutes. He even paused at my table on Wednesday. "Would you like to sit?" I asked him. It was a clear invitation. "I would, but I've got a fresh one waiting for...ah... you don't want the details. Just wanted to say hi and find out what it is you write in that notebook of yours. You a poet?" "I dabble." I held up a page. "That's me! You draw! Artist! That was my first guess. Cool. Thanks. I'd like to see more sometime, but now, damn, I'm pushing it as it is. Gotta run. See ya!" Not more than ten minutes later Quatre and Trowa swung by. Quatre shadowed my table, and when I looked up, he smiled. "Hello, Heero! Duo been in yet?" "Yes. Come and gone. He was rushed and facing a heavy load of work." "Oh, too bad. Trowa and I just ran into one another outside thinking we'd just show up. Thinking the same thing!" I looked from Quatre's glowing face to Trowa's guarded one and shrugged. "Must be magic," I said. "Well, I have a few minutes. Want a coffee, Trowa?" "Sure." "Be right back!" Quatre skipped off and Trowa remained immobile. "You mind? I know I don't like to be bothered most of the time." "You're not intruding on anything important. Oh, he's calling you. Better see what Quatre's up to." Trowa shrugged off his jacket and strolled to the counter. I was about to return to my list of ideas, when a flash of red caught my eye. I couldn't believe what I was seeing! Quatre had his briefcase open. In his hand was a red heart outlined with white, lacy paper. It was my lost Valentine! I could tell from twenty feet away! He must have just pulled it from his briefcase and now had it flat on the counter, face down. He had a pen! He was scribbling on the back. His phone number? Trowa was writing on the back of a napkin. His number? Were their exchanging phone numbers? I tore my eyes away from the Valentine card as they traded numbers. They were smiling, eyes locked. Even a blind man could sense their mutual attraction. Is this what my Valentine had come to? Not drawing Duo to me, but sucking him into a mire of hurt? As I watched from over my tea cup, their fingers touched and the smiles grew more significant. My chest ached with the knowledge that my dear Duo was in for a bad time. Hilde would blame me, and she'd be right. After that, I couldn't remain in the coffee shop any longer that day. I pealed out the door without bothering to say goodbye. I had to prepare my next card for Duo.
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