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" Everywhere I Look "Written By: Presser
Disclaimer : I do not own Gundam Wing or its characters. This work of fiction is written and shared freely without any attempt to profit financially from it. Rating : R Pairings : 1x2 Warnings : Wistful romance, AU, after Endless Waltz, and departing quite a bit from canon direction Summary: Duo Maxwell is a young, upcoming artist with a hole in his heart. He hates himself for never confessing his love to Heero Yuy, a war-weary mecha pilot running from his past all the way to the Phobos Project—the first manned mission to Mars. Duo longs for the man he loves, but doesn’t know where he is. Can they find love in each other’s arms? And what of Heero’s mysterious collapse when he arrives on Earth to search for the one he loves?
"Everywhere I Look " Chapter 1 You want something to drink? You sure? It’s no problem at all. What, this? Yeah… nervous habit I picked from Relena up years ago. She always twiddles her split ends between her fingers before she goes onstage to speak, and— Oh, stop it. You know I take good care of my hair. You can search all the way to the tip and you won’t find a single split end anywhere in my braid. Of course you can’t. Besides, your husband wouldn’t exactly approve, would he? So put your tongue back where it belongs, Trowa. Dear Zeus, that’s not what I meant and you know it. Geez… Well, sure I’m hyper. First of all, I’ve been living in a whirlwind since Friday’s showing. More phone calls than I got the whole month before, and it’s barely been seventy-two hours. Thanks, that means a lot. I know how stingy your are with your praise, and— Well, you’re not exactly known for being bubbly, are you? And besides, you really keep up with the cutting edge in the art world, so yeah, a compliment from you means a helluva lot. What, the showing? Oh, Raquine’s. It was absolutely incredible, Trowa. I’ve never experienced anything like it. But I guess you and Quatre have been there lots of times. Yeah, well, it was definitely a first for me, and a real high point. I don’t know about that. It takes a lot to make art your full-time gig. Not that many have done it. I guess. No. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m not used to being praised. No… All right. First, the maitre d’ seated me. I thanked her and waited till she was out of sight, then I wiggled my posterior against polished oak designed for asses two sizes wider than mine while trying to keep a big fat grin off my face. Then I pulled my braid over my shoulder and sat back. I studied the linen rose sitting on my bread plate for a moment before unfolding it into a napkin for my lap. What do you think I thought? A place like Racquine’s? It took everything I had to look like I knew what I was doing. Shut up, Trowa. But yeah, I looked around, thinking, This is gonna be grand, and trying not to look like I was looking around. Since Hilde and I started up Maxwell’s Salvage, I must have stopped to stare through the windows dozens of times, wishing for mid-sized lottery winnings so I could afford a dinner there, and— No, it isn’t exactly on the way. But I, um, sort of take a detour every now and then when I head home after work. So anyway, there I was at last. Couldn’t believe it. While I waited for the waiter, I thought, I made it babe, and then instantly got sad. But I shook that off with a Not going there tonight. Then the bar caught my attention. It’s a single piece of polished wood bent in an S-curve that’s probably twenty meters long. I’m guessing it’s old forest, and if that’s true, then it’s got to be early twentieth century. Bet they time-lifted it. You don’t think? That’s the politically correct way to do it now. So anyway, the walls looked like translucent copper. And— Really? I guess they change things up often. Anyway— How do I know? That’s just how it struck me. Try this: imagine a sheet of gauze spun from, um, maybe, silk the color of burnt sienna? And the artistic director— Yeah, they do. If they didn’t have one on staff the last time you were there… But all the upscale places on Earth have them now. They’re supposed to, let’s see, “amplify your culinary experience.” That’s what it said on the back of the menu. Uh-huh. I mean, heaven forbid places like Racquine’s would apply the lowly word eating to what goes on there. Anyway, the artistic director had hung what they call “evolutionary animations” on the— I don’t have a clue. You think I know what I’m talking about? They were all pretty, though. Maybe even would’ve been mesmerizing, if I had paid attention to them. Okay, since I promised to tell you the whole story, I have to confess I started thinking about Heero, then—not that I could help it. Stuff like, Oh, god, babe, I’m here. Can you believe it? They’re going to come to my table in a few, bringing a menu with appetizers that probably cost, like, half a day’s pay not all that long ago. Can you believe it? I know. There’s absolutely no reason for me to call him that. I mean, I don’t even know if he’s still on Earth, much less if he’s ever had a second thought about me. But what can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic. I told you about the last time we saw each other, didn’t I? Oh, come on, Trowa, not that many times. So let me describe the ambience. It was nothing like I imagined in all my treks past the doors. It was elegant, of course, but in the older sense, not the showy-sparkly look people mean when they misuse the word these days. I’m talking about an understated grace and poise that you don’t really notice; you just sense it. And I swear, it seemed like everyone from the waiter with an ass as round and tight as his to the guy at the piano with his messy brown hair were all there just for me. I blinked myself back to the moment when I heard the words, “Aperitif, sir?” and looked up and gasped—couldn’t stop myself. But I instantly saw his eyes weren’t like Heero’s at all—just almost the same color. ‘Cause they were in a face that hadn’t ever seen a battle, that’s why. Never will, if I have anything to say about it. Which I don’t, of course. Not anymore. But that’s a subject for another day. So anyway, I did this lame cough into my fist—probably didn’t fool anybody—and ordered a Macallan twenty-five, neat. Yeah… I guess I have upgraded my taste a bit, haven’t I? And who do you think introduced me? Of course your very own husband. But I don’t drink expensive stuff like that often. So the waiter left to fetch my scotch, and I leaned back again, closed my eyes, and reviewed the last twenty-four hours. Before then, I was a wanna-be. Yes, yes, talented and all, but still a wanna-be, at least in my eyes. Oh, it was. But more than just gratifying professionally. I mean, it’s nice to have important people say they think you do good work, but I think the best part was seeing the looks on people’s faces. I stopped sneaking peeks at the critics pretty quickly, and the other gallery owners—you know, the art professionals—because it was unnerving. Like watching doctors in lab coats inspect your baby to see if you know how to take care of it. I started watching people who came because they like art, who came because they wanted to be inspired, or uplifted, or just plain delighted. Their faces, Trowa, that’s what sealed it for me. They smiled and laughed, grew thoughtful, got wide-eyed, turned and pointed, nodded at each other. Made me feel that I’d done something to bring a little bit of happiness to them. That’s worth ten worlds’ worth of artistic integrity or shock value or statement-making. Sure. I’m not saying those aren’t valid, too. But just because that’s what it’s about for other artists doesn’t mean that’s what it has to be about for me. Why are you smiling like that? So, anyway, the gallery gave me an advance with more zeros on it than I thought I’d ever see, so I decided to treat myself to a fabulous dinner. Dear Zeus, I say that like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And you know what? I have you to thank for that, Trowa. Uh-uh, don’t give me that. All right, all right. It was two Christmases ago, at the party at Quatre’s, the day he accepted your proposal. No surprise you don’t remember that night, ’cause you got completely shit-faced—something I’ve never seen you do before or since. Well, sure you were entitled. It’s not every day your lover says yes on system-wide HV from the Presidential Palace. I can’t imagine how that felt. But anyway, after the dancing was mostly done and we’d thrown Wufei in the pool— I know. He was more pissed than any time in his life before or since. So yeah, all the “important” people were pretty much gone, and that left just us. Quatre and Relena were off chatting somewhere, Zechs was drying off Wufei— Right. Who knew humans could exceed ninety decibels? So I was out on the balcony with my arms propped on the railing, lost in a staring moment over how silvery the snow looked in the moonlight. Then I sensed you behind me. Back during the war I would have whirled around instantly, bringing up guns, but that was years before. And Christmas. And Quatre’s private estate. All I did was tense without tensing—oh, don’t roll your eyes. I learned it from you, after all—and waited for you to speak. Okay, since you don’t remember one bit of the conversation, I’ll tell the whole thing. “He’d want you to be happy, Duo.” That was the first thing out of your mouth, and it would’ve dropped me to the floor if I hadn’t put most of my weight on the railing. I think something really clever popped into my mind, but all I said was, “I know.” And then you told me about the time you followed him over a good part of the planet, apologizing to every Noventa he could find. Somewhere during that journey he gave you what I now call The Advice—hear the initial caps in my tone, there? You said he told you to follow your emotions in order to have a good life. I remember my reaction was so bitter. Yes, bitter. I thought that was just about the cruelest thing you could have said to me, because right then my emotions were staggering in blind circles, baying the word Why? at the moon. Totally adolescent Sturm und Drang. An eighteenth-century German literary movement. Do a CheckIt, you’ll see what I mean. Look, I’m rambling. I’m going to make this short because I really want to get back to my dinner, okay? The point is that when you said that, I was all self-absorbed, deep into missing him, wanting him, hating him for leaving without a word, and hating myself for never telling him how I felt. Then something happened. Not right then, but later that night after I got home. I don’t know. Like something snapped, or more like something snapped on. Suddenly I could see it was like I’d been walking through a field of rocks and boulders in the dark. No wonder I’d been getting banged up emotionally. And yes, before you say it, I knew it was self-inflicted. Or I guess that’s when I realized it. What happened? I realized that I’d been doing what I thought I was supposed to with my life, but it wasn’t what I really wanted for myself. See, after the war, I opened Maxwell Salvage with Hilde because it was something to do, something I could be good at with someone I liked. And for a while it was good. I kept busy. I liked settling down into something like respectability. I was tired of being a sneak and a thief—which, let me point out, was always out of necessity. There’s nothing especially attractive to me about living that way. Please, Trowa. I’ve heard all the armchair analysis about deep-seated rebelliousness and such that I care to. When you grow up a street rat, you don’t have the luxury of thinking about who you want to be one day; you’re too busy trying to be, period. Survival is all there is. So… that night at the party was a game-changer for me, thanks to you. All at once I saw that the stuff I’d been playing with around the edges of my daily routine—well, that was what I wanted to do, not run a salvage operation. Go ahead, laugh all you want. Art from junk made by the guy who needs it to stay junk to make a living. Ha, ha, ha. But yeah, I started taking my art seriously the very next day. I woke up energized—something I can’t ever remembering happening before then. Of course, Hilde thought I was crazy. Well, crazier than usual. From the first day we were open for business, she knew how to find me: just walk into the yard and scream my name. I’d usually drop what I was holding or bang something, and she’d follow the sound to where I was wrestling with some piece of junk. But it wasn’t long before she didn’t have to do that. She knew I’d be in the shed in the back corner of the yard, tinkering with junkman’s junk—the stuff we’d never be able to sell. I’ll never forget the look on her face when she saw the first piece—the first serious one that wasn’t just me fooling around. Right. It’s the piece I started the very next day after you gave me The Advice. I must’ve worked on it for a solid month. Every minute I could find—and more than a few that weren’t supposed to be available. That’s why she stopped screaming my name. She knew that’s where I was spending all my time. No, it wasn’t in the show, and it won’t ever be in one. Not so much for sentimental reasons; more like it’s too much a part of a very personal moment. Shhh. I’ll tell you because, like I said, you’re the reason it ever got made. It was just a tree, okay? Nothing spectacular. Old copper tubing I splintered and twisted and pliered into a trunk; leftover copper wire for the branches; plain old aluminum foil for leaves, and—yes, it was scrap, not new—why does everyone always have to ask? Anyway, I thought this was brilliant at the time—I used old micro ball bearings for berries. The whole thing was maybe a meter tall. I must have taken it apart and started again at least six times before I was pleased with it. No, she didn’t see it in progress. I still have all my listening skills from the war, so she never surprised me. I always heard her coming in plenty of time to hide it. Come to think of it, that’s probably why she thought I was nuts. She’d find me in the shed, but not doing anything—nothing she could see, anyway. Yet she knew that was where I’d be if there wasn’t work to do, which was always. Then one day I decided it was done, so I left it out. I’d been finished for about ten minutes and was sitting on the floor just looking at it, not feeling proud or accomplished so much as grateful that I’d finally gotten it out of my system. When I heard her coming, I jumped up without thinking and hid in the spot where I usually stowed it behind a couple of panels of corrugated sheet metal. I don’t know, Trowa. Maybe I wanted to be found out. Probably just wanted her to think I wasn’t—well, not losing it, I guess. It’s never bothered me, people thinking I’m odd. But I wanted Hilde to understand that what I was up to wasn’t immoral or illegal, just some silliness. A time-waster at best. Her reaction? I’m not sure there are words for it. She banged the door wide, and I swear I flinched at the snarl on her face. She yelled my name as loud as I’ve ever heard it—I think because she was mad that for once I wasn’t there. But as soon as she saw the tree, she froze. Her jaw dropped and her eyes got really wide. She was having one of those moments when what’s in front of you is so unexpected that you’re stunned into non-thought. Oh, very Zen of you, Trowa. Anyway, from my hidey-hole I watched with my breath caught in my throat. Her hand was still in the air from hitting the door so hard it rebounded off the wall. When it reached her again, she jumped as though it burned her fingers, and her eyes snapped to see what had touched her. She pushed it away, then stepped inside to study the piece. Just stood there for the longest time, tilting her head this way, that way, trying to puzzle through how this thing came to be. She moved closer and carefully touched a foil leaf. I swallowed wrong and had to use all my will power to stifle a cough. Like I said, I know how to be still and silent. Basic soldier skills, right? But I was so focused on Hilde I lost my balance. Hey, it was cramped. There was all manner of junk and debris on the floor in my hiding place, plus I was all bent over so I could see through a crevice between the pieces of sheet metal. My foot slid forward, so I leaned back to keep from falling. Then I bumped something, and the sheet metal hit the floor. Suddenly I was scrabbling to keep my ass off concrete littered with screws, bits of wire, and Zeus knows what else. When I finally stabilized myself, I was on all fours, but with my belly toward the roof and my hands down behind me with my elbows locked. I looked up into a face way beyond total astonishment. When she finally spoke—I was holding my breath again, and Hilde tells me my face wasn’t exactly calm and composed, either—it was barely a whisper. TBC |
