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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? AN: I intended this as a short, two-part tale of unrequited love, but so many readers asked for Heero to make an appearance.
"Everywhere I Look " Chapter 3 “Duo? This—is yours?” Hilde’s voice was kind of hoarse, probably from trying to whisper after she’d been screaming my name. I was every bit as stunned as she was, except she was standing there and I was on all fours backwards with my belly toward the ceiling. Oh, yeah, I’m sure I looked ridiculous. But both of us were too shocked to notice. So I nodded, ‘cause I didn’t trust myself to speak. Then she said, “This is what you’ve been spending your time on?” I nodded again. A couple of moments went by, then she realized her mouth was open and closed it. I swallowed again, properly this time, and that put me in motion. I managed to brush off a spot on the floor and sit down without falling, then looked up at her and said, “I, uh…” That’s as far as I got. “It’s unbelievable.” I couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or the beginning of an I-can’t-believe-you’ve-been-wasting-your-time-doing-shit-like-this lecture, but she cut me off before I could say anything else. “No, it’s really unbelievable. Amazing. Incredible.” Her voice was all childlike wondery, and all of a sudden my heart was pounding my eardrums. I realized my legs were tingling, so I stood up and said, “Hilde, I know I shouldn’t have—” In an instant her hand was over my mouth, but gentle. “Shhh.” I remember thinking, “How the hell did she get to me in no steps?” “It’s okay, Duo. I’m not mad.” Could’ve fooled me, the way she’d yelled my name every day for the past month. But I didn’t say that. Instead my eyes bugged out and I dropped my jaw and said, “You’re not?” Believe it or not, I was totally speechless. Close your mouth, Trowa. It’s unattractive. So Hilde proceeded to say things that made me the astonished one, like, “Why would you ever think I’d be mad?” and “I can’t believe you’ve kept this from me.” There’s one thing about Hilde that isn’t immediately obvious when you meet her, but it’s there in spades nonetheless: her business sense. She’s the reason Maxwell Salvage succeeded. She did the books and the marketing and the networking with government agencies, the military—just about everything except the grunt work. Oh, shut up. Yes, that’s where I came in, but I was a hell of a lot more than just the muscle. But yeah, it’s true. Hilde and Duo: Brains and Brawn. I guess that’s why she was so damn angry all the time. She knew she was doing ninety percent of what it took to keep us afloat, and me? Always disappearing, as far as she could tell, to a shed in the back of the yard to waste time just looking through junk with no purpose at all. So I’m sure you can guess how bad it knocked me on my ass when she said she wanted to be my agent. Me, too. If my mind wasn’t already liquefied, then that did it for sure. Of course I said yes. I know brilliance when I see it. I am an artist, you know. Okay, so what else? Most people not in art circles don’t know Hilde’s my agent. They think I left her in the dust once I was quote-discovered-end quote. But yeah, she’s quite the business geek. Immediately recognized my talent and— Please, don’t laugh. It’s taken me more time and energy than you’ll ever know to be able to say I’m talented without feeling completely weird about it. Thanks. So Hilde used her business skills to get me connected. And everything changed. Absolutely. “Understatement” is a barely adequate description. No, Maxwell Salvage didn’t close down. It’s a myth that we dissolved it after I went full-time with my art. When I decided to do that, the first thing Hilde did was hire Deek Taylor to replace me. After Deek had the hang of things, she gave him a raise, made him the manager, and moved to being my agent full-time. We both own an interest in the company. She checks in a couple of times a month and lets me know how it’s going. See what I mean about Hilde? With Deek doing the stuff I was supposed to be but just barely doing, I was free to come out as an artist. Of course, I didn’t know how to act. I’d been completely closeted as an artist since way before your Christmas chat gave me the balls to act on my dream. And Hilde was in high spirits like I’d never seen. Until, that is, The Conversation—initial caps intended—which went like this: “You obviously need a bigger work area. We can tear down this shed—” “Hilde…” “—and build a real studio for you, get you the materials you need to do bigger projects. Or maybe we should relocate you—” “Hilde…” “—to a nicer address, a place with better ambience, more conducive to—” That was when I put my hand over her mouth, just like she did to me in the shed when she saw my first piece. I told her I was grateful, flattered, humble, and all the stuff that comes with being validated by someone you think the world of, but that I wanted to take it slow. She got quiet and still; just listened. I explained that I loved making art from found objects, that I had no idea what to do with my skills—I completely rejected the “genius” label—still do, always will—and didn’t want any of the stuff she had just described. At least not yet. Maybe not ever. She was silent, that’s what. Just looked at me like she didn’t know what to do. Really spooked me. I expected a lot of pushback because, arguing about—no, trying to avoid arguing was just about all we had done for a month, so not bickering for once was totally weird. So finally I broke the silence and said, “Please don’t take this like I’m saying I don’t want your help, Hilde. I’m incredibly grateful, okay? I just… well, I’m not sure what to do—even what I want to do after hiding for—” She stopped me cold with just a touch. She took both my hands in hers, and—I don’t know how to explain it, Trowa. Even though it had nothing to do with what we were talking about, there was this… this moment that just sort of stuck its head in the door, like it decided it was ready for me to introduce it to Hilde. I’d known since we met it would come eventually, but I’d been dreading it, so I kept pushing it away. Took me completely by surprise. And you know? I got knocked on my ass for the second time that day when she told me she’d known the same thing for just about as long. Trowa, you’re lucky, you know? Quatre and you were made for each other, and you both knew it from day one. Hilde and me? Well, I knew she liked me, even wanted us to be more than friends, but I—I never had the— Let me say it, Trowa. I kind of need to at least once instead of just thinking it. So, yeah… Hilde’s the dearest person in the world to me. I’d be under a rock, gone feral, the most ancient street rat, if not for her. But I could never love her romantically. There’s only one guy for me. And even though he’s not here, he might as well be, ‘cause he’s everywhere I look. But I’m losing my train of thought. Sorry. Anyway, the point. My point. It’s that standing there in front of Hilde, me, mister carefree, happy-go-lucky Duo Maxwell, spark plug deluxe and life of the party, came as close to tears as I ever have since I found—found Fath- er—M- Max— No, no, it’s—I’m okay. I just need a— Yeah. Thank you. How the hell can a guy be any luckier than me, Trowa? Someone like Hilde Schbeiker caring enough about me to not love me and also not cling like death vines and still want to be my agent and—and— You know what, Trowa? The dinner at Racquine’s was incredible. Everything it’s said to be and more. The Macallan twenty-five they brought me was as rare as I’ve ever tasted. Oh, I know “true” connoisseurs of scotch would consider it slumming to drink something so paltry, but for me it was the height of decadence, just like every single other thing was that night. Oh, yes, I remember it all. I started with this amazing butternut squash bisque with some marvelous applewood smoked bacon. Then there were slices of jerk-seared tuna fanned across a patch of pickled fennel and watercress, and topped with— Stop laughing. Of course I memorized the descriptions. I may have had a successful first public showing, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be dining at places like Racquine’s every week—or year, for that matter. So shut up and let me relive it. Jupiter in heaven, how does Quatre put up with you? And you’re supposed to be the quiet one. Dear Zeus. Thank you. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Next was baked feta cheese infused with banana peppers and Liguiran olive oil—the best premium olive oil in Italy, they said, not that I’d know. Then there was an elongated barbecued-chicken flatbread— No, I don’t have a clue what that means. It didn’t look all that long to me. Anyway, a really tasty flatbread, okay? Then a little side spinach salad with roasted Spanish Marcona almonds and dried Michigan cherries with a bacon balsamic vinaigrette. What else would you expect? If you’re paying Racquine-level prices, you want more than “spinach with almonds and cherries,” you know? It’s like the colors at car companies. A Ford’s interior is brown with red trim, but a Mercedes has dark chocolate seating with mulberry piping. Then a seared beef tenderloin with truffle-roasted potatoes and oregano vinaigrette. The flavor was so intense. Then salmon encrusted with almonds, Asiago cheese, and cilantro, and alongside was— No, it wasn’t too much food. Well, maybe. But I was there for almost three-and-a-half hours, so it’s not like I wolfed it down or anything. Racquine’s pampers you, okay? And it was fantastic. So the salmon came with a mushroom ragout with sherry cream. By then I was almost insensate, but they do know how to keep you going. I finished off— Very funny. No, I finished it off, not the other way around. So dessert was a creamy risotto rice pudding drizzled with caramel sauce and fresh whipped cream. Oh, and a little brick of carrot cake with warm cream cheese frosting. Okay, you can stop right there. First, everything was small portions, all right? So no more than two, maybe three bites. That’s the style these days: small tastes of lots of different things. And second, you should do something with your chin. That’s right, Trowa. Drool is not for sharing. No, what I meant… Damn it! You’re making me blush, and Duo Maxwell doesn’t blush! Anyway, it was more spectacular than I can say. Oh, you’re right. I guess I did say, didn’t I? Where to from here? Sky’s the limit, I guess. Well yes, I feel fulfilled. I worked a hell-of-a-long time to get to this point. And I think I do have talent, thank you very much. Oh stop it. I know you were just being snarky. What I’m trying to say… is that I think… Um, I think I can say… something through my… Uh, what? I didn’t finish? No, nothing, nothing at all. I just thought I saw through the window… but it couldn’t… Oh come on, Trowa. Of course I don’t expect him to— Don’t say that. I spend more time than I should telling myself it won’t happen. Can’t happen. At least he’d never— What do you mean “But you still watch?” No, never mind. Like I said, I’m not sure just what, yet, but I have some ideas about projects. Already? Time flies when you’re with someone you like, I guess. I didn’t mean to talk your ear off. No, no, of course not. Give Quatre a hug from me, too. Thanks. It really means a lot that you stopped by. Oh, but you can’t leave yet. I have something for you and Quatre. Just sit; I’ll be right back. Here. These are to celebrate the success of my showing. Not really. When you realize what they are, you’ll be surprised that I got them under a meter tall. No, they’re not for the two of you together; there’s one for each of you. See the name tags? Hang on. You’ll understand when I tell you what they are, which I’m going to do so you won’t unwrap them before you get home. Oh no, Trowa, I’d never take you for the kind that— Just cut it, okay? You didn’t get me; I was being sarcastic, thank you very much. Anyway, these are special. They’re Gundams. As pitch perfect as I could make them, given my rule for using only found materials. Well, no. Right now these are the only two in existence: Heavyarms and Sandrock. But I’m planning the others. Not sure yet about Tallgeese, Epyon, and Wing Zero, because they weren’t “our” Gundams, were they, even though they played their parts. Haven’t started on Deathscythe yet, but I’ll get there. Yeah, about that one. You want me to be honest? I can’t decide whether to do Gundam Wing or not. It’s not like… But a complete set’s not the point, Trowa. I’m making these for the people I care about, the ones who saw me through the war, without who I’d have probably gone totally into the drink. What? Come on, I mean off the deep end mentally, not booze. It’s just not me to hide from my feelings that way. What do you mean? Well, anyway, enjoy these. Lots of love in ‘em. And be sure and let me know what you think. Not so much praise as whether I missed any details. ‘Cause I can update them, you know, if you find any— Okay, then. Sure. So… Hey, wait. Get back up the steps, you. I want a last hug. All right, then. Travel safe. And, hey, did I say to give Quatre a hug from me? Okay, then. Bye, Trowa. Bye. # Duo Maxwell closed the door to his modest apartment before walking to the overstuffed couch on which he and Trowa Barton had sat. He moved cups and saucers, small plates and utensils to the serving tray he had crafted from a throwaway cherrywood plank and brass fittings that once served as pulls for an architectural firm’s metal filing drawers, then ferried everything to the kitchen. He turned from the sink and leaned the small of his back against the counter as he dried his hands after clean-up. He carefully hung the dishtowel on its hook, which looked very like it might once have belonged to Peter Pan’s arch nemesis—also a found object he had converted for practical use in his home. A glance out the window told him that there was still enough daylight left for some work, so he grabbed his keys and ambled to the back of the apartment. He went down the back stairs to a narrow alley with trash cans and recycling bins. Duo pocketed his keys and headed out for the eight-block walk to Maxwell Salvage. As he approached the yard he turned down a side alley, slowing to look over his shoulder to make sure no one saw him. At the back of the property he slipped between two loose panels of sheet metal near the far corner. On the other side was the shed he still used as his workshop, the back of it so close there was almost no room to move between it and the corrugated metal fence. Duo smiled each time he thought about how ingenious his secret entrance was. Anyone finding the loose panels of the fence would immediately retreat for lack of room to maneuver among debris of zero interest. But he knew where to scoot so that he could slip into the shed through two more loose boards just there. Once inside, he paused. The place was just as junky as ever, but since he came out as an artist he had agreed to let Hilde clear a large spot in the center of the room for an outsized workbench and table with tools hanging off the sides. It was his only concession to going full time with his art. He refused to let Hilde say “going pro,” even though his first showing had been resoundingly successful. An oilcloth covered his current project on the table. Duo moved to stand in front of it, looking up, then down, then away. Why would Trowa say that? I said I’d probably have gone into the drink without everybody’s support and he made a bad pun out of it. I told him I don’t booze it up to forget things and he said, “Well, you do have your art.” Duo scratched absently at his nose, then shrugged. Whatever. He hopped onto a low stool so he could lift the oilcloth without snagging it on the work. He balled it and pitched it aside, then turned to face Gundam Wing, a full meter-and-a-half tall, meticulously detailed and completely color accurate. He’d wanted actual Gundanium for it, but there was none to be had. The Gundams were gone, and the government had banned the metal’s manufacture as part of a PR campaign to promote the new administration’s commitment to keeping the peace. Even so, he wouldn’t have used it unless it was scrap. He was completely serious about working only with found materials, so he’d scrounged for months before finding castoff metal that could be worked to have a similar texture and sheen with careful, patient craftsmanship. Duo hopped off the stool. He stood with his hands on his hips for a full minute, wrinkling his nose as he tilted his head from side to side to study his work. Suddenly a smile quirked up one side of his mouth. He reached for the tool he wanted and reverently put his hand forth.
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