Author: FancyFigures
see part 1 for warnings, notes, disclaimer

True Colours + Part 10

Duo stood back from the far wall of the gallery, cloth in hand, roll of masking tape around his wrist, and he sighed. Difficult with the pen in his teeth, but what the hell! There was dust on his shoulders and his braid was fraying in several places. His sweats had almost worn through one knee, but he'd spent the afternoon kneeling down and scrabbling across the floor regardless.

He didn't know what time it was exactly - he didn't know when he'd last had a watch, or where he'd left it. It never used to bother him.

There was a tentative voice behind him - Tony's. "The staff are on their way for the final run-through, Duo. And the caterers - and the preview photographers."

"And?" growled Duo. He reached out and shifted one of the paintings slightly to the right.

"You've been here since 5 a.m., Duo," came Malia's voice, behind Tony. "We're all here now - you can hand over and get yourself ready."

"'S OK," he mumbled, not really listening. "I didn't sleep well, anyway. Easier to get up and do some work down here."

There was a draught from the door to the outside - Duo's head snapped up, as if he were expecting something. Or someone.

"It's the catalogues, two boxes -" called Tony, dashing over to take in the delivery.

Duo's head sank back down against his neck.

Malia's hand appeared on his arm quite unexpectedly. "Duo," she said, almost gently. "Have you heard anything I said? It's almost five p.m. now, and you need to get ready, unless you're greeting your public in those!" He glanced at her smart suit and carefully made-up face, and then down at his own sweats and skimpy blue vest. He smiled slightly.

"Sweetie," she said, wrinkling her nose slightly. "Unless masking tape is the new accessory, and dust an artistic statement, you'd better shower and get dressed to kill!"

"There's plenty o' time -" he started again, but she was gently pushing him towards his door. He yawned; he moved a little sluggishly.

"I'll send for more coffees," said Tony, even before Malia had to suggest it.

"Is it OK, though, Malia?" asked Duo, abruptly. She couldn't see where his eyes were focussing - whether he meant one particular item, or the whole damned place.

"The show? Of course it is! There's no doubt, y'know? It's gonna be a riot, Duo - an absolute success. Like last time, but better! Dammit, but haven't you done it again? Just look at this room!"

He looked round, but she could see his eyes darkening with indecision again. "Get the hell upstairs and make yourself the enfant terrible again, OK?" She softened her voice. "Duo, honey - we're proud of you. We're proud of what we're doing here. Please let us help you out..."

She watched him lope slowly up his stairs and vanish into the apartment. She sighed with some relief. The vans would be arriving any second with drink and canapés, and dozens of barely-brained temporary staff who would need supervising every step of the way. Hadn't she done this very thing for all of her working years?

Tony had paused beside the perspex wall, and bit at his lip. "So what are they gonna think about this, eh?"

Malia looked up at it herself, and shrugged as elegantly as she could in the severely fitted jacket of her suit. "They'll love it - he'll make them love it."

"Sure," smiled Tony. "Duo knows best."

Malia turned back to find cloths for the refreshment tables, but Tony called to her again.

"There's still a picture here unpacked - do you want me to -?"

Malia's voice was sharp, and caught Tony unprepared. He hadn't heard such a tone directed at him for months now. "Leave that, Tony! Duo said that he wants to hang that one himself - though I don't know if there'll be time, before the first guests arrive. But he wants no-one to touch it but him."

They both stood and stared at the small package, still propped against the far wall, covered in paper and bubble wrap. Neither knew quite what to say for a moment. Then the cell phones started ringing again, and yet another gum-chewing delivery boy was pushing through the door, nearly colliding with the harassed assistant struggling in backwards with a tray full of strong coffees. The team was called back to its own preparations - no-one had any more time for mysteries!

+

It was two hours later, and the gallery had just opened. The invitation list had been twice as long as the first show - and the invitations were twice as eagerly accepted.

There was a slight sprinkle of rain outside, and the first group of guests fell through the door, laughing and cursing and shaking their coats, and reaching for the very welcome drinks. They were mostly journalists again, and several representatives of the art journals. Quatre Winner was with them, arm in arm with his favourite Assistant Editor, though his attention seemed a little distracted. He looked splendid in a sapphire blue silk shirt and satin pants that were moulded perfectly to his shape, all covered by a well-cut raincoat. He shepherded one of the sponsors into the building with some witticism or other; there was more laughter, all underlying a barely suppressed excitement.

So closely after Quatre that any ingenuous spectator might have thought they arrived together, Trowa Barton appeared. More modestly dressed - and yet he'd taken care with his appearance, as anyone who knew him would have noticed. He had an innate style that allowed him to wear ordinary clothes, and yet look extraordinary himself. He didn't like to attract attention - but to discerning people, he did.

And they all turned for their first view of the exhibition.

"Shit!" came from one of the younger journalists. Quatre turned, to catch Trowa's eye - the brown-haired man was already watching for him. He nodded; Quatre raised an eyebrow and grinned.

It was a riot of paintings again - but the theme wasn't of colour or hue, as before. It was of people - and touch. There were pictures of hands praying; hands waving; hands striking; hands embracing. Pictures of children, men and women - offering comfort; offering help; offering derision. People clasping each other in friendship; in anger; in lust.

Families; lovers; solitary people. Everyone and anyone. Any age; any gender; any race.

"Hey..." whistled another journalist.
"Fuckin' brilliant!" gasped an art student.
Someone else laughed with delight.

The pictures were on the walls, and also hanging from the ceiling, as before. What was different this time was that in amongst them, Duo had arranged a network of threads and cords. Hanging from these was a fabulously varied selection of personal effects - gloves, rings, watches, hair bands, hats, socks... they were placed so that they didn't detract from the pictures and the story they had to tell, but instead they added their own perspective to it. This was an exhibition of people and their lives and their relationships, and the objects were part of that.

Quatre laughed out loud - an expression of his own pleasure. "Maxwell - where are you?" he called. "It's magnificent! Come here and accept your congratulations as the talented man you undoubtedly are!"

Duo appeared from behind the perspex screen - the only part of the room that wasn't covered with paintings and brightly-coloured, shiny, swinging items. His face was slightly flushed - he'd dressed in the black suit again, this time over a vivid red shirt. He had a small cord around his neck, with a silver cross hanging from it. His hair was glossy; his eyes were bright.

"Washes up well..." Malia murmured to Tony with a smile. He squeezed her hand, and despite the table of drinks and catalogues that she was fiercely guarding, she let him. The people were flocking in now, bursting in through the door and swirling around the edges of the room like a river undammed. There was a loud burst of applause, cameras clicking all around, and Duo was engulfed by well-wishers and a steadily growing band of fans.

+

And then Heero Yuy arrived.

The cameras were flashing again - the owner of the gallery had arrived! - and there were several women around him, gushing effusively. Malia attempted to keep them at bay, pressing a catalogue into any hands that got too near - drinks into the others. He was apologising for being held up in traffic, on his way here from another meeting. He was smiling, but it seemed as if it were rather an effort; he was leaning away from the free hands that reached out to shake his own. His eyes flickered above all the heads, several times.

On the other side of the room, with guests milling all around, Duo looked across and caught his eye. For that second, there was no-one else in the room for him. A programme was opened in front of him, obscuring his sight; a glass of wine was almost spilt down his black suit. An enthusiastic art student clapped him on the shoulder.

Duo saw none of it. He saw only Heero.

Heero raised a hand from his side as if to wave. Then Quatre was beside him, embracing him and taking him over to meet some of the sponsors. The contact was lost.

"Duo?" Trowa was beside his friend, taking his arm and firmly extricating him from an over-enthusiastic admirer. "It's great, Duo! Such an innovative idea - and such a superb collection of complementary art! I suspect that you'll hear that from hundreds of others tonight -"

Duo greeted Trowa affectionately. "So glad you came, Trow! You're lookin' good, as well. The jacket's new, isn't it? It suits you - brings out the green in your eyes. Took some fashion advice from the Lord of the Track, eh?"

"We had a beer, that's all -" said Trowa, knowing full well that Duo was provoking him. He'd not spoken to Duo about his evening with Quatre Winner, and hadn't seen either of them in the few days running up to the show.

"You like him, though, don't you?" said Duo, softly. He saw Trowa's eyes following Quatre tonight; saw the thoughtful expression on his face as he watched Quatre dispense his unique brand of charm and bonhomie throughout the room.

Trowa was characteristically frank. "He's not the type I'd want to get close to."

Liar, thought Duo to himself. "Too much of a handful for you?" he grinned.

"And Heero's not?" Trowa was sharp with his riposte.

"Maybe..." sighed Duo. What did he know, anyway? This was his first sight of the damned man since last night. No word, no call, no message - all day. All Duo had to console himself with was a headache from lack of sleep, and sore calves...

"Quatre's different, Trow. He seems outrageous, sure. But he's damned clever underneath it all - and he's Heero's friend. That's a good enough reference for me."

"What is this - a dating agency?" Trowa looked a little flushed.

"Who mentioned dating?" said Duo, slyly. He put a hand to Trowa's arm - drew him closer. His voice was a little hoarse. "Look - he's not Solo, Trow."

Trowa looked at him sharply. "I know that! I'd not want -"

"- another one like him?" said Duo, perceptively. "I'd be glad if that were true, y'know? You deserve much better 'n my brother gave you. Sure, he loved ya - but that ain't no reason to trample all over a guy like you..."

"Christ, you talk nonsense," sighed Trowa. "I only had a beer with him!"

"Guess the nonsense is on both sides, Trow," Duo replied. "It's one of those nights!" Malia was bearing down on him, waving a catalogue with a look on her face that implied she was selling both pictures and potential like they were going out of fashion tomorrow. Trowa started to move away, acknowledging Duo's need to be elsewhere for a while.

"Be here for me, Trow, will ya?" asked Duo, just as he turned to go and help Malia with the paperwork. "Just to the end of tonight?"

Trowa nodded. He wasn't going anywhere else just yet.

+

Barely an hour later, the gallery was full. The drinks were flowing and the food fast vanishing. The place was full of the noise of chatter and calls and cries of delight and surprise. The cameras still flashed - Duo had given several brief interviews. Quatre had spun sponsor after investor after connoisseur in front of him, until his head whirled and his tongue threatened to suffocate inside his mouth if it didn't wrap itself round some iced water. Malia was heavily flushed, with wisps of her perfect hair escaping from the pins, but her central catalogue looked well-thumbed, and her Filofax was significantly thicker with new contacts' business cards and brochures.

There'd been a late arrival, about half an hour earlier. Remy de Haas had arrived as one of a group of people from her latest photo shoot, and her sponsoring fashion magazine. Duo hadn't seen her arrive, though he heard the sudden flurry of cameras and notebooks waving - he just saw Quatre moving swiftly to the opposite end of the room, face like thunder, as if he couldn't put enough space between him and the model. Even more surprising, he saw Trowa moving after him. From the look of their subsequent conversation, Trowa was calming down the lively blond - he had a restraining hand on his arm.

Well! Duo had thought, with a secret smile. So that's the result of 'only having a beer'!

He'd watched carefully, without appearing to, to see how Remy greeted Heero. It had been brief, and immensely civil. An air kiss or two; and when she put out a hand to him, he'd taken a catalogue from Malia and offered that with a bland smile. Duo had been ridiculously reassured.

For the moment, he stood against a wall, drawing a reviving breath in between the gushing and greeting that was going on all around him, and trying in vain to camouflage himself into the painted plaster itself. Malia and her staff were valiantly fielding the press and the columnists and the dealers - but everyone wanted to see Duo Maxwell himself! They wanted to talk to him - to ask his opinion - to pump him for information about the exhibits. They wanted to be with him!

He wasn't such the 'new boy' this time around.

"Taking refuge?" came the low voice, tinged with amusement. Duo both smelt the light cologne and felt the body warmth, as the other man came to stand beside him. Heero handed him a glass of sparkling iced water, matching his own. He mumbled thanks. They both stared ahead of them, out into the gallery - but their senses were on each other alone.

"Are you pleased with it, Heero?" he asked abruptly.

They hadn't exchanged a single word since Heero had arrived, but he didn't seem to be offended by the blunt greeting. "It's brilliant, Duo - it's magnificent! It's a visual feast; and a startling theme. They can't stop talking about it - Quatre will dine out on this for weeks to come, appointing himself your unofficial agent!"

"You thought I'd fuck up -"

"I never did," said Heero, rather sharply. "You're doing me an injustice again. I knew you'd deliver. I was just never sure what..."

"You wanted me to tell you all about it!"

"No - but I would have liked to have shared more of it with you."

Duo flushed, and his eyes dropped momentarily. "You just had to trust me - y'know?"

Heero turned his head fully and stared at him. "I know. And I did. It's a great success - you're to be congratulated on that."

"But -" Duo swallowed some water, to ease his painfully dry throat. "But are you pleased with it?"

Heero looked bemused. Duo looked at the tiny furrow in his brow when he did that, and the tightening of his lips. He remembered how delicious those lips were - how skilled at both taking and giving pleasure. How it had been his pleasure, for weeks now.

"The theme is for you, Heero!" he blurted out. His words sounded rushed - he wished he could remember just one of those million trite little speeches he'd practised since he last saw Heero. "It's because of you! No particular insistence on colours - instead, I concentrated just on the emotion; the feelings of the artists; of the subjects. The impact on the guests. Those who look - those who really see!"

He reached his hand up, like he had in his apartment last time they'd been there, palm towards Heero, fingers outstretched. Heero seemed to be struggling with some response, but he stayed silent. He lifted his own hand instead, and touched his fingertips to the other man's.

"Connection," sighed Duo. "That's what the exhibition is called."

With a smile, he moved away from the wall and Heero's startled, confused expression, and he rejoined the throng.

+

In the centre of the room, the perspex screen shone out, backlit by carefully placed spotlights. It was completely blank - completely clear of any markings or signs. At the sides were attached small, shallow troughs, a row of them one above the other, from almost floor level up to the height of the tallest man in the room. Trowa leant past one of the staring guests and peered at the troughs - he could see the glimmer of paint in each one.

There were murmurs amongst the crowd as they passed the screen, even as they praised the rest of the show. Snickers of scorn...

"What the hell's wrong with this? Just gets in the way, unless he's gonna use it -"
"Guess he missed a few here..."
"Ran out of pictures, more like! Couldn't get the sponsors he'd wanted -"
"So he's still an erratic performer, eh? Still untried..."

Heero himself stood there, and when Duo worked his way to his side, he turned to him with a puzzled expression. What the hell did Duo mean by this strange vacuum in the middle of such cluttered activity? People would surely remember this empty, aching window long after they remembered the glory of the other displays.

Duo grinned as if he knew what Heero was thinking. "Still trust me, Heero?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Heero. He was glad that he found it very easy to say.

"So watch!"

As Heero, Trowa and several other guests stared, Duo stepped up close to the screen, and dipped the fingers of his right hand into one of the troughs of paint. Then he reached up towards the top of the screen, and carefully pressed his damp, green-streaked fingertips to its cool surface.

He left the perfect mark of his fingerprints; of his unique individuality.

The noise level fell around him; there was a confused silence. Tony appeared discreetly at his side with a smile on his face and a box of wet wipes in his hand; he offered one to Duo to wipe his hand clean of paint.

"Now you," smiled Duo, his hands waving for Trowa and the others, but his eyes solely on Heero. "Connection - remember?"

Trowa grinned his fabulous smile and stepped forward to copy Duo's actions. Some of the other guests laughed nervously; some moved a step forward too. Tony stood hovering, with wipes for those who'd need them.

Heero gazed back at Duo. The smile started very slowly at the edges of his mouth.

"What colour shall I choose, Duo?" he murmured. There was a burst of delighted laughter and a girlish giggle around the screen. Others were pushing forward, to see what the fuss was about.

"Ain't they all one to you, Yuy?" said Duo.

"Some are brighter than others," said Heero.

Duo smiled broadly, as if they spoke a language that wasn't obvious in the words. "Choose what you like, Heero. The colour's not important, is it? It's the print you leave behind that is."

Heero's breath caught in his throat. He made as if to move towards Duo, and then a pair of students pushed between them, crowding round the screen and jostling Duo.

Duo grinned ruefully as he was swept back to the other side in a crowd of people. Heero followed his eyes for as long as he could, smiling with him. Then he moved in to the screen to make his own mark.

+

The gallery was a laughing, chattering mess of glamorous people, dipping fingers in paint and daubing evidence of their personalities all over a perspex wall. The clear screen was covered with multi-coloured prints - smudges - drips. Some of the fingerprints touched at others - some overlapped like the fingers had entwined. People were pushing and shoving to find a space - coming back to look at their contribution, and to play the game of guessing whose the other prints were.

Never had this city's art world had such fun!

"Brilliant idea, hon," smiled Quatre. He stood for a moment at Duo's shoulder. "Audience participation, eh? No-one else would dare!" His eyes lost their cynical glaze for a moment, and he watched the participants with unadulterated amusement. A corporate executive roared with laughter, and dabbed the remains of his painted fingertips on to the nose of his expensively dressed mistress. A journalist shrugged in embarrassment, but pushed another person aside to get to the colour of paint that he preferred. A couple of young students, obviously in love, refused the wipes to clean themselves, and instead moved away from the screen with painted fingertips pressed together, frowning with their concentration on maintaining the touch.

Duo smiled along with the blond man. The gimmick had been taken up far more enthusiastically than even he had hoped! "They gotta join in, Quatre. No point offering connection unless there are people there to accept it. Both sides gotta be involved."

Quatre looked at him more carefully. "You talkin' about art, hon?"

"Of course," replied Duo, evenly. "That's what I'm here for, isn't it?"

He felt Quatre tense beside him, and wondered if he was going to say something else. Or perhaps he was worried that Duo would start to pry into his meeting with Trowa. But he saw the real reason why, a moment later - Remy de Haas had stepped up to the screen, and was making her mark in a particularly sickly yellow coloured paint. She had the female publishing editor of the fashion magazine hanging on to her left arm, and the younger son of one of the sponsors for Heero's gallery on her other side, his arm curled possessively around her miniscule waist.

Her cronies from the magazine cooed and fluttered around her, offering the wipes that she used quickly and thoroughly - as if the paint might poison her skin. And then, as she dropped a soiled wipe into the sycophantic hands of the younger son, she glanced across at Duo. Her mouth smiled at her fans; a wide, even-toothed, professional smile. But it was her eyes that reached Duo, and he was shocked to see a deep, naked fury in them. Christ, he'd never even met the girl, had he? Seen her at the first exhibition, though she'd arrived late, just to accompany Heero to the after-show party - and he'd read plenty about 'em in the papers, most of it crap, of course, created for the sake of sensation. Then she and Heero had parted - amicably, he'd thought.

Was that what that look was about? Jealousy? Could Heero have misjudged the situation that badly?

He looked around further, and saw Heero standing by the front door of the gallery. The dark-haired man had left his prints and then moved himself away from the screen quite unobtrusively, leaving Duo to his admirers and the fascinated finger-painters. He wasn't looking for Remy, for his eyes passed swiftly over her. Duo wondered if he were looking for Quatre - the blond man had also left his side, possibly to avoid being too close to Remy himself. It was obvious that he disliked her.

It's time, kid, Duo told himself. Now or never...

He looked quickly over towards the door to his apartment. It was, of course, locked today, and a low table had been drawn half across it, to separate the private areas from the public. The table had been used for more catalogues and a few of the free-standing exhibits. Duo's eyes flickered to the wall beside the door; there was a space there, as if the picture hanging had stopped short of that area - as if the private areas extended further down into the gallery. Six foot up that wall was a single picture hook. There was nothing hanging from it.

He caught at Tony's arm as the boy almost rushed past him. "Show time, Tony," murmured Duo. "I need to put that last picture up, OK?"

Tony nodded, and smiled. They both went over to the table and Tony reached under it, pulling out the wrapped picture that he and Malia had looked at earlier. It had been safely and secretly stored there whilst the guests wandered past and marvelled at the wealth of other exhibits. He helped Duo rip off the packaging, keeping him a little sheltered from the people still filling the room behind him.

Duo held the picture in front of him, looking down on its uncovered face. Tony tried to peer round, but couldn't see properly. It looked small - it looked like just a black and white print of some kind.

Duo looked back up at him, and Tony was startled to see the expression on his face. If he didn't know Duo Maxwell's reputation better, he'd have said he looked scared of something! "It's time to come out of whatever artistic closets I've been hiding in, Tony, y'know? I've done it for myself - but now I must show that I have."

Tony grunted - he didn't know what the hell was going on, but then that summed up most of his working life so far, so he was used to it! He trusted Duo Maxwell - he liked Duo Maxwell; whatever he did, it was OK by him. "Sure, Duo. Here - let me help."

He held the picture steady as Duo fixed it swiftly on to the hook, and they both pulled away to look at it on the wall.

Tony sucked in a breath.

+

It was a pencil sketch of a pair of hands, slightly larger than life size. Solely the hands - palms facing each other, fingertips just touching. But it was so much more than just a sketch! There was something about the fluidity of the pencil lines - something that breathed in the veins and the tendons of the hands as clearly as if they were living. The shading was careful, yet it flowed easily; the colour scheme was frighteningly simple, yet it implied far more depth and tone than ever a single graphite pencil had promised before. The skin on the hands seemed to wrinkle and glow; the whorls on the tips of the fingers were individually crafted.

When Tony looked more closely, he realised that the hands didn't really match; as if there were two different people involved. One hand had long, slender fingers, with the slightest nub of a lump on the side of the middle finger. The skin looked healthy, but there were creases of regular use on the fingertips. The other hand had a slightly darker tone, with skin that looked better cared for; nails that looked carefully shaped. There was a tiny fleck at the base of the ring finger, in a crescent shape - like the memory of a scar.

The hands touched at only a few points - and yet Tony felt a slow, sensual shiver as he gazed at the picture. Unlike some of the other pictures on show today, it was not a picture of hands praying; or of hands touching in passing. Instead, there was deep emotion there - there was raw longing. The hands were coming together - they were embracing! He felt an unmistakably sexual charge from it; from a mere drawing...!

It fit the theme of the exhibition perfectly, of course. But Tony felt that it stood alone for some reason; that it represented something more than - and different from - every other painting here today. Not like me to be so fanciful, he thought. His heart was beating far more quickly than before, and there were goosebumps up his arms. Some of this art appreciation stuff must be rubbing off on me -!

He felt the slowing down of the crowd behind his back, as they caught sight of the new addition. He turned to look at Duo - to ask, naively, who'd drawn it - but the man had gone from his side. He glanced quickly round the rest of the gallery and saw heads turning towards him; the sudden buzz of interested chatter around the room.

When his eyes ranged past the doorway to the outside world, he saw his boss, Heero Yuy, still standing there, though now his eyes were riveted on the picture.

Tony wondered why he looked so pale tonight.

+

Many of the original guests had left, but there was still a sizeable crowd remaining. Almost all of them were clustering around Duo's new picture, or trying to get a better view of it. The comments were many and varied; but mostly impressed.

"Whose is it?"
"Christ, sweetie, you should stay on celebrity interviews, and leave art reviews to us! It's his, isn't it? Duo Maxwell's! Must be..."
"You'd know it was a Maxwell, wouldn't you? Even without the colours. Look at the pen strokes -"
"Too delicate - more like a sketch -"
"More like his brother's work, you mean -?"
"There's a boldness here that you never got in Solo Maxwell's stuff, dammit! You could admire Solo's skill - but this stuff of Duo's grabs you by the balls, and you gotta feel it -"
"I always said that about his work, didn't I -?"
"Makes my stomach turn, y'know... in a sexy kinda way..."

A couple of journalists huddled together in front of it, muttering; a young boy - obviously a trainee - and a more confident woman who may have been his features editor.

"If it's a new Maxwell, this is a hell of a story, kid. Gotta have a headline! But what's the damn title? See anything?"

The boy peered at the corner of the picture. "Says 4:Y. Nothing else. Duo Maxwell always titled his paintings cryptically like that, didn't he?"

"4:Y? 'For why'? What the fuck does that mean?" The boy beside her winced; he gripped his notepad so tightly the bindings twisted. She terrified him...

She peered at it herself, as if she were trying to see behind the canvas. "Some kind of philosophical crap, I expect, like all these artists favour. Just painters, ain't they, at the end of the day? For why - it's probably California-speak - probably a confused cry about the state of his personal angst. Like we're bothered...He needs to get a proper job, that'd tell him for why -!"

She never heard the growl behind her. The boy did, and he flushed. He was new to the city pages, wasn't he, and he'd never done any time on the arts - but he was keen, and he'd read up on the Maxwells, both of 'em, as soon as he knew he'd got the exhibition job. And dollar to a cent, he knew the guy standing directly behind them was the man himself - Duo Maxwell!

+

Both Duo and Heero stood behind the viewers now; Heero had moved very swiftly to stand at Duo's side. Both listened carefully to the conversations around them. Both had growled at the journalist's comments. But as Duo reached out his hand to attract her attention, Heero's grip stopped him.

Duo turned to look at the strong, lean hand on his shoulder. He particularly stared at the tiny, crescent shaped scar at the base of Heero's ring finger. Heero had told him it was from a rather unexciting household accident when he was young - but it had never faded completely. Duo remembered licking at it, many times - softly lapping up drops of spilt beer; sucking up the sweat on Heero's hands after an energetic session in bed; cleaning off the sticky threads of warm cum, after climaxing deep inside Heero's fist...

He had a fascination for it, similar to the way that Heero caressed his tattoo. It was one of the marks of Heero - one of the things that were just his.

He shivered.

He pulled back his hand, and sighed. "Ah, Heero, I just wanna tell her -"

"Leave it," urged Heero. "Leave her. What do you want to waste your time on her for, anyway? This is your day, Duo - your show! Don't you see it now? It's my gallery, OK - but this is all you - all yours! You're the one they love - the one who's a success!"

He drew Duo back a little way from the chattering crowd - knowing they had little time or chance for a private conversation here. Especially since Duo had unveiled that picture.

His voice was urgent. "I arrived late tonight, deliberately - because I knew you'd have everything in hand. I wanted to tell you I trusted you - to show you -"

Duo frowned slightly. "No, man - you've always been clear. It's me that's been giving the mixed messages, remember?"

"Duo..." breathed Heero, ignoring him. "That doesn't matter now." His eyes were drawn back to the picture as if it were a magic charm - like a Circe calling sailors to its doom - like a Shangri-La calling to abandoned survivors. "Look at it! How could you bear to keep it hidden until now? Of course it's your work - it cries out everything about you! And it's - it's fantastic! I can't believe how beautiful it is - how rich - how vivid! But when did you -? How -?"

Why didn't you tell me? he was saying, Duo could see that. But Heero didn't actually say it. Duo wondered wryly when they'd lost their taste for argument. They'd always done it so well!

He reckoned it was just about the same time that he started to feel as tongue-tied as a six-year-old kid in front of Heero. That was about ten minutes ago.

"Heero, I couldn't let you see it until it was finished; if it were finished! That's why I've not been drawing other stuff recently - I've been working on this."

Heero remembered the evasion - the irritation Duo had shown whenever he questioned him about his painting and drawing. Whenever he'd tried to get closer to him. "I thought you were pulling away from me," he said, softly.

"I know you did." Duo's voice was equally soft. "'Praps for a while I thought I should..."

"You wanted to?"

Duo smiled. "No - that's not what I said, is it? I just needed to think things through. Did that all through last night, to tell you the truth - and started to make sense of a lot of other things I've been thinking and feeling over the last few weeks."

He didn't look directly at Heero - he swallowed hard, but his voice was calm and steady.

"When you talked about breaking up last night - I was shocked! Dammit, I'd never stopped to think whether we were really together to start with; so the thought of parting was a horror I hadn't considered. But then the horror was there..."

"Duo -"

"Hush," said Duo. "It's my turn for the words, OK? I tried to pretend it meant fuck all to me - it was all just for the pleasure of the moment. But you made me think about you, as well as myself; about all that I wanted to do for you. Made me think about why I was up nights and early mornings, doing this picture; why I've been sweating bricks over whether it's good enough; why it's so fuckin' important! And then I had to look at myself. At what a shit-faced little coward I was, all over you like a rash on the one hand, yet keeping you away from me on the other. I was scared, y'see - scared of what was happening to me; scared of what I wanted to say and do."

He rolled his eyes up; took a deeper breath. He didn't know how long he'd have before Heero was swept away from him again; or whether he'd come back. "I don't wanna be scared any more - not of Solo's memory; not of myself. Not of caring. Not of us...

"I want to be with you, Heero. I don't want to leave - not the gallery; not you. Things feel good with you - I feel good! You've connected me with the world again, and that was against my own inclinations. I can't get enough of you - I can't feel comfortable without you. You're my connection! And you're the best fuck I ever had, of course -" He grinned, almost nervously, and now his eyes glanced up sidewards to meet Heero's.

"Dammit, you're the best everything!"

Heero's eyes were very bright and sharp and fixed on Duo's mouth like he was waiting for something to spill out and frighten him again. They sparkled with every word of Duo's that didn't. "You said 'caring'," he said, very softly. "I thought that was just one of those 'words' you have no time for..."

"Sure, that's what it was," replied Duo, a little testily. He looked a little flushed; as if he were scared that he'd gone too far. "But now it's a word for you. From me. You deserve a better response from me than you've been getting - something for all that you've given me."

He lifted a hand and pointed to the painting in front of them. "And this gift is to speak for me as well. A gift for you."

+

Malia was calling for Duo - one of the sponsors wanted Heero, and was striding across the room towards him.

Both Heero and Duo ignored anyone else. They drew themselves into the shadow of the door to the apartment, where they could still see the picture, but keep their eyes on each other. Duo looked relaxed, now that he'd spoken what was on his mind - his face was soft, and his lips moist. Heero wanted desperately to kiss them. He wondered how long it'd be before he was allowed to do that again.

He reached out and stroked at the silver cross round Duo's neck - it was slim and cool, a vivid contrast against the warm pulse of Duo's throat. Duo's eyes flickered half-closed at the touch; then he opened them wide and grinned back at him. His expression was hungry - he was seeking even more.

"So you like the picture?"

"I like it," said Heero, softly. Duo flushed - the tone of Heero's voice told him so much more than the words. He needn't have worried - Heero understood what he was trying to say.

"And I see where you hung it -" said Heero, slowly. His mouth twisted with a barely suppressed smile. The pair of them looked instinctively to the floor beneath the painting. They both knew that underneath the table, there was a small, dark stain on the expensive polished floor.

"Thought I'd mark the occasion..." murmured Duo. "But I guess you'll want me to pay for the cleaning, since it was from my cum -"

Heero was proud of himself, holding back the sudden, violent flush that suffused his whole body. "You can come any time you like," he said, quickly and passionately. "I don't want any of it cleaned away."

"I ..." Duo wondered why he wanted to hug the guy. Or jump his bones, here and now.

Heero's dark, aching eyes gazed back at the picture - he still looked entranced. "But you didn't have to do this for the show, Duo. To start working again - to produce a new picture from Duo Maxwell after so long away - it's a hell of a commitment! You could have shown 4:DRMS instead. You told me once that your art could be pure torture - "

Duo smiled. "Yeah - hard labour, right? Guess I made rather a meal of that at the time. This wasn't like that." He sighed, gently. "You've sorta missed the point, love. This was - guess you'd call it -"

Heero still seemed frozen in position; was he afraid to turn and gaze at Duo?

"It was a labour of love, Heero. It's for you. Not for the gallery - not for the show. For you alone. Something you can show wherever you want - something you can be open about."

Duo put a hand to Heero's cheek and turned his head round to face him. Heero saw his wide, nervous eyes; smelled his light citrus aroma; felt his fingertips on his chin. He had barely enough time to start a smile when he felt the touch of Duo's lips, and his own lips were opening with instinctive pleasure to accept the tentative tip of his lover's tongue.

The desire soaked him like a sudden sweat - the taste of Duo's mouth was hot and unmistakably gorgeous. He sucked lightly on the invading tongue, and thrust his own back in eager reply.

He thought he heard himself groan.

The knot of people closest to them fell into shocked silence as they watched the two men embrace. A woman gasped. Another man hissed encouragement.

They stood together, arms around each other's waist and heads tilted gently to the side so that they fit all the more easily against each other's lips. Duo moaned; Heero growled.

And the kiss grew longer and deeper.

+

Quatre stood amongst the astonished spectators. When he saw Heero's hand slip confidently around Duo, and the two bodies tighten in together to deepen the kiss, he grinned.

About bloody time, too!

"OK folks, let's move along, shall we? Entertainment's on the walls, y'know, not sproutin' outta the top o' these gentlemen's boots!" He could see that Heero and Duo were oblivious to anyone around them, so he pushed firmly at the open-mouthed guests, putting himself between the couple and the rest of the milling room. He met the shock of the approaching sponsor with a look of challenge; he knew which of them would be the winner. That wasn't his name for nothing!

Malia stood by the screen, mouth wide open. Tony was grinning. Not that he'd had any idea about this, of course, but it was a damned fine sight!

Quatre saw one of the younger male journalists still staring at the two entwined men - he was rather flushed, and totally fascinated. Quatre had seen the cute little thing earlier - he was being bullied by that cow of an Arts editor. Quatre knew her well from other events; dammit, she understood less of art than her ass! He weighed up the kindness of nursing this naïf versus the fun of teasing him further - then he sighed, and made the more charitable decision.

"Wanna exclusive, chile?" he murmured into the startled boy's ear. "Guess you're looking for an answer to the title of Maxwell's new picture - 4:Y. You can see it for yourself now, can't you? I reckon it stands for For You. For Yuy! Go scribble that headline before your boss snaps it up instead!"

[part 9] [part 11] [back to FancyFigures' fic]