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Author: FancyFigures
True Colours + Part 2 Duo stared round at the upstairs studio. The outside door to the building had been fixed, following the break-in - the decorators were due to move into the gallery tomorrow, and the whole place was going to be renovated.He had three rooms up here; a bedroom with a small en-suite shower, a kitchen/diner, and the whole front of the apartment given up to the studio. He'd painted here, all the time, when the gallery first opened. He'd spread canvas after canvas against the walls - he'd mixed colours he'd never dreamed of before; drawn bolder strokes than he'd ever dared to before. He'd woken to the sharp blaze of early morning light in the spring, and dim, misty fog in the winter. Everything around him had been inspiration; everything was loaded with promise and the excitement of anticipation. Colours weren't bright enough for him - the hours in a day were too short for him to get it all down on canvas. His words spilled from his mouth like bubbles - his hands were never still. He'd sweated and argued and begged for this building. Solo was an established success - he had his own house; his own studio. But he'd offered to help Duo get somewhere - to set him up in his own apartment. Duo remembered poring over different sets of details with Solo - he'd been the one to point out the potential of this place. He'd been beside himself with excitement - he was gonna be his own master; he was gonna be known for his own work! No longer the kid brother of the famous Solo Maxwell! Solo had laughed sometimes at Duo's painting. Oh, he was proud of him - he said so. But the style was very different from his own - and Duo was still very young, in both age and experience. Only later had Duo suspected that it was in Solo's interest as well, to have him move out - Solo had a pretty complicated private life at times. He didn't always seem to like having Duo around. There'd only been five years between them, and there were so many ways that they were similar in temperament - in all the worst ways. There were days they argued all the time. But Duo had loved this place on sight. He couldn't move in fast enough. And for the first six months, all had gone well! The gallery had been opened in a burst of glamour and publicity - he'd sold three paintings from that night alone. Come to think of it, he thought that one of them might have been 4:0615. He'd enjoyed a coupla delicious dates with that cute little girl he met; he'd given a coupla fluffy interviews, and even been on TV. He thought about taking on an assistant, to handle the administration of his business - he was discussing a series of murals with one of the city institutions. He'd been on a high that had coloured his whole life. Then things had started to be a struggle. Like he had no idea, really, of how to run a commercial business; he admitted that to himself, in the dark hours of his solitary nights. He was too young - too inexperienced. Too desperate to be painting, not managing a gallery! His friends - and Solo's - had still patronised him. He loved to paint - he lived well. He ignored the tedious letters from his sponsors and the banks. He ignored most of the issues that weren't related to his painting. It had taken a frighteningly short period of time for both the glamour and the assets to start vanishing. Just a couple of months - that was all. So quickly that he barely saw it. By the time he began to wise up, the rot had set in. He stood tonight in the studio room that had been his pride and joy, and he stared out at the late afternoon light. He remembered how he'd painted from that view only months ago, when Solo was still alive; when there was still a glittering potential ahead of him. He'd picked out the staggering spikes of shade from the building shadows, and the low clouds. He'd mixed and thickened and layered the colours on his makeshift palette, and then just painted how he felt. He remembered how it had felt, then; the strangeness of that painting, and how it was always going to be unique to him. Of course, he had no idea then how things would be over the next few months. But it had disturbed him, even then - a brooding storm in his very mind, not just the sky outside. Musta been an omen, he thought later, with hindsight. That had been the painting 4:DRMS. It had been the last time he'd used colour like that - and the last picture that had sold. God knows how it had got into Yuy's hands - he couldn't even remember the name of his agent from those days, the man had skipped town so swiftly. So had everyone to do with his burgeoning career, it seemed. Bad news travelled damned fast. + It had been mere weeks after that painting that there'd been - the fire. The fire when Solo had died. When his brother's apartment had somehow gone up in flames, and no bastard had been there to help him, or to call 911, and so it had been gutted and charred and burned bare of anything resembling humanity, well before the fire service finally arrived. The casualty list had included his brother. That was less than a year ago, now - idly, cruel to himself, Duo wondered what he'd be doing to mark the anniversary. He'd promised Trowa he'd ease up on the drinking. Of course, after the initial fuss of the accident had died down, he'd been a little mad for a while. Fuck it, he'd been very mad! He'd drunk himself into a near coma for a week or so, until he was scared by the shaking of his hands - his inability to paint. The friends had all fallen away, except for Trowa Barton. He didn't chase after them - he didn't really care; they were just fair-weather friends, after all. He shut his door and closed all channels of communication, and finally no-one really came knocking for him. People were tolerant, but only for so long; the public attention was always fickle. He still worked, of course - dammit, painting was the only thing he knew how to do! The bills still had to be paid; commissions still had to be met; the press still clamoured for news of his work. He was even more newsworthy now, of course - the orphaned brother, losing his very last relative in a tragic accident! But the work he turned out then was ugly - no other word for it! Aggressive and harsh, there was no more of the dynamic, vibrant colours that everyone associated with his paintings. Just ugly - and unmarketable. The money ebbed even further away like a summer tide, like it had never been. He'd been ashamed of himself, but he was still greedy for the attention, especially when it began to wane - and that was when what had been seen as his endearing eccentricity slid into plain bad behaviour. When he started to become loud and brash and aggressive; when he started to seek out gratuitous sexual pleasure from transient companions; when he thought he could continue to live as he always had. People had still wanted to help him, he remembered. He'd not let them. He knew he'd lost everything, even then - even before there was paperwork to confirm it. His heart told him so. It was difficult to care about a building - about making a living, about unpaid bills and angry agents - when there was a fucking hole in the centre of him. He didn't understand why people didn't see that. For a few more months following the fire, he'd tried to keep it all together. He'd fired the staff; he lived in the gallery himself - he was his own receptionist, cleaner, and utilities manager. He lived and breathed it. He lied to the banks - he attempted to seduce angry suppliers. Gradually, he painted less and less - the demand dwindled alarmingly quickly, and he'd sold nothing since Solo died. And in all honesty, he didn't seem to have the heart for it. It was less than six months ago that the bailiffs had come, and taken the bulk of everything he owned, except his personal goods and the canvases he'd hidden round at Trowa's apartment. He'd not painted at all after that. He attended some therapy for a while, thanks to Trowa's introduction, and - dammit! - Trowa's money. If Trowa hadn't helped him out... well, he'd probably be even more of a basket case than he was now. It wasn't as if Trowa didn't suffer on his own account - but what fucking use had he been to him in return? Then, three months ago, he'd sat for a day beside Trowa's telephone and started the process of selling the gallery. His gallery. + Duo's eyes travelled slowly - cautiously - round the upstairs studio again. When he came back from Trowa's that day, armed with a list of estate agents' appointments and a jagged pain in his gut, he'd stood in this studio room for over an hour, barely moving. He thought he might have cried a little. Then he'd left the room, closed the door on it, and had never gone back in again. He made all the necessary calls the next day - he instructed lawyers and agents, and then left them to it. He wanted to know nothing about the disposal of his life and dreams. He'd drunk himself into a week of oblivion - again! - when he set the gallery up for sale. Marty had been the only guy to let him indulge it, and perhaps to keep an eye on him, but even he'd grown tired and angry with the loud, awkward kid who threw up in his toilet on a regular basis, and tried to hit on most of his younger clients. At the end of a particularly draining forty-eight hours, Duo remembered how he'd somehow gotten home, and sat slumped against the far wall of the darkened gallery. He'd felt surrounded by emptiness - by failure. His stomach had cramped and protested with the abuse and the vomiting - he couldn't remember eating very regularly at that time. He seemed to remember he'd cried. Yet again. He knew then that he was only waiting for the final reckoning. It had started already, closing in on him swiftly - and inexorably. From the lawyers; from the finance houses; from the estate agents. And, of course, from the parasitical gossip press. It had taken only a few months since the fire to eat away at everything he'd ever had - to bring him to where he remained today. Broke; ignored; forgotten. Bring it on, he'd thought then. Bring it on, I'm ready for it! I deserve it. He'd thought the reckoning was gonna come from God; but it was all far more mundane than that. He didn't know whether he was disappointed or not. + Duo stood here today, in the abandoned studio, with the dust disturbed by his entrance, and the light zigzagging across the wooden floor, just like he remembered in his nightmares. There were no paints left - no blank canvases. He'd either sold it all, or thrown it out. He was shocked to find that his hands ached to hold a brush; to stretch a rough surfaced canvas across a frame. The smell of the cleaning fluid; the soft stickiness of the paint. He missed it like a lover; he realised that he probably always would. He hadn't turned away from painting; rather, it had escaped from his abuse. He'd let the whole fucking thing down. Solo... He turned around, and went back across the landing to the small bedroom. He'd known, when he sold his gallery, that he had no rights to his home, either. The apartment above the gallery itself went with the block - his debts swallowed the whole damn lot. Damned decent of Yuy to offer him a tenancy, he supposed. His Corporation coulda used the floor for more gallery space - or to rent to another artist. Coulda ripped out the fittings, and made an office. Or made it a cosy little pied-a-terre, and used it to keep whomever he was fucking at the moment in a measure of comfort. Used it to raise pigeons, for Christ's sake... Duo shook off the ramblings. Damn Yuy! Smug little rich prick! Sitting there, with his cool, handsome face, and those amazing eyes, staring at him like he was an alien life form. Long, muscled legs and steady shoulders, all wrapped up in Italian fabric and leather, the like of which hadn't touched Duo's own body for over a year. 'I know your work...' he'd said. Yeah, right! thought Duo, viciously. Like he'd have found the later works interesting - the ones Duo painted after the fire! Crap - wild, dark, monochrome crap! Trowa called it some kinda catharsis - Duo called it some kinda shit. The amateur messings of a guy who'd lost his nerve. We won't be seeing them in Mr Heero Yuy's private collection, will we? He sighed; he knew he wasn't being fair. Wasn't Yuy's fault, was it, all this? God knows why he was so angry with him. There were a couple of bags on his bed. His clothes and belongings had been packed away for weeks now. He knew he'd be thrown out. He'd been waiting for it. There were things still in the cupboards; clothes still in the wardrobe. Solo's things. Things that his brother had carelessly left whenever he visited - things that Duo had taken from the mess that had been Solo's home. Duo had left them in the apartment, not intending to take them away with him - though obviously the new owner wouldn't want them. Was it his cowardly way of finally clearing them out? Well - now he was left with them again, wasn't he? So tomorrow he'd sweep it all away. Tomorrow, he'd dispose of it all. It'd be just his place again - just him. He'd invite Trowa over, to share a bottle of beer, and let the guy try to tell him how to pull his life together. Trowa... no-one had been as good to him as Trowa Barton. But everything came with a legacy. Everything he received from Trowa was from a genuine, selfless desire to help - but it all came with that look that Trowa always had now; that lost look. The look that Duo couldn't cope with. The look that he thought even a good, friendly fuck wouldn't ease. Else he'd have offered it to Trowa more often... With a sigh, he started to unpack again. Like that was gonna take all of three minutes! + Heero sat on the deep, soft leather couch in his city apartment and watched the panoramic evening view from the window. Guests always found it so delightful. And he found it such a cliché. Poor little rich kid cliché. Penthouse apartment; portfolio of A1 stocks; glamorous clothes; travel. And money - loads of it. Equally wealthy friends and acquaintances. And, of course, the even more glamorous girlfriend. He sighed. Quatre was inevitably right - the blond man had the benefit of an innate judgement that Heero had never developed. He, Heero Yuy, was bored. And something else a little more elusive - a little more melancholy. Of course, he enjoyed his position in the Yuy Corporation - he'd enjoyed establishing himself in the financial world over the last few years. The business negotiations were amusing; the legalities were challenging. Occasionally, he met someone who threatened a fight - and he all but welcomed it. Because he almost always won. It wasn't just a question of his money, which was surely plentiful enough to obtain him whatever he wished. It was also his will - a strong, single-minded, resolute will to win. He liked to be the victor. Quatre would have asked what the fuck else he had in his barren little universe! Quatre, of course, lived every aspect of life to the full, and business was merely one element. Business was for managers and lawyers to handle - profits were to support Quatre Winner's many other pleasures. He made no secret of the fact that he found Heero's daytime life and ambitions astoundingly boring, though not Heero, himself. They just had different ideas on how to seek personal satisfaction. And even when they argued - if Quatre could be accused of such an unattractive trait! - then Quatre would laugh any offence out of his comments, and take Heero out into his night time world. It had all been a revelation to Heero - to see how the blond lived this more hazardous side of his life. The clubs he visited; the private entertainments he was invited to. The people who welcomed him hungrily; the people he used in return - and always with his irresistible mixture of charm and cynical amusement. Heero had accompanied him a little nervously, at first - though Quatre wanted nothing more from him than his company. Heero was never pressed to do anything he didn't want to. And then the curiosity and the fascination began to ensnare him; he found a hollow deep inside of him, which seemed to be seeking a satisfaction; a satisfaction that he'd obviously never known. Heero had never thought of himself as introspective, but as his adult life continued, so had this hollow feeling. By day, he filled it with business, and the mechanics of life. For personal amusement, his collection of paintings began to have a more significant priority. By night, he dated supermodels, and followed Quatre to dens of various iniquities. He was an avid spectator, there - and he had joined in occasionally, though never as enthusiastically as Quatre. He was drawn, though - fascinated by other sides of life. That had been the bond that had slowly deepened the friendship with Quatre into maturity. It had provided them with shared desires for the first time. It seemed that those were the only times he felt any excitement nowadays. Quatre, now, knew him better than anyone - he knew when Heero wanted to escape from the restrictions of daily life; where he would feel the thrill of anonymity; how he could indulge tastes and desires that no-one else even suspected of him; that he may not even have suspected of himself. Heero gazed at the professionally decorated room - the sensual, silken drapes; the thick fabric papers. The cool, perfectly proportioned chrome and glass furniture. He seemed to see things afresh. Duo Maxwell had been right in his assessment - about his oh-so-tasteful apartment. That was why the 4:DRMS painting hung elsewhere. Not for the first time, he wondered about the bizarre titles the man used for his work. Heero wasn't sure if he felt totally comfortable about thoughts of Duo Maxwell sneaking into his most private time! The door from the kitchen area slid softly open, and a tall woman stepped through. She carried an opened bottle, and two large crystal glasses. She was probably a little taller than Heero himself - though her extraordinary slimness accentuated her height. She looked across at him, her eyes widened, and she smiled. Perfect teeth - smooth facial skin that barely crinkled at the edges of her mouth. She was totally stunning. Her body moved elegantly across the room, a fall of long auburn hair brushing at her shoulders. "Honey, was this the right bottle? I don't know the vintages like you do." "Remy, it's just wine," he replied. "Haven't you had enough? The party went on too long - we're both pretty tired." The girl placed the bottle carefully on the low table, and slid into the couch beside him. Her legs bent gracefully together - she smoothed the fragile silk of her shift dress underneath her as she settled. Then she kicked off high-heeled, spaghetti-strapped sandals, and curled her feet up on to the soft cushions. She saw Heero watching, and she flushed, gently. "You're tired because of our - aperitif - Heero, honey. That delicious session before the party, hmm? If I hadn't rolled you out of bed and out to the shower, we would never have gotten there at all." "You regret that?" murmured Heero. He couldn't help but admire her beauty. She was flawless - even her behaviour in bed was sensual and attractive. And so eager that he was sometimes surprised that she wanted him so much. He wasn't falsely modest - he knew he was attractive to women. And he knew how to please them. But he'd always considered himself rather cool in bed - not as enthusiastic as lovers had wanted, in the past. He hadn't known why - nor what to do to stimulate things in that context. It had been a source of amazement to him that Remy had attached herself to him, and continued to do so. You suffer from that irritating habit of low self-esteem, sweetheart! Quatre would have said. Not something he would ever have suffered from himself, in any capacity. That was the same Quatre who'd suggested that bedding Remy de Haas, the supermodel, would be like fucking a painted doll. Heero had suggested in return that his friend was out of order, obviously jealous, and it was nothing like that. Quatre had apologised for the first, denied the second with asperity, and laughed. Heero felt ashamed that that conversation returned to him regularly, even in the middle of the night, when often he was in the dark, his naked body covering Remy's pale, angular form, and he was sheathed deep inside her. Gasping alongside her cute, quiet little whimpers; climaxing almost against his will. Then lying back against expensive silk sheets with the undeniable feeling of disappointment; mostly with himself. He wondered why he found real relationships beyond his undoubted abilities. "I regret nothing," sighed Remy, her breath against his cheek, bringing his attention back to her. "Nothing that involves being naked with you, honey." Her lips were flavoured with a cherry lipstick, and the remains of a sweet wine from the party they'd just been to. There was often drink on her breath - she enjoyed drinking; she smoked heavily as well, and he knew she took drugs in a manner far too casual for his liking. He tolerated it, for her. Heero hated the parties; he hated the feeling of being on show. But Remy - inevitably - adored them. And he admitted that it was important that he met these people - that he cultivated their patronage. These were the people he wanted to invest in his new development - the people who would attend the functions he intended to hold in the new gallery. "Was it tough, darling? The meetings? The business with the gallery? I guess that Duo Maxwell is a real oddball - they say he's trouble, all the way..." Heero grunted a reply. He didn't know why he was reluctant to discuss it with her. He often bounced business ideas off her - though he didn't necessarily expect any return advice. He loosened his tie, and let her slip her thin fingers in between the buttons of his shirt, opening it wide to caress his chest. "What's he like, Heero?" "Maxwell?" Heero wondered where he'd begin. "He's young, about my age. Long hair - athletic figure. Dresses like a stylish tramp. Talks loudly - rudely. Waves his hands about. I don't know what he does with his time, because he's certainly not showing pictures any more..." "But he's going to stay in the apartment? The one over the gallery? Is that wise, Heero?" "What do you mean?" He turned his body to face her; the tight buds of her breasts pressed against his bare skin, even through her dress. He knew she wore no underwear as a matter of course - it made unsightly lines in her profile. "He's got to have somewhere to live. I'm buying the gallery, not someone's home." "It's not bothered you before, hon, whoever you evicted. I just wondered why this was different. Did he have a lot of stuff there?" Heero stared at her, confused. "What does that matter? The guy told me he had nothing of his own - just a couple of paintings, and his clothes. I don't see why he should have been lying." "Sweetie, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to annoy you..." "There was a break-in, y'know? Last night; at the gallery. Though God knows, it must be obvious that there's nothing worth taking there. While I was out with Quatre, and Maxwell was - God knows where..." "And I was shooting the pantyhose commercial!" laughed Remy, breaking into his musing, swinging her hair softly over Heero's chest so that a thin strand caught in his mouth. He spat it out, quickly. "Do you know the Maxwells, Remy? You move in those circles more than I do. Did you know Solo Maxwell?" She sighed, her breath warm against his shoulder. Her face was buried against his skin, so that he couldn't see her expression. "A little. At parties, y'know? He liked to party - Solo Maxwell. I don't know the other brother." "What happened to Solo exactly? I know he died..." "I don't know, honey. I didn't want to know - I guess it was something unpleasant. Come and kiss me, Heero..." But he was still talking; still thinking. "I guess Quatre will know, if I ask him. And I daresay he knows about Duo Maxwell, as well. I never saw much of Solo's work - but Duo's...his paintings were amazing. I have two. I wish I'd bought more. I used to wish I could meet the man that could express such barely-repressed emotion on a plain canvas..." "And now you have, and he's a pig. OK, Heero?" Her voice was soft like liquid gold. She pushed him gently back on to the deep cushions, and he let her. She was teasing the zip of his pants, and he tried to concentrate on encouraging an erection. "Why won't you show me your art collection again? Why is it some kind of secret?" Heero laughed, but a little distractedly. "Remy, it's no secret! I mean - that's where we met, isn't it? When I showed some of the collection a coupla months ago - the other side of town. You came with that stockbroker..." "And left with you..." Her musical voice was seductive. "I remember, honey..." "It's just a personal thing," continued Heero. He'd rarely shown his collection publicly before then; and never since. It had always felt - awkward. He had no time to give to deciding why that might be. "I'd rather wait until I have the gallery refurbished, and then I'll reconsider displaying some of them. They can be shown to their proper advantage, there...anyway, you've shown little interest in art before, eh?" "I'm sure that Quatre Winner's seen them, Heero - you spend more time with him than me! You go to clubs with him - shows - he entertains you at his racing stables -" "Remy, let's not start that up again...Quatre is my dearest friend, and I've known him for many years more than I've known you..." But Remy appeared to be drifting into a well-worn path. Heero felt his attention waning; his arousal losing heart. Her silky voice was turning caustic to his ears. "You think I'm stupid, Heero. I won't appreciate your precious artworks! Like I don't understand all this tedious business stuff -" Heero's objective mind struggled with the truth, and he didn't dare to reply. Remy was internationally famous, and Remy was like the most fantastic portrait on legs; but Remy had never shown any sign of being an intellectual. He looked up into the softly brimming eyes, and marvelled at how she could make even a pout look gorgeous. She did seem to like him so much... "Enough of business, then. Take me to bed, instead." "Maybe not," she sighed. "Maybe we should do it right here -" Heero groaned, as her hand slid down the loosened front of his pants, and grasped him tightly. She peeled open the fabric, and slipped his awakening cock out of his boxers. He knew he'd not get a chance to undress any further at the moment - she liked to play the wanton whenever she thought she'd upset him. And he rarely had the heart to stop her. "He's not a pig, Remy." "Wha -?" Her head raised itself out of his lap, and the eyes were large and frustrated. There was a tiny thread of saliva on her lower lip, from where she'd begun to lick gently at him. "Maxwell. Duo Maxwell. Not a pig - he was actually very articulate, and is obviously highly creative. The gallery had been a fantastic place before it closed - the old publicity pictures are on file. The interior design was amateur in many ways - but inspired in intention. He had a real feel for the presentation of art! He just has a real problem with social skills. Must forget that he's just a guy like the rest of us. He has a chip on his shoulder; he must have been hell to deal with. " "Probably still is, honey," came her mumbled response. "He's an artist. They're all a little unhinged." Something in Remy's voice struck Heero as too sharp. But her mouth was very skilled, and he'd forgotten how sweet she smelt - and he did need some comfort. He relaxed a little. "He's just a guy..." Heero said, as if he were repeating an internal mantra. "Don't talk about him anymore, Heero," she complained. Her hand slid gently around the back of his waist, teasing out his shirt from the waistband, and gripping him harder. He felt the familiar scrape of acrylic nails on his bare skin. It made him shiver. Her tongue licked and caressed him, and she whispered promises against his groin. "Let it go, Heero. It's just a deal. I can help you relax. I know what you like..." As his hips thrust gently out towards Remy's ministering touch, Heero remembered - to his returning embarrassment - the mocking tones of Quatre Winner. "Who knows what you really like, Heero Yuy? When are you ever gonna let anyone close enough to find out -?" + Duo dropped the chair back on to the dustsheet, and cursed enthusiastically. He knew he had no room to complain, even with the noise of the builders, and the trucks, and the clatter of various designers and craftsmen. No, he just kept hidden up in his rooms, like the exile he was, and he had no rights in particular over what his new landlord chose to do to the block. But the gallery looked fucking good! It was much brighter downstairs - they'd removed an internal wall, and set up perspex screens in its place, and the lighting was far more subtle and imaginative than he'd ever been able to afford. He noticed that they'd left in place the massive presentation board that swept the whole length of the room - that medium had been one of his innovations when he set the gallery up. Daresay they just didn't have the time to dismantle it today - there'd be some other, more impressive display to be installed soon. He couldn't help it - he imagined his paintings in the room as it was now; he imagined what he would place where. He felt a frisson of long-forgotten excitement; in that moment, he despised his lively mind for the traitor it was. The door swung open, and Heero Yuy was there. Duo didn't know why he felt a shiver; the day wasn't cold. Didn't know what the fuck the guy was doing here, anyway. "They've done a full day's work, OK?" he snapped. His voice sounded even sharper than he'd intended. "The decorators. I assume you've come to check up on your investment." Heero walked on into the room, closing the door behind him. It shut out the noise of the street; people rushing past on their way home; cabs shrieking away from the kerbs, full of office workers seeking an early drink or two. "I'm not checking up," said Heero, calmly. "I just wanted to see how the place was looking, with all the workmen gone." "You want me to go -?" "No," said Heero, rather quickly. "I'd appreciate your opinion. What do you think of it?" Duo stared at him, like he'd strayed into the Twilight Zone. Guess the guy had never lived through bankruptcy; guess he'd never signed over his inheritance for the sake of somewhere to sleep; guess he'd never seen someone move into his place, and turn it all upside down. Or he'd never expect anyone to give his opinion on it! "It's fine," he said, and was slightly surprised that that was all he had to say. He reached a hand out to the wall, and leant against it, bending one hip towards it. "So you're dabbling in art now, as well as 97.7% of the top Dow Jones stocks?" Heero pursed his lips; wondered where Duo had heard that particular statistic. It had only just been released on the national channels that morning. Why should Duo Maxwell be interested in knowing more about Heero Yuy? He'd made it pretty obvious what his opinion was of the whole arrangement, from the very first meeting. "This is a perfect location. It makes sense to keep it as a gallery." Duo winced. Seems they agreed on something, anyway. "And your sense is - of course - of prime importance, isn't it, Mr Yuy? Do you ever fail in anything?" Heero bit his lip against the rudeness. He'd known worse. He didn't really know why Duo's seemed to unbalance him so much. "No, Mr Maxwell - not where I've decided to succeed. Not where I decide to make my mark." They glared at each other again. Heero was drawn to the amazing pools of emotion in Duo's eyes - the way that his whole body announced his tension. The waves of feeling from the other man made Heero feel as if the ground were unsteady under his feet - as if there were quicksand in the vicinity. He even moved his feet, surreptitiously - as if he needed to be more securely planted on the gallery floor. Maxwell was wearing something barely decent again - sweat shorts that dipped low under his navel, with long, strong legs displayed beneath. There was the thinnest trail of hairs across his belly, running down into the waistband. His feet were bare. On his torso, he wore something that was obviously brightly coloured, and with an unevenly cut hem - Heero assumed it were a shirt, but there were no sleeves, and on one side it barely reached from armpit to midriff. He noticed that Duo's skin was smoothly tanned, and where the man leant to one side, it plumped very slightly over the waistband of the shorts. Duo didn't bother admiring Heero's beautifully cut suit; he barely registered the frighteningly bright whiteness of his shirt, or the vivid turquoise of his silk tie. He wouldn't normally credit such things as critical in his assessment of people. Instead, he stared straight into the other man's eyes, and couldn't help but feel the power there. He knew it'd be the same throughout the tall, wiry body; Heero would be fit, and well muscled, and totally controlled. His mouth would always speak sense - his eyes would always look straight ahead. His shoulders would stretch easily; his body would turn quickly, wherever his attention demanded. His hands would be sure and strong. Duo didn't know why the thought of Heero Yuy's hands made an uncomfortable stir in the pit of his stomach. He wondered what made Mr Heero Yuy lose control - he wondered who made him lose control... Heero's voice broke in. "Do you have a current job?" "Huh?" "I came to see you as well, Mr Maxwell. I'll need an artistic director for the gallery. Someone to promote it - to launch it in time for the next season. I need it to be placed in everyone's mind within the year, in order to start recouping the Corporation's investment. It should be handled by someone who understands a gallery - who understands the industry." He said again, as if he thought Duo wasn't listening, "Who understands the arts - and artists." Duo badly wanted to resist saying 'huh' again, but he couldn't find anything more coherent. Heero's mouth twisted in half a smile. It looked uncharacteristically nervous. "I'd have expected more conversation from you, Mr Maxwell. Even more argument..." "You wanna shut the fuck up with your smart comments and tell me what you're talkin' about?" growled Duo. He pushed away from the wall and straightened up. Heero saw the lowering afternoon light catch on the shades of his hair. It wasn't fully braided today - just clasped behind his neck in an old tie clip. The ends flicked softly around the level of his hips. Heero tore his eyes away from it. It was just hair - and impracticably long, of course. He felt slightly nauseous - though, strangely, it wasn't an unpleasant feeling. "I'm offering you the job. And it's acceptable for you to call me Heero, as my executives do at the office." Duo stared, still angry. "There's no-one else here - Heero." "I - no, I can see that. My eyesight's fine, thank you. What do you mean?" "Assuming this ain't some kind of twisted joke, there's still no-one here to see you show off your benevolence. Your charity towards the impoverished artist, whose livelihood and home you've recently acquired. Sort of an empty gesture, ain't it?" "It's - fuck -" Heero was angry that he'd let the expletive loose. "What's up with you? It's not a gesture. Not a joke! It's a genuine offer." "Why me? What do you know about me? Except that I'm a failed artist - failed businessman - failed just about everything -" "You're an artist!" snapped Heero. "You can't fail at that, Maxwell. You are or you aren't! It's what you do with it that matters. And I saw what you did with the gallery when - when it was yours. It was fine - it was impressive. I want that vision for it again - I want that style, that creativity. For example, take the presentation wall - that was your idea, wasn't it?" Duo stared at the strong, clear-cut features of Heero's face; the full lips spouting such surprising words. Words that seemed to be mismatching somewhere between his ears and his brain. "Yeah. I - I wanted that long, deep view, to draw the eye all the way from the front of the building, back to the smaller works. It catches the sun - it's a different shade at different times of the day. Though it used to get a bit dark later on -" "Not with the perspex facing it, that's an improvement on the solid wall that was there previously. It'll open the whole thing out, now; give you the illusion of more space. And the ceiling hangings -?" Duo had forgotten them - he'd once thought he would exploit the height of the gallery ceiling by suspending some of his works. Then the supplier of the twine had let him down, and he'd abandoned the effect - but the fittings were still there. He was amazed that Heero had noticed. "I - yeah... thought it'd be an unusual effect. All I ever wanted to do was to get people to see as many paintings as I could force on 'em, y'know? To make 'em see..." "That's what I want," said Heero. "That kind of thought. Those kind of ideas." For one of the few times in his life he felt that his words were inadequate. There was something about Duo Maxwell that confused him. "Of course - you may be painting again. You may not have the time to take on a job as well." Duo's mouth opened, then shut again. He swallowed. "I won't be painting again this side of Armageddon, OK? I've got so much time, I'm thinking of selling it to your own brokers." Heero's expression looked like he was struggling to understand. "You have a God-given talent - you must know that. People are envious of that. I guess even I might be envious of that. You ought to use it." "Fuck you know about it, Heero," replied Duo, though there was less force in his hostility now. "There's a hell of a lot of things I oughtta do. So join the list. Is painting - or not painting - a condition of the job?" Heero's eyes widened. He looked like he might laugh - but whether from amusement or frustration, who knew? "No. Only that you make something of it - that you give something of yourself to it. That's what I do with my own work. It's the only way to success." "And you like success, don't you, Heero?" "I do," he replied. He heard the passion in his own voice, and knew it was from his heart. "That's the one area I can't yet judge in you; whether you have that appetite as well. I want this gallery to be an oasis in the middle of the city; a gathering place for those who want to see things of beauty - and of challenge. And I want its reputation to be known throughout the state - perhaps beyond. For its high standards - its appreciation of good pieces. For its innovative approach. "Can you do that, Mr Maxwell? Can you make that work?" Duo looked a little stunned, and for that, Heero was inordinately pleased. He rather thought that Duo Maxwell lived in his own world, and expected those around him to gravitate to him, rather than him feed out to them. He ignored the fact that it sounded a rather familiar profile. And he was just slightly afraid - a feeling he rarely entertained. It was fear of all the things he didn't know about this man; and what it might mean to continue the connection with him. "Yeah," said Duo, suddenly. "Sounds OK. I can do it. If you wanna take my word for it." His body seemed to relax a little; he ran a hand aimlessly up and down the skimpy shirt, and the thin fabric crinkled and creased along his torso. Heero thought he glimpsed the glint from a sheen of sweat on that sun-browned skin. He drew a deep breath. "So - good. I'll have a contract drawn up tomorrow. We can talk about the range of executive salary; I hope it'll be acceptable to you. And - are you going to let me call you Duo, in return?" The other man grinned - it was a wide, sudden, generous grin, and Heero was a little shocked to feel how it seemed to have a warmth of its own. The floor seemed to shift under him again. "Only you would ask that, Heero! Mr Proper, eh? I've been called plenty of things in my life and most of 'em were at the top of some legal clerk's papers - but Duo's fine by me. I ain't ever been an executive before, though I hope you don't expect some smart suit and tie - the punch card mentality. If that's gonna be a problem at work -" "I expect professionalism," said Heero, shortly. "Commitment. How you apply that, is your decision. It won't be easy - I assume you know how much hard work will be required. And I'll know if the project's not working." "And - you expect success, eh?" Duo's mood was still wary. But he seemed to have a fascination for Heero's expression - for each word that he spoke. "That's a given, ain't it?" + Heero had called Remy and cancelled their appointment for that night. She'd wheedled and cajoled - but he wanted no party tonight; no premiere full of forced smiles and the press scribbling about what designer he was or wasn't wearing. He couldn't remember what the movie was they were meant to be seeing - couldn't muster up enough enthusiasm to find out. She could take one of her many adoring fans instead. He considered it unlikely that Remy de Haas was looking for a serious relationship; she struck him as similar to him in that way. Not interested in commitment of that kind. He was sure that she was dating other people as well as him - there was enough of the gossip that filtered through to him to confirm that - but he wasn't really surprised that the thought didn't upset him. He supposed that he still held enough interest for her to keep up the acquaintanceship. He didn't feel either flattered or disappointed with her attentions. Dammit, he thought, he seemed too tired to be feeling anything very clearly at the moment! He was alone in his apartment, and with a private smile, he realised that he was enjoying it. He'd never had a problem with suffering his own company. He peeled off his business clothes, and slipped into sweat pants and a sleeveless vest. The rooms were temperature controlled, so he was rarely too warm or too cold. Then he made himself a drink, and unwrapped a salad that had been left in his fridge, and he settled himself down on his deep couch to eat it. He almost never ate on the couch. He had a dining area; he had proper cutlery and fine bone china crockery. He often entertained - and had staff come in and cater regularly for him. He also had strong opinions on how people - including himself - should behave at all times. Those standards didn't include lounging around, or being improperly dressed. He guessed he was a bit of a control freak in that way. He guessed that was why, recently, Duo Maxwell's attitude and clothing seemed to disturb him. Now he sat with one leg folded up underneath him, dressed almost sloppily, and not appearing to care about either! He was picking at a salad he had little interest in, and watching the occasional drop of water or shred of cress drop on to the impeccable leather covering of his furniture. How out of character! He took a deep draught of his favourite red wine, and felt an unusual warmth spread through him. Sighing, he put the plate back up on to a table. He wasn't really hungry. He thought he might call Quatre, and see if he wanted to come round and entertain them both. Quatre never seemed unsure of anything; never seemed tired of life. Is that what I am? he thought, with a slight shock. No... just restless! And Quatre would amuse and settle him - it was always Quatre who helped him find some freedom within the restrictive life that he led. Quatre was the one who reminded him there was a world outside. He'd met Quatre when their respective companies had been in the midst of a property deal. Quatre was the heir apparent to international racing stables, and, at that time, was enjoying his role as crown prince-in-waiting. His father still ran the business - Quatre was left with time on his hands and pockets full of dollars. He was a gift to the paparazzi - a true playboy! He spent money gleefully; he rode his own family's horses to success on the racecourse; and he found everything an immense entertainment. Heero had been more than a little fascinated by him; he'd also been surprised to find that Quatre Winner dated beautiful people of both genders, and no-one seemed shocked. He'd been a bit of a culture shock to Heero, overall - to a young man who was fairly quiet on the social front, and rather more interested in stock flotation than roulette. But Heero had realised early on that Quatre played a role for his own amusement. And it seemed that Quatre had seen a similar duplicity in Heero. Their curiosity had been piqued - they'd both decided to find out a little more about each other. Then when the property deal had been concluded, and the lawyers and accountants had moved on, Quatre and Heero had remained good friends. By then, they knew things about each other that no-one else did. They had a trust in each other that neither of them gave to anyone else. That was just the way that things had developed between them. Quatre joked that the analysts would have their money's worth if they ever attempted to reason it out! He was just content that it worked for the pair of them; so was Heero. They left it at that. But tonight, Heero hesitated before calling his friend. Something was nagging at him. Something Quatre had said? Maybe something that someone else had said... He drifted towards his bedroom; he thought he might get dressed again, and go out to his house outside the city. He kept the art collection there, in a secure basement. It was the one place he knew he could go and be soothed. He had a strange, irrational desire to go and look at the small but prestigious collection that he owned; perhaps to look again at the Duo Maxwell works that he recalled so clearly. He caught sight of himself in his mirror, as he reached for pants and a more casual shirt. He straightened up, and for a second, he stared into the dark pupils of his own eyes. There's nothing new to be seen there, he thought. His gaze followed the wide line of his shoulders - the taut skin of his slimmer torso. He reached his hands up, and peeled off the vest. Still, he stood and stared. He watched his fingers reach up, and tease gently at his nipple. He thought he saw a flash in the reflection of his eyes, but then he doubted it. He'd never thought his skin was particularly sensitive there; then he felt the twinge of desire in his groin, and was surprised at it. His hand drifted down, and the fingers balanced on the waistband of the sweats. He tugged them down - but only a little way, so that his navel was exposed. He gazed at the shallow dip; felt an urge to press his fingertip inside and caress it. He let a finger from his other hand come to join it; it traced aimlessly down the thin layer of hair that ran from between his nipples, and down over his tight abdomen. Goose pimples followed in its wake; following a familiar trail. Just like another trail that his eyes had followed earlier on that day... a garish shirt; tanned skin. Bare feet. Another, half-clothed body that had somehow fascinated him. Heero saw the shadow under his sweats, and suddenly realised that he was becoming aroused. He turned away from the mirror, abruptly - he didn't understand where that reaction had come from. He didn't welcome it - of course he didn't! He needed to pull himself together, and get out of town for an hour or so. He wouldn't consider that the nausea in his stomach might be trying to tell him something. [part 1] [part 3] [back to FancyFigures' fic] |