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"Sinnerman"Written By: L.
Valensi Disclaimer: The characters are copyrighted to
BANDAI and all others responsible for their creation. Rating: NC 17 Pairings: 1x2 Summary: Duo and Heero were in the same unit in the war. Heero was killed and Duo is searching for those responsible. « » Marks words spoken in a different language
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx i pack my suit in a bag; i'm all dressed up for Prague Damien Rice, “Prague” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 20:00. Duo deduced that Trinoi Levinski was a man of above-average intelligence. It was only ever a matter of time before so-called men of action got tired of laying low and playing safe. Ex-spooks, thieves, killers—it didn’t matter; all of them were intensely bored by the idea of a nice house in the suburbs with a white picket fence. Chaos was the drug of choice for adrenaline junkies like Levinski, who would rather bet his life in a gamble than opt out for a peaceful existence. Not that Duo was complaining—it was due to this addiction to chaos that Levinski was brought out of hiding. Now, he was placing his bets on Duo’s table, and the poor son of a bitch didn’t have a chance in hell. Rule number one: the house always wins, thought Duo as he sat, patiently awaiting the arrival of his prey in the Ungelt Jazz and Blues Club, smack dab in the heart of Prague. Duo considered the possibility that perhaps God was looking out for him on his little manhunt. It was the beginning of a new school year, so most of the students and tourists were absent from the scene. It was a weeknight, also; the perfect time for the locals to come and enjoy the music without the squealing Chinese girls and their tiny flashing cameras. There was an ex-pat and an NYU student or two, but they passed as good company for locals with the yankophile disease. The bartender—a man in his late twenties dressed like a hipster from the Lower East Side— approached him with a drink list and a grin that made him look awfully like a young Woody Allen. “What would you like?” he said with a heavy Czech accent. «You have Staropramen here? If so, give me two.» said Duo, who received the surprised look he was expecting. The young man laughed, placing the laminated list down in front of Duo. «Sorry, man, I thought you were an American,» he said to Duo. «You look like someone straight from one of their magazines.» “That’s because I am,” replied Duo in English. «But what kind of visitor would I be if I didn’t learn the local lingo?.» Looking even more baffled than before, the bartender gave Duo and apologetic look as he proceeded to serve other customers. He returned with two extra-large glasses of beers and placed it before Duo. «Sorry about that. It’s almost show time so people are steadily heading down. The rest will probably be down here soon after dinner.» Duo reckoned he was probably referring to the tenants eating dinner at the restaurant above the underground club. ‘Woody Allen,’ as Duo mentally referred to him as, squinted his eyes at Duo, as if he were trying to see him in a better light. It prompted Duo to look at him questioningly. «I swear, man, you look really familiar. Are you famous?» he said, frankly. Woody turned away from him for a moment to serve more new patrons. Duo glanced quickly at his watch for the time. 20:30. Show time. He looked towards the door and soon enough, the man in question sauntered ever so suspiciously into the premises. He turned back to the bar and met once again with the curious gaze of the bartender. «You are, aren’t you? Famous, I mean?» he asked again. Duo could hear the tinge of excitement in his voice and found it was the right time to take his leave. He slapped a wad of Euros onto the table and put his finger to his lips. «Ssh,» said Duo coquettishly. «Don’t tell anyone.» He winked before taking off to the other side of the establishment, beers in hand, leaving the bartender blushing. Duo took a large gulp from one the glasses. Before he descended the steps into the crowded stage area, he inhaled and prepared himself for the role he would soon play. Without any further delay, Duo plastered a wide grin on his face. He began rudely bumping the seated patrons as he made his way to his chosen seat, shouting loud, insincere excuses. He received a million dirty glares, but he noticed quickly that his target hardly gave him a second look. The stoic Russian merely stared at the bottom of his empty bottle of beer even as Duo boisterously sat down across from him. The band, a quartet of aging musicians in plain casual wear, soon began their set with a jazzed-up rendition of The Beatles’ “Happiness is a Warm Gun.” Duo swayed with the music, purposely botching the words of the song as he crooned it obnoxiously along with the band. As the song moved into five-minute solos from each member of the band, Duo turned to stare blankly at the well-dressed Trinoi Levinski across the table from him with eyes wide and snoopy. Trinoi caught Duo’s look and raised a brow right back at him. Duo set his chin on his palm childishly, as if inebriated, and said to him a little above the music, “You like the music?” Trinoi replied with a perplexed scrunch of the brow and a shrug. “Aimez-vous cette musique?” he then said in French. The man shook his head. Duo paused, pursed his lips, and tapped his finger on the table for a minute, before he leaned in closer to him and said the same sentence, this time in Russian. The man instantly perked up when he heard his mother tongue. He shook his head and set his empty bottle down onto the table between them. «They’re playing American bullshit,» he said. «Actually, it’s British bullshit, but I guess that’s probably the same to you, eh?» «They are all nations of sheep,» he said, following with a derisive laugh. «You are Russian?» «Oh, no, no, I’m not Russian,» replied Duo, exaggerating the answer with hand gestures implying no. «I’m a lawyer. I work with a pharmaceutical company in America, but Prague is my city.» The Russian nodded with a vacant look that was supposed to convey inattentiveness, but Duo knew better. He even caught the other man’s gaze shifting to the two tall glasses of beer he’d brought. «You are waiting for someone?» he asked, tipping his head to the direction of the untouched glass. Duo shook his head, gulping down one glass. He bobbed his head disjointedly with the music. «Nope, I’m a lone wolf tonight. I’m on vacation from my wife and kids. I just plan on getting very fucked up, you know?» he joked. «You can have this one if you like. I’m about to get outta here soon to get some real hard stuff. Blow my brains out by the time the night’s over.» Duo turned back to the band onstage, but he knew Trinoi was eyeing both him and the glass of beer, albeit skeptically. When the set ended, Duo whooped and hollered, pretending rather effectively that he was indeed just another lousy American drunk with too much money. It was at this moment that Trinoi decided to take Duo up on his offer, smiling as he reached out for the other glass. “Oh, wait, wait!” yelped Duo, taking up his own glass. «To the band!» he exclaimed in Czech, shocking all those around him. He forcibly clinked glasses with Trinoi, who shiftily glanced at the customers staring at Duo and his antics, attempting to imply that he had no connection to the braided moron making a fool of himself. In such a fashion, Duo made a spectacle of himself the rest of the night. The Russian loosened up after a few rounds of premium Czech beers, as did the rest of the crowd, even the band. Many of them began dancing and, soon enough, everyone in the crowd was as animated as Duo. The band played local favorites as well as more jazz renditions of popular songs, which was exactly what the patrons wanted to hear after a hard day’s work. Three hours came and went, and both Duo and Trinoi were hysterically laughing as they stumbled drunkenly out of the club. The two men, arm in arm, breezed through tired tourists and small crowds on the Charles Bridge and down to Malà Strana. When they arrived at Petrín Park, they sat down on a white steel bench beneath a dying tree to rest. «You’re a very strange man, Mr. Yuy,» said the Russian, referring to Duo by his chosen alias. «You are loud, obnoxious, and yet you managed to make a roomful of enemies into friends in one night.» «What can I say? I’m just good with people. It’s a talent.» «It’s a real pity, you know,» replied Trinoi, «For such a talented man to have befriended someone like me.» «And here I thought that was a good thing!» exclaimed Duo, taking a swig of beer from the bottle in his hand. «In other circumstances, you might have been useful,» said Trinoi thoughtfully. «Oh yeah?» Duo grinned stupidly at him. «Why not now, eh buddy?» «Because I’m going to kill you now, buddy.» Trinoi’s hand clutched at something inside his neat khaki blazer. However, instead of fear, the Russian saw a rather unexpected emotion displayed plainly on Duo’s face—amusement. And then he realized he was grasping at nothing. «Yeah, about that,» said Duo, patting something solid in his leather jacket. It dawned on Trinoi that it was the gun that was missing from his own holster. Duo smiled impishly. «Maybe some other time.» «The fuck…» began Trinoi; but before he could complete his threatening sentence, his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He fell face down into Duo’s lap, completely unconscious. “Oh, goddamn it,” whined Duo, attempting to wriggle his groin away from Trinoi’s face. A couple passed by them, awkwardly staring, and all Duo could do at the time was raise his bottle to them and bite back the discomfort of his situation. When the couple turned the corner, Duo groaned out loud. “Trowa, a little help please?” he whined. Stepping out from behind a tree with a tranquilizer gun in hand, Trowa said, “On my way, sir.” xxx The wind wafted through the Prague countryside like an icy banshee, its low whistling flustering leaves from their branches and freezing the dewy grasses of the hills. This early in the morning, light was far from Europe’s side of the earth. Darkness blanketed the city away from its populous center, successfully engulfing every nook of its outer vicinities. Somewhere in the sea of black stood an abandoned government building covered in snakes of ivy. It was hidden by small hills and a copse of yews, safe from main roads and, more importantly, sight. And deep below it was a rectangular World War II-era torture chamber, containing within it three bodies all waiting patiently for the right moment to arrive. Awkwardly recumbent on an antique metal chair strewn with cobwebs, Duo Maxwell fell unsoundly asleep. His trusty servant and partner-in-crime sat silently behind a dusty desk, eyes closed in deep contemplation. He seemed unperturbed by the thunderous echoing of Duo’s snoring, for he said nothing of it; but when his master’s chair began to tip dangerously backwards, the young man, his face half-hidden in shadow, spoke up loud and clear. “Sir,” he said, slightly irritated. “Mr. Levinski is regaining consciousness. Perhaps you should wake up also?” Fortunately for Duo, he awoke just before he could topple over. His chair creaked as he sat straight set his entire weight back on its legs. He rubbed his tired, jet-lagged eyes, and looked up in time to see his victim’s head shake itself out of its five-hour sleep. «Good morning, starshine,» said Duo. He stood up, stretched his arms, and yawned exuberantly. «The earth says hello!» When Trinoi Levinski opened his eyes, the first thing he felt was a stabbing pain in his head. After a few more minutes of awareness, he felt the pain travel from his head to his shoulders, and then down to his thighs and ankles. He groaned and lifted his head, and saw that he was definitely not in Petrín Park any longer. From what he could tell, he was in a big room. Most of it was empty and covered in darkness; there was nothing around him, save two blurry figures, one standing and one seated. He tried to move his arms, but when he did, he found himself unable to change positions. He tried to move his legs, too, but that only made the pain in his entire body worse. «Get it?» said Duo cheerily. «Because we’re underground? And it’s nighttime? Oh, nevermind.” He sighed; Trinoi could hear faint tinkling noises, like small metal objects being moved around a hard surface. «Just how long does it take to wear off, Nanashi? I’m getting tired of waiting.» «Where… where am I…» mumbled the Russian to the muddied figures in front of him. Weakly, he tried to move again but to no avail. This time, he heard clanging against something hard and cold—probably whatever it was that he was lying on. «Oh, wonderful! Sleeping Beauty is finally awake,» Duo sighed, finding himself strapped for jokes; meaning, of course, that he was really, really tired. He yawned again, right in Trinoi’s face. «You want to know where you are, Trinoi? Look around you. It should be pretty obvious.» «Who are you!» said Trinoi, futiley attempting to shake himself loose. «Where am I!» «Jeez, you’ve got a one-track mind. Well, let’s see… I’ll answer the easy question first.» Trinoi watched as Duo approached him. Something seemed strange about the angle. «You’re still in Prague. You’ll probably be here for longer than you planned, seeing as you’re chained you to the wall.» And then it hit Trinoi. The reason he was unable to move was because he was chained spread-eagle onto the wall, just as his captor said he was. It explained the burning ache in his joints and muscles. And this man—this Yuy or whoever it was—had somehow incapacitated him before he had a chance to kill him back at the park. «You… who the fuck are you?» growled Trinoi, still struggling. «What the hell did you do to me?» Duo laughed mockingly at him as he wound a thick bandage over his right hand, hiding a set of brass knuckles. «My, aren’t we full of questions,» said Duo flippantly. «Don’t worry, I haven’t done anything to you yet. Wouldn’t want you to miss the party.» He approached Trinoi and pinched his cheeks with his bandaged hand and then clocked him straight on the nose. Upon impact, blood spurted from Trinoi’s broken nose like a crimson tide. «There. Now you can worry.» Yet instead of screaming out in pain, the Russian chuckled hoarsely. «What, you think you can make me talk by giving me bruises and a few broken bones?» he said. «You Americans are all the same. No fucking class. No wonder you’re losing your fucking war.» Duo laughed again—but this time, it unwontedly sent shivers down Trinoi’s spine. To him, it sounded unreal; but above all things, Trinoi was disturbed by its childlike joyfulness. It was too high, too pure, to have escape from the mouth of the man who stood before him, blood dripping from his knuckles. «Giving you bruises?» asked Duo, a sinister grin on his face. He absently tapped the flat part of his bandaged fist. «Who do you think I am, Levinski, the police?» Without any visual warning, he smashed his fist into Trinoi’s collarbone. The blow was followed by a resounding crack and an intense howl from the prisoner. Trinoi realized that he had lost control over his left arm, yet could still feel the unbearable throb of pain. He could feel the fractured bones ripping through the fractured skin. «No presents today, Trinoi. I’m just tenderizing you.» The Russian’s every exhalation was ridden with tremors. But even then, he knew it was too early to show signs of defeat. He grit his teeth and pulled his head up in order to look his abductor in the eye. He was startled by what he saw staring back at him. Hunger—pleating with the dilation of his eyes, blooming with the rush of blood to his cheeks. It was the hunger for violence that Trinoi himself was so familiar with—and he knew that was precisely the reason he was being held here. He knew that the very areas that Duo was choosing to attack with vicious force were designed to cause him as much pain in a single second without knocking him unconscious. The situation was obvious: this wasn’t just torture. Before he could speak in protest, Duo’s boot had his knee crushed beneath its inch-thick leather sole. Trinoi choked on his scream, wanting to cry, but the mind-blowing pain prevented his entire body from taking any action. It was as if his brain was on fire; no matter how long he waited in between each devastating attack, the pain refused to subside. Each following strike was more agonizing the next: another crushed knee, a switchblade in the left shoulder, a dislocated jaw. After only half an hour, Trinoi could take no more. «Stop,» said Trinoi with a stifled cry, «I’ll t-tell you anything. Everything. Just s-s-top…» «Your poor motherfucker, you,» said Duo without a hint of mercy, hands sweating in blood. «It used to be that bastards like you would die before saying even a word.» Duo walked over to the table where Trowa, quietly observing, was sitting. Duo picked up a large picture frame, containing within it a small article. He held it to where Trinoi’s head hung down. The Russian whimpered, convulsing in pain as he attempted to see what was in front of him. «Who was responsible for this?» asked Duo, his tone full of promised threats. Trinoi heaved and blood, spit, and mucus gushed out of his throat onto Duo’s shoe; his captor gazed emptily at him and shoved the cold glass into his broken nose. «You have ten seconds to answer or the next thing you’ll see are your little men swimming in my fucking fist.» Trinoi choked on a sob as he read the headline: UNKNOWN TERRORIST FACTION AMBUSHES MARINE-LED OPERATION INTO FALLUJAH BASE, LEAVES TEN SOLDIERS DEAD. «Five…» counted Duo slowly, watching the man writhe in agony while trying to remember. Duo’s expression became instantly murderous. «Four, three, two, one.» growled Duo. «See ya.» With his sleeve pushed back, Duo’s fingers snatched the man’s testicles—but he stopped his actions immediately when the guttural Russian words caught his ear. «Quinze,» mumbled Trinoi. «The leader called himself… Quinze… They never gave me any other name…» Duo reluctantly put his arm down and listened to the Russian. «Where can I find him?» asked Duo sharply. Trinoi coughed up more blood. «It’s your lucky day, Yuy,» said Trinoi with a pained chuckle. «It so happens… that he wanted to make a deal with me… thinks OZ is still around helping them… sons of bitches fuck America in the ass… was gonna… blackmail him… money… supposed to meet… in… Ostrava… ????????…» Trinoi continued to mumble unintelligibly. Duo motioned towards Trowa, who had begun his furious scribing of Trinoi’s words long before the signal was given. Once the Russian had stopped making any sound, Duo looked to Trowa for a reiteration of the information. “Sanc Estate in Ostrava on the twentieth hour, two days from now,” read Trowa aloud. “Also, he said you could cut off his testicles and fry them if you wanted, you pathetic, small-dicked American hippie…” Duo crinkled his nose in displeasure. Trowa continued. “…If I had caught you twenty years ago, I would have made you gag on my—” “For Oprah’s sake, Trowa, do you really have to read that part aloud?” asked Duo irritably. The butler blinked absently and placed the notepad back onto the dusty desk. “No, sir. Just thought his last words ought to be heard.” he replied, sitting back down. Duo glared at the taciturn young man. Trinoi could hear and understand their voices in the background. When he heard Trowa’s words, he fought against the pain to lift his head up to face them both. Slack-jawed and looking like death warmed over, he said in heavily-inflected English, “My last words… I knew it… you fucking demon…” Duo turned around to look at Trinoi. The Russian was half-surprised to find Duo looking down on him with kind, almost remorseful eyes—giving him the kind of look he had once given to men partially responsible for the murder of the one and only love of his life. His gaze drifted sleepily to the framed article in Duo’s hand. In that single instant, Trinoi understood everything. «I’ll be sure to tell him of your devotion,» he said with an ironic smile. «I can tell you’re a good soldier, so if I ask you to let me die like one, you’ll do it, right?» Duo’s eyes became downcast as he lifted Trinoi’s head high to expose his bloodied throat. Trinoi saw the polished metal Duo was trying to conceal below his peripheral vision. «Good-bye, Trinoi,» he said. «I’ll make it quick.» The Russian made a displeased noise. «No… not like this,» he said, «In the gut. Twist it so it hurts… enough to shut out the light.» xxx The two men came back the next day to inspect the corpse of Trinoi Levinski still chained to the wall. The Russian’s expression was peaceful and receptive of his timely fate. His eyes, like a porcelain doll’s, stared out into the empty blackness of the chamber with fondness. After they removed him from the wall, Trowa began to hose off Trinoi’s dead body with water, gently showering away the coagulated blood on his pale, sallow skin. Duo prepared the furnace in the corner of the room. “You did quite a number on this man, sir,” said Trowa through a white surgical mask. “Pity; he could have lived well after the injuries.” He dried off the corpse with several towels. Duo walked back towards him, dusting off coal residue from his gloved hands. “Look at him, Trowa,” replied Duo. “Even he knew he could never have lived a normal life after this. Would anyone choose such a fate?” They rolled up Trinoi’s naked body in the towels and lifted him onto a clean, white stretcher. They then wheeled him towards the large, iron-gated furnace, which blew cinders in all directions when Duo swung it open. “It has been my experience that most often would, sir, as it is a rather easy choice,” said Trowa as they made a joint effort to tilt the stretcher upward. Trowa watched the body slide into the flickering fires with a growing discomfort in the pit of his stomach. His attention drifted to his master, who was watching the flames lick at Trinoi’s body with frightening detachment. “Most often would,” he repeated somewhat wistfully. xxx Cup of coffee in hand, Duo sat listlessly at a café called Boulevard, waiting for something to pop up on the screen in front of him. His other hand squished remains of a very delicious tiramisu under a silver fork; and then, rather unceremoniously, his laptop screen was flooded with aerials of Ostrava in the daytime and various schematics. He licked the tiramisu crumbs off his fork and pulled out his cell phone to send a text message. Thx luv, it read. His butler on the receiving end did not see it fit to reply. Duo pocketed the phone and began to review the images in front of him, meticulously marking areas according to potential. He carefully surveyed the landscape surrounding the building in question: that is, Sanc Estate, rumored to have been the home of one of Prague’s long-lost royal families. As far as Duo could tell, it was abandoned or just poorly taken-care of. The only plants to be seen in the courtyard were shrubs and various other undergrowth; they littered the faded red cobblestone path like dead green animals and pushed through the rusted fencing. The plants no doubt traveled down to the mansion from the large man-made hill that bordered it. The hill itself intruded on a tall, brick wall, acting as a natural barrier from the neighborhood that rested just behind it. The estate was a modest mansion, built with only ten rooms, and largely constructed of wood—certainly not the best kind of protection from anything in Duo’s arsenal. What he found most interesting was that the building was located right across from the last row of neo-classicist apartment buildings. They served as the perfect trajectory point for Duo’s attempt; according to the schematics, they would be no problem to infiltrate (yet nothing in the former Eastern Bloc was really that difficult to break into anyway). The braided assassin closed off his laptop and stood up. But just as he was about to make headway for his destination, his cell phone sent vibrations down his right leg. Apts no good. Hill behind estate has camo, access to windows. Duo smiled. That Trowa, he thought affectionately. Always looking out for number one. And look out for number one he did. The location Trowa had advised him to go to was by far a much better choice. He was actually a bit ashamed to admit he’d missed it as a potential point of operation: good cover, no potential witnesses, indeed provided good access to many windows, easy escape route. He sighed dramatically, as if his butler could see his disappointment, and proceeded to meander on the streets near the city center as a cover. Once traffic began to stream through the streets, Duo seemed to disappeared impossibly behind them, only to reappear in the shadiest part of the estate’s surrounding area. Like a snake, he slithered into openings in the overgrown foliage just beyond Sanc’s gates. The soil beneath his feet crunched as he scaled the slope, going deeper into the thicket of tree-like weeds until he hit the brick wall on which it partly rested. Duo, confident enough that the plan was going accordingly, unpacked his bag of deadly toys. Safely hidden amidst the leafy camouflage, he arranged his weapons, sat, and waited. Through his PSG-1’s sight, he could see clearly into the open windows of Sanc Estate. Contrary to its outside appearance, the estate contained within it a habitable residence—at least, in Duo’s opinion. For instance: the room on the left-hand side, third window from the center, was a library. The interior was darkly-colored, but a bright light showered the room. There were bookcases and books, all of which looked as if they were being used by whoever lived inside. There were also other rooms, some lit, some not, but they were decorated and had signs of life to them. However, Duo was content to keep his attention on one window for most of the time he waited. It was the most conspicuous room, lavished with gold-gilded furniture and tall, exotic flowers in large vases. It was the room that waited as he waited. He noticed offhand during his wait two black Volkswagen sedans rolling by the mansion and into the street behind it, just beyond the wall on which Duo sat. They parked their cars directly behind each other on the sidewalk. Unfortunately, at about the same time, signs of movement in the room Duo was previously monitoring caught his eye. He turned his full attention to the people now entering the room in question, in a mansion that was rumored to have been long-abandoned. Quinze, he thought, envisioning the grisly death of the figure ambling inside the room. The elderly man dressed in shoddy khaki clothing with shoulder-length white hair was speaking with a young maid. Duo’s finger touched the trigger as soon as the maid bowed and headed out of the room. And he would have pulled the trigger, too, were it not for the men clad in black now strolling into the room. Duo assumed they were Trinoi’s new OZ recruits, but something struck him about their obstinate entrance. As he counted them, one by one entering the room, Duo realized that something was definitely off about their presence. Wasn’t this a meeting between Trinoi and Quinze? he thought. His gut was wrenched by an ill feeling as he considered countless possibilities about the men in black, most of them involving the word ‘trap,’ but he couldn’t fathom how they could know about him. He choked on his own spit at what he saw next: a pair of familiar blue eyes gazing directly at him from beneath a messy mat of dark brown hair. It was then that both fear and uncertainty suddenly attacked him in a way that he had long since forgotten. For a moment, he felt as if he was back in Iraq, trapped behind enemy lines, looking his potential killer face to face. Duo’s finger slipped off the trigger as Quinze’s body interjected itself between Duo and the blue eyes, shutting the blinds to his memories and his perfect shot. “Shit!” he cursed, knowing that he had been seen—or rather, realizing that they had foreseen his attack somehow. He shook his head, mentally kicking himself for not having included a potential trap in his gameplan. That fucking bastard Trinoi! He dismantled his rifle as quickly as he could, but as he did, he caught a glimpse of the two cars parked behind him and the red lights blinking steadily faster on the dashboard of both of them. His eyes widened in revelation. “Holy shit.” The resounding explosion was deafening. It rocked the ground on which the area stood and decimated the lower half of both the high wall and the hill on which Duo sat. By the time he realized he was surrounded by flimsy weeds that were now catching fire, Duo had already fallen backwards and rolling on the pile of dirt, rubble, and car parts. He felt something sharp and metal scrape his side as he flopped onto the ground like a dead rat. His ears were ringing. He lifted his head up feebly, in time to spot another bomb hidden near the base of the wall that curved into the next street, and several more bombs strewn down the wall. Duo was a mere thirty or so feet from it; he knew he needed cover. He inhaled a mouthful of dirt as he rolled over the debris, purposely wounding himself on strewn scraps, in order to fall over the edge of the demolished hill. The second bomb exploded and the piece of wall still left behind Duo blew open and threw him face-forward into the ground. He felt the burn of both fire and asphalt grinding against his skin as he skidded to a halt on the other side of the street. He could hear panicked voices growing in the distance with every exploding bomb. As much as he wanted to just lie down and give up, Duo knew he couldn’t stay—either they would come to pick up his body or it would be all over the news by the tomorrow. Finally, the explosions ceased. Trying his best to ignore the unbearable stinging of his wounds, Duo pushed himself upwards to escape the scene in time to go unnoticed; in a matter of minutes, the locals and the city’s police and firemen would come rushing in for damage control. He hobbled as fast as he could to the next block, where his car was parked, fishing for both his keys in his pocket. “No, no, come on!” he huffed out, wincing as his arm spasmed in his attempt to open his car door. Once he had it open, Duo threw himself inside his car and drove furiously out of the area, past the zooming cop cars and fire trucks now arriving onto the scene. When he made it to highway 47, Duo tapped the car’s navigational screen madly. Finally, he accessed the phone for a call, which was promptly answered by his butler. “Sir?” asked Trowa with a worried voice. “Ambush, Trowa,” said Duo breathlessly. “That bastard Trinoi… I don’t know what’s going on, Trowa… I swear I saw…” the braided man started coughing wildly, splattering the steering wheel and his hands with blood. “…should get the plane ready … need to get out of here as soon as possible, Trowa.” “It’s done, sir,” replied the butler softly. “But I will leave you if you do not come back here alive and whole.” Duo laughed weakly and the line broke, leaving only a dial tone. That Trowa… he thought, smiling despite the stable blood loss he was experiencing—smiling, because, there was nothing else he could do to ward off the fear of death as he fought against his fading vision. xxx A muffled boom rocked the floor on which Quinze stood; the entire mansion was shaken by the aftershock of the explosion. Quinze stepped back from the window and sat himself down behind a lacquered, gold-edged wooden desk. Two men dressed in similarly ratty khaki clothing and flak jackets stood on either side of him with AK-47s in hand. Quinze looked straight at the men standing directly opposite of him. “It’s all taken care of.” Quinze smiled wryly at the man who spoke. “Don’t you think that was a little tactless?” he said to the man. Through his own induction, Quinze pinned him as the managing agent, in spite of his youthful façade. He was the only one of the agents present in the room not wearing dark sunglasses and a black suit. Instead, he wore over his attire a long, navy peacoat with a striped scarf tucked underneath. His eyes, the color of nighttime oceans, were at once menacing and aloof. “Do you?” asked the blue-eyed man, whose silky voice matched the smooth precision of his appearance. Quinze’s lips quirked upward upon hearing his obviously sardonic question. “Touché, Agent,” said Quinze. “It seems as if you only have the looks of a child. So, to what do I owe this ostentatious display of American power? Am I being threatened? Or have you come to give me the final numbers so that we may reach an agreement?” “Afraid not, Quinze. An unforeseen liability has pushed the date of the agreement’s finalization back.” “Again?” Quinze’s lips thinned into a line, displeased. “Does your government think so little of us that it cannot give us what is needed when we need it?” “Whining will not get you what you want, Quinze,” The agent smiled dryly. “Doesn’t our very presence show you how seriously we are taking this agreement?” The elderly man kept quiet. The blue-eyed agent signaled one of the suited men to procure and deliver a set of documents to Quinze’s desk, which one of them promptly did. The suited subordinate returned to his stiff position behind the lead agent. “This is about your other business “partner,” Trinoi Levinski,” the lead explained. “Safe to say that I don’t think he will be coming anytime soon.” Quinze was stunned. His face said it all: How the fuck did you know about Levinski?, clear as the day was bright. “Don’t look so surprised, Quinze. Did you think you could barter a better deal with us if we thought you could make this deal with someone else? Or better yet, was he merely insurance in case things didn’t go through with us?” The agent chuckled lightly, condescendingly. Quinze glared at the documents in front of him. “Perhaps it’s time you understand just who it is you are dealing with.” After a lengthy pause, the old man mumbled hoarsely, “When will you come next?” The agent approached his desk, somber despite Quinze’s clear aggravation. He placed a small white card onto the hardwood surface. With strict penmanship, a date, time, and location were scrawled onto the card. The agent then motioned for the rest of his team to exit the premises. “Wait,” said Quinze, much to his own chagrin. “What are you going to do about the mess outside? Surely, you can’t just walk out of here without looking suspicious.” “We are not your concern,” the blue-eyed man replied. To Quinze’s surprise, he remained waiting at the door. The agent readily recognized the familiar face of a person with a question on their tongue. “Anything else?” “Actually, yes,” said Quinze, swallowing his pride in order to ask the question that needed to be asked. “Is there a name I may refer to for future contact? If I’m to trust you will not rescind on our agreement, it’s only fair for me to know just who it is I’m dealing with.” Quinze thought that for a moment, the agent was shocked by his question. Rather, the agent was merely amused. “If you insist on calling me something,” he replied, “Then call me Agent Odin Lowe.” xxx “…Maxwell…” —Who’s there? “…Maxwell, if you die now, I’ll never forgive you…” —Am I… I’m… dying? “…hold on, m…” —Can’t be true. It’s impossible. I’m the God of Death… “…ster Maxwell, please open your eyes…” —I can’t die. I have to… I have to find…I can’t… “…Duo, don’t you fucking leave me.” —I won’t. I promise. Ever. Never again. xxx Trowa, evidently distraught, replaced the bloody sheets covering the body in front of him. Tidying up was all he could do to pacify the reeling sensations in his body and mind. He kept thinking only this: while he master nearly bled to death in a small, slummy car, he merely waited. Trowa was always waiting—waiting for his master to arrive at a given destination; waiting for his master not to arrive at a given destination; waiting for him to return marred with wounds, or better yet, just waiting for him not to return at all. In spite of his own sadness each time such worries would consume him, he honestly felt a little cheated by this fact. Now here he was, still waiting, patiently performing his duties as the butler, but mostly tending to Duo’s severe abdominal wounds in his bedroom. Harsh fluorescent lights lit up the windowless room, revealing only a lack of furniture and a tall bookcase stacked with novels, which (in Trowa’s opinion) were all rather uncharacteristic selections. Duo slept peacefully before him, deathly pale beneath the stark light. “If you didn’t already know, I’m rather disappointed in you, master Maxwell. It’s almost as if you’re constantly trying to kill yourself… can’t even consider what would happen to me if you’re to die in your little suicide missions for that ghost of yours…” Though he felt a great need to express it somehow, Trowa bit back his sorrow. There was never need for mourning. Despite how lifeless he looked, he knew his master would wake up any time now. The only question was whether or not he’d be able to function in a timely manner. Trowa sighed. “…such an impossible childlike man. Why must you think only of yourself? What do you think I would be without you?” After he had finished bandaging the ugly lesion on Duo’s stomach, he felt the warmth of Duo’s hand close brushing against his cheek. As Duo’s hand began to wipe away the tears that had formed in Trowa’s eyes without his own knowledge, the butler inadvertently leaned into his touch. “You talk a lot when you think I’m sleeping,” whispered Duo. Trowa remained silent for the rest of the night. xxx It was the beginning of a perfect New York winter. Overnight, a snowstorm had enveloped all the ugly parts of the city in a blanket of white. Every street in Manhattan was picture-perfect; each street and avenue was a scene pulled from Holiday Inn, and Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” seemed to be playing like a soundtrack over the entire metropolis. That was how it felt for Quatre Raberba-Winner, anyway. He stared outside the passenger window of his car, completely enthralled by the fresh whiteness of New York in the early morning after a storm. Upon arriving at his destination, Quatre exited extra carefully, in order not to disturb the snow beneath his feet. A sudden cold breeze nipped at the exposed parts of his face, most of which was hidden behind a thick scarf wrapped around his head. The cold caused him to shiver in his custom Ugg boots despite the warmth his heavy brown Eskimo parka provided. His driver, a thin Arabian man, leaned across the passenger seat and gave him a look of concern. “Mr. Winner, are you sure you don’t want me to wait with you?” he asked. Quatre smiled at him with his eyes. “Oh, don’t worry about me, Ahmed. Just go on ahead. You’ll get a ticket if you park by this fire hydrant!” chirped the blonde. He shut the car door gently and waved good-bye to his driver, who nodded politely in response before driving off down the street. Quatre huffed into his scarf to warm up his nose, which he knew was already turning red from the below-zero temperature. I hope at least Trowa’s awake. It’s freezing out here, thought the blonde as he made his way past the rusted metal gate leading up to the steps of Duo’s copper-colored home. As soon as his boot hit the austere welcome mat on the brownstone’s doorstep, the heavy iron-clad door in front of him creaked opened to reveal a smartly-dressed Trowa Barton. Quatre blushed when the young butler bowed to him. “Oh, Trowa, that’s not necessary!” he said, flustered. He turned even redder under his scarf when he realized all his words had sounded like muffled gibberish. The butler straightened himself. “You should come in, Mr. Winner. You could catch a cold.” Quatre sheepishly stepped past Trowa into Duo’s not-so-humble home. He was greeted by startling warmth breathed out by a lit fireplace in the living room down the hall to the left. Quatre had loved the rustic charm of Duo’s home from the moment he first saw it; it was decorated much like a ski resort cabin, one of Quatre’s favorite places. It was hard to miss the long flight of stairs that welcomed the visitor of the Maxwell household, as it began a mere ten feet from the entrance and rose up three flights. Brown wood paneling trimmed the walls, on which hung various pieces of modern art that he and Duo had gone out and bought together. There were all types of shag carpets and rugs strewn on the floor that managed to complement whatever area they were placed in. His eyes trailed towards the hall to the right, towards the kitchen area. The morning light shone into the pristine, white kitchen and bathed it in an angelic glow. His mouth was watering significantly because, even through his thick scarf, he could smell the familiar aroma of Trowa’s signature potato pancakes. He was about to subconsciously float towards the kitchen, but a firm tugging at his parka’s hood snapped him out of his food trance. He whisked around and found the gorgeous butler staring at him somberly. Oh, no, thought Quatre, I just told myself he was gorgeous again. He frowned and thanked God Trowa couldn’t see his personal embarrassment. “It’s warm, Mr. Winner,” said the butler with a glint in his eye that Quatre didn’t quite understand. After a while of standing still, it finally dawned on the blonde. “Oh!” he said, muffled. He hurriedly removed his parka and frantically searched for a coat rack of some sort. Quatre thought he saw the butler smile slightly, which caused him to stand there, slightly stupefied. Trowa took that moment of confusion as an opportunity to snatch the coat out of Quatre’s hands. Stunned, the blonde could only look on as Trowa hung it onto the rack by the door. “Shall we?” said the butler, motioning towards the fire-lit living room. Quatre nodded, flustered so terribly that he felt as if his face was literally on fire. Trowa guided him towards his usual seat: a green corduroy armchair with blue paisley print. “It was once my grandmother’s,” Duo had once told him. Quatre was going to ask the butler for some tea, but he noticed the moment he sat down that there was already a steaming cup waiting for him. He could smell from where he sat that it was his special brand of tea—namely, Twinings’ Lady Grey—awaiting him. His baby blue eyes sparkled in thanks. “Sir, if I may…” Trowa’s sentence trailed off rather vaguely, causing Quatre to scrunch his brow. He wanted to ask him what he meant by that, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Suddenly, Trowa leaned in closer and Quatre began to feel faint; and yet, he simultaneously felt his face becoming less stifled the longer the butler stayed near him. Only a moment after did he realize that it was because Trowa had unraveled the scarf he’d forgotten he was wearing. But despite liberation from the garment, Quatre still felt unusually hot. Trowa was dangerously close to his face even after it had been undressed. Both men could hear Duo’s familiarly loud footsteps approaching, yet instead of moving further away from Quatre, the butler dared to breach the chasm of tension between them. The kiss was as dazzling for Quatre as it was too brief. All of their secret kisses were. It seemed to both of them that it was the only way they could enjoy their shared fondness for each other without damaging their fragile realities: one a butler who was as much a vigilante as his master, and the other a rising star whose fame was too young to mar. In both their minds, there would be nothing more but these stolen moments for a while—perhaps forever. Even so, it was enough for them, for now. Before Duo had even stepped off the stairs, Trowa was already on his way down the hallway to meet him. Quatre heard them mumbling but contented himself with a daydream composed of what had occurred not more than a minute ago. He smiled to himself as he sipped on his tea, until a familiar voice popped rudely into his happy memory. “You know, that’s the exact look you had on your face after your character got laid in Diary of a Serial Virgin,” commented a half-naked, heavily bandaged Duo. “If I didn’t know any better, that would’ve been my first guess, too.” “Duo!” exclaimed Quatre happily, but his face fell upon seeing Duo’s bandaged midsection and lacerated arms. “Duo!” He then yelled yet again, this time angrily. Duo winced and picked at his ears. “Now I don’t know whether you’re happy to see me or if I’ve done something wrong…” For a minute there, the young man’s face softened somewhat, calming Duo. “Of course I’m happy to see you, Duo, it’s been so long!” And then he continued, as Duo inwardly feared, “But I’m not happy to see you all bandaged up again like some mummy!” The blonde angrily punched his naked arm, right smack dab on a healing bruise. Duo yelped and saddled up against the wall, feigning great injury with loud whimpers. Quatre gasped guiltily and immediately rushed in to hug him, forgetting all the while Duo’s glaringly wounded abdomen. Duo’s eyes bulged out in unmistakable pain, but he bit it back so as not to upset the unremittingly apologetic blonde hugging him for forgiveness. “I-It’s okay, Quatre,” he squeaked out. “P-please, let’s sit down…” Quatre let go hesitantly while Duo patted his head, their usual way of signifying a ‘truce’—at least, until the next time it happened. Quatre plopped down onto his armchair, crossed his arms, and sulked, while Duo sat down in an armchair across from him. The crackling of the fireplace was the only sound between them for a while, but when Duo leaned down to pick up the cup of coffee on the table in front of him, Quatre spoke up. “Why is it that whenever we don’t see each other for a while, I come here to find you looking like you’ve thrown yourself off a mountain?” he said quietly, sadly. “Why don’t you ever tell me about what happens to you? Am I so unimportant that you can’t even tell me when you’ve been hurt?” His downcast blue eyes seemed as if they would overflow with tears at any given moment. At this, Duo choked on his coffee. He had to hand it to Quatre—the actor certainly knew how to put on a compelling show; guilt was eating him up worse than the pain caused by any of his gashes. “Come on, Q-bear, you know I tell you everything—” he said silkily, trying surreptitiously to charm the depression out of his best friend. “No you don’t!” said Quatre loudly. “You didn’t tell me what happened this time, just like you didn’t tell me what happened last time!” “I did so tell you what happened last time!” Duo fired back. “I told you I went hiking and got attacked by a bobcat! A big, rabid—” “Oh, that’s believable,” said Quatre dryly. “You expect me to buy there are bobcats in Mexico?” “If you don’t believe me, then Wikipedia it!” replied Duo, exasperated. “Trowa was there, too, you know, he—” “Right! And what was it this time? A mountain lion attacked you? You didn’t even tell me you were going hiking!” “That’s because I wasn’t hiking, Quatre, I was—” “Was what? See, I know you’re lying to me. I can tell. I’m an actor. I lie all the time!” exclaimed the blonde. Then, pointing an accusing finger, shouted, “Liar!” “Why don’t you just let me finish a sentence?” said Duo, feeling awfully like a husband caught cheating on his wife. The actor reluctantly settled back into his seat, still huffing. “Anyway, like I was saying, I wasn’t hiking. I was ridge running. And it just so happens that the wind was unpleasant at the time, and I was swept into the side of a cliff just as I was landing. One of the glider’s wings got chipped at the edge and I veered off course, crash-landed into some trees.” Duo exhaled and leaned back into his chair. “That’s all it was.” Quatre’s expression remained mired in negativity. “I still don’t see why you couldn’t just call me or tell me,” he said. “Well, I was hoping I would be okay by the time we saw each other again, you know, after they announced the Oscar nominees. That way, I wouldn’t have to see you worried and unhappy like you are now, just because I did something stupid like ridge run in bad weather.” “Well, you’re right, I am unhappy,” said the blonde with a hint of anger still in his voice, but Duo could tell his wrath was subsiding. Quatre reached down to take a sip of his tea and pretty soon all trace of their argument faded from his body language. “I really don’t understand your attraction to ridge running, Duo. You took me once and I was terrified. It’s like flying a plane you can’t control.” “You know me, Q-bear,” “Too well, probably,” Quatre chuckled sweetly, bringing a smile to Duo’s face. “Ever since you caught The Thomas Crown Affair on that flight we took to Paris, you’ve been trying to embody him ever since, down to a T. But I can’t believe you’d go so far as to mimic his hobbies too.” “In my defense, I don’t yet have the ability to buy and demolish million-dollar boats just for fun.” “But if you did, you would.” “I certainly would, Quatre my boy, I certainly would,” The two men clinked their respective cups together with their backs straight and their noses high in the air, imitating aristocratic mannerisms in a silly fashion—afterwards amusing themselves and laughing comfortably together. “So, to what do I owe this wonderful visit to my humble abode?” said Duo. Quatre immediately perked up, even jumping a little in his seat in all his forgotten excitement. “That’s right, I completely forgot!” he exclaimed. “Oh, Duo, I’ve come to tell you that I’ve been getting so many fantastic offers since The Things They Carried came out two months ago!” “That’s no surprise. You’re a shoo-in for Best Supporting Actor this year, for sure.” “Don’t be silly, Duo, that doesn’t matter. What matters are these new offers! I’ve finally broken out of the teen idol mold and I couldn’t be happier!” “But Bear, I already know all this. Did you just come here to gloat?” said Duo with a wry smile. “No…” said Quatre, expression faltering into one of unease. Duo mentally smacked himself for having forgotten how sensitive the young actor was to criticism of all sorts—so much so that Quatre was always consciously self-deprecating of his own abilities. What hurt the young man most was, to Duo’s surprise, not that he was ever called a bad actor, but that he was sometimes referred to as being ‘artificially humble.’ Duo had been there with him when he read it and could do nothing to console Quatre for at least a month. “I promise you I’m not faking, Duo. I—I wouldn’t lie to you. I’m not pretending. Please, believe me.” He said, rivers of tears flowing down his cheeks. Duo vowed to kill the next anyone who would cause Quatre that kind of needless grief. “Of course I know you didn’t, Q,” he said soothingly. “So what about these offers? Did you find one you really liked?” “No, you see, that’s just it!” replied Quatre energetically (Thank God, thought Duo). “I can’t decide between these three roles I’ve been offered.” Suddenly, the blonde got up from his chair and sat down next to Duo’s knees, hands clasped as if in prayer. “Oh, Duo, you’ve got to help me, please say you will!” At that moment, Trowa entered the room with a tray in hand to clean up the scene. The butler and his master awkwardly exchanged glances, unable to explain or comment about what exactly was going on—or, rather, what exactly it was that Quatre Winner was doing cowtowing on the floor. “Okay, okay, you win, Bear,” said Duo, bending down and grabbing Quatre by the shoulders to stop his ridiculous begging. “I’ll look over the scripts with you. Just stop this—well, you know, just stop.” Quatre clapped his hands together with glee. Duo threw his butler a defeated glance. However, Trowa remained as unresponsive as ever. He scooted past the two friends and collected the cups from the coffee table. Quatre turned to see who had entered the room and nearly doubled over in surprise. He proceeded to stare slack-jawed at Trowa, who was busily wiping the surface of the coffee table with a white napkin while balancing the tray of used cups in the other. Once the butler finished up, he caught Quatre gaping at him. He looked briefly to Duo, whose very expression—carrying a mixture of inquiry and amusement—seemed to say, “You can’t hide anything from me.” Blinking absently during the pregnant pause, Trowa bowed to both of them (for lack of better actions to perform). He had intended to go in and out without disturbing the two men, but unfortunately, the exact opposite occurred. “I… apologize, master, for my unannounced arrival… You see, I did not want to intrude on your conversation,” he said. “Oh, don’t be silly, Trowa!” Quatre interjected, grinning stupidly. “I… was only about to invite your sir Duo here out for… for dinner tonight. My treat, of course!” The blonde actor began to fidget after his sentence, and looked about the floor as if he was searching for something—words, to be precise. Both Trowa and his master knew what was bound to happen next. Duo, upon seeing a rather embarrassed Trowa, tried to hide his amusement (albeit quite poorly). Realizing that Duo was not going to help him any, Trowa asked, “Shall I, er, draw a presentable outfit for you then, sir?” It was, of course, an attempt to remove himself from the situation. “Oh, no need, Trowa, it’s much too early for dinner, it being eight in the morning and all,” said Duo with unmistakable glee, “though I do believe Mr. Winner here would like to ask you a question.” Trowa glared viciously at Duo, who could tell even without any visible clues that the butler was, indeed, incredibly uncomfortable. Once Quatre’s puppy-dog eyes traveled coyly up to meet with Trowa’s, there was no turning back for anyone in the room. “W-would… um… would you like to join us, Trowa?” the blonde asked gingerly, certainly too adorable to be resisted, much less rejected. Duo tried to stifle his laughter to no avail. Helplessly, his laughter came out in unintelligible sputters of nonsense; but in all his anxiety, Quatre hardly noticed. The blonde was patiently awaiting Trowa’s answer with pleading eyes, and the butler found himself hopelessly at a loss for words. After a while, Trowa tore his eyes away from Quatre’s and said with every ounce of stoicism he still had, “Forgive me, Mr. Winner, but I… have… duties to attend to here all night,” Trowa excused himself and sped out of the room like a dog with his tail between his legs. Quatre’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. Duo, still recovering from the hilarity of it all, smothered his laughter with one hand and squeezed Quatre’s shoulder with the other. “S-sorry, Q-bear, that’s our Trowa for you. He just hates fun.” Duo controlled his breathing and calmed himself. “It’s nice of you to always try, though.” “I know,” said Quatre cheerily in an effort to hide his regret. Poor Q, always wearing your heart on your sleeve, thought Duo as he combed through the actor’s hair. Quatre turned to Duo with a big smile on his face to let him know he would be alright. “It’s okay. I was rude of me to just invite a third party to our dinner… I’m sorry, Duo.” “Oh, Bear,” sighed Duo. “You make me strange, even to the disposition that I owe…” “Is that Shakespeare again?” asked Quatre as Duo brought out a wooden board with small squares on it. The blonde got up and returned to his armchair. “Because if it is, I’m going to have to call you an elitist pig…” “Ah, grasshopper, you have much to learn. Elitist pig, I am not. But kick your ass in Scrabble, I will.” xxx “God, I love that Quatre has a crush on you!” said Duo, still amused, as he buttoned his cuffs. “Quatre fucking Raberba-Winner just asked out my butler. My emotionless robot of a butler. And he rejected him. It’s too much!” Duo laughed. “I don’t think I know what you’re talking about, sir,” replied Trowa distantly. “Mr. Winner was only being polite.” On the thirty-inch flat-screen television inside Duo’s bedroom, a scene of fire, steel, and dirt played out like a bad memory. Harried Czech voices shouted in the background while a CNN reporter interviewed a federal agent on the scene. Both men were silenced by the coverage. “We, along with the Czech police force, are investigating the source of the bombing here in Ostrava,” said the agent, a broad-chested African-American. “We are here because we believe that a terrorist force may be involved that is also on our country’s Terror Watch list. We are merely aiding the Czech authorities in apprehending the suspect or suspects. That is all we have to say.” “That’s strange, don’t you think, Trowa?” asked Duo as his butler held up a dark violet blazer behind him. Duo straightened the collar on his sharp black dress shirt before sliding his arms into the blazer. “Indeed, sir,” said the butler as he guided the blazer to Duo’s shoulders. “I’m having a great deal of trouble trying to understand why the FBI was in Ostrava at all,” said Duo offhandedly as he buttoned down his blazer. “And meeting with the man possibly responsible for… well. You reckon it’s a coincidence?” “More like a trap, sir. We know that much. Whether specifically for you or not—that we still don’t know.” Trowa tucked a pearly, cream-orange kerchief in Duo’s front pocket. Duo raised his brow. “Really, Trowa? Orange and purple? I’m Duo Maxwell, not the Duo Damsel.” “I beg your pardon, sir, but the correct color combination is indigo and Navajo white.” “Oh,” said Duo, checking himself out unabashedly. “Well far be it from me to question your avant-garde fashion statement, Coco Chanel.” Trowa ignored his comment and turned to watch Wolf Blitzer report on the situation in Ostrava. Duo followed suit. “You know I love me a mystery, Trowa,” he said, crossing his arms and watching the firemen dig through the ruined sidewalk. “Looks like I’m going to have to get to the bottom of this to get some real answers.” “Sir…” Duo heard what he knew would be the beginning of Trowa’s admonition, so he quickly stood up, shut the television, and headed for the door. “Don’t wait up for me tonight, okay, Trowa?” he said, heading out of the open titanium doors without waiting for a reply. xxx That night, Quatre met Duo outside of his apartment. The two friends took a cab to their destination, the Vintage Irving—although Quatre spent ten minutes begging Duo to let him take Lightning out for a spin. “For the last time, Quatre,” said Duo, “I would rather gut myself than let you or anyone joyride in my Lightning.” “You let Trowa drive her!” complained Quatre. “That’s because I’m in charge of Trowa’s pension, so whatever happens to Lightning happens to his pension.” When they arrived, Duo absentmindedly handed the cabbie a hundred dollar bill without bothering to ask for change, prompting Quatre to remark that Duo was “too generous for his salary.” “Even I don’t over-tip like you do, Duo,” continued Quatre as they were ushered into the premises and seated next to the exposed brick walls. “Sometimes I wonder how you can afford to live the way you do. I mean, my agent says I pull in millions, but even I can’t find it in myself to spend three-hundred-thousand just to drive around in Batman’s car with this New York weather.” “Style requires sacrifice, Q,” replied Duo, ordering a couple of beers on the side. “Speaking of which, I love your Navajo white pocket square,” commented Quatre. “Sometimes, I’m just so jealous of how well you put colors together, Duo. Working in the art industry must rub off on your own instincts.” No doubt Trowa’s going to enjoy that one, thought Duo. “Good lord, please tell me I’m dreaming,” said a familiarly caustic voice. Duo winced. That voice, along with the hard clicking of fake designer man-heels, was definitely who he feared it was. “Why, it is, isn’t it!” said another voice in a distinctly French accent. “It’s Dorothy’s agent, Mr. Maxwell! And his good friend, Monsier Raberba-Winner!” “Oh! Monsieur Khushrenada!” exclaimed Quatre, leaping up from his seat to shake the physically-imposing Frenchman. “Comment allez-vous, Monsieur? Êtes-vous ici depuis longtemps?” The two men began chattering away in French, much to both Duo’s and Wufei’s chagrin. Duo stared questioningly at Wufei for the longest time, noticing his rival’s obvious indignation. He was dressed sparingly, donning only a trenchcoat despite the terrible winter weather. He held his arms close to his body as if he were anticipating an attack. “A rich guy takes you out for an expensive dinner date and yet you still act like you’re going out with your mother or something,” commented Duo flippantly. Almost as if he had been waiting for a provocation, Wufei turned his attention to Duo, a glare plastered on his angular face. “For your information, Maxwell, I’m here strictly on business,” said Wufei coolly, catching Duo a bit off-guard. “We’re here to finalize a deal on a Mr. Khushrenada’s acquisition of a Matisse.” This time, it was Wufei’s turn to give Duo a smarmy look, as Duo realized that he hadn’t stricken a deal with a client in nearly a month. By the look on Wufei’s face, he’d been rather busy in the month that Duo had incapacitated himself. “In any case, I just have one thing to say to you,” said Wufei, whose expression became oddly serious. Duo couldn’t for the life of him remember the agent ever showing such a face to anyone and, least of all, him. Suddenly, the pit of his stomach churned with the same kind of alien discomfort he’d felt back in Prague. “Take better care of yourself, Maxwell,” he said, eerily, as if he could see the scars and bruises beneath Duo’s clothes. “You look like shit.” The agent then approached his client and whisked him away to the opposite side of the room without sparing another glance to Duo. “I’m so sorry, Duo, I guess I just got caught up in a little francophone fun with Mr. Khushrenada. He’s such a wonderful man! You really can’t believe those rumors about him being a conniving demon; he’s an utter gentleman, if I ever did meet one…” “I suppose so,” said Duo remotely, still pondering the exact meaning of Wufei’s words. The discomfort in his stomach grew with every passing moment. But when he noticed Quatre smiling at him, he willed himself out of his trance. “What? What is it?” “I heard what he said, you know, that Chang guy,” said Quatre, taking a dainty sip of his beer. “He doesn’t seem like such a bad guy after all. I hope you take his advice, because you certainly don’t listen to me any these days, or if ever.” “Quatre, you are too good to be true, you know that?” said Duo with that charming-as-hell smile of his that made even Quatre’s heart skip a beat. “Speaking of which, I think you should take the role of the serial killer.” “Are those two sentences even related?” “I mean—you know what I mean, Bear,” said Duo. “You’ve already perfected the clumsy, lovable pretty-boy already. How could that role possibly further your career? You need a challenge, something new to expand your horizons.” “But that’s a huge risk, Duo, playing a serial killer! I don’t know how I could possibly morph myself into that character, much less be able to sympathize with him. What if I fail?” “Risks are what life is all about, Quatre. The greater the risk, the greater the reward, you know? Just like the risk you took with your role in The Things They Carried. You didn’t think you could put yourself in the shoes of a soldier—well, you did! And you did a great job.” “But… I don’t know. I just don’t feel like I can do the role any justice. I don’t have that kind of confidence in my abilities.” Duo chuckled and reached over to shuffle his hand through Quatre’s tousled blonde locks. “I believe in you so much, Quatre. I know you can do it. And so does the whole world.” The blonde grinned with such candid happiness that Duo was actually moved by his own confidence in his best friend. “Okay! I’m going to do it!” said the blonde, chugging down his beer with gusto. He burped, wiped his mouth, and then looked seriously at Duo. “But only if you promise to help me!” “Of course, Q-bear,” said Duo with all the honesty he could muster. “I’m here for you, always and forever. That’s a promise.” xxx After dinner and a second round of drinks, Duo sent Quatre away in his own cab, telling the blonde actor that he had some work to pick up from the office. Quatre naturally objected, but acquiesced halfheartedly when Duo promised to be his proxy-date to the Oscars. As for his real reason for taking a separate cab—Duo was headed towards his usual Sunday night haunt: confession. He got off at the usual stop and walked his typical fifteen minute walk to the modest church hidden in the bushes. But when he arrived, the chapel was unexpectedly populated by an elderly woman and a middle-aged man, both deep in prayer. There was also a young nun lighting the altar candles present. Duo, trying his best to hide his face, walked past them and entered the confessional. Before he could enter, he felt a soft touch land on his shoulder. He swung his body around to meet the gaze of the young nun, whose peaceful expression was enough to calm the anxiety that had been stirring within him all night. “My name is Sister Relena,” she said with a kind voice—the kind of voice Duo remembered nuns having. “He has told me to inform you that he will not be here tonight.” “Who’s not here tonight?” asked Duo, pretending to draw a blank. “The one you are seeking,” she said with a knowing smile. “The father.” “Oh,” replied Duo disappointedly. He bit his bottom lip as he struggled with his next question. “Will he be here later tonight?” “I am afraid that is not possible,” she said. “You may pray for penance with the others, if you choose. If not, then I bid you God bless you and good-bye.” She turned away and began lighting the rest of the candles around the altar. Duo left. As he hailed another taxi to get to his next destination, he felt the discomfort he had been experiencing since his run-in with Wufei was turning into substantial nausea. The sensation only worsened when he found the hotel room empty. The nausea was then joined by an ominous paranoia that disconcerted him enough to prevent him from leaving the hotel room immediately. He waited—his entire body ill, but he waited—for that face to come waltzing into his sight, to prove to him that all his suspicions were false; that he had seen something else. Not him. Not him. But nobody came to ease his sickness. After what seemed like hours, Duo forced himself to go home. His only goal was to forget the day in its entirety, because it held within it even more questions than he was ready to find answers to. The creaking open of his iron-clad door sounded as heavy as the weight on his shoulders. He saw Trowa sitting by the fire, reading and looking peaceful. His thoughts strayed and lingered to that still image of serenity bathed in amber. Thankfully, Trowa didn’t seem to notice his entrance—or if he did, knew better than to approach him. Duo, likewise trying to be considerate, crept as quietly as he could past the hallway entrance and up the stairs. “Sir,” he then heard out of the blue. Duo looked down to meet Trowa’s chilling stare. “You had a visitor tonight.” “Oh?” Duo felt his knees get weak. He gripped the banister tightly. “Was it a client?” “No, sir, I don’t believe it was.” “Did they give you a name?” He prayed inwardly that Trowa wouldn’t recognize the distress in his voice. “No, sir,” answered the butler, “They left a note. I placed it in your room.” “I see. Thank you, Trowa.” “If you don’t mind me asking, sir,” said the butler rapidly, as if he knew Duo was purposely cutting their conversation about the visitor short. “Just who is this person?” Duo paused and didn’t answer. The butler began to move away from the stairs, his visible eye downcast. Duo made a small sound of protest. Trowa looked up to him with the same cold gaze, but it was expectant—of the truth, no less. “What… what did it sound like?” asked Duo carefully. “The note, I mean.” “Like an apology, sir,” replied Trowa, who remained at the foot of the stairs, waiting for his real answer. But Duo swallowed the truth, because he could not find it in himself to speak it—fearing that if he did, something valuable would break. He knew better. “Can’t say I know him then. Probably just someone from the office. One of the rookie agents, or something.” At that moment, Trowa’s eyes expressed an inimitably betrayed emotion. The butler said no more and headed back towards the living room. Duo, wracked with guilt, resigned himself to his bedroom. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you. There are a lot of things going on right now. Don’t get too angry. Tell me when you’d like to meet again. T TBC !NOTES! Edited 8/23/08 – Polished the writing. This chapter left me dissatisfied. Twenty-three and one-fifth pages later comes this next installment of Sinnerman… I really do apologize for the amount of time between chapters. Summer school ended, now school is starting… Isn’t school just the worst? (I’m only say that because I’m not working full time, which is probably worse, depending on the job.) Well, this chapter was a lot of set-up and characterization. There are mysteries abound in later chapters, if it wasn’t already glaringly obvious… The little torture scene up there, I had kind of a tough time with. Let’s just say Duo’s really strong and he could crack old men’s bones with the shit he has in his treasure box o’ weapons. By the way, yes, Duo has the wrong impression of the relationship between Quatre and Trowa—or does he? ;) If you couldn’t tell, I tried to put in as many smidgeons of boylove as I could in this chapter. So I’m vicariously living through these characters—so what! Also, “Q-bear” is taken from the nickname of my cousin. I thought it was a cute-ass nickname, so why not. And, good lord, I know, I’m killing your with this. How many goddamn Heeros are there? Mysteries abound indeed…
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