babygray

A Gundam Wing fic...

Title: Blood Red
Author:

babygray
Pairing: Duo/Heero... but only in a could-have-been sort of way.
Warnings: Character death, quite possibly about AIDS, but not so you'd notice. Typos. No beta. Relena's there, too.
Disclaimer: This is just fanfiction, non-profit and just for fun.
Notes: I wrote this back in 2002 and posted it on the old GWML. Someone had asked for a AIDS-related fic... which got me thinking. Funnily enough, I didn't write this specifically for her. Oh well. :3 Feels a bit like old shame, by the way...
Word Count: 2449
Summary: Heero wanders into a small gallery and into a exhibition that includes a life-size sculpture of Duo in glass.

The sweat dripped down the sides of his face, and the morning sun was not helping.

There had to be somewhere he could rest for a bit, out of the sun and into some air conditioning, but it was Sunday, and he was jogging through a tree lined residential district. Even if there were stores there, they would not be open on Sunday at 8 o'clock in the morning.

Heero made a left into a narrow street and sighed in the shade as he leaned against the cold brickwork of one of the houses. He didn't realize that his morning jog would be so dehydrating. He clutched his water bottle and twisted off the top with some desperation.

It felt so good, drinking that water, still cold in spite of the heat. He drank his full as he took a good look at the block he stopped at.

The cobblestone street was a suitable contrast to the colonial houses that lined the narrow road on both sides. On the sidewalk in front of some of them were real estate signs, advertising the homes as suitable apartment space. In front of one, there was a cardboard sign, with white lettering on black. It was simply done, with the word 'FREE' emphasized.

~~~

The air was so cold against his sweat-soaked clothing that he almost forgot the heat he had just left.

The gallery was small, a colonial house refurnished for the capacities of a modern art gallery. The lighting was muted and there was a young lady behind a desk by the door. Her head was lowered, exposing to him the extensive work of braids and spikes her long red-violet hair was styled in.

She flipped through an old volume of 'Playgirl' and snapped her gum. "Welcome to the Manioc Art Gallery," she delivered in a bored, deadpan voice without looking up from the male centerfolds. "Don't touch anything."

Heero moved away from the girl and made his way to the main room. The sign next to the doorway read:

Blood of Self and You
Artist: Helena Damax
Now through February 26th

In small print were the words: All works available for purchase unless otherwise indicated.

The majority of the art inside the room did not suit Heero's taste. Much of the framed artwork and photographs were dark, emphasizing the red hues in the scenery she photographed and overemphasizing the red paints in the abstract artwork. There were small sculptures of crucified women menstruating and sketches (in red and black and piss-yellow) of crows and breasts and phalluses.

It was not the photos and the pictures that had grabbed his attention and drew him in.

In the center of the room, obviously the most important piece in the collection was a glassed-in sculpture with the purity of white and clean, cream skin to contrast it to the sensationalism of the artwork around it. As Heero edged closer, he couldn't help but notice how realistic the model looked inside what was, for all extensive purposes, a glass coffin.

The life-size figure inside was that of a man, with his long hair loose and covering half of the surface, in peaceful sleep. Despite his earlier annoyance at the artist's lack of original vision, he couldn't help but praise the realism of the figure that he was looking down at. It was as if any moment now the young man would yawn and open his eyes... as if he was warm to the touch...

The young man inside the coffin fluttered his eyes for a moment and stretched as lazily and as best as he could inside the confines. Heero could only stare as the young man yawned and scratched himself as naturally as any man would when he wakes up. The young man in the coffin finally opened his eyes and looked straight at Heero with a smile on his face.

Heero shook his head, trying to get out of his head what was obviously a result from the almost heat stroke a few minutes ago. He looked back down at the young man and saw that there was no change in the position he was sculpted in. It was all a hallucination.

"Excuse me, Miss?" Heero called out towards his back, hoping to get the attention of the punk girl by the door. He walked around the glass coffin, searching for the name of the sculpture.

It read:

Portrait of Death as a Young Man
Wood, Cloth, Clay, Human Hair, Glass
Price yet to be determined.

Heero headed back to the front desk, where the young lady has not left her seat, nor as her attention strayed from the magazine. "Hello, Miss? How much is the 'Portrait of Death'?"

She lifted her eyes and glared at him for a brief moment before returning her eyes to the magazine. "The 'Portrait of Death's price and sale is dependent solely on Miss Helena Damax's discretion," she said with the air of complete annoyance as she turned another page. "If you wish to buy the sculpture come tomorrow night at 9 o'clock and speak to Miss Damax personally or call this number---" she handed him a business card. On it, written in simple Arial italic text, said:

Miss Helena Damax
(215) 555-2112
After 2PM Please

"And she'll amuse you or something." She flipped her hand and waved him away.

~~~

It was odd, hesitating as he tried to dial the woman's number. He knew what he wanted to ask, but wasn't it a bit strange?

On the third ring, someone picked it up. "Hello?" The voice was groggy, sleepy.

"Hello. Yes, my name is Heero Yuy and I'm really sorry I called you so early but I was wondering---"

"One moment please," the woman on the other end interrupted. She must have placed the phone down and left it for almost a good three minutes before she returned. When she returned, Heero had needed to place two more quarters into the pay phone to just stay on the line.

So he had been impatient and couldn't wait to talk to the woman about the sculpture. If you had seen the glass coffin, you would understand.

"Yes, you were saying?" she said on her return, sounding as tired as before.

"Yes, um, I wanted to talk to you about a sculpture you have on display at the Manioc Gallery as part of your exhibition?" Heero fidgeted with the metal cord of the phone as he tried to block out the slowly rising noise of the Gallery so that he could hear the woman's faint voice.

"Which one?" Her voice sounded as if she was suddenly on guard.

"Um, the 'Portrait of Death as a Young Man'. I was told to talk to you about it tomorrow night, but I really need to speak to you as soon as possible about it."

"Why?" She paused, probably to light a cigarette. Heero could always tell when the pause was for a cigarette or for coffee. It wasn't that hard to figure out. "The sculpture is not for sale."

"Really, because the sign said---"

"The sign is wrong."

"Then at least tell me about the boy inside the glass."

"Why?"

"He..." Heero looked around, trying to find some suitable words and finding none that didn't sound ridiculous or pathetic. All he could see was the escalator to the street outside, the information booth, the bar, and the KB Toy Store. "I know this'll sound stupid, but he looks familiar."

"You're right, it does sound stupid." She paused to smoke a bit. "And everyone looks familiar to everyone else."

"It was like deja vu, Miss Damax." His hand clenched the phone in a tight grip. "I have never seen someone like him before, but I know I have met him somewhere... that we knew each other really well."

She sighed into the phone. "Mister..."

"Yuy," he quickly assisted. "Heero Yuy."

She paused, but it was not to smoke her cigarette. There was a definite pause of thought. "Would you come to my studio today?"

Heero stared at the pay phone, confused. "Where is it?" he heard himself say.

"South Philadelphia. Pemberton street, not too far from the subway. Could you come?"

He nodded to the phone before realizing he needed to speak. "Yes, I don't mind. What's the address?"

~~~

Her studio was an entire house, one of those houses you see all the time driving down any city street. It was on a decent street, but it had no front yard.

He rang the bell once and waited in the heat. It was already 11:30 and he still hasn't been home yet. He had refilled his water bottle at the Gallery's restroom, but the trip had made him nervous and thirsty.

The door opened almost immediately. It was opened only a foot or two, allowing some light to shine on the face of the woman behind the door.

She was young, like himself and the young man she sculpted. Her hair was blonde, brushed back and kept it away from her face with a large bow clipped at the base of her neck. There were dark shadows under her eyes. "Yes?"

"Um, yes, I called earlier. I'm Heero." He lifted his hand and showed her the bag he carried with him. "I brought you the beer you wanted."

"Heineken?"

"Yeah." He lowered his arm. He stood there for a few minutes, unsure of what to do next.

"Come in," she finally said, stepping away from the door and opening it completely. He stepped into the cool, dark living room. "Did you have trouble getting the beer?"

Heero took a good look around and saw the red and black paint that she had used spotting the carpet, and the blues and violets covering them. There were canvases and photos and art supplies of all kinds on the floor and on the tables and chairs. "Not really." If it weren't for all the art clutter, the place would be pristine.

She closed the door behind him and ran a hand through her long bangs. "Guess I should be thankful Philly's not like New York, huh?"

His eyes adjusted to the sudden near-darkness. "Guess so."

He handed her the bag and she made her way to the back, where the kitchen was. "Do you want one?" she called out as she grabbed the case of longnecks and placed them in the fridge.

"No thanks." He shifted his weight from foot to foot, uncertain as to where he could stand and where he could sit.

"About the sculpture," the woman said suddenly as she opened one of the bottles with an opener. He looked up at her. "The guy that modeled for me was very nice." She took a sip of the amber fluid. "But we didn't have sex."

Heero could only look at her and listen as she pressed an opened bottle into his hand. He held onto the cold glass with a tight grip.

"We met through a mutual friend, who only does photography. She's really good. She had done an expose' on homelessness in New York for a news magazine and met him that way." She took another sip as her eyes took on a wistful tone. "His name was-"

"Duo Maxwell," Heero supplied before becoming completely shocked that he had already known the name. He drank from the bottle, for he suddenly felt thirsty.

The woman looked at him, surprised. "Yes. Duo." She took another sip from her bottle and began walking towards one of the covered canvases by the large windows. "He was involved with some activist groups concerned with homelessness and gave my friend a lot of opportunities to get some great pictures."

She fingered one of her palettes, covered already with grays and greens. "When I first met him, I asked him to be my model for this idea I had. A 'Snow White' theme, complete with flowers and lots of pinks and roses." She shrugged. "For some strange reason, he agreed. He let me photograph him nude and take casts of his face and hands. He even posed for the preliminary sketches. He was happy with it the entire time.

"After all the preliminaries, he came by, once or twice a week, just to see how he was coming along. And, whenever he came by, he would bring beer and would always tell me about his dreams. It was a weird hobby of his to analyze his dreams, but they were always the same thing." She turned her head and gave Heero a thoughtful, almost happy look. "There was always a dark-haired guy with blue eyes named Hero or something in them. Weird how his Hero shows up now."

Her smile turned melancholy and her eyes lost their wistful tone and took up a more somber expression. "He died just before I was asked to put together a show for Manioc. I guess I was a little too dense and happy with just getting the piece done to notice it, but..." She grabbed a handful of color photographs and handed them to Heero. He took them without a word and shifted through them. They were all photos of Duo, posing nude for this woman, but what she hinted at was there. Duo's eyes held the lightest tone of mortality.

"He didn't know what hit him. He always got a little sick sometimes, but, the last time..." She closed her eyes, but a tear still filtered through. Heero felt he was about to cry as well.

"The last time, at his place, he asked me if I believed in deja vu and reincarnation. I told him, I didn't know..." Her body shook slightly as she exhaled a dry sob and collapsed to her knees. She covered her red face and clear tears with her free hand. "And now, I'm not sure."

Heero knelt next to her and wrapped his arms around her in sympathy and support. As she cried into his chest, he held back his own tears, for it is only human to feel sorrow for the chances they will never have.

~~~

In a small graveyard, not too far from FDR Park, was a fresh grave. Its most recent visitor had just put new flowers on the ground in front of the tombstone. The white roses were bound together with a thick red ribbon.

On the granite, someone inscribed:

DUO MAXWELL
1979-2002
MAY WE SEE YOU IN ANOTHER LIFETIME