Continue to Part 2
Disclaimer: GW does not belong to me. Never has done, never will.
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�Writing about art is like dancing about architecture.�
The high, clear notes of the music draw me over to the small room in the safe
house that we�re lodged in for this week. I pause on my way past, pushing the
door open quietly, peeking round to see Trowa sitting on the windowsill, a flute
held to his lips, his eyes closed in concentration.
Time seems to freeze as I watch him play, never moving from my place by the
door. I don�t know if he is aware of my being here and I don�t say anything, not
wanting him to stop. I had no idea he�s a musician and I wonder why he�s never
mentioned it to me before. It suddenly strikes me then that it�s because we�ve
never really talked before. I never ask him anything about his personal life and
he returns the favour. That�s the main reason I like Trowa, he keeps himself to
himself and doesn�t feel the need for mindless chatter unlike one braided idiot
that we both know.
I don�t even know what keeps me rooted in place in the doorway watching him.
I�m not one to intrude on another�s solitude, but for some reason, I want to be
here. I *want* to listen to Trowa play his flute. He still hasn�t acknowledged
my presence so I stay put, watching his long fingers coax the music from that
instrument, his playing quiet, soothing and melodic...much like his voice. It�s
almost as if he doesn�t want anyone to hear him and it suddenly makes me feel
guilty about intruding on him like this. And yet I still stay.
His eyes stay shut as though he�s lost in the song that he�s playing. I feel
something tug at me and I almost smile at the picture he makes perched on the
edge of the sill, his long bangs falling over one side of his face as usual.
Hiding from the rest of the world. That makes me sad, that someone like Trowa
should feel the need to hide, to stay as quiet as he does all of the time. In
spite of all that, there�s something about Trowa, something that makes him stand
out.
It�s popular opinion that he�s just an emotionless empty shell, but I know
that can�t be true. It makes me wonder what he�s like...*really* like as a
person. I don�t think I�d mind too much to learn more about him. If indeed he
ever allows anyone to get close to him. The thought of Quatre flits briefly
across my mind. I know that he and Trowa are...close, for want of a better word.
The way they communicate with each other, the little smiles that they share.
I�ll admit that I�m envious. I wonder if Quatre gets to see him like this, open
and relaxed...and then I stop wondering, not wanting to pursue that line of
thought anymore. Just to witness Trowa in such an unguarded state is enough for
me.
Indeed, I�ve been so lost in my own thoughts that it takes me a few minutes to
realise that he�s stopped playing. He�s staring straight at me, holding his
flute to his chest with his head cocked to the side, watching me with one
visible emerald eye. My mouth suddenly goes dry and I feel the urge to bolt from
the room, which is idiotic in itself. It�s just Trowa, I remind myself. So why
has my body suddenly gone into fight-or-flight mode? If anyone should feel
threatened, it�s him.
He continues to gaze at me impassively and when it becomes apparent that I�m
not going to be offering an explanation for my being there anytime soon, he
breaks the awkward silence.
�Need something, Heero?� he asks me.
If I didn�t know better, I could have sworn he was amused. I bristle slightly
at the thought of being laughed at, but the feeling vanishes almost as soon as
it appears and I try to come up with a reason, an excuse...Hell, anything. The
only words that rise from my throat however are, �I didn�t know you could play.�
I gesture to the flute he still holds protectively.
�You never asked,� he replies with a slight shrug of one shoulder. I don�t
know how much longer we stay there scrutinising each other in silence, but
finally he arches one elegant eyebrow and gets to his feet, ignoring me as he
makes his way across the room to pack away his flute. I feel empty for some
reason when he breaks his gaze from mine, turns his back on me. I don�t want him
to ignore me. I want him to play some more, look at me, and speak to me. I just
want him to give me some attention.
I ponder why exactly I�m feeling this way. I�ve never felt like this with
anyone else before. I don�t care for socialising, getting to know other people.
But I want to get to know Trowa.
My forehead creases in a slight frown. The idea of asking Duo or even Quatre
about this comes to me, but I quickly dismiss it. Duo would announce a national
holiday in the celebration of Shinigami if he ever found out that Heero Yuy
actually thought of things other than the war, his mission and his Gundam. Well,
usually that�s right, I *don�t* usually tend to about anything other than those
things. I like to keep focused and tend not to bother with trivialities. So why
do I want to start now?
The object of my thoughts is unaware of my brooding as he finishes gathering
up his things, apparently unconcerned that I�ve been staring at him like he was
something to be identified, a mystery to be solved. But that�s what he is, a
mystery, an enigma. And I want to unravel that mystique to see what lies
beneath.
I snort inwardly at that thought. Unravel him. Jeez, I�m making it sound like
he�s a ball of wool or something. If I had to compare Trowa to anything, it
would be...well, it sure as Hell wouldn�t be a ball of wool. Trowa is
like...Trowa is like a work of art. You could stare at him for hours on end
trying to figure him out, to find out what made him tick (there you go again,
Yuy, now he sounds like he�s a God damned bomb!)
But I don�t want to pull Trowa apart like a ball of wool, just unravelling and
unwinding until there�s nothing left at all. Neither do I want to handle him in
such a way that he�ll blow up in my face, just like that bomb I was talking
about earlier. I want to see Trowa as a work of art. That no matter how long you
stare at the painting, it�ll always stay there, real and concrete; something you
can reach out and touch. Would I be able to reach out and touch Trowa? Did I
even want to? How would he respond if I did?
It�s times like this I curse my inability to communicate what I�m thinking.
I�ve never been good with words, but how could I express to him in actions what
I want? How can anyone write about a work of art? I didn�t know the answer to
that question, but I knew for certain that I was willing to try and find out.
A light tap to my shoulder brings me out of my silent reverie and I�m
surprised to see Trowa now standing directly in front of me. I blink up at him,
wondering why he touched me. As if reading my mind, he says, �Would it be okay
if I left the room anytime soon?�
Feeling like an idiot, I realise that I�m still blocking the door and I look
away, moving so that he can walk past. When I glance up at him again, he still
looks faintly amused and this time I don�t feel offended.
He brushes past me, but my hand darts out before I�m even aware of what I�m
doing as I stop him. He turns to look at me questioningly and I try to think of
something to say.
�You play well,� I offer finally. �That was nice.�
His amusement seems to grow until the corners of his lips are tugging up into
a barely there smile and he shrugs again.
�Thanks, I guess,� he responds, staring at me a moment longer before making
his way down the hallway and out of my line of sight. I don�t know how much
longer I stand there, but eventually, I remember what I was going to do before
this little interlude and I hurry off upstairs where my laptop awaits. Computers
I can deal with. They�re not complicated like Trowa. But then when I think about
it, I wouldn�t have him any other way.