Elevator Love part 19
By Tralla

We stayed away from his estate for longer than 2 days. It’s day 5 and we’re leaving the hotel.

In that 5 day span, with a few side trips, I’ve become privy to more of his odd proclivities...and they’re animal related. He likes zebra stripes, preferably on live zebras. Camels. He likes camels, too. It’s a general thing about patterns, colors, and camouflage. He’s a walking oddity. Unfortunately, he makes it difficult to ignore him and his peculiar ways. For instance, what he’s putting me through now is a good example. We’re in an elevator heading from the 12th floor to the hotel lobby. We’re checking out and then returning to his estate.

I’m being tortured by elevator music and he’s only making it worse.

The song...it’s clinging to me, clawing at me with its wholesomeness. The voices are folksy, similar to the crooning of two cowboys turned hippies. The pair is strumming their guitars and singing, harmonizing...and he’s joining in.

Fifth floor. The doors open. I look out. No one’s there.

My attention shifts back to my right. Glaring means nothing to him.

He’s just standing there humming in perfect harmony, completely oblivious to my distaste. I’m frowning at him. I shake my head. This is what I get for wanting to be with—

My innards just tightened. I’m going to throw up.

I hit the button that stops the doors from closing.

I get out.

“Heero, Where are you---”

I tune him out. I’m gone.

But I haven’t gotten away. I hear footsteps. I know them. He followed me. I’d spotted a maid coming out of someone’s suite. I’d push past her to get into the room and to the suite’s bathroom. I’m hunched over the toilet. My breakfast is swimming around in the bowl, staring back at me. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck are standing on end. I unroll some toilet paper and wipe at my mouth.

He is in the bathroom’s doorway and hasn’t said anything.

I turn around and look past him before saying, “I’m moving out.”

His reply is sudden and unchecked, “No, you’re not.” He catches himself and sounds civil. “Not without an explanation.”

I have no explanation, but I have a resolution. Slowly, but surely, I have to cut him off.

Back at his estate, 8 days into my return, I’m bowled over by my insincerity.

I was lying to myself, as though I was capable of actively cutting ties. Perceptive. He’s perceptive. He’s backed off and given me space. He’s stopped using the elevator in my suite. I’ve seen him a handful of times this week, only by coincidence, and now it’s been an entire day since the last inadvertent meeting.

I can say it. I’m grateful for the distance, but, apparently, I can’t always have it. I’ve been prevented from entering my suite. There’s someone behind me who has decided to speak.

“I understand why you rarely fail to return your salary. Living as a gigolo does not always sit well with one’s self-esteem, does it? But the occasional allowance, one can’t live without that.”

I turn around. It’s the resident accountant lackey. I don’t give him a reaction.

He doesn’t care for one. It’s in his tone as he says, “He can be difficult to work for, but he has people who are protective of him and willing to say and do the things he won’t.” He turns around. “Don’t rub any of them the wrong way.”

I watch him go, but I interrupt him. “Chang.”

He looks over his shoulder.

When I say nothing, he resumes his walking.

I’m slipping. It’s as though some screws have come loose. I’m not as held together. There’s something else moving, taking over my lips, taking over my mind, taking over my body. It’s pushing me to do things I’ve never done. It’s making excuses for me, and I let it.

I walk through the dining room doors and immediately become a spectacle. All places at the table are set, but only the braid and Mr. Forehead are there. I look back at them. Their attention has shifted from their food to me.

The braid is gawking at me. “You’re...eating...breakfast...with us? Without a request or a threat?”

Even Mr. Forehead shows his surprise. When I came in, he was drinking his water and now it’s drizzling down the side of his mouth. Apparently, he forgot to swallow.

I take a seat.

“Wufei, can you explain something to me?” asks the braid.

“What?” he gurgles. He finally swallows his water.

“Pigs can’t fly, right?” After a 10 second interval, the braid’s attention is back on me. It looks like he’s come to terms with my sudden appearance. His lips are flapping. “Anyhow, heard you and Quatre skipped town. I mean, seriously... No one told _me_ a damn thing. Where’s _my_ mini vacation? Here I am working my ass off, doing three jobs at once--” He takes in my expression, frowns, and then holds up a hand. He’s counting off with his fingers as he’s talking. “Mechanic...zany inventor...Quatre’s--”

Mr. Forehead cuts him off. “Not here.”

The braid scoffs. “What are you? Slow? He knows everything.”

“That is not the point. We aren’t dining alone.”

The braid scoffs again. “Yeah, whatever.” Briefly, he looks down at his food. “Damn, I’m letting everything get cold.” He finally realizes that I’m sitting in front of an empty plate. He laughs. “Don’t worry about it. Someone will be out to fix you right up.”

As if right on cue, I hear doors open, but the noise didn’t come from the direction of the kitchen. It came from where I’d entered.

I feel someone walking past. A scent wafts forward and encases me. Almonds. I smell almonds, and the owner of the scent has just parked herself at the place next to mine.

Hootie. Her face looks blanched. It’s probably the contrast. She has bags under her eyes.

She looks in my direction. “Is there something especially charming about me this morning? You can’t seem to keep your eyes off me.”

“Your face is like a car wreck,” I reply. “It’s difficult not to stare.”

Silence.

A second before, everyone was looking my way, but now they’re looking everywhere else but at each other. Yes, the forces of nature have shifted. I bite back and I bite hard.

I watch the braid shovel his food into his mouth. He chews, swallows, and then wipes off his mouth. “Ok, I’m done. Great meal.” He gets up and leaves.

“I have...paperwork,” says Mr. Forehead. He excuses himself and follows on the braid’s heels.

It’s just me and the owl. Great.

There’s a noise to our left. It’s a servant from the kitchen. He has a tea cup and saucer in hand. He places them down in front of Hootie. She thanks him.

Her habits must be well known. He brought her tea without her request.

She’s asked what she would like for breakfast.

She ponders for a moment. “I think I’ll go for something mildly decadent. Belgium waffles with strawberries and whip cream will do.”

I’m asked what I want. She answers for me.

“He’ll have what I’m having.”

The servant looks at me. When I say nothing, he removes the plates from in front of us and returns to the kitchen. A minute passes and he returns to place some standard breakfast items in front of us. Briefly, my gaze moves to the orange juice as he retreats. The sound of his footsteps distracts me. He’s speed walking to the kitchen. He’s out of sight and she’s once again invading my mental space.

“It’s been a while, Heero, since I’ve had the pleasure of your company. Who can live without glares and irritability?” She’s moving her cup so that the tea is swirling around in it. “I hear mint tea is good for upset stomachs, Heero. Wouldn’t want you losing this breakfast after the chef--”

There was a noise from my throat.

“Perhaps, I’ve said something I shouldn’t.” She’s looking at me from over the tea cup. She swallows and lowers the cup. “Embarrassed? You needn’t be. Everyone has stomach troubles...Yours must have been especially bad...halting a nice elevator ride...to run to the nearest bathroom.” She puts the tea cup down. “Exquisitely theatrical. I wish I could have been there, but three’s a crowd. Isn’t that right?”

She’s hammering it in, the fact that she knows a great deal about the trip, but she’s not letting onto the breadth of the information. She has detail, but not spread. She knows a lot about a little.

She’s smiling.

Maybe I’m wrong.

I crack and turn on her. “What are you doing here?”

“Moi? Well, I’m a guest rather than a squatter.” Her finger is tracing the rim of the tea cup. She’s still looking at me. “You don’t work here, Heero. I can’t think of a reason why your presence is necessary, can you?”

To keep owls from roosting.

She lifts a forked eyebrow.

I keep forgetting about those antennae of hers and their brain wave catching ability.

The servant is back with our breakfast. He rests my plate in front of me but, before he can place hers down, she interrupts him.

“Actually, I have changed my mind. One dish should be enough.”

He doesn’t hesitate to leave.

He’s the third person today who’s cut and run at the first opportunity. I’m beginning to think everyone is onto my situation. Either that, or they can smell blood in the air.

I hear a noise. It’s the sound of her removing food from my plate. I watch her fork. She’d just popped something in her mouth. “Hmmm,” she murmurs in exhibitionist delight. Her fork is moving again, but in an unnaturally slow manner.

Her eyes are on me. “You look particularly rested, Heero. From your earlier comment, I’m aware you can’t say the same of me.” She yawns into her free hand. “I’m so accustomed to sleeping on my side. But last night...I was on my back for hours. I’d complain about the sleep, but the truth is... I didn’t get much.” She spears a strawberry off my plate. “What did you do last night, Heero? I hope you weren’t too lonely.”

I’m out of my seat. I hear her take my plate as I walk out of the room.

I’m jabbing at the elevator button, jabbing at the number 8.

I want her out. She’s leaving. I’ll make sure of it. The doors open. I exit and head to his office. I see him. He’s where I usually find him. He’s standing in front of his desk, holding some papers, reading. It’s a familiar pose when I’m hit with an unfamiliar sentiment. I walk in.

“Quatre--”

I said his name.

He looks back at me. He’d whipped around, fast enough to send his bangs flying. There’s a flush across his face, from one cheekbone to the next. His eyes are wide. “Heero...you...” He pauses, curbs any mention of my slip, but gives into some measure of torture. He’s whispering. “You’re cherry red.”

I frown. I was set up. My mouth...it’s something separate from the rest of me... Running ahead before I was ready.

He’s still staring, intently, as he murmurs, “And you’re getting redder.” There’s a long silence before he says, “Thank you.”

Suspicion causes me to squint. “For what?” The question came out as a bark.

He allows a smile to sneak to the surface. “It’s better not to say.”

She hasn’t left. I haven’t gotten her out. I retreated earlier, but I’m back on his floor. I’m outside his bedroom, and I have a game plan. An ultimatum. Either she leaves, or I stop blowing him. A realization halts me. She’s probably blowing him as well, earning her keep. Maybe she’s at work now. She’s in the bedroom. The door is open by just a crack. I can’t see either of them, but I can hear her. After a second, I realize that it’s not oral satisfaction she’s giving. It’s oral lashing.

“I don’t care what you do with him. You will love me.” There’s a long pause. I’m leaning forward. There’s an edge in her voice as she says, “You promised...without words.” The edge wasn’t just anger. It was desperation.

It’s brief, the thought. She’s caught, in something powerful, and she can’t break free.

And there’s another thought that’s more alarming than the first. He’s capable of great things...things like having people cling to him before their notice and later against their will. I walk away. I have to stay away from him.

There’s a problem. The desire to stay away isn’t there. I’m here out of choice, not desperation...which is worse, much worse. It makes me responsible.

I never wanted responsibility.

I need to rethink my position.

I didn’t head back to my suite. There’s a terrace just outside the lackey lounge. I’ve opted for that destination.

The doors leading out are already open and provide me a taste of what is outside. The breeze is light. The sky is dark. The moon is full and orange. The clouds are navy at the center and gray at the edges. It feels like Halloween.

As I walk out onto the terrace, I find an odd treat. I was beaten here. There’s a figure leaning against a column.

I saw the hair before the body. It’s spidey. I don’t know what he’s doing here. Since his sister gave birth, his time at the estate has been scant. He has a plastic bag in his hand. He’s reaching into it. My skin begins to crawl. If he’s fallen into uncle-dom, he’ll have a pack of pictures and will force them on me.

I have him all wrong. He’s taken out something round.

He tosses it to me as he says, “Magic 8 ball.”

I catch it and look back at him.

“Duo has been handing them out. A mistaken shipment.”

I’m suspicious. “Mistaken...”

“The shipment was sent to him by accident,” he replies. “Duo is simply taking advantage of the situation.” He’s moving away from the column he says, “A selfish, but sensible decision,” he walks past me, “made permissible by one of the balls.”

I get my answer: “Better not tell you now.”

I frown.

I hate magic 8 balls, but I find myself ready with another question.

It’s just a gut feeling, but I know it’ll spit out a definitive answer this time around.

Part 20