Elevator Love part 5
By Tralla
I’m fully dressed and have been walking the halls. I am struck by the peculiarity of this place. This estate is an assortment of the homey, the ostentatious, and even the demurely classy. But that isn’t the peculiarly that causes the skin covering my stomach to tighten. Some of the doors are electronically locked, requiring a card swipe to enter.
If it were just one or two doors, I could understand. The blonde could be hording his assets and wants them protected. But I’ve scoured 3 floors and have seen close to twenty similarly locked doors. I’ve stopped counting and have found myself more concerned about what is on the inside of those rooms and what needs protecting.
I head back to my room. I don’t know how long I have been wandering, but when I arrive at my door there is an envelope waiting for me at its foot. I pick up the envelope and I look at it; my eyes take in the scrawl of my first name on its front. It looks like a carefree yet deliberate hand had taken my name and made it into a tiny work of art. I tear open the envelope. Before reading its contents my gaze moves to the bottom of the letter to confirm the sender. It’s the blonde. My eyes rove up to the top of the letter and I begin reading:
I was absentminded and didn’t tell you where we would be dining. I’m assuming you’ve done some exploring and have realized both the size and array of this residence. I have enclosed directions to the dining room in which tonight’s dinner will be served. We’ll be looking forward to dining with you and welcoming you into our home.
Quatre R. Winner
I’m staring at the letter. He knew I was wandering. That’s fine. An assumption based on my absence. I turn over the letter and realize there is another page with a map on it. There is a red circle that says “You are here”. That’s fine. But above the red circle is a hand sketch of what looks like me…in stick figure form… To avoid being further disturbed, I look to where the dining room is. It’s circled in green. There is no doodle next to it. But then my mind recalls the last line of the letter: “We’ll be looking forward to dining with you and welcoming you into our home.”
We…
I follow the directions. The dining area is on my floor and requires no card access to enter. I’m surprised as I push two doors open to see, not some sprawling ostentatious display of the blonde’s ridiculous wealth, but something closer to what a more economically grounded person would have. It’s cozy, neat, and practical. I don’t like this mansion. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but I prefer consistency and this place is throwing me off. The sight of a small but ornate chandelier brings some consolation as I walk in. I see five places set, two of which are already taken up…by the braid and Mr. Forehead.
“Hey Hey, look who decided to make it here fashionably…on time,” chuckles the braid.
Strangely, his stupidity is comforting and I look at the set places. Three choices.
“Your place has already been decided,” says Mr. Forehead.
The braid points to one end of the table. Apparently, I’m a plane and he’s air traffic control.
I take a seat and wait. My stomach gurgles. Then a side door to my left opens and out comes the blonde with a basket of rolls in his left hand. He’s wearing an apron that says “Blonde for Hire”… He’s disturbingly helpful and chic with his broken forearm and indulgent air. He walks over and puts the basket on the table. He whispers something to the braid and they leave the room together.
I’m left with Mr. Forehead, who seems to have a staring problem. But I don’t have to deal with him for long because the blonde and the braid return with food. They make several trips, eventually covering the table with side dishes and two bottles of wine. They place an entrée on each place setting except one.
The braid gestures to the un-served seat. “A no-show?”
The blonde nods.
“What’s his excuse this time?”
“He didn’t give one,” replies the blonde before taking his seat at the head of the table. I’m on the other end directly opposite him with the braid to my left and Mr. Forehead to my right.
I quell a snort. So there’s another person who’s part of this nutty troupe.
I look down at what was laid before me. By the arrangement, it’s a Japanese dish, but I have no idea what it is. And, before I can stop myself, I ask suspiciously, “What’s in this?”
“Shitake mushrooms,” explains the blonde.
I stare down at the mushrooms. “I know what they are,” I reply snappishly. Any fool can identify mushrooms.
And then Mr. Forehead intrudes by saying, “They’re a rare delicacy. Be grateful, you dog.”
I don’t know what bug crawled up his ass but I’m no one’s pet. I’m about to push my chair back and rise out of my seat when the blonde intervenes.
“Wufei, Heero isn’t familiar with your sense of humor. You’ve insulted him.”
“That’s what I intended,” replies Mr. Forehead looking as contrite as a hungry lion who’s just secured a plump lamb from the protection of its mother. After a moment of looking back at the blonde, he turns to face me and concedes, “You’re no dog.”
I lean back in my chair.
“Let’s begin,” says the blonde while looking slightly flustered.
I look around and realize that we all have a different meal. I can smell the blonde’s lightly curried dish from where I’m sitting and recall the guy in the fez who shared the elevator with us a week ago. I look over to Mr. Forehead, and from what I can tell he’s having Kung Pao Chicken. I look at the braid. He’s having spaghetti and meatballs. The blonde, Mr. Forehead, and I have the Eastern market cornered. The braid’s bringing in the West. We’re United Nations in the making, meeting to nosh.
I begin eating my meal. For some reason, my stomach tightens. It has nothing to do with the food’s taste. In fact, the entrée thwarted my low expectations. I’m tense. I realize that a glass of white wine had been placed next to my meal without my notice. I take a gulp of wine and go back to the meal. The blonde, the braid, and Mr. Forehead are talking. I use my chewing to drown out their inane chatter. That is, until I’m interrupted.
Something dry, warm, yet yielding strikes me on the left side of my forehead. After being momentarily stunned by the sudden blow, I automatically look for what was responsible. On the floor, 9 feet away, I see a bun. I hear some muffled snickering coming from my left. I look up at the table and realize that the basket of buns is just inches from the braid’s reach. He’s slurping up his spaghetti like a man just off a hunger strike. I look around and discern no change in anyone’s demeanor. I’ve just been beaned with a dinner roll and everyone’s acting like nothing happened.
Perhaps, I’m regressing. Maybe I’m having flashbacks to 3rd grade because I’m expecting the blonde to intervene on my behalf again, take the braid by the ear and drag him to the corner and make him stand there for the remainder of the meal with a cap that says “asshole” on his head. But nothing happens, and everyone’s just eating, but this time in silence. Occasionally, there’s the sound of drinking or chewing but that’s pretty much it. Maybe I’m hallucinating. I bring a hand to my forehead. There are crumbs there, partially embedded in my skin, but they begin to flake off at my touch. I was hit. And now I’m shedding bread.
Then the blonde’s voice suddenly carries over the eating and drinking and even the braid’s slurping.
“Heero,” he says.
Apparently he’s trying to get my attention, but I’m rolling the crumbs from my forehead between my middle finger and thumb.
“I’ve asked most of the staff to take a paid leave for the month. The chef will stay on as well as a few maids, but for the most part we’ll have to take care of ourselves.”
I snort to myself. That explains his apron and his sudden servile manner.
The blonde’s still talking. “Since my father has given me new responsibilities, I have been in the press. While I’m no celebrity, I do draw attention. With this broken forearm, it’s best that few people as possible know about it.”
“Why?” I ask. I frown. My mouth has a mind of its own.
“Because, one question leads to another.”
“Mr. Winner, how did you break your arm?” chimes in the braid.
“I was in a car accident,” the blonde replies.
“A car accident? Was anyone else hurt?” asks the braid with mock concern. He spears a meatball with his fork.
Apparently the two are actors, and I’m a slightly bemused, chewing audience. I think a mushroom is stuck between my teeth.
“No, fortunately, no one else was hurt,” replies the blonde while looking grateful and relieved. He’s getting into his part.
“Were you driving, Mr. Winner,” asks Mr. Forehead.
So, he’s getting in on the action, too.
“…” responds the blonde.
“Mr. Winner, did you hear the question? Were you driving?” asks the braid, stealing back the role.
“I…was not,” concedes the blonde while looking nervous and embarrassed.
I’m looking at him and he’s staring back.
“I won’t lie, Heero. And to avoid putting the two of us under scrutiny, I’ll remain secluded until my arm heals.”
I feel hot and I’m growing dizzy. I don’t know what’s happening but I continue looking straight ahead at the blonde. Through the haze, I can see unease on his face. From across the table, he says to me, “You’re completely red-faced.”
Before I can respond, Mr. Forehead snorts, “Asian Flush.”
Confused, the blonde turns to him to ask, “Asian Flush?”
Mr. Forehead snorts again before gesturing for both the blonde’s and braid’s wine glasses. After a shared pause, they hand them over to him. He downs his own, then the blonde’s and the braid’s. He points to the column of red rising from his neck. It creeps up his entire face until he looks wind-burned.
The blonde looks back at me and then back at Mr. Forehead before saying, “He’s only had half a glass of wine and with his height and build, he can’t be that easily affected--” The blonde suddenly directs his attention to the braid.
My vision is getting blurry. My throat feels like its closing up.
I hear the blonde say, “Duo, you didn’t put anything in his--”
“Drink?” says the braid. “Hey, wait a minute. Why am _I_ suddenly suspect? What’s with the accusations?”
There is silence and I’m assuming the blonde is giving the braid one of his calm, assessing looks. I assume I’m right because the braid then says, “Ok ok, fine fine. Yeah, I was planning on putting something in his drink, but Wufei beat me to it.”
“I did no such thing,” growls Mr. Forehead while sounding outraged. It also sounds like the drinks have finally hit him. His speech was slurred.
“It was a joke,” says the braid. “Calm down…”
I can’t see anything but I’m guessing I’m being looked at because I hear the braid say, “Uhh…Wufei? I know you explained the whole Asian flush thing…but…is there an Asian purple? Or, an Asian blue? Because he looks like he’s about to pass ou--”
Everything is black and then I realize my eyes are closed. They feel as though they’re glued shut. With some effort, I get my eyes open. I see a white ceiling. I hear blips and realize a heart monitor is to my left. I look down. I’m in a bed. I’m missing my shirt. There’s an IV attached to my right wrist. There’s a blue curtain drawn half-way around my bed, and I can see a row of beds across from me.
“You’re awake,” says a voice. It’s the blonde.
“This is a hospital?” I ask. I sit up. I feel doped up but I’m twitching. I don’t know if it’s the cold, sterile environment or the thought that I was handled by strangers while unconscious, but I can’t stop twitching.
“No, there’s a health ward within this mansion.”
Incredulous, I look back at him. Who has a hospital attached to their home?
But he distracts me from this thought when he continues speaking.
“I apologize for the dinner roll incident,” says the blonde with his gaze fixed on my IV.
So the bastard _was_ aware of my head-on collision with the offending dinner roll.
“Duo is holding a grudge against you…because of the Porsche. I didn’t intervene because I thought it would be better for everyone if he got some of the angst out of his system.”
“And you thought my forehead was an appropriate target?”
“Actually, yes. It did make you look up from your plate.”
The blonde is laughing good-naturedly…alone.
Fine, let him yuck it up. I don’t care. I’m so drugged I’m going to fall right back asleep, but not before something snaps me awake.
“What happened to me?” I hear myself ask.
“You had an allergic reaction to something in your meal,” explains the blonde. “I blame myself. I should have checked your medical records before giving instructions to the cook.”
My medical records. That’s it. I’m fully awake now.
“Keep your nose out of my business,” I say. I think I just snarled. In fact, I’m pretty sure I did because the blonde is no longer looking concerned, apologetic and sympathetic. He’s looking offended. Well, too fucking bad. Apparently I’m in rant-mode because I continue, “I may be working for you, unwillingly, but what’s mine is mine. My health records, my bank account, my personal space. For someone so keen on being concerned about others, you have no idea what people actually want.”
“Then what is it that you want, Heero?” he asks while leaning back and looking startled.
Damn him for looking at me like I’m an ogre.
“I want privacy.”
“And?”
“And I want to know why I’m here. This ‘personal assistant’ ruse is wearing thin.”
He appears contemplative, but there’s a smile cracking through the mask. He’s laughing at me without laughing.
“Believe it or not, Heero, I have not forced you into anything. So far, _you_ have chosen to remain in my company.”
“I didn’t agree--”
“You accepted the keys to the Porsche. Instead of driving off alone, you drove me home in it. Despite injuries rendered to my person, I have been hospitable by offering you both employment and lodging. You came into my mansion of your own free will.”
“You threatened to sue me.”
“Did I?”
“You said your lawyers-”
“--would disagree with your assertion that you could not be held responsible for the accident,” responds Blondie. “I never intimated anything more. I don’t have so much control as to influence your interpretations.”
The bastard. Selective as his memory is, he’s right. No one forced me. And this tone and the way he’s looking back at me. Very level-headed. Very businesslike. Almost like a seasoned corporate lawyer talking down to a wet-behind-the ears paralegal.
He’s still spouting more lawyer-speak. “And, just now, you said you may be working for me. Can I safely interpret that as a definitive ‘yes’?”
I make no move to respond. He’s staring. I can feel that. I’m busy looking at the IV in my wrist.
“I could really use someone like you, Heero. Your talent was unappreciated at your previous job.”
“My talent?” I mutter. Where am I? On Star Search?
“With some training, you could even be more useful to me than Wufei.”
This catches my attention. I glance back at the blonde. The lawyer guise is gone. He looks like a kid at a sporting event, eager and slightly sadistic.