I Will Corrupt You
By karei
Capitulus Unus
Chapter 1
His head buzzed softly and he imagined he could hear a faint sloshing in his brain; much good wine and good food had passed him in the hour he had sat at the small café in San Francisco, of all places, a small place on Haight Street known as the Axum Café. A man had joined him and though he was not much for company he decided to let it rest, and when he offered the first of four bottles, he found it hard not to have some appreciation for this fellow's company. He was quiet as well, and the two anti-conversationalists sat in silent quiescence enjoying the amicable tranquility between themselves.
The former man rose, and while quite displeased with himself for breaking the silence, felt a need to leave such a public place. Lunch hour drew near, and the once placid café began to come to life with the hum of his fellow diners. "How much do I owe you for the wine?" he asked.
The latter man looked up at him, and for the first time his clear blue eyes had come to be visible, as dark as the ocean, and just as silent and deep. "Nothing," he replied, and as it seemed just as a smile would spread across his face it vanished, as if running frightfully from unfamiliar territory.
"But I must pay you something," he persisted, noting that he drank his fair share of the wine.
"A name will suffice," the blue-eyed man replied.
"Hn. And what do you hope to gain from knowing my name? A favor?"
"I ask no favors," he replied. "I merely want to know with whom I had the pleasure of dining this afternoon. I'll give you my name, if it would satisfy you. I am Heero Yuy."
It was only now, as Heero spoke, that he could notice the quiet mannerisms that Heero carried; he was clean and careful, his actions as silent as himself, and were he even the slightest tipsy, it did not register on his poise. Although he has no accent, this Yuy man carries himself as some European nobility, eastern European if one wanted to be specific. His look was borderline stern at times, but he could see the friendliness locked in Heero's eyes, as if it were waiting for the proper person to release it. He found comfort in Heero's silence, in his quietly observing gaze, and his soft, unobtrusive formality with the world, and found himself even willing to trust him.
"Trowa Barton, although I don't see how it helps pay for four bottles of wine."
"Well, I am just about done here, so perhaps we could go for a walk, Mr. Barton?" Heero noted how Trowa visibly flinched, as minute as the motion was, at the formal use of his name. "Would you prefer I called you Trowa?"
"Trowa would be fine, thank you." Trowa did not know what to make of Heero. He was quiet, kind, shorter than he and with just as tapered a figure, although Heero made better use of his appearance by dressing in a finely tailored suit, the navy blue of the fabric adding to the already astounding color of his eyes. He appeared to be a professional, but he was too young to have made it so far in business and his hair was too tousled, and dark brown fragments of his style obscured his eyes, giving him a cloud of dark allure to the gentleness of his persona.
Despite all his apprehension and without giving any thought to the millions of alarms that were ringing off in his head that moment, he decided to join Heero in strolling down Haight Street. It was an amazing district to look at, one of his favorite places in San Francisco. The street was lined with clothing stores and novelty shops, virtually every one of them reminiscing about times long gone, stores that spouted nonsense about the 'free love' era spaced by vintage shops, and while they did not appeal to his pocket or his style, he did admit that the stores had an individual flavor to them, unlike any other area he had imagined. It was the outpouring of the history of people, and that he had to appreciate. Apparently Heero found them similarly interesting as he would gaze at the brightly painted shops. One caught his eye in particular: a used book shop. He slowed in his pace and Trowa, surprising himself by this action, slowed with him.
"Care to take a look?"
"Why not?" Trowa shrugged. It wasn't as if he had anything else to do. His only friend of late was visiting family in eastern Europe, Poland if he recollected. His mother had just died and he needed to see her before she was laid to rest. He recalled the urgency of it all and had wished to accompany his friend; unfortunately, his wallet protested and he refused to take charity.
So the unlikely pair stepped inside the book store and began to nose through the assortment of books they had and Trowa surprised himself by lingering in the 'paranormal' section. He even began thumbing through one of the books, a particularly interesting piece on the transmigration of the soul. Trowa began to read the introduction, rather intently in fact, learning only in this book that transmigration was different from reincarnation. Who knew? he thought. It was only at the end of the third paragraph that he began to feel a crawling sensation up his back; he looked up to see Heero studying him.
Before he had a chance to ask, Heero spoke: "Are you all right?"
Trowa felt taken aback by this question. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"You seem lost," he replied simply, almost as an adult who was trying to help a small child lost in Disneyland.
"I'm fine," Trowa replied, trying to put his face back in the book.
"You just seem lost. You have, the whole time I've seen you. You have a look on your face like you don't know what to do with yourself."
"So you're just taking pity on me?"
Heero shook his head, "I never take pity on a man. One can control their actions, as well as their emotions. Why pity one who is in control?"
"Then why?"
"To help." He sounded innocent, earnest in his attempts, as if he truly wanted to help Trowa. "Perhaps you just want somebody to talk to."
"I don't need to talk to anyone."
"Don't you? Everybody does. I'm sure you have a confidante."
"Yes, but he's away now."
"Oh? On business?"
"No, family. His mother passed."
"Terrible thing. What is his name?"
"Quatre. Winner, if that makes a difference."
"I've heard of him. The Winner family is said to be a rich one, although I'm not quite sure as to the honor behind that family's wealth."
"Are you saying they're dishonest?"
"Not necessarily. Just thinking." Heero only now noticed the angered look in Trowa's eyes, although he had noticed it in his voice. "I'm sorry if I have offended you."
"Not me, but Quatre is a good man and an even better friend."
"How did you meet him, if you don't mind my asking."
"I do."
"Oh."
It grew silent once more. Too many words had passed for Trowa's comfort, and he was shocked at how the minute words of a stranger had gotten him riled up and ready to defend his friend's honor. He had barely known Quatre for four months, but those were four months spent in close contact, so it was no wonder they had grown close, that is to say, as close as Trowa could let a person be. It was closer than he had realized and wanted... or hoped.
"I'm sorry."
"No," Trowa sighed, setting down his book, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be so sensitive. I'm not sure what's come over me."
"Stress," Heero replied. "And the wine."
"Perhaps."
Silence fell once more. They looked at each other, shifted their respective weights uncomfortably and looked away with a breath.
"You want to-?"
"-go?"
Heero and Trowa set their books down and glided silently out of the store, the soft tinkle of the bell the only evidence that anyone had passed through at all. Once they had emerged onto the sidewalk, they continued walking in silence, Heero with his hands swaying gently at his sides, as though a breeze pushed them, and Trowa with his hands buried deep into the pockets of his dirt brown overcoat. It covered his forest green turtleneck very effectively, which was unfortunate, for while he was unaware of it until recently, that turtleneck brought out the vivid color of his eyes.
"Trowa?"
"Hmm?" Trowa looked up from his book and met his friend's eyes.
"You should wear that turtleneck more often," he smiled. "If you do, you won't be able to keep the ladies off you."
"What makes you say that?"
"It brings out your eyes. I never knew they were green until now."
Trowa pulled out of his reminiscence when he realized that Heero had said something to him. "Pardon?"
"I just asked when your friend was coming back."
Trowa eyed him suspiciously. "Why are you so interested in Quatre?"
"I study families. It's a hobby of mine. I compile family trees, and I've decided to try out the Winner family. You know, it's a very long bloodline."
"Oh?" Trowa was intrigued, but masked his voice to sound casually curious.
Heero saw right through it with a smile. "Yes. I'd be willing to discuss it with you over dinner tonight if you would like. I can tell you everything I know on his family." He caught Trowa's weary glance and continued, "So you can relate it to him, of course."
"Of course."
Heero pulled a card from his pocket and a pen from the other and scrawled out something on the back of the card. "Here is the address to my hotel. Can I expect you in," Heero looked down at his watch, "three hours?"
Trowa glanced at his own watch. "Six o'clock? Fine by me."
"I'll be waiting in the lobby. Until then," Heero waved as he walked towards a bus stop.
Trowa looked at the card, muttering aloud the hotel address. "Crowne Plaza on Union Street." He looked up to ask Heero about it, but by then, Heero had disappeared. Trowa looked back down at the address, and he turned the card over, curious to see what kind of business Heero was in. However, the business card's insignia left him with more questions than answers.
Patronus
"From the first to the final."
* * * * * * * * * *
At promptly six o'clock that evening, Trowa stepped into the hotel lobby and found that Heero was already waiting for him. While Trowa was still wearing the same brown coat, green turtleneck, and black slacks, Heero had changed into a blue-grey suit, making Trowa feel very suddenly underdressed.
"I made reservations at the hotel restaurant," Heero said as he stood, shaking Trowa's hand. "You can probably get away with that coat, but I figured you'd be dressed down so," he reached into his pocket, "I brought a tie, just in case."
"How considerate of you," Trowa replied dryly as he flipped the tie into a Windsor knot and tightened it around his neck. The pale green of the tie contrast his turtleneck beautifully, and with the brown coat buttoned up, he almost looked respectable. Almost.
The maitre'd led them to a vacant table, sneering at Trowa's too-casual attire as subtly as possible. He did not want to offend Mr. Yuy's friend, after all, but he just couldn't stand the futile attempt at formality presented by this young man who even had the audacity to let so much hair hang in front of his face. He handed Heero and Trowa their menus, and with a quiet "your waiter will be with you momentarily" he returned back to his pulpit.
"I hope you had no trouble finding this place?"
"None whatsoever," Trowa replied, opening the menu. He was grateful that the menu had covered his look of surprise at the prices. He couldn't afford a meal from this place, let alone a glass of water, if he saved his salary for a year. Struggling actors and stunt doubles did not earn a very good salary.
"I apologize if I've dragged you away from any previous engagements," Heero said quietly.
"Don't worry about it." It wasn't as if the can of Spaghetti-O's in his fridge and the 9-inch TV on his floor would miss him.
"No, no," Heero countered. "Because of that, I'm getting the bill."
Trowa didn't protest, but he didn't consent. He was merely glad that he wouldn't spend his nest-egg in a restaurant with some person he had only met that afternoon. He kept asking himself why he was going there, why he was talking to Heero. In the end, he came to no satisfactory answer, but he went anyway. They ordered drinks, Heero a dry martini, sans the olive, and Trowa a lemonade with triple sec on the rocks. Trowa swirled his glass a little, trying to mix the alcohol in better, knowing that bartenders can be occasionally lazy. The sound of the ice clinking against the glass accentuated the silence at the table as Heero took a small draw of his own drink.
Heero set the glass down and put his hands at rest on the table, folded together, with that same air that Trowa had noted only a few hours ago. "So I suppose you're curious as to what I know of the Winner family."
"Only slightly, but not for my own sake."
"For Quatre's."
"Of course."
"So what do you know?"
"Well," Heero replied, letting himself get a bit more comfortable in his chair, "I know most of his bloodline, just a little under one hundred generations. There are next to no records before then, but then, I'm very particular about my records."
"How's that?" asked Trowa before placing his glass to his lips.
"I'm not so interested in who married whom and who gave birth to whom. It's the personal details of life that make things interesting. These people weren't just cattle that had offspring to progress the species. They had lives and that's what I want to learn about."
"Hence your asking me about how I met Quatre."
Heero smiled. "You pick up fast."
"So, after you clue me in on a little of Quatre's past, and from what it sounds like you would only clue me in on a little, whether it be personal or time constraints that hold you back, and then expect me to divulge every detail of our friendship?"
"So it is just friendship?"
Trowa eyed Heero suspiciously. "Are you implying something?"
"Just asking. You never know. After all, this is San Francisco, and if the rumors are true-"
"We're just friends," Trowa said, taking a long drink from his glass. "And believe me, that's all I'd ever want it to be."
"Point taken. I'm sorry if I have offended you."
"It's all right. You can make amends by beginning your story."
"There's not so much to tell. I have records dating back to about 200 AD, with a Katrina Tworska, living in southern Russia as a peasant. There isn't a great deal known about her life, except that she was burned at the stake, accused of witchcraft. Not an uncommon thing in those days, I'm sure you know."
"Yes, I know. I passed my history classes." He didn't note by what margin, but history didn't interest him that much then. Now, on the other hand, he felt as though history might play a large part in his life.
"Well, I have most of the lineage plotted out, and it comes to somewhere in the upper nineties of generations."
"Short generations, to span that many in one thousand, eight hundred years."
"About eighteen years each, to be exact. But you also have to keep in mind that up until less than a hundred years ago, the life expectancy was barely past forty. A childbirth at the age of fifteen was fairly common practice."
"This is true."
"There is not much more I know after this. Most of the ancestors I have found happened to be female. The wealth was accumulated by the constant marriage of wealthy families."
"Then what makes you doubt the verifiability of his wealth?"
Heero smiled. "Nothing slips past you. I'm not sure, but it's just this feeling." He took a sip of his drink.
As they paused in speech, the waiter came and took their order, as he left, Trowa looked up from his drink at Heero. "So I assume this is where I begin?"
"If you feel so inclined, yes."
"Fine. It all--"
"Wait," Heero interrupted. He reached into his pocket, drawing out a tape recorder. "Do you mind? So that I don't miss a word."
"I don't mind." He watched as Heero set the recorder on the table and turned it on. "Just state your name in here for record."
"Trowa Barton." He took in a sigh and began.
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