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Tristan had the work done quietly. The hardest part had been selecting a place for it. Wait... no. The hardest part had been choosing the pattern. There were plenty of images to pick from, both secular and non-secular in design. Tristan shied away from the religious images at first, because it felt mildly intrusive to Seto, and then mildly worrisome for himself. He found himself examining his own beliefs again, just from the simple possibility of an image of the Madonna installed in their bedroom. He didn't think sex was dirty, he didn't think God saw sex as dirty - wasn't He responsible for how the bits went together and why it felt so damned good? - and he'd long since decided that loving someone was not a sin and his God wouldn't punish him for it. But still. It seemed... a little irreverent. Besides. On some levels, it seemed Seto took Tristan's beliefs just as seriously as Tristan did, and Tristan didn't want the gift to become a point of anxiety every time he looked at it. The gift would be vaguely non-secular even if the pattern was nothing more than a tesseract of colors. And that was, in fact, almost what it turned out to be. Tristan commissioned the window in warm oranges, yellows, blues and greens in an ornate and complicated pattern. A central sun, burning outward from the middle of the large pane, cradled at the bottom by the tree branches spreading around and toward it, heavy with both blossoms and lemons. Behind the image was a vaulted sky of gradient blue shades, deep cobalt at the bottom stretching to pale cyan at the top. At intervals, the leading encased not a flat piece of glass, but round moons of blue and orange and red, set like vivid gems in the pattern. The nature of the piece eventually determined the placement. Satisfied, Tristan had it installed in their bedroom in the Villa, in one of the western-facing windows, so the evening sun burned through it and lit their room with fire. He purchased a small ready-made suncatcher of the Madonna and Child from the same glassmakers who completed his window, and hung it in the window overlooking their kitchen sink. It seemed appropriate. Seto's questions were the reason he'd returned to his beliefs; why the image now felt right instead of sad and lost. Looking at it, how it symbolized the way he changed, Tristan turned again and snapped up his billfold on the way to the glassworks. He returned one more time to the store a week later, and left with a box beneath his arm that clicked and sighed as he shifted. A multitude of cobalt blue and clear glass oddments, each edge carefully coated with lead and hung at the top with a lead hoop. All of the pieces had been threaded with clear fishing twine; fifty-seven in all. With trepidation upon return to the Mansion in New Rochelle, Tristan stole out to the willow alone, box beneath his arm. He laid a palm on one thick low branch, just beside his temple, looking up into the branches and communing silently with himself and the soul whose immense presence guarded this place. Then, ginger and silent, he removed the little panes of vivid glass from the box and hung them on the sturdy branches and the whiplike drapes, bare, so when the wind stirred the tree the little fragments of Italian glass threw spangles of rainbows and cobalt stars. When he could no longer reach the branches, very very carefully he toed up into the nest of the trunk where the thick wood split off into powerful knotty limbs, and inched out as far as he could safely reach. When he went back down, he rubbed away the scuffmarks of his rubber soles on the pale bark with the tail of his scarf. He saved seven of each color in the box, and left it on the sink with a note explaining what he had done and that they could take them down if Seto didn't like them. The air was chill as Seto walked through the streets of Umbria, stinging against his cheeks and doing its best to creep into his pockets where his gloved hands tucked inside. Despite the bitter cold, Seto moved through the town, smiling at the warm light spilling from each familiar window, the occassional burst of laughter or raised voice, indetifiable to one who knew the neighborhood well. Seto loved Italy. Tristan had once opined that it could become their Eden, and not only had Seto never forgotten that, he considered it prophecy fulfilled. Closing the door against the frigid air in his wake, Seto drew off his fitted leather gloves, tucked them in his pocket before he swirled out of his coat, and hung it on the hook along with his impossibly soft scarf. Unconsciously, his fingers trailed down the material as he moved into the villa. Not expecting his mate to be there, Seto moved silently through the amber hallways, past rooms blazing with the late afternoon sun, to enter the kitchen. Kitchens were shared property but Tristan's territory, in all of their living spaces but the house. Not that Seto stayed away, after all he did need to eat and ultimately, he belonged where Tristan was, but his mate's presence lingered in their kitchens in the arrangement of articles in cupboards, the choice of pots, the food in the refrigerator. Seto was pleasantly content with this. Before he could reach the refrigerator, the suncatcher drew his attention. Pausing, Seto regarded it for a moment, then a slow smile dawned. With a respectful nod, as if the bright glass were an actual person, Seto continued on, retrieving an apple from the refrigerator. He ate at the table, taking small, sharp bites of the chilly fruit, eyes occassionally regarding the Madonna and Child, thoughts deep and complex. Once again, he circled the idea of God, the trappings of religion, the pureness of faith. After Seto had thrown away the apple core and washed his hands, his steps carried him to the bedroom, a slow, meandering path laden with thought and memory. "Ohhhh." The soft, stunned breath was drawn from Seto as soon as he opened the door. Through chance or something more, Seto had arrived at the perfect moment, when the sunshine's evening rays were shining full on the window. Gentle colors prisimed over the floor, burnishing Seto's skin as he moved cautiously toward the glass, eyes widened in pleasure. "Oh, Tristan." Long fingers of color reached out for him as Seto stood in front of the window. Reaching out in turn, Seto stroked the glass, touched the smooth panes of color as if they would rub off on his fingertips. He loved this window. Seto was struck with a sudden desire to play this window, to turn it into a piece of music, bright and blazing, strong with promise and life. He stood before it all the long minutes that the sun took to set, watched the vibrant color bank into warmth, and that into sleep. It was all still there, the vivid jewels of fire, potential coiled against the coming of the day. "Oh, Tristan," Seto breathed again, and this time the syllables were laced with love and contentment. Without ever taking his eyes off the beauty of the window, Seto undressed and slid into bed, finally succumbing to sleep. Even then the strength of the wood, the memory of the lemons, the promise of the sun followed him into his dreams. It was the merest chance that led Seto to the garage at the side of the house before he went inside that day; he wanted to check on the Sprint. Even if Seto didn't often drive the car in the winter months, he often went to ... look at it. Touch it, under the guise of checking fluids or inspecting belts he knew were perfectly fine. The Sprint was something beneath his skin, more than just a tangible symbol, it was somehow partner to his spirit. Before Seto could open the side door however, he heard the noise. A delicate, chiming sound from the back yard, a thing he had never heard before. Brows drawing down, Seto rounded the corner of the house and stopped dead. Wide, rivited gaze took in the tree standing at the head of the enclosure, spangles of light tossing the thin winter sunshine like a scattering of stars beneath the willow. Later, Seto would be amazed at his lack of curiosity about the ornaments- now the fact that they had appeared was simply part and parcel of the moment, as if Blue Eyes himself had graced the tree with his presence. With slow reverence, Seto walked across the yard. Two of the ornaments had been hung close together, or one had dislodged and snagged a branch in its fall, which accounted for the soft chime of glass in the intermittent winter breeze. Like a small child, Seto held out his hand, letting one of the shafts of blue light play across the back, a tiny prism of indigo shades. Uncounted minutes ticked by as Seto remained, a smile tugging his lips. Finally, Seto turned and moved back around to the side of the house, still holding a sense of wonder around him like a cocoon of silence. The kitchen was warm and inviting, still fragrant with the scent of chocolate and mint. It took him a moment to notice the box on the counter, but not long at all to read Tristan's note and understand. Raising his eyes to the window, Seto stood with the paper forgotten in his long fingers while he imagined the scene. Seto had complete faith that Tristan respected that patch of land, and everything associated with it. Blue Eyes was there for them both, he had no doubt, even if Tristan didn't feel him the way Seto could. Maybe his partner did, Seto had never asked him. Tristan was always careful, so very careful, about Seto's feelings for the dragon, and it pleased Seto beyond measure that his mate was willing to share that part of Seto's life, his feelings, his memories, even the gentle sadness. A smile wreathed Seto's face as he pocketed the note and picked up the box. Tristan was likely waiting for him upstairs- or if not, it could wait until he was here next. Fourteen was a good number. One of each color for the tree here, a set for the one at Tristan's apartment, a pair for their tree in Italy and the final two they would hang as suncatchers in their beachhouse to remain all year. No matter where he was, Seto could share Christmas with his first and dearest friend. Back to Collaborations Home |
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