Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ A Reason For Me ❯ Part One: Chapter One ( Chapter 1 )

Title: A Reason For Me
Author: Prynesque
Genre: Yaoi/slash, romance, angst
Pairing: 1x2
Rated: R
Warnings: Potential (though unintended) OOC, some swearing, lime/lemon, alternating POV, possible Australian-isms.
Feedback: Hell yeah? What I'm trying to say is that if you feel the urge to review, please indulge it. I don't even care what you say. Good, bad, it's all the same to me - just so long as I get to hear from you.
Disclaimer: Duo, Heero, Gundam Wing… they are copywrited to someone else. They are being used without permission and no money is being made. I reiterate: they aren't mine (and if you think they are you should probably take this opportunity to get your head checked). However, this story is mine and mine alone, and if you so much as think of nicking any part of it, I'll hunt you down and set my demon kitty cat on you (be afraid, be very afraid).
Notes: This story is AU. It's set in modern-day Chicago and I think it's safe to say that that means there will be no mentions of Gundams, colonies or any other various fantastical science fiction-related entities. This story is also slash (or yaoi or whatever you want to call it), so if you don't like that… well, bugger off and come back when you have some taste!

Author's Notes: I was meandering along on my way to Uni when this little plotbunny came hurtling out of the bushes and began gnawing at my socks. Some weeks later, that plotbunny is getting considerably irritating so I've decided it's time I did something about it. And this is the result. It's my first Gundam Wing fic, so please be gentle. The title comes from a song by Hoobastank called "The Reason". I'm not even entirely sure it's all that appropriate but it's what I'm listening to at the moment so it'll have to do.

Oh yeah, and please review. Don't make me have to do the puppy-dog eye thing.

Part One - Chapter One

Heero:

I'm standing on the balcony of my hotel suite, looking out over the darkening Chicago skyline. The streetlights are just beginning to flicker on across the city, bathing it in a soft incandescent orange glow.

Behind me, in the hotel room, I can just make out the low rumble of voices as Quatre and Wufei chat amiably about their respective days. I feel no particular urge to join them.

The wind starts to pick up and my hair, unruly at the best of times, dances in the swirling breeze. I try, in vain, to push the persistent dark locks out of my eyes but eventually I give up and let them fall across my face as I lean forwards and rest my arms on the cold steel rail of the balcony.

A cool gust of wind washes over me, a trail of goose bumps left in its wake on my bare arms. I suppress a shiver and, in spite of the clear chill in the air, I don't move; I refuse to let myself be controlled by something as trifling as the weather or by my own body's reactions.

I cast my eyes over the unfamiliar city-scape and suddenly a sharp, disorientating sense, which I assume is home-sickness, assaults me. My hands grip the cold metal of the balcony rail as an unsettling pressure grips my heart. I hate this lack of control. I force my breath to even again and I close my eyes to block out the dazzling vista of night-time Chicago.

I've only been in Chicago for two days and I'll be leaving tomorrow evening, I tell myself. This time tomorrow I'll be back in New York.

The pressure on my heart eases and the panic passes replaced by an almost wistful longing for the city that has become my home.

I almost chuckle out loud at that thought, but I rarely laugh at all and tonight doesn't seem the moment to break from tradition.

It's strange to find myself thinking of New York so fondly. It doesn't seem all that long ago that I first arrived there and, overcome by the almost claustrophobic hustle and bustle, found myself wishing I was back in Boston suburbia.

I had arrived in New York for orientation week at NYU and immediately I felt lost, swallowed up in the black hole that was this foreign, overwhelming city.

New York is such a lively, sociable, exciting city and, if anything, I'm the complete antithesis of those qualities.

If I hadn't been so work-orientated and driven, with my sights set firmly on graduating NYU with the very best they could offer in Computer Engineering, I rather fancy I would have turned tail and left on that very first day. At the time, that was a very unsettling and disturbing thought; I wasn't used to feeling nervous or afraid about anything.

Salvation had come in the form of a short blonde. The very same short blonde who was currently in the other room entertaining Wufei with stories of the seminar he had just arrived back from.

When I arrived at the University almost two years ago for the first day of orientation, the quadrangle had been a buzz of activity, laughter and excitement. People kept staring at me and I could tell immediately what they saw when they looked my way. A handsome but cold and forbidding Japanese student; a mystery that they were just itching to solve. Several of them worked up the courage to talk to me but I turned on my best "Death Glare", as Quatre calls it, and they scuttled away, much to my relief.

After that they avoided me like the plague and I comfortably resigned myself to the familiar role of anti-social outcast; it was a role that served me well during high school and I had had every intention of continuing it until I spotted a familiar face in the crowd.

The wealthy, and therefore instantly popular, Quatre Raberba Winner had been surrounded by a large crowd of simpering wannabes. He had this bright smile on his face, but when I looked closer I fancied I saw a hint of something akin to nervousness and discomfort lingering behind those blue-green eyes. I watched him as he tried to untangle himself from his mass of followers and, for what was probably the first time in my life, I felt a sense of pity and a desire to help him.

Quatre had chosen that moment to look up. Our eyes met, mine deep blue and stony as usual, and Quatre's lighter orbs tinged with confusion and then recognition.

He politely but firmly extricated himself from the crowd and approached me. Of course I turned away immediately and tried to lose myself in the mass of people.

"Heero Yuy?" the soft but strangely confident voice asked.

I tensed reflexively. What can I say? I'm just no good with people and that tends to make me defensive… but I turned back anyway and nodded a confirmation.

"I'm Quatre Raberba Winner." I already knew who he was and I'm sure he knew that too, but I nodded as he extended his hand. "We were at high school in Boston together, weren't we?"

I remember eying the hand warily as though it might bite me but when I looked up, I caught this little look of hope on Quatre's face and before I knew what I was doing, I was shaking his hand.

"We were," I said after a few moments, rather belatedly answering his question. "Grafton Academy," I then confirmed unnecessarily. I don't babble when I'm nervous, probably only because I hardly talk at all, but I do tend to say rather pointless things.

Grafton Academy was the most prestigious and elite school in Boston; the only place the rich and famous of the area would ever consider sending their children to for their $25,000 a year education.

I can still remember every last detail of that first meeting, down to the colour of my shoelaces (brown) and the number of buttons on Quatre's shirt (7). And yes, I do realise that I'm observant to the point of being neurotic.

Quatre hadn't changed much over the summer. He was exactly as I remembered him in High school. In fact, now that I think about it, he's still pretty much the same today. Still short, still blonde, still with that aura of gentle, kind innocence. What I know now is that while he looks gentle and soft and innocent on the outside, underneath Quatre is clever, determined, resourceful, steadfastly loyal and, at times, completely ruthless. Despite his continued protests that he is not fit to take over his father's company in the future, Quatre is a hardened businessman and I have no doubt that once he graduates, Winner Enterprises will only go from strength to strength.

We hadn't been friends in high school. In fact, we'd had barely known each other. He knew of me; most people did, although mainly so they could avoid me. And of course, I knew who he was. It was impossible not to. The heir to one of the biggest, most successful companies in the world was instantly recognisable in the school corridors in spite of the other rich and important students that also frequented those halls.

Quatre had been part of the beautiful, popular group, immediately approached for his reputation but befriended for his kind, generous nature. And although I come from a similarly prominent family, from day one I was a confirmed outcast; even the nerds who were as fascinated and obsessed by computers and technology as I was, avoided eye-contact with me at all times.

But I liked it that way, which is why I was so surprised that not only had Quatre approached me on Orientation Day but that I had welcomed it.

I'm still not entirely sure why though; it was, after all, completely out of character for a habitual loner such as myself.

After we had established that we had in fact gone to the same high school, I fully expected that to be the end of it, that Quatre would smile and turn away and return to the beautiful popular people who could not only construct a sentence but actually say it aloud as well (it was always that second bit that I had trouble with).

But he didn't. Instead, he smiled and kept talking. "I didn't expect to see you here. I had heard rumours consisting of your name and MIT… but I'm very glad to find a familiar face." And, in spite of all my self-taught independence and hostility, I couldn't help but feel the same.

"I did think about MIT," I confessed. The fact that I was willingly participating in the conversation took us both by surprise, I think. "But I ended up here." I didn't elaborate but Quatre seemed to catch my meaning anyway.

"I know what you mean. I've been down for Harvard since birth, I think. And yet here I am as well. I think I just wanted to do something different and unexpected. Silly, I know."

"No," I shook my head, seriously. "Not silly at all."

And I meant it. I had picked NYU because I was tired of mechanically plodding through my life. When I had turned out to be rather gifted with computers, my father had immediately assumed that MIT was in my future, and childish as it may seem, I took intense pleasure from the look on his face when I chose NYU instead.

And that was the moment. Right then. Until that day I had never met anyone who seemed to understand what I was trying to say without me actually having to say it. And suddenly the prospect of facing this new city didn't seem so hard or so unappealing.

From the look on Quatre's face, he had reached a similar conclusion. He blushed a delightful shade of pink. He still does that and it still makes me smile.

"Well, this is all rather boring and unnecessary, isn't it?" Quatre had observed, looking around at the networking that seemed to be taking place around us. "I don't suppose you fancy having coffee with me?"

I was caught off-guard by his request. The idea that someone would voluntarily want to spend time with me was completely foreign but I found myself agreeing in spite of myself.

After that day, a strange relationship formed between us. When classes started and Quatre befriended his fellow Business Studies majors, I expected our uneasy companionship to fade and disappear, but Quatre persistently continued his attempts at friendship and eventually I caved under the consistent pressure.

Convenient acquaintance evolved into a fast friendship, to the point where now I simply can't imagine my life with Quatre in it.

I still have flashes of doubt and I continually wonder what Quatre manages to glean from my, at times, unresponsive and anti-social friendship. I'm not good at expressing my feelings so I will probably never say this aloud, especially to him, but I was, am and probably will always be eternally grateful for Quatre's steady friendship.

An unexpected gust of wind blusters around me, drawing me out of my memories. Behind me, Quatre's gentle laugh rings out and I turn slightly to glance through the lace curtains into the room beyond.

Quatre is sitting on the sofa, his legs crossed, and an amused look on his face. Opposite, pacing restlessly, Wufei is ranting passionately about something, completely unaware of the amusement his audience is drawing from his performance.

I smile. While Quatre was my first, and perhaps, best friend, over the past couple of years I've discovered that I appreciate Wufei's friendship and company equally as much.

Wufei joined our little group rather by accident. He and I were and still are roommates at college but for the first two months we lived together, we spoke barely more than two words to each other.

Neither of us seemed particularly interested in pursuing a friendship. Wufei saw me as a cold, unresponsive computer freak (and was probably quite correct in his thinking), and I thought that he was an honour-obsessed, overly fervent, judgemental lawyer-in-the-making (to be perfectly honest, I still sometimes think that, although I would never say it to his face - I value my limbs too much). And although it'll most likely make me sound like the haughty snob I probably am, I was also rather miffed that I had failed to receive a single room like Quatre had.

We tolerated the other's presence quite happily but made no overtures of anything more than that, despite the none-to-subtle prodding I received from Quatre.

We'd been living together for the better part of the first term, I think, before our relationship changed.

I had made plans to meet Quatre for dinner but just as I was about to leave, he called to say that he'd been held up with work and couldn't make it.

I was surprisingly disappointed by this news; I still wasn't used to needing the company of other people. I remember sighing rather heavily and Wufei looking up at me, slightly baffled.

I had resigned myself to a night of working as well but Wufei had evidently picked up on my disappointment and so when he got up to leave for dinner himself, he casually suggested that I join him.

This caught me completely by surprise and I instinctively refused. Wufei had visibly bristled when his offer was rejected and I immediately felt a pang of regret and hastily reconsidered.

The first half of dinner was awkward and almost oppressively silent. I'm not much of a talker at the best of times, but I had grown used to Quatre's cheerful chatter and could usually be persuaded to make some sort of concession towards conversation.

However, dinner with Wufei was uncomfortably different. We had both made the effort to move our relationship to the next level but were uncertain where to go from there. Eventually, just as the silence was getting unbearable, I remembered the jujitsu trophy that Wufei proudly displays on his desk and so I cleared my throat and asked him about it.

I'll never forget the look on his face… surprise, interest and complete and utter relief. And then suddenly we were in the middle of a conversation… a conversation that lasted through dinner and well after we returned to our room. We talked about martial arts and about being Asian-American and what we were studying and a lot of other things that for the life of me, I can't remember now.

To be fair, generally it was Wufei who did most of the talking while I just made short, concise statements now and again like I usually do, but it was probably the most I'd ever talked in my entire life up until that point.

And it was a phenomenon that seemed to continue. I became more communicative and perhaps even a little friendlier. I wasn't what I'd call talkative because frankly I doubt I'll ever be that, but Quatre noticed immediately and the next time he and I made plans for lunch, he told me to invite Wufei as well.

And suddenly this trio was born. Wufei and Quatre hit it off immediately and we found some sort of balance between the three of us. Nearly two years later, we remain a close-knit group.

Of course, Quatre has a circle of friends from his Business Studies classes and Wufei has befriended a collection of like-minded law scholars, and even I have managed to forge some sort of amity with my fellow Computer Science students, but in spite of these external friendships, the three of us have maintained the steady companionship with each other that saw us through the first half of our degrees, and no doubt, will see us safely through the second half as well.

So, of course, a few weeks ago when Quatre arrived at our dorm room and announced that he would be going to Chicago for a few days for a seminar and would appreciate some company, Wufei and I had immediately agreed.

And now, on the last night of our stay in the Windy City, I find myself on the balcony, trying to fight off the encroaching chill in the air. Sometimes I get the feeling that I must have been a masochist in a former life. Everything the hard way, that's me. Or perhaps I'm just stubborn.

Either way, it's really getting cold out here, so now that I can finally no longer resist the shivers that seem determined to overcome me, I turn on my heel and stride back into the room.

The warmth and light hits me instantaneously and I heave a sign of relief and appreciation. Call me crazy, but it's actually worth getting painfully chilled just to soak up the wonderful sensation of coming inside again.

Quatre and Wufei break from their conversation as I enter, looking up at me questioningly.

"We were just discussing where to go for dinner. Are you hungry?" Quatre asks.

I nod and the other two lapse back into their exchange. Evidently, I've walked in on a rather inane argument. Wufei is declaring that he has found a wonderful little restaurant that serves proper Chinese food (as opposed to the stylised, wishy-washy version the Americans like to call Chinese) while Quatre is maintaining that we always have Chinese and it was about time Wufei broadened his horizons and got a little more cosmopolitan in his thinking. A couple of 'dishonourable cur's later and I've had enough.

"There is a nice-looking Italian restaurant a few blocks over. We shall have dinner there," I say firmly, the tone of my voice leaving no room for contention. Wufei and Quatre wisely choose to silently agree.

Half an hour later, after Wufei has changed his shirt for the third time, he and I are waiting in the hotel lobby while Quatre runs back upstairs to fetch his forgotten wallet.

It's a nice hotel. Perhaps not as flash as where Quatre might normally have stayed, but I'm glad of the simplicity and I suspect Quatre knew I'd feel that way when he booked the rooms.

As far as I'm concerned, all a hotel room needs is a comfortable bed and a place to plug in my laptop… and actually, the bed is debatable.

Quatre arrives, slightly breathless, and with a cheerful wave to the doorman he follows us out into the street.

The wind has picked up in the brief half hour since I ventured in from the balcony, and I shrug reflexively back into my jacket, wrapping it tighter around my lean body.

We cross the road and walk down a few blocks in companionable silence. In spite of Quatre's protests, we cut through a series of darkened alleys, Wufei maintaining that he knows a shortcut.

Several blocks later, we find ourselves on a gloomy backstreet. A fair few of the streetlamps have blown and those that are still lit cast a sickly pale yellow light on the smoky street.

To the right, in the distance, I can see a sleazy red flashing neon sign professing Club X to have the hottest strippers in town.

To the left, I can just make out various shifting figures lurking in the distant shadows and can hear the sounds of stilettos clicking on the dirty sidewalk.

Quatre frowns ever so slightly while Wufei clicks his tongue in disapproval. I simply stuff my hands roughly into the pockets of my jeans and nod slightly to the right. "We can cut through that alley, there. It should take us back onto a main road," I say, sparing Wufei the withering look that he probably deserves for suggesting the shortcut in the first place. I rather fancy that Wufei is blushing, but it's hard to tell in the dim light.

I step off the curb and cross the road, hearing the shuffling footsteps of my friends behind me. I pause at the entrance to the alley, standing back to let Quatre and Wufei pass first. As Wufei steps past me, I glance back up the road to where that neon sign is still flashing its message.

Suddenly a figure steps out of a hidden doorway, illuminated by the streetlight overhead, and I find myself staring at the most incredible pair of eyes I've ever seen. They are big and bright and the colour is almost indescribable, the most inexplicable shade of blue, almost violet.

A long braid of hair hangs down over one shoulder and for a split second, I have difficulty telling whether this vision is male or female. The hair, the short shorts, the fishnet stockings, the high heeled boots at first glance suggest feminine allure, but the set of the lips and jaw, the stance and the shape of the stranger's figure are all distinctly male.

All of a sudden, it's like I've been sucker-punched; all the air in my lungs suddenly evaporates and I'm vaguely aware that my mouth is incredibly dry and hanging open gormlessly.

For one brief moment, it feels like the owner of those amazing eyes is staring right back at me. The tiniest flicker of hope ignites inside me until I realise that the stranger is staring past me to the shadowy figures of the working girls beyond.

My stomach sinks inexplicably and I swallow heavily. The stranger casts one last look down the street. He doesn't see me. He turns away and moves off in the opposite direction. The sound of his boots echoes around the still street and he flicks his braid back over his shoulder so it hang suggestively, swinging backwards and forth across his arse.

Suddenly my heart is racing and I find myself thinking that if I could be that braid of hair just for one minute, my life would be worth living.

Just as he disappears into the distant shadows, I become aware of a foot tapping impatiently on the concrete and I snap back around to where Wufei's dark eyes are staring through me.

I shake my head slightly trying to clear it, and nod Wufei onwards. "Come on, I'm hungry," I say gruffly, pushing past my friend and onwards down the alley.

I can feel two sets of eyes on my back and I can almost picture the looks of confusion and curiosity on their faces, but I ignore it.

When we emerge out onto the busy street beyond, I recognise our position immediately and curtly lead the other two away to our destination.

The restaurant is delightfully quaint. A jolly, round Italian welcomes us at the door and ushers us across the busy dining room to a cosy little table in the corner.

Quatre is clearly delighted by the cheerful café and even Wufei seems rather pleased, though he hides it masterfully well behind a look of resigned acceptance.

The dinner is lovely. Quatre entertains us with anecdotes about his unusually large family (not for the first time, I find myself thinking that 30 sisters is, perhaps, a little excessive), and then Wufei relates the events of his day and the highlights of Chicago that he has seen.

Just as I finish my last mouthful of pasta and lay down my knife and fork, Quatre turns to me and asks how I passed the day, though his eyes tell me that the real question is 'did you leave your room?'.

"I went to the park and then the Institute of Art," I say shortly. Both my companions seem rather surprised though Quatre remembers, just in time, to hide his shock behind his napkin. Because I can't bear to destroy the pleased look on Quatre's face, I conveniently forget to mention that I spent barely ten minutes in the park and little more than an hour at the gallery before returning to my hotel room and the refuge of my computer.

Dessert arrives and Quatre and Wufei start bickering over who should pay for dinner. This usually happens at this time of the meal. Quatre insists that he wants to treat us while Wufei claims that he is honour-bound to pay his own way. Quatre always wins so I'm not sure why Wufei persists in complaining. I think he just enjoys the argument.

While they finish their ritual, I eat my gelato and let my mind wander. Before I can stop it, suddenly I'm thinking about those eyes again. They won't leave me alone. They linger in my memory, persistently asking me a question that I don't want to hear and that I don't know the answer to.

I find myself wondering who he is and why he was there. I scoff at myself mentally. In those clothes, on that darkened back street, it's perfectly clear who he is and why he was there, but deep inside me, in the place where my emotions stem from (a place I generally like to pretend doesn't exist) there is a tiny niggling feeling that says there is more to him than that.

And suddenly I come to the conclusion that I have to find out what it is. It takes all my self-control not to bolt out of the restaurant at that very moment and race back to the street in the hope that he might still be there.

It's a very strange feeling. One that I don't think I've ever felt before. Is it attraction? I'm not entirely sure. I've never really been attracted to anybody. Sure, I can look at a man or a woman and recognise them as being aesthetically pleasing but it's never been anything more than that. I've never felt that feeling that Quatre describes when he meets someone he likes.

And if this strange feeling is attraction, I don't think I have a problem with the fact that he's male. I've never given my sexuality much thought, probably because I've never really been attracted to anyone.

When I masturbate, which of course I do because I'm male and that's just what we do, usually it's just about me and how I can get off as expediently as possible. And if there is another person involved in whatever fantasy my limited imagination has managed to conjure, they are a nameless, faceless, sexless individual. I suddenly find myself thinking that this is perhaps a very sad way to be living my life.

So, the fact that this possible attraction to this man could mean that I am gay or at least bisexual doesn't bother me. Although I'm not entirely sure what two men are supposed to do together so a considerable amount of research will have to be done before I even think about acting on whatever this feeling is.

And I realise that that is what's tearing me up. Not that I might be attracted to someone or that I might be gay, but that I don't know. I'm not an emotional person. I hate talking about my feelings, but even more than that, I hate not being able to understand them.

I'm going to have to find that man again if only so I can work out what my feelings are and then how to deal with them.

As soon as I reach this conclusion I realise it's hopeless. I have less than 24 hours left before I go back to New York and Chicago is a big city. I'll probably never see him again; I'll never understand these things I'm feeling and now I'm suddenly very angry.

Slowly I realise that I'm grinding my teeth and gripping my spoon so hard that I've bent it. Quatre and Wufei are staring at me from across the table, lines of anxiety etched on their faces.

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, releasing my mangled spoon and gently placing it back on the table. I give them a shaky smile. "Sorry. I tuned out. Are we ready to leave?"

Quatre blinks once then twice while Wufei just gives me a look that suggests he fearing for my sanity, but neither says anything. They simply nod and we leave.

We stick to the well-lit busy main-streets on our way back to the hotel. Wufei leads the way and I can just tell that Quatre is dying to take a dig at him over the whole shortcut episode but, being the man he is, Quatre just smiles to himself and contentedly follows the striking Chinese man ahead of us.

The doorman smiles at us as we approach our hotel. He tugs at the brim of his cap as we pass through the doors and, almost reflexively, Quatre reaches for his wallet and presses a tip into the elderly man's gnarled hand. He waves us through and gives us a jolly smile which Quatre and Wufei return while I merely nod.

Quatre stops by the front desk to collect our keys while Wufei and I continue on towards the elevator. We've just missed it so we detour to the right and start climbing the stairs. Quatre jogs up behind us, panting slightly, three door passes clutched tightly in his hand. Wufei and I instinctively slow our pace as we climb steadily up to the fifth floor.

We emerge onto the fourth floor landing and just as I move forwards to continue up the next flight of stairs, a harsh, barking voice draws me back. The three of us stare at each other guiltily while we listen to the jumble of voices, but none of us makes any move to leave.

Suddenly a door halfway down the hallway is flung open and a figure strides out, an almost tangible aura of anger and frustration about him.

My heart nearly stops. It's him. I recognise the hair first and then when he looks up, the eyes. As suddenly as it stopped, my heart starts racing, pounding away in my chest so hard that I'm sure Wufei, who is closest, must be able to hear it.

He is younger that I first thought. Perhaps a couple of years younger than I am. Late teens, I judge. There is a large red mark spreading across his left cheek, a mark I could have sworn wasn't there when I saw him earlier. His eyebrows are drawn together in a twisted frown and his hands are clenched at his side.

He stops in the corridor and looks to the left first and then to the right where the three of us are standing. His eyes sweep over us briefly before he starts towards us.

I realise I'm holding my breath.

He has taken barely two steps when a middle-aged man comes hurtling out of the room behind him. The older man reaches out and grabs wildly, his hands finding the boy's long rope of hair and pulling hard.

My stranger yelps in pain, his hands flying to the base of his skull. "Ah, not the hair, not the hair!" he wails. His accent is rough and harsh, the voice of someone who has spent their life on the bottom end of the financial spectrum.

He hits out at the older man, fist connecting with sternum. The man grunts in pain and stumbles backwards.

"You little bastard!" the man shrieks. "I paid you good money. You get back in here and do what I've paid you for!" He reaches for the braid again.

The young hustler flicks his hair out of arms reach with practiced ease. "Fuck you!" he retorts angrily. "I ain't into that shit!" He starts off towards us again. Looking up, he spots us and the tops of his cheeks are now tinged with pink. He averts his eyes to the floor, embarrassed.

"Wait!" The older man makes one last attempt. "I'll pay you more!" He's practically begging now. He seems aware of his audience but, unlike the boy, he's not embarrassed, only desperate.

At the man's words, the braided teen stops dead, indecision playing across his face. He screws up his nose and then his shoulders slump in defeat. He turns around, his eyesight avoiding the three of us standing in the stairwell.

"How much more?" he asks, his voice is soft now, laced with shame.

"Whatever you want! Now get back in here!" The man's voice is hard again. He knows he has won. He reaches out and grabs the arm of the boy, twisting is around and dragging him backwards. He swallows a yelp and allows himself to be man-handled back into the room.

Before he disappears, he turns his head towards us and this time he's staring right at me. I can feel his eyes boring into me and it's like I'm naked under that pained gaze.

And suddenly he's gone and the door is slammed shut behind him with a bang.

Wufei and Quarte and I remain standing there for several minutes after the pair has gone. Then we stare at each other and no one is quite sure what to say.

Quatre has a look of shock and pity on his face and Wufei mumbles something about how selling one's body is dishonourable.

Something inside me stirs and I'm overcome by two sudden urges. The first is the hit Wufei for his judgemental comments. The second to beat down that door and protect that boy from whatever nefarious acts are going on in there.

If Quatre hadn't been standing just in front of me, I probably would have done both.

I've never felt this urge to protect, to save, to hold before. But it fills me with a sense of purpose and suddenly things become very clear.

I turn away and follow Wufei up the stairs. Quatre hands us our keys and we all move away to our own rooms. No one says anything. There isn't really anything to say. We just nod a simple 'goodnight' to each other.

I hesitate and wait until Wufei and Quatre disappear into their rooms, and then I turn around and go back down the hall.

I descend the stairs slowly, my hand sliding down the smooth mahogany banister. I pause on the bottom stair, my foot poised to step onto the landing. For the second time that evening, I look down the fourth floor corridor, my gaze resting on the door that slammed shut a mere ten minutes earlier.

I take a deep breath and then I sit down on that last step, one elbow on the step above and one hand gently skimming across the red velvet carpet.

And I wait.

TBC…

Author's Note: Hey! I can have more than one Author's Note if I want to! Oh, bugger off! Hmmm, no wait! I do have a point, I swear!
Oh, that's right… this is your cue to review. Please? Don't make me have to beg. OK, I'm done now.