Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ A Reason For Me ❯ Part One: Chapter Two ( Chapter 2 )

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: Well, here we go… chapter two. It is considerably longer than the first (try twice as long and you're in the right ball-park). Evidently I channel Duo better than Heero. No, not better, just easier (although please don't think that means it was actually easy, because believe me, it wasn't). That said, I'm not entirely sure about my characterisation. He's a hustler in this fic, that's just the way the plot developed, but I didn't want him to be a helpless victim. I wanted my Duo to have the strength and intelligence and charm I've always imagined him to have. I don't know whether I've succeeded or not so please let me know what you think. Also, I know next to nothing about prostitution so take everything I've written with a grain of salt.

OK, enough blabbing on with the story. I hope you like and please, don't forget to review.

Part One - Chapter Two

Duo:

It's dark in the room. The only light is coming in through the window from the streetlamp outside. Every so often the lamp flickers ever so slightly, shifting the orange shadows on the wall. This evening has just confirmed every bad stereotypical b-grade movie depiction of prostitution. I'd laugh if it wasn't so fucking depressing.

I lie as still as I can, waiting for the breath of the man next to me to deepen and steady. Finally, just when my leg is beginning to cramp from tension, a low rumbling snore reverberates around the room and I breathe an unconscious sigh of relief.

I move slowly and carefully as I roll myself out of the bed. The carpet is smooth and plush under my bare feet and I wriggle my toes; it's been a long time since I was taken to a hotel that had carpet as nice as this.

I creep across the dark room, gathering my discarded clothes as I go. When I reach the bathroom I close the door and then flick on the light. It's garishly bright for a moment until my eyes adjust.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror and I have to look away. There is a bruise beginning to form on my cheek and others across my chest. There is a gash across my shoulder; I think that was from the belt. A faint trickle of blood slides down my skin and onto the silver cross that hangs around my neck.

I feel disgusting. Clammy, sticky, sweaty, sickened, dirty. I want nothing more than to pile myself into the shower and wash every trace of that man off my body. But I don't want to risk the sound waking him up and deciding he wants to go again, so I take one of the face-washers from the little glass shelf and run it briefly under the tap.

It's coarse against my skin but I really don't care. I'd use sandpaper if that was the only thing I could find.

Ten minutes later and now I feel slightly better. Still repulsed, certainly, but at least I'm managing to control my gag reflex.

I dress slowly, pulling each article of clothing on carefully and when I'm finished I decide I'm game enough to look at myself in the mirror again.

The first thing I notice is how pale I look. The eyeliner around my eyes stands out, striking against my pallid complexion and my hair is starting to come out of its customary braid. I want to re-braid it but I never let my hair down if I'm in a situation where someone might walk in on me and see it. I'm very protective of my hair and I'd rather die than let anyone see it un-braided, especially some random pervert.

Don't ask me why. I don't really get the strange bond I have with my hair either. It's probably the most important thing in my life, the only thing I'd protect with my life. Ever since I can remember, my hair has been the only thing I could control. The only thing that was mine, just for me.

At least that's what I tell myself. The fact that the punters like the long braid is another, less appealing reason why I've never cut it off.

I brush my bangs out of my eyes, tucking errant stands behind my ears, and then I brush imaginary specs of lint off my jacket.

This leather jacket is one of the only things I like about my outfit. It's old and faded in places. The stitching on the left shoulder is coming loose and one of the pockets is torn, but I don't give a shit. This jacket is mine. Actually mine, that is.

The stockings I stole from a woman call Mystique. She's a stripper at a club near where I live. She let me use the bathroom in her dressing room once and when I was leaving I saw the fishnet stockings hanging over the back of her chair and I took them. Likewise, this t-shirt was stolen off a washing line. It's black with silver lettering on the front that says "Bite Me". I knew I had to have it the moment I saw it, so I hopped over the fence and nicked it. There's probably some college student out there still wondering where her favourite shirt went.

The shorts came from one of those cheap department stores. I forget which one. Doesn't matter, they're all alike anyway. Nearly got caught that time. I scarpered as soon as the buzzer went off but that fat little security guard was surprisingly fast and I only just managed to get myself and my stolen goods out of harms way in time. Ever since, I've always been wary of security guards. You can't underestimate them, no matter how much they remind you of the Marshmallow Man.

But this jacket I bought with my own money. Saved up the pittance I manage to make each week and bought it.

Same with the boots. I have to say it, these boots are cool. Knee high, lace up, silver heel. They're a bitch to get on and off, but I love them. They kick arse… literally (on the odd occasion when I've found myself in a situation where the only solution is kicking the crap out of whoever is roughing me up).

I sigh heavily as I take in my full appearance. The clothes, the hair, the make-up. How the fuck did I get here?

Easy question actually. Parents died when I was just a kid. Straight into the orphanage for me. I think I was happy there; I have very few memories of it really, but I seem to remember it being not too bad. Until it burnt down. Can you believe that out of two nuns, a priest and 16 kids that I was the only one to survive? Proof that God has a sick sense of humour. Story of my life, really.

So then came the foster homes; I went through four, each one as bad as the last. It's enough to make me think that only the sick and twisted are allowed to foster children. Nah, I'm sure there are good families out there, it's just that I was cursed with luck that meant I never got within a stone's throw of them. Unless I was breaking in to nick something.

After the fourth family who seemed to confuse me with a punching bag, I ran away. Fucked if I was going back to Social Services just so they could foist me off onto another family that probably belonged in Hell or, at the very least, jail.

I was eleven. And I've pretty much been living off my wits ever since. Started off with petty crime but when that didn't pay the bills, I started turning tricks.

This may seem like a very depressing story, and you'd be right, but you'd be surprised how often it happens. How else do you think the backstreets of every major American city get filled with people like me?

So yeah, that's how I got here. Into these clothes, into this life. How did I get into this hotel room with this particular middle-aged pervert? Again, easy question.

I was hanging out near Club X. It's one of the classier strip joints and usually the punters who come out of there looking for company are fairly decent. Or at least, fairly likely to pay up at the end.

It was starting to get really cold. Wind was picking up and I was about ready to pack it all in and go home. I'd just had enough. Every so often I go through periods of being totally apathetic… just sick to death with my life.

I remember the car gliding towards me. Black. Latest model of something flashy. It rolled to a stop next to me and the window slid down. I very nearly told him to piss off. And now, I kinda wish I had.

Instead, I walked down the sidewalk and leant in through the window. The guy was middle-aged. Fairly well off by the look of the car and suit. He was even reasonably good-looking, in an aging, washed-out kinda way. I didn't have to look at the ring on his finger to know he was married. Everything about him screamed 'blonde wife in the suburbs'. And kids, too. Girls. Two girls.

"How much?" he asked me. His voice was smooth and sent shivers down my spine. But not the good kind of shivers.

I told him and he asked me to get in the car. I very nearly didn't. I hesitated with my hand on the door handle. But in the end, I did. I always do.

I was glad when he brought me to this hotel. It's nice. Classy. And if I use liberal amounts of imagination, I can almost fool myself into thinking that I want to be here.

But we get up to the room and imagination or no imagination, it's clear this ain't going to be an easy ride. It's always the ones you least expect. The ones that like things a little rough. When he said that… I don't know, something just clicked. I just didn't give fuck anymore. So I left. OK, tried to leave. Didn't get very far. He offered to pay me more and well, I had my eye on the rent and I just couldn't refuse.

I don't get embarrassed all that easily. I've pretty much seen and heard everything and I'm used to it by now. But tonight? I don't know… I felt humiliated. Standing there in the corridor while he treated me like dirt and then offered me more money so he could continue to treat me like dirt. Even more embarrassing than that was the fact that the whole episode was seen by group of college students.

There were three of them. They were standing on the stairs and they obviously saw and heard the whole damn thing. I don't even know why I was embarrassed. I mean, it's not like I'll ever see them again or that I'm not used to people looking down on me. But somehow this time it was different.

There was a blonde who looked like he was going to cry or something and this Chinese guy who looked like he was one step away from blowing a fuse. And then there was this other guy. I don't know why I remember him more than the first two. He had the most amazing eyes. Really deep blue and icy. The sort of eyes you could spend your whole life trying to decipher and still not get anywhere. Enigmatic. Yeah, that's what really made me ashamed. Those eyes seeing me like that.

A tremulous snore interrupts my thinking and I take that as my cue to leave. I've been standing in the bathroom in a daze for ten minutes. I'm really pushing my luck. I turn the light off and exit, careful that my boots don't click on the bathroom tiles.

He's still sleeping peacefully when I tip-toe back into the room. Sleeping the sleep of the happily sated. If only we were all that lucky.

My fee is lying on the bench, caught in the light from outside. It's almost like it's mocking me. I shove it into my pocket and then I notice his jacket hanging off the back of the chair. I go through the pockets and when I find his wallet I grin. I flick it open and three bright, happy blonde faces grin up at me. I was right. A wife and two girls. They look so innocent, so pure. I wonder if they know what their father does on those nights he works late.

I ignore their dimpled smiles and I feel no guilt or apprehension as I relieve him of the rest of his cash. There isn't much but it's a nice bonus.

I salute his unconscious figure and, tucking the extra money into my back pocket, I twist the doorknob and push the door gently open.

I steal into the corridor, closing the door silently behind me. I pause there for a moment and lean my head against the cool smooth wood. I close my eyes and breathe deeply.

I indulge myself for a couple of minutes before I shake my head and turn to go. And there he is. Sitting there on the bottom step of the stairs, gazing coolly at me. Mr. 'deep blue eyes' from earlier.

I'm pretty sure my mouth is hanging open and I have to remind myself to start breathing again.

What the fuck is he doing there? And now I'm starting to panic. My heart is beating so fast I'm surprised it doesn't leap out of my chest and start doing cartwheels. I take a deep breath and start walking towards him.

I tell myself to stop worrying, to just walk straight past him and down the stairs, but he stands up as I approach and I find myself stopping anyway.

He's taller than me, but not by much. And up close I can see that he's really rather good-looking. No, scratch that, he's fucking gorgeous. If I wasn't in the middle of a panic attack, I'm sure I'd be drooling. A few years older than me maybe, and part-Asian by the looks of him. He has the most adorable hair, wild and untamed. Makes me wonder if he even owns a comb.

But it's the eyes. Just like before, it's the eyes that hook me and reel me in. There's something in them. Something different. OK, this is going to be harder than I thought.

We stand there for several minutes, almost toe-to-toe. I wonder if he can hear my heart pounding?

Eventually he clears his throat. He looks awkward, nervous even. He clenches and unclenches his fists. "I… I'm sorry, I'm not very good at this," he stutters. His voice is low and smooth and although the tone is hard and cold, almost mechanical, there is something lingering underneath, something I can't quite place. And the shivers are back. Good shivers, this time.

I would have smiled except that I seem to be having difficulty doing anything at the moment.

He continues. "I want… I mean, I would like you… to come upstairs with me."

And my heart sinks. He's just like the rest. Just another punter looking for his pound of flesh. Whatever I thought I saw in his eyes was obviously just lust. I sigh. "Sorry, pal; I'm off-duty now. You'll have to find someone else to fuck."

A light shade of pink spreads across his cheekbones and I immediately regret my harsh words. "I'm sorry… I didn't mean that." He takes a deep breath and I get the feeling he doesn't do this very often. The whole talking thing, I mean, not just the propositioning of prostitutes.

"You're hurt…" He raises his hand gingerly and it's almost touching my cheek when he sharply draws it away as though he's been burnt. "I would like to fix that for you. And you're obviously exhausted. You need a good night's sleep. You can sleep in my bed. I'm not trying to come on to you or anything." He breaks off and stares at the carpet. In that moment, he suddenly looks so very innocent and sweet - something I haven't seen for a very long time. I find myself almost wishing that he was coming on to me. "Please? I just want to help you," he adds, looking me straight in the eye.

For some reason that riles me. Don't know why. Just the implication that I can't look after myself, I guess.

"Look, I'm really flattered and all, but I don't need your help. I'm fine. I just want to go home and…" I stop. And what? Go home and curl up on my uncomfortable, pathetic excuse for a bed in the cold all alone? Gee, what an attractive prospect.

But I shake my head. I'm resolved. I can't stay here. I can't let myself get sucked in by this guy, no matter how nice or how good-looking he is… if I do, it'll only delay my inevitable return to world I live in, and it'll just make going back even harder. Besides, I refuse to be someone's charity case.

"I'm sorry. Thanks, but no thanks," I give him a half-smile and turn away towards the stairs.

"Wait!" He calls out. "I'll pay you!"

Bingo! Magic words. In spite of myself, I stop. I don't want it to be this way but I just can't help myself. I turn back around to face him and those eyes suck me right back in again. "$150," I say before I can stop myself.

He nods in confirmation, a tiny glint of hope showing behind those stony blue orbs.

And now I'm goggling in disbelief. He actually said yes? I'm not sure I was expecting that. "You'll actually pay me 150 big ones just to have the pleasure of my platonic company for the night. You don't even want a blowjob or nothing?" I say incredulously.

"Yes. If that is the only way I can convince you to stay, I will pay you," he states as though he's just commenting on the weather.

Suddenly, being his charity case doesn't sound like such a bad prospect. I have this warm feeling inside. I don't think I've ever felt this before. What is it? It's not attraction or lust or anything like that. I've felt that plenty of times before and this is quite different. Is it relief or gratitude or hope? I don't know and frankly I don't care, I simply latch onto it and in that moment I never want to let it go.

I reach out and twine my fingers through his. For several moments he just stares down at our conjoined hands before he slowly curls his fingers around mine.

I have to smile. His hand is so warm and soft; his fingers are long and elegant… pianist's hands. OK, I've never met a pianist, let alone looked at his hands, but this is what I'd imagine them to be like.

"OK, hot stuff! Lead the way," I say with a grin. He gives me a startled look before turning away and mounting the stairs. He doesn't let go of my hand and I let him lead me up the staircase to his room. I nearly laugh out loud. I've done a lot of things with men, most of which you probably don't want to hear about, but I don't think I've ever held hands before.

This room is bigger than the one downstairs. There is a little sitting room and a balcony as well as a bedroom and bathroom. Mr. 'deep blue eyes' looks just like a regular college kid in faded blue jeans and a black jacket but it's clear from this room that he must have money. Or at least whoever paid for this trip has money.

He releases my hand as he closes the door behind us. I immediately take the liberty of giving myself a tour. The bathroom is gleaming and white. The bedroom looks comfortable and the bed is almost beckoning to my tired body. The balcony is small but cosy and the view across Chicago is amazing. The lights are beautiful, illuminating the black sky from below. I screw up my eyes into a squint and tip my head from side to side like I used to do when I was a kid. The lights became tiny pin-pricks of light twinkling like distant hovering pixies.

When I re-enter the living room, Mr 'deep blue eyes' is taking off his jacket and hanging it over the back of a chair. On the desk in front of him, a laptop is set up. The date and time bounce merrily around the screen but he moves the mouse and the screen saver fades away.

I cross the room and stand next to him, peering down at the little screen. I'm fascinated. I've only ever used a computer once and that was to play solitaire, but ever since, I've had this niggling little dream to one day actually own one myself.

He moves the mouse. The screen changes rapidly. Those pianist fingers glide over the keys and the screen flickers with each touch. I find myself getting dizzy as I try to follow the movements.

This guy is obviously very talented with computers. The sleazy part of my brain wonders what else he might be talented at but I shove those thoughts away before I find myself completely in the gutter.

I have to remind myself that he's not here for that. He doesn't want that. Hell, he's probably not even gay; the clothes and the voice and the tense way he walks, they all scream straight. You see, I'm destined to always like unattainable guys. That's God's twisted sense of humour showing through again.

My eyes are beginning to hurt from concentrating on the screen so I step away, rubbing them with the tips of my fingers.

Mr. 'deep, blue eyes' turns around and looks sheepishly at me. "Sorry. I got carried away. Quatre says I'd marry my laptop if I could," he apologises.

I grin. "Nah, don't worry. Who's Quatre?" I ask, trying to sound casual. Brother? Friend? Lover? Oh please don't let it be the last one.

"He's my best friend," Mr. 'deep, blue eyes' answers. "We went to high school together but we really only became friends in our first year of college. He's the blonde one you saw earlier. The other is Wufei."

I nod and suddenly I realise that I know that this guy goes to college, has two friends called Quatre and Wufei and an obsession with computers, but I don't even know his name.

"I'm Duo, by the way," I say, holding out my hand.

He winces. "Of course. I'm sorry. I'm Heero." We shake hands briefly. His handshake is firm but comfortable. Not limp and wet-fish-like nor rough and one step away from breaking your fingers. Just perfectly in-between. That's another point for Mr. 'deep, blue eyes' whose real name is Heero.

"Heero. Cool name. Where's it from?" Even to my ears it sounds like such a lame question, like I'm making pointless small talk. But I actually really want to know.

"Japan," he answers.

"Oh yeah? Cool. I kinda figured you were Asian. But the eyes threw me off a bit. I didn't know Japanese guys could have blue eyes," I'm prattling and I know it, but he makes me nervous and I ramble when I'm nervous.

"It's not very common. But my mother is American," he replies. His voice is so calm. Eeep, there are those shivers again.

He suddenly seems to realise that we're standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. "I'm sorry, Duo. Would you like to sit down? Or you can have a shower if you'd like…" Shower? OK, it's official, I love this guy.

"I'd kill for a shower right about now," I say, eyeing the pearly white tiles from where I'm standing and practically drooling.

"Of course." He smiles and he seems really pleased. He takes me into the bathroom. "These towels are clean. And you may use my shampoo if you want to wash your hair…" Do I ever!?! He thinks of something and disappears for a moment. When he returns, he's carrying a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt. "Here, you can wear these if you'd like. They're clean," he assures me. I take the clothes and I'm suddenly very touched at how hard he's working to make me feel comfortable.

"Thanks, man," I say sincerely, giving him my best smile.

He returns my smile slightly awkwardly. I get the feeling that he doesn't smile very often.

"I'll be in the other room if you need me," he says. "Take your time."

And I do. The water is so hot and steamy and it feels delicious beating down on my sore skin. The pitiful trickle of water my shower at home produces pales in comparison. I hesitate slightly but in the end, I release my hair from its braid and let the soggy mess hang limply around me.

I smell his shampoo as I squirt some into my hand. It smells fresh and almost icy. The name on the bottle says "Sea Breeze" and I find myself thinking that it's a scent that suits Heero rather well. Fresh and almost icy.

As I massage the soap into my hair I chuckle. It's strange to think that I've known Heero all of half an hour and he already has a smell. And I know that even though I'll probably never see him again after tonight, that scent will be forever etched in my mind.

When I'm finished, I turn off the water and step out of the shower onto the plush white bathmat. I wrap a fluffy white towel around my waist, relishing in the soft cosy feel against my damp skin. OK, this may sound pathetic, but being in a bathroom that actually has a bathmat and nice towels is a rare thing for me.

I run my hand across the mirror, leaving streaky finger marks on the fogged-up glass. I flick on the fan and slowly the steam disperses and the mirror clears.

Just like I had done in the room downstairs, I stand for several minutes staring at my reflection.

My hair hangs down to the tops of my thighs… a long wet curtain of bedraggled tangles framing my face. The make-up has been washed away and my skin feels fresh and new. I suddenly look much younger.

Droplets of water still linger across my chest and the tiny silver cross that always adorns my neck gleams under the bright lights. The hot water has got my circulation working again and my skin looks healthier and more robust; it is no longer that sickly pale colour and so although the bruises are now turning a nasty purple shade, they don't look so bad in contrast.

I chuckle to myself. It's amazing what a simple, decent shower can do for a person.

There is a comb lying beside the basin. Evidently he does own one, but I remember his hair and I'm still not entirely convinced he actually uses it. I hesitate but then I figure, this guy has just let me use his shower and his shampoo and is lending me his clothes, so he probably won't object to me borrowing his comb.

It slides through my wet hair brushing drops of water to the floor where they soak into the white mat.

Combed and tangle-free, I flick it back over my shoulders and my fingers automatically work through it, twisting the strands into a braid. When I was a kid at the orphanage, Sister Helen used to do this for me. After she died, it took me nearly a year before I could do it properly by myself. Now it's second nature. I could probably do it in my sleep. I fasten the tie at the end and let fall down my back where it hangs clinging to the curve of my spine.

The sound of voices from the other room startles me. I panic momentarily. Maybe Heero's changed his mind and has called security to come and get rid of me? OK, so I'm paranoid; you would be too if you lived my life.

I force myself to relax, telling myself that Heero is one of the good ones and that he'd never throw me out like yesterday's trash. I'm still not entirely convinced that this is true but it does make my heart rate lower and the instinct to run abate.

I release the towel around my waist and hastily brush away the remaining drops of water that still cling to my skin. As the towel brushes over the cut on my shoulder, I hiss in pain. It doesn't actually hurt that much, but I've always been a bit of a drama-queen.

I hang the towel on the back of the door next to what is presumably Heero's towel. It's not part of the hotel set; it's dark blue with a single white stripe running down each side. It's plain and simple and yet pretty fucking classy.

I realise that I'm not really surprised that Heero isn't using the hotel towels. He seems kinda uptight and fastidious and bringing a towel from home would definitely fit that.

I pull my boxers on. They're tight and black and don't really leave much to the imagination. But then, they are underwear so I suppose they're not really meant to. They're not the sort of thing I would chose to wear if I lived a regular life, but in my line of work they're an unofficial uniform.

Heero's grey sweatpants are too big, that much is clear when I put them on. They're slightly too long in the leg and the waist hangs low on my hips. But they're clean and comfortable and most importantly, completely and utterly normal. The t-shirt is white and judging from the complete lack of creases I guess that Heero has, at some stage, obsessively ironed it. It's also too big, not by much, but just enough for it to be clear that it's not really my shirt. I'm not as broad across the chest as I imagine Heero is but at least my slender frame isn't completely drowned in the material.

When I look in the mirror, it almost feels like these are my clothes. That I'm just a regular teenager, living a normal life. But my eyes drop to the floor where my street-walking clothes are piled in a crumpled heap and I remember that these aren't my clothes, that I'm most certainly not a regular teenager and that my life is anything but normal.

I gather my clothes up in my arms and exit the bathroom cautiously, peering around the doorframe looking for Heero.

He's sitting at the table in front of his laptop. Next to the computer, a small pile of crisp green notes is waiting innocuously, a reminder of why I'm here. He looks up as I enter. I cast him a friendly grin as I drop my clothes on a chair, ignoring the money.

"Man, you have no idea how good I feel now!" I exclaim and it's true.

He positively beams. OK, he gives me a tiny half-smile but from what I've seen so far, that's probably as close to a beam as I'm gonna get.

"I'm glad, Duo," he says. I nearly laugh. His voice is so stern and monotonous, and everything he says is so polite.

"I feel like something out of 'Pretty Woman'," I say, hoping I can draw a laugh out of him.

Success! He gives a tiny chuckle and it feels like hot chocolate running down my throat. My joke wasn't exactly stellar but I can tell that he's genuinely amused and that just makes my grin even bigger.

He closes his laptop silently and turns around to face me properly. He's holding something in his hands and when he stands and approaches me, he holds it out for me to take. It's not until he's pressing it into my hands that I realise that it's an ice-pack.

"For your cheek," he elucidates. "Room service brought it up." Ah, that explains the voices. Not security, then. I breathe an unconscious sigh of relief.

I take the ice-pack and put it to my face. I don't know what I was expecting, but I jump when the cold touches my skin. He smiles at me and I blush. I hadn't really paid much attention to the bruise until now but, in spite of the sudden cold, the ice is actually soothing. Plus if the swellings goes down now then I stand a chance of being able to cover up this ugly mother of a bruise with make-up, which means I'll be able to work tomorrow night and maybe, just maybe I'll manage to the rent paid on time.

"Thanks, Heero," I say as I lower myself to the couch. It's big; I estimate that it could comfortably seat three people. It's soft and I almost lose myself in the plush cushions. The shower, the clean clothes, the couch, the heat which is wafting across the room from the vents… it's so relaxing. It's divine… probably the most comfortable and contented I've ever been in my short miserable little life.

I want to tell Heero this, but for some reason I'm embarrassed to. I'm sure he knows that I'm not the sort of person who is used to all this stuff and I'm sure he doesn't think worse of me for it, but I still don't want to admit it to him. Or is it that I don't want to admit it to myself?

Heero sits down on the coffee table in front of me. "How is it?" he asks, his eyebrows drawn together in unmistakable concern.

"It's great," I said. "Fucking freezing, but great."

He nods in a business-like fashion and then remembers to smile. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" he asks.

I hesitate and then tell him. "Just a coupla bruises on my chest and a kinda cut on my shoulder. It's nothing, but," I say casually.

He gives me a stern look and I find myself blushing again. I don't think I've blushed this much in my entire life. For someone who makes his living being sexy and seductive, I'm really acting like I've never been alone with another man before.

"Will you let me look at it?" he asks. I nod because I simply couldn't say no even if I tried.

He gently takes the ice-pack away from my face. His fingers brush momentarily against my cheek and I shiver unconsciously.

"Would you like a jumper or a blanket or something?" he asks.

"Nah, I'm fine, really. But thanks," I assure him. I'm not cold, not even close.

"Hn," he says as he lays the ice-pack down on the table beside him. I'm not sure if that's a yes or a no or just some weird 'I'm thinking' noise, so I say nothing in response and just wait.

He runs his eyes over me and he seems to be hesitating over something. I'm confused and now he looks confused.

Gingerly he reaches one hand out and indicates the hem of my t-shirt. Belatedly, I realise that he wants me to take my shirt off.

I hook my thumbs in the hem and pull it up and off, letting it drop onto the couch next to me.

I feel slightly embarrassed sitting there, half-naked in front of him. Don't ask me why. It's ridiculous. Everyday I take off more than this in front of total strangers and here I am as awkward as a virgin about taking off my shirt. This guy is affecting me something terrible.

He frowns as his gaze takes in the bruising. I'm not talking a regular frown here; I'm talking a thunderous, murderous frown. I'm rather taken aback by the strength and power of that simple expression. If I didn't instinctively trust this guy, I'm sure I'd be scared out of my wits.

"How?" he asks, his stony eyes unreadable.

"Belt," I say simply. I don't elaborate. I'm sure he can use his imagination. His eyebrows snap together in anger and his fists clench. He forces himself to relax and then he speaks.

"Suck your stomach in," he instructs me.

I do as he say, wondering where on earth he's going with this. It takes me by complete surprise when his fingers trail up my torso following the line of my rib cage. I shiver again and he apologises.

"I'm sorry. Does that hurt?"

I shake my head. My ribs are slightly tender but it's nothing I haven't felt before.

"They're not broken," he tells me. His hands drop back to his side and I find myself wishing he was still touching me.

OK, remember before when I said that whatever I was feeling for Heero wasn't attraction? Not strictly true anymore. There is definitely attraction happening here. Not just the usual 'oooh, I'd rather like to fuck him' sort of attraction but the kind where my legs go weak when he smiles at me and I get a funny warm feeling in my stomach. It's absurd, but there we are.

I cut my thinking off right there before it starts wandering into dangerous territory. I can't fall for a guy like this. I'm just white trash and I'll just end up getting hurt if I start to think otherwise.

It takes me a moment or two to realise that he's gone. I swivel around in my seat, craning my neck to peer into the bedroom. He appears in the bedroom door carrying a small white case. I recognise the solid red cross on the lid.

He sits back down opposite me, perching the case on his knees. "I should bandage your ribs. It will help with the bruising and swelling," he states, lifting the lid. "And I'll disinfect that cut and bandage it as well."

I nod dumbly. "Thanks for taking care of me," I say.

"You're welcome," he says simply, placing the first-aid kit next to him, a roll of bandages in his other hand.

He rests the roll of white cloth in my lap and shuffles closer so that he's perched precariously on the edge of the coffee table.

He squeezes a thick white cream onto his fingers and I have to close my eyes to stop myself from thinking naughty thoughts.

When his fingers glide over my shoulder, it's cold and stinging. I open my eyes and hiss for dramatic effect.

He pulls away guiltily, looking me straight in the eyes. "I'm sorry. I should have warned you. This will sting a bit," he says, rather unnecessarily before his fingers find the cut again.

"It's fine," I assure him. When he's done, he wipes his hands on his jeans and presses a strip of gauze to the gash. It stays in place, stuck to my sticky skin, while he reaches for the bandage. He unravels it slightly and begins to wrap it around my torso starting at the bottom of my ribs and working his way upwards. Each time it goes around my back he leans forward, his arms going around me as he passes the roll from one hand to the other. It's almost like he's embracing me.

I make idle chit-chat to distract myself. "So, Heero, where you from?"

He doesn't answer at first and I wonder if he's heard me. Just as I'm about to repeat the question, he answers. "New York. I'm at NYU," he says softly. "But I'm originally from Boston."

Ah, New York. Mr. 'deep, blue eyes', whose name is Heero, goes to college, has two friends called Quatre and Wufei, an obsession with computers, and lives in New York. My mental picture slowly gets clearer.

The arms wrap around me again and I nearly stop breathing. "New York, huh? I've always wanted to go to the Big Apple, yanno? See Central Park, Statue of Liberty, Empire State Building, Broadway..." I trail off.

"You'll have to come and visit then," he says. I can't see his eyes and so I can't tell if he's being serious or not.

"Yeah, guess I will," I laugh nervously. "So what brings you to Chicago? Other than the pleasure of my company."

The bandage comes up and over my shoulder. "Quatre had a seminar. Wufei and I came along to keep him company," Heero answers.

"Work then. I thought maybe you came down to have some fun or something. Road trip, yanno?"

He doesn't answer; he just raises one eyebrow, a cynical glint in his dark blue eyes.

"OK, OK," I laugh. "Not the road trip type."

"Hai, definitely not," he asserts before returning to his task.

There are a multitude of questions zooming around in my head that I'm just dying to ask. But Heero doesn't really seem like the communicative type; so far, his answers have been pretty perfunctory. I risk a fairly innocuous inquiry.

"So, how old are you, Heero?"

He finishes bandaging my shoulder, securing the end with a clip and sitting back to survey his work. He makes an adjustment or two and then finally seems satisfied.

"20," he answers, looking up to meet my eyes.

20. That's what I'd figured. Somewhere around there. Couple of years older than me. "Ah, you've finally escaped the dreaded teenage years," I joke. "I'm nearly 18, so I've still got a coupla years ahead of me. But I don't mind. Younger is better in my line of work, yanno?"

He nods. His eyes drop to my collar bone. Slowly, cautiously, he reaches out and lets one single finger slide down the cross around my neck.

He doesn't ask the question he's thinking but I answer it anyway. "Sister Helen gave it to me," I say softly.

He jerks his hand away and stares at me expressionlessly. Clearly he's not used to people reading his thoughts.

"When I was just a kid, I lived at this Orphanage," I explain. I don't know why I'm telling Heero this. Usually I'm very tight-lipped about my past. But for some reason I want him to know. I want him to know why I am the way I am. I need him to know that this wasn't my choice.

"Sister Helen was this nun who worked there. She was cool, yanno? I mean, she could be a total bitch when she wanted to be. Real strict and all. But she used to braid my hair every morning, and she was real gentle and caring. And never tried to make me cut it off. I haven't let anyone touch my hair since she died."

He's hesitating. I can almost see the question on his lips. He's desperate to know the answer but he won't ask. He's far too gentlemanly for that.

"In a fire. When I was 7," I say finally, putting him out of his misery. "I was the only one who survived. Father Maxwell, Sister Helen, Sister Katherine, all the other kids… they all died." I stop talking and stare at my feet. I'm afraid I'll start crying if I don't. And I haven't cried for years. Boys don't cry.

There are several minutes of excruciating silence before two fingers find my chin, lifting my head up so I'm staring into Heero's eyes. He gives me this smile and I swear to God, my stomach drops down around my knees. He's smiled at me before. But just little half-smiles, nothing like this. His whole face is lit up and it's amazing the difference it makes. He's no longer this stern, brooding figure, he's stunning.

He draws his hand away slowly as he rises. He seats himself gracefully on the sofa next to me, folding his legs under him. He sinks down in the soft cushions just like I did. For a moment, he looks alarmed and awkward but then he visibly relaxes and allows the couch to accept and carry his full weight.

I slip my shirt back on and swivel around so I'm facing him again. And I open my mouth and I just start talking.

I tell him about Sister Helen and the Orphanage and the fire. About the foster homes. About running away and living on the streets. About turning tricks. About everything and anything I can possibly think of.

He sits and listens to me avidly. He doesn't speak much. Occasionally he makes the odd interjection, but for the most part, he just lets me talk. When I'm finally done, my voice is hoarse and dry.

I'm afraid that he's going to start pitying me. If there is one thing I hate, it's condescension. I get it all the time. People look at me and all they're thinking is 'poor little orphan boy forced to sell himself to survive… let's feel sorry for him'. Yeah, I've got a shitty life, but I don't want to be patronised with platitudes. I confess that I've hit more than a few people who've acted that way towards me.

But Heero doesn't do that. He just accepts what I've told him. There is sorrow and compassion in his eyes, but he doesn't try to placate me with pointless pity. And I'm grateful for that.

I find myself grinning. A real grin. And I realise that I've probably smiled more real smiles this evening than I have for years.

I'm naturally a fairly cheerful, optimistic kinda guy. If I wasn't, I probably would have died years ago. But to be strictly truthful, the ever-present Cheshire Cat grin that I wear like an essential piece of clothing is more of an act than anything else.

I stand on the streets every night and laugh and joke with the other hookers. I smile and grin at the punters that cruise past me, but it's all for show.

But tonight, with Heero, the grin on my face is real and I think he realises that.

"You have a nice smile," he says suddenly.

"Thanks," I shrug and try to ignore the butterflies that are practising their trapeze act in my stomach. "I have to keep smiling. I think I'd just wither and die if I ever stopped, yanno? Besides there aren't any punters out there who want a guy who looks like they're one step away from slitting their wrists. Correction: the only punters who want a guy who looks like they're one step away from slitting their wrists should be avoided at all costs," I chuckle to myself, although it's more depressing than funny really.

Heero gives me a strange look, "There is something different about this smile," he says enigmatically, lifting his hand and leaning forwards. He looks like he's about to caress my cheek or something, but he stops just before his fingers brush my skin and lets his hand fall back to his lap. "I mean it… It's not…" he trails off, searching for the right word.

"Reflexive?" I supply. He nods. "Yeah well, something about you just makes me want to smile for real, I guess," I say with a shrug, flashing him another smile.

He returns the smile. This time I laugh.

"What?" he asks me, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

"Nothing. You. Everything," I continue to laugh and after a while I hear a slight chuckle escape his lips. I probably look and sound like a lunatic so he's probably laughing at me rather than with me, but I don't care. I don't really give a shit what he laughs at so long as I get to hear that sound.

"You've got a nice smile, too, Heero," I say. And it's true. When he actually smiles a proper smile it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

He looks doubtful. "Really?" he asks sceptically.

"Yep! I may run and I may hide, but I never lie." I grin. He's still not convinced. "OK, some times it's a little wooden," I say with a laugh. "But when you mean it, it's completely different. It's beautiful." I hold my breath, hoping I haven't said too much.

He rewards me with the smile I was just describing and if I hadn't already been holding my breath I certainly would be now. "There, just like that one," I laugh.

"Something about you just makes me want to smile for real," he says softly.

He looks exceedingly uncomfortable and I suddenly feel incredibly touched that he trusts me, a pathetic streetwalker he's known all of five minutes, with his feelings.

I open my mouth to say something but at that moment my stomach rumbles noisily, breaking whatever mood was developing between us. I curse internally.

Heero smiles. "You're hungry. Would you like to order something to eat?"

My heart just about bursts. That saying about the way to a man's heart being through his stomach? Totally true. "Oh, Heero, man I could kiss you!" I exclaim before I can stop myself. There is an awkward pause.

You idiot, Duo! I curse myself. Think before you open your big fat fucking mouth and speak!

"I mean, yeah, I'm hungry. Food would be good. Nice. Whatever," I babble trying to cover my mistake.

Heero uncurls his legs and swings them over the side of the couch. I find myself wondering how someone as stiff and mechanical as Heero can move so gracefully. One of life's many mysteries, I'm sure.

He passes me the menu, subtly shuffling closer. "You can order anything you like," he says, leaning even closer to read the menu upside down.

I run my eyes down the list. Gazpacho? What the fuck's that? I'm embarrassed that I have no idea, although it's not exactly my fault. I'm a pretty smart guy, but it's not like I've ever had the opportunity to learn about all this shit; when you work on the streets you tend to be preoccupied with learning how to fend off the unwanted advances of a guy twice your size rather than memorising all this fancy food crap.

I don't really want to admit my ignorance to Heero but my curiosity seems to be outweighing my humiliation, so I ask him.

"Gazpacho? It's a cold tomato soup," he explains. The corners of his mouth turn ever so slightly upwards into the barest hint of a smile.

"Cold tomato soup," I echo. "Right, well why don't they just write that?"

"Because they want to sound sophisticated?" Heero suggests.

"Yeah, or maybe they're just a bunch of wankers," I mutter.

Heero laughs. "Hai, you're probably right."

"Bistecca?"

"Roast beef," Heero translates for me.

I roll my eyes and continue down the menu. Julienne carrots? OK, I recognise the 'carrots' bit but what's with all this 'Julienne' business? I don't bother to ask Heero. I simply close the menu and look up into those deep blues.

"D'ya reckon they could just do me a burger and fries?" I ask tentatively.

He smiles. "I'm sure they could manage that."

"Cool. Thanks, man," I give him my biggest smile as my stomach rumbles again.

"You're welcome, Duo," he replies as he rises and moves away to the telephone. Damn, the shivers are back again.

Heero's voice rumbles in the background as he orders and I tune out. I hear the click of the receiver being replaced and my eyes fly open again as Heero seats himself beside me once more.

"It's on its way," he says, brushing one hand through his untamed hair. I find my own hand longing to do the same.

Several minutes of comfortable silence tick passed before I speak.

"Hey, Heero?"

"Hmm?" His head turns slightly towards me, inviting me to continue my request.

"Can I put the TV on?" It may sound stupid considering I could be spending my time staring into those eyes and having a deep and meaningful conversation (assuming Heero knows how to hold a conversation - still not sure about that one yet), but ever since I entered this room, I've been itching to turn it on. I don't have a TV at home and I'll be damned if I'm going to pass up this opportunity.

"Of course," Heero replies simply. He tosses me the remote and I catch it nimbly, relishing in the feel of the cool black plastic in my hand.

I turn it on and flick restlessly through the channels. Beside me, Heero tenses. Obviously he's the kinda guy who hates channel-hoppers. Eventually, just as Heero's left eye is starting to twitch irritably, I settle on an old re-run of some 70s cop shop. It's pretty lame but I find myself laughing anyway. Even Heero manages the odd smile and after one of the more inspired gags, he actually snickers.

The food arrives after about half an hour. The room attendant greets us both with a smile, asking us how we are this evening and making idle small talk while he waits for Heero to tip him.

I feel indescribably happy when he doesn't realise what I am, when he treats me respectfully like a regular guest in this hotel.

The food is good. No, better than good. Ecstasy. I let the juice trickle down my chin and drip back onto the plate as I eat. It's just that fucking good.

Heero's eyes remain trained on the TV as I eat, but every so often, his hand will creep across the expanse of couch between us and steal a chip.

I resist the urge to lick the plate. Instead I use my fingers to lap up the last remains of sauce, and for one brief moment this feels real.

I can almost imagine that this is my normal life. Heero would be my lover and we'd live in a nice, cosy apartment together. I'd come home from work (real work, not this sleazy hustler shit) and I'd have a nice long hot shower (and maybe Heero would join me? Eeep, bad Duo!). And then we sit and talk about normal everyday things. We'd have dinner and snuggle up on the couch and watch inane TV together. And everything would be perfect.

The canned laughter from the TV jolts me out of my fantasy and I'm suddenly left feeling very cold.

I realise that I'll never have that. But maybe for just this one night I can pretend. I unfold my legs and shuffle down the couch to where Heero is curled up at the other end. My thigh rests gently against his and I can feel the warmth of his body emanating through his jeans.

He tenses at my contact, but after a moment, he stretches his arm around my shoulder, pulling me into his side. For several minutes he's stiff and tense but I lean my head on his shoulder and let his warmth and the fake TV laughter wash over me. And after a few more moments, he relaxes and everything is perfect.

When the show finally finishes, I'm in the early stages of sleep. My eyelids are drooping and my limbs feel immeasurably heavy. I snuggle closer to Heero, burying myself in his embrace. The air in the room is starting to get chilled and I revel in the steady warmth Heero provides.

He stirs slightly, then withdraws his arm and stands up. I grumble and I can feel the pout on my lips. He laughs softly and takes my hands, heaving me to my feet.

I'm instantly gripped by a cold fear. He's going to make me leave now. My eyes fly open and I'm suddenly very awake again.

Heero's hand rests on my shoulder reassuringly. He nods towards the bedroom. "There's nothing on so we might as well go to bed. We'll be more comfortable there. I mean… well, you know what I mean." A tiny hint of a blush appears on his cheeks and judging from the heat in my face, I'd say he's not alone in that.

I go to the bathroom while he turns off the TV and checks his computer. I wait hesitantly in the bedroom doorway while he uses the bathroom himself. He reappears, flicking the lights off as he moves silently across the room towards me.

He guides me through the darkness into the bedroom, switching the bedside lamp on and turning down the covers.

"Get in," he says, gesturing towards the bed. I slide between the sheets. They're cool, but soft and oh, so comfortable. My head hits the pillow and I only just manage to swallow a moan of contentment.

Heero moves away from the bed, bending over a suitcase in the corner. He pulls his shirt up over his head and I'm pretty sure my mouth is hanging open again.

The muscles in his back ripple effortlessly and I swallow uncomfortably. I was right. He is broad across the shoulders, and his skin is almost golden in the soft lamplight. He must work out. There is no way anyone could possibly be born with a figure like that. Eeep, stop drooling Duo!

He pulls a t-shirt over his head and I only just manage to control the urge to tell him to leave it off. He bends over and removes his jeans, and I have to look away. I don't trust myself to look and not jump him. When I finally gather the courage to look back again, he's closer, hovering beside the bed wearing sweatpants.

There is a strange emotion playing on his usually expressionless face. Doubt? Hesitation? "I can sleep on the couch, if you'd like," he finally says after several moments.

"No!" I say immediately. A little too quickly. "I mean, no, it's fine. I don't want to turf you out of your own bed," I ramble, patting the mattress beside me.

He casts me a half-smile and pulls back the covers, sliding in beside me, leaving a decent amount of space between us. He lies on his side, his head propped up on one hand, gazing at me. I find myself getting hard and I roll over onto my stomach to hide it, turning my head to face him.

Earlier, in front of the TV, I was so tired I was nearly asleep right there, but now I seem to be getting my second wind. I don't want to go to sleep just yet because if I do then the time will fly and I'll wake up and it will be time to leave. He seems to be thinking the same thing because he makes no move to go to sleep.

"Would you ever think about leaving with me if I asked you to?" His question comes out of the blue and I wonder if he's been waiting all night to ask it.

"No," I answer immediately. And it's the truth. Every fibre of my being is screaming 'Yes! Take me home with you!' but I know that I wouldn't… couldn't.

"I'm nothing, Heero," I tell him. "I was born nothing and I'll die nothing. You can't change that no matter how hard you try."

A flash of anger sweeps across his face and for one moment I think he's going to argue. Part of me wants him to, wants him to tell me I'm wrong, but another stronger part is pleading with him to drop it, to stop giving me false hope.

In the end he doesn't push the issue any farther. But there is a hint of determination lurking in his eyes and I resolve that I won't let him ask me again because I honestly don't think I'll have the strength to say 'no' a second time.

I'm afraid that little moment will sour the rest of the night. I'm afraid that he'll ask me to leave now that he knows he can't save me.

I timidly ask him about his life. Banal questions about what he's studying at NYU. He answers readily enough and then gives me a smile and I know that he doesn't blame me for answering the way I did. And it's like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

After some not so gentle prodding, I manage to draw out more details about his life (although it's rather like trying to get blood out of a stone). He tells me about his family in Boston. He has a mother and a father and a little brother called Shinji who is 13 and, by all accounts, a pain in the arse. He tells me that his father had expected him to go to MIT and how he'd purposely chosen NYU to spite him. He tells me about Quatre and Wufei and how they met, and when he's done I feel like I know them as well, like they're my friends too.

I butt in and ask questions and make stupid comments all the while he's talking. I can't help myself. I'm just not the type to sit and listen silently. I have to be an active participant in every conversation I have, even if all I'm contributing is an endless stream of interruptions. At times, I could swear he's itching to tell me to shut up. He'll stop and give me a vaguely annoyed look while he waits for me to finish, but other times, when he thinks I'm not looking, he'll have this amused little smile on his face.

The hours tick by as we talk and I'm so overwhelmingly happy I almost can't believe this is real. I resist the urge to pinch myself just in case this does turn out to be a dream.

I'm not sure who fell asleep first but the next thing I register is the early morning sun just beginning to peak through the gap in the curtains.

I'm sprawled across most of the mattress, taking up more room than I thought was humanly possible. Next to me, Heero is curled into a tiny, neat ball, his head resting on one arm.

He looks so peaceful and calm. When he's awake, he has this permanently tense aura, but asleep, he's completely relaxed. He looks much younger, somehow. And innocent. It's heartstoppingly beautiful.

You have no idea how much I just want to curl up next to him and stay here forever. Last night was probably the most amazing experience I've ever had, and all we did was talk. I've known him less than 12 hours and yet it feels much longer than that. It feels like he knows me completely. The persona I wear every time I step out on to the street is one that's jolly and cheerful and fun and entertaining, but I rarely feel like that on the inside. But with Heero, the laughter and the smiles are real and I realise with a jolt that last night, for the first time in a very long time, I was actually glad to be alive.

But looking at him now as the sun rises on the other side of the window, I realise that I have to leave. I have to leave before he wakes up and asks me that question again.

I can't go thinking above my station. I don't deserve to be happy. I'm just a street-rat turned hustler. The world I belong to is dirty and gritty and rough, full of death and pain. The longer I stay here, the more I contaminate Heero. And he doesn't deserve that.

I roll myself out of bed as carefully as I can. This is a movement that I've been perfecting for years and by now I can leave a bed without the other occupant even registering a dip in the mattress.

Heero stirs momentarily and I freeze, willing him back into slumber. He gives a tiny little sigh and buries his head further into the pillow.

I rise gently. The carpet is soft and luxurious and it's just a further reminder that I don't belong here. I creep across the room and then out into the living room where I retrieve my clothes from the chair.

In the bathroom, I change hurriedly, pulling my old, worn, street clothes back on. Each item of clothing feels like a prison sentence. When I'm finally dressed I look at myself in the mirror and whatever I saw there last night is gone. And all that's left is reality.

I fold Heero's clothes and leave them on the table next to his laptop. The money is still lying there on the bench and although a tiny part of me wants to leave it there, I reflexively reach out and push it into my pocket.

My hands brush over his jacket which is hanging over the back of the chair. Deep inside me a tiny little automatic impulse nags persistently. I glance back through the doorway to where Heero is sleeping peacefully. So naïve. It's almost too easy. I reach into one of the pockets and withdraw his wallet.

No photos this time, but my heart is thumping in my chest as I flick through the wad of cash. I instantly feel sick and guilty but I want him to forget about me. I want him to write me off as just another lost soul. He needs to fully understand that I'm irredeemable.

So I take the money. I stare at it for several moments and then I take $100 and put the rest back, leaving his wallet on the table beside his clothes.

A flash of gold catches my eye. A shiny, expensive, hand-made gold watch winks up at me, daring me to take it. And I do. It's heavy in my pocket where it's nestled amongst my ill-gotten gains. The ever-present weight feeds my guilt and I do my best to ignore it.

I scrawl a hasty note for Heero. My hand is shaking as I write. There is so much I want to say but I settle for just a few brief words and hope that Heero will understand what I'm trying to tell him.

I pause by the door and stare at Heero. It takes all my strength not to go back to that bed and cuddle up to him.

My hand finds the door handle and twists slowly. Before I can change my mind, I cross the threshold and close that door behind me forever. And it's the hardest thing I've ever had to do.

My boots click on the pavement as I scurry away from the hotel. It feels like everyone I pass is staring at me, like I've got the words 'thief' and 'whore' tattooed to my forehead.

It's almost a relief when I finally reach the dirty, shabby apartment building where I live. The lift has never worked, so I wearily climb the stairs as I always do.

The door bangs shut behind me and I'm home. It's sickening to realise that that hotel room felt more like a home than this place ever has. And it's unsettling to realise that that has nothing to do with the room itself and everything to do with Heero.

Suddenly my heart is racing and I feel the prickle of impending tears in the corners of my eyes. It's been years since I've cried. I didn't cry when Sister Helen and Father Maxwell died. I didn't cry the first night I spent on the streets. I didn't cry the first time some big, heavy, repulsive pervert crushed me beneath his thrusting weight. But this morning, it takes all my strength to stop those tears from falling.

My hands are shaking and I feel so angry and sick and tired that I almost collapse to the floor right where I am. My quivering fingers retrieve the money from my pocket. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and I fling it across the room, desperate to get it away from me. It lies scattered across the floor but I still don't feel any better.

And the weight of Heero's watch is still with me. It twinkles at me in the dim light and in spite of all my efforts a single tear trickles down my cheek and splashes onto the shiny watch face.

I curl up on my bed, drawing the blankets around me. I clutch the watch to my chest and I cry.

I cry for Heero and I cry for myself, but most of all, I cry because there isn't anything else I can do.

TBC

Author's Notes: Awwww, poor Duo! Sorry about the lack of Heero/Duo goodness. It is on the horizon but we may take a little while to reach it. Be patient.

And I just want to give a gigantic, loud, enthusiastic THANKYOU to all those gorgeous wonderful people who reviewed the first chapter. I would take the time to thank you all individually but is not being particularly tolerant of excessive author's notes at the moment and I don't want to incur their wrath. But know that I love and appreciate you all.

So, in the light of that last comment, what's the magic word? That's right! Review! Seriously, please help me out, I can't make my writing better without your help.