A young man with white hair sat perched on the edge of his bed, writing frantically into a notebook and occasionally taking a sip from a nearby Gatorade bottle. He had the look of an artist – button-down white shirt, tan pants, with scribbles and sketches on paper all about him. His bed was unmade, his closet was unorganized – as was the rest of the room.

In fact, the apartment with its peeling white paint and old radiator was messy enough that one would've guessed that he had at least 5 roommates, but there was only one other inhabitant besides the young man.

"Mytho, couldn't you at least pick up after yourself?" Fakir held up a scrap of lacy fabric. Looking at it more closely, one could tell that it was a pair of panties.

"I'm sorry, Fakir." The young man with white hair looked up from his notebook. "She must've left it behind."

"Another memento, huh?" Fakir snorted and threw it onto Mytho's bed. "You're getting quite the collection, but, you know…" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro's. "I don't think you're quite getting what you need."

Mytho paused from his writing. "What do you mean?"

"You bring so many of those vamps home, and they never stay longer than 12 hours." Fakir lit the cigarette and took a long, meditative drag. "Haven't you ever wondered why?"

Mytho's gaze slowly slid back to his notebook. "I don't know… I guess I haven't. They don't mean much to me, really."

Fakir stared at his friend, than snorted. "You don't look like a womanizer, you know that?" Fakir wandered to the open window and stared out at the street. It was a grimy city day – just like every other. "Damn heat. Why the fuck hasn't Eddie come yet to fix the AC?" Fakir took another deep exhale, examining the end of his cigarette. "How long we got until finals, again?"

"Um…" Mytho checked a schedule stapled to the inside of his notebook. "Two weeks. The 17th."

"Crap." Fakir flicked ashes off the end of the cig onto an ash tray that rested on the windowsill. "Oh, well. I'm not worried. But you, on the other hand…"

"I'll pass, Fakir. I'm studying right now."

"You'd better. I need you here to make rent."

"I know, Fakir." Mytho's voice was subdued and quiet.

Fakir stared at him again. "You need to grow a pair, man. Maybe that's why you get laid so often – even a chick can push you around."

Mytho sighed and finally set down the notebook. "I just haven't met the right one yet, Fakir. I just…"

"Is that your way of saying that you don't know how to tell them no?"

Mytho didn't reply.

Fakir went to his bed and picked back up the panties carefully, scrutinizing it. Then he swore. "Are these…?"

Mytho snatched them from Fakir and stuffed them into his drawer. "It's none of your business, Fakir."

"I saw a pair like that a few weeks ago here too, mixed in with some of your laundry. And I've only seen one girl wearing anything like them…"

"What?"

"Rue has a habit of wearing really short skirts and dresses, you know. She flashes everyone every chance she gets."

Mytho was silent.

"You're banging Rue, of all people? Do you know how much of a psycho bitch she is?!"

"She's lonely, she…"

"She's using you, that's what. Don't you have any damn self-esteem?"

Mytho fell silent again.

Fakir sighed in exasperation and returned to window. "Whatever. It's your fucking life." He took another drag. "Though I'd think I have a little more experience with this stuff than you." He shook his head in absent disbelief. "Rue, of all fucking people…"

Mytho wasn't listening to him anymore. His eyes turned introspective and thoughtful. "Say, Fakir… Have you seen that one redhead?"

"Redheads are trouble."

"Seriously, Fakir. She has these really wide blue eyes, and…" His mouth curved gently upward into a reminiscent smile.

"Wait… That one freshman?"

"She's a freshman? I thought she was a sophomore."

"You kidding me? A short, nervous clutz like her? Definitely a freshman."

"You know her?"

"We have Calculus together. She's stupid. But good, if you like air-heads."

Mytho said nothing, just looked back down at his notebook. "Right."

Fakir's expression softened. "Hey. You could do worse." He put out his cigarette on the ash tray. "When did you ever get a chance to get eyes for her, anyway? I've never even seen you guys talk."

"She auditioned for our upcoming ballet performance, Swan Lake."

Fakir laughed, a harsh, biting sound. "I've seen her trip twice in the same minute over her own feet. How the hell does she expect to get into a ballet like that?"

Mytho tugged at the corner of his paper. "She told me that she had always admired Odette, and just wanted to give it a try – "

"Did she get in?"

"Yes."

Fakir's eyes widened. "The fuck-? How?!"

"I'm going to be playing Prince Siegfried, and my opinion matters." Mytho's voice grew firm. "I told our casting director that I thought she was determined, and that she should get some sort of role."

Fakir slapped his forehead in disbeliefr. "Maybe you should stick with the psycho bitch."

Mytho smiled absently. "…Say, Fakir?"

Fakir had been heading to leave the room, but he stopped and turned back to look at Mytho. "Yeah?"

"I feel like… something is about to happen for the better. A good change is going to come. Do you feel what I mean?" His tone was awkward, but Mytho's gaze was steady.

Fakir was silent for a moment. He did understand what Mytho meant, but he wasn't quite sure about how to put it into words. "…Yeah."

They both happened to glance towards the window.

A single white feather drifted by in the grimy sunlight.