__Insert Melodramatic Title Here__

*pointless disclaimer not included. We all know to whom they belong to. :)

Summary: A/U, SquallxSeifer. YAOI! SHOUNEN-AI! GAY PORN! (ok... maybe *not* exactly that) Two males about to embark in a romantic relationship with each other. If that squicks you... tough.

A young man escapes to the city to find that the past is always there to trip you up.

Because really, what better narrator than someone who barely speaks? *grin*

p/s: I have resolved to not caricaturise Rinoa and be all insulting towards her, even if that meant I had to give her an actual personality. LoL. And the alternate universe setting is just an excuse for rampant OOC-ness.

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I stepped off the bus and the first thing that hit me was how different everything smelled. It all looked so clean, yet I smelt smoke and barely hidden grime of the thosands of souls that have passed through this bus depot.

There was so many people, this suffocating press of bodies, jostling and pushing, in a hurry, in a rush, not caring. Not knowing.

This was exactly what I wanted. I wanted to disappear. To hide. To forget. I wanted to be in a place where I have no past. Where nothing and no one can touch me. I want to forget how it was to feel.

But as it turned out, it wasn't what I needed.

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I wasn't exactly in the best financial position to negotiate for the sort of accommodations I was used to. I left in a hurry, in a rush of misery and half-assed pledges to never return, made with all the petulance my teenage self could give me. As I munched miserably on the sorry excuse of a hotdog ("just the dog, hold everything else"), I realised not only was there an urgent need for me to find somewhere to live, there was an even more pressing need for me to find some sort of steady income. Even then (especially then), I knew just how far money can take a person. I was more than aware of it. But for all my financial savvy, I was still a sheltered teenager, barely out of the country, too used to small town life to be street smart in the big, bad city.

If you could see me then, eating my meagre meal as if it was the most bitter I've ever had. What a serious, serious youth I was. So afraid, and so cold. It was then when I found myself standing in front of a decently-sized building, bigger than most buildings in the area, yet, not as intimidatingly high as those skyscrapers that I've just seen with my eyes that day. It was somewhat removed from the rest, a stately mansion with its gates flung open, so calm and inviting despite its imposing dignity.

I had found myself at the Esthar Youth Hostel-slash-Welfare Shelter. Oh right, I had forgotten about those. At least, I can put off the financial headaches until later. Much, much later, as long as I could. As I moved slowly towards the main entrance, my body suddenly remembered all the travails of the past few days, and I was bone-weary by the time I reached the reception desk.

I used to dream about running far away from home, a romantic dream where I would live on my own in the city, living (what I imagined to be) a bohemian life. Not caring about facades, about appearances, only being who I wish to be, without constraints or limitations. It was one of the countless dreams I filled my boredom with. Yet, as I was about to embark on what seemed like fulfilment of this particular dream, I was beset with doubt.

I had not had the greatest luck with romantic dreams. I had found, to my sorrow, that dreams were merely mirages in the shade, tricks of glimmering light that looked so lovely and beautiful in the shadow, only to be nothing more than smoke and faint embers hidden behind cold grey ashes in the harsh glare of reality.

I was dreaming them when everything shattered and broke, leaving me adrift in a haze of betrayal and pain.

I could not trust my dreams anymore. Not when I was awake.

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They showed me an empty bed, the lower half of a bunk bed, at the far edge of the first-floor men's dormitory. The bed was recently tidied and was neat, with perfect corners on its sheets. It was serviceable and practical, certainly not at all bohemian, and I remember how that little thought comforted me. My dreams had never been so sterile and filled with sharp angles. In fact, it bore little resemblance to anything I had imagined, beginning with the efficient though not overly friendly (if a little bored) girl acting as the receptionist. The entire place was clean, its curtains and carpets a little rundown perhaps, and its walls probably needed a fresh coat of paint, but it was well-kept, and it was obvious it was not wanting for funds. Evidently a well-sponsored charity, judging how difficult it can be to keep something of this size well-maintained and still remain thrifty with the cash. And above all, even to an untrained out-of-towner, it had class.

I went to the communal shower and washed myself of the grime and sweat that came with my travels, and when I finally was clean and dressed in dry (even if it smelt a little funky) clothes that I had managed to hastily pack into my bag, I finally yielded to my exhaustion and slept like the dead.

I woke up when I could no longer ignore my stomach. Fortunately, it was dinner time, and I didn't get lost on my way to the cafeteria. I ate mechanically, the food being as it was, convenient and something to fill me, nothing more than that. It wasn't bland, and just like the rest of the building, serviceable and did what it supposed to do, but there was a flair to it that stopped it from being just plain glop served warm. Still, those fine observations I did not make till much later. I was too heartsick to care, and too hungry to bother. I needed to eat. I ate. I could've eaten stale hard bread a week old, and I wouldn't have cared.

I went to bed immediately after that, not staying around to chat with the transient members of this community. I was still plagued by the worries of the future to want to know about my newly- made kin, this band of displaced people.

I went to sleep more tired than ever, my apprehensions slowly draining what strength I have. I might have put off the future a little longer, but time has the nasty habit of moving, and I knew the future was slowly, but surely, even as my breath grew languid and I took that badly needed rest, moving into the present. And pretty soon, if I was not careful, the force of that movement will be enough to derail me again. And the hurt will be too much, I knew that without much thought.

But sweet Hyne, I was so tired of running and hiding, and the uncertainty of not knowing.

I drew what little comfort I could from the sensible sheets and bed I was in, and tried very hard not to dream.

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