Part I
Duo snapped on a pair of sheer, black silk stockings and promptly sneezed at the dust he was raising in the ancient room. He needed a new office, he thought ruefully as he surveyed the unabashed mess, preferably one with a built-in janitor. But he had way too many high-quality products in here, hidden under the layers of dust and paper. They'd take forever to dig out.He arched one long, slim leg to make sure the stockings weren't inclined to run or anything, and grinned when they didn't. Of course they wouldn't run. These were the best money could buy.
He was the Demon, Duo Maxwell – best in the business. On in about three minutes.
"Could you possibly be any slower?" growled the gruff voice of his boss from somewhere offstage.
"Shut up," Duo called back amiably, casting eyes around for his dress. The custodial staff at this place was positively non-existent. He smirked; small wonder.
He spotted a bit of red and black lace sticking out from under a hefty metal box and yanked at it, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw that the dress was still mostly intact. There was that rip in the neckline, but it didn't matter much. His customers loved pawing him anyway, they'd doubtless be perfectly pleased at this turn of events.
"Two minutes, Maxwell!" his boss yelped.
"Up yours!" Duo shouted cheerfully. "I'm still getting ready! Tell them to wait!" Quickly he stripped off his grey tanktop and austere black leggings in exchange for the dress. It was impossible for him to walk to his job wearing the priest's frock he favored -- he'd be arrested by a swarm of Fed officers. Then again, he could definitely bribe them, he thought wryly. He had lost body-consciousness a long time ago.
With a sharp sigh he set his train of thought back on track. Where the hell were his heels, his damn Godforsaken heels? There was another reason that only the desperate joined his ranks. The heels on his shoes were about twelve inches high. He knelt down to check beneath a table. That was where he'd last thrown them. He thought.
Or maybe they were beneath that other table.
Nope, it was this one, Duo affirmed, seeing the forlorn pair of shoes peeking out from behind a messy stack of paper.
"They're waiting for you, Demon!" came his boss's stressed, guttural voice. "You wann 'em to mob th' place er sumthin'?!"
"Tell them they can damn well wait a little fucking longer, you idiot!" Duo yelled as his nonexistent patience with henpecking snapped and he wrenched his foot into those stupid heels. He was one of the few that could get away with calling his boss an idiot, but only because he was so damned good at his job. Anyone else got a slap in the face, but Duo's face was one of his best selling points. No bruises would mar his impish visage.
He hopped on one foot over to another cluttered table while jamming his other foot into the corresponding shoe, scanning the table for his make-up. He'd been against make-up at first, and still wasn't fully comfortable with it, but he wielded those brushes and pencils with as much skill as any woman.
He peered into the mirror in front of him and applied sweat-resistant foundation with painstaking care. Outside, he could hear the dull chants of "De-mon! De-mon! De-mon!" beginning to rock the floor. It was quite flattering, really, but the more they worked themselves up, the better the hush when he emerged.
He swept the blush over the contour of his cheekbones; just a little bit of it. He didn't need to look as if he had twin apples glued onto his cheeks. A while ago, Duo had learned the hard way just how exhausting this job really was, and he usually finished the night flushed, so if he went overboard on the blush, he'd look like a tomato when his shift was over. Then lipstick – soft red, just a few shades brighter than his natural lip color. He didn't exactly want to look painted, like some cheap charlatan, he thought with some indignance. He certainly wasn't cheap.
He noted that he was almost out of violet eyeshadow, then shrugged and swiftly and skillfully brushed the powder onto his eyelids. He used the black eyeliner pencil to dramatically emphasize his violet irises - not exactly the racoon look, and certainly not as if he had twin shiners, but just enough to draw attention. With what remained of the mascara he dealt with his lashes. He didn't need all that much; his eyelashes were long, thick, and dark, the perfect complement to his big eyes.
"DEMON!" the boss roared, from the harried tone of his voice finally losing all patience. "I CAN'T KEEP 'EM DOWN FOR MUCH LONGER WHILE YOU FECKIN' CHANGE! HURRY UP!"
This time Duo didn't even bother to respond, though he did roll his eyes, ever the spoiled and pampered star. The crowd would calm down when they saw him. They always did.
He carefully smoothed his bangs out of his eyes and fluttered his long lashes at his reflection, noting with a pleased smile the vitality of his brown hair. He flipped his long braid over his shoulder; it shone glossily in the light. With the amount of care he put into it, it had better. He spent hours washing it, brushing it, drying it, the works. The waist-length fall of chestnut locks was another of his best selling points and had to be the most versatile sex toy ever created, or at least it had a lot of folks under that impression, because his customers constantly moaned for him to release that tempting mass. He never did.
Enough. I know my hair's beautiful. I won't fit my cap before long. Duo grinned sheepishly at himself in the mirror, wide and cheerful indigo eyes sparkling in a way the expertly applied make-up gladly emphasized. Satisfied at last that he was ready for the night, he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at the beautiful young woman in the mirror, winked at himself and then turned to run out of the room, only to stumble and only barely catch himself on the doorframe. Apparently he'd have a job navigating on those deadly heels.
But by the time he reached the curtain dividing the catwalk from the backstage area, he was under control of himself. He had, after all, been forced into a lot of truly godawful outfits. About the first thing one learned in his position was to adapt. The boss, a crude, gray-haired old man who was far more dangerous and fit than he looked, sighed in relief.
The star had arrived.
Duo parted the curtains with one smooth sweep of his arms, and silence fell over the crowed like a soft blanket, only a few shocked whispers leaking out here and there. He was a remarkable sight: a confusing, yet inherently appealing blend of feminine beauty and masculine confidence. The spotlights shone on his glossy chestnut locks and created alluring shadows on his elfin face. For a moment he let no expression cross his face, standing still that the crowd might devour him as they please. They swept approving eyes over his devilishly angelic face, down the chest which was so frustratingly covered by that red and black lace, down the long, slim legs which the black stockings so accentuated.
The first-timers, the blasphemers, the ones who had been drawn to this place by the rumor of an impossibly sexy cross-dresser, were stunned. Men and women alike were affected as the full radiance of his beauty hit them. He wasn't like all of the other desperate, unwilling prostitutes, somehow. He brought class to the place, the way ancient paintings adorned palaces. The seedy pub was transformed into a temple, and the Demon was its altar boy.
Then Duo lowered his head, looked up at the crowd through half-lidded eyes, and let his trademarked mischevious smile creep across his face. His look was full of invitation, full of promise - his prelude to any show.
The crowd roared back to life as most recognized that look for what it was: the beginning of the night.
With the crowd fully under his spell, the music began to rustle through the club, and Duo began to dance.
Tired beyond belief, Duo jammed the key into his apartment's lock, wrenched the door open, and stumbled towards the first soft object he could find, his nice, attractive, wheezy old couch. Collapsing on it, he ripped off his sneakers, brought one leg up and gingerly rubbed the vaguely aching foot. He was never wearing those heels again, no matter how much money his boss offered him. Holy shit. The minute he had released his feet from the pincer-like grip of the heels, he had felt so much pain radiating through them that he'd almost collapsed right there in the office.
At least he'd been able to change in his office, though the outfit he had put together was less than satisfactory. He had been unable to find his gray tanktop, so had made do with a huge white tent of a shirt borrowed from Carecia, but he had found his black leggings, and scuffed tennis sneakers along with that. It wouldn't go in the fashion hall of fame, but it would do.
He had learned the hard way - for a moment he thought resentfully if he had ever learned anything the easy way - that if he came home wearing what he wore on his job, the likelihood of attempted rape or mugging increased tenfold. It was extremely annoying to be accosted by a puffed-up street tough who was looking to test the Demon's rep. Those incidents were becoming few and far between, of course, as Duo had no mercy when he just wanted to go home and collapse after an exhausting night's work. The Demon did not appreciate being waylaid.
All they have to do is come to my office and pay money, and they can have me for however many hours they pay for. Otherwise they've got no business near me.
If would-be street toughs thought he would not hesitate to have favors called in on his behalf, they were damn wrong. His body was his livelihood and he would not see it broken, bruised, or injured in any way. He knew important people in both the colony's underworld and its highest stratifications, and if someone persisted, he'd ask his friends Knife and Dagger, co-leaders of the street gang Regretless, to take care of them for him. If the situation called for immediate action, well, Duo had been one of the better street-fighters when he was younger. If some moron tried to get their hand up his shirt, they'd be down in a flash, and dead if he was in a lousy mood. He was freaking Shinigami and no one messed with him.
He sighed and tilted his head back, relaxing his muscles to try to ward off tension-knots. Fact was, he was too good at his job, and his existence was becoming geared around that. He felt engulfed.
He hadn't wanted to be this, but it was either prostitution or death by impoverishment. He had wanted better for himself, had wanted to go to school and learn things and go to dances and have a prom, all that normal shit. He had only wanted to be a normal sixteen year old...
Damn the Federation. The Federation's iron control over the colonies had lost him everything. First his parents, back in the first war, back when he was so young that he couldn't even remember them now. Then Solo, lost to the plague. He had heard since that the Federation itself engineered the plague and then the cure, that L2 might welcome it as its savior.
His lips tightened. And then the Federation, as it tried to control the rebellions springing up everywhere, had killed Father Maxwell and Sister Helen. Everyone who might have cared for him had died, his Curse touching them all, leaving him at age eight with no route to survival but this. Duo closed his eyes; those memories hurt. He had only been eight. Frightened, traumatized, but with a promise of beauty and the need to survive.
Eight years had passed; he was sixteen now and his beauty was a promise kept. His fame had spread to every single underground network in L2. He had definitely survived, but...
Was my survival worth paying that much?
No.
I should have let myself starve to death. Then I wouldn't be in this stupid ordeal. If I don't get off this colony, if I don't do something about getting my head out of my ass and looking for another option, I'll be a fucktoy till I die.
His thoughts would probably have continued in this patently depressing vein for a long time had not an irritated female voice interrupted them. "Duo, you really need to stop coming in here at five o'clock in the morning," Hilde's voice yawned at him.
The girl in question emerged from the hallway looking very sleepy, very rumpled and thoroughly irritated. Duo immediately plastered a smile onto his face. She was wearing her teddy-bear jammies; surely she couldn't be all that mad at him.
Hah, as if. This was Hilde they were talking about.
"Am I in trouble, Mother?" Duo queried, dripping sweetness and light.
"Yes," she snarled. "Don't play with me, Duo. You cannot keep coming home this late and that's a fact. Do you know how dangerous these streets are?"
Duo quirked an eyebrow and didn't reply; Hilde flushed as she realized the inanity of the question. Duo, taking pity on her, said sheepishly, "I know, I know. I'm sorry, but I can't get away from the Club any earlier. Did you stay up waiting for me?"
"Move over," she sighed, yawning again, and obediently Duo scooted. Hilde plopped down and rubbed at her eyes. "Yes, I stayed up. And don't say a word," she cautioned as Duo opened his mouth, then promptly shut it. "I wouldn't be able to go to sleep anyway, Duo." Her face softened. "I get worried, don't you understand? I don't want you getting hurt out there."
Duo groaned. "Hilde, you've got a day job. You can't stay up every night waiting for me. I'm telling you, my ass is precious and I cover it accordingly."
She snorted rudely. "I wouldn't have been able to sleep anyway, Duo, until I saw you here safe and sound. You know how dangerous your - your job is. And the streets are rough at night, especially around where you work."
Duo couldn't face the worry and concern in her earnest gaze and suddenly noticed how fascinating the snarled stiches in the couch were.
Duo dropped his gaze to the couch, looking every inch the little boy being reprimanded by his caretaker, and she sighed. Again. This was a common occurance around him.
He thought he was immune against all danger. He thought that if he ever got in real trouble, he could get himself out. Hilde hadn't been raised by the streets as he had been, but didn't she have a right to worry? Anyone could pick Duo out in a crowd; he went through life with a spotlight trained on him and a chorus of adoring fans. And despite his flippancy on the subject, he couldn't seem to grasp that some people were duplicity incarnate. She had gone to an OZ military academy for most of her life - she knew what treachery was. "Duo, why don't you give up your job?" Hilde asked, sweeping a lock of dark blue hair out of her eyes. "You're intelligent, you've got some admirable computer skills, why on Earth don't you get a job elsewhere?"
Duo stretched elaborately. "A lotta reasons, Hill. First of all, the resentment factor. The girls at my place already hate me because I'm Boss's pet and I'm allowed a little freedom; they'd hate me even worse if I got out of this life while they were stuck in it, and some of them aren't all that stable." As he spoke, he ticked the reasons off on his fingers. "Reason number two: I've got enemies. Most of them are street scum. Some of them aren't and can make my life difficult for me, to say the least." By the wry gleam in his eye, Hilde could tell that "difficult" was the least of it. "Really, Hilde, there's only so much Knife and Dagger can do for me. They've got the rest of the gang to fuss over."
Knife and Dagger? Her eyes widened. Those two... were the leaders of the gang Regretless. Holy crap, Duo was in this job deep. Arm-in-arm with street leaders even she had heard of.
Not noticing her reaction, or quite possibly not caring, he plowed on. "Reason number three: I'm not specialized in anything. Nowadays you need five degrees and ten diplomas to be a toilet cleaner. I wouldn't even be able to find a job as an unskilled laborer because of the job shortage right now. The kind of education I need in order to specialize in something can only be found in independent schools, and though I am saving and I do have a few bucks, I don't have enough yet."
"But you know I can help you with that part of things," Hilde protested. "I'd be glad to give you the money."
Duo shook his head. "This is my thing, Hilde. I'm grateful for the offer, but I'm not takin' your charity. I already live off you enough as is." As Hilde opened her mouth indignantly, he lifted a hand and gave her a look. "Look, Hilde, that's that and I'm not hearin' any protests out of ya." Though his tone was light, the conviction behind his words was unmistakable.
Realizing that Duo would simply put his head under a couch pillow if she pushed the subject, Hilde shut her mouth and stewed silently. Duo continued, swinging his legs, "Yeah, I'm investigating schools which give scholarships and stuff, and I've been going to the library during the day to study some. The librarian's a nice lady, she used to be a teacher." He grinned. "She says I'm pretty quick on the uptake. I'm only about... eh... a year behind where I should be. Just have to go over that goddamn math..." He trailed off thoughtfully.
"You must have thought about this a lot," she ventured.
Duo glanced at her sharply. "You think I like my job, Hilde? I'd do anything to get out of this life. Anything," he repeated, his words chill and fierce. "I hate this. It sucks, it's shit, whatever the hell you wanna say about it. But it's all I can do." He spread his hands helplessly. "I can't sit here and leech off you, Hilde. I gotta survive. I don't see no other way but this."
Impulsively, she hugged him, and Duo stiffened. Her heart twinged oddly, but she ignored its mooning and squeezed tightly before rocking back to look at him. "Look, it's okay," she said softly. "I'm not mad at you, and I understand why you have to do this. I just don't like it. It's not... safe, and you could get sick or something, and--"
Duo scratched his head and gave her another sheepish glance. "I don't get sick, darlin' 'dee." She gave him a Look of her own and he became defensive. "I don't! I mean, shit, I survived the L2 plague and I was in direct contact most of the time with sick people. The Professor says my immune system's a fortress, that he's never seen anything like it. The only way I could get sick was under stress or something. That's what he says." Duo shrugged. "So the 'getting sick' bit is out. And I've got to keep this job. It pays well, it comes naturally, and it's in an environment I'm familiar with. Quit stressing over it because I'm not giving this position up." He crossed his arms and grinned at her, his expression a dare.
"Fine, Duo," Hilde grated out, temper flaring again at his open rebellion. A corner of her mind scoffed, And since when is he *your* man, to keep him under a leash? She ignored the overly perceptive corner and continued in tones of steel, "But I'll tell you this much, it's only going to be temporary. One day, I swear, I'm going over there, and I'm going to free you."
His grin became teasing. "I could make a stupid joke about bondage fetishes, but I'll refrain and just say this: It's all about ethics, Hilde. You have to have a very open set of ethics. You of all people wouldn't be welcome there." He winked at her. "And besides, I'd overcharge you."
"Duo!" she yelped.
"Ah, calm down, I was jokin', Hilde." His eyes had a devious sparkle, but it was something she was used to. "Nah, you wouldn't settle for me anyway."
"That doesn't matter, Duo," Hilde said awkwardly. The last thing she needed right now was to examine her feelings about the proud, amethyst-eyed youth. "What does matter is that you get some sleep, right now."
"Mmm. Sounds good," Duo approved, before he rolled over, and before she could blink he was out of it. She had to wonder if that was a talent he'd developed to catch what sleep he could in the days before she met him. Hilde got up, giving him some space; he unfurled his legs and stretched out, taking up all the space on the couch. Duo never slept in anything other than a sprawl.
Sleeping, as awake, Duo was beautiful. Definitely not innocent - she doubted if he had ever enjoyed innocence - and the only angel he could be was a fallen one - but still so beautiful he made her heart ache. He had scrubbed off whatever make-up he had had to put on, which revealed his true complexion, a spirited creamy color. His heavy lashes lay against his cheek, and moonlight shone through the window to cast silver highlights all along his slim body. His hand trailed off the end of the couch and his mouth was wide open and snoring away. His braid hung over the armrest his head was propped on, slightly mussed, and a portion of it had come loose sometime during the night.
Duo, I wasn't joking when I said that one day, I would free you. You can't keep doing this. You're killing yourself inside and I won't stand for it. Duo... you have no idea how much you mean to me.
Very tenderly, she leaned over him to brush soft bangs away from his face. She left for a moment and returned the next with a pillow under one arm and a quilt under the other. She would have picked him up and carried him to bed; but Duo had told her before that he liked the sofa, it was old and fat and comfortable in a way no bed could achieve.
So she carefully lifted his head and placed the pillow beneath it; then unfolded the quilt and gently tucked it around him. Duo wore the tiniest of sleepy smiles as he slept, and when she turned to go after dropping a good-night kiss on his forehead, he clutched at her sleeve.
Alarmed, she looked back. He was still asleep…
"G'night, Sis," he murmured softly before his fingers relaxed their grip.
"Oh, Duo," Hilde whispered, before going in to her own bedroom to catch what sleep she could.
the next day
Heero Yuy stalked down the corrider of the Vera Langel Institute, irritated beyond belief and not above letting people know it. His classmates scattered out of his way as he glared out at the world, saving a particularly venomous glance for the guidance counselor's office. He wished to high heaven that he knew why the school had ever hired such an incompetent bitch of a woman. It was obvious that she was treating him only to see if she could break through him and become famous, sharing her success story all over the world.
"Keep dreaming," Heero growled as he swung his locker open, nearly beaning the poor freshman next to him. No one could break through to him. Not the guidance counselor. Not Dr. J, that crack shrink. Definitely not obsessively maternal Elena, his foster mother, nor clumsy Gregory, his foster father. If Heero's real father hadn't been able to crack his armor, then damned if they could.
He remembered the time he hacked into the guidance counselor's records and checked out her files on him. They had given him a laugh, anyway, and he had precious little to laugh about these days. He had printed the page out and hung it on the inside of his locker, where other kids hung pictures of their friends or posters of their favorite bands.
Student Name: Heero Yuy
Age: 15
Grade: 10
Birthday: Celebrated September 6th
Briefing on student:
Heero Yuy is a highly gifted and multi-talented child with an IQ in the genius range. Despite obvious brilliance, he is emotionally disturbed, from events which took place early in his childhood. He has clearly not yet recovered. Besides being emotionally volatile, he exhibits antisocial, masochistic, suicidal, psychotic and violent tendencies. He was selectively mute up to age eleven, when he began speaking, though the reasons for his self-imposed silence as well as for his sudden speech have not yet been deduced. He was adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Gregory Mitchell at age eight and before then was repeatedly physically and sexually abused by his father. His mother evidently left the family when Heero was quite young - he does not speak about his mother [see objective 4 on p. 12], thus we know only her name. A teacher noted the scars on his body and sent him to a hospital, where it was discovered that the scars were the result of aforesaid abuse. [See p. 24-27.]
Progress Made: None.
Damn straight.
There would be no progress, not while he was continually treated as the making of some fool shrink's career. There would be no progress, not while he was in control of himself. "Progress," as they defined it, would mean losing the faultless armor which was his only safehold. And that he would not stand for.
He slammed his locker shut, making the already agitated freshman next to him leap two feet in the air, checked his schedule briefly, then headed towards the cafeteria. People cleared nervously out of his way. Had he still been on the emotional roller coaster he rode when younger, he would have collapsed into a puddle of tears. But that Heero Yuy was no more.
No, now Heero had a reputation, of all things. The irony was laughable when compared to his childhood. Heero didn't really enjoy fighting - he had never enjoyed violence, despite what the fool report said about his 'violent tendencies.' But if someone waltzed up to him and decided that his petite build and delicate looks meant easy pickings, they were soon corrected, put down like lightning. If he broke a few bones of the challenger's bones, well, that wasn't his problem. It did follow logically that if he scared away the would-be tough guys, he'd also be scaring away the gentle people whom he might actually enjoy talking to. But that didn't matter.
He wanted, very simply, to be left alone. It wasn't very difficult to understand, was it?
"Ohayo, Heero-san!" rang a lovely alto.
Some people just didn't get the message.
He had decided long ago that he couldn't begrudge Quatre Winner his attempts at friendliness. Heero didn't exactly want a friend, and besides, Quatre was already quite wrapped up with Trowa. (In Heero's personal opinion, the only thing the obviously enamored couple had left to do was elope.) But Quatre was one of those rare people who wanted to reach out, so Heero sighed and accepted the situation. Quatre wasn't asking anything of him anyway but gracious responses to his overtures; it seemed that all Quatre wanted to do was make him comfortable in the new school, draw him out.
At least Heero tried to be civil to Quatre, as civil as he could be, anyway. Quatre was a sweet boy who didn't mean badly.
"Ohayo," he replied, shrugging his bag up a notch on his shoulder.
Quatre paused by Heero's locker with his easy, open smile on his face, and wistfulness rose in Heero's heart to see such an open expression, the emotion quickly and mercilessly repressed. "Hey, do we have next period together?" Quatre asked curiously.
Heero shook his head. "Gomen. I have lunch," he added. There. He'd used up his word quota for the day. Let anyone else try to get a sentence out of him.
Quatre's large aquamarine eyes widened. "Oh, really? Well, I have to go to my Lit class, otherwise I'd stay. I'll talk to you later, ne?" he asked smiling.
Heero shrugged. One day he'll give up on me, and then I will never have to see him smile again.
"Ja ne, Heero." Movement evidently caught Quatre's eye, as he yelled, "Hey, TROWA!"
The tall, graceful sophomore in question paused at once, leaned back against a locker so as not to be jostled by the stream of people, and offered Quatre a tiny smile. Quatre ran up to him and they walked off together, Quatre talking about something or the other and Trowa nodding in agreement.
Heero watched them critically as they walked away, disappearing into the crowd in the hallway. It was obvious that Trowa and Quatre were together and really in love with each other; they couldn't have supressed such a thing even if they'd tried. No one really cared - they didn't bother anyone, certainly. Besides, it was rumored that little Quatre had the Maguanac Core on his side – no one knew how – and that quiet-eyed, ever-unruffled Trowa Barton had a mean fist and reflexes quicker than any member of the feline family.
For any other pair, homosexuality would have been a sin up there with dumping Relena Dorlian. But Trowa and Quatre... what they had was true. No one with a heart could look at them and not feel a little wistful.
Heero's mouth twisted as he made his way to the cafeteria. And I won't kid myself. Yeah, I'm jealous of them. But I can't love. I'll get used to it.
Upon reaching the cafeteria, he flipped out his schedule and glanced at it. He had an hour-long break and nothing better to do than screw with the school's computer system, which he had done a thousand times already. He'd just review his Literature homework; he had the class after this break. They had been assigned an old poem called Dover Beach. Some of the local rich kids had even been to Dover Beach. Heero wasn't among their number. He extricated the crumpled facsimile from his pocket and skimmed it, one verse jumping out at him.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night. [1]The verse, except for the part exhorting love to be true, could have been written for him.
He grabbed a tray, indifferently chose a hamburger, fries and some limp salad for lunch, and plopped down alone at a table, pointedly shoving his bookbag besides him in case some foolhardy soul decided to sit next to him. There was only one person who would dare. Unfortunately, she also happened to be one of the very few people he couldn't bring himself to sock in the face.
Relena Dorlian.
Heero didn't know why, but the girl persisted in tormenting him. Sitting next to him in whatever classes they shared. Writing him notes. Asking him the homework. Calling him on the phone. She was pathetic, exactly like all the other girls in this rich-kid school. And while he was at it, exactly like all of the pampered, spoiled boys. He was probably one of the few teenagers who actually used the work-out room regularly and not just for show.
He could stand precious few people in this school. He wasn't antisocial; there was simply no one here he cared to associate with. There was no one here worth making himself weak for. The only person he might have considered was Quatre. But Quatre had Trowa.
A warbling trill cut through his thoughts.
"Heeeeerrro!"
Speak not of the devil lest he appear. He could almost have winced at Relena's pronunciation of his name - her r's made his name sound like the word Hero, obviously what she desired him to be for her. His real name, said properly, was crisp, sharp, and over with quickly. No matter, of course - there could be no convincing her otherwise if she thought she was right. And she was prancing right his way.
He ignored her, staring ahead of him with rock-hard eyes, chewing fixedly on his hamburger.
The girl was pretty enough if you went for that sort of thing. Soft cornflower blue eyes that blazed with passionate fire whenever someone opposed her. Rich wheat-blonde hair that fell to the half of her back. An innocent demeanor and supposedly endearing naivete. The girl actually believed that pacifism was possible, and was probably directly influencing Vice-Minister Dorlian to try to reach it. Not that the Foreign Vice-Minister needed the pushing anyway.
She smiled happily at him, delicately pushing his bookbag off of its seat to become its unwelcome replacement. She smoothed down her long navy skirt and asked sweetly, "Heero, what did you think of last night's assignment? Wasn't that such a sad poem?"
He let her words hang in the air, then looked at her. The look in his eyes could almost have been called pity.
Then he rose, ducking once to snag his bookbag's straps and lifting it up with one arm. With the other arm he picked up his lunch tray and cleared it, depositing it on top of the trash can as he made his way out. Silence descended as he left, tears rising in Relena's eyes.
Relena sighed tremulously and swallowed, blinking away the tears, her happy face gone. It simply wasn't fair. She loved him -- there were so many other boys that would die for her favors. Why was it that the one guy she really wanted treated her like so much dog crap?
He was beautiful -- just looking at him made her heart beat faster. Bright Prussian blue eyes like twin faceted jewels. Tousled dark brown hair which spiked wherever it pleased, giving him a lofty I-dun-care attitude. That fine body, graceful and muscular and well-formed. She liked his hands best; they were small but strong. He could draw like a pro, write like an angel, dance like a dream and with his grades, he was definitely going to go places later in life. Maybe he was a little messed-up, but surely a woman's touch could heal that. She sniffled, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. All he needed was someone to care for him and she was simply ideal. She was compassionate enough, certainly. She could understand him.
Maybe one day, if he could just drop his shields and deign to speak to her...
Deign. Usually people were falling all over themselves to talk to her. She bit her lip against a whimper, but tears spilled over, coursing down her cheeks.
"Hey, Miss Relena, what's the matter?" her friend Amelia asked concernedly, sitting down besides her in the space Heero had occupied but a few seconds ago.
"Yeah, what's wrong?" Another of her friends came over, equally concerned. Soon the small table was surrounded by a small anxious hub of people. "Come on Miss Relena, smile. Don't let that jerk take away your smile! He doesn't deserve you! Come on, you're so pretty when you smile."
For them, for her friends, she put on a brave front and smiled a tiny smile. "Thanks, everyone…"
"Don't cry over Heero," Amelia said firmly, putting one hand on her shoulder comfortingly. How she wished that comforting touch came from those hands of Heero's. Amelia continued. "Seriously, if you cry over a guy and he doesn't even say sorry, he's so not worth it!"
"I don't understand him," she whispered. "I try to be nice to him…You guys all know that I really, really like him but I just don't think he feels the same way back."
Amelia patted her shoulder, and her friend Clara gave her a hug from behind. "Don't worry," Clara assured her. "There are plenty of really cute guys out there who like you. Why pick some ice cube of a guy?"
"Talk about cold," came another girl's airy soprano. "I mean, when he glares at you, you go *brrr*!"
The girls giggled, and Clara hugged her again. "I'm telling you, Miss Relena, please don't stress out on us! You deserve so much better than to get yourself all worked up over some guy!"
Relena looked up into the faces of her friends gathered around her. They... were right. There were a lot of other fish out in the sea.
But she didn't want them. She wanted Heero. Strong and independent Heero. It wasn't just an obsession.
If it were, then her heart wouldn't break every time he rose to leave her. If it were just infatuation, then every time she looked up at her friends, she wouldn't desperately wish that among them was Heero. If it was a schoolgirl's silly crush, then she wouldn't stand uncomfortably during dates with other boys when they tried to hug or even worse, kiss her.
Yeah. Relena sighed and made the proper noises of being mollified to satisfy her friends, then let them escort her to her next class. She had it bad for him, and she couldn't even do a damned thing.
[1] This verse is from the lovely poem Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold, ca. 1851.