This chapter is a beast! I had so much that I wanted to put into it and I couldn't find somewhere to split it, so it tops out at almost 5500 words. Thank you for reading so far, and I hope you enjoy this.
The door to the back room of the tour bus creaks open, and the blond bassist peers around the corner. A pile of blankets covers a human-sized lump on the bed, a lump that doesn't stir as the boy pushes the door fully open. A hand is draped over the side of the bed, fingers dangling limply over the neck of a battered black guitar.
"Duo?"
The blankets shift a hint, exposed fingers twitch. The strings of the guitar hum as the hand scrapes across them, and the figure on the bed abruptly sits up, stilling the discordant sound. Duo's long braid swings into his lap, fluffed up and frizzed in every direction. He picks up the guitar, running his hand reverently over the neck before stroking the many battered places on the body. Glancing up at Quatre, he offers a cheeky grin and lets a chord ring out into the small room before he carefully places the guitar on the bed beside him.
"Hey Quat, what's up?" Duo glances out the window, sees a white-fenced pasture flickering by. "Where are we?"
Quatre stoops by the window, brushing a wisp of hair away from his eyes. He stares quietly at the scenery for a moment, as if the field is going to give him an idea of their location. Duo watches him, an amused smile playing about his face. He pulls the tie from his braid and begins to untangle the mass of mahogany locks, frowning as he hits a snag. The other boy had turned around and was observing the process, still strangely silent. Resigned to needing a brush and possibly a shower to manage his braid, Duo flicks up his eyes to meet Quatre's solemn blue gaze.
"Quat, what is it?"
"We're passing through Maryland now, I think. We're still a while away from New York."
"That's not why you're bein' all dark and mysterious. You didn't wake me up to tell me I could sleep for another six hours. C'mon Quat, what's wrong?"
"That contest we were running, for that next show in the city…" Duo sucks in a breath, the air hissing through his teeth. His face pales, violet eyes widening. Quatre winces, watching the blood drain from his friend's face, and takes a tentative step forward. He places a sympathetic hand on Duo's shoulder as he finishes his sentence. "Someone won it. They'll be backstage at that show."
Duo curses under his breath, throwing the blankets off of his legs. He drags a pair of worn flannel pajama pants on over his boxers and begins to pace the confines of the space, half-unbraided hair tumbling in a tangle down to his tailbone. Quatre partially turns himself away, staring out the window once more, respectful of Duo's naked chest and dangerously low-hanging pants.
"Who is it?" Duo finally asks, voice quiet and wary.
Quatre tugs a sheet of paper out of the back pocket of his jeans, unfolding it and squinting down at the black text. A tiny grin tugs at the corner of Duo's mouth, his mood lightening slightly. He always teases Quatre about needing to use reading glasses, something that the other boy is deadset against ever doing. With a grunt of frustration, Quatre tosses the paper to Duo and stalks out of the room. No doubt his bassist had seen the entirely too amused smirk creeping onto his face.
Sobering once more, Duo turns his attention to the paper clenched in his hand. He smoothes the wrinkles out of it and takes a bracing breath before he reads it. Heero Yuy. A man's name. His heart lifts out of the pit of his stomach as he continues to read. Male, around his age, lives in New York.
"Quat, this is great!" Duo calls through the still open door. "I dunno why you came in here like the world was ending. For once I'm not going to have some screaming googly eyed teenaged girl tryin' to feel me up all night."
He dances out into the living area of the bus, hair flying out behind him in a wild banner of knots and snarls. He grabs it with one hand as it smacks against the bare skin of his back, but even the fingers tangled in it can't ruin his suddenly positive outlook. Quatre barely grants him a flicker of a glance before he is absorbed back into the bubble of affection offered by their drummer. Duo casts an affectionate smile over the tangle of limbs on the couch and moves to his bag, digging through it for his hair supplies. It would make sense to leave the mound of bottles in the bathroom, in theory. In actuality, the whole mess took up the entire counter of their small tourbus john, and it was a pain to have to pack everything up after a few days to drag it into whatever hotel they were staying in.
Duo hums quietly to himself as he slips into the bathroom, arms filled with hair products, feeling more relieved than he has in weeks. Ever since Zechs let it slip that they were running a contest, with or without his consent, to allow someone backstage at the next NYC tour stop. The last backstage contest crosses his mind and he barely suppresses a shudder, turning the water on hotter as a chill drifts down his spine. It was a nightmare. A group of squealing girls, groping and pawing and finding cutesy little excuses to fall into his lap or trip and 'accidentally' steady themselves with a hand on his chest, his ass, or worst of all, his groin. Quatre had needed to cover for him when he ran for the bathroom, bruising his knees as his stomach turned inside out.
He understands why they had to give away VIP passes. Good publicity and all that happy crap. But it makes him sick to his stomach, to have his time and presence sold like a commodity. He supposes that's what the whole celebrity industry is about – selling his talent, time on stage, his voice rumbling through the speakers of a hundred thousand cars, the hypnotic sight of his long-fingered hands caressing a guitar on a million television screens. Ducking his head under the spray, he lets the scorching water chase away the thoughts, remembering dozens of tiny faces at the Maxwell orphanages. That's why he does this. That's why he lets Zechs plaster his face across billboards and buses, lets Zechs sell his image as a leather-clad sex god. Those children, the tinny voices bright with glee when he steps on the premises, the grateful shine in their eyes when he remembers their birthdays and stops by with armfuls of gifts.
Maybe this time the backstage meet and greet won't end badly. A male had won. He pauses, hands nestled deep into his curtain of hair, perplexed. That had never happened before. Come to think of it, he wasn't even certain that males ever even entered these contests. Resuming the circles of his nails against his scalp, he shrugs off the confusion. Probably got entered as a joke by a bunch of frat-house buddies and won't even show up.
There's a thump of fists against the door, followed by Trowa's solemn voice. Duo can hear the stoic drummer trying to keep a smile off of his face as he relays Quatre's message. "Your bassist would like to inquire if you are washing an elephant in the shower."
Duo shoves his head under the water, rinsing the conditioner from the endless locks, a laugh bubbling out of this throat. He throws his voice, pitching it so Trowa will be able to catch the words. "I'd say Quat could go fuck himself, but he's got you for that. Go distract him for me, Tro. I'll be done when I'm damn well ready."
An obnoxious noise stirs Heero from sleep, and he rouses with a groan of annoyance. He slaps his hand down on the alarm clock, lifting his head when the disturbance doesn't cease. It's his phone. His eyebrows furrow in a sort of endearing bewilderment as he stares at the vibrating rectangle on his bedside table. Who could be calling him? Wufei is well aware of his sleeping patterns, and people from work prefer to send emails. And, well, to be honest, Heero doesn't have many other friends. Acquaintances, yes. A vast network of technical resources and connections, clearly. Yet few people could call Heero Yuy a 'friend.'
Cradling the phone in his palm, he squints down at the brightly lit screen. He considers ignoring the call, as he doesn't recognize the number, but finds himself curious. Hitting the green button, he lifts the phone to his ear and attempts to clear the sleep from his voice.
"Hello?" He's pleased to discover that he sounds acceptably awake, only a soft huskiness underlying his words to betray his recently unconscious state.
A cultured, pleasantly melodic voice floats over the line. "Good morning. I'm attempting to reach a," there's a brief flutter of paper in the background, "Heero Yuy."
"This is he," Heero answers shortly, curiosity being rapidly swept under the rug of irritation.
"Good morning, Mr. Yuy," the voice repeats, a bit warmer tone emerging in the low voice, "This is Milliardo Peacecraft, the public relations manager for the Gundam Pilots. I'm sure you recall having entered a contest to win tickets and backstage passes to the NYC stop of the Gundam Pilots tour."
"I… excuse me?" Heero cannot restrain the stutter of shock in his voice.
The stranger on the phone sounds amused now. Heero has no doubt that the man on the other end has received this response before. "You weren't aware, I presume. It happens. People enter their friends as pranks more frequently than you would expect. Regardless, you've won. We can pull a different name if you'd prefer to pass on the tickets."
"Give me a moment, please." Heero places the phone down on the polished wooden table, rubbing a hand across his temples. His first thought is that he is going to find and maim whoever decided to submit his name to this contest. His second thought… is to thank them. What? Oh come on. Tell me that you haven't entertained a few fantasies about meeting Shinigami. He grimaces at the unwelcome voice in the back of his head, belatedly realizing that the call is still active. Picking up the phone, holding it as if it perhaps might sink teeth into his hand, he places it to his ear once more. "…hello?" Receiving an acknowledging noise from the other end, he gathers himself to answer. He hopes he doesn't sound like an over-excited fan. "I would not be adverse to accepting the tickets."
"Oh! Excellent. Shinigami will be most pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Yuy. The tickets will be waiting for you at the front door. You will have to show i.d. – an unfortunate formality, but I'm certain you can assume how many fans would love to get their hands on backstage passes."
Heero grunts a vague sort of affirmation, managing to thank the man. "You're more than welcome, Mr. Yuy. I won't be attending the show, but I hope to see you at one of our future concerts. Thank you for your time, and do enjoy your day."
The phone disconnects with a cheerful chirp, screen flashing a notification that the life-changing call took a total of nine minutes, twenty four seconds. "What did I just agree to?" he wonders aloud, head falling back to the pillow. The mutinous, libidinous part of his brain is cheering, a rousing chorus of applause at his impulsive decision to keep the tickets. He doesn't know if he will end up keeping his date with Shinigami – it is not a date! – but the unfamiliar, giddy sensation of excitement rising in his gut indicates that he probably will. After all, how often do computer programmers get the chance to meet internationally famous rock stars?
A hush falls over the office when Heero strides in, and he pauses mid-step in the center aisle. Every single eye in the office is focused on him, the same question on everyone's mind. Is Heero Yuy late? He glances up at the clock, resuming the steady motion of his feet, seeing the minute hand slide to 8:00 just as he reaches his chair. Shrugging the jacket off his shoulders, he sinks down into the leather surface. He'd drifted back to sleep in a sort of shock and woken up later than his wont… which meant that he arrived at work on time, rather than early.
Wufei glances over the wall between their cubicles, raising an eyebrow at the weariness on his friend's face. "Good morning, Heero. Is everything alright?"
Heero scrubs a hand over his face, suppressing a sigh. "Hello, Wufei. I got woken up this morning by an… interesting phone call."
If possible, Wufei's inquiring eyebrow creeps even higher. He's known Heero for years, and never once has Heero been woken up by the phone. It might sound odd that he is aware of the morning habits of Heero's phone, but it's as simple as knowing that Heero lets people around him know – don't call me. If I need you, I'll call you. "Who…?"
Heero ducks his head, dropping his eyes to his hands on the keyboard. He doesn't need to watch his fingers as they type, thanks to years of multitasking, but he does need to not be meeting Wufei's level, knowing gaze. His savior comes in the unlikely form of a primly dressed young woman, who sweeps the door of the tech floor open with a manicured hand. She stops at the first desk, as is her custom, and asks Drake if Heero is in. Heero can hear Drake's amused snort, and constant reply. "Heero is always in, Relena. When have you known him to take a vacation?"
Soon enough, Relena drifts around the corner and pauses in the doorway to his cubicle, waiting for him to notice her. He obligingly lifts his eyes to her face, noting that her hair is in a particularly elaborate creation today. "Good morning, Relena," he says politely. "You look nice today. How are you doing?"
She blushes prettily at his compliment, a pleased smile curling her glossy lips. He allows his own mouth to tilt up a little bit, offering her the tiniest of responses. While he will never be the boyfriend she wants him to be, he doesn't mind being able to consider her a friend.
"I'm doing well, Heero, thank you for asking," her voice has the smooth, cultured lilt of one raised to be in the public eye. Her parents are well-off and well-known, and it is a popular rumor that she will follow in her father's footsteps as a political figure. "Listen… my father is holding a charity dinner this Saturday night. I was wondering if you would be available to join me. I would appreciate the company of someone my own age."
Heero winces internally, hearing the truth beneath her words. She is continually seeking a deeper relationship than he can offer, this is true, but she is also a lonely woman, aged beyond her years by her early exposure to the complicated workings of the government. Many of the people who wish to be in her company are fishing for a foothold in politics, a stepping-stone to reach her father. Personally, he surmises that's why she hasn't entered the field yet, but has 'settled', so to speak, for being the public face of Alliance Corps.
"Relena… I would love to, honestly I would, but… I actually have plans on Saturday night," he responds quietly, feeling a pang of guilt at the disappointment in her clear blue eyes.
"You do?" she seems surprised. Usually his excuse revolves around an out-of-town programming conference or waiting at home on a time-sensitive shipment of computer parts.
Wufei's head rises above the cubicle wall again. "You do?" His voice sounds as shocked as Relena's.
"Yes, I… will be at a concert."
"You will?" They respond in unison this time, glancing up to stare incredulously at each other. Heero Yuy. Computer programmer. Introvert and isolationist extraodinaire. At a concert. With people around… a multitude of people. Relena seems a little bit concerned when she responds, a tiny furrow between her eyebrows. "Heero… pardon me for putting this bluntly, and forgive me if I'm being impolite but… you don't appreciate people in your space. Nor do you usually like excessively loud noise." Heero is known for being 'that person' who will ferret out the person in the building playing obnoxiously volumed music on their computer… and then being 'that programmer' who will hack into their system, mute their computer, and disable user volume controls.
"I know. I… apparently won a contest."
"You did?!" Noin's voice interrupts this time, halfway to a squeal, and Heero's face contorts into something like horror as she appears next to Relena. "The only concert going on this Saturday night that I know of is the Gundam Pilots concert. Is that what you're going to?"
He nods minutely in response, barely tilting his head, and her eyes widen comically. All of the commotion is getting to him, and he lifts a hand to rub at his throbbing temples.
"Relena, I apologize that I can't accompany you. Perhaps we can have lunch on Sunday. Wufei, I will talk to you later. I will call both of you after work. Right now, I need to start work on these projects, since I won't be able to come in on Saturday. Please excuse me."
Turning back to the welcoming glow of his computer screen, he summarily dismisses the group of people gathered around his space. His shoulders relax a touch as silence descends on his workspace, tension dissipating as the pressure on his personal boundaries vanishes. An email appears in his inbox with a cheerful blip.
From: Chang Wufei
Subject: Who Are You?
Who are you and what have you done with Heero Yuy? When did you enter that contest?
Heero frowns at his screen. If Wufei is asking, that means that the contest entry didn't originate with him… and few people in the office were 'chummy' enough with him to consider something so violently against his character. I didn't, he sends back. His best friend's reply comes seconds later, after a frantic flurry of keys.
From: Chang Wufei
Subject: I see, says the blind man.
I'm surprised that you're going, then.
He tilts his head in affirmation, replying I am, too. His hands pause over the keys as a thought occurs to him, and he opens a second email. What does one wear to a rock concert?
Duo runs a brush through his profusion of russet curls, the hair sliding like silk through his fingers. His knee is bouncing anxiously, boot tapping rapidly against the floor of the green room. Quatre glances at him from the couch where he lays curled up with Trowa. The drummer and the bassist have matching expressions, predatory and sated from their pre-show routine. Their matching afterglows, clearly visible from stage, had been referred to as "stardust," "an infectious energy," and "part of the incredible chemistry that makes the Gundam Pilots so popular." Though pop culture magazines never went so far as to suggest the actual cause of this vitality, it was well-known that Trowa and Quatre were happily paired up and had been for a number of years.
Duo begins to braid his hair, fingers moving deftly through motions that are more muscle memory than conscious awareness. He suppresses a surge of jealousy as Trowa drops a kiss onto the shining cap of Quatre's hair, pausing to inhale the heady scent of his lover's shampoo. Duo is more than happy to avoid the gold-diggers and women searching for their fifteen minutes of fame, but it is a lonely existence. Surrounded by millions of people, yet collapsing into icy and desolate sheets at the end of the night.
Tying off the tail with a hairband pulled of his wrist, he vanishes into his dressing room. The mirror on the back of the door catches his eyes, and he pauses for a minute to cast a critical gaze over his appearance. Heavy leather boots that thunder with each step, that shake the whole stage when he steps into the microphone with a weighted stomp. Artfully torn, skintight jeans that cling to his legs like his fans wish they could, knees ripped out and the remainder of the leg tattered. An ebony muscle shirt that leaves little to the imagination, molding to his chest and back, leaving his beautifully muscled arms bare. A matte black chain snug around his throat, the myriad of earrings dancing up the shell of his ears, the ring glittering from his eyebrow.
And the crowning touch, the coup de grace, his three foot braid, sweeping down his back. He lifts the tail end to his lips, pressing a kiss to it. Kneeling down in front of his guitar, he bows his head and closes his eyes, letting the memories flood him. Sister Helen, the only mother he ever knew, gentle fingers braiding his hair. Telling him that he was the most beautiful boy she'd ever known, that he should carry himself proudly no matter how he chose to look. Father Maxwell, the only man grateful enough of his existence to give him a name, resting hands on his shoulders and telling him that his voice was a gift from God. The other orphans, his little brothers and sisters, destroyed by flame and plague. And Solo, breath rattling in his lungs, pressing a battered guitar into Duo's hands, saying "go make something of yourself, kid. Do it for me, for all of us. Let them know that we're still here. Go be the difference."
Inhaling deeply, the swampy smell of L2's streets clogs his nostrils for an instant. He sneezes, shivering himself free of the mantra of half-remembered prayers. Drawing himself to his feet, he slings the guitar over his shoulder like a knight going to battle. He slams his foot down, once, feeling the reverberations through the floor as he mentally launches into their first song. The bass, the thump of the drums, the shudder of applause rocketing through him, the screams of people who would throw themselves in front of traffic for a single touch of his hand. His violet eyes are lit with pleasure as he throws open the door, stalking back into the waiting area just as the stage manager knocks on the door.
"Come on boys," Shinigami purrs, body shifting into a menacing prowl. "It's show time."
"What you wear to a rock concert" turns out to be alarmingly out of character for Heero Yuy. Considering that his wardrobe consists of black slacks, polo shirts, button-downs for the winter, a single tuxedo, and a collection of workout clothing, Wufei's suggestion of leather and boots went wildly astray. He'd tentatively asked the girls for advice, assuring them that no, he did not have time to go shopping with them and play dress-up. Instead he'd begrudgingly allowed them to send him suggestions to specific articles of clothing that would not seem out of place at a concert.
The result was… not entirely displeasing. He had gone shopping, on his own, with pictures in hand, and came out with what he hopes will be an acceptable outfit. He'd chosen a pair of dark jeans, so blue that they seemed black from a distance. They fit tighter than he would have liked, wrapped around his legs in such a way that there was a sort of constant compression on his skin. He had reluctantly purchased a pair of black workboots, the kind that people wore as fashion accessories rather than for actual construction work. He found it a silly concept, to wear boots when one wasn't involved in manual labor or engaged in outdoor activities, but the girls had assured him that boots were a necessity. And he did recall the gleaming leather encasing the bottom half of Shinigami's legs in that video.
He rolls up the cuffs of the button-down hugging his slim torso, an emerald green color that the girls complimented him for on a regular basis. Staring in the mirror, he shakes his head at himself. He was going to stand out like a biker at a starlet's A-list wedding. Tilting his head in contemplation, he hesitantly fumbles with his buttons until he has the top few undone. It exposes part of his chest, not so much that it could be considered provocative but more than he would usually allow. He shifts from leg to leg, uncomfortable with the man staring back at him from the mirror.
His watch beeps to signal a new hour and he jumps slightly, muffling a noise of alarm. He should have left ten minutes ago! Shoving his wallet into his back pocket, he grunts at the amount of trouble it is to utilize the pockets of such obnoxiously close-fitted jeans. Snatching up his keys, he locks the door of his apartment and leaps the stairs five at a time, landing lightly on his feet at the front of the building.
Although he reaches the concert venue in record time, he groans beneath his breath at the seemingly endless line snaking out the front doors. Standing on tiptoe, he eyes the building and tries to discern if there's any sort of shortcut for VIP attendees. The waiting is taking forever, and his feet are protesting the brand new boots. He probably should have considered breaking them in before deciding to wear them to an hours-long rock show.
As the people shuffle slowly into the building, he gets close enough to spot a sign that says "VIP pass and backstage visitors." Sighing with relief, he strides out of line and heads toward the door, ignoring the irate glares from the people waiting in line. One man reaches out to grab his arm, which he neatly sidesteps. Scowling at the outstretched hand, he flicks an annoyed glance at its owner. "Hey man," the possibly intoxicated and overly handsy man slurs, "why do you get to skip the line?"
He considers turning his back without answering. Instead he lets a sneer cross his grim expression and responds haughtily, "Special treatment. Don't try to touch me again."
The man holds his hands up in a 'no harm intended' signal of surrender, and Heero turns on heel to resume his progress to the door. His steps are a bit quicker this time, hoping to avoid a second interrogation. The clamor hits him as he tugs the door open, and his fingers freeze on the chill metal of the frame. It's a concussion of noise, an uproar from the growing audience combined with the cacophony of pre-show soundcheck.
Bracing himself, he wanders up to an empty window and leans in to speak to the woman behind the window. "Excuse me, Miss. I was wondering where the contest winners check in."
The woman lifts a bored gaze to his face, blows a bubble with her gum, and presses a few keys on her computer. After a period of clicking and tapping, she pops a bubble and holds out her hand. "I.d. please." He yanks his wallet out of his pocket with more force than should be necessary and hands her his license. Her blank gaze rests on it, eyes glazed over with apathy, and she finally presses a button on screen. Retrieving a card from beneath the counter, she hooks it to a lanyard and retrieves the tickets from the printer. She slides the card, which reads Backstage Pass, the tickets, and his i.d. across the counter, teeth worrying at her gum.
"You'll be in the front row, middle section, second seat from the left. Concessions stand is outside the doors. Enjoy the show."
He thanks her politely, though he doubts she's even heard as she has propped her feet up on the desk and returned to her magazine. His heart is fluttering rapidly in his chest as he turns toward the doors to the inside, sliding the backstage pass into one of his pockets. He won't need it until after the show, and he doesn't particularly feel like advertising that he'll be meeting the band. Better not to invite unwanted attention and all that jazz. Absently handing the man his ticket, Heero stares over his shoulder to the stage, where lights are flashing like a police blockade. He catches a glimpse of the band on stage, shifting their instruments into place. A thrill of excitement runs through him, adrenaline sending his pulse soaring into his throat.
"Here we go," he murmurs under his breath, words lost in the racket, and moves with eager steps toward his seat.
Duo adjusts the microphone stand with a suggestive twist, winking at one of the audience members in the front row. The girl swoons, practically falling against the person next to her, and fans herself frantically. Some of the attention is repulsive to him, but then there's moments like this where he revels in the power he has.
Trowa is pounding out a beat behind him, warming up, the hiss of the snare drum curling through Duo's veins. This is what he lives for. The music in his blood, rushing against the walls of his body like waves against the rocky shoreline. The low hum of Quatre beside him, testing the volume of the amplifier, the resounding growl of his own guitar as he plugs in.
He adjusts the mic wired to his face, chatting back and forth with the soundcrew. The stage is already flooded with spotlight and body heat, and he can feel a droplet of sweat trickle down from his hairline. Swiping it off with one hand, he signals an 'all-good' to the person manning the lights. They dance out across the audience, highlighting his fans in sweeps of color.
Glancing at the front row, he notes a man leaning against the bar that separates the audience from the stage. He hates that this precaution is necessary, but some fans get downright violent about their affection and his manager insisted. It was a compromise – put up the bar, but Duo is allowed to go down into the audience during certain songs and will allow backstage passes for some of the shows.
He shifts into Quatre's space and muffles the mic with one hand. "Where does the contest winner usually get a seat?" Quatre glances at him curiously and indicates the seats front and center, vaguely in the direction of the attractive male. Quatre eyes the audience for a moment, his gaze lighting on the same person that Duo noticed. A young man, probably around their age, and rather striking, but standing out of the crowd like a flashing neon sign. Something about the stiffness of his posture, the wariness of his face as he takes in the nearness of other people to himself. He's there, his scans of the stage are appreciative, but he isn't part of their usual crowd.
"Oh man," Duo purrs in his ear, "I would kill for that delicious young thing to be the one who won the contest."
As if noticing their attention, the man turns his steady scrutiny onto the stage and freezes Duo in place. Dark eyes, blue as the ocean at midnight unless Duo misses his guess, and impossibly perceptive. Duo relaxes, hand running slowly down the neck of his guitar in a subtly sexual gesture. He lets a seductive smile unfurl on his lips, and raises an eyebrow at the stranger. A blush rises on the man's high cheekbones, indication of an Asian heritage if he's ever seen one. Despite this, those stunning eyes drop to Duo's boots and begin an unhurried, intentional sweep up the long lines of his body. By the time they light on his face, satisfied expression clearly indicating a positive assessment, Duo is insisting that his body calm the fuck down. The sapphire eyes in the audience have a distinctly heated glow to them and he finds himself swallowing hard, licking suddenly dry lips as he tears his eyes away.
"Shit, Quat. I changed my mind. I'm fucking doomed if he's the one."
