A.N. – This, I know, is an unfortunately AU story.  It grew out of my head, most likely the demon spawn  of Dawson's Creek or an equivalently moody teenager show that I detest.  It's not my usual style, for one thing it's first person, and I'm not sure how I like it. 

                Also, if you get through the sludgy, soppy, triteness of the first chapter, and read the second, please tell me whether they should have been combined.  They were originally, but I decided to try them separated.  Please send your opinions.

                Finally, if you're still reading at this stage, I took some poetic license with the ages of the people in the show.  It shouldn't mess things up too badly, and it's not so dramatically different.  And now I'll let you get on to the story.

Disclaimer:  I don't own them.  However I do own a small miniature Siamese Cat.  I think you can see the connection.

Chapter 1

We moved to Whistler's Bay in August of my thirteenth year of living.  Six months prior my father had passed away, the unfortunate victim of a heart attack.  Until his death, my mother had been a homemaker.  Really more of a home director, constantly instructing the cleaning crew, or advising the cook.  She was content with a credit card and a BA in nursing.  However, when Father died, my mother was forced to become self-sufficient.  The funds we had were quickly exhausted by the funeral, the creditors, and the cost of living.  Financially, emotionally bankrupt, my mother was forced to dust of her stethoscope and find a job.  She was hired at St. Catherine's Hospital in Birmington.  Within days she moved my brother and I across country to the city of Whistler's Bay.

                Westing Street was wildly different from anything I had known.  The street was a dusty, unpaved road perpendicular to another dirt track along the edge of the harbor.  The houses were rundown wooden affairs with one or two stories, weathered by sun and storm.  Sagging porches ran right up to the street, looking like they were about to collapse at any minute.  Barely a foot of dirt separated the homes from their neighbors on either side; the houses were backed up right on top of each other, only a thin alley of dust in between.  Out front a few battered cars are parked up against the porch, looking almost as dilapidated as the houses.

                Number 22 was a tired two-story home; it's blue paint faded and peeling.  One withered bush, and a few parched flowers, struggled to grow in the arid earth around the front step.   Inside was stained and dusty, and the wooden floors creaked with every step you took.  An old oven and a small refrigerator, combined with a sink and counter, were the extent of the kitchen.  A steep flight of stairs brought you into the second floor, where two bedrooms were crammed side by side.  But the builder, in a brilliant epiphany, had filled the walls with windows.  16 tall rectangles, 4 to a side, filling the house with light no matter in what direction the sun lay.  When open, the wind flows through the rooms, bringing in the salty ocean tang.

                My room possessed two windows, one of which opened on to sloping roof of our porch.  After we moved in, I became accustomed to stepping through my blue curtains just at dusk.  The grayed shingles still retained a little of the day's heat, and off over the bay the sun would set in the usual impressive blaze of glory.  Better though was as the night set in, and the warm tones faded gradually from the sky.  The deep blues and purples, never really black, took over the sky, leaving just the lightest pink over the water.  High and clear the stars shine, cold and dazzling.  There are no streetlights here to mask starlight with dim fluorescence.  Sitting there quietly in the dark, a soft breeze blowing in from the water, illuminated by a glowing moon, I came to accept my new life.

                It was on one such warm night that I met my next-door neighbor.  I had come on to the roof to enjoy the night, having spent the day unpacking the endless boxes.  I was staring vacantly at the bay, my mind far away, home in California.  I hadn't noticed the chill, or that I was shivering.  Unconsciously I rubbed at my bare arms, and tucked my legs in tight.

                My reverie was broken when a something soft and heavy struck me in the face.  For a moment I panicked, before I realized it was a sweatshirt.

                "It's a little cold for tank tops." 

                I snapped my head around towards the source of the voice.  A boy was sitting on the roof of the neighboring porch, his legs hanging over the edge.  About my age, he was scruffy and lean, from his tousled spiky hair to ragged cut off jeans.  In the waning light I could just see dark scabs covering his knees and lower legs, and a large gash along his forehead, just beneath his bangs.  I ran my eyes over his clothes, rumpled and obviously dirty; they had been worn hard and frayed.

                "It's not polite to stare," he said quietly, but evenly, his voice strong and controlled.  I blushed and ran my hand through my hair, quickly dropping my eyes to my knees in shame.  An awkward silence filled the gap, and I began to fidget, and play with the ends of my hair.  As the silence stretched on, I grew more nervous, twitching uncertainly.  The boy didn't seem to mind at all.  Calmly he leaned on his hands, swinging his feet.

                "The sweatshirt won't do you any good unless you wear it."

                I started sharply again and blushed, quickly pulling the clothing over my head.  The navy color had faded over time, and there were remnants of white lettering.  It was warm against my bare shoulders, causing the goosebumps to tingle. 

                "Do you speak at all?" he asked pointedly, staring at me intensely.  I flushed again, but not from embarrassment.  His callow tone had annoyed me, and I was determined to regain my composure.  Sitting up straight and tall, I shook my hair all down my back, then moved to the edge of the porch and locked his eyes.

                "I speak quite often, thank you.  Just not usually to strangers," I answered, infusing my voice with as much dignity and assurance as I could muster, and tossed my head.  My adversary indulged in what might have been a smirk, but the deepening darkness made the detail uncertain.  Leaning back on his elbows, he kicked his legs parallel to the roof, then let them fall.  All the while he watched me calmly, almost amusedly.  Neither of us was willing to concede.  A particularly gusty breeze reminded me, though, of the sweatshirt he had so freely given me, and I chose to yield in the favor of kindness.

                "Do you live here?" I asked hesitantly.

                "Yup."

                "Well, since we're going to be neighbors, we might as well introduce ourselves.  I'm Relena Dorlain," I said, shifting forward and extending a hand across the gap.  He leaned forward also, swinging a calloused hand around to grasp mine in a firm shake.

                "Heero Yuy."  Releasing my hand, he leaned back again, staring this time at the black shingles beneath him.  Several moments of quiet passed before a voice floated up from within Heero's house.  He cocked his head and listened, then rose, stepping through his window.  He got one leg through before I remembered his sweatshirt.

                "Wait! Your sweatshirt!" I called, while frantically trying to remove the clothing over my head.

                "Don't worry about it.  You're not going anywhere," Heero replied as he disappeared into his house.  I stared at the empty roof for a moment, then snuggled deeper into the sweatshirt, and lay down to find the constellations.

                This fall marks my third year of successful adaptation to the difficult transformation of my life.  Autumn this year is golden, the air still warm and soft.  As juniors, we've been given the privilege of open campus, and with the beautiful fall weather, lunch on the wide, green lawn has become a daily habit.

                We usually congregate under a huge gingko tree, near to one of the meandering cement paths that traverse the lawn.  A little ways beyond our tree lies the calm oval surface of a pond, blindingly sparkling in the midday sunlight.  Beneath other trees gather groups of juniors, seniors, and the occasional errant sophomore. 

                Last period's English test was long, and I had to continue as the rest of my class, including my friends, filed out for lunch.  Ten minutes later, Heero was waiting quietly beside the door when I walked out, arms folded across his chest.  Together, we walked silently out to the front lawn.  As we came nearer, I could see the backpacks and notebooks that had been hastily dropped in the inviting shade.  The eight had been, and gone off in search of today's lunch.

                Heero and I dumped our bags gratefully into an empty space on the cool grass.  I collapsed beside my books with a contented sigh and leaned forward, elbows on my knees, legs stretched out in front of me.  Absent mindedly, I brushed a piece of dirt off my jeans, throwing Heero a slanted smile.  He glared back at me sternly before stalking off to get us lunch.

                "No pepperoni!" I called after him.  His response was an exasperated nod.  Everyday we got lunch from Little Italy.  Heero always went to pick up our lunch; I always sat and relaxed beneath the tree.  Usually, though, there were other people –

                "Hey Relena!" came the rambunctious shout from behind me.  Unconsciously I tensed, bracing myself for impact.  When none immediately followed, I relaxed a bit.  Only to be slammed by Duo sliding into my unprotected back.  He followed this with a quick hug, squeezing me breathless.  In a moment he was up, dancing over to Hilde to retrieve his massive lunch.

                Hilde approached at a more sedate pace, dropping fluidly down beside me.  Duo was still prancing around us in anticipation, nearly hitting me with his wildly swinging braid.  I smiled sympathetically at Hilde and rolled my eyes.  Slowly, she removed the Chinese food from the bag, a malicious smirk gracing her lively face; Duo became, if possible, even more frenetic, rubbing his hands and hopping from foot to foot.   Unable to control himself any longer, Duo dove at the food, scooping up several of the little white boxes.  Sparing Hilde and I a quick smile, he attacked the food, viciously shoveling rice and lo mein into his mouth.

                "Want some?" he asked me at a pause in his gluttony, shoving the container in my direction.  I shook my head and smiled.

                "Heero's bringing my food," I responded, jerking my head in the direction of Little Italy.  Duo grinned wickedly, throwing another spoonful of rice in his mouth.

                "Heero's your bitch," he said, cackling around his fork.  Hilde reached over and slapped the back of Duo's head absent mindedly, finishing with a sharp tug of the braid.  I giggled, not a bit offended, or even surprised.  Duo had always acted like this, and made these comments, since the day I'd met him.

                Up until this golden day in July, the only person in my neighborhood who I knew was Heero.  This day, like most others, had seen me swimming and running with Heero.  Now, dusk had fallen, leaving the street in a hazy, blue-gray, washing out all but the most vibrant colors.  Heero and I were playing soccer in the dusty street; he had promised to teach me some of the basic skills.  I was practicing chipping the ball, and had just managed a fairly strong and high one.  Precisely, Heero got underneath the ball, prepared to trap or head it.

                Suddenly a shape hurtled out of the increasing gloom, planting its hands on Heero's shoulders and boosting itself above his head.  The shape, actually a rangy little boy, neatly headed the ball before both he and his support crashed to the ground.  I ran over to the tangled heap of boys; the forgotten ball rolled to a stop in front of my stairs. 

                "Heero," I whispered plaintively at the motionless bodies.  I was afraid to approach, afraid of what had attacked Heero, afraid of them lying so still in the street.  Suddenly Heero flew into life, landing a flurry of punches on the skinny kid who had leaped on him.  The other boy responded, flailing one arm wildly, the other shielding his face.  Panting hard, Heero pulled away, deigning to give the new boy a stony glare.  The ragamuffin was unfazed, and turned to me with a charming smile.

                "Hey babe, my name's Duo!  Who are you?" he asked, his sweet tone contrasting sharply with the wolfish grin he bore.  Like Heero, and all other children in the neighborhood, Duo was disheveled, covered in scratches and bruises, smeared with dirt.  Distinctive though, was his hair, which was kept in a neat brown braid that fell halfway down his back.  I smiled back shyly, unnerved by his eagerness.

                "This is Relena Dorlain," Heero replied curtly, before I could even open my mouth to answer.  He was still glaring at Duo, but had relaxed and uncurled his hands from their fists.  Duo stood and brushed himself off, jutting out a hand in my direction.  I clasped it, and felt my arm vigorously shaken.

                "Nice to meet you! You new around here?" he asked excitedly, shifting constantly from foot to foot. 

                "Yeah, I just moved in to number 22," I answered, losing some of my initial shyness.  While a little overwhelming, Duo was genuinely nice.  He flicked his head in Heero's direction, grinning at the silent boy, still grasping my hand tightly.

                "Oh really?  I live across the street, in that yellow house.  You live next to Heero!  Your neighbor beat me up pretty good.  Didn't you buddy?" The last he called over his shoulder at Heero, waving broadly with his other hand. 

"You wouldn't know even know I'm his best friend," Duo said airily, turning back to me.  Still smirking he stepped back, giving me an appraising look.  I chose to stare at the ground, suddenly feeling exceptionally self-conscious.

                "So, this your new girlfriend, Yuy?"  I whipped my head up at that, already feeling the blush creep over my cheeks.  My embarrassment was nothing compared to Heero's.  Even I could see his agitation, the angry spark in his eyes and manner.  Duo laughed it off, and I joined him.  It was only a joke, intended to make Heero annoyed.

                "You eat dinner yet Duo?" I asked.  Every passing moment I felt more comfortable with this lean, mischievous boy.

                "As a matter of fact, no.  And I'm absolutely starving!"

                "Well, the two of you are more than welcome to come over," I said cheerfully, making sure to catch Heero's eyes.  He was calming, resigned to my association with his frenetic friend.  Calmly as ever he walked over to join us.  The darkness was deeper now as we turned back to the house, Duo on my left, Heero on my right.  I slid my arms around one each of theirs, felt them tighten their arms in response, and we walked together, inextricably linked.