"And that's it. As far as I'm concerned, you're free to go. Might as well start the weekend off right," Mr. Devito said, and smiled as he snapped the chemistry book shut. The class cheered and clapped before rushing the door, anxious to be free. I took my time, putting my books away slowly, half lost in thought. Wufei had taken off like a shot to find Sally before their respective soccer practices, leaving me on my own. A few moments later I also wandered out into the silent hall. Forgoing a trip to my locker, and a jacket, I instead headed for the front doors, and pushed out into the chilly autumn afternoon.
Behind me a bell rang, and the school erupted. Students rushed from their classes, flooding the halls in a joyous weekend fever. I smiled, content in the knowledge that I was well down the stairs, away from the chaos, and free for two days. There's nothing quite like a weekend to raise your spirits. Time for sleeping, for friends, for a little relaxation.
Shivers quickly overtake me; it's become chillier since lunch, and a brisk breeze has sprung up. I clasp my chemistry book tight to my chest, uselessly trying to hold a little heat to my body. Goosebumps are running in waves down my bare arms; only so much can be warmed by my hands, no matter how tightly I squeeze my fingers. About now, I'm starting to regret not stopping for my jacket. Another massive chill races up my spine, physically shaking my body on its way.
Warmth. Heavy and warm, a jacket has been dropped over my shoulders. Automatically I unwind my arms from around myself, slip them into the jacket arms. Worn and frayed, but it holds the heat in. I know this jacket, like an old friend. I snuggle into it, pull it closed, and cross my arms over my chest to hold it shut.
"Buttoning it would be more effective." Indeed, it is an old friend; I turn to the owner of the voice. Heero is standing behind me, hands jammed into his back pockets, sports bag slung across his chest. I smile at him, and halt, wait for him to make his way up beside me.
"I don't like buttoning it," I answer smartly, glancing at him from the corner of my eye.
"You don't like the way it looks when you button it," Heero says sternly. He's only playing though. I can see the hint of a smile in his face, and his shoulders are relaxed. An unusual good mood; I should take advantage of it.
"Well, I only want to look cute!" I joke, overemphasizing my kidding. Just one of the safety precautions I have to take with someone so exceptionally literal.
"You don't have to walk around in the cold half dressed to look cute," he admonishes.
"I'm all the way dressed!" I exclaim hotly, and punch him lightly on the shoulder. He looks at me and smirks, pleased with himself for provoking me. Hold on a second though – "So, you think I'm cute?" I ask – I'll admit – just a little coyly.
Heero starts, and throws me a look. Not a glare. Not a smirk. A Look. Capital L. I can almost hear his breath hitch, see a little bit of a blush stain his cheeks. Shoulders tense up, fingers twitch randomly. He's stuttering a bit, but not answering; genuinely nervous.
"Why aren't you at soccer practice?" I ask, deftly switching topics, throwing him something safe to cling to. The relief is palpable.
"Cancelled. A rare gift from the coach."
"Duo must be happy."
"He was off to find Hilde before I'd finished reading the announcement," Heero replied exasperatedly, rolling his eyes.
"Oh come on. They're in love," I laughed. A stare, one eyebrow quirked in derision, was my only answer. "You know you want that too," I said evilly, and punched him lightly on the arm. He snorted, then hip checked me. Balance gone, I wavered for a second on my heels, arms out. Grabbing me, he pulled me upright, steadied me, laughing all the while.
"Hello, Heero! You almost pushed me into oncoming traffic!" I fumed.
"That was the point."
This time I punch him a lot harder.
Heero left me at my front steps, mumbling a hurried goodbye before stalking off to his house, leaving me with his jacket. Inside it's dark and a little cold still. Milliardo hasn't been home; Mother's still sleeping. I slip upstairs, not bothering to turn on a light. Upstairs I quietly push through my door and make a controlled leap onto my bed, rolling over until I'm staring at the window upside down.
I'm used to coming home to a silent, empty house. Well, not really empty. My mother's downstairs, asleep in her room at the back of the house. She works the night shift in obstetrics, has since we moved to Whistler's. Every morning she drags herself in from work, dead on her feet, as I leave for school. Occasionally at night she eats dinner with Milliardo and I, but usually she's rushing out the door with only a quick kiss and goodbye.
My mother used to be an elegant woman, all carefully trimmed blonde hair and manicured nails, soft skin and gentle manners. She wore her wealth like a classy dress: so understated that you couldn't help but notice it. Directing servants, organizing charity work, planning social functions – that was where she shone, where she was comfortable. California, with the sunny weather and refined wilderness, was her natural complement.
Then Father died, and there was no longer money for electric bills, let alone servants, and we moved across the country to a cold, sulky climate where she had to work exhausting hours. She was still the same woman; still tall and blonde. But her eyes were heavy with constant dark circles, and the luster had left her hair leaving it dark and lank. Hollowed out by fatigue and despair, she'll never be the same sparkling, sophisticated woman I remember.
Something is scraping on the roof outside my window. I roll off the bed and pad over, push the window up with a creak. It's Trowa, sitting with his legs crossed, back to me, leaning against the frame of the house.
"Hey Tro," I call softly. He turns to glance at me and smiles. A notebook and our math text are cradled in his lap, pencil stuck behind his ear. A couple of minutes later we're settled comfortably on the bed, books open, calculators out. We sit in the usual comfortable silence, working diligently – at least in his case (I'm doodling in the margin) – on the math.
"So, did you walk Quatre home?" I ask innocently. Today a little bit of devil's gotten into me, and I can't stand the silence. I gaze at Trowa, with an open, calm face. Something flashes in that visible emerald eye, and the nature of his face shifts subtly. He doesn't respond, but looks pointedly at Heero's jacket, which I'm still wearing. I don't blush, or let my gaze falter, but I can feel my face undergo that same subtle shift that his experienced just moments ago.
"It's not like that, Trowa," I say, just a little defensively. This game is not so fun when it's been turned on you. "It's never been like that, never will be." I cast my eyes down at the math paper, redouble my efforts of working upon it. Looking at him from beneath my eyelashes I can see just a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
While we work away quietly in my room, the downstairs begins to come alive. I hear the familiar sound of my mother waking; the shower runs, metallic crashes and the squeaks and groans of old kitchen appliances being coaxed into use. Guess it will be jut Milliardo and me for dinner tonight.
The door opens, slams shut, and someone takes the stairs three at a time. My brother is home, charging into his room, a man on a mission. Through the thin wall we can hear him jerking open drawers, swearing softly when falls on his foot. Then he's in my room, banging the door against the wall and sweeping over to the bed.
"Have to work tonight, kid. Sorry. I'll bring home something to make up for it," he says, the words rushing out of his mouth too fast. He sweeps me up into a massive bear hug, and bolts from the room, flying down the stairs and out the door. A few moments later I hear my mother follow at a more sedate pace, off to catch the early bus.
"Trowa – "
"Not today. Cathy and I have an appearance in Birmingham tonight. I should be going now, in fact," he answered me softly. He slid out onto the porch, then turned back to me. One genuine, reassuring smile and he was gone, leaping lightly off the roof and heading towards his home. I could see Cathy outlined in the doorway against the warm glow of the house waiting for him.
My house was dark and empty. Remains of Mother's dinner were in the sink. Milliardo hadn't even bothered; he'd probably eat at The Riptide. I slowly wandered around the small downstairs, stopping at the front windows. Outside the street was gloomy and dark. All the children had been called home. Adults had either already come home from, of left for, work. Many of the windows were yellow and warm. Regretfully I turned back to my house, sat down on the threadbare couch. Usually about this time Milliardo would be cooking dinner. I would be helping, or hindering, depending on my mood. Instead, the house was dark.
When we moved here Milliardo, in all the maturity of his sixteen years, had found himself a job and a friend within a week. He got a job at The Riptide, a local nightclub and restaurant near the beach. While he was still in high school he worked nights and weekends as a waiter. Treize, 18 and a senior at the high school, also happened to work the same shift, was also a waiter, and was also the owner's son – though Milliardo didn't find that out for quite a while. The two became fast friends.
This year, though, everything was supposed to change. Milliardo had done well in school. Certainly no genius, but still intelligent, and he was fully sure that he could get into college, and more importantly, receive enough financial aid. Long story short: he got into college; he did not receive enough financial aid. So he went back to work at The Riptide full time, hoping to make enough money so that he could eventually finish his education. This past summer he'd been upgraded to a bartender, and filled in as a DJ or a bouncer when needed. Going by his outfit, I expect he was spinning tonight.
I hauled myself off the couch. It's no good sitting and brooding in the dark. For one thing I'm hungry and the food won't make itself. Almost I'm tempted to leave the lights off, to make a statement about my emotional condition. But it's hard to cook in the dark.
Upon opening the fridge, which is depressingly short on edibles, the hunger pains begin to disappear, and in a couple of moments I'm no longer desiring dinner. An apple from the bowl on the counter and I head back upstairs.
The window's still open from Trowa's exit. I slide out onto the roof and lie down. Tonight's clear, and the stars are all visible. They're always brighter in the fall, something about the cold air. It makes them feel closer, more intense. The apple tastes good too, crisp and sweet, a little sour too. I should be cold, lying out here in the night. Ah, that's right. I'm still wearing Heero's jacket. Well, might as well make good use of it.
"Am I going to have to steal that back form you?"
I conceal my surprise at the sharp words and turn my head to look at him slowly.
"'Lo Heero. Cold?" I smile at him, wave with my apple. He grunts and swings his legs around so they're hanging off the edge of his roof. For a moment we just sit there, looking at each other in silence.
He hops across the gap in a second, and has stepped carefully over me to crouch on the other side before I'm fully aware of what's going on.
"Pretty agile, aren't you. Should've been a gymnast. Now don't let Trowa see you make faces like that, he'll beat you up," I tease, smiling up at him, arms behind my head.
"He could try," Heero snorts in response.
"You eaten yet?"
"No."
"I'm all alone for dinner tonight – Milliardo has to DJ. You want to eat here?" I ask. He shrugs and stands gracefully, slipping through the window and into my room. I roll my eyes, pick myself up off the roof, and follow him inside.
"Guess that's a yes."
