Heero was giving the refrigerator a brooding stare when I came down the stairs.  A packet of ground beef, some cheese, and half of a truly pathetic head of lettuce were already lying on the counter.  He turned as I approached, arms crossed over his chest, and treated me to a singularly unimpressed glare.

                "Is this all you have?" he asked, eyes flicking over to the food.

                "Pretty much.  Unless you want spaghetti sans sauce," I replied, and knelt down to retrieve a pan from the lower cabinet, which he took from my hand.  A harassed huff came form somewhere in the direction of the stove, followed by the thunk of raw meat into the pan.  My cue to start setting the table. 

                "You finish all your homework?" I asked.

                "Yes, mother."

                "Just asking a question.  No need to snap at me."  And I grinned at his back.  The pop and sizzle of cooking meat filled the silence.  I walked around the table, adding forks and spoons to the plates I had already laid out. 

                "You going out with Duo tonight?"

                "No, he and Hilde are…" he trailed off, waving a hand meaningfully.

                "Ah, enjoying each other's company," I supplied.

                "Something like that."  Another silence began.  Not too long though.  "What about you?"

                "Maybe finishing up my homework – " I was interrupted by a groan from the direction of the stove.  I left the table and began to slowly saunter in that direction. 

                "Please don't tell me you were doing homework with Trowa this afternoon, Relena," he sighed loudly.  For a moment there I didn't realize he was teasing.   

                "What's wrong with being studious?" I asked, trying to force a mock angry look onto my face.  He gave me a sidelong glance, eyebrow quirked in skepticism. 

                "Nothing, nothing at all.  Only it's a Friday night, and homework really shouldn't be done until Sunday afternoon."

                "Trowa and I-"

                "Are incredible geeks," he finished for me.

                 "See who's getting dinner tonight then, won't we?" I fumed, hand son my hips, foot tapping lightly on the linoleum floor. 

                "I will.  I'm cooking it." 

                There's no response to an answer like that, and no dealing with some people.  So I turned and sat down.  Heero had almost finished with the burgers, and was standing there, apparently searching for something.

                "Relena, do you have any rolls?" 

                "No, but we have some bread in the cupboard."  He came to the table and put the cheeseburgers on the plates, looked dubiously at the head of lettuce on the counter, then looked questioningly at me.  I shook my head, winkling my nose at the offending vegetable.

                We ate quietly, sneaking glances at each other as we cut up our bare cheeseburgers, if they can even be called such without the bun.  I stood to get a drink – milk – and got him a glass of water as well, which he accepted with a slight grin.  When done, I washed the dishes, while Heero dried and put them away.  The pan was left for him.  Wordlessly he washed it, while I leaned against the table and waited.  Pan dried and put away at last, he turned back to me, copied my stance by leaning against the sink.

                "So, you never answered me."

                "What?" I asked.

                "What are you doing tonight?"

                "Oh, that…well, I don't know."  I walked around the downstairs turning off the lights, making my way to the stairs.  Heero remained leaning against the counter for a moment, just watching me.  The tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and I was hyperaware of every movement I made; I felt robotic and jerky under his scrutiny.  It was unfamiliar and unnerving to feel him watching me, to feel so stiff when he's watching me.  As I reach the stairs, I hear him shift and pad over to stand behind me.

                We walk up the stairs in silence; I swear I can hear him breathing.  In the gloom and dark I catch my foot on the stairs.  A hand on my shoulder steadies me.  My breath hitches.  Did it linger on my shoulder a little longer than necessary? 

                By the time we reach my room my body's humming with tension.  Heero hasn't noticed anything.  He is utterly a boy.  A fact I am uncomfortably aware of right now.  He hoists the window open and goes out, then crouches down and offers his hand through.  I hesitate, and grab his jacket from the bed before taking a hold of his hand – and suppressing the warm tingle in my palm – and letting him pull me through the window. 

                He sat down, stretching out so his feet fell over the edge, and put his arms behind his head.  I sat down next to him, for once on the higher level.  Heero wasn't smiling, but he wasn't frowning either, and that's saying a lot for him. 

                "So, what are we doing tonight?"

                "Oh, it's we now, is it?" I say softly, head tilted back to look up at the sky.  It's clear, and a big Cheshire moon is hanging low and white.  He doesn't respond, and I sneak a sideways glance at him.  His eyes are half closed, and in the darkness, I can't tell what he's looking at. 

                "It's always been we." 

                We sit in silence for a moment.  How do you reply to that without robbing it of all layers of meaning?

                "Only three years.  Not that long in the grand scheme of things."  He smiles, just a bit. 

                "Feels like it's been for always."

                We're silent again.  This time there really isn't anything I can say.  I chose instead to watch the bay, just visible and silvered in the way only water can be.  I chose to watch the stars twinkling high and far above, sparkling as they can only in autumn.  I chose to watch the street, dark and quiet as only a dead-end dirt road can be.

                "You don't really remember anything before all this, do you?"  His voice is a little gruff, and if I didn't know him so well, I would say it was uncertain.  This, however, is a question that will take a bit of thought.  Luckily my companion is not averse to quiet.  I wrap my arms tightly around myself, hold in a shiver.  I have a few scattered memories from my childhood, vignettes of birthday parties and Halloweens, images of friends from which the faces have long since faded into shadow.  And I remember my father.  In painful, articulate detail:  bedtime stories and games; dance recitals and swimming lessons; vacations at the beach where he would play with Milliardo and I on the dock like he was eight too; dancing with him at Aunt Elena's wedding and tripping over his shoes; going to work with him, and feeling like such an adult when he introduced me to his coworkers; watching him collapse in the hallway as he came to say goodnight; holding his hand, cold and pale, while he lay sleeping in the hospital bed with tubes connected all over; showing him my report card, all A's, and his hug of congratulations is so weak, and he's so fragile, I feel like I might break him; watching him through eyes too blurred with tears as he lies in his bed, peaceful, but not looking a bit like he's 'just sleeping'.  But I know that these aren't the memories Heero means.  He means the memories of best friends, and happy times, and he's right.  Though I know they were there, the only ones I can remember clearly now are the one's with my father. 

                "No…" and my voice fails me completely.  Tears are stinging at the corners of my eyes, and I'm shivering, more from the sobs I'm holding in than the cold.  Head down, hair falling in twin curtains blocking out the world, I breath, and gulp, and swallow the little mewling sobs I feel ripping up my throat.

                Arms come around me.  Drawn inexorably up against something warm and hard and reassuring.  One hand reaches up to pull my hair back over my shoulders, while the other rubs gently along my upper arm, squeezing lightly.  Mute translation.  Shift so my head is lying on a strong shoulder, and my body's been pulled half up into a lap.  Fingers, rough and calloused, run along my face, carefully wiping away the tears that have pooled in the corners of my eyes.  Stroking softly against my cheek, hesitant and feather light.  One soft, stray touch against my lips.  I shatter, and the tears and racking sobs pour out into the night air.  Grip on my body is strengthened, and I bury my face in the crook of his shoulder and neck, and cry till his shirt is soaked.  Nothing is said, not even whispered, but one hand runs soothingly up and down my back, and the other brushes and strokes my hair. 

                Intimate, in a way that transcends friendship, and I'll never be able to see him in quite the same light again.  He's strong and solid and real, stabilizing me through this storm, as he has done so many times before.  But this is new and vague, and he's not just a friend giving comfort anymore, whether or not he realizes it.  Right now though, all I know for sure is that he's holding me while my sobs die down, and my tears spend themselves out.  Not trying to comfort or console, just holding me as tightly and surely as he can, anchoring me in the only way he knows how, reassuring me through his physical presence that he is there, that he will always be there.  And I let myself go, knowing that he will be there to guide me back.