Disclaimer: No GW or SM.
This was actually begun a while ago. I just haven't written anything lately so I took a deep breath and decided to post this. O.o; I don't know if it's interesting or not. A lot of mixed responses. -; Feedback, please? I feel so insecure. -;
When I slipped out of my block, I was elated … but the more I read it, the more annoying and dull it gets … lol. So! Am I incredibly accurate? xDxD; And is it because of the fluff? Especially in the Milliardo section O.O;; It's long … a prologue to a "short"chapter-wise fic.
The semi-Milliardo bashing … it wasn't truly intended. O.O;; But since almost everything is expressed through Hiiro and there'd been some … friction between Milliardo and Hiiro, I just … magnified Hiiro's dislike for Milliardo. :3
And is Hiiro OOC? O.O;; I do believe he is. xD;
And really bad attempted humor. ;-;
Enjoy, minna-sama:D
(space)
Everything Golden
Prologue
Angelight
(space)
IMG Modeling
304 Park Avenue
New York
10:30 a.m.
She became the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he had seen a lot of beautiful women. A lot of beautiful men, too, but that was beside the point.
"Like her? She's new."
He turned around at the sound of Milliardo's low voice. "She's beautiful."
The blonde man made a face and shrugged, rotating lazily in the executive chair in front of New York's mid-afternoon skyline. A layer of car exhaust, cigarette smoke, and God knows what else clung to the city, blocking the wan sun and promising an off-the-chart particle pollution index. "Has a great figure, confident. Not much of a conversant though."
"None of them are."
Milliardo raised an eyebrow, staring up at him from his slouched position, tapping his foot to some song only he could hear. "Models, you mean?"
A brief nod answered him as Hiiro Yui, male model extraordinaire, paced to the plush chair opposite of Milliardo and sat, tailored pants with hidden seams wrinkling as per plan.
"You're not too shabby, Yui."
Hiiro stared and took a deep breath before turning to the side. "Check for me, Milliardo; am I blushing?"
The chief executive narrowed his eyes.1 "Check your sass at the door, Yui." He stilled the spinning chair and straightened, wincing from having sat in the same position for the last hour. "Don't think I'm not just as disturbed as you are. Surrounded by beautiful women 24/7 and I'm complimenting you on your conversational skills." Milliardo paused to study the mat-like calendar on his desk. "I think I'll call my therapist. Maybe schedule an appointment with my hair stylist." He frowned and penciled something in with curt brevity.
Too much information. "I hope I'm not here just to listen to your sob story because I have better things to do. Like earning a living that you prey on."
Milliardo looked up and leaned back again into the chair, twirling the pen with irritating nonchalance. "That wounds me deeply, Yui."
Hiiro scowled. Milliardo's tone fitted more for a phrase like 'Why, thank you, my hair is always this beautiful.' But Hiiro knew that visible exasperation flashed a 'shoot me' sign at Milliardo, and Hiiro knew that Milliardo knew that Hiiro knew. So, smoothing his nerves, he schooled his expression to one fit for the runway. "Check the tabloids. The love of your life is green and fits in a wallet."
"I resent that! There are plenty of things I love more than money! Like Relena. I love her to pieces-"
The intercom on his desk came to life, putting a stopper on his blooming counterargument. "Mr. Peacecraft, your sister is on the phone-"
"Tell her to call me back."
A corner of Hiiro's mouth twitched upward. He fought the smile down but couldn't resist the urge to raise a skeptic eyebrow at the head of his agency.
The calm, contained voice continued as if she hadn't heard him. "-and she says that she would like to get a tattoo on her…" A pause followed by a dull thud as something fell – the girlish voice yelped. "on her … rear."
An explosive bang shattered the air-conditioned air of the office as Milliardo jumped to his feet, slamming his hands onto the table and knocking over his coffee. "What! No! Absolutely not! As long as I'm alive, not a single tattoo is going to be on her … on her!"
Hiiro had to fight down another smile as Milliardo's pale skin reddened with irritation.
The calm voice returned. "She also says that she was just kidding, and now that she has your attention, she'd like to speak with you."
Milliardo's tense shoulders slumped, his angry posture dissolved, and he sank back into his chair. Hiiro thought the blonde looked awfully like a blustering rooster who'd just had its feathers plucked. Or maybe he had just exhausted himself after suffering a couple of minor strokes. With a sigh and a run of his fingers through his hair, Milliardo snatched the phone up and swiveled to face the skyline. "Yeah?" His voice dropped to a murmur. Not that there was much to overhear – Milliardo seemed only to talk to his sister in grunts and monosyllabic words.
He glanced around at the office with its bleached walls plastered with posters of the agency's cover girls. There were many, and he couldn't help feeling a bit claustrophobic surrounded by so many pairs of long, long legs. Two years ago, the only long legs he'd have seen would've been those of the prostitutes that hanged near the Plaza Hotel, from 59th and Central Park South to 6th Avenue and 58th. Two years ago, he only existed as part of the riffraff on the streets, starting his third year in a gang notorious for taking people in and not letting them out.
Hiiro Yui had several monikers in the business – the ugly duckling turned swan, the essence of rags to riches, the boy who would be king. His life had changed on his nineteenth birthday when a friend offered to take him to a Knicks game at Madison Square Garden. He didn't remember much of the game – it hadn't interested him –, just that when the cameraman panned the crowd, he started focusing on Hiiro. It reached the point that whenever Hiiro's face flashed up, the crowd roared. Even the players stopped to see why.
Stephon Marbury missed two shots because of the sudden bursts of cheering whenever the screen displayed Hiiro's face. Because of Hiiro, the Knicks lost a pivotal game and didn't go to the playoffs that year. Lenny Wilkens, the head coach, had called time out and stormed up to the cameraman, threatening to litigate him to hell. The cameraman told him to get lost.
Later, tabloids reported that the Nets had bribed the cameraman to sabotage the NYC team, but nobody really believed them and, by then, nobody really cared, because Hiiro Yui was the star of the moment, the brightest star on IMG Modeling's Christmas tree that year. Milliardo, Hiiro thought, must have loved Santa Claus to death that winter. And why not? Hiiro Yui netted 3.6 million that holiday season and, the following March, Cosmo valued him at 6.6.
It was a very merry Christmas.
"Yeah, yeah, goodbye to you, too." Milliardo turned back to face Hiiro, phone still pressed to his ear. He heaved a sigh and smiled. "Love you, too." The phone fell back into the cradle. Milliardo straightened his tie, muttered a string of curses, and snapped at his secretary to clean up the spilled coffee. The janitor came and went with brisk efficiency; Hiiro hardly noticed.
Milliardo, at last, looked up and caught Hiiro staring at a Vogue Italia cover on the wall.
"Gisele. Isn't she a wonder?"
"A wonder," Hiiro repeated, distaste coloring his words. His jaw clenched, and he took nearly half a minute to relax the muscle enough to manage speech.
People had called Hiiro the male Gisele, a high compliment, if taken the right way. It hadn't been taken the right way. In the following issue, People reported that Hiiro Yui had told the reporter to, in essence, take a hike and had insisted that Gisele should be called the female Hiiro.
Milliardo didn't seem to notice Hiiro's muscles flexing as he gripped the arms of the chair. "And it's taking so long for that DiCaprio kid to propose. It's not as if the media isn't already all over them like maggots on-"
"I get the point." Milliardo loved comparing reporters to maggots, but who was the real maggot here? Hiiro sometimes wondered if, perhaps, Milliardo had lived as one in a past life. And if word ever got out that Hiiro thought so highly of his agency's boss, he'd be in the looking for employment line faster than he could say "Maggot Millie".
"And that brings me to my topic." Milliardo straightened again, leaning forward as if ready to divulge the secret to life. "You see that poster on the wall? Do you see anything wrong with the woman on that poster?"
"No…" Hiiro started. Of course Gisele had no imperfections. They brought her all the way from Brazil to flaunt herself because she had no imperfections. And how did maggots, reporters, and Leonardo DiCaprio bring Milliardo to his topic, even if they were of the same breed?
The executive flashed him a self-satisfied smile as if Gisele's lack of imperfections was a personal compliment to him. "Right. I can summarize in two words: Brazilian goddess. But you ain't seen nothin' yet." He turned the computer screen to Hiiro. "Meet Helen."
"Helen."
"Helen."
Hiiro frowned in annoyance. "Helen who?"
Milliardo rubbed the back of his neck and pursed his lips. "Well … that's the problem. I don't know her real name. I don't have her address. I don't have her phone number. I don't have anything on her. Except this."
Hiiro glanced up at Milliardo. The blonde seemed to expect him to say something. He shrugged."She's pretty."
"Pretty? Pretty!" The CEO made the word sound like blasphemy; red climbed up his pale cheeks again. "No, no, Kate Moss is pretty; this girl is … is … there isn't a word strong enough in the English language." Milliardo pushed the computer towards Hiiro as if urging him to take a closer look. Hiiro wondered if the monitor would teeter and fall off the office desk. "Look closer, Yui. This is a passport picture. It looks like a cover girl shot."
He shrugged again, the corners of his mouth turning downward. "Okay. She's gorgeous. Why am I here?"
Milliardo flipped open his planner, the pages stained from the earlier coffee accident, and recited, "Scenario Uno: approached by agent, accepted business card, failed to call back. Scenario Dos: approached by agent, tore up business card, offered snide remarks on agent's sense of style and sexuality – we had to pay for the counseling. Scenario Tres: avoided agent, took a taxi to jail, agent confined for forty-eight hours on charges of stalking – need I go on?"
"You want me to convince her to model," Hiiro concluded, countenance darkening by the second.
Milliardo gritted his teeth and stood up with such ferocity that the wheeled chair tipped over behind him with a loud crash. "She's a modern-day Helen of Troy, but she's never been on a single magazine cover! Why! Tell me why I'm not getting rich off this girl!"
Hiiro gazed up at his red-faced boss and decided light blonde didn't go too well with burgundy. "I don't want to hazard a guess, but … maybe she doesn't want to model? Take Bridget Hall – beautiful, moneyed, but never made it past eighth grade."
The blonde started pacing – not a good sign. Hiiro sat up straighter. "No, she has to model! She's a woman, isn't she? Women love the idea of being beautiful. Well, Helen, apparently, doesn't. But that doesn't matter. Because if I can manage to have her love the idea of being beautiful for you then-"
"I'm out of here," Hiiro finished, standing with practiced languor. He'd been waiting almost forty-five minutes for that catch phrase, and, with the wasted time in mind, Hiiro heaved a heavy sigh.
"Hey, hey! I'm not asking you to seduce her or anything."
The brunette turned to meet his eyes. "Sounds like it to me."
Milliardo scowled and crossed his arms. "Check your hearing then." He uncrossed his arms and let out a long breath of air, trying to look trustworthy and filled with integrity. He didn't succeed. "Look, you're a man and you're, as far as I know, not a pansy. She is the most beautiful woman alive. Don't you at least want to meet her?"
Hiiro turned to leave.
"200 dollars an hour. Every hour of the day, every day of the week."
Ah, finally – the Milliardo he knew and loved. This time, Hiiro hesitated before grabbing the doorknob.
"250 dollars. My highest offer."
His hand remained on the doorknob, but he didn't proceed.
Milliardo chose that moment to play his ace of spades. "Think about it, Yui. I'm paying you nearly 2.2 million a year to spend time with Helen of Troy."
That was some quick mental math.
Hiiro's brow furrowed. What could he buy with 2.2 million? No, what couldn't he buy with 2.2 million?
His hand fell to his side. "Talk to me."
(space)
Right outside of Starbucks
1385 Metropolitan Avenue
The Bronx, NYC
4:56 p.m.
The walk sign flashed up across the street, but nobody paid it any attention – only tourists didn't dare to cross without it.
Hiiro leaned against the lamppost, staring into the dimly-lit Starbucks, glancing down at his watch every five seconds. The lights hanging from the ceiling gave off a dull, orange-ish glow that quashed all hopes of his making out any faces. He glared at the vague outline of his reflection on the window. VH1's most recent male model of the year glared back at him, sporting a Hugo Boss suit and a shock of blonde hair.
He glanced at his watch again – four more minutes to go. Hiiro heaved a sigh and tapped his foot; he hated being early – he preferred to make others wait for him.
But the world hadn't proved itself to be too cruel. After all, he still had sunglasses, was incognito, and in the Bronx where nobody thought to look for celebrities. That meant no fangirls, no tourists, and no photographers.
"All right, Ami, I'll see you tomorrow!" His head snapped up, and he eyed the blonde figure, turned away from him, at the door. She waved before walking out of the only Starbucks in the Bronx and headed for the intersection.
"Excuse me, but…" He stopped short as she turned to look at him with more annoyance than curiosity.
"Yes?" she pressed, glancing at the blinking walk sign.
Only then did he realize he was staring and at a loss for words.
The picture that Milliardo had produced was just that – a picture, a moment of, no, a fraction of beauty and magnificence. His eyes scanned her – tolerable height, blonde hair, blue eyes, the delicate bone structure of East Asians.
She shot the don't walk sign a peeved look and glared at him.
Hiiro cleared his throat and reached into his pocket. "I, um … have you ever considered modeling? I'm with IMG here in New York. We're considered the most respectable name in the business, and if you're interested, here's my business card and-"
She rolled her eyes and waved a hand as if shooing his words away – a good sign?
"You wouldn't believe this, but in the last week, I've been contacted five times by agents. It's like you guys have a tracking device on me or something." She laughed a little. "But I'm sorry. I'm not interested in modeling. Thank you though." With that, Helen started to walk away, cutting Hiiro off from his hourly 250.
He ran after her across the intersection, barely missing a taxicab. The driver yelled at him and flicked him off. Hiiro returned the favor before catching Helen's arm.
"Look, lady, get your head out of the clouds. Your pay there is … max 15/hour. If you start modeling, they'll be paying you that for ten seconds of your time."
She jerked her arm from his hand, her cheeks growing pink with rising resent. "Let go of me, Mr. Pretty Boy. I'm not interested." 2
"I'm telling you, you're today's Helen of Troy. You'll make a fortune!" The choice word there was fortune; everybody seemed to bend to that charming little devil of a word.
Placing on hand on her hip, she glowered at him; Helen wasn't amused by fortune, he supposed. "Look, mister, this is New York. I can make a fortune by selling stocks; I can make a fortune by selling drugs; I can make a fortune by selling cookies – there are lots of venues beside civilized prostitution." And then went Helen, skirt fluttering, tennis shoes making hardly a sound.
He stared after her for a long time, waving goodbye to his 2.2 million.
(space)
Usagi's apartment
The South Bronx
New York
5:45 p.m.
She had to skirt the small patches of ice at the doorway – nobody bothered to remedy it even after Mrs. Wilson slipped and met her death a few years ago. The door creaked open, and Usagi stepped into the hardly warmer interior, staring up at a flight of wooden stairs prone to burning in a borough known for arson.3 She started up the first flight and headed for the fourth – the top of the building, though her apartment hardly counted as a penthouse.
"Don't you dare try to sneak past me, young lady! Your rent is overdue for three months, y'hear? Don't pay by the beginning of April, and I'm kicking you out."
Rats. Made it five steps this time – was she improving? Usagi's shoulders fell, and she sighed. "Yes, yes. I know. But c'mon, be a little more lenient, will you? It's not as if this is the Four Seasons or anything."
The old prune of a woman peered out at her tenant from the doorway of her apartment. "You're right. It's not the Four Seasons. After all, what would you be doing at the Four Seasons?" She seemed to find this quite funny, and Usagi had to wait a whole three minutes before the old goat stopped wheezing out laughs.
"I'll pay you by April." She started up the stairs again.
"All of it!" the landlady called after her.
"All of it," Usagi muttered. "350 a month for this?" She stared at the gap in the stairs where a step had fallen out and tried her best to breach it – there was no handrail to steady her, and she loathed to touch the dingy wall.
Having hazarded the stairs, the blonde unlocked her door, gave it a cruel yank – there was a trick to it –, and stepped into home sweet home. But home sweet home was only a tiny apartment with threadbare carpet; graying walls; spider vein cracks; two rooms, counting the den; and no bathroom – that was in the hall. Perhaps home sweet home should be renamed punishment-for-some-heinous-crime-she'd-committed-in-her-last-life.
"Helen of Troy and I'm still three months behind on my rent." Usagi inspected herself in the mirror set above the kitchen sink. "Modeling, huh?" She made a face. "What a joke."
Usagi threw herself onto the bed without taking off her clothes and grabbed the newspaper on the bedside table; she didn't know why she still bothered scouring the classifieds – she didn't have time to squeeze another job in. Just as she got to "personal shopper wanted", a door slammed accompanied by loud sobbing, resounding through paper-thin walls. Usagi sighed and steeled herself for another late-night, commiserative moment.
"Bernie? You all right in there?"
A slight pause in the sobbing as Bernie sniffled and blew his nose. "Y…Yeah, just fine."
Minutes ticked by.
"Oh come on, Bernie! I need to concentrate."
The sobbing seemed to get louder. "But – but you see, I saw this girl on the subway this afternoon, and she looked just like her. And-and…" He broke down just when Usagi rolled her eyes.
"Bernie, she left you two years ago. Isn't it about time to get over it?"
The man whimpered and took a shuddering breath. "I can't. I don't know what I'm going to do."
Usagi glanced at the personal shopper ad and took a deep breath. "You're a lawyer, Bernie. Find a reason against the divorce – litigate, litigate, litigate."
Bernie didn't seem to take much comfort in Usagi's words – his crying intensified.
"Bernie, I really need to concentrate so, please … just for tonight. No crying."
"But I-"
"Bernie, just shut up!"
Oh, now she'd done it. Three, two, one – Bernie started wailing like a police siren. Usagi got a hold of herself and counted to ten.
She buried her face in her hands and tried to rub some of the fatigue out of her eyes. "Oh Lord, don't cry like that. I hate it when you cry like that. I-I'm sorry. I really am. I didn't mean to yell at you. I-I…"
Another whimper, followed by a sniffle and a choked sob. "You mean it?"
"Yeah. Just … try relaxing and getting some sleep tonight, okay? You have work in the morning." Usagi took a quick look at her watch – 6:30 and she was already using the "get some sleep" ploy.
"R-right." The sniffling died down, and a moment of silence passed. "T-thanks, Usagi."
She peeked at her watch. It'd only taken twenty minutes to calm him down this time; she had come a long way. "Anytime."
(space)
IMG Modeling
New York
5:30 a.m.
When Milliardo Peacecraft entered the building that day – early again because the Victoria's Secret annual show was approaching –, somebody was watching him, waiting in his dark office.4 That someone timed Milliardo's rituals down to only a second or two of error. That someone knew when he was nodding at the doorman, when he was greeting his secretary, and when he was sliding his hand over the wall, feeling for the light switch.
"Damn it! You almost gave me a heart attack, Yui! And if I'd died, my lawyers would sue the pants off you."
That someone had also known that Milliardo would say that.
"Does Helen go to college?" Hiiro stood and reached for the coffeemaker, already brewing thanks to the secretary. Milliardo took off his coat and tossed it onto the decorative sofa in the corner.
"Pour me a cup while you're up, will you?"
Hiiro grumbled but consented.
"Does Helen go to college?" he repeated, handing the Styrofoam cup to Milliardo with ferocity before getting his own.
The blonde took a sip and then a gulp. "She seems the age, doesn't she?"
Hiiro sat again. "Makeup can make a person look twenty years younger."
"And lack of sleep can make a person look twenty years older. You're looking lovely this morning, Yui." He eyed Hiiro's complexion and cringed.
"You're not."
Milliardo shrugged. "That's why I don't model."
"College, Zechs, college." The CEO seemed to bristle at his childhood nickname, the nonchalant smile oozing off his face like makeup on a hot day.
"We think she goes to NYU, all right? What're you going to do? Register there? It's the middle of the term – hardly any more classes open," he sneered, setting the coffee down. 5
Hiiro stirred his. "I hoped IMG could foot the bill."
Milliardo frowned. Bill, Hiiro knew, was one of the executive's least favorite words, next to cost and bankruptcy. "Bill Clinton watch out," Naomi Campbell had joked once.
"The bill?"
"All my expenses during this job, plus the salary."
Milliardo seemed a bit startled, blinking and leaning back into his leather chair as if unable to bear the weight of Hiiro's demand that early in the morning. "And you say I love money."
"You would do the same thing."
A pause passed as both men stared into their coffee cups. "Fine. On one condition."
Hiiro raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"If you don't succeed, consider all this time wasted. You don't get nothin' and the expenses will be taken as an additional royalty from your salary."
Hiiro thought for a moment. "Fair."
"Of course I am," Milliardo retorted, straightening his collar.
"Yeah, of course you are, pinhead."
(space)
New YorkUniversity, Student Services
25 W. 4th Street
9:15 a.m.
Of all the divisions at NYU, Hiiro's intention focused on the Tisch School of Arts, the Rita and Burton Goldberg Department of Dramatic Writing, and the Helen who took courses there.
"All right, Mr. Hiiro Yui. This counts as late registration, and there'll be a fee." The short, blonde receptionist paused to stare at him with obvious skepticism. Hiiro had chosen not to impress and dressed in a pullover and old jeans that would sell for, perhaps, a couple of thousand. But only because he had worn them.
He, with nonchalance, pulled up his sleeve and eyed his custom-made Rolex, making sure the blonde did too. She looked stunned for a moment but then returned to her previous fed up look. "It will also be submitted for approval to the Dean of Student Affairs, Chris Kelly." She tore a sheet of paper out of her notebook and scribbled an address onto it. "You must give him a compelling reason for why you're late in registering."
"So how do I apply?"
She stared at him. "You mean you haven't readied your application yet?" He nodded. She let go of the third frustrated sigh he'd heard since he had met her about three minutes ago and rolled her eyes. "To apply to the Dept. of Dramatic Writing, you'll need to fill out the application, submit a brief statement about what you hope to contribute to and gain from the program, and send in a portfolio of five to twenty-five pages of your written work to Professor Mark Dickerman at this address." She started to write another address onto the sheet of paper, but Hiiro stopped her.
"A portfolio. Is that mandatory?" Hiiro could feel the color draining from his face – he had no talent in dramatic writing. Even in school, he'd always done reports not stories.
"Of course, Mr. Yui," she replied without thinking and returned to writing down the contact information.
Hiiro followed her example and let out a frustrated sigh. "Look, lady, I'm with IMG Modeling here in NYC, and I've had my eye on one of NYU's students. But I can't contact her. So if I could just skip the preliminaries … I'll just sit in on a couple of classes, won't take the exams – nobody will know I'm there."
She didn't even process his words before replying, "You'll have to talk to Andrew I. Uriarte, the Director of Recruitment at this addr-"
She stopped short and stared at his hand covering hers. Hiiro noted with some satisfaction that her cheeks were flushed and her breathing quick. "No, I don't want this to take long," he told her, voice slow and measured. Soft.
He let go of her and pulled out his checkbook. "How much do you want? To give me the necessary materials, ID – everything I need to fit in?"
She looked from the checkbook to his face and then back again; red still colored her cheeks. "Ten grand. And you pay for your own textbooks."
"Done." Hiiro took her pen and wrote it out.
"I-I'll have everything ready in thirty minutes if you're willing to wait."
"I appreciate it," he replied.
(space)
Craft of Dramatic and Visual Writing Course
NYU
10:45 a.m.
Gallagher and Goldfarb – those were the two professors up front babbling about Gallagher's sister's upcoming wedding. About a hundred students sat in the seminar room, most hanging onto every word. Hiiro didn't even have to sneak in – the students were too busy taking notes on the number of layers the wedding cake would have.
He scanned for blonde hair and, with a trill of excitement, saw her, at a diagonal, just two rows in front of him.
"Hey, man, you new around here?"
Hiiro shot the voice a look of annoyance and indifference. "Yes."
"Well, buddy, a word to the wise – take notes. Gallagher and Goldfart have a habit of testing over everything they say – right down to the color of their sister's wedding dress." The man smiled at him, sporting a ridiculous, long braid in a season when long hair was not in vogue.
"Goldfart," Hiiro muttered.
"It's an affectionate nickname."
He'd hate to see what they'd call him if they didn't like him.
Hiiro started and gazed at the hand in front of him.
"Duo Maxwell. You are?"
"Hiiro Yui." He didn't reach to shake Duo's hand, and Duo retracted it.
"Well, Hiiro, you want to meet up with some of my friends for lunch after this?" Hiiro sighed. Shoo fly. Duo didn't seem to be too good at following his own advice – he wasn't paying a stitch of attention to the professors.
Now was the time to decline politely, sans the politely. "No, I really-"
"Quatre is that blonde guy down there, and Usagi is the girl beside him." Duo pointed.
Hiiro started. Usagi. "That girl?"
"Yeah. Pretty, isn't she?"
"I can't tell from the back of her head," Hiiro muttered.
Duo's smile widened. "Oh, trust me, she's beautiful. Interested?"
Hiiro looked up, startled but trying his hardest not to let it show. "In her?"
Duo laughed. "No, in me." Hiiro shot him a disgusted look. "For lunch, that is."
(space)
The Red Bamboo
140 W. 4th St
12:15 p.m.
Snow and ice still draped white mantles over Washington Square Park's grass and trees.6 The temperature that day was around forty-two degrees Fahrenheit. It had taken hardly five minutes to get to the restaurant, walking at a brisk pace, listening to Duo chattering at an even brisker pace.
"The prices are a little high around here, but the lunch special is only 6.95 with entrée and appetizer – Quatre's the only one who doesn't need to worry; he's the rich boy around here. You ever been here?"
"No." He felt insulted – Hiiro Yui didn't do Chinese restaurants. At least, not of this caliber.
Duo shrugged as if saying 'your loss' though Hiiro couldn't even begin to fathom why. "It's pretty good – nice atmosphere, good service, food's not bad, if your goal in life is to become a vegetarian. But Quatre and Usagi like it so I tag along for the company." He laughed a little. "They sometimes find me annoying."
"Imagine that."
Duo was already distracted, hardly able to catch Hiiro's short phrase. "Hey! Over here!" Usagi and Quatre both looked up and walked over. Usagi raised an eyebrow at Duo and glanced at Hiiro not without some apprehension. Quatre just looked preoccupied.
A waitress hurried over and hand the two newcomers their menus.
"Something the matter, Quat? You look…"
"Disturbed," Usagi supplied, opening and scanning the list of dishes. "I was just asking him about it."
Quatre had yet to touch his menu. "No, I just had a strange dream last night."
Duo grinned, slapping the blonde in the back. Quatre shot Duo a riled look. Hiiro could only imagine how much Duo's earlier remark 'they sometimes find me annoying' was an understatement. "Did it involve anybody in a bikini?" The braided man glanced at Usagi.
Usagi's eyes narrowed. "Like Duo, for instance?"
"Duo in a bikini?" Quatre blanched and took a quick sip of his lemon water. "No, no. Not that strange. I dreamt I ate a ten-pound marshmallow."
Duo sighed and leaned back in his seat, deflated. "Is that it? What, you afraid of getting fat?"
"When I woke up, my pillow was gone."
Silence.
Hiiro watched Usagi and Duo stare at Quatre's stomach.
"Well … I always thought your pillows looked good enough to eat," Duo started.
Usagi cracked up. "Rich in fiber, too."
Quatre cast them both a hurt look. "You're not suggesting that…that I…" He looked down at his own stomach and gulped delicately. "I feel queasy."
Only when the blonde looked up after inspecting his own stomach did he notice Hiiro. He looked mortified, his face a rich pink. "Duo! You don't even have the manners to introduce us?"
"This is the thanks I get? I truly worried about your health there, Quat. Haven't you ever heard of cotton poisoning?"
But Quatre no longer paid him any attention. He stood up and stuck his hand out. "Hi, my name is Quatre Raberba Winner, and this is Usagi Tsukino. We're Duo's friends." Hiiro shook it gingerly.
"Hiiro Yui."
"So, Hiiro, you new in town?" Quatre started.
"Yeah, Hiiro here just registered in dramatic writing at NYU."
Hiiro glowered at Duo before nodding in confirmation.
Usagi snapped out of her mental conversation with her water and straightened. "Wait, you're new? Are you looking for a place to stay? Because if you're interested in having a roommate…"
Hiiro looked up and reminded himself to breathe. Like hotcakes falling out of the sky. "As a matter of fact…"
A relieved look passed over her face. "Oh, thank God, Hiiro Yui. I've been behind on my rent since the beginning of this year. Maybe you could come over tomorrow after morning classes and take a look."
Forget hotcakes – this was like Cartier's jewelry falling out of the sky.
Quatre frowned. "Usagi, why didn't you tell me that you needed money? I could've helped."
She waved a dismissive hand as if shooing the very notion aside. "Don't worry about it. If anything, your mother hen instinct would just be another problem on my list."
Quatre sighed and gave Hiiro an uncomfortable look which Hiiro tried to ignore.
"So will you come?"
"I suppose." He looked aside – he didn't want to seem too eager.
"Yes!" Usagi cheered. "I'll give you the grand tour, then. Tomorrow at 11:30."
Hiiro started planning his spending of the 2.2 million.
(space)
1. Milliardo as the chief executive of IMG: It makes absolutely no sense. xD; IMG has several locations and doesn't specialize only in modeling. I believe … they do almost anything that has to do with publicity. O.O;; But I didn't research into it. ; So it makes no sense that Milliardo, CEO of IMG, would hang around so long in NYC. He'd probably be in Europe. And he wouldn't be talking with Hiiro, just one stepping stone to his corporate empire – he'd have a lower manager do it. Plus, he wouldn't personally go in early to handle the Victoria's Secret show because modeling isn't his only venue. Y'see:3 But I wanted Milliardo as the CEO because he needed the desire to personally benefit from dearest Helen. :D
2. "Let go of me, Mr. Pretty Boy.": The nickname borrowed from Transcendent-san from Cold Day in Hell. :3
3. "In a borough known for arson.": NYC is divided into five boroughs – Manhattan, the Bronx, Queens, Brooklyn, and Staten Island. Southern Bronx was known for arson historically. Not too historically, though – about 20 or so years ago. Statistically, there were about 33 cases per night. xD;
4. "The annual Victoria's Secret show.": I don't know if such a thing exists. O.o; Do they have an annual, major, special show? xD; Anyhow. Last year, the one most talked about was broadcasted on CBS on November 20th big controversies – very amusing. xDxD; so … if that is their big annual show, then I'd assume it's in winter. ; But the current time in this fic isn't anywhere within three months of November. -; So please excuse the inaccuracy.
5. "Hardly any classes open … NYU.": I don't know if this is true. If you register late in college … is there a major problem with full classes? O.o; But it seemed logical to me so … :D
6. Walking past Washington Square Park: When I asked for driving directions from NYU to The Red Bamboo on Yahoo, it made me go from 4th St. to the street next to it and then turn back to 4th St., effectively skirting the park. Why? O.O; I have no earthly idea. But Yahoo is supposed to pick the shortest route … so is there something wrong with traveling on 4th St. at that point? Well. I made them do it anyhow. xD; Besides – they're walking, not driving. :3
7. Usagi's apartment: I searched for an apartment for Usagi but I was limited by price. xD; And since excessively horrid apartments don't advertise on the internet, I was unable to find an actual apartment for her. -; However, according to a former New Yorker, the Bronx should be the place with cheap apartments and fairly okay security hey, at least it's not lower east side. -; so … no details on Usagi's apartment. :D
8. Everything else in here is completely accurate and all the locations exist, all the numbers, the people, right down to the Plaza Hotel prostitute haunt can you believe that was on the internet? O.o; and Bridget Hall's eight years of education. ;
Was it bad:O Please, please, feedback. -; I need moral support, you guys. Lol. Again, a different type of writing that I'm experimenting with … and it was certainly long. :O Was it also dull-; Thank you so much for bearing through all of it if it was. -; Yours, Angel.