Cradling her head against his sweater he kissed her again half wishing he was able to spend the entire day in the car. Reluctantly he pulled himself from her grasp placing a final unmonitored kiss on her forehead. 'Gracias, Rita.'

'You should go now,' she told him, obviously just as reluctant to part company as he was. 'See you tomorrow in history.'

Marco stepped into ankle deep snow, shivering involuntarily. The marvel he had felt on first experiencing it had long since worn off and he trudged through it to the student housing building, his heart leaping with the sheer joy of walking where he pleased unescorted. The elevator's door slid aside for him as he pressed the call button and he leapt inside, pushing the third floor button. Imagining the welcome scalding water on his skin he reached his room unlocking the door in relief. It's good to be back. He took a step inside, pausing in disbelief.

Where are my things? Whose stuff is that on my bed? Instead of his familiar blue blanket a brown one covered his bed. Posters of unknown pop singers hung above it, strange shoes lay near his drawers and his photo was no longer on the cabinet. Alarmed, he checked the number on the door, filled with dismay when he saw that he had of course entered the correct room.

'You came to return the key, I guess,' Pale Eyes said, pushing past him. 'Just leave it on the desk.'

'What do you mean? Where are my things?' Marco asked struggling to comprehend what he saw.

'Your junk is in Tim's room. He said he'd keep it for you till you collected it.'

'But why?' he asked, cut off by an indignant roommate.

'You didn't pay the rent.'

'I'm only two weeks behind! Just gimme a week!' You can't do this, you bastard.

'I already found a new roommate, someone who'll actually pay,' Pale Eyes told him. 'Now hand over the key or I'll call security. This is no longer your room, convict!'

His face turned hot as the world spun around him, the title lingering in the air between them. Convict! Get used to it, Almeida. He's just the first one to call you that. Wonder how he found out…How his secret was revealed was of secondary importance at the moment, however, as he stared at the hostility in Pale Eyes' face. 'Here's your key,' he muttered, pushing it onto the desk, slipping noiselessly from the room. Stomach churning he knocked on Tim's door half hoping he was out.

The door opened moments later and Tim gave him an awkward nod. 'You came for your stuff?'

'Yes.' Tim opened his cupboard and handed him his backpack full of his things. 'It's all there, you can check.' Marco nodded wordless, knelt on the carpet and glanced through the contents.

Lifting it onto his back his eyes met his friend's. 'Thanks.'

'Sure.'

Marco lifted his guitar case into his hand and opened the door, longing to leave the building before his stomach would dislodge the breakfast that had been churning inside it since his discovery that he was now, in effect, homeless. 'Marco, wait. Have you got anywhere to go?' Tim asked, following him to the lift.

'Yes,' he lied, almost leaping into the elevator. Outside in the icy wind he pulled his jacket from the backpack and slid it over his sweater, tying the hood under his chin. You're doing great, Almeida. You've been homeless for all of one minute and you're already freezing! A wild gust slammed the door behind a girl as she hastened past him while he leaned against the wall chewing his lip to keep his tears away. Get moving, Almeida – you can't stay here. He took a step from the shelter of the building entering the full brunt of the wind. Go where, though?

The library was warm and quiet. A few people cast him odd looks as he carried his things inside but forgot about him once he hid them behind a desk and pulled out his notes. Desperate to catch up, he worked hard the entire day leaving only when an irritated librarian leaned over the desk insisting they were closed. He carried his things to the cafeteria and bought the cheapest sandwich, remaining at the table till he was shooed from the room. 'We're closed, now!'

It was colder than before when he emerged, piling both sweaters under his coat. He walked to a quiet area of the grounds and huddled beneath a tree, his things piled at his feet, struggling to discover a way from his predicament. Go home, Almeida, it's the only logical solution. They'll be glad to see you. He pressed his head closer against a trunk, his heart rebelling at the thought of leaving his dearest friend. No, I can't do that. I just need to find another job and I'll be able to afford a room. I haven't failed the year yet! The hours of darkness stretched to infinity as he forced himself to keep alert.

Once the janitors opened the bathrooms he moved inside and warmed his icy hands under the hot water tap, his fingers requiring a full five minutes before the ability to move them returned. Slowly he washed his face and fumbled through the backpack for his comb and shaving things tidying himself as best he could. He was the first to arrive at the cafeteria where he warmed himself with a steaming coffee and sandwich, remaining there until his lecture began at 9:00.

Heart filled with relief he grinned a greeting at Rita as she slid into the seat beside him a mere five minutes late. 'Hi, querida.'

'Hey. It's great to have you back.' Her arms wrapped round his neck she kissed his cheek, her face warm against his own. 'What's the lecture about?'

For the first time since she'd met him he shrugged, having found it impossible to focus. His head span from exhaustion and the struggle to decide where to spend the following night. 'I'm not sure.'

Puzzled, she stared at him, noting the shadows under his eyes. 'Are you okay, Marco?' she asked, worriedly.

'Sí,' he replied, a sudden thought occurring to him. 'Could you do me a favor, Rita?' She nodded firmly, fixing her undivided attention on him. 'I don't have much space to store my things,' he began, hating the need to obscure the truth. 'Could I ask you to take my guitar and a few of my books that I don't need to your place for a coupla months, just till I take them back with me this summer?'

'Sure,' she agreed amazed. 'Don't you need your guitar?'

'I don't have much time for it, sweetheart. I'm trying to catch up with the assignments,' he lied, avoiding her gaze. Once the lecture ended he carried his things to her car, laying his guitar case in the trunk. She watched while he hunted through his backpack and left seven of his favorite books beside it. 'Gracias.'

'Are you sure you're okay?' she pressed, sensing something was amiss. Once again he nodded, forcing a reassuring smile. 'You going to be studying in the library today?' she asked and he nodded. She joined him, the day flying by pleasantly. Rita left for two hours to meet friends for lunch while he wrote up his presentation in relief. She would have insisted he eat with her and he was down to his last few dollars. As they parted in the evening he collected his backpack and went to see his former employer hoping for a job but his position had been filled months before. It appeared he was fresh out of luck. No matter how many places he visited begging for work the answer he received was heartbreakingly familiar. No one was hiring. Defeated he spent his second night outdoors huddled in a doorway, sleep claiming him just after midnight.

The cold woke him at dawn. Head buried in his backpack he watched the world light up, determined to struggle through the rest of the term before admitting defeat. You got 30 dollars left, Almeida. Use it carefully. Get a loaf of bread and eat that and it'll last quite a while, long enough for you to find a job. Forcing himself up he returned to UIC and cleaned himself up in the same bathroom, heading to his architecture class as though nothing were amiss.

Rita's obvious love kept him going through the following two weeks as his job hunting proved fruitless and his money dwindled. Unable to face a third night outdoors he searched the grounds of the university in detail coming upon the gardener's shed which he managed to force open. It was luxurious compared to the outdoors offering him shelter from the snowstorm as he huddled on his backpack which he laid on the concrete floor. Marco laid his head against a wooden plank and slept soundly worn out from exposure to the elements and lack of food. It required all his will power to get moving before dawn to ensure he was not discovered, closing the door behind him. Yet again he cleaned himself in the handicapped bathroom where he undressed and poured water over himself in a vain attempt to get clean.

Under the circumstances it was not unusual for his normal optimism to evaporate as he spent each afternoon seeking employment unsuccessfully. He longed to cry as he huddled in the cold shed, scolding himself mercilessly. Pull yourself together, Almeida. You were a soldier, dammit. At least you've got a roof over your head! As the days passed he grew immune to the bone chilling cold, falling asleep the moment he curled up on the planks.

It was Rita who inadvertently caused his downfall by passing him her flu. She coughed and sneezed beside him in the library, using an entire box of tissues, her nose red and swollen. 'You don't look well, querida,' he said gently, feeling her warm forehead. 'You should be home in bed.'

She laid her head against his chest, ear pressed to his heart. 'I wanted to see you,' she croaked.

A warm feeling washed over him as he stroked her damp hair. 'I know, sweetheart. I need to see you too, but right now you're sick. You're going home to bed.' Gently he closed her books and packed them in her bag, pulling her up by the arms. 'I'll walk you to your car.'

'I'm not that sick,' she protested, her pleas falling on deaf ears as he walked beside her.

'You got a fever, Rita. I want you to stay in bed tomorrow. Promise me you'll do that, hmm?' He pulled her to a stop and waited till she nodded reluctantly. 'And eat some fresh oranges or grapefruit, it always worked for me.'

She remained in his arms beside the car a few minutes longing to take him home with her. 'I hate grapefruit,' she admitted.

'Hah,' he snorted, pulling an ear gently. 'Did I forget to tell you we grow lots of it on our farm?' She squirmed in his arms, turning red. 'So now that you know it, you're going to get yourself one from your fruit bowl, peel it and eat it and think about me picking them all day. Okay?'

'Okay,' she sneezed, giving him a final kiss on the cheek. 'I love you, Marco.'

'I do too, sweetheart. Drive slowly.' The library seemed empty after she left. He completed an architecture assignment and laid his head on his arm falling asleep in the warmth. Lonelier than ever before he worked hard the following day, the only bright point a returned assignment which earned a 'B'. He stared at it numbly, the lack of pride bothering him. You should feel pleased about this, Almeida. It's the best mark you ever got for something written in English without any help! He slid it inside his backpack with the rest of his work wishing he could show her his grade. She would be sure to make a big deal over it, insisting that he had now had proof he was able to cope with completing a degree in English.

He used a handful of coins to call her that evening, desperate to hear her voice. To his relief she answered, her voice hoarse. 'Rita.'

'Hey princess,' he said softly, his heart lifting at the sound of her voice. 'How are you feeling?'

'Pretty awful,' she said gloomily, blowing her nose.

He sighed in disappointment. 'I miss you,' he admitted, kicking himself a moment later. What kind of idiot are you, Almeida? She'll come in sick tomorrow just to cheer you up. You gotta convince her you're fine. 'Did you eat any grapefruit?' he questioned careful to keep his tone light.

'I did,' she told him, blowing her nose. 'I put tons of sugar on it and it was kinda edible that way. I did think about you picking them.' He heard a faint giggle and felt his own lips part in an answering smile. 'Did you really climb the trees for them?'

'Aha,' he agreed, longing to see her that very minute. 'Sweetheart, I'll let you get some sleep now. I got a 'B' for that essay I wrote in jail – the one you handed in.'

'Hey, that's great,' she cried warmly. 'You'll get a kiss for that tomorrow!'

'I will not,' he said sternly, startled at the idea. 'You're still sick, querida. You're staying in bed tomorrow.'

'Listen Marco, I'm feeling a lot better, and it's me studying to be a nurse not you, so at least I can tell when I feel…atishoo…when I feel better. And…'

'And that is not yet,' he interrupted firmly, his tone reminding her of the incident in the park. 'You'll stay in bed and rest, and get better quickly to get back to me. You could write your history essay up in the meantime, if you're bored.'

Rita, who had been about to complain of boredom shut her mouth in a hurry glaring at the phone. He can read my mind! 'Okay,' she said, surprised herself by her meek voice. 'Call me again tomorrow.'

'You got it,' he agreed and hung up, returning to the icy shed. Whether it was the thought of her sick or the memories of her sneezing, or whatever else he didn't know, but the moment he curled up he sneezed violently, pressing his hand against his mouth at the last moment. Dammit, Almeida, keep it down or they'll evict you from this shed! The sneeze was followed by a second and a third and he was forced to open his backpack to search for a handkerchief. You're not getting sick, you're not! This is purely psychosomatic! By morning his firm reassurances that he was fine gave way to the grim reality of the situation. He was sick too, using handkerchief after handkerchief, his nose already sore. It took firm resolve to leave the shed.

He struggled through the following week, his cold worsening. He attended his lectures and tutorials sitting well away from the others longing for a hot cup of tea and someone to utter kind words to him. Rita discovered him six days later at his usual spot in the library, head lowered on his arm. 'Hey sweet,' she said gently, brushing his hair away for a kiss. 'Marco, you're hot!'

He forced his eyes open managing a grin. 'Hey.'

'You're sick too,' she cried in dismay. 'You look awful. You're thinner, your cheeks are sunken, your eyes are dull…'

'I never said I was handsome, querida,' he joked, wishing he could curl up in a warm bed and close his eyes.

'You know what I mean,' she cried, swatting his shoulder lightly. 'Come on, I'll take you up to your room. You need to get to bed.'

He stared at her in alarm, searching for a reason to keep her from learning the truth. 'Querida, you can't go up there. The third floor is strictly for men. I'll go there myself.'

She frowned, clearly dissatisfied. 'Who'll make you some tea?'

'I'll make it myself,' he lied, his head spinning.

'I tell you what. I'll buy you a cup now, before you go to bed,' she decided, packing his things away. 'Come, sweetheart.'

Sweetheart. A gentle wave washed over him as he ran the word through his mind. She took his hand, pulling him up, muttering under her breath about his high fever. 'I hoped you'd come in today,' he told her in answer to her question on why he had gone to the library so obviously unwell. I got nowhere else to go, querida. Now I'll have to sneak back in and pick a different floor where you won't go. Hands clasped together they left the library, skirting a man who gazed at Marco in disdain.

'Still here, convict? I'd have thought they would've deported you by now. Ah well, seems you found a girl to live off!'

Marco ignored him, too sick to think of a fitting retort, pulling Rita's hand gently. 'Ignore him, querida. He's just an asshole.'

'Isn't he your roommate?' she questioned, glaring at Pale Eyes.

'Yeah. It's okay, Rita, come on.'

'But he called you a convict. How can you bear sharing with him?'

'It's what I am, now,' he reminded her tiredly. 'Come on, sweetheart.' She followed him over to the cafeteria reluctantly, ordering him to sit while she bought two cups of tea and a bowl of soup. She set it before him, insisting he eat it as it was good for colds. Dipping his spoon he swallowed his first hot meal in days, reveling in the warmth. His cold prevented him from tasting any of it but he ate it thankfully.

'You should go to bed now,' she said, kissing him. 'Marco, take something for the fever. You got something, don't you?'

He nodded and left her, returning soon after to the library where he settled among some psychology books, safe in his anonymity. Sheer stubbornness kept him going another four days as he attended classes and rested in the library, fighting for each breath. He suspected he was sicker than he looked. Rita discovered him that evening as he leaned on a bookcase struggling to breathe, the book on pyramid design landing in a heap by his feet. Her cry of dismay woke him slightly. Groggily he blinked at her, allowing her to support his weight.

'What are you doing here, Marco? Sweetheart, you're burning up. You need to see a doctor right away. I'll take you…'

'I'm fine, querida,' he said firmly, blinking to keep the world from swaying. 'I just came for a book. I'm going upstairs to bed now.'

She glared at him as he left the library, returning to collect her bag. Dammit. Something's wrong, I know it. He doesn't look like he's taking medicine or getting enough food…Oh God. She stopped, a hand on the glass door leading outside. Doesn't he have a job anymore? The longer she thought about it the more sense it made to her. He probably doesn't. He never seems to need to go anywhere these days…Without giving the matter a second thought she hurried over to student housing and banged on his door, prepared to tell him what she thought of his keeping secrets from her. Instead of Marco the hated Pale Eyes met her.

'What do you want, sugar? That Mexican didn't leave anything here, no matter what he told you.'

'What do you mean?' she questioned, alarmed. 'Where is he?'

Pale Eyes studied her face, snorting aloud. 'Didn't he tell you?' Watching her closely he shook his head. 'He's dumber than I thought. These rooms aren't free, sugar. That convict can't afford to stay here any longer.'

'Where does he live now?' she gasped, fists clenched. The need to get Marco's new address prevented her from slamming it into his face.

Pale Eyes shrugged noncommittally. 'He's left no forwarding address. You can take his mail if you like. You'll probably find him hiding out at the library. Place seems to attract all kinds of trash nowadays.'

Rita drew a deep breath, glaring at him. 'You threw him out?' Seeing his nod, she shook her head. 'You know what, you're a bastard. A real asshole!'

'That's not me sugar, it's lover boy,' Pale Eyes remarked insolently. 'He must be real good to keep you interested, but once he disappears into the dump he belongs in you just come visit me…' Her slap caught him unprepared and he reeled backwards under the force of the blow.

'He's twice the man you'll ever be,' she told him, rushing back down the corridor and over to the library determined to question him. To her dismay the entrance was locked. She rattled it persistently, determined to be allowed inside as she saw a few people borrowing books within.

'We're closed,' a librarian snapped irritated. 'You'll have to come back tomorrow.'

Rita glared back at her, hurrying over to the exit where the librarian stopped her in gathering indignation. 'I already told you we're closed,' she repeated. 'You got a problem with that? I'll ban you from the library in a minute.'

'But I'm waiting for a friend,' she protested, cut off by the librarian.

'You can wait outside. They're all leaving now.'

She's right. Whatever are you thinking about, Rita. Just hide someplace and watch where he goes. It can't be far. She moved behind a tree, eyes glued to the door, rewarded by a sight of him stumbling out. Remaining concealed rather than rushing over to him required all her self control but she persevered, watching him walk down an unlit path and across a lawn. She tiptoed after him, her feet crunching the snow despite her best efforts to remain silent.

Too sick to hear anything or even think clearly he forced his way to the shed, collapsing in a heap at the door. Unable to summon the strength necessary to force the lock he remained where he lay, sinking into the beckoning darkness.