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Milliardo cursed as his umbrella snapped inside out. Hunching against the wind, he tossed the umbrella, now mangled into a travesty of cloth and broken spines into a nearby trash can. Read the rest of this entry »
“Here, have some tea.” Milliardo offered Heero a mug and waited as the younger man downed the hot mixture. “Do you think you might talk about it, now?”
Heero, who seemed to have come back to himself and taken the full measure of his surroundings frowned but did not speak. Read the rest of this entry »
Notes: / … / indicates dream/flashback
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Heero moaned, clutching his pillow. /”What do you think you’re doing?”/
“Heero…”
/”I … miss … Mama–”/ Read the rest of this entry »
Heero gripped the pricing gun. His heart was pounding again and he wanted to escape. What was he doing here? Milliardo’s expression as he stared was inscrutible and Heero wished with everything in him they had never met. Read the rest of this entry »
Milliardo toed off his shoes and dropped his keys on the table. Rifling through his mail, he found a bunch of coupons, two bills and a picture from Relena, with a note attached. The photograph was of a recent trip to Cancun and in it Relena was all smiles. Read the rest of this entry »
Winston Street was in fact a tiny cobbled avenue about a block from the main campus. It was a favorite hang-out for the university crowd, who loved the vintage shops, used book stores and of course, cafes, lining its pavements. Read the rest of this entry »
Milliardo squinted against the sunlight. “Come on Treize; don’t tell me you can’t wait a few minutes.”
“Mil, Wufei has been waiting for the past fifteen minutes in Westwit Hall. I’m already more than late!”
“What’s the big hurry to get home all of a sudden? The two of you usually leave at three o’ clock anyway.” Milliardo frowned. “Don’t tell me you’re blowing off our Wednesday afternoon coffee — again.” Read the rest of this entry »
Heero bolted awake — panting. He clutched at his sheets, trying to make sense of the darkness around him. Yes … the vague lump in the corner was really his green armchair, and not the half-crouching figure it looked to be … and those glowing slits near the foot of his bed were not monstrous eyes but the reflectors on his worn sneakers… Trembling, he listened and knew the wailing on the roof was not a voice from his past, and that the insistent bang, bang bang echoing in the silence was not a gun, but the autumn wind clattering against the shutters. Read the rest of this entry »
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Beautiful Monster by Joely Skye
