Somewhere in New York Part 3
~~In the clearing stand a boxer and fighter by his trade and he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down or cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame, "I am leaving! I am leaving!" but the fighter still remains.~~
*********
Trudging up twelve interior steps, I follow Heero then wait while he unlocks a door opposite the fire escape and switches on a lamp.
Like the pub below, the rectangular room's decor is a trip back in time. Again dark wood panels, elaborately carved crown moldings and tin ceiling provide further confirmation of the building's place in history. A wide front window overlooks the street; the single rear window keeps watch over the alley. Twins beds are situated on either side to create a walkway. At the far end a freestanding clothes rack, chest of drawers and large trunk completes the makeshift closet.
Heero has already claimed the left side. His bed is draped with a navy blue comforter. Digital clock, a combination CD player/AM-FM radio and a gooseneck lamp sets on the nightstand. An "assemble yourself" desk, with a metal folding chair, is muddled with paperback books, CDs and three dog-eared copies of what appears to be martial arts magazines.
Finally, a framed Bruce Lee "Enter the Dragon" movie poster decorates the otherwise barren the wall.
On the right side my forsaken quarters suffers from obvious apathy. The bed is stark with mattress and pillow bare. A thin coat of dust veneers the nightstand, traces of abandoned cobwebs festoon a floor lamp and dust bunnies have taken up residence under the metal bed frame.
Aware of the Spartan conditions, "Maybe I can beg a blanket." is murmured under my breath.
Noticing my lack of basic necessities, Heero gathers sheets, a pillow case and, thankfully, a heavy woolen blanket from the trunk.
"If you decide to stay we'll see about a comforter." is stated matter-of-factly.
"At the risk of sounding ungrateful," I preface the nagging question, "Why would anyone take in a stranger?"
"Sometimes Pat is impulsive but he's a good judge of character."
Still confused I insist. "Why me?"
Heero shrugs. "He took me in nearly two years ago. I guess he decided to rescue another stray."
"Bathroom is down the hall." Heero directs then, borrowed bedcovers in hand, he urges, "Take a hot shower while I make up your bed."
*********
Even though Pat and Heero seem harmless, I'm relieved the bathroom door has a secure lock.
Refurbished walls are protected by alternating saga green and tan tiles, larger tan tiles cover the floor. An oak cabinet, supporting a sink of faux white marble, sits next to the modern toilet and fiberglass bathtub that's fitted with a shower.
In anticipation of a soothing shower, I turn on the overhead heater, regulate the water a bit on the steamy side and slide the green and tan striped curtain to check any splashing droplets. Duffle bag perched on the closed toilet lid I pick out generic gray sweatpants, a silver gray long sleeve tee shirt, white socks and navy blue boxers.
Unbraiding my rat-nest hair, which is going to be a bitch to wash, I choose not to look at my image reproduced in the square mirror mounted above the sink as I don't wish to be reminded of my scruffy state.
As soon as the hot spray pelts my skin a sturdy shudder threatens to buckle my knees. Hands braced on the wall, I close my eyes and wait until my shocked system adjusts to the sudden temperature change. In slow but steady degrees I back up until my hair is saturated from crown to tips then stand motionless to savor the watery warmth cascading over shoulders and abdomen, manhood, buttocks, legs and feet.
Ocean Breeze body wash liberally lathers cold-stiff muscles. I don't bother the herbal shampoo and conditioner which are Heero's. Got my own; not a charity case, not yet anyway.
Chills eased and freshly shampooed hair free from the city's grubby dregs I dry, dress, brush my teeth then set about combing out my tangle-infested mane. Midway through the laborious plating shoulders ache and arms seem to weigh a ton.
"Not the neatest job." I critique the shoddy braid draped over my shoulder.
With barely enough energy to trek down the hall, I shuffle into my new haven from the callous world to find that Heero has also altered his appearance. Sitting cross-legged on his bed he's garbed in green and white plaid lounging trousers, a green tank top and soft slippers protect his bare feet.
He glances up from writing on the yellow legal pad in his lap to appraise my metamorphosis. "You look a bit more human."
"Feel less like shit." I state tiredly, "Thanks for fixin' my bed."
"No trouble."
Ink pen and pad are laid on the desk, "Going to use the facilities." Heero pauses at the door and smiles, "I'll wish you good night because I doubt you'll be awake when I get back."
I take a moment to wrap the rosary around my humble fortune and shove the wad under my pillow. Layers of covers are yanked over my head. "If consenting to Pat's apparent heartfelt kindness is a mistake I'm screwed." is my final thought before drifting into the numb oblivion of sleep.
Fifteen minutes later Heero treads lightly so as not to disturb the nomad with the curious hairstyle curled up in slumber. His bed frame squeaks under the extra weight, slippers are toed off, the lamp goes dark.
A swish as he slips between the covers then turns on his side to gaze at the enigmatic Duo Maxwell. "Sleep well." he whispers across dusky shadows spawned by the streetlight's glow filtering through drawn woven curtains.
*********
Waking up is accomplished in gradual stages. A tousled head nudges from under the covers, eyes cautiously test the morning light; a more vigilant brain finalizes the guarded scrutiny to prompt a measure of alertness.
Relieved my hand is clutching the rosary-encircled money, I prop up on my elbow. Heero's bed is neatly made. Digital clock's red numbers affirms 8:21A.M.
A sigh accents sitting up, a grunt of effort plants my sock encased feet on the cool wooden floor. As sticky sleep is rubbed from my eyes I notice a note scribbled on a scrape of yellow paper. "Breakfast downstairs."
A trip to the bathroom then back to the bedroom to brush out and rebraid my hair, slip on shoes and stuff the crinkled bills in my pocket.
The alluring aroma of coffee guides me through the kitchen door behind the bar. "Good morning." Heero greets from his place at the stove. "There's no orange juice, but help yourself to the coffee. Do you like oatmeal?" is asked as he stirs a pot of Quick Oats. "I can add raisins."
"I'll eat anything that ain't crawlin' on my plate." I declare, spooning sugar into black coffee that will hopefully prod my senses awake.
Oatmeal with raisins is ladled into bowls, browned toast is plated. A tub of low fat margarine, jar of grape jelly and carton of one-percent milk are retrieved from the fridge. Spoons and knives complete the breakfast tray before Heero carries it to the dining area.
Following on his heels, I grab the coffee pot as I'm in desperate need of a caffeine fix.
Settled in the nearest booth, the outside city sounds are reduced by the wood paneling's natural dampening influence.
Spreading purple jelly on margarine slathered toast, I wonder, "What time does the Shamrock open?"
"Eleven A.M. or earlier if Pat takes the notion."
"Where does Pat live?" I mumble around a mouthful of oatmeal.
"He has an apartment on Longwood Avenue above Woo's Market."
A few minutes of silence spent in eating. For the first time I have a chance for an "up close and personal" look at Heero Yuy.
A recently healed cut traces his jaw line. Another abrasion above his right eyebrow is still red and raw. The bruised discoloration on his right cheekbone plus a slightly puffy upper lip offers alleged evidence of a squabble and evokes the question: "Was the battle worth the battering?"
My speculation about the physical cost of Heero's probable fisticuffs comes to an abrupt halt when he fixes me with the most incredible blue eyes. I stare back, unable to break free from the beguiling cobalt trance.
*********
Intending to ask Duo if he'd like more coffee my mind generates the question, lips part to speak then each word bursts apart and the fractured syllables evaporate as I'm captivated by eyes the oddest shade of blue-no purple-no amethyst.
Stunned by the unanticipated inability to utter a sound I stare spellbound then, mercifully, one word manages to escape the dumbfounded daze. "Coffee?"
*********
"Coffee?"
The inquiry slithers inside my mind before a blink severs the mesmerizing fascination. Mutely I hold out my cup. *Say something.* my inner voice implores to save me additional awkwardness.
"Ah." I hesitate, trying to form some semblance of rational thought. "Yuy. That's Japanese." is stated rather than asked.
Heero's thin lipped grin either signifies amusement or smugness at how easily his alluring gaze disarmed my senses or, maybe, he doesn't realize how damn sexy he is.
"Yeah Japanese."
Better composed, I declare, "You don't look Japanese."
"Father is Japanese, mother is American. What about your parents?"
Hoping no details will be required "Just me." is acknowledged with a shrug.
Heero's expression is unreadable. "Don't want to talk about it?"
I nod affirmatively.
After a contemplative moment, Heero takes the chance he won't overstep his bounds. "If I'm being meddlesome just say so."
"Okay."
"How old are you?"
"Sixteen."
"Going to school?"
"Kinda got off to a rough start this year."
"The Eastside Community Center offers G.E.D classes. If you're interest I'll help you get your previous school's transcripts and sign up."
"Don't you have to be eighteen?"
"Not if you apply as an emancipated minor and Pat agrees to be your provisional guardian."
"Sounds like you've had experience operating outside the system."
A smile flickers across Heero lips, "Pat and I had the same arrangement. At eighteen I registered my mid-semester grades at Edgewood High School, finished the year, took final exams and graduated this past June."
Now it's my turn to garner information. "Are you working?"
"Monday through Friday as an assistant trainer at Goldman Gym and an occasional Saturday night as a bouncer at Club Fifty-Seven."
I couldn't help but smirk, "Did a rowdy drunk do the damage?"
A few seconds until Heero figures out I'm talking about his "battle wounds". "Nope I compete in freestyle martial arts, a combination of kickboxing, karate and street fighting tossed in just for the hell of it."
Leaning closer I avoid the distraction of those alluring blue eyes to study the contest's aftermath. "I hope you won."
"I did."
"Then I'd hate to see the other guy."
TBC...
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