January, midnight.

As a sleet storm fiercely ravaged the slums of Eastern Chicago, a slim figure stood in a dark, solitary alley. Huddled in his winter coat and woolen scarf, he was holding an umbrella, staring down at something half-hidden in between a rubbish bin and a pile of trash.

“You shouldn't stay here.” the figure said, without any real reason “You might freeze to death, you know?”

Crimson eyes stared up at him, blazing and spiteful like the gates of Hell.

“So what? Even if I died right here, right now, it wouldn't be your fucking business anyway.”

The umbrella was closed, revealing a mass of disordered hazel hair.

“You want to die?”

“What if I wanted to die? Would you care?”

“No. Because death is for cowards.”

In the dead of the night echoed the sound of a slap.

Feliciano Vargas, 27, intern at Chicago General Hospital, an ER doctor, stepped out of the shower with a weary sigh. He grimaced as he noticed his cheek still somewhat burned. Shit. That would be hard to explain at work. When he finally reached back to his living room, wearing some comfortable, he found himself under the scrutiny of the same crimson eyes as before.

Oh, fuck! Look, dude, I really didn't mean to hit you that hard.” a weirdly screeching voice said immediately, coupled with a fake smile “I'm sorry. Also, thanks for the soup, but now I'd better be going.”

The brunette let out a grunt.

“Go where? Out in the blizzard? Stay here. I'll give you something clean to change into.”

A part of his mind immediately suggested it was a terrible, horrible idea, but, somehow, he couldn't restrain himself.

Aand after a bit of back and forth, they finally sat together under the white light of his kitchen, Feliciano could finally have a good look at whatever it was that he had “rescued”.

Red eyes, white hair, pale skin.

Oculocutaneous albinism, most probably – quite a rarity. Anyway, he looked as if he hadn't eaten in a week or so, at least judging from the way his skin was starting to adhere to his bones, around his wrists. He couldn't stand these idiots. What the Hell did they think they'd get by refusing food?

Somehow, that strange albino – Gilbert Weilschmidt seemed to be his name, had ended up sleeping on his couch.

One night, two nights, three. A week.

He really didn't know why, but the brunette felt weirdly irritated and appalled by its presence, as if a part of him just wanted to let that pathetic jerk die in a snowstorm, while another equally pushing portion of his soul was inexplicably enthralled by his gestures, his demeanor, his speech. At least, he seemed to be somewhat grateful for the hospitality. He regularly did the dishes, cooked, cleaned around the house – and, as much as he would have liked to be efficient enough to be able to say he could very well do that all on his own, Feliciano knew all too well that, with his never ending shifts, it was a miracle if he had clean clothes for three days in a row.

Anyway, maybe the strange albino wasn't even as malnourished as he had initially thought, despite seeing him eat every day, in fact, he hadn't taken on a single pound, most probably, because, day after day, the clothes he had lent him still outlined his body in the same way,

And at some point after a week or two, he found himself tangled in bed with the Albino, and it became a routine.

The weeks passed. One, two, three, four. They became months, and recalcitrance to deal with certain things didn't diminish at all.

So, Gilbert was still sleeping on his couch – or, rather, in his bed, more often than not – he was still feeding him, and no, he still didn't know why.

Maybe it was for his spotless cleaning. Maybe for the ready-to-eat meals when he came back from a 18-hour-long shift.

Shit. He had become so good at lying to himself, hadn't he?

In any case, whatever the reason, it looked like Feliciano had always a good excuse not to set free that weird, possibly suicidal albino.

So much that, at some point, Gilbert himself had noticed.

“Why the fuck are you still keeping me here?” he asked one day, out of the blue.