(Author's Note: this chapter is dedicated to the amazing SallyMason1, who apart from being one of the first out of the ONC gate, has already got 2 stories underway.  A sweet romance, Last Kiss, and a more raunchy affair, Paradise Rising!)

The slamming door echoed through the house, followed by silence.

"Drew?" Jiro called out, despite himself. He knew his brother had gone, without coming up to say goodbye.

He heard the merest whisper of footsteps and Marchel came in. His uniform of white shirt and black slacks as crisp as if he had just dressed. His face bore a look of polite enquiry.

"Did you want something, Master Jiro?"

"No, it's fine. Thank you, Marchel."

Jiro sank back against the covers, hoping the other man would leave without further conversation.

Today was his eighteenth birthday.

Andrew, his twin and older brother by a whole two minutes, had gone out to celebrate, to drink and party with friends while he, Jiro, was stuck in his bedroom. Alone.

Only a few weeks ago, he and Andrew would have left together, jostling and teasing as brothers did, Andrew insisting on his right as the elder to have first pick of potential lovers for the evening. Both of them looking forward to drinking and partying all night.

But then Jiro had got ill and everything changed. Instead of an adventurous companion, he had become a sickly dependant.

Jiro cast a rebellious eye over the expensive furnishings, the huge widescreen viewer, the latest TriVid gamer machine, everything he knew would be the envy of many young men. But... he would trade the lot without a second thought, if only he could get his health back.

A small slice of iced cake sat on his bedside table, complete with a silver fork and fancy plate. Like a mockery of the celebrations.

Jiro's eyes rested on the bottle, full of clear liquid, next to the uneaten cake.

He stretched one hand toward the bottle, then hesitated. Maybe later. He knew from experience that once he'd drunk his medicine, he would fall soundly asleep.

A fine way to spend his birthday!

Why couldn't Drew have taken just a few minutes to come up and see him before he left?

He stirred restlessly, plucking at the bedclothes and flexing his calves, then swung his legs to one side and made an effort to stand up. Gritting his teeth, he made his way to the window, grabbing at the furniture to keep himself upright. He leant both arms on the sill and peered down into the busy street, resting his forehead against the cool plasglas. Men dressed in long black cloaks and women in glittering suits hurried toward the centre of town, eager to reach their entertainment for the night. He wondered how many of them would end up at Andrew's party.

Damn this weakness.

Before, he'd been as fit as a bronco. Able to run for miles and dance until dawn, and then this thrice cursed illness had struck him down, leaving him as weak as a new born foal. The nightly medicine was the only thing that kept him going.

He toyed half-heartedly with the idea of playing one of his TriVid games but he simply didn't have the energy. Trying hard not to feel sorry for himself, he fumbled his way back to bed and drank the medicine, pulling a face at the horrid taste.

Nevermind, only a couple more weeks of treatment to get through and he would get better, and then everything would be back to normal.