Disclaimer: If I owned -man, Lavi would be my Mary Sue.

As long as I can remember, I've thought my name was funny.

Not like a queer, strange name, I mean flat out drop to the floor hold your sides while crying laughing funny.

Don't get me wrong, my mother didn't feel the same way. I mean, after 40 hours of labor I think the woman can call the kid that pops out whatever the fuck she wants without having to be questioned about it. But I questioned her every day.

"Why?"

"I liked it." she grit her teeth in a way it made it feel like she liked it more than she did me.

"Why?"

"It sounds nice."

"Why?"

"I swear to God L--" she frowned harshly as I bit my tongue to keep from laughing at the near mention of my name. "Just stop. Don't be..." she paused, trying to think of something appropriate to let me know I was being a tiny little asshole, but not in a way that would crush my brittle self-esteem. "Don't be a pest."

She glared at me that way mother's do--that 'my God the sex wasn't nearly good enough for me to have gotten this out of the deal' combined with 'I love you'.

In my defense, I loved her too.

Just not enough to not ridicule her choice of names.

Luckily, I never had any brothers or sisters, so I was the only one that had the unfortunate luck to be named by my mother.

I met my Pop once, and really, it wasn't under the best circumstances. I must have been fourteen, when I came home from after cutting school through the backyard. I did this thing where I would sneak in the house and scare the crap out of my mother. She was always hanging up laundry or in the kitchen, and one time I scared her so bad she cut off half her small finger. I don't think she ever really forgave me for that, but I stayed out of the kitchen for quite some time afterwards, so maybe it was worth it for her when mysteriously the food portions got bigger with my absence during preparation.

Anyways, I climbed over the fence--hopped really, I was a spry little tyke--and came in through the guest room window. We had this tiny house and so it was really more of a closet that had the unfortunate incident involving me and a jackhammer, but my Mom was a sturdy woman and never let a situation dictate her needs. The hole became a window, and that became my means of my life, believe it or not.

I looked around, but nothing was boiling in the kitchen and the laundry lines were absent of any bed sheets. I quirked my ears about, trying to find the direction of her padded shoes, and eventually heard some harsh whisperings coming from the front door. I smiled as I stared at her back, less than a few yards away and holding the door firmly with calloused hands and barely enough room to hold a foot in the space.

Although, there was one.

The whisperings sounded lethal--I knew, I was her son--from her and I stopped there. The wisps of her gray hair curled and stuck to the back of her neck, as her clenched hands caused mild dents in the old wood of the door.

"Let me in."

"No." my mom whispered and I could tell she was giving her 'fuck-off' face from the sound of her clenched teeth.

"It's time I came."

"Get the hell away from my home."

"Our home."

"Pop?" I voiced accidentally. My mom whipped her head around and stared at me with huge eyes, which really, I had been aiming to see, but not like this. I wasn't necessarily the cause of her fear, and this...

...Bothered me.

"My bo--"

"Don't say it!" she shouted, eyes clenched tightly shut. I never expected to see tears, and I saw none. Her frame shook and she tried to shut the door on his form, but now he seemed more determined.

"My boy!" he shouted, reaching through the door. I backed up instinctively, not a big fan of such fervor being directed at me. Oh sure, I'll dish out the random attack hugs and bear hugs, but it's different when the person wants to hug you back, when they wrap their arms around you and tug you forward, wanting you within their grasp.

I'd never been a fan.

"It's me! It's papa!" My mom again tried to shove him out the door, but he was a tall fellow, and my mom just didn't have enough strength in those worn arms of hers to hold a desperate man from the light of his calling.

That poor woman.

He spoke to me like I was five, and at fourteen, I was a bit disgruntled. Not only do I have a man I've never met before calling me 'son', but now I have to listen to him speak to me as though I'm retarded.

However I was amused, and things went differently than one would normally expect of a young boy with a steadfastly, caring mother would--should--really.

I invited him in.

"Fuck Mom," I smiled, slipping my hands in my pockets. "Get the man a drink or something. You wouldn't think he was your husband."

My mother was shocked beyond words and the door flew open, releasing the man. He flew to me and took me in his arms.

"My boy! My boy!" he clasped me tightly and I continued to smile. Not happily, I wasn't happy, I was amused, and a young boy. I looked at the facial expression on my mom's face, and then I smiled happily. She looked at me with the saddest eyes I'd ever seen. Not sad for me, or even for herself, but just so pitiful it was sickening. The man continued to jostle me about as my mother stood by the open door, premature wrinkles settling in and hands that were red from all of her hard work down by her hips. Her mouth drooped downwards and I ignored the repetition of my gender being whispered in my ear.

She looked fucking beautiful, in that moment.

The next day, the man called my father was gone, and so was I. We didn't leave together, no, he left with some important belongings and gunned. I took a small rucksack filled with some personal shit, toothpaste and my favorite bandana and slipped from the guest room window.

I checked on my mom a few years later, and while I'll tell you more of that later, I just have to say right now that I was grinning like a fool when I saw she'd gotten some fugly looking mutt and named it Laibah.

Of course, that isn't my name anymore.

I'm Lavi now, and have lived off the streets of Orleans since that age of fourteen. Just now I met a beautiful girl, and I have to say, life's never been quite like this.

A/N: I have no idea. I'm so out of my element it's not even funny. I have no real experience with first POV, but I really wanted to try it so I am. I'd really appreciate any input you can give me as to what you thought of this. An, 'it was interesting', 'didn't quite grab me' or simply, 'I don't see this at all', I don't care. I need some sort of road stone, if you please.

But as for what I wish this story to become: I would like to turn this into a Romeo and Juliet-like tale. Slightly different, as Lavi's on the street, but there will be gangs involved, I promise you that. :D

As a note, Lavi's original name 'Laibah' is Arabic for 'Entertaining'. I thought it fit. :)

'Lattice windows' were the type of windows used (in China back during the really repressive days) in the women's chambers, when women stayed upstairs all day sewing and 'being worthless'. I don't know, sounded good at the time, but is subject to change. Anyways, hope you enjoyed!