This is my first story posted in this fandom, so I'm a bit nervous, but this idea just wouldn't leave me alone. This first chapter doesn't have much in terms of exposition, but hopefully all will be explained satisfactorily as we move forward. Title is from Trading Yesterday's "One Day".

"Conrad!" an unfamiliar voice called.

If the use of a name saved for only his dearest friends hadn't turned his head, the tone of pure relief that only came in the wake of the deepest desperation would have been more than enough.

A young man stood in an alleyway, hands resting on his thighs as he panted, clearly trying to catch his breath. His clothes, for all that they had once been good quality, were torn and dirty. Conrart's eyes narrowed. That wasn't typical wear and tear. Those were the signs of a man who'd been through an ordeal, and recently. He stared at the bent brown head, brows furrowed. Who could this man be?

And then the man looked up, and Conrart knew all at once that they had never met before. That face, those eyes, that smile…he would have remembered. Because for all that something seemed odd about the man's coloring, he was breathtaking.

But as those brown eyes met Conrart's own, they widened in shock, the smile falling away to be replaced by a disbelieving, horrified expression.

"Are you alright?" Conrart asked, moving towards the man automatically.

"Ah…I'm sorry," the man before him said, and Conrart watched as the man attempted and almost succeeded in reconstructing his crumpled expression into something bland. "I thought you were someone I knew. I'm fine. Sorry again for disturbing you,"

The man turned to go, and everything in Conrart cried out in denial. To let anyone go off alone in this state was against his nature. To let the man before him leave at all, let alone like this, caused his very soul to rebel. Conrart closed the space between them with two quick strides, his outstretched hand closing around the boy's shoulder.

The look he received in response immediately had him softening his expression, for all that his grip remained tight.

"What's wrong?" he asked gently.

Conrart never had the chance to hear the man's response, whatever it might have been. Instincts honed through years of traveling with his father and on the front lines of the battlefield had him reacting to the threat before he had fully finished processing it. He pulled the boy back sharply and cut quickly in front of him as he drew his sword.

His instincts had not failed him. No sooner had he positioned himself in front of the stranger, sword at the ready, than three figures appeared in the alleyway, heavily cloaked with covered faces and drawn weapons. At the sight of Conrart, they all froze.

"I thought we'd gotten rid of his protectors," Conrart heard one of them hiss.

This, at least, explained the state of the man's clothes. And a great deal of his desperation. That the man needed protectors said a great deal. That he had been separated from them, by force from the obvious signs, explained a great deal more.

Conrart adjusted his stance to more thoroughly block the man behind him from both view and harm, eyes narrowing and lip curling. If the man was someone in need of protecting, then Conrart would protect him. And Conrart Weller did nothing by halves.

Some of this must have shown in his expression, for the men before him paused. It was the last mistake they ever made. Conrart darted forward, sword parting flesh with the ease of practice, no hesitation on the part of the man who wielded it. The bodies had yet to hit the ground before he returned to his original position. Sword still in hand, he bent over and grabbed the stunned man's arm, yanking him into an upright position.

"Come with me," he said, tone made sharp by the situation. "There could be more of them."

The man looked up at him with wide, wet eyes. Studying his expression at length, he simply nodded.

Conrart tugged the man out of the alley and into the street. The crowds would be the best way to throw off any pursuers. But that meant doing their best to blend in, and to do so he would have to sheath his sword, as much as the thought galled him. He put it off as long as possible, but as their circuitous route finally brought them to the main street, he had no choice.

He spared a moment to curse the mild weather – had it been colder or wetter he might have had a cloak. It would have been put to good use covering Conrart's companion. After all, Conrart was not the one being pursued. Obscuring their true target as much as possible, drawing as little attention to him as possible – both would help Conrart keep him safe.

With this in mind, he reluctantly sheathed his sword. Conrart let his hand drop from around the man's bicep and gripped his hand instead, ignoring the slightly strangled noise the man made as he guided them out into the street. To the rest of the world, they would simply look like a pair of lovers out for a stroll.

There were callouses against his palm, Conrart realized. The fact in and of itself was not surprising; even the most elite of the ten nobles might have marks from sword work. What was surprising was the placement – Conrart was familiar with callouses from hard labor and from sword work both. These corresponded with neither.

It was not his place to wonder, Conrart reminded himself firmly. However, in his new role as protector, there were things it was his place to know. And at that moment, one question trumped all the rest.

"You know my name," Conrart said, keeping his tone light and a placid expression on his face as he leaned closer, the better to maintain the illusion. "But I have not yet been granted the privilege of your own."

The man beside him blanched, looking for a moment as if he had been struck.

Conrart reacted without thinking, tugging the man close into what appeared to be an embrace from an outside perspective. In reality, it allowed Conrart to shield the man while assessing for threats.

"No, I'm fine," the man muttered into his chest. "I…Yuuri. My name is Yuuri."

Conrart waited for a family name, a title, but it soon became clear that more was not forthcoming. Conrart found himself almost approving. For all that he would not harm Yuuri, the young man had no way of knowing he could be trusted. He would simply have to prove to Yuuri that Conrart would keep his confidences safe as well as his person. Still, there was some information he felt compelled to press for.

"Who were they, Yuuri?" Conrart asked, once again fighting to keep his voice even and expression bland at the memory of the men who had pursued Yuuri.

Yuuri's eyes fell, and Conrart could feel the man begin to withdraw, both emotionally and physically. Conrart tightened his grip, pulling Yuuri tight up against his chest, relishing the warmth of him. Reaching down, he angled Yuuri's face upwards once again, forcing their eyes to meet. Yuuri had honest eyes, and Conrart wanted the truth. Sparing a quick thought for the sight they must make, he reached out to brush Yuuri's hair back from his face, allowing his hand to cup Yuuri's cheek. Yuuri's skin was smooth and warm against his palm, but even that could not distract him from what Yuuri's hair had felt like against his fingers.

Dye, or a wig. Conrart was not certain which. He was certain that this was not Yuuri's natural hair.

Who are you Yuuri? Conrart wondered. What are you hiding from?

Conrart knew at least part of the answer to the second question. "Those men were trying to kill you," he said, and his voice was cold even to his own ears.

Yuuri's eyes slid down, but a slight increase in the pressure from the palm against his cheek had those eyes locked on Conrart's once again.

"Yes," he said softly, and those eyes were indignant, hurt, and resigned all at once. But under that, as if Yuuri were trying to hide it, they were above all, scared.

There was more he needed to know, but it was paramount he get Yuuri off the streets. Still, that fear touched something in him, and he vowed to do everything he could to banish it.

"I will protect you," Conrart promised, staring into those eyes.

They widened in surprise before filling with an affection that tugged at Conrart's heart in unfamiliar ways.

"I know you will," Yuuri replied, his voice fond, and his cheek as he pressed it more firmly against Conrart's palm was almost as warm as his smile.

And with that smile, with that tender display of trust, Conrart felt the walls he had so carefully cultivated around his heart come tumbling down.