Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ I Got Game! ❯ Liberate ( Chapter 4 )

Alternate Universe, Sci-Fi, Sporty, Some Events Based On Authoress's own experiences....(wee! Basketball!)

Standard Disclaimers Apply: Don't own Gundam Wing, but I own every original character that emerges...Don't own the songs listed with the chapters, either...

>*<>*<>*<>*<>*<= means scene change

Pairings: For now, 3+4, 1+2, 5xM & various others..

A/N: >sniff!< Thank you, TaylorMercury for writing that very wonderful, very needed, very much lovely review! Wah! It made me so happy that I saved it! I was wondering what people thought of my story and here I got an answer to one! Hooray! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I wanted to make the charas into people that you felt that you knew and could somewhat identify with! Thank you so much! And don't worry-I very much plan on writing a lemon (or two, or three, or seven) with this story! After all, I did promise, didn't I? ^_^

Chapter Four~

"Liberate" = Slipknot

The next morning, Quatre was awake by three, both nervous and yet excited. He stared up at the ceiling above his bed, clutching his blankets. He could hear the low hum the building made with its electronics and its heater, and could hear the sounds of the city, muffled from both distance and from the closed window. He could hear his heart beat, a slow bump-bump-bump that let him know his body was working well and without trouble. He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, thinking about try-outs.

He felt nervous, but only in the way that one got when presented with competition-he felt pumped, anxious, determined...He knew he was an automatic shoe-in, but he still wanted to show that others that he deserved a spot on Varsity, and not on Junior Varsity. He was only a sophomore, a no-name from a small town from the Mid-West, and he was against others that were older, more experienced, with more recommendations from other well known schools and scholarships. He had to prove himself, to show the others that he belonged on the team.

When he finally shoved the blankets away and let his bare feet touch the carpeted floor, the digital clock read 4:10 a.m. He didn't plan on taking a shower, figuring upon one later on, and dressed in a new muscle tee and basketball shorts, pulling on a pair of no-show socks and his shower slippers. After he was dressed, he left the room to brush his teeth, and returned to his room in a fit of nervousness. Pacing his room, he located the shower box full of toiletries, and slicked on some underarm anti-perspirant . He then began to stretch his muscles, concentrating on his goal of showing the others what he was capable of once he made the team. He was too nervous to eat anything, so he didn't bother going to the cafeteria. As the time drew closer, he threw on a sweater, tied his laces of his Ginobuli's together and threw them over his shoulder, and grabbed a basketball. He then made his way to the gym, mentally running over last year's play-by-plays in early season scrimmages. The methodical operation his mind took calmed his anxiety almost instantly. He grew confident the closer he drew to the gym in the early morning darkness, his slippers scuffing against the sidewalk. He would rise above the others and succeed. He would show them all.

>*<>*<>*<>*<>*<

Trowa waited until Quatre left the dormitory before following. He yawned quietly, yanking on a black, hooded sweater over his head and quietly cursing the cold-streak New Park was currently having. He was a little annoyed that his obsession chose to get up so damn early, but he figured that whatever decision Quatre made was something he'd have to accept. He followed at a careful distance, dressed still in a pair of cotton pants decorated with small skulls and a pair of old shoes shoved over two pairs of socks. He pushed his hair from his face and figured that if anyone wanted to talk to him, they'd just have to endure his monster morning breath, because he hadn't found the time to brush his teeth just yet. There were other wannabe players walking toward the gym, just barely visible within the sidewalk lamps that illuminated the early morning darkness. Trowa waited until Quatre disappeared into the gym before he went around the side. He glanced around him to make sure no one seen him, then walked up to the locker room exit doors, designed for the away teams that felt the need to come in through the side rather than the front entrance. He pressed in numbers on the security keypad, silently thanking Drake for that piece of information in granting him access. Someway, somehow, the Seminole had discovered security codes for nearly all of Trowa's haunts, and after a very pretty penny and most of his on-the-side drug-selling payments, Trowa had access to the places no one but the admin staff and security staff had access to. This was his usual way of entering the gym without anyone noticing him-he usually went the same way every time Quatre took the gym after school.

After locking the door behind him, Trowa made his way through the darkness of the locker room to the gym doors, and entered quietly. As he thought, no one was there yet, all of them still within the home team locker room across the gym. He made his way up the bleachers on his right and turned left at the very top, walking the silent distance to a corner section of the gym that was reserved for the media during game nights. There was a balcony setting that allowed the media to set up their cameras and their operators in evenly spaced sections, and Trowa usually hid here to avoid having people see him. He took his usual position at the very end of the balcony, hidden carefully from view from those within the gym. He settled himself down on the hard concrete floor, where a certain sitting position allowed him to see out through the hole for the visiting camera's power cords. He settled into a comfortable position, yawning again. He heard the sounds of basketballs hitting the wooden floor, the sounds of nervous laughter and small-talk from the hopefuls. Peeking through the hole, Trowa located Quatre, talking quietly with Hautta and William, both of whom looked immensely dreary. From Trowa's position, the court spread from him in an angle, preventing him from seeing the other end of the bleachers near the home team's locker room, and preventing him from completely seeing the rim and court section below the balcony. But since he could see the basic shape of the court and a majority of the action, Trowa wasn't about to complain. He knew Quatre was focused entirely on the try-outs, and wouldn't even notice him even if he looked up, but Trowa knew the coaches had problems with people wanting to watch try-outs and wouldn't allow him to stay if Ramos knew he were here.

William was talking about early morning boners while Hautta glared at him, Quatre focusing on making small shots from the free-throw line. Trowa located Hiiro, Duo, and Solo at the other end, Duo flicking angry glances at the others down the court. Trowa hugged himself, yawning once more as he waited for the try-outs to start. At first he wasn't going to come, but then yesterday's events convinced him otherwise. He knew that Quatre was trying to tell him that a relationship, or anything of the sort, wasn't what he wanted. Trowa knew from prying that Quatre had left Laramie in a flurry of some sort of gay scandal, but no one knew why. He figured that his reluctance with his sexuality made Quatre very cautious about pursuing a relationship. Trowa figured he could wait, and in the meantime, would follow his obsession about just to make sure things were all right. The other players made Trowa a little anxious as to what would befall his obsession, so he wanted to keep an eye on them.

Other hopefuls filled the court, a mixture of girls and boys that filled the gym with their raised voices and pounding rhythm of basketballs. Personally, Trowa thought that the code of allowing girls on the team should be annulled. Sure, Sophia Darken was an equal opportunity school, but things were better without the female sex immersing themselves into popular boys' sports. They made things so uninteresting and political.

Ramos walked out onto the court, along with his two managers and a water girl. He called for everyone's attention, and launched into some speech about whether one made the team or not. Trowa rolled his eyes and wished for him to hurry so that the try-outs would begin. While he waited, his eyes settled on Quatre, who fiddled with the rubber lining of his basketball, knee jiggling with his anxiety.

"Good luck, love," Trowa said quietly, eager to see what else the love of his life had to present to the others.

>*<>*<>*<>*<>*<

After that morning's try-outs, Quatre hurried back to the dormitory, wiping sweat from his brow. Other students were making their way to the main school building, and he had fifteen minutes before he was to be in his first morning class. He ran all the way to his room, throwing his shoes and basketball in the corner of the room, snatching up clean clothing, and running to the bathroom at the end of the hall. By the time he'd made his way out of the dormitory, the first bell was ringing. He sprinted the entire way, hauling ass up the stairway and making his way toward his seat.

The tardy bell rang then, and Quatre caught his breath, adjusting the knot on his tie, ignoring the curious stares of the other students. The teacher began talking about their previous field trip then, and he input his code into the computer, watching as the class text came into view. When it was obvious that he was supposed to take a pop quiz on muscles in the dissected cat's body, he went through the test quickly, his mind still running over try-outs earlier that morning. He had been slightly impressed at the other students' diligent work as they ran through typical warm-up exercises, continuous laps, side-splitting suicides, free throws and a small scrimmage, but he was impressed with himself. The elevation had to be lower here, because he had been in better shape than most. At the end, while everyone gasped for breath after their sixtieth suicide, Quatre himself had walked off his exertion without pause. The only ones able to keep up were the seniors, a couple of juniors, Hautta and Hiiro. Duo had come in last, but his determination more than made up for what he couldn't do. A couple of the girls, a Sally Po, Hilde Schbeiker, and a Samantha Neilson, whom he'd recognized as Perfect Cindy's best friend, had kept right up with the boys, but, as girls were, were unable to completely keep pace with their male counterparts. Ramos had announced that the next morning's try-outs were going to be pure sprints and even more laps, and a small scrimmage afterward, but Quatre knew that they'd already made their choices. Out of the forty-some that had tried out, only fifteen had met some of Ramos' checklist. The others remaining would fall onto Junior Varsity, and that included nearly all the freshmen, a few sophomores and a couple of juniors. The seniors trying out would automatically make the team because of their performance last year as juniors. Quatre knew he was going to be part of the fifteen-it was obvious to both himself and the coach.

Sitting in class now, he wiped at his drying hair, grinning. It felt good to have all his muscles complaining, his body energized from the activity. His hands itched to feel the basketball in them once more, and he looked forward to tonight's scrimmage, if there was going to be any. He wasn't sure of the others' reactions to his actions, as Hiiro stuck close with Duo, the both of them pointedly ignoring him but competing viciously to keep pace with him. Quatre was glad they were sticking together-that sort of comradery was valuable on the court. Perhaps their differences would be worked out and they would pull together as a team when it mattered. He didn't want their personal differences to fuck things up during the most crucial points of a game. Any game. It didn't matter how important it was ranked. Every game was important and crucial to Quatre. He just hoped everyone else shared the same attitude.

After school, he hurried back to his dorm room, barely acknowledging those that greeted him. He was on a mission, and it was to perfect his skills and keep what he had in tip-top shape. He changed quickly and was out the door with a basketball under arm in less than ten minutes. When he reached the gym, he found it empty. The others were probably resting due to their exertions this morning for the upcoming week's agenda, so he had the gym to himself.

Smiling with satisfaction, Quatre began shooting threes, losing himself to the smooth rhythm of shooting the ball, sprinting for it, returning to a different position on the three-point line, then releasing the same set of movements. He grew so intensely involved with the rhythm that he didn't hear or see anybody coming in until his ball was snatched up. He paused in running for it, wiping the sweat from his face. Duo faced him, dressed out in his standard workout clothes, sweatband keeping his bangs from his face. Quatre tensed, unsure of what the popular character wanted now, especially with the strange Mafia-style 'hit' that had been ordered upon him. Duo's bruises were fading and healing, leaving behind yellowish splotches that let one wince.

Staring uneasily at the sophomore, who tore his steely gaze from him and turned to study the ball in his hands, Quatre waited for him to either speak or try to engage in some sort of physical combat over their differences. But instead, Duo shrugged one lanky shoulder, and began dribbling the ball. Quatre continued to watch with uncertainty plain on his face as Duo moved away from him, and began warming up. After awhile, it was apparent that Duo didn't want to warm up alone, so Quatre cautiously began to shoot with him, the pair alternating whenever one made the shot. When he realized that Duo wasn't going to do anything threatening and was just playing because of their shared interest, Quatre relaxed. In a way, he was very much relieved that Duo was setting aside their first confrontation, and in another, he was still a little wary. After all, it could be a trick, a ploy to allow his defenses down and to attack when Quatre wasn't expecting it.

But then again, they were just shooting the ball, and words weren't being exchanged, nor dirty looks. It was just a mutual love of the game that kept them together on the court, tentatively reading each other's minds and body as they handled the ball. Quatre completely relaxed himself to the game and concentrated on making his shots. If it were going to be that way, then why should he complain?

>*<>*<>*<>*<>*<

At dinner, Quatre found himself dining alone once more, but the only difference was that he was on his second plate. All the activity, which had skyrocketed due to his favorite obsession, gave him an appetite that he felt rivaled Castok's. He'd just finished wolfing down an extra piece of grilled chicken breast when Trowa walked in, looking irritated. Quatre wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as the goth strode over to his table, auburn hair shoved with irritation behind one ear. Armed with a bottle of Pepsi and what looked to be peanut butter M&M's, Trowa sat down opposite him, glaring at the empty plates before Quatre.

"What?" he snapped.

Trowa stared at him for a few silent moments, then shook his head, uncapping his Pepsi to drink. Studying him, Quatre saw the faintest smudge of circles underneath Trowa's eyes, and wondered what he'd been up to. Probably selling drugs to the cokeheads, he mused with a frown. Not that he knew any-drugs were as foreign to him as...as outer space. He wouldn't know what they looked like nor what they did.

Trowa relaxed the glare on his face, sitting straight. Quatre noticed that he was dressed in a heavy black sweater, fingernails trimmed very neatly and re-painted, cuffs and bangles slipping and sliding with each movement of his arms. Quatre wondered how the guy wore so much things on his arms and how he thought fingernail polish was just so...hip. He thought it was rather...icky. But then again, he found his attention caught by the ten digits all the time anyway. So obviously black fingernail polish did something for Trowa's social life.

"Well?" Trowa asked, rummaging in the front pocket of his sweater, pulling out another bag of M&M's. he offered some in Quatre's direction, but the blond declined. "How do you think you did?"

"Very well. As expected. There were a lot of good hopefuls out there, today."

"Who do you think's going to make it?"

"Well, Hiiro, of course. Duo, Hautta...that Sally Po was really good. I feel weird about girls being on the same team, though."

"Yeah."

"We didn't have girls on our teams. The last time I played coed was in eighth grade. I didn't like it. They don't play the same as guys. I feel like I have to tip-toe around them, you know? Because they're so....girlie."

"You're so totally gay, man."

"I am NOT!" Quatre sputtered angrily. "And why does that make me 'gay'?! I didn't play with girls the same way I played with guys!"

Trowa laughed heartily before he dropped some multi-colored chocolates in one open hand. Quatre's eyes widened with what he said, and he grew red, slamming his trays together into a neat pile. "You know what I mean!"

"I know, I know...I didn't mean to laugh, Quatre. It was just funny the way you said it." Trowa cleared his throat, settling more comfortably in his seat.

"I wasn't trying to be funny," Quatre muttered, fiddling with the trays.

Trowa chewed on the delightful peanut butter and chocolate pieces, facing him. Quatre found himself the object of close scrutiny once more, the emerald eyes seeming to caress every inch of his face and whatever exposed skin was available Quatre couldn't help but feel somewhat molested, the burning intensity of Trowa's eyes making him feel...odd. It was uncomfortable because he recognized that while he was somewhat attracted to the auburn-haired teen, he was uncomfortable with the entire thing in general. He wasn't sure how to proceed, how to escape. He knew he definitely didn't want a relationship with either gender, because he knew it was unfair to them. But then at the same time, he had to admit that some of his own hormones were taking notice of the situation. Even as Trowa continued to stare at him in a way that made Quatre think of a hungered animal on a fresh carcass, he could feel his own bodily desires coming to the surface.

Shifting, Quatre paid more attention to the tile of the cafeteria floor than to the teen in front of him. Trowa finally sensed the blond's nervousness and shifted his eyes to another direction. He couldn't help but devour what he could see-the blond had toned seriously during his exercise routines, and his toned body was distracting Trowa's thoughts. He reached up, scratching the back of one ear, trying to remember what he was going to say. But the silence grew between them, so when a group of wrestlers entered the cafeteria, Trowa found his exit. It wasn't that he wanted to go-the company of others with their loud voices and annoying boasts of manliness grew on his nerves. He tapped the table for Quatre's attention as he rose from the bench seat, then walked off.

Quatre stared after him for a few moments, then rose from his own seat to put the trays away. Tomorrow was another day, and it being Thursday, he had to catch up on some of his studying before a test on Friday.

>*<>*<>*<>*<>*<

The next morning, after try-outs, Ramos approached him, followed by the assistant coaches and their manager. Quatre paused in walking out after William, wiping his face with a towel that the water girl had provided.

Randy Ramos was tall, nearly six foot eight. Once a former college basketball player, he was sidelined permanently due to a knee injury. He was friendly enough, Quatre thought. He saw, as the coach approached him, a familiar newsletter from Laramie's small newspaper circulation of local news. He recognized it because it had last year's State Championship report inside, along with a couple of photos of him and Jamie in action on the court. He felt his stomach turn when he saw Jamie's photo-the familiar square-shaped jaw, the tousled black locks, the intense concentration on his friend's face. It brought back unwanted memories, and to distract himself, Quatre wiped his face with the towel again, heart racing.

"I'm sure you're quite familiar with this," Ramos said, shaking the newspaper at Quatre. "I've done some research on you. You worked well with this power forward, this...Jamie Anderson, didn't you?"

"Yes," Quatre muttered. That was an understatement-it was as if the two had been one person, able to read the other's mind and future actions. They communicated with nothing, and passed only because they'd known the other was going to be there. He didn't think he would ever have that sort of bond again with someone else. That had taken years and the same love of the sport to create.

"Do you think you would work with the same intensity with someone else?"

"I would have to."

"What happened to this guy?"

"He's still there."

"Maybe he's interested in coming this way?"

"No," Quatre said on a mixture of a laugh and snort.

Ramos stared at him for a couple of seconds, then nodded. He gestured at the others that were making their leave, wanting to hurry before their next class. "All of these players trying out today all have that same burning intensity to win. They all have the same goal, the same future. I've noticed, and heard, about a lot of discord between you and the others. I really would like for my team to have a comfortable balance with each other, a peaceful link. Do you think differences can be set aside for this season? Because if we have even one person dragging the team down with their differences, then the entire season goes to shit. I would like for everyone to set aside their problems once they enter this gym. I want that championship this year. I want to know if you can handle it."

Quatre made a sound of committal, nodding his head as he fiddled with the towel. Ramos looked him over, and gestured with the paper. "You're not like the others, and the only reason why I recruited you was because of your intensity, your determination. You, among a couple of others, are going to be the shortest players around. There are aliens competing here that will be taller, faster, stronger. Laramie doesn't have any of that sort there, do they?"

"No."

"But they don't bother you, right?"

"No. I'll still play the same as I did before."

"All right." Ramos stared at him for a few moments, then patted him on the shoulder with the newspaper. "Just keep up what you're doing. There isn't a reason for you to not earn a spot on the team. As far as I'm concerned, as well as these others think, you're an automatic starter. See you around, Winner."

Quatre nodded, but wasn't sure of what to make of the conversation. He wiped his neck and shoulders, frowning as he stared after Ramos and the others. Did Ramos think that he was the start of all the discord between the players? It wasn't his fault. They were the ones who-

He shook his head to clear his mind. It just wouldn't do to dwell on that now. As far as he was concerned, he didn't do anything wrong but bring his talent to full-force in view of the others, who were simply jealous or worried about their own positions. He started walking off, running through the conversation once more. When he reached the outside doors, he began to run, hearing the first bell ring.

>*<>*<>*<>*<>*<

In auto mechanics, while the instructor began showing them detailed instructions on how to change the spark plugs and re-route computer wires throughout the main brain of the computer-ran vehicle, Trowa left his usual position near the front to stand in back with Quatre, who had been muttering with Felicia over some previously heard gossip about Drake. Felicia left his side to demand some answers to ridiculous questions, all in an effort to distract the instructor from noticing that Trowa was talking to Quatre. The instructor hated when people were talking while he was.

"Who's Jamie Anderson?" Trowa asked lowly, Quatre stiffening immediately at the question.

He looked at Trowa with an incredulous gaze, fiddling with his tie. Trowa looked down at him, waiting, his expression clearly stating that he wanted an answer. Quatre decided that no one needed to know about Jamie Anderson. "I don't know. Who's Jamie?"

"I'm asking you."

"I don't...know any Jamie."

"I heard that you do."

"Well, I don't. Besides, if I do, that's none of your business. If I wanted to tell you about that person, then I would have."

"Was he a boyfriend of yours?"

"No!"

"Girlfriend?"

"No!"

"Quatre...we're friends, right?"

"Well, yes..."

"Then why so guarded about it? I'm just asking because I'm curious about your past."

"Well, that's all it is. My past. There's nothing interesting about it," Quatre sniffed, looking away when the class burst into sudden laughter.

"If it wasn't so interesting, then why do you guard it?"

"Why do you even want to know?!"

"Because I'm curious, Quatre! I'm just trying to get to know you!"

"Well, I don't want you to get to know me so quickly! I feel suffocated by you!"

"Why?" Trowa demanded.

"You just-you're just everywhere I am. I told you repeatedly what I felt about-about things, and you just-you just keep being there!"

"Isn't that what friends do? They be there?!"

"I'm not-!" Quatre took a calming breath, then sighed. Trowa sounded like a jealous boyfriend, and it was grating on his nerves. He'd told the goth repeatedly and made it clear, but it was as if the goth did not get it at all. Like the words went in one ear and left the other. It was frustrating. Quatre didn't have this problem before, and certainly never from the same sex in a similar situation, so he was having some issues with the entire thing. Trowa only made it worse when he hounded him. Quatre didn't feel ready to jump into a serious situation, and that wasn't the point! The point was, Trowa was treating their 'friendship' like a relationship, and it was bothering him!

"Look," he said, turning to face him, sliding into a place a serious and unrelenting expression. "I just want to make it clear here and now-we don't have anything more than a friendship, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, friends let friends have their space. They don't hound them about any and everything, and they certainly stop prying when one asks them to! Right?!"

"I'm not prying, I'm just asking."

"Well, don't ask, okay? If I want to tell you things about my past, then I will. Since I don't right now, stop asking."

Trowa stared at him for several seconds, thin eyebrows drawing together with his own expression of seriousness. Quatre waited for a response, and when he realized he wasn't getting any, turned away from Trowa. He started to join the others but Trowa pulled him back with a simple tug of his arm.

"What?!"

"Don't be mad," Trowa said softly, Quatre's voice raised in frustrated anger. "Just don't turn away from me like that, all right? I don't like it."

"I don't like it when you pry!"

"I'll stop. I was just curious, that's all. I know little about you-I just wanted to know a little more. That's all. I just wanted to get to know you. Please don't be mad."

Quatre frowned, feeling immediately guilty for treating Trowa this way, and withdrew his arm from the other's grip. He acquiesced, shrugging as he pushed his hair from his face. "All right. I'm sorry."

"...And I'm sorry about prying. It just makes me curious, is all."

Quatre grunted, shrugging his shoulders again. "Whatever. It's just...if I want to tell you about things, then I will. Just...stop pushing things."

"I...will. I will. I'm sorry, Quatre."

"...It's all right, Trowa."

At that, Trowa smiled, revealing a sliver of his teeth. Quatre blinked, thrown off by the sudden smile, then tried to look closer for the 'invisible braces' that Felicia had told him about. At this, Trowa then tightened his lips over his teeth, but they were still curved into a smile. They turned away from each other and caught the end of the instructor's lecture, both lost in their own thoughts.

>*<>*<>*<>*<>*<

After lunch, while Quatre was hurrying toward his neck class, he decided to take a shortcut from the cafeteria to the back of the building, where he'd enter a side door that opened near the staircase taking him to his Calculus room. While he was hurrying, he saw Perfect Cindy standing near the corner of the building, smiling and giggling at someone Quatre couldn't see from his position. As he neared the corner of the building, she stepped forward, obviously in the process of kissing someone. He wrinkled his nose at the sight, somewhat ill from the pretty girl's appearance. He still felt embarrassed whenever he was around her, mostly because she aroused odd feelings in him and because she liked to make fun of his background, all the while flirting with him. She confused him entirely, and he liked to avoid her. Felicia called her the White Fat Slut of Whoresville, and Quatre knew the two hated each other the way slugs hated salt....Their encounters, which were rare and far in-between due to their painstaking care of avoiding each other, were laced with biting venom and crackling energy of hate.

Perfect, he found out, was the daughter of a very rich Senator in outer space, and thus had special treatment from the staff and administrators. She was extremely spoiled, rich, and flirtatious. She had a fair number of people who disliked her to the people who liked her. Quatre just wanted to avoid her.

He rounded the corner, glancing at her with distaste. Then his eyes landed on the boy she was kissing, and he froze slightly, face contorting with a grimace. Perfect and Hautta pulled away from each other, Perfect giggling over something while Hautta stared at him with some surprise. Quatre hurried away, feeling oddly let down from the encounter. He knew Hautta and Felicia had a relationship, she was the reason why he was on Earth in the first place, and that Felicia worshiped the alien despite their obvious tensions. He himself admired Hautta because of his athletics and mind, but when he saw the cheating that went on with Felicia's nemesis, Quatre felt a little disappointed with the other.

Then again, he really wasn't that close with Felicia, either. She merely talked to him because of Trowa, or because they had the same class. She didn't bother with him away from class, or bothered to single him out for any other reason. They were more like acquaintances rather than friends. And frankly, he didn't think he could be friends with someone who bullied others into doing her work for her.

Quatre made his way to his class, and chose to sit next to someone else due to the free seating that happened. That situation behind the school made him uncomfortable. In a way, he wanted to let Felicia know what her boyfriend was up to, and then again, he felt that it wasn't his place. To avoid conflict, he decided to avoid both. In the meantime, as soon as he found his seat, he began focusing on other things. Like this morning's try-out session: all the running, the sprinting, the multiple laps, the scrimmaging, was barely straining him. His muscles felt deliciously tired and worn, and he reveled in the feeling because it made him feel good. Ramos' words of earlier still clung to him despite his resolve not to think about it, and he wondered if Ramos knew the real relationship with Jamie Anderson. Which brought back this morning's encounter with Trowa.

As class began, Quatre thought about Trowa. It annoyed him that Trowa treated him as if they were in a relationship, but he couldn't help but wonder how Trowa found out about Jamie. The incident back in Laramie was kept behind closed mouths and slamming doors, and the kids at school didn't find out until after he'd left their school and was in the process of applying for Sophia Darken. Recalling the incident with sickening clarity, Quatre sunk low in his seat, cheeks heating. He didn't know what had happened until afterward, and that was only because by the time the act was completed, he'd sobered up some.

Thinking about it now, he remembered his vow to never touch alcohol ever again.

>*<>*<>*<>*<>*<

That night, inside the gym, he'd just finished his personal drills of free-throws and jumpshots when the doors opened, admitting Trowa in his black jeans, flame-toe boots, and a deranged puppy t-shirt. He wore his usual bangles and cuffs, his hair pushed from his face. Quatre paused in making his thirtieth jump shot when Trowa walked onto the court, surveying the emptiness with a smirk.

Quatre made the shot, and didn't have to go after it because Trowa picked up the ball and passed it back. Quatre hesitated in continuing, settling the ball against his chest in a half-hearted shooting position. He then relaxed, wiping his sweat from his brow and watched Trowa as Trowa watched him. He started to feel molested once more, shifting uncomfortably in his silver and black b-ball shorts and muscle tee. Why was it whenever he was in Trowa's presence did his body feel uncomfortably violated? And the boy wasn't even touching him, he was just looking. Could he handle this?

"You're all alone in here," Trowa observed, his voice loud within the gym. Quatre nodded, and made the shot, Trowa retrieving the ball and bouncing it his way. Quatre caught the ball with his left, and shot with his right. At the 'flpht!' sound the ball made as it passed through the net, Trowa went after the ball, and passed it back to him. Quatre moved into a comfortable rhythm with just catching and shooting the ball, rather than running after it and setting up all over again.

"How many of these do you do?" Trowa asked after awhile, adjusting the rubber bangles on his arm.

"About two hundred each section."

"Christ. Don't you get bored?"

"Do you get bored with drawing?"

"Yes. That's why I paint."

"It's still the same thing. You're painting with a brush rather than a pencil."

"It's entirely different mechanics."

"Which is why after two hundred I switch to the free throw line. And after that are my threes. Then after that are various scattershots."

Trowa caught the ball and passed it to Quatre. He had to bend and keep it from bouncing past him, through. "How can you keep yourself cooped up in this gym? I'll bet you even have the benches memorized."

"I wouldn't know. I've only been there once," Quatre replied as he finished his section, and moved to the free throw line.

"What happens if Ramos benches you," Trowa asked after awhile.

"Why would he?"

"Because of Hiiro. Hiiro proved himself last year that he could handle that position. And he was only a freshman."

Quatre positioned himself with the ball, and made the shot with his right hand. He glared at Trowa, who was ruining his concentration with his constant talking. Not that he couldn't concentrate while there were things going on around him, it was just annoying to have him here in the gym, bothering him while Quatre worked on his shots.

"Ramos is confident that I can do it," he then answered, switching hands. As a result of his irritation, the ball hit the backboard and bounced off the rim with an annoying twang. Trowa had to jog to catch up to the ball. Quatre centered himself again, and shot with the same hand, growling when he missed again.

"Are you confident that you can?"

"Yes!"

Bang! Twang!

"Trowa, you're distracting me, go away."

At this, Trowa smirked, pausing when he prepared to pass the ball. Quatre glared at him, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"So I finally have your attention?"

"I don't want to! But I can't concentrate when you're here, talking to me!"

"Then what's going to happen when the gym's full? And everyone's talking?"

"I can do it because then it's a whole different matter! You're here, talking to me about dumb, useless things, and I can't concentrate on my drills! I keep missing everything that I should be making easily!"

"Then that means you need a break."

"I don't want a break!"

"C'mon. We'll take a walk around campus!"

"No, Trowa! Give me my ball!!"

Trowa snorted, shaking his head, holding the ball hostage. Quatre glared at him, brushing his sweaty hair from his face. "Give me my fucking ball!"

"Ooh, you're starting to cuss now. Maybe I should..."

"Yes! Give it back!"

"You're stressed out over nothing. Quatre, you're an excellent player. But don't you think you're overstraining yourself?"

"NO! This is what I do! I told you before this is what I do!"

"For how many years have you done this? I'm surprised you haven't yet burned yourself out..."

Quatre considered stomping the floor with his foot, but then that would make him seem unmanly and he would be accused of being gay once more. So he started toward Trowa with murder in his eyes. Trowa, seeing this, considered just holding the ball over his head, but he'd seen Quatre leap high from a standing position to catch a ball flying over his head. Then he considered running, but then that would make him seem like a girl taking off with some guy's hat, and then it would seem...gay. But then again, now that he had Quatre's full attention, he had to do something to keep it that way, even if it resulted in something completely girlish and childish. He eyed the bleachers, wondering how far he could throw it.

Quatre stomped up to him, reaching for the ball. So Trowa did the next best thing-he dropkicked the ball in the direction of the bleachers, much to Quatre's fury. They both watched it bounce high up in the left quadrant, then bounce loudly downward off various benches until it nestled somewhere near the media balcony. Quatre rounded on Trowa and socked him in the shoulder, starting after it.

Trowa laughed as he rubbed his arm, Quatre hurrying up the bleachers for his ball. As he did, the doors behind Trowa opened, Felicia running in. Trowa turned, and saw her, her face reddened with considerable fury.

"Whoa," Trowa muttered as she stood next to him, positively fuming. "What's your problem?"

"Where's Winner?!"

"Up there." Trowa pointed.

Felicia turned and bellowed, "OI!!! Didya see Perfect kissing Hautta!?!"

"Holy shit," Trowa chuckled, turning and gaining significant distance from her.

Quatre started upon hearing her voice, turning from retrieving his ball. He stared in her direction, noting her anger from his distance. Then, he started down, forgetting his ball and his anger about Trowa. He wondered how in the hell Felicia found out so damn early. He certainly hadn't told anyone about it...

"Um...what?"

Felicia paced, each footfall filled with her fury. She was vibrating with it. When she faced him, her lips were thin and her eyes were narrowed, making him feel a little vulnerable. There was just something about her that made him wary-maybe it was the way her fists clenched and unclenched, or the way power seemed to radiate from her. Or maybe it was just the way she ground her teeth and gnashed her lower lip with a voracity that looked painful.

"I SAID, did you see Perfect kissing Hautta?!"

Quatre wasn't sure how to answer, not wanting to be involved. She growled, reaching out to grab his t-shirt with both hands. The force with what she used to do so nearly rocked him off his feet. He had to reach out and grab her shoulders to steady himself, and then found himself being forced to bend to face her directly.

"DID YOU?" she growled as Trowa hurried over, his hands on her arms, his calm baritone reminding her that she was dealing with a human, not a superhuman or an alien. She released him, but didn't remove herself from his personal space.

Seeing that he wasn't going to get anywhere with lying, he made a grimace and nodded. Felicia's face burned with a reddening fury, and she whirled from them, and stomped off. Before she did so, she slammed a fist into one of the doors, and both boys watched as the door bent outward with a loud, creaking protest. Quatre blinked as he stared at the destroyed door, then looked at Trowa, who was looking rather unimpressed.

"Oh, God, I didn't want to say anything," Quatre muttered more to himself than to Trowa.

"Yeah. Oh well. That's their thing."

"Hautta's going to be annoyed..."

"No. More than likely they'll fight it out. They always do. Both of them are always covered in bruises when they fight. No one cares. Superhumans and aliens can do whatever they want with each other." Trowa walked off to the benches, and sat, fiddling with his cuffs. Quatre looked after him, blinking. Then he joined him, spreading his legs out from him, hands settled on his thighs. He sighed heavily, frowning as he hung his head.

Trowa looked at him from the corner of his eye, then set his hands at his sides, sliding his hands to fit over the curve of the bench they sat upon. "You know, Quatre...when the season starts...I want to be there for you in every step of the way."

Quatre grunted, shifting to lean back on the bench so that his arms bent backward, resting on the bench behind them. He stared up at the ceiling of the gym, counting the metal beams and joists up above them. He counted the flags of the school's championships, noting the equal number of wrestling, baseball, softball, soccer, track and field, cross country, basketball, wrestling, tennis, swimming...there were also a few on fencing, martial arts, gymnastics and ballet. Staring at the flags, he listened to Trowa talk, but he didn't really pay much attention because it was pretty much the same thing that Trowa told him all the time.

Interrupting him in the middle of always wanting to be near him, Quatre pointed upward at the flags. "She told me you used to play...what did you do?"

A little annoyed at the change in subject, and thus another diversion to the relationship Trowa really wanted, Trowa looked up at the flags and sullenly leaned against the bench behind them, crossing his arms over his chest. He stared at the different sports, frowning. "You're going to laugh at me," he then decided.

"No, I won't. I promise."

"Gymnastics was one of them. Baseball...and I was a benchwarmer for basketball. I wasn't good, but I wanted to do it because my ex did it. I did it to spend more time with him."

Quatre saw an exit from his situation and looked at Trowa curiously. "Who was that?"

Trowa grunted, not wanting to answer, but wanting to share his experience, thinking that maybe Quatre would do the same. He shifted in his seat, crossing his left ankle over his right knee. "His name was Ralph Curt. He was a year older than I."

"Is he still here?"

"No. He enrolled into military school. Duncan Jones, across town."

"I heard of that place."

"Really strict, really...they're trained to deal with the aliens and such in New Park City. Anyway, he fell in love with some woman named Chris...I hear they're married, now."

Quatre raised his eyebrows. "So quickly..."

"Yeah."

"But I thought he was fooling around with some..."

"Chris is a guy's name. That's all people know. I just let them think that."

"Oh." Quatre stared at the empty court, thinking of Trowa's situation. The slight humming of the heater, combined with the power that kept the place brightly lit, seemed to mesmerize him, as he fell into a thoughtful lull. Trowa nudged his side with an elbow, and he straightened quickly.

"I divulged," Trowa said, frowning at him. "It's your turn."

Quatre rubbed his arms with a reluctant expression, and he clicked his teeth together, not wanting to say, but then again, feeling guilty that Trowa divulged into something he didn't want to talk about, so Quatre felt obligated to do so. He decided on a very censored version so Trowa didn't get any hopes up for a possible future for them.

"All right. There was this guy at home. We grew up together. We...didn't know what was happening, we got drunk after a game, fooled around...His parents found out, told my father, and here I am."

Trowa scoffed. "Is that the big scandal that you're hiding? That's normal. Everyone goes through it."

Quatre grunted, sneering at the court. "Sure. That's all it was."

Trowa shifted up from his seat, leaning so close that Quatre felt he had to move just to get some breathing space. He felt himself leaning slightly to the left just to give himself some space. Instead, Trowa's hands found their way to his hair, his thin, graceful fingers sliding through Quatre's sweaty locks. With an embarrassed air, Quatre leaned far enough away to dislodge Trowa's hand from his head. Trowa chuckled lightly, but didn't move from his suffocating position. Instead, Quatre's arm found itself being caressed, soft palms and fingers rubbing from his biceps to his wrist guards. It wasn't at all uncomfortable, and there wasn't anyone to see it and them, and it did feel okay... Quatre let Trowa do so, but he was a little... nervous. As if sensing it, clinging precariously to Quatre's slight admittance to his touch, Trowa kept rubbing his arm, reveling in the feel of hardened muscle and elegance that the limb seemed to hold. His skin was warm, lightly feathered with hair, and slightly slick with sweat. It made Trowa's own hand grow nervous and moist upon feeling able to touch his object of obsession. He was sure to recall this moment with a flash of excitement every time he thought of it. He memorized the limb, noting the way the muscles moved as Quatre shifted, the way the light blond hairs on his forearm caught the light of the gym.

The silence was overbearing. Quatre shifted away from him, looking for his ball. He felt his cheeks flush with the moment, and, determined to ignore it and move on, walked up the bleachers to locate his ball. Trowa withdrew his hand and tried not to get angry that his moment was cut short. But for the remainder of the night, he stayed out of Quatre's way and didn't pry any further into his past.

>*<>*<>*<>*<>*<

The next morning for try-outs, as Quatre was warming up on the court, he heard Travis choke and a few mutters of expressed shock. He looked up from stretching the inside of his thigh to see Hautta walking in, a bruise on his right cheek and a couple of scratches on one bared arm. He ignored everybody, standing near the back to stretch his own limbs. Duo, who was stretching near Quatre, snorted.

"Someone must've told the bitch who he was doing when he wasn't with her," he said to someone out of Quatre's sight, and he didn't hear the muttered reply. Thoughtfully, Quatre wondered if what Trowa said the night before was true, that the pair were always covered in bruises after a fight.

"That's so fucking nasty, man," someone else said, chuckling. "Perfect probably crushes him all the time. She's so fuckin' fat."

"She's so hot, you gay-ass dick. More cushin' for the pushin'," someone else replied, earning a couple of laughs. "Besides, you'd rather have a womanly chick than a wannabe man."

"You're right...at least he finally picked the right color..."

"Fuckin' chink, man. They always get it wrong..."

Quatre rolled his eyes and continued to stretch.

Hilde Schbeiker, who was sitting near Duo, groaned loudly. "Man, all of you are stupid. That bitch is a bitch!"

"Which one?" Sally Po asked, giggling. The senior's blond plaits were momentarily tied on top of her head, keeping her hair from her face. The muscles in her arms flexed as she worked her stretch, bouncing slightly.

"Er...you got me! But I like Perfect a lot less than Felicia."

"Anyways..."

"Perfect can suck me off anytime!"

"She did, didn't she? Everyone's favorite whore..."

"What do you think?" Duo asked, nudging Quatre in the side. Quatre opened his mouth to reply when someone snickered in the back, "He'd rather Hautta were sucking him off!"

Amid all the laughter and glares that the speaker received from both parties, Ramos walked into the gym, carrying a gym bag full of scrimmage jerseys. That's when the talk and laughter stopped and the last day of try-outs began.