Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ I Got Game! ❯ Never Say Never ( Chapter 5 )

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 little bit of lime in this bit...

// \\: flashback

A/N: You know what? I don't know what try-outs consists of. On my team, I was automatically accepted because we had like, ten people going to the high school. Ha! Ha! But I'm guessing, like soccer, there's a ton of running and drilling to see what moves you got and what you're capable of. My cousin, the die-hard b-ball player, mentioned hours of running, scrimmaging, drills and such that make my head spin and my fatty heart race and die at the thought. So, upon figuring on that, I write what I hear...>sigh!< I would suck as an investigative reporter..

Chapter Five~

"Never say Never"= Queens of the Stone Age

// "You know, when we graduate, we aren't going anywhere," Jamie said, letting the ball loose from his hands. Net and ball met each other with an intimate caress as the ball fell through the hoop. "We'll go to the university, get some bullshit degree, and come back here after we're all done and through. Then what would we tell the kids when they get older? That they should expect to come back here after their dreams expire?"

Quatre rolled his eyes as he let his own ball fly. "You're so dramatic."

"I'm thinking seriously for the future."

"Where are you thinking of going?"

"I don't know. I doubt I can get any scholarships out of state-I may be good here, but what about out there?"

"Are you scared?"

"Of what?"

"Going out of state. Playing against others," Quatre asked as he retrieved his ball.

The high school's gym was empty save for them. The morning lights hadn't yet lit up the sky, but the coach had lent Jamie an extra key so the pair of them could practice. It was their freshmen year, and they were the only lowerclassman on the varsity team. To keep up the pace, they often used the gym for their own private uses.

"No," Jamie answered, shrugging one shoulder as he picked up his ball. He brushed off some imaginary dust as he walked back to the free throw line. "I'm not scared of anything."

"Bullshit."

"Seriously. You know this. We grew up together."

"You're scared of Mary Glamour."

"Everyone's scared of her."

"Whatever. Where are you going to go after you graduate?"

"I said I don't know. What about you?"

"Dad wants to send me East for something or another." Quatre made a face as he made a three. "I don't want to go East. I don't want to do what he says. He's barely in my life four times a year and suddenly he wants me to do what he wants? No way."

"Ooh, Quatre's a rebel," Jamie snickered as he retrieved his ball.

"Seriously. I don't want to do what he says. He don't have control on me. He's doesn't even act like a father, Jamie. I consider Rashid my father."

"Then what are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I want to play ball, though. Maybe I'll get scouted for North Carolina, or for the Vols."

"Way down in Tennessee? C'mon, you're a hick here, why be a hick there?"

"I am not a hick."

"Up here you are! Redneck white boy wanting to play black man basketball," Jamie said with a snort, lobbing his ball in Quatre's direction. Quatre maneuvered his ball so that Jamie's bounced off his and danced somewhere toward the corner of the gym.

"Whatever. You're just green that I have the skills and you're nothing but the entourage," Quatre replied, shooting a three as Jamie laughed. Jamie retrieved the ball, dribbling in his direction.

"We'll play to ten. Whoever loses has to be the other's slave for a week."

"No! I don't want to play!"

"Afraid you'll lose?"

"No. You smell like Taco Bell. Why don't you go put on something to cover that funk? I don't want it on me."

"You talk all that shit, Quatre Winner, yet you can't back it up."

Quatre sighed, and acquiesced. The gym was soon filled with the sounds of their playing, the ball bouncing off the wooden court, their sneakers squeaking against the floor, the sounds of their exalted shouts and discouraged yells ringing in the open space above the court...after awhile, after Jamie made the last winning shot, Quatre stood at the free throw line, bent over as he tried to catch his breath. Jamie was in the same condition, holding the ball at his hip, bending so that one palm rested against a bent knee.

"I'm not doing anything for you," Quatre panted out, straightening.

"You're my slave. We agreed, remember?"

"You're the one that made that bet. I didn't say I was going to do it."

"C'mon, you Indian giver! You promised!"

"I didn't say anything like that!"

"First off, slave," Jamie said, dropping the ball and pointing at it as it rolled near the bleachers. "Go get my ball. Yours is a girl ball."

"So? I couldn't find my other one. I took Lana's."

"Get my ball, slave."

"Get it yourself. I see two usable arms and legs."

"Hurry up before I kick your ass."

Quatre crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Jamie defiantly. Jamie sighed, hanging his head. Then he began walking over with a determined expression on his face. Quatre waited until his best friend was a few feet away, then turned to avoid him. The two began to scuffle, Jamie wrapping his hands in his friend's shirt and Quatre trying to kick him. Amid all the laughter and cursing shouts, Quatre managed to wrap his leg around Jamie's and throw him to the court with a twist of his body. Jamie landed flat on the hard surface, wind rushing out from him.

Quatre looked down at him with a horrified expression, then laughed when Jamie tried to resume his breath, rolling onto his stomach. Feeling slightly sorry for him, Quatre pushed at his back, taunting him. Jamie suddenly moved, knocking him to the floor and using his body to pin him to the floor. Quatre immediately began feeling uncomfortable with the contact, pushing at Jamie as Jamie kept his position.

"You know," he grunted as he tried to bring his knee up into his friend's groin, "this looks really questionable..."

"So?"

"So?! People are going to think we're gay, Jamie. Get off!"

After realizing that his friend hadn't said anything, Quatre paused in struggling and he looked up at his friend's face. A sudden dawning realization crept up on him, and Quatre suddenly realized what wasn't being said. The gym fell horribly silent then, silent and thick with sudden tension. Quatre found himself unable to look away from his friend once he realized that Jamie's face was lowering towards his. And when tentative, dry lips found his, he wasn't sure what to do. His first reaction was to throw him off, wipe his mouth with a disgusted hand and stomp off, but the next one, the one that really bothered him, was when he found himself kissing Jamie back. It wasn't at all unpleasant, nor was it disgusting. It was soft, comforting and new. In a way, it felt familiar because he'd known Jamie all his life, and in another, it blew his brain. He knew that homosexuality was viewed as a wrong in Laramie, and had joined the others in making fun of others when they suspected a student was gay. But here he was, in one of the more sacred places of his life, kissing his male best friend and liking it. Then what did that make him?

Jamie suddenly stopped kissing him, pulling away quickly, rolling to the side. Quatre stared up at the joists above the court, lips parted, breathing heavily. When he shut his lips, rolled them to moisture them with a nervous tongue, he tasted his best friend's taste and sweat on them. And it wasn't unpleasant at all.

Then his stomach turned at the thought of what he did, and he rose to a sitting position, unable to look at Jamie, feeling his face burn red with a mixture of shame and embarrassment. He couldn't stop thinking that the kiss had been very pleasant, and that he wouldn't mind doing it again. Jamie's taste was still on his lips, and his lips still recalled the feel of his friend's. When they glanced at each other, both faces red, they looked quickly away. They rose as one, dusting themselves off.

When they set off looking for their respective basketballs, they said nothing off the kiss nor did they ever mention it after that. \\

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

Thinking about that particular memory now, Quatre stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, sprawled on the floor. His notebook, various text programs and random notes he'd taken on paper lay around him, where he was trying to catch up with his homework. He touched his lips, recalling the dry, firm press of his friend's lips. He tried to remember the last time he'd kissed a girl, but his obsession with basketball had driven off many potential girlfriends, and he couldn't even remember if he even had. It was awkward with Jamie after that, but it moved into an unspoken agreement that neither would bring it up nor try it again. It was only after that one night of drinking did things turn differently and his life changed.

He sighed heavily, folding his hands behind his head. He had to think about Trowa. Trowa was serious in his pursuit, more so than any girl Quatre had ever seen. Trowa was everywhere he was, and he seemed to know him in ways he'd never expected. Trowa annoyed him to his very end of patience, but then again, Quatre was beginning to enjoy the other's presence. Or maybe that was just the submissive part of him, the part that would go along with whatever someone said because their way sounded better. Whichever, he knew he had some serious thinking to do about Trowa.

One part of him wanted to admit Trowa in. He wanted some companionship. Basketball was everything to him, but it sure as hell didn't satisfy any bodily or emotion needs. You couldn't exactly talk to a ball and get any response from it. You couldn't get warm by a ball-but playing with one could, an annoying voice said at the back of his mind. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and then continued to stare at the ceiling.

Okay, then maybe he was just a tiny bit gay. Maybe just a little. Because while he hung out with Trowa, he noticed a lot of things-his eyes straying to the shape of his shoulders, the way the lanky teen's body moved with simple motions, the way his ass looked whenever he walked, the way he smelled so delectable...it also helped that he had a really attractive face. And he was sixteen for Christ's sake. Every sixteen year old had needs...wants...neither of them really in his control. And he had to admit it, damn it. Sophia Darken represented the rich, the spoiled, the racist and the beauty. Every student here was here because of looks. He hadn't seen a below average looking person yet. Everyone had their beauty-but that wasn't the point. The point was, he wasn't even remotely attracted to any of the girls. The girls, besides Perfect's weird way of roping in a man despite himself, weren't even on the top of his curious list. The boys, however, caught his attention more so than before.

He sighed, throwing an arm over his eyes. Fine. He just had to admit it. None of the girls attracted him. Boys did. Since he knew boys caught his attention, his hormones were letting them know they were feeling neglected. Damn hormones.

Okay, fine. Quatre wasn't ready to throw himself in the dating scene just yet, nor was he really interested in crushing on some random boy. There wasn't enough time for that! Trowa...Trowa was convenient because he'd made it clear whom he wanted, and didn't play games with Quatre. Okay, fine, maybe Quatre could dip into his evil pot of cruel selfishness and use Trowa. He certainly didn't feel like he was...drawn to Trowa on emotional or mental needs...and Trowa was convenient...But then, if he did decide on using Trowa purely for physical relief, could he even go through with it? Could he make himself kiss another boy? Or participate in any other things?

He took a deep breath, removing his arm from his face. Okay. Okay.

"Let's get this straight, Winner," he told himself. "What are you going to do? You need to get this resolved or else it'll bother you when you don't want it to."

He certainly did not want to think of these things while he was in the game. He knew these thoughts would pop up at the most inconvenient times...he did not want his concentration broken! Certainly not in this way! He rolled onto his stomach, propping his chin on top of his hands. He continued to stare into nothingness, his heart racing with both nervousness of the direction of his thoughts and because he was about to plunge forth into a stage he felt he really wasn't ready for. But then again, he was far away from home, with no one to hold him back, doing what he loved to do. This was New Park City, well known for its outworldishness and crazy inhabitants that made the outside world revel in its abnormality! He could do whatever he want.

Like that saying about Las Vegas-What happens here, stays here. Or something along those effects. He could do whatever he wanted and he wouldn't be judged, not like back in Laramie. He took another deep breath, then exhaled slowly. Not like anyone would find out anyway, right? It's not like he'd return to Laramie and let them all know what happened outside of basketball anyway...not like his father would find out. Not like Jamie would find out...

Besides he was human. He had bodily desires. Everyone did, right? He was certain Trowa would be into it without question, but then again, how to go about it without falling into anything emotional? How could one separate one from the other? He knew Trowa liked him, but to what point? Was it merely physical? Or more? The real question was, Could he do it? Any of it?!

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

Monday morning, Quatre found himself walking with Trowa to the gym, where the results were posted. A few hopefuls were walking by, dejected expressions on their faces. Chewing on a Snickers bar, Trowa looked after them, then back at Quatre, who was anxiously wringing the hem of his blazer. Trowa reached out, pushing him slightly. "You've made the team even before you tried out," he snorted. "Stop that nervous bullshit."

"Shut up, Trowa, you don't know what I'm feeling," Quatre grumbled as they entered the gym, heading toward the large group of kids milling around an announcement board. Quatre wormed his way through the group, and wondered what the hell he was being nervous for-his name was right under the seniors' list of names. He shrugged and pushed his way back out from the group, looking at Trowa. Trowa's eyebrows rose with indifference as Quatre reached him.

"Told you," he muttered as Quatre grinned at him.

"Well, just to be sure..."

"Be sure of what? That's like saying, Oh, tomorrow, I betcha the sky's going to be blue...."

"There are clouds covering it right now. So it isn't blue."

"Don't even argue with me, I despise arguing with you over the stupidest things," Trowa grumbled as he finished his Snickers bar. Quatre winced at him with distaste as they made their way to the main school building.

"Why do you eat those things? You probably have so much cavities."

"Mmm, tooth decay..."

"You know," Quatre began, shifting his backpack to his other shoulder. "I was thinking about things..."

"Oh my God, did you hurt yourself?"

"Doing what?"

Trowa sighed and threw the wrapper into a nearby trash receptacle. Quatre caught the jab, and shoved Trowa into some freshman's locker, startling the poor student. "Fucker. That's totally uncalled for."

Trowa straightened from the locker, patting the freshman on the head before resuming his earlier position alongside Quatre. "Sorry. I couldn't resist. What were you thinking about?"

"Well..." Quatre wasn't sure how to proceed, but he had indeed given plenty of thought to his choice over the weekend. Well, during Sunday. "You know...about...um, you and-and I."

Trowa blinked, eyebrows rising as he paused in place, looking at him. Quatre paused as well, looking up at him with some hesitation. The kids continued moving around them in the hall, brushing against them as they walked by.

"Yes?" Trowa prodded, heart racing furiously as he hoped high.

"Well," Quatre shifted the bag once more, feeling his cheeks heat slightly. He dropped his eyes to look at everyone as they walked by. No one was paying attention to him, and the situation he was talking about wasn't even taboo-he saw, heard, and passed many gay couples, and no one bothered them. It was absolutely amazing how far attitudes towards gays were in this school, but how minorities were viewed so horribly. A couple could be on the floor of the hall going at it like rabid dogs, but the moment a different shade of skin and non-Caucasian features went by, people would definitely take notice and comment.

"Um...I was thinking...maybe I could...er, we could...well, just a little bit, you know..um-"

"You want to try it out?"

"Er...yessss," Quatre hissed with hesitation, unsure if he could word it the way that could make Trowa understand. But then again, he'd come about the problem of Trowa not understanding at all, thus the breakdown in his resolve, but...he'd have to try. "But...not completely."

Trowa stared down at him, blinking. An expression crossed his face, something that Quatre couldn't identify. "Okay...what do you mean?" he finally asked Quatre, who shifted uncomfortably.

Staring around at the various faces around them, the blond winced, trying to find the proper amount and content of words that he wanted to use to let Trowa know that he didn't want a serious relationship, but rather one of mutual...agreement. On certain things. He'd come to find that while Trowa annoyed the hell out of him, he did have a certain degree of interest and unexpectedness about him...plus, his hormones were bothering him, and he was a teenager, and----all the excuses he had made his tongue press with uncertainty against his teeth, making thoughtful clicking noises as he contemplated Trowa's tie.

"Something...among the lines of...I don't want a completely...serious relationship...I need you to understand that while...that while I agree to some things, I can't completely guarantee that you'll be... completely happy. Trowa, I do recall telling you that while basketball-"

"Yes, yes, yes, I know," Trowa said with some impatience, the first bell ringing. The sound prompted the pair to begin walking toward the stairway that would take them to their first morning class.

"Um...basketball comes first."

"If you are agreeing to go out with me, then that's fine."

"Trowa, you don't understand-!"

"I do! I do understand, okay? I won't try and deter you from your first love. But, are you serious?! Do you really want to go out with me?" Trowa asked, shifting so that he was in front of Quatre, staring at him with that same burning intensity that he saw Quatre eyeing the hoop with.

Quatre winced with his decision, but it felt okay. He was just nervous, scared, hesitant. He shrugged, then nodded. His arms hit his sides as he dropped them. Trowa stared at him for a few moments, then grinned. Absolutely grinned. Quatre blinked in amazement at white, straight teeth, vaguely searching for any indication of the braces that he wore. Just when he saw the faint outline of a plastic container that held his upper teeth within its confining grasp, Trowa's lips covered his in a brief, very faint touch. Stunned by the quick kiss that didn't even feel like a kiss, Quatre backed up a few steps, bumping into other people.

He apologized for the contact as he resumed his stance before Trowa. Trowa nodded, then fell suddenly silent in his elation. Quatre, feeling the moment was suddenly awkward, nodded as well, and the both of them began walking in the direction of their classes. He wasn't even sure what a couple, well, he didn't consider them a couple just yet, but what a just-agreed upon couple would do before separating. But Trowa made the decision for him and quietly said that he'd see him after school. Quatre wondered about the times in-between, but let it drop as he entered his anatomy and physiology class.

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

After school, while Quatre pondered wearing his white Ginobuli's over his black Jordans, there was a timid knock on his door. He wrinkled his nose at the door, not wanting to answer it whilst making a very important decision. But he pulled on his socks and walked over, opening the door. He looked out, seeing no one. After figuring that someone was pulling a Ding Dong Ditch on him, he started to move back in when Lowell's tentative voice emerged from the tiny speaker on his keypad.

"Yes?" Quatre then asked, surprised that the security guard could address him in this way. He didn't even know the keypad had a speaker with which the security guard to talk to him with. He wondered how Lowell could even knock on the door while five levels down!

"You've a phone call you can take in the main building. Line five."

"Er-all right! Thanks!"

A phone call? He wondered as he slipped his feet into his black Jordans and hurried out of the room. Somehow, he'd expected a much more different way of being told that he had a phone call. He hustled to the main school building and headed to the phones. There, on line five of booth five, a tiny light blinked repeatedly. He touched the button to release the line and picked up the phone.

"Yes?" he asked tentatively, sitting on the cushioned chair before the booth. Two rows down was a couple talking to her parents, and the boyfriend lying on the floor at her feet.

"Quatre."

His father's voice was brisk, and he felt his surprise leap into his throat. With a hurried brush of his hair, he hoped he looked presentable. Then he remembered that Ramid couldn't see him. "Oh, father. Hello," he greeted in a rather toneless voice.

"How are things?"

"They're good. Um, I made the team..."

"I had no doubt. I'm looking at your grades...."

'Grades'? Quatre made a face, wondering how he managed to do that when he himself hadn't seen his own grades.

"They've slipped. Especially in your Strings class...whatever happened to your violin?"

"I told you before, father. I wasn't interested in music."

"Oh, yes, I remember now. It was only basketball you were interested in. This class is an elective. You need it."

"Dad, let me remind you that I haven't played the violin in years. When I first started-"

"I am not in the mood to address that tone you're using with me, Quatre. Don't even start. I sent you there because you wanted to join the basketball team. Now you've joined it. And your grades are slipping."

"What, are you annoyed that I got a B rather than an A?'

"This is a very prestigious academy, Quatre. It would reflect on me enormously if you've failed the academics and succeeded only as an athlete..."

Quatre sighed heavily as his father launched into a heavy tirade about images and grades. Slowly, softly, he lowered the phone from his ear and placed it in his lap. He stared down the rows at the couple, who were animated and happy as they addressed the girl's parent on the phone. Biting his lower lip, he figured he shouldn't exactly ignore his father. After all, it was he who enrolled him here, and he could take him out. And he could make it impossible to return to basketball. With a reluctant grimace, he picked the phone back up, in time to hear his father sputter his name with rising anger.

"I'm sorry, father. Someone was talking to me. What did you say?"

He listened to his father give a controlled exhale that made the phone whistle. Then, "Keep your grades up. If they continue to slip, I'll pull you from that school and transfer you to another that doesn't showcase athletics. You're lucky now that I let you go this far. Keep those grades up."

"Yeah. It was nice talking to you, too, father," Quatre snapped as he slammed the phone down. With an angry hunch of his shoulders, he glared at the booth. Then he rose from the cushioned chair and stomped off. He couldn't believe his father-first off, he's in Saudia Arabia ninety-percent of the time, never involving himself with Quatre's life, and the moments he decides to, he doesn't even give any regard to Quatre's own decisions and thoughts. His father only knew that Quatre was athlete only because his older sister Iria had told him, and even then, Ramid didn't even ask about it. They were strangers in all but their last names.

He stomped out of the main building, nearly running into Hiiro, who was walking in. Hiiro snarled at him, but Quatre flipped him off and continued walking, uncaring of what impression he made then. He was still angry over his father's words and continued ignorance of his life, and nothing that happened afterward made him think twice. He made his way back up to his room, where he would grab his basketball and hit the court to burn off some frustration. Climbing up the stairs two at a time, he made it to his room, and spotted his basketball near the closet. He bent to pick it up and turned to walk out, slapping the skin with the palm of one hand.

He only paused because then Trowa was standing there, looking at him with some surprise.

"What?!" Quatre snapped, eager to get going.

Trowa drew his hands up in surrender and stepped away from the door. Quatre stomped out, Trowa shutting the forgotten door behind him. "You sure are moody," Trowa observed as he kept up with the smaller teen. "Warm one moment, the next you're biting my head off for just being here."

"Sorry. But I'm pissed off. I'm going to the gym."

"Can I ask what you're mad about?"

"No."

"I can't pry?"

"No!"

"Can I come with you?"

"NO!"

"Jesus fucking Christ...fine. It's no wonder you don't have any damned friends," Trowa muttered, stopping at the sophomore level as Quatre continued to stomp off down the stairs.

Quatre heard the mutter and stopped in mid-step. "I do have friends!" he shouted up the stairway.

Trowa returned to the stairway, looking over the railing. Leaning on it with both elbows, he threw out the challenge. "Name one."

Quatre opened his mouth to reply, but none came to mind. He knew people from his classes, his acquaintances, his lab partners, but no one whom he could call his friend. He scowled darkly, slapped his ball, and continued to walk off. Trowa shrugged and returned to his room, where he would brood over his numerous sketches and paintings and wonder why he found Quatre's moodiness entirely sexy.

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

"I don't need them anyway," Quatre found himself muttering nearly four hours later, drenched in his own frustrated sweat. He let the ball fly, then was there when it sailed through the net. He resumed his position at the free throw line. "I don't need anybody."

Swish, run, catch, position.

"I just need this."

Swish, run, catch, position.

"This is all I'll ever need."

Swish, run, catch, position.

"Fuck them all."

Swish, run, catch, position.

"Fuck him."

Swish, run, catch, position.

"Fuck them."

Swish, run, catch, position.

"This is all I'll ever need."

Swish, run, catch, position.

"All I'll ever want."

Twang!

"Fucking sonofabitch Goddamn motherfucking rat-assed clap-licking piece of shit ball!" Quatre screamed as the ball bounced off the rim and bounced in the opposite direction. He ran his hands through his sweat drenched hair, then turned away from the backboard and disappearing ball. He began to run frustrated laps around the court, pacing himself at an angry sprint. He calmed himself after awhile, trying to go over why he was so angry. Maybe it was just his father, maybe it was just this place, maybe it was just pent-up frustration that he hadn't quite worked out yet. Whatever it was, it was going to keep bothering him until he got it resolved.

He stopped near the back end of the court, panting heavily as he rested his palms upon his knees, bent at the waist. He stared at the court, the Warriors' logo and mascot imprinted in the dead center. The silence of the gym was deafening, and he wondered where everyone was at. Usually it was full of other players and their entourages. He straightened, slinging sweat from his forehead. Walking over to where he'd last seen his ball, he took a deep breath and decided to leave. It just wouldn't do for him to be exhausted tomorrow, when practice started.

As he left the gym, he noticed that something bumped against his arm as he shut the door. Turning, he saw that someone had painted "Warning-Gym's Closed Due to Renovations" on an 8x11" piece of cardboard and taped it in place with duck tape. Blinking, Quatre stared at the sign, knowing damn well that the gym wasn't being renovated. But then something clicked in recognition of the gesture, and he ripped the sign off from the door, and threw it in a nearby outside trash receptacle. He began walking back to the dorms, ball under one arm.

When he reached the sophomore level, he cautiously began walking through, unsure of which room was Trowa's. After much searching and rounding corners throughout the entire level, he finally asked someone. She pointed him toward the front of the level, near the stairway, and Quatre walked in that direction. As if summoned by some heavenly cue, Trowa walked out of his room, dressed to walk around outside. Once he spotted Quatre, through, he paused in place.

Quatre walked up to him, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He stared up at Trowa as he wiped his hair from his face. "Sorry," he finally said, apologizing gruffly. "I didn't mean to snap at you earlier."

Trowa was stunned at the sight of his obsession, and more than willing to let that previous encounter evaporate to the wind. He'd watched Quatre exert himself in the gym and had to leave after a short while because of the severe intensity on his love's face and actions. It had built up so much that he had to have some...private time to himself. And now, seeing the blond before him, hair mussed by sweat, skin flushed with activity and smelling entirely male made him quite thankful he was wearing one of his bigger sweaters to hide his obvious attraction. At first he couldn't speak, opening his mouth to say something, but then failing because then Quatre wiped at his forehead with the back of one arm, the toned muscles flexing with the effort.

Trowa was so entirely lost, had fallen so entirely helplessly the first time-and now, seeing Quatre at his most physical state, he knew he was bound to the other forever. It wasn't just physical-no, while that part was certainly entertaining, he knew he was bound to the other because of the intensity the other had. The fierce determination, the passion...oh, God, the passion was enough for Trowa to have wonderfully wet dreams for the next year and a half. He'd never met anybody so intensely focused on his fixation before, and now that he had, it was as if Trowa himself had fallen for the passion itself rather than anything else. Of course, it did help that Quatre was physically attractive and moody as hell. Which is why Trowa was so obsessed.

He remembered that Quatre was talking to him, and blinked to regain his mind. "It's all right," he answered, clearing his throat. God, just one night...one night with him...it was so boring with his hand... "I'll let it slide just this once, though."

"I'm really sorry. It's not you that I'm mad at," Quatre continued, sighing. Trowa seemed to have blanked out there for a few moments. "I was just angry at my father."

"Oh...yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Um...you hungry?"

"Not really."

"C'mon. Let's go eat. If you don't want to eat, then watch me eat."

"I think...I'll go take a shower and go to bed. Sorry."

Trowa closed his eyes and shifted uncomfortably. Damn his own hormones! Christ it bothered him that he didn't even know what brand of soap and shampoo the other used so that he may buy his own supply and dream happily with the scents branded on his own skin. Incredibly hot thoughts of Quatre taking a shower and in bed made him suddenly inarticulate. He nodded instead, and walked off, trying to ignore the rising obviousness of his desire.

Quatre felt guilty all of a sudden, watching after him with a frown as he went over his words. He sighed, then called for Trowa to wait as he caught up. "I'll eat with you," he said. "But I need to go to my room, first."

Trowa still couldn't talk, unable to push past the lump in his throat, so he nodded and made sure Quatre went ahead of him. After they reached Quatre's room, Trowa stood just inside the doorway as he surveyed the room, which wasn't as decorated as the others. He walked in all the way, then, slowly closing the door behind him. It was sparse, with only the only outside indications of normal teenage interests being of his basketballs, shoes, jerseys and casual clothes strewn about. He looked down to kick at a basketball near the doorway, wondering what the difference was between the one Quatre carried and this one. He looked up to see Quatre taking off his shirt, and he lost all moisture in his mouth, jaw slightly agape. The defined muscles, the smooth wintry white skin, the way each smooth, elegant limb had its own subtle graces in the way of casual movement made Trowa's artistically developed mind explode over artful overload. His eyes widened to saucers, his breath was lost, and he suddenly couldn't remember why it was proper to look away when Quatre searched for something dry amongst the clothes on the floor.

When he located a simple t-shirt, Trowa could have wept then and there for the loss of that vision from earlier. Quatre exchanged his shoes for more casual ones, then threw on a pullover he'd won from a tournament in Montana. He grabbed his wallet from underneath his mattress, and pulled a hand through his hair in an attempt to comb it. He looked up at Trowa, who was staring at him in that unnerving way that immediately brought to mind of screaming "Rape!" at the top of his lungs, but for reasons that he had forced himself to accept Sunday, didn't. He fidgeted nervously under the other's eyes, and felt himself suddenly freeze with paralyzation when Trowa moved toward him. The other gripped his shoulders in a surprisingly strong hold, and he was once more tasting someone else's lips.

Quatre felt paralyzed all over as Trowa kissed him with a ferocity he'd never expected to be used on him. Even Jamie's kisses, in the heat of the moment, had been soft and gentle, exploring. With Trowa, Quatre felt like the last piece of meat to a starving transient. Lips were mashed with the others, and were forced open by a very insistent tongue. Quatre felt like choking, gagging, something as he found himself under the wet assault, his entire body frozen with the unknown. He wasn't sure whether to try and return the ferocity that was assaulting his mouth, or struggle against it, or what. So he stood there, gripped in place by the other teen and dazedly admitting that it actually felt all right.

He could taste chocolate, and some traces of caramel on the other's tongue, and figured upon the other eating one of his usual Snickers bars. That auburn fall of hair was tickling him, so he reached up and brushed it back from their faces, the action only encouraging Trowa. Quatre lost his footing, and the pair of them ended up on the floor.

"Ouch," he muttered as Trowa climbed over him, pining him to the floor. Quatre recognized this position, and panicked momentarily. He jerked his mouth from Trowa's, but that only allowed the other access to his throat. With ravishing grace, Trowa attacked his throat with long kisses, licking and sucking at the pale column. Quatre froze at this, gripping the other's shoulders, panicking at the position and at the way he was feeling. Only, it didn't surface to any visible expression-no, he merely lay there, still and quiet like one of his shoes that laid about on the floor. Trowa's hands were on him, touching him, running up his shins, up to his knees, the other gripping his hip with an urgency that he recognized from previous.

When the hand, with its limber fingers and smooth palms, crept underneath the hem of his shorts, he panicked visibly, shaking his leg to dislodge it. Trowa lifted his head from his neck and attacked his mouth once more, and Quatre found himself pinned once more, relaxing as the hand left his leg, settling somewhere near his shirt. Only then, it began creeping up beneath the hem, touching his stomach. The touch was unsettling, and this was going entirely too fast. Panicking, Quatre closed his mouth and tried to buck him off, pulling his arms in to push at Trowa. But the other interpreted it wrong, his body firmly pining him to the floor, moaning softly as his hand pressed and caressed with more urgency and need than before.

The fingers found their way to his nipples, tweaking and caressing, and while Quatre blinked at the shock of pleasure that ran through him, his shirt was suddenly around his neck as a very eager tongue wet one nipple. This was new, and Quatre paused in fighting as the feelings made heat gather at his groin area, and for his hormones to take sudden notice of the situation. Trowa noticed his suddenly relaxed partner, and carried on, his hands stroking and exploring the flat and curved planes of his love's body. It felt like he couldn't get enough, and continued on with an eagerness that bordered on desperation. He licked at sweat moistened skin, reveling in the way it taste against his tongue, at the way Quatre's scent filled his nostrils. He noted his partner's reluctance to be touched where it mattered, but figured that could be fixed soon enough. Wondering just how far he could go, Trowa lifted his head and kissed at the mouth that was often set in a determined line while on the court. Firm lips pressed back against his, and Trowa was invited inside to taste the moist cavern of his obsession's mouth. He tasted stale breath and wet tongue, and lapped at both, taking the blond's tongue between his lips and sucking. Then he released it, kissing that particular spot just below his lower lip, and then moving along the line of his jaw. He buried his hands within Quatre's hair, and rubbed his body against his, knowing that the other could feel his erection.

Just doing that produced more fiery sensations, and he moved more firmly between Quatre's legs, pressing his erection against him. Quatre made an inarticulate sound, shifting so that Trowa finally recognized that he was pushing at him. Taking a deep, shuddering breath that his own passion was being interrupted by the signal, Trowa buried his face against Quatre's neck and tried very hard to calm down. He tried willing his erection and desire away, the feel of his love's body beneath him making it very hard. As much as he wanted to continue, he had to stop. He pulled up from Quatre, lifting himself into a half push-up as he stared down at the blond beneath him.

Quatre was trying to catch his breath, but looked thoroughly flushed from the previous activity. It took all he had not to continue ravishing. 'No' meant no no matter what. With a heavy sigh, Trowa rose completely from him, sitting on his heels. Quatre quickly sat up as well, nervously smoothing his shirt back down into place, feeling entirely embarrassed about the whole thing. As much as he was into it, he was still scared of what was to come.

"Sorry," Trowa apologized gruffly, rising to his feet, brushing his clothes off.

Quatre shrugged, unable to find words to reply. The experience had been rather...stimulating, he supposed. It wasn't like he was completely rejecting it----no, no, no, his hormones had definitely taken notice and had liked it, but his mind-his mind was running through excuses, reasons, arguments over the entire gay thing. Christ, just accept it and get it over with! He growled at it as he rose, dusting himself off as well. His knees felt wobbly-despite it all, Trowa did know how to kiss and entice. He felt his cheeks flush with color at the previous instance, lips remembering the contact and wetness of the others'. He touched his mouth, then wiped to clear away any remaining moisture.

"Let's go eat, then," Trowa muttered, leading the way out after he'd found Quatre's dropped wallet and handed it to him. After Quatre's quiet nod, they left the room and headed for the cafeteria.