Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ I Got Game! ❯ Cold Heart.... ( Chapter 6 )

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...

A/N: Eh. I'm losing interest once more...need to shift stories...TaylorMercury, thankies for your second review!! Eeks! It was so nice and lovely...I appreciate it very much! It does help me keep going, especially when I find myself losing interest in all that I'm writing. Thank ya! *I read a story where someone used this little combo-a Trowa Barton, the one we know and LOVE, and a Triton Bloom, some character of another...person...thingy-guy...I decided I wanted to do the same thing, so whose name do I credit for this borrowing-business??* And, all credit to scheduling b-ball schedule thingy goes to HighSchoolSports.net, for Laramie High...they were the only schedule I could find at this date with a basketball schedule already set out!! Good Lord! Thankies to those sites, and I know I'm fuckin' up somewhere with my ranks, my positions and whatnot...anybody have a clue to what I'm doing, yay! ^_^!...God...insomnia sux....too...much...free...time....!

Chapter Six~

"Cold Heart Bitch" = Jet

"Holy jeez, Winner. Is there a vampire on the loose we should all be knowin' about?" Drake asked in their World History class, his neon blue eyes wide with horror.

Quatre slapped at his neck with mortification, drawing the collar of his shirt up in an effort to hide the hickies that he'd discovered this morning after showering. And to think, he'd walked around like this all night last night after that incident in his room! He was mortified that they were there, mortified even more that he'd had to explain whom gave them to him.

"This is none of your business, Bellows," he snapped, returning to his computer, clutching his collar to his neck with one hand. He typed stiffly with one hand, slowly picking at the letter keys with his middle finger.

"If the rumors are true, man, I don't even want to know."

"What rumors?!"

"That you pack the fudge..." Drake shuddered and drew his thin limbs close. "I seriously ain't hatin', but...that's kinda...icky."

"Well, as long as you're on your computer and not bothering me, I'll try and keep myself from mounting you."

"Okay, that was just too much information-"

"Where's Felicia, anyway?" Quatre wondered, interrupting Drake's tirade.

He looked at Drake as the Seminole shifted more uncomfortably in his chair, looking distinctively troubled. Quatre waited, turning slightly in his seat to stare at him, waiting. When it was apparent that Drake wasn't going to say, Quatre blinked, wondering why Drake wouldn't tell him where his other trouble-making half was. He opened his mouth to ask again, when the Seminole bounced away from his chair, howling at the teacher that he needed a twenty-minute bathroom break. Quatre was puzzled. He stared after Drake with a bewildered stare and wasn't at all surprised when the student didn't return.

Oh well. It wasn't as if the blue-haired Native American could avoid him forever, anyway.

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

That afternoon, Quatre hurried from the building, eager to change and begin practice with the others. He was ignoring Trowa's note that Go had given him in Study Hall. He didn't want the other to be demanding of his private life while basketball was in play. He reached his room, changing swiftly into a pair of shorts and t-shirt. He spread on extra anti-perspirant, grabbed his ball, and ran for the gym. When he reached it, the others were milling about inside. He walked over to the bleachers to change his shoes, looking at the others.

There were twelve players that had made the cut. Quatre thought that it was a small number, considering the amount of hopefuls. But then, those that didn't make Varsity were given the chance of Junior Varsity...but then he figured that Ramos was just extra picky with whom he chose to represent his team. There were the five seniors: Sally Po, Milliardo Peacecraft, Manny Blossom, Jason Bleding, and Tony Alberatio. Triton Bloom, and Winston "Winnie" Pulma made up the juniors. And then Quatre himself, Hiiro, Duo, Hilde, and Hautta. He raised an eyebrow-it was rather off-balance, considering their sizes. But he had to trust Ramos' choice-he was the coach, after all. Quatre put all his trust and faith into the man that was to coach them through the season.

Quatre was excited and couldn't wait to play. Basketball in any form was his happiness. He finished tying up his shoes and stared at each of them in turn, barely able to contain his rapidly beating heart. Sally Po, the blond that wore her trademark plaits, was laughing and joking with Manny and Tony. She stood around five foot nine, and was one of their power forwards. She was very vocal, unafraid to speak her opinion. She played her position well, Quatre was assured by Hautta. She wasn't the type to let the guys push her around, but Quatre was already feeling somewhat uncomfortable that he would be sharing the court with a girl.

Manny, blond, seven foot one, hugely muscled and just slightly touched with acne, was another one of their power forwards. Ramos had elected him as a team captain, due to his experience on the basketball team for the last three years. Manny had a leadership capability of lending his teammates some spirit and faith, his soft voice powerful as he enthusiastically kept his team members going.

Tony was brunette, with almond shaped blue eyes and he was one of their centers, standing proud at six foot eight. Quatre had played with him a few times, finding him easy-going and yet somewhat of a poor sportsman with his constant blow-ups and inability to connect with some of the players due to some personal conflict. Quatre had to be careful around him-Tony already had an opinion on him, due to the business with Duo and the others, and it didn't good for future friendship. Yet he showed a penchant for cooperating with him on the court. So that was a plus.

Jason was still avoiding Quatre, the brown haired, six foot nine athlete performing as a small forward. Quatre hoped that differences between them, even if he didn't have anything to do with his Mafia-style hit, would evaporate once it really mattered. Jason showed extreme promise with cooperating on court, but sometimes he was a little hesitant to help Quatre out when it counted. No matter. As long as he didn't do it during a game, Quatre was fine with it.

Six foot four Triton Bloom rarely came to the gym at nights, but he had black hair that reflected blue in some lightings, and had serious violet eyes. He was one of their centers as well. Quatre didn't know him well enough to form an opinion, so he kept that personal level indifferent until it came down to it. But from what he'd heard and read upon the junior, it appeared that Triton was entirely capable of handling his own on the court, with a three-point record that was infamous within the district.

Winnie, seven foot three, Romanian and last of their centers, was soft-spoken and gentle, nicknamed after that wimpy bear. But the moment he entered the court, he was composed and as unmoving as a brick wall when it came to blocking opponents' shots.

Milliardo, who went by some odd party nickname of 'Zechs', was their other power forward. There were rumors of him being a major partier, and even more rumors that while he carried on with his girlfriend, Lucrezia Noin, he was also carrying on with the pottery teacher, Treize Kushrenada. As long as his personal conflicts didn't bother him on court, Quatre couldn't care less about Milliardo's sex life.

Hiiro, at five foot nine, was the other point guard. He'd already shown Quatre what he was capable of on the court-his own leadership abilities and the ability to lead the others through their roles on the court were matching to Quatre's own. Quatre figured he'd have a hard time getting playing time after an already established player. That just made him much more eager to show that he was more capable of the position than Yuy was.

Duo, at five foot eight, was a shooting guard. Duo had already proved that he was fast, agile, extremely capable of handling the ball, and could shoot impeccable threes. There was just that conflict between them that made Quatre hesitant on fully depending on him on the court. Oh well, he supposed that with their combined love of the game, personal matters would be put on hold.

Hautta, at five foot seven, was a shooting guard as well. Like Duo, he'd already proved himself capable of handling the ball and making those important threes. Hautta was strong, already handicapped due to his alien strength, but he'd more than proved that he was capable of both defense and offense. It was just that indifference to whether or not they won a game that unnerved Quatre.

Hilde, the other girl, stood at six feet even, strong and powerful for her position of a small forward. Quatre hadn't yet seen her play, but if Ramos approved of her making the team, than he was going to have to trust the coach's decision.

Quatre himself at five foot seven, was the other point guard. The heights were so drastically differential between the lot of them that it probably looked comical. Maybe they'll have growth spurts soon, which is what he hoped as basketball wasn't exactly for the small. It would help him enormously if he managed a few more inches to keep up with the traditional taller players that plagued the court.

"All right, all right, all right! Let's get this party going!" Ramos bellowed, emerging from the locker rooms. Quatre automatically grinned-it felt as if everything, as upside-down as they were before, were finally starting to come together and making sense. The high school basketball season had just officially started.

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

Three weeks later, Ramos threw his hands up in defeat, playbook slapping against his thighs. The other two men standing nearby, assistant coaches Andrew Merriot and Richard Hensen, glanced at the court with annoyed expressions. Ramos turned to them, shrugging his shoulders and running through the season's schedule while voices echoed throughout the gym.

"I'm not saying that you can't! I'm just saying that as a girl-!"

"Oh, fuck you! Fuck you, you little twerp! You're pissing me OFF with that male chauvinistic talk!"

"I'm not trying to piss you off! I'm just saying, as a girl-!"

"Kids, kids-!"

"I'm going to fuckin' strangle you if you keep talking!!"

"Ha! Ha! Ha! HA! Keep on tryin' to tell her she can't do it, Q!"

"C'mon, let's just let it go!"

"Well, fine, if you can keep up with me, fine!"

"I'll fuckin' keep up with you, you little faggot!"

"Why, you stupid bottle blond bimbo-!"

Ramos sighed, wiping his tired face with one hand as he stared up at the joists. Thank Christ practice was over and there was no one else about to witness, or overhear this discourse in his team. He didn't bother trying to intervene-he hoped that, as a team, they would figure out a solution amongst themselves. They all came together very well-their movements on the court were fluid, easy, powerful, and they brought with them great promise of another championship. But there was only one problem-

"I've never played with girls in high school ball!" Quatre was shouting at Sally, who was in his face, barely being held back by Hilde. Duo wasn't helping things any by instigating the pair of them, and the others had made their way back to the locker room. Manny, the team captain, was sighing and trying to keep them apart. When he realized that he wasn't making any difference, he gave up with a wave of his arms and retreated to the locker room. Triton and Winnie were pitching bets on each other about how many hits it would take for Sally to take Quatre out.

Ramos stared at the scene, which had started during their scrimmage. Quatre was quick, agile, and impossibly gifted on the court-he had talent that exceeded a majority of the seniors'. He wasn't intent on making the most points-he was intent on making sure those points were made by the people that were supposed to. He played with an almost manic determination that bordered on scary perfection. Ramos knew he had a lot of potential written all over him, and he was seriously considering a revamp of the season's lineup. He was familiar with every one of the players save for Quatre because he was the only one that was new.

Sally, he knew, was a very strong power forward, very fast, and was able to keep up with the boys. But she couldn't keep up with Quatre's style of play, which was considerably different from the others'-he'd grown up playing with smaller teams, with players that he most likely played with throughout his childhood. And now, relocated to a bigger school, with wholly different players, was a whole other adjustment. The other players were used to having the other there in a position that would guarantee a good defense strategy-Quatre was adjusted to another level that guaranteed a whole rack-up of points. He threw passes that would have been intercepted had the other player knew where he was going to pass-he ended up passing to mid-air, the player he was expecting not knowing that s/he was supposed to be there.

He'd forced the game to a stop when Sally, being the victim of one of these psychic passes, wasn't there and let him know head-on that she wasn't psychic. He'd calmly replied, probably with no malice or intent to anger, that maybe girls weren't able to keep up with him anyhow. Sally, somewhat of a feminist and tomboyish, replied that perhaps he was the only one into circus-ball, to which he'd replied that if he were playing in a circus, she was the main odd attraction in the World's Slowest Girl.

Thus, the shouting match. Ramos hoped Sally wouldn't throw a punch, or for Quatre to retaliate. How horrible. He sighed tiredly, and called that practice was at the same time tomorrow afternoon. As an afterthought, he added for them to make-up before then.

"What a piss-poor coach," Duo commented to Triton and Winnie. "He won't even interfere with a potential problem..."

"Seriously? He's right," Triton lowered his voice to a whisper, speaking behind one hand. "Sally and Hilde's good and all, but can they keep up? We had this problem last year, too, remember? Some of the guys are really quick..."

"Are you defending him?" Duo asked, raising his eyebrows high as he pulled off his wrist guards.

"I'm just saying...I'm not trying to be a prick or anything...just that he may have a point."

"I know what you're sayin', man," Winnie said, nodding his head with a serious bob. "He ain't tryin' to be mean, Maxwell. Just that maybe-"

"I'm just giving him shit, Winnie the Pooh," Duo chuckled as they stood back, Sally inches from Quatre's face and the pair of them yelling over the other. "Fuck...they better not keep this shit up when the real shit begins...either he's going to have to slow down, or they're going to have to step up..."

"You agree with his playing methods? They're a little...freakish," Triton observed.

"Hey. He gets the ball where it needs to go. I have to admit it."

"Still...he acts like some big-time baller...y'know?"

"Yeah..."

Hilde finally pulled Sally back, grunting over the effort. Quatre whirled and left the court while Sally continued to scream at him, Hilde dragging her toward the girls' locker room. The three left standing in the court looked at each other, then shrugged as they made their way to the boys' locker room. As long as nothing stood in the way of winning, things should be all right....

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

"I wasn't being shitty! I was just saying that maybe the girls can't keep up with my playing level!" Quatre said to Trowa, who nodded his head absently.

"Besides, if they really have a problem with the way I play-they've watched me play this entire time! Why do I have to shift to their level?! I've never played with girls! Girls are slower, they're shorter, and they're unable to keep up when the press comes down!"

"Uh-huh."

"Damn it, I thought this was going to be easier," Quatre added as he paced, running his hands through his hair. Trowa sketched his agitation on the thick cardboard heavy paper he had, noting the tiny flexes of arm muscle, the way his lower lip thinned, the way both eyebrows rose in turmoil with his words. Trowa felt a mixture of warm feelings course through him as he studied his love, trying to keep himself from thinking perverted thoughts. He knew Quatre was agitated-but he didn't know the appropriate things to say in this situation. This thing with the girls had gone on since they began practice three weeks ago, and he knew from the rumors running through school that the other players were having a hard time with Quatre's playing methods. The blond himself was having a hard time adjusting to the others and realizing that he would have to change his style of play. Both effects were obviously draining him.

It was nearly nine p.m., and the pair of them were outside the gym, where Trowa had intercepted him on his way back to the dorm. Sally and Hilde were still going off about Quatre's choice of words from earlier, and while Trowa was curious to what had been said, he had a pretty good idea what was exchanged. The walkway lights were on, as well as the surrounding outside lights of the gym, so Trowa was able to see everyone's expressions. The expression on his love's face was a familiar one-the past three weeks had driven him up Stress Boulevard, so Trowa knew that Quatre's face reflected every thought that was running through his sweet little mind.

Trowa was in heaven-these past three weeks had made Quatre a little more accepting of him, allowing the goth to hang around him, even when he didn't want him to. Trowa learned a little more of his obsession, and fell in love with each bit. Quatre amused him, entertained him, aroused feelings that were a little more on the psychotic side. Trowa was sure he hadn't felt this way before-no, he hadn't felt this way with Ralph. Ralph made him serious, brooding, eager to please the other. While Trowa wanted to please Quatre, he also wanted to make the blond hate him. Trowa then had to retract that 'hate him' bit. He wanted to make Quatre to dislike him intensely, but not in the way that he couldn't hang around with the blond anymore-only in the way that made him impossible to completely attain by sappy emotional and mental standards. He wanted the blond to inflect pain on him, because he knew, when provoked the right way, Quatre would result to physical violence and ranting and raving like a little psychotic madman bent on the destruction of others. He couldn't explain why he felt this way-he got off on the fact that the passion Quatre exuded while playing and while ranting and raving was displayed in the same amount of power and feeling that made Trowa feel so...so...excited. To others, he knew this would seem immensely...psychotic. But he knew what he wanted...he knew how to get it, and how to play for it. That passion of Quatre's was what drew him like a moth to a flame. He wanted to be burned by that passion and yet soothed by the blond's indifference to him and their 'relationship'. Trowa wasn't even sure if they even had a relationship. Quatre was still a little unaccepting that he was gay. He still had trouble adjusting to it, and thus, the lack of monumental make-out and groping sessions that Trowa looked so eagerly forward to. Those moments were rare and in between, and it drove Trowa crazy in a good way. That's what made them so damn good.

The only problem was, he realized, was that when Trowa began kissing and touching him, the blond froze up. Stilled. Slipped into a stage of paralysis. Trowa often felt like he was kissing on a human log. That passion that Quatre exuded in other areas was completely lacking in the area that he wanted. Damn it. That's what made this relationship so good. He couldn't get what he truly wanted and the war on trying to was sweet. Trowa was in heaven.

Trowa finished the sketch he'd made of Quatre, shutting the heavy book in case the blond caught him drawing him once more. Trowa had lost many valuable sketches of his true love that it wasn't even funny-but then Quatre always made up for it with a few moody jabs that made Trowa forget why he wanted those particular drawings. His favorite art subject was the focal point of his day-Quatre was a whirlpool of emotions, most of which made Trowa realize just how prima donna the blond could be when it came to basketball. The blond was insane with the thought that just because he was a very exceptional player, he had every right to dictate what should be done in his favor and to his liking. Trowa, despite the others' own opinions, thought this attitude was cute.

Trowa also realized that he was quite sick in the head.

He shrugged to himself as Quatre continued ranting and raving, his arms in the air for emphasis. He sighed heavily and set the book aside, wondering when Quatre could shut up so they could make-out.

"You know, Quat," he began, folding his hands and slipping them between his knees. Damn it. It sure was cold out. November in New Park had changed considerably from the November he'd remembered last year, when everyone was still wearing board shorts and tank tops. Now, everyone was forced to stock up on heavy jackets and scarves, and the beanie that he wore irritated him, yet he couldn't remove it because he hated when his ears were cold. He drew his shoulders up in an effort to keep those areas warm. It also didn't help that he didn't really wear anything warm-more rather, tonight he was dressed in a thin t-shirt, a Dickies button-up collar shirt, Dickies pants that were held up with a pyramid studded belt, and untied Converse shoes. The multiple bracelets and bangles he wore seemed to stick to his cold skin with all the heartwarming stickiness of ice cubes to tongue. Even worse, his beanie kept slipping into his eyes, forcing him to constantly shift it back into place, and therefore exposing his cold hands and fingers, of which were frozen by the multiple silver rings that he had started wearing because he thought that his fingers were looking a little lonely and naked.

"From your attitude about things, you sound very much like a high maintenance bitch."

"WHAT?!"

Ooh, Trowa hoped Quatre would smack him for that. He just so loved the blond's maniacal impulses to hit him, and thus was the reason why Trowa spoke so boldly. There was just something utterly satisfying about Quatre hitting him and hating him. Oh, yes, he was quite sick indeed....

"I said-"

"I heard what you said, but I can't believe you said that!" Quatre turned to face him, ignoring the fact that he wore a simple tournament won hooded sweater and his practice shorts. It was nearly forty-three degrees, and the skies were ominously promising to snow sometime soon. But he didn't care-his agitation and anger kept him warm. He wondered if Trowa were warm-he was just sitting there on the cold bench, relaxing rather indifferently in head to toe black. He also looked a little strange-that beanie forced him to keep his hair from his face, and it was a little unnerving seeing both eyes, the other half of a nose and the other half of a set of lips. It made Quatre wonder if he were even talking to the right person. It also made him realize, once more, just how attractive Trowa was. And that set him off, because while he fought these feelings from natural denial, it just went to prove that he wasn't 'just a little bit gay'. He was a full-on, blast-ya-to-the-ground, Hey-I'm-GAY! kinda guy...and sometimes it drove him nuts because he wondered what the others thought of him. It was still hard trying to adjust and trying to relax himself into thinking that it was quite all right. When they were by themselves, where no one could see them, then he could relax himself enough to allow Trowa close. But now...no way.

"That's just what I feel, man. Don't burst a hemorrhoid," Trowa grumbled, blowing into his cupped palms and rubbing them together. "Let's go inside. It's damn cold."

"Is that what you think of me? You think I'm a prima donna?!" Quatre demanded, walking over to him, wondering where he should allow the sole of his shoe to rest first-Trowa's face, or his knee cap. For some odd reason, it satisfied him to lash out with physical violence, and for another odd reason, he knew Trowa liked it. But that was just another fucked up thing that he didn't want to worry about, so he shoved that thought out of his head so he could concentrate on the conversation.

"Well, yes. You're really uptight about what has to be done on your terms, on your calls. Really, Quat," Trowa said, rising from the bench and gathering his sketchbook and pen, "relax."

"You know, you're one to talk! Damn it! Goddamn it!" Quatre ran his hands through his hair, then yanked at it, forcing it in odd directions. Trowa raised an eyebrow in his direction, then began walking toward the dormitory. "This is so frustrating! I thought it would be easier because I thought that everyone played the same way! Well, not entirely the same way, just...I didn't think it would be this hard! This is so hard! Hard, hard, hard! I hate it!"

Trowa grunted, mind a-buzzing over three particular words in his rant: hard, hard, hard...

"And then Ramos-! Ramos is thinking of benching me, I know it!" In frustration, Quatre chewed at his thumb nail, tasting blood as he gnashed on the worn nub. "I can see it...he keeps Hiiro as point for every drill and scrimmage. I don't want to be benched! I want to play! I thought I was going to get an equal amount of playing time, yet he has Hiiro running the plays, he has Hiiro in position while I'm running with the second string! I don't play second string! I'm better than second string! I can keep my cool better than Hiiro! Trowa! Fucking sonofabitch motherfucking rat bastard mother bitch! I'm so fucking angry I could-! I could-! Do something entirely damaging to something!"

Please, oh please be me, Trowa prayed, eyes closing at the thought.

"It's not fair! Just because I didn't get experience playing under him-"

Oh. 'Under him'. Such provoking thoughts...

"-doesn't mean he could do this to me!" Quatre finished, kicking open the dormitory doors, startling those that were milling about. Trowa chose to step back, and observe. It was always good to observe. For one thing, he'd noticed of his most favorite obsession during his high school career, his love wasn't a people person. Sure, he got along with a few people here and there, but Quatre wasn't one to

completely immerse himself with the company of others. It was always Spaulding this, Spaulding that; court this, court that; hoop here, hoop there-his obsession conversed only with basketballs and hoop dreams, and talked only when he absolutely had to with others. Other than certain situations and Trowa himself because Trowa wasn't one to allow himself to be ignored no matter what the other wanted, Quatre kept to himself. And now, in the midst of the beginnings of basketball season, Quatre was withdrawing away from normal teenage contact with others and immersing himself completely into basketball. Frankly, if Trowa could, he would eliminate all those obstacles that posed a threat to Quatre's own obsessions, and boy, if he could let that passion burn without the constant interruption of reality, Trowa would. Anything for his love.

Besides, he liked it this way-this way, Quatre paid attention to him and to his obsession only, and never dallied in the normal dramatics of high school life. He liked Quatre's attention. He didn't want it on anybody else. He liked this non-sociable, lack of manners for others Quatre. Ooh, boy, did he like it. It was completely fanatical.

Everyone sort of avoided the blond-he tended to ignore others, so others ignored him. Plus, it helped that Trowa had a hand in this situation-not that he'd tell. Just yet. He smiled at the thought, of what Quatre would do to him once he found out what Trowa had been letting the others know about the 'basketball possessed quack'.

Quatre strode through the lobby area, scanning faces as he made his way to the stairs. Trowa followed a few paces behind, greeting those he chose to acquaint himself with, lightly exchanging comments with those that wanted to say something. Trowa, while viewing himself as a somewhat outcast and anti-social person, actually liked other people. He didn't want to shut them out. But when it came to Quatre, he seemed to lose all reason and weight when trying to remember why he wanted the company of others. He was truly sick.

He followed Quatre up the stairs, and when they came to the sophomore level, he left the stairway, Quatre continuing on without him. Trowa strolled over to his room, and knocked once. When he heard nothing in reply, he entered the password in the keypad, and entered. His roommate was gone, it looked, so Trowa crossed to his section of the room and stowed his sketchbook underneath his bed. Maybe he'd masturbate to it later. As he straightened from the floor, he caught sight of his box of toiletries, and grinned at the sight of Aveeno lotion, Power Stick anti-perspirant in 'Fresh' scent, and a bottle of Pantene Pro-V. He'd found out what toiletries Quatre used and purchased the same brands just so that he could wear the same scents as his love and be able to smell what he smelled all day, everyday. He just had to make sure that Quatre didn't find out, or he'd freak. Trowa then kicked aside his heavy motorcycle boots, black cotton duster and discarded PE clothes, thinking that his roommate would be pissed once more if he came in and found that his stuff was lying over the imaginary boundary that they'd designated to separate them from the other. He glanced at his roommate's section, lifted his eyes to the ceiling in thought, and reached into the night stand drawer at his roomie's bedside. He withdrew a couple of bucks that he knew were in there, and left the room.

He made his way back down to the first level and headed toward the vending machines. His craving for a candy bar was especially great, tonight. Figuring that he would need the energy later, not because he thought he was going to get lucky, but because he knew he and Mr. Hand were going to reacquaint themselves quite intimately once more. Damn just-out-of-the-closet gays and their continued denials... It was frustrating Trowa because of Quatre's continued defiance on getting truly physical. Just one night...just one fucking night, damn it!

He made his selection from the vending machine located behind the entertainment area, and began his way toward the holoset room. He figured he'd give Quatre a few minutes to himself, to shower and whatever-don't think about that, damn it!-and then he'd go up there and pester him. Ripping open the wrapper of his Snickers bar, Trowa contemplated buying a Pepsi to go with it, but lost interest when he saw Sally in a heated debate with Relena Darlian, sophomore class president and head cheerleader. Gag.

Sally was mentioning something about chauvinistic pigs and how Relena should get her boyfriend to do something about the 'blond Kobe wannabe'. Relena replied that she thought it would be simply 'atrocious' to do something in effect, but she calmly replied that she would have Hiiro talk to Quatre about toning down on his behavior during practice. Sally began a tirade that told Trowa she wasn't satisfied with this, and Trowa lost interest as he moved on. The pool tables were filled, the video game room was filled, the couches in front of five holosets were filled, and it looked as if everyone in the entire dormitory had chosen to stay inside tonight. Eating his Snickers bar, Trowa turned and slowly began his way toward the stairwell.

He'd finished his candy the moment he stepped onto the fifth level, and he eyed the hallway, hearing nothing that indicated any activity. Everyone was either downstairs, at the cafeteria, or elsewhere. But then again, this was the rich kid alley, where every room was private, the walls were thicker, and they had more privileges than the other rooms below. Trowa would have been annoyed, but it worked in his favor. The officials at Darken had long ago accepted that the students would find ways to interact with each other, and had parents know their casual sex laws. Students would be supplied with free materials that could be obtained from the security guards and asked to sign a 'pass book', signing and dating a contract with their partners that they were engaged into physical intimacies. Just to let the parents knew what their children were up to, and accidents, as casual as they were, were never a problem. Sophia Darken staff handled those little panicked moments with the utmost insouciant and private ways. Trowa loved New Park and its indifference to morals.

Whichever, if Quatre decided on that aspect of their relationship, Trowa would drag him down to the security guard and sign and date the dotted holographic line then and there, no matter what time, state of dress (or undress) they were in. Then, they would be utterly free to conduct their private matters, uninterrupted, for as long as it were possible.

Trowa reached Quatre's room, and knocked once, pressing his ear against the door. He heard nothing in reply, and figured his little blond fruitcake was in the shared showers down the hall. As much as he was tempted by that thought of walking in and blatantly facing Quatre in a natural state of undress, Trowa discarded the thought immediately. For one reason, it was entirely tacky and desperate. While Trowa himself was desperate for physical intimacy, that was just too high school teen drama to accomplish. Where was the fun in looking at the guy you loved in the shower, which involved the same sex so he would be permitted to stroll in anyway, in a roll-your-eyes familiar situation? Christ. There was more fun in trying to convince and plead in a more intimate setting than that....Trowa had the patience.

He waited, shifting from one foot to the other, then turned once he heard footfalls on the stairway. He watched as Felicia came into view, hurriedly shoving something into the back pocket of her jeans once she saw him.

"Yo," he greeted.

"Yo." She eyed him suspiciously, the remnants of a black eye fading, her eyebrows drawing together. Trowa had long ago grown used to the sight of the tomboy covered in various bruises and cuts-the girl was just naturally the type to go around with them, splotched all over her skinny limbs. Either she was just incredibly clumsy, or the rumors around her and Hautta fist-fighting with each other were true. He wasn't about to ask if she wasn't going to supply. "What are you doing? Spying on our blond lovely?"

"No. Close. I'm waiting."

"It would help if you knocked. That would generally draw out the person instead of waiting for them to step out the morning after."

"Where's the fun in that?"

"Did anyone ever mention what a sick bastard you are?"

"Not in the last hour. Where've you been in the last two weeks?"

"Out and about, cruisin' like a lout. Actually, I was just pissed an' hadda remove myself from the area."

Trowa studied her as she frowned at Quatre's door. "So it was true..."

"Bring it up even more, makeup boy, and I'll kick your balls in so high you'll be hiccuping semen for a month!"

Trowa held his hands up in surrender.

She frowned at him, then stalked off, muttering under her breath. When she reached her door near the end of the large hall, she stared back at him. Then she cupped her hands around her mouth, "And it would help if you weren't so damn suffocating!!"

"'Suffocating'?" he repeated to himself, frowning at this. "Am I suffocating?"

"Yes! Fuckin', like, boogers, y'know?"

"'Suffocating'? Didn't he tell me that once?" he mused to himself as Felicia disappeared into her room, the walls reverberating with a loud boom. He looked over in that direction as the large door to the bathroom opened, Quatre hurrying out, dressed hastily in a wife-beater and cotton pajama bottoms. Trowa tried not to drool, but he wiped at his lips and chin discreetly as Quatre made his way over, carrying his box of toiletries. He glared at Trowa, but didn't say anything as he entered his room.

Trowa walked in, once again greeted by the familiar sights of basketball shoes stacked neatly in their boxes by the closet, various basketballs lying randomly about the floor, and school work forgotten on the never used desk. The room smell of musk, rubber and smelly socks-God, if he could orgasm to the scent, he definitely would.

"What was that loud sound earlier?" Quatre asked as he tossed the box of toiletries onto the desk, kicking off his shower shoes.

"Don't know what you mean. Listen, I have a question for you..."

"What?"

"What would you say if I knew someone was spreading rumors about you..."

Quatre straightened from slipping clean socks on, and blinked at him. "About...what?"

"Rumors. Do you...care...about that sort of thing?"

"No. Everyone likes to talk about the other."

"Then why won't you fully commit to me?"

Quatre rolled his eyes and rose from the bed. "Man-! Not this again! No! I don't know what you mean. No."

Trowa fought hard not to slap his thighs and whine. Quatre stared up at him, then reached for the half-filled Aveeno lotion that he found beneath his notebook and paperbook texts. He began smoothing lotion over his arms, frowning in Trowa's general direction. "What kind of rumors, anyway?" he then asked cautiously, applying the same motion and contents on his legs, rolling the hems of his pajama bottoms upward.

"Never mind. So, what does the schedule look like for this year?" Trowa asked, spotting said schedule pinned near the closet. He eyed it decidedly, seeing that the Warriors had a full season, starting with a tourney in Roseville next week. After that, there were two away games before they played at home.

Duncan Jones Military, Academy Stanton High School, Apollo Prestigious Academy, Sageville High School, Ferndale, Balkin Public 102, Josephine Miller High School, and Cal-North High School...all of Sophia Darken's major opponents in their district and title. He frowned at the thought of Duncan Jones-he knew Ralph was playing this year-he was just as minimally obsessed as Quatre was with the damned sport. Even as Trowa studied the schedule, he knew he wasn't going to be at any of them-he didn't do sports events. Too much machismo for him, thank you very much.

"I can't wait to play," Quatre started, Trowa rolling his eyes as he quickly straightened from the position he'd taken to stare at the schedule. Before he could launch into another tirade, Trowa distracted him by pointing at the leaking bottle of lotion that Quatre quickly attended to. While the blond bent from the bed to upright it, Trowa found something very disturbing and decided to remedy it immediately. Silly Quatre, never paying attention to the flaws of his own body...

Quatre found himself forced to the floor on his ass, protest turning into a loud shout of pain as something pinched his upper right shoulder, spears of agonizing pain lacing through his spine and making his throat tight. He whirled and punched Trowa's shoulder. "OW! Hey! What the fuck-?!" he roared.

Trowa, despite the hit to his body, studied his index fingers, staring at the small blob of white that marred his black fingernail polish. "Gross," he finally determined, wiping the pimple remains on Quatre's bed. "C'mere. You have like, pimples all over your shoulders..."

"Gah! What the-?! I'm NOT letting you-! Trowa! That's disgusting!"

"What, are you afraid of your own body oozes? C'mon...grow up. Pimples are so gross, especially when you let them be...get over here. I'm going to pop them all."

"Trowa Barton!" Quatre was never so indignant in his life. He couldn't decide whether to throw something at the goth sitting at the edge of his bed, or run screaming in dramatized fear. He reached back with an awkward twist of his arm to rub at the spot where Trowa had popped a pimple. It hurt, damn it!

"Seriously, Quatre, that's disgusting."

"What's more disgusting is the thought of you popping them all!"

"You want those ugly things on your back? Which reminds me, let me pop that blackhead under your eye. It distracts me."

"You stay away from me, you fucking sick perverted pimple-popping freak!"

Trowa rose from the bed, sighing with heavy reluctance. "I can't have you running around like that, Quat. It's so gross."

"That's it. Get out! Get out, you-wait a second. Trowa...?"

"Yeah?" Trowa removed the beanie from his head, frowning at the state of his hair. Quatre was staring at him as if he had suddenly grown a second head. Trowa blinked, wondering what he'd done now, before he even advanced on the blond.

"Trowa-? Are you...?" Quatre walked closer to him, blue/green eyes squinting as he tried peering close at Trowa's face without getting too close to him. Then they widened with recognizance. "You're wearing makeup!?"

Trowa sighed.

"You're WEARING MAKEUP!?"

"Jesus Christ...did you just now notice? How long have you known me?"

Quatre's hands flew to his face, and he made a startled shout, backing away from Trowa as if he were something that resembled a potato bug. When he hit the wall with his back, he threw his arms from his body in a gesture of jolting shock. "Oh my fucking GOD!!! I didn't know-! Only girls wear makeup! You're wearing makeup!!! I had thought that was just the way your eyelashes-!"

"I'll have you know that I sometimes wear eyeliner. I tried that pasty white thing, but it just didn't fit with me. I hated having black hair and figured upon this. Christ. Did you just now notice?!"

"Oh my GOD! I'm associating myself with a damned transvestite!"

"It doesn't mean that!" Trowa growled. "It's just decoration!"

"Says you when you're stealing the girls' lipsticks! Ahh! I can't believe this! First I'm fucking gay and then I'm with a guy that wears makeup and pops pimples?! Oh, God, my father's going to hate me!" Quatre wailed behind his hands. "Then it'll all turn out that I'm actually a hermaphrodite!"

"Christ..fucking bleeding Christ....only you would think those things. I've been like this for over a year, Quatre. No one cares. Just you."

"No one did this where I lived!"

"That's because you grew up in a small hatersville filled with hypocritical dickheads that looked to serve their own pleasures and ignore others," Trowa sniffed. "Thus your situation with your teammates."

Quatre immediately reared on him, jabbing a finger in his direction. "HEY! You watch your lipstick wearing mouth, you drag-queen!"

"I don't wear lipstick," Trowa grumbled.

"Don't you dare talk badly of my hometown, dammit! I grew up there! I won't have weirdos like you fucking over its name!"

"'Weirdos'?" Trowa repeated, gesturing at himself. He then gestured at Quatre. "Talk about weird, you spend all your time with Spaulding there and think it's entirely okay to ignore human life as we know it for some ball!"

"What?! What's that supposed to mean!?"

"Quatre, if you could, you would sleep with that ball! You would fuck it if you could!"

"WHAT?!"

"You heard me! Everyone talks about it! The weirdo who forgoes all human life just to coop himself up in a little gym, shooting basket, after basket, after basket. You, who would rather feel a ball up rather than pay attention to real people..."

Quatre stared at him, then narrowed his eyes. "This is all just because you're mad at me for not messing around with you, isn't it?"

"Why don't you go back to hickville and learn better grammar before addressing me," Trowa sniffed.

"You fucking bastard. You makeup-wearing, suicide obsessed, drag queen! Don't you talk to me that way!"

"You think I'm going to let you insult me?! Listen here, you prima donna-!"

"'Prima-!'"

"Just because you're good in basketball doesn't mean you're good everywhere else!"

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

"It means you need more practice with your hand, sir. It feels like I'm coddling a damned wooden pole whenever I try to kiss you! I'm not like you, honey-I don't do it with inanimate objects! Hey! Put that down, damn it!"

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

Trowa sighed happily the next day in Auto Mechanics, setting a cold bottle of Pepsi against the side of his head. He hoped it would do with the swelling, but who knew?

"Fuckin' Christ...You're the only mook I know that gets off on that sort of kinky bullshit," Felicia said, shaking her head from side to side as she investigated the bruise he had hidden behind the bottle. "You're happy that he racked you one with a damn chair? What are you, fuckin' Hulk Hogan an' shit?"

"He likes me. He just denies it a lot. He expresses his love through hurting me."

"Fuck...you sick, dirty bastard. What's that word for sickos like you? Masochists?"

"We masochists have feelings, too. Wants, needs...we're just the same as other people. We just like it when we're hurt by the ones we love..."

"Oh, so it's love now, huh? God. I can't believe people like you actually exist. Then what happened after the chair? That imprint on your forehead looks reeeaaaalll familiar...Oh my God. Is that a Nike symbol there?"

"He started hitting me with one of his shoes. It was hilarious..." Trowa set the bottle aside, from the swollen bruise that he'd received from one of the legs of Quatre's desk chair. He rubbed at the imprint he knew was hidden beneath his usual fall of hair. He touched the Nike symbol that he'd seen imprinted just above his left eyebrow. "And you know what? I think it was one of those cultural insult things. Don't Arabs hit things with the bottom of their shoes as an insult?"

"Yeah. Wait a minute. Bullshit. Quatre ain't Arab."

"Yes, he is."

"No way. That's like a white guy sayin', 'Oh, yeah, my great-grandma's a Cherokee princess!'" Felicia scoffed, rolling her kohl rimmed eyes. "He ain't Arabic! He don't got those features! The guy's fuckin' whiter than white!"

"No, seriously. He is."

"Liar."

"I'll bet you three thousand."

"Make it four, you fuckin' sicko..."

As they shook hands, Quatre fought hard to keep himself from turning and attacking them with one of the tools that laid at his feet. It was bad enough he had to share a class with the pair-it was worse when they spoke as if he weren't even standing just in front of them, a couple of feet away. What was he, invisible?!