Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ I Got Game! ❯ The Reason ( Chapter 8 )

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, OC+4, OC+3,1+2, 5xM & various others..

A/N: Taylor Mercury...Thanks for your review!!! Wa-hahahaha! I am evil! There is tons of drama in high school life, and I intend to incorporate a whole shit load of it!!! :coughs: Anyway, I have many chappys I would like to write for this story...it's going pretty good, I must say. And there's so much more I need to write! The games, the exes, the----ooh. Can't go there just yet...

//\\ = flashback

Chapter Eight~

"The Reason"= Hoobastank

// "Sorry, Trowa," Ralph said, sheepishly shrugging as Trowa stared at him slack-jawed, blinking every so often. The girl standing with her arms around Ralph's shoulders dropped them quickly as she stared back at Trowa with a shamefaced expression, her pale face turning a slight pink color when she realized what was going on. She nudged Ralph with an elbow, then moved away, straightening her starched maroon and gray military uniform that was standard with Duncan Jones' students. She walked a small distance away, covering her cheeks as she glanced at the pair every three steps.

Trowa continued staring at Ralph, aware that he was making a scene in front of everybody at the outside café to his right. But he couldn't believe it! Was this really happening to him? Did he just catch Ralph in the middle of a very public display of affection with someone else? With some girl?! He shut his mouth, his teeth snapping together with a click, and he shifted his bags of art supplies to the other hand, the circulation in his fingers slowed by the grip he'd had with the other. He swallowed hard, unsure of what to say or do as he glanced in the girl's direction. She was sitting down at a nearby bus bench, her rigid posture telling everyone what she did for a living. If her uniform hadn't given it away, of course.

She was tall, with shoulder length light blond hair that wasn't mussed with highlights, and her face was classically pretty. She had a square jaw line, long, pointy nose, un-colored bow shaped lips and wide, inset blue eyes that were clouded with some confusion as she continued staring in their direction. When she noticed Trowa looking at her, she brushed her bangs from her face and looked in the other way, her cheeks blooming with color once more.

"Trowa? Listen, man, I'm really sorry about this," Ralph was saying, chuckling nervously. "I wanted to tell you...really, I did. I mean, I tried so hard-I mean, I thought about everything, and-well, shit, this isn't going right, is it? I'm really sorry you found out about it this way, man. Gosh, it's so fucked up, isn't it? I'm so sorry...I didn't want you to find out like this...I thought you were staying on campus?"

Trowa looked at him, blinking. As he absorbed Ralph's words, he frowned, feeling entirely crushed. He couldn't find the strength to say anything. Sure, he'd noticed some time ago that Ralph didn't seem to be there all the time, that his emotions and attitude was distant, but he never thought that it was because of this. What a fool he'd been...The sophomore had just played him for a fool. Trowa thought that he'd been in love with the dark haired young man with the hooded eyes, that he thought he found a suitable partner to continue introducing him to the rest of America and New Park City. But, no, the American had found a woman to be his partner, and Trowa was left hanging in the background, oblivious to the entire thing. When did it start? Why did it start? What had he done wrong? He could think of one thing immediately and he shifted his stance with an uncomfortable air, finding some sort of solace as he stared at the sidewalk.

"Trowa...? Trowa, are you listening to me? I'm really, really sorry," Ralph was saying, hand on the back of his neck.

Trowa ducked under his touch and walked around him, head down. He felt intensely alone, betrayed, and he didn't know what to do about it. But one thing was for sure-Ralph wasn't going to be there anymore. He had her.

When he arrived back on campus, he made his way directly to his room. Carefully, as to not break his purchases, he set his bag on his bed and stared out the window. How long had Ralph done this? When? Why? If they had just talked about things, he was sure that Ralph wouldn't have left him. He was sure about it! But Ralph was gone, with a girl, and from the looks of that embrace and kiss, it looked as if he were pretty happy.

Trowa rubbed his chest with a frown, then sat at the edge of the bed. He sighed, hanging his head as he fiddled with his fingers. Ralph....why did it have to end this way? What could he have done to prevent it? Was he too meek? Too anal-retentative? Was it because of....? What? What could have Trowa done different to keep Ralph's interest? He wished he had the guts to ask then and there, but he couldn't picture himself making a scene. He couldn't bare it when everyone's attention was on him. It was embarrassing. He had so many questions running through his head, but he couldn't voice any of them. Even now, alone in his room, he couldn't speak any of them at all.

He stared down at the carpet beneath his feet, and then sighed, leaning back on his bed. He faced the ceiling, his carefully styled hair pointing straight up, catching his attention. He straightened and touched the stiff auburn colored locks, frowning at the state. He rose from the bed and faced the single wall mirror that his roommate had pined between their beds. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, noting the full cheeks, the green eyes, the stubborn chin, the odd hairstyle....everything about him was so...plain. Maybe that was why Ralph had decided on a woman over him. He was attractive enough, but he was so...blah! He touched his cheek, feeling the fullness of it, the baby fat that hadn't yet left him. Well, hell, he was only fifteen... and he had grown a few inches over the summer, but... He touched his stiff hair, then angrily ran his fingers through it, ripping some out.

Well, fine! If Ralph wanted someone with personality, then it was obvious that Trowa had to change to prevent this from happening once more. Trowa stared at himself in the mirror, then turned and left the room, in search of some inspiration. He would begin a new change, turn into a new person...he would forget all about Ralph, and his next relationship wouldn't suck as much as this one did. He made a promise to himself that the next one he entered would be a memorable one....\\

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

Quatre suppressed the urge to sniff piteously as he lay curled up in a ball on his bed, hidden underneath his blankets. He wanted to stay inside his room until the end of time, when everyone else had transferred and had 3.5 kids and wealthy homemaker positions due to their working spouse. He certainly didn't want to face Trowa again-after hearing what he'd done sent Quatre spiraling into horrified mortification mode, and he'd reacted quite humanly to the occasion. What else could he have done?! Of course, that only answered a few things, including the way people were looking at him whenever he passed by them in the hall...the way seniors would lightly proposition him, or when the principal, even, stared at him oddly. It hurt to know that Trowa said such untrue things-it was mortifying, grossly inhuman! How could he?! What did he gain from all those rumors? It was bad enough he'd faced that back in Laramie, but to encounter it here when he didn't even do anything made him feel like a wad of stink green shit. He felt like a whore when he wasn't. Damn it, he just came here to play basketball and didn't even want to be caught up in the engrossing high school drama!

Why was everything going against him? First the team, then Trowa, then Trowa's damned lies... what was wrong with him? Why was this happening to him?! He just wanted to play ball....was that so hard to ask for? To want?! To receive?!

He sniffed, but not because of pity for himself, but because he thought he was coming down with a cold. He wiped his nose with his index and thumb fingers, grimaced at the feel of slime between them, and discreetly wiped them on his blanket. Resuming his earlier position, he moaned in emotional pain, wanting to escape from everything. How embarrassing. How could Trowa do this to him?

He was sure once he got over the emotional impact of the thing, he would definitely do something about it, because there was something about Trowa that drove Quatre to discover he could do something about his problems...and Trowa was a problem he had to do something about. He wasn't quite sure, yet, so he was taking the time to think about it.

But once he thought about it, damn it, he was going to do something about it!!

There was a small knock on his door, and he growled, pulling the blankets around him. He was not going to answer that! If it was Trowa, then Trowa could go straight to-

"Hey, you in there, man? Come on, open up."

Quatre blinked and threw the blankets off him. That definitely wasn't Trowa...but what would Triton be doing out there? Didn't he lecture him to death all ready? He stared at the door, listening to a steady beat of knuckle-knocks that were just as persistent as Triton's cajoling. He didn't feel like hearing the older classman lecture, but then...he did like talking to him...

He bit his bottom lip, then made up his mind. He climbed off the bed and answered the door.

Triton stood back, then took in his appearance-Quatre had decided on going to bed early after practice, so he was dressed in his usual plaid pajama bottoms and wife-beater. Triton looked like he was ready to sneak off-campus for a night out on the town, dressed in fitting black jeans, white collar shirt, hair gelled back, generously spritzed cologne...wow. Quatre had never seen Triton like this before...it was certainly a nice change. Then he remembered his manners, turning a faint pink.

"Oh, what do you want?" he asked, then grimaced. That certainly wasn't very nice.

Triton's thin eyebrows rose. "We're going out-wanna come?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I'm...tired..."

"C'mon, we'll get ya a fake ID. What are you, fifteen?"

"No, sixteen."

"We'll get you a fake ID. Legal drinking age is eighteen here in the city...c'mon."

"No," Quatre shook his head, trying to decipher just what sort of scent that it was that Triton wore. It smelled strongly of sandalwood, but there were definite clues to jasmine and spice. Could guys wear jasmine scents? "I don't drink."

"Then we don't have to. While the guys hit the bars, we can hit the movie."

"I don't...I don't know..."

"C'mon, stop moping around. Make a team effort," Triton cajoled, gesturing at the stairs. "I'll wait for you to get ready."

"I don't...have anything like that to wear. I just...I don't think I should go."

"What are you waiting for, daddy's permission?" Triton rolled his eyes, then shoved his way into the room. Quatre turned, clinging to the door knob as Triton began rustling through his closet, throwing clothes here and there. When he withdrew a light blue polo shirt and a pair of worn-in jeans, he threw them on the bed. "Get dressed. We're going."

"But I don't want to----"

"If you don't, we're going to haze you," Triton threatened, trying to look menacing. "And we do mean things to people when we haze them."

"I haven't heard of people being hazed," Quatre said with a snort, shutting the door. "And I'm not going."

"Why not? Your boyfriend coming over?" Triton asked, an innocent expression on his face. "If that's the case, then-"

"I'm going."

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

The city was certainly bigger at night. All the lights, the lack of daytime traffic, the nearly empty sidewalks-it was certainly a little more scarier in the night than the day. Because at night, the things that didn't want to come out during the day slithered through the streets at night. New Park with its flashy holographic billboards and movie-like telecasts from around the globe was certainly a far cry different from Laramie, Wyoming. Quatre gaped at his surroundings as he kept up with the other five guys that had decided to come out, sneaking out of campus in a food delivery truck whose driver took payment for such things. Triton was keeping up a one-sided conversation beside him as Quatre stared at the hookers that didn't look like hookers, and aliens who didn't want holographic imagers to change their appearance, and the countless little things that made New Park so nasty with moral-less drivel.

They were heading toward a college bar that was located near the boundary of the West Side, near the marina district, and while Quatre thought that this was nice, he wondered how they were going to get home. It had been a nearly two hour drive from Marysville, and he could smell the ocean from here. Furthermore, he wondered just what was going to happen when everyone got too drunk to try and find a ride home.

Manny, a senior named Joseph, Triton, Duo, Solo, Zechs and he were just crossing an intersection when several firecracker-like sounds hit the night air, causing many people to duck. Quatre's heart was slamming in his chest as he heard the squealing of tires and more firecracker sounds that faded into the distance. He watched with amazed reaction as the other boys continued talking without even once acknowledging the shots, and that everyone else on the streets continued on as if they were nothing. Well, they were something to him!

"Hey, you okay?" Triton's voice was against his ear, and despite his need to lash out with one rubber sole of his basketball shoes due to the close proximity, Quatre didn't. The effect the junior had on him was very pleasant, if not embarrassing.

"Yeah."

"Good. Because we're here."

The bar was named Dougie's, and it was already filled with raucous laughter, breaking sounds of glass and booming country music. When they reached the door, the bouncer glanced at their ID's, then stopped Quatre when it came to his turn. The bouncer reached into his back pocket and produced a small card that had his picture on it, including information that read him as legal enough to enter the bar. Quatre gaped at the card as Triton pulled him into the doorway, the immediate smells of cigarette smoke, alcohol, body odor and food assaulting his nostrils. The music, something by Garth Brooks, pounded at his head. He winced, still in shock over the ID card, and found that he was already lost. Around him stood many college students and various other patrons that were either mauling their drinks or each other on the dance floor. The lights were dim, the pool tables active, and he felt he was going to drown in the chaos.

Triton was once more at his side, urging him to hurry up. Quatre followed closely, staring through the cigarette covered din as they passed the bar and found a pool table, in which Duo and Solo were gearing up to play a round. The others had either found dance partners for the floor, or were at the bar ordering drinks. When Triton disappeared into a thick crowd of girls, Quatre glanced around him, nervously uncomfortable with the entire situation. He found a small table nearby that was loaded with popcorn dishes, napkins and a drink menu. Across from him sat a couple of girls that looked nothing like the girls from his hometown-while the girls there dressed in scantily clad strips of material that just barely covered what they owned, these girls wore head to toe Victorian style dresses, their hair piled high.

From what it looked like, that was the norm among the women-their bodies were entirely covered save for their faces, hands and feet. It was simply odd! Of course, he didn't pay attention to today's fashion, or otherwise he would have known that everyone on the West Coast strove to make up for their body-baring days of the past and reverted to cover-ups that would have made the nuns of the old church jealous.

As Quatre shifted around to see what else the bar had, Triton made his way back over, carrying a couple of beers in mugs. Quatre automatically refused, but Triton insisted with pushing motions. Quatre took the mug and took a cautious sip, expecting the familiar bitter taste that made his insides want to curl. Instead, the taste was almost sweet, almost wheaty. He frowned, and took another sip. It was good. It wasn't like the other beers he'd drunk before. While Triton drank most of his and made fun of the others at the pool tables, Quatre stared down at the clear liquid in the mug and tried to guess what it really was. After consuming most of it, he was ready for more.

Triton saw this, and hurried away for a refill.

At this point and time, Quatre began to realize how dizzy and out of sorts he was. He couldn't have gotten drunk that quick! He'd just started! Because he couldn't really hear what was being said, he recognized that Triton wasn't going to give him the next beer until later on. In the meantime, he challenged Quatre to a game of pool, of which Quatre readily accepted.

The night wore on, and Quatre found he was having a good time. He was tipsy for sure, but that was about it. He won six out of nine games and found himself feeling more comfortable around Triton, who made his advances subtle, and very light. It was a touch here, a touch there; a grin here, a grin there; and, of course, friendly banter that didn't border on lectures or tales of superiority. When at last Quatre had enough of the beers and cigarette smoke, Triton expected this and asked if he wanted to go eat somewhere, to sober up.

Quatre nodded because there wasn't any harm in that, and the pair left the bar in good spirits. When they found a twenty-four hour grill, they ate large baskets of fried chicken, hush puppies, homestyle fries and corn on the cob. After that meal, which had helped with Quatre's slightly drunken state, Triton insisted on a movie. Quatre agreed because he couldn't think of anything else to do.

They found a theater that played old movies, and bought a ticket that allowed them to see as many shows as they wanted. So they watched 'X-Men 10,' 'Evangelion', the classic cult favorite, 'Blade of the Immortal', 'Gravitation', and'Gen13-La Jolla'. The screens weren't holographic, nor were they in excellent condition-but that's what made the movies so much better. They took a seat in the very back, ignoring the obvious make-out sessions of couples around them, screaming babies and people who spoke aloud in their cell phones.

During 'Gravitation', while Quatre was enthralled by the actor that played Eiri Yuki, Triton made his more forward advance by raising their separating armrest and laying his arm along the back of Quatre's seat. By the time Quatre realized this, the movie was over and he found he didn't mind the other's closeness at all. When 'Gen13-La Jolla' began with the opening introductory scene of Caitlain Fairchild, Triton had moved even closer, with his body pressed against Quatre's side. Because he felt suddenly awkward as to where to put his right arm without having to rest his elbow on the older boy's leg, Quatre quickly shifted so that both hands were in his lap. He still didn't mind Triton's closeness because now he could smell the pleasant scent of cologne, cigarette smoke and alcohol on the other boy's person. He could feel his cheeks warming with the sensation of being... 'pursued', but it was entirely different from when Trowa was doing the pursuing. Thinking about the goth now made his lips thin and his mood to sour. What was Trowa thinking when he began those rumors?! Did he think he was being cute? Funny? Well, he wasn't, and Quatre didn't at all appreciate it! It made him feel degraded and downright dirty. How could Trowa mean those sorts of things?! It just wasn't nice...and what brought this on in the first place? What made Trowa do this to him? Did he miss something? Or was Trowa someone that Quatre just did not know?

"What are you thinking about?"

Ooh. Triton's lips against his ear made him shiver. "N-nothing," he stammered. He gestured lamely at the screen. "Just wondering how anatomically correct she naturally is..."

"Really?" Triton snorted, shifting so that both legs were resting on the seat in front of him. Quatre had forgotten that the guy was taller than him and was more than likely uncomfortable. "So, let's get things straight, Winner. What are you into?"

"What?" The question stupefied Quatre for a few moments.

"Your sexuality?"

"Er..." Quatre felt his cheeks heat at the question, and slouched slightly, fiddling with his jeans. Triton's arm moved with him, curling around his shoulders. That action made Quatre a little more flustered. Triton had now shifted so that Quatre's right shoulder was nestled within the armpit of his left arm. His legs moved so that they now rested against Quatre's right leg. If the blond didn't know any better, Triton was setting himself up for something intimate, and that brought much embarrassed heat to his face as he realized the junior was looking to advance their current teammate position to something more. Quatre was very much uncomfortable, but at the same time liking the situation. Triton was very nice, very...manly, and he certainly did not spread rumors of fake sex lives just to make himself sound superior...Well, when he thought of it that way, it didn't seem like Trowa was making himself sound superior in bed-it made him sound pitiful and hopeless. Desperate, even.

"I guess..." Quatre trailed off, working the inside of his cheek with worry as he wondered just what Triton was getting at. He KNEW what Triton wanted, but...could he begin a sort of relationship with the junior? How could he when he couldn't even have one with Trowa?

"You have a boyfriend, Quatre."

"He's not my boyfriend!"

"Then what is he?"

"Um...someone...I hang out with," he finished lamely.

Triton chuckled as he rested one hand on Quatre's knee. Immediate warning signals bomb-blasted Quatre's senses, and he lightly jiggled his knee to dislodge the hand. But it had other ideas and curled around the inside of his thigh, rubbing gently.

"I have not seen you look twice at a girl yet, Quatre," Triton purred into his ear, pressing his lips against the soft outer curl, the hand at the blond's knee moving upward along his thigh. "And you haven't rejected me once..."

Quatre jiggled his leg again to try and dislodge the hand that was questing further upward, and ignored the rising feelings of his hormones taking notice of the situation. Down, damn you, down! he thought angrily as he shifted in his seat, presenting a shoulder to Triton's face.

"I'm unsure, all right?" he said as Triton redirected his effort into pulling him close, pressing kisses onto his forehead, humming with delight.

"I just want to know if the rumors are true..."

Quatre pulled his head away and turned in his seat to deliver a double foot kick into Triton if he had to. But instead, he positioned himself funny, and lost his balance at the edge of his seat. In the resulting process, he reached out to find something to catch himself with, and caught a hand full of Triton's shirt. The resulting action pulled Triton out of his seat and on top of him. Triton took it the wrong way and pounced on him with an enthusiastic "All right!".

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

Trowa grumbled to himself as he stared at himself in the mirror of the bathroom, reaching back to touch the stitches he had gotten from yesterday. He had a headache and it stung slightly, but hey, it didn't matter. He'd expected Quatre to be pissed at him. At one point and time, he probably would have felt the same way. But he didn't think the blond was capable enough of doing this to him. The stitches were to come out within a week, and in the meantime, he would be walking around with a bald sport on the back of his head. Even though it probably looked cool and sadistic, it just hurt.

He lowered his hands to the sink and frowned at himself, noting that his skin was in perfect condition, that his twenty-four hour stay-proof eyeliner hadn't yet smudged. He then bent at the waist, and turned on the faucet to wash his face. As he scrubbed with cleanser, he heard several guys enter the bathroom, all of them loud and raucous, discussing something they had performed earlier. He guessed that it was the members of the wrestling team that had just finished their morning practice, and didn't bother with acknowledging them. He cleansed his face of suds, then began with the apricot scrub, rubbing vigorously around his neck and cheek areas. After that was accomplished, he'd noticed that the boys were still talking away, describing something entirely different. Now that he was away from the water, he realized that it wasn't the wrestling team, but a couple of players from basketball. He recognized Duo's voice coming from the back of the showers, but the others he couldn't immediately place.

He washed off the apricot scrub, then blotted his face with a towel. He hated pimples-the things were nasty. If he could, he would launch an all around war to go around popping every one that he could find. It gave him a nasty little slice of satisfaction to press that irritated skin together, watching with grim amusement as the white ickle-ness and pus flared from the spot. It was so fun popping the ones in the ear-they gave a fulfilling popping noise that made him shiver, the pain very much worthwhile the squeezing. Okay, he was sick. He understood this and didn't care.

His pimple-popping crusade had started innocently enough-last year, at the end of first semester, Ralph had one centered in the middle of his nose, like Rudolph. No matter what Ralph had done to make it fade away, Trowa had known that the white ickiness needed release, and he'd eyed it every time he looked at Ralph. It was just sitting there, begging for release, begging for freedom. So when he'd had Ralph underneath him during a makeout session, he'd found himself distracted by the fucking thing, and had stopped giving his boyfriend hickies long enough to pinch down on the red blister with both thumbs, and come away with white thickness and Ralph cursing loudly enough to rouse the dead. There had been other pimples, of course, but that one was far more the most memorable because it had signified a beginning of a new mission-destroy all pimples no matter the cost, no matter who had them.

He searched for any telltale bumps on his skin-along his jaw line, on his neck, his hairline, his nose...nothing. Every time he saw any, he pinched. Ah, well, some people have been known to have sicker fetishes...and plus, it wasn't as if he were eating them, or anything. Just ridding them so that he wouldn't be distracted by either the sight of their roundness or the feel of them underneath his fingertips. Death to all pimples, was one of his mottos.

After he'd dried his face, he wiped it down with toner, carefully wiping away all traces of his eyeliner so that he was looking at his clean face in the mirror. He threw away the dirtied cotton ball, then waited for the soothing effects of the witch hazel fade away. Skin care was important-it didn't matter that his routine took a little more time than shaving-Catherine, his older sister, had stressed that it was very important that he take care of his skin. And take care of it he did. After all, poor skin care meant pimples, and pimples were unacceptable...

As he did so, shifting his stance, he listened to Duo joke about Triton Bloom, about how he'd bragged earlier last night that he was going to get some from his date. Trowa rolled his eyes. If Triton Bloom could, the fucker would fuck anything that looked at him upon first contact. Well...he had to give the guy credit, actually-he did tend to wine and dine a guy/girl before the deed. So Trowa took back that earlier comment. As he smoothed on some moisturizer, he heard another guy laugh uproariously.

"Yeah, right! That fucker's dick-whipped with that fag from art! Triton ain't gettin' any!"

Trowa perked-as far as he knew, he was the only 'fag' from art. He blinked as he began putting his things back into their case, listening for more. They could be talking about Quatre, but he doubted the blond would have gone out with Triton...Seriously, Quatre didn't like the feel of that relationship business, so what would make him go out with that basketball dick?

"That's so fuckin' gross, man. I mean, no offense, but fags...fuckin' gross. I mean, that's a fuckin' exit, ya know? Fuckin' sick, man. I don't do that kind of bullshit..."

"Shut up, Corey," Duo snorted from his shower stall.

"No, serious! But hell, if you're into that shit, that's cool. I mean, I ain't no hater, I just think that it's fuckin'....gross."

"Whatever..."

When Trowa realized he wasn't get any more of the previous story, he picked up his things and walked out from the bathroom. Walking to his room, he yawned, figuring upon a scenario in which he could find a way to talk to his beloved. It had been exactly twenty hours, fifteen minutes, and forty-five seconds since he'd last conversed with him, laid his eyes on him. It was entirely too long. Even if the blond would care to just...glare at him and curse him from across the food court would give him some amount of gratification.

Ah, Quatre...thinking about the enraged-and probably very hurt-blond made him smile with a sad twist. He didn't mean to hurt his perfect little athlete...he only wanted the best for the both of them. And rumors, as achingly painful as they were, were his solution. If only Quatre could understand that Trowa wanted him all to himself...that rumors were a way of sending people the wrong message and therefore uninterested in something serious with him...

Sex rumors were strong and powerful-they tore one's rep to shreds, and that's what Trowa wanted accomplished. Not because he was doing it to be mean-but no one would look at Quatre seriously! And Trowa would have him all to himself, without worry that anyone would steal him away from him the way Chris had down to Ralph...Besides, Quatre didn't want anything to do with sex and such, and he figured that was a natural way for Quatre to be averted from others, was when they came to him for such things. The blond would reject them immediately, and Trowa would always have him...

He walked into his room, deposited his things in his section of the room, and pulled out his school clothes. He dressed himself, then slapped on his motorcycle boots for the day, pulling on a tie with a magenta-haired black woman, and spritzed on some cologne just to have some effect. He pulled his fingers through his hair, attached his usual bangles and bracelets, then began to wonder where he'd left his eye pencil. While searching for it, Duo came into the room, wrapped only in a towel.

"Don't look," he warned, glancing at Trowa with a frown.

Trowa rolled his eyes and continued his search for his pencil. Like he was interested in Duo in the first place. The guy looked entirely too stringy to be of any interest to him. Trowa found his eyeliner, then walked out from the room to make his way back to the bathroom. But as he did so, he heard a commotion from the stairway, so he turned to investigate.

Triton was fighting with someone, yelling obscene threats and degrading comments as his long legs took him up the stairs. Trowa smirked-the dick had it coming to him. Then he frowned as Quatre moved into view, slinging back comments that made Trowa's ears ring. Both were dressed for a night out on the town, with bags and bruises under their eyes, and their clothing was disheveled, with bits of popcorn, candy and liquid stains. Intense curiosity and fascination overcame him despite the telltale evidence that they had indeed gone out, and Trowa strode over to intervene when comments turned to punches. He didn't want Triton to get hurt-Quatre could hit hard if he put everything into it, and the little guy was quite capable of fighting dirty to get his way. Trowa knew this and would feel sorry for Triton, and because he didn't want to, he decided to put it upon himself to stop the fight. For the team's sake, of course...

"You both want to be kicked off the team for fighting?" he asked calmly as he managed to separate them. Triton had longer legs-he managed to kick Quatre in the chest, the blond stumbling backward into the hall. Trowa took it upon himself to land a direct punch upward into Triton's balls-the junior gave a strangled, pinched gasp and bent over as his face turned various shades of color. Trowa positioned himself and gave Triton a firm kick against the hip. The junior tumbled down the stairs, Trowa smiling with satisfaction. He turned, full expecting it, and caught Quatre before he could fly after him, ready to do more damage.

Trowa found himself having to struggle as he kept the blond from attacking the felled junior, and grinned in amusement as he realized he 'had' to wrap his arms around Quatre and throw him to the floor in an effort to keep him from following through with his threats. The blond continued to struggle, so Trowa climbed on top of him, pinning his arms to the floor and trying to keep knees from slamming into his balls. The position was very nice for him-the feel of the other's struggling body, the way he fought with such viciousness and exertion turned Trowa on in a naughty sort of way. He, Trowa Barton, conqueror of the Sarangatti, trying to tame the wild lion...or something among those effects...

"GET OFF ME, TROWA!" Quatre hollered at the top of his lungs, then quieted and stilled when many doors opened, curious faces peering out into the hall.

Trowa grinned and waved at them cheerfully while Quatre wished he would just die already.

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

"No."

"C'mon..."

"NO."

"Please?"

"NO!"

"Just a little bit?"

"NOOO!"

Trowa sighed and shuffled his feet, shifting into a more comfortable position against Quatre's door. Glancing at his watch, he saw that they were at least two hours late for school. Security would find them soon, and they would both be in trouble. Trowa didn't want Quatre in trouble-that would affect his position on the team, and Trowa wanted to make sure Quatre was comfortable. After all, the Roseville Tourney was coming up, and Quatre was excited to play...anything for his angel, Trowa supposed.

Then he grimaced. Did he just think that? Quatre? An angel? Christ...what the fuck was wrong with him? Quatre was more like his sadistic demon-imp complete with horns and tail and grotesque breath, and Trowa preferred him that way.

He knocked on the door again. "Security's going to come up and talk to you, anyway..."

"I'm sick. Horribly, horribly sick..."

"I know, love, and that's what I really-"

"No! Stop CALLING me that, you fuckin' liar! You honky liar!!"

Trowa snorted as he studied his fingernails. "Have you been taking language classes with Drake and Felicia again? Honestly... 'honky'?"

"GO AWAY!"

"I can't," Trowa admitted. "I don't want you to get into trouble. I'll do anything to keep you from getting into trouble. I'll hold the school hostage for you, just so you can make it to class without being tardy. I'll bomb the main offices for you if they give you detention. If you need to claim a sick day, I'll even vomit into test tubes for you and take laxatives to prove that you were sick----"

The door opened with a creak, Quatre staring at him with his eyes huge. Trowa tried not to gape, truly and honestly he did. Quatre had been in the middle of dressing, and clutched his shirt in one hand, his pants hanging around his ankles. Ooh, the blond had such a perfect body, toned and hard from all the physical activity that he exerted throughout the day, and with his hickies still in sight over his chest. Trowa resisted the urge to drool as his eyes ran hungrily over the exposed flesh, noting flaws and perfections that made his creative mind conjure up oil slicks of color that would look so right on flat canvases...

"You're fucking sick!" Quatre gasped.

Trowa rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "Yes, I know. All for you..."

"Agh! Get the fuck away from me!"

"You don't mean that, Quat. You know you want someone like me to love you...I'll even kill us both in a murder-suicide just to protect your virtue from others..."

"Oh my GOD! There are mental institutions for people like you! I'll need to file a restraining order against you! You're fucking demented!"

"Quatre, babe-you're ranting and raving in your tightie-whities. Get dressed before someone else sees you," Trowa said on a sigh, covering his eyes. Quatre gasped and slammed the door shut, the entire wall reverberating with the action. Trowa removed his hand and waited, tapping his boot against the carpet. He looked at his watch again, and the door slammed open, Quatre fixing his tie.

"Get away from me, Trowa!" he ordered, standing at Trowa's elbow as he then began shoving the tails of his shirt into his pants.

Trowa looked at him, picking at his bracelet. "You're the one choosing to stand next to me," he pointed out.

"Because you're here talking to me! I can't take this anymore! You're so fucking....fucking... obsessed! It's sick!!" Quatre exclaimed, zipping up and pulling on his belt.

"And it's so wholly different with you and the basketball?"

"YES! The ball can't force itself onto you!"

"But you can force yourself onto the ball..."

"THAT'S-! Not what I mean! Damn it! You sick FREAK! Get the FUCK away from me! You fucking liar! You LIAR! What did I ever do to you?!"

"You appeared in my life..."

"Like that's entirely my fault!?"

"I can't help if I'm in love with you, Quatre. You can't stop feelings from being feelings. I am merely following my emotions..which are following my heart...which are following my brain...which is following my dick..."

"YOU SICK FUCK! FUCK YOU!!!

"Quatre..."

"You're so fucking demented! Sickening! Perverted! Fucking-anal! I DON'T EVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!" Quatre ended on a scream.

"Quatre...?"

"YOU HEARD ME, YOU DEMENTED FREAK!"

"Quatre..."

"WHAT, Trowa?"

"Kiss me already."

Quatre made a sputtering sound that resembled the gurgling gasp of a pig with its throat slashed. He fumbled for words, threw his arms about, then stared at Trowa with a tic under his left eye. Trowa grinned at him, just feeling the oozing violence that Quatre emitted. Ah...it was always best when his love worked himself into a fury-he tired himself out enough to admit Trowa in once more.

Trowa bent, kissing Quatre's nose with a deliberate smooch. That did it. Quatre leapt on him, screaming and punching. They didn't make it to morning classes at all.

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

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Sorry," Quatre grumbled, pulling his knees to his chin.

"It's all right," Trowa assured him, removing the wad of tissue from his nose. He was sure the blood had stopped flowing, but one could never be too sure. Quatre sure packed a loaded punch when he was angry. I sure did a good thing in rescuing Triton, he thought to himself with a prideful smirk. That junior didn't know what he was getting into when getting into a fight with his blond upstart. "Do you feel better?"

"Mmnnness."

"Then that's all the matters to me."

Quatre sighed, running his hands through his hair and holding them there. Trowa resumed laying on his back, sticking the wad of tissue against his nose and staring up at the ceiling of Quatre's room. They sat in silence, Trowa in glee and Quatre in hung-over disbelief over Trowa's own sadistic measures, and the events of the night before.

He couldn't believe that he'd just fought with Triton during a two hour ride back to campus, and couldn't believe that he actually preferred Trowa's company right now. What Triton did was wrong and very much insulting-thinking that he could score based on untrue rumors. That certainly lowered his level of respect for the junior, who'd received a very harsh wake-up call when it came to trying Quatre's limits in terms of physical affections. Sure, he'd come to like the junior based on a flighty slight-crush, but that certainly didn't give the junior the right to grope him because of some rumors that weren't even true...

"Trowa...have you ever had restraining orders filed against you?" Quatre asked thoughtfully, blinking as he chewed at his thumbnail.

"No. Why? Still planning on doing it?"

"...No...You're just...demented. I don't think that would even stop you from anything!"

Trowa smiled as he wrapped his arms behind his head. "I know what to do to make you feel better, Quat. You have a lot of anger inside you. The only way to release it is through me. I want to make you happy."

Christ, he's so fucking psycho, Quatre thought, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead. But even if Trowa was psycho, there was something therapeutic about him. He had to admit that. And besides, he wasn't so angry at Trowa anymore...he was just...hurt. And confused. Confused because he was going to let this slide, just this once. After all, Trowa was the only one sticking by him, and he really didn't know who to turn to...everyone else he was familiar with was hundreds of miles away...

"Then what the fuck were those rumors about?" Quatre then demanded.

Trowa sighed. "You'd never understand, you know."

"Whatever, you sick pervert." Quatre buried his face into his hands, shaking his head from side to side. He rubbed his face with stiff fingers, trying to rub in some wakefulness. Last night allowed him little sleep in the cab ride back to within a mile of Darken's campus, and from sneaking back in on a newspaper delivery trucks. He could feel the bags just hanging from under his eyes.

"Whatever did I do to attract someone like you?" he moaned, unsure if he really were awake or just dreaming.

Trowa shrugged and rolled over onto his stomach, staring at the object of his affections. As he settled into a comfortable position, he replied, "You came to Darken. That's all..."

"God...did you do this to your ex, too?"

"No. I was a different Trowa Barton back then. Now I'm present-day Trowa Barton."

"Maybe I want to get to know the other Trowa Barton, then..."

Trowa frowned, pulling the tissue from his nose and wadding it to throw into the trash can. Then he stared at Quatre for several long moments, then blinked. Quatre noticed him staring at him, so he turned his attention from his ruined cuticles and looked at him. Finally, Trowa rose from the floor, dusting himself off.

"I'll be right back," he said curtly, walking out the door and slamming it shut behind him.

Quatre blinked, wondering what he said to offend the seemingly impervious goth.

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

Quatre had just finished resigning himself to the fate of the security officers (for when they did come to tear him away from his room), when someone knocked at his door. Grimacing, figuring that they were here to take him to class under escorted supervision, Quatre straightened his tie and reached out to open the door. He opened it, then blinked stupidly at the sight before him: it was Trowa, and he was dressed in proper standard issue uniform, with the proper tie knotted straight, the ends of his shirt tucked in, new pants, and leather Oxfords. His hair had been slicked backwards, baring his face to all that wanted to see. And last of all, no eyeliner. In fact, Quatre had noticed that Trowa hadn't been wearing eyeliner all this time this morning and really, it didn't do much of a difference...well...considering that Trowa was Trowa no matter what he did or didn't wear.

He wondered what was so wrong with this Trowa. He didn't seem so bad...

"Well?" Trowa raised an eyebrow and gave him an up and down. His expression was entirely snooty, taking an aristocratic air. His usually slouched shoulders were rigid and his back ramrod straight. "Are you ready?"

"For what?" Quatre asked, confused.

"To go to class."

"You're going like that?"

"Do you have a problem with it?"

"Er...no...."

"Fine. Get your things and let's go. I don't want to get detention just because you're on your 'pity me' routine," Trowa said with a sniff, turning away from him.

Quatre blinked, but grabbed his backpack and shut the door. He walked with Trowa to the stairway, staring at the taller boy, wondering what the hell he had up his sleeve now.

"Frankly, I'm a little disappointed in you, Quatre," Trowa said as they made their way across campus to the main building. Quatre practically had to run to keep up with the taller boy. "Going out, drinking, carousing with questionable personalities...that doesn't exactly make a good reputation. Especially when going out with a junior with a certain playing trait. Do you want your reputation ruined?"

"What are you talking about?" Quatre snapped, staring at him incredulously. "You're the one spreading rumors about me to everyone else."

"Hmm. I suppose so. But they were true, weren't they?"

"NO! I didn't do shit with you! Damn it, thinking about it now makes me want to kick your ass again!" Quatre growled, fists clenched. "I can't believe I'm walking around with you! What the hell is wrong with me?! I think I may be a little drunk, still-"

"Losing your temper won't solve anything," Trowa said, opening the door. But he allowed only himself to walk in. Quatre slammed into the closing door, having gotten entirely used to having Trowa open it for him. He winced, steadied himself, then opened the door and followed after the weirdo, rubbing his face. "It just goes to show how immature you really are. Really, I cannot believe I am associating myself with you. You're not my type. You're rude, insensitive, selfish, entirely temperamental-you have affairs all over the place...seriously, Quatre, if you're going to be with me, we're going to have to work on a few things..."

Quatre stared at him, wondering what the fuck kind of game Trowa was playing now. Suddenly, before they could reach the main hall that would take them to their classes on the second level, Trowa reared on him, pining him to the wall. Quatre reacted with panic, thinking Trowa was going to kiss him or something in plain view, but all he received were two thumbs pinching his skin together under his left eye. He howled with pain as Trowa studied the goo he'd squeezed from the blackhead, then wiped it on Quatre's shirt. He sniffed as he continued walking.

"That was so gross," he said as Quatre slapped a hand over his stinging cheek, following with death threats on his lips.

Later on, when they met after school, Quatre saw that Trowa was still going through with his snooty phase. Quatre seriously contemplated running off and hiding, but Trowa made a beeline in his direction. He was fast, but he certainly wasn't Impulse...

"I'm ready, let's go," he said as soon as he reached Quatre's side. Christ.

"Er...I'm going to the gym."

"Then I'll go with you. I have homework I need completed."

"Why don't you stay in your room?"

Trowa stared at him. The stare was unnerving, those two emerald green eyes boring into him. Quatre shifted, uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny. "Are you trying to get rid of me? Is that what you want? Have you found someone else?"

Quatre stared right back. "God," he finally breathed, taking a few steps back. "What the fuck is wrong with you?! Trowa, are you on something? What the hell, man?"

Trowa gave him a dirty expression. "What do you mean by that? There's nothing wrong with me. I'm just asking! You're the one acting very strange..."

"You're the one acting strange!" Quatre pointed out. "What hell is wrong with you?! Trowa?"

"God, you can be such a prick sometimes, Quatre," Trowa said, his face screwing with sadness, then quickly reverting to that of indignant pride. "You're the one doing all the cheating and carousing, then get angry with me when I react quite normally to the situation with jealous anger. You think I like being this way? You think I like what you do to me? Grow up!"

Quatre stared at him, unsure of what to think. Trowa turned and began walking toward the dorms, joining in the crowd that were making their way from the main school building. He started forward, his mind whirling at a hundred miles per hour, trying to understand the situation. Really, Trowa was so odd! What was it about him that Quatre found so...so...irritating?! But if Trowa was so irritating, then why the fuck was he continually hanging around him?!

"Argh!" he shouted, grabbing at his hair.

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

"What the hell is wrong with you!?" Sally screamed.

"There is nothing wrong with me!" Quatre screamed back. "When you pass, pass it to me! To ME! It's not helping any when you're passing to nobody! Don't you know the play?!"

"I know the drill, you little fuckhead! And don't you get into passing to nobody, because you-!"

"Po! Winner!" Ramos screamed from his position near the benches. He threw the playbook down onto the benches and stomped over to where the pair were standing, the other members of the team giving their own groans and sighs of the scene. "What the hell is going on? Get off that court and give me laps! LAPS, damn it! I'm so sick and tired of this fucking bickering amongst the lot of you that I want to pull the team from the tourney! We are not ready, we are continually fighting with each other, and neither of you have made promising advancement toward team-ready plays! Are we seriously that pig-headed with each other?! You! Hiiro! Run the plays!"

"But, coach-!" Quatre shouted in protest from his lap.

"Don't you talk to me, Winner! I'm sick of this situation as it is! Both you, Po, and Schbeiker are the cause of these troubles! I have let you known from day one that I'll need your cooperation and your effort put into this team! Neither of you have done either, and so our team is falling apart!"

"But that's not fair! I don't even start any of this!"

"Get running, Winner! I don't want to hear another peep from you, unless it's to apologize to Po. And Po, I don't want to hear anything from you unless it's to apologize with Winner! You guys got that!?"

"I am not a guy!" Sally shouted from the other end of the court, plaits bouncing.

"Excuse me."

"Coach-!"

"WINNER!!!"

Quatre grumbled underneath his breath and continued running, shooting angry looks at Sally as she ran opposite him on the other end of the court. The pair continued to glare at each other until practice ended forty-five minutes later and Ramos stopped their running. A little winded, Quatre walked up to Ramos, determined to rectify this situation. But instead, Trowa, who had been sitting nearby and watching everything, rose from the bench and intercepted him.

"Let go of me, I need to talk to him," Quatre growled as he yanked at his arm, watching as Ramos left the gym. "Trowa!"

"You're making this worse upon yourself, stupid!" Trowa snapped. "What good is it arguing with your coach over these matters?! He's right, you know! You and Sally have the most volatile chemistry going on, and the both of you need to work these out before you take the team to those games in Roseville. What good is it if the point guard can't even control his own team?"

"Man-! You don't know shit about basketball!" Quatre cursed, yanking his arm from Trowa.

"I know enough to get by, and you are seriously unfit for the court," Trowa said, crossing his arms. "There's no possible way Ramos would let you play next week. Hiiro's the better choice because he can run the plays and he gets along with everyone! He doesn't act like the star!"

"I'm not a star!"

"You sure have the attitude, you prima donna. What's with this bullshit routine? Huh? What does it accomplish?"

"I-!"

"Seriously, Quatre," Trowa ended with a sniff, looking back for his things that were spread out on the bench, where he had been studying. "You need to get your attitude a good work-over because you're not doing the team any good by continually fucking things over with the girls. The girls are good assets because they know their positions, and you don't even tone down your style to cooperate with the others. You automatically assume that they are there when they haven't even completed their first step. Your turnovers are what's fucking up the team. Stop passing if you know they aren't there!"

Quatre's face turned a bright red as he slowly sucked in a deep breath of air, ready to explode over Trowa's lecture. Trowa raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms once more.

"Now you're just going to act like a child and scream at me because what I said, as a bystander, was right, wasn't it? Little Quatre Winner, crying like a baby because he didn't get his way...how pitiful. What good are you to the team? As far as I see it, you're nothing but a bench warmer. Your attitude needs to change. I suggest you leave the game for awhile to find the suitable attitude to replace this one. Because it seriously sucks. Grow up, Quatre Winner. Stop acting your shoe size and act your age! I don't know what I'm doing with a boy like you. I seriously wonder about myself, sometimes," Trowa muttered as he grabbed his things and walked out from the gym.

Quatre turned a curious shade of purple. Hautta, who heard the whole thing, laughed hysterically. The sound sent many of his teammates hurtling themselves for some sort of cover, Quatre automatically coming out of his anger-induced paralyzation to stare at him in surprise. The guy never laughed at anything.

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

Their uniforms were finally issued on Saturday's morning practice-Quatre stared at his with a giddiness that he was barely able to hold in as he joined the rest of his teammates into examining their issued uniforms, complete with warm-ups. The colors were blue and yellow, with their last names printed above their number in back. His was number twenty, Manu Ginbuli's number. The size was larger than what he normally wore, but he figured on a growth spurt to help him along, anyway. Shaking out the jersey, he took in the soft feel, the Nike DRI-fit system making the material easy to absorb sweat. The main color of both the jersey and shorts were bright, reflective white, with blue collars, armholes, and leg bands at the hems of the shorts. There were abbreviated yellow stripes up the leg, and down the sides. The numbers were in blue, the letters outlined in yellow.

"Hey, if I ever need to get out there and direct traffic, I'll throw these babies on!" he heard Duo shout from somewhere in the middle of the court.

"Man, there's no way someone will miss ya in these!" Manny laughed.

The warmups were tear away, all blue with yellow buttons and hems. The jacket had their names printed on the back in yellow. All of it were shiny, reflective material and Quatre couldn't wait to wear them. Smiling lightly, he took care to fold his jersey and shorts back into neat piles, then put them away in the issued gym bag.

"All right, all right, all right!" Ramos said, clapping to get their attention. "Listen up, peoples! I got the game times for next week! We play Friday night at seven thirty, against Apollo Prestigious, the Christian Academy from Grand Junction!"

The team cheered, all of them spread throughout the court with their respective bags at their sides. Quatre couldn't wait. The thought of returning to the court in front of people making his stomach flutter with both nausea and excitement. Just wait, you guys, he thought, looking at his teammates with a bold smile. I'll show you what I can do...