Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ I Got Game! ❯ Maps ( Chapter 9 )

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..eeks! Does the last scene count as a lemon? OFCx4...

A/N: Oh, goodness...I am taking awhile to get to the better parts, aren't I? Thank you for another review, Taylor Mercury! All your praises and such make me so happy that I'm doing a better job on this story than others! I seriously didn't think this one would get so much attention! Ah, well, thank you ALL!

//\\ = flashback

Chapter Nine~

"Maps" = Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs

"Winner!"

Quatre paused in the middle of the hall, then realized his mistake. Felicia slammed into him from behind, sending them both to the floor in a tangle of limbs and bags. Everyone in the hall quickly shifted their walk paths to move around them with small grumbles. Quatre, his face digging into the carpet, grimaced as Felicia sat on his back, hugging him from behind.

"Oh my God, it's actually you, you're in the hall, going to class OH MY GOD!" she shrieked, bouncing on his back. He groaned at the weight she rested upon himand struggled to get up. "So, did you and Barton kiss and make up?! You two are hanging out together again! Wee! Oh my God, you guys make such a cute couple!! You should be the Homocoming Kings! Er, Homecoming...never MIND you KNOW what I MEAN!"

"Get off me!" Quatre shouted.

"Wagh! I'm so happy!" she shrieked, jerking him off the floor with one arm. She flung herself against him in a tight, air constricting hug that had his face turning purple. The late bell rang, and she planted a wet kiss against his cheek, making a loud smooching sound. Before he could do anything to throw her off, she jumped away from him in an eerily graceful pirouette and performed a detourne, then a grand jete that sent her in the direction of her class. Quatre blinked, unsure if he'd just seen the tomboy perform the graceful ballet steps, of which he'd never imagine her ever doing, then turned and continued his way to his class.

After school, he made his way as slowly as he possibly could to the dormitories, unsure of whether or not he wanted to hang out with Trowa today. The goth...er...guy was still acting in that odd way he'd started to two days ago and he was seriously growing tired of Trowa's snippish attitude. It seemed that no matter what Quatre said or did, Trowa was there, accusing him of acting like a child. As if the goth himself was mature-! Well...Quatre had to take that back. Trowa was acting more mature in a way he'd never imagine the goth doing, but...what the fuck was with this change?! What was with him?! Christ, it was a psychotic turnabout that had Quatre bugging. Seriously.

He slowly made his way into the dormitory and ascended up the stairway, dragging his bag behind him. So far, so good, he supposed. He hadn't seen hide nor hair of that uni-banged weirdo...as he made his way to his room, fumbling with throwing his bag over his shoulder to play with the keypad, he looked both ways of the hall before venturing in. Inside, he quickly changed to decent street clothes, then picked up his basketball. Lifting his hand, he let the ball roll along his forearm, over and across his shoulders, and up and over the other arm. Then he caught the ball, dribbling along the carpeted floor as he searched out the area for his wallet. He wanted to go into town to get a haircut, and to pick up a few new things. Practice had been cancelled tonight, as Ramos was sick, so Quatre figured that it was now or never.

He pulled on a hoody and then a waterproof jacket to protect him against the falling snow outside, then opened the door to leave his room. He ran smack into Trowa, who had been prepared to knock at his door.

"Oh! Shit, I'm sorry," he apologized as Trowa stared down at him, dressed in those white pants that looked three sizes too small and a bulky turtleneck. What was with the turtlenecks?! Was Trowa so dorky?! Only fags wore turtlenecks-!

"Where are you going?" Trowa asked him crispily.

"To...town...I wanted to get my hair cut," Quatre said, eyeing him undecidedly, hoping that Trowa didn't invite himself to tag along.

"Why don't you just use the school barbershop?"

"Because I want it professionally done, Trowa. Plus, I want to pick up some new wrist guards..."

"I'd like to come with you. I need a haircut as well..."

"Er...well...um..."

Trowa bent to place himself eye-level with him. "Do you have a problem with that? You know, your constant avoiding of me has me wondering if you're cheating on me, again. I forgave you for the one time with Tritan Bloom, but this time, I might get a little angrier. What's with you, Quatre Winner? Am I not good enough for you? Huh? You look down at me, yet you string me along like some play toy?! I am not some toy, Winner! I don't appreciate these sorts of mixed feelings from you! Either get it out in the open or fucking man up and break up with me!"

Quatre stared at those emerald depths, then exploded. "Argh! Cut it out, Trowa! Goddammit! What the fuck is wrong with you?! Why can't you be the other Trowa again?! What the fuck are you, fucking bipolar or some shit like that?!"

Trowa stared at him, straightening, then Quatre found himself growing red from embarrassment as that single stare took him back to the days where he was standing before his father, being punished for being a stranger. Trowa blinked, then broke into a wide grin. Quatre turned to make a run for it when Trowa glomped him hard, laughing hysterically. Quatre let out a gurgling protest as Trowa smothered his face with multitudes of kisses, exclaiming in various European languages that he didn't have the coherent mind to try and guess.

Then, just as suddenly, Trowa dropped him. "You better not leave without me, my psychotic little athlete," he growled, turning and running for the stairway.

Quatre stared at his retreating form with utter confusion, reaching up to wipe at the spit left on his face. Sometimes...he just didn't know what to think about that boy. Why couldn't he just be normal?!

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

Quatre ran his hand through his newly shorn hair, grumbling because it was cut a little too short. It smelled of professional shampoo and was styled with light hair spray to keep it from his eyes. The man that had cut his hair had exclaimed over his dandruff and tried to give him some shampoo to get rid of it, but Quatre didn't think he had dandruff and refused. Trowa, meanwhile, had just finished having his ends trimmed and re-shaped and looked just as he did when Quatre met him-sullen, pale, goth...No longer did he slick his hair back, and he wore eyeliner in full-force, smudging the color so that he looked reminiscent to one of Alice Cooper's love children, or at least another Crow stand-in.

They'd taken a bus from the campus, assuring the security guards at the front gate they'd be back before curfew, and had taken a ride to downtown Marysville, where the mall, smaller shops and outlet stores were located. Trowa had shown him the salon that he used for his hair cut, and, being relatively new to the scene, Quatre had gone along with it. The salon was entirely goth-themed, with tattoos and piercings taking place the same time as people getting their hair-cut and colored.

Smiling weakly, Quatre had faced the many faces of open scrutiny that had fallen upon him when he walked in with Trowa. He felt so out of place in his athletic clothing and lack of sullenness on his face that he wanted to flee. But Trowa, damn him, kept him in his place by holding onto his wrist and refusing to let go until Quatre found himself in a chair with a towel tied around his neck.

He'd gotten a good price for the simple cut, much cheaper than what was advertised at the school barbershop, but it was cut a little too short-instead of hanging in his face as they usually did, his bangs were cut short so that now he had to either comb them upward to blend in with the rest of the cut, or risk looking like a girl. So, he chose to style it so that all he had to do was rub some gel into his hands and slick his hair upward, Jake Gyllenhaal-style. Whoever that was.

After that, they were walking along West Fourth Street, toward the mall. He looked at his companion, frowning at the black trench coat, tight black multiple zipper pants, flame toed boots, red and black cobweb vest over a pinstripe button-up shirt and the scarf...oh, Gods, the scarf. It was bright red with various little spiders all over it. Quatre himself was wearing baggy blue jeans, a comfortable Nike jersey over an Under Armor long-sleeved tee, worn basketball shoes, and of course, his hoody and his jacket. In no way did the pair look even alike, and people stared at them as they walked around. They went together like oil and water, the moon and the sun, and it was so freaking obvious that Trowa had a sick infatuation with him because he was doing his usual goth-Trowa-like things...and frankly? Quatre liked it better.

"Let's eat," Trowa suggested, pointing at a small restaurant nearby. He was wearing half-fingered gloves, which, Quatre thought, destroyed the entire point of wearing gloves in the first place.

"Jimboy's?" Quatre questioned, raising an eyebrow at the obvious Mexican theme.

"Yes! They have the sickest tacos..."

"You mean, like, gross? Then why would we-"

"'Sick' means good, my blond lovenut."

"Trowa, you keep up those fucking pet names, and I'll shove you out into traffic," Quatre grumbled as he followed the goth across the street.

"I should be so lucky, murdered by my man in a fit of passion..."

"Stop-! Oh, hey, there's a Niketown. Let's go over there, first," Quatre said, distracted by the bright lights and obvious athletic apparel shop two blocks from their location. He started to walk over when Trowa grabbed his arm, snarling incoherently. "Okay, okay!"

They walked inside, which was filled with people sitting at the small booths and a small section of counter. The smells of Mexican food filled their nostrils, and Trowa eagerly shoved his way through a small college crowd to get to the register. Quatre winced as the kids snarled and snapped at the goth, a girl complaining about the newly spilled drink on her Prada blouse. Quatre made his way through, noting that Trowa was already ordering. Scanning the menu, Quatre wasn't sure if he really wanted Mexican food, because, well, so much grease and refried beans gave him such trouble...but he wondered if the secret weapon would come in handy tonight, if he really needed Trowa to leave him alone. He looked for a suitable meal as Trowa finished ordering, then ordered the two chicken taco meal with a large coke.

After they'd paid for their food, Trowa leaned against the counter with a smirk, eyeing the crowd inside. "Bunch of yuppies," he commented.

"Trowa, shut up, please," Quatre sighed.

"Why? It's true..."

"Look, I am not interested in becoming involved in any fights of some kind-!"

Trowa started to laugh hysterically. "You?!" he gasped between fits of laughter that was so out of character for him. "Not wanting to fight?!"

Quatre's face froze with his expression of weariness, then darkened to a scowl as everyone looked in their direction. Feeling his face flush with embarrassment at the sudden attention, he hunched his shoulders, trying to hide amongst the layers of his clothing. Their tray was deposited on the counter, and Trowa stopped laughing long enough to grab it, throwing a bunch of hot sauce, forks and napkins onto any availabe space among the plates and foil-covered tortillas. They found a small booth towards the very back, and Quatre sat with his back to the crowd while Trowa took the bench that faced them.

As they began to eat in silence, Quatre blotting the grease and Parmesan cheese from his tacos, Trowa doctored his shredded beef nachos with some guacamole and hot sauce. After while, Quatre admitted how good the food was.

"It is," Trowa agreed, plowing his way through the nachos. "So...what time do you guys play Friday?"

"Seven-thirty...against Apollo Prestigious."

Trowa frowned, swallowing. "Christian school."

"Yup." Quatre stopped playing with his cheese coated rice, then screwed up his forehead. "I thought religion was proved non-existent? I mean, you know, God?"

"Yeah. Science proved all that biblical bullshit wrong. Jesus was a con-artist...but UFO's were real," Trowa said on a chuckle.

"Well...why...?"

Trowa shrugged. "Some people refused to admit that their way is wrong. Much like someone I know."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Quatre asked, lowering his taco. "I mean, what was with that attitude change the other day? It was like...you were a completely different person!"

Trowa finished chewing, brushing his hands off. "Quatre, you wondered what the other Trowa Barton was like. I gave you a taste. Anything you want, I'll give you."

Quatre scowled at him, lightly shaking his head. "Whatever, you obsessed freak. But...really? That's how you were like?"

"Yes. You caught me in a good mood, through. Other times, I was a serious prick. Thinking about that now, I have no idea how Ralph was able to stand me for so long. I feel pity that he did. Even though the concept of what he did really pissed me off, I think, in a way, I deserved it."

"No one deserves that sort of thing," Quatre said, picking at the refried beans. "Unless they were like, abusive or something."

"Well, I was just anal about things. You wanted to know, so, there you go."

"Ugh. I'll take you over him any day...at least you won't lecture me as much. I fucking hate when people lecture me. The only person who can do it because he's like, allowed to, is my father. I get so pissed off when people do it. That's why I get all...attitudy..."

"Quatre, you would get all 'attitudy' if someone tried letting you know that you put your jersey on backwards," Trowa pointed out, using his fork to dig out the parts he'd missed with his chips.

"Yeah, but...you know what I mean," Quatre grumbled, finishing off the rice. "I hate being lectured in general. If I knew it wasn't right in the first place, I wouldn't do it. You know?"

Trowa shrugged, shaking his head. Looking at Quatre across the table, he realized just how perfect it was-the pair of them secluded, talking normally without insulting each other, acting like a real couple despite their differences...Trowa was sure he fell even deeper as he stared at his blond companion, who was making a face over the grease that pooled on his plate. There was never going to be anyone else like him, no matter how much he looked.

Quatre looked up from his plate, and grinned suddenly, sending Trowa off-balance. Though he felt his cheeks warm at the thought of Trowa staring at him, he felt flattered by it. Once realizing this, Quatre wondered just how much the goth meant to him. Sure, they had their obvious differences, but... Quatre was able to forgive him easily and had fallen dependent on the other.

"Of course, I've been known not to listen to anyone," he admitted, ducking his head rather shyly as he thought of his own feelings for Trowa. For someone who'd just found out that his partner had spread unforgivable rumors about him throughout the entire school, he sure found no problem in 'hanging out' with him afterward.

"Yes," Trowa nodded. "That you have."

He had just finished his tacos and was ready to snatch one of those chicken tacos Quatre was refusing to eat when a shadow fell across the table. He looked up and masked his expression of surprise when he saw Ralph standing there, looking down at him in shock.

"T-Trowa?" he gaped, standing with that same rigid posture all military-personnel seemed to possess. He was dressed in normal clothing, but every bit of it was immaculate, pressed and solemn. His hair was shorter, sprouting from his head in a stiff crewcut, his body having filled out from all the activity he'd done since joining the military academy. As a result, his face was stronger, filled with an early manliness traditional to all recruits. He took in Trowa's appearance with an expression close to disgust and disbelief.

"What the fuck, man?" he asked, blinking repeatedly, as if every blink would push him closer to the truth.

Quatre stared up at him, not knowing who he was, and looked across the table at Trowa to ask. Trowa shrugged, avoiding his look as he pushed his plate away.

"What the hell?" Ralph demanded again, gesturing at Trowa's ensemble, the changed appearance of both hair and face. "What is this shit?"

"Quat, this is Ralph," Trowa said on a sigh, jerking a thumb in Ralph's direction. Quatre looked up at him, blinking as Ralph looked at him with nothing more than a sneer.

"Man...man, I don't know what to think about you," Ralph continued, gesturing at Trowa once more. "What's with this shit? You're all...all different!"

"Thanks for the obvious," Trowa muttered.

"What the fuck happened to you? I mean, you weren't like this before! I wouldn't have even guessed that it was you sitting back here!"

Trowa shrugged again, then gestured at the hands that were gesturing at him. "I thought you were married?"

"Man-! No. We can't until we graduate from school...Trowa. Trowa, let's talk, man. This is...this is ridiculous," Ralph snorted, shaking his head. "I mean...c'mon. What the fuck? What made you want to be like this?"

Quatre frowned, looking at Trowa. Trowa gave Ralph an evil eye, the other half of his face hidden behind the fall of hair. Is he just going to take that bullshit? Quatre wondered, frowning up at Ralph. That guy doesn't have the right to talk to him that way!

"Go ahead. Pull up a chair."

"No..." Ralph looked at Quatre. "Can you leave?"

"No, he's here with me and I say he stays!" Trowa snapped before Quatre could open his mouth. "Since when did you care? What do you want to talk about, besides my obvious difference?"

"I just-c'mon, man, just for a few minutes," Ralph said to Quatre, who opened his mouth to decline.

"Stay right there Quatre. He doesn't have to tell us what to do," Trowa ordered. "Besides, what do you have to say that's so fucking important? There's nothing more between us-I moved on. You moved on. End of discussion."

"Man, I just-! Dude, you're my ex. Everyone knows who you are. They see you here, they're going to fucking rib me about this," Ralph said shaking his head.

"Your crowd wasn't the ones dating him," Quatre finally snapped, growing irritated with the older boy's attitude.

"Hey! Was I talking to you, blondie?!"

"Cut it out, you two," Trowa said on a sigh, rising from the booth. "As much as the idea of being the damsel in distress amuses me, there is no way I am going to encourage an incident out here in public."

"I'm not finished," Quatre muttered, trying to finish up the remains of his tacos and his drink.

"Let's go, Quat."

"We were here first!"

"Look, all right! I know it's messed up, it really is," Ralph said, blocking Trowa's way out of the booth. "But see, we're here from the game out in Cal-North. The team's here. I just...some people know who you are, and...I don't know. It's embarrassing...you didn't look bad before, but-"

"Christ, are all military dicks like you?" Quatre asked in exasperation.

Ralph eyed him undecidedly. "What the fuck did you say?"

Trowa pushed Ralph out of the way. "Come on, Quatre!" he snapped.

"I'm not finished eating," Quatre sniffed, picking at his taco. "I don't appreciate some military asshole coming over and telling us to leave just because you look different. I don't see why you're going along with it, Trowa. Are you really that cowardly?"

Trowa stared down at him with a blank expression, then looked at Ralph. He looked beyond the junior to see that there were indeed other members of Ralph's team sitting at the various booths, staring in their direction. Though Ralph's words were a little cutting, Quatre's refusal to leave was getting on his nerves. Trowa hated public scenes, and if Quatre turned this into a scene-!

"Look, I'm being polite...He didn't look like this before," Ralph continued, gesturing at Trowa's black and red ensemble, the hair and the makeup. "It's just...c'mon. I'm in one of the most prestigious military groups in the world, and...just..."

Quatre slammed his coke down on the table and glared up at Ralph. "And what's that supposed to mean?! Just because his appearance changed it's going to affect you?! This is a public restaurant! We can be here if we want to! Fuck your pride!"

"What-?! Trowa, who the fuck is this?"

"A very dead athlete," Trowa growled, growing red from the stares that they were receiving. "Let's go, Quatre!"

"No! Trowa, why should he come in here and kick us out just because he'd embarrassed over something that he has no control over?!" Quatre protested, rising from his seat and glaring at Ralph. The older boy stood around six foot two, but that didn't deter Quatre from facing him. He may be short, but he made up for it in spunk. "You leave!"

"Quatre!"

"Listen here, blondie-!" Ralph growled, moving from Trowa to face Quatre.

Someone came up behind him, wrapping an arm companionably around Ralph's shoulders. The brown-haired young man laughed nervously and patted his chest. "Sorry, guys," he apologized to both Trowa and Quatre, abruptly pulling Ralph away from their booth. The boy stood around five foot eleven, skinner than most military attendants, and had a friendly face. He also looked very used to intervening in such situations as these, as if he did them all the time. "He's still a little pumped from our last game. A little too much testosterone has been leaking into his common sense and making him all screwy. He'll leave you alone, now."

"Let go, Peters!"

"Come one, Ralph, let's go see how many tacos Byrons can stuff into his mouth," the other boy said, forcefully dragging Ralph away.

Trowa turned and glared at Quatre, then stomped off. Quatre sighed, slumping his shoulders as Trowa left the restaurant without him. Figuring that Trowa was too pissed off to do anything more, Quatre sat back down in his seat and hurriedly finished his taco and drink. Then he left the booth, glaring at Ralph as he did so. Ralph started to rise and go after him, but two pairs of hands pulled him back down into the booth, amid laughter and friendly jabs.

Quatre ran out the doors, searching the street for Trowa. He started to head north, where he figured Trowa would go and catch a bus back to Darken, but as he did so, he heard the door to the restaurant open, and his name shouted. Quatre froze in place, blinking as he wondered if he heard right. He whirled, expression registering surprise as he turned to face the restaurant, snow beginning to fall and the lights of the street beginning to power up. He wasn't sure what to think as Jamie Anderson hurried over to him, grinning.

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

Grumbling underneath his breath, Trowa stuffed a cigarette into his mouth and lit it furiously, pacing just behind the bus bench just around the block. What the fuck was Quatre doing, interfering in his business like that?! It was embarrassing!

Smoking angrily, Trowa glanced in the direction of the restaurant, wondering what was taking the blond so long to come after him. Maybe Ralph got to him. Or maybe he got to Ralph. As much as he appreciated Quatre sticking up for him, Trowa was angry that it came this far. He didn't want to get into anything with Ralph, and he was going to leave peacefully, but Quatre had to intervene...All those eyes focused in on them, the restaurant going still to watch their exchange-! How mortifying!

He paced angrily, flicking the half smoked cigarette away. What was taking Quatre so long?! He couldn't hear any shouts coming from that direction, so he doubted that Ralph and Quatre had engaged in fisticuffs. He looked up the street to see that the bus was no where in sight, so he turned and began making his way back to make sure that there wasn't anything going on between the pair. He doubted Quatre would back down if Ralph threatened him, and though the idea was a heroic turn-on in a David and Goliath way, it would just be wholly inappropriate to just know that his new (hopefully) lover fought with a military-trained lug that would just cream his ass-wrong expression, beat him down to the ground with properly trained moves that every soldier learned to defend themselves with.

He rounded the corner, a little nervous as to what he was going to see, and saw Quatre embracing a black-haired boy that was barely taller than he was. Who the fuck is that?! His mind demanded as he paused, watching as the two separated then excitedly began talking in earnest. Trowa frowned, feeling that tingle of jealousy in his stomach once more as he observed their body language, their obvious familiarity to each other. The two stood so close to each other that it made Trowa scowl, wondering what the fuck was going on.

Quatre must have sensed that he was there, because he turned, saw Trowa, then looked back at the other boy. He said a few things that made the other laugh, and they left after a friendly slap of each other's shoulders. Quatre hurried over to Trowa while the other boy, after some hesitating, went back into the restaurant.

"What was that?" Trowa demanded, then fell sullen at the smile on Quatre's face.

"Jamie's going to Duncan Jones! He plays for them, now!" he answered happily. "His parents sent him here!"

Trowa stared down at him, frowning. Great. The ex was back. What the fuck was going on today, some strange sort of Twilight Zone were the exes rose from the pits of hell and emerged into their lives without plausible excuse?! The expression of Quatre's face, that mixture of delighted happiness and pleasant surprise made Trowa's gut curdle. As far as he knew, Quatre and Jamie had separated just because their parents were behind it all. If it weren't for them, Quatre and Jamie would still be together. Trowa flicked his eyes away from Quatre's face back to the restaurant.

"Fuck," he muttered, turning away from Quatre and walking toward the bus bench.

Quatre stared after him in silence, wondering what to think.

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

Felicia was just emerging from Drake's room after the two made plans for the weekend when she saw Trowa stomping into his room down the hall. As the door slammed, she jumped, hand on her heart in dramatic gesture. She watched Quatre emerge from the stairway, looking quite pained. Felicia sighed, hanging her head to the side as she heard him approach Trowa's door and knock on it.

Then she walked over, shaking her head.

"Trouble in paradise again?" she asked as Trowa shouted at him to 'go away!' "And here I thought gays were the least dramatic of us all! But really, ya'll are a buncha girls!"

Quatre looked at her, giving her a withering expression. He turned away from the door and shrugged. "We met his ex at Jimboy's-"

"Ooh! You guys went to Jimboy's?! Hey, nice haircut, Mr. Gyllenhaal."

"Who the fuck is that-?! Anyway, we met his ex there. He's really rude," Quatre said as he knocked again. "Trowa! What's wrong!?"

"Yeah, Ralph was a dick sometimes," Felicia said.

"Leave me alone, Goddammit!" Trowa shouted from his room.

"Trowa! I don't even know what I did wrong!!" Quatre shouted at the door.

"But then again, so was Trowa. 'Ey, I'm glad he ain't that guy anymore, ya know? Man, what the fuck didja do to him to make 'em that way over the last few days?! That was fuckin' cranker, ya know?"

"Why do you have to be such a drama queen?!" Quatre asked the door.

"Oh," Felicia drawled with a chuckle, eyes wide and expression clearly telling Quatre that what he'd just said was an insult.

"What the fuck did you just say?!"

Quatre winced as Felicia covered her mouth and laughed at him. Quatre swatted at her, pushing her toward the stairway. She waved at him, then left them to their own dramatics. Quatre turned to the door, leaning against it. He wondered if Duo was in there, listening to the whole thing. "Trowa...really... what's wrong? You haven't even told me what I said to piss you off!"

When silence came back as an answer, Quatre knocked on the door, persistent. "C'mon, Trowa! Stop this! Come out here and talk to me! Trowa?! Trowa!! TROWA!!"

When nothing came in answer, Quatre sighed and moved away from the door. Then he kicked the bottom, growling, "Fine, then! Pout away in there! See if I care! Christ, you're worse than a girl! Crying over something like this...C'mon! Get out here and talk to me!!"

Still nothing. Quatre walked away from the door and ascended the stairway, grumbling under his breath over what he could have done that was so wrong. He was sure that it had to do with Jamie's appearance-after that, Trowa had gone completely silent and hadn't even bothered to say anything to him during the ride back home. But what would Jamie's appearance have to do with Trowa's silent fury? Unless...like with Triton, Trowa was jealous. But...but that thing was over between he and Jamie. Even though they'd had some memorable 'exploration' sessions with each other, it was nothing more than that... it wasn't like he was in love with the guy...but Trowa didn't know that. Trowa didn't know the full story!

Quatre sighed again as he reached his room, walking in. As soon as he shut the door, he peeled off the layers of clothing he wore until he was clad only in an undershirt and his boxers. He settled on his bed, folding his arms behind his head to stare up at the ceiling. Jamie's unexpected appearance really had him on a loop-he'd been so surprised to see that Jamie was attending Duncan Jones on the premise that his parents thought the military would 'straighten him out'. He also knew that Jamie was playing basketball with them, as was obvious with him eating with the team after a game. Well, if Jamie was on the court, then that meant Quatre automatically had severe competition, because Jamie was just as good as he, possibly even better.

Thinking about Jamie and their sudden separation brought him painful memories. It had happened in August, at the start of the school year, and even thinking about it made his body hurt...

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

//That night after a tournament win in the summer league, Jamie had picked him up at his house, having borrowed his older brother's Ford F-150 pickup with extended cab. They were going spotlighting, the two of them, and when Quatre got in, settling his .22 rifle in the back seat, he noticed a few cases of beer.

"What the fuck is that back there?" he asked Jamie when they began moving.

"We're delivering," Jamie replied. "Thomas is having a party at his uncle's house. James told me to send it over."

"Oh."

"We're still going shooting."

"Good. I haven't done this in so long," Quatre complained, leaning back in the seat, then straightening to fiddle with the stations. He found a country station and left it there.

Jamie wrinkled his nose and glanced at him. "I hate country."

"So? Does it look like I care what you think?"

"You fucking dick."

"Ah, I love it," Quatre said in reply, grinning as he turned up the Shania Twain song.

Jamie stared at him when he paused at a stop sign. "You're jamming out to some chick? God! Quatre, you're a fag!"

"Oh! So I am!" Quatre joked, then launched into a lisp, complete with limp wrists. "Guilty! You discovered my long hidden secret!"

Jamie laughed, pulling out onto a dirt road. "You're so fucking stupid, sometimes."

"I don't know why...sometimes I don't even try. Oh, look, there's Mariah."

"So?" They stared at a small Honda Civic as it passed by them in the opposite lane, packed full of girls from their class, laughing and booming to something that belonged to Usher.

"I thought you liked her."

"NO! What the hell gave you that idea, Quatre? What's wrong with you?"

"I don't know. I just thought that. You're always staring at her ass."

"Am not! When did I do that?"

"All day, every day, my lad. If her ass was a cupcake, you would've downed it, like, twice."

"You're so fucking stupid! I don't know why I hang out with you, Quatre Winner."

"I told you before, son. You want to be like me. I'm your role model, your God. Bow to me, pitiful immortal..."

Jamie laughed again, reaching out to give him a dead leg. As they hit each other, Jamie pulled up to a small, one story house whose lawn was already filled with various vehicles from students that attended Laramie High. Quatre made a face at the scene and began flipping the stations.

"Hurry up and run that stuff in there so we can go," he ordered, finding another country station.

Jamie whacked him across the head, picked up a couple of cases, and left the vehicle. When he returned, he handed Quatre a bottle of Bud. "Here..."

"I don't drink."

"Stop being a pansy! I can't drink while I drive, so you have to."

"Man, Jamie-!"

"Just do it! Stop being a pussy! C'mon, what's your dad gonna do about it? He don't know!"

"Still..." Quatre eyed the bottle with much uncertainty, then lifted it to his lips. He grimaced at the bitter taste, then licked his arm. Jamie roared with laughter, reaching over to shove him against the door.

"That ain't tequila, you stupid fuck!"

"It tastes gross!"

"God...you're seriously stupid..."

They traveled through the backgrounds around Laramie, sharing the case of beer that Jamie had left in the truck. When they got too buzzed to aim at the smaller creatures, Jamie parked in a darkened field, shutting off the hand-held lamp that he'd used to help direct Quatre into shooting rabbits. The music was on low, and Quatre was having trouble thinking coherently. He leaned in his seat to glance back at the various empty bottles that sat in the case, then slumped in his seat.

"I'm fugging drunk," he muttered, reaching up to grip the panic handle and lean his head into the crook of his elbow.

"Me, too," Jamie said, leaning on the steering wheel. One arm reached up from the stick shift to fiddle with the stations. "I hate country! Makes me wanna blow my head off!"

"Your daddy's gonna kill you if'n you come home like that," Quatre said, groaning into his arm.

"She-et...." Jamie lifted his head from the steering wheel, then reached down to shove the seat back. Quatre lifted his head to watch the movement, then leaned back into the crook of his arm. "Hey...got a question for you..."

"Nuthin' hard, please...my smart cells died a lonnnnngggg time 'go..."

"'K...what...what do you think about me?"

"Toldja no hard questions..."

"Seriously, Quatre, seriously. What do you think of me?"

"Dunno." Quatre closed his eyes to think, feeling the truck spin. He wanted to throw up, so he kept swallowing, hoping that it would help.

"Quatre..."

"Whhhhhaaaattttt?" Quatre whined, wishing Jamie would stop talking in order to keep the truck from continuously spinning.

"Look at me..."

Quatre looked up from his arm, seeing that Jamie had turned around in his seat, facing him. Suddenly, through his drunk-filled haze, he recognized that look on his best friend's face. That one he recognized from the gym. And suddenly bile touched the back of his tongue, and he swallowed hard, trying to keep the nausea at bay so he could concentrate on the here and now. He lifted away from his arm, shrugging a shoulder and pressing himself against the door.

"I don' know, man. What do ya wanna know?" he asked, slurring his words.

"I just...I just want to know what you....what you, Quatre, think of me. I mean...I guess this is going to sound sick, man, but...man, we grew up together, right? I mean, we know each other pretty good, huh?"

"Yeah..."

"Um...man, I know this is going to sound gross, but...man...I think I'm in love with you."

Quatre gave a double-take in his direction, blinking stupidly. Jamie stared back at him, his expression full of uncertainty and hesitation, his dark eyebrows furrowed over imploring eyes. Quatre felt his stomach leap up at his throat, and he wasn't sure how to respond to that. That gay-thing was once again intruding into their friendship, and his friend just cold-cocked him with a loaded statement that could have meant a number of things.

"What?" he asked, unsure if he'd even heard right.

Jamie bit his lower lip, not taking his eyes off of him. "I said, I'm in love with you. I have been for awhile..."

Quatre continued to stare back, realizing that he'd heard right the first time. Okay...a friend, a best friend just came out to you and admits that he loves you...now what? He asked himself drunkenly. Suddenly he wasn't feeling so drunk, but he still wanted to puke. He raised the back of his hands to his lips and tried not to vomit. But bile filled his throat and touched his tongue, and he fumbled with the handle to the door. Spilling out the truck, Quatre fell to his knees and vomited all over the dirt road, emptying all that he'd drunk in the past half-hour.

Jamie came around from his side, rushing to his side and crouching next to him. Quatre wasn't sure how to handle the situation, but he couldn't do anything more but puke his guts out.

"Christ...what'd you eat?" he heard Jamie's amused voice from his right. "Here...are you done? I got some water..."

Quatre took the bottle of water with shaking hands, and washed his mouth out, gargling and repeating the rinse. When he was finished, he wiped his mouth and stared back at Jamie in the darkness. The only light that illuminated on them was from the open door of the truck, and the night lights of Laramie were in the distance, as well as the farm on whose land they were carousing in.

Jamie stared back at him, with his open expression still in place, his blue eyes searching Quatre's with a desperate need. Quatre pushed himself up from the ground, brushing off his clothes. Jamie rose with him, his hand still on his arm.

"Quatre....? C'mon, I just came out to you...what-what are you thinking?"

"I-I don't know. I mean...I don't know," Quatre admitted. He shrugged, adjusting his hoody, fiddling with the sleeves. "I don't know what to think..."

"Do you hate me?"

"No..." Quatre answered slowly, thinking about it. "No...I don't hate you..."

"You always make fun of the gay guys at school..."

"Everyone does! You did too!"

"I know...but...do you think of me any different?"

Quatre stared at him, unsure of how to answer. He rubbed his arms against the chill of the night, thinking about it. He'd known Jamie Anderson all his life-he was the one that spent the night with him when they were kids, the one that always had dinner at their house when Lana cooked, the one he'd always caught a ride with when they were hiding out to a tournament... Jamie was still Jamie Anderson-he was just into guys.

"No..." he began, shrugging. He was still drunk. Maybe he didn't really comprehend the entire thing just yet. "No, I don't."

"Quatre...I wanted to tell you for the longest time...your opinion is the only one that matters to me," Jamie whispered. "I don't care what the others think...Truthfully, Quatre, what do you think of me?"

"I don't know!"

"Quatre...do you have the same feeling as me? I mean...do you feel the same way?"

Quatre immediately shook his head, but then paused. He hadn't seen his friend in that sort of light, hadn't even conceived of it. But as he thought about it, swaying slightly, he wondered what he would find if he truly thought about it. He looked up because Jamie was moving toward him, and he froze when Jamie reached out to touch him, cupping his face within his hands. Unable to move for some unfathomable reason, he watched Jamie's face come close to his, watched and felt when Jamie's lips touched his.

He still couldn't move, but he felt himself respond back with some hesitation, Jamie gripping his face tighter within both hands. The kiss was what he remembered it to be-firm, dry, soft and familiar. Familiar because it was Jamie that was kissing him, and this was coming from a guy that had gone spotlighting with Quatre since they were big enough to handle their .22's. He could smell the soap that Jamie used, could smell his familiar cologne that he'd always worn since they were eleven and Jamie had gotten into his older brother's collection. Now he knew why Jamie had worn it all the time, even doing their games. And now that he knew of his friend's feelings, what was he supposed to do about it?

Jamie's arms wrapped around him, pulling him close and he froze, unsure. Jamie continued to kiss him, kissing his chin, his cheeks, dropping his hands from his shoulders to his waist. The touches weren't at all unpleasant, and though his mind was telling him it was wrong, that boys shouldn't be doing this, his body was telling him otherwise. The kisses felt good, and Jamie's touching him felt good. He wouldn't hurt anybody, would it? Just a few kisses and touches? Who would know about it? To let everyone know would mean instant ostracization.

"It's cold," Jamie finally muttered against his neck. "Let's get into the truck..."

"O-Okay," Quatre replied, shakily turning away from Jamie and getting into the passenger side seat. He reached out to shut the door, but Jamie was crawling in after him, pushing him across the seat. Awkwardly, Quatre found himself on his back on the seat, uncomfortably stuffed with the back of the seat against his right side and the steering wheel against his head. Jamie shut the door behind him, then cautiously laid over him, settling his weight carefully over him.

Quatre reached up to touch the arms of his friend, to feel the muscle beneath the sweater he wore. Jamie lowered his head to continue kissing him, using his tongue on his lips. Quatre didn't want to open his mouth-for God's sake, he was just throwing up outside-but Jamie was persistent. When he opened his mouth, he tasted his friend's tongue, Budweiser and his own unique taste. It was very good, in fact, that combination and the way he kissed him. It was full of inexperience and sloppiness, but it felt good and it was Jamie-he'd known Jamie forever. It did not suck.

Quatre shifted because one of Jamie's hips were digging into his hip, and he positioned himself so that Jamie was between his legs. Not bad a position, he found as Jamie once again settled himself against him. Jamie now had his head at his neck, sucking and kissing, and Quatre found that he was behaving like a log, so he moved into the kisses, reaching up to hold Jamie's waist. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to be doing, so he awkwardly pressed kisses against Jamie's forehead and hairline.

Gentle hands moved up his sides, touching him outside the fabric of his hoody, molding against ribs and hips. Sucking in a deep breath, Quatre squeezed Jamie with his knees, and felt the other boy press his groin against him, prodding him into realizing that Jamie had a boner. The action brushed against his own groin, and he felt himself respond in kind.

When he realized what was actually happening, that he was making-out with his best friend in his older brother's truck, he froze, sobering instantly. His father, if he found out, was going to be pissed. Oh, God, if people found out what they were doing in some farmer's fields-!

"Take this off," he heard Jamie whisper, and he realized that his hoody was in question. Numbly, he did as Jamie asked, watching as the other boy did the same with his sweater. Then, warm hands were moving up his shirt, touching his stomach, his ribs. Jamie was then kissing there, too, and Quatre shifted uneasily, feeling his dick respond in kind the closer Jamie kissed to his boxer line.

Breathing heavily, Quatre stared at the stars that flickered in the night sky, feeling his stomach quiver in reaction to Jamie's touches and kisses. The truck was filled with their breathing, their adding heat, the soft strains of country, and he noticed after a small while that the windows were fogging up, making it hard for him to see the stars.

When he realized that he was being touched very intimately, he shifted again, uncomfortable with the feel of stranger's hands on his groin, outside his boxers. He looked up to see that Jamie had unzipped and unbuttoned his pants, and had slipped his hand over his hardness. He sucked in heavily when Jamie gripped him, breathing heavily on his own, blue eyes hooded as he explored Quatre's length.

Quatre himself wasn't sure what to do now, but that the touch was feeling very good, that heat and an excruciating build-up was beginning deep inside. He gripped the seat, lifting his head up to watch as Jamie touched and stroked him outside his boxers, the way the material tented from his erection.

Jamie reached out with one hand, gripping the hand that was clutching the seat. Quatre watched with fascination as Jamie guided his hand to Jamie's own erection through his pants. Quatre tentatively began to feel that hardness there, finding it slightly thicker than his own, shorter. He stroked and gripped, feeling the heat build as Jamie slipped his dick from his boxers, exposing it to the both of them. He ran a dry hand up and down Quatre's length, squeezing and stroking. Quatre paused in his own work as strong sensations ran through him, his knees feeling weak at the feel. Jamie stopped working him long enough to unbutton and pull down his own jeans and boxer-briefs, revealing his erection to Quatre.

With much hesitation, Quatre reached out and gripped that erection within one hand, feeling the moisture gathered at the tip. Feeling suddenly nauseated with the entire thing, this thing with Jamie, he smoothed the moisture around the bulging head, hearing Jamie moan softly over Garth Brooks. The length was warm, velvety and bumpy with veins and circumcised skin. He touched the hair that surrounded it, the balls that hung beneath. So similar to his own, yet so different.

He suddenly felt sick again and released his hold, laying down on the seat and trying to keep the truck from spinning. He heard Jamie whisper something to him, then felt himself being moved. He lifted his head to tell him that he was going to throw up again when a wet cavern enveloped his dick, wetting it with a strong, determined tongue. Quatre felt his eyes roll back into his head and his entire body stiffen as Jamie's mouth explored him. He lifted his knees, as awkward as it was and held onto Jamie's sides as his friend blew him.

The sensations of the blow job, the fact that his friend was doing it, that he was gay made Quatre feel even sicker than before. He touched his stomach, trying to will away his nausea, to keep from throwing up all over James' interior. He pressed his hands against his mouth, moaning when the sensations were especially good. When he came, he gave a small cry, emptying himself into Jamie's mouth, his hips rising with the surge. When he heard Jamie gag slightly, his friend shifting from between his legs to dig into the glove compartment for some napkins, Quatre felt the bile rise up again. He rose from his position, sure he was going to hurl all over the place.

That's when he saw the parked headlights just nearby.

Before he could even draw breath to gasp in horrified surprise, the door behind Jamie opened, and the yells, horrified and disgusted, filled the night air. Jamie was hauled out from the truck with a surprised cry, pants down at his ankles. Quatre, in his mortification, quickly pulled up his boxers and jeans even as a buzzing sound began in his head. His face instantly turned red as familiar faces peered in on him, horrified and disgusted expressions telling him that yes, they had just been caught fooling around by Jamie's older brother and friends.

He could hear James screaming about his faggot brother, and strong hands gripped Quatre's ankles, yanking him clear out from the truck. He landed against the ground with a strong grunt, the wind being knocked out of him. He could hear Jamie screaming back, and the immediate sounds of a fists against flesh. Quatre struggled to a sitting position, holding a hand up to his face to see that Jamie and James were engaged in a brief fistfight, with the older brother getting in hard, merciless hits. He started to get up to separate them, but one of James' friends grabbed his sweater, howling about him being a faggot, how he was disgusting and sick, that they both needed to have their shit beat out of them.

Quatre was totally unprepared for the blows that began to rain down on him, with screams and curses filling the night air. Quatre tried to fight back, but he was outnumbered, hitting only air and receiving ten blows in-between. He could hear Jamie screaming at them to stop, but he had his own troubles to deal with in the form of his older brother. By the time the group finally stopped, Quatre was gasping for breath and clutching his stomach, unable to straighten. He felt humiliated and low, and he spit blood that had gathered when he'd bit his tongue. James was still screaming about his faggot brother, and he listened to James shove Jamie into the truck they had just borrowed, James growling to his friends to leave Quatre there.

The group left then, both vehicles sending up dirt and alfalfa in their hurry to leave. Quatre groaned in pain, clutching his stomach, unable to move. When he felt himself dry-heave, he pushed himself over to vomit once more into the dirt, heaving until nothing more came out. When he heard only silence, he began to cry, thinking only of his own humiliation and shame.

After he composed himself, he rose from the dirt and began walking in the direction of his house, guided only by the stars. He knew he was more than ten miles out, so he had some walking to do. His body felt bruised all over, but the biggest bruise was his heart. Gripping his chest, he spit again and shuffled his way to the main road, wondering what he was going to tell his family. Jamie's older brother was going to no doubt broadcast what he found, so Quatre doubted that this would be on the down low between the families. Their disgust, horror and mortification that one of their own loved someone of his own gender was going to no doubt cause many problems within. Quatre could only wonder what his own father was going to do, what his family would say. His sisters, all ten of them, would probably express their own mixtures of feelings, but he knew what his father would say-Ramid saw homosexuality as a sickness, an unnatural thing that should be destroyed immediately.

He wondered how Jamie was faring, wondering what Mr. Anderson would say when he found out his youngest son was a faggot.

The next few days were pure hell-Jamie had somehow managed to call Lana and let her know that Quatre was stranded outside of town, and the rest of the story came to light when Mr. Anderson called Ramid and screamed at him over the phone over what their boys had done. Ramid wasn't pleased, to say the least-he'd found Quatre another school to attend across the states and had immediately set up transferring him from Wyoming to California. Quatre didn't even get to find out what had happened to Jamie, only that they were both the talk around school. No one really knew what had happened, but guesses were made. It had been one of the worst times of his young life-something that he didn't want to dwell on....\\

And to know that Jamie had been inadvertently transferred within the same city, where they would play against each other on the high school basketball court. He wondered what their parents would think now, and Quatre himself wondered what was going to happen now. He knew Jamie had feelings for him- that was the start of the entire thing! And while Quatre had gone along with it, he knew his own feelings weren't the same...Jamie Anderson was a dear friend, someone with whom he'd accidentally found himself with. If Jamie wanted to talk to him, Quatre wouldn't turn him away...

Well...maybe Trowa thought that something deeper ran between them. Maybe Trowa was just jealous...he felt threatened by Jamie's sudden closeness to Quatre's proximity. Maybe that was why Trowa was so angry...it couldn't have been anything else.

Sighing heavily, rolling onto his stomach, Quatre hugged his pillow and wondered what he could do to fix this thing between Trowa and himself before the tourney began tomorrow. Because he definitely didn't want to be distracted when Jamie Anderson was going to be on court.

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

Meanwhile, in Trowa/Duo's room, Duo stared in frightened wonder as Trowa angrily slashed at a hastily drawn picture of an unknown boy, the shredding of paper frighteningly loud underneath the razor blade that sharpened his charcoal. Duo was too scared to move-Trowa might race after him in a rage, so he remained very quiet and very still while the goth proceeded to destroy every drawing he'd made of Jamie Anderson.