Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ I Got Game! ❯ Lost In The Crowd ( Chapter 12 )

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: 3+4, 1+2, 5xM & various others...A bit of warning. There's some very graphic descriptions that I experienced once before...maybe some people will think again when they have a bit more drink than they could actually handle...ew.

A/N: Whew! Last chapter was annoyingly frustrating. But then, now that I had it posted, I want to add several things...wah! Why does that happen?! Well...anyway, "thanks!" goes to Taylor Mercury once more for the lovely review-don't worry! I plan on getting them together...eventually...~_^-and to Gundam06serenity...Nah, I don't have an account on ffn.net-sounds like a lot of people have so much trouble with that site when it comes to certain things in their stories, and I don't want that kinda crap to happen to me...I just post on mediaminer!

Chapter Twelve~

"Lost in the Crowd"= Shinedown

This was stupid...he shouldn't even be here. But he couldn't leave-he didn't know where he was, or even how to get back to the campus. Sitting uncomfortably on a couch that had a couple making out on one end and a group of jocks that were challenging each other to who could chug the most whiskey through what looked to be a hose nozzle (?!), Quatre stared at everything around him and tried not to be too depressed. He hadn't seen Trowa since...well, four hours ago, and he'd lost Felicia and Drake somewhere to the party that seemed to consume everything and anything like a wildfire. He didn't recognize anyone, they were all older, and there was so much alcohol and drugs floating around that he felt suffocated. He didn't want to leave-he didn't know where he'd end up. He figured he'd wait around until someone he recognized came along, but during those hours, he was drowning here!

Sighing when the girl's legs once again jabbed his shoulders, he pushed them away and leaned back against the couch. Everywhere, people were talking to each other, jamming lightly to the loud, crash of noise that was emerging from the living room down the hall, and the smells of the place were making him nauseated. He stared ahead of himself, being nudged by the crowing jocks at his right as someone began blowing chunks nearby.

What was wrong with him? He felt incredibly down...he was a friendly person, he knew how to meet and greet others, but...it was just so hard here. He'd started out at Darken with promise, but things had fallen to levels he himself couldn't determine. Now, looking at new people made him wary and nervous, and he felt like a coward. Plus, this thing with Trowa...

Damn it. Why wouldn't he listen to him? What did he do wrong?

Quatre rolled his eyes. Christ...he could write a novel detailing what he'd done wrong to the goth. It was amazing that he'd last this far. He'd punched him, kicked him, beaned him with a wrench, screamed at him, made fun of him-well, the list could go on forever. But...he thought Trowa liked it, and it was very therapeutic...damn it. He was sick. When did he ever turn into this insane, manic person?

And the most niggling question of all-was he even gay? Sure, being with Trowa was like nothing he'd had before, and the physical sense, while scary, was exciting. But...was he truly and deeply gay? If he were, then why the reluctance to really admit it? Maybe he wasn't the typical gay guy. Or maybe he was gayer than gay and threw perspectives off. Or perhaps...perhaps he really wasn't. What if he was just going along just because? Like that night with Jamie?

There were so many things to sort out that Quatre couldn't find himself doing it here. He pushed the guy's shoulder from his ear and shifted to give himself room as the girl practically smothered the guy with her legs around his face. Geez. Get a room.

Quatre rose from the couch and pushed through the crowd, searching for a familiar face. He spilled drinks on people and stumbled over feet, but somehow he ended up in the kitchen. Without really paying attention to it, he poured himself some fruit punch that was sitting on the kitchen island and walked off, sipping it. It had a strong taste, but he was thirsty, so he didn't give it much thought. The music was louder, and it was terrible. He winced at the loud destruction of music and avoided the living room area, even though the bass and screeching of guitars and voices made his rib cage vibrate from this distance.

Finding himself back outside, Quatre looked over at the swimming pool area, wondering if Trowa was still in there, talking to that...that...well, whatever it had been. With another sigh, Quatre found a seat underneath a large oak tree, and checked to see if it were clean before sitting. From this point, he could see that the back yard was full of partiers, all of whom were either making out, talking, laughing, fooling around, or dancing to the horrible music that boomed outside through the open doors and windows. The chairs around him were either turned over or had multiple piles of cups and debris over them. He was essentially alone. He leaned his chin into his palm and thought about Trowa.

That...person Trowa had gone to talk to...Well, Quatre was sure that it was a guy. A very odd one, at that. What guy wore a dress? Was that the kind of gayness that Trowa went for? Then what the hell was the goth doing with him in the first place? Quatre winced, taking a drink of his punch. It sure was strong...he suspected some sort of alcohol, but figured it didn't matter anyway. May as well get drunk. Everyone else was. And it wasn't like he was going to impress anyone, or anything. May as well as get shit-faced and-

What was this stuff, anyway?! It was similar to that at the bar, strong and instantly buzz-inducing, and he recognized the first stages of drunkenness as he set the cup aside and tried to focus on the people around him. Well, whatever it was, it was okay. He wiped his nose and tried to keep warm by scrunching his shoulders and pushing his hands between his knees. It was cold outside, but at least it wasn't snowing.

Then, he spotted Trowa walking along with that...thing...near the patio. They were talking with occasional punctures of quiet laughter, and Quatre scowled, shivering. That...person touched Trowa whenever s/he had the chance, and leaned his/her body all over Trowa with each step. And Trowa ate it up, occasionally touching the person back, and Quatre felt his head grow heavy as he stared. Okay, so, he thought it weird for guys to touch each other that way...he still felt weird about it whenever they were in private. But...but was that what Trowa wanted? Someone to touch, to feel? Quatre took a deep breath, trying to calm a sudden rage. It was unfair that Trowa treated him like this. Like he was nothing. Like he didn't have feelings, or wants...it was bullshit! It was similar to Ramos trying to teach him some anger management lesson by keeping him benched! No...wait a minute...it wasn't because...no, this situation was entirely different, damn it!

He lurched to his feet, frowning as the...person...kissed Trowa on the cheek and tried to draw the other goth's face toward his. But Trowa pulled away with something that made the other exclaim in mock embarrassment.

Well, if Trowa wanted that sort of thing, then he can have it. Quatre wasn't going to be that way just because...well, just because---he couldn't remember why. He couldn't remember what had him worked up in the first place, but he finished his drink and decided to give Trowa a piece of his mind. That betraying dog!

He lurched over in that direction, very determined to tell that goth that things weren't what he thought, that it was an entirely different situation when it came to Jamie. He wanted the air to be cleared between them. The two were walking into the mansion, and Quatre was distracted in mid-stomp when he tripped over a sprinkler-head. When he got up and began walking again, they were gone. Cursing because the throng inside the mansion was thicker than the outside, he pushed his way through the crowd, searching for the two utterly strange individuals.

"That fucking creep," he muttered to himself, ignoring curious stares.

He saw the dress that little person was wearing going up the stairwell, and he frowned even harder. He grabbed the banister to start going up when he tripped again-Christ, why was he so damn clumsy all of a sudden?!-and sent himself into a small group of football jocks. They uttered annoyed grumbles and pushed him off of them, sending him back downstairs. He frowned, straightened, and barged his way through, going so far as to stomp on one of their hands. It didn't matter whose. For the now, he didn't care what he did. When he reached the second level, he saw the two talking next to a small doorway, looking entirely depressed and yet bored as the party moved on around them.

When he reached them, he forcefully kicked the person in the dress aside, Trowa's eyes widening with shock at his sudden appearance. Then Quatre did as he had planned earlier-he opened the small doorway, saw that it was a walk-in towel closet, and shoved Trowa inside. The goth managed a surprised shout when Quatre slammed the door shut and leaned against it, digging his feet into the carpet when Trowa tried to get out.

That person in the dress approached him furiously, and up close, Quatre could see that it was actually a boy with short black hair and blue eye-makeup. He had a long, hooked nose, had both nostrils pierced, eyebrows tweezed, lashes curled, skin dusted so pale that he looked bloodless, and contacts that made his pupils a checkerboard mixture of red and black. With a disgusted expression that one could look so androgynous, he kept the door shut with all his weight and gestured at the goth boy to go away.

"Trowa!" he said loudly enough for the other to hear him as people glanced in interest in their direction. "I just want to talk to you!"

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?! Let him out!" the goth boy shouted indignantly. His voice was higher pitched than most boys, and Quatre wanted to laugh hysterically at the faint lisp. His bullying instincts, perfected back in Laramie while he was hanging out with his various jock friends, came to surface. He studied the figure before him, already memorizing the goth boy's hand movements, body language and, particularly, the voice and manner of speaking. But for right now, goth boy was seriously annoying.

"I was talking to him first, you stupid fuck!"

"Scram before I kick you!" Quatre threatened, using all his force when Trowa grunted and pushed at the door.

"Fuck you, you whore!"

"That's it! Take this!"

He managed to kick the goth boy where it counted and slam back against the door as Trowa managed to get it open. Amid pushing from both sides, Quatre managed to level all his weight against the door, slamming it shut again, much to Trowa's frustrated fury. The goth boy was curled up in his pretty little dress on the floor, nearly weeping with pain. A bigger crowd began to gather, watching with a mixture of interest and laughter.

"Trowa! You better listen to me!" he shouted over the goth's roars of anger and the pounding of fists against wood. "I came all the way out here to talk to you, and you just treat me like shit!"

"Look who's talking, you damn maniac!" he heard Trowa shout back, his voice muffled by the door. "Because of you, I had seven stitches on the back of my head!"

"You deserved those, you fucker! You're the one spreading rumors about me!" Quatre frowned thoughtfully as he wrestled with Trowa's pushing forces, keeping the door shut. Even though things looked a little hazy, he could still remember what he needed to stay. He pushed his weight into the door once more, shutting it with a small click. Trowa gave up pushing on it then, and began pounding at the door.

"You're wrong about Jamie and I! He's just a friend! He has and will always be a friend!" he shouted over the continuous pounding. "It wasn't what you thought! Just because he's out here now doesn't mean anything to me-well, outside the court! Damn it, shut up and listen to me!"

The goth boy was slowly rising from the floor then, gasping, hands barely shifting away from his crotch. When he looked at Quatre, his expression promised murder. Quatre watched him warily, still propping all his weight against the door in case Trowa decided to push again. Trowa was pounding at the door and shouting at him to let him out, but Quatre remained indifferent to that.

"Wow, man, I didn't think you were gay," someone said nearby, distracting him from the 'scary' little goth boy. There was a small group watching the proceedings, interested smiles and looks on their face as they watched the scene. The guy speaking wore a white thermal shirt under baggy, dark blue overalls and untied Timberland boots. He was a typical white guy that dressed black, complete with gold chains, bling in the ears, meticulously perfect stubble, and closely shaven head. He was standing among some girls that watched the proceedings with giggles. His accent reminded him of the south, and for some reason, the Dixie Chicks appeared in mind when Quatre stared at him.

"You looked like one of those fucking jocks. What the hell are you doing with someone like that?" 'Earl' asked, taking a step closer with his plastic cup full of beer.

"Shut up, you. Your opinion means nothing to me!"

"Hey, I was just saying-! I could set you up with someone more your type..."

"Oh, and what is my 'type'?" Quatre demanded, looking back when goth boy took a step in his direction.

"There's this guy I know, he's all into basketball and track, and he's really cool. He's a lot like you-!"

"I don't need people setting me up, Goddammit!"

"Oh, c'mon! You want that guy?! Did you get a good look at that guy in the light?!"

"Why don't you just shut up, Earl?!"

"...How did you know my name?"

"Let him out, you piece of shit!" goth boy shouted, fists raised menacingly. Quatre stared at him, then raised an eyebrow at the stance. He resembled a mean-looking Gumby character in a dress. "LET HIM OUT!"

"C'mon, man, he's really nice. He won't treat you like this," Earl continued in a cajoling tone, gesturing with his cup as he took another step closer. "I doubt he'd let anyone like 'Jamie' come between you too...Besides, that guy in there don't care. Otherwise what would he be doing messing around with that thing?"

"What did you just call me?!" goth boy roared, turning away from Quatre.

"Here, here's his phone number and his name. Give him a call. Tell him I sent ya..."

"What am I, some sort of prostitute?! I don't want to call him!"

"Let him out, motherfucker!"

"Shut up, you fairy!"

"QUATRE, LET ME OUT!!"

"He's about five eleven, 160, eighteen, and he has his own apartment in downtown New Park. He's really cool, man. I think you guys will get along just well with each other..."

"LET HIM OUT!! I SAW HIM FIRST!!"

"I don't wanna be set up!! SHUT UP, YOU!"

"QUATRE!!"

"C'mon, man, he's really cool. He's lonely, so...hey. Maybe you'll connect on the court, or something. He plays for Sageville High---"

"NO!"

"BITCH!"

"QUATRE!!!"

"C'mon!!"

"NO! Trowa! Are you listening to me?!" Quatre roared as the door began moving again.

"How can I not, I'm just behind this door!!" he heard Trowa growling.

The goth boy advanced, and Quatre kicked at him. To avoid another mishap like the one before, the goth boy moved out of his range while Earl wrote down Mr. Wonderful's number on a piece of paper. Earl approached him just as the goth boy grabbed Quatre's ankle and began pulling. To keep himself in place, Quatre grabbed onto the doorknob and the very slight edge of the doorframe.

"Here. His name's Travis...he's only just come out, so, he's a bit shy about being gay, too. You two will definitely get along together..." Earl was saying, holding out the paper as goth boy tugged on Quatre's ankle and Quatre fought to keep Trowa inside the towel closet. "Here!"

"I-don't-want-it!" Quatre punctuated between trying to wrench his leg back from goth boy and keeping himself against the door. But Trowa must have sensed that he was distracted and shoved the door outward with all his force. Quatre flew forward into the goth boy, knocking them both into the wall and landing in a heap on the floor. Goth boy went down punching, and Quatre wasn't going to take that so he began punching him back. The crowd roared with approval, Earl continually insisting on Quatre taking Mr. Wonderful's number. Trowa staggered from the force he'd used to open the door, regained his balance, then jumped into the fray at once, jerking Quatre off of goth boy.

"What do you think you're doing?!" he growled darkly, hauling Quatre away from goth boy and the crowd by jerking him downstairs. The crowd followed, of course, and goth boy recovered at an astonishingly quick rate. Seeing that his potential snag had left, goth boy hurried downstairs to finish what had been started.

"I needed to talk to you!" Quatre insisted as he lost his balance. Damn it, what was with his coordination all of a sudden?! It wasn't as if Trowa were dragging him at inhuman speed!

"Shit, Quatre are you-?! Are you drunk?!" Trowa asked, pushing Quatre ahead of him as they left the kitchen area and headed outside, trying in vain to escape the crowd that followed.

"No..."

"What did you have to drink?!"

"I had some fruit punch! Damn it, quit changing the subject!" Quatre growled, turning to face him. Trowa shoved him into the pool area, and slammed the doors shut, locking them against the crowd's protest. Inside, there were a few people milling about, with some floating languidly in the heated pool. Hearing Earl continually insist through the door that Quatre talk to his friend, Trowa ran his hands through his hair as Quatre touched a sore eye, where goth boy landed a lucky hit.

"Oh, God, you're so fucking dramatic," Trowa muttered as he paced nervously along the pool's edge. "What the fuck are you doing?! What the fuck was with that bullshit up there?!"

"I wanted to talk to you about Jamie and I-!" Quatre started to explain, wondering faintly why his words were slurring. He felt fine-all motor coordination was working well, and he wasn't experiencing that usual haziness that occurred with drunkenness...he didn't think he was even drunk at all!

"I don't want to hear about it!" Trowa interrupted furiously. "Fuck you both!"

"Trowa, you're fucking pissed at me because he's back in town! I'm telling you, there's nothing going on between us! He was my best friend! That's all he is to me!!"

"Oh, fucking fag shit," they heard someone mutter in disgust somewhere near the pool side loungers. Quatre whirled to see who said that, Trowa reaching out to grab his arm and jerk him back into their argument.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter," Trowa said, shaking Quatre again when the blond tried to locate the speaker that had spoke with disgust. "Pay attention to me, damn it! I'm only going to say this once, Quatre!"

"Trowa, cut it out. Really, it's all a misunderstanding-!"

"No, I'm serious! I'm so fucking serious, Quatre, you better listen to me. This," Trowa gestured to himself then pointed at Quatre, "is over. We didn't even have anything, anyway."

"What do you mean by that?!" Quatre exclaimed, distracted from his search for the guy that saw them as disgusting. "God, ever since I started at Darken you were there!"

"Why are you depending on me?! Christ, you act like I have to hold your hand through every step you take!"

"I thought you were my friend!"

"And it's with that attitude that we don't-!" Trowa cut himself off, resisting the urge to slap his forehead with frustration. Was that what Quatre thought about their relationship?! Well, if that were so, then Trowa felt hurt. Well, he did anyway, but even more so than before. "Quatre, we don't even have a relationship. You were the one all grossed out by the fact that you're gay-!"

"Fucking disgusting, man..."

Quatre whirled. His eyes scanned the interested group that lounged about, but no one indicated that he was the one who spoke. "Who said that!? This isn't any of your business!"

"Fuck you, faggot!" exclaimed a tall, broad shouldered jock that looked like he ate guys like Quatre for breakfast. He was built solidly throughout the chest and shoulders area, but was clearly overweight. He was sitting with a slight girl that looked embarrassed at the confrontation.

Trowa reached out and jerked Quatre back, making a mental note to keep all things alcoholic from the blond-it seemed that every time he consumed the substance, he turned into some raging male suffering from an overload of testosterone! Look at that time with Triton! "Quatre, ignore him! Listen to me, God damn it!"

"Trowa, you don't even know-! Look, the last time Jamie and I were together? We were out spotlighting, and he had some beer, and we-"

"I don't fucking want to hear it!" Trowa exclaimed, swiping his hair out of his face. Quatre snapped his mouth shut, then opened it again, growing red with frustration and rising anger.

"YOU WILL LISTEN, DAMN IT!" he howled.

"I DON'T HAVE TO!" Trowa howled back. He began gesturing wildly at the blond. "This is why you're benched! This is why Ramos will continue to bench you! You're so fucking ignorant of other people's feelings that you'll run all over them no matter what they say to you!! Fucking listen to me!!"

"I am listening to you, and you're not listening to me!!"

"Because I'm telling you that I don't want to be with you!!"

"And I'm explaining to you why!"

"You don't know why!! I have my own reasons why!"

"Because you're a God damned coward, Trowa Barton!" Quatre screamed at him. "You're just scared of getting hurt because you think that I'll drop you to get with Jamie! I don't want him that way! He was my best friend!! Nothing more!!"

"You fucked him!"

"I DID NOT!!!!"

"Look," Trowa took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. He ran his hands through his hair, then made an imploring gesture. He was interrupted when their disgusted audience rose from the chair, muttering about listening to two fairies fight. Quatre bent, ripped off his shoe, and hurled it at the back of the guy's head. Trowa slapped his forehead and exhaled slowly, dragging his hand down his face and smearing his makeup as the guy turned around, stared at the shoe that had hit him, then began walking over, picking up one of the chairs. His girlfriend rushed at him to stop, but Quatre made it worse by moving in his direction, fueled by fury from the previous fight and the one he was having with Trowa.

The doors opened then, the party's host demanding to know why the doors were locked. As soon as the doors opened, though, the interested crowd poured in, including the goth boy in the dress. He spotted Quatre, missed the tall guy with the chair, and charged at him. Quatre was focused on the tall guy and missed goth boy, so he was taken down hard against the cement floor. He recovered quickly, though, pushing and punching as the boy tried to gain the advantage by sitting on him.

Trowa sighed with heavy pain as the two began scrapping again, the guy with the chair hollering bloody murder about two fags fighting over another fag. Earl began once more into his match-making, talking into a cell phone, people were cheering over their favored fighter, and amid the screams, shouts and ringing of cell phones, there was still the crash of noises that one group called 'music'. People clapped and whistled at the 'performance' and more beer and alcohol was brought in to celebrate.

Finally, seeing that some of the college kids had managed to push the overly large jock away from the scene, his girlfriend in apologetic tow, Trowa looked over at the two that were still scrapping. He looked at the pool. Seeing that he had no other way, and that attention was brought upon him anyway, he figured he may as well as finish this entire thing.

He walked over, grabbed Gabriel's collar and tossed him into the pool. Then he picked Quatre up by his jacket and shoved him in as well. The two splashed into the heated pool with indignant sputters, Gabriel's makeup running all over the place and Quatre looking furious.

"Both of you, cool off!" Trowa ordered. He then pointed at Gabriel. "You. You're too weird for me. Stay the fuck away from me. You," he pointed at Quatre, "stay the fuck away from me. I don't want to listen to your woe-is-me pity-party stories. It's just another indication of your selfishness. Grow up. And when you do, make sure you forget about me. You both can fucking suck dick and die."

Amid whoops and shouts of both pity and cheer, Trowa turned and stomped off, mortified that they'd made such a scene in front of everybody. Gabriel shouted with wordless fury and Quatre clutched the edge of the pool, glaring at anything that moved. After awhile, Gabriel struggled his way out of the water and sashayed off, his dress entirely ruined. The crowd drifted off, amused at the entire spectacle. Quatre finally dragged himself out of the pool and sat, with his clothes soaking wet, at the edge. He didn't bother pulling his legs out. He stared out into the water and moped.

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

"Hey."

Quatre didn't bother looking up from the water. His clothes still hadn't dried, but there wasn't any point in trying to change. He just didn't care.

"Hey."

Well, he sure made a big spectacle of himself, didn't he? He felt bad, but then supremely mortified at the same time. What had he been thinking? Obviously he hadn't if it had to come this far. And he'd only succeeded in making things worse between him and Trowa anyway. Trowa didn't even want to speak to him. He hated him. How embarrassing.

"Hey!"

With a scowl, Quatre looked away from the water and looked up at Earl, who was carrying that same cup of beer around. "My friend's here. Do you wanna talk to him, or what?" he asked.

In reply, Quatre dropped his hand into the water, determined to splash the annoying fucker away, but he thought better of it and sighed, pulling his hand back. It just wouldn't do to keep acting in anger.

"Whatever," he muttered. "I'll just end up driving him away, anyway. I'm just soooo good with people and all..."

"So, okay, you don't mind, then? I mean, he's interested, that's for sure. I mean, I just mentioned that you look like you play basketball, and that you had just, like, broke up with somebody. Don't worry. I won't tell him what you were going out with, okay? Hey, want a beer? Maybe you should get out of the water. You're like, all fucking blue."

In response, Quatre grunted as Earl left the pool house. He stared at one shoeless foot that the pool lights illuminated and at the way his shoelaces floated on the other foot. It was trippy, the way that shoelace floated. So graceful, so peaceful, so...lost, and yet grounded by its base on the expensive leather new model Jordans. He wondered if he were like that shoelace, grounded by his love for basketball, but then floating loose because he was in a whole different place. He felt calm by the clear water, the sounds of it lapping against the cement edge and the whole slew of activity outside the pool house. He didn't know how long he was sitting there, but it had to have been awhile. He was alone in the pool house because another fight between girls had broken out somewhere near the garage, and from the distant screams and cheers, it was still going on.

He sighed heavily, the sound extremely loud within the empty pool house. Deciding that yes, maybe he was a little cold, he pulled both legs out of the pool and rose, his clothes heavy with water. It clung to his skin and made him extremely uncomfortable. He turned and found that his other shoe was no where to be found, so he bent and picked off the other one. He threw it over his shoulder, hearing it splash into the pool and sink.

Dripping water as he walked, he emerged from the pool house, shivering instantly as the cold air hit him. Uncaring, he walked over to the main house, shivering uncontrollably as he searched for the kitchen. There weren't as many people around as there was before, but people stared at him in both wonder and recognized cheer as he found the kitchen. He rummaged through the empty bottles and various plastic containers until he found a small travel-sized bottle of whiskey. He opened it, noting the blueness of his fingers and took a grateful drink. The strong stuff instantly warmed his mouth, throat and stomach with a hot sizzle that made him grimace. Figuring that he had nothing more to lose anyway, he'd already made a supreme fool of himself, he finished off the whiskey and walked away from the kitchen. He found that his coat was slowing him down, so he took it off, laying it on the back of a chair to let it drip-dry. His clothes underneath were still wet, so he was still uncomfortable as he wandered into the main hall, assaulted by the music that was playing.

A guy was screaming incoherently into the mic, hoping that noise would overcome the fact that he didn't have talent. His band sucked even worse, and they were currently being booed by the crowd that had gathered within and outside the living room. Quatre, teeth chattering violently, wiped his nose and walked over to investigate. He wrapped his arms around himself and tried to get warm by pressing himself against the wall of the hall. Above him was the main staircase, the spaces in the railing admitting the dangling legs of various listeners that sat on the stairs. He leaned against the wall, one leg supporting him while the other leg was raised and bent so that one foot laid flat against the expensive plaster. The group was finally booed completely off the floor, and another band, all girls, approached the used instruments. As they warmed up and boasted of their own underground popularity, Quatre thought about Trowa.

Well...Trowa was probably right. He was selfish. He was self-centered when it came to his own feelings. Had he always been this way? He certainly hadn't seen it in himself before because no one had brought it to his attention the way everyone did here. Jamie had either laughed it off or went with it, so Quatre figured that he had nothing wrong with him. Sure, he was rowdy at times, but there were times when he was complacent and calm. This certainly wasn't one of them.

As the whiskey warmed his body, making his mind a little fuzzy and his stomach very nauseated, the girls began their number, shifting into something done by Kittie. The crowd approved of their approach, so they were encouraged to do a full set of songs.

Christ...he'd certainly made such a fool of himself. He hadn't thought about it at the time-he was so focused on getting Trowa to listen to him, and people were interrupting...Quatre felt his cheeks redden and heat with embarrassment, and he cringed. What a fool. A stupid, unthinking fool. Of course Trowa wasn't into that sort of thing! He'd expressed so much dislike for such things at the Mexican place and he'd gone and made things worse by fighting with everybody at a very populated party, in front of Trowa's friends and such...

Why was he so selfish? So self-absorbed? And if he knew that alcohol made him react so violently and uncharacteristically, why did he keep drinking?

He covered his cheeks with his hands, then tried to rub some life into his chilled skin. Closing his eyes on a sigh, he realized that Trowa was never going to talk to him now. Not after this. May as well, though. He deserved it for acting so impulsively.

"Oh, god, whitey, what happened to you?!"

He opened his eyes to stare at Felicia, who had lost her coat and was clad only in that undershirt and those stupid bell-bottoms. She was holding a cup of that fruit punch, and was looking at him in horror, kohl-rimmed eyes unnaturally large as she stared at him.

Feeling his face flush once more, he dropped his hands from his face. "I got into a fight...Or two. I...tried talking to Trowa. Um...he hates me, now. I...made a big scene in front of everybody."

"And I missed it?! Fuck!"

Quatre found enough strength to scowl at her. His eyelids felt very heavy and he was sleepy all of a sudden. He shifted, finding that his supporting leg had gone numb from the position. He was still cold despite the mansion being overly heated due to the constant activity of the party. His clothes were warming slightly, his shorts dripping a wet circle around him.

"Here, man, geez. I'll go find ya something to wear, okay? What size do you wear? Never mind. You look like a twenty-nine, or something. Don't go anywhere!" she warned, taking off.

Quatre shrugged and tried to control his shivering. Looking down at his soaked socks, which were his favorite Nike no-shows, he curled his toes into the carpet and found that wet circle interesting. His denim shorts were heavy due to excess moisture, but nothing was heavier and colder than his heart. He was feeling so sorry, angry and sad for himself that he didn't care what happened around him.

Now what was he going to do? Trowa didn't want him...he was alone once more. He supposed he could try and make more friends somehow, but he was too miserable to do so. What if they all turned out like this one? But then again, it wasn't as if he were looking for a relationship like this one...

He sniffled. It was cold.

"Hey!"

He looked up to see Earl standing there, two women at his side. "Did you talk to him?" he asked.

"Who?" Quatre found himself croaking.

"My friend! He's here! I sent him into the pool house to look for you! Here, I'll go get him."

Earl and his women took off before Quatre could reply, and Quatre didn't feel like being set up with anybody, so he moved away from the wall and walked through the throng of people to reach the front door. He had no idea how he was going to get back to the campus, but he'd find a way. It shouldn't be that hard to do. This was a city, for Christ's sake! There were taxis and people going everywhere at anytime!

He walked out onto the front porch, shivering instantly. It was colder now, and his teeth chattered as he carefully made his way to the street in his wet socks. Finding that cars piled up the driveway and the block, Quatre wandered down the sidewalk, holding himself as he wondered how to call for a taxi. He didn't have a phone, and he didn't have any money-his credit card had a stipulation that prevented him from paying for anything that involved bodily travel (thank you, father), so he decided that perhaps a bus line was still operating. They accepted students with ID free. He walked down the block, passing by several partiers that were milling around vehicles, having a grand ole time with each other and recreational substances. He wondered where the cops were that busted up every party he'd seen in the movies. Didn't this neighborhood care about things like this?

Turning the corner of the block, he found that the neighborhood was much too ritzy to lower themselves to such things as bus lines, so he paused in place, shivering violently. He saw that the lights of various stores and outlets were about a few miles out, so he began walking in that direction. The alcohol fuzzed his mind and convinced him that he could do it, so he was going to return to campus, shower in ultra-hot water to warm up, and curl up in bed to feel more sorry for himself. Yeah, that sounded about right...a perfect ending to a 'perfect' night.

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

Trowa was sulking at one of the small, oak tables within the library. Ignoring the obvious making-out of various couples and threesomes around him, he scowled darkly at the table surface, wondering what the hell was wrong with Quatre. He suspected the blond was drunk-he could just smell the alcohol on his person, and it was obvious by the slurred speech and impaired motor conditions. Trowa was very embarrassed by what had happened in the hall and in the pool house. He hated being the center of attention, and those scenes definitely put him right up there in the spotlight. With everyone's attention on him, with him being known as someone that two dudes were obviously fighting over, he felt pathetic.

Scowling harder, he rammed his hands into his armpits as he cross his arms. Damn it...it was just so damn embarrassing to have to be the subject of that shit. Sure, he had to admit, he felt kind of flattered by it. Flattered and...somewhat appreciated. While he was aware that Quatre had been trying to talk to him about Jamie, Trowa didn't want to hear it. He had made his decision, and he was going to stick by it. There was just too much riding on this relationship business, and he knew he himself would be devastated by its effects if Quatre just upped and left him while they were going good. He just couldn't handle that. He couldn't allow it that far. He hadn't even expected it to come this far!

Trowa sighed quietly, feeling his shoulders hunch. Damn it. He felt so bad for doing this to the blond, but it was for his own good. Trowa just didn't want to get hurt anymore. This was the better thing. Although...Quatre had found him. He'd approached him. Obviously, he wanted to fix their rift and had come to him on his own, but...

Why was there a 'but'?! Trowa stopped scowling and shifted position so that he was clenching both armrests with his hands and leaning back in the chair. But it had been so embarrassing to have all that attention, both here and at...Trowa frowned again. Quatre had defended him to Ralph. While that small act was flattering on its own, it was also embarrassing because so many people were to witness it...

Quatre was a selfish little dude-but there were times when he made Trowa feel good. Not counting the times where he beat him up, though. Trowa reached back to the back of his head and felt the stubble that now covered the bald spot there. His stitches had been taken out, the skin healing good enough to leave just a small sliver were the point of impact had been. His hair would cover it easily, and while the hit had left no real damaging effects, Trowa would always remember it fondly.

There were a lot of things he really liked about Quatre, and not just the physical things. He liked that Quatre, when he found a friend, was loyal to them. He liked how Quatre made him feel appreciated and wanted-even if it were a dependency. He also liked how Quatre listened to him, and spoke with enough bluntness that no one else would do. Trowa smiled slightly-no one would have told him that he looked weird to his face and brush him off just because, like Ralph had. And even though he acted like a jerk, Quatre was there, anyway. He apologized for his own misgivings and he tried working on them-even though he failed miserably at his temper management and selfish issues.

Trowa sighed again and shifted in his seat.

Fine. Fine, fine, fine. So he couldn't completely let go of the blond. And it was unfair that while he was trying to explain his and that other hick's relationship, Trowa was telling him off without listening. He remembered Quatre had such a hard time trying to talk about it, that Trowa was beginning to realize that maybe Quatre had a hard time when he came out in Laramie. After all, his father did transfer him across a few states just because of it-to hide him. Trowa suddenly felt very bad-when he came out, everyone, being European and being an American in New Park City, where nothing was considered bad, gave a roll of their eyes and shrugged it off and treated him as they had before. Except now instead of daughters they also offered sons. While he liked both sexes, he hadn't had much experience with girls because they felt intimidated by his relationships with those of his own gender. Quatre was one of those people who were sensitive to social issues-maybe when he came out, he got a very bad reception and so was very reluctant to participate in such things. Which would probably explain his reluctance and acceptance of Trowa. Which explained a lot. Maybe that was it. It wasn't that uncommon to be bi or gay here in New Park, but probably out there...with a smaller population and smaller perspective...

Suddenly, Trowa's conscience kicked in. He rose from the chair with a worried frown and wondered if that was it. He was suddenly determined to find Quatre and apologize for his behavior. Maybe...maybe things would change for the better. Maybe it wouldn't be what he thought it would be. Quatre had expressed an unspoken want to be with Trowa despite his...weirdness. At that, Trowa felt a lot better. Quatre was so different from him, both inside and out, that he was surprised that he even stayed so long with him. Maybe the blond felt more for him than he was letting on. Which reminded Trowa of the times Quatre approached him without Trowa having to approach him.

He went in search of the blond, ignoring the curious and yet recognizing stares that some people threw at him. As he was looking, he ran into Gabriel. Gabriel sure looked different without his makeup, and Trowa wondered how on Earth he'd been interested in the first place. Gabriel was so different from Quatre that it was just pitiful. He ignored Gabriel's tentative inquiry into what he was doing and went in the other direction. He found Quatre's blue athletic jacket in the hall, damp from the earlier submersion into the pool earlier, and when he thought about it, it had been awhile since that happened. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was nearly three-thirty in the morning. Carrying the jacket and looking for its owner, Trowa spotted that Earl character talking to a athletic boy their age, and he assumed with a scowl that it was the guy Earl was trying to get Quatre to talk to. Trowa moved into the other direction before he was spotted, and ran into Drake, who was hastily smoking a cigarette just inside the foyer.

"Where's Quat?" Trowa asked him.

With an annoyed roll of his eyes, Drake flicked the cigarette onto the floor and killed it with the toe of his sneaker. "Shit. 'Leash asked the same fuckin' thing, like, three seconds ago," he growled in obvious annoyance. "He's probably with someone else in the fuckin' rooms upstairs!"

Trowa frowned at that. He seriously doubted Quatre would mess around with anybody. He had such reluctance to even kissing in privacy. He ventured a look toward the stairway, seeing Felicia carefully sliding down the banister with a armful of clothes.

"I can't find him!" she exclaimed after she landed, holding out some clothes. She saw Trowa, then tried to kick him. Being quick in reflex, Trowa just barely avoided impact. "You fucker! I heard you let him fight with some chick over you!"

Trowa rolled his eyes, then looked at the shirt and pants she flung about as she talked. "What are those?" he drawled. "Trophy items?"

"Noooo. Winner needed some dry clothes. I just went and borrowed them from the floor upstairs." Felicia studied the pair of dark denims and white t-shirt. "I don't know whose they were...the guy was passed out in bed with some chick...ah, well. He won't notice that Winner's wearin' them, now. Well, once I find him."

"He's still wet?"

"Dude, that guy's still fucked up. You can fuckin' tell. He don't know what he's doing!" she exclaimed. "And it's all your fault! GOD! I thought I was doing a good thing by settin' you two up! All you two do is fuck around with each other! Shit!"

"Man, this shit is fucked up, I'm leaving," Drake muttered, shaking his head. Trowa kicked him as he went by.

"So, you think he passed out somewhere?" Trowa asked her.

"Hell if I know, motherfucker. I can't find him anywhere. I tried askin' around, but...no one knew who I was talkin' about..." Felicia shrugged. "This place is fuckin' huge. There's a hella lotta people here."

Trowa stared at the open front doors, blinking. If he were Quatre...where would he go?

The basketball court immediately came to mind, so he tried to remember if he'd seen any of the sort around the property. Felicia suddenly ran off in the opposite direction, shouting at a guy to stop walking and talk to her. Trowa looked after her, then toward the kitchen, trying to think. Quatre, when he was feeling down, either headed for the court to blow off steam or went jogging. Maybe...maybe he found a ride back to Darken, but the kids that he knew that were from Darken were still here...maybe someone gave him a ride. He doubted Quatre would think to take a taxi or bus...there wasn't a bus line that ran from here, but...

He suddenly felt very nervous and turned to the front doors once more. Felicia had mentioned that Quatre was still drunk, so where would a drunken Quatre go to pass out? He walked out the doors, looking up and down the front lawn and driveway, listening for the familiar tenor. He didn't hear any voices here, so he wandered back inside, still carrying Quatre's coat. He looked at it now, smelling chlorine on it, and he sighed, lowering it back to his side. He felt bad for throwing Quatre in the pool while the blond had been impaired. Thinking about it now, Quatre could have drowned.

Felicia ran back to him, frowning. "Justin said he saw Quatre walking out the door about a half hour ago," she said, a worried expression on her face. "Do ya think he went back to Darken?"

Trowa frowned, a very bad feeling making his stomach clench. "He might have."

"Dude! Let's go look for him! I brought my car!"

"I'll go. You stay and play."

"I don't wanna play! Let's go look for Winner! What if he's walkin' his stupid, drunk ass back to Darken? Dude, it's fuckin' forty degrees out there an' he's still fuckin' wet! Add to that, he's all drunk! Let's go, Barton! God!"

"All right."

Felicia ran off to let the others know that they were leaving. Trowa hurried outside, shivering once he made contact with the cold air. He located Felicia's car, a sporty, '93 Nissan Maxima 300 that she was given on her fifteenth birthday, a gift from her uncle. It was black with tinted windows and silver rims. There really wasn't anything special about it, except that she still didn't have a driver's license and it was so nondescript that the police completely ignored it in favor of brighter, more customized cars. He tried the doors, found that it wasn't locked, and climbed into the passenger side seat. He waited for her to hurry up and come out, and fiddled with the glove compartment, knowing that she had some Skittles and some bite-sized Snickers hidden away inside. After picking for the chocolate, he looked up to see her returning with both Drake and Go, and figured many were disappointed that they weren't going to play. The three climbed inside and Felicia started the car.

"I thought you couldn't have a car on campus," Trowa asked.

"I had one of Drake's boyfriends drop us off in the garage near the airport," Felicia muttered as she whipped the car around, tires squealing.

"I ain't like that, you dumb bitch!" Drake protested immediately.

"Where should we go?"

"Try going down that street," Drake said, leaning in between the two front seats and pointing. "My ancestors are telling me he went that-away..."

"Fucking Drake," Trowa muttered, shaking his head at the utterly bad reference to B-movie Native American slander.

"Great. Stupid fucker probably is walkin' there," Felicia muttered as Trowa mimicked her words with a sing-song tilt of his head. "Keep an eye out, guys. If he ain't out here, he's probably on his way back to Darken. Probably got picked up, already."

"Is he drunk?" Go asked from the back seat.

"Yeah. It's all Barton's fault...."

"My fault, my fault, my fault! God, stop bringing it up," Trowa muttered. "He's a big boy. He can take care of himself...Fuck."

"What did you do, Trowa?"

"Fuckin', threw him in the pool," Drake answered, then hit Felicia's arm when they hit a dead end. "Turn around and go that way! There's only two ways out of this motherfucker!"

"Argh, I hate white suburbia!" Felicia growled, whipping the car around to take the street Drake had pointed in.

"Oh, shut up," Trowa muttered, opening the glove compartment and digging around once more. "You guys should be lucky you got this far."

"Stop the car. Kick him out."

"You wanna die, Barton?!"

"Please don't fight, you guys..."

"It's true! If it wasn't for the white guys, you guys wouldn't have a home or the free health insurance!"

"Kill him, Drake. Scalp him good..."

"The French taught your ancestors that...See? They knew you would pick up on their customs and forget about their own."

"That's it, DIE, white boy!"

"You guys, stop it!"

"Hey, I wanted to kill him!"

"STOP!!!"

Felicia jammed both feet on the brakes, the car squealing to a stop at Trowa's panicked shout. The sound of the stopping car was obscenely loud within the silence of the sleeping neighborhood, and smoke from the overworked rubber drifted into the cold morning air. "What? What?"

"Go back! To that house with the stupid looking flowers by the mailbox! I thought I saw something!"

"Christ. There's no time to look at fuckin' rich prick white kids, Barton!" Felicia growled, backing the car up as Trowa indicated, using only her mirrors to navigate. She forced the car to whip backwards around the corner they had just taken, the other three focused on looking for whatever Trowa had seen.

"You just don't wanna die just yet-oh, shit, Felicia. Stop the car," Drake interrupted himself, hitting her arm once more.

"Oh my fuckin' God-! Is he dead?!"

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

"Quatre..."

Christ. It was much too early for Ramos to be bossing him around. He knew he'd performed the drill right! Hilde just didn't catch the ball! He kept the words from escaping his mouth by placing both hands over them, scowling in Hilde's direction. She looked pretty funny, though, her odd, short black hair dangling over her face. She glared down at him-okay, so she was taller than him, he got it! Just because she had the height didn't mean she had the talent!

"Quatre...!"

He clamped his teeth shut-if he opened his mouth, Ramos would only get furious and bench him for the next five games. Then five would turn into another five and he wouldn't play at all. He was going to learn to control his temper, damn it! After that incident at the party, he'd resolved to keep his temper no matter the cost! It had cost him a lot the last he'd lost it, so he wasn't going to fuck up this time...

He removed his hands from his mouth and balled them into fists at his sides. Okay, you can do this, he thought to himself, walking off the court to pick up the ball that had rolled from Hilde's hands. The others were talking to him behind his back, he could hear the murmurs and complaints that sounded vaguely of this neighbor-woman he used to know, an older lady that loved to detail her plastic surgery escapades and bragged to anyone within hearing range that her grandmother had once dated Harrison Ford...whoever that was. He raised an eyebrow as he turned around, wondering who was talking like that. His teammates were all looking at him with some concern, some with shock, but they waited for him to pass the ball in.

Wherever she was, the woman was complaining about drunken kids all over her lawn and how she was going to call the police to get them off her property.

What was really happening was that Trowa was trying to lift his head from his own pool of vomit, a long wash of it that started at the sidewalk and ended here, where he'd simply passed out from the alcohol's effects. While Trowa was utterly disgusted that the blond had practically puked his guts out and breathed most of it back in due to the position of his head, he was more concerned about Quatre's health-he was freezing, his skin cold and his limbs stiff, damp clothes utterly rigid with frost. And the gurgling sounds he made because of the vomit that was trapped in his throat made Trowa scared. He never dealt with this sort of situation, before. He didn't know what to do except lift Quatre's head from the cold pool of vomit and try to maneuver him up so that they could drag him back to the car.

Felicia, with a grim expression, hurried over to them and rolled Quatre onto his side, his head automatically tipping at a natural angle at which his mouth fell open and allowed him to breathe without the vomit that was trapped within. The remaining contents of his vomit spilled out from his mouth, and Trowa tried not to get sick at the sight. Then, with a grimace of her own, Felicia curled two fingers into Quatre's mouth and made a casual sweep of the contents inside, pulling out even more dark colored vomit. The sight made Trowa retch, his stomach curling at the thought of touching someone else's waste. Felicia made a disgusted sound, performed another sweep, then wiped her fingers on the grass when the sweep came away clean. She helped Trowa lift Quatre to his feet, the blond wholly deadweight as he was still passed out.

The woman, meanwhile, screamed in disgust at the kids that were killing her winter flowers as they tried to help their companion. Her voice was high-pitched and tinged with a slight drawl. It got to the point where Quatre was roused from his dream-like state and growled a disgusted "Shut up!" in her direction. In his dream, though, he was putting the ball up into the air so he could pass in-bounds. But the others in his dream stared at him blankly, standing in their various positions but making no move to put the play into game. He frowned, hesitating with the ball over his head as he waited for them to move.

Suddenly the earth moved, and he dropped the ball, trying to steady himself. Suddenly he was aware that everything had gone black and there was the weightless sensation of flying. It made him sick, and his hands flew to his mouth to keep from throwing up all over the place.

"We need to go to the hospital!" Hilde was saying, looking down at him. Christ...Christ, she better not be carrying him! How embarrassing! And why was her voice so damn deep? Wait a minute, what was happening?! Wasn't he just at practice? What was going on?

"Fuck that bullshit!" Duo announced, frowning. His hair looked funny, though-he didn't have his bangs, and his long hair was darker. It looked like he'd gotten a haircut, too. "We'll get him back to campus-!"

"He's fucked up, Felicia!"

'Felicia'? But...it was Duo he was looking at...wasn't it? What the hell was she doing out here?! She didn't play ball!

"Whose fault was that, fucker!? You're the one throwing him into the fuckin' pool when he was drunk off his mind!"

Geez...whatever they were arguing about, they'd better not blame it on him. He wanted to puke, and he felt so unsteady that he recognized the acidic taste of bile touching his tongue. He retched and the world shifted again, his feet slamming into the ground as he was dropped abruptly, angled so that he was facing the ground with supporting hands under his chest and on his forehead. The move jolted his stomach into heaving upward, and he lost his balance and puked all that he had left onto the woman's lawn.

He heard the woman shriek in fury, Felicia roaring something back in laughing reply.

"He's puking too much, Felicia! We need to get him to the hospital!!"

"He'll be fine! Looks like he puked up two weeks worth already! If he's doing this, then he should be fine!"

"He could have gotten alcohol poisoning, you stupid bitch! Let's go to the hospital!"

"He's FINE, BARTON!"

"God, he's puking more! Help me-!"

Trowa was trying very hard not to panic. Quatre was dead weight in his arms and kept passing out. Even worse, he continued to puke even when there was nothing more coming out. Trowa looked with some trepidation at the woman that had been roused from her sleep by the commotion in her yard and found her stomping furiously toward the front doors of her house. When he turned back, Go reaching down to help carry Quatre to the car, he found himself stepping in heavy, dark vomit that stained the sidewalk. It looked as if Quatre was in the middle of walking, puked, then made his way onto the lawn where he'd simply passed out, his body still rejecting the liquids in his stomach. It was by some miracle that they'd even found him, and before the cold elements and his drunken state could kill him. Trowa was still scared that Quatre was going to die, anyway. He kept puking! And he was so cold...! He felt so scared and sick to his stomach that this was happening, shock making his thought process flustered.

He didn't even bother wiping the bottom of his shoes as they maneuvered the passed out blond into the car's back seat, Trowa awkwardly trying to get Quatre to lay with his head propped against his chest and the rest of his body spread out along the seat. Go slipped around to the front seat while Drake hopped in back, propping the blond's cold feet onto his knees. Felicia jumped in, started the car and took off, muttering under her breath.

Quatre steadied himself with a start as the car began moving and realized that his eyes were closed. What the fuck was going on, anyway? He couldn't feel his body, except for his stomach, because it was clenching and heaving rather violently. His head was pounding and while he wanted to be sick, he really had to piss. He wondered faintly if he could do that at the same time, if it were physically possible...

"Don't even try it, Winner! If you have to pee, fuckin' pee in your damn pants! You pee in my fuckin' car, and I'll kick your ass!"

Oh...maybe he said that out loud...Wait a minute...weren't they just standing in that woman's lawn? Now they were floating...no, they were in a car. How did they...? Was he fading in and out of consciousness, or something? What was going on?! The last he remembered was turning the block and making his way to look for a bus bench to catch a ride back to Darken.

"What are you, the Maxx? Always talkin' aloud to yerself? Geez, he's fine, Barton. Wait-Winner, do you really have to pee? We'll pull over and Barton can help you..."

"Goddamn Christ, Felicia...! Quatre, get up! What the fuck are you doing?! GET UP!"

"You aren't peeing in my car, are you?! I'll fuckin' kill you, Winner!"

What were they yelling about? It was cold...he didn't even know what was going on. His legs weren't working and he certainly couldn't function well...he was too cold.

"I'm so sorry," he heard Trowa saying, and he was wrapped with something warm, warm air all around him. His limbs slowly began to come back to life then, the comforting motion of the car lulling him back to sleep. He couldn't get his mind to focus enough to gain a full perspective on what was going on. He had no real idea what was going on. Seeing that it was something he couldn't really comprehend, he focused on his most bodily needs and realized that he really had to pee.

The sensation of moving stopped, and movement began again. When he opened his eyes, they were moving away from the car and Trowa was supporting him. When he realized that he didn't know what was going on, he sighed and moved to curl up on the ground. After that, he didn't remember what happened. When he opened his eyes once more, he got an eyeful of Trowa's black muscle tee and he lost his breath when someone picked him up in a traditional carry. There was the jolting sensation of moving up a stairway, his stomach jerking with each step. He wanted to open his eyes and see what was going on, but his eyelids felt way too heavy.

Damn, he thought to himself. I'm really fucked up...

"That you are, Winner."

He frowned. Felicia's voice was awfully close...

"Go, bring me some blankets, he's really fucking cold..." Trowa was further away, behind him. Or...was that in front?

"Maybe we should take him to the hospital, Felicia. Or call for the school nurse. He looks really bad..." Go's voice was very concerned, scared. He was even further away.

"He's going to be fine! Turn on the room's heater to full blast! Look, he puked his guts out already, an' despite the fact that he's gotta piss again, he's fine! He ain't gonna die or anything!"

"Felicia, take us to the damn fucking hospital!" Wow. Trowa sounded really scared. Almost desperate. It was a new quality of his voice that made Quatre wonder what was going on.

"Open that door...there. Pull his blankets back, Go!"

"Wait...take off his wet clothes...Drake, get some from the closet! I think he keeps his sweats and shirts on the right side...Go, his underwear's in the top left drawer!"

"I'm not helping out with this part, man. Here. You can have some privacy. I'll turn around."

"Here. Will these work?"

"Hurry up, Barton, get his shorts. You do that end, and I'll do this end."

"God, Felicia, who knew you were so sick? Taking advantage of a drunk guy that way..."

"THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT!!"

"Shut up, Felicia and do it! Here, Go, lift him up so she can take off his shirt...there. No, you got it backwards, idiot...there. Okay, here, help me with his shorts. Felicia, don't look."

"I ain't lookin'...sheesh."

"...Okay. Here. Get him some socks. Oh, God, what if he gets frostbite? Does it look like he has frostbite?"

"I don't think it was that cold, Barton..."

"Here, Trowa. These are the thickest pair he has..."

"Thanks, Go."

...Ooh...that blanket sure was warm...amid all the commotion, Quatre felt himself relax, moaning as he sank into the familiar softness of his bed. It was incredibly warm, so comfortable...the smells of his room comforted him as he nuzzled his pillow, shifting to get more comfortable. Things were confusing, though. He thought he was dreaming, yet he could hear everyone's little manner of stylized speaking, the way he could just see their expressions as they argued amongst each other. He could have sworn he was still on that woman's lawn and had lost track of all sense and time. He just wanted to sleep but the voices and their owners continued to argue.

"See? He's fine. He's just dreaming. Just make sure he lies on his side the entire night, 'case he pukes some more. You gonna stay here?"

"This is all your fault, Barton, you fuckin' prick."

"Dude, I've never seen anyone puke that much before in my entire life! What a fuckin' trip! I wonder if he'd even remember this shit when he wakes up!"

"If he ever wakes up, you fucking sadistic pieces of prairie nigger shits!"

"Ooh, he's breakin' out the big words, Drake. Let's protest together..."

"Barton, you fuckin' loser! Stop giving us shit cuz you fucked up."

God, don't they ever shut up?

"No, we really don't, Winner. Go back to sleep. You were doin' fine on that lady's lawn, do it again."

"Don't talk to him that way, Felicia, you sadistic bitch!"

"Like he can hear me. He's so fuckin' drunk...I wonder what else he drank? Dude, he's going to be so sick tomorrow! Er, later on today! Hey, what time is it?"

"Almost six. Why?"

"Don't he have basketball practice?"

"He ain't gonna make it, man."

"Trowa. You stayin' with him?"

"I've got class!"

"..."

"See? Told you he's a fuckin' prick..."

"Damn. Never thought that I'd see the day..."

"I'll fuckin' stay, shit. It's my fault, anyway."

"'Bout time you admitted it...see ya."

"Hey, you guys...thanks. I think."

"Whatever."

Trowa looked away from the closing door at Quatre's sleeping features. The blond looked so pale and sickly that he considered calling for the school nurse anyway. There were dry, crusty stains around his lips and chin, so Trowa tried wiping them away by licking his thumb and rubbing on them. He felt so incredibly bad about the entire situation, still scared that they could have been too late.

They could have been too late...thank God for Drake's ancestors...though, at that, Trowa rolled his eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. But, when he thought about it, listening to Quatre's steady breathing within the quiet room, what sort of miracle had really been involved?