Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ I Got Game! ❯ A New Level ( Chapter 22 )

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...

Pairings: 4x3/3x4, 1+2, 5xM & various others...

>*<>*<>*<>*<>*<= means scene change

A/N: Thank you, Myca, for your lovely review! I am very much glad that ya'll enjoyed it! And Precog 74 (scuze me if I don't write out the entire name)-don't worry. If one has the will, they have the want to do without that that plagues them (wee! I sound wise!) And Princess2000204-have I converted you?! Never mind. I am sooo glad that you like my story! As with everyone following the story, I do update pretty damn quick, so you don't have to wait long for the next chappy! Thanks for all of your reviews! ^_^! Argh! Many apologies, once more, to those that are around or in Laramie. I couldn't find access to a city map and such, and may have fucked up with locations and shit like that. Sorrah. I'll do as little as possible just to get the gist through without insulting anybody...

Chapter Twenty-Two~

"A New Level" = Pantera

Trowa sighed heavily, staring at their gathered suitcases and travel bags in the foyer. Their flight was leaving at two thirty-seven, and Quatre wanted to pass what time they had going to the mall. They had already said their goodbyes to Rashid, who promised to get working on papers to have Quatre in their care until the system decided to do what they could about Ramid. They had found out that Ramid was indeed high on Saya-Gin, which was a more exotic mixture of alien created Gin-Gin (which explained the smell Trowa had smelt, because he was familiar with the drug and had used it a few times himself-expensive stuff, though, so he didn't use very much). He'd come to Laramie because a neighbor had made a curious remark about Quatre being back home, and had come to drag the blond back to California.

A little disturbed that his father used drugs, and was on drugs when he was there, Quatre took that bit of news a little hard. Trowa knew he took it hard because the blond had fallen quiet and wasn't the same, cheery person that he was used to. That quietness was a little unnerving, and Lana had suggested an outing before they left. Unfortunately, both adults had to say their goodbyes, so the two boys were left on their own until they had to leave.

Trowa wondered if Ramid questioned the school on their sneaking out, and figured that if he had, they would both be in tremendous trouble when they returned. He was casual about that fact, but he really had no idea what sort of punishment they would receive upon approach, so he decided to worry about it when the time came. Quatre had wondered aloud between them if Ramid had received his notification of his child's beginning sex life, and was rather quiet about that as well. Ramid hadn't mentioned it, but Trowa was curious if he had. He supposed they really wouldn't know unless Ramid was direct about it, and the police were suggesting that Quatre stay out of his sight for awhile, while the system worked. Of course, that was going to be conflicting because of Quatre's out of state schooling, but Lana had assured them that she and Rashid would work on it, and keep him updated.

Trowa really didn't want to go to the mall-but anything to get Quatre out of his slightly depressed state, so he went along. They bundled up in their traveling clothes, which were nothing more than sloppy, but comfortable clothes. Trowa was wearing his pajama bottoms, the ones with the skulls, a Slipknot sweater, layered short-sleeve over a thermal gray shirt, and his New Balance shoes. Quatre had decided upon wearing his extremely baggy jeans with a simple hoody, so the pair stuck out as much as they usually did when they hit town. They took a taxi to the small mall in downtown Laramie. It was nothing more than several shops, and Trowa was truly amused by its size, compared to Maryville's, and several of New Park's. It was no bigger than their school gym, and he wondered aloud, jokingly, if they had time to browse through all three shops.

Quatre, of course, reacted with an annoyed roll of his eyes and had to set things straight with a fist against an already sore arm. "Whatever, you weirdo. I want some new shoes."

"Why? Did the others lose their new shoe smell? Quat, you have, like, twenty-five pairs at school!" Trowa exclaimed as the taxi they had called for dropped them off at the small shopping center. He stared at it with a blank expression, noting the particularly small shops as Quatre paid the driver and wondering if he should comment about the blandness of the place. Despite the still hanging Christmas decorations, the place seemed rather...well...boring compared to those in New Park.

The people walking about glanced at them curiously, and he noted with a frown as a bunch of kids, obviously high school students, caught sight of them from their position near the parking lot. He saw their faces alight with recognition once Quatre straightened from the cab, counting his money with a small whine at how much it cost to get there from his house. Trowa hated the way the boys stared at Quatre, then erupted into frantic whispers and shouts of laughter. Their lettermen's jackets gave them away, including the girls that were with them. Trowa rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. Figures, he thought.

Quatre was too occupied on counting what paper money he had to have noticed them, moving into the front entrance of the mall. If Trowa could, he would commandeer that retreating taxi cab straight into that group just to make them stop their cruel gossip. He followed after Quatre, seething quietly.

"Look. A Foot Locker. Which reminds me, damn it, I need more foot powder," Quatre said, moving in that direction. He then paused, looking back at Trowa with raised eyebrows.

Trowa stared in disgust at the shop and shook his head. "That's not my thing."

"Whatever. Look. You can hang out over there with the other weirdos," Quatre said, pointing across the expanse to a Hot Topic. Trowa's eyes lit up and he zoomed over in that direction without second thought to Quatre's company.

Quatre made a face as he realized he was not setting foot in that store even if Trowa was naked and panting. It was too dark, too weird, and it smelled funny. Kind of like...carnies. He shuddered and walked into Foot Locker, immediately becoming distracted by the brand new Nike Edition of the old school Cortezes. Not that he wore them, but because if they had come out with that brand, then there should have been others. He awed and oohed over various shoes in the store, refusing help when the clerks approached him. He was moving to purchase a couple of muscle tees, a package of socks, a couple of pairs of shoes and foot powder when he heard loud laughter coming from the front of the store. He paid with his credit card, and looked behind him to see a group of boys he recognized from school.

He was instantly happy upon seeing them, and that was invitation enough for a couple to venture in to visit him. They weren't his usual crowd-but he'd hung out with them enough to feel comfortable in their presence. He'd known Adrian Bowles and Timothy Potter since they were all wearing diapers, and while he didn't consider them a couple of close friends, they were friends enough.

"Hey, Quatre, what's up?" Adrian drawled as Quatre's purchases were bagged. "Buying out the store, again?"

"Dude, how many fuckin' pairs of shoes do you have?" Timothy exclaimed as Quatre signed his receipt and tugged the bags off the counter.

"Not enough. What are you guys doing?" Quatre asked. "I thought school started today."

"Naw. Not 'til next week. Hey, where've you been, anyway?" Adrian asked as they followed him out from the store.

"I was transferred." Quatre knew that they had to have known what happened to take him there-he looked at them closely, feeling somewhat cautious as they flanked him. Something told him that something was wrong-it was just a feeling, and he knew that they were going to bring that subject up. He held his bags tightly and waited, growing nervous with each passing minute in their company. If he were asked, would he lie? Or deny it? Either way, they knew something had to have happened, or otherwise, why the transfer? He glanced around nervously, noting the group of students he'd recognized as the jocks from his school, watching them intently. There was Bobby, Jordan, Mike, Jared, Hannah, Claire, Gavin, Theodore, Joe and Mariah. All of them were dressed in their usual garb displaying their jock or cheerleader status, and he felt suddenly intimidated, horribly out of fashion with them.

Despite the fact that he'd gotten along so well with them before The Incident, something had shifted and changed. He was one of Them, now. The faggots they'd teased in the hallways at school, the queers that they'd pushed around and mocked, the queens that looked at other boys the way boys were supposed to look at girls. Quatre felt suddenly eager to leave, but due to his own pride, he wasn't going to leave without saving face. He'd lie-that was the only way out. He didn't want their ridicule any more than he had, and he certainly didn't want the shit that came with it. He didn't want the faces that he'd grown up with staring down at him in disgust, or for them to think entirely different of him. He'd do what he could to keep face. It was the only way.

"So, what's that place like, huh? I heard it's huge," Adrian had continued. Glancing at the windows and trying not to be too panicked that the large group was following them, tittering behind their hands and trying to look as if they weren't listening, Quatre adjusted his hold on his bags and figured that turning around and saying 'hi' wasn't going to do it. Things were different now. They weren't the same. He ignored them and pretended that he didn't see them, and found his way into a nearby Anchor Blue, away from Trowa. What would Trowa do if he saw this? The goth was certainly one to avoid crowds and attention, but Quatre had noticed that he was also protective. And while that giddy feeling that came with this realization was certainly enough to calm him, it wasn't enough to quell the sense of uneasiness that continued as he blandly shifted through clothes.

"Yeah. I've only been out in the city, like, twice, through," Quatre said, his eyes darting over various displays to watch as the jocks waited near the entrance of the store, the girls laughing loudly as Mariah did something that he couldn't see. "So many people. A lot of different personalities."

"Does it stink? Because, like, over fifty million people live there," Timothy said, looking through some printed screen shirts.

"No, only thirty. It doesn't stink, actually. Darken's, like, on the way out from New Park. In Marysville."

"How's the team, there?"

"Really good. We lost only a few games...a couple in a tourney, and one against Stanton High."

"Dude, you guys get to play Stanton? I heard they rock," Adrian said, genuinely interested. "My cousin plays for Balkin Public...do you guys play them?"

"Yeah. We lost."

"Quatre, he said they suck ass. How could you lose against them?"

"It was just one of those off days. Really. Plus, my coach was being a shithead and wouldn't put me in."

"Like you're any good," Adrian said on a snort.

"Dude, he is," Timothy argued. "Just ask Jamie."

The question was loaded, and Quatre paused in shifting through some jeans to look up at them. They were staring down at him expectantly, and he knew what they were asking. He hid his expression of panic as he looked back down at the jeans. "He won't admit it," he said quickly. "We're both really good."

Then he winced. That did not help any. "We've been playing basketball forever, so of course we'd be really good..."

"Dude. I'm sure that's what he thinks, too," Timothy chuckled, and both boys sputtered with laughter. Quatre dropped the jeans he was looking at, frowning at them. They shifted expression, looking down at him with smirks. With dismay, he saw that the large group of guys were standing close nearby, staring blatantly at them, the girls even closer, giggling and hissing at each other to shut up so they could hear what was coming next.

"Whatever," he muttered, turning and moving away from them.

"Hey, where are you going, Winner?" one of the jocks asked as the group moved quickly to catch up with him, laughing and hissing at one another. Quatre had to leave the store-he picked up his pace, searching for Trowa. The Hot Topic was nearby, and while he wanted to rush over there and hide behind the goth's reassuring presence, that would only fuel the group's cruel mocking, and he didn't want Trowa to get caught up in it. This was his business. His home town, his people. He moved away from Hot Topic, fighting his temper and his composure, even as his heart raced with shame and guilt at the role reversal. He silently apologized to the boys and girls he'd helped bully in the very same, similar fashion, laughing and pressing the poor kid until they either broke down and cried or managed to lose them by making it to their parents.

"Hey, slow down. Let's talk, man," Timothy said, catching up to him and grabbing one of his bags, pulling it forcefully from his hand. "Oops. Hey, does this belong to you?"

Quatre paused in mid-step, and eyed the bag of shoes in the boy's hand. Timothy tossed the bag over his shoulder at the group behind him, a smirk crossing his face.

"Whatever, man, give that back," Quatre said on a sigh, watching as the box of shoes were removed, and handed out to whomever wore his size. "C'mon, stop playing around."

"Hey, we just wanna look at them," Mike said, running his fingers over the expensive leather. "You were always getting shoes, dude. You never wore the same pair twice. Must be cool to have a fucking billionaire dad, huh?"

"Yeah, it has its perks!" Quatre snapped. "Now, give it back!"

"What? These are my shoes," Mike said, smiling darkly as he removed the shoes he was wearing and put on the ones Quatre had just bought. "You bought them for me. Ain't like you can't afford anymore, right?"

"Ooh, he's going to cry!" Mariah exclaimed. "Look at him! Tear!"

"Aw, don't cry, we'll give them back to you...give us your mailing address," Jordan said, opening the other box of shoes and trying them on. "Fucking cool, man. They fit! Thanks, Quat. I'll pay you back when I get the money."

"Which you'll never will, considering the only thing you're ever going to do in life is pump gas!" Quatre spit, temper rising.

The group erupted into mocking laughter as Jordan looked insulted. "Fuck you, man. Fucking faggot. Hey, where's your boyfriend?"

"He's got a boyfriend?!" one of the girls shrieked, causing her friends to join in with the ear piercing wail. "Where is he, Winner? Introduce us! Where is he?!"

"Where the fuck's Jamie?" Gavin demanded, marching up to Quatre and getting into his face. Quatre had to push him away in order to give himself breathing space. That only encouraged Gavin into returning to his close position, his face in his. "You cheatin' on Jamie?! After all these years?! With some homo?! Fucking faggot! Queer bait!"

"Get out of my face!" Quatre yelled, shoving Gavin away from him. "And I'm not a fag! You're so concerned that I am, you're probably one yourself!"

The crowd erupted into more laughter and shrieks of encouragement for Gavin to save face. Somehow, they'd reached the doors of one of the side entrances, and before he knew it, Quatre found himself outside, the group forcefully shoving him out onto the sidewalk, Gavin still in his face.

"Yeah, I probably am, aren't I?" Gavin roared, throwing a punch but stopping just inches from Quatre's face, repeating the motion several times. "Bam! Bam! You getting scared? Scared, aren't you?"

"Like I would be afraid of you, you fucking dick."

"Wanna suck me? You fags suck dick, don't you?"

"I'm NOT a FAG!"

"Suck me, faggot! Suck me hard!"

"Get out of my face!"

"He's crying! He's crying! You made him cry!!" one of the girls shrieked.

Quatre looked around him in panic, seeing that he was being forced into a row of cars. He knew that if this kept up, they would only put themselves in a private area free of any adults, and that in itself was bad. He pushed Gavin aside and moved to push through the rest of the group, but the two biggest ones, Bobby and Theodore, crowded him instantly, pushing him back within their circle. He was horribly out numbered, and he started to breathe heavily, panicking. He knew he could hold his own in a fight, but he knew the others were into group bashing, with many on one. He wouldn't have a chance against them, no matter how hard he hit and how quick he was. And the girls were just as bad-if they had a guy pinned, the girls would reach in to pull hair and scratch, so either way, he was trapped.

He turned to Gavin, who'd thrown off his coat and was pumping himself up for a fight. Someone grabbed his other bag, ripping it from his hands. Quatre turned to see who'd done that, so that left his right wide open. Gavin pounced forward and shoved him hard against the side of a truck, and Quatre caught himself quickly to keep from falling to the snow covered pavement. Gavin moved in to do another shove, so Quatre caught his outstretched arms with one of his own hand, and slammed a punch into Gavin's face. The punch stunned the boy, Joe pushing forward to shove Quatre away, with Bobby moving in to throw a punch of his own. Quatre covered his face, but he still felt the blow as Gavin recovered, shoving past the two boys to kick violently at Quatre's knees.

With a startled yelp, Quatre found himself on the ground, and three of the boys instantly swarmed on him, kicking him repeatedly with their muddy shoes. Amid the blows, Quatre caught someone's foot and yanked hard. The move sent Theodore down on top of Bobby, and that cleared enough space for Quatre to run through the open circle. Mariah reached out and grabbed his hair, pulling him back with a hard yank. He lost his footing on the snow and fell backward as she added a kick for good measure. Gavin was on Quatre once more, straddling his stomach and raining down blows.

Quatre covered his face, struggled to throw Gavin off, and only succeeded in having Mike pull him to his feet, punching repeatedly on his head. Taking them easily, Quatre turned and socked him hard in the gut, then kicked him away. Theodore and Gavin jumped at him, taking him down easily, so he kicked and punched as best as he could while the two rained their own punches down on him, Claire and Mariah moving in to kick at him with their snazzy snow boots. Quatre was able to throw Gavin off, but Theodore was much too heavy, the boy simply outweighing him by a hundred and so pounds. Quatre could only cover his face as Theodore hit him over and over, the group shouting and screaming their cruel taunts and derogatory remarks.

Suddenly, Theodore looked up from him and was slammed solidly across the face by a very heavy object. The impact of branch against nose made a loud cracking sound that startled everyone. Trowa threw aside the branch, cradled in one hand a fist-sized rock he'd grabbed from one of the landscape designs that decorated the parking lot, and slammed that against the boy's temple, drawing a startling amount of blood from his head. The boy's eyes to rolled up in his head, and Theodore toppled over to the side, Quatre hurriedly crawling to his feet at the distraction. Gavin pounced on Trowa, but the goth ducked, using the boy's momentum to throw him over his back and into the pavement. When Gavin fell, Trowa was on him instantly, using that same rock to slam against his face, knocking a couple of teeth from his mouth.

The girls started to scream in panic, running away while Joe picked up the branch that Trowa had used and began to swing. Quatre caught the branch, yanked it away, and began racking him repeatedly with it. The other boys, startled that Theodore wasn't getting back up, ran off quickly.

Gavin held up his hands and tried to plead, but Trowa socked him again with a roar of fury, the impact causing blood to fly. Quatre dropped the branch and pulled Trowa off of the boy. Trowa succeeded in adding a couple of kicks for good measure as he was pulled to his feet.

"Let's go!" Quatre shouted, pulling at Trowa as they moved through the various parked vehicles in the lot. Trowa glanced at him to see if he were all right, but they saw security officers moving at them, so they concentrated on not being caught by making their way from the mall and into the sidewalk of downtown Laramie.

They put a good distance between themselves and the security guards, and ducked into a Burger King. The restrooms were single stall rooms, so Trowa pushed Quatre into the bathroom and locked the door behind them. Turning, he hurriedly moved to Quatre, reaching out to touch the various mud and slush scrapes on his face and hair, looking for injuries.

Quatre shoved Trowa from him, turning to the sink and hurriedly cleaning himself off with warm water, trying to hide his rising fury and frustration by the distraction. His hands shook violently with his volatile emotions, and the one he was fighting most were the tears. The tears of frustration, of shame, and of extreme guilt. To think, he'd done the same thing to other kids, and had thought nothing of it besides the fact that it was fun. He was a bully just like they were, and it was-it was horrible! Now the victim, he could definitely see why other kids chose to retaliate against kids like him in forceful ways. All the pain, anger, and rage that one endured just because of a different orientation...his was frightful, making his entire body shake.

And he was angry at Trowa-for what reason, he couldn't quite fathom at the moment. But he was angry, and Trowa was convenient. Trowa was there. He just knew the goth would say something along the lines of "I told you so," and Quatre wanted to kick his ass even before the words could leave the other boy's mouth. But as such, he focused on the hot water to wash away the mud from his face and hair, his clothes a hopeless cause because they were too dirty to even try to clean.

Trowa stared at him, fighting to catch his breath. He bent at the waist, and coughed violently, swearing off cigarettes forever as Quatre washed himself off. Quatre stared at himself in the mirror, touching the cuts and bruises on his face with a saddened frown. He glared at Trowa in the mirror, and muttered as he bent, "Don't even say a word, Trowa. Or I'll kick your ass."

"Fat lot of good that would do!" Trowa snapped at him, hocking up a loogie and spitting into the nearby trash can. "You were losing back there! What the fuck, Quat?!"

"I didn't start that fight! They were on me!"

"Why didn't you go for help?!"

"I-I-I don't know. All right?! Before I knew it, they were...just...just shut up, all right? I don't want to hear it..."

"Quatre...if I didn't go and look for you, I...damn it! Goddamn it, Quatre!" Trowa cursed instead, knowing that it was useless to get mad, but unable to stop himself. That scene he'd stumbled onto, guided by onlookers from the sidewalk, had sent his heart leaping into his throat once he realized who was getting the pounding. He didn't care what happened to Theodore-truthfully, he hoped he'd done a lot of damage to that fat head of his. For doing that to Quatre-for all of them! If he could, he'd return to the scene and exact revenge, but then again, that wasn't his department. But even out here, even his contacts could do nothing against such incidents outside of his territory. It was almost ironic-all this power and unable to use any. Or something of the sort.

He was furious that this had happened. Furious because he knew something like it would happen, and furious because, well, Quatre was hurt. And he was too damn stubborn, and because Trowa was scared. When he was scared, he made decisions he wouldn't ever think of making if he were normal. He turned away from Quatre, facing the wall. In frustration, in mounting wrath that made him grit his teeth, he hit the wall and whirled to face him. "With you, there's never any calm, is there?! You're always involved in something! Fighting, arguing-!"

"Like I can help that!" Quatre shouted at him. "They started it!"

"I know they started it! But why didn't you go for help?!" Trowa enunciated.

"I couldn't! ALL RIGHT?! I COULDN'T!! Before I knew what they were doing, they had me outside!!"

"They your friends, Quatre?! Is that what your friends-that's how your friends treat you here?!"

"No, they weren't! All right?! They WEREN'T!! I barely talked to them the first time!"

"Quat..." Trowa trailed off, then shook his head furiously. "Whatever. I'm calling a fucking cab."

"Fuck you, Trowa."

"Why are you mad at me?!"

"You're pissed at me! You think I bring this on myself!!" Quatre screamed at him.

Trowa stared at him in silence, thinking about that particular comment. Well...it was kind of true. Quatre liked to fight and didn't want to back down when he was cornered. Come to think of it, Trowa realized that he'd never backed down when the odds were against him. Just like on the court, the blond searched for a way out, and when he couldn't, he made drastic decisions, such as pitching a three from half court. Only this time, in instances like these, Quatre kicked and screamed until someone was forced to help him. Which was usually Trowa.

When he gave no answer or commented on that, Quatre stared back in baffled amazement. "You think I do this? You think I purposely bring this upon myself?"

"No...Quatre, I don't. I just...it's just, with you-! With you, it's never gray. It's either black or white..." Trowa tried to think of a nicer way to say it, to agree with Quatre's accusation, but then not agree...it was a complicated question and situation.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!" Quatre screamed.

"Calm down, damn it," Trowa hissed.

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

"Just...never mind. Get cleaned up. I'll go call the cab."

"Fuck you. Fuck you!"

"Stop getting mad at me, Quatre!" Trowa snarled. "You were losing, all right?! And you're taking it out on me! I knew this shit would happen to you! These people here aren't as tolerant as people are in New Park! They don't care for you! And yet you come over here, eyes wide open and naivety on 'high'-!"

"YOU FUCKING BROUGHT ME HERE!" Quatre screamed in disbelief.

"Yeah. I did. But I...I don't know. I thought...I thought you were going to get it, Quatre. I thought you were going to realize that because you came out, things were going to be different, now. People aren't going to look at you in the same light as before. You said yourself, you made fun of the fags around here. Well, guess what, Quat? You're a fag as well. How does it feel?"

Quatre stared at him in silence, his eyes suspiciously bright. Trowa frowned, then looked away. He turned and walked out of the bathroom, muttering under his breath as he searched for a payphone and ignored the curious, bewildered stares of the people in the restaurant and the employees that had gathered nearby at the sound of their shouts. Pushing his way out the doors, Trowa found a phone and dialed up the cab company, his fingers punching in the numbers roughly.

As he was making his request, he felt eyes on his back, and he refused to acknowledge the feeling until he'd finished giving the address of the Burger King. After he was through, he hung up and turned around, facing a very hesitant Mary Glamour. She looked reddened and winded, the indication of her exertion proving that she'd run across the street to approach him. His eyes dropped to the magazine she was cradling against her chest, and he stared at her.

She grinned and held out the magazine, which he knew had his picture in it.

"Oh, fuck me..."

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

The trip back home was solely uncomfortable. Quatre simply stopped speaking to him, and Trowa was still angry, so he contributed to the silence. They made their flight without communication between the both of them, and when they were delayed once more in Denver, Quatre simply left his side and wandered off. Trowa had much time to think, though. He sat in a chair that he was convinced was the same chair he'd sat in on his way to Laramie, and he was staring at a woman with a child that looked exactly like the woman and child from earlier as well. As they both glared at each other, Trowa went over the events of the trip and found that while he'd enjoyed it overall, the excitement of getting to know Quatre's background, his family, his home, and the pure DRAMA of it all was a little too much.

Given, he had to admit that perhaps that scene at the mall wasn't Quatre's fault. It had been a pretty big group, but he hated to think that Quatre had allowed it to happen. He could have left them to go to him, but then again, Trowa had to admit that he wouldn't have done the same thing, either. He would have gone where he knew Quatre wouldn't know what was going on, and handled it from there. But then again, Trowa had never had that happen to him before.

They were like dogs! Rabid, snarling dogs that had smelled fresh meat and wanted a chance to be the first one to tear through it. And it made Trowa sick to think that Quatre would simply wave that aside, brush it off as nothing, and go back just to have it done again. You'd think he'd learn! He thought furiously to himself. But as it were, Quatre was so entirely capable of putting himself through things that another person could easily brush aside.

That attitude of his! It was that that got the blond into trouble half the time. Never wanting to back down, to give up. If trouble faced him in his path, he'd plow right into it with fists and feet and continue with the effort until someone came along and helped him, ask or no ask.

Trowa was frustrated at this. As much as he loved Quatre, he could not help it if he were angry at him because of these choices. While he understood that the group had a very big part in getting him away, all Quatre had to do was call for help or go to him. He'd done neither, and ended up with more bruises and scrapes, causing people to stare at them in silent inquiry. He'd also come away with a bruised pride and shattered confidence. Trowa knew this-the bowing of his head, the sullen expression, the gnashing of his teeth on his fingers as he mauled his nails-Trowa just knew he was re-questioning things he'd just learned the answer to.

But then again, back to the subject of things that Trowa knew Quatre could have avoided, Trowa had to admit that thing with his father was another instance that had no way out-no, Quatre had a way out. He didn't have to instigate his father's drugged wrath. But he'd done so, screaming and carrying on while Trowa and Rashid had to fight to keep them back. But now that Trowa thought about it, Quatre was a lot like his father-hot-headed, quick to temper, irrational when it came down to it, and certainly difficult to reason with. Both were stubborn asses too caught up in the thought that they were right that they didn't bother with thinking about the gray areas. Which was what Trowa meant to say in the bathroom, but it didn't come out that way.

And now that their relationship had progressed to another level-what was to happen to them at Darken? Sex certainly brought people close together, but this...Trowa had plenty of time to think as their flight to New Park was delayed by two hours due to a snowstorm in Denver. Trowa wanted to let Quatre know what he felt. How he felt. What he wanted from this relationship. But being with Quatre in his hometown, going through the various things with him...well, it just wasn't sitting that great with him. While it was certainly exciting and somewhat comforting, that attitude of Quatre's was just...it was in the way. That's it. His attitude was in the way.

Well, now that he was on that track, so was the blond's selfishness. And bullying attitude. Now that Trowa thought about it, what had Quatre done for him, lately? What nice thing had been said to make Trowa feel good about himself? When was the last time Quatre had asked him how he felt, or what he wanted? (Food didn't count, neither did the sex, because that was certainly give and take...wasn't it?) But, seriously...when had Quatre made him feel good about himself? It was like, the athlete took from Trowa, demanded from Trowa, and refused change when Trowa needed what he himself was giving. How was that going to help anything any when the blond couldn't give?

Sighing heavily, Trowa leaned his head back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling.

"Don't do this to yourself," he muttered, shaking his head from side to side.

"You and me both," a man muttered next to him.

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

They made it back to Darken without problem-well, with their traveling arrangement. By the time Lowell had admitted them into the dormitory, it was two a.m., and they still hadn't spoken a word to each other. Trowa wanted to stop Quatre and at least make an apology about screaming at him, but Quatre didn't even acknowledge him on his way up the stairs. Trowa figured he'd try again after they got some rest. After all, a new semester had started, and they had more than a few classes together, so maybe today would help out with their newly created rift.

But as the day progressed, and they shuffled through their new arrangement of classes with bleary expressions, Quatre continued to ignore him. Trowa wasn't about to break down and be the one to apologize first, so he allowed this. During the last period of the day, which was a computer lab concerning basic computer graphic designs for art, he complained about the entire situation to Felicia, who looked as if she'd just returned from another lengthy space trip. Space did that to a person-drained them of their energy, their vital spirit-all that zero gravity, jumping from time zone to time zone...she looked close to ralphing all over him, but she listened to his problems with half an ear and fiddled with the school's mainframe, searching for a way to retrieve Quatre's bad grades in an effort to change them-on Trowa's behalf, of course.

"Geez...I swear to fuckin' God," she muttered, switching a 34 percentile to a barely passing 64. "What is it with you two? Are you in love with drama?"

"'Drama's' getting to be much too weary for me," Trowa mumbled. "Make it a fifty-four. That's too damn suspicious."

"That's an 'F', fucker."

"Yeah, but upping it thirty points is going to raise some suspicion..."

"Anyway...fuck. Just let him know. Tell him to fuckin' admit he's got a testosterone problem and needs ta tone it down a little. Maybe he needs to get laid...that helps sometimes."

"Have you been listening to a word I've said in the last hour? I told you, that happened already!"

"Geez! Well, I expected more of the story than just, 'Yeah. We fucked'." Felicia rolled her eyes and rested her chin upon her palm. They both stared at the screen while their teacher talked to the rest of the class, laughing and joking during their free time. No one bothered with them, because, frankly, a majority of the classroom didn't do minority interacting. They stayed a wide berth from the Native American girl that hung around the goth with relative ease, and the goth was temporarily ignored until he was available. Of which was fine with Trowa, because Trowa didn't feel like talking with anybody, much less trade Christmas horror stories. "Anyway. I don't know. Give him more support, or something."

Trowa sighed extra heavily, then rubbed his eyes. Felicia looked away from switching a 50 to a 65. "Felicia-I just said, I'm doing all the work. He's taking."

"Let him know, then!"

"I-I don't know how without offending him."

"Want me to?"

"NO. I just...need a better way of going about it, that's all."

"Well, you ain't getting anywhere by being all pansy about it. Just go right up to him and let him know you're having a problem with his attitude."

Trowa sighed again. She just wasn't listening, or she was, and was just trying to piss him off. He shook his head from side to side and straightened in his seat. "No, make that a fifty, not a seventy."

"TROWA! You want this done, or not?!"

"Fine, fine. Fuck. I'm just...I'm just fucking tired of it all. Really. I mean...it gets so tough to calm him down and assure him that things are great. What about my end? My needs?"

Felicia rolled her eyes and wondered why the clock was moving so damn slow. Listening to Trowa whine and cry around that he wasn't getting any appreciation from his blond love toy was just...not fun. Her head ached, her throat was sore, and she was positive that she required a couple of drops of speed to get herself moving again. But while Trowa was Me, Me, Me, he didn't notice the fact that she had already finished Quatre's grade change, and had been working on her own for the last five minutes. Trowa was arguing with her over her own grades, and she was much too weary to point out the mistake.

But she saw how much the situation was troubling Trowa, and resolved to help them out. Of course, it wasn't that she really cared-though she practically loved the pair with their odd eccentricities, and that they were a design of her own matchmaking-it was just that she'd been there, done that. It was obvious that the two were in love with each other-even though, Trowa made it much more obvious than Quatre did. So, because she loved them both, she would help them out. Damn her own problems and troubles.

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

Quatre was sullenly regarding his basketball with a quiet stare, seated at the edge of the hall stairs of the dormitory and waiting for the gym to open for those that wanted to exercise. Most of the day had passed by in tired bleariness for him, and he was glad he'd saved his class schedule, because he couldn't remember anything significant that had happened. He'd switched a few classes, ignored Trowa, talked little with people that approached him, ignored Trowa, and had finally confessed to Ramos that due to a family emergency, he hadn't made practice this morning. Oh, and he'd ignored Trowa while he was at it. Ramos had warned him that he couldn't miss another practice, as he was needed for drills and run-thrus for this week's game against Josephine Miller High, which was rumored throughout the other members of the team that they really weren't that good.

But Quatre wasn't one to judge based on rumors, so, of course, he was going to put some practice hours in to get him back to tip-top shape since Christmas Break had left him feeling, well, a little chubby. He'd missed Lana's cooking, and he'd hogged out as much as he could while he'd had the opportunity. He had truly enjoyed the stay, considering a few details that were bothersome, but he was entirely grateful for Trowa for granting him that opportunity. He was very appreciative of it, and couldn't have said his 'thanks' enough.

But...and it was always a 'but', yesterday's incident had left him feeling very down. It was a true fight between them, a fight that threatened their closeness. He was aware that Trowa hit the line very exactly on Quatre's attitude, but he didn't see it the way that Trowa did. He knew he had a temper problem, and yet, no matter what he did to calm himself, nothing ever helped. But yesterday hadn't been his fault-no matter how many times Trowa insisted that he could have gotten out of it without throwing a punch, he knew he couldn't have done so. He couldn't call for help because that would just look ridiculous. It would make him seem weak, and due to the already aggrieved incident between him and Jamie, he couldn't just lower himself to do so. That would only strengthen their taunts and cruel antics toward him, and he couldn't risk it. He had to save face. He'd tried, but he'd been outnumbered and had to have Trowa help him. Which was, in a way, a mixed blessing. Good because Trowa had helped him out and it gave him some confidence that Trowa would always be there to help him out, and bad because that was a problem. He'd grown rather dependent on Trowa, always counting on him to be there. But Trowa had pointed out that he was selfish-numerous of times, in fact, even before they'd gotten serious. Wait-were they serious? They had to be. They had sex.

Which was, he thought with a goofy grin, simply the most best experience in my life.

Sighing, he leaned his chin onto his palm and rested his elbow on his knee, his basketball cradled under his knees. He knew he had made the right decision in doing it with Trowa-it was simply the best. There was no other alternative-Quatre couldn't imagine himself doing it with anybody else and having that great of a time. But then again, sex wasn't the focal point here.

Concentrating his shift on his mental subject, Quatre stared down at the stairs, hearing the sounds of the residents in the hall. They were all gathered on their various floors, laughing and shouting, the fifth level always the quietest because everyone that resided there had joined the action below. So, he had plenty of space and quiet to think.

He knew Trowa was upset with him over these things-over being selfish, and of mainly, his attitude. Which couldn't be helped-he knew he was cocky, and he knew he was arrogant. What could he say? Plus, they say that displaying emotions was the best thing a person could do-hiding them just wouldn't do anybody any good. And he displayed his emotions quite well-except for those that demanded manly private time. Of course, he'd felt comfortable enough to get quiet emotional in Trowa's presence. There was just something entirely comforting about the goth that made Quatre unresistant to shed a tear or two, and, of course, to be completely relaxed and to be himself. While that was very comforting in itself, Quatre sensed that there was a problem with it. Well, of course there was. Trowa pointed it out. Trowa was feeling neglected, and Quatre wondered why.

He gave all his time to Trowa-even more than basketball. Nowadays, he found himself wanting to skip casual playing to spend time with the goth. It was an added plus when Trowa went with him and they could talk. But he guessed that was the problem-Trowa thought he was being used. He wasn't. Quatre really liked his company. He was fun, easy to talk to, gave his own opinion (no matter that Quatre didn't really ask for it) and he was his rock. Quatre's rock. Trowa was Quatre's rock. He was steady, steadfast, and he was dependable. Not like everyone else, who basically turned their backs on him because of Jamie and because he fairly lacked in companionable people skills.

Trowa would always be there because he...well, he must find the same things in Quatre that kept him around. Trowa seemed needy on his half, as well! Always looking for him, always jealous whenever Quatre found himself talking to someone else, always demanding attention-well...maybe not demanding attention, but certainly wanting it by driving Quatre insane with his well-placed comments and desire to be hurt and such. Didn't that count as needy, too?! Trowa had a certainly more stranger way of wanting attention than Quatre did!

How dare he pass his judgement on Quatre when Trowa was just as bad! What made him god?!

With a frown, Quatre pulled his ball onto his lap and sniffled. He still had a cold. Maybe it was because he'd walked around with muddy clothes after that mall fight. Whatever, he still had a cold, and it was annoying. He hated being stuffy and achy. He figured a little activity-be it sexual or active-would make it go away. Of course, he'd rather prefer sexual because now that he was thinking about it, he felt really horny for Trowa's touch. It didn't matter if he were mad at him-Quatre still wanted him. A lot. He wondered if that was normal, and wondered if Trowa felt the same way. Of course, he still couldn't imagine himself doing those things with just anybody. Only the goth.

Hearing someone come up the stairs, Quatre shifted to the wall, but remained in his sitting position. Felicia came into view, sighing heavily. He hadn't seen her all day. Her face was something of a refreshment because she was fun to hang out with. Despite her own bullying ways and somewhat rough attitude toward life in general. Plus, he just thought of her as another dude to fart around with. There hadn't been any indications in her personality that had told him she was female. As far as he knew, she was just a boy stuck in a girl's body.

"Hey, Winner," she greeted, and she looked like she had that one time-deathly pale, sick, her eyes blackened with weariness. Then he shifted his eyes to her outfit-it was the first time he'd ever seen her legs, and he had to laugh. They were skinny, entirely skinny for her frame, yet very toned as they flexed and shifted with each step she took. She was wearing something entirely out of character for her, and it was a rare sight indeed. She had chosen to wear the school blazer today, pairing the collar shirt, tie, and denim mini-skirt with thigh highs and Gucci mid-heels that were rather fashionable with her ensemble. Her hair was down, straight as a board and dark, swinging with each movement she made. Her makeup was still customary, with kohl-rimmed eyes and red lipstick. She actually looked like a girl, for once. It made him feel weird.

"Damn. Whose bed did you drip from?" he asked as she sat next to him, exhaling heavily.

"You don't wanna know. Anyway, what's up?" She brought with her the scent of musk and something that resembled Coast soap. He wondered, if he could, if he'd ever be attracted to her. The thought was purely entertaining.

"Nothing."

"Don't tell me that. You have something on that pea-brained mind of yours. C'mon, spill it. Trowa's the same way. No-wait, don't tell me. Sex sucked...."

"No. I won't discuss that with you, but just for the record, our sex life is absolutely fantastic," he replied on a sniff.

"Fuck," she muttered, wiping her face. "Another satisfied customer...anyway, come on, I don't have all day. Let's go."

"Where are we going?"

"We're going to have us a game. I'll play you, one on one."

Quatre snorted as they rose from the stairs, moving down one step at a time. "Felicia, don't even throw that out. We'll play H-O-R-S-E, or something. You can't play ball-"

Felicia reared on him so quickly that he lost his step and fell down the rest of the stairs. She leaned over him, face dangerously close to his, her breath hitting his eyes. "Dude. You don't know me. Stop makin' assumptions that ya do. Comprende, amigo?"

"Whatever," he muttered as he rose from the stairway. In silence, they made their way to the gym. It was empty save for the pools below, and Quatre wondered where everyone had gone. The gym was silent and large, smelling as it usually did-of wood, sweat, metal and paint. He inhaled deeply, dribbling with his left hand. When Felicia reached for it, he kept it from her grasp and shot an easy three.

"You're going to play in that?" he then scoffed, indicating her skirt, her skinny chicken legs just barely a level above a tan. It wasn't that she was dark-her skin color was olive, and naturally darker than his. But he knew she hadn't gotten a tan very recently, because he could see her veins in normally tan skin.

"Yeah? Scared you'll be beat by someone in a skirt?" she asked, removing her blazer and throwing it aside. She removed all bangles and such from her toned arms and threw them on top of her blazer. Then she removed her heels and thigh highs, choosing to play in bare feet. Quatre stared at her, unable to take her seriously as she picked up the ball, twirling it within both hands.

"You can't be serious," he muttered. "I'll slaughter you. You're nothing but a-"

"You say 'girl', and I'll slam your balls through your asshole, dickface," she snarled, dribbling awkwardly with her right hand. Quatre rolled his eyes and figured he'd go along with it. The way she moved the ball told him she was not a ball-player-it would just be wrong to even try to not try to play her. How insulting. To both himself and to her. What was she thinking?

"No, I was going to say, 'you're nothing but a rookie', but that works, too. Girls can't play ball. They fuckin' suck. Look at Sally and Hilde! They belong on their own Goddamned teams! Jeez...Felicia, let's just shoot around and cut the bullshit-" He gasped when she bounced the ball against his chest with enough force to knock the breath from him. When the ball bounced back into her possession, she pivoted and made a clear bank shot without any indication of awkwardness or trouble. The ball bounced her way, and she picked it up and hurled it at him without any warning.

He caught the ball purely by reflex, wincing at the unnatural force used.

"That's 'one', fucker. First one to get tired, loses," she said.

"What?! We'll play to ten. That last shot wasn't shit," he muttered, moving toward the half-court line.

"Motherfucker-! Sideline! We're fucking using the whole court!" Felicia growled..

"We're playing half court!" Quatre snapped.

"There ain't nobody here, whitey! Get on with it! You think you're so fucking good, bring it!"

"I'm not playing against you, Felicia!"

She growled, stamping her foot, then marched over to him. He moved to keep the ball out of reach, but she used an elbow against his gut, causing him to bend. She jerked the ball out of his hand, adding another elbow slam against his chest, and dribbled her way to the rim to make another bank shot.

"That's 'two'! I thought you were good?!"

Quatre straightened, a slow expression of anger making his way onto his face. He caught the ball as it was thrown without warning once more in his direction, then tossed it back for her to take it out. She bounced it back, then rushed at him. Quatre still wasn't going to take her seriously, and dribbled casually, sighing heavily in boredom. Felicia took a step forward, rammed her shoulder into his chest, knocking him off balance as she retrieved the ball and turned to make a perfect three from her angle.

"Stop slamming me around!" he roared.

"THEN PICK UP THAT BALL AND PLAY!" she screamed back.

Quatre shook his head, retrieved the ball, and passed it to her. She hurled it back, and this time, Quatre made sure to dribble seriously as he moved toward his end of the court. She moved with him, hand out on his shirt, the other hovering over his dribbling. He didn't want to engage into physical force with her over a game she was going to lose, but she suddenly stepped into him, her knee into his groin.

He groaned sickly, losing the ball and falling to the court as he clutched himself. She made a simple lay-up with a smirk, and returned to the sideline, dribbling expertly. Using a few minutes to compose himself, Quatre rose from the floor, temper igniting like a flame as he glared fiercely at her.

She lifted the ball onto one finger, spinning it with her other hand as she smirked at him. "Ready to play, now?"

"Bitch..."

"Ooh...bring it, whitey. I've now got four. Three's count as two," she said, hurtling the ball at him. He caught it, then made to dribble. She advanced on him, smirking as he began moving his way toward his designated rim. She moved with every step he made, arms out, keeping him from shooting with easy swipes of her arm and quick shuffles of her feet. He had to admit, when she blocked one of his shots, that she was good. And he'd never seen her pick up a basketball in all the time he'd been here.

Nearly a half hour passed, and the two were facing each other on the half court line, Quatre having to step it up a notch just to keep him ahead by two. But he had a serious inkling that she was holding back-she was very good at handling the ball, dribbling with both hands, under and through her legs, over him, and even embarking on a few tricky court shots that were made familiar by off-regulated games. Things he'd only seen on tv. She was half-way serious about playing him, but he suspected it was something else she was leading to. Otherwise, why suddenly challenge him? Why suddenly bring this on? Why suddenly admit that she was more athletic than she was letting on?! She wasn't even winded as she kept up with him, and he'd even stepped up a notch in running fast, dribbling non-stop.

It had to be her superhuman ability, because, really, no girl was this good. She made Duo look slow and amateurish. By the time the score inched up to thirty-two all, Quatre was feeling the strain in his legs from having to do all this stopping and sprinting. She kept up with him easily, humiliating him at some aspects and awing him in others. It was so totally weird-the only reason why they had to quit was because the janitor was locking up and curfew was coming up.

By the time they'd gathered their things and were heading out the door, the lights were being turned off.

"Why aren't you on the team?" he exclaimed once they hit the cold air.

"I fuckin' told you. I don't like the way they fuckin' slander our people. 'Warriors', my ass. Alla you are a buncha crybabies and shit," she muttered, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Anyway, the point is, Winner-"

"So?! That's in the fucking past!"

"WINNER!! Oh, my fucking God, you want to bring up that shit with me, then you bring it to me good and hard, baby, because I will fucking kick your ass for daring to go down that road!" she shrieked in wrathful fury. Quatre thought that it was odd that her voice, as girlish as it was, didn't even make him wince and cringe as girls' voices usually did. In a way, it was mighty manly. He had to remind himself constantly by looking at her in her uncustomary clothing that she was a female. With Felicia, it was so hard to distinguish that when she opened her mouth.

"Whatever. And when did you learn to play?! I mean, you're good! And you're in shape...all you ever do is pounce on people," he muttered. "I've never seen you running or anything."

She grinned at him, flipping her blazer over her shoulder, temper temporarily shut aside. "Dude, I just told you-you don't know me. You aren't with me twenty-four-seven like you are with Tro-Tro. There is a ton of shit you don't know about me. But you know what? That ain't important. The point I'm trying to make here, Winner, is that despite the fact that you're good, in all that you strive to do-you just ain't good enough to do it alone."

He stopped in mid-step, staring at her. She paused in place as well, blinking as she stared right back. He had an inkling that this was supposed to be some life-lesson bullshit, and while it clicked, it did not fully absorb. And when the fuck did this bitch turn Confucius?!

He opened his mouth to ask what she meant by that, but she held up a hand. "Go to your room. Think about it. Think about what happened on that court. What kept you from winning? What kept you from keeping a cool head? And, above all-what the fuck?!"

Quatre stared at her, blinking steadily. Though her demands were rather, well, Karate Kid in aspect, he had a full feeling that she'd proved a point. And it was either him not wanting to admit it himself, or it hadn't clicked completely, but it was just...well. What were the words? Entirely stupid! Yeah, that was it! Stupid. Felicia, the girl that partied and paid no attention to grades or looked ahead for anything very important in life, was trying to teach him something. And, damn it, it was bugging him that he was looking for his epiphany from someone like her. It was like being enlightened by the negative effects of a drug-user and how, after you witnessed their faults first-hand, made you never want to follow in their tracks 'just because' they had fucked up.

But then he realized that her last exclamation wasn't supposed to be included in her speech. She was looking off to the side, very indignantly, so he followed her trail of vision. And froze.

Because there, near the doors of the dormitory, Middie and Trowa were kissing.