Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Pull Up For The J! ❯ Hollow ( Chapter 16 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
The team for Sophia Darken's basketball team? Absolute madness...
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Comedy / Drama / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.21.2005 | Pages: 3 | Words: 7.8K | Visits: 236 | Status: Completed
The team for Sophia Darken's basketball team? Absolute madness...
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Comedy / Drama / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.21.2005 | Pages: 3 | Words: 7.8K | Visits: 236 | Status: Completed
Chapter Sixteen~
“Hollow” = Pantera
Felicia made a strangled noise within her throat as she caught the ball hurled at her from a smirking Duo, and passed it quickly to Triton, who made a hurried three pointer from his position. The opposite team–Paul, Mariemaia, Quatre, Colin and Hiiro–were ahead of them by three points, and her team was under pressure.
She wanted to walk away from the entire thing–she wasn’t a serious ball player! She and Drake, upon occasion, would shoot casually on the outside courts and sometimes she’d play during outings at certain houses, but never in her life had she ever committed herself to something so...normal. It didn’t fit with her, and like one has trouble adjusting to a new haircut (with some uncertainty, intrigue, disgust and hope), she was having trouble adjusting to something so set.
She hadn’t any casual ball clothes, so she stuck to borrowing Quatre’s–they were horribly uncomfortable, and her shorts kept slipping, no matter that the tie holding them up was tightened as much as possible. She wasn’t sure of the true rules of the game–all she knew was dribble ball, shoot, grab ball if it didn’t touch the inside of the net, shove a few guys around to get it–the fundamentals of basketball just weren’t there. So she was screamed at by the other team players about the three second rule (what the fuck was that?!), back-court (huh?), over-the-back (what, you can’t jump on the taller players to get the ball?), double-dribbling (damn it!), and jump ball, which she still didn’t get. So, when she was getting tired of being yelled at, she began watching the others, and mimicking their movements.
Quatre had told her to try out for shooting guard (no guns? What did that mean?!), and that she’d get the rest as the game continued, not really understanding her plight. Well, winging it was fine–she was used to those rules. It was just adjusting to the damn notion that got to her.
Ramos was watching her closely, noting that she ran and dribbled well, and often commented on her speed and ability to snatch the ball from the other players. But he also knew she was superhuman, like Hiiro, and had cautioned her on keeping that to a minimum. That was a challenge in itself, and something exciting to deal with.
When she was passed the ball again, she began dribbling down to the other end of the court, and her ears caught the sound of a rushing player. She ducked underneath Colin’s arm and dribbled around Mariemaia, seeing that Duo was wide open down below. But before she could hurl it in his direction, Quatre positioned himself in front of Duo, and she reacted quick with a three because she didn’t want to make the mistake of a double-dribble. The ball sailed neatly through the hoop, and she grinned.
“I was open!” Derrick growled, shoving a hand through his crewcut. She frowned at him, not really caring, and walked over to guard Mariemaia. “HEY!”
“WHAT?” she growled, glaring at him as she wiped her hands on her shorts.
“Did you hear what I said?!”
“I may have. I’ll let you know if I find it important,” she replied, looking with a frown at the shorter girl’s hair. It was so red...
“I hate you colored pricks. You’re all so fucking mouthy,” Derrick muttered, Felicia looking sharply after him. Annoyance built up within her, and she shrugged it off, moving to keep Mariemaia from taking the pass from Hiiro.
After that session of try-outs, she decided that Quatre could walk back to the dorms on his own when she saw Drake waiting near the gym, with a perturbed expression on his face. He was dressed for school, smoking a cig, and looked fanatically pissed when she approached him.
“What the fuck is with this bullshit?!” he exclaimed, reaching out to tug sharply on the borrowed Dri-Fit jersey that she wore over a plain t-shirt. “Felicia?! You fuckin’ tryin’ out for the team?”
“Yeah,” she said slowly, frowning at him. She felt immensely guilty that she was doing all that she said she wouldn’t, and felt her face redden considerably. She’d been doing a lot of things she spoken against–liking a white boy when she said she didn’t, participating in team sports...she knew Drake was going to be pissed, and had expected this encounter. “Uh...”
“Fuckin’ traitor,” Drake muttered, shaking his head. “You fuckin’ traitor. You said you against all this shit!”
“Yeah...I did...um, y’see, it was only because–!”
“Bitch! Don’t even talk to me, fuckin’ traitor,” Drake growled, turning and walking away from her. Then he paused, glaring at her. “You’re a fuckin’ hypocrite, you know that?!”
Felicia worked her lower jaw with an agitated expression. “Fine! I deserved that!”
“We were supposed to stick together! We’re the only ones attending here with Native roots! What, you think you’re too good for me, now?!”
“NO!”
“The fuck! Traitor!”
She watched as he stomped off, finishing his cig in record time. Swallowing, feeling a little more than troubled that Drake didn’t want to be her friend because of this, she dragged her shoes along the sidewalk as she continued her way onto the dorm. Drake had been her best friend since arriving here freshmen year, and they were quite close. Nothing romantic had ever passed between them, and she knew for a fact that would never happen. She didn’t want to lose his companionship–he was her best friend! She sighed heavily and continued on, thinking of ways to rectify this suddenly troubling situation.
#20#20#20#20#20#20#20
Duo found his name on the print-out that listed all those that had made this year’s time. He located Hiiro’s for sake of reassurance, and waddled out from the group that was gathered around the billboard, looking for their name or just generally curious as to who made the team. It was nearly fifteen minutes until class started on a Saturday morning, and he was feeling the effects of a strenuous try-out period that Ramos had put them through. He was quite happy about it actually, because, like the others, he liked a good work-out and the thought that he’d had to push himself just to show the newcomers that he was a hard-worker was more than a little ego-boosting. The newcomers were delighted with his speed and his dexterity on the court.
Hiiro lifted an eyebrow as Duo walked over to him, giving him a thumbs up. Pushing away from the wall, he joined Duo as they walked out from the gym and headed over to the main school building.
“Well?” Duo questioned, looking at him. “You happy with the results?”
“Who all made the team?”
“Us five, of course. That Colin guy, Derrick, Brian, that Paul Minogue, Marie, Otto...Felicia...”
“Not uh. Ramos is letting her play?” Hiiro asked incredulously, eyebrows raised high.
Duo snorted, then wiped his nose. “Like Tonya was gonna make it, Hee-chan. She fuckin’ sucked. And the team needs two girls, so it was like, fuckin’ obvious who was gonna make it.”
Hiiro shook his head, quietly reviewing what he’d just heard. He nudged Duo’s elbow. “Let’s go to town, tonight....”
“And do what? Wanna pick up chicks?” Duo asked, a little too eagerly.
Hiiro shook his head, looking a little annoyed. “No. Just you and me. We’ll get dinner. I’m craving Taco Bell for some odd reason.”
“Ah. Yeah, that’s cool, man. Let’s do it. But I have to be back by eight. I gotta date with this chick.”
Hiiro looked at him sharply. “Who?”
“This senior named Dawna...she’s on the Dance Team.”
“The one with the red hair? Or the one with the blue streak?”
The red head. Oh, yeah, I forget there’s two of them. Hell...she asked me out.”
“...You always get asked out, don’t you?”
“Sometimes I do the asking,” Duo said, pulling the door open, the pair of them walking into the main hall, heading for the stairway that would lead to their level of classes. “But, yeah, some chicks ask me out. No biggie.”
“Oh...well...never mind, then. I was thinking we’d do a movie, later.”
“Ah, Hiiro,” Duo sighed, clasping his hands together, and leaning forward on his friend’s shoulder. “You wuv me...you wanted to wine and dine me romantically over sour tasting plain tacos and a fucked up ‘G’ movie from Disney...so romantic...”
“Get off me,” Hiiro muttered, shoving him away. Duo laughed, flipping his braid over his shoulder. Hey, he was happy–he was going to hit the town with his best friend (secret obsession), and it didn’t matter that he had to cut it short–it was time with Hiiro. When did he ever get this sort of down time with the other boy? Never.
“We can do that tomorrow afternoon! Y’know, catch the matinee, get some grub at a restaurant, the whole works. And right after we come back, I’m makin’ waffles!”
Hiiro raised an eyebrow. “I took Home Ec with you. I remember how those turned out...”
“Hey, you ate them, didn’t you? I didn’t hear no Goddamn complaints coming from you!” Duo growled, nudging him roughly as they walked into their first morning class. “In fact, you wanted more!”
“Yeah, well, I just felt sorry for you, Duo,” Hiiro murmured.
“Really? Hell, anything from my bestest friend!” Duo declared. “Aw, you wear your heart on your sleeve, man. Hey, Quat!”
The blond looked at them, sighing heavily as he looked away from a furiously pissed off girl that was ranting and raving about how much she’d love to kick his ass. “Hey, guys. Did you see the list?”
“Yeah...you didn’t make it.”
“Yeah, I kind of figured,” Quatre muttered, knowing the truth. He turned his back on his classmate that he’d pissed off and looked at the two curiously. “Who else made the team?”
Duo told him as Hiiro looked for his seat, dropping his bag on the floor. He heard Quatre’s sudden cackle of amused laughter, followed by a loud slap. He looked up to see the girl huffing away, a bright red hand print on Quatre’s forehead. The blond shrugged to something Duo asked, and Duo walked back over to Hiiro, shaking his head.
“That dude’s fucked up,” he muttered, following Hiiro’s earlier action. “I seriously wonder how the girls manage to keep him alive...”
“Probably his man-friend,” Hiiro snorted. “She’s more manly than us.”
“Yep. Hey, I was wondering–instead of Taco Bell, can we head on over to BK? I really, really am craving a Whopper...”
“NO! You know how that upsets your stomach. You’re always in the stall three hours later, groaning and griping about how much the mayo’s tearing up your insides,” Hiiro growled, starting up his computer.
“Shit, Hiiro, you know me more than I know myself!” Duo exclaimed, blinking as he realized that was true. “Damn...you take more notice of me than I thought!”
“Duo, I only hang out with you a lot.”
“Not really. I mean, we have our own circle of friends,” Duo pointed out, looking at the teacher as the class started. He lowered his voice as he turned on his computer. “Which is cool, man, seriously. I mean, we have our separate lives and shit...”
“Yes, whatever, Duo,” Hiiro murmured. “We’ll go to Burger King if you want it so much...”
“YESS!! You’re awesome, Hee-chan. Huggles?”
“...No.”
“Aw, you’re no fun. C’mon, we can be gay without actually getting down to it,” Duo stressed, keeping his voice down as Hiiro’s face flushed with some color, looking at Duo with an amused expression.
“Excuse me?” he asked, Duo turning a little pink himself.
“I was just joking...I wasn’t saying that we can be gay, man. Just joking...”
“So was I.”
“Oh...er...well...”
“Duo Maxwell, are you switching preferences?” Hiiro asked, voice rising enough to be heard by the others. Duo started, looking around himself as curious faces peered in their direction.
“Hi, Duo!” a player named Derrick shouted from the back, making several others laugh.
Duo flushed red as the teacher uttered a warning, and kicked at Hiiro’s knee, making the other laugh. “That’s fucked up, man,” he complained. “No...I ain’t gay...”
“Duo, let me ask you a question. You don’t have to answer, okay?” Hiiro whispered, facing him. “If I tell you a guy liked you, what would you do?”
Duo frowned at the thought. “I...I wouldn’t acknowledge, him, I guess. Several guys did before, and I just...I’m not that way. Are you that way?”
“...No.”
“Then you’d understand why I would treat them shitty. I ain’t fag. I don’t appreciate the gesture. I’d probably just ignore them and pretend they didn’t exist. I mean, they’re okay, it’s just...don’t be homo to me, all right?”
Hiiro studied him for several seconds, then shook his head. “You’re fucked up, man. Fucked up.”
Duo shrugged a shoulder, fiddling with his mouse as he glanced at his friend.
Though, if you were to come up to me and say somethin’ like that...He trailed off wistfully, sighing heavily as he stared at his computer, very positive that day would never come.
#20#20#20#20#20#20#20
Quatre felt a little choked up as he glanced from his computer to Trowa sitting nearby. The other boy looked just as depressed, and while the blond felt that he definitely wouldn’t go back on his decision, he just couldn’t stop thinking about how good things had been between them. He missed that so much, now, and it distracted him from a lot of things. Mainly, he was running on autopilot, and he tried very hard to keep himself occupied so that he wouldn’t have to think about things too much.
Shooting hoops, running, keeping himself away from the normal spots he and Trowa used to frequent...Still, unsettling thoughts continued to plague him, and it was all he could do to keep himself from running back to the boy and give him that second chance. But what was done was done, he supposed, and he just could not do it. He exhaled heavily, cheeks billowing outward, and tried concentrating on his work. He found it hard to do when he reviewed everything that had happened that night, and he still had to wonder just how much he’d seen transpire between himself and Justin.
His cheeks burned slightly at the thought of them exchanging a pretty meaningless kiss–it didn’t mean anything, and neither of them were encouraged by it, but...he had to admit it–he was a prick. For not confessing his own discretion the way Trowa had done to him. Keeping it secret–yes, he was a prick. And for that, this was his hell. He had figured that Trowa didn’t need to know–after all, it wasn’t that big of a deal–merely something new and convenient because he hadn’t been thinking with the more smarter parts of his anatomy. And it hadn’t been that big of a deal!!
Well, still, he was just as guilty, knowing what he was going to do and going ahead with it...
He finished up the small class assignment that had been given, and looked back at Trowa. He did look miserable, and he didn’t show any symptoms of being high, as he had been...Quatre wanted to talk to him, but the hurt was still there, so he figured that it may be a wrong idea. He turned to finish his assignment when he started in surprise, finding a small wrapped gift set on his keyboard, with no real indication of how it had gotten there in the first place. He looked around wildly, trying to see who had dropped it there, but there weren’t any students walking around, nor any giggles or pensive stares from his classmates. They were all focused on their assignments, paying no attention to anything else.
He sighed, picking up the gift and stuffing it into his bag.
Later on, at lunch, which was his usual grilled chicken and steamed vegetables, he took out the package and studied it. He had taken enough time to know that those two freshmen boys were usually the culprits, along with one girl from the sophomore class, three seniors (two of them being a couple and interested in a threesome), and one assistant teacher from his Trig class (that was really ickle–the guy was at least twenty six years old, and he wasn’t interested in anybody being two years older than him). They were the ones leaving behind the pretty gifts, and he had an idea of what came from who because of their handwriting–plus his classmate Travis usually pointed out the obvious in every gift.
He opened it with some interest, finding a lumpy brownie within. He poked at it, then peered at the gift wrapping, wondering who it was from. He unwrapped the brownie and was going to take a little piece of when Colin Brettany stopped by his table and snatched the brownie from him.
“Hey!” he protested as the senior popped it into his mouth.
“Thanks for sharing the wealth, man!” Colin said, pointing at him then hurrying off with a satisfied smirk.
Quatre frowned, but figured that was that as he balled the wrapping and saran wrap and put it on his plate. Then he left his table, shouldering his bag, and headed over to the vending machine to grab a Coke. He began making his way to the outside courts when he noticed a small crowd gathered nearby, and hurried over. Security were running over, as well as a nurse, and with a curious frown, Quatre pushed his way into the fray and noticed that Colin was puking up a rank amount of liquid and solids. Horrified, wondering what the hell was going on, Quatre watched as the senior was helped toward the medical unit of the building, everyone talking in hushed tones around them.
He frowned, resuming his destination to the courts, dribbling absently as he wondered what had made the boy so sick.
That night, wiping sweat from his forehead from his fortieth suicide, Quatre bent at the waist and fought to regain his breath. Pushing himself to the extreme when it came to basketball was his absolute passion during the season, and his former best friend, Jamie Anderson, had always commented on him being ‘possessed’ when the season came into play. That was fine, Quatre had replied, because it helped him play better. He pushed harder and fought longer, and the results were more than perfect on the court. His actions showed, and his game showed better improvement than it usually was during the off-season.
As he straightened and began walking around, to keep from cramping, a security guard entered the gym, looking straight at him. He waved him over, so Quatre hurried over, wondering what was going on. The security guard had a clipboard and pen, and asked him brief questions, mainly about the brownie.
“Why?” Quatre asked, blinking.
“It was laced with a low-grade ipecac,” the guard replied. “You don’t know who it came from?”
Quatre shook his head, feeling a little ill that someone had made that brownie intended for him. It caused a low feeling in his gut as he realized that someone disliked him enough to do such a thing. Numbly, he answered whatever else was directed at him, then found himself unable to concentrate on the rest of his extreme training session. He picked up his basketball and hurried back to the dorm.
He walked in, carelessly tossing things about as he mentally reviewed all the other previous gifts bestowed on him, and identified no ill effects from any. This was the first one. He knew he pissed a lot of people off and made a few enemies among his classmates, but who could be so cruel in giving him something that intended to harm him?
He immediately thought of Trowa, and while it wasn’t a definite belief that it could have been, there was motive behind the brownie. But while he felt bad for thinking that the former goth did so, he felt a little suspicious and wary. Trowa had his ways–he was sneaky in ways that some people never knew about. But would he really harm Quatre in that way? Had it come down to this?
#20#20#20#20#20#20#20
The next day, looking forward to practice that Sunday afternoon, he heard his name called as he was walking toward the cafeteria for some breakfast, and he stopped, turning around to see Trowa’s roommate running over to him, carrying a small bag of things.
“These are for you,” he said in his characteristic lisp, adjusting his glasses. His dark hair was styled quite wildish around his thin face, and he looked at Quatre with nothing more than an upturned nose.
“What are they?” Quatre asked, taking the bag as it was nearly thrown at him.
“Your things. Trowa asked that I return them to you,” Jared replied, walking off.
Quatre stared at the bag, then opened it. Inside were his hooded sweater, the one he’d given to Trowa over Christmas Break last year, a few ends and knick-knacks, his wristbands (hey, he’d been looking for those!), and numerous drawings and artful pieces that Trowa had made for, about, and featuring him. With a large lump in his throat, Quatre closed his bag, feeling more than torn that this was the actual end of their relationship. Sure, he didn’t think that anything would change, but...to have one’s things returned by the other signaled the cut and hang of what was once was. He swallowed repeatedly, and slowly trudged back to the dorm. He’d put the bag away, destroy what he had to later on.
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Felicia rolled her eyes, more than a little peevish that she was here at school on a weekend. She was even more annoyed that she had to spend three hours running around on the court, playing with the other die-hards, and endure more insults from that Derrick kid. Plus, rumor had it that Colin had been deliberately poisoned Saturday, so the kids were talking about that continuously as they ran through drills and running exercises. She was also thinking about Drake and his comments, feeling rather bad about everything.
Then Quatre had to sulk around with that pout of his, and Triton was really getting on her nerves in trying to pass on the good word to Quatre that he was still available, and the other ‘playas’ that she hung out with were constantly heckling her with the need to ‘hook them up’ with the suddenly single psycho, and she was just straight out annoyed.
Not because she would never have a chance with him–just that such things were majorly annoying to deal with, and she would have found them so if she didn’t have a questionable crush on the guy.
Such stress had to remedied immediately, but Ramos had stated that if he ever heard, witnessed, or was even given a hint that any of his players were using drugs, drinking, partying, or having promiscuous sex, then he would have them punished liberally and have them kicked off the team. Why the sex bit, she didn’t know–maybe it helped the guys with their game, storing up all that testosterone, or some shit like that. Like boxers before a match. The others were going to be a bitch to try and give up, and she knew she couldn’t. She would just have to find ways around them, look for the loopholes...
This drill they were performing was done in threes–three players had to run down the court, passing to each other continuously while they alternated positions. Three defensive players were to keep them from making their shot. The running around like a controlled chicken was fine–she didn’t mind that. It was just the fact that she had to play seriously against the others that bothered her. She wasn’t a team player, and never had been. It was hard adjusting.
She received the ball from Triton, who was making his way to the end of the line, and passed to Hiiro, who growled something about a double-dribble. She made her way to her position, received the ball for a shot, and made it, even as Derrick’s wild sweep of his hand slapped across her face. It didn’t hurt–but it was meant to annoy her.
She lowered her hands, trying very hard not to retaliate as he smirked and walked off, despite the boos he received for her taking an “And One” over his tall frame.
She made her way back to the other end of the court, where the others were awaiting their turn.
“Yuy! Passage! Come here!” Ramos called from his position on the side bench. She and Hiiro walked over, where Paul Minogue was standing. Ramos rose from the bench, sitting aside his holographic playboard and digging into a duffle. He withdrew three pairs of silver armbands from it, and Felicia blinked curiously as he removed plastic wrapping from them, handing them to each individual. “All three of you are superhumans...in this game, we can’t really have that while playing with and against normals. These are experimental bands that cut down on your superhuman strength, rendering you a handicap in that aspect and providing a fair chance with the other players. These will turn you ‘normal’, so that you’re just as at advantage and disadvantage over the others. They’re pretty new in the market, but I heard they work well. The district has ordered that all superhumans in athletics use them.”
Great, Felicia thought, eyeing the bands with some distrust. They were plain silver, thin, and adjustable, resembling hairties. Hiiro and Paul slipped theirs on, flexing their arms experimentally, and she sighed, following their example. She then turned, punched Hiiro across the head. He made an annoyed face and punched her back in the biceps. She stumbled, tripped, and fell, stunned at the pain that she felt from that simple hit. It hadn’t been that hard–hard enough to bruise, but still! Her knuckles hurt where she’d punched him, and she flexed her fingers with some wonder.
Hiiro looked momentarily horrified, then hurriedly helped her up as she rubbed her arm, tears of pain stinging her eyes.
“Well, they work!” she chirped, voice wavering from the pain.
“I’m so sorry,” Hiiro apologized, his face clearly expressing his regret. Paul just snickered.
“You okay?” Ramos asked her, bending slightly.
“I’M FINE! I just wanted to see if they worked,” she muttered, rubbing her arm. She picked at the bands with some distaste. “So, now we have to wear these during the game?”
“And during practices...you can take them off afterward,” Ramos said, unconvinced that she was all right. Girls were just so fragile...
“This is going to cut down on my speed,” Paul complained.
“Well, get back out there and do what you can,” Ramos said, gesturing at them to get a move on. With a heavy sigh, Felicia turned and walked back out, a little interested in what this experiment was going to produce. It would be interesting to be like the others, but she had to try it out and see.
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Trowa stared blankly at the gym, smoking a cigarette. The outside air was chilly, but not as bad as it had been last year. He was comfortable wearing a sweater over his t-shirt and jeans, but the chill in the air had him shivering despite it. He stared at the gym, wondering what Quatre was doing, wishing that he could watch. He wished for a lot of things, especially for that night to replay and for Quatre to give him another chance instead of completely breaking them off. He couldn’t believe that he’d been dumped–but then again, it made a lot of sense.
Trowa felt severely depressed about the entire thing–he didn’t want to break up. Sure, he’d done a lot of things that were questionably apparent, and warranted such an action, but he was so sure that he and Quatre would pull through it, just as they had with other things during their short time together. He hadn’t gotten high in the last few days, and his withdrawal symptoms were truly taxing on him. But those horrible drugs had been part of the reason why Quatre wanted to break up with him, and Trowa figured that if he ever wanted the blond back (which was what he wanted with an undeniable strength), he had to change a few things.
Perhaps this was temporary–couples fought and broke up over more minimal things. Perhaps if he cleaned himself up and did this and that, and accepted that he could not change what Une had did, he could get Quatre back. He knew he’d hurt the blond horribly with his weight issue and other pressing matters, but one couldn’t change what they felt!
And while he’d been pissed that Quatre had obviously cheated on him with that Sageville prick (who was rumored to be quite endowed), he figured that he had it coming, anyway. He’d seen the kiss–and was fully convinced that there weren’t any feelings from either of them toward each other. It as morbidly apparent. They were fit to be friends, not lovers, and though that act of indiscretion that Quatre had named wasn’t fully explained, Trowa figured that what had happened happened for a damn reason. He’d forgive Quatre for that–it was understandable. A guy had needs–if they were to be met by someone that was convenient, then that was that. He’d forgive Quatre for that.
What he wasn’t going to forgive Quatre for was the fact that he did not confess his own secret to Trowa, when it could have helped. It would have ‘evened the odds’ so to speak, and they could have worked things out. Sure he was pissed that it happened in the first place, but the more time thinking and sulking about it, Trowa had come to conclusion that it was just. They’d both made mistakes–they were both guilty. But he was still pissed that Quatre had not confessed, and Trowa had to find out by stalking.
He didn’t want them broken up–but no amount of begging and pleading would have the blond coming back to him. He figured he’d just have to...hang out until then. He would be sad about it, but there could be a chance later on, when Quatre calmed down and realized that he needed Trowa the way Trowa needed Quatre.
He reached up, scratching the back of his head, and stubbed out his cigarette. He looked up at the sound of approaching steps, and saw Sylvia smiling at him. He didn’t feel like talking to someone like her, because she was a friend of that traitorous bitch that fed Quatre lies and orders, of which he followed blindly because once the guy latched onto someone, he was extremely loyal and docile until they wronged him as Trowa had. And so far, the bitch hadn’t, and Trowa hated her with a passion. She must have been the driving force behind Quatre’s reason to break up with him, and had heard through the grapevine that she was going to set him up with someone outside of Darken walls. He was not going to take that aspect very lightly, and figured he’d better brush up on his previous stalking abilities pretty quick–he couldn’t help it. It was very morbid of him, but he just had to see if Quatre was going to connect with someone other than him. Sort of a torture for his consequences kind of thing.
“Hi, Trowa!” Sylvia greeted, sitting beside him. She was wearing a pair of overalls, her blond hair tied up, and Trowa looked at her. She was a little chubby–she wasn’t thin, nor was she fat, but she was extremely pleasant and she had good looks. She just annoyed him because she was friends with The Bitch.
He got up from the bench and walked away from her, meaning to be very rude. He heard an outraged grunt, then the sound of retreating footsteps. He looked over his shoulder to see that she was walking toward the gym, muttering about rude pricks that don’t deserve nice pricks. He licked his lips, then followed in that direction, wondering if Ramos was allowing people to watch practice.
He hadn’t before, but he maybe now.
Sylvia was turned away by the locked door, and was making her way down when he walked in. She frowned at him and left the gym while he turned and studied the billboard. There were many uninteresting postings there, but he wanted to wait for practice to end so that he could try and talk to Quatre. Not to beg, or plead, or ask...just to talk.
He sat down at a nearby table and listened for the telltale sounds of basketball being played out on the second level, and propped his feet up on an adjoining chair. He stared blankly at the tabletop, numbly fingering another cigarette, and thought about this period. He didn’t like it. Not at all. This relationship had been stocked full of good things, and it wasn’t as if they were perfect–they had their share of nuances that were expressed, and annoyances that were dealt with, but they had it good. They knew that they loved each other and were willing to go that extra mile for each other.
But then, summer had happened, and things had changed. He found an older woman’s allure too much of a distraction, and Quatre had found himself an enjoyable fling. Maybe if that video hadn’t been involved, things would have been great. Quatre would have forgiven him, and Trowa would have never known about Justin, and that would have been all right.
But then again...now that he thought about it...things were changing, anyway. Trowa was a year older than Quatre, and was physically more mature. Things had changed between them anyway–Quatre was still that little boy lost sometimes, and Trowa was more adult about certain things. Maybe if that video hadn’t happened, they would have still clashed on those aspects. Perhaps...but one would never know, now, would they?
He heard the door opened upstairs, and without thinking, he hastily ran outside, hoping that Quatre hadn’t seen him. He didn’t know why he’d done that–just that he acted on an impulse. Which was more Quatre’s thing than his. But he hid himself in the shadows alongside the gym, and listened as the team left the building, their mixture of voices confusing him momentarily because he wasn’t hearing Quatre’s or Felicia’s voice.
He heard The Bitch a few minutes later, complaining about something to someone that was listening, and chanced a look. Quatre wasn’t with her, and the coach was already on his way to the teacher’s parking lot to head out, so Trowa wondered where Quatre was.
Well, knowing him, he was probably still in the gym, fanatically shooting ball after ball, running lap after lap, and wasting away by extreme physical activity. Of course, Trowa thought it fortunate that there wasn’t any more girl issues going on this year–he’d heard that Quatre played rather fantastically with Mariemaia and Felicia. He chanced the urge to sneak into the gym, and reacted with a startled gasp when his name was called.
He turned away from the doors with an annoyed scowl, seeing his roommate running over to him, a package in his arms.
“Hello, Trowa!” Jared greeted cheerfully, holding out the package. Trowa took it curiously, noting his name on top. The address was foreign–based in Spain. He forgot about Quatre and began walking away from the gym, eyeing the box cautiously. Jared followed, saying, “That was delivered earlier today. You weren’t around, so I signed for it. Was that all right?”
“Yes. Thanks,” Trowa said curtly, making his way to a dark bench. Jared took off with a “De Nada!” and headed back to the dormitory. Trowa took out a pen from his back pocket, kept there for those Just In Case moments, and used that to slash through the tape that bound the box. Opening it, he saw an envelope with his name on top, and a brown bagged object that made him a little wary.
He opened up the envelope with a slow intake of breath, and froze upon catching the name on the letter. He thrust that paper aside, knocking the box from his lap.
That fucking whore! He thought furiously, eyeing the brown-wrapped object. As if this video wasn’t enough to insult him, she was trying to contact him through this?! He picked up the object and tore off the wrappings, seeing that it was a blank video, but had the title, “Mrs. Robinson”, written on the front. He didn’t hesitate to rip that box open, throw the video down onto the sidewalk, and stomp on it thoroughly, making sure that no piece was spared. Tape was mangled and torn, plastic destroyed. When he was finished killing that wretched video, he gathered everything up in his arms and headed toward the nearest trash receptacle. Only when he was thrusting everything inside, a few words on the letter caught his attention, and he rescued that for a better close-up.
He skimmed through the apology, and a half-assed compliment, but found his eyes widening with disbelief when he read that Amelie was splitting the profit that she’d made from the video with him. According to the notarized document, she was set to wire his half of the profit to a bank of his choice in America, where he would have access to the money. And she would continue to do so with every sale of that video.
He lowered the letter, blinking dumbly as he thought about it. Then he had to re-read the letter, this time reading through the entire thing. Amelie was remorseful that she hadn’t explained her true motives, and had only done so because he was Catherine’s brother, and she wanted to bestow some bragging rights upon the other woman. Unfortunately, her conscience had kicked in, and she felt very badly for using him. Here she went on complimenting on him various things that made him redden in reply, but then she ended the letter with the explanation of the profits set to fall into his possession. He lowered the letter again and stared blankly at the trash can. There was no way in hell he was ever going to watch the video, and those that brought it up were going to be ignored. He couldn’t stop the video from plopping down into his classmates’ hands, but he could definitely ignore what was either said or whispered in his direction.
He’d come to that conclusion after a three day period of not ingesting any drugs. It was weird what sobriety and cleanliness could do to a person after a mild indulgence with the good stuff.
He shifted his vision when he saw Quatre exit the gym, pulling on a sweater and carrying his gym bag. Trowa folded up the letter and slipped that into his back pocket as he waited for the blond to notice him. Once he did, he faltered in his steps, cradling his basketball with one arm and staring at Trowa with some hesitation.
Trowa found himself swallowing, unsure of what to say. He had wanted to talk to him, but now that he was faced with Quatre, he had no idea what. So many raw emotions flooded through him at that point, rendering him a little tongue-tied, but he could see with some amounting relief that the same was happening with Quatre. Trowa could recognize the nervous signs Quatre displayed, chewing on his nails and nervously shuffling from foot to foot, but at least he wasn’t running away from him.
Trowa swallowed hard once more, then cautiously walked over. He still hurt–God, it still hurt.
“Hey,” he greeted softly, unable to take his eyes away from the flushed features of his ex.
“Hey,” Quatre greeted, a little roughly.
Then, nothing. Quatre looked away to stare at something beyond Trowa’s sight, and Trowa found himself interested in the Nike symbol on Quatre’s bag. Then he gathered up enough articulation to say, “Well...you made the team, huh?”
“...Yeah.”
“I...well, congratulations.” Why was it so hard to talk?! “You knew you were going to make it, anyway, right?”
Quatre gave him a nervous glance, then nodded stiffly, holding his ball tightly. “Yeah...um...it looks pretty... good this year. I think.”
“No fights with the girls?”
“Ah...no. not really.”
“That’s good...”
Trowa found himself unable to think of anything else to say, and Quatre shifted uncomfortably once more. Trowa grimaced, trying to talk, just for a reason to talk to his ex. “I–well...I...I know you don’t...I know you don’t want to get back together–”
“Trowa, I can’t do this while–!”
“–But could we just be friends? I mean...I don’t want to go through the rest of this year unable to talk to you, Quatre,” Trowa said, finding his voice had turned into a hitch of desperation, which he quickly tried to quell. The blond looked disturbed for a moment, as if unsure of what to think, then shrugged his shoulders.
“I...I guess that would...that would be all right,” he then muttered. “I mean...I can’t imagine...well, I can’t imagine myself ignoring you continuously. And this is a small school...”
Trowa felt an inkling of hope bloom within his chest at that. “So, we can be friends?”
“I don’t–I don’t know, Trowa. I mean, I would like to, but...right now...”
“I understand,” Trowa said quickly, feeling his pulse race a bit at the fact that Quatre wasn’t shooting down the idea. Besides, he did understand–just standing here next to him made him feel intensely sad and depressed. The hurt was still fresh. “I–I just want us to be friends, then, Quat. I won’t push for anything else.”
“That’s fine, Trowa...I mean, it’s just...” Quatre ended this with another uncertain shrug, keeping his eyes on his ball than on the hopeful desperation on Trowa’s face. “I can’t do this, right now.”
He still had feelings for him! Trowa felt that awesome push of realization curl his gut. It wasn’t completely over–Quatre still had feelings for him! That was why he wasn’t rejecting the idea of being just friends! Which made this situation a little more tolerable.
“I know. I know,” he forced himself to say, despite the need to pry and force out more of this admission from Quatre’s pursed lips.
“I’m sorry, Trowa...for this. For...for wanting it...to end...um...It was hard. It wasn’t a split decision,” Quatre then blurted out, looking at him. “I had thought about it for awhile...”
Trowa felt his chest clench as he realized what had prompted him to. He understood and wouldn’t hate Quatre for thinking about it. He’d brought himself into this mess, knowing that what he did was going to produce such results. It was about high time he faced its consequences...
But it felt uplifting to know that Quatre still had feelings for him. It gave Trowa hope and inspiration to do better.
He then stared down at him, wondering what he’d found so alluring about Amelie in the first frickin’ place, then gestured at the dorm. He didn’t want to, but he had to if he wanted to rebuild what had been broken. “I’m going back to the dorm, then. I just...wanted to talk to you.”
Quatre looked up, then, glancing at him. He then nodded. “All right.”
Seeing as nothing more could be said, Trowa then forced himself to turn and walk away.
“Hollow” = Pantera
Felicia made a strangled noise within her throat as she caught the ball hurled at her from a smirking Duo, and passed it quickly to Triton, who made a hurried three pointer from his position. The opposite team–Paul, Mariemaia, Quatre, Colin and Hiiro–were ahead of them by three points, and her team was under pressure.
She wanted to walk away from the entire thing–she wasn’t a serious ball player! She and Drake, upon occasion, would shoot casually on the outside courts and sometimes she’d play during outings at certain houses, but never in her life had she ever committed herself to something so...normal. It didn’t fit with her, and like one has trouble adjusting to a new haircut (with some uncertainty, intrigue, disgust and hope), she was having trouble adjusting to something so set.
She hadn’t any casual ball clothes, so she stuck to borrowing Quatre’s–they were horribly uncomfortable, and her shorts kept slipping, no matter that the tie holding them up was tightened as much as possible. She wasn’t sure of the true rules of the game–all she knew was dribble ball, shoot, grab ball if it didn’t touch the inside of the net, shove a few guys around to get it–the fundamentals of basketball just weren’t there. So she was screamed at by the other team players about the three second rule (what the fuck was that?!), back-court (huh?), over-the-back (what, you can’t jump on the taller players to get the ball?), double-dribbling (damn it!), and jump ball, which she still didn’t get. So, when she was getting tired of being yelled at, she began watching the others, and mimicking their movements.
Quatre had told her to try out for shooting guard (no guns? What did that mean?!), and that she’d get the rest as the game continued, not really understanding her plight. Well, winging it was fine–she was used to those rules. It was just adjusting to the damn notion that got to her.
Ramos was watching her closely, noting that she ran and dribbled well, and often commented on her speed and ability to snatch the ball from the other players. But he also knew she was superhuman, like Hiiro, and had cautioned her on keeping that to a minimum. That was a challenge in itself, and something exciting to deal with.
When she was passed the ball again, she began dribbling down to the other end of the court, and her ears caught the sound of a rushing player. She ducked underneath Colin’s arm and dribbled around Mariemaia, seeing that Duo was wide open down below. But before she could hurl it in his direction, Quatre positioned himself in front of Duo, and she reacted quick with a three because she didn’t want to make the mistake of a double-dribble. The ball sailed neatly through the hoop, and she grinned.
“I was open!” Derrick growled, shoving a hand through his crewcut. She frowned at him, not really caring, and walked over to guard Mariemaia. “HEY!”
“WHAT?” she growled, glaring at him as she wiped her hands on her shorts.
“Did you hear what I said?!”
“I may have. I’ll let you know if I find it important,” she replied, looking with a frown at the shorter girl’s hair. It was so red...
“I hate you colored pricks. You’re all so fucking mouthy,” Derrick muttered, Felicia looking sharply after him. Annoyance built up within her, and she shrugged it off, moving to keep Mariemaia from taking the pass from Hiiro.
After that session of try-outs, she decided that Quatre could walk back to the dorms on his own when she saw Drake waiting near the gym, with a perturbed expression on his face. He was dressed for school, smoking a cig, and looked fanatically pissed when she approached him.
“What the fuck is with this bullshit?!” he exclaimed, reaching out to tug sharply on the borrowed Dri-Fit jersey that she wore over a plain t-shirt. “Felicia?! You fuckin’ tryin’ out for the team?”
“Yeah,” she said slowly, frowning at him. She felt immensely guilty that she was doing all that she said she wouldn’t, and felt her face redden considerably. She’d been doing a lot of things she spoken against–liking a white boy when she said she didn’t, participating in team sports...she knew Drake was going to be pissed, and had expected this encounter. “Uh...”
“Fuckin’ traitor,” Drake muttered, shaking his head. “You fuckin’ traitor. You said you against all this shit!”
“Yeah...I did...um, y’see, it was only because–!”
“Bitch! Don’t even talk to me, fuckin’ traitor,” Drake growled, turning and walking away from her. Then he paused, glaring at her. “You’re a fuckin’ hypocrite, you know that?!”
Felicia worked her lower jaw with an agitated expression. “Fine! I deserved that!”
“We were supposed to stick together! We’re the only ones attending here with Native roots! What, you think you’re too good for me, now?!”
“NO!”
“The fuck! Traitor!”
She watched as he stomped off, finishing his cig in record time. Swallowing, feeling a little more than troubled that Drake didn’t want to be her friend because of this, she dragged her shoes along the sidewalk as she continued her way onto the dorm. Drake had been her best friend since arriving here freshmen year, and they were quite close. Nothing romantic had ever passed between them, and she knew for a fact that would never happen. She didn’t want to lose his companionship–he was her best friend! She sighed heavily and continued on, thinking of ways to rectify this suddenly troubling situation.
#20#20#20#20#20#20#20
Duo found his name on the print-out that listed all those that had made this year’s time. He located Hiiro’s for sake of reassurance, and waddled out from the group that was gathered around the billboard, looking for their name or just generally curious as to who made the team. It was nearly fifteen minutes until class started on a Saturday morning, and he was feeling the effects of a strenuous try-out period that Ramos had put them through. He was quite happy about it actually, because, like the others, he liked a good work-out and the thought that he’d had to push himself just to show the newcomers that he was a hard-worker was more than a little ego-boosting. The newcomers were delighted with his speed and his dexterity on the court.
Hiiro lifted an eyebrow as Duo walked over to him, giving him a thumbs up. Pushing away from the wall, he joined Duo as they walked out from the gym and headed over to the main school building.
“Well?” Duo questioned, looking at him. “You happy with the results?”
“Who all made the team?”
“Us five, of course. That Colin guy, Derrick, Brian, that Paul Minogue, Marie, Otto...Felicia...”
“Not uh. Ramos is letting her play?” Hiiro asked incredulously, eyebrows raised high.
Duo snorted, then wiped his nose. “Like Tonya was gonna make it, Hee-chan. She fuckin’ sucked. And the team needs two girls, so it was like, fuckin’ obvious who was gonna make it.”
Hiiro shook his head, quietly reviewing what he’d just heard. He nudged Duo’s elbow. “Let’s go to town, tonight....”
“And do what? Wanna pick up chicks?” Duo asked, a little too eagerly.
Hiiro shook his head, looking a little annoyed. “No. Just you and me. We’ll get dinner. I’m craving Taco Bell for some odd reason.”
“Ah. Yeah, that’s cool, man. Let’s do it. But I have to be back by eight. I gotta date with this chick.”
Hiiro looked at him sharply. “Who?”
“This senior named Dawna...she’s on the Dance Team.”
“The one with the red hair? Or the one with the blue streak?”
The red head. Oh, yeah, I forget there’s two of them. Hell...she asked me out.”
“...You always get asked out, don’t you?”
“Sometimes I do the asking,” Duo said, pulling the door open, the pair of them walking into the main hall, heading for the stairway that would lead to their level of classes. “But, yeah, some chicks ask me out. No biggie.”
“Oh...well...never mind, then. I was thinking we’d do a movie, later.”
“Ah, Hiiro,” Duo sighed, clasping his hands together, and leaning forward on his friend’s shoulder. “You wuv me...you wanted to wine and dine me romantically over sour tasting plain tacos and a fucked up ‘G’ movie from Disney...so romantic...”
“Get off me,” Hiiro muttered, shoving him away. Duo laughed, flipping his braid over his shoulder. Hey, he was happy–he was going to hit the town with his best friend (secret obsession), and it didn’t matter that he had to cut it short–it was time with Hiiro. When did he ever get this sort of down time with the other boy? Never.
“We can do that tomorrow afternoon! Y’know, catch the matinee, get some grub at a restaurant, the whole works. And right after we come back, I’m makin’ waffles!”
Hiiro raised an eyebrow. “I took Home Ec with you. I remember how those turned out...”
“Hey, you ate them, didn’t you? I didn’t hear no Goddamn complaints coming from you!” Duo growled, nudging him roughly as they walked into their first morning class. “In fact, you wanted more!”
“Yeah, well, I just felt sorry for you, Duo,” Hiiro murmured.
“Really? Hell, anything from my bestest friend!” Duo declared. “Aw, you wear your heart on your sleeve, man. Hey, Quat!”
The blond looked at them, sighing heavily as he looked away from a furiously pissed off girl that was ranting and raving about how much she’d love to kick his ass. “Hey, guys. Did you see the list?”
“Yeah...you didn’t make it.”
“Yeah, I kind of figured,” Quatre muttered, knowing the truth. He turned his back on his classmate that he’d pissed off and looked at the two curiously. “Who else made the team?”
Duo told him as Hiiro looked for his seat, dropping his bag on the floor. He heard Quatre’s sudden cackle of amused laughter, followed by a loud slap. He looked up to see the girl huffing away, a bright red hand print on Quatre’s forehead. The blond shrugged to something Duo asked, and Duo walked back over to Hiiro, shaking his head.
“That dude’s fucked up,” he muttered, following Hiiro’s earlier action. “I seriously wonder how the girls manage to keep him alive...”
“Probably his man-friend,” Hiiro snorted. “She’s more manly than us.”
“Yep. Hey, I was wondering–instead of Taco Bell, can we head on over to BK? I really, really am craving a Whopper...”
“NO! You know how that upsets your stomach. You’re always in the stall three hours later, groaning and griping about how much the mayo’s tearing up your insides,” Hiiro growled, starting up his computer.
“Shit, Hiiro, you know me more than I know myself!” Duo exclaimed, blinking as he realized that was true. “Damn...you take more notice of me than I thought!”
“Duo, I only hang out with you a lot.”
“Not really. I mean, we have our own circle of friends,” Duo pointed out, looking at the teacher as the class started. He lowered his voice as he turned on his computer. “Which is cool, man, seriously. I mean, we have our separate lives and shit...”
“Yes, whatever, Duo,” Hiiro murmured. “We’ll go to Burger King if you want it so much...”
“YESS!! You’re awesome, Hee-chan. Huggles?”
“...No.”
“Aw, you’re no fun. C’mon, we can be gay without actually getting down to it,” Duo stressed, keeping his voice down as Hiiro’s face flushed with some color, looking at Duo with an amused expression.
“Excuse me?” he asked, Duo turning a little pink himself.
“I was just joking...I wasn’t saying that we can be gay, man. Just joking...”
“So was I.”
“Oh...er...well...”
“Duo Maxwell, are you switching preferences?” Hiiro asked, voice rising enough to be heard by the others. Duo started, looking around himself as curious faces peered in their direction.
“Hi, Duo!” a player named Derrick shouted from the back, making several others laugh.
Duo flushed red as the teacher uttered a warning, and kicked at Hiiro’s knee, making the other laugh. “That’s fucked up, man,” he complained. “No...I ain’t gay...”
“Duo, let me ask you a question. You don’t have to answer, okay?” Hiiro whispered, facing him. “If I tell you a guy liked you, what would you do?”
Duo frowned at the thought. “I...I wouldn’t acknowledge, him, I guess. Several guys did before, and I just...I’m not that way. Are you that way?”
“...No.”
“Then you’d understand why I would treat them shitty. I ain’t fag. I don’t appreciate the gesture. I’d probably just ignore them and pretend they didn’t exist. I mean, they’re okay, it’s just...don’t be homo to me, all right?”
Hiiro studied him for several seconds, then shook his head. “You’re fucked up, man. Fucked up.”
Duo shrugged a shoulder, fiddling with his mouse as he glanced at his friend.
Though, if you were to come up to me and say somethin’ like that...He trailed off wistfully, sighing heavily as he stared at his computer, very positive that day would never come.
#20#20#20#20#20#20#20
Quatre felt a little choked up as he glanced from his computer to Trowa sitting nearby. The other boy looked just as depressed, and while the blond felt that he definitely wouldn’t go back on his decision, he just couldn’t stop thinking about how good things had been between them. He missed that so much, now, and it distracted him from a lot of things. Mainly, he was running on autopilot, and he tried very hard to keep himself occupied so that he wouldn’t have to think about things too much.
Shooting hoops, running, keeping himself away from the normal spots he and Trowa used to frequent...Still, unsettling thoughts continued to plague him, and it was all he could do to keep himself from running back to the boy and give him that second chance. But what was done was done, he supposed, and he just could not do it. He exhaled heavily, cheeks billowing outward, and tried concentrating on his work. He found it hard to do when he reviewed everything that had happened that night, and he still had to wonder just how much he’d seen transpire between himself and Justin.
His cheeks burned slightly at the thought of them exchanging a pretty meaningless kiss–it didn’t mean anything, and neither of them were encouraged by it, but...he had to admit it–he was a prick. For not confessing his own discretion the way Trowa had done to him. Keeping it secret–yes, he was a prick. And for that, this was his hell. He had figured that Trowa didn’t need to know–after all, it wasn’t that big of a deal–merely something new and convenient because he hadn’t been thinking with the more smarter parts of his anatomy. And it hadn’t been that big of a deal!!
Well, still, he was just as guilty, knowing what he was going to do and going ahead with it...
He finished up the small class assignment that had been given, and looked back at Trowa. He did look miserable, and he didn’t show any symptoms of being high, as he had been...Quatre wanted to talk to him, but the hurt was still there, so he figured that it may be a wrong idea. He turned to finish his assignment when he started in surprise, finding a small wrapped gift set on his keyboard, with no real indication of how it had gotten there in the first place. He looked around wildly, trying to see who had dropped it there, but there weren’t any students walking around, nor any giggles or pensive stares from his classmates. They were all focused on their assignments, paying no attention to anything else.
He sighed, picking up the gift and stuffing it into his bag.
Later on, at lunch, which was his usual grilled chicken and steamed vegetables, he took out the package and studied it. He had taken enough time to know that those two freshmen boys were usually the culprits, along with one girl from the sophomore class, three seniors (two of them being a couple and interested in a threesome), and one assistant teacher from his Trig class (that was really ickle–the guy was at least twenty six years old, and he wasn’t interested in anybody being two years older than him). They were the ones leaving behind the pretty gifts, and he had an idea of what came from who because of their handwriting–plus his classmate Travis usually pointed out the obvious in every gift.
He opened it with some interest, finding a lumpy brownie within. He poked at it, then peered at the gift wrapping, wondering who it was from. He unwrapped the brownie and was going to take a little piece of when Colin Brettany stopped by his table and snatched the brownie from him.
“Hey!” he protested as the senior popped it into his mouth.
“Thanks for sharing the wealth, man!” Colin said, pointing at him then hurrying off with a satisfied smirk.
Quatre frowned, but figured that was that as he balled the wrapping and saran wrap and put it on his plate. Then he left his table, shouldering his bag, and headed over to the vending machine to grab a Coke. He began making his way to the outside courts when he noticed a small crowd gathered nearby, and hurried over. Security were running over, as well as a nurse, and with a curious frown, Quatre pushed his way into the fray and noticed that Colin was puking up a rank amount of liquid and solids. Horrified, wondering what the hell was going on, Quatre watched as the senior was helped toward the medical unit of the building, everyone talking in hushed tones around them.
He frowned, resuming his destination to the courts, dribbling absently as he wondered what had made the boy so sick.
That night, wiping sweat from his forehead from his fortieth suicide, Quatre bent at the waist and fought to regain his breath. Pushing himself to the extreme when it came to basketball was his absolute passion during the season, and his former best friend, Jamie Anderson, had always commented on him being ‘possessed’ when the season came into play. That was fine, Quatre had replied, because it helped him play better. He pushed harder and fought longer, and the results were more than perfect on the court. His actions showed, and his game showed better improvement than it usually was during the off-season.
As he straightened and began walking around, to keep from cramping, a security guard entered the gym, looking straight at him. He waved him over, so Quatre hurried over, wondering what was going on. The security guard had a clipboard and pen, and asked him brief questions, mainly about the brownie.
“Why?” Quatre asked, blinking.
“It was laced with a low-grade ipecac,” the guard replied. “You don’t know who it came from?”
Quatre shook his head, feeling a little ill that someone had made that brownie intended for him. It caused a low feeling in his gut as he realized that someone disliked him enough to do such a thing. Numbly, he answered whatever else was directed at him, then found himself unable to concentrate on the rest of his extreme training session. He picked up his basketball and hurried back to the dorm.
He walked in, carelessly tossing things about as he mentally reviewed all the other previous gifts bestowed on him, and identified no ill effects from any. This was the first one. He knew he pissed a lot of people off and made a few enemies among his classmates, but who could be so cruel in giving him something that intended to harm him?
He immediately thought of Trowa, and while it wasn’t a definite belief that it could have been, there was motive behind the brownie. But while he felt bad for thinking that the former goth did so, he felt a little suspicious and wary. Trowa had his ways–he was sneaky in ways that some people never knew about. But would he really harm Quatre in that way? Had it come down to this?
#20#20#20#20#20#20#20
The next day, looking forward to practice that Sunday afternoon, he heard his name called as he was walking toward the cafeteria for some breakfast, and he stopped, turning around to see Trowa’s roommate running over to him, carrying a small bag of things.
“These are for you,” he said in his characteristic lisp, adjusting his glasses. His dark hair was styled quite wildish around his thin face, and he looked at Quatre with nothing more than an upturned nose.
“What are they?” Quatre asked, taking the bag as it was nearly thrown at him.
“Your things. Trowa asked that I return them to you,” Jared replied, walking off.
Quatre stared at the bag, then opened it. Inside were his hooded sweater, the one he’d given to Trowa over Christmas Break last year, a few ends and knick-knacks, his wristbands (hey, he’d been looking for those!), and numerous drawings and artful pieces that Trowa had made for, about, and featuring him. With a large lump in his throat, Quatre closed his bag, feeling more than torn that this was the actual end of their relationship. Sure, he didn’t think that anything would change, but...to have one’s things returned by the other signaled the cut and hang of what was once was. He swallowed repeatedly, and slowly trudged back to the dorm. He’d put the bag away, destroy what he had to later on.
#20#20#20#20#20#20#20
Felicia rolled her eyes, more than a little peevish that she was here at school on a weekend. She was even more annoyed that she had to spend three hours running around on the court, playing with the other die-hards, and endure more insults from that Derrick kid. Plus, rumor had it that Colin had been deliberately poisoned Saturday, so the kids were talking about that continuously as they ran through drills and running exercises. She was also thinking about Drake and his comments, feeling rather bad about everything.
Then Quatre had to sulk around with that pout of his, and Triton was really getting on her nerves in trying to pass on the good word to Quatre that he was still available, and the other ‘playas’ that she hung out with were constantly heckling her with the need to ‘hook them up’ with the suddenly single psycho, and she was just straight out annoyed.
Not because she would never have a chance with him–just that such things were majorly annoying to deal with, and she would have found them so if she didn’t have a questionable crush on the guy.
Such stress had to remedied immediately, but Ramos had stated that if he ever heard, witnessed, or was even given a hint that any of his players were using drugs, drinking, partying, or having promiscuous sex, then he would have them punished liberally and have them kicked off the team. Why the sex bit, she didn’t know–maybe it helped the guys with their game, storing up all that testosterone, or some shit like that. Like boxers before a match. The others were going to be a bitch to try and give up, and she knew she couldn’t. She would just have to find ways around them, look for the loopholes...
This drill they were performing was done in threes–three players had to run down the court, passing to each other continuously while they alternated positions. Three defensive players were to keep them from making their shot. The running around like a controlled chicken was fine–she didn’t mind that. It was just the fact that she had to play seriously against the others that bothered her. She wasn’t a team player, and never had been. It was hard adjusting.
She received the ball from Triton, who was making his way to the end of the line, and passed to Hiiro, who growled something about a double-dribble. She made her way to her position, received the ball for a shot, and made it, even as Derrick’s wild sweep of his hand slapped across her face. It didn’t hurt–but it was meant to annoy her.
She lowered her hands, trying very hard not to retaliate as he smirked and walked off, despite the boos he received for her taking an “And One” over his tall frame.
She made her way back to the other end of the court, where the others were awaiting their turn.
“Yuy! Passage! Come here!” Ramos called from his position on the side bench. She and Hiiro walked over, where Paul Minogue was standing. Ramos rose from the bench, sitting aside his holographic playboard and digging into a duffle. He withdrew three pairs of silver armbands from it, and Felicia blinked curiously as he removed plastic wrapping from them, handing them to each individual. “All three of you are superhumans...in this game, we can’t really have that while playing with and against normals. These are experimental bands that cut down on your superhuman strength, rendering you a handicap in that aspect and providing a fair chance with the other players. These will turn you ‘normal’, so that you’re just as at advantage and disadvantage over the others. They’re pretty new in the market, but I heard they work well. The district has ordered that all superhumans in athletics use them.”
Great, Felicia thought, eyeing the bands with some distrust. They were plain silver, thin, and adjustable, resembling hairties. Hiiro and Paul slipped theirs on, flexing their arms experimentally, and she sighed, following their example. She then turned, punched Hiiro across the head. He made an annoyed face and punched her back in the biceps. She stumbled, tripped, and fell, stunned at the pain that she felt from that simple hit. It hadn’t been that hard–hard enough to bruise, but still! Her knuckles hurt where she’d punched him, and she flexed her fingers with some wonder.
Hiiro looked momentarily horrified, then hurriedly helped her up as she rubbed her arm, tears of pain stinging her eyes.
“Well, they work!” she chirped, voice wavering from the pain.
“I’m so sorry,” Hiiro apologized, his face clearly expressing his regret. Paul just snickered.
“You okay?” Ramos asked her, bending slightly.
“I’M FINE! I just wanted to see if they worked,” she muttered, rubbing her arm. She picked at the bands with some distaste. “So, now we have to wear these during the game?”
“And during practices...you can take them off afterward,” Ramos said, unconvinced that she was all right. Girls were just so fragile...
“This is going to cut down on my speed,” Paul complained.
“Well, get back out there and do what you can,” Ramos said, gesturing at them to get a move on. With a heavy sigh, Felicia turned and walked back out, a little interested in what this experiment was going to produce. It would be interesting to be like the others, but she had to try it out and see.
#20#20#20#20#20#20#20
Trowa stared blankly at the gym, smoking a cigarette. The outside air was chilly, but not as bad as it had been last year. He was comfortable wearing a sweater over his t-shirt and jeans, but the chill in the air had him shivering despite it. He stared at the gym, wondering what Quatre was doing, wishing that he could watch. He wished for a lot of things, especially for that night to replay and for Quatre to give him another chance instead of completely breaking them off. He couldn’t believe that he’d been dumped–but then again, it made a lot of sense.
Trowa felt severely depressed about the entire thing–he didn’t want to break up. Sure, he’d done a lot of things that were questionably apparent, and warranted such an action, but he was so sure that he and Quatre would pull through it, just as they had with other things during their short time together. He hadn’t gotten high in the last few days, and his withdrawal symptoms were truly taxing on him. But those horrible drugs had been part of the reason why Quatre wanted to break up with him, and Trowa figured that if he ever wanted the blond back (which was what he wanted with an undeniable strength), he had to change a few things.
Perhaps this was temporary–couples fought and broke up over more minimal things. Perhaps if he cleaned himself up and did this and that, and accepted that he could not change what Une had did, he could get Quatre back. He knew he’d hurt the blond horribly with his weight issue and other pressing matters, but one couldn’t change what they felt!
And while he’d been pissed that Quatre had obviously cheated on him with that Sageville prick (who was rumored to be quite endowed), he figured that he had it coming, anyway. He’d seen the kiss–and was fully convinced that there weren’t any feelings from either of them toward each other. It as morbidly apparent. They were fit to be friends, not lovers, and though that act of indiscretion that Quatre had named wasn’t fully explained, Trowa figured that what had happened happened for a damn reason. He’d forgive Quatre for that–it was understandable. A guy had needs–if they were to be met by someone that was convenient, then that was that. He’d forgive Quatre for that.
What he wasn’t going to forgive Quatre for was the fact that he did not confess his own secret to Trowa, when it could have helped. It would have ‘evened the odds’ so to speak, and they could have worked things out. Sure he was pissed that it happened in the first place, but the more time thinking and sulking about it, Trowa had come to conclusion that it was just. They’d both made mistakes–they were both guilty. But he was still pissed that Quatre had not confessed, and Trowa had to find out by stalking.
He didn’t want them broken up–but no amount of begging and pleading would have the blond coming back to him. He figured he’d just have to...hang out until then. He would be sad about it, but there could be a chance later on, when Quatre calmed down and realized that he needed Trowa the way Trowa needed Quatre.
He reached up, scratching the back of his head, and stubbed out his cigarette. He looked up at the sound of approaching steps, and saw Sylvia smiling at him. He didn’t feel like talking to someone like her, because she was a friend of that traitorous bitch that fed Quatre lies and orders, of which he followed blindly because once the guy latched onto someone, he was extremely loyal and docile until they wronged him as Trowa had. And so far, the bitch hadn’t, and Trowa hated her with a passion. She must have been the driving force behind Quatre’s reason to break up with him, and had heard through the grapevine that she was going to set him up with someone outside of Darken walls. He was not going to take that aspect very lightly, and figured he’d better brush up on his previous stalking abilities pretty quick–he couldn’t help it. It was very morbid of him, but he just had to see if Quatre was going to connect with someone other than him. Sort of a torture for his consequences kind of thing.
“Hi, Trowa!” Sylvia greeted, sitting beside him. She was wearing a pair of overalls, her blond hair tied up, and Trowa looked at her. She was a little chubby–she wasn’t thin, nor was she fat, but she was extremely pleasant and she had good looks. She just annoyed him because she was friends with The Bitch.
He got up from the bench and walked away from her, meaning to be very rude. He heard an outraged grunt, then the sound of retreating footsteps. He looked over his shoulder to see that she was walking toward the gym, muttering about rude pricks that don’t deserve nice pricks. He licked his lips, then followed in that direction, wondering if Ramos was allowing people to watch practice.
He hadn’t before, but he maybe now.
Sylvia was turned away by the locked door, and was making her way down when he walked in. She frowned at him and left the gym while he turned and studied the billboard. There were many uninteresting postings there, but he wanted to wait for practice to end so that he could try and talk to Quatre. Not to beg, or plead, or ask...just to talk.
He sat down at a nearby table and listened for the telltale sounds of basketball being played out on the second level, and propped his feet up on an adjoining chair. He stared blankly at the tabletop, numbly fingering another cigarette, and thought about this period. He didn’t like it. Not at all. This relationship had been stocked full of good things, and it wasn’t as if they were perfect–they had their share of nuances that were expressed, and annoyances that were dealt with, but they had it good. They knew that they loved each other and were willing to go that extra mile for each other.
But then, summer had happened, and things had changed. He found an older woman’s allure too much of a distraction, and Quatre had found himself an enjoyable fling. Maybe if that video hadn’t been involved, things would have been great. Quatre would have forgiven him, and Trowa would have never known about Justin, and that would have been all right.
But then again...now that he thought about it...things were changing, anyway. Trowa was a year older than Quatre, and was physically more mature. Things had changed between them anyway–Quatre was still that little boy lost sometimes, and Trowa was more adult about certain things. Maybe if that video hadn’t happened, they would have still clashed on those aspects. Perhaps...but one would never know, now, would they?
He heard the door opened upstairs, and without thinking, he hastily ran outside, hoping that Quatre hadn’t seen him. He didn’t know why he’d done that–just that he acted on an impulse. Which was more Quatre’s thing than his. But he hid himself in the shadows alongside the gym, and listened as the team left the building, their mixture of voices confusing him momentarily because he wasn’t hearing Quatre’s or Felicia’s voice.
He heard The Bitch a few minutes later, complaining about something to someone that was listening, and chanced a look. Quatre wasn’t with her, and the coach was already on his way to the teacher’s parking lot to head out, so Trowa wondered where Quatre was.
Well, knowing him, he was probably still in the gym, fanatically shooting ball after ball, running lap after lap, and wasting away by extreme physical activity. Of course, Trowa thought it fortunate that there wasn’t any more girl issues going on this year–he’d heard that Quatre played rather fantastically with Mariemaia and Felicia. He chanced the urge to sneak into the gym, and reacted with a startled gasp when his name was called.
He turned away from the doors with an annoyed scowl, seeing his roommate running over to him, a package in his arms.
“Hello, Trowa!” Jared greeted cheerfully, holding out the package. Trowa took it curiously, noting his name on top. The address was foreign–based in Spain. He forgot about Quatre and began walking away from the gym, eyeing the box cautiously. Jared followed, saying, “That was delivered earlier today. You weren’t around, so I signed for it. Was that all right?”
“Yes. Thanks,” Trowa said curtly, making his way to a dark bench. Jared took off with a “De Nada!” and headed back to the dormitory. Trowa took out a pen from his back pocket, kept there for those Just In Case moments, and used that to slash through the tape that bound the box. Opening it, he saw an envelope with his name on top, and a brown bagged object that made him a little wary.
He opened up the envelope with a slow intake of breath, and froze upon catching the name on the letter. He thrust that paper aside, knocking the box from his lap.
That fucking whore! He thought furiously, eyeing the brown-wrapped object. As if this video wasn’t enough to insult him, she was trying to contact him through this?! He picked up the object and tore off the wrappings, seeing that it was a blank video, but had the title, “Mrs. Robinson”, written on the front. He didn’t hesitate to rip that box open, throw the video down onto the sidewalk, and stomp on it thoroughly, making sure that no piece was spared. Tape was mangled and torn, plastic destroyed. When he was finished killing that wretched video, he gathered everything up in his arms and headed toward the nearest trash receptacle. Only when he was thrusting everything inside, a few words on the letter caught his attention, and he rescued that for a better close-up.
He skimmed through the apology, and a half-assed compliment, but found his eyes widening with disbelief when he read that Amelie was splitting the profit that she’d made from the video with him. According to the notarized document, she was set to wire his half of the profit to a bank of his choice in America, where he would have access to the money. And she would continue to do so with every sale of that video.
He lowered the letter, blinking dumbly as he thought about it. Then he had to re-read the letter, this time reading through the entire thing. Amelie was remorseful that she hadn’t explained her true motives, and had only done so because he was Catherine’s brother, and she wanted to bestow some bragging rights upon the other woman. Unfortunately, her conscience had kicked in, and she felt very badly for using him. Here she went on complimenting on him various things that made him redden in reply, but then she ended the letter with the explanation of the profits set to fall into his possession. He lowered the letter again and stared blankly at the trash can. There was no way in hell he was ever going to watch the video, and those that brought it up were going to be ignored. He couldn’t stop the video from plopping down into his classmates’ hands, but he could definitely ignore what was either said or whispered in his direction.
He’d come to that conclusion after a three day period of not ingesting any drugs. It was weird what sobriety and cleanliness could do to a person after a mild indulgence with the good stuff.
He shifted his vision when he saw Quatre exit the gym, pulling on a sweater and carrying his gym bag. Trowa folded up the letter and slipped that into his back pocket as he waited for the blond to notice him. Once he did, he faltered in his steps, cradling his basketball with one arm and staring at Trowa with some hesitation.
Trowa found himself swallowing, unsure of what to say. He had wanted to talk to him, but now that he was faced with Quatre, he had no idea what. So many raw emotions flooded through him at that point, rendering him a little tongue-tied, but he could see with some amounting relief that the same was happening with Quatre. Trowa could recognize the nervous signs Quatre displayed, chewing on his nails and nervously shuffling from foot to foot, but at least he wasn’t running away from him.
Trowa swallowed hard once more, then cautiously walked over. He still hurt–God, it still hurt.
“Hey,” he greeted softly, unable to take his eyes away from the flushed features of his ex.
“Hey,” Quatre greeted, a little roughly.
Then, nothing. Quatre looked away to stare at something beyond Trowa’s sight, and Trowa found himself interested in the Nike symbol on Quatre’s bag. Then he gathered up enough articulation to say, “Well...you made the team, huh?”
“...Yeah.”
“I...well, congratulations.” Why was it so hard to talk?! “You knew you were going to make it, anyway, right?”
Quatre gave him a nervous glance, then nodded stiffly, holding his ball tightly. “Yeah...um...it looks pretty... good this year. I think.”
“No fights with the girls?”
“Ah...no. not really.”
“That’s good...”
Trowa found himself unable to think of anything else to say, and Quatre shifted uncomfortably once more. Trowa grimaced, trying to talk, just for a reason to talk to his ex. “I–well...I...I know you don’t...I know you don’t want to get back together–”
“Trowa, I can’t do this while–!”
“–But could we just be friends? I mean...I don’t want to go through the rest of this year unable to talk to you, Quatre,” Trowa said, finding his voice had turned into a hitch of desperation, which he quickly tried to quell. The blond looked disturbed for a moment, as if unsure of what to think, then shrugged his shoulders.
“I...I guess that would...that would be all right,” he then muttered. “I mean...I can’t imagine...well, I can’t imagine myself ignoring you continuously. And this is a small school...”
Trowa felt an inkling of hope bloom within his chest at that. “So, we can be friends?”
“I don’t–I don’t know, Trowa. I mean, I would like to, but...right now...”
“I understand,” Trowa said quickly, feeling his pulse race a bit at the fact that Quatre wasn’t shooting down the idea. Besides, he did understand–just standing here next to him made him feel intensely sad and depressed. The hurt was still fresh. “I–I just want us to be friends, then, Quat. I won’t push for anything else.”
“That’s fine, Trowa...I mean, it’s just...” Quatre ended this with another uncertain shrug, keeping his eyes on his ball than on the hopeful desperation on Trowa’s face. “I can’t do this, right now.”
He still had feelings for him! Trowa felt that awesome push of realization curl his gut. It wasn’t completely over–Quatre still had feelings for him! That was why he wasn’t rejecting the idea of being just friends! Which made this situation a little more tolerable.
“I know. I know,” he forced himself to say, despite the need to pry and force out more of this admission from Quatre’s pursed lips.
“I’m sorry, Trowa...for this. For...for wanting it...to end...um...It was hard. It wasn’t a split decision,” Quatre then blurted out, looking at him. “I had thought about it for awhile...”
Trowa felt his chest clench as he realized what had prompted him to. He understood and wouldn’t hate Quatre for thinking about it. He’d brought himself into this mess, knowing that what he did was going to produce such results. It was about high time he faced its consequences...
But it felt uplifting to know that Quatre still had feelings for him. It gave Trowa hope and inspiration to do better.
He then stared down at him, wondering what he’d found so alluring about Amelie in the first frickin’ place, then gestured at the dorm. He didn’t want to, but he had to if he wanted to rebuild what had been broken. “I’m going back to the dorm, then. I just...wanted to talk to you.”
Quatre looked up, then, glancing at him. He then nodded. “All right.”
Seeing as nothing more could be said, Trowa then forced himself to turn and walk away.