Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Pull Up For The J! ❯ Soldier ( Chapter 20 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Not all imitations are indications of flattery---they're just fodder for more jokes
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Comedy / Drama / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.21.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 8.7K | Visits: 217 | Status: Completed
Not all imitations are indications of flattery---they're just fodder for more jokes
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Comedy / Drama / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.21.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 8.7K | Visits: 217 | Status: Completed
Chapter Twenty:
“Soldier” Destiny’s Child
Trowa lit his cigarette with a borrowed lighter, and watched as the Darken basketball players filed onto an awaiting bus. He saw Quatre glance their way, but he disappeared within the depths of the bus with the others. Trowa wasn’t doing anything, really–he’d just asked if the infamous Justin of Sageville had a light, no matter that his lighter was tucked away in his back pocket. When Justin replied that he didn’t smoke, Trowa had left it at that and asked somebody else. After returning the lighter, he glanced at the guy, who was waiting for somebody with that obvious expectation one has when standing patiently at the end of the curb. Trowa wondered what had made Quatre go for this guy. For one thing, the guy was overly muscular and short, and his hair was oddly styled. For another, he just reeked of casual indifference to anything, and didn’t seem to have a very bright personality.
He turned away to exhale, shivering slightly as he stared out at the parking lot.
“J! Here!”
Trowa turned, glared at Felicia, who was handing Justin a slip of paper. She punched the guy with a cheesy cackle, then turned and raced off for the bus. She didn’t see Trowa standing there, or would have stuck around to say something. Justin then proceeded to walk off, stuffing the slip of paper into his pocket. Trowa looked after him, wondering what that was all about, and shrugged his shoulders.
Well, if he was the type Quatre was going to mess around with, then Trowa would file that away for later reference. It appeared that his ex liked the mouthy ones, the burly ones. Which, of course, would aid Trowa’s later plans in keeping his ex continually boyfriend-less, unless that person was himself.
Wow, he thought, walking back into the cafeteria. Am I wacked, or what?
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The next day, Saturday, while Quatre was busy rummaging through his school pack for a pen to use to write a class assignment down–he needed some batteries for his notebook–Felicia slapped herself into a chair next to him, fairly vibrating with need.
“You just HAVE to!” she whined, clutching her cell phone within one hand. “YOU HAVE TO!”
It was the same argument they had had this morning, when she was convinced that he and Jake had some ‘sparkles’. She didn’t know that they had talked earlier–he felt that it was unimportant to say.
“NO!” he repeated, reaching out and pinching one of the bruises he knew he left on her arm from a good punch yesterday. “I said NO! I’m still not over Trowa!”
“Yowch...no, no, no! Jake says he doesn’t swing that way, but the guy’s a romantic!” she pressed, rubbing her abused arm with a wince. “He’ll fall in love with anyone that’s willing to overlook his cocky little attitude. That’s all for show! Inside, he’s a mushy love monster that’s willing to spoil anyone that draws his attention! He’s really cool, man, really cool. Just get ta know him, and you’ll find out! Ignore the fact that he spawned a little fucker from hell, and things will be cool. C’mon!”
“NO!”
“But you said you were horny!”
“I lied!”
“FINE! Be that way! I’ll never set you up again!” she huffed, getting up from her seat. “Derrick! Quatre said he’ll suck you if you talk to him!”
“I DID NOT!” Quatre shouted, growing red from the sudden jeers and shouts that were administered from the back of the class. The teacher rapped her desk with a frenzy, demanding attention.
“I’ll be there in a couple of seconds, baby!” Derrick crowed, and Quatre vowed that if the Leo-Lookalike even came near him, he’d find himself sucking on himself by the time the blond was done with him.
He grit his teeth, found the damn pen, and wrote down the assignment. Ramos had threatened that if his grades dropped below seventy-seven, he was going to be benched and tutored, and while the tutoring sounded like a grand waste of time, he definitely didn’t want to be benched.
In the meanwhile, he was dying to know what Trowa said to Justin–he was fairly sure that Trowa was asking about their fling, knowing that guy. He’d come right out and ask. No beating around the bush...
After class, he took out his cellphone and dialed it hurriedly, pausing near his next class as he waited for Justin to answer.
“WHAT?” came Justin’s irritated voice from the other end.
“Hey! I wanted to ask you something!” Quatre said, plugging his other ear with his finger as the halls grew noisy with the exchange. “You were standing outside, last night, when we left! There was a guy standing next to you! Did you talk to him?”
“What?! What the fuck–? What guy?!”
“Tall, had a weird hairstyle–! He was wearing a leather jacket and–and–shit, a–fuck! A blue shirt!”
“I don’t check out–oh, wait, yeah, some weirdo asked me if I had a lighter. That one? I dunno, over six feet? Looked girlish?”
Quatre had to laugh. No one had described Trowa was being ‘girlish’ before. “Yeah! That one! Skinny? Makes you want to feed him?”
“Yeah, kinda, I guess. Why? What’s up?”
“Did he...say anything...to you?”
“Nah. Just wanted a lighter? Why? You know him?”
“Yeah, you can say that...are you sure? That was all?”
“Yeah, man! That’s all! Why?! Fuck, you bother me during class just to find out if some guy was talking to me? What’s up, did you want to hook up with him?”
“Nah, no reason,” Quatre muttered, removing his finger and glancing in his class to see how much time he had to talk. “Hey, talk to you later–oh! Did you get Jamie’s number?”
“...Yeah...”
“Are you going to talk to him?”
“...Yeah...?”
Quatre laughed again, finding it hilarious. He couldn’t really picture those two together. But he had to get the last dig in. Just so that Justin knew he was still his friend, no matter what. After all, friends gave friends good advice and advanced warnings for things to come...
“Just so you know? He gives good head.”
Then he hung up, cackling wildly as he hurried into his class.
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Sylvia glanced at Quatre, who was busy trying to finish some assignment that the teacher had given out earlier. She had finished a little while ago, and was taking a break. Lollipop in hand, she watched as Quatre worked, noting the little faces he made when he messed up, or the effort he placed in researching what he was doing. She wasn’t sure what to think of him, other than he seemed normal. Definitely less stressed than when he had when he was with Trowa. His smiles were more frequent and he was quickly warming up to the fact that he was single again. During that small period when he’d been desperate to get Trowa back, Sylvia had seen just how much he really liked the guy, and how much effort his feelings had been placed in terms of gaining Trowa’s approval.
She wasn’t a stranger to such things, of course–there were more than a few instances in which she wanted to gain a guy’s approval, so she understood his situation then.
But now, since they had officially broken up, Quatre looked happier, if not frustrated at some things. There were definite times when she would catch him glancing longingly in Trowa’s direction, but those were far and few in between because Felicia kept distracting him. Plus, there were those rumors of a porn video...
She frowned slightly as she took in the seemingly new basketball shoes that Quatre wore, a traditional pairing since the guy never seemed to wear any other shoe other than that which belonged on the court. She also took in the platinum blond hair, and the thinness of his frame, a far cry from what he’d looked like when she became friends with him. He’d lost over twenty pounds, that was for sure, and she winced at the striking hollows in his cheeks, but it sure made the muscles in his arms and legs stand out.
She knew more than one person (gender didn’t seem to matter) that had a crush on him based on physical appearance. He was pretty attractive, but his attention was directed toward males, not females, so her female friends often bemoaned that disappointing fact. She had to sigh, though, because while he was cute in her opinion, he wasn’t exactly her sort of man-meat material.
Trowa was. She liked his looks; he was tall, thin, very attractive, and was quite serious. Well, upon the few times she’d talked to him, he was serious. He didn’t seem to crack a smile, unless it had been something Quatre had said, and he always looked indifferent to everything. She wanted to know what made the guy tick, what made him smile, what made him laugh. She was sure that his head turned more than a few philosophical wheels, and wanted to get to know him on a better level. But how to accomplish that when she was supposed to be loyal to Quatre?
Well, really, when it all came down to it, she was only friends with Quatre because of Felicia, and even then, while the girl had lightened up to her on many aspects, they weren’t exactly friends–the type that hung out whenever and whatever, and only talked whenever they saw each other. Which wasn’t much, if Sylvia didn’t make the effort to make it to the gym. So...Sylvia couldn’t exactly claim loyalty if she wasn’t exactly in...that rationale worked.
She turned forward, then glanced out of the corner of her eye as a guy in their class–she forgot his name–walked by Quatre, but dropped a closed envelope on top of his bag, which was sticking out from under his chair. She blinked, because the guy walked off without a break in stride. She looked at Quatre to see that he hadn’t noticed the guy at all, and was busy asking a station mate for something. She eyed the envelope, then looked after the guy, but didn’t see him. She didn’t pay enough attention to him to even remember what he looked like, and it was probably nothing but another devoted admirer.
She shrugged, and began to busy herself by writing out all the things she really liked about Trowa Barton.
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Felicia pulled with some disinterest at her hair, which she’d left loose. Staring up at the options presented before her, she wrinkled her nose as she contemplated purchasing the Skittles (hello fruity taste and sugar rush!), or the gooey Rolos (mm...chocolate....).
The vending machine, proud in its glory, wasn’t stingy with its options, and she was planning on skipping out on lunch in favor of a quick trip into the city, so she wanted some candy to tide her over until dinner. She had taken a restroom pass to venture out in the hall, and it had been fifteen minutes since she’d assured her teacher that she’d be back.
She scrunched her face with a frown, and glanced at her watch, suddenly remembering that she couldn’t go to town, because the bus heading back to Roseville was leaving by one thirty–she had a game, today!
“DAMN IT!” she cursed, choosing the fruit over the chocolate. This normal thing was really annoying her. She had just bent to grab her Skittles when she straightened, and gasped as she saw Hautta stare at her from a few feet away. Clapping a hand over her rapidly beating heart, she stared at him in stunned silence, wondering when he’d crept in on her.
The silence between them was heavy, and she felt all coherent thought leave her brain. Though she saw him everyday, she hadn’t talked to him since summer. Her ex had been everything to her, and she still felt hurt and run through whenever she saw him with Perfect Rose Cindy, her most hated rival. Even now, her throat grew tight and her stomach curled uncomfortably, all the hurt, betrayal and pain roiling in her chest.
He was wearing the full blazer ensemble, notebook and a text under arm, and looked bored as he stared at her. She felt herself swallow hard, all feeling in her hands leaving her. She had millions of things to say to him, most of which contained certain things such as, “I’ve missed you,” or her wretched favorite, “Why?” and nothing came to mouth as the silence stretched.
He made a simple motion with his hand, and she was startled by the movement. She then realized it as the universal gesture of “move”. Stunned, she stepped away from the vending machine, and he walked forward to it, slipped in some coins, selected his choice, and after retrieving it, walked off without a word. She stared after him in misery, feeling tears prick at her eyes, her lower lip trembling piteously.
Was he that cold-hearted? After all that they’d shared and all that they’d experienced, he had nothing to say to her? Not even a kind gesture or word?
Even if he said something snotty, that would have given her something to at least hate him with! But, no, he’d given her nothing. Nothing at all! Nothing that reflected his feelings, whether it was disgust, or annoyance, or something–! He’d given her no ammo this moment, and she felt horribly gutted by the silence. It was just as bad as it had been when they’d broken up. She still hadn’t gotten over him, and it was breaking her apart inside, no matter how much she hid it behind her constant joking, bullying and whatever.
She threw her Skittles to the floor and stomped off, trying to hide the fact that she was thisclose to crying. She hurried into a nearby bathroom, saw that it was empty, and clapped her hands over her face. She didn’t want to lose control, but all these feelings inside of her threatened to break the carefully constructed dam she’d set up. A shuffle of a shoe against the floor, combined with an odd sound, made her jerk her face from her hands and hurriedly shove in place a curious expression. The dam would hold up in favor of investigating this oddity.
She ducked low to see which stall was being occupied, and saw a pair of Mary Jane Manolos that looked vaguely familiar. She blinked, then hurried over to the bathroom door, opened it, and slammed it shut. She then waited silently by the closed door and listened to the shuffle of feet once more, and the obvious sounds of throwing up.
She made a face, crossed her arms over her chest, and waited for that girl to finish up her rejections. Leaning back against the wall, she had a pretty good idea of who it was that was in that stall. She quickly wiped a finger underneath her eyes and hoped that they didn’t look red as the girl blew into some tissue and flushed the toilet.
Smirk in place, Felicia watched as the stall door opened, and Middie Une walked out, smoothing her hair and her uniform. She examined herself in the mirror, made a few faces, then gave a disgusted one as she stared into her nostrils. She pulled some tissue from her pocket and made a quick finger sweep to dislodge any anomalies that had caught her attention. Felicia wanted to laugh at the sight of the girl digging in her nose, but waited calmly for the other to see her.
Middie finished wiping her nose and threw the wadded tissue into the trash, then washed her hands. She checked her reflection once more, then turned to exit. Upon seeing Felicia’s smirking face, she made a strangled half-gasp, half-croak, her face reddening ten shades of color.
“Well, well, well,” Felicia began, chuckling. She felt like the evil overlord that just witnessed a hero’s private moments. It made her feel good. Plus, it was just hilarious to see someone picking their nose when they thought no one was looking. “I now know your dirty little secret, missy. Did ya know that throwin’ up after every meal causes the acid to destroy your teeth? And that a bulimic has a moon-shaped face due to the swelling of their throat glands? And that, eventually, the acid in reverse destroys the esophagus? An’ that you don’t throw up everything that you’d consumed, and actually retain over three hundred calories? All yer throwin’ up is acid soaked shit, Middie, but I guess that really don’t matter to you, ennit? After all, all you white girls need the perfection of your body to get far in life. Sucks to be ya’ll.”
Middie curled her fists at her sides, and fairly shook with rage. Her face was mottled with splotches, and her shoulders shook.
Felicia laughed at the sight, uncurling her arms from her chest. “Like it’s really a secret, anyway! I walk in on groups of girls throwing up their meals all the time! Shit, all you fuckin’ whores have it all wrong! Just get out there an’ fuckin’ exercise! Shit! What’s the point of eating somethin’ if’n yer just gonna throw it all up?! Stupid bitches anyway...sometimes, I’m fuckin’ glad that I ain’t all girlish like the lot of you.”
“F-f-fuck you, bitch!” Middie fairly shrieked, stomping after her. Felicia whirled around, giggled, then hurried out the door, the blond in close step behind her. “You don’t know shit about me! You don’t know me! You can’t judge me based on what other people do! Fuck you! Fuck you!”
Felicia turned, walking backwards, previous incident with her ex pushed aside in favor of this commonly disturbing scene. Smirking, she said, “You better throw up some more, Middie. You look a little fat around the waist. But you’re still gonna be the same. You’re all the same. All the saaaammmmmeee!”
She then laughed as she turned and hurried off to class.
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Middie, who had been on a sabbatical from her pursuit of Trowa Barton, stared after the girl with something close to raging hate. Her face was still reddened with the fact that Felicia had seen and heard everything. No one had known she’d thrown up her meals–she’d kept the secret for over a year, since she started. It had been her form of diet, and though the resulting effort was something unsatisfactory, there was something about having a somewhat empty stomach that made her happy. She wiped her mouth, and stomped back to class.
Furious, her face was a dark cloud of intense emotion as she walked into class, handing the pass back to her teacher and resuming her seat. She squirted some lotion on her palm and scowled at her screen as the flowery scent masked the soapy scent on her hands.
What the hell did Felicia have that made her so above others? Middie hated the girl, always had since the girl came between her and her goal, Trowa Barton. Felicia never displayed the usual girl actions of having crushes and fretting over common girl things, and she lorded it over the other girls. As a result, she wasn’t well-liked by the others, and she lorded that as well, staying close within the companionship of the guys and with that prick, Quatre Winner. Of whom she’d recently heard was single.
She, upon hearing the news of their break-up, had been ecstatic, of course. But she was in a relationship, now, with a guy named Alan. After seeing that Trowa wasn’t leaving Quatre anytime soon, she’d come between Alan and Sara, and emerged victorious with the senior. While she’d lost some interest in the boy, she found him interesting to stick with for awhile, and Trowa really wasn’t that cute anymore. His appeal had taken a nosedive when she gave up on him. While he was pleasant to look at, and certainly fantasize over, he wasn’t the focal point of her dreams anymore.
She was glad her attentions and priorities had the consistency to change like the weather. Being stuck on Trowa would have been pretty sad, and she would have never discovered senior Alan’s talent with an expertise in French kissing...
But then again, Trowa was rumored to be French...it’d be interesting to see what other pleasant things the people came up with in terms of love and affection...
She smiled lightly, rubbing her hands once more.
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Trowa was sitting on one of the outside benches when he became aware of a rather ominous vibe that was directed right at him. He looked up from his sketchbook, of which he had drawn several of his classmates that were wandering about outside, and looked right at Quatre, who kicked his knee upon reaching him.
“OW,” he snarled, hurling his pencil at him.
Quatre snickered, then stomped one shoe on top of his drawings, smearing the charcoal.
“Bastard!” Trowa exclaimed, punching him mere centimeters from his groin. “What the fuck?!”
“I have done some thinking,” Quatre began, rubbing his inner thigh, then quickly looking up with a feral expression. “And NO, it did not HURT. And NO, nothing exploded or whatever!”
“Should I be scared of these thoughts?” Trowa asked, frowning at him as he crossed his arms, pulling his leg over the bench so that he could cross one ankle over one knee.
“Well...I kinda want to apologize for the other night,” Quatre said, starting off slowly. He tucked his hands into his blazer, wincing at the cold that ruffled his uniform. “‘Kinda’, because it’s all your fault to begin with.”
“Oh? This is interesting,” Trowa muttered, blinking.
“Well...maybe I rushed into things. Maybe it wasn’t you that put that...that...thing in my room–”
“I never wanted you to see that!” Trowa interrupted, putting all his heart into the denial. “Quat–! You’ve got to believe me!”
“Well, I want to, but it’s like, there’s so much motive behind it, you know?” Quatre said on a sigh, shaking his head. “I mean, it’s, I know you’re upset about...about me breaking up with you, and I know you’re upset about a lot of things–!”
“Quatre, I would never do that to you,” Trowa insisted. “Ever! That’s like rubbing your Justin from Sageville in my face.”
“Nothing HAPPENED!”
“That’s not what he told me,” Trowa murmured, bending to pick up his pencil.
“ARGH! Nothing HAPPENED! We’re friends!” Quatre shouted, face reddening. “Friends!”
“Really. Then friends just give each other head just for the sake of it, right?” Trowa asked, blinking innocently as he brought up a common case scenario. He noted the furious purple red color of Quatre’s usually pale face, and took mental notes of the deranged sputtering.
“WELL–!! NO! NO! This is all just so you can trap me into admitting something that I didn’t do!” Quatre sputtered, gripping his hair within both hands. “Stop playing your stupid Jedi-mind games on me, GODDAMN it!”
“It’s true, right? I heard from Jack’s little sister’s best friend’s estranged cousin from third period that knew someone from Adams’ T.A’s college roommate’s twenty year old housewife with the big rack that Justin gave you head because–”
“NOOOOO! No no no no nonono!!! NO! Jack’s stupid college roommate’s best friend’s estranged cousin’s housewife with the T.A from Adam’s third period’s fuckin’ LYING!” Quatre screamed, then frowned, wondering if he’d said that right.
Trowa just chuckled, shoulders shaking slightly. He missed those little rages of Quatre’s...oh, how he missed them...
Quatre then realized what was going on, and pulled on Trowa’s bang.
“OW!”
“Listen to me, fucker! I’m trying to apologize to you, and you’re fucking it all over!”
“Sorry...go ahead. Quat, you know I love messing with you,” Trowa added softly, rubbing his scalp.
Quatre’s shoulders slumped, and he studied the tiny holes over his shoe. He felt the same way. But he had to admit that he was doing a little better now that they were separated. Well...in relationship terms, of course. He still had to see Trowa everyday, so it wasn’t as if they were separated by oceans...But the sex thing still bothered him. It had shaken up his confidence, and he was still angsting about it.
“Well...don’t. I mean...we broke up. Don’t...get that way.”
“I can’t help it, Quatre. I miss you. A lot. I don’t like being away from you like this,” Trowa admitted with a sigh. He reached out, fingers softly curling over one pale wrist, absorbing the warmth that he felt. Without removing his hand, he continued with, “I really want you back, Quatre. Things haven’t felt right since you decided to pull this stupid trip.”
“Well, this ‘stupid trip’ is all your fuckin’ fault,” Quatre growled, pulling his wrist away from Trowa’s hand. “And stop distracting me. I came here on a mission, damn it, and your stupid French–Spanish– German–Polish-Ainu–Swahili–Southern Confederate----whatever the fuck you are!–your whatever wiles aren’t going to work on me!”
“Damn it...”
“I’m being serious, Trowa,” Quatre then complained, digging a small hole in the grass with the toe of his shoe before he realized what he was doing. Frowning at the grass stains, he wiped his now muddy shoe on the bench. “I’m being serious...I just want to say that I’m sorry for...kicking your ass–”
“Now, wait a minute–!”
“–and that of your new boy toy, whom, I have to say, is totally suspicious when it comes to you!” Quatre continued, gnashing his teeth. “That little pussy artsie-fartsie fairy with the stupid lisp. ‘Oh Trowa, anything for you!’ ‘Oh, don’t hurt Trowa!’”
“Stop that!” Trowa ordered.
“Well, I’m serious! He’s so fucking...well, you went for that boy in the dress last year–”
“Quatre, does this conversation have a point to it? And if so, kindly remember that you want to stay broken up and bemoan the fact that you’re lording my fucking mistake all over me–!”
“I’M SORRY!” Quatre then bellowed, startling several kids that were walking nearby. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for the other night.”
Trowa studied him for several moments, contemplating his apology, then shrugged. “Fine. I accept.”
Quatre exhaled noisily, drawing his chest up, shoulders scrunched–and fell rather disappointed with this easy acceptance.
“That’s it?” he questioned, blinking.
Trowa shrugged again, flicking his pencil against his knee. “What? You were expecting something else?”
“Well....I don’t know....Kind of....I don’t know, actually.”
“Well...that’s it. I accept your apology for when you were being a total prick and blaming me for shit that I didn’t do.”
“THAT’S NOT–! Fine. Okay. Yes, that’s it. Um...” Quatre trailed off, exhaling noisily once more, and stared around himself. He then looked at his watch. “Well...I have to go. Um...are you...going to be there again?”
Trowa squinted one eye at him as he looked away from the damage created to his drawing. Quatre stared back, rather expectantly, his platinum hair brushing against his eyes. Trowa wondered why in the hell the blond took all of his precious drawings, and wanted them back----along with those wrist guards of his.
“I don’t know,” he then mumbled, adding a line to a girl’s skirt. “Probably not. You know I don’t do games.”
“But...you said you were going to try...”
“That’s when we were together,” Trowa pointed out, looking up at the deflated expression. He felt a bit of excitement within him when he realized that Quatre definitely still had feelings for him. The realization felt pretty damn good.
“Well....still....if we’re friends....”
Trowa merely grunted and resumed drawing.
He heard Quatre mutter something underneath his breath, something that involved a certain pencil and something unpleasantly stuffed up his anus, then looked up to watch him hurry off toward the dormitory.
He held his hand out, palm up, tilting his head back regally, “My name’s Trowa Barton–what’s yours? Oh? Trowa Barton’s Sex Monkey For Life? That’s a nice name...”
“Freak,” some kid muttered as he walked by him.
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Jared scowled as he watched the two talk, and adjusted his glasses. Trowa was really a softie, if one paid enough attention to him. He allowed his ex to pull this bullshit over him with nothing more than a by-your-leave. Frankly, Jared couldn’t understand what Trowa saw in the little blond bugger–Quatre was rude, inconsiderate, whiny as hell, and ugly. Definitely ugly. He HATED the way the guy dressed–baggy jeans, loose shirts, basketball jerseys, those ridiculous shoes!–and he certainly hated the way his personality worked.
From the moment he’d met the pair, as this was his first year at Darken, he’d found himself drawn to Trowa’s quiet and contemplative ways, and never minded the fact that Trowa used drugs on occasion... except when that stupid video came out.
...Well, the video wasn’t stupid. Jared thought that it was a work of art. Quatre had it lucky, being in bed with that guy.
Jared was a virgin, and he’d never had any boyfriends. Sure, he was good looking enough to qualify for Darken’s attractiveness standards, but there was never anyone good enough for him to yearn after. Once he met Trowa, though, things had changed. Trowa was his ideal man–quiet, intelligent, artsy, attractive, tall, and certainly interesting. There were times, when Jared stole his glances at his roommate, when he thought he knew for sure what Trowa was like. But then again, in times like these, when he was with Quatre, Jared would just fall into confusion all over again.
And now, seeing this comfortable little scene, with Trowa obviously yearning after Quatre, and Quatre obviously trying to keep his head above the water, Jared was a little miffed that his scare tactics on the blond weren’t moving him into considering a transfer from the school. Jared had performed some research on such tactics, and thought for sure that Quatre would freak out after reading the obituary about him, but the blond merely wadded up the thing and continued on with his life.
As if he were used to such things! How could a person be so used with threats like that?!
And then he thought for sure that the thing with the jersey would work–he’d figured that Quatre would work himself into one of those customary rages of his and throw a big enough shitfit that would have Ramos kicking him off the team and having him transferred. But, alas, that didn’t work as well.
Jared frowned hard, wondering what he had to do in order to keep Quatre away from Trowa, so that he might have a chance to run his own influence on the attractive teen god. He could continue to be there for Trowa, to support him when he needed it (which, oftentimes, Jared had to force his services because Trowa never asked for anything other than casual, common things), but that would only keep Trowa thinking that he was just a mere friend. Jared didn’t want to be Trowa’s friend–he wanted to be more.
He was strongly attracted to Trowa, and it was more than just physical. Every glance, every word, every casual touch convinced Jared that Trowa was teasing him, leading him on into believing that he had a chance, to take over where Quatre left off. Jared would more than easily fulfill Trowa’s loneliness, if it ever came down to that–sure, he’d act like a geek about his first time and all, but hey, this would be his first time. How often did one person experience that?!
And in the hands of such a gifted god? How he’d manipulated that woman’s clit; how he fucked her; how he made passionate love to her... Jared found himself growing hot and excited just by recalling all the action, and lightly fanned himself, glad that his coat was long enough to cover his semi-hard erection. He continued to stare at Trowa even after Quatre hurried off. Someday, Trowa would open those gorgeous green eyes of his and realize that Jared was the real deal. That he would NEVER do what Quatre had, and that he would always do what Quatre had not done. He’d make Trowa happy–even if it meant impersonating that basketball freak from time to time.
He just had to convince Quatre Winner to either leave the school, or find someone else.
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Their arrival at the Roseville gym was the usual cacophony of noise and moving bodies. Quatre looked around with a curious expression as they entered, noting that the benches were full once more, and that the court was moving with a fast paced game between Stanton and Ferndale. Apparently, the tournament was running behind–Ramos was informed earlier that they wouldn’t be playing until six p.m., so they had a couple of games to watch and wait.
Looking up at the scoreboard, he noticed with a smirk that Stanton was ahead by nearly sixty points, and Ferndale was barely hanging in with a low double digit number. He adjusted his bag over his shoulder as he followed behind Otto, watching as that cocky single father, Jake Trip, performed an effortless drive through Ferndale’s pitiful defense and fed the basket with a basic bank shot. Jake didn’t even look as if he were trying, and moved about with a bored expression.
His teammates were in a similar mood, while Ferndale’s looked plain frustrated and weepy over their obvious loss. It wasn’t because of their lack of effort---it was just that Stanton was a thousand times better.
Scowling at the top ranked team, Quatre took his seat with his teammates, and watched as Ferndale’s point tried to direct her team into an offensive maneuver, which would have worked if she had more competent players. There was a turnover, and Stanton was once again in possession of the ball.
Huh, was all Quatre thought as Jake made an easy three, his teammates moving about with a calm, bored air as the minutes in the scoreboard ticked down to the end of the game.
“Damn, that’s Stanton?” Paul asked, nudging him with his knee. Quatre sniffed, nodding. He tried not to look as impressed as Paul did. Stanton was good, but not that damn good. In his opinion. “I heard they were ranked top dog in the league.”
“Yeah,” Quatre muttered, remembering last year’s game with them. Unfortunately, the situation with his knee had kept him from playing the second game against them, so he had only that game to look upon. “They’re really good. But they have the refs on their side. So watch your moves when you play. They called me for fucking everything.”
“I hate those kinds, man. They’re so damn shitty.”
“Damn, Stanton’s good,” Duo interrupted, leaning over. “They really gave us a hard time. We’re fuckin’ good, but they’re…they’re more than us.”
“Way to cheer us on, Duo,” Hiiro muttered, glaring at him.
“Hey, I’m just saying…”
“Duo’s telling the truth, anyway, Hiiro,” Quatre said, watching as another three was made.
“Still, where the fuck’s the team loyalty?”
“Hey, it’s all good, Hee-chan!” Duo exclaimed, hitting him with the back of his hand. “I fuckin’ love the team! But it takes a man to admit that another team’s better than his.”
“Fuck that bullshit, Duo!” Triton growled, elbowing him. The two shoved at each other briefly.
Sighing, Quatre rested his chin upon his palm as he watched the game, hearing the others laugh and continue talking about Stanton’s top ranked position in the league. Stanton was good---they were the San Antonio Spurs to the Cleveland Clippers. They just had the players capable of carrying out their experienced coach’s orders, and they carried out their game effortlessly.
He frowned as the others began getting rowdy around him, their knees knocking into his back and someone’s elbow connecting with the back of his head. Moving down a bench, so that he was on floor level, he adjusted his bag against him and watched as Ferndale tried hard to pit a proper defense against Stanton’s offense. Shoes squeaked loudly against the shiny court floor, and arms flailed about---someone ran by with a funky b.o. odor.
At one point, Jake had the ball, his face masked with determination as he dribbled calmly with his left hand, using his right elbow against the stomach of a taller guard. He was good with the ball---his moves reminded Quatre of his own. Remembering that game and watching this one, Quatre frowned in concentration as he memorized what side of the court Jake worked better on, and what he did when forced to make a split decision.
The ball was currently being passed around the three point line, the offense waiting for the proper moment to drive it into the basket, Ferndale’s players flushed with exertion.
Glancing at the clock, Quatre saw that five minutes remained in the third quarter, and it was obvious Ferndale wasn’t going to catch up.
He settled back in his seat, and then changed his mind to get up and walk out to the cafeteria to find some munchies, and get something to drink. There wasn’t any sign of Sageville, so Quatre figured they’d already played and left, or weren’t going to arrive until later. The cafeteria was filled with spectators and players from other teams, but there wasn’t anybody there that he recognized. He bought a Gatorade and sat at one of the tables, watching the sights that moved through the cafeteria while Stanton continued their merciless slaughter of Ferndale.
He found himself eyeing the kids that were running around, and spotted Jake’s “little monster”. With a frown, and happy that he was a respectable distance away, he watched as Michael chased another little boy around, threatening to hurt him good because he wouldn’t give up his cowboy boots. Quatre lifted an eyebrow and wondered if he’d ever given that sort of trouble to Lana and Rashid.
Then, when Michael realized that he was not going to catch that other little boy, he turned and ran back to a group of girls that were sitting at another table, laughing amongst themselves. He frowned as he leaned into his palm, trying to guess which one was Michael’s mother. The brunette with the pink skirt? Or the blond with the pink jacket? Or perhaps the other brunette with the pink headband…or the redhead with the pink hooker boots…what the hell was with the color ‘pink’, anyway? They were college aged, obviously a far cry different from the high school girls that were walking around, and there was an air of maturity about them.
Michael ran up to the blond, pulling on her jacket with an insistent protest, but was ignored while she talked a mile-a-minute with her friends, all whom were shouting with laughter.
She eventually snarled something at him, his answering whine hidden within the cafeteria noises, and then turned back to her friends. It was evident that she was trying hard to keep their attention and approval.
The little boy gave up on her, and then hurried off toward the gym. Quatre began drinking from his Gatorade, tried to determine whether or not that blond was pretty, then rose from his seat, making his way into the gym. He wondered if he was actually thoroughly gay---unable to like the female gender in the sense that the majority of his classmates did. He tried to remember having serious crushes on the opposite sex, and couldn’t remember any. Sure, he had fleeting ones while he was younger, with the girls in his class in Laramie, but nothing serious like the relationship he had with Trowa.
He checked out guys from time to time, but had never looked at girls in the same sense. So…could he consider himself truly gay? Or was it just that the right girl hadn’t come along? Such serious pondering made his head ache.
He chuckled to himself once he saw Michael standing at the edge of the court, tears streaming down his face as he shouted himself hoarse for his father.
The refs were trying to get him to move away, so that he wouldn’t get ran over by the players, and Jake was off in his game as he searched wildly for someone to take Michael.
Amidst the chaos, Quatre figured that being a single parent sucked, and wondered if he’d ever have kids. It was really an intriguing question. He was having a lot of those lately. He wondered if it were caused by the lack of sexual activity in his life. Boys’ hormones revolved around such things…they were just as high on the important list as food.
Michael was still screaming a storm as he passed by, and Quatre glanced at him in sympathy. Michael seemed to recognize him, and, to his utmost horror, followed him.
“Kid, I’m not your dad,” he said as Michael wiped his eyes and reached for him. “I’m not your dad! Go to your mom! Your mom’s in there!”
“I’m thirsty!”
“Go tell your mom! Your mom’s in there!” Quatre said, pointing at the cafeteria.
“I’M THIRSTY NOW!”
“That’s great, kid, really. Go tell your mom. She’ll get you something to drink.”
“I want something to drink!!!”
“So do I!” Quatre exclaimed. “But you need to tell your mom!”
“You need to share! My daddy tells me all the time that I haveta share. So you haveta share!”
“You don’t want my germs, kid. I’m a homo. Straight people throw a big fit about it all. Go tell your mom you’re thirsty! And I don’t like sharing!”
“You’re mean!”
“Damn skippy, you.”
“Quatre! When did you get a kid, man?!” someone howled from the benches, and roars of laughter rose from that section. Quatre turned and scowled at them, and Michael took his Gatorade. He didn’t want to make him cry and scream at him, so he let the little guy have it.
“I didn’t know you were capable of having kids, Winner!”
“How’d you get it up for a girl?!”
“Where’s the mom!?”
“You pack ‘im in your game bag?!”
“Does Trowa know?!”
“Shut the fuck up, assholes!” Quatre shouted back at them, much to the disapproval of the various adults that were trying to look around him to watch the game.
He was shouted at by them as well, and looked down to see Michael drinking up most of his Gatorade.
His round face was infinitely pleased as he lowered the bottle from his mouth, exhaling a breath of relief, pink lips curving with a smile. He then began drinking again, and Quatre sighed heavily as he realized he wasn’t getting it back any time soon. He started to walk back to the bench, to let Michael have it, when he noticed the kid following him as well.
“Your mom’s in the cafeteria!” he growled, pointing at the cafeteria.
Michael shook his head. “I wanna sit with you.”
“No! No no no no no! I’m a stranger! You’re a stranger! Remember?! No talking to strangers!”
“I don’t want to go back in there. I don’t like it in there.”
“Well, tough beans, kid. Your mom’s in there.”
“I don’t like her. I’m tired.”
“You’re not sitting with me. Don’t your parents warn you about strangers?!”
“You know my dad!”
“I hate your dad! Your dad’s a prick! I would like to kick his ass!”
Michael frowned at this, and eyed him suspiciously. “Mom says daddy’s a prick because he doesn’t buy her things. Daddy says mom’s a prick because she’s a whore. Why do you think my daddy’s a prick? He’s nice to me. I love my daddy. He’d beat you up.”
Quatre’s eyes seemed to whirl, and several people yelled at him to sit down. He hurried over to his seat, sitting on the floor bench where he’d sat earlier. Michael followed suit, still holding his Gatorade. He tilted the bottle back to his lips, and took a hearty drink, getting it all over the front of his shirt.
Triton leaned over, tapping on his shoulder.
“He don’t look like you, man,” he hissed against his ear. Quatre whipped his head about to get those bisexual lips off of him. Michael looked over with some interest. “You should take him back. He doesn’t even look like Trowa.”
“Shut the fuck up, dick hole! He’s not my kid!”
Michael lowered the Gatorade bottle, exhaling with pleased relief once more. He looked at Triton, and repeated, “Shut the fuck up, dick hole!”
“Tell your kid to stop cussing at me.”
“Shut the fuck up!!!”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“Quatre, your kid’s cussing at me!”
“GODDAMN IT!”
“G’dammit!”
“Quatre---!&# 8221;
Quatre rose from the bench and kicked Triton’s knee, the senior falling back in his seat, roaring with laughter. Michael looked impressed, watching with wide eyes as Quatre then twisted Triton’s arm, earning him enough room to land a painful knuckle buster against his rib cage. Triton shouted with pain, kicking at him. Quatre dodged the kicks and let go of his arm to stomp the heel of his shoe against the toe of Triton’s shoe, and gave him an inside dead leg.
“HEY!” he heard someone bellow from the court. Turning away from a still laughing Triton, Quatre scowled at Jake, who was pointing furiously at his kid.
The teams were currently lined up at Stanton’s goal, where a player was making her foul shots count against the unlucky team. “He’s going to copy you!!”
“He won’t go back to his mom!! And what he copies from me isn’t my problem!” Quatre roared back, several people looking over with disbelief and disgusted horror at the sights and sounds the four year old was witnessing.
One of Jake’s teammates called him back to the game, and with a furious expression, Jake hurried off. Michael watched him for a few seconds, and then looked at Quatre as the blond resettled in his seat. He inched closer, holding his Gatorade bottle tightly within both hands, and grinning baby teeth at him when he looked at him.
Quatre stared down at him in disbelief.
He turned back to watch the game, wondering “why me?” as Michael inched closer once more and practically melted against his side. Quatre inched away. Michael followed. Quatre moved again, and then frowned darkly when Michael followed him.
“Quatre, quit trying to ditch your kid!” he heard Otto bellow from the other bench. Quatre glared quickly in that direction, the others tittering noisily as Michael looked as well, scowling at the senior. Turning back to the game, Quatre watched as a Ferndale player fouled a Stanton player, the ref’s whistle piercing the noisy atmosphere of the gym.
Something hit the back of his head, and Quatre snarled furiously as he whirled in his seat, picked up the Tar Heels baseball cap that belonged to Brian, and hurled it back at the others, all whom were laughing hysterically. Michael, seeing this, whirled on his seat, picked up somebody’s shoe, and promptly whacked Derrick across the face because he was closest.
“OW!” the senior screamed, holding a hand to his face. He then looked pissed, unsure of how to react to the four year old.
At the renewed gale of laughter, followed by Quatre’s bewildered expression set on the child due to his actions, several people began commenting loudly on the lack of common sense in teenagers and the influence on small children.
Michael looked pleased and proud of himself as he looked at Quatre for approval. Quatre went white as he realized that Michael was, indeed, copying him. He sat slowly, feeling entirely intimidated by the four year old, and fought hard to ignore the laughter and comments thrown his way.
This lasted all of Stanton’s game.
“Soldier” Destiny’s Child
Trowa lit his cigarette with a borrowed lighter, and watched as the Darken basketball players filed onto an awaiting bus. He saw Quatre glance their way, but he disappeared within the depths of the bus with the others. Trowa wasn’t doing anything, really–he’d just asked if the infamous Justin of Sageville had a light, no matter that his lighter was tucked away in his back pocket. When Justin replied that he didn’t smoke, Trowa had left it at that and asked somebody else. After returning the lighter, he glanced at the guy, who was waiting for somebody with that obvious expectation one has when standing patiently at the end of the curb. Trowa wondered what had made Quatre go for this guy. For one thing, the guy was overly muscular and short, and his hair was oddly styled. For another, he just reeked of casual indifference to anything, and didn’t seem to have a very bright personality.
He turned away to exhale, shivering slightly as he stared out at the parking lot.
“J! Here!”
Trowa turned, glared at Felicia, who was handing Justin a slip of paper. She punched the guy with a cheesy cackle, then turned and raced off for the bus. She didn’t see Trowa standing there, or would have stuck around to say something. Justin then proceeded to walk off, stuffing the slip of paper into his pocket. Trowa looked after him, wondering what that was all about, and shrugged his shoulders.
Well, if he was the type Quatre was going to mess around with, then Trowa would file that away for later reference. It appeared that his ex liked the mouthy ones, the burly ones. Which, of course, would aid Trowa’s later plans in keeping his ex continually boyfriend-less, unless that person was himself.
Wow, he thought, walking back into the cafeteria. Am I wacked, or what?
#20#20#20#20#20#20#20
The next day, Saturday, while Quatre was busy rummaging through his school pack for a pen to use to write a class assignment down–he needed some batteries for his notebook–Felicia slapped herself into a chair next to him, fairly vibrating with need.
“You just HAVE to!” she whined, clutching her cell phone within one hand. “YOU HAVE TO!”
It was the same argument they had had this morning, when she was convinced that he and Jake had some ‘sparkles’. She didn’t know that they had talked earlier–he felt that it was unimportant to say.
“NO!” he repeated, reaching out and pinching one of the bruises he knew he left on her arm from a good punch yesterday. “I said NO! I’m still not over Trowa!”
“Yowch...no, no, no! Jake says he doesn’t swing that way, but the guy’s a romantic!” she pressed, rubbing her abused arm with a wince. “He’ll fall in love with anyone that’s willing to overlook his cocky little attitude. That’s all for show! Inside, he’s a mushy love monster that’s willing to spoil anyone that draws his attention! He’s really cool, man, really cool. Just get ta know him, and you’ll find out! Ignore the fact that he spawned a little fucker from hell, and things will be cool. C’mon!”
“NO!”
“But you said you were horny!”
“I lied!”
“FINE! Be that way! I’ll never set you up again!” she huffed, getting up from her seat. “Derrick! Quatre said he’ll suck you if you talk to him!”
“I DID NOT!” Quatre shouted, growing red from the sudden jeers and shouts that were administered from the back of the class. The teacher rapped her desk with a frenzy, demanding attention.
“I’ll be there in a couple of seconds, baby!” Derrick crowed, and Quatre vowed that if the Leo-Lookalike even came near him, he’d find himself sucking on himself by the time the blond was done with him.
He grit his teeth, found the damn pen, and wrote down the assignment. Ramos had threatened that if his grades dropped below seventy-seven, he was going to be benched and tutored, and while the tutoring sounded like a grand waste of time, he definitely didn’t want to be benched.
In the meanwhile, he was dying to know what Trowa said to Justin–he was fairly sure that Trowa was asking about their fling, knowing that guy. He’d come right out and ask. No beating around the bush...
After class, he took out his cellphone and dialed it hurriedly, pausing near his next class as he waited for Justin to answer.
“WHAT?” came Justin’s irritated voice from the other end.
“Hey! I wanted to ask you something!” Quatre said, plugging his other ear with his finger as the halls grew noisy with the exchange. “You were standing outside, last night, when we left! There was a guy standing next to you! Did you talk to him?”
“What?! What the fuck–? What guy?!”
“Tall, had a weird hairstyle–! He was wearing a leather jacket and–and–shit, a–fuck! A blue shirt!”
“I don’t check out–oh, wait, yeah, some weirdo asked me if I had a lighter. That one? I dunno, over six feet? Looked girlish?”
Quatre had to laugh. No one had described Trowa was being ‘girlish’ before. “Yeah! That one! Skinny? Makes you want to feed him?”
“Yeah, kinda, I guess. Why? What’s up?”
“Did he...say anything...to you?”
“Nah. Just wanted a lighter? Why? You know him?”
“Yeah, you can say that...are you sure? That was all?”
“Yeah, man! That’s all! Why?! Fuck, you bother me during class just to find out if some guy was talking to me? What’s up, did you want to hook up with him?”
“Nah, no reason,” Quatre muttered, removing his finger and glancing in his class to see how much time he had to talk. “Hey, talk to you later–oh! Did you get Jamie’s number?”
“...Yeah...”
“Are you going to talk to him?”
“...Yeah...?”
Quatre laughed again, finding it hilarious. He couldn’t really picture those two together. But he had to get the last dig in. Just so that Justin knew he was still his friend, no matter what. After all, friends gave friends good advice and advanced warnings for things to come...
“Just so you know? He gives good head.”
Then he hung up, cackling wildly as he hurried into his class.
#20#20#20#20#20#20#20
Sylvia glanced at Quatre, who was busy trying to finish some assignment that the teacher had given out earlier. She had finished a little while ago, and was taking a break. Lollipop in hand, she watched as Quatre worked, noting the little faces he made when he messed up, or the effort he placed in researching what he was doing. She wasn’t sure what to think of him, other than he seemed normal. Definitely less stressed than when he had when he was with Trowa. His smiles were more frequent and he was quickly warming up to the fact that he was single again. During that small period when he’d been desperate to get Trowa back, Sylvia had seen just how much he really liked the guy, and how much effort his feelings had been placed in terms of gaining Trowa’s approval.
She wasn’t a stranger to such things, of course–there were more than a few instances in which she wanted to gain a guy’s approval, so she understood his situation then.
But now, since they had officially broken up, Quatre looked happier, if not frustrated at some things. There were definite times when she would catch him glancing longingly in Trowa’s direction, but those were far and few in between because Felicia kept distracting him. Plus, there were those rumors of a porn video...
She frowned slightly as she took in the seemingly new basketball shoes that Quatre wore, a traditional pairing since the guy never seemed to wear any other shoe other than that which belonged on the court. She also took in the platinum blond hair, and the thinness of his frame, a far cry from what he’d looked like when she became friends with him. He’d lost over twenty pounds, that was for sure, and she winced at the striking hollows in his cheeks, but it sure made the muscles in his arms and legs stand out.
She knew more than one person (gender didn’t seem to matter) that had a crush on him based on physical appearance. He was pretty attractive, but his attention was directed toward males, not females, so her female friends often bemoaned that disappointing fact. She had to sigh, though, because while he was cute in her opinion, he wasn’t exactly her sort of man-meat material.
Trowa was. She liked his looks; he was tall, thin, very attractive, and was quite serious. Well, upon the few times she’d talked to him, he was serious. He didn’t seem to crack a smile, unless it had been something Quatre had said, and he always looked indifferent to everything. She wanted to know what made the guy tick, what made him smile, what made him laugh. She was sure that his head turned more than a few philosophical wheels, and wanted to get to know him on a better level. But how to accomplish that when she was supposed to be loyal to Quatre?
Well, really, when it all came down to it, she was only friends with Quatre because of Felicia, and even then, while the girl had lightened up to her on many aspects, they weren’t exactly friends–the type that hung out whenever and whatever, and only talked whenever they saw each other. Which wasn’t much, if Sylvia didn’t make the effort to make it to the gym. So...Sylvia couldn’t exactly claim loyalty if she wasn’t exactly in...that rationale worked.
She turned forward, then glanced out of the corner of her eye as a guy in their class–she forgot his name–walked by Quatre, but dropped a closed envelope on top of his bag, which was sticking out from under his chair. She blinked, because the guy walked off without a break in stride. She looked at Quatre to see that he hadn’t noticed the guy at all, and was busy asking a station mate for something. She eyed the envelope, then looked after the guy, but didn’t see him. She didn’t pay enough attention to him to even remember what he looked like, and it was probably nothing but another devoted admirer.
She shrugged, and began to busy herself by writing out all the things she really liked about Trowa Barton.
#20#20#20#20#20#20#20
Felicia pulled with some disinterest at her hair, which she’d left loose. Staring up at the options presented before her, she wrinkled her nose as she contemplated purchasing the Skittles (hello fruity taste and sugar rush!), or the gooey Rolos (mm...chocolate....).
The vending machine, proud in its glory, wasn’t stingy with its options, and she was planning on skipping out on lunch in favor of a quick trip into the city, so she wanted some candy to tide her over until dinner. She had taken a restroom pass to venture out in the hall, and it had been fifteen minutes since she’d assured her teacher that she’d be back.
She scrunched her face with a frown, and glanced at her watch, suddenly remembering that she couldn’t go to town, because the bus heading back to Roseville was leaving by one thirty–she had a game, today!
“DAMN IT!” she cursed, choosing the fruit over the chocolate. This normal thing was really annoying her. She had just bent to grab her Skittles when she straightened, and gasped as she saw Hautta stare at her from a few feet away. Clapping a hand over her rapidly beating heart, she stared at him in stunned silence, wondering when he’d crept in on her.
The silence between them was heavy, and she felt all coherent thought leave her brain. Though she saw him everyday, she hadn’t talked to him since summer. Her ex had been everything to her, and she still felt hurt and run through whenever she saw him with Perfect Rose Cindy, her most hated rival. Even now, her throat grew tight and her stomach curled uncomfortably, all the hurt, betrayal and pain roiling in her chest.
He was wearing the full blazer ensemble, notebook and a text under arm, and looked bored as he stared at her. She felt herself swallow hard, all feeling in her hands leaving her. She had millions of things to say to him, most of which contained certain things such as, “I’ve missed you,” or her wretched favorite, “Why?” and nothing came to mouth as the silence stretched.
He made a simple motion with his hand, and she was startled by the movement. She then realized it as the universal gesture of “move”. Stunned, she stepped away from the vending machine, and he walked forward to it, slipped in some coins, selected his choice, and after retrieving it, walked off without a word. She stared after him in misery, feeling tears prick at her eyes, her lower lip trembling piteously.
Was he that cold-hearted? After all that they’d shared and all that they’d experienced, he had nothing to say to her? Not even a kind gesture or word?
Even if he said something snotty, that would have given her something to at least hate him with! But, no, he’d given her nothing. Nothing at all! Nothing that reflected his feelings, whether it was disgust, or annoyance, or something–! He’d given her no ammo this moment, and she felt horribly gutted by the silence. It was just as bad as it had been when they’d broken up. She still hadn’t gotten over him, and it was breaking her apart inside, no matter how much she hid it behind her constant joking, bullying and whatever.
She threw her Skittles to the floor and stomped off, trying to hide the fact that she was thisclose to crying. She hurried into a nearby bathroom, saw that it was empty, and clapped her hands over her face. She didn’t want to lose control, but all these feelings inside of her threatened to break the carefully constructed dam she’d set up. A shuffle of a shoe against the floor, combined with an odd sound, made her jerk her face from her hands and hurriedly shove in place a curious expression. The dam would hold up in favor of investigating this oddity.
She ducked low to see which stall was being occupied, and saw a pair of Mary Jane Manolos that looked vaguely familiar. She blinked, then hurried over to the bathroom door, opened it, and slammed it shut. She then waited silently by the closed door and listened to the shuffle of feet once more, and the obvious sounds of throwing up.
She made a face, crossed her arms over her chest, and waited for that girl to finish up her rejections. Leaning back against the wall, she had a pretty good idea of who it was that was in that stall. She quickly wiped a finger underneath her eyes and hoped that they didn’t look red as the girl blew into some tissue and flushed the toilet.
Smirk in place, Felicia watched as the stall door opened, and Middie Une walked out, smoothing her hair and her uniform. She examined herself in the mirror, made a few faces, then gave a disgusted one as she stared into her nostrils. She pulled some tissue from her pocket and made a quick finger sweep to dislodge any anomalies that had caught her attention. Felicia wanted to laugh at the sight of the girl digging in her nose, but waited calmly for the other to see her.
Middie finished wiping her nose and threw the wadded tissue into the trash, then washed her hands. She checked her reflection once more, then turned to exit. Upon seeing Felicia’s smirking face, she made a strangled half-gasp, half-croak, her face reddening ten shades of color.
“Well, well, well,” Felicia began, chuckling. She felt like the evil overlord that just witnessed a hero’s private moments. It made her feel good. Plus, it was just hilarious to see someone picking their nose when they thought no one was looking. “I now know your dirty little secret, missy. Did ya know that throwin’ up after every meal causes the acid to destroy your teeth? And that a bulimic has a moon-shaped face due to the swelling of their throat glands? And that, eventually, the acid in reverse destroys the esophagus? An’ that you don’t throw up everything that you’d consumed, and actually retain over three hundred calories? All yer throwin’ up is acid soaked shit, Middie, but I guess that really don’t matter to you, ennit? After all, all you white girls need the perfection of your body to get far in life. Sucks to be ya’ll.”
Middie curled her fists at her sides, and fairly shook with rage. Her face was mottled with splotches, and her shoulders shook.
Felicia laughed at the sight, uncurling her arms from her chest. “Like it’s really a secret, anyway! I walk in on groups of girls throwing up their meals all the time! Shit, all you fuckin’ whores have it all wrong! Just get out there an’ fuckin’ exercise! Shit! What’s the point of eating somethin’ if’n yer just gonna throw it all up?! Stupid bitches anyway...sometimes, I’m fuckin’ glad that I ain’t all girlish like the lot of you.”
“F-f-fuck you, bitch!” Middie fairly shrieked, stomping after her. Felicia whirled around, giggled, then hurried out the door, the blond in close step behind her. “You don’t know shit about me! You don’t know me! You can’t judge me based on what other people do! Fuck you! Fuck you!”
Felicia turned, walking backwards, previous incident with her ex pushed aside in favor of this commonly disturbing scene. Smirking, she said, “You better throw up some more, Middie. You look a little fat around the waist. But you’re still gonna be the same. You’re all the same. All the saaaammmmmeee!”
She then laughed as she turned and hurried off to class.
#20#20#20#20#20#20#20
Middie, who had been on a sabbatical from her pursuit of Trowa Barton, stared after the girl with something close to raging hate. Her face was still reddened with the fact that Felicia had seen and heard everything. No one had known she’d thrown up her meals–she’d kept the secret for over a year, since she started. It had been her form of diet, and though the resulting effort was something unsatisfactory, there was something about having a somewhat empty stomach that made her happy. She wiped her mouth, and stomped back to class.
Furious, her face was a dark cloud of intense emotion as she walked into class, handing the pass back to her teacher and resuming her seat. She squirted some lotion on her palm and scowled at her screen as the flowery scent masked the soapy scent on her hands.
What the hell did Felicia have that made her so above others? Middie hated the girl, always had since the girl came between her and her goal, Trowa Barton. Felicia never displayed the usual girl actions of having crushes and fretting over common girl things, and she lorded it over the other girls. As a result, she wasn’t well-liked by the others, and she lorded that as well, staying close within the companionship of the guys and with that prick, Quatre Winner. Of whom she’d recently heard was single.
She, upon hearing the news of their break-up, had been ecstatic, of course. But she was in a relationship, now, with a guy named Alan. After seeing that Trowa wasn’t leaving Quatre anytime soon, she’d come between Alan and Sara, and emerged victorious with the senior. While she’d lost some interest in the boy, she found him interesting to stick with for awhile, and Trowa really wasn’t that cute anymore. His appeal had taken a nosedive when she gave up on him. While he was pleasant to look at, and certainly fantasize over, he wasn’t the focal point of her dreams anymore.
She was glad her attentions and priorities had the consistency to change like the weather. Being stuck on Trowa would have been pretty sad, and she would have never discovered senior Alan’s talent with an expertise in French kissing...
But then again, Trowa was rumored to be French...it’d be interesting to see what other pleasant things the people came up with in terms of love and affection...
She smiled lightly, rubbing her hands once more.
#20#20#20#20#20#20#20
Trowa was sitting on one of the outside benches when he became aware of a rather ominous vibe that was directed right at him. He looked up from his sketchbook, of which he had drawn several of his classmates that were wandering about outside, and looked right at Quatre, who kicked his knee upon reaching him.
“OW,” he snarled, hurling his pencil at him.
Quatre snickered, then stomped one shoe on top of his drawings, smearing the charcoal.
“Bastard!” Trowa exclaimed, punching him mere centimeters from his groin. “What the fuck?!”
“I have done some thinking,” Quatre began, rubbing his inner thigh, then quickly looking up with a feral expression. “And NO, it did not HURT. And NO, nothing exploded or whatever!”
“Should I be scared of these thoughts?” Trowa asked, frowning at him as he crossed his arms, pulling his leg over the bench so that he could cross one ankle over one knee.
“Well...I kinda want to apologize for the other night,” Quatre said, starting off slowly. He tucked his hands into his blazer, wincing at the cold that ruffled his uniform. “‘Kinda’, because it’s all your fault to begin with.”
“Oh? This is interesting,” Trowa muttered, blinking.
“Well...maybe I rushed into things. Maybe it wasn’t you that put that...that...thing in my room–”
“I never wanted you to see that!” Trowa interrupted, putting all his heart into the denial. “Quat–! You’ve got to believe me!”
“Well, I want to, but it’s like, there’s so much motive behind it, you know?” Quatre said on a sigh, shaking his head. “I mean, it’s, I know you’re upset about...about me breaking up with you, and I know you’re upset about a lot of things–!”
“Quatre, I would never do that to you,” Trowa insisted. “Ever! That’s like rubbing your Justin from Sageville in my face.”
“Nothing HAPPENED!”
“That’s not what he told me,” Trowa murmured, bending to pick up his pencil.
“ARGH! Nothing HAPPENED! We’re friends!” Quatre shouted, face reddening. “Friends!”
“Really. Then friends just give each other head just for the sake of it, right?” Trowa asked, blinking innocently as he brought up a common case scenario. He noted the furious purple red color of Quatre’s usually pale face, and took mental notes of the deranged sputtering.
“WELL–!! NO! NO! This is all just so you can trap me into admitting something that I didn’t do!” Quatre sputtered, gripping his hair within both hands. “Stop playing your stupid Jedi-mind games on me, GODDAMN it!”
“It’s true, right? I heard from Jack’s little sister’s best friend’s estranged cousin from third period that knew someone from Adams’ T.A’s college roommate’s twenty year old housewife with the big rack that Justin gave you head because–”
“NOOOOO! No no no no nonono!!! NO! Jack’s stupid college roommate’s best friend’s estranged cousin’s housewife with the T.A from Adam’s third period’s fuckin’ LYING!” Quatre screamed, then frowned, wondering if he’d said that right.
Trowa just chuckled, shoulders shaking slightly. He missed those little rages of Quatre’s...oh, how he missed them...
Quatre then realized what was going on, and pulled on Trowa’s bang.
“OW!”
“Listen to me, fucker! I’m trying to apologize to you, and you’re fucking it all over!”
“Sorry...go ahead. Quat, you know I love messing with you,” Trowa added softly, rubbing his scalp.
Quatre’s shoulders slumped, and he studied the tiny holes over his shoe. He felt the same way. But he had to admit that he was doing a little better now that they were separated. Well...in relationship terms, of course. He still had to see Trowa everyday, so it wasn’t as if they were separated by oceans...But the sex thing still bothered him. It had shaken up his confidence, and he was still angsting about it.
“Well...don’t. I mean...we broke up. Don’t...get that way.”
“I can’t help it, Quatre. I miss you. A lot. I don’t like being away from you like this,” Trowa admitted with a sigh. He reached out, fingers softly curling over one pale wrist, absorbing the warmth that he felt. Without removing his hand, he continued with, “I really want you back, Quatre. Things haven’t felt right since you decided to pull this stupid trip.”
“Well, this ‘stupid trip’ is all your fuckin’ fault,” Quatre growled, pulling his wrist away from Trowa’s hand. “And stop distracting me. I came here on a mission, damn it, and your stupid French–Spanish– German–Polish-Ainu–Swahili–Southern Confederate----whatever the fuck you are!–your whatever wiles aren’t going to work on me!”
“Damn it...”
“I’m being serious, Trowa,” Quatre then complained, digging a small hole in the grass with the toe of his shoe before he realized what he was doing. Frowning at the grass stains, he wiped his now muddy shoe on the bench. “I’m being serious...I just want to say that I’m sorry for...kicking your ass–”
“Now, wait a minute–!”
“–and that of your new boy toy, whom, I have to say, is totally suspicious when it comes to you!” Quatre continued, gnashing his teeth. “That little pussy artsie-fartsie fairy with the stupid lisp. ‘Oh Trowa, anything for you!’ ‘Oh, don’t hurt Trowa!’”
“Stop that!” Trowa ordered.
“Well, I’m serious! He’s so fucking...well, you went for that boy in the dress last year–”
“Quatre, does this conversation have a point to it? And if so, kindly remember that you want to stay broken up and bemoan the fact that you’re lording my fucking mistake all over me–!”
“I’M SORRY!” Quatre then bellowed, startling several kids that were walking nearby. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for the other night.”
Trowa studied him for several moments, contemplating his apology, then shrugged. “Fine. I accept.”
Quatre exhaled noisily, drawing his chest up, shoulders scrunched–and fell rather disappointed with this easy acceptance.
“That’s it?” he questioned, blinking.
Trowa shrugged again, flicking his pencil against his knee. “What? You were expecting something else?”
“Well....I don’t know....Kind of....I don’t know, actually.”
“Well...that’s it. I accept your apology for when you were being a total prick and blaming me for shit that I didn’t do.”
“THAT’S NOT–! Fine. Okay. Yes, that’s it. Um...” Quatre trailed off, exhaling noisily once more, and stared around himself. He then looked at his watch. “Well...I have to go. Um...are you...going to be there again?”
Trowa squinted one eye at him as he looked away from the damage created to his drawing. Quatre stared back, rather expectantly, his platinum hair brushing against his eyes. Trowa wondered why in the hell the blond took all of his precious drawings, and wanted them back----along with those wrist guards of his.
“I don’t know,” he then mumbled, adding a line to a girl’s skirt. “Probably not. You know I don’t do games.”
“But...you said you were going to try...”
“That’s when we were together,” Trowa pointed out, looking up at the deflated expression. He felt a bit of excitement within him when he realized that Quatre definitely still had feelings for him. The realization felt pretty damn good.
“Well....still....if we’re friends....”
Trowa merely grunted and resumed drawing.
He heard Quatre mutter something underneath his breath, something that involved a certain pencil and something unpleasantly stuffed up his anus, then looked up to watch him hurry off toward the dormitory.
He held his hand out, palm up, tilting his head back regally, “My name’s Trowa Barton–what’s yours? Oh? Trowa Barton’s Sex Monkey For Life? That’s a nice name...”
“Freak,” some kid muttered as he walked by him.
#20#20#20#20#20#20#20
Jared scowled as he watched the two talk, and adjusted his glasses. Trowa was really a softie, if one paid enough attention to him. He allowed his ex to pull this bullshit over him with nothing more than a by-your-leave. Frankly, Jared couldn’t understand what Trowa saw in the little blond bugger–Quatre was rude, inconsiderate, whiny as hell, and ugly. Definitely ugly. He HATED the way the guy dressed–baggy jeans, loose shirts, basketball jerseys, those ridiculous shoes!–and he certainly hated the way his personality worked.
From the moment he’d met the pair, as this was his first year at Darken, he’d found himself drawn to Trowa’s quiet and contemplative ways, and never minded the fact that Trowa used drugs on occasion... except when that stupid video came out.
...Well, the video wasn’t stupid. Jared thought that it was a work of art. Quatre had it lucky, being in bed with that guy.
Jared was a virgin, and he’d never had any boyfriends. Sure, he was good looking enough to qualify for Darken’s attractiveness standards, but there was never anyone good enough for him to yearn after. Once he met Trowa, though, things had changed. Trowa was his ideal man–quiet, intelligent, artsy, attractive, tall, and certainly interesting. There were times, when Jared stole his glances at his roommate, when he thought he knew for sure what Trowa was like. But then again, in times like these, when he was with Quatre, Jared would just fall into confusion all over again.
And now, seeing this comfortable little scene, with Trowa obviously yearning after Quatre, and Quatre obviously trying to keep his head above the water, Jared was a little miffed that his scare tactics on the blond weren’t moving him into considering a transfer from the school. Jared had performed some research on such tactics, and thought for sure that Quatre would freak out after reading the obituary about him, but the blond merely wadded up the thing and continued on with his life.
As if he were used to such things! How could a person be so used with threats like that?!
And then he thought for sure that the thing with the jersey would work–he’d figured that Quatre would work himself into one of those customary rages of his and throw a big enough shitfit that would have Ramos kicking him off the team and having him transferred. But, alas, that didn’t work as well.
Jared frowned hard, wondering what he had to do in order to keep Quatre away from Trowa, so that he might have a chance to run his own influence on the attractive teen god. He could continue to be there for Trowa, to support him when he needed it (which, oftentimes, Jared had to force his services because Trowa never asked for anything other than casual, common things), but that would only keep Trowa thinking that he was just a mere friend. Jared didn’t want to be Trowa’s friend–he wanted to be more.
He was strongly attracted to Trowa, and it was more than just physical. Every glance, every word, every casual touch convinced Jared that Trowa was teasing him, leading him on into believing that he had a chance, to take over where Quatre left off. Jared would more than easily fulfill Trowa’s loneliness, if it ever came down to that–sure, he’d act like a geek about his first time and all, but hey, this would be his first time. How often did one person experience that?!
And in the hands of such a gifted god? How he’d manipulated that woman’s clit; how he fucked her; how he made passionate love to her... Jared found himself growing hot and excited just by recalling all the action, and lightly fanned himself, glad that his coat was long enough to cover his semi-hard erection. He continued to stare at Trowa even after Quatre hurried off. Someday, Trowa would open those gorgeous green eyes of his and realize that Jared was the real deal. That he would NEVER do what Quatre had, and that he would always do what Quatre had not done. He’d make Trowa happy–even if it meant impersonating that basketball freak from time to time.
He just had to convince Quatre Winner to either leave the school, or find someone else.
#20#20#20#20#20#20#20
Their arrival at the Roseville gym was the usual cacophony of noise and moving bodies. Quatre looked around with a curious expression as they entered, noting that the benches were full once more, and that the court was moving with a fast paced game between Stanton and Ferndale. Apparently, the tournament was running behind–Ramos was informed earlier that they wouldn’t be playing until six p.m., so they had a couple of games to watch and wait.
Looking up at the scoreboard, he noticed with a smirk that Stanton was ahead by nearly sixty points, and Ferndale was barely hanging in with a low double digit number. He adjusted his bag over his shoulder as he followed behind Otto, watching as that cocky single father, Jake Trip, performed an effortless drive through Ferndale’s pitiful defense and fed the basket with a basic bank shot. Jake didn’t even look as if he were trying, and moved about with a bored expression.
His teammates were in a similar mood, while Ferndale’s looked plain frustrated and weepy over their obvious loss. It wasn’t because of their lack of effort---it was just that Stanton was a thousand times better.
Scowling at the top ranked team, Quatre took his seat with his teammates, and watched as Ferndale’s point tried to direct her team into an offensive maneuver, which would have worked if she had more competent players. There was a turnover, and Stanton was once again in possession of the ball.
Huh, was all Quatre thought as Jake made an easy three, his teammates moving about with a calm, bored air as the minutes in the scoreboard ticked down to the end of the game.
“Damn, that’s Stanton?” Paul asked, nudging him with his knee. Quatre sniffed, nodding. He tried not to look as impressed as Paul did. Stanton was good, but not that damn good. In his opinion. “I heard they were ranked top dog in the league.”
“Yeah,” Quatre muttered, remembering last year’s game with them. Unfortunately, the situation with his knee had kept him from playing the second game against them, so he had only that game to look upon. “They’re really good. But they have the refs on their side. So watch your moves when you play. They called me for fucking everything.”
“I hate those kinds, man. They’re so damn shitty.”
“Damn, Stanton’s good,” Duo interrupted, leaning over. “They really gave us a hard time. We’re fuckin’ good, but they’re…they’re more than us.”
“Way to cheer us on, Duo,” Hiiro muttered, glaring at him.
“Hey, I’m just saying…”
“Duo’s telling the truth, anyway, Hiiro,” Quatre said, watching as another three was made.
“Still, where the fuck’s the team loyalty?”
“Hey, it’s all good, Hee-chan!” Duo exclaimed, hitting him with the back of his hand. “I fuckin’ love the team! But it takes a man to admit that another team’s better than his.”
“Fuck that bullshit, Duo!” Triton growled, elbowing him. The two shoved at each other briefly.
Sighing, Quatre rested his chin upon his palm as he watched the game, hearing the others laugh and continue talking about Stanton’s top ranked position in the league. Stanton was good---they were the San Antonio Spurs to the Cleveland Clippers. They just had the players capable of carrying out their experienced coach’s orders, and they carried out their game effortlessly.
He frowned as the others began getting rowdy around him, their knees knocking into his back and someone’s elbow connecting with the back of his head. Moving down a bench, so that he was on floor level, he adjusted his bag against him and watched as Ferndale tried hard to pit a proper defense against Stanton’s offense. Shoes squeaked loudly against the shiny court floor, and arms flailed about---someone ran by with a funky b.o. odor.
At one point, Jake had the ball, his face masked with determination as he dribbled calmly with his left hand, using his right elbow against the stomach of a taller guard. He was good with the ball---his moves reminded Quatre of his own. Remembering that game and watching this one, Quatre frowned in concentration as he memorized what side of the court Jake worked better on, and what he did when forced to make a split decision.
The ball was currently being passed around the three point line, the offense waiting for the proper moment to drive it into the basket, Ferndale’s players flushed with exertion.
Glancing at the clock, Quatre saw that five minutes remained in the third quarter, and it was obvious Ferndale wasn’t going to catch up.
He settled back in his seat, and then changed his mind to get up and walk out to the cafeteria to find some munchies, and get something to drink. There wasn’t any sign of Sageville, so Quatre figured they’d already played and left, or weren’t going to arrive until later. The cafeteria was filled with spectators and players from other teams, but there wasn’t anybody there that he recognized. He bought a Gatorade and sat at one of the tables, watching the sights that moved through the cafeteria while Stanton continued their merciless slaughter of Ferndale.
He found himself eyeing the kids that were running around, and spotted Jake’s “little monster”. With a frown, and happy that he was a respectable distance away, he watched as Michael chased another little boy around, threatening to hurt him good because he wouldn’t give up his cowboy boots. Quatre lifted an eyebrow and wondered if he’d ever given that sort of trouble to Lana and Rashid.
Then, when Michael realized that he was not going to catch that other little boy, he turned and ran back to a group of girls that were sitting at another table, laughing amongst themselves. He frowned as he leaned into his palm, trying to guess which one was Michael’s mother. The brunette with the pink skirt? Or the blond with the pink jacket? Or perhaps the other brunette with the pink headband…or the redhead with the pink hooker boots…what the hell was with the color ‘pink’, anyway? They were college aged, obviously a far cry different from the high school girls that were walking around, and there was an air of maturity about them.
Michael ran up to the blond, pulling on her jacket with an insistent protest, but was ignored while she talked a mile-a-minute with her friends, all whom were shouting with laughter.
She eventually snarled something at him, his answering whine hidden within the cafeteria noises, and then turned back to her friends. It was evident that she was trying hard to keep their attention and approval.
The little boy gave up on her, and then hurried off toward the gym. Quatre began drinking from his Gatorade, tried to determine whether or not that blond was pretty, then rose from his seat, making his way into the gym. He wondered if he was actually thoroughly gay---unable to like the female gender in the sense that the majority of his classmates did. He tried to remember having serious crushes on the opposite sex, and couldn’t remember any. Sure, he had fleeting ones while he was younger, with the girls in his class in Laramie, but nothing serious like the relationship he had with Trowa.
He checked out guys from time to time, but had never looked at girls in the same sense. So…could he consider himself truly gay? Or was it just that the right girl hadn’t come along? Such serious pondering made his head ache.
He chuckled to himself once he saw Michael standing at the edge of the court, tears streaming down his face as he shouted himself hoarse for his father.
The refs were trying to get him to move away, so that he wouldn’t get ran over by the players, and Jake was off in his game as he searched wildly for someone to take Michael.
Amidst the chaos, Quatre figured that being a single parent sucked, and wondered if he’d ever have kids. It was really an intriguing question. He was having a lot of those lately. He wondered if it were caused by the lack of sexual activity in his life. Boys’ hormones revolved around such things…they were just as high on the important list as food.
Michael was still screaming a storm as he passed by, and Quatre glanced at him in sympathy. Michael seemed to recognize him, and, to his utmost horror, followed him.
“Kid, I’m not your dad,” he said as Michael wiped his eyes and reached for him. “I’m not your dad! Go to your mom! Your mom’s in there!”
“I’m thirsty!”
“Go tell your mom! Your mom’s in there!” Quatre said, pointing at the cafeteria.
“I’M THIRSTY NOW!”
“That’s great, kid, really. Go tell your mom. She’ll get you something to drink.”
“I want something to drink!!!”
“So do I!” Quatre exclaimed. “But you need to tell your mom!”
“You need to share! My daddy tells me all the time that I haveta share. So you haveta share!”
“You don’t want my germs, kid. I’m a homo. Straight people throw a big fit about it all. Go tell your mom you’re thirsty! And I don’t like sharing!”
“You’re mean!”
“Damn skippy, you.”
“Quatre! When did you get a kid, man?!” someone howled from the benches, and roars of laughter rose from that section. Quatre turned and scowled at them, and Michael took his Gatorade. He didn’t want to make him cry and scream at him, so he let the little guy have it.
“I didn’t know you were capable of having kids, Winner!”
“How’d you get it up for a girl?!”
“Where’s the mom!?”
“You pack ‘im in your game bag?!”
“Does Trowa know?!”
“Shut the fuck up, assholes!” Quatre shouted back at them, much to the disapproval of the various adults that were trying to look around him to watch the game.
He was shouted at by them as well, and looked down to see Michael drinking up most of his Gatorade.
His round face was infinitely pleased as he lowered the bottle from his mouth, exhaling a breath of relief, pink lips curving with a smile. He then began drinking again, and Quatre sighed heavily as he realized he wasn’t getting it back any time soon. He started to walk back to the bench, to let Michael have it, when he noticed the kid following him as well.
“Your mom’s in the cafeteria!” he growled, pointing at the cafeteria.
Michael shook his head. “I wanna sit with you.”
“No! No no no no no! I’m a stranger! You’re a stranger! Remember?! No talking to strangers!”
“I don’t want to go back in there. I don’t like it in there.”
“Well, tough beans, kid. Your mom’s in there.”
“I don’t like her. I’m tired.”
“You’re not sitting with me. Don’t your parents warn you about strangers?!”
“You know my dad!”
“I hate your dad! Your dad’s a prick! I would like to kick his ass!”
Michael frowned at this, and eyed him suspiciously. “Mom says daddy’s a prick because he doesn’t buy her things. Daddy says mom’s a prick because she’s a whore. Why do you think my daddy’s a prick? He’s nice to me. I love my daddy. He’d beat you up.”
Quatre’s eyes seemed to whirl, and several people yelled at him to sit down. He hurried over to his seat, sitting on the floor bench where he’d sat earlier. Michael followed suit, still holding his Gatorade. He tilted the bottle back to his lips, and took a hearty drink, getting it all over the front of his shirt.
Triton leaned over, tapping on his shoulder.
“He don’t look like you, man,” he hissed against his ear. Quatre whipped his head about to get those bisexual lips off of him. Michael looked over with some interest. “You should take him back. He doesn’t even look like Trowa.”
“Shut the fuck up, dick hole! He’s not my kid!”
Michael lowered the Gatorade bottle, exhaling with pleased relief once more. He looked at Triton, and repeated, “Shut the fuck up, dick hole!”
“Tell your kid to stop cussing at me.”
“Shut the fuck up!!!”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“Quatre, your kid’s cussing at me!”
“GODDAMN IT!”
“G’dammit!”
“Quatre---!&# 8221;
Quatre rose from the bench and kicked Triton’s knee, the senior falling back in his seat, roaring with laughter. Michael looked impressed, watching with wide eyes as Quatre then twisted Triton’s arm, earning him enough room to land a painful knuckle buster against his rib cage. Triton shouted with pain, kicking at him. Quatre dodged the kicks and let go of his arm to stomp the heel of his shoe against the toe of Triton’s shoe, and gave him an inside dead leg.
“HEY!” he heard someone bellow from the court. Turning away from a still laughing Triton, Quatre scowled at Jake, who was pointing furiously at his kid.
The teams were currently lined up at Stanton’s goal, where a player was making her foul shots count against the unlucky team. “He’s going to copy you!!”
“He won’t go back to his mom!! And what he copies from me isn’t my problem!” Quatre roared back, several people looking over with disbelief and disgusted horror at the sights and sounds the four year old was witnessing.
One of Jake’s teammates called him back to the game, and with a furious expression, Jake hurried off. Michael watched him for a few seconds, and then looked at Quatre as the blond resettled in his seat. He inched closer, holding his Gatorade bottle tightly within both hands, and grinning baby teeth at him when he looked at him.
Quatre stared down at him in disbelief.
He turned back to watch the game, wondering “why me?” as Michael inched closer once more and practically melted against his side. Quatre inched away. Michael followed. Quatre moved again, and then frowned darkly when Michael followed him.
“Quatre, quit trying to ditch your kid!” he heard Otto bellow from the other bench. Quatre glared quickly in that direction, the others tittering noisily as Michael looked as well, scowling at the senior. Turning back to the game, Quatre watched as a Ferndale player fouled a Stanton player, the ref’s whistle piercing the noisy atmosphere of the gym.
Something hit the back of his head, and Quatre snarled furiously as he whirled in his seat, picked up the Tar Heels baseball cap that belonged to Brian, and hurled it back at the others, all whom were laughing hysterically. Michael, seeing this, whirled on his seat, picked up somebody’s shoe, and promptly whacked Derrick across the face because he was closest.
“OW!” the senior screamed, holding a hand to his face. He then looked pissed, unsure of how to react to the four year old.
At the renewed gale of laughter, followed by Quatre’s bewildered expression set on the child due to his actions, several people began commenting loudly on the lack of common sense in teenagers and the influence on small children.
Michael looked pleased and proud of himself as he looked at Quatre for approval. Quatre went white as he realized that Michael was, indeed, copying him. He sat slowly, feeling entirely intimidated by the four year old, and fought hard to ignore the laughter and comments thrown his way.
This lasted all of Stanton’s game.