Murphy's Law (Part Three)
by Lorena Manuel

Quatre stood by the hand towel dispenser, biting his cuticles as he watched Trowa wash his face in the sink. His date was now lathering on some soap, rubbing vigorously around his mouth and cheek areas, grimacing as he did.

The boy sighed and looked down at the floor, listlessly stubbing his shoe against the immaculate tile under his feet.

"I'm sorry," he finally said in a small voice, keeping his eyes glued on the floor.

"What for?" Trowa asked, his words slightly unintelligible as he started washing off the soap. "You didn't do anything."

"I don't know," the boy replied wretchedly. "I'm just sorry. For everything that's happened since we got to the hotel."

"The fire was an accident, Cat."

"But if I weren't so stupid, we wouldn't even be here right now."

"Oh? Where would we be?"

"Back in our room."

"Doing what?"

Quatre's head snapped up, and he found Trowa staring at him through the mirror. A hint of a smile lit up his face, and the boy reddened. Trowa seemed to have reverted back to that playful side of his, the one of which Quatre had caught a glimpse back at the hotel--right before Trowa had disappeared into the bathroom.

"Hanging out, I suppose," he stammered, quickly averting his eyes and knitting his brows.

Something was obviously clicking--but what? It was like playing Russian Roulette--totally hit and miss, a real chancey thing. He did something right at the hotel--something that had gotten to Trowa. And he was doing it again at the moment.

But what the bloody hell was it?

"Cat…"

The boy jumped, almost tearing off a large chunk of cuticle from his finger with his teeth as he snapped back to the present rather violently. Trowa's voice, though quiet, was suddenly a great deal closer. He raised his eyes and almost soiled his shorts.

Trowa was standing before Quatre, gazing steadily at him, the shadow of a smile still there. His face was dripping, and he'd dampened his hair as well and had carelessly combed most of it back with his hands. A few wet strands fell back on his face and dipped over his eyebrows, drawing even more attention to those brilliant emerald peepers of his.

Trowa looked like a god from every boy's wet dreams. Hell, he was a god.

And his effect on the boy was stupendous, to say the least. Quatre stood frozen, staring back at him with an unmistakable deer-and-headlights look, his mouth slightly hanging open.

Oh, my God--is he going to kiss me? No--not yet--I'm not ready--damn, he's so beautiful…

Quatre watched, stupefied, as Trowa's expression slowly changed from mild amusement to downright perplexity. The smile morphed into a slight grimace, and his eyebrows furrowed a little, with one of them arching high on his forehead.

"Uh--Cat?"

"Huh? Wha…?"

"I need some paper towels."

Quatre managed to snap out of his trance and immediately stepped aside from the paper towel dispenser, against which he'd been leaning.

"Sorry," he said as he walked off in a daze, feeling the heat rise to his face.

He absently walked toward one of the stalls and looked in, noting with some amusement what Duo had suggested for him. He smiled wryly, feeling his heartbeat resume its normal rhythm.

Oh, sure, he thought, as if you'll really be able to pull something off like that.

He took in a deep breath as he casually scanned the stall. Then his eyes rested on a hole in the wall that separated the stall from the one next to it. It was about three to four inches in diameter, which took Quatre by surprise. He walked up to it for a closer scrutiny and found that its edges had been worn down to a smoother, less dangerous surface. It was also as high as his belly button. He frowned as he stared at it. Telltale marks of nail holes surrounded it--almost as though the hole had been covered at one point but was once again freed from its bondage.

"Hmm. That's odd," he said half to himself and half to Trowa. "You'd think that people would want to have privacy when they use the stalls."

"What's that?"

Trowa ambled up to him and looked over his shoulder at the hole. "Oh," he simply said and didn't pursue any further.

"Is this hole here so people could spy on someone next door while he relieves himself? That's a pretty sick fetish if you ask me. And why doesn't management have this hole covered up? You'd think they'd do something about it. This is blatant invasion of privacy!"

"Um--that's a glory hole, Cat."

"Glory hole? How could anybody call it a glory hole? What's so glorious about being watched while you pass a log? Unless…" Quatre paused, considering the subject more carefully. "…unless whoever's being spied on gets a high out of it, too."

He turned to look for some kind of affirmation or correction from his companion but was disappointed in his expectations for the most part. Trowa simply stood there, biting his lip, staring at him with an expression that well nigh defied description, his face turning twenty exotic shades of red. Then he swallowed and cleared his throat.

"Well--that's not exactly there for that purpose."

"What then?"

Trowa cleared his throat again. "I'll tell you some other day. Let's go."

The boy shrugged and followed his date out of the restroom. They made their way through the restaurant, keeping their eyes focused ahead in an effort to deflect curious stares. They'd made quite an impact earlier, easily becoming the patrons' darlings for senseless gossip and idle speculation. Of course, that fact that Quatre was caught emerging from under the table between Trowa's legs really didn't leave everyone much choice.

"It's always the same, isn't it? All the cute ones are either priests or gay," a young girl at a table they'd passed was heard to whine. "That really sucks."

The two emerged from the restaurant and found themselves in a steadily growing crowd on the main strip. The last day of the year was slowly drawing to a close, and the city had anticipated record numbers of revelers. Large sections of the downtown area were blocked off, the streets now filled with people in varying stages of dissipation, many of whom were determined to celebrate the New Year after the war by bar hopping from one end of the city to another. The din was growing intolerable, and Trowa and Quatre found themselves speaking at the top of their lungs most of the time as well as drawing their heads closer together as they attempted to make themselves understood.

Quatre, for his part, felt a curious thrill shoot up and down his spine whenever Trowa would talk into his ear, his breath fanning the boy's skin and--every so often--his lips lightly grazing the side of his neck. That was only, of course, whenever Trowa was jostled by passersby. At least to Quatre, that spine-tingling sensation wasn't effected voluntarily, and he felt a tad disappointed--though not entirely helpless. After a few of these instances, in a rather saucy move that would have done Duo proud, he'd affect a slight stumble whenever Trowa would lean close to talk, or he'd surreptitiously move himself into people's way so as to have his date bumped into him. And, oh, the thrill he got at having Trowa "accidentally" touch his neck with his lips…

It was with a lot of regret that he had to check his little shenanigans after some time; otherwise, Trowa would begin to think him devoid of equilibrium or just plain odd. But, hell, he would have indulged in this forever if given the chance.

The boys didn't have an agenda at all for the evening. They knew full well that it would be chaos out in the streets and pretty much impossible to go anywhere for any kind of amusement as only restaurants and pubs were open all night. And with Wufei enjoying his evening still, they were stuck. So for perhaps an hour, they merely wandered up and down the main strip, talking and people watching, stopping every so often to amuse themselves with a sidewalk entertainer.

And Quatre noted, with some hope, that Trowa seemed to have relaxed a great deal since they first started out that evening. He was careless and chatty--at least by his standards. Quatre still dominated the conversation, but he didn't have to do a rambling soliloquy to make up for a laconic partner.

"I think we've seen everything there is to see," Trowa presently said as they veered off into a small side street away from the massive crowd. "Now what?"

"Well…"

A rather pissed-off clown interrupted their conversation as he limped by, hauling a stool and a sack containing only God knows what, cursing under his breath. He paused when he saw the two.

"Goddamn kids," he snarled. "You do the whole fucking clown act, give 'em what they want, and what do they do? Piss on you!" He turned to look back at the crowd he'd just left behind and spat in their direction. "Yeah, well fuck you, assholes!" he cried.

And before he moved on, he dropped his sack with another string of oaths, stuck his hand inside, and fished out an elaborate headpiece made of a dozen or so balloons he'd sculpted together into one unit. It must have stood about two feet tall with rubber antennas shooting out in every direction.

"Hey, you," he called out to Quatre. "Yeah, you--come here!"

Quatre looked at Trowa a little nervously before warily approaching the man. He muttered a silent prayer, hoping that his epitaph wouldn't announce to the whole world that he was done in by a clown who'd gone postal.

"Sir?" he said meekly as he approached.

Sure, he'd been in combat and had been exposed to the worst horrors of war, but nothing could ever compare to the surreal danger posed by a psychopathic Bozo. And with that in mind, he was poised for flight at the first signs of complete physical annihilation in the hands of Mr. Congeniality.

The clown strode up to him with the balloon sculpture and planted it firmly on his head. And before he could say or do anything, the man turned his heels, picked up his sack, and limped off, grumbling still. Quatre could only mutely watch him disappear into the shadows of the narrow street. Then he turned to Trowa, who had his arms crossed over his chest, stifling a grin.

"What was that all about?" Quatre asked as he walked back to his date.

"I really don't know. But that thing really becomes you, Cat," Trowa replied. "You look like an oversized pineapple."

"How flattering."

Trowa was regarding him with that cryptic smile again. Damn it, what on earth was he doing that's clicking right now? Oh, sure, the pineapple look, but his date's smile seemed to encompass something beyond the silliness of his appearance.

God, if he could only ask Trowa.

If it could only be that easy.

Damn, damn, damn.

"Um--any ideas yet on what to do now?" he asked instead.

"No, unfortunately…"

"Well…" he chewed his lip as he momentarily mulled things over. "What about leaving town to watch the fireworks from somewhere else--I mean, somewhere that would give us a pretty good view of the whole celebration? That way we won't have to put up with the crowd."

Trowa shrugged. "Okay. We can take my car." He looked down on the boy in a brief moment of silence, the smile slowly fading. Then, reaching out his hand, he lightly tugged at the headpiece before motioning for them to move along.

They walked through the side street in silence for some time. Cheers from the crowd in the main strip occasionally broke through the dimly lit stillness, echoing up and down the dingy passageway. Couples or small groups passed them once in a while, laughing, shouting, singing, sometimes saluting them with boisterous wishes for a good year, which they returned with equal good humor though less energy.

They passed a crowded bar, and Quatre stopped in his tracks.

"Oh, Trowa? I need to make a pit stop," he called out to his companion, who continued to walk on, unaware of his disappearance from his side.

Trowa stopped and turned around.

"I need to use the little boys' room," the boy added with an awkward smile.

"I don't know if they'll trust you with the restroom looking like that, Cat."

Quatre quickly doffed his headpiece, coloring a little, and went into the bar with Trowa in tow. And after spending what seemed to be an agonizing length of time pleading with the bouncer to allow him access to their facilities, he was finally permitted, however grudgingly. The two wrestled their way through the crowd, gagging from the stench of alcohol and smoke and even body odor, finally stumbling out onto a narrow hallway that led to the restroom near the bar's rear exit.

Both of them scanned the facilities in dismay. In addition to being lit by a single fifty-watt bulb that hung with exposed wiring from the ceiling, the restroom was littered with torn and wet paper towels, shreds of toilet paper, and cigarette butts. The floor itself was muddy in places, and Quatre didn't dare venture to guess what those suspicious-looking puddles were all about. The urinals lining one wall looked more like portals to hell, and Quatre felt himself gag at the repulsiveness of the whole thing.

Moreover, the only two stalls in the place were being used, but questionable sounds emanating from both only served to raise more doubts in the boy as to what the occupants were really doing.

He turned to Trowa. "This is really disgusting."

"Well--you need to go, right? I think you'd better deal with this and get it out of the way. I doubt if there'll be rest stops where I plan to take you."

Quatre looked at the odious urinals with a grimace. "Yech," he muttered, hesitating. He knew, however, that Trowa was right. "Well," he added, bracing himself, "here goes nothing."

The restroom door suddenly burst open with a terrific bang, startling them, and in poured about half the bar's clientele, shouting, laughing, drinking. They quickly filled up the place, shoving and pulling each other in what seemed to be a kind of game, almost knocking both Trowa and Quatre down as they piled in.

Quatre got pushed and stepped on as he struggled to maintain sight of his companion, utterly shocked by what was going on. And judging from the snatches of unintelligible ramblings he'd heard from a number of wasted customers, what was happening was really a game of sorts. Someone had apparently made a bet that so-and-so number of people can be made to fit the men's room, and with the rest of the clientele pretty much gone to Never Never Land, people decided to take him up on the challenge and--well--there they were, unmindful of any hazards such a move might pose on themselves and the establishment as a whole.

Quatre called out Trowa's name as he'd lost sight of him. Virtually everyone who squeezed themselves in the men's room was practically a foot taller than he, and all he could see were people's shoulders and backs.

"Trowa!" he cried, wincing at the pain of being pressed hard against a stall's door. "Trowa!"

People were making too much noise for him to hear any response to his call, and he began to panic. For all he knew, Trowa might have been crushed to death in the mob. He struggled to push his way through the thickening mass of people, but he was too small to allow himself sufficient purchase and in fact found himself getting pinned against the now groaning door of the stall that stood at one corner of the men's room. The heat of the bodies that collected around him was making him sweat. And he was starting to feel dizzy from the growing stuffiness.

His headgear exploded in his hand from being squeezed by the throng, and that only served to heighten everyone's sense of adventure as they all cheered at the popping sounds.

"Trowa, where are you?" he called out, his voice a little weakened from the strain and the lack of oxygen.

At that moment, an obscenely tall and muscular figure came down on him, apparently losing his balance as more people piled into the room, and both he and Quatre fell hard against the stall door, forcing the old and weakened lock to break and causing them both to stumble inside with a cry.

The man managed to save himself by grabbing on to the door and using it to pull himself up and out in a couple of quick moves. Quatre, however, wasn't so fortunate. He stumbled back and landed on the stall's occupant, who was sitting on the toilet bowl.

"Ouch! Oh, damn!" the boy cried as he sat heavily on the man's lap, almost losing balance yet again and falling to the floor.

The man cried out in surprise as well--mostly cursing up a storm at being unseasonably interrupted as he tried to retain his balance as well.

The confusion--and not to mention the surrealism of the whole episode--was giving the boy a sickening dose of sensory overload. As if things weren't about to get any worse, Quatre cast a frantic glance around the stall and nearly had a heart attack at what he saw.

Just inches away from where he sat was the now familiar glory hole. Problem was--it was also being used by the next stall's occupant. Quatre gaped as he stared at an engorged penis that jutted out the hole into the stall he was in, and it was then when he realized that the man on whom he was sitting was in the middle of giving himself a wank when he showed up. All he needed to do was to look down to find proof enough of this.

"Aaaaauugghh!" he screamed. "Trowaaaaaaa! Oh, my Goooooood!"

"Cat! I'm over here! Give me your hand!"

The panic-stricken boy leapt out of the stall in one surprisingly athletic move when he saw Trowa appear in the midst of the crowd, shoving his arm through the solid mass of bodies and reaching out for him. Quatre quickly grabbed hold of Trowa's hand and felt himself being pulled away.

They plowed through the mob, occasionally losing sight of each other by intervening bodies but never once relinquishing hold of each other's hands. They stumbled and pushed their way through the rowdy group, bruised and sweating and fairly spent from the almost inhuman exertion of fighting their way to safety. And when Quatre caught a glimpse of the door leading to the hallway, he almost collapsed but forced himself to push on.

Someone suddenly shoved him back, and he lost his grip on Trowa's hand as he was once again being dragged back into the hell hole.

"No! Trowa!" he cried as he tried to fight his way forward, only to stumble several steps backward.

He thought he was about to die from asphyxiation.

"Quatre," the voice said--quietly now.

Trowa appeared once more, sweating and flushed as he fought his way to the boy. He quickly wrapped an arm around Quatre's shoulders and pulled him along, using his free hand to plow his way through the crowd while hugging his companion tightly to his chest. Quatre could only cling to him as he stumbled along.

And after what seemed like an eternity, the two broke free of the crowd and found themselves once more in the hallway where people were gathering, cheering the crowd on as someone attempted to count the number of drunken revelers inside the men's room.

Trowa hurried Quatre toward the rear exit, pushed his way through, and ran out into the open air. They both stood in the dark, breathing heavily, feeling the cool night air revive them with a gentle breeze. It was unusually warm for this time of the year, but it proved to be a blessing as the sudden sting of bitingly cold air would have hurt them even more. They held each other tightly in silence for some time as they waited for their heart rates to go down. Quatre was trembling from the ordeal, and he sought comfort in Trowa's arms, feeling awash in contentment as he leaned against him. And Trowa, for his part, seemed more exhausted than terrified, and he continued to hold the boy close, gently stroking Quatre's hair as he waited for him to calm down.

"That was really messed up," Quatre finally said in a small voice once his breathing had resumed its normal cadence. "No--it was a nightmare. I couldn't believe it…"

"You okay?"

"Yeah--just shaken up. How about you?"

"Likewise--not to mention pissed off. Those idiots could've killed someone in the crush. They could've killed you."

Quatre heaved a sigh of relief and basked in another moment of silence in Trowa's arms. "Well--one thing worth noting, though--I know what glory holes are for."

He started giggling, his face pressed against Trowa's shoulder as he imagined how Duo would look when he hears about this.

"This has been one messed up night," he said. "I'm surprised you haven't ditched me yet for dragging you through one disaster after another."

Silence met his observation, but he'd expected it, and his heart sank. Insecurities and self-doubts piled on top of each other as events of the evening flashed before his eyes. Hell, he was plain stunned that Trowa was still with him. And with this, it didn't take much for him to resign himself to the possibility that after tonight, Trowa wouldn't want to have anything to do with him. He felt too awkward, too clumsy, too silly…too much like a child.

And not to mention jinxed like hell.

Well, I guess this does it, he thought as he finally pulled away, feeling the mortification of his failures clamp down on him with cold, clammy fingers. He's better off with someone else. Might as well enjoy the rest of my time with him while I can.

He rallied his spirits with whatever strength was left in him and used it to affect a light, careless air as he looked up at his companion. "Let's just go to your car," he chirped and turned away without waiting for a response.

He walked a few paces ahead of Trowa, determined to keep this distance between them as he didn't want his companion to see the mist that began to gather in his eyes.