"I'm from nowhere," comes the soft reply. Hey, it looks like we've got the quintessential depressed guy with a mysterious past here. Might be fun.
"Everyone's from somewhere," I push. He glares at me, and I swear time stopped. Not only were those the most beautiful blue eyes I've ever seen, but I think he wanted to kill me.
"Not me," he replied coldly.
"Yeah," I mutter meekly. Not wanting to receive another blood-freezing stare of death, I start walking. I think he followed behind me, but he was silent. I had to resist the urge to look back and confirm that he was still there, and that he hadn't disappeared into the groups of kids milling in the halls. After all, it's none of my business if he makes it to the art room on time. Especially if he's gonna be scary like that.
The art room is in the basement of the school. The basement is cold and dark, and the few lights that are on the stairway are usually dead. I claim it's the seventh level of hell, but no one believes me. The art room itself is entirely different. It's at the end of the hall, and you can see light coming out from the crack between the big wooden door to the floor. It looks like a doorway back up to the surface, or maybe heaven. Once you go inside, you're usually temporarily blinded. I don't know even what the walls look like, because they're covered with abstract canvasses, surreal portraits, fantasy landscapes, and shelves full of pottery that almost looks Greek, like it's supposed to. Students cram together on the tables or take easels to corners of the room to work in as much privacy as possible. Doctor J wanders around the room all the time, giving advice and making corrections. Everyone just calls him Doc, because that's what he insists on. People claim he lives in the art room, but I dunno. Despite several expeditions, no one's ever found so much as a pillow.
As soon as you enter the place, your senses are assaulted. The painful brightness, laughing voices, radio blaring jazz music.
"Hey Duo!" yells a voice. I look over at the small blonde working by himself at a corner table. He waves at me like the optimistic little moron he probably is.
"Oi Quatre!" I yell back. He's taken out the sketch he's been working on forever. He'll pull it out, act like it's the Holy Grail and work on it constantly for a few days, and then he'll get frustrated and shelve it for weeks again. He's the only one that knows what it is. Looks like some kind of giant robot. He named the piece 'Sandrock,' but that makes no sense since there's no sand or any rocks anywhere in the whole damn picture.
"Come sit with me!"
"In a minute Quat! I gotta take care of the new kid!" He gives me a confused look.
"What new kid?" I look over my shoulder, and point at him. At no one. He's disappeared. Figures. That's just the sort of thing a crazy depressed guy with a mysterious past would do.
"You're crazy Duo. Grab your relief sculpture and sit with me."
"Whatever. There was a guy next to me!" I reach over and grab my project. It's a plaster square that I am slowly carving an image onto. I'm not entirely sure what the image is yet. It's got bat wings and a scythe. I've been hanging around Quatre too much, because lately it looks more and more like a robot and less human. Oh well.
For once, when I sit down, it's Quatre that's chattering mindlessly and not me. It's nice to hear him talk, because he has such a great voice to listen too. He knows I'm gay, and it doesn't bother him a bit. But Quatre's a giant unknown quantity. I have this rule about girls, and I know it's true. If something is small, it's cute. There are exceptions, of course, but I'm not the kind of person to go and talk about dick size out loud, because that's just raunchy. Anyway, everyone knows it sucks to be a millimeter peter. But Quatre has a small stature, and that automatically renders him cute. He complains that everyone treats him like an instant little brother, and so no one looks at him as a possible romance. Therefor, he's used his nonexistent logic to decide that boys would be more receptive. I could have told him what a retarded assumption that was, but he wouldn't listen to me. So he's now been labeled a fag just like me, but he's never actually said that he's gay, just flirted. I mean, he really is cute. Sweet person, caring, gentle. But he's also my best friend, and hitting on him would be weird. So I don't. Can't say I haven't wanted to, but I don't.
I let my mind wander off again. So this is what people do when I talk? Interesting reversal of roles. I let my gaze drift around the room, looking for Doc. I want his advice. There he is, standing in the corner. With none other then Mr. I'm From Nowhere himself. I grab Quatre's arm, and he's startled out of his sentence.
"There's the new kid!" I point out.
"Ooh," says Quatre appreciatively. "He's a hottie."
"Like him?" I ask.
"He's a guy," comes the reply. Argh! See what I mean! Does that mean that he just notices when guys are sexy, or he likes guys that are sexy? Both of us watch as Doc and the psychopath talk. Suddenly Doc looks up and points in our direction. Me and Quatre both make a frantic scramble to appear to be working. Quatre watches them through his bangs, and gives a little squeal. If Quatre's not gay, he should be. He acts like such a girl.
"He's coming over here! He's gonna sit with us!"
"I've got dibs," I mutter. "I saw him first."
"What do you mean you have dibs? You're the gay one, not me." But I can tell from the little grin that he's gonna be in über-flirt mode. Great.
On to Part 3
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