Back to One
~ Act Two

Quatre fidgeted in the corner, pulling on his shirt sleeves repeatedly. It had been a challenge getting ready, just to put some decent clothing on while being bossed around by Duo's stylist. He knew that, despite the designer look they were going for, he looked like a bum with dark sunglasses at the wrong time of day. It was Hollywood, he reminded himself. For tonight, he would claim it was simply a fashion statement.

The red carpet walk was actually pretty dreadful. Having to deal with unfamiliar faces judging his recent stint in rehab was the worst. They all felt sorry for him, he could tell, and the cameramen took every chance they got to snap photos of his humiliation. It was supposed to be good publicity, he'd heard before, but all he could feel was absolute terror. He could only imagine the background story they did on him on the celebrity gossip shows the days leading up to the event.

It was cold in there, he noticed, as he scratched his head - now brunette rather than blond, another one of the stylist's decisions. His scalp was all scratched up, he was told, and the darker color would hide that fact. The hair coloring product had been hell on his damaged scalp, but the stylist would have none of his complaints since they were going for a certain look. He'd wanted to ask if that change would also somehow help his gaunt look, but he didn't want to be overdramatic.

"Looking good, Quat." Duo approached him with all smiles and a shock of short blond hair atop his head. He didn't ask, but he'd heard from the red carpet interview that it was for a movie he was filming. Over the years, that hair of his had gone through all sorts of transformations. Quatre's excuse had been far less sensational. He told them he was simply going for a new look and that was that.

"Yeah."

"Glad you could make it."

He shifted from one foot to the other, testing how far he could go before running for the bathroom to hide. They weren't done taking pictures of them and knowing Duo, he'd want five of them in different configurations to use as fan fodder. If he could help it, this was never happening again.

"Looks like all the guys are here now. Let's go greet them. And give the fans a little love. Go stand next to Trowa."

Quatre knew he was facing the inevitable, but that didn't mean that he did not have the right to keep himself out of sight. He followed Duo but hunched his back and shrank into himself as best he could to keep a low profile.

He did his best to smile. He was sure he was doing it well as his sunglasses protected his eyeballs from the onslaught of flashes caused by the cameras. Like an obedient school boy, he stood next to Trowa, diligently following the number scheme. They asked questions and he answered. When it was over, he made a beeline for the bathroom. The nausea hit him somewhere between a question about future movie projects and a question about his decision to resign as a junior executive of his father's company.

Throwing up the day's meals was not a pretty sight. The one nice, crisp, green kale purchased by Heero the day before made a sickening exit from his throat together with now indistinguishable cherry red tomatoes and shredded carrots. He could hold nothing down the past half day and thought, belatedly, of how withdrawal was such a pain. Not for the first time in two days, he was raring for a fix.

It took a while for him to settle down and clean himself up enough to be presentable once again. Gargling water was the best he could do to rid his mouth of the rancid taste and smell. He looked at himself in the mirror. His sunglasses remained unused on the counter as he frowned. Heero was right. He shouldn't have come. They really should have cancelled. It was awkward, as awkward as you could get with four guys you barely knew with the only shared similarity of having been on the same show twenty years ago. He could honestly say that he didn't consider them acquaintances even, except for Heero, who occasionally showed up at his door for some unknown reason. There was nothing to discuss really, but the fans expected far more. They were supposed to be buddies. He was expected to be constantly hovering around Trowa. He could only feel embarrassed for the other.

Exiting the bathroom truly was a burden and he didn't know if he should have just made a quick exit once all the cameras were once again trained on Duo and his lovely wife. The only problem was that Heero drove him there. They'd shared a car. He didn't own a cell phone either so there was no way to call for a cab unless he borrowed someone else's phone. If he did that, someone would catch wind of his plans of escape. He was stuck there for as long as Duo monopolized Heero and Duo did his best to do that - for the fans, he supposed. It was always for the fans.

He stared off in their direction. The commotion over there was a bit alarming, but true to character, Heero remained unfazed, even when Duo gave him a peck on the cheek. Relena was giving the fans the royal treatment too, joining in on her husband's fun.

"If I didn't know any better, I would think you're avoiding me."

He felt it more than heard it, the hot breath too close to the back of his neck. Trowa had had enough of his evasion and appeared miraculously right behind him.

"I, uh-"

There was really nothing to say so he stopped there. He continued to stare off at the more famous group, refusing to acknowledge what he knew would cause a ruckus next. If anyone noticed, they'd be the next pair of targeted victims. These were one of those times he wished he had Wufei's lack of popularity.

"Don't worry," Trowa said, coming up next to him before nodding toward the three stars he was staring at. "You're still the better blond."

Quatre looked down at his feet, unable to come up with something to say. Trowa might as well have been a stranger asking him about the weather. He touched his sunglasses just to make sure they were still there.

Not one minute later, someone caught wind of their proximity and not a second later, the cameras were trained on them. Thankfully, Trowa did none of the flirtations Duo had displayed, simply standing next to him to answer questions. He was more amiable than Quatre had assumed, graciously responding when asked, even dropping playful jokes every now and then. Quatre only responded when asked, not adding any bit of information to encourage a more even exchange. They would have to deal with his reluctance, he decided, since he really was not in the proper condition to be out and about. When the questions died down, Trowa addressed him once again.

"Want to go out to get some air?" he offered.

Quatre nodded then led the way.

The oft happening Santa Ana winds was nowhere to be found that day, leaving only gentle wisps of wind blowing their hair. Quatre ran a hand through his now dark tresses, fighting the urge to scratch at his scalp in fear of causing more damage. He waited for Trowa to start talking if he wanted to, but didn't offer any indication of his willingness to participate. Trowa was supposed to be the more reserved man, but twenty years was a long time and change was inevitable.

"You colored your hair," he started. Quatre was surprised he didn't start with the addiction.

"Yeah."

He was grateful for the opening topic, but what excuse was there really to give about the hair? If he talked about the scratches on his head then he'd have to talk about the addiction. He didn't want to talk about the addiction. He'd done enough of that the whole night.

"I honestly prefer your natural coloring, but you still look good."

They were thirty-five, considered old fogies to most youngsters. At that age, most people were married, possibly divorced - more than once, accomplished, with proper jobs and careers, with offspring and something to show for. All Quatre had going for him was an association to a long ago show and a string of failures worthy of a true Hollywood victim child actor.

"I liked your last movie," Quatre offered, slipping his hands into his pockets. It prevented him from fidgeting.

"Are you saying that to start conversation or did you really watch it?"

"Everyone watched it."

It won an Oscar. Of course he watched it. He was sure he voted for it under the best picture and best director category. He might have been in and out of reality, but he did take those guild awards seriously. He watched each and every nominated movie in the sanctuary of his condo while Noam offered comments in the forms of grunts, growls and barks. It was safe to say that Noam, too, enjoyed Trowa's movie.

"That's a rather cold answer, don't you think?"

"Sorry."

He looked down at his feet, not finding any sort of way to apologize for his brusqueness. That craving was there again, begging him to fulfill the desire. He was sure he'd gotten rid of his stash, but there might have been some he missed after the day he threw everything down the toilet bowl.

"Look! A secret rendezvous. How romantic!"

By the time he realized it, it was too late. Quatre didn't have time to evade when they were immediately swallowed by the crowd. He breathed in deeply, breathed out even further and when he could no longer handle it, made a run for it. That night, he would find himself in the still busy streets of LA wandering on his own. It would take Heero three hours to find him, a good one hour too late to stop him. Quatre was high off heroin by the time he found him, grinning from ear to ear for the first time in a month. The reunion really did make a mess of things, but at least tonight he would feel safe and warm. Heero cursed at him the whole way home.

A few days later, he was back to the mess that was known as withdrawal. Heero had shown up at his front door again, offering to chauffer him around for the day. Quatre accepted the offer with a shrug, put on his shoes and requested to be driven to the bank. Heero didn't ask what he was going to do there, just took the keys of the car that wasn't his own and drove with no particular directions beforehand, only Quatre's vague waves of left and right at every intersection. They made it eventually.

"When was the last time you had to go to the bank?"

"I don't remember."

Quatre scratched an itch on his arm. He was feeling it again today, the insufferable muscle spasms, but he'd been stuck in the house with nothing to do. He thought that he might as well have made himself useful.

"I'll be quick." He excused himself, moving up the line to the first available teller. Heero easily fell in step with him, never leaving his side.

"How may I help you today sir?"

"I need a check, just one." He fumbled with his wallet, a slick piece of object in his uncoordinated hands. It took a few attempts to simply open it whilst the teller gave him an impatient wheeze of breath.

"I, I forgot to bring my debit card with me," he said in semi-embarrassment. "Could you look up my account using my driver's license?"

"I could try," the teller answered with obvious exasperation. "Mr… Winner, is it? Give me a moment to pull up your account."

Quatre tapped a finger repeatedly on the counter. What was supposed to be a rhythmic sound increased with intensity, causing the teller to stop what he was doing to take a quick breath of indignation.

"Will you please stop that?" he was told.

"Sorry."

"Are you sure you just need one check, not a whole checkbook? It'll be cheaper."

He shook his head before stuffing his hands into his hooded jacket. Heero addressed him then.

"Why do you need the one check?"

"I have to pay Duo for the stylist he paid to fix me up."

"You know he won't cash the check, right? It's pointless to pay him if he offered."

The teller gave him the requested item after a bit of waiting and a charge to his account, explaining to him the use of the check like a child, his speech delivered condescendingly and in clipped tones. Quatre nodded with every step.

"Excuse me," Heero interrupted the transaction then, placing a hand flat on the counter. "Do you know who you're talking to?" he questioned, sending a critical eye the teller's way. "This guy owns the bank."

Quatre felt the need to shrink away, looking down at his shoes and murmuring something to himself. Heero didn't stop his reprimand just yet.

"Look, I know you might be having a bad day, but try not to take it out on the customers, especially not on the customer who actually pays your salary."

Quatre pulled him aside quickly, not wanting to make more of a scene than they already did. The teller watched them move away with shocked eyes, not getting the chance to retort or offer an apology. It was better that way. He would rather not have been recognized. He immediately slipped his dark glasses on and pulled his hood up.

"That wasn't necessary," he reprimanded Heero.

"Sometimes it is."

Not a few moments later, their scandalous scene didn't look so bad when they heard an even worse argument three counters over.

"I just need to make the transfer from my overseas account. - Yes, I called beforehand. - No. I've told you already it's an overseas account so no, it is not with this bank. - Are you going to help me or not? - You asked me how you could help me even before we started this transaction!"

Although he wanted to slip out of the bank unnoticed, he became captive to Heero's hand that pulled none too gently on his hooded sweatshirt to bring them next to the irritated customer. Quatre hid his face in the hood even further.

"Wufei," Heero greeted as they both joined him in front of the teller.

"Heero?"

"Yes."

"And-"

"That's Quatre under the hood and glasses," Heero offered, yanking aforementioned hood off. Quatre looked down on the floor, saying nothing at all. "Having a problem too? The service here is awful."

Wufei's teller cleared her throat, but none of them acknowledged her.

"We'll be working on a new film here in a few days," Wufei explained, leaning on the counter, facing away from his teller. "I need to access my account from there to pay for the hotel and such. I can't use credit. I've been here less than a week and already I'm the victim of identity theft."

"Sounds rough," Heero said and then pointed with a thumb to Quatre. "This guy here may look like a bum off the streets, but he owns the bank."

Finding his shoes twice as interesting than moments before, Quatre made a deeper examination of the laces on his sneakers. They were turning dirty white.

"Seriously?"

"Quatre, help the man."

Nodding his head, he came up to the teller, asking her if there was any way she could help in Wufei's situation. He suggested calling the overseas bank to request authorization, then suggested calling the bank's main office in New York to coordinate the transaction. It took close to an hour to do the whole deal with an 'account specialist' - as the badge's title suggested - to get things done. By the time Wufei had wads of cash in his hands, he was looking at Quatre like he was his long lost friend.

"No problem," he said, responding to the copious amounts of gratitude before pulling his hood back up and exiting the bank. He didn't even wait for Heero to follow. Not a few moments later, Heero followed with their new friend in tow.

"I told him we'd give him a ride," Heero said, pushing the button of the key to open the car. "He rides shotgun. Quatre, get in the back."

Wufei's blinks of confusion didn't bother him as he entered the back passenger seat of the car, strapping himself in without being told then curling up on the side facing away from the window. He pulled his hood further over his face then adjusted his dark glasses to make sure they were still secure on his head.

"Withdrawal symptoms," Heero explained after entering the vehicle. "You'll have to forgive the unsociable behavior."

He imagined Wufei was nodding at that, not commenting on his problem. He barely knew him as they shot very little scenes together, but Quatre decided that he already liked the guy. He didn't pry.

The engine started before Heero pulled off the curb to drive them to a place only Quatre could guess. He turned the air conditioning intended for the back seats off and listened in on to their conversation.

"Nice car," Wufei started. There was a snort before Heero responded.

"You think I'd own a Mercedes? This is Quatre's."

There was silence, the sound of the radio being turned on, stations being picked and settled on, followed by the next topic.

"Does he even know where Duo lives, to mail that check you were talking about?"

"I suppose he didn't think that far ahead," Heero said derisively. Quatre heard it but did not react. He had forgotten that most important part. His hand went for the blank check inside the pocket of his hoodie. He would have to hunt down that information somewhere.

"So it was Duo's stylist who decided on the dark hair?"

Apparently, they'd talked about so many topics that he was unaware of on the way to the car.

"Maybe he wanted one blond at a time."

What followed were peals of laughter. Quatre had never heard either of them laugh before so he was partly intrigued. He looked at the two men sitting in front of him. They seemed to be getting along, far better than what he expected.

"That look was ridiculous, even for a film. The braid back then was already pushing it. Don't tell me he's still trying to compete. Aren't you both originally from New York?"

Wufei looked at the rear view mirror to address him. He uncurled and sat up to respond properly.

"Duo has his reasons," Quatre defended, crossing his arms in the process. It wasn't easy dealing with Duo, but that didn't mean he didn't understand. "I'm from Manhattan. He's from the Bronx."

"Night and day," Heero concluded, not taking his eyes away from the road. "We should grab something to eat."

Quatre's ears perked up.

"There's this Greek chicken place on-"

"Oh, I know where that is." Heero cut him off, looking at his rear view mirror with a critical eye. Quatre did his best to keep it cool. "That's in the bad part of town."

"The chicken's-"

"Good. I know. Their fries are good too, but I'm not taking you there, not even if you're brunette. You won't be there for the chicken anyway."

Wufei turned in his seat to look behind and it was all Quatre could do to shy away from any looks of criticism. He kicked his shoes on the carpet. His craving was nowhere near going away. He'd held back all day and though he thought he'd gotten rid of the worst of it, it was coming back again.

"I'm Arab, you know." He sulked in his seat.

"This is not a race issue - not taking you to the bad part of town," Heero explained. "Besides, you are the whitest Arab in the city. It's Fogo de Chão in Beverly Hills for you tonight, Blondie. Now shut up and treat your Chinese friend to a good meal in exchange for having to deal with your awful bank."

Quatre scratched at his arms. Ditching Heero was always an option. Now, if only he could be functional enough to drive…