The door didn't close behind Matthew and Gilbert. It wasn't like Gilbert was doing anything productive during practice, anyway. Alfred had shooed Gilbert away. That was an action Matthew understood as Gilbert not needing to be around for the rest of practice. Therefore, he came to the conclusion that Gilbert was allowed to spend his free time as he chose without consequence.
"What's on the agenda now?" Gilbert asked as he and Matthew walked away from the band practice room. A few feet away from the band room was a barren plaza, which was almost always lacking in people sitting in the meager (and frankly uncomfortable) metal green chairs haphazardly placed around the thin tables. The plaza was meant to encourage socializing ou, but in reality, it was used for stressed out students to relieve their tension by having very loud mental meltdowns.
(It was also used for students in particular to tick off public sex off of their bucket list: since there was so much wide open space, and plenty of chronically empty classrooms, students were able to have wild and ridiculous semi-public space. As a snarky introvert, he could never imagine doing something that he thought was meant for privacy in such a public space.)
The horrifying mental image aside, Matthew enjoyed this plaza, and how it overlooked stairs that led to a sculpture garden created by alumni from years past. The beauty of the pieces were accentuated by the wonderfully cultivated grass, and the surprising phenomenal variety of various plants that had a huge range of vivid, breath taking color. Matthew found that the art pieces themselves were surreal, abstract, and utterly meaningless to someone who wasn't predisposed to thinking in an artistic way. As much as Matthew was a music geek, and a self-declared connoisseur of music, he was cursed to extreme, painful tone-deafness. That directly contradicted with his love of music. As long as Matthew could convince the intense, musically talented Gilbert to believe that Matthew was more musically inclined beyond a casual enjoyment of music, Matthew was fine.
Matthew was stuck in his reverie for long enough to remember that Gilbert stared at him with those intense blue eyes, waiting for an answer.
"There is no agenda," Matthew said, with a laid back shrug.
"That's...so weird."
"Why's that? You seem pretty care free to me. I can't believe you're not the type to love unstructured downtime."
Gilbert had a look in his eyes that Matthew couldn't interpret properly. Something like a cringe, but laced with anxiety instead of disgust.
"I like having a schedule, that's all. No biggie, dude." Gilbert sounded a little too aggressive in his reassurance, but Matthew didn't find a reason to exert the energy to bother about his tone.
"If you insist…" Matthew said. A heartbeat's length of silence fell between them, which turned into a longer time of silence as Matthew pulled out some homework he needed to finish. He focused so intensely that he forgot the world for a moment.
"I can't believe you can do homework with your hair in your eyes," Gilbert laughed to himself, as if he wasn't talking to anyone.
"...You talking to me?" Matthew asked.
"Yeah, duh! Who else has long hair at this table?" Gilbert ran boastful fingers through his short dyed silver hair. He seemed to take pride in the fact that his hair looked blonder in the sunlight with the roots growing out. It was longer in the front to make sure he could at least stylize it soFor a brief moment, Matthew felt insecure about his thick wavy blond locks. He intentionally kept his hair a little longer than his chin to challenge the fact that guys were allegedly supposed to have their hair short. He tied his
"Is it a good thing? You know, you mentioning my hair length." Matthew clarified, hoping to get some solid answers. Gilbert shrugged, scoffing at Matthew's question as if he had asked the stupidest question known to the universe.
"Sure. Why else would I mention it? Wouldn't want to waste my breath on useless chatter," Gilbert said. He kept his eyes focused on a sketchbook full of what looked like hasty portraits of people, where pencil lines were uncontrolled and people looked more like fantastical, supernatural beings instead of human. There were some pictures of breathtaking scenery that would've looked at home in a science fiction movie. Matthew couldn't help but be curious. He tried to lean over and take a peak.
"What're you drawing?" Matthew asked.
"Nothing," Gilbert responded too quickly, closing his lovingly battered notebook with a thud. They made meaningful eye contact for a few moments. Matthew never realized until now that he hadn't got a good look at Gilbert's face. It was still cut up, but the once deep scars closed up well enough to look like he had reasonably fallen down. Colorful bruises bloomed around his chest, neck, and arms. Gilbert showed off these bruises with pride in a dark v-neck t-shirt that accentuated his pain. He probably thought he earned this.
"Your scars are healing surprisingly fast," Matthew blurted, unsure as to why he mentioned the battle scars that Gilbert faced in that unknown fight the other day.
"I'm glad you noticed," Gilbert said, puffing his chest up in arrogance. Matthew smiled: Gilbert always seemed to brighten with compliments. Before anyone could continue the conversation, a shrill shriek pierced the air. Matthew and Gilbert were struck with panic.
"The scream is coming from the gazebos in the sculpture garden!" Gilbert said, and he sprung into action. Matthew followed him to make sure he didn't get himself into a stupid, violent situation. They left their stuff behind. They ran to the source of the screams, the euphoria from anxiety and the unknown fueling their running. Matthew wheezed as he kept behind Gilbert, noting that he'd have to exercise more to get in better shape. Gilbert was coordinated, never once tripping over the stairs in their speed.
There was a baby-faced brunette being punched, kicked, and scratched by the same thugs who hurt Gilbert. The attackers wore similar style clothing from the night Gilbert was hurt, which was weird to the observant Matthew. He figured they wouldn't want to get caught, and that they'd make themselves look different to not get guy being attacked was bleeding pretty profusely on the ground, unable to get up from his spot for fear of more pain. His incoherent, loud sobs would've grabbed attention if it weren't for the fact that they were in a semi-remote area. Whatever information was needed from the baby-faced brunette wouldn't come out, due to the incoherence.
Gilbert, despite being slight but somewhat wiry in build and of average height, could hold his own in a fight. Frenzied adrenaline must've helped when he jumped into the fight. Matthew remained frozen in his tracks. Matthew's brain must've shut off in fear. Without warning, as Gilbert fought off the thugs, Matthew jumped in to save the brunette, leading him away from the scene of the crime.
"Don't say anything, just let me take you to the nurse's office," Matthew said to the crying brunette who wore an all-khaki ensemble soaked with blood, and whose boots were scuffed beyond recognition. Matthew let the brunette use him as a crutch. They hobbled to the nurse. This was an effort that seemed to overwhelm both of them, even though the walk from the sculpture garden to the nurse's office was only a mere five hundred or so feet away.
Matthew hated how the nurse's office required walking through a menacing, blindingly beige hallway and a carpet that looked like it was meticulously cleaned to the point of uselessness but not replaced since the mid-eighties. It housed offices designated for registering for classes, various tenured professors, admissions, and other official places. Matthew felt like dozens of eyes were suddenly glaring at him, passing intense judgment.
The nurse's office was hidden at the end of the hall, the heavy brown door and windows covered by blinds to indicate a sense of privacy. Matthew knocked, just to be polite. The door was ajar, so Matthew let himself in; the nurse was actually a thin, austere but efficient and kind Chinese man Matthew knew as Wang Yao.
"I'm Romano Vargas, and I'm in trouble," the brunette Matthew knew as Romano wheezed, collapsing on the couch decorated with thick red quilts to make the otherwise sterile, lemon-scented office look inviting instead of cold and bleak, like most offices. Yao dismissed Matthew out of the office with what looked like a nod of approval. Matthew inhaled and exhaled deeply. He was still shaking. Adrenaline exiting his body had left him drained. Gilbert appeared through the double doors that posed as an entrance to the office building where they both stood. Gilbert, despite having more cuts, scratches, and bruises, gleamed bright in his triumphant victory against the attackers.
"Damn it, Gilbert!" Matthew screeched as he led Gilbert outside.
"What? What'd I do?" Gilbert asked, the fiery, frantic gleam in eyes disappearing.
"You have some explaining to do," Matthew said, trying to keep the fierce, angry edge out of his voice.
"That kid-"
"His name's Romano! I had to take him to the nurse's office," Matthew interrupted.
"Romano was being attacked by the same assholes who hurt me. Saving him was the least I could do."
"I saw that. But what I want to know is what you're doing with your life that you're being attacked, and you're leading others to be hurt in the same violent way as you." Gilbert shushed Matthew, which made him a little irate.
"That's a story for another day. For now, let's clean our wounds and finish our homework." Matthew wanted to interrogate Gilbert, for this situation created more questions than it did answers. But it would be illogical to launch an interrogation now, especially when Gilbert had barely healed from his last bout of fighting. More wounds had opened, and they needed to be taken care of.
By the time Matthew and Gilbert reached the table with all of their stuff strewn unceremoniously across the tables, Francis and Alfred had made themselves comfortable on the table.
"Dude, where'd you guys go?" ALfred asked, his voice so incredulous and upset that Matthew didn't recognize it.
"More importantly," Francis asked in a too calm, too smooth voice, "what happened to your guys' faces?" Matthew touched Gilbert's cheekbone: blood dripped.
"Let me clean you up, Gilbert," Matthew said sharply to Gilbert, who merely looked sheepish. Matthew turned to Francis and Alfred.
"If you don't mind, I'll need to clean Gilbert first before you two interrogate him. He has some explaining to do."