Disclaimer: Still own nothing but the style (Geez, do I have to mention this every chapter? Is once at the beginning of the story not enough?)

MEETING GAZZA

Whatever the police uses to put people to sleep – it's effective as hell. And it doesn't even leave behind a headache.

Much.

The back of my head stung, but that was it. I felt people around me, but heard them leaving as I pretended to still be out of it.

Then I opened my eyes, lifted my head, sat up a little, took in the unfamiliar hospital-like room around me – and finally ended up meeting a pair of startled green eyes.

Dark green.

The boy they belonged to looked as surprised as I was. The thought 'who the hell has been so bloody brilliant and put me in a boy's room?' touched my mind as he gave a frightened yelp and stammered: "Hey, G-g-g-g-g-g-gaga-Girl! Who are you?"

Geez. Blind much?

"I ain't no G-g-g-g-g-g-gaga-Girl! And I don't answer questions." Attack is the best defense, after all. "Who are you?" I demanded.

Taken down a peg – and calmer now – he started introducing himself. Went well enough. The first "Well, I'm…" sounded decent enough – and then he blew it. Looking slightly confused, he finished "I-I-I don't know who I am!"

"Oh, right…" Stammering and memory loss…

The confusion went away as fast as it had come, and he continued with a confident air: "Well, but my name is Galileo Figaro!"

Ga – what?

And why does he know his name but not who he is? Isn't that what a name is for? Loony. But he was there, and he was someone new, and maybe he was different. So I turned to him and drew up my legs, hugging them loosely to me. Trying to make - conversation

"That's a cool name!" The sarcasm in my voice could have cut down trees. He went unfazed by it. Completely oblivious.

He thanked me with a very cheery smile, his mood immediately brightening.

"I wasn't being serious!" Memo to myself: this guy doesn't get my humor. Or what's left of it, anyway. I really wanted to talk to him, though, but there was no way in hell I was going to remember that name. "Mind if I shorten it?"

He looked a little taken aback – really, does this guy wear his every thought on his sleeve? – but slowly, hesitatingly he answered "Well, I guess Galileo would…" I wasn't even going to think about calling him that, so I just stopped him halfway, taking "I guess" as all the invite I needed.

"Sooo, Gazza." I made myself comfortable on the stretcher. The perplex look grew stronger on his face. God, he looked like a kicked puppy… "Tell me. Why were you arrested?" He looked harmless enough, but better safe than sorry, right?

His kicked-puppy-look dropped as fast as it had appeared. Now he looked eager. I guess he would have wagged his tail if he had one… He leaned forward, and I drew myself up again, still cautious. Especially as he proceeded to explain that he heard sounds in his head. "Words and sounds!" Boy, this guy could squeak! His excitement dropped a bit and he matter-of-factly, although a bit dejected, stated "Well, I-I-I'm mad, you see."

Well so far I liked his way of mad, and he seemed nice enough. But he telling me why he was here reminded me that I was there, too, in the same situation, and it got me a bit mad, myself. Plus, I asked himhim why he had been arrested, so it was only fair if I told him my reason, right? While protesting, of course.

"I was arrested because they don't like the WAY I DRESS!" The last words I screamed in direction of the door, being sure that there was someone out there who heard me. Wanker.

Gazza first looked stunned at my outburst and then at my clothes, like he only registered them now. Then, with a nervous, bashful smile, he said: "I think you dress beautifully!"

Okay.

First: never had anybody told me something like that.

Second: his hopeful, friendly smile is absolutely adorable (Geez, did I really think that? So not like me…).

For a moment I actually let myself feel flattered. "Nice…" His smile grew.

But then came Third: Beautiful is the last word that could possibly describe anything about me.

Fourth: I knew my sewing sucks.

And Fifth: He is mad, girl. Said so himself, remember? Don't wish, don't start…

And so, becoming myself again, I beat the feeling down.

"'Cept – coming from a self-confessed nutter – NOT!"

And him, it seems. Because the kicked-puppy-face was back in action. I looked for a topic – anything to erase that look (and to lead away from the topic of me) – and remembered his eagerness at talking about the sounds in his head. Well, that one was as good as any other.

Plus, I was mildly curious, anyway.

"What sounds do you hear?"

Getting rid of the kicked puppy? Success.

Getting any information? Not so much.

While frantically scanning the room with his eyes he answered with the sentence I now was so used to hear from him. "I-I don't know."

How utterly annoying. I was trying here? Like, really hard? People just don't appreciate effort anymore…

Slowly, like talking to a child (well he reminded me of one, anyway, what with his constant nervous nose-wiping and innocent eyes) I asked "Do you know a-ny-thing?"

He actually furrowed his brow at that. "W-Well, yes, I…"

Thinking.

And then, proudly: "I know that I am different!"

Well, hello, Captain Obvious!

But then he slumped down again and continued in a voice that was both dejected and disdainful: "Which is why the boys from the Boy Zone hate me!"

I should have known that the only place I would find someone like me was in some sort of hell-hole like this. It made me forgive and forget almost everything else. I inched nearer, opening up, and cheerily told him that the Gaga-Girls hate me!

For some very strange reason, that made him perk up. "Do you know why they hate you?"

Okay, that was plain rude. And easy to answer.

"Yeah, they think I'm a lesbian because I don't wear pastels." Never understood what that had to do with being lesbian, but then again, when did Gaga-Girls of all people ever make sense? I even doubt they know what the word means.

Gazza looked as if he had never heard anything quite so stupid. "They hate you because they're scared of you!"

Well, there was that, too.

He continued, clearly struggling for a good way to explain. "Because… you're… different!" Obviously. "You're – well – a-a-a-an individual!"

"Yeah." I looked away, uncomfortable. God, this guy was so cute. Far too cute. He knew me like what, fifteen minutes? And he already grew on me. But the conversation took a wrong turn again. It got too near on the topic of talking about me.

Again.

Far too near for comfort Calm, girl… change the topic. Something… I reached up to fiddle with my hair and felt the soft fabric of the bandage around my head that I had ignored so far. There had been more pressing matters. Finding out if he was dangerous, and then I simply… forgot while talking to him… But now the fact that we both had bandaged heads caused me to worry again.

"What you think they did to us?"

He resumed his nervous scanning of the room while answering "I don't know." And for once I couldn't blame him for that. I didn't, either. And that frightened me. "Do you think they'll ever give up? And just leave us alone?" How strange that I talked of "us" already. But it somehow seemed normal to be with him.

In a good way.

Natural.

Gazza looked at me a bit puzzled. "Don't you see?" See what, exactly? "We're a threat!"

I didn't understand how I could be a threat. All I did was not be like everyone else. (And hacking into websites… and tampering with little gizmos I 'found' here and there…) The boy saw ma puzzled look and tried a different approach, eager again.

"A-a Virus. On their Hard-Drive." Oh, now he was talking computers. I got those. "And they won't give up until they pointed their little arrow at us –"

I got his drift. What did you do with a virus? Right – "and dragged us to 'trash'!"

I looked up, only now realizing how near we were to each other. Looked up into innocent, forest green eyes that held a sort of realization, and felt something bubble up inside my chest, something unknown and strange, some sort of –

"Pressure!"

My god, I was singing again. WE were singing!

"Pressing down on me! Pressing down on you! No man ask for…"

Where did these words come from? Why did Gazza sing the same thing as me? Or was it the other way around?

"Under Pressure!" I didn't care. I was singing again, and the words fit the situation, getting rid of a lot of anxiousness. It felt good to not keep in my feelings. I looked around as Gazza sang alone "Which puts a building down – splits families in two…" Getting his drift I chimed in: "Puts people on streets!"

Looking around for a way to get out, I just let the melody flow, without words, slightly startled as Gazza did the same thing. I chanced a quick look at him. He looked down, distressed – maybe his mentioning of split up families hadn't been coincidental – and without thinking I reached across the small gap between our stretchers to lightly touch his hand. "That's okay!"

He looked at me, surprised, and I self-consciously drew my hand back, fiddling with my hair. An almost heartbroken look crossed his face as he explained to me – still singing, and leaning over – "It's the terror of knowing what this world is about!"

I knew that feeling all too well.

So I added "It's watching some good friends screaming" he caught on "Let me out!"

A hopeful smile played around his lips despite the situation as he continued "Pray tomorrow gets me higher!"

Higher – away from this "Pressure on People – People on streets!" I sang, joining in.

He sang a few notes without words to match again, looking ready to burst.

From that moment on I could tell that the music spoke more clearly to him than to me.

I gave him my consent – a single "Okay!" and suddenly he stood, singing, and the bubbling feeling from before got stronger, causing me to loosen up – hell, I dangled my legs, like a little kid, singing nonsense notes that nonetheless actually harmonized with the lines he was singing, getting more and more lost in the feeling of singing, smiling, forgetting where we were. Singing at the top of my lungs. I looked at Gazza, he looked at me, and I kneeled on the stretcher again, singing to him, with him, still without words, wondering how he never once stumbled or stuttered while he sang.

This was his turf.

And I was allowed to share it.

I never felt better. I stood up, too, stomping on the stretcher, in protest, in sheer childish exhilaration, needing to somehow let out the building tension as I listened to Gazza sing. And the frustration as his voice started to remind me of something, but I couldn't figure out what it was. As if on cue, we took off the bandages, repeating the phrase "Let me out!" from before, Gazza bunching it up and throwing it away, me stretching it, glad to have another thing to fiddle with. Again his voice made me stomp, my stomach bubble, and I stretched the fabric over my head, singing "Pressure on People – People on streets!" as he drew out his last note. I turned to him again, smiling elated, meeting his now sparkling green eyes – and suddenly I recognized him.

He was that boy I saw on Graduation day!

Suddenly self-conscious again (I remembered the way I had thought about him then) I dropped down again, fast, facing away from him. The music flowed gentler, now, but I was wound up again. Because I remembered how I "Turned away from it all like a blind man" Gazza was singing with me? The same words, the same sorrow. The knot in my chest slowly loosened as we continued. "Sat on a fence, but it don't work"

Forest green eyes looked desperate as Gazza leaned in, explaining "Keep coming up with love, but it's all slashed and torn!" He really was like me. Try to open up, try giving love, and all you get is hurt. I remembered… my parents, the kids in school when I was younger – and I asked. "Why? Why?" Gazza chimed in, asking as well, drawing out that single syllable until I looked up from the mangled bandage in my hands, into his eyes – and then he started to smile, a mischievous spark in his eyes, that smile of his creeping up his face – and somehow I got his idea.

We jumped off the stretchers, shoving them away – mine landed with a very satisfying "Crunch" in a few monitors – and I knew we had to move, but right now all I wanted was to continue singing, even though words seemed to fail me, so I simply continued chanting "Love" over and over.

And then I looked out the window for a way to escape, anyway.

We were on ground level, on the backside, there was a lot of empty alleys leading away, and it was the middle of the night. How convenient.

I waved Gazza over and we climbed out of the window – he clumsily, me with the ease of practice I got from sneaking in and out of places I was or wasn't supposed to be in – ducking into the next alley. Gazza looked back to the window, to the hospital that remained silent, and his elated grin plus the knowledge that we were free made me giddy. And then he sang again. "Insanity laughs, under pressure we're cracking!"

Well I was running away with a guy who I only met minutes ago – a guy who admitted to being mad – without anything in our possession except our clothes and the bandage I still twisted in my hands, and we were singing out loud in the proximity of a building we had been captured in seconds ago. And I didn't give a damn.

We were as good as dead to anyone who ever knew us, anyway, so "Why can't we give ourselves one more chance?"

Start anew.

He answered, likewise. "Why can't we give love that one more chance?"

Yeah, why not? Starting to walk away from the hospital, deeper into the maze of broken-down houses, I chanted "Why can't we give love, give love…"

He ran after me, ahead of me, chuckling, scouting out the streets while I lost myself in the chant – until I realized exactly what I was saying.

I stopped, embarrassed, only to hear him sing a soft "'Cause love's such an old-fashioned word…" from the other end of the crossroad we were currently standing at. I couldn't remember how we got here for the life of me, and the looming hospital had somehow vanished.

And then his eyes caught mine and everything else vanished as well.

Except those green eyes, and his voice, and the music that held me now in an even firmer grab.

Supplying me with words again.

Words he shared, his eyes never leaving mine. "And love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night… And love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves…" I raised the notes slightly "This is our last chance… this is our last dance…"

Words failed me again, as I saw that tender flicker in his green eyes as he breathed "This is ourselves…" Our selves… our true selves, the ones that come out when you're "Under pressure…"

I could see the light gold and silver flecks in his eyes as we drew ever nearer…

"Under pressure" our voices got softer, and I felt him towering over me, felt myself straining upwards – and suddenly the music was gone, and I realized where I was – heck, when did we get so near each other? Why was he leaning in? Why was I reaching up? And what in God's name had ever possessed me to think of him as a child?

The moment was broken, and it left me shy, self-conscious, uncomfortable – and to my utter shame, slightly disappointed. I looked away, fast, heard him utter a nervous chuckle, and desperately trying to explain, to protect myself again, I muttered "Pressure".

It was a jinx. But at least it solved the situation.

We moved apart, me fiddling with my hair, he stuffing his hands into the pockets of his old jeans, both of us silent. Then my survival instinct kicked in again. "So… where do we go?"

Back to Gaga-land was out of option – we would be recaptured before we could say "Globalsoft" – plus, I liked the drab colors of this broken-down Quarter in the middle of god-knows-where far better than the pastels of there, and I bet Gazza did, too (judging from his black leatherjacket and rebelliously spiked jet-black hair – not to speak of the ripped old jeans and army boots). But maybe he knew some place I didn't.

"Well…"

Obviously not.

But then he continued, once more excited. "Out into the night! Down into the streets!" Well, we got that part covered already. "W-We're rebels now!" I stomped my foot – damn right we are! – and he ruined the moment. His voice dropping to a tone he maybe thought manly, he pointed at me and said "Cause Baby, we were born to run!".

Which is what he did, then, skipping like a little boy. The hell? "Don't call me 'baby'!"

He turned around, chuckling. Chuckling! "Sorry, it's just a phrase I heard in my head!"

Oh, is that so? "Yeah?"

He shrugged, at least trying not to look too smug for his own good. "Yeah!"

I stormed past him, smiling – and shooting a cheery sounding, annoyed "Keep it there!" in his face that made him drop his smile in an instant, keeping him rooted to the spot for a while.

Then he ran after me again and started chattering as if nothing ever happened.