Richard Cameron had always prided himself on being an early bird. Of course, the one waking up first gets all the juice, the worms, and the advantages. Recently had he begun to regret his 'talent,' since his mornings had been but interrupted by particularly unpleasant noises of his—gulp—roommate and a certain girl he had refused to name. He had no business listening—eavesdropping, more like—on the couple's 'business.' Fortunately they had quitted a habit of occupying his bed, leaving him to suffer—if his pillows did not block the sounds well enough—in peace, at least on his own territory.
As much as Cameron's side of the room was impeccably flawless and by-the-book, his bed always neatly made, his books stacked atop alphabetically on his working table, Charlie's posed a complete opposite. Carvings of girls' names, hearts, on the bedside wall, combined with a disarray of books and papers on the table, which appeared as if a small bomb had landed on it, spelled revolt, true to its owner's every intention.
Cameron awoke, sighing contentedly at the tranquility of the room. There was the peace and quiet he yearned for, the boisterous silence filling the space, hushing other sounds, the neat, made bed on the other side of the room—
Hold on, a neat, made bed?
No girls?
That….was unexpected.
Either Charlie had woken up early and made his bed (a chance rarer than winning a lottery ticket), or he had not been sleeping here at all.
Cameron, only the practical one, opted for the second choice. He stood up, made his bed in one quick motion (if you had practiced some chores dutifully enough, he believed, it's instilled in your brain), and headed for the door.
The other Poets would call him a killjoy again, but he was knocking on their doors to inquire the whereabouts of the Poet who had labeled him 'killjoy,' in the first place. They had all better be grateful to him for informing them the news.
A groggy Neil Perry, his hair uncombed and messy, met his eyes. The Society's founder, dressed in the all-too-familiar striped pajamas, rubbed his eyes, attempting to stifle his yawn. Following close behind was the 'stiff,' Todd Anderson, who stood, wide-eyed in puzzlement at Cameron's appearance.
"Good morning," said Cameron, just to be civil. Neil nodded dazedly in response.
"Wha—why are you up so early for?" he asked.
Todd seconded in a soft utter. "It's, um, six in the morning!"
"Just…wait," Cameron awkwardly held up his right hand. As if he had done something like this before. It was usually Charlie's job—this hurried informing everyone. "Let me call the others, so I can tell you all at the same time."
Knox did not come to open the door. Rather, there was his roomate, a blank-faced boy, his blonde hair cropped short, who pointed his index finger to the bed behind him. "Overstreet?" said the guy. "Come get him. Been mumbling about some girl."
Cameron shook his head wearily, as he walked over to Knox's bed. The lovesick brownhead was clutching his pillow, whispering, "Chris, Chris," and rolling back and forth on his bed, eyes closed.
He put a hand on Knox's shoulders, shaking the Romantic Poet awake. Knox's eyelids fluttered open, its owner asking, "What, Cammy?" in a tone he found difficult to decipher the infiltered emotion.
He was no less than Nuwanda sometimes, thought Cameron, irated.
"C'mon, get to your door," he dragged Knox over to the door, positioning himself in the doorway, between the two sides of the rooms.
Thanks to Neil, a half-asleep Pitts was comically leaning on the faltering Meeks, both of them peeking out of their doorway.
"Now what?" Neil demanded.
Cameron glanced at his fellow Poets' faces. "What?" he repeated. "Haven't you noticed a thing? Not that I care, but it seems that our Nuwanda is…ah, missing, so say I, I'm his roommate."
Silence.
Neil's eyes widened first, the other boys' followed suit. "You're…sure?" he asked.
Cameron shrugged. "I don't know, but even if he's with that girl, he'd come back."
Neil headed to Charlie's room, at Cameron's panning hand, the boys hurrying after him.
Five pairs of hands scavenged Charlie's side of the room so thoroughly Cameron was secretly thankful it was not his side. He stood silently by, watching the search. Neither of the boys, sleep washing over their eyes, seemed to have found any traces of evidence, when, after ten interminably long minutes, Todd fished out a small letter, hidden beneath Charlie's bedsheets.
He handed the paper to Neil, naturally.
The boys crowded around him, anxiety coloring their expressions. "What? What does it say, Neil?"
Neil scrutinized the paper, reading and rereading the message, though Cameron, at a split second stare, spotted the one word scribbled on the paper. And a kiss, a girl's lipstick mark, beneath the word.
A name. A signature. That much was clear.
"Audrey," said Neil quietly, "It said, 'Audrey.'"
Xxxx
They spotted the girl where they had heard from Charlie so often that he had stalked her. Hagar's office, presumably. And there she was. Red hair, green eyes, a handsome build, a British accent. It was unmistakenly her.
But why had she looked so surprised to see them?
"Audrey?" called Neil, a bit hesitantly, and the girl turned, her face a perfect imitation of Todd's.
"Yes?" she replied, puzzled, looking the Poets up and down. "Who are you guys?"
Neil was on the verge of explaining to her, though the worried Knox had her by the arm in seconds, leading her to the library. "You must come with us at once, miss," he said to the struggling girl.
"What? Where are you taking me? Why?" stream of questions escaped the girl's lips.
Knox chuckled in response, his face deadpan.
"Oh, I thought you'd know better."
xxxx
"So you met my girlfriend?"
Charlie perked up at the (not-so)-greeting, eyeing the newcomer. He had to praise Audrey. That girl always had taste (and, of course, that but included him in toll). The young man standing in front of him was every bit gangsta-like. Alex, tall and lanky, sported a mob of short, shaggy light brown hair, his blue eyes, mixed with tints of green, sparkled with hints of boyish excitement.
He rolled his eyes. "Audrey, you mean?"
Alex flashed him a transient grin, settling down beside his captive spot. "You could call her my girlfriend," he said, "Thought not necessarily. She told me not to."
Charlie raised a curious eyebrow.
"Otherwise, formally," continued Alex, "We're partners in crime."
Charlie glanced away from the young man, focusing his attention on the ship's interior. "Never mind how you're related," he said, "It doesn't very much concern me." He aimed a weak kick at Alex, who, to his annoyance, dodged in time. "What the hell were you two doing kidnapping me anyway?"
"Take, for instance," replied Audrey's supposed boyfriend, "The fact that you're the number two on Wellton's richest boys list?"
Number Two Richest Boy gave a shrug. "You didn't consider Peyton, did you?"
Alex whistled. "Ah, that. Don't play games with me, Dalton. You know how big a nerd that guy is. You're the easiest bait to lure, my boy."
"You can't blame me for liking girls," he replied, chuckling.
A slap on his shoulder. "That's exactly the point, isn't it?"
Charlie closed his eyes, feigning deep consideration of the matter, when in fact he wanted to turn away from the whole scene, back to his bed at Hellton, even beside Cameron would be more preferable than beside this 'Alex,' guy.
Alex's rhetorical question drummed his mind incessantly.
Girls. That's exactly the point, isn't it?
Isn't it?
A/N: Hansi, I don't know who I'm writing this for anymore, if not for you. I'm writing it for you, especially for you, and for me, for fun, for the sake of writing alone. No one's reading and reviewing this anymore.
But thanks, if you happen to wander/stumble by,
Loves,
Your ever humble fanfic writer :)
