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""Written By: Switchblade003
Pairing(s): 3+4+3, but for now it’ll prolly have to be 3xleft hand… Warning(s): One character’s return to a shady lifestyle, daddy-angst. Rating: NC-17 Archive: www.wuffie.net, soon it’ll be up on my new site: www.geocities.com/Superfuturesque_sound/ Notes: I know that these updates are slow in comin’ and I apologize, but I accidentally landed myself a job… I’m editing a book for someone, currently, and it’s time-consumin’ as hell. Anyway, I’m introducin’ another G-Boy in this chapter, and I hope you like his new personality. Lol. Also, I made a mistake in the second chapter, so take note of the footnote to the chapter, please. Review Raves: Yay! They love me; they really love me! Takaro: Oh, you poor thing. Here’s more! Cob: Lol! I got a hug! Fabi-chan: I’m sorry you ain’t feelin’ so hot, there, Fabi. E-mail me if you need to talk! ReddAlice: Can I just say, damn!? (Course I can, this is an NC-17 fic!) I love getting’ reviews from you! Thanks for bein’ so thorough, and HONEST! Anyway, I’m goin’ to finally get to Quat’s past in the next chapter. I’ve been holdin’ out for a reason, I promise. Glad you like it, and as far as goin’ professional, I’m not writing anything, yet, but I AM professionally editing someone else’s book. +++ Fight Club Chapter: V—Role Model It had definitely been an awkward few weeks. Trowa sighed explosively, burying his head in his hands as he sat at his desk, ignoring the piles of paperwork around him. He had been attempting to fill out release forms for the local military embassy, but every time he picked up a pen to go through the official letterhead, the teal-blue ink of the Navy seal would catch his eye and his thoughts would resort back to the blonde-haired, blue-eyed brat still living in his apartment. He loved the boy beyond all sense and reason; he truly did. But the teenager was outright avoiding him now, always away at baseball practice, wandering the streets until all hours of the night, or simply ignoring him in front of the television with his countless video games. The blonde, though very mature in his own right, was handling the entire situation like a child, and it was grating on Trowa’s nerves. I need to sit him down and get him to talk to me about this. The naval officer closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair and propping his polished dress shoes up on the edge of his desk. He glanced at his watch, sighing. It was nearly time for his ward to head to practice, after school. The blonde had a game later that evening, around seven. Maybe if he caught him after the game he could offer the boy a ride home and talk to him… +++ The pitcher flicked jagged bright bangs from his eyes, glaring at the anonymous batter standing over home plate. This guy was a switch hitter, and Quatre was praying that he wouldn’t go lefty. It was the bottom of the ninth inning, the bases were loaded, and if this guy managed to get a ground ball to outfield the Tokyo Bay Braves were screwed. Quatre grit his teeth, watching his catcher flashing him the call sign, and he lugged the ball across home plate, holding his breath, and as the dull thump of the ball hitting the catcher’s mitt resounded across the diamond, he smiled. Full-count, and all he needed was one more strike. In the dugout and the bullpen, his teammates were making an awful lot of noise, cheering him on, and yelling out encouragements to their catcher, Chang Wufei. The other teen’s dark brown eyes caught Quatre’s across the plate, and he could almost see the youth smirking behind his equipment. Silently, he dropped a hand between his knees, flashing a sign, and the blonde’s eyes widened. Why does he want a slider? He knows that this guy can’t hit curves, so why…? Chang arched a dark brow at the pitcher, a silent inquiry; is there a problem? Quatre shook his head discreetly, adjusting his cap, and clicked his tongue against his teeth rapidly. He could do this. If he just kept his pitch inside the box, didn’t walk this guy, then they would win the game. Quatre Barton wound his arm back, snapped his wrist forward, and threw the ball has hard as he could across home plate, and his heart pounded in his ears so loudly that he almost missed the soft thump of his pitch colliding with Chang’s mitt. His teammates tore across the field towards him, blue and white jerseys rushing at him and knocking him to the pitcher’s mound. Quatre laughed, pushing his friends away as he tried to right himself, but the rowdy boys continued their joyous dog-pile, and even Chang joined in, throwing down his equipment and pushing his way through his comrades to get at the blonde foreigner. "Barton (1), that was the best slider I’ve ever seen! I can’t believe we won it!" The Arabian laughed, accepting the hand that was offered to him and allowing his catcher to pull him upright. Quatre reached down to brush the dirt from his pants, grinning as the other boys danced around, singing in victory. None of them was so used to such miraculous wins, and with their new pitcher/ catcher combination, they had yet to lose a game. "Hey, I think someone’s waiting for you over by the cage," Chang said, gesturing towards the bleachers, where parents and fellow classmates were filing off of the steel beams and towards their players. Teal eyes darted over towards the area, and Quatre felt his stomach lurch as a single figure stood out amongst the crowd. Trowa was leaning against the cage, green eyes hopeful as he watched his charge, and when he caught the boy’s gaze he waved slightly. "Isn’t that your dad?" Chang was still at his side, his catcher’s mask held under one arm as he watched the man. Frowning, the Arabian shook his head, turning his back on the brunette, sighing. "No, he’s my foster-father." Quatre felt his heart constrict almost painfully as his former teacher’s familiar tenor called out to him from across the field, and he ignored it, snagging the Chinese youth’s arm and tugging him towards the outfield, where the parking lot to the school lay in the distance. Chang followed wordlessly, a bit confused, but then Quatre often behaved strangely. It was something that he’d become accustomed to over the past four months, and he accepted his friend’s odd and admittedly erratic logic. "Where are we going?" he asked quietly, fierce dark eyes taking in the rather attractive profile of the younger boy. The Arabian chewed his lower lip for a moment as they walked, pulling his baseball cap off and running a hand through his sweat-mated bangs. He glanced over at his Asian companion, and the darker-haired young man could see that the side of Quatre that he had grown so close to had replaced the pensive, pained side of the blonde. The orphan gave him a small grin and slung an arm over his shoulders. "To your car, of course. Mind if I stay over again, tonight?" Chang smiled; it was damned-near contagious when the Moslem grinned like that. The boy had been spending more and more time at his house, though he certainly didn’t mind the company. He lived alone as an exchange student from Hong Kong, and the shorter foreigner had brightened up his dreary, lonely life considerably In the past few months. He rarely spoke of his home life, however, and it was a growing concern for the dark-eyed youth. Hastily, he chanced a look over his shoulder and at the bleachers, and the brunette man was still standing behind the chain-linked fence. Chang was harboring an ever-expanding curiosity about that man. His name was Trowa, from what the blonde had told him, and he worked for the United States Navy; he had adopted the boy almost seven months ago. Quatre had seemed happy enough with the man until almost two months ago, and then he had begun avoiding his home and father. Something had transpired between the two, some altercation of which the blonde refused to speak, and Chang felt a responsibility to get to the bottom of it. He and his own late father had suffered a rift, and he didn’t want to see Quatre regret any actions or words he might have exchanged with the man, who obviously cared for him a great deal. Tonight, however, was still young, and after that mind-blowing game, their star pitcher deserved a vacation from his home-life problems. As they made their way through the parking lot, dodging cars and waving at various other students and fellow players, Quatre found the Chinese youth’s vehicle, a sleek metallic blue Honda Civic. The boy had customized the car, adding ground-effects, paneling, and a spoiler, and he had hinted that he raced it illegally on occasion. The black-haired catcher opened the trunk and threw his gear inside, Quatre doing the same with his glove and cap, and as they went to climb inside, the blonde found himself being nudged towards the driver’s side. "Wufei?" he asked, and the other boy merely smirked, tossing him the keys over the roof of the car as he got into the passenger’s seat. "You’re driving, tonight. We can go home and shower, and then we’re going out." The Arabian’s blue eyes widened as he watched Chang calmly snap his seat belt on and adjust the seat. "I don’t have a license… Are you serious?" Intense, dark brown eyes caught his and Chang reached across the console, grabbing of a hold of the waistband of the blonde’s pants and pulling him into the small sports-car. "Yes, I’m serious." He sighed. He had figured that Quatre might have been a little reluctant to do anything illicit; he didn’t seem like the type. "C’mon, when was the last time that you did something dangerous?" The mischievous spark in the turquoise eyes both surprised the Chinese youth and thrilled him. Quatre knew that he was under strict scrutiny every month by the social services agent in charge of his case, was well aware that he was due up for a drug and alcohol screening in less than a week. He remembered that Trowa could very well lose him to the state of California if he failed his tests, and he knew that he was still on probation—something as trivial as a misdemeanor could land him in the nearest US-jurisdiction military prison. Quatre just didn’t care. The blonde shoved the key into the ignition, starting the car and revving the engine. He grinned at his friend and put his arm across the back of the passenger seat, turning to glance out the back windshield as he threw the car into reverse. He pulled out of the parking lot, the tires screeching against the pavement, and as he swung out onto the main road, he shot a look over at the smugly smiling Asian boy. "Fine, but don’t blame me if we end up getting arrested, tonight." +++ TBC. (1) I believe that in the second chapter I said that Quatre’s last name was still ‘Winner.’ His coach referred to him by his former last name, but it’s actually ‘Barton,’ now. Sorry! Uh, oh… Quatre’s back to illegal activities and trouble-making. Poor Trowa’s in for some problems, now. Here’s your quote—Role Model: "Our father’s were our role models for God; if our fathers bailed, then what does that tell you about God?"
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