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" Fight Club "Written By: Switchblade003
Warning(s): Character threats, author angst Rating: NC-17 Archive: www.wuffie.net, soon it’ll be up
on my new site: www.geocities.com/Superfuturesque_sound/ Notes: Lol. I’d like to say ‘props’
to ShenLong for his fic "Bunny Love." That was hysterical!
I’ll never see the Cadbury Easter bunny the same way, again!
Review Raves: Heh. Don’t know what I’d
do without some of this insightful input… +++ Fight Club
Throwing an arm across his pained blue eyes, Quatre
groaned, his free hand groping about the plush surface upon which
he was sprawled. Instead of encountering the slick leather of Chang’s
couch, he felt cool cotton sheets, and as his hand searched further,
it encountered a warm, jeans-clad thigh. The blonde removed his forearm from his face and groaned
as he turned his head, his fuzzy vision settling upon the all-too
familiar form of his foster-father, perched cross-legged on the mattress
beside him—their mattress, he realized—and the man did not
look pleased. "Take these, and drink this." His normally
expressive, soft tenor was hard, angry, so un-Trowa-like that it almost
scared the Moslem. He tried to push himself into a sitting position,
but his elbows gave out, and he collapsed back onto the bed in a pathetic
heap. Quatre didn’t understand how he’d gotten back home,
or where he’d gotten the spectacular hangover now assaulting
his senses, but all he could do was whimper in discomfort as Trowa
heaved a long-suffered sigh and moved toward him, scooping the boy
up in his free arm and propping him back against his chest. Quatre didn’t protest as his guardian’s gentle
fingers pressed two aspirin tablets into his mouth, followed by the
glass of water in his hand, and he downed the medicine and water slowly,
laying his head back against the man’s shoulder with a heavy
sigh. Graciously, Trowa had closed the blinds to their bedroom to
block out the early morning sunlight, and he let his eyes fall closed,
the man’s chin resting on the top of his head. We went to a rave, last night. We went to a rave, and
I got hammered, took an entire slew of drugs, and had sex with Wufei
in the bathroom. The Arabian’s blue eyes snapped open, his mind
suddenly clear and racing. How much did Trowa know? Where had he found
the blonde? The naval officer’s voice was a harsh whisper in
his ear. "I got worried about you when you walked away from me
after the game. I sat here at home by the phone, hoping that you’d
call and tell me where you’ve been hiding out these last few
weeks, and after over five hours of anxiety, you know who called me?" Quatre had thought it a rhetorical question, but as
the man’s strong hands closed around his upper arms and shook
him, he gasped, his head snapping back almost painfully, and Trowa
was growling at him. "The damned military police, Quatre! They
arrested you and that Chang guy, for public intoxication, use and
possession of illegal drugs, and public exposure. They caught you
two fucking each other in the goddamned bathroom!" The Arabian flinched at the violence, the pain in the
man’s words, chewing his lower lip. He’d never before heard
the man curse out of anger, but seven months with his new ward had
definitely remedied that. "I had to come down to the naval base—the
base that I work at—and bail you out of the Brig, at almost three
in the damned morning. You have no idea how lucky you are that I know
those guys. I even got them to wipe the whole incident off of your
criminal records. Chang’s, too." Wide blue eyes stared at the wall across the room from
Quatre. ‘Chang, too…’? He got us both out? Trowa was
silent for a moment, laying his forehead to the blonde’s shoulder,
and when again he spoke, it sounded as though he were barely constraining
tears. "Maybe the fact that I gave up my career for you, my family
for you, my life for you means nothing, but I had hoped that if you
could come home without being afraid, if you knew that someone genuinely
cared about you… That maybe you could stay away from the drugs,
the alcohol, the… promiscuity." The brunette took a deep breath, trying to gain some
composure. "Maybe I’ve failed you as a father, but I never,
never," he whispered, "Thought that I had failed you as
a lover." Quatre felt his heart break audibly at the agony in
his guardian’s voice. He’d never meant to hurt him, had
truly believed that the man’s feelings for him had been forced… Trowa Barton had relinquished his entire world for him,
had signed those adoption papers without a second thought, had bailed
him out of the Mahone County jail countless of times without remorse,
had plunged headlong into a controversial custody battle with a smile
on his face and a confidence in his stride. This man had signed his
life away to the military in order to support a child not his own
without hesitation, had given Quatre a loving home in which to dwell,
an endless well of kindness and love, and a pair of comforting, strong
arms to hide in when he needed to cry. This man truly loved him, and he had practically slapped
him in the face with his delinquent show of debauchery and senseless
immaturity. Quatre felt like dying in that moment, Trowa’s hands
still grasping his arms, the officer’s spiky soft hair falling
across his shoulder. He had no right to hurt this man anymore, and
he wanted to run. For the first time since he had met Trowa Barton,
the Arabian wanted to get as far away from the former teacher as possible. He couldn’t move. His muscles had frozen up, and
his head pounded. His vision was blurring—a side-effect of his
ecstasy and tequila combination, no doubt—and instead of struggling
to break free of his guardian’s hands, his feeble movement resulted
in his slumping back against the man’s chest, breathing labored,
and a sickeningly familiar sensation crept up his throat. Trowa—having recovered the boy so many times before
in this condition—knew the warning signs as well as the blonde.
Carefully, he slid an arm under the boy’s knees and shoulders,
lifting the Arabian into his arms and carrying him swiftly, cautiously
to the adjacent bathroom. He lowered the boy to the tiles just in
front of the toilet, lifting up the seat and brushing a hand through
the teenager’s hair as he purged his stomach of the liquor and
narcotics remaining in his system. Soothing hands ran over the Moslem’s bared back,
through his sweat-matted hair, Trowa sitting silently on the edge
of the bathtub beside his charge. After about a half-hour or so, Quatre’s
stomach was apparently empty and the youth fell back against the cool
tiles before the officer could catch him, passed out cold. +++ When the boy finally did come to, he grimaced at the
stale, unpleasant taste in his mouth and a warm, hard surface beneath
his cheek. He had expected to wake up alone, but then Trowa had never
left him unattended after one of his drinking binges. Quatre sighed softly, squirming a bit, and he found
that the man’s arms were around him, one holding him closely
against his side, the other buried in his thick mane of bright hair.
He was sleeping, his chest rising and falling slowly under the Arabian’s
cheek, hi head turned away from the boy. The former International Relations professor was undeniably
endearing in his sleep, and it made the ache in Quatre’s chest
that much worse, to gaze over at the man who had taken him in…
He squeezed his eyes closed, concentrating on the strong, steady heartbeat
under his ear, the quiet inhaling and exhaling above his head. Something
had to be done about this situation; he couldn’t continue to
hurt his friend. "I love you, Trowa," he whispered, one hand
running idly back and forth over the man’s taut abdomen. "I
just wasn’t sure whether or not your feelings for me were…
what I wanted them to be. And I know that what I did could cause them
to take me away, but I want you to know how much what you’ve
done for me means to me.." "Quat, we don’t have to talk about this, now."
The blonde’s eyes flew open, and Trowa turned to regard his ward.
His handsome face was graced with a soft smile, his eyes hazy from
exhaustion, and Quatre surged forward, covering the man’s mouth
with his own on a sudden, spontaneous urge. The brunette laughed, cringing away from his charge.
"You definitely need to brush your teeth," he sighed. Quatre
rolled his eyes, wincing as his head throbbed at the motion, and settled
for laying his cheek back to the man’s chest. "Trowa, I really am sorry about all of this—"
he started, again, and the Irishman shook his head. "Everything’ll be fine," he murmured,
nuzzling blonde locks. "I’ll talk to your case worker and
have her push the screening date back, somehow. And Chang’s at
home, sleeping it off, so he’ll be okay in a few days." The Moslem frowned. "You’re just going to
forgive me for sleeping with him?" he asked quietly, and the
former coach stroked his back slowly. "Yes." There was a pause, and the brunette’s
voice remained just as calm, just as gentle, but his bottle-green
gaze hardened. "But I feel a great deal of pity for the next
person I catch you with." +++ TBC. On a heavier note… Guys, I’ve kinda hit a
low spot in my life… Everything’s basically fallin’
apart for me. It feels like I’m losin’ someone that I care
a lot about, and in all honesty… I’m considerin’ leavin’
the fanfiction writin’ business completely. Nothing’s set
in stone yet, an I apologize to everyone, but if I turn up AWOL, and
my accounts go idle for awhile, you guys know what happened. I love
you all for the support you’ve shown me, and I’m sorry that
I couldn’t give you guys more than three years’ worth of
mediocre stories, but right now I’m more concerned about the
plot-line my own life has taken. -Jack
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