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"International Relations"Written By: Switchblade003
Disclaimer: New Mobile War Chronicle Gundam Wing and all affiliated characters are property of Shin Kidousenki and Bandai, Setsu Agency.. Don’t sue me, because I’m the proud owner of over two-thousand dollar’s worth of Gundam merchandise. Pairing(s): Jeb and Winnie (There are only two people in the entire world who could possibly get that joke, and, tragically, I doubt that either of them read fanfiction. Jeb and Winnie are, historically, Jeb Stuart and Winnie Davis. Stuart was the head of the Confederate Calvary, Lee’s right-hand man—as I mentioned earlier. Davis was the daughter of the sole Confederate president Jefferson Davis. In actuality, Jeb and Winnie are the names of my US History and Race Relations teacher’s prized cocker spaniels. Love you, Mr. B!) Warning(s): If you don’t like YAOI or shonen-ai, this ain’t the place for you. Rating: A solid, unwavering NC-17 (violence, drugs, statutory rape, naked marshmallows, the usual…) Archive: www.wuffie.net Notes: Review Raves: You guys are the air I breathe! Hayley: I did find it peculiar that no one had written this plot before; I think it’s because I’m a giant pedophile and I love older Tro/ younger Quat. My own boyfriend’s a minor! Fabi-chan: Aw! You’re so kawaii! Don’t yell at your PC ‘cause’a me! I’ll keep writing! Takaro: Lol. Now there’s dancin’? This is turnin’ into a real party! ShenLong: Glad you like it. Rez: Yes! Blissful Trowa torture! >:) +++ International Relations Chapter: VI—Lexington and Concord
"Lie back, it’s okay." With a soft groan of protest, Quatre let his head fall back onto Trowa’s shoulder as he held the boy, one arm around his lithe waist, the other hand unbuttoning the blonde’s shirt. Beside him, he recognized the faint sound of the bathtub’s taps running. Quatre closed pained blue eyes, sighing softly. I must have passed out in the car on the way home, he realized, and he relaxed somewhat as Trowa’s skilled hands got him out of his clothing and then deposited him carefully in the hot water. It didn’t even occur to his dazed mind that he was entirely devoid of clothing in front of his guardian, or that the man was doing a very thorough job of washing him. All he could think about was how much it hurt inside. Quatre stared up at the dark tiles in the bathroom, despite how much the artificial light was burning his eyes. He just needed to see something real. He needed to feel something real, just to know that this new flood of suppressed and before unrecognized grief was not all-consuming. His sapphire eyes moved to Trowa’s handsome face, his brow furrowed in concern and concentration as he tended to the blonde… And a realization passed over Quatre, something that he’d never thought of before, something so incredibly simple in concept and shallow in scope that he almost felt stupid for not having recognized it before. "I’m in love with you," he murmured. Trowa’s calm green eyes looked up from his task, gazing at the boy. The corner of his thin lips curved upwards in a small smile, and he shook his head. "You’re also seventeen, one of my students, and half-drugged, right now." The man’s words, while delivered gently, still stung like an emotional paper cut. Quatre bolted upright in the warm water, swaying slightly from the sudden motion, and he felt fresh tears spring to his eyes. "What?" Trowa sighed, hanging his head, his forearms resting on the edge of the tub. The hurt in that little alto was obvious, and he sighed. Cocking his head to one side, the brunette looked at his ward. "I’m sorry, Quat… I’m just realizing what all of this is going to mean for us both. Do you realize that he could very well go home and tell his parents what happened? I could be arrested for assault. I could lose my job, my career…" he made an exasperated noise, reaching into the water for Quatre’s hand. He lifted the small, slender fingers into his own and brought it to his lips, looking over it to catch the Arabian’s gaze before staring back at the water, and to Quatre’s surprise the man was actually blushing. "And the part about all that that scares the hell out of me is that I don’t care." The green-eyed young man plunged on ahead with his thoughts, eyes narrowing and breathing increasing as he spoke. "I don’t care about my career anymore. Being a teacher was all I wanted in life for so long... I sacrificed having friends, a normal relationship with someone, a family… I even gave up having a normal life like the rest of the guys I went to college with." He closed his eyes, resting his head in his hands. "While they went out partying every night, binge drinking, having frat rushes, I stayed in that God-forsaken dormitory for six years, studying my heart out just so that I could be where I am today… But I realize now that I only wanted those degrees so that I could be around these kids…" Trowa sighed. "I wanted to…" he laughed hollowly, wryly. "I wanted to make sure that these kids didn’t waste their lives. I wanted to be a role model, because I never had one. I wanted…" Brilliant emerald eyes looked significantly into Quatre’s blue ones. "I wanted to help kids like you." The blonde nodded, smiling a little. The professor smiled as well, running his thumb over the Arabian’s lips. "I’m in love with you, too, Quat." Concerned sapphire eyes met his, and then the boy was sitting up as best as he could, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck and sighing heavily into his guardian’s shoulder. With a silent smile, the man slipped his arms around the blonde and lifted him from the water, wrapping him in a large towel and carrying him from the bathroom to his dimly-lit living room. He laid the boy on the sofa, still swathed in his dark red, terrycloth cocoon, going to retrieve a change of clothes for his ward. "You know, Quat, I have a conference up in Boston, next weekend…" he called to the other room as he shifted through his dresser in search of clothing that would fit the Arabian, and as he spoke he was oblivious to the footsteps approaching him. "I was wondering if maybe you’d want to come with me? The Revolutionary War Museum is hosting a huge exhibit on the Boston Massacre, and I figured, if you want, you could check that out while I’m at the conference…" "Of course I’ll go with you," came the soft reply, and Trowa jumped as lithe, bare arms wrapped around his waist and an equally naked Quatre pressed to his back. A deep blush colored the brunette’s cheeks, and with a little smile he realized that Quatre had been making him do that quite frequently over the past week. He let the boy nuzzle into his back as he rifled through the various tee shirts he’d accumulated over the years until he finally found one of his Navy training shirts. He pulled it out of the dresser with a victorious smile. "Ah, ha! Found one." He turned to his Arabian counterpart, still in the snug circle of the boy’s arms, and pressed the shirt to his bare chest. "Here." He reached behind himself for the boxers he’d already procured and handed those over as well, leaning down to place a chaste kiss to the boy’s forehead pulling himself carefully from the thin arms. Quatre slipped into the boxers first, then unfolded the dark blue, well-worn shirt and arched an eyebrow, surprised at the name, rank, and military branch printed in fading yellow letters. "Barton, T., PO C1, US Navy," he read aloud, then frowned. "PO C1," he repeated softly, wracking his brain as to the meaning of the characters. "Ah," he shook his head. "Petty-Officer First-Class. You were a Navy grunt?" he quipped, pulling the shirt over his head. The cotton was soft from so much wear, and the hems were frayed a bit. Quatre decided that he liked it. "Yeah," Trowa sighed, pulling off his tie and belt, tossing them to the floor beside the bed. "I enlisted the day after my eighteenth birthday. My dad was so proud of me…" he smiled wistfully, and at Quatre’s lack of a smart-assed comment, and he found the boy sitting cross-legged in the center of his bed with an oppressive sadness weighing down his fair features. "Quat? What’s wrong?" He sat down beside the boy in shorts and his thin white tee shirt, placing a hand on his knee. Quatre shook his head, a sad smile on his lips. "I wish my dad was proud of me." The soft comment was something that tore at Trowa’s heart, because he knew what it was like to constantly seek the approval of a person who just wouldn’t give it. He slid an arm around the boy’s shoulders, pulling him close and pressing a kiss to his bright hair. "I’m proud of you," he whispered. The blonde smiled again, this time an amused one, and he rolled his eyes, elbowing his teacher gently. "What?" the brunette exclaimed. "You’re such a dork, sometimes…" Quatre shook his head, pulling away from his coach and stretching out across the bed, kicking the sheets back lazily and the rolling himself under them. Trowa leaned over him, braced on both hands, his lips a fraction of an inch from his ward’s. The teenager gazed up into his guardian’s brilliant emerald-green eyes, a fiercely protective blaze lurking in those verdant depths. "Yeah," he countered, arching an elegant brow, "But you’re in love with this ‘dork,’ aren’t you?" Quatre smiled, reaching up to take the man’s handsome face into his hands, and he closed the distance between them, murmuring against Trowa’s lips. "More than you could ever know." Before Trowa had much time to ponder his companion’s enigmatic reply, he found himself assaulted by the sweet, soft lips beneath his, felt that agile frame press to his, and he submitted easily. He felt his protégé’s hands travel over his sides to rest on his narrow hips, and he realized that if they didn’t tone the affection down soon, they were going to end up the way they had that morning. "Mmn," he shook his head, pulling back. "We should go to bed," he sighed, and the pout that took Quatre’s lips, however uncharacteristic, was adorable. "Sorry." The blonde leaned up and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, then rolled onto his side, reaching for the light on the beside table. Trowa lay behind him, watching in mild fascination the pale twist of muscle in Quatre’s arm as he moved. The boy was so thin and small in appearance, but he was incredibly athletic. Most people at the school assumed that he was one of the weakest kids in his ROTC squad, that he couldn’t hold his own in a fight, and that he was one of those video-gaming couch potatoes who relied heavily on remote controls and outside assistance. Trowa knew that all of those assumptions were incorrect. Quite the opposite, actually, was true about the Arabian. He could have taken the lead in any sport offered at Mahone High, and he was the squad captain, division leader, and chief officer of the school system’s Naval Science program. The teacher knew all of this as fact; he had been to every one of the boy’s Commissionings, personally. Quatre, while diminutive in appearance, was one of the strongest, level-headed kids he’d ever met, and that was one of the things for which he took pride in his ward. "What are you thinking about?" came Quatre’s quiet alto, and the brunette smiled, slipping an arm around that slender waist and pulling the boy to his chest. "How amazing you are." The blonde smiled, blue eyes closed, and he arched into Trowa’s touch as the man played absently with the soft, downy white-gold hair at the nape of the boy’s neck. "You do realize that in one day you’ve managed to turn me from your strictly-professional teacher to your overly-protective and lovesick boyfriend, hm?" Quatre nodded, pulling his coach’s arms around him. "I know." The Arabian frowned slightly into the darkness. "I’m going to have to come up with a good reason why I haven’t come home the past two days…" Trowa nodded gravely. He did not want to risk yet another incident with the boy’s drunkard father. Quatre could hold his own in a fight, but the senior Winner was twice his size. Even Trowa would have had trouble taking him on alone. "I think I’ll just tell him I was over at Duo’s." Trowa nodded, his eyes closed, sleep overtaking his senses. "I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt you, Quat." Somehow, despite the incredible odds against a rendezvous with his dad ending in anything but tears and pain, the blonde felt relieved at his guardian’s words. +++ TBC. Most people don’t realize this, but the Boston Massacre was no massacre at all. After the implementation of the British Quartering Act of 1765, it was law that all colonists by royal decree had to shelter and feed any British soldier who asked for said services. The colonists were growing increasingly unhappy with British Parliament, and after the Boston tea Party, martial law was ordered on the town of Boston and troops were sent to occupy the city. Tensions being what they were, there was a good deal of resentment between the citizens of Massachusetts and the soldiers. One day a group of about sixty citizens were horsing around in the streets, and, according to primary sources, one lobbed a snowball at a passing throng of perhaps ten English soldiers. The two groups drew weapons. To this day, no one knows who fired first, but after the smoke had cleared, eleven colonists were dead, and the New England press had a field-day with the incident. Paul Revere drew a famous sketch of the event, and the bias in the drawing is obvious. Dead colonists litter the ground, and even a stray dog flees the attacking "lobsterbacks." The soldiers were taken back to England under strong pressure from the colonies and arraigned for murder. Only two were actually tried and no real penalty was set upon them for their actions. Don’t eat the red snow. -Jack Switchblade |
