Fight Club

Disclaimer: Shin Kidousenki New Mobile War Chronicle Gundam Wing is copyright Setsu Agency and Bandai Inc., and is not property of this writer. Likewise, Fight Club is property of Twentieth Century Fox, though no direct use of its characters or plot is made. I’ll also state here something that the content of this story arc warrants; although it may be stated elsewhere to the contrary, any references made to places, events, or person(s)—living or dead—are entirely coincidental. If you are intentionally scouring my writing for incriminating references, get a life.

Title: Fight Club

Chapter: I—Time Zone

Author: Switchblade003

Pairing(s): Pay attention. There’ll be a quiz at the end of all this.

Warning(s): A bit of pedophilia in this chapter, if you want to be a Catholic Republican and interpret it that way…

Notes: Okay, this is the sequel to "International Relations" that I promised, and I hope you guys like it. Now that the particulars have been established, more character development can take place!

Review Raves: Heh. This one’s going to be long. To everyone at Fanfiction.Net, as much as I hate the forum, thank you: Ophelia, Usako, MidnightLoner, and Christina. To everyone at AdultFanfiction.Net (and it’s a lot of people!), I love you guys!!!: Rubicon, Connie, Rez, Hayley, ShenLong, Icz, Annabellemanix, and Takaro (you’re hysterical).

Now there’s one of you out there going, "I reviewed that story like ten times. Did he forget me?" No. I didn’t forget you Fabi-chan. Everyone, I’d like you to meet Fabi-chan. He/She is my motivation behind the continuation of this arc. Everyone thank Fabi for more T/Q, because he/she’s the reason I kept writing, even when I didn’t think that this was so great.

This arc is officially dedicated to Fabi-chan, who made the effort to preserve one writer’s drivP>
P>

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"Quatre, get off of me. It’s time to get up"

"No."

"Move, or I swear you’ll end up on the floor, again."

"You’re not my boss—"

With an agile twist of narrow hips and a languid stretch of wiry arms, Trowa Barton smiled to himself, eyes closed against the sunlight filtering in through his bedroom window, and the dull thump that reached his ears only made his smile widen into a victorious grin. The former high school teacher sighed softly and lay on his back atop the small mattress, and with a familiar sense of anticipation thrumming through his muscular form, he began his daily mental countdown.

Quatre in T minus five, four… Scuffle… two… Pounce…

The brunette’s bottle-green eyes sprang open, his right arm shot out—elbow bent at a ninety degree angle—and as always, he caught his young ward in the chest. The blow was defensive, not enough to injure the energetic blonde youth, but forceful enough to disarm him of the rather thick pillow he’d been wielding. Quatre Winner fell to his guardian’s chest, clutching his own and laughing.

It was a very customary routine that they’d fallen into, since leaving Mahone.

Every morning, Trowa would wake up exactly three minutes before the alarm clock would go off, and every morning, Quatre ended up on the floor, a result of his own stubbornness, the brunette supposed. Some things would never change…

"Do I have to go to school, today?"

The blonde youth stretched out atop his mentor in a decidedly sensual display of grace, head bowed over his former coach’s, bright bangs brushing over the elegant slant of Trowa’s nose. The policy expert arched an eyebrow and nodded nonchalantly.

&quhy?!hy?!" Quatre practically whined, propping himself up on both hands over his guardian. As much as he had disliked Mahone High, Tokyo Bay’s sole public secondary school was quite possibly worse. There was a very strict uniform dress code, and the area was generally a fairly wealthy part of the city. Military housing being what it was, the Navy had sent Trowa and Quatre to a small, cramped attic apartment on the top floor of an inner-city sky rise on the upper east side of town.

Trowa sighed in mild exasperation. When he had won Quatre’s custody hearing, he had expected morning fights over the boy’s shabby school attendance, monthly spats over his grades, and even the occasional scuffle over the Arabian’s choice of wardrobe—which had improved significantly. So he handled this the way he always did.

"Do you want to end up in a foster home?" he asked softly, strong hands holding his ward’s handsome face. He gazed up into those beautiful, cynical aqua eyes, knowing that the boy would not argue further. The terms of his custody grant were simple: Quatre stayed in school, held a part-time job, maintained decent grades, upheld his probation, and stayed out of trouble.

The officer made sure he made it to the local military clinic once a month for drug screenings. Quatre had been clean for almost three months, and he had promised not to touch alcohol. Trowa had felt that a sufficient alternative to further testing. He had okayed cigarettes so long as the blonde washed his clothes afterwards and refrained from smoking in the apartment. All Trowa had to provide him with shelter, food, clothing—all the basic necessities of living, and of course, love.

They both knew that the last tenant would be no problem at all. It was a highly unlikely pairing, a former college professor of international relations, picture-perfect mentor turned naval policy advisor and foster father and his drug addicted, juvenile delinquent, "rebel-without-a-cause" teenaged genius of a stray. To anyone who saw them wandering the streets on the weekends, or perched on their balcony window at night, they were a father and son, military moved in from the States. To each other, however, they were one another’s gifts from higher forces.

"That was a shady tactic," the Arabian whispered sulkily, leaning down to press his lips to his mentor’s, eyes slipping closed. Trowa smiled against the soft, firm pressure of the boy’s mouth, his hands creeping into tousled blonde hair, and the officer moaned low in his throat as his protégé ground his lower half into his hips. Okay, this is getting out-of-hand…

…But it feel so good…

Quatre, surprisingly, was the one to break the intimate contact, and Trowa soon realized that it was a good thing that the teenager had, because his own hands had drifted to the blonde’s hips and his slender fingers were straying under the drawstring waistband of his pajamas. "We should get dressed and get going," the Arabian sighed, hands tracing the chiseled features of his companion’s face.

With a soft swat to one of Trowa’s unshaven cheeks he hopped off of his guardian and the bed altogether, sauntering into the adjacent bathroom. The former teacher let his head fall to the side, resting against the mattress, sighing as his ward disappeared into the tiny washroom.

A frown settled on the man’s handsome features. It had been nearly six months since that unexpected phone call, that unanticipated sleepover… His frown deepened. They still hadn’t consummated their relationship.

It wasn’t that Trowa was specifically waiting for or anticipating the opportunity to seduce his Moslem counterpart, but knowing the boy’s track-record for sexual activity, he had honestly figured that something beyond simple kissing and fondling would have taken place…

He felt like he was back in high school, except he hadn’t engaged in too much physical exploration until college. His sex life consisted of heavy petting and make-out sessions on his sofa—veritable foreplay. He was certain that there were teenaged girls at the Moslem’s school who were more active he he was…

"Argh!" The officer groaned, raking a hand through his unruly auburn hair and sitting up. He sounded like a child molester. With a heavy sigh, the man got clumsily to his feet, the wooden floorboards creaking eerily under his weight. The Irishman stood with his hands on his hips, lips pursed in contemplation. I wonder if it’s illegal in Japan to have sex with your foster-son?

ft cft chuckle from the vicinity of the open bathroom door caught Trowa’s attention, and he looked up to find Quatre leaning casually against the doorframe in his uniform and socks, idly playing with his tie. He’s laughing at me… "What?" The brunette asked, almost irritably, but then Trowa never got agitated.

Quatre rolled his eyes and rounded the corner into the kitchenette. "You’re standing in the middle of the bedroom in your underwear," he noted aloud, and Trowa looked down. Inches of smooth caramel skin greeted his inspecting gaze, as did the multicolored fish smiling up at him from his boxers.

"Are those regulation patterned, or did you pick them out yourself?"

"I can ground you, you know."

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TBC.

Heh. Fishies.

Well, since these chapter titles are no longer history-themed, I’ll be throwing some of my favorite "Fight Club" quotes at you. You should read the book by Chuck Palahniuk! -Jack