Fuckin' A
folder
Gundam Wing/AC › Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
6
Views:
1,226
Reviews:
15
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Gundam Wing/AC › Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
6
Views:
1,226
Reviews:
15
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Gundam Wing/AC, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
II
II
At work, people took it upon themselves to be extra-friendly and accomodating to him. He tried to take it in stride, though it irritated the hell out of him. Special treatment was like telling him that he wasn't competent/capable.
He was exceedingly competent, and equally as capable. As a matter of fact, he was overqualified for his job.
He was a college graduate, with a degree, that had dumbed down his target profession to menial paper pushing. At other jobs, he'd suffered the ravages of Special Treatment, and resigned as a result. He liked that his boss at his new jatedated big money and hated favors and, in his own small way, hated Quatre (with love, ofcourse).
As Quatre worked, he daydreamed and hoped a little. He wondered if the man on the bus travelled that way every day, if he took he bus in the afternoon as well, and, perhaps, if he was gay. Ofcourse, it was entirely possible that the man was married, took the bus only this once, and was only kind to Quatre because he'd lo so so grossly pitiful.
That left Quatre with a bad taste in his mouth. Sadly, it tasted more like reality should.
++
He called it a day around five and lugged his achy body to the bus stop where he waited about twenty-five minutes until it came around.
The pain killers were wearing off, and it took some doing to haul his ass up the few stairs onto the bus. He didn't embarrass himself with tears this time, which was a plus.
There was much joy to be felt when he spotted an empty seat towards the back of the bus. "Sweetness!" he muttered under his breath, and dragged himself back there, landing in the seat with less ceremony than he would have liked. His pelvis felt rattled, as did his knees, which made him grimace, and subsequently, experience sympathy pains in his f
The man from that morning wasn't there. It was a sobering observation that quashed much of Quatre's more fanciful musings. It relieved him, in a way.
He felt more normal.
++
He suffered through his climb up the stairs, and nearly collapsed from joy and exhaustion in the narrow entrance hallway of his apartment. After a breif rest, he gathered himself up and fixed himself dinner (a peanutbutter sandwich), and Sta som some dinner (dry kibble). Then, he watched TV for a little while. Then, he read a little bit, and finally went to bed.
++
He dreamt of the crash.
Everything seemed to have gained a new quality of clarity in the time that passed between the event and the rememberance. In the dream, he could hear the sirens over the rain, drawing closer and closer. He felt the rumble of the car under his body, and its lurch as he took his foot off the brake. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark shape emerging through the rain. It came to him in slow motion. The panic constricted his heart at the first sounds of squealing metal, sounds that he'd heard before. He felt the ripple from the point of impact and saw the hood of his car accordion with the force. He took a shuddering breath as his car was slung into motion, raiickeicked spinning motion. His hands were off the wheel, and his feet had retreated from the pedals as his mind tried to keep uph thh the car. All shapes lost distinction becoming streaked blurs like grease on the windshield. The airbag unfurled and socked him in the face. Then he felt the body-jarring second impact that sent his head sideways leaving a spider crack on the driver's side window and an ugly bruise under his hair. Then, he was unconscious.
++
He jumped awake like a landed fish, ahead of his alarm by six minutes.
He was still sore, but he was more up to the pain than he had been the day previous. He rolled over onto his hands and knees, disarmed his alarm, and walked, hunched, to the kitchen where he took his painkillers and scarfed down a piece of plain bread.
When he looked at himself in the mirror, he was pleased to see that the swelling was almost imperceptible. Both of his eyese ope open. He still couldn't smile without discomfort, not like he had any occasion to, anyway.
He look another warm shower, hoping that the heat woloosloosen up some of his muscles (which were fairly puny, but still managed to cause him a considerable amount of pain). While he showered, he took a superficial inventory of his body. It was a little muddy colored in some places, but mostly sun-hater pale elsewhere. He licked his lips, the tip of his tongue lingering a bit on the rough texture of the stitches that kept his bottom lip in one piece. He was thin, not from exercise, but, more than likely, from malnutrition, a pebble-sized appetite, and a hummingbird's metabolism.
Whatever body hair he had was either thin and sparse or meticulously waxed away. Though he lived in lonely and generally poor conditions, he considered it a service to himself (and others, should the opportunity arise) that the unflattering hair be removed.
On the inside, the tips of his lips curled.
Some nurse, dressing down his unconscious body for examination after the crash must have seen his bare legs, his smooth underarms, and many other such wonderments. Perhaps it had been disturbing. He could only hope.
++
Quatre left Stabler staring after him in the hallway, poised as if to run, his tail halted in mid-wag.
"Bye," Quatre comforted him; for the first time, in a long time, struck by the melancholy solitude of his own abode. He felt bad leaving Stabler all by himself.
Maybe Stabler would do better with a day companion.
It was something to think about.
++
The stairs were still hard to take, but Quatre managed to tough it out without crying like he had the first day. He thought better of himself when he arrived at the bus stop, though he still looked a bit mutilated, it wasn't quite as pronounced as the day previous.
When the bus arrived, he climbed aboard with less theatre than the other day, and with a little more hop in his step (well, less of a limping hop).
Aside from Rashid, he'd recieved no word from his father since the accident, which meant (for the moment) that Mr. Winner of Winner Enterprises wasn't looking to whisk him away into priviledged trappings just yet. He still had some time of freedom, yet. The call was inevitable, but the longer that he could manage to support himself on his own two legs, the more pleased with himself he felt.
And, as far as riding the bus went, the car that he'd owned, as cheap as it was, had been purchased for him by his father. It's complete and irreversibletructruction tickled Quatre in a symbollic way. The last crutch of his former life had been forcibly swept out from under him, and he'd have to learn to walk without it.
His taste for pain stemmed from a childhood that seriously lacked it.
There was an open seat on the left towards the back of the middle of the bus, and Quatre zeroed in on it. It was a little strange on a full bus for an open seat to be so readily accessible, or even in existence at all. When he sat down, he felt a little troubled, because he knew, beyond all resonable doubt, that the seat had been reserved for him.
He took a brief survey of the other bus riders, students and tweed suits, until his eyes rested on the man from yesterday. He was dressed in another suit, similar to the one the day before, but with a different cut. This man liked variety, to a point.
A frustrated blush singed Quatre's cheeks as his eyes travelled further upwards to observe the taboo, the dead giveaway to his direct scrutiny, the man's face.
He wasn't looking Quatre's way, which helped. His attention was pointed straight ahead stern and apathetic.
There were vacant holes in his ears, a hail from his highschool days which were now long gone. His hair was brushed, maybe, and thankfully not gelled. He was clean-shaven, which looked about right on him. A goatee or a beard or an intricate lace design would have interfered with his naturally nice features.
His eyes wandered and caught Quatre, who, dutifully, snapped his attention away and refocused it on the blue flaking pleather of his seat.
Quatre didn't thank him for the seat.
He knew that it wasn't expected of him, anyway.
TBC...
note(s):
....thank you SariL2...
I'll just send the chapters to you from now on ;>>
Since you're the only person that reads my junk ;>_>
At work, people took it upon themselves to be extra-friendly and accomodating to him. He tried to take it in stride, though it irritated the hell out of him. Special treatment was like telling him that he wasn't competent/capable.
He was exceedingly competent, and equally as capable. As a matter of fact, he was overqualified for his job.
He was a college graduate, with a degree, that had dumbed down his target profession to menial paper pushing. At other jobs, he'd suffered the ravages of Special Treatment, and resigned as a result. He liked that his boss at his new jatedated big money and hated favors and, in his own small way, hated Quatre (with love, ofcourse).
As Quatre worked, he daydreamed and hoped a little. He wondered if the man on the bus travelled that way every day, if he took he bus in the afternoon as well, and, perhaps, if he was gay. Ofcourse, it was entirely possible that the man was married, took the bus only this once, and was only kind to Quatre because he'd lo so so grossly pitiful.
That left Quatre with a bad taste in his mouth. Sadly, it tasted more like reality should.
++
He called it a day around five and lugged his achy body to the bus stop where he waited about twenty-five minutes until it came around.
The pain killers were wearing off, and it took some doing to haul his ass up the few stairs onto the bus. He didn't embarrass himself with tears this time, which was a plus.
There was much joy to be felt when he spotted an empty seat towards the back of the bus. "Sweetness!" he muttered under his breath, and dragged himself back there, landing in the seat with less ceremony than he would have liked. His pelvis felt rattled, as did his knees, which made him grimace, and subsequently, experience sympathy pains in his f
The man from that morning wasn't there. It was a sobering observation that quashed much of Quatre's more fanciful musings. It relieved him, in a way.
He felt more normal.
++
He suffered through his climb up the stairs, and nearly collapsed from joy and exhaustion in the narrow entrance hallway of his apartment. After a breif rest, he gathered himself up and fixed himself dinner (a peanutbutter sandwich), and Sta som some dinner (dry kibble). Then, he watched TV for a little while. Then, he read a little bit, and finally went to bed.
++
He dreamt of the crash.
Everything seemed to have gained a new quality of clarity in the time that passed between the event and the rememberance. In the dream, he could hear the sirens over the rain, drawing closer and closer. He felt the rumble of the car under his body, and its lurch as he took his foot off the brake. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark shape emerging through the rain. It came to him in slow motion. The panic constricted his heart at the first sounds of squealing metal, sounds that he'd heard before. He felt the ripple from the point of impact and saw the hood of his car accordion with the force. He took a shuddering breath as his car was slung into motion, raiickeicked spinning motion. His hands were off the wheel, and his feet had retreated from the pedals as his mind tried to keep uph thh the car. All shapes lost distinction becoming streaked blurs like grease on the windshield. The airbag unfurled and socked him in the face. Then he felt the body-jarring second impact that sent his head sideways leaving a spider crack on the driver's side window and an ugly bruise under his hair. Then, he was unconscious.
++
He jumped awake like a landed fish, ahead of his alarm by six minutes.
He was still sore, but he was more up to the pain than he had been the day previous. He rolled over onto his hands and knees, disarmed his alarm, and walked, hunched, to the kitchen where he took his painkillers and scarfed down a piece of plain bread.
When he looked at himself in the mirror, he was pleased to see that the swelling was almost imperceptible. Both of his eyese ope open. He still couldn't smile without discomfort, not like he had any occasion to, anyway.
He look another warm shower, hoping that the heat woloosloosen up some of his muscles (which were fairly puny, but still managed to cause him a considerable amount of pain). While he showered, he took a superficial inventory of his body. It was a little muddy colored in some places, but mostly sun-hater pale elsewhere. He licked his lips, the tip of his tongue lingering a bit on the rough texture of the stitches that kept his bottom lip in one piece. He was thin, not from exercise, but, more than likely, from malnutrition, a pebble-sized appetite, and a hummingbird's metabolism.
Whatever body hair he had was either thin and sparse or meticulously waxed away. Though he lived in lonely and generally poor conditions, he considered it a service to himself (and others, should the opportunity arise) that the unflattering hair be removed.
On the inside, the tips of his lips curled.
Some nurse, dressing down his unconscious body for examination after the crash must have seen his bare legs, his smooth underarms, and many other such wonderments. Perhaps it had been disturbing. He could only hope.
++
Quatre left Stabler staring after him in the hallway, poised as if to run, his tail halted in mid-wag.
"Bye," Quatre comforted him; for the first time, in a long time, struck by the melancholy solitude of his own abode. He felt bad leaving Stabler all by himself.
Maybe Stabler would do better with a day companion.
It was something to think about.
++
The stairs were still hard to take, but Quatre managed to tough it out without crying like he had the first day. He thought better of himself when he arrived at the bus stop, though he still looked a bit mutilated, it wasn't quite as pronounced as the day previous.
When the bus arrived, he climbed aboard with less theatre than the other day, and with a little more hop in his step (well, less of a limping hop).
Aside from Rashid, he'd recieved no word from his father since the accident, which meant (for the moment) that Mr. Winner of Winner Enterprises wasn't looking to whisk him away into priviledged trappings just yet. He still had some time of freedom, yet. The call was inevitable, but the longer that he could manage to support himself on his own two legs, the more pleased with himself he felt.
And, as far as riding the bus went, the car that he'd owned, as cheap as it was, had been purchased for him by his father. It's complete and irreversibletructruction tickled Quatre in a symbollic way. The last crutch of his former life had been forcibly swept out from under him, and he'd have to learn to walk without it.
His taste for pain stemmed from a childhood that seriously lacked it.
There was an open seat on the left towards the back of the middle of the bus, and Quatre zeroed in on it. It was a little strange on a full bus for an open seat to be so readily accessible, or even in existence at all. When he sat down, he felt a little troubled, because he knew, beyond all resonable doubt, that the seat had been reserved for him.
He took a brief survey of the other bus riders, students and tweed suits, until his eyes rested on the man from yesterday. He was dressed in another suit, similar to the one the day before, but with a different cut. This man liked variety, to a point.
A frustrated blush singed Quatre's cheeks as his eyes travelled further upwards to observe the taboo, the dead giveaway to his direct scrutiny, the man's face.
He wasn't looking Quatre's way, which helped. His attention was pointed straight ahead stern and apathetic.
There were vacant holes in his ears, a hail from his highschool days which were now long gone. His hair was brushed, maybe, and thankfully not gelled. He was clean-shaven, which looked about right on him. A goatee or a beard or an intricate lace design would have interfered with his naturally nice features.
His eyes wandered and caught Quatre, who, dutifully, snapped his attention away and refocused it on the blue flaking pleather of his seat.
Quatre didn't thank him for the seat.
He knew that it wasn't expected of him, anyway.
TBC...
note(s):
....thank you SariL2...
I'll just send the chapters to you from now on ;>>
Since you're the only person that reads my junk ;>_>