Fight Club

“Quat, I may not be a nutritionist, but I’m fairly certain that frozen tacos are not a staple food group

Disclaimer: Shidousdousenki 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 placevenevents, 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: III—Planet Starbucks
Author: Switchblade003
Pairing(s): 0 and 1. You’ll only get that if you know what binary code is.
Warning(s): None this chapter. Just some grocery shoppin’.
Rating: NC-17
Archive: www.wuffie.net
Notes: This chapter is odd. I was just trying to get more public character interaction in. I don’t want the entire story to either take place with one of them present or with both of them in bed. J
But I’m sure you little hentais wouldn’t mind…
Review Raves: Okay. Have to acknowledge the crazed fans, huh?
Cob: Lol. I just put the "2x1" up there so ppl wouldn’t STOP reading when they found out that this is a 3x4x3 fic! Sorry! And Trowa can give Quatre pointers in more than baseball…
Fabi-chan: Heh. Don’t worry—angst has a boomerang effect. It’s gone for a while, but it always arcs back.
Lori: Heh. Glad you like it.
And I’d like to extend my heartfelt gratitude to AJ McKay. He gave me some of the most honest, thorough feedback I’ve ever received. I really do appreciate it, and I’m glad you wandered over here from FF.Net.
Also a special note: See, one of the first reviews I got for "International Relations" came from a little person named Usako, and that was back on the other site. Apparently, this person also found his/her way over here! Yay! Glad you made it! Thanks for reviewing!
+++
"Quat, I may not be a nutritionist, but I’m fairly certain that frozen tacos are not a staple food group."
Trowa rolled his eyes good-naturedly and decided to overlook that odds and ends that his Arabian counterpart was tossing into their grocery cart. The boy had a voracious appetite and an even higher metabolism, and while the former teacher had to at least pretend to chastise the youth, he had learned to let well enough alone where his ward’s diet was concerned. At least he was eating, again…
The brunette was suddenly aware of Quatre’s lack of presence and his eyes darted about until he alighted on the shorter male, standing in front of the cases of alcohol which lined the far wall of the store. "Oh, no you don’t!" The naval officer lunged for his adopted ‘son,’ wrapping an arm about the boy’s slim waist and pulling him flush against his chest, away from the chilling crates of beer and wine. Quatre sighed dejectedly, slumping back against his bedmate, frowning. "You isedised me," the older male reminded his companion.
The blonde stared ahead at the amber bottles and flimsy cardboard packaging longingly. He hadn’t had a beer or a shot of tequila in over three months… "I know." Dismissively, he pushed himself free of his guardian’s arms, his watch catching slightly in the field of multi-colored bars pinned to the breast of Trowa’s pristine white uniform. He murmured an apology and moved back to the metal cart, hopping lithely onto the back end of the vehicle.
Trowa smiled, a bit wistfully, and gave the cart—and his comrade—a playful shove, then sighed when his efforts did not dislodge the teenager and pushed him down the aisle, instead.
"So you said you had good news," Trowa prodded, browsing over the mountains of cereal around him. The bright blonde hair before him—partially hidden by the Moslem’s red baseball cap—bobbed in agreement, and Quatre glanced over his shoulder at his guardian, hands clutching the rail of the cart, elbows locked as he did an admirable job of balancing himself.
The youth, for some peculiar reason, had still been donning his Phys. Ed. Uniform when he’d come home that afternoon. Quatre had been sprawled across their couch, watching CNN idly in his red and white baseball tee-shirt and red sweatpants, and more than once before they’d left for the store he’d had to dislodge muddy white Adidas from the arm of his well-worn, off-black sofa.
A smile took the man’s lips as he reached a hand out to swat Quatre’s backside lightly, and the boy turned again, blue eyes curious, playful. "We’re in public," he smirked mischievously, and Trowa arched an eyebrow, forearms resting on the cart’s handlebar.
"And you’re being evasive. What happened at school?" The ex-UN coach narrowed his eyes mock-menacingly at the boy. "I’m not going to have to go and meet with any administrators, am I?"
The blonde sighed, shaking his head and jumping of thf the cart as Trowa pushed, then falling back to worm his way under his way under the man’s arms, his back to the man’s solid, uniform-clad chest as they walked together, the cart’s wheels squeaking over the well-trod linoleum of the supermarket aisles.
"The couch of the baseball team asked me to come to practice, tomorrow," Quatre offered quietly, nudging his cheek up against Trowa’s, and the man murmured softly some affirmation or another, slipping an arm around the boy’s hips in what was becoming a habitual gesture. "He wants me to pitch."
Trowa smiled broadly. "That’s great!" Keen emerald eyes scanned up and down the aisle quickly before he leaned down to press a quick kiss to his ward’s cheek. He’d been anxious about the blonde fitting in at Tokyo Bay High, and a sports team sounded like an excellent activity to keep the energetic delinquent out of trouble. "Hey, we should celebrate!"
An impish spark took Quatre’s teal eyes and the orphan smiled. "Okay," he purred, turning completely in the confines of Trowa’s arms, the hard metal bar of the cart against the small of his back. He reached up to twine lithe arms about the man’s neck, playing with his short, neatly-cut hair.
The twenty-six year-old was like putty in his hands.
"I vote I cook something canned for dinner and we lounge around in bed all night watching my favorite movies." The blonde had been looking for an opportunity to spend some time with his mentor; they’d both been fairly busy, these past few weeks. He’d been trying to catch up with his class curriculums and Trowa had been inundated with military conferences and operations at the local base.
Even after school the Moslem—who rarely did homework unless explicitly directed to do so—couldn’t steal a moment of his guardian’s time. The only time they had to spend with one another was at night, well after midnight when Trowa would pick his companion up from the couch and carry him to bed. The naval officer would spend ten minutes or so powering down their appliances—the TV, computer, Quatre’s various video gaming systems—and then he’d retire to their bed himself.
The brunette weighed his options, gazing down at the Arabian teenager in his arms. He knew damned-well that all of Quatre’s favorite movies were either underground films or random bits of oddness that he’d collected over the years, but to spend the evening in the blonde’s arms, he’d have watched Saturday morning cartoons—another one of the boy’s favorite past-times. So he would brave dubbed martial arts flicks and burned macaroni and cheese for Quatre.
"All right, but only on one condition," Trowa chuckled, leaning down to speak into the Arabian’s sensitive ear, his lips brushing over the various metal studs in the delicate cartilage. "We’re taking a shower when we get home." He pulled back at the teenager’s slightly offended scoff and laughed. "Oh, knock it off. It isn’t you, Quat. It’s the field dirt. Your uniform is covered in it," he reached up to pluck at the boy’s silken tresses. "And it’s in your hair. I remember that scent all-too-well from college, and I don’t want our apartment smelling like my old locker room."
+++
TBC.
Planet Starbucks: "Some day it’ll be the big corporations that name everything: the Microsoft Galaxy, the IBM Stellarsphere… Planet Starbucks."
Lol. That quote cracks me up. And no, before you ask, Jack doesn’t own Microsoft, IBM, or Starbucks. If I did, I’d have really smart, really expensive coffee.