Fight Club

“God, I feel sick…”

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: VI—Philosophy on Life
Author: Switchblade003
Pairing(s): 3+4+3
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…
Takaro: Heh. There’s heavily suggested 5x4, but no details. ::cringes:: Poor Tro…
Cob: Damn! Lmao. Remind me to e-mail you the next time I get writer’s block! Lol… "Japan will never be the same…"
Usako: Thanks for reviewing, especially since you’re busy. Don’t feel bad; we all have obligations. Lol. Mine even include small furry animals. (NOT bunnies, Shen!)
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"God, I feel sick…"
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 is fis 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.
"Do you have any idea what happened, last night?" the brunette asked quietly, and Quatre shook his head honestly. He could recall getting into the car with Chang, driving to the other boy’s house and changing, and then driving to… Oh.
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 detelytely 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.
"If I didn’t love you," the man sighed, "I’d leave you here to wake up to a backache." He stood, going for a rag to clean the boy’s mouth, finishing his task and hauling the lithe form back into his arms. Then it was back to their bed, laying the unconscious blonde down on the clean sheets and crawling up next to him. Settling onto his back, the Irishman pulled the youth into his arms, holding the agile frame against his side and brushing a kiss over the top of his head.
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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 ofght ght 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."
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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