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Fight Club
folder
Gundam Wing/AC › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
8
Views:
2,397
Reviews:
34
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Gundam Wing/AC › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
8
Views:
2,397
Reviews:
34
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.
Survival Rate
Disclaimer: Shin Kidousenki New Mobile War Chronicle Gundam Wing is copyright Setsu Agency and Bandai I
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: VII—Survival Rate
Author: Switchblade003
Pairing(s): Read. It might change.
Warning(s): Character bastardization, mild OOC, abuse, language, and everything else that you’ve come to expect from a Switchbladc.
c.
Rating: NC-17
Archive: www.wuffie.net, soon to be up on my new site RemixX, and also to be archived at ShenLong’s site.
Notes: I’m sorry that this has been so long in the makin’, but I’m back. This goes out to Fabi-chan and ShenLong for not gettin’ off my ass about finishin’ "Fight Club," and to my recently acquired friend Niki, for givin’ me a reason to keep writin’.
Review Raves: Thanks to everyone who expressed concern. Off the top of my head I can recall ReddAlice, AJ McKay, Takaro, Usako, and a few others. Thanks, guys.
+++
His life had been relatively peaceful for the past few days, and for some strange reason, that unnerved Trowa to no end.
The officer had become so acquainted with constant turmoil and emotional strife that a week of absolutely no conflict almost seemed the harbinger of complete and inescapable doom. So when Quatre came stomping through the front door of their apartment that afternoon, a subtle sense of relief buzzed through the man’s head.
Heavy footfalls on the hardwood floors signaled the boy’s approach towards the kitchen, and when the blonde youth stalked directly past the doorway and into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him, Trowa blinked. It wasn’t often that the teenager wasn’t moody, but this was a bit dramatic, even for Quatre.
Still, the former teacher knew just how to handle this situation. If he let the boy cool off for an hour or so, and waited until the bright blonde head poked around the corner to sulk socially, everything would be all right. Meddling with a pissed off seventeen year-old was certainly not on his agenda for the day.
An hour passed. Another hour ticked steadily by as the brunette sat at the kitchen table, staring at reports without actually processing information, and after another fifteen minutes, he stood silently and made his way to their oom.oom.
He reached for the handle, moving into the door to push as he turned the knob, only to find that the handle didn’t want to complete the rotation that his wrist guided it into. It was locked. Quatre never locked doors anymore.
Brow furrowed, Trowa tapped his foot for a moment before frowning. "Quat? Why is the door locked?"
His query was met with silence, and the man’s brain began grinding away in thought. Something was going on—of this he was cert He He just didn’t know what.
"Open the door, or I’ll break it down."
The ultimatum was delivered in a steady,el vel voice, and behind the door he heard scuffling. The door was unlocked and opened, and he stepped into the dim room. Quatre sat on the windowsill, arms wrapped around bent knees, and in his clasped hands was held Trowa’s standard-issue Beretta. The safety was off. The boy’s slender index finger was wrapped around the trigger.
If Trowa Barton had been the type to piss himself in extreme circumstances, he just might have.
"Quatre, what’s going on? Where did you get that?"
The bright head shook slowly, and the boy’s shoulders shook in what appeared to be mirthless laughter. "You keep it in the linen closet, on the top shelf, and I’m contemplating life."
"Do you always think with a loaded gun?" Trowa asked softly.
Quatre’s full lips twisted up at the corner into a bitter smirk. "When thinking requires it."
The brunette sighed, moving to step towards the boy, when the gun was easily, lazily aimed square at his chest, though the blonde’s eyes were still closed, his forehead still pressed to his knees. "Take another step closer and I’ll shoot you."
His tone brooked no arguments.
Trowa raised his hands defensively, backing away, and sighed in frustration. "What happened, today? Why are you threatening to hurt me?" he murmured.
"Because today I came to a realization, Trowa. You threw away your career, your life for me, and it never should have happened. I’m a bad person. I lie, I cheat, I steal…" He chuckled darkly. "I fuck other people behind your back."
Cold blue eyes lifted to pierce into his own. "Your kindness, your sincerity can’t change me, my personality, my nature. I will always be the black sheep. I’ll always be a joke, an embarrassment, and it was cruel of me to ever involve you in this. But," he shrugged, making the gesture seem a lot more careless than it was, "I suppose that only serves to further illustrate my point."
Trowa felt the urge to argue rise within his mind, but he fought it back. Quatre was wrong; that he knew for sure. People weren’t evil or malicious because of choice. All people were inherently good when given the option… Weren’t they?
Quatre had been given a second chance… And he had gone back to the drugs, the promiscuity, the recklessness… But it was a behavior engrained on him from his upbringing. Or perhaps…
The brunette gazed across the dark bedroom to the lithe figure perched on the windowsill, and a thought dawned on him. Perhaps Quatre truly loved the sordid world in which he had been raised. Perhaps the lies, the deceit, were something upon which the boy thrived.
Maybe Quatre Winner had made an existence out of hurting other people—and himself—and perhaps he enjoyed it.
Trowa’s heart skipped a beat. He forgot to breathe for a long minute, but when he remembered the basic habit, the air in the room tasted stale. Quatre’s hair wasn’t as bright in the dying rays of the Tokyo Bay sun, and the man’s gut felt heavy.
All people were not good and righteous at heart.
Quatre was not a good person at heart.
It was as if the very foundation upon which Trowa had built all of his ethics and principles had been swept away in a rapid torrent of angry waters, only his crushing blow had been delivered not by a freak tsunami…
…But by the almost innocent-looking blonde that he had fallen in love with.
It had all been a lie. He had been some warped, emotional project for the boy. Quatre had toyed with his mind, body, and heart for his own amusement, and he had been left none the wiser.
"And now you understand why they all warned you to get as far away from me as quickly as you could."
The soft alto reached his ears as if from miles away and not the span of three feet. The blonde hopped gracefully from his perch and raked a hand through his unruly hair. He pulled his jacket more closely around himself, tucked the gun into the small of his back, and sighed. Trowa stood, dumbstruck, as the young man walked quietly across the room, stopping beside him, and even the smell of warm leather and the blonde wasn’t enough to snap the man from his agonized daze.
"I want you to know that while I might not love you, there’s someone out there, somewhere, who can right all of the things I’ve done to you."
Quatre pressed a chaste kiss to the officer’s lips, crossing to the doorway of the bedroom, and he paused, back to Trowa’s, a slight smile on his lips. "I’d just suggest getting to know that person before you decide to either fuck him or quit the military for him."
The front door to the apartment clicked closed, the deadbolt slid home from outside, and the presence of Quatre Winner had vanished from the suddenly small, cold dwelling.
+++
"You didn’t push him too far, did you?"
Quatre sighed softly, slipping into the passenger seat of the rental car, head thrown back against the headrest as he calmed his racing heart.
"I’m honestly not sure," he whispered. "But it will be so much easier for him to move on now that I’ve given him a reason to hate me."
The blonde closed his eyes, burying his face in his palms as the car roared to life, and a strong hand ruffled his hair fondly. "He’ll be fine, Quatre. He’s a big guy. I should know," his companion chuckled. "The bastard broke my jaw."
Ice-blue eyes turned back to the street that he had lived on with the former teacher, fading slowly from sight in the rear-view mirror, and Quatre nodded sullenly.
"So are you goin’ to tell me why you changed your mind, all of a sudden? I flew halfway across the planet because of a phone call, Quat."
Playful, lively violet eyes glanced across the console to the blonde, and he couldn’t help but smile. "I can’t live like a normal person. You of all people know that. Trowa just wanted something… that I couldn’t give him."
"And what is it that you want from me, exactly?"
There was a quiet pause, and Quatre turned away from the reflection in the rear-view mirror to gaze down at the scars that crisscrossed his arms. "Something approaching normal?"
A slow grin curved Duo’s handsome face, and the teenager laughed. "No expectations, no rules, no boundaries. Just you, uninhibited, and whatever half-cocked relationship we can piece together?" the braided youth countered. Quatre nodded quietly, and the brunette smiled.
"Sounds good to me."
+++
Finis.
I know that it was kinda weird at the end, but hey… That’s just the way that it wanted to be written. I might end up goin’ back and inserting a chapter before this one, but I had to post this. This should be the last part of this arc, unless I—or you all—decide that you REALLY have to know what happens… I dunno. Thanks, again, to everyone.
Survival Rate: "On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.
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: VII—Survival Rate
Author: Switchblade003
Pairing(s): Read. It might change.
Warning(s): Character bastardization, mild OOC, abuse, language, and everything else that you’ve come to expect from a Switchbladc.
c.
Rating: NC-17
Archive: www.wuffie.net, soon to be up on my new site RemixX, and also to be archived at ShenLong’s site.
Notes: I’m sorry that this has been so long in the makin’, but I’m back. This goes out to Fabi-chan and ShenLong for not gettin’ off my ass about finishin’ "Fight Club," and to my recently acquired friend Niki, for givin’ me a reason to keep writin’.
Review Raves: Thanks to everyone who expressed concern. Off the top of my head I can recall ReddAlice, AJ McKay, Takaro, Usako, and a few others. Thanks, guys.
+++
His life had been relatively peaceful for the past few days, and for some strange reason, that unnerved Trowa to no end.
The officer had become so acquainted with constant turmoil and emotional strife that a week of absolutely no conflict almost seemed the harbinger of complete and inescapable doom. So when Quatre came stomping through the front door of their apartment that afternoon, a subtle sense of relief buzzed through the man’s head.
Heavy footfalls on the hardwood floors signaled the boy’s approach towards the kitchen, and when the blonde youth stalked directly past the doorway and into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him, Trowa blinked. It wasn’t often that the teenager wasn’t moody, but this was a bit dramatic, even for Quatre.
Still, the former teacher knew just how to handle this situation. If he let the boy cool off for an hour or so, and waited until the bright blonde head poked around the corner to sulk socially, everything would be all right. Meddling with a pissed off seventeen year-old was certainly not on his agenda for the day.
An hour passed. Another hour ticked steadily by as the brunette sat at the kitchen table, staring at reports without actually processing information, and after another fifteen minutes, he stood silently and made his way to their oom.oom.
He reached for the handle, moving into the door to push as he turned the knob, only to find that the handle didn’t want to complete the rotation that his wrist guided it into. It was locked. Quatre never locked doors anymore.
Brow furrowed, Trowa tapped his foot for a moment before frowning. "Quat? Why is the door locked?"
His query was met with silence, and the man’s brain began grinding away in thought. Something was going on—of this he was cert He He just didn’t know what.
"Open the door, or I’ll break it down."
The ultimatum was delivered in a steady,el vel voice, and behind the door he heard scuffling. The door was unlocked and opened, and he stepped into the dim room. Quatre sat on the windowsill, arms wrapped around bent knees, and in his clasped hands was held Trowa’s standard-issue Beretta. The safety was off. The boy’s slender index finger was wrapped around the trigger.
If Trowa Barton had been the type to piss himself in extreme circumstances, he just might have.
"Quatre, what’s going on? Where did you get that?"
The bright head shook slowly, and the boy’s shoulders shook in what appeared to be mirthless laughter. "You keep it in the linen closet, on the top shelf, and I’m contemplating life."
"Do you always think with a loaded gun?" Trowa asked softly.
Quatre’s full lips twisted up at the corner into a bitter smirk. "When thinking requires it."
The brunette sighed, moving to step towards the boy, when the gun was easily, lazily aimed square at his chest, though the blonde’s eyes were still closed, his forehead still pressed to his knees. "Take another step closer and I’ll shoot you."
His tone brooked no arguments.
Trowa raised his hands defensively, backing away, and sighed in frustration. "What happened, today? Why are you threatening to hurt me?" he murmured.
"Because today I came to a realization, Trowa. You threw away your career, your life for me, and it never should have happened. I’m a bad person. I lie, I cheat, I steal…" He chuckled darkly. "I fuck other people behind your back."
Cold blue eyes lifted to pierce into his own. "Your kindness, your sincerity can’t change me, my personality, my nature. I will always be the black sheep. I’ll always be a joke, an embarrassment, and it was cruel of me to ever involve you in this. But," he shrugged, making the gesture seem a lot more careless than it was, "I suppose that only serves to further illustrate my point."
Trowa felt the urge to argue rise within his mind, but he fought it back. Quatre was wrong; that he knew for sure. People weren’t evil or malicious because of choice. All people were inherently good when given the option… Weren’t they?
Quatre had been given a second chance… And he had gone back to the drugs, the promiscuity, the recklessness… But it was a behavior engrained on him from his upbringing. Or perhaps…
The brunette gazed across the dark bedroom to the lithe figure perched on the windowsill, and a thought dawned on him. Perhaps Quatre truly loved the sordid world in which he had been raised. Perhaps the lies, the deceit, were something upon which the boy thrived.
Maybe Quatre Winner had made an existence out of hurting other people—and himself—and perhaps he enjoyed it.
Trowa’s heart skipped a beat. He forgot to breathe for a long minute, but when he remembered the basic habit, the air in the room tasted stale. Quatre’s hair wasn’t as bright in the dying rays of the Tokyo Bay sun, and the man’s gut felt heavy.
All people were not good and righteous at heart.
Quatre was not a good person at heart.
It was as if the very foundation upon which Trowa had built all of his ethics and principles had been swept away in a rapid torrent of angry waters, only his crushing blow had been delivered not by a freak tsunami…
…But by the almost innocent-looking blonde that he had fallen in love with.
It had all been a lie. He had been some warped, emotional project for the boy. Quatre had toyed with his mind, body, and heart for his own amusement, and he had been left none the wiser.
"And now you understand why they all warned you to get as far away from me as quickly as you could."
The soft alto reached his ears as if from miles away and not the span of three feet. The blonde hopped gracefully from his perch and raked a hand through his unruly hair. He pulled his jacket more closely around himself, tucked the gun into the small of his back, and sighed. Trowa stood, dumbstruck, as the young man walked quietly across the room, stopping beside him, and even the smell of warm leather and the blonde wasn’t enough to snap the man from his agonized daze.
"I want you to know that while I might not love you, there’s someone out there, somewhere, who can right all of the things I’ve done to you."
Quatre pressed a chaste kiss to the officer’s lips, crossing to the doorway of the bedroom, and he paused, back to Trowa’s, a slight smile on his lips. "I’d just suggest getting to know that person before you decide to either fuck him or quit the military for him."
The front door to the apartment clicked closed, the deadbolt slid home from outside, and the presence of Quatre Winner had vanished from the suddenly small, cold dwelling.
+++
"You didn’t push him too far, did you?"
Quatre sighed softly, slipping into the passenger seat of the rental car, head thrown back against the headrest as he calmed his racing heart.
"I’m honestly not sure," he whispered. "But it will be so much easier for him to move on now that I’ve given him a reason to hate me."
The blonde closed his eyes, burying his face in his palms as the car roared to life, and a strong hand ruffled his hair fondly. "He’ll be fine, Quatre. He’s a big guy. I should know," his companion chuckled. "The bastard broke my jaw."
Ice-blue eyes turned back to the street that he had lived on with the former teacher, fading slowly from sight in the rear-view mirror, and Quatre nodded sullenly.
"So are you goin’ to tell me why you changed your mind, all of a sudden? I flew halfway across the planet because of a phone call, Quat."
Playful, lively violet eyes glanced across the console to the blonde, and he couldn’t help but smile. "I can’t live like a normal person. You of all people know that. Trowa just wanted something… that I couldn’t give him."
"And what is it that you want from me, exactly?"
There was a quiet pause, and Quatre turned away from the reflection in the rear-view mirror to gaze down at the scars that crisscrossed his arms. "Something approaching normal?"
A slow grin curved Duo’s handsome face, and the teenager laughed. "No expectations, no rules, no boundaries. Just you, uninhibited, and whatever half-cocked relationship we can piece together?" the braided youth countered. Quatre nodded quietly, and the brunette smiled.
"Sounds good to me."
+++
Finis.
I know that it was kinda weird at the end, but hey… That’s just the way that it wanted to be written. I might end up goin’ back and inserting a chapter before this one, but I had to post this. This should be the last part of this arc, unless I—or you all—decide that you REALLY have to know what happens… I dunno. Thanks, again, to everyone.
Survival Rate: "On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.