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"Drabbles"Written By: Clara Barton Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing. The following
is an intellectual exercise with no intention of profit. That said,
these characterizations, words, and situations are mine. Please ask
before reprinting. Rating: R A/N: For simulacrayn who requested #48 from 54
Prompts, "My parents are coming over in ten minutes so please
put some clothes on." Featuring 13x6, with a guest and bonus
appearance by Dorothy. Warnings: language, sexy-ish times?, drugs, underage
drinking Pairings: 13x6
Forty Eight Summers at the Hamptons had stopped being entertaining when Treize was seven. That had been the summer when, instead of occupying himself with sandcastles and tennis lessons and birthday parties, he had had to learn how best to take care of his mother when she had the worst of her hangovers. Divorce, which seemed to suit Treize's father and his string of super model girlfriend's just fine, had certainly taken it's toll on his mother. So, that summer, Treize had learned how to make Bloody Marys. He had learned how to lie and pretend that his mother was perfectly sober, had learned how to steer her in conversations and around the golf course and he had learned to never, ever allow anyone to see the turmoil he felt. It wasn't his job to feel, to need. It was his job to look after her and take care of her and so he only ever cried into his pillow, late at night, after she was tucked into bed, after he had cleaned up the vomit around the toilet so that the maid wouldn't see it in the morning, so that no one would know. So that no one would judge. Twelve years later, and Treize's feelings for the Hamptons had not improved. True, it wasn't the fault of the beach or the beach houses or any of the people occupying them that his life had become one complex, farcical charade. But it wasn't as if the place, or the people, made it any easier. Going away to college last year, running across the country to Standford where no one knew his father's name, or his mother's, where no one knew about the messy divorce or the overdoses that, no matter how hard Treize had tried, had resulted in his mother staying in the hospital and rehab centers too many times. He ran away and he had had every intention of never coming back, until, the summer after his freshman year, his mother had fallen in love and become engaged and wouldn't Treize come to the Hamptons, wouldn't he meet this paragon of virtue who was guaranteed to make her happy when she had been so very miserable for the last twelve years? So he came, ignoring the pain and the anger and the anxiety that churned in his gut and he forced his most pleasant smile when he met the man. A tennis pro. A young tennis pro who had only ever managed to be ranked 28th in his prime, some six years ago, and who had no hopes of ever progressing in his sport and no doubt saw the opportunity to progress his wealth on the arm of one of New York's most prominent, and troubled, socialites. Treize took the first opportunity to pull the man aside, to take him out sailing alone while his mother drank mimosas and played bridge with women that Treize had heard gossip about her countless times, and he told him very frankly that there was no money. His father had paid her, while Treize was underage, and yes, she had some money of her own, from her grandmother, that was enough to get by on but her lifestyle was all because of Treize - because of the money he had inherited from his grandparents, and from the sum his father had settled on him as something between an apology and a payoff. Treize hadn't been surprised to see the man go pale, hadn't been surprised when his previously flowing if pedantic conversation died and when they returned to the house just at sunset, he wasn't surprised when the man made some excuse to leave, to go back to the city to meet with his agent, when he offered false promises to return. He wasn't surprised when he found his mother two days later, pale and cold, in a pool of vomit and spilt champagne and pills. The ride to the hospital had been long, had left him ready to vomit himself, left him ready to vow to never drink again. To never do anything wrong again if only she would live. And she did, she lived and she returned to the house five days later and she threw him out and told him to never, ever contact her again. Told him that he had ruined her life for the last time. He had been so shocked, so devastated and unable to even process it that he had walked to the beach and sat down in the sand and let the late May breeze whip against him and he had felt bereft. He wasn't sure how long he had been there, how long he had stared into the crashing waves and the fading sun, but suddenly the light was blocked out and he looked up to see a tall, broad shouldered figure with ridiculously long blond hair. "Treize?" He frowned, the voice was familiar, but... "Zechs?" The blond man sat down beside him, somehow making it look effortless and graceful as he stretched out on the sand, propped himself on an elbow, and smirked over at him. Treize hadn't seen him in years, not since their last year at The Anderson School and the summer after, when they had been fourteen and he and Zechs had gone sailing together almost every day, earning snide remarks about their future chances at winning the America's Cup but, in truth, Treize and Zechs had merely sailed far enough to be away from prying eyes and spent their time in a youthful, clandestine affair that brought doom onto Zechs when his father found out. He had been shipped off, after that, to some Swiss boarding school and Treize had figured that was par for the course - it had been silly, really, to think he could have something good in his life. "I... haven't seen you in a while." Treize felt like a moron. He was usually so cool, so cold and so in control of his emotions and his surroundings but not now. His mother... Zechs... there was too much for him to calculate, for him to consider, and he found himself stumbling. Zechs smirked, his wide lips just as beautiful as they had been five years ago, his eyes still sparking with humor and heat but the rest of him had changed. He had filled out, had filled up to the point that Treize wondered which of them was taller. And his ridiculous hair was longer than ever. "No, my father insisted we summer in the French Riviera instead, after you debauched me." Treize glared. "I debauched you? You were the one who put his hand down my shorts first," Treize argued. "Only because you kept waving your ass in my face," Zechs' smirk grew broader. They stared at each other a moment, and Treize had the someone redundant realization that they were no longer fourteen. Five years to grow, to gain independence and experience and still, Treize looked at those lips and he felt his stomach do a curious sumersault. "How have you been?" Zechs asked after the tension between them became almost palpable. Treize laughed and the bitter sound that escaped his lips surprised even him. "Oh, delightful," he said and he looked away from Zechs, from those blue eyes that turned sharp. "Treize -" "Where are you staying?" He cut off whatever Zechs had been about to say, unable to bear it. "With your cousin, actually, Dorothy?" "Dear god why?" Treize had to ask. Dorothy, four years younger, was a precocious bitch. She had been a menace since the moment she had been born and age had not changed that. Treize saw her only when he couldn't avoid it - meaning Thanksgivings and Christmases and the occasional New Year's Eves. People accused Treize of being cold and unfeeling, but anyone who did so had never met Dorothy, had never seen just what a Manhattan socialite with complete disdain for the world was capable of. Zechs heaved a long suffering sigh and shrugged one shoulder. "I suspect I'm there to irritate her boyfriend du jour, some hapless Winner brat who thinks he's cunning enough to keep up with her schemes." Treize arched an eyebrow. "And is he?" Zechs snorted. "No. Who is? In any case, what are your plans for tonight? Her parents are out and I promised to chaperone some party for the children." Treize could well imagine just how horrid that would be for Zechs - alone, surrounded by fifteen year olds too full of themselves, too done with the world and with unrestricted access to drugs and alcohol. "Are you actually inviting me to suffer alongside you?" "Yes? I promise I'll make it worth your while," Zechs added with a sly smile. -o- And he did. The party was, as Treize had foreseen, absolutely awful. Kids that he knew only vaguely, from a lifetime of social events and awkward introductions, ran around half naked and more than half drunk and it wasn't until dawn when the last of them left or passed out and Zechs and Treize were able to finally, finally be alone. Zechs commandeered one of the few bottles of Glenmorangie that hadn't been wasted on the children, took Treize by the hand, and led him to the guest suite he occupied. Treize had expected the bed, had expected slow sex and the burn of the whiskey in his throat and likely on his body but instead, Zechs had run a bath and undressed Treize with gentle fingers and eyes that saw far too much. Treize had laid on Zechs' chest, in the hot water, and they had shared the bottle and the last five years of their lives and Treize felt, for perhaps the first time since he had been seven, that things would be fine. That he would be fine. Of course, the mood was entirely ruined when Dorothy burst in, bright eyes smudged with makeup and her hair a wreck, with absolutely no interest in the sight of two naked men. "My parents are coming home in ten minutes, please put some clothes on. And help me clean up this mess!" And then she was gone, confident her orders would be obeyed, and Treize and Zechs had to laugh. Before, of course, they put some clothes on and helped her clean up the house. No one, they had learned the hard way years ago, disobeyed Dorothy. -o- So I changed it JUST a little from coming over to coming home. Sorry. Had to.
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