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"Fight Club"Written By: Switchblade003
Pairing(s): I’m tempted to put 2x1x2 just so other people’ll actually give it a shot and read it! Warning(s): I think steady pedophilia’s going to become a warning. Trowa’s so bad… Rating: NC-17; I promise I’ll write in some sex! Archive: www.wuffie.net Review Raves: Tee, hee. You guys are great! BTW, if you have screennames and would like to talk to me about the fic one-on-one, IM me! SN: LgclPrgrsn Cob: Fishies are the best! Plus, he’s in the Navy! SailorComet: Love you, too, Sam, and more frequent updates would be appreciated, but are not required!! I just thank you for reading! Icz: Lol. Ah, vengeance… Fabi-chan: A "she," huh? Sorry about that! Glad you like it. Lmao. You reviewed while I was checking for feedback! +++
Fight Club Chapter: II—Countdown
"You’ve got to be kidding me…" Quatre growled in ever-increasing frustration, sitting back on his heels behind home base. If the blonde could have swiped the aluminum bat out of the batter’s hands and beaten the pitcher to a bloody stump with the blasted thing, he would have. The Arabian squatted down in the heat and humidity of the South Pacific summer, so irritated that not even the oppressive tropical climate or his sweat-soaked bangs, plastered to his forehead were noticeable. His vision no longer encompassed the dozen or so other boys on the field, the crowd of red and white jerseys and black hair in the dugout. All he cared about was the idiot chucking half-assed sliders and pathetic curve balls across his plate. His class had been playing baseball for nearly a week, now. It seemed that the sport was twice as popular in Japan as it was back in the States. Physical Education had always been an easy "A" for the blonde—when he’d bothered to participate—but here, he was beginning to loathe the class with an unparalleled passion. For half an hour, he’d been kneeling in the red-brown dust and dirt of the diamond, left hand clutching the back of his well-worn black leather glove, shooting call signs to their impromptu pitcher between his spread thighs, but the Asian youth either ignored Quatre’s proposal or requested another by shaking his head. It was the bottom of the fifth inning and the ‘pitcher’ had walked over half of the kids who’d stepped up to bat, and the rest had gotten base hits. Quatre’s team was losing, and it was because that arrogant prick wouldn’t follow directions. The Moslem youth was getting pissed. I’ll give him an easy one. There’s no way that this guy can hit a breaking ball, the foreigner surmised, sizing up the next batter. He flashed the sign, then sat back to receive the ball, but the teenager atop the mound simply rolled his eyes and slung the ball in an opposite fashion. The batter swung, struck his target with ease, and sent the baseball directly up and into the air over home plate. "Foul ball!" Quatre had had it with diplomacy. He’d been the Secretary-General of his school’s United Nation’s Society for two consecutive years, but even he had his breaking point, and the stubborn fuck currently glaring at him from the center of the diamond was the catalyst. The blonde practically tore off his catcher’s mask and chest protector while stalking away form home base, righting his baseball cap. With a semi-violent shove, he knocked the now former pitcher from his post, the irritation in his eyes just daring the other boy to challenge him. The Asian youth stormed off to the dugout, muttering in vernacular. Quatre grinned. "Throw me a ball," he called to the boys in his dugout, and one of his fellow classmates complied eagerly, tossing him his request and then grabbing the gear that the Arabian had abandoned, donning it with ease, manning the base behind the plate. The rest of the class looked on with a silent curiosity. Quatre narrowed his gaze across the diamond to the batter he’d stranded, and he nodded to him. "Pick up the bat. Let’s play." The batter obliged, as well; it seemed that the newcomer still held a fair deal of authority in his voice and demeanor. In one powerful motion, the Moslem wound his arm up, snapped his elbow back, and sent the horsehide-covered sphere speeding through the thick, stale afternoon air. The batter swung and missed it entirely. "Damn!" The exclamation had come from his stand-in catcher, and suddenly, every boy in the dugout was geared up to play. The next four innings went by faster than any Quatre had ever played, and at the end of the game, though his team did lose, the other boys all thanked him for a game well-played. As the red and white jerseys, some disheveled, some streaked with dirt, filed off of the field and into the locker room, Quatre sighed heavily, still atop the pitcher’s mound. He flexed his fingers stiffly inside his glove. "Winner?" The blonde’s eyes darted up from his hand to the PE coach walking toward him, and he bowed shallowly to the man. He’d learned that custom shortly after arriving. Coach Merquise, though not of Japanese origin himself, was still treated as one of the native staff of the school, so Quatre simply followed suit. The taller of the two blondes stood at the base of the pitcher’s mound and smiled up at Quatre. "Kid, you’ve got one hell of an arm," he stated easily, quietly, and the orphan chuckled. "Thanks, but it’s nothing." Merquise laughed wryly, shaking his head, and his long platinum hair, bound by several dark leather straps, swayed behind him. "Quatre—do you mind if I call you that?" The teenager shook his head quickly, and his coach continued. "Quatre. I’ve been teaching here for almost five years, and, no offense to them, but none of these Japanese kids are built to pitch!" The younger blonde laughed, nodding his understanding. His coach’s words did bear some merit… "So why don’t you bring your glove and your cleats to the field tomorrow after-school and show me just how well you can throw?" Quatre’s blue eyes widened visibly. The Tokyo Bay Braves, while not exactly the underdogs of their league, weren’t the greatest baseball team in Japan’s archipelago, but Merquise really wanted him to pitch. "R-Really?" he stammered, for once devoid of any smart-assed comment or cynical retort to hide behind. He was truly flattered. The coach smiled. "Did I stutter?" He reached out a smacked the bill of the boy’s cap, obscuring his vision as he walked off toward the locker rooms. "We’ve never had the advantage of a leftie before. Go home and talk it over with your dad. Word has it that he was quite the ballplayer in college, himself." A smile took Quatre’s handsome features, and he punched his free fist into his glove. For the first time in his life, he knew that he’d be rushing home to tell his ‘dad’ some great news. +++ TBC. Countdown: "This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time."
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