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"Fight Club"Written By: Switchblade003
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 Review Raves: Okay. Have to acknowledge the crazed
fans, huh? +++ Fight Club
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 promised 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 off
of 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."
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