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"International Relations"Written By: Switchblade003
Disclaimer: New Mobile War Chronicle Gundam Wing and all affiliated characters are property of Shin Kidousenki and Bandai, Setsu Agency.. Don’t sue me, because I’m the proud owner of over two-thousand dollar’s worth of Gundam merchandise. Pairing(s): Derivatives of twelve Warning(s): If you don’t like YAOI or shonen-ai, this ain’t the place for you. Rating: A solid, unwavering NC-17 (violence, drugs, statutory rape, naked marshmallows, the usual…) Archive: www.wuffie.net Notes: Teachers have got it rough nowadays… Review Raves: You guys are the best! Christina: Heh. Punk is definitely the best. Hey, do any of you draw? I could use some illustrations for this. Let your minds wander as to what Quatre might look like. J
Usako: LMAO. Ahh, punks… MidnightLoner: Who are "they," hm? Well, a little later on it will become more than apparent what effects narcotics have on Quatre. Ecstasy especially can induce hallucinations. *Just a side-note: I’m up to Ch. 08, and I’m stumped. If you guys catch me o/l, feel free to IM me and tell me what you’d like to see happen! +++ International Relations Chapter: III—Nazis in Stalingrad
"Trowa, I’m so sorry…" The teacher sighed softly as he closed the door behind himself, locking it and carrying Quatre—who was obviously drugged and drunk—to his couch. "Don’t apologize, Quat. It’s all right. Just tell me what drugs you were taking. How much did you drink? And what were you drinking? You smell like vodka." Trowa watched anxiously as the boy closed his eyes and threw an arm across them. "It is vodka. I think I only had seven or eight shots. And I had E. Nothing else." The teacher nodded, sitting down beside the boy and sighing heavily. The child’s sufficient lack of clothing and sweat-matted hair were only adding to the tension of the situation. If anyone found out that he’d had the boy at his home he could very well lose his job. But as he gazed at the semi-lucid blonde lying on his sofa, he realized that he didn’t care so long as the boy was all right. His friendship with the blonde was something resembling a casual guardianship, and he sometimes felt like a father to the boy—especially after Quatre pulled stunts like this one and he felt the need to chastise his student and he was faced to confront the realities that he was not the child’s father, and he truly had no real jurisdiction over this beautiful, brilliant youth. "Do you think I should take you to the hospital? Should I call your parents?" Quatre removed his arm from over his dazed sapphire eyes and looked up at Trowa. "Don’t bother; they don’t even know I’m gone. They won’t care. And please don’t take me in. They’ll just throw me back in the Behavioral Center." The brunette nodded his understanding, sitting back and pursing his lips in thought. After pondering quietly for a moment he reached up and ran a hand through his own hair. "Okay, all right. You ‘re staying here, tonight. Let’s get you showered and into some clean clothes." +++ Trowa withheld a small smile as he tugged one of his own thin cotton tee-shirts over Quatre’s freshly scrubbed blonde head, then gingerly placed a palm flat against the youth’s small chest. It took only the slightest amount of force to propel the drugged boy backwards and onto the mattress. Quatre had passed out twice in the shower and once while walking to his coach’s room. The history teacher had finally given up on allowing Quatre to walk on his own after the third tumble and had hefted the prone Arabian into his arms and carried him to the room. Now, the usually dark-clad blonde lay, semi-conscious, in the dark-navy sheets of Trowa’s bed, head turned to one side, soft white-gold locks spilling across his pillow. He didn’t want to acknowledge the direction in which his thoughts were going, but the teenaged-genius was gorgeous without his dark makeup and oppressively colorless wardrobe… "Mr. Barton?" The small alto broke through his thoughts and he turned to look down at his student. "I’m here," he replied softly. Quatre blinked open bloodshot turquoise eyes and let out a pained gasp, squeezing them closed once more. "Can you turn off the light?" The professor turned this idea over in his mind, being alone in his darkened bedroom with a semi-conscious, half-drugged Quatre lying in his bed, and he felt his conscience pull at him. I won’t do anything. I have enough self-control not to let this get too out-of-hand… Don’t I? Trowa obliged the pitiful request, reaching over to the bedside reading lamp and flipping it off, plunging the pair into a comfortable darkness broken only by the streetlight filtering in from between the blind slats. The brunette sighed, laying back against the headboard of his bed and closing tired eyes. Today had been a very long day… Every muscle in the teacher’s body tensed as he felt Quatre stirring beside him, and the blonde rolled over to face him, scooting over to press to his flank and lay his head on Trowa’s chest. "I don’t feel so hot, Mr. Barton," his inebriated ward slurred, hugging him around his waist and whimpering softly. The more sober of the two reluctantly slid his arms around his student, holding him closely, stroking his damp blonde hair away from his eyes in a soothing gesture. Although the man knew it was wrong, he couldn’t deny how much he cared for the boy in his arms, and the direction in which those feelings had been growing. He was in love with Quatre, though the boy was nine years his junior, a student in the very school he worked, one of his own pupils, a minor, and so tragically and profoundly disturbed that even his doctors had given up on him. Trowa would have done anything for the blonde, including sacrificing his own career and reputation for the boy. Quatre, do you have any idea what you do to me? The teacher leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the flaxen tresses beneath his jaw, and Quatre nuzzled into his tank-top clad pectorals. "I love you, Trowa," his counterpart whispered, and it was like a jolt of electricity through his system to hear the boy use his given name for the first time. His heart picked up, and he stared ahead into the dark as small, slender hands clutched at his shirt to give Quatre more leverage as the inebriated boy tried to get himself into a sitting position. "I love you, too, Quatre. You really should go to sleep, y’know." The Arabian nodded, laying his head to Trowa’s bared shoulder and yawned softly. "You should, too," he whispered, speech still slurred from the alcohol in his system, as well as from fatigue. He fumbled blindly beside his friend until his fingers encountered Trowa’s, and he took his hand, lacing their fingers. The small, timid alto that came to the professor next made his heart ache. "I’m making you uncomfortable, aren’t I?" Trowa sighed, shaking his head. Although he couldn’t deny that the situation was one that he’d never imagined being involved with, it was not nearly as awkward as it might have been had this been one of his other students. Right now, he just wanted to know that Quatre was safe and well looked-after. And I’d also like to know what all of this means to him, because I can’t deny that a part of me really wants this to be more than the paternal love that it is. "You aren’t making me uncomfortable, Quat. I’ve just… This is a completely foreign territory for me. I’m not a father, and I certainly don’t know anything about teenaged kids…" He lay his cheek to the top of the blonde’s head, lying pliantly as the boy moved closer, wrapping thin arms around the strong column of Trowa’s neck and sighing heavily, a small smile on his lips. "Mr. Barton," he laughed, "How could you think that? You mentor over one hundred students at school, and the ones of us who are a little more dysfunctional than others look up to you even more. And I…" The younger of the two sighed. "Mr. Barton, you’re like an older brother to me." Trowa felt his heart plunge straight to his groin. His hopes—however inappropriate they might have been—were shot out of the sky, crashing down around him in a blaze of tragic glory. This is a worse defeat than Hitler’s invasion of Russia, he kicked himself mentally. Quietly, he nodded, smoothing back the blonde’s hair. The teacher closed his eyes, crestfallen, and held the boy close. He might as well enjoy this while he could; it was probably a first and a last. "I know, kiddo," he said softly, trying to cover his dejection. "Just go to sleep, okay? We’re going to have to get up early tomorrow; I need to stop by your house so you can change before school." Quatre nodded, practically clinging to his coach, and he fell to sleep easily in the warmth and safety of Trowa’s strong arms. The professor, on the other hand, spent a rather restless night running his fingers through the blonde’s hair, thoughts plagued by his own feelings. +++ TBC. During the mid-1930s, as Adolf Hitler rose to the position of Fuhrer of Germany, he signed an agreement with the premier of Russia, Joseph Stalin. In simple terms, the treaty was a nonaggression pact which stated that neither country would attack the other, and that once Germany mobilized its illegal army and invaded Poland, it would split the occupied accumulated territory with the Russians. However, as the Nazis swept through Europe with their military tactic called blitzkreig, or "lightening war," taking every country from France to Denmark, and Hitler’s Luftwaffe—air force—terrorized the British capital, the Germans swept into northern Africa, and the Third Reich was at its highest power. Hitler, arrogant at his victories thus far, decided to violate the terms of the nonaggression pact, and he invaded Russia, turning his crusade to bring Germany back to its full power into a two-front war. Inevitably, his army found its defeat in Russia’s perilous winters. Heil das Fuhrer, eh? -Jack Switchblade *Another note: I’ve set up a new account on FictionPress.net, under the penname "Hybrid Dialect." Check out what’s posted, if you’re interested. |
