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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): Did you know that all electrical appliances whose chords have prongs/ holes for prongs are referred to as "male" or "female"? That cracks me up… Warning(s): None really, this chapter. Watch out for adult social drinking, mild language, and a hint of jealousy. Rating: A solid, unwavering NC-17 (violence, drugs, statutory rape, naked marshmallows, the usual…) Archive: www.wuffie.net Notes: This will be the last chapter in this series of the arc, guys. Unfortunately, Jack here’ll be graduating from high school on June 12th, and I’ll have virtually zero time to write. I promise to update at least once a month. Sorry. Send anything you don’t want to post in reviews to Superfuturesque_sound@yahoo.com, and I’ll try to respond promptly. I love you guys a lot! Thanks for reading! Review Raves: Does anyone even read those silly
history footnotes?? Icz: Hey! Someone new! Betcha feel like you’re comin’ in at the end of a really long movie, huh? Lol. Thanks for reviweing, and there will be a car, now that you mention it! A car, flames, glass… Takaro: Lol. I guess you’ve become our comic relief, hm? I’ll write, you dance! Candice: Sorry to disappoint, but this’ll be it for a while! Forsaken: I’m glad that you like my unique approach to Quat. I’ve gotten a lot of shit about this, actually, but I knew that there were people who’d appreciate it. +++ International Relations Chapter: VIII—CSS Virginia
"Shh. Just lay back." Quatre hissed softly, eyes squeezed closed in pain as Trowa’s strong arms levered him back into the bathtub, and then gentle hands were sweeping his sweat-matted blonde bangs away from his face, his teacher’s soothing tenor at his ear. The entire ‘bathtub scene,’ while not completely disagreeable, was becoming ridiculously familiar… It was raining outside. He could hear water striking the roof like his dad’s shot glasses being slammed down on the kitchen counter. Water everywhere. On the roof, in the tub, behind his eyelids… Quatre clenched his teeth, choking on a sob and sinking further into the water. Maybe if he was lucky a bolt of lightening would hit one of the exterior plumbing fixtures and fry him. He stared across the tub’s length at the black porcelain tile and imagined himself in a pressure cooker. Maybe he wouldn’t need the lightening. Maybe Trowa would realize what a giant mistake he’d just made in signing those papers and the man would just hold his bright head under the water. The International Relations professor sighed, even as his hands stroked lightly over the boy’s feverish skin, cleaning away the blood, sweat, and tears from his body. The blonde lay silently, head tilted back against the wall of the tub, eyes closed. His breathing was still evened out, and he appeared much calmer than he had in the social worker’s office. For that small improvement, Trowa was grateful, but now his head was spinning. In the course of twenty-four hours, his life had been turned inside-out, and he was trying to pick up the pieces. He had accumulated a deeply disturbed, drug-addicted teenager as his legal responsibility, his colleagues at school were guaranteed to start some kind of trouble for him once they found out, and he had no idea how he was going to explain this to his parents… "I really fucked things up this time, didn’t I?" Quatre’s quiet alto sounded broken, defeated, almost as battered as his slender frame. The brunette shook his head, exhaling explosively. Wounded sapphire eyes slit open to gaze up at him. "Quat… I don’t know what to do. I’ve run out of answers, here." Trowa sat back on his heels beside the tub, and he hung his head. "I love you, Quatre, but I don’t know that I can do this by myself." The Arabian nodded his understanding slowly, wincing as he did. One of his slim hands reached up to grasp his injured ribs. "I should go…" he said quietly, and Trowa growled in frustration, standing to his full height and clenching his fists at his sides, raking a hand through his hair. "No!" he sighed, pacing back and forth in the center of the bathroom. "Quatre, you have nowhere to go!" The blonde shrugged lightly. "I could find someplace, I guess…" Trowa whirled around to stare at the boy in astonishment. "Quatre Raberba Winner, I did not just sign you away from your dad to turn you loose on the streets! You are my responsibility, and now that I finally have some say in your life, I won’t sit back and watch you and your addictions!" The Moslem sat silently, watching his mentor’s outburst with a mixture of surprise and incredulity. The man was angry, and it was quite obvious. "You go through drugs like oxygen, you smoke, you get mixed up in all kinds of trouble with the police, and I just got to find out two days ago, from Duo, of all people, that you’ve been having sex! The older of the two males shook his head, lips pursed tightly, hands on his hips. "I can handle this, but only if you work with me, Quat. I’ll fight the entire world for you, but I can’t fight you, too!" +++ Late that night, Trowa sat on his couch in the dark, staring idly at the TV. He’d put Quatre to bed hours ago, and now he sat alone, his first real moments as a parent weighing down his mind the storm raging outside reflecting the turmoil in his head and heart. <Ring, ring.> The man reached over to answer his phone, absently wondering who would be calling him a almost two in the morning. "Hello?" The voice which answered him surprised him, but in a pleasant way. <Hey. I heard what happened.> Trowa chuckled wryly, gazing up at the ceiling of his apartment and leaning back against his sofa. <I figured you might want to talk.> With a soft smile, Trowa rubbed his eyes wearily, getting up and pacing a bit. "Where are you?" he asked, and in response there was a quiet knock on his front door. Perplexed, the professor went to answer it, and he unchained and unlocked the door to find his friend leaning casually against his doorframe, drenched. "Hiirou, it’s two in the morning. What are you doing here?" he whispered, and the tall brunette shrugged lightly, handing his colleague a bottle of beer as he walked past Trowa and into the apartment. The History professor had been to his friend’s home numerous times, and he was close with the younger man. Lately, however, he hadn’t been able to catch the Irishman; Trowa was constantly trying to get Quatre out of some trouble or another. Quietly, both men sat down on Trowa’s couch, and Hiirou tipped his bottle back. "I heard about what happened with social services," he spoke, prodding additional information from his friend. "One of my neighbors works at the station." Trowa nodded slowly, gazing absently at the bottle in his hands, sighing deeply. "As a colleague, can I ask you something, Hiirou?" He glanced up at the History teacher, and the man nodded. Trowa dropped his gaze back to the dark amber glass, rocking slightly in concentration. "What repercussions against my career would there be if I legally adopted one of my students?" The taller of the two quickly brought the bottle to his lips, drinking hastily, and Hiirou arched a dark brow at him. "You’re serious about this, aren’t you?" It was a rhetorical question, so Trowa didn’t answer. The Japanese man whistled lightly, falling back against the couch’s support and staring at his companion. "Trowa, you’re twenty-six, you get paid… maximum eighteen thousand dollars a year, and—no offense—you have no idea how to raise a kid, especially not a drug-addicted… sex-addicted, juvenile delinquent like Quatre Winner!" It was with a frown that Trowa absorbed this information. Silently, he turned to regard his friend’s honest face, and he replied softly. "I’m in love with him." Hiirou’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, and it was his turn to drink from his bottle. "Wow," he whispered, staring at the TV idly. "That does complicate things." Trowa failed to note the slightly jealous stint to the Asian’s words. The two men again lapsed into silence. Trowa sat contemplating the precariousness of his situation, Hiirou musing over the legalities involved in being involved with a minor, and a student, at that… "I could resign," the Irishman offered, shrugging. Hiirou turned to stare at him. "What the hell would you do for a living? Working in museums pays less than public schools." The taller of the two brunettes nodded, and his gaze fell on the Navy ring on his right hand. Quietly he arched a brow. "What if I went active duty?" +++ TBC in "Fight Club." Lol; No, it won’t be based on the movie, but based on a lot of the philosophical premise in the movie, primarily the saying, "Who you were in Fight Club is not who you are in the rest of the world." Substitute "the Navy" for "Fight Club" with regards to Trowa, and "school" for "Fight Club" with regards to Quatre, and what have you got? Two seemingly normal guys living complete lies. You guys’ll love this. No real history notes this time ‘round To explain the title of the chapter, the CSS Virginia was one of the first ironclad battleships in modern naval warfare. It was constructed by the Confederates (I believe) out of the wooden ship the Merrimac and fought in a historic battle of the coast of Fort Monroe in Hampton, Virginia. Now a note: Trowa’s military career in the next series will be heavily based on my limited first-hand knowledge of the United States Navy. I’m considering enlisting in the Nuclear Propulsion Program, one of the most advanced fields in the world, I’m told, and I’m hoping to survive. Knowing that my name is JACK, and my koi’s name is JOHN, I think you’re all bright enough to understand how hard that could be. So until I talk to you guys, again… -Jack
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