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"Logical Progression"Written By: Switchblade003
Warning(s): Watch out, Takaro. Angst this chapter. Rating: NC-17 Archive: www.wuffie.net Notes: Well, I finally updated. Tried to make
it a longer chapter to hold you guys over until I get up enough energy
to write, again. Hope you like it! Also, if anyone who reads my work
has an archive, I’m looking to branch out and get my work posted
in multiple locations. If you have an archive and believe my writing
to be worthy (it’s not that great) please e-mail me at Superfuturesque_sound@yahoo.com. Review Raves: Love you guys! Logical Progression
The young billionaire sighed dejectedly, gazing down
at the other form sharing his bed. Duo was sprawled across the wine-colored
sheets, as always, sleeping soundly, snoring lightly. His tanned limbs
lay in a boneless heap upon the mattress, one arm behind his head,
the other draped carelessly over his bare stomach. Well-muscled athlete’s
legs were entangled in the thin sheets, and his ever-present braid
snaked its way across the bedspread and dangled over his edge of the
mattress. A small smile took the blonde’s lips as he watched
his lover sleep. He had never really thought much of it, before, being
able to simply sit in silence—disturbed only by the Aussie’s
breathing—and observe the man. He looked so innocent, so peaceful
in slumber, though Quatre knew that he was anything but. The brunette’s
usual exuberance for life, his endless energy seemed paused, put on
hold as he rested. The German had decided a few days prior that he
preferred Duo awake, but watching the young soccer player doze gave
him something to do during his long, lonely nights of insomnia. Sleeping felt like such a waste of time, now, and he
wanted to relish every moment that he had left. He wanted to memorize
his lover’s handsome face, the long, dark lashes fanned over
his cherubic cheeks, the elegant slant of his nose, his full lips
parted as he breathed… During the day he had taken to coming home from work
just to be with the man. He had never been one for ‘cuddling,’
as his braided menace of a boyfriend called it, but lately… Lately
all he wanted to do was curl up in the other man’s lap, in his
arms, and spend hours on end with him. He wanted—no, needed—physical
contact. And during the day, when the Australian had obligations—practice,
games, the occasional photo opportunity—he found himself wandering. The German had been spending quite a bit of time outdoors,
trying to ingrain on his conscious what the sun felt like on his skin,
how the breeze outside ruffled his bangs. He felt rushed, anxious,
as if he had only hours to memorize every little nuance of life that
he’d always taken for granted. And as his feet took him to random
places of importance to him, dark cafés and loud playgrounds
of his youth, his mind focused intensely on his absent, deadly companion. As much as he would have liked to, Quatre couldn’t
deny to himself the attachment he’d been harboring to the silent
young man who had come to take his life. Anyone with any sense would
have loathed Death, cursed his existence, and lapsed into complete
denial about his upcoming termination. The blonde CEO, however, found
himself missing the brunette’s company. There was something about those haunting green eyes,
that snide, almost witty personality, that sharp tongue… The
German buried his face in his hands, sighing explosively. With a familiar
ache in the pit of his stomach, Quatre willed his cramped legs to
unfold, staggered off of the bed and across the polished wooden planks
of his bedroom floor. He wasn’t even certain of his destination,
but he moved through the darkened apartment with an ease borne of
practice, rubbing his eyes needlessly and raking shaky fingers through
his hair. The youth soon arrived in his kitchen, hands groping
for the refrigerator door, pulling it open and wincing as the pilot
light glared into his eyes. His over-dilated pupils adjusted to the
sudden presence of illumination, and Quatre stared idly at the contents
of his fridge, eyes roaming over wine coolers and takeout containers,
the staple ingredients of Duo’s diet. A wry smile took his lips
as he realized that the braided menace made more use of the kitchen
than he did; he had almost stopped eating altogether. Quatre chewed his lip lightly as he reached into the
cool chamber, rummaging through the various bottles and cans until
he alighted upon an untouched glass container of expensive vodka that
he’d received from one of his clients. Why it was chilling in
the fridge was beyond him, but he extracted the beverage and shut
the door behind himself, stumbling into the living room. Quietly, the German youth sank to the floor in a patch
of light streaming into the open space through a large picture window,
much like the one in his office. The white light reminded him of Joe’s
trench coat, the mockingly immaculate, snowy fabric that had caught
in his hands so unexpectedly. He groaned, shaking his head. Hell,
everything reminded him of Joe Black. With a derisive snort, the blonde
opened the bottle in his hands, brought the cold glass to his lips,
and he grimaced as the liquid burned its way down his throat. He had five days. One hundred and twenty hours. Seven thousand and two hundred minutes. Time had always been a driving force in his life…
Meetings scheduled by the hour, phone conversations held by the minute
as he monitored his watch… When one becomes the executive of
an incredibly powerful company, one can’t help but count the
seconds. But now… Quatre took another long draught from the bottle, and
the tears multiplied, spilling down his cheeks to land in miniscule
puddles on the marble floor. The German slumped back against the cool
pane of the window, forearms propped up on his knees, the bottle in
one hand, his head in the other. He felt so terribly alone. No one
at his office building had any clue that he would be erased from this
plane of reality in less than a week’s time. His family, whom
he hadn’t spoken with in almost a decade, had no notion whatsoever
that their prodigal son would cease to be before their next holiday
reunion. His own lover hadn’t the slightest inkling of the grief
that awaited him on the other side of Saturday… Why did everyone take him for granted? It seemed that
everyone around him just assumed that he’d be around, at least
for the next few years… Quatre dropped the bottle, watching the
clear glass burst upon contact with the hard tiles, the liquid sloshing
out of its container’s broken shards and onto the dark marble
floor, mingling with his tears. He couldn’t hold back his anger,
his fear any longer. With a soft curse, the blonde buried his face
in his hands, tawny bright locks of hair spilling from between his
fingers, tears spilling from his tightly-shut turquoise eyes. As Quatre’s iron composure dissolved around him
like fragments of the vodka bottle, he cried out softly, choking down
the sobs that threatened to tear themselves from his throat. He bent
double in his pale patch of light, and around his tears, around his
gasping cries, he felt a single coherent word fall from his lips. "Joe…" +++ Wounded, hollow emerald eyes watched through a solid
pane of glass as the blonde cried, purging his anger, his frustration
into the very same slim hands that had altered his perception of existence. Joe Black stood on the balcony outside Quatre’s
apartment, his trench coat twisted on the idle breeze, his hands stuffed
into deep pockets. Windswept auburn bangs obstructed his vision as
he stood intangible guard over the young man, and he tossed his head
back to alleviate the infringement on his vision. He had seen many
tears shed over his lethal messages, his cryptic appearances, but
none had pulled at the pit in the bottom of his stomach as those that
leaked violently from the same cerulean eyes which haunted his every
thought. For the first time in his ‘life,’ Death felt
angry, guilty at the knowledge that he was the cause of those tears,
the pain that practically radiated from Quatre, whether he were sitting
idle in his desk at WE headquarters or ambling through long-abandoned
playgrounds. He had been following the youth, an invisible force with
more power than almost any ever created, reduced to brooding over
a mere mortal. "You can’t save them all, Trowa." Death didn’t turn to regard the other being standing
behind him, gazing through the window at the blonde now rocking backwards
and forward on the floor of his living room, handsome face cradled
in wet hands. He knew that if he chanced a glance over his shoulder,
he’d find one of his only companions standing there with cool
Prussian blue eyes and immense black wings. Quietly, Fate moved toward him, placing a strong hand
on his shoulder, casting his eyes tactfully away from Quatre. The
other man’s black robes flapped softly in the breeze, rustling
against Death’s white trench coat, his dark, unruly hair whipping
around his head. He said nothing, simply stood watch over his charge,
Fate at his side. He’d known Hiirou for eons; being a supernatural
creature was a lonely endeavor. They seldom spoke each other’s
names, for they both took their roles in life quite seriously. But
every now and then, when Fate would send Death out on yet another
mortal assignment, he would follow his friend. Trowa never questioned
his orders, never once tried to overrule the higher power. But tonight,
as he stood watching Quatre Winner in what anyone else would have
considered a pathetic display, he felt an fury rise in himself that
he hadn’t experienced since becoming this appalling entity. "Why, Hiirou?" The words were softly spoke, almost murmured, and Fate
sighed sadly. "He’s mortal, Trowa. They all have their times.
I can’t change his path any more than I can reverse yours."
But whereas this would normally have resolved any odd emotions that
Death was feeling, Hiirou’s words only served to further stoke
the fire of hatred in the brunette’s stomach. "Why do you care so much about this boy’s
fate?" Some distant part of Trowa’s mind found it amusing
that his comrade would refer to a twenty-two year-old, accomplished
businessman as a ‘boy,’ considering that in reality Hiirou
was only eighteen years of age. Pained, the older entity averted his
eyes from his blonde ward and gazed instead at the slightly darkened
handprints that Quatre had left on his pristine white coat, tracing
their outline thoughtfully. He raised verdant eyes to answer Fate. "He touched me." Hiirou’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, hidden
by disorderly, thick bangs. "That’s… Trowa, you know
that isn’t possible…" he began, shaking his head, and
the other being turned, holding up the front of his trench coat and
showing the blue-eyed being the marks. Keen azure eyes took in the small handprints, raising
one slender palm to press against the outline, and Fate seemed taken
aback. "He can, and he did." Trowa turned his gaze back
to the blonde huddled in on himself beyond the window, and he sighed,
his heart falling to rest somewhere around his groin. "He felt
so warm… God, I miss being warm." He pressed his palms to
the glass, leaning close, but his breath didn’t leave any steam
on the cool pane. "What does it mean, Hiirou?" Fate appeared, for once, not to have an answer. He adjusted
his black wings absently, tanned fingers stroking over the ebony feathers,
and shook his head. Trowa’s bottle-green gaze rested easily on
Quatre’s slim form, enchanted. "I can’t kill him." The words were spoken so quietly that Fate almost didn’t
hear them. But as soon as their full meaning registered, the shorter
of the two creatures felt a panic rising in him. "Trowa, you
know better than this…" he began, but the auburn-haired
youth merely chuckled, a cold, dangerous sound. "I’m Death. Who’s going to stop me?"
The Japanese youth’s wings fluttered, a nervous
habit, and he swallowed hard around a throat suddenly dry. "You
can’t… Trowa, you know what happens if you resist a command.
You can’t hide him from me." Wide blue eyes took in the handsome countenance of the
man before him, and Hiirou felt his fists clench at his sides. "You’re
serious, aren’t you?" he demanded, and Trowa arched an eyebrow
at him, almost daring him to argue. Fate wasn’t to be taken lightly,
however. "You’re insane. I’m not risking an eternity
in Purgatory just to cater to your fickle emotions. You’re on
your own, shin no kami," he hissed. "You’re going to let him die? Knowing that
he has the capacity to reach out and touch Death?!" Trowa was
almost shouting at him, and he paused, gazing past the brunette’s
shoulder and at the German now laying on his side in a fetal heap
on the floor, his head resting in a puddle of alcohol and shattered
glass. What was so special about this boy? "He can see us! Would
you like to see? Maybe if he touched you, then you would understand?!" Hiirou took a deep, shaky breath. He stood silent for
quite a while, weighing his options. Death could almost see the wheels
in his head turning in his dark azure eyes. Finally he looked up and
glared at Trowa for all he was worth, pouring every ounce of uncertainty
and hostility into the expression, but the older being smiled at the
hope offered in his husky voice. "I’ll see what I can do." +++ TBC. Lyrics to "From the Inside"
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