Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Issues of a Mad Man ❯ Part One ( Chapter 1 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Acne...chain-smoking heroes...Dust Bunnies...
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Psychological / Supernatural | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.20.2005 | Pages: 3 | Words: 6.9K | Visits: 211 | Status: Completed
Acne...chain-smoking heroes...Dust Bunnies...
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Psychological / Supernatural | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.20.2005 | Pages: 3 | Words: 6.9K | Visits: 211 | Status: Completed
Stand Disclaimers Apply:I do not own Gundam Wing. There.
Horror, Suspense, supernatural activity, and Michelle’s favorite: Alternative Universe! Oh, and definitely out of character charas!
Rated R. May change later on, and I’ll definitely warn ya’ll.
Warnings: Violence, chain-smoking, superheroes that talk to themselves, gothic appearances, insane mumbling, DustBunnies, use of shadow...eh. I give up.
110101010101100 = means scene change
Italics means first person point of view.
Song isParanoid Android by Radiohead
Issues of a Mad Man (Part One)
Heero Yuy couldn’t stop smoking. He couldn’t remember when he started. Just that it seemed that one day, he had a cigarette in his hand. From that day on, he had a habit he could not fix. There were Nicorette patches and gums stowed away in his junk drawer, underwear drawer, night stand drawer and whatever drawers in whatever rooms; but none of the packages were open. His apartment, a cramped one bedroom with the bare minimum of furniture, reeked of cigarette smoke. His clothes reeked of smoke. Yet, this was a favorable thing for him, for it usually ran people in the other direction. The smell was overpowering, yet satisfactory in keeping people at a distance.
Which was what he preferred.
–Please could you stop the noise I’m trying to get some rest?
From all the unborn chicken voices in my head–
He had one now, dangling from his lower lip as he pounded away at the keyboard, his tobacco stained fingers rubbing off the letters from the keys and his eyes staring blankly at the screen. The ashes fell where they dropped–they didn’t bother him. It wasn’t as if he cleaned or anything. He never had to. He was twenty-two years old, poor, surviving on minimum wage from the nearby Wally World warehouse, and was on parole for sending several of his fellow human beings into the hospital.
For good reason, of course.
–Huh what’s that?--
“Heero...you should really learn how to put things away...your food rots because you don’t put it away when you come home...Gross. What the hell was this?”
Heero grunted in answer. He wasn’t concerned with what was left out on the counter for his fellow starving mice. As far as he was concerned, what didn’t survive outside the fridge was something he shouldn’t be eating at all. As long as he had his cigarettes, things should be quite all right...
“Oh, this is so nasty...Heero! Why would you leave hamburger in the sink? Were you planning on using it? Did you get thrown into jail again, and I didn’t know about it?”
“Just burn the candle.”
“‘Candle’? This thing? Ugh...Heero, it’s not even a candle anymore...it’s...it’s...like...recycled wax with ashes...it’ll only smell like cigarettes if I tried to light it. It looks twenty years old!”
Heero grunted again, frowning as the results on his screen showed him why he should be angry. His scores in ‘Doom’ were lower than last week’s. He should upgrade his memory so that he was able to play better.
He glanced away from the screen, glaring ferociously at the nitpicking housekeeper that was neither paid, nor encouraged to come over and bother him with issues of cleanliness.
–When I am King you will be first against the wall
With your opinions which are of no consequence at all–
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded. “When did you come in?”
A heavy sigh. The clunk of a plastic trash bag filled with aluminum cans, old dishes crusted over with food, and things that were vegetating in the freezer sounded awfully loud within his apartment. The sounds of the streets outside did nothing to mask the ugliness that had been swept from the floor and counters.
“I let myself in. You gave me a key, remember? Were you in jail, again? Did you piss off Chang?”
“I don’t remember giving you a key.”
“You gave me a key when you had that dog in here, remember? But it died because you forgot to let me know that you were hauled in because you violated your parole! That was over two years ago! I’ve had this key for over two years, and you still ask me that...”
Heero frowned, exhaling the smoke from his cancerstick. He studied the water stained ceiling of his apartment, and ignored the smells of Pine-Sol and Comet. Wincing, he turned back to his computer, double clicking the mouse as he glared at the options on the screen.
“Don’t clean the bedroom,” he grumbled.
“Heero...I cleaned that out two hours ago...I wish you left that thing off once and awhile. I hope someone comes in and takes it while you’re gone. Evil, wretched thing...it’s killing your brain cells!”
“Your father’s calling you. Go home.”
“Do you really want me gone, Heero?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll regret saying that one day. Someday, while you’re alone and cold in this dirty dumpster, you’re going to wish that I was here.”
“Never. I’ll be happy. Sitting in my own filth and happy that you’re gone.”
“...You always say things you never mean. I’m going to go throw this out, now. Don’t deadbolt the door when I go out. I still have your bathroom to do.”
–Huh what’s that?--
As soon as the door closed behind the sighing boy, Heero got up from his chair, and slid shut the chain and deadbolt. Satisfied, he returned to his seat, and worked on kicking alien and demonic ass.
--Ambition makes you look ugly
kicking squealing Gucci little piggy–
He hadn’t any idea of why he was here–this wasn’t the city he wanted to live in, nor was this the type of place or life he’d wanted. This is just where he ended up. He had to sigh, though, hanging his head as he momentarily dropped his attention from his computer. He did know why he was here–but he didn’t understand why. His life felt bound and drawn–as if he didn’t have control over it. It was so difficult living when one didn’t have control. He glanced at the locked door, contemplating its strength and reliance on keeping the vermin (human version) out. His game screamed for attention as he waited, listening for the shuffling sound of footsteps outside. They were as recognizable and reliant as air–Heero could tell where he was just by the sound he made when he walked. For as long as Heero knew him, he’d always dragged his feet, as if he were reluctant to move on. Fearful and afraid of what lay ahead of him.
–You don’t remember why don’t you remember my name?
Off with his head off with his head man
Why won’t he remember my name?---
The boy had always been afraid of things, even if he didn’t come right out and admit it. Heero could always tell when the fear and nervousness set in–the shoulders would draw up, blue eyes would turn worried, and the inside of a cheek chewed. And always, always–no matter what, no matter where, no matter the time–Heero was always there. As if...as if he were drawn by some invisible line to him. He couldn’t escape this invisible leash, this strong bond. Every time he contemplated leaving and never looking back, he found that he just couldn’t. The powers that were kept him in this evil city, working minimum wage and suffering constantly under Chang’s scrutinizing drabble.
--I guess he does–
From the time he’d first arrived in the city, where he intercepted a would-be mugger from taking the young boy’s lunch money and cellphone, to the most recent–helping him out with a couple of dollars because he didn’t have enough to pay for some groceries–Heero was always there. It was as if he were some silent 911 operating service for him.
–Rain down rain down come on rain down on me
From a great height
From a great height
Rain down rain down come on raid down on me
From a great height
From a great height
Rain down rain down come on raid down on me
From a great height
From a great height–
Didn’t know where the nearest Tower Records was? Heero would suddenly know without ever looking up the information. Took the wrong bus and now some strange man is following you? Heero was suddenly emerging out from the shadows to send the creep running. Bus won’t stop for you? Heero was there to give him a ride in his rusty, beat-up Camaro. That upperclassman bothering you because you wore your Dickies again? Heero would break his nose with a single punch. Some car ran a redlight when you ran out on the crosswalk without bothering to look to see if it were safe? Heero was there with a flying tackle and a safety roll. Didn’t have enough toilet paper and is caught in the loo with no relief in sight? Here comes Heero and some extra slips of tissue that he would push underneath the door after breaking in his apartment to do so.
Heero was a one man emergency relief service for Quatre Winner, and he felt wholly unnatural for it.
---That’s it sir you’re leaving
[The crackle of pig skin]
The dust and the screaming
[The yuppies networking]
The panic
[The vomit]
The panic
[The vomit]
God loves his children
[God loves his children yeah]--
And what does Quatre do?
He comes by regularly to clean his apartment, make sure that he eats, buys his groceries, kicks his ass into a shower, repairs his car, cooks his dinner, replaces what he ran out of, bails him out, hides the Wild Turkey, pays his rent and utilities from his own check, supplied him with ‘rettes even while lecturing him about lung cancer...etc., etc.
Heero sighed heavily, and hung his head.
He rose from his seat, and walked over to the door to open the deadbolt and remove the chain.
He was bound to the boy, and could never leave. Why can’t he leave?
110101010101100
It was raining again.
It rained nine days out of ten, and was always foggy, cloudy, and gloomy. But it fit this particular city. The shadows were alive, almost as human as the creatures that used the sidewalks. The darkness of various alleys and hallways hid creatures that were waiting to pounce when one had their back turned, and their vulnerabilities exposed.
The perfect playground for a predator and his prey.
The rain dripped continuously onto its unlucky recipients, thunder occasionally penetrating the low sounds of the city. It was below fifty today–the cheery forecaster had predicted more rain and possible flooding in some parts of the city. The temperature would stick in the fifties and forties for the rest of the week. It wasn’t something new–he was more right than wrong, a prodigy in a city that didn’t care.
From one low alley, created by buildings that were set too close together, came a rustling of movement and high pitched giggles.
The city bus rumbled by, having just stopped to let off one occupant. The man, blond and blue eyed, was aching from joint to joint after working a twelve hour shift at a nearby warehouse. He thought tiredly of home, sighing as he adjusted his beanie and knapsack. Neither average looking or remotely attractive, his features were nothing to look twice at. But because he had very light blond hair and light blue eyes, he was the predator’s perfect piece of prey. He didn’t look up to realize he was being followed as he made his way home, taking the alleyway as a shortcut to his ghetto-style apartment two blocks down. The bus never made its rounds in that direction due to the high levels of crime there.
He heard a glass bottle roll, and glanced about. He wasn’t the type to be wary of others–he felt confident with the loaned piece of metal that he carried in his jacket pocket. He just picked up his steps and hurried on, thinking of a microwave dinner and maybe some minutes watching black and white television.
He had just passed the doorway that led into a locked building when he heard the giggling. High pitched sounds that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He stopped in place when something furry scurried over his path, and he had to make a surprised sound. It hadn’t resembled a cat, nor a dog, or even a rat. His eyes searched the darkness, looking for the odd creature. This left him vulnerable as he heard giggling.
When he realized that someone was standing behind him, he gave a startled gasp and whirled around, facing a man that stood there with a smile curving his lips.
“You’ll do just fine,” he said, with a voice that was colder than ice.
The man didn’t know what he meant–there were tugs on his pants, and he looked down to see many of these creatures surrounding him. Their teeth were ragged and bright, their mouths abnormally large and prominent, their rabbit ears twitching with their movements. He opened his mouth to utter a shout, but those things were all over him–something covered his face, muffling his words, and something wrapped around his body, rendering him unable to move.
He was carted off into the darkness by these creatures, and the man that ordered this chuckled briefly, disappearing just as quickly as his minions.
110101010101100
Duo Maxwell tapped his pen against the paper, looking upward at the bright ceiling as he tried to think of what to put down as his permanent address. The restaurant was fast paced and full tonight, and he found himself distracted by all the patrons as they came in and went out. He didn’t have any interest in working greasy foods, but he needed a job. His age rendered him unable to work things he liked, but he was of age to work in places with opportunity of some decent income. This place was one of them.
He straightened away from the counter, looking at all the happy families that were seated in various booths and tables. Kids were running about, laughing and ignoring their mothers’ frantic words to eat. He had to smile at them, fondly reflecting on how Helen had tried to get him to eat while he was younger. He had been such a terror to her...but then again, all kids were.
Thinking of the woman made him a little depressed, so he stopped it and returned to the application.
We probably won’t even be there for a month, he thought, thinking of the currant place he and Trowa were staying. Fifteen hundred a month plus utilities...they would be able to make it if Trowa kept his job, this time. The man was intelligent–it just became a problem when he considered his interest in the position. His attention usually wandered onto other grander things, and basic reality became impossible to keep a hold of when Trowa’s mind began talking to him again.
Duo filled out the application anyway, and lied about the length of time he and his older brother had lived at that address. Finished, he waited for the manager to take it, then left his cell phone number with him just in case. With that, he walked out from the restaurant. Wincing at the rain, he hurried down the sidewalk, toward the bus stop. He hadn’t bothered with a jacket–the last one he had was covered in blood, so he knew Trowa had taken it. He hadn’t cleaned it yet.
The murders never stopped. Trowa couldn’t seem to stop himself from killing those that resembled his attacker from so long ago. Duo had pleaded and begged for the older man to get some help, to turn himself in, but Trowa wasn’t that easily swayed. He was convinced that he had a job to do in educating the world that doing onto others was a penchant for rape and murder. Duo knew what Trowa did–and he knew he couldn’t stop him. He could only wait and hope that Trowa came home that night, safe and well. And when he did–Duo wasn’t sure whether or not he was grateful for it.
Mention of rapes and murders were enough to make a person cringe and reflect–but to Duo, they were mere words of unfortunate circumstance. He blamed the people–not Trowa. He blamed that mysterious Predator that Trowa often mentioned in his mad mutterings–not Trowa. He blamed the city for not being fully prepared for a serial rapist/murder–not Trowa. Trowa wasn’t at fault for anything but the unfortunate circumstance of being victimized when he was younger. Duo could only continue to love him and support him as family would, and hope that Trowa would either be stopped on his own, or by someone who was willing to understand.
But in this world, Duo knew what an impossibility that was. Once people found out that Trowa was a serial killer, he would be hated and faulted for everything under the clouds. No one bothered to sympathize with the reasons on why a person did what he did to others–they just judged him.
The bus was late, and Duo was soaked when he got on. He would take the bus onto Fifth, then walk a block to their new apartment located on Locust. It was nothing more than a one bedroom–he slept on the couch, preferring that than a bedroom. Trowa had the bedroom, but he wasn’t there often. He was either working at the bank, or working.
Duo knew about the DustBunnies, and Blanket(s); about Catherine. He wasn’t blind to any of them. The DustBunnies were nothing more than rabid pets that were annoying underfoot; Blanket complained a lot; and Catherine...well...give that girl some grape Pez and she was okay. Duo had learned to ignore her prompts into joining Trowa in the battle against the world. He was here only for his brother, and for that reason only.
Their apartment was on the seventh floor above a Italian restaurant–so he knew he smelled of pasta sauce and garlic on days when the ventilation pipes weren’t working. Duo hurried up the stairway (which left him nice and lean), and hurried toward his apartment. A glance at his watch told him that Trowa wasn’t expected home until after eleven–the guy was a raging insomniac, but he performed his crimes in the early evening, late afternoon. Duo would just make sure he had dinner ready for his older brother when he got home.
Legally, he was under Trowa’s custody–he was six months shy of his eighteenth birthday, rendering him free of any parental guidance. But he knew Trowa kept him because, in a way, he relied on the younger boy. For what, Duo didn’t know. Catherine wouldn’t say, either. But Duo knew Trowa needed him.
Duo started dinner, glancing at the clock. The apartment was empty, which meant that everyone was out. The window in the living room was slightly ajar, a space wide enough for the DustBunnies to come in and out of. They were odd, particular creatures, formed by Trowa’s mind.
Furry, about the size of a terrier, they were circular creatures with no eyes, rabbit ears, and mouths that were half the size of their bodies. They giggled and hissed, behaving like cartoon creatures that were produced from someone’s deranged mind. Sometimes they talked–childish little voices that were edged with squeaks and hisses. They were numerous in number–they were produced by Trowa’s need for their use, and multiplied and dwindled depending upon his need. Sometimes, when they were all home, Duo found himself covered in the creatures that draped over his shoulders and hair, purring in a manner similar to a cat’s. Catherine would talk his ears off, Blanket(s) would grumble about being washed, and Trowa would be...silent.
Sometimes he spoke. Sometimes he didn’t.
It was odd. When Duo looked at him, looking for a single sign that his older brother was a serial killer, he saw nothing that gave it away. Trowa Barton (he took his last name from those of his parents, whom he finally located via Goggle) had grown into a handsome twenty-five year old. Standing at nearly six foot three, lean and broad shouldered, he was the type that women stared at as he walked by them; he was the sort that should be featured regularly in Dolce and Gabbana ads for mens’ clothing; he was just a normal, attractive man that worked as a Financial Loan Technician at Bank S.
In no way would anyone suspect, just by looking at him, that he was a serial killer with a deranged mind capable of making things of imagination real.
He sighed as he waited for the hamburger to cook. As he did so, he stared out the kitchen window, staring over the city and its many secrets. The city always seemed dark and gloomy. It was as if the city were permanently fitted with cleverly set shadows and clouds that continuously blocked the sun. The streets were alive with sounds, movements and colors–sirens were currently sounding off in the distance, the blasts of a fire engine horn shattering what quiet loomed. The lights from various windows and the moving traffic on the streets were a constant drone of sound that relaxed him with its continuous activity. They had moved for the fifth time this year to this particular city, and while Duo didn’t question Trowa on the reasons why (for he was certain his brother had reasons of his own that he didn’t share), he wanted to know why Trowa had moved here to this city.
It was dreary, rainy, and it was cold. Duo hated the cold. Which was why he wore a hooded sweater, jeans, and steel toe boots today. His customary braid was frazzled from the moisture, and he shivered despite the comfortable heat of the apartment and his clothes. Blinking steadily, he stared over the various buildings visible to him, and wondered why.
He didn’t know Trowa’s victims–he hadn’t seen his brother in action, and Trowa never brought work home. He knew from Catherine that they all had to be male. To think that his brother was a hateful homosexual made Duo feel a little uncomfortable, but he loved Trowa nonetheless. The death of their parents on That One Summer had him wondering if Trowa was involved–the police had said the brake lines of their Navigator had been worn through by mice. They had crashed over the side of a hill when their brakes had failed. They hadn’t been found for over three days due to the crash site’s location.
Thinking about That Day, Duo thought about when Quatre moved away. Thinking about the fuss that had been created, because his friend was able to communicate with ghosts, Duo had to wonder if Quatre truly had known Trowa’s nature due to the ghosts’ findings. He hadn’t seen the blond after that–he suspected he was living wherever he was, talking to ghosts and being normal with a normal family.
Duo hadn’t thought about the blond that much–he knew Trowa had an interest in him back then, but he doubted his older brother would track the boy down to do unspeakable crimes to him. Duo knew Trowa hated the boy, but for what reason?
He glanced away from the window, stirring the hamburger, and putting on a pot of boiling water. He made some Hamburger Helper, then ate alone, listening to the rain as it fell. The television was on, but the sound was muted–he hoped Trowa came home, soon. He wanted to talk to him about enrolling into high school. Education was important if he wanted a better job. He hadn’t failed any grades, but it was hard to continue to do so when they kept moving from place to place.
There was a high school nearby that he’d try–a public one. He hoped Trowa planned on staying here awhile, at least until Duo completed half a year. It wasn’t that he was looking for a place to settle down... he was just waiting for Trowa to return, and would do continue to wait until that time came.
110101010101100
His father stared down at him with a set expression, and Quatre stared right back, unwilling to back down from his decision. With a firm press of his lips, and a show of arms crossing, Mr. Winner drew his shoulders up and back, puffing up his chest; his body language clearly told Quatre that he was not going to relent.
Quatre displayed his own stubbornness with a defensive posture; shoulders drawn up, face tensed, and eyes narrowed with determination. His fingers were loosely curled into fists. He was aware that they were drawing attention from those in the waiting room, everyone staring with interest in their direction. Even as his face flushed with this knowledge, he was not going to let his father bully him into backing out from his decision. He had to stand his ground.
“No,” Mr. Winner said firmly. The grays in his hair were suddenly more pronounced within his auburn strands, and his green eyes were narrowed dangerously. He used his height to try and intimidate his son, a tactic that seemed to work as the boy stiffened his posture slightly. “I forbid it...”
“I don’t see why you should,” Quatre said, frowning. “It isn’t going to hurt anybody. Maybe it’ll be embarrassing and a little weird, but I’m trying to think of you when I make these decisions.”
“I absolutely forbid you from doing this. You do this, and I’ll disown you. I’ll forever regret the fact that you were born to me. You’ll be nothing but mold in my eyes. You’ll no longer bear my name. I’ll never know you as my son.”
“I’ve heard that a million times before, father, and I hate to tell you this, but that no longer has an effect on me.”
“You shame your father with this action. How dare you even think about doing this to me...do you even known what hells I had to cross to get you this far? You show me your gratitude and appreciation of my efforts in rearing you at the very best of my abilities with this show of insolence? And you turn your back to me like some common-case juvenile! There is still room in the juvenile detention hall for children that act badly against their parents! I’ll send you there in a heartbeat and let you think about what you’re doing to me.”
“That threat was half-ass, father. It’s not going to work.”
“If I take away the resource, I’ll take away the motive.”
“You’re not going to make me change my decision, father. It’s final.”
Mr. Winner uncrossed his arms, frowning so sternly that his lips turned white with the action. He narrowed his eyes, shadows crossing over the crevices between his eyebrows. His forehead wrinkled, and his mustache twitched. He then shook his head. “No.”
Quatre drew in a deep breath, determined not to back down. “I don’t see why you’re making a big deal out of this! You’ve made me out to be some bad kid that deserves juvie for every little thing I do! I’ll bet no other parent makes a big fuss out of this...”
“First of all, I am not every other parent. Second, you are lying to me, son. Or, should I say, former heir?”
“DAD! Why are you making such a big deal out of a colonoscopy?”
Mr. Winner cringed, his shoulders hunching upward. Quatre crossed his arms, and continued to block the doorway of the office. The other patients in the room were still watching, with one old geezer hissing at Mr. Winner to stand his ground. His wife whapped him across the back of his head.
Quatre continued to stare at his father, stubbornly determined to get his father to follow through with the appointment. The scare of cancer in this city had risen to an all time high, and he’d put himself in charge of making sure his father took this test and that one to make sure he was cancer-free. The nurse standing in the doorway leading into the rooms cleared her throat–her fourth in the last half hour.
Finally, with a low growl, Mr. Winner turned to face her. He then narrowed his eyes at his son, looking at him from over his shoulder.
“You’re cut from my will, and my life,” he growled, walking over to the nurse.
Quatre merely smiled as he watched his father follow after the woman. A few of the waiting patients clapped and cheered for him, the old man booing him. Realizing that he still had a lot of attention, Quatre grew embarrassed, his face turning red as he ducked his head. Self-consciously, he took the seat nearest the door, and gazed at his knees.
It had been a big hassle–a week long fight since he’d made the appointment–but his father was getting the checkup. Really, if Quatre wasn’t around, his father would be up the river of job-related stress, drowning in high blood pressure and other stress related problems galore. But he made it his job to look out for the older man. After all, he was the only child still living with him.
Sighing, he picked up a magazine and thumbed through it. His father had put up a big fuss over nothing, but it was always good to be sure.
After his father came out, looking decidedly terrorized, Quatre put the magazine away and rose from his seat. He noted the stiff way of walking, the grimace of horrors relived, and gave his father a proud grin. He didn’t take his father’s snort of disgust seriously as he talked with the nurse. Finally, he followed the other man out, and then matched his pace, walking alongside him with a smile on his face. Mr. Winner glanced at him, and then chuckled, reaching out to ruffle his hair.
“Little rotten brat. I’ll remember this, you know. I’m in charge of your allowance.”
“But I work. So it’s no problem if you cut it.”
“I pay the bills to shelter and clothe you.”
“I buy my own clothes, thank you, and always pay half the utilities with what I make.”
“I...I make you breakfast.”
“You really don’t have to. You always end up burning it, anyway...”
Mr. Winner chuckled, pulling his son against his side in an awkward hug. “We do all right, don’t we?”
“Yes. We do absolutely dandy,” Quatre replied, hugging him back. They walked out from the doctor’s office building, and onto the sidewalk. It was raining, but they both had their coats on, and had no problem with getting soaked as they made their way to the garage nearby. “Where to, now?”
“You’re working, right? You’ll pay for dinner with that big check of yours.”
“Sure, dad. We’ll go somewhere classy with what I make at work,” Quatre said on a snort, thinking of the greasy burger joint where he worked at after school.
“Excellent...Let’s just get a pizza and go home. Maybe rent some videos.”
“DVDs.”
“Whatever. We’ll get some of those and spend our time at home tonight. Sound good?”
“Yes, father.”
As they made their way to the garage, both were unaware of the pair of eyes that watched them from the rooftop of the boutique across the street. Eyes that narrowed with hate.
110101010101100
Quatre considered himself an even teen–he made good grades, he played the violin, and he considered himself the friendly sort. He didn’t over talk a conversation; he liked to please others and avoided confrontation by negotiating peacefully with someone that felt upset with him. He had his moods, sure, but didn’t every teen? And he had his quirks and he had his individualism. But what made him different from his classmates was his shyness–he just could not approach a person without direct cause, and he could barely keep his head up whenever he was out in public. Which made his job difficult sometimes, because it meant interacting with others.
He was determined to get over his shyness and fear of ‘things’, so he forced himself to do things that were normally hard for him to do.
What also made him different from his classmates was his appearance–ever since he was thirteen, he’d gravitated toward black clothes, a punk flair in style, and black fingernail polish. He had seen a man dressed in such a fashion, and had immediately seen himself in the same cut-out.
So, with his father’s bewildered permission, he now had three holes in each ear, black fingernail polish, a collection of silk ties and polos, and pants with chains, zippers and straps. He liked to play with his clothes–one day he’d wear a polo with a tie over tight black Dickies; or a button up collar shirt loosely tucked into a pair of the baggiest jeans he owned; or knee length shorts with a blazer and a rock-n-roll tee underneath, a tie casually hanging from his neck. His shoes were always the same–a pair of once black ratty Converses. They were special to him and he wore them religiously, no matter the outfit or condition of the weather. He was surprised they had lasted this long.
His hair, colorless strands that had always been fashioned so that his bangs would fall into his eyes was still the same cut he had when he was seven–hell, it worked back then, why not today? But he had recently colored his hair with non-permanent blue dye, so it was a little streaky and faded into a mess of dingy blue and white. He hadn’t bothered with taking the dye out just yet–he felt it made his eyes stand out. He brought those out with black eyeliner and mascara, both of which he applied liberally.
He knew he was unrecognizable to those that once knew him Back There–which was the name he had for the small suburb where everything seemed to stop and start That One Summer. He didn’t mind. It wasn’t as if he had many friends there, anyway...
His father had no objections to his son’s way of dress and appearance–but he drew the line at tattoos. He felt that if Quatre got it all out of his system now, he should be fine later on in life. His supervisor at work objected to the hairdye, but let it roll when he realized that it took the attention off of the drugs that was sold there by its employees.
Yes, Quatre was like every other teen struggling for an identity and a place in the world–right down to the problem he had with his skin and the problems he had with other teens that felt threatened by his individualism.
His pimple situation had him self-conscious most of the time–he felt they took over his face with the intent to conquer. His forehead, cheeks and chin were a constant battlefield, and despite his efforts with Neutrogena and Pro-Activ, he felt he was fighting a battle that was quite pointless. His father had it when he was younger, and his mother had her problems–he’d seen his sisters go through the same thing, and he figured that he wouldn’t be left out.
He was a quite real teen, with real problems. He hadn’t seen ghosts since he’d left That Place. He hadn’t heard or seen anything that was out of the ordinary. He often wondered why that was. Why did things just stop? Why did he stop seeing the ghosts?
He hadn’t brought the subject up with his father–he still remembered how Mr. Winner had addressed the issue as something defining made-up friends. So he didn’t talk his concerns out loud.
Heero Yuy moving to the city had been a definite plus–the young man, six years older than him and still brisk and confrontational as he was when they were children, had been a welcome sight for him. Heero had just rescued him from a potential mugger when he was thirteen, and from then on, Quatre had made sure that Heero was taken care of.
Plus...he hadn’t yet admitted it, but he had a definite infatuation with the older male. Those brooding cobalt blue eyes...that messy dark hair...those broad shoulders and thin, muscular frame...Heero was the type that screamed Bad Boy and evoked naughty fantasies. Of course, Quatre could not admit this out loud to anybody–first off, he didn’t have any friends, and second, while his dad was certainly comfortable with him liking boys, Mr. Winner did not like Heero Yuy. His juvenile record, his parole record... Mr. Winner was convinced Heero was meant for the slammer for doing something truly atrocious in the near future, and he did not want his son involved in such things.
He was shocked that the same boy that had helped his son when they were younger was the very same young man that had escaped murder charges when a man he’d punched out had died without waking from a coma. This incident had happened when he was sixteen, and he’d been on parole for something or other since then.
He forbade Quatre to see him–but Quatre took the risk to visit Heero weekly to clean his apartment and make sure things were in line for the older man. He would risk everything to see Heero, and looked forward to every visit.
Heero took all the precautions in making sure people avoided him, but he could never scare Quatre away. The blond was wholly used to his gruffness and snappish growls, and had learned to not take everything personally. Heero was just cranky by nature, and he worked around it.
Thinking about the older boy now, Quatre sighed and glanced at his wristwatch. In fact...if he hurried...he could catch Bus 57 and make it there in twenty minutes...and be back by two when Bus 49 made its last run to the east side. Determined, he hurriedly picked up his jacket and stuffed it into his bag. His father was in the shower and would turn in for the night–he would simply think that Quatre had taken out the trash and leave it at that.
Quatre then left his room, figuring that Heero could use some company. He would be dead tired tomorrow, but it was well worth it. It was always worth the effort whenever Heero was in the picture.
Horror, Suspense, supernatural activity, and Michelle’s favorite: Alternative Universe! Oh, and definitely out of character charas!
Rated R. May change later on, and I’ll definitely warn ya’ll.
Warnings: Violence, chain-smoking, superheroes that talk to themselves, gothic appearances, insane mumbling, DustBunnies, use of shadow...eh. I give up.
110101010101100 = means scene change
Italics means first person point of view.
Song isParanoid Android by Radiohead
Issues of a Mad Man (Part One)
Heero Yuy couldn’t stop smoking. He couldn’t remember when he started. Just that it seemed that one day, he had a cigarette in his hand. From that day on, he had a habit he could not fix. There were Nicorette patches and gums stowed away in his junk drawer, underwear drawer, night stand drawer and whatever drawers in whatever rooms; but none of the packages were open. His apartment, a cramped one bedroom with the bare minimum of furniture, reeked of cigarette smoke. His clothes reeked of smoke. Yet, this was a favorable thing for him, for it usually ran people in the other direction. The smell was overpowering, yet satisfactory in keeping people at a distance.
Which was what he preferred.
–Please could you stop the noise I’m trying to get some rest?
From all the unborn chicken voices in my head–
He had one now, dangling from his lower lip as he pounded away at the keyboard, his tobacco stained fingers rubbing off the letters from the keys and his eyes staring blankly at the screen. The ashes fell where they dropped–they didn’t bother him. It wasn’t as if he cleaned or anything. He never had to. He was twenty-two years old, poor, surviving on minimum wage from the nearby Wally World warehouse, and was on parole for sending several of his fellow human beings into the hospital.
For good reason, of course.
–Huh what’s that?--
“Heero...you should really learn how to put things away...your food rots because you don’t put it away when you come home...Gross. What the hell was this?”
Heero grunted in answer. He wasn’t concerned with what was left out on the counter for his fellow starving mice. As far as he was concerned, what didn’t survive outside the fridge was something he shouldn’t be eating at all. As long as he had his cigarettes, things should be quite all right...
“Oh, this is so nasty...Heero! Why would you leave hamburger in the sink? Were you planning on using it? Did you get thrown into jail again, and I didn’t know about it?”
“Just burn the candle.”
“‘Candle’? This thing? Ugh...Heero, it’s not even a candle anymore...it’s...it’s...like...recycled wax with ashes...it’ll only smell like cigarettes if I tried to light it. It looks twenty years old!”
Heero grunted again, frowning as the results on his screen showed him why he should be angry. His scores in ‘Doom’ were lower than last week’s. He should upgrade his memory so that he was able to play better.
He glanced away from the screen, glaring ferociously at the nitpicking housekeeper that was neither paid, nor encouraged to come over and bother him with issues of cleanliness.
–When I am King you will be first against the wall
With your opinions which are of no consequence at all–
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded. “When did you come in?”
A heavy sigh. The clunk of a plastic trash bag filled with aluminum cans, old dishes crusted over with food, and things that were vegetating in the freezer sounded awfully loud within his apartment. The sounds of the streets outside did nothing to mask the ugliness that had been swept from the floor and counters.
“I let myself in. You gave me a key, remember? Were you in jail, again? Did you piss off Chang?”
“I don’t remember giving you a key.”
“You gave me a key when you had that dog in here, remember? But it died because you forgot to let me know that you were hauled in because you violated your parole! That was over two years ago! I’ve had this key for over two years, and you still ask me that...”
Heero frowned, exhaling the smoke from his cancerstick. He studied the water stained ceiling of his apartment, and ignored the smells of Pine-Sol and Comet. Wincing, he turned back to his computer, double clicking the mouse as he glared at the options on the screen.
“Don’t clean the bedroom,” he grumbled.
“Heero...I cleaned that out two hours ago...I wish you left that thing off once and awhile. I hope someone comes in and takes it while you’re gone. Evil, wretched thing...it’s killing your brain cells!”
“Your father’s calling you. Go home.”
“Do you really want me gone, Heero?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll regret saying that one day. Someday, while you’re alone and cold in this dirty dumpster, you’re going to wish that I was here.”
“Never. I’ll be happy. Sitting in my own filth and happy that you’re gone.”
“...You always say things you never mean. I’m going to go throw this out, now. Don’t deadbolt the door when I go out. I still have your bathroom to do.”
–Huh what’s that?--
As soon as the door closed behind the sighing boy, Heero got up from his chair, and slid shut the chain and deadbolt. Satisfied, he returned to his seat, and worked on kicking alien and demonic ass.
--Ambition makes you look ugly
kicking squealing Gucci little piggy–
He hadn’t any idea of why he was here–this wasn’t the city he wanted to live in, nor was this the type of place or life he’d wanted. This is just where he ended up. He had to sigh, though, hanging his head as he momentarily dropped his attention from his computer. He did know why he was here–but he didn’t understand why. His life felt bound and drawn–as if he didn’t have control over it. It was so difficult living when one didn’t have control. He glanced at the locked door, contemplating its strength and reliance on keeping the vermin (human version) out. His game screamed for attention as he waited, listening for the shuffling sound of footsteps outside. They were as recognizable and reliant as air–Heero could tell where he was just by the sound he made when he walked. For as long as Heero knew him, he’d always dragged his feet, as if he were reluctant to move on. Fearful and afraid of what lay ahead of him.
–You don’t remember why don’t you remember my name?
Off with his head off with his head man
Why won’t he remember my name?---
The boy had always been afraid of things, even if he didn’t come right out and admit it. Heero could always tell when the fear and nervousness set in–the shoulders would draw up, blue eyes would turn worried, and the inside of a cheek chewed. And always, always–no matter what, no matter where, no matter the time–Heero was always there. As if...as if he were drawn by some invisible line to him. He couldn’t escape this invisible leash, this strong bond. Every time he contemplated leaving and never looking back, he found that he just couldn’t. The powers that were kept him in this evil city, working minimum wage and suffering constantly under Chang’s scrutinizing drabble.
--I guess he does–
From the time he’d first arrived in the city, where he intercepted a would-be mugger from taking the young boy’s lunch money and cellphone, to the most recent–helping him out with a couple of dollars because he didn’t have enough to pay for some groceries–Heero was always there. It was as if he were some silent 911 operating service for him.
–Rain down rain down come on rain down on me
From a great height
From a great height
Rain down rain down come on raid down on me
From a great height
From a great height
Rain down rain down come on raid down on me
From a great height
From a great height–
Didn’t know where the nearest Tower Records was? Heero would suddenly know without ever looking up the information. Took the wrong bus and now some strange man is following you? Heero was suddenly emerging out from the shadows to send the creep running. Bus won’t stop for you? Heero was there to give him a ride in his rusty, beat-up Camaro. That upperclassman bothering you because you wore your Dickies again? Heero would break his nose with a single punch. Some car ran a redlight when you ran out on the crosswalk without bothering to look to see if it were safe? Heero was there with a flying tackle and a safety roll. Didn’t have enough toilet paper and is caught in the loo with no relief in sight? Here comes Heero and some extra slips of tissue that he would push underneath the door after breaking in his apartment to do so.
Heero was a one man emergency relief service for Quatre Winner, and he felt wholly unnatural for it.
---That’s it sir you’re leaving
[The crackle of pig skin]
The dust and the screaming
[The yuppies networking]
The panic
[The vomit]
The panic
[The vomit]
God loves his children
[God loves his children yeah]--
And what does Quatre do?
He comes by regularly to clean his apartment, make sure that he eats, buys his groceries, kicks his ass into a shower, repairs his car, cooks his dinner, replaces what he ran out of, bails him out, hides the Wild Turkey, pays his rent and utilities from his own check, supplied him with ‘rettes even while lecturing him about lung cancer...etc., etc.
Heero sighed heavily, and hung his head.
He rose from his seat, and walked over to the door to open the deadbolt and remove the chain.
He was bound to the boy, and could never leave. Why can’t he leave?
110101010101100
It was raining again.
It rained nine days out of ten, and was always foggy, cloudy, and gloomy. But it fit this particular city. The shadows were alive, almost as human as the creatures that used the sidewalks. The darkness of various alleys and hallways hid creatures that were waiting to pounce when one had their back turned, and their vulnerabilities exposed.
The perfect playground for a predator and his prey.
The rain dripped continuously onto its unlucky recipients, thunder occasionally penetrating the low sounds of the city. It was below fifty today–the cheery forecaster had predicted more rain and possible flooding in some parts of the city. The temperature would stick in the fifties and forties for the rest of the week. It wasn’t something new–he was more right than wrong, a prodigy in a city that didn’t care.
From one low alley, created by buildings that were set too close together, came a rustling of movement and high pitched giggles.
The city bus rumbled by, having just stopped to let off one occupant. The man, blond and blue eyed, was aching from joint to joint after working a twelve hour shift at a nearby warehouse. He thought tiredly of home, sighing as he adjusted his beanie and knapsack. Neither average looking or remotely attractive, his features were nothing to look twice at. But because he had very light blond hair and light blue eyes, he was the predator’s perfect piece of prey. He didn’t look up to realize he was being followed as he made his way home, taking the alleyway as a shortcut to his ghetto-style apartment two blocks down. The bus never made its rounds in that direction due to the high levels of crime there.
He heard a glass bottle roll, and glanced about. He wasn’t the type to be wary of others–he felt confident with the loaned piece of metal that he carried in his jacket pocket. He just picked up his steps and hurried on, thinking of a microwave dinner and maybe some minutes watching black and white television.
He had just passed the doorway that led into a locked building when he heard the giggling. High pitched sounds that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He stopped in place when something furry scurried over his path, and he had to make a surprised sound. It hadn’t resembled a cat, nor a dog, or even a rat. His eyes searched the darkness, looking for the odd creature. This left him vulnerable as he heard giggling.
When he realized that someone was standing behind him, he gave a startled gasp and whirled around, facing a man that stood there with a smile curving his lips.
“You’ll do just fine,” he said, with a voice that was colder than ice.
The man didn’t know what he meant–there were tugs on his pants, and he looked down to see many of these creatures surrounding him. Their teeth were ragged and bright, their mouths abnormally large and prominent, their rabbit ears twitching with their movements. He opened his mouth to utter a shout, but those things were all over him–something covered his face, muffling his words, and something wrapped around his body, rendering him unable to move.
He was carted off into the darkness by these creatures, and the man that ordered this chuckled briefly, disappearing just as quickly as his minions.
110101010101100
Duo Maxwell tapped his pen against the paper, looking upward at the bright ceiling as he tried to think of what to put down as his permanent address. The restaurant was fast paced and full tonight, and he found himself distracted by all the patrons as they came in and went out. He didn’t have any interest in working greasy foods, but he needed a job. His age rendered him unable to work things he liked, but he was of age to work in places with opportunity of some decent income. This place was one of them.
He straightened away from the counter, looking at all the happy families that were seated in various booths and tables. Kids were running about, laughing and ignoring their mothers’ frantic words to eat. He had to smile at them, fondly reflecting on how Helen had tried to get him to eat while he was younger. He had been such a terror to her...but then again, all kids were.
Thinking of the woman made him a little depressed, so he stopped it and returned to the application.
We probably won’t even be there for a month, he thought, thinking of the currant place he and Trowa were staying. Fifteen hundred a month plus utilities...they would be able to make it if Trowa kept his job, this time. The man was intelligent–it just became a problem when he considered his interest in the position. His attention usually wandered onto other grander things, and basic reality became impossible to keep a hold of when Trowa’s mind began talking to him again.
Duo filled out the application anyway, and lied about the length of time he and his older brother had lived at that address. Finished, he waited for the manager to take it, then left his cell phone number with him just in case. With that, he walked out from the restaurant. Wincing at the rain, he hurried down the sidewalk, toward the bus stop. He hadn’t bothered with a jacket–the last one he had was covered in blood, so he knew Trowa had taken it. He hadn’t cleaned it yet.
The murders never stopped. Trowa couldn’t seem to stop himself from killing those that resembled his attacker from so long ago. Duo had pleaded and begged for the older man to get some help, to turn himself in, but Trowa wasn’t that easily swayed. He was convinced that he had a job to do in educating the world that doing onto others was a penchant for rape and murder. Duo knew what Trowa did–and he knew he couldn’t stop him. He could only wait and hope that Trowa came home that night, safe and well. And when he did–Duo wasn’t sure whether or not he was grateful for it.
Mention of rapes and murders were enough to make a person cringe and reflect–but to Duo, they were mere words of unfortunate circumstance. He blamed the people–not Trowa. He blamed that mysterious Predator that Trowa often mentioned in his mad mutterings–not Trowa. He blamed the city for not being fully prepared for a serial rapist/murder–not Trowa. Trowa wasn’t at fault for anything but the unfortunate circumstance of being victimized when he was younger. Duo could only continue to love him and support him as family would, and hope that Trowa would either be stopped on his own, or by someone who was willing to understand.
But in this world, Duo knew what an impossibility that was. Once people found out that Trowa was a serial killer, he would be hated and faulted for everything under the clouds. No one bothered to sympathize with the reasons on why a person did what he did to others–they just judged him.
The bus was late, and Duo was soaked when he got on. He would take the bus onto Fifth, then walk a block to their new apartment located on Locust. It was nothing more than a one bedroom–he slept on the couch, preferring that than a bedroom. Trowa had the bedroom, but he wasn’t there often. He was either working at the bank, or working.
Duo knew about the DustBunnies, and Blanket(s); about Catherine. He wasn’t blind to any of them. The DustBunnies were nothing more than rabid pets that were annoying underfoot; Blanket complained a lot; and Catherine...well...give that girl some grape Pez and she was okay. Duo had learned to ignore her prompts into joining Trowa in the battle against the world. He was here only for his brother, and for that reason only.
Their apartment was on the seventh floor above a Italian restaurant–so he knew he smelled of pasta sauce and garlic on days when the ventilation pipes weren’t working. Duo hurried up the stairway (which left him nice and lean), and hurried toward his apartment. A glance at his watch told him that Trowa wasn’t expected home until after eleven–the guy was a raging insomniac, but he performed his crimes in the early evening, late afternoon. Duo would just make sure he had dinner ready for his older brother when he got home.
Legally, he was under Trowa’s custody–he was six months shy of his eighteenth birthday, rendering him free of any parental guidance. But he knew Trowa kept him because, in a way, he relied on the younger boy. For what, Duo didn’t know. Catherine wouldn’t say, either. But Duo knew Trowa needed him.
Duo started dinner, glancing at the clock. The apartment was empty, which meant that everyone was out. The window in the living room was slightly ajar, a space wide enough for the DustBunnies to come in and out of. They were odd, particular creatures, formed by Trowa’s mind.
Furry, about the size of a terrier, they were circular creatures with no eyes, rabbit ears, and mouths that were half the size of their bodies. They giggled and hissed, behaving like cartoon creatures that were produced from someone’s deranged mind. Sometimes they talked–childish little voices that were edged with squeaks and hisses. They were numerous in number–they were produced by Trowa’s need for their use, and multiplied and dwindled depending upon his need. Sometimes, when they were all home, Duo found himself covered in the creatures that draped over his shoulders and hair, purring in a manner similar to a cat’s. Catherine would talk his ears off, Blanket(s) would grumble about being washed, and Trowa would be...silent.
Sometimes he spoke. Sometimes he didn’t.
It was odd. When Duo looked at him, looking for a single sign that his older brother was a serial killer, he saw nothing that gave it away. Trowa Barton (he took his last name from those of his parents, whom he finally located via Goggle) had grown into a handsome twenty-five year old. Standing at nearly six foot three, lean and broad shouldered, he was the type that women stared at as he walked by them; he was the sort that should be featured regularly in Dolce and Gabbana ads for mens’ clothing; he was just a normal, attractive man that worked as a Financial Loan Technician at Bank S.
In no way would anyone suspect, just by looking at him, that he was a serial killer with a deranged mind capable of making things of imagination real.
He sighed as he waited for the hamburger to cook. As he did so, he stared out the kitchen window, staring over the city and its many secrets. The city always seemed dark and gloomy. It was as if the city were permanently fitted with cleverly set shadows and clouds that continuously blocked the sun. The streets were alive with sounds, movements and colors–sirens were currently sounding off in the distance, the blasts of a fire engine horn shattering what quiet loomed. The lights from various windows and the moving traffic on the streets were a constant drone of sound that relaxed him with its continuous activity. They had moved for the fifth time this year to this particular city, and while Duo didn’t question Trowa on the reasons why (for he was certain his brother had reasons of his own that he didn’t share), he wanted to know why Trowa had moved here to this city.
It was dreary, rainy, and it was cold. Duo hated the cold. Which was why he wore a hooded sweater, jeans, and steel toe boots today. His customary braid was frazzled from the moisture, and he shivered despite the comfortable heat of the apartment and his clothes. Blinking steadily, he stared over the various buildings visible to him, and wondered why.
He didn’t know Trowa’s victims–he hadn’t seen his brother in action, and Trowa never brought work home. He knew from Catherine that they all had to be male. To think that his brother was a hateful homosexual made Duo feel a little uncomfortable, but he loved Trowa nonetheless. The death of their parents on That One Summer had him wondering if Trowa was involved–the police had said the brake lines of their Navigator had been worn through by mice. They had crashed over the side of a hill when their brakes had failed. They hadn’t been found for over three days due to the crash site’s location.
Thinking about That Day, Duo thought about when Quatre moved away. Thinking about the fuss that had been created, because his friend was able to communicate with ghosts, Duo had to wonder if Quatre truly had known Trowa’s nature due to the ghosts’ findings. He hadn’t seen the blond after that–he suspected he was living wherever he was, talking to ghosts and being normal with a normal family.
Duo hadn’t thought about the blond that much–he knew Trowa had an interest in him back then, but he doubted his older brother would track the boy down to do unspeakable crimes to him. Duo knew Trowa hated the boy, but for what reason?
He glanced away from the window, stirring the hamburger, and putting on a pot of boiling water. He made some Hamburger Helper, then ate alone, listening to the rain as it fell. The television was on, but the sound was muted–he hoped Trowa came home, soon. He wanted to talk to him about enrolling into high school. Education was important if he wanted a better job. He hadn’t failed any grades, but it was hard to continue to do so when they kept moving from place to place.
There was a high school nearby that he’d try–a public one. He hoped Trowa planned on staying here awhile, at least until Duo completed half a year. It wasn’t that he was looking for a place to settle down... he was just waiting for Trowa to return, and would do continue to wait until that time came.
110101010101100
His father stared down at him with a set expression, and Quatre stared right back, unwilling to back down from his decision. With a firm press of his lips, and a show of arms crossing, Mr. Winner drew his shoulders up and back, puffing up his chest; his body language clearly told Quatre that he was not going to relent.
Quatre displayed his own stubbornness with a defensive posture; shoulders drawn up, face tensed, and eyes narrowed with determination. His fingers were loosely curled into fists. He was aware that they were drawing attention from those in the waiting room, everyone staring with interest in their direction. Even as his face flushed with this knowledge, he was not going to let his father bully him into backing out from his decision. He had to stand his ground.
“No,” Mr. Winner said firmly. The grays in his hair were suddenly more pronounced within his auburn strands, and his green eyes were narrowed dangerously. He used his height to try and intimidate his son, a tactic that seemed to work as the boy stiffened his posture slightly. “I forbid it...”
“I don’t see why you should,” Quatre said, frowning. “It isn’t going to hurt anybody. Maybe it’ll be embarrassing and a little weird, but I’m trying to think of you when I make these decisions.”
“I absolutely forbid you from doing this. You do this, and I’ll disown you. I’ll forever regret the fact that you were born to me. You’ll be nothing but mold in my eyes. You’ll no longer bear my name. I’ll never know you as my son.”
“I’ve heard that a million times before, father, and I hate to tell you this, but that no longer has an effect on me.”
“You shame your father with this action. How dare you even think about doing this to me...do you even known what hells I had to cross to get you this far? You show me your gratitude and appreciation of my efforts in rearing you at the very best of my abilities with this show of insolence? And you turn your back to me like some common-case juvenile! There is still room in the juvenile detention hall for children that act badly against their parents! I’ll send you there in a heartbeat and let you think about what you’re doing to me.”
“That threat was half-ass, father. It’s not going to work.”
“If I take away the resource, I’ll take away the motive.”
“You’re not going to make me change my decision, father. It’s final.”
Mr. Winner uncrossed his arms, frowning so sternly that his lips turned white with the action. He narrowed his eyes, shadows crossing over the crevices between his eyebrows. His forehead wrinkled, and his mustache twitched. He then shook his head. “No.”
Quatre drew in a deep breath, determined not to back down. “I don’t see why you’re making a big deal out of this! You’ve made me out to be some bad kid that deserves juvie for every little thing I do! I’ll bet no other parent makes a big fuss out of this...”
“First of all, I am not every other parent. Second, you are lying to me, son. Or, should I say, former heir?”
“DAD! Why are you making such a big deal out of a colonoscopy?”
Mr. Winner cringed, his shoulders hunching upward. Quatre crossed his arms, and continued to block the doorway of the office. The other patients in the room were still watching, with one old geezer hissing at Mr. Winner to stand his ground. His wife whapped him across the back of his head.
Quatre continued to stare at his father, stubbornly determined to get his father to follow through with the appointment. The scare of cancer in this city had risen to an all time high, and he’d put himself in charge of making sure his father took this test and that one to make sure he was cancer-free. The nurse standing in the doorway leading into the rooms cleared her throat–her fourth in the last half hour.
Finally, with a low growl, Mr. Winner turned to face her. He then narrowed his eyes at his son, looking at him from over his shoulder.
“You’re cut from my will, and my life,” he growled, walking over to the nurse.
Quatre merely smiled as he watched his father follow after the woman. A few of the waiting patients clapped and cheered for him, the old man booing him. Realizing that he still had a lot of attention, Quatre grew embarrassed, his face turning red as he ducked his head. Self-consciously, he took the seat nearest the door, and gazed at his knees.
It had been a big hassle–a week long fight since he’d made the appointment–but his father was getting the checkup. Really, if Quatre wasn’t around, his father would be up the river of job-related stress, drowning in high blood pressure and other stress related problems galore. But he made it his job to look out for the older man. After all, he was the only child still living with him.
Sighing, he picked up a magazine and thumbed through it. His father had put up a big fuss over nothing, but it was always good to be sure.
After his father came out, looking decidedly terrorized, Quatre put the magazine away and rose from his seat. He noted the stiff way of walking, the grimace of horrors relived, and gave his father a proud grin. He didn’t take his father’s snort of disgust seriously as he talked with the nurse. Finally, he followed the other man out, and then matched his pace, walking alongside him with a smile on his face. Mr. Winner glanced at him, and then chuckled, reaching out to ruffle his hair.
“Little rotten brat. I’ll remember this, you know. I’m in charge of your allowance.”
“But I work. So it’s no problem if you cut it.”
“I pay the bills to shelter and clothe you.”
“I buy my own clothes, thank you, and always pay half the utilities with what I make.”
“I...I make you breakfast.”
“You really don’t have to. You always end up burning it, anyway...”
Mr. Winner chuckled, pulling his son against his side in an awkward hug. “We do all right, don’t we?”
“Yes. We do absolutely dandy,” Quatre replied, hugging him back. They walked out from the doctor’s office building, and onto the sidewalk. It was raining, but they both had their coats on, and had no problem with getting soaked as they made their way to the garage nearby. “Where to, now?”
“You’re working, right? You’ll pay for dinner with that big check of yours.”
“Sure, dad. We’ll go somewhere classy with what I make at work,” Quatre said on a snort, thinking of the greasy burger joint where he worked at after school.
“Excellent...Let’s just get a pizza and go home. Maybe rent some videos.”
“DVDs.”
“Whatever. We’ll get some of those and spend our time at home tonight. Sound good?”
“Yes, father.”
As they made their way to the garage, both were unaware of the pair of eyes that watched them from the rooftop of the boutique across the street. Eyes that narrowed with hate.
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Quatre considered himself an even teen–he made good grades, he played the violin, and he considered himself the friendly sort. He didn’t over talk a conversation; he liked to please others and avoided confrontation by negotiating peacefully with someone that felt upset with him. He had his moods, sure, but didn’t every teen? And he had his quirks and he had his individualism. But what made him different from his classmates was his shyness–he just could not approach a person without direct cause, and he could barely keep his head up whenever he was out in public. Which made his job difficult sometimes, because it meant interacting with others.
He was determined to get over his shyness and fear of ‘things’, so he forced himself to do things that were normally hard for him to do.
What also made him different from his classmates was his appearance–ever since he was thirteen, he’d gravitated toward black clothes, a punk flair in style, and black fingernail polish. He had seen a man dressed in such a fashion, and had immediately seen himself in the same cut-out.
So, with his father’s bewildered permission, he now had three holes in each ear, black fingernail polish, a collection of silk ties and polos, and pants with chains, zippers and straps. He liked to play with his clothes–one day he’d wear a polo with a tie over tight black Dickies; or a button up collar shirt loosely tucked into a pair of the baggiest jeans he owned; or knee length shorts with a blazer and a rock-n-roll tee underneath, a tie casually hanging from his neck. His shoes were always the same–a pair of once black ratty Converses. They were special to him and he wore them religiously, no matter the outfit or condition of the weather. He was surprised they had lasted this long.
His hair, colorless strands that had always been fashioned so that his bangs would fall into his eyes was still the same cut he had when he was seven–hell, it worked back then, why not today? But he had recently colored his hair with non-permanent blue dye, so it was a little streaky and faded into a mess of dingy blue and white. He hadn’t bothered with taking the dye out just yet–he felt it made his eyes stand out. He brought those out with black eyeliner and mascara, both of which he applied liberally.
He knew he was unrecognizable to those that once knew him Back There–which was the name he had for the small suburb where everything seemed to stop and start That One Summer. He didn’t mind. It wasn’t as if he had many friends there, anyway...
His father had no objections to his son’s way of dress and appearance–but he drew the line at tattoos. He felt that if Quatre got it all out of his system now, he should be fine later on in life. His supervisor at work objected to the hairdye, but let it roll when he realized that it took the attention off of the drugs that was sold there by its employees.
Yes, Quatre was like every other teen struggling for an identity and a place in the world–right down to the problem he had with his skin and the problems he had with other teens that felt threatened by his individualism.
His pimple situation had him self-conscious most of the time–he felt they took over his face with the intent to conquer. His forehead, cheeks and chin were a constant battlefield, and despite his efforts with Neutrogena and Pro-Activ, he felt he was fighting a battle that was quite pointless. His father had it when he was younger, and his mother had her problems–he’d seen his sisters go through the same thing, and he figured that he wouldn’t be left out.
He was a quite real teen, with real problems. He hadn’t seen ghosts since he’d left That Place. He hadn’t heard or seen anything that was out of the ordinary. He often wondered why that was. Why did things just stop? Why did he stop seeing the ghosts?
He hadn’t brought the subject up with his father–he still remembered how Mr. Winner had addressed the issue as something defining made-up friends. So he didn’t talk his concerns out loud.
Heero Yuy moving to the city had been a definite plus–the young man, six years older than him and still brisk and confrontational as he was when they were children, had been a welcome sight for him. Heero had just rescued him from a potential mugger when he was thirteen, and from then on, Quatre had made sure that Heero was taken care of.
Plus...he hadn’t yet admitted it, but he had a definite infatuation with the older male. Those brooding cobalt blue eyes...that messy dark hair...those broad shoulders and thin, muscular frame...Heero was the type that screamed Bad Boy and evoked naughty fantasies. Of course, Quatre could not admit this out loud to anybody–first off, he didn’t have any friends, and second, while his dad was certainly comfortable with him liking boys, Mr. Winner did not like Heero Yuy. His juvenile record, his parole record... Mr. Winner was convinced Heero was meant for the slammer for doing something truly atrocious in the near future, and he did not want his son involved in such things.
He was shocked that the same boy that had helped his son when they were younger was the very same young man that had escaped murder charges when a man he’d punched out had died without waking from a coma. This incident had happened when he was sixteen, and he’d been on parole for something or other since then.
He forbade Quatre to see him–but Quatre took the risk to visit Heero weekly to clean his apartment and make sure things were in line for the older man. He would risk everything to see Heero, and looked forward to every visit.
Heero took all the precautions in making sure people avoided him, but he could never scare Quatre away. The blond was wholly used to his gruffness and snappish growls, and had learned to not take everything personally. Heero was just cranky by nature, and he worked around it.
Thinking about the older boy now, Quatre sighed and glanced at his wristwatch. In fact...if he hurried...he could catch Bus 57 and make it there in twenty minutes...and be back by two when Bus 49 made its last run to the east side. Determined, he hurriedly picked up his jacket and stuffed it into his bag. His father was in the shower and would turn in for the night–he would simply think that Quatre had taken out the trash and leave it at that.
Quatre then left his room, figuring that Heero could use some company. He would be dead tired tomorrow, but it was well worth it. It was always worth the effort whenever Heero was in the picture.