Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Of Textbooks and Temptations ❯ Another Day, Another Duo ( Chapter 1 )

Standard Disclaimer:  Do I look like Bandai et al. to you?  That’s because I’m not.  I have little money, little time, and even littler patience. (yeah, I know it’s not a real word)  I choose to write these little stories for my own enjoyment, and hopefully yours. 

Warnings:  Yaoi, language, Duo's POV, AU, sarcastic humor

Pairings (so far): Walkerx2, 2+1

Beta: Harmonie Des Anges

A/N:  This story is told from the perspectives of both Duo and Quatre depending on the chapter, and will be labeled.  I have based it on my life as well as the lives of my close friends.  All of the streets and university buildings are quite real.  My goal is to make the characters very real and very tangible.  I hope this reminds many of you of your own college experience.  There are notes to explain any weirdness, especially restaurant jargon.


Of Textbooks and Temptations
By Solanum Dulcamara

Chapter 1:  Another day, another Duo

I turn right onto General Hutchison Parkway and watch as the gray haze of early morning is swallowed by the groping branches of the gnarled trees that form the less than cozy canopy along the length of the road.  As I’m lulled by the blinking yellow light on the back of the truck that’s doing 32 in a 45, my thoughts drift back to the conversation I had with Quatre at work last night.

***********

“I know you’re not married, Duo, but you’ve been dating this guy since freshman year.  If you aren’t happy, tell him it’s been fun and move on.”  He finished scraping his bussed plate and tossed it to dish as I placed cups in the rack above our heads. 

“Quat, just because the idea of being with one person for more than a few dates is enough to send you into convulsions…”

“Long-term relationships do not give me epileptic fits.  I just have a mild allergy to them.  Anyway, you’re the one who’s grown bored with his overrated commitment.”
We washed our hands and made our way to expo. (1)

“Well, I like Walker, but there’s no excitement…”

“A tragedy,” he sighed sarcastically as his blue-green eyes scanned the checks on the line, suddenly lighting with frustration.  “Where are my burgers?  This is a 15 minute check!” Quatre shouted across the line at the kitchen boys, who were riveted by the idea of pelting each other with kale. (2)  He turned back to me, pushing his long blonde bangs out of his eyes, “Bad sex?”

“No, it’s alright.”

“Sex should never be just ‘alright.’  You’ll know you’re with the right person when it’s mind-blowing every single time.”  He pulls his food from the window, wiping and adjusting the food while tossing the cooks a careless “’Bout time.”

He makes everything seem so easy… “So you think I should just tell him?”

“Duo,” Quatre placed his plates of food back on QA, “You’ve been with this guy for two years, and he’s obviously not ringing your bells and tooting your horn, pun absolutely intended.  Who knows who you’ve missed while you’ve been with him.  Walk out on a limb and do something you haven’t done in awhile:  be single.  Now, I’ve gotta run this food.  It’s slow as balls in here tonight and I’m having to kiss serious ass at the few tables I’m getting just to pay my half of our rent.  Don’t you have a table to check on?”  And with his ever matter-of-fact advice, Quatre’s platinum head disappeared out the kitchen doors, arms balancing a multitude of plates.

*********

The blinking yellow light is joined by a pair of red, and I return from my thoughts quickly enough to avoid an insurance claim before school.

A gust of wind is pushed through the crack in my window by the passing traffic on hi-way 17-92.  I glare at my nonworking defroster as I untangle several strands of hair from my eyelashes.  Perhaps more than a yard of hair isn’t practical, but I like it, so I’m willing to make ‘sacrifices.’

As I make my way up 17-92 and onto SR 419, a glimmer of light seeps above the trees, blinding me.  Grumbling, I reach into my bag for my sunglasses.  Why do I always register for such early classes?  And why do Quat and I live so far away from campus?  We could live at one of the five billion apartment complexes along Alafaya Trail, across the damn street from school.  I’d only have to wake up two hours before class.  There is that whole parking issue at UCF, but really I take awhile to primp.  I’m a gay man, what do you want from me?

Half a CD later, I happily pull into a parking space, ready to walk into another anonymous lecture hall, pretending not to be the only junior in an auditorium full of giddy obnoxious freshmen.  Perhaps if I actually decided what I want to do and declared a major, I’d actually be in classes with people my own age.  As it is, I think I’ve taken every introductory course this school has to offer.

With an air of cool detachment, I make my way through the building of Health and Public Affairs, barely glancing at the walls as I search out room 119.  I notice people scurrying around me, looking between watches and walls, studying schedules and campus maps, their faces light up as, by the grace of God, they happen upon the surreptitious room number plaque for which they’ve been looking… Freshmen.

Before I have the chance to cozy myself into a little chair with folding deskette, before I even have a chance to find the damn room, arms grab me from behind, and I’m pulled against a solid chest.  I freak out momentarily, until I hear a familiar voice whisper in my ear, “Morning, Gorgeous.”  Fuck.  I am so not ready to talk to him.  Breathe, Duo… “Walker, hey.”  Convenient… I forgot his brand-spankin’-new minor is in social services.  Damn my selective memory and its sick sense of humor. 

Walker has this problem:  wandering hands.  I’m sure with some discipline and patience, he could be conditioned not to scandalize the homophobic masses.  But from the feel of things, it’s not going to be any time soon.  Fortunately, Houdini’s got nothing on me.  “Stop it, Walker.  You’re scaring the Freshmen,” I chide as I squirm from his grasp. 

There is truth to my statement.  The young ones who, just moments ago, were meandering all around me, now hug the walls of the not-so-wide hall as they pass.  It never ceases to amaze me how people scatter like bugs when two guys just touch each other.  But seriously though… I’m glad they’re there… I don’t really want him touching me.  I guess he can sense as much because his normally warm face is frowning at me, “What’s up, Duo?”

“Nothing… I just… do we have to have this discussion now?”

“Where else do you have to be?”

“Um… class?  That is why I’m here… at school I mean.”

“You’re class doesn’t start for 20 minutes.”

“How do you know?”

“You used the computer at my apartment to register.”

“Maybe I changed my schedule?”

“Without telling me?  I’m hurt.”

I sigh… what am I supposed to do?  “Maybe this’ll take more than 20 minutes?”

He regards me analytically for several moments.  I hate that.  I always feel like I’m under a microscope or something.  Then, he lets out a defeated sigh, “Okay, later.”

So, I postponed the agony.  Fabulous.  I can wallow in my anxiety for a little bit longer.  Some scientists say that stress can increase productivity.  Shit, I must be a full scale, conglomerate assembly-line. 

He leans forward and kisses my forehead, whispering, “Whenever you’re ready.”  Why does he have to be so damn endearing?

“Just… I mean… yeah, later.”  I cannot even summon full sentences.  Must Get Away Now.  I lean up and kiss his cheek before turning to walk down the hall.  I call over my shoulder, “I’ll hunt you down this afternoon.”

He has this grin on his face, and I know what he’s thinking.  Every time I say that, he says, “I look forward to being your prey.”  Damn it.  He’s not saying it, but he’s thinking it.  Why the hell did I have to look back?

Room 119 appears before me:  sanctuary.  Capacity 200… I wonder if that includes the instructor?  Still, not too bad; only 199 potential classmates.  Last semester in Psyche, I had 450 people in my class.  I felt like an ant. (3)

Entering the lecture hall, I head towards my usual seat:  third row, center section, four chairs in from the left, not too close to the front or the center.  I plop down and pop out a paperback.  I’m rereading “A Density of Souls.”  One of my faves, plus Stevie is so Quatre incarnate.  (4)

I can hear the Freshmen scurrying around me; nervously ruffling papers, poised at their folding deskette with their brand new notebook and textbook bought only moments after registration, sitting rigid and overly eager… sad, really.

I’m startled during my reading by a rare, blessed sound; the sound of a backpack falling to the floor, nonchalantly and a body slipping into the seat next to me with seasoned indifference.  Hmm… another non-Freshman?  Intrigued, I look over discretely and notice first, a pair of oddly colored yellow sneakers.  The unusual mustard footwear nearly disappears under a pair of faded jeans.  Perhaps I’m feeling a bit presumptuous or I just can’t help myself, but I allow my eyes to travel slowly up his body, past his black shirt that fits like a second skin, to his finely shaped lips, sharp yet delicate nose, and deep blue eyes.  Seriously though, eyes shouldn’t be that color… they aren’t just blue… they’re like the color of a deep hidden and possibly magical lagoon.  Crayola would cream itself if they could create just one crayon that color.  And it doesn’t help at all that his mussed mahogany hair falls in front of those fabulous eyes in the most adorably sexy way.  I am sitting next to a wet dream with a cynical half-smile.  Hell yes!  Time to turn on the charm… oh shit… I still have a boyfriend… for a little while anyway, and infidelity is not my style. 

He gives me one of those oh-so-covert full-body pans.  Not surprising.  I get it a lot and I’m well aware of the fact that I come from a friggin’ awesome gene pool.  I just hope I get to thank my parents for that one day, assuming, of course, that I get to meet them.  And I’m not conceited, thanks.  It’s just a fact.

All seriousness, he meets my gaze and informs me, “I’m happy to meet you.  I was starting to think that my brother had lied to me.”

Cryptic much?  But not a bad opener, let’s see where it leads.  “Wrong about what?”

“Well, one of his arguments to convince me to transfer was that Florida is full of beautiful people.  I had begun to think he should become a used-car salesmen… until now.”

A little cliché, but one look at the ultra-sincerity on this guy’s face tells me it’s not just a corny pick up line.  I think I might have just blushed.  He’s definitely worth getting to know.  “I’m Duo, and you’re too cute, but I’m sure you prefer to be called something other than cute.”

“You are the first person that’s called me cute since middle school, and you are hereby the only person allowed to say that I’m cute for the rest of time.  For the record, I’ve been called a great number of things, some of which I dare not repeat and mostly by my brother, but most people call me Heero.”

“Heero… I like… but you’re not from around here are ya?”

“If you are referring to the atypicality of my name, you really don’t have room to talk.”

Shit.  This time, I know that I’m blushing.

“As for not being from around here, I just transferred from Ohio State.  I’m not excitingly foreign, I’m from Cincinnati.  My father, however, was from Japan, and I am named after his father.”

Mystery of origin:  solved.  Ethnic background: known… wait… he has gorgeous blue, to-die-for eyes.  “If you’re Japanese…”

“I said my father was Japanese, not my mother.  She was an Ohio native, and I’m a halfie.”

Ah… I’m dumb.  Wait… ‘was?’  This is kind of a tricky subject to breach.  How do you ask about the potential death of someone you barely know’s parents without seeming to be nosy or pry?

His voice startles me from my thoughts, “You’re wondering why I used the past tense in reference to my parents.”

Shit again.  That wasn’t a question.  I hope he’s not pissed.  “How’d you know?”

“An inquisitive crease in your brow.”

“I’m so transparent?”

“No, I’ve just seen it before.”

“Oh…”

“The answer is no.”

“Huh?”

“You were wondering if I’m offended.”

“Uh… yeah.”

“No.”

“Oh… good.”  Wow.  I’m batting a thousand. 

“They died in a car accident when I was seven.  I was shifted around the Ohio State system for a year before my family adopted me, hence afore mentioned brother.”

I’m dumbfounded.  I can’t believe he told me all of that right after meeting me.  It took a lot to say… I, of all people, should know.  I bet he doesn’t get to hear this often, “That fucking sucks.  I know what it must’ve been like.”
He just looks at me for a minute, rather blankly, before raising his eyebrow quizzically.  But before he can actually open his mouth to question, the professor bustles in, all school-room enthusiasm.  Thanks teach.  Some of my mystery will be preserved for later.

He one-ups me again, as the professor dismisses class. In the process of stuffing my backpack, I find a folded paper in my lap.  I look up in time to see him smile at me over his shoulder as he walks out the door.  A note?  Opening it, I read seven numbers and two words:  Call me.  He gave me his number?  This could be interesting… but I have not time to dwell on beautiful classmates or my current state of relation-shit.  I have to haul ass across campus for Art History.  Woo-hoo. (please note sarcasm)

TBC

Notes:
(1)    Expo:  Also known as the expediter counter or QA (Quality Assurance as it is later referred to) is where food is double checked for garnish, attractiveness, and correctness before it goes out to the table.  Sometimes a manager will run it, but on a slow day, all of the servers just do it themselves.
(2)    It shouldn’t take more than 12 minutes for food to be ready after the order was rung in, unless it’s a well done steak.  Kale is a garnish, and yes, most kitchen staffs are more than willing to become completely absorbed by such inane activities.
(3)    The honest truth.  I took psychology with 445 other people.  It was weird and cramped.
(4)    By Christopher Rice (Anne Rice’s son).  If you haven’t read it, do.  Then you’ll know what Duo’s talking about.