Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Post Up...And One! ❯ Oh ( Chapter 15 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Chapter Fifteen:
“Oh” Ciara


The club was packed nearly wall to wall with hot, young bodies that were eager for a night of fun. Since their switch from the convention center to BuBinga, the boys had drank more beers, and Felicia had disappeared as soon as she’d found a table for them. Quatre hadn’t had so much fun, and wasn’t paying too much attention to things as Max told him a story from his days living in Yuma, Arizona.

“...And then Jesus says, ‘What? Meatloaf? I thought you said ‘salad!’” Max burst into hysterical laughter and fell over the table, knocking all sorts of empty glasses about while Quatre threw his head back, nearly tumbling from his chair. He wasn’t sure what the punch line was, but hearing Max laugh was something hilarious, as the boy had a laugh that was a mixture of a guffaw and a giggle.

He eyed his empty beer bottle, then tossed that aside, looking wearily into the dance floor. “More...beer...”

“Where’s my woman?” Max asked curiously, searching the empty bottles for more liquor. “I thought she was just going to the bathroom...”

“Man...that was over two hours ago!” Quatre exclaimed, digging out his cellphone. He raised his eyebrows in surprise as he realized that he had five missed calls and one message. Plugging one ear with his finger and activating the voice message box, he listened to someone’s heavy breathing for a few seconds, then erased the message. He shook his head, and scrolled through the missed calls, seeing that he’d missed three from Jake, one from a classmate (at two a.m. in the morning?), and one from a private number. He drunkenly sped-dialed Jake’s number just to see if the guy was even awake, and just to hear his voice.

Max left the table suddenly, nearly stumbling in his haste to leave his chair. Bottles fell to the floor, but were ignored as Quatre strained his ear to hear if Jake would pick up.

He was about to hang up (on the fifteenth ring) when the older male answered with a vicious snarl.

“Hi!” he shouted, to be heard over the pounding music and screams of dancers as they cheered along with a beat from Fifty-Cent’s collection. “I’m sorry if I missed your calls!”

“It’s three in the fuckin’ morning! What the fuck?”

He laughed, leaning over the table, resting his head for a small bit. Someone jostled the small table, and sent glass tinkling. The harried woman that served them their drinks began picking up the empty glasses, dodging dancers, drunken ravers and groping hands.

“I miss you,” he cooed into the phone, and laughed when Jake hung up on him.

Straightening from the table, he re-dialed his number, instantly apologizing when Jake picked up on the first ring. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry...I’m just fuckin’ with ya. I’m drunk, and I’m bored.”

“And I care...why? Who are you with?”

“Well...uh...Man was here earlier, but I think she’s bangin’ some boy into submission somewhere...and I dunno were Max went,” Quatre said, realizing that he’d lost his partner. “I’m all alone! Someone might steal me and sell me along the black market for being so cute!”

“God...spare me.”

He laughed, finding it hysterical that Jake didn’t think so. “So, I’m over at this place...called BuBinga...and I’m smashed, man. I’m sorry, did I wake you up?”

“Quatre...seriously? If you don’t have any bullet wounds or if you aren’t being molested by that drag queen, don’t call me. I’m tired. I don’t want three a.m. drunk dials.”

“Oh, c’mon! Play with me, a little! You knew what it was like, partying all damn night and picking up the phone!”

“I’m a few years older than you, and light years more mature than you, Winner, and stopped doing that shit back in eighth grade! Seriously. Don’t call me if there’s nothing wrong with you. I’m tired.”

“There is something wrong with me! I don’t have you here with me!”

“WINNER!”

“You know, if you aren’t careful, someone’s going to realize what a catch I am and scoop me up,” Quatre warned, signaling for more beer.

“I’ll take that chance. Call me when you’re sober, and don’t bother coming by. Because I’m not answering the door.” With that, Quatre heard the dial tone as Jake hung up with an annoyed curse.

He sighed, slumping in his chair as he looked over at the dance floor. He really wasn’t one to dance, and saw no point to it–he wasn’t rhythmically inclined, anyway. Wondering where in the hell his two companions were, he set his cell aside and waited for his beer. Just hearing Jake’s grumpy morning voice was enough to make him feel giddy inside, and he giggled to himself as he conjured up an image of his friend, with his dark blond hair sticking up and his squinty eyes narrowed with annoyance.

Of course, this brought to thinking of how grumpy Trowa used to be when Quatre would call him, during his stint in Spain. That sexy morning growl that seemed to rumble from his throat as he croaked out answers over the phone, looking more than imperfect as he sprawled out on the bed, sent Quatre’s arms into goosebumps.
And, of course, this led to more thinking about the goth. Just KNOWING that it was a bad idea, and at the same time wondering what was so wrong with it, he picked up his cell and dialed Trowa’s number. He was annoyed and relieved at the same time when the nasal unisex voice informed him that this number had been disconnected. He dialed it several times in a row just to be sure, and sighed heavily when he realized that he couldn’t talk to the guy.

He really didn’t know what he was going to say, anyway.

‘Hey, what’s up? What’cha doing? Hey, guess where I’m at?’

More than likely, he’d show up here, and Quatre would have wanted nothing more than to just talk to him on the phone...then lose his mind and end up making more dumb mistakes...

On that line, he wasn’t even sure what he wanted to talk about. The main subject that kept coming up was him and Sylvia. Quatre wanted to demand that Trowa talk to Sylvia about it, and break up with her to be honorable.

Yeah.

YEAH!

He picked up the phone, growling as he dialed numbers with a thumb that didn’t want to press the correct buttons.

His cell was jerked out of his hand, Max laughing as he held it out of reach.

“Get up!” he commanded, pulling on Quatre’s wrist.

“NO! I’m too drunk! I’ll fall over!” Quatre wailed, pulling back, but finding it useless when Max used his standing leverage to pull him up from the chair. He wobbled on shaky knees, but laughed hysterically when he used Max as support. The shorter boy was laughing too as he held Quatre steady, but tucked the cell back into Quatre’s back pocket, dragging him away from the table. “Where are we going?”

“Dancing.”

“I CAAAAAAAAN’T!” Quatre shouted in dismay, trying to pull away from him.

“You’re the only one here! We’re dancing! I can’t find her anywhere!” Max declared, pulling him into the swarm of dancers that were grinding to something by Black Eyed Peas. Once he found a clear spot for them to shuffle around in, he began moving, grinning all the while as Quatre stood there, staring stupidly around him.

“Don’t you know how to dance?”

“NO! DOES IT LOOK LIKE IT?”

Max laughed again, reaching out to set his hands on his hips, forcing him to move. Quatre moved awkwardly with the force Max was using to get him to move, and had to reach out to steady himself as he wavered. Of course, this meant reaching out to hold onto the other boy’s shoulders with a vise-like grip. He was too drunk to care what people thought about them being together, and for the fact that he had no dancing moves to display like everyone else.

“Just move to the beat...no, no, not like that! Act like you’re having sex!”

“WHAT?”

“Move your hips, like this...keep your body moving, like you’re feeling the beat of the music...move with that bass. MOVE!”

“I can’t do that out here! There’s people out here,” Quatre hissed, as if Max didn’t know.

The boy simply laughed at his expression, and forced him to move. Even though Quatre had no idea how to move or what to do, he drunkenly followed along with the movements Max was making him do. All around them, bodies were shuffling with gyrations and rhythmic moves that made the air hot, and for sweat to drip. He felt violated being so close with Max and for having a woman gyrate against his back, using him to show off her dance moves she must have picked up from ‘Striptease’.

Max was grinning at him, encouraging him with words and movements of his own as the song switched to something by Ciara. When the erratic beat began to change into something techno, he moved closer into Quatre’s body space, and began moving against him in a suggestive movement that made Quatre blush.

The feel of Max’s body against his, rubbing and grinding into him while facing him made the blond super self-conscious. The girl behind him had switched position, and was bumping against him, her hands running over his sides and legs as she slid against him, breasts smashed against his body.

He had to laugh at the feeling of being sandwiched, and found it funny when he couldn’t conjure up anything more to move with, seeing as he was being pressed still by two different forces of movement. Max was still smiling at him, concentrating on the beat of the music, and using his talented body to move against Quatre in ways that the blond hadn’t had done to him, before. This dancing business was very different from what he was used to–the closest in comparison to these movements were usually meant for the bedroom.

The woman behind him was laughing, her rich alto carrying around him as she moved away from him and attached herself to another man that was dancing by himself. Glancing over at her, Quatre realized that he didn’t know her–she was just a random dancer that moved erotically to the beat of the music.

The air was too hot, the music too loud, and Max was moving too sexily against him. In his drunken state, he wasn’t THAT horrified to realize that he was getting a boner from all this stimulus. When Max realized it, he paused for a second, then grinned demonically as Quatre felt himself blush.

“It’s all right,” the beautiful boy whispered against his ear, pressing closer against him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and moving into that stiffness. “It happens. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“I’m drunk. I can’t dance. I need to go home.”

“No, you don’t. Just dance for awhile...you’re doing great...just keep moving your hips, like this...yeah. And no one will know...just me.”

“This is so wrong,” Quatre muttered, unable to hear himself, feeling his face heat even more as Max moved against him. The other boy removed one arm around his shoulders, dragging the palm of his hand down his chest, stomach, and sliding over his hip to anchor his body tight against his, continuously moving to the pounding thump of music. The position was more than suggestive, and his libido leapt skyward at the action.

Max had stopped smiling and was simply enjoying the dance, and what he was doing as the song changed into the next.

It seemed as if no one cared what happened out on the dance floor, that no one was looking at anyone else. Realizing this, Quatre ignored his self-consciousness in that he couldn’t dance, and focused on moving with the boy that manipulated his body with his own. He was growing aware of a rushing through his brain, of the fact that he knew he was drunk and that he was practically having sex with his former classmate and friend. But he didn’t care as he lost himself to the music and to Max, and certainly didn’t care when the boy kissed him.

He returned the kiss, a tentative touch of his lips against his, his mind fuzzily registering that the action had occurred. When Max pulled him closer for another kiss, this one soft and exploring, he didn’t care what anyone thought, or of what he was actually doing. It just all felt very good and welcoming–alcohol made it all the more better.

Meanwhile, Felicia cackled evilly as she ground the heel of her shoe into Burke Ford’s nuts, the Southern trouble-maker gritting his teeth as he tried not to scream out loud. She had confronted Burke nearly twenty minutes ago, while whooping it up with a couple of friends she’d found during her first ‘bathroom’ break almost two hours ago. She had kept Quatre and Max in sight, but her attention had waned to the playboy that had been staring at the blond with a contemplative expression on his thick face. She knew his motives and his history, and hell if she would allow this creature to prey on him.

She was just making sure Burke knew this, of course.

“Now, repeat what ya’ll just said ta me!” she shouted over the music, applying pressure to her grinding, mimicking the man’s southern drawl. “And we’ll git on gone to our own thang!”

“I fuckin’ told you!” Burke growled, his rakish features screwed into agony, yet his wide shoulders heaving as he fought for composure. “I ain’t gonna touch him! I ain’t gonna bother wit’ him! He ain’t my type, anyway!”

“He’s lyin’,” Dallas crowed, Felicia’s older ‘cousin’ whooping it up as his boyfriend whined about getting caught terrorizing innocents. The older man was without his other cousin, Vegas, and had been ‘relaxing’ at the club since hours earlier. His newest boytoy was hanging off his arm, swooning, but enjoying the confrontation with weak protests. “Soon as your back’s turned, girlie, he’s gonna hit up on your boy!”

“Is this true?” Felicia growled, removing her heel from Burke’s groin, and stomping her foot flat against his chest, uncaring of the position it took to do so. Dallas and his boyfriend hurriedly tried to smooth her dress down so that it wasn’t exposing her underwear to the world. “I knew you were lookin’ at my Quat like a piece of candy, an’ I didn’t like it that you’re a fuckin’ nasty ass piece of shit to your toys. And my boy isn’t a toy for YOU!”

“I won’t fuck with him! I won’t even bother him!” Burke snapped, slapping her foot from his chest.

“I’ll hold you to your fuckin’ word, you fuckin’ prick! Because if I EVER see you lookin’ at him that way ever again, I’mina feed you your balls!” she roared, kicking over his table and sending drinks flying. “Then I’ll fuckin’ make you regurgitate that shit and feed ya them AGAIN! Understand?”

The security personnel that were hovering near the scene looked torn between interfering, and just letting things go. As far as they were concerned, the two super humans were to do anything they wanted to each other–they just couldn’t involve innocents in their games.

Burke rose from his seat, snarling as he walked past Felicia and Dallas, the boytoy wiping nervous sweat from his forehead as a crisis was averted. Felicia smirked, hands on her hips as she watched the spoiled playboy walk out a side door, shoving aside a large bouncer that tried to escort him.

“I didn’t like the way he eyed Quat!” she declared to Dallas, frowning at him. “Like a piece of meat!”

“Which one is he, again?” Dallas asked curiously, scanning the floor.

“The one sittin’– oh. Hell. Must’ve left. Where’s the TEQUILA?”

“YAY! Bring it on, Mr. Waiter Man!” Dallas cried happily as more serious issues were given attention to.

#20#20#20#20#20#20#20

Jake yawned tiredly as he lay in bed, trying not to pay attention to the buzzer of his alarm. It was Sunday morning, and he was scheduled to work. Unfortunately, he felt too tired to do so, his mind fuzzily recalling the drunken phone call from Quatre nearly three hours earlier. He gave an annoyed groan as he pulled a pillow over his head, and reached out randomly to slap the alarm off. He did have an idea of drunken dialing–he just felt too old to really remember why it had been so fun to do so. One just didn’t have control of one’s self when one was inebriated, and bored.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to go back to sleep, for at least ten more minutes. But his internal clock was used to the early hours and late night crashes, so he didn’t have much success in that area. He lifted his head from his pillow, eyeing his clock evilly. Yawning again, he left his bed to perform morning business, then padded over to his phone, to dial Star Sixty-Nine to see if Quatre had called him again. But the last call he received was around three twenty-nine, which was the last time the blond had dialed him from wherever he was.

With a sigh, he hung the phone up, grabbed his truck keys, and stretched. Hearing his back pop, he groaned and felt years older than he was as he opened the front door to make his way to his vehicle. He’d left a bag of clothes in there that he’d bought the other night, and felt like wearing them today. But he paused as he realized that Quatre’s car was parked next to his. He narrowed his eyes in annoyance, veering away from his car to walk around to the driver’s side of Quatre’s BMW. The blond was laid out over the steering wheel, snoring away. The door was slightly ajar, the internal bell beeping continuously to let the driver know that it was open.

“You fuckin’ retard,” he muttered, pulling the door open. He reached in and slapped Quatre upside the back of his head. “Get up!”

Quatre gave a start, looking around in confusion. “W-wh–?”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Jake exclaimed angrily, removing the keys from the ignition.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Quatre asked groggily, rubbing his eyes as he looked around himself.

“Get out. You stupid tool, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Jake asked again, pulling the blond from his seat, noting that his seatbelt hadn’t even been activated from its case. Quatre’s legs gave out from underneath him, and he sprawled over the pavement, laughing hysterically. Jake rolled his eyes, and tugged the well-dressed blond from the warming surface, slamming the door shut. He was double-parked, but he knew his neighbor wouldn’t care–she usually never came home during the weekends.

He half dragged and carried Quatre back to his apartment, the blond making it Mission: Impossible to make that short distance without falling.

Once inside, Jake shut the door and gave the blond a disgusted expression as he hung limply from his neck. Wincing at the strong smell of alcohol, he shook his head and pulled Quatre over to the couch. The blond immediately began to curl up to go to sleep, so Jake ripped off his shoes and eased his cellphone out of his pocket.

“Drunk ass bitch,” he muttered, eyeing the cellphone. During the ride, or the dragging, the LCD screen had filled with numbers in random order. He flipped the phone open to deactivate it when he found himself curious by the numbers displayed inside. Unable to ignore his voice of reason, he scrolled through incoming and outgoing calls, finding that sometime after calling him, Quatre had tried to call Trowa. He didn’t know whether to feel annoyed or extremely exasperated (wasn’t it the same thing?), so he exited the options and tossed the thing aside.

So many dialings of Trowa’s number, along with the fact that none was a successful call (all were within an exact five seconds), assured Jake that he hadn’t gotten into contact with him. But...still...

He stared down at the snoring form that took over his couch, and leaned over, feeling annoyed both at himself, and at Quatre for making him feel this way. He shook the blond’s shoulders, forcing him awake.

“Hey. Did you talk to Trowa?” he asked curiously, trying to make it sound as if he didn’t care.

“Why would I call him? Lemme alone...”

“Yeah...why would you call him?”

“Bastard...droped up bastard...”

“I think you mean ‘doped’ up bastard...”

“Shame ming.”

Jake shook his head and lightly pushed his hip with his bare foot. “Stupid idiot. You reek, man. Did you eat anything?”

“GO AWAY.”

“You’re in my home, bastard! Did you eat anything?”

“Let me die...”

“Get up. Get up, or I’ll make you so miserable, you’ll regret ever knowing me.”

“I already do. Lock th’ door.”

Jake chuckled lightly, and pulled Quatre into a sitting position. The blond immediately tried kicking at him, cursing at him for keeping him awake. “Eat and drink something before you pass out. If you don’t, you’ll get the worst hangover in the world.”

“Don’t WANNA!”

“Get up from the couch, bitch, or I’ll give you a fuckin’ swirly in a full bowl.”

Quatre rubbed his eyes, eyelids hanging heavily, looking more than ready to start spewing as Jake left the living room to rummage through his fridge. He took out a bottle of water and a slice of week old pizza, and warmed that up in the microwave.

Seeing that Quatre was trying to pass out sitting up, he walked over, sitting beside him and shoving the plate of pizza into his hands. “Eat that. And drink this all up,” he commanded, opening the bottle of water. “Trust me, it’ll help. I’ve got experience.”

Quatre muttered something intelligible, but began eating the slice of pizza with his eyes closed. When he was finished with that, Jake shoved the bottle of water into his hand, and forced him to drink that.

After that was over and done with, the older male chuckled, and shook his head when the blond tried to lay back down.

“Use the restroom, and if you pee all over the place, you’re wiping it all up,” he threatened, pushing him toward the bathroom. He walked into his room, and waited for Quatre to close the door behind him before walking up front to finish what he was doing earlier. When he came back into the apartment with his bag of clothes, he saw Quatre leaving the bathroom to crawl onto his bed, flopping into it with a loud gust of breath.

Jake locked the door, and made a quick phone call to work. He walked into the bedroom, setting his clothes down, and climbed back into bed. He hadn’t slept with another male before...but Quatre made it look so comfortable in his bed, snoring away and reeking of alcohol. He pushed the other male against the wall, and made himself comfortable. Settling himself within the pillows, he fell back asleep just as easily as he had when he came home dead-tired.

#20#20#20#20#20#20#20

Sylvia knew she wasn’t her usual self at work when she blew up at a preteen that was trying to use a gift card as a credit card, asking her to charge the amount to her mother’s account. Trowa’s disappearing act was really tearing down on her, and she had no way of helping herself cope besides going livid. Her fingers, as they pounded away at the register, literally ached to feel his neck between her hands. And whenever she saw any tall, thin, gothy-punk boy wandering around her store, she wanted to leap over the counter, dive tackle him to the floor, and make him eat her fist.

“Geez, Syl, what’s up your ass?” a pretty boy named Matt asked her as he worked the other register. Sylvia hated that his eyebrows were groomed more prettily than any girls’ she’d seen. And he always had the best eye makeup that drew out his dark brown eyes. “PMS?”

“My fucking boyfriend left me last weekend,” she growled as she rang up a terrified woman’s purchase of teen underwear. “And disappeared into the depths of the Earth. He fucking quit his job, changed his number and didn’t even TELL me he wanted to break up with me!”

The woman stared at her, wide-eyed, and wondered what SHE had done to make Trowa run.

“He just LEFT!” Sylvia flung the woman’s credit card back, and nearly beat her with her bag. The woman dashed out from the store with her self-esteem torn to shreds.

Matt sighed dreamily. “Sounds like a real man...”

“JERK! If you’re going to fucking encourage that behavior, don’t even talk to me!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, pussy cat. I’m just saying! Men have a hard time trying to express their feelings–”

“Well, he SURE tried in this tactic! Fucking loser! I just wanna kill him!”

“–I’m sure he would have tried telling you before, Syl, but you probably scared him off with that attitude of yours,” Matt admonished, looking at her with pity. “You’re evil when you’re mad...”

“‘Evil’? EVIL?”

Sylvia’s line suddenly disappeared as she screeched, having never screeched in her life. She whirled on Matt, who looked sheepish as he bravely continued to ring up his customer’s purchases.

“I was never EVIL in my entire life! Can’t I be pissed by what my boyfriend has done to me? After all the sacrifice and challenges I had in making him happy and content and pleased and weathering through all his fucking drug relapses and storms? Can’t I be angry for him cheating on me with a man and acting like it was no big thing? CAN’T I BE FURIOUS THAT HE LEFT ME AFTER I LEFT TOWN?”

Someone cheered from the back of the store, and Matt removed himself from the bag drawer, where he’d hid himself after Sylvia’s rant scared away his customer, and gathered a big crowd from outside.

“I suppose, yes,” he said, voiding his purchases. “Yes, you have a right. Just...you just need to calm down, okay? Now...he left you, right? I mean, what’s his name? It can’t be THAT hard to find him...just call information and ask for a private investigator. I’m sure you can afford one.”

“His name’s Trowa Barton, and I’m not going to hire ANYBODY to–”

“GET OUT!” Matt exclaimed, hands on his cheeks. “You were living with Trowa BARTON?”

“WHERE?” someone screamed.

“TROWA!”

“I LOVE YOU!”

“WAAAHH! MARRY ME!”

Sylvia raised an eyebrow as a swarm of girls (and a couple of boys) hit the counter in excitement. Matt was fanning himself dramatically with a pile of credit card receipts.

“Yes,” she ground out. “He was with me the last couple of years.”

“Oh myGOD!” Matt stared at her, as if seeing her for the very first time. He grabbed her hand and began rubbing it all over himself as she shrieked in surprise and bewilderment. “I am touching the hand that touched Trowa Barton.”

“Me next! Me next!” someone cried randomly from the crowd.

Sylvia shrieked, pulled her hand away from Matt, and pressed herself against the counter. “You people are insane! He’s a fucking asshole! He fucked me over, and all you guys can think about is his fucking porno tape!”

“He MADE PORN?” someone cried in utter surprise.

“I SAW IT! HE’S MINE NEXT, GIRLS!”

“EEEK! What was it called? Was it truly him?”

“Syl, I knew him back in high school!” Matt cried gaily, clasping his hands together. “But back then, I was going by ‘Gabriel’. I was a real head trip back then...Maybe if you guys aren’t seeing each other...maybe I can get in touch with him?”

Sylvia wearily rubbed her forehead as a bunch of women and boys shouted for her attention, wanting to know intimate details of what Trowa did in bed, and what he wore after taking a dump.

That night, utterly furious that people didn’t get that what he did to her was wrong, she stomped out toward the car she and TROWA had purchased together, and started the car with a fury reserved for Bush-haters. She growled as she gripped the steering wheel within both hands, and jerked herself back and forth. Mad-eyed and severely out of control, she backed her car out of the parking lot, and made her destination Quatre’s apartment. She had memorized his address from listening to that message, should she ever need it...And it looked like it had come in handy. She was going to find Trowa. She was determined to do so.

She was going to start from the top, and she would not rest until she found him.

#20#20#20#20#20#20#20

Trowa frowned as he eyed the empty studio, the cheerful realtor leading him around, eager for a sale. He had more than enough money to purchase the place, due to his half of the money he received from Amalie Une and from the sales of his art, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to settle just yet. He didn’t want an apartment, knowing that he didn’t want to be trapped on some random floor surrounded by random people. He didn’t want a house...too final. a studio seemed just right on the upper North Side of town, far away from the West side...Away from the South, where Quatre lived...and away from the East, where the random richies grew on his nerves. The North side of New Park was relatively quiet compared to the rest of the town. It was more of a residential area, with a smattering of name brand stores and country wide well knowns that he’d never set foot in.

He was sure Wal-Mart didn’t sell walls, and that Target just wasn’t an archery store.

The studio apartment was located in a section of town that was known for the artistically inclined, and for families wanting to raise families. In other words, a place where no one would think he lived. His reputation for the porn and for the fact that he was just well-known in terms of looks and talent left one thinking he would shack up in some expensive penthouse or apartment down town...they wouldn’t think that he’d come and live just two blocks away from an elementary school...or that he had a regular cul-de-sac family setting theme going on just outside his studio...

If he chose to live here, no one would find him. Everything looked the same, which is what he hated, and what people who knew him knew this.

She was about to show him the loft, but he shook his head. “I’ll take it.”

“And–what? You will?”

“Yes. When can I move in?”

“Well...today!”

Later on that evening, he was the proud renter of 99872, Studio F on Wedekind Lane. He would head back to Drake’s and gather what he could, then find a way to transfer all his paintings to his new residence. He grinned as he tossed his keys from one hand to the other, and imagined the possibilities of what he could do to this place.

On his way back to Drake’s, he took out his cell, and dialed his sister’s number. But once he reached her answering service once more, he sighed and pressed a few buttons just to be annoying, and hung up. He jumped into the car he was renting–considering buying it–and headed back to Drake’s. While he was excited at having his new home, he wasn’t looking forward to all the moving and for the fact that he really wasn’t going to have anything to put in there. He’d simply grabbed what he’d deemed essential that one Sunday afternoon and left...and it had been nothing more than clothes, a few odds and ends, and his art supplies. He really hadn’t considered taking anything else.

On this note, he wondered what Sylvia was doing. More than likely still pissed at him, which he didn’t mind. It just made the break-up easier if she just hated his guts instead of trying to talk to him about it. That way, he wouldn’t be guilted into going back to her. He was happier this way–and felt as if a large load had been lifted from his shoulders.

Sighing in utter relief, he grabbed at his cellphone, and began scrolling through his numbers. He’d gotten a completely different number and service, just to throw the woman off his trail just in case, but he really wanted to talk to Quatre. He just had a feeling that he needed to.

He dialed the blond’s number, and listened for that familiar voice of his. When he heard the other end being answered, he felt his face split with a grin.

“‘Lo?”

“Hey, Quatre,” he greeted, in his suave I’m-too-cool-to-be-jumping-up-and-down-to-hear-your-voice. “I was wondering if you were going to pick up...listen, I had to change my number. Are...are you still mad at me?”

There was silence from the other end, and he worried the inside of his cheek, frowning as he reached out to trace the car’s computer screen with the tip of his finger. Which reminded him...he was going to start painting his nails, again.

“Hey...are you still there?”

“Yeah.”

He stiffened at the guy that was NOT Quatre, and frowned. His eyes narrowed and he clutched the steering wheel with both hands, capturing the phone between his head and shoulder. What the fuck was Jake doing with Quatre’s cell??

There was silence on the other end as well, and Trowa’s eyes dashed from one feature in his car to another as he tried to discern this new thing. Finally, he yanked the phone away from its position, and hung up. His face screwed into something sulky, and he gripped the wheel once more with both hands.

“What the fuck?” he asked aloud. What was Jake doing with Quatre’s cell? Where the hell was Quatre?

This mystery annoyed him as he eyed the navigational panel in the dash, and he lifted his cell. Checking the number he’d dialed, he found that it was Quatre’s phone that he’d reached...but what was Jake Trip doing with it? Why didn’t Quatre answer it?

With an annoyed growl, he changed destination to Quatre’s apartment, to drive by and see if he were there. If he were there with that prick, then he’d just drive by. But if he wasn’t there...Trowa would assume that he was somewhere with him. Mr. I’m-Such-A-Single-Father-Grease-Monkey-With-No-Worth-In-Life.

And if Quatre were with him...well...it just wouldn’t fit. He knew that Jake had it for the blond, straight or not, no matter what he said or denied. He was playing Quatre like a fool, preying on the blond’s idiot-ness to use him for some sick single-father fetish...he was sure of it. And Quatre would get hurt, and–well. Wait a minute. If they DID do something, and Jake hurt him...Trowa himself could come in and swoop down on the rebound like...like...that Manu guy from the Spurs.
But...he would rather that Quatre NOT get hurt. And for the fact that Jake was determined to do so didn’t sit very well with Trowa.

With a determined air, he was going to break up this little party of theirs, and set things straight. This was the entire reason he broke up with Sylvia!

#20#20#20#20#20#20#20

Max stared sightlessly ahead of himself, trying to will the Tylenol to work, and for his stomach to straighten out and for the will to turn back time. He was sitting by himself in the radio station break room, having finished his shift a few minutes ago, working on prayers and tomato juice...and trying to come to terms with what happened last night. He was aware that he’d drank too much...that he’d lost contact of Felicia...that he and Quatre were dancing (and quite suggestively, too)...and after that...why couldn’t he remember very much?

He knew he’d done something utterly rotten...his gut was telling him that. And the quite un-nice sting in his ass was telling him he’d done something wrong, too. But he couldn’t remember anything after the dance floor! He felt very ashamed and quite embarrassed by it all, but how could he deny what he was feeling right now, both physically and mentally? The thought that he’d had no idea what had happened, only that it shouldn’t have, devastated him. He had no idea what he was going to say to either Felicia or Quatre when he saw them. He wondered if Quatre even remembered...last Max recalled, Quatre was pretty much out of it, as well.
He wanted to talk to the guy, but he felt much too shamed to do so!

And just the thought of Felicia finding out...what would she do? Think? She’d already been cheated upon before by her ex...if she knew that Max himself had cheated on her with her friend–no, their friend–she would be devastated, no matter what she often said. He knew that she would! She said a lot of things that she made seem like they wouldn’t hurt her, but he knew her inside and out! She said things to throw people off, to protect herself. While she displayed a sense of invincibility, she was actually a vulnerable female that was desperately trying to find reassurance in those that cared about her.

And if she found this out...?

He sighed heavily, shaking his head. Well...in all things that were male...what wasn’t said out loud....need not be known.

“Hey, there, champ!”

He looked up to see Gina, his manager, walk in. The woman was nearly forty, with platinum blond hair, a boob job, and the slimmest figure he’d ever seen–Yoshida’s didn’t count because hers was drug-induced. She wore low cut shirts, called every man ‘sweetie’, and loved tapping their shoulders with her plastic nails. Felicia hated the woman, but Max had always thought she was nice.

“Long day?” she asked, opening the fridge. “You look tired, sweetie...woman keep you up all night?”

“Yeah...hey, there’s nothing else to do, is there?”

“Why? Ready to go home? Stay awhile and chat with me. I get bored when I have to eat by myself,” she said with a pout, pulling out a container of salad and French dressing.

“Ah, no, I’m sorry. I’m going to head on home. Felicia’s waiting for me.”

“She has you on a rather tight leash, sweetie. You might want to ask her to loosen up.”

“It’s not that at all,” Max said, rising from his chair. “There isn’t leashes on anybody. It’s just...I enjoy going home to her. That’s all.”

“That’ll get old real quick, sweetie,” Gina said with a roll of her eyes. “You’re young. Live it up. Don’t attach yourself to someone for so long. You might miss out on something more...interesting...and more mature.”

Max chuckled, shaking his head as he left the room. But...he couldn’t go home quite yet. He really didn’t want to see Felicia–not while he had some things he needed resolved. He took out his cell, and dialed her number, but she’d mentioned that she was going to put in some hours at the shooting range, so he left her a message in that he’d be home late. After that, he left the building and made his way to Quatre’s apartment to do some talking.

#20#20#20#20#20#20#20

“Open. Shut. Open. Shut. Open...and shut. Zoom in...zoom out.”

Michael giggled softly to himself as he used one fingertip to nudge one of Quatre’s eyes open, trying to get the guy to wake up. Quatre snorted and turned his head away from him, earning another laugh from Michael. The boy had been excited to know that Quatre was at the apartment, but seeing the blond passed out on his father’s bed was something funny to see. Usually, Quatre was so awake...and alive. In all aspects, it was as if the guy were dead–but breathing.

Jake walked into the room, shaking his head as he saw that Michael was trying to wake up the blond.

“Hey, want to learn something neat?” he asked him, wiggling his eyebrows.

“NO! You’ll teach me something dumb!”

“What? I don’t either...”

“Yeah huh! And educational,” Michael drew out the word with a mocking tone. “You’re not fun like Q, daddy.”

Jake looked insulted, but chuckled as Michael climbed onto the bed, and began jumping up and down.

“Wake up, Q!” Michael shouted. “Stop being dead! GET UP!”

“I’m telling you...it’ll be fun...”

“NO! Everything you say is fun is always boring, Dad! Hey, watch me fart on his face.”

“MICHAEL. Get your ass off that bed, and don’t let me hear you talk like that again. That is rude and disgusting. Get over here and help me gather some ice....”

“Okay!”

By the time the two had come back, Michael carefully climbing atop the mattress with a couple of ice cubes in his hands, Quatre was starting to stir. Quickly, both males shoved the cold blocks of water down the collar of his shirt, causing the blond to scream with surprise as he leapt up.

“Wow,” Michael breathed, wide-eyed. He looked down at the ice cubes that were being forcefully removed. “That might work on Celia one day...”

“What?” Jake asked sharply, amused smile snapping off his face at the words.

Quatre looked at them both, wild-eyed and utterly awake. Then he looked around in confusion.

“How the hell...?” he trailed off, frowning.

“I found you passed out outside,” Jake said, frowning up at him. “There are laws against that kinda thing, you know?”

“I...why should it matter? The car drives itself,” Quatre grumbled, getting off the bed. “How the hell did I get over here...? Where’s my keys?”

“Aw, Q! You’re going home?” Michael cried in disappointment as he raced after the blond. Jake sighed as he swept the cubes from the mattress, and let them melt onto the carpeted floor. He trailed after them both, feeling hungry as he contemplated dinner.

“Uh...yeah...I really don’t know how I got here,” Quatre muttered, looking for his keys. “I think your dad kidnaped me, drugged me, and used me for his wicked ways....OW!”

Michael looked at Jake, who flushed with color as he shook his head and removed his fist from Quatre’s right lower back. “Daddy...? What are ‘wicked’ ways?”

“Things that are...pertaining to...uh...in terms of making someone do something...against their will.”

“You made Q do something against his will?”

“Uh...”

“Yeah. It was a good thing you weren’t here to witness it, Mike,” Quatre complained, trying to rub at his back. “It was painful. I won’t be able to sit for days...OW! I only have two kidneys, Goddammit!”

“Did he spank you?” Michael asked in a frightened whisper. “That’s why you can’t sit?”

Quatre started laughing uproariously while Jake flushed a dark red color. He reached out for his son, and directed him toward the television set. “Son, let me remind you, that we do not use the word ‘spank’ to another adult...”

“I need to go home. I have no idea how I got here,” Quatre said, shaking his head.

“Well, wait a minute,” Jake said, turning away from Michael. “Are you hungry? Let’s go out to eat...”

“PIZZA!” Michael cried joyously. “C’mon Q!”

“We had pizza last week...”

“I dunno,” Quatre said with a shrug, playing with his keys and eyeing Jake. Of course, Michael did not understand why the two were looking at each other so intently, and bounced about happily, eager for food and for the fact that his idol was going to stay with them for a couple more hours. “I want to change.”

“Wear some of my clothes.”

“No. I want my clothes. No...Um...give me a ride home? Or, I’ll give you guys a ride, for once. Let’s go to my place. I want to shower. Maybe we can order something from there?”

“PIZZA!! PIZZA! PIZZA!”

“Go get your shoes on. Fine, we’ll go with you,” Jake agreed as Michael ran off to find his sandals. When Michael was away and out of ear shot, he reached out and enveloped Quatre’s head into a awkward headlock. “And don’t you ever do that again. Understand?”

“Do what?” Quatre asked, trying to direct his breath downward so Jake wouldn’t have to smell the wool sock that died in his mouth. But he felt warm and fuzzy in his arms, and knew that Jake was touching him in an affectionate way.

“Get all smashed and drive around. Shit happens out here, Quatre. Don’t do that. If you’re too drunk, don’t get in the car unless there’s someone sober behind the wheel.”

“...I...sorry. I’m sorry.”

Jake rubbed his head affectionately and let him go, walking off to find his own pair of shoes. Quatre could only blush and squeal internally in that Jake cared so much for him.

Then, as a happy trio of hungry males, they made their way to Quatre’s apartment.