19-Aug-2004
continued revision of The Worst Thing...
Title: Nothing Like the Sun
Author: Sol 1056
Rating: R
Pairings: 1+R, 1+2, 2+3, 3+4... oh, and 4+OC
Warnings: quatre gets laid, cusses, and beats a few people up.
Disclaimer: not mine. I know this. don't sue, it's all for practice.
Note: in-canon, post-EW; quatre decides it's time to find out who he really is, other than 'businessman' and/or 'gundam pilot'
many thanks to all reading and reviewing!
He checks the list of things to do, things that he's been putting off until he has time. The car pulls out of the lot, its engine purring sweetly, and he grins to feel that strange pull of new tires on the road. It's a squishy, graceless tug as the thick tires hug each curve, and he leans instinctively when he takes a right, keeping the turn as tight as possible.
It's not a Gundam, but it's the closest he gets on a daily basis.
First stop, he decides, is the mall. It's a few miles up the road, and he never gets to go there, but he recalls an ad on the radio about a home appliance sale. The dishwasher is dying, and he's tired of listening to it rattle.
Quatre laughs, and ignores anyone in other cars who might wonder at a man laughing to himself. The radio's not even on, and he's not talking on a cell phone, but he doesn't care. It strikes him as utterly ridiculous that his life is so bizarre that a trip to the mall to buy a dishwasher would be such an unusual event. He checks his watch, and decides he has a bit of time before his flight.
Maybe, he thinks, he'll get one in purple. Wouldn't that be a surprise?
We ended up sprawled across Jamie's couch, watching some old movie on the vid-screen and catcalling every bad gun move, faked shot, and planned explosion. He never said, but I suspected he had time in one of the military groups, back during the war. He was five or six years older than me, I gathered, which would have put him at twenty or so during the first Eve War. In my inebriated state, I figured that meant he was at least twenty-four, but he sure felt the same age as me at that point.
Three beers later and I ended up slouched against him, one foot propped up on the end of the sofa. His arm had come down across my chest when he'd reached for another beer from the coffee table, and he hadn't moved it. I hadn't tensed, too relaxed with the beer, and something else thrumming in my blood. His chest was firm against my back and shoulder, and his gray eyes were amused. When he laughed, he'd throw back his head, and I couldn't help but laugh, too.
"You have a lot of colors," I told him.
"I... what?" Jamie paused from staring at the mouth of his bottle held upside down, making sure it was really empty. He looked around his apartment, then at me. "You mean, like, in the apartment?"
"Yeah." I waved my beer at the curtains. "Like those." They were stripes, in orange, blue, and green. Garish, but definitely colorful.
"Don't be picking on my decorating scheme," he growled, and the sound made my stomach flip. I twisted my head to look up at him, and slipped sideways down his chest. "Whoa, Cat," he said, and his arm tightened, his hand catching me around the ribs. His hand was warm, and when he moved it, I could feel the imprint of heat for several seconds longer.
"Yeah, sure," I said, not certain what I was replying to and not caring. I twisted on the sofa until I was lying with my head on his knees, and kicked my other leg up to sprawl the full length of the sofa. "I like your decorating scheme." I pointed with the beer to the posters over the sofa. "What are those?"
"What are what?" He twisted, leaning over to get a better look – or so it seemed – and chuckled at the posters. "Video game ads. My brother gets those from the store where he works."
"Which brother?" I put the bottle to my lips, and spilled a little down my chin. It was an awkward angle for drinking.
"Tim, the second oldest," he said, and his eyes crinkled. "You're a messy drinker." His hand swiped across my chin, fingertips across my lip.
I opened my mouth, and let my tongue drag across his fingers. He hissed, and my stomach clenched. Something flooded my body, a crucial, bone-deep want. It caught me completely off-guard, and all I could do was stare at him, wide-eyed. He said something else, but I only saw his lips moving. I nodded, not really caring, too focused on hanging there, splayed across his sofa as though utterly relaxed... except I wasn't. Every muscle was aching.
Jamie licked his lips, and I held up my beer. He didn't look away as he took it from me, leaning over me to set it on the table and then his face was hovering above mine. The dark of his pupils had swallowed the iris and I opened my mouth, panting, and wondering why my breathing was coming so fast—
And then his mouth was on mine, my hands coming up to hold him by the jaw. Twisting my head, I shoved my tongue into his mouth, groaning when he pulled away to bite my lower lip, tugging at it. One of his hands was in my hair, the other gliding up and down my chest, and I was tensing, arching, trying to tell him more—
It was terrifying, it was exhilarating, it was— Oh god, I wanted his hands everywhere and I wanted my hands on him—
I reached for his waist, tugging at his shirt, barely aware he was pulling me upright. I wanted skin; I wanted contact. I leaned against him, crawling forward and around, his greedy mouth never leaving mine. He guided me to straddle his lap and I bit back a cry, feeling my dick pressing against his groin, equally hard. I pushed, and tilted my hips, pushing again, rocking, and Jamie groaned. That single sound shot straight through me, and suddenly I pulled back, ripping his shirt up.
"Cat," he muttered, but I didn't stop, couldn't stop. I curled over, bent my head to reach his skin, to taste, to devour. I ran my fingers, then my tongue, across the dark hair up his chest and around his nipples, craving the coarse sensation on my palms, my lips. I found his nipples and I tugged, pinched, then bit, suckled fiercely. Jamie gave a guttural cry and arched his back. His fingers clawed at my skin, pulling up my shirt, slipping down my stomach to unbutton my jeans. I mirrored his actions, tugging at his jeans. I wanted desperately to peel them back and slip my hand inside.
Jamie dragged my mouth from his chest, and I pressed his shoulders against the sofa, kissing him deeply. He fought back with every stab of his tongue, and in one move, flipped me over on the sofa, grinding his crotch against mine. I tensed, pulling him down to me, and shoved us back upright, pinning his wrists to the sofa. He chuckled into my mouth and I grinned, and slammed my groin against his. His laughter became a growl, his eyes glazed, then I worked a hand free and shoved it down into his jeans.
At that instant, I went from drunk to sober in faster than Sandrocks' verniers could fire.
"Oh my god," I said, falling backwards, stunned. I quickly pulled my hand from his jeans. If there had been any one point to wake me up, it was the second I put my hand on his cock. He was male, undeniably male, but that wasn't the problem.
Lola.
"Cat, is there... " Jamie's smile faded. "What's... "
I scrambled backwards off the sofa, falling to the floor. I was up immediately, stumbling away from him. I couldn't look him in the eye when he came to his feet, his expression bewildered.
"Cat... "
"I have to—to go," I choked out, ashamed. "I'm sorry. I just... I have to—"
Jamie's hands came out, palms up. "Wait, don't—"
"I'm sorry," I repeated, feeling ill. "I want to, but I can't—" I grabbed my shirt and darted away from him, aiming for the door. I knocked into the kitchen table, and Jamie took another step forward. "I'm sorry," I said again, reaching for the doorknob.
He closed his mouth with an audible snap and grabbed his jeans, yanking them on with a sigh. "Don't run away. Please." He stood up, giving me an inscrutable look and ran a hand through his hair. "At least tell me—"
"I'm sorry," I mumbled, unable to manage any more than that, with the alcohol making my brain dull, my tongue thick. I pulled on my coat, fumbling with the zipper and giving up. I was bare-chested underneath, but it didn't matter compared to Jamie's hurt and baffled look. I had to get away from him, away from my almost-stupidity, away... I opened the door, backing into the hallway. "I have to go," I told him. "I shouldn't be here. I want to, but I—"
I wanted to go back to him, and keep kissing him; I wanted to lie down on his doorstep and pass out. I wanted to explain to him that I was a jerk, for kissing him when I was with someone already. I wanted to tell him that she wasn't the one I wanted and that made me twice a jerk. I wanted to say I had enough screw-ups in my life and didn't need more.
I couldn't say any of it. Jamie stayed where he was, frowning a little, confused, one hand out, reaching for me. I couldn't even summon the energy to slam the door. I left, shirt and socks in hand. I walked the seven blocks to my place, and the sleet pelting my chest was warmer by far than the pain in my heart.
It took nearly thirty minutes in the hottest water I could stand before I stopped shivering. I leaned against the tiled wall, my fingers digging into the grout, until my arms gave way. I pressed my forehead against the tile and wondered why I was still shaking despite the intense heat pelting my body.
Eventually I stumbled from the shower and toweling myself down furiously. Quickly I put on a shirt, and a sweatshirt, then my jeans, a pair of socks, and crawled into bed, huddling beneath the blankets. I felt chilled to the bone, a cold ache deep in my chest that I couldn't mask or free or relieve.
What I really wanted was someone to make me tea, I complained to myself. Or maybe bring me a shot of vodka. Between the two, vodka took less effort. Keeping the blanket wrapped around me, I retrieved the bottle and returned to bed. Unscrewing the cap, I took a long swig and stared up at the empty spaces on the wall, in the middle of my row of portraits.
"Here's to the fact that I am a complete and utter idiot," I announced, raising the bottle and taking a second long drag. I choked, sputtering a little, and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. "And can't fuckin' drink without spilling," I added.
That reminded me of spilling the beer, and the drops on my chin, and Jamie and his lips on my body and... I wanted to smash the bottle against the wall, but instead I gripped it tightly, staring up at the empty spaces.
I didn't know what I had with Lola. We'd only messed around a few times, had sex a few times, and it didn't seem like it was an exclusive thing. But my actions felt like a betrayal, nonetheless. I set the bottle on the floor next to me, gripping the neck tightly as though it were a crutch to hold me up. Betrayal by sleeping with someone else – but was it enough to simply want to be with someone else? Thought and deed; I was too drunk to thresh out the difference. That I'd wanted him, I couldn't deny, and that alone branded me as cheating on her.
But hell, I reminded myself drunkenly, I'm not exactly being all there for her, either. There was no need to consider it; I'd never tell her about Jamie. Out of the question; it was one more thing for the list in my head. War, wealth, genocide... and messing around with some guy I met in a bar over winter break.
I laughed, bitterly.
Lola wouldn't be able to handle the truth of who I was. Unless she'd been there, seen what I'd seen, how could she? How could anyone? Fuck, I was there, and I couldn't handle it some days. I knew her well enough to know she'd insist she could try, she would listen... but she'd be like the servants at my sister's houses, and some of my sister, even. They all knew I'd been a pilot. They watched me, with distant eyes, guarded, uncertain. They knew...
And they regretted knowing.
No, I thought, and shook my head to emphasize the decision. Far better to protect Lola by letting her keep her ignorance.
I took another drink, dimly registering that I'd been drinking for nearly eight hours with no food. Before I'd left the apartment I'd had two shots, several more drinks at the club, and five more beers. It said something for my instinctive self-control, I supposed, that I could go fist-first into a fight and there were no casualties. And it said something for my utter bullheadedness that I could walk home in driving sleet.
I waved the vodka bottle, studying the last swallow's worth swirling in the bottom. I had to wipe my mouth again, as well as my eyes. I laid back, letting the bottle tip over and roll across the mattress to hit the floor, echoing as it rolled further. An empty sound, in an empty apartment, like the emptiness in my chest. I stared up at the gaps on the portrait wall.
"Hey, everyone," I said. "Hope you like your pictures."
I woke up three hours later, dragged myself to the bathroom, and threw up until I was only dry heaving. I fell back against the wall, gasping, and wished the room would stop spinning. I had to laugh at myself, crawling to the pantry and dragging myself up the cabinet to drink three or four mugs of water from the tap. The city water had a bitter taste, but it was still better than the vile flavor on my tongue. Taking a last full mug of water with me, I crawled back into bed, pulled the blanket over my head, and went back to sleep.
"That's John," Fred told me. "And Del, Rich, and Boo." I blinked at the last name on the list, but the guy by the door - all six-five and two-hundred-fifty pounds - didn't look like someone I'd ask for the origin of his nickname. Then again, I'd introduced myself as Cat. I wasn't in a position to throw stones. Hell, at that point, I felt like I'd be lucky to pick one up, let alone muster the energy to throw it.
"Hey, Cat... right?" Del leaned forward, shaking my hand. He was about five-eight, with a wicked grin, and a shaved head that revealed a wildly colored tattoo in abstract designs over his left ear. "You'll be working the back exit with me tonight," he said, beckoning me out of the office and down the hall towards the stairs. "All you need to do is look pissed-off and don't let anyone backstage."
"Pissed-off?" I gave him a wry look. "I'll see if I can manage."
The first hour or so was busy, although I was mostly in one place, leaning against the wall. The bands had loaded and done their sound checks, and most of the traffic past me was staff and band members heading to the band area downstairs, or out the back to the loading dock. All I had to do was make sure every person past me was wearing a badge - either employee or band - and while I noticed some people my age drifting closer to me, none passed except those who were supposed to be.
"Bored yet?" Del came up, handing me a bottle of water. "Any trouble?"
"No," I said, and took a long drink of the water. It was cool, and I don't think I've tasted water that good in months. Crisp, and a bit chilled. I took another long swig, and Del raised his eyebrows. "Fuck, it's hot in here," I told him. I wiped my forehead with my arm, and took another drink of water, finishing off the bottle. "And," I told him, tossing the bottle into the trash, "my feet are fucking killing me."
"Get better boots," he suggested. "And inserts." He pointed down at his boots, a pair of bright green boots laced up tightly. "Your feet will love you for it."
I had a break after an hour or two, and was sent to empty the drink tubs in the bands' rooms. A half-hour of moving back and forth from the bar, down the stairs, into the band rooms, up the stairs with a tub of melting water, and back to the bar... my body was glad of the chance to move, but my feet weren't any happier than they'd been from standing around. The end of the break, and I ended up by the back door again. Del came by to check on me, and I gave him a sour look.
"So much for all the pretty girls trying to make nice with me," I complained. He took one look around, realized the crowd was keeping clear a good twenty feet, and started laughing hard enough to make the soundman lean over from his box above us.
"Nothing, we're cool," Del yelled up to Rich, who rolled his eyes, shook his head of bushy hair, and put the headphones back on. I leaned against the wall, smirking at Del, who stood next to me, hands in his pockets. "See, this is one of the more boring jobs," he said. "Well, they're all boring, but if you can handle this, you'll do okay with the rest. Although... " He grinned at the girls giving me frightened looks. "Maybe we should just set up a little stool for you, and keep you here on every busy night."
I glared at him, and Del backed up a half step, his hands raised. "Come on, man, just kidding. Tomorrow night, you'll work a different spot, until you've done all of them, and then we'll have you on rotation."
"Good," I said, my gaze drifting back to the crowd pushing around the edge of the dance floor nearest the exit. First Lola, then Jamie... maybe they were right. Maybe there was something in the way I could look that frightened people. It wasn't like I meant to, but if I could figure out when I was doing it, having a scary look - as Lola put it - might come in handy every now and then.
I got home at two in the morning. The cool air, cutting after the club's heat, felt good on my skin. It sliced across my face, whipping my hair into my eyes, and I took my time walking to my apartment. Fred had thrown me out when they closed the doors, promising me I could wear myself out loading the trucks once I was used to being on my feet in a noisy club all night long.
I think I almost fell asleep leaning against the door as I shoved my key in the lock, and when the door opened, I fell into my apartment. My chest was tight and I felt shaky, on top of being exhausted. Several cups of water by the sink, and I shoved off, aiming for the bathroom. A long shower and I felt cleaner, but the heat wiped me out, and I landed on the bed and was asleep immediately.
Break was halfway over, but I focused on the days and not on upcoming classes. I slept until one, got up, went out for a late lunch, and came back to do a few chores, maybe some laundry. The cigarette smoke in the club was intense, and I found myself washing more often just to have something that didn't reek. By seven each day I was at work, having dinner in the club's kitchen with Del and Boo, who turned out to be a phenomenal cook. I tried to learn by watching, and on my first night off, attempted to duplicate his spaghetti sauce. I ended up with an apartment full of smoke, a scorched pan, and a bad cough.
The cough had been building, but with the days of walking back and forth through the cold, that was no surprise. I wrote it off as something Doctor O's shots would only be able to prevent for so long. It wasn't like I'd been planning on living through Operation Meteor, after all, so why would he have bothered with anything but the most powerful, short-term rounds? So I bundled up as best I could, and when my monthly stipend check arrived, I got myself a bathmat, a heating blanket, and wool socks.
And despite keeping my eyes on the crowd every night, I didn't see Jamie even once. Eventually I put it down on the list of one more thing in my life that could've been good that I'd fucked up somehow.
Classes started that following Monday, and I was leaving Wilson building when I ran into Felicia and Lisa. Felicia gave me a hug and laughed when I spun her around.
"Got your schedule?" She leaned past me to wink at Lisa, and I gave them both a suspicious look.
"Yeah." I obediently dug in my pockets and pulled it out. Lisa snatched it, making a tsk'ing sound under her breath. I peered over her shoulder, confused. "What are you doing? What's wrong with my—"
"Come on, Cat," Lisa said, snagging my arm and pulling me backwards into Wilson.
"Hell, what is it with you people always fuckin' dragging me places?" I surged forward, only to be blocked by Felicia. "I wanted to stop by Frazier—"
"Nope," Felicia announced. "You're going to add-drop with us."
"What for?" I braced myself, crossing my arms, and did my best to ignore Lisa tugging at my sleeve, trying to pull me off-balance. I gave her a dark look, sideways. "Lisa, I out-weight you and out-height me. Don't even—"
Felicia shoved me and I tilted. The two girls shrieked, spun me, and dragged me back into Wilson. Giving up, I let them pull me along, and made a note to take the long way to Frazier next time.
"Advanced Anthropology," Lisa read out. We were sitting in line, plunked down on the floor in the corridor, waiting for our turns in the administration offices. I had stretched out my legs but after the fourth person tripped over me, I ended up with my knees under my chin, feeling highly put-upon.
"Naw," Felicia replied. "I haven't taken the pre-reqs."
"Oh, Introduction to Intercultural Conflicts." Lisa peered at the miniscule print. "Tuesdays and Thursdays, one to three. In Center Two."
"I could do that. Code?"
"Five-oh-oh-three-seven-two," Lisa read out. Felicia wrote it down on her slip, counted up her credits, and nodded in satisfaction. Lisa flipped through the booklet. "Life drawing, Mondays, nine to twelve."
"That'll conflict with your Civil Engineering class," I pointed out.
Felicia studied the paper in her hand. "So drop History of Europe... "
"Yeah," Lisa agreed. "Boring."
"You're taking that, too?" I yawned and watched another group of freshman go past, tittering about something.
"And... Two-dimensional Art," Lisa said, nearly bouncing in place. "Tuesdays and Thursdays, two to four."
"Clear," Felicia said, scribbling something on a piece of paper.
"Wait a minute," I said, and grabbed the paper. Scanning it quickly, I held it over my head before Felicia could snatch it back. "This sheet has my name on it!"
"That's right, cat-boy," Lisa said, pulling on a lock of my hair. "We're signing you up for all sorts of great art classes."
"I am not taking art—"
"Cat Winner," the woman at the head of the line called, in a bored voice.
"I'm not in—" The rest of my words were muffled. Felicia grinned at the woman and kept her hand firmly fixed over my mouth.
"Coming," she told the woman, and poked me. "Get up, Cat, this is all for your own good."
I muttered something incoherent that would've been rude if she didn't still have her hand on my mouth, and got to my feet, grabbing my bag. Felicia had to come up on her toes to keep her hand plastered across my lips. She pushed me forward, towards the waiting administrator. Lisa trailed along behind us, still reading the school's list of classes.
"Oh," Lisa cried. "And Introduction to the Abstract. That sounds cool. Monday and Wednesday, one to three. Put that down, Felicia – who needs Psychology 101 anyway?"
We compromised on Introduction to the Abstract, but I held firm to the History of Europe class. I wasn't going to sacrifice all that time to Two-dimensional Art, either. It still meant I had to waste an afternoon in a ridiculously long line to return the books for the psychology class, though. Lola kept me company, and we chatted mostly about her new classes. I told her where I was working, and she expressed surprise, then promised to come visit me on a slow night.
Part of me didn't want her to. How would I explain if Jamie were there, at the same time? I hadn't seen him since that night, and I had no idea what it'd be like when I saw him again, if ever. Truth was, I wanted to forget what I'd almost done, but I knew all too well that would never happen. I just had to live with the guilt.
So I didn't say anything. I merely nodded and changed the subject by kissing her.
The mall is crowded with young mothers, strollers, and teenagers on summer break. Several stroll towards him, their eyes on his dark suit, his easy gait; they laugh softly amongst themselves at the way his gaze is fixed on the displays, the people, the large overhead windows.
One positions himself in front of Quatre, flexing slightly, puffing out his chest. He's speaking without words, in the language of intimidation. I belong here. You move for me.
Quatre pauses, frowns slightly, but doesn't get out of the way. He stares the boy down, registering the six or seven other kids coming to flank the lead boy. The kid is maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen? A few inches shorter than Quatre, with cropped brown hair and a nose ring. The boy's jeans are tight to the knee, then flare out, thick black boots just visible under the jeans' fraying cuffs. His t-shirt is tight, sleeves rolled up to hold a cigarette pack. The kid's scrawny chest is pushed out, braced, and the kid grins at Quatre, teeth bared.
"Hn," Quatre says, disliking but amused by the sensation of being surrounded by small lethal animals. He keeps his hands free, and for a split-second, he's tempted to tell the kid just how many people he's killed in his lifetime.
One of the girls giggles wickedly, and nudges another friend, and the entire group shuffles closer. They obey the wordless encouragement from the girl. Come in tighter, surround him. Push the tall blond businessman backwards, out of their way. They're the new generation. They're the ones to fear.
Then Quatre smiles.
His eyes go flat, and cold. It's not a pretty smile. It's not a handsome smile. It's the smile people have seen before they've died. He knows it. He steps forward, still smiling, that slight curve in his lips, that patient look that says:
Take your time.
Your end will come.
And I will watch.
The boy falters, staring upwards, and takes a half step backwards.
Quatre takes another step forwards, arching one eyebrow. The kids part, silently, and the tall, gentle-looking man with the cruel blue eyes continues moving through them. He looks neither right nor left, and the kids lower their eyes, shivering as he passes.
When he's halfway down the mall, far away from the cowering pack, Quatre laughs softly to himself. He thinks, that's the new generation, but they have yet to learn fear. They need to meet a bit more of the old generation, perhaps. Good to know he hasn't lost the touch, but it's true what his friend says about the easily amused, if intimidating kids not even old enough to drive can make him chuckle. He sighs, no longer pleased.
War always marks you, he thinks, and enters the department store to peruse the dishwasher selection.
Wednesday night, before I left for work, I sat down and listed all the things I wanted. I looked around my apartment, and thought of all the stuff I'd left behind – the kinds of things Lola had, that Jamie had, that I'd missed until now. I hadn't noticed the lack because I'd always been had everything I wanted – except during that one year, and then the only material goods I wanted were more ammo and better replacement parts.
But now... I wanted a stereo. And a more powerful laptop, not the second-rate one I'd gotten on the grounds that college laptops were often stolen. I wanted a small television, and a movie-player. I wanted a two-person couch. And some plants. Wasn't sure I could keep 'em alive but it seemed like something a real apartment should have. I lined it all up against the income from work, and my stipend from my sister.
Nope. Not gonna happen.
And then there was the question about art. I'd be paying several hundred extra credits for the single art class for lab time, not counting supplies. I didn't know if I wanted to study art in a full course load, but I knew I liked doing it. It was hard. I couldn't get it, half the time, whatever it was. But it was that feeling of something, for once, being just out of my reach, possible not through batting my eyelashes or writing a check but by sheer obstinacy.
I got down my shoebox from the top shelf in the kitchen cabinet. Buried at the bottom was a checkbook, direct access to my trust fund. I stared at it for a long minute, and smiled. It was my inheritance. I had put my life on the line to defend the independence of our family's colony, I had spent two years rebuilding homes and businesses across two colonies and three resource satellites, I had worked for Winner Conglomerate for all but two weeks every year for three years, I had...
I had murdered thousands in the name of peace.
Maybe I didn't deserve the money my father had set aside for me, and the old doubts came tumbling back. I didn't want to deprive myself anymore. A part of me missed having good coffee with breakfast, and a pillow that wasn't lumpy. The allure of living a 'real' life was fading, but what had I really done to deserve the gift from my father's estate? I hadn't lived by his principles. I'd let him die by them, instead.
I sighed, and put the checkbook away. I'd need to live by my own principles. I stared at the shoebox, sitting innocently on the countertop, and lifted the lid again. The checkbook was lying there, waiting.
What were my principles, anyway? Wasn't one of my principles to go for what I wanted, no holds barred? Wouldn't this count? Or was it only okay to go after what you wanted, if what you wanted meant something? At what point did was it big enough to warrant the cost?
I had to laugh at that – wasn't that pretty much the question of my entire existence, wrapped up in the stupid question of whether or not I should get some extra cash to buy a stereo and a houseplant? War is big enough to justify murder, destruction: the big things. Maybe life itself is big enough to justify the little things.
Still a trifle nervous, I opened the book and wrote out a check to myself. Tucking it into my pocket, I grabbed my coat and left early for work.
I caught the bank just before it closed, and nearly laughed when the bank teller's eyes went wide. It was hardly a neighborhood where a transfer of ten thousand credits was a regular occurrence, but I wasn't planning on doing it again for another six or seven months. I only needed to go shopping once, and I could get art supplies, too.
I was rather looking forward to it.
I spent most of the evening checking ID and stamping hands. A good part of my mind was busy reveling in the thought of what I'd buy. All my life, I'd been able to buy what I wanted – or, for one year, it was provided thanks to the Maganacs – but never had I approached the idea with such joy. I made a list, crossed some things off, added others, and suspected the anticipation was probably going to be more fun than the actual purchase.
"Man, you get laid before work or something?" John handed back ID to someone, stamped their hand, and glanced at me, amused.
"No... hunh?" I blinked, my mind catching up with his words. "Uh... just thinking about stuff."
"Do it on your own time, then," John said, but grinned. "Fred's on the warpath. College students are back, and there's sure to be fights."
"Always are," a familiar voice agreed. I looked up to see Jamie looking at me with a smile. When I didn't say anything, his gaze slid past me to grin at John. They shook hands, and Jamie headed on through the doors into the club, joking with some of his friends.
"Cat?" John frowned at me, and I blinked again, focusing on his face. "You okay? You look kinda... weird."
"Weird," I said, and shook my head. Another coughing fit hit me, and it was several seconds before I could get my voice back. "No... " I was saved from any excuses when another group came through the doors, presenting their tickets.
When I got a break from the front doors, I was sent around on clean up duty, and made my way through the crowd, collecting bottles from tables and throwing plastic cups in the trash. The voices advanced and receded, but I was attuned to a single voice, a man a few inches taller than me, with jet-black hair and piercing gray eyes. I had knots in my stomach, thinking about what I'd say. What could I say? I got drunk, forgot I was already sleeping with someone, and...
I had no idea where I'd even start. If he called me an asshole, I'd have to say I was guilty as charged. Put it on my tab, along with everything else I've done.
I took a quick break for the bathroom, locking myself into one of the stalls. I leaned against the door and tried to get my heart to calm down to a reasonable level. I liked him. He was a cool guy, and I could relate to him in a way I couldn't to everyone else around me. I was attracted to him. I had to admit that. But I didn't want – shouldn't want – to touch him. I was with Lola. I'd had sex with Lola the day before. It was good. She talked too much afterwards, but I was learning to tune that out. It was fine. It was enough. I did not run my tongue down her sternum and think about the softness of her skin compared to hard muscles. I did not ache for a fierce touch on my cock when her gentle fingertips were pleasure enough. I did not...
My hand in my mouth to stifle a groan, I closed my eyes. Unbidden, I could see Trowa sleeping in my bed, his hand flung out towards me, and I had to swallow hard to keep my eyes from watering. I dropped my hand, feeling my chest tighten and convulse, and pushed myself out of the stall. It'd been long enough, and I needed to get back to work.
A coughing spasm hit me and I leaned against the stall door, doubling over as the wracking shook my body. I straightened up, coughing few more times, and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. The coughing always seemed worse after an hour or two at the club, but I figured the smoky atmosphere was just making the cold linger. I sighed, coughed a few more times, and opened my eyes to see a plastic cup full of water in front of my face.
I stared at the hand holding the cup. My gaze moved from there to the black leather sleeve, up to the shoulder, to Jamie's face.
"Drink," he said, and gave me a smile. "That cough sounds really bad."
"It's nothing," I said, a bit hoarsely.
"Tea would be better, but water might help soothe your throat."
I stared at the cup, warily. He was being kind to me, and I knew I didn't deserve it, but what should I say? After a moment's hesitation I took it, sipping slowly. When I'd half-finished the cup, I handed it back to him.
"You're welcome," he said, and I frowned at him, not sure what he meant. Jamie shrugged. He emptied the cup in one of the sinks, and tossed it in the trash. "You don't have to say anything," he told me, slanting a look sideways as he passed me. "But I'll still say you're welcome."
End Part 6
next chapter tomorrow, I think.
(:./sol/nothing6)
