I Will Corrupt You
By karei
Chapter 7
The stereo wired throughout Quatre’s entire house went off promptly at six thirty that morning, as it did ever morning. It tuned itself to one of his burned CDs, landing on a random song, letting the gently rousing tune flow almost immediately from the speakers. A mixture of piano, chimes, a gently playing electric guitar, and synthetic sounds filled the almost empty house.
The stranger sang a theme
From someone else’s dream
The leaves began to fall
And no one spoke at all
But I can’t seem to recall
When you came along
IngenueQuatre rubbed his eyes in the darkness, frustratedly not wanting to get up. He was angry with himself for having neglected to turn off the alarm, but was glad that it wasn’t a really bad morning. The really bad mornings were when his stereo has the sick humor to play Right Said Fred.
Unwilling to crawl from bed, he nuzzled deeper into his pillow, feeling an odd, but comfortably warm consistency from it. He slowly allowed his eyes to close, letting sleep wash over him once more, when he heard a strange, unnerving sound. He couldn’t place it, but it sounded similar to bagpipes when they’re being filled with air.
‘Holy shit.’
He screwed his eyes upward, straining to see what exactly his pillow consisted of, only to be met with a shock of brown hair. "Oh, holy shit," he breathed quietly as he worked to ease himself off his newfound friend. ‘We talked for a long time last night,’ Quatre thought, ‘but I didn’t think it was that long.’
Unfortunately, karma was not on Quatre’s side that morning. As he worked to get up as artfully as was conceivable, Trowa’s eyes fluttered open, his drowsily questioning gaze met by Quatre’s fearful wide-eyed stare. Non-chalantly, Trowa gave a yawn and a stretch, struggling to cover his yawn with the back of his hand.
‘Probably hasn’t realized where he is yet,’ Quatre deduced.
"Oh, hi Quatre," Trowa commented with an air of disinterest.
"H-hi...?"
Trowa smiled, suppressing a slight laugh. "What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
Quatre scampered up into a seated position. "I... I thought you were going to pummel me or something."
"No, I wouldn’t do that. We just fell asleep talking, no matter." Trowa looked Quatre over quizzically. ‘I must have really scared him yesterday. What a fuck-up I am. The first person who’s nice to me since... since ever, and he’s too scared to shit without my permission. I’ll show him I can be a nice person. I do have it in me... don’t I?’
"Oh. Want some breakfast?"
"Love some."
Quatre hurriedly pushed himself off the couch and went into the kitchen; although he wasn’t running, Trowa could easily see the "get my ass the hell out of here" look on his face. ‘Really need to work on this being human bit. I swear, it can’t be that hard. Just smile a little more,’ he ordered himself.
Quatre was busy inside the kitchen, moving so as not to absorb whatever had just occurred. ‘What did just happen? I could have sworn he was going to kill me for that. But it was an accident... so probably he just gets pissed off when you antagonize him on purpose. But I antagonized him, and yet, he’s still here. Maybe I got through to him...’
"Want some help?" he could hear Trowa calling from the living room.
"No!" Quatre shouted back, a little more panicked than he had hoped. "No," he restated, more calmly this time, "I’m good."
"All right, but you’re missing one hell of a sunrise."
"The sun will rise again tomorrow." He cracked an egg into a frying pan and halted just before scrambling it. "Do you like yours scrambled or sunny-side up?"
"Scrambled, with catsup."
His voice sounded closer to Quatre this time. Quatre looked up to see Trowa standing in the doorway. The blonde watched as he silently made his way over to the counter and sat at a stool, not unlike the first night they had met. Only this time, Trowa was the carefree one.
"You look stressed, Quatre, are you okay?"
"I’m fine," he replied shortly.
Trowa didn’t press as they sat down and had breakfast. ‘A little on the dry side,’ he noted as he poked at his eggs, ‘but catsup will solve that. I wonder what has him so testy. I hope I didn’t do anything.’
‘Damnit, Quatre,’ he mentally scolded himself, ‘you’re making things up. He’s not mad at me, not now anyway, so why don’t I want to get to work? But, it’s high time I repaid my debt.’ "Hey, Trowa?"
All Trowa could respond with was a, "Hmm?" as his mouth was full of eggs.
"Your apartment is still a rat-hole. Sure you don’t want to use my place?"
He swallowed. "Where would I work?"
"Eh," Quatre shrugged, "you’ll find a job. In the meanwhile, helping lighten the load of the guys who help me out can be your job."
"Indentured service?"
"No, just a way to get up on your feet more solidly is all."
Trowa looked like he was thinking it over, but the decision had been made in his heart before Quatre could even press the question. "I suppose. I mean, might as well give it a try. But what about my place? As shitty as it is, it is my rat-hole, and I may need it."
"That’s fine. We’ll keep it. I guess I’ll just have to watch a few more pennies is all," he smiled.
"Speaking of which," Trowa asked, "exactly how many pennies do you have?"
"That’s not really im-" he was cut off by the phone. He picked it up within the second ring. "Hello?"
Trowa could not hear the other half of the conversation, so he merely listened to Quatre’s.
"Uh-huh... uh-huh... uh-huh," Quatre’s voice became more dejected and frustrated with every ‘uh-huh.’ "I see... Well, didn’t you try to stop him?... Damnit... Yea, yea, give me forty-five, okay?... Yea, and try and keep the shit from hitting the fan, huh?... Thanks for letting me know... Yea, bye." He slammed the phone down into the receiver. "Damnit! What an asshole!"
"Rough day at the office?" Trowa mocked.
"Yea, I gotta go. Seems like this plan that I worked very hard to shut down is going to be put through unless I can do something to convince the president not to go through with it. Damnit, Johnson," he said to nobody at all, "why do you have to be such a dick?" He grabbed his keys and stormed out the door, heeding neither speed limits nor stop lights as he sped to work.
Once there, he found the office in a whirlwind of panic. Those who knew what was going on were running around in a panic, most working to get the proposal shut down. However, those who were unknowledgeable about Johnson’s plan were merely running around like chickens with their heads cut off. It wasn’t a pretty sight that greeted Quatre’s tired eyes and already angry mind. However, he took one deep breath, calmed himself, and walked past the chaos and straight up and into the president’s office.
Without giving heed to the secretary, and without caring what was going on inside, Quatre pushed the double-doors open and walked inside, ready to have yet another face-off with Johnson. But introductions came first.
"Johnson, what in hell are you trying to pull?" he asked coolly, glaring at him.
"Oh, Quatre, so good to see you!" Johnson smiled, talking to Quatre as if they were best friends.
"Don’t ‘so good to see you’ me! What are you trying to do here?"
Johnson ignored the question and instead turned to the president. "Sir, this is Quatre Winner, our youngest board member."
"How old are you, son?" the wrinkled, old, yet stern man asked.
"Twenty-two, sir." His voice came out in a solid, confident stream.
"Have you been with us long?"
"About seven months, sir."
"I assume you know what’s going on here, else you wouldn’t be in such a rush to get it out of Johnson," he smiled, his tone resounding in sheer mockery. "Well, to tell you the truth, I’m glad you’re here. I heard you gave quite a hard time to Johnson about his proposal. I’d like to hear what you have to say on it." He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, awaiting Quatre’s response.
He took a deep breath. ‘This is going to be a long day,’ Quatre noted mentally.
* * * * * * * * * *
It wasn’t until late that night that Quatre managed to return home. Trowa was still there, although without any of his things. It didn’t matter to him, though, because he didn’t really have many things to begin with. Some clothes, a few appliances, meager amounts of food, a few books, and his collection of snow globes.
Instead of responding to any stimuli, namely, Trowa’s greeting as he passed through the kitchen, Quatre headed straight for his bedroom, stripped to his boxers, and flopped facedown on the bed, unwilling to get up until the next morning.
Trowa took it all in stride and began working around the kitchen. He started cooking himself a simple omelet, without any extras in it, so that he could just put some jam on it. Digging through Quatre’s fridge, he pulled out a nearly empty jar of boysenberry jam, setting it on the counter beside his butter-knife. Frying up the omelet with one hand, he kicked Quatre’s stereo on, so as to play the Sarah Brightman song he had recently begun to like. Slowly, his mind went over the day’s events.
‘So, I’m staying here. I’ll probably be sleeping on the couch tonight, since Quatre was too tired to even signify the existence of anything other than his bed. But it’s a good couch, anyway, and nicer than my bed at home. I should stop calling it that though, because it looks like this is my home for now. Well, anyway, I think Quatre could use the company, although I’m not good company at all. Maybe if I spoke as much as my brain did, I wouldn’t come off as so unreachable. Oh, well,’ he concluded as his omelet finished frying.
After he had finished eating and cleaned up, Trowa returned to the living room, adjusting the stereo to play the song that he had the pleasure of waking up to in the morning. He had found the CD, but this one song was all he wanted to listen to, placing it on repeat.
The tree-lined avenue
Begins to fade from view
Drowning past regrets
In tea and cigarettes
But I can’t seem to forget When you came along
IngenueStill slightly energized, he walked over to the huge windows that opened out to a patio, watching the city lights reflect on the water. He didn’t go outside, because it was too cold, but the view was spectacular still.
Until something he could not make out obstructed his view. It was a large, black mass, somewhat shapeless, and it seemed to be slumped against the railing, or rather, leaning over it. He wasn’t sure what it was, but unwilling to go outside, he watched it with growing curiosity. Slowly, the black figure moved, and began taking form; the form of a man.
Trowa stood frozen and watched, locked in place neither by fear nor by curiosity, but an unquenchable desire to know who it was. Slowly, the figure turned, although his face was hidden from view. Trowa moved his mouth to call to the other man, but he found his throat too dry to make a sound. The figure approached him, wordlessly, his motions slow and steady, as if he walked in a deep sleep.
Finally free from the clutches of whatever force pinned him down, Trowa’s hand flew for the doorknob. However, before he could open the door, the figure was face to face with him, a thin sheet of glass the only thing separating the startlingly short distance between their faces.
Trowa breathed softly, watching his breath fog on the window. However, he noticed that the breath of the man outside was not fogging. In fact, he noticed many strange things about him. His parish robe lay unmoving, despite the obvious breeze outside. His skin was paler than that of normal skin, almost translucent. He had ashen blonde hair, a small wisp of it drawn across his forehead carelessly. His lips moved slowly, as if struggling to create speech. And yet, through the thick window pane, Trowa could hear his plea, rasped out in a pattern of decaying leaves being dragged across pavement by an icy breeze:
"Leave this place."
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