I Will Corrupt You
By karei
Capitulus Novem
Chapter 9
Quatre awoke very suddenly, instigated to alertness by a sharp pain in his neck; he had fallen from his bed and onto the floor, landing face first. He was first aware of the dull pain that covered the length of his body, crawling along his back like a thousand fingers. He attempted to push himself back into the bed, seeking more sleep - for that which he had gotten that night was completely worthless to him. However, as he went to, his arms, in their exhaustion, gave way from under him and he took another nosedive into the rug, the rest of his body following in a succession of thuds. Quatre groaned audibly. "This cannot be a sign for a good day."
He lazily pushed himself up and dusted himself off, hoping to regain some shred of personal dignity. He looked down and realized that, still clad in his boxers, this would be impossible. He stiffly walked over to his bureau, taking out a pair of light-blue-and-white-striped pajama bottoms, a nice and loose cotton pair with a drawstring. Slipping into them, he felt a bit more appropriate; as he moved toward the door, his hand reaching to his lower back to rub away a fragment of the pain, Quatre took his white robe, taking great care to ease his sore shoulders into it.
"Hey, Trowa!" he croaked upon exiting his room. 'Trowa was right, my voice does sound like shit.' "Hey, Trowa! You up?" When he was met by no answer, he shrugged, assuming his new roomie was still asleep. Yawning, desiring sleep himself, he went into the kitchen, taking a carton of milk from the fridge and a box of Fruity Pebbles from his pantry. Quatre prepared a bowl of cold cereal for himself, retrieved the Sunday paper, and began munching on cereal while browsing through the business section. He couldn't believe that the story had already hit the news.
The dismissal of nearly a quarter of a million Standard Oil employees was diverted yesterday when Quatre Winner, 22, the youngest member on the board of directors in the history of Standard Oil, went head-to-head with veteran Tim Johnson, 47, over a new distillment process. Johnson has been responsible for many cost-reducing plans in the past, and this was no exception. However, young Winner caught the minor fact neglected by Johnson, and was proclaimed a hero by all Standard Oil employees. Mr. Winner was quoted as saying, "It was an innocent mistake that anybody could have made; I'm just glad that it was caught."...
The story continued for a short period, but Quatre had to stop in disgust. 'How in hell did they misquote me? I will have to talk to them about this.' He took another bite of his cereal as he swung his feet, his toes barely grazing the ground. "How dare they misquote me," he repeated vocally, complained between bites. "I bet Johnson had something to do with this. I hope to God that man is fired, and soon." He still burned with rage at how hard his former friend had fought for his plan of reform. At one point in the battle of words, Quatre and he shared a glance, and Quatre read a peculiar but all-too-clear look on Johnson's face. It read 'I'm not going to loose this fight to some snot-nosed little punk like you.' It was a look he had always feared, for it was the look of a man willing to win at any cost.
Quatre was filled with pride and amazement with the fact that he had beaten Johnson in the debate over cost versus ethics. In business it was a commonly known fact that the most sensitive part of the human body is the wallet, a commonly known fact which killed Quatre to live under. In the end, however, he managed to appeal to both the heart and the wallet, and won out over Johnson, but by the skin of his teeth. 'This business is going to kill me someday.'
He was interrupted from his thoughts by the sound of a car approaching. He looked out the window and saw his car, his little Tiburon, coming up the drive and parking itself right in front of the door. He was shocked to speechlessness when he saw Trowa coming out of the car. "Huh?"
Trowa entered the house, paying no heed to Quatre at first, instead proceeding to his room to change. He was wearing a rather nice suit - which made Quatre wonder where he found time to get any of his things - and was carrying a book under his forearm. Quatre heard the door close and continued munching on his cereal. When later he looked up, he saw that Trowa had returned, this time wearing jeans and a green turtleneck.
"So," Quatre started, "where did you go?"
"Church," came his monosyllabic reply.
"Oh? What are you?"
"Catholic, if it comes as a surprise to you."
"Why would it?"
Trowa shrugged. "It surprises most people."
"Oh."
"What about you?"
"Well," Quatre began, "I'm sort of religious. I mean, I believe in God and all of that, but I'm sort of... well, I don't know. I don't go to church, but I..."
"Non-denominational?"
"Yea, I guess you could say that."
"That's cool," Trowa commented, going to make himself some coffee. "Do you have any French roast?"
"If I have it, it would be in the pantry."
"Thanks." Trowa walked over to the pantry, opening up the small curtained door. Inside, he was bombarded by the smell of dry goods, a sort of dusty smell with a somewhat salty-sweetness mingling in it. He fumbled his way around loaves of bread, boxes of granola bars, cereals, chocolate chip cookies, sodas, beer, and herbal teas until he finally encountered the 'coffee section.' He shuffled through tins and baggies of coffee: instant coffee, Turkish coffee, French Vanilla, Cappuccino, Mocha, Caramel flavoring, Macchiatto, mint, cinnamon, and finally, French roast. Victoriously picking up the small tin, grabbing a bit of cinnamon and vanilla extract on his way out, he began making his coffee, to the bewilderment of Quatre.
Trowa had his coffee regiment perfectly measured out. He knew how to make coffee using very random ingredients, and yet, it turned out perfect every time. Other people, even non-coffee-drinkers, enjoyed his concoctions. It was a very simple process to make his cinnamon vanilla roast. Eight tablespoons of French roast grounds, a teaspoon of cinnamon, ground into a powder, and half a teaspoon of vanilla extract. It was true that vanilla extract tasted horribly, but this was due to the alcohol in it; once exposed to the heat of the percolator, the alcohol burned off, leaving a pleasant vanilla flavor and aroma behind.
Quatre watched as Trowa exactly prepared everything, not using measuring materials, but doing everything by eyeing and approximation. When he had finally finished, setting the coffee to brew, Trowa replaced everything he had taken from the pantry and took the Classifieds section from Quatre's paper. Snatching a red pen from a cup on the counter, Trowa went through his Sunday ritual as if Quatre were not even present.
A few minutes later, when the coffee was finished, Trowa finished off his coffee preparations, mixing the freshly brewed coffee with two-percent milk, two parts coffee, one part milk, and three teaspoons of sugar. He made two cups of this mixture, letting them cool slightly as he cleaned the coffee maker and the counter. After putting everything back in their appropriate nooks, he reclaimed his seat, setting a mug down for himself and the other for Quatre.
"No thanks," Quatre commented. "I don't really drink coffee."
"Just give it a taste," Trowa coaxed.
Quatre stared down at the cup in amazement, wondering if he would like it; for all the coffee he had in his home, he was more of a tea drinker. He picked up the mug and sniffed its contents tentatively; they smelled fairly sweet but not overly-sugary, with more of a rich aroma than anything. He took a careful sip, glad that it had cooled down. Quatre stared at his coffee cup in shock.
"Trowa?"
"Mm?" Trowa didn't look up from his paper, nor did he move his mug away from his mouth.
"What did you major in? Coffee-ology?"
"No; I used to work at a coffee shop. Whenever I got bored, I experimented with coffee mixtures. They came out pretty good, most of the time."
"This is good stuff," Quatre murmured, taking another sip.
"Thanks."
"So," Quatre continued, forcing a conversation, "what kind of job are you looking for?"
"One that pays." Trowa wasn't trying to be rude, he just hated being bothered on Sundays after church. It was this sort of 'thing' about him.
"Oh. Want any help?"
"No," came his quick reply. He uncapped the red marker with his thumb and circled an opening for a theatre manager. The marker squeaked as it dragged across the newsprint.
Quatre turned his eyes back down to his paper, pretending to read, his mind focused completely on the enigma that sat next to him. 'This guy completely confuses me,' he thought, his brow wrinkling. 'I swear, last night he seemed so nice, like he wanted to be friends or something. Now, he's back to that cold shoulder that I met last week, and I don't get it.' He sighed, leaning his face into his hand. 'And on top of it, I'm going to have to go back to work tomorrow... assuming I didn't loose my job. Thank God for the press, they make me look like the hero of the people.'
"Something wrong?"
Quatre looked up, somewhat startled. "No. No, I'm fine."
"Okay." Trowa continued looking for a job, but a bit more distractedly this time. 'Shit, I can't believe it, I've got him scared again. I swear, I'm batting one thousand here, and I'm not even sure what I'm doing wrong.' He sighed, mimicking Quatre's motion subconsciously. 'I've just got to train myself in the art of being human, that's all. Must be nice. Must be nice. Must be nice...'
"You okay?"
Trowa looked up, not registering on his face that he was startled. "Yea, I'm fine. Although, I'm kind of bored. I hate job searching."
"Yea, the news sucks today," Quatre groaned, not wishing to expand on that fact.
"Wanna do something?"
"Like what?"
"A movie? There should be something playing now, or we could always rent."
Quatre smiled, "Let's rent. I'm not really in the mood to face people."
"Drama or comedy?"
"Dramedy?" Quatre smiled.
"I know just the movie," Trowa replied. "Let's go. But I'm driving."
* * * * * * * * * *
An hour later, Trowa and Quatre were sitting on the couch, munching on freshly delivered pizza and watching American Beauty.
"This is kind of a weird movie," Quatre commented.
"Yea, but it's amazing. Kevin Spacey blows my mind away with the job he did in this film. The whole cast is great, and it's just... it's just an unspeakably amazing movie. Which reminds me, I still need to get the soundtrack."
Quatre just nodded and watched.
That evening, after they had finished the movie, Quatre went to bed early, still fatigued, this time downing four NyQuil in hopes that their sleep-inducing properties would help him make it through a night without encountering any nightmares.
Trowa had thought of doing the same, but forewent the pills. His own dreams had been plagued with horrible visions of sadness, loss, emptiness, hopelessness, numerous disparities of human emotion all crammed in a surreal dreamscape. It was eight o'clock, so he went to the television, hoping to find some two-hour distraction that would lull him to sleep. Flipping on the TV, he began panning through the stations at a breakneck speed, deciding to stop on some random channel; whatever he stopped on, he would watch. It landed on Comedy Central, and they were playing a pre-recorded act by a stand up comedian: Elvira Kurt.
"... I know you're wondering how old I am. I just gave it away: I remember bionics. Do you remember when bionics was cutting-edge technology? You'd smooth your hair... 'Oh, that's so advanced.' It seems so quaint now, because everything is advancing at a rate that I just can't keep up with. I'm so overwhelmed by all this technology. The internet blows me away. When I turn off my computer, I feel like it's learning things without me."
Trowa laughed and decided he had settled on a good station. He leaned into the couch, snuggling on one of the throw pillows and prepared to be entertained by the spastic witticisms of the comedian on the screen. 'I'll have to see if any of her material is downloadable,' he mentally noted.
An hour later, he found himself to be more intelligible on childhood matters. "Build it like a rocket," he laughed sleepily, "they'll climb to the top!" Groggily, he rose, killing the tube and all the lights in the house on his way to his room. He too hoped for a good night of sleep, but he was thankful that he merely awoke with a start, not screaming like Quatre. 'Whatever he saw must have been terrible.' As if on cue, he could already hear Quatre's noisy stirrings down the hall. Trowa wandered into the kitchen and began filling up a kettle of water, sensing that Quatre would be out that night. Entering the pantry for the second time that day, he took out some chamomile tea for Quatre, hoping that he'd appreciate the effort. With tea, a filled kettle, a cup, sugar, lemon, and a spoon all set up, he went to bed, dropping under the sheets in drowsy exhaustion.
However, the moment he hit the sheets, his body became tense and fearful, a practice that he had held for the first seventeen years of his life. After that, it was merely habit that had programmed, or rather, beaten, this tenseness into his subconscious. It wasn't a nightly thing, he recalled, but it embarrassed him that a forty-seven-year-old drunk could send him to school with a black eye. Whether it was or wasn't nightly with him, his father did get his aggression out on someone most nights, except for Sunday. 'Can't work on the holy Sabbath, I suppose,' Trowa mentally joked.
The nights for him were still filled with the whimpering of his mother and sister. It was an unspoken fact that none would aid the other during his father's tirades. Usually, they'd get out without a scratch on them, save Trowa. His father must have had something against striking women. But even five years after his father's death, Trowa still found it hard to sleep, the fear engrained into his being. It came to the point where he would feel the need to take sleeping pills, if only to get relief from one more sleepless night. He wished he hadn't turned down the offer.
With a groan, he turned himself on his back, staring up at the acoustic ceiling, the tiny black and grey dots forming little swirls in front of his tired eyes. He let his mind wander, focusing on any errant thought he could find, something that would take his mind off life and put him to sleep. However, he knew that it wouldn't work this night, as it hadn't worked last night, or the night before that, or the night before that. He lived with an endless stream of insomnia that wore down on his ability to interact politely, if at all, and he loathed his father for it... and himself. 'Why didn't mother ever try to stop him? Why didn't I?'
"As much as I hated her," he whispered, "Carolyn was right. The only person you can ever count on is yourself."
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