I Will Corrupt You
By karei
Capitulus Duodecim
Chapter 12
The weekend had passed and Quatre spent those two lonely days on his couch, watching absolutely nothing on television. The ground was littered with cans of Sprite and the living room was in complete disarray. Thankfully, Monday rolled around and Quatre once more had something to do: go to work. Unfortunately, every step was agonizing, and he dragged his feet through the morning, making himself a good half an hour late leaving the door. He sighed, knowing that traffic got exponentially worse, which would make him an hour late that day. Flipping his cell phone open, he dialled his secretary's number.
"Standard Oil Incorporated. Mr. Winner's office, Frances speaking."
"Fran? It's me."
"Oh, hi there, Mr. Winner. How can I help you?"
"I'm going to be late today. You wouldn't believe the traffic." He was pleased that his voice was more assured than he had thought, and even slightly chipper, a direct contrast to how he felt inside.
"Yea, I heard," she gasped softly. "Some homeless guy just walked onto the freeway. They said it'll be backed up for hours."
Quatre's stomach clenched. 'It wouldn't be Trowa, he's not that emotional,' he scolded the automatic response. "That's... that's terrible," Quatre breathed softly.
"Yea, poor guy. They started talking about him. Said he was about fifty and at the end of his rope. It's terrible," she sighed. "No matter how much you give, there's just too many to help."
"That's true," Quatre replied. "But remember, even though we can't help all of them, we can help some, and that's a difference."
Although he couldn't see it, Quatre knew his secretary was smiling on the other end. "Thank you, Mr. Winner. I feel a bit better now."
"And thank you, Fran. Have a good morning."
"You too, Mr. Winner. Bye."
"Bye." *click*
He growled softly, gripping the wheel tightly in a motion of slight frustration. He quickly let go and returned to his one-handed hold on the wheel with a gentle sigh. Sipping his coffee - which was not that good, seeing as Quatre had minimal experience in the department of coffee - he let the caffeine go to his system, enjoying the feeling of extra chemicals in his bloodstream. It was kind of a cold feeling, akin to a deep chill, but more comforting. 'So what if caffeine is structured like a poison? It's good stuff,' he thought with a smile.
Finally arriving at work, Quatre walked past his secretary, flashing her a warm and knowing smile. When he walked into his office, he was startled to find John already there. 'Doesn't this guy ever have anything to do?' he thought unpleasantly.
"Hey, Quatre, you never called."
"Hey, John, you're an idiot."
John's body snapped slightly, as if he had been hit. "Woah, Quatre, bad day?"
Quatre just glared at him. "Trowa heard your little asinine message."
His face dropped. "Holy shit."
"Yea, that's just what I said."
"So he..."
"Left, of course," Quatre finished curtly, getting himself a glass of water. "Meanwhile, I'm drowning in paperwork and you're sitting on my desk."
John caught the hint but refused to put it to good use. "Did you try and find him?"
"Why should I, John? He hates my guts. Besides, I did my job right. He's got a good job and should be able to move out of his apartment soon. My work is finished," he said coldly.
As Quatre leaned on the cooler, taking a sip of his drink, his head bowed slightly; John followed his every move intently with his eyes, a small smile spreading on his face. "You like him, don't you?"
"Please," Quatre begged in anger.
"No, no, I can sense these things. You miss him."
Quatre gave a general sound of disagreement in a huff.
John's smile only widened at this noncommittal sound, and he began teasing in full assault. "You think he's g-o-r-g-e-o-u-s."
"Stop it, John," Quatre said quietly as he walked over to the desk.
"You want to k-i-s-s him."
"I said stop it."
"You want to m-a-r-r-y him."
Quatre slammed his hand against the table in fury. "Damnit, John, you want the whole office to know?!"
John raised his hands defensively. "Woah, Quatre, I'm sorry. It just kills me to know that you like him but won't do anything about it." Quatre lowered his gaze pensively at this, and a look of sorrow came over his face. "It's not just like, is it Quatre. You love him, don't you?"
"If word of this ever gets out, I swear to God, John, you're dead."
"I'd never do that to you, Quatre, you know that."
Quatre sighed for what felt like the fiftieth time that morning. "I know."
"You're like my second son. It kills me to see you like this."
He smiled somewhat. "Thanks, John. You're the best."
"Hey, no problem. Now," he grinned, an idea formulating in his head, "where does this Trowa guy live?"
"O-h no! You've caused enough problems. Just let it lie, okay?"
John sighed, looking dejected. "Okay, I'll let the situation between you guys lie."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"Now get to work."
John laughed at the way Quatre was scolding him. "All right, all right, I can take a hint."
"Oh, but John, before you leave? Something was bugging me..."
"Huh?"
"You told me Johnson was fired on Monday, and then I heard it happen on Friday."
John smiled. "I got a tip from the secretary upstairs. Seems like the big boys just took their sweet time with it." With that he exited the office, leaving Quatre to do his work as he set off to take care of his own business. 'This isn't deceit,' he convinced himself. 'I said I'd let the situation between Quatre and Trowa lie. I never said anything about setting up a rendezvous...' He strode down the hall, waving to Fran on his way out. Fran called out to him as he continued walking, not turning to go to his own office.
"You heading off somewhere, Mr. Braddock?"
He turned back and flashed her a smile. "Just taking care of some business for a friend. I should be back in about two hours. Could you tell Nan to forward my calls to my cell?"
"Sure thing, Mr. Braddock."
"Thanks," he smiled. "You're a real help."
"Anytime," she called with a pleasant smile at his retreating figure.
He strode out of the office, turning his cell phone on at his side before slipping out the glass doors. John walked over to his car as surreptitiously as possible, hoping to avoid bumping into someone who might relay to Quatre that he had left the office. Smiling as he slid behind his seat, John felt a sneaky, yet prideful feeling come over him. "I made a mistake, so I'll fix it," he declared resolutely, driving off to the less dignified part of the city.
When he finally found his way there, he began crawling through the streets in his car, looking for Gussie's Greasy Spoon; he recalled Quatre mentioning that Trowa worked there. He finally spotted it after a good half hour of searching, pulling up to the curb and locking his car behind him as he got out. Stepping into the surprisingly clean restaurant, he wondered why they called it a "Greasy Spoon."
He took a seat at a booth and waited for a server to come up. A slender woman with a high bun on her head and glowing ebony skin walked up to his table, sliding a menu in front of him. "Can I start you off with something to drink, or do you want a moment?" Her large brown eyes smiled down at him.
He glanced over the menu quickly and looked back up at her. "Can I get a chocolate coke?"
"Sure thing. Is that it?"
"Nah, I'm hungry. Just give me a few."
"No problem. Be right back with that coke."
"Thanks."
She turned quickly and walked away, shouting into the kitchen, "Hey, Trowa! We need a chocolate coke."
John smiled to himself. 'Was this ever luck or what?'
A stoic figure with a melancholy look in his one visible eye emerged from the double-doors of the kitchen. "Sure thing, Nat," he said quietly, his every word and action somewhat slow.
'Bingo,' John thought to himself with eagerness. He watched intently as Trowa mixed up the coke, taking more time than necessary. When Trowa finally thumped the drink down on John's table unceremoniously with a dull "here you are" John opened up the conversation.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
Trowa turned back, slightly surprised. "Me?"
"Yea, you. What is it? You look like you've just lost your best friend."
Trowa's shoulders tensed slightly at this. "What's it to you?"
"Nothing. I'm just concerned, and you look like a good guy."
"Yea, well I don't need your pity."
John laughed slightly at this. "Listen, kid, if I pitied you, I'd be giving you a fifty and sending you on your way. This isn't pity, it's humanity."
Trowa leaned slightly on the table, his eyes boring straight into John's. "Look, like I said, I don't need any of your pity. And I especially don't need some rich snot coming in here sent on some mission from God or whatever to help us "poor unfortunates," masking it with this general coat of "humanity." So go sell your shit somewhere else and leave me alone." He turned away, but John caught him by the wrist.
"Look, why are you so angry? It's not like I'm giving you anything. I just want to talk is all."
Trowa flicked his hand, forcing off John's light grip. He pulled an about-face, glaring at John venomously. "Fine," he spat angrily. "Talk."
"Well, it's more that I'd like to ask questions. What's wrong? Why are you so angry with the world - or with the upper middle class?"
"What the hell do you care?"
"I'm asking, aren't I?"
He sighed, looking away momentarily to gather his thoughts. "Because you're fake. You act like you care, but you just want to sweep the problem under the rug and pretend it doesn't exist."
John rubbed his chin thoughtfully at this. "Do you work here only?"
"No, but I'm quitting this job today."
'Shit,' John thought. 'This makes my time short.' "Where else do you work?"
"Starbucks."
'Oh, great, because there's only one.' "What else do you do? Is that it?"
"For now, yes."
John sighed deeply. "Why don't you sit down?"
Hesitantly, Trowa looked around cautiously before taking a seat. "My break's not for another ten minutes, but since nobody's here, I don't think Chuck will mind."
"So, what's your name?"
"Trowa. You?"
"Jo-... James."
"Pardon me?"
"James," he said, clearing his throat. "Sorry, the weather's making my voice act up."
"That's fine. What brings you to this crummy district?"
John shrugged. "I was just driving around and happened by here. Hunger drew me."
"To a greasy spoon?"
"Yea, well, it didn't look as bad as the name implied."
Trowa shrugged. "Suit yourself."
"What about you? What's your deal?"
"Nothing."
John leaned further into the cushions of the booth seats, noting in frustration that he was basically back to square one. "What's got you so down?"
"Let's just say that you were right."
"Yo!" came a thunderous, throaty shout from the kitchen. "Trowa! Quit fraternizin' with the customers and kick your tail into gear! We got some dishes back here!"
Trowa sighed, sliding out of the booth. "That's Chuck," he stated simply, letting it blanket as both an excuse and a goodbye.
"Nice talking to you, Trowa."
"Hn."
The waitress who originally came to his booth, Nat, he recalled, returned, smiling. "Looks like you made a new friend there."
"Who? Trowa?"
"Yea. Poor guy," she breathed sadly, looking back at Trowa who had returned to work behind the counter. "He could use a friend."
"Why?" He motioned for her to take a seat. "What's wrong with him?"
Nat didn't take the seat, but she did lean closer to John to answer his question. "Very private guy that Trowa is. Doesn't like to talk much. If he does, it's usually in big bursts and then nothing. He just needs someone to open him up is all."
"Yea, he seems like a really cold one."
Nat smiled. "Yea, but honey, you should hear him sing."
He raised an eyebrow at this. "Sing?"
"Yea! You'd be surprised. He seems to have no emotion whatsoever, right now, anyway, but get him in front of a mic, and he can sing you to tears."
"Wow."
"Same with his acting. I've seen him onstage once. He may seem like he's cold, but that boy can act like you've never seen before. Just becomes a whole different person. Same with the singing."
"Amazing. Is there ever a chance I could hear him?"
"Why, of course!" she laughed. "There's a karaoke bar down the street he goes to every Friday night. Sings one or two songs. Got a little fan club growing."
John rose from the booth, paying for his drink and then some. "Thank you, Nat. You've been a great help."
"Anytime, sugar," she smiled warmly.
John turned and walked out of the diner, a broad grin on his face and a clever plan in his mind. He began whistling softly to himself, bouncing with a spring in his step as he went to his car.
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