Smells Like Teen Spirit
by Shannon the Twisted Link Worshiper

(x) X (x)

Game 34
Get Up, Stand Up

(x) X (x)

The moon hung in the sky, glittering bright from behind a puffy, blue-dyed cloud. Quatre, dressed in a black sweater and jeans, looked up at the shining, silver disc overhead as he stood at the fence that separated Dorothy’s yard from the Winner property. Beneath one pale hand, which seemed to glow in the moonlight, was the old, creaky latch that held the gate to the other side of the fence shut. As a young boy, Quatre had frequented this gate whenever he went over to play with Dorothy, but when his father had learned about Dorothy’s mutation, those excursions were cut short and the only time Quatre got to see her was at school. Now it was time to go through that gate again, not out of want, but of need; he needed something he’d left back in his old home, and should he run into his father on the way, he was prepared to suffer the encounter he’d been putting off for way too long.

Looking up to the second floor of the house, he could see a light glowing in the room he knew to be his father’s bedroom. Hopefully, the old man would be up there poring over bills and accounts or whatever it was he did to keep his monopoly afloat, and wouldn’t even notice as Quatre slipped in and out of the downstairs library. With a breath of reassurance, Quatre lifted the latch as quietly as he could and opened the gate, stepping onto the small Winner estate for the first time in at least a month and a half.

He trotted across the thick grass as silently as he could and went around to the back, where there was a large sun room walled almost totally with windows. It was dark inside the room, and in the adjacent kitchen too, which he could see clearly through the tall, narrow windows. Silently, he walked across the patio and towards the French doors that led into the sun room. Testing the spindled, gold handles, he wasn’t surprised to find them locked and immediately went digging in his pocket for the small lock-picking kit Duo had given him for his birthday a few years ago. “I hope I remember how to do this,” Quatre muttered to himself as he opened the small pouch. “I can’t believe I’m breaking into my own house! How embarrassing.”

A satisfying, but quiet click sounded a few minutes later as Quatre managed to open the lock and push the door open. Closing it quietly behind him, he replaced the lock picks and put the kit back into his pocket. He padded silently through the room and into the kitchen, and then into the hall, all the while thinking that he had spent too much time with Duo the thief.

Eventually, he made it to the library, which was on the far side of the house. Entering the room, he shut the door behind him and made sure it was locked before setting to the small, yet comprehensive collection of books.

He went straight to the end bookcase behind the large, oak desk that sat in the middle of the room, and started scanning the spines of the various tomes. This was his mother’s personal stash of books, which contained a lot of information on mutants and various scientific studies relating to them. When Iria had been born and Mrs. Winner had found out that her daughter was a mutant, she went out and bought nearly every book she could find on the subject, hoping there was some way to ‘cure’ the girl so her father wouldn’t dislike her. (It had been no secret, even then, that Mr. Winner was not the hugest fan of the mutant subculture that was slowly growing in number.) Though the only thing that Mrs. Winner was able to glean from all that research was that a mutation wasn’t a disease that could be ‘treated’ and ‘cured’, she was able to learn enough about it to look at mutants with a very objective eye, unlike her husband. In any case, it was here that Quatre hoped to find something that could possibly help him understand his telepathic link with Heero and perhaps what was up with the stoic Japanese boy.

“Hmm, ‘Psychic Mutants and Their Abilities’ by W. Marvel,” Quatre read the backs of the books that struck interest as his finger sailed across them. Pulling the book off the shelf, he flipped idly through it and then set it aside on the desk behind him, deciding it could be of some use to him. He went back to scanning the bookshelf. “’Mutants: A Genealogy’ ; ‘Mutant Quirks: What Makes Them Tick’ ... hmm....” Quatre plucked both books of the shelf and set them with the other one.

“Q?” a female voice floated into the library, startling Quatre so badly, he almost dropped the book he was holding (‘Sharing a World with our Mutant Brothers’).

“Oh, whew, Iria,” he sighed in relief when he saw his sister standing in the doorway. “You scared me so badly!”

“Sorry lil’ bro. I meant to be here ten minutes ago, but I slept through my alarm,” she smiled affectionately as she entered the room and locked the door behind her again. Quatre thought he saw a key glint in her fingers before she jammed them into the large pockets of her loose, cotton bath robe.

“Slept through the alarm? You were planning to wait for me?” He didn’t really need to ask the question as he knew that Iria was precognitive and had probably had some clairvoyant vision that had included him sneaking in.

“Of course!” she said with a small laugh as she swept around the desk and made herself comfortable in the large, leather chair behind it. “Do you really think that I would miss the chance to see my cute little brother after all this time?”

Quatre looked down at his feet, his shoulders drooping somewhat. “I’m sorry, Iria,” he apologized, feeling bad about walking out on the people in his family who actually did give a damn about him. “But dad--I mean Mr. Winner--is such an asshole... and I just couldn’t take it. Between mutations and lacrosse players and all this mess, I... wow....” He sighed in defeat, unable to make his words sensible.

“Eh? What’s this about lacrosse players?” Iria prodded, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. “Did little Q go out and get himself a boyfriend?” she asked with a definite air of mischief. “Does he happen to have reddish-brown hair and green eyes?”

“Shh! How’d you know that!?” Quatre hissed, snapping his head up. His cheeks were now bright red, steam just short of whistling out of his ears. Calming a little, he put a hand behind his head, fingers toying with the soft, wavy, blond wisps of hair there. “Well, it’s not like he’s really my boyfriend. Not officially, anyway,” Quatre said with a regretful sigh. He let out a small, choked laugh. “Man, who am I kidding anyway? Why’d a hot lax star like Trowa want to be with me? A guy like him having a boyfriend... well, that would ruin his rep forever and a day.”

“Oh shut up, Q. Don’t let the crap that dad tries to proclaim to everyone affect your sexual preferences. You like a boy? Big whoop-de-flipping-do,” Iria waved it off with a small cough of indifference and a rare show of common, Duo-style sarcasm. “Besides,” she added with that same devious glint in her eye as before, “who said that Trowa would never be your boyfriend?”

Quatre’s stomach fluttered at the prospect that Iria might have seen something concerning such a future, but he kept it quiet; Quatre was very superstitious at times and he had a fear that he would jinx his potential future with Trowa if he put a toe out of line.

“So anyway,” Iria went on, waving the Trowa issue off, “what are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

Quatre held up one of the books and pointed to the title, as if it would be self-explanatory. When he was met with only a blank stare, he sighed and told Iria about the strange mental connection with Heero and the things that Milliardo had observed at the infamous lacrosse championships the year before.

“Hmm,” Iria put a finger to her chin, kicking her slippered feet up onto the desk and leaning back in the leather chair. “Well, it just sounds like your mutation is developing, that’s all,” she said thoughtfully. “As for your friend, well, I don’t know. And even if I did, it’s not really my place to say, me not knowing him and all.”

“But why Heero?” Quatre mused, not really intending for the question to be directed at Iria.

She gave her two cents anyway. “Are you close to him?” she asked. “Maybe it has something to do with your relationship.”

Quatre shook his head, trying to dispel thoughts of any kind that pertained to him with Heero in that way. Heero, he admitted, was very handsome and a fine enough person underneath his hard shell, but there was something about him that didn’t exactly click, not in the same way things did with Trowa. He would consider Heero a good friend even, but the idea of being his soul mate, that one person he’d spend his life with, he couldn’t quite imagine. He was fairly certain that there were others who understood Heero much better (Duo sprang immediately to mind), which just confused him further as to why he had this connection.

“I’m really only friends with him through association, sort of,” Quatre said, pushing his thoughts aside. “He’s Trowa’s brother and Duo’s... well... I don’t really know what, but whatever it is, he’s Duo’s... that.” Quatre hoped his jumbled words made remote sense.

“He’s Duo’s Trowa, to put it in terms you understand,” Iria said with a sly grin, steepling her fingers and twisting the swivel chair around a little. “Only they kiss way hotter than you shy goofs.” The purely lecherous smile on Iria’s face made Quatre think that she had been having some very ‘interesting’ visions as well; visions that were best rated X and kept safely between Iria’s ears. “Blush, much, Q?” Iria laughed.

Quatre glared, and when Iria failed to wither under the weight of his stare, he found himself thinking that perhaps he wasn’t cut out for the same sort of silent communication Heero and Trowa were so well-versed in. Instead, he spoke another thought as it came to mind. “Iria,” he said in a warning tone, “make sure you don’t tell anyone I was here. Not even Ma or the other girls, okay?”

She looked at him with calculating, solemn eyes, the joking light that had been shining in them moments before no longer there. “Very well,” she sighed at last, somehow being able to tell from Quatre’s determined expression that he wasn’t about to change his mind in the matter.

“You have to promise me, Iria,” he said.

She sighed again and shook her head, removing her feet from the desktop and planting them firmly on the oriental rug on the wooden floor, straightening herself so she was stiff like a rod in the chair. “Quatre Raberba Winner,” she said, holding her hand up, “I promise you that I will not tell Father, Mother, or anyone else that you came in the middle of the night to loot our bookcases.”

A new and very unwelcome voice cut through the siblings’ jovial reunion. “Iria,” the gruff voice of Mr. Winner barked into the library, “What the hell are you doing up at this hour?”

Her mouth dropped into a very pronounced frown as she spun the chair to face the doorway. Her father was standing there in pajama pants and a dark green, silk robe, a very old-fashioned night cap flopped on his head. “Woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep,” she told him icily.

“Well, there are other people in this house who are trying to get a decent night’s rest,” he snapped, taking a few angry steps into the room, “so if you don’t mind, could you please keep it--” (Here he noticed that Iria wasn’t alone in the room, and his tirade shifted targets.) “--QUATRE REBERBA WINNER!!! What the fuck are you doing here?” he screamed so loud, the shade on the desk’s lamp quivered.

Quatre, however, had gone back to skimming the bookcases and did not respond. In fact, he seemed to not have even noticed the entrance of the Winner Corporations head, and if he had, was doing an excellent job of ignoring him.

“Quatre!” Mr. Winner said again, though he was no longer shouting. Still, his voice was stern and had a certain, unpleasant ring to it that almost made it worse than the yelling. “You respond when I’m talking to you, boy!”

Hand lingering on the back of one book, Quatre turned his head and said in a tone so cold, it almost didn’t sound like it belonged to the usually sweet-natured blonde, “If you’re so worried about people being unable to sleep around here, you shouldn’t be yelling. It’s hypocritical.”

Mr. Winner’s face paled, slightly taken aback. He quickly regained his mental footing, however, and stalked further into the room, slamming his hands on the desktop, eye twitching a little as he glared at his son. “You’re one to talk about being a hypocrite,” he hissed, “when you are disloyal to me and then think you still have the right to borrow my books.”

“These are Mother’s,” Quatre returned placidly, not even giving Mr. Winner the benefit of eye contact.

Sputtering with rage, Mr. Winner could only respond by banging his hand on the desktop, causing Iria to jump. Quatre, however, maintained his calm. There was something very dangerous about Quatre’s entire demeanor, and it was actually starting to take effect on Mr. Winner. “You disloyal little hypocrite,” Mr. Winner grumbled for lack of anything else to say.

Pulling another book off of the shelf and placing it on his slowly growing stack on the desk, Quatre’s eyes flicked over at Winner’s. “Oh, don’t we sound intelligent,” he said sarcastically. “Don’t make me any angrier than I already am, because I can’t say you’ll be happy.”

“Big talk for a little pansy,” Mr. Winner growled.

“Real mature,” Quatre snapped back, slamming another book onto his stack and turning a very frightening glare at the millionaire. “I wouldn’t be so quick to take me as a lightweight,” Quatre threatened, his fingers clamping down tightly on the books, “because I’ve lived with you long enough to know quite a few things you wouldn’t want the general media to know about you and Winner Corp.!”

“You wouldn’t dare shame your family that way!” Mr. Winner shouted, his voice leaping up in volume again. “If you claim to still care so much about your mother and your sisters, you wouldn’t dare to do that to us.”

“I was never your family to begin with,” Quatre returned with a low growl in the back of his throat. The rage in his eyes had flattened into a blank, empty expression that seemed to rob Quatre of any shred of the immense humanity he was so often characterized by. “I don’t see why it should matter to me what happens to you. The family doesn’t have to worry about anything nearly as much as you do, bastard. You make it sound like you’re the friggin’ Mob.”

“You’re walking a thin line,” Winner said tersely, frowning at his rebel son.

“You know what!?” Quatre yelled, almost knocking the books to the floor. “I don’t fucking care!”

Iria winced and Mr. Winner paled; neither one had ever heard Quatre say the word ‘fuck’. As far as either of them knew, he didn’t even have the word in his vocabulary. It wasn’t until they heard the mother of all curse words escape Quatre’s mouth that they even began to realize how testy and thoroughly pissed the small, blond teen was.

Without another word, Quatre gathered up his books and stalked towards the door, purposefully knocking his shoulder into his father and making him falter a few steps. He didn’t even look back at Iria as he stormed out of the library, heading back to the kitchen to leave the way he’d come in. However, he was so absorbed in his internal loathing, on the way, he ran smack into someone else. He soon found himself standing in front of one of his youngest sisters. She wore a frilly, white nightgown and in her arms, she clutched a big teddy bear that seemed to dwarf her petite size.

She looked up at him with large, hazel eyes that blinked owlishly at him. “Big brother?” she questioned warily, as if she wasn’t sure if that was who was there. “Was that you making all that noise down here?”

With a sigh and a quick glance over his shoulder to see if Mr. Winner was following him, Quatre bent over a little and looked the girl straight in the eye. “Marisa, shhh,” he said, fumbling his books so he would be able to raise a silencing finger to his lips. “Don’t tell anyone I was here, okay?”

“But why not?” the girl demanded with an angry stomp of one bare foot. “Mama’s sad that you don’t stay around here anymore and Daddy hardly talks ‘nemore. Everyone’s so sad!” The traces of little girl tears were evident in her large eyes, threatening to plop down on the fuzzy head of her large teddy bear.

Patting her brunette head fondly, Quatre said, “Sorry Marisa, but I somehow don’t think things’ll be the way they used to anytime soon.”

“B-but,” she stammered, squeezing her bear tighter, “Daddy won’t let us go over to Dotty’s house t’see you!”

“I wish I knew what to tell you, Marisa,” Quatre said with a vocal shrug, fixing his hold on his borrowed pile of books. “But this is kind of just the way it has to be for now, okay?” He straightened and slid the books against his chest, pausing to give Marisa one last smile before he bolted for the house’s exit and hoping that the little girl didn’t notice the tears in his own eyes.

(x) X (x)

a/n: Sorry it’s short this time, but continuity is more important to me than length. The chapter title is one of my absolute favourite Bob Marley songs. Yes, you read that right: Bob Marley. (I thought we’ve been over the fact that I like a very wide range of music, hehe ^__^)

Also, on a random note, just so you know, right after Otakon this year, I’m going on vacation for two weeks, so don’t think like I died or something when I don’t post. Speaking of Otakon, who’s gonna be there this year? Link will be wandering around in a smashing Duo costume this time around and I’m still in the market for a Heero to cuddle whenever I feel the urge.

...So I have a slight obsession.... Stop looking at me like that! <_<

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