Hello, everyone. Look, I wrote something!
Yay! Anyhoo, this fic will have
male/male relations so those who aren't cool with that ::makes 'shooing'
motions:: Is that clear enough? Yeah,
uh C&Cs would be appreciated if there's any. I hope you enjoy!
Author:
lain
Pairings:
1+2+1 for now.
Warnings:
Shounen-ai, angst and my sense humour but that's a given. PG-13 just to be safe^.~
The second fic inspired during the wee
morning hours when I'm supposed to be in bed still fast asleep. My mom thinks I'm crazy…she's probably
right^^'
Disclaimers: Theirs, all theirs but someday…
Notes:
AU. First person POV. The title is the name of the old apartment
complex we used to live in Toronto.
*sniff* I miss that apartment despite what you see in the beginning of
the fic but I truly did liked living there.
Jameson~ "The Orange Incident" part 1
Name:
Maxwell. Duo Maxwell.
Lame attempt on the James Bond thing, I
know but what can ya expect when you're riding the slowest elevator in the
world and the colonies…hmm, maybe even in the whole galaxy. I smirked at that. Boredom can really make a person think the strangest of
things. Seriously though, this elevator
is so agonizingly slow, glancing down at the bag of groceries in my arms, I can
only imagine the state of the carton of ice cream I had bought. Runny ice cream is not one of my favourite
things.
Then I peered at the panel that showed the
progress for this poor excuse of an elevator, I groaned. Am I even moving? I contemplated the merits of getting off now to use the stairs
instead of waiting but thought better of it since I did live high up on
the ninth floor and I don't think the ice cream would survive by then; on top
of that, this elevator takes forever just to open its door. So, conceding defeat I leaned heavily
against the fake wood-panelling wall (like that would fool anyone),
hoping the paper bag would hold out. I
really don't need to be scrambling for my groceries right about now.
Still engaged with the thought of my bag of
food I did not realize that I had finally arrived. Shoot, I completely missed that neat little 'ding' it
makes when it reaches your floor, now and then it almost makes up all for its
lack of speed and convenience. Almost.
I tapped impatiently as the door scrappily
slid open, and me running out of what little patient I had; I squeezed through
it without waiting for it to open all the way.
Stupid move. Because the next
thing I know, I came tumbling out of the small opening and all my groceries went
flying. Darn, there goes the hope of me
not crawling around on my hands and knees.
Well, the poor bag was ruined; I couldn't
possible use it now to carry my things.
Giving up on that little dilemma for the moment, I crawled over to
gather all the oranges before they roll completely down the other side of the
hall.
I usually don't buy oranges and for the
life of me why did I start now? I'm
more of an apple guy. I remember a time
when my best friend Solo and I were almost caught stealing apples from the
vendors in my home colony of L2. Those
vendors never stood a chance… One of my fondest memories.
Oh, did I forget to mention that I'm an
orphan and I used to live out in the streets?
Well, I am and I did. Now I'm an
orphan that buys apples by the bags full instead of the usual five-fingered
discount. Quite a step, huh? I'm quite proud of that and I bet Solo would
have been, too if only he had…But hey, you don't wanna here about my little sob
story now do ya?
Well, maybe later but I have better things
to do like chasing down a runaway orange.
Stupid orange, why did it have to be so
round? The mysteries of life.
I was still on my hand and knees when I
chased or crawled quickly, if you want to split hairs about it, after the
orange. Some people… The thought of
getting up off the carpeted floor to get it never really crossed my mind.
And the orange had quite ahead start than
me and it appeared to be speeding up.
Weird.
So, intent on the elusive orange I didn't
see that I was about to run into something.
A wall was my first thought on impact but that would have been
stupid. I mean what would a wall be
doing in the middle of the hallway.
Man, it sure felt like as hard as a wall, though. I shook my head and blinked away the stars I
saw and encountered shoes.
Running shoes.
Tacky running shoes.
Banana-coloured, tacky running shoes.
Cough.
Enough said.
Slowly looking up I, encountered
legs---tanned, toned legs---attached to said tacky shoes and then black
spandex. Yes, you heard me: spandex.
Still looking up I saw a moss green tank top loosely tucked in the tight
spandex shorts; also, a tanned and nicely muscled torso peeked out from the
aforementioned top.
Is it getting hot in here or is it just
me?
I finally saw the owner's face of the
aforementioned body parts (yummy I might add) and articles of (questionable
colour coordinated) clothing.
Yup, it's definitely me.
A tall, young man towered over me. A slight scowl puckering his exotically
handsome face and the most amazing dark blue eyes I have ever seen peered out
from wind tousled dark brown hair. His full lips set in a line, jaws squared
and his brows were slightly furrowed as he looked down at me
questioningly. He's probably thinking
'what's up with the weird guy crawling around out on the hallway?' I did the
only thing I could do.
I blushed.
Damn this sickly pale complexion of mine!
There I was on my hands and knees chasing
down an orange like an eager puppy. He probably
thinks that I'm off my rocker. I
briefly wondered whether he saw the rolling orange; it would save me the need
to explain myself. No such luck though.
"What are you doing?" Came the deep nasally
voice.
I would have swooned at that sexy sound but
that would probably leave me flat on my face and I've embarrassed myself enough
as it is in front of this cute guy.
Oh, yeah, did I mention I like guys. I didn't?
Well, now you know. (But I've
been known to glance at the ladies. Why
limit yourself when you could have both?)
"Chasing my orange?" I ventured with a weak
grin at him.
A dark brow elegantly rose.
Spotting the orange, he picked it up and
silently handed it to me, our eyes briefly met then he turned away to
leave. Heading to the nearest
apartment, he stepped inside, and then the door closed shut behind him with a
quiet click.
"Uh, thanks?" I belatedly called out to the
now empty hallway.
I had never seen that shade of blue before
in my life.
I scrambled up to my feet with the
troublesome orange in hand and made my way to my strewn groceries with one
thought in mind: 'Meet the neighbours.'
Despite the impression I presented I do
like my place even with that inconvenient elevator. I think it must have been the first time I rode on it that turned
me sour to it, I mean what can you expect when the elevator abruptly stopped
and stalled on you for an hour on your very first day of living
there? The first impression really
counts. Sigh.
I just absolutely made a fool of myself in
front of the resident Mr. Hot and Gorgeous then. Just my luck, his apartment's right across from mine. I bet every time that he spots me from now
on all he'll see was of me crawling on all fours on the dirty-carpeted
hallway.
Other than that, my first week in my new
place has gone swimmingly.
Now back to the task at hand, I glanced
down at my things and back to the closed door of said Mr. Hot and
Gorgeous. He could have at least stayed
and lent a hand, I huffed. However, I
didn't get to where I am today depending on other people's help. I would have been long gone if I did. People never stick around for long anyway in
my opinion and I know when to cut my losses.
Useful, little tidbits I learned at a young age. Thus, I banished the
pleasing image of the tight spandex clad butt when it bent over and started
gathering my things. I had to make
several trips back and forth from the hallway to my apartment.
Cheap, crappy bag.
~*~
Well there goes five bucks worth of cookie dough
ice cream down the drain. Darn I had
such hankering for it too. Well that's
how the cookie crumbles; I looked down at the torn carton and grumbled, if it
had chance to anyway. I dumped the
whole thing in the garbage. Such a
waste of perfectly good ice cream.
I don't like wasting food and with my
childhood, I learned food should be appreciated down to the last crumb or
drop. I remembered the countless times
when I would gladly eat anything to fill my aching stomach, and even if it
clearly meant for the trash or was the garbage, it had never stopped me from
wolfing it down before. Beggars can't
be choosers, and now look at me: Living
out in the streets to having my own place to live made me soft and forgotten
the old times.
I let out a snort. Weak Maxwell, weak.
Yeah, I guess I did have a harsh upbringing
but I try not to dwell on it. But
sometimes I can't help wallowing in my own self-pity. And I hate that. I don't
need pity from anyone, especially from me.
It doesn't change the fact that my childhood was more bad than
good. That most of my memories as a
child were of hunger, being cold, and watching everyone leave you one way or
another. Just surviving was a daily
chore for me. Obviously, I prefer to
focus on the good other than the not-so good or I will go mad. Cursing and avenging against the unjust
world for all the misfortunes it had inflicted on a defenceless child.
No one wants a raving mad Duo Maxwell.
Nope, no siree-bob.
But it's tempting… I mean, to
crossover from being a sane, law-abiding citizen in one minute to being a
completely deranged, homicidal murderer the next… it would be such a stress
release. The line separating the two
could be so easily breached.
Very tempting, indeed.
Ha.
Scared ya yet? Keep it in mind
though 'cause you'll never know… I
might snap any minute. Smirk.
Hn.
It's amazing how throwing out a carton of melted cookie dough ice cream
could lead to thinking of myself as being a gun-totin' loon. Maybe I was in a past life…again, you
never know.
I astonish myself how morbid I can be;
sadly, it does not help in putting the groceries away. It would be so neat if it did ne?
I would never need to lift a finger ever
again.
After a few minutes of wonderment about the
welcomed tediousness of putting away food, I was finally done. It still feels surreal to me putting away
things that I never dreamt of having only years ago. To think it's all mine to touch and most of all eat without some
fat vendor yelling at me to 'put it down, ya brat!'
It's nice to have lived through it all and
to be rewarded with this---a simple everyday thing such as putting away a box
of cereal in the pantry. Can you
believe that there have been only a handful of times I ever had the privilege
to do a thing like this for myself? And
to have it done the honest way too---with my own hard earned money from toiling
away hours on end at that junk yard.
No stealing or picking anyone's pockets for
me any more. Plus, I'm working while
going to school.
Sister Helen and Father Maxwell would be
proud, smiling down at me from the Heaven they have set their life to rest in
the end. I could only imagine 'cause I
never believed in the whole God and heaven thing. An eternal paradise for the dead seems to good to be true but if
it were, I truly hope they are resting in peace there and being proud of me.
As for Solo… well, he might be shaking his
head wherever he maybe in the afterlife at everything. Probably thinking and grumbling that I
wasted all the skills he had worked so hard in teaching me. I was quite a good pickpocket and lock
picker back then but I've stopped 'practicing'. And if I knew Solo, which I did, he's definitely pissed off.
You maybe wondering who these three are or
rather were. Well, they're the most
important people in my life. Solo was
my best friend when I was orphaned and left out in the streets to fend for
myself. Being barely older than a
toddler, I was lost until he came and took me under his wing. He saved me. He was older and had been on his own younger than I was
then. He was the big brother that I
always wanted. He was everything to me;
he taught me everything that I needed to survive like 'never depend on anyone
for long'. I think he had sensed that
he wouldn't be around to take care of me any more 'cause like my birth parents,
he left too. And I was too young to
comprehend that when he laid dying in my arms back then that it was a forever
thing.
That Solo will not be there for me anymore.
Yet, he fought until his last dying breath to stay with me though and for that
I always have a special place for him in my heart.
After his death, I was lost and alone
again. But I was now helpfully armed
with Solo's teachings and street smart.
I fared fairly well for a while then, but there was only so much a child
can do. There is only so much stealing
and picking pockets can do.
Months of wandering aimlessly and
scrounging for scraps of food, I was taken in by the next people who would come
to mean the world to me right next to Solo.
The Father Maxwell and Sister Helen were
the parents that I longed for for so long, having only bits and pieces of
memory of my real parents. They
provided me a home and love only parents could possibly bestow. They taught me their teachings of their God,
which I dutifully objected myself to for I had no real opinions to accept it,
or not. I took it for what it was.
And like all good, responsible 'parents',
they sent me off to school to learn things that they could not teach at the
orphanage. At school, I immersed myself
with my studies. I was hungry to learn
beyond of the 'how-tos of properly picking pockets', devouring anything and
everything that possibly had any teaching value; I made respectable
grades. It also helped that the other
children did not like you, which naturally left you to do all the
studying.
No one played with me nor really spoke to
me without something negative in their words.
But I had my books… Books were safe and books did not hurt or call
names.
I loved books.
I have been told that was a nice kid but I
guess I did not meet the other kids' standards of 'nice' (unless that person
that told me lied but that can't be because Sister Helen was not allowed
to lie). For they made fun of my
clothes that could barely pass off as rags; they furiously tugged and pulled on
my braid mercilessly (the symbol of my rescue off the street); and the taunting
names and disgust they had for me that I didn't smell as good as the other
well-groomed children for water was scarce in the orphanage.
They hated my guts.
The teachers too, but to a lesser
degree. They tolerated me enough to
keep teaching me anyway.
My bags of books were my only real
friends. I would occasionally sit them down
on one of the empty chair beside me of my private table that was at the very
back corner of the crowded cafeteria.
It was my table because no one dared to seat with me. I kept to myself and always had my head down
as I quietly munched away on the small lunches Sister Helen packs for me. She always added in an apple for
dessert.
I loved apples but they're so noisy to eat,
all that crunching is bound to catch someone's attention.
But I still love to eat them anyway.
And reasons beyond what I could comprehend,
trouble seems to be attracted to me like bees to honey. I tried so hard not to be noticed but…they
always found me even when I am quite or hiding. I could never completely get away. I had no one. And my
self-appointed, pseudo friends cannot exactly back me up in a fight. But, books do make excellent projectiles for
the enemies or a substitute shield for you.
It all depends how you look at it, I guess.
I hated recess and lunchtime.
I always ignored all that crap when I was
in school, managing to appear unfazed from the caustic, painful words and
occasional beatings of the bullies, which I sometimes proudly win. For a small runt, I could be pretty fierce
when provoked physically.
I have a mean right hook.
I felled many twice my size then and
unfortunately still. Damn it some
people cannot seem to keep their hands to themselves.
Nevertheless, I was a little kid and could
only take so much pain and abuse from people.
I only allowed myself to break down on my lonely walks home from
school. The orphanage had no funds to
spare to pay for the school bus rides; it had barely enough to keep running and
schooling for us kids as it was. I
didn't mind at all, the thought of being trapped with those kids in a tiny,
enclosed area and hard to climb-out windows and a too intent on the road-bus
driver for my little protection was not wise to even test.
It would be like being thrown in a den of
ravenous wolves and all exits blocked off.
They strive in the smell of fear.
I remembered trudging the long, dangerous
walks home, walking cautiously by the condemned, run-down buildings with the
occasional drunken winos passed out on the stoops, the eager drug pushers
offering me a free hit for first timers, and the occasional catcalls of some of
its residents. Thankfully, I was still
innocent enough to their meaning and action then. Today, I cannot help my skin from crawling from the memory. Perverts the lot of them. Coming on to an ignorant kid for a quick
bang was and is wrong. I had
ignored them too, and just kept my tattered makeshift knapsack close to my
body.
Solo had been a good teacher.
The walks provided me to let go what I
bottled up all day in school, replaying all the incidents of that particular
day. Each day differed to the next but
it never surprised me that it would always result in my getting hurt and
bearing it.
I would never let them see me cry. But as soon as the school bell would ring
for dismissal…
I was generally whimpering and sniffling by
the time I reached the church gates, my bottom lip swollen or bleeding from
biting down to keep the sobs from escaping.
As always without fail, two familiar
figures would be there standing out in the porch waiting patiently for
me—Father Maxwell and Sister Helen—smiling warmly at my return.
I remember that I had always run as fast as
my little feet and legs could from the gates to the church steps to get to
them. I remember how I had rushed at
them with tears already streaming down my podgy face. I remember how one of them would scoop me up off the ground to
hug me or kiss me in greeting, and then pass me to the other to do the
same. I remember I had cried only in
front of them.
I haven't cried in years.
Now my eyes would only sting from unshed
tears but would never fall.
It would be wrong to.
Boys don't cry.
But oh-how I wish…
A wailing siren from far off the distance
broke me from my dark reverie which I quickly took advantage of. I hate getting in one of those depress funks
I seem to get at times. I was just
standing there in my tiny kitchenette blinking stupidly at the still open
cupboards; closing them, I left to wash my hands.
I felt dirty all of a sudden.
I washed my hands under scalding hot water
for a good ten minutes.
It didn't hurt. There was nothing to feel.
Tbc…
0.o Got too angsty there. I didn't mean to but I just finished
watching the Joy Luck Club and I still have it in my system. Damn, that movie always makes me bawl my
eyes out. It's such an extremely heart
wrenching movie;_; Now I'm off to get
some tissue *sniffle*
