Suspicious Minds
Author's Note: I am so ridiculous sometimes. I started writing part 6 of this story by accident because instead of following my original plot line, I added a chapter. My eyes followed down to chapter five automatically, and so while that's half done, this wasn't started. And then there was a serious case of writer's block that resulted in the later lime scene in this chapter, and it's a straight one too (run.) (It's really short too because I haven't posted in so long.)
Nothing new here, no one panic. I just made a few minor changes to make things a little smoother. Thanks to my betas for doing some editing for me. There may be changes in the future, so… Anyways, you know the drill. R&R, please and thank you- Tarnished Oversoul.
Disclaimer: When I claim it, then you can stone me. "They'll stone you when you're trying to write a book. They'll stone you and then they'll say good luck." (I think that's the quote J) Bob Dylan.
Quatre opened the door to his new apartment and his eyes widened in disgust. Disheveled chaos is what greeted him; upturned and occasionally broken furniture draped in clothing, or at least cloth. And there was a smell, the funky odor of things once living that had died. The apartment itself was small, one step into it brought him against the wall of the bathroom, one to the right brought him against the wall of the bedroom. Not that steps were carelessly taken; the last owners had been pigs and their junk laid everywhere. Quatre had already tripped on a broken baseball bat on the way to what looked like might be hiding a kitchenette under what looked like unclean able grime.
With an enormous amount of willpower, the once rich Sandrock pilot hid the look of disgust in his pale eyes and restrained his natural instinct to throw up. When he had his body under control, he turned to the overweight, unshaven and un showered landlord. A chubby cigar, probably Cuban, hung out of his mouth. The stench of marijuana that flitted around him both stunk, and aided in thinning the smell of the apartment.
Quatre was sure that the intense amount of effort he was taking to smile at this unclean pig was showing, and there was no show of return in a face half-dead and equally alert. His sallow, beady eyes stared unnervingly out at him from the sagging, unhealthy orange of his skin. His mouth only continued chewing on the cigar, saliva threatening to drop onto the mess of a floor at any second, and Quatre was vaguely reminded of a cow in a pasture. The boy felt an unhealthy urge stirring inside him to kill and suppressed it to, instead, try conversation with this vapid beast.
"So…what happened to the last people who lived here?"
The landlord chewed lazily on his cigar butt, as if oblivious to Quatre's question. Quatre himself just sighed.
"How much is it to rent this apartment then?" Again the landlord looked to the boy with the stoned eyes of a delirious man. Again the Arabian put his hands together in an exasperated expression. "Oh dear."
***
The sky was bright, and the temperature was unusually warm for the time of year, which meant the colony weather heads had growing crops in mind for the year. The bronze haired Arabian felt the rays of the colony's nuclear heating system and was reminded of a time when it had been the sunlight that heated his skin. Reminded of the desert of his origin even amid this crowd of honking cars and wailing sirens. All things artificial and made by the hands of man to replace what nature had once performed. Grass grown in laboratories, heat from harnessed nucleic action, clouds made by huge machines that heated artificially combined hydrogen and oxygen before then releasing it into the air.
And it was all so surreal, the people that elbowed him forward, that screamed with the wailing crowd to go faster and faster into the incoherent bustle of noise and activity that whirled around him. Yes, all around him but never touching.
It was all so strangely deceptive, life. And the bronze haired boy hated it so much. The parade of mindless drones and their sheer lack of appreciation for that around them, all the while reveling in the same destruction they created. They couldn't feel his pain, and they didn't know pain. Still, the populace was hooked on the prescribed drugs to perk them into a happiness that course of nature no longer could provide.
Society as he knew it could easily be compared to a stinking cesspool than the picture of humanity it was supposed to represent.
So Quatre walked into the well-lit, aromatic café.
Hardly any line up stood between him and the counter as he waited to get his caffeine supplement for the day, already something he was beginning to rely on. This was to be expected however, his employer ran strange shifts. It had become instinct now to come into this coffee shop as soon as his shift was up, smile to the girl behind the counter while he ordered his frothy beverage and then pump Rosy for information about everything and anything.
It wasn't much of a life, hiding in the shadows while the world around you turned. And there wasn't much of a life in hiding behind a mask, with the fear that any kind action might spawn a friendship of lies that would only result in tears. There were other things he hated too. For the first time ever he had connected with Trowa on a physical level as well as emotional, and now they both were alone.
He swirled the indented black stir stick in his coffee and tried to avoid the look the girl Rosy was giving him from across the room. The Arabic didn't know why he was here on the one particular day that his disposition was less than content, except for maybe instinct. And Rosy was aggressive, the type of woman that wouldn't back of if they were told to on the account of a bad mood. Quite the opposite.
"Mike!" The squeal that greeted him enthusiastically was not returned with the usual salutation. The woman studied the petite man with an expression that had quickly contorted to worried with a dainty upheaval of perfectly plucked eyebrows.
It was too cute, Quatre couldn't help but return an ironic smile in spite of himself. He felt the leather of his jacket squeak a little as he rose his arms up in defeat. "You win, you're just too kawaii sometimes Rose." His embrace was quick as that between two friends, but the tightly stretched shirt allowed him to feel the rub of her remarkably firm nipples against his own shirt. Not sure if the girl had even noticed, Quatre hid the developing, big stupid grin (that no guy was immune to) and his shy blush.
"No," Hazel eyes that were almost gray, almost green hardened adamantly as he had never seen. Her left hand, from which tiny silver bracelets jingled musically as she moved it, closed around the top of a chair. The Sandrock pilot was unsure whether this was a sign of the female's dominance or to steady some rage building inside her. "You tell me what's wrong."
"Nothing, just practicing my James Dean that's all." A nervous giggle, they both knew it was a bad cover up. And then the nervous shifting as Rose slid into the chair. Aquamarine eyes slowly lifted themselves from the coffee, which was becoming cold, to gaze guiltily into imploring ones that had lost their hard edge to curiosity. She was not surrendering, nor demanding. Emotions flashed so rapidly through this perceptive girl that the slim boy thought she would make a nice actress or a soldier.
The once blond emitted a small effeminate sigh of defeat partnered with a melancholy smile that was becoming too common on his boyish face. "Do I have to tell you?"
"It's absolutely imperative if you value your life Mike." Her face was serious, even so to the point that Quatre gulped. Then with a quick nod he wrapped her hands in his and raised his eyes to hers.
"Rosaline, have you ever fallen in love with someone and known that no matter what you do the two of you just can't be together? Have you ever woken up from a beautiful dream and seen the bed empty bedside you?"
"Oh Michael," the girl's voice was little more than a whisper. She closed her eyes tightly. "I'm so glad you feel the same way!"
The Arabian's eyes widened before he got his facial features under control. His mind was racing, he couldn't believe that the girl though that he was talking about her. The scene replayed in his head, and he saw himself taking her hands into his…He supposed that her guess was feasible, and it was so much easier to lead Rosy into the lie that he lived than tell her the strange and confusing truth.
So Quatre threw the expecting girl what he had hoped was a shy smile.
***
The girl giggled incoherently at herself, feet falling up stairs. She was completely and equally as smashed as the stupidly smiling boy beside her. Both were completely and blissfully oblivious to the hateful stares around them.
The woman hadn't had much trouble in convincing Quatre into going out for a drink after he had confessed "his love for her." They had toasted to Cupid working in their favor, a rarity. One drink turned into two, two into three, three into four- from there Quatre lost count. Even when he had dropped to his knees to spew his liquor across the bar table, and both of them had gotten kicked out, he had held the same silly grin on his face.
"Rosa…" The Arabic stumbled over his words with a giggle, like he was trying naughty words in another language. "Rosy, your neighbors are staring at us. Maybe we should carry on with this inside close doors."
"We're really close." She sang in a teasing voice, tripping over her feet. Her eyes were filled with a confused sort of concentration for a moment as she tried to right herself again. "People stare only because the object of their attention has something they desire. Even negative staring is envy; their envy for our blissful ignorance and the joy we take in life. Whoopsy-daisy."
The Sandrock pilot threw his arms out to catch the falling girl, amazed. Amazed firstly at the speech that switched so quickly from philosophical into ditz, and secondly at the observation itself. Sometimes he caught glimpses of things her, intelligence, control and a keen observance. He held her around her waist and whispered in her ear that they were at the apartment number she had revealed earlier.
"Nuh-uh, not this one." She replied in a tone no louder than his own. Her hand dove into jacket pocket and came out with a key. "See, this keyhole juts up too much to fit this key."
"Know what- I think you're too smart to be just a waitress Rosy. You should put the knowledge you have to work for something bigger and better."
The key in the brunette's hand slid into to door next to the one Quatre had pointed to. She turned it with a faint click and fumbled with the door knob for a few seconds before carefully sliding the door open. Quatre half-noted she had reached for something as she did this. Her smaller hand slid into his and pulled him into her dark apartment, lit only by a sliver of silver moon. The serious look again took over the incoherent drunk.
"I seem to smart because I am too smart for the job." The hand tugged him further into the apartment and pushed him onto a leather couch with expertise. "I'm a spy, I work for the Preventors and I'm on a mission to find out the location the multi-billionaire Quatre Raberba Winner who went missing New Years Day."