International Relations

Notes: Okay, this has to be stated. People who know who I actually am behind the flashy penname, don’t read to deeply into this. It’s just characters being place in a familiar situation, not a "what if" dive into some twisted student fantasy. Back off. On a lighter note, at the end of every chapter, for all you history buffs out there, I’ll be including a bit of relevant history trivia. It might prove just the extra bit of useless information you needs on one of those exams, someday.

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"Quatre?"

The boy looked up in reflexive response to the sound of his name, and he visibly brightened upon recognition of the man’s voice, though his tousled blonde hair and sullied blue eyes covered by jagged blonde bangs would have seemed depressed to anyone else. He was dressed in one of his characteristic "punk" ensembles, one that Mr. Barton was familiar with. Quatre Winner was a bit of an anomaly to the man; he claimed to be antisocial he phe point of physical confrontation, yet he purposely dressed with an undeniable radical flair and constantly challenged authority, especially within Mahone High’s administration. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d been called into an administrator’s office during his planning period to get the boy out of trouble. However, despite the manic-depressive, short-fused blonde’s bad behavior and disrespect for virtually all adults, Trowa Barton had somehow grown to really like the kid over the past three years.

Quatre was unbelievably brilliant, a trait that set him apart from his peers and caused him trouble, and because of it he’d found a place among the delegates of the school’s Model United Nations Club. But the blonde wasn’t just any other member of the group; he was a natural leader. Despite his sardonic sense of humor and miserable outlook on life, he had a gift for taking control of situations and people responded to that. He’d risen through the ranks of the club and now stood as President and Head Delegate. He had the highest test averages in his classes, though his homework averages stood at impeccable zeros, and his teachers often came to the International Relations professor to gain a better understanding of the boy’s lazy intelligence. Trowa himself was an intelligent man, though he’d had a picture-perfect track record all the way through graduate school, but somehow… He just related incredibly well to the young slacker.

Trowa moved slowly from where he’d been paused in the doorway, setting the stack of library books and slides down on his desk. "What are you doing here after-school? There is no officers’ meeting, today." His brow furrowed in a cuary ary expression of concentration as he squatted down in front of his slide projector to play with the focus of the lens. He frowned at the boy’s silence and looked up. Quatre was still sitting on his customary perch—the room’s windowsill—staring out at the athletes on the track. Trowa sighed softly. "Did something happen?"

Quatre remained still for a moment, eyes wandering about the track below the school, and then he spoke, quietly, in his usual, monotone voice. "I’ve been thinking about college…" he started, and Trowa smiled.

"It’s about time! Where are you thinking abou—"

"I’m not going." Trowa stood to his full height so quickly that he banged one knee on the underside of the desk that his projector sat on. He crossed the distance bet him himself and the windowsill in confusion, shaking his head.

The blonde rebel glared up at him with stormy eyes that Trowa knew weren’t meant to seem so harsh. "What do you mean? Have you thought this through? Quatre, you’re one of the brightest kids that I know…"

"I knew you wouldn’t understand." The boy jumped down from the windowsill and pushed roughly past the teacher, hostility that, coming from any other student Trowa would have retaliated against. "You’re just like the rest of them." The blonde stormed out of the classroom in a flash of metal studs and black clothing, leaving a rather stunned teacher in his wake.

The teacher sighed heavily, leaning against the windowsill with both palms and hanging his head, his tie flopping forward to hit him in the nose. Flags of the World, he thought idly, pursing his lips in contemplation. Quatre hated this tie; he said it was something cliché that he’d expect any UN coach to wear. Quatre…

He’d go look for him in a little while, give him some time to cool off. He knew exactly where the hot-tempered blonde would be.

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Quatre paced back and forth beside the display case in a nondescript corner of the school which featured copies of famous documents from United States’ history, a subject which Quatre loved. He often came here to calm down or think, and today was no exception. The seventeen year-old sighed dejectedly, slumping back against a wall and sliding down into a miserable pile of blonde hair and dark clothes. But I thought that maybe he would understand…

"Quatre?" The rhythmic clicking of dress shoes on tile signaled Mr. Barton’s approach, accompanied by his gentle tenor. His voice was very reassuring to the boy, as was his presence, and despite Quatre’s omnipotent paranoia he found that he trusted the twenty-six year-old man. The blonde didn’t look up as the teacher’s slacks brushed against his bare shoulder, and then Mr. Barton was sitting beside him on the tile like a fellow teenager, head tilted back against the wall behind them. "I’d like to apologize for my initial reaction to what you wanted to talk with me about. I should have been supportive of your decision, and I want you to know that I am."

The teenager nodded, glancing over at his mentor. The teacher’s head was cocked to one side and his expressive green eyes were awaiting Quatre’s acceptance of his apology. Quatre couldn’t help but smile as he met his coach’s eyes; they were the warmest, kindest eyes he’d yet to see on any person, and they just made Mr. Barton all that much more likable. "I just thought you of all people would understand."

Mr. Barton nodded, putting an arm around Quatre’s shoulders and smi at at him. "And I do. If that’s what you want to do, I say go for it." He reached over with his free hand and tapped the underside of Quatre’s chin playfully. "Hey." The boy looked up, peering at his companion through his haphazard bangs. "You know you’re my favorite, right?"

Quatre’s reluctant smile was his reward, and he sighed happily. The teacher stood up and offered his protégé a hand. "Thanks, Mr. Barton."

"You’re welcome, Quatre. Now come on; let’s get out of here. It’s almost four-thirty." The older male turned to walk back towards his classroom, but found himself suddenly latched onto by his young friend. Quatre hugged him, his head to the man’s chest, and he couldn’t remember ever having felt safer than when he was this close to his coach. The man was almost a father figure to him; he was definitely his only role model in life. Mr. Barton was practically his only friend, and the man knew it. He returned the embrace, sighing. "You know I love you, Quat. I’m always here for you."

"I know."

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TBC.