Disclaimer: I own Gundam Wing. But I'm also certifiably insane, so don't expect that claim to hold up in court.... AND I knowingly DO NOT own the title "Teenage Dirtbag" I stole it from the band Wheatus because I'm lazy as shit and couldn't think of my own.

Pairings: 1xR, 2+R
Warnings: non-yaoi, duo pov, au (present day Ohio), ooc?, language, drug abuse (kidstuff), and ANGST as only high school can inspire.

Author's Notes: Sprung from the Wheatus song "Teenage Dirtbag," but takes quite a different turn. Please don't be afraid that this fic is technically 1xR, it really does focus on the growing relationship between Heero and Duo.

Summary: Duo forms an odd friendship with his crush's bad-boy boyfriend and it's one neither of them will forget.

Teenage Dirtbag
Part 4
by Granate

This has been going on for a few weeks now. Yes, weeks. It's Saturday night, I got home from work pretty late, like 11:00, and my friends are already out doing something. I could probably try Quatre's cell phone, but I'm too lazy.

My aunt Helen is working a graveyard shift, so I'm home alone. My aunt is a hospital nurse. She's my mom's younger sister. She wanted to have her own kids, but she and her husband divorced and then she kind of got stuck with me shortly after. She's been really good with me growing up and I love her to death, I really do. She's the only family I've got.

I get some snacks and settle in front of my computer to waste some time. Hey, it's Saturday night, why should I do something constructive? A couple hours later I am interrupted by the roar of an engine, the squeal of brakes, and a distinct 'crunch.' Shit! That came from my yard! I jump up and dash outside to find out what the hell it was.

I find Heero Yuy's blue IROC-Z skidded-out on my lawn and the front part stuck up on the big rock at the beginning of my driveway. He took out some of our little decorative fence too, not to mention some of the bulb bed my aunt planted. That moron!! Taking the corner too fast as usual! Especially when it's slick out from the rain that fell all day. I'm tempted to just go back inside, turn out all the lights, and pretend no one's home. But I don't. It's cold and drizzly, but I neglect to grab a jacket before tromping over to the car. The car door opens and he stumbles out to inspect the damage. He's swearing and staggering and obviously hammered.

"What the hell did you think you were doing?!" I yell at him as I approach. I clutch my arms and try not to shiver in the damp cold. He has a small cut on his forehead. He probably wasn't wearing a seatbelt.

He looks at me like I have two heads. "What the fuck are you doing here?" he spits.

"I live here!" I shout angrily, now clenching my fists at my sides. "Look what you did to my yard!"

"Shut up," he hisses at me. Great, drunk and belligerent. He moves to get back into the car, and something ticks inside me.

"You can't drive anywhere like that!" I shout frantically. I dart forward and grab onto the door, not letting him close it.

"What the hell?!" he growls at me. "Just FUCK OFF!"

"You're too drunk! You can't drive!" I am nearly hysterical now. I grab his arm and try to pull him out of the car.

"Get the hell off me! What's your fucking problem?!" he snarls, and pushes me away. He pushes me a little too hard, making me lose my balance and fall on my butt. The wet ground cushions my fall but I still land pretty hard.

"My family was killed by a drunk driver!" I scream at him all at once. It just comes rocketing out of me. I don't know why I said it. It's like the force of the fall just released it. I mean, it's true, but I don't usually go around telling people that. Like I said, I am nearly hysterical. I don't know why. I got so mad so fast. I don't understand. I'm nearly shaking. I immediately wish I hadn't said it.

But he stops. Even an asshole like him can't argue with that. It starts to rain again. For some reason, I'm still sitting on the ground, and we're just kind of glowering at each other.

"Besides," I huff as I get up. "It's too muddy, you'll never get out." I wipe my hands on my jeans.

Cussing under his breath, he gets out of the car and slams the door shut again. He jams his hands into his pockets and starts walking, leaving the lights on and the car chirping to remind him that the keys are still in the ignition. I reach in to remove the keys and kill the lights and I realize he's not heading towards his house.

"Where are you going?" I yell. I wonder why I even care.

He whirls around. "I don't know!" he shouts back in frustration, throwing his arms up.

"Why don't you just go home?" I yell angrily. I don't know why I'm yelling, we're not that far apart. It's like I've snapped and I can't calm down. Something has got him all pissed off and I think it's affecting me too.

"Hell no! There's no way I'm going back there!" he roars, like he should kill me for even suggesting it. He turns back around and stalks off.

"It's way too cold!" I'm still yelling as I run after him. "You'll probably pass out and freeze to death or something!!" April in Ohio is not warm yet and it's raining harder. "Just go home!" I'm shivering and tense and my teeth would chatter if I let them.

"Just leave me the hell alone!" he shouts just as he stumbles. He falls, but doesn't get up or even move. When I get to him, I squat down to look at him. I can't see his face, but it looks like he just wants to stay there.

He recoils when I try to help him up, and stands shakily on his own. I think a few minutes in the wet grass did him some good. He seems a little calmer. He looks at me, still pissed off, blue eyes flashing.

"Fine, then, I'll just stay at your house," he decides, and starts walking toward my house.


"Hey! Wait a minute!" I argue as I scramble after him. "Hey, I'm not supposed to have anyone over!"

"God, you're a dork," I hear him say as he opens my front door.

When I get inside, he's taking off his coat.

"Shoes too," I tell him. He glowers at me, but takes them off. I'm not yelling anymore, which is good 'cause my house is so small and quiet. I feel like if I yelled like I was before, my voice would fill it up, maybe break it. And I feel myself calming down, although I'm still worried he's gonna go nuts and trash the place or something. I don't really know what to do now. Am I supposed to entertain him? He's really smashed, do I have to take care of him? I want to go finish what I was doing, but there he is, on my couch, already looking bored.

The only thing I know for sure is that my butt is all wet. I go and change my pants quickly. When I return to the family room, I find him lighting a cigarette!

"Hey! No smoking in the house!" I say. He looks directly at me, and cocks an eyebrow and lights it. Ok, that pisses me off. "I mean it!" I snap as I snatch the smoking cigarette from between his lips. He looks surprised, but doesn't contest me further. I put it out in an empty mug on the coffee table. Feathers still a little ruffled, I turn the TV on and toss the remote at him as I go into the kitchen. Drunk as he is, he catches it.

"Are you hungry?" I ask from the kitchen. I don't know why I'm being so nice, he doesn't deserve it from me. Maybe I'm just grateful or relieved he's not out there behind the wheel killing someone. Have I mentioned that I'm incredibly morbid? I can talk frankly about it because I never even knew my family. It happened when I was a baby. The only reason I'm alive is that I was too little to go with them. I was at home with a babysitter. So, I never mourned when it happened. One year olds can't be sad.

I have pictures of them and me, though. Those make me sad. Especially the ones of me and my older brother, Solo. Solo and Duo. Weird names huh? My parents must have been pretty cool. Solo was three years older than me. He looked a lot like me, same indigo eyes, but lighter hair. He's always smiling in the pictures. I have all the photo albums and stuff, Aunt Helen lets me have a closet just for that stuff. She misses them a lot too. I have the baby book my mom made for Solo. Isn't that fucked up? My dead older brother's baby book? He should be in college now, coming home to give me noogies and teach me drinking games. It's been weird to grow up with the ghosts of three people with me all the time. Three people who loved me very much, but I never got the chance to love them back. All I could do was spit up on their shirts and cry at night and keep them awake.

A non-committal grunt from the living room answers my question. I poke my head around the corner to give him a dry look. I just get him a huge glass of water and make myself a sandwich. I return to the living room and hand him the glass of water.

"Drink this," I tell him. "All of it. You'll feel better."

He ignores the water and grabs my sandwich.

"Just what I wanted," he says, taking a bite. I just shake my head and go back to make myself another one. He better remember how nice I'm being to him.

"Where were you going?" I ask from the kitchen.

"Dunno," he answers, swallowing some of my sandwich.

"Do you need to call anyone and tell them where you are?" I ask.

"No," he says.

"How about Relena?" I ask, figuring maybe he was going over there if he got in trouble at home. Come to think of it, though, I really have no idea what he was doing.

"Nah," he answers with a full mouth. "Can't stand her whining."

"What?!" I choke, poking my head around the corner. Did he just say what I thought he said?

"Sometimes I just can't stand her getting on my case," he grumbles.

"Did you have a fight? Is that why you're all pissed off?" I ask. Maybe they'll break up!

"No," he answers, "that's not it. Just drop it, I don't want to talk about it." I hear the couch squeak under his weight as he lies down on it.

Frowning at the stack of dishes in the sink, I run some hot water and squirt some soap in. When I go out to get his plate, his eyes are closed. I hope he's asleep. It'd be good for him. I grab his plate and notice he drank all the water. I take both back to the kitchen and wash the entire stack.

Having had a lot of pop, I'm still wired and feel like doing a little hacking. He's still sleeping when I head back to my room. I flick the light switch and turn the TV off on my way.

About half an hour later, I hear him get up, bump a knee on the coffee table, and swear. He's fumbling around in the dark. Worried about him yakking on the carpeting or something equally vile, I get up and turn the hall light on.

"Bathroom's on the right," I stick my head out of my room and call to him. I go back in my room and I hear him shut the bathroom door. No puking noises. That's good. He's in there a while before I hear the sink running. But instead of going back to the couch, he comes into my room. He stumbles over some of the clutter, and flops onto my bed. Then he makes a face.

"What is this crap?" he asks, apparently referring to my music.

"It's Iron Maiden," I answer defensively.

"It sucks," he states.

"Deal," I tell him, putting the stereo remote in my desk drawer. He can just get out of my room for all I care. It's not like I invited him.

He gets up, walks to the stereo, and turns it off.

"You're real shitty company, you know that?" I scowl as he returns to my bed. I try to ignore him and continue what I'm doing.

"What are you doing?" he asks me after a few minutes.

"Nothing," I say from the desk. He gets up again and comes to see if I'm telling the truth.

"Tell me," he demands, looking over my shoulder. He surveys my cluttered desk a moment and looks up at me. I've got chemistry homework out, two novels, old dishes which unfortunately didn't make it to the sink, a few comics, candy wrappers, various CDs and floppies, scattered papers, and like five different windows open on my computer.

"You A.D.D., or something?" he asks. I can tell he's diagnosing me, not making fun of me. He's right.

"Not real bad," I say. It's pretty much the truth, I've gotten a lot better. I was way worse as a kid, A.D.D. and hyperactive. As a little kid, my aunt used to tell me stories to get me to calm down whenever I tweaked out. I was probably bad enough to get medication, but I don't think she liked that idea much. With a little effort, I grew out of it by the end of middle school. I don't have any problems with schoolwork anymore, but I still do like a million things at once.

"What are you doing?" he asks again.

"I'm hacking," I tell him.

"Hacking? Show me how," he commands me. I look up at him briefly but his eyes are fixed on the computer screen and keyboard. I show him a few things and he's quiet as he absorbs it. He can't actually be learning this right now, can he? He's plastered, as evident by the slight flush across his cheeks.

"Here, let me try," he slurs, nearly climbing into the chair with me. I jump up with a yelp before I can even think to protest. Shit. Smashed, he still types faster than I do! I'm speechless as he explores my computer's capabilities.

"Hn... could be faster," he mutters. He whips through a couple function windows. Even I have no idea what he's doing. Before I know what he's up to, he's made a few adjustments. "There we go...."

"Hey!" I exclaim, wondering if he just fucked up my computer.

"I just made it faster," he says, not looking at me. "I over-clocked your processor so it'll work past the manufacturer's max speed. The machine will run a little hotter, but it shouldn't be too bad."

I've heard of over-clocking, but I'm still suspicious. Looks like it's actually is running faster, though. So he's a computer geek, too. Where does he find the time, between detention, driving around in that gorgeous car currently crashed in my yard, and doing god only knows what to the girl of my dreams? I hear his fingers on the keys again and find that he's picked up the hack where I left off. He's a bit clumsy, but he's doing it. He doesn't yet now how to evade detection systems, so I don't let him go too long.

"Ok, we're quitting now," I say as I take the mouse and close the window he was working in. "Don't want to get a government notice or anything," I half joke.

He snickers, "God, you really are a dork."

"Hey, it happened to a friend of mine," I huff.

Bored already, he flips through the chemistry book on my desk. His eyes flicker across the periodic table. He cocks his head and starts reciting, "Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, fluorine, neon, sodium, magnesium, aluminum..."

I just stare as he continues. He's doing it from memory because all that's on my chart are the element abbreviations. I wonder if he knows the whole thing, even the obscure ones. I stop him in the Lanthanides.

"Here, check my homework," I say, pulling it out of the folder. He scans it quickly.

"You balanced a reaction incorrectly in the third problem, but the rest of the work is right," he says lazily and hands it back to me. I find the mistake and fix it. I shake my head. Is this guy some sort of genius? Sometimes they can be temperamental like he is. Why isn't he in any of the AP classes with me? I think he hides it, probably on purpose.

He gets out of the chair and wanders over to the bookcase. He scans it, judging my collection.

"Have you read them all?" he asks.

"Yeah," I answer.

He picks out Catcher in the Rye and settles back onto my bed. I sit back down at my desk, glad to have it to myself. I open a game and, in time, realize he's asleep. That jerk! He passed out in my bed! Now I get to sleep on the couch! He's on his side, book resting on the pillow in front of his closed eyes, hands still clutching it. His dark, tangled hair tickles his face and he twitches. Without the concentrated glare, his features are softer. I gently pull the book out of his hands and something catches my eye.

On the inside of his right wrist is a scar. About three inches long, running vertically. I recognize it immediately. I freeze. Holy shit. I had a girlfriend last year who used to cut herself back in middle school, but this is nothing like that. The line isn't straight, it curves, following the... God damn, I breathe out slowly. That is one serious scar. The mark is large, but it looks old, the scar tissue well formed. And he's right handed. I'm willing to bet there's a matching one on his other wrist. This guy hadn't been fooling around.

Almost unconsciously, I reach my fingers out to touch his wrist. I guess I didn't notice his eyes open into blue slits. He jerks his arm away suddenly and rolls over. Surprised, I jump slightly. He doesn't stir again. I turn out the light as I leave and turn the bathroom light on for him. I go out to the living room and make myself comfortable on the couch. The frickin' couch. I toss around for a bit. I keep thinking about the scar on his wrist. I mean, come on, we've all thought about it right? I know I have. Never seriously though. Things have never been that bad for me and I could never do that to Aunt Helen, we've only got each other. I'm just itching to get a look at his other wrist. Morbid, remember?

on to part 5

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