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Anniversary
Lights flash all around Trowa and Quatre. Quatre doesn't know left from right, up from down. Voices echo in his ears; they shout words in a slew of funny accents, some not even speaking English. The urge to clamp his hands over his ears is almost as overwhelming as the massive crowd mobbing him and Trowa. The only thing preventing him from doing so is Trowa's hand tightly squeezing his.
Tonight is their one year anniversary. Trowa surprised Quatre with an incognito stroll in the park and dinner at his favorite restaurant. Quatre thought it was perfect, never one for big and flashy displays of affection; he prefers simple gestures, like Trowa remembering his favorite restaurant and how much he loves going to the park (even though it's difficult to go anywhere like that in public with him without getting thrown into a sea of press nowadays. Ever since the two had come out, the press has been all over the two ex-Gundam pilots.). The night had been perfect.
Until the press found the restaurant.
Quatre glances to his boyfriend, gauging how he is reacting. His stubble-covered jaw is clenched, the veins in his neck starting to show. His normally bright green eyes are dark, shadowed under his furrowed brow. They dart all around, from face to face, trying to find an escape route. Quatre tries to calm him by rubbing his thumb along the back of his hand, but it seems clumsy and shaky in his overwhelmed state. Trowa's grip on Quatre's hand borders on painful, but he doesn't dare try to loosen it; he doesn't want to get lost in the crowd.
A man pushes his way through the crowd on Quatre's right. Quatre tries to sidestep him, but he heads in the same direction and they both tumble to the ground. Quatre lands on his bum in the middle of everyone. Camera's flash even wilder. Instantly, Quatre's face catches on fire, probably turning a bright red as he fights the tears stinging his eyes. He can see tomorrow's headlines already, every single magazine and paper making him look like a fool. Even after a year of the pressure and rumors and hate, Quatre still struggle to deal with it.
Looking up, he sees the man in Trowa's face with a camera and tape recorder, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that he just pushed Quatre to the ground. Within seconds, the camera is on the ground, smashed to irreparable pieces. A hand appears in front of Quatre, offering him help up. Quatre quickly grabs the familiar hand, pulling himself up and wrapping his arms around one of Trowa's, cowering behind him.
"What the fuck?!" Trowa shouts, still shielding Quatre behind him. He is up in the man's face, an accusing finger a mere centimeter away from the pap's bulbous nose. "Don't you ever touch him again. I don't care what the fuck you do to me, but so much as look at him, and you'll be dead," Trowa's voice is the loudest Quatre has ever heard him, his usual cool demeanor long gone. The press swarming the pair are almost unfazed. A few of the people nearest the two appear shaken, some even putting their cameras down. But many people still press forward.
"Trowa, it's no use," Quatre whispers in his ear, tiptoeing behind him.
His shoulders tense, but he turns his head to face his boyfriend. "No it isn't, Q. You don't deserve this. Tonight is supposed to be a nice night and these," he turned toward the press again, projecting his voice, "bastards are ruining it."
Quatre squeezes his hand, silently telling him to let it go. Going home sounds much better than having Trowa tarnish his reputation over him.
Trowa sighs through his nose. He nods in Quatre's direction, just slightly, letting him know he understands. The L3 man turns to the pap once more. "You have two seconds to move," he all but growls. The man seems shocked, stumbling to the left and out of the path to the car. Trowa shoves past the man, making him fall to the ground next to his shattered camera; just he had made Quatre fall earlier. A small smirk appears on the blond's lips. He and Trowa push through the rest of the people, trying to ignore the rude words being thrown their way.
When the two get in the cab, they are finally able to relax. Quatre sucks in a deep breath of air, not realizing how much of the precious oxygen he'd been deprived in the horde of people out there. The cabbie swiftly dodges the London pedestrians, speeding down the streets toward Quatre's and Trowa's flat.
"I'm sorry, Quatre. Tonight was supposed to special, and those…people ruined it all." Trowa holds his head in his hands, disappointedly shaking his head slowly back and forth.
Quatre leans over, wrapping an arm around his hunched shoulders .Rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades, he presses kisses to the top of his head. "Trowa, tonight was wonderful," Quatre tells him, sincerely meaning it. The brunet snorts disbelievingly. "Seriously," Quatre promises. "The walk was wonderful and dinner was amazing. I don't care about those people; all I care about are the good things that happened. And how brilliant my boyfriend is." Quatre smiles, scooting closer to him on in the backseat.
Trowa's silent for a moment, his head still hanging in disappointment. But he soon straightens up, moving to rest against the back of the seat. "I love you, you know that, right?" he asks, lacing his fingers with Quatre's.
The smile on the younger man's lips broadens. "And I love you."