Winning Interview Techniques

by waterlilylf

Quatre Winner avoids interviews, so when an expected journalist is swapped for another, he's ready to run; however, the replacement has his own distinctive and very appealing interview techniques. Yaoi. 3 x 4

Disclaimer : I don't own any part of Gundam Wing and make no profit from writing this.

Note: Many thanks to Kaeru Shisho for editing, as always. As this is, unbelievably, my 34th story, it had to be 3x4. Thanks also to everyone who suggested plots – I'll try to get around to them all at some point.

Winning Interview Techniques:

Quatre Winner didn't like journalists, and that was putting it very, very politely.

Unfortunately, he'd been born into one of the most newsworthy families on Earth; a father who'd built up a small, family business into an international corporation; a mother who'd died, so young and so tragically, in childbirth; all those beautiful sisters and their jet-set romances with royalty and A-list celebrities and sports stars.

And Quatre himself, the only son, who was gay, and didn't make any particular effort to hide it.

He'd grown up with paparazzi dogging family holidays and parties, and front-cover tabloid pictures of him going to a gay club, in his second year at university, cuing months of feverish media speculation over whether his family would disown him. (Never even a remote possibility.)

He didn't like journalists and he didn't like to give interviews. WEI had a highly-paid publicity department to deal with that sort of thing. Unfortunately, those very publicists had decreed that WEI's declaration to make all its companies dependent on sustainable energy in the next decade was supremely newsworthy and that Quatre himself – recently appointed Chief Financial Officer and the person largely responsible – would be the perfect person to talk about it.

Quatre had spend a week refusing, at various levels of volume and firmness, but Milla, who was Head of Publicity, had gradually convinced him, using her unique arsenal of blandishments, threats to resign if he refused, bribes of her mother's chocolate brownies, threats to tell Iria (particularly scary) and finally taking his favourite fountain pen hostage.

She was evil, truly, but she was wonderful at managing the media, and no one who'd had the job before her had lasted more than a month before being driven away by Quatre's publicity phobia.

The list of questions had been carefully approved; the journalist in question, deemed to be suitable (suitably sycophantic, Quatre assumed) and had been issued dire and terrible warnings over the consequences of a single unauthorised question.

It wouldn't be that bad.

Because he didn't want a reporter anywhere near his own office, Milla had hired an executive suite at the Sanque Sheraton. She rode there in the car with him, along with the usual entourage of assistants and executives. The drive across the city would take almost an hour; it was inconceivable that such a large chunk out of Quatre Winner's day could be wasted on a mere drive.

By the time they reached the hotel, he'd signed a stack of paperwork, along with a couple of birthday cards for his staff, approved the latest figures for next week's board meeting, and called Duo to arrange lunch for the next day.

Milla took a call as they walked through the foyer; something bad judging by the tense set of her mouth and her terse responses.

'We have a slight problem. That was the editor of the Sanque Times; the reporter can't do the interview. Apparently his pregnant wife's just been rushed to hospital.'

'Cancel it then.' Quatre was already turning on his heel to leave. He'd gone through the man's profile the night before. Know thine enemy. No way was he going to go through the ordeal with a perfect stranger. 'Or reschedule.'

Milla's face fell. She had an unenviable job, really; organising publicity for someone who loathed the very concept of it.

'They've offered to send someone else. Anyone you want. They want the article to appear in tomorrow's business supplement.'

'Anyone at all?' The sly, mischievous little smile that had never been photographed by the press bloomed on Quatre's face. 'Fine. The one who writes about the Middle East. Barton.'

'Quatre, I think they meant one of their business correspondents, not a political writer.'

Quatre shrugged. 'He's a good writer. And he's usually objective. He'll do, provided he agrees to the conditions.'

'He will,' Milla said firmly, flipping her phone open.

Quatre didn't bother listening as they travelled up in the lift. Of course Barton would agree; his editor would see to that. And he might as well get the ordeal over and done with.

The hotel manager personally escorted them to the suite, showing them around; a board room with full facilities which led into a ridiculously over-furnished sitting room, all gilt and crystal and lace.

It took almost an hour for Barton to arrive; another stack of paperwork to complete; a quick conference call to Japan; a quick internet search to find the perfect teddy bear for his youngest niece's birthday.

Then Reception called to say the reporter was downstairs, and Milla went to escort him up, presumably reminding him of conditions and penalties for breaching said conditions on the way.

It took a few minutes for the rest of his staff to gather their belongings and leave, and by then Milla was back, journalist in tow. She didn't look overly happy when Quatre dismissed her as well, after performing the introductions and checking there were refreshments laid out, but he wasn't a child needing his hand held. He was perfectly capable of handling a simple interview alone.

He'd been reading Barton's carefully analysed political reports for a couple of years. He must have seen a photograph at some point. Surely. Except surely he'd have remembered because the man was stunning, even if he was dressed to go on safari rather than conduct an official interview.

That was odd. Quatre had been interviewed before, when Milla – or her predecessor, who'd only lasted three weeks before resigning and going to live in a Buddhist monastery in Thailand - had talked him into it, and people generally dressed up for the occasion. Barton was wearing faded jeans with a hole in one knee and a khaki jacket over a rumpled shirt.

After they'd shaken hands, he slumped into the first armchair, and that was odd too. Quatre was used to people practically standing to attention in his presence, or sitting up and begging for attention.

'You have an extremely casual interview style,' Quatre said pointedly, taking the chair opposite and unsure whether to be amused or irritated. Or, well, attracted. Why couldn't all journalists look like this?

This particular journalist grinned at him; just a little quirk of his lips. 'Sorry. I've spent the last six weeks in Syria and Libya. It's hard not to relax a little bit when there aren't actually explosions happening outside.'

'When did you get back?'

Barton looked at his watch. 'About an hour ago. I think. I'm a bit confused with time zones.'

'But that's awful! You must be exhausted.'

The journalist, the very unusual journalist, extended one long arm and tapped one of the empty coffee cups on the table between them. 'Caffeine is a reporter's best friend.'

Quatre filled it for him, something suddenly clicking into place. 'You were on that Middle Eastern trip with Foreign Minister Darlian?' Well, of course he had been. Quatre had been reading his articles over breakfast every day for the past month. 'You're just back in Sanque and your editor's sent you straight off to do an interview? That's appalling!'

Barton shrugged. 'You said I was the only person you'd talk to. Noin was desperate to get the interview. So here I am.'

'I'm sorry,' Quatre said quietly, meaning it. It hadn't been fair to involve him in Quatre's personal vendetta against the press. 'Truly. I should have realised, and you shouldn't be here. Can we arrange some other time, when you've had a chance to rest a bit?'

'It's OK. I've got a deadline. Just keep talking and pouring me coffee and I probably won't crash.'

'Have you eaten?' Quatre asked suddenly.

'Yesterday. Maybe. I hate aeroplane food.'

'I hear it's supposed to be awful,' Quatre, who'd never been on a commercial flight in his life, agreed. 'I didn't have time for lunch either. Would you care for something to eat?'

He sat up for that. 'I would kill for something to eat.'

Quatre laughed. 'You don't have to do that. I'm sure there's a room service menu around here.'

It was in the desk; leather, with parchment pages made to look like a mediaeval scroll. 'I've no idea what to have. I don't normally get to choose.' He caught the other man's ironically raised eyebrow and laughed again. 'At home, my housekeeper cooks what she thinks I should eat.'

'You have a rough life,' Trowa deadpanned. 'I bet she's a gourmet cook.'

'Actually, no. She used to be my nanny, and she really only knows how to cook nursery food. She believes I'm still seven anyway. I get a lot of rice puddings and runny boiled eggs and mashed bananas with cream. And when I'm in the office, my assistants are always running out to bring me sandwiches and things. They think I'm incapable of looking after myself.'

'You just said you skipped lunch. Maybe they're right.'

'Oh, that was just today being insanely busy. I like food far too much to skip meals usually. Do you think it would be too much bother for the kitchen staff if I asked for pancakes, even though the breakfast menu is finished?'

'I think they'd let you have the head chef spit-roasted on a bed of pancakes, drizzled with maple syrup mixed with his blood, if that was what you wanted,' Barton said frankly.

Quatre spluttered with laughter at that image; it was like something Duo would have said. His best friend was constantly teasing him over the fact that most people in the universe would roll over and lick his shoes, puppy-fashion, if Quatre asked them to. It was rather nice meeting someone who wasn't prepared to do that.

Trowa Barton didn't like global corporations, or the people who owned them, by lucky trick of birth or chance, although he had to admit that WEI was better than most, both to the people it employed and the planet.

He didn't like what he'd heard about Quatre Winner personally. The guy was notoriously opposed to media intrusion into his life, constantly chipping away at the rights and freedom of the press. Anyone who'd ever interviewed him said he was difficult, distant, hiding any emotions under a mask of flawless courtesy.

And he'd been dragged straight off a plane and a series of connecting flights that had been the culmination of six weeks travelling and thirty three stories filed, just because this spoilt capitalist brat had requested it.

He'd refused Noin's initial request to do the interview, had held out for almost thirty minutes while she reminded him of past favours (many) and the ways an editor could find to make life highly unpleasant for a mere reporter (ditto), especially if said reporter wasn't even on the paper's permanent staff..

He'd stalked into the ornate suite with enough ammunition to blast the guy out of his perfectly pressed designer suit and into orbit. Except he'd been forbidden to use any of it by Noin, which wasn't really all that much of a deterrent, the way he was feeling. Trowa had interviewed dictators and warlords and mercenaries; a mere executive wasn't going to pose any sort of challenge at all.

He'd thought that, anyway.

In person – in highly attractive person – Winner was nothing like Trowa had imagined.

Shorter for one thing; standing, the top of his head would just have brushed Trowa's chin, if they'd been closer. They weren't of course; Winner took Trowa's hand from a very respectable circle of personal space. But Trowa could still look down on the slightly ruffled blond hair and that lovely mouth, firmly refusing to smile.

He was never smiling in any of his photographs. Trowa knew quite a few members of the paparazzi who'd had a running bet for months; the one who actually caught Winner with a smile on his lips would scoop a fairly respectable jackpot. Trowa had a digital camera in his pocket. He could try telling a couple of jokes.

Then Winner had totally disarmed Trowa by being, well, nice. Nothing like his reputation. He'd poured Trowa a cup of coffee, and appeared to be genuinely sorry for summoning him to do the interview, and then ordered food for them both.

Trowa would have thought he was just putting on some sort of act, except why bother? Winner wasn't the only person in his position who disliked media incursion into his life; most people put up with it as a necessary evil and courted the publicity to some extent. Quatre Winner famously didn't.

Then he'd laughed, brightening up the room, the universe.

This one was dangerous.

'So.' Waiting for their meals to arrive, Trowa took out the list of questions Noin had mailed him, keeping it professional. ''I was reading about your new energy proposals. You're out to save the planet?'

'Certainly not.' Picking up on the change in atmosphere, Winner had his solemn face back on. 'It makes economic sense. Renewable energy sources are rapidly running out. We need to find alternatives.'

'Right. No altruism involved whatsoever. You don't take climate change seriously then?'

The blond frowned slightly. Idiotically, Trowa wondered what he'd have to do to make him smile again. Juggle? Make him a balloon animal? He was supposed to like dogs, Trowa had read somewhere. Produce a flower or a rabbit out of thin air?

Kiss him? Where the hell had that come from?

'I'm not going to talk about that. It's too much of a political issue. For us, it's a business one.'

'Right,' Trowa said again and then the food arrived. Winner had ordered a ridiculous amount, and was charming to the waitresses. 'So, that's one of the many things I'm not allowed to ask you about.'

'Correct.' Winner peered at each plate and then smiled faintly. 'No roasted chef. I was rather looking forward to trying that particular dish.'

Trowa laughed at the sheer unexpectedness of it. The guy, miraculously, had a sense of humour. 'He's probably still browning on the spit.'

That made Winner laugh outright, and choke on the juice he'd just swallowed. By the time he'd stopped choking and Trowa had handed him a napkin – linen, embossed with the Sheraton logo - they were grinning at each other.

Trowa took another sheaf of pages out of his bag. 'I have a short list of incredibly inane questions I'm supposed to ask you, although I could just read your last AGM report to find the answers. Then I have this insanely long list of questions I'm not allowed to ask, which are much more interesting.'

The blond dipped a forkful of pancake in syrup and grinned; mischievous, sneaky, adorable. 'I can guess what they are, and no, Mr. Barton, I'm not going to talk about any of them.'

'Call me Trowa. Damn. This is going to be boring.' Trowa scanned the page in his hand. 'These would be a lot more fun. Let's see. Forbidden topics: that model who claimed she'd slept with you last year, your religious beliefs, anything that remotely touches on your sexuality; Duo Maxwell; that incident with the photographer; anything to do with your charities; Milliardo Peacecraft; your favourite colour. Seriously?'

Winner's eyes danced about a demurely pursed mouth. ''The list was approved by my publicist, and your editor.'

'Hmm. She's not really my editor. I'm freelance, mostly. Taboo topic number one. Dorothy Catalonia. She had pictures to prove she'd been with you.'

Quatre's mouth tightened. 'Photoshopped. A child could have seen they were fake.'

'But not the editor of the Sanque Sun, apparently,' Trowa said dryly. 'I hear paying legal costs for your court case nearly bankrupted them.'

'Only nearly. Unfortunately. What do you want me to say? She was just looking for some publicity to boost her career.'

'Religious beliefs. You're eating bacon, so I suppose that takes care of itself.'

'Actually not. It just means I'm not a follower of Orthodox Islam.'

Trowa nodded. 'Do you believe in God? You have more cause than most people, I'd say.'

'Yes.' Winner glared at him. 'I have a perfect life. My mother died when I was born and I grew up in the human equivalent of a goldfish bowl. Do you believe in God, Mr. Barton?'

'I was a war correspondent for two years, so no.'

The blond head nodded. 'I'm sorry. I can't even imagine how people do that job. It must be appalling.'

Trowa shrugged. 'You hate journalists, remember? Don't you think it serves us right?'

'I have issues,' Winner said carefully, 'with certain members of the paparazzi and how they operate. I have only respect for reporters who risk their lives so stories can be shared with the world. I think that's important.'

Charmed, disarmed, Trowa couldn't help smiling at him, absurdly pleased when he smiled back. He glanced back at his list, needing to look at something that wasn't Quatre Winner.

'Duo Maxwell.' He tapped the name with one fingertip. 'If I was lucky enough to ever be with him, I wouldn't care who knew.'

Winner gave him another one of those teasing little smiles. Damn. He'd be counting them up soon, hoarding them. 'Well, you might say that. But I can assure you his very possessive boyfriend wouldn't be too impressed.'

'Oh, yeah. That.'

'That, yes.' Winner helped himself to another helping of pancakes. 'These are very good. I wonder if I could ask for the recipe?'

'You cook?' Trowa asked disbelievingly.

'I'd like to, but I never seem to have time. But I quite like the idea of cooking for myself.. Do you?'

'Same thing, really. Never enough time. I'm on the road too much. But I can cook. I can make pancakes.'

They looked at each other, blue eyes on green, expectant. It wasn't just happening to him then. Shit. Or maybe not shit. Maybe not at all.

'They're not as good as these, I suppose,' Trowa said finally, breaking the silence because something had to, ultimately. It wasn't like they could just sit and … look at each other for the rest of their lives. 'You could, I don't know, maybe come over and try them sometime.'

It was impossible to imagine; Quatre Winner in his house, and then Quatre Winner smiled and it wasn't impossible at all. Very possible.

'I would like that.' As soon as he'd said the words, he looked like he regretted them and then someone knocked on the door and that woman – the assistant or publicist or whatever she was – looked in.

She looked at her boss first, a quick glance, and then smiled at Trowa; a professional, practised smile.

'Mr. Barton, we agreed on thirty minutes. I'm afraid Mr. Winner has an urgent meeting to attend back at the office. We're going to have to leave.'

'We're not finished.' Trowa had actually started to stand when Quatre Winner spoke. 'I'm sorry, Milla. Can you please reschedule? Make an appropriate excuse.'

'Quatre. We've been trying to set this up for days. You can't just cancel.'

'I can actually.' He was looking everywhere in the room except at the two other occupants. 'Cancel everything for the rest of the day.'

'Even the charity dinner?' She looked appalled at the idea. 'Quatre, are you feeling all right?'

Curled up in his ridiculously overstuffed armchair, Winner looked simultaneously older and younger than – what was he anyway? Twenty five? And scared at what he'd just done.

'I'm fine. Milla, please. Just do it. I'll talk to you later. I'll call you.'

She left, plainly reluctant, shooting a suspicious glance at Trowa over her shoulder as she walked out, and then it was just the two of them.

'Quatre.' The first time he'd said it, enjoying the long vowels. 'Whatever happens between us, it's private. I swear.'

'Yes. I know.' He looked up from pleating the napkin on his lap; a brief halcyon flash, and then down again. 'I can tell, sometimes, how people feel, what they want from me. It's all right. Nobody understands.'

Nobody understood, ever, not even Duo. They said he was perceptive, and skilled at reading people, and good at interpreting body language, and Quatre usually just let them think that, because people didn't, really, want to spend time with someone who could do …other things. Things most people couldn't.

Barton – Trowa, he supposed – just nodded. 'OK. Listen, you don't think your assistant's out there planning to get your bodyguard to haul you out, do you?'

'I don't have a bodyguard.' He smiled faintly at the idea of it. 'Not in Sanque anyway. And I have taken time off before actually.'

'Like this?'

'Once or twice. Duo and Zechs tend to drag me off sometimes.' Quatre took a deep breath. This was insane. Completely. 'You should probably ask your questions before anything else.'

'Yeah.'

The first couple were standard; nothing he'd never been asked before, and he gave mechanical answers. Barton scribbled his responses, shorthand probably, which gave Quatre time to watch him. He'd have to think up some official excuse for this madness, to tell the rest of his staff.

'These really are boring.' Barton – Trowa – set down pencil and pad and looked over at him. 'Did you always want to do what you do?'

'Is this for the interview or you?'

'Me.'

'Oh. I'm not sure, really. I would have quite liked to study music but I was never good enough to play professionally and I don't think I'd have liked teaching. I've always liked numbers and I'm good at them; accountancy seemed like a good career.'

'You never considered working for a different company?'

'I interned at a couple of different firms when I was a student, but no, I've always known I'd end up working at WEI.'

'Because you were expected to, or because you wanted to?'

'It was my choice. Some of my sisters work for the company; some don't. Father never pressured any of us.'

'You're the only boy. The heir.'

Quatre laughed. 'That's a rather medieval viewpoint. I think Iria will probably take over when Father retires. She'll be excellent. Trowa, this is all off the record, isn't it?'

'Yes.' For emphasis, Trowa flung the notebook on the floor. 'Interview over. I'll make something up later. I want to find out about you. First, you are gay, right, Mr. Winner?'

'Quatre. Just Quatre is fine.'

'Mmm.' Trowa's glance swept over him, admiring. 'So he is. Are you gay?'

'If you've done any research about me at all, then you'll know I consider that to be a private issue.'

'Between you and any prospective partners,' Trowa agreed. 'So then. Are you?'

Quatre nodded. It wasn't exactly a secret; he'd never confirmed it, but he'd been seen going into enough clubs and bars, and his two best friends were openly gay.

'Dating anyone?'

'I don't. It's too complicated. Honestly, I just need to smile at someone of either sex and it's all over the media. I dread to think how they'd treat a person I was actually involved with. They're such sharks.'

Trowa's grin was wolfish. 'Yeah. Seems to be you'd be better off dating someone from within the system, who knows how to play it.'

'Maybe.' Quatre looked down at his lap again. 'I can't imagine how this will work,' he said helplessly. He wasn't used to feeling helpless and didn't like the feeling it all. This whole situation was madness incarnate. 'I wouldn't have chosen a reporter.'

'And I wouldn't have picked a business tycoon whose family owns a sickeningly large percentage of this planet. If you've read any of my articles at all, you'll know how I feel about global corporations.'

Quatre sniffed. 'The same way I feel about most members of your profession, I gather.'

'Something like that.' Trowa allowed. 'It's good to have a bit of conflict in a relationship, I think. Keeps things from getting boring.' He then leaned across the table separating them to press a kiss, nectar sweet, to the corner of Quatre's mouth. 'You're so not what I'd expected.'

He'd been kissed before, plenty of times. This was different. It was. He had to fight the temptation to reach up and touch the place where Trowa's lips had brushed his.

'I don't know anything about you,' he said instead. Insane, this whole thing. Utterly insane. But all he wanted in the world was for Trowa to kiss him again. 'Anything. Even if you're seeing someone else.'

Trowa shook his head, sending that shaggy forelock tumbling over his eyes. 'No one. It's not easy with my job either. I dated a photographer for a couple of months last year, but we hardly ever saw each other.'

'A photographer!' Quatre exclaimed. 'I hope you've fumigated yourself since then!'

That made Trowa laugh. 'God, you have a serious problem. Suing the ass off that guy who tried to photograph you last year didn't help you work through that particular issue?'

Quatre sat up straight, a Heero Yuy-glare on his face. 'I was taking my two little nieces to a birthday party. That moron popped up out of nowhere, the girls were absolutely terrified. So no, I have not worked through that particular issue.'

'So I see.' In one fluid movement, he was out of his chair and on the arm of Quatre's. 'Hey. You're gorgeous when you get all worked up about something. Blue sparks and everything. And I get it. My sister's got a little girl; if anyone tried something like that around her, I'd punch him out.'

Quatre looked up at him. So close, he could see a faint wash of sunburn across Trowa's nose, biro marks on his fingers and the nick of an old scar on one hand. 'I thought you were all for the freedom of the press.'

'Not where kids are involved.'

'Why journalism?'

Trowa shrugged slightly. 'I did politics and English at university. I wanted a job where I could travel and write. Maybe do some good.'

It was the standard answer. He had the feeling that Quatre Winner would be getting the other version, the unauthorised one, before too much longer.

Quatre appeared to consider that, the way he seemed to do everything. Trowa wondered if he ever did anything impulsive, just for the hell of it.

Quatre kissed him on the tail end of that thought; lush, lingering..

'Wow.' When they finally pulled apart, just to breathe, he had the blond, his blond, enclosed in the circle of his arms.

'Mmm.' Quatre curled closer. 'This is awfully sudden.'

'Not so much. It's been at least an hour.'

'I hope that's a joke.' Quatre's voice was teasing, but with a definite ripple of menace underneath. 'I hope you don't treat all your interview subjects like this.'

'If you thought that, you wouldn't be here now,' Trowa was serious, knowing it was true. Another unspoken assumption.

'Well, no. I don't even know where you live.'

'I have a town house by the harbour.'

'I work near there. I can probably see your house from my office.'

'Probably.' He could see the glittering edifice of the Winner Building from the window of the back bedroom; he'd never look at it now without thinking of Quatre there. 'Be convenient if you ever wanted to stay over some time. You could walk to work.'

Quatre smiled up at him. 'Will this be after you make me the pancakes?'

'If you stay for breakfast, yeah.'

Quatre's smile faded, just a little, and then he looked down.

'Too soon for you?' Trowa asked. He'd already guessed – hell, he'd known from the start – that someone like Quatre Winner had to be used to being in control, in charge. To planning everything. Trowa didn't work like that: you took what was thrown at you and either caught it or ducked and hoped for the best.

'Perhaps. I'm not the easiest person in the world to be with. For a variety of reasons. I want you to realise that.'

'Hmm. Noted. What exactly are you talking about; the being a workaholic business tycoon thing,, or the fact that once people find out about us, I'll end up going into war zones with photographers from Hello magazine following me? Oh, hey, that might work. Get them all blown up.'

Quatre did one of those gasping laughs. 'Oh, could you? Please? And I'm not a workaholic! Not remotely!'

Trowa lifted an eyebrow at him.

'I'm not! I'm very good at delegating and I have a superb staff working for me, and fine, yes, I probably do work too hard, but I'm sure I could stop if I wanted to.' Those glorious blue eyes were suddenly very serious. 'I'd want to if it meant I'd get to see you. I do have to travel quite a lot, but I can try to delegate a bit more. I still won't be able to promise to be home every night for six, though.'

'Nor will I,' Trowa bent and kissed him again. 'Deadlines and such. And I'm always travelling with work.' He thought about it; for the first time in years, new cities, new countries on a weekly basis seemed less than appealing. 'I can try to get more jobs in Europe, even in Sanque. We can try to make time, right?'

'Yes.' Quatre nodded fervently. 'Is this …quite insane?'

'Quite, yes,' Trowa teased. It was, really. He was virtually making plans to spend the rest of his life with someone he'd just met; someone he'd detested on principle an hour ago. 'So, while we're on the subject of domestic arrangements, who moves in with whom?'

'I do come with rather a lot of baggage,' Quatre warned. 'Literally. I have a dog, and an aquarium, and a million books and a grand piano.'

'And a nanny, yeah. I can clear out the garage. And there's crawl space under the roof. It'll fit. Assuming you like where I live.'

'I have lots of space. I have six bedrooms!'

'We only need one.'

Quatre flushed, unexpected and endearing. 'Oh. I suppose that's true. I like my house though.'

'We don't have to decide right now.' Trowa looked at him, wondering what sort of house he had. A mansion, probably. Not a place where Trowa would feel remotely comfortable.

Somewhere during that second kiss, his hair had got a lot more disordered, the perfectly knotted tie knocked askew. And the few top buttons of his shirt were open, showing the jut of collarbones, under flawless ivory skin. This fancy suite had to have at least one bedroom.

Very wicked thought.

'No, I suppose not,' Quatre agreed, curling closer, resting his gleaming head on Trowa's shoulder. 'We should probably try them both out. I like the idea of living by the sea very much.' A light kiss landed on Trowa's neck.

Trowa's arms tightened around him, just a little. This was it then. Of course everything was going to change once they stepped out of this room. It had already. He doubted it was usual for Quatre to order a lavish lunch during an interview, an interview that had gone on for far longer than planned. Someone would talk.

'Logistically, how hard is it going to be for us to get out of here?'

Quatre blinked up at him. 'My driver's parked by the door. And Milla's waiting for me in the foyer.'

Well, that wouldn't work. 'I've done a couple of interviews here before. There's a service lift to the basement; probably no one uses it this time of day. We should be able to sneak out.'

'All right.' It was said immediately. Such trust. People –and animals – did tend to trust him for whatever reason. This was different. Everything was. 'Where are we going?'

'Listen, Quatre.' He tilted the blond's chin up slightly, smiling into his blue eyes. 'I've got a friend who's a writer; he's got this little holiday cabin up north. It's nothing special, but it's right on the beach, and it's pretty isolated. Once people find out about us, things are going to get crazy. Do you think you could take a few days off and spend them with me? Just to get to know each other a bit better?'

'I could probably,' Quatre started and then stopped. He was holding one of Trowa's hands though, very firmly. 'I don't know.'

Trowa was fairly used to life being…uncertain. It came with how he'd grown up, with the job. He doubted Quatre was like that; this had to be a huge deal for him. All of it; not merely the prospect of going off with a virtual stranger to an unknown destination.

'It sounds very nice,' Quatre said finally. 'Just…I don't do flings.' He said the word almost distastefully.

'That wasn't what I meant!' Trowa snapped, frustrated, hurt. He'd thought Quatre could read him better than that.

'I know.' Quatre sighed. 'I'm sorry. I don't even know why I said that.'

'You're scared,' Trowa said softly. 'That's OK. This is a pretty big thing. Maybe it's better if we do take it slowly. We can arrange to meet for dinner some time, maybe next week. If we try hard enough, I'm sure we can keep all this discreet. Secret.'

Quatre thought about it; he'd have to get used to that, Trowa realised. Deliberation obviously came with the territory. 'I'm not exactly dressed to go and stay by the beach.' He gestured down at his designer suit.

Trowa took a deep, careful breath. 'Are you sure about this?'

'I – l like the idea of spending time with you. On a beach. I'll have to call some people first. I can't just vanish. I don't do things like that.'

'OK.' Trowa thought, trying to work out a plan. He'd driven straight from the airport; his bag was still in the car so he had clothes and a few books and his flute. He didn't need anything else. Just the blond in his arms. 'Do you need to go home to collect anything special? Or can we stop somewhere on the drive up for you to go shopping?'

'I need my laptop.' He looked happier suddenly, making a list. 'And my iPod's at home. My violin. Do you think I could bring my dog?'

'Violin, definitely. We can play together. And the dog. He'll love it. Nanny, no. Probably not the piano either.'

'No piano. Check.' He uncurled slightly, enough to look into Trowa's eyes. He still hadn't let go of his hand. 'I'm not scared, actually. Not really. And I think that's scaring me.'

'Yeah.' Trowa had spent most of his life on the move; freelance jobs all over the world, relationships that came and went with the assignments, no commitments to anything, anyone. He should have been terrified. He wasn't, and he could understand exactly what Quatre meant. 'Me too, actually.''

Quatre smiled at him, sunburst-bright, and, just like that, there was nothing to be scared of and a very good reason to take a chance on winning something wonderful.