Tragicomedy in Two Acts
Quatre was relaxing in bed, reading a book before he turned in for the night, one of his nightly rituals. Trowa was in the bathroom showering—Quatre could still hear the water running in their attached bathroom. He glanced at the clock—almost eleven.
I hope Trowa's all right, Quatre thought. He's been in there for almost an hour. He set his book down on the bedside table and made to get up when the bathroom door swung open and steam from the shower spilled forth like early morning fog rolling in from the ocean. Leaning against the door frame was Trowa.
In his clown suit.
Quatre had no idea what was going on or what to think.
Did Trowa buy new sleepwear and not tell me?
"Hey, Quatre…" said Trowa, one hand on his hip; his elbow was resting against the door jamb, above his head. "Do you want to…clown around?"
Quatre couldn't help it. He started laughing.
"As long as you let me play with your balloon animal…"
Trowa gave the barest of smiles. "You'll have to inflate it first."
Quatre motioned Trowa closer. "I think I can handle that…"
Duo, who was walking past Quatre's bedroom, popped his head in.
"Before you do anything, I suggest closing your door…and maybe locking it."
Trowa said nothing, nor did he have any sort of reaction; Quatre's face was bright red.
"And," Duo said, doubling back, "you might want to work on your dirty talk."
"Says the guy who thinks a certain someone reciting technical jargon about mobile suits is a turn-on," muttered Trowa, before closing the door and locking it.