bProhibition/b
Trowa passed through the bar that looked like any other, heading to the door in the far gloomy corner. An anxious thrill twisted in his gut as he knocked softly in the pattern he'd memorised. A dark skinned man silently ushered him inside.
Only men occupied this room's tables, most in intimate pairs. Trowa seated himself at the bar and ordered a drink.
As he took his first swallow of scotch, a voice came behind him: "It's Trowa, right?"
He turned and found the owner of the voice as beautiful as the ad promised. "Yes."
The boy grinned. "I'm Quatre."