"I read the news today, oh boy..." - The Beatles, "A Day in the Life"
"Tell me more! Tell me more! Who's the king of your satellite castle?" - Dave Mathews Band, "Satellite"
Enquiring Minds
Quatre smiled as he watched Trowa sip his champagne. Forcing himself not to stare for too long, he dropped his eyes to his plate and went back to picking at his asparagus. It wasn't something he was particularly fond of, but Trowa liked it, and he would suffer through it. That thought made him smile even more.
"You really didn't have to go to all this trouble," Trowa said softly as he sat his glass down.
"I haven't seen you in ages - And what's the point of having money if you can't treat your friends to a night out, every now and then?"
Trowa shook his head. "When you came to visit me, last time, all I treated you to was ice cream."
"And it was the best damned ice cream I'd ever had," Quatre asserted. Trowa shook his head again, but smiled this time. "Are you enjoying your meal?"
"It's wonderful. Everything's delicious. This restaurant has a really nice atmosphere, too."
Quatre ducked his head and retreated from the candlelight to hide his blush. He'd had a long chat with the chef the night before, after Trowa had called from the spaceport to confirm that he would be visiting him at his home on earth, and had been assured that all of Trowa's favorites would be on the menu tonight. He'd bought out all of the balcony tables, assuring that they'd be alone, and asked for candlelight and some soft, romantic music, so it was no wonder to him that the atmosphere was nice. Trowa didn't have to know that, though. "It's a nice place, isn't it?" he asked, to cover the pause in conversation. "I'm so glad they had this table. The city is really beautiful from up here."
"It is," Trowa agreed. He picked up his fork again and returned to his meal, eating with a grace more like that of a born aristocrat than that of an orphan or mercenary. That was one of the many things that Quatre loved about him; despite his rough life, Trowa still did everything with that same refined grace. He was kind and polite, and very charming in his quiet way. When he'd first been introduced to formal dining, Quatre himself had been mystified by the wide variety of silverware and serving dishes, but Trowa had needed no instruction. As if by instinct, he chose the right utensil every time.
Trowa seemed a little preoccupied tonight, though, Quatre mused. He was watching the clouds move over the moon as he ate, pausing every now and then with his fork halfway to his mouth as if he were deep in thought.
"Is there something on your mind?" Quatre asked quietly, after a while.
Trowa shook his head and finished taking a bite. "I suppose I'm just a little jetlagged," he said. "I was thinking - oh, never mind."
"Now you have me curious," Quatre teased.
"It was something silly."
"No, really, I want to know. "
Trowa frowned and took another sip of his champagne. "Don't worry about it. It was nothing."
Quatre sighed. "Fine," he murmured, and went back to picking at his meal. He was too nervous to eat, anyway. Despite the need he felt to keep secret his efforts to make this evening perfect for Trowa, he knew that he was still being fairly transparent; one typically didn't take a friend out to such a fancy restaurant and insist on paying for everything, even if you hadn't seen them in a while. He couldn't quite make up his mind, though, as to whether or not he wanted Trowa to realize why he had wanted so badly to treat him to something nice. Though they'd never really talked about their feelings for each other, he knew that Trowa at least /cared/ about him. The depth of that emotion was hard to gauge, however. Was it tempered with attraction? He still wasn't sure. After three years of at least some degree of friendship, with all his empathy and insight and intelligence, Quatre still couldn't completely figure out what was going on in Trowa's heart and head.
Part of him wanted Trowa to wonder why his friend had taken him out on what was rather obviously something like a date. Part of him was terrified of the same thing. There were so many ways that Trowa could react to this simple meal, and despite all his careful planning and subtle manipulations, he still couldn't be sure what his response would be. Worse than that, he still couldn't be sure if he could keep the nerve to go through with what he'd been planning to do after dessert. It was simple enough, really, and could even possibly be received as nothing more than a friendly action - if Trowa were feeling especially dense. That was why Quatre had urged him to have as much champagne as he liked; maybe if he were a bit foggy-headed he would be less likely to take offense at the gesture.
Quatre was going to ask Trowa to dance.
He swallowed hard and blushed at the thought, retreating into shadow again. He was going to do it. He really was. It would be the first time he'd really attempted to make a romantic overture to the quiet boy, and the nervous tension was threatening to drive him mad. They'd had appetizers and salad already, and a beautiful, creamy-white gazpacho that he'd hardly touched. He was so nervous that he was afraid he'd be sick if he ate much at all. The butterflies in his stomach were already taking up all of the room
there.
He'd never started a relationship with anyone, before. Sure, he'd had boyfriends - lovers, even - but always they had been the one to make the first move, and none of his affairs had ever been very serious. For the most part, it had never even occurred to him to seek a relationship with any of them until they had brought it up. Far too much of his time had been spent daydreaming about beautiful, unattainable Trowa in the past years for him to be worried about other men. Really, tonight was the product of thousands of those daydreams that extended for almost as long as he had known Trowa.
It was kind of pathetic, actually. Quatre snorted into his glass.
"Something funny?"
Quatre quickly shook his head and took a gulp of the icy water to cool his rising blush. What was the /matter/ with him tonight?! He was never like this! But then, Trowa had always affected him like no one else could.
"You've hardly touched your food, and I'm almost done. You're making me feel like a pig."
Quatre laughed. "Don't be ridiculous."
"You've taken about three bites in the last ten minutes. What are you so preoccupied about?"
"You wouldn't tell me what you were thinking about. Why should I tell you what I was thinking about?"
It was Trowa's turn to laugh. "It was nothing, Quatre. I was being silly. For a minute or two, I thought maybe..." He trailed off. "Well, it doesn't matter."
Quatre felt the butterflies in his stomach spring to life again. The cool night air seemed to turn almost unbearably hot against his skin. He had a feeling that he knew exactly what Trowa had been thinking. He couldn't decide whether to be glad or upset that he had brushed the possibility away. 'Silly,' he'd called it. That probably wasn't a good sign. Maybe he shouldn't ask him to dance, after all.
"Something's bothering you," Trowa said. Quatre shook his head, but he pressed on. "You've been picking at your food all evening."
"I guess I'm just not very hungry," he mumbled, reaching again for his water glass. His hand was shaking a bit, he noticed. When he gripped the glass, it sloshed just a little, dampening the tablecloth.
"Quatre," Trowa said, prying his hand from its death-grip on the glass and taking it in his own. "I'd like to think you could tell me if there was something the matter."
Quatre froze, suddenly even warmer than before. Trowa was looking at him with the quiet intensity that he had always found completely irresistible. More than anything, it was that which had drawn him to the other boy in the first place - that look of dogged determination. Trowa wanted to know what was the matter, and he was going to find out, damn it, come hell or high water. Quatre opened his mouth and took a breath, trying desperately to decide whether to just tell him the truth and be done with it or to make up some story about work stress or his family...
He never got the words out, though. There was a bright flash of light that left spots in his eyes, and then Trowa released his hand and turned in his seat. "What the hell?" he murmured.
Quatre spun in his seat to see what was going on. There was a young woman of African descent leaning against a potted fern, nearby, holding a rather large and expensive-looking camera. "Don't let me ruin the mood, now, sweethearts," she said with a wink.
"What on earth are you doing?" Quatre demanded. He was too shocked to do much of anything else.
"What's a girl supposed to do when she's treated to a Kodak moment like that one?" the woman asked. She grinned at them and raised the camera again. "Hold his hand again, toots - I'm not sure if I got the light setting just right. It's awfully dim out here. Candlelight's romantic, and all, but it's hell on my light meter."
Quatre just blinked at her, his mouth opening and closing like that of a landed fish.
The woman seemed to give up on getting another picture of them and instead dragged a chair from another table to sit beside him. "Tell me, Quatre," she began, snagging a breadstick from their basket. "Is this the fellow you dumped Matt Lightfoot for? I can't decide if it's an improvement or not. What's your name, sweetie?"
"WHAT?!" Quatre shrieked, jumping to his feet. "How-?"
"Oh, Matty and I are just the best of friends," she said with a grin. "We tell each other positively /everything/."
Quatre glanced quickly to Trowa. The other boy seemed to be trying to decide whether to be stunned or angry at the woman's brazenness. His eyes met Quatre's for a moment, and he nodded. Shoving back his chair, he stood and walked hurriedly back into the restaurant.
Where the hell was he /going?/
"Sorry if I scared off your date. Don't know my own strength, sometimes."
Quatre felt like he wanted to cry. Everything had been /perfect/ until this woman had shown up and ruined everything. Anger boiled up inside him, and he snatched the breadstick from the woman's hands. "I don't know who you think you are-" he said, pulling himself up to his full height.
"Ursula Johnson, sweetie. I've got a card around here some-"
"And I don't particularly care," Quatre snapped, cutting her off. "All I want is for you to leave before I have to call the manager."
"Manager's out, honey," the woman said. She fished a half-squished pack of cigarettes from her jacket pocket and casually stuck one in her mouth. "Think I would have been stupid enough to try a stunt like this if he wasn't? Now tell me," she began as she used one of the elegant white tapers from the centerpiece to light her cigarette, "How is he in the sack, really?"
Quatre's mouth fell open and his hand swung back without his really thinking about it. Luckily, Trowa was there somehow to catch his wrist. "That'll only make things worse," he said softly. He had the same quiet resolve in his eyes as before. "Come on. We're getting out of here."
"But she-" he protested.
"Let him handle it," Trowa said. Quatre looked over his shoulder to see a darkly-suited man watching from the doorway. "I remembered passing him on the way in and thinking that he looked like a cop. I was right."
"Thank God," he murmured as he obediently let Trowa lead him away from the table.
"That's so /sweet!/" Ursula cried before the door closed behind them to muffle her voice. "Rushing to your rescue like that...Oh he's a /catch/ Quatre! I'd keep him!"
"I think that woman was insane," Quatre mumbled as they wove through the tables toward the exit.
"I think she was a reporter," Trowa said.
"I've never seen any reporter act like that!" Quatre exclaimed. "She took our breadsticks! She blew /smoke/ at me-"
"Calm down..."
"And she ruined a perfectly wonderful dinner!"
"Let's just pay and get out of here," Trowa suggested. "You can complain in the car."
"I already took care of it," Quatre mumbled. He let Trowa open the door for him and walked out into the night, rubbing his temples. "I still think she was insane."
"She looked familiar, though. I think she works for one of those trashy magazines that Catherine reads."
"God, I hope not. I hate reporters. I really do. Especially that kind."
"What else could she be?" Trowa asked. He opened the passenger door for Quatre and touched his arm for a moment as he climbed inside. Somehow, it didn't really register to Quatre that this was /his/ car, and he really ought to be the one driving. "Some kind of crazed fan? We know everyone loves you, Quatre, but I don't know if anyone would go that far to get your autograph." He gave Quatre a lopsided grin as he swatted his leg and pulled the door shut. When he climbed into the driver's seat, though, he was serious again. "She hasn't bothered you before, has she?"
"No," Quatre said. He sighed again and slumped down against the door.
"Have you been getting letters?"
"I always get letters," Quatre grumbled. "No," he said, forestalling Trowa's next question. "I haven't been getting any weird ones, and no suspicious packages. I don't think she's stalking me. I think I'd rather that than reporters, though."
"Hm," Trowa said, and then he was silent. He held out his hand for Quatre's keys, which he gladly handed over.
Quatre stared sullenly out at the road for a while until his eye was drawn to Trowa again. The boy was like a magnet for his attention. Quatre sighed. He was dying to ask. He could tell. The other boy was deathly curious about the reporter-woman's insinuations, but he didn't seem to want to be the one to bring it up. And he was probably afraid to offend him.
"Matty was - Matty was a mistake," Quatre said quickly. Trowa blinked once but didn't give any other indication that he'd heard. Good. This would be easier if they weren't looking at each other. "We only - I don't know if dated is the right word...we were together for a few weeks. He was handsome and charismatic, but there just wasn't anything between us. It was never really very serious."
He fell quiet again, trying to gauge Trowa's reaction to the information he'd given by the quality of his silence. After a while, he gave up and pressed on. "He was caught embezzling from the corporation and threatened to blackmail me if I went through with the charges. That was ages after we broke up. I didn't think he'd have the balls to do it, but he apparently did." Quatre sighed and hid his face in his hands. "I'm sorry I ruined dinner, Trowa. I wanted tonight to be special."
"Don't worry about it," Trowa said softly. Quatre's eyes flashed to his face when he spoke. There was something tense and a little uncomfortable about the way he was sitting.
"Still..." Quatre began, but trailed off. What was he supposed to say? Maybe if he'd planned better, this wouldn't have happened? He was still silent as they pulled into his darkened driveway and into the garage, more numb than anything, and had to be prodded before he remembered to open his door. Trowa opened his mouth as he did, but hesitated on his words.
"What?" Quatre asked.
"You never told me that you're gay," Trowa said softly. His eyes met Quatre's for just a moment, and then he looked away before hurrying out of the car and up the walk.
Quatre's heart constricted. What had /that/ look been? "Trowa?" he called, following him, but the other boy was already letting himself inside.
"I'm drained, Quatre," Trowa said quietly. He sounded mildly exasperated, though Quatre couldn't figure out why he would be. "The jetlag is catching up with me, and right about now, all I really want is a hot shower and a bed, not necessarily in that order."
"I - okay. Um. Goodnight."
Trowa nodded without looking at him and disappeared inside. By the time Quatre made it up the stone steps and through the door, he had apparently vanished into the guest room.
"Crap," he whispered. This was not good. This was most definitely not good.
The next morning, though, things seemed to be back to normal. Trowa was his usual non-morning-person self, but he seemed a bit more amiable than he had been when they had gone to bed. He teased Quatre a bit about his cooking and then disappeared behind the paper with the promise to return after he'd consumed a few cups of coffee. Quatre was half-afraid, however, that when he finally regained full consciousness he might revert to his odd mood of last night. To quiet his nerves, he bustled around the kitchen, cleaning things that probably didn't need to be cleaned then cleaning them again, prompting Trowa to look at him rather strangely over the metro section. Quatre had just about made up his mind to go to some other room and wait for Trowa to speak to him when he heard Trowa's mug hit the table rather violently. When he turned, the other boy was staring at the paper, his brows furrowed in confused concentration.
"What is it?" Quatre asked. He crossed the room and looked at the page upside down from across the table. It was the society page - he could tell that much - but -
Crap. Crap, crap, crap.
"Earthsphere's Most Eligible Bachelor, Taken?" Trowa read out. He folded the paper and looked at Quatre with his eyebrow raised. "I thought you were ranked fifth or sixth?"
"You keep up with that?" Quatre asked, startled.
Trowa shrugged. "Cathy does. And I usually pay attention when I see news articles about friends. Which, with our bunch, is actually pretty often..."
"I don't even know what they're saying about me, now. I usually just try to steer clear of stuff like that. I guess it makes sense though that they'd have bumped me up a bit when I turned eighteen."
Look at this," Trowa said, handing him the paper. "They have our picture and everything. I suppose it's the one that woman took, last night."
They certainly looked like lovers, Quatre thought when he saw the picture. He considered clipping it out when Trowa wasn't looking and stashing it away somewhere. Despite Ursula's fears about the lighting conditions, the picture had come out fine. Trowa was holding his hand and leaning across the table toward him, in the process of speaking. The emotion of the moment was captured clearly on his own face - he'd always been far too photogenic for his own good.
"Trowa," Quatre said once he'd skimmed the article. There was brief mention of his almost striking the photographer, which probably wouldn't help matters. "I'm sorry you got dragged into this - if I hadn't insisted on taking you out-"
"It's okay," Trowa said quickly, rising from his chair. "I need to call Cathy and do some damage control before she starts ringing us off the hook, though. They're a few hours earlier, and I'd be surprised if she hadn't seen something about it." He carried his plate to the sink and then wandered over to the vidphone, smiling before he pressed the preprogrammed button that would enter his own contact code.
"This is such a mess," Quatre said, taking Trowa's seat and collapsing with his head in his hands. "I'm really sorry."
"I told you it was okay," Trowa said while he waited for the call to go through. "You're the one who has to worry. You've got some kind of public relations department, don't you?"
"They'd probably want to sue for slander," Quatre muttered. "Which I can't do, since it's all true." He looked down at the society page and the incriminating photo. "The stuff about Matt, I mean," he amended.
"Trowa Barton!" Catherine shrieked from the vidscreen.
"Hi, sis..." Trowa said sheepishly.
"You could have /told/ me, you know! I'm only your /sister/!"
Oi...Quatre let his head drop to the paper with a thunk. Trowa's sister was going to kill him. He was sure of that. Whether Trowa managed to convince her that the photo had been taken out of context was entirely irrelevant. He was dead either way. Either he'd corrupted her darling baby brother, prompting him to lie to her about the whole ordeal, or he'd embarrassed him by means of his far too public lifestyle. At least Trowa didn't seem to be mad anymore. Thank heaven for small favors.
"It's not what you're thinking, Cathy..."
"How long? At least tell me how long? I feel like an idiot for not figuring out before..."
Trowa looked over his shoulder, back to where Quatre was slumped on the table. "Help," he mouthed. Quatre just shrugged helplessly and fled toward the living room. He could still hear her voice from the kitchen.
"Is he there? I want to talk to him. Quatre! Can you hear me? You hurt him and I swear I'll rip your balls off and feed them to the lions!"
Quatre winced. That was an image he could most certainly have lived without. He heard nothing from her after that outburst - apparently Trowa had managed to calm her down at least to the point of rational conversation. Sighing, he laid down on the couch and picked up the remote. Maybe he could find something on the vid that would distract him.
Far from distracting, though, what he found on the vid was even more disturbing than what had been in the paper this morning. He flipped through a series of frequencies, hoping blindly for a nature documentary or history program - maybe even some real news. Instead, all he could find was trash. With a groan, Quatre turned the vidscreen off again.
"I think I calmed her down," Trowa said as he entered the room. He came to a stop behind the couch and looked down at Quatre with concern. "Are you okay?" he asked. "I don't think she meant it, if that's what you're worried about."
"Of course she meant it." Quatre grumbled. "Your sister hates me."
"She doesn't hate you."
"She does! She always yells at me."
"Quatre, she doesn't hate you. She..." he blushed and looked away. "...Congratulated me, actually, after she was done being mad at me for not telling her anything."
Quatre blinked. "Really?"
Trowa nodded and asked with a gesture if he could sit down. Quatre drew up his legs to make room for him on the couch and he settled in beside him. "I told her what happened with that crazy reporter woman. I think she's off to murder her, at the moment. I reminded her to feed the body to the lions so that the cops couldn't find it."
Quatre let his head fall back and laughed, bright and clear. It was the first he'd really laughed since the woman had ruined their 'date' the night before, and it felt liberating. Maybe this would all blow over in a day or two. He could always hope, anyway. Trowa smiled down at him and pulled the remote from his hand, turning the vidscreen on again to idly flip between channels. It was a restless habit of his that Quatre had noticed before.
"I should warn you-" Quatre started.
"Allegations of satellite mogul Quatre Raberba Winner's homosexuality have yet to be refuted..." the woman on the vid told them. Trowa quickly changed the channel.
"...seen having dinner last night with a young man..."
Click.
"...reportedly threatened news investigator Ursula Johnson..."
Click.
"...since his eighteenth birthday, has been considered by many to be the most eligible bachelor in the... "
Trowa hit the mute button and dropped the remote as if it had burned him. "Why is this such a big deal?"
"I don't know!" Quatre wailed. He turned and buried his face in the cushions that lined the back of the couch. "'It's all that evil woman's fault. And Matty's, of course. And mine-"
"This isn't your fault."
"It is! I was such an idiot, Trowa! I thought he really liked me for /me/, when all he was after was money. Money and sex," he amended, frowning. "I should have seen this coming. Rashid always warned me that all it would take would be one vindictive boyfriend-"
"Rashid knew?"
Quatre curled into an even smaller ball. "Of course Rashid knew. Rashid knows me better than anyone, I think. I didn't tell him about Matt until he threatened me, but he knew everything else."
Trowa was silent for a while. "You know," he finally said, "All the tabloid channels are in a row. It's probably not as bad as we've been thinking."
Quatre snorted. "That's what you think." He sat up again and took the remote from Trowa's lap. "Look at this." A quick press of a few buttons, and they were watching a rotund man with a waxed mustache and a bad French accent as he arranged ingredients on a marble countertop.
"...now for dessert," the man was saying, "we will be making a light vanilla mousse, to be served with brandied cherries."
"What's wrong with that?" Trowa asked. "That sounds really good. I like vanilla mousse."
"I know you like vanilla mousse! He knows you like vanilla mousse! We were going to have it for dessert, last night, before that woman showed up. He's gone through everything I'd ordered!"
Trowa blinked and furrowed his brow. "You'd ordered dessert, already?"
"I knew it was your favorite," Quatre said sheepishly. "That doesn't matter. The point is, I don't think we should leave the house for a few days. There's going to be paparazzi all over the place."
"Wouldn't that just give them more to gossip about?" Trowa asked. Quatre turned beet-red and tried to hide in the pillows again. "Really, though, you don't have anything to hide, so why hide?"
"Because they'll twist whatever I say or do until it sounds sordid! Look at last night - I couldn't even take an old friend out to dinner without the whole damned world wondering what I was really up to."
"Being a celebrity sucks, doesn't it?" Trowa asked, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "I can't imagine 'Earthsphere's Most Eligible Bachelor' is a title that sits well with you."
"Of course it isn't!" Quatre moaned. He smacked Trowa hard in the chest with a pillow and glared sternly at him. "Stop teasing!" When Trowa refused to look properly contrite, he hauled off and hit him with the pillow again. "Brat."
"I'm a brat, now? You're the rich one."
"You don't have to be rich to be a brat," Quatre said in a huff. He collapsed against the back of the couch, clutching the pillow in his hands.
"I thought you liked it when I teased you," Trowa said softly. Quatre felt himself flush at the words. Trowa probably hadn't noticed the innuendo hidden in that statement, but Quatre couldn't help it. He glared at the other boy and climbed from the couch, headed for his room. "Let me know when you're done being a brat," he tossed over his shoulder, "And we'll go out for pizza. I know a great place where they won't find us."
"You anticipate me being a brat until lunch?"
"Or dinner, maybe."
"What am I supposed to do until then?" Trowa asked. "Isn't the host supposed to make sure his guest doesn't get bored?"
"Try the vid," Quatre said with a smirk. "There has to be something on."
"That was really good."
"I told you they had awesome pizza," Quatre said. "See? You should listen to me."
"I do listen to you. Most of the time. When you aren't being weird and passive-aggressive."
Quatre choked on his coke. "What?"
"Nothing. Look - they have a jukebox," Trowa said. He wiped his hands on a napkin and dropped it on the table before scooting out of the vinyl booth. "Come on."
"Forget the jukebox. What did you-" Quatre found himself suddenly being dragged from his own booth by his wrist. "Trowa!"
"I left my wallet at your place. Spare some change for a lowly circus clown?"
Quatre grumbled but did as he was asked, fishing a handful of coins out of his pocket. "You'd better not pick anything sucky."
Trowa just smiled as he leaned over the ancient contraption, his skin turned odd colors by the florescent tubing. "I bet I can beat you at darts."
"I'd be an idiot to take that bet, considering what your sister does for a living."
"You're a good shot, too, though," Trowa supplied. He dropped a few of Quatre's quarters into the machine and punched some buttons before giving it a good smack with the heel of his hand. Quatre watched in fascination as a record dropped onto the spindle and started playing. He had been expecting something garish and juvenile, but was surprised when soft guitar strains accompanied by violin, saxophone and drums began to drift from the speakers on the front panel.
"That's pretty."
"You told me not to pick anything sucky," Trowa pointed out. "See? I do listen."
"I'm not entirely sure that you're done being a brat." Quatre said.
"Neither am I. Will you forgive me if I let you win at darts?" Trowa asked.
"Maybe. Depends on the point spread."
Trowa chuckled to himself as they made their way over to the dartboard. They played a few rounds, and Trowa did indeed let Quatre win most of them, before getting bored with the game and heading back to their table to finish their sodas and pay the bill. The evening had gone fairly well, all in all. Quatre was grinning from ear to ear as they left the tiny pizzeria. Despite his complaining about Trowa's 'bratty' mood, he was really enjoying this playful side of him that he only all too rarely got to see. In a way, tonight was even more perfect than the night before had been, if only because they had finished their dinner uninterrupted.
He had tried and failed several times tonight to work up the nerve to ask Trowa for a dance. The atmosphere was entirely different than it had been at the restaurant, though, and the room had been full of teenagers. If it had been just them, the way it had the night before, maybe he could have gotten the courage from somewhere. Then again, with the way Trowa had looked at him in the car last night... Quatre sighed and swallowed hard. He'd almost let himself forget that. Maybe he ought to try and talk to Trowa about it, once they were back to the house.
After he paid the bill, they wandered out into the evening air. This part of the city was pretty crowded, and they'd had to park a few good blocks from the pizzeria. Quatre didn't mind, though. There was something oddly quaint and charming about wandering down the sidewalk beside Trowa, talking and laughing. It wasn't often that they got to spend time together just being friends and enjoying each other's company without the distractions of their lives interfering.
He had apparently been right about the low profile of the pizzeria being a deterrent to paparazzi. The best part of tonight had probably been the complete lack of interest in his love life. The tiny neighborhood pizza joint had been full of boys and girls near to their own age - people who were far too caught up in their own problems to worry about those of someone else. It had been a while since he or Trowa had taken a night off and just acted their age, for once. They'd been soldiers for far too long, and then Quatre's business life had interfered.
Though he wasn't all that sure about Trowa. Did he go out and just have fun, very often? As much as he hated to admit it, he wasn't really all that sure what Trowa typically did to entertain himself. It was even possible that he had a girlfriend back home, though Quatre firmly squished that possibility with the surety that /of course/ Trowa would tell him if he were in a relationship like that.
Then again...He hadn't told the other boy about /his/ relationships. Maybe that was why Trowa had been mad, before - because he hadn't been told about Matty - hadn't even been told when Quatre had first received the threat of blackmail. Rashid had known - he remembered giving that piece of information to Trowa - but he hadn't told his friend anything.
"You're awfully quiet, all of a sudden," Trowa said as they reached the car. "What's on your mind?"
"I wanted to talk to you about before," Quatre said quietly. He waited until they were both in the car before he continued. "Are you mad at me?" he asked.
Trowa hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. "Not really."
"Then it's not- I mean, you're not upset that-" Quatre fumbled with the bob of his key chain as he spoke, careful not to look at the other boy. "Does it bother you that I'm-"
"Of course not," Trowa interrupted.
Quatre heaved a sigh of relief and jammed the key into the ignition, starting the car, before pulling out into the street. "I didn't think so, but I couldn't help but worry... You seemed upset about something, last night."
"I was," Trowa said quietly. "I still am, I suppose."
When he didn't elaborate further, Quatre glanced over at him. Trowa was staring intently into the rearview mirror. There was a white car behind them. Quatre cursed himself for being so preoccupied. "Are we being tailed?" he asked.
"I think so."
Quatre's eyes narrowed and he pulled onto the next side street. The car followed. "Crap," he muttered. "You're not getting out of this," he promised. "We'll talk later. For now, just hold on."
Trowa obediently grabbed the 'oh shit' bar and held on tight as Quatre whipped around the next turn, sending the contents of the backseat flying to the floor. The car was an upscale but rather unimpressive model, but Duo had made a few 'modifications' to it on an earlier visit. Quatre was fairly confident that he could outrun and outmaneuver anything short of a small mobile suit. At the first possible opportunity, he spun the car completely around in the center of the road and sped back toward their pursuit. As they passed the white car, Quatre saw the man in the passenger side fumble to bring his camera into position. He missed his shot, however - they were simply moving too fast.
"What the hell is the matter with them?" Quatre demanded. He continued to weave in and out of traffic until he found a road that ran parallel to their original route.
"How do you think they found us?" Trowa asked. He released his white-knuckle grip on the bar over the door as the car slowed down, calmly smoothing his hair back into place.
"Matty. It had to have been Matty. I took him there, once. He knew it was my favorite." Quatre groaned and banged his fist on the steering wheel. "So this is all my fault, again. Do you think they were watching us while we were in the restaurant?"
"We'd have seen them," Trowa said confidently. "They were probably on their way there when they saw us and decided to follow."
"I'm checking the car for bugs when we get back," Quatre announced. "And if I find any, I'm prosecuting every tabloid in town until I get the right one. And I'm starting with whatever one that Johnson woman works for."
"At least she wasn't in the car." Trowa supplied. At that moment, Quatre's driveway came into view. Near the end of it, leaning against a light pole, was Ursula Johnson.
"Speak of the devil," Quatre said...and floored the accelerator.
"You could have warned me," Trowa complained as they sped past the driveway.
When Quatre looked over, Trowa was bracing himself with one hand and holding his head with the other. "Sorry," he said, sheepishly, and slowed down. "She just makes me so angry! And I didn't want to give her time to recognize us."
"Remind me never to ride with you when you're angry."
"I wasn't angry when we got into the car," Quatre huffed. Still, he acquiesced to Trowa's pleading look (how could he not?) and slowed down until he was once again within the speed limit.
"Where are we going now?" Trowa asked.
"A motel, or something. Somewhere low key. I need a break. I think we both need a break. This mess can wait until tomorrow."
Trowa nodded. "That sounds like a great idea, actually."
Quatre frowned as they came to a red light. "And then in the morning I'll call PR and-"
Suddenly, Trowa's hand was over his mouth. "No more planning for tonight," he insisted. "You're not allowed to think about any of this until morning. Even you need a break from stress every now and then, you know."
Quatre glared at him, but nodded. When Trowa removed his hand, he licked his lips, tasting the saltiness of his skin. "We /are/ going to talk, though," he said quietly. Even to his own ears, it sounded more like a question than a statement.
"If you want."
Quatre nodded. "I do. You just admitted that you were upset about something, so we need to talk about that. And-" He took a deep breath. He hadn't planned to say this, but it seemed right, somehow. He could hardly expect Trowa to own up if he didn't tell the other boy what had been on /his/ mind pretty much constantly since he had met him at the airport. Hell, be honest, he thought. It was the same thought that had been on his mind for nearly three years, now. "I have something I need to tell you, too."
Quatre's heart sped up at the thought, and he had to fight to keep his foot steady on the accelerator. They would have to wait and talk after they found a hotel, he decided. He'd been driving as if he were possessed, all evening, and he didn't want to press his luck by having this particular conversation in the car. There was no way he would be able to keep his mind on the road.
When they arrived at the motel, though, Quatre wound up arguing with the clerk for most of fifteen minutes because she wouldn't give him a room without seeing his identification. Quatre stubbornly refused, fearing that somehow it would get to the press that he had been seen in a cheap motel with a handsome man... That thought made him laugh, right in the middle of arguing with the woman. She blinked at him as if he were crazy, and once again demanded to see his ID.
Trowa saved the day when he came to see what was taking so long. He produced a perfect fake ID from somewhere and registered them under the name on the card. He left Quatre to finish the paperwork and headed on to their room. By the time Quatre had parked the car and located the room, Trowa was already in the shower.
Quatre kicked off his shoes and stripped to the waist before settling into one of the narrow twin beds and pulling the covers up to his chin. It was a little chilly in the room - he would make Trowa turn off the air conditioning when he came out of the bathroom; for now, Quatre was just too drained to get back up again. His intention was to wait for Trowa to return and then continue the conversation which had been interrupted by the impromptu car chase, but soon after lying down, he found was finding it difficult to keep his eyes open. He was drifting in a pleasant place between sleep and waking when he heard he door to the bathroom click and cracked his eyes.
Beautiful, wonderful, deathly sexy Trowa, gloriously nude and still wet from the shower, walked out of the bathroom in a great cloud of steam, toweling off as he came. He stopped and picked up his clothes from the floor but set them on the dresser instead of putting them on. After he ran the towel over his head a few more times, mussing his hair into unrecognizability, he shut off the window unit and climbed into his bed, switching off the lamp.
"Goodnight," he said.
Quatre flushed and pressed his face into the pillow, pretending to be asleep.
When he awoke that morning, Quatre had forgotten all about the public relations nightmare that his life had become, entirely too focused on the memory of naked Trowa for his own good. He had been so distracted over breakfast - coffee and Danishes in a small café near the motel - that Trowa had commented on it several times before it really registered that the other boy had said much at all. Then again, a part of his distraction was most likely due to outright exhaustion and perhaps even to temporary selective amnesia - if he didn't think about the problem, perhaps it would go away and he wouldn't have to deal with it anymore.
No such luck, of course. A brief search for music on the trip home had uncovered three 'news' channels that were tossing about theories on his 'disappearance.' At least there were no reporters on the lawn when they got back to the house. Quatre was glad for that.
He decided to put off his call to the public relations department of the Winner Corporation at least until he had formulated some basic plan of action. At the moment, he was still uncertain how to explain his involvement with Trowa. Perhaps it would be easiest to wait until the other boy went home before he issued a statement.
He pondered these and other great mysteries of the universe while he did a little much-needed housework. The furniture in the living room was dusty, and so he took care of that. Also, there was a good deal of laundry to do, both his and Trowa's. His part of the pile had been accumulating for a while, now. He was so busy with work during a normal week that he barely had time to get basic chores and errands done. Laundry had never been one of his favorite activities, and because of that he was quite behind.
When he finished the last of it, he brought a stack of it with him to the guest room where Trowa was staying. Clean clothes and towels were as good an excuse as any to start a conversation. He knocked quietly on the door before peaking inside, half afraid, half foolishly hoping that he would catch Trowa undressed again.
Trowa was laying (fully dressed) upon his bed when Quatre opened the door, reading a book. He looked up and nodded for Quatre to enter before marking his place and setting the book aside.
"I brought you some things," Quatre said as he entered. He set the stack of clothes and linens on top of the dresser and sat down on the bed beside Trowa. "I wanted to talk, too."
"I was wondering when you'd come by, after all the threatening you did last night," Trowa said as he sat up.
"Threatening?"
"You make me want to laugh, sometimes, when you give orders like that, because you sound just like you did during the war when a decision had to be made. Like a general commanding his troops. Or an executive in the boardroom," he added.
Quatre frowned. "I'm not giving orders, Trowa. I just want to know...What made you look at me like that the other night in the car? You seemed so angry..."
"I was," Trowa admitted. "I was angry at you for keeping such a huge part of your life from me. I was angry at myself for not knowing anyway. What kind of friend was I that I didn't even know about any of this? Your ex-boyfriend is threatening you, and not only have I never heard his name before, I didn't even know that you were gay. "
Quatre bowed his head. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm really sorry, but you have to understand how scared I was-"
"Scared? That I'd react badly, if I found out? I would have hoped that you had more faith in me than that, Quatre."
"I do. It's not that. I-" He broke off and swallowed heavily, steeling his courage. He had promised himself that he would do this, and it was time, damnit. It was also apparently the only way to make Trowa understand why he had kept him in the dark. "I was terrified that you'd think badly of me for sleeping with someone that I knew I couldn't love. Because...Because my heart was set on someone else." He stared vacantly at a potted plant that sat in the corner while he waited to see if Trowa would put two and two together. When the other boy made no response to his admission, however, he braced himself to continue. "Someone I've been in love with for a long, long time. And- I was afraid that you'd find out about that, too, and that it would affect our friendship. I never wanted things between us to get awkward. I would rather have kept you in the dark forever than ruined everything by telling you that I-" He stopped. Even now, he couldn't say the words. Not out loud. Not to Trowa.
"That was a date, that first night, wasn't it?" Trowa suddenly asked. When Quatre spun to face him, he ducked his head. "I thought - I thought that maybe it felt like one. I wasn't sure, though. I've never really been on a date, before."
"Do you want it to have been a date?" Quatre asked. He all but held his breath as he waited for Trowa's reply, but a long while passed without any answer. Finally, Quatre gave in. "It was whatever you wanted it to be, Trowa. That's the only answer I can give you."
Trowa was quiet for a while longer before he looked up to meet Quatre's eyes. "I think..."
They were very close, Quatre realized. Very close - separated by only inches, really, and sitting on the bed. Trowa's eyes were locked on his, preventing him from looking away even had he wanted to - which he didn't, of course. He couldn't help but tilt his head and lean forward a little, almost imperceptibly, in the vain hope that Trowa would kiss him. His eyes drifted to the side when Trowa blinked, long and slow, and he caught sight of something outside on the back lawn.
"I think..." Trowa repeated.
"NO!" Quatre shouted. He scrambled up and off the bed, dashing out of the room and down the hall to his own bedroom, where he yanked his old pistol from the bedside drawer and hurriedly jammed a clip into the magazine.
"Quatre?" Trowa called from down the hall.
"I'll be right back!" Quatre shouted back before hurrying for the back door. He marched across the patio and onto the grass, toward where Ursula Johnson was kneeling in the bushes with her camera. She snapped a few photos of him as he advanced on her, an then stood, backing slowly away. "What's up, toots?" She asked, her voice shaky.
"You're trespassing," Quatre informed her. "I'd be perfectly within my rights to shoot you."
Ursula cringed and turned to flee but he grabbed her camera by it's shoulder strap and ripped it from her arms, pitching her to the ground in the process. He fired several shots at the offending piece of equipment, blocking out Ursula's shrieks of fear and outrage. He picked up the camera again and ripped open the back panel, pulling the film out and exposing it to the light. Ursula was scuttling backward like a crawfish across the grass. "You keep ruining everything!" He shouted, flinging the camera at her and ignoring the feeble whimper of protest that she gave as she curled up in a defensive ball.
"She hasn't ruined anything," Trowa said behind him, his voice as wonderfully calm as it always was.
"She has!" Quatre shouted, near tears. He ripped the exposed film into tiny strips and then flung those at Ursula as well, silently willing her to die of a thousand paper cuts. He didn't think he'd ever been so angry since the war. First she'd ruined the evening that he'd tried so hard to make perfect. She had driven him away from his own home, the night before, and now here she was back again when he and Trowa were almost...were almost....
"She hasn't ruined anything," Trowa repeated. He grabbed Quatre by the arm and spun him around before planting a very passionate, very thorough, very public kiss on his startled mouth. Quatre clung to his shirt, his eyes wide with surprise, until Trowa released him. He stumbled back, nearly tripping over Ursula, and blinked at him in surprise while he tried to regain control of his breathing again.
"You didn't think I would put up with shit like this for anyone but you, did you?" Trowa asked. When Quatre just blinked at him, still trying to process the fact that /Trowa/ had just /kissed/ him, he bent and helped Ursula to her feet before handing her the badly mangled camera and eliciting an all to eager promise never to bother them again. She hurried across the lawn, not quite running, to her credit, to a white car parked across the street. When he turned around again, Quatre was grinning from ear to ear.
It did make sense, when he thought about it. Trowa's quiet supportiveness had been a godsend through this entire ordeal, helping to keep him sane in even his worst moments and even just now, like always, bringing him back from the brink of violent disaster.
"You do like me, then?" Quatre asked, the hope in his voice nearly a palpable thing.
Trowa shrugged and placed a hand on the small of his back, steering him back toward the house. "Of course I like you, Quatre," he said. "It's as simple and complicated as that." When they got back inside, he pushed Quatre in the general direction of the sofa and then set about closing the drapes. "I realized, a while ago, that I missed you. I'm not used to feeling things like that, so it took me a while to figure out what it meant." He moved on to the next window, then, carefully pulling the curtains to and blocking out all of the light from outside. "I realized that I care a lot about you - that you're on the of the most important people in my life."
Quatre's heart swelled with that simple statement.
"But I suppose I just never really thought about the possibility of us being more than friends - until this mess broke out, anyway. I'd never really thought about having a relationship with anyone. I guess I'm just an idiot - "
"You're not an idiot, Trowa," Quatre interrupted. He watched as Trowa moved on to the next window, carefully closing the curtains there, as well.
"I am. But we're not going to argue about that right now." He crossed the room to the last window, pulling the drapes closed and leaning against the frame, peering out of a little triangle of daylight.
"I think I've figured out that if I'm ever going to find love with anyone, it's going to be with you," Trowa said quietly. "You understand me better than anyone else. You make me smile, and you make me laugh - you make me happy just by being there. I think that's somewhere to start from."
Quatre smiled and drew his legs up under him on the couch. "I think so, too," he agreed.
"And I think I liked kissing you," Trowa admitted; this time his voice was almost inaudible.
"Is that why you shut the curtains?" Quatre asked, his eyes sparkling.
Trowa just nodded and turned with a little smile. "I didn't want to get interrupted again."
"Me either," Quatre breathed. He stood and crossed the room to where Trowa stood, tilting the other boy's head down and standing on tiptoe to press a gentle kiss to his lips. "I don't ever, ever want to be interrupted, again."
THE END.
Outtake: (I liked it, but it didn't fit what I wanted to happen, so I'm sharing it here instead of in the story)
"Quatre," Trowa said from behind him, his voice as wonderfully, perfectly calm as it always was. "What are you doing?"
"I'm not going to shoot her," Quatre assured him. He fired a few more rounds into the camera where it lay beside Ursula just to make sure it was sufficiently dead. "I'm just having a bit of stress relief. You should try it. It's rather calming."
^______________^
"Tell me more! Tell me more! Who's the king of your satellite castle?" - Dave Mathews Band, "Satellite"
Enquiring Minds
Quatre smiled as he watched Trowa sip his champagne. Forcing himself not to stare for too long, he dropped his eyes to his plate and went back to picking at his asparagus. It wasn't something he was particularly fond of, but Trowa liked it, and he would suffer through it. That thought made him smile even more.
"You really didn't have to go to all this trouble," Trowa said softly as he sat his glass down.
"I haven't seen you in ages - And what's the point of having money if you can't treat your friends to a night out, every now and then?"
Trowa shook his head. "When you came to visit me, last time, all I treated you to was ice cream."
"And it was the best damned ice cream I'd ever had," Quatre asserted. Trowa shook his head again, but smiled this time. "Are you enjoying your meal?"
"It's wonderful. Everything's delicious. This restaurant has a really nice atmosphere, too."
Quatre ducked his head and retreated from the candlelight to hide his blush. He'd had a long chat with the chef the night before, after Trowa had called from the spaceport to confirm that he would be visiting him at his home on earth, and had been assured that all of Trowa's favorites would be on the menu tonight. He'd bought out all of the balcony tables, assuring that they'd be alone, and asked for candlelight and some soft, romantic music, so it was no wonder to him that the atmosphere was nice. Trowa didn't have to know that, though. "It's a nice place, isn't it?" he asked, to cover the pause in conversation. "I'm so glad they had this table. The city is really beautiful from up here."
"It is," Trowa agreed. He picked up his fork again and returned to his meal, eating with a grace more like that of a born aristocrat than that of an orphan or mercenary. That was one of the many things that Quatre loved about him; despite his rough life, Trowa still did everything with that same refined grace. He was kind and polite, and very charming in his quiet way. When he'd first been introduced to formal dining, Quatre himself had been mystified by the wide variety of silverware and serving dishes, but Trowa had needed no instruction. As if by instinct, he chose the right utensil every time.
Trowa seemed a little preoccupied tonight, though, Quatre mused. He was watching the clouds move over the moon as he ate, pausing every now and then with his fork halfway to his mouth as if he were deep in thought.
"Is there something on your mind?" Quatre asked quietly, after a while.
Trowa shook his head and finished taking a bite. "I suppose I'm just a little jetlagged," he said. "I was thinking - oh, never mind."
"Now you have me curious," Quatre teased.
"It was something silly."
"No, really, I want to know. "
Trowa frowned and took another sip of his champagne. "Don't worry about it. It was nothing."
Quatre sighed. "Fine," he murmured, and went back to picking at his meal. He was too nervous to eat, anyway. Despite the need he felt to keep secret his efforts to make this evening perfect for Trowa, he knew that he was still being fairly transparent; one typically didn't take a friend out to such a fancy restaurant and insist on paying for everything, even if you hadn't seen them in a while. He couldn't quite make up his mind, though, as to whether or not he wanted Trowa to realize why he had wanted so badly to treat him to something nice. Though they'd never really talked about their feelings for each other, he knew that Trowa at least /cared/ about him. The depth of that emotion was hard to gauge, however. Was it tempered with attraction? He still wasn't sure. After three years of at least some degree of friendship, with all his empathy and insight and intelligence, Quatre still couldn't completely figure out what was going on in Trowa's heart and head.
Part of him wanted Trowa to wonder why his friend had taken him out on what was rather obviously something like a date. Part of him was terrified of the same thing. There were so many ways that Trowa could react to this simple meal, and despite all his careful planning and subtle manipulations, he still couldn't be sure what his response would be. Worse than that, he still couldn't be sure if he could keep the nerve to go through with what he'd been planning to do after dessert. It was simple enough, really, and could even possibly be received as nothing more than a friendly action - if Trowa were feeling especially dense. That was why Quatre had urged him to have as much champagne as he liked; maybe if he were a bit foggy-headed he would be less likely to take offense at the gesture.
Quatre was going to ask Trowa to dance.
He swallowed hard and blushed at the thought, retreating into shadow again. He was going to do it. He really was. It would be the first time he'd really attempted to make a romantic overture to the quiet boy, and the nervous tension was threatening to drive him mad. They'd had appetizers and salad already, and a beautiful, creamy-white gazpacho that he'd hardly touched. He was so nervous that he was afraid he'd be sick if he ate much at all. The butterflies in his stomach were already taking up all of the room
there.
He'd never started a relationship with anyone, before. Sure, he'd had boyfriends - lovers, even - but always they had been the one to make the first move, and none of his affairs had ever been very serious. For the most part, it had never even occurred to him to seek a relationship with any of them until they had brought it up. Far too much of his time had been spent daydreaming about beautiful, unattainable Trowa in the past years for him to be worried about other men. Really, tonight was the product of thousands of those daydreams that extended for almost as long as he had known Trowa.
It was kind of pathetic, actually. Quatre snorted into his glass.
"Something funny?"
Quatre quickly shook his head and took a gulp of the icy water to cool his rising blush. What was the /matter/ with him tonight?! He was never like this! But then, Trowa had always affected him like no one else could.
"You've hardly touched your food, and I'm almost done. You're making me feel like a pig."
Quatre laughed. "Don't be ridiculous."
"You've taken about three bites in the last ten minutes. What are you so preoccupied about?"
"You wouldn't tell me what you were thinking about. Why should I tell you what I was thinking about?"
It was Trowa's turn to laugh. "It was nothing, Quatre. I was being silly. For a minute or two, I thought maybe..." He trailed off. "Well, it doesn't matter."
Quatre felt the butterflies in his stomach spring to life again. The cool night air seemed to turn almost unbearably hot against his skin. He had a feeling that he knew exactly what Trowa had been thinking. He couldn't decide whether to be glad or upset that he had brushed the possibility away. 'Silly,' he'd called it. That probably wasn't a good sign. Maybe he shouldn't ask him to dance, after all.
"Something's bothering you," Trowa said. Quatre shook his head, but he pressed on. "You've been picking at your food all evening."
"I guess I'm just not very hungry," he mumbled, reaching again for his water glass. His hand was shaking a bit, he noticed. When he gripped the glass, it sloshed just a little, dampening the tablecloth.
"Quatre," Trowa said, prying his hand from its death-grip on the glass and taking it in his own. "I'd like to think you could tell me if there was something the matter."
Quatre froze, suddenly even warmer than before. Trowa was looking at him with the quiet intensity that he had always found completely irresistible. More than anything, it was that which had drawn him to the other boy in the first place - that look of dogged determination. Trowa wanted to know what was the matter, and he was going to find out, damn it, come hell or high water. Quatre opened his mouth and took a breath, trying desperately to decide whether to just tell him the truth and be done with it or to make up some story about work stress or his family...
He never got the words out, though. There was a bright flash of light that left spots in his eyes, and then Trowa released his hand and turned in his seat. "What the hell?" he murmured.
Quatre spun in his seat to see what was going on. There was a young woman of African descent leaning against a potted fern, nearby, holding a rather large and expensive-looking camera. "Don't let me ruin the mood, now, sweethearts," she said with a wink.
"What on earth are you doing?" Quatre demanded. He was too shocked to do much of anything else.
"What's a girl supposed to do when she's treated to a Kodak moment like that one?" the woman asked. She grinned at them and raised the camera again. "Hold his hand again, toots - I'm not sure if I got the light setting just right. It's awfully dim out here. Candlelight's romantic, and all, but it's hell on my light meter."
Quatre just blinked at her, his mouth opening and closing like that of a landed fish.
The woman seemed to give up on getting another picture of them and instead dragged a chair from another table to sit beside him. "Tell me, Quatre," she began, snagging a breadstick from their basket. "Is this the fellow you dumped Matt Lightfoot for? I can't decide if it's an improvement or not. What's your name, sweetie?"
"WHAT?!" Quatre shrieked, jumping to his feet. "How-?"
"Oh, Matty and I are just the best of friends," she said with a grin. "We tell each other positively /everything/."
Quatre glanced quickly to Trowa. The other boy seemed to be trying to decide whether to be stunned or angry at the woman's brazenness. His eyes met Quatre's for a moment, and he nodded. Shoving back his chair, he stood and walked hurriedly back into the restaurant.
Where the hell was he /going?/
"Sorry if I scared off your date. Don't know my own strength, sometimes."
Quatre felt like he wanted to cry. Everything had been /perfect/ until this woman had shown up and ruined everything. Anger boiled up inside him, and he snatched the breadstick from the woman's hands. "I don't know who you think you are-" he said, pulling himself up to his full height.
"Ursula Johnson, sweetie. I've got a card around here some-"
"And I don't particularly care," Quatre snapped, cutting her off. "All I want is for you to leave before I have to call the manager."
"Manager's out, honey," the woman said. She fished a half-squished pack of cigarettes from her jacket pocket and casually stuck one in her mouth. "Think I would have been stupid enough to try a stunt like this if he wasn't? Now tell me," she began as she used one of the elegant white tapers from the centerpiece to light her cigarette, "How is he in the sack, really?"
Quatre's mouth fell open and his hand swung back without his really thinking about it. Luckily, Trowa was there somehow to catch his wrist. "That'll only make things worse," he said softly. He had the same quiet resolve in his eyes as before. "Come on. We're getting out of here."
"But she-" he protested.
"Let him handle it," Trowa said. Quatre looked over his shoulder to see a darkly-suited man watching from the doorway. "I remembered passing him on the way in and thinking that he looked like a cop. I was right."
"Thank God," he murmured as he obediently let Trowa lead him away from the table.
"That's so /sweet!/" Ursula cried before the door closed behind them to muffle her voice. "Rushing to your rescue like that...Oh he's a /catch/ Quatre! I'd keep him!"
"I think that woman was insane," Quatre mumbled as they wove through the tables toward the exit.
"I think she was a reporter," Trowa said.
"I've never seen any reporter act like that!" Quatre exclaimed. "She took our breadsticks! She blew /smoke/ at me-"
"Calm down..."
"And she ruined a perfectly wonderful dinner!"
"Let's just pay and get out of here," Trowa suggested. "You can complain in the car."
"I already took care of it," Quatre mumbled. He let Trowa open the door for him and walked out into the night, rubbing his temples. "I still think she was insane."
"She looked familiar, though. I think she works for one of those trashy magazines that Catherine reads."
"God, I hope not. I hate reporters. I really do. Especially that kind."
"What else could she be?" Trowa asked. He opened the passenger door for Quatre and touched his arm for a moment as he climbed inside. Somehow, it didn't really register to Quatre that this was /his/ car, and he really ought to be the one driving. "Some kind of crazed fan? We know everyone loves you, Quatre, but I don't know if anyone would go that far to get your autograph." He gave Quatre a lopsided grin as he swatted his leg and pulled the door shut. When he climbed into the driver's seat, though, he was serious again. "She hasn't bothered you before, has she?"
"No," Quatre said. He sighed again and slumped down against the door.
"Have you been getting letters?"
"I always get letters," Quatre grumbled. "No," he said, forestalling Trowa's next question. "I haven't been getting any weird ones, and no suspicious packages. I don't think she's stalking me. I think I'd rather that than reporters, though."
"Hm," Trowa said, and then he was silent. He held out his hand for Quatre's keys, which he gladly handed over.
Quatre stared sullenly out at the road for a while until his eye was drawn to Trowa again. The boy was like a magnet for his attention. Quatre sighed. He was dying to ask. He could tell. The other boy was deathly curious about the reporter-woman's insinuations, but he didn't seem to want to be the one to bring it up. And he was probably afraid to offend him.
"Matty was - Matty was a mistake," Quatre said quickly. Trowa blinked once but didn't give any other indication that he'd heard. Good. This would be easier if they weren't looking at each other. "We only - I don't know if dated is the right word...we were together for a few weeks. He was handsome and charismatic, but there just wasn't anything between us. It was never really very serious."
He fell quiet again, trying to gauge Trowa's reaction to the information he'd given by the quality of his silence. After a while, he gave up and pressed on. "He was caught embezzling from the corporation and threatened to blackmail me if I went through with the charges. That was ages after we broke up. I didn't think he'd have the balls to do it, but he apparently did." Quatre sighed and hid his face in his hands. "I'm sorry I ruined dinner, Trowa. I wanted tonight to be special."
"Don't worry about it," Trowa said softly. Quatre's eyes flashed to his face when he spoke. There was something tense and a little uncomfortable about the way he was sitting.
"Still..." Quatre began, but trailed off. What was he supposed to say? Maybe if he'd planned better, this wouldn't have happened? He was still silent as they pulled into his darkened driveway and into the garage, more numb than anything, and had to be prodded before he remembered to open his door. Trowa opened his mouth as he did, but hesitated on his words.
"What?" Quatre asked.
"You never told me that you're gay," Trowa said softly. His eyes met Quatre's for just a moment, and then he looked away before hurrying out of the car and up the walk.
Quatre's heart constricted. What had /that/ look been? "Trowa?" he called, following him, but the other boy was already letting himself inside.
"I'm drained, Quatre," Trowa said quietly. He sounded mildly exasperated, though Quatre couldn't figure out why he would be. "The jetlag is catching up with me, and right about now, all I really want is a hot shower and a bed, not necessarily in that order."
"I - okay. Um. Goodnight."
Trowa nodded without looking at him and disappeared inside. By the time Quatre made it up the stone steps and through the door, he had apparently vanished into the guest room.
"Crap," he whispered. This was not good. This was most definitely not good.
The next morning, though, things seemed to be back to normal. Trowa was his usual non-morning-person self, but he seemed a bit more amiable than he had been when they had gone to bed. He teased Quatre a bit about his cooking and then disappeared behind the paper with the promise to return after he'd consumed a few cups of coffee. Quatre was half-afraid, however, that when he finally regained full consciousness he might revert to his odd mood of last night. To quiet his nerves, he bustled around the kitchen, cleaning things that probably didn't need to be cleaned then cleaning them again, prompting Trowa to look at him rather strangely over the metro section. Quatre had just about made up his mind to go to some other room and wait for Trowa to speak to him when he heard Trowa's mug hit the table rather violently. When he turned, the other boy was staring at the paper, his brows furrowed in confused concentration.
"What is it?" Quatre asked. He crossed the room and looked at the page upside down from across the table. It was the society page - he could tell that much - but -
Crap. Crap, crap, crap.
"Earthsphere's Most Eligible Bachelor, Taken?" Trowa read out. He folded the paper and looked at Quatre with his eyebrow raised. "I thought you were ranked fifth or sixth?"
"You keep up with that?" Quatre asked, startled.
Trowa shrugged. "Cathy does. And I usually pay attention when I see news articles about friends. Which, with our bunch, is actually pretty often..."
"I don't even know what they're saying about me, now. I usually just try to steer clear of stuff like that. I guess it makes sense though that they'd have bumped me up a bit when I turned eighteen."
Look at this," Trowa said, handing him the paper. "They have our picture and everything. I suppose it's the one that woman took, last night."
They certainly looked like lovers, Quatre thought when he saw the picture. He considered clipping it out when Trowa wasn't looking and stashing it away somewhere. Despite Ursula's fears about the lighting conditions, the picture had come out fine. Trowa was holding his hand and leaning across the table toward him, in the process of speaking. The emotion of the moment was captured clearly on his own face - he'd always been far too photogenic for his own good.
"Trowa," Quatre said once he'd skimmed the article. There was brief mention of his almost striking the photographer, which probably wouldn't help matters. "I'm sorry you got dragged into this - if I hadn't insisted on taking you out-"
"It's okay," Trowa said quickly, rising from his chair. "I need to call Cathy and do some damage control before she starts ringing us off the hook, though. They're a few hours earlier, and I'd be surprised if she hadn't seen something about it." He carried his plate to the sink and then wandered over to the vidphone, smiling before he pressed the preprogrammed button that would enter his own contact code.
"This is such a mess," Quatre said, taking Trowa's seat and collapsing with his head in his hands. "I'm really sorry."
"I told you it was okay," Trowa said while he waited for the call to go through. "You're the one who has to worry. You've got some kind of public relations department, don't you?"
"They'd probably want to sue for slander," Quatre muttered. "Which I can't do, since it's all true." He looked down at the society page and the incriminating photo. "The stuff about Matt, I mean," he amended.
"Trowa Barton!" Catherine shrieked from the vidscreen.
"Hi, sis..." Trowa said sheepishly.
"You could have /told/ me, you know! I'm only your /sister/!"
Oi...Quatre let his head drop to the paper with a thunk. Trowa's sister was going to kill him. He was sure of that. Whether Trowa managed to convince her that the photo had been taken out of context was entirely irrelevant. He was dead either way. Either he'd corrupted her darling baby brother, prompting him to lie to her about the whole ordeal, or he'd embarrassed him by means of his far too public lifestyle. At least Trowa didn't seem to be mad anymore. Thank heaven for small favors.
"It's not what you're thinking, Cathy..."
"How long? At least tell me how long? I feel like an idiot for not figuring out before..."
Trowa looked over his shoulder, back to where Quatre was slumped on the table. "Help," he mouthed. Quatre just shrugged helplessly and fled toward the living room. He could still hear her voice from the kitchen.
"Is he there? I want to talk to him. Quatre! Can you hear me? You hurt him and I swear I'll rip your balls off and feed them to the lions!"
Quatre winced. That was an image he could most certainly have lived without. He heard nothing from her after that outburst - apparently Trowa had managed to calm her down at least to the point of rational conversation. Sighing, he laid down on the couch and picked up the remote. Maybe he could find something on the vid that would distract him.
Far from distracting, though, what he found on the vid was even more disturbing than what had been in the paper this morning. He flipped through a series of frequencies, hoping blindly for a nature documentary or history program - maybe even some real news. Instead, all he could find was trash. With a groan, Quatre turned the vidscreen off again.
"I think I calmed her down," Trowa said as he entered the room. He came to a stop behind the couch and looked down at Quatre with concern. "Are you okay?" he asked. "I don't think she meant it, if that's what you're worried about."
"Of course she meant it." Quatre grumbled. "Your sister hates me."
"She doesn't hate you."
"She does! She always yells at me."
"Quatre, she doesn't hate you. She..." he blushed and looked away. "...Congratulated me, actually, after she was done being mad at me for not telling her anything."
Quatre blinked. "Really?"
Trowa nodded and asked with a gesture if he could sit down. Quatre drew up his legs to make room for him on the couch and he settled in beside him. "I told her what happened with that crazy reporter woman. I think she's off to murder her, at the moment. I reminded her to feed the body to the lions so that the cops couldn't find it."
Quatre let his head fall back and laughed, bright and clear. It was the first he'd really laughed since the woman had ruined their 'date' the night before, and it felt liberating. Maybe this would all blow over in a day or two. He could always hope, anyway. Trowa smiled down at him and pulled the remote from his hand, turning the vidscreen on again to idly flip between channels. It was a restless habit of his that Quatre had noticed before.
"I should warn you-" Quatre started.
"Allegations of satellite mogul Quatre Raberba Winner's homosexuality have yet to be refuted..." the woman on the vid told them. Trowa quickly changed the channel.
"...seen having dinner last night with a young man..."
Click.
"...reportedly threatened news investigator Ursula Johnson..."
Click.
"...since his eighteenth birthday, has been considered by many to be the most eligible bachelor in the... "
Trowa hit the mute button and dropped the remote as if it had burned him. "Why is this such a big deal?"
"I don't know!" Quatre wailed. He turned and buried his face in the cushions that lined the back of the couch. "'It's all that evil woman's fault. And Matty's, of course. And mine-"
"This isn't your fault."
"It is! I was such an idiot, Trowa! I thought he really liked me for /me/, when all he was after was money. Money and sex," he amended, frowning. "I should have seen this coming. Rashid always warned me that all it would take would be one vindictive boyfriend-"
"Rashid knew?"
Quatre curled into an even smaller ball. "Of course Rashid knew. Rashid knows me better than anyone, I think. I didn't tell him about Matt until he threatened me, but he knew everything else."
Trowa was silent for a while. "You know," he finally said, "All the tabloid channels are in a row. It's probably not as bad as we've been thinking."
Quatre snorted. "That's what you think." He sat up again and took the remote from Trowa's lap. "Look at this." A quick press of a few buttons, and they were watching a rotund man with a waxed mustache and a bad French accent as he arranged ingredients on a marble countertop.
"...now for dessert," the man was saying, "we will be making a light vanilla mousse, to be served with brandied cherries."
"What's wrong with that?" Trowa asked. "That sounds really good. I like vanilla mousse."
"I know you like vanilla mousse! He knows you like vanilla mousse! We were going to have it for dessert, last night, before that woman showed up. He's gone through everything I'd ordered!"
Trowa blinked and furrowed his brow. "You'd ordered dessert, already?"
"I knew it was your favorite," Quatre said sheepishly. "That doesn't matter. The point is, I don't think we should leave the house for a few days. There's going to be paparazzi all over the place."
"Wouldn't that just give them more to gossip about?" Trowa asked. Quatre turned beet-red and tried to hide in the pillows again. "Really, though, you don't have anything to hide, so why hide?"
"Because they'll twist whatever I say or do until it sounds sordid! Look at last night - I couldn't even take an old friend out to dinner without the whole damned world wondering what I was really up to."
"Being a celebrity sucks, doesn't it?" Trowa asked, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "I can't imagine 'Earthsphere's Most Eligible Bachelor' is a title that sits well with you."
"Of course it isn't!" Quatre moaned. He smacked Trowa hard in the chest with a pillow and glared sternly at him. "Stop teasing!" When Trowa refused to look properly contrite, he hauled off and hit him with the pillow again. "Brat."
"I'm a brat, now? You're the rich one."
"You don't have to be rich to be a brat," Quatre said in a huff. He collapsed against the back of the couch, clutching the pillow in his hands.
"I thought you liked it when I teased you," Trowa said softly. Quatre felt himself flush at the words. Trowa probably hadn't noticed the innuendo hidden in that statement, but Quatre couldn't help it. He glared at the other boy and climbed from the couch, headed for his room. "Let me know when you're done being a brat," he tossed over his shoulder, "And we'll go out for pizza. I know a great place where they won't find us."
"You anticipate me being a brat until lunch?"
"Or dinner, maybe."
"What am I supposed to do until then?" Trowa asked. "Isn't the host supposed to make sure his guest doesn't get bored?"
"Try the vid," Quatre said with a smirk. "There has to be something on."
"That was really good."
"I told you they had awesome pizza," Quatre said. "See? You should listen to me."
"I do listen to you. Most of the time. When you aren't being weird and passive-aggressive."
Quatre choked on his coke. "What?"
"Nothing. Look - they have a jukebox," Trowa said. He wiped his hands on a napkin and dropped it on the table before scooting out of the vinyl booth. "Come on."
"Forget the jukebox. What did you-" Quatre found himself suddenly being dragged from his own booth by his wrist. "Trowa!"
"I left my wallet at your place. Spare some change for a lowly circus clown?"
Quatre grumbled but did as he was asked, fishing a handful of coins out of his pocket. "You'd better not pick anything sucky."
Trowa just smiled as he leaned over the ancient contraption, his skin turned odd colors by the florescent tubing. "I bet I can beat you at darts."
"I'd be an idiot to take that bet, considering what your sister does for a living."
"You're a good shot, too, though," Trowa supplied. He dropped a few of Quatre's quarters into the machine and punched some buttons before giving it a good smack with the heel of his hand. Quatre watched in fascination as a record dropped onto the spindle and started playing. He had been expecting something garish and juvenile, but was surprised when soft guitar strains accompanied by violin, saxophone and drums began to drift from the speakers on the front panel.
"That's pretty."
"You told me not to pick anything sucky," Trowa pointed out. "See? I do listen."
"I'm not entirely sure that you're done being a brat." Quatre said.
"Neither am I. Will you forgive me if I let you win at darts?" Trowa asked.
"Maybe. Depends on the point spread."
Trowa chuckled to himself as they made their way over to the dartboard. They played a few rounds, and Trowa did indeed let Quatre win most of them, before getting bored with the game and heading back to their table to finish their sodas and pay the bill. The evening had gone fairly well, all in all. Quatre was grinning from ear to ear as they left the tiny pizzeria. Despite his complaining about Trowa's 'bratty' mood, he was really enjoying this playful side of him that he only all too rarely got to see. In a way, tonight was even more perfect than the night before had been, if only because they had finished their dinner uninterrupted.
He had tried and failed several times tonight to work up the nerve to ask Trowa for a dance. The atmosphere was entirely different than it had been at the restaurant, though, and the room had been full of teenagers. If it had been just them, the way it had the night before, maybe he could have gotten the courage from somewhere. Then again, with the way Trowa had looked at him in the car last night... Quatre sighed and swallowed hard. He'd almost let himself forget that. Maybe he ought to try and talk to Trowa about it, once they were back to the house.
After he paid the bill, they wandered out into the evening air. This part of the city was pretty crowded, and they'd had to park a few good blocks from the pizzeria. Quatre didn't mind, though. There was something oddly quaint and charming about wandering down the sidewalk beside Trowa, talking and laughing. It wasn't often that they got to spend time together just being friends and enjoying each other's company without the distractions of their lives interfering.
He had apparently been right about the low profile of the pizzeria being a deterrent to paparazzi. The best part of tonight had probably been the complete lack of interest in his love life. The tiny neighborhood pizza joint had been full of boys and girls near to their own age - people who were far too caught up in their own problems to worry about those of someone else. It had been a while since he or Trowa had taken a night off and just acted their age, for once. They'd been soldiers for far too long, and then Quatre's business life had interfered.
Though he wasn't all that sure about Trowa. Did he go out and just have fun, very often? As much as he hated to admit it, he wasn't really all that sure what Trowa typically did to entertain himself. It was even possible that he had a girlfriend back home, though Quatre firmly squished that possibility with the surety that /of course/ Trowa would tell him if he were in a relationship like that.
Then again...He hadn't told the other boy about /his/ relationships. Maybe that was why Trowa had been mad, before - because he hadn't been told about Matty - hadn't even been told when Quatre had first received the threat of blackmail. Rashid had known - he remembered giving that piece of information to Trowa - but he hadn't told his friend anything.
"You're awfully quiet, all of a sudden," Trowa said as they reached the car. "What's on your mind?"
"I wanted to talk to you about before," Quatre said quietly. He waited until they were both in the car before he continued. "Are you mad at me?" he asked.
Trowa hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. "Not really."
"Then it's not- I mean, you're not upset that-" Quatre fumbled with the bob of his key chain as he spoke, careful not to look at the other boy. "Does it bother you that I'm-"
"Of course not," Trowa interrupted.
Quatre heaved a sigh of relief and jammed the key into the ignition, starting the car, before pulling out into the street. "I didn't think so, but I couldn't help but worry... You seemed upset about something, last night."
"I was," Trowa said quietly. "I still am, I suppose."
When he didn't elaborate further, Quatre glanced over at him. Trowa was staring intently into the rearview mirror. There was a white car behind them. Quatre cursed himself for being so preoccupied. "Are we being tailed?" he asked.
"I think so."
Quatre's eyes narrowed and he pulled onto the next side street. The car followed. "Crap," he muttered. "You're not getting out of this," he promised. "We'll talk later. For now, just hold on."
Trowa obediently grabbed the 'oh shit' bar and held on tight as Quatre whipped around the next turn, sending the contents of the backseat flying to the floor. The car was an upscale but rather unimpressive model, but Duo had made a few 'modifications' to it on an earlier visit. Quatre was fairly confident that he could outrun and outmaneuver anything short of a small mobile suit. At the first possible opportunity, he spun the car completely around in the center of the road and sped back toward their pursuit. As they passed the white car, Quatre saw the man in the passenger side fumble to bring his camera into position. He missed his shot, however - they were simply moving too fast.
"What the hell is the matter with them?" Quatre demanded. He continued to weave in and out of traffic until he found a road that ran parallel to their original route.
"How do you think they found us?" Trowa asked. He released his white-knuckle grip on the bar over the door as the car slowed down, calmly smoothing his hair back into place.
"Matty. It had to have been Matty. I took him there, once. He knew it was my favorite." Quatre groaned and banged his fist on the steering wheel. "So this is all my fault, again. Do you think they were watching us while we were in the restaurant?"
"We'd have seen them," Trowa said confidently. "They were probably on their way there when they saw us and decided to follow."
"I'm checking the car for bugs when we get back," Quatre announced. "And if I find any, I'm prosecuting every tabloid in town until I get the right one. And I'm starting with whatever one that Johnson woman works for."
"At least she wasn't in the car." Trowa supplied. At that moment, Quatre's driveway came into view. Near the end of it, leaning against a light pole, was Ursula Johnson.
"Speak of the devil," Quatre said...and floored the accelerator.
"You could have warned me," Trowa complained as they sped past the driveway.
When Quatre looked over, Trowa was bracing himself with one hand and holding his head with the other. "Sorry," he said, sheepishly, and slowed down. "She just makes me so angry! And I didn't want to give her time to recognize us."
"Remind me never to ride with you when you're angry."
"I wasn't angry when we got into the car," Quatre huffed. Still, he acquiesced to Trowa's pleading look (how could he not?) and slowed down until he was once again within the speed limit.
"Where are we going now?" Trowa asked.
"A motel, or something. Somewhere low key. I need a break. I think we both need a break. This mess can wait until tomorrow."
Trowa nodded. "That sounds like a great idea, actually."
Quatre frowned as they came to a red light. "And then in the morning I'll call PR and-"
Suddenly, Trowa's hand was over his mouth. "No more planning for tonight," he insisted. "You're not allowed to think about any of this until morning. Even you need a break from stress every now and then, you know."
Quatre glared at him, but nodded. When Trowa removed his hand, he licked his lips, tasting the saltiness of his skin. "We /are/ going to talk, though," he said quietly. Even to his own ears, it sounded more like a question than a statement.
"If you want."
Quatre nodded. "I do. You just admitted that you were upset about something, so we need to talk about that. And-" He took a deep breath. He hadn't planned to say this, but it seemed right, somehow. He could hardly expect Trowa to own up if he didn't tell the other boy what had been on /his/ mind pretty much constantly since he had met him at the airport. Hell, be honest, he thought. It was the same thought that had been on his mind for nearly three years, now. "I have something I need to tell you, too."
Quatre's heart sped up at the thought, and he had to fight to keep his foot steady on the accelerator. They would have to wait and talk after they found a hotel, he decided. He'd been driving as if he were possessed, all evening, and he didn't want to press his luck by having this particular conversation in the car. There was no way he would be able to keep his mind on the road.
When they arrived at the motel, though, Quatre wound up arguing with the clerk for most of fifteen minutes because she wouldn't give him a room without seeing his identification. Quatre stubbornly refused, fearing that somehow it would get to the press that he had been seen in a cheap motel with a handsome man... That thought made him laugh, right in the middle of arguing with the woman. She blinked at him as if he were crazy, and once again demanded to see his ID.
Trowa saved the day when he came to see what was taking so long. He produced a perfect fake ID from somewhere and registered them under the name on the card. He left Quatre to finish the paperwork and headed on to their room. By the time Quatre had parked the car and located the room, Trowa was already in the shower.
Quatre kicked off his shoes and stripped to the waist before settling into one of the narrow twin beds and pulling the covers up to his chin. It was a little chilly in the room - he would make Trowa turn off the air conditioning when he came out of the bathroom; for now, Quatre was just too drained to get back up again. His intention was to wait for Trowa to return and then continue the conversation which had been interrupted by the impromptu car chase, but soon after lying down, he found was finding it difficult to keep his eyes open. He was drifting in a pleasant place between sleep and waking when he heard he door to the bathroom click and cracked his eyes.
Beautiful, wonderful, deathly sexy Trowa, gloriously nude and still wet from the shower, walked out of the bathroom in a great cloud of steam, toweling off as he came. He stopped and picked up his clothes from the floor but set them on the dresser instead of putting them on. After he ran the towel over his head a few more times, mussing his hair into unrecognizability, he shut off the window unit and climbed into his bed, switching off the lamp.
"Goodnight," he said.
Quatre flushed and pressed his face into the pillow, pretending to be asleep.
When he awoke that morning, Quatre had forgotten all about the public relations nightmare that his life had become, entirely too focused on the memory of naked Trowa for his own good. He had been so distracted over breakfast - coffee and Danishes in a small café near the motel - that Trowa had commented on it several times before it really registered that the other boy had said much at all. Then again, a part of his distraction was most likely due to outright exhaustion and perhaps even to temporary selective amnesia - if he didn't think about the problem, perhaps it would go away and he wouldn't have to deal with it anymore.
No such luck, of course. A brief search for music on the trip home had uncovered three 'news' channels that were tossing about theories on his 'disappearance.' At least there were no reporters on the lawn when they got back to the house. Quatre was glad for that.
He decided to put off his call to the public relations department of the Winner Corporation at least until he had formulated some basic plan of action. At the moment, he was still uncertain how to explain his involvement with Trowa. Perhaps it would be easiest to wait until the other boy went home before he issued a statement.
He pondered these and other great mysteries of the universe while he did a little much-needed housework. The furniture in the living room was dusty, and so he took care of that. Also, there was a good deal of laundry to do, both his and Trowa's. His part of the pile had been accumulating for a while, now. He was so busy with work during a normal week that he barely had time to get basic chores and errands done. Laundry had never been one of his favorite activities, and because of that he was quite behind.
When he finished the last of it, he brought a stack of it with him to the guest room where Trowa was staying. Clean clothes and towels were as good an excuse as any to start a conversation. He knocked quietly on the door before peaking inside, half afraid, half foolishly hoping that he would catch Trowa undressed again.
Trowa was laying (fully dressed) upon his bed when Quatre opened the door, reading a book. He looked up and nodded for Quatre to enter before marking his place and setting the book aside.
"I brought you some things," Quatre said as he entered. He set the stack of clothes and linens on top of the dresser and sat down on the bed beside Trowa. "I wanted to talk, too."
"I was wondering when you'd come by, after all the threatening you did last night," Trowa said as he sat up.
"Threatening?"
"You make me want to laugh, sometimes, when you give orders like that, because you sound just like you did during the war when a decision had to be made. Like a general commanding his troops. Or an executive in the boardroom," he added.
Quatre frowned. "I'm not giving orders, Trowa. I just want to know...What made you look at me like that the other night in the car? You seemed so angry..."
"I was," Trowa admitted. "I was angry at you for keeping such a huge part of your life from me. I was angry at myself for not knowing anyway. What kind of friend was I that I didn't even know about any of this? Your ex-boyfriend is threatening you, and not only have I never heard his name before, I didn't even know that you were gay. "
Quatre bowed his head. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm really sorry, but you have to understand how scared I was-"
"Scared? That I'd react badly, if I found out? I would have hoped that you had more faith in me than that, Quatre."
"I do. It's not that. I-" He broke off and swallowed heavily, steeling his courage. He had promised himself that he would do this, and it was time, damnit. It was also apparently the only way to make Trowa understand why he had kept him in the dark. "I was terrified that you'd think badly of me for sleeping with someone that I knew I couldn't love. Because...Because my heart was set on someone else." He stared vacantly at a potted plant that sat in the corner while he waited to see if Trowa would put two and two together. When the other boy made no response to his admission, however, he braced himself to continue. "Someone I've been in love with for a long, long time. And- I was afraid that you'd find out about that, too, and that it would affect our friendship. I never wanted things between us to get awkward. I would rather have kept you in the dark forever than ruined everything by telling you that I-" He stopped. Even now, he couldn't say the words. Not out loud. Not to Trowa.
"That was a date, that first night, wasn't it?" Trowa suddenly asked. When Quatre spun to face him, he ducked his head. "I thought - I thought that maybe it felt like one. I wasn't sure, though. I've never really been on a date, before."
"Do you want it to have been a date?" Quatre asked. He all but held his breath as he waited for Trowa's reply, but a long while passed without any answer. Finally, Quatre gave in. "It was whatever you wanted it to be, Trowa. That's the only answer I can give you."
Trowa was quiet for a while longer before he looked up to meet Quatre's eyes. "I think..."
They were very close, Quatre realized. Very close - separated by only inches, really, and sitting on the bed. Trowa's eyes were locked on his, preventing him from looking away even had he wanted to - which he didn't, of course. He couldn't help but tilt his head and lean forward a little, almost imperceptibly, in the vain hope that Trowa would kiss him. His eyes drifted to the side when Trowa blinked, long and slow, and he caught sight of something outside on the back lawn.
"I think..." Trowa repeated.
"NO!" Quatre shouted. He scrambled up and off the bed, dashing out of the room and down the hall to his own bedroom, where he yanked his old pistol from the bedside drawer and hurriedly jammed a clip into the magazine.
"Quatre?" Trowa called from down the hall.
"I'll be right back!" Quatre shouted back before hurrying for the back door. He marched across the patio and onto the grass, toward where Ursula Johnson was kneeling in the bushes with her camera. She snapped a few photos of him as he advanced on her, an then stood, backing slowly away. "What's up, toots?" She asked, her voice shaky.
"You're trespassing," Quatre informed her. "I'd be perfectly within my rights to shoot you."
Ursula cringed and turned to flee but he grabbed her camera by it's shoulder strap and ripped it from her arms, pitching her to the ground in the process. He fired several shots at the offending piece of equipment, blocking out Ursula's shrieks of fear and outrage. He picked up the camera again and ripped open the back panel, pulling the film out and exposing it to the light. Ursula was scuttling backward like a crawfish across the grass. "You keep ruining everything!" He shouted, flinging the camera at her and ignoring the feeble whimper of protest that she gave as she curled up in a defensive ball.
"She hasn't ruined anything," Trowa said behind him, his voice as wonderfully calm as it always was.
"She has!" Quatre shouted, near tears. He ripped the exposed film into tiny strips and then flung those at Ursula as well, silently willing her to die of a thousand paper cuts. He didn't think he'd ever been so angry since the war. First she'd ruined the evening that he'd tried so hard to make perfect. She had driven him away from his own home, the night before, and now here she was back again when he and Trowa were almost...were almost....
"She hasn't ruined anything," Trowa repeated. He grabbed Quatre by the arm and spun him around before planting a very passionate, very thorough, very public kiss on his startled mouth. Quatre clung to his shirt, his eyes wide with surprise, until Trowa released him. He stumbled back, nearly tripping over Ursula, and blinked at him in surprise while he tried to regain control of his breathing again.
"You didn't think I would put up with shit like this for anyone but you, did you?" Trowa asked. When Quatre just blinked at him, still trying to process the fact that /Trowa/ had just /kissed/ him, he bent and helped Ursula to her feet before handing her the badly mangled camera and eliciting an all to eager promise never to bother them again. She hurried across the lawn, not quite running, to her credit, to a white car parked across the street. When he turned around again, Quatre was grinning from ear to ear.
It did make sense, when he thought about it. Trowa's quiet supportiveness had been a godsend through this entire ordeal, helping to keep him sane in even his worst moments and even just now, like always, bringing him back from the brink of violent disaster.
"You do like me, then?" Quatre asked, the hope in his voice nearly a palpable thing.
Trowa shrugged and placed a hand on the small of his back, steering him back toward the house. "Of course I like you, Quatre," he said. "It's as simple and complicated as that." When they got back inside, he pushed Quatre in the general direction of the sofa and then set about closing the drapes. "I realized, a while ago, that I missed you. I'm not used to feeling things like that, so it took me a while to figure out what it meant." He moved on to the next window, then, carefully pulling the curtains to and blocking out all of the light from outside. "I realized that I care a lot about you - that you're on the of the most important people in my life."
Quatre's heart swelled with that simple statement.
"But I suppose I just never really thought about the possibility of us being more than friends - until this mess broke out, anyway. I'd never really thought about having a relationship with anyone. I guess I'm just an idiot - "
"You're not an idiot, Trowa," Quatre interrupted. He watched as Trowa moved on to the next window, carefully closing the curtains there, as well.
"I am. But we're not going to argue about that right now." He crossed the room to the last window, pulling the drapes closed and leaning against the frame, peering out of a little triangle of daylight.
"I think I've figured out that if I'm ever going to find love with anyone, it's going to be with you," Trowa said quietly. "You understand me better than anyone else. You make me smile, and you make me laugh - you make me happy just by being there. I think that's somewhere to start from."
Quatre smiled and drew his legs up under him on the couch. "I think so, too," he agreed.
"And I think I liked kissing you," Trowa admitted; this time his voice was almost inaudible.
"Is that why you shut the curtains?" Quatre asked, his eyes sparkling.
Trowa just nodded and turned with a little smile. "I didn't want to get interrupted again."
"Me either," Quatre breathed. He stood and crossed the room to where Trowa stood, tilting the other boy's head down and standing on tiptoe to press a gentle kiss to his lips. "I don't ever, ever want to be interrupted, again."
THE END.
Outtake: (I liked it, but it didn't fit what I wanted to happen, so I'm sharing it here instead of in the story)
"Quatre," Trowa said from behind him, his voice as wonderfully, perfectly calm as it always was. "What are you doing?"
"I'm not going to shoot her," Quatre assured him. He fired a few more rounds into the camera where it lay beside Ursula just to make sure it was sufficiently dead. "I'm just having a bit of stress relief. You should try it. It's rather calming."
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