Life's A Bitch, But Payback's Great!
'I'm a sensitive, New Age guy. Please don't laugh at me or I might cry.'
Quatre blinked at the baby blue T-shirt in his hands. And it was 'baby' blue. It couldn't be termed pale blue, light blue, sky blue or even the not-entirely-manly name of periwinkle. And to add insult to injury – or maybe that was injury to the insult – the inch-high letters were done in sparkly pink puff paint.
In the same shade as Relena Peacecraft's limos.
A dangerous glint lit Quatre's eyes and proceeded to turn the pastel piece of impertinence into a large pile of cotton threads.
Eyeing his lover from a remotely safe distance – halfway across the room, which normally wouldn't be far enough to save him from Quatre's wrath should he decided to turn its focus on him, but this was one of the WEI's properties, and as such was much too large for the Peacemillion, let alone five Gundam pilots – Trowa waited until Quatre's growling had lowered to a few decibels above a purr before carefully approaching him. He made sure to make enough noise to alert his lover that he was there.
"I take it the insult you received was rather more insulting than most have been so far?" Trowa asked needlessly. If it had just a funny saying, such as the one he himself had received, he knew Quatre wouldn't have reacted with such fury. This was more along the lines of the homicidal rage Duo had been wrapped up in, which was caused by the 'necrophilia' shirt he'd gotten.
Only scarier.
Much scarier.
"No kidding," Quatre said softly, exhausted by the rush of aggression rushing through his veins. Staring down at the pile of shredded cloth in his lap, he asked plaintively, "Why does everyone thing that I'm weak, Trowa?"
Knowing that the continuation of his very existence – and his future sex life – might hinge on his next words, Trowa chose them carefully. "I think it is because you are such a nice person, liebe," he said finally. "People see that as you being passive and letting people walk all over you, instead of your inherent niceness."
"So…I'm too nice?" Quatre asked blandly, idly toying with a knife he'd pulled from his boot.
Warily eyeing the weapon, Trowa scrambled for an answer, finally coming up with, "I don't believe there's such a thing as being too nice, but then it wasn't me who sent you that shirt." It was a perfect answer, he felt, both telling Quatre that he loved him – or at least implying it in his own reticent way – and shifting the blame off of himself.
He'd always been good at using the least amount of words possible to get across his point.
That grin crossed Quatre's face again – the one-step-from-Zero-System maniacal grin – and the blond said, "Well, I think it's time people realized that Mr. Nice Guy bites back." He laughed, in such a way as to send chills down one's spine.
Trowa inched away from his lover. Everybody knew that they never wanted to face the wrath of Shinigami – or the cold, deadly perusal of the Perfect Solider – but few knew just vindictive Quatre Reberba Winner could be.
After all, he'd learned from the best – twenty-nine older sisters.