Vampires Prefer Blondes, Part 3:
By: Lost Angel
The walk back to his apartment was short and oneiric. Quatre tried to plaster a kind of placid indifference on his face, because he was no longer permitted to shiver from the cold if he still wanted to be perceived as normal.
Trowa had given him his jacket after all. This seemed rather appropriate for his type, or at least as the type Quatre thought him to be. He could picture him as a man traveling. He would go around the world, but not going to the see the Great Wall of China or the Eiffel Tower. He saw him sitting in hotel rooms, looking out at the faces passing him. He saw him listening to the radio, simply to observe what others were doing and saying at that moment in time.
It was a dream state, and probably an illusion. He would probably find out Trowa was a drunk (as his orders had indicated), or he would find something wrong. It was to be expected.
This night would turn out to be a sacrosanct attempt at intimacy and love, only ending up to be a perverse dance amongst some sheets. And he didn't expect much else from this. Trowa was nice to him in his own way, and while he was with him, he felt safe. Even if it was from a false sense of physical might. After all, it was to be expected.
"How much farther?" Quatre asked tentatively, feeling silly in the lavishly oversized jacket. It smelt like tequila, and though the scent would normally exude alcoholism, it seemed to fit.
Trowa took a left turn in the sidewalk and Quatre saw the dilapidated town transform into a lavishly built-up area that he had not quite noticed before.
He saw apartment complexes with balconies that were clean and freshly painted (though empty, it was out of fashion to stand out on them). He saw bars with live music, though it was probably some piano or violinist entertaining a false dream of stardom.
He saw flashing lights being beat down by the rain, and he ducked instinctively, being afraid that he may somehow be shocked.
Trowa finally answered when they both arrived at a small door, snuggly built into the wall. It seemed almost invisible. "We're here, don't worry about noise or anything, no one else lives here."
Quatre followed him through the door, and waited as he re-locked each part in sequence. "You live here by yourself?" Quatre moved his eyes around feverishly at the narrow staircase. It seemed that the entire building was just one floor at the top.
Trowa nudged Quatre aside and walked up the steps hastily. "Don't make it sound so pathetic," he murmured as he reached the top. He turned around and motioned Quatre to follow. "You're not going to just stand there are you?"
The blonde ran up the stairs and met Trowa, trying to look as capable as possible. He looked young enough, being perceived even more so would be downright damaging.
At the top of the stairs was a sliding door made out of some type of heavy metal. Trowa slid it open and Quatre entered first.
The apartment was expansive and gorgeous. To his right was a living room decorated lavishly with leather upholstery and archaic rugs, paintings and figures that he couldn't imagine ever learning the name of. To his left was the kitchen, which seemed more homely and ordinary with stainless steel appliances. Beyond the kitchen was what appeared to be a bedroom, but it wasn't sectioned off in any way. The only distinguishable difference from the rest of the apartment was a small step up, and a sudden, intransigent change in colour from hardwood to deep blue.
Trowa walked by Quatre again and headed towards the bedroom, stripping himself of his wet shirt in the process.
Unsure of what to do, Quatre followed him to find Trowa stripping himself of his black jeans as well. Not wanting to seem naïve, the younger man simply sat down on the neatly made bed, and sat while his host continued to remove his clothing.
Trowa kneeled down to reach a small beside chest where he retrieved a fresh towel. After doing so, he proceeded to walk past his guest, totally unassuming of his blatant sexuality, and enter the bathroom. The door shut behind him.
Quatre removed the jacket, and not knowing where to put it, just threw it on the ground with the rest of Trowa's discarded clothing. "The whore," as Trowa had labeled him, found it particularly interesting how different Trowa seemed without his clothing. With the dark fabrics on, he exuded a type of mystery that had seemed to die with noire films. But when he was so exposed, he felt like he didn't have that to give. He felt like Trowa was cheap. He felt that he was now on a level playing field. He felt like Trowa could be an insurance salesman.
The water began to run, and the perpetual clings of water droplets mixed with the existing onomatopoeia of the rain outside.
"Are you taking a shower?" Quatre's voice cracked once again, as he sat stiffly on the bed. Despite the maladroit nature of the situation, he was rather comfortable on what he assumed to be the most expensive material he had ever touched.
He received no answer, so he laid back, exhausted for some reason. It seemed trivial to be tired after only walking a few blocks, even if it was mostly up hill. Maybe the overly heavy fabric of the jacket he had been wearing bogged him down. Because that's exactly how he felt.
Bogged down. It seemed like the very situation he was in was comparable to sinking. He was hopeless, because there was no way out and no alternative. He was a boy, sitting in a bed, with another man a few feet away from him in the shower. He was crawling up into a fetal position, and his own arms seemed to be his only comfort.
He could picture Trowa in the shower, wiping himself, and he felt gratified that at least someone in his immediate vicinity was enjoying some facet of his life. He could see the soap and the water running down his body to the drain, and he could see what would be coming after. He knew what was coming after.
Quatre turned over and faced the entrance to the bathroom, the door wide open, the sound of the water still cascading his thoughts. He wiped a few strands of hair from his view, and unconsciously straightened the ruffled cushions into place as he stood. He walked slowly to the bathroom, and motion for the door to open just a few more inches. He saw the silhouette of Trowa.
It seemed like his duty, and an inevitability in his life, so he undressed. First he removed his shirt, and then his pants and the remainders of his cloth, moving them into a corner near the furnace. Quatre was naked in the bathroom with a stranger.
Of all the possibilities that could unfold from this situation, he was sure of what was going to happen, and he once again nervously placed a few strands of hair into their corresponding places.
Quatre pulled back the curtain of the shower, and saw Trowa, rinsing off some remaining suds and lather from his formed body. They both stood there for a moment, before Trowa moved aside, and let Quatre move himself into the slippery tub.
Trowa pulled the curtain shut, and the water hit the blonde like a punch, as he felt two warm hands climb around his body. But he felt like a possession, and he was being carried, similarly to a TV remote, a plate, a sandwich, anything. But he knew that Trowa wasn't thinking about Quatre, he was just another boy for him.
The arms moved around him, and he could feel the suction of air from both the fan, and Trowa's nose. He could feel himself being smelled, touched, appraised, poked and prodded, and he was helpless.
How would things end? Would things end in the shower? Quatre remained silent as Trowa's hands moved lower, and lower, and lower.
He felt so dirty. Trowa had showered and washed, and this was only the blonde's entrance. It seemed inadequate for him to be less groomed, and he soon felt a bar of soap wander up and down his body.
"Why are you so afraid?" said Trowa.
Quatre turned to face the taller man. "You insinuate far too much."
"And you seem to think that I'm stupid, if I wanted to fall for the school boy routine I could have fucked you in that alleyway and left you bleeding to die."
Quatre tensed a bit, and Trowa rubbed his arms, which seemed odd after such gratuitous vulgarity. "Don't you think using a little tact could help things a bit?"
Trowa smiled, moving his head to rest softly on the younger boy's arm. "This coming from the whore who walked in on me in the shower?"
He was beginning to like the name. Not in the direct translation, but in the context of how it was said. He wasn't calling him a whore, he was calling him whatever he thought what a whore was. Quatre almost considered it a compliment.
"Well I guess I just thought I was fulfilling my part of the bargain." Quatre moved back a bit, forcing Trowa's head to now rest against his forehead.
His lips seemed so hot.
"And that would be?"
His voice didn't rise; he just looked at him. "To fuck you, I am your whore right?"
It was then when his ideas fell apart. If he could pinpoint the beginning of things, he could call it there. Sure, the incident at the bar could be called the catalyst, but this was far more interesting.
Trowa moved slightly forward, ensuring their bodies were together, tightly, melded. "Could I ask for a kiss first?"
Trowa inched forwards, giving him the chance to move back, even though we would have done it anyway. His lips moved to Quatre's, and the brunette forced his neck back, enveloping him, and he squeezed the blonde further with the sinewy cords of his muscles. The almost rhythmic sounds of saliva and water pulling apart, and rejoining. Trowa had no reason to stop, so he continued, forcing his tongue, and the humidity of his mouth in Quatre's.
Quatre was in the shower. With a man. And there were sounds of rain, shower droplets, and kisses coming from the room.
And in the bed, there was no one. Regrets were for later.
By: Lost Angel
The walk back to his apartment was short and oneiric. Quatre tried to plaster a kind of placid indifference on his face, because he was no longer permitted to shiver from the cold if he still wanted to be perceived as normal.
Trowa had given him his jacket after all. This seemed rather appropriate for his type, or at least as the type Quatre thought him to be. He could picture him as a man traveling. He would go around the world, but not going to the see the Great Wall of China or the Eiffel Tower. He saw him sitting in hotel rooms, looking out at the faces passing him. He saw him listening to the radio, simply to observe what others were doing and saying at that moment in time.
It was a dream state, and probably an illusion. He would probably find out Trowa was a drunk (as his orders had indicated), or he would find something wrong. It was to be expected.
This night would turn out to be a sacrosanct attempt at intimacy and love, only ending up to be a perverse dance amongst some sheets. And he didn't expect much else from this. Trowa was nice to him in his own way, and while he was with him, he felt safe. Even if it was from a false sense of physical might. After all, it was to be expected.
"How much farther?" Quatre asked tentatively, feeling silly in the lavishly oversized jacket. It smelt like tequila, and though the scent would normally exude alcoholism, it seemed to fit.
Trowa took a left turn in the sidewalk and Quatre saw the dilapidated town transform into a lavishly built-up area that he had not quite noticed before.
He saw apartment complexes with balconies that were clean and freshly painted (though empty, it was out of fashion to stand out on them). He saw bars with live music, though it was probably some piano or violinist entertaining a false dream of stardom.
He saw flashing lights being beat down by the rain, and he ducked instinctively, being afraid that he may somehow be shocked.
Trowa finally answered when they both arrived at a small door, snuggly built into the wall. It seemed almost invisible. "We're here, don't worry about noise or anything, no one else lives here."
Quatre followed him through the door, and waited as he re-locked each part in sequence. "You live here by yourself?" Quatre moved his eyes around feverishly at the narrow staircase. It seemed that the entire building was just one floor at the top.
Trowa nudged Quatre aside and walked up the steps hastily. "Don't make it sound so pathetic," he murmured as he reached the top. He turned around and motioned Quatre to follow. "You're not going to just stand there are you?"
The blonde ran up the stairs and met Trowa, trying to look as capable as possible. He looked young enough, being perceived even more so would be downright damaging.
At the top of the stairs was a sliding door made out of some type of heavy metal. Trowa slid it open and Quatre entered first.
The apartment was expansive and gorgeous. To his right was a living room decorated lavishly with leather upholstery and archaic rugs, paintings and figures that he couldn't imagine ever learning the name of. To his left was the kitchen, which seemed more homely and ordinary with stainless steel appliances. Beyond the kitchen was what appeared to be a bedroom, but it wasn't sectioned off in any way. The only distinguishable difference from the rest of the apartment was a small step up, and a sudden, intransigent change in colour from hardwood to deep blue.
Trowa walked by Quatre again and headed towards the bedroom, stripping himself of his wet shirt in the process.
Unsure of what to do, Quatre followed him to find Trowa stripping himself of his black jeans as well. Not wanting to seem naïve, the younger man simply sat down on the neatly made bed, and sat while his host continued to remove his clothing.
Trowa kneeled down to reach a small beside chest where he retrieved a fresh towel. After doing so, he proceeded to walk past his guest, totally unassuming of his blatant sexuality, and enter the bathroom. The door shut behind him.
Quatre removed the jacket, and not knowing where to put it, just threw it on the ground with the rest of Trowa's discarded clothing. "The whore," as Trowa had labeled him, found it particularly interesting how different Trowa seemed without his clothing. With the dark fabrics on, he exuded a type of mystery that had seemed to die with noire films. But when he was so exposed, he felt like he didn't have that to give. He felt like Trowa was cheap. He felt that he was now on a level playing field. He felt like Trowa could be an insurance salesman.
The water began to run, and the perpetual clings of water droplets mixed with the existing onomatopoeia of the rain outside.
"Are you taking a shower?" Quatre's voice cracked once again, as he sat stiffly on the bed. Despite the maladroit nature of the situation, he was rather comfortable on what he assumed to be the most expensive material he had ever touched.
He received no answer, so he laid back, exhausted for some reason. It seemed trivial to be tired after only walking a few blocks, even if it was mostly up hill. Maybe the overly heavy fabric of the jacket he had been wearing bogged him down. Because that's exactly how he felt.
Bogged down. It seemed like the very situation he was in was comparable to sinking. He was hopeless, because there was no way out and no alternative. He was a boy, sitting in a bed, with another man a few feet away from him in the shower. He was crawling up into a fetal position, and his own arms seemed to be his only comfort.
He could picture Trowa in the shower, wiping himself, and he felt gratified that at least someone in his immediate vicinity was enjoying some facet of his life. He could see the soap and the water running down his body to the drain, and he could see what would be coming after. He knew what was coming after.
Quatre turned over and faced the entrance to the bathroom, the door wide open, the sound of the water still cascading his thoughts. He wiped a few strands of hair from his view, and unconsciously straightened the ruffled cushions into place as he stood. He walked slowly to the bathroom, and motion for the door to open just a few more inches. He saw the silhouette of Trowa.
It seemed like his duty, and an inevitability in his life, so he undressed. First he removed his shirt, and then his pants and the remainders of his cloth, moving them into a corner near the furnace. Quatre was naked in the bathroom with a stranger.
Of all the possibilities that could unfold from this situation, he was sure of what was going to happen, and he once again nervously placed a few strands of hair into their corresponding places.
Quatre pulled back the curtain of the shower, and saw Trowa, rinsing off some remaining suds and lather from his formed body. They both stood there for a moment, before Trowa moved aside, and let Quatre move himself into the slippery tub.
Trowa pulled the curtain shut, and the water hit the blonde like a punch, as he felt two warm hands climb around his body. But he felt like a possession, and he was being carried, similarly to a TV remote, a plate, a sandwich, anything. But he knew that Trowa wasn't thinking about Quatre, he was just another boy for him.
The arms moved around him, and he could feel the suction of air from both the fan, and Trowa's nose. He could feel himself being smelled, touched, appraised, poked and prodded, and he was helpless.
How would things end? Would things end in the shower? Quatre remained silent as Trowa's hands moved lower, and lower, and lower.
He felt so dirty. Trowa had showered and washed, and this was only the blonde's entrance. It seemed inadequate for him to be less groomed, and he soon felt a bar of soap wander up and down his body.
"Why are you so afraid?" said Trowa.
Quatre turned to face the taller man. "You insinuate far too much."
"And you seem to think that I'm stupid, if I wanted to fall for the school boy routine I could have fucked you in that alleyway and left you bleeding to die."
Quatre tensed a bit, and Trowa rubbed his arms, which seemed odd after such gratuitous vulgarity. "Don't you think using a little tact could help things a bit?"
Trowa smiled, moving his head to rest softly on the younger boy's arm. "This coming from the whore who walked in on me in the shower?"
He was beginning to like the name. Not in the direct translation, but in the context of how it was said. He wasn't calling him a whore, he was calling him whatever he thought what a whore was. Quatre almost considered it a compliment.
"Well I guess I just thought I was fulfilling my part of the bargain." Quatre moved back a bit, forcing Trowa's head to now rest against his forehead.
His lips seemed so hot.
"And that would be?"
His voice didn't rise; he just looked at him. "To fuck you, I am your whore right?"
It was then when his ideas fell apart. If he could pinpoint the beginning of things, he could call it there. Sure, the incident at the bar could be called the catalyst, but this was far more interesting.
Trowa moved slightly forward, ensuring their bodies were together, tightly, melded. "Could I ask for a kiss first?"
Trowa inched forwards, giving him the chance to move back, even though we would have done it anyway. His lips moved to Quatre's, and the brunette forced his neck back, enveloping him, and he squeezed the blonde further with the sinewy cords of his muscles. The almost rhythmic sounds of saliva and water pulling apart, and rejoining. Trowa had no reason to stop, so he continued, forcing his tongue, and the humidity of his mouth in Quatre's.
Quatre was in the shower. With a man. And there were sounds of rain, shower droplets, and kisses coming from the room.
And in the bed, there was no one. Regrets were for later.
