Wow, it's been a while. Sorry to subject all of you to the torment of waiting, but life has been full of sickness and homework. And prom. Can't forget about prom. So anyway, to make it up to you, I present a nice long chapter complete with a little lip-lock action. (But you didn't hear that from me.)

Last time: Duo learned that gundanium is not one of the elements on the periodic table, Quatre learned that Trowa may have feelings for him yet, Wufei learned that injustice takes the form of soda thrown at him in a dark theater, and we all learned that Darkness Falls sucked.

 

            Trowa called halfway through the second episode of Yu-Gi-Oh that Saturday, and Quatre was all too eager to abandon the rerun of the duel with Pegasus for a casual chat. It took twenty minutes and a frantic search of the house for some sort of parental guardian type figure before plans were set into motion for Trowa to spend the night and then accompany the Winners to church the following Sunday. He was coming at three-thirty, it was quarter to three now, and Quatre had turned into some sort of militant cleaning freak. His sisters were lazing about on the living room furniture, watching a Powerpuff Girls marathon, while he was scampering around the house straightening papers and picking up whatever sort of clutter he could. Every so often he would stop to berate them, demanding that they help tidy up the house before company came. They brushed him off, more interested in Bubbles and her crayons.

            To say that Quatre was nervous would be a gross understatement. Sure, he cleaned excessively if he was having a friend over, even if they were just getting help writing one of Mr. Rizzitano's papers (though why they never went to Lia, Silver Lake's resident paper-writing genius, he never knew), but the fury with which he was cleaning the house now was unparalleled. It was as if he'd been possessed by Mr. Clean and the Brawny paper towel man, who demanded nothing less than perfection. Perhaps his neurotic cleaning was acting as some sort of calming medium, to relieve the butterflies that were flying around, up and out of his stomach. At any rate, it was like the boy was expecting Jesus for a sleepover, not Trowa, and the fate of his immortal soul depended on thirty-two ounces of lemon Pine-Sol and a bottle of Windex tucked into his belt loop like a revolver in a gunslinger's holster. Not even Sandrock could avoid the whirlwind of lemony freshness.

            Three-fifteen saw Quatre in an absolute hyperventilating panic, one that his father got to experience firsthand when he came into the kitchen and found his son polishing the silverware, of all things. Rupert shifted the tool belt sliding down his hips, the hammer banging against his thighs and catching on the rips in his well-worn and paint-spattered jeans. Bet you didn't think Quatre's father was a handyman.

            "What in the world are you doing?"

            "Everything has to be absolutely perfect…and I mean everything and perfect. This has to go well. Nothing can go wrong," he replied, aquamarine eyes focused on the spoon in his hand.

Rupert coughed, wondering if the Chilton House for the mentally disturbed could do a pickup. "Uh-huh, now why is it that everything has to be perfect, Quatre?"

            "Because this is the guy I have a really big crush on, and I want to impress him, because I feel like if I don't, he won't like me and someone like Relena Darlian will end up snagging him. And he doesn't know I'm gay, so don't make any of your flip remarks at the table, Dad, I mean it."

            "All right. I'm running over to the Home Depot; need more shingles for the shed. In the meantime, try to calm down. This Trowa boy sounds like a real ace, I'm sure it'll be fine."

            "You keep saying things like 'a real ace' and it won't," Quatre teased. Rupert laughed, realizing he'd just had an 'old man moment' as Clio called them, and headed off to pick up more shingles and probably a bevy of other exciting tools. It was the code of the father; never leave Home Depot with just what you intended to buy. The teenager allowed himself to calm down, put away the cleaning supplies, and sit at the island in the center of the kitchen, twiddling his thumbs apprehensively.

            Three twenty-seven and Amyra was hollering down the stairwell. Her bedroom overlooked the driveway, thus she always knew (and always tattled) when someone was sneaking out at night or sneaking back in. "Quatre! There's a silver Escalade pulling into the driveway!"

Now, there was the possibility that this Escalade belonged to either a Jehovah's Witness or someone with coupons, or some poor soul who'd taken a wrong turn at the historical society building, or even those pesky Girl Scouts. However, he was too keyed up at that point to think of these possible scenarios, all that was on his mind was Trowa. And Amyra happened to confirm the identity of the Escalade owner when she came bombing down the stairs, skidding into the kitchen to assume some nonchalant pose to be standing in when their houseguest walked in. Madiha and the other girls scrambled into place as well, looking like a group of domestic goddesses, lounging in a Parthenon of spatulas and Yankee magazines.

            Trowa came crunching up the gravel walkway with a lone duffel bag slung over his shoulder, a pillow tucked under that arm, and what looked like the plastic wrapping of a floral bouquet. Quatre had the door open long before he reached the front steps, face plastered with a jack-o'-lantern grin. Trowa smiled as well, punching the duffel out of his way as he stepped inside.

            "Hello, Katore. I'm not too early, am I?" he asked genially, setting his bag and the pillow down by the door. Quatre shook his head; politely informing him that he was right on time. Trowa nodded and started unwrapping the flowers, shaking off the rubber band that tied the green stems together. "A friend said it was in bad form to visit someone empty-handed. So I brought these."

            The five women expected a simple bunch of flowers for Quatre, a small token they could heckle him over later in the day. They never saw it coming. Trowa made a grand show, approaching each girl in turn and formally introducing himself, kissing their knuckles like a true gentleman and presenting all five of them with a single and perfect white rose. They were all tittering and blushing like junior high students. And that was before Trowa handed Quatre his flower, one flawless red rose that glistened with beads of water like morning dew. The rose was accompanied by a quick and friendly squeeze of his hands and an even briefer peck on the cheek. It was more than enough for Quatre, though.

            "I'll put all of these in water," Iria said, "Quatre, you show Trowa to your room."

Amyra nodded. "And I'll get you guys a snack. Milk and cookies not too juvenile?"

            "It's fine, thanks," Quatre replied, and Trowa agreed.

Five pairs of eyes in varying shades of blue followed the tall and lithe form towards the stairwell before they met to confirm what they already knew: Trowa would be hooking up with Quatre, or they'd all kill him and bury him in the backyard.

++

            "And, um, this is my room," Quatre said, almost nervously, pushing the door open. It was by far the biggest bedroom of the six Winner children, but it did not reflect Quatre's tastes in any way. In fact, it was still decorated to be a little girl's bedroom. The walls were stark white, except for places where wet nail polish had brushed against the paint, or where crayon marks were still visible. A border of pink and lavender poppies encircled the top perimeter of these plain white walls, the flowers very pale and feminine. All of the furnishings were white: the bureau, the bookcases, the headboard (which was another bookcase itself), the desk, the pole lamp, the chair accompanying the desk. The carpet was kind of a dirty champagne colored shag, with splashes of color where paint or nail polish had spilt and no amount of Resolve could lift it. The curtains were a celery green, to match the bedspread, which was a quilt of celadon, yellow and blue. A small group of stuffed animals stood sentinel on the headboard, manga falling over in the shelf underneath. A decrepit green wing chair sat kitty-cornered by the pole lamp and a pansy-covered bulletin board that held a Renoir calendar. The bookcases were brimming, overflowing with books and anime tapes, artwork and musical instruments. There were quite a few musical instruments, everything from a keyboard to a kazoo.

            "Girly, isn't it? Kali and Clio used to share the room, and Dad just never got to redo it. He doesn't think there's time now, since I'll be going to college in about a year," Quatre sighed, falling onto the bed. Trowa dropped his things by the closed closet doors, swinging into the metal desk chair.

            "It's a nice room. At home…my American home, that is…I am living in a girl's room. It used to be Sylvia's; she moved rooms when she got bigger. It still has the pink ponies and the dolls," he replied, eyeing the easel propped up in the corner, and the acoustic guitar next to it. "You play?"

            "Yeah, I'm kind of a musical prodigy," the blonde answered sheepishly, running his fingers through his bangs. "I can play just about anything you give me. Why, can you?"

            "Some things."

Quatre nodded and picked up a violin case. "Of everything I play, I think I'm best at violin, though. Dad still has my very first violin up in the attic, he refuses to part with it, stubborn old man."

He unfastened the clasps and lovingly rosined his bow, picking up the cherished instrument and quickly swiping the bow across the strings, frowning, and adjusting one of the knobs. Another swipe, and a nod of contentment. And then, Quatre played.

            The first chair violinist at the Boston Symphony Orchestra could not have sounded more beautiful, and Trowa found himself transfixed by the slender fingers flying over the frets and the hand that stroked such beautiful music from the polished wood. Quatre had such an intense look on his face, as though he were pouring the very essence of his soul into the triumphant song that twined about the air like a writhing snake. And Trowa was moved. There was no way he could sit by idly in this cold chair while such a master musician unfurled his white wings. He scanned the room, though it was agony to tear his eyes away from Quatre, even for just a moment. His gaze fell upon a slender case serving as a bookend, and he grabbed it. The young transfer student flicked it open and hastily assembled the flute within, twisting the cool metal from short segments into fully functional instrument. He licked his lips, wondering for a moment if Quatre minded another person's mouth on his instrument, and played.

            It startled Quatre for a moment, his chords faltering for one brief instant when the first clarion note of flute music trilled and hung in the air. But the stall was abruptly forgotten, and they played on, twining their melodies into one gestalt being, a beautiful and otherworldly duet that made the hair rise on the back of his neck. It was just too perfect, and Quatre half-expected to see sparkles, bubbles and a rainbow-hued background to appear behind them. It was something out of a shoujo anime, it really was, and it didn't help that Trowa was innocuously being sexy.

            "Holy shit, that gave me gooseflesh!" Amyra proclaimed when they'd run out of energy to keep playing. She was hanging in the doorway with a tray loaded with two tall glasses of milk and a plate of still-warm cookies. "Here, take this, somebody. Oh my God, we could hear you all through the house. It was like instant orgasm!"

Quatre blushed furiously. "Amyra!"

            "It was!" Madiha added, sticking her head in. "Hot damn, you guys are good!"

            He shooed the two girls away, taking the tray of cookies and milk and shutting the door behind them. Trowa was disassembling the flute, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his bangs falling upon his face and concealing it once again.

            "Why do you hide your face like that?" Quatre asked, handing him a glass. The milk sloshed over the edges and onto his hand as well as the floor. Trowa shrugged, accepting it and a small handful of gooey chocolate chip cookies.

            "Sometimes it is necessary. Most times, it is because I can't make it do anything else. My family is known for having stubborn hair. Catherine, she once broke a brush because it got stuck in her curls," he replied, sinking his teeth into a cookie.

There were a few minutes of silence, punctuated only by chewing and slurping. Quatre took the time to surreptitiously ogle Trowa, the two of them stretched out on the bedroom floor. He also took the time to notice just how messy his room actually was, seventeen years' worth of junk scattered into messy piles. It only looked clean because the piles were deceptively placed on the bookshelves, the desk drawer and the closet.

            There was a light rap on the door, Rupert poking his head in. His hair was covered in a light film of sawdust, which also gathered in his mustache. He nodded a curt welcome to Trowa, who returned the gesture.

            "Just making sure Trowa's all set. Takeout Chinese sound all right to you guys?"

Quatre nodded, his temporary roommate seeming slightly apprehensive. "Never had it, Trowa?"

            "I do not think so. It is not the unappetizing thing Wufei was eating at lunch Tuesday, is it?" he replied, referring to some sort of hideous type of food byproduct that the Oriental boy had whipped out of a lunch bag and consumed. Those who'd been at the table could have sworn he'd eaten tentacles. Rupert laughed, knowing all too well of Chang family cuisine and how unappealing it was.

            "No, that's authentic Chinese food. This is the cheap American knockoff."

Trowa rolled his eyes. "You take integrity from Italian cooking, then Chinese. Who are you plotting to undermine next?"

Quatre giggled. "The Japanese. Sushi bars are popping up everywhere, and it's pissing Heero off to no avail. He's completely boycotted the stuff you can get at Stop & Shop for five bucks."

            "Right. So, don't fill up too much, we'll be eating pretty soon. And don't let the girls bully you, those five can get out of control and I've given up on trying to contain them. They take after their mother's side of the family," the patriarch sighed, rubbing his head and distractedly watching sawdust fall from his hair.

The two young men nodded and went back to their comfortable, albeit awkward, silence. Trowa was perusing the row of DVD cases along one of the bookshelves, nodding thoughtfully at the titles and occasionally picking one up and scanning the cover. "You haven't opened this one yet?"

"I haven't found the time to watch it," Quatre admitted, picking up the disc in question. "Do you want to watch it while we're waiting for dinner? I heard it's a pretty good movie."

Trowa consented with a shrug, and the two of them commandeered the entertainment center previously being used by several of the girls, who'd been watching Buffy reruns and fighting over who was cuter, Spike or Angel. They seemed all too eager to abandon the television for them, exiting the room with knowing smirks plastered on their faces and nodding shrewdly to one another. Quatre had been blind to their actions, but knew by their willing hand-off of the television and DVD player that his elder siblings were up to no good. It was only a matter of time before they acted.

++

            Dinner was a small-scale Spanish Inquisition, one in which the family saw fit to grill Trowa about every aspect of his life. Quatre found himself struggling to get a word in edgewise, which to him was no real surprise. He couldn't even ask his father to make the interrogations stop, as the man was acting as grand high inquisitor himself. He was resigned to his fate; there was nothing for him to do but to eat his teriyaki quietly and wait for them to give up on Trowa and descend upon some other form of fascination. As long as there were no comments about their unformed relationship or any mention of homosexuality whatsoever, he was in the clear. As for Trowa, he was fully used to such obnoxious questionings by now, and answered every question amiably and as good-natured as he could, all the while glancing Quatre's way and making some subtle and almost unnoticed gesture. They were so almost unnoticed, in fact, that Quatre himself practically missed them.

            "Katore, could I have the rice?"

He nodded, passing along the carton to his right. Trowa accepted it with a nod, and before he continued whatever anecdote he'd previously been telling, managed to give Quatre a flirty raise of one eyebrow that nobody else had seen. Quatre nearly choked when he realized Trowa had done it and continued to do it throughout the rest of dinner. So while his sisters asked every question they could, from what the weather was like to Trowa's position on the Euro, Quatre began seriously contemplating his current situation.

            "Okay," he said to himself, trying to spear a mushroom with his teriyaki stick, "Either I'm hallucinating, or Trowa's been flirting with me. Please God, let it be the latter. Oh shit, what if he's not doing it on purpose? What if he's got some condition and it's muscle spasms? Won't I look like the biggest loser ever if it's just muscle spasms?"

            "Hey Quatre, come on, we're going up to Clio's room," Kali said, tugging on his arm. He snapped out of his thought processes, blinking foolishly.

            "Wha?"

Madiha nodded, grabbing the bag of fortune cookies from the center of the table. "You're coming upstairs with us to Clio's room, Trowa too. If you guys are gonna have a sleepover, you've got to do it right. So let's go."

Amyra and Iria shook their heads, refusing to take part in whatever the other three had planned. Trowa glanced over at Quatre, his apprehensive deer-in-the-headlights expression starting to come across his features.

            "What are your sisters up to?" he hissed, following the giggling girls upstairs.

            "Damned if I know," Quatre replied just as uneasily.

++

            Clio's room was decorated in true retro-Seventies style, resplendent with beanbag chairs, Lava lamps, and tie-dyed linens. The air reeked slightly of incense, supposedly ylang-ylang but one could swear it was marijuana-scented. The band of Winners plus one houseguest passed through the beaded curtain strung up behind the door and flopped down into the beanbags, Clio putting on a CD of sitar music and lighting a stick of incense that would rest in the trunk of her Ganesh-shaped holder. Hopefully the Hindu elephant god would have pity on Quatre.

            "We're going to play a little Truth or Dare, and you will not refuse under penalty of serious pain and/or humiliation," Madiha stated, tossing back a handful of Skittles that were stashed in a colorful art deco bowl on the dresser. "So, to start things off…truth or dare, Trowa?"

            "Truth," he answered, a decisive, defiant glint in his eyes. Quatre noticed that they were lime Skittle green in the light of Clio's many Lava lamps.

Madiha smiled cruelly. "All right, what is one thing you haven't told anyone before?"

Quatre sucked in a breath and held it, being more nervous than Trowa was or should have been. The Italian boy, on the other hand, seemed hardly nervous at all.

            "I lied on my transfer papers, my name isn't really Trowa."

They all stared at him blankly, wondering if he was just teasing them or if he were telling the truth and was really part of some secret spy organization or a party of aliens bent on global domination. That sort of cockamamie thing.

            "Trowa is my middle name," he explained. "My real name is Anthony…but there are so many Anthonys and Antonios in Italy…I would go out to play and not know if that was my mother calling me home for supper or someone else's. So I put 'Trowa' down on my transfer papers so I wouldn't have to hear one more person yelling for Anthony. I'll be able to legally change my name to 'Trowa Anthony Barton' in a few months."

            "Anthony Trowa Barton…you're right, it sounds funny," Quatre said, making a face. "Trowa's a perfectly good-sounding name to me."

He nodded and proceeded to ask Kali if she would select truth or dare. The youngest of the Winner daughters chose dare, and was forced to eat two tablespoons of stick butter straight. Everyone had a laugh at her expense as the girl had to choke down raw butter without a glass of anything to chase it down.

            The game continued for a while, Quatre somehow avoiding being chosen. Trowa was rather good, he could stomach the dares the sisters came up with and always managed to have a witty retort for the truths. It was; however, very disconcerting to not be called upon in fifteen minutes of play, and Quatre was beginning to grow uneasy. Trowa hadn't even picked on him yet.

            "All right Quatre, truth or dare?" Clio asked, flicking her glossy golden curls over her shoulders with a starlet's toss.

            "Um…truth?" he replied hesitantly, feeling a cold sweat break out on his forehead. This was it, the revenge for whatever wrongs he'd committed in the past twenty-four hours. This was his Judgment Day. Clio opened her mouth to dole out punishment when Madiha interrupted.

            "You have to tell your deepest, darkest secret," she said in a voice husky with evil. Kali laughed with butter-slick lips.

            "Good one, Madi!"

Quatre blanched, stammering unintelligibly that he couldn't, he wouldn't. Trowa smiled, almost cruelly, arching his eyebrows with suggestion.

            "Seems as though Katore has something to hide, eh?"

The girls all laughed at this comment, Madiha nodding to Quatre when his helpless gaze fell upon her. He knew exactly what she wanted him to say, and it was the one and only thing he didn't want to.

            "No way! I am not telling him THAT!" he cried, going from creamy white to a full scarlet blush, turquoise-blue eyes going wide. Clio put her hands on her hips and loomed over him, flames seeming to dart out from behind her in a mimic of hellish fury. He cowered, becoming a meek mouse in her presence.

            "I am your sister, and you will do as I say, NOW TALK!" she thundered, pointing the finger of Doom at him and flicking him on the nose with it. Trowa peered out from behind his bangs in a "well, we're waiting" sort of expression, wryly amused.

            "Um, I…" Quatre stammered, his face a shamed hue of strawberry red. "I…"

Iria and Amyra kicked the door in, the beaded curtains making a soft clinking noise as the door sailed open. They stood there for a moment, fists up in a sort of Charlie's Angels minus Farrah Fawcett type pose, glowering with skills that far surpassed even Chang Wufei, King of Glowering.

            "You little shits, I hope you're not making Quatre do something he doesn't want to!" Iria chastised, even though she wasn't much older than said 'little shits.' One of them happened to be older than her, in fact.

            "Dad says you have to leave Quatre and his friend alone, so let them go," Amyra added. "Besides, he says it's your turn to clear the table, so hop to."

Grumbling, the two younger sisters and the one older one trudged off to accomplish their appointed task. Quatre sighed in relief, thanking God Almighty that at least two of his sisters had some sense in their heads.

            "Come on, Trowa, I think we left the movie on pause," he said shakily, ready to beat a hasty retreat. Trowa nodded and followed, asking whether or not Quatre thought the heroine would escape from her latest predicament in time. Iria and Amyra exchanged glances.

            "Damn, that was close," Amyra sighed.

            "Yeah, good thing Dad warned us that Quatre doesn't want Trowa finding out he's gay. I'm pretty sure that's what those assholes were up to," Iria remarked.

Sapphire-eyed Amyra shook her head in annoyance. "I don't get that kid. He's not doing himself any good by not saying anything. It's probably only making things worse."

            "I know, but having Clio and the others pry it out of him in a game of Truth or Dare isn't the way to go about it. Remember, that was how we found out he had a crush on that boy in his Earth Science class."

            "Oh yeah, and Kali went and told the kid and Quatre came home with a black eye and a fat lip. Mm, those were the days."

++

            The two teenage boys watched the rest of their movie and two others, Quatre nipping down to the kitchen between the end theme of one episode and the opening theme of the next to pop a bag of popcorn and grab a couple of cans of soda from the fridge. Trowa was draped over one arm of the couch, feet curled under a throw pillow. He glanced up at Quatre as the blonde came around the corner, his face blued by the screen.

            "I made popcorn," he said simply, tossing a can of soda at Trowa. The Italian was wise enough not to open the can immediately, lest he be doused thoroughly with fizzing mess.

            "Grazie, Katore," Trowa replied, scooping a handful of molten and heavily buttered popcorn from the paper bag. "Mm, so what were you going to say before your sisters came in?"

Quatre nearly choked. "Wha?"

            "When we were playing Truth or Dare, you never finished. What were you going to say?" he repeated, now cautiously popping the metal can tab back and taking a long swig of cranberry ginger ale.

            "I'll tell you later," was the response as the now thoroughly embarrassed boy upped the volume on the television. Great, now Trowa's curiosity had been aroused and he'd probably be asking him about it every chance he got. Question was, should he tell Trowa? Would their friendship be affected if he admitted that he was gay? It was this sort of troubling train of thoughts that ruined a perfectly good DVD of a perfectly good anime series.

            He came to the realization that he often had to remind himself that he wasn't ashamed of being gay. In Quatre's mind, there was absolutely nothing wrong with it, and, if given the choice, he'd let everyone and their hairdresser know because of his strong sense of self-pride. But society was still made up of homophobic jackasses who'd sooner sucker-punch you and leave you for dead facedown in a ditch somewhere. And while Trowa seemed like the kind of guy who could care less, especially being a supporter of shounen-ai, he could not avoid the crumb of paranoia festering in his mind.

            "Hn," Trowa sighed, swirling the last swigs of soda around in his can. "That better be a promise, Katore."

He nodded, trying to hide under his fluffy blonde bangs. The hole he dug for himself suddenly seemed to extend halfway to China.

++

            Sometime between "late" and "ridiculously late" Rupert had come into Quatre's room with an air mattress and inflated it, dressing it with the appropriate bedclothes and tossing Trowa's pillow on top. Quatre was staring at the two pillows and the gray fleece throw blanket, the long-lost twin of the hunter green one that occupied his own bed. Trowa had disappeared into the bathroom across the hall to change into pajamas and brush his teeth. He drew his knee up to his chest and hugged it, arms encircling blue pinstripe pajama bottoms that matched the stonewashed blue shirt he wore that proclaimed he was "PROPERTY OF WINNER ENTERPRISES."

            Trowa stifled a yawn as he stumbled back in, a tube of toothpaste in hand. Quatre felt his throat constrict, glancing up at his guest. Clad in a tight black tee and black boxers patterned with the green scrolling print from the opening of The Matrix, he seemed otherworldly, if it was at all possible. Roman gods did not often make themselves known to mortals while clothed in Matrix boxer shorts. Sandrock minced her way in after him, the kitten's wiry body twining around his bare ankles. Trowa stooped down to pet her, tossed his toothpaste in the general direction of his duffel, and sat down on the bed beside Quatre. The mattress dipped under his added weight.

            "All right, Katore, it is later. We will finish the game," he chided, picking a stuffed animal off the back of the headboard and holding it loosely in his arms. The bear was actually more in his lap than his arms, and Quatre could have sworn the thing had gained a cheeky little grin at this.

            "Fine, fine, you win," he conceded, heartbeat thundering along at the breakneck speed of a chariot rounding the corner at the Circus Maximus.

Trowa watched his lips move, no sound emitting from them. "Hm? What was that?"

Quatre repeated the motion, his voice still failing. The brunette boy asked him to repeat himself once again, leaning over to stroke Sandrock behind her ears.

            "I'm gay, all right?!" Quatre sputtered.

Trowa ran his hand through his bangs, his mouth twisting into something like a smirk.

            "You're lying. That's not your worst secret," he stated boldly. "That isn't even a secret. Katore, I knew that. I knew that since we met."

            "WHAT?!"

            "You are surrounded by pretty girls, and you are not seeing any one of them as a girlfriend. It's a little suspicious, you know. Besides, I am from Italy. Do you know how many gay men there are in Italy? Not to mention the rest of Europe. What did you think I would do, gut you and string you up on a lamppost?"

Quatre blushed. "Maybe. Americans aren't too receptive of gay people. We're getting better, I guess, but it's still not great. I've been threatened before, and it's not a nice feeling."

Trowa stared at him earnestly, his sweep of cinnamon hair falling away from his eyes for once, offering both flawless emeralds up for scrutiny.

            "I would never do anything to hurt you, Katore, on my life. You are my dearest friend, and I…" he trailed off, obviously deciding that whatever he was about to say next was not necessary, or perhaps he was afraid to say it.

            "I trust you, Trowa. Thanks."

             Quatre thought for a moment there that Trowa might kiss him. The air in the room felt heady with sexual tension, almost like in the movies when the hero and the heroine are standing there, fighting with each other, and then the next thing you know they're sucking face. He wondered if he should just take the initiative and kiss Trowa, it wasn't like there was any real threat of getting smacked now, even if it turned out he was straight after all. He decided he might as well, no harm in trying, no chance of serious bodily harm unless they clonked noses or something. He leaned over to kiss him, trying very hard to seem alluring and sexy, and for a fraction of a heartbeat it seemed as if Trowa was leaning over as well. That was before Sandrock jumped up and swatted Quatre on the nose, tiny claws pinpricking it.

            "Ow! Damn cat! Sandrock!" Quatre yelped, clutching his scraped nose as tiny droplets of blood beaded on the tip. Trowa was too busy laughing to offer any consolation, and Sandrock took off like a shot out of the room.

            "I should have gotten a dog," the blonde grumbled, moving his hands away for his companion to inspect. The green-eyed young man sucked on the pad of his thumb and ran it across Quatre's delicate and now bloodied nose with a tender smile.

            "At least she is only small. It would have hurt more if she was a big cat," he pointed out, stifling a yawn.

Quatre yawned in response. "I think this is the part where we turn in for the night before we fall asleep sitting up."

Trowa nodded and started to slide off the bed, turning as his feet hit the ground. The heel of his hand slid across Quatre's cheek, fingertips curling around one ear as he pulled his temporary roommate close enough to plant a kiss on delicate and rosy lips. Quatre inhaled sharply out of shock but returned the gentle kiss, fingers resting on the back of his neck.

"Good night, Katore. Sleep well," Trowa murmured, sliding down into his own bed.

"Good night, Trowa," he replied dazedly, leaning over and turning off the light. Trowa was asleep almost instantly, while Quatre lay in bed for a while, just staring down at him. He'd put a nightlight in the furthest corner of the room, just in case the path to the door needed illumination, and the soft glow made shadows dance across the walls and that handsome olive face. Quatre licked his lips, cheeks and ears hot with a blush. His lips tasted of Trowa, and Trowa tasted of Italy.

"Good night," he repeated, though his words went unheard. "I love you."

++

That's all for now, kids. You're just going to have to sit and suffer again until I type you up a new chapter, which may take days or weeks, depending on the amount of homework and the size of the writer's block that will try and obstruct my vision. And hey, while you're waiting, tap-dance on over to Anne Olsen's Shades and Echoes, where all of my Gundam goodness is parked, plus a fic that's never been posted on fanfiction.net ever.

Next Time: The second half of the sleepover, in which Trowa accompanies Quatre to church and they both get put on daycare duty. Will they survive a handful of screaming toddlers? And will there be love among the diaper bags? Find out next time! Wah!