Roommates
Chapter 3: Competition
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"Are you ready for this?"
Trowa looks down from stowing his overnight bag in the shuttle compartment and inquires of Yokaze, "L4?"
A strange look glimmers in her eyes. "Yeah," she says slowly, as if she'd been expecting him to say something else. "Or should I ask if L4 is ready for you?"
He quirks a brow at her. Gazing at her for a moment, he wonders at her odd mood this morning. "I'm not the one with a multitude of screaming fans," he reminds her.
The expression on her face is one of disbelief. "Only for lack of publicity," she assures him.
"The real question," he continues, disregarding her wry comment, "is if L4 is ready for NW?"
"Quatre did look a little... anxious," she concedes. "It was his idea to do this charity concert, after all..."
Trowa settles himself into his seat. With a neutral expression as he examines the selection of movies provided for in-flight entertainment, Trowa asks, "Are you looking forward to seeing them again?"
"Sure," she says easily. "Just as long as Jarret doesn't make his famous coffee and Luke takes the batteries out of his cell phone and Ian stops wearing Aqua Velva and Mark decides to stop referring to himself in the third person and Sam manages to pull on a clean shirt every week or so..."
"Hm," he replies, absorbing that massive declaration with a hidden smile. "And what do you say to them about me?"
She looks speculative. "Well, you do have this strange fascination with my socks..."
"Look who's talking."
"Ah, but I have poor circulation. What's your excuse?"
"I'm a sick individual?"
Her mouth curves at one corner. "It's always the quiet ones."
Trowa's gaze meets hers in response and the shared humor passes between them. When she turns away to stuff the complimentary pillow and blanket under the seat in front of her, Trowa continues to study her, his mind circling around the imminent reunion. He leans back in his seat and wonders why the presence of the other band members is weighing so heavily on his mind. She'd worked with all of them before, performed concerts with them before, toured with them before...
But like so many seemingly familiar and recent aspect of his life this feels different as well. He can't help but wonder if, for the next few days, he's going to be seeing much of the woman he's gotten to know. He's never seen her around all five band members before. He tells himself he's curious how she'll act in their presence, but he knows that's not entirely what he's feeling.
He sighs out his breath and closes his eyes. Even if Yokaze is too busy to hang out with him this week, at least he'll be able to take the opportunity to visit with Quatre...
Somehow, that doesn't reassure him the way it ought to.
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Trowa gazes at his room. The room next to Quatre's. The room he'll be occupying alone. He ignores the odd feeling of the large, empty space and offers his old friend a nod. "Thank you, Quatre, for your trouble."
Quatre grins. "It's really not a problem, Trowa. I've actually been really looking forward to this week. It'll be great being able to spend time with you again."
"I've missed that, as well," he assures him.
"Well... it's rather late. I'll let you get some rest. Would you care to join me for breakfast in the morning?"
"Of course."
With a brilliant smile, Quatre departs. "See you then."
As Trowa's only distraction disappears into the hall, he feels the room's silence begin to encroach. He finds it odd that he is so aware of the lack of sound and humanity. He's never really noticed it before except when his life had depended on it.
He places his bag beside the bed and begins to set the alarm on his wrist watch. Even before he's finished punching in the desired time muffled noises intrude on the heavy silence. He glances up at the ceiling... the ceiling which happens to be Jarret's floor. There are thumps of heavy footsteps, the throb of music, peals of laughter, and a feminine shriek. Trowa nearly frowns at the apartment above, imagining the party taking place between Yokaze and her friends.
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"Put me down now, you perv!"
Luke grins and spins around, Mark draped over one of his broad shoulders like the metaphorical damsel in distress. "Party's waiting, Marky. Let's get a move on."
"No!" Mark grabs frantically at the doorway. He grasps the molding in white-knuckled desperation, causing Luke to pull up short.
Not bothering to hide his broad grin of amusement, Luke attempts to reassure him. "That look is actually very flattering on you. Don't you want to show it off?"
"Do I look like I want to show it off?"
"We~ell, since the only view I've got of you at the moment is your pathetically skinny ass, I can't really answer that question, Mark. But, if I had to, I'd say said skinny ass is eager to get down with its bad self."
"What are doing looking at my ass, Luke?"
"Traumatizing myself for life?"
From behind him, Mark growls dangerously.
"Somebody want to give me a hand with no-butt-boy, here?"
Mark's hands curl even tighter around the molding. "You will live to regret this, asshole."
"What's the problem, guys?" Ian's deep, calm voice interrupts.
"Luke," Mark says quickly.
"Mark," Luke says at the same moment.
Ian looks unimpressed.
Luke elaborates. "I gave Marky here a make-over."
"Gave? Gave? Hah!" he mocks. "More like tied me to the chair and had your way with me!"
Luke gives Ian a very put-upon expression. "Oh, Mark... If I'd 'had my way with you,' you wouldn't be capable of speech yet."
Ian smiles.
Mark grinds his teeth together and gets the argument back on track. "Put me down so I wash this shit off my face," he insists.
Luke mocks a crushed look for Ian's benefit. "And destroy my masterpiece? Honestly, Mark, it's just a little mascara."
"And eye-liner and eye shadow and lipstick and—"
Ian sighs. This could go all night. "Luke, put Mark down. Mark, turn around and let me see what Luke's done to you."
As Mark's bare feet touch the floor, he grouses, "Oh, ri~ight. And watch you laugh in my face?"
Luke stops looking martyred and starts looking rather pissy. "For the love of aphrodisiacs, no one will laugh at you."
Ian declines to comment. Luke's love of practical jokes has ruined his credibility with Mark, who happens to be the unfortunate recipient of most of the aforementioned pranks. The fact that Luke actually knows a thing or two about cosmetics is not enough to counterbalance Mark's innate distrust of him. Ian tells Luke, "Go away."
"Why?"
"Because I'm going to give Mark my honest opinion. Go away."
Luke, with a reluctant glance at the tailored, black, satiny dress shirt stretched taut over Mark's stiff shoulders, departs. After a moment, the two guitarists hear: "Yokaze, baby! You are lookin' so fi~ine! Jarret, my man, tell me I'm bunkin' with this luscious woman tonight."
Mark's shoulders slump forward as he lets out a long, anxiety-laden breath. "He never quits."
Ian quietly agrees. "No, he doesn't. That would be why you're still hung up on him, no doubt."
There is a short, deft pause before Mark says softly, "No doubt."
"Well," Ian says. "Let's see it."
Reluctantly, Mark turns around.
Ian blinks.
Mark fidgets with a belt loop on his body-hugging gray slacks. "That bad, huh?"
"Have you... looked in a mirror, Mark? Really looked in a mirror?"
"Uhm... no?"
Wordlessly, Ian marches his best friend over to the vanity and poses him before the reflective glass. After a long moment, Mark says, "Oh, Christ..."
Ian agrees. Mark's make-over is not another joke. Not even remotely.
As Mark stares at his exotically handsome image, his hands slowly curl into fists. "Ian?"
"Yeah?"
Pause. Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. "Why?"
Ian understands his friend's abbreviated attempt at clarification. For the past four years, Mark and Luke have been playing this game: Luke, the charming womanizer, pranks Mark, the cynical intellectual, to the point where Mark is about ready to pass the point of hating him, until he is on the verge of adopting complete indifference toward him, and then he does something like this. Something that, from anyone else, would be considered a kindness.
Ian replies honestly, "Because you let him."
"I hate him," Mark promises flatly.
But both of them know he's lying.
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"You look..."
Trowa pauses in the hall, listening to Quatre's voice trail off as he considers his next words. For a very brief moment, Trowa is completely still. He waits, breath stilled, for a clue to the identity of Quatre's guest this morning. He waits and he hopes...
"Completely knackered? Absolutely wasted? Absurdly hung-over? Totally frazzled?"
Trowa senses Quatre's attempt to contain his smile. "Uhm... exhausted," he finished diplomatically. "That must have been some reunion."
"You mean you didn't hear us?" Yokaze sounds almost incredulous.
"Ah... well..."
She chuckles. "Oh, Quatre, you're too polite for words," she says after realizing that Quatre had, of course, been kept awake by the noise well into the night. "It won't happen again," she promises him.
"Honestly, don't worry about it, Yokaze. You've done so much for me already—rearranging your touring schedule to do me this favor... It couldn't have been easy convincing your recording label that this charity concert was a good idea and—"
Yokaze sighs. "No worries, Quatre. I'm here. Everything's cool. It's all good." Thoughtful pause. "Except for those tequila shots." Her voice becomes muffled and Trowa envisions her burying her face in her arms on the table. "I'm gonna kill Luke. The horny bastard."
Trowa imagines Quatre's replying look of shock and curiosity. "Er..." Quatre says, casting about for something to say in response to that.
"At least he passed out before he could loose his shorts." She snorts at what must be Quatre's startled expression. "Strip poker," Yokaze supplies helpfully.
"Oh." From the sound of his voice, Trowa can tell he's both amused and apprehensive.
Yokaze continues, "Do not play cards with Mark unless you want to loose." She shakes her head. "The guy has a degree in philosophy. Where the hell he learned to be such a cardshark I don't know." After a moment, she amends, "I don't want to know."
Trowa hears Quatre take a sip of his morning beverage before offering, "Probably the same place I learned how to tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue."
Yokaze's sputter of laughter turns into a groan of defeat. "Oh, it's not humane what you do to me, Quatre."
Trowa discovers himself in the doorway without having made a conscious decision to actually move. He observes Quatre's feral smile directed at Yokaze, observes her replying grin.
In a gentle voice, she informs him, "You sick, sadistic man."
"It's always the innocent-looking ones."
Fingers curled tightly around the doorframe, Trowa contributes flatly, "Yes, it is."
Quatre blinks at the interruption. Seeing the dark look in Trowa's eyes, his welcoming smile falters. "Good morning, Trowa. Did you sleep well?"
The question is completely unnecessary. The shadows beneath his eyes and the pallor of his skin are evidence enough of his lack of quality rest. He says, "Yes."
He can feel Quatre and Yokaze exchanging a look behind his back. Trowa pours himself a cup of coffee and tries to force his bad mood from his body language. His instincts battle to re-install his air of calm indifference. Trowa is not sure exactly what it is about Yokaze and Quatre's conversation that has gotten under his skin. All he knows is that he can't let his agitation show.
"Well, it's been great visiting with you, Yo, but I've got to run."
"Thanks for trying to feed me, Quatre."
Quatre laughs. "Yes, well, at least I got some water and a few painkillers in you." He stands from the table and approaches Trowa. Unable to stop himself, Trowa tenses. "Come by the office today and we'll have lunch," Quatre invites.
Trowa nods.
"Great. I'll see you then. Bye, Yokaze."
"Later, Q."
Even after the apartment door has closed, Trowa doesn't turn around. Instead, he stares at his cup of coffee trying to prolong his time alone. Trying to rebuild his mask. He reaches for a plate and places upon it an apple Danish, an English muffin, and a slice of lemon and poppyseed bread. Feeling more composed now, he turns back to the table.
He doesn't meet Yokaze's gaze as he sets the plate down in front of her and takes the seat between hers and Quatre's vacated chair. He glances in her direction as she wrinkles her nose at the plate in front of her.
"Thanks, Tro, but no thanks," she tells him, scooting the plate in his direction.
Exhaling over the rim of his mug, Trowa tells her, "I didn't ask if you wanted it."
The exhaustion leaves her face and she sends a sharp look in his direction. "And I didn't ask you to get it for me. Your plate. Your breakfast."
His jaw muscles tense. "You're going to regret not eating."
"My roommate, the psychic."
Around the mug, his grasp tightens dangerously. The sarcasm in her voice provokes that unsettled sensation beneath his skin again. A tension headache begins to throb behind his eyes. He doesn't quite know what to say to her after that jibe, so he says nothing. He turns away from her and wanders to the window, his scalding cup of coffee for company.
He can feel her gaze on his back for a long moment. As he stands there, he wonders what his problem is. Yokaze hadn't done anything. Neither had Quatre. And yet, something about their interaction has disturbed him.
Trowa forces himself to breathe deeply and evenly. He's never felt like this before. He's never been this... out of control.
Reluctantly, he attempts to put a few words together, aware that saying nothing can be worse than saying the wrong thing. The clock on the wall counts off the seconds. Trowa's shoulders gradually relax as he settles on a simple apology.
"I..." His voice sounds rusty, so he tries again. "I'm sorry."
He waits for a reply, a response, anything.
He receives nothing.
With a puzzled frown, he turns around and discovers her empty chair.
She's gone.
His eyes close.
He has to get out. Go out. Figure out what in the hell is wrong with him. Their friendship likely depends on it.
Trowa strides to the table and sets his untouched mug down. He starts for the door but suddenly pulls up short when he notices something else missing from the table.
The English muffin.
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~End of Chapter 3~