Notes and disclaimer in Prologue.
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Sure ThingChapter Three
"Quatre! Breakfast!"
Quatre mumbled something intelligible into his pillow, wishing he could return to sleep and sweet dreams involving green eyes, roving hands, and gentle lips.
"I mean it, Quatre, we have company today so you better get down here and be ready for them!" This caught Quatre's attention and he climbed out of bed pulling on a pair of britches. Who could possibly be visiting? We've sold our crop already. He paused in midstep on the stairs, remembering his mission for the day. That's right, I have to tell Iria. Well, I should do it before those people get here, whoever they are. He squared his shoulders and marched the rest of the way down.
As usual, Trowa was already seated at the table, bolting down his morning porridge. He glanced up at Quatre's entrance, and suddenly Quatre recalled he hadn't put a shirt on before coming down as Trowa's eyes wandered lazily down his torso and he gave a gentle smirk that made the blonde shiver pleasantly.
Iria had missed the exchange of looks, as her back was turned where she stood over a bubbling pot stirring busily. "Sit yourself down and get some food, sleepy head." She admonished over her shoulder and her little brother obeyed silently, sitting across from the silent one and starting to work on his own breakfast.
"So, who are our guests, Iria?" Quatre was unable to contain his curiosity any longer.
"I'm glad you asked," Iria said, and Quatre could tell she was smiling from the tone of her voice, "You do remember John Thatcher?"
Quatre opened his mouth to answer when he felt something on his leg. He looked down to see Trowa's foot sliding slowly up it. He stared at the brunette across the table, who continued to spoon porridge into his mouth innocently. "Er…yeah." He managed to sputter.
"Well, he has a cousin who had to move in with him recently, and he wanted to introduce her to you."
Trowa's foot had now reached his thigh, and it took all of Quatre's will to concentrate on what came out of his mouth next as his face started to flush. "Oh, really?"
"Yes, some sweet girl on his wife's side of the family. Apparently she lost all of her family in that horrible war in Airtsua (1), and had nowhere else to go. So he opened his house to her. Isn't that so kind of him?"
Quatre nearly jumped when the foot nestled gently in his groin. "Yes! Very kind!" He face was now a deep crimson. "What's her name?" He struggled to sound somewhat curious. How can one be interested in some girl when one has a certain farm-boy's foot barely two inches…no scratch that…directly on one's…oh my… Quatre squirmed slightly as Trowa flexed his foot, massaging the sensitive area expertly. He started thanking every god he knew, making a few up of his own, that Iria had not yet turned around.
"Hilde Schebeiker. Very Airtsua sounding isn't it. Well, John and she should be coming over in about an hour, so you'd better get on your Sunday best for this. That goes for both of you."
"Ri-ight!" He answered his voice jumping an octave on the word when the foot pressed slightly harder. Iria glanced over her shoulder at him.
"Are you feeling alright, Quatre?" She said in a concerned voice, "You seem awful jumpy today."
"Feeling fine," he said smiling innocently at her and leaning forward to block her view of his lower region, "Never better." Trowa having finished his breakfast withdrew his foot as slowly as he'd first run it up Quatre's leg. He stood and cast Quatre a smug grin before sauntering out of the house.
Quatre sat for a moment, his mind and body still reeling from what had just happened, before jumping up and following Trowa. He found him in the barn sitting on a stool and polishing an old leather harness, whistling to himself. As his back was to the door, Quatre crept as silently as he could behind him. When he was close enough, he leant in and blew a gentle puff of warm air onto the brunette's neck, causing him to shiver and look around. Quatre wrapped his arms around his shoulders and pressed a kiss against the downy skin behind Trowa's earlobe.
"That was an interesting display in the kitchen." He murmured against his love's skin, who merely chuckled in return. "You think that was funny? Thank goodness Iria didn't spot it."
"It would have been an interesting way for her to find out, wouldn't it?" Trowa leaned back against the blonde.
"I would rather tell her than have her see us like that, Mister Footsie." Quatre reproved.
"You didn't like that then?"
Quatre flushed in remembrance. "Oh no, I did like it. I liked it a lot."
"Then why the complaint?" Trowa asked, turning his head to look up at Quatre.
"I have no idea." Quatre murmured before leaning down and capturing his lips. After the kiss broke apart, Trowa turned back to the harness and Quatre moved to sit on a bale of hay, chewing a piece reflectively. "I'll have to tell her today. Should I do so before those people get here, though?"
Trowa was silent a moment. "No. That would be too much of a shock before having company. Tell her this evening."
"You're right, of course." Quatre said smiling. They sat in companionable silence for a few moments before Iria's call broke the peace.
"Quatre, get up here! You need to take a bath before they arrive, you smell of horses!"
Quatre snorted, but stood anyway, dusting himself off. "Horses don't smell all that bad. Besides, do I really smell, Tro?"
"To high heaven." Trowa flashed him a grin which he returned. "But I don't mind, because I smell just as bad."
"Then why aren't you taking a bath too?" Quatre grumbled in mocking objection
Trowa's grin widened. "I suppose I could take a bath with you…"
Quatre blushed in the way that always made Trowa's heart miss a beat or two. "That would be nice, wouldn't it?"
"Quatre! You better be in this house in five minutes, or else!"
Quatre rolled his eyes. "She acts like I'm still five."
"Five minutes, eh?" Trowa said musingly, standing and advancing slowly on Quatre, "Well, I calculate it actually takes one to two minutes to get to the house from this barn, leaving three to four minutes extra. What oh what shall we do with that extra time?" All Quatre do was smile as he was backed against the wall. "I think I know!" Trowa sounded like he'd just had the world's greatest epiphany before closing the last few inches of space between them very effectively.
Quatre stood in the front yard next to Iria, with Trowa hovering in the background as John Thatcher's buggy pulled up the dirt road towards them. He fiddled slightly with his coat sleeves, glancing occasionally over at Trowa, whose face was impassive as ever, but his deep green eyes were reassuring. Quatre never felt comfortable around guests, especially those as wealthy as John Thatcher, who owned the largest share only topped by the Duke in their area.
The buggy pulled to a stop, and Thatcher stepped out first. A tall, somber looking man dressed in mainly grays and blacks, with balding blonde hair and a hawk like nose, the only lively feature on his person were his pale blue eyes that gazed at each of them shrewdly.
"Mr. Thatcher, what a pleasure it is to have a visit from you!" Iria said cheerfully.
"Thank you, thank you. But, my dear Miss Winner, it's an even greater pleasure to be the one visiting you and your brother. Mr. Winner, how are you, my dear boy?" Thatcher moved his gaze and address smoothly from sister to brother, who smiled politely in return.
"I'm very well, thank you. It is wonderful to have you here."
Thatcher seemed to look at him appraisingly for a moment before turning to the carriage and helping someone out from the inside. The someone turned out to be a very short young woman, who could barely be above the age of sixteen. Her black hair was braided down her back simply, and she dressed in a rich blue gown to match her vibrant eyes that twinkled cheerfully at them all.
"May I introduce my cousin, Hilde Schebeiker. Hilde, this is Iria and Quatre Winner. The young man over there is the farmhand, Tria Beaton."
"That's Trowa Barton." Quatre corrected, feeling some of his respect for the older man slip away.
"It's very nice to meet all of you." Hilde said in a bubbly voice, "My cousin has told me so much about you, Mr. Winner."
"Please, call me Quatre, Miss Schebeiker."
"Then you shall call me Hilde, Quatre." She countered, smiling at him and he couldn't help but smile in return.
"Very well then, shall we go for a tour of the farm? I'm sure Hilde would like to see the barn and the pastures." Thatcher said. Iria nodded, as did Quatre, and the party turned to walk around the house.
After getting the complete tour, Hilde and Thatcher were brought into the house for dinner. Quatre and Hilde talked lightly, each finding the other delightful. Quatre couldn't help but admire her resiliency after the personal trauma she must have experienced, as well as her effervescent personality and brightness. Her interest in their farm had been sincere, asking intelligent questions and listening avidly to the answers about how their small economic independence worked.
Iria and Thatcher had also been talking to one another, about what, he couldn't say, and Trowa had merely trailed them in his usual silent way. At the dinner table, Quatre prayed the brunette wouldn't decide to play the foot game again, as it would embarrass him if he said something wrong to the affluent Thatcher due to a foot in his crotch. Luckily Trowa sat farther down the table from him, and nothing had happened.
Once the meal had been completed, they continued to sit around the table and talk pleasantly. After a while, Thatcher cleared his throat for silence, which fell. "Very well, I believe this would be as good as time as any to start the business part of our visit." He said matter-of-factly. "There's a matter of dowry and land titles we must deal with."
"What for?" Quatre asked.
Thatcher blinked at him. "For your marriage to Hilde, of course."
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(1) You might be asking, what the heck is that? Well, what I am going to do, since this is more of a fairytale type thing, is instead of using real countries, is take countries' names and spell them backwards. I'll try and do this for the locations each of the pilots are originally from. So, Schebeiker is from Austria (I was going to use Germany, but that looks weird backwards, not like Airtsua isn't weird as it is…oh well.). Just, whenever you read a strange sounding name, turn it around and there you go. ^_^
A/N: Mwahahaha! Whatever will Quatre do? He's got himself a bit of a bind, don't he? Thatcher is just some guy I made up, based really on nobody I know. More to come soon, reviews accepted gratefully, flamers laughed at with gusto.
ps- Thanks to Zozma, this is now to be called a fusion story. So there you have it. The mystery is now solv-ed. Whew.