Trowa Barton sat down at his lover's computer, with the intention of checking the weather forecast. He was immediately distracted, however, by an untitled word document sitting on the desktop. Though he knew it was probably in his best interests to simply ignore the document, it had piqued his interest.
His usually stoic green eyes widened exponentially. He immediately printed a copy and went in search of a certain blonde, blue-eyed, fair skinned Arabian.
The search didn't take long. He located Quatre in the library. Said pilot was curled up in a chair roughly three times his size, wrapped immaculately in a large, fluffy, pink blanket, reading a book. The blonde looked up to him with a pure, sweet smile. How, Trowa wondered blankly, could Quatre possibly argue with his cuteness?
"Hello lover!" The blonde chirped.
Trowa said nothing, but silently held out the printed pages. Quatre took them, and immediately his face fell completely ashen.
"Trowa… I…"
"Why didn't you say something?" He asked very simply.
"I… didn't want to hurt your feelings." A flush of shame began to creep into his cheeks.
"You don't like to be called cute?"
"…not really…"
"Why not?"
Quatre's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Why not? Because I'm not! I'm not a little girl I'm…" But before Quatre could finish his explosion, Trowa held up a hand.
"Wait there, and don't move."
He returned moments later with a digital camera.
"Now smile," He ordered quietly. Quatre, not one to argue, gave him a grin to shame the sun. There was a brief flash, and a computerized shutter noise. The taller boy simply handed him the camera. For a moment, Quatre only studied his lover. Trowa seemed to be masculinity personified. Tall, perfectly defined, a with strong features any God would envy, those emerald eyes and a bass voice that never failed to send shivers down his spine… Quatre steeled himself and looked down.
There was a very long pause as the blonde stared at his own likeness.
Finally, a defeated voice came from the pink blanket: "I'm… cute."
"Yes, you are." Trowa confirmed gently.
There was another few moments of silence. The little Sandrock pilot turned off the camera, and put it gently on the side table.
"Well," he said, brushing off the blanket, attempting to muster up some dignity as he crossed to his lover. "Fine then, I have seen the error of my ways. You may continue to shower me with ridiculous compliments."
"Thank you." Trowa ran a long-fingered hand through his lover's hair.
"But know," Quatre mumbled into Trowa's sweatshirt, "that my pride is forever wounded."
"Will it make you feel better if I let you top?"
"…yes…"