I will write a fanfic or drabble with the pairing
Dorothy/Trowa
rated
PG or PG-13
and include the following things:
school, pillow, knife

Communication

She recognized him at once.

They were at school together; she because she wanted to penetrate the common world from within, and he because the circus couldn't travel in the winter.

They were moving down the stairs, she descending, he ascending, and they saw each other, gazes meeting, a dim assent of knowledge passing between them in the split second that their eyes lingered more than was needed. Other than that, no outward sign.

Trowa never spoke in class, except when he was called on, and was naturally shunned.

Similarly, Dorothy never spoke, but rather from a conceited belief that she was better and mundane studies were not worth her time. When she was called on to participate, she answered with an air of superiority. She always answered right.

One day, while the rest of their classmates participated in a game of basketball, she managed to corner him near the cold, metal bleachers, and confronted him.

"I remember you," she said, coldly.

He didn't respond.

She dipped her chin low. "Do you have any sort of soul at all?"

He raised his chin in turn. "I keep it to myself," he said quietly, face betraying no emotion.

For revenge, to scare him, she hid a knife inside his desk.

Still, there was no reaction.

That morning, he approached her casually after class in the hallway and held out the gleaming weapon. "I believe this is yours."

She narrowed her slanted eyes at him.

The last student scampered out of sight.

She whipped it away from him and pushed him against the wall, holding the pointed object at his throat threateningly. He was tall, and she had to stand on tip-toe to reach his eyelevel.

"Listen," she searched for words, between clenched teeth, "You and I . . . are not going to get along."

He regarded her with empty eyes, reflecting a hint of sadness.

Dorothy was humiliated. Days passed with no reaction. Who was this boy? He passed his days like a living specter.

Finally, one night, after tossing and squirming, haunted with his image, she tip-toed in her nightgown to the boys dormitory. She, of course, had acquainted herself with the security system from the outset, and so could get in and out of places without keys, as long as she knew the number codes. She number coded her way into Trowa's bedroom.

Inside, she stood by the door for several minutes, heart racing, skin prickling. What was she doing? Several times, she turned to move the handle and leave, only to look back again at the still form of her enemy, sandy bangs swept over his eyes ridiculously, perfectly still. Finally, she made up her mind, just swirling around to go, when the monotonously deep voice rose up.

"Well? What is it?"

She froze.

She moved like a whirlwind. Before she knew it, she had crossed the distance from the door to his bed and yanked the pillow from right out underneath him. His head hit the mattress with a soft thud.

"You," she uttered, "will show me some respect. From now on, I expect to receive answers from you, and you will most certainly not keep me standing ludicrously in your room when you know I'm there!" Her cheeks burned furiously. If she had been familiar with the phenomenon, she would have noted that she was blushing.

He watched her with mossy, serene eyes. Slowly, he moved from his side to his back and sighed heavily. "Why didn't you just tell me if you wanted to be friends?"