When We Were Young 6
30 Dec 2005 11:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kaigourating: PG-13
pairing: 3+4
warning: go somewhere else if you want blissfully happy.
unbeta'd, will probably revise mildly before posting elsewhere. also for WBlue, who tried it first.
----
Trowa fingered the letter in his pocket, and whistled under his breath while the elevator climbed steadily toward the thirty-fifth floor. When the doors opened to a soft chime, he stepped into the apartment, nodding to Montgomery as the door was opened. It'd taken him six months to stop flushing when the man tried to greet him in the evening, but he'd finally managed some semblance of cool again. He accepted help shirking off his coat, but grabbed the letter from his jacket pocket, his sidearm -- which Montgomery and the rest of the staff refused to touch, let alone even acknowledge -- and took the stairs two at a time, up to Quatre's study.
"Hey," he said, pushing the door open, not surprised to find Quatre staring off into nothing, hands clasped before his mouth, a slight frown creasing his brow. Trowa smiled and came around behind the desk, giving Quatre a quick kiss on the cheek, and sliding his arms down around Quatre's neck to hug him from behind. Quatre smiled and held Trowa's arms in place, leaning back to give him a tired smile.
"Bills," Quatre said. "I have no idea why I insist on doing this myself."
Trowa looked over the papers, and thought of his own bills. Two credit card companies, and the payment on his motorcycle -- a payment that'd been made significantly easier by Une's unexpected benevolence after three successful cases in a row. Not just a third quarter bonus, but a ten percent raise. He felt flushed with pride, and he wanted to take Quatre out to dinner. Really suprise his lover, in ways he didn't usually get to do, and hopefully not in some way that involved guns or machinery. A few more letters were scattered across the desk; they looked like bank statements. There were more papers under those, but Quatre's desk was always covered in papers. Trowa shook his head.
"I can do that." To Quatre's startled laugh, Trowa frowned. "No, really. I know how to balance a check book. And if you're serious about putting our accounts together--"
"I am, I am, but I didn't think you'd--"
"Then I can do the bills." Trowa pulled away, and guided Quatre to his feet, then gently shoved him out from behind the desk. "Go get me a drink, and pick out where you want to have dinner. We're celebrating."
"While normally I would definitely celebrate at the idea of someone else doing the accounting for me," Quatre replied, a bit dryly, "I'm not sure this is something you might consider a cause for celebration. More like, a cause for getting your head examined." He paused in the doorway, loosening the tie he'd still not removed since he'd come home. "Are you sure about this? I know I complain, but it's not really that bad. I'm used to it, after all."
"Checkbook, check," Trowa muttered, pulling up the registry on the system and typing in the algorithm Quatre used for all their shared passwords. He waved Quatre away with a smile, and brought out the letter from Une, smiling at it. He'd never had a raise before; he'd certainly never had a job where he had a title -- Captain -- and for a moment he thought of the Captain who'd raised him, and closed his eyes, hoping the man would've been proud of him. But before his dream carried him away, he opened his eyes, and stared down at the top sheet beneath his hands, and he nearly dropped his own letter in surprise.
There were far too many digits on the wrong side of the decimal point.
Furtively, Trowa folded up his letter, and studied the bank accounting printout. There were seven digits to the left of the decimal, and try as he might, he couldn't help suddenly feeling a bit less excited about the fact that his own income had just gone from five digits...to five digits. He'd never earned in the six digits, and having eight digits in a hacked account during the war to pay for contraband ammunition wasn't quite the same thing as having it all in an account where nothing needed to blow up to have access to the money. He realized his hands were shaking, and he splayed his fingers across the desk, forcing himself to lift his gaze from the printout. Quatre had certainly saved a great deal of money...
Then he saw the second printout, and couldn't help feeling queasy.
Eight digits to the left of the decimal point, and that was Quatre's savings account -- but worse, Trowa realized, skimming the sixteen pages that made up the list of everything Quatre had done in one month. Money moving in through here, and transferred to other accounts, and then interest payments -- and the interest payments then went to -- Trowa repeated the account numbers under his breath, as it dawned on him that not even counting what Quatre had earned in actual salary, in interest alone, in one month, Quatre could've bought the circus three times, paid Trowa's salary nine times, and probably had money to burn on about twenty-nine blue eight-foot sofas.
Very quietly, Trowa laid out the various papers, and picked out the single account that had expenses for the apartment. Six digits' worth of money in that account. He had no idea what the other nine or ten accounts were for, and he wondered why he'd even offered. He wondered, for that matter, just how measly he must seem, to be so excited about a ten-percent raise. Hell, Quatre's cook probably made more money than he did; she certainly cooked a lot better than Trowa did...
He wanted a drink. A very large, stiff, strong drink.
Shaking his head, he came to his feet. He couldn't do this. He'd always known Quatre was wealthy, that had always been obvious, even when Quatre had had nothing he'd still moved like a young man born to affluence, someone who expected people to listen -- and they did. But Trowa had met Quatre when Quatre had seen himself as having nothing, and that had made all the difference in the world, somehow. And seeing just how much Quatre did have, now, made all the difference back again. It certainly explained the knowing smiles, the patronizing looks, from some of Quatre's dinner guests and distant family when Quatre introduced Trowa and explained he was a Preventer. And it definitely explained why some of Quatre's sisters still viewed Trowa with clear suspicion. Trowa had never really given much thought to how much Quatre had, or made, but now he knew at least some small part of it, and he couldn't help but wonder if he'd had an inkling all along, and had that ever affected his interest in Quatre? Had that ever played even the smallest part?
And what the hell could he ever offer in return? On fifty-five thousand a year...probably nothing Quatre didn't already have. Sixty times over.
He pushed away from the desk and stood up, taking a moment to breathe through his nose before heading to the door. He'd call Cathy. She'd probably try to deck him again, but he just wanted to talk to someone real, someone who'd understand just how...shaken he felt. Eight digits in one account alone, and that wasn't the total of all the money that had gone in and out of the account, just what was left after a month of moving sums... Trowa nearly shouted when the study door opened under his hand, and he stepped back, narrowly missing getting hit in the face.
"Shit!" Quatre laughed and set down the two drinks on the sideboard, and embraced Trowa. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting you to be standing there. Are you done already?" He leaned forward, pressing his lips against Trowa's, and didn't seem to notice that Trowa still hadn't quite reacted. Quatre shook his head. "You're amazing, but I suppose I should've known. I see numbers all day, by the time bills roll around, I feel zapped..." He trailed off, mouth open a little, before cocking his head. "Trowa? Are you okay?"
"I need..." Trowa reached out, swept up the first drink, and downed it in one quick motion. Without pause, he set it down and took the second drink, doing the same, ignoring Quatre's startled yelp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and backed up, out of Quatre's grasp. "Sorry."
"What? Wait, hold on," Quatre replied, catching Trowa and guiding him to the study's leather loveseat that faced the desk. "Sit. What's going..." He turned, looking across the desk, and regret flashed over his features. When he turned to kneel before Trowa, his expression had calmed, but he looked concerned, and chagrined. "I'm sorry. That was my fault. You shouldn't--"
Trowa caught the meaning before Quatre had finished the words. "What? You didn't want me to see that?" The alcohol was sinking in, and he felt abruptly boneless, but somehow managed to stay upright. "Was I not supposed to see..."
"No, there's just no reason. Those other accounts, they're family accounts. They'd just be confusing..." Quatre exhaled, and settled down on his heels, hands on Trowa's knees. "I guess it's a lot of money."
"A lot." Trowa's laugh sounded more like a bark. "Quatre, you could pay for my entire team's salary for six months with what's in one of those accounts."
"It's not all my money," Quatre snapped. "I manage a lot of that--"
"For the family. Right." Trowa thought of all the times he'd wished to buy something small for Cathy, and hadn't had the money. He felt odd, knowing that if he'd only had the nerve to ask Quatre, he could've bought Cathy anything she wanted, and a pony, too. Or an entire herd. And then he thought of asking Quatre, as if requesting his own allowance, and felt sick that he'd ever see his lover as just a bank machine.
"Trowa?" Quatre's voice was soft, and hesitant. "You don't have to do the bills. I'll do them. Don't worry about it."
"I do my own bills," Trowa retorted, stung and not entirely sure why. He wasn't a delicate girl, or some incompetent who needed someone else to handle his money. He wasn't Duo, for starters, who'd spend every penny on shiny objects if Heero didn't clutch the credit cards with a death grip. Trowa had saved up a lot of money on his own, even if it was...well, it was nothing compared to Quatre. He figured four thousand dollars was probably what Quatre could spend on a good day and consider chump change. He was chump change. He was...
"Hey, hey," came the whisper. "I know that look. Whatever you're thinking, stop that."
"I'm not," Trowa replied, stubbornly, but closed his eyes against Quatre's worried expression. He shifted, and the letter crinkled in his pocket, reminding him. So much for a reason to celebrate. He felt insignificant, in a way he never had before. Eight digits, just for the household account. Or was that the six-digit account, and the seven-digit account was just the savings? Before the war, he'd not even been able to conceive of fifty thousand dollars, let alone in one huge pile; by war's end, he'd held that much cash in his hands two times, maybe three. Trying to think of taking that stack and multiplying it by sixteen made his head hurt...
"You're upset," Quatre whispered. "I didn't realize it would make you--"
"I'm fine. I need air." Trowa stood up suddenly, jerking himself out of Quatre's grip, and headed for the door. "I need to see Cathy. I'll be back later."
Quatre might've said something, but it wasn't loud enough to hear, and not clear enough that Trowa had to stop and ask, stop and acknowledge. He strode down the stairs, past the marble walls, gilt banister under his hands, real wool rug at the top of the landing, hand-painted tiles entwined in ancient Arabic patterns down the next set of stairs, past the floor-to-ceilling antique mirror from France, past a startled Montgomery and out the front door.
He was halfway to Cathy's when he realized somewhere he'd lost the letter of congratulations from Une, and he swore at himself. Why did it seem like everytime he left Quatre's, he managed to either leave something behind, or take the wrong thing with him? Well, damn it. Didn't matter, anyway, because there'd be soup and an overstuffed blue sofa waiting for him, and at least Cathy would understand just how terrified he'd suddenly become that everyone else had been looking at him and seeing him as there only for Quatre's money, and he'd been the only one ignorant, the entire time.
He felt like a fool.
pairing: 3+4
warning: go somewhere else if you want blissfully happy.
unbeta'd, will probably revise mildly before posting elsewhere. also for WBlue, who tried it first.
----
Trowa fingered the letter in his pocket, and whistled under his breath while the elevator climbed steadily toward the thirty-fifth floor. When the doors opened to a soft chime, he stepped into the apartment, nodding to Montgomery as the door was opened. It'd taken him six months to stop flushing when the man tried to greet him in the evening, but he'd finally managed some semblance of cool again. He accepted help shirking off his coat, but grabbed the letter from his jacket pocket, his sidearm -- which Montgomery and the rest of the staff refused to touch, let alone even acknowledge -- and took the stairs two at a time, up to Quatre's study.
"Hey," he said, pushing the door open, not surprised to find Quatre staring off into nothing, hands clasped before his mouth, a slight frown creasing his brow. Trowa smiled and came around behind the desk, giving Quatre a quick kiss on the cheek, and sliding his arms down around Quatre's neck to hug him from behind. Quatre smiled and held Trowa's arms in place, leaning back to give him a tired smile.
"Bills," Quatre said. "I have no idea why I insist on doing this myself."
Trowa looked over the papers, and thought of his own bills. Two credit card companies, and the payment on his motorcycle -- a payment that'd been made significantly easier by Une's unexpected benevolence after three successful cases in a row. Not just a third quarter bonus, but a ten percent raise. He felt flushed with pride, and he wanted to take Quatre out to dinner. Really suprise his lover, in ways he didn't usually get to do, and hopefully not in some way that involved guns or machinery. A few more letters were scattered across the desk; they looked like bank statements. There were more papers under those, but Quatre's desk was always covered in papers. Trowa shook his head.
"I can do that." To Quatre's startled laugh, Trowa frowned. "No, really. I know how to balance a check book. And if you're serious about putting our accounts together--"
"I am, I am, but I didn't think you'd--"
"Then I can do the bills." Trowa pulled away, and guided Quatre to his feet, then gently shoved him out from behind the desk. "Go get me a drink, and pick out where you want to have dinner. We're celebrating."
"While normally I would definitely celebrate at the idea of someone else doing the accounting for me," Quatre replied, a bit dryly, "I'm not sure this is something you might consider a cause for celebration. More like, a cause for getting your head examined." He paused in the doorway, loosening the tie he'd still not removed since he'd come home. "Are you sure about this? I know I complain, but it's not really that bad. I'm used to it, after all."
"Checkbook, check," Trowa muttered, pulling up the registry on the system and typing in the algorithm Quatre used for all their shared passwords. He waved Quatre away with a smile, and brought out the letter from Une, smiling at it. He'd never had a raise before; he'd certainly never had a job where he had a title -- Captain -- and for a moment he thought of the Captain who'd raised him, and closed his eyes, hoping the man would've been proud of him. But before his dream carried him away, he opened his eyes, and stared down at the top sheet beneath his hands, and he nearly dropped his own letter in surprise.
There were far too many digits on the wrong side of the decimal point.
Furtively, Trowa folded up his letter, and studied the bank accounting printout. There were seven digits to the left of the decimal, and try as he might, he couldn't help suddenly feeling a bit less excited about the fact that his own income had just gone from five digits...to five digits. He'd never earned in the six digits, and having eight digits in a hacked account during the war to pay for contraband ammunition wasn't quite the same thing as having it all in an account where nothing needed to blow up to have access to the money. He realized his hands were shaking, and he splayed his fingers across the desk, forcing himself to lift his gaze from the printout. Quatre had certainly saved a great deal of money...
Then he saw the second printout, and couldn't help feeling queasy.
Eight digits to the left of the decimal point, and that was Quatre's savings account -- but worse, Trowa realized, skimming the sixteen pages that made up the list of everything Quatre had done in one month. Money moving in through here, and transferred to other accounts, and then interest payments -- and the interest payments then went to -- Trowa repeated the account numbers under his breath, as it dawned on him that not even counting what Quatre had earned in actual salary, in interest alone, in one month, Quatre could've bought the circus three times, paid Trowa's salary nine times, and probably had money to burn on about twenty-nine blue eight-foot sofas.
Very quietly, Trowa laid out the various papers, and picked out the single account that had expenses for the apartment. Six digits' worth of money in that account. He had no idea what the other nine or ten accounts were for, and he wondered why he'd even offered. He wondered, for that matter, just how measly he must seem, to be so excited about a ten-percent raise. Hell, Quatre's cook probably made more money than he did; she certainly cooked a lot better than Trowa did...
He wanted a drink. A very large, stiff, strong drink.
Shaking his head, he came to his feet. He couldn't do this. He'd always known Quatre was wealthy, that had always been obvious, even when Quatre had had nothing he'd still moved like a young man born to affluence, someone who expected people to listen -- and they did. But Trowa had met Quatre when Quatre had seen himself as having nothing, and that had made all the difference in the world, somehow. And seeing just how much Quatre did have, now, made all the difference back again. It certainly explained the knowing smiles, the patronizing looks, from some of Quatre's dinner guests and distant family when Quatre introduced Trowa and explained he was a Preventer. And it definitely explained why some of Quatre's sisters still viewed Trowa with clear suspicion. Trowa had never really given much thought to how much Quatre had, or made, but now he knew at least some small part of it, and he couldn't help but wonder if he'd had an inkling all along, and had that ever affected his interest in Quatre? Had that ever played even the smallest part?
And what the hell could he ever offer in return? On fifty-five thousand a year...probably nothing Quatre didn't already have. Sixty times over.
He pushed away from the desk and stood up, taking a moment to breathe through his nose before heading to the door. He'd call Cathy. She'd probably try to deck him again, but he just wanted to talk to someone real, someone who'd understand just how...shaken he felt. Eight digits in one account alone, and that wasn't the total of all the money that had gone in and out of the account, just what was left after a month of moving sums... Trowa nearly shouted when the study door opened under his hand, and he stepped back, narrowly missing getting hit in the face.
"Shit!" Quatre laughed and set down the two drinks on the sideboard, and embraced Trowa. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting you to be standing there. Are you done already?" He leaned forward, pressing his lips against Trowa's, and didn't seem to notice that Trowa still hadn't quite reacted. Quatre shook his head. "You're amazing, but I suppose I should've known. I see numbers all day, by the time bills roll around, I feel zapped..." He trailed off, mouth open a little, before cocking his head. "Trowa? Are you okay?"
"I need..." Trowa reached out, swept up the first drink, and downed it in one quick motion. Without pause, he set it down and took the second drink, doing the same, ignoring Quatre's startled yelp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and backed up, out of Quatre's grasp. "Sorry."
"What? Wait, hold on," Quatre replied, catching Trowa and guiding him to the study's leather loveseat that faced the desk. "Sit. What's going..." He turned, looking across the desk, and regret flashed over his features. When he turned to kneel before Trowa, his expression had calmed, but he looked concerned, and chagrined. "I'm sorry. That was my fault. You shouldn't--"
Trowa caught the meaning before Quatre had finished the words. "What? You didn't want me to see that?" The alcohol was sinking in, and he felt abruptly boneless, but somehow managed to stay upright. "Was I not supposed to see..."
"No, there's just no reason. Those other accounts, they're family accounts. They'd just be confusing..." Quatre exhaled, and settled down on his heels, hands on Trowa's knees. "I guess it's a lot of money."
"A lot." Trowa's laugh sounded more like a bark. "Quatre, you could pay for my entire team's salary for six months with what's in one of those accounts."
"It's not all my money," Quatre snapped. "I manage a lot of that--"
"For the family. Right." Trowa thought of all the times he'd wished to buy something small for Cathy, and hadn't had the money. He felt odd, knowing that if he'd only had the nerve to ask Quatre, he could've bought Cathy anything she wanted, and a pony, too. Or an entire herd. And then he thought of asking Quatre, as if requesting his own allowance, and felt sick that he'd ever see his lover as just a bank machine.
"Trowa?" Quatre's voice was soft, and hesitant. "You don't have to do the bills. I'll do them. Don't worry about it."
"I do my own bills," Trowa retorted, stung and not entirely sure why. He wasn't a delicate girl, or some incompetent who needed someone else to handle his money. He wasn't Duo, for starters, who'd spend every penny on shiny objects if Heero didn't clutch the credit cards with a death grip. Trowa had saved up a lot of money on his own, even if it was...well, it was nothing compared to Quatre. He figured four thousand dollars was probably what Quatre could spend on a good day and consider chump change. He was chump change. He was...
"Hey, hey," came the whisper. "I know that look. Whatever you're thinking, stop that."
"I'm not," Trowa replied, stubbornly, but closed his eyes against Quatre's worried expression. He shifted, and the letter crinkled in his pocket, reminding him. So much for a reason to celebrate. He felt insignificant, in a way he never had before. Eight digits, just for the household account. Or was that the six-digit account, and the seven-digit account was just the savings? Before the war, he'd not even been able to conceive of fifty thousand dollars, let alone in one huge pile; by war's end, he'd held that much cash in his hands two times, maybe three. Trying to think of taking that stack and multiplying it by sixteen made his head hurt...
"You're upset," Quatre whispered. "I didn't realize it would make you--"
"I'm fine. I need air." Trowa stood up suddenly, jerking himself out of Quatre's grip, and headed for the door. "I need to see Cathy. I'll be back later."
Quatre might've said something, but it wasn't loud enough to hear, and not clear enough that Trowa had to stop and ask, stop and acknowledge. He strode down the stairs, past the marble walls, gilt banister under his hands, real wool rug at the top of the landing, hand-painted tiles entwined in ancient Arabic patterns down the next set of stairs, past the floor-to-ceilling antique mirror from France, past a startled Montgomery and out the front door.
He was halfway to Cathy's when he realized somewhere he'd lost the letter of congratulations from Une, and he swore at himself. Why did it seem like everytime he left Quatre's, he managed to either leave something behind, or take the wrong thing with him? Well, damn it. Didn't matter, anyway, because there'd be soup and an overstuffed blue sofa waiting for him, and at least Cathy would understand just how terrified he'd suddenly become that everyone else had been looking at him and seeing him as there only for Quatre's money, and he'd been the only one ignorant, the entire time.
He felt like a fool.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 31 Dec 2005 08:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 31 Dec 2005 07:07 pm (UTC)It's not just in dick-size that people feel inadequate, after all.
no subject
Date: 31 Dec 2005 06:44 pm (UTC)As always, I love these. Thanks for writing them.
^_^
no subject
Date: 31 Dec 2005 07:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 1 Jan 2006 03:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 1 Jan 2006 04:03 am (UTC)Not everyone will forget, but the majority will eventually see a person as somewhat less of a gold-digger.
Boy, that sounds so not-optimistic. Sigh.