When We Were Young 8
4 Jan 2006 02:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kaigoucontinued DRAFT. see previous for notes, but with the additional note of: this is not necessarily an argument per se, so much as a two-part issue. One, couples do have this kind of argument, and sometimes more often than unmarried folks realize; two, did anyone really think it'd be easy to marry someone with as much money as Quatre?
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Quatre waffled for several days before broaching the subject. Two months since Iria's visit, and he'd not talked his sisters out of the more egregious points. They simply weren't budging. Trowa had agreed to marry him, and he should've been walking on air, or so he thought, but instead he just felt the weight of fifteen pages, printed neatly, sitting in his briefcase waiting to see the light of day, and the fury in Trowa's face. He wasn't looking forward to it, but between business trips for each of them, and a huge case for Trowa, and the mid-year reviews, they'd been mostly two ships passing in the depths of space for all the time they'd really spent together. And now, an entire weekend together, and Trowa was making rumblings about finding a place together, a new place, one they'd make theirs from the beginning. Quatre suspected Cathy had a role in that idea, and that alone may him wary of tackling the issue head-on. Besides, he liked the apartment, even if it was a bit bigger than two men and a staff of three really needed...
"Heero's apartment building has a vacancy up on the top floor," Trowa murmured, barely looking up from the paper. He wasn't reading so much as skimming the headlines; if he'd been deep in an article, he'd be squinting.
Quatre sighed. Where had Trowa left his reading glasses, now? He began looking around, absently replying, "do you really want to live six floors above Duo?"
"Good point." A page turned. "Crossword," Trowa announced, with some satisfaction. He opened the drawer of the side table, rustling through the contents. "Pen, pen..." Quatre had just found Trowa's glasses on the parlor's mantle when he turned to see Trowa digging through his briefcase, left forgotten by the sofa the evening before.
"Wait, don't--" He barely had time to get out before Trowa brought out the stack of papers, setting them on his lap while he fished around the bottom for a working pen. Quatre's words made Trowa give him a puzzled smile...until Trowa looked down at the papers on his lap, and actually paid attention to the words across the top of the page. Quatre clutched the glasses case and waited, tense.
"Quatre..." Trowa remained in the awkward position, bent over his lap, one hand in the briefcase, the other hand clutching the newspaper. "What is this? It has my name on it..."
"It's a pre-nuptial agreement," Quatre answered, weakly. "I was going to show it to you...later..."
"Oh. That's all?" Trowa smiled, finding a pen, and sat back, flipping the pen through his fingers as he squinted at the page. "I wonder why I'm surprised. I suppose it just hadn't occured to me, but it does make..." He paused, squint becoming an outright frown, and he dropped the newspaper to hold the document up and away from him until it was far enough away to be within a range of visual sharpness. For once he didn't even glance at Quatre with that nettled expression, as if waiting for Quatre to snicker at him. Trowa's lips moved, soundlessly, then his mouth fell open. "Quatre," he said, in a low voice.
"Reading glasses?" Quatre held them out, and once Trowa took them -- gaze still fixed on the papers -- Quatre backed away. "I'm going to get a soda. Do you want--"
"Why does it say that I can never fly the corporate jet?" Trowa had put the glasses on, and glanced over the thin metal edges to fix Quatre with a bewildered expression.
"Because it's company property?" Quatre edged away. "I'll be back in a few--"
Trowa snorted, and Quatre fled to the kitchen, where he chatted with Mary while she made him a soda, and a second one for Trowa. It didn't take a great deal to coax her into adding cookies, though he doubted Trowa would even notice. It certainly wouldn't be quite a distraction, unless he shoved the cookies down his--
"QUATRE!"
Pants.
"What the hell is this?" Trowa was standing in the middle of the parlor when Quatre returned, knuckles white around the paper; he'd reached page two. "What kind of document is this?"
"I guess you reached the part about your savings account..." Quatre set down the plate of cookies and the sodas. So much for distraction.
"I have every right to do with my money as I damn well please, and if my savings account quadruples in five years because I managed it well, I am not going to just summarily hand over the excess of--" Trowa checked the paper, before continuing in that flatly dangerous voice-- "one hundred thousand credits-- I'm not agreeing to this!"
"I didn't actually expect you to." Quatre sighed, dropping his chin.
"Then what are you doing carrying it around?" Trowa tossed the papers at the briefcase. "I'm not signing it, and that's final."
"Yeah." Quatre held up his left hand, rubbing the inside of the engagement ring Trowa had given him, and then carefully slipped it off his finger. "I can't marry you without a pre-nuptial agreement, Trowa."
"What?"
"It's part of the requirements of my inheritance. My father wanted to make sure the business stayed in the family. That's why it all went to me, instead of my sisters. He had this idea that my sisters' husbands would take over, as though my sisters aren't perfectly capable of making sure that doesn't happen." He stared glumly at the scattered pages across the sofa and the briefcase; a few had slid across the carpet to lie under a nearby table. "They're certainly proving they don't want any risk of you taking over."
"I have no intention of taking over." Trowa crossed his arms. "I much prefer the work I do."
"But when we marry, L4 is a commonwealth. That means half of what I have, you have," Quatre began.
"Exactly."
"But that means you'll have a controlling share in Winner Enterprises," Quatre continued, closing his eyes. "And if...we were to divorce, we'd have to either liquidate or buy each other out, or split it, and any of those throws the controlling ownership into question." He didn't need to open his eyes to see that Trowa's expression had darkened quite dangerously; he could feel the chill in the air. "And if anything were to ever happen to me...you'd hold the controlling share. If we never had children--"
"Children?"
"Then your sole beneficiary at this time is Cathy, and that means, if she survived both of us, your sister could end up owning WEI." Quatre grimaced. "Not that I see any of that likely to happen, but...it is possible."
"First, I don't go into marriages planning on a divorce, but even if I did, I wouldn't agree that upon divorce I agree to give up everything we bought or were given in the course of the marriage and walk away with only the value of my cash and goods as I had on my wedding day--" Trowa's nostrils flared, and Quatre instinctively took a half-step back, tensing-- "and where the hell do they get off, doing a full credit check on me, and cataloging the items I own?"
Quatre winced. He'd cut that out of every draft, and the board kept putting it back in. One box of unindentified metallic parts; substance, Gundamian; market value: twenty-five dollars. That was all that was left of Heavyarms. Its value, Quatre knew, could never be measured in market prices. Two shoe boxes of pictures and news clippings; substance, paper; market value: null. He'd been livid at that line, and he'd had a terrible row with Montgomery about letting Miriam's henchmen into their home. Trowa had never asked why Quatre had fired Montgomery...
"They went through my stuff," Trowa said, all too quietly. "They invaded my privacy."
"I'm sorry." It didn't matter that it wasn't Quatre's fault, that he hadn't personally given anyone permission to do that, and it didn't seem like the time to protest his innocence, either. He just had to ride it out, and hope Trowa still wanted to have anything to do with him once he was over his fury.
"I am not going to give them copies of my monthly checking and savings accounts for them to certify whether they approve of how I handle my share of our marital property," Trowa warned. "In fact, right now I'm trying to think of a good reason not to take this entire document and shove it down their collective throats. They can approve that, and I'll do that every month until they back the fuck off."
"They won't." Quatre shoved his hands in his pockets, letting his shoulders slump. "I can't blame you for not wanting any of their stipulations. It probably doesn't matter right now, but I only got them to knock off about twenty of the worst--"
"There was something worse than these?" Trowa's face was a picture of incredulity.
"Well...yeah."
"My god, I don't even believe this shit. I want to marry you, but that shit is ridiculous. What's yours is mine, and what's mine is yours..." He paused, and a flash of pain crossed his face. "And even if I don't have a lot to offer, that doesn't mean I want to be treated like I'm doing this just to get at what you've got."
"I know you're not."
Trowa opened his mouth, then closed it. Slowly he removed his glasses, folding them up and tucking them in the collar of his shirt before looking around at the papers scattered everywhere. He took a deep breath, then turned away. "I'm going to run some errands. I'll be back later..."
"Trowa."
"No." Trowa paused in the doorway, but didn't look back. "Guests at seven, I know. I just need some space. Just need to think."
"Okay." Quatre nodded; still, Trowa remained, one hand on the archway's frame, while Quatre remained by the mantle, staring forlornly at the papers and the waiting cookies and soda. He'd rather hoped they'd spend the afternoon--once Trowa did the entire crossword in pen, of course--going back to bed and getting to make up for two weeks of lost time...fat chance of that happening, now. He realized Trowa still hadn't left, and he couldn't help but try, even if it got ignored. "Try to get back by five...I'll give you a foot rub."
Trowa turned then, looking over his shoulder with a weary smile. "That'd be good."
Then he left, and Quatre bent to pick up the papers, not bothering to sort them into any semblance of order. Hitting the button on the gas fireplace, he threw the papers into the flames. Only once they had burnt to dark embers did he get up, brush off his pants, and go to call Miriam. He had every intention of getting married, but if he had to find a compromise. Trowa might be calm and easy-going in the days of peace, but that didn't mean he wouldn't strike out at any intruders -- and now that Trowa knew the board had been through his belongings, none of those men and women would be safe. Quatre smiled to himself. Maybe he wouldn't warn them, and maybe then they'd see that not all former Gundam pilots were calm, responsible, or rehabilitated into proper working folks -- or, at least, they were, until they had reason to stop being so.
Trowa certainly had reason.
--------
Quatre waffled for several days before broaching the subject. Two months since Iria's visit, and he'd not talked his sisters out of the more egregious points. They simply weren't budging. Trowa had agreed to marry him, and he should've been walking on air, or so he thought, but instead he just felt the weight of fifteen pages, printed neatly, sitting in his briefcase waiting to see the light of day, and the fury in Trowa's face. He wasn't looking forward to it, but between business trips for each of them, and a huge case for Trowa, and the mid-year reviews, they'd been mostly two ships passing in the depths of space for all the time they'd really spent together. And now, an entire weekend together, and Trowa was making rumblings about finding a place together, a new place, one they'd make theirs from the beginning. Quatre suspected Cathy had a role in that idea, and that alone may him wary of tackling the issue head-on. Besides, he liked the apartment, even if it was a bit bigger than two men and a staff of three really needed...
"Heero's apartment building has a vacancy up on the top floor," Trowa murmured, barely looking up from the paper. He wasn't reading so much as skimming the headlines; if he'd been deep in an article, he'd be squinting.
Quatre sighed. Where had Trowa left his reading glasses, now? He began looking around, absently replying, "do you really want to live six floors above Duo?"
"Good point." A page turned. "Crossword," Trowa announced, with some satisfaction. He opened the drawer of the side table, rustling through the contents. "Pen, pen..." Quatre had just found Trowa's glasses on the parlor's mantle when he turned to see Trowa digging through his briefcase, left forgotten by the sofa the evening before.
"Wait, don't--" He barely had time to get out before Trowa brought out the stack of papers, setting them on his lap while he fished around the bottom for a working pen. Quatre's words made Trowa give him a puzzled smile...until Trowa looked down at the papers on his lap, and actually paid attention to the words across the top of the page. Quatre clutched the glasses case and waited, tense.
"Quatre..." Trowa remained in the awkward position, bent over his lap, one hand in the briefcase, the other hand clutching the newspaper. "What is this? It has my name on it..."
"It's a pre-nuptial agreement," Quatre answered, weakly. "I was going to show it to you...later..."
"Oh. That's all?" Trowa smiled, finding a pen, and sat back, flipping the pen through his fingers as he squinted at the page. "I wonder why I'm surprised. I suppose it just hadn't occured to me, but it does make..." He paused, squint becoming an outright frown, and he dropped the newspaper to hold the document up and away from him until it was far enough away to be within a range of visual sharpness. For once he didn't even glance at Quatre with that nettled expression, as if waiting for Quatre to snicker at him. Trowa's lips moved, soundlessly, then his mouth fell open. "Quatre," he said, in a low voice.
"Reading glasses?" Quatre held them out, and once Trowa took them -- gaze still fixed on the papers -- Quatre backed away. "I'm going to get a soda. Do you want--"
"Why does it say that I can never fly the corporate jet?" Trowa had put the glasses on, and glanced over the thin metal edges to fix Quatre with a bewildered expression.
"Because it's company property?" Quatre edged away. "I'll be back in a few--"
Trowa snorted, and Quatre fled to the kitchen, where he chatted with Mary while she made him a soda, and a second one for Trowa. It didn't take a great deal to coax her into adding cookies, though he doubted Trowa would even notice. It certainly wouldn't be quite a distraction, unless he shoved the cookies down his--
"QUATRE!"
Pants.
"What the hell is this?" Trowa was standing in the middle of the parlor when Quatre returned, knuckles white around the paper; he'd reached page two. "What kind of document is this?"
"I guess you reached the part about your savings account..." Quatre set down the plate of cookies and the sodas. So much for distraction.
"I have every right to do with my money as I damn well please, and if my savings account quadruples in five years because I managed it well, I am not going to just summarily hand over the excess of--" Trowa checked the paper, before continuing in that flatly dangerous voice-- "one hundred thousand credits-- I'm not agreeing to this!"
"I didn't actually expect you to." Quatre sighed, dropping his chin.
"Then what are you doing carrying it around?" Trowa tossed the papers at the briefcase. "I'm not signing it, and that's final."
"Yeah." Quatre held up his left hand, rubbing the inside of the engagement ring Trowa had given him, and then carefully slipped it off his finger. "I can't marry you without a pre-nuptial agreement, Trowa."
"What?"
"It's part of the requirements of my inheritance. My father wanted to make sure the business stayed in the family. That's why it all went to me, instead of my sisters. He had this idea that my sisters' husbands would take over, as though my sisters aren't perfectly capable of making sure that doesn't happen." He stared glumly at the scattered pages across the sofa and the briefcase; a few had slid across the carpet to lie under a nearby table. "They're certainly proving they don't want any risk of you taking over."
"I have no intention of taking over." Trowa crossed his arms. "I much prefer the work I do."
"But when we marry, L4 is a commonwealth. That means half of what I have, you have," Quatre began.
"Exactly."
"But that means you'll have a controlling share in Winner Enterprises," Quatre continued, closing his eyes. "And if...we were to divorce, we'd have to either liquidate or buy each other out, or split it, and any of those throws the controlling ownership into question." He didn't need to open his eyes to see that Trowa's expression had darkened quite dangerously; he could feel the chill in the air. "And if anything were to ever happen to me...you'd hold the controlling share. If we never had children--"
"Children?"
"Then your sole beneficiary at this time is Cathy, and that means, if she survived both of us, your sister could end up owning WEI." Quatre grimaced. "Not that I see any of that likely to happen, but...it is possible."
"First, I don't go into marriages planning on a divorce, but even if I did, I wouldn't agree that upon divorce I agree to give up everything we bought or were given in the course of the marriage and walk away with only the value of my cash and goods as I had on my wedding day--" Trowa's nostrils flared, and Quatre instinctively took a half-step back, tensing-- "and where the hell do they get off, doing a full credit check on me, and cataloging the items I own?"
Quatre winced. He'd cut that out of every draft, and the board kept putting it back in. One box of unindentified metallic parts; substance, Gundamian; market value: twenty-five dollars. That was all that was left of Heavyarms. Its value, Quatre knew, could never be measured in market prices. Two shoe boxes of pictures and news clippings; substance, paper; market value: null. He'd been livid at that line, and he'd had a terrible row with Montgomery about letting Miriam's henchmen into their home. Trowa had never asked why Quatre had fired Montgomery...
"They went through my stuff," Trowa said, all too quietly. "They invaded my privacy."
"I'm sorry." It didn't matter that it wasn't Quatre's fault, that he hadn't personally given anyone permission to do that, and it didn't seem like the time to protest his innocence, either. He just had to ride it out, and hope Trowa still wanted to have anything to do with him once he was over his fury.
"I am not going to give them copies of my monthly checking and savings accounts for them to certify whether they approve of how I handle my share of our marital property," Trowa warned. "In fact, right now I'm trying to think of a good reason not to take this entire document and shove it down their collective throats. They can approve that, and I'll do that every month until they back the fuck off."
"They won't." Quatre shoved his hands in his pockets, letting his shoulders slump. "I can't blame you for not wanting any of their stipulations. It probably doesn't matter right now, but I only got them to knock off about twenty of the worst--"
"There was something worse than these?" Trowa's face was a picture of incredulity.
"Well...yeah."
"My god, I don't even believe this shit. I want to marry you, but that shit is ridiculous. What's yours is mine, and what's mine is yours..." He paused, and a flash of pain crossed his face. "And even if I don't have a lot to offer, that doesn't mean I want to be treated like I'm doing this just to get at what you've got."
"I know you're not."
Trowa opened his mouth, then closed it. Slowly he removed his glasses, folding them up and tucking them in the collar of his shirt before looking around at the papers scattered everywhere. He took a deep breath, then turned away. "I'm going to run some errands. I'll be back later..."
"Trowa."
"No." Trowa paused in the doorway, but didn't look back. "Guests at seven, I know. I just need some space. Just need to think."
"Okay." Quatre nodded; still, Trowa remained, one hand on the archway's frame, while Quatre remained by the mantle, staring forlornly at the papers and the waiting cookies and soda. He'd rather hoped they'd spend the afternoon--once Trowa did the entire crossword in pen, of course--going back to bed and getting to make up for two weeks of lost time...fat chance of that happening, now. He realized Trowa still hadn't left, and he couldn't help but try, even if it got ignored. "Try to get back by five...I'll give you a foot rub."
Trowa turned then, looking over his shoulder with a weary smile. "That'd be good."
Then he left, and Quatre bent to pick up the papers, not bothering to sort them into any semblance of order. Hitting the button on the gas fireplace, he threw the papers into the flames. Only once they had burnt to dark embers did he get up, brush off his pants, and go to call Miriam. He had every intention of getting married, but if he had to find a compromise. Trowa might be calm and easy-going in the days of peace, but that didn't mean he wouldn't strike out at any intruders -- and now that Trowa knew the board had been through his belongings, none of those men and women would be safe. Quatre smiled to himself. Maybe he wouldn't warn them, and maybe then they'd see that not all former Gundam pilots were calm, responsible, or rehabilitated into proper working folks -- or, at least, they were, until they had reason to stop being so.
Trowa certainly had reason.