Sweeter Each Season 3
9 Feb 2006 01:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kaigoufor ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
maria_chan, who put in a request over at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fic_on_demand, a comm I never venture near but tonight I made an exception, because today was A Very Bad Day. This doesn't explain why I'm writing fluff instead of strife, but, eh, let's see how long I can make it work. I doubt too much polishing before I post on GWA; this one will probably stay a bit rougher than the rest. Eh, well.
-------
Quatre pursed his lips and glanced over the top of the engineering diagrams to Trowa's expression, which seemed to have wavered between stoic—and something tense, even a little nervous, but the wide eyes would narrow as soon as Trowa felt Quatre watching him. Trowa would raise an eyebrow, and go back to doing the crossword puzzle, as if to say, I am perfectly at ease, see me relaxing, which was rather amusing since Trowa normally exuded that sensation. Certainly he rarely needed to broadcast it so defiantly with every long, slow breath, every firm letter drawn across the puzzle print-out, even the slight line between the brows looked planned, specific, measured. Time for evasive action, Quatre decided.
He set down the journal, stretching dramatically, even playing it up a little just as a subtle way to let Trowa know that two could play at that game. Then he stood, arching his arms over his head as he stretched again, and casually sauntered out of the room. He caught a glimpse of Trowa in the mirror; Trowa was watching him from under his bangs, before he went back to regarding the rest of the living room with a wary expression like he was waiting for the credenza to whip out a knife and leap on him, or for the twenty-second century Kriten coffee table to stand on two legs and mow him down with a concealed AK-15. Quatre was almost tempted to pick up the reproduction Ming vase and lob it from the hallway into the living room just to see Trowa leap into the air like a scalded cat, but then he had a better idea.
Down the hall and into his study, where he retrieved the brown paper sack from the bottom drawer of his desk, and brought out two guns, of the last kind still legal in Bremen. He uncapped the magazines, checked the levels, and stuck one in the back of his jeans as a spare, keeping the other one at the ready.
He knew half of what had Trowa bothered about the apartment; it had taken him nearly a year of living there to get over it himself: there was no place to sit in the living room, in the den, in the media room, or in the dining room, in which one's back wasn't to a door or a window. The damn apartment was swiss cheese when it came to open doors leading to other rooms, to hallways, to broad windows overlooking the terrace that ran the complete perimeter of the building. On the other hand, it also meant multiple lines of attack, and Quatre used every trick he had, from bare feet across the carpet and long pauses. Trowa's head came up at one point, but Quatre remembered Duo's odd advice about breathing in time, and he tried it, breathing long and slow until he felt he were in time with Trowa. Eventually Trowa lowered his head and got back to tackling the crossword puzzle.
That was when Quatre pounced. Technically it wasn't really a pounce, so much as a leap to a standing position while yelling an indistinct heeyah in a much deeper pitch than he'd had at fifteen--simultaneously soaking Trowa in the back of the head with a stready stream of water.
To his delight, Trowa really did leap like a scalded cat.
Newspaper prints went up in the air, and Trowa amazingly twisted in midair, coming down with his knees on the edge of the sofa, hands grasping the back cushion. He opened his mouth, and Quatre grinned, hitting Trowa with a second stream right in the forehead. Trowa's jaw fell open again, but only for a split-second—then he vaulted over the sofa's back and tackled. Quatre twisted, avoiding, angling away just as Trowa hollered in victory and yanked the spare water-gun from the back of Quatre's jeans. Quatre made it to the credenza in time to keep from getting it in the face, but no matter: Trowa got him with a strong jet of water in the ass, instead. The water continued, spraying over the furniture and landing in a gentle patter across Quatre's head and shoulders.
"Hah," Quatre yelled, from behind the credenza, "I bet you'll still run out of ammunition before me!"
Plastic clattered, and then Trowa distinctly said, "well, fuck." He'd just realized the second magazine had only been a quarter full.
Quatre laughed to himself, but then heard running footsteps. He came to his feet, prepared to defend, just in time to see Trowa bolting out of the room. The bathroom! Refills! Quatre ran for the bar sink, refilling his own magazine and slamming it home just as Trowa reappeared in the doorway. They got each other squarely, then Quatre slipped on the bar's cork floor, going down on one knee. His shot went wild, across Trowa, across the wall, up over a lovely painting that Quatre had never really liked anyway all that much, water spray strong enough to knock the vase of dried flowers over, and then ending up aimed at the watered-satin side chairs. They'd just be slightly more watered in the future. Quatre didn't have more thought to spare than that, as he couldn't catch himself, falling completely to the floor. Trowa took advantage, pelting him with a full-on spray before landing on him with a pleased smirk.
"I win," Trowa announced, and straddled him, reaching for the gun in Quatre's hand.
"Oh really?" Quatre wriggled underneath him, and got a hand free. With his other hand holding the gun securely, he straightened two fingers and plunged them into Trowa's side, and straight into Trowa's one ticklish spot on his body. Trowa yelped, arms going up to defend as he threw himself backward from the attack. Quatre was on his feet instantly and running for the kitchen.
The kitchen was deserted; Mary had left some bowls and vegetables out on the cutting boards. She'd probably stepped out to the pantry for something, but then he saw the large empty bowl, and he couldn't help it. Slinging the plastic gun over his shoulder, he filled up the bowl and tiptoed out into the hallway leading to the dining room. No sign or noise of Trowa. Another ten steps. Still nothing. Quatre held the bowl steady, moving so cautiously it didn't even slosh. He would've been screwed but his lucky break came when he caught a glimpse of movement in the mirror over the piano, reflecting across the gallery, across the hallway, and into the dining room. Quatre grinned to himself, hefted the bowl, and lunged around the corner, throwing the bowl out and up, both tossing the contents and using it as a shield.
What he'd not expected was that Trowa was standing on a chair—a bucket's worth of water poured down on Quatre from above. He sputtered, dropping the bowl with a large clatter, and wiped hair from his eyes. Trowa landed before him, graceful despite being soaked from the chest down, and took Quatre's gun.
"I still win!" He looked Quatre over, and grinned again, that completely open, carefree smile so rarely shown. He plucked at Quatre's dripping shirt and murmured in a throatier voice, "hmm, you're all wet...we should get you out of those clothes before you catch a chill."
Quatre was tempted to snort before he realized the positive aspects of such a plan. Grinning just as widely, he stripped off his shirt and let it drop to his feet. "Now, you," he demanded, pulling at Trowa's shirt, which had stuck to Trowa's body in quite a wonderful way. It was almost a pity to tug it off, but Trowa didn't seem to be protesting, in fact he was helping quite nicely, with one hand down Quatre's pants and the other one trying to get the buttons on his cuffs undone so Quatre could get the shirt off his arms. They were well on their way to hopelessly entangled when someone coughed, and quite loudly.
"Uhm." Quatre raised his head, peering over his shoulder to see Mary standing at the other end of the hallway; Eliza hovered behind her, eyes as large as saucers, hands over her mouth. Quatre looked down at the water soaking the hardwood floor, splattered across the hand-printed cold-press wallpaper, soaking a massive dark patch into the hallway carpet. "Whoops?"
Mary sniffed imperiously, and announced, "Eliza, please get the mop for the gentlemen, and at least ten large towels."
"But—" Quatre glanced at Trowa, who had jerked back at the same moment as Quatre, but now had the oddest little smirk on his face. "Wait, you don't mean we have to—"
"That's correct, Mister Winner," Mary replied. "Unless you would prefer raw carrots and defrosted tater tots for dinner, in which case I would be more than happy to address this situation instead of my regular duties."
"Tater tots?"
"It's all I can cook," Trowa whispered, a little apologetically. His smile grew when Quatre looked at him askance, before nodding to Mary. Eliza was already gone, scurrying off to find enough towels to mop up all the water they'd sprayed, poured, and splattered. Trowa waited until Mary had returned to the kitchen, before leaning in close to run a finger down Quatre's stomach. "You take the hallway and living room, I'll take the dining room and bar. First one done wins."
"Oh, really?" Quatre repeated, giving Trowa an assessing look. "And just what do I win?"
Trowa just smirked, and accepted the towels from Eliza, who then handed Quatre the mop. He gave it a dubious look, but it was easy enough to operate. Behind him, he could hear Eliza tiptoeing away, back to the kitchen, where soft giggles floated back to him.
"Hey, Quatre," Trowa called, from the bar. "You make a great impression of a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar."
"Do not," Quatre yelled back.
"Do too. A five-year-old."
Those were fighting words. Quatre glanced down at the abandoned water-gun, and realized he'd never fired it after filling it up along with the bowl. Grinning to himself, he picked it up, and began Trowa-hunting again.
======
Sorry I didn't get in any smut -- too tired tonight, I'm afraid, but I did hand out fluff. Of a sort. Okay, maybe not. Next time, then. Or something. *dhed*
maria_chan, who put in a request over at fic_on_demand, a comm I never venture near but tonight I made an exception, because today was A Very Bad Day. This doesn't explain why I'm writing fluff instead of strife, but, eh, let's see how long I can make it work. I doubt too much polishing before I post on GWA; this one will probably stay a bit rougher than the rest. Eh, well. -------
Quatre pursed his lips and glanced over the top of the engineering diagrams to Trowa's expression, which seemed to have wavered between stoic—and something tense, even a little nervous, but the wide eyes would narrow as soon as Trowa felt Quatre watching him. Trowa would raise an eyebrow, and go back to doing the crossword puzzle, as if to say, I am perfectly at ease, see me relaxing, which was rather amusing since Trowa normally exuded that sensation. Certainly he rarely needed to broadcast it so defiantly with every long, slow breath, every firm letter drawn across the puzzle print-out, even the slight line between the brows looked planned, specific, measured. Time for evasive action, Quatre decided.
He set down the journal, stretching dramatically, even playing it up a little just as a subtle way to let Trowa know that two could play at that game. Then he stood, arching his arms over his head as he stretched again, and casually sauntered out of the room. He caught a glimpse of Trowa in the mirror; Trowa was watching him from under his bangs, before he went back to regarding the rest of the living room with a wary expression like he was waiting for the credenza to whip out a knife and leap on him, or for the twenty-second century Kriten coffee table to stand on two legs and mow him down with a concealed AK-15. Quatre was almost tempted to pick up the reproduction Ming vase and lob it from the hallway into the living room just to see Trowa leap into the air like a scalded cat, but then he had a better idea.
Down the hall and into his study, where he retrieved the brown paper sack from the bottom drawer of his desk, and brought out two guns, of the last kind still legal in Bremen. He uncapped the magazines, checked the levels, and stuck one in the back of his jeans as a spare, keeping the other one at the ready.
He knew half of what had Trowa bothered about the apartment; it had taken him nearly a year of living there to get over it himself: there was no place to sit in the living room, in the den, in the media room, or in the dining room, in which one's back wasn't to a door or a window. The damn apartment was swiss cheese when it came to open doors leading to other rooms, to hallways, to broad windows overlooking the terrace that ran the complete perimeter of the building. On the other hand, it also meant multiple lines of attack, and Quatre used every trick he had, from bare feet across the carpet and long pauses. Trowa's head came up at one point, but Quatre remembered Duo's odd advice about breathing in time, and he tried it, breathing long and slow until he felt he were in time with Trowa. Eventually Trowa lowered his head and got back to tackling the crossword puzzle.
That was when Quatre pounced. Technically it wasn't really a pounce, so much as a leap to a standing position while yelling an indistinct heeyah in a much deeper pitch than he'd had at fifteen--simultaneously soaking Trowa in the back of the head with a stready stream of water.
To his delight, Trowa really did leap like a scalded cat.
Newspaper prints went up in the air, and Trowa amazingly twisted in midair, coming down with his knees on the edge of the sofa, hands grasping the back cushion. He opened his mouth, and Quatre grinned, hitting Trowa with a second stream right in the forehead. Trowa's jaw fell open again, but only for a split-second—then he vaulted over the sofa's back and tackled. Quatre twisted, avoiding, angling away just as Trowa hollered in victory and yanked the spare water-gun from the back of Quatre's jeans. Quatre made it to the credenza in time to keep from getting it in the face, but no matter: Trowa got him with a strong jet of water in the ass, instead. The water continued, spraying over the furniture and landing in a gentle patter across Quatre's head and shoulders.
"Hah," Quatre yelled, from behind the credenza, "I bet you'll still run out of ammunition before me!"
Plastic clattered, and then Trowa distinctly said, "well, fuck." He'd just realized the second magazine had only been a quarter full.
Quatre laughed to himself, but then heard running footsteps. He came to his feet, prepared to defend, just in time to see Trowa bolting out of the room. The bathroom! Refills! Quatre ran for the bar sink, refilling his own magazine and slamming it home just as Trowa reappeared in the doorway. They got each other squarely, then Quatre slipped on the bar's cork floor, going down on one knee. His shot went wild, across Trowa, across the wall, up over a lovely painting that Quatre had never really liked anyway all that much, water spray strong enough to knock the vase of dried flowers over, and then ending up aimed at the watered-satin side chairs. They'd just be slightly more watered in the future. Quatre didn't have more thought to spare than that, as he couldn't catch himself, falling completely to the floor. Trowa took advantage, pelting him with a full-on spray before landing on him with a pleased smirk.
"I win," Trowa announced, and straddled him, reaching for the gun in Quatre's hand.
"Oh really?" Quatre wriggled underneath him, and got a hand free. With his other hand holding the gun securely, he straightened two fingers and plunged them into Trowa's side, and straight into Trowa's one ticklish spot on his body. Trowa yelped, arms going up to defend as he threw himself backward from the attack. Quatre was on his feet instantly and running for the kitchen.
The kitchen was deserted; Mary had left some bowls and vegetables out on the cutting boards. She'd probably stepped out to the pantry for something, but then he saw the large empty bowl, and he couldn't help it. Slinging the plastic gun over his shoulder, he filled up the bowl and tiptoed out into the hallway leading to the dining room. No sign or noise of Trowa. Another ten steps. Still nothing. Quatre held the bowl steady, moving so cautiously it didn't even slosh. He would've been screwed but his lucky break came when he caught a glimpse of movement in the mirror over the piano, reflecting across the gallery, across the hallway, and into the dining room. Quatre grinned to himself, hefted the bowl, and lunged around the corner, throwing the bowl out and up, both tossing the contents and using it as a shield.
What he'd not expected was that Trowa was standing on a chair—a bucket's worth of water poured down on Quatre from above. He sputtered, dropping the bowl with a large clatter, and wiped hair from his eyes. Trowa landed before him, graceful despite being soaked from the chest down, and took Quatre's gun.
"I still win!" He looked Quatre over, and grinned again, that completely open, carefree smile so rarely shown. He plucked at Quatre's dripping shirt and murmured in a throatier voice, "hmm, you're all wet...we should get you out of those clothes before you catch a chill."
Quatre was tempted to snort before he realized the positive aspects of such a plan. Grinning just as widely, he stripped off his shirt and let it drop to his feet. "Now, you," he demanded, pulling at Trowa's shirt, which had stuck to Trowa's body in quite a wonderful way. It was almost a pity to tug it off, but Trowa didn't seem to be protesting, in fact he was helping quite nicely, with one hand down Quatre's pants and the other one trying to get the buttons on his cuffs undone so Quatre could get the shirt off his arms. They were well on their way to hopelessly entangled when someone coughed, and quite loudly.
"Uhm." Quatre raised his head, peering over his shoulder to see Mary standing at the other end of the hallway; Eliza hovered behind her, eyes as large as saucers, hands over her mouth. Quatre looked down at the water soaking the hardwood floor, splattered across the hand-printed cold-press wallpaper, soaking a massive dark patch into the hallway carpet. "Whoops?"
Mary sniffed imperiously, and announced, "Eliza, please get the mop for the gentlemen, and at least ten large towels."
"But—" Quatre glanced at Trowa, who had jerked back at the same moment as Quatre, but now had the oddest little smirk on his face. "Wait, you don't mean we have to—"
"That's correct, Mister Winner," Mary replied. "Unless you would prefer raw carrots and defrosted tater tots for dinner, in which case I would be more than happy to address this situation instead of my regular duties."
"Tater tots?"
"It's all I can cook," Trowa whispered, a little apologetically. His smile grew when Quatre looked at him askance, before nodding to Mary. Eliza was already gone, scurrying off to find enough towels to mop up all the water they'd sprayed, poured, and splattered. Trowa waited until Mary had returned to the kitchen, before leaning in close to run a finger down Quatre's stomach. "You take the hallway and living room, I'll take the dining room and bar. First one done wins."
"Oh, really?" Quatre repeated, giving Trowa an assessing look. "And just what do I win?"
Trowa just smirked, and accepted the towels from Eliza, who then handed Quatre the mop. He gave it a dubious look, but it was easy enough to operate. Behind him, he could hear Eliza tiptoeing away, back to the kitchen, where soft giggles floated back to him.
"Hey, Quatre," Trowa called, from the bar. "You make a great impression of a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar."
"Do not," Quatre yelled back.
"Do too. A five-year-old."
Those were fighting words. Quatre glanced down at the abandoned water-gun, and realized he'd never fired it after filling it up along with the bowl. Grinning to himself, he picked it up, and began Trowa-hunting again.
======
Sorry I didn't get in any smut -- too tired tonight, I'm afraid, but I did hand out fluff. Of a sort. Okay, maybe not. Next time, then. Or something. *dhed*
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Date: 13 Feb 2006 12:01 am (UTC)