by Alleyprowler
There was grit in my bed again. God, I hate that. No matter how thoroughly I scrub myself or how careful I am to remove my boots before I go to sleep, I always end up with grit in my bed after about a week of not changing the sheets. Bed grit. Eugh. I don't know how it gets there and I don't want to know how it gets there, but it was there and I wanted it out. I stripped the bed and piled the sheets up in a corner to be washed. It's a good thing the house we were in had a working washer and dryer.
Then there was the whole towel situation. How come, when I only use the towels to dry off the squeaky-clean and Adonis-like Maxwell uber-bod, they always end up smelling like mildew after a few days? Can anyone give me a rational, scientific explanation for that? I threw them into the pile also.
Oh, and my socks! Someone please explain to me why they become stiff and vile after only being worn once? It's not like I have some gross foot diseases after all. Well, aside from that athlete's foot thing, but that's pretty much under control these days. Anyway, I'd consigned my entire allotment of socks to the pile after they had failed the sniff and bend test, and then I carefully tied the whole mess up in a sheet.
I headed toward the laundry room with my armload of towels and sheets and fragrant socks, and who should step out but Trowa and Quatre? I didn't think much of it at first--everyone's gotta do laundry at some point, right?--but something about them was odd.
Trowa looked like the cat that not only ate the canary, but polished it off with a few bottles of cream, a tin of caviar, and a bottle of very expensive champagne. The word 'smug' does not do his look justice. Not only that, but our normally neat-as-a-pin Quatre looked disheveled; his shirt was wrinkled and untucked, his hair was tousled, and he was practically glowing with satisfaction. They were a walking advertisement for the freshly-fucked look.
I stared at Quatre and he grinned back. "Hi, Duo." He said brightly.
It took me a while to pick my jaw up off the floor, but eventually I managed it. "Did you two just...get it on...in the _laundry room_?" Man, I'm so not subtle.
They looked at each other, then back at me, and now they were both grinning. "Yes. You might want to try it sometime. Doing it on the washing machine while it's on spin cycle is amazing."
I felt faint.
Trowa put a lanky arm around Quatre's shoulders. "Okay, little one, you've shocked Duo enough for one day. Let's go clean up."
"All right. Good night Duo, sleep well." Quatre winked and then let himself be led away to wherever colossal perverts go after they've screwed each other silly on major appliances.
I never did get that load of laundry done.
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