by Alleyprowler
Notes: A very, very late schoolfic for Jenn Abiding. I hope I hit at least a few muskrit-kinks. I am a bad, bad seme.
The dense cluster of trees at the south-west border of the school grounds was called 'The Woods' by most of the students attending St Marks, but it was more of a jungle than a wood. At least, that was what Trowa Barton thought as he fought his way through the dripping greenery, trying to move with as little noise as possible without tripping over a vine or twisting his ankle in a chuckhole.
The Woods had paths, of course, but Trowa had quickly decided he didn't like the looks of them. They were muddy from the autumn rains, churned up by hundreds of pairs of teenage feet, and littered with cigarette butts, fast food wrappers and condoms. He'd decided it would be more hygienic to make his way overland than to squish through the paths, which smelled suspiciously of urine.
He was re-thinking that now. He was wet. He was sweaty. His shoes were surely ruined. There were patches of blackberry vines that tore at his uniform and stands of nettles that seemed to materialize from nowhere, stinging his bare hands. He was, in fact, getting thoroughly fed up with the entire situation when a vine, previously lying flat on the ground, suddenly leaped up and caught him across the ankles.
"Fuck!" was all he could think of to say as he lost his balance and pitched forward. His lunch bag fell out of the pocket of his blazer, and a split second later his knee landed on it, squashing it flat. "Fuck," he said again, sadly this time.
"Oh, you're not one of them," said a surprised voice somewhere to his right.
Scrambling to his feet, Trowa turned toward the voice with his fists raised belligerently. "Who are you and why the fuck did you do that?"
The owner of the voice stepped into view, and Trowa promptly forgot all about punching anyone. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. The slim blond boy in front of him was the very antithesis of the beetle-browed, bull-necked talking apes that comprised Julian's gang. He was also a bit of a dish, but Trowa quickly pushed that thought away. Now wasn't the time.
"I'm Quatre Reberba Winner and I tripped you because I thought you were one of them. You know. I owe you an apology." He bowed his golden head formally, with almost military poise.
"I...um...that's okay," Trowa stammered. In the six weeks he'd been at the Academy, this was the first time anyone had attempted to engage in a polite conversation with him. An apology, no less! He collected his wits, swallowed, and tried again. "I mean, if you thought I was one of them, I can see why you'd want to trip me. I'd've probably done the same thing."
Quatre beamed at him. That was the only way to describe it; he beamed like the sun. "I guess we're on the same side, then," he said, extending his hand.
"I don't do sides."
The blond kid raised an eyebrow at him, but did not retract his hand.
Trowa could have kicked himself. He wasn't usually rude, but the strange, oppressive atmosphere of this new school was wearing on his nerves and ill-tempered comments like that just kept slipping out without authorization from his brain. It was driving his sister mad. "I'm sorry. That came out defensive, didn't it?" He took Quatre's outstretched hand. "I'm Trowa Barton. Like I said, I'm no fan of Julian's gang, but I don't know if that automatically puts us on the same side."
"Fair enough," Quatre said, giving Trowa's hand a firm shake. His palm was warm. "You don't know me; I don't know you. We could fix that if you like."
Was there a note of flirtation in Quatre's voice? It couldn't possibly be. More likely, it was Trowa's own neglected hormones talking. He grunted in a non-committal manner and bent down to pick up the squashed paper bag that held his lunch. Examining the contents, he saw that his sandwich, while still in its plastic wrapping, had a dent in it the size and shape of his knee, the bag of potato chips had exploded, and the banana was mush--unfortunate, but not entirely inedible.
"You can't eat that," Quatre said.
"Who says?"
"I say. Come on, my house isn't far away. I'll fix you something decent."
"You don't need to do that," Trowa said, feeling vaguely embarrassed.
"I insist. It's my fault your lunch got ruined in the first place and I want to make it up to you." Quatre turned and began to walk away without checking to make sure Trowa was following. Cocky little bastard, Trowa thought, but he couldn't manage to conjure up any real antipathy toward the blond boy. He was nice, he was friendly, his ass was completely adorable...
"I did not just think that," he muttered under his breath, and he began to follow.
"What did you say?" Quatre cast a curious glance over his shoulder.
"Nothing. Lead on."
Trowa had expected his new acquaintance to take him toward the town center, but instead, they ended up in the sort of residential neighborhood where everyone had a landscaper come in once a week to edge the lawns with manicure scissors. The houses were mostly Victorian monstrosities with twee gingerbread millwork and leaded glass windows, all set back tastefully from the lane and protected behind brick or wrought iron security fences. "You, uh, live here?"
Quatre gave him a puzzled smile. "Just up the street. Why?"
Trowa shrugged. "I'm just a scholarship kid. This isn't my kind of neighborhood," he said, and once again cursed himself for being surly.
"Believe it or not, I'm a scholarship kid too. Rich doesn't equal stupid," Quatre said, somehow managing to retain a diplomatic tone of voice.
Christ, I'm just winning all kinds of points with this guy, Trowa thought. "Sorry. I didn't mean to imply anything."
"You don't have to be on the defensive with me, Trowa," Quatre said solemnly. "Julian and company pick on me for the same reason they pick on you."
A surge of adrenaline sent Trowa's heart thumping almost painfully against his breastbone. He can't know...he can't possibly know...am I that transparent? No, it can't be; even Catherine doesn't know. "They pick on me because I'm poor."
Quatre gave him a decidedly odd look before shrugging. "If you say so." He pointed at a house a little farther up the street. "That's it. Oh, and it looks like my sister's home, too. Good. She can mend this for you."
Trowa hadn't even noticed the rip in his blazer till Quatre pointed it out. Shit. That particular seam had already been mended--Cathy was going to have his head on a platter. "It's all right, I can do it."
"My sister's a doctor; she's an ace with a needle and thread. Come on, you'll like her," he said, and pushed his way through the front gate, revealing a swept brick path that cut across an immaculate stretch of lawn.
The house was big and looked like it had been painted only yesterday, but Trowa had to admit to himself that it wasn't as ostentatious as the rest of the houses on the street. It was clear that someone lived there, for one thing. Not just resided there, but actually lived there. There was a mud-splattered mountain bike heeled up against the side of the wide, open porch, a basketball hoop affixed to the side of the detached garage, and a small satellite dish poking from one of the upstairs windows.
Once inside, Quatre tossed his bookbag in the general direction of a coat tree, where it landed with a heavy thunk that Trowa could feel in his feet. What was he carrying in there, bricks? As if reading his mind, Quatre gave him a rueful smile as he rubbed his shoulder. "Honors Literature has ridiculous reading requirements. I'm going to go blind before I graduate, I swear."
Trowa nodded, but since his tastes ran more toward the hard sciences than toward literature, he couldn't really empathize. Besides, he was more interested in the smell of coffee than in schoolwork right now. He hadn't realized how chilly it was till he had stepped into the warm house, and his fingers ached to wrap themselves around a hot mug.
"The kitchen's that way," Quatre said, pointing down a dimly-lit hallway. Trowa followed him.
It was a large, airy room done in blue and white, with gleaming appliances and spotless surfaces. Trowa deeply envied it. At home, all there was to cook with was an ancient microwave oven the probably wasn't entirely safe and a countertop that was probably about as big as the cover of his chemistry textbook. Creativity could only go so far with that to work with. It wasn't that he ever went hungry, exactly, but he was a seventeen-year-old boy and by definition he was a walking bottomless pit.
Not to mention a seething cauldron of hormones. Quatre had removed his blazer and tie and was proceeding to roll up his sleeves in preparation for making lunch, and he couldn't help but notice the tense, wiry muscles in Quatre's forearms; the kind of muscles that suggested speed and a species of nervous dexterity that promised sudden danger to anyone who underestimated that slight build.
"Do you work out?" The question came out without Trowa's conscious authorization, and he nearly bit his tongue.
Quatre paused in the act of slicing a loaf of weird orange-colored bread. "I don't go to the gym, but I go to a martial-arts class with my friend Hilde three times a week, I mountain bike on weekends, I'm learning rock climbing, and I like to swim. Why do you ask?"
Trowa shrugged, trying to look bored. "No reason. Just making conversation."
"I see." Quatre switched knives and began to work on a block of cheese. "So what do you do for fun?"
Trowa thought fast. "I run, sometimes." Away from people. "Explore the city." Wishing I was someplace else. "Watch movies." Romances. And yes, dammit, I cry. "Oh, and I play the flute."
Quatre slipped a sliver of cheese between his teeth. "Really? I play piano and violin. I don't think I could play woodwinds; the thought of putting my mouth on an instrument...well, it seems kind of intimate."
Was this kid trying to make him uncomfortable, or was it just his imagination? "It's not dirty."
"I didn't say dirty, I said intimate. Private. But then you seem like a private person, so I suppose it fits." He smiled and held out another sliver of pale yellow cheese. "It's Havarti. Want a taste?"
Trowa did, and not just because he was hungry. Quatre's hands had the prominent knuckles and oversized look that most adolescents' hands did, but the fingers were long and tapered and his skin was so clean it nearly glowed. Even the close-clipped nails were immaculate, unlike most boys'. The touch of those hands, those strong, young, clean hands... "No, thank you," Trowa said. He glanced away. Fortuitously, his gaze landed on the coffee maker, which was full of dark brown liquid. The day was looking up. "Is it okay if I have a cup of coffee?"
Quatre moved himself between Trowa and the coffee, smirking. "Sure, but it's going to cost you."
Trowa thought about the pathetic collection of loose coins in his pocket and felt his heart sink.
"I meant," Quatre said, somehow catching onto his mood, "that for one kiss, I'll pour you a cup."
Trowa swallowed. His throat was suddenly very dry.
"Okay." He closed his eyes and waited. Nothing happened. He opened them again. The other boy was leaning against the countertop. Still in the way.
"One kiss you give me," he clarified.
The coffee aroma wafted through the air, making it impossible to think. The two top buttons in Quatre's shirt had come undone. Surely he'd been all buttoned up before? Trowa took two steps forward, closing the distance between them. He grabbed Quatre by the shoulders, pushed him back against the countertop and kissed him. Hard. Harder than intended, since Quatre's mouth met his halfway, with a force that was short of teeth-knocking, but not much.
"Ow!" they said in unison, pulling away.
Trowa let go, stepped back. He resisted the temptation to lick his sore lip.
"Well?" he demanded.
Quatre had no compunctions about licking his mouth; in fact, he seemed to relish it. Trowa stared, alternately repulsed and attracted by the tip of pink tongue darting in and out.
"Very well," Quatre said at last and reached for a purple coffee mug hanging off a rack. "I'll pour the coffee. Now, would you like to know what it'll take for me to give it to you? Or to let you drink it?"
Trowa could only stare, speechless. This rotten, presumptuous little brat had just lured him into his home, tricked him into his first kiss, had busted his lip, and now he wanted more?
But I do want more, a little voice spoke up in Trowa's head. I want more and more and more...
He was saved from an impending breakdown by the arrival of a third party in the kitchen. It was a woman, presumably Quatre's sister. She was much taller than her brother and her hair was a darker shade of blond, but the family resemblance was unmistakable, especially around her eyes and mouth. "Hi, honey," she said, breezing in and fetching a cup of coffee from the now-unguarded pot. "Are you home for lunch?"
"Yeah, I didn't feel up to cafeteria food today." Quatre's eyes were wide and guileless as he spoke to his sister. All traces of that wanton little imp had vanished as if by magic.
"Can't blame you," she said, dimpling over the rim of her cup. Her expressive blue eyes landed on Trowa. "Hello. I'm Iria. Are you one of Quatre's friends?"
"Trowa Barton," he said, holding out his hand. She shook it. Her smile faded as she studied his face.
"What happened to your lip, Trowa? You're bleeding."
Trowa frantically began to think up possible answers, something that sounded plausible and not at all as embarrassing as the truth, but he need not have worried. "Julian's gang," Quatre said.
Apparently those two words meant just as much to Iria as they did to her brother, because she didn't ask any questions. She looked as if she'd smelled something rotten. "Those filthy little...ugh! What are their parents teaching them? Nasty, narrow-minded, evil, bigoted..."
"Iria?" Quatre interrupted his sister's rant almost timidly.
"What, honey?"
"They ripped Trowa's blazer. Do you think you could fix it before we go back?"
The blond woman looked over Trowa's clothing over carefully. "I have to be back at the clinic by three, but I suppose I could. Those trousers are all muddy, too. Honey, loan Trowa a pair of your sweatpants while I throw them in the wash, okay? I'll go get my sewing kit." She strode off briskly, a woman on a mission.
Quatre smiled sweetly and held out the purple mug. "Coffee?"
Ten minutes later, Trowa's head was still spinning. Here he was, pantsless and finishing a cup of coffee on some rich brat's bed while said brat was bent over a chest of drawers, ostensibly looking around for something for him to wear. From Trowa's point of view, it looked like Quatre was showing off how well his exquisitely tailored school trousers fit him, which was very well indeed.
"Damn," Quatre said mildly, "I thought my blue ones were in here, but I guess they're still in the laundry. You can wear the grey ones, I guess. Catch!"
Trowa snatched the sweatpants out of the air and held them to his lap. "Thanks. Appreciate it."
Quatre turned his back discreetly while Trowa slid out of the bathrobe he'd borrowed. "I didn't mean to be so pushy," he said, apropos of nothing as far as Trowa could tell.
"What do you mean?"
"Back in the kitchen. I wasn't trying to embarrass you or anything, I was just trying to draw you out of your shell."
Trowa finished adjusting the sweatpants about as well as they could be adjusted, given that Quatre was a size smaller than he was. "You've got something against quiet people?"
"No," Quatre said, turning back to face him. There was a rueful little smile on his face. "I'm usually quiet myself, it's just that you..." He appeared to be searching for a phrase, but he gave up after a few seconds. He reached out and gave Trowa's bangs a gentle tug. "You have a nice face. Why do you hide it?"
Trowa really didn't feel like launching into a long lecture on his particular psychological oddities, so he just said, "I like wearing my hair this way."
"It suits you. It makes you look inscrutable." The blond boy sat down on the bed next to him. Close. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the warmth of his body.
Trowa didn't know what came over him. His hand raised as of its own accord and he reached out and pulled on one of the long strands of fair hair that fell into Quatre's face. "You hide your eyes as well."
Vivid color rose up in Quatre's cheeks and he gave a half-hearted laugh. "I suppose I do."
"Why is that?"
"I like wearing my hair this way."
"It suits you," Trowa said, echoing Quatre's words.
"Are you flirting with me?"
The question was honest, not mocking, and Trowa was taken aback. "I suppose I am," he said with surprise. If anyone had asked him before this day if he was the flirting type, he would have laughed and said he was about as capable of flirting as he was of flying by flapping his arms. Yet here he was, bantering with Quatre and making him blush--flirting.
Quatre seemed pleased. "Good. It was getting a little one-sided," he said, and kissed him.
No one was injured this time. It was, in fact, quite nice. Quatre's lips were cool and relaxed against his, but they became warmer as the kiss went on. Trowa, pleased by the sensation, leaned forward and placed his hand on Quatre's shoulder to balance his weight. He was a bit surprised when Quatre snaked and arm around his waist and fell over backwards onto the bed. He pulled away to avoid being dragged along. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No," Quatre said, sounding a little breathless, "I just thought it would be more comfortable if we lay down." His blue eyes were hazy, unfocused, and his arms and legs were spread out invitingly. He was, of course, still wearing his school uniform, but his shirttails had been pulled free from the waistband of his exquisitely-tailored trousers, which seemed to have developed a hard ridge around the zipper area. The shallow cup of his navel was playing peek-a-boo with the hem of his shirt as he breathed, his un-knotted tie was arranged artfully down his chest, and his pale blond hair was in glorious disarray around his flushed face. To Trowa, he looked like an advertisement for sex.
"Oh God, what am I thinking?" he muttered, wondering what had gotten into him.
"About kissing me some more, I hope," Quatre said. The tip of his tongue slipped out to moisten his smiling lips. Trowa longed to follow it with his own tongue.
"We shouldn't be doing this." His voice sounded weak and unconvincing.
Quatre arched an eyebrow. "No?"
"Well..." Trowa's will was crumbling like a sandcastle at high tide. "There's school..."
"It'll still be there when we're done."
"Your sister, then."
"The door is locked. She doesn't like coming in here anyway. Got any more excuses?"
Quatre's grin was infectious, and Trowa felt his lips pulled into an unfamiliar smile. "I guess not."
Kissing when you couldn't stop smiling was a little awkward, but Trowa found he didn't mind. Quatre certainly didn't seem to either. The blond boy made quiet, appreciative noises in the back of his throat and ran his hands up and down Trowa's spine as they kissed. It felt good. It all felt good. The lips, the hands, the wonderful warmth of body against body, all of it. All of it.
Their shirt buttons seemed to have disappeared. Trowa spared all of two seconds wondering how that could have happened before surrendering himself to the sensation of his bare skin rubbing against Quatre's. He had never experienced that before, and it made him feel simultaneously light and heavy, hot and cold. His head whirled, but in a pleasant way, and his pounding heart seemed to be striving for Quatre's hummingbird rhythm.
If this was what drugs were like, he thought nonsensically, then he didn't blame the longhaired kids for sneaking off on their lunch break for a quick joint or a drink or whatever it is they did in the Woods that made them so glassy-eyed and goofy afterward. This was intoxicating.
"Roll over," Quatre whispered.
Trowa did so, taking in shallow sips of air between his kiss-swollen lips. He lay on his back and watched as Quatre sat up, shrugged off his shirt, and lay back down half on top of him. He raised his head a little, hoping for more kisses.
"Wait," Quatre said softly, and Trowa made a soft sound of disappointment. But Quatre only wanted him to remove his shirt. "There, now we're even."
"No, you still have these on," Trowa murmured, reaching for the fly of Quatre's school trousers, only to find that they had disappeared too. His hand landed on a hard ridge of flesh covered only in the thin cotton knit of Quatre's briefs. He blinked. The heat, the heaviness, the very solidity of the blond boy's erection in his hand did not convince him this wasn't some weird sensory hallucination. "Wait, weren't you just wearing your trousers?"
Quatre smiled. "I was. You unfastened them when you unbuttoned our shirts, remember?"
"I did that?"
"Of course you did. Did you think it was an act of fate or something?" Quatre said, tilting his head to one side to peer underneath Trowa's overhang of hair.
Trowa remembered doing no such thing, but there was the heat in his hand as evidence. The weight. The solidity. The presence. He squeezed it experimentally and saw Quatre gasp and throw back his head, neck tendons standing out sharply in the gloomy afternoon light. "Oh, God," he breathed, feeling his own groin throb in sympathetic response.
"Mmm," Quatre seemed to agree. He hooked a leg over Trowa's thigh and rubbed his erection against his hand. "Do that some more...please?"
Since he'd asked so nicely, Trowa slipped his hand into the white briefs and wrapped his fingers cautiously around Quatre's erection. The skin was like hot satin against his palm, fine and smooth and oh-so-sensual. He gripped it more firmly, moving his hand the same way he might have done if it was his own cock.
Quatre made a strange, strangled noise and pressed his hot face against Trowa's chest. "Oh my God."
"Is that good?" Trowa asked, his hand settling into a rhythm that seemed perfectly natural to him.
Quatre shuddered from head to foot. His breathing was coming in quick little gasps. "Oh my God," he repeated.
Taking that as a yes, Trowa continued to pump steadily, relishing every shiver and moan he was able to draw from the blond boy. Quatre was practically writhing against him. The fact that he was now engaged in manual sex with a practical stranger was shoved into the dim, dusty corner of his mind usually reserved for long division and the conjugation of French verbs; he was too busy indulging in his own emotional and erotic sensations to be bothered with such petty concerns.
"There," Quatre panted deliriously against his shoulder, "there!"
"Faster?" Trowa guessed.
"Yes! Oh!" Quatre's body went rigid for a moment before shuddering violently. Wordless moans of pleasure came from his throat, making Trowa fairly grin with pleasure. That had almost been as good as the real thing.
Quatre pressed against him, limp, spent, and slightly sticky. "You okay?" Trowa asked, jostling him a bit.
"Yeah, fine. I'm just a little tired. You're really good at that."
"I've had a lot of practice," Trowa said dryly.
Quatre's eyes opened and he gave Trowa an odd look. "You mean masturbating?"
Trowa nodded, steadfastly looking away from the dewy and flushed face of the boy lying next to him.
"There's nothing wrong with that. There's enough misery in the world already; there's no sin in taking a little harmless pleasure while you can." Quatre hand rose languidly to stroke Trowa's chest.
Trowa wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and lean into the touch; perhaps purr, had he possessed the correct vocal apparatus. Instead, he forced his spine go as rigid as his cock was. "I'm not into that," he said.
"I think you are," Quatre said, pressing his forehead to Trowa's and running a finger up and down his erection.
"Okay, I am," Trowa said, taking the point, "but that doesn't mean you have to feel obligated to do anything for me--not that I felt obligated, you understand, I just wanted to, uh, to do that because yes, I am into that now that you brought it up, but I don't think I'm entirely comfortable with the idea of--oh dear God, what are you doing?"
Quatre curled up so that his head was near Trowa's crotch, and he blew a stream of air across the head of Trowa's cock. "Making you shut up."
"You can't! I mean, that's so..."
"Intimate?" Quatre suggested, grinning up at him. He darted his tongue out and licked him. Licked him!
"Quatre!"
"You're still not shutting up. I guess I'll just have to--" swallow you whole should have been the rest of that sentence, but Quatre was too busy doing it to say it.
Trowa held his breath, certain that he was going to have an aneurysm at the ripe old age of seventeen. The human body was surely not designed to take so much sensation all at once. It was warm, it was wet, it was electric, and the only reason he didn't come at once was because his nervous system was far too shocked. "Quatre..."
"Mm-mm?"
The vibration from the blond boy's lips and throat was almost too much. Trowa's heart was pounding against his ribs, and he felt weak and faint. He could only console himself with the thought that, if he actually died right now, the school's life insurance would make his sister a modestly wealthy woman.
"Trowa, you might want to breathe," Quatre said.
Oh, right. Trowa let stale air out of his lungs and sucked in a new breath, then another, then another. Quatre watched him calmly until his respiration had settled into a more-or-less normal rhythm, then smiled and went back to his task.
It was still warm, still wet, and most definitely still electric, but now that Trowa wasn't suffering from oxygen deprivation, he found he could bear the sensations.
Bear them? That was entirely the wrong word. Revel, glory, and rejoice in them might have been more appropriate, but Trowa was beyond semantics. He had never felt anything like this before. He thought he was pretty good at knowing what he liked, but Quatre was doing things with his tongue and lips that couldn't possibly be duplicated by his own right hand. He felt vulnerable, exposed and completely out of control, and that was okay. That was more than okay, in fact, it was... oh crap, it was going to end soon.
"Quatre, I'm close," he whispered.
Quatre cupped his balls with one hand. What was he, deaf?
"I'm close," Trowa repeated, louder.
Quatre proceeded with his business with more enthusiasm. For a moment, Trowa considered grabbing him by the ears and physically removing him from his penis, but then he felt himself reach the point of no return and all he could do was lie back and clutch the bedspread in both hands and concentrate on not screaming out loud...
"Trowa, wake up."
Oh, fuck. It was all a dream. Without opening his eyes, Trowa pulled the blanket up to his neck. "Go 'way." Maybe if he went right back to sleep, he'd find that bratty, smart-assed, delicious blond imp once more and they could do wonderfully nasty things to each other, perhaps involving fresh produce.
"I will not go away. This is my room."
Trowa's eyes flew open. "Quatre?"
"Who else would it be?"
Trowa pinched his own thigh. It hurt. "I'm awake," he concluded.
"Sure you are," Quatre said. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed in his school uniform, busy pulling his socks on. "Your clothes are ready. I'd let you sleep some more, but I have to go and I really don't want to leave you here alone."
"Are you going back to school?"
Grinning, Quatre turned and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. Trowa kissed him back automatically, as if he'd been doing it for years.
"It's almost three o'clock and school's over for the day," Quatre said as he broke the kiss. "But there's something I need to do there."
Trowa sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "Is it something I can help you with?"
"You said you weren't on my side." Quatre opened up his closet and began to rummage through it, reaching high on the shelves and searching low on the floor.
"I didn't say that, I said I didn't do sides."
"So you did," Quatre conceded. He seemed to have found what he was looking for somewhere near the bottom of the closet. Moving very gingerly, he turned toward the bedroom carrying...a carton of eggs?
"What's that for?" Trowa asked, wondering what on Earth someone would be doing with a dozen eggs in their closet.
"Julian drives to school on Fridays."
"And?" Trowa prompted when it seemed he wasn't going to get any more of an explanation than that.
"And he's got detention till four, which leaves me just enough time run back to St. Mark's and crack these eggs into the hood vents in his car before he goes out and cruises the strip all night." Quatre patted the egg carton fondly, but very, very carefully. "I've been saving these since last Easter. They ought to be nice and ripe by now."
Trowa froze in the act of pulling his socks on. "That is possibly the most evil thing I've ever heard in my life."
Quatre seemed flattered. "Why, thank you."
Trowa considered for a moment being shut up in the car with six-month-old eggs fermenting in the hood vents. He could imagine the odor of rotten eggs blowing out of the fan and permeating the upholstery. The natural thing to do in that case would be to open the windows. "It would be even more tragic if the power windows were somehow shorted out," he concluded out loud.
"Brilliant idea!" Quatre said, but then his smile faded. "Except I don't have a clue how to do that."
Trowa, who did, slipped into his trousers and shirt just as fast as he could. "I changed my mind," he said, stuffing his tie into his pocket.
"About what?"
"I think I am on your side after all."
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