(no subject)
This section was suppose to fit somewhere into the Roomates ark. I couldn't help writing it though and here it is. Some more is written but this seems like the best place to stop.
Something was bothering Trowa all day. He couldn't put his finger on it yet there it was, some nagging feeling in the back of his head, constantly bothering him like his stepmother's voice did.
Yet Trowa had done everything he needed to: the house was clean (a drastic change to a couple of months ago,) he had caught up in all of his classes, and he had nowhere to be this morning.
He knew that it would please his parents, but he hadn't talked to them since he had moved in with Quatre. He saw no reason to talk to the man who had made his life miserable for nineteen years. (Although he occassionaly felt bad for making Quatre his human answering machine.)
It was a lazy day that Trowa had found himself in, but Trowa was never able to relax and enjoy a good thing. 'So, what to do with the afternoon?' Quatre had classes Tuesday way into the afternoon and wouldn't be back until dinner, during which the blond did most of the talking about Trowa struggled to stay awake. It wasn't that Trowa didn't care, but the subjects Quatre talked about he hated, such as football and medicine.
He couldn't understand why anyone would want to strap condensed pillows to himself and jump onto other guys. Trowa never told Quatre this, after all the man was nice enough to put up with an unwanted headache. Trowa knew he was a headache, but he liked to think that he was an elilte headache.
Trowa would much rather spend his time alone, his only companions his paints, his brushes, and his canvasses.
He had just sat down, a full bowl of coco crispies with old milk( his favorite,) when he heard the squak of their phone. 'Probably another one of Quatre's buddies wanting to 'shoot some hoops'.'
Sometimes the phone reminded him of Quatre. 'Feed me. I am a poor jock who can't cook.' He knew that he shouldn't make fun of Quatre like that but the whole situation was incredulous and someone really did need to teach that boy how to cook.
At least Trowa was good for something, saving Quatre's allowance from being spent on take-out-food. Trowa cooked fine. In fact he hated going to restaurants because he always found something wrond with the food. But he never said anything on these thoughts. Trowa simply went down the smoothest path and took what was given to him. Or perhaps Quatre's sainthood was rubbing off on him. Trowa was essentaly a kind jerk, kind enough to not say anything but not kind enough to not think it.
The harsh tone of the phone brought Trowa out of his thoughts.
"My parents bought me a car!" Quatre shouted from the other side. Trowa imagined Quatre was jumping up and down like a boucy ball throw down a flight of stairs. No doubt some girl was hanging around telling her friend how cute Quatre was when he bounced.
"And why did they do that?" the brunette asked after he grimaced from Quatre's outburst.
"For my birthday tomorrow," Quatre told him laughing. "You're such a joker."
But for the first time in his life, Trowa wasn't.
I'm not all together happy with it, and I mostly posted it so if I lose the hard copy again it isn't lost forever. But here it is.
Something was bothering Trowa all day. He couldn't put his finger on it yet there it was, some nagging feeling in the back of his head, constantly bothering him like his stepmother's voice did.
Yet Trowa had done everything he needed to: the house was clean (a drastic change to a couple of months ago,) he had caught up in all of his classes, and he had nowhere to be this morning.
He knew that it would please his parents, but he hadn't talked to them since he had moved in with Quatre. He saw no reason to talk to the man who had made his life miserable for nineteen years. (Although he occassionaly felt bad for making Quatre his human answering machine.)
It was a lazy day that Trowa had found himself in, but Trowa was never able to relax and enjoy a good thing. 'So, what to do with the afternoon?' Quatre had classes Tuesday way into the afternoon and wouldn't be back until dinner, during which the blond did most of the talking about Trowa struggled to stay awake. It wasn't that Trowa didn't care, but the subjects Quatre talked about he hated, such as football and medicine.
He couldn't understand why anyone would want to strap condensed pillows to himself and jump onto other guys. Trowa never told Quatre this, after all the man was nice enough to put up with an unwanted headache. Trowa knew he was a headache, but he liked to think that he was an elilte headache.
Trowa would much rather spend his time alone, his only companions his paints, his brushes, and his canvasses.
He had just sat down, a full bowl of coco crispies with old milk( his favorite,) when he heard the squak of their phone. 'Probably another one of Quatre's buddies wanting to 'shoot some hoops'.'
Sometimes the phone reminded him of Quatre. 'Feed me. I am a poor jock who can't cook.' He knew that he shouldn't make fun of Quatre like that but the whole situation was incredulous and someone really did need to teach that boy how to cook.
At least Trowa was good for something, saving Quatre's allowance from being spent on take-out-food. Trowa cooked fine. In fact he hated going to restaurants because he always found something wrond with the food. But he never said anything on these thoughts. Trowa simply went down the smoothest path and took what was given to him. Or perhaps Quatre's sainthood was rubbing off on him. Trowa was essentaly a kind jerk, kind enough to not say anything but not kind enough to not think it.
The harsh tone of the phone brought Trowa out of his thoughts.
"My parents bought me a car!" Quatre shouted from the other side. Trowa imagined Quatre was jumping up and down like a boucy ball throw down a flight of stairs. No doubt some girl was hanging around telling her friend how cute Quatre was when he bounced.
"And why did they do that?" the brunette asked after he grimaced from Quatre's outburst.
"For my birthday tomorrow," Quatre told him laughing. "You're such a joker."
But for the first time in his life, Trowa wasn't.
I'm not all together happy with it, and I mostly posted it so if I lose the hard copy again it isn't lost forever. But here it is.