15-Jun-2000
Hi hi! Took another recess from Breaking to write this. I've had it on my mind for awhile, but never wrote it--until I read Joyce's food story, and then Marsh's in HT. ^_^ Hope you like! (made me hungry more than anything)
Title: Delicious: A Quatre and Trowa Out-take
Author: TB
Archive: yes please GW Addiction
Category: shonen-ai
Pairing: 4+3/3+4
Warnings: None
Rating: PG
Spoilers: no
Notes: Thanks to Marsh for beta-ing for me.
Feedback: thank you!
Disclaimers: GW, Quatre, and Trowa regretfully are the
property of their original creators. However, is it
really *right* for them to be treated as *property*?
Should we the people of the GW fandom really allow
this horror to continue? Should we not rise up and
free our friends from this unjust slavery which does
not legally allow them any lemon at all!?!
Ahem. Here's the fic. Enjoy! ^_~ TB
Trowa frowned as he stared into the cabinets. Where had all the food gone? Honestly, did Duo *really* have to eat them out down to the mouldy peanut butter? Trowa was *hungry.* Duo was going to have some explaining to do when he got back from his mission.
Quatre, coming into the kitchen with a load of garbage to be placed out on the curb, noticed the tall, elegant boy standing annoyed in the centre of the small area. "What's wrong?" he asked.
Trowa silently held up a bag of sliced bread--or rather, a bag with *a* slice of bread.
"Hurricane Duo struck again?" Quatre laughed. "Sucking up every available foodstuff in sight, as predicted by experts. Is there enough for tonight? I can pick something up at the store for tomorrow."
Trowa sighed. "I suppose. Thank you."
"Any time." Quatre opened the back door, and toted his garbage out to the street. He paused at the hose running along the wall to rinse off his hands, and while the freezing water was washing over his greasy fingers, an idea came to him.
He carefully wiped all traces of his smile off his face as he re-entered the house. The other pilot was standing at a counter now, making himself a bread and butter sandwich.
"Trowa?" Quatre asked.
"Yeah?" The boy glanced up.
"I could go tonight, instead. It's early enough that the supermarket won't have closed. And I could cook you dinner."
This offer earned him a slightly surprised look. "You don't have to go to any trouble. I'll survive."
"It's no bother." He ran lightly to the single room he'd occupied since Wufei and Duo had taken off on their mission and left him and Trowa room to spread out in the dusty little safe-house. He plundered his bag, finally coming up with his wallet, and decided he had enough cash to get whatever he could want at a produce store. He pulled on a battered leather jacket--Duo's, which the braided pilot claimed was a good luck charm--and returned to the kitchen.
The quiet pilot still seemed a little startled that Quatre was moving so fast. "You want company?" he asked uncertainly.
"Oh, no! I can do it on my own. Maybe you should have a snack, I don't want you to starve. But not too much! I love cooking, and I always make way too much." Quatre waved a careless farewell, and breezed out the door. He could feel Trowa's eyes on him, and that made him smile.
It was the work of nearly an hour to pick out his purchases. Quatre carefully examined all the fruit and vegetables, testing with expert skill for firmness and quality. He paused by the alcohol aisle, and chose a brand his father had have approved--rather unsurprisingly--a knock-off of Winner Red. Though if his father knew the kind of use he intended for the wine, Quatre had no doubts that he would never have heard the end of it.
Back at the safehouse, he banished Trowa into his bedroom with the stern injunction not to emerge until Quatre gave him explicit permission. Trowa seemed a little suspicious of that.
"What *exactly* are you planning on doing?" he asked, resisting the Arabian's gentle pushing by grabbing his door frame and turning to gaze at his fellow pilot.
"I can't cook if someone's watching me," Quatre replied reasonably.
"But I'm not even allowed in the TV room?"
"You don't watch television."
"Well, but the couch is there." That sounded lame, even to Trowa, and the taller pilot winced and waved a hand. "Forget it. I have to admit, I'm very curious... but I'll do it your way."
Quatre clapped his hands with exaggerated delight. "Oh, goodie!"
Trowa wisely kept his mouth shut, and closed the door behind him as he entered his room.
A very hungry two hours later, Quatre knocked on his door. The chef himself had changed his clothes after his efforts in the kitchen; Trowa stared at him, suspiciously warm in reaction to the radiant blonde's appearance. Quatre rarely, if ever, wore red, but the deep burgundy, sleeveless tunic and black Chinese silk slacks made him look less like a businessman-turned-stressed-out-Gundam-pilot and more like... more like a sleek, sexy... dinner date.
Trowa stopped that thought in its tracks.
Reaching out, he gently wiped away a tiny smudge of flour that marred one freshly scrubbed cheek. "I feel underdressed," he murmured.
"I think you look fine," was the smiling response. Quatre caught his hand as it lowered, and tugged. "Come on. I have a surprise for you."
"What about dinner?" It was less than ten steps to Quatre's room, and a slight push was all that was required to open the door. Trowa's one visible eyebrow climbed when he saw the interior of that room.
The white-washed walls glowed in flickering candlelight. All the furniture, with the exception of the cot which was folded down and stuffed into a corner, had been removed, and in the precise centre of the circle of fist-sized votive candles was a pristinely white tablecloth. Dishes of food were placed in asymmetric patterns all about the sheet, picnic style, and two full wine glasses proclaimed where Quatre intended them to sit. No wonder Quatre had told him to stay in his room--he would have seen the boy running back and forth between the kitchen and the bedroom with all the setup.
The hand on his tightened a little. "It tastes even better than it looks," Quatre hinted teasingly. "Do you want to go in?"
A little numb, he nodded. Softly, slender hands pushed him down on the sheet beside one of the glasses, and he picked it up and took a good-sized sip to cover his reaction. "You went to a lot of trouble," he managed, as Quatre settled in an apparently boneless movement facing him.
"No... well, a little, maybe." Quatre smiled. "I wanted to do something nice for you."
"Why?"
"Because I did. Do I need a reason?"
Trowa shook his head slowly.
The smile on the blonde's face deepened. "Relax," he commanded. "The surprise isn't over yet. I want to play a game."
"A game?" Trowa silently cursed himself for sounding so stupid. But the whole situation seemed surreal. Quatre... looking so beautiful--he shouldn't be thinking thoughts like that. What would the Arabian think if he knew one of his fellow pilots was attracted--embarrassingly so--to him? Trowa's mind shied away from the spectre of rejection. He tried to concentrate on the present again, and took another large sip of the wine.
Quatre lifted a dish from beside him, full of sliced fruit drizzled with honey. He balanced it on his knees, and lifted a ripe section of melon. "Close your eyes."
He blinked. "Why?"
"Trust me," the glowing blonde replied simply. "I'd never hurt you, Trowa."
After only a moment's further hesitation, he obeyed.
A second later, warm fingers brushed his chin, and slick wet fruit touched his lips. He opened his mouth, and bit down gently, feeling the cold juices slide along his tongue and down his throat, tasting the sweetness of the honey. He chewed slowly, and swallowed, then licked his lips to capture the last of the flavor. He opened his eyes.
"Keep them closed," Quatre ordered immediately. He laughed, a velvety sound. "It's better that way. Try to just experience this, Trowa. Don't think about it or act on it. Just let it overtake you."
He nodded compliantly. "Can I have more of that?"
"Of course." Quatre's voice was so sweet--like the fruit that slipped past his teeth. Honeydew, he identified it. Practically melting in his mouth. Unknowingly, he smiled.
Quatre saw that smile, and bit his lip happily. It was working! He set aside the fruit dish, and picked up another. "Ready to try something different?"
"Mm-hm." Trowa remembered his instructions and did not open his eyes, though his long lashes quivered as he struggled against the temptation to do so. His unconsciously tense body was relaxing; his long-fingered hands had settled in his lap, and his shoulders were less rigid.
The new food tasted... spicy. Some kind of dry, shredded meat, igniting hot but tolerable fires in the cavity of his mouth, followed by soothing bits of unevenly chopped mushroom, he knew that taste immediately, earthy and tender.
Another new one--Trowa no longer thought of opening his eyes--potatoes, small red potatoes, hollowed in the centre and filled with sour cream and chives. Before he could think about it, Trowa caught the hand that lifted the food to his mouth and held it, finishing the bite, flicking his tongue out to catch a bit of the sour cream that had dripped onto a golden finger. If his eyes had been open, he would have seen Quatre's furious blush.
Taking a pause to calm himself after Trowa's unexpected action, Quatre set aside the potatoes and picked up Trowa's wine glass, holding that to the pilot's lips to help cleanse his palette. After a few sips, Trowa made a small gesture to indicate he didn't want any more, and Quatre brought the glass to his own mouth and took a quick gulp. Did Trowa know how beautiful he looked? His slender body finally at ease, his lips slightly parted in expectation, his cheeks shadowed by that sweep of soft hair? The candlelight throwing flecks of orange and yellow and red to spark in those curling lashes, to play on that mouth that was so enticing?
There were other dishes, but Quatre merely fumbled for the one nearest to him--a bowl of melted dark chocolate. Taking a great risk, Quatre ignored the bite-sized bits of cake that were supposed to accompany the chocolate, and dipped a finger in to the second knuckle, coating it generously. "Open your mouth, Trowa," he whispered.
Trowa was stunned when that sugared digit teased his lips; then it snuck past and entered his mouth, sending tiny thrills through his body. He caught hold of Quatre's wrist, gripping loosely, and with his other hand reached out and stroked the soft curve of the boy's cheek as he sucked lightly on the finger in his mouth.
Quatre shivered. "Oh, Trowa... "
The taller boy released the clean and slightly sticky finger from his mouth, and pressed pursed lips to the Arabian's palm. "Close your eyes," he smiled.
Quatre obeyed slowly, his body trembling.
Without opening his own, Trowa leaned forward, and tentatively, tenderly, kissed Quatre.
"Thank you," he breathed.
Quatre's hand slid into his hair. "You think the evening is over, yet?" And kissed him back.
Quatre, Trowa decided much later, tasted the best of all.
The End
(:./erin/delicious)
