15 Sep 2000
Hi folks -
This is the first fic in a new fic series Kat and I just began called, "On The Town." It's very AU, based in present-day Boston. Zechs is a young chef who's just gotten his own restaurant and Treize is the writer of a weekly newspaper column about the goings-on in the city. The name of his column is, "On The Town." More about them and their lives together will become apparent in later fics. Other gw characters will make cameo appearances. We hope you like it.
kumi
DISCLAIMER: All Gundam Wing characters are property of Sunrise, Bandai Visuals, Sotsu Agency, and Asahi TV. This work is not written for profit, but for entertainment purposes only.
WARNINGS: shonen-ai (will become lemon in part 2); blatant domesticity; food scenes
Pairing: 6x13 (implied 13x6)>
After the third one, I purchased an extended warranty -- *far* cheaper in the long run.
No, that wasn't an extended metaphor referring to husbands and pre-nuptial agreements. I'm talking about the garbage disposal.
I never had one at home -- they're a strange thing to see in England -- but Miriald is dependent on them. He's also hell on them.
My darling creative chef sometimes -- not often, thankfully -- makes things that he considers so horrid that he must destroy them -- by scooping them into the sink, often trying to dispose of them, forks and all, in the garbage disposal.
So this *fourth* one has a *very* extended warranty! And I'm very glad of that because it sounds like he's at it again...
Free-writing. That's all this is, thankfully -- what I just spewed would *never* cut it in a newspaper, not even by *my* loose standards. That's what I do -- I write, I comment, I snipe and point out the fallacies of everyday life, giving them a humorous spin whenever I can. Life is a terrible waste if you cannot laugh at it!
My lover is a wonderful man, and over ten years, he's become my other half, in the most cliched sense of that concept. Finishes my sentences sometimes, has picked up on my wit, just as I've picked up on some of his baking skills.
Just the baking, mind you. When I actually *cook*, I seem to do it with a charred touch. Zechs says that it's the Brit in me that can't cook normal food.
I tried to take offense at that.
Once.
And then I started laughing.
"ARRRRGH!!"
>From the kitchen a deep male voice could be heard yelling something incomprehensible. There was a clatter of pans and then the same voice, albeit somewhat softer, let out a small barrage of bad language which ended in the sound of the garbage disposal eating something rather large.
Again.
A tall man with very long blond hair walked out of the kitchen carrying a large cardboard box that had recently held eggs. In a instant he was ripping it apart, pulling the glued seams loose, folding recalcitrant portions of it under one arm, and sending small bits of it flying. Despite a valiant effort on the part of the box to remain in tact, the man managed to keep folding and smashing it until it was reduced to a wad of cardboard about six inches long and several inches thick, which he promptly put under one foot and stomped on.
Folding his arms in front of him and letting out a huff of air that scattered his long bangs for a moment, he happened to see Treize sitting in the living room. "Oh. I didn't see you there. Hello."
Pen and notebook were set aside with a little chuckling smile, and then the cracking of knuckles sounded clearly in the air. Then he let out his own huff of air, blowing a few wayward ginger strands of hair out of his eyes. "Miriald, do sit down. I'm rather afraid to ask what that box ever did to *you*."
"It was carrying eggs," the blond replied darkly, and somewhat cryptically, as he took a seat next to Treize.
"Dare I ask what the *eggs* did to you, Zechsy, darling?" Treize asked in a soft tease -- Zechs was Miriald's middle name, and worked so well into alliteration and other puns. Sexy Zechsy, A Zechsy little thing...
Zechs pouted for a moment and then said, "It held eggs, which I am using to make a new spinach and garlic soufflé - eggs that are supposed to make the soufflé rise, eggs that have no *business* losing their structure just because I subject them to a little *heat* in the oven but are, nonetheless, doing so anyway JUST TO PISS ME OFF!!" He blinked at Treize and then tucked his hair back neatly behind his ears and cleared his throat a bit. "*That* is what those eggs have done to me."
Well, he'd been right, Treize thought, when he'd been ranting on and on in a rough draft of his column about the dangers of sweetly temperamental lovers who cook. "How about," he started to suggest in his richly accented voice, setting the note-pad and pen on the table in front of him, "you don't cook anymore today."
Zechs stared hard at his lover, an amazing man who still didn't seem to realize that cooking was not just a hobby for him, nor even a *job*. Rather, it was *Art* and Art could not just be put aside trivially because it got hard to do. If one was to put Art aside, there had better be a damned good reason. He heaved a sigh finally and said, "And why, pray tell, should I do that?"
"Because you, sir chef, have neglected eating for *yourself*, and I'm feeling neglected," Treize answered succinctly, giving his lover a flash of watery puppy eyes.
Zechs closed the distance between them immediately, wrapping his arms around the other man and nuzzling against his neck. "I'm sorry, Treize," he said in genuine remorse, "I didn't mean to neglect you -" He pulled back suddenly, but only slightly. He gave his lover a wry smile. "*Damn* you're good at that! You know just what buttons to push, don't you!"
"I should -- I programmed them," he teased softly, embracing him back, "But you *have* been spending more time with the eggs than me."
There was a low chuckle from the blond. "You're perfectly right. And *you* don't lose *your* structure when you get hot, do you...?" This was punctuated by a small nip on Treize's ear.
"I get understandably wobbly," Treize smiled, twisting his partner so that he had the blonde chef pinned down against the cushions. "But in fact, I only get harder when heated, my love."
Wriggling suggestively under the other man, Zechs stared up at him, unblinking. "And that renders you even more edible, doesn't it?"
"As long as you don't try to beat sugar into me," he teased, leaning down to steal a kiss.
A slow smile played across Zechs's face. "I could try beating something else into you, though. It's produced some wonderful results in the past." He reached up, burying his hands in Trieze's hair and pulling him down roughly, the kiss this time deeper and more passionate.
Treize's fingers were already unbuttoning Zechs' shirt, and he drew away long enough to utter, "Would that be the strap, Zechs, or your cock?"
"Why should limit myself to just one, my dear Count...?" Zechs murmured, lifting his hips and rubbing them firmly against his lover's. It amused Zechs no end that Treize's ancestors were Russian aristocrats, so he used *his* nickname for Treize a lot during sex. How many people in Boston could genuinely say they were fucking, or being fucked by, the nobility?
He had just begun another searing kiss when the doorbell rang.
"God in hell," Treize swore softly when he broke the meld of mouth against mouth. "Oh fate, how *cruel*. You stay right here, Miriald -- No moving..." He knelt back, looking down with heated gaze at his lover, before pulling back entirely, to answer the door.
The blond did as he was told, and laughed. "Just open the door, tell whoever it is to go to hell, and shut it again." Stretching lazily, Zechs mused that, given Treize's bearing at times, he could probably carry that off very well.
Treize's bearing flickered at times between unbelievably noble, to frighteningly foppish. He kept himself immaculately, body and mind, proving more than just a hint of vanity, with a wicked lash of cynicism.
"Now THAT, my love, is a plan!" Treize chuckled mirthlessly, opening the door. "Hell, could you just -- Oh. *you*."
A man with a tweed coat and a somewhat self-satisfied expression stood on the front step of the townhouse Treize and Zechs shared.
"*Treize*, how fortunate you're home" he said pushing past the owner of the house and stepping into the front hall. "We need to go over some ideas for the next issue - these plans that you went over with Drici... well, I think they're a bit too... too..." He waved his hands a bit, obviously searching for an adjective.
"Faggish for your tastes?" Treize questioned, plucking the word from the man's lips. "Well, I'm sorry that you feel that way, Henry, however, I'll be in the office *tomorrow*. Because *tomorrow* is the day that I'm not expecting to be able to be spend time with my partner. So, Henry, if you would be so kind..."
"Partner?" Henry said rather queasily, looking around as if someone was likely to burst out of a door in drag at any moment.
"What, did you expect me to be straight? Really, Henry, use common sense," he said in a disapproving voice as he stood there, still near the door as if to hint the man away. "This is one of my few opportunities to spend a large amount of time with him, so, if you would kindly take leave of our home..."
Henry was still staring at Treize with a slightly flustered face when one of the doors opened and Zechs looked out. "Treize, what's taking so long -" The blond looked at Henry in polite surprise. "Oh," he said simply, and then, "Oh! A guest! That's great! Invite him in, Treize. I need to give my Golden Spice Cake a test." When both of the other men stared at him, he smiled broadly. "Come on! Neither I nor the spice cake has ever been known to bite. Well," he finished, giving Treize a wink, "not hard anyway." With that he smiled charmingly once more and disappeared through the door, leaving the two men standing in silence in the hallway.
/Just when I'd thought I'd gotten rid of him.../ With a sigh, at his lover's delightful politeness, Treize leveled a slight glare at his new editor. "He's a chef -- runs a premiere restaurant."
"Him?" Henry said blankly. "A *chef*?" Then he snorted, rather unpleasantly, and said, "Looks more like some kind of pop star. What's all this about cake?"
"His newest attempt at a new recipe -- he's trying to make it go with after dinner drinks." Treize gestured the man further into the house. "So, what's this about? Your call, that is."
"It's this draft you've submitted - on prep school sports teams. You make some fairly outlandish observations..." he said as he walked through the door Zechs had gone through. It led into a large room that was kitchen at one end, living room at the other, with the kitchen area slightly bigger. He could see the long-haired man, now wearing a loose ponytail, puttering around behind a large island, blocked partially from his view by a collection of hanging pots and pans. There was a smell of fresh coffee in the air and something else, something savory... and rather delicious.
The space of the living room was large and open, modern and old-fashioned melding beautifully. The sofa had a dark wooden frame, and deep green padding, the table before it of those same colors but with a decorative chrome trim. The side tables matched, also, as did the chair henry sat in, and the box against the wall that held a very state of the art television and stereo system.
"Tell me what's so out-landish about it," Treize instructed as he straightened the cushions of the sofa and sat down, gesturing to a chair on the other side of the table.
Henry sat and pulled a couple of papers out of his jacket pocket. "Well to begin with," he said opening the draft up and frowning down at it, "in the first paragraph you've managed to liken the children to 'overly pampered poodles', said the parents lived to 'parade their rarified breeds in front of the judges' and recommended that 'letting in an occasional mutt would liven things up.'" He looked up at the ginger-haired man. "I mean really, Treize. This whole 'dog-show' theme of yours... some of those poodles' parents - I mean some of those *children's* parents read our newspaper! What will they *think!*"
"That they need to get their children's fur and nails trimmed again," he smirked, lounging back. "What's so horrid about that? I attended those kinds of school growing up. They *were* dog shows -- best breed were the ones who got the best grades, and best in show was awarded to whoever could suck off the principal the best."
"Treize!" A voice of mock outrage came from the kitchen. Henry was speechless. Zechs peeked through the pots and pans. "Surely you don't mean they had to *really* suck him off..."
Henry turned pale.
"They must have done!" Treize uttered, "Because my grades were better than the valedictorian, but she had a mouth like a Bissell."
A peal of laughter erupted from Zechs and he almost spilled the coffee. Then, having gotten himself under control once again, he turned around and peered at his lover again, hands on his hips. "Wait a minute! How did *you* know about her mouth?"
Henry was holding very still, only trembling a bit, but his eyes were going back and forth between the two other men, as if he were watching some strange kind of tennis match.
"We used her to clean floors?" Treize chuckled. "No. Really, I don't know firsthand. How*ever*, you know Walker? Walker told me. From *his* 'personal experience.'"
"No!" Zechs said in complete disbelief as he carried a small tray into the room and placed it one the low table between Treize and Henry. "Walker was always with that strange Italian boy - oh, what was his name? You know the one I mean. He wore that red handkerchief over his head and it made everybody think he was bald for the first two terms."
As he spoke, he handed their guest a plate on which lay a small slice of the most delicious looking cake that Henry had ever seen. It was a deep golden color, dense and fragrant with nutmeg and cinnamon, topped with an absolutely smooth cap of pale yellow icing. Zechs leaned over to place a cup of coffee before him, as well as a small sugar bowl and creamer.
"Henry, this is my partner, Miriald Peacecraft. Miriald, this is Henry Marsh, my new editor."
"Nice to meet you," Zechs said, shaking hands with the older man. "Well, dig in, " he said heartily. "Let me know what you think and don't spare the criticism. Here you are, Treize." He handed his lover another plate and then sat down next to him with one of his own.
"Apparently, I'm horrid at criticizing his food. But personally, I've yet to find a flaw," he murmured, happily picking up his fork. "Well, aside from my personal theory that he's trying to fatten me up for christmas so he can serve 'stuffed brit'."
"You figured it out!" Zechs replied, turning his head to stare mercilessly at the man beside him. He stuck out his tongue and then turned to Henry and said, in a confidential tone, "Must be why he goes to the gym so often -he's burning up all the calories I'm trying to force into him." The blond gave a sad shake of his head and pointed his fork at Treize. "This explains quite a lot..."
Henry, who hadn't stopped eating cake since it was given to him, was staring down at his empty plate. "That was... *extremely* good... excellent, actually... and it went so... quickly."
Zechs, who was in the middle of chewing his first bite, put his plate down hastily. "Mmmm! Mmm mmmn! Mmmmnn..." He gestured toward the kitchen, then took Henry's plate, elbowing Treize and giving a last, "Mmm!" as if he were the translator before heading off to get Henry another piece.
"He's a *very* good chef," Treize spoke in a stage whisper, "and the female customers are delighted to know that he's gay -- that way, if they can't have him, at least no other woman will." Treize was still leisurely eating his food -- it was an even trade. Zechs used him as a guinea pig for his food and served test food for dinner -- and not everything was as delicious as the cake had turned out -- and Treize kept the books balanced and cleaned house when he could. Which was pretty often, and they never made much mess to begin with.
Just the occasional.... spotting on table-tops, upholstry and such.
Zechs was back, handing Henry his plate again, another, larger slice of cake on it. He refilled the coffee cups and then sat and picked up his plate again. "Not bad," he mused thoughtfully, "perhaps a bit more nutmeg next time and it'll be ready for public consumption. So, Henry - I never heard the reason for your visit this afternoon."
Henry stopped eating, somewhat reluctantly, and said, "Oh. Well... There're just... one or two... editorial points to work out with Treize... on his next column..."
"Really?" Zechs said, looking over at his lover. "What have you done now?"
"Apparently I'll offend the preps, Miriald," he drawled in his rich accent. "Rather a pit, if one of two preps get their nuts in a knot, but frankly, Henry, I couldn't care any less."
Growing mellower with each swallow of cake, Henry picked up his coffee cup and complained, nonetheless. "Now, Treize, you really have to look at it >from the *editor's* point of view. Don't you realize what kind of hot water I'd be in if I let this go as it is?"
Zechs put down his coffee cup and laughed. "Oh! Treize! Do you remember that time that we turned off all the hot water in the teacher's wing of the dormitory building?" He turned to Henry. "It worked perfectly, and Treize got it done so fast that we had all this time left over. So he suggested going into the headmaster's rooms and stealing his underwear to hang out of one of the windows - souvenir of the war and all that - only to discover the man didn't *wear* any." He turned back to Treize. "Do you remember how much time we spent searching that room?"
"My, GOD, Yes," Treize muttered, shaking his head. "Then the knowledge, next time we saw him, of the absolute *chaffing* he must have gone through.... Ugh." He was nursing slowly at his coffee cup, filled with more sugar and cream than coffee. "I've had 'worse' things printed by Enzo," he told Henry.
"Well," said Henry, not knowing which conversation to follow, "we all know what Enzo thought of letters to the editor, didn't we?" He turned to Zechs. "So... you two... went to school together? But aren't you an American?"
"Yes, and yes," Zechs answered, stacking the plates neatly. "It was an international school and I was in England with my family because of my dad. I was an Army brat. Anyway I got lucky and won a scholarship, otherwise my folks would never have been able to afford it."
He sat back happily, resting against Treize's arm which was stretched along the top of the sofa. "Didn't Enzo used to paper the restroom walls with those letters?" he asked Treize.
"And stock them into the paper towel holder, yes," he smiled. "I dearly miss Enzo. He truly understood that genius was often misunderstood."
Henry was staring at them, gaze moving to Treize, and then to Zechs, and then back to Treize again. He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it for a moment and closed it, and then changed his mind back again. "Couldn't you at *least* change the poodle remark?" he asked Treize in a voice that was almost pleading.
At that moment, Zechs got up and said, "I'll just pack up some of the cake so you can take it with you, all right?" and headed off to the kitchen again.
That distracted Henry enough that, for the briefest of moments, he forgot his argument concerning the poodles and watched Zechs leave saying, "Oh -would you? That'd be wonderful...", leaving the perfect opportunity for Treize to skirt around the argument all together.
"Well, Henry old chap, I'd love to talk to you more, however I'm technically supposed to have never seen you today, and you rather unstoppably delayed a good bout of sex -- now I'll have to work for *hours* to get him out of the kitchen again."
"Here you go, Henry," said Zechs coming back in and handing the editor a small white cardboard box tied with red string. "I really enjoyed meeting you," he added, reaching out for Henry's hand as Treize stood.
"What? I - sex?" Henry looked somewhat befuddled as he allowed his hand to be shaken.
"No, thank you," Zechs replied giving Henry a rather alarmed look. "I'm monogamous."
The editor was bustled to the door, where he turned to Treize and said weakly, "But... the piece...?"
Treize clapped him playfully on the back. "Tomorrow, Henry. We'll work on it a little more tomorrow," he smiled, opening the front door for the man "See you then!"
Henry turned to say something and found the deep green front door already closed. He stared at it for a moment, then looked down at the small cake box in his hand, feeling bewildered and not a little disoriented. Then, with one more wary glance at the door, he cleared his throat in an attempt to regain some sort of control, and walked off down the street, shaking his head.
to be continued
(:./kumiko/town1)
