Blue Sky Vacation
Upon walking into the apartment, Trowa's immediate thought was Quatre's working late - again. He stifled the instant resentful response that rose on the unvoiced truism. Closing his eyes, he let go a breath, counted to three and shut the door behind him.
The place was dark, no sound penetrated and he felt alone at that moment more than ever. Not even bothering to flip on the lights, he dropped his shoulder bag on the floor to the side of the door and parked the carry-on case next to it. With eyes still closed, he rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension and soreness from them. He should have been home hours before; he should be at some restaurant, tucked into a cozy, intimate corner with wine and finger foods and Quatre by his side, no words between them but eyes and mouths and tongues saying it all anyway.
It was just shy of ten o'clock, and he faced the possibility of going to bed alone. A week on the road, a promise over a bad connection of a night he would dream about for months... and it wasn't happening.
Trowa opened eyes more adjusted to the dark and moved across the room to the large picture window. He drew the curtains apart, and stared for a moment at the lights blinking from the cityscape view. His stomach growled softly; a packaged sandwich from a kiosk in the middle of some airport concourse was miles and days away. The energy wasn't coming, his hunger not strong enough a motivator to fuel him to the kitchen let alone enough to carry through with making something edible.
He turned from the window, made a brief stop at the stereo and shuffled over carpet toward the couch. The receiver was tuned into some radio station rather than the compilation disk that was normally queued, and Trowa paused halfway to his goal. Too much trouble. A nap, minutes or hours, whatever was offered to him until Quatre walked through the door.
Radio announcer voices faded and the strands of a fairly new, popular song began to play. Trowa's upper lip curled. Life imitates art once again. He was stretching out over the couch, his feet encountering resistance and a voice making his heart jump.
"That songwriter should be shot."
Sitting up suddenly, Trowa was reaching out to the other side of the couch. "Quatre?" His fingers touched fabric; fine cotton, stiff , tie-less collar, long sleeves. "What are you doing sitting in the dark?"
It was a sigh and a body shifting that Trowa heard. His eyes had adjusted enough to make out Quatre's face and hair, a light spot blanketed in darkness. Quatre's weight settled against his shoulder and Trowa's arm went around him automatically.
"Don't ask," Quatre was muttering into his shirt. "Just... stay like this for a moment."
Trowa nodded, and the song played on. "You're right," he said. "That songwriter should be tied down and made to listen to that song over and over."
Quatre chuckled; Trowa could feel his body shake against his. He was turning slightly, just enough to hold Quatre a little more, to lay them back on the couch. To the sound of the clock ticking in the hall and the nearly a cappella lyrics, Trowa kissed Quatre for the first time in several days. Quatre tilted his head upward, offering lips in place of forehead and Trowa kissed him again.
His stomach growled again and he broke away to give a little laugh. Quatre was smiling and his hand was covering his shirt over his belly.
There was an odd quality in Quatre's tone and Trowa just nodded, moving his hand to hold Quatre's. "Missed my flight out of Cincinnati." He nuzzled his cheek over Quatre's hair. "You?"
"Yeah." Quatre was using slang and Trowa brushed his lips over Quatre's temple. "There was an emergency shareholders meeting..."
"...with the storms off the Atlantic, flights were horribly delayed all over. They put me on a flight to Houston, then Knoxville."
"...Patterson Aviation apparently has been doctoring their books..."
"...the confirmed seat was actually stand-by..."
"...SE security auditors are scheduled to come in for a corporation wide investigation on Monday. All executives are coming in over the weekend to make sure things are aligned correctly."
"...I had to fight for a seat into Tampa." Trowa shifted to look at Quatre. "What's the immediate impact to WEI?" Quatre's fingers were sliding his shirt up and cool lips were pressing against skin that had felt too hot and too sticky just moments before.
Quatre paused before placing another light kiss. "The Patterson Manufacturing plant has shut down. Over thirty-five hundred workers are now unemployed..." another feathery touch, "there will be lawsuits, a bit of a scandal," breath warm and tingling on dampened skin, "...stock prices have already dropped."
His arms tightened but his legs were parting, and he moved to shift Quatre around to lay on his body fully. "There was a squalling baby in the seat in front of me, and a five-year-old boy kick~ing," he gasped when Quatre's hand slipped down his pants. "...the back of my seat from Tampa to home..."
"Knoxville?" Quatre's question just this side of breathy, his head rose from Trowa's abdomen and he shook hair from his eyes. "Who the hell goes to Knoxville?"
And Trowa laughed and reached for Quatre. Not quite the homecoming he was looking forward to, but somehow, perfect in spite of it all.