\'Twas the Night before Christmas (GW Style)

==================

NOTE: I thought this would be in two parts, but the damn fic has

climbed out of my monitor and pushed me out of my chair.



It's gotten the last of my scotch and is typing furiously now, with me

cowering in the corner . . .

==================









*On the seventh day of Christmas

My true love sent to me

Seven Pink Flamingos,

Six gay ganders,

Five golden cock rings,

Four yaoi mangas,

Three French ticklers,

Two lace panties,

And a condom in a jock strap.



Monday, December 20, AC 202*



"Look, Natalie, I -- I'm really sorry to have to do this. It's just --

no, everything's all right in that department.



"What? No, no, nothing like that. Li- like I said, I'll explain

everything when I'm back next week.



"Um, well . . . that's . . . yeah, yeah! Tell him I had a family emergency.



"No, of course it's not true, but it's the best I can come up with on

short notice.



"Yes, I promise! You'll hear all about it, and you'll be the first one."



Pause.



"Okay, I've gotta go. Thanks again for covering for me, Natalie."



Trowa ended the call and put his cell on the table next to a

half-eaten bagel sitting on a folded paper towel. He took another bite

and swigged lukewarm coffee.



*I hate asking Natalie to sub for me at the last minute, but there's

no way I can leave the house with --*



Muffled squawks from the garage interrupted Trowa's thoughts.



*Better go check on them.*



He stood and stretched.



#



Uncrating the ganders the night before had been a chore. After lugging

them from the den to the garage, Trowa had to figure a way to pry the

lids off without startling the occupants. The first to be freed was

Alex, who attempted to fly right into Trowa's face but was foiled by

the sides of the crate, which pinned his wings. Trowa had been on his

knees, and quickly stood at the explosion of feathers and beak,

stumbling back, swinging arms to keep his balance.



After Alex calmed, Trowa moved behind him and put his hands around the

gander, one under the belly, the other on his slim chest. Alex honked

and reached back to peck at Trowa's arm, which was protected by a

thick sweater. Trowa had to stop lifting and push Alex's left wing

down before he could ease the gander out of the crate. He set the bird

on the garage floor and quickly backed away as ruffled feathers

blurred the air.



But once out, Alex seemed content to leave Trowa alone. He went to one

of the other crates and pecked, chattering softly.



Forty minutes later, Trowa had six empty crates and six magnificent

white Embden ganders prancing around his garage. Each bird had a

bright ribbon around his neck; each ribbon was either red, blue, or

gold; and each bore the name of its wearer.



According to the note and instructions Trowa found in the box with the

feed, ribbon colors indicated life partners. So Trowa knew that Alex

went with Sacha (wearing red), George and Percy were a couple

(sporting blue ribbons), and Casey and Connor (in gold) had a thing

going on.



#



*I hope I put out enough feed for them last night.*



In the light of the single bulb centered on the garage ceiling left on

for the geese, Trowa checked the two large plastic mixing bowls he had

partially filled with feed. They were mostly empty. Feed was scattered

over the newspaper underneath, which was shredded in places. Trowa

scrunched his nose at the sight of gray-green bird turds here and

there.



A spot of white on the far side of the Land Rover caught Trowa's eye.

It vanished as he moved toward it. Trowa rounded the front of the car

to find Alex and Sacha investigating unopened cans of Pennzoil and

WD-40 on the bottom shelf of an army-surplus metal rack. Trowa smiled

as Sacha managed to tip an can of oil off the shelf. He and Alex

fluttered in dismay at the noise, then settled down to inspect their

discovery.



Trowa found George in a low cardboard box full of old tee-shirts that

served as shop rags near the back of the car, busily arranging a comfy

nest. Percy was in the back seat of the Rover, which he had decided

was the perfect place to deposit pellets after a full breakfast.



Trowa sighed.



*Where are the other two --*



A loud screech came from Trowa's feet. He looked down to see Conner

bullet from under the Rover followed closely by Casey. Conner careened

into one of the mixing bowls, tipping it over and slipping on

newspaper and feed, which went everywhere. Casey crashed into his

mate. Both righted themselves and faced each other with wings up and

loud honking.



Trowa imagined Conner saying, "Don't even *think* about it here,

buddy. We're guests, and besides, I'm not that easy."



Trowa sighed again and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He

decided straightening up the mess would be pointless until the geese

were gone. He headed back to the house.



#



Trowa looked up from his book, realized his neck was stiff. He rubbed

it and checked his watch.



*Five-fifteen. The FedX guy's late today.*



He went to the kitchen to make tea.



 He put the kettle on to warm, selected a cup and saucer, and placed

them next to the stove. Trowa rummaged through his selection of teas.

He looked up when a sharp rap at the door sounded.



*Wonder if he'll still try coming on to me?*



Opening the door revealed not the FedX guy, but a man wearing a tuxedo

under a wool overcoat, a red leather attaché case in each gloved hand.

Under a sharply creased grey fedora was a pencil mustache and hopeful

smile.



"Mr. Trowa Barton?"



"Yes?"



"Good," the man said with a crisp British accent. "I was afraid I'd

come to the wrong house." The man's smile broadened into one of

relief.



"I . . . uh, wasn't expecting --"



"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm not thinking. I should explain -- but if you

wouldn't mind -- the wind's really horrid this evening." The man

nodded and leaned forward slightly, pointing into the house with the

attachés.



"S- sure." Trowa stepped back and let the man in. He shut the door,

pressing it against the wind, then turned to see the man had set the

attachés down and was removing his gloves. He put out his right hand,

which Trowa shook.



"Anthony Volare at your service."



Anthony was thirty-something, shorter than Trowa, taller than Quatre,

with a trim physique. As Anthony extended his hand, Trowa noticed the

way his shirt and jacket moved against his musculature.



*He works out.*



Anthony's complexion was a light olive-gold, suggesting a

Mediterranean heritage, but his accent was that of an impeccable

English valet.



"Your hand is warm," Trowa blurted, then realized that wasn't an

appropriate thing to say. He dropped his hand and blushed.



"S- sorry, I shouldn't --"



"Not to worry, sir," Anthony said with another smile. "These gloves

are exceptional at keeping the heat in place, especially on a night

like tonight."



Trowa blinked, then said, "So, would you mind telling me --"



"Right," Anthony said. "Mr. Winner sent me. I'm here for the next part

of your Twelve Days of Christmas present."



"You are?"



Anthony hesitated.



"I . . . would have thought . . . well, no matter."



"No, what?"



"Well," Anthony said, looking chagrined, "it's not my place, Mr. Barton --"



"You can call me Trowa."



"And you can call me Anthony, of course."



Pause.



"But, as I was saying, it's not my place to say, but I thought Mr. Winner --"



"Call him Quatre, please."



"Quatre, then -- would have given you a heads-up."



Trowa smirked.



"Well, he didn't. So I have no idea what's coming."



Anthony smiled.



"So," Trowa said, "today's gift would be . . . ?"



"Seven Pink Flamingos, sir."



"In those cases?" Trowa said.



"Why, yes. Or, rather, the ingredients to make them."



Trowa's mouth dropped open. No sound came out. He tilted his head to

the left. His right eye began to twitch.



"Mr. -- Trowa?"



Trowa spoke slowly, carefully.



"Are they pygmies?"



"Sir?"



"How do they breathe? I don't see any air holes."



"I'm not sure I --"



Suddenly Anthony exploded in laughter. Trowa simply stared at him.



"Oh, my, no, sir, no, not at all. I've been instructed to make drinks.

I don't have any live birds with me."



"Drinks?" Trowa's puzzled look brought Anthony's laughter to a halt.



"Yes, sir. You've never had a Pink Flamingo?"



"Um, no."



Pause.



"I don't really drink. I mean, I enjoy a good beer occasionaly, and

Quatre loves wine, so I'll share a glass with him sometimes, but -- is

it a mixed drink?"



"Yes, sir. Made with --"



"Anthony," Trowa said, "please stop calling me 'sir.' I'm just Trowa, okay?"



"Of course. I apologize."



"Go on, then."



"There are several versions of the Pink Flamingo, but the basic recipe

is -- well, why don't I set up in the kitchen and show you?"



"Be my guest."



Trowa led the way, glad that Anthony wasn't able to see his wince at

the muffled sound of his unwanted gaggle of gay ganders in the garage.



#



"This is really good," Trowa said, sipping his very first Pink

Flamingo from a martini glass. He leaned the small of his back against

the counter and smiled shyly.



Anthony returned his host's smile as he put the shaker containing the

rest of the sweet drink into a glass bowl filled with ice.



"Vodka and orange juice and what else?"



"Cointreau and Sloe Gin."



"And what are those?"



"Cointreau is a brand of orange liqueur. It has a bit of a fiery edge

to it, so that's where the spiciness comes from. And Sloe Gin is Gin

that's been infused with Sloe berries. That helps mellow out the

flavor a bit."



"Hm."



Pause.



"Well, this is really good," Trowa said, draining his glass."



"Would you like another?"



"You know, I think I would. Thanks."



Anthony poured.



"You said there are several versions of Pink Flamingo?"



"There are," Anthony said. As he began to describe the history of the

drink, Trowa relaxed, marveling at how much he enjoyed being waited

on, and how thoughtful Quatre's seventh gift was.



*Almost makes the gay ganders in the garage worth it.*



The Southern Pink Flamingo is quite different from this classic

recipe. It uses Southern Comfort peach liqueur, coconut rum, pineapple

juice . . . "



"I like coconut. Had no idea there was such a thing as coconut rum."



Anthony smiled.



"Well, if it's edible, sometime in human history someone has tried to

distill it or use it to flavor one alcohol or another. There are even

recipes and guides available for infusing your own vodkas and gins

with whatever fruits or spices suit your taste."



A lopsided grin snuck up one side of Trowa's lips.



"I guess I don't know that much about alcohol at all."



"You can spend a lifetime learning and not know all there is to know,

I suppose."



Pause.



"A third for you?"



Trowa looked down, surprised to see his glass was already empty. He

looked up and smiled broadly at Anthony.



"Absolutely."



#



"Trowa?"



Trowa turned his head in slow motion toward the sound of Anthony's voice.



"I said, should I get the door?"



"Shomeone knoc?"



"I'll get it. You stay here."



Trowa returned to dribbling the last of his seventh Pink Flamingo into

his navel, then scooping up the sticky sweet drink with his index

finger and popping it into his mouth to make slurping sounds.



Anthony opened the door.



When the chill from the outside hit him, Trowa put the martini glass

on the coffee table and leaned to scoop up his shirt from the end of

the couch. He draped it over his torso, then tried to lean forward

from his diagonal position to reach the glass without losing the

shirt. He hiccuped twice, then fell back, head against the back of the

couch. His arms sprawled to his sides. He wiggled his toes, bare

beneath the coffee table,and began blowing imaginary smoke rings at

the ceiling.



#



"Come in, Mr. Winner."



"Thanks, Anthony," Quatre said as he slipped off his gloves and put

them on the table by the front door. "So you found it. Was Trowa

pleased with this part of his gift?"



"I do believe he was, sir, though it did seem to take him by surprise."



Quatre smiled as he removed his thermal parka.



"Really?"



"For some reason he seemed to assume that I had actual flamingos with

me -- live birds."



Quatre laughed.



"You're kidding."



Pause.



"But that does make sense, now that I think about it. The sixth day

was geese, actual geese in crates."



Anthony's eyebrows rose.



"No wonder, then."



Quatre hung his parka and scarf in the hall closet, then turned.



"So where is he?"



Anthony hesitated.



"Well, Mr. Winner, sir, I think I should explain first."



"Explain?"



"You see, I don't think Trowa -- Mr. Barton -- has had much experience

with mixed drinks."



"I know that. He likes beer, usually domestic, and will drink wine

only when I insist. That's why I thought he'd enjoy this gift."



"Oh, he enjoyed it, all right."



Pause.



"All seven of them."



Quatre's eyebrows shot up.



"All seven? He's had seven Pink Flamingos tonight?"



Anthony lowered his chin and looked up. His lips were twisted between

a grin and a wince.



"Yes, sir."



Quatre looked at his watch. It read seven-oh-nine.



"When did you get here?"



"About five-thirty."



"Oh my god," Quatre said, doing his best not to smile. "Anything to eat?"



Anthony shook his head. "He said he'd be dinning with you when you got here.



"Dear Zeus," Quatre said. "I thought he might have one at most and

then ask you to refrigerate the rest."



Anthony gallantly stifled an eye roll.



"You better take me to him."



"This way, sir."



#



Trowa was still blowing pretend smoke rings and wiggling his toes when

Quatre and Anthony entered the den. Anthony remained near the door as

Quatre walked around the couch to face Trowa. A long-sleeved, muted

teal tee shirt was pooled in his lap, revealing a chiseled torso slick

with trails of his seventh drink in ninety minutes.



"Well, well," Quatre said, smiling down at his lover, "someone's been

enjoying a Christmas present."



"Quatre!" Trowa said, snapping up his head. He smiled. Then his eyes

crossed as the quick motion induced dizziness. His mouth fell open and

his head fell back to the couch again.



"Woaaaahhhh," Trowa said. He hiccuped. "Tha-aank you for the Pink

Flingos. They're ver goo-ood."



"Oh, dear," Quatre said with a chuckle. "I had no idea you'd drink

them all yourself before I got here."



Quatre put his hands on his hips and smiled at the ceiling.



"Well," Trowa said, his head lolling to the side, "I did. Servesh you

right for not get -- [hic] -- not get -- [hic] -- for being late."



Quatre glanced over the back of the couch at Anthony, who was

pointedly checking to see if his socks matched. Looking back at his

boyfriend, Quatre dropped his hands to his sides and said,



"Um, Trowa? Why are you, uh, sort of mostly undressed?"



"Got too warm. Anthy says alcohol'll do that." A tiny belch followed

Trowa's last word. He giggled.



"Still have my pantsonthough."



"I can see you probably don't want dinner now. Right?"



"C'mere, shweetie." Trowa tried sitting up. Quatre stepped to the

couch. Trowa grabbed him around the neck and fell back, pulling Quatre

on top of him.



"Whoa, Trowa! I don't think --"



"Gimme kissh." Sticky-sweet lips puckered up at Quatre. When he held

back from meeting them, Trowa frowned and stuck put his lower lip,

then grinned broadly and blew a gentle make–believe smoke ring. The

warm, stale scent of oranges, cloves, and alcohol stirred the air

under Quatre's nose.



"Trowa," Quatre whispered, wrinkling his nose, pushing himself up,

"we're not alone."



"Not?"



"Anthony's still here."



Trowa released Quatre, who stood and straightened his shirt. He rubbed

at a spot, lifted his fingers to his nose. *Pink Flamingo. Of course.*

He licked his fingers.



Trowa looked up at Quatre and smiled. "Anthy's grea-aat, jus' great. I

. . . likehimalot."



"Wait just a minute, love, okay? I'll be right back."



Trowa whined. "Wait. Han' me my las' drink." He stretched out both

hands toward the coffee table. Without moving his head, Quatre looked

down at the nearly empty martini glass, then tossed a grin and an eye

roll to Anthony and sighed.



"I guess that last bit won't make a difference now."



He handed the glass to Trowa, who grinned like a child receiving candy.



"Thansh."



Quatre walked to Anthony, who immediately began to apologize.



"Mr. Winner, I'm so sorry. I know that I should --"



He stopped when Quatre put up a hand, palm facing him.



"Not your fault, Anthony. I told you to wait on him hand and foot, and

if he wanted to drink that much, then . . ."



"I just don't want you to think I tried to force him, sir."



Quatre gave Anthony a look of reproach.



"I know you better than that. And you know me better than that, too."



Anthony sighed.



"Well, then, I should gather my things and --"



"Are you sure? The weather's getting worse by the minute. Trowa does

have a guest room, and --"



Now Anthony held up his hands.



"No, no, I should go. It's not that bad. And it looks like you'll want

some privacy here."



Both looked to the couch to see Trowa talking softly to his empty

glass. Quatre turned back to Anthony and said,



"I'm kind of embarrassed. I didn't know he couldn't hold it, or I'd

never have suggested you start without me."



"Some can drink all the beer they want and not feel the effect of it,

but a mixed drink with hard liquor completely floors them."



Both turned their heads again when a soft whump sounded as Trowa

rolled off the couch.



Quatre chuckled.



"Consider my boyfriend officially floored."



Pause.



"Thank you for being here tonight, Anthony, and again, don't worry

about this. Completely not your fault."



"Thank you, Mr. Winner. I'll gather my things and be off. I'll collect

that last glass at the party, if you wouldn't mind bringing it."



"Not a problem."



As Anthony went to the kitchen to gather his supplies and the glasses

he had washed, Quatre returned to the couch. He bent to help Trowa to

his feet.



"Let's get you to bed, sweetie."



"Yeah, yeah, les' go bed." Trowa leaned to kiss Quatre and missed.

Quatre put one of Trowa's long arms over his neck and shuffled him

toward the back of the house.



#



*On the eighth day of Christmas

My true love sent to me . . .



Tuesday, December 21, AC 202*



"Trowa?" Quatre put a hand on his boyfriend's shoulder, who shrugged

it away. "Come on, baby, you have to get up now or you won't be able

to sleep tonight."



From under the pillow over Trowa's face came muffled sounds. Quatre

lifted the pillow to see his boyfriend squinting and frowning.



"I'm sorry, I didn't --"



"I *said,* I'll be *fine,* Trowa said sharply. I just need a little

more sleep, that's all."



Quatre produced his best little boy pout and reached to stroke his

lover's forehead.



"Oh, baby, if I had known --"



Trowa sighed. He tried to smile, but ended up wincing with a low moan.



"Not your fault, Quatre. I'm the one who drank seven Pink Flamingos on

an empty stomach."



Quatre smiled, his empathy coils glowing warmly.



"Well, it's not quite noon yet, so I guess you can sleep a bit more."



Pause.



"But if you want something to eat --"



"God, no," Trowa said, pulling the pillow from Quatre's hands and

recovering his face. His voice was muffled as he said, "Maybe later,

okay?"



"I'll check in on you in an hour, then?"



"Thanks."



As Quatre left the master bedroom he heard Trowa groaning.



#



"All better now?" Quatre said with a tentative smile.



"Mostly," Trowa said, rubbing his temples. He set his mug down on the

massive kitchen island of Italian rose marble and pushed away a plate

bearing a mostly-eaten English muffin smeared with strawberry jam. He

leaned against the low back of his bar stool and twisted to turn from

the counter. He shoved arms above head and stuck his legs straight

out, sighing with the pleasurable stretch of his muscles. Quatre

watched the cut-off gym shirt Trowa had slept in rise almost enough to

reveal his nipples.



"Good," Quatre said, standing and smoothing his shirt, dusting crumbs

from his khakis in an attempt to keep from staring.



"I still don't remember us coming to your place, though."



Quatre smiled. "Yeah, well, you also don't remember me arriving last

night and finding you half naked and covered in --" He giggled.



"Pink Flamingo dribbles?" Trowa turned back to face the counter,

leaned forward, and put crossed arms on the marble counter. He reached

to pick at the edge of the muffin and got strawberry jam on the tip of

his finger. He brought the finger to his nose and inhaled pungent

sweetness, then licked it slowly.



"I was gonna say 'a delicious, sticky fluid that had pooled in your

gorgeous navel,' but 'Pink Flamingo dribbles' will do.'



Trowa stuck out his tongue. Quatre closed his eyes, cocked his head,

and grinned, showing his teeth.



"Anyway, so . . ."



"I told you. I got you to the bathroom, washed you down with a warm,

wet cloth, found your gym clothes, and dressed you for bed. Then I

sent Anthony home and --"



"Anthony, yeah," Trowa said, remembering the well-built bartender. "I

liked him. Easy to talk to. And he knew tons about liquors."



Quatre rolled his eyes and thought, *That's what bartenders are*

supposed *to know about. Geez . . .*



"And then I made some calls to check on the Logan City deal."



Pause.



"And I slept on the couch."



"You could've slept with me," Trowa said, his lower lip jutting out a bit.



"Well, I tried. Did you know that when you're drunk, you're all over

the place? Especially your legs. And I'm a light sleeper, remember."



Trowa stuck out his tongue again; Quatre ignored it and picked up his

mug. He walked around the end of the kitchen island to the coffee pot

and refilled the cup. As he added raw sugar and Half-and-Half, he

said,



"So I woke about eight and checked on you. You were dead to the world,

but I didn't want to leave you alone, so I bundled you up and had

Jared drive us here."



Trowa gently shook his head in amusement, testing its viability for

the day. He didn't remember a bit of the evening's events after he

picked up his fourth drink.



Quatre sipped cautiously, nodded to himself in satisfaction at the

mix. He returned to his seat. Trowa swiveled his stool to face his

lover.



"Anyway," Quatre said, "you're here, you're better, and I can spend

the rest of the day with you."



"Not the evening?"



"I have a business dinner, but we won't go for entertainment after.

Plus I've asked for an early start."



Pause.



"So," Quatre said, lowering his voice and leaning forward, elbows on

knees, "it won't be long at all before I'm back and cuddling with my

lover boy."



Trowa smiled softly. "I'd like that."



Quatre straightened. "So, what do you want to do?"



Pause.



"Erm, what do you *feel* like doing?"



"Not sure. What's the time?"



Quatre looked at the microwave behind Trowa. "One-forty-two."



Another yawn overtook Trowa, and he stretched a second time. "Well,"

he said after a groan of satisfaction, "we could go for a swim in that

fabulous indoor heated pool of yours, then maybe download a movie to

watch in bed after you're back."



Quatre froze, just for a moment, then smiled broadly.



"A movie sounds great! What are you in the mood for? Action? Drama?

Sci Fi? Chick flick?"



Trowa wrinkled his nose at the last category. Before he could respond,

Quatre rushed on.



"Doesn't matter. We just need to browse Netflix --"



"Or iTunes, or Hulu-dot-com, or --"



"Right, right," Quatre said. He stood quickly and grabbed Trowa's hand.



"Whoa, Quatre. What's the hur --"



#



Trowa quit Firefox, pausing to watch multiple windows with movie info

and trailers wink out of existence, then sighed. He had spent over an

hour and a half with his lover at the credenza to the side of his

desk, deciding what to download for the evening's entertainment, when

Quatre glanced at the clock in the corner of the computer screen and

jumped up with a "Yikes! I've got to get ready for tonight!" He kissed

Trowa deeply but briefly and left in a rush.



Something wasn't quite right, but Trowa didn't know what it was.



*Probably nothing. He's always excitable, so . . .*



He cast eyes over Quatre's home office, pausing at the seventy-inch

Sony Bravia hung between bookcases facing the main seating area, then

traveling to a library table littered with reports and blueprints next

to a secondary workstation.



One corner of his mouth went up, the other down. He scrunched one eye

shut. Trowa dismissed his puzzlement and stood.



He entered the master bedroom, walked to the bath, paused at the door,

and held his ear close. He heard shower sounds mixed with a light

tenor melody like flutes, the words indistinguishable.



*Maybe I'll go for a swim alone.*



Trowa walked into Quatre's closet and began opening drawers.



Socks, paired and arranged by color, dark to light.



Boxers of all kinds, arranged by fabric, silk to cotton -- and by

color, dark to light.



Thongs, likewise.



Trowa rolled his eyes.



*Good thing he can afford help to do this for him, or he'd never leave

the closet.*



Trowa put his hand on the bottom drawer, but didn't open it, knowing

that it was filled with bedroom toys and a dozen flavors of personal

lubricant. He smiled at the thought of how Quatre liked having them

used on him.



Next chest, top drawer: bow ties, rarely worn, inherited from his father.



Second: handkerchiefs.



Third: bingo. Swimsuits of every type and style, from Speedos to

briefs, jammers to trunks to board shorts -- even a couple of water

polo suits. Trowa selected an emerald-green Speedo that accentuated

his eyes, held it in front of his crotch and gauged the size. Quatre

was smaller than he was, but had a waist proportionately bigger than

Trowa's. Since Trowa worked out more than his lover, his slim waist

was nearly the same size as Quatre's in spite of their difference in

height.



Trowa found the chest containing bath linens and chose a deep cherry

towel with an outsized scripty Q in royal blue that bled off the

edges. He moved to the bed and began to strip.



Socks and shirt off, one leg out of his sweatpants, the other pooling

at his feet. He bent to free the other leg when a voice behind him

said:



"Trowa, what are you doing?"



Trowa pulled the pants off and dropped them on the bed with the rest

of his clothes. He was now wearing only blazing yellow boxer-briefs

that showed the contour of his slim hips and buttocks. He turned to

see Quatre with a short towel around his waist, another draped over

his head. Quatre's eyes were drawn to the outline of Trowa's penis

pressed to his left thigh. As his lover spoke, Quatre forced his eyes

to Trowa's face.



"Well, I thought I'd go for a solo swim."



Quatre hesitated.



*Did his eyes just flash? Or am I seeing things? Maybe --*



"Bad idea, babe. The pool's off limits right now."



"Oh?"



"Maintenance," Quatre said with a deadpan face. Then he suddenly

rushed Trowa and knocked him backward onto the bed.



"Hey!" Trowa said as Quatre straddled him, laughing. His small, lithe

boyfriend dragged platinum bangs over his nose, making him snuffle,

then kissed him deeply. Scents of cucumber-melon from Quatre's

handmade glycerin soap floated just above his natural musk. Trowa felt

a tingle in his tummy.



"What's that for?" Trowa said as he broke the kiss.



Quatre leaned back and looked down at Trowa's strong jawline, now rosy.



"You're standing there almost naked and expect me to ignore you?"



Trowa laughed softly. "Well, I'm flattered. I guess." He swallowed silently.



"You guess?" Quatre said, mock pain in his voice. "I'll never, ever

get enough of you, Trowa Barton. You should know that by now."



Trowa's smile was warm and genuine.



"Thanks."



Quatre hopped off his lover and the bed. Trowa grabbed Quatre's towel.



"Yikes!" he said as his towel left him. He blushed brightly.



"Um, lose something?" Trowa's look was devilish. He propped up on his elbows.



Quatre snatched the towel from his lover's hand. He turned around to

re-wrap his hips. Trowa laughed.



"Don't be embarrassed."



Quatre froze as Trowa's large, warm hands surrounded his waist. Then

he turned, and Trowa took his lips, pulling the little blond to him.

Quatre sat in Trowa's lap. The kiss deepened. Quatre moaned, low,

soft.



Then he pushed gently on Trowa's chest.



"I know it's not fair for me to start this and then beg off finishing

it, but I really do have to get --"



"I know," Trowa said. With his best drama queen impersonation he said,

"I guess I can find *some* way to occupy myself besides swimming until

you return from your *boring* business dinner and *rescue* me."



"Oh, get out. You'll be fine."



Trowa smirked. "Yeah, I will."



Quatre's returning smile was brilliant. "Good. Now let me get ready. I

have an impression to create."



Trowa reached for his pants and began to re-dress as Quatre plunged

into his closet, intent on what to wear to his business dinner.



#



"Hmm," Trowa said softly. He looked up from the iPod Touch in his hand

as he thumbed Pause on *Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog,* episode two.



He was in the sun room, named that not because it was open to the sky

like a screened-in porch, but because, even though it was in the

mansion's sub-basement, a digital screen almost as big as the entire

wall exuded simulated solar radiation from the sun, high and to the

left in a cloudless Monte Carlo sky, providing state-of-the-art

tanning.



It was a Tuesday evening in late December, yet Trowa reclined in an

elegant teak lounger facing the Monte Carlo scene wearing only the

emerald-green Speedo he had donned after Quatre had dressed, primped,

begged for compliments, kissed him, and left.



Trowa looked down at Neil Patrick Harris in white lab coat with

super-villain goggles on his forehead, paused in mid-song, a frown on

his face. Suddenly he stood, tossed the iPod on the brass end table

beside his lounger, and grabbed his towel. As he exited the sunroom,

the Monte Carlo scene on the wall faded to sunset.



Stars were out on the elevator's holographic ceiling as Trowa plunged

upward to the main floor. He ran the fingers of one hand over the

upsized beach towel which he had slung around his shoulders. He tapped

his bare foot against the polished parquet floor of the elevator,

impatient to reach his destination.



*I know I shouldn't be suspicious, but -- damn it -- something's going

on, and I'm going to find out what.*



The elevator door slid open. Trowa strode the back hall behind the

kitchen and dining room, through the atrium, and past the

entertainment center next to Quatre's office. He turned left and

headed toward the glass double doors of the indoor pool at the end of

the hall.



He halted.



*Why would they be covered in brown paper just for maintenance?*



Trowa tried the door.



*Locked.*



Pause.



*What the hell is he planning?*



TBC