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Shorter one today and a little depressing.  Adulting is not all fun and games as Trowa and Quatre find out.


He knew he was being stupid.  They fought so rarely it always took him by surprise but he just couldn’t seem to shake the irritation.  Of course he should say something, tell Quatre, with words, what the problem was so they could talk it over like sensible adults in a sensible relationship.

He knew it was childish to just want Quatre to get why he was mad, to somehow psychically know what was bothering him and then come talk to him about it.

Sulking and storming out of the house was clearly the far more mature approach.

And so now he was just driving aimlessly around on his bike, stewing and grinding his teeth.  He realized he was going too fast when he felt the tires lose grip on a corner and start to slide out from under him.  He struggled to adjust, coming down around the corner with the bike, just managing to keep it in a controlled skid, knee a hair from brushing the asphalt as trees and guardrail flashed by.  He got it back under control a minute later and was able to straighten it up, squeezing white knuckles on the throttle.

The next exit for a rest stop he pulled over and got off the bike.  He realized his heart was racing, hands shaking, when he could barely undo the clasp on his helmet.

He collapsed on the ground next to the bike and just breathed in the night air for a moment, head in his hands.

“You’ve been in a bad mood since I got home.”

“Whatever; just forget it.”

He’d gone and shut himself up in the study and sat there fuming.  Wanting Quatre to come and talk to him because he refused to reach out first.  He knew Quatre was pissed too when he didn’t come in to say goodnight, just went to bed leaving Trowa alone to sulk.

Which is how Trowa ended up at a rest stop somewhere down the highway after nearly crashing his bike.  He could have killed himself.  Did he really want the last thing he ever said Quatre to be something so stupid and petty?  For their last moments together to be passive aggressive dish slamming, mutters about dinner being cold and then sulking alone in the dark?

How clichéd.

Trowa had nobody to blame but himself.  He knew Quatre prided himself on his communication and empathy.  But he was only willing to reach out so many times before quitting because Trowa shut him out.

Goddamn it was annoying though how he just wanted the other man to get it.

Disgusted with himself, he groaned and climbed back on to his bike. Fastening his helmet, he turned the bike around and headed home.

The house was still dark when he returned. He made his way slowly up the stairs, stopping for a second outside their bedroom door to listen.   Pushing it open gently he looked in to where Quatre was asleep in their bed curled on his side, head half shoved under a pillow, no different then any other night.

Of course he wasn’t waiting up, hands wringing while he wondered where Trowa had gone.  Quatre wasn’t going to sit around and fret. And if he was pissed, he also quietly stewed in irritation, except he’d get over it quickly and the next time they spoke it would be as if nothing had ever happened.

Which pissed Trowa off even more.  He couldn’t just flip things off like that.  But he knew if he wanted to talk about the damn thing, Quatre would be happy to have a conversation.  Trowa just had to grow up, grow a pair and take that step.

Sighing, he slowly stripped his clothes, hissing when his leg burned as he pulled his jeans down and realized he’d caught some road rash after all.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out he shook his head and climbed into bed.  His side was cold and he crowded up against Quatre, trying to draw in his warmth.  He wrapped his arms around the other man and kissed the smooth patch of skin between bare shoulder blades.

Quatre slept on, dead to the world.  Still annoyed, Trowa burrowed closer and tried to sleep himself.  He’d deal with it all in the morning.


I'll have to aim for something cheerier tomorrow!
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