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"Drabbles"Written By: Clara Barton Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing. The following
is an intellectual exercise with no intention of profit. That said,
these characterizations, words, and situations are mine. Please ask
before reprinting. Rating: R A/N: For Cocktail Friday on Tumblr Warnings: language Pairings: 6x3 Cocktail Friday: Hot Toddies Trowa was exhausted, mentally and physically, and he was cold. And he felt so done. It wasn’t even tech week yet - in fact, they still had to get through the entire weekend and THEN start tech week. But this show had been a clusterfuck of epic proportions from the first production meeting and, with each passing week, had only picked up momentum. It was fine. Everything was going to be fine. That had become the mantra of the entire production staff, as each day seemed to bring more bizarre requests, more realizations that the director was ABSOLUTELY insane and had no grasp of reality and, it was becoming increasingly obvious, no real understanding of the play he was directing. It wasn’t even a complicated show. Well, it shouldn’t have been a complicated show. Anything Goes - just a tap show on a giant boat. The plot was simple, the music was classic. The set… The set was a bit of a challenge, because the show transitioned from one ship cabin to another to another and there were scenes on the main deck and scenes in the brig and - So the scenery was complicated. And Trowa had entered the project with the kind of regrettable enthusiasm that meant he had designed a four storey set with build in revolves and periaktoi and - And he was tired. He was fairly certain he had pulled a muscle in his back. And the weather had changed, his train had been late, and he had had yet another not quite argument with the lighting designer before leaving the theatre that night. Now that he was home, standing in the hall outside of his apartment and fumbling in his pocket for the keys, Trowa tried to decide what was more important. Going to bed straight away, taking a shower so hot he maybe - hopefully - boiled himself to death, or getting drunk. He would regret getting drunk, in the morning, when he had to crawl out of bed in the frigid November morning and go back to the theatre with a hangover and try to not vomit while he painted four stories of steel. Because he was an IDIOT. Four stories weren’t even NECESSARY. But tonight… tonight he could drink and forget about what an idiot he was and what an asshole the lighting designer was and what a maniac the director was and - He opened the door and sighed. It was warm inside the apartment. Practically toasty. When he had left that morning, he had cranked the thermostat down to sixty-five, and he had been dreading coming home to the cold apartment and shivering while he waited for it to heat back up to seventy. The apartment definitely wasn’t sixty-five. It wasn’t even seventy. It felt very suspiciously warmer. Which meant - “I was starting to worry you had moved out.” Zechs was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back into a loose tail, socked feet looking disconcertingly casual, washing dishes. The dishes that Trowa had allowed to pile up over the last three days, because leaving at 8am and getting home at midnight had left him with no energy to even keep up with his coffee mugs. “You’re back early.” It was an entirely unnecessary thing to say, and Zechs smirked at him. “So it seems.” “Is that… a good thing or a bad thing?” Trowa didn’t pretend to know anything about the world of high-end finance that Zechs worked in. “A good thing. A VERY good thing,” Zechs smirked again and shut off the water. He leaned back against the kitchen counter as he dried his hands and his gaze swept over Trowa. “You’re a mess,” he said, smirk softening into a tender expression. When they had first met, Trowa had thought Zechs was an arrogant, self-centered, vain asshole. And while his first impression was completely accurate, Zechs had surprised him by having another side. He had been the first to suggest their one-night stand turned five month late night dates and incredible sex become something more permanent. Had been the first to say anything about love. Had been the one to ask Trowa to move in. Had been the one to propose two months ago, anxious and unsure for the first time in the three years Trowa had known him. “I know,” Trowa sighed and started to take off his jacket. “This show -” he shook his head and stopped himself. Zechs had heard all about it, through Trowa’s texts and their late night phone calls. Zechs had been in Munich all week, had been scheduled to be there until Tuesday, the day before the first preview of Anything Goes. Trowa had been both relieved and disappointed. He knew he was awful to be around during tech weeks, when he lost track of time and, according to Zechs, forgot how to interact with human beings. Zechs being out of town meant that Trowa didn’t do or say something that would upset them both. It also meant that he came home to a cold, empty apartment and even colder, emptier bed. Zechs set down the towel and crossed to Trowa. He used one long, elegant finger to tip Trowa’s chin up and then leaned down and pressed a light kiss to his lips. “I missed you,” Zechs said. Trowa sighed again and leaned forward, resting his head against Zechs’s chest and letting the taller man hold him. It had taken a very long time for him to feel comfortable in this position, to trust someone else to care enough, to trust HIMSELF enough to want someone else to care. Zechs threaded his fingers through Trowa’s hair and Trowa winced. He hadn’t showered in two days, and he could feel Zechs’s fingers tangle in the paint spatters that clung to his hair. Zechs just chuckled and pressed another kiss to Trowa’s forehead. “Go change. I’ll make you a hot toddy.” “You don’t mind?” Zechs had to be exhausted, had to be jet lagged and he had always placed a high value on sleep and - “No. I don’t mind. Go.” He gave Trowa a gentle nudge. Trowa rolled his eyes, but he followed the command. He went into their bedroom and shucked out of his paint stained clothes, grimacing as he had to pull his t-shirt away from his skin, at the tug of the dried paint sticking to his flesh. He tossed the clothes aside and pulled on sweatpants and Zechs’s Columbia t-shirt, a shirt that Trowa had stolen very early on in their relationship. Zechs hadn’t said a word about the theft, but every time Trowa wore it around him, Zechs smirked and got very handsy. When he went back into the living room, Zechs was setting a tray down on the coffee table. It held two copper mugs, a steaming kettle of water, slices of lemon and the decanter of expensive whiskey that they only pulled out for special occassions and visits from Zechs’s father. Trowa sat down on the couch and accepted the copper mug that Zechs handed him. He added the whiskey himself, adding far more than he needed to, but when he took the first sip he sighed in contentment. Zechs sat down on the couch beside him, draping one arm on the back of the couch, and Trowa leaned into him. “I missed you too,” he admitted. “I know,” Zechs smirked and kissed him again. -o- The end ~ * ~ |
