capeandcowllogs | (no subject)

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(no subject)

WHO: tree and fo'
WHERE: SOMEWHERE. SOMEWHERE OUT THERE.
WHEN: early, early saturday morning
WARNINGS: god who knows
SUMMARY: Yet another attempt to win his favorite number back takes a left turn at Albuquerque. Things go haywire after that.
FORMAT: I refuse to answer this ever again

It seemed like everything he tried to do to get back in Quatre's good graces, no matter how big or how small, had been doomed to failure. First he'd gotten in trouble for taking Leo to be pampered for a while without asking. Then he'd been shut down after attempting to use Aphrodite's words instead of his own (and worse when his own failed right afterward as well). He still hadn't figured out a way to tell Quatre about the so-called impossible deal he'd managed to arrange... and then sour by botching his attempt at a compliment in another language and accidentally telling the married man in charge that 'his husband [is] a very handsome camel'.

And this?

Actually, this wasn't turning out so badly. Sure, Trowa'd forgotten his wallet and he still wasn't certain that Quatre appreciated the idea of having to pay for the breakfast to which he'd fully intended on treating the blond all that much, but he'd promised to make dinner some time instead and he'd gotten really good at working with lamb lately.

All things considered, meeting up at midnight and still being outdoors at 8 in the morning was--if not tiring--at least something of a good sign.

...He really, really hoped that bad deal wouldn't destroy the progress he'd made so far.

Trowa was about to open his mouth to ask if Quatre was ready to go home, judging by the vaguely pinkish, lightly puffy rings under the blond's eyes, when disaster struck yet again. Instead of words, the only thing that came out of him was a surprised grunt as he blacked out and pitched forward into the grass.

It didn't last that long. Within a handful of seconds, he was pushing himself back up onto his hands and knees, wiping dirt off of his face with the back of one sleeve.

One very large, unfamiliar sleeve.

Which was hiding a much, much smaller arm than it seemed would have been usual.

Taking a moment to pause and stare at said hoodie sleeve, the nameless, homeless young boy rolled over into a sitting position, facing away from the blond behind him and looking at the big, worn grey boots that were nearly falling off his feet with something of a mildly lost expression.

.................Huh.

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It wasn't going nearly as bad as Trowa might have thought, Quatre having realized what it was the brunet was trying to do and being more than a little charmed by the increasingly desperate acts he seemed willing to try. But he wasn't so indictive as to let Trowa continue getting himself into situations where he was uncomfortable and at the receiving end of Quatre's irriation. The incident with Leo being the only one.

Trowa didn't realize it, but his failed attempts to say something in his own words had done more in his favor than Quatre had admitted. In fact, by the time they had been out for a few hours, Quatre was already thinking of it as a date and wondering if that was intentional on Trowa's part or not. After all, not many people chose to hang out at midnight. Especially when one person was paying for the meal and Trowa had promised to make dinner another time.

And Quatre found himself musing exactly how much it mattered that he still hadn't given an answer to whether or not they were dating when things had somehow progressed naturally toward it. But then, there was the problem of them needing to communicate with each other better that likely had something to do with it.

Either way, he's enjoying himself, even if the impending very bad news won't be a pleasant surprise when he finally hears it. He hears the slight inhale of breath that means Trowa is about to speak and tilts his head toward the brunet just in time to see him fall. A fraction of a second passes where he sense the shock that threads itself through the minds of the people around them and then darkness.

A moment later, Quatre is pushing himself up from the ground, tripping slightly on once fitted edges of his jeans and trying to judge how much he needs to push his shirt sleeves up to find his hands, the metal bracelet almost falling off, but just managing to stay in place thanks to his hand.

Had someone put him in his father's clothes?

Well, the boots would have to go. He couldn't walk in those.

He leans forward to try and pull them off when the sound of someone moving around behind him catches his attention. He freezes, one of his feet free and the other one still covered, and listens.

Only a moment passes before he twists, the shoe in his hand sailing through the air and toward the person behind himself.

It isn't until it's halfway there that he realizes it's just another kid.

Quatre had the luck of facing in the other boys direction and he throws up his arm, the boot bouncing harmlessly off it. The throw had been hard enough to bruise. Standing up straight, he glared at the other boy. The affect was lost considering how ill-fitted his clothes were.

"What are you doing? You could hurt someone throwing things like that!"

The anger in the stranger's words is enough that his defensive walls immediately rise up on instinct, a great prison seeming to close him off from the world behind invisible bars. He withdraws into himself some, the overly large t-shirt and sweater now looking even bigger than before as a result, and lets the surprise that had widened his eyes a little die out, the dark but sharp green dulling again under the shadow of nothingness.

A mistake. That was all it was. With all the other kids in the area... whatever he'd been doing (he couldn't remember) had apparently been somewhere public. It had been foolish of him to throw the shoe like that. What would the blond have wanted from him? Nobody bothered him. Especially not people in expensive clothing and that sort of bearing, even if it was much too big. He'd just been nearby.

He wondered to himself if he would have to go somewhere else. It wasn't that he minded--or if he did, he didn't have enough left in him to try recognizing that fact--but it was bothersome. Moving around when trying to get one's bearings just made things more difficult.

Plus, the jeans he was wearing would never stay on right, and he had just enough self-preservation left at that age that he didn't want to embarrass himself in front of other people. Better not to be noticed than to be mocked. He was used to being alone, anyway.

The boy doesn't say anything in response, just turning his head away again and looking down at the grass between his knees.

I'm sorry...

A well of guilt rises up from some unknown depths, quelling Quatre's anger suddenly and painfully. He clenches his hand into a fist, turning up the sleeves on his own too large shirt until the muscles relax and the emotion is gone, leaving the guilt and something he can't define. It feels like a great wall, foreboding and more than a little frightening at just how fast everything seems to disappear.

Either way, it leaves him stunned, staring at the back of the brunet's head and trying to swallow the sudden lump in the back of his throat. He hadn't meant to hurt his feelings, especially when his rationalization returns. They were in an unfamiliar place, wearing clothes that would be better suited for their father's, and surrounded by other people who seemed just as upset.

Some were even crying.

And it's overwhelming, Quatre realizing that despite being on a mysterious colony, the Heart of Space was stronger and feeding him every stray emotion it could find in the area. It was something he had no control over and he wraps his arms around himself, not wanting to be left alone, even if it meant trying to make amends with someone he had already hurt.

"I'm Quatre. Do you know where we are?" it's the closest he can get to an apology at the moment, offering his name and asking the question in a tone that's significantly kinder than his previous shouting.

He doesn't register the question right away, thinking that it was someone else being addressed and not him; when nobody answers the other boy, though, he realizes that it had been meant for him. His lips compress into a thin line as he tries to decide whether or not he felt like giving the blond a second chance, busy watching a hefty teenager have to unbutton his shirt to fit in the clothes his older self had apparently been wearing.

What a strange, strange place.

Letting the stranger's name roll around on his mental tongue, working on the unusual sound of it in his mind and pushing it around to see how it came apart--Quatre. Quatre. Kh. Kh. Kat-truh. Truh. Quaaaaatre.--he looks down at his hands, folding them together and staring at them as if they had an answer locked up tight between their palms.

But they don't.

He turns once more, then, responding more to the gentle voice than the words themselves, scootching himself around so that he's facing the right way, and shakes his head no.

When a name wasn't offered to him in return, Quatre just assumed that he didn't want to tell him. Or couldn't. He hadn't managed to say a single word in the few minutes since they had woken up, so it was only natural for Quatre to think the other boy was incapable of it.

Which isn't all that bad, it just means that he'll need to keep a closer eye on him, so that there are fewer misunderstanding. Moving one's head made for very limited conversations, so he'd need to consider his words a little more carefully around the brunet. That wasn't so hard, Quatre used to being told how to speak in the company of others.

Pulling the jacket a little further around himself to block away some of the cold air, he frowned, thinking.

"Then we should figure that out. This doesn't look like any of the colonies I've been to," he said, measuring each word carefully. "And we should find clothes.

"There has to be an explanation for why we were brought here and we'll figure it out."

Find clothes... that made no sense. He had clothes; they both did. These were nicer than he usually found, too. Warmer. Cleaner. Newer. What did he need more of them for?

Oh, but the pants--too big, even for 'borrowed' ones. There was no way he'd be able to get up and move around with them like this. Fortunately, he was used to fixing problems like these.

Unbuckling the belt and tugging it free of the loops, he digs into the pockets, one little hand latching onto a set of keys. Pulling them out, Trowa lays the belt flat across the ground and considers it for a moment, tracing his fingers across its length. Then, without warning, he begins digging at the leather with the point of the sharpest-looking key, trying to make another hole, eyebrows furrowed and all of his concentration laser-focused onto the task at hand.

They might have clothes, but they didn't fit very well, especially for Quatre whose older self was over six feet tall now. The jeans were so much longer that rolling the cuffs up wouldn't hold for very long.

While Trowa was repairing his belt, Quatre was realizing that he didn't have a belt, which meant that even if he could roll them up, there was no way to keep them around his waist. The boxers were holding, but he'd have no luck with the pants. And the shirt was definitely long enough to cover.

"I'm sure there are some stores around here. Once you're done with that, we should go. It probably isn't very safe out here."

He nods in agreement, pausing only to watch in temporary confusion as the giant trousers get put aside before figuring out the deal and returning to his attack on the belt leather. He does, however, figure out pretty quickly that the blond kid doesn't go out and do a whole lot of anything out in public--Quatre's knees and shins are really, really pale.

The kid of a spoiled rich guy, probably.

But the kid of a spoiled rich guy who was going to buy him a shirt that fit, and was actually just his from the beginning and never anyone else's.

Finally popping the end of the key straight through the belt, he takes a moment to re-wrap it through the loops and buckle it into its new place, letting all the excess beyond that dangle freely. He's about to get up when he notices a small knife on the keyring; when he finally does stand on both socked feet, two big pieces of fabric that had formerly been the lower halves of the legs on the jeans lay on the ground, never to be worn again.

Another nod. He's ready, now.

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