I Will Corrupt You
By karei
Capitulus Tres
Chapter 3
On the ride home, Quatre kept shooting nervous glances Trowa's way, making sure that his new acquaintance didn't pass out. It seemed at times that Trowa was dangerously close to sleep, but he never allowed himself the condemnation of it. Instead, he focused on the heavy beats of the music, as Quatre had chosen only the loudest, most volatile songs on his CD collection. Trowa even found himself enjoying a bit of that new biscuit band.
"Who did you say this was again?" Trowa shouted over the loud music.
"Limp Bizkit!" Quatre strained his voice to be heard over the pumping bass.
"Oh!" He tried listening to the lyrics, but almost started laughing at the words: 'Keep rolling.' It made him think of the one rave he had been dragged to during college, when he was still with his wild-child girlfriend, Midii. She kept on rolling right up until they rolled her coffin into the hearse.
He would have kept along his melancholy thoughts if it wasn't for the sudden sensation of being shaken. He looked down to see Quatre's eyes fixated on the road, but his hand firmly shaking Trowa by the shoulder. "What?"
"You started falling asleep."
Trowa glared at Quatre's hand. "Why do you even care? Guilt?"
"Sympathy, but I guess you wouldn't understand that."
They fell silent.
"I'm sorry," Quatre finally said. "I didn't mean to snap at you."
"No, it's fair. I've been pretty rude."
"You have an excuse. You have a head injury."
Thankfully, their conversation ended as Quatre finally pulled up to his house. Rather, he pulled up to the gates of his driveway, and somehow they recognized his car as friendly and opened up. The giant white monstrosities moved slowly, but Quatre's car was small and he hardly waited for them to completely open.
"Do you often make a habit of speeding?"
"Sorry," Quatre blushed, immediately taking his foot off the pedal, letting the incline of the hill reduce his speed.
"Speed limits are more than recommendations, you know."
"I know." He sighed, "But anyway, we're almost here."
Trowa turned his head to examine Quatre's quarters. It was a small ranch-style house, one-story, with huge panels of glass serving as walls for the front rooms. He could see straight into the house, observing a fully-equipped kitchen and a well-furnished living room. The size of the house suggested at least five other rooms, one of which was most likely a rec room of sorts. Perhaps two.
Quatre must have noticed the puzzled look on Trowa's face when they continued driving past the house. "Do you like it? It's the guest house."
"Guest house?" Trowa had never heard those two words in succession, save for on television. He had heard of guest rooms, if people were so blessed as to have space for them in the cramped city. But a whole house for a guest was quite unheard of, at least to him.
"Yes. Here is the main house."
Compared to what Trowa had seen before, the aforementioned 'guest house,' he could easily observe that this was Quatre's actual residency. However, had he not known about the smaller house, he would have thought this one to be a hotel.
The sprawling stairs climbed up to a balcony overlooking the rolling hills of Sausalito. It loomed four stories above them, the front lined with roman columns, the pale blue of the house contrasted by clean white accents. Windows coated each floor, the top especially, revealing a sort of greenhouse where the attic may have been; the remaining windows spanned from ceiling to floor on each story, no doubt flooding the inside with light. He could see a few people cleaning the windows, some also cleaning the marble stairs and maintaining the beautiful lawn. Quatre's lawn was coated thickly with soft, bluish-green grass, ornamented by topiaries shaped as angels which were decorated with the crawling blossoms of sweat pea. He didn't even notice that a soft breath of awe had escaped his lips.
"Wait until you see the view," Quatre smiled.
"View?" He was surprised to think that all this beauty and yet more could be owned by just one man. They stepped out of the car, leaving it at the front door, and Trowa watched as it just sat there, unattended. "Aren't you going to park it? Or does someone park it for you?"
"Oh, no," Quatre waved, "I don't have any servants. I mean, I can't keep the place clean all by myself, but I can cook and drive and handle my own self well enough. I've just never been much for housekeeping or gardening."
"So, do live with family still? Or is this all your own?"
Trowa did not notice as a sad look brushed across Quatre's face; it faded as suddenly as it had appeared. "No, I don't live with family. I live alone."
"Well, it must be very peaceful."
"It is," Quatre sighed. "Too peaceful." He quickly brightened his expression in an attempt to change the subject. "Do you want anything to drink? Or perhaps you're hungry?"
"Starving, actually."
"Well, that's good. I usually eat alone, so this will probably be a nice change for the both of us." He lead the way up the steps, all fifty-two of them as Trowa counted.
As they entered, Trowa whistled softly at the innards of the house. It was not lavishly decorated; quite the contrary, actually. The front room had a floor of white marble, white walls, and a small chandelier suspended from the ceiling. Mirrors hung on opposing walls with small, beech wood tables underneath them, each supporting a small arrangement of yellow roses. It was all very clean and simple, as if Quatre didn't enjoy throwing around wealth. Quatre casually tossed his keys onto one of the tables, rounding a corner which no doubt led to the kitchen.
The kitchen itself was a stainless-steel wonder, with everything hidden away; one of those 'a place for everything and everything in its place' kind of kitchen, from which he could see a dining room. Another table, but larger this time, with dining room for six, sat in a crème-colored room, again with mirrors and yellow roses. The far wall was not a wall, but windows hung with gauzy white curtains that added to the general air of surreality. Through the window, he could see the sun splashing into the ocean, the normally navy water glittering with a thousand shades of red.
"Nice view."
"I'm glad someone else can appreciate it," came Quatre's muffled response. He was digging through the refrigerator. "It seems such a waste to have it all to myself, you know? It's just too much for one person."
"Then why did you buy it?" Trowa asked as he turned towards Quatre.
"Oh, I didn't." He finally emerged with lettuce, shrimp, tomatoes, and pre-made angelhair pasta. "It was a gift. I'm thinking of selling it though, or maybe just giving it away. I'm not sure."
"Why not just get a roommate? And what are you making?"
"Oh, I'm making pasta with shrimp, tomatoes, and cilantro. It's actually very good." He busied himself at the island, slicing tomatoes. "Getting a roommate is too difficult. Trust me, I tried."
"Yea, I suppose the rent would be high."
"Oh, no, it's not that. I wouldn't charge rent anyway, I really don't need it." As he was slicing, he reached behind him with his foot, in a rather graceful arabesque, turning on a CD with a tap of his toe. "I hope you don't mind Sarah Brightman."
"Who?"
Quatre smiled as the opening to his favorite song came softly floating from the stereo. "She's a soprano with an amazing voice. You'll like it, I promise. It's very relaxing."
Trowa didn't reply, but instead he listened to the words.
Deliver me, out of my sadness
Deliver me, from all of the madness
Deliver me, courage to guide me
Deliver me, strength from inside me
All of my life, I've been in hiding,
Wishing there was someone just like you
Now that you're here, now that I've found you
I know that you're the one to pull me through"Nice."
"I think so. Would you pass me the extra virgin olive oil?"
Trowa picked up the bottle and slid it over to Quatre.
"Thanks." He began crushing some garlic, mixing the mincings with lemon juice and the oil.
"So, a rich boy who cooks. Never thought I'd see the day."
Quatre set down his knife and looked up at Trowa. "What's your prejudice against the rich, huh? Not all of us are mean, you know."
"Let's just say that enough bad experiences will get you prejudiced against anything."
"If that was true, I'd hate the poor."
"And what have we ever done to you?"
Quatre raised an eyebrow at him. "So, you're poor?"
"Does that present a problem?"
He looked back down, although Trowa couldn't tell if it was in frustration or sadness. "No," he replied slowly, "it doesn't. Just puts some new facts into the light." He picked up his knife and began mincing the cilantro, allowing silence to follow.
"Look, if in my poverty, I'm somehow disgracing your house," he mocked, "then let me just leave. Don't even worry about a ride, I wouldn't want to ruin your car further. But you'll probably be buying a new one anyway," he muttered.
"You're staying, and that's final."
"And if I don't want to?"
"Need we go there again?" He looked up at Trowa, and even though he was aiming for defiance, Trowa could plainly see hurt in his eyes. "Look, I need a roommate, and from the sounds of it, you need a room. Why don't we just help each other out?"
"I barely know you."
"And I barely know you. But I have a feeling. I'm usually not wrong about first impressions, and although you've been rude, I... I don't know. I just have this feeling."
"I'll think about it." He honestly meant it too. 'While it may be a heinous drive, and my car pretty much stinks, it'll probably help out my career to have a house in Sausalito. Might show people that I've made it somewhere.'
"That's all I ask. Anyway, dinner's ready. I hope you like it."
"I'm sure I will." Trowa looked slightly surprised as he let the compliment slip out, but felt somewhat appeased by seeing the smile on Quatre's face.
Quatre led the way into the dining room, balancing pasta, bread sticks, salad, ranch dressing, and a drink in each hand as deftly as a veteran waiter. Trowa followed with plates, silverware, and napkins, a much easier load to carry. He had offered help, but Quatre refused, insisting that Trowa was his guest and it was too much to ask of him to even bring in the plates.
"So, Quatre," Trowa started once everything had been served, "what exactly do you do for a living?"
He quickly munched on a piece of lettuce that had escaped his mouth at the shock of Trowa's sudden desire for a conversation. "I work, mm.." he stopped, working on swallowing the leafy mouthful, "I'm a member of the board of directors for the Standard Oil Company. What about you?" he asked, spearing some more salad.
"I thought was an actor, but now I'm not so sure."
"Why is that?"
"I haven't had any work in the past month. In fact, I'm about to be evi-" he cut himself off when he realized that he almost divulged his need for housing.
"About to what?"
"About to start looking for another agent. My current isn't cutting it."
"Well, I hope you find work. Do you do anything else?"
"Yea, I also work part-time at a diner, but it sucks. I swear, working in food is one of the worst things in the world."
Quatre nodded, swallowing. "I used to work in food too. I hated it so much. No matter how nice you were, people just didn't tip."
Trowa was somewhat shocked that Quatre had once had a blue-collar job, but he didn't comment. "Isn't that the truth."
The conversation stopped as they continued eating, leaving Trowa to mull over his own thoughts. 'I could move in, but what would that mean? Wait, this guy nearly killed me today! What the hell am I thinking? Then again, he did seem fairly remorseful; it could be guilt, or a desire not to get into trouble, but he actually seems like a decent guy.' Trowa stole a smile into his pasta, realizing that the chatter in his brain was exponentially greater than anything he could have ever produced in real life. 'He actually seems like he wants to help me, not out of charity or anything, but just because; and God knows I could use the help. My landlord's got a stick up his ass the size of Quatre's wallet, no doubt, and I can't afford to pay him within the next two weeks. Even if, by some miracle, Jennah does get me a job, I'll still be out of luck. Damned paycheck won't come for another two weeks, three days after my rent is due.'
"What are you thinking about?" Quatre prodded.
"Stuff." It was true, and all he cared to divulge.
"You're really quiet." Quatre caught Trowa's eyes, flashing him a bit of sympathy with his gaze. "It's okay though. I was just wondering if you were going to take me up on the roommate offer. Are you?"
"Hn," came the non-committal response.
"I bet you'd be wondering about stipulations. Rent, food, utilities, et cetera. Well, here's the deal: I won't make you pay rent, because that would be stupid. But I do expect help with food and utilities, to a certain degree. I mean, you can't completely freeload, how fair would that be?
"But I will give you time to pay on that stuff. It's not your fault that your agent sucks, so I could let you look for a new one. Heck, I'll try and help out with that."
"Why the charity?" Trowa asked rather curtly.
"It's not charity. Charity would be my buying you a house and food and everything. This is just a bit of help. I fully expect you to carry your own weight." Quatre smiled to himself, 'That's probably his main fear. Nobody want's pity or charity, but a chance to prove themselves. That's what's so great about America.'
"Hm." Trowa was considering this new information.
"So how about it?"
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