February 02, 2009
As the summary stated, this is a SLASH story, but if you're looking for a story that is drama filled, emotionally-laden, and covers heavy aspects of life – then this is seriously not the story for you. But if you're looking for a good ol' lighthearted story created with very little thought put into it, made purely for shits and giggles, with a little bit of drama here and there because every good story needs a dash of that, then hey, maybe you can stick around. ;)
May 10, 2008
A/N: Hey all! I only discovered this site a couple of days ago, so this is my first story in Fictionpress, and it would be great if you could leave a review on what you thought of this!
"Where the fuck is the milk?"
Nervously gulping down a spoonful of his cereal and the last of the milk, Elliot Foster looked up from the kitchen island. "Uh..." he mumbled weakly, glancing at the empty jug of milk sitting beside him.
Dark green eyes were narrowed at Elliot as his flat mate shot him an accusing glare from the refrigerator. Quinn Harper was not a morning person, this was something Elliot knew from the month he spent living with him. In the morning, he was a walking bad mood waiting to lash out, clad in a sleeveless black undershirt and black boxers - very fitting for his tall, trim body and his dour personality.
But anyway, bad mood personified was walking toward Elliot, a deep frown on his face. Elliot winced inwardly, preparing himself for the verbal lashing from Quinn's mouth – but unexpectedly, he was left unscathed. All Quinn did was snatch the loaf of bread sitting on the island counter and walk back to the toaster.
"Whew," Elliot sighed, shooting a relieved glance at Chuck, their German Shepherd pup, who, he was pretty sure, was watching everything.
Well, actually, Chuck wasn't their pup. He was more of Quinn's.
Quinn brought him home one evening after work, saying he picked him up from a box lying on the street. Before Elliot could ask him why the sudden random act of kindness, Quinn pushed the dog into his hands and took a shower.
As the dog proceeded to lick his face, Elliot was shocked for two reasons that night.
One; he couldn't believe people still left dogs in boxes on the street. That was so... Oliver & Company.
Two; the same, ferocious Quinn Harper, who actually enjoyed watching poor zebras being eaten by crocodiles on National Geographic, had actually saved an animal's life, despite enjoying watching the demise of many.
Of course, Elliot ended up washing the dog that night – but that was expected, and he didn't really mind. He liked dogs.
There was a small ring from the toaster as the bread popped out. Carefully, Quinn took them out of the machine and onto his plate, unplugging it afterwards. He walked over to the island, balancing a knife, the butter, and strawberry jam in his other hand. Elliot watched him from the corner of his eye, not bothering to strike a conversation as they had their breakfast.
For the past month, they had eaten breakfast together, almost all of them in silence – well, except for the occasional, "Milk." or "Butter." or even better, "Milk and butter."
And Elliot was just fine with that.
He didn't have a problem with Quinn, but sometimes, it seemed Quinn had a problem with him. Unlike most people, who wanted to find out why they were being despised, Elliot didn't really care. Sure, the occasional remark or snide comment was annoying – but Quinn didn't steal his things, didn't harm him, and he didn't hog the television.
Elliot didn't see the need to waste time finding out why Quinn seemed to hate him, when it most likely was going to lead Quinn to hate him even more, and maybe worse, heighten the chance of him hogging the television – and Elliot didn't like missing an episode of MythBusters or a Pistons game.
Back to Quinn.
His head was down in concentration, his dark hair falling over his eyes as he sliced the crust off his toast. Quinn didn't like bread crust; something Elliot thought was pretty weird since it tasted the same as the rest of the bread. He also thought it was pretty weird that Quinn removed the crust after he toasted the bread, while any normal person would peel it before the bread was toasted.
But then again, he was Quinn – and he was a pretty weird, moody person.
Elliot swallowed the last of his cereal as he watched Quinn lay out the strips of bread crust on the side of his plate. "You know," he said, propping his elbow on the counter as he cradled his head. "The bread crust is healthier than the rest of the bread."
Quinn looked up at him. "If you want it, have it," he intoned evenly, picking up the strips of bread and holding them out to him.
Sighing, Elliot shook his head. "I was just saying," he mumbled, taking the bread. "Gee, thanks, Quinn. I'm so glad to have your leftovers."
Quinn just scoffed as he spread butter over his toast.
Hearing soft, padded steps, Elliot looked down at Chuck, who was sitting by his leg, looking up curiously at the dangling strips of bread. He swung the bread in the air, chuckling at how the dog's head would move whichever direction the bread went.
"Here, Chuck," he said, finally giving the dog the bread, who willingly lapped them up. "At least you don't waste food like this guy."
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at his flat mate, and in his mind, he told Chuck that Quinn was the guy he was talking about.
He knew that Chuck understood him because he nodded.
Or maybe he just wanted more bread.
Nah, Elliot was pretty sure it was a nod of understanding.
Elliot could tell Quinn was watching him. He looked back and yep, he was. He was leaning against the counter, holding his toast, and chewing it as he watched his flat mate send telepathic messages to his dog. His green eyes were narrowed, as if wondering why he got stuck with such a strange person to live with.
"What?" Elliot asked, slipping off the stool and taking his empty bowl with him.
"Nothing," Quinn muttered, looking away as he took another bite of his toast. Bread crumbs stuck to the corner of lips as he looked out the window.
"Better hurry up," Elliot drawled from the sink. He turned the tap and started washing his bowl. "We might be late for work again."
Quinn made a noncommittal grunt as he finished his toast. He sauntered to the sink and handed Elliot his saucer before leaving the kitchen, picking Chuck up and bringing him with him, allowing Chuck to lick the bread crumbs off his face.
"Come on, Chuck," he said. "Time to go to work."
"Hey, where are you going? I'm not washing your plate."
"It's your turn for the dishes," Quinn replied curtly, tossing the dog into the air and catching him.
Elliot squeezed the sponge in his hand. "Oh yeah," he grumbled.
"Now hurry up, or we'll be late for work."
Elliot squeezed the sponge tighter, and soap bubbles burst into the air. Cheeky.