by Jan
Notes: Totally pointless. But I needed it.
"Trowa, where is my fisherman's sweater?"
"The one with the huge holes? I threw it out for trash pickup this morning."
A wail pierced the air as Quatre tore from the house. On the lawn, a tug of war with the trash collectors ended with Quatre victorious and the owner of a black eye threatening to sue.
"Quatre, how it can be comfortable? It has more holes than fabric…" Trowa offered half apologetically from the door.
"It's not about comfort for the body, Trowa." Quatre clung to the bundle of half knitted yarn possessively, "It's a comfort for the heart."