3nanashi | (no subject)

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winner family connections

(no subject)

Shuttle rides are boring. This is a fact of life; every traveler who's ever been on an inter-colony or atmo-breaking trip knows this. But it is, perhaps, especially boring when you know exactly what this engine can do (not as much as many machines, but a lot more than this commercial pilot is asking of it) and which trajectories it could take to L4 (several, of which this is the most staid that has any speed at all). Trowa keeps himself occupied with his computer, and tries not to spend too much time mentally calculating alternative routes and contingency plans for various attacks that will never come. He doesn't expect them, but it's something to do. And it never hurts to be prepared.

When they dock, he waits through the excessively slow cross-check -- double-checks and triple-checks are how you keep your equipment in order and yourself alive, but this crew's clearly never done this under fire -- and then slings his duffel bag over his shoulder and files dutifully off the shuttle with the other passengers. Time for the Immigration And Visitor Registration paperwork. Trowa tells them the truth, nowadays, although occasionally in rather targeted wording.

All that's ahead after that is a much shorter (and, privately, less irritating) trip by ground transport to the rich district of this colony. He'll call Quatre when he's close.

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Quatre's right hand drops to Trowa's shoulder, and his eyes are mostly closed for a moment as he takes a breath.

They crinkle with happiness when he opens them and sees Trowa's smile.

"Do you know what classes you're sitting in on, yet?"

Trowa shakes his head slightly.

"I've looked over some descriptions. But I'll play that mostly by ear."

He'd already mentioned to Quatre, when asked, that he plans to spend some of the time when Quatre's at work in exploring the nearby Qasim University.

What he didn't bother to mention -- not so much concealing as because there wasn't a need to say, and Quatre can probably guess -- is that it's not really of an interest in the collegiate experience per se. That's not uninteresting, but the real point is that Trowa's getting old enough that it's worthwhile to gather some material for potentially passing as a college student, and firsthand experience is always more useful.

"I hear their engineering courses are fairly interesting," Quatre murmurs.

He's always been somewhat interested in attending the college for at least a class or two, but he's never found the time. The longer he stays at the company, the more he sees it as unlikely to ever happen.

Trowa accepts this information.

Good to know! (Though the interest level of the course's subject matter is only one of several relevant factors.)

"What other ones were you looking at?" Quatre asks, after turning his head to the side to laugh slightly.

Trowa tilts his head fractionally in lieu of a shrug. "There are several large lectures, mostly at introductory levels. They'll be the easiest to go unnoticed in."

He could, of course, pretend to be a prospective student and request outright to sit in on a class -- and maybe he will at some point, but for the beginning it's more ~~fun~~ interesting to improvise.

Besides, observing basic college teaching might be interesting. (Normal pedagogy has largely passed Trowa by. This isn't something he feels as a lack, to be honest, but he's mildly curious what most people's assumptions are.)

"I doubt anyone will be on the lookout for someone trying to come to class without the teacher noticing," he says, entertained.

Trowa, amused, grants the point.

"The stakes aren't very high," he allows, deadpan.

(He'll find his own fun in spite of that fact.)

Quatre grins, and his eyes drift semi-closed for awhile. He's in no danger of falling asleep, he just --

It's nice to stand here with Trowa, his hand a light pressure on Quatre's back and he himself warm beneath Quatre's hands.

Yeah.

It is.

The touch is comfortable, his proximity likewise; it wouldn't take much of a shift to bring them together, but instead Trowa's bangs just barely brush Quatre's hair, and several moments stretch. The room is quiet, isolated among the empty guest rooms, and Quatre's quiet contentment is (to Trowa) very nearly palpable.

"I think," Quatre says after awhile, "I should probably start answering e-mails, if I'm going to be done before the reservation." And he doesn't want to do them at night. (Though he will, if he must.)

He draws back, reluctant. "Do you want to come up, or should I bring my laptop back down here?"

"I'll come."

It's the logical course of action. Quatre's suite has more seating options, and so does the library right next to it.

He lets his hand slide away as he steps back to collect his laptop case.

Quatre smiles, and goes to the door. It opens inward, so he holds it open, and lets Trowa out first.

"Stairs or elevator?"

It's basically the same distance, and Quatre doesn't really have a preference. (Trowa probably doesn't either, but one can try.)

Trowa does shrug, this time.

(Sorry, Quatre. You didn't really expect an opinion, did you?)

Quatre says, "The stairs it is," closing the door after them.

They walk back down the hall to the elevator, and take an immediate right into a much shorter hallway. There's a wooden door closed there into the family section of the house. Quatre unlocks it and raps loudly on the door. After about 20 seconds of silence (he raises his eyebrows at Trowa apologetically), he opens it and walks in, holding the door after him for Trowa before letting it close on its own.

They walk through the back of the second floor of the library, past the couch in front of the door on the opposite side; it's open, as usual.

The staircase is fairly steep, and takes them to the third floor of the library, which has a small collection of books but is primarily composed of study rooms. There's a door only a few paces in on the right, though, that doesn't have the clear windows of the study rooms. Quatre lets himself in.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like some coffee?" Quatre asks, once they're in his suite.

Trowa did not get miraculously thirsty in the last ten minutes. Accordingly: "Maybe in a while."

He's not opposed to having a beverage now, but he really doesn't feel the need.

Quatre smiles and takes a step forward to steal a quick kiss.

"All right," he says, brightly, after pulling back.

He'll go get his laptop, now. Yes.

He moves a set of magazines off of the sofa, so that Trowa can sit, before heading back to his bedroom.

Trowa does, indeed, sit.

Laptop time!

(There's plenty of magazine-free room next to him. Conveniently.)

Not for long!

Now it is taken up by his boyfriend. He is probably really sad about this, but Quatre is cruel!

Also working on his laptop.

SO CRUEL. HOWEVER WILL TROWA MANAGE.

By . . . typing. (Long-term sock puppet news-blog accounts do not maintain themselves.)

And resting his shoulder comfortably against his boyfriend's.

Yep.

Quatre is thoroughly distracted by his e-mails for about two hours, though he calls Pelle to send over some paperwork at several minutes to 5.

When he's finally done, he saves the computer and turns it off, moving so that he's sitting knee-to-knee with Trowa instead of just shoulder-to-shoulder.

"Hey," he says, quiet and fond, though he's being careful to not accidently read over Trowa's shoulder.

Trowa finishes typing his current sentence before he looks over, but his face warms almost imperceptibly. (This is Trowa's version of a reply.)

He taps the button to minimize everything as he glances back at Quatre in return greeting, and fails to move away.

It's not that he minds Quatre seeing anything he's working on. It's not particularly Quatre's business, of course, but there's not a lot he'd keep secret from him, and he wouldn't work on any such thing in front of him anyway. But this isn't time-sensitive, and so there's no reason to make Quatre work to be properly courteous.

Quatre's smile is soft, and warm, as he relaxes slightly. He only moves to slip his right hand under Trowa's elbow in order to rest his hand on Trowa's forearm. (He would rest it on Trowa's hand instead, but that hasn't moved from the keyboard as of yet; this seems more polite.)

Quatre's shoulder is warm against Trowa's, his hand wrapped loosely around his arm. It's comfortable.

It's a minute or two before he shifts enough to close his laptop. (Without dislodging Quatre's hand.) He's not going to be working on anything in the near future; no reason not to set the laptop aside.

Quatre's smile quirks, and he sets his own laptop on the sidetable. He tilts head back to ascertain, unnecessarily, that Trowa is okay with this (the laptop thing, for him, was fairly obvious).

He grins and leans in to kiss Trowa, moving his hand up Trowa's arm so he can have a light grip on his shoulder as he shifts his weight onto his knees.