3nanashi | (no subject)

Entry tags:

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The door shuts. Quatre puts his right hand to Trowa's side once he's set down the laptop, and narrows the space between them significantly.

He nuzzles Trowa's neck, slightly, smiling though Trowa can't see it. "Where do you want to be?"

Trowa, because he is massively unhelpful sometimes, shrugs slightly.

Since he's also ducking his head slightly to kiss Quatre's jaw, and splaying light hands on Quatre's hips, this isn't quite as useless an answer as it could be.

(They're going to be occupied for a while.)

Later, they're standing with their backs to the kitchen counter, finally having the coffee Quatre'd offered earlier. It's decaf, in deference to Trowa's preferences.

They're quiet, but Quatre's leaning against his boyfriend lightly, right hand at his back.

Trowa has a sip of coffee -- unsurprisingly, it's good -- and continues to completely fail to object in any way to Quatre's leaning.

It's comfortable.

(His free hand rests on Quatre's back. That's comfortable too.)

Quatre's eyes have drifted closed, as he slowly drinks his coffee and stands there with him.

Trowa's warm. Quatre completely unbiasedly approves.

Yep. 37 degrees centigrade, give or take.

Trowa has some more coffee. Mmm, coffee. (Mmm, contented cuddling boyfriend.)

Trowa's mind is pretty much always multitasking, so partly he's thinking about what he might do tomorrow, and partly he's thinking about his approach to Qasim University, and partly he's mulling over the state of world politics and public sentiment, and how the lions are doing with Jimmy Walsh, and so forth. But for a significant part of his attention -- well.

It's nice sometimes to have nowhere else you need to be.

Quatre's much more boring; he's only running through several scenarios of how the updating work in L3 is supposed to go.

He's also slowly drifting to sleep, but he's trying to avoid that one.

"Mm," he says, after awhile, shaking his head slightly to wake himself up.

Trowa glances at him, sideways and from close enough that Quatre's face is just a little blurry, and smiles very faintly.

He doesn't say anything, but his hand against Quatre's lower back presses infinitesimally in something like a greeting.

Somewhat sheepish, but mostly quiet: "Maybe I should consider sleep."

"Maybe," Trowa agrees.

Fondly!

And without noticeably pulling away, but still.

Quatre places his left hand against Trowa's stomach and tells him, solemn and fond in his ear, "You're making this difficult."

He's not...really protesting.

"Sorry," Trowa murmurs back.

Without, sad to say, sounding particularly apologetic about it.

He sets his coffee mug (empty now) on the counter without looking, and turns his head slightly towards Quatre -- very slightly, because Quatre's head is in the way -- to say, "Want me to head back?"

It's fond still, and murmured; it's also an actual question.

Milliways is one thing. This is the first time in months they've been in the same place in their own world, and the last time was during Ramadan and when this part of the relationship was much newer; there are still boundaries and habits they're working out as they go.

Quatre stills for a moment, before relaxing. "Stay?" He requests, drawing back slightly, a half-awkward smile on his face. "I know you'll need to get your nightclothes," he admits, "but -- if you'd like?"

If Trowa didn't like, he would have phrased that question differently. (It wouldn't have been one.)

So: "Okay."

"Okay," Quatre agrees, settling and turning outwards.

He raises his voice, slightly, and says in careful, clear Arabic: "Security system change," and continues once the light on the panel to the left of the kitchen turns on. "Quatre Raberba Winner, Security System Update: Add guest open, Trowa Barton. Add guest low, Trowa Barton. Add guest intermediate, Trowa Barton. Add guest high, Trowa Barton. Level set: low. Change complete." The light turns off.

Quatre smiles at Trowa. "That should be easier. See you in a bit?"

"Yeah."

Trowa doesn't smile back, as such, but the general sentiment's there.

Okay, time to disentangle.

Once they're disentangled, Quatre steals a quick kiss. Well, a moderately quick kiss; he smiles as Trowa heads out before going to change into his own set of pajamas.

It's good to have Trowa around.

Trowa doesn't bother to retrieve his laptop on the way out. There's no real reason to.

He doesn't make any particular effort to avoid Quatre's family on the way back to the central wing. It's not all that late -- Trowa keeps early hours, though the inter-colony time change has unmoored that a little -- and he sees no point in not allowing himself to be seen and companionably greeted by a few sisters.

On the way back a few minutes later, having brushed his teeth and changed into pyjama pants and a t-shirt, he does make the effort to slip by unnoticed. It's not hard -- just a matter of picking the right route and not making any attention-getting noise, which is second nature anyway -- and it makes things easier all around.

(Nothing is awkward when you think about it like an op. This, incidentally, explains something about Trowa's attitude towards conversation with strangers. And, uh, towards much of life.)

There's a biometric sensor built into Quatre's doorknob, which is pretty much standard procedure for advanced locks. Trowa lets himself in, unhurried to give Quatre warning of his presence. (Even though Trowa's walk to and from the central wing gave Quatre plenty of time to change, it's not polite to surprise your friends.)

Quatre has full pajama suits in his closet here, unlike back in Milliways, but he's realized that he rather likes sleeping in soft pants and t-shirts.

Because they're comfortable. Yes.

So he's wearing a pair of navy blue pajama pants, and a grey t-shirt (compared to the cartoon hippo wearing sunglasses on Trowa's). When Trowa walks in the door, he's washing out the coffee mugs in the sink.

He glances up and smiles, moving to wash his hands. "Cathy's choice?" he asks, with regards to the pattern.

Amused, "Yeah."

How could you tell?

"It suits you." Quatre dries his hands on a towel, and tries not to laugh as he walks forward. He stops half a step away, hand curling on the bare skin just above Trowa's right elbow as he kisses him, briefly.

"Would you like to grab a book, or?"

There's water in the refrigerator.

Trowa doesn't say, you're biased, but the sentiment is (affectionately) there.

(He also doesn't say that he figured this might be a useful sartorial option depending on the general fashion trends of Qasim U. Trowa believes in blending in.)

"Sure," he says, after a brief consultation of how tired he is. He doesn't expect to be reading for too long, but he might as well for a little while. His body clock hasn't totally adjusted to L4 time yet.

It's another moment or two before he looks to the bookshelf, though.

Quatre draws back, reluctantly, and goes to fill two water glasses from the pitcher in the refrigerator while Trowa finds a book for himself. He's already taken his pills for the evening, but it's nice to have a glass on hand during the night.

It doesn't take long. Trowa's not too choosy about his reading.

He gives Quatre enough time to fill and carry the water glasses, though.

Quatre gifts him one of the glasses, with a half-smirk and tinge of overdone formality.

There is a moment of hesitance, when he picks a book off of his bed, where he realizes he doesn't know what side Trowa prefers. (Quatre invariably, no matter where he starts, ends up somewhere in the middle; so he doesn't have much preference.) In Milliways Trowa is usually reading, and the lighting is one-sided enough to allow that to make the decision.

He decides to go with that, anyway, and moves to the left. Communication would be awkward, and he's tired.