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.

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"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.

--Well then.

(Trowa is, yes, very okay with this.)

One hand settles at the back of Quatre's neck, the other coming to rest lightly against Quatre's knee as a further touchstone for his shifting balance.

Quatre hums, quietly pleased, for a moment before his mouth opens; his left hand goes to rest against Trowa's neck, as he repositions himself so his left knee is on the far side of Trowa's legs. There's not a whole lot of space between his knee and the laptop, but more than enough.

He moves his left hand back into the short-cut softness of the hair at nape of Trowa's neck, when a very familiar and discreet beep makes itself known. Quatre freezes, and very distinctly does not swear.

He pulls back slightly, breathing against the side of Trowa's jaw. "Of course," he says, moving back. "Pelle told me that the earlier time had opened up this afternoon. Sorry."

Trowa goes still when Quatre does -- and closes his eyes, just for an instant, when he realizes what the cause was. (It's mostly just a slow blink. But it's also very deliberately shifting mental gears.)

"It's okay."

He says this with the ghost of a very wry smile. Trowa can appreciate the humor of the situation, reluctantly or not.

And it is okay. They have two weeks.

Quatre smiles back faintly (it's sincere, but he's still quietly annoyed at himself), and moves off of Trowa to standing with as much grace as he can muster.

He checks his watch. "I'll meet you downstairs in ten," he says, and technically politely he should have offered the time instead of requested it, but he trusts Trowa to be able to get changed that quickly. Himself, out of a mostly complete three piece suit? -- Well, yes, but less so.

Trowa is used to backstage changes, and doesn't wear multiple layers of formal clothing as daily wear. Ten minutes is pretty generous, even allowing for time to get back to his room.

"Sure," he says, and collects his laptop before he stands too.

A moment's pause, and then he takes two steps forward, kisses Quatre lightly with the same wry amusement in his eyes, and turns away towards the door.

Quatre's startled for a moment, before he smiles, pleased, after Trowa.

He debates saying something (reaching out to touch Trowa's arm; maybe cancelling the reservation -- except it's much too late to do that politely), but instead goes to change.

As he starts unbuttoning his waistcoat on his way into this bedroom, he hums something tuneless and cheerful.

Ten minutes later -- well, seven, actually -- Trowa is downstairs in slacks and a light sweater. (Khaki and dark blue, respectively. Trowa is boring and predictable sometimes.) They're a lot cheaper than anything in Quatre's entire wardrobe, but it's enough to blend in acceptably well at a casual restaurant. Which this is, of course.

Quatre comes downstairs in closer to ten minutes than seven; he's wearing dark brown pants and a light brown checked sweater. He's replacing his watch on his wrist as he walks out of the sunroom (having gone down the stairs), and smiles at Trowa.

"Ready, I take it?"

"Yeah."

As the evidence suggests!

Quatre's smile quirks as he accepts a set of keys from Mr. Kalns with a polite acknowledgement, and opens the door. (It opens inwards, so he holds it for Trowa to walk through first.)

One of the cars has been pulled out, already, and is waiting in the drive. None of the Winner cars are particularly eye-catching, but this one (while of good quality and design) is perhaps even less eye-catching than most.

Trowa remains quietly bemused by the inefficiency of the social expectation that rich people not get their own cars out of garages.

He doesn't say that, any more than he has on any of the other occasions that this has happened. Instead, he heads for the car, and its passenger seat. (Silently, he approves of the choice of vehicle. Trowa is, and will always be, a mechanic and pilot at heart -- and one who understands the uses of both conspicuousness and discretion.)