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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--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.)

Quatre follows him, getting into the driver's seat.

There's no one in the drive; Mr. Kalns is behind a closed door. He reaches over lightly with his left hand to slip it under Trowa's right, raising it to press his lips against the skin below Trowa's knuckles. He only holds it for a moment more, before disentangling his hand to start the car.

But he's pretty pleased.

Trowa is faintly surprised by the gesture; not at all displeased, though.

(Quatre can be trusted to be aware of whether they're in privacy or not. So.)

It's not particularly far to the restaurant; not particularly close, either, as it's nearer to the college than the residential sector the main Winner home is in.

There's valet-only parking for the block of restaurants they're going to. Quatre pockets the ticket and smiles at Trowa; the initial entry way opens into a courtyard, but they're quickly in front of the restaurant.

"Quatre, for two," he says politely to the hostess, in Arabic, and they're quickly seated.

The restaurant is in light wood and blue tones, with an airy floorplan. Their seats still manage to have a good coverage of the room, between them, which is an advantage Quatre has found to eating in restaurants with their seating arrangements available online.

The food is good. Unsurprisingly.

The hostess and waitress both recognize Quatre; they're discreet about it, but it's still easily apparent if you're looking. (Trowa's always looking.) Most of the diners don't, though. And this is indeed a casual restaurant. Quatre, despite having dressed down from his usual, is one of the better-dressed people in the room.

They're not in a hurry, and the restaurant isn't terribly crowded. So it's a long meal, by Trowa's standards, but all the same it's not too late when they head back out.

"Would you like to look around?" Quatre asks, politely, hands tucked lightly into his trouser pockets. (It's always a bit of a novelty for him, no matter how often he does it, wearing pants that come with pockets.)

Trowa slants a glance at him.

It's a nice night -- as it reliably is, on a climate-controlled colony with no rain scheduled -- but he's been in this neighborhood before. It's not new to him.

(And Quatre is genuinely willing, but he's also being polite.)

"Maybe another day."

They have two weeks. There's time for rainchecks.

Quatre tilts his head, and smiles brightly. It's nice to have time.

They pick up the car with a very short wait, and they're halfway back to the Winner home when Quatre reaches over with his left hand to brush his fingers gently over Trowa's wrist.

"I'm --," he breaks off, before smiling softly, glancing quickly to Trowa. "I'm glad."

Trowa glances over when Quatre's hand shifts towards him.

He moves his own hand when Quatre's lifts away, just enough to brush his thumb lightly against Quatre's fingertips. He doesn't say anything, because he doesn't need to.

Quatre relaxes slightly, and his smile warms, as he returns his gaze fully to the road and his hand to the steering wheel. (He was able to watch it through his peripheral vision, and there was no need for the second hand; still, it's wise not to take too many liberties with one's driving technique.)

It doesn't take long to arrive back home, and in the hallway, once he's left the keys on the rack for Mr. Kalns (who has retired for the evening), he glances slightly at Trowa.

There's more noise in the sunroom, now, though the door is mostly closed. Quatre maybe should make an appearance.

"Should I meet you upstairs in 20?" he offers, uncertain. He doesn't quite say it, but there is an unspoken question as to where, exactly, upstairs this will be.

"If you want."

"I don't need to change, though."

This is to say, Trowa's willing to part ways and meet up in a bit if Quatre would rather put in his obligatory family time alone, but he doesn't mind short-term socializing.

He likes most of Quatre's family well enough. There are a few he finds particularly congenial, but none he actually dislikes.

"I think," Quatre says, after a moment, "for discretion's sake, we ought to meet up later."

He knows his family's perceptiveness; he knows how hard it will be for him to not spend the whole time wishing he and Trowa were alone, if Trowa is there.

Sometimes Quatre is a coward.

Trowa's smile is very, very faint; it's still a visible one, though.

"All right."

He can manage to kill 20 minutes on his own.

Quatre smiles back, and lays the back of his fingers to the right of Trowa's sternum, opening his hand as he strokes it over the fabric to Trowa's shoulder. He lets out a quiet breath, and settles.

His smile brightens, and squeezes Trowa's shoulder lightly, amiably; "I'll give them your regrets," he says, false-solemnly. "See you soon."

He tucks his hands back into his pockets, tilts his head at Trowa, and heads into the sunroom, closing the door behind him.

Trowa doesn't bother to voice any amusement or agreement, though both are there; Quatre knows.

He does, however, head for the upstairs elevator when the door has closed. He'll take the time to unpack as much as he's going to, and then check his email and suchlike.

Quatre is usually prompt, but the influence of nieces and nephews means it might be a bit more than 20 minutes.