(Untitled)
Quatre has stocked up on decaf coffee since the last time Trowa was in this room, even if he made an amiable face at the bag when he pulled it out. Trowa would have been fine without, and even bothered to say so, but Quatre is Quatre
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Well, okay, his ulterior motives existed, but they were entirely innocent; for instance, it's nice to be sitting warm next to Trowa on something that isn't hay. Not that there's anything wrong with hay, when it's not a ridiculous temperature outside.
Well, not entirely innocent.
... He's gotten off track.
Glancing up from his coffee he smiles, slight and (more than slightly) pleased, at Trowa. "I think, maybe," he says, "I've lost my enchantment with winter."
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(Trowa's amusement is significantly more visible now. If you know to look.)
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It's only about a minute, but when he glances back to Trowa he has to bite his lip lightly to pin back a grin.
He lets go of Trowa's hand to run his own lightly along Trowa's arm, settling on his bicep, as he shifts his weight slightly away from Trowa; he grins.
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Trowa is, nonetheless, entirely okay with the turn of this conversation. You can tell by the amused (and fond) light in his eyes, and the way he's not really troubling to hide it; you can also tell by the way his newly freed hand drops to settle lightly against Quatre's shoulder, and by the way he takes the cue to face Quatre just a fraction more directly.
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It's safe to say that there is kissing.
Later: "Maybe there will be presents," Quatre hypothesizes, leaning against Trowa with his laptop propped up on his knees. (Unfortunately, due to the screen, Trowa can't read it from his angle. Hopefully he won't feel left out, while he reads his book; it's primarily work e-mails that Quatre is drafting responses to in order to reply once he's back home.)
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He didn't bring a book, so this is one borrowed from Quatre's Milliways shelves. It's interesting; the Arab Union's recent political history is something Trowa knows in broad strokes, but not in as much detail as this book gives.
It's also slow going, because it's in Arabic. (Trowa's Arabic reading skills are pretty halting, although he's better with political terminology than with most jargon.) But half the point of reading this is practice, and the other half is an excuse to sit with Quatre slumped companionably against his shoulder, just a twist away from using Trowa as an outright backrest.
It works out.
"Maybe small ones," he agrees, in Arabic like Quatre. (In Arabic with a rather less upper-class accent; he's still working on being able to shift apparent social classes in this language.)
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He's currently considering whether wearing a dark green waistcoat would be too spot-on.
He thinks he can pull it off.
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Which is to say, he leaves all judgment calls on such fashion questions to Quatre. Trowa's own knowledge of clothes as social signals is considerable, but it's mostly calibrated to lower-class circles than Quatre moves in.
In any case, he has even less opinion on the matter than that, since they're not actually discussing it. He turns a page, instead.
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He makes a quick note regarding fashion considerations for the 25th, before returning to his e-mails.
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Tolerantly, he carries on reading.
Most of the unfamiliar words in this he can either figure out from context, figure out from similar words he does know, or skip past without losing much. The third time he hits نُقُود in the same paragraph, though, he opts to ask Quatre about it.
Might as well, with a native speaker leaning against his shoulder and all.
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That makes sense, in context.
Thanks, Quatre.
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He presses a kiss against Trowa's shoulder, left hand keeping his laptop steady, and leans against him for several moments more, eyes closed. It's nice, to have Trowa here. He's warm.
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When Quatre stays where he is, though, Trowa tips his head slightly, just enough to lean it against Quatre's as he reads.
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He doesn't really drift off, but he relaxes; his left hand hits the save button on his laptop, and he closes it with his thumb.
His eyes are partly open, and he's making a half-hearted attempt to read along with Trowa. He can't read the right-hand pages from his angle but somehow, he expects (partially because he's read the book before) he'll survive.
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