Trowa's palm is warm from the coffee cup that's now in his left hand. He has another drink of coffee, and lets his fingers curl comfortably around Quatre's.

"Maybe," he agrees.

He hasn't checked the in-bar dates of lunar holidays in a while. He makes a mental note to do so; it probably isn't going to be relevant, but you never know.

He returns Quatre's glance -- a little inquiring, but idly. (He's wondering if Quatre has a particular reason, or is just being ecumenical in his pursuit of social contacts.)