That same split-second is a pause for Trowa too.




And then he laughs.

"Sure."

Trowa's laughter was brief, and it's over, but the amusement's still there in his eyes.

It's not far to the door.

The amusement's still there, and the warmth.

So, however quashed, is faint uncertainty. It's not that he's unwilling, in any way; it's only that Trowa's kissing experience is, well. Minimal.

Which is to say, he's dodged kisses from strangers a few times in his life. But that's it; even family kisses to the cheek or head weren't something he really got as a child.

So this is new territory.

All the same, he lets the corners of his mouth lift a little more, and brings his left hand up to lightly (and tentatively) match, and doesn't move away.

It's safe to say that trapped is not what Trowa feels right now.

Hesitant, yes; uncertain, yes; content and happy and excited and a muddle of other emotions, yes, in a fluttering mixture of endorphins that he can't name, and thus doesn't try. Trowa's not much given to focusing on his own emotions anyway.

But decidedly not trapped.

He tips his head a little into the kiss, and follows Quatre's lead.

(And if nothing else, Trowa is a fast learner.)

The amusement that sparks in Trowa's eyes would be visible if Quatre were looking. But he can probably figure it out whether he looks or no.




"I got distracted," Trowa allows, blandly.

"Sure," Trowa agrees -- willingly, and with that same background amusement, but after just a second longer than usual.

Quatre remains distracting.

Forward, while possibly accurate too, is not precisely the word Trowa would choose. (Let's stick with distracting.)

He heads back to the couch. He doesn't let himself pause -- Trowa is deliberate about his movements, now as ever -- but all the same there's a moment's renewed uncertainty. Nothing about this is unwelcome in the least, but it's a reshuffling of habits; should he sit where he was, or closer? Is this reading just as they were earlier, or some middle ground? Reading short stories about ecosystems is not the top track in his brain right now.

(He would know perfectly well what signals to give if he were playing a role, and manipulating someone else's interest. Being yourself is much more complicated.)

But he doesn't let himself pause, or dither. He settles comfortably down, not quite in the corner where he was, and opens his book.

Page 103. Right.

Trowa's attention is never wholly on what he's reading -- he always has multiple tracks of thought going at once, not to mention some level of attention on the room around him -- and he's always aware of the people nearby in any case. But right now, the story's occupying a little less of his focus than usual. And he's very aware of Quatre's presence, and how close they're sitting.

Which is not to say he isn't retaining any of it. He is.

This is . . . comfortable.

Unsurprisingly, of course. But it's nice anyway.

Trowa does not startle. His eyes do slide over to Quatre, though.

He also doesn't smile, but one of the nice things about conversing with Quatre is that Trowa doesn't actually need to move his face to have the underlying sentiment understood.

He turns a page, refocusing on his book, and settles back a millimeter more into the sofa. (If this puts his shoulder a millimeter closer to Quatre, too, that's . . . probably not a coincidence.)

The book's interesting -- although Quatre's right; in sheer craftsmanship none of the stories have matched up to Masih or Duvernay's, though they have their own points of interest -- but it must be said that finishing it today is not actually Trowa's top priority.

Not that he minds doing so. Reading is fine. (Reading with Quatre, here and now, is more than fine.)

But if he's distracted, uh, he'll survive.



However: if you happen to be a very perceptive reader of people, and you happen to know your best friend (boyfriend) very well, it's possible that his attempt to not be distracting -- and the extent to which he's concentrating on that -- can, in and of itself, be distracting.

Trowa glances at Quatre sidelong.

"It's okay."

Whatever 'it' is.

(Trowa might have an educated guess, though.)

Trowa's smile back is only in the slight warming of his eyes. But it's there.

And, unlike Quatre's, it's not sheepish.

He turns his gaze back to the book, after a moment. But he shifts his hand slightly when he does, just enough for the edge of it to press lightly against Quatre's.