Quatre keeps his hands around the tea, breathing it in, trying to sort his emotions into a more organized set-up.

When Trowa finishes the post-chapter bio about the author: "Was that the one by Masih?"

Either that or Duvernay, from where Trowa is in the book; Quatre likes them both, as introspectives about ecosystems.

Quatre gives him a questioning look that says what did you think about it? as he dares a sip of the tea.

It's cool enough (just barely).

Quatre grins, a little; "It's not the most subtle of collections," he agrees, "but I think it's the best of Reicht's to date."

Lupe Reicht is the editor of the collection of short stories, Perspectives. Trowa's reading the fifth, and most recent, version.

"Duvernay makes an interesting contrast; I think I like Masih's better, with the objects' perspectives on people and the world, but his grasslands seem to not notice anything outside of themselves at all."

"Mm," Quatre says, after another swallow of tea. "Not in literature, as far as I know? But they both work for the RCRC reparations in L5, last I spoke with Duvernay."

Quatre smiles.

(He considers, briefly, saying I like it, again, but Trowa already knows.)

"I'm sure," he says, instead, "that it's ruined now that I've given away that you've read the best."

Quatre laughs.

"Far be it from me to disturb scientific inquiry," he says, grin acknowledging the purposeful pretension.

Should he pick out a book, or just enjoy sitting with Trowa on the sofa?



...this decision doesn’t have to be made until he finishes his tea.

Quatre doesn't mind.

Quatre’s not entirely certain when the companionable silence becomes strained.

(It's probably his fault. He's spent far too long over his tea, when he should’ve gone and got a book ten minutes ago. Maybe fifteen.

If he goes to get one now it will be awkward. If he doesn't, it will be awkward.

Maybe he should say something. But it looks like Trowa's thinking? Don’t be stupid, Trowa's always thinking. Maybe Trowa's waiting for him to say something. Nothing comes to mind except that idiotic speech nudging at his neurons. In his neurons? Via the method of--anyway.

No, he can't say that; he still has the earpiece clipped to his pocket like some fool.

And what if he has something in his teeth? He hasn't brushed since this morning.





He probably does.)

He starts when Bernie wanders into the room, discussing something on the phone about landlords, throws them an absent-minded thumbs-up, grabs a book from a shelf and leaves (patting Quatre’s head on the way).

"Uh, do--you want me to take in your cup? If you're done, I mean."

Quatre smiles at him slightly as he takes Trowa’s cup, and heads to suite kitchen, unclipping the earpiece and attaching it to the kitchen screen.

The water runs for longer than it really ought to, to wash the cups out preliminarily. This is because Quatre’s staring at it, and wondering if dunking his face in it will make him stop being stupid.

He turns it off, and goes to brush his teeth in the restroom instead.

(There’s nothing in them; he flosses, anyway.)

This is ridiculous, he thinks at his reflection. The worst that could happen is that he could be wrong, and they’d still be friends. Obviously not ideal, but would it be so awful? No, of course not.

He takes more risky chances every day before lunch. Well, at least twice a week. Quatre cleans the toothpaste off the corner of his mouth, eyes himself sideways for a moment, and walks back to the library with what he hopes is casu—oh, Trowa’s reading again.

Um.


Hm.

Quatre laughs, slight and self-deprecating. "Don't mind me; I'm just being ridiculous."

He sits down at an angle where he had been earlier, facing inwards towards Trowa. "I'm going to steal your attention for a moment--well, a few moments. More of an indefinite amount of moments--from Reicht. Would you prefer to finish your chapter first?"

This was so much easier in theory.

"Basically," he says, voice a lot steadier than he feels, "I'm probably going to talk too much, but I'm prefacing this with the fact that I don't expect anything, and I'm--trying not to assume anything. Um."

Quatre glances sideways for a moment, before looking back. (His eyes wander to the side now and then, during the next part.) "It's a little redundant to say you're my best friend," he starts, wryly, "but I still feel like it's important, with everything else. Um--I'm pretty sure that's why it took me until two years ago to--well, I mean." He's definitely not looking at Trowa now, and his left hand is twisting at his right cufflink. "I think it's returned, or I wouldn't say, but--I could be wrong, and that's fine--um, I just--basically-I'm-also-attracted-to-you?"

He winces, almost, as he says it.

"Which, I mean, I can never bring it up again if that's a problem! And I mean, don't worry about--you're my best friend, I'm not--well, yes, I'm going to be awkward. But not for long--"

Quatre breaks off, and laughs slightly, breathless from the rambling.

"I know," he admits, once he's breathed. "To sum up: I like you, do you like me? Register yes or no at your earliest convenience. Which-- doesn't have to be right now."