"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."

Quatre both relaxes and brightens before Trowa even moves, though it breaks into a true grin when he does.

He brushes his thumb against the side of Trowa’s knuckle, half-concious.

"Well," he says, "that's--good. To know."

Quatre's grin isn't going away anytime soon.

When he's regained the faculty of speech: "So: If you have any questions about that, or anything."

He doesn't seem to notice that the sentence didn't really go anywhere.

"All right,“ Quatre smiles, "if you do—"

Well, Trowa will ask. If he does. So.


Quatre takes a half-breath, pauses an uncertain moment, and goes for it. "I have one, if that’s all right."

"Don't worry if you do," Quatre prefaces, "I realize it's a little--soon, but do you mind if I kiss you?"

A split-second pause, and "We probably should close the door. If you don't, I mean."