04_after | (no subject)

(no subject)

Quatre's spends most of five minutes removing his suit in a stall of the men's restroom and scrubbing himself free of glitter. A thick ring had collected around his neck, where his detachable collar had kept it in place, but the skin's soon pink and mostly glitter free.

(He's gives up on his hair after the first fifteen strokes with a finetoothed comb. It's better, at least.)

He changes into the clothes he got from the bar--a pair of thick linen pants in navy blue, practical shoes in black, a dark grey long-sleeved soft dress shirt, and light-grey-and-navy zip up sweater--and drops his bundle of carefully folded formal clothes on the Bar for safe keeping, pocketing his planner (just in case).

"Oh, and could I get that back without the glitter?" Quatre asks, nodding at the note that appears (as the clothes disappear), and accepting the two additional plastic flashlights with an amused grin, before looking for Trowa.

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Dim blue-tinted lights illuminate a wide hallway lined to either side with box stalls. To one side, there's a tack room. Most of the stalls visible have nameplates, and an occasional snort or stamp comes from the darkness inside. Several yards along, a discreet ladder leads up to a hayloft.

Trowa lets Quatre take his time looking around. They came by here once before, in daylight, but not inside the building.

Quatre takes the time; a couple minutes to carefully walk along the hall, to get a layout of the place. He doesn't look into the stables, it's night and he doesn't wish to wake or startle any creature.

He glances back, and smiles.

"I like it here," he says, quietly. "Do you want to look at the loft?"

Trowa's answering affection isn't visible.

"Sure."

Reconnoitering only makes sense, after all.

Quatre rolls his eyes slightly, amused, as he grabs onto the ladder and heads up.

The hayloft is pretty typical, or would be if Quatre knew anything about haylofts. There are stacks of medium-sized bales of hay, and some pitchforks in the corner nearest the ladder; the close slat floor is quietly hollow to walk on, muffled by the covering of bale-leavings.

It's empty, and warm, and musty-smelling. Quatre, near the middle of the loft, smiles.

A horse snorts in his sleep below them, and resettles. (Tequila Lime.)

Trowa follows up the ladder and into the loft. A few steps in, and a yard or so away from Quatre, he halts to let Quatre look his fill.

He does; from where he is he can see the openings between the haybales, the spare horse blankets that've been used as seats but are now scattered with hay themselves, and the bags of emergency oats set against the wall.

Quatre reaches back to touch Trowa's forearm, then as he turns shifts his hand so that his left arm is resting against Trowa's side. He breathes for a moment, and smiles. "I missed you," he admits. "Tonight, I mean."

It's easy, with Quatre standing as he is, for Trowa to rest his fingertips very lightly against Quatre's hip. Here in the quiet of the hayloft, he elects to let himself do so.

He doesn't say Oh? to that specificity, but his glance (nearly expressionless, but subtly more relaxed than usual) does so anyway.

The sides of Quatre’s eyes crinkle slightly as he smiles.

Um.

"There were a lot of people there," he explains, re-catching his train of thought.

He doesn’t say a lot of couples, because that’s obvious. (He doesn’t say extremely attractive people, because that’s just unnecessary.)

"It was pretty crowded," Trowa agrees.

(This is about one part not quite catching Quatre's point to two parts deliberate blandness.)

Quatre laughs quietly.

"That's not what I meant," he tilts his head lightly against Trowa's. He closes his eyes slightly, thinking. It's not really important, but he doesn't want to leave it unexplained.

After a bit: "People were happy together. I missed you. That's all."

Trowa smiles, faint but visible. (Barely. Not that Quatre's looking, but Quatre doesn't need to, either.)

"Okay."

The reason that smile is visible is that this, right now, is about as relaxed as Trowa Barton gets. He doesn't move away.

Quatre is quiet except for breathing, and that's slow and calm.

(His eyes are open, though, his head shifted slightly so he can see over Trowa's shoulder. Horse noises don't yet register for him as discountable, though he knows they ought to.)

Eventually, he shifts slightly and reluctantly--just enough so he can meet Trowa's eyes. With a half-smile, he asks "Do you want to sit?"

"Sure."

Hay bales are comfortable.

And sitting allows for easier sightlines than the place they're standing. No one else is here, of course, and they'd hear the door opening, but -- good sightlines, too, are comfortable.

He turns a little towards the bales. And -- without hesitation, but it's still a considered choice -- lets his arm slip more around Quatre's waist instead of moving away.

Quatre isn't, exactly, startled. Surprised, certainly, but that's not the same thing. His smile widens, though, as he glances at Trowa.

After they sit, Quatre unzips his sweater again--it's warmer, in the loft of the stables, than it is outside.

"What have you been doing?" The question is sincerely curious (true), and has no basis in the fact that Quatre likes to listen to Trowa talk (...well, only some).

They're sitting close, but not touching now. Trowa doesn't shrug, but the impression is there.

"Nothing unusual."

Thanks, Trowa.

Because this is Quatre, he does add, "We're packing up tomorrow."

Quatre laughs.

At the tail end of the laugh (but before it's quite done) he leans over to kiss Trowa; it's sideways, light, and quick but he stays close while leaning on his right elbow (set on his knee).

He doesn't say You're weird, and I like you, but it should be pretty clear.

. . . Trowa is kind of bemused.

But not complaining!

"I would have rolled my eyes," Quatre explains, palm up, "but the angle was wrong."

Trowa's lips twitch.

"All right."

You know, since it's efficient. And stuff.

Quatre's watching him from an angle with a soft smile, which is how he notices the specks on Trowa's sleeve. After a moment of confusion, he traces them up to--

Oh, the glitter. Right. (More pertinent: where it's fallen)

He clears his throat, quietly, and glances away and up.

At Trowa's glance: "Don't mind me," he says, faintly. "I was just admiring your jawline."

Oh.

Well. Okay.

(Trowa is not used to thinking of himself in those terms. Only for monitoring a stranger's reactions, to more efficiently manipulate, and that's different; that's not a friend, and there's no personal involvement at all. This is different.)

"I don't mind," he says, just as quietly, after a moment's pause.

It's true. He may be slightly startled, and not quite sure what to say back to that, but he definitely doesn't mind.

"Good to know," he says, honest, with a brief touch to Trowa's hand with his own.

"I really hope you don't mind if I kiss you," he says, trailing his hand up Trowa's sleeve as he turns to look back at him with a half-smile.

Amusement sparks at that, even if you'd have to know Trowa very well to see it.

"No," he says placidly -- responding to this sally, unlike the previous, has become very easy -- and lets his weight shift a little closer.

Quatre knows he didn't need to ask, but there's a certain level of gratification at hearing Trowa's response.

His smile broadens, shifting sideways so that he's facing Trowa on the haybale, left hand lightly gripping Trowa's arm and right resting on Trowa's left leg as he leans in and kisses him.

(It's possible, as the kiss deepens, that his left hand moves to lightly cup Trowa's face, thumb stroking his jaw.)

Quatre is likely to get some glitter on this outfit too.

But he'll probably be okay with that.

Eventually, they'll go back inside. And eventually, they'll head their separate ways, to the farflung colonies of L4 and (currently) L1.

But for right now, the hayloft's a pretty nice place to spend a while.

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