"I was going to choose the white-with-mint, anyway," he admits, glancing over at Trowa.
He finishes pouring the water over the leaves, and capping the pot, before he sets the electric kettle back against the wall and turns to lean against the counter.
"How was the book?" he asks after a moment, raising his left hand slightly to maybe take Trowa's own, but he drops it on the counter halfway through. It feels wrong, given that he didn't accept Trowa's attempt at comfort, to offer it himself.
(And what, he wonders, brief, did he dream about?)
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"I was going to choose the white-with-mint, anyway," he admits, glancing over at Trowa.
He finishes pouring the water over the leaves, and capping the pot, before he sets the electric kettle back against the wall and turns to lean against the counter.
"How was the book?" he asks after a moment, raising his left hand slightly to maybe take Trowa's own, but he drops it on the counter halfway through. It feels wrong, given that he didn't accept Trowa's attempt at comfort, to offer it himself.
(And what, he wonders, brief, did he dream about?)