capeandcowllogs | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Who:

pacifisted
When: 2 February 2011; afternoon
Where: The Glass House
Summary: And then they played music
Warnings: None
Format: Paragraph
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The carved figure had been sitting on the counter since he had started sleeping in the master bedroom again. Tucked under one of his pillows. He had recognized it immediately, the craftsmanship familiar and the person it had been carved to represent even more so.

It had been placed on the table in the living room shortly before Trowa had said he was going to arrive. He would want it back and Quatre wouldn't consider letting himself keep it, even if he knew its placement had been intentional.

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Trowa stared at the door to the house, flute case tucked under his arm, trying to think of how many months had passed since he had last been there. Was he really going to be welcome? It had taken him too long to figure out what had upset Quatre the next to last time they'd spoken--he'd tried to apologize, then, but something about it had set the other off even more.

Still, there were only a handful of people who knew enough to really understand--had been down darker roads--and he could only be around those handful of people for any heavy length of time without wanting to withdraw into himself.

Quatre, Hiruma, Abby, Wufei, Jaime... they got it.

There were a couple of others he considered good friends, who maybe knew more than most. He trusted them, to some degree. But they'd proven that they could rarely read beyond the faces he wore for them.

He knocked, adjusted the case again, and waited.

Edited 2011-02-03 18:38 (UTC)

He came down the stairs immediately when Trowa knocked, reaching to open the door without hesitating, the movement natural.

"Trowa."

The smile he gave was genuine, nearly relaxed, the expected surge of emotions not rising up in the brunet's presence and making the words feel awkward and painful. It was relieving, but depressing all the same, bringing him right back to being unsure of how to act at all.

He stepped back to let Trowa inside.

"Hey, Quatre."

His own greeting was exactly measured, the way it usually was for people he rarely spoke to, with only just enough inflection thrown into the words to give off the impression that they were suitably cordial. He couldn't be sure of his steps at that moment, after all, so it stood to reason that he should play at kindness and receive nothing from someone who would know it for a little white lie than to completely mean it and have it thrown back in his face.

After waiting just long enough to see that the blond was not stepping back to clear enough space to shut the door on him, then giving him a second and a half longer just in case, Trowa slowly crossed over the threshold and into the house, nodding once.

"You're sure this is fine?"

He wasn't stupid. He'd caught numerous trails of Bakura's scent leading up to the house as he'd padded through the woods (one spare form, thankfully, being far more suited for cold weather than his own), all of them recent. Trowa had known for ages, and had no intention whatsoever of being around if the white-haired--well, blond, temporarily--young man was going to come walking out of a room with nothing more than a sheet wrapped around his waist. Other people's personal lives were their business, and he didn't want to be exposed to more of that than was necessary, being the sort who liked to see to it that they kept their noses out of his own in turn.

Quatre recognized the brunet's tone for exactly what it was, but he lets the nagging annoyance go. Whatever was causing Trowa to behave that way wasn't something he intended to ask.

Just as he closed the door, Leo arrived to investigate, nails clicking across the tile. She sniffed curiously at Trowa's jeans in greeting, tail wagging slowly. It's the least friendly greeting he had ever seen her give. Had it really been long enough for her to regard him more as a stranger than an owner?

"Why wouldn't it be?," he asked, walking around him and toward the kitchen.

He could name several reasons why, but with the amount of time since he'd been offered the chance to play with Trowa, he would happily ignore them. Music one of the best ways he knew to connect to people, even when he couldn't find any other way to do so.

As for Trowa's concern about Bakura, they were unnecessary. Quatre wouldn't put him into such a position and the white-haired teenager hadn't been over in nearly a week anyway, Quatre too busy trying to prepare for his audition at the end of the month to spend time with very many people.

Trowa knelt just long enough to hold his hand out for Leo and gently, but playfully, ruffle the fur over her shoulders, his face hidden from view both by the angle and his hair as Quatre headed into the other room. He followed it up with a soft "Hello, there," and a quick scratch under her chin before getting back to his feet, dusting his knees off, and trailing after his host.

There was no way that he could have known about the audition, as far out of the loop as he was, and avoiding the subject of his old friend as much as had happened to become habit. While he could remember that Quatre had, to some degree, relieved himself of his duties to Winner Corp, that was the last big thing he'd heard about.

It still felt as though he ought to try for some sort of conversation before they started, and so he put himself in the extremely rare position of being the one to try and fill an empty silence.

"She's pretty big now."

Valiant effort, or not, attempting to talk that way was uncomfortable and made him come close to turning and walking back out before the stupid, thick tongue that was his own could make a nuisance of itself and tangle around the words of 'easy' and 'normal' conversation that others never seemed to have a problem with but which always seemed to trip him up. Small chats had never been his forte, and they were probably not going to start filling the position any time soon.

"Leo, I mean. So it's probably hard to keep up with her."

Oh, sure. Accuse someone of being unable to care for their pet; that's a great way to start off rebuilding a burned bridge. There's no way that can be taken wrong.

Seeming to fold in on himself a bit as he tried to backpedal, the brunet added, "Not... that you... can't," before trailing off completely and coming to the conclusion that a hasty cancellation of the practice might be in order to save himself from the humiliation of simply getting thrown out.

Quatre had been in the process of opening one of the cabinets and about to ask if Trowa wanted something to drink when the brunet had started speaking. It was obvious from the way he was wording himself that he was attempting to make conversation. Very basic, polite conversation. He was more puzzled by it than anything, setting a single glass onto the counter and looking over at him.

It was subtle, but the effort to say something had clearly embarrassed him in some way. There was no blush, but it wasn't like Trowa to hesitate when he spoke or deflate so easily mid-sentence.

"Having the ground helps. She likes running. I'm going to take her to the beach once it warms up," he said, not nearly as awkward, though still struggling to think of what to say. "Do you want anything to drink? I can make coffee if you don't want tea."

Trowa's attempts at politeness may have been in words, but Quatre's were in his action, falling back into the habit of offering a guest something to drink before anything else. At the very least, it gave him something to concentrate on instead of worrying about how badly this might go.

Trowa shook his head once, denying the offer for coffee.

"Tea is fine."

He wasn't going to put Quatre through extra work for something so ridiculous, and anyway, he hadn't had tea in a long time. Not since October, really, with all of maybe two exceptions, and he had slowly grown to like it while he'd been with the blond. Tea would actually be better than fine; it would be nice.

"She should like that."

What else could he say? That he wanted to see the beach too? That he missed playing with Leo? That he didn't know Quatre could swim? None of that was appropriate.

Trowa just sort of stared at the cabinets instead, silent.

Trowa might not consider it appropriate, but Quatre would have loved to hear any of that over the silence as he pulls down the kettle to fill it in the sink. He nods at the statement about the dog, glancing over to see her lying on the floor in the open space between the kitchen and living room, watching the two of them quietly.

Placing the kettle onto the stove, he turns it on.

"Aries?"

"He's all right."

It doesn't really occur to him that he should add more than that until a little time rolls by in silence, at which point he decides that it's impossible to make a decent sort of talk out of so little information.

"He... steals keys," Trowa admitted, quietly. "I have a pile of them. Don't know who they belong to." And then, a little hasty in his effort to clarify so Quatre wouldn't think he'd trained the rat to only be horrible. "He does other things, too. Plays basketball, now."

...Maybe he should just shut up.

Quatre stays quiet, waiting for Trowa to either tell him more about how Aries is doing or until enough time has passed for him to be the one having to force the conversation to continue. He's a little relieved and surprised when Trowa seems to catch on that there might be more he could add.

The stolen keys and basketball does actually get his attention a little more than anything most other people would have to say about their pets.

"Have you asked any of the tenants in the building?" he asked.

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