They'd eaten at their favourite Indonesian restaurant that night. Trowa loved satay. Then they'd gone to a movie, an action film that made Quatre's pulse pound. But his pounding pulse may have been a result of his hand brushing Trowa's when they both reached for popcorn.
After the movie they'd walked along the river, close enough their shoulders bumped occasionally. If Trowa's hands hadn't been in his pockets, Quatre thought he might've taken one in his own. They walked through the old part of town, past Victorian townhouses and the deep green scent of their gardens, past gothic stonework sharply etched by sodium street lamps.
When they finally reached Trowa's building, Quatre dared the conclusion he'd wanted for so many of these evenings: dinners, movies, walks, and at last-
He kissed Trowa; Trowa kissed him, and the taste of peanut butter and popcorn would thereafter taste like their first kiss.