by Raletha
PG : post-canon, drama, WAFF : 6x3x6
Often they lapsed into uncomfortable silences, when the only things that came to mind to talk about were their lives on Earth and the War. Since neither wanted to talk about the past, and each knew the other didn't either, they endured those uncomfortable silences with sympathetic camaraderie.
One such time, Zechs and Trowa were sharing the beer Quatre had sent Trowa in his most recent care package. Every three months, there'd be a parcel for Trowa from Quatre containing two dozen bottles of his favourite German beer, ten pounds of coffee beans, a long handwritten letter, and some other item, usually a surprise. This time the surprise had been an antique copy of Shakespeare's tragedies.
Zechs sat on Trowa's narrow couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table, with the leather bound volume in his lap. In the silence, he returned to thumbing through it. Zechs' beer was nearly empty, Trowa noticed, and so was his. He finished his off with a swallow and got up to retrieve two fresh bottles from the fridge. "I'll be gone for the next three weeks," Trowa said. Work on the polar pipeline had gone far enough from the main domes that the excursions required temporary camps, and the workers' shifts were now weeks instead of days.
The book thumped shut. "That means I'll have to partner with Collins on Bridge night."
"Sorry," Trowa said, smiled faintly, and handed Zechs the new beer.
"Maybe I should see if they need another pilot and come with you?" Zechs said and set the beer on the table. Then he stretched. His t-shirt climbed up to reveal his smoothly muscled stomach and the hollow of his navel.
Trowa twisted off the cap of his beer and took a long swallow. "Why?"
Zechs half grinned. "I think I might actually miss you."
"Yeah?" Trowa let his answering smile broaden into something that felt almost suggestive.
"Yeah," said Zechs and stood. "The thing is..." He took a few steps over to where Trowa was leaning back against the counter by the sink.
Trowa took another swig from his beer as he watched Zechs approach him. Feigning nonchalance, he nevertheless tightened the grip of his other hand against the edge of the countertop. Trowa had been pretty sure he was the only gay man on Mars. But recently, the friendship with Zechs had been charged with something. There'd been more moments like this one, when they held each other's gaze or widening smile a little bit longer than necessary. And they both seemed to enjoy the lingering.
Trowa wiped his lips on the back of his hand, and then he dropped it to his side, tapping the neck of his beer bottle against his thigh. "What's the thing?"
"Hmm," said Zechs. "The thing is..." his gaze fell as he reached a hand to the waistband of Trowa's jeans, let his palm fold warm over Trowa's hipbone.
Trowa didn't flinch away from the movement into his personal space.
"The thing is this," Zechs finished. He tilted his head, angling his jaw to Trowa's and pressed their mouths together: a dry, soft kiss. "That's the thing," he said.
the end
