Duo crooks a finger and beckons. "You want to come over?"
"No, I'm good here. I can see." Trowa gestures to the chair he's in, the open space between them. "Front row seat."
"Oh, really?" Duo chokes, and then pushes up from the sofa, muscles in his forearms bunching as he rises, serpentine, amused. "Do I get music?"
"I'm just the audience," Trowa replies, "I'm sorry, music and styling's really more part of your job."
Duo snorts. "You lazy fuck," he says, giving an experimental little groove. "This is really fucking hard without music. And usually I'm drunk. You're getting a one-off special, Barton, I hope you appreciate that."
"Most exclusive show in the world."
"Anyone ever told you that you're fucking ridiculous?"
Throw folds his arms. "No, I'm just 'ridiculous'. You could be fucking ridiculous, but that'll depend on how good this is."
It was not that they had intended to sleep together, it was just boredom and, in part, the weather. Interminable rain. Days of it, ruining the holiday. It makes the trailer a claustrophobic little tin but going out is too much of an effort. Sprawled out full length on the couch, the resources of their four magazines and the deck of 51 cards exhausted, Duo says, as a by the by, “Hey. Do you wanna fuck?”
My notes: This is adorable. PWP, but rather than the desperate-to-fuck scenario, this is two friends coming together in a new configuration and surprising themselve by how much fun it is and how well they fit.