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It was strange, really, how sometimes the most ordinary moments could bring about the most extraordinary turn of events. Hastings was just handing Poirot the newspaper, their hands brushing together, when suddenly various half-remembered titbits sprang to his mind and rearranged themselves into one clear image. The way Poirot so often lingered when he straightened Hastings tie or brushed away a speck of invisible dust. The way his green eyes sometimes rested upon him with an intense glint, even when Hastings did not feel like he had done anything especially smart or interesting. The way their lives just fitted together in these private hours without much need for anyone else.Poirot arched an eyebrow at him and Hastings realised that their fingers were still touching over the paper. The contact was warm and comfortable, yet at the same time it sparked a familiar tingle that Hastings could no longer ignore. He tugged experimentally and Poirot followed easily, stepping closer until they were mere inches apart. The newspaper fell away and with it any last shred of deniability as their fingers intertwined.There was that green glint again, looking up at Hastings, and a shaky breath that mirrored his own. Hastings raised his free hand and let it rest upon Poirot's shoulder, relishing the feel of Poirot's small, sturdy body beneath the cool fabric of his waistcoat. "Poirot..." he murmured, a question maybe, except that there were no more words, and so when Poirot made no attempt to move away, Hastings steadied them both and dipped his head.Poirot's moustache tickled oddly, but his mouth was soft and yielding. Gently, ever so gently their lips explored each other, touched and caressed. Hastings was in no hurry now that he knew they both wanted this, and neither, it seemed, was Poirot. The kiss was a warm welcome, fulfilling a longing that Hastings had not known he possessed, and not wanting to miss a single bit of this new-found intimacy, he pulled Poirot closer still.When they finally broke apart, Hastings could taste the promise of more to come. He blinked, not quite caught up with reality yet and unable to tear his gaze away from Poirot's mouth. "I'm afraid I upset your moustache," was all he could say."Ah," Poirot replied gravely, "a man, he must make sacrifices."From the way he was beaming at Hastings, however, it did not look as if he minded this particular sacrifice, so Hastings leaned in for another kiss.