"Why are you still awake?" Quatre's sleepy voice fills the living room, where Trowa is calmly seated, a book in hand. It's open, but he's not reading. He can't focus. He can never focus very well anymore. "Why do you have your gun out?" Trowa shrugs. "We're safe."
Safe isn't much of a word to Trowa, and he's sure the others feel the same. It's hard to feel at home or at rest, and it's hard to get rid of the noise in the back of his mind. It plays on repeat. The face of a dirty faced, crying child or the scattered bodies of men who gave up their lives for ideologies.
He doesn't know when he stopped feeling at ease, or if he's ever felt that way at all. His earliest memories are being on the battlefield, and in the faint distance, if he tries very hard, he's sure he can see a woman smiling down at him. Whether he's fabricated this as a way to cope, Trowa doesn't know, but it comforts him so he goes with it.
Even in times of peace, he's dragged back and that's when he feels like someone's cold fingers are wrapped around his throat, fingers pushing deftly into his throat and cutting off his air. His heart quickens, and he's not there, but he's there. Sometimes it's a noise that brings him back, a loud, thunderous noise akin to bombs or it's a touch, and Trowa never remembers when he returns to the now. Even the rain, that was once calming and soothing now feels like hell. After the first few instances, Trowa had finally opted to just go live with Quatre for awhile in the desert.
He just said that he was taking a break, and was visiting everyone. Trowa doesn't like to worry anyone, and Quatre would just go into a fit of self-loathing and misplaced guilt if he actually told Quatre the truth.
After a moment, Trowa sits up straighter as Quatre just stands there, imploring blue eyes still on him.
"Couldn't sleep." He finally answers. "Decided to read."
Quatre licks his lips and runs a hand through his messy blond hair, and sighs. "Okay. I'm going back to bed," He hovers for a moment, eyes still on Trowa. "Wake me if you need anything." And he disappears down the hall, footsteps quiet and calculated. The door never closes all the way, and Trowa can see a stream of light in the darkened hallway.
He closes the book he's not even reading, and stands up, taking a few strides and hesitates. He harbors no feelings towards Quatre, except maybe a brotherliness, some sort of bond a soldier can only get with his comrades. Comfort isn't his forte, asking for help isn't his thing but the heavens forbid Quatre be sad.
Trowa flicks off the light when he enters Quatre's absurdly clean room, and there's a rustling of covers and he's awkwardly laying in bed next to his friend. He stares at the ceiling, tired but unable to sleep, pulse racing and mind askew.
Quatre's hand seeks out his, after a moment and their fingers intertwine. They're like school children, holding hands for comfort, a forever promise.
Trowa opens his mouth to say something, but Quatre speaks first, grip tightening for a moment. "I know," he whispers, and swallows. "I know."
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