Gundam Wing does not belong to me and I make no profit off of this story. Now, with that out of the way, this is a FRIENDSHIP fic. If you want to interpret it differently, that's up to you. As the author however, I didn't intend anything other than friendship.
Trowa is not silent at night.
He screams in his sleep. Sometimes it wakes him and he lies there, not remembering what woke him but knowing that he would prefer not to remember. Not to know why the sweat is cooling on his skin.
He remembers when he wanted to know everything about himself. When he wanted to know why four strange young men knew him and wanted him to return to them. When he wanted to know why the look in their eyes seemed so familiar or why the news casts made him so upset and edgy. Now he knows better. There are things that are better forgotten.
It's hardest when he whimpers. When what is strong is not. Sleep does that to people. It is here that the emotions and memories that he denies come out to parade before his captive mind once again. When he sees the large spreading branches of trees rise up to the sky, shadowing blonde hair. The blood and twisted machinery around him. He can fix machinery in the day. He never can in his dreams.
He can't fix people in his dreams either. Can't take bullets out and make them breathe again. Can't say he's sorry. He can only watch again and again.
Often he dreams of fire. He hates fire. It is a memory he knows, something that hovers inside the dark and shadowy parts of his brain, something so long ago that he doesn't know what it means except that it scares him and he feels small beside it. That is a dream he often remembers although he doesn't know what it means.
But there is much the former Nanashi doesn't know.
He doesn't know Quatre hears him, that the blonde boy has strange dreams of people he's never met, of places he's never been.
He wakes, listening carefully. He knows his dreams have not woken him this time, although he knows he has been dreaming.
He can hear soft footsteps across the rug and then the shadowy form of his fellow pilot is kneeling at his bedside. A hand reaches over and brushes off a stray tear that should not be visible in the dark. Trowa does not shy away, does not question.
"Tell me."
Trowa reaches for Quatre's hand and holds it near the edge of the bed. It is cool, much cooler than the heat of his own hands. "We all have dreams. Mine are blood and death and fire."
"I know."
Something he didn't know was there loosens inside him. "I'm glad you know." He says. He never thought that would be true but it is.
"Stay with me." He asks.
"Yes." The bed dips as the smaller boy climbs up and arranges himself behind Trowa. He puts one arm firmly around the Heavyarms pilot, letting him absorb the feeling of another living breathing person.
They do not speak any more. Silence falls over them, comforting and warm. The sound of their breathing is rhythmetic and soft.
And Trowa dreams of a rainstorm that washes away his fire.
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