by Raletha
Inspired by the 'rhythm' challenge on the livejournal community, gw500. Set 2 nights after the end of Destiny.
Trowa had given up trying to sleep. He knew the source of his insomnia, understood it was nothing he could change, but realisation of cause and its subsequent, accompanying resignation weren't enough to let sleep take him that night.
His bedmate lay still and quiet, a shadowy lump just a few feet away in the hotel bed. Enough light from outdoors filtered through the heavy drapes to illuminate tufts of pale hair sprouting from under the top of the duvet. Quatre seemed to be sleeping peacefully enough.
And in the stillness Trowa felt the flickering.
It was a new thing, and barely perceptible—maybe even a hallucination—like a song heard even though it played only in one's imagination. He could feel Quatre's sleeping, almost hear the rhythm of his dreams. Little flashes of feeling or sense memory interwove with the external cadence of Quatre's breathing.
It was so faint though. Trowa strained unpracticed and intangible senses to attend to it. It reminded him of trying to tune an old style radio, and he needed to do something to improve his reception. Physical contact was like an antenna for Quatre. It might work in both directions.
Trowa shifted beneath the covers, gingerly scooting closer to Quatre and shrugging the covers from his shoulders. He lay close enough to rest his head on the same pillow as Quatre and to smell Quatre's shampoo—but not so close their bodies touched. Even so, body heat mingled, and Trowa's heart sprinted for a moment. He calmed himself by matching Quatre's even inhalations and exhalations and counting his breaths in threes. When he felt relaxed enough, he lightly placed his fingertips against his friend's back.
The flicker grew brighter, dancing like a candle flame caught by a draft. Trowa flattened his hand, laying his palm and fingers against Quatre back, warm beneath the thin layer of satin. The flicker steadied significantly and seemed to solidify and grow.
After a short time, Trowa sensed that whatever it was, it had oriented toward him.
"Trowa?" mumbled Quatre.
Then it fragmented. Trowa removed his hand.
"What're you doing?" Quatre asked. Without allowing Trowa time to answer, Quatre squirmed and rolled over to face him.
The puff of air accompanying Quatre's movement wafted over Trowa, smelling of sweet spice and sunshine, grapefruit and honeysuckle.
They were too close, their faces just inches apart, and he needed to reply to Quatre. "I'm not sure," he answered, but didn't manage to move.
"I was dreaming, and then I felt you...in my dream. There was an echo."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."
But when Trowa tried to roll away, Quatre grabbed his hand.
A jolt of discord rushed Trowa, blotting out his awareness of both his surroundings and his own thoughts. When he returned to himself, he was breathing heavily. Quatre still gripped his hand.
"It's okay," said Quatre. "I mean I think it is. Are you all right?"
"I don't know." His throat felt too thick for speech; the words sounded sluggish to his own ears. And they were closer now.
"I've felt echoes from you before, it's like looking at polished glass, I can see through it, into you, or I can see my own reflection," Quatre spoke earnestly and tightened his grip on Trowa's hand.
Trowa thought about breathing, and Quatre shifted closer again. With greater proximity came greater compulsion. Trowa frowned and closed his eyes. His limbs seemed paralysed, so it was the only thing he could do to establish some distance between his rational brain and his baser feelings. He didn't like the way fear tracked his desires, or the way it was so hard to think around them.
"You feel something too, don't you," continued Quatre. Trowa felt the words drift across his lips, and Quatre's thumb stroked the back of his hand.
And Quatre—or at least some kind of echo or reflection or whatever—roared in his mind, pulled and pushed at him, threatened to overtake...something. Trowa felt an animal panic rising within him. This was too close—far too close.
"Trowa?"
He jerked his hand free and rolled away, back to his own pillow, and lay there blinking up at the gloom of the ceiling. Roaring flames dwindled back to a flicker—discordant again with alien feelings he couldn't—didn't know how to—name.
Quatre didn't say anything for a long time, and Trowa couldn't think of the right words to put to their strange exchange. He heard Quatre sigh and move beneath the covers, further away judging by the retreating warmth.
"It's okay to be scared," Quatre said at last. His voice sounded muffled. "You told me that."
So easy it would be to move closer again in comfort—to reaffirm this friendship that was more than friendship—this friendship that kept sleep at bay. But the reassurance wouldn't be real, nor would it fool either of them.
"I'm not scared of you," Trowa said.
A soft chuckle came from Quatre's direction, but there was little humour in it. "I know."
the end