Heavy rain drove against the tin roof, drowning out the sound of anything else. The thunder melded with the roar of the water. The two boys lay upon their sleeping bags, within the ring of light cast by the kerosene lantern. Their clothes hung on an improvised clothesline along one of the cabin's walls.
Trowa's hair was slicked against his skull, his entire, beautiful face bared to Quatre's scrutiny. Quatre wished it were cold so he'd have an excuse to touch and hold Trowa, but the chill from their earlier soaking had vanished quickly in the small, warm space of the cabin.
It took Quatre a while to realise Trowa was studying his face as much as he was studying Trowa's. Quatre glanced away in embarrassment. "Sorry," he said and felt the heat of the blood rushing to his cheeks.
"Don't be," Trowa said, and his lips curved into a vague smile. That smile was enough to spread Quatre's flush. The heat scattered across his skin.
"You look cold," Trowa said, and reached across the space between them to run his fingertips down Quatre's forearm. It made Quatre shiver, but not with cold. "You have goosebumps," Trowa observed smoothing his palm back up Quatre's arm. Quatre shivered more.
Trowa kept smiling and moving his hand: up and down, up and down. The shivers subsided into warmth, and yet, Trowa didn't stop. Quatre let his eyelids droop into relaxation: the warmth of Trowa's touch was soothing; the drumming of the rain, soothing; the gold lantern light, soothing. Then, Trowa's warmth came closer, and Trowa's breath, closer, until Quatre was parting his lips against Trowa's and breathing Trowa's breath, warm. And the rain kept falling.