Trowa lay in bed not sleeping. It was usual for him, not to sleep at this hour. These small hours of the morning haunted him, summoning forth every anxiety of which he might conceive and painting them in vivid colours upon the eye of his mind. Instead of sleeping, he watched Quatre, who did sleep, breathing peacefully beside him.
The penthouse was high enough placed that curtains were neither present nor necessary. The wan, yellow light of the city dusted the bedroom, the bed, and its occupants. Trowa reached out to touch Quatre lightly. He did not wish to wake his bedmate. He wished only for the consolation of touch. Come daylight, Quatre would waken and smile and all the fears of the nighttime would vanish. They always did, but for now those fears were predatory and hungry, and in the stillness and isolation of the hour, Trowa was vulnerable.
So he touched Quatre, to remind himself of Quatre's presence, reality, and vitality. He touched softly the contours of Quatre's bare chest, wandered his fingertips along Quatre's throat, jaw, cheek, hair. His lips pressed a kiss to Quatre's skin, soft upon his ribs, and softer still to glance the areola of a nipple. And he tasted to remember as well. He swept the tip of his tongue, light as a breeze, over the flesh hardening beneath his lips. Quatre shifted in his sleep beneath Trowa's mouth, sighing, perhaps in dreamed of pleasure. Trowa retreated, so as not to rouse Quatre more, and he waited for the morning.