Lover's Day: Comfortable Romance
4+3 GW Sap for Fablespinner's Contest
by: Yuuki Miyaka
Part Three - Konbanwa

I will freely admit that I am grateful that we are able to sit on the roof. The sunsets we're able to see from there are . . . breathtaking. Unfortunately, it's very rare that we are able to do it together, and so it's rare that I do it at all. It just doesn't feel right unless Quatre is cuddled in my arms, his slender frame warm against mine. There is nothing more wonderful than hearing his breath as the sky is awash with vibrant, glowing colors. Sometimes, it even moves me to tears.

We round out the day doing just that. He is curled in my arms, holding one of the two wine-glasses we have. The other is on the roof in front of my feet, easily accessible to my aqua-eyed love. We don't speak for most of the sunset, instead remaining silent and enjoying the beauty that is nature. When we fought in the war, I always feared that something would happen and we'd never get the chance to live out this dream.

But here we are, alive and warm and happily in love. And happy we are indeed. I can see it in his smile, in his eyes. I can feel it in the way his breath slows and evens while he's in my arms. It's more than simple want, more than intense need. It's absolute trust, and that is something that I never expected to have OR feel. If I knew who to thank for such a gift, I would fall on my knees in gratitude. But all I can do is protect that trust with my entire being.

He's fully asleep when the sun is down, and I carry him down to the couch in the living room, setting him in it and pulling the blanket over so that I can go make dinner for us. I will rouse him when I've finished. Dinner is simple, falafel and shish taouk with shaurbat adas. I laugh every time I try to pronounce the words that Quatre taught me. Deep fried fava beans and chicken kebabs with lentil soup. The Arabian names sound so much more romantic to me, though, which is why I learned how to say them. He's been teaching me a lot of his language.

Since I'd marinated the shish taouk previous to the meal, it took only an hour to prepare and cook everything, and I carried the steaming dishes into the living room, setting the tray on the coffee table before waking my sleeping angel. He was slow to waken, dark lashes sweeping open lazily and revealing eyes that matched the place in the horizon where sky meets sea. They are each a beautiful green-blue color that becomes a shining jewel when he smiles up at me. I hear his melodious voice wishing me good morning, and I have to laugh at that.

"It's night, Quatre. Dinner's ready." His smile widens warmly, and he pushes himself into a sitting position, looking over at the tray. In delight, he says the names of the dishes, names I can barely manage not to mangle. The way he says them, they become poetry, lovely and exotic. He reaches out, snagging a piece of chicken and bringing it to my lips with bare fingers. I am certainly grateful that they have cooled enought to allow him to do so. As I eat, the fingers brush over my lips familiarly. The sensation tickles, and I pull away from him, mock-glaring as I try to wipe away the spider tendrils that still tickle me.

"I love that," he laughs brightly, and I chuckle as well. I'm well familiar with the joy he derives from tickling me. It is fun for me as well. Anything to feel his touch.

But rather than tell him that, I merely say, "Eat your supper." He nods, doing as I ask.

"It was a beautiful sunset tonight, wasn't it, Trowa?"

I nod. Beautiful because he was with me. Beautiful because we are alive and together. Beautiful because the world is finally peaceful now. Everything I know makes it beautiful, makes our lives beautiful.

He lapses into silence, but it is comfortable, not awkward. We both eat calmly, eyes watching each other as much as our meals. When the meal is done, he rises, taking the dishes to the kitchen before returning and tugging me to my feet. I follow, curious as to what he wants.

We stop on the roof outside, and he hands me a small box. I raise an eyebrow, looking at him in question. His only answer, though, is "Happy Lover's Day." I admit surprise. He found time in his busy schedule to remember me? The surprise must show on my face, because he covers one hand with his, laughing and kissing me. "Silly Trowa. I always think of you."

I cannot remember when he started doing that, started reading my mind. I suspect he's always known how, though, and just didn't show it immediately. It would explain the instant connection I felt with him. I open the box, and then have to find a seat because my legs have turned to instant jelly. The gift is so like him, so completely trusting that for a moment, even had I been a man of many words, I would be unable to speak. It is . . . his journal.

"Are you certain?" I ask hesitantly. I've always respected his privacy about the leatherbound books he writes in each night. I've never pried. I've never felt the inclination to, to be perfectly honest. I think I mentioned the reason earlier. Absolute trust.

"Of course, Trowa. Most of it's about you anyway. And . . . I wanted to share with you."

It always comes back to that, to sharing. We're not two people anymore. We're one person with two physical beings. Everything gets shared, in the end. Even souls. I nod, then reach out, pulling him into my arms as I start to read. The sentimental thoughts, sappy-sweet and blatant in their love for me, bring a smile to my lips. It is the perfect end to a perfect day, I muse, as I turn the page. My Quatre has given me the perfect gift. Himself.