Disclaimer: Standards apply. not much else t'say.
Quatre laughed, but it was only a bird taking an abrupt leave of its perch in a tall Japanese maple tree. Trowa's eyes barely flickered towards the sound. He kept walking.
Earth astounded him in a way. He had lived in the same place for over a year now, and yet every night, the sky was different. The weather was always different, and things in the heart of the town were always changing.
Peace was a nice lifestyle. It gave him the opportunity to explore things. He had gotten skillful with clay, and often had pieces on exhibit in the local art gallery. He had found a kind of dutiful passion repairing old cars. Old, old cars. His current life's pursuit was a long-gone car called a Buick. It was huge, economically disastrous with gasoline prices. Old, rusted blue and lacking tires. But it kept him occupied. It would have made him happy, if he hadn't already experienced genuine happiness. And, of course, lost it again.
It had been over a year, part of him reasoned. And it had been barely twice as long a time he had known him anyhow. Trowa's hair waved a little, out of his eyes, with the breeze. He kept his hands in his jean pockets and his eyes aimed down, watching the waving blades of vibrant green grass in front of him. The hill he padded across sloped gently downward towards the road that lead out past the county line and into the nearest big town. The town held the grocery store, the mechanics shop he worked in, and the small but comfortable apartments in The Brick Building. Trowa went in the back way.
The downstairs was a community kitchen. When he had first arrived, Trowa had found himself, every once in a while, feeling pangs of sudden sadness, or guilt, or intense want. Loneliness. Something about the established charm and affection of the old boarding house made him feel acutely alone, and it was in the kitchen he felt that way most often.
He knew why. The morning and mid afternoon sunlight always poured through the windows. Hit the window seat and spilled across the hardwood floor. Bounced off the few kitchen appliances that sat out on the counters, and cast shadows by splashing over the knicked and worn kitchen table. It was a simple, beautiful table.
And the whole scene reminded him a great deal of his friend, and the few mornings they spent together with no worry or responsibility or war. Trowa cherished those few mornings, had savored each one with his silent undaunting apathy. But you smiled, he thought. Yes, a few times your really smiled.
Trowa stopped at the doorway out to the front hall and foyer, and turned, to look back. He felt that sharp sensation in his chest again. Blond over blue. He missed it. Missed him. The word love started to form without definite shape in his mind, but sort of dissipated. . .watered away into a vague feeling of loss. He had said goodbye to what he saw in the window every afternoon, wishing he could say it to the real thing instead of the apparition. But every day it was there again. The green of his eyes went from their usual muted forest hue to a striking shade darker. And he turned and walked up to his room.
Quatre looked up from the window seat and smiled, but it was only the faded sunlight glancing in off the window pane.
