Trowa tightened the chord of his duffle bag and tossed it over his shoulder. It was high time to leave, all things considered. The blond kid's kindness had been a welcome break, but last night hadn't made Trowa feel less uneasy about staying; quite the contrary. The desert mansion might be lavish, and the underground facilities were quite impressive - but the walls were thin. Much too thin. Especially when you put your ear to them.
That's what Trowa had done last night. His guest quarters were right next to the room his host was using, and both their beds were pushed up against the same wall. Trowa had had trouble sleeping, and noticed the muffled voice and the sounds of the shuffles and turns of a dormant person. Curious, he'd put his ear to the wall to listen. The blond kid was talking in his sleep. At first, Trowa had thought the mutterings were but the randomness of dreams. Then he had listened.
"Mmmph-Couldn't hurt another Gundam pilot..." He heard the body roll over, voice crushed against a pillow. Another turn, a giggle. "Mmm-damn gorgeous Gundam pilot..." Again, Trowa heard the body shift. There were more words; sweet, almost random ones - but those, Trowa barely registered.
He blew a stray hair back up in his bang. Yep, he had definitely stayed here too long. If the blond had an ulterior motive, he wouldn't stay here to find out. Trowa didn't think that was the case, though. Something about the kid just shone of honesty, leadership and dedication, and it reflected in the behavior of his entourage. They weren't merely mercenaries, as Trowa had first guessed. The relationship appeared much more complex.
As he climbed out the window - not wanting to use the door, as he was sure to be noticed - the words echoed in his mind, as well as implications and interpretations of it. Trowa admitted to himself he found the blond attractive - his own preferences were not an issue; his experiences, or lack thereof, were. There had always been one battle or another to fight - like now. If his guess was right, the blond liked him, too - but what could they possibly do about it?
He knew he was fleeing - it wasn't that he was afraid to love or be loved; it was the timing that was off. War isn't the time for such things; right now he had to make war instead. He reached the ground, and hurried to the trailer.
Then the kid was in the window, shouting after him. Trowa bit his lip, unable to ignore the call. They talked. He got a name, gave one back.
Quatre... Trowa shrugged as he got in the truck. The name had a nice ring to it, he decided. There was something about Quatre's words - his tone of voice - that mirrored the sleepy mumbling. Maybe there was something there. Trowa smiled serenely to himself. Maybe, if they both survived... Maybe, if Quatre truly felt that way... Just maybe.
Trowa decided he would hang on to that, draw hope from it. Up until that moment, he had lived each day as if it was the last, the potential sudden end not a case for concern. Now, he wanted to live; hope was something to live for, despite how it was but a faint whisper of light in a long, dark night.