Quatre was used to being in control of himself and since being disinherited, used to living his life as he saw fit. Here, there was no exception. He would have fought Trowa's point about home, and very nearly did, making a protesting sound, ready to say that after the war - after there was peace - but caught himself, the memory surfacing as quickly as he tried to forget it.
His fist uncurled, flattening unconsciously over the thick jacket protecting his stomach, and the scar beneath it. That would have been a lie. There would be no after the war for him, even if there was peace. None of this mattered because once he returned home, there would be nothing.
"If here is all we have, then why can't we?" he asked finally.
He turned so that he and Trowa were sitting side-by-side, mimicking Trowa's position without really realizing that he had before his hands dropped into his lap, boots scrapping across the shingles and snow hollowly as he straightened his legs.
"Why can't we have this here if there's nothing for us together when we go home?" he could hear the childish demand in the question as he asked it, the whine that edged too close to tears, that he knew Trowa would be more than capable of hearing.
For a single, blinding moment when he considered just how close he was to losing one of the only people he had completely opened himself up to, the emotional build up was too much, picking up the stray thoughts of the inhabitants of the houses around them. He ignored it, pushed it away, and the glare, not directed at his own hands, seemed to get worse.
There was another question, more childish than the one he had already asked. What had he done wrong? But, he didn't say anything else, just waited in silence for Trowa to speak, the anger still ready to surface, to defend, and keep what he had already fought to gain.
I could have done a better job is all I'm sayin'
His fist uncurled, flattening unconsciously over the thick jacket protecting his stomach, and the scar beneath it. That would have been a lie. There would be no after the war for him, even if there was peace. None of this mattered because once he returned home, there would be nothing.
"If here is all we have, then why can't we?" he asked finally.
He turned so that he and Trowa were sitting side-by-side, mimicking Trowa's position without really realizing that he had before his hands dropped into his lap, boots scrapping across the shingles and snow hollowly as he straightened his legs.
"Why can't we have this here if there's nothing for us together when we go home?" he could hear the childish demand in the question as he asked it, the whine that edged too close to tears, that he knew Trowa would be more than capable of hearing.
For a single, blinding moment when he considered just how close he was to losing one of the only people he had completely opened himself up to, the emotional build up was too much, picking up the stray thoughts of the inhabitants of the houses around them. He ignored it, pushed it away, and the glare, not directed at his own hands, seemed to get worse.
There was another question, more childish than the one he had already asked. What had he done wrong? But, he didn't say anything else, just waited in silence for Trowa to speak, the anger still ready to surface, to defend, and keep what he had already fought to gain.