#1x3x1

“Tea,” he announces as he enters the room, making his presence known. Trowa knows too well how dangerous it would be for him—for both of them—to startle the injured pilot, and he’d rather not risk it. Not with a pistol waiting, conveniently hidden beneath the pillow.

“Thank you,” the pilot replies without looking. He’s faring much better, though his mood remains suboptimal. Sitting at the edge of the bed, he stretches his limbs one at a time, testing his limits. Trowa notices how the bandages on his biceps are already stained crimson, despite the recent dressing. He wants to complain, but he knows how hypocritical that would be.

He sees too much of himself in the pilot who self-detonated his Gundam—so much that every mistake feels like his own.

And that does bother him.

“Drink before it gets cold,” he warns, placing the mug on the bedside table. His own still in hand, he takes a sip. The warmth soothes him from inside out, temporarily lifts an invisible weight from his shoulders.