#3x4x3

“Trowa—” Quatre begins, the soft flame of a candle flickering across his gentle features. Aside from Trowa’s desk lamp, much more sterile in comparison, it is the only source of light in the dim room. “We fought a war. We won. I thought I lost you forever, and I now have you back at an arm’s reach. I am—we are allowed to romanticize our lives as much as we want. And if that means choosing to watch you work over sleeping, I will do that. A thousand times.”

Trowa frowns—not because he disagrees with Quatre, but because he knows it’s useless to go against him. Conviction makes Quatre painfully stubborn, and Trowa has learned to pick his battles.

“What are you reading?” he asks instead, propping an elbow on the desk to support his chin.

“A poetry book—Wufei recommended it to me,” Quatre replies, flipping the old book he had abandoned on his lap to check the back cover. “From the early After Colony years, when humanity wasn’t sure of its next steps.”

“Is humanity ever sure of its next steps?” Trowa remarks, a soft smirk tugging at his lips as he raises an eyebrow. He forgets the documents that dangle loosely in his hand, or pretends to—only for a moment. “Didn’t take Wufei to be a poetry guy.”

“You’d be surprised,” Quatre notes as he stretches his arms above his head. “He has quite a collection—old classics and recent bestsellers alike. Give him a theme and he’ll pick something for you.”

Trowa shakes his head and absently tightens his grip on tonight’s paperwork. “No need to bother him,” he thinks out loud as he brings himself to the present.