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Summary
“Trowa, I don’t know why, but I have a terrible feeling about tomorrow. And I’m just hoping I’m wrong about it.”
“What feeling?”
“I don’t know,” Quatre says softly. “I don’t always know why I feel these things. The reasons aren’t clear. It’s just… it’s just a feeling I have sometimes.”
Trowa has a completely irrational urge to reach for Quatre, put his hand on his knee or shoulder. Or face. Run a finger across his pale cheek. He can’t do that, of course. He doesn’t. He keeps his hands locked on the bedspread and watches Quatre collect himself.
“I really do need your help,” Quatre says. “I think, maybe, with you there, tomorrow… this feeling will go away. I’m really glad you came with me, tonight, Trowa. I feel a little better just having told you.”
Or: Trowa Barton once again crosses paths with Quatre Winner, and finds he can't stop himself from following him wherever he asks Trowa to go.