Trowa doesn't say anything, but his brows draw down infinitesimally in a silent, concerned question.
(It's easy to push back his own emotions -- regret, uncertainty, wistfulness and something akin but deeper -- with Quatre looking like that, and with the room solid and real around him. He's not asleep any more. That was just a dream; he can ignore it.)
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Trowa doesn't say anything, but his brows draw down infinitesimally in a silent, concerned question.
(It's easy to push back his own emotions -- regret, uncertainty, wistfulness and something akin but deeper -- with Quatre looking like that, and with the room solid and real around him. He's not asleep any more. That was just a dream; he can ignore it.)