Trowa/Quatre. PG. 200 words. Quatre POV/Trowa POV.
Cold air, dead like space.
Cold air, dead like space. Dull metal, black light, nothing to grasp. Everything so empty. He rolls onto his back, chain clinking against the heavy cuffs binding his arms. He’s tired of the emptiness. Just tired. Isolated containment hurts him more than they know.
He raises unfocused eyes as the thin sliver of white light creeps across the floor. The murmur of words, silence, deceptively light footsteps. The door closes with the familiar sound of too many locks sliding home. He knows this one.
There, a brief flicker of concern. Annoyance, comrade, inconvenience, friend. Thoughts settle, and his eyes clear.
He hates it down here. Endless corridors with harsh lighting, the dull, empty echo of his footsteps on scarred metal. He never wants to be trapped on the other side of the thick, windowless doors.
Near the end of the hallway, he halts. He sets one hand against the metal panel, cool eyes taking quick stock of his surroundings. He hears nothing, and sees no one. The door slides open with a quiet rush of displaced air. He knows this one.
“Quatre,” he says, the locks sealing behind him. Clouded blue eyes shrug off the neglect and abuse of time.