coprime_recs (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
coprime_recs) wrote2023-03-14 12:02 am
coprime_recs) wrote2023-03-14 12:02 am
Entry tags:
Gundam Wing: Soft Focus by tb_ll57
Soft Focus (Quatre/Trowa | PG13 | 11,730 words): Trowa takes up photography and asks Quatre to model for him. This is beautiful. There's a gentle vulnerability threaded throughout the photography sessions as Quatre opens up to Trowa, and the second half of the fic, where Quatre and Trowa have to deal with their relationship being known, is lovely as well. I enjoy getting to see Quatre's relationship with some of his sisters.
Excerpt:
Trowa played idly with the camera, one hand loosely curled about the nearest leg of the tripod. Suddenly he glanced up. "Do you still play?" he asked.
"Play what?" Quatre said stupidly.
"The violin."
Oh. "Not much," he confessed. "I don't really have the time to do it right."
"Do you miss it?"
He drew a deep breath and let it out. "Yes," he said. "I miss it a lot. It... it was good not to be me, when I played."
"What do you mean?" Trowa asked quietly.
Quatre gestured to the stereo. "It wasn't my music. It was someone else's work. I had to try to play it well, to reach what they were feeling, to– to try to connect to it myself, but essentially it wasn't me. When I was really working hard for it, when it was just right, I forgot about everything but just the music. Like I was just there to make it come alive."
"Show me."
He stopped. "What do you mean?"
"Show me," Trowa repeated.
"I don’t have my violin."
"Pretend."
Excerpt:
Trowa played idly with the camera, one hand loosely curled about the nearest leg of the tripod. Suddenly he glanced up. "Do you still play?" he asked.
"Play what?" Quatre said stupidly.
"The violin."
Oh. "Not much," he confessed. "I don't really have the time to do it right."
"Do you miss it?"
He drew a deep breath and let it out. "Yes," he said. "I miss it a lot. It... it was good not to be me, when I played."
"What do you mean?" Trowa asked quietly.
Quatre gestured to the stereo. "It wasn't my music. It was someone else's work. I had to try to play it well, to reach what they were feeling, to– to try to connect to it myself, but essentially it wasn't me. When I was really working hard for it, when it was just right, I forgot about everything but just the music. Like I was just there to make it come alive."
"Show me."
He stopped. "What do you mean?"
"Show me," Trowa repeated.
"I don’t have my violin."
"Pretend."