warnings: 3x4, yaoi (duh!), angst galore, blood and torture.
SHADOWS AND SUNLIGHT
Quatre Raberba Winner sat huddled in the farthest corner of the small room, which was cloaked in darkness. His delicate, naked body shivered in the cold air thick with torment, despair, and death. An old, dirty bandage from a now healed wound barely hung on his thin, battered chest. His soft, pale flesh was marred with numerous abrasions and bruises. His slender arms were burnt so severely that the skin was dead and black.
The stench of blood, urine and semen was overwhelming, but Quatre took no notice. His beaten body convulsed as he rocked back and forth, grating his bare, frail shoulder and temple against the cold, unforgiving stone wall. Fresh blood dribbled from his shoulder and head, coating the matted hair, which once had been downy soft and silky, with more blood. The spun-gold hair was turned to a rusty red. Blood ran thickly into Quatre's once shining sapphire eyes. His vision of blackness was obscured by a torrent of red. The 15 year old took no notice; he just kept rocking back and forth, bleeding, those soul searing eyes glazed over to a dull blue and focused on nothing.
The door of the cramped cell was unlocked. A sliver of dim light broke the encompassing blackness. A sliver of dim light broke the encompassing blackness. Quatre flung himself further into the blood streaked wall, trembling violently in a pile of blood and urine as he emitted a tiny cry. He heard no footsteps, and no harsh hands tore at him. Gradually, his shivering ceased and slowly, warily, he lifted his blood caked lashes.
In the gray light of the doorway, he saw a lean and lanky figure outlined in a haze of dim light. The tall, muscular shadow stalked forward and Quatre immediately saw the boy was wearing an OZ uniform. Just another soldier come to torment and "play games" with him. He tried to draw himself up, but he didn't have the strength. His eyes lifted instead to the soldier who towered over him, blurred features twisted in disgust from the foul odor of the room.
The soldier bent low, causing Quatre to flinch back. Then the soldier's features came into focus, and he saw a familiar face. The features were, other than slight disgust, showing no emotion. A quick look into the one green eye not hidden by the light brown bangs revealed tightly closed depths of emotion locked away from the world. As emotionless as the face was, the fact that he knew this person had penetrated Quatre's foggy senses. Trusting his instinct, he held out his burnt and blackened arms.
Trowa bent low, gently gathering what remained of the little Arabian in his strong arms. His muscles easily lifted Quatre's slight weight. Quatre closed his eyes and snuggled into the crook of Trowa's neck. Startled by his own then Quatre's actions, Trowa nearly dropped the beaten blonde. Wide eyed, Quatre glanced up at him, and seeing his flustered face, smiled weakly.
Trowa suddenly rebelled against the feelings of tenderness for the blonde that had brought him in here. "I...I shouldn't be here." he murmured, wanting to runaway from the emotions that had brought him here. He'd been drawn here when he'd heard the report of the captured pilot, sneaking away on his break. He'd remembered the quiet moments he'd shared with the blonde, how, through gentle conversation and occasional, hesitant touches, Quatre had opened a part of his soul that he'd shielded from the rest of the world. He was afraid to show that soft side, that weakness, to anyone, including the petite Arab. No, it was much safer to keep such emotions locked away, where no one could see them, therefore, no one could hurt him. But, somehow, after first meeting Quatre, he had wanted to see him again. It had first been curiosity, then fascination. Quatre stirred the dormant feelings in him, touching his soul in ways he never thought possible. These unfamiliar feelings in him had led him to see Quatre. Now, confronted by the unfamiliar closeness and sweetness of having Quatre in his arms scared the hell out of him. Quatre was getting close to him again. And the fact that the blonde had so trustingly come to him frightened him even more. It meant those feelings were returned.
Quatre, in his numb state, was unable to recognize Trowa's feelings. His uchuu no kokoro had long ago shut off, drowned in the sorrow, pain and fear of his own mental and physical torture, plus that of the other prisoners dying around him. All he knew was the familiar presence of Trowa, someone he'd recognized as a friend, not meaning to do him harm. At first, Trowa had been so close, then he'd recoiled in disgust from him as soon as he'd snuggled closer.
As Trowa went to lay him back down and escape to still his moving emotions, Quatre whimpered and looked at him with haunted eyes. Those eyes held him prisoner and stilled his movements. He'd seen the same look in countless prisoners' faces, each of them knowing there was no salvation from this hell but death, and even that would come at the costly price of unbearable torment, either from disease, starvation, or torture.
He'd kept the door to his heart forcibly closed, and those images hadn't been able to haunt him. He'd seen, survived and done worse, and had been able to numb that too. What he couldn't shield out was that bone-rattling, haunted, gaunt look in Quatre's eyes. In Quatre's eyes, two brilliant pools of sapphire, as endless and bright as a starry summer night and filled with as much dreams as the moon itself.
"I-I must go. It will seem suspicious if I'm here for too long. I'm already almost late for my shift. I still haven't earned Colonel Une's complete trust, so I haven't gained access to OZ's top secret files." Damn OZ had decided to store their most top secret of affairs in a tightly guarded, small, windowless room under the main torture chamber. Not accessible by computer, OZ had stored it the old-fashioned way; on paper. Inaccessible unless you got through that door.
Quatre blinked at Trowa's words, and the spell over him was broken; he was able to look away from Quatre's face. And he didn't look back. Quatre tried to say something, but the power of speech evaded him; instead, a garbled cry came out, followed by little flecks of blood. /I'm too disgusting to hold, ne, Trowa? Even you don't want me now. I don't blame you- I could die of shame right now. I used to be so pure and clean. Now I'm nothing but soiled fodder for the worms./
Trowa winced, and found that without looking at Quatre, his resolve to stick to the mission strengthened. However, when he went to lay the little Arab down, he found himself holding him tighter. The feeling of guilt at abandoning his comrade washed over him, barring off any escape.
Even without looking at Quatre, at focusing on the deplorable conditions of this cell, this death chamber, Quatre's hold wasn't to be shaken off. This soft, battered body and the loving, empathetic soul it contained tugged on the frozen strings of his heart and took over his mind, uniting the two after such a long time of separation.
A harsh sob tore at Quatre's rib- outlined chest. In his imposed world of darkness, all he knew was that Trowa had embraced him in this lonely and frightening hell, had tried to reject him, and was embracing him again. His uchuu no kokoro gave a faint spark of denial at Trowa's rejection. That caused his skeletal frame to jump, and, in turn, Trowa's arms involuntarily tightened.
He couldn't abandon Quatre like this. Yet, the mission must be completed. He had no purpose in life; his function was the mission. But the now- beating thing in his chest said different, that his life, his purpose, lay ebbing away in his arms. Here was his reason for living. This creature with the white limbs and pure blue eyes that seemed to see into one's very soul, and didn't reject it, even if it was wretched and decayed. Instead, this creature of hope embraced it, soothing old hurts and healing old wounds.
Trowa brushed a kiss across the bruised lips and knew his fate was sealed. He couldn't abandon Quatre. He carried the little one out of the reeking darkness and into the harsh light of the hallway. Quatre flinched at the bright light and tried to bury himself in Trowa. Quietly, evasively, with a skill born of years of master hood, Trowa slipped down the twisting corridors. With each twist and turn, he plunged further down into the spiraling dark heart of the headquarters of the Romafeller Foundation. Hidden under the fancy, political house above, the only way out of this dark, unholy maze was through the torture chambers. There was only one way out. And to access it, you had to transverse through the very center of the dark heart. This was the place of nightmares. The place of tragedies, where some of OZ's most secret affairs were carried out. As they neared the massive doors that led to the section of torture chambers, the pain- filled screams of terror and horror rent the air.
Trowa pressed Quatre's face against his chest and slipped quickly past the various chambers until the entered the biggest and most grotesque chamber. Luckily, no high enemy officially, no one of importance, was being executed at this hour. The only other thing, other than the torture equipment, in the room was a pale, ripped body of a young girl, now lifeless. The blood had long ago drained from her carcass onto the floor. A leftover from the morning that hadn't been removed yet. (1). This chamber was terrifyingly quiet, all the mechanisms and devices silently promising further agony for the poor, unfortunate souls dragged into it's waiting embrace. It was a scene out of a horror movie. Gliding along the shadowed walls, he kept Quatre's face tightly pressed against him, shielding him, and nearly slipped only once on a bit of still wet blood. Trowa clutched him tightly and fled from the darkness he'd infiltrated months ago.
Throughout the flight up the narrow, winding, cold staircase, Quatre held quiet against Trowa. The only movements he'd made were the up and down motions of his chest as he breathed. They emerged from the hidden entrance into bright, warming, pure, shining, golden sunlight. The air was moving, clean and fresh. Life blossomed all around. Quatre was shivering. His small, bony hands were pressed over his ears. The screams he'd heard echoing off the halls, that had leaked from the other chambers in use, were permanently etched into his brain. Those terrifying sounds, and the memories that marred his body, that made him one with those screams and birthed more empathy and familiarity than his uchuu no kokoro ever could, gave him a rusty, disused voice. "T-those screams..." his bloody, swollen lips struggled to form the words, "Even on the battle field, they were never....Oh, Allah, what they had done to me...." Those same screams had echoed from his lips, stealing his once melodious voice, and turning the throat coarse, raw, and red. Although, some of OZ's favorite "games" had done that, too. And much more damage.
Trowa said nothing; he didn't know what to say. He hadn't regained full control of his body yet; his heart was still in command, so he kissed the bruised, blood encrusted forehead. At least Quatre, to his knowledge, hadn't seen anyone die, nor had he executed any of them. He'd gotten to Quatre before OZ had dragged him into one of those chambers. OZ certainly had tortured him, but only in cruel games such as rape and beatings. That was child's play compared to the happenings in those chambers. That pierced a sudden thought from his heart to his brain. /If I hadn't saved him, then he'd have died such a death!!/. This fleeting note had him burying his face in Quatre's bloody hair, trying to absorb all of the wasted form. Tired tears slid down his cheeks. Quatre reached up and gently placed a comforting, bloody kiss on a wet cheek, silently giving thanks and comfort at the same time.
Trowa still stood in the cold shadow of the menacing gray building, the home of all the terrors he'd know, what he'd been. And still was. He was on a threshold of life; continue as he was, or let his heart guide him, and his heart was guided by the light and warmth of this shining life force in his arms. He could place Quatre down and let the blonde crawl his way to safety, or he could see this wild, born of a moment's thought decision through. Now that they were out of OZ, and had a few moments of freedom, elation swept through him of having done something on the spur of the moment, of making his own decision without logical thinking. His heart was a bursting, aching thing in his chest as it came to life full force. He felt as if he was flying; maybe he was. Quatre. Beautiful, wild, wonderful Quatre was teaching him to fly, how to live. And it felt wonderful. In all of his short years, he never felt so....he'd never felt anything like he was feeling right now. And if just a few moments of life felt like this, then what did living feel like? Beaten, bruised, battered had humiliated, Quatre was still guiding him to the light. To life. He had been, ever since he'd first met the little blonde. This was what Quatre had been trying to show him all along. This was Quatre's gift. Life.
Without another thought or backwards glance, Trowa stepped out of the gray demon's cold, dark, and imposing shadows and into the full light, which pleasantly warmed their chilled bones. Trowa left his realm without a backwards glance and merrily entered Quatre's.
He tilted his pale face up, letting the sunlight kiss and warm him. Quatre's kiss. He inhaled the fresh air of joy and life into his stale lungs. Not afraid to look down anymore, indeed, delighting to do so, he saw that Quatre was relaxed for the first time, a small smile playing about his lips. So serene and happy to be home. Suppressing the urge to whistle a jaunty tune (at least until they were out of OZ's earshot, and in safety, without fear of being caught), Trowa strolled into the tree's inviting, flickering, and cool coverage of shadows. These shadows were alive and whispered soothing words of comfort and encouragement. And Trowa flew with them, and with Quatre.
OWARI ^_^
SHADOWS AND SUNLIGHT
Quatre Raberba Winner sat huddled in the farthest corner of the small room, which was cloaked in darkness. His delicate, naked body shivered in the cold air thick with torment, despair, and death. An old, dirty bandage from a now healed wound barely hung on his thin, battered chest. His soft, pale flesh was marred with numerous abrasions and bruises. His slender arms were burnt so severely that the skin was dead and black.
The stench of blood, urine and semen was overwhelming, but Quatre took no notice. His beaten body convulsed as he rocked back and forth, grating his bare, frail shoulder and temple against the cold, unforgiving stone wall. Fresh blood dribbled from his shoulder and head, coating the matted hair, which once had been downy soft and silky, with more blood. The spun-gold hair was turned to a rusty red. Blood ran thickly into Quatre's once shining sapphire eyes. His vision of blackness was obscured by a torrent of red. The 15 year old took no notice; he just kept rocking back and forth, bleeding, those soul searing eyes glazed over to a dull blue and focused on nothing.
The door of the cramped cell was unlocked. A sliver of dim light broke the encompassing blackness. A sliver of dim light broke the encompassing blackness. Quatre flung himself further into the blood streaked wall, trembling violently in a pile of blood and urine as he emitted a tiny cry. He heard no footsteps, and no harsh hands tore at him. Gradually, his shivering ceased and slowly, warily, he lifted his blood caked lashes.
In the gray light of the doorway, he saw a lean and lanky figure outlined in a haze of dim light. The tall, muscular shadow stalked forward and Quatre immediately saw the boy was wearing an OZ uniform. Just another soldier come to torment and "play games" with him. He tried to draw himself up, but he didn't have the strength. His eyes lifted instead to the soldier who towered over him, blurred features twisted in disgust from the foul odor of the room.
The soldier bent low, causing Quatre to flinch back. Then the soldier's features came into focus, and he saw a familiar face. The features were, other than slight disgust, showing no emotion. A quick look into the one green eye not hidden by the light brown bangs revealed tightly closed depths of emotion locked away from the world. As emotionless as the face was, the fact that he knew this person had penetrated Quatre's foggy senses. Trusting his instinct, he held out his burnt and blackened arms.
Trowa bent low, gently gathering what remained of the little Arabian in his strong arms. His muscles easily lifted Quatre's slight weight. Quatre closed his eyes and snuggled into the crook of Trowa's neck. Startled by his own then Quatre's actions, Trowa nearly dropped the beaten blonde. Wide eyed, Quatre glanced up at him, and seeing his flustered face, smiled weakly.
Trowa suddenly rebelled against the feelings of tenderness for the blonde that had brought him in here. "I...I shouldn't be here." he murmured, wanting to runaway from the emotions that had brought him here. He'd been drawn here when he'd heard the report of the captured pilot, sneaking away on his break. He'd remembered the quiet moments he'd shared with the blonde, how, through gentle conversation and occasional, hesitant touches, Quatre had opened a part of his soul that he'd shielded from the rest of the world. He was afraid to show that soft side, that weakness, to anyone, including the petite Arab. No, it was much safer to keep such emotions locked away, where no one could see them, therefore, no one could hurt him. But, somehow, after first meeting Quatre, he had wanted to see him again. It had first been curiosity, then fascination. Quatre stirred the dormant feelings in him, touching his soul in ways he never thought possible. These unfamiliar feelings in him had led him to see Quatre. Now, confronted by the unfamiliar closeness and sweetness of having Quatre in his arms scared the hell out of him. Quatre was getting close to him again. And the fact that the blonde had so trustingly come to him frightened him even more. It meant those feelings were returned.
Quatre, in his numb state, was unable to recognize Trowa's feelings. His uchuu no kokoro had long ago shut off, drowned in the sorrow, pain and fear of his own mental and physical torture, plus that of the other prisoners dying around him. All he knew was the familiar presence of Trowa, someone he'd recognized as a friend, not meaning to do him harm. At first, Trowa had been so close, then he'd recoiled in disgust from him as soon as he'd snuggled closer.
As Trowa went to lay him back down and escape to still his moving emotions, Quatre whimpered and looked at him with haunted eyes. Those eyes held him prisoner and stilled his movements. He'd seen the same look in countless prisoners' faces, each of them knowing there was no salvation from this hell but death, and even that would come at the costly price of unbearable torment, either from disease, starvation, or torture.
He'd kept the door to his heart forcibly closed, and those images hadn't been able to haunt him. He'd seen, survived and done worse, and had been able to numb that too. What he couldn't shield out was that bone-rattling, haunted, gaunt look in Quatre's eyes. In Quatre's eyes, two brilliant pools of sapphire, as endless and bright as a starry summer night and filled with as much dreams as the moon itself.
"I-I must go. It will seem suspicious if I'm here for too long. I'm already almost late for my shift. I still haven't earned Colonel Une's complete trust, so I haven't gained access to OZ's top secret files." Damn OZ had decided to store their most top secret of affairs in a tightly guarded, small, windowless room under the main torture chamber. Not accessible by computer, OZ had stored it the old-fashioned way; on paper. Inaccessible unless you got through that door.
Quatre blinked at Trowa's words, and the spell over him was broken; he was able to look away from Quatre's face. And he didn't look back. Quatre tried to say something, but the power of speech evaded him; instead, a garbled cry came out, followed by little flecks of blood. /I'm too disgusting to hold, ne, Trowa? Even you don't want me now. I don't blame you- I could die of shame right now. I used to be so pure and clean. Now I'm nothing but soiled fodder for the worms./
Trowa winced, and found that without looking at Quatre, his resolve to stick to the mission strengthened. However, when he went to lay the little Arab down, he found himself holding him tighter. The feeling of guilt at abandoning his comrade washed over him, barring off any escape.
Even without looking at Quatre, at focusing on the deplorable conditions of this cell, this death chamber, Quatre's hold wasn't to be shaken off. This soft, battered body and the loving, empathetic soul it contained tugged on the frozen strings of his heart and took over his mind, uniting the two after such a long time of separation.
A harsh sob tore at Quatre's rib- outlined chest. In his imposed world of darkness, all he knew was that Trowa had embraced him in this lonely and frightening hell, had tried to reject him, and was embracing him again. His uchuu no kokoro gave a faint spark of denial at Trowa's rejection. That caused his skeletal frame to jump, and, in turn, Trowa's arms involuntarily tightened.
He couldn't abandon Quatre like this. Yet, the mission must be completed. He had no purpose in life; his function was the mission. But the now- beating thing in his chest said different, that his life, his purpose, lay ebbing away in his arms. Here was his reason for living. This creature with the white limbs and pure blue eyes that seemed to see into one's very soul, and didn't reject it, even if it was wretched and decayed. Instead, this creature of hope embraced it, soothing old hurts and healing old wounds.
Trowa brushed a kiss across the bruised lips and knew his fate was sealed. He couldn't abandon Quatre. He carried the little one out of the reeking darkness and into the harsh light of the hallway. Quatre flinched at the bright light and tried to bury himself in Trowa. Quietly, evasively, with a skill born of years of master hood, Trowa slipped down the twisting corridors. With each twist and turn, he plunged further down into the spiraling dark heart of the headquarters of the Romafeller Foundation. Hidden under the fancy, political house above, the only way out of this dark, unholy maze was through the torture chambers. There was only one way out. And to access it, you had to transverse through the very center of the dark heart. This was the place of nightmares. The place of tragedies, where some of OZ's most secret affairs were carried out. As they neared the massive doors that led to the section of torture chambers, the pain- filled screams of terror and horror rent the air.
Trowa pressed Quatre's face against his chest and slipped quickly past the various chambers until the entered the biggest and most grotesque chamber. Luckily, no high enemy officially, no one of importance, was being executed at this hour. The only other thing, other than the torture equipment, in the room was a pale, ripped body of a young girl, now lifeless. The blood had long ago drained from her carcass onto the floor. A leftover from the morning that hadn't been removed yet. (1). This chamber was terrifyingly quiet, all the mechanisms and devices silently promising further agony for the poor, unfortunate souls dragged into it's waiting embrace. It was a scene out of a horror movie. Gliding along the shadowed walls, he kept Quatre's face tightly pressed against him, shielding him, and nearly slipped only once on a bit of still wet blood. Trowa clutched him tightly and fled from the darkness he'd infiltrated months ago.
Throughout the flight up the narrow, winding, cold staircase, Quatre held quiet against Trowa. The only movements he'd made were the up and down motions of his chest as he breathed. They emerged from the hidden entrance into bright, warming, pure, shining, golden sunlight. The air was moving, clean and fresh. Life blossomed all around. Quatre was shivering. His small, bony hands were pressed over his ears. The screams he'd heard echoing off the halls, that had leaked from the other chambers in use, were permanently etched into his brain. Those terrifying sounds, and the memories that marred his body, that made him one with those screams and birthed more empathy and familiarity than his uchuu no kokoro ever could, gave him a rusty, disused voice. "T-those screams..." his bloody, swollen lips struggled to form the words, "Even on the battle field, they were never....Oh, Allah, what they had done to me...." Those same screams had echoed from his lips, stealing his once melodious voice, and turning the throat coarse, raw, and red. Although, some of OZ's favorite "games" had done that, too. And much more damage.
Trowa said nothing; he didn't know what to say. He hadn't regained full control of his body yet; his heart was still in command, so he kissed the bruised, blood encrusted forehead. At least Quatre, to his knowledge, hadn't seen anyone die, nor had he executed any of them. He'd gotten to Quatre before OZ had dragged him into one of those chambers. OZ certainly had tortured him, but only in cruel games such as rape and beatings. That was child's play compared to the happenings in those chambers. That pierced a sudden thought from his heart to his brain. /If I hadn't saved him, then he'd have died such a death!!/. This fleeting note had him burying his face in Quatre's bloody hair, trying to absorb all of the wasted form. Tired tears slid down his cheeks. Quatre reached up and gently placed a comforting, bloody kiss on a wet cheek, silently giving thanks and comfort at the same time.
Trowa still stood in the cold shadow of the menacing gray building, the home of all the terrors he'd know, what he'd been. And still was. He was on a threshold of life; continue as he was, or let his heart guide him, and his heart was guided by the light and warmth of this shining life force in his arms. He could place Quatre down and let the blonde crawl his way to safety, or he could see this wild, born of a moment's thought decision through. Now that they were out of OZ, and had a few moments of freedom, elation swept through him of having done something on the spur of the moment, of making his own decision without logical thinking. His heart was a bursting, aching thing in his chest as it came to life full force. He felt as if he was flying; maybe he was. Quatre. Beautiful, wild, wonderful Quatre was teaching him to fly, how to live. And it felt wonderful. In all of his short years, he never felt so....he'd never felt anything like he was feeling right now. And if just a few moments of life felt like this, then what did living feel like? Beaten, bruised, battered had humiliated, Quatre was still guiding him to the light. To life. He had been, ever since he'd first met the little blonde. This was what Quatre had been trying to show him all along. This was Quatre's gift. Life.
Without another thought or backwards glance, Trowa stepped out of the gray demon's cold, dark, and imposing shadows and into the full light, which pleasantly warmed their chilled bones. Trowa left his realm without a backwards glance and merrily entered Quatre's.
He tilted his pale face up, letting the sunlight kiss and warm him. Quatre's kiss. He inhaled the fresh air of joy and life into his stale lungs. Not afraid to look down anymore, indeed, delighting to do so, he saw that Quatre was relaxed for the first time, a small smile playing about his lips. So serene and happy to be home. Suppressing the urge to whistle a jaunty tune (at least until they were out of OZ's earshot, and in safety, without fear of being caught), Trowa strolled into the tree's inviting, flickering, and cool coverage of shadows. These shadows were alive and whispered soothing words of comfort and encouragement. And Trowa flew with them, and with Quatre.
OWARI ^_^