SWEET DARKNESS

Part 1

My heart fell when the door opened. I didn't expect them to come for me this night. I knew I should've - but as hours passed, I relaxed and lost my guard. And then the lock hissed - and I saw them in the doorway. I didn't want to resist, knew how useless it was - and looking at them, I started getting up on my feet.

It was when they pushed him inside. He'd probably given them enough trouble because they didn't unlock his wrists first - and he fell forward awkwardly. The thud made me wince sympathetically - but he didn't make a sound, stayed bowed over his knees, strands of hair obscuring his face.

He looked tired - and he didn't fight; but as he turned to look back at them - a flash of dark-green through tangled hair - there was something so defiant in his gaze that I had a sucking feeling of premonition in the pit of my stomach.

They prided themselves on not allowing any signs of defiance from us. Hannigan stepped into the cell and pressed his charge gun under the prisoner's chin. The flash was short but spectacular as usual, making the captive convulse on the floor. His hair spilled around his head, showing pale, bruised face. Hannigan looked down, apparently musing whether to shoot again.

He didn't, eventually - bent down and ran the card unlocking the cuffs from the prisoner's hands. And at the next moment the guards were gone and the door was sealed.

Only then I let out my breath; so, they hadn't come for me this time. And I had a cellmate now. For how long? I had no idea. He was not the first one during the time I'd spent there - and he might be even not the last one. Or, maybe, I was going to be the first one in a sequence of cellmates for him. I couldn't say - I didn't know what would happen to me - and those who knew were not going to inform me about it.

I didn't know if I was glad not to be alone at the moment. A part of me definitely felt contented; those long days and even longer nights in the empty cell - sometimes I was about to claw the walls. Yet it all depended on what kind of person the newcomer was; if he proved to be rough stuff and violent, my stay could turn into an endless fight. Not that I couldn't defend myself... well, yeah, like I could.

In the yellow light I looked at the captive roll his head in excruciating aftereffects of a charge gun shot. He coughed and red spattered on the floor; he must've bitten his tongue while having convulsions. Things like that happened all the time, with me, too - although one could say I should've been better prepared; but you couldn't be quite prepared to a charge gun, that's the thing.

The man coughed again and brought the hand to his mouth, wiped the blood. The trace of the cuffs was a dark stripe on his narrow wrist.

He was not a man, actually - a boy, like me or a bit older - whip-thin and dressed in some kind of uniform, burgundy-red in color. It'd probably looked very posh just recently - but now the buttons were torn off and all insignia was gone. I peered trying to identify what planet he could be from but nothing came to my mind. He could've been from some outskirts, there were so many of those secluded colonies around, all keen on their independence.

It still would've made me feel better if I knew what to expect from his kind of folks. I looked at him warily, wrapping the arms around my knees. He continued to cough - now making dry, harsh sounds. There were trickles of sweat running over his temples and I wondered if he could've been sick; I could pick up that from him, too, then. On the other hand, why did it have to worry me? Wasn't I already moving towards death here?

Yet I gazed peevishly at him until he stopped coughing. He raised on his elbow and his long bangs fell on his face again, concealing it immediately. I didn't even know if he saw me; he moved clumsily and pressed the fingers to his left side, as if checking something. I had no idea what it was but he seemed to calm down a little and started dragging himself into a sitting position.

He was silent; not even a hiss of pain - and I knew his body must've been screaming. It was all disconcerting. I wiggled uncomfortably - and it made him look at me. The iris of his only visible eye turned sea-green when capturing the light. I looked back at him, standing his gaze, trying to look cool. I didn't feel cool; I didn't trust him. He scared me, to tell the truth - there was something unnatural in how tough he acted. I hadn't been like that, not even in the beginning.

"A whore," he whispered, his voice hoarse from coughing. A little grimace of pain distorted his face as he talked. There was no disgust in his face as he ascertained my occupation, just statement of the fact.

Well, I never made a secret out of it - and I hardly could, anyway. There was not much left of my clothes but even those gave me away - clinging knee-long pants and a top that left my belly open.

"Hey, you have some kind of disease?" I asked frowning when he coughed again.

I saw him shiver; it was cold there, true - but something told me it was not the reason. For a little while I was sure he wouldn't answer me - or worse - and then he shrugged, wrapping the tattered jacket around his shoulders.

"It's not contagious, if you're afraid of that."

Surely looks like one, I wanted to say but didn't.

"Where are you from?" I bit my tongue at once, regretting to ask it. He could've gone mad with me... or start ignoring me demonstratively. His gaze was so cold, like transparent green glass.

"I'm a Misque."

"Ah..."

"Does this 'ah' mean that you heard about us?"

I tried to read in his eyes - hard stare on the clean-cut young face - but there was no clue what kind of answer he expected.

"I believe not."

"Misques could hardly be among your clients."

"Like they don't do the wicked thing," I shrugged.

"No, we don't."

"Whatever."

His words were not said in an insulting way - just coldly - and I didn't take them as an insult. A Misque, a whore - everyone was equal there. Everyone was moving towards the only possible end.

"What's your name?" I knew my talking to him was not particularly welcome - but I couldn't help it. Whatever else - but I missed talking so much. I even tried to talk to Hannigan and others when they took me out... with almost no result, of course. "Mine is Quatre."

As if he wanted to know it. I saw him rub his temples as if in headache. Maybe, my talking caused him a headache. Then, when I already vowed to myself that I wouldn't say another word, he glanced at me and said indifferently:

"Trowa."

"Nice to meet you," a phrase popped out of me before I could catch it. Fortunately he ignored it. Trying to erase the last impression, I hastily started explaining things for him. "There's water is in the bucket in the corner - for drinking and if you want to wash yourself. They give water every morning - so, there is enough of it. In the opposite corner there is a toilet. I think they'll give you a bedding when they bring the meal. Just a blanket, actually," I demonstrated him mine, wrapped around my shoulders. I didn't even know if Trowa listened to me - his face was barely readable, half-hidden under his hair as he settled down against the wall. His eyes closed but there was a small frown of discomfort between his thin smooth eyebrows.

My voice trailed away. I stopped talking. Well, I knew he wouldn't be interested in what I could say - why would he? And he surely wouldn't be interested in telling me anything about himself. Here was not a good place for making friends; not a good place at all.

I curled, closing my eyes and trying to sleep. The presence of someone else in the cell was curiously comforting - even though Trowa was surely one of that arrogant kind. But the truth was that listening to his breath - and thinking about him being there made me almost contented.

I started dozing off when a distant scream pierced the air. Well, it hadn't been quiet till now either - but it was the first time this night someone was made scream like that. It was not a humanoid screaming - a shrill, high-pitched sound - but full of unmistakable torment. Believe it or not, I found out that the sounds most races made in pain were somehow similar... at least those races who made sounds at all.

I tried to stay motionless all through the screaming and it was as difficult as always... I just couldn't get used to it, I didn't know why. I knew some could even sleep through that soundly - but not me. Perhaps I remembered too well how I myself had been screaming - not too long ago.

I heard Trowa move - and it was a clue for me to open my eyes. I started talking hastily, even before wondering whether he wanted to listen to me, whether he needed this information:

"You'll get used to it. Later it'll just slide over your mind and that's all. After all, we are here to be punished - what to be surprised with?"

"I am not surprised," he cut me off. I sighed; no, maybe, he wasn't.

"It'll stop soon, it's almost morning," I finished in embarrassment - and added. "I wish one couldn't hear it in the cells. Impossible to sleep - and by day it is even more impossible."

"Why?"

My heart jumped up in delight that he asked. I was surely getting weird here, treasuring every word we exchanged.

"They turn off the heating in the morning. There are only mechanical guards here by day - so, they don't see the reason to heat it. It gets *awfully* cold then."

I didn't stand cold well; and there was no way I could get used to it. So, I just went through these twelve hours of suffering every day and thought how lucky I was - since for some races cold was much more dangerous than for me.

"I can imagine that," he said impassively and closed his eyes again.

His face looked haggard - waxen pale and colored purple under his eyes - and he kept coughing with shallow, cackling sound. His chest under the torn uniform moved oddly as well, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps that left clouds of white in the air.

Did they realize there was something wrong with him, I wondered. And what would they do? Try to finish with him as soon as possible, until he died on them on his own?

Stupid, I chided myself. What did it matter how he'd die? He'd die all the same. And I'd die, too.

* * *

The screams stopped at last and I wondered absently if it was due to a confession or death of the interrogated; or did they just put it off till tomorrow? I slept then, for an hour or two, no dreams, thankfully - and opened my eyes only when the signal sounded.

The slot in the door opened and I heard a soft sound of a blanket land on the floor. I got to the door right in time before two bowls of soup and our rations landed down as well.

"Water?"

"Yes, please, sir," I raised the bucket and the guard directed the hose there, filled it quickly. The window shut in my face. Morning routine.

I heaved the bucket, slammed it on its place and turned to Trowa. He didn't even reach for the blanket or for the bowl. His tired eyes watched me without expression. I fidgeted uncomfortably.

"You will eat, won't you?"

I hated the way he looked at me; as if I was not there. The lines of his face sharpened during the last few hours and his skin was paper-like white. He shivered and that brought some animation into his face.

"It just..." he whispered and suddenly I realized he was not talking to me. "It just feels like dying... I'm not dying, really."

His hair, moist with sweat, clung to his face and his eye was black with an expanded pupil.

It was when I understood. He didn't look at me - he didn't talk to me; he probably didn't know I was there at all. He was delirious. Seriously sick.

Damn! He'd said it was not contagious! I bounced on my feet nervously, touched my own forehead checking if I had fever. It didn't feel so; my throat didn't hurt as well as I swallowed - and there was no cough. But it didn't matter, of course - it might've taken a while before the symptoms appeared.

How could they put him into my cell, I thought petulantly. As if there were no enough things I had to handle! And it was not that anything contagious for humans could affect them as well.

Damn it again! I hit the wall in exasperation and rubbed my hurt fist thoughtfully. Stupid kid... Stupid Trowa... I didn't even know if it was his name or surname.

"I can't die..." he kept whispering. "I have to bring it home. So, I won't die - they promised I won't..."

"Don't you know you shouldn't trust anyone's promises?" I asked loudly. It didn't reach him.

I picked up a bowl of soup from the floor and dipped a spoon, still looking at him. Whether he was dying or not, I still was hungry. And there was nothing I could do about it, anyway. No reason to call for the guards since there were only mechanics around there now. And, in any case, I knew better than calling for the guards.

The soup was already cold. I swallowed it quickly and looked at Trowa's portion. He probably wouldn't need it. But the guards didn't take it well when someone appropriated someone else's ration and if they saw me on the camera, I would be deep in trouble. Not that I wanted another bowl of that stuff anyway.

"You should at least use the blanket," I said - and, like before, he didn't hear me. I didn't know what I disliked more, his previous reluctant talking or his silence. "Here." I picked it up and leaned to throw it over him.

He was burning. The heat coming from his body reached me, so unexpected in the cold cell that I flinched. I looked down at him almost in disbelief. So hot... It couldn't be a good thing - and I knew it. But at the moment, I was overcome.

"Trowa! Hey you, Trowa, listen to me!" Kneeling in front of him, I shook him by the shoulders. His head lolled and his eyes blinked heavily but there was no recognition in his stare. "You said you're not contagious. Is it true? Tell me now - is it true?"

Most possibly, it didn't even matter. If I were to get sick, I would already be that. But I kept shaking him.

"Tell me!"

It was when I almost gave up as his stare stopped on me slowly - and then suddenly, to my disbelief, a quiet smile blossomed on his lips.

His thin-fingered hand trembled in the air as he reached to my face as if blindly. The touch was scalding hot but impossibly gentle, running over my cheek and eyebrow.

"No, pretty child," he whispered elatedly. "It's safe. It's a good thing inside me... That's why they all died to protect me. It just... hurts..."

His hand felt but his wheezing breath kept going. And I still felt as if his touch burned me. Crazy, it was crazy - there was no reason why I was supposed to believe him. But somehow I did; or, maybe, I just didn't care.

I pulled the bucket towards us and wetted a corner of the blanket. I didn't even feel how cold the water was, my fingers were as cold. But Trowa's forehead was burning.

He moaned and shifted when I wiped with face with the wet cloth and as he started sliding down against the wall, I caught him, holding upon my arm. Oh God, he felt so hot. Like a piece of a living heat against me.

"Cold," he whispered. "Nice."

So, I guess it was what made both of us feel good.

Water trickled over Trowa's face, soaking into his hair. With his long bangs swept away he looked younger and somewhat more vulnerable, his eyes closed and fluttering minutely. I wiped his neck and upper chest, his unbuttoned jacket let me do it unimpeded. For a few moments, I felt hesitant about going further.

He'd told me his folks were not the ones who used services of prostitutes; so, maybe, in his sane state my touch would be contaminating for him. But what the fuck... there was no way to stay uncontaminated here. Soon he would be contaminated any way - maybe, in worse possible ways.

I pulled his jacket open and kept wiping him. He was heavy and hot - and only after a while I noticed that I didn't feel freezing as usual, even with all that water splashed over me.

"Good boy," I smiled. "Good Trowa. We'll both be good."

His skin was discolored - covered in fresh dark bruises, no doubt from his yesterday's capture. And there was a bright ropy scar on the left side under his ribs, perhaps three inches long, glaring red on his white skin. I wondered if it was what had bothered him at night.

He was half-soaked by the time I finished - and so was I. The dust on the floor around us was turned into dirt, marring his smart uniform.

"We'd better move to another wall, you know," I said with a sigh. "And it's an inside one - not so cold."

Trowa didn't seem to react - although I could feel the fever had gone down and his breath quieted a little. I put his arm around my shoulder and dragged him on a dry place. As I was back for his blanket, I already knew what I would do.

"You know..." I started and stopped; what was with me that I kept talking even though he didn't listen? But I just felt better informing him of my decision. If he didn't answer - well, silence means consent, right? "Some cellmates... certain species, that is... they share the body warmth. You know what I mean... it's really warmer like that."

I swallowed hard and shut up. If he were conscious, he would probably break my nose for suggesting such things. And now I was going to use his helpless state. But I did help him, wiped him with a wet blanket - didn't I deserve something in replace?

"You want us to sit... under the blankets together?"

My inner monologue - or was it not so inner - was interrupted. For a moment I stared, unable to say a word. My heart was thumping. Trowa's voice, hoarse and faint, was sane, no doubt. The wet dark eyelashes rose and his eyes, bright and transparent-green, looked at me. I gulped and kept silent.

"I guess it's a good idea."

Oh really? In a haste, while he didn't change his mind, I settled next to him, wrapped both blankets around us. His wet warm side was pressed against mine.

Once again, his warmth startled me. The fever had gone down significantly but he still was warmer than me. I wished I could nestle against him, cuddle as close as possible.

"You're wet," he said.

"You too. You are so warm..." I couldn't help it, sighed contentedly.

It was... it was almost like sexual pleasure - far better than anything I'd felt during last months - no, last years. I couldn't resist it, slid my arm under Trowa's back, trying to get as much of him as possible. He was... wonderful.

His cough didn't bother me any more; if I were going to die of the same sick disease he had - at least I'd die warm. His shifting reminded me not to trespass, however. So far he might've tolerated it - but I was pretty sure he wouldn't much longer.

"Sorry," I whispered - and to my surprise he answered.

"It's okay. Thank you... for help."

I grinned. Appreciation comforted me. I moved between him and the wall, made him lean against me. His weight and his heat were lulling.

His hair was like silk; short on the back of his head and not dirty yet, it was ticklish against my cheek, more pleasant than I could expect. I suddenly felt like touching him there, his warm graceful neck and soft short strands falling over the collar of his jacket. It was weird - I shouldn't have missed touching - for God's sake, they touched me enough, nearly every night. But it was different...

"Perhaps this way we'll even get some sleep," I said reasonably, just to snap out of the mood.

"What's wrong with you... that you can't ever shut up?" Trowa said quietly. And I shut up.

I dozed off; the weight of Trowa's body who unconsciously leaned on me stronger as he fell asleep didn't bother me but seemed strangely pleasant. And feeling his warm breath on my skin as he curled against me, his head on my chest, was good, too. It was almost as if he trusted me and I trusted him and we meant something for each other. Nothing of that was true, of course, I knew it - and yet somehow it made me feel warm inside, too.

He grew hotter and restless after a while and as I reached for the water, he started babbling again:

"I have to go... I have to bring it... They're waiting for me... It's my mission... I was born to serve..."

His head rolled against my chest in anxiety as he half-struggled, half-clung to me. He was pulling his jacket open, I could feel it, reached again for the place where his scar was.

"I can't fail... I can't..."

"Shh." I blew on his forehead slightly, pulled his bangs away from his face, amazed once again how soft his hair was - rocked him a little. "Of course, you can't fail. You'll do what you have to. No problem."

His body relaxed, slumped against me, his cheek pressed to my chest. For a moment I felt how my heart clenched. Poor guy. He was going to face too many demons here to be able to deal with the ones he'd brought from outside. He would need all his strength here. But did he have this strength - with all his confidence?

Maybe, I wouldn't even get to know it. Maybe, this night would be the last for me. Or the next night would be the last for him.

He woke up with a start - raised his head from my chest, sent me a weird look - and I nearly screamed as he stopped leaning against me. Half of my body went asleep under his weight and now the needles of restored circulation shot cruelly.

"You should've pushed me," he muttered, surprising me with noticing.

"It's okay."

He shrugged, getting up sluggishly. I watched him in case he was going to trip over but somehow he managed to get to the toilet and then I turned away. A little while later I felt his look on me - and as I looked back at him, his gaze was cold and shut as usual, staring from the face half-hidden under the long bangs.

"Quatre." Hmm... I didn't know he remembered my name. "Did I say something when I slept?"

For some reason I felt uncomfortable. Would he hate me for witnessing a moment of his weakness? I found it difficult to stand his gaze and that's why I stood it patiently, then shook my head.

"If you did - I didn't hear."

I tried to smile and thought I succeeded - but smile didn't visit his eyes. His voice was hard and brittle as he talked.

"Good. Because if I said something - and you think about using it to rat on me - I'll kill you. Believe me, I can do it with my bare hands."

I flinched. For some reason, I couldn't look away from his hands; pale thin fingers, longish wrists of beautiful shape - but somehow I didn't doubt they could bring death; maybe, already had done it. His hands didn't shake any more.

"I was taught to kill," he said flatly. His narrow figure stood almost straight, the traces of sickness nearly gone - or forced away. I swallowed and shook my head briefly.

"No need to threaten me, okay? I won't need to say anything to anyone. You'll tell everything yourself."

To be continued

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