A very large part of this chapter was written when I visited my sister's educational theory class in college. I think it's actually better than usual since I was in such a different environment. However, it's a bit late because I'm not at home, so I guess you need to accept quality over speed of posting. Thank you! Please, please feel free to review. I can beg shamelessly, believe me.

--

Inheritance: Part Ten

The living room was bathed in darkness and shadow under the cover of the early morning. The palest hint of the sun peaked in the window that Zechs was reading next to, a soft hint of light flickering in and out from an old lamp. This early, everything was misty and quiet, the sounds of the city muted and almost respectful. People were still bustling about, but there was a sense of quiet even in their noise. There was no doubt that some of them were just getting off Colony time, which wasn't standardized even between colonies.

The book that Zechs read was an old one, an ageless classic that he had found in a used bookstore and had coveted ever since. He had gotten it when he was in high school and it had been made even more special by the fact that it had been so difficult to get the funds to purchase it. Nabokov's Invitation to a Beheading was a twisted tale, one that Zechs had appreciated and admired for as long as he could remember. He had all of Nabokov's books. It was hard to give a summary of the book, where a man was kept in surrounding that were completely fake from the spider in the corner to the windows on the walls. The man was supposed to keep up with the regulations of what a prisoner should be, down to what he should think and dream. Nabokov was the kind of author that Zechs strived to be.

There was no clear reason why he had decided to read the novel once more on this particular night. It was probably something in the cold fog in the air at night, something that found him at four in the morning without a care for time or schedules.

Restlessly swinging his foot back and forth, his finger followed the words on the page. He was trying to focus even further on the text so that every word could invade his mind and lay siege to his thoughts, shaping him in ways that weren't clearly defined.

He could almost remember doing this before.

It wasn't often that he could differentiate dreams from reality, especially in the current days when they seemed to bleed together. Sometimes, he couldn't be sure which memories were which. He fully expected that one day he would look upon the faces of his friends and family, seeing someone that had existed before or perhaps never had. He could almost look at Lena and see a princess, not so different from Lena herself, and gaze on the steely determination and grit that made the girl beneath her polite facade.

In the early hours of the day, when everything was still shadowed and misty, it was the true "between" time when faeries were supposed to come out to play. With the faeries came the dreams that weren't quite real and the fantasies that were sometimes more real than reality itself. So sitting in the darkened room with the lamp flickering on and off, Zechs turned the page and continued reading.

--

Treize had a luxurious apartment. Everything in it was plush, warm, and elegant without being uncomfortable. There were soft fabrics that covers the surfaces, deep carpets that you sank into nearly to the ankle, richly-toned walls. Everything in it screamed of money, blue blood, and good taste. There was nothing tacky or cheap to be found except perhaps one thing in the corner, a plushie cat that waved with a happy smile. It had the appearance of a gift given as a joke, but one that its owner appeared fond of nonetheless.

Treize rose from his bedroom every day at five in the morning, no matter how late he had stayed up the night before. Considering his new companion, this was proving somewhat difficult with the inconsistent hours that they kept. He did it, though, wiping every trace of weariness from his face and mind. He didn't drink coffee very often either, finding the taste vile.

Zechs was coming over for brunch, so despite the cloudy day outside that begged Treize to rest and go back to bed, Treize was up and in a brightly lit kitchen. They were supposed to be discussing possible endings as well as titles for their short story, which they had decided not to title to begin with so as not to limit their possibilities. Treize couldn't help but to be hopeful, however. Milliardo was Milliardo, no matter his name, no matter whether he wanted to deny who he was. Milliardo had been Milliardo even when he had been Zechs.

The doorbell rang at about eleven o' clock. Treize pushed the button to open the door and let him in, not bothering to check who it was. He didn't get enough visitors for him to worry about someone uninvited coming to visit him and the few enemies he had didn't know where his personal residence was.

When Zechs entered the kitchen, he gave the wired appearance of someone who had stayed up all night and was running on fumes. His pale blue eyes were open far too wide, his entire countenance of someone overly energized for the tired lines on their face.

"Hello," Zechs said, eyes flicking to the coffee pot hopefully.

Treize gestured towards the mugs graciously. "Help yourself," he said.

Zechs immediately got a cup with the air of one who was desperately tired but trying their hardest to hold up well. Brushing a mussed pale blonde strand out of his eyes, he gently blew over the liquid surface before taking a sip. Treize took a peek at him from the corner of his eye. The horror writer stood there with a kind of negligent elegance, small mug enveloped by his hands and his long hair spilling down his back. He looked all too good in Treize's kitchen; a pang of memory brushed longingly against Treize's heart.

"What are you making?" Zechs asked, looking around Treize's shoulder at the stove top.

"Scrambled eggs, bacon, and French toast."

The blonde blinked in wonder, then was startled enough to say, "Thank you."

Treize smiled. He knew that what he was making was Zechs' favorite breakfast and so did Zechs, but the latter wasn't quite ready to admit it yet even if some part of him knew it.

"It's pretty much done," Treize said. "Why don't you sit down?"

The table was quickly set. Beside each mug was a glass of orange juice, the plates filled with steaming food and the cream and sugar dishes that people rarely used were out. It looked like the ideal brunch straight from a magazine.

After he was done with it, Zechs absentmindedly passed the cream but not the sugar, knowing that Treize liked only cream in his coffee the few times that he had it.

Treize smiled.

The human mind had amazing capabilities for self-denial and delusion. It was obvious that Zechs knew who Treize was, from the things that he had said and the things that he hadn't in response to Treize's own words. It was just as obvious that Zechs was quickly explaining these things away just as fast as they came up.

Treize could wait, though. He could wait forever if he had to. He had thought that he would never see this man, would never get to talk to him in a friendly manner once more, would never be close enough to touch him and see the was the silvery blue eyes looked when Zechs laughed or argued. Every time that Zechs turned away or tried to ignore something, no matter how much pain it caused, Treize was still hopeful. If there was no one else he missed, nothing else he had missed at all, there was Zechs.

--

"You still need to look it over before anything else."

Zechs sighed. "I will look it over, but I can hardly see you missing something. There is no point in wasting time that could be spent planning."

Treize regarded him for a moment. "All right. What were you thinking for a title?"

Smiling at his victory, Zechs shrugged gracefully. "I wasn't really sure." They stared at one another for a moment. "War?" Zechs suggested. "Death of Innocence? Let's All Die For Our Beliefs?" The last was said with some bitterness and caused Treize to look oddly cross for a moment.

"Pondering War?" he suggested, the odd look still on his face. "How about, Let's All Face an Identity Crisis and Blow Up the Earth?" They glared at each other for a moment before silently allowing for a truce.

Zechs sighed. "Perhaps we should go back to a title later. We apparently don't have any ideas now and maybe we'll have more when you come over tomorrow."

Treize raised an eyebrow. "Has your heater been fixed?"

The blonde looked vaguely murderous. "If it hasn't been fixed by tonight, I will consider violence."

They were silent for another long moment, each withdrawing into themselves to consider the next move, as if they were still playing chess. Their eyes met briefly; they looked away with something that ran parallel to shame or guilt in their gaze. The silence lasted for another long interval, then another.

"Should the end show some happiness to lift the mood or should it be like a true ending of a war?" Zechs finally asked, appearing to be solemnly studying his hands that were resting in his lap.

A look of confusion flashed across Treize's face. "It seems to me that regardless of other circumstances, the end of a war would be a joyous thing." He could swear that he heard Zechs mutter, "you would," but was sure that he did not because it wasn't often that Zechs was so spiteful and twice in one day would be a bit too much.

"Facing reality, the end of a war is just a bit messy. There are a lot of loose ends to deal with; people who don't realize that the fighting is over, people who do and don't know how to deal with it. There are war crimes to deal with. Fortunately, in our war there was a lot of confusion that covered up the aftereffects." Treize wondered if Zechs realized that he had almost given away that he remembered in that sentence. "I suppose that there is some hope, but the people have to face the fact that many people they knew died. Friends, lovers, comrades."

Treize sighed. "Perhaps we should just skip the ending."

"That would be easier for you, wouldn't it," Zechs said, sounding defeated. "Maybe I should go back home and we should both think about it."

Silently, Treize nodded and walked Zechs to the door. There was a great deal of regret when their eyes met on the way out and Zechs turned through the doorway.

--

He stood on the Mars base for hours and looked out into space, eyes gazing over the empty black of night and searching as hard as he could to find it. Noin soon joined him, her arm slipping around his shoulders to try to lend her support. Her violet eyes were soft, sad.

Zechs wondered if she knew. He wondered if she knew everything that Treize had meant to him, everything he had lost when Epyon exploded.

They headed back inside the base together after a while and Zechs took of the helmet, shaking his hair out so that it hung down the back of the bulky white space suit. He crossed his arms over his chest, staring back out over the red surface of Mars. He could hear the words echo around him as if they were really there, really being spoken.

"My eternal friend."

"One of the few who understand me..."

Spoken with that affectionate smile, meaning more because it was said by one of the few left that called him by his true name, "Milliardo."

"God, Zechs," Noin whispered quietly. She placed her bare hands against his cheeks and wiped away his tears, her touch soft and gentle. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

It didn't help. He didn't think that anything would. Was this peace? Was this what he had fought for, had become stained for, had nearly died for so many times over? Was this what freedom tasted like, like tears?

He didn't move, didn't fall into her embrace. He just stood there like he had been shot, eyes staring straight ahead and curiously dry despite the tears he had spilled before.

Freedom, peace... they burned, they tasted like salt, and they hurt. Zechs hoped that was the ending that Treize had been hoping for, because that was certainly what he had gotten.