Wild Roses

Cold Comfort – Chapter Five

December 22nd AC 191

Khushrenada Ancestral Estate - Moscow

A week after the Medal Ceremony, Zechs sat in the Breakfast room at the Moscow House, staring disconsolately into his cup of coffee and trying to make himself focus enough to drink it.

Distracted beyond awareness, he jumped half out of his skin at the touch of strong hands on his shoulders, half-standing from his seat and splashing the coffee across the spotless white linen of the tablecloth. He'd been completely unaware of anyone else opening the door or entering the room.

"Jesus Christ!" he swore breathlessly, and only partly because he'd caught his skin with the hot, black liquid.

The hands on his shoulders tightened, setting him back in the chair and steadying him as he caught his breath.

"Well, that answers my first question," Treize said softly, from behind him, and Zechs looked up, surprised all over again.

Both he and the older officer had gone straight to bed on their return from Paris, falling between crisp, expensive sheets as they sought to sleep off the shocks and strains of the last few months.

Zechs had slept the clock out, waking almost 15 hours after he'd fallen asleep, ravenously hungry and with a lot of the stress he'd been carrying for the past few weeks gone.

Treize hadn't been seen since, although Leia, looking so miserably guilty that Zechs had had to forgive her, assured him that he was improving and would likely be fine by the time Christmas Eve rolled round. He'd simply needed a lot of sleep, and more quiet, to get first past the virus and the radiation, and then past the sleep deficit he'd built and the mental exhaustion.

Zechs had taken that to mean he wasn't actually going to see the older man until his birthday, and he'd understood. If he'd been tired, Treize must have been absolutely dead on his feet.

Still, Zechs had woken this day – well, he hadn't actually really slept much the night before – and found himself wanting the older man's company in a way which hearkened very much back to his younger years.

He hadn't expected to get it, though, and the sight of his adopted brother now, standing so close and dressed in a casual cashmere sweater and flannel trousers, looking rested and well, was a real shock to Zechs's already scattered composure.

"Sorry?" he managed, realising Treize had spoken to him.

Treize smiled at him softly. "I said, that answers my first question. I was going to ask you how you were, but if I can sneak up on you like that, I suspect I already know."

Zechs shrugged, feeling the redhead's hands tighten against the movement. "You're quiet," he said, as evenly as he could.

Treize chuckled, rubbed gently for a second, then let the blond go and came around the table to sit down opposite him. "I wasn't trying to be," he replied, as he leaned back in his chair, snared a napkin from the buffet table behind him and handed it to Zechs, nodding at the spreading coffee stain meaningfully.

"Oh, shit," Zechs cursed mildly, then set about dabbing at the mark.

It got him a chuckle. "Language," Treize chided mildly. "What would Leia say?"

Zechs forced a smile at the teasing, then gave it up, dropped the napkin and dropped his head to press the heels of his hands to his eyes as he shook his head.

There was quiet for a breath, then Treize's hands closed over his, pulling them down and pressing them to the surface of the table firmly, pinning them as much as holding them. "That bad?" he asked, and his voice was so gentle that Zechs felt his eyes burn in response, threatening tears he knew he wouldn't shed.

"It's been a decade, and it might as well be yesterday," he said brokenly. "The news, your servants – it's everywhere. Everyone's talking, reporting, and there's been this thing... this... There was a piece on the news this morning about it. About the types of flowers growing on the mass graves." He choked, laughing bitterly and hearing the hysteria incipient in his voice. "Apparently, they've changed. Someone's planting Peacecraft Roses."

Treize pressed his hands harder. "I know," he admitted quietly. "I've seen the reports."

Zechs shook his head, genuine confusion on his face. "Why?" he asked. "Why would anyone do that? We're all dead, as far as they know, and... and it can't be wise." He looked at Treize. "The occupation forces... they must..."

Treize, without needing the expression on his friend's face, knew what he was trying to ask. "Not wise, no," he agreed, as carefully as he could, "but they do it for love and loyalty. I can't fault that, and neither should you," he advised gently. "As for the occupation, I wish I could say differently, but, yes, it's being looked at as a sign of Rebel activity, and a serious one." He drew a slow, steadying breath. "General O'Neegal actually asked for our help in 'hunting them down', apparently."

The look Zechs gave him at that made the older man ache in sympathy. The capable, confident Officer of the last six months, who'd displayed a lovely flair for command politics at the medal ceremony the week before, was nowhere in that haunted, hunted gaze. It was nothing but the stripped-raw soul of the tortured child Milliardo Peacecraft had become on this day, ten years earlier.

"Catalonia told him no," Treize promised immediately. "And if he hadn't, I'd have refused the assignment, and had legitimate grounds to do it. Don't worry," he soothed.

Zechs swallowed, then laughed again, the sound broken glass over bare skin. "Don't worry?" he asked raggedly. "If it's not us, it will be someone. I know how the Alliance work, Treize – they'll probably shell the graves!"

There was a plan to do something very close to that, Treize knew. In fact, the plan was part of the reason he was up so early – Zechs had simply stumbled onto a conversation Treize had needed to have with him anyway, for a number of reasons.

"Better than the city again," he said, knowing he couldn't shield Zechs from it, even if he wanted to. There had been talk of using this significant Anniversary for reprisals for years, and the flower-planting had only been the excuse that was needed. Despite what he'd said to the younger man, Treize wondered who had really planted them – loyalist Sancians, or Alliance operatives?

The details of the planned reprisal would be all over the news in a few hours, and they had the Lepedev's Ball tonight. It would be talked about – and Zechs would need not to react more than was warranted.

Zechs let out a soft, pained moan at Treize's comment, closing his eyes. "The city?" he asked helplessly. "They actually considered... it's the middle of bloody winter!" he said, and his voice was hopeless. He shook his head, trying to free his hands from Treize's. "God... have they any idea how many they'll kill if they do that? For a few flowers?"

Empathy made Treize glance out of the window at the snow on the ground, and shiver. A beaten and malnourished population without shelter in those conditions didn't have good odds, particularly not the very young and the very old. Zechs had been a robust, fit, healthy child until the Fall, but three days had still left him dehydrated, starving and hypothermic, possibly as little as hours away from death when he was rescued. There would be no rescue for anyone in Sanc tonight.

"They won't attack the city," Treize promised, knowing that the Alliance command knew exactly how many they'd kill; he'd seen the calculations personally. "There'd be too much backlash." He drew a slow breath. "A population centre would cause international outrage, stir up more trouble than it would solve. There are too many countries straining the leash already. But a strip of waste ground with a few bushes...? It's a nice, timely reminder of the Alliance's power that everyone can wring their hands over for a few hours and then forget." He breathed again, then added, "It's, at least, decent strategy, and bloodless."

Treize wasn't entirely sure what reaction he was expecting but Zechs freed his hands and was out of his chair before Treize could blink, glaring fit to kill, the broken child swamped with the utter fury Zechs carried so deeply buried.

"Strategy...?" he hissed. "Fucking strategy? You dare...?" he demanded.

Treize stood more slowly, bracing himself even if he didn't let it show and telling himself that anger was better than misery. "Yes, I dare," he said softly. "It is. You know it. I don't agree with it – and you know that, too. Would I ever?" he asked evenly. "But which would you choose, if you had to? The living or the dead?"

It was a genuine question, intended to make Zechs think, rather than purely reacting, and if Treize was doing it because he, personally, needed the younger man to understand, he was also doing it because he expected more of him now than in previous years. It was a tougher reminder than most, this tenth anniversary, but Zechs wasn't the defenceless, helpless child he had been, either.

But whatever his intentions and plans, the speed of Zechs's reaction shocked him, as did the nature of it; he absolutely wasn't expecting to be pinned into place by an icy glare so cold it made him physically shiver.

"You know," Zechs said flatly, and Treize couldn't even contemplate denying the charge.

"I know," he admitted without polish. He breathed, then laid himself open. "The suggestion to Command came from General Catalonia," he continued steadily, "but it was my idea."

The flare of rage in Zechs's eyes bordered on madness for a moment and Treize wondered if Zechs would actually hurt him. He might well deserve it.

Then the younger man spoke, and his voice was pure hatred. "Fuck you, you utter bastard," he said viciously and turned away.

Treize took the insult gracefully, as due penance perhaps, giving the younger man a slow nod of acknowledgement instead of the backhand slap his words merited. "Perhaps," he allowed. "But there was little room for manoeuvre. As I said, the living or the dead?" he asked quietly. "I didn't enjoy it; I won't in the future. I did what I could, and believe me, please, I prevented worse. Even still, I'll accept your anger at me, but, Zechs," he said, "we both knew this would happen."

And at that, Zechs broke. "I didn't know it would be Sanc!" he wailed, and Treize closed his eyes in mirrored pain. No, though they'd both always known that there would come a day, as Treize sought the command he had to have, when he would give an order that was distasteful to them both, neither of them had expected it to be so soon, or so harsh.

"I know," Treize said wearily. "I'm sorry," he offered. Zechs had covered his face with his hands again, and was shaking with each breath he was taking. "I had to warn you but..." He stopped and swallowed. "Do you want me to go?" he asked carefully.

Zechs shook his head silently, not looking up. Treize got the sense that he was hanging onto his composure by a ragged edge.

Wondering, he took the couple of paces that separated them and put his hand gently onto his adopted brother's arm, chancing Zechs flashing into violent anger. "Illia?" he said, making the nickname a question.

Zechs shook his head again, then tuned and folded, knocking the older man back a pace as he got a grip on his waist and hid his face against his shoulder.

Treize steadied, and returned the hold, drawing him close. Zechs hadn't sought this kind of physical contact in almost a year, and then he'd been trying to offer comfort rather than seek it. "Are you crying?" he asked gently. There was a hitch in the younger man's breathing that said he might be, although he'd yet to make any noise. "You've cause enough, if..."

The blond head against his shoulder shook again, denying that, and it wasn't surprising. Zechs had cried with him before, for other things, but never for the country he'd lost. It was too overwhelming a thing for simple tears to cleanse, Treize thought.

"What do you need?" he offered, and meant it.

Zechs shivered against him, then coughed, pushing away, against Treize's hold, to step back, shove his hair from his face and wrap his arms around himself for comfort. He was flushed, his eyes glazed, but, as he'd said, not wet.

"Distract me," he said, voice low and sounding rough. "Distract me. I can't... if I have nothing else to think about all day, I'll lose it. I need..." he coughed again, pressing the back of one hand to his mouth reflexively, closing his eyes and swallowing carefully. "I need to not have this in my head."

Treize raised an eyebrow. "Do you feel all right?" he wondered. From flushed, Zechs had quickly gone very pale and Treize had seen him hung-over too often now not to know that gesture, though he'd thought reacting physically to emotional stress more his trick than the blonde's.

Zechs shrugged tightly. "Would you?" he asked in reply. "Yes, the dead rather than the living, but my people, my cousins, my parents are somewhere in those graves..." he explained, and Treize flatly cringed.

He'd picked the attack on the graves over any risk to the still-living, in a straight choice, but he wasn't dealing with the impending desecration on a personal level. Would his choice have been different if it had been his parents or Leia in the graves? Or Marie, he realised, knowing his daughter was roughly the same age as Zechs's sister had been when she'd died.

And, yes, the thought of her dead, her grave unmarked and unprotected, was enough to make him feel a little sick.

"I'm so sorry," Treize said, letting his voice show the honest regret he was feeling. "I gave them the only thing I thought would work. I won't," he said firmly, "tell you what the alternative was, but it was far worse."

"Please don't," Zechs agreed. He stepped back again, and dropped into his abandoned chair, leaving Treize to hover for a moment, before choosing to sink to one knee to the side of the chair.

"Would sleep help?" he offered. "You look tired. You could take..." he trailed off, not sure how to say what he wanted to. Encouraging Zechs to pharmaceutical use was not something he was comfortable with, but there were times, and this might be one of them.

Zechs dismissed him by laughing, more broken glass. "Oh, yes. I need to see this stuff more clearly," he snorted darkly. "The pills I use make me dream, Treize," he said. "That's what they're for. To let me process asleep what I can't awake. Great, when it's real and I have no choice, or when I can think of pleasant things. But eight or more hours of this? I wouldn't swear to waking sane," he finished bluntly, rubbing his arms with his hands fretfully, as though cold.

Treize tipped him an assessing look. "That's the second time you've said that," he commented carefully.

"Yes," Zechs agreed. He gave a dry laugh. "I mean it, too. Allow me to say that it is, after considerable practice, possible to feel the edges of your own mind unravelling." Another bitter snort. "Not that I would recommend it as an experience."

"Zechs," Treize started, more than a little concerned suddenly. "Illia..."

"Ask me how I know what's in those graves, Treize?" Zechs said abruptly, looking directly at the older man and making Treize panic slightly. For a flashing moment, the younger man looked fey, his eyes unfocussed and feral. "Ask me what quicklime smells like on human skin and bone. Ask me..." He stopped and coughed again.

Treize caught his hand and stood, pulling the younger man to his feet again. "No," he said firmly. "No. Ilia, stop it," he ordered, letting the command snap that Victoria had taught him and the last few months had honed flow into his voice. "Distract you?" he asked. "With what?"

Zechs shook his head. "Anything," he said, and his voice was fervent. "Anything that stops me having to think. I can't bear it," he confessed. "I'm sorry," he apologised helplessly.

There was a moment were Treize almost understood something, then he shook his head slowly. "Don't," he bade. "Distract you, hmm," he mused, casting around for something to break the day, give the younger man something to focus on.

He almost suggested the new base and the state of the art simulator suite but he didn't think anything violent was wise, and none of their expected guests had arrived yet, not even Otto.

"All right," he said, after a moment, choosing to combine one necessity with another. "Care to play stereotype for me, then?" he offered.

The blond looked at him, and his gaze was inching to normal again, pulled back from whatever edge he'd been walking. "Stereotype?" he asked, shakily. "What stereotype?"

Treize shrugged lightly. "I need to go shopping," he said, trying to force his voice into it being a wicked quip. He was fairly sure he wasn't quite managing it. "And as ever I need help."

There was a flare of something that might have been amusement in Zechs's eyes. "Stereotype, indeed," Zechs said, dropping his hunched posture as he reached eagerly for the option Treize was giving him, switching moods so fast that it was a cause for alarm all on its own for the older man. Treize might not be making his attempt at lighter, but Zechs had – and just a little too well. A jump from half-hysterical grief to sarcastic teasing in the space of only a few breaths shouldn't have been possible for anyone, for any reason, and that Zechs was capable of it said something very worrying about his mental and emotional stability.

A moment later, Zechs almost smiled as he stepped close for a beat, rolling his eyes as he summoned the shade of his former room-mate's camper persona. "Straight men," he sighed, brushing the backs of his fingers lightly and completely unexpectedly against Treize's cheekbone. "Hopeless!" he announced.

Treize blinked at the touch – it was bizarrely intimate, and not something Zechs had ever done before – then raised his eyebrows in outrage. "Hey!" he protested, and got the true smile he'd been aiming for.

"Well, you are," Zechs insisted, dropping back into himself a little. "Give me time enough to get dressed?" he asked. "Where are we going anyway?"

Treize made his own smile stay in place. "Shouldn't you be telling me that?" he wondered. "I am, after all, bowing to your greater wisdom."

Zechs shook his head playfully, banishing the last shadow of the broken, tortured man he'd been not two minutes before completely, with all the grace of long and plentiful practice, and, still, that worrying speed. If Treize hadn't been in the room with him mere seconds before, he would never have known there'd been anything wrong. The reversal was absolute and the on-command acting so flawless that the older man was frighteningly sure it wasn't, in fact, acting at all. Treize could compartmentalise when he had to, but not like that. This wasn't mindfulness technique, or command focus – it was a switch being flipped between personalities.

Fractured to flirtatious in the blink of an eye. It made Treize shiver a little at the implications of it.

He had no time for his musings. Zechs's eyes were sharp on his even as the younger man was laughing softly and backing towards the door.

"You'll regret that!" Zechs sing-songed, reaching for the handle.

Treize buried his misgivings as deep as he could, and tilted his head. "No, I won't. Not if it helps," he answered quietly, unable to completely repress the seriousness.

Zechs paused, looked back over his shoulder and gave him a nod that was heavy with gratitude, then opened the door and stepped through it, feet soft on the corridor floor as he walked away.

Treize waved him off, waited until he couldn't hear him any more, and then sat back down at the table, more shaken than he wanted to admit by the swings of the last few minutes and feeling desperately miserable at his part in their cause.