Wild Roses

Cold Comfort – Chapter Six

December 22nd AC 191

GUM – Red Square, Moscow Centre

The building was old, Zechs knew, old even before the start of the colonial era, built by the Tsars. It had survived revolution and communism, Tsars and Bolsheviks, and several world wars to still sit imposing, spanning one side of the Red Square in stunning architectural splendour. Glass-roofed, lit for the season, even in the snowy greyness of the day it was beautiful, inviting and elegant, an icon of former glory restored to modern perfection.

Zechs had been before, of course. Treize's mother had nigh-on refused to shop anywhere else in Moscow, sniffing delicately at the very idea of the more modern shopping malls of the sort Treize had taken his family to the previous Christmas, entirely in favour of classical charm and store-managers who knew her on sight and had accounts permanently open in her name. Once, Zechs had been as familiar with the layout of the GUM as he was with the Khushrenada Estate.

But Leia had not followed in the Duchess's footsteps – she was Colonial, and showed it in her preference for gleaming steel and impersonal staff – and Treize had never been one to shop for the fun of it, so it had been years since Zechs, or any member of the family, had set foot through the doors.

Still, it had not changed very much, and the central fountain and the little iron-work bridges spanning the rising 1st and 2nd floors were the hallmarks of some of Zechs's more contented childhood memories, of the years when Treize had been at Victoria most of the time, Treize's father had been away on Duty and Zechs had been faithful companion to the Duchess whenever she missed her son or wanted to spoil her little house guest.

Looking back, Zechs could see that she had been doing it more for his benefit than hers, but there was no doubt that her little secret smile had been genuine and that, frequently, when she'd asked for his opinion on something – a dress, a hat, a perfume – she had been because she truly valued his opinion and his taste, which, by age eleven, had been quite refined and very astute.

It made him smile to remember and made him shake his head ruefully as he realised he should have known then that he was gay. Stereotype, indeed – he wondered if she'd suspected.

"Dare I ask what you're laughing at?" Treize asked, perfectly in step at his right shoulder.

Zechs turned his head to look at him affectionately, seeing the ghost of his mother in the tones of his hair, the sharper line of his cheek and jaw, and in the signature eyebrows. Treize looked strongly like his father, like every other male in his family line for centuries, particularly in his eyes and definitely in the profile of his nose – a trait from the Tsarist blood they carried, Zechs had learned, looking at old photos a year ago – but the dark red-brown of his hair and the ruddier skin had been diluted by the Duchess, a blonde almost as frosty as Zechs himself.

"Would you be offended if I said your lady mother?" he asked honestly. "I was wondering if she knew, about me," he explained.

Treize gave him a curious look, smile lines setting between his eyebrows. "If she did, she certainly didn't say anything to me. What makes you ask?"

Zechs shrugged. "She brought me here, a lot. She'd ask me for my opinion on things."

The redhead blinked, wondering if he'd hit the reason Zechs had insisted on coming here rather than one of the larger, more diverse centres they normally used. Was he summoning happy childhood memories to combat the darker ones stalking him? Would shopping with the fashion-plate that his mother had been have constituted that to the blond? Treize, personally, as much as he had loved his mother, couldn't think of anything worse.

"And that makes you smile?" Treize asked, doubtfully, voicing his thoughts.

"Shouldn't it?" Zechs asked in turn. "She was a beautiful woman with a cracking sense of style. It was a pleasure watching her, and learning." He smiled again. "Handy, too."

Treize shook his head, his expression arch. "For what?" he demanded. "I'm all for looking reasonably presentable, but there's a limit to the basic effort that needs and not much else to think about once that's made." He shrugged a little. "I get that women are swamped with clothing dos and don'ts but that's them. It doesn't map across genders, except for specific occasions, and then I'm usually in one variation of uniform or another and so are you. Problem solved."

They side-stepped a little, avoiding a crowd gathered around a group carol singing for the amusement of the shoppers, Treize smiling a little as the soprano in the group threw her delightfully clear voice up her range, letting the crystalline notes reverberate around the vaulting space.

As they fell back into step, Treize caught Zechs giving him an appraising look and he returned it with good humour. "Yes?" he challenged mildly.

Zechs merely smiled angelically, making his shining hair and blue eyes work for him wonderfully. "You really do let Leia buy all your clothes, don't you?" he said lightly.

"When they're not custom-tailored," Treize agreed, "most of them, yes, why?"

"Because," Zechs said, and he was laughing now, "to quote Julian Larkspur, you do dress well, for a straight man. And you have absolutely no idea you're doing it," he finished. "Your wife is every bit as bad as your mother."

"I don't know whether that was a compliment or an insult," Treize complained. "And, no, she isn't. I don't think anyone ever could be."

Zechs chuckled again. "Yes, she is. Take it from someone who knows what they're doing and has shopped with both of them." He flicked Treize another look, and smiled. "It was a compliment, by the way," he said, a moment later, and there was something in his voice that made Treize meet his gaze, caught a little off guard.

It had happened before, just once or twice, the impression that Zechs was registering him in some way that wasn't, perhaps, entirely brotherly, and it always surprised him.

Half sure he'd regret it, Treize let his expression turn curious. "You would notice," he commented steadily.

The blond blinked, then smiled appreciatively, delighted by the teasing as much as he was scandalised, as he had been every other time Treize had pushed into this area with him. "Yes," he said after a moment, "I would. Sorry," he apologised, but he blatantly didn't mean it. "It's mostly automatic, by now. Don't worry," he reassured.

Treize shrugged. "I wasn't. I still maintain that clothes are predominantly boring, though. They serve a purpose, and not much else. You will never, ever get me to pay the slightest attention to 'fashion'."

Zechs nodded, chuckling at him again. "And that would be why you have Leia. Because she does. It isn't hard, though. Purpose, cut, colour, coordination," he said easily. "Why are you wearing it? Does it fit and is it flattering? Is the colour something that suits you, the purpose and the season? And have you co-ordinated everything else accordingly?"

Treize wondered what he'd done to find himself listening to his mother being recited by his surrogate brother. "I know that," he said.

"I know," Zechs replied. "Hence, you dress well. Leia keeps you reasonably up to date, you wear nothing but neutrals in any case, you have almost everything tweaked to fit perfectly, and you're military-trained to make it neat and matching." He let Treize have an acknowledging smile. "Also, you do have some personal taste, which stops you making any horrid errors."

Treize let his face say what he thought of that quip. "When did you turn into Otto, anyway?" he challenged. "You were perfectly happy in sweat-pants and t-shirts till a year ago. I had to force you to dress properly!"

"More like two," Zechs argued, but it was an admission as much as. "And, oh, roundabouts when I realised people would be looking. I'm not," he said, "nearly as bad as he is, I promise. Or Ari."

And knowing they were past Treize's comfort zone in any case, he forbore from explaining that both of those two maintained that he didn't have to try as hard, because he didn't have to try as hard to look stunning. There was something to be said for being a natural platinum blond, fighting fit and touching 6 feet tall.

Perhaps subconsciously, he shucked the sleek suede jacket he was wearing in deference to the heat in the mall, revealing the clinging roll-neck sweater underneath it and the perfect fit of his dark brown twill jeans. Treize didn't need to look to know that the belt and mirror-polished boots matched the jacket.

Zechs fluffed his hair from his collar and pushed the sleeves of his sweater up his forearms, showing smooth, golden skin, strong bones and sleek muscle. He had his watch on his right wrist and a plaited leather bracelet wrapped twice around the other, closed tight with a silver clasp against his skin. Three coloured charms were fastened around the strands at not-quite perfect intervals, betraying that they had been later additions. The colours, one emerald, one ruby, one sapphire, went not at all with Zechs's outfit, making Treize curious as to why he was wearing it.

The blond had noticed his interest; he fiddled with it idly as he shrugged. "Otto gave me the bracelet a while ago. The charms were a graduation present from Noin. Birthstones," he explained. "She has hers on the chain they came with, Otto put them on his tags."

Treize smiled as he realised that Noin had represented the three of them in her own unique fashion. "Lovely," he said, and meant it. "I haven't seen it before."

"You wouldn't have," Zechs agreed. "It's not exactly regulation."

They slipped around another crowd queuing to see Santa, and turned to take a little flight of stairs to the upper floors, following a silent understanding to start at the top and work down.

"You don't wear it on duty?" Treize asked idly. The Specials Uniform Code said he shouldn't be but almost every officer, Treize included, wore some little bits of personal importance that could be hidden from view.

"I do," Zechs answered honestly. "I just sit it behind my shirt cuff, mostly so it can't slip and catch on my controls. You haven't seen me out of uniform for a while," he pointed out, tone casual.

"The joys of the service, I'm afraid," Treize acknowledged. "It won't get any better." He turned, guiding Zechs with a touch to his elbow to turn left, heading for what looked like a toy shop.

"Catalonia is already talking about giving Remy a second Wing in the spring," he continued. "He needs space to exercise his own command before he goes stale and it's the soonest the regs allow your Captaincy to be applied for. We'd move sooner, I think, but if the last couple of weeks have taught us anything, it's that the Wing Second needs at least that rank." He shrugged. "I'm not sure it shouldn't be another Major, to be honest, but that could cause clarity issues if we ever conduct joint ops, so we're sticking with a Captain."

Treize was lost in his speculation, and missed Zechs's look of shock until the blond spoke.

"Captain?" he spluttered. "In less than a year? I shouldn't even have made Lieutenant yet!"

Treize shrugged again to that. "And?" he asked bluntly. "You shouldn't have made Ace yet, either, or be carrying one of our highest service awards, but that doesn't seem to have stopped you much. I told you in October when I confirmed your rank that I thought I was right to push the double promotion. I'm sure of it now, and I'm also sure you don't need Remy as a comfort blanket anymore."

He gestured dismissively, but his eyes had turned serious. "I wouldn't apply if I thought you wouldn't cope, but, Zechs, three weeks ago, you traded Wing Command back and forward with Remy for four straight days under royally evil circumstances. If you weren't ready, you'd have gone to pieces on me then. You didn't; you are. What's the point in keeping you junior?"

Zechs gave him disbelieving eyes. "The point is that I was bloody terrified the whole time, Treize!" he said sharply. "Oh, and that the one combat I had full command for left me with seven dead pilots. How is that ready?" he demanded. "I was so scared all I could think about was letting Remy take over!"

Treize looked at him, assessed him, and abruptly stopped walking. "Yes, I'm sure," he agreed. "But did you?" he asked.

"Did I what?" Zechs wondered wildly.

"Let Remy take over? Did you?" Treize pressed. He was standing in the middle of the walkway, arms folded, ignoring the irritated glances he was getting from the people forced to step around him and looking very much as he had at the front of Zechs's class for three years.

Zechs blinked at him, then gestured helplessly. "No, of course not. You know that. You taught me better than that!" he replied. "But it was only your voice telling me what a mistake it would be that stopped me," he confessed quietly, clearly expecting to disappoint.

Treize chuckled. "Of course not," he echoed. "Of course it was my voice," he countered. "I drilled you. Shall I tell you I hear Liliya Valadin, and my father," he said, a small smile softening his face. "My father always said he heard Catalonia. If you hadn't been hearing me under those circumstances, it would have meant only that I'd failed you as a teacher."

He stepped closer, watching as Zechs digested that.

"Shall I tell you something else?" he asked, and his face was as serious as his tone was playful. "I couldn't have done what you did that day. You say you lost seven, but three were dead before you even knew you were under attack, so really, you lost four, and one of those was Sinclair's call."

"It's still too many!" Zechs insisted, and it was clear he meant it.

Treize shook his head slowly. "Have you been fretting on this?" he asked gently. "Why didn't you come talk to me? Its both normal and needless. I would have told you that, if you'd asked."

"You were ill," the blond reminded. "And I wouldn't have believed you. I don't now. If I'd been better or older," he said, confessing the thoughts that had first surfaced the evening after the fight, "or you," he emphasised, "then maybe..."

Treize chuckled dryly. "Me?" he asked in turn. "Oh, you have no idea, do you? Do you think that medal was just a PR stunt?" he wondered rhetorically. "Zechs, you were an untried commander twice outnumbered in an awful defensive position. An acceptable outcome would have been your retreat and regroup with the loss of half your force. You defended the initial attack, consolidated in situ and destroyed over 60% of your enemy. And you lost only three of your pilots for it."

He paused, drew a breath, then smiled again. "I couldn't have done it," he repeated. "I actually don't know how you did – and I'm not," he added, as Zechs opened his mouth to protest again, "talking about the way you flew, which was nothing short of astonishing."

Zechs's face was pure confusion, his eyes doubting. "Treize, that's nonsense," he said.

The redhead shook his head. "No, it really isn't. Your Academy scores said it, and now you've proved it. You have me as a tactician," he said, and there wasn't a hint of anything in his voice except genuine pleasure at the fact. "You process in combat faster, and have the better reaction time, too."

"Oh, come on!" Zechs spluttered. "That's bollocks, Treize. No way am I a better commander than you. You can plot rings round me! I couldn't even follow half your briefings in China."

Treize's eyes flashed as he dissolved into pealing laughter. "I thought you looked glazed over a few times," he agreed. He waved one hand in the air, then pointed at his own chest. "Strategist," he said, then pointed at Zechs. "Tactician. It's not the same thing. It does mean we work well together though, which is what I was hoping when I set up the Wing command structure. You give me the battles," he said. "I'll give you the war."

He gave it a moment, seeing the uncertainty in his brother's eyes start to morph into confidence, then smiled. "Now, tell me again why I shouldn't promote you?"

Zechs smiled back hesitantly. "I don't... Treize, you were a Captain yourself only a few months ago," he said quietly.

"Worried about my pride?" Treize asked lightly. He started them walking again as they talked. "Don't be. I shouldn't have been," he said. "Catalonia had approval for my Majority before the end of your first year at the Academy, but he sat on it to give me your second year, for Marie, and then I rolled the dice with him about the success of our little experiment to stay for your third and take you with me. He'd have had me as Wing Commander two years ago and in Paris with him as soon as I had the inklings of enough time in a command post to justify it, to replace my father."

"He can't be happy," the blond said. Not all of that was news; as they'd touched on that morning, the plan had always been for Treize to climb the ranks as fast as he could. "And, isn't a two year delay going to cause problems?"

Treize shrugged. "He'd have been unhappy if this wasn't working," he replied. "Having the time away from active command has let me do other things that are proving useful, and has let me reshape our Wing. Originally, I'd have gone into an existing command – I'd have had to, I wouldn't have had the reputation I have now – and then we'd have pushed change through from the top. As for the delay... well, yes, things are going to have to move quickly, now, but that should make things more fun," he chuckled.

He smiled at the blond, then patted his arm. "Now, what are we here to look for? Because I have a wife to shop for who's not very happy with me right now, and not much time to please her with."

Zechs looked at him for a moment, then shook his head. "Hopeless," he muttered.