SWEET DARKNESS
Part 3
"Wake up!" A slap was like a flash of red, making the approaching darkness step away. Trowa felt salty, hot taste of blood filling his mouth. His head seemed too heavy, impossible to raise. Even his eyelids were too heavy but he managed to look up. The morph's long silhouette blurred in front of his eyes. Trowa saw a hand raised again, tensed involuntarily in apprehension but could do nothing to avoid another blow.
"I said stay with me," the morph said.
This one was someone Trowa hadn't seen before; neither in the hangar nor later, coming for him to the cell. Probably just some official in charge of his interrogation... and enjoying it. The morph's pale face with outturned nostrils twisted in a delightful grin as he saw Trowa shiver.
He must've thought Trowa was afraid; of more pain, of what could be done to him as he was cuffed to the chair, wrists behind his back, at the full mercy of his tormentor. But it was not pain that frightened him; Trowa knew positively he could handle it, no matter what they'd do to him. Even as his body and mind were weakened with the vaccine's effects, he still knew he could muster enough self-control not to break.
He was more afraid of truth serum or hypnosis they could use to make him talk. Misque training included resisting that stuff as well but at the moment he felt too shaky to rely on himself.
What a shame, Trowa thought with faint self-detest; he'd let all the others die for him - and now he was not even sure of his own strength. The only thing that gave him hope was that the morph didn't seem to intend using drugs on him so far.
"Let's talk," the morph said. "Here, look at me."
His hand gripped on Trowa's hair, forcing him to look up. Another blow was directed right to his face, making Trowa's lips go numb even as he knew they were split and bleeding. Trowa coughed and spat blood on the floor.
He didn't talk. He decided on this tactic as soon as they brought him to the interrogation room. Not a word to them, not even his name. He couldn't afford any fissure in his defense - and with his head feeling heavy and overstuffed like that, he couldn't rely on his presence of mind to make good choices.
So, he looked at the morph and kept silent.
"Oh, you'll start talking." It didn't seem to faze the creature. "Sooner or later. And so far..."
Trowa knew what the thing in the morph's hands was and felt uprising panic; the cold metal of a charge gun pressed to his solar plexus and at the next moment the world whirled in a blast of pain.
He came round, shaking, feeling numb pain in his cuffed wrists; must've sprained them or something. His breath was coming in small, shallow gasps, almost akin to sobbing and Trowa clenched his teeth in shame, regaining control. Whining like a puppy... how disgraceful.
"You don't waste your time, Ivers, do you? I hope you're enjoying yourself."
The voice came from Trowa's side - soft, smooth, beautiful voice - and a hand came, too - long fingers in while silk glove - brushed Trowa's hair away from his face, touched the corner of his mouth. Blood soaked into the fingertips of the glove.
"Zechs Merquise," the morph said. "I knew you'd appear."
"I said so, didn't I?"
The helmeted morph, the one with his white smooth hair nearly waist-long, moved towards Trowa, lowered on one knee, looking in Trowa's eyes from roughly the same level. His blue eyes... definitely blue, like thawed ice - seemed to be narrowed as if in half a smile - and only then Trowa realized the man's hand still was on his face, not caressing, just staying there.
"I think I'll take over him," the man said thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving Trowa. "While you didn't disfigure him or something."
Trowa didn't want to look in these eyes, wanted to look away - and realized he couldn't make himself. So much for his training, his self-control. Ivers' voice above him was sour but not opposing.
"Do as you wish, Merquise. I have other work to do."
Trowa realized the other morph stepped away, walked out of the room - but most part of his mind was occupied with struggling for control over himself. He shook his head violently, wrenching out of Zechs Merquise's touch and losing the contact with the man's eyes. His sprained wrists hurt worse, he must've been pulling on them unconsciously.
"You don't want me to touch you, do you, little Misque?"
Trowa glared at him and kept silent. Zechs got on his feet lightly and paced around.
"And you don't want to talk. You don't appreciate me sparing you from Ivers' attention, do you?"
Trowa remembered a flash of sling blade in Zechs' hand in the hangar as the morph was going to check if he was carrying something *inside* him. It was vastly arguable whether Ivers was worse than that.
"It's all right, I'm not in a hurry. I have enough time on my hands to achieve understanding between us."
And I don't, Trowa thought. In two weeks he would be dead and the vaccine would be lost.
"You think I need you to tell me something," Zechs continued, pacing, his chin in his curled palm. "Well, you're wrong, Misque. There's little I don't know about you. Trowa Barton, fifteen years old, Lieutenant of the Order, on your first mission... It wasn't a successful mission, was it? So many dead... because of you. Why did they die to protect you?"
Trowa had an answer to that: because an individual life of a Misque was worth nothing. Only the fulfillment of the mission mattered. If it was not him but some other member of the delegation, important for the mission - Trowa would probably die for him without a second thought, with the same readiness as Raymond Dien and others had demonstrated.
But the truth was that a part of his mind was asking the same question as Zechs asked: why did they die? He wasn't worth it... and if he failed now, their deaths would be in vain.
He couldn't show that Zechs' words hit the aim - couldn't reveal his weakness to the enemy. He gathered his strength to look defiantly. A fit of cough spoiled everything.
As he stopped coughing, blinking involuntary tears, he saw Zechs' mouth curve in irony.
"My goodness. You're really sick. What's wrong with you? Is it something you're doing for your Order that is killing you slowly?"
I don't care what you say, Trowa thought; you won't make me talk back.
"I know there's something," Zechs said softly, almost sweetly. His movement was so fast that Trowa didn't have time to prepare to it. He apprehended pain but Zechs' touch was gentle, hand sliding over Trowa's ribcage, inside his unbuttoned jacket, fingers running over the scar on his side. "I can find out any moment I want. But do you know what? Maybe... maybe, I prefer some mystery."
He leaned so close, saying the last words, that it sounded almost intimate, that Trowa could feel his breath, cool and odorless, on his lips. He felt like bucking, trying to get away - but it would mean that he was bothered, that the morph managed to get to him. So, he stayed motionless. A long strand of Zechs' hair fell on his face, soft and ticklish.
"You really can control yourself, can't you?" Zechs' thumb touched his mouth, Trowa's teeth sticking in his lower lip. Strange, he hadn't noticed he was biting his lip. "All that Misque stuff... But you don't deceive me. Behind that - behind the hard surface - you're as human and weak as anyone else. Just a boy... And, telling the truth, Trowa Barton - I like it. Among all those uniformed guys - you were the only one alive inside. With your fears and wishes. I'll get to them, I promise you. I know what you want. I know what you fear."
I want nothing, Trowa thought desperately. And fears... who didn't have them?
"Do you want me to touch you?" Zechs said quietly. "I see how you crave for that, how you lean into my hands. You poor boy... your body knows what feels good, even if your mind denies it."
Trowa protested silently, thrashed, trying to escape the morph's closeness. The silk of the man's hair fell like a curtain over him now. Zechs' hands pressed on his shoulders, not leaving him even that small chance of movement.
"I can make you feel good," Zechs said. "Tell me you want it."
He slipped on his knees between Trowa's legs, his gloved hands sliding over Trowa's chest and belly, moving his hips apart. It was not like Trowa could bring his legs together anyway - but Zechs added to the feeling of helplessness as his palms lay on the insides of Trowa's thighs.
The morph's face was hidden but his small mouth looked pink and soft and smiling. Zechs moved too fast again for Trowa to notice - and then the blade was in his hand, gleaming cold metal. Involuntarily, Trowa made a short gasp - and hated himself for it.
"You're afraid I'll kill you."
Trowa shook his head. A moment later he realized it was an answer, he did communicate with the foe, even if wordlessly. Zechs' laugher told him the man had noticed.
"Or you're afraid I won't kill you at once - but will make it long and painful."
The blade traced the line of the scar, without pressure, then went lower, to Trowa's abdomen. He thought about throwing himself forward on the knife. But he didn't have the right, he had his duty - and while there still was a chance, even a tiny one...
"Or I might just have some kinky sex game in mind. You humans don't consider us alive but we morphs like sex as much as the next guy."
The blade snipped the belt of his pants, cutting the material just for an inch - and even that little made Trowa shudder hugely. The blade was cold but the morph's hands on his groin were warm - unavoidable.
"And you Misques need sex as much as well," Zechs concluded.
It was not true, Trowa argued indignantly in his mind. Misques were celibate by choice, no rule demanded in from them - but no one Trowa had known would ever... And he was going to keep it this way, too.
"I'll enjoy playing with you, my green-eyed beauty," Zechs said. His mouth was smiling below the smooth edge of the helmet.
"Leave me alone."
The words came out hoarse and somehow without real strength. Trowa bit his lip in misery of breaking his silence, having no will-power even to keep his decision. Face very close to his, Zechs laughed.
"So, a cat didn't really get your tongue."
His hands pressed on Trowa's knees heavily as he got up.
"But I have no wish to force you. Break your knees open, wrap my mouth around your cock, suck you dry, fuck you senseless, make you beg for more... Everyone can do it. I prefer to go at my own pace. And tell you what? You interest me only while there is still something untouched in you."
Zechs' long finger tapped over Trowa's forehead and again there was no escape from this touch.
"Studying you amuses me. All the little things that you try to hide. Your fear of being violated... it's endearing, in a way. Almost as much as your wish to be taken. And your futile hopes to finish your mission... I know you still think about it. But I also know what you fear worst of all. And it is not what I or someone else can do to you. It's not even the failure in your task. It's being alone you're afraid of, right? That you'll never return to your Order or they won't accept you. You don't know anyone but them, do you - you have no one. I read the history of Misques - you're an unwanted child, a reject - your mother was the first one to cast you away. If Misques cast you away as well..."
Zechs suddenly stopped - and strangely, the words he didn't say affected Trowa more than anything he'd said. He noticed just now he was shaking, not with cold but with despair clenching his heart. Damn morph, what did he know? How could he know... Zechs' hands lay on his cheeks as the man leaned towards him like for a kiss.
"That's right, be afraid. Because you won't ever return to your Order, you won't ever see them again. All your life before now is crossed out."
Still shaking, his heart fluttering wildly, Trowa worked his mouth and spat, bloody clot landing on the smooth surface of the helmet. Zechs' eyes didn't blink. For a moment more he kept holding Trowa's face, then whispered quietly:
"You're so much like me," - and let go.
* * *
He didn't quite remember his way back to the cell, his body and mind seemed to be disjointed. The only thing Trowa was sure about was that Zechs was gone - and it made him feel such immense relief that there was no place for anything else to feel. He tried to tell himself it was unreasonable - pathetic - to be afraid like that of a morph who didn't even hurt him. But panic mixed with disgust flooded him as soon as he recalled the warm hands touching him in the intimate places, the sound of velvety voice impossible to escape.
Hitting the hard floor of his cell was almost blissful; the cold little room appeared like a kind of shelter in his muddied mind. He stayed motionless until the door locked and then looked up.
The skinny blond boy in his silver-blue glimmering clothes was already there, crouched at the wall, his huge eyes, nearly black, looking at Trowa warily, somewhat questioningly. The boy's face was streaked with drying tears and there were fresh bruises on it.
He, Quatre, could be an impostor, Trowa reminded himself - put here to pry into Trowa's secrets. He had to treat the boy with suspicion, always be on the alert with him. Tears and bruises meant nothing; it could be some ploy - Zechs and others wouldn't be above it.
"Hi," Quatre said in a small voice. "How are you?"
If he didn't want to get anything out of Trowa - why then he would talk all the time, ask those stupid questions, tell those stupid things? Maybe, they promised him some indulgence if he found out from Trowa what they wanted. Trowa looked away deliberately, wiped his face with his palm. His nose still trickled blood; the morphs really had a heavy touch.
Not looking at his cellmate, he got on his feet and walked to the bucket of water, squatted at it and washed his face. Cold drops leaked over his chest and suddenly Trowa's control snapped. Unable to be tranquil any more, he splashed the water all over himself, rubbed, scratched his skin trying to get rid of the feeling of the morph's hands on his chest and below the waist.
No, there were no traces - and come to think about that, Zechs was always wearing the gloves. But the feeling didn't want to go away, clung to his skin as Trowa kept scrubbing himself in despair. There was a ringing in his head that made all other sounds vague and distant but he still realized that the little prostitute was saying something again, in a hasty, thin voice.
He didn't want to hear Quatre, didn't need the other's meddlesome attention. His hands, numb, were awkward and his fingernails, scratching feverishly, caught the line of the scar. Fresh blood sprinkled from under it. Pain and feeling of hot fluid sliding on his chest sobered Trowa. He slumped on his knees, obscurely aware of Quatre's presence behind him. The boy hovered uncertainly, his small pale hands clasped together. Not wanting to see him, Trowa let his bangs fall over his face, shrouding his vision.
"You're hurting yourself," Quatre said. He knelt on the floor next to Trowa and Trowa started away from him unconsciously. Why did they all try to touch him... The boy was not a morph, of course, not an enemy - even if possibly a traitor. "Here, that's for you."
Quatre rummaged in his pants, not into a pocket but between the cloth and his body and pulled out a piece of white material, quite clean, handed it to Trowa. Trowa looked over the reached hand at the boy's pale, badly bruised face.
Why did they have to beat him like this, he thought half-absently. Quatre's midriff looked sore and was covered in black and blue marks as well. Surely Quatre was not a fighter and hardly could cause any trouble. The white cloth in the hand trembled slightly.
"What is it for?" Trowa asked suspiciously. His voice came out scratchy and it really hurt to speak.
"To stop the blood," Quatre said.
"I don't want anything from you..."
The boy shook his head and put the cloth into Trowa's palm. The material still felt warm with the heat of Quatre's body.
The piece of material was probably one of very few things Quatre owned, Trowa thought suddenly - and didn't have heart to quarrel more, pressed the cloth to his scar. Blood soaked through it quickly but he held it pressed and felt the bleeding stop little by little.
Quatre got up but kept looking at him, his head tilted awry slightly. Half in annoyance, half with gratitude, Trowa glanced at him, meeting the boy's eyes. Quatre's eyes were actually blue, not black - just very dark. For a moment Trowa found himself wondering how the boy would look without that terrorized expression in his eyes.
Strange thoughts... they had nothing to do with priorities.
"Thank you," Trowa said finally, recalling that he should've said it.
"Did they rape you?" Quatre asked in his girlish lilting voice.
Trowa flinched as if slapped, staring up at that big-eyed face. How could he talk so matter-of-factly about this... this thing? Like... like it was to be expected. He sought Quatre's face for the signs of gloating or mockery but found none - just something that looked almost like sympathy there.
"No," he said through clenched teeth.
"I just thought... you were washing yourself like mad..."
"It's none of your business."
"All right," Quatre stepped away. Trowa knew his intensity, near-violence frightened the boy - and felt a brief pang of shame. But if it took that to keep Quatre away from him - he would go for it.
The boy settled down in the nest of the blanket at the wall, not looking at Trowa any more. Quatre's fair bangs fell over his eyes in some sad, dispirited manner. Trowa thought it was no good to think about it, turned away. His mouth felt parched and he gathered some water in his palms, swallowed it. Cold water didn't feel so good any more. In fact, it felt like liquid fire on his inflamed throat and seemed to land like a stone in his stomach.
Trowa shook himself, denying the weakness of his body, got on his feet and picked up the blanket.
God, he was really wet. He hadn't noticed it while trying to wash himself but now soaked clothes were clinging to his body, making him shiver. He huddled and paced a little, trying to get warm.
"Did you... did you confess?"
Quatre's voice made him stop, made him look at the boy again. Wrapped in the blanket, the boy looked particularly frail, just his pale face and small hand visible.
"What was I supposed to confess?" A sharp movement as he looked away from Quatre made pain shoot through his head and Trowa had to catch the wall not to sprawl.
So, the little whore was prying, after all, wasn't he? Not that Trowa doubted it - but it still made him feel somehow disappointed.
"Whatever they wanted you to confess."
"I've done nothing."
He thought Quatre would laugh at him, would demonstrate disbelief - but the thin voice was calm, just thoughtful.
"It doesn't matter. I've done nothing as well. I was just with that man... and, maybe, he hadn't done anything, too. But he confessed everything. And I confessed, too."
Involuntarily, Trowa wanted to ask what were the crimes Quatre took on himself but didn't have time to talk.
"Don't confess anything," Quatre said suddenly and his eyes blazed with almost impossible dark-blue at Trowa. "Once you do, they won't be interested in you any more. They'll kill you then. So, try not to do it - as long as you can. Only one day you'll just feel that you can't any more - and you'll want to die."
"Why then didn't they kill you?"
It was not that he needed the answer to this question so much - partly Trowa felt that he knew, could read it in finger-shaped bruises on Quatre's arms, swollen red traces of teeth over his collarbones. And yet the boy's words were not what he expected - Quatre's voice sounding flat and simple, all the expression gone from it.
"Maybe, I'm already dead."
Another abrupt turn made the cell swirl around him. Trowa wanted to look at Quatre, to see the boy who'd said such a thing - but all he could see was floating blackness in front of his eyes.
"You'll fall down," Quatre noticed.
So what, Trowa wanted to say. Now really, wasn't the boy stupid? He claimed to be dead inside - and yet here, was concerned with whatever happened to him, to Trowa, never stopped interfering, no matter how Trowa tried to drive him away. He pressed to the wall, seeking support for his weak legs - but it seemed to be too little. The blanket slipped on the floor as Trowa shivered. His jacket was so wet and it didn't get dry; he tried to pull it tighter over himself but without buttons it didn't want to stay together. He thought about picking up the blanket, tried to reach for it - and almost lost precarious balance that he had. He struggled as much as he could, trying to stay upright.
"Let me."
For some reason Quatre's voice sounded not from afar but quite close; weird - Trowa didn't even notice the boy get up and walk up to him. With his attention dispelled like this - he was really in danger, was he?
"Let me, I won't hurt you." Quatre gave his hand to him - not touching Trowa, he'd probably learned something, after all. "You're such a mess..."
"No more than you are," Trowa mumbled. What ever did Quatre want from him again? But the reached hand looked like a possibility, like another prop for him to support himself. And it probably was warm...
It wasn't, Quatre's fingers thin and icy - but by then Trowa didn't care any more, clasping Quatre's hand, leaning heavily against the boy. His pride reminded him that he should've declined help - but his body felt too feeble for struggling. Somehow Quatre picked up his blanket and put Trowa's arm around his neck and walked him to another wall.
There he let Trowa slip down on the floor and started settling down next to him. For a moment, Trowa's jacket swept open and he felt Quatre's smooth midriff pressed against his bare skin.
"You really needed to get wet from head to toes?" Quatre cursed softly.
"You don't have to..." Trowa muttered but then the thought of what exactly Quatre didn't have to do slipped out of his mind.
"I don't have to," Quatre agreed. "It's just... I hate being alone. I think I'll be alone again, soon - when you die. So, before then..."
"I'll die only after three weeks," Trowa said. "No, already less. Two weeks." He didn't know how these words escaped from his mouth and, cautiously, he looked at Quatre wondering what the boy could figure out of them. Quatre sighed, shaking his head, his light bangs brushing over the golden eyelashes.
"If you say so."
He obviously thought Trowa was delirious. It was a good thing, of course, but for a short while Trowa wanted to reassure him, to make him believe that he was serious, he knew what he was talking about. He felt like telling Quatre everything - about the Misques, about his assignment, about his plans to get out of here. He wanted to tell Quatre about Zechs and the morph's impertinent touches - and, maybe, Quatre could say something that would make him feel better about it all, would make him stop feeling soiled and trespassed... or at least would make him stop feeling it was somehow his fault that he'd allowed Zechs to say and do all those things.
But of course Trowa didn't say anything like that. He felt Quatre's narrow shoulder under his cheek and wanted to back away, break the contact. He had to stop showing his weakness like that, had to stop enjoying the other's closeness and warmth so much.
He even managed to shift a little because Quatre muttered in a sleepy voice:
"What are you fidgeting?"
When did the boy have time to fall asleep? And why didn't he seem to mind Trowa's wet clothes and all the inconvenience together? He sighed, leaning against Quatre's shoulder again - and felt a thin arm wrap around him. Trowa thought some more about getting free and then whispered resignedly:
"Okay, you can hold me. Just a little bit."
Quatre's breath was soft and steady, so, maybe, he didn't even hear - and a few moments later Trowa fell sleep as well.
***********************************************************
Sand leaked in through every crack. No matter how you tried to keep it out, no matter how diligently the cleaners worked - it still layered the surfaces with a thin film of golden yellow. Only the screen of the computer that shimmered with green letters was untouched by the desert, protected by a force shield.
The man brushed the seat of the chair absently and sat down. His other palm covered a nearly empty glass with a habitual, almost unconscious gesture. His eyes, peering, inflamed with constant irritation of sand, never left the changing letters and numbers on the display.
"Almost there," the man whispered. "Just a little more."
On the surface of the table, a sketchy drawing of a rose that he'd done half an hour ago, became blurry and powdered - and with lazy fingers he resumed the contours, uncurled petals of the opened blossom. Then his hand returned to the keyboard - and there was nothing lazy in his movements any more.
He'd waited for so long for this data to be sent. And now he was getting it - and soon everything would be done; everything would be changed. Soon he'd get this opportunity to act, to bring his plans into reality.
Soon they wouldn't be able to deny the truth.
Many considered him a madman; many considered him a criminal. The man's expressive mouth twisted in a small grin at this thought as he emptied the glass in one last swallow. He, Treize Khushrenada, was neither. He knew what he was doing and, more important, what he was doing it for. He'd always known it.
Those cowards in High Command - it was easy for them to judge him, to accuse him of cruelty, of unwillingness to let bygones be bygones. But how could he - who'd seen all that - the piles of dead bodies, adult people weighing like five-year-olds, the air thick with soot of human flesh burning - how could he let it be bygones? Those who'd been there with him never judged him. For them he had been and stayed a hero, no matter what the government called him now.
A rebel; an extremist; a warmonger. Treize shrugged; he didn't care what they thought about him as long as there were people who helped him. Like this source that was sending him the plans of security system of the biggest prison that morphs created in the Central Region.
Morphs... Those abnormalities. How could it happen? The disgraceful truce with the morphs, the defeat of humans... But Treize was not going to give up. And if the government needed violence to make them pay attention - well, he would use violence. It wouldn't be the first time for him. It wouldn't be the first time he would risk his life for his homeland - even if his homeland had given up on him, had accused and convicted him for the sake of keeping flimsy good relations with their enemies.
Lies; lies and betrayal. It all made him sick. In fighting there was no lie.
The bottom of his glass was dusted with sand but Treize barely noticed it, poured another portion of colorless liquid. With a soft sound the glimpses of the letters on the screen stopped. Done! A small icon of a message flashed in the right bottom corner and he clicked on it.
"Good luck, Captain."
No signature; he'd probably never know who was the one risking his position and, maybe, life to provide him with this data.
He got up, called - and people flooded the room - his men, excited, thrilled, ready to act, pushing each other to get a good view of the screen.
Nothing was impossible with his people, Treize was sure of it.
"The prison looks like a mean place."
"So far so good. After we make them see what those monsters do, they won't be able to deny anything."
"When shall we start?"
"No reason to waste time."
His boy said the last phrase; even without looking Treize would recognize the voice, the tone, out of thousands; hard, cold, sound - like a click of a gun lock, of one of those heavy, shiny guns Wufei was so fond of. Slowly, Treize turned back and felt how his heart sank slightly, inevitably as it always happened as he saw the boy. How many years had they been together? Three, four? His feelings never got too old - his aching never stopped.
The thin figure was hidden under long jacket as always, sleeves almost to the tips of the fingers, high collar up to Wufei's chin. The black silk of his hair was almost lost on the black silk of the material. But the eyes stared back at Treize openly, confidently, almost with a challenge.
"Of course, Wufei," he said and couldn't resist, reached his hand and touched the thin fingers briefly. At once Treize knew it was a mistake to do it, knew it even before having done. The movement Wufei made to withdraw from him was restrained, practically unnoticeable - but Treize noticed it all right.
Did he expect it to be different? It would never be different. It was another settling he had against the morphs - his personal one - for what they had done - to him, to someone he loved...
"When we'll do it, everything will change," Treize said, trying to hush the feeling of premonition. "We'll get our honor back, our good names back."
His men replied enthusiastically. So many of them had the warrants issued on their names, the awards announced for their heads - like he did. On the table, under the layer of sand, the dog-eared papers were buried, with their faces and enumeration of their crimes. None of them was a criminal. They all simply wanted justice, didn't want to put up with the rule of deviant creatures meted out in the center of the world.
The moment others were gone, Wufei turned to him, his ink-dark eyes narrowed, flashing. The voice was so flat it seemed there was no expression in it at all - and that made it sound even more dangerous.
"If you touch me once more like that... in front of everybody... I'll break your fingers, Treize." And before Treize wanted to say he wouldn't, he'd finally learn, Wufei continued quietly. "Don't you dare to mark me as your bitch. I'm not your bitch."
"Of course, you aren't." The feeling of helplessness flooded him in a familiar wave - and even as he talked, Treize knew it was worthless, Wufei didn't hear him. "I never meant it like that. If anything, it's... the other way round." His speech slurred.
Wufei's thin ponytail whipped against his shoulder as he turned away abruptly.
"You're drunk."
"No, I'm not."
It was just the third glass today, he knew his norm. Anything more would make the world fuzzy and unclear on the edges while the third glass just made it softer, made it tolerable.
"What if your people saw you like this?"
"They saw me. They noticed nothing. It's just that you know me so well, Wufei."
A brief grimace of disdain distorted the boy's smooth face. Treize shook his head. There was nothing new in what happened. Every day it was like that - and yet every night they shared the bed - on Wufei's rules but anyway...
You're not my bitch... maybe, maybe... I'm yours.
The light of the setting sun - deep, blood red - seeped through the small window inside the room, turning the transparent liquid in Treize's glass first into rose, than into scarlet. It looked like real wine now, not the artificial processed thing one could get on this planet.
Maybe, there would be some time when he'd drink real wine again, Treize thought. If everything went as they planned with their new operation, things would change. He wouldn't need to hide any more, they would be able to move to a normal planet - he and Wufei. There would be real roses and soft grass to walk on. And maybe there Wufei would be different, too.
"I'll go check the flyers," Wufei muttered walking to the door without looking back.
"Wufei..." He couldn't let the boy go like that. "Do you think we'll make it?"
He watched the boy stop, narrow shoulders deliberately straight.
"Don't you dare not to. Do you hear, Captain?"
To be continued
Well, that's it. No 6x3, okay :-) And here's Wufei :-) Lot of thanks to everyone who gave me wonderful feedback to the first two chapters. Without you, I would never get this far. But please continue C&C if you want the story to go on, deal?