SWEET DARKNESS
Part 4
Warning: This chapter contains an implicit scene that might squick you.
The hand was clenched on Trowa's jacket so tight that the knuckles were contoured white. For a while Trowa peered at the thin fingers, aware of someone's body pressed against his and then sighed, remembering. The boy, his cellmate - Quatre. Somehow they changed their position during the sleep and now Quatre's fair head lay against Trowa's chest, the boy's breath ticklish on his skin.
His first impulse was to move, to shake the boy off - had Quatre not clasped on him so hard. As it was, Trowa decided he would bear it for a little while longer. His exhalations left clouds of white in the freezy air. So, it must've been day shift again.
Quatre moved suddenly, just a few moments later, raised his head - and his eyes, wide and still sleepy, looked at Trowa through the strands of light-yellow hair.
"We've overslept," he said in a husky, drowsy voice.
"Overslept what?" The strange comfort of their closeness was gone as soon as Quatre shifted, and Trowa's own voice sounded hard and rather unfriendly. "Are you late somewhere?"
Quite unexpectedly, Quatre giggled - as if there was something really funny Trowa had said. A moment later the boy was on his feet, walked to the door and picked up the rations from the floor.
"I knew it. They're not good any more! Totally unpalatable."
"I'm not hungry," Trowa shrugged. It was not quite true; he was a bit hungry. He knew he didn't have fever at the moment but his head felt too light, swimming, and it might be of not eating much during last days. He still didn't think he would be up to swallowing a piece of stale-looking ration.
"Then I'm throwing them away," Quatre declared. Trowa watched the boy splash some water in his face over the bucket, teeth chattering. "You know, Trowa, what I'd really want now? A cup of really, really hot milk with four... no, five spoons of Choco Mix in it."
Trowa wanted to say something harsh about Quatre's preferences but then thought that Choco Mix sounded truly good. He'd had it only once, at a hotel, when he got up before other delegation members and no one could stop him from helping himself. Raymond Dien had lectured him for an hour after that about food being necessity, not pleasure.
Raymond was dead; dead because of him. Recalling that - and recalling how few days he still had left to fulfil his mission was like a cold shower. Trowa got up on his feet and winced in pain. The cloth, once white but now stained in brownish-red, was stuck to his side. He pulled on it and the pain grew sharper as a thin trickle of blood slid down his skin.
"Wet it," Quatre said. There was a flicker of sympathy in the boy's eyes. Trowa frowned. He still couldn't make a conclusion about Quatre. Was he a fraud, a traitor used against him? And if yes - then how could the boy look and act so guileless, so innocent, so... sweet? Something that almost made Trowa have fancy ideas of touching Quatre, his wide-eyed face and soft hair, of finding a word for him that wouldn't be abusive or harsh but nice, gentle... fancy ideas, indeed. Trowa surely had enough self-control not to have them.
And if to think about it, Quatre was as far from innocent as one could be. He was a whore, had sold himself and didn't even hide it. All the rest was an illusion.
But then Trowa had spent two nights holding the boy - and even though his mind repeated to him in undeniable voice that it was nothing, his body still remembered it.
"Wet it," Quatre repeated, "it'll get off easier."
"I know," Trowa muttered. It really did - as he squatted next to the bucket and, shivering, drenched the cloth with cold water. The bleeding was really small, already stopped by the time the material came off. Trowa occupied himself with it pointedly, not looking at Quatre who squatted on the other side of the bucket, eyeing Trowa.
"I know, I know..." Quatre repeated. "I bet you do. You know everything, don't you?"
Quatre's small hand dipped into the water and splashed some on Trowa. For a moment Trowa looked at him, unable to believe it the boy did it on purpose. Quatre met his gaze with a brash, almost fearless smile.
"What did you do it for?"
"For fun."
"Fun? Is it fun for you?" Almost unexpectedly for himself, Trowa reached to the bucket and splashed a handful of water at Quatre. The boy shuddered and laughed.
"Isn't it?"
Another spray of water hit Trowa's face. He pushed his wet bangs away absently. Quatre giggled as water doused him, tried to avoid it and landed on his ass. There was something nervous, nearly hysterical in his laughter and Trowa recalled Quatre's eyes red with tears yesterday. The boy's moods were swinging... but how could he be stable, in a place like this? Trowa had just spent a day and a half there and he already felt something was dented in him.
"God, I'm so cold," Quatre mumbled; his lips were bluish but he didn't look unhappy.
"Why doesn't it surprise me?"
"You'll get cold, too." Quatre got on his feet, walked up to Trowa, reached his hand. After a moment of hesitation Trowa took it. "Come under the blanket."
It came to Trowa's mind that there was not much chance to get warm in their soggy clothes - but there was nothing else to do and Quatre didn't suggest anything, despite of what Trowa could think about him. He just wiggled next to Trowa until Trowa growled at him; then Quatre went quiet.
Minutes passed in silence, the heat of their bodies fighting cold and wetness little by little. Trowa found himself mesmerized with the little steady movement of Quatre's chest against his side. After those days in prison, he'd get to know more about intimacy than probably any other Misque knew.
If only he could be sure he'd be able to come back to the Order... to compare the notes.
But he had to return to the Order, couldn't afford not to! It was a priority - it was what he had to think about. Already two days were wasted here and he, Trowa, didn't even come close to escape. At this rate, Zechs' words could turn out to be true - he would never see the Misques again, would die here...
Zechs; Trowa's stomach lurched at the thought of the morph. His mind refused to recall what else Zechs had said and done - and it was exactly the reason why Trowa made himself recall. Zechs was interested in him... so, he could've used it.
Oh no, he couldn't! An involuntary shiver that went through him was so strong it made Quatre look at him. Trowa shut his eyes tightly, not wanting to meet the boy's gaze. Somehow, Quatre probably was responsible for this thought coming to Trowa's mind at all, Quatre who had no difficulty in using his body to get through any situation.
It all made Trowa feel faintly sick. But the truth was there was no other way, no breach in security of the prison he could use. And if he managed to make Zechs be interested enough to lose his guard... at least it was something he could start with.
Why did it have to be so unbearably difficult? It was not, right? Raymond and others had given more for him - and if to weigh everything sanely, surely getting it on with the morph was not such a great sacrifice for the sake of the mission. He'd heard of Misques sacrificing more.
"Quatre," he called in a suddenly hoarse voice.
"Ugh?" The boy's cheek was soft and warm against his shoulder and for a moment Trowa didn't want to go further, wanted just to stay as he was... and let time slip away from him irreversibly.
"Tell me... about yourself. How was it that you started... selling yourself?"
He felt as, next to him, Quatre recoiled from him minutely. The silence was very long, especially taking into account how eagerly Quatre chatted about everything, and Trowa added awkwardly:
"Can you tell me? I need to know."
Did he need to? What kind of answer could Quatre give that there would be something useful for him in it? Or was it like he wanted to derive courage from the knowledge that someone had been in a similar situation?
Of course, Quatre's situation couldn't be similar. He, Trowa, had a mission to fulfil, he was doing it for a purpose.
"I needed money," Quatre said. "I decided I could as well get paid for doing that."
"Was there no other way?"
"Maybe, there was. I dunno. There was one guy who... well, after I'd lost my sisters... he kind of took care of me. And then one night it... just happened. And after that he said I should earn my living. Then the guy got killed and I was on my own."
It should've been expected - there was nothing in what Quatre said that Trowa could use for his own plans about Zechs. He rubbed his temples; his head felt throbbing and heavy and Quatre's words made his headache even worse. Maybe, it was because of his repressed wish to ask more, to ask different things: how it would feel, would it be very bad to have someone touch your body in such a manner, would he feel dirty after that...
Pointless questions; Trowa knew he would do it - and would hope to gain something from that.
"It was better on my own," Quatre continued and his voice grew animated again. Trowa felt a slim arm intertwining with his again - and for some reason this touch didn't cause him aversion. He was almost pleased his questions didn't put off Quatre - although why would he feel like this? The boy was nothing for him, just a sojourner. "I could keep all money. And I traveled a lot. Some guys were fun," Quatre continued.
Fun... What a strange word, Trowa thought. Fun like splashing each other with water? Stupid idea... but for a moment Trowa thought he would miss Quatre's stupid ideas. If his plan worked, he'd get out of prison; and Quatre would stay... to die here.
He shook his head. He had to concentrate on other things, on whether he'd be able to fascinate the morph enough to make Zechs give him some slack.
The day shift was coming to the end. Quatre, who'd seemed quiet comfortable before now and kept babbling even though Trowa answered in monosyllabics, went quiet and somewhat tense. Submerged in his own scheming, Trowa decided not to pay attention.
Finally their rations landed on the floor and Trowa felt how this sound made Quatre flinch. The boy probably had another swing of the mood as his eyes became dark and huge looking at the door almost unblinkingly. He didn't even move to take the food.
He's afraid they'll come for him, Trowa thought in a sudden flash of intuition; just like they did yesterday and probably nearly every night. This understanding made him dizzy, made his headache worse. Why did he care what Quatre was afraid of? He had no reason to - he'd spent just a numbered amount of hours with the boy and it was not in the codex of Misques to care for outsiders.
Quatre didn't matter; he had to think about Zechs.
The door slid open but the morph that stood there couldn't be taken for Zechs in any way. This one was taller and even more willowy, with short black hair smoothened away from his very pale face; the one who'd taken Quatre with him yesterday.
Trowa felt how Quatre pressed to him, apparently without noticing it, so closely that for a few moments Trowa could feel the wild beating of the boy's heart through their two ribcages. He clenched his teeth, telling himself it was none of his business; he had to mind his own things.
"I see you two got cozy," the morph said, arms folded on his chest. His colorless lively mouth moved, twisted in irony. There was something so loathsome in his tone, almost sickening; Trowa touched his temples unconsciously; the headache made him queasy. Quatre didn't lean against him any more, sat very straight and frozen, his eyes locked on the morph.
"What are you staring at, honey?" the morph said almost mildly. His voice was completely unlike Zechs' but the little note in it, of fake indulgence, of softness that was used just to distract, to lull - Trowa thought he recognized it. "Come to me... my personal little slut."
He watched Quatre get up and move to the door, the morph's long fingers running over the boy's shoulder. Trowa got up on his feet as well; his voice had a cracked, toneless note in it as he spoke.
"I want to see Zechs Merquise."
"Oh?" The morph turned back to him. Trowa noticed that in the corridor, there was another morph there, blank-faced, silent. "You do, don't you?"
Briefly, Trowa saw a flash of surprise in Quatre's eyes - but he didn't want to look at the boy, he needed to concentrate on his task.
"Yes, I do," he confirmed quietly. It was not that the morph needed his confirmation. The creature's eyes, white, seemed to be void of any expression but his mouth was curved in a grin.
"What a pity. I don't think Zechs Merquise wants to see you."
How much he wanted it to stop there, not to go any further. But Trowa knew he had to and pushed himself into continuing.
"Maybe, he will - if you take me to him."
A burst of laughter from the morph was long and loud; even on his companion's face, a wan smile appeared and was gone. The morph looked down at Trowa, obviously exhilarated.
"Do you really expect me to do it? And why do you want to see him, anyway? Oh wait, I know."
Trowa felt heat rise to his cheeks; the thing was that the morph really knew. The rotten creature had guessed it right, no doubt.
"Well, if you ask me really nicely, pretty boy, maybe, I'll agree to substitute Zechs for you. And if I like you a lot - who knows, I might let you take the place of my little whore." The morph's bony fingers caressed Quatre's face absently. Trowa's gaze just slid over the boy; he refused to meet Quatre's eyes, didn't want to see amazement and, maybe, hurt in them.
"You can't substitute Zechs," he said firmly.
A flash of anger dilated the morph's pupils, making them glassy. Trowa watched him step forward as the long-fingered hand sought for the charge gun - and braced himself for pain. The muzzle of the gun pressed to his ribs but he didn't see it, didn't look away from the morph's face. He stuck his fingernails so deeply in his palms that already didn't feel it - but anything was good if it helped not to show his fear.
"Hannigan," the quiet voice of the other morph came. "You know you can't."
Can't? Why not? It didn't make sense... But the shot never came. Instead of that, the morph's face rippled - and suddenly the morph stepped away from him. Trowa swallowed, the spittle feeling sharp like broken glass in his throat. Hannigan was breathing hard, looking at him.
"Merquise said not to..." the other morph continued.
"Shut up!" Hannigan turned to him briefly. "Shut the fuck up, Kirov!"
But it was already clear, and Trowa felt dizzy with the realization. Zechs had given the orders protecting him - for some reason. And Hannigan couldn't touch him.
There must've been something in his eyes that the morph could read and interpret because Hannigan's face distorted in anger. A moment later he seemed to regain control, though. His mouth moved in a cold smile.
"Yeah, right. I'm not supposed to touch you. It's good I have someone I can vent my anger on."
The morph moved so fast, Trowa barely noticed it - turning his hand with the gun, pulling the trigger. Trowa heard a short cry Quatre made as the shot hit him; watched mortified as the boy's thin body collapsed on the floor, racked in convulsions. He became aware of Hannigan observing his reaction only a few moments later.
"Zechs has his own toys," the morph said. "But I have mine - and I'm free to do with it whatever I want."
Quatre finally stopped shivering, sat up shakily on the floor. The boy's breath was coming in short, uneven gasps, almost like sobs and Trowa recalled the agonizing pain in the chest that the charge gun brought. He clenched his fists even harder, catching Quatre's unfocused stare - as if the boy still was not quite lucid. A little trickle of red rolled from the corner of Quatre's mouth.
"Do you enjoy the performance, boy?" Hannigan talked without looking at him, coming up to Quatre, pulling the boy up on his feet. Quatre still looked disoriented, his eyes, dark and wide, slid over Trowa almost without recognition. And at the next moment his gaze stopped on Trowa with a weird expression; it should've been resentment there. But there was not; there was what looked rather like strange hope - as if he, Trowa, was the only one there who wasn't Quatre's enemy.
Maybe, it was true. If only Quatre didn't have to pay for his, Trowa's, impertinence.
"I don't enjoy it," he said, trying to make his voice sound calm. There was no point in saying something in Quatre's defense, he told himself, all it would do would be just pissing the morph off even more.
"Too bad for you. Because I certainly do."
Hannigan's long bony fingers clasped on Quatre's arm, tossing the boy against the wall. The cry Quatre made at the impact made Trowa want to close his ears and eyes, not to hear or see any of it. His heart was thumping wildly, the beating of pulse in his temples hot and hard.
It probably would be easier if Quatre fought or screamed, didn't just take it, with this withdrawn, almost blank expression in his eyes. As if he retreated somewhere inside himself - maybe, somewhere where pain was not.
"Stand upright," the morph said disdainfully, yanking Quatre up on his feet. The boy's thin arm was already marked with fresh finger-shaped bruises. His teeth were chattering again, but now not with cold; the whole Quatre's body was shaking. The morph's fingers pressed under Quatre's chin, making him look up. Trowa could see how the boy's throat worked as he tried to swallow. There was more blood trickling from his mouth.
"Give me a kiss, little flower," Hannigan said.
Trowa looked away in disgust. A part of his brain reasoned - how he was going to do it with Zechs if he couldn't even look at it being done to someone else. But mostly he didn't think anything at all, just felt sick and faint.
"Hannigan," the other morph said. "Let's take him to the barracks, enough of that."
"Enough," Hannigan agreed lightly. "Just one more little thing."
Trowa winced as the morph was next to him again, the creature's abnormally long arms wrapped around Quatre's shoulders.
"I don't want you to feel guilty, pretty boy, for bringing it all on your friend."
Quatre's not my friend, Trowa thought harshly, nothing like that. The misery in the boy's eyes was almost impossible to bear. I don't have to think about it, Trowa reminded himself, I have to think about my mission. But this thought didn't have real strength behind it. All his thoughts were a mess; it might've been because of the sickness... but somehow he couldn't be sure of it. He couldn't be sure of anything.
"In fact, the little whore likes it rough. I know it for sure," Hannigan said. Quatre's face was nearly void of any expression, just his lips trembled. He must've been in pain, Trowa realized, his arm was twisted behind his back at a very wrong angle. "Don't you, Quatre Winner?"
A push made Quatre's arm wrench up a bit more as a short cry got off his lips; Quatre's eyes went unfocused for a moment.
Please say that you do, Trowa thought, and let it be finished. Let them take him away, to the barracks or wherever they were intended to and leave him, Trowa, alone to pursue his own aims. Let him stop seeing all this.
As if it stopped going once he didn't see it. Memories flooded him suddenly, unexplainably - of Quatre's small hand clasping on his as he pulled Trowa up on his feet, his giggling childish voice asking another pointless question, their shared warmth just such a little time ago.
And now the boy was standing in front of him with his eyes nearly black with pain and his lips nearly white - with the morph demanded him to say those words, to humiliate himself even further.
"What's wrong, Quatre?" the morph repeated. "Tell him how much you like it."
For a moment it seemed Quatre was going to say what Hannigan wanted to hear from him - what Trowa wanted to hear from him. Then he made a sharp intake of breath and kept silent.
"Hannigan," the other morph said in a bored voice. "Let's go. Others are waiting."
"Just a moment. Something's wrong with my slut. He's probably forgotten who he belongs to."
The morph's movements were too fast again; Quatre was pushed away, slumping against the wall. For a moment Trowa felt relief, almost believing that somehow it was all over - but the expression of desperate apprehension in Quatre's eyes said him it was definitely not.
"So, you don't like me," the morph said. "I'm really hurt. But it's okay, I know who'll you like, by all means. Kirov, bring Nero here."
The words didn't have much meaning for Trowa but the expression of wild terror filling Quatre's eyes shocked him. The boy scrambled up on his knees hastily, reaching for the morph; Hannigan stepped away so that just the flap of his uniform brushed against Quatre's fingers.
The boy's voice was so small it had practically no sound at all, the words coming disjointed, desperate.
"Please... please, sir... don't... I'll do whatever you want me to... Please, sir... I like you, I like what you do, I like everything..."
His voice broke; he was shaking so hard he couldn't talk. A feeling of premonition seized Trowa, the knowledge that something that frightened Quatre so much couldn't be good - and somehow, in some way it meant bad for him as well. The other morph stepped in, holding a black morph-dog on the leash.
This one was bigger than the species that guarded the passengers in the hangar, its dark muzzle with small red eyes wrinkled and leathery. The morph's face was blank as he held the creature at his feet.
"Here, here," Hannigan said stepping away and Trowa saw how even residuals of hope were gone from Quatre's gaze, shock making his eyes dulled, unseeing. The boy crouched on the floor, hugging himself, as if the barrier of his thin arms could ever be a protection enough. It seemed he couldn't bear to look at the dog - and yet was bound to look at it, as if hypnotized.
"Perhaps you'll enjoy watching *this*, pretty boy," Hannigan said to Trowa. Kirov unleashed the dog quietly, his face impenetrable.
The creature rushed forward, its strong body pushing Quatre down, its paws on the boy's chest as its muzzle shoved against the boy's face and neck. With sick feeling Trowa recalled his own stand with a morph-dog, the pressure of a heavy body, the seeking snout butting into his chest. Quatre made just one sound, a choked gasp as the dog pushed him - and then went silent. Trowa could see blood leaking on his arms from under the dog's claws.
His pulse was beating so hard it hurt. His habitual mantra - about the mission, about what he had to do - didn't work any more, sounded distant and even meaningless. Hannigan stepped a bit closer.
"Come on, kid. You know what to do. Nero loves you."
The dog backed away slightly, as if waiting for something. Quatre's head rolled, his eyes with nearly translucent eyelids closed tightly. His chest was fluttering as if his breath was troubled. Trowa wondered if he was even conscious; he probably was - just gone too far into shock.
"Move," Hannigan said. "You know what to do. Get on your fours, little bitch. Nero doesn't like to wait."
Understanding hit Trowa at the same moment as the dog growled, plunged forward again, its muzzle against Quatre's midriff, its teeth scraping the boy's side. He saw a trickle of blood - and then it all swirled around him as he threw himself forward, his body impacting against the dog's as he pushed it away from Quatre.
So much for the mission, he thought absently.
The dog must've been confused for a second, letting him push it away - but at the next moment it came round and jumped. Trowa didn't resist its weight, rolled on the floor. Nero was over him, pinning him down, the dog's huge head with bared teeth bent down.
"Take him, Nero," Hannigan said. "He's all yours."
The dog obeyed immediately but even as the words sounded, Trowa threw his hands forward, catching the heavy muzzle, pushing it away from his face. The dog struggled against his grip, growling low, pressing down. He knew he would die if his hands wavered. Most possibly he would die in any case. He kept holding, not knowing how long he would be able to keep the muzzle away from his throat - seconds, half a minute? Like through a thick cloth, Kirov's voice reached him:
"Should I call it off?"
"Don't," Hannigan said lightly. "I want to see it."
His fingers were too weak; the muscles in his arms vibrated and with every moment Trowa knew he had less chances for the one move he needed. A move he'd known just theoretically, he hadn't killed a living creature before, even if he knew how. Spittle fell on his face from Nero's muzzle, the dog's tiny eyes glared in his face unceasingly.
It was a matter of speed - and how could he hope to be faster than a morph creation? But he did do it; loosened the grip momentarily, recapturing the huge head again before the teeth locked on his throat, twisting abruptly. His wrists screamed with pain and for a split second he thought nothing happened. Then a soft cracking sound told him the dog's neck was broken.
Nero's paws still continued scrubbing on his chest, tearing his jacket and his skin - but the creature was already really dead, blood-thirst and hatred draining from its dulling eyes. With the last effort Trowa wrenched from under the dog before it slumped with all its weight on him.
The room swayed and danced in front of his eyes, the light in it not yellow any more but red and black. He was vaguely aware of the presence of two morphs there, heard Kirov's lost voice repeating:
"He's killed it. He's killed it."
Trowa made an unsure step and slid down on his knees next to Quatre. His own voice sounded strange for him, his hands felt alien as he touched the boy, asked:
"Are you okay? Can you hear me?"
He felt Quatre move - and a moment later the boy was over him, clinging to him, pasting himself over him, his thin cold arms wrapped around Trowa's neck, the grip almost painful as the boy's skinny body pressed against his, shivering.
"T... trowa..." the word came out stumbling but the hands touching his face, petting it, like fluttering wings, seemed to know what they did. Trowa thought about breaking free, about this closeness being not right, not conforming to the rules - but couldn't find enough self-control to separate himself from Quatre's embrace. "It could kill you," Quatre whispered, his cheek pressed to Trowa's shoulder. "It could kill you!"
"Well, now something else will kill him," Hannigan said philosophically. Trowa looked up at the morph and saw the charge gun directed at him. Now he did push Quatre away, with a reasonable thought that it didn't do for both of them to get a hit - but this thought what the last thing he had time for before pain seized him in white flame.
To be continued
Well, that's kind of dark, I think. So, let it be. The next part (which is almost ready, by the way) is less claustrophobic, I guess. Please let me know if you want me to continue! I appreciate so much all the reviews on ff.net. Thank you, people. Please keep C&C, okay? I need to know someone wants me to go on with it :-)