SWEET DARKNESS

Part 9

This part is rated NC-17 for consensual and non-consensual sex. Please don't read if it bothers you.

He should've stopped it; why didn't he? Treize pushed a strand of hair away from his eyes absently, shook his head. Should've stopped that comedy, that performance for his sake. He didn't buy it for a moment, knew so well that Wufei wouldn't ever do it with anyone else. Hell, the boy could barely stand having sex with Treize - in the only possible way they'd found by trial and error. How would Wufei bear anyone else to touch his body?

How could Wufei bear it - to be with another person in bed, separated just by the thin silk of the kimono - and then to kiss, or imitate kissing, mimic caresses, down to the most intimate ones? It must've been agony for him, Treize thought; agony Wufei had to endure it for his, Treize's, benefit. Treize didn't doubt it was over as soon as he was gone - but all those moments before it... He clenched his fists. Wufei had said Treize's love was killing him. But what was he doing to himself?

"You want to hurt me," Treize whispered, his voice lonely and forlorn in the empty corridor. "But you hurt yourself more."

There was hurt, though, as well - and, maybe, it was the reason why Treize hadn't said anything when meeting huge, full of distress eyes of the blond boy - just walked away in silence. He should've stopped it - even if not for Wufei, Wufei wouldn't appreciate it - then for Quatre, for the boy Wufei was using in his sick game.

But even though Treize understood everything, his heart was still wounded - and he couldn't be altruistic; couldn't think about anyone else. At least he hadn't lashed out in rage; hadn't let his face change, in fact - walked away as composedly as he'd come.

And couldn't find rest since then.

Anger boiled in him - against everyone: against Wufei because even on the peak of fury it still felt as if Treize's heart was tearing apart with pity to the boy; against Quatre because the blond kid was a participant in this travesty, even if unwilling one. Against the morph - the strange creature with human face and purple blood - the morph Treize hated and yet tried to defend, he didn't know why.

Zechs...

"Show him your weakness."

He, Treize, wasn't weak. He knew perfectly well who his enemy was, Wufei didn't dare to doubt it.

"...share your company with mon cher Zechs Merquise."

Treize heard his own laughter, the sound toneless, insincere even for his own ears. But a decision already crept into his mind, solidifying with every moment. If Wufei thought he should've gone to Zechs... well, that's what he'd do.

The corridors were empty; it seemed his men, exhausted with the storm, went off early. But as Treize walked down to the basement, he still thought what if there was someone with Zechs. What would he do then? Probably what he was doing so well all those days since they'd captured the morph - pretended that nothing happened.

It was quiet down there, however. Treize entered the code and walked in. The light flickered, and Treize narrowed his eyes against the dimness and irritating dust. There was much more sand there than upstairs - more than he expected; his feet were sucked in it almost ankle deep.

The morph lay on the floor, huddled in the corner, his long limbs drawn close under him as if he was cold. His hands were cuffed together and the chain went to a ring in the wall but at least he could keep his hands down. His hair was like a long veil covering the sand around him. The hair was dirty now, matted and sticky with blood and sweat - except a strand or two that still kept that silver shimmering quality about them.

His clothes were so ragged, they revealed more than hid - and Treize thought uncomfortably his people probably even didn't bother to remove them any more to fuck him. The man smelled. Morphs' excretions had a slightly different smell from humans' - and, unwillingly, Treize could distinguish both kinds in this reeking. Cold washed him at the thought: if his explicit words about giving the morph a mask were disregarded, then what a wide field for mistreatment his silence left. He hadn't mentioned the morph should've been allowed to use a toilet, or be fed, or his injuries taken care of.

Of course, morphs were fast healers, just as Wufei said. Breathing sand for thirty-six hours would kill any human. But the sand around Zechs' head was still spattered with blood and his breath was ragged, strained.

The morph didn't seem to react at the light - but when Treize stepped from foot to foot, he must've heard the screeching of the sand and moved, struggling to raise his face. Tangled strands of hair obscured it but even through this mess of long tresses Treize saw something that made him let out an involuntary sound and step closer towards the prisoner.

Zechs hadn't reacted to light because his eyes were swollen shut. Sandstorm could shred your lungs but it also ate into your eyes, irritating them unbearably. Treize suffered himself with it, knew how it felt - and felt unwanted compassion twitch in him. Compassion he shouldn't have felt, by any means.

He saw Zechs recoil from him as he walked closer - the man must've thought he was another one who came to take advantage of him. But there wasn't much where the morph could back away - just till pressing to the wall. His cuffed hands with narrow wrists and long fingers trembling.

He didn't make a sound - and in this silence Treize felt something so broken, so doomed - as if the morph knew nothing he could say would spare him. And yet - suddenly Treize realized it and frowned at the aberrance of this idea - there was something keenly sexual in this forced submissiveness, in complete helplessness of the chained creature in front of him.

He swallowed hard, already not sure what he felt more - anger against the morph or pity. He knelt and reached to the morph's face, pushed the hair away from it.

The broken jaw had healed; maybe, had healed more than once since then, Treize corrected himself. Bruises, no doubt savage, were fading on the morph's face and body. He'd probably be able to recover fully between sessions of abuse - if not for the sand clinging to his body, sand that irritated the skin agonizingly. There were long inflamed scabs on the morph's body, and Treize thought he must've scratched himself, trying to get rid of unbearable itch.

Zechs' blind face was turned to him, his swollen eyelids trembling - and his lips trembled as well. The morph was trying to swallow convulsively and probably couldn't, was too dehydrated. Treize hadn't seen any vessel for water around; another flash of anger pierced him.

It was not what he wanted for his people to do! He wanted purity for them, honorable hatred, wanted them to feel above their enemies. Wasn't it why he kept fighting the morphs even when his own government had rejected him - because he couldn't put up with abominable cruelty of the creatures? If his own people were as cruel - what right did they have to judge?

He let Zechs go, got up and walked out quickly. It took him a few minutes to fill a cup with water and return. The morph lay in the same position, his hair scattered. His breath was coming in short, excruciating gasps.

Treize lowered on his knees, hesitating for a moment what to do, then wrapped the morph's hair around his hand, making Zechs tilt up his face again. The morph flinched hugely when feeling the brink of cup against his lips. There was fear and suffering reflected on his face and Treize thought if he had been tormented like that before, offered water and then denied it.

No one should've been treated like this. No one should've been treated like this, he corrected himself, if you wanted to call yourself human. It was what he could never prove to Wufei...

But then Wufei had harder proves to every Treize's philosophizing. In one thing, Wufei was right: he, Treize, was just a watcher, had never suffered himself, even if all the suffering he'd seen hurt and enraged him so much. And, maybe, that was why he could feel sorry for the misfortunate creature - even knowing what Zechs' compatriots did to thousands people, what they did to Wufei...

Or, maybe, it was because Zechs' face was so un-morph-like? Those blue eyes... he couldn't see the color of his eyes now.

A quiet moan Zechs made returned him to reality - the first sound the morph gave out. Treize recalled about the cup, tilted it slightly to let the liquid seep into the morph's mouth.

Soft sobbing flew off the morph's lips as he drank. He was leaning against Treize's hand now, heavily, as Treize had to support him not to let the liquid spill. As the cup was empty, Zechs thrashed, reaching for more, struggling not to let the brink of the cup go.

"Shh, shh, there's no more," Treize whispered, surprisingly softly. Zechs' closed eyelids were fluttering wildly as he sought for more water; he probably didn't even hear what Treize said. Treize wanted to let him go, unwrap the hair from his hand. And at that moment Zechs strove against him, falling forward, against Treize's knees.

He was probably just too weak - and Treize had nothing else to do but to catch him, support against his arm. Zechs' body trembled against him, hot and nearly naked.

How long had it been since he'd been in such a close contact with anyone? Sex he had with Wufei - the intercourse without touching - apart from Wufei's cock in him and later, occasionally, Wufei's hand on his cock to bring him off... For too long, Treize thought. The feeling of closeness flooded him, amazing, irresistible. the craving was so strong that Treize felt helpless against it.

So close... to hold, to be held... this body against him, breathing, trembling, hot skin under his palms - and the hot breath nearly against his groin.

Arousal was blinding; Treize felt dizzy, disoriented - and yet the need building in him was so irrepressible he couldn't reason it away, couldn't fight it. He couldn't do nothing but to go with it.

He pushed Zechs' head away minutely, pulled his zipper down. He thought about saying something, making a threat - 'Bite me and you're dead' - but for some reason he didn't. There was something about the morph, some pliancy that made him know Zechs wouldn't try anything stupid. He forced his straining cock between the lips that opened docilely, almost eagerly.

He probably was grateful for the water, Treize thought - and it was one of his last coherent thoughts. All the rest was frenzied need and brutal slamming into the straining mouth, the morph's hot lips enveloped around his shaft.

It was crude and messy, nothing like the way Treize considered having sex had to be. The morph was making gagging, choking sounds as Treize's cock pushing in his throat. A trickle of saliva leaked from the corner of the morph's mouth. But contracting, tight muscles of his throat around Treize's shaft were bliss.

He buried both his hands in Zechs' long hair and pulled Zechs' closer, so close Treize was bottoming out of every thrust. And then all his body seemed to be shaken in a long convulsion, pleasure shooting from inside him and out, streaming into Zechs' mouth.

He drowned in the feeling of being enveloped in a hot tight mouth, squeezed in contracting tight passage of Zechs' throat. For a few moments nothing existed for him but the sensations of his body, the glowing pleasure of it. Then he heard agonized, choking sounds the morph made - and drew away.

Zechs slipped on the floor, shuddering, coughing excruciatingly. His mouth was half-opened and Treize saw his come leaking on the morph's chin, saw some of it coming from Zechs' nose. The morph writhed on the floor, catching the air desperately.

The sight was so hideous... was it him, Treize, who had done something so ugly? Zechs was disgusting, pathetic... And yet in the pained movements of the tormented creature, there was something that pierced Treize's heart with pity. Almost without realizing what he was doing, he reached for the morph's face, pushed blood- and come-smeared hair away from it and stroked Zechs' cheek pacifyingly.

For a little while Zechs continued to shiver - and then, incredibly, seemed to relax under the touch, almost lean into Treize's stroking palm. It shocked him so much he jerked his hand away. How could it be... how could he seek comfort with the same person who'd just raped him?

He, Treize Khushrenada, had just raped a prisoner. Wufei... Wufei would be delighted to know; it would make his revenge complete.

Wufei... if Treize hadn't known him so well, he would think the boy orchestrated it all. But of course it was Treize's own choice - and his own crime he'd perpetrated.

Zechs seemed to go quiet on the floor; sperm and blood stopped leaking from his nose. Treize shivered at the thought of his own fluids adding to the crust of dry excretions on the morph's body. He couldn't bear it.

"Get up," he whispered, pulling on Zechs' wrists. He didn't think that the morph could be dangerous with his hands free - or, rather, barely thought about it. The morph's hands fell listlessly when Treize ran the card opening the cuffs on them. Treize pulled him again, trying to make him get up - and Zechs slumped back, obviously exhausted beyond limit.

"What shall I do with you..." Treize muttered in sotto voce - and suddenly Zechs' head jerked. He realized he had been just whispering before then - and now Zechs heard his voice - and recognized it. There was a painful frown between Zechs' thin eyebrows as if he struggled to understand something. His voice was like a rustle of paper, hoarse and weak from fatigue, as he whispered:

"Treize Khushrenada."

"Yes, it's me," Treize said and braced the morph's arm around his shoulder. Zechs leaned over him, heavy and almost lax, his feet tracing the floor awkwardly, as Treize half-walked, half-carried him upstairs.

* * *

The morph sat crumpled on the bottom of the tub, leaning against the wall, as the water ran over his body. At first he'd caught the water with open mouth greedily but then had enough and went listless, still. His long hair, wet, had a sandy color now, clinging to Zechs' shoulders and chest. Treize took the shower from the hook and directed the jet at the morph's hair, gathered it in his hand. Sand still could be felt in it, so, Treize squeezed some shampoo in his hand and foamed the strands.

What surprised him most of all about what he was doing was that he didn't feel it as anything strange; his mind understood it was not right - to have the morph in his room, in his bathroom - to wash him. And yet there was a weird feeling of everything being perfectly natural.

Zechs didn't struggle, just took it pliantly as Treize washed him; later, as Treize finished with his hair and started with his body, the morph just moved minutely, allowing him the access to wash the sand from the scabs. He didn't say a word after acknowledging Treize's name - and while a part of Treize twitched, apprehending a question or a remark, a part of him reveled in this silence, in not necessity to explain anything.

He touched the morph's face carefully, cleansed his eyes. Swollen eyelids with sticky eyelashes opened at last, blue of them almost lost in the darker color of irritation. The look of Zechs' eyes was painful, tired, somewhat subdued. As if he expected nothing from Treize, was equally ready to pain and to mercy.

The morph was young, Treize realized suddenly; his face, quite beautiful on human standards, had that vulnerability of immaturity in his eyes and mouth. Then, when Treize had first seen him, in prison, Zechs looked so different - powerful and arrogant in his smart uniform and shiny helmet. But now, stripped of everything - his clothes, his mask, his dignity - he was just a young man, probably nineteen or twenty.

A man, a human... The face was deceptive, Treize reminded himself; even with this face Zechs Merquise was the same kind of murderer and torturer as other morphs. He shouldn't have forgotten about it.

"Now. Get out," he said.

Standing on the bathroom floor, dripping water, with a towel around his shoulders, the morph looked almost defenseless. His eyes blinked, seeing now, but still inflamed.

"Come on, wipe yourself."

It seemed Zechs needed to be ordered to do every small thing, was unsure what to do or afraid to be wrong. Treize rummaged in the shelf and picked a tiny plastic bottle. As he took Zechs' face, the morph resisted for the first time, panicked, making small sounds that were almost close to whimpers, his hands pushing against Treize's desperately.

"It's okay, it's okay," Treize said in a reasonable voice. "It's just eye drops, I use them myself."

Zechs' chest fluttered as he let Treize apply the drops.

"Come with me."

The morph ate sitting in Treize's bed. The sight almost mesmerized Treize. What was he doing? What other crazy thing was he going to do? His people wouldn't think anything bad, he was sure, they knew how he hated morphs. They'd think he wanted to get his rocks off, just preferred to do it in proper surroundings, an aesthete as he was. And wasn't it true?

Zechs had a delicate, almost dainty way of eating, as if he was not starving for days. His eyes were cast down, not looking up at Treize even once. The strands of silver-white hair were getting dry, turned lighter shade little by little.

He picked the plate and the cup from Zechs - and here the morph looked up at him, with a careful, serious gaze.

"Thank you." The voice sounded quiet, restrained. Zechs' long-fingered hands that lay on the edge of the blanket, clasped hard on it - neither pulling it up to cover himself more, nor pushing it away.

He expects me to fuck him now, Treize thought. Wasn't it fair? He'd given Zechs to drink and then fucked his mouth; now he'd washed him and let him eat - and these things had to be paid for - and somehow he knew the morph wouldn't refuse paying.

There was a distant thought in his mind, seemingly belonging to someone else, that Zechs didn't have to be submissive with him, could try to fight him. It was even dangerous - to be alone in the room with a being much faster and stronger than a human, even in the weakened state Zechs was; Treize's gun was in a table drawer, quite far away from the bed.

He just knew somehow Zechs wouldn't attack him. There was something about the morph - something lost; it was not just due to physical injuries - whatever else but it'd been just days, could the creature be so broken within such a short term? It was more like Zechs didn't seem to... what? motivated to struggle.

The thought suddenly made Treize breathless. He couldn't deny it any more: the idea of the man, completely submissive in his hands, was driving him crazy with arousal. This slender narrow body completely belonging to him, this smooth hair threading between his fingers, this soft pink mouth of a child, of an innocent, stretched around his cock...

A pang of desire was violent - an almost mindless feeling that seemed to leave nothing of his control intact. Treize wanted to possess this body, to use Zechs at his pleasure, roughly or playfully - just as he wanted it.

He'd never known this feeling before. In his love affairs, before Wufei, there was always so much dignity - enjoyment coming from the feeling of camaraderie rather than from passion. And with Wufei - during that period of time, too short, when Treize had already known he wanted to be with the boy for all his life, and before the disaster happened... He always dreamed how it would be between them for the first time, how gentle he would be, how they would treasure every moment of their intimacy.

It was never to happen - and his intimacy with Wufei was a farce, a perversion... through the fault of such creatures as Zechs Merquise, through their crime...

Treize's chest heaved; he didn't know what he wanted more - to hit Zechs or to kiss him. He raised his hand and saw an involuntary flinch of Zechs - and it weakened him suddenly, turned his anger into sorrow. He touched the morph's face, non-violently, carefully, ran his fingers over the high cheekbone. Zechs' eyes, already slightly less irritated, were wide, looking at him mesmerized.

A strand of silky hair was under his fingers and Treize pushed it away, and then leaned down and put his mouth on Zechs'. He felt a small trembling of the morph's body, instinctive movements, but soft lips opened for him without resistance, letting his tongue in.

Pleasure shot through his brain in a luminescent arc. Just a kiss... He had forgotten what a kiss could be, this melding of mouths, a tongue sliding against his. Treize gasped, pressing their mouths closer, drinking Zechs' taste, soft acceptance of Zechs' lips.

His stare was not quite clear as he backed away. Absentmindedly, his fingers kept caressing Zechs' temple, fingering a tress of smooth hair. He looked at the morph and met a strangely wild, as if uncomprehending gaze of dark-blue eyes. Zechs raised his long-fingered hand and touched his mouth carefully.

This gesture, this look broke something in Treize. He didn't reason any more. He leaned down again, kissing the hand, kissing the lips, feeling Zechs respond to him hastily, almost clumsily. Treize intertwined his fingers with Zechs', not feeling disgusted at their length, at this clear sign that the creature wasn't human, after all. Zechs raised his other hand tentatively, touched Treize's face - and, overwhelmed with strange gratitude, Treize turned his face, kissed the palm.

He stretched along Zechs' body, a blanket and Treize's clothes separating them - and Treize worked on these barriers, first pulling off his own clothes, then pulling the blanket away.

The morph shivered; his small pink nipples were hard and upright and his cock, heavy and lined with bluish veins, was hard, too.

For a few moments Treize looked at it; morphs had bigger genitals than humans, he knew it - and Zechs was not different. He looked up at Zechs' face and saw a lost, guilty expression on it - as if the morph couldn't understand how it happened and expected to be punished.

"You're beautiful," Treize said.

A long shiver that went through the morph's body hardly could be caused by these simple words. Zechs' blue eyes looked at him, blinking, a kind of question frozen in them. Then the morph took Treize's hand and pressed to his face.

It was the strangest feeling he had; there was urgency in Treize's groin, the need of release, as soon as possible. And yet there was also some melting inside him that made him linger, made his fingers explore Zechs' face slowly, by touch. He touched the morph's throat and collarbones, caressed the smooth warm skin covered in fading bruises. Then he sighed and took one of Zechs' nipples in his mouth.

A sound broke from Zechs' lips, surprised, inarticulate one. Treize worried his nipple with his tongue and lips, gentle then hard, then gentle again. He heard Zechs started moaning, in long painful sounds - and wanted to cover his mouth but then thought it was nothing. If someone heard it, they'd thought he hurt the morph.

He missed it so much - he hadn't known it himself but now Treize realized it: he missed touching another body, with his hands and lips, missed bringing pleasure, applying his skills to make the other arch under him in passion. Missed these sounds, the taste of the other's skin on his tongue.

Zechs' hands, light and as if unsure - but more bold with every moment - moved over his back and neck, patting, pressing his head down to the morph's chest. Treize's hand moved down and Zechs spread his thighs for him obediently.

I can fuck him now, Treize thought. It'd hurt him, he must've been all sore down there - but Zechs would take it from him, Treize didn't doubt it. He felt an ache in his chest and shuddered, struggling with himself. He met Zechs' eyes and saw a strange, serious look that seemed especially vulnerable just in this seriousness. An expectant look.

It was probably what made Treize's mind. He moved down suddenly and took Zechs' cock in his mouth.

It was big enough for making it uncomfortable, for taking some time for Treize to get accustomed to it. He heard a surprised, broken gasp Zechs made - and he slid down with his lips along the shaft as much as he could. The morph's precum was bitter-ish, faintly caustic on his tongue. Treize licked the shaft, traced the veins on it - and then went down again, taking Zechs' cock as deep as possible.

He wouldn't fuck Zechs; he knew there was a part of him that wanted to hurt the morph, to break him and to enjoy the complete power. But there was another part and Treize was going to go along with this one - and this part of him cherished the unexpected, self-abandoned response coming from Zechs. He didn't want to ruin it by hurting his lover... his partner.

He sucked on Zechs' cock and reached to his own shaft simultaneously, slid his hand along it. So, how different was it from pleasuring himself on the nights Wufei kept him away from his bedroom? But it was different, Treize just couldn't explain how. It was different - to feel the other's body shudder in unison with his in approaching orgasm, to hear Zechs' desperate, sobbing moans as the morph's cock pushed into his mouth.

Treize felt an orgasm quake himself, his come spurt on his fingers, when Zechs' sperm filled his mouth, leaked into his throat, bitter and astringent. The morph made some hitching breaths, his body trembling. Treize looked up at him, meeting widened blue eyes through tangled strands of white hair.

"Faster," the morph whispered. "Don't swallow it. You have to wash it out."

Do you think I don't know it? The thought was so bitter and ironic that Treize couldn't help chuckling. And yet it surprised him somehow that the morph decided it was necessary to warn him.

He walked off to the bathroom; he did swallow some of it, couldn't help it - and now had to use his two fingers to throw up. A romantic conclusion for the event, he thought sarcastically, rinsing his mouth - but it was cold sarcasm, not what he really felt.

His real feeling - and suddenly he felt compelled to admit it - for a moment without reasoning, without explaining anything and feeling guilt - was that it was worth it. He didn't regret anything.

***********************************************************

Everyone seemed to be busy except him. As if since he'd given his consent to Quatre, things were taken from Trowa's hands. It was not that he couldn't take his word back, Trowa mused, looking at the shadows of nettings on the ceiling above him, once everything was over; but no, he couldn't, of course. He needed Quatre's help to finish his task; one more day and it would be too late, he wouldn't be able to run a flyer even if a corridor opened. But he also knew somehow that Quatre didn't expect him to go back on his word, believed him implicitly when Trowa said his 'yes'.

It was absurd - but he felt he couldn't disappoint Quatre.

You'd better disappoint him than let him suffer, he thought harshly - but then again, what other possibility was there? Having Quatre carry the vaccine would give them three more weeks.

Doctor J and Wataru prepared instruments while Quatre sat on his bed cross-legged, chatting with the doctor.

Treize stopped by a little while ago and, using a moment when everyone was away, Trowa said to him:

"There was nothing between Quatre and Wufei."

He was afraid Treize could keep a grudge against Quatre; of course, he didn't think Treize would act out of jealousy - but Trowa felt bothered and strangely discontent with the thought that Treize might've thought badly about Quatre.

Despite his apprehension, there was no distrust at Treize's face. His eyes seemed sad and somehow distant, looking at something that was not here at all.

"I almost wish there had been," he said incomprehensibly.

At last J and Wataru seemed ready and Quatre flopped down on his bed, his shirt in a heap on the floor. Trowa saw a bright grin on the boy's face as Quatre answered at J's question:

"Ready for your flu marathon?"

A moment later Quatre turned to him, the same huge smile making his face all lit up, radiant. His eyes seemed almost aquamarine blue when he smiled like this, Trowa thought. He hadn't seen Quatre like that before... so easy, so comfortable. As if he was happy to do what he was going to do.

"Don't worry," J kept muttering while preparing a syringe. "It'll be just a small prick and then you'll feel nothing there."

Wataru was doing the same with Trowa. Anaesthetic that Wataru used was probably different from the one Oatta had used - but the effect was the same: he stopped feeling his left side, down from the midriff.

"Cold," Quatre said, giggling.

He looked at Trowa, he couldn't see the scalpel in J's hand - but Trowa could see it all right. He bit his lip not to cry out, not to stop it all. He had to do it... for Raymond, for all others who died; he, Trowa, owed it to them.

But why was Quatre doing it? Why? Trowa almost whispered it, looking at the boy's big-eyed face, the pale mouth slightly open in a shadow of smile. Quatre was getting nothing out of it; and even the fate of the Northern Region - what was it for him?

He saw Quatre shiver suddenly - and then a thin arm reached to him, and Trowa clasped his hand on the small cold fingers. It didn't hurt but he felt his skin separated and Wataru's fingers fish in the slash for the capsule.

He didn't want to see it; he pointedly looked nowhere but at Quatre, submerged in the blueness of the boy's eyes.

Please don't look away, he begged silently. He didn't know why it was important - but it was; he wouldn't be able to bear to look anywhere else. And Quatre's eyes never left his, as Quatre's hand kept holding on his all the time.

He saw Quatre wrinkle his nose, not in pain but in unusual sensation, when Doctor J placed the capsule into his body. With his peripheral sight Trowa could see blood that J dabbed from Quatre's skin - and then a curved needle with colorless thread.

And then darkness flooded over him and it felt like someone had switched off the light - and he stopped seeing Quatre's face and regretted it at the last moment.

When he came round, the doctors were gone. He lay in his bed, covered to the waist with a sheet, and there was a tight bandage going around his ribcage and belly.

And he didn't feel sick. It was almost incredible; for those weeks the sensation of stuffed, inflamed nasopharynx and sore throat became almost habitual - almost as if it was his normal state, a natural one. But now it was easy to breathe... and he was warm. Not cold or hot but delightfully, perfectly warm.

He raised his head, enjoying the feeling of lightness, and saw Quatre sitting on his bed. The boy's shirt was off and there was the same kind of bandage going around Quatre's chest.

Quatre smiled, with a slow, radiant smile, looking at him.

"Are you all right?"

The boy's voice still wasn't hoarse, so, Trowa realized it must've been less than three hours passed. Quatre pulled on his blond bangs, his eyes shining.

"Never been better," Trowa said.

"Good. Me too."

It's temporary, Trowa wanted to say. Quatre slid down on the floor and stepped to Trowa's bed. He must've exaggerated, saying he'd never felt better, because he swayed and started falling over Trowa awkwardly. Trowa caught him and held, looking in the shiny blue eyes just in inches from his face.

Everything else was easy - as if it was supposed to be this way: Trowa's lips on Quatre's, the boy's soft face cupped in his hands, Quatre's thin body stretched along his, their chests separated by layers of gauze. He sucked on the boy's lower lip, so sweet and soft, and felt Quatre's hands playing with his nipples as Trowa's own hands roamed over the boy's body, exploring its thinness, narrow lines and smooth skin.

He felt Quatre's hand on his cock - and opened immediately, eagerly, looking in the blue eyes with spirals of light in them.

"Do it, please. I want you to..."

Quatre looked at him for a moment, then nodded, not asking anything - found by touch a tube of the ointment in the nightstand between them. Trowa shivered and clenched, feeling a slick finger move inside him. But there was no pain and Quatre kept smiling and stroking his hair - and then Trowa felt second finger added, stretching him.

He held on the sheet, scared like he hadn't been scared even when taking the vaccine from Oatta - and yet resolute. Quatre kissed him, softly, on his lips, and the raised Trowa's legs - and Trowa felt something pushing inside him.

There was a brief flash of pain but not much, and Quatre waited, stroking his thighs, looking at him. Then he moved, frowning, moved again - and Trowa gasped and stared with an unfamiliar sensation. Quatre smiled, thrusting again, causing the flare of pleasure shoot through Trowa once more. Trowa clasped the sheet in his hands, unsure of anything any more, feeling his body like something new and amazing for him.

"Pretty baby," Quatre said. "You're so tight."

The words were silly but said by Quatre, in the gentle, childish voice of his, they suddenly made Trowa flush and feel warmth flood him as his cock pulsed with pleasure.

He reached his hands and took Quatre's face in them and looked at the boy as Quatre kept thrusting, and warm waves spread through Trowa's body from his movements.

"Prince," Trowa whispered so quietly he didn't know if Quatre heard him. "My prince."

Then he was coming, and Quatre thrust a few more times into him and then went still - and then slid down next to Trowa, his arm across Trowa's chest. Trowa hugged him and pulled closer, put the blond head on his shoulder, submerged in Quatre's smell and weight and feeling of smooth skin against his.

He closed his eyes and sleep overcame him - and when Trowa woke up again, Quatre was already burning and delirious, tossing and turning in the ring of Trowa's arms.

To be continued

You don't think everything is going to be well and fine now, do you? :-) Because I have a few more chapters in store, you know :-) Lots of thanks and hugs for those wonderful people who write wonderful reviews oh ff.net! Please keep C&C! Pretty please!!!