SWEET DARKNESS

Part 10

This part contains implications of abuse that might squick you. Read at your own risk.

It wouldn't happen ever again.

Treize didn't need to remind it to himself - because he knew it so well; it was a fact, an ultimate reality. Yet he repeated these words as if afraid to forget. It wouldn't happen again... The night he'd spent with the morph was madness and mistake - madness that filled his body with forgotten, almost unfamiliar lightness, made excitement sing through his blood. But it was all over; better not to think about it.

In silence of his office he leaned back on the chair, looking nowhere, seeing just the blur of the computer screen in front of him. His fingers moved lightly, unconsciously, in a stroking, caressing gesture - as if it was not the air he felt but softness of skin, and smooth long hair, and vibration of a responsive body under his touch.

Nothing changed. Neither his hatred to morphs, nor his helpless love to Wufei... nor the anguish these two feelings brought him. With Zechs it had been just... sex, nothing more. Treize had given in to the urges of his body and lost control. He wouldn't allow it again.

And if he tried very hard, he would possibly be able to forget that there had been anything at all, that night they spent together, those moments when he felt so good... felt almost happy.

Maybe, in some other life, in some other world, it all could be different; he and Zechs could be allies - comrades... lovers?.. They would talk, would trust each other... and there wouldn't be such burning feeling of guilt...

Guilt both for what he'd done to Zechs and what he'd done to Wufei.

"I almost wish they had..."

Treize smiled wryly thinking about the words he'd said to Trowa Barton. It was hardly true: how could he want anyone else to be with Wufei? And it was not even that he looked for a justification. He wouldn't feel less like a traitor anyway.

He should've talked to Wufei, Treize thought; should've tried to explain and accept everything Wufei would say. But Treize had never done it, couldn't work up enough courage. Perhaps Wufei was right: he was weak.

He reached for the glass blindly, filled it. A knock on the door was cautious, as if a person didn't insist on it being heard or even would rather it not to be heard. Treize put the glass away.

"Come in."

The man was young, a little more than a boy, with pale anxious face and unsettled look in his widened eyes.

"Sir..."

"What happened, Jackson?"

"Sir... I don't know... It's probably not my business but... but I think it goes too far..." He stalled, then took a deep breath and finished. "Maybe, you can go take a look."

"At what?"

"Lieutenant Chang... he's with the prisoner."

"I see."

Treize was already on his feet, saying that. He knew at once what Jackson meant... oh God, he knew it. He felt his hands start trembling.

"Thank you, Jackson."

He passed the young man, walked swiftly along the corridor. Anger made his movements sharp, edgy. Wufei, damn you, what are you up to again? But Treize knew the answer, didn't he? Up to nothing good. After that night, when Treize had given the orders not to beat or rape the captive any more, Wufei didn't oppose it, didn't react in any way, just took it with his usual gloomy attitude. Did Treize let himself be deceived?

He rushed down the stairs; heat and cold flooded him alternately. He should've been more wary about Wufei, shouldn't have taken it for granted that the boy would suppress his hatred...

The sounds caught on him on the steps: not screams - but stifled moans, probably muffled into a gag - and sounding even more harrowing because of that. Shocked into motionless for a moment, Treize touched the wall to prevent himself from swaying. His heart thudded in agonizing tempo. A voice came:

"Here, hold him tighter. Look, he's thrashing again. Now cauterize it."

Smell of burning flesh choked him, made him nauseous. Treize made a few fast steps, entering the room. His fists were clenched tight enough to wound the flesh of his palms - enough to let him muster at least an imitation of self-control.

But the time he came in, the sounds almost stopped. There were two other men in the room, apart from Zechs and Wufei - the two whom Treize knew as the biggest haters of morphs. No wonder Wufei managed to secure their assistance, he thought bitterly. They looked at him, fear mixed with stubbornness in their eyes. He felt dizzy with effort not to let out his anger.

Wufei stood at Zechs' chair, looking at Treize, his face somewhat thoughtful as he bit his lip absently. He didn't seem to look scared, and it didn't surprise Treize; then he put on the table what he'd held in his hands - a small gas burner.

There was blood coating Wufei's hands - purple blood - and blood was everywhere, on the floor, on the table; its sweet metallic tang made the air difficult to breathe. Zechs' hands were covered in blood as well.

Zechs was tied to the chair, his arms fastened to the elbow-rests tightly. There was something wrong with his hands, Treize thought, but he couldn't figure out what, refused to figure out. He looked at Zechs' face instead, met widened in pain and terror black-blue eyes looking at him with open, undisguised plea. There was a stripe of adhesive tape covering Zechs' mouth and the breaths he tried to take were hitching, broken.

Treize stepped towards him, tore the tape off - and the morph gasped greedily, blood and bile leaking from his mouth. He was shivering like a sick animal, Treize thought. He still couldn't make himself look at Zechs' hands, even almost knowing what he'd see: could guess it after noticing the wire-cutter on the table.

He looked at his men again, finally able to take control over his voice.

"You two. Go to the brig. I'll investigate it later."

"You can't punish them, they didn't break your orders." Wufei's voice was almost sweet. The boy stood leaning against the table, his hand almost touching a shiny puddle of blood there. Well, he couldn't be more smeared with blood, could he, Treize thought.

"Didn't they?"

"As far as I understand, you said not to 'beat or rape the prisoner'. It's your very words, Captain. Of course, you can say that I knew what you meant." Wufei shrugged. "Maybe, I did. But the interpretation of your order belonged to me. You shouldn't have made me your second in command, you know. I told them what to do - and they had to obey."

There was complete fearlessness on Wufei's face - to what Treize could do to him, to any punishment that could follow. The challenge was there: you can't punish them unless you punish me; and will you punish me - over an enemy, over a morph?

Treize felt pain slamming through him, spreading through his chest like fire. He looked away, biting his lip, taking control over himself. As he spoke again, his voice was flat:

"Downey, Carter, you can go."

They walked out, without a word. It took a few seconds - and it was about as long as Treize could bear, before the words broke from him, almost breathless:

"What have you done?"

"What?" Wufei repeated, his head tilted awry almost slyly, then made a step towards Zechs. The morph was limp on the chair, his hair matted with blood and hiding his face - but as Wufei neared to him, he jerked suddenly, in panic. His chest fluttered oddly, gasps coming through his clenched teeth. "Nothing much. I thought since you find him so attractive, why not to make him even more human-like? You'll enjoy fucking him even more then."

Wufei grabbed Zechs' hand, twisted it up - apparently causing the morph keen pain because Zechs shrieked in a broken, bird-like voice. And now Treize couldn't deny any more what he saw - Zechs' fingers that looked too short; normal for a human but one phalanx too short for a morph - the tips burnt and still bleeding, with whiteness of bone under the charred skin.

"Don't touch him!" Treize hissed. Wufei gave him a strange, somewhat lost gaze. His eyes were glazed, as if he was drugged. Zechs' mutilated hand fell from Wufei's fingers.

Treize didn't know what he wanted to do. To hit Wufei? His anger demanded some outlet but at the same time was so strong that Treize didn't know what would quench it.

"Go on, hit me," Wufei whispered. His eyes focused, obsidian-dark, narrowed into slits. "Can't you do even that? Do something, Treize. Hit me - or him! You're so afraid... of staining your hands!"

"And that's why you stained yours?" he said hoarsely.

He saw a muscle on Wufei's cheek twitch; Wufei looked down at his hands where blood already became thick, gluey. He had a weird expression as if he was not sure what he saw. Then he looked up at Treize again and his voice was Wufei's best cold tone - haughty, almost patronizing.

"It's a war, mon Captain. And he's our enemy. Am I wrong that I hate the enemy, that I pay him with his own coin?"

The last of Wufei's words, the ones that implied so much, made Treize shiver.

"It was not him," he said awkwardly. "It was not him to blame for what happened to you..."

"Oh yes," Wufei smiled pleasantly. "*You* can make the difference between morphs. Sorry, I can't."

It had a strange effect on Treize suddenly. He felt sober, as if waking up from a dream. Pain was still tearing him but at the same time he knew completely clearly what he had to do.

He took a deep breath of the air poisoned with the smell of blood and burnt flesh.

"You don't hate him, Wufei, do you? Whom you really hate - it's me."

He saw a frown between Wufei's thin eyebrows. The boy looked at him questioningly, and Treize felt almost elated at being able to reach him, to say something that confused Wufei.

"It's really my fault that it happened to you, right?" he continued. "If you hadn't been at my side, they wouldn't have used you to get to me. If I had agreed to their terms, it wouldn't have been so bad. I failed you. You have the right to hate me."

He saw a nervous movement Wufei made.

"I don't hate you, we talked about it before..."

Treize didn't let him finish.

"That's right," he said. "I understand, Wufei. I just don't want you to... punish the one who isn't to blame. Punish me because it's my fault."

He pulled his gun out and reached it out to Wufei, handle first. His gaze was so insistent that the boy didn't risk to disobey - or was too bewildered for that. The cold weight of the gun slipped from Treize's hand to his.

"Shoot me," Treize said. "Finish it all - for both of us."

At this moment, he was ready to die. Or, rather, he thought that if there was a risk of dying, then it was okay - he didn't want his life like that. If his boy really hated him so much - Treize didn't want to live with it.

The gun trembled in Wufei's hands - as if it was too for him. Treize leaned against the wall tiredly. He felt so worn out; his heart was split between those two people whom he'd pulled to himself and wronged: the blond morph, tied to the chair and bleeding, and the darkly beautiful boy with desperate eyes.

Wufei looked at him - and for once there was no mockery or animosity in his eyes - but such stark pain that Treize couldn't bear it, closed his eyes.

He opened them again almost immediately - but the gun wasn't in Wufei's hands any more, hit the floor with a heavy sound - and Wufei himself slid down on his knees, hands pressed to sand.

"I'm sorry!" The voice had nothing in common with Wufei's usual cold one - but was high, almost childish, wrecked with pain. Wufei's forehead touched the floor; his fingernails dug in the sand as if he had to struggle not to slip down. He trembled so violently his teeth chattered. "I'm sorry, Treize, please forgive me!"

For a moment Treize was taken aback. The change that happened to his boy was so abrupt, so shocking. And the knowledge that he was the one who'd caused it made him clench in shame. Wufei's words came out broken, disjointed.

"I'm bad, I know... I got on your nerves... I'm sorry! Please don't leave me! Please do whatever you want to me - just don't leave me. I can't live without you, Treize, I'll die without you, please don't reject me..."

"Wufei..."

I'll never reject you, Treize wanted to say, I wasn't going to leave you - but his throat was stifled, he couldn't talk. He cast a dazed glance around, saw Zechs' pale face and pain-widened eyes - and looked away.

"I know I was a prick," Wufei continued in a trembling voice. A begging, apologetic smile curved his lips and didn't stay there as despair filled his voice again. "Always turned you away, didn't let you touch me. I know it was wrong - but I can make it up for you. I'll make it good for you!"

His blood-smeared hands reached to the buttons of the jacket, undid them one by one. There was an expression of total absorption on Wufei's face - and Treize looked at him mesmerized, unable to move even though he knew he had to. Wufei's fingers moved down along the row of the buttons.

He managed to break his stupor at last, rushed towards Wufei, caught the boy's hands and drew them away. A patch of Wufei's skin, marked with violet scars, flickered in front of his eyes as he covered Wufei hastily, words flying from his lips:

"No, don't, don't, what are you doing, you don't have to do it..."

He felt sick with shame for his own cruelty, for what he'd done to the boy, what he'd made happen. Wufei struggled against him blindly; his trembling turned into near-convulsions - and then his hands clenched on Treize's jacket, pulling him closer.

"Shh, shh, it's okay, I'm here," he whispered, patting Wufei's back, feeling steel-hard muscles under his palm. Hot thin arms held onto him with desperate strength, almost hurting him. "I'll always be with you," he said.

"Don't leave me." The voice was so childish that, closing his eyes, Treize could imagine it was that other Wufei he held in his arms, Wufei as he'd been three years ago, before everything happened. He felt something hot and wet falling on his neck where Wufei's face was pressed - and he knew what it was. The feeling of Wufei's tears against his skin made him shiver, made his eyes sting.

He got up, cradling the thin body in his arms. Wufei was so light Treize barely felt his weight. Wufei clung to him desperately but the truth was Treize wasn't letting him go; for anything. He picked up the gun from the floor and walked to the door, casting a short glance back, at Zechs.

He would send one of the doctors to take care of the morph; there was nothing else he could really do for Zechs.

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

"There will be a corridor in ten hours," Treize said. His pale hand touched sand-littered glass of the window. "We'll be getting food and weapons - and you'll be able to leave the planet. At least I hope it'll work."

There was that special softness in Treize's movements that appeared there after a glass or two of wine. But his voice sounded tired and his eyes had an almost haunted expression in them. Trowa wondered if it was because of all these days when the military forces both of the Union and Marotania held the planet in the ring.

"Can you pilot F-621?"

"I trained on F-610," Trowa said. "I don't think it's much different."

"Good. You'll have fourteen minutes to get through the siege. It's not much but it's possible."

"It'll be enough," Trowa said. He didn't doubt it would; he just didn't have another chance.

It'd been six days since Quatre had taken the vaccine from him - and Trowa's own healthiness still seemed unusual, almost unnatural. He couldn't forget he could be well only because Quatre was ill now.

Quatre got it bad; for Trowa, the periods of fever had alternated with spells when he felt almost all right - but Quatre's temperature kept too high almost all the time, despite J's efforts to put it down. The boy was either delirious or too weak to talk and as Trowa looked at him, he couldn't help thinking he shouldn't have agreed to Quatre's offer.

But how could he not have agreed? The timing was such that without Quatre the vaccine would be lost by now... and Trowa himself would be dead, too. It was Quatre who made it possible to wait for the corridor.

And the only thing Trowa could do was to watch him suffering; and to bring the mission to the end, of course.

It'll be enough, Trowa repeated to himself.

"But you give me F-621, don't you?" The thought struck him. "How will I be able to return it?"

He saw Treize shake his head absently; the distant look in his eyes never changed.

"The flyer is dispensable. It'll mean much more for me if you succeed with the vaccine," he said quietly.

"The Order won't forget it." It felt somehow not right to say that but Trowa knew he was acting on behalf of the Order now, represented the Misques - so, there were things he had to say. "Is there a possible way we can pay you up for it?"

He waited for the answer uncomfortably; Treize didn't do it for money - maybe, didn't think about it at all. Then Treize shrugged, and Trowa sighed quietly with relief.

"If the Order insists. You can transfer money to the War Orphan Fund or something like that. It'll be a good enough payment."

"All right," Trowa said.

"Are you going to Nevis?" Treize asked.

Trowa had thought about it; but it would take too much time - would almost put Quatre at risk. He shook his head.

"We have a branch office on Adrianopolis. It has all the authority to handle things - so, I guess we'll go there."

"I have a request for you." Suddenly Treize turned to him, sharp blue eyes staring from the pale face. "A personal one."

"I'll do whatever I can, sir."

Treize raised his hand, as if stopping him from giving a promise he might want not to fulfil.

"I want you to take the morph with you."

Trowa bit the inside of his lip just in time not to let an unnecessary question to slip off. He heard very well what Treize said; he just couldn't believe it.

"I want you to take Zechs Merquise with you. Let him go on Adrianopolis or in some other place, at your choice. Morphs have consulates almost everywhere, so, he will be able to return to Marotania safely."

"You want to let him go?" He wasn't sure what he felt. He'd never asked about Zechs, just as decided - for all those days he'd spent in the camp. But now memories flooded with new intensity. It took Trowa a few moments until another thought came to his mind. "He was working for you, wasn't he?"

But no, it didn't make sense. If Zechs were a collaborator, Treize wouldn't let him go, wouldn't endanger him revealing his status. And could really Zechs work for the insurrectionists? Trowa recalled broken lines of Misques' bodies littering the floor in the hangar of the prison station. It wasn't Zechs who'd given the order but...

"No," Treize shook his head. "He doesn't work for me."

He stayed silent after that but Trowa didn't quite notice it, overwhelmed with his own thoughts. He'd been so frightened of Zechs - then, in prison... He hadn't admitted it before but he knew it for sure now; he had been afraid of Zechs - and his own confusion had been his worst enemy. He didn't have a reason to fear Zechs any more...

"You want explanations, don't you?" Treize asked. Trowa shook his head, he didn't mean it like that, but Treize didn't notice his negation. "I can't kill him. And I can't let him stay here because someone will kill him."

There was bitterness and challenge in Treize's voice - as if he expected Trowa to argue. Did he think Trowa wanted Zechs dead?

It was not so; for the first time Trowa let himself think openly about things he considered safer not to recall - all those times when Zechs had come to rescue him, their meeting at the shuttle bay when Zechs had stopped him... and got captured. Trowa suddenly felt guilt overcome him, at never finding out what Zechs' destiny was. Surely Trowa hardly could've influenced it...

"He's our enemy, of course," Treize continued and Trowa wondered whether it was him Treize tried to prove it. "But there're things... I can't let him suffer more than he already did. It just isn't fair."

Trowa felt heat flood him; Treize's words resounded in his ears with their uncompromising meaning. But surely he had known it before - that there could be nothing good happening to Zechs in captivity? Could he willingly avoid this thought so completely?

"I can't insist, Trowa, I understand how you must be feeling about morphs. So, if you say 'no', I don't..."

"I'll take him with me, sir," Trowa said with numb lips. "It's not a problem, I'll take him."

Zechs saved my life and I never even...

"You don't need to worry," Treize went on but it seemed there was a burden removed from his shoulders. "We'll take all security measures to make him of no risk for you. You'll just leave him on some planet, where it's convenient for you."

"Yes."

"Thank you," Treize said seriously, with too much intensity, and Trowa felt such shame and anger against himself that he couldn't answer. Then he regained self-control.

"It's me who must thank you, sir."

* * *

People scurried about the hangar in preparation to meet the cargo ship once the corridor was open. But there, around him and Quatre, was a small island of quietness. The pointed shape of the flyer cast a long shadow over them. Treize's face looked sad and wan this way, his cool blue eyes darkened to thunderstorm grey.

"He's already there," Treize said in a low voice. "The code is 542, the magnet card is on the code panel. He's secured, you don't need to worry about him."

Trowa nodded; for a moment Treize's stare was so openly vulnerable that Trowa felt almost painful sympathy towards him. It was so unlike Treize, unlike his usual confidence. He seemed so lost now - as if treading shaky ground. And somehow, Trowa felt much the same at the moment, even though with a different reason. He tried not to think but couldn't quite muster it. The future made him feel unsure.

On that night when he'd responded to Quatre's kisses, he made his choice - and he was ready to take responsibility for it. And yet now he was going back to the Order. This thought should've made Trowa happy - and in a way it did. But in a way, it made him so frightened that sometimes he felt choking. There was no other way, of course. Returning to Misques meant that Quatre would be able to get rid of the vaccine, would be well again. But it also meant he would lose Quatre.

There still were a few days till then - four or five, depending on how long the way to Adrianopolis took, and Trowa hid behind this thought faintheartedly.

He looked at Quatre; the stubborn boy refused to go to bed and now stood huddling, looking like a sparrow with his tousled hair and darkened, dazed eyes.

"Ten minutes," someone said. Trowa looked at Treize and Doctor J and sudden understanding that he was really leaving descended on him. His heart clenched painfully; it must've been sorrow, even though Trowa had never felt like this before, about a place or people. His loyalties always lay with his Order, the rest of the world seeming insignificant, transient.

He saw Quatre suddenly fling himself at J, the boy's thin arms clasped around the man. The doc looked quite baffled for a moment and then his metal hand patted over Quatre's back. Trowa felt the doctor's gaze on himself, recalled their conversation a few hours ago - and J's answer when Trowa finally had asked him the question that kept hovering in his mind insistently:

"Why does Quatre do it for me?"

He probably knew the answer but he wanted a confirmation.

"Because he doesn't want you to leave him, you baka," J said and it wasn't what Trowa expected - but it was an answer good enough.

He wished suddenly he had the same openness in demonstrating his feelings as Quatre had; it never stopped surprising him that the boy could be so eager in getting attached, after everything he'd bee through. Trowa couldn't; only with Quatre he could be different... Quatre made him different.

"Seven minutes."

He reached out his hand to Treize and felt a firm handshake - and then turned to Quatre, called a little harshly:

"Go to the flyer. Now!"

The place in the pilot cabin was adjusted for him, the helmet ready. He put it on, touched the buttons. The voice sounded in the earphone:

"Two minutes."

Would he ever see any of these people again? Would he ever see Treize? These two weeks on the planet had changed so much in him - he never thought it could be like this.

"Four. Three. Two. One. Go," the voice said.

He pushed the lever and the flyer started.

* * *

It took him twelve minutes to pass through the corridor. It made the overload a bit harsh but Trowa decided that it was worth it. Everything went quite smoothly after first difficult minutes; piloting through empty regions was easy. Trowa spent a couple of hours, straightening the data and then left the flyer to auto-pilot.

Quatre was curled in a tight ball under the blanket and Trowa tucked it around him, couldn't resist brushing the fair strands away from the boy's face. Quatre moved sleepily, his small hand catching Trowa's, pressing it to his soft hot cheek.

"Stay with me," he mumbled.

"I just need to do a few things first," Trowa said smiling.

It was true, there were things he had to do - to check if everything was functioning all right. And there was another thing that he supposed had to be done but it didn't mean he enjoyed it. He knew he would do it, so, there was no reason to dwell on it - but somehow this reasoning didn't quite work. He was in front of the locked door finally, entered the code and came in.

The truth was Trowa didn't quite know what it was he expected to see; surprisingly so, taking into account the time he'd spent thinking about it. He remembered the helmet, the hated dark-grey uniform, long strands of blond hair... The hair was the same; as the man raised his face to look at him, Trowa recognized the tangle of white tresses.

His mind told him it was Zechs Merquise - Zechs whom he'd been so bitterly afraid for so long; but Trowa almost couldn't believe it.

Just a man... A blond, very young man with pale face and huge blue eyes surrounded with shadows. He looked at Trowa over his arm; his wrists were chained to a bar going slightly above his head. And when Trowa slid his gaze over the man's hands, he felt his heart sink, a gasp breaking from his lips. Zechs' fingers were mutilated - the scars on their tips fresh, barely healing, skin blue and swollen. The sight was so ugly, so hideous that Trowa couldn't look at it - and yet couldn't look away as well, couldn't think about anything else.

"Ah, Trowa Barton." The voice was familiar, velvety smooth, with a note of mockery in it. The voice Trowa recognized. "Nice to meet you."

There was something hollow in these words, despite their deliberate lightness - and Zechs' chuckle sounded broken, or so it seemed. Trowa made an effort to look away from the terrible hands, to look at Zechs' face.

"It's what you told me about... that you look like human."

The words were meaningless, and Trowa expected Zechs to scold him for them - but blue eyes just looked at him over the chained arms with strange attention.

That's what Treize meant under taking all security measures, Trowa thought - to chain him like this...

"I see you aren't sick any more," Zechs said. "It's great, isn't it? How did it happen? Did you get used to whatever you were carrying - or did you lose it?"

Trowa bit his lip, hesitating whether to answer; Zechs had figured out this much by himself... and anyway, now it didn't matter whether morphs knew about the vaccine or not. By the time Zechs could contact his people, the vaccine would be safe with Misques.

"Another... another person carries it," he said.

"Another person..." There was a brief smile flickering on Zechs' lips. His mouth had been split, Trowa noticed; the cuts almost healed but the lips were dry and cracked, as if in thirst. "You say it in such way... as if it's someone important for you."

A brief flash of anger pierced Trowa; Zechs always tried to get into his mind, didn't he? Hadn't changed in this... always understood Trowa effortlessly. And why did Zechs care, anyway? He must've been in trouble bad enough not to wonder about Trowa...

"What's with your hands?" Trowa asked in a voice that sounded too small, despite his intention. He saw Zechs' mouth twitch painfully and there was a small pause before the morph answered, his voice perfectly unconcerned:

"Nothing. An accident. My own fault, actually."

These words triggered something in Trowa, making shame and distress flood him. How could it happen? How could he let it happen? Could he have prevented it if he hadn't played his cowardly game of hiding from his fears? Zechs had never let anything happen to him in prison, always came to rescue him at the last moment.

He shook his head, trying to dispel the thought; it didn't work. He knew he'd been wrong, had been a coward - and if something happened to Zechs, it was his, Trowa's, fault as much as the fault of those who had done it. He clenched his fists, gathering strength to say it.

"I'm sorry, Zechs."

"What for?"

"For... ditching you."

He expected sarcastic laughter but Zechs didn't laugh; there was a strange concentrated expression in the morph's eyes that made him look younger and somehow more vulnerable - as if he doubted whether Trowa ridiculed him.

"It's nothing," Zechs said finally.

Nothing... too many things were nothing for him any more - or seemed so. It made Trowa feel so uncomfortable for some reason that he winced - and felt Zechs' gaze on himself. The blue eyes were attentive, almost searching.

"You've changed," Zechs said. Trowa frowned and shrugged, not knowing how to react at it. After a small pause, Zechs continued, his voice strangely soft. "Something... unfroze in you."

Trowa wanted to ask what it was supposed to mean but knew there was something true in Zechs' words; a part of him - a part he didn't ever know about before - seemed to melt... and sometimes it hurt.

"Is it because of that... another person of yours?" Zechs asked. Trowa pressed his lips; he wasn't going to answer. "Is it him or her?"

"Him," Trowa whispered. The thought of Quatre curled in bed, his soft hair tangled and matted, made his voice sound hoarse.

"So, he was your first..." Zechs said thoughtfully. "I hoped... you know... that I would be. But it didn't happen like that."

It made him recall; all Zechs' threats and obnoxious words, his touches that Trowa had feared so much and yet, deep in his heart, found almost irresistible - and feared even more because of it. He recalled that night when he'd already decided to go along with whatever Zechs wanted - and that moment when Zechs stopped the whipping, spared him from shame of crying out.

But all of it was in the past, wasn't it? After that, there was Zechs' suffering; humiliation and abuse he had gone through.

The morph's face distorted in a small ripple of pain.

"Do your hands hurt?"

A stupid question it was; what did he think?

"A little. Phantom pains. Where are you taking me?"

"Didn't they tell you? Didn't Treize tell..."

"Treize..." A brief smile curved Zechs' lips, clashing with an expression of distress in his eyes. Trowa flinched. He couldn't figure it out, what there was between those two - if anything was there. Or, maybe, he just didn't want to figure out. "No, he didn't."

"To Adrianopolis," Trowa said softly. "You'll be free there. You'll be able to go to Marotanian consulate there and they'll send you home."

There was no joy in Zechs' eyes, against Trowa's expectation; his gaze was too tired, with something lost in it. As if nothing could really gladden or really hurt him.

Trowa moved on a sudden impulse, before letting the thoughts of advisability take hold on him.

"Zechs... If you give me a word of honor that you won't try to get hold of the flyer, won't try to hinder me - I'll release you."

He didn't know whether one could believe a morph's word of honor, whether the creatures even had such a thing. But what else was he supposed to do? To keep Zechs with his hands chained for four or five days? Maybe, for the sake of security he was supposed to do it.

"No one is going to harm you any more," he continued hastily when Zechs didn't say anything. It looked like he tried to coax the morph into giving this word, didn't he? "It's just a few days and you'll be able to go. There is no reason for you to try to do anything crazy. I'll bring you to Adrianopolis - it's not a bad place, is it?"

"I won't try to do anything against you," Zechs said quietly. There was a strangest expression in his eyes, as if he didn't quite believe Trowa was serious. "I give you my word of honor."

Not letting himself think any more, Trowa walked up and ran the card through the lock. The cuffs opened and Zechs' hands fell down deadly. Trowa heard a hiss of pain, saw Zechs' face going blank. There were rough signs left on his wrists by the cuffs, skin abraded and swollen around them.

I can go now, Trowa thought; shut the door and leave him till the time to bring him food comes. But somehow he couldn't move, couldn't look away from the crippled hands curled awkwardly on Zechs' lap.

He reached and touched these hands, as lightly as he could. The skin felt very hot, the scars jagged and hard under the tips of his fingers. Zechs didn't flinch; his eyes, widened, looked up at Trowa mesmerized, unblinking, black pupils huge.

He held the morph's hands between his, and Zechs didn't make an attempt to get free. Trowa ran his fingers over Zechs' wrists softly. He didn't know what he was doing, it was sheer insanity - but he couldn't help it. There was something stronger in this touch than the reason, than the training infused into him by the Misques.

"Zechs," he whispered. "I'm really sorry."

Suddenly one hand slipped out of his - and a moment later hot fingers touched his face, pulling his long bangs away from his eyes. Trowa felt so unprotected, as if the hair falling over his face was really some kind of shield. Now nothing hid him from Zechs' insistent look. But Zechs' hand that kept smoothing his hair away was almost gentle.

"It's okay, Trowa," Zechs said in a calm, composed voice - and then his lips trembled and something broke in his face, tears trickling down from his eyes. Trowa reacted unconsciously, in some instinctive way that had been unthinkable for him before even a few weeks ago. He pulled Zechs to himself, wrapped his arms around the morph's shoulders - and felt thin hard body tremble in his embrace.

Zechs' self-composure was gone, replaced with desperate sobbing; his face was pressed against Trowa's chest - and Trowa didn't let him go, stroked the long tangled hair.

"It's okay," he found himself saying, "it's okay, it's all over. No one will hurt you any more. You'll be home soon."

He felt Zechs shake, almost convulsively, heard broken words coming between sobs.

"I can't... I can't go home... they won't want me any more, for nothing."

It was true - he had so little in common with his folks now, even his fingers didn't look morph-like any more. And after everything that happened to him...

"I see," Trowa whispered. "I understand. But it'll be okay."

What else could he say? He didn't know what Zechs would do; he didn't know what he himself was going to do, where he was going. How was he going to go back to the Order when his heart belonged elsewhere... belonged to the frail blond boy sleeping in the next room now.

To be continued

Oh, how can I thank enough all of you for your wonderful reviews and insightful comments! Thank you for reading this fic and staying with me all through it. You're great, people. Well, the story goes on. Nothing is easy in this universe :-)