SWEET DARKNESS
Part 14
"I cannot keep you from going there." The way Mr. Winner said it, he surely would like to do it. "But I frankly don't see what you're going to do there."
"I don't see how we can just stay here and wait for a result." Quatre didn't look at his father, nibbling his lip nervously - and his defensive stance affected Trowa as it always did, making him want to stand by Quatre, to prove him he wasn't alone. It was unreasonable: Quatre didn't need his interference - and Trowa again reminded himself not to appear overprotective.
He wished he had a better knowledge of how to express his feelings, wouldn't swing to and fro between being obtrusive and aloof. And there was so much he felt; for all those years he'd spent with Misques he didn't even know there was so much there. He just didn't have a good grip on his expressing things - and it was a constant source of disquiet for him. What if Quatre found him annoying? What if something went wrong between them?
"What result, son?" Mr. Winner said with a wince of exasperation. "It's all pretty obvious. The Executive Board got itself in a very inconvenient position. They should've let morphs get Khushrenada - it would leave their own hands clean at least. I don't imagine how they are going to sentence him without turning him into a martyr. I won't be surprised if there is no any trial. Some accident - and both Marotania will be satisfied, and the EB will save its face."
There was a weird logic in it, Trowa had to admit it. The calm, reasonable voice of Mr. Winner made him feel uneasy, disturbed.
"But if there is a trial, our evidence can be useful for Treize."
"Why do you think they'll let give any evidence, Quatre? Nothing will depend on the things you'll say."
"We'd rather go there," Quatre said flatly - and somehow it sounded final.
"I put money on your account, so, you can use it in any way you want. I just wish you showed your determination in other things," Mr. Winner added.
A quiet smile fluttered on Quatre's lips as he looked up. There was still some dismay in his eyes, as knowing that he disappointed his father was never easy, but Quatre seemed resolute.
"Thank you, dad."
"Just don't get in trouble," his father muttered. "The Earth is a nasty place and I expect all kinds of weirdos visit Moscow for this occasion."
"Ugh-ghu." Now Quatre's eyes glowed.
For one thing, Mr. Winner was right; the city was full. The passenger ship Trowa and Quatre took had to line for landing for over than sixteen hours.
"I wonder why all those people want to be here," Trowa said once.
"Probably an entertainment. Of course, there are some - from Northern Coalition, for example - who really hate morphs and for whom Treize is a hero. But for the rest... many had never even met morphs. So, it's just hot news to follow."
On the TV screen, they watched how Treize found his place by touch in the transparent box of super-durable plastic. His face had a strained, concentrated expression as if he constantly expected some trick, his eyes unblinking.
He didn't belong there, Trowa thought feeling how his fists clenched tightly. He recalled Treize from the time on the sand planet - his animated face, his voice full of excitement as he talked about their future, their victory. Now twenty of his people were dead, six arrested - and others blockaded in the camp, presumably without a chance to break out.
It wasn't right, it shouldn't have been like that... The feeling of utter helplessness made Trowa feel furious - and he was afraid of thinking how Treize could feel; only he knew too well how.
Several weeks ago, when Trowa had left the camp of the insurrectionists, he wondered whether he'd see Treize again. He didn't expect it would be like this; he would give everything for not seeing Treize this way, in this state. And Treize... Treize would possibly prefer to be dead than to be there, wouldn't he?
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With time, it grew easier to find his place in the box. Maybe, in a couple of weeks he'd be doing it in quite a dignified manner, Treize thought wryly. The seat was narrow and as soon as he occupied it, force cuffs locked on his wrists and ankles, fastening him to the place. Another force ring went around his waist. His skin tingled with the touch, and complete immobility was excruciating; he couldn't get used to it. Combined with complete darkness, it seemed sometimes more than he could bear.
It was nothing; he didn't have to give away that it bothered him. But Treize knew his nostrils flared all the same and he tended to hyperventilate. Taking himself under control demanded almost more strength than he had - but he managed it. He had to - if not for himself than for his boy...
Wufei was in the next box. If Treize could see, he would be able to see him - if not to touch or hear: the sound in the boxes was switched off when they didn't answer questions. Thinking about it made him regret the loss of sight with special acuteness. Wufei was so close; and so unreachable.
Sometimes he thought he would give everything just for touching Wufei again, for holding the boy's hand. It was exaggeration, of course, there were things Treize wouldn't do for any promise, any award - like agreeing to admit himself guilty, for example. But as time went, as the parody of the trial continued, and he stayed in darkness and loneliness, his resoluteness was wavering. And it frightened Treize most of all.
It would be such a cruel irony that, if he broke, it wouldn't be for the hardships he had to go through. His life as an outcast was never easy and he didn't expect it to be; he accepted everything: loss of his name, being called a criminal, being hunted.
He even could deal with his last failure. The source that had given them information for so many successful operations turned out to be a provocateur. Treize didn't know if it was a set-up from the very beginning - he didn't want to believe in it, really - or if the source got captured and only his name used. In either case, it was Treize's fault, and the result was disastrous.
He wished it had been a real bomb, not a blinding bomb that had blown up then. But they probably intended to take him alive; well, they succeeded. Maybe, succeeded more than they planned. Darkness turned out to be an ordeal that he found the most difficult to bear.
It drove him to despair that the simplest things became so cumbersome - like shaving or trimming his fingernails. Every time before going to the courtroom he spent an hour checking his face and clothes by touch to make sure there was no untidiness, nothing that would make him laughable, stupid. He still kept being nervous - and it weakened him more than anything else.
Soon after the arrest, a doctor checked his eyes. Treize was not informed about the verdict. He didn't know what kind exactly the blinding bomb was but he knew that the vision could be recovered if there was immediate treatment. Maybe, he would've had to wear lens glasses, like Doctor J did, but at least he would've seen again.
In any case, he didn't get any treatment. But it didn't surprise him, after all. He was rather amazed they hadn't used the chance of declaring him insane after psychiatric expertise. But they went after the second best thing.
"Witness, what can you tell about the state of discipline in the camp?"
"I'm not sure it could be called discipline." It was one of his men who got arrested with him; the only one who testified.
"Explain yourself, witness."
"Captain Khushrenada neglected control over the camp. He was more preoccupied with the relations between him and his lover... or drinking. Things were falling apart. I'm surprised we lasted this long."
His heart was pounding so hard the man's words sounded distant. He did manage to keep his face blank, though - or he hoped so. He knew there were cameras watching him, catching every change of his expression.
Oh if only he could say that the man - the traitor - lied. The worst thing was that probably everything in his words was true. Drinking, going crazy over Wufei, getting into that affair with the morph... He, Treize, failed his people. And now he didn't have a chance to die as a hero.
He knew he wouldn't be sentenced. Not to death, anyway. Death would return him some dignity. But as he was - blind, with a reputation of a drunk and a madman - he was not dangerous. They would show him mercy - would keep him alive.
The thought of it made a smile distort his lips, a smile that was as far from amused as it was possible. The Executive Board wanted to keep him alive... the conspirators, who, as he knew, were arranging an escape for him, wanted him alive. Morphs, who sent assassins already trying to kill him twice, wanted him dead... Nobody asked him what he wanted.
But the truth was Treize wasn't sure he had strength left to want anything at all.
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It was impossible to get a place in the courtroom, of course. Every morning, as the prisoners were brought to the session, a special shield corridor was built to keep the crowds away. And presumably to prevent another attempt of assassination.
Mr. Winner had been right about one more thing - no one was going to listen to their evidence; but somehow Trowa didn't find it surprising. Eventually he and Quatre managed to see a secretary of Treize's attorney. The woman looked at them with tired eyes and said:
"Do you know how many people come here claiming they can say something important about Treize Khushrenada? Do you think anything that you say can make any difference?"
"It seemed what I could say made some difference when they were after Treize," Quatre said angrily. He rubbed his arms unconsciously - in the way he acquired after his arrest by ISS - as if he was cold. Trowa felt a kind of stifled despair, seeing it - knowing that even if Quatre never talked about what he'd been through there and seemed to be happy to forget it, his body still remembered it.
The secretary did write down their names and data finally and promised to call but Trowa didn't put much hope on it. He had a feeling of something irreparable happening. Every day as this disgraceful trial continued, something was shattered - around... inside him.
They walked to the court building daily; not that it could change anything - but the feeling of anxiety was too strong to stay at the hotel. There were always people around, despite cold weather - a grey crowd fluctuating in the street. Maybe, some of those people were there just to be a part of a mass, just to feel others around - and Trowa thought it was not so wrong about him as well. Among people his helplessness was not so choking.
He felt Quatre's thin arm wrapped around his waist as the boy held him tightly. Not far away from them, on the border of the porch, a boy-preacher recounted the Bible:
"Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these..."
Wet snow fell on the preacher's bare arms and legs and thawed quickly. The boy's face, tilted up, under tangled bangs of dark hair, was enraptured - as if he could see something no one else could.
Treize used to have the same kind of look in his eyes; not so mad - but with slight edge of distraction in it. Trowa thought it'd been what made people follow Treize - that Treize made them believe he could see more than they could, see a bigger picture.
This look was gone now; and Treize couldn't see anything any more.
Several long sleek looking air-cars landed at the building. The police went alert again, keeping the crowd away. A group of tall, long-limbed people walked out. Trowa felt how next to him, Quatre grew very still, and as he looked at the boy, Quatre's gaze was wide and frozen, his eyes following the morphs unavoidably.
The crowd went still. No one dared to denunciate morphs openly - and morphs knew it. Trowa saw one of them lean towards his companion, say something with a deliberate smile on his face. Then the delegation entered the building.
The crowd burst out with yells and curses. Trowa saw Quatre wince a little, as if this noise caused him headache.
"Let's go?"
Trowa nodded, feeling how Quatre's arm tightened around him.
They managed just a few steps as a man grabbed Trowa's arm, stopping him. They guy was probably drunk or just high on the shared emotions.
"Did you see those freaks? They should be put on the trial, not Captain Khushrenada! These monsters - they give me creeps, just breathing the same air with them! I would die if one of them touched me!"
Trowa put his hand on the man's wrist, freeing himself effortlessly. He felt Quatre being pushed against him and held onto the boy tighter. The man seemed displeased to be ignored.
"Why are you silent? Don't you want to say how much you hate morphs? Maybe, you're a morph-lover?"
He reached again, and Trowa saw Quatre push him away with sudden violence, heard the boy's voice distorted with fury:
"Don't touch him!"
"Hey, look at these two! They like morphs!"
Trowa yanked Quatre after himself but the crowd already went denser around them, not letting them go. Hostile faces around them made Trowa have a sick feeling of apprehension. He sensed Quatre's nervous shiver and shoved away a man who tried to grab the boy. A fist flew in his face but Trowa didn't have time to get frightened. A long thin shadow stepped between him and the attacker.
"Get out of here!" The voice was familiar but Trowa almost couldn't believe he heard it. The man who shielded him turned back briefly, allowing him a brief glimpse of dark-blue eyes and a mouth curved in a smile. "Ouch!"
The next blow got his protector in the face - and Trowa saw the attacker look at his hand, streaked bluish-purple, in surprise. It took just a few moments for the information to settle.
"There's a morph here! One of them is a morph!"
"Oh fuck."
Trowa grabbed Zechs' hand and pulled him away, pulled Quatre as well. At Trowa's side, a blond girl pushed through the crowd. As their eyes met, she gave Trowa a kind of conspiring look.
They managed to get out at last and then Zechs pushed him.
"Run!"
It was probably the best variant, judging on how aggressive the crowd was. So, they ran, until stopping on a quiet street, making sure no one followed them. Zechs looked down at them, smiling with split lips and without any regret in his eyes.
"You turned up... v-very timely," Trowa said in a slightly shaky voice. Zechs' smile became wider.
"As always, ne? Why can't you watch for yourself not to get in trouble?"
Trowa rolled up his eyes; Zechs' condescending way seemed to never change. The morph managed to be exasperating even at the moment when Trowa felt real joy at seeing him.
"You're all right, aren't you? You're bleeding," Quatre said. Zechs sniffed blood running from his nose and finally wiped it against his sleeve.
"Perfectly all right."
Was he? How was he going? Trowa looked at him almost greedily, trying to make sure that everything about Zechs was as it had to be. Zechs looked skinny; his hair was cut short and tangled - but somehow it made him look younger. Or, maybe, it was the look in his eyes - wide and bright on the angular face; the look of almost childish amazement.
"I see you aren't in the Order any more, Trowa Barton! How came?"
"You'd better tell how you are," Trowa said. "Hey, aren't you cold?"
He just noticed Zechs had only a thin sweater on, too little for such a freezy day.
"Nope." It hardly was true, judging on Zechs' bluish lips - but the morph smiled again eagerly. "I don't care for cold or hunger. Physical needs are nothing - body is nothing at all, that is."
Trowa frowned, meeting Zechs' excited look. The words sounded vaguely familiar. He followed Zechs' gaze and saw two other people in the street, standing a little away from them. The boy-preacher in his t-shirt and short pants and the girl whose gaze Trowa had met in the crowd. They stood on a distance - but in such a way that their connection to Zechs was obvious. Maybe, it was how they looked at him - the girl kindly and patiently, the boy with that mysterious captivating expression in his big fierce eyes.
"Your friends?" Quatre asked.
"More than friends. My sister and brother... and I'm like brother for them."
It looked like Zechs finally found a place and people where he belonged. Trowa found it somewhat sad that these people were a sect of a kind; he couldn't feel well about sects or orders after his breaking with Misques. But if Zechs was happy...
"I'm not crazy," Zechs said in an unexpectedly quiet voice. Some blood trickled from his nose again and he wiped it with his hand. The scars on his fingers were still crude, marring the tips harshly. He'd probably need a plastic surgery to make them look normal... but Trowa knew Zechs hardly would do it. "I know it's probably silly, all that stuff about not caring of body needs, not thinking about another day. But they... they accept me. They don't care what I was."
"I understand," Trowa said. Yes, Zechs was happy this way. Wasn't it the most important? "By the way, does you religion allow you to have a cup of coffee with us? And your brother and sister?"
"I don't think they will want to," Zechs shrugged. "But I'd like to. Wait a minute, okay?"
Trowa watched him as he walked up to the boy and the girl, said something. The boy kept this distant gaze of his but the girl smiled and nodded. Her frail hand touched Zechs' shoulder briefly, in a gesture of simple affection, obviously natural for her - and then the boy raised his hand and touched Zechs' face as well.
They looked like they belonged together, Trowa thought.
Zechs walked back to them, turning on the way, and Trowa heard his bright voice as he repeated:
"I'll be in an hour, Relena."
The girl and the boy wrapped their arms around each other's waists and walked away, under the falling snow they didn't seem to notice.
* * *
In a small cafe Zechs warmed up his hands on a mug of milk coffee. Trowa noticed people were staring at his fingers - but they surely didn't realize what kind of accident left those scars. Zechs seemed to guess his thoughts.
"I still didn't quite learn to use them deftly. Always forget they're a bit shorter than I'm used to."
There was no bitterness in his voice - and, maybe, that made Trowa feel even more disconcerted.
"Why are you here?" he asked finally. "Do you live in Moscow?"
"We live wherever we want," Zechs shrugged. "Nomadic life, you know - when Heero decides he should see new places, we just move. You think I'm here to see Treize die, right?"
Frowning, Trowa shook his head. The truth was this thought came to his mind; but really, how could he blame Zechs for hating Treize?
"I don't hate him." Zechs, as usual, seemed to read his thoughts. "Yes, I'm here because of him - but I didn't come to gloat. I don't know if you believe me..." He caught a longer strand of his bangs and pulled it over his eyes, in a fitful gesture that was in a stark contrast with the calmness of his voice. "I don't want him to die."
It was strange but Trowa understood suddenly that he did believe.
"He... changed my life," Zechs said, letting a strand go. There was tension in his eyes but he didn't look away. "Well, it was rather a cruel change but... I don't regret it... I think I don't regret it."
"It's like... you don't have to wear the helmet any more, right?" Quatre said softly. Zechs' gaze became more peaceful.
"Exactly. He said once... that I was beautiful."
Trowa didn't want to wonder at what moment Treize could say this - if it was true at all.
"I still miss my people sometimes," Zechs said in a different, rather hard voice. "Some kind of nostalgia."
"What do Marotanians do here?" Quatre asked casually - almost too casually, Trowa thought. "The trial is not their jurisdiction."
"Maybe, they want to check whether their enemy is going to really get an appropriate punishment," Zechs smile wryly. "Or, maybe, they look for a base for future expansion."
It was half a joke but nobody laughed.
"One of them said to another," Quatre said, "that this place will be theirs in fifteen years."
"So, I might've made a wrong choice," Zechs said, and this time he chuckled. "Well, I guess I gotta go. Maybe, we'll see each other again."
"Sure," Trowa said. I hope so, he thought.
The sun had set and snow was falling thicker now. Zechs stood in the doorway for a moment, as if preparing himself for stepping out, then huddled and walked away.
Suddenly Trowa thought that it was unimportant whether he'd meet Zechs again and when. There was just too much uniting them - and he knew these threads would never be separated fully.
He felt Quatre's hand squeeze his under the table and met the boy's sad smiling eyes. He had an overwhelming wish to hold Quatre closer - close enough to make sure that nothing would separate them.
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"Wufei Chang, how long do you know Treize Khushrenada?"
Till the last moment he couldn't believe Wufei would answer their questions. How could they make him? Why didn't he refuse? And when it finally happened, Treize felt more helpless than ever; if only he could see Wufei... if only he could stop the boy...
"Three and half years."
"How long do you have intimate relations?"
"Two years and eight months."
Such a flat voice; as if nothing was happening.
"That means that you were... how old when it started? Twelve?"
"Almost thirteen. But it was me who initiated it. Captain Khushrenada wouldn't... He thought it was too early. He thought I was traumatized."
There was a mere shadow of irony in Wufei's voice, making it sound painfully recognizable - so, that Treize felt he almost couldn't bear it.
"Were you traumatized?"
"Probably."
"What happened?"
"I was taken hostage by morphs."
"Marotanians."
"Marotanians."
"Wufei Chang, will you please open your shirt?"
Treize found himself striving up - and being thrown back by the force cuffs. It felt like his wrists were about to break - but the bonds didn't fail. Nothing he could say would be heard, with the sound switched off - he understood it; and yet for the first time he couldn't keep silent, begged knowing that even if Wufei couldn't hear him, he still could see... could possibly read his lips.
"Please. Please don't."
There was a pause. He didn't know if Wufei hesitated. There must've been some agreement between him and the lawyers, some plan - but Treize couldn't think about it now.
"Please."
He heard a soft rustle of cloth and thought he didn't want to see it, was glad he couldn't see it. The sound, a joint breath the audience in the courtroom gave out, told him enough.
Then, almost three years ago, when he'd got Wufei back, was the last time he'd seen it, and then, unhealed, the traces of acid burns on Wufei's body were scarlet and seeping. Treize remembered Wufei at the infirmary, in bed - so small and so quiet; never crying, not even once, despite all that pain. He, Treize, cried then. And when he tried to take Wufei's hand in his - and the boy withdrew, rejection in his eyes, Treize wanted to kill every morph he could, wanted to put his life for it.
"How did you acquired these marks?"
"Marotanians left them."
"Have you been a prisoner of war in Marotania?"
"I wasn't a prisoner of war." Wufei's voice was hard and toneless. Another rustle of clothes - the jacket buttoned again, probably. "I was a hostage; they used me to make Captain Khushrenada comply with their demands."
"Didn't it work?"
"He didn't surrender to exchange places with me, if that's what you mean."
They wouldn't have let Wufei go anyway; Treize didn't need to say it - Wufei knew it very well. There was no way to come to an agreement with morphs - the only thing they understood was force. And finally it worked: he managed to free Wufei...
By then acid excretions had destroyed thirty per cent of his skin.
"How long did you spend in captivity?"
"Three weeks."
"You were raped, weren't you?"
"Yes."
"Tortured?"
"Yes."
"Did Treize Khushrenada know about it?"
"Of course, he did. Of course."
"What was his reaction?"
"He was... he was enraged. He said he wouldn't stop as long as he could keep fighting morphs. And when the truce was signed, he said it was unthinkable. He said there could be no truce between him and these monsters."
It was not the truth... Or it was only half-truth. To reduce what he did to personal revenge... But Treize knew why Wufei was doing it.
The boy was saving him from death. Whatever way they were going to present it - like temporary insanity or something - it was all done to mitigate his sentence. Who wouldn't go mad after seeing his young beloved defiled and maimed by the enemy? Who wouldn't understand this kind of hatred?
That's how they made Wufei testify - by promising that it would save Treize's life.
If they wanted to keep him alive so much, there must've been something wrong with it.
* * *
"This is another letter you'll never get. They probably think me mad that I ask them for paper and pencils all the time - what can a blind man write? And in any case, nothing will leave my cell: neither a note nor a letter. Well, I don't even try - and this one will go where all others do: ripped in pieces, small enough for no one to be able to read it. No one would be able to read it anyway, I think - the letters must be climbing on each other atrociously. It doesn't matter. Because as I write it, just for a moment, I can imagine that you'll be able to read it, you'll be able to hear what I say.
My dear boy, I think you forgave me - judging on how you tried to spare me on the trial. I know why you did it. Your courage and your self-sacrifice could win it for me, could change my sentence to just twenty of thirty years instead of death. I wonder if you know that *I* can't forgive myself I wish I could've prevented you from doing it - because it wasn't needed. I can't accept what you've done for me. I can't accept any mercy. There is no way for me to walk out of it.
Remember I used to tell you about my dreams - of us being together, walking hand in hand in a beautiful place with green grass and blossoming roses around? Somewhere, there is probably this place. Somewhere but not here, not for us.
I lost my case. I lost everything. When I think about living for more thirty or forty years with the thought of my failure... living in darkness, as a helpless invalid, I pray for it to be over in some way. Death... death would be such a relief.
I would do it myself - I think it's possible to find the means, even under constant surveillance as I am; but that would be an ultimate proof of my weakness, wouldn't it? So, I just hope that someone else will do it to me, that another assault will be successful.
I don't know if you'd understand me - should you know what I think about. You'd probably call me a coward. Would you hate me?
No, you wouldn't. My beloved, my beautiful one... Yesterday as you talked on the trial, I could hear your voice, even though I couldn't see your eyes - and your love was there. Your love that survived everything I had done to you.
And I always fail you..."
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It had been shown so many times on TV that one could learn it second by second. The transparent cage and a slim, too pale man with reddish-brown hair sitting very straight in a narrow chair. His eyes, sky-blue, wide open, blinking slowly, looked absently at nowhere as another witness was interrogated.
No one had noticed it when it happened - just the camera fixed it impassively - how Treize's calm face distorted with a grimace of pain suddenly. There was no sound but his hands moved convulsively as if he tried to reach to his chest - and the cuffs held them in place. He lowered his head and his hair fell down hiding his face.
For another minute or two the trial went on as if nothing happened - and the another convulsion, much stronger than the first, racked his body. Now it was noticed. The audience startled and soldiers rushed into Treize's box immediately. He collapsed on the floor, spasming, as the cuffs were released. There was blood leaking from his mouth, and for once the sound in the box was not switched off, so, one could hear the tearing cries of pain he made.
There were enough cameras in the courtroom to monitor everything - and one of them followed Wufei's reaction closely - as the boy struggled to get up and was held by the cuffs, as he screamed something that had no sound in it.
He was held on his place all the way when doctor appeared - and Treize's body, still twitching violently, was placed on stretchers and carried away. Then Wufei stopped struggling and just looked, very quietly.
At night Trowa felt he couldn't stay in place; Quatre caught him on his usual pacing around the room, put his arms around Trowa's waist and held him for a few moments, then said:
"Let's get out."
The prison hospital was surrounded by people. There was a constant humming around but Trowa barely could distinguish words. They stood and waited. At three a.m. it was all over.
"They said if he lived till the morning, he had a chance to survive," someone said next to him. "It happens like that."
"They found the guard who did it - but the guy's a dummy, nothing more."
"Khushrenada was a murderer, he just paid his debts!" another voice yelled from far away.
Holding Quatre in the ring of his arms, Trowa felt the small trembling of the boy's body and pressed him harder.
"Without Treize, the trial doesn't make sense," Quatre said in a small voice that sounded level but Trowa wasn't deceived with it. "And the scandal... Maybe, they'll let others go. Maybe, they'll let Wufei go."
"I don't think so. And Wufei... I don't think he wants to be let go now."
I don't think he wants anything at all... The thought of how much Wufei lost made Trowa clench almost convulsively, his arms tightening on Quatre's shoulders so much that he might've hurt the boy. Quatre didn't seem to notice but Trowa made himself relax slightly. Treize was dead. Now it was too late to hope for something. Nothing could be changed. The thought of his own helplessness was burning; Trowa bit his lip, fighting the pain inside.
Quatre turned to him, without freeing from his arms. The boy's eyelids were red, his breath thick; he'd been crying all the time quietly.
Still having his arms around him, as if it could shield Quatre from whatever threatened him, Trowa walked him away from the crowd. A street just a little away was empty and dark and the noise from the hospital reached there like the rustle of sea. They stopped. Trowa kissed Quatre's face, feeling the wetness of the long eyelashes against his lips. The tears leaked again and Trowa kissed them away, their salt on his tongue - and felt his own tears sting his eyes and didn't resist, let them trickle.
A distant voice came, of a preacher - not Heero but another one - who kept raving at the hospital.
"Many sorrows shall be to the wicked; but he who trusts in the Lord, mercy shall surround him."
It was dark; street-lamps were broken or switched off, and Trowa barely could see Quatre's face - just the gleaming of his darkened eyes. Yet Trowa couldn't stop staring at him, holding the boy's face in his cupped hands - as if it could secure that Quatre was real and wouldn't go away.
"Be glad in the Lord and rejoice, you righteous; and shout for joy, all you upright in heart!"
The words were so creepy, so inappropriate that they made him shiver - and Quatre suddenly pulled him closer, wrapped his arms around Trowa.
"Tell me I won't lose you," Trowa whispered so quietly that he wasn't sure Quatre heard. But he did hear; his light fingers ran over Trowa's face and his quiet voice answered earnestly.
"You won't."
It was a promise Trowa accepted - and confirmed it with tightening his arms around Quatre's waist, suddenly wanting to feel him closer, as close as possible. He felt Quatre holding onto him and buried his face against Quatre's shoulder. And in the cradle of the thin arms around him he felt safe and sure, for a little while, felt that everything just could be okay and they could be together.
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He remembered pain but now it was gone. For a few moments he did nothing but reveled in it, in the absence of hideous claws tearing his insides. He remembered shame as well - for his own weakness that had made him scream and thrash in agony, begging people whose faces he didn't even see to stop it and kill him. Shame was there but felt blunted, distant. He wondered if being free from pain meant that he was dead. It was funny - he didn't believe in afterlife; and why would he have this rather pleasant kind of afterlife, anyway?
Treize felt a smile on his lips and at the same moment a rather annoyed voice reached him:
"Well, if you can laugh, you surely must be okay."
Grey light broke between his trembling eyelids. Light... he hadn't seen light for so long. Yet there was nothing else he could see.
"What's so funny there, I wonder," the same irritated voice said.
"J..."
"Who else. You really got on my nerves this time, Treize. It could've happened we wouldn't be able to drag you out."
His eyelids felt enormously heavy and he couldn't see anything, so, Treize let them fall.
"I don't believe it. I died."
A huffing sound Doctor J made indicated that he was not going to condescend to answering that. A little later he continued.
"All right. You died for everyone. And I'll tell you - if you stayed at that hospital a bit longer, you would really die. But we managed to get you out in time."
"You saved me," Treize repeated.
"I hope we did."
"It was... it was cruel." He thought about the remorse that would flood him now - as soon as he had just a little strength: remorse for choosing an easy way, for leaving his people... for the words he wanted to say to Wufei, words that only death could justify.
He asked quietly, more himself than J:
"How shall I live now?"
The doctor's voice came unexpectedly serious, almost mild.
"You'll decide it yourself. It depends on how you can live. If you have strength to keep fighting - why not? You can always come back to the world of living. I'd say it would be even... cool."
"And my vision?"
"Not much of it will come back, I'm afraid. Twenty to thirty per cent. But one can do a lot of good even with such vision. Even blind at all."
J's words made him ashamed. And as he felt it, the numbness inside him was gone suddenly, replaced with burning anguish. What had he done? He had escaped, in one way or another - but he had. And he left Wufei behind. His boy, alone, in prison, thinking that Treize was dead.
It hurt so much it made him moan.
"Shh, shh," J patted him on the shoulder without much compassion. "What's wrong?"
How could he say what was wrong? How could he admit he'd ditched his boy... What if he wouldn't see Wufei again - and it would be his fault? He couldn't even cry out.
Treize heard distantly a sound of opening door - and then quick light steps approaching the bed. He didn't even start recognizing them - but he tried to sit up, his body moving instinctively. He could see nothing but a narrow silhouette...
And then he was slapped.
"You son of bitch."
"Don't hit him, Wufei," J said, "he isn't that well yet."
"Oh." There was nothing else Treize could say.
"How could you?" Wufei asked - and then repeated, in a voice breaking with pain. "How could you? You promised you wouldn't leave me."
"He was trying to open his veins through when the help came," J said to Treize. The words were like a distant booming; he felt so weak he was about to collapse and so desolate he started shedding tears.
"Wufei... come closer."
"Why do I have to do what you want, you bastard?" Wufei said antagonistically. But then he came up and sat on the bed, and Treize felt losing the remnants of his strength. His head fell against Wufei's chest - and suddenly there were light touches of small hands on his back. Then he cried for real; not quietly, but with great sobs. The movements of the hands became hastier, gentler.
"Hey, don't be upset, it's nothing," Wufei said in an awkward voice.
"I don't want to die," Treize said. "Not any more."
"At last he said one marginally clever thing," J chuckled somewhere near.
The End
That's it :-) Good or bad, but it's finished. Million thanks for the great reviews to everyone! It was delightful to write for you, people. I feel like I got a lot of new friends during the time while I posted it. Thank you!
And my little brain is actively generating another AU... No, Zettai, stop it! You don't want to write more Treize, or Wufei, or Trowa and Quatre... Or, maybe, you do want? :-)