Um, wow I'm really surprised with all the feedback I've gotten on this.
Thank you all so very much, I'm glad to know someone out there is reading
this and actually interested in what may happen next. Again, a big thank
you to you all and I hope you continue reading, even after this...
Some people differ on what they consider to be graphic or not, and personally I don't think this is too bad, but it is a detailed rape scene. I'm a huge Trowa fan, but this is just a story. Hope you all still remain intrigued and continue to read the story, despite the graphic-ness, or maybe lack there of *^___^* (there are rape whores out there..) I rated this R for a reason, not to screw around, please understand that. Sank you!
The roses bloomed beautifully that morning. Sweet swirls of whites, oranges, reds, yellows, soft peaches and pinks. Their tips were dappled in the late spring dew, outreached so that the sun would graciously warm their tips. Quatre felt no greater joy than spending mornings with his roses. Walking the rows, sprinkling each one over with his water can. On some exceptional mornings he'd find himself humming an unfamiliar tune. But not this morning.
Above the sounds of life he could hear a soft melody playing over his roses. Quatre followed it until he found himself upon the edge of the garden on a grassy hill beneath perfect blue sky. It was almost surreal, and in the center of it all there was a tall boy playing his flute. His long fingers moved gracefully over the tiny silver keys, his lips pouted and colored a soft pink. Quatre smiled in recognition, it was Trowa, the boy he'd only met a few days ago. Every time he saw his face, heard his voice or listened to his music Quatre became thankful that he didn't attempt to destroy Trowa.
The song ended, and Quatre clapped and cheered. Trowa opened his eyes, surprised to see the young Arab before him.
"Good morning Quatre," he said. His voice was that of an older boy, it was deep enough to show his age, but still had a lighthearted twinge to it that held onto his childhood. He smiled a bit, a subtle smile that only Quatre would have seen.
"Morning Trowa," Quatre beamed back, "that was a wonderful song, what's it called?"
"I'm afraid I don't know.." Trowa said sadly, his voice riding like the morning's gentle breeze.
"How do you know to play it then?" Trowa looked his flute over thoughtfully.
"Well, I used to know a girl who'd sing it to me. Every night before I fell asleep, she'd sing this sweet song to me. I loved it so much, I had to learn it for myself, but I could never remember the words. So, I taught it to myself on my flute. Playing it by ear I guess."
"Who was she," Quatre asked quietly, rather surprised the normally silent boy was sharing so much. "She your mother?"
"Never knew my mother, it was my sister." Trowa suddenly looked rather sad, Quatre didn't ask anymore questions.
They spent the rest of the morning making music together. Quatre showed off his violin, and the two shared their favorite songs and made up a couple of their own. That evening the two dined alone together. Trowa admitted that he felt rather close to the boy, in a way he couldn't explain.
"It's almost as if I love you, though, as strange as this may sound, I'm not quite sure how that feels."
"To love someone," Quatre began, "is to want to spend each day with them, share each and every moment, each and every smile, every laugh. To find comfort and safety, to find compassion and understanding and to know that person feels the same way as well." Quatre blushed a bit, surprised with what he had just said.
"Oh, well then, I'd like to say I'm in love."
"Trowa," Quatre smiled, "I love you."
"Then I can say I'm in love too." The two rarely spoke of the evening after that. They had made their feelings known and that was all that mattered. They had made a connection. Even when Trowa left a few days later, the two were still bound together by some unseen force. The other boys could sense the two were close, the hows and whys of it all were a mystery. They only thing they knew was that they cared deeply for the other, and nothing on earth or in space could change that.
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But that late spring day was far away now and forgotten, deep within the bowels of the OZ ship. Trowa was on the brink of death, and Quatre was a guilt ridden mental wreck. His friend desperately needed him and there was nothing he could do.
"Please," he begged, "please don't do this.."
"Then you'll tell me where the others are?" Renshaw grit his teeth anxiously.
"I can't do that. Please, just let him go." The soldier holding Quatre just laughed at him.
"Well my friend," Renshaw cooed, turning to Trowa, "looks like this pretty little thing won't be helping you today." The captain signaled for one of his men to come and hold up Trowa's body upright on his knees. Renshaw then took one of his hands and forced the brunettes mouth open. "His loss and my gain I suppose."
Quatre watched in horror as Renshaw forced his burning erection into Trowa's mouth.
"You know how this is done," he whispered, "do it like you've done it before." The scene was almost too much for Quatre but the soldier behind him had a firm grip on his neck and was forcing him to watch the awful scene.
"Better learn well, cause your next cutie."
The lips Trowa once used to play beautiful music were now shamed. His eyes that once sparkled in the morning sun were closed, tears were running constant down his cheek. Renshaw had now grabbed hold of the back of the boys head, forcing him to take all of it in. Trowa made a few gagging noises, but Renshaw didn't stop, he only forced it harder.
"He's suckin' like a real pro," one of the guards jeered, "let me have a turn." Each moment more unbearable than the last, the cruel jokes, the violent beatings and now this.
"Eat it up," Renshaw commanded, "it's all your good for anymore."
Trowa suddenly lurched forward, still in the tight grasp of the soldier, a vomited all over himself. It was a weak mix of semen and bile, but it was enough to cause the pilot to cough and shake violently. Renshaw merely stood over him, exhausted but with a bemused look upon his face.
"Not bad, but not your best either. Now," he said, looking at Quatre out of the corner of his eye, "you feel like talking? Cause here's half a dozen of us here and.."
"Please," Quatre cried out, "please, take me, don't do this to him, he's dying." Renshaw made a false effort to think over the plea, then with a sadistic smile:
"Maybe after we're done with your friend. Who's next?"
"I'm not going to tell you anything, just let him go, please." Quatre felt an empty beer can hit him in the face, one of the men became tired of him.
"Shut the fuck up and wait your turn!" This prompted a round of laughs from all the men.
"I'm afraid we'll have to take out the big guns boys if we want to get any answers. Charlston!" Renshaw ordered one of the men from the group. One of the shorter soldiers in the back stepped forward.
"Charlston, remove the soldiers clothes." Charlston smiled, the other men cheered him on.
"Please, please don't do this.please," Quatre could barely hear himself above his sobs. The short man handled Trowa very violently, flipping him over, ripping the faded gray clothes from his body. Quatre had never seen Trowa naked before, and he'd never seen a naked body as damaged as his. Cuts, bruises and scars were all over his body. He was completely wasted, his ribcage was poking through his skin. His skin was ghostly pale even in the dim light. He looked like a mangled corpse. Quatre found that his vision was soon blurred by his sympathetic tears, and it was all for the best, he didn't want to see Trowa like this.
"Oh, you poor pretty little thing you," Quatre felt someone lift his chin up, "I could end this all in a second you know."
"I won't say anything," Quatre sobbed, "I won't...I won't." Renshaw simply shook his head.
"Tsk, tsk. Well, I guess whatever happens next is your fault." He dropped Quatre's chin and rejoined the men around Trowa's body. Quatre felt his neck forced upward by the soldier holding him, again, there was no way to escape the horror.
"I guess your friend is really enjoying the show," he addressed to Trowa, "he's just begging to see more. Good thing your such a little exhibitionist, aren't you?" Renshaw reached down between Trowa's legs and gently ran his fingers up and down Trowa's penis until he was erect. "You do get off on all this attention."
"Come on Aidan," Charlston nagged, "you really need to learn how to share."
"Fine, fine," Renshaw sighed, "I have work to attend to anyway. Have your fun boys, call me if anything happens." He gave Quatre one last cold glare, and then vanished into the darkness.
All this time Trowa was lying on the floor, naked, gasping for air. He was still shaking and still erect.
"All right, I go first," Charlston kicked Trowa over onto his stomach, "you watching blondie?" Quatre just stared back at him blankly, at a loss for words.
"Whatever." The soldier quickly undid his pants, letting them drop around his ankles. He then kneeled down behind Trowa, and lifted his hips upward. Trowa's upper half lay still, soundless.
Charlston kept his hands firmly on Trowa's hips, moving them back and forth against his burning erection. The men all cried out catcalls at Trowa, and pretended to bet on how many of them it would take to kill him.
The frail and beaten pilot began to pant, and his arms, though they moved slowly and awkwardly, tried to pull his body away. It was beyond pathetic to see. Soon, Charlston began to pick up pace, thrusting and pushing without thought or consequence. Trowa began to cry out, screaming, tears coming down his face. Only a moment ago had he been so lifeless, now, he was using every ounce of strength to break away from his rapist.
Charlston only replied to this by placing his right hand between Trowa's legs, then quite vigorously, began to beat him off. Trowa stopped moving and fell into a heap, sobbing loudly.
"That's right," came the husky voice of the soldier, "take it like the bitch you are." The two moved together, in and out, back and forth, panting in time with each other, until Charlston cried out in orgasm. Trowa soon followed, and the two collapsed, desperate to breathe.
The men celebrated as Charlston climbed off of his exhausted victim. The obligatory high-fives, slaps on the backs and hand shakes were distributed. Trowa lay alone, naked on the ground, having empty beer cans thrown at him. Quatre's body ached to go to him, hold him, comfort him. But he knew in his heart there'd be no comfort for either one of them.
"No, he's putting those lips on my cock next, I'm gonna make him puke all over again!"
"Let's just beat his ass up until his dead, I'm tired of fucking around with him."
"Yeah, I wanna piss on his corpse!"
"Piss on his now dude!"
The men's violent drunkenness had reached a new, incredible low. In Quatre's sapphire eyes, there were soul less hell beast, bent only on destroying on human lives. And now, within their grasp, he knew he's never see day light again, never water his roses again, never hear Trowa play soft melodies upon his silver flute ever again. The will to live was slowly slipping through his fingers, and as he looked up into the shamed and tearful eyes of his comrade, he understood that Trowa had lost that will a long time ago.
"We're under attack!" The door of the room swung open to reveal a very, very young panicked officer. "What the hell are you taking about?"
"The ship, it's under attack. We can't see from what but we need all men in their stations, now!" The door closed and the man holding Quatre finally let him drop to the ground. The young boy took in heavy gasp of air, now realizing how tight he had been held.
"Let's just leave them, he's not going to live much longer anyway." The soldiers all nodded in agreement.
"What about blondie?" Quatre looked up, knowing that they were talking about him.
"We'll be back in no time, we can take care of this later." Quatre stood up, an effort to try and stand up to the men, but as soon as he got to his feet the whole world turned to shades of red. He tasted blood, he felt it oozing, warm, on his face and his head ached uncontrollably.
"That should do it, let's go." Quatre's vision began to dim, but in front of him on the ground he could still see the outline of a wrench, painted in blood.
The concussion began to take over, and Quatre knew it wouldn't be long until he fell from conscience. He heard the final man slam the door, and alone in the darkness it was only him and the sound of Trowa's ragged breath. Quatre listened to it carefully, and with every bit of strength, he pulled himself over to his friends body.
It was cold. Ice cold, touching it was almost frightening. Quatre laid his head down close to his friends chest, and decided to rest forever.
"Trowa, I'm so sorry," he whispered. There was no response. "I wish I could say I'll make this up to you but.." He paused to take a breath. The room reeked of blood and sex. "But Trowa, I don't think that we'll ever leave this room again." Quatre closed his eyes and allowed his mind to go to a different time, filled with blue skies and green fields, dappled with rose blossoms. Of words the two exchanged, of moments they had shared. Quatre suddenly felt an icy hand upon his own, and in his heart he knew..Trowa was in the same place.
Quatre then closed his eyes, expecting to never open them again..
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There was noise, a loud noise, a loud and raging noise that woke Quatre from his rest. His body felt incredibly foreign as he attempted to move from his spot. Quatre tried his damnedest to open his eyes and look around but they refused to cooperate. His mind was so groggy he could barely remember his own name, but he knew where he was. Then..
"Trowa!" He shouted, before being overtaken by woosiness again. In his light headed state, he padded about around to find his friend, who was resting right beside him.
"Trowa," he cried, "don't be dead, please." Trowa's body was cold, but breathing lightly. Quatre gave a sigh of relief, then fell over, weary. He suddenly remembered the wrench and the blood and the concussion. His head felt like it weighed two hundred tons or more. Carefully, he pulled himself up, and forced his eyes to open up.
He was still in the dark room, Trowa was sprawled out before him, his tattered and torn clothes not far away and the wrench was next to his right hand.
There was a siren blaring from beyond the room. Quatre recognized the sound, it was an evacuation siren, the ship had come under attack and was now being evacuated.
The tired cranks within the boy began to turn. This was it, if he wanted to escape it was now or never. He was sure if the ship was being evacuated no one would stop them. No one had even come back for them, they were expected to die.
Problem was Trowa was immobile and naked, and he had been beaten over the head with a wrench and wasn't even sure he could stand up.
He made an attempt, fell, and concluded standing was not an option.
His next plan was to drag him and Trowa to safety. First he had to try and clothe his friend, and this would prove no easy task. Quatre wasn't sure where it would be safe to touch Trowa's body. He was well beaten, bruised and scarred, and Quatre didn't want to further the injuries. He also feared that Trowa may still be tender, there was a tiny pool of blood and semen between his legs and on his thighs. Quatre just decided to cover it up with a discarded piece of clothing and hope for the best.
The two moved slowly. Quatre first, dragging himself along, then Trowa, being towed behind his friend. They went like this for quite sometime, till they found themselves in the center of anarchy. Men were running around in pandemonium. Sirens were blaring, warnings were being made, people were yelling and screaming. Quatre just continued to drag along his half naked friend, desperate to find a way out.
At the end of a hall, Quatre found a phone box on the wall. He smiled hopefully, maybe he could use it to call for help. He began to pick up pace, hurriedly dragging himself and Trowa across the steel floor. But he suddenly found himself falling short of the goal, his mind became groggy again, the world began to fade back into shades of red. Darker and darker shades. Turning, he could see huge spots of red on the floor behind him, and placing his hand on the back of his head he found his hair to be warm and sticky.
Quatre took up Trowa's head into his lap, cradling it against his chest. As the men began to rush by, he'd reach out his hand for help. There was nothing else he could do.things were beginning to spin. The men would run by, and not even look down at the two, bloody and helpless.
The world was no a blur, but still Quatre kept his hand up, waving to the strange silhouettes that would pass him by.
Then, he felt his whole body rise upwards, someone had taken him into their arms.
"Thank God I found you!" Came a familiar voice, "I was about ready to give up looking for you two." Quatre smiled and mouthed "Duo."
"Yeah it's me buddy, knew we were all going to get out of this. And Fei and Heero are here too, they got Trowa and we're all gonna be okay, everything will be okay buddy." Quatre felt as if he were about to cry. A great burden had been lifted, they had been rescued, they were all going to make it.
"We'd better move it," Fei said, "we don't have much time. I punctured the four main gasoline tanks along the bottom, and put in some time bombs. Once they explode, this thing is going to go up faster than you can say.."
"Time bombs near the gasoline? Fei, are you fucking nuts?"
"Faster than you can say 'Thanks Wufei for saving my ass.' At least I have a plan to destroy this thing and get you idiots out!" Wufei growled.
"Both of you shut up," Heero bellowed, "he's right, we need to get out of here. Wufei, pick up Trowa's feet and let's move!"
For the second time, Quatre allowed himself to surrender to the concussion. He wanted to rest, it had been a long time since he had rested. Though sirens were screaming all around him, he felt at peace. Everything was going to be ok...everything was going to be ok...
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No, this is NOT the end. I mean, end on a happy note? There's a little word called aftermath that's about to take place. Hell, it's the real reason this story was written. So sit tight, more to come..
Some people differ on what they consider to be graphic or not, and personally I don't think this is too bad, but it is a detailed rape scene. I'm a huge Trowa fan, but this is just a story. Hope you all still remain intrigued and continue to read the story, despite the graphic-ness, or maybe lack there of *^___^* (there are rape whores out there..) I rated this R for a reason, not to screw around, please understand that. Sank you!
The roses bloomed beautifully that morning. Sweet swirls of whites, oranges, reds, yellows, soft peaches and pinks. Their tips were dappled in the late spring dew, outreached so that the sun would graciously warm their tips. Quatre felt no greater joy than spending mornings with his roses. Walking the rows, sprinkling each one over with his water can. On some exceptional mornings he'd find himself humming an unfamiliar tune. But not this morning.
Above the sounds of life he could hear a soft melody playing over his roses. Quatre followed it until he found himself upon the edge of the garden on a grassy hill beneath perfect blue sky. It was almost surreal, and in the center of it all there was a tall boy playing his flute. His long fingers moved gracefully over the tiny silver keys, his lips pouted and colored a soft pink. Quatre smiled in recognition, it was Trowa, the boy he'd only met a few days ago. Every time he saw his face, heard his voice or listened to his music Quatre became thankful that he didn't attempt to destroy Trowa.
The song ended, and Quatre clapped and cheered. Trowa opened his eyes, surprised to see the young Arab before him.
"Good morning Quatre," he said. His voice was that of an older boy, it was deep enough to show his age, but still had a lighthearted twinge to it that held onto his childhood. He smiled a bit, a subtle smile that only Quatre would have seen.
"Morning Trowa," Quatre beamed back, "that was a wonderful song, what's it called?"
"I'm afraid I don't know.." Trowa said sadly, his voice riding like the morning's gentle breeze.
"How do you know to play it then?" Trowa looked his flute over thoughtfully.
"Well, I used to know a girl who'd sing it to me. Every night before I fell asleep, she'd sing this sweet song to me. I loved it so much, I had to learn it for myself, but I could never remember the words. So, I taught it to myself on my flute. Playing it by ear I guess."
"Who was she," Quatre asked quietly, rather surprised the normally silent boy was sharing so much. "She your mother?"
"Never knew my mother, it was my sister." Trowa suddenly looked rather sad, Quatre didn't ask anymore questions.
They spent the rest of the morning making music together. Quatre showed off his violin, and the two shared their favorite songs and made up a couple of their own. That evening the two dined alone together. Trowa admitted that he felt rather close to the boy, in a way he couldn't explain.
"It's almost as if I love you, though, as strange as this may sound, I'm not quite sure how that feels."
"To love someone," Quatre began, "is to want to spend each day with them, share each and every moment, each and every smile, every laugh. To find comfort and safety, to find compassion and understanding and to know that person feels the same way as well." Quatre blushed a bit, surprised with what he had just said.
"Oh, well then, I'd like to say I'm in love."
"Trowa," Quatre smiled, "I love you."
"Then I can say I'm in love too." The two rarely spoke of the evening after that. They had made their feelings known and that was all that mattered. They had made a connection. Even when Trowa left a few days later, the two were still bound together by some unseen force. The other boys could sense the two were close, the hows and whys of it all were a mystery. They only thing they knew was that they cared deeply for the other, and nothing on earth or in space could change that.
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But that late spring day was far away now and forgotten, deep within the bowels of the OZ ship. Trowa was on the brink of death, and Quatre was a guilt ridden mental wreck. His friend desperately needed him and there was nothing he could do.
"Please," he begged, "please don't do this.."
"Then you'll tell me where the others are?" Renshaw grit his teeth anxiously.
"I can't do that. Please, just let him go." The soldier holding Quatre just laughed at him.
"Well my friend," Renshaw cooed, turning to Trowa, "looks like this pretty little thing won't be helping you today." The captain signaled for one of his men to come and hold up Trowa's body upright on his knees. Renshaw then took one of his hands and forced the brunettes mouth open. "His loss and my gain I suppose."
Quatre watched in horror as Renshaw forced his burning erection into Trowa's mouth.
"You know how this is done," he whispered, "do it like you've done it before." The scene was almost too much for Quatre but the soldier behind him had a firm grip on his neck and was forcing him to watch the awful scene.
"Better learn well, cause your next cutie."
The lips Trowa once used to play beautiful music were now shamed. His eyes that once sparkled in the morning sun were closed, tears were running constant down his cheek. Renshaw had now grabbed hold of the back of the boys head, forcing him to take all of it in. Trowa made a few gagging noises, but Renshaw didn't stop, he only forced it harder.
"He's suckin' like a real pro," one of the guards jeered, "let me have a turn." Each moment more unbearable than the last, the cruel jokes, the violent beatings and now this.
"Eat it up," Renshaw commanded, "it's all your good for anymore."
Trowa suddenly lurched forward, still in the tight grasp of the soldier, a vomited all over himself. It was a weak mix of semen and bile, but it was enough to cause the pilot to cough and shake violently. Renshaw merely stood over him, exhausted but with a bemused look upon his face.
"Not bad, but not your best either. Now," he said, looking at Quatre out of the corner of his eye, "you feel like talking? Cause here's half a dozen of us here and.."
"Please," Quatre cried out, "please, take me, don't do this to him, he's dying." Renshaw made a false effort to think over the plea, then with a sadistic smile:
"Maybe after we're done with your friend. Who's next?"
"I'm not going to tell you anything, just let him go, please." Quatre felt an empty beer can hit him in the face, one of the men became tired of him.
"Shut the fuck up and wait your turn!" This prompted a round of laughs from all the men.
"I'm afraid we'll have to take out the big guns boys if we want to get any answers. Charlston!" Renshaw ordered one of the men from the group. One of the shorter soldiers in the back stepped forward.
"Charlston, remove the soldiers clothes." Charlston smiled, the other men cheered him on.
"Please, please don't do this.please," Quatre could barely hear himself above his sobs. The short man handled Trowa very violently, flipping him over, ripping the faded gray clothes from his body. Quatre had never seen Trowa naked before, and he'd never seen a naked body as damaged as his. Cuts, bruises and scars were all over his body. He was completely wasted, his ribcage was poking through his skin. His skin was ghostly pale even in the dim light. He looked like a mangled corpse. Quatre found that his vision was soon blurred by his sympathetic tears, and it was all for the best, he didn't want to see Trowa like this.
"Oh, you poor pretty little thing you," Quatre felt someone lift his chin up, "I could end this all in a second you know."
"I won't say anything," Quatre sobbed, "I won't...I won't." Renshaw simply shook his head.
"Tsk, tsk. Well, I guess whatever happens next is your fault." He dropped Quatre's chin and rejoined the men around Trowa's body. Quatre felt his neck forced upward by the soldier holding him, again, there was no way to escape the horror.
"I guess your friend is really enjoying the show," he addressed to Trowa, "he's just begging to see more. Good thing your such a little exhibitionist, aren't you?" Renshaw reached down between Trowa's legs and gently ran his fingers up and down Trowa's penis until he was erect. "You do get off on all this attention."
"Come on Aidan," Charlston nagged, "you really need to learn how to share."
"Fine, fine," Renshaw sighed, "I have work to attend to anyway. Have your fun boys, call me if anything happens." He gave Quatre one last cold glare, and then vanished into the darkness.
All this time Trowa was lying on the floor, naked, gasping for air. He was still shaking and still erect.
"All right, I go first," Charlston kicked Trowa over onto his stomach, "you watching blondie?" Quatre just stared back at him blankly, at a loss for words.
"Whatever." The soldier quickly undid his pants, letting them drop around his ankles. He then kneeled down behind Trowa, and lifted his hips upward. Trowa's upper half lay still, soundless.
Charlston kept his hands firmly on Trowa's hips, moving them back and forth against his burning erection. The men all cried out catcalls at Trowa, and pretended to bet on how many of them it would take to kill him.
The frail and beaten pilot began to pant, and his arms, though they moved slowly and awkwardly, tried to pull his body away. It was beyond pathetic to see. Soon, Charlston began to pick up pace, thrusting and pushing without thought or consequence. Trowa began to cry out, screaming, tears coming down his face. Only a moment ago had he been so lifeless, now, he was using every ounce of strength to break away from his rapist.
Charlston only replied to this by placing his right hand between Trowa's legs, then quite vigorously, began to beat him off. Trowa stopped moving and fell into a heap, sobbing loudly.
"That's right," came the husky voice of the soldier, "take it like the bitch you are." The two moved together, in and out, back and forth, panting in time with each other, until Charlston cried out in orgasm. Trowa soon followed, and the two collapsed, desperate to breathe.
The men celebrated as Charlston climbed off of his exhausted victim. The obligatory high-fives, slaps on the backs and hand shakes were distributed. Trowa lay alone, naked on the ground, having empty beer cans thrown at him. Quatre's body ached to go to him, hold him, comfort him. But he knew in his heart there'd be no comfort for either one of them.
"No, he's putting those lips on my cock next, I'm gonna make him puke all over again!"
"Let's just beat his ass up until his dead, I'm tired of fucking around with him."
"Yeah, I wanna piss on his corpse!"
"Piss on his now dude!"
The men's violent drunkenness had reached a new, incredible low. In Quatre's sapphire eyes, there were soul less hell beast, bent only on destroying on human lives. And now, within their grasp, he knew he's never see day light again, never water his roses again, never hear Trowa play soft melodies upon his silver flute ever again. The will to live was slowly slipping through his fingers, and as he looked up into the shamed and tearful eyes of his comrade, he understood that Trowa had lost that will a long time ago.
"We're under attack!" The door of the room swung open to reveal a very, very young panicked officer. "What the hell are you taking about?"
"The ship, it's under attack. We can't see from what but we need all men in their stations, now!" The door closed and the man holding Quatre finally let him drop to the ground. The young boy took in heavy gasp of air, now realizing how tight he had been held.
"Let's just leave them, he's not going to live much longer anyway." The soldiers all nodded in agreement.
"What about blondie?" Quatre looked up, knowing that they were talking about him.
"We'll be back in no time, we can take care of this later." Quatre stood up, an effort to try and stand up to the men, but as soon as he got to his feet the whole world turned to shades of red. He tasted blood, he felt it oozing, warm, on his face and his head ached uncontrollably.
"That should do it, let's go." Quatre's vision began to dim, but in front of him on the ground he could still see the outline of a wrench, painted in blood.
The concussion began to take over, and Quatre knew it wouldn't be long until he fell from conscience. He heard the final man slam the door, and alone in the darkness it was only him and the sound of Trowa's ragged breath. Quatre listened to it carefully, and with every bit of strength, he pulled himself over to his friends body.
It was cold. Ice cold, touching it was almost frightening. Quatre laid his head down close to his friends chest, and decided to rest forever.
"Trowa, I'm so sorry," he whispered. There was no response. "I wish I could say I'll make this up to you but.." He paused to take a breath. The room reeked of blood and sex. "But Trowa, I don't think that we'll ever leave this room again." Quatre closed his eyes and allowed his mind to go to a different time, filled with blue skies and green fields, dappled with rose blossoms. Of words the two exchanged, of moments they had shared. Quatre suddenly felt an icy hand upon his own, and in his heart he knew..Trowa was in the same place.
Quatre then closed his eyes, expecting to never open them again..
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There was noise, a loud noise, a loud and raging noise that woke Quatre from his rest. His body felt incredibly foreign as he attempted to move from his spot. Quatre tried his damnedest to open his eyes and look around but they refused to cooperate. His mind was so groggy he could barely remember his own name, but he knew where he was. Then..
"Trowa!" He shouted, before being overtaken by woosiness again. In his light headed state, he padded about around to find his friend, who was resting right beside him.
"Trowa," he cried, "don't be dead, please." Trowa's body was cold, but breathing lightly. Quatre gave a sigh of relief, then fell over, weary. He suddenly remembered the wrench and the blood and the concussion. His head felt like it weighed two hundred tons or more. Carefully, he pulled himself up, and forced his eyes to open up.
He was still in the dark room, Trowa was sprawled out before him, his tattered and torn clothes not far away and the wrench was next to his right hand.
There was a siren blaring from beyond the room. Quatre recognized the sound, it was an evacuation siren, the ship had come under attack and was now being evacuated.
The tired cranks within the boy began to turn. This was it, if he wanted to escape it was now or never. He was sure if the ship was being evacuated no one would stop them. No one had even come back for them, they were expected to die.
Problem was Trowa was immobile and naked, and he had been beaten over the head with a wrench and wasn't even sure he could stand up.
He made an attempt, fell, and concluded standing was not an option.
His next plan was to drag him and Trowa to safety. First he had to try and clothe his friend, and this would prove no easy task. Quatre wasn't sure where it would be safe to touch Trowa's body. He was well beaten, bruised and scarred, and Quatre didn't want to further the injuries. He also feared that Trowa may still be tender, there was a tiny pool of blood and semen between his legs and on his thighs. Quatre just decided to cover it up with a discarded piece of clothing and hope for the best.
The two moved slowly. Quatre first, dragging himself along, then Trowa, being towed behind his friend. They went like this for quite sometime, till they found themselves in the center of anarchy. Men were running around in pandemonium. Sirens were blaring, warnings were being made, people were yelling and screaming. Quatre just continued to drag along his half naked friend, desperate to find a way out.
At the end of a hall, Quatre found a phone box on the wall. He smiled hopefully, maybe he could use it to call for help. He began to pick up pace, hurriedly dragging himself and Trowa across the steel floor. But he suddenly found himself falling short of the goal, his mind became groggy again, the world began to fade back into shades of red. Darker and darker shades. Turning, he could see huge spots of red on the floor behind him, and placing his hand on the back of his head he found his hair to be warm and sticky.
Quatre took up Trowa's head into his lap, cradling it against his chest. As the men began to rush by, he'd reach out his hand for help. There was nothing else he could do.things were beginning to spin. The men would run by, and not even look down at the two, bloody and helpless.
The world was no a blur, but still Quatre kept his hand up, waving to the strange silhouettes that would pass him by.
Then, he felt his whole body rise upwards, someone had taken him into their arms.
"Thank God I found you!" Came a familiar voice, "I was about ready to give up looking for you two." Quatre smiled and mouthed "Duo."
"Yeah it's me buddy, knew we were all going to get out of this. And Fei and Heero are here too, they got Trowa and we're all gonna be okay, everything will be okay buddy." Quatre felt as if he were about to cry. A great burden had been lifted, they had been rescued, they were all going to make it.
"We'd better move it," Fei said, "we don't have much time. I punctured the four main gasoline tanks along the bottom, and put in some time bombs. Once they explode, this thing is going to go up faster than you can say.."
"Time bombs near the gasoline? Fei, are you fucking nuts?"
"Faster than you can say 'Thanks Wufei for saving my ass.' At least I have a plan to destroy this thing and get you idiots out!" Wufei growled.
"Both of you shut up," Heero bellowed, "he's right, we need to get out of here. Wufei, pick up Trowa's feet and let's move!"
For the second time, Quatre allowed himself to surrender to the concussion. He wanted to rest, it had been a long time since he had rested. Though sirens were screaming all around him, he felt at peace. Everything was going to be ok...everything was going to be ok...
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No, this is NOT the end. I mean, end on a happy note? There's a little word called aftermath that's about to take place. Hell, it's the real reason this story was written. So sit tight, more to come..
