Many thanks to Karina and to the anonymous reviewer who let me know that they liked this story - cheers!
Lightning Arc 5 - Winter
Fandom: Gundam Wing
Rating: M for references to an intimate Zechs/Treize relationship.
Pairing: Zechs and Treize
Warnings: m/m love and some references to m/m sex, some swearing - if you are hoping for explicit scenes though, you are likely to be disappointed.
Spoilers: everywhere, in all my stories
Summary: see Chapter 1.
xxx
Chapter 2 - Silent WoodsIf dreams could come true, he was living in one of them now, Zechs mused as they dismounted the steaming horses a few hundred yards from the lodge. Flushed from the rather reckless burst through the forest surrounding the manor, smelling of leather and furcoats and horse-sweat, they stomped through the almost thigh-high snow, the path only indicated by a gap in the undergrowth. It was still out here, pale sunlight slanting through the canopy of naked branches of birch and hazel (1), laden with snow and glittering with ice dops. Now and then, a crack like a gunshot would whip through the silent woods when a tree split in the frost, or some of the blackened branches would divest themselves with a cold whoosh of their burden at the whispering touch of another flake.
Their boots crunched softly in the endless snow, and their breath and that of the horses came in white puffs as they trudged along, the animals following on long bridles that only tightened when the sounds of the groaning forest startled them. "We did not expect such a severe winter,"(2) Treize gasped, half-turning to Zechs who walked behind him, "but it usually precedes a good year for fruit and grains." The estate produced almost everything it needed for the consumption of its occupants, and Treize was proud of the fact – his own little kingdom, Zechs thought with a smile that was free of envy or bitterness.
"You are miles away," Treize's voice suddenly right by his ear, a stirring of moist, chill air, breathing against his cheek, and he turned right into the touch of dry, cold lips. Treize lifted his gloved hands and cupped the younger man's face, holding him in this kiss for a split second, before letting go. "We're close," he said softly, "I bet the place has gone all musky though I asked it be aired regularly."
The little house was built of roughly hewn logs that crossed at the corners. The roof of earth and grass hidden under a thick icing of snow, its crossing gables that culminated in ornately carved horse-heads (3) gleaming with icicles. The outside walls were weathered, bleached a silvery grey with age – when winter thawed away, they would darken almost black with dampness.
They opened up, unbolting the brightly painted shutters, unbarring the door, finding the kit for the horses in the antechamber to the house. They untacked the animals, shaggy, sturdy little creatures that were kept outdoors all year round even under the most severe of conditions. By now, they had cooled down enough to be safe under the fenced-in lean-to roof at the back of the house. Zechs covered them with thick felt rugs they had carried rolled up behind the saddles, and while he buckled them up, Treize dragged a bale of hay from a small shed under the roof. He filled the rack, scooped some crushed oats and dried sugar beet into the trough and went to fetch some water. At the edge of the clearing murmured a brook, and after fighting his way through snow-bound brambles, he returned, sweating and swearing softly, a pail of water in one hand, and a brightness in his eyes.
The horses taken care of, they could settle. Inside, it smelled a little of mice, along with the scent of pine logs and cold bedlinen. The lodge had only three rooms – a lounge, a study and a bedroom, plus a small kitchen and a bathroom that with its stone bench and slatted floor doubled as a sauna.
They did not talk much while they made themselves at home. Zechs lit the fire in the stove that occupied most of the lounge. The thing was built like a two-storey bench of clay and stone, painted white and decorated with gaudy tiles like a tacky birthday cake. It had vaults beneath the bottom storey for drying logs and cushions on top to make a nest (4). Treize busied himself stacking the fire under the stone bench in the bathroom. Then they went out together to fetch buckets of water to half fill the round wooden tub and warm a few pails of it on the bench.
Pale blue shadows lengthened and deepened, and by the time they carried the last bucket inside, the early dusk of the winter afternoon settled in. In the kitchen larder, they found bread, dried meats, a plastic bowl with frozen milk, butter, a jar with set honey, some ginger cakes and a stone jar with salt-pickled mushrooms (5). They hung their furcoats (6) over a rack in the antechamber and finally settled to heat the samovar that stood in a corner of the lounge.
Zechs leaned over the gleaming contraption to spoon some tea leaves into the small pot at the top when the familiar aroma of roses and steel washed over him, and a pair of arms circled his waist from behind. "I missed you," Treize said quietly, resting his chin on the younger man's shoulder.
Zechs turned in the embrace and wound his arms around his friend. They kissed in silence. Softly, passion replaced by tenderness. When they pulled apart after some time, Zechs said, "Did you foresee all this?"
Treize playfully smoothed a few long silver strands from his face. "I am no oracle. But you... you do not have a soldier's spirit. No, please – you have always been too independent. Soldiers do not think for themselves, Miliusha."(7) A kiss to his forehead. "You are destined for other things."
"Then why..."
"Because you can succeed where I must fail," Treize said, pulling him closer still, their warmth mingling, heartbeats weaving together in a steady rhythm, "You think you forfeited your family's legacy when, in truth, you gained the wisdom to reclaim it. The tools to hold on to it. We have a saying-"
"Trust a Russian to have a saying for everything," Zechs groaned quietly.
Treize nodded. "Indeed. The wisdom of our people resides in sayings such as this: what belongs to you, earn it, so that you may own it. Or," a quick smile, "possession is nine tenths of the law. Your sister is a brave girl, but she will need you to accomplish what she set out to do."
"She... she will not want me now."
"Have you tried? Or are you beating your retreat even before you join battle?"
"Don't make fun of me."
"I do not. It might not be wise for her to acknowledge it, but you will find that your help will be accepted when the time is right."
"Treize, you sound odd."
A long silence fell, while dusk deepened quickly. The horses wickered softly once, and the fire rustled, casting flickering gold over bare floor boards and raw log walls. The gaps between the long beams had been stuffed with dry lichen and moss that now painted lacey, shifting shadows over the pale wood. When a log fell into the embers in a shower of sparks, Treize touched another kiss to the blond head that rested against his shoulder. "Let's restack the fire, and get some food," he murmured, reluctantly breaking the embrace.
They fed the fires and got into the bath, complete with rose scent: Treize had found a handful of dried rose petals in a paper bag in between a stack of large white towels in the bedroom. The water was just tepid, but they quickly grew hot when Zechs picked up a large wooden ladle that lay by the side of the tub, and slopped some water onto the heated stonebench. Quickly, the room filled with steam. They crawled out of their bath and sat on the decking, sweating and panting while they were soaking in the hot haze.
Along with the water, Treize had brought in some birch twigs and tied them into small broomlike bundles, and they spent some time lashing each other's backs until they glowed crimson and the blood rushed through their limbs like liquid fire. When they had enough, they took another dip in the cooling water, then ran outside to roll laughing and gasping in the snow under a starspangled sky, their bodies steaming and their breath rising in dense white plumes. Zechs hit Treize's back with a snowball. Treize took up the gauntlet, and soon they were out of breath and hurting with cold and welts where the rather hard missiles had hit home.
Later they sat, wrapped in only a few blankets, on the warm oven in the lounge, with a few candles on the floor, and ate from the supplies the lodge had been stocked with. Treize dashed outside at one point, and when he returned, he produced a bottle of vodka from the folds of his blanket. The glass misted over in the heat, and Zechs laughed. "Hey, did you dig that out just now?"
"From underneath the shed," Treize nodded, still flushed and a bit shivery from the cold as he unscrewed the bottle and poured some of the sharp stuff into his and then Zechs' tea glass. "Na zdorovie,"(8) he toasted and tossed the drink back with a flourish.
Buzzed and lightheaded, Zechs laughed again and saluted before doing the same.
Soon enough they moved from tea with vodka to vodka with a dash of tea, and then vodka with nothing, not even ice. The fire of the drink, the warmth of the stove on which they lazed, the lingering tingle of the sauna had them in a haze of floaty relaxation. "Bed?" Zechs asked when the blanket slipped off his shoulders – as it had done all evening – and he tried annoyedly to tug it back in place only to finally give up.
He looked up and met Treize's laughing and heated gaze. "It will be cold. And I'm not tired."
Zechs scowled. "Din't say I was tired," he slurred, ever so slightly and strenuously trying not to admit just how drunk he was. No way. He could hold his drink just as well as Treize.
Who stretched out his hand to wind a strand of silver blond around his index finger. "Oh?" He tugged lightly. "Well, I should prefer another drink."
That was it. "'S not fair." Zechs tried to pull away.
"Not my mistake. You should not attempt to outdrink a Russian blueblood and officer." Treize now laughed quite openly, though without malice. "Really, my friend, a good commander choses his battles wisely."
"Wise.. ah." Zechs gulped down some air and swayed as he set down the empty glass. "Fill it up, Count, I'll show you some good olfash... fashnd resisnce."
"As you wish. I shall not decline a challenge." Treize let the blond strand unravel. He lifted the bottle but then hesitated. "Although..."
"No mercy to the enemy," Zechs growled, yanked at the bottle and poured himself another glass. He lifted it to his lips, but he had not swallowed the first mouthful when Treize leaned in to him and firmly took the drink away.
"Whatcha doin'?" Zechs protested, flailing for the glass, but Treize set it on the floor and caught him close.
"Are you my enemy?" he said, barely above a whisper. "I do not think so, Miliusha."
He let go of a rather dazed Zechs and went, blanket wrapped round his waist, to fetch some more thick towels from the bedroom. With an iron shovel, he pulled some large round stones from the embers of the fire and wrapped the boulders into the towels. He carried them to the bedroom and placed them between the mattress and the mountainous down bed. Then he fed and banked the fire before returning to Zechs, who had slipped down onto the bench and now slouched against he second storey of the stove.
"Just a little while," Treize said, sitting next to him and drawing him close.
"Yes." Docile as a lamb. Sleepy and drunk. Unwilling to think about what the morning would bring.
They spent some time just like this, unmoving, listening to the fire and their own breathing, wrapped into one another in wordless understanding. "Now," Treize said after a while, "let us go to bed, my friend."
xxx
Next chapter: Precocious Child
Notes:
(1) birch and assorted residuous or mixed woods cover thousands of square miles in Russia – a striking sight of endless white and black speckled trees, with flaming golden foliage in autumn; some large country estates lay several days journeys apart, with vast areas of forest in between – self sufficiency was a well-practised virtue of business-minded Russian landowners
(2) severe winter – snowbound from early October until well into late April or even May, with temperatures down to below 20-30 degree Celsius
(3) weathered wood - beech perhaps; carvings and painted decorations were adornments of traditional Russian houses
(4) two storey stove – used to be the focal point in Russian houses of this type; people used it for a bed
(5) salt pickled mushrooms – knowing, harvesting and preserving the fruits of the forest is something very Russian, due to the long, hard winters and the hot, short summers during which the forest yields its treasures: salt and vinegar pickles in stone jars, berry preserves, dried wild fruit, fruit and/or nuts in honey, roasted, salted or caramelised nuts, smoked and dried game and fowl, preserved eggs – the list could go on...
(6) furcoats – due to the severity of the weather, furs are part of the (politically incorrect) Russian winter wardrobe: bear, beaver, wolf, fox, mink... Coats could be lined only, or the fur worn on the outside plus lining inside – all depending on the means of the owner; silver fox is one of the most pricey versions
(7) Miliusha – one possible Russian affectionate for Milliardo
(8) na zdorovje – to your health
