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 4 - Scandal
When Zechs woke up, a dull morning shone through the small, lace-covered window of the bedroom, and Treize's pillow was cold. For a while, he lay still, snug in the warmth of the huge comforter, and stared vacantly at the spider-webbed ceiling of wood tiles. He enjoyed the sensation of emptiness, total relaxation, with not a care in the world disturbing the peace of this place.
The horses were snorting outside, and he heard them mill around in their pen. Tentatively, he stuck one bare arm out and quickly withdrew it, back under the comforter – the room was ice cold, and he realised that his breath formed a soft white plume in the frosty air. No fire yet meant that Treize had gone out.
A faint throbbing in his temples told him that he had drunk more than his fill the evening before. Lazily, scraps of the conversation, the warmth, the laughter floated back into his memory, and a soft smile spread on his face. Nothing had changed. They were as close as ever, friends, lovers, everything.
Everything.
And suddenly, a jolt of pain shot through his chest, and he sat up with a harsh gasp, but before he could gather himself, the soft crunching of steps on snow approached, and then the gentle murmur of Treize's voice as he talked to the horses. Reality soothed, gentled away once more...
A bucket clanked – Treize probably strewed a handful of hay into it, to cover the cold water from the brook and make them drink slower – and then, the door to the hut was flung open and he stomped inside. Zechs listened, shivering a little as the cold air washed over his back, creating swathes of goosebumps. He could tell what Treize was doing just by listening: shaking snow off his boots and silver fox coat, soft swishing of clothes as they were hung on their rack, small silence as he smoothed his hair.
Then quick, firm steps across the bare planks of the lounge and the rattling of the grid in the stove. He was shovelling out the ash, brushing the fireplace clean and restacking it with logs and some kindling. A little later, the scent of woodsmoke drifted through the chill house, along with the murmur of the simmering samovar and the smell of brewing tea.
Zechs was about to thrust aside the comforter when the door to the bedroom creaked open and Treize slipped in, the look of expectation on his face changing to one of slight disappointment. "Oh. Did I wake you?"
In a thickly knit jumper of undyed wool and worn brown corduroys, he looked a bit sloppy and a lot younger than usual. His hair was in disarray in spite of his efforts to force it into form, and hung into his face that was flushed with the cold outside and heated by the glow of the new fire. Zechs stared.
Treize laughed and slipped into the bed, clothes and all, groping for his friend. Zechs jumped when ice cold fingers grabbed his waist and pressed him against chill garments over a hard, unyielding body. "Don't run away now. I'd hoped I'd be back with you still sleeping."
"To do what?" Zechs tried in vain to bat those cold hands away, and finally gave up with a laugh.
"Hm." A cold nose poking at his neck, cool lips nipping his skin over the pulsing vein. "Let me think..."
"You need to think about that?" Zechs rolled onto his side and clamped the shorter man down with one long arm and leg thrown over him.
"How did you get naked?"
"I wonder... I cannot remember getting undressed when we fell into bed."
Treize laughed. "The tea is heating."
"Right. Ouch, my head..."
"I told you. We should-"
Arm and leg releasing him as Zechs turned over, pushed back the comforter and swung his legs out of bed. "We should have breakfast."
"And then go hunting," Treize added, his tone suddenly different, as though beneath the careless ease some of the winter chill had crept into it.
Zechs, bending over to collect his clothes from the floor, gave him a glance over the shoulder, to meet a flat gaze. "Hunting?"
Treize's smile was still in place, but his eyes were dark. "Yes. Check a few snares that have been set some days ago, and perhaps shoot a deer."
Zechs fished a fresh pair of pants from the small heap of garments and slipped them on, then sat on the edge of the mattress to pull on his trousers. Treize sat up, beat down the fluffy bedding and watched: mussed silver strands straggling over broad shoulders, the subtle play of well-defined muscles, shifting under white skin, flawless except for a few scars. "Would you like that?" he asked quietly.
Zechs nodded. "Yes." He struggled into his vest and the same bulky grey jumper he had worn the day before, pulled on fresh woollen socks and got up. "What kind of snares? For rabbits, or hares? Or were you after something bigger?"
They locked eyes, brilliant blue sinking into pale ice as if seeking, probing, evaluating. "Bigger," Treize answered evenly. "I checked over our guns this morning; they are ready and loaded for deer. Do you remember the rumours?"
Zechs shook his hair out of his face and tied it back with a black elastic. "About the white hart? C'mon, Tre, that's a fairytale."
Treize made no reply but got up and left the room. When Zechs followed, he saw a large laquered, rose-painted tray (1) sitting on the floor by the oven, along with the samovar. On the tray piled honey, smoked ham, some of the mushrooms in a small laquered bowl, a slab of butter on a white porcelain plate, and two glasses of steaming tea. They had brought some black bread and a few white rolls, packed neatly in foil and stuffed into the saddle bags. Now the bread was neatly sliced and set out on the tray too. Treize was rummaging in the kitchen and emerged, a moment later, with a few shards of the frozen milk in another small bowl.
They sat down on the floor and began to eat. Tea with lots of honey and milk helped to warm them through and send a pleasant buzz through their veins.
"How is your head?" Treize asked while slopping honey onto a slice of rye bread.
"Fine now."
"Do you remember the last time you complained about a major headache, aside from working with Zero?"
Zechs paused, mouth full with roll and ham, before he slowly shook his head. "It was not one of your finer moments," he remarked dryly.
Treize threw his head back and laughed, eyes half closing as he slanted a longing glance at Zechs. "You never suggested a better solution. My mother ordered me to attend – wait, they called it an emergency family council – and even intimidated Une into interrupting my meeting with Foundation officials to relay the message."
"Figures," Zechs said with a shiver of dread and respect. "What a feat. So you left base because you thought someone at home was about to die?"
"No less. Only to be sent off to my room and await summons, like a small boy. It was too odd. I could hear them arrive and gather – she had organised a formal dinner, and of course my family are not of the quiet sort."
"Never thought they were."
"Oh?" A pair of copper eyebrows rose in amusement. "Now why would that be, my friend?"
"I know you well enough."
"Drink some tea," Treize laughed.
Zechs shot him a glare and blushed, shifting a little as he gave in to the memory. "Do not distract, you brought this up. You did not have to drag me into it, away from a mission no less."
"That mission was a routine job, besides, you had Lucy (2) along. I did not think she needed you more than me at that point in time. They had summoned me to this council to pummel me – telling me about all those good matches I was about to lose, about jeopardizing succession for our family; Father even threatened to disinherit me."
"And got into a fight with your mother."
"And lost, rather predictably." Treize sipped some tea, eyes twinkling over the rim of the glass at his companion. "It was very entertaining."
"I remember you being rather riled up when I arrived," Zechs cut in edgily.
"Oh, it was more than anyone can take: my dear aunts and uncles, Babushka, plus assorted nephews, cousins and nieces, along with a few of said good matches, all discussing my private life, happily speculating about the most intimate details – well, I thought it was as good a time as any to shut them up."
"Your grandmother told me you'd been slinging around a few home truths about other people's... ah, private lives. Before brandishing a gun, challenging one of your cousins to a sabre duel, and stomping out."
"He called you a faggot."
Zechs choked on a sip of tea and began to splutter, and when he could speak again, he was cranky. "She said you should not have slammed the doors, it made the chandelier wobble."
"She told you that?" Treize set the glass down and tried to glare, but could not help the chuckle that rumbled through him. "Well, they asked for it."
"I didn't," Zechs snapped irritably and dropped the bowl of mushrooms. It broke, and he huffed a swearword.
"You came to my rescue."
"Yesss, because I thought they were about to fillet you!" Angry now, redfaced and struggling hard not to yield to Treize's goading.
"They were."
"So you caught me at the doors to the salon, in full view of everyone, and bent me over to French me?" Beet-red now, eyes flaring with relived embarrassment.
"It did shut them up."
"Indeed!"
"And you."
Zechs jumped up, but before he could go anywhere, Treize caught him and kissed him deeply. "Like this," he murmured as he had to let go so they could breathe. He smoothed his thumb over Zechs' cheek. "You need to shave."
"Oh, let off!" Zechs pushed at him, but Treize held fast.
"Do you really want that?" A small pause, then, "Please."
So they sat down again, shoulder by shoulder this time, backs against the warm oven bench, and Treize picked up one of the mushrooms, checked for bits of lint, and then held it between forefinger and thumb. "You wanted some of these?"
Zechs ate it from his fingers. Treize smiled wanly. "Feeding the wild thing... and get bitten?"
"Hm?"
"Nothing. Now, where were we..." He poured more tea for them and leaned back, reclining his head and winding his arm round his friend's neck. "Ah, yes... I kissed you."
"You ate at me," Zechs mumbled, annoyance subdued now and faintly humoured. "Like someone famished. And I thought I was dying in that godawful silence, with all of them staring holes into us."
"Mother started yelling."
"Yes, of course. About your father suffering some heart attack or such thing, and my ears were buzzing too much to properly hear what was going on, but I remember a lot of noise suddenly-"
"Chairs falling over, ladies sobbing, some of the men growling," Treize laughed freely now and squeezed him a bit. "And they all left rather promptly. You were brilliant, Miliusha."
"Me? I could have killed you then."
"Oh... somehow, from the way you felt down there, I could not believe that."
"Arrgh." Zechs tossed a few breadcrumbs at Treize, who ducked and laughed again, brushing at his jumper.
"Hey! They catch in the wool! I caught Mother later that evening. Sitting alone at the headend of the table, with a bottle of vodka and a teaglass. She was a bit dishevelled."
"Telling you you ruined it all. That your father considered disowning you. Calling you a pervert, and then you hugged her, and she started crying." Zechs shook his head and bit his lip. "Man, your family..."
Treize pulled at his hair. "Why did you have to walk in on us?"
"Because I wanted to agree with her and take my leave, for good!" Zechs growled, trying to pry his hair free.
"Really?" Treize let go and smoothed the long pale strands over his companion's back.
"Yes. And then she calls me an obnoxious brat, and tells me to take good care of you bastard."
"Ah, she always understood," Treize sighed, half laughing, half rueful. "She also called you the little prince who'd plucked the rose."(3)
Zechs shrugged, expression one of sufferance. "Well, what was I to do? I was never good at standing up to her."
"Oh, fearsome maiden-" Treize chanted, dropping his voice to mimick the full tone of a Russian folk singer (4).
"Shut up!"
"Sir."
"What? Ah, to Hell with you-"
A wicked grin, flash of fierce blue. "Sir. To Hell with you, SIR." And before Zechs could wrestle him to the ground, Treize disentangled himself and strode off to the antechamber. "Hurry now, or we'll end up lazing around all day."
xxx
Next chapter: The Hunt
Notes:
(1) Russian laquerware – usually wood-turned objects such as boxes, the famous Russian dolls, beakers, carved spoons, boxes, trays etc., in a variety of styles, i.e. brilliantly coloured, highly stylised flowers and animals (birds, cockerels, horses are favourite motives) with white highlights on a black background, often shaded with gold dust or layers of gold leaf or gold interiors for beakers and cups; or colourful designs on ivory/eggshell white background though these are by no means the only styles. Russian folk art is characterised by its rich, bright colours, bold designs and stylised motives, be it in laquerware, emboidery, leatherwork, weaving or enamelled goods. Bright pinks, blues, lots of red and gold are favourites.
(2) Lucrezia Noin; attended Military Academy and finished second in Zechs' yearclass; they are close friends and comrades in arms
(3) Eugene Saint-Exuperie, 'The Little Prince' – ESP was a young French author and pilot in WWII; he went missing on one of his missions; the book is presumably written for children – a love story of a child-prince living in loneliness with only a rose for company; in search for love he travels only to return to his rose forever. Sometimes I like clichees, and here I could not resist - Zechs is a prince, and Treize's symbol flower is the rose. Duh.
(4) Russian folk singer – usually full, schooled voices not unlike operatic voices, to suit the rich, often melacholy tunes of their songs
