The Lightning Arc 7 - My Rose

Fandom: Gundam Wing
Rating: M/NC-15 for m/m relationship
Pairing: Zechs and Treize
Warnings: m/m love, 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.

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Chapter 4 - Without Tears

He felt the pressure of takeoff mould him into his seat and closed his eyes. He did not need to see his sister's slight figure now, her pale, sad face, the way she was hugging herself and how alone she appeared with just the two goons for company and her black limousine waiting at the edge of the airfield to take her back to her duties.

He wanted to sink into blackness, he longed to forget and could not help but remember. Being small again, clutching a soft toy against his pyjamas... that night, a blur of fire and blood and tears, and then stillness. The vague recollection of men dragging him and his little sister from under his bed where they had tried to hide, and him tearing loose... curses, shots... earth and grit splattering in little fountains by his feet, hitting his skin like a shower of sharply prickling needles as he ran, in hooks and turns to avoid the bullets that rained a trail after him...

Burning panic inside him giving way to chilling fear as he was hiding in a nook of the ruined stables, the smell of horse cadavers making him retch... the smoke that filled his lungs... he mindless pounding of his heart as his body cooled and stiffened, curled up between fallen, charred beams, metal water barrels and rubble. He heard men shouting and laughing as the Federation soldiers stomped through the devastation to search for survivors. At first, he jumped at the shots that each terminated a scream, or a plea, or some sobs... Later only his hands clenched harder each time, while his whole body kept shaking uncontrollably.

An order, barked in a deep, guttual voice, ended the shootings. Sometime after that, the engines of lorries growled through the crimson darkness, and he crouched tighter into his little corner as the beams of uncapped headlights fingered over the smoking ruins. His eyes were burning, he was choking with tears, and he could not cry.

I cannot cry.

The faint wailing of a small child... Mummy... my Mummy... he had not known then whether it was his sister. He had not been able to think, or feel anything but primal fear, short of soiling himself. Instinct made him lightningfast as he sunk his teeth into the gloved hand that reached into his hiding hole, and before it could grab him and drag him out, he tried to dash off like a terrified rabbit between the booted legs that blocked his way out.

He had made no sound beyond snarls and hisses, and the tall, sturdy man in the uniform of the Federation struggled briefly until he managed to wrap the hysterical six-year old in a black military cape. Only when darkness fell around him, did the boy realise that the man was whispering in the same rough, heavily accented voice that had stopped the executions... a language he did not understand, but the tone hasty, almost nervous, as though trying to soothe him.

He went limp when he felt himself lifted off the ground by a pair of strong, sure arms. Not seeing was a blessing. There were still the smells... haunting him in his dreams forever, the stench of blood and scorched flesh, of dust and smoke so bitter it made his eyes water... but he had no tears. He was cold beyond words and shaking. He was silent for that man had not killed him when he could, and children want to live...

Ignorance, born from innocence...

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The jet hummed soothingly, the alcohol began to blur his senses, and he cradled his bottle as he let himself melt into the breathing of the machine: all the little clicks and creaks, the vibration of a wing when they cut through an air turbulence, the heaviness when the plane rose and the lightness when they dropped into an airhole. It calmed him, as always, to let his senses merge with the workings of the plane.

Treize thought that this made me a good pilot. Yet it was him... always him...

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Wrapped in the merciful blackness of the woollen cape, he had been carried, pressed against a hard, tall body. He remembered a fresh wave of despair washing over him when those arms that held him fast tried to release him, and that he clung frantically to them. The same hasty, soft whisper, in a deep voice, the voice of an older man... then he was placed on what felt like a seat, and a large, bare hand gripped his small one beneath the cloak. The hand was hard, calloused, and warm. Its grip his only anchor to reality. He held on for dear life.

He had felt the man move, until, without releasing his hand, he could sense him by his side, and then the engine of a jeep sprang to life, and the shudder of the vehicle ran through him; he could smell diesel, leather and blood, and damp wool. They drove for some time, and then the jeep rumbled over something that sounded like a large metal plank; the engine cut out and silence fell.

He was carried again and clawed into the heavy cloth when someone tried to peel it away from his head. The hands that attempted this were heavy and patient and finally succeeded. He curled up in those arms, dug his hands into his hair and squeezed his eyes shut. The nuzzle of a metal bottle forced its way between his lips; the drops of liquid that made it past his resisting tongue were bitter and sharp. A sharp, deafening whine, then his body grew incredibly heavy before all the weight fell off him again and he was floating like a feather.

My first flight in a fighter jet... fleeing to Russia, like now...

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Eyes swimming and bleary, the stared out of the window of the plane into the swirling mass of grey and white. Clouds, and beyond them the bottomless blue of the sky, and beyond that starry blackness. The beauty of heaven, cold and distant to all their human squabbles that were nothing but a snippet of time, this ageless monster. Specks of dust dancing in the light... or burning up like miniature flares, lighting the path for others to follow.

If there ever was an eternal flame, it was you, Treize... blazing a trail for the rest of us. But you also left us behind in darkness, like the Baba Yaga, riding with light before her and night behind... we were unable to follow you... so fast, like a shooting star... and just as blindingly brilliant... too much, you were too much for all of us... too much passion, too much love, too much beauty... I could feel it from when I first saw you; I was mesmerised, and it never left me... fascination... longing... wanting... the gnawing sensation of being incomplete, unaccomplished, unfulfilled... how could I be otherwise in the shadow of perfection?

The plane touched down in the light-slashed darkness of a rain-beaten airfield. Just like back then...

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The world around him, blinking lights, the dim glow of a cabin, his cramped curl on the seat he had been strapped in... he was dazed when the man undid the buckles of the harness, wrapped the cloack around him again and hauled him out of the jet. Into another jeep, while he was calmly giving orders to the handful of uniformed men that hurried to his assistance. Rain was washing down, cold and hard, drumming onto the skin of the plane, rising in steamy clouds from the fuselage, and dancing in myriads of small fountains on the bonnet of the jeep.

The man shoved him into the small loading space at the back and heaped blankets over him. He could hear the rain pounding – pop pop pop pop pop – onto the taut canvas of the hood. The vigorous dipping of the vehicle as the man jumped in and, after a moment, the rough rumble of the engine. The smells... he could always remember the smells best. Of wet canvas and oil. Of his own panic, crouching beneath the utter weariness that began to seep through him as the he heard tyres swish through the mud, and the aroma of something else... the forest into which they delved, whose loud, rainsodden whisper enveloped them even as they left the bustle of the airstrip behind...

He was soaked and shivering, flushing hot and cold. His hair plastered in dripping coils about his temples, cheeks and neck. The ridged metal on which he lay dug into his flesh, making reddish stripes beneath the striped fabric of his pyjamas... The soldiers had come at night, invaded his dreams and torn them apart in an apocalypse of destruction and murder. The jeep bumped through potholes and over rutted tracks, and occasionally a branch thwacked against the metal planking, making him start because those hits sounded like shots. He would be blue and black with bruises, but instead of making him cry, the pain only distracted him.

This kind of pain is good. It helps to forget, I learned that back then... that's why I was never afraid of getting hurt in battle... they couldn't grasp it at the Academy, but Treize understood. He always did.

And then the aroma of the rainy forest grew weaker, the road evened out, the jeep grinding over gravel and slowing down... The man pulled him up and set him onto his feet, passing his big hand over the boy's head in a helpless caress, and then shoved him forward with a little push to his back.

The house, set into the middle of a vast space framed by the dark rim of the forest, was huge. It always looked bigger in the dark, Zechs mused vaguely, like some fortress... or a monolith carved from rock, as stubborn and sturdy as the Khushrenadas themselves. The car had pulled up by a neatly gravelled rondel that was embraced by a grand pair of stairs, with a third flight of stairs running straight down to the rondel. The man stalked ahead, climbing one of the side stairs with long, determined strides, pulling the child along until they reached the huge pair of doors that closed off the house to the outer world. A soft golden glow emanated from one of the many high, narrow windows that broke the two-storey brickfront. It trickled softly from a gap between the drawn drapes and glittered in the relentless rain. "Stay still," the man rasped, shoving the child behind his broad back even as he lifted his other hand to rap the door.

It flew open before his knuckles made contact. To reveal a tall, pretty woman with dark hair, sharp eyes and a proud, firm mouth. She held a brightly coloured shawl closed over the chest of her white nightgown, and her hair fell freely over her back. When she saw the man, her eyes widened, and she covered her mouth with her hand, but then she reached out to grab his sleeve.

He stopped her, his hand heavily closing over her wrist. "We have a guest," he said, and then he kissed first her hand, then her mouth, enfolding her into a cold, wet embrace. "Have you watched the news?"

"I've done nothing else since you went," she replied, sliding her arm around his waist, heedless of his soaking clothes.

He hesitated. "I... we were part of that."

"You did what you could to stop it," she said, and then her glance fell over his shoulder on the child. Who stared back at her wide-eyed, as though he knew...

I did know. Had she rejected me then... but the Khushrenadas always lived by their own laws, and one of them was the law of honour, and of undying Russian hospitality that would be afforded even to total strangers. Treize had much of his mother, the Duchess... the same formidable disregard for rules made elsewhere... an equally sturdy sense of truthfulness and pride... she saved my life that night as much as that man, Treize's father. I don't want to be saved this time, but then who could? And who would bother?

"We should go inside," she said, after a heartbeat of breathless silence. Madame Khushrenada released her husband and turned into the vast, wood-panelled vestibule of the house. Her steps, long and firm like those of her man, swallowed up by the thick wine red carpets that covered every inch of the floor, and her voice calling out quietly.

To him. He had come down those huge, dark wooden stairs with the carved railings. His hair gleaming a faint copper red in the glow of the candelabra, his eyes... such an intense blue... how old was he then? Eleven? I remember him looking older than that... but then, he always was much older than his years...

"Da, Mamotchka," the youth on the stairs replied peacably and lightly skipped down the last steps. He was barefoot, clad in black slacks and a neatly buttoned white shirt, with only the cuffs hanging open. He fiddled with them, as if irritated, but on his lips lay a smile, curious and pleasing at the same time.

"Treize. How convenient that you sleep in your day clothes, son," she remarked, but her tone held no malice. "Now, where are your manners? Greet your father and our guest. Then go and take care of the child; we would not want to disturb the servants at this time of the night. He will be in need of a bath, food and clothes. Find him a bed, and make sure he gets some rest. We will talk in the morning."

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Hands. Soft and soothing. Coaxing him out of his stupor, of his seat, no, the rain... but it was Lucy who pleaded with him, saying his name over and over until it sunk into his vodka-sodden brain and he heaved himself out of the plane and slumped into the waiting car. Retracing the journey of so many years ago... a lifetime, an eternity away. Only that it was by daylight now, grey and drab, and the rain resembled a fine, persistent mist that crept into clothes and bones with the chill of Death. She would drive him back to the house that had become his home from that night onwards.

Because he was there.

Because it was his home, and he was mine.

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The youth embraced his father – three kisses pressed heartily onto stubbly cheeks, right, left, right, a firm embrace, and then he let go and took the child by the hand. "I am Treize," he said, the smile warm and steady on his face. "Come, it is nice and warm inside."

It had been a night filled with whispers and disquiet, Madame Khushrenada and her husband having secluded themselves in the drawing room, doors firmly shut, light trickling beneath in a jaundiced band on the blood red carpet. The colour had made the child sick, and Treize had cleaned up after him without a single complaint. He had let the boy keep his clothes on in the huge cast iron bathtub because he was clutching at them as though his fingers would break if anyone tried to pry them open. The bath immersed him in warmth and the aroma of roses and pine needles, an odd combination of sweet and bitter. The boy was too tired to resist the exhaustion that swept into his small body, and the fingers of the youth massaging his scalp with shampoo were almost lulling him to sleep.

Treize did not ask anything, did not try to make him talk or cry. He was just there. Wrapping him, clothes and all, into a huge bath towel of unsoftened white terry cloth, its roughness similar to the black cloak that had cocooned him on his way from Cinq to this house. Helping him along a carpeted corridor with a carved balustrade, from where he could look down onto the great staircase and the abandoned, dark vestibule. The room that would become his own for years to come lay at the end of the corridor, the brown panelled door neither inviting nor forbidding. Promising safety behind. A large window, a bed with a fluffed up mountain of down and white linen that smelled of crisply ironed cleanliness...

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Next chapter: Dark Pools