Wufei would see no physician of his, so Treize tore a strip from his elaborate waistjacket. The boy's eyes were wild, hair half-undone from their duel, but he allowed the ministration. Treize said he was welcome to stay and try again. The boy took it for a goad and almost took him up on the proposition then and there but Treize said he was tired and needed to sit down for a moment.
They didn't speak for a while. Treize enjoyed the silence, a rare commodity now that his star was ascending in Romefeller. The fifth pilot shoved a lock of black hair behind his ear, staring at his palm. From his seat Treize could see blood staining the makeshift bandage, and in a few minutes what had been royal blue turned dull reddish-purple.
Treize rose, tearing another strip, and knelt at the boy's side. "Give me your hand," he said. The boy acquiesced, showing no sign of pain but for a tightening of his lips as Treize removed the blood-soaked cloth and replaced it with another bright blue strip.
"You should show your uniform more respect," Wufei said hoarsely.
Treize looked up at the boy as he tied the knot. Wufei only held his gaze for a few seconds before he looked away again, a whole stormy sea of contradictions in the gray striations of his eyes. "I can't think of a better purpose for a piece of cloth than to bind a warrior's wounds."
Wufei snorted. Treize's hand lingered, testing the knot. Wufei, to his surprise, allowed the gentle touch, almost a caress, staring at the floor as if he'd drill a hole through it. Just as Treize stood, Wufei spoke again, the words harsh. "I am your enemy, Treize. Do you compromise your ideals as easily as you tear that jacket?"
"You aren't my enemy."
Wufei flinched at that as he hadn't when Treize tightened the bandage round his bleeding palm. "I have to go." The boy's tenor was flat.
Treize nodded, although his stomach fell at the words. "Of course."
"I'll be back."
His stomach clambered back up. "I would expect nothing less."
Wufei got up, pulling his hair out of its ponytail one-handed and redoing it as neatly as possible. Stray strands wisped into his eyes, the style necessarily less severe than usual. He made to leave the way he came, but at the last moment paused, not looking over his shoulder.
"Take care of your uniform, Treize. You owe it to the misguided men who follow your light."
With that the pilot slipped out of the room. Treize didn't know what to do with the bloody discarded cloth he'd left behind that was all the token he'd ever get from this boy. He couldn't just leave it on his desk. Couldn't throw it out. He ended up folding it, placing it in a small plastic bag, sealing the bag, and putting it in his secret drawer. Before Treize turned in that night, he added the evening's security recording to a hidden folder on a protected directory and watched the clip of their fight again.
The boy's traditional white clothes had remained unstained the whole way through.