Apotheosis
The pilots sat in one of the small rooms off the Institute's massive library, snowflakes falling silently outside and the flickering, warm light of the fire overwhelming the feeble light of dawn. Duo seemed to be trying to read the Iliad, but he was more interested in the medieval Norman sword that was mounted on the wall above the stone fireplace. Trowa sat in an armchair before the fireplace with Quatre on his lap, a thick flannel blanket wrapped around them both, sharing a cup of hot chocolate, dozing quietly. Wufei, reading glasses perched solemnly on his nose, was busy translating the Professor's prized copy of Plutarch's Lives from Ancient Greek. Heero sat on the floor, cleaning his Glock. All of them were dressed in warm pajamas, cups of their favorite beverages beside them: Duo's was a dark coffee; Wufei's a cup of Earl Gray, and Heero's a softly steaming mug of green tea.
Rogue paused in the doorway, unwilling to disturb the peaceful scene, but she had already broken Duo's miserably short attention span.
"Rogue!" The braided man bounced up from the couch and bounded across the room, latching onto her upper arm and trying to drag her back over to the couch. Rogue nearly flinched when he touched her, but honestly, that was probably why she liked him so much: he wasn't afraid of her mutation at all, and touched her every chance he could get, which was something no one else did.
"How are you? What's going on out there? Is the Professor spouting about the 'Christmas Spirit' again?" Rogue laughed, following him and plopping down onto the couch, leaning into his side as he wrapped an arm around her comfortably.
"Fine, everyone's gathered around the tree to open presents, and of course! By the way, he sent me to get you guys to join us." Wufei grunted absently,
"I'm not Christian, therefore I don't have to celebrate it with them."
"Sorry, the Professor doesn't accept that as an excuse." Quatre opened his sleepy aquamarine eyes and sighed, sliding off of Trowa's lap and setting their hot chocolate down on the floor. Trowa made a small noise of discontent and followed his lover grumpily, the blanket trailing behind him. Rogue watched them in amusement, standing up and pulling Duo with her. Duo's arm immediately settled into its customary place on her hip, allowing himself to be led into the main living room. Heero slid his gun into the waistband of his pajamas and followed.
Quatre fingered the small box in his pocket nervously, watching the other pilots sit warily in the far corner of the room, as far away from the massive tree, spangled with beads, lights, and long chains of popcorn, as possible. A huge pile of gifts ringed the tree, and all the inhabitants of the mansion thronged around it, sprawled out on floor, couches, and chairs, Kurt even going so far as to hang by his tail from one of the ceiling rafters.
A few, small, plain presents, wrapped only in brown paper, sat apart from the rest. The Professor smiled and gestured for Jamie.
"Time for you to open the first present." The youngest mansion inhabitant whooped loudly and dove into the pile, rooting around and emerging with a large, festively wrapped present. He tore it open, revealing a new basketball, and screeched in joy. Quatre saw his lover grit his teeth in irritation, and grinned softly at him. "Who do you choose to go next?" the Professor encouraged.
Jamie looked around, his gaze landing on Rogue.
"I want Rogue to open my present." The Southerner smiled at him and accepted the misshapen, clumsily wrapped package. With deft, quick movements, she tore the wrapping off and opened the box, removing a pair of satin gloves.
"Thank you, Jamie," she said through her teeth, Quatre feeling her disappointment, "How nice." Jamie nodded happily, bouncing his basketball off the floor. "I want Duo to open my present next," she said, picking up one of the plainly wrapped boxes and pushing it at him. Duo took it, his face a mask of shock. He hadn't expected to be given anything!
"Well? Open it, lardbrain!" Duo blinked, and tore the wrapping off, revealing a huge box. He opened the box, and lifted a slightly smaller one out. He repeated it, coming up with an even smaller box.
"Hah hah bloody hah," he said dryly, smiling at her. In a minute, several consecutively smaller boxes were strewn across the floor, and Duo was left with a tiny, black velvet container. Rogue shuffled her feet, "It's really not that great-"
Duo whooped loudly, leaping across the room and seizing her around the waist, lifting her up into the air and spinning her around. "It's wonderful, Rogue! I love it!" Quatre leaned forward, peering at the glittering diamond pendant dangling from Duo's fingers, engraved with a kanji. 'Demon? It fits.' Rogue shrieked, "Put me down!" even as she laughed, kicking her legs.
Jean coughed loudly, picking up a package addressed to herself. Duo set Rogue down, violet eyes hardening. The temperature in the room dropped a few degrees, and shadows writhed angrily in the corners. Quatre calmed him with a touch of his empathy, and motioned for them to sit and 'play nice.'
"Jesus motherfuckin' Christ! I thought that thing would never end!" Duo sighed and rolled onto his back, glancing at Rogue, who sat on the windowseat in a little pile of gloves and scarves, staring at them forlornly. "Yes, well," the Southern girl said quietly, "The Professor always likes to make a big spectacle out of it."
Duo rolled his eyes and reached under his bed, rummaging about for Rogue's present. Feeling it, he dragged it out and tossed it to her. The other pilots appeared as if by magic, gathering about. "You didn't have to…" Rogue said, turning it over in her hands.
"We wanted to," Trowa spoke up, ending the discussion.
"Open it, woman," Wufei said gruffly. Rogue grunted at him and removed the paper, reaching inside and removing the old, leather-bound book, gilt script flashing from the spine. Rogue turned it, peering at it.
"The Collected Works of Edgar Allen Poe? What edition is this?"
"First!" Duo said in excitement, flipping off the mattress to land on his feet in front of her.
"Dated 1850, in fact," Quatre interjected, smiling. Rogue's lower lip quivered, before she burst out in laughter. "I fucking love you guys! You're the only people I know who could get their hands on something like this, illegally or not!"
"What can I say? We're special!"
Logan looked up at the measured knock on his door.
"Come in." The door creaked open, Heero sliding through the narrow aperture with a slight crease on his brow the only sign of his nervousness. Logan looked down at the small package in his hand and raised a sardonic brow.
"Didn't expect ya to be sentimental."
"It is not sentimentality," Heero said flatly. "Your motorcycle is old and rather worn down. I have money that I do not need. You need a new motorcycle. Ergo, I took it upon myself to remedy the situation."
'You have treated me well,' he thought, gazing at the burly man in front of him with something akin to affection. 'You have acted like my company was something worth your time; you do not attempt to fix me. I suppose that I could… feel something for you..' He handed him the package; Logan took it bemusedly, claw sliding out to cut open the wrapping.
Heero locked his hands behind his back and turned, slipping through the door.
"Wait." He froze at the unmistakable tone of authority in that voice, silently cursing his ingrained obedience. "Look at me." Slowly, he turned, staring at the floor. That rough, quiet tone had always been used to herald pain, to herald long weeks drugged in isolation, only waking to experience that horrible, burning pressure of slowly splitting open, fingernails ripping from their linings as he clawed at the cold chains, and the freezing steel of the knife ran down his chest-
"Heero?" He blinked and looked up at the taller man.
Logan's breath caught in his chest as Heero stared at him, his eyes unguarded- vulnerable- and so hurt, so exhausted and old, sick of death and terror and fighting for ideals that no longer existed, aching for someone- someone he could trust- to bear the load for a moment, to take him away from the cruel, fallen world.
The keys to a limited edition Harley-Davidson fell, forgotten, to the floor, as Logan reached forward, drawing the younger man to him. He didn't care about his attraction to him, he didn't care that the door was wide open. He just wanted to do something, to ease the horrible pain in Heero's eyes.
Thin fingers clenched in his flannel shirt as Heero stiffened, unsure of what to do, before he felt him relax and fall limp against him, lithe form fitting perfectly against his stocky body. For a moment he was content simply to breathe in the smell of gunpowder and blood, until Heero murmured quietly, so quietly he wasn't sure if he was meant to hear it,
"I'm tired." Logan's arms tightened around him, feeling strange (this was the most emotion he had shown to anyone that wasn't hate) before he replied,
"I know."
Duo strolled down the hallway to the pilot's room, fingering the diamond pendant Rogue had given him. He had known that he had made the right choice in befriending her; she was as loyal as the day was long, and could be trusted to inform them about what was going on this past world.
"Duo?" The sound of a French accent made him stop, squaring his shoulders under his trenchcoat. The irritating Cajun again. Sighing, he turned, demanding,
"Are you friggin' stalking me or something? 'Cause it really seems like you are!"
"Non," Remy said smoothly, red-on-black eyes gleaming as he took in the insolent cock of a hip, the irritated glint in wide violet eyes. "Remy just wants to give you your present, eh?" Duo regarded him suspiciously.
"Present, hm? Fine." Remy took his hand out from behind his back, revealing a suspiciously bottle-shaped package, presenting it to his object of affection. Duo took it and sniffed the hidden cap, face breaking into a delighted grin.
"Jack Daniels, huh? I'll have to reevaluate my opinion of you, then!" Remy smirked, only to blink in shock when Duo bounced up on his toes and gave him a swift brush of lips on the cheek, grinning impishly when he finished, saying "Thank you," before turning and running up the corridor to enjoy his new drink.
Remy lifted a hand to touch skin that was still tingling with delight, the pleasure zipping straight South. Lips curving into a smile, he mused, 'Remy will have to do that again sometime.'
Duo opened the bottle and carefully poured another shot (the tenth), tossing the drink back and feeling the sweet burn racing down his throat, making him feel complacently happy. Grinning, he slid down the wall to sprawl on the cold tiles of the bathroom, gazing at the ceiling. Heero was off somewhere; he didn't know, and didn't care. He had alcohol; all was right with the world. Quatre made a soft noise of content as he and Trowa stumbled through the doorway into their room; Duo looked over blearily, rolling over to see out the door of the bathroom. Seeing Trowa spread out behind his lover, hand insinuated into Quatre's pants, and accented voice murmuring profoundly dirty endearments, he snorted into his hand, snickering loudly as he rolled over, hitting the toilet.
'You devil, Tro!'
Staring up at the ceiling, he blinked, wavering vision presenting a picture of red-on-black eyes, glinting with sardonic humor and even a little bit of… yearning?
'Yeah, right. He just wants you for your looks. Don't be so fucking optimistic; you don't deserve it.' Duo sighed. 'And they call me cynical. He's so friggin' hot, though!' Unbidden, his mind provided him with an image of dark cinnamon hair, tied back in a short ponytail at the nape of his neck, a swath of tanned skin, strong jaw and sensual lips framed by scratchy stubble that would feel ticklish against his skin, a long, lean body that spoke of tightly controlled power, and that delectable accent.
'You know his type; a quick fuck, nothing more. You've had enough one-night stands; don't need another notch on the bedpost, do we?' A few soft moans drifted to his ears, the sound of flesh on flesh, a few buttons popped, and then Quatre let loose a muffled scream. Duo closed his eyes, the shot glass rolling from his fingers.
'Just a quick fuck.'
He smiled.
'Another notch on the bedpost would piss the Professor off, though.'
Wufei flipped through an anthology of haiku, settling into one of the plush armchairs in the far corner from the massive doors to the hallway outside of the library. Noise made him look up, reading glasses sliding down his noise.
"Go away Todd! I'm going to study, and I don't need you following me."
"Well, if you'd tol' me you were gonna study, I wouldn't 've followed you all the way down here, would I? It's Christmas Day, why're you studying anyway, man?"
The voice was stiff and cold- "Because I want to."
"Whatever."
Wufei waited a moment, and hearing nothing, went back to his book.
In the dark garden
Of the night
The peony hides itself.
Wufei sighed, rubbing fretfully at his forehead. He was ill at ease here; there were no mobile suits, for Nataku's sake! They were the peonies hiding in the dark garden of this backward, barely-civilized past. He wanted Nataku, wanted it desperately, even though the battered and well-loved pieces now lay scattered in a peaceful forest a thousand years in the future.
Nataku… Meiran. Even so many years later, that name still made him feel like he had been thrown into super-cooled liquid. 'Damnit!' His fist came into bruising contact with his leg, the shockwaves of pain reverberating from his knee up into his chest.
"Why won't you stop torturing me, Meiran?" he breathed softly, the book forgotten.
"Why won't who stop torturing you?" Wufei looked up, measuring the man in front of him with eyes alone as the other rounded the corner of the bookshelf, carrying a huge stack of books written in Latin. He had strange, mercury eyes, white hair- dyed, probably, since he obviously wasn't an albino- gelled back into a streamlined shape, and the palest skin Wufei had ever seen.
"No one," he said shortly, looking back down at his book. There was a grunt of dissatisfaction from the other man, but he subsided, picking up Caesar's account of the Gallic Wars. Wufei listened tensely to the man's muttering, wishing that he would go away and leave him to his own devices.
A fluttering breeze disturbed him, making him look up in irritation. "Look, you-" his insult died away, half-formed, as he stared at the sight before him. The pale man was flipping pages in the book so quickly that his hands were a blur, the speed utterly inhuman. Done, he put the book down beside him; noticing Wufei's stare, he grinned shyly, pale fingers twisting around each other.
Pietro was rather entranced by the man in front of him; in a definite romantic way, of course. He accepted the fact that he was gay; when he had tried to tell Eric (he still couldn't bring himself to call Eric 'father') had stared at him as if he was stupid and said, "You're gay. Yes, I knew; I would have been terrified had you turned out to be straight."
He was very exotic-looking; Chinese, if his estimation was correct.
"My talent is that everything I do is speeded up," he offered. The man looked at him consideringly, "So you actually understood what you read?"
"Yes. It was a collection of letters that Caesar sent back to Rome talking about his fights against the barbarians in Gaul. Utter propaganda, of course; at one point he fends off twenty Gauls with his fists."
"It served its purpose well," the man retorted, obsidian gaze warming behind the rectangular lenses of his glasses. Pietro murmured agreement, and then said,
"I don't believe I know your name." He extended a hand, "I'm Pietro Lensherr. Pleased to meet your acquaintance…" The man in front of him also reached forward, taking his hand and shaking it once, dark eyes neutral. Pietro felt electricity spark and arc between them as the man said,
"I am Wufei Chang."
"Rogue?" Duo slurred. His friend looked over at him from her absent perusal of her present,
"Yeah?"
"Could you go turn off the light? It really hurts my head," he said piteously, squeezing his eyes shut. Rogue got up and crossed the room, concerned. Sliding on a thin, silk glove, she rested her hand on Duo's forehead, checking for a fever, even as she turned off the lights with her other hand.
"You don't have a fever. Did you drink too much of the Jack the Cajun gave you?" Duo murmured assent, flinging his arm out as he searched for the glass of water and Advil that Quatre had thoughtfully left him.
But his hand contacted something soft and warm.
Oh shit!
Rogue's slim frame began to shake, green eyes shifting to violet, even as she made a breaking, shivering moaning noise. Duo's eyes rolled back in his head, body arching off the mattress, and then they both fell limp.
Rogue laid on the floor, mouth half-open and a thin stream of saliva trickling down, green eyes wide and horrified.
Duo lay as if dead; his chest barely moved, eyelids half-shut and face utterly slack and chalk-white.
Snow fell outside the window.
