Pretence


It was all pretence.

Quatre was alone in his cell, cuffed, when Treize ordered Quatre to his quarters. The two guards lifted him up from his arms and started to drag him away.

Plans formulated, were disregarded and dreams in a span of a second. Quatre wasn't a martial artist, and both of this men were a full head above him.

His sprained ankle impeded him, the footcuffs pressing into his swollen ankle. Quatre gritted his teeth, eyes scanning the area, memorising the route he took.

Treize greeted him with a mere smile and dismissed the other men. They left obediently.

"You received my letter then," Quatre murmurs, though the statement is redundant, before he even says it. Without the letter, he would never be here.

"I found time," Treize says, sitting and reading a book. There is a heavy smell of roses in the air. "Will you join me?" Treize gestures to his bed.

Quatre nods, meeting Treize's gaze calmly.

Later, the chains and cuffs were undone and his wrists and ankles were kissed and petted, Treize posed him a question. Quatre had expected it.

"Why?"

He didn't answer, not sure himself. Only that since the first time he had seen this man, he had been captured. The man was mesmerising, luminous with power and charisma. It was addictive, and weaning himself off the General was proving harder than Quatre had imagined.

Still, as the other man slept, unaware of the mission Quatre would soon be engaging in, Quatre didn't regret anything.