Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/273821.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Gundam_Wing
  Relationship:
      Treize_Khushrenada/Quatre_Raberba_Winner, Treize_Khushrenada/Zechs
      Merquise
  Character:
      Treize_Khushrenada, Quatre_Raberba_Winner, Trowa_Barton, Heero_Yuy, Trant
      Clark
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Timelines, Prison, Prison_Sex, Military, Torture, Dubious
      Consent, prison_rape, Telepathy, Confined/Caged, Age_Difference, Hurt/
      Comfort, Coercion, Interrogation, Older_Man/Younger_Man
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-11-07 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 13733
****** Everyone Was Still ******
by Ponderosa
Summary
     After Mercurius battles Wing Zero, Quatre and Heero are captured and
     taken to the Lunar Base. Romefeller decides it's in their best
     interest to place Treize in a more secure exile and transfer him
     there as well.
Notes
     Originally written for a Quatre-centric fic exchange a few years ago,
     but cleaned up to be posted anew. In addition to some physical and
     mental interrogation torture, this fic contains rape and coerced sex
     of the "saving from a worse fate" variety. For anyone unfamiliar with
     the fandom, Quatre is 15 and Treize's canon age is given as 24.
***** Chapter 1 *****
It didn't seem like he'd ever breathe again. He couldn't. He didn't want to.
Trowa was gone, and Heero.... Oh, God. Heero was a crumple of blood and bones
and sightless eyes.
Searchlights blazed into the loading dock, piercing white beams that circled
like vultures before centering on Quatre. He hardly noticed. His lungs burned
as he sucked in a deep, gulping breath and dropped his flight helmet into the
rubble. The helmet rolled away, grit crunching under the faceplate.
"Hold on," he said, looking for a way to pull Heero free. "Please, just hold
on."
*
Sitting in the cavernous room that served as his temporary office, Treize
drummed his fingers against the arm of a wing chair. He wasn't accustomed to
being taken by surprise, not by men who had thrown away tradition for the
glittering mirage of power without consequence.
Filtered newsfeeds from a half-dozen sources scrolled across his computer
monitor. He skimmed them, flagging interesting topics as they came up, but as
the sky outside the windows grew darker, the words on the screen transformed
into nothing more than a constant stream of shapes.
At the corner of his screen, the blinking red light of an incoming call jerked
Treize back to alertness. Smoothing the irritation from his features, he hit
the button to accept.
Tsuberov's heavily lined face wavered into being. Static interrupted the feed
and causing his words to lag by a heartbeat. "Pack your bags, Colonel
Khushrenada," he said. He smiled unpleasantly -- Treize doubted the man could
smile any other way -- and the camera pulled back enough to provide a view of
the military commander standing at Tsuberov's shoulder. Behind both of them,
the room was stark; streamlined and simple, the bare walls indicative of the
minimalism of a structure built in orbit. "It's my pleasure to inform you that
you're being moved to a more secure location."
"Tonight, Colonel," Tsuberov interjected hastily before Treize could disconnect
the call. "Say your good-byes to your syncopha-"
The screen went black.
So, they would exile him from the Earth itself. Aged leather creaked as
Treize's sat back in the chair and crossed his legs. The jingle of the horses'
harnesses had scarcely faded from his ears and already the militant
"progressives" of Romefeller were moving to block his influence entirely.
Treize propped his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers,
tapping the tips against the point of his chin. Precious few pieces remained at
his command to thwart them. Zechs no longer stood beside him as his able
knight. Une was no longer enthroned at his left. Treize could only hope to rely
on what loyal soldiers remained in the ranks.
His sigh heavy with regret, Treize pulled the laptop off the desk, and prepared
to make the best of what freedom he had left.
*
The whine of the engines changed as the shuttle neared its destination. Now
that the view outside the window was more than an endless parade of stars,
Quatre lifted his head. The cratered surface of the moon stretched out grey and
barren, curving gently along the horizon. The gentle blue glow of the earth was
nowhere to be seen.
Lights blinked at the tips of a high, perimeter fence that surrounded a
subsurface military installation. To the right of the runway they approached
was some sort of manufacturing plant. Quatre counted the vents belching excess
heat into the thin ghost of lunar atmosphere. By the looks of it, the place was
in full production.
"Time's up," said the OZ soldier standing guard at the foot of the field
gurney.
Quatre nodded and abandoned his vigil. His palms were sticky with sweat as he
stepped away from Heero's prone body. He'd held Heero's hand the whole way, and
had spoken to him until his voice felt raw. There had been no signs of
anything, no twitch of muscles in Heero's eyes or Heero's fingertips, only the
regular but feeble blips of the monitor assigned to his vitals.
"Thank you," Quatre said. He stood out of reach of anything potentially
dangerous and held his arms out before him. The soldier refastened the cuffs so
that Quatre's arms were once again behind his back.
"There was an incident a few days back,” he said. He didn't look Quatre in the
eye, just continued with his task of turning Quatre around and fastening a
short chain to the bar between the cuffs that held Quatre's wrists. "People
aren't happy about a lot of things. The guards on cell-watch especially." The
man's greying head stayed bowed, and from the corner of his eye, Quatre saw the
muscles in the man's shoulders tense up. "Just...keep your head down, okay,
kid?"
Whatever had conspired to allow Heero and Trowa to pilot those suits, Quatre
became more certain than ever that he wouldn't be given the chance to do the
same.
The shuttle landing was surprisingly gentle, and Quatre felt only the slightest
lurch beneath his legs as it touched down inside the hangar. He stood to the
side as ordered, feeling very much like an animal with the leashlike chain
holding him in place.
Biting his cheek, he watched a pair of medics come in to load Heero onto
another gurney and wheel him away. There were no kind words from the men who
took him. Nothing at all to ease Quatre's mind and let him pretend to go
through the motions of being comforted.
The weight of guilt had never threatened to crush him as it did now. His feet
were lead as he preceded his escort down the ramp. The firm hand on his
shoulder was the only thing that kept him moving. He craned his neck around as
he was urged towards a pair of sliding doors, but wherever the medics had taken
Heero, he was already out of sight.
*
"Enjoy your new home."
Quatre didn't move, not even after the door locked audibly behind him. His new
cell was narrow but deep. The space to his left held an uncomfortable looking
cot pushed up against the wall, and at the very back of the room, a quarter
wall partitioned off a low toilet, a sink bolted to the tile, and controls for
what appeared to be a shower built into the ceiling. The air vents and lighting
were all well out of reach and no bigger than eight inches across.
Everything seemed clean and hardly used at all, and after long minutes Quatre
ventured in further. As he approached the cot, he wrestled with the absurd
feeling that he was intruding on someone else's space.
The neat square of linens left folded on the bare mattress revealed a packet of
essentials in the centre of the pile. Quatre sorted through them quickly,
laying aside a toothbrush, a grainy bar of soap, a washcloth, a towel hardly
larger than the washcloth, and a pad of paper with a stub of a pencil hardly
big enough to grip with his fingertips. At the bottom of the pile he found a
set of clothing in prison greys.
It hit him then, the reality of the situation. It punched him in the gut and
left him struggling for air. He had always known that capture was a
possibility, but it was a distant one, like the possibility of his own death.
Quatre busied himself with putting the toiletries in their proper places,
focusing on the mundane task so he wouldn't keel over and vomit up whatever was
left in his stomach.
Later, he sat on the bed, pad of paper balanced on one knee, and wondered if
they would read whatever he put down, or if they would afford him the privacy
of a journal. In the end, he decided to write nothing, and the lights turned
off only minutes after he tucked the pencil and paper under his pillow and lay
down. He wondered if they were watching him though he'd seen no obvious
cameras. Heero might have been able to spot them, but Quatre's experience with
surveillance came primarily from information bought and paid for.
His first night in the cell was a sleepless one. Quatre couldn't switch off and
take sleep where he could like he knew Rashid and the other Forty did. All the
sounds here were familiar at least, the quiet hum of the air vents no different
than the ones on any of the mining facilities his family owned.
Thoughts of his family and of Heero made his chest ache, and Quatre curled on
his side. He couldn't dwell, not on them or on the people -- Trowa -- who had
so freshly died by his hand. If he did, he knew he would be eaten alive.
Instead, he prayed, for each of their souls, and finally his own.
*
Spindly fingers curled under Treize's jaw and forced his face up. The entire
right side of his face was scraped raw, his eye swollen shut, and blood had
dried to rust at the line of his hair. Blunt nails dug into bruises too fresh
to ache.
"Welcome to Outer Space."
The pair charged with the task of collecting Treize and delivering him to his
new prison had proven to be little more than thugs in the trappings of rank -
- perfect specimens to demonstrate what Romefeller had become. Treize curled
his lip in disdain, the pull tugging painfully at a split that had just begun
to clot. The salt warmth of blood dripped down his teeth.
"Not the most hospitable welcome I've enjoyed," he said. He licked his teeth.
The sharp taste of his own blood spread across his tongue. Already, he had
become far too familiar with the flavour.
"I'm afraid you don't get a private room," said the bigger of the two whose
nametag read Alston. "You'll have to share." Shouldering his cohort Daniels out
of the way, he crouched down in front of Treize and set his hands on Treize's
shoulders. His pockmarked face twisted itself into mock concern. "I hope they
stick you with someone who appreciates your pretty face as much as we did." He
patted Treize fondly on the cheek and stood.
"But," Alston added, fisting the shoulder of Treize's coat to bring him to his
feet, "you're not so pretty now, are you?"
Despite the sniggering threats, Treize found himself shoved in a cell with a
skinny young man roughly his own age who seemed more than happy to ignore
Treize entirely. Unstable was Treize's first estimation, and as the days
dragged on, his cellmate's erratic behavior confirmed it. After one week had
gone by, and then another without a single word spoken between them, the
silence grew unbearable. Despite his own misgivings, Treize attempted
conversation.
"Do you know where we are?" Treize asked. He could guess, of course, based on
how long the transport had taken, but L3 and L4 were each as likely as the
other, and even L1 was possible if they had taken a circuitous route.
"Don't look at me," the man hissed. He curled an arm around himself and
scratched nervously at a scab until it bled.
That was the end of that.
Treize reclined on his bunk and stared at the ceiling. Before long he knew
there were two hundred and eighty tiles, as many as graced the floor, each of
them painfully nondescript and the mirror image of its neighbors. How many days
would it be before he was the one huddled in the corner with madness in his
eyes? Treize sighed inwardly and slid his eyes closed.
*
"Good news," said Sato.
Quatre's hands closed into fists. As the muscles of his forearms bunched, the
wire that bound him to the back of the chair cut cruelly into his skin. Each
week it was the same. His arms were striped with angry marks that would scar if
they left him alive long enough.
His torturer smiled to himself, and yet Quatre got the sense that he didn't
honestly think it was good news. Sato dropped his uniform coat on the back of a
chair and sat himself on the corner of the table. His long legs spreading wide,
he leaned over until he was close enough that Quatre could smell the pickles
from his lunch on his breath. "We'll be having some company during your special
little visits with me."
The muzzle of Sato's gun nudged aside Quatre's hair and pressed to his temple
like a kiss. He held the weapon casually. He did everything casually, something
that only unnerved Quatre more and more.
"He's a little crazy, but you know all about that, don't you...."
Sato sighed when Quatre continued to stare straight ahead.
"My time is precious," said Sato, his soft voice falling almost to a whisper.
He tapped the gun against the side of Quatre's head. "If you don't start giving
me any useful information about that Gundam soon, I'll have to really get
nasty. I already told you that I don't like messy."
Quatre turned his face away and kept his lips sealed. He'd had no training for
this sort of thing, but he'd swiftly become very good at saying nothing. He
would play music in his head, picturing his violin and notes singing at his
fingertips, but Sato's threats had been many and varied, and the one that had
succeeded in turning his bowels to water was the idle suggestion that Sato take
a hammer to his fingers. Quatre found it more difficult to lose himself in
music after that.
Funny that he worried over that more than death.
*
Every third day a pair of guards came and took Treize's cellmate away. Treize
didn't know to where, or for what purpose, and the length of time he spent
alone varied drastically. He felt adrift. All the things he didn't know -
- about the current conflicts with the colonies, about the production of
Tsuberov's dolls, about his own confinement -- they were more than simply
frustrating, they made him feel fear in a way he had never experienced before.
There was no strategy to formulate. His enemy, such as it was, could be
considered neither solid nor predictable.
For all he knew, they planned to leave him here until they forgot about him.
For all he knew, they already had.
Treize ran his hands through his hair and drew in a deep breath. There was
nothing to do but keep going. He wasn't the sort to give up. If he had been,
Dermail's pistol would have found some use. Though the circumstances had
changed, he understood Romefeller's desire to keep him from sight. He would
need to do what he had been and wake each morning with no regrets and bide his
time.
When his cellmate returned, Treize watched despite already knowing the routine.
The man was near catatonic each time he was brought back, half-dragged in and
dumped unceremoniously either on the cot pushed against the wall opposite from
Treize's or on the floor beside it.
He would sit where he had been left for hours, staring blindly at the space in
front of him, and his hands would twitch like a junkie's.
Treize tried to summon sympathy, but it was difficult when he didn't even know
the man's name or for what purpose he was imprisoned here.
That night, Treize woke with fingers around his throat.
Losing his breath in surprise, Treize knocked aside the man's hands before they
could tighten and caught him by the wrists when he didn't retreat.
"What are you-" Treize didn't even finish before he saw the whites of the man's
eyes as they rolled back and his cellmate crumpled to the floor.
They didn't come to claim the body until morning.
*
Boredom was Quatre's worst enemy in this place. Left alone with his thoughts
plodding in endless circles, there were only so many ways he could manufacture
to pass the time. He had already filled the pad of paper given to him, had
written for the sake of writing and filled both sides of each page and all the
margins. A sick feeling settled into his stomach when he realised how desperate
he was to see the slide open at mealtime because it meant someone was there.
It was a worse feeling when he actually began to look forward to the days that
Sato sent for him.
And eventually, as the man had warned him, the rules changed.
Quatre lost his only method of telling time. The lights turned on and off at
random intervals, and meals came with equal irregularity. He woke one morning
with a cottony taste in his mouth that said he'd been drugged and discovered
his clothes had been taken. He sat for days in nothing but his shorts.
Eventually, with numb fingers, he dragged on the square-cut colorless prison
clothes that he'd been using to pad his pillow.
He took to pacing the length and breadth of the space in his waking moments,
and soon, every inch of the place that hadn't already been committed to memory
was cemented in his mind.
On the day he shouted himself hoarse and beat his fists to bleeding against the
windowless door, they took him out, hosed him off, and sat him down -- nearly
naked and shivering -- in front of Sato.
"How did you do it," asked Sato.
The men who had dragged Quatre here remained in the room. They had put
gravirestraints on him this time, and the weight of them left the bones of his
thumbs aching and the skin there chafed and sore. The change in routine was
enough to make him panicked and short of breath, and it took all his willpower
to sit still and project some manner of calm.
"How did you pilot that thing without losing your mind?" Sato had taken off his
jacket. Slowly, he rolled up his sleeves. His mouth turned down at the corners.
Quatre laughed hoarsely, nervousness raising the pitch of his voice. He
remembered the haunted eyes of the prisoner that had sat in this room with him
only briefly. "You think I'm sane?"
"Sane enough." Sato reached for his back pocket, and his eyes flickered away
from Quatre to the men standing behind him.
Light flashed off brushed metal and large hands clamped down on Quatre's arms.
He couldn't stop the scream ripping out of his throat and struggled furiously
as the guards forced his hands onto the tablet and pried his fingers apart.
They held his palms so tight to the wood that he thought his wrists might break
before Sato even got near him.
"Last chance to talk," said Sato. He swung the hammer lazily, tapping it
against the tabletop until Quatre's eyes bulged and rolled to whites.
At the first crunch, he lost control of his bladder.
At the second, he lost consciousness.
*
The moment Quatre opened his eyes, he recognised the leader of OZ.
But it wasn't until Quatre was shoved inside the cell and the sounds of the
locking mechanism echoed through the walls that he noticed the brownish-red
stains on the rich blue gabardine of Treize's uniform. The surprise did a lot
to clear his head and dim the lingering throb of pain in his bandaged hand.
"You're a prisoner?" Quatre rasped. He'd spent maybe a week in a tiny cell that
was literally made up of four walls and a bucket. It was as if he had forgotten
how to speak in there, and each word had to be carefully shaped.
"So fate has written me," Treize Khushrenada said slowly. He sat on the edge of
a familiar looking cot, his long legs bent and bare feet flat on the floor. His
hair hung nearly to his stubbled jaw, and his eyes were shadowed as he regarded
Quatre, his head cocked to the side.
Burning with questions, Quatre hovered near the door. This cell was larger than
the one he considered his. He couldn't guess at why they'd moved him.
"How long have you been here?" he asked.
"Roughly five months at my best estimation." Treize gestured at the cot across
from him; Quatre's now, presumably. "Sit down before you fall over. I'd
apologise for their treatment of you, but..." Treize spread his hands and
shrugged helplessly.
Feeling more steady and more human than he had in days, Quatre sat down
opposite Treize. He gnawed at the side of his tongue and decided it didn't
matter if he stared; Treize was surely sizing him up as well. "My name is-"
"If I may guess," Treize interrupted, "Quatre Winner, the pilot of Zero Four?"
"How did you...?"
Treize's lips turned in a slight smile. "I had my suspicions early on. The
trajectory of your entry suggested a colony in the L4 cluster; there are few
organisations with the facilities and material wealth to build such a large
mobile suit in that area.
"Also, your father apologised rather forcibly about your absence at a function
only a few days previous."
Quatre's heart twisted in his chest. "You knew my father?"
"Not well," Treize admitted. His eyes narrowed slightly at the 'knew' and
Quatre realised that he might not know about the incident. Maybe it had been
covered up. At the time, Quatre hadn't been in any shape to pay attention to
the media.
"Regardless, I enjoyed several lively debates with him in the past," Treize
said.
"Mm." Quatre lay down, adjusting the pillow under his neck with his good hand,
and murmured an apology. He didn't really feel like talking anymore.
Closing his eyes, Quatre wondered if Treize was unaware of the destruction of
the colony, too.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Quatre was still sleeping when Treize woke. He showered as he normally did, but
before he was done, the door to the cell opened and three guards entered. Two
stood point, weapons trained on him, and Treize stood naked and dripping on the
tiled floor until they nodded and let him reach for a towel.
It was his old friend Alston who stood there sneering with a bundled up wad of
grey cloth in his hands. He tossed it to Treize, who caught it easily. "Time
for a change of clothes, sweetheart," he said. "Miss me?"
"Who wouldn't," Treize replied dryly. Alston grinned and his hands moved to
rest on the pistol strapped to his side.
Treize left the bundle on the corner of the stainless-steel sink and finished
wiping down before shaking them out and dragging them on. He refused to rush
his morning toilet, not when the odds were still that he was more valuable
alive than dead.
"Where are we going?" he asked when dressed.
Alston scratched at his bearded chin and lifted an eyebrow. "Who says we're
going anywhere?"
From the corner of his eye, Treize could see that Quatre lay in the same
position, but the boy was clearly no longer asleep. There was an unmistakable
hum of tension in the curl of his body.
"Don't tell me I got all dolled up for nothing.”
"Aren't you the clever one." Alston pulled a pair of barred cuffs from his belt
and ordered Treize to turn around. The man's heavy footfalls came closer like a
countdown. "Did you ever wonder where we were taking Proust?" Alston said into
his ear.
Proust. Treize finally had a name for the unfortunate with whom he'd shared so
many months. Solemnly, he committed it to memory.
"No? Well, either way, now you get to find out." Alston tightened the cuffs,
then shook out a thin canvas hood, tugging it roughly over Treize's head.
Treize heard Quatre's breath catch as they led him out.
*
At first, Treize thought it was Gundam 01, but the closer he got, the more he
saw the differences. They were all subtle things, and he doubted that he would
have caught them on a visual level if he hadn't spent so much time studying the
same five mobile suits.
A strong-jawed Lieutenant with slicked-back hair looked up from a bank of
diagnostic computers. "Who's this?" he said, glancing briefly at Treize before
fixing on Alston. "I asked for Prisoner 45-992-C."
"Sato says you'll find this one more useful."
The officer took a longer look at Treize. "I went through each of the prisoner
records personally to fin-" he bit off his words and stood up straight. "What
game is Sato playing at withholding files?"
Alston shrugged and planted a hand in the middle of Treize's back to shove him
forward. "Ask him yourself, Trant, but I think you'll be pleasantly surprised.
This one has piloting experience. Ain't that right?"
Agreeing with a slow nod, Treize could practically feel the dark amusement
dripping off Alston when no one else seemed to recognise him. He couldn't fault
the others; he hardly knew himself in the mirror most days. He hadn't been
granted a razor for two weeks, no haircut since Earth, and a good twenty pounds
had dropped from his frame.
"I have experience in all models save the most recent, of course," Treize said.
It was stupid, maybe, making this easy for them, but something in him wanted in
that cockpit. Suits had never meant freedom to him like they had for Zechs, but
he wanted to know what made this one so dangerous, and there was a niggling
fear in the pit of his stomach that worried whatever they wanted from it would
make Tsuberov's mobile dolls all the more loathsome.
*
"Ready yourself. Sixth wave incoming." Trant's voice faded out from the speaker
tucked in Treize's ear, but Treize caught a faint 'he's good' before the signal
shut down.
So far everything had been routine. They ran him through the usual training
simulations, some of which were based on battle data, and some which loaded
patterns he had helped create.
Targets swarmed on the radar. Treize swung around to face them. Without being
hooked up to a proper simulator, the lack of momentum or the kick of thrusters
was disconcerting. Still, in seconds he had dispatched the incoming enemies.
"Seventh wave. No, scratch that, you've obviously had a decent amount of
training." There was silence for a moment, and Treize lifted his hand from the
controls to tuck his hair behind his ear. Trant's voice was louder when the
speaker turned on again, as if he had leaned in closer to the mic. "Loading
data from a live engagement."
Treize recognised the formation of suits and satellites in a heartbeat. He'd
fought in this battle. He'd lost men in this battle -- Evans, Hong, Bostwick.
His fingers tightened around the controls and he calculated his position
relative to where the majority of his squad had hid themselves in the orbital
path of the colony.
The opposition would come from above him, at two o'clock. Treize took aim and
counted down the seconds.
When the suits appeared and an alert flashed red for an incoming missile, ZERO
slammed into his mind.
*
Treize was still reeling when he stumbled out of the Gundam's cockpit. He'd
destroyed the targets all right, but he'd also come close to rounding his beam
rifle on an enemy that had positioned itself directly in front of the simulated
colony.
There was a sour taste in the back of his mouth. He clutched at the railing of
the platform until he was certain he wouldn't vomit all over the hangar floor.
Cockpit AI was supposed to supplement the pilot, not overwhelm him. Whatever
was loaded into the Gundam had insisted that firing at both suit and colony was
the clearest, most efficient path to victory. But that was no victory at all.
Winning a battle at any cost was...inhuman.
And what about the stream of images, the memories dredged up and filtered
through, and the things that weren't memories but seemed just as real. Treize
shook his head to clear it. The unit seemed to predict more than just battle
data; a ridiculous idea that was not easily dismissed. For those images to have
been the paths of his future.... To watch them unfold like budding flowers only
to bloom and curl in on themselves as another took its place....
He clutched at his skull with one hand and lost his hold on the nausea.
*
Sometimes the guards took both of them at once to Sato, and at others Quatre
was left here to wait and wonder if they would bring Treize back at all.
But one thing never changed; they never took Quatre out alone.
He fought paranoia and the very basic human instincts that clawed in his
stomach and said that surely, Treize was giving them some sort of information
to go out and come back without a scratch on him.
To go into Zero and not come out shaking and shivering.
*
As Treize began to understand the way the AI worked, it was easier to both
control and circumvent it. Treize had never been lacking in willpower, and
though it was as mentally exhausting as true piloting was physically taxing, he
quickly learned how to pick the proper path and deny ZERO all others.
Trant was excited; understandably so, as Treize could count on his hand the
number of pilots he knew who would be capable of mastering the system. He
regretted giving Trant so much data, but as he fought through the simulations,
he became able to harness ZERO's strange, prophetic capabilities to his own
benefit. So far, each scenario for escape he fed into the thing was deemed
fatally disastrous. Sometimes he felt the bitter end so strongly he wondered if
it were safe to keep searching, but he feared to query what lay ahead if he did
not try at all.
Treize's eyes flickered to the upper corner of the main monitor. There it was
again, a strange glitch in the communications system. He'd said nothing about
it to Trant, but for the past several sessions, a few minutes into each run a
screen would pop up like an incoming message yet always remained black and
silent. It never lasted more than three seconds, and Treize considered the
possibility that it might be more than an artifact of Trant's attempts to hack
the system to better understand it.
This time, Treize gave more of his attention to ZERO before the little screen
disappeared. He wasn't prepared for the onslaught of data. Raw information
poured into his mind, and it was only with ZERO's help that his brain began to
sort it out.
Sound reverberated in his head, as crisp and clear as if he'd spoken the word
himself, and yet his teeth were clenched tight and the voice did not belong to
him. "Hello," came the voice again.
Treize almost answered aloud. He stopped himself at the last second. If this
were an outside source, and this their only method of contact, speaking so that
Trant would hear was foolish. If this was ZERO itself, equally so. Treize's
head ached as he tried to figure out how best to respond. He settled on
picturing a word as written. ::Who?::
"Builders."
Treize puzzled over that. He had little time; the next squad of enemies would
appear on his radar within seconds.
"Leave it to us."
The controls jerked in his hands, moving independently, and Treize realised
that whomever they were, they had successfully hijacked the Gundam's entire
system remotely. Builders, they'd said.... Had they literally built this thing?
Treize felt a chill borne of both hope and fear prickle at his spine. ::
Friends?::
"Stupid question. Instructor H wants to know how badly you're banged up?"
::Instructor H?::
The connection shut off.
*
Quatre felt even more uncomfortable in these sessions now with Treize in the
room. During the hours he'd endured with the skinny man who had turned out to
have been Treize's previous cellmate, there'd been no sense of wanting to keep
up a brave front for anyone except himself. Now he cringed inside every time
there were questions and he was the only one who answered.
"It's been a while," Sato said, as calmly as ever.
It was even worse when Alston and Daniels were in the room. They were around
more and more, always lingering near to Treize like starving dogs. Sato kept
them on a short chain, but the foul aura of sadism hung over them like a
shroud. For all his cruelty, at least Sato didn't appear to take pleasure in
what he did; he was simply good at it.
"Sweet little mouth on this one," Alston said. He'd finished cuffing Quatre to
the chair and settled a hand on the top of Quatre's head. "Don't you think,
General? Oops, pardon me, Colonel."
Quatre kept his eyes away from Treize in case he'd find sympathy there. He
curled his fingers behind him, the ache of mending bones a welcome distraction
for once. Thank God they'd finally had medical attend to him, although whether
or not he'd ever play again.... A month ago he'd feel the sting of rising
tears, but now his eyes remained dry. The hand on his head drew away, but only
briefly, and Quatre flinched as rough knuckles dragged down his cheek.
"No? Then maybe I'll bloody it up a bit until we can both agree."
"Enough," Sato said. He waved the other man away and slapped a photo of five
aging men down on the table. "Tell me, Quatre, do you know these men?"
Two of them were instantly recognisable. Feeling sick and horrible as he
answered, Quatre nodded and told Sato he did.
"Have they tried to contact you?"
"Contact me? How?" Quatre was as confused as he was hopeful. That Sato asked
this must meant he believed they were, or might, and that meant the possibility
of rescue. He shouldn't let himself get excited, but a feeble flame found life
in his breast. From Treize, he could feel a shift in tension that didn't match
his own.
"I'm not in the mood to play games today," Sato said. He studied Quatre for a
long moment, and with his head pounding with his pulse, Quatre stared back.
Sato's expression didn't change, but beneath the surface something definitely
had. "There's no more room for give and take. Answer the question."
"No," Quatre said, alive for the first time since he'd come here.
Sato stood up. His shell of indifference cracked and he looked agitated. Quatre
began to notice little things: heaviness beneath the man's eyes like he wasn't
getting enough sleep, an extra stack of files in the intelligence folder on the
table. Had he made the wrong choice? Had Treize tried to warn him that he'd put
the wrong piece into play far too late in the game? Quatre dared a glance and
found no answer on Treize's stoic face.
Pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket, Sato shook one free to
hang on his lip. "Make sure he's telling the truth," he told Alston. His brows
drew together as he flicked open his lighter and brought the flame up to light
his cig. "And don't break anything unless you need to."
Nearly all the hope that glowed warm in Quatre's stomach vanished, drenched
cold by the terror of being left to the whims of two men that had just been
waiting for the opportunity.
"O-ho!" Alston kicked off the wall as Sato left the room. He threaded his
fingers together, turning his hands palm-out to crack all his knuckles at once.
He lolled his head to the side and eyed his partner. "What do you think,
Daniels? No fun if we can't break him. 'Sides, the kid isn't lying, just look
at him. He's ready to piss himself again."
Alston's jibe did as intended, and Quatre's face burned hot. When they'd stuck
him in that stinking hole of a room after they broke his fingers, they'd
stripped him naked first, but they'd tossed his pants in with him still
stinking of his own urine. He couldn't forget having been forced to make the
humiliating choice of remaining naked or putting them back on again.
"Can't just walk out of here either. Bosses would think we didn't care to do
our jobs right," Daniels said, his long, bony fingers going up to scratch at
his throat. "How about a show to pass the time? Our little faggot over here is
probably dying for a fuck."
Again, Quatre went from hot to cold, his face draining of blood so quickly it
dizzied him. It wasn't until Daniels had set his foot on Treize's chair and
shoved it away from the table that he pieced it together that they weren't
talking about him.
"We know the kid isn't lying, so how about we clear up a few things from the
rumour mill? The stories we've heard about you," Daniels said. He planted his
boot between Treize's legs and dropped forward to prop his arm on his knee.
"Your old buddy Zechs as good at fucking as he was at flying?"
Quatre watched as a cold smile spread across Treize's lips. His eyes were
guarded daggers, and Quatre could feel the hate crackling around him like
lightning. "As a matter of fact, he was," Treize said, evenly.
*
Treize could guess what they planned before they had Quatre bent over the
table. He sat stock still in his chair, wanting to do something and yet knowing
that the gravity on the restraints made the metal too heavy to lift even with
the adrenaline singing in his veins. He choked on helplessness, stronger than
he'd had to endure in all his months of confinement.
Arms free, Quatre took desperate swings at Daniels, who laughed when they
connected and did nothing, or, to the man's great delight, left Quatre gasping
as pain shot up his arm from his still-mending fingers.
Finally, Daniels caught Quatre's wrists and re-bound them with barred cuffs.
With a chain snapped between them, he hauled forward, pulling Quatre off-
balance and stretching him out over the table. Quatre's toes strained for
purchase on the floor. "Didn't think you weren't going to be part of the fun,
did you?"
"Lookit that, Colonel, he's squirming. Should make for a good time."
Treize wasn't sure he could go through with it, yet he worried for how much
worse Quatre would suffer if he didn't. He fixed his gaze on Alston, who paled
slightly despite his bravado only to puff himself up further as he dialed down
Treize's restraints and breathed menace near his ear. "Not like that," Treize
said. "I would have his mouth."
He didn't know if it would be harder for Quatre this way, or if they'd even
agree. Time hung until Alston stood up straight and tall.
"Guess I was right after all," Alston said. "Don't ever say I didn't do
anything for you." He grinned and held his hand out. Daniels tossed him the
chain and he yanked Quatre backwards off the table again. In seconds, Quatre's
arms were pulled over his head and down until the bar between the cuffs rested
like a yoke against the back of his neck. Alston shoved him down to his knees.
"I'd knock his teeth out for you, but since orders are orders, don't blame me
if he bites."
Daniels got Treize to his feet, hands secured in front of him. Daniels grabbed
handfuls of Treize's hair, and maneuvered him roughly to stand in front of
Quatre.
"Do a good job boy," Daniels said, nudging Quatre with the tip of his boot. He
didn't let go, and kept a firm, eye-watering grip on the hair at the base of
Treize's skull.
When Quatre's eyes stopped darting around and fixed on him, Treize put his hand
to Quatre's face. It was the best he could do to ask if Quatre would endure
this along with him. Quatre's eyes lowered, his lashes fanning downward, and he
nodded, although the silent assent was so subtle Treize couldn't be sure of it.
His hands shook as he thumbed open the button at the waist of his trousers.
Treize couldn't deny that there was some part of him that had thought of this,
if only another time, another place.... In the dark of the cell, he'd yearned
to kiss away the bruises on that milk-pale skin and bury his fingers in hair as
fine and blonde as Milliardo's.
His conversations with Quatre, kept carefully guarded for fear of surveillance,
were engaging and though at times Quatre seemed to hold himself at arm's length
they had developed a sense of camaraderie. Quatre was slight enough that it was
difficult to tell just how old he was, but whatever his age, he was as
intelligent as he was beautiful.
Treize slid a hand down to Quatre's neck lest they think him stalling. He
thought back, summoning up all those secret, treasured memories of past
encounters that never failed to speed his pulse, and tried to forget the
circumstances of here and now.
"I won't hurt you," Treize assured, feeble though that assurance might be.
*
Treize kept his eyes closed through most of it, focusing all his attention on
the slicksweet heat of a mouth tight around his cock. Twice he forgot himself
and pushed his hips forward with an urgency that came with months of no relief
save his hand. Both times nearly made him stop and refuse to continue. The
whipcrack of Alston's snide comments drove him on.
"Not much of a show," Daniels commented. "Make sure you shoot right on his
girly face."
When Treize looked, finally, there was the wet shine of tears clinging to
Quatre's lashes. Had he pushed too far and brushed the soft tissues of Quatre's
throat, or was the humiliation of being forced to his knees at those bastards'
will too much? Had Quatre even had another before, man or woman? Treize tried
not to dwell on it all; this would take all the longer if he did.
He put his fingers to Quatre's cheek, felt the give as he thrust in again.
Quatre's lips were flushed cherry red, and his jaw had tired, slackened now as
the length of Treize's cock slid in and out of his mouth. He was moaning, but
the sound was not of pleasure, and for a moment Treize regretted his choice.
He focused on the stretch of Quatre's mouth, pictured with all his might that
they were alone. He always did love a hot mouth on his cock, with the roll of a
clever tongue or the enthusiasm of eager inexperience. This was neither, but
with their well-being on the line, he could pretend well enough. His cock
swelled and a groan rose in his throat as heat knotted in his belly. Blood
roared in his ears, drowning out the sounds of rough laughter and heavy
breathing from the other men in the room.
"Keep your mouth open," Treize said, hoping to take the decision away from
their captors and please them at the same time. He thumbed Quatre's lower lip,
pushed his fingers inside to touch the glistening pink of Quatre's tongue, and
fisted his cock with his other hand.
His nerves felt alive, lightning skittering along his skin, and as it grew more
and more intense, sent him floating. A half-dozen vicious strokes of his cock
and he crashed back down, coming hard enough that he had to pull his fingers
from Quatre's mouth and reach behind him to brace his weight on the table.
Treize's vision had dimmed, but he had seen Quatre flinch when the first shot
of come landed squarely in his mouth. The rest was spattered on his face,
sliding down to slick his swollen lips and dangle in strings from the point of
his chin.
Breath coming quick and shallow, Treize had forgotten the hand clenched tight
in his hair, and he yelped when he was yanked to the side. Daniels swung him
around, snapping cuffs around his wrists before he could blink. The man's
breath washed warm against his cheek and Treize lifted his chin to avoid a
sloppy lick.
"My turn," he said, and drove his fist into Treize's stomach.
*
By the time Sato came back, Quatre had gotten to the point where he couldn't
keep his limbs from shaking even for a moment. He smelled come with each
breath, tasted it, felt it cooling on his face and didn't have the strength nor
freedom to wipe it away.
His arms were still forced bent above his head; they'd gone dead ages ago, but
he could feel his shirt shiver as they twitched. His jaw ached terribly, so
much that when they were done with him, he knelt there with his head hung,
mouth open and panting like a dog. Quatre was sure the past half-hour would
catch up with him, but for now, he mostly felt numb.
From the corner of his eye he could see Treize. His hands had been cuffed to
the table leg, and he knelt on the floor, knees splayed wide and his chin
tucked to his chest. There was misery in the slump of his shoulders, and Quatre
wished he could say something, to say thank you for how much Treize had
struggled when the others wanted their turn, to tell him how much easier it had
been when their eyes had locked and Treize never once looked away.
"Take the kid out of here, I've got business with Khushrenada," Sato said.
Quatre snapped his head up. Come dripped down his throat and slid beneath the
neck of his shirt. He didn't want to go with them. Not alone.
*
There was activity in the halls as Treize was escorted back to his cell.
Soldiers weren't scrambling, precisely, but they were moving in teams with a
deliberation that piqued Treize's curiousity. He kept his eyes and ears open,
catching snippets of dialogue between the men and over their radios.
For the first time, a soldier did a double-take upon seeing him, and Treize
grinned viciously when Alston snarled and told him to keep his head down.
The lights were off inside the cell, but with the door open, Treize could see
the silhouette of Quatre's crumpled form; he was naked, curled on his side with
his back pressed up against the demi-wall by the shower. As the door closed,
the fan of light reduced to a sliver and then nothing. Treize waited for his
eyes to adjust before picking his way towards Quatre.
The cell itself was a mess, the mattress of his cot half on the floor, and the
frame of Quatre's askew as if someone had banged into it. Had Alston been
walking stiffly?
"Quatre, I'm coming towards you. I'm going to check your wounds," Treize said,
keeping his voice as calm and even as he could. As he got closer to the dim,
ever-present lights near the toilet, he could see that Quatre's eyes were open.
Treize gave Quatre a cursory glance before he snagged a washcloth draped over
the tile and went to the sink. He turned the tap to red and dampened the cloth
with warm -- it was never truly hot -- water, then returned to crouch beside
Quatre.
Silently, he wiped the mess from Quatre's face. The washcloth turned pink where
spittle and drying come had mixed with blood. Quatre had a split lip, but no
worse than a few loose teeth, no bones had been broken although there was a
bruise already darkening on the rise of his cheek.
Treize went to the sink again to rinse out the washcloth. He stood there for a
moment and stared at the water swirling down the drain, his fingers curled
white-knuckled along the stainless-steel lip of the basin. Sucking a silent
breath through his teeth, he wrung out the washcloth and spun on his heel.
"Did they sodomise you?" he asked. He swiped the cloth down Quatre's throat and
over the sweep of Quatre's collarbone, cleaning up the drying come that was
doubtless mixed with his own. Quatre's chest was as hairless as a child's but
sculpted into smooth lines and angles that said he would find his height some
day.
Quatre surprised him by answering. "No," he said, and Treize couldn't tell if
it was the truth. Quatre's lashes fluttered, and Treize thought his eyes might
snap into focus, but his lashes stilled as quickly as they had come to life,
and he continued to stare blankly.
"Are you hurt anywhere?"
"No," Quatre repeated. His eyelids slid closed and Treize saw tears leak from
the corner of his eyes.
Treize sat down heavily a few feet away from Quatre. With a sigh, he wadded up
the washcloth and tossed it away from them. He stripped off his shirt and
draped it over Quatre's hips. Tipping his head back to rest against the tiled
wall, Treize stretched a leg out and smoothed a hand down his face. "They want
me to train them how to use it," he said, as much to himself as to Quatre. "If
I don't, it's you who'll suffer."
"I know," Quatre whispered. He pushed himself up and crawled closer to Treize,
laying his head on Treize's lap.
He trembled and shook, and his slim fingers found purchase in the folds of
Treize's pants. Treize bit his lip to bleeding. Slowly, he dropped a hand down,
rested it light on Quatre's back, and Quatre eventually stilled.
Sato's impossible demands echoed in Treize's head, and Treize pulled Quatre
tighter. The boy was frail in his arms, featherlight and pale like a wisp of
fog. Treize pushed the hair away from Quatre's eyes with gentle fingertips.
Fair brows knit tight.
"God forgive me," Treize breathed into the silence.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Quatre found himself in Treize's arms when he woke. He had been dreaming of his
father, and when he looked up, he almost expected to see the strong jaw he
remembered being fascinated with as a child.
"Treize," he said, as the world came back into focus. He hurt everywhere,
inside and out, and the sound of his own voice in his head seemed strangely
echoed.
"I need to ask you something," Treize said. His arms slipped away, and Quatre
nearly made a sound for Treize to stop, to keep holding him, but then the low,
urgent tone of Treize's voice penetrated.
"What?"
"Were you brought here alone?" Treize asked.
Corners of his mouth turning down, Quatre shook his head. He regretted it
instantly; the ache behind his eyes seared white-hot. "No," he answered past
the pain, "Heero was with me. The pilot of Zero One. Why do you ask?" Pushing
himself to sitting, Quatre scrubbed at his face. His skin felt stiff and
scratchy in places, and a sourness rose in the back of his throat as he
realised why.
"Injured or otherwise incapacitated, I presume," Treize pressed.
"Yes, injured." Quatre knew he didn't have to say it, but he did anyway: "By my
hand."
Treize looked at him for a long moment, deep blue eyes alive with an intensity
Quatre had never seen in them before. His determination was almost frightening
in how quickly it gave Quatre hope, and then he said: "I have reason to believe
he has recovered."
Tears sprang immediately to Quatre's eyes. He wiped them away with the heel of
his palm before they had a chance to spill. It could be nothing more than a
rumour, but if it were true.... Oh, he hoped with all his heart and soul that
it was.
"Did Sato tell you that?" Quatre asked, suddenly wary. As his head cleared, so
did his optimism.
Treize shook his head. "No, and I have one more question to ask you," he said.
He paused, clearly choosing his words carefully. "I think the answer will be
yes, but I understand if you don't trust me enough to confirm. Quatre, do you
know an Instructor H?"
Quatre's stomach flip-flopped. Whether or not to put his trust in Treize was
not an easy decision, particularly when Sato had been waving pictures around
and had tossed him to the dogs in the end. It could have all been a ploy,
orchestrated to get an honest answer out of him when he felt most vulnerable -
- and there was no denying that Treize was the closest thing he had to a friend
here.
He could search for guile and deception in Treize's face for long minutes, or
he could go with his instinct.
Instinct won. Quatre nodded a yes.
"Tell me everything you are willing," Treize said.
*
Trant introduced Treize to the officer he hoped to train. In less than ten
seconds flat, Treize could tell the young man wouldn't be able to cut it. He
said as much and Trant sneered at him.
"I don't need advice from a prisoner," Trant said. He gestured and an assistant
began attaching sensors to Treize's pulsepoints. "You'll be doing the Orion set
of missions today."
"No," Treize said. He was pushing things, he knew, but it was the only way he'd
get a man like Trant to do what he needed. "Load the live data from the assault
on MO-XIV on November 17th 193."
"MO-XIV, the ghost suit mission?" Trant laughed harshly. "I want you to show
Lt. Barton here what that machine can do, not-"
"That's my intention," Treize interrupted smoothly. He jerked his chin to
indicate the bank of computers Trant was sitting at, ignoring the irritated
mutter of the assistant still busy taping wires to his skin. "Check the battle
data. I'll show you how to take out forty heavily modified Space Leos and a
Gundam with a single suit."
"A Gundam?" Trant's eyes narrowed. He hadn't pieced Treize's identity together,
and given a moment he might, but the rush of curiosity overwhelmed any
lingering questions and he swiveled around to pull up the information scavenged
from a squad that had met near destruction. "Well that explains the variable
here... But the Orion missions are-" Trant broke off and looked up as Barton
scooped up the VR helmet off the console and tossed it to Treize.
"Let him do it," the young officer said. His eyes, flat and unreadable, held to
Treize's for a moment before he turned to Trant. "If that is a Gundam in that
data, I'd like to see how things match up."
*
Treize wasted no time the moment the simulation came to life. If those men were
monitoring Trant's experiments, he could only hope they were paying attention
right now.
::Khushrenada:: he thought with all his might, picturing his name in the very
front of his mind even as ZERO screamed for him to pay attention to the suits
pouring out of the asteroid like bees from a hive.
Half the Leos were wreckage by the time he saw the screen pop up. The voice was
just as disconcerting as it was the first time and Treize circled around,
needing distance to keep going. "Quatre alive?"
::Yes. Help with sim.::
Just like that, the controls were once again moving on their own. Treize
breathed a quiet sigh of relief. ::Disable audio feed?::
Treize saw the lights on the panel flicker and Trant's voice went live in his
ear. "There's a transmitter problem. Continue on. Fire twice to acknowledge."
Two shots lasered out, and Treize cleared his throat. "Can you hear me?"
"Loud and clear. Quatre's alive then, good, good."
"He's suffered. Do you have allies?"
"Some. Most of them thanks to you, General."
"More good news for you, perhaps," Treize said. "Heero Yuy had been in the
prison medical facility. He's gone missing."
There was silence, then laughter. "A few more days then, General. Keep that
seat warm for our little time bomb, and when the lights go out, keep your head
down."
*
It took a lot of struggling, but Quatre managed to push the two cots in the
cell together side to side. His hand throbbed from all the effort, and he
stared at the flushed tips of his taped fingers. They'd been healing well, or
so Treize had proclaimed some days ago, but after yesterday, Quatre feared a
fresh break.
He wasn't sure what Treize would say when -- Quatre wouldn't think if, not
anymore -- they brought him back. He wasn't sure he would be able to explain
it, either, but he needed this closeness after an hour spent in near darkness
had left him wanting to crawl out of his skin. It had felt as if there were a
thousand ghostly fingers plucking at the threads of his mind, and that it
wouldn't take much to unravel him.
He showered in the time he was alone, fighting down the feeling that he had to
keep one eye on the door. Whatever had happened yesterday when he had pushed,
he felt pretty certain that Alston and Daniels wouldn't be coming back anytime
soon.
Clean and warm and dressed in the old uniform they'd allowed Treize to keep, if
not wear, Quatre sat in the middle of the bed with his back to the wall. He
drew his knees towards his chest and closed his eyes, curling his arms over his
head as he waited for the time to pass. He wondered if Treize had been able to
contact Instructor H successfully, and if Heero really was okay.
He drifted into a fitful sleep where he hung in a field of stars littered with
enemy mobile suits. His arms had become weapons and it took little more than a
thought to take aim and destroy the suits that posed a danger to him. He felt
like he could see them all, but at one point, an enemy had snuck up on him. He
swung his arm around, fingers forming a knife that sliced the Taurus' cockpit
in two, and for a moment, Quatre dreamed that Trowa was fighting beside him.
He woke feeling more tired than he had before. He counted the stitching in the
cuff of Treize's jacket to keep himself occupied. He didn't want to fall asleep
again and risk another dream about Trowa. It still hurt, shamefully more than
the lives of millions of innocent people, that he had taken the life of a
friend.
*
Relief rushed through Quatre's veins when Treize said nothing about the cots.
"Thank you again for lending me the clothes," Quatre said. He hadn't even had
to ask. The gesture meant more to him than it probably should have, but
maintaining a healthy distance had become secondary to everything.
Treize nodded and perched on the metal frame of the cot. "You're welcome. Keep
it for as long as you'd like, a few days until they deign to do our laundry, or
what have you." He smiled gently and stood up again, turning his back as he
stripped his shirt off and went to the sink. "It's a bit big, but it looks good
on you."
"A bit big," Quatre said wryly, lifting a hand that was completely swallowed by
the length of the jacket sleeve.
"You would've cut a fine figure as an officer," Treize said before he dunked
his head under the tap. He let the water run cold over his head for a moment
before pulling back and taking a long swallow straight from the faucet.
"Although," he added, picking up the towel folded neatly behind the tap and
draping it over his head, "a crimson like Col. Zechs's uniform might suit you
better."
"Is it true that you an-" Quatre broke off, mortified that he'd begun to ask
without even thinking. His face felt warm. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to
presume."
Treize shook his head. He held either end of the towel looped around his neck
and smiled again. Quatre couldn't tell if it was forced.
"It's fine," Treize said. "We were lovers for a time, yes."
His face felt warmer for it, but Quatre had to look away. He knew it happened,
of course, even in the Maguanac Corps there were those who looked at one
another as more than comrades, but he'd never before heard a man admit to
loving another romantically. He felt strange and uncomfortable.
"Do you still want to sleep in the same bed with me?" Treize asked.
"I don't want to sleep alone," Quatre answered quickly. He regretted the way
he'd phrased the sentence the moment it had fallen from his lips. "I don't mean
to say I'm afraid, not of you, anyway."
"I understand," Treize said. He moved to pick up his shirt again, and Quatre
thrust a hand out to stop him.
"Don't," Quatre said. "Don't put that back on for my sake."
Beneath his own, so faintly that he hardly noticed it, Treize's hand began to
shake.
*
Like they had each time he'd come back from seeing Trant, the lights clicked
off an hour after Treize's return. But this time, he lay awake in the dark long
past the point that sleep would have normally claimed him.
For the fifth night in a row, Quatre was nestled close to him, the bare skin of
Quatre's back so tight against his chest that Quatre could surely feel his
heartbeat. The air beneath the blankets had warmed quickly, and each time
Quatre shifted, Treize felt cool air rush in to tickle against his skin.
"What's it like to love another man?" Quatre asked, his voice quiet enough that
even in the silence it had been difficult to hear.
Treize made a thoughtful sound. He'd wondered how long it would take before
Quatre broached the subject again. He extracted his arm and rolled onto his
back, folding his hands behind his head. Quatre followed, turning to face him
and snuggling up against his side. "A lot like loving a woman," Treize
answered.
The silence stretched, filled his ears with the strange rush of not-sound that
reminded him of summers spent at the shore.
"I've never been in love with a woman," Quatre said hesitantly.
Treize clenched his jaw tight and swallowed. It grew increasingly difficult to
deny his attraction to Quatre, and he could hardly continue to blame it on a
resemblance to Milliardo when they had been young and pledged foolish boyhood
love for one another.
"Quatre I don't know what you expect of me." But he did know. Not in a
situation like this, not precisely, but he remembered what it was like knowing
he was different and wanting someone to tell him that it was normal. To show
him.
"Would it be that hard for you? To have me willing?" Quatre raised his head,
and Treize shivered at the soft drag of lips along his side.
"No, it wouldn't, and therein lies the problem. I'm old enough t-"
Quatre's hand touched light to Treize's belly, trailed up ghostlike to his
neck, until the whole length of Quatre's arm rested hot against him. "To be my
father?" Quatre laughed. "Hardly."
Treize chuckled and twisted his head, mouth brushing against the heel of
Quatre's hand. He groaned quietly and drew his arms out from under his head. "I
was going to say, 'to know better'."
He'd intended to put his hands to Quatre's shoulders, to gently push him back,
but his resolve wavered when Quatre's leg slid between his own. And when Quatre
pulled himself up until their bodies were aligned like puzzle pieces, Treize
moaned his defeat into the soft hollow of Quatre's throat.
"Kiss me?" Quatre whispered, his breath fanning against Treize's cheek.
"Gladly," Treize murmured, and then their mouths were together, dry lips
rubbing together, catching, teasing, until finally the slick of tongue turned
the kiss wet with electric heat. Treize lifted his head from the pillow and
cupped the back of Quatre's head. He deepened the kiss, desperate to taste as
much of Quatre as he could.
There was a buzzing whine echoing in his ears, and Treize thought it nothing
more than the shivering, shaking thrill of a warm body in his arms, but the
sound grew louder and louder. When it died, suddenly enough that it left his
ears ringing, so did the remaining light. Without the dim halo of orange above
the sink and toilet, the cell was as black as pitch.
"Get down," Treize said, and dragged Quatre to the floor.
"What's happening?"
"I don't know. Under the bed." The space was too narrow for Treize to squeeze
beneath it like Quatre had. Crawling on his elbows, Treize positioned himself
by the door instead.
He heard it then, a sinister hiss, and with adrenaline flowing fast and hard in
his veins, Treize warned Quatre to hold his breath.
*
The guards had wasted no time, but they weren't prepared for an airborne toxin;
the moment they opened the door and came inside, their eyes bulged wide and
they gagged horribly. They fell to the floor in a spill of twitching limbs.
Quatre felt ill and screwed his eyes shut until he was certain he wouldn't
puke.
His lungs burned with the effort of holding his breath, his throat burned with
bile, and he was glad that the red glow of emergency lights from the hallway
meant there was no painful stab to his eyes as they needed to adjust.
"Look," Treize said, and Quatre followed the point of his finger up to where
the red light bounced off clouds of something wafting in the air. It hung low,
but dipped no more than four feet from the floor of the cell.
Quatre filled his lungs greedily and inched out from under the cot, biting back
a yelp when something sharp caught and tore along his shoulderblade. Treize had
rolled onto his back, and was kicking one of the bodies. Wincing at the pain
and the feel of blood trickling down his back, Quatre shouted at him to stop
until he saw there was a gun trapped beneath the man's chest and hardly enough
room to crawl out unless the body was moved.
"Leave it," Quatre said, untangling the other guard's gun. He passed the SMG to
Treize, lifting a pistol from the man's belt for himself.
"Stay close," Treize said. He spun around and kicked hard against the floor,
sliding himself out into the hall with the gun trained in the direction more
soldiers were likeliest to come from.
Quatre followed on his elbows. The bodies of unconscious men were littered here
and there. As effective as using the vents had been, some of the soldiers were
bound to have been able to take measures. "We need masks," he said.
"At the checkpoint," Treize said. He rolled onto his belly and started moving.
It was slow going, torturously so, but there was no opposition all the way to
the sealed doors. The posted men were slumped against the wall. Quatre found
one of them with a keycard tucked inside his uniform. "Here!"
"Pray they're up to regulations," Treize said, snapping the card off the
lanyard around the man's neck. "Pray that idiot Tsuberov never changed the
override codes." He took several deep breaths, then one more, and stood,
swiping the card quickly through a reader.
The panel of buttons lit up, and Treize punched in a series of numbers. Nothing
happened, and Treize lost a bit of air in a frustrated puff. Though he was
safe, Quatre held his breath right along with Treize as he gave it a second and
third try. On the fourth, Quatre felt like his head was going to burst if the
code didn't work.
A wave of dizziness hit him, thick and swirling like it had when Alston had
tried to kick his legs apart, and Quatre lost all his breath at once. He rolled
onto his back, panting roughly, and when he opened his eyes again, Treize was
crouched beside him with a gasmask in hand.
"Quickly, if you can," Treize said. His voice was tinny through the filters,
and his hair flared out beneath the straps.
Quatre took the mask and nodded. It wasn't easy to put on with his aching
fingers, but he got it secured while Treize stripped the two sentries of their
body armor.
*
It took both of them to wrench the doors open far enough apart that they could
each squeeze through. "I need to get to a computer," Treize said, as they set
off running. There had been none in the prison proper, and the ones at the
outer checkpoint had been fried.
Quatre summoned up everything he could remember about the layout of this place.
He'd done his best to commit as much of it to memory as he could when he'd been
brought in, but these halls were unfamiliar, and they couldn't really risk
slowing down long enough for him to try and get his bearings.
They were coming up on a T-intersection, and Quatre caught Treize's arm. "This
way," he shouted, and led them to the right. Something told him it was the
proper way to go.
Treize didn't slow, rounding the corner with no hesitation. And there, at the
end of hall, a set of doors stood open to a control room of some sort.
"Good job," Treize said, slowing as they neared the room. He flattened himself
against the wall, gun held at the ready.
"Watch out," Quatre said. He knew they were there before he saw them, and he
fired before they were out from behind the doors. Two shots and each man went
down, identical bullet holes smoking in their foreheads.
Quatre stared at the gun in his hand. He'd never fired a pistol before at
anything other than a paper target, and even then, with average accuracy.
"Quatre, get inside," Treize was urging him. And with the strange droning hum
in his head fading away again, Quatre did as he was told.
The doors shut with a gentle hiss, and Treize stripped off his gasmask. He
sized up the bodies on the floor for the one closest his height and considered
taking the time to scavenge more than body armor, but Quatre begged him not to.
It would take too much time, and Treize would die, his face crushed by
something metal and heavy. Quatre drew in a deep breath, terrified that he
would be so certain about such a gruesome fate.
Thankfully without the need for an explanation, Treize abandoned the idea and
went for a terminal. A few hasty queries told them the computers were on a
separate system just like the ventilation, and Quatre swallowed his
disappointment when they couldn't confirm if Heero had escaped or not.
Treize pointed to a section on the map spreading across the monitor. "This is
the main hangar, it's your best chance for getting out of here." He drew the
tip of his finger along a parallel line, then downwards, tracing a path to
where a blue square indicated the room they currently occupied. "I'd go along
this route; there are enough easy detours that you shouldn't get turned around
if you encounter resistance."
The filtered air tasted chalky in Quatre's mouth, and his tongue felt even
drier when Treize's words sunk in. He'd forgotten that he too could remove his
mask and undid the straps. It was much easier to get off than it had been to
put on. "Where are you going?" he asked, shaking his head as soon as the
gasmask was off.
"The manufacturing facility," Treize replied. He picked up the SMG from where
he'd set it atop the monitor and slung the strap over his shoulder.
Quatre bit his tongue. He wanted to say he'd go with Treize, but it was a
stupid thing to do. Getting out of here was his first priority. Instructor H
had said as much in orders relayed to Quatre through Treize, and in his heart
something urged him that it was the right time to part ways.
"Be careful," Quatre said.
Nodding firmly, Treize gathered back his hair, securing it with a rubber band
scavenged from the mess of a drawer laden with office supplies. "You too," he
said, and their eyes caught for a moment.
Quatre didn't waste the time to wait and watch him leave.
*
There were only a few dolls left in the factory by the time Treize got there.
The secondary airlock was sealed, and through the 30 metre wide pane of
reinforced plastiglass, Treize could see a pair of heavy transports gearing for
takeoff. He swore darkly until he caught sight of a small cluster of men on the
floor.
Dressed in crushed velvet and satin, Tsuberov was easy to pick out.
Treize loped along the walkway, bypassing two sets of narrow stairs with his
eyes set on the third. He needed to be close enough that he could take them out
but far enough that there would be a chance they'd never even see him coming.
*
Getting to the hangar was easier said than done. Quatre ducked into an alcove
and waited for the scuffling sound of footsteps to fade. His heart pounded in
his chest as he dared a quick peek around the column. He didn't have much
further to go, but he only had four rounds left in the clip.
"Now or never, Winner," he breathed, and ran.
*
Everyone was still. Tsuberov's mouth moved, but there was no sound that Treize
could hear. As he approached, the engineer coughed wetly, and blood and spittle
flecked his thin lips.
Without a word, Treize rolled over one of the fallen bodies and took the
soldier's belt knife. He caught Tsuberov's jaw and forced his head back, making
one swift, deep cut that split the man's throat open in a red, gruesome smile.
Blood hot on his hands, Treize left the knife beside the body.
With Tsuberov dead and the remains of the mobile dolls sabotaged to the best of
Treize's ability, Treize scavenged extra clips and a spare weapon from the
other bodies. He took one last look at the transports firing up their engines
and knew there was nothing he could do about them. He'd have to leave them to
Heero, presuming the boy had managed to take control of the Gundam as the
builders had assured him would happen.
He went for an access hatch, hoping he remembered enough of the map that it was
the right corridor to follow. He got turned around once and had to backtrack
briefly, but he made his way without a patrol raising an alarm and found Quatre
holed up not more than fifty metres from the main hangar.
"There's resistance in there," Quatre said breathlessly. He looked pale, his
cheeks spotted with pink. "At least thirty men."
"Could you see their sleeves?" Treize asked. They'd been warned to look for
friendlies.
Quatre shook his head. He closed his eyes for a moment and Treize saw his
throat bob as he swallowed. "I didn't make visual contact. I just- I just know
somehow."
"All right," Treize said. Quatre had trusted him and believed in him, and it
was the least he could do to honour Quatre with the same.
"How are you doing on ammo?" he asked.
"I'm out, actually," Quatre said. He still had the gun clutched in his hands,
and Treize was proud of him for not ditching it. An empty weapon still made for
a good bluff.
Treize reached behind his back, pulling a pistol free from the waist of his
trousers. "Full magazine," he said, spinning it around and holding it out for
Quatre to take.
Nodding at Quatre's quiet thanks, Treize took the other pistol from him and
tucked it back at the base of his spine. "We can't stay here forever," he said,
and peered around the corner quickly. “On my mark we advance.”
Treize counted to ten, and then to ten a second time. His finger tightened on
the trigger.
"Not yet," Quatre said, and clutched Treize's arm. "Wait." Treize looked over;
Quatre's eyes were open, but there was a strange unfocused look in them. The
seconds crawled by and Treize scrambled to find the calm he'd always known in
battle before.
"Now," Quatre said, and pushed.
There was an explosion in the hangar, and the walls shook like a wounded thing
as he and Treize charged down the hallway with the floor bucking beneath their
feet.
"What did you do?" Treize shouted as he hit the panel at the door. It slid open
jerkily.
"Called for help," Quatre said.
*
Wing Zero had torn through the hangar wall. The floor was a field of debris,
great chunks of metal warped and twisted, some of it still red hot and
sizzling. The handful of men who had rounded to fire uselessly at the Gundam
were taken down in seconds by a trio of soldiers with white strips tied around
their biceps.
The three picked their way across the hangar floor, the one on rear guard
keeping a close eye on the far exits. Quatre politely took a step away from
Treize as they came near, though Treize didn't lower his weapon until the men
were close enough to look in the eye.
"General!" The shortest of them made a hasty salute, his eyes skipping briefly
over to Quatre and giving him a nod. "We've secured 80% of the facility. I can
radio for more men if you'd like."
"If you can spare another four to secure...."
Quatre really didn't need to pay attention to Treize's orders, and it was with
a relieved sigh that he sat himself down on the low edge of a carrier truck's
flatbed. Hands hanging limply between his knees, he looked up at the monster he
had built.
He was still staring when Treize's hand came down on his shoulder. "Can you
tell your friend to move so we can get one of these shuttles onto the launch
track?"
"It doesn't work like that," Quatre said. He wasn't really sure how it did
work, but it wasn't easy, and he couldn't really just do it on command. He was
about to try and explain further, but Zero's cockpit hissed open and he saw
Heero's familiar slim frame step out onto the hatch.
"Treize," Heero shouted, and Quatre saw the gun in his hands too late.
The shot rang out before he could do anything. Time slowed to a crawl, and
Quatre watched in horror as Treize staggered back.
Quatre caught Treize's arm. He looked frantically for a wound, but there was no
blood, just the flattened shine of a bullet that had burrowed into the black
body armor right above Treize's heart. Treize held up a hand, shouting a hoarse
order for his men to stand down. They did so, reluctantly.
"Zero One," he said, and pried the bullet free with his fingernails. He
clenched it in his fist and Quatre saw the very corners of his mouth tug into a
smile.
"Next time, if you're my enemy, I'll aim for your head," Heero said. He put his
gun away and half-turned, his face falling into shadow. "Quatre, I'm taking
your Gundam. Trowa wants you to know the shuttle to your left is still
operational."
"Trowa's alive..." Quatre choked on the words, and he held tighter to Treize's
arm as relief weakened his legs. He hadn't killed his dear friend, after all.
And he understood then, that those dreams had not been dreams at all; Trowa had
been in ZERO and Quatre truly had fought with him.
*
The shuttle trip was almost so mundane as to seem otherworldly.
Treize glanced over as Quatre slid into the co-pilot's chair. There was a
calmness to him that hadn't been there before. Not so much because of the
escape, he guessed, but rather that both of his fellow Gundam pilots had
survived despite all odds, and with them the hopes of the colonies. He still
looked weary, however, and whatever ability had awoken inside of him was not
easily tamed.
"Can't sleep?" Treize asked. The Lunar Base was a solid day behind them, but it
would be another twelve hours before they were aligned for a good approach. Not
that he'd caught much sleep himself as he devoured the newsfeeds on the simple
onboard computer. He sat back, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand.
"Not really." Quatre drew his feet up onto the edge of the chair, his toes
curling and flexing against the upholstery. "I suppose I'm just going to have
to get used to it again."
"Sleeping alone?"
"Yeah."
"You could always try a teddy bear," Treize said. He chuckled when Quatre shot
him a dark look. "Just a suggestion."
"Maybe I will," Quatre said. He closed his eyes and rested his cheek against
his knees.
Treize watched him for a long time, measured the steady rise and fall of his
back with each breath. He wouldn't ask where Quatre planned to go after they
touched down. He couldn't know, not if he were to fulfill his destiny and lift
the crown from Relena's head. It remained to him to show the Earth its true
potential.
The controls beeped as the autopilot performed a course correction, and Treize
was tempted to cancel the order and put in a new set of coordinates, to fly the
both of them to some half-developed colony that would be ignored for years. He
drew in a breath so deep it made his lungs ache and hauled himself to his feet.
"Come on," he said, plucking at the sleeve of Quatre's shirt. "Let's get some
rest."
But Quatre was already fast asleep, and Treize slowly sat back down to watch
him for some time longer.
*
"She's waiting for you," Treize said to Quatre. In his uniform again, clean-
shaven and smelling of good soap, there was a distance between them.
Quatre looked out the window to where the limousine was parked. The light
streaming in from the outside made his hair shine equally golden. "I know," he
said.
"If we are both alive at the conclusion of things, I would wish our paths to
cross again," Treize said. He hesitated, struggling to find a proper way to say
farewell. In the end, he held out his hand for Quatre to clasp.
Quatre hesitated in turn, but when he took Treize's hand, his grip was warm and
firm. "So would I," he said, and smiled.
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