08-May-2006
Title: The Properties of Zero
Authors: TB and Marsh
Category: yaoi, AU
Pairings: 6x4x6; past 2x4x2
Warnings: lemon, drug abuse, angst, some discussion of suicidal thoughts
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: The characters and plot of Gundam Wing are the property of their creators, not these humble fic writers, who have borrowed them without permission with no intent to profit from their use.
Notes: In this timeline, the series is canon except that Treize survived his duel with Wufei in the final episodes. Libra was disarmed and all sides came to a peaceful settlement in which the colonies are a sovereign nation with full participation in the government of the Earth Sphere Alliance. Treize is a prominent member of the ruling council, as is Relena Peacecraft.
This fic is meant to be an exploration of the effects of the Zero System between the two pilots who suffered the most under its influence. It is not a fic in which Zechs and Quatre will go mad and turn into ravaging monsters. This is a story about surviving trauma and personal demons, and the ways in which a person must change in order to deal with that constant onslaught.
The Zero Property of Multiplication:
Multiplying any number by Zero leaves Zero.
The large group of well-dressed politicians gathered before the man-sized fire place erupted into laughter again. Zechs, the moody rebel exiled to the champagne bar, barely glanced their way. The whimsically named 'Star Chamber' was aglow with candles and the gleaming white petals of lilies arranged in frothy, massive bouquets between each twelve-foot-tall window. It was a room made to impress its visitors with its wealth and extravagance; it was a room that invited touch and scent and admiration. The walls paneled in Indonesian rosewood were polished by age and care to a luminous dark violet. The floors were marble tiled in a cream and black diamond pattern, buffed free of all scuff marks and impervious to the punishing heels of fancy dinner shoes. The ceiling was a magnificent plaster and gilt affair, a rendition of astrological heavens and symbolisms flickering eerily in the candlelight. The pre-Raphaelite art that hung from ceiling to chair-height in the delicate alcoves was gracious and warm in colouration. Zechs himself had been standing beneath the strong-jawed, pouting Helen of Troy for the past hour, contemplating the burning city behind her mane of fiery red curls.
Treize Khushrenada bore her a rather remarkable resemblance. Perhaps that was why he'd gone out of his way to secure the purchase of the famous Rossetti painting, now some two centuries old and more valuable than the entire herd of Khushrenada's pure-bred racing stallions.
But Treize had been surrounded by nothing but the best and the beautiful since his very conception. The castle he stood in presently was a massive reconstruction of fairy tales and chivalric romance, a travertine fantasy that had been likened to Avalon. Acquiring the ageing but still elegant and impressive Bolsover Castle had been something of a coup for Khushrenada, another feather in a cap already over-burdened with riches. Rising white-walled and proud from its hill-top command, Bolsover was the perfect mirror of its owner: deceptive in its preening prettiness, a monument to a dream of peace built on steel and blood.
Zechs was bitter, and inclined to enjoy it.
The dinner tables with their blinding white drapes had been whisked away by efficient servants, leaving only the lingering scent of chocolate truffle and mint. Musicians played classical strains from the corner, while a few couples and bored children used the freed room space to create an impromptu dance floor. Champagne poured liberally from the fountain Zechs stood beside, perched amid banks of lilies like a scene out of Eden. Brandy and cognac passed among old men now drunkenly recounting warrior tales from the old days. His sister, Relena Peacecraft, stood with her coterie of young women, probably students of her School of Pacifism, marked for their conservative dress and determined expressions. They were as out-of-place in this evening of indulgence as Zechs himself was. Relena was tired but hard-eyed, holding fast to her few allies with promises she couldn't keep and desperate undertones beneath her small smiles.
And there was Treize, drifting from group to group, never anything but the consummate host. His uniform of royal blue was immaculate, his ginger hair slick and gleaming, his smiling mouth murmuring charming phrases without any hint of insincerity. If his glance was deliberately skipping over the young man who had once been his right-hand, and in the end his enemy, it was far too subtle to notice.
Zechs didn't have to notice. He knew. It would have taken far too much effort to deny it, or even to care about it. One day his sullen presence would cease to be amusing, and Treize would let him go. He could play the waiting game, and he could win it. He was no longer a favourite toy, after all.
There was a crash at the other end of the champagne bar, followed by a muffled curse. Zechs and some fifty pairs of eyes turned to the disturbance, faced by a flushed man attempting to mop a spill and broken glass before the servers shooed him away. As Zechs watched, Quatre Winner ran a hand through mussed golden hair in unguarded embarrassment. He seemed to shrivel under the silent amusement of the room, accepting a new glass with hunched shoulders.
Zechs felt the sneer on his own face a moment before Winner's eyes skipped to him. Zechs didn't trouble to hide it. He abandoned his own untouched flute, and made sure to brush disdainfully against Winner's sleeve as he passed the smaller man by. He directed his steps to one of the smaller balconies. He usually found himself on the balcony at some point in the night, protected from the rest of the party-goers by the veneer of privacy afforded by sumptuous velvet drapery. The air was fresher outside, marred only by the burnt scent of torches. Bolsover's lush, un-manicured garden lawn spread three storeys below, mocking him with its unchecked, free growth. A magnificent full moon completed the scene.
The Prince on the balcony, he thought. Trapped in the tower of the evil lord.
He snorted. "Fuck," he said aloud, just to hear the harsh word shatter the perfection that seethed everywhere around him. "Fuck it all."
The rustle of the drapes was his answer. Zechs turned quickly, and found himself facing Winner again. The younger man stood hesitating in the doorway, reluctant to pass through it. Zechs kept a cool expression meant to discourage him, but if anything, it achieved the opposite. Winner's back straightened, and his shoulders took on a set of confidence. He inclined his head to Zechs, and stepped onto the balcony, walking to the rail as if his interruption were welcome.
They had fought a war on each other, once. Zechs had tried very hard to take this man's life. Boy. He'd been only a boy then, and when they'd at last stood face to face, Zechs had been struck by how small, how fragile a boy could be. Quatre Winner had been bleeding like a stuck pig on the floor of an overwhelmed satellite infirmary. And Zechs had walked past him in irons, already arrested and headed for prison.
But tonight was three years later, and Zechs didn't think the circumstances had improved much.
Zechs stirred himself to speak. "You're having a good time, too?" he said lazily, looking out at the gardens. Lamps burned like stars amid the wisteria.
Winner attempted to ignore him for a moment. At last, however, courtesy won out, and in a small, polite voice, he answered, "I had more fun in high-grav simulation training."
It was not the tepid denial he'd been expecting. Zechs found himself grinning off into the night. He didn't bother to pitch his voice low as he confided, "I had more fun on ZERO."
Winner's wheat-coloured head whipped about, but Zechs wasn't looking for the sharp gaze no doubt spearing him with disapproval. Winner said flatly, "That's not funny."
"Then you haven't had enough champagne."
"You must have, if you can even say it aloud," Winner muttered, shifting a little away from him. Zechs glanced across the stones separating them, not surprised to see Winner leaning over the railing, his drink clutched in tense hands, a little scowl decorating his round face.
"Baggage?" Zechs mocked him delicately.
That little scowl deepened, then disappeared. Zechs wondered why even as Winner replied, "I don't think blowing things up while under mind-altering influences is amusing to the people who got hurt."
Intriguing, Zechs thought. He lifted one shoulder and hand in a shrug. "We're not helping them by wallowing in guilt or whining about our scars," he countered. "Are we?"
"I'm not doing either." Winner looked at him full-on for the first time, his eyebrows raised. "You're clearly not."
"Why should I?" Zechs twirled his flute between two fingers, disliking the unbalanced bowl with its delicate golden stem. "It wasn't my fault."
There was a pause. Zechs supposed he was being judged. Winner asked, "You feel completely absolved of all blame?" but his voice was only curious, not even irked.
It gave him a pause. He weighed his answers before giving one. "I didn't say that," he said.
Winner huffed a little, amusingly. "That's what it sounded like," he groused. Zechs was smiling more than he had in years.
He explained, "I don't hold myself accountable for my actions on ZERO. I credit someone else for that."
Winner faced him more fully. He wore a suit of creamy wool crepe, in one of those distinctly colonial cuts that emphasized a trim figure and straight shoulders. The jacket had no lapels and hung opened, without a pearl button or leather pipe in sight, and instead of a tie or neck-cloth he wore only a loose scarf of deep burgundy cashmere. Compared to Zechs in his stodgy, militaristic European fashion, Winner looked like a modern young fashion model, casually gorgeous, tricked out to out-shine the shapeless, wilting aristocrats who loitered in silk and velvet inside. Zechs was suddenly struck by the picture Winner presented. He couldn't help but hold it side by side with memory, of a fifteen year old boy in khaki trousers and salmon school shirt. Or the fifteen year old boy in the neoprene flight suit, bleeding to death in a crumbling infirmary as he insisted more grievously injured pilots receive care first.
He wasn't sure entirely why, but the change pleased him. He wanted to reach out and pull at the scarf, throw it over the balcony. He closed both hands about his untouched champagne, instead.
He said, "Are you waiting for a confession or an explanation?"
Winner did nothing so graceless as shrug, but it seemed implicit in the dip of his girlishly long eyelashes against his cheeks. "Whatever you feel like giving," he returned with grave courtesy.
Zechs snorted. "I'm not used to giving anything to anyone. I rather doubt you are either."
Winner's lips turned up in a smile. "I'm used to being on this end of it."
"Would you have done it if you'd known, Winner? ZERO. Would you?"
He'd won a brief moment of-- a brief look of shock, perhaps. But gone very quickly into consideration. Possibly Winner had only been surprised by his uncouth disregard of the pleasantries.
After nearly a minute, Winner said, "To be honest, I'm not sure that I didn't know."
It was a good answer. Zechs rather liked it. "Huh," he murmured.
"Huh?"
He grinned down at the gravel paths and concentric hedges. "You knew."
He didn't have to look to see that Winner was not pleased with him. The huff was back in his voice, not quite sharp, not quite smooth. "You fancy yourself a good judge of men, don't you."
He laughed aloud. "I'm a horrible judge of character."
"Our old friend Treize?" Winner guessed.
Zechs tilted his head. He could play this game, too. The goal was not so clear as the other one that consumed his days, but the ground was far more level. He admitted blandly, "There was a time when I felt I owed him everything."
Winner slowly relaxed against the old iron railing. "I take it that said time had passed once you started firing on Earth from Libra," he said cautiously.
"Yes, but then most people know that. I'm sure our break was widely discussed in the Rebel camp," he added, probing just a little.
Winner gave nothing away. "It may have been. I spent a fair amount of time a prisoner, in those days."
He was immediately weary, and not a little full of despair. He heard it in his tone when he whispered, "You were a prisoner the entire war. We both were."
The younger man hesitated. Zechs sensed movement, perhaps a hand reaching toward him in instinctive gentleness. He'd once possessed that kind of compassion for his fellow man. It had long since dissolved and left him this sour shell.
He was going to be worth nothing, tonight.
"I suppose I'm more accountable because I was an adult," he said abruptly. He set his glass on the flat part of the rail before him, and rocked it with a single finger. Winner didn't answer, neither confirmed nor denied, and very soon he tired of waiting. He toppled the fragile flute over the edge, listening for the tinkle of it shattering in the shrubbery two storeys below. It was, at least, a satisfying sound, a petty victory against the man inside who would never know Zechs had willfully destroyed his glassware.
"He crossed a lot of lines," Zechs told Winner. "He enjoyed watching the ensuing carnage."
A throat cleared, barely more than an exhalation. "You think so?"
Zechs could still feel the impression of the glass cool against his fingertips. "No," he said.
Winner frowned at him. Irritated, Zechs devoutly hoped. From the periphery of his vision he watched Winner tug that lush scarf from about his own neck and stuff it deep into his trousers pocket, the fringed edges swinging about his knees like the ends of a sash. His fingers plucked beneath his throat, popping the top button of his pale shirt. Zechs wanted to chuckle, meant to, because he was amused at how little it had taken, but the impulse died when Winner spoke.
"This is who you are now, isn't it. Hiding in corners, waiting for someone to show up who'll listen while you hate yourself."
That irritated him. He glanced at Winner, found eyes more green than blue waiting for him. Rudely, he said, "You followed me out here. Why?"
Unaccountably Winner flushed the same scattered blush as the clumsy young man who broke glasses at the champagne bar. It was not the look of the man who had been talking to him the past few minutes. In an embarrassed, apologetic mumble, Winner answered, "Your sister was headed in my direction. But she doesn't go near you."
He bared his teeth in something that might have been a smile, but didn't feel like one. "That's true. She hates me more than I do."
"She doesn't hate you. You make her sad."
"And you're in a position to know this how?"
Winner glanced up, the pink in his cheeks warring with the self-deprecating tilt of his chin. After a moment, he murmured, "I'm hardly moved to give up my entire hand in one conversation."
It felt more like a smile, now, somehow. He wondered what it looked like. "Are we playing a game?" he asked solemnly.
Winner's mouthed turned up in a surprisingly sweet expression. "Aren't we?"
He didn't want to respond to the challenge, and the friendship, offered in that. "I didn't think so," he muttered.
"I think you like games. But if you don't want to play, then I yield."
In a woman, that might have been flirtatious. Had it been Treize, Zechs might have had to fight the urge to fling a fist in his face. But it was Quatre Winner, and there was something-- something.
He didn't accept the offer.
"So what did it feel like?" He looked at Winner again. "ZERO."
Winner sighed, and put his back to the railing, leaning on it and gazing through the draperies at the party still ongoing inside. He said, "Like a friend, when I was convinced I was alone."
Zechs found himself nodding in agreement. There was something thrilling in that confession. In hearing it stated so precisely. So perfectly. "In retrospect, I prefer solitude," he answered.
Winner smiled for a moment, but it faded. A moment later, he said, "I still hear it." He paused. Zechs waited for the rest. "Mostly when I'm dreaming," Winner murmured. "But sometimes during the day."
"The have drugs for that, you know," Zechs said. He snorted softly. "They don't work very well."
"I know," Winner agreed briefly.
Silence fell between them. Zechs turned back to the darkened lawn, wishing there was something out there but emptiness. "It won't be over until we're dead," he said moodily.
He almost didn't catch it. It was just a slight thing, a little unconscious movement, not deliberately hidden. Winner was rubbing his own left wrist on the inside, rubbing his thumb across it without even looking down, completely unaware of his action. But Zechs did see it. And he knew. It made his throat oddly tight.
"Didn't help, did it?"
Winner looked up, blinking. "Hm?" It was a moment before he discovered his own hands before him. Zechs watched comprehension follow, but not regret. "Not appreciably," Winner admitted.
He made his own outreach, though he wasn't sure it was compassion that motivated it. Fascination, certainly. Perhaps solidarity. He turned Winner's wrist up, into the candlelight that illuminated their balcony. He pushed the sleeve back from the tender skin of Winner's hand, examining the pale, abraded scars, overlapping the length of the man's wrist. When he brushed them with his thumb, he could feel the slight lip of flesh beneath the healed surface that meant a deep cut not entirely fused.
"That's not the most efficient way to cut if you're serious," he said. He traced a perpendicular line up the creamy smooth sleeve of Winner's jacket, along the tendons hiding underneath. A moment later he released Winner. There was a breathless intimacy in that touch, and it was too much. He saw it reflected in Winner's eyes, wide as they looked up at him.
And very serious. "Was I trying to die, do you think?" Winner asked him.
"I think you thought you were," he said.
Winner laughed suddenly. It was oddly boyish, but his reaction to it wasn't. He wondered if he should feel guilty for being turned on.
"It was a dinner knife," the young man said. "I hid it under my pillow all night. I was sure someone would find me and take it away."
Zechs leaned against the railing. "Did they?"
In answer Winner held up his other hand, tugging the sleeve down. The right wrist was whole and untouched.
He managed a pained smile. "Treize once ordered my suicide." If it had been another man, he might have glanced away as he said it, but it was Winner, who hadn't during his own revelation, and he would be at least that strong. They had gone beyond the point of hiding anything now. And maybe it made him feel a little better to say, "I would have done it if he hadn't."
Winner nodded. "But you didn't die."
"Nor did you." He shrugged again. "It's early yet," he said brusquely. "There's time."
To his surprise, Winner smiled a little. "Do you think you could, now?"
"I stop myself nearly every day."
"Do you?" he asked, almost casually. He propped his elbows on the rail, and let his head fall back. His throat was strong and pale in the night. "Or does ZERO?"
Zechs closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. There was a space between his eyes where a headache wanted to form. "I don't listen to ZERO any more," he said.
He knew it was a lie before it left his lips. It fell flat on the air like one, too. Winner said nothing, but his silence was wise.
"Do they talk about it?" Zechs felt moved to ask. He looked at Winner again, studied the profile with its stubborn jaw and up-tilted nose and fringe of flax-like hair brushing over the cheekbones and curling to hide the shell of his ear, a thing that was both enticing and strange. It made his fingers itch the way the scars on the inside of Winner's wrist had.
Winner glanced at him from beneath lowered eyelids. "Who?" he asked.
"The rest of them. You know."
He made a little acknowledging noise. "Why should they? They rejected it. It was over for them as soon as they did." His lashes rose over the green irises and dark pupils. He looked at Zechs fully. "Does Treize?"
"I don't talk to Treize. Not about anything that matters." He got a flash of small white teeth for that. "I think I rather like you, tonight," Winner murmured.
Zechs raised an eyebrow in reply. "Freak."
Winner grinned, and let his head fall back again. His eyes closed, and didn't open.
The silence was longer this time, reflective, companionable. And not. There was a darkness lying underneath. Zechs tried to remember when he'd gotten so lonely that a few minutes of sympathetic understanding were enough to break him down, when he had stood proud and alone for so many long years. Tried to decide if Winner's calm was soothing or annoying. If he envied it, or even believed it.
He said, "Are you tired of isolating yourself because of what you might do?"
Again, he didn't get the answer he expected. "I'm never alone," Winner said. He gestured almost lazily, and Zechs looked toward the doorway. There were people on the other side-- and now that he listened for it he noticed the rise of conversation inside, the talk louder with the amplification of alcohol. He thought someone inside glanced out to them, as well, but he wasn't sure and didn't truly care.
"Rubbish," he said. "They're nothing. They don't touch you."
"They watch me because I have to be watched. And because they watch me, I behave."
"I'd've thought you'd be better at it than that."
"Better at it?"
"Handling it."
Something sad moved over Winner's moon-round face, and slipped away a moment later. "I thought that, too, until I stole a dinner knife."
Zechs turned his back on the party inside. "Some people would say you should see someone."
"Are you some people?"
No, he thought, I am not. I never have been. Aloud, he retorted, "I don't believe in therapy."
"Then I don't see why you bother to say it."
"Because clearly you need something you aren't giving yourself."
"If I needed it-- don't you think ZERO would find a way for me to get it?"
That made him look. "ZERO hates you. That's why it stays."
Abruptly Winner faced the railing as well, though his eyes stayed shut. "It stays because it needs me. If I die, it dies." His hands spread along the top rung of the rail, smoothing along the iron in a whimsical caress. "We're partners-- perhaps unwilling now. But I take some satisfaction from the state of things. I have what it wants."
He absorbed that, examined it for truth. "What's it have for you?"
Winner was thoughtful, the tilt of his head oddly enchanting. It was some time before he answered, and it pleased Zechs that his question had been so carefully considered.
"Something to fight," Winner told him finally.
The view of the grounds had not changed since he'd last focused on it. It hadn't changed in all the time since Treize had bought it and begun sending coy invitations to a former lover, a former friend, a conquered foe.
"I never bother," Zechs said. "I hate losing."
Winner chuckled. "You were on the wrong side of the war for too long. The rebels learned to use each defeat to make them stronger."
"Oh, is that what I'm missing?" Zechs asked wryly. "The masochist gene?"
"It's easy enough to win. It's harder to survive."
"Survival is overrated." He hesitated, but not for long-- he never had, really. Decision made, he quickly shed his heavy jacket, and his left cufflink, dropping it carelessly to the balcony. He swiftly rolled his sleeve up and held his arm out between them. "I believe in anesthesia," he growled, defiantly displaying the track marks that marred his tan skin, a line of broken veins and blotchy purple bruises, the punctured sores in the crook of his elbow that were slow to heal. "ZERO isn't easily silenced," he said grimly, "but it can be done."
He waited for the pity, but got none. He expected the sympathy from earlier, but strangely, there was none of that, either. He'd never voluntarily shown his habit to anyone else, and he felt-- he felt, which was more than he had had in a long time.
He felt relieved.
Winner studied his arm for a long time, but he didn't touch, as Zechs had done. At last, he said, "You do it often."
"Often enough."
"What does it feel like?"
He managed a laugh. "Oblivion."
Winner's face turned up to his then. "Show me."
He dropped his arm, automatically unrolling his sleeve. "Show you what?"
"What it feels like."
Comprehension shocked him almost mindless. "You're asking me to get you high?"
Winner straightened. "I can pay you back, if that's what you're worried about."
It took a moment to find his voice again. "It's not something you can do once and walk away from," he said harshly. The words to explain, to dissuade, to deny wouldn't come to him, and all he could stutter was a useless protest. "Idiot. It's worse than ZERO!"
Winner was only calm. Eyebrows a little raised, hands loose at his side, not demanding, not prodding. Waiting for him to agree.
The party inside went on without taking notice of their sudden tension. Of Zechs's horror, and Winner's awful request. Zechs found himself picturing Winner's arm looking like his, that left arm with its scars blemished with track marks. The pupils of those large green eyes constricted to tiny drugged points. The hands trembling, the bright hair lank with stale sweat, the gently rounded cheeks sunken and starved. Like him.
He could do it. In an hour, maybe less, he could reduce Quatre Winner to a reflection of him. Damn him to a new kind of hell for trying to escape the old one.
"Let's go," he said.
They were quiet during the ride back to Zechs's place. All that could have been said between them had been cut short by Winner-- by Quatre's simple request. Show me, he'd said. As if it were that easy, and he'd walk away after. Only ZERO spoke, taunting him. The silent whispers warned him that no amount of drugs would quiet Quatre's inner demons. But it would be fun to watch.
And the guilt would taste beautiful.
He turned down his street. The row of townhouses in which he lived where an eery white, ghostly and leering in the darkness. Motion-sensing street lamps lit their way up the wide, empty road. Zechs toggled his lights to low, and said, "I'm not going to ask you if you're sure again."
Quatre stirred from gazing out the window. "Saying that is as much as asking me, Zechs," he answered. He almost sounded amused, as if he didn't realize the gravity of what was about to be done to him. Addiction would be swift; not so much to the drug itself, but to the quiet and the sense that the beast lay leashed and still, far enough distant to be manageable.
Zechs turned onto his drive, and parked outside the garage. His keys were chilled and clammy in his palm. Quatre opened his door and stood, stretching his legs while Zechs turned off the car and exited himself. Their eyes met over the hood. Zechs nodded, at what he wasn't quite sure, and then they fell into step as they walked to the front door. Zechs unlocked it, and gestured Quatre in before him to the small foyer.
"No mirrors," Quatre said, as Zechs came in behind him.
"No. I don't like them." He dropped his keys onto the marble table-top that held a bouquet of fake flowers and a framed Hasegawa watercolour that Zechs had never quite looked at before. Quatre looked at it, picking up the frame carefully and examining it.
Zechs toed off his shoes into the pile of footwear that lived beside the door, and shucked his outer coat. "Come on," he said gruffly. "Take off your jacket and shirt."
Quatre obeyed, neither fast or slow, dropping them onto the chair that stood beside the hall table. Zechs led the way into his den, stripping himself of his waistcoat and shirt as he walked. Quatre sat, bare-chested and faintly luminous in the dark, on Zechs's leather couch, glancing about idly as Zechs unlocked the desk drawer where he kept his equipment.
The drawer held only a soft leather pouch. One half held the syringe and needles-- he only kept a handful at a time, too fastidious to entertain the thought of dull points. In the other half was his tourniquet, a thin leather strap coiled neatly in the case. Last, in a soft slip of fabric, the metal spoon, polished carefully free of tarnish, and the Ronson coronet lighter with the chipped black enamel that always warmed quickly to the touch. The drug itself was a deceptively unimpressive white powder, wrapped in little bags. Zechs took one of the bags and the contents of the pouch to the couch, laying out each piece meticulously on the low coffee table. Quatre was silent, his eyes muted wells of watchfulness.
The powder melted cleanly on the spoon when Zechs held the lighter beneath it. The astringent smell was filling the air, a smell so familiar now that he hadn't even noticed it in years. But having Quatre there, experiencing it all for the first time, brought a sharpness, a clarity to the ritual that he hadn't had since the beginning. He felt a little high already. His hands trembled about the needle as he inserted it into the syringe, and carefully gathered the bubbling drug from the bowl of the spoon.
Quatre followed his movements, and offered his arm when Zechs gestured. "Tell me what happens," he said.
Zechs tied the tourniquet about the younger man's firm biceps, and pulled it tight. "The needle will sting," he replied, picking it up. "The drug will burn. It's not unpleasant. After that you won't care. It feels like the best sex you ever had, until you pass out."
"And when I wake up?"
"You'll want it again as soon as possible." He didn't want to think about that part. About his part in doing that to this man who wore his innocence like a second skin. He gazed down at the vicious little point of the needle instead. "But you won't hear it any more," he added. "Not really."
Quatre nodded once, his understanding and his acceptance. Zechs took hold of Quatre's warm arm again, and smacked at the vein in the forearm until it popped, strong and blue beneath his pale skin. The needle slipped in smoothly, barely meeting resistance from solid flesh. When it sat firmly planted, he lifted his eyes to Quatre's, waiting for, half expecting, some indication of panic, regret, demurral.
Quatre looked back at him, and then his lips curved into a sudden, sweet smile.
That nearly stopped him. The panic he'd been expecting to see welled in his own chest, and before thought had caught up with him he had retracted the needle, leaving behind a little drop of blood in Quatre's forearm.
"You don't want this," he whispered. "And maybe I don't want to give it to you."
Quatre's soft voice murmured, "That-- that would be your choice. I made mine."
It was a massive effort to push the fear away. But it went, and he locked it down, and he steeled himself until his hands were steady once again and his gut had stilled and he could breathe again. He made himself take Quatre's arm again, roll the vein with his thumb to bring it back to the surface. When he slipped the needle into Quatre's arm, he didn't give himself a chance to pause before he pressed the plunger down, and injected Quatre with half the contents of the syringe. Then, quickly, he pulled the tourniquet from Quatre's biceps and tied it about his own. He jabbed himself at the elbow, and gave himself the rest. It burnt like acid going in, but it was followed by heat, an electric tingle. His heart hammered faster. He dropped the strap to the floor, and the empty syringe to the table; and then he put his hand on Quatre's neck and pulled him close to kiss him.
Their mouths mashed together with a click of teeth and a slight sting from a cut lip, but Quatre responded with far more passion than Zechs had hoped for. Fingers thrust into his hair, holding his head tightly as a tongue met his like a fencer engaging in a duel.
When they separated to breathe, Zechs said hoarsely, "It's better when you share." He watched Quatre's face through eyes going hazy, watched colour creep over the round cheeks and moonlight paint silver into the lacy eyelashes and fine fringe over his brow. "I could fuck you now," he added. "You wouldn't even care."
The wide eyes fluttered closed. Quatre brought a handful of Zechs's hair to his nose and mouth, turned his cheek against the strands. Something caught in Zechs's throat, watching that, feeling the tiny pinpricks of the movement against his own scalp, every little touch magnified from that throbbing point in his arm. Quatre was pliant, almost sleepy as Zechs pushed him down on the cushions of the couch; he kept his hold on Zechs's hair, his fingers working through the long strands as he lay back. Zechs unhooked the splendid creamy trousers and pulled them roughly down. He drove one hand into Quatre's hair, gripped his head hard, and held him pinned for a second hard kiss, punishing the soft mouth and pushing his tongue so deep that his own jaw ached from the strain. But Quatre sucked him deeper, pulling on Zechs's tongue forcefully, expertly, until he thought he might disappear into that amazing suction and never come out.
He'd never, ever been kissed like that, and he found himself wondering if he could die from it. Treize had always kissed him as if he were conquering territory... Quatre kissed like-- like--
He was hot and breathless and shaking-- and he knew it wasn't from the drug.
He wrenched Quatre's undershorts down his thighs and wrapped his hand around Quatre's cock. It was already hard, and the pad of his thumb slipped in the warm fluid leaking from the tip. He took his mouth from Quatre's and slid down the creaking couch until his head was level with Quatre's hips. He held Quatre's cock level as he swallowed it, burying his nose in wiry, musky-smelling hairs as he opened his throat to accept the invasion, and almost got kneed in the head as Quatre's body arched under him. Hands pressed at his shoulders urgently, but it was the chest-deep, throaty noise Quatre made that had his head swimming.
The couch whined as Quatre grabbed the cushion behind his head to anchor himself. Zechs worked slowly, savouring it for them both. He knew what it felt like to get head while high: every sensation would be heightened, every nerve on fire. But it was better to give it. He felt powerful, almost invincible. Every little sound he wrung from Quatre was another victory, every uncontrollable twitch and shudder. He wanted to rake Quatre over coals. He wanted Quatre to scream.
His tongue and teeth produced a helpless little cry, and Quatre turned his face away. He slid his hands up Quatre's taut thigh muscles and forced his legs wider apart. He shook his hair over his shoulders so that it draped across Quatre's groin. He ghosted his fingers over Quatre's torso and shoulders and down his heaving sides, finding shivery places. He pulled almost hungrily at the thing in his mouth, but it was the rest of it that fed him until he ached.
Quatre released one hand as if to save himself from drowning, and a moment later it appeared in Zechs's hair. He twisted a chunk about his fist, then released it and curved a palm about his skull, his fingers spreading wide and insistent. Zechs growled around Quatre's cock, and closed his teeth about the base just a little roughly. He cupped and teased the testes beneath at his chin, manipulating them between his fingers as Quatre mimicked the movement against his tingling scalp. When he swiped a line behind them, the hold on his hair jerked. He pulled away for a moment to warn, "Behave, or I'll stop."
Glazed, surprised eyes met his for just a second. When Quatre nodded, Zechs resumed with new vigour. He wet one finger quickly, and pressed it inside of the pucker between Quatre's cheeks. It was a tight, tight fit, and Quatre groaned softly as he sought the fleshy bump of his prostate. Zechs teased his tongue along the slit in the red, saliva-sheened head of Quatre's cock, licking away new beads of salty pre-ejaculate.
ZERO was silent. It was gagged now, forced to watch without intervening, but it would get even later. But for now, for now, it was quieted, and Zechs reveled in it.
Quatre's small nipple was peaking under his fingers, drawing tight as he pulled on it ruthlessly. His chest was smooth and hairless, sweat breaking out in a damp spread over his skin. He rubbed it in time with the little nub of Quatre's prostate, and won a hitched gasp as he buried his finger to the knuckle.
"What-- what can I do for you?" Quatre whispered.
He licked down the length of Quatre's cock before he answered. "Come for me," he murmured. "Then we'll see." Over the round of Quatre's hips and stomach he could see the golden head toss, the column of one arm holding tight to the back of the couch. The hand still locked against his head urged him on.
Somehow their eyes met, as Zechs let the cock fall out of his mouth to just the head. He had an impression of brilliant green just before they flew closed and Quatre spasmed. Jism coated his tongue in a hot pulse. He held still for it, and for the second wave a moment later. He swallowed the mouthful of bitter liquid when he was sure it was over, and ran a gentle hand over the softening member as he laid it against Quatre's stomach. He massaged Quatre's inside walls tenderly as he pulled his finger out, but kept his finger in just half an inch. He knew how devastating the sudden emptiness could be.
When Quatre's breathing was even again, he arranged limp limbs comfortably, and fixed his clothes, and tugged his shoes off to the floor. Quatre lay still for Zechs's ministrations, his face content, his eyelids hovering almost closed. But he brushed Zechs's arm when he leaned over the young man to slip a pillow behind his head.
"You'll probably want to sleep now," Zechs told him.
"What about you?"
He consciously kept his expression closed, unsure how much Quatre could even register at this phase. "I never fuck when I'm high," he explained. "The drug is enough." He left the couch and slipped into the stuffed chair that sat at an angle to the sofa and the table, littered with the remains of their experiment. "I'll watch you," he added.
With a little sigh, Quatre turned onto his stomach, draped flat against the couch cushions with his arms close to his chest. It made Zechs think oddly of little children, and the curve of Quatre's cheek where it pressed to the pillow didn't dispel the illusion, nor his strangely peaceful eyes.
"Have my back," Quatre muttered muzzily.
Zechs nodded. "I have your back."
He exhaled softly, and closed his eyes. "Thank you."
"Thank me in the morning," he murmured. When you realise what I've made you, he finished softly. He thought of pushing Quatre out the door as soon as the sun rose, of calling a cab and sending him home with a brusque fare-well. As midnight crept into the early hours of morning, he even let himself think of other things-- things that might happen if Quatre stayed. And in a moment of wretched weakness, he left the chair, and climbed carefully onto the couch to lower himself behind Quatre. The other man settled into his hold without even a sound, and the feel of Quatre's warm smooth skin under his hand let him float in those imaginings for a little while longer.
The birds had been calling to each other for an hour before Quatre woke. He stirred slowly, first turning his face into the pillow and then stretching his legs. And then he yawned, and said, "Hello."
Zechs's voice was froggy, and he cleared his throat. "You were cold," he said, preparing to leave the couch. But Quatre only nodded, and pulled Zechs's arm tighter about his shoulders.
Zechs said, "I'll make some coffee," but he didn't move.
Quatre laughed a little. "I don't drink coffee," he answered.
"Turn around. I want to see your eyes."
He squirmed about obediently, and let Zechs take hold of his chin without protest. His pupils were returned to their normal size, the irises a more muddled colour than Zechs remembered. The daggers of fine hair that fell down his forehead brushed softly away beneath Zechs's fingers.
"Did it work?" Zechs asked him soberly.
Quatre smiled at him, a little upturning of his chapped lips that made sleepy crinkles about his eyes and a little dimple beside his mouth. Zechs touched the tip of his pointer finger into the dimple, a little amazed to see it there.
"You were right before," Quatre murmured. "I just like to suffer."
"I don't know what that means," he confessed.
"You don't have to." Quatre nudged a knee against Zechs's, then a little higher, against his lower thigh. Asking entrance. Zechs gave it, and Quatre sighed as he slid his leg between Zechs's, hip coming to rest pressed against his twitching groin, the fabric of their trousers whispering naughty things.
"Did it work?" he asked again.
"You can say it worked," Quatre said.
"I'm not sure I want to let you out of my sight." Quatre's eyes opened wide enough to look at him for a moment; then they slid shut again, the lashes spreading in little curved clumps over the bruised-looking, tender skin beneath.
"Was I going somewhere?" he whispered. It wasn't coy, but the leg curving around his was, the press and tease of that bony hip against his cock was, and the toes creeping down his calf were. So was the hand that rested on the few inches of couch space between them, the ends of the long fingers just touching Zechs's stomach, little points of contact that burned.
Zechs drew a deep breath, though it didn't really clear his head. He wasn't sure he wanted it to. "Not that I'm aware," he answered belatedly. And took the invitation, mute as it was, to arch his back and bring his hips into flush contact with Quatre's. He got a little gasp for his effort, an intoxicating little sound that was wholly unconscious, like the little crease that appeared between Quatre's golden eyebrows, the flicker of his pale eyelids.
"Do you fuck when you're sober?" Quatre asked him breathlessly.
"Rarely," he said. "It's... messy."
"Mm."
Zechs thought of that cashmere scarf, wondered where it was and if it could be found quickly. Thought about what it would look like against Quatre's skin, what it would feel like when he crushed it between them.
"I want to," he said.
"It's up to you," Quatre whispered, but he had caught his lower lip between his teeth and Zechs had to, then. So he pushed Quatre's trousers down, never buttoned after he'd eased them up before, after they'd messed about. The wool felt smooth under his palm, the weave strong and tight when he fisted his fingers in the waistband. Quatre dug his elbow and ankle into the couch cushions and lifted his hips, and Zechs pulled the trousers off, reaching down to tug the pooled fabric off feet that kicked it away to the floor. They did it again, but better, with his undershorts, and then Quatre wasted no time ripping at the buttons of Zechs's fall-front trousers, getting no further than the three at the flap before diving inside to wrap all five fingers around his cock and bring it out, cleverly massaging the head in the crook of his thumb and palm before Zechs could stop him and fumble the rest of the buttons loose. With a great deal of squirming, they managed the trousers between them, and Quatre tossed them away to join the others on the carpet.
Zechs ran his hands over Quatre's flank, warm and only lightly haired. "How do you want it?" he asked.
A finger traced a line down his chest to his navel, pressing in for moment's tease. "On my stomach," he said. His eyes were languid slits hiding the irises from sight. "Do whatever you like."
"Whatever I like?" He stopped the thumb flicking over his nipple by pressing Quatre's hand flat to his chest. "Look at me." He waited until he could see green beneath the gold. "Is this part of the self-flagellation? Because if it is, I don't want any part of it."
Quatre freed his other hand to brush the backs of his fingers down Zechs's cheek. "I was stabbed in the war," he said easily, softly. "It's easier on my back."
It was spoken like truth, but he couldn't tell if it was. He couldn't quite believe it, anyway. He wondered how many times Quatre had asked to be fucked face-down, and who had complied.
It wouldn't be him. He answered by sliding arms around the other man and hauling them both upright, Quatre forced to straddle his lap as Zechs put his back to the cushions. "How about like this?" he asked, capturing a handful of long strands of wheat-coloured hair at the nape of Quatre's neck, scratching lightly at the skin beneath. Quatre shivered against him. Their mouths were only an inch apart, and that close all he had was the impression of that sweet smile, the one that could forgive all evil. And the gentle fingers found his face again, rubbing a line through Zechs's stubble, a rasp along his jaw and chin that made him shiver in return.
"I have lube. Somewhere," he managed roughly. Quatre wasn't hard, he realised suddenly: there was no erection matching his own, only a limp organ lying against his, pressed to his aching balls. "Do you need to be high for this?"
But Quatre shook his head, and ran his fingers down Zechs's hair, causing little pringles along his scalp. "I don't want to be high," he said. "I'm afraid I'd forget it."
"Yeah. Okay."
The smile was patient this time. Tender. "You want to warm up first? Or go find the lube?"
He shook his head as fingers found a sensitive spot just above his ear, tugging lightly at the hair growing there. "Unless you mind spit."
"I don't mind." A kiss pressed against the side of his mouth, a little exhale hot against his cheek. Then there were fingers between them, disappearing between Quatre's lips, his cheeks going hollow as he sucked them. They emerged a few moments later wet. Zechs was pushed back against the cushions as Quatre rose onto his knees, one arm twisting behind him as his chest rubbed Zechs's cheek, a pink nipple brushing against his mouth. Quatre's other arm draped along the back of the couch, encompassing Zechs's head as Quatre leant against him, bending lithely to lick the shell of Zechs's ear.
"Don't," Zechs whispered against that soft nipple, tasting just the edge as it hardened under his breath. He curled his fingers about Quatre's hips, stroking back to find the three fingers knuckle-deep in flesh. He traced the ridge of violated muscle around them, shuddering and turning his face into Quatre's chest. "I'll do that." He opened his mouth wide, pressing the length of his tongue along Quatre's sternum. A kiss touched the top of his head, and something hot and leaking bumped his stomach when he added his finger to the three in that slick tunnel.
Quatre braced himself more fully against the couch as Zechs spat into his hand several times, preparing them both. He slid his hand between Quatre's legs rather than reaching around, to caress the heavy sac draping from the curved erection. The taught, tight buttocks spread for his fingers, and he traced up the crease until he was touching the small of Quatre's back and his wrist and forearm were pressed against Quatre's balls. He dragged their skin together as he moved back down, drawing a circle about the puckered hole hiding in the center.
Quatre murmured against his hair as he penetrated him with two fingers. He was already moist and a little loose, but Zechs was careful, pressing his saliva deep and scissoring his fingers to widen the entrance. He kissed the nipples hovering by his mouth as he did, bit down on one, and won a moan. When he'd managed four fingers, he stopped playing, and grasped Quatre's hips in one hand, digging tight with his fingers. Arms locked on either side of Zechs's head, Quatre nodded down at him; Zechs held his own cock in place with one fist, and guided Quatre down with the other. They both gasped when Quatre slid down easily, taking the head quickly past the ring of muscle. Quatre's thighs began to tremble just as he was completely seated, and he pressed his forehead to Zechs's neck, grabbing him about shoulders as he sat hard in Zechs's lap.
Their eyes locked. Zechs's wide, Quatre's almost shut, struggling to stay open. The flush on his face and neck was spreading down, blooming hot and beautiful on his stomach and thighs, staining the whole of his cock rosy. Zechs admired it distantly while he learned the feel of that blushing body around him, clenching him tight and drawing him deep.
"You feel good," he said hoarsely. He gathered his strength for a rough upward thrust, pushing down with his legs and back with his shoulders so that his backside left the couch and Quatre scrambled to balance himself. He grasped that bouncing dick between them, thumb against the long vein and sensitive ridge below the head as he squeezed.
Quatre let his head fall back, just like the night before at the railing, baring his throat. "You too," he groaned. He tossed his head as Zechs rolled his hips, and a bead of sweat dripped from his temple down his jaw. Then he suddenly fell forward, his mouth open and panting as his forehead met Zechs's and stayed there.
It was too much.
Silence grew between them, but not quiet. His living room was full of sounds like the wet suction of him moving in and out of Quatre's hole. Their breathing, not in time, Quatre's lighter than his and quicker, his own deep and ragged. The silky rasp of their skin meeting and rubbing. The creak of the couch springs, the stick of perspiring bodies on the leather cushions.
Quatre's eyes, always returning to his, trusting him, wanting him. Calm but hot, a sheen over the need.
He pulled out of Quatre with a slick pop, and bent the man's supple body over the plump arm of the couch. Immediately Quatre pulled his knees under him, lifting his backside high in the air as he reached low, hooking his hand under the frame of the couch and holding so tightly the muscles in his arm jumped. Zechs knelt on one knee behind him, the other foot flat on the floor for leverage, and slid a hand around to Quatre's overheated erection as he pushed his own back home, much deeper in this new position. Quatre gasped loudly, his body rocked with the force of it, his bottom and the backs of his thighs slapping against Zechs.
With a hitched little laugh, Quatre said, "It really is better for my back."
All he wants is to be screwed, it murmured. The accusing whisper curled about his mind, clogging his lungs. He's using you. You might as well reciprocate.
But Quatre isn't a sex-hungry user, Zechs argued. Their thighs met with the force of his thrust, and Quatre rocked against the couch.
How many times have you been on the bottom wishing you could make someone hurt like you do?
Zechs discovered he was shaking. His mouth was dry, his gut tight. "Okay, yeah," he heard himself saying. He fought for the coherence to apologise, to admit, "I'm not going to last."
Quatre's fingers covered his, wrapped them tighter about his balls. "It's all right, Zechs."
He climaxed abruptly, hard, mindlessly forcing himself deep as he bent over Quatre, crushing the smaller man against the arm of the couch. The smooth inner walls of Quatre's ass clenched obligingly, rhythmically, bringing him out of the darkness with that regular beat. He found himself breathing hard and humid into the knobs of Quatre's spine, his cheek pressed against the ridge of a shoulder blade and the pounding heart beneath it. His right hand, crammed beneath Quatre's belly, was wet.
Quatre sighed deeply. Rather politely, but with a sated gratification, he said, "Thank you."
His throat was dry. "I promised you coffee." He pulled away slowly. They both gasped a bit as he slid free of Quatre's body, followed by a sluggish dribble of his own semen. He dragged a finger through it, following it back to the reddened, slightly swollen hole. "I'll get you a towel," he added, watching Quatre jump as the tip of his finger poked the edge of the muscle. He stepped back, avoiding the lazy eyes that turned up to his, and turned on his heel quickly. The corridor took him to half-bath and its linen closet. He paused long enough to clean himself, wincing at the rough swipe of the washcloth against his sensitive groin. He found a large towel for Quatre, and returned to the living room with it. Quatre had barely moved, only shifting to curl his legs beneath him. His skin was pink and glowing, his hair damp and mussed. I did that, Zechs thought.
He draped the towel about Quatre's waist. "You said tea, right?"
"That's fine."
He nodded quickly and turned to the kitchen, this time, pausing only to scoop his trousers from the floor as he passed them. Once through the archway into the kitchen, he dressed quickly, buttoning away the evidence of what they'd just done. His maid had reorganised the cupboard that held his tea things, but he found a sachet of chamomile hidden in the ceramic Ching Dynasty canister that had been a gift from Relena. He left it sitting on the counter as he filled the kettle and set it on a burner to boil.
He heard soft footsteps, accompanied by a sense of presence. Quatre came to the counter beside him, putting his back to it. He wore the towel wrapped about his waist. His chest was dappled with the dregs of that marvelous flush, like sunburn or rash. Neither of them spoke as Zechs rescued the water just before boiling, pouring into a mug and dropping the sachet in after it. When the water was a clear yellow, he removed the bag, dropping it into the sink, and transferred the mug to the glass table that sat in the center of his kitchen.
And then he turned and embraced Quatre, fitting the smaller frame against his chest and bowing his head to rest on Quatre's shoulder. Quatre held him tightly in return, stroking in long soothing journeys up his back, down again.
"You did just fine, Zechs," he murmured, "all the way through."
"And what does that mean?" he asked bleakly.
"It means you didn't hurt me. Even when I asked."
"Should I start hiding the knives?"
With a little smile that had an edge of self-deprecation, Quatre replied, "Only the dull ones." Zechs felt a gentle pat on the small of his back, and then Quatre pulled away, sliding into one of the chairs and reaching for his tea. Zechs watched him blow on the surface, cradle the mug between both palms.
"I'd rather you didn't," he said abruptly, startling even himself. Then, oddly, he felt the need to explain. Awkwardly, flatly, he added, "We're alike."
Quatre didn't answer. He sipped the tea, a tiny little sip, and then again. The shadows under his eyes were dark, Zechs noticed. He looked haggard, beneath the glister of sex. There was a lingering tension in his shoulders, and he sat as if he were in pain.
Zechs stepped up to the table, and slid his fingers into Quatre's hair. "You should eat," he said. "The hangover will go away faster if you do." He dredged up a smile of his own when Quatre turned into his caress, the tea caught still between his palms and his eyes closed. "You're too tired to go," he added.
"They'll wonder where I am. I'm sure they're upset already."
"Who?"
"My jailors." Quatre said it lightly, but it made Zechs pause.
"Who would they be?" he asked cautiously.
"There were three at the party last night. One borrowed from your sister's security. And there will be more when I go home." Quatre opened his eyes and looked gravely up at Zechs. "I destroyed a colony," he said. As if it weren't connected; but Zechs knew it was.
"Call them," he answered. "Or I can. Or better yet, I'll call Relena and tell her I'm keeping you."
He got a curve of the pale lips for that, and a moment later, an indulgent nod. Zechs didn't bother to explain that he'd been serious. Instead, he left the table for the telephone perched on the wall opposite them. It had only one number pre-programmed, and he set it dialing on speaker. He leant against the wall while it rang.
"This is Relena," his sister began. Zechs cut her off quickly.
"It's Zechs. I have Quatre Winner at my place, so call off your dogs." He didn't wait for a reply, either, punching the button to hang up on her startled inhale. He turned back to Quatre, and found the young man grinning into his tea.
"What?" he said.
"That might be taking the not-talking-to-your-sister a little far," Quatre chided.
"She's a bitch."
To his surprise, the grin faded at that. "No, she's not."
He shrugged. "No?" But though he waited, nothing else was forthcoming, and he let it pass for a later time. "Do you sleep better in a bed?" he asked.
"It's relative."
"Well, you're going to sleep."
"Are you coming?"
"Do you want me to?" he countered.
Quatre stood, crossing in a silent barefoot stride to the sink, carefully placing the mug in the bottom. Then he came to Zechs, and halted a step away from him, and lay his hand on Zechs's bare chest, skin to skin.
"Yes," he said simply.
He was pleased, on some level. A little scared on another, but the pleasure won out. "I'll come then," he murmured. "In a minute. Okay? Go on ahead."
He needed to fix. The need made him ashamed, an oddly acute shame in front of this man who had elicited in him a feeling of... of kindred. But ZERO was a constant drone now, and he wanted to silence it, to live in the moment without performing for ZERO's twisted amusement. And looking at Quatre, he knew as well that he'd been transparent; but the shame wasn't bigger than the need.
In the end, Quatre only nodded. "Where is it?"
"Down the hall, first door on the right."
He nodded again, and dropped his hand from Zechs's chest. At the edge of the kitchen, however, he looked back, and there was something subdued in his face that made Zechs's chest feel tight where that warm hand had been a moment before.
"We're not alike, really," Quatre said. "I may enjoy my suffering-- but I have no interest in losing the war."
He swallowed. "And you think I do?"
The green eyes were saying something direct, something sad. He didn't know what it was, though.
"I'll be in bed when you're done," Quatre said, and left him alone.
End Part 1
(:./erin/zero1)
