17-May-2006
Title: The Properties of Zero 3/?
Authors: TB and Marsh
Archived: GWA and http://www.geocities.com/brother_maxwell/TB_home_page.html
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: See Part 1 for explanation of AU elements and ZERO. Treize starts off a bit of a bastard in this fic, but his characterisation is not an accident and it is crafted carefully and with purpose.
The Zero Property of Multiplication:
Multiplying any number by Zero leaves Zero.
The call from Bolsover Castle came the day he sent Quatre home.
It wasn't from Treize-- it never was-- but rather from his adjutant, Captain Sainte-James. Zechs had gone to Academy with Sainte-James, and neither man had particularly liked the other. Zechs had been far and away the better soldier, however, and it was only Zechs's resounding fall from grace that had allowed Sainte-James to even enter the presence of the august Field Marshall, his Excellency Treize Khushrenada. Sainte-James took every opportunity to reminds Zechs that he had been stripped of his rank and dishonourably discharged-- a pointless endeavor, as Zechs still regarded his desertion as the best decision he had ever made in his life. But Zechs was still a prince, still the one-time leader of a fierce and powerful rebellion, and still one of a very elite group of men to have successfully piloted a Gundam. There was only so far the petty little man could go before Zechs felt exerted to remind him of his place.
The conversation today was peremptory. Sending Quatre away had felt like a defeat, for all that it was time, that he rather suspected Duo had been a step away from setting up camp on his lawn. They'd managed four days together, almost all of it spent talking. Zechs had spent three years carefully parceling out his words, hoarding them away from those who wanted to pry them out-- Treize, his sister, tabloids and biographers and politicians and talk-show hosts and the lunatics who thundered at their congregations of fanatics that he was the Devil Incarnate. It was something Quatre endured himself. And they were not unalike. Quatre had been born into a wealthy family, the coveted son in whom all hope had rested. Their fathers had been vocal proponents of pacifism, and yet they had both been drawn to the life of the soldier. They had been able to laugh together as they shared stories about growing up with the often absurd demands of the privileged castes, and they had each been able to offer understanding as the other haltingly recounted what it had felt like to be sucked into the all-encompassing madness that was ZERO.
And now this idiot wanted him to pay attention to something as vastly trivial as Treize's desire to meet with him.
He'd had to agree. Treize was not a man to be disobeyed, even when his orders came filtered as "requests" delivered by an obsequious, self-important toady. But he showed up forty-five minutes late, dressed in blue jeans and a simple cotton shirt, and he made sure he was high enough to outlast the worst of it. They were impotent rebellions, accompanied by a sullen mood. In a final declaration of his irritation, Zechs left his car double-parked in the small private lot outside Bolsover. Not for the first time, Zechs regretted that Treize had been able to find such prime real estate barely an hour from Zechs's own home. It was hard not to think it deliberate. England was, after all, on the periphery of the European Romafeller network, and the little island nation was home to worst of the grumbles about Romafeller's autocratic practices. It had not been an accident that Zechs had chosen to live here, and he didn't think it had been for Quatre or Duo either, but Treize's motives were, as ever, unclear to Zechs.
He was allowed through the door and directed to a private staircase by the butler, another man who was none too fond of Zechs. Treize was in his office today, a functional space made ridiculous by the profusion of Napoleon-inspired cerulean and golden jacquard. Zechs found it ironic that Treize spent his days surrounded by reminders of another soldier-Emperor who had endured a humiliating demotion delivered by his own people. He often wondered if the comparison was deliberate-- Napoleon had, after all, emerged from Elba to retake everything he had been denied.
He hoped he'd be there to watch when Treize had his Waterloo.
The man in question sat behind his desk, several files open on his desk, and the elegant little screen designed to disguise his computer was humming faintly as Treize typed. Zechs did not knock as he entered, and couldn't be sure if Treize had really failed to notice him or was merely ignoring him in punishment. After a moment, he cleared his throat loudly.
His ginger-haired nemesis looked up immediately. "My friend," Treize said cheerfully. "I'm glad you could come." He touched the screen to shut it down, but left his files open carelessly as he rose, straightening his uniform with that familiar, studied tug to the hemline. Though he was entitled to a more elaborate uniform, one which would have displayed both his military and social rank, Treize had chosen to retain the simple blue and white standard of OZ command. It did, Zechs could grudgingly admit, flatter him more than other colours would. Treize had always cut a dashing figure, and surrounded himself with others who would compliment that image; Zechs himself, Lady Une, Lucrezia Noin. Even Relena Peacecraft, while it was politically expedient to do so.
"What do you want?" Zechs asked outright.
Now he knew Treize was ignoring his ill-tempered gestures, because Treize rolled right over that as if he'd never spoken. He crossed to the bar back that occupied the far wall, and returned with two gold-edged snifters and a bottle of coeur de lion calvados, a large apple nestled inside with the rich brown liquid. Treize displayed the bottle against the outside of his arm, one eyebrow raised archly. "Food, drink-- whores?"
It was an old Academy joke. They'd ranted in their day, laughed together at the fat old generals who truly believed that was all that was good in life. Back when they'd wanted better for themselves.
Zechs said flatly, "No, thank you."
Treize was pouring anyway. "Of course. I'm sure you have plenty at home," he added urbanely, replacing the cork with a little smile.
It was another joke, and a fairly good-natured one, and he knew it; but it still burned. Zechs sat in the offered armchair, the same chair he always sat in during their little meetings. "You of all people know my tastes don't include that," he retorted stiffly. "What did you want?"
Treize turned those mirror-like blue eyes toward him. "You left the party before we could speak, my old friend."
"I wasn't there for conversation, was I? You wanted window dressing. I fulfilled that role."
A ginger eyebrow climbed. "You're very harsh on us both, I think."
He gripped the arms of his chair as he arranged his face into a sneer. "One of us has to be."
Treize sipped from his snifter, and crossed his legs at the ankle. "Then I take it you didn't enjoy yourself," he murmured. He even sounded disappointed, though how he could dredge up the energy, Zechs didn't know. He'd gone to a thousand parties and never enjoyed them, and every damn time Treize managed to look let down.
"Do I ever when you invite me to one of your parties?" He paused, rubbing his damp palms on the thighs of his trousers. "Why don't you just say what you really want to?"
"I want to have a civilised conversation, Zechs," Treize returned mildly. "Just as we are."
"Fine," Zechs muttered. Tightly he said, "It was a lovely party, thank you for inviting me. I apologise for leaving before we actually spoke." The lines were nothing that he hadn't said before. And Treize never failed to weather it looking unruffled, damn him, and amused.
Treize drank again, a considered, graceful little act of raising the glass to his lips, swirling the brandy just slightly; a moment later his throat worked and the glass reclaimed its rest against the leather arm of his chair. Then Treize said, "You seemed to enjoy the company."
"Oh. That. Yes."
Treize waited. Apparently Zechs was meant to supply further information, but stubbornness was setting in. He moodily-- silently-- informed Treize that he could wait until he mummified. He shoved himself to his feet and picked up the second glass. It held only a finger of brandy, a drink he did not and never would care for, but it was a disguise, a tool, as much as much as everything in this prettily decorated office was. He resumed his seat with a defiant slump, trying not to remember that he looked ridiculous doing such things in the face of Treize's unwavering aplomb.
When Treize had had enough of the quiet, he picked up the reins again, speaking as if there hadn't been a silence of almost three minutes. "Our Quatre Winner has grown up quite a bit, hasn't he?" he asked with a small smile.
"Yes, I fucked him. Twice." Where that came from Zechs didn't know, but he said each word as if it were a stab with a sword. "I enjoyed it."
But none of the strikes seemed to land. Treize merely raided his eyebrows again, and took a swallow of his brandy. Suddenly embarrassed, Zechs stared out the window, at the immaculate desk, at the glass he held, keenly regretting having opened his mouth. When at last he managed to get a grip on himself, he looked up with a smirk, hoping Treize would believe he'd only lied to be shocking.
Treize answered as amiably as if they were only speaking of some inconsequential thing, the fine spring weather or yesterday's stock. "He's a quiet young man, very shy. Uncomfortable at those little soirees, not unlike you."
"Apparently." It was impossible to sit still for this. Treize unnerved him. Always had. Zechs discovered he had somehow finished his drink. He stood again for the bottle and poured another finger, then drank it down before he quite realised he was going to.
Treize smiled magnanimously at him, and toasted with a tilt of his glass. "There we are. Two old friends sharing a drink."
"Do you believe your lies, Treize?" he demanded.
Once again his attack missed its mark. Treize laughed easily, resting a knuckle against his cheek. "More than I do the truths," he admitted.
"How comfortable for you," he muttered bitterly.
"A reflection of the times, I believe." Treize had a calm gaze, such a calm gaze. Unnervingly like Quatre's, and he could only be thankful for how different they were, for the way Quatre's only waited, while Treize's measured and dismissed. "I am no longer able to speak as openly as you do, Zechs," he continued. "I treasure you for that privilege which I regret having lost."
"We're all in hells of our own making, Treize."
That statement, meant as an insult, only intrigued older man. The thoughtful look Zechs knew so well replaced the edge of teasing, and a moment later Treize nodded slightly in confirmation.
"Another brandy?" he asked. He took the bottle and leaned forward, pouring for Zechs without waiting for the answer, then refreshed his own glass. As soon as the bottle was back in its place on the tray, he said, "It has been communicated to me that Mr Winner... currently resides with you."
He gulped from his glass. The burn in his throat barely registered, but the brandy was helping. "With me?" he repeated. "No."
"Oh?" He didn't know how, but he'd surprised Treize. "The communication was rather urgent."
That got his attention. "Who called you?"
"A concerned relation of the young man in question."
"I see."
"I understand you placed a call to your sister..." Treize rolled his glass between forefinger and thumb.
"Why don't you just tell it to me all at once, and I'll confirm or deny."
"You are perhaps aware that Mr Winner is not well. His family are worried about him." It seemed an honest answer to his demand, but Zechs knew it was nothing more than a gambit. They had played the game far too many times; even Treize only played by habit. There was no gain anymore, no winner. Just Zechs, the loser.
He put his glass down on the small table that sat beside his chair. It thunked dully against the antique wood. "All of it, Treize, or I'm leaving. I'm not in the mood for games today."
Treize lifted a hand. "Did you fuck him, Zechs?"
"That's not your business. Nor is it Relena's, or Maxwell's, or any of his overbearing sisters'."
"His 'overbearing sisters' are his legal guardians."
"Guardians. Has be been declared incompetent?"
Treize set his glass aside very carefully. His tone was careful, too, and Zechs found himself leaning forward to listen. "I don't think he's helping his case by appearing to run away." He set his hands together in an attitude of prayer beneath his chin. "You might believe that you are helping him, Zechs, but unfortunately, you may really be harming him."
"What's your interest in Quatre Winner?"
"You needn't suspect me so. I have an interest in his welfare as I do in yours-- as a respected comrade from the war, a young man of valour and integrity." Oddly, he seemed to soften a little, gazing at Zechs as he spoke. "A young man with troubles, and with enemies."
"God." Zechs was disgusted. "This is me you're talking to, Treize. I know you far too well to believe that line of shit. Try again, with a little candor this time, or this conversation is over."
His one-time friend and commander sighed. "There was a time when you trusted me, old friend."
"And you know the precise moment I stopped. Don't you?"
That hung between them. But what right did Treize have to look so sad about it? To steal Zechs's anger, undimmed even now, and say with such visible sorrow, "Yes, I suppose I do."
Zechs reached again for the bottle, and was given it by Treize. But he didn't pour, only toyed with the cork and the paper label. "Trust is difficult to regain."
"Will it be mine to win again?"
It was strangely difficult to swallow. "I doubt it, Treize. Besides, you enjoy my mistrust more."
"I enjoyed our friendship more," Treize corrected gently. "And I regret its loss." Before Zechs could protest his disbelief, Treize waved a hand at him. He knew that gesture. The subject was closed, and any attempt Zechs made to pursue it would achieve nothing more than being thrown out of Treize's office.
That didn't stop him from trying. Perhaps he was just stubborn. Or maybe he just wanted to be sure Treize didn't get everything he wanted without a fight.
"You haven't answered," he said pointedly. "Are you going to?"
"I don't think you really know what you're asking."
"Why don't you answer the question I thought I asked, then?" he pushed.
He was surprised when Treize stood. He paced to the window and stood facing out the lawn, his hands clasped behind his back, his feet spread at shoulder width-- parade rest. Zechs didn't have the imagination to know what Treize saw when he looked out at the soggy, grey daylight that dimmed even Bolsover's lush glory. He spoke in a solemn murmur, face ahead and expression no more revealing than a statue's.
In a solemn murmur, Treize shattered him.
"Did you notice the mole on his abdomen, just above his left hip?"
He felt he'd been sucker punched. There was no air, he couldn't breathe; his head swam for a moment with the force of ZERO's scream. A voice that wasn't his own whispered, "You bastard."
The ginger head moved a little, acknowledging him. "Why?" Treize asked simply. "For getting there before you?"
Zechs was devastated, and completely unable to hide it. Not that Treize was looking. He didn't have to. How many times had he proved he knew every weakness in Zechs's armour? Treize had been able to play him since the day they'd met.
"I was worried at first when he followed you to the balcony..." The epaulets shimmered in the lamplight as Treize shrugged his shoulders. "I should have known you better."
He was on his feet and prowling before he even registered the desire to move. Treize's office was large, but his legs chewed up the carpet in long, agitated strides. "Should have known what, Treize?" he growled.
"I feared your differences would lead to hasty actions. I am glad to see you kept a cool head on your shoulders. But then, you always have."
How the man could say those insulting things without any trace of sarcasm or irony would always be beyond him, but it did bring him up short, standing just before the potted orchids that framed the door. His mind was whirling, even with his body still. "He doesn't belong to you," he said.
Treize turned at that. "Of course not. No man belongs to another."
"Neither of us belongs to you." His insistence was for himself, though. He wanted to believe it. He needed to know it.
It was all he could think about. It was burned on his eyelids as if he'd seen it himself. He knew it was like: the flattering comments, the overwhelming nearness. The knowledge of what Treize was going to do to you plain in those devil-blue eyes, watching him undress you without ever touching you, until the inevitability of it stopped you from denying, from even protesting. And Quatre was everything Treize found so, so fascinating, the golden boy, fragile beneath the blazing strength, a tin soldier toy tossed aside by an uncaring world. Was it still going on? Was that what Quatre had been doing at the party? Answering his own summons? He couldn't remember if he'd seen them talking-- had Quatre even rated that much? A true one-off, and Quatre sent home to Maxwell a little more used, a little more empty--
Treize was standing in front of him. Zechs hadn't even seen him move. His hand was on Zechs's arm.
"Of course not," he said gently.
Zechs met his eyes furiously. "Don't touch me."
A moment passed. Then, in a crisp little movement, Treize removed his hand.
Zechs drew a deep breath. "I can't believe you," he said roughly. "Is there anything you won't--" He stopped himself, barely. Forced himself to return to what he wanted, needed to know. "Who called you, Treize? How deep does this thing with Quatre go?"
Treize exhaled almost impatiently. He gestured mutely to their chairs, the order implicit. Zechs knew what it was, knew he'd get nothing until he obeyed, but it was still a minute before he could bring himself to do it. The moment his seat connected with the deep cushions of the chair, Treize sat facing him and began to speak.
"Are you aware of the training that the Gundam Pilots underwent, prior to Operation Meteor?"
He could be civil. He could get what he needed to hear, if he gave Treize the reasons to tell him. He forced himself to speak politely. "Only what was available in the reports that came across your desk during the war. I assume they were incomplete."
"Very. We have since learnt a great deal more." He leant back in his chair, and propped his chin on one hand. "Of course, most of it is classified, for their own protection. But it is perhaps pertinent for you to know certain things."
"Because I'm fucking him, as you put it so crudely?"
With that irritating gentility, Treize answered, "Because he has sought you out, and because, I think, you have come to care for him. Or have I misjudged you, Zechs?"
"No," he admitted reluctantly. He had his anger locked down, buttoned away now. The jealousy was harder. But, damn it, he was sitting still and listening. "Tell me, then."
Treize obliged. "The five pilots share certain characteristics. Troubled childhoods. A tendency to react in violence. A tendency toward anger, toward impulse. We have come to believe that their training... I grace it by that term only for lack of a better word... that their mission was essentially one of suicide. Dekim Barton's original design seems to have been one of widespread damage followed by an invasion of force. As we now know, the timely revolution of OZ within the Alliance stalled his plans; the Gundams were left alone on Earth, and were shortly rejected by the colonies."
"Their training. Is there a particular element that concerns you?"
"We believe that at least three of the pilots underwent extensive desensitisation training."
"And you think Quatre Winner was one of them."
"Yes. His psychological profile is strong evidence for that. In Quatre's case his family attempted to provide counter-therapy, with mixed success."
"You're lying."
Treize paused. "I'm very much afraid I am not, my friend."
Zechs sneered at him. "Quatre's problem has nothing to do with desensitization training."
"And that problem would be?" Treize asked him, sounding every bit as sober as he would have in a briefing; and Zechs knew that Treize didn't believe him.
"The five pilots were exposed to something far more dangerous. And so was I."
He knew it was coming, but it still infuriated him when Treize only sighed and glanced away. "You're referring to ZERO."
"Yes."
"And yet only you and Quatre Winner have claimed to suffer long-term effects."
"We're not talking about me," Zechs retorted.
"Aren't we?" Treize returned swiftly. "You identify with him."
"Do I?" He glared at Treize, unable to rid himself of the terrible knowledge Treize had sprung on him. "Do you?"
"Quatre Winner is not the only pilot to suffer from extended psychosis. We have helped another of the pilots to quietly withdraw from society." "We" meaning OZ? Or Romafeller? "Granted that Quatre has a family who are very supportive, but his status as a Gundam Pilot makes his case a cause for widespread concern." He lowered his hand to his lap and met Zechs's look gravely, and not without sympathy. "You know as well as I do that it was only their age which saved all the pilots from the same treatment you received at the close of hostilities."
He felt himself pale at that. The nine months he'd spent in Valery Kazakov Reeductation Instillation had been beyond grim; he had survived by functioning from a numb state of disbelief through nearly all of it. And it was a miracle he'd gotten out at all. He'd been sentenced to twenty five years in that Siberian hell-hole, and the single reason he wasn't still there in his ten-by-ten cell sticking contraband needles in his arm was the man sitting opposite him, telling him Quatre Winner was one step away from that fate.
He cleared his throat. "Why are you involved in his life?"
"At the invitation of his family," Treize said readily.
"They invited you into his bed?"
This pause was short, and punishing. "You make too much of something I think gentlemen ought not to discuss," Treize told him, as if he hadn't been the one to announce it in the first place.
His stomach felt badly. And he wanted to be high, so high he'd forget he'd ever come back to Bolsover. "I need to know why," he said.
"Do you? Why?"
"I don't know."
It had begun to rain, finally fulfilling the dreary promise of the threatening clouds. Thick drops pattered the window in gusts, and it had gone chilly. There was probably a servant standing outside the door waiting for Zechs to leave so he could light a fire for Field Marshall Khushrenada, Hero of the Earth Sphere, genius, revolutionary, debaucher of innocents.
At last Treize stirred. "He reminds me of you, Zechs," he said softly. "You are both wonderful, sensitive young men. Who have suffered greatly, and needlessly, and suffer still."
That he believed it made him nauseous. And he wondered which of them, himself or Quatre, was the surrogate; he simply couldn't comprehend it. ZERO was ruthlessly silent.
"Is it still going on?" he asked, dreading the answer, needing to know.
"No."
"When? When was it?"
Treize reached abruptly for his hand. "Please, Zechs, put it from your mind."
"I can't. I can't, and you knew that when you told me. I hate that you still have so much power over m- my moods."
"It was only once, Zechs. It was long before this."
"I hope you felt like a rapist when you finished because that's what you are." He pulled away, all but snatched his hand back, and watched as Treize's face went abruptly closed, shutting him out. Treize said cooly, "You are distressed. Perhaps you should take a moment to calm yourself."
Zechs turned away blindly, staring at the window without seeing it. "I know who you are and what you're capable to doing to a young man who admires and respects you. It never occurred to me that you would do it with someone as ruined as Quatre." He looked back, and found impassive eyes waiting for him. "I think you should leave him alone from now on," he said, deliberately, making his own eyes hard as steel.
But Treize was unmoved. "Intriguing," he said shortly. "I was about to suggest the same to you."
"Why?" he scoffed.
"Prior to meeting you, Quatre was well on the road to recovery. He was recovering his esteem in the public eye. That is, I remind you, an important factor, for all it is one you have chosen to eschew." Treize spoke with the curt voice of command; they might as well have been strangers. "It has been argued to me, and I begin to agree, that you are exerting a rather forceful influence over the young Mr Winner, and your interference ought to be curtailed."
"That's not your call to make," Zechs fired back. "Nor any of his so-called handlers. It's his."
"Any man, no matter how competent, can make the wrong choice, Milliardo."
"You aren't excluded from that maxim, Treize!"
The older man drained the last of his brandy, and set the glass aside. "I have done what I was asked to do. I will leave you to think carefully about how to proceed-- and I suggest you do think carefully." He rose, tugging once on the hem of his jacket to straighten imaginary wrinkles. "Watkins will show you out."
"I don't care for threats."
"And I don't issue them." He met Zechs's look.
"Then tell me, as a friend, what was this conversation about, if not a threat to leave Quatre alone or else?"
"A warning," Treize said. "No action is committed without consequences. This was a... friendly attempt to make you aware of the circumstances in which you have placed yourself. You must decide alone how to proceed."
"I am not deserting him." Zechs stood as well, and turned toward the door, fully intending to storm out of the god-damn castle. Treize's voice stopped him as he laid his hand on the latch.
"Your loyalty has always been above reproach-- even when you must give it from afar."
Zechs stilled, staring at the oak panels as a chill crept up his spine. Treize had had the power to release the most reviled man in the Earth Sphere from prison; he could send him back again.
"I appreciate your candour," he said hollowly, with great difficulty. "Goodbye, Treize."
He inclined his head. "Goodbye, old friend."
He hadn't left his couch in nearly three days. It hadn't been this bad since before Treize had come to Bolsover. It was always hard after he'd left the other man, whether they slept together or not, but even anaesthesia couldn't touch the black hole that had opened in his core. ZERO was only too eager to fill the void, supplying endlessly darker imaginings of what Treize was doing with him-- to him-- what he wanted from Zechs. The threat had been far too clear, however Treize chose to phrase it. He desperately wanted to call Quatre, to whisk him away to someplace safe where they could be alone, could hide from all the things that bound them together. At the same time he was afraid that Quatre would call him. The existence of a conspiracy was obvious, maddening, but it wasn't just that. There was Quatre himself; and Zechs-- was being drawn in.
The end of the first day found him vomiting in his bathroom, a shivering wreck with chest pains and a headache so horrible he had wept from the pain. Knowing he'd been close to an overdose was enough persuasion to back off on the drugs, but the alternative was being coherent enough to think. He lay on the couch and tortured himself by imagining everything going wrong, himself back in prison, Quatre in prison, wilting from the abuse of the other inmates, shriveling in the unbearable isolation, in the cold, both of them dying there when they should have been free, and healthy, and happy.
On the fourth day, the phone rang.
It was the first sound he'd heard in days that did not come from himself, and it nearly startled him into a heart attack. He stumbled into the kitchen as the jarring rings continued. His coordination was gone after so many hours of self-debasement, and he knocked the receiver off the base with an errant swing of his hand. By some miracle he managed to catch it before it hit the floor. His heart hammered hard for a moment, before deciding the excitement was over. He stuck the receiver to his ear, and barked, "Yes?"
"Hello. Hi. It's Duo Maxwell."
Sudden terror hit him. "Is Quatre all right?" he demanded.
Maxwell sounded surprised, then cautious. "No, yeah. I mean, he's fine. He's okay."
"Where is he?"
"At home. He-- I-- Well, I thought maybe you would come over. For dinner."
His brain was having trouble catching up. "Why?" he said finally.
"... to eat. With us."
He shook his head impatiently, forgetting Duo couldn't see him. "No, I mean, why are you calling me? Inviting me. When you were here you were very clear in your desire to keep Quatre and I separated."
"Yeah. Well. I've been outvoted."
And not, judging from his tone, thrilled about it. Zechs glared at the dust on the potted plant he stood beside, and snapped, "Why is it that Quatre is surrounded by conspiracy?" He heard a breath indrawn, and interrupted hastily, "Never mind. What time?"
"Half six. We're off the A619 in Whitwell, about an hour from you." Duo hesitated. "Look, don't get any ideas. This would be dinner. Two hours. We sit. We talk. We eat something. We all go home to separate beds."
"Fine. Whatever you want, Duo."
He'd succeeded in annoying the other man, somehow. "Do you want to come or not? Because if you don't, don't string him along."
"I didn't say I wasn't coming. I want to." He fumbled behind him for the edge of the kitchen table, and leant against it. "I'm just questioning your motives. None of you, aside from Quatre, have given me reason to feel comfortable with any of this."
"Yeah, life is tough. Be on time. Wear something nice-- he will."
Zechs snorted. "Right," he said, giving up. "I will." Then, grudgingly and softly, he added, "You can't be happy about this. Thank you for cooperating."
He didn't expect a gracious reply, and he didn't get one. Instead he heard an embarrassed mumble, and a moment later a click announcing the end of the call.
Zechs stared at the receiver, strongly considering leaving it off the hook for the rest of his life. Duo had called him-- why? At Quatre's insistence? Which meant that Quatre did want to see him again. Good of Duo to allow it.
Why the hell hadn't Duo gone busting into Treize's office to ream Field Marshall Khushrenada the way he'd done with Zechs? Or was that the reason Treize had only managed a single seduction? Duo was quite the little dictator-- Zechs imagined he might have been fairly successful in limiting Treize's access to Quatre.
Why had that happened in the first place? The knowledge of it had consumed him for days in spite of the drugs, even penetrating his dreams at times. In his imagination, Treize was always the aggressor, though in the harsh light of day Zechs had to admit it was extremely unlikely that it had been rape. Quatre was hardly a virgin, and had taken the lead in their second bout of sex on the couch. But even if Quatre had been a willing participant, it didn't lessen Treize's culpability. Treize had a finely tuned sense of morality, and he knew when he was taking advantage of people-- that was why he was so good at it. He'd said himself Quatre was damaged, and yet he'd gone after him, and continued to play games, arranging for Quatre to be near him, to be reminded of what they'd done together. And he clearly felt some proprietary sense of ownership over Quatre, or he wouldn't have gone out of his way to warn Zechs off him, whether he'd been pressured by the Winner family or not. Perhaps it went a long way toward explaining why Zechs lived in relative freedom, while Quatre was restricted on all sides-- but that left Duo out of the equation, and Zechs couldn't discount his presence.
He shook himself out of the quagmire of his thoughts, and went to shower.
Half-six found him pulling onto a long, single-lane drive outside the small village of Whitwell. The card Duo had left him a week ago had the address of someone named Hiba Winner, presumably one of the sisters. Duo's scrawl on the back included the note ‘Cottage' beside the phone number, which, Zechs hoped, indicated they would not be joined by any of the family tonight. And sure enough, the lane reached a fork, with a small wooden sign indicating the right path led to a caretaker's home. Zechs directed his car toward that, slipping into a thin woods on a downward slope. A glance to his left showed him a large mansion through the trees, a four-storey affair of Tudor architecture, blackened oak timbers and white plaster jutting out of a green lawn peppered with manicured hedges and banks of rhododendrons. The cottage itself was a squat brick affair perched on a bank over the lane, well out of view of the mansion. Zechs recognised the car parked beside it as the one Duo had been driving.
He climbed the steps cut into the hill to the door, straightening his clothes and trying to brush wrinkles from his trousers. He was nervous. He'd dressed himself as he imagined Quatre would, in modern tailoring, a red cashmere jumper that had reminded him of Quatre's scarf, and a pale suede jacket. He felt overdressed standing in front of this simple, plain house, and hoped Duo hadn't steered him wrong. He wiped a damp palm on his trousers and secured a tight grip on the bottle of wine he'd brought. He reached for the bell, and depressed it.
He heard footsteps clattering toward the door on the tail of the ring, then an abrupt silence. A moment later, the door opened, and Quatre stood there with flushed cheeks and carefully combed hair, and a tentative smile hovering on his mouth. He looked clean and handsome in dark brown slacks and a cream-coloured button down.
Zechs returned the smile as warmly as he could, knowing it must look awkward as hell. "Hello, Quatre," he said.
"Hi," Quatre answered shyly. But then he tossed his head and threw off the mood. He opened the door wider, and stepped back to allow Zechs to pass. "You look great," he added more boldly.
He felt as guilty as what he'd accused Treize of. He'd fucked this blushing young man, gotten him stoned first. And yet Quatre looked up at him with calm, trusting eyes, and invited him in for a date.
He cleared his throat as he stepped over the doorsill, and said, "So do you." He leant close and kissed Quatre quickly, on the mouth, not quite dry or chaste, but almost. Quatre caught him by the lapel and held him there for a longer kiss. Quatre's mouth tasted like toothpaste again, warm and cool all at once.
Finally Quatre let him go. His face was decidedly red. "I"m sorry," he said. "I know you don't like to kiss."
"I never said that." He touched Quatre's smooth cheek, then his lips. "How've you been?"
"All right." He smiled. "I'm really glad you came."
He would have pressed further, but they were interrupted by Duo's sudden appearance. The braided man was oddly bohemian next to Quatre, wearing an untucked argyle jumper and dark blue trousers. He was barefoot, Zechs couldn't but notice, and-- and he was wearing a ring on the middle toe of his left foot. Zechs wrenched his eyes upward before he could think much about that.
He pulled away from Quatre, and made an attempt to sound friendly and unchallenging. "Hello, Duo."
Duo nodded at him uncomfortably. "Hey." He stuck out a hand. "I can take the wine for you."
Zechs shook his hand first, then surrendered the bottle. "Thanks for inviting me."
He'd caught Duo by surprise with the handshake, but he wasn't down for long. "Yeah. Well, it was Quatre's idea." He grinned crookedly at the young man between them. "He likes the domestic stuff." He shuffled back a step, and added, "So, um, about five minutes?"
Quatre smiled up at him as Duo exited discreetly. "Give me your coat," he instructed.
Zechs bent to nuzzle Quatre's neck as he shrugged out of the garment in question. "You're looking well," he murmured.
"Thank you." He rubbed his palm over Zechs's chest, playing the weave of the cashmere. He was blushing again as Zechs swiped his lips over the beating pulse under his jaw. He managed to get the coat onto the rack beside them before Zechs wrapped an arm about him and tugged him close.
"I missed you," Zechs told him seriously. He'd been stupid to stay away. Treize had scared him, and Duo didn't want him here, but Quatre clearly did. That was good to know. And damn them both, anyway. "Kiss me," he ordered. Quatre obliged, bringing their lips together as his hands closed on Zechs's shoulders. They were standing pressed together now, and when Quatre began to gently suck his tongue, Zechs realised just what kind of fire he was playing with. It had been so long since he'd been truly aroused, but his body knew what it wanted. He was breathing hard when he pulled back, his lips tingling, sweat breaking out on his neck and chest.
"Duo," he warned on a groan.
"Gave us five minutes..."
Reluctantly he put a few inches of air between their bodies. "That's not enough time for what we want," he said grudgingly.
Quatre laughed softly. He stepped back regretfully, running a hand over his hair to smooth it. Zechs did it for him, arranging the fine hairs with carefully fingers, brushing his knuckles over Quatre's cheekbones and firm jaw as he did.
"So you asked him to invite me?"
"I started with asking, anyway," Quatre said.
He caught Quatre's eyes, and asked seriously, "Has it been bad?"
"No... Just, not what I wanted." He hunched one shoulder. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but Duo likes you."
Zechs raised an eyebrow. "Really."
Quatre grinned. "Well, maybe not likes you, but he wouldn't have called you if he didn't think you were all right."
"I'm glad he did."
"It was a surprise. He just told me a few hours ago." His smile deepened, and his dimple made a showing. "It was a good surprise."
Zechs returned the smile tensely. "Yes."
"Zechs?"
"Hm?"
Quatre's eyes searched his face, his expression puzzled. But he said only, "Duo's probably got the wine open now. Shall we?"
"Wait," Zechs interrupted. "What's wrong?"
Quatre rocked on his heels a little. "I wanted to ask you that, actually."
"I've just been worried about you," he said. "Now that I see you, it's better." It wasn't quite a lie; it wasn't quite the truth, either, but Quatre accepted it. He smiled that gentle, special smile at Zechs, and Zechs tried very hard not to feel like a heel. "Let's go find him," he added.
The kitchen was not far away. Quatre led him through a sitting room and down a few shallow steps to the brightly-lit kitchen, where Duo stood before a waist-height, ancient oak table chopping a handful of green scallions. Three glasses of wine stood on the counter behind him, next to a bowl of nuts. Zechs's eyes dropped unconsciously to Duo's bare feet, focussing on that silver band about his pale toe.
Duo hurriedly wiped his hands on a rag, then handed around the glasses. Zechs took the one offered to him with murmured thanks. Duo held another to Quatre, and picked up his own.
"Are we supposed to toast or something?" he asked gruffly.
"I think just 'cheers' will do," Quatre started, but Zechs stopped him, raising his glass to the two men. "To old friends," he corrected.
To his surprise, Quatre blushed. He was confused until he remembered what he'd said to Quatre a week ago-- that they'd known each other forever. He couldn't stop his own smile.
Duo turned abruptly away, to the counter and the nut bowl. "Dinner's on the table," he said flatly.
"It smells wonderful," Zechs replied. He looked blandly at Duo's feet a final time, and resolved not to anymore.
Duo was talking. "Yeah, well, I didn't cook it, the guy who cooks up at the Big House did, they brought it over and I just warmed it... you don't really care. Go sit down, everyone."
At least he wasn't the only one who was uncomfortable with the arrangments.
The dining room was kiddy-corner to the kitchen, and Quatre led the way to it. It was an intimate room, barely large enough for the small table with its three settings, and a simple pine hutch and buffet. The dinner dishes were split between the two surfaces-- char-grilled sirloin, a salad of prawns, a tureen of soup that smelled of mushrooms, and a large platter of black bread and butter. Clearly they ate well at the ‘Big House', if these were the leftovers. Zechs took the chair he was pointed to, a seating arrangement that left Quatre between himself and Duo. Zechs sipped from his wine glass as Duo continued his awkward role as host, serving generous portions of beef and salad onto the china plates. When they were all seated, he ventured, "You know, I don't believe Quatre told me what you do now."
Duo looked up from his soup bowl. There was a defensive edge to his voice as he answered, "I'm studying right now. I do stuff around the Big House for some extra cash."
"Education is priceless."
"I would have said expensive as fuck. Er, hell. Sorry." Zechs was interested to see that Quatre was not the only one who could flush with embarrassment. Duo glared at his spoon as he stirred his soup with more concentration than it really required. Zechs found himself chuckling.
"Fuck, yes," he said.
Quatre was grinning. He buttered a slice of bread, and said, "Duo didn't go to school for long when he was younger. Consequently, he values it far more than I do."
Duo glanced at him. There wasn't anything particularly remarkable about the look, but it told Zechs that Duo had not appreciated that revelation. Was he afraid Zechs would think him uneducated? Or did he merely resent the unconscious arrogance in Quatre's tone? They may have been lovers once, Zechs thought, but there were clearly unresolved differences. It must have been difficult, coming from such different lives. Though Duo made his way about this quaint country living as well as either Quatre or Zechs did, he wasn't at ease with it, and it showed.
Zechs picked up his silverware, and cut into the sirloin. "Some very important life skills can only be learned in school, Quatre," he said. Quatre dismissed him with a wave of his hand, but Duo turned surprised purple eyes to him. Zechs met them forthrightly, and silently conveyed an apology. Duo blinked, and then his gaze became appraising.
Zechs chewed a bite, and decided the chef knew his business. "I don't do anything for a living, either," he said. "I could never think what."
"You could teach fencing," Quatre offered.
"I'm completely out of shape." He speared a large prawn with his fork. "I don't need the money, fortunately."
Duo stuck his elbow on the edge of the table and latched his hand over his braid, hunching restively over his plate. "Do you ever get bored?" he asked.
"No." Zechs considered that for a moment. "How odd. Do you?"
"Hella bored, yeah." He grinned fleetingly. "So bored I actually went to school."
Zechs glanced at Quatre, but there was nothing forthcoming from that direction. Quatre was making short work of his soup, his expression one of abstract attention.
"Do you like it?" he asked politely, a beat too late to be natural.
Duo shrugged, and stabbed a piece of meat to push about the plate and into his salad. "It's all right," he said. "I went to a Federation school back in the day. It was different then, all propaganda about the Earth. And for a little while in the JAP sector, when we were hiding out from OZ. That place was so unreal, like, fencing and dancing and crap. Now I learn useful stuff." He used the tip of his finger to push the meat from his fork. "I might even try to get my diploma."
"You should," Zechs said. "There's a feeling of accomplishment in that."
He'd surprised the other man again. Duo scowled down at his plate, and fell silent. Quatre caught his eyes, and smiled; then he rejoined the conversation, changing the subject cheerfully.
"I was telling Duo about Treize's new castle," he said. "Have you been in the Riding House? It's actually the oldest building on the site. The original forge is still there. It's a ruin now, though. They held executions there during the war, did you know that?"
"Yes," Zechs answered shortly, and did not elaborate. He knew a great deal about that, actually; and didn't it just highlight once again that the two men calmly eating dinner across from him had been his enemies? The executions had all been of resistance leaders.
Quatre caught his mood, and hesitated for a moment before continuing gamely. "Treize was thinking about turning it into a museum, at last mention. I think he likes the idea of the publicity. Not to mention the extra revenue."
That surprised Zechs. "Does he need the money?" Was Treize broke? If he was, it was news to Zechs. The prospect shed a certain amount of light on recent events.
"It's an expensive business, being in the government," Quatre said drily. "He probably spent a good twenty thousand on that party, just to get his face seen by the right people."
"Champagne fountain." He didn't add any more, disgusted with the thought.
Duo snorted. He said, "If I ever have twenty k in pocket change, it's not going to feed nobles in fancy dress, I can tell you that." He put on an expression of lofty noblesse oblige, and added with pretended generosity, "Although if you ask me nicely, Quat, I might buy you a sammich."
Quatre laughed at both of them, even ripping a corner from his bread and tossing it at Duo teasingly. Zechs watched them play, increasingly puzzled. He did seem better. But why? Was he taking the medication that he'd ignored while staying with Zechs? Was it being in a familiar home, or just away from the vulnerability of a brush with hard chemicals? Or had Duo been holding out the promise of this dinner date as a reward, for good behaviour? He ate slowly, using the mindless task as a mask for his thoughts.
They adjourned to the sitting room after the meal, where Duo served them coffee in mismatching cups and abruptly left them alone. "I have to study," he said. "I have a test this week." He gave Zechs a look meant to remind him of the rules, it seemed, and then he shuffled backward into the hallway and disappeared back into the kitchen. Zechs heard the clatter of dishes and a faucet turning on a moment later.
Quatre placed his coffee on one of the small tables, and left his chair to join Zechs on the short sofa. Zechs touched his hair, brushing back a cowlick from his forehead as Quatre smiled at him.
"You seem happier," he said.
Quatre nodded. "I'm so glad you came tonight."
"So am I. I almost didn't." He hesitated. "I thought maybe Duo was healthier for you than I am," he admitted carefully. "Tonight hasn't actually disproved that."
Quatre's smile disappeared into a frown, and his eyes became worried. "What are you talking about?"
He shrugged one shoulder. "He's trying with you," he explained cumbrously, "and you do seem better than you did."
Quatre's frown deepened. "First off," he said crisply, "you're a pretty huge part of that. Second, where the hell do you get off deciding what's best for me?"
"I haven't decided anything, Quatre." Their hands were sitting very near each other on the paisley sofa cushion, but he couldn't make himself move to hold the other man's. "I'm not going anywhere," he said. "I can't. Don't be angry."
"I'm not." The line between his eyebrows eased a bit. "Well, a little. I don't like how you deprecate yourself."
He stiffened at that. "I'm sorry, but this is who I am," he replied coldly. "There are so many forces at work here. I'm still trying to figure out how to be and in which direction to walk."
Quatre exhaled sharply, and turned his head to stare at the dormant fireplace. Zechs was sorry for the tension, but it made him angry. At Quatre, for trying to make him face himself, and at himself as well, for not being ready or willing. They sat in sullen silence as a minute turned into two, and he began to feel just a little chastened.
"Duo says I should... I think the phrase was 'integrate this new relationship into the existing'... existing whatever. My life." Quatre looked back at Zechs. "Integrating aside, I know that-- I would like us to see each other. A lot."
"He told you to integrate me into your life?" That surprised him, but Duo really was making an effort. And it was the opposite of what Treize had told him to do, interestingly.
"I think it means something between regular lunch dates and drawing you a map to all the dead bodies," Quatre said.
Zechs laughed at his dry tone. Quatre relaxed as he did, and he understood then being remote with Quatre, even when he had to be, was not a good idea. It seemed that despite how much they'd shared and done already, they were still in a tentative place in their-- relationship.
"That's a good sound," the other man said softly.
"Yes." He made a decision then. He pulled Quatre against his shoulder, glad when Quatre accepted the gesture and returned it with one of his own, lifting a hand to Zechs's chest and stroking over the cashmere. Solemnly he said, "You know you can come to me whenever you want, yes?"
"Yes."
"Will you?"
Quatre didn't answer right away, and Zechs tried not to be disappointed; he knew exactly what the cause of the hesitation was. When Quatre finally spoke, his careful phrasing told him he'd been right. "I'll come as often as I'm able, until you're sick of me," Quatre said.
"That isn't going to happen."
The exhale was a sigh this time. Quatre dropped his head to Zechs's shoulder. "Why, you do say the sweetest things, kind sir," he said lightly.
"Not all the time," he admitted honestly. The soft hair was drawing his fingers, sleek and wispy. Quatre seemed to like it, because he sighed again. In fact he turned his mouth to Zechs's neck, and sucked gently, making him shudder. "Let's just concentrate on this time," Quatre murmured against his throat.
He let out the groan that started somewhere south of his gut. "I'm not used to this." Quatre sucked harder in response, adding a tingling pressure to the movement of his tongue. He pulled on Zechs's jumper, tugging it out of his belted trousers, and slipped a hand beneath the fabric. A moment later he was pinching Zechs's nipple, worrying it between thumb and forefinger, scratching with his nail. Zechs had closed his eyes without realising it; it was the jerk of his hips off the couch that forced him to pay attention. "Quatre," he said, trying to keep quiet.
Teeth nipped the juncture of his neck and shoulder in time with a particularly hard tweak that went straight to his groin.
He was holding Quatre's head to his chest, and he had to force himself to stop pressing down on the skull under his palm. "I'm going to want you to come home with me," he said in a rush.
The fingers moved to his other nipple, rolling it back and forth. "You could stay here." Quatre licked at the dip between his collarbones.
"With you and Duo?"
"It's not like we sleep in the same bedroom... " He sucked hard enough to raise blood, and his other hand was inching down the back of his trousers. "He might even go out."
"You won't feel uncomfortable?" he tried, a last resort he didn't really expect to work. Clearly Quatre was not at all uncomfortable, but Zechs was. He wasn't blind to the way he was being manipulated. Quatre must have agreed to a long list of rules before Zechs had even been allowed through the door, and leaving the house clearly violated that list. He felt like the interloper-- like a thief. Since Duo had admitted that he was in love with Quatre, and the way he'd tried so hard tonight to be a good friend and make room for Zechs, it felt a little wrong to do this-- especially under the same roof with Duo. Yet, he did want to be with Quatre, and Quatre wasn't sitting in that room rubbing all over Duo's chest.
Beneath it was ZERO's snide whisper, confirming the worst of it. He wasn't honourable enough to stop himself from taking what was so willingly offered.
He swallowed down the worst of the need. "Hold that thought," he said, gently detaching Quatre's arms from his torso. "I need the bathroom."
Quatre's expression was one of priceless confusion, but politeness won out. "Oh-- all right," he said, sinking back in the softa. "Down the hall."
Zechs stood, untucking his jumper the rest of the way to add a layer of fabric between his arousal and plain view. There was nothing to do about any marks Quatre might have left on his neck, unfortunately. He smiled awkwardly at the young man who sat looking at him with a mixture of impatience and amusement, and then he left the room.
The kitchen noises had stopped, but the light was still on. Zechs stopped in the doorway. Duo was drying dishes slowly, his head bowed as if he were deep in thought. But he looked up immediately when Zechs cleared his throat.
Without preamble, he said, "Quatre invited me to stay tonight."
Duo's face went blank. A moment later his throat moved, pale in the overhead light. "Oh," he said cautiously.
"I'm not sure either of us will be comfortable with that."
Duo swallowed. Zechs couldn't help but feel responsible for the hurt the younger man was trying, unsuccessfully, to hide. He pulled another plate from the sink and dried it rapidly with his towel. "So what do you want me to do?" he asked gruffly.
"I don't know," Zechs said honestly. "What do you want me to do?"
Red was creeping up Duo's neck. "I can... head up to the Big House. Sometimes I sleep there anyway."
Zechs shook his head. "I won't put you out of your own bed."
"Yeah, well, it's your bed now, isn't it?" Duo snapped back. He thrust the plate onto the rack and pulled the plug from the sink. The sucking sound of water emptying into the drain started as he dried his hands with furious movements.
Zechs glared at him. "It was my impression that it had been his alone for some time," he said pointedly. "Has that changed?"
"No." But Duo turned away so abruptly, Zechs almost wondered if he were lying-- except that Duo hadn't lied to him yet, even when it would have been to his advantage to do so. "Look," he was saying now, "I really, really don't want to talk about this any further. I'll give you your space. I'll be back in the morning though, and you'll be going home."
Zechs moved aggressively to block Duo's exit as another possibility struck him. "I don't want you punishing him with this if I stay," he said, allowing more than a little hint of threat to colour his tone.
"Back off, big guy," the smaller man snapped, lifting hot violet eyes up to his. Far from backing down, he moved further into Zech's space. "And don't you dare accuse me of deliberately hurting him, after I went out of my way tonight to make this easy for both of you."
"You brought me here for this?"
"No, but I feel like a rube for not seeing it coming, so would you mind letting me go lick my wounded pride somewhere where I'm not confronted by the thought of you two-- doing whatever?"
That had enough humiliation in it to be real. Zechs relaxed his posture slowly, signaling his own surrender. He said, "I'm not your enemy."
"No, you're my replacement."
It didn't particularly shock Zechs much to find that Duo felt that way, but it seemed to come as a surprise to the man himself. His angry pose disappeared as his eyes widened, and he took an unconscious step away. Zechs let him go. "And who did you replace?" he asked lazily.
It was almost painful to watch the play of naked emotion over Duo's face. He turned away again, picking up the discarded towel and folding it. "You're used to getting your way, aren't you?" he demanded. "You're a lot like him." Zechs didn't reply, sensing that was only a feint. He was right. A moment later, in wretched honesty, Duo's shoulders slumped as he leaned over the sink. "I feel like I'm losing him. Okay? And it sucks, but if it's what he wants, what can I do?"
"To hear him tell it, you shoved him in my direction months ago," Zechs reminded him. "If that's not true and I'm tearing you apart, I'll step aside."
"Bullshit. Quat would rip me a new one, and then he'd go after you."
"Fine," he agreed tersely. "Just as long as we understand each other, and you understand that you're not so much losing him, as letting him go." He rubbed his mouth, then admitted in a gentler tone, "And I understand that my day to be in your position will come."
Duo's head came up. That was not, Zechs realised, something Duo had ever considered. But Zechs had. At length. The thought had preyed on him, drugged or sober, whether a taunt from ZERO or his own gut. He could admit, as well, that he didn't know if he would handle it as well as Duo was. He didn't think he had it in him to invite another man to dinner, and watch Quatre turn that smile on him.
Duo rubbed his hands on his ugly jumper. He ran unseeing eyes over the clean kitchen. "He takes his pills at eleven," he told Zechs. "Please be sure he does."
He nodded, though Duo wasn't looking for it. "I will." He paused. "And-- I'm sorry."
Duo nodded stiffly. Zechs couldn't catch his eyes as Duo slipped past him out of the kitchen. Zechs followed until he saw that Duo was only going as far as the closet by the front door. He watched silently as Duo removed a coat and shoes from it, the little toe ring winking just before it disappeared into a boot caked with dried mud. Nor did Duo look at him before he left, just opening the door and walking out as if he were only going out for groceries.
He'd said he was sorry, and he was. He'd known about Duo's intense dignity long before they'd met in person. He himself had written the memo ordering the distribution of video from 02's retention awaiting execution on colony B3892-D-- tape from his escape with Heero Yuy. Yuy had broken into his cell, but rather than immediately freeing his comrade, he had aimed a gun at him. No older than a cadet fresh from Victoria Training Academy, 02 had climbed with painful slowness to his feet to face his fellow rebel, and greeted his executioner with a raised chin and a smile of understanding. Zechs had watched that tape a hundred times, trying to glean the character of the mysterious pilots of the Gundams. Not long after that, he had gone renegade himself. Zechs had always felt drawn to the kindred spirit he recognised in Heero Yuy, and he had discovered much that was familiar in Quatre, but there had always been something about 02 that had touched a chord in him. Duo was his Peter Pan, ageless, and ancient, and curiously alone.
But Duo was not the person that he wanted to spend the night with. Quatre was waiting for him, and by now it would be obvious that he hadn't gone to the loo. He did stop there, washing his hands and giving himself a moment to remember why he had come tonight, to think about what was going to happen, to imagine what it was going to feel like. When he left the loo he was able to smile easily.
"Sorry I was so long," he said as he entered the room. Quatre was standing in front of the fireplace, fidgeting with a trinket from the mantle. Zechs came to a stop behind him, and slid his arms about Quatre's slim waist, pulling him close. He bent his head to nuzzle the back of Quatre's neck, kissing the fine warm hairs.
Quatre tilted his head, and Zechs could feel his breathing quicken, but he wasn't as willing as he'd been before Zechs had interrupted them. It wasn't long before Zechs knew he had to address it. He turned Quatre to face him, gripping his upper arms lightly and stroking with his thumbs. "What's wrong?" he asked simply. "Did you change your mind?"
"No," Quatre assured him. His eyes were blue, though, and Zechs was sure by now that this was a tell-tale indicator of his moods. Quatre stroked fingers over his sternum, but said abruptly, "Why didn't you just say you were going to talk to Duo?"
"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."
"I would have talked to him."
"I needed to do it," Zechs told him. He dropped his hands back to Quatre's waist. "I'm taking something away from him, Quatre. The least I could do is be straight with him about it."
"I'm not his."
"He thinks you are." That wasn't entirely fair, and Zechs amended it. "He wishes, at least."
"Do you think I'm yours, then?" Quatre pressed.
"I think you're your own." He said it firmly. "I'm happy you choose to be with me, but the point is that it's your choice." Quatre did relax a little then. Zechs felt it, and brought Quatre a step closer, until their hips were pressed together and he could encircle the other man with his arms. "What's wrong?" he asked again.
Quatre dropped his head to Zechs's chest. "I'm not... I'm not feeling like a very good person, right now."
"Why?"
But Quatre didn't, or couldn't, explain. He slipped away from Zechs to replace the little figurine he held on the mantle. Zechs didn't let him get far, immediately recapturing him. "You're a good person," he said. "It's not your fault you and Duo came apart."
"I don't want to talk about Duo right now." His fingers wormed under Zechs's jumper again, brushing cool and exploring against his stomach. Zechs smiled at the tickling sensation they raised.
"We can talk about anything you want," he murmured, "or nothing at all."
"We have a night. I want to make good use of it." He smoothed his palm over Zechs's skin. "We don't have to fuck if you don't want to. But touching can be good... can be perfect."
"We can do whatever you want." He mimicked the movement of Quatre's hands on Quatre's back, then dared to go lower and cup his hands around the round of Quatre's backside, squeezing lightly where his buttocks met his thighs. "I like touching you," he said softly.
Quatre smiles up at him, and his eyes were green and laughing. "Then get started," he said.
In answer he began to open Quatre's shirt, taking his time with each button. When it hung open to where it was tucked into his belt, he bent to kiss Quatre's throat, seeking the little hollow just above his collarbones. It was his favourite spot on Quatre's body, a place of vulnerability, pale and soft. Quatre tilted back his head to offer it, and their hips came flush as he arched his spine. It was enough to remind Zechs of Quatre's aching back, and after that followed the promise he'd made to Duo about the medication. He stepped back, leaving a final brush of his tongue against Quatre's skin.
"Should we go upstairs?" he murmured.
Pink had stained Quatre's fair skin already, giving him a vibrancy and innocence that made Zechs ache a little. He nodded his assent, and took Zechs by the hand. The stairwell was just outside the sitting room, and Zechs let himself be led up the creaking old steps, ghosting teasing fingers down Quatre's spine as they climbed. When Quatre reached the top of the stairs, he abruptly stopped and turned back to face Zechs. Standing above him, for once the taller of them, Quatre touched Zechs's face, and then his hair; and then he leant down and tenderly kissed Zechs's forehead. Zechs couldn't stop the little sound that escaped him.
"You're wonderful," Quatre said simply.
He blushed for the first time since he was fourteen years old. "I'm not," he said huskily, "but it's nice you think so."
"I do."
Zechs kissed him fully for that, as Quatre's hands cupped his face.
End Part 3
(:./erin/zero3)
