Author: Chauni

Website: www.oocities.org/asukalangley2nd/

Warnings: Violence, Angst, Language, Attempted rape, Yaoi

Pairings: 1x2, 2x4, 3x4, 5+2

Disclaimer: I don’t own the GW boy nor did I make any money off this. Pity me.

Bind The Soul

Chapter 3

Even with the optimistic and usually talkative Duo on board, the flight to Berlin was strangely quiet and tense. The braided boy’s amethyst eyes stared silently out of the plane’s little porthole window, his gaze flying amongst the clouds that gently enveloped the small aircraft. Heero sat beside him, typing away at the laptop he had brought along, only for the sole sake of keeping his mind off of Duo and his perhaps secret relationship with Quatre.

It doesn’t make any sense. He isn’t taking this like he should. His fingers clicked away at the keys, moving in a memorized dance of ease and skill. Damnit, Heero, stop thinking about this! You have a mission ahead of you!

Wufei sat across from the two lovers, his dark sloe eyes staring out the window in a contemplative silence. A few strands of obsidian hair had slipped away from the band that held them captive and kissed his cheeks, much to his annoyance. In the palm of his hand, his chin lay, as his gaze danced among the same clouds Duo’s did.

Finally, bored, he allowed his eyelids to flutter shut and dwell on things he didn’t wish to think about.

The only good thing about the assignment was that it had been completed with no casualties. However, wounded there were, more wounded than they wished to count or have the media know about. Sighing, Wufei made his way through the hospital halls, his quiet footfalls echoing off the dispassionate walls to strike his ears again and again.

Once reaching room 352, he knocked once and entered before a response, hoping that he didn’t seem rude. Something about hospitals unnerved him; perhaps it was the death and cries that hung in the air, that was dragged into him with every breath. He shrugged it off; now was not the time to dwell on such frivolous concerns.

Smoothly, he crossed through the blindingly white room, ignoring the empty bed and heading straight for the one by the window. He could see the rumpled form beneath the stark white sheets, could see how delicate it looked. With a quick movement, he opened the curtains to the large bay window, allowing the buttery beams of sunlight to bathe across the bed.

Sally Po smiled as she laid there, her face a tad bit too pale, and her hair out of its usual “croissant” style, as Duo put it. It fell in ripples across the pillow, brushing against her shoulders, but clumps of blood were more than visible as they caught and tangled her locks. Numerous machines kept constant vigils with their high-pitched beeps and sporadic blips. Bags full of various drugs and nutrients hung from their posts like guards, dripping slowly into tubes that pierced the tender flesh of her arms. His eyes flickered over to the medical chart that hung from the end of the bed, spying the letters “GSW” in bold red before moving past.

“Good to see you, Chang,” she whispered, her voice cracking ever so slightly as it struck the disinfected walls.

He took a seat in a nearby uncomfortable chair, smoothing his hands over his Preventer’s uniform. “You are my partner. I had to make sure you were all right.”

Her head rolled loosely to the side, as if lost all will to move. Eyes slipped shut with long lashes licking her pale cheeks. “Oh. That’s all?”

An arch of obsidian rose above one sloe eye as he regarded the cryptic response. “Should there be more?”

“I…” Her voice trailed off to a quiet hum, as she slowly turned her face towards him like a plant to the sun, eyes opening to a slight sliver, color in a boring room. “You…don’t understand, do you, Wufei?”

“Understand…?” he whispered, barely above the repetitive beeps of the random machines.

“I love you.”

All time seemed to stop for a moment, and even that cursed monitor seemed to cease its cry. His breath, hot and solid, caught in his throat, as his obsidian slates went wide in a momentary loss of reason. “I…Sally…”

“You don’t have to say anything.” She struggled under the blankets for a moment, finally sitting up as the quiet whir of the bed’s movement filled the small vicinity. “I know how you feel about…him, and I know I can’t compete. I probably shouldn’t have said anything, at the risk of our partnership, our friendship, but I also believe in telling of one’s feelings, emotions and not hiding things behind masks.”

Numbly, he nodded, his eyes on the tiled wall, peering through it as he spoke in a monotone that didn’t seem to pour from his throat. “It’s not honorable.”

“No, it’s not.” After a deep breath, she closed her eyes, resting hard against the pillow as if she could go through it, away from his dispassionate eyes. “Wufei, I-”

With a quick movement that was reminiscent of his days as a soldier, he pushed himself out of the chair and stalked towards the door. “You said it yourself, you know about my feelings, and you don’t want to jeopardize our friendship. There is only one solution: this never happened.”

“What are you saying, Chang?”

“I’m saying, wipe this from your memory, woman. It didn’t happen. I’ll see you at the office when you’re better.” The only acknowledgement that he had been heard was the sharp intake of wavering breath, and the shifting on the bed, sanitized sheets rustling in the stiff room. “Goodbye, Sally.”

Trowa heard the soft sigh of the ebony haired boy a row behind him and flinched inwardly. He had a feeling he knew what rested on the stoic boy’s mind, but kept his peace. He had seen the fleeting glances towards the braided American cast out of the corner of sloe eyes, but said nothing, content to observe and make his own ideas. Had this been any other time, as well, he would have loved to have sit and mulled over the beliefs he had over the other members of his team, for people-watching was a particular favorite pastime of his, but as it were, the thoughts of Quatre wouldn’t disappear, wouldn’t leave him be as he stared at the enticing clouds outside the window.

Bearing the happiness that only love could bring, his emerald eyes danced in the candlelit room, flickering over everything, making sure all was right within the small world of his humble apartment. He could have moved, could have gotten a house or something larger, but it was all frivolous, unneeded distractions from life. He was content in his one bedroom apartment, with his few meager possessions, things he had gotten throughout the random years as mercenary and war-hero.

Soft music floated through the room as he flicked the switch on the stereo, a quiet subtle piece by Chopin. Humming in the back of his throat, he made his way to the kitchen, checking on the stuffed cabbage he had cooking on the stove. There was no special occasion for this night, other than his platinum angel was visiting. Romance had been harbored deep within his soul, though he knew not where it had originated; after all, roses and candles are not a common place for a soldier.

The knock that was soft and almost hesitant reached his ears just barely over the music and the sound of water boiling, and drying his hands on the kitchen towel, he did a quick gait towards the door. Taking a deep breath and straightening the turtleneck that was covering his upper body, he grabbed hold of the handle and pulled it open.

The face of his lover was not the smiling visage he was so accustomed to but a quick avalanche of a mask, crumbling into a mess of sorrow so deep it marred those sea-colored eyes. His lower tier was drug beneath the perfect even teeth, nibbled and gnawed in a relentless show of nervousness. His hands were clenched before him, clasped at his waist, the skin stretched and knuckles white.

“What is it, love?” The Heavyarms pilot wasted no time with pleasantries, found no need for them in such obvious distress.

“We…we need to talk,” the other boy replied, stepping into the apartment. His gaze found the ground, a rather cheap beige carpet that had apparently been recently vacuumed by the tracks that still rested deeply in it. His voice shook with something akin to fear, and his aura was anything but stable.

Trowa steered his lover towards the couch, gently depositing him upon the brown cushions. The blonde seemed a bit more together once he was sitting down, but his unnatural pale skin did not darken in the least. Several attempts at swallowing hard, and he had finally found enough strength to speak again.

“Trowa, it’s about us.”

If he could have, he would have ran from the scene, would have covered his ears and shut his eyes, but this was not the time to do such frivolous acts. They certainly wouldn’t have amended any problems that had arisen, nor would they have cured his angel’s distress. Dreading what was coming, for he knew it in his heart of hearts, he tried to mentally calm himself and let the boy speak.

“Trowa, it’s not working out, not with the amount of work I have to deal with, and not with our pasts. We…we just can’t work, not now, not ever. Our love was born of death, and something like that cannot survive.”

His voice was foreign to his own ears, soft and alien and cold and something he couldn’t have dreamed of. “Who have you been talking to?”

His skin turned to snow as his eyes flickered upwards to stare at him, nervous, afraid. “I…I don’t know what you mean.”

“This isn’t you, Quatre.” The thoughts were jumbled in a tangle of knots inside his head, and after a deep breath, he was able to grab on a few strands and form words. “Was it the board at work? Your sisters? Rashid? Who is telling you to say this?!”

The obvious flinch was not missed by the heated emerald eyes of the taller boy, who leveled the steel of his gaze at the flustered blonde beside him. Quatre finally looked up at Trowa, his jaw clenched tightly so that the words were almost slurred between his teeth.

“No one has told me anything. I have come to these conclusions on my own merit, have seen and felt the things in my heart. I cannot deny anymore what is in front of me. We cannot work.”

“You should win an Academy Award for your performance, angel,” the other boy replied in that dead voice, the affectionate name for his lover dripping with lethal tendencies. Eyes on his hands, which were clenching the cushions of the couch in a death-grip, he continued his verbal abuse. “You’re lying; do you think I can’t tell? Do you honestly think that little of me that I can’t see what’s going on around us? Do you believe me to be stupid?!”

“Trowa, don’t yell, pl-”

“You have no right what to tell me to do, not when you can’t even live by your own desires!” In a flourish, he was too his feet, hands clenched tightly as his sides. Somewhere behind him, delicious scents of a meal that would never be consumed wafted throughout the apartment as the music played low and soft like a lullaby. “Get out. I cannot see you right now.”

“Bu-”

“Get out! Come back to me when you are a man of your own free will and not a puppet by the lawyers and corporation.” He watched the fumbling gestures of the boy, the way his manicured hands shook, the way his eyes remained down with the golden tresses dangling before them, shielding him from the world. He watched as his love made his trembling way towards the door, having apparent difficulty with the knob as he tried to pull it open. He could feel his own mouth opening, to call out an apology, a truce, an encouragement that they could work such matters out, but nothing came forth, not until after the door slipped shut behind the Arabian.

“Quatre…”

There’s so much I have to say, need to say. I have to get you back, just so I can say the final thing in the argument, so I can tell you that I’ve never stopped loving you.

The dulled jade eyes stared out the window, watching as the clouds floated lazily past in wisps and tangles, seeing his impassive demeanor reflected in the honest glass. Distantly, he could feel his fingertips caress the smooth surface of his mirrored self, watched blankly as the digits went over the illusionary cheeks.

How far we have fallen. Do we have any farther left to drop before we hit bottom?

“Troooowa? Ya there? Wakey-wakey, sleeping beauty.”

It seemed as though the braided one was back to his old self, or at least playing that overly familiar part. Trowa knew about masks, how to utilize such an item with proficiency that no one would be the wiser, and that gave him an unfair advantage when peering at the companions he had gathered over the last few years. One visible emerald eye flickered over to the boy, noting the slight strain that cracked at the corner of those hypnotizing amethyst eyes, noting the way the smile never reached the boy’s gaze.

“What do you want, Duo?”

“We have four minutes until the drop zone,” he replied, the jester tone of voice slipping away to reveal the more prominent, trained expression of the soldier that lurked behind each one of their souls. “Get ready.”

A beige backpack sailed it’s way towards his lap, and he saw rather than felt his arms moving out to capture it before it hurt him too badly. Grunting, it collided with his thighs a bit, the metal jingling together in a soft tinkling sound. Leaning forward in his seat, he slid his arms through the spaces, securing the pack onto his back, feeling the familiar weight resting behind him. God, when was the last time he had parachuted?

The smooth, even baritone of Rashid’s voice floated over the speakers, the struggle to keep calm when his basically adoptive son was at risk.

“We’re over point A-15, drop will be in forty-five seconds. Under the cover of darkness, your black camouflaged parachutes should be unidentifiable. Good luck you guys, and please, return Master Quatre to us.”

Something about the way Duo’s eyes burned with an inhuman passion, a desire, no a need, to accomplish this mission unnerved the unibanged pilot, making him wonder if there was more going on than he had initially thought. He might have been surprised to know that the Japanese boy two aisles down from him wondered the same thing.