Promises Under The Influence
by Uru-Chan

Pale light stroked the naked blade of a sword, clenched in the moist fist of a raven-haired boy. We meet again, my Dragon. I promised we would.

Treize? Wufei shook his head, challenging the thick velvet folds of the dream. The heady scent of roses enveloped him; he was drowning in the sickly-sweet heat of his rival's presence. I told you, I--I don't want to see you again. Aristocratic fingers grasped at his nape, threading through the lush dark silk, drawing him irresistibly closer. Stop! You're not listening, you never listen to--Wufei's sword slipped from his grasp, his limbs rigid with the shock of Treize's thumb parting his lips. Iie! You shouldn't--I shouldn't be here, this isn't right--

I find it strange that someone as honorable as you, Dragon, should lie so easily.

Lie? he cried in outrage, struggling fruitlessly against a rigid embrace. Hanase! Dark fists pummeled the fine white fabric of Treize's sleeping tunic, until spent, he collapsed against his shoulder.

Indeed, the man responded indulgently. Only your pride rebels against me. One large palm snaked beneath Wufei's shirt, tracing soothing patterns on the boy's flesh. My proud beautiful one, my lonely one. That's why you return to me, isn't it? Penetrating my defenses, appearing in my bedroom with your sword poised to slay me where I lie. When in truth, what you really want, he murmured against the boy's mouth, is for me to slay you in my bed. Wufei's jaw dropped, his face performing a slow burn. Countless denials rose to his lips, but his rival thrust his tongue into the boy's mouth, effectively silencing him. The older man's hands clenched Wufei's chest, thumbs seeking his nipples, circling with delicious pressure.

Treize, he groaned miserably, It's been so long....

You're frantic tonight aren't you? Patience is a virtue, young Dragon.

Treize, please! The submissive desperation in the Chinese boy's tone pleased Treize immensely.

Perhaps a reward then, for your honesty. Wufei observed in a kind of drugged detachment as the honey-gold head descended, anticipation sharpening until his breath came in ragged gasps. Treize was resting between his thighs, his hands thrusting them apart, lingering for a cruel eternity. The moist heat of the man's breath scalded the fine flesh, he was lifting his hips so shamefully, and at last, at last, he was---

CRASH!!

Jagged cracks of white-hot light shattered the sky, the roar of thunder thrusting Wufei into consciousness. His back snapped rigid in the chair, one hand grasping for his sword, half-mast eyes blinking sleepily in the night-dark kitchen. Rain pelted the filthy windows, battering the panes in thick, rhythmic sheets.

"A storm," Wufei murmured, "nothing more." The Chinese boy nestled his cheek against the bow of his arms, shifting in the hard wooden chair. His eyes drifted closed, breath lengthening almost instantly toward much-needed--

CRASH!! Wufei jerked his head from the table, eyes fixed on the wriggling of the kitchen doorknob. Two figures lurched into view, features rendered sinister by the beaded moonlight.

"You're late," Wufei remarked soberly, settling into his chair with a veneer of boredom. Heero merely unwound the bloody figure of Trowa from about his shoulders, helping him into a chair. The Chinese boy's eyes flicked briefly over the Heavyarms pilot, as well as the brooding boy who'd helped him in. Patches of thick crusty blood matted their clothing into odd ripples of fabric. Trowa's turtleneck had been ripped from the left shoulder down, revealing a stained, frothy abundance of gauze. Heero himself appeared to have fared better, though it was difficult to tell if those were bruises beneath his second skin of rain-slicked filth.

"The mission was successful," Heero grunted, gazing impassively at the storm outside. "It's imperetive we return immediately."

"Immediately? Nanase, Yuy! Must I point out the obvious flaws in your mission profile? You may have succeeded in your reconnaissance, but they obviously discovered you, and neither of you are in peak condition. I'm sure you can accomplish your hacking," he admitted. "But how is Trowa to assassinate anyone if he can't hold a gun?"

"The bullet only grazed my shoulder," Trowa supplied quietly.

"Even so--"

"It's a new facility," Heero interrupted, glowering fiercely at his opposition. "The target will vacate after three more days, and a large convoy of troops will be arriving within the week. We leave tomorrow at dawn."

"Very well," Wufei muttered, settling back into his chair. "Do as you like. But you'll have to do it without Quatre."

"What's wrong with Quatre?" Trowa interjected sharply.

"Nothing of consequence. Maxwell pulled his disappearing act the other night. I advised Quatre he was more than likely passed out in that bar across the street, but he insisted on searching. They both came home soaked from the rain, and it seems Quatre's come down with something."

"We can function with four," Heero grumbled irritably. A quiet rustling alerted him to Trowa rising from his chair. The lean and angular pilot made his way toward the hallway, grasping the countertop for support. The Japanese pilot made to follow. K'so. He paused at the trickling sensation of fresh blood along his ankle. He glared at the wound, cursing the stitches for tearing, willing the gash to heal.

"Where's the first aid kit?" Heero inquired, the words an exhalation of weariness.

"I believe it's still in Maxwell's room," Wufei replied. Heero raised one questioning brow, but said nothing.

"Go to bed, Wufei," he ordered quietly, entering the shadow of the hallway. "You're not keeping watch anyway."

"Hai," the Chinese boy replied, his cheeks burning with shame, as Heero's footsteps bled into the night.


On to part five. Back to part three.