Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Once More ❯ Once More ( Chapter 1 )

`Once More'

by Shella

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Summary: [13x5 yaoi] "When we meet again, one of us will die." Another aspect emerges to Wufei and Treize's continuing duels, bringing fleeting happiness and lasting pain.

Rating: PG

Warnings: Yaoi (male homosexual relationships), angst

Disclaimer: The show is not mine. Boo-hoo etc. Let grief be uncontained.

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"Back again, Dragon?"

He nods, face expressionless. The steel whisper of a drawn blade rings through the air as the katana comes alive in his hand. The weapon murmurs its strength, its lethal beauty, its deadly skill, but its wielder is silent. Black eyes warn of danger.

Treize lifts himself to his feet and steps across to the wall beside the desk. The rapier slides into his grip, at home once more as together they face their adversary. The sheath is placed silently aside.

"I cannot guarantee your safety a second time, Wufei."

"I did not ask for it then. I do not ask for it now."

For once, eloquence defers to silent understanding, and the two duellists take up stances. They proclaim their readiness, but they are not prepared for the real danger. There is something beyond and beneath this encounter that has nothing to do with war, with death, with honour, and since it cannot be seen or heard or felt it cannot be defended against. Each knows what they do, what they risk - but not everything they risk.

The swords sing to one another, revelling in the still quiet air and in the pulse of the steady hands that hold them. They serenade the battle, living for blood and strength and combat, tempered by honour and by the beauty of their dance. Silence enfolds them, a held breath of anticipation, the thrumming tension of muscles and sinews and nerves all centred on this moment.

The dance begins.

"Treize."

The utterance is directed, aimed so surely, so exclusively, that a person standing a few feet away would not hear it. His voice is quiet and hints at something neither mentioned nor known. Steel caresses pale flesh, tracing a delicate line along tender rose, sharp in its gentleness, unquestionable in its control.

Blue eyes accept defeat. His sword lies on the floor out of reach. Nobility demands acquiescence, and he will die by the code through which he lived.

"You win, Wufei. My life is yours."

He knows this. He knows that, with his victory, he can pierce that skin, watch crimson life escape. He knows that he will be avenged for the dishonour of being spared before, that his shame will be alleviated. He knows that this will accomplish the mission.

He doesn't know why he is reluctant.

The katana sighs as it slips home, resting once more at the boy's hip.

"You spared my life. I cannot, in justice, take it from you without first repaying that debt." He turns, shows his back to his defeated adversary. The window paces closer, but Treize is still near him, still with him, always so close.

There is a pause in the approach of his escape.

"When we meet again, one of us will die."

"It cannot be otherwise."

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Steel clashes on steel; the blades circle and skirmish again. Feet move lightly, arms gracefully. "I believe you have improved, Dragon."

Eyes narrow, obsidian slits focused in firm concentration. "I have not won yet." He ducks and steps sideways, a deflected blow turned wide before swiftly recovering and returning.

"Neither have I."

But whether either of them can truly win now has become questionable. They don't show it; the thrust and parry, the play and strike, is as strong and definitive as ever. There is no hesitation, no fumble, no allowance or quarter given. There is just the feeling, somewhere below the surface of the mind, that a victory will come at too heavy a cost. That it might not be worth it.

"You should not have spared me." A dance of indeterminate length, of improvised steps, of dangerous fascination.

"I might say the same of you."

And then it happens. Skill oversteps its limits, a plan is outwitted, the tenacity of a grasp is taken by surprise, and the wall sprouts two steel barbs. Their hands are empty. Rapier and katana have found a new home among the plaster scrolls and cream and gold paint. The air is hollow, home only to the tightly controlled breathing of those whose effort is not completed. The duel is over again.

There is stillness now, and around and through the harshly drawn breaths there is silence. Nobody has won, but the question of retrieving their weapons, of continuing their fight, is unmentionable. They stand, weaponless, separated by three feet and far too many thousand miles of conflict and opposition, and find that the space between them is far, far too much.

The duel is not forgotten; it is merely irrelevant. All that matters now is that they are apart and they should not be. The distance pulls at them, pleading, imploring, commanding to be bridged. It is a compulsion too pure to be primal and a yearning too instinctive to be conscious. It is so true and so real that he cannot bear it.

"Treize…"

"Wufei."

The silence remains, but music can be heard by the heart.

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Three times is too many. He can't claim ignorance any more. Not when his thoughts are shadowed so that every time he turns around he thinks of him. Not when seeing his face once more is of greater importance than defeating him. Not after they danced together.

There is more between them now than an unresolved duel. There is this, and it is worrying.

Oh, he knows that his feelings will never get in the way of his duty. He is bound by integrity, by honour, to the death. Any less, any weakness to emotion, would be unforgivable. He knows this. He will follow his rules.

But it hurts.

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This time, they don't even pretend to duel. No sooner is his presence reaffirmed than that inexplicable, unarguable urge returns, and he has gathered his dragon in his arms and everything dissolves into bliss. Not this visit the graceful, refined steps of a quiet dance; the intervening months become an eternity and even the most momentary tactile separation seems an agony of loss.

They know now that they are doomed. In the other, each has found something more wonderful and precious than they could ever have conceived, but their paths, both chosen and ascribed, mean that this miracle, this gift, must be thrown away. The tale of star-crossed lovers has been reawakened, with the innocence of youth removed from existence by the harsh reality of war and their places in it. Above and beyond all, inevitability is the painful knowledge that if fate decrees that they should fight, there will be no mercy.

So every second seems suddenly more valuable, and the improbable soul-felt desire that drives them into each other's arms sees that their feelings do not go unfulfilled.

Afterwards there are tears, few and far between but potent with the grief utter ecstasy can bring. It doesn't need to be said that he must leave, sooner rather than later, but for just a moment the world is as nothing outside the small cocoon of heaven he has found with his dragon.

He is conscious mostly of warmth. Treize's head tucked in the join between neck and shoulder; his hand, fingers entwined with Wufei's own; his body, a delicious weight that fits snugly against his. The blankets snuggle around him, delighting in supplying softness and comfort, but he cares more for the feel of skin on skin, damp and stick with sweat but at the same time smooth and dreamy and more than he could have hoped for. Awareness can do nothing to chill the satisfying warmth that seems to come from everywhere at once.

Treize mouths a few choice words against Wufei's collarbone, and he smiles.

"I know," he whispers.

-

He's not sure whether Treize's death has destroyed him. There are days when he is determined to live his life to the fullest, to honour his memory, but then there are days when life without him, without hope of seeing him, is too unbearable to even consider. He can never - will never - forgive himself for that moment when he went through with what they'd promised, and fulfilled his duty as a Gundam pilot. He fought for a while in Treize's name, but little Mariemaia could not hope to achieve what her father failed to do. The Earth and its colonies just weren't able to follow their ideals. Perhaps what they envisioned was only a dream.

Now Altron, his Nataku, is at rest, and he is Meiran's scholar boy again, and Sally Po gives him smiles over the wall of his desk. He cannot return them yet. He doesn't know if he will ever be able to. He aches inside, worse sometimes when he is not immersed in trying to put wrongs to rights, in working hopelessly to atone for the unforgivable.

At times he rages over the unfairness of war, that it took from him the one person who made him honestly happy, that because of it something so rare and valuable could not be. At times he wonders what would have happened if he had met Treize when they were not on opposite sides of a conflict that left nothing unharmed. At times he prays to his ancestors to help him find a reason for living, to fill the hole left when he destroyed his own.

And at times he knows that whatever happened, he would never change a thing. Honour allows him that much comfort, and it is bittersweet.

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Fin.

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