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The Chains We Wear	By : LadyYeinKhan Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 13123 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing/AC, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
- 11
A/N: It's been two years. I'm not going to insult my readers--whatever's left of my readers, if I have any readers--with excuses. I dropped the ball. You all expressed interest. You encouraged me to continue. Whatever was going on in my life, I should have tried harder. I should have treated this story more as a priority. I should have treated my readers as a priority. I didn't. This story sat and gathered dust and if everyone abandoned it, if no one cares about it any longer, it's my own fault. And I'm sorry.

But I've come back to it. A chapter done in a few days, a few new ideas and the return of old ones to try and get this going. This has always been somewhere in the back of my mind. Something is new and fascinating about it. So I'm going to do my best to continue. If anyone reads it, thank you. You're giving me more credit and attention I deserve. If not--it's no less than I deserve. If I ever want to write a novel, though, this must be finished. I will be leaving in less than two months on the JET programme. But between being an ALT and teaching English as a second language, and the general stress and excitement of returning to Japan, I will... I have to finish this. I cannot consider myself a writer if I don't...

To my readers...I'm sorry.

Chapter 10:

“Trowa, could you grab the plates for me?”

As Quatre was looking over his shoulder as he said it, he didn’t have to open his mouth. Trowa, glancing sideways at him, nodded. He finished filling Heero’s mug, set the half-empty coffee pot on the table and gathered the empty plates, setting them one-by-one on the counter next to Quatre to receive the pancakes.

“Thank you, Trowa.” He smiled.

“Of course.” He nodded, carrying each laden plate to its proper place. Trowa looked up just in time from setting Quatre’s to see Duo, for lack of a better word, bounce down the stairs. He withheld a grimace, waiting.

“Thank god it’s Friday.” Duo chimed. Maybe for you.

“Only for some of us, Duo.” Quatre reminded him, with a not-so-subtle glance in Trowa’s direction. Duo had enough tact to look a little sheepish, running a hand along the back of his head.

“I’m sure she won’t seriously make you work for the next three weekends.”

Trowa’s sneer showed just how much value he had in Duo’s “certainty.”

“I mean, come on, okay you didn’t come in at all Monday, and you didn’t call out to use a sick day, and it did kinda put some of us in a bit of a jam—”

“--And you worried more than half the department.”

“That too.”

“Since, well."

“Yeah.”

“That wasn’t exactly my intention, Heero.”

“I never said it was.”

“And I did call.

“Monday night.”

Trowa sighed softly. Yes, when it wouldn’t do him all that much good. Not that it was exactly his fault, what with being chained to a terrorist’s bed and—

He set the plate down a little harsher than necessary. Quatre, assuming it was from the conversation and not personal mental torment, smiled sympathetically.

“I’m sure if you explained it to Lady Une.”

Trowa shook his head. “No. I made choices I shouldn’t have. If these are the consequences--”

“But you were in a freaking accident.” Duo argued.

He shrugged. “With only the most minor of injuries.”

“And you have no idea how happy we are—” Actually, Trowa had a very good idea how happy they were, especially Duo, that he hadn’t been splattered all over the highway. “—that your bike got more beat up than you.”

Trowa winced. He could have cried when, after Nizar had dropped him off in the parking lot and taken the blindfold back, he realized that dropping his bike just the one time was not going to be enough. It took two more falls for it to look damaged enough to suit his cover story. Four probably would have disarmed even Heero’s suspicions, but that was more than he could handle. Trowa would be saving for months as it was, to fix the senseless damage.

And Heero’s going to be Heero. If he wants to be suspicious, he’ll be suspicious, with or without my help.

Even now, with just the mention of the “accident,” Heero’s attitude changed.   His fingers tightened around the bowl of cut-up fruit he was carrying to the table, and as they passed each other, his narrowed blue eyes scrutinized Trowa’s body and face. Trowa kept himself carefully blank, and he broke off his search after a moment. For now. He wouldn’t sigh. Quatre and Duo may take him for his word, but Heero could not. His mind simply wasn’t wired to accept. Everything, absolutely everything, had to be scrutinized, because there as always something to be found. Trowa had been thankful for it during the war.

Now he was just thankful Heero knew absolutely nothing about motorcycles. Which could always change, if Trowa gave him enough reason to change it. No thank you.

He shook his head, taking his seat at the table after putting down the last plate. “Accident or no accident, Duo, I could have found a way, but I didn’t. I choose not to, so I’ll just have to accept the consequences.”

“Three weekend shifts.” Duo sighed. “That bites.” It wouldn’t “bite” so much if Trowa could be assured of having at least one day off a week. Unfortunately, he couldn’t, considering he had picked the excellent time of already being on Une’s black list to be sexually exploited by a terrorist.

Trowa was going to need to see the dentist soon, if he kept grinding his teeth on metal utensils.

Quatre smiled—if anyone knew what a trial these next few weeks were going to be, it was him—reaching for the syrup in the middle of the table. Heero and Quatre’s fingers met, lightly and briefly, over it. Trowa kept his eyes on his plate. He had ordered himself on Wednesday to stop dissecting every action and expression for proof that it hadn’t been a drunken one-night stand.

Which it probably wasn’t. He hadn’t, of course, been able to find any sort of visible proof of the relationship through action or expression, and he had been watching closely, but that didn’t matter. They had always been rather mindful of other people’s feelings. Trowa decided to spare himself the grief and headaches and accept that just because he couldn’t see it didn’t mean it wasn’t there. That understanding would make it easier for him to ignore them. Hopefully.

Duo was just about to snag the last pancake, and Quatre about to actually drink his coffee, when the phone rang. Three pairs of eyes looked towards the unusual interruption of breakfast with varying levels of surprise. None of them noticed the color draining from Trowa’s face.

“Little early for solicitors, you think?” Duo asked as the phone rang a third time. Quatre rose. He had cut off the fifth ring by the time Duo and Heero both turned their attentions back to the table. Trowa’s coloring didn’t start to really return until he was sure that the phone call was not meant for him.

“Yes…yes, I see…mhm…no, no it’s fine. I can leave now and I should make it with enough time to spare.” Duo looked like he suddenly wanted to rip the phone cord out of the wall and Trowa didn’t think either he or Heero could blame him. “Yes…yes…Alright, I’ll be there soon…Thank you, good bye.”

Duo waited until Quatre had hung up. “So what do the old geezers want now?”

“Miss Relena,” he said with arms crossed, “wanted to know if I would take over the organization and running of a meeting. The original organizer is ill.”

“Mhm, but that wasn’t actually Relena on the phone, now was it?” Duo asked. Huffing, Quatre picked up his coffee mug and took it to the kitchen. “So you aren’t going to finish breakfast.”

“No time. I have to leave now.”

“…The meeting is today, isn’t it?” he asked. Quatre set the thermos on the side table as he tugged on his jacket. “And he waited until the last minute, didn’t he?”

His smile was strained. “When you’re finished, can you handle the leftovers?” Heero nodded. The smile relaxed, a bit. Quatre zipped up, ran a hand through his hair, and grabbed his coffee and keys. “I’ll see you all later tonight.”

Duo opened his mouth only after the door was closed, and Quatre’s car safely down the driveway and out of earshot.

“Finish your breakfast.” Heero cut across.

The rest of the meal was uneventful and no more unusual than so many breakfasts before it, save that they all suddenly seemed to have lost their appetites. Heero and Trowa left an untouched pancake each on their plates that were later wrapped up. No one touched Quatre’s partially eaten meal. It joined the remnants of Duo’s in the trash.

If either of them noticed Trowa’s lack of appetite or the awkward way he handled clearing the table and washing the dishes, they attributed it to the same source as their own. Why shouldn’t they? He had been careful to keep the anxiety about Kader’s call, and then his continued silence, to himself. But it wouldn’t last long. Not if he kept paling, or worse, dropping things like the vegetables on Tuesday, with every phone call.

He wasn’t sure whether to be impressed with Kader’s self-restraint, or furious with his mind games. If only the bastard would get it over with. Then Trowa could steel himself for the next, and the next, and begin to desensitize himself.

Again.

Heart rate and color normal again, Trowa followed them outside after the chore, zipping up his coat against the swirling flurries. He glanced at the gray sky speckled with white before looking at the driveway. There had been no rain, and no sleet, all week. The snow wasn’t sticking well, either. It should be a safe, dry drive. Not that he would try it. Trowa didn’t even look at his bike as he trailed Duo and Heero and climbed into the backseat.   Like he had all week. Like he would probably all of next week, too. He didn’t trust himself not to make a too-telling expression, or growl a too-telling growl, at the damage, and the last thing he wanted to see was Heero make that face.

Trowa settled back in the seat once he got as comfortable as he could. He shuddered slightly with turning over of the engine and closed his eyes. At least Duo turned on the radio this time, after a few long minutes of listening to the engine struggle. It had gotten worse recently, but he had no idea how much until he had to sit and actually listen to it. They would probably have to take it apart again come spring and see what, if anything, could be done.   He would not wear the cutoffs this time. It could be a hundred degrees and the rest of his working clothes absolutely filthy and Trowa still would not wear them. Kader was getting no more excuses for smirking.

An SUV blew through the just-turned red light. Heero, who had been recalculating the route in his head after hearing the level of traffic on the radio, slammed on the brakes. Duo and Trowa flew forward, throwing Trowa’s consideration that another picture of him in short shorts in Kader’s hands was the least of his worries out the window, and throwing Duo into a tirade about SUV drivers. Considering his encounter over the weekend, and his sore neck, Trowa joined him.

Besides the increased level of conversation, the remainder of the commute was uneventful. Heero pulled into the garage only a few minutes later than usual. Trowa tilted his head as he stepped out of the car. Several maintenance workers surrounded the elevator that was itself cut off by a line of yellow tape.

“Looks like she took your advice.” Heero said mildly. Duo frowned, following him towards the stairwell.

Heero and Duo were halfway up the second flight of stairs by the time Trowa managed to step onto the bottommost, after having held the door for Wufei and Zechs (Wufei growling about Sunday drivers on Friday mornings) and several other employees not on his floor. Fairly narrow by design, the stairwell seemed even more confining with the high influx of people who didn’t want to walk to the other elevators and wait in long lines. Trowa stuck close to the railing and tried not to walk too slowly.

A couple of maintenance workers armed with a toolbox rounded the stairs a flight above him, walking two by two. Trowa pressed a little closer to the railing, gripping it on instinct. He still knocked shoulders with one who was just a little too broad. It felt like he’d run his shoulder into cement. The worker turned as well as he could on the step and bowed his head.

“Excuse me.” He apologized in a low voice.

“Of course.” Trowa said after a moment, resisting the urge to stare while simultaneously resisting the urge to turn so quickly away as to be suspicious. The large, darker man nodded his head and continued down the stairs. Trowa headed up the stairs without looking over his shoulder with difficulty.

Trowa knew there were plenty of Middle Easterners in the city, and quite a few in the building. More than a handful worked in his department alone. And there had to be more than a few in the maintenance or repair field. He knew it wasn’t Kader, and he knew that it was beyond ridiculous to start associating every one he saw with Kader.   Trowa also knew that that wasn’t what he was doing. There was something about the face. Trowa knew it, from someplace other than work, and somehow it was connected with Kader. How a split lip connected, he wasn’t sure.

By the time Trowa reached his desk, he was sure that he wasn’t going to figure it anytime soon. And unless he wanted to incur more of Une’s wrath through numerous clerical errors, Trowa would have to set the unease aside. Trowa shrugged out of his coat, draping it over the back his chair. He sat down and looked over the pile of paperwork, and then the rest of his desk, with a frown.

His pen was gone.

Trowa had more, of course. But he remembered putting his pen where he always did at the end of the day: on top of the pile of papers still to be completed. It never walked off before. The disruption of routine put him on edge. Of course, there was probably a logical explanation. Maintenance or housekeeping might have knocked it off accidentally and then put it in a drawer without thinking. Trowa opened the nearest drawer, where there were other writing utensils. It wasn’t there. Not that whoever it was would actually know which drawer had the pens and pencils. He couldn’t expect that. But it was the closest drawer to the pile—right underneath it, really. And the pile itself was too perfect to be missing the pen. If it had been innocently knocked over, shouldn’t the papers have been shuffled as well? And wouldn’t it make so much more sense to toss it on top of the desk rather than go through the admittedly minor trouble of drawers?

They could have walked off with it, he thought while continuing to look. It was a more likely scenario: someone needing a pen and his still being out and then just absent-mindedly putting it—

--in the bottommost drawer, just in front of the brown-papered box.

His heart thudding in his ears, Trowa stared at small package. His thoughts skipped from how it had gotten there to how many steps it would take to reach the windows, to how worthless such a small bomb would be unless partnered with others in other drawers, to how he wished he knew more about disarming improvised explosives than making them. Trowa reached for the pen and, as calmly as he could, nudged the box with his index finger. It shifted easily, and rattled surprisingly noisily.

Trowa slid the drawer closed with pen in hand. He turned to the pile of papers, scanned the first, and set to work. So it wasn’t a bomb. There was no bomb in any way successful or practical in existence that was that light. He felt no safer. Since it was a threat to no one else, however, Trowa tried to push it from his mind.

He considered the box again when he opened the drawer looking for the whiteout. Knowing exactly what it probably was, Trowa set the whiteout on top of the box and pulled them out together. He set the box by the desk lamp, where it stayed as he worked and served as an excellent stand for the whiteout.   Since Trowa largely ignored it, outwardly anyway, the few people who walked past his desk ignored it as well. Even when, after an hour of not-challenging-enough paperwork, Trowa set his pen down and picked up the box, no one asked after it. It’s amazing what you can get away with, if you act like it’s all perfectly normal.

Trowa almost lost his practiced cover, gasping almost audible and barely managing to resist shoving the box away. As it was, his suddenly tight grip would be suspicious if Heero, Duo, or Wufei decided to glance over. His fingers wouldn’t loosen. Of all the things he expected to find, his own cell phone was not one of them!

Alarm bells and indignation subsided, leaving confusion as Trowa realized it couldn’t actually be his phone. There had been no opportunity for Kader to take it. Trowa hadn’t taken it to the bar (since it hadn’t gone with him to Catherine’s in the first place). And the irksome little device had been at his side all week since, after the “accident,” neither Duo nor Quatre would let him “forget” it at home. No one had been dumb enough to try and pickpocket him this month, either. Trowa set the box in his lap and leaned back with the pretense of stretching. As his arms lowered, he patted his coat. The phone was still in the right pocket.

He set the box back by the lamp, picked up his pen and started a new report. About half way down the page, Trowa realized that it didn’t actually look all that much like his phone. It was the same general size, fitting in the palm of his hand, and color, a standard gunmetal gray. The feel, however, was different. Trowa’s was a matt-painted, rough little thing. It was something he “needed” but because he didn’t “want” it, it was comfortably cheap. The phone in the box was sleek; it glimmered. It exuded cost.

As if he needed more evidence, the next time Trowa took the box in his lap after finishing another sheet he noticed the folded paper underneath the phone. He tossed it back in the drawer. God damn him.

During lunch, after he had declined Heero’s invitation to eat in the cafeteria and had been very careful not to get sandwich on the papers he continued working on, Trowa opened the drawer again. The phone felt heavy in his hand, the paper coarse. Pushing back from his desk, he stood as normally as possible and walked toward the restrooms. It wasn’t as if a dozen people didn’t go into the restroom to make a private phone call everyday; it was that he didn’t. He didn’t trust himself to not draw someone’s (like Heero’s) attention to the act.

The bathroom was dark. Trowa had gone five steps across the tiled floor before the motion detector spotted him and turned on the fluorescent lights. He opted against stepping into one of the gray-painted stalls, leaning against the wall by the sinks. It would look less suspicious. Hopefully.

Trowa glared down at the phone momentarily before setting it on the edge of the sink. Paper first. He knew it was instructions, and that they would be quite unlike the instructions that had come with his cheap little phone. The handwriting was surprisingly sloppy but legible.

Your voicemail password is 4735.

He chucked the crushed and ripped paper into the trash. Snatching up the phone, he considered sending it the same way. In spite of the pointlessness of it all—it wasn’t like they were going to thank him anyway—Trowa flipped it open and turned it on.

The screen flashed white before displaying a photograph of a leather collar, complete with chain, atop a familiar looking satin-covered mattress. Trowa ground his teeth. There was no message box alerting him to a voicemail. He started to search, hitting several dead ends and having to return to that goddamned background. He was never happier to hear the soft, slightly robotic female voice of voicemail systems.

“Please enter your four digit password.” She asked, octave rising and dropping half way through. Trowa typed it in and settled back against the wall, crossing his legs. Something told him he would need the support.

“You have no new messages. First skipped message—”

Trowa shuddered at Kader’s low voice purring into his ear. “I trust my gift arrived on time, 8 A.M. Friday morning, and that you found sometime in the morning or afternoon to open it.”

He thought about the maintenance worker and paled.

“I apologize; I’m sure you already have one of these. Probably not one of this quality,” he chuckled. Trowa grimaced. “But I have my reasons, other than the minor oversight of not acquiring your cell phone number earlier, which believe me, is a minor thing to find. And I will find it.”

I don’t doubt that.

“But this is my gift to you: a direct line of communication between myself and you. Please don’t trouble yourself over the bill. The phone is registered in my name and I am more than happy to cover the cost, which means yes, I can and will monitor everything you say and do on this phone.”

Of course you will.

“So I suggest not using this phone for anything else other than talking to me. Of course, I also suggest you take this phone with you wherever you take your other one.”

Which is nowhere if I have anything to say about it.

“In fact, I suggest you make answering this phone, my gift, a priority. I even suggest taking it to bed with you. I hope you take my advice.”

He didn’t need to say, or even suggest, what would happen if Trowa didn’t. Trowa dug his nails into the phone.

“Oh, before I forget, you may have noticed there’s no charger in the box.” Actually, he hadn’t. Thinking about its absence knotted his stomach. “I seemed to have forgotten to pack it. My apologies, but you can pick it up when you come over tonight.”

His fingers trembled.

“Nizar will meet you outside your office at 7:30 tonight. Feel free to bring your bike. I’m looking forward to seeing you, dear, and don’t worry. I’ll make sure you have plenty of rest for work tomorrow.”

“—End of messages. To delete this message—”

The mechanized voice startled him. The phone clattered to the floor. He was sure she was still going on but Trowa refused to move before he’d gotten his trembling under control. Only when he didn’t need to dig his fingers into his chest to the point of bruising to stop quaking did he step from the wall. Trowa scooped up the phone, snapped it shut, and stumbled out of the restroom. No one noticed. There was still ten minutes left in lunch.

Sinking into his chair, Trowa leaned over to open the drawer and hide his face. His hand stopped halfway into tossing the phone back into the box. He hung there. Slowly, he sat back and slipped the phone into the right pocket of his coat. Face carefully, perhaps even too carefully, expressionless, he turned back to the pile of paper and started the next sheet.

The day continued uneventfully, save for the continual interruption of inappropriate thoughts: everything, from the ridiculousness of being upset over something he knew--had been promised would--had agreed to--would happen to the ridiculousness of his surprise that he had actually known Trowa’s work schedule. The man had gotten a box into his desk! Of course he knew his schedule. He broke his pen when he started wondering what was going to happen that night, and if it would be better or worse than before.

He was just finished mopping up the mess (nothing had gotten on his uniform, thankfully), tossing out the soiled sheet, and finding a fresh copy when Duo perched on the edge of the desk.

“Five-thirty.”

“I do have a clock,” he muttered.

“You’re not paying much attention to it if you’re starting a page at quitting time.”

Heero had slid up beside him by the time Trowa looked up. Between their bodies, he caught a glimpse of Zechs and Wufei. Zechs waved and Wufei nodded his head, a gesture Trowa returned, before they both disappeared into the stairwell.

“Let’s go before there’s a traffic jam in there.”

Trowa eyed his stack. It was convincing enough.

“You go on ahead.”

Duo let him fill out the first few lines. “You do remember driving in with us, right?”

“Vividly.”

“Okay, good. So how do you plan on getting home if we don’t take you now?”

“I could catch a taxi, or a bus.”

“Expensive or long and unreliable.”

Trowa grit his teeth. “Then I’ll crash upstairs for the night.”

“Those beds are only good when you’re running seventy-two-hour-plus jobs and too tired to care.”

“Duo, I need to be back here tomorrow morning,” he said, somehow managing to sound calm. “The weather is going to be the same if not worse than today. How unfair would it to not only have you drive me home but bring me back in? It’s better if I just stay here tonight. It’s not like I don’t have plenty to do.”

No. He had plenty to do. Not only would he be late for his “rendezvous” but there would be no safe and quiet way to sneak out of the house. Here, Trowa could at least pretend to change his mind and catch a bus.

“I wouldn’t mind bringing you back in,” Heero said. Trowa closed his eyes, steeling himself. Heero searched his face when he turned it, hopefully mildly appreciative, up to him. “But if you’re sure.”

“I should get this done.”

Heero nodded. “All right. Just be sure to eat something. And call, if you change your mind.”

“I will,” he murmured turning away before something that would set Heero’s senses off drifted into his expression. Duo sighed, throwing up his hands but sliding off the desk.

“Fine, fine. What he said. And who knows, maybe Une will give you a break if you stay all weekend and brave those fucking rocks she calls beds.”

Trowa and Heero snorted.

He waited until he could safely assume they were both in the parking garage—taking into account any stairwell “traffic jams”—before setting down his pen and holding his head. There was precious little time, before he had to go and before his mind was too involved with that and everything surrounding it to actually focus on anything constructive. Trowa wasn’t sure which was worse.

Trowa stayed focused long enough to finish almost a fourth of the stack with only minor mistakes. He set down his pen, rubbed his eyes, and only very reluctantly looked at the clock. Eyes could do with a bit more rubbing.

It still read seven-twenty-five.

Pen in its honorary place, lamp off, and chair pushed in, Trowa slipped on his coat. He patted the pockets. Both phones were there. He wrapped his hand around it tightly as he headed for the stairs, nodding to a few of the night team he passed. The stairwell itself was quiet and empty, of preventors and maintenance workers alike. He grit his teeth as his hands trembled. Too damn cold.

There were at least thirty cameras on the ground floor of the parking garage. He would walk by about a dozen on his way to the street. Trowa kept his stride long and even, a little quick, checking his watch once or twice. Catch the bus. Next one not for twenty minutes, dropping him at home almost by midnight. Convincing if anyone was looking or cared to check.

Snow angled towards him on the street, pushed by the same wind that snapped at his coat. Trowa pulled the collar closed and looked around. A person or two skipping along the sidewalk to the nearest open door. A few dark cars, more dark buildings. Trowa shivered and looked at his watch. Something came up? He got tired of waiting? He ran off the road after hitting black ice? Trowa couldn’t be that lucky.

An engine rumbled to his left. The black pickup truck turned on and flashed its lights once. Trowa frowned. At least it wasn’t a limousine or a Ferrari. Or a van with tinted windows.

Hands back in his pockets, Trowa turned and walked with the wind down the sidewalk. The truck waited, the driver probably poised to beep, or shoot me, before following him around the corner. He followed at a conspicuous pace. Trowa ducked down the nearest alley before somebody noticed.

It was a fenced end, but wide enough if the scarred Arab knew how to back it up. He stopped the truck barely five feet from Trowa’s knees. This is what the executed must feel like, Trowa thought, his back against the fence, heart pounding, doused in the white of luxury high beams. Which was probably the point.

The scarred Arab, Nizar he thought his name was, stepped out of the cab and walked to the front. He stood between the lamps. Trowa didn’t squint.

“Where’s your bike?”

“Didn’t take it.”

Nizar muttered something foreign but probably nasty under his breath. Trowa decided not to mention that no one would be looking for him.

“Get in.”

The cab smelled of fresh leather, the soft spice of a fine cigar lingering beneath just enough to be pleasant. The seats were smooth and firm. It must have been a new, or rarely used, vehicle. Trowa wrinkled his nose, for a moment, before getting in. He had fastened his seatbelt and settled his folded arms over his stomach when a thick black cloth landed in his lap.

“Put it on,” Nizar said, closing the door. Trowa looked at him. “Put it on or I’ll bash your head against the dash. Either works.”

Trowa snatched up the cloth. Nizar’s brow furrowed with what he knew was disappointment before the darkness settled and tightened behind his head.

Riding in a car was worse blindfolded, especially with a man who had cracked your head open before, and couldn’t wait to do it again, muttering what had to be obscenities. He swayed into the turns, counting the first few (left, right, straight for a few blocks, red light, red light, left), until the dark became nauseating. Trowa swallowed and dug his fingers into his biceps.

Eventually, when he was very close to fidgeting, they stopped. The engine silenced. The driver door opened and closed. Trowa felt for the buckle, assuming no words meant no change, and then the door handle. With a click, the door disappeared from his reach. He clawed blindly, turning it towards the large hand that suddenly wrapped around his elbow and pulled.

Trowa let the hand steer/pull him through the parking garage-lobby-hall only out of necessity. Nizar released him in the narrow, echoless elevator but only when it started upwards silently. Trowa felt back for a wall. He leaned, planting his feet into the carpeted floor. There was no music. The rhythmic tapping had to be from Nizar’s foot.

The elevator paused. Trowa pulled away from the hand that tried to tighten around his arm again. “What could I possibly see now?”

“Plenty,” Nizar sneered. But, perhaps he saw how Trowa tightened, ready to swing at where he thought the head was, Nizar yanked the blindfold off.

Once his eyes adjusted, Trowa scrutinized the bit of hall he was whisked through. Tall, cream walls, smooth except for the occasional expensive wrought-iron light fixture and oak door. No windows. A moderately high ceiling and thick red carpet, worth more than his salary, told Trowa sound probably wouldn’t carry. The two men standing on either side of the door told him he wouldn’t get anywhere near the hall to test the theory.

Nizar swept them aside with a short, foreign command and opened the door. Trowa followed his silent, impatient command inside.

There hadn’t been time to look at his prison last time, what with the drunken stupor, the unconsciousness, and finally the exhaustion. It was an attractive prison, rooms opening into one another, evolving from chrome to earth to glass and the breathtaking penthouse’s view. The furniture turned with the colors, each piece distinct but appropriate, all of it seemingly comfortable and luxurious. The artifice and impracticality choked him.

Fahd Kader sat at a chrome-and-glass dinette, enjoying what looked to be a late dinner, complete with wine. The first few buttons of his dress shirt had come undone, the tie and jacket tossed over the back of a chair. He stood once Nizar had brought Trowa close enough to grab.

“There you both are. I was beginning to wonder if the storm had gotten you.”

Nizar snorted. He eyed the jacket and tie, turning his glare on Fahd. Fahd shrug. Nizar snatched up the articles, muttering as he left to search for a hanger.

“You opened my gift. I’m so glad. I trust Nizar gave you little trouble,” he said, loud enough to be heard. Trowa sat where Fahd gestured, just to his left. He watched Fahd’s muscles beneath the white shirt flex as he sat.

“If you don’t count blindfolding as trouble,” he said.

“Be glad I suggested it or he would have improvised.”

Trowa ground his teeth. “Who would I tell?”

“No one, I’m sure. But I can’t be too careful.” The large hand patted his thigh, the fingers pointing into the small space between Trowa’s legs. Trowa’s knees locked. “Have you eaten? What does that matter? You’re far too skinny. Eat.”

Trowa looked at the table while Fahd took the empty wine glass by his empty plate. There was plenty of food, some of it he recognized. Breads, fruits, and vegetables, as well as a bowl of some strange looking dip, were all within his reach. Anything with meat, entrée, side, or garnish, was as far from his as possible. He frowned.

“Don’t tell me you are one of those vegetarians who declines when there is even the tiniest bit of meat?”

How dare he? First Fahd kidnapped him, threatened him, exploited him, raped him. He kept Trowa on edge all week, always in his thoughts. He kept him from sleeping, from hearing the phone without jumping.   He snuck a fucking phone into my desk, with a fucked up message. And nowhe’s considerate, of my food?

Red slid along Fahd’s face, down his nose and cheeks, dripped off his chin onto his now-wine-stained shirt. The wine glass trembled in Trowa’s hand. He felt the stem giving.

“This isn’t a date. Stop fucking with me and get on with it.”

The slowness with which Fahd picked up his napkin and wiped his face should have warned him. Trowa reared back from the hand suddenly rushing towards his throat. He swung the wine glass. Maybe it would be enough to surprise him! Fahd caught his wrist. Trowa yelped at the crushing grip, almost screaming as it yanked him out of the chair, spun his kicking and thrashing body, and pinned him to the floor.   Glass and flatware rained around his head.

Trowa wanted to buck, to knock the hands, both real and imagined, off. But Fahd was settled over him: his shins crushing his knees, his hand clutching the back his head and neck, his fingers tangled in his hair. It would be very easy to break his neck. And blow up the house before I’m cold.

Fahd was silent.   The tips of his fingers were still. Trowa, breathing heavily through his nose, wished he could turn his head and at least see the expression. His imagination was too vivid. Fahd grunted finally.

“Since you are so eager.”

Trowa hissed as he pulled him back and up by the hair.   He stumbled around the broken glass, through the living room and down a hall, lead by Fahd’s incessant pulling. The hall was dimly familiar from his wild, and brief, run but there was little time to see what he remembered. Fahd yanked open a door and threw him carelessly inside.

Scalp aching but refusing to touch it, Trowa watched him close the door. Fahd circled him, one hand jumping from shoulder to shoulder, the other unbuttoning his shirt.

“I liked this shirt,” he said, tossing it aside on the third pass. Trowa’s legs tangled as he was abruptly turned around and crushed against his chest. Fahd pushed lips, and hips, together. Trowa shoved the large chest, snarling against the lips that bared their teeth in a smile, and then a sharp bite. A tongue swept over the sting, hoping to force vocal protest. Trowa’s arms dropped. Locking knees and lips, he waited, staring.

Fahd pulled back, loosening his grip on his waist. He tilted Trowa’s chin up and frowned when Trowa met his gaze only briefly before staring at a speck of paint behind his right ear. The hanger Trowa was meticulously imagining as a distraction jolted out of place with Fahd’s shove.

“Get undressed,” he said, sitting on the bed, crossing his legs and leaning an elbow on his knee. “Now.”

Trowa stared until Fahd swept out a hand. Snarling quietly, Trowa focused on an interesting shadow on the wall as he yanked opened his winter coat. It had hardly landed on the floor before he toed out of his shoes and started opening his shirt. Trowa’s hands slowed. They had to, or he would start ripping off buttons.   His eyes narrowed. Was it a circle or a diamond? If Trowa could puzzle it out, his hands would stop shaking, stop realizing, and move.   The fifth button slipped through his fingers.

“Do you need a hand,” he asked, grinning when Trowa flicked his attention to him. The threads frayed as Trowa forced the button. “Four more. And then you can rip the pants’ zipper and tear the elastic in your panties.”

It was a diamond, Trowa decided as he threw the shirt aside. His hands still shook as they gripped the button of his dress pants.

Fahd tilted his head. “That, first,” he said gesturing to the black corset. “Turn around, so I can see how it works.” Trowa turned stiffly, hands already curling back behind him. He arched, practiced but reluctant, and felt for the top strap beneath its fabric covering.

“Interesting design,” Fahd commented as Trowa struggled with the corset. “I’ve never seen one with snaps or clasps or whatever it is you call those…fasteners. Custom made, I imagine.”

Trowa grunted as the corset loosened. Panting, he straightened, sliding his hands down to the next one, and then the last. Fahd murmured. Trowa shuddered, holding the corset against his chest while his eyes racked over his back.

“Turn around.”

There had been another interesting shadow on the other side of Fahd’s head. But if he didn’t time it right, Trowa would turn right into his gaze. It was on the left. He’d be careful. Stepping back, Trowa turned.

Fahd grinned at his flinching back. “Leave it with your shirt.” Trowa, cold and hard behind it, dug his fingers into the black cloth before releasing it. The corset dropped like a stone. “Mm you’re half-way there.”

Cheeks flared. Trowa ducked his head quickly. His fingers skipped and slid over the button and zipper. He paused. Let his pants drop around his ankles or pull them down, letting his breasts hang for Fahd’s amusement? He’ll be amused either way. Trowa could try not to encourage it, though. He stepped out of them and kicked the pants away.

“You never struck me as the panty-less type. I assumed the alley was a one-time deal.”

“I don’t wear panties,” Trowa snarled.

“I noticed,” he said, focused on Trowa’s crotch. Trowa stiffened and clenched his fists. I will not cover myself, I will notcover myself—just get on with it!—I will not cover myself.

He grew uncomfortably, embarrassingly, warm under Fahd’s intense scrutiny. Warm, and moist. Fahd smirked and gestured him close. He said nothing Trowa’s pace, appropriate for death row, or the way he flinched. Fahd simply uncrossed his legs and pulled Trowa between them. His hands fit too nicely on faintly curved hips. Trowa stared at the wall while the thumbs rubbed prominent hip bones, waiting for lips on his stomach, or lower, or hands moving around to his rear, or lower.

He didn’t expect the light pulling.

Trowa followed the hands, sitting on his heels between Fahd’s legs. He didn’t bother looking at him. He had control of his hands until he pushed the smooth gray cloth aside. Fahd was large, like the rest of him, and a slightly darker shade of brown in his arousal. Sweat and musk tickled Trowa’s nose. And then motor, cigarettes, cheap whiskey. Trowa gripped his knees as the potent mix wrapped around his face, choking him. Cold fingers danced up his stomach to his chest. He flinched away from the garbled whisper that exhaled sour words and left a dull, ancient pain on his ear.

A hand settled on his head. Trowa jumped. Fahd tilted his head at the brief unguarded expression Trowa turned on him.   Trowa ducked away from the hand reaching for his cheek, leaning forward. Fahd would forget that momentary weakness.

Fahd moaned as Trowa wrapped his lips around the head of his erection. Trowa grimaced but sucked, reminding himself there was no way Fahd could ever be around motor oil and that he would never drink cheap alcohol. He couldn’t be sure about the cigarettes. Further down, Trowa was too close to the sweat and musk to think about cigarettes.

“Aah, you’re better at this than I thought you’d be,” he said, setting his hands on his head. Eyes closed, Trowa waited for the push. There was only a light scratching. Groaning in slight frustration (frustration, not confusion, and certainly not pleasure), Trowa lapped at the underside before bobbing slowly, letting the head touch the back his throat each time. His fingers wrapped around the rest.

His jaw ached, and soon his head as the light scratches became a solid grip. Fahd at least moved his hips slowly. Trowa sucked and twisted his tongue. Saliva dribbled down his chin. If he was lucky, he could wipe it off soon.

Trowa let out a strangled, muffled cry as Fahd bent over him, pushing the head hard against his throat. Trowa pushed at his knees. Fahd slid a hand down to his rear, grabbed a handful of flesh, and pulled.

“Lift your hips,” he said to his yelp.

Fahd stayed still as Trowa shifted.   Balanced on his knees, he clutched Fahd’s thighs, his nose as close to his pubic hair as possible. Trowa grunted and gagged with each thrust. He didn’t notice Fahd’s hands until one of them stroked and peeled apart his vagina. Trowa jolted, nearly choking himself.

“Relax,” he said, nudging the wet entrance with his index finger. The tip pushed carefully. “You’re too tight.”

Trowa flexed his fingers and groaned with the slow, constant burn of the pushing-retreating digit. The burn sparked and flared as the first, and then the second, knuckle slipped in. Curled, straightened, curled again. He moaned, and kept moaning, while heat crept across his abdomen.   The sound and vibrations against the leaking head were more than enough.

Fahd growled as he came, the fingers in his hair and in him curling. Trowa gagged as the warm, bitter fluid clogged his throat and sinuses until he swallowed. Semen still trickled out of the corner of his mouth. The corners of his eyes prickled as he coughed. Tears almost fell when the fingers retreated, but Trowa held them as Fahd eased him back. Trowa sat back. Eyes sliding to the side, he lifted a hand to wipe his lips.

He gasped, falling forward into Fahd’s lap. Trowa pulled on the tight grip on his hand and bit at the sticky fingers holding his chin. A thumb swept across his swollen lips, smeared the semen across his mouth and chin. Disgusting pervert! Before Trowa could even think of biting the audacious hand, Fahd hoisted him into bed.

No more pretenses of bravery, disinterest, or whatever he had been feigning. Trowa curled instinctively, and then almost immediately shifted his arms and legs. There was no way to hide everything, not unless he scooted back on the bed into a fetal position and he wanted to pretend he still had some dignity. Fahd let him squirm until his pants were off and tossed aside. He settled near him, caught Trowa’s hand when it lashed out, and unwound him. A knee nudged apart his legs.

Trowa shut his eyes. He didn’t want to see how his breasts flattened with lying back, with his hands on either side of his head, or how wide his legs had to be to fit around Fahd’s knees. Trowa didn’t want to see a pink tongue sweep over white teeth as he stiffened and dripped. And the black eyes rolling over his open, ugly body. No. Trowa twitched at the scalding heat of his chest lay carefully over him.   Fahd breathed against his neck. Hands gripped his hips. Trowa swallowed. His toes curled.

He screamed, high and frightened, as he was ripped. Split over the fat end of a bat, the wrench needed to refill the suit’s ammo clip, drunk and impatient mercenaries. Trowa twisted his shoulders and hips.

“Allah, would you relax?” Fahd growled. He caught a knee that rose to kick him off.

“Out, out!”

“It’s barely in,” he said, emphasizing with a push of his hips. Trowa thrashed pushing against his chest.

“Take it out! Please!”

Fahd’s grip slackened. Trowa scrambled back across the sheets—sheets that felt too much like oil. Fahd didn’t see him curl on his side, burying his face and biting the fabric—bedroom, bedroom, not a field, bedroom, bedroom, oh god only nice thing he had. He had slipped off to shoo Nizar away.

“That is not food,” he said. Trowa flinched from the light, deceptive touch on his side. He squirmed away with something too much like a sob as it moved down. Fahd rolled him over with a light, opening pull on Trowa’s knee.   Trowa whimpered, white lining his vision. Not again, not again, oh god please not—

Trowa squeaked. Fahd smiled against sensitive flesh and licked again.

“Wh-what are you—” Trowa’s voice cracked. Fahd tongued at the wet lips, his arm pressing down on his constantly squirming hips. A low, confused whine slid past Trowa’s lips as the pain dimmed but the tongue didn’t stop. He gasped softly as the tip eased itself in. And it was too hot and too wet and not enough to hurt.

Pervert, pervert, what the fuck is he doing? None of them had ever—it was the most revolting thing—he was panting because he was scared—and oh god, what had he just done?

Trowa moaned, hips pushing against his arm with a spike of pleasure. Fahd twisted his clit (when had he added that word to his vocabulary…) with his tongue before sucking gently again. Trowa’s back lifted from the bed. Fahd shifted, catching his knee and hooking it over his shoulder.

Hot. Wet. Trowa moaned, hips rocking lightly. It had always been too disgusting to consider. There was a tongue, thick and skilled, exploiting his clitoris. He pulled at the sheets by his head. A nose was pressed against his sensitive sack, rubbing whenever Fahd shifted. They would never. He was a freak.   Convenient but filthy. Undeserving but lucky. A toy, a hole. They never looked and they would never—

Fahd wrapped his awakened erection. He stroked, once, and thrust his tongue into him. Trowa shattered.

Somewhere, past the fog that separated him from his body and muffled old voices, Fahd was speaking. He was moving up his body, coaxing him back onto his side, bringing his hooked knee with him. Trowa bent for him. Fahd stroked hair, his cheeks that burst into liquid when he pushed. Trowa tumbled back into himself, saw his hands dig into the bed and his thigh tremble over Fahd’s arm. He watched the brown hand slither from beneath his waist and grab his flagging erection. Fahd rolled his hips. Trowa whimpered. He stroked, and Trowa moaned.

“Oh god…”

Behind him, Fahd scraped his teeth against his ear, breathing heavily. Trowa shifted, stilling as Fahd growled. But the movements stayed slow: roll, pause, stroke, roll. Trowa moaned softly, retracted his nails from the bedding.   His head lolled. He pushed back.

Fahd’s grip tightened, pulling Trowa flush against his chest. His hips snapped forward. Trowa cursed. The move pushed him up the bed. But it had been in too long to hurt-hurt. The burn was milder, centered higher, and Fahd’s hand had sped up.

“Much better,” he purred in his ear. With a bite that made Trowa gasp, he started to thrust.

Trowa grunted and hissed with the fast rhythm, noises that made Fahd chuckle. He rotated his hips, thrusting at an angle that had Trowa gasping strings of expletives.   And then he could only gasp. Cheek pressed into the mattress, he panted breathily. The blunt head pounded into his center. And he was rocking clumsily with it, encouraging him. Trowa recognized only one word Fahd moaned in his ear, and he doubted Fahd’s god counted it as any sort of prayer.

Soon, he heard nothing but a wild buzzing and pounding as the now-molten fire spread. He knew he was moaning, crying. He could feel his voice. Trowa’s breasts felt heavy as they rose and fell. He traced every drop of arousal and precum that oozed down his stomach and thighs. It was on his sack. Fahd was getting it all other his hand as he fondled him roughly. He pulled it up towards his erection, held them together, and twisted.

If he said anything when he came, Trowa didn’t know. He was drowning.

A/N: God I haven't written a sex scene in so long...that sucked.
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The Chains We Wear