Never Again

Zechs adjusted his steel mask on his face before knocking on the door to Treize's office. It was nearly mid-night, and the thin stream of yellow light that shone into the darkness from beneath the door was not a good sign. The light looked orange to Zechs, but he had long ago learned to compensate for what the red tinted eye-holes of his mask did to colors.

"Come in," came Treize's melodious baritone, the words sounding… strange to Zechs somehow. Perhaps it was the way Treize had said them.

With a sigh, Zechs opened the door, stepping softly into the heavily mullioned chamber. Thanks to his stiff uniform, he quickly adjusted to the cool temperature of the private office.

Treize was seated at his paper-strewn desk -- no, not seated. He was undeniably *lounging* at his desk. The jacket of his uniform was tossed over the back of his chair, one of the epaulets clinging weakly to the midnight blue. A delicate crystal glass was held in one hand, a bit of amber liquid in the bottom. A bottle was nearby, but the room was so dimly lit that Zechs couldn't make out what it was.

"Sir," Zechs said, continuing with the normal formalities, "it is well past time for retiring."

Treize sighed softly. "Mirialdo, no speeches tonight. Just leave."

A grimace captured his face. He still wasn't sure how Treize had found out who he really was --or for how long he had known -- but Treize knew that calling him that was a really simple way to get him extremely angry.

However, Zechs managed to control the slight anger he felt stirring inside him, and sighed, as he watched Treize pour himself another glass of -

Zechs' heart fell as he realized that Treize wasn't drinking his customary after-work wine. He was drinking what Zechs knew to be the strongest cognac in the building, in a normal wine-glass. He quickly closed the gap between himself and his superior officer, snatching the glass from the slim fingered, white-gloved hand. Not that another glass of it would hurt him much at that point, but Treize seemed to still retain his dramatic flair when drunk, and he didn't need any more stitches in that hand.

/Of all the people in the world to have their hands attract glass like a magnet…/

"Sir, why do you do this to yourself?" Zechs asked, though he knew the answer already. The same reason Treize had for anything, and everything he ever did:

"I deemed it suitable," Treize muttered darkly, his words slurred. He gracefully rose to his feet, movements uneasy. Zechs could see that the only thing that kept Treize from falling or staggering was his uncompromising self-discipline. And even that would likely be shot very soon.

"You deemed this" -- a sweeping gesture to the pile of dry pens, paperwork, and alcohol -- "as a suitable way to deal with your hatred of the current situation; to deal with the contempt you're treated with by your peers; to deal with the mutterings and rumors behind your back. Did I get all that right, *sir*?" he asked, picking up the bottle and dropping both it and the glass into the wastebasket. Zechs wanted to do the same with the paperwork, but some of it was probably important.

An angry look crossed Treize's aquiline face, but he nodded, eyes down-turned as if he was cursing himself inwardly. Zechs bit his lip: he'd just made the mistake of giving Treize something new to kick himself over. Treize would never have admitted such a thing to anyone other than his most trusted officer, and no other soldier in the Specials would have had the nerve the confront him like Zechs had. Surely Treize considered that a sign of weakness, allowing another officer to form a friendship with him.

The drunk leader placed his hands on his antique mahogany desk, steadying himself, as he looked cautiously at a stack of paperwork that a nagging voice in the back of his head told him he should have been working on. /Damn, damn, damn… he should not see me so…/

Zechs sighed, and shook his head to himself. /Between this and the work load… If he keeps up like this, I don't think he'll live to see 25./ Zechs shuddered at that thought. /What would the Specials be like without their 'beloved' founder? A horrible, disorganized mess of ill trained--/ Zechs stopped his mind, as he realized he sounded as if he were quoting the Colonel. "If you don't stop working yourself to death and drinking like this, you'll drop dead. Probably on your feet, with a pile of paperwork in one hand."

Treize's sharp sapphire eyes caught Zechs'. /At least his eyes still look sober,/ Zechs noted with a bit of relief. "Why do you care?" came his voice softly. "I am worth no one's concern." Despondency crossed his face.

Zechs closed his eyes and sighed once more, knowing that Treize couldn't see his expression, and was likely too drunk to guess at it like he normally did. "Because, I'm worried about you," he said.

"Why bother worrying?" Again, spoken in the same disturbingly soft, slow tone. It was far too subtle for anyone normal who was drunk, but than Zechs remembered Treize was not exactly normal.

/I cannot tell him truly why…/ "Because you are my friend," Zechs intoned persuasively, then added, "*sir*."

Treize dragged his lazy eyes up to Zechs' handsome, mask-hidden face, a smile gently gracing his lips. "Ah."

The only expression Zechs could pull to his mouth that would mask his concern was his familiar scowl. "I'll escort you to your room, if you wish. Do you think you can walk?"

A small, dark chuckle escaped Treize, and he shook his head slightly, reeling from the light-headedness even that slight gesture caused him. "So sorry to be a burden, my friend, but no…"

"It's alright sir. You're no burden at all," Zechs murmured, draping Treize's right arm over his shoulders, and putting his own left arm around Treize's slim waist. He interlaced the fingers of his right hand with Treize's, after Treize stumbled the first time, proving that he needed a bit more help walking than Zechs had originally thought. Treize was amazingly light, and Zechs had to restrain himself to stop entertaining the idea of just picking Treize up and sparing both of them the humiliation of slowly making it through the halls. But if he did that, Treize would likely never forgive him. Treize was a nobleman, and such a thing would be-

/Would be unthinkable,/ Zechs sighed in his mind. /So damned stubborn. He probably would have refused *this* help if he hadn't known he couldn't walk, and if the alcohol hadn't already lowered his defenses./ That was the one reason he hated to see Treize get like this. When he was drunk, he spent all his time kicking himself for things that were far beyond his control.

In the back of his mind, a little voice assured him that Treize likely had some sort of guilt complex, what with memorizing the names of people he'd killed and -- Zechs quieted the voice down, and admitted to himself that Treize _was_ the most likely candidate in all the Rommafeller organization for having a nervous breakdown. If he hadn't already had one without Zechs finding out. /Lady Une's presence alone could cause one…/

He held Treize's body close to his side, wondering once more how he could stand his office. Even through his heavy uniform jacket, he could feel that Treize's body was cold. /Probably doesn't notice because he's drunk./ He sighed slightly, fending off the urge to take advantage of the situation.

/I will not touch him in a manner that is anything beyond comradely. I will not touch him in a manner…/ Zechs repeated in his mind, as he helped his superior officer from his office, and down the hall. /No matter how much I want to…/

"Gott, Mirialdo… never believed I could be _this_ tired…" Treize murmured slowly, resting his head on Zechs' shoulder as they stood in the elevator that took them to the floor his rooms were on.

Zechs allowed a shaky breath to escape him. /Yes, breathe. Breathing is good. Very good./ Once in a while, without realizing it, Treize made Zechs a very happy man. And this was one of those moments. /I wonder how he manages to stay alive? I think the only thing I've seen him eat in days was… well, no, liquor doesn't count as eating. He's running the whole accursed organization himself, because everyone else is too damned stupid to be a help to him. Lady Une could very easily take some of that paperwork off his hands…/

A guard saluted as the door opened, and they stepped out of it. Zechs saw a confused expression cross his face, but as Zechs turned his head toward the man, careful not to disturb Treize, the man looked downward, not wanting to meet the masked face of Zechs Marquise. /I'll be damned, I don't care what they think is going on…/ He sighed. /I wish I could help him, stop him from doing this to himself, but he gets angry when people tell him what to do… I'd gladly help with the paperwork, but I'm a soldier, not an official like Une. And Treize somehow manages to be both… he'd probably get himself killed in battle if we had a mission in the next couple of days…/

His eyes drifted over Treize's form, and he realized just how tired Treize looked. He seemed to want to go to sleep right there. Maybe pass out was the better word -- every step he took seemed to be a struggle, and he looked as if in a daze. His eyes were closed more than their normal half-way.

/Asleep on his feet,/ Zechs mused, then bent his head, brushing his lips over Treize's warm temple, careful not to brush him with the hard metal of his mask. Treize was so out of it that he wouldn't mind Zechs taking this small opportunity. Such simple pleasures were very hard to get away with, and he longed to be able to brush his lips over Treize's own, instead of his noble brow, hand or temple. "You can sleep in a moment sir. We're almost to your rooms."

The older man nodded almost imperceptibly. Zechs chuckled slightly. /I nearly _am_ carrying him now./

They reached the door to Treize's rooms, and Zechs punched his code into the clearance pad. /Been a while since I used this here. I hope I still have clearance…/ As he finished tapping out the sequence, he was greeted with a small click as the door opened.

Treize lifted his head from Zechs' shoulder, blinking. "Home," he murmured to himself.

Zechs nodded. "Are you going to be okay, sir?" he asked, as he released Treize and allowed him to stand, albeit shakily, on his own. Then he realized Treize's jacket was still in his office. /Oh well./

Treize made a dismissive gesture with his hand, though it was less controlled than it would have been normally. "No need to tuck me in bed, Mirialdo. I can manage from here."

/If only I could,/ Zechs mused, then stepped back a bit, bowing. "Then I will see you tomorrow, sir."

Treize watched him until he was sure he would not return, supporting himself on the door jam. Once sure Zechs was gone, he staggered into his quarters, closing the door. "Oh, Gott…" he muttered, feeling a wave of nausea hit him as his legs faltered, and he leaned against the wall. /Tomorrow… I'll ask Zechs to shoot me if he ever finds me drinking like that again …/

His quarters were perfectly secure, and it was late at night; hence Treize didn't give a damn that he wasn't the prefect nobleman at the moment. It had been hard enough keeping up appearances around Zechs. /No need to worry him any more than it appears I already do… Well, at least I now know what he does when he's brooding… likely worrying about something…/

Now that the world had stopped tilting -- at least for a few moments, anyway -- Treize pulled himself up to his full height and, keeping very close to the wall, walked to his bedroom.

Too weary to worry, he kicked off his boots outside the door, the stripped as he entered, letting his linen shirt and uniform pants fall to the floor in a trail of white. He collapsed into the lonely embrace of his large bed.

"Treize," a soft voice purred next to his ear, delicate hands caressing his back.

Treize froze, a shudder running through him before he pushed himself up, turning to the voice.

There was a woman beside him, and she was smiling softly, soft brown locks falling over her shoulders. It was surprising to see *her* with her hair down, glasses gone, and she really did look rather pretty, Treize thought, rather disjointedly. "My Colonel," she murmured appreciatively, as she continued to caress his taunt, rose-scented body. "You do not know for how long I've waited for this…"

"Stop-wait-Une…" the founder of the Specials stammered. His pleasant voice cracked as fear wrenched at his guts. Yes, she was pretty, but he didn't want what she very obviously wanted from him. The last time he had wanted that had also been his _first_ time… a grievous error, even though he did love the woman. He tried to push Une away, but found he was too weary to do even that. "M'lady… I do not want to-to--"

Une laughed slightly, the sound painful to Treize's ears. Not that the sound itself hurt, but the tone, the sentiment it was laced with. /Why does she always sound as if she's just mastered the world when she laughs?/ Treize asked himself. /It is no wonder the men hate her…/ "I _simply_ wish to please your delicate sensibilities, sir… I know you to be a man of fine wine, soft shirts, cultured speech…" She pressed her body against his, and he winced. "Fine women…"

/Damned cognac,/ his mind growled at him, as Une pressed her lips to his. He didn't even blink, in fact shuddered a little.

Une pulled back in slight shock that he hadn't responded as she had expected him to; hadn't really responded at all. A small sigh escaped her.

/Well, there are some things a man cannot resist. I _will_ have what is mine./