Trowa stared at the body being positioned in the small infirmary of the building. Wufei stepped back once the body was secured, and crossed his arms defiantly, his tense figure radiating concern and anger. Duo eyed the Chinese boy nervously, and their eyes met, fierce sparks flying between the two pilots. Wufei seemed cold and hard, unrelenting in whatever it was that he had decided. Heero's body looked pathetically weak and fragile on the makeshift infirmary bed next to such adamance.
"I'm not treating him until someone explains what is going on," Wufei growled, overwhelmingly threatening in case of arguement. Trowa looked at him blankly with dead eyes, and Quatre pouted, clutching his arms across his chest as if cold. Duo arched an eyebrow in delicately contrived innocent confusion, and replied, "Whatddya mean, Wu-man?"
Wufei glared at the American, and retorted, "All of this! Yuy is somehow connected to the arguement earlier, and I mean to find out what the HELL is going on, Maxwell!" Duo blinked in surprise at his outburst, and nodded in reluctant agreement, however unable to reprieve Wufei's demands. Quatre bit his lip in silence, and Trowa stared blankly at the wall. Duo glanced at the stressed Arabian, and frowned as Trowa's carefully hidden expression, obscured by a deliberate flip of his long bangs in front of his face. Quatre looked ready to begin weeping and yet also, to begin shrieking, or simply walk away in saddened apathy. Yet it was Trowa who spoke into the awaiting quiet.
"It's Heero," the Latino pilot began, his voice roughened and sorrowful. Wufei glanced curiously at him, his eyebrows winging down into a scowl as he pursed his lips, waiting for Trowa to continue. The taller youth inhaled deeply, and walked forward to stand beside Heero's injured form. Trowa stood there for a moment, one hand relaxed as if to reach out and caress the guant lines of Heero's cheek. He remained still, only gazing at the Japanese pilot, a sad, pained look crossing his cheeks with a flush.
"In some way or another, it's always Heero," Trowa murmured, his voice hoarse as if betraying the downed pilot, just barely loud enough to be heard by the others. Wufei grabbed his shoulder, furious at the Latin boy's refusal to continue his rendition, and yelled, "Barton, he's dying, damn it! Just finish!"
Trowa looked up slowly, and a dead, bitter smile faintly touched his lips. Wufei calmed at the sheer panicked calm, as if mid-battle without ammunition, in the other pilot's eyes, and stepped back, quiet. Trowa nodded imperceptibly, and a menacing chill ran down Wufei's spine at the Latino youth's expression. "Chang, she's dying, damn it! Can't the expanation wait?! You're being unreasonable!" Trowa snarled suddenly, not lifting his eyes from the bleeding near-corpse of the Japanese pilot. Wufei frowned deeply, then allowed a nod.
"You're going to explain all this when he's patched up," Wufei demanded quietly, not looking up at him. Trowa nodded in reply, but that sinister smile still played his mouth. The Latin boy stepped back to let Wufei work, retreating the to doorframe, his head lowered. He peered through his hair briefly as Wufei slit Heero's shirt, and began distastefully pulling off the stained cloth. "I'll explain, but she'll explain better," he whispered to himself, half-wanting to be heard by the blonde pilot standing aloof beside him. Quatre only shot him a veiled look of anguish, unseen through Trowa's bangs, but remained silent.
Wufei motioned to Duo, hissing his needed supplies, and the worried American rushed to get them from within the large box comprising their medical kit. The Chinese boy scowled at the depth of the revealed injuries, and the increasingly blood-stained sheets beneath Heero's insensate body, then began cleaning the deep cuts, swabbing delicately at the ruptured flesh. He ended the life of cloth after cloth, the damp, pinkened material gathering on the floor where the Chinese boy threw it.
Wufei grimaced at the depth of the cuts, but said nothing as he peeled the scabbing flesh apart, and applied the disinfectant. Heero's flesh cringed, but the boy didn't move, no semblance of survival upon his paling flesh.
Trowa watched in quiet horror as the sheets continued to darken under Heero's body, even as Wufei laid a line of cream to the slits, and clipped them shut, clamping metal down to hold the puckering flesh together. Duo winced beside him at the brief viciousness of Wufei's hands, more deeply affected by the harsh wounds and treatment of said injuries than the others. Trowa felt slightly sick with himself, a familiar nausea of self-disgust raising bile in his throat at the devotion apparent in Duo's amethyst concern.
Wufei looked Heero over, and grumbled, raising a pair of scissors over his head, knocking down his sleeves to avoid bloodstains on the white pyjamas. "He's still bleeding, must be injured in the thigh or something," Wufei complained bitterly, reaching for the tight waistband of Heero's spandex shorts. Trowa glanced away, distancing himself in regard for the near future as the Chinese pilot snipped off the cloth. Wufei gulped, sloe eyes widening at the sheer amount of blood, concealing flesh and dripping from the remains of Heero's shorts.
"Holy shit!" Duo whimpered beside the dark pilot, then danced backwards to avoid Wufei's glare. Trowa heard the revolting plop of the soaked shorts to the floor, his face averted from the bloody mess of his team-mate. Duo handed Wufei a damp cloth to beign cleaning enough so he could possibly hope to see the injury apparently in Heero's groin. Duo yelped quietly, eyeing Heero's groin through fingers wrapped over his face, parting the digits occaisionally to wince in sympathetic pain for the massive injury as Wufei cleaned off the too-bright blood. Then he dropped his hands.
Trowa exhaled, hearing Wufei stammering, and the ominous silence from Duo. Mere silence from Quatre beside him echoed in the Latino youth's ears, and he blinked slowly. The betrayal was complete. He looked up, frowning at the flushed face of the Chinese pilot, and the American pilot slumped against the wall, having backpedaled against it. He glanced to his side, and blinked as Quatre's shocked gaze met his own, startling the Latin pilot.
"It's always Heero," Trowa repeated dejectedly, lowering his countenance from the perfect expression of startled fear on Quatre's face.
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