Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. Characters belong to their respective copyright owners, like Sunrise/Sotsu/Bandai. Plot, if you can call it that, belongs to me.

Pairing: Zechs/Treize
Rating: NC-17
350 words

For the [ gw500 ] prompt 'sugar'.

The two of them are, these days, nothing but spun sugar.

by Ponderosa

The two of them are, these days, nothing but spun sugar. They wind their fragile limbs together, build crystalline moments around hollow words, the sweetness of each embrace as fleeting as the moments they have to spend in one another's company.

"You earn high honours. Your fame grows by the hour," Treize says. He lifts a handful of Milliardo's hair into the fading glow of the sun, watches the light catch and glisten along strands slipping from his fingers.

"Tomorrow is her birthday."

Treize stretches, lets his bare leg slide along Milliardo's. His body aches from their exertions, and the slickness of come weighs heavily in his bowels. "I hadn't forgotten. There's a gift in my office. Would you like to add your signature to th-"

"No." A moment later, as if to soften his refusal, Milliardo adds, "Next year, perhaps."

The year to come could bring many things. Treize rolls on top of Milliardo, gathers his arms and pushes them up. Mouths the curve of Milliardo's armpit and tastes his sweat. "Of course," he says between kisses. And then, when Milliardo's breathing quickens again: "Stay another night. We'll make a toast to your sister."

"I'm already twenty-four hours past the time my squadron was told to expect me."

A thin, curving smile spreads on Treize's face. "Then adding another twenty-four to arrive fashionably late would only add to your mythos, Major," he says, and holds his breath. Between them, an answer to a different question, Milliardo's cock stirs, thickens rapidly when their tongues clash.

This time around things are no less exuberant, and when Treize rolls away, thighs shaking from the strain of holding up his weight, of rocking into the pounding rhythm Milliardo set, he is left breathless all over again.

Minutes tick by. Breathing slows. The come smeared thick between Treize's thighs turns cool and tacky.

"I'm sorry, Treize," Milliardo says, and leaves to shower.

Spun sugar. Everything dissolving and nothing built to last. Treize gathers the corner of the sheet to wipe up.

"Impress me out there, my friend," he says to the gathering shadows.


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