Encounter, a gundam seed fanfic

On a grey Thursday, in between her last parliamentary discussion on the enactment of new tax regulations and an impending shuttle to South America, he makes his way into the hotel suite that she's resting in.

There isn't any real challenge in getting past security or the protocols around the Orb head of state and lead emir. A few check his prints and eyes to make sure he's not an imposter, and he and his entourage go through those scans to ensure there are no more than their state-authorised weapons on them. Those get deposited with her head security team anyway, but nobody asks any questions that they already know the answers to.

Her most trusted guards and advisors already know what they need to about him and facilitate her arrangements. One had tried to leak information to earn extra on the side, but hadn't learned the extent of his employer's control of the press. Nothing was published in a damaging way to Orb's premier, and the guard in question had been dealt with accordingly. Athrun himself had taken care of it.

One of the lead security staff even nods respectfully at him when he passes by. It's ridiculous, almost, but it's gone on for nearly a decade now - it's almost down to a standard operating procedure. It could almost be official business - they still pretend it is, because they can't afford to make mistakes.

He rides the elevator without obstruction, flanked by his own guards, but they get off at a different floor. He continues to the one that he's been instructed to stop at, and it's easy to find the entrance of her private suite when there's only one, and her temporary residence occupies the entire floor.

When he rings the doorbell, he finds her waiting and ready for him, because really, she wasn't going to dismiss most of her bodyguards in the afternoon so that they could sit around and talk politics.

They already have their work cut out for them on most days and can ill-afford impromptu getaways. But there are just some days like these, when she doesn't spare even a minute for the courtesy of a kiss.

Or maybe they've gone too long for the last three weeks without this. It's raining outside, and it's beginning to storm behind those curtains. It would have been cold, but she meets him, hungry and harsh in the way she pulls at his collar. He had left his coat on a hook in the adjacent corridor outside the suite, but she's apparently too impatient to wait for him to set down his things properly today.

She's lost much of her reserve over time and there's only a distant reminder of the naive, rash young girl she was, those years ago. These days, her assertion fuels a sexuality that she didn't use to control or wield so knowingly over him in the past. Now, she has no qualms letting him know exactly what she expects, and she's hissing at him to hurry up.

But even if he's never refused her - to do so would be to refuse himself - he'll not have her bossing him, at least not for today, and so he fights with her and himself for control; ensures that she's beneath, scrabbling and pushing him to go, go, go.

"At least let me take my belt off properly." he says, almost amused, but she casts him that impatient, demanding look, hair mussed and tumbling across her face, golden and burning against the dark maroon of the suite's wallpaper. He all but forgets what he wanted to say.

When he thinks he's ready and that he can control her and all of whatever they've fooled themselves into continuing, he slides, grinds deep, into her wet heat, slower than he would really have liked.

In the lift to his office, the broadcast is delivering breaking news of the latest economic treaty discussions, and the news anchor is discussing the latest tax reforms and Cagalli Yula Atha's parliament's development in foreign policy. Orb's currency has appreciated again, and he makes a note to retain his financial advisor for recommending that he transfer more funds from the Plants into Orb.

Later, an aide comes in to deliver some documents marked with confidential holograms, which only eye-scans, voice-recognitions, finger-prints, and about sixteen other verifications are required to access. Those will be there for the next half an hour, because those aren't marked as urgent and he's too distracted by the news to turn immediately to them. By the time he does, he will have less than twenty minutes before attending a meeting.

Later in the afternoon, he'll be off to his class, and he's intent on having this batch of latest graduate pilots master the module's manuever requirements. They're the elite students and commandos-to-be, the kind more used at staring at the skies through their machines' digital views than observing the actual weather. But they were never conscripted or sent off in mobile suits, and the oldest in this batch of students is only twenty-four. In his spacious, glassy office, in one of Orb's key military headquarters, he's always mindful that the world outside is going on at a breakneck pace and the idea of peace is an ideal. Orb will continue to deal in military technology, and its defence continues to be unparalleled.

The broadcast doesn't show her as it discusses the new tax implications. She would never allow anything less than an official press conference if she had to be shown for such news at all. These days, whenever the news mentions her, it's evidence of how savvy she is and how ten different people could give ten differing answers as to who she is. Leader, politician, Atha emir, philanthropist, the people's princess, tenacious, ruthless, warm, relatable, charismatic.

He's never told her, but he admires how strong she is and how much stronger she's become. The person who had wept in his arms and let him tuck her into bed had been brave, but overall naive. But then she's learned a few hard lessons, as most of them have, and she's had to learn faster and had far less room for mistake than anyone else. She's brave still, yes, but she's become cunning, and he knows she's had to be.

It was difficult enough living through the wars, but rebuilding things after the wars is a different and even more complex game. She's had to become a master of that game, but if it's gifted her a cynicism and exposed a wit that he'd seen mere glimpses of when they were younger. Both serve her well in this chapter of her survival.

His love, simmering and implied beneath his words, silence, and military uniform, will not.

When she's asleep, and before he too gives in to the exhaustion and physical exertion of passion spent, he studies the faint lines around her mouth and eyes, and the marks he'd left on the arch of her neck and swell of her breasts.

She doesn't have the delicate, classic mould of some faces, but there was always that sweltering, undeniable huskiness to her voice and stubborn vitality in those sharp, cat-like eyes. Her nose, always slightly uplifted, suited her boyish mannerisms, even if those eventually gave way to a far more measured tone and a more patient, sophisticated outlook. But those obscene lips always gave her secrets away.

He enjoys her mouth - plump and rapacious, tongue capable of the most vulnerable utterings in his confidence, but also the most cruel words. All her words and her sighs are for him tonight, framed by the chapped skin of her lips because his kisses were rough.

This time, she wasn't in such a hurry. He'd had the pleasure of easing her from the glittering, complicated gown that she'd worn for the soirée, discarding it with all the jewels and his suit. When each layer of glamour had been pared down, he'd made a quirk about something. She'd laughed, holding his face in her hands, and she'd teased, "You can be so funny when you want to be."

He'd taken his time while the strains of the orchestra at the gardens beneath them floated into the evening, and she'd hummed along when he touched her. It was almost possible to forget that he'd had to clear even more security than usual for him to meet her tonight. Even on a normal day, her security is so heavy that he simply can't bring her any gifts.

He smiles into the windows of her hair, because it's clear that he can stay this time, and she's too spent to shift away when he puts his arms around her and claims her closer to him. She breathes deeply, quite lost in sleep, and he lays another kiss on her neck.

She's fussed at least once about gaining weight, and she'd sighed when he'd released her from her gown and grumbled about feeling fatter after her overseas trips. But it's nothing unattractive to him at all. If anything, he's frequently enjoyed the fuller curves that being out of a war and being in one of the richest nations in the galaxy has afforded her. It suits her, as have the years and the polish that she's gained. She wears it as armour over that pure, raw drive, and he thinks right now that for all she's lost, she's grown into herself.

He presses a final, soft kiss on her cheek for tonight, and finds it still flushed pink. Her skin is golden from her recent trip to Ecuador, and radiates damp warmth even now. When they wake, perhaps she'll not protest when he draws the bath for them.

Next week, he's going to the Plants for a two-month long military exercise on a bilateral arrangement, and he wonders if he could convince her to visit Aprilius.

When she's had a bit too much to drink or when she's not completely bogged down with work, she allows herself to consider the possibility of a future with him. Those years ago, they were both young, hopeful and hopelessly trusting.

There isn't a fair chance really, not when Plant's politics are still met with suspicion by the Earth Alliancs. Some things don't change - Orb sits in the centre of it all, and she's chosen her country and her father's legacy. He had returned to Orb after the Second War, and faced suspicion and discrimination even when Kisaka and Kira's influence provided him a smooth passage into a new military career. But his capabilities had managed the rest. She's never said so, but she's proud of everything he achieved.

They'd tried to stay friends for old times' sake and for the convenience of their family and friends. In some way, it was more effort keeping at arms length, because they'd been the closest of friends and trusted confidantes for such a long time.

She had thought that they'd agreed, implicitly with that wordless embrace before the final battle in the Second War, that if they survived it, they'd start anew with their separate lives. That had seemed clear enough. He'd kept away, mostly, and she knew that he'd cohabitated with that younger Hawke girl for a while.

She'd told herself that they were always going to lead separate lives, even when she'd been informed of his re-entry into Orb and his successful application for permanent residence. She'd reminded herself of their resolve to build their lives up on their own, when she'd caught sight of him in the military training grounds, or during the subsequent ocassions when she visited Markio's orphanage for a child's birthday and he showed up too. If anything, she'd told herself she no longer needed him around.

She had lasted all of about two years and seven months upon his retuning to Orb after the Second War, before finding an ocassion to be tipsy and alone with him. The liquor had helped greatly; her guilt from her past betrayal, his sense of propriety and caution not so much. It hadn't mattered so much in the end - he'd taken her in the morning, slow, languid and calm, never mind that he knew exactly what she had intended. He did it when she was completely sober; he told her later that he didn't mind being used if she wanted to continue seeing him like this, but he didn't like anything less than having her sober.

Her twin and Lacus must surely suspect, if not know, of something. They don't say anything, but Lacus sometimes gives her that strange, sad look, and Kira sometimes stares at Athrun in that way, like he wants to say something but won't bring himself to. Their children are growing well, precocious and healthy, and she wonders if they too, sense their aunt's closeness to their godfather.

He will always be somebody who shaped her life. Even now, she concedes to herself that he's a friend, a confidante, a lover, an almost-family member. He's offered her wise counsel when she's been at a loss. With him, she doesn't have to watch herself and hold back. He will never betray her.

But she won't admit that he's necessary, because they both know the danger of reliance. The rhythm that they've settled is fine - they simply continue on their affairs illicitly, as and when the urge calls.

He's intelligent and observant; he knows that Orb will never need her to do more for him when she's whittled down their relationship so much that it might as well be written off as a random affair. If they were ever caught, it would simply be written off as that - the public opinion of women and sexuality has shifted sufficiently. In this day and age, nobody would blink an eye at an affair or two, unless some marriage was threatened. An affair with a person with a questionable heritage, and a highly-ranked official under her government's employ, would at least, still be forgiveable. And if he doesn't protest, then the problem isn't hers, is it?

When she makes sure to leave traces of other men around her, she half-believes that he'll end whatever it is they're messing around with. Part of her really hopes that he will, because he deserves a clean break and a woman who will build her life with and around him. But part of her breaks each time because she will never want anyone but him, and she will never want the way that she wants him.

Maybe he's resentful of this unspoken, uncertain arrangement, or maybe he isn't, but he says nothing about the others in her life and continues to seek her out and she him. And so they balance their tightrope, the way they have for close to a third of their lives, these moments too precarious and too fragile for them to look too far ahead.

She loves it when he smiles or laughs, because it makes him look so young and carefree, and she remembers when they all were.

His refined looks have become more haggard over time, and they all have grown more tired. But they've only begun their early thirties, and they have so much more to live for, in a way. He keeps himself cleanly-shaved, and even if there are often dark circles under his eyes. That litheness has become broader with hardened muscle and the accumulated years of physical fitness required to pilot, but he keeps his hair that way that she remembers, and it's like he'll never change even though she has.

Because of that, she thinks it's unfair that she's a reminder of the wars to him. Those memories must have shaped him so much that their short-lived engagement would seem a reference point for when things might be 'normal'. But their engagement wasn't a part of normality - it was probably all a mistake that the Second War exposed anyway.

When he cooks her meals, or folds her near like a message meant only for him when he thinks she's really sleeping, she wonders when he'll grow cold and fade away from her. But when he says nothing about the men that she's allowed media reports to feature alongside her name and image, she understands with an increasing, always-excruciating clarity that she couldn't have had him back then, and that she still doesn't deserve him now.

She finds herself twisted against the headboard, gripping whatever she can get her hands on - his hair, still kept long enough in that style for her to easily wind and curl around her fingers. There are the sheets, stained with their damp bodies, his shoulders, and the tracks of her nails on his hard planes.

Once upon a time, she had blushed and tried to dissuade him from doing this for her. These days, she grants him access as casually as she could have answered a call from some completely unaware subordinate to iron out some conflict in her schedule. She's actually done both at the same time, on more than a few occasions. There are only so few hours in a day, and if she'd had her way and a bit more honesty, she spend them all with him like this, fucking away the tension in the both of them.

He brings her release soon enough, and she bucks her hips, letting him do whatever he pleases, as long as she has him like this. There's no more shame when she's with him, even if she's prone to random and sudden bouts of shyness at the worst times. But he's nothing if not encouraging of any wanton behaviour from her, and he simply buries his mouth in her folds a little deeper. There is his tongue and fingers prying and searching even as she curses softly, shaking and trembling under his ministrations.

He leaves fifteen minutes after her shuddering, sweet, climax, because his schedule dictates that he can't afford more time with her. He's become an even more effective lover over the years; always had a knack for bringing her pulse to a hammering beat, in fact. Still dazed from his touch, she sinks back into the pillow, and doesn't see him to the door, although he coaxed a kiss from her first.

There's never really enough time. The first time they'd made love, they had been too young; ignorant almost, in a storage room on a warship, fumbling and clumsy in their exploration of themselves. They'd been afraid that they'd never see each other when a truce had been announced, but war had brought them together, and they'd only been children, in a sense.

They'd been so close to death and so their sex had been foolish, careless, but proof of their living. She was lucky during their first few times; now her precautions are far more sophisticated and calculated.

They can't afford mistakes.

Not that her hiding him away in Orb after the First War had been anything less than a mistake, of course. But it wasn't her fault, not really. Even before they'd messed around, she'd fallen completely in love with him, and being quite stupid, she had later tried to find a way to make him stay.

It had been inevitable that they'd been swept up in machinations quite beyond them. Their love, quick and intense, had shown itself to be a single candle, bending and fighting winds.

Even now, they have amassed their own power over so many things, but have so little say over what they can control. It's almost laughable.

Once, a long time ago, he'd decided to bring a woman home and slept with her.

Three years ago, he'd carried on with a doctor that he'd met through some colleague. He'd proposed after six months of seeing each other, and toyed with the idea of relocating from Orb.

If Cagalli knew, and she must have, she didn't say anything or berate him. At some point, he'd called off the engagement, and he'd sought her out and told her that he would never leave. She hadn't said anything in response, but she hadn't refused him.

Everything he'd tried to do to alter the course he'd taken with her didn't make her more dispensable than she had been at any point. He never told her anything more about why he'd tried, but he never tried to prove what he could do without ever again.

She's never sure what to call it. He can be as casual as she needs, filling and surging and pounding into her so that she's a senseless, melting mess, but then sometimes, when he thinks she's asleep, he kisses her on the forehead or the cheek and tucks the covers over her, holding her in his arms like she's so precious and rare.

Although they don't answer to each other, she's loathe to sleep with anyone else. For that precise reason, she has on multiple occasions, and even if he must know or guess correctly, he never says anything.

He argues with her when they can't agree on habits, politics, whether things are one way or the other, so on and so forth. Away from cameras, crowds and expectations of propriety, she's proven time again that she's competitive, fiesty, and completely childish at times. She doesn't bother being politically correct around him. That's okay.

Sometimes, he stoops to mocking her arguments and pointing out flaws in them in the most condescending of ways, all because she's an expert at goading him. She stoops easily to teasing, personal insults in private. Those range from his limited ability to handle spicy foods, and his extremely neat, careful habits. He retaliates in the same manner. That's okay too.

They never argue about the one elephant, because there's nothing to argue about when they're both in agreement, silent and implied as it may be. They could if they wanted to, for argument's sake. It would have been a long fight, with no pause and no mercy, because their history and the thorn in their sides has spanned at least a decade. Maybe it started when she took things into her own hands and tried to marrry another man for more political power; maybe it was when he had the chance to forgive and reconcile, but walked away from her in that sunset by the cliff.

It doesn't stop him from wanting. He wishes that he could be a different person, and that she could be in a different position. On the stormiest days when he's reminded of their introduction in the rain, he wonders what he could do to change something.

Nothing really changes at its core, because they were brought together precisely by their helplessness and their understanding of each other. It's what keeps them together, in a way. It's an attraction that he could try to live with by distracting himself with another person and perhaps a family, but it's an attraction that he'll also carry to his grave. He would rather not disappoint more people in his life, because he's certain that she is enough.

In any case, he's grown old enough to understand that the same burdens that he would like to shed them from are the same weights that forged the woman that he's infatuated with. All her struggles and her father's legacy have made her who she is, as have his, and that is precisely why there is no point arguing about anything beyond their shared present.

She meets him with the other military top guns from time to time. Her ministry of defence provides monthly reports that she understands he has a part to play in on some level, but these meetings are a way of her keeping a finger on the pulse. It's also an extension of their pretence that they're on merely professional terms.

He doesn't really speak much during these meetings, because his supervisors answer directly to the minister but he doesn't. Sometimes, in those lull moments, even though the subject matter could be terribly grim, she catches his eye and sometimes he smiles, so imperceptibly one would never know.

On a few occasions, she's smiled back.

He was her first, but he wasn't - hasn't been - her only. That's fine by him, because they were too young to be any wiser, too young for anything that the wars swept them up in. In these times of peace, he thinks that maybe they've grown up, but they've also grown into each other, and that they're ready to know how to manage their own lives.

Because they're older and wiser, they know that with his checkered past and her commitments to state, Orb will never be accepting of him by her side. The last time his supervisors had to provide reports to clarify that he was no Plant intelligencer had just been two years ago.

Even if she's so strong now that she can take and hold power without the bargaining chip of any political marriage, there is no real benefit to her choosing him. Her continuing to be this strong, stronger than they both were during the Second War, is all he can ask for.

His being with her like this is as much as she'll take, and as much as he'll be allowed to offer. He knows it's selfish of her to keep him around like this, but he can't really blame her for not abdicating. He'd choose this arrangement over being a stranger with her, all over again, every time.

And for those reasons, it gives him far more than physical pleasure to watch her vicious, talented mouth utter not the official, formal state speeches, but gape in a luscious, puckered circle, tight and weeping, grappling and struggling around the thickness of his cock. Sometimes, when he watches her speak in her office, or in parliament, or even on telecasts, he indulges in thoughts about how that eloquent mouth was used for far baser, primal pleasures than state orders.

Like today. She rolls her tongue against his ridge, then his slit, massaging his throbbing length and swollen base, and lets him thrust deeper, mouthing at his sac. The lipstick that she had been wearing is smudged on him and perhaps even his briefs; he can't see right now, but he'll just take care of that later.

When she hums around him, he nearly loses control. In retaliation, he fondles and squeezes her breasts harder, pulling aside her soft blouse even though it's already ruined, feeling her cry out, muted, around him when he teases and pinches at her nipples hard. When she slips a finger against his opening, hooking it into him, twirling it, he nearly loses it. She would rather that he end it abruptly, violently, under her control.

Some days, he yanks her by the hair, not harsh enough to hurt her, because he would rather destroy himself than to intentionally hurt her, but hard enough for her to gasp as he folds and buckles into half. Some days, he likes to see how wrecked she is when he yanks away, her lips swollen and engorged from lapping and sucking, chin and cheeks dripping, those delicate golden eyelashes damp with unshed tears and seed. Other days, he much prefers having her choke, even if her nails emboss tiny pink crescents into his lower back and arse, the fluttering chords of her throat casing him.

Today, he surges just a little deeper, feeling rather than hearing her moan as he cinches and releases, drawing back to plunge just even more deeply, giving her almost no time to breathe. Her eyes are shut, a comma of concentration easing between her brows, but he fights the urge to close his eyes and lose himself completely too. Instead, he stares at her while stroking himself to control his ejaculation, slowly filling her mouth to its brim, willing her to commit everything - every sensation, every bit of him - to memory.

He'd watched her breathe into another's kiss just two weeks ago, from some news snippet that mentioned her growing relationship with Earth Alliance's German chancellor. Twenty thousand miles away from where she had been, he had stared at the broadcast, hating, willing himself to numbness, counting down the number of days, hours, minutes that she'd be back in Orb. So now, it gives him minimal comfort, but a great deal of satisfaction, to watch her take it all.

She's curled up with him, and he's nuzzling against her, seeking her warmth. The Plants remind him of so many things, and he doesn't say much about it, but she knows he dreads being back here for business. Against her better judgment, she had arranged time to join him here, in between his work and hers.

The service apartment that he's been putting up in is extremely compact. She's taking risks by being here - she could have been spotted, and so she sent away her guards and ordered that they drop her off quite some distance away. He'd been surprised to see her at his doorstep this evening, especially since she'd told him a week ago that she wouldn't visit him. But she'd asked him to make some tea, and his admonishments as to her sending away the bodyguards had been silenced soon enough.

They're so lonely sometimes. Even though she shouldn't, she kisses him on the forehead, working out the tangles in his hair. If they'd had their way, they would have had children and their own family by now. But there are things that cannot be.

Still, she hopes that she can continue to keep him close like this, without the emotional accountability and commitment that she wishes she could offer him.

They're in their sixth year, being trapped like this.

He shouldn't be here in Neo-Shanghai, not here like this when she's on such key official business. He's supposed to be back in Orb, but he must have learned of her coming here, and he's found her. Hell, he must have been waiting for a while - he must have heard her in the shower, singing out of tune.

She nearly laughs at the thought of him standing around, waiting for her to finish, and begins to push past him. She'll just make a call and the guards will send him along.

But he strides to take and put down the phone that she picks up; neat and without any clear show of temper, as usual. All the same, he didn't come here without a reason, and she knows that she shouldn't have counted on him to stay calm and unreactive.

"Don't you have work in Orb to clear?" She says, because she's not going to be bloody intimidated by him staring at her, even knowing that she's tried to avoid him for more than four months since their last run-in. The guards were told not to let him around her, but he must have found a way to get past all those protocols anyway.

"Is it over?"

She doesn't know what to say. She has been hoping to let it fade away; to not seek him out, and to turn him away if he followed. She's tried to make a clean break, but there was no need to tell him. Or was there?

"There was nothing." She says, knowing the extent of her lies and the massive effort she'd gone to in trying, yet again, to leave him in the past. "We mess around from time to time, that's all. I don't answer to you, and I want to move on."

"Is that really true?"

She stands her ground. "What were you expecting? I mean, what do you want?"

He stares at her, and she can see that for all his apparent calmness, his pupils are dilated. They're so green, she marvels, but then she can't really think when he locks her to him with an arm, so close she can feel his growing hardness against her, and she involuntarily flushes when he tugs her bathrobe belt looser, just inches away from the damn thing disravelling entirely. When he brings a hand to feel her pebble under his roughened fingerpads, she wonders if the bead of water trailing the valley of her chest is from the shower or her nervousness.

He could tell her everything - exactly what he wants; what he's wanted for years. But it's too much to ask for legitimacy and for a chance to take her away to start anew, or for him to stay right here to protect her in his own way, and make her truly happy.

For now, he settles on what he can have. He removes his hand to bring it south, sliding his fingers roughly into her moistness. Every word he measures in the air, every word a code for a hundred other words that he cannot say, because she cannot listen.

"I want you on top of me. I want your tits wet and stiff from my mouth, I want your quim weeping from just my fingers and tongue. Then I want you bouncing and clenching on my cock, until you're begging me to come inside you, and you can't go an hour without wanting everything again. Get undressed."

His desk has finally been cleared of its documents.

"I like it when you're like this." He says. He sounds strange to his own ears, with the meaningless nonsense when men fuck. His voice is nothing like what it was half an hour ago when he'd delivered fairly stern instructions to a subordinate. This is all hedonistic and completely unprofessional, but he can't slow down. "You're all wet and ready for me. You feel amazing."

"Shut up." She says, breathless, gripping him within her in that way that invariably always makes him come. Putting him in his place, as it were. Her cheek is pressed to the desk, her fingers clutching over his, gripping into her rear, and she gasps or laughs - he can't tell for that instant. "Fuck me harder."

She draws him closer, still squeezing and adjusting so that he can enter her depths more and feel her about him just so. It feels incredible when she tightens her walls against him each time, and he thrusts harder, strung along on her rhythm, groaning as he's brought to the edge.

When he's released, he satisfies himself by turning her around to face him and laying her back on his desk, then sinks into the leather chair that he'd been previously working in. He's past carrying about the logistics of the mahogany, but splays her out, masterpiece that she is, watching hungrily as she lies back, so full with his come that she seeps wet into the grain. Then he buries his face in her breasts, suckling hard and revelling in the greedy, smacking sounds of his mouth and her filthy, breathy encouragement. He could do this for hours, and they both know nobody can disturb them in this office when everything is sealed off for this time. Their cells have been muted, and her aides will continue to pretend that they don't know where she is. He can't resist biting a bit to hear her gasp and tug at his hair.

"How's your day been?" He says huskily at some point, when they've finally come around to the formalities.

"I love it." She says, lids heavy, voice muddled and tongue-loosened from their activity. She strokes his cheek and wet lips. "I love you so much."

She imagines these sessions to be encounters. These are arguably infrequent, relatively unusual when seen in the context of their history and how much more deeply she could care for him if she forgot her place.

These encounters can take a few minutes, but these can last for hours, days, if they're in the mood and their schedules allow for it. It often is over in a matter of minutes - a rough, flustered fuck against some surface, hands over her mouth so that she won't scream and be heard. Some are more fleeting; almost as random as a glimpse of him in a corridor, on the screens in the plaza. On a few occasions, so quickly that nobody else would have recognised it, she sees the tilt of his chin - the challenge in his eyes.

A month ago, she watched from behind bullet-proof clear screens as crowds cheered, fireworks whistled, and he saluted from one of the sixty platoons on Orb's National Day parade during the march-past.

They continue to communicate covertly, speaking in half-formed suggestions when they meet in public, hinting at meetings that may or may not materialise. Over these years, they've sometimes suggested that they'll stop, that it's mere recreation, that it's just convenient because they're used to each other, but then they encounter each other again and again.

On some evenings, they find the time to talk. Sometimes, they laugh and joke about things at work, or argue about current events, or the latest art piece that sold for an insane amount that either of them could have made, or some inane thing.

A few times over these years, she's shed tears about everything that she can't have, sometimes in his presence. And that's okay, he's never used that against her, but she knows it hurts him possibly more than she's hurting.

But there's much to be grateful for when he's around like this too. He eases her troubles, possibly more than he could ever know, and the thought of losing him frightens her.

Yesterday, when she'd paid a brief visit to Markio's orphanage, she'd caught sight of him by the waves and cliffs, with about ten children and some of those who'd become young adults and still went back to help out. He might have spotted her in the car she'd borrowed from her brother, but he'd apparently had a shuttle to catch and didn't return to the orphanage to coincide with her visit.

One of the children says it's a pity that Cagalli just missed him.

She says it's fine; they'll probably meet soon.