A Matter of Devotion

By Kay

Disclaimer: If I owned Animorphs, the world would be a much more insane place... ^^;; And Ax would wear an apron. Forever. I need to make a club. AWAFU. Apron-Wearing-Ax-Fans-United. ^___^ Wahness. Who wants a baadge?!

Oh- and don't steal the lyrics at the beginning, no da. ^^;; I know _I_ didn't.

Author's Notes: Slashy fic, m/m, be warned. ::blushes:: But it sucks, so the warning's not worth much. ^_^;; Just implied slash for the most part, I think. Very angsty and out of character- I wrote this later, and when I was in a dark freaky mood that basically meant... ummm... ::giggles:: It's badly done and makes NO sense and is OOC. But I adore the idea of torture on poor Ax-chan's part, so it's getting posted. (That... and I'm bored. Mweh.) There ya go~!

S'an AU of sorts... just after Ax-chan dies. ^^;; Oh yes. Slightly depressing.

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These things are trailed threads of golden tears
We two are vanished in the sky of unleashed fears
This storm cries within my heart
It's not to do with pain or promise
Just a simple matter of devotion

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I can't remember much. Except a few small things.

It's really weird, how you swear when something serious happens that you won't forget that exact moment forever. That it'll be stuck inside your mind in a continuous loop, replaying over and over, never letting up. My nightmares could be an awful lot like that. Frozen screenshots echoing in your head, vivid in details.

You think, 'Oh, there's no way I could forget this. Never.'

Then you do forget. Or at least let the images fade in your head, if only for a little peace of mind. Slowly, it all leaks out like wet paint scattering across a blank canvas, unable to hold in place to contain the image it was meant to. Worse than the way my parents can never remember the times for their meetings and appointments when they've been really busy.

You just keep thinking, this is what should have happened. What did happen is already flowing out of your memories forever.

In some part of me, I think I wanted to hold onto what happened-- wanted to recall with clarity every single detail and angle, every piece of the jigsaw puzzle that I could claim. Because if I forgot, it would be... it would be like dishonor. As though what happened hadn't really meant anything, even though it meant everything.

There were others things to think about, though. And parts of me didn't want to remember it clearly, some of me wanted to scatter the seconds in which IT happened, forget it all until it was a faded snapshot of merely seconds in the back of my subconscious. Dishonorable. Horrible. Wrong.

Just wanted it to go away, though. The images haunted me before I let them slip through my fingers like grains of polished, golden sand.

I couldn't forget, though. Even afterwards, when I tried so hard to erase my head into a blank space of nothing. I couldn't remember what happened around me-- knew that we'd been at the Yeerk Pool, knew the scent of blood and sweat was around me, but all I could really hear was breathing.

Breathing. My own, his own. A shot.

It's weird. How I could remember only those things at first, and when I tried to recall the others, they seemed to fade into the background. I never heard their voices or saw anyone surrounding me. There was just... things.

A hand, a softer and smaller hand than my fathers but with the same grip, holding onto a weapon. A loud blast, the trademark "tsew" echoing in my ear drums. We hadn't expected it. I don't think. Later, they said he came out of nowhere while we were remorphing for another go and an escape.

Out of no where. A blast. All I could hear was breathing, my own. Saw the flash, knew what it meant, recoiled and stiffened instinctivly-- but it was to late for me, except--

Take the images away, I would weep. Later, rocking in my bed like the pillows were my only anchor to reality. Take it all away.

Let the images go away, I tried begging, too. I don't want to see anything like them ever again. But how could I forget something so huge, so enormous, the memory that takes up my mind like a weather shield but won't let me look away?

You know, one of the things that scared me most was his eyes. When he fell back, dropped away from me, the funniest, oddest expression crossed his face-- like he was shocked and pleased and afraid at the same time. Like at that moment he hadn't even known he was doing it, running in front of me, shoving me back just a little, hitting against me with the force of the blow, slamming me to the wall behind my unprotected back.

A heavy weight against me. I remember a tiny cry under his breath. Echoes, always in my mind. Then the look on his face, deep in his blue eyes, as he fell away. Not even in his true form-- was that a dishonor to Andalites? To not die in your true form?

He must have hated it. It just wasn't-- fairness had nothing to do with it. Just that... he didn't, or couldn't, care at the time. Couldn't, probably.

And everything around me is faded, in those memories. Vague distorted senses and figures sometimes brushed against me, but stark in my gaze, looking straight into mine-- all I could see was his eyes. Ocean coloured, deep, tinted darker than Rachel's but lighter than the rest of us. Wide eyes, startled and pained when he fell.

You're supposed to look heroic and resigned when you die. People will tell you dead bodies look at peace with the world and its wrongs, eyes closed and gentle, smile gently on their lips-- dignified somehow in a way they couldn't be in real life. Porcelian dolls with nothing left inside them, all the beauty gone away.

To me... He just looked broken. Shattered. Broken glass shards glistening in the snow, glimmering light dancing, all shattered and broken and cold.

His blue eyes did close, somehow on the way down when I forgot, couldn't bear, to catch him as he fell away from me. Eyelashes on his face. No smile, not a frown, merely a slight opening of the lips as though he was trying to take in air, breath deeply, but forgot in the middle. No white pale skin like they say death brings right away, it was still flushed, still looked warm even with no life in it.

Burnt glass shards. Dracon beams.

Staring in uncomprehension. Unable to understand.

I remember those things. The blue of it, the scarlett of it, the pain of it. And later I begged for the memories to leave me alone, stay out of my nightmares, cause they were bad enough. At the same time, you can't forget sacrifices. Sacrifices weren't made to forget, especially for the one who profitted from it. Like me.

It's strange that I can hardly remember his death, only those few things. But I can't stop thinking about his life. Or at least... the stuff I already knew about.

A million little things running through my head, randomly popping up in school at the sight of the merest triggers for the memories. The brick school wall I pushed him up against when he'd been lying to us, before he was truly "one of us". And for the first time, I sat there and I wondered quietly about it, if his lies weren't really lies for us, but more because he felt he had to. Wondered if it'd been fair to condemn him. Knew it was. Then I remembered how soft his t-shirt felt gripped in my fist, the wide guilt in his eyes, the way he was determined and ashamed somehow at the same time.

More things came to me, that I should've noticed-- I'm the leader. They think I am. So why didn't I see this stuff until it was to late to use it? Little observations I could have connected with but never bothered.

Like... how he felt about the clothes we gave his human morph. I remembered when I didn't notice back then, how he didn't like t-shirts as much as he liked long sleeves. Maybe it reminded him of his fur. Or maybe he just got cold easily? Now... I wish I'd known. For some reason.

Did he like hot weather or cold weather more? He never complained, you know. He almost froze to death without saying a word once, back when we had him and Marco morph into fleas to have body heat in the fur of our other morphs. Back then I thought it was idiotic, worrysome, strange. Now, part of me wonders if maybe he just didn't want to upset us. Maybe both?

Details- how he always put his left foot forward first, but used his right hand more. The expression on his face when he first "shrugged"-- the features brightening in wonderment and surprise. The way he picked up some of our habits without meaning to, and had a strange way of nervously twitching his tail when he was worried or in danger.

He liked to serve us, liked to fight with us, I know that for certain. And now I look back and see it, the strength it must have taken, y'know? How many times was it, that he'd forsaken his own people for our cause? Fought with us, even when the people he looked up to and admired told him to stay away. Didn't go home when he could have, back to his parents, but came back to me, to us, to fight.

Ax was... a good friend. And...

Yeah.

In his scoop, he sometimes liked to leave his books dropped on top of his TV, idly and casually. I'd never noticed, but it wasn't that he was super neat, like you'd think he was, but had a laid-back order to things. Remembered how it felt before to be close to him. Casual relaxation, never having to really worry about the awkwardness that you'd feel with some other people. I recollected moments we'd laughed together, been alone together, fought with each other. How every time I brushed his arm he'd glance at it... maybe he was unused to the feeling, I guess. Maybe... but not...

And I'd remember now, too late to realize, how his eyes were blue-- so very overwhelmingly blue, not dark but infinatly deep, and how even in human morph they seemed to take on his natural tint.

Those eyes were closed now. It was to late, wasn't it? To remember all this, but have nothing to do with it except cry in hoarse grief, throat constricting pain.

God, I wish I'd done something. Said something.

I don't know what.

And I remember vividly out of the rest of the haze of my recollections of that night, the beam hitting him-- how I wanted to grab him, hold him tightly, cry, beg, scream that it wasn't really going to end like this, that he was going to get up any second. That maybe it should have been someone else, or maybe it was supposed to be him.

I can remember all that. But I still can't remember if there was ever a reason. An explanation for why, something to tell me just why he did it, pushed in front of me, took it, didn't even realize what he'd done, but still knew it at the same time. I wondered if he'd do it again-- and then thought, with a dry laugh and choked up cry, that I wouldn't have let him if another time came around.

Although I really do know the reason. I think.

I'd cry, you know. Sitting in my bedroom, thinking about him, I'd curl up and feel like my insides were wracked with pain, and without a single thought to why I hurt so badly. If seems like if I even try to whisper the truth, it will finally shatter me completely. I don't want to break. I can't yet.

Maybe someday I can say it, the hint-- the gentle slight echo of things that could have been, might have been, if I'd only seen it sooner. Maybe. Maybe not.

Maybe when the war is over, I can break down for real, and yell it at the sky, even if no one hears me. They'd probably think I was insane anyway. I guess I could be, I sure feel like it enough. Interestingly, it doesn't matter like it should anymore.

I remember Ax dying for me, and that's enough to tell me what I need to know. Things I wanted to share with him, with the other guys, with Cassie-- explain, tell a truth I didn't even understand until now, the reasons why I needed him to support me. Without a warrior to call me his Prince, I was just another kid who had no idea what he was doing, and no way to get home.

Maybe the others know why, the real reason he sacrificed himself for me, but perhaps it's really me who actually understands it. Why he protected me when I obviously should have been protecting him instead. It's not something to do with the whole Prince thing, the warrior code, though that might have been a part of it. It wasn't that we were friends, good close people in a crazy world in the same crazy situation, and relied on each other. Heck, it wasn't even a vain reason, he didn't expect to be a hero for it, it wasn't about honour or what was right and wrong.

It was so much easier. Something more simple to grasp in the mind, but infinatly complex and overwhelming.

I cried because I... needed him, missed him, regreted. And...

I cried for other things, too.

And he died for the same reason I wept, which makes it even more ironic and horrible and stupid and hilariously-not-funny. You see, it was not about anything you've seen, or could possibly understand. Except that we were supposed to... I don't know, stay by each other's side, fight together, be friends, be... something.

It wasn't about sacrifice, not when you thought about it. I guess.

Just a matter of devotion.

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END

Well. Um. Yeah. ^_^;; Hee hee. I should stick to Everworld and anime fanfiction, a yi... really, I'm not usually a big Jake/Ax fan. (I write lots of Jake/Marco and Marco/Ax, actually.) But this appealed to me.

... oh, come on, don't tell me you've NEVER cackled madly at the whole "Prince Jake" thing?!

... you liar. I know you have. :P

Take care, everyone! Hope you enjoyed-- reviews are appreciated, but not necessary, I suppose. I just got a gleeful kick out of writing the lovely angst before you! Mwahahhaaa...

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