Title: Vanity
Author: Jusrecht
Pairing: Dearka/Yzak
Disclaimer: The plot is mine but not the characters.
Warning: Un-beta-ed, male/male relationship

Notes: Had the idea of this when I was furious with my sister. I feel pretty much like Dearka in this fic but Sis, I still love you XD Yeah, this is dedicated to my sister who is a huge fan of Dearka/Yzak.

He slams the door hard and the model of Duel on the glass shelf falls to carpeted floor, sounds of his footsteps quickly waning.

You sink ungracefully to the couch, your head throbbing excruciatingly. It happens very often – almost like a daily ritual – that he will dash out of the apartment in rage, leaving you alone to wonder to yourself what actually your fault is that has upset him. More often than not, it isn't even your fault or anybody's fault, but he still flies off the handle, cursing you with obnoxious words he has learned from god-knows-who.

Since the two of you met at the military academy, you have realized that he had a serious anger management problem, but back then he was no more than one of your many comrades-in-arms, why would you care if he had that kind of foul mouth? He would probably die at the battlefield on the next day and you would just shake your head in sympathy when someone accidentally mentioned him next to his option of language. However, with an ability that was among the best – and the power of his 'Jule' family name – he quickly gained his red uniform, just as the time you claimed yours along with three others.

It was, apparently, the beginning of your downfall. Your options were few though, considering who your comrades were.

Athrun Zala was quiet, exceptionally bright, and uncannily cool-headed when others were already in the verge of panic, which made him a very reliable commander but obviously not living up to your taste of friends. While Nicol Amarfi was nice, sweet, and caring, his choice of conversation – with piano and stuff – made you feel very much uncivilized. What was the point of making friends without being uncomfortable by their side anyway? As for Rusty, you didn't know much about him save for the fact that he was outrageously snobbish, which disgusted you.

And so you were stuck with the silver-haired, short-tempered, foul-mouthed – and yet pretty-faced – Yzak Jule.

You wasn't about to form any kind of friendship with him, really –hell, it was so much better to be alone in your room, chatting with your mute desk than trying to befriend a mentally unstable boy who preferred cursing and snarling to talking normally. Still, orders were orders and you frequently found yourself paired-up with him in many missions. Probably it was because the other pair had an exceedingly high rate of success due to their unshakable trust each had on the other, and hey, it was so much better to have one really dependable team than two unpromising ones, wasn't it? You have learned about priority much not to be enraged by the speculation that they were probably sacrificing you.

It still didn't change the fact that 'hell' was a very mild word to describe your first days as his partner. Everything seemed so easily getting under his skin and he had a tendency to pour his anger out to anyone in his range of vision who, given your current status as a good responsible partner, usually appeared to be you. Every night you found yourself slumping to your bed in sheer exhaustion from continually exerting your patience to its limit, but you still kept going, fully comprehending that the color of your uniform demanded no little sacrificing.

Then all of a sudden, somewhere along those days of endless tyranny, you realized that you rather liked the way he smirked.

Or the way he pouted. Or the way he curled in his sleep. Or the way his hair swished when he turned around briskly. Or the way his pale skin seemed to radiate under the sun's gaze. Or – in those extremely rare occasions, when the sun seemed to have risen from the west because what was going to happen was downright odd – the way he smiled. You were speechless for a moment, utterly dumbstruck, gaping at him with jaw hanging open wide before his stroke fell squarely on your head and his scowl returned. You smiled back at him, somewhat awkwardly, and then you realized that you truly liked him.

Everything was easier said than done though. Albeit his scowl becoming somewhat of an amusement for you to see, dealing with him still annoyed you at times, above all when he was in the peak of his bad mood. Once you found him kicking the door to his dormitory room so hard that you had to practically drag him off the spot to refrain him from inflicting further damage to his innocent door. Or in another occasion, he suddenly stormed into the shooting practice range and begun his massacre to all available targets – dead and alive – that Commander Klueze had to come down by himself to stop the slaughter and more pointless wasting of bullets. You obviously weren't in the nicest position as his partner, but you tried to save him nonetheless. Luckily, few it was, even among the finest Coordinators, who had mastered the art of fighting as well as he did, and it truly saved him – at least for the moment.

And there was the matter of your growing feeling to him. Your prospects might be a little brighter if he actually had another obsession apart from kicking Athrun Zala out of the leader's seat, but unfortunately for you, he remained conveniently oblivious.

The good thing was, it made you feel less burdened when you decided to help Archangel. You, after all, had never valued your feeling to him as something close to romantic or deeply serious – so what if it withered and died. What you believed, you thought back then, was far more important than your petty crush with someone who didn't even care.

So, it came as a terrible shock to you when it turned out to be him, among the two of you, who stirred things to start moving.

It was when the mission to destroy Genesis was put into motion, Kira, Athrun, and the princess of ORB carrying it out, and both of you had just landed on Archangel. You had saved him and he had just saved you, both unable to think why. He had this look in his face; surprised – that Duel was allowed into a supposedly enemy's ship – watchful – after all this was the notorious 'Ashi tsuki' he had been striving to shoot down until just now – then he realized that you were intently looking at him. You tried to smile, to say a little 'thank you' when suddenly his expression turned unreadable.

There was, you remembered, a moment of painfully awkward silence before his eyes grew stern and his feet took a step forward. Your smile went stiff, unsure how to react to his approach.

When he leaned in and kissed you on the lips, you thought of running back to Buster and hid.

Quite peculiarly, after he pulled back a moment later, he did just the same, running back to his own Gundam and fled, leaving you stunned still to your place until an alarm told you that there was still a battle going on. Still with a half-dazed expression on your face, you went to Archangel's bridge, knowing that nothing else you could do to with your wrecked Buster. Besides, you needed to know how a certain white-blue Gundam fared in the whirlwind of war out there.

The rest was all for you to decide and act. After the war you went back to ZAFT, not the slightest bit bothered by your demotion – it was your own decision to go against them anyway – and started again from the scratches. He had not the faintest idea until he was promoted as a commander and acquired his respectable white uniform, all the way thinking that you had gone off to who-knows-where, forgetting him. You still remember clearly the look in his face when you walked into his office that morning as a soldier assigned under him, your lips forming a grin so broad that it almost hurt.

"You!!"

Oh how you wished you could tape that moment down. Your feet little by little devoured the remaining gap between you and the spot he was standing rigidly on, as you replied in unconcealed amusement, "Yes, Commander Jule?"

"What the... why... how..."

You smirked at his difficulty to issue a proper question and made the full advantage of it to have your arms around his waist. The mounting shock painted palpably on his face almost made you laugh, but you knew better and caught his lips in a kiss instead. Lamentably, the sweet moment didn't last for long with him forcefully pushing you away almost as immediate.

"You jerk!" he was practically shouting at you, obviously outraged. You noticed that his blue eyes went aflame, but so did his cheeks, and it kept the smirk on your face. "You disappeared for six damn months without news and suddenly you emerge out of the blue and...do stupid things like – damn it! Don't screw with me, Dearka!"

It was so hard not to break into fits of laughter, but by some divine miracles you managed to limit your expression to amusement. He was still glaring at you when you once again took a step forward, backing him to his own desk. Then you leant in, feeling his whole body tensing, and whispered to his ear.

"Because I think I love you."

As the impact of your words, he developed another shade of crimson which made you chuckle. His glower was unmistakably a warning of an imminent death as a threat slipped out of his mouth, "Say things like that again and I'll be happy to kill you."

You, of course, didn't waste time to try finding out whether his threat was serious, and only pressed another kiss to his lips. That time, you remembered, he hardly voiced any protest and pulled you closer instead. You sighed, feeling a wave of relief washing every fiber of your body, because your heart had been hammering your chest madly just before. And when he refused to look at you after the kiss, hiding his face at the crook of your neck, his arms clinging around you tightly, you didn't ask, knowing how he hated others to see him crying.

It was one of the moments you held dear in your heart. It still is.

Thunder rolls in the distance, a few first drops of rain fall hitting the window with a faint splash, and you smile bitterly when you find yourself worrying about him – again. He has always been the foremost in your life for the best part of the last five years and you don't think it will change anytime near soon. But a relationship that hurts more than offering comfort is not love, at least not anymore, and you are tired of it.

Dragging your feet to move, you trudge to the bedroom you share with him. The sight that greets you – the bed where you always make love to him, the window he often sits behind when something upsets him, the settee where you held him all night long when the news of his mother's accident reached his ears – causes a pang deep in your stomach. But you close your eyes, breathing the cool stagnant air, the cold summer scent that you know will always be solely his to you, and set your determination.

You bite your lips when you force yourself to open the wardrobe and grab your clothes, pushing them into an empty bag, your mind ceaselessly asking to yourself when all has started to go wrong. You used to turn a blind eye to his only-too-frequent outburst if it didn't amuse you, convincing yourself that you loved him, so it shouldn't matter much. Because it was one of your greatest happiness, when he lie at your side, silver head tilted at you, a smirk which always made you want to kiss him playing on his lips, and words were breathed out from them, close enough to tempt your earlobe with husky whispers that sent a shiver down your spine.

"You said you wanted me, Dearka?"

You can never say no, not then, not now, and surely not tomorrow. And that is exactly why you need to go. Too many you have sacrificed in order to be with him, and while what you have in return isn't small, you begin to wonder if it does pay the price. Too often you have confined your ego, swallowing the bitter tang on your tongue and forcing your lips to craft a stiff smile every time his temper flares. You know that he knows how you feel, how his harsh words always hurt you, but 'I'm sorry' is a phrase that will never slip past Yzak Jule's mouth. Sometimes his hollow vanity really sickens you that you have to resist the urge to shove his face to the mirror and force him to see if what he truly has can live up to the intolerable level of his vanity.

He needs to know that you have your own vanity, even if it means the end of your love.

And so you wait until the door is opened from the other side, him standing at the threshold with an expression you have seen only too often, slightly guilty yet still repulsively haughty. Then you rise from the bed, bag firmly held by your hand, and you say the words that hurt you more than anything.

"We can't go on."

You see him crumbling –how his pupil dilates in shock, utter disbelief bordering to fear coloring his face, how his fingers unconsciously reach to the armrest for a support– and you know that you too are crumbling. But firm resolution has steeled itself in you and you tighten your lips, stiffly walking past him to the door. Its handle is cold, thorny under your palm as you murmur without looking back –else, your resolution may slip like blood dripping inevitably from although a really small slit, painful nonetheless.

"I'm sorry, Yzak."

You bite your lips, suppressing the tears and your sob, and the door closes behind you without a sound.

Notes: I don't really like where it ends /sighs/ Anyway, that's for the story. I can't guarantee a sequel though because I totally have no idea how to continue this. Thanks for reading! Please tell me what do you think!