Author's note: I dedicate this fic to doroniasobi because doro dear, you wrote me Athrun/Lacus fic, and you made the sappy romantic in me rear its ugly head. I'm proud of you, son.

First Verse

C.E. 71

The first time Athrun Zala walked into a florist, he was utterly bewildered. Strange, overpowering scents assailed his nostrils and it took him a few flailing moments to decide whether or not he liked it. He decided he did, sort of – there was something sweet about it – although it was not really for him.

He cast a cool and measured gaze around the store, although he had nothing in his mind to compare and calculate the sights against. Flowers of all arrays and shades were on full display and since they all seemed equally colourful to him, he had no idea where to look first.

Fortunately for him, he was not the first young male to ever be seen floundering helplessly about in a florist, and presently, a shop assistant approached him. "How may I help you?" she asked as she eyed Athrun with a mixture of interest and concern.

Athrun stood tall and straight and looked the young woman in the eye. It was part of his instinct and training to respond to moments of uncertainty with a stiff upper lip.

He said, "I'm here to buy a bouquet."

In response, the shop assistant smiled and set down the broom she had been sweeping the floor with. "I'd be happy to help you choose," she answered. "Who are you buying it for?"

"My fiancée."

"Ah, yes." The shop assistant smiled knowingly, although inwardly she marveled at how someone so young could get married – how old was he? Fifteen? Sixteen? She was also, if she had to be perfectly honest with herself, a bit disappointed because he was really quite a good-looking young man. He had an unassuming sort of handsomeness about him that could not be ignored. His face, though not unpleasant to look at, was not what commanded the most presence. His posture was straight yet not totally rigid and his mouth, though set, seemed capable of easing into a small yet genuinely kind smile. He was equally capable of hardness. What should have been bright green and youthful eyes were dimmed by a depth that betrayed a maturity beyond his years.

She blushed at the sight of him.

"Do you, uh, know anything about what sort of flowers she likes?" she asked quickly, as if to distract herself from looking at him.

Athrun shook his head.

"I was hoping you could tell me," he admitted. He had never had much interaction with women.

"Um…" She frowned and bit her lip. "But I don't know anything about her. What kind of person is she?"

She half-expected him to rattle off a list of all his fiancée's endearing qualities in that enamoured tone she was used to hearing from men who visited the florist. She was surprised when Athrun simply closed his eyes in contemplation. He finally came up with one thing to say.

"She has pink hair."

The shop assistant blinked. She realised in that instant that the young man before her was not in love.

"What are you doing here, then?" the romantic in her wanted to ask, but another part of her smothered it in resignation. When it came to compatibility between Coordinators, love was a priority that was rapidly losing weight. It all came down to genes nowadays. This was not the first man who came to buy flowers for a woman he did not love.

He would not be the last, either.

"Here," the shop assistant said as she hastily and somewhat irritably picked up one of the bouquets on display. "Pink roses. They'll suit your fiancée's hair."

She waved the bouquet in front of him and he took it gingerly. "How much is it?" he inquired politely, and she could sense the increasing ease in his demeanour as he discussed tangible things – like money. She could hardly meet his eyes.

She had not thought they were shallow eyes.

When eventually, he turned to leave, his purchase in hand, she mustered something within herself (courage? impertinence?) and spoke.

"I hope she likes the flowers."

"I hope so too."

She smiled at his response. At least he was trying.

"Nothing matters more than love, you know," she went on blithely.

Athrun was silent for a moment where he stood as if her words had struck him hard on the back of his head. Then he turned to face her.

"You can think that when there's a war going on?" he asked quietly.

Her mouth was suddenly dry. She had not meant to breach such an uncomfortable subject.

"Well…" she said hesitantly. "If there was more love, then there would be less war, right?"

"You're just like her," he said.

And by her, she knew implicitly that he was referring to his fiancée.

She was silent for a moment, unsure of how to respond. Did he think her a fool, that she was naïve? There was a war going on between the Naturals and the Coordinators (had nothing to do with her but it had been going on for a year, right?) and all she had been able to think about was the love life of some random customer at the shop she worked at. She bled inwardly with guilt for that brief moment. She wanted to care the same way the grim-faced stranger before her evidently did, but maybe wanting was not enough for him.

He did not address the unasked questions swirling in her mind. In fact, something in his expression clenched even further before becoming subdued and then restrained. He coughed politely. "Goodbye," he said. "Thank you for serving me."

He left while the barrier was still hard over his heart.

With slow and deliberate taps, Athrun Zala knocked upon the door of his fiancée's mansion. The flowers, though next to weightless, felt like an unwieldy extension of his arm; he transferred them to his right hand before knocking on the door again.

The door opened noiselessly at that moment, and Athrun inhaled shortly. He felt a breathy sort of nervousness, which was hardly surprising because he experienced it every time he visited the Clyne residence. But it was a well-built establishment, designed for comfort over lavishness, and he knew it as well as his own home.

He nodded his appreciation to the doorman and ventured inside the mansion. A chandelier cast a warm glow throughout the front entrance room as if in welcome. Athrun glanced up the flight of stairs and noticed a man appear at a doorway to the immediate right of it. It was Siegel Clyne, the man who would one day become his father-in-law.

He smiled warmly. "It's good of you to come, Athrun," he said, and beckoned invitingly towards the young man. "Lacus is in her room. She's been expecting you."

Athrun returned the smile. He liked Chairman Clyne. He was around the same age as Athrun's father, but his gaze held a different kind of magnetism. Athrun could remember on his very first visit to his house how awkward his manner had been. He had been unable to even meet the eyes of the girl he was meant to marry. It was Chairman Clyne who had patted him affectionately on the head and then told his wide-eyed daughter: "I hear Athrun is very good with machines." And then to Athrun: "Athrun, why don't you make something for Lacus? I'm sure she'd like it very much."

Athrun supposed Chairman Clyne had no one else to blame but himself for the racket all those Haros caused in the house. He could hear their mechanical chirping even from outside the door of Lacus's room. He saw the expression on Clyne's face and could imagine that his own lips were curved into a similar amused smile.

Athrun shuffled hands on his bouquet once again and then knocked on the door.

"Come in!" a lyrical, melodious voice enthused.

Athrun took a deep breath (why did he need to do this?) and opened the door slowly.

The pink-haired girl sat at her desk, a pen in her hand. She was tapping her chin contemplatively with it in slow, steady beats. When Athrun walked into her room, she turned her attention to him, and the Haros situated on her bed bounced and chirped with extra vigour.

The girl laughed and waved her pen at the Haros as if it was a disciplinary finger. "Calm down! You mustn't upset your father!"

Athrun felt himself ease into laughter as well. That tight nervousness (or maybe it was frustration) in his chest did not quite dissipate, although he did feel it scrunch up into a tighter, more insignificant ball.

As for Lacus, she simply smiled.

Lacus Clyne, beloved pop idol of the PLANTs, had an air of angelic beauty and grace. Her movements were light yet always sure, masked under a deceptive flightiness. She had no visible defects anywhere on her face. Her beauty was of the sort that could be appreciated objectively, like something in a painting or in the scenery. In fact, that was the way he admired her. He knew that how her long, cascading hair fell past her shoulders was pretty and how her slim curves accentuated her figure in all the right places, but it was never a kind of prettiness he ever felt the need to touch. To taint.

He kept a respectful distance, gazing at her across the room.

"Good afternoon, Lacus." He coughed, cleared his throat and wondered why he sounded like a complete fool. She might not have changed in the last few months since they had seen each other, but he had, and the possibility of their cordiality freezing over had not escaped him. Abruptly, he remembered the flowers and held them out for her. "I brought you a gift."

"Oh, thank you so much, Athrun!" She came over to him, smiling in appreciation. "Not a Haro this time?" Lacus took the bouquet and seemed genuinely disappointed. "The others were getting lonely."

Athrun watched on sheepishly as his fiancée place the flowers in a vase on her desk.

"I thought… you had enough of them," he half-mumbled.

Lacus turned back to him, clapped her hands together and shook her head fervently. "Of course not! Your Haros are a part of you, Athrun, and I think of you every time I play with them."

"Oh," said Athrun.

"They're a reflection of your soul!"

"Oh," said Athrun again, as lamely as he had said it the first time.

He glanced over his shoulder back towards the door. Chairman Clyne was gone now, having evidently left in order to give the two of them some privacy. Athrun swallowed. Clyne knew about the mission, of course, since he was a member of the PLANT Supreme Council. He also trusted Athrun not to give away any vital details.

Not that Athrun would ever do something like that.

"Are you thinking about something, Athrun?" Lacus asked. She cocked her head to the side. Her pink Haro bounced off her shoulder and tilted its spherical form over at the same angle she had inclined her head.

"No." Athrun shook his head. "Nothing."

There would have been an awkward silence, but Lacus did not let it culminate into anything. "I heard you graduated top of the class at the ZAFT Military Academy," she remarked pleasantly enough. He caught only the slightest twinge in her voice that betrayed her true sentiments. Lacus Clyne was a pacifist through and through, just like her father was.

… Just like Athrun would be, if it wasn't for Junius Seven. If it wasn't for the world as he knew it crashing around his ears, he would be able to face Lacus today and think she was so right, so clever. And maybe he would stop associating everything with duty, but could he really help it?

"That's right," he said to her. "I've been assigned to the Le Creuset team." That much he was fine with revealing. "I won't see you again for a while."

That caused Lacus to sit up to attention. "You're leaving?"

"Tomorrow," he replied.

She closed her eyes. "Good luck," she said sweetly. "I pray for your survival… and a swift end to the war."

Her Haro beeped and flashed in evident agreement. "Good luck! Good luck!" it chirped incessantly. It filled the silence that might otherwise have existed between its maker and its owner.

"Thank you," Athrun murmured.

He backed away and it was only when he came to the doorway did he look back at Lacus. She had turned her attention back to her desk. She had been writing something with that pen of hers even before he had come in. Her mouth was moving along with the words she wrote, soundlessly. He looked away and focused his gaze ahead of him.

That parting glance was all he needed to be satisfied with her. He had thought about embracing her, but he did not think she needed it. She was quite fine on her own, serene even. She would not change for worse, not on his accord.

It was the kind of constancy he needed more than she did, he realised, but that thought only occurred to him when he was up in space.