Kick me like a stray

—

The nylon burns, but it's the skin that stings Shinn's cheeks and brings the tears to his eyes. It rings in his ears, off the close walls of the cabin, not that dull slap the material makes, which is just all the better to hammer it home, the cruel intimacy of flesh striking flesh.

No one likes being hit, he said.

But there's a difference between what one likes and what he needs. And Shinn needs someone to hate.

He finds his martyr in Athrun, whose green eyes flash at him through the darkness before the palm of his hand connects. Hard enough to hurt but not so hard as to leave a mark for the others to see in the morning. He leaves those for the rest of Shinn's body, where his clothes cover them up. The green mottling of shallow, reluctant bruises across his stomach, the red half-moon scratches on his shoulders, the back of his thighs, that make Shinn flush to catch a peek of them in the bathroom mirror when Rey isn't looking.

The next one catches his ear and sends him to the floor grasping out against his pride for leverage. A tapping of boots and Athrun's fingers are in his hair, twisting, shoving him down. "Come on, you spoiled piece of shit," he says. "Get up. What gives you the right to wear that uniform if you can't take a little discipline?"

He doesn't sound like he means it, not yet, doesn't sound like he wants to say the words, so Shinn spits on his boot.

The toe in his side has him seeing stars. "Lick it off," Athrun tells him when he's finished groaning. "Go on. You're already on your knees. While you're down there, why don't you show you're not completely worthless and take some goddamn responsibility for your actions, Shinn."

It's like he knows just what Shinn wants to hear least.

"Go screw yourself."

He clenches his muscles, waiting for it, but Athrun just sighs, swears under his breath, and rubs his toe into the tails of Shinn's jacket, and when he steps back his boots are polished and impeccable white once again.

Then he's crouching down and yanking Shinn to his feet by the collar, his fingers digging just as much into flesh as the jacket he wrinkles and stretches in his grip. Like so many of those self-made saviors who tried to drag Shinn out of his pain, wouldn't allow him to wallow in it, and then expected him to just get up with them and walk away, move on.

Well, Shinn won't. He won't stand for it. This is his burden, his pain, and he'll be damned if anyone's gonna take it from him. His purpose, his existence. . . . His fingers twist in Athrun's jacket, and even he's not sure if he's trying to pull or push away that arm he just can't let go of. It's the best he can do short of striking a superior officer, but maybe it will earn him a beating, a real beating, not this farce. . . .

Then the back of Athrun's free hand is knocking the sense into him. Shinn staggers, nearly pulling Athrun with him, stars exploding behind his eyes, but even then it's not enough. Even then he's too careful, too soft. He doesn't get it, Athrun: he feels the tears wet the backs of his fingers and he still doesn't get it. He just blames himself—which is fine by Shinn.

But he needs this, Shinn does, because every blow, every bruise reminds him what a bad person he is—that the more wrong they tell him he is, the more righteous he's gonna feel—and that's the only thing that can chase away the blood, chase away the fires and the smell of ozone burnt into his nostrils, into his brain, and the memories, oh god, the memories of his family's corpses in the burning grove—because he's tried and he just can't chase away the guilt that, god damn it, he should have been there, he should be in the ground with them, right now, and what is it going to take, how low does he have to sink, how many people does he have to kill before the powers that be will correct their error?

Shinn sucks in his breath and all at once he feels it in his gut. The rage, the anguish, that hollow, wrenching feeling of just being so fucking powerless no matter what you do, no matter how much you bleed, you just feel like you want to implode, you hurt so goddamn much. He glares up at Athrun, a snarl on his lips, a sobbed "Go to hell, Zala! I hate you, you son of a bitch! I hate you and everyone like you!"

"Fine!" Athrun shouts back like a gunshot ricocheting. "That's just fine by me. You go ahead and hate me, Shinn! Why don't you wish I was dead while you're at it! Will that make you feel better?"

"Shut the hell up!"

"Just what do you think that's gonna do for you, huh? You think that's gonna bring them back? You think all this vengeance is going to bring any of them back?"

"Fuck you!" And Shinn is on his feet. "Fuck all of you!"

His cheek stings again and this time Shinn tastes blood. Something crumbles inside him and he doesn't even see Athrun staring at him in horror because this time, with this blow, he really meant it, only feels those lips, those stunned lips, so soft and warm against his, so everything Shinn doesn't want them to be but they are, and that's just one more thing he resents so much about Athrun.

Then Athrun gets it, in Shinn's shiver, in his violent trembling, and pushes him down onto the floor. He doesn't wait for Shinn to start pleading, knows neither of them wants it to come to that, just gets down on his knees, his arms around Shinn, his hands on the fly of his trousers, on Shinn's half-hard cock, none too gentle but then that's nothing new. His face is buried in Shinn's shoulder, but his eyes are closed and he isn't half as hard against Shinn's backside, isn't hard at all—and Shinn can still feel the sob Athrun tries to stifle in his back, knows that when this is all over the shoulder of his uniform jacket will be wet and Athrun will pretend like nothing happened, like some superior never did this same thing to him so he might forget for a little while about his mother, or all the others he'd failed to protect—because it's all right, they've convinced themselves, as long as any of it, even for just a little while, helps Shinn forget.

And he'll pretend he doesn't know anything about the pink cell phone, obviously a girl's cell phone, Shinn clutches at night like a teddy bear, or the guilt and the sorrow that keep him awake at o'dark thirty and afraid to dream, or that he, Athrun, had to kill his best friend and nearly die by his father's bullet before he finally got what he's giving Shinn for free.

And they'll pretend they aren't really that alike at all, when they're done yelling and hitting and crying and rocking together, and the redness has finally faded a little from their eyes and from Shinn's cheeks, and they think it's finally late and safe enough to go to bed.

No, they'll both tell themselves, they aren't anything alike at all.

—