hear my prayer

The first time Hyuuga tells him is all but casual.

They're in their shared bedroom at the military academy, Hyuuga on top of their bunk bed with his head pressed to the pillow that had muffled every word he'd said to Ayanami in the past hour or so, while Ayanami is sitting at the table trying to concentrate on reading.
Suddenly, Hyuuga's head pops up, shades on his face all crooked.

'Aya-tan knows I love him, right?'

Ayanami generously spares him a glance, the goes back to reading.

They second time Hyuuga tells him, they had for the first time (at least officially, Ayanami muses) done what they'd afterwards 'do for a living', as Hyuuga liked to put it.
The prisoner lies beneath their feet and his final breath comes out as a choked wheeze. The last thing his eyes had seen, he is sure, had been the image of two beautiful, merciless Gods.
'Oh Aya-tan, how I love you', one of them had said to the other.

The thirdfourthtenthtwentieth time, Ayanami still doesn't respond.

The fiftieth time, Hyuuga lies on top of Ayanami, both their uniforms crumpled on the floor.
Ayanami's face shows just the slightest hint of a flush, but his expression is still calm, still unreadable. They wouldn't talk about this later, or tomorrow, or anytime at all; they never did.
Hyuuga collapses next to Ayanami and nuzzles his face into the other man's hair.

'I love you' he whispers into Ayanami's ear, his voice giving in half way.
Whether Ayanami heard him, Hyuuga doesn't know.

It's the seventy-fourth time when Hyuuga realizes that maybe, just maybe, there had been answers all along. It's when he suddenly starts noticing the little things he had never paid attention to;
the way Ayanami gives the tiniest smile when Hyuuga swears to be there, the way his tense body seems to relax just a little in Hyuuga's presence, the way his lips sometimes start to quiver when Hyuuga is close, so very close.
And he loves all these little things. But most importantly, he loves him.

The last time, it's raining, but Hyuuga doesn't care; he's never particularly liked rainy weather, but what does it matter now.
He knows the others are watching him, waiting for him to go back, waiting for him to come up with the 'what to do now', but he can't bring himself to move.
He looks up at the clouded sky and lets the rain wash over his face, tries to let it cleanse his soul just as much, but it's no use.
'I love you', he shouts, angry at the sky, the world, God and himself.

But the rain doesn't answer.