A/N: Yes, new fic. Yes, Nicol-centric. Yes, I love Nicol. D There are just not enough Nicol fics on this site. Yes, it's late at night and I have to get up at four thirty tomorrow so I won't say much except for a GARGANTUAN THANK YOU to my beta reader Storms-winter. Lotsa luff, dearie.
Just so you all know, it's a fic about Nicol/other ZAFTees days of the C.E. 71 war, before series and could be a bit integrating the series as well, for the over-used Athrun and Kira angst. Also, a bit different than my usual style, but I like it and Storm likes it, and if you don't then, well, that's your opinion. Just don't diss me about it. If I write, it's first and foremost for the satisfaction and twisted fangirl pleasure at making the characters do my bidding. Happy readings! -salutes-
Disclaimer: Hajime Yatate and Yoshiyuki Tomino own Gundam SEED, not Carmen Takoshi.
Prologue: Athrun
When his father had enrolled him in ZAFT's military academy two years ago, Nicol Amalfi had never thought that he would ever have the actual chance to step onto the battlefield.
But then C.E. 71 came, and it was war.
He had also never thought that he would ever hear the name of Chairman Zala's only son on the tail end of the first day's roll call. But there it was.
"Athrun Zala."
"Sir!"
Nicol had never known the Zala heir's name until then. It was a strange name, Athrun, and yet it rolled easily off the tongue when pronounced.
Nicol found out at once that he enjoyed pronouncing it. Athrun. Athrun. Athrun Zala. Zala Athrun. It sounded nice either way, forwards or backwards. Athrun. Athrun. Whispered or out loud.
Nicol promised himself, childishly perhaps, that if he ever had a son, he would name him Athrun.
Athrun Amalfi.
"…"
Maybe not.
Months passed. The training was difficult. Every evening, as Nicol flopped onto his cot, his muscles and bones would protest with inane vehemence. He would listen patiently to their screams of 'we wanna die!'then he would drag himself to the washroom that he shared with three other boys—all whom where about a year older than him—clean up, and flop back into bed.
Sometimes, his body would ache so much that sleep fled for the night, as though his hurt was contagious. Whenever this happened, Nicol would comfort himself with the sound of Athrun Zala's name. Even if it was nothing more than a fragile whisper, spoken like a secret to the coarse bed sheets, it did not matter. Athrun. Athrun Zala. Goodnight, Athrun Zala, wherever you are. I hope you're better at this than I am.
Nicol did not have to hope. He knew that Athrun excelled, if not to say thrived, in the military. Their trainers praised him, pronouncing him more than good enough to be Chairman Zala's son.
"Your father should be proud."
"He is, Sir, thank you."
For Nicol, it was much different. Higher, Amalfi! Steadier, Amalfi! You're lagging, Amalfi, pick up the pace! Better, Amalfi, do it better, better, better!
My name is Nicol! Not Amalfi!
But he could not say that. If he did, they would make him do push-ups in the mud and rain and deprive him of supper. Then they would tell his father, and Father would not be pleased.
So Nicol kept his silence, and only spoke to murmur Athrun's name into the night.
A full year of training had come and gone, complete with its everyday aches and bruises. He heard some of the other trainees conversing in the hallways as they made their way out of the facility. Athrun Zala had given their superiors the best show of military skill and discipline seen in years. No surprise there. Congratulations, Athrun Zala, whispered Nicol. Surely, he had given their superiors the worst show seen in centuries.
He half-hoped that they would never let him return after the week-long leave.
Nicol heard some people snigger as his mother granted him a rib-crushing hug the second he had set foot off the transport. It irked him somewhat, but there was little that the others did that did not irk him. He was constantly reminded of his status as "dregs of the ZAFT military", but in his mother's arms, it felt like such a trivial thing, and he dismissed it for the week.
Children cannot mature in such a short lapse of time, however, and once Nicol had regained the transport to the hellhole mislabelled "ZAFT Military Facility", they approached him.
"Hey, fairy boy, sure you're finished saying good-bye to your mommy?"
Fairy boy. He had heard that once in a video game, but the speaker was not a cute redhead and he was not a juvenile hero with a talking ball of light as a stalker.
"Hey, I heard you failed the first marksmanship exam. Is that true?"
Now was the time to say something smart-alecky, something sharp and witty and so scathing that they would run off as though fire was at their heels.
"…I don't know."
Pssch. That was the sound of the fire dying from laughing its guts out.
One of them pushed him. All of the seats had been taken when he had arrived, so Nicol had been forced to stand, the thin fingers of his right hand coiled around a random metal pole while his other hand grasped the handle of his bag. He dropped the bag as he stumbled, and another kicked it away as he grabbed wildly for it. All of the insults that Nicol knew bubbled into his throat but stopped there, replaced by a single, choked grunt of pain as yet another trainee kneed him in the side. Hurt. Stars. He had hit his head. There was wetness on his cheeks.
"Are you crying? Hey, look, Souichi, he's crying!"
"Told you he was a fairy."
"I'm not a fairy!" Nicol protested hoarsely, holding his side where he felt as though it had caved in. "Leave me alone!"
His bag, where was it? He searched, but his vision was pathetically blurred. He took a tentative step then fell as the transport ship lurched. No, he had lurched. Right onto the floor.
"We wanna die!"
So do I.
"Hey…stop it! Stop it!"
Instantly, the crowd of excited trainees parted. Nicol saw boots on the linoleum floor, then knees, and a pale, but not overly so, hand in his vision. On his shoulders.
"Are you okay?"
Soft voice. Blue hair.
Athrun Zala.
"Ath…"
The lone syllable sounded horrible and Nicol winced. Athrun must have taken that for pain, for he slung his arm around his waist and helped him into a seat that had become magically vacant.
"You shouldn't let them push you around like that."
Athrun's breath was warm on his ear.
"I know."
That was all that he heard from Athrun Zala during the rest of the trip, but they remained side by side until they reached the dorm hallway. Nicol murmured his thanks, and Athrun smiled, accepting them with a whispered word of his own. He asked his name.
"Nicol Amalfi? I'm Athrun Zala."
"Yeah, I know, Chairman Zala's son."
Athrun's smile had soured a bit upon the mention of his father, and Nicol had instantly apologized, so profusely that the other had laughed, dismissing it. Then he had left.
Nicol decided that he liked Athrun Zala's laugh even more than he liked his name.
He also decided that he would not be pushed around any longer.
If anyone ever narrated his story afterwards, Nicol would have liked his second year at the academy to be described as "brazenly bold" (never mind the redundancy, it sounded good anyway, right?) or "heroic, albeit prideful". Nicol had never considered himself overly prideful, but what better way to start? Humiliation was motivation enough, and Athrun…
Athrun Zala was the friendly rival, the merciful enemy, and the ultimate goal.
His trainers noticed the change almost immediately, though they made a show of indifference. His body noticed too, and complained. And complained. And complained. But it did not matter. What mattered was the goal.
Nicol hoped that Athrun would notice as well. He did not wish to boast, in the way that that older trainee –Yzak Jule?–did, but he knew that it would feel nice to meet Athrun's smile again. Maybe praise. Yeah, a bit of praise would be nice…
Yeah, right, he would think as he willed, forced his arms to push his weight up off the ground, again, again, again, as if he'd ever…he's the son of Chairman Zala!
But you're the son of Councilman Amalfi.
That doesn't mean anything. Not next to Patrick Zala.
Of course it does, imbecile.
Says you.
Yeah, says me. I'm you!
What?
Then he would collapse onto the wooden floor of his dorm and do nothing but breathe for a few deliciously idle minutes. Just breathe, and listen to the other three breathe in quiet sync. Oh, Good Lord in Heaven, my arms, my back, my legs…
But it felt good, despite the pain as a constant companion. It felt good to know that he was finally making progress and working himself up the ranks. Already, he was in the top twenty of their batch…but that was not good enough.
Higher, Amalfi!
Yes, higher. Only the top ten get special honors…
………...
"He's first again."
"Well, duh, what did you think?"
"Move it! Move it, jackass!"
Nicol swerved and dodged the rampaging teen behind him. Silver locks brushed across his face as Ezaria Jule's son stormed to the front of the crowd before the rankings posters. His gaze went up, up into the top ten. Fifth, fourth, third…
Nicol's heart leapt.
3. Nicol Amalfi
Joy, joy, joy with sugary toppings and ice cream! He was third! Victory binge time!
2. Yzak Jule
1. Athrun Zala
And joy for Athrun Zala! Nicol looked round, but he was nowhere in sight. The trainees murmured their unsurprised approbation, dispersing slowly, until only three were left near the board.
"Yzak…"
"No."
"Yzak."
"Shut up! Just shut up, okay?"
"Hey, I was gonna say congrats, but I guess not…"
"There is not a damn thing to congrats about!"
And he left, fuming so hard that there almost seemed to be a trail of smoke in his wake. His companion shrugged, glancing up to the sign, murmuring something that sounded to Nicol like: "Fourth…not bad…" before he departed as well.
Nicol could jump, Nicol could dance, Nicol could squeal like a little schoolgi-…
"Are they gone?"
Nicol did jump, although more out of shock than of delight, blushing as though he really had been caught in the act of celebrating his first real victory at the military academy.
The interruption laughed like Athrun Zala.
"You seem happy." He duly remarked, emerging from round a corner. Nicol nodded vigorously. It was not necessary to hide such a thing from Athrun. Surely he could understand his ecstasy.
"I made it in third." Nicol explained modestly, the treble in his quiet tone betraying his elation.
"That's great. Congratulations."
Nicol tipped his upper body forwards in thanks, but his state of mind caused the movement to be abrupt. His back cracked, and he squeaked, and when Athrun laughed, it was irresistible.
A blush covered his blush. A double blush. How much redder can red get?
"Thanks for that." Athrun was saying, making his way towards the posters. "It's been difficult to find entertainment in the past two years."
"Yeah. Yeah, I know…" Nicol spluttered, embarrassed.
"Embarrassed?" Athrun asked, as though having just read the above line. "Don't be. It's…"
It's what? Cool? Fine? Cute?
…never mind.
For the first time, as he watched Athrun's gaze glide up towards the rankings just as Yzak's had, Nicol noticed that his eyes were green. Not the flat, boring green of the lower officers' uniforms (he would not be wearing that, of course, 'cause he was third, meaning Elite!), but a shining, almost exotic kind of green. Green of the fields? No. Green of the sea? No…
Jade green. Athrun green.
The entire meaning of green had just been redefined.
But then Nicol's body reminded him that his victory binge was becoming slightly overdue.
"Hey…Athrun…"
"Mm…yeah?"
"The others are already gone. You wanna go eat?"
"…Yeah. Yeah, okay."
"Okay."
"Yeah. Sure."
"Okay."
"Nicol?"
"Yeah?"
"You can stop saying okay."
"Oka-…oh."
