A/N: Posted in the DeaYza community on LJ for the 20 Themes challenge. Ficlet based on #13, 'nostalgia'.
Fade
He runs his fingers over the glossy, two-dimensional image and traces the features of those captured within.
People used to believe that cameras sucked out people's souls.
That's stupid. Yeah, it was, wasn't it...?
Rusty had spoken to him, after the photo. It had been a rare moment between them; he cannot recall if they ever did converse, outside of planning rooms and the battlefield itself. There had been no need to do so, in his opinion.
He wonders absently whether, had he not died, they ever would have talked to each other. He has no answer.
The wandering finger pauses over the next figure, presses slightly against it.
Do you play an instrument?
Why the hell do you ask? I just thought maybe we could play together sometime...
He had not told Nicol that yes, he could, in a manner of speaking. He had some experience with a recorder, and that was all. To save himself from humiliation over his lack of skill he had merely snapped and stormed off.
But Nicol, he realized too late, was the last person who would have mocked him over anything. He had been of a gentle, patient nature; maybe, if he had told the truth, the boy might have taught him a few new things about music.
His jaw clenches tightly as he moves to another face.
Another round? Again?
I'll beat you this time! That's what you always say...
They had tied in that game. But he gained no satisfaction from that outcome, and he knew neither did Athrun. And so they had a rematch, and he won, for once.
There had always been that oddly enjoyable tension between them, of rivals in some massive game of life. Gaining the edge was rare and fleeting. He spent most times chasing him, trying to surpass him for that final time.
But he knows that perhaps he never will. And a part of him does not want that permanent victory, one that leaves him with no other pinnacle to aim for.
Athrun knows as well, he thinks. And that is why he keeps up his end of the game. Whether he means to or not.
A bitter smirk twitches on his lips, which falls as his thumb caresses the remaining figure in the picture.
You're gonna get sick if you don't take a break. Wasn't the previous score good enough?
Shut up! It's still not as high as his, dammit! Heh... there's no pleasing you, is there...?
As predicted, he had been paralyzed in his bunk the next morning, shivering with fever. Dearka had reported to the supervisor for him and then cut classes, staying in their room with him the whole day.
He recalls waking up, a cool cloth resting on his forehead, and seeing his friend in a chair next to his bunk with another one of his porn magazines.
...what the hell are you doing here! We've got a test today, idiot!
He had merely been shoved back onto the bed with a dark look when he had tried to get up.
You're staying there until I declare you perfectly fine, and I'm staying right here with you. Knowing you, you'd just ignore me and leave that bunk the moment I leave.
The tone had been unusually serious for Dearka, who had always been sarcastic to everyone. It was that anomaly which convinced him that maybe it was a good idea to stay in bed. That, and the fact that his head had spun crazily when he sat up.
He had been as good as unconscious for the rest of the day as his body combated the illness. True to his word, Dearka had remained in his post the whole time, silently getting him water when he needed it, soaking and wringing out the cool cloth every now and then.
There had been a strange gleam in his eyes. Worry? Or a fevered delusion on his own part?
He had not thought much of it after the ordeal was over. Dearka acted no different from before; still the same wisecracking ass that followed him where he went, still the same fool who tried to placate him in every one of his rages. Though mildly curious as to what that look had meant, he had merely assumed that he would tell him someday.
A shadow falls over the photo and he looks behind, thinking for a heartbeat that it is Dearka, standing there and looking over his shoulder as always.
But he is not there. He is gone. They are all gone.
Only their shadows remain in his mind's eye.
He grits his teeth with a snarl and grips the middle of the photo with both hands, creases appearing on the glossy surface, and he tries to rip it apart. But try as he might, he cannot, and he drops to his knees and utters a ragged howl that is almost a sob..