A/N: Ah, finally I finished this chapter. It took longer than I expected. Through the editing process, I removed a character, I found that he didn't really serve a purpose to this chapter and forcing this character in it rendered me into making some useless conversations. So bam bam, I removed Nicol.
Some comments on this chapter, a 'viewfinder' is the small square thing you peer into to see how the photo is going to look before you take a snapshot. Lots of people don't use it anymore because they have the digital screen.
Big thanks to the reviewers of the first chapter, and the followers and to anyone who read it!
Paparazzi
Chapter II: She's No Audrey Hepburn
Athrun stares down Dearka with an undoubtedly apathetic expression. His eyes hint at boredom and the stark greyness beneath his eyes cast on a dead shadow.
The grin on Dearka's face becomes strained. An eyebrow twitches for a second.
"I don't have a favourite celebrity. They're all shitheads," the latter finally speaks, each word sounds like a declaration of demise.
"Whoa, whoa, easy there lone wolf. You don't even know who I'm talking about, do you?"
"I don't," he says curtly, refusing to acknowledge it.
Dearka rubs his nose. "Shit I forgot her name... Caga..." He looks up at the ceiling and begins to snap his fingers. "Caga...Cagallay? No, wait, that's not it. Cagalli...Cagalli Yula Aiman!" Dearka points an index finger at Athrun and winks. "Cagalli Yula Aiman. You sir, Mr. Legendary Loner, have contributed to most of those magazine photos of her and the online ones as well. Thus, she is your favourite celebrity."
His voice is quiet. "That doesn't mean I have a favourite celebrity, Dearka... she's just easier to take photos of."
"Yeah, yeah! She's going to be in the Archangel District today, I'm sure you don't want to miss that, Athrun!"
Athrun's face remains stoic. "There's daylight, I only take photos at night... and I need sleep."
Dearka laughs, it's loud and full of life. "Isn't that obvious?" He begins to pull his phone out of his pocket.
"What are you doing?"
With a discerning smile, he shoves his phone in Athrun's face. The screen is just centimetres away from hitting his nose.
Athrun eyes meet the image on the screen. His mouth slightly opens.
He takes a step back, feeling his stomach ache with gushes of regretful desire.
Dearka smile broadens. "I'll be waiting by the van outside. If you don't come down in fifteen minutes, I'm driving away."
"Screw you."
Dearka bows his head and salutes Athrun with two fingers. He starts to walk away with a bounce in his step.
Before Athrun could even close his door, he hears Dearka's cheery voice call out, "You took the picture! Not me!"
"I am currently sitting on a bench at the old district of Archangel. This is where celebrities randomly make appearances. This is just located East of Hollywood, and it only takes 45 minutes to reach this area. The reason why we are at the Archangel District is because Cagalli Yula Aiman is rumoured to be temporarily residing there for unknown reasons. However, there have been rumours of her having a rocky relationship with Miguel Aiman, aka lead guitarist of the famous band 'Le Creuset'."
Athrun tries his best to suppress the urge to scoff at Miriallia. She's sitting beside him, speaking intensely into her red recording device as though she is some sort of professional newscaster. She takes her job way too seriously, he thinks to himself, almost shaking his head. If there is anything Athrun hated more than the paparazzi, it is definitely the celebrity gossip bloggers. They appear to believe that their writing is more sacred than journalistic accounts of wars and government deception. And to think that these bloggers believe they're decent journalists...
"She is fed up with Miguel's cheating ways and apparently, he was seen with a model during London's fashion week. Has he been cheating on her?"
"That's complete bullshit, Miriallia," Dearka says with his arms folded. "It's so obvious she's been sleeping with Miguel Aiman's band mates."
"Dearka stop ruining my recording! And for the record, I don't believe that Cagalli Yula Aiman is cheating on Miguel Aiman."
"Oh, and how do you know that?" he questioned with smug eyes.
"Because I know her."
Dearka mockingly chuckled. "No you don't!"
"I have a picture with her and we've breathed the same air, therefore I know her. She's super sweet and kind and she would never ever cheat on anyone. She even remembered my name the second time I met her."
At those words, Athrun feels a sting in his chest. He tries to brush off the feeling but it remains, keeping the blood in his chest cold. There is nothing he could say to stop their tedious bickering, so he observes the Archangel District, their conversation fading away slowly from his ears.
He notices that the buildings in the Archangel District hold a nostalgic air of the 1950s. Their bricks are washed out of vibrancy but the architecture of the windows frames are precisely curved to look like a semi-circle. Flowers are located right beneath the windows, blooming with vivacious colours that are distinguishable against the worn out bricks that are covered with emerald vines.
Essentially, Archangel District is only made up of two long strips of buildings. On each side, the structures contain clothing boutiques, hair salons, coffee shops and restaurants that are only open for the prestigious... the people who have money.
Archangel District was established in the 1940s and due to the area's reminiscent value, it began to blossom with multiple businesses that were able to rent the property. It didn't take long for the 'FOR LEASE' signs to show up when businesses couldn't pay their rent. It paved way for richer companies to replace them with their aristocratic reputation.
Famous people and rich teenagers would lounge around the district. While the famous go to this place for leisure time, rich teens go to feel like they are the famous. Wherever famous people are, the rich would follow and so would the paparazzi. The paparazzi would swarm the area, scattered in groups with their professional cameras in hand.
Today is no exception. Athrun could see different paparazzi groups huddling like ants in corners, just standing there, waiting like animalistic hunters.
"She's a humanitarian! She helps African kids and animals!" He hears Miriallia yell.
"So what, that doesn't mean she can't be sleeping around! What you do doesn't define who you are."
Athrun finds Dearka's statement contradictory, but he doesn't disrupt the banter.
"Oh God, Dearka, you are so annoying."
"Hey, I'm a paparazzo not a fan girl," he says, smirking at his victory. He turns to Athrun. "Aye, hawk eyes, are you scanning the area?"
"Yeah," Athrun mumbles. He pulls up his grey hood and puts a hand on his satchel which contained his DSLR camera. "Let's get going guys."
As he walks he realizes that only Dearka is at his side, while Miriallia is trailing behind them. It seems to be that she purposely allowed herself to lag behind like a follower. Athrun thinks to himself that Miriallia has always acted strange around him, her conversations with him are often short and distant. He wonders whether or not she caught on to his disregard towards her occupation of being a professional gossiper.
"So..." Dearka starts, "that photo..."
"What about it?"
He is grinning now. "I had a feeling it would convince you to come."
Athrun doesn't say anything and continues walking straight on the side walk. His vision is shrouded by the structures, looking for the right place where he may find their prey. Once he can catch a glimpse, he can easily capture her behind his lenses.
"That photo was everywhere! Magazine covers, blogs..."
"I posted it on my blog too," Miriallia adds in, the slight tremor in her voice gave away her excitement. "Athrun, you're actually amazing. Your photos of Cagalli Yula Aiman make her look like an angel."
Dearka dreamily sighs. "God, if only it were me who sold that photo...I would have charged more... and I would have been rich! You sold it for seven thousand dollars, right?"
"Yeah," Athrun says with a voice devoid of emotion.
It was a miracle, or by chance, although he would never call it that, because it would deem him lucky, when clearly he is not.
About a year after Athrun and Cagalli parted, Athrun had began to find comfort in visiting beaches. His sole motivation to get out of bed was to watch the sun rise bring upon a new day. He felt that it was better to go early in the morning before the world was awake so he can share a moment with nature and himself. Solitude was something that he can only accept during the crack of dawn, but after the sunlight shrouded the world, the harmful loneliness would call him backwards.
The solitude allowed him to think honestly.
Are you happy?
It was a question that leapt inside his mind constantly when he was by the shore. It was a question that wasn't just for him, but for her.
Sometimes the waves would tell him, other times it was the gritty feeling of the sand.
No they told him. No. No. No.
It was all in his head.
Whenever that thought would occur to him, he would bring his camera up to his face, and peer inside the square viewfinder, with his other hand adjusting the 35 mm lenses he used for the ever changing sky.
He would wait for the grey to vanish into a soft wash of warm colours. When it did... it always made him smile and forge a new memory of the sky.
This particular day was different though. He had not snapped a photo of the sky that day.
She was there with him, watching the same wash of colours blend into the sky, reclaiming the old and reclaiming the new.
He did not notice her at first.
But the faint sound of her music playing prompted him to ignore the sky.
The first thought that came to mind, was God, that song is annoying.
It was that girl with the drowsy and soft voice, drawling on about forsaken summer romances and the desperation for losing solitude. Her voice echoed and gracefully plagued the ghostly string instruments. But the song sounded so rustled, as though it were being played through a crappy radio. Athrun could no longer focus on the sky anymore. He turned his head to the direction of sound, to figure out what the hell broke him out of his lamenting peace.
Then he saw her.
Staring up, eyes gentle, bare faced, hair soaring, and a small thoughtful smile spread across her lips.
She was a large distance away from him. Standing all alone with a portable radio, while looking up at daybreak, probably thinking it looked like a painting with its violet churns and tingeing crimsons.
Cagalli, you're so silly. Life doesn't imitate art.
Then she started to glow like a seraph as her blonde hair became a smooth sliver of gold. Her smile was intoxicating.
Seeing her like that made him forget what she had become.
Athrun quickly brought up his camera, eye through the viewfinder, seeing her differently behind his lenses. He slowly moved closer to her, sand swirled under his toes, while the wind whistled delicately against the back of his neck.
The moment was shot.
Just one click and then he left while the crashes of waves were still calm and the sky was still shifting.
He did not care if she noticed him or not.
Creeping up on his shoulder, Dearka whispers loudly in Athrun's hood covered ear, "Do you ever masturbate to her photos?"
When Athrun doesn't answer, Dearka pulls down his hood.
"Don't do that." He pulls it back up. "And don't ask me dumb questions like that."
Dearka bellows out with laughter when he sees the white palette of Athrun's face turn to red. "I'm just screwing with you. You should really lighten the hell up!"
"I'll lighten up after this whole ordeal is over," Athrun grumbles.
"Ordeal?"
"Yes."
"Guys...?"
Dearka and Athrun both turn their heads to Miriallia. Her eye brows are scrunched together in agitation. "Does anyone know where Cagalli Yula Aiman might be?"
"She's most likely staying at the hotel over there." Athrun points to a small coffee shop. The bricks of the shop are painted in a pristine black, and the large square window frames from the three floors of the place are as white as milk. Amongst the first floor, the words Espresso Soul are etched above the wide glass doors in intricate white font.
"That's a coffee shop, Athrun," Dearka says stifling a chuckle with his hand. "Seems like you're slipping."
"Actually, it's a coffee shop and hotel," Miriallia pipes in. "It's not a traditional hotel, it's on top of the coffee shop and rooms are around seven hundred dollars per night."
"You've got to be kidding me..."
"Nope. Apparently all the walls in the rooms are covered in art. Famous people art, like Andy Warhol and stuff! " Miriallia beams. "The place is actually huge inside! And the coffees all organic and they're imported from different countries. It's probably a gazillion times better than Starbucks."
"Cagalli does like coffee," Athrun mumbles, forgetting that the two of them are not aware that he knew her personally. Once he realizes this, he immediately states, "I read it in a magazine somewhere."
Miriallia smiles fondly at him. "You've read my blog, haven't you, Athrun?"
"Sure." Athrun suppresses another temptation to scoff at her.
Dearka blatantly coughs, "Fanboy."
"Let's just get a move on."
They start to become closer to the coffee shop and as they grow nearer, Athrun's thoughts teeter and totter towards regret and anticipation.
There's a weight on his chest that feels like a thousand coiled fists pressing him down. It's this nervousness that reaches from his chest and tickles up to his neck.
The feeling is not unusual.
It visits him every time he knows he will be in physical range of his past. This past revisited him in bouts of fooling him that the Cagalli he is about to see is the same Cagalli he used to share a bed with.
It's startling to Athrun, the way she still invokes repressed emotions in him. It makes him feel almost pathetic, but not wholly so.
Screw it, he thinks.
She doesn't see him behind the flashbulbs of those invasive cameras. It's been three long years, and she never sees his face. It blends in with the paparazzi like stretches of mixed paint on a canvas.
He finds that there is one problem with the current situation he is in.
The radiating heat from the sun glimmers down on him and the heat is nullified by the light breeze of spring. The sun in the sapphire sky is the perfect lighting condition for capturing photos. Yet the light knows how to expose a person who hides in the dark, or in the shadows of ill fallen victims to idol worship.
The problem is easily dismissible. Not once has she ever seen the man Athrun became behind the camera. She only had seen the past of this man.
When you begin to remember someone, their image of them that engrosses your head is from your last memory of them. When you see them often, the image changes gradually, but if it's been years, your last memory of that person is of a younger version of them selves. Athrun has seen her change, he has seen her morph into the famous and delicate young woman she is now. The image of her that engrosses his mind when he thinks of her is the one of her baring her slightly stained teeth at him in a smile, while her tresses gently touch her shoulders.
As he waits with the others, he briefly closes his eyes and imagines a younger Cagalli stepping out of the hotel coffee shop. He imagines her with a loose tank top and tight cargo pants tucked into combat boots. Doors close softly, as she struts out holding her half empty coffee cup in her hands.
Athrun blinks his eyes open when he hears the door of the coffee shop open.
"Oh my God, it's her!" He doesn't know who screams it. But all he sees are paparazzi men and women running towards the shop like a flock of zombies that found their prey.
He finds himself stranded on the spot meters away from where she is. He notices that Miriallia, and Dearka are already rushing forward shoving him out of the way with their shoulders.
Dearka turns his head around, and an all knowing look is upon his face. "Only someone as slow and steady as you can win the best shot!" He continues running.
Athrun steps forward, and walks. Each step makes his foot feel heavy. Unconsciously he feels with his fingers the hood masking his hair. Good, it's still there.
Click, click, click.
"Cagalli look over here, gorgeous!"
"Can you sign this for me?"
"I am one of your biggest fans."
"Is it true that you and Miguel are having problems?"
"How was your coffee?"
"You're even prettier in person!"
Moving closer, he hears all this. The words, the clicks, they all sound like a broken record player, busting out over used and rejected tunes.
From his vision, the crowd looks like there's about twenty of them. But he could be wrong.
He reaches the end of the crowd, looking like an outsider because he is not within it.
Athrun grabs his camera from his satchel and cautiously lifts the object up to his right eye, peering through the viewfinder and seeing the grey hair of a man in front of him. Cagalli is not in sight, not yet.
His fingers are placed on the 50 mm lenses, and he adjusts them, focusing in. Behind multiple shoulders, he catches a glimpse of the side of her face. Everything around her blurs as he adjusts the lenses again. Then someone's back covers his view of her.
Athrun heads into the crowd, camera protected by his arm like he is carrying a newborn. Absentmindedly he is pushing himself through the weight of people, feeling nothing of them.
"Hey! Fuck you man!"
It's easy to ignore insults from strangers. Just pretend it never happened. Pretend no one is in the crowd, and then it becomes easier to join, to pass through. I will get my shot of her even in the fucking daylight.
He's nearing the front; a blanket of comforting serenity engulfs him as he feels like a ghost just crossing to the other side.
He could see the top of her head.
"You guys flatter me too much." Her voice is drenched with fake breeziness.
Before he knows it, he is at the front. The crowd behind him is muted in his mind. His camera has already risen to his face, concealing his identity.
He sees her entirely.
Her fitted black dress on her thin body is flowing beneath the waist and her shimmery hair is piled on top of her head in a classy up do.
Athrun couldn't even admire her beauty through the eyes of his lenses. He does not feel the same awe others would feel when they see her, the awe that overwhelmed him was her altering self, the barely recognizable person she seemed to be.
"Fuck you asshole!"
A pair of hands slaps both his wrists so hard that his gentle grip on his camera slackens and falls right out of his hands. He watches it descend face down, like a rock being tided down a waterfall. He braces himself for the earth shattering crack of the lenses.
However, it doesn't plummet to its death. It plummets into the small hands of... Cagalli.
She is bent down on the ground, her knees skid the cement, forming white scratches on those knobby knees of hers.
Cagalli's hands hold out the camera and she stares at it, flipping the camera so that the lenses are at her face.
"I'm sorry, sir but I think I scratched the lenses," she says, almost sounding remorseful for an inanimate object.
Athrun keeps his mouth closed. His heart is thundering and a wave of nausea goes over him. A panic in his body is ensuing. The feeling is so unfamiliar it makes him want to vomit.
She lifts herself up, still gazing at the camera. A frown is on her face. When she looks at him, the world seems to freeze and he becomes numb.
Cagalli's eyes bore into Athrun as if he is the only person standing in front of her. With her mouth slightly ajar, and his name scrawled on her tongue, she places the camera into his hands. Their fingers brush against each other causing a strange surge of coldness in both of their fingers.
"Thank you, Miss." The words are so unfitting and so strained with emotional discomfort.
"You're welcome, sir," she says quietly. Her eyes search his face, seemingly looking for truth that it is him.
Their eyes meet. They fixate on each others eyes; the vacancy is within both the green and ochre. She is the first to look away.
"I'm very sorry, sir."
Athrun thinks he hears a trace of sadness in her voice. But the thought disappears when she turns her body away from him.
She is momentarily silent amidst the clicks of camera and the voices of the paparazzi. Soft spoken words begin to fall gracefully from her pretty mouth as her hands continuously signed autographs. From time to time a smile would reappear on her face.
The look of her bleached teeth beneath her dark red lips are as contrasting as a black and white film.
He continues to stand there, watching, feeling her presence so close to his. He can not will himself to move away from her. The cold touch lingers on his hands, her apology imprints cruelly in his mind.
Athrun's eyes never leave her being until he brings his camera up to his eye again.
Behind scratched lenses, he snaps a photo of Cagalli's distressed smile.
