Comprehension, a gundam seed fanfic

A/N: These are frightening times, but may there be hope. Take care, please.

If there's one thing that Athrun should be good at, it's following instructions. Mostly.

Cagalli doesn't show up for Lacus' birthday gathering that month, despite the news that Cagalli's back in Orb and due to make public speeches. The rally goes smoothly - he watches it from his living room. She appears on the news after, and she's animated and alert. The makeup doesn't quite cover her dark eye circles. He notices that it - the lipstick, maybe - makes her look more mature. Professional, and more polished. It's deliberate. Everything she presents seems deliberate now.

If he texts her now, she probably won't respond. She won't be in Orb the next week.

She did say that they can't be together. That's fair. She hasn't contacted him for anything else. It's a clarity that's almost like pain. But she also said that they could be friends. Friends can eat together. It's not unusual. It's completely normal.

He's worked out a really good vegetable terrine recipe, even though it's overly-complicated for something made of vegetables. He appreciates good food, but he doesn't particularly enjoy eating and culinary techniques enough to care that much about assembling six different layers of vegetables. It's just that Cagalli seems like she would enjoy the terrine, because she'd seemed so impressed at that recent state dinner when the chef presented the sweet potato foam something or the other. Sitting at another table, he'd tried not to watch her too obviously.

Her last message and their last meeting was nearly a month ago, and she'd left more or less after they were done. He tells himself that she's busy. Obviously. They're both busy. She's got her emir duties and a country to run. He's got his work too, and a pile of paperwork that he can't seem to eradicate. She's not the last person left in this galaxy. The arrangement doesn't have to get more complicated.

"Is it okay?" Yohei asks. "You don't like it?"

Athrun realises that he's being spoken to and remembers to resume chewing. He has to act normal.

As it is, Syra already knows that he blacked out during that shooting exercise, and that being a war-hero, ace, or whatever he used to be known as isn't a sufficient reason for him to not be on close supervision for the next six months. She had to be informed, since she was his orientation mentor for the first three months.

She's watching him from the corner of her eye, even though her fingers keep texting furiously. The higher-ups proposed to keep his circumstances under wraps, with his recent promotion of rank hanging in the balance. Athrun knows that the rest of his team probably know something about it.

He pushes his mouthful and the embarrassment down, and nods at Yohei. "It's not bad."

"Ha! It's serviceable at best." Thierry says. He twirls his fork in a turn that could have been the Imelmann, except for its abrupt landing in a plate of over-dressed salad. "Day in, day out, it's this. If my mother knew what her son was being served! Fuck, how can Orb be known for its produce if we have to take this bland slop? Eh, what's up with you both? Why the long faces?"

Syra shakes her head and blows at her long bangs. "We're just tired, Lefevbre. It's been a shitty night flight and I still have a whole morning of briefings and reports. Only Yohei's flying really well, and we can't be dead weight for the next round."

Yohei blushes at his senior's praise, and Athrun smiles at him. Earlier last week, Yohei had shyly asked for tips on his descent.

"That's unfair!" Thierry protests. "I completed all my rounds!"

"Alright, alright, let's just enjoy the break. Sheesh! Haumea knows I need it."

From afar, the signal boards blink orange, and Syra checks her planner. It's hard to tell whether it's day or night in here, with no windows breaking through the monotony. "You all better chow down fast. We've just fifteen minutes left. I don't want Admiral Hasegawa breathing down our necks about our late reports and general tardiness again. Argh, I can't wait for our block leave, damn it."

The hour's alarm goes off, and the other test team tasked to deal with the latest mobile pods begins filing in, some calling greetings to them. Syra hollers back, her voice loud enough to carry across the steel and concrete of the canteen, but she doesn't put away her wrist-phone or shut its projected screen, texting furiously still.

Athrun guesses that the other team must be pretty hungry, because most of them haven't even changed out - most head straight for the trays, and the service automatons begin doling out the same food. He can almost see the sweat steaming off his colleagues' faces, their cheeks still flushed from the cockpit's heat. The giant screens continue projecting the muted news, and the automated reminders of the teams' schedules around them aren't loud enough to mask the half-hearted chatter.

If he can somehow eat with his colleagues in the staff canteens - even Thierry, who's nice enough, but a busybody if ever there was one - he and Cagalli should be able to eat together. Is it allowed in these kinds of situations? The few times that he'd experienced anything even remotely close ended up with those comrades going to other Zaft stations, and probably dying in some sortie before he even got to learn anything much about them.

He closes his eyes, trying to remember their faces, even if he doesn't know their names and made it a point never to. This was exactly what he and Nicol avoided - they'd come close, but always found other people to vent with. It would have been a mess, otherwise.

For those that he'd been with, Athrun doesn't recall much, except the lavender-grey braid of this batchmate that had lashed against his face until he'd tossed it over her shoulder. She'd taunted him about not being the well-bred, posh boy that she reckoned he was. He didn't really know her name, except that she'd looked at him in that way and propositioned him, but everybody knew that he was Patrick Zala's son. There was that thin junior with his bright, longing eyes - he'd mashed his damp forehead against Athrun's, and breathed his thanks. They'd never spoken or met ever again. Now, Athrun's supposed to know how to manage this.

There's no need to keep thinking about Cagalli and wondering if he should text or call or do something. He's done enough of this to be aware of what the mostly unspoken rules are. It's not a big deal, and casual sex isn't a problem for either of them. It's just that it would be nice to do something else with her - maybe play cards, or watch something. He's not sure if those are strictly against the rules.

He could call, but maybe it would be strange. Calling isn't something they'd done. Back then, when he'd been Alex, there was no need. Later, she had warned him that she wouldn't be able to call or even send him messages too often; not after he'd left for Zaft. There were others watching her at that time, and the war was beginning.

He'd understood - it was the same for him then. It wouldn't be prudent for a Zaft officer to be sending messages to an Orb emir. In the Minerva, with her away millions of miles away in Orb, it was almost too easy not to call. Maybe, for people like them, that had been the start of the end. He'd been more indignant than he cared to admit previously, but maybe it made complete sense for her to take a pen and written him a letter with her own hands, just to explain why she had to break the engagement.

"No wonder what?"

He clears his throat a bit, trying to disguise having spoken at all. "Nothing, sorry."

"Okay." Yohei says, a bit amused. "So, like I was saying..."

Maybe he could spin a story, and ask Syra about how being a fuck-buddy really works. He respects her, and she has a huge sense of humour, maturity and patience. In a strange way, she reminds him of Talia Gladys. They get on quite well. Maybe she wouldn't mind his soliciting her view as a woman, and if Athrun keeps it vague, she would be none the wiser about the exact details.

But Syra's texting her children as she finishes her sandwich, her test-screen glasses pushed up against her forehead, and her sharp, assessing eyes squinting at the smaller phone screen. Even now, she's currently muttering something about spelling tests and incomplete homework.

It's such a terrible idea that Athrun's surprised that he even came up with it at all. Then again, considering that he'd asked for Cagalli that night without fully considering the repercussions, an idea as lousy as asking Syra for advice on his friends-with-benefits dilemma is probably right on brand.

The only thing successful about that morning, Athrun supposes, is that they hadn't fornicated in Kira's and Lacus' newly-ordered, high thread-count linen sheets for the guest bed. Maybe Cagalli had similarly considered and avoided the shame of being in that bed when she led him into the water and bent to take him, if only to avoid ruining the fresh lavender that Lacus specially procured.

The psychotherapist that his employer's assigned to him for cognitive behaviour therapy keeps encouraging Athrun to share his burdens with others. Like Athrun doesn't already know that. Like Athrun should tell Dr. Morino everything, when he's basically walking that fine line of being candid, but not so candid that the Orb military terminates his employment and he gets sent to an institution. The worst thing would be for anyone to find out and use that information in a way for her to be caught up in any sort of scandal.

"You know, Athrun," Dr. Morino had advised. "Maybe, you could also try telling your closest, most trusted friend about things that worry you? The intention is for you to ventilate, and not to bottle things up. An important part of cognitive restructuring is also about how we can relate to others in our daily lives."

The idea of telling his closest, most trusted friend about what he's been doing with Cagalli is so ridiculous that he nearly laughs aloud.

It's a good thing that he doesn't, because he's already in mid-torque roll with all the blood rushing everywhere. The sortie's statistics are being recorded at dizzying speeds, and Thierry's voice is crackling for over the system. This is what Athrun understands - what he was probably meant to do; the skill that he's honing even now; what he's drawn to do. It's like the cockpit is his entire brain, and yet everything that Athrun does or says in this cockpit is being watched and recorded. He can't start laughing in the open, at the thought of telling Kira.

There's a trail of cloud dust and steam behind him, a fading chyron on the sky. In a while, it'll be like they were never there. Even her messages are all coded to erase, even all the metadata, like there was never anything that they left for each other. With the universe as messed up as it is, people in positions like theirs have the abilities to correspond the way that they do. Maybe he can't erase his messages as completely as she does, but she can erase both of theirs. She always does.

He keeps his eyes open while he hurtles through the air, his hands sweating in their flight suit gloves and his pits clammy in the crooks of his bent arms. The glimpses of the world beyond are so blue and dizzying that he might as well be underwater. It's as gorgeous as terrifying, and while the air in this space is not so thin, he's a bit light-headed. If he's being honest, it would be okay to end it like this. It's a good thing that he's not crazy.

"Okay, Zala." Syra says. "About now would be good."

"Roger."

He wants to see her; he wants to continue doing this; it's laundry day tomorrow and he should iron his formal shirts for next week; and go running, maybe in the forested area with the huge trees. He needs to get more groceries too; maybe send the automaton out.

"Come on, Zala!"

Then Thierry's cheer bleeds into swearing, and Athrun knows he's messed up one part of the turn because he rushed it; but he surges higher still, the roars rattling in his skull. He should focus, damn it. He wants to clear the turn and finish those reports; open and fuck her whenever, come inside like he should fill her womb with life and feel her kiss him after; he still wants to fly, even if he might die doing it; he doesn't need his team thinking that he's crazy enough to laugh and maybe bite his tongue doing some aerobatic maneuver.

Then it's done, and he's flipped upright, hovering like a twisted, metallic god surveying the world below. He prays to whoever who's listening that the machines aren't picking up more than the heartbeat rate and blood pressure, so that he can calm his traitorous body. It's a good thing that it's some ways back to the landing point, and that the multi-panelled screen with his team's faces is leveled only around his own.

"Sorry." His voice is steadier than he thought it would be. He feels sweat drip twice into his eyes and blinks away the sting. "Should I redo it?"

"No, the last bit saves it - fly out any further and you'll be at Onogoro, honestly. Anyway, we have enough data, let's just return to base."

"Roger."

The other good thing is that Dr. Morino's hourly bills are completely funded by the Orb military.

"You know, it's common enough for those of your generation and with similar backgrounds to require therapy at some point or another. I would be surprised if none of your friends who were your comrades in the wars didn't have help at some point or another."

"You dissociated. It was a flashback that you weren't prepared for, so your body shut down to protect you."

"One of the symptoms of hyper-vigilance is having difficulties with social interactions and relationships. I would like to invite you to be honest with those you can trust. This is a safe space too. As a starting point, I invite you, once again, to be as honest with me as you can be."

When he'd started therapy about four months ago, Dr. Morino tried to start with how Athrun grew up.

Maybe it's a standard protocol and a shortcut to telling Athrun that he's had some suppressed trauma, having watched his mother die as a faceless digit on those widescreens on Aprilius' main shopping street. It's so standard that Athrun thinks he might have watched something as clichè as this unfold on a few shows in the past.

As it's turned out, his insomnia and that pounding tension during the shooting exercises that he'd suffered for the later part of the Second War weren't quite part of the job. It's not supposed to be part of his job as a test pilot now. Frankly, he doesn't think it's affecting him to the extent that he can't do his work. And yet, since he's been ordered to, he'll just have to finish the therapy sessions, so that he can stop lying about things and people that he can't really talk about.

"So what have you been up to these days?"

To be fair, Dr. Morino seems kindly and easy-going enough. He doesn't press Athrun too hard, even if the nature of the job is basically to be a busybody and probe people like Athrun who've ended up on the couch.

"Same things. Just work, and booking annual leave." Athrun always notices that one mark on the ceiling, even if he shouldn't care about it too much. They've established that he isn't obsessive-compulsive, even if it's quite common as part of hyper-vigilance. Still, he always wonders how it got there, and whether every other patient who lies on this couch notices it too.

"Was your leave application approved?"

"Yes. I'm going to take a few days off next month."

"Where to?"

"The Plants." Athrun lies, because he can't say that he's maybe going to try and see if the lead emir might summon him for a few hours of fucking. He tries to visualise himself in the cockpit of a mobile suit, where the gears and controls are within reach. It's pathetic, but he genuinely doesn't know what else works right now. Imagining what he's familiar with usually steadies him. He knows that he checked his cell for any messages, right before coming into this session, but Dr. Morino doesn't need to know any of that. This is precisely why he opted out from the hypnosis treatment.

If he hadn't blanked out and collapsed in the shooting range that one time, he wouldn't have been sent here to lie on his back and look at ceiling stains. Actually, if he was a bit more paranoid, he'd have suspected it was some conspiracy that he's been told that he suffers from anything, because he feels fine right now.

Yet, they've told him that it's mild and almost undetectable, especially since he's become so used to working with heightened tension in dangerous situations. It's perplexing what caused that incident, and a bit frustrating that he's being sent for all these sessions when the one thing that he wanted was to get on with life. It is what it is, though. Anything to get it over and done with.

Dr. Morino sounds genuinely excited for him, which Athrun doesn't believe for a second. "Are you looking forward to it?"

"I suppose. I haven't been keeping up with my friends there as much as I ought to have."

"Could you describe your relationship with them?"

"We enlisted together. Well, two of them. The other - I grew up with him, before we moved to different cities."

"I suppose you've had long and good friendships with them?"

If Athrun was being completely honest, he would have said, "No, actually, I tried to kill one of them just three years after we met again, but I was so bad at it that I ended up defecting from Zaft. The other two I nearly screwed over when I defected. There was actually another friend too, but I screwed him over by not killing the first one, and the first one killed him."

Since he's not being completely honest, he says, "Yes. The first one - we lost contact when I moved back to the Plants. But we've since reconnected."

"Have you told any of them about these sessions?"

"No. I just want to get it under control, and be cured." Athrun says, before he can bite back his words. He sits up and shifts to look at Dr. Morino, suddenly more annoyed than he had been for the whole week. Maybe he's more emotionally constipated than Dr. Morino had gently suggested. He's not supposed to be so weak that he gets prescribed sleeping pills. But apparently, he is. It's annoying.

Dr. Morino just adjust his glasses. Maybe every psychotherapist probably wears glasses. "Athrun, we've discussed this. Therapy isn't about bringing you to the state you were supposed to be in - whatever that was. Becoming aware and working on mental health is a process that you adopt. There is no "cure" for hyper-vigilance per se, and it's just how we have to work to manage the situation."

"Alright." Athrun tries not to sound sullen. He checks the clock as discreetly as he can.

"I appreciate that you're an extremely competent and talented soldier, and that is precisely why your employer is investing in help for you to manage it. Had you not blacked out that day, this would have never been diagnosed - it's common for soldiers to be extremely alert and tense in crowded situations. Or notice sudden movements or be fixated on those. But you're at a level where these sessions are meant to help you be better adjusted outside your workplace."

"It was a one-off, as I've told you before." Athrun lies back down. He manages to keep his fists from curling, but his fingers twitch just a little.

"And we still haven't pinpointed the trigger - or triggers, as the case may be - to what caused that. Coming back to it, why did you move away?"

"Where?"

"You told me that you and a friend moved to different cities."

"Dad - my father asked us to. He probably knew a war would break out soon. Maybe he thought the Plants would be safer, even though Mum was quite settled in Copernicus. So we had to pack and relocate to Aprilius."

"Could you describe how you felt, when you had to leave and transfer schools?"

"I didn't have to transfer schools. I finished pre-university in Copernicus before I left. In the Plants, if you pass the exams, you can attend university at any time. Most enroll by thirteen, so I did the exams and enrolled once I went back to the Plants."

He finds himself fiddling with the couch's arm, and ceases it. Cagalli had mentioned her schooling a long time ago. "I don't remember if it's the same here in Orb."

"Not really. Anyway, how did you feel about the move?"

"I was too busy studying - it was really competitive in university. I don't remember feeling too bothered about the shift. If that's what you were asking about."

"I'm just inviting you to respond. Hm. And how was your relationship with your father around that time?"

"I didn't see him much, but it was fine. He was busy with council work, since he'd joined politics around the time I was born. We got along fine. At that time, anyway." Athrun could say 'before I betrayed him and he shot me, and before I betrayed him again and made him die alone', but he keeps his mouth shut.

"Was he doing something else before?"

"Trading. I was told that he was good with finance and investments. He was well-off enough to join politics, I suppose."

"Can you tell me about your mother?"

"She liked gardening and painting. She didn't like to drink coffee. We drank a lot of tea at home. She enjoyed baking and cooking. She taught me a lot. She was like a friend to me. I was - I was affected when the Plants were attacked and I lost her. I'd been planning to call her that weekend - I was due to graduate from university in a month. Coordinators in the Plant universities graduate by fifteen. I didn't want to go at first, but I'd qualified after we moved back to the Plants, and she was happy about my graduating." He blinks, surprised.

Dr. Morino continues typing. "What was it like, for you to re-adjust to the Plants?"

"It was alright. I met others there, and like I said, we were studying so hard that I didn't have so much time to miss my friends in Copernicus." He hadn't made many friends in university, but that hadn't been surprising either.

"How would you describe your friends at that time?"

"They were young adults, like me. We had fun, and there were some good times."

One of the first friends that he'd made was Lacus. She had seemed like the most graceful, delicate fairy at that time, and even though Athrun was vaguely bothered by their fathers trying to get them to go out, it hadn't seemed too strange. Lacus had easily been the most interesting person at that time, and it helped that she was talented, pretty, interested in everything, kind and gentle. She hadn't been that fond of partying, and it made him feel it was fine to not like the things that everyone of their age and around them seemed to like. She had kissed him on her fourteenth birthday, in front of everyone, and told him that he was a lovely person. He thought he'd fallen in love with her, and that was a little true. Athrun hadn't protested too much when his father had announced one day that it would be good for Lacus to be his daughter-in-law, never mind that arranged marriage seemed a bit crazy.

Maybe Dr. Morino's tired of prying. Or maybe, the hour is finally up, because the typing sounds stop, and he says, "We'll have to leave it here today, Athrun. That said, I want you to continue to think about all the friends that you made in the Plants, when you first moved back there. Think of it as this week's exercise. And I want to encourage you to share about these sessions with your friends in the Plants, whoever they may be."

"Sure." Athrun says, just so that the session can end.

He's worked out a routine now. It's gone on for slightly less than two years, since he moved to Orb. He rides the shuttle tram to the subway interchange with all the other civil servants who work in the Orb military test grounds.

He nods at those he knows. He usually doesn't manage to get a seat. No matter what time he leaves, it always seems to be packed. It's a bit awkward if he does run into his supervising officers, so he usually reads from his tablet, and only looks up when someone waves a hand in front of his face. He hopes, most of the time, that nobody will.

He understands the theory. He's also seen plenty of soldiers during the two wars come back and struggle. Some had been prone to extreme aggression or apathy, and those who hadn't been able to keep it together had been discharged. He wasn't supposed to feel his pulse hammer against his throat and his stomach twist like that when his team member got shot with the stun-gun and collapsed in front of him, at close range. But it happened.

On Thursday evening, he plays some virtual reality racing car game, which frankly, is a ridiculous waste of time when test-piloting is already like playing video games from nine to six, or whenever the mission calls for.

Dearka's apparently online too, or maybe it's Dearka's nine-year old cousin, who secretly shares the gaming account with Dearka, and is most definitely flouting the terms of use of the game account. But Athrun doesn't feel like racing anyone.

He crashes at the twenty-sixth level of the game. Better that, than engaging with a nine-year old who could well beat Athrun. It's only nine-fifteen. After last month's strange hours, he's not used to getting back from work this early. Otto's been put on auto-pilot for so long that there's basically nothing for Athrun to do in terms of errands about the house.

He reaches for his personal cell. He thinks about how Cagalli hadn't looked him in the eye after they were done, that last time. He still thinks the hour they spent was good, even if short - at least, he'd enjoyed it - but she seemed distracted when she walked him to the door. Maybe he'd been oblivious and didn't ask her what was wrong. He regrets that, a bit.

He riffles around the apartment and opens a bag of chips that he really shouldn't have bought, before losing interest rapidly. He's supposed to eat clean, because he has a physical fitness test coming up the following week. If he fails the fitness test like those parts of the stress-tests, his provisional promotion to Admiral rank will likely be in jeopardy. He needs to keep it together, at least for the next half a year.

He allows himself a laugh that nobody hears. Because nobody can see him do it, he checks his cell. Nothing.

At eleven, he watches some movie about a canyon climber getting lost and almost starving to death, because the last thing that he needs right now is to get both depressed and aroused thinking about her. He stops the movie halfway.

He puts a soup on to boil while he showers, since meal-prepping for the week might allow him an excuse to not eat with his colleagues when he's tired of socialising during work. Otto goes into hibernation mode just a few minutes before the soup boils, which is fine. He'll just wake Otto up to do the laundry and vacuum tomorrow, while he's at work.

He lies in bed with the sheets that he went out and got in the first month that he moved here. To try and sleep, he does the breathing exercises that the military's assigned therapist encouraged him to do, and he eventually falls asleep for about four hours. But then he's suddenly awake.

Then, for the hell of it, he brings himself off, hating how weak he is. He imagines that he's somewhere else - flying again, falling through the darkness of space, distant stars hurtling in the distance. He forces himself, almost as a challenge - a punishment, even - to imagine anyone else, but Cagalli. It's a strange mix of people that he may or may never have known.

It takes a while, but he's ready with the tissues. It's pathetic, but it's what it is. Maybe the amoeba has the most straightforward existence of all. It's still beyond him as to why the brilliant minds of the bioengineering and gene-modification organisations didn't think to write off the need for intimacy and sex when designing the humans of the future.

Fuck all if he knows what's the point of being a Coordinator with enhanced physical and mental abilities, if he's still going to end up lying in bed, wondering about whether to text Cagalli and invite her for dinner or not.

Yalafath's main square on Saturday afternoon is already massively crowded, even though Athrun doesn't drag his feet leaving when his week's shift ends at six in the morning.

It's a bit humid, and the sweat that he thought he'd wrung out of his flight suit and washed off in the changing room's showers is back under his collar. But it would have been unthinkable - wrong, even - for him to have come out here reeking of fuel and perspiration. He should be thankful that there's still use for fragrances, and that he can be outside the military zone.

The city roads are crammed with vehicles, and there are so many weekend shoppers on the streets, and yet it looks nothing like Aprilius. There are all the rainbows of hibiscus flowers and palm trees outside shophouses, dotting their colours along the concrete and glass. Beyond, the seas melt blue into the skies, framing the billboards and the buildings' planes and slopes. He's still getting used to the constant saltiness in the air - it's not so obvious when the military grounds are drenched with other smells, but here it lingers with the nearby coasts.

The leading architects of Orb chose to conserve the island's imagery of the past, even while the inhabitants fitted the latest technology into those structures. Big trees line roads instead of just skyscrapers, and there's a sense of space that Aprilius set aside a long time ago for urban sprawl. Some of the capital is still being redone even now, because it's not so easy or quick to repair while retaining the look and feel of the old, heritage structures with the war's destruction.

It's probably why fixing up his place was so tedious. They kept telling him that structurally, the old apartment on the slope wasn't so easily adapted for whatever he had in mind, and it was pricier than he'd been initially quoted. The landlord wouldn't bear the expense for extra security systems, and the last time he'd haggled over rent or anything of the sort had been in university. Maybe he'd ended up overpaying the contractor, even. All said and done, it's important to feel safe, and it's done now, finally.

Some gangly students trip past him, shouting at each other in the strange slang that he catches only part of. One yells something to the other, in the dialect that he recognises Kisaka sometimes slipped into. Behind them, there's a huge billboard of a voluptuous model with those Eurasian features, a tan like molasses, and an orange-pink hibiscus in her honey tresses. The quintessential Orb beauty in these Galactic times, maybe, hawking some product like coral lipstick. Next to what would be considered desirable in the Plants, her looks seem almost nostalgic. The cars speed by. People are walking quickly, plenty of them distracted with their cells and other screens. Everything here is orderly, but unstructured.

Maybe, as Dr. Morino had gently suggested, he'd left the Plants but was drawn back into the military, because the world outside the military seemed too large and overwhelming in its richness and variety. Maybe it's true that Athrun is a coward, and that he's retreated to the familiarity of the military world for most of his waking hours. But it's equally true that plenty of Plant civilians still remember Patrick Zala, and that in Orb, nobody really cares.

He ducks into a random shop to escape the sun, and is rewarded by a blast of cool air, but simultaneously assaulted by a blend of ginger, coconut, lemongrass, citrus - the whole works. The neat, prim salesperson nods from afar, greeting him like the other customers milling about, and is well-trained enough to respectfully keep a distance with the other two automatons. Still, her eyes follow him even though he tries to go to an inoffensive corner.

Like the pushover he is, he leaves with a bunch of fragrant products that he didn't really need, including two luxury, locally-sourced organic hand soaps. One's made of mango extract and shaped like a bird of paradise, and another a coconut dugong, with the kind of branding that he's come to expect of the Orb mainland. In the Plants, maybe he wouldn't have spared a thought to the soap used. The last he was there, his apartment in Aprilius had soap. It probably gets delivered by some home automaton even now, since the young couple whose profiles that the housing agent showed him probably wouldn't be suckered into buying soap like this. They're paying a fair amount to rent in that location; they probably have no time to bother too much.

When he reaches back and gets into his apartment, he still smells of the shop - or 'Orb's finest', as it were.

It's a nice enough place, even if it's a small, rented space. He could ask Cagalli over to his place, now that it's properly done up with some house plants, and that faulty hose has been fixed. It's near enough the testing grounds, with shuttles to and fro every half an hour, and shuttles to the central area. Not that she would take those. Maybe she could probably drive over in one of those random cars that her aides could arrange for. The lift up doesn't stop for any other level or apartment. The logistics are probably easy enough.

Maybe he should have invited her over the last time they spoke, before this thing - this arrangement - happened. Maybe one day, he could go exploring the peninsula with her, and they could do a camping trip. If they swam out, maybe they could see the dolphins, and visit the volcanoes. If they dived, maybe they could catch a glimpse of the shy dugongs. Sometimes, post traumatic syndrome disorder can be useful too. He knows a lot about random stuff from binge-watching documentaries when he can't sleep, and he could tell her about those dolphins now. Their time together before the Second War hadn't allowed them to do anything like that.

When they're together, he feels almost as if he can talk to her about anything, and listen to her tell him about anything. Not that they do; not anymore. But when they aren't together, he doesn't know how to reach out to her. He should have just asked to meet with a date and time. He could have talked to her, properly. Not some half-assed greeting.

He gets around to picking a date for next week, when he's definitely not working shift-hours, and when she's supposed to be in Orb. At least, he hasn't heard if she's travelling elsewhere, and it's that time of the month for parliamentary readings, so it's a fair guess that she'll be in town. He has the number that she still maintains for her personal contacts, and he could simply text.

Texting should be simple enough these days, even if inviting her for a dinner at his place would be a departure from the usual negotiations over a convenient date and time. He's a Coordinator. They're supposed to have been engineered - evolved with all that technical advancement. Some of them were even born in test tubes, damn it, so they're not supposed to be rendered helpless by this basic rubbish. It's not that difficult. He's asked Lacus out before - even if that was technically a formality after their parents had gotten them engaged. He tells himself that he should be able to at least send a text.

He gets as far as "Hi, are you around on Tuesday?" before he panics and deletes it.

"You're such a fucking loser." Yzak says, as tactful as ever. "Sure, we all have to deal with the odd paparazzi from time to time, but honestly, it's not like we're pop-idols. Who's gonna bother you these days? Frankly, half the Plant population and people outside Zaft probably can't even remember who did what in the wars these days. Hell, I don't think most folks even give a rat's ass about who Lacus Clyne is today."

Yzak is right, in a sense. Around them, people are basking and enjoying the weekend, and if anyone had taken a survey, Athrun's quite sure that nobody would have thought or cared that the so-called elite of Zaft were sitting at the lake, side-by-side with a bunch of civilians and their noisy, screaming kids.

"When was the last time Lacus Clyne put out any new music?" Dearka muses, from where he's half-reading from his tablet, half-waiting for a fish to bite. "After she entered Supreme Council service, there was only that one right? Wasn't it that one...?" He hums a bit, and Yzak rolls his eyes at the lack of tune and currency.

"That was before she headed the council. Remember it used to be played all the time when we were redcoats? Honestly, Dearka."

"All her songs sound the same!" Dearka protests, to fend off Yzak's ire. "Back me up, Athrun!"

"She's been busy." Athrun explains, carefully side-stepping the issue. "Leon is quite a handful. And there are all the council duties too. We know how difficult those are. It's a wonder that Yzak's mother's still going on with those."

"Yes, well, we're all busy with work." Dearka shrugs. "At least you're making time for us - even after Zaft."

"You're two of my only friends left." And it's true.

For a long time, he'd felt like the whole world was involved in Zaft. It was really true for a while. All his friends were soldiers after he enlisted and lost contact with his university friends. It doesn't help that he went right back into the Orb military after resigning from Zaft.

Yzak harrumphs. "You should just move back here. Honestly, you'd save much more on property taxes! When will you wake up and realise things are much better back here in the Plants?"

"Not necessarily." Dearka interjects. "Orb has beautiful beaches and really good weather for most part of the year. The weather in the Plants isn't even really weather - I'll bet half the fish in this lake were imported so that we could actually catch anything."

"The shit you say, Dearka." Yzak says, quite affronted. He jabs his finger in the direction of the two fishes swimming in his pail. "Even if this lake was a landfill of fish, you'd be more successful catching some flu. What's the weather got to do with Athrun abandoning the Plants?"

"I just feel more comfortable away from the Plants."

It's not untrue. His life in Orb is apparently so well put-together that he only needs to continue piloting huge mobile suits and use state-sanctioned weapons to stay busy and get paid. As it's turned out, he's actually really good at the one thing he signed up for when he and the world was in a really different situation - so much so that those skills are needed even in peaceful times.

"Just admit it, Athrun." Dearka tells him, and lazily pokes at his wristband to change the song playing on the portable. It clashes comically with the other tunes from the other picnickers around them. "You just wanted a fresh start. Away from all your heavy and messy relationships here in the Plants."

"I wouldn't call you both heavy." Athrun pauses. "Even if you can be messy."

"While that's true, I'm talking about the younger Hawke girl." Dearka's smirk becomes a frown. "Come to think of it, you're not in contact with Cagalli Yula Atha anymore, right?"

"No, I'm not." Athrun says.

"Yeah, then I guess it's okay. I heard from Yzak, who heard it from Lacus."

"She mentioned it after some the council meeting... when I asked. She said you weren't going because of anyone, except yourself." Yzak says, looking a bit awkward. "I mean, you didn't tell us about your relocation. I only heard that you were staying with Meyrin Hawke and then suddenly you were leaving the Plants."

"It's fine." Athrun tries to smile. "It's in the past. Sorry, I was bad at keeping up."

"Nah, it's fine." Dearka throws another line out, disrupting the calm water. "Anyway, a clean break is best. Like I said, Orb has all the best beaches and all the coconuts you could ever want. You'd better not eat so much of those, I heard they're crazy fattening."

"Pretty rich of you." Yzak says, a bit unkindly, and they laugh at Dearka's expense.

"Things are going well. Helps that I defected from Zaft to the Orb military as well - back then." Athrun admits. "And I like coconuts too." He shrugs, even if it's a bit hollow. The fishing-rod that Dearka lent him is completely still - propped against the them, a few others are trying to catch fish too. It's probably too noisy with the kids splashing about in a boat some distance away, but it's good enough spending this weekend in Aprilius like this.

Dearka settles back, yawning and smiling. "You know what I always say. You do you. It's your life, and you can go wherever, even if you have to pay higher taxes in Orb."

"You think they'll give you a fair assessment there?" Yzak asks. But for their history and mutual respect, Athrun thinks, they wouldn't be hanging out like this. "You're sure you really prefer Orb over the Plants?"

"I think so. My supervising officer said I'm doing okay." Athrun conveniently leaves out the bit about the mandatory therapy and counselling.

He can't bring himself to tell the friends that he went to military camp with and piloted war machines with. People like Yzak and Dearka would understand, but Athrun's never been one to talk about anything of this sort with them. Starting now and asking them if they'd also gone through therapy and had some fucked-up, not-friends, just-exes, sex-friends situation would be unthinkable.

Yzak snorts and reels his line in, looking with annoyance at the bait that's gone. "Well, if you ever change your mind, maybe you could probably come back and work in the Plants, since Orb's so friendly with the Plants these days. Maybe Zaft wouldn't accept your application, but whatever. I'm sure you could find something. You're a Coordinator, you can always return to the Plants."

"Aw, did Yzak miss his good friend?" Dearka stands up, stretching and grinning smugly.

Yzak colours violently. "Shut the fuck up, Dearka."

"You could visit." Athrun volunteers. "You could stay with me, if you want. I could take a day off, and drive you both around. We can go swimming and diving in real oceans. Yalafath is actually really nice."

"I want to try their famous sea-salt desserts. The mumu too, I saw this program recently. Forget diving though. I burn up easily."

"Yeah, no quality of sunblock works on him." Dearka chuckles, settles back down, and reaches his arm around Yzak, having abandoned efforts to catch any fish. "Obviously, your mom never bothers going in the sun anyway, so maybe she didn't think to pay for that specific gene-alteration option. Can't complain about the standard hairless Coordinator body, though, eh?"

Yzak shrugs the arm off, but not the blush. "You're gross."

"Fast forward to this Galactic age, and men are still creeps. All of them. Myself, included. Even and especially all of us Coordinators." Dearka grins. "You can do all the gene-editing, fancy-coloured hair, perfect skin, heightened senses and intelligence, allergy-resistance and superior conditioning that you want. Coordinator men are just as stupid and no different from any other types of men. They're still all about food, safety, sex, and power - maybe even more."

He peers lazily at Athrun, ignoring Yzak's sputtering. "Weird thought, but speaking of hair colours, do you think having hair down there in that colour of yours would look strange?"

Athrun grimaces openly. "I suppose. I never thought about it."

"Yzak's the one who first wondered about it, by the way. Can't miss what you never had, I guess. I dunno who decided back in the day that being hairless below the scalp was definitely the way to go - poor things, the both of you. Yzak's quite into about the stubble I get - not that either of you would ever have to deal with shaving your jaw, you poor things. I just have to make do with never seeing him sport any manly stubble."

"If I wanted my comeback, I'd have told you to spit yesterday." Yzak snaps.

"Could we please not?" Athrun says. "There are kids around."

He finds his palms sweaty, during the twelfth session when he lies down on the couch, talking about Miguel, Rusty, and Nicol, even though he thought he'd laid all that to rest. It's probably why he blacked out that time. He's a bit too tired to feel ashamed.

He tells himself that it's a small hiccup in the grand scheme of things. The incident happened a few months after he took his appointment in the Orb military, and since then, with the treatment and medication, things are supposed to be under control.

The spinach pastry is ready, and Otto fractions it perfectly in the way that only a machine can. When Otto lifts some to put on Athrun's plate, he eats it too quickly, burning his tongue and swearing. It surprises him, the burst of emotion and casual vulgarity.

When he thinks about it, he'd picked up swearing sometime after he moved back to the Plants, but he hadn't been stupid enough to do it in front of his parents. Now his mouth feels like paper, and he grabs a glass of water to guzzle.

"Such a fucking loser." he says aloud. His voice sounds so calm, it's almost a pity that nobody's around to hear him.

Otto doesn't respond, because its system is not activated to be interactive at a conversational level.

He has two bites before he decides he isn't so hungry any more. He wraps up the rest in foil, and stands to go back to the kitchen and put in the fridge.

"Do you need help?"

He watches the reflection of his own face in Otto's screen-eyes. He could wash the dishes himself, but he figures he should turn on the automaton more often, since he did pay quite a lot for the all-in-one functions."No, thanks. But could you please help wash the dishes?"

"Of course." Otto blinks electric blue, recognising the request to be an instruction, and moves off with a little whirr, and starts filling the sink in the kitchen.

Cagalli texts him before he can get it together. It's the code that they'd settled on before, for the time and place.

"Hi." This is the seventh time that they're doing this. He tries not to think too hard about it.

She smiles, a bit too easily. "Hi. Do you need anything?"

"Some water, maybe." He straightens up, and tucks his shoes to the side. She always seems to be barefooted in this house, now that there's nobody here but her. He's been here a few times already, but the place still looks very different from what he'd remembered when he was Alex.

An automaton rolls up, once she jabs something into a panel.

"Do you want it cold?"

"Yes, please."

He wants to ask how her day's been. It's rare that she has a weekday evening off, like this. Her hair is shorter than when they'd last met - a trim, maybe, and she looks quite drained. She's still in her work suit. He wonders if he should mention any of it.

But when he finishes his water, she gets up from that single stool, and crosses over to him. She takes the glass from him, even though he nearly stands from where he's seated, on her bed. She puts it on the bedside table, then turns and bends, pulls him up a little to press her mouth to his. His mouth is still cold from the ice cubes and chilled water, and he feels his lips grow warmer from hers. It isn't too different from the last few times that they've done this. She'd mostly controlled the pace before, like now.

He leans his palms back into the bed, while she strips. She does it quickly, untidily, leaving the trail of her formal wear. Then he does it too, folding the clothes and leaving it at the bedside. The marks that he saw the first few times have faded. He feels his gut twist, and has to look away from her, for a bit. He has no right to feel anything about those.

"Get in first?"

"Alright." He climbs in, drawing the curtain at the same time. She parts it and slips in, getting on and kneeling around him, and moves her body above his. Their nakedness isn't new, but he's still trying to process the moment, even now. Her eyes are watching him, and it's almost all of his effort to be present, there with him pressed against the headboard, his body beneath her like this.

She bends forward, pressing her hands into his chest. "You smell different."

"Do I?" His mouth is dry, even though he's had that water.

"This thing-," Cagalli sniffs a bit, cocking her head to the side. "Is that... um - coconut?"

"Oh." A laugh bubbles up. He doesn't bother fighting it down. "I bought some soap from Essential Orb. Randomly. I allowed myself to be convinced."

"I've seen that brand around. It smells good." she says, closing her eyes. Almost unconsciously, she leans down onto him a bit more, rubbing her cheek briefly against his neck. She nuzzles him, and he feels his cock twitch against the brush of her groin. "Kinda sweet. Creamy too. Not really like - like before. Hmm. I'm kinda into it."

"You can have the mango one." It's a weird thing to say, with her pinning him down, and when he doesn't have it with him.

"No, thanks. I don't need more random stuff at my place." Cagalli's eyes flutter open, and she quirks her mouth, sitting up, against his bent knees. She jabs a thumb behind her, presumably pointing out the bedroom and general estate.

"Smart."

She grins. "Save the mango one for yourself."

She really is very pretty, he thinks, a bit dumbly.

He thinks that again, later, when they're in the thick of it, and she's nowhere as put together as when he first stepped into the house. She's pretty even when her face is ruddy from exertion, messy and shining with sweat and oil. She's pretty - even when from some angles, she looks far too much like Kira.

It's strange that he didn't notice it, the first time they'd met. Even now, her eyes have the same shape, and even if her face is fuller, more heart-shaped than her twin's, it has that touch of obstinacy in the chin. There's actually a clear resemblance, the more that one looks. It's equally arousing and disturbing a thought, and he pushes it out of his mind by sinking his knuckles deeper and groping his free hand at a breast, then kneading at her rear, burrowing his fingers into her flesh. He's sure that he doesn't think of Kira that way - this scent, her ways, her softness, present even in her sometimes brusque ways - this is all her.

She bites her knuckles white, trembling when he scissors his fingers deeper in, and he thinks it's a pity that she can't see herself the way he sees her. He wants to see every shift and transition of her expression, her pupils blown open, even if he's near trembling from the pressure and his erection mostly being ignored. So he hooks his fingers a little more, slowly, watching her, trying to find whatever it is that will make her react. Today, she's bolder, looking at him, straight.

"Say something." she says, softly, shakily. Her eyes are still staring into his.

"Like what?" he whispers, suddenly afraid of his own voice.

"What are you thinking?"

Recklessly, he answers. "I should have done this then."

Her eyes flutter open, confused. "What?"

"When you were - when you were a captive. When we were shot down. I - you were bound." He feels his cheeks heat up and stills, but then the words are already out, and it's too late. He should have lied and avoided bringing up the past. He holds his touch, trying not to flinch.

"That's fucked up." She looks at him, a bit scandalised, like she hadn't once considered it, or since spread her thighs for him. "It's against the Galactic Treatise and convention on human rights."

"You know as clearly as I do that all those laws meant nothing when the Earth Alliance shot down a civilian Coordinator colony." This is taking a turn that he wasn't intending for, but he's still stiff."Didn't anyone tell you when you ran off to the resistance?"

"They did. Kisaka usually never let me do anything alone. But I wouldn't think you'd dare. Well, I mean, if you did, I'd have fought back."

"Is that why you tried to kill me?"

"That was basic self-defence. I didn't think that far. Would you have -" she pauses, obviously unnerved, suddenly revealing her former naïveté. "Have touched me?"

He considers it. "Not if you didn't want it. But maybe I wanted to. Did you think I would force you?"

She shrugs. "Not really. I would have fought you, if I didn't want it. I wasn't above trying to kill you. By the point we got talking, I thought you were kind. I just wanted to disarm you, because I thought it would win the argument." She laughs suddenly, ironically. "You sure know how get a woman going."

He flushes, indignant, but she smiles, and brings his hand back. "Maybe I wouldn't have minded it - if you'd asked that night. I'd have done you a favour, kissed you, maybe. I didn't think we'd meet again, anyway."

"That's fucked up." he mimics her, and she chuckles.

He rubs at her, just as slowly, but just a little harder, studying the blood of her cheeks. She holds her hands out, grappling for air, for something, anything. It's consuming her, as much as him.

Then little by little, he sees her fingers are clawing into the pillows, fingernails almost white. Her toes are curling now, and he palms her waist and presses her down more, encouraging to settle back on her haunches; to sit down and deeper. She pushes against him even as he brings his fingers back, prying and exposing every twitch of her mound. The beads of sweat trickling down her chest and stomach will meet his body, soon enough. He continues to stir at her openings, enjoying her whimper and shudder when he adds another digit. He could push and force now, but he far prefers that she's prepared to take him each and every way.

"What're you looking at?" her voice is a slur. She slides back a bit, watching him breathe heavily from the bit of space afforded.

"Your mouth." he says, with all the candour that he'd denied the psychotherapist. "Do you know it's about the same shade?"

"No." she hisses. She glows pink with embarrassment and maybe arousal. "How should I know?"

"I'm telling you." He reaches up, then hooks a finger to her mouth to confirm, and has to squeeze his inner thighs to keep from coming. "Should I stop?"

"No, no." Her mouth is drooling from the snare of his hand.

"No?"

"I'll take care of you after this." she promises breathily, to his challenge. "So don't stop."

He draws in a breath, then licks once to make her eyes crinkle. "How do you plan to?"

"Whatever you like." He likes that she says it impudently, even though she's begging. "Wherever you want it. I don't care. Just let me get off. Quick."

Maybe he's already learned her in so many ways. The peeking of her tongue between those pointed teeth, sweeping across her lips - the clenching of her fists; the tightening of her grip around his fingers.

"Do it yourself, too."

She fingers herself open quickly, and drops her head to meet his, warmth on her cheeks. He lifts fingers to touch her neck and chest, streaking five lines, a paragraph of her dampness on her flesh, encouraging her. His own body is moist with sweat too, and he can smell his arousal under other scents. They're alone, chambered in her bed, but his voice always sounds too loud to his own ears, especially when he's about to come.

When he begins to stroke and lick her clit as she fingers herself, the added stimulation makes her jut her hips out, a low sound escaping. She shifts side to side, playfully, and he welcomes it. But then it's too much for her, suddenly.

"Stop, quick," she says, and he lets up.

When she adjusts and pushes him down again, back into the sheets, her sees how wild her eyes are. She guides him with both his hands massaging, gripping apart her rear, her thighs twitching until she can fold her legs about him, slowly easing, his body thrumming in hers. When he shoves his hips up, meeting her, his jaw clenched, her mouth parts into that little cave, a silent exclamation at the new intrusion. Then she rolls her hips, a wave of muscle and flesh, arms braced back on his thighs, dropping herself back into him. It's fervid, gravitates all his focus into that joining of their bodies, devouring him. He likes that she knows how to get him out of his head, pushing him into the moment like he only exists for her use and some kind of mindless, base sensation and ending. Right now he doesn't want to think or know of anything else, save the feeling of her gash.

"Harder," she says. "Come on, harder."

The grip on his hips tightens, her fingers pressing into his hipbones almost painfully. She twists out a choked sound and then touches herself. It's so good, like this. Maybe like him, she can't think straight.

Then she hisses and comes, voice harsh, abdomen and pelvis spasming, and there's new wetness that he can feel, just where they've fused. He thumbs at her face, strokes over her now to comfort, soothe. He can't turn away.

"You look beautiful," he says.

Before she can say something dismissive, Athrun pushes up and flips their positions, her back heavy on her bed. She gives a little cry, startled. He doesn't care suddenly, about what her reaction could be. She needs him more than he needs her. He can prove it, this time. He moves fast, because he's been holding back for far too long. He pulls out, kneeling high over her, then holds and jerks himself wet, until he comes all over, with a small groan that he allows himself, ropey and saline on her skin.

Cagalli doesn't move, mostly out of surprise and inertia from her orgasm. She breathes heavily, mouth open and golden eyes wide, watching him.

"What the fuck, Athrun—"

He brings his head down, licking the come from her breasts and belly. Not inside, not today. He needs to see it, the traces of whatever she might try to erase of them. He runs his tongue up, not thinking, not even fully grasping what he's doing, and even though she gasps, she doesn't really bother to stop him. He drags across and cleans her stomach, tasting himself and her, then moves to her chest, stops to mouth hard at her left bud, then prints his teeth at the delicate, almost translucent underskin and side. Maybe it'll leave a mark today. She tenses, but then she puts her mouth into his hair and she brings him by his chin to the right, and lets him mark his symmetry. Each nip he gives to the sensitive points is punctuated by her little shudders. Once he's finished, he kisses her hard, tongue moving against hers, for her to taste. She doesn't try to break the kiss. He wants her to feel him, maybe remember him.

Maybe he'd been too greedy and hypocritical by telling her that night that they would always be friends, expecting them both to behave like they could set the rest of their history aside. He'd asked them to do the impossible, when he'd never stopped loving and wanting her in the first place. Maybe she'll understand. He knows it's almost time for dinner - if she'll let him stay.

He rolls off her, resting on his back, and they're both panting, lying there. Slowly, he shifts to his side, wondering how to broach it.

She turns onto hers, looking at him straight.

"Same time, next week?" Cagalli says.

He goes to play basketball with Yohei and two members of team fifteen after work. He shoots a few hoops and misses a lot. He manages to mess up a few openings that his team creates.

"I dunno why I thought you'd be really good at this." Tarek says, and punches Athrun on the shoulder. It's not light enough for Athrun not to flinch. Tarek is a good sort, but he's definitely a bit more comfortable with contact than Athrun is.

"I dunno why I thought I'd be really good at this too." Athrun tells him, straight-faced.

Jacqie comes over, laughing her scratchy laugh, the ball tucked under her arm, her hair somehow even messier than if she had been wearing her usual pilot helmet.

She dances a bit, on the spot. "It's basketball, Tarek, not piloting and guns and knives and baking."

"Yeah, Athrun can't possibly be an ace at everything." Yohei jokes.

"Now that I've seen him play basketball for myself, I believe that." Tarek says. "Also, could you bring more of that pie? I love spinach, and it's so nice, freshly-baked."

"Sure." He neglects to tell them that the foil-wrapped pastry that he'd brought was the leftover.

Yohei stretches. "Switch teams? Mix it up a little?"

"Don't be stupid." Jacqie says, beginning to dribble. "We want to keep winning, you know."

"Can you meet me now?"

He sees it twenty minutes later, when he's done with his shower.

It's not what he'd expected in the least. He wishes that he'd put more things into his apartment, to make it look less vacant. Maybe some flowers, or something. The house plants don't seem to be enough now. Strangely, he thinks about the mango soap on the sink, its shape nebulous with use.

He can't quell his curiosity. "Any reason why you wanted to do it here, today?"

She sighs, eyes still closed, legs curled into her chest with his sofa cushion under her head. There's a small rip in the left of her stockings, but she doesn't seem to have noticed. "It was nearer from where I was. Actually, I was gonna head back to Olofat, but then I figured you might be back from work. I just wanted to rest, a bit. Sorry - I know I've caused you trouble."

"Not really. You can stay for as long as you like." He scratches his head, unsure of what to do with his hands. "Well, as long as you're allowed to."

"Agh, they can bugger off. I'm not taking any more calls today." Cagalli sits up, throwing the cushion at him to catch. Her eyes sparkle, and she's mischievious suddenly. "Don't think anyone saw me sneaking in here, I hope? I know you have people living in this compound."

"No, I think it's fine."

The one nice thing about this compound's design is that the lifts don't stop on every floor for common corridors for different people to get in. The lift passage is built through each apartment. It's one unit per floor, with little to no neighbour-interaction, and it's perfect for avoiding questions. She'd just used the guest lift, and he's almost positive that nobody recognised her in her civilian clothes, in a context so removed from her usual situation.

She yawns a little, stretching out her legs, not bothering to pick up her fallen jacket. "Thanks. Thanks for letting me interrupt your evening."

"I don't mind you coming here, next time." Athrun tells her, and he sits down on the sofa too. "Whatever's easier for you."

She stills, and studies him. He looks at her. He can hear the clock ticking. Otto is vacuuming in the kitchen. Her eyes are inquisitive, wondering.

"How was work today?" Cagalli asks. Her voice is very cautious.

"Fine." He curses himself for his instinctive, machine-like response. Maybe she'll cut to it now, and they'll go to bed without him being able to ask her the same.

But then they're not at her place. She's curious about this place and his being in it, he suddenly realises. Her gaze has become childlike, inquisitive.

"Really?" She moves a little bit closer, peering into his face like she can read everything, and he can't help but smile. Her eyes are nicer than that sugary woman's in the advertisement - far nicer. She touches his arm softly, and she doesn't seem to mind his closeness like this, not just yet.

He takes a deep breath. She smells of coconut, today. "Alright, I lied. It was a pain in the arse."

Cagalli really shouldn't, but she pries for information; pries him open like a clam by some rock with the knife of her questions and her gaze. When she asks, he tells her what he thinks and feels. Maybe she can't help it - she always was too caring for her own good. It doesn't help that he's always found her strangely easy to speak with either.

He doesn't think that anything he's doing has to necessarily be interesting to anyone, but she has this way of listening and easing the conversation along. It makes him ache, because it's so much like what he remembers, and so much of what he wants. Without him having to explain too much, she understands so much of it - their backgrounds with the war are similar enough for him to not have to provide exposition on the suits that he's currently piloting. He can cut straight to expressing the frustrations that he experiences. It's different from what they were, even before the Second War blew everything into a mess. It's like they've gone so far beyond all of that, and they're trying to catch up with each other now.

When he asks, she tells him about her day too. It's actually a choice that he makes, even though he sometimes feels like it isn't. Maybe he really shouldn't do it. But he does.

When a whole hour of his block leave has passed with them wheeling the cart back and forth the aisles in a most inefficient manner, Athrun finally decides to object.

But since it's Kira, and since they've fought over far worse things, Athrun abandons saying anything more than, "Maybe take the straw mushrooms?"

"Yes, maybe. She likes those." Kira mumbles, studying the list of Lacus' neatly-written instructions. Again, Athrun wonders how long more they'll have to spend before they find detergent, fish, fruits, and shampoo. Even the bouncing haro seems perturbed by their indecisiveness and blinks once, making the projected list tremble for a second.

Then again, when there are twelve different brands of detergent and at least thirty types from powder to liquid to pastes, it doesn't even matter that they're supposed to be the most evolved of the human species, or that Kira is the so-called ultimate Coordinator of the Coordinators. For all of their combined genetic engineering, enhanced physical and mental abilities, they've been stuck at the tinned vegetable shelf for the last ten minutes.

"Maybe you should call Lacus and ask?" Athrun suggests. He looks at the rest of the list, counting down the generic-items that Lacus had requested.

"No, she's probably busy with Leon." Kira scratches his head, making his hair messier than before. "The other day, she got annoyed when I interrupted her call. Hmm, she just wrote 'mushrooms', so maybe I'll get two different types. I like button mushrooms too. Or maybe she meant the enoki ones? Maybe all three types?"

Maybe they've said "maybe" about twenty-three times since he arrived at Kira and Lacus' place earlier this afternoon. The supermarket is getting more crowded now, and people and automatons are so busy grabbing their groceries that they don't even look at anything or anyone else twice.

"I think the straw mushrooms and enoki mushrooms." Kira says. "Or maybe the enoki mushrooms and the button mushrooms... maybe."

Maybe, Athrun thinks, he should start queuing to pay first. Outside piloting giant machines, programming computer systems, and ending galactic wars, Kira isn't particularly efficient. But that's not a sentiment that Athrun was raised to arrive at, and so he tries not to sound too accusing. "Couldn't you have sent the automaton?"

"Sure." Kira tells him. "But Lacus asked for other vegetables and fruit. Automatons aren't good at picking fresh produce. They can only apply the price and performance algorithms."

"That is true." Athrun glances back and sees the few humans in the aisles poking at the fruits and vegetables. Maybe he's been too lazy getting his automaton to do the shopping.

Kira spots something and potters off, and Athrun hurries after him.

"I also figured that she might have wanted us out of her hair for a bit. Otherwise, she wouldn't have written such a long list without being more specific about what she wanted, or suggested that you go with me."

Kira raises two cartons of strawberries to him, completely oblivious to Athrun's surprise. "Which do you think looks better?"

"Er - that one."

"Thanks." Kira starts ambling off again, the cart's sensor blinking at his back, and wheeling after him.

The haro bounces along, singing some obnoxious nonsense that Athrun truly regrets ever programming. He makes a mental note to speak with Lacus about decommissioning that part of the program.

The one useful thing about the haro and its incessant bouncing is its sensor and ability to block the most unnatural, sudden movements - to take a bullet, if need be. And it's thanks to Kira's modifications, of course. Not that anyone would likely have managed to bring in an unauthorised gun into the Plants so easily. But then again-

The thought swims in his mind for a few minutes, and Athrun tries to distract himself.

"You coming along?" Kira says, now somewhere near the tomatoes. The haro is still bouncing around him, and a dog tied to a lamp post is staring at it longingly through the side-door's glass. Kira squats to wave at the over-excited dog, and with a cheek that Athrun never thought his friend was capable of, Kira grins. "We should hurry now."

"We're lucky that Cagalli isn't around for this." Athrun says, without thinking, and then immediately regrets it.

Fortunately, Kira's too distracted with choosing potatoes in a way that his twin will probably never experience.

"Yes, she's an impatient sort. If she were here, she would have lost her temper with me already. Anyway, she's too busy. She was supposed to call last week, but she got bogged down with things, as usual."

Kira's as experienced - if not more - he'd confided briefly about that girlfriend he carried on with before Lacus - and he's not completely oblivious, even if he's often a bit lost. Athrun guesses that Kira's aware of some level of intimacy that happened with Cagalli, but that was before the Second War had really started. If he can help it, Athrun wants to avoid Kira trying to kill him all over again.

Quite happily, Kira turns to him. "Do you want to choose the grapes?"

He omits details about his latest nightmares, and Dr. Morino submits a report saying that he's had marked improvement. It's for the best, since Athrun can't and doesn't say that Cagalli had woken him from a nap that had morphed into a nightmare, and that she let him stay the night.

That weekend, they didn't leave her house. They hadn't discussed anything much - she understood that he hadn't wanted to.

Looking at the books, drink, and water mark that she's left on the table, with her shoes flung in different corners, Athrun is quite sure that he doesn't place her too high on any pedestal.

"Could you please not leave your stuff all over the place?"

"What now?" She glances up from where she's folded against the couch, flicking through another of his books. The side of her head that's pressed against the sofa is rumpled, her hair sticking up in a strange direction. "Oh. Can I shower first? I'll clean up later."

"Just make sure you do."

"Geez, don't get so prickly. What's the point of having a state-of-the-art automaton?" She slides off the couch and moves off to sit on the floor momentarily, then pulls herself up. "Also, when you make messes when we have sex, I don't see you getting too bothered by it. You come everywhere, you're lucky that I actually like it - and that we've extra sheets too."

"That's different. It's a bad habit to leave your stuff around." he calls, after her retreating back. His hair is still wet, and he towels it more. Maybe he should have pulled her into the bath too, to distract him from the mess around his place.

He admits it, by the seventeenth session, and the final comprehension makes him cry those strange, silent tears that he didn't think he possessed anymore.

The trauma wasn't seeing so many of his friends die because of him, or while fighting in mobile suits, or even the experience of his own father try to shoot him. The trigger wasn't the gunshot or the firing of rounds. It was having Mia, a person he didn't love but could have protected, die in his arms.

In his dreams, he's reminded of it - more and more clearly, each time it recurs. In his reality, he's not sure that he can protect the person whom he loves either.

When they're curled on the couch, now that she's back from Berlin, they watch a documentary about the ancient natives of Orb and their descendants. They're a good forty-five minutes in, when he asks, "Why don't you have an accent?"

Cagalli's busy watching, and barely looks up. She's chewing the cherry crumble into her mouth, and he has to repeat his question. "What?"

"The way they speak - the sing-song thing - is it a lilt? Like - like if you say -", Athrun tries to imitate it, and she bursts out chortling at his attempt.

"Something like that." He's flustered. He feels himself cringe, which is ridiculous.

"You sound ridiculous." she says, even though she's the one with the crumbs on the side of her mouth. "You're too cute."

He narrows his eyes at her. "You laugh at me, but do you even understand the dialect?"

Cagalli looks as pleased as he's ever seen her, rolling to sit up and tapping her feet merrily on the floor. "Sure, Kisaka taught me - he's from that blood, and his grandparents taught him all that. Actually, I don't think my tutors were pleased that Kisaka taught me the Yalafath dialect - it messed with my intonation of Galactic tongue for a while. The Yalafath dialect isn't considered proper, you know." She proceeds to blabber, pointing to the things around them.

"But you have no accent." Athrun accuses. He's never thought about it before, but now it occurs to him that some of his colleagues speak a little like the descendants of the aboriginal-descendents of Yalafath. Jun, Syra, and Mika are from there, but Thierry and Yohei are from Olofat.

Her eyes crinkle and she shifts again to face him. She impatiently pushes the hair from her eyes, pulling back the hoodie that she'd slung on. "Trust me, my tutors nagged at how I pronounced anything in standard Galactic tongue for more than ten years of my life. Have you noticed how specific the average emir's pronunciation is? But it's not a big deal, code-switching. And nothing's changed till this day." She shrugs, almost proudly. "And what's with your latest obsession?"

"We don't have dialects in the Plants." Athrun tells her. "Everyone mostly sounds like everyone."

"Yes, well, only some Earth territories have these obsolete things. Apparently, there used to be more than a hundred languages, apart from dialects. There were different systems of writing and grammar and all. Come to think of it, it must have been really complicated. I don't know how people from different places understood each other before Galactic tongue was the standard."

"Translators, I suppose."

Cagalli huffs the strands of hair out of her eyes again. "Yes, but how inefficient! These days, everyone can speak the same language. Everyone understands each other."

It wasn't something that anyone around him ever really said. It wasn't a thing, to say more than "take care", or "how are you?" It was mostly implied, and he was fine with that. He's fine with that, even now. He was never taught how to say it openly.

Now, he probably won't have the chance to.

"I'll always love you - more than you can let me." he tells her, when she's asleep. "You don't want me to. But I do. And that's okay."

A/N: It's been a while. I'd love to hear from you.