Aurora Borealis
Not Friends, Exactly
Athrun isn't sure he believes in love.
In a reality where they live in space and kill to avenge murder, can there really be something that bright and uncomplicated?
There's the protectiveness and care of family, but that's mostly due to genes, instincts. Even so, what he shared with his mother felt like something infinitely precious, but it didn't protect her and she's dead and gone from him now. His father… hasn't really been his father since that happened. Athrun lost his family February 14th when Mrs. Zala left for whatever might lie behind and Mr. Zala left for the Council.
"In love" is not as great as people make it out to be. It's a concept of flowers and blushes and girls, and his engagement to Lacus Clyne has taught him that all of that leave him absolutely cold. It could be worse – she's a sweet girl, for which he is grateful, so he tries. He gives her Haro and takes her out to dinner and sometimes he holds her hand. It feels awkward, and when he visits her it's always much easier to make polite conversation with her father than with her.
Some people bring out respect and admiration. Commander Le Klueze is one of them, and so is Mr. Clyne. That's easy to handle.
He doesn't really have any friends, these days. Rusty was an all right roommate, he supposes, but they never had time to get to know each other before he was killed. The only one here he could possibly consider as anything more than a reluctant comrade is Nicol. That, too, is…less than it could be. That's fine with him.
Next there's attraction. In Athrun's mind, desire is a tall man who attended one of his father's party-like gatherings once when Athrun was home on a break. D-something, he thinks he was called. The name isn't that important; what he remembers is the amused amber eyes making his limbs hot and heavy like molten lead, the sure, suave stride that has Athrun backing before he knows it. Three steps and he has his back against the wall, the stranger with the long black curls standing less than a foot away. Athrun's mouth is dry and his breathing labored and he can't decide whether the distance between them is uncomfortable because it's too small or too large. Before he can be sure the man chuckles, leans down, and Athrun feels himself drowning in the onslaught of emotion brought about by the deep, sultry kiss. When the other gives him an amused look and departs without a word Athrun's lips are tingling and his heart's still hammering.
That's when he realizes that his engagement to Lacus Clyne might be something of a mistake in other aspects than personality. He hasn't said anything about it, though, for he's pretty sure he could get it up with a girl too, if he tried, and he'll only need to do it enough times to get an heir.
That's what his father wants, and it's a long time since Athrun protested any of Mr. Zala's decisions. Last time was probably when he spent a summer with Kira and his natural parents instead of coming home. These days he has no reason to, because Kira's not here, and how could Athrun be on any side other than the one opposing his mother's murderers? When his old friend isn't concerned, Athrun is a calm nature, sensible and collected. He smiles a little as he remembers Le Klueze's surprise that he'd launch against orders in Heliopolis; he himself and Kira are probably the only two who wouldn't consider it out of character.
The smile is short-lived, vanishes to leave room for a pained expression. Seeing how important and special Kira is, there's no wonder Athrun's more passionate in connection to him, as if brought to life more strongly, intensely.
Kira is his best friends.
The words a bittersweet and taste a little off, as though they're close enough to the truth to be mistaken for it but not quite the correct phrase. True, he has wondered, after the incident with the attractive stranger, whether it's quite normal for two friends to sleep in the same bed more often than not, and any mere friendship, any regular friendship, would be destroyed by now. But no amount of anger and frustration and corpses can change the fact that Kira is the most significant, most treasured person in Athrun's world, and that's something of a frightening concept. Rather, the way the idea sooths him is frightening.
But there are a lot of frightening things around, and right now he needs to sooth – not himself, but the one for whom he is afraid, the oblivious boy in the hospital bed whose hand he's holding.
He has no idea, really, how Kira suddenly went from fighting against him with the legged ship to lying here, tucked into bed and seemingly peaceful, olive fingers weakly returning Athrun's grip. He was packing in his room when the voice of the radio frequency announced that Yzak had fetched someone for him, an unidentified boy with brown hair. Next minute he's dashing madly towards the correct corridor, telling himself that it can't be, of course it can't, and then it is.
Thank god Kira's injuries are comparatively light, since with the damn holiday the ship's infirmary is practically deserted. Athrun's desperate yells yield only one doctor and two inexperienced nurses, but with his help it seems to be enough. Now his friend is sleeping rather than blacked out, having been half-awake for a few seconds a time already. The doctor says that's a very good sign, and the broken leg is the only wound that's estimated to take more than about ten days to heal.
Now he waits anxiously for Kira to wake up. Anxiously in two ways, since he's both afraid that Kira won't wake up at all, no matter what reassurances he's been fed, and worried about what will happen when he does. They haven't exactly gotten along perfectly the last times they've spoken, and Athrun can't bear to have Kira this close without having his heart.
Now, sitting on his friend's beside and keeping watch over him, Athrun suddenly realizes that he is very sure. "Believes" isn't the right word at all.
xxxxx
Yzak stands with his back almost painfully straight, dutifully though a tad impatiently awaiting the Commander's questions. As expected, Yzak barely had time to collect his newly-won money from Dearka before Le Klueze arrived and, after a moment's consideration, decided to hear Yzak's report before heading over to Athrun and the stranger in the infirmary.
"So, Yzak," he says at length, "I understand you were at the VC411 satellite as per the captain's request."
"That's correct," Yzak agrees. "There's no doubt that a not insignificant battle took place in its immediate vicinity very recently. At least ten GINNs have crashed. However, the only survivor was a boy – semiconscious at best though with only light injuries. Civilian clothing, save the cracked helmet, no identification. I deemed it best to bring him along since the few utterances he made established that he was on quite familiar terms with Athrun."
"Oh?" Le Klueze muses. Yzak doesn't like not being able to see his face. "What exactly did he say? And how did Athrun react to his sudden appearance?"
Yzak feels a faint grimace mar his face as he quotes, "'Athrun, please. Please, Athrun, I love you.' As for Athrun, he was visibly shaken. He called him Kira and seemed extremely worried."
Dearka, who's been standing quiet behind Yzak up until now, gives an incredulous sound.
"Indeed…" is their commander's only comment for a long minute. "Well, I need to make some calls. You two enjoy the holiday. I believe things will be rather quiet for a while, so you might extend your leave until Sunday."
"Sir?" Yzak asks. It's only Thursday, and being a ZAFT pilot doesn't exactly give you lots of free time. Especially not now. "But the Archangel…!"
Le Klueze gives a smile below the mask. "I'm sure they won't bother us. Without the boy they can't handle the G-unit, and without that…"
Shock hits Yzak like a knee in the stomach. He can't breath, doesn't register what Le Klueze says before exiting, doesn't notice Dearka moving until the other boy is standing right in front of him, hands clasping Yzak's upper arms, calling his name.
Yzak thinks he should demand the other let go off him, but he doesn't really want him to, so he says nothing.
Quietly he turns and heads towards the infirmary, Dearka following.
"Oi! Yzak! What are you going to –"
"Not sure," he replies, doesn't stop as Dearka catches his elbow and hangs on to it. He's angry, but not as much as he'd expected to be upon having saved the infuriating idiot who's thwarted him for so long. He's angry that Athrun has fought against his friend, but, weirdly, he isn't exactly angry with Athrun.
In a matter of minutes they've arrived, and Yzak pushes open the appropriate door to find the boy called Kira tucked into bed, coverlets drawn up over his chest and a number of needles protruding from his thin arms. Athrun, hated, haughty Athrun, has both his hands tightly wrapped around the other's left one and a facial expression speaking of worry so intense it almost drowns out the anticipation and anxiety and care also etched on his features.
"So this is the Strike's pilot?" Yzak says, voice coming clear and hash through the uncomfortable confusion inside him. He's really angry now, angry that he's so grateful for Dearka's presence just behind his shoulder. "This is the traitor?"
Betrayer of PLANT and betrayer of friendship, and even so able to escape defeat at Yzak's hands with a distrubing frequency. It's like he's boiling up inside, but unlike usual the feeling is cold.
It's only now that Athrun turns, and it's obvious that his attention remains fixed on the enemy pilot. Bastard doesn't think Yzak's worthy of his interest, huh?
That doesn't seem as significant as it should but is still more than enough to fuel his rage.
"Yzak," Athrun acknowledges. "Dearka."
"Just came by to check on lover boy here," Dearka says, in a way so the words can be interpreted as either a friendly tease or a snide insult. He turns a little, and Yzak belatedly realizes that Nicol has appeared, is standing in closer proximity than he normally would to the dark-skinned blonde, peering into the hospital room. "I'm not talking about you, Nicol," Dearka continues. "Though I suppose you might still be hoping."
"Shut up," Yzak sneers at his friend; there's no time or energy to waste on the pathetic green-haired kid when the Archangel's champion is finally within reach. Stealthy and graceful, still uncertain as to what he aims to accomplish, he advances into the room, is just two or three meters from the edge of the bed when Athrun's full focus finally snaps onto him. Even in battle Yzak has never seen those green eyes so utterly cold with rage.
"If you touch him," Athrun grits out, "if you hurt so much as a hair on his head, I swear I'll kill you."
Athrun has killed numerous people; soldiers do that during war. The difference now, Yzak vaguely reflects, would be that where the blue-haired boy is normally calm and detached, he'd want to hurt and destroy anyone laying hand on the boy in the bed, would take their lives in the same fashion Yzak slaughters whatever gets in his way.
All the while Yzak's on autopilot, ranting and gesturing, but his heart isn't in it. His adversary isn't the comrade he once roughly pushed up against the wall, isn't the person who's been fighting his very close friend, but the someone who's gotten his most precious person back and is not about to let anyone take him away again. Perhaps Athrun is not his enemy at all.
Nicol makes a soft, choked sound behind him, and Dearka's hand closes once more around his arm.
"As much as I'd normally appreciate a good cat-fight," Dearka says in his usual honeyed, sarcasm-laden voice, "we're going to be late if we don't leave now, and as you know my aunt will be much scarier than a battalion of enemy mobile suits if we keep her waiting when she's so generously offered to pick us up. Yzak."
Yzak gives an almost imperceptible nod and allows his friend to tug him away.
xxxxx
Nicol is acutely aware that his face is flushed, his mouth still in the shape of an "o". This last he remedies by biting his bottom lip, but he can't seem to control his blushing. He must be bright red, the way heat pours through the blood being pumped just below the skin providing such inadequate shelter. His heart feels like it has slowed down almost to the point of stopping, but that can't be true since burning redness blazes from his collarbones to his hairline. Strangely, he feels enveloped by a pale chill underneath this blushed surface, like a corpse brushed with paint.
He shouldn't be angrily, weep-readily flushing because of a few unimportant words from Dearka.
He shouldn't be hotly, regretfully blushing because of a scene that is not actually intimate.
He shouldn't be white with dread and despair and hopeless jealousy over same.
He isn't. Of course he isn't. Dearka has said nastier things than that, though less hurtful because they're further from the mark; Nicol knows he isn't a coward, and while the insults sting he has learned to disregard them, for the most part, or at the very least to refuse their doing any serious or long-term damage.
And if this boy, this thick chocolate-colored hair and strained face and delicate hand held so feverishly in Athrun's, if this boy is indeed the Strike's pilot and Nicol's friend's… what, more exactly?
His face is still hot as his mind skimmers over the word friend, hesitates forward to lover and finally in uncertainty backs down to and settles for important person. He feels his blush intensify even more as a tad of anger gradually works its way into his embarrassment though he refuses to acknowledge any hostile emotion, reminds himself that he has no reason whatsoever to be even the slightest bit mad. Nicol is happy that the Coordinator boy called Kira has abandoned, however involuntarily, his incomprehensible siding with the wrong side and returned to Athrun, to where he obviously belongs.
The worst part is that he actually is happy, cares enough for Athrun to realize that he loves Kira and be glad for him.
It's a bit… scary, almost… to see Athrun this way – the all-encompassing focus, the passionate intensity dominating the room so completely. Of course Nicol has always known that the other boy held a lot of things in, that the controlled demeanor served to obscure all kinds of emotions and brutal strengths; he knows very well that it's not Athrun's father's name that earns the blue-haired youngster perfect scores at everything, classes and battles and whatnot that Nicol has to struggle to pass as the dregs of the elite.
Athrun is the best of the best, and it sort of frightens Nicol how much he has wanted to see it.
There's a sick feeling in his stomach, though, that it's all because of the traitor boy. Nicol will probably never call him that, and not only because he knows Athrun would smash his face in if he ever did, but still…
He takes the hint to leave, however, when the stranger stirs and Athrun turns from giving Nicol an absent, friendly nod to bend over Kira, fingers stroking the half-asleep boy's face, voice murmuring quiet but eager reassurances.
The transport Nicol intended to make use of has already left, and the next one won't depart for another hour or so. Instead he leaves the ship for a restaurant whose owner he knows, where he's welcome to take the seat in front of the piano.The instrument isn't very well made or even adequately tuned, but he caresses its keys with gratitude regardless, finally able to pour out enough emotion to be able to start relaxing a little.
He harbors a lot of emotion for Athrun, but that is probably natural when they're fighting together like this and the green-eyed boy is so great at everything and the only one who's kind to him. It's a bit like he might think of an older brother.
He plays and plays until the snide voice in the back of his mind stops making snide remarks about incest.
xxxxxxxxxx