Aurora Borealis

Awake?

Soft darkness envelopes him, cradling him protectively. He's not sure he wants to leave it, like a child might hesitate to part from its mother's arms even thought it knows itself capable of walking, but it doesn't seem like the tendrils of light breaking through intend to leave him much choice.

Voices, several of them, all young and male – one of them quite familiar. Beloved.

It's not just the voice, either, but a touch growing steadily more solid as he surges towards consciousness. A moment he's afraid, so terribly afraid, that he'll lose these distant but so wonderful feelings upon awakening, that they'll fade like the dream he fears them to be.

But that same voice is guiding him ever faster towards reality, growing only stronger, and finally consciousness has fully asserted itself. He keeps his eyes closed yet, hardly daring to breath as he revels in the very real sensation of a slender, callused hand wrapped around his own, soft fingers tracing his face, the warmth of a body washing over him through the coverlet; the so-missed voice still calling to him.

"Kira. It's me. But you know that, right? I promise you, it'll be okay for you to wake up. I'll make it okay. Kira, please, wake up, all right?"

He opens his eyes at that; how could he not?

What greets him is an image taken straight from his dreams – a perfect, smiling, living Athrun so close and so real that Kira can throw his arms around his neck in a strangling embrace without him disappearing. He cries helplessly into the juncture of the blue-haired Coordinator's neck, overwhelmed by the familiar scent inadequately hidden by the sterile smell of… is it a hospital?

The hypothesis seems to fit, not only with the whiteness of the lights and the raw-soft cotton of the sheets around him but also with the several needles embedded in his arms; he notices the slight ache of them when he stretches his limbs to reach all the way around Athrun's warm, real shoulders. They're so slender they border on bony, just like his own, but easily support his arms, which feel to Kira like they weight about a hundred pounds each.

Those IVs indicate quite clearly that something's wrong here, even with Athrun wrapped around him like a comfort blanket and a thousand treasured memories burning through every fiber of his being, but Kira doesn't want to deal, especially not now – he's not sick anymore, but weak and less than entirely lucid. Furthermore, he's woken up hurt in some way or other to escape into and be healed in the loveable sensations now surrounding him countless times before – the soft blue hair of Athrun's neck tickling his palm, and under his cheek the well-worn black-and-violet pajamas that his friend got from his mother and used for years, until they were so smooth they were almost transparent and smelled the same as Athrun's skin. Kira remembers the other leaving them for him to borrow while he went to visit his parents over the weekend once.

"Kira?" The voice is a little different than before, a little deeper and huskier than the infinitely sweet one he remembers. It's still very much Athrun's, however, and chases a heated shudder through his frame. He should gauge the situation, should think and worry, but there's too much emotion, too much elevation and confusion and mad hope to leave any room for that. Which might be just as well, since if he were fully rational he probably wouldn't dare lean up and press a kiss on Athrun's startled mouth, and he very badly wants to.

He's right back in the dreams now, the other taking his entire weight as they kiss frantically. Kira gives a soft whine when his limbs won't cooperate properly, don't have the strength to pull Athrun closer, but he doesn't have to, not when his friend does the pulling for him, holding him so tightly that Kira can't properly decide where one body ends and the other begins. All's right with a world in which Athrun kisses him. At least it is until a low, insistent and obviously faked cough comes from the doorway, pulling Athrun's lips from his own.

Kira's face is hot with color, and Athrun's cheeks too are stained with red, but he isn't certain whether it's a flush brought about by the languid excitement of their kissing or a blush caused by the elegant blond stranger regarding them with what Kira would assume to be a bemused expression. The frozen silvery mask makes it impossible to be certain, and it should creep him out but it doesn't. Perhaps that is because there are so many more tangible things to cause anxiety, such as the white ZAFT commander's uniform below that odd face-covering garment. It might also be because of Athrun's calming presence, the warm grip still strong and steady around him. It dawns on him first now how desperately he has missed it, how large the emptiness inside him that the war filled with pain and horror was.

To drown in that is impossible now, though, something he does no longer have the leisure to allow himself. The return of reality hurts, the loss of his dream, but though one of Athrun's hands might be keeping its reassuring grip around his, the other is used to salute the new arrival. His friend is still sitting on the bed, curled up with him, not attempting to move, but the expensive civilian clothes aren't the jammies that he probably wouldn't even fit in anymore, which were given to him by his mother, who died at Junius Seven.

A small tremor rakes through Kira's suddenly exhausted body. There aren't really any good reasons for war, but the fact that your mother was senselessly murdered is probably as close to one as you can get. Leonore Zala was a kind woman, even to him with his natural parents whom most of other elite Coordinators, like Athrun's father, scorned. He remembers blue hair shorter than her son's, perfume that smelled like daffodils and how she hummed softly on old songs until he and Athrun both fell asleep that one evening when she gave them a ride back to school.

"Commander Le Klueze."

Only Athrun could possibly stay so calm while facing his battle commander with his arms tight around the enemy. Impressive as his impersonation of serenity is, though, Kira is close enough to be aware that the tension in their hold around each other doesn't originate solely from himself.

"Athrun," the blond replies, to Kira's muddled surprise without any animosity or agitation; apparently the man feels nothing but compassionate amusement for the scene they present. "And young mister Yamato, I presume?"

"Yes," Kira says, stealing a quick glance at Athrun's face.

The other's gaze doesn't shift from Le Klueze, but apparently he's conscious of the unspoken question directed at him. "I told him," he informs, "right after Heliopolis, that you were a Coordinator and an old friend of mine. I wanted you here, not shot down."

"Well, I want nothing to do with ZAFT," Kira declares. He was going to say, I don't want to be here, but swallowed the words since he can't lie to Athrun. "Nothing to do with the war at all."

"Kira, don't be stupid…!"

"Though I dislike being as crude as Zala-kun, I too fail to realize how you can consider yourself uninvolved. Regardless of motivation, fact remains that you have not only accessed military secrets but also participated in numerous battles, during which you have killed several of our men."

"It's not like… But I just…!" He's angry that he feels the need to defend himself; it's not like he doesn't know what he's done, not like he's had a choice. It's more reassuring than it has any right to be that Athrun doesn't shun away, now that the knowledge hangs heavily in the air that Kira has murdered his comrades, like his mother has already been killed.

"You are Kira Yamato, pilot of Strike Gundam, are you not?"

He bites his lip when he nods, then forces himself to acknowledge it aloud. He can't deny that, and through it he can't deny any of the other things the man has said either. "It's not like I want to fight," he says, miserable and so tired it hurts, but angry too, oh so angry. "And it wouldn't have had to be like that, if you hadn't destroyed Heliopolis, hadn't pursued us. Do you know how many innocent people died? Orb is neutral!"

"Nobody ever wants to," Athrun breathes in his ear. No need to state the expected fact, Not half as many as on Junius Seven. Kira has a hard time figuring out how there can be wars if no one wants to fight them, but his friend has never lied to him before. And it's not like he wants to, or like Athrun could wish to. Actually, he even thinks he remembers Mu La Flaga saying something similar, back in the beginning on the Archangel. His mind is sort of fuzzy – again or still, he's not sure. Maybe he's still a bit ill after all. Provided that he's in a Coordinator infirmary he should be cured by now, but then again, maybe they don't treat enemies.

"What's going to happen to me?" he asks, vision tunneling in and out. "How'd I get here? What about the Archangel?"

"First of all," says the blond man… Le Klueze, the one who must be behind most of the attacks they've faced, yet evidently a person whom Athrun respects, "I would suggest you receive some additional medicine to completely defeat that nasty virus. The syringe is on the table to your left, Athrun."

Kira feels himself slump so heavily that Athrun has to lay him down against the rumpled pillows before reaching for the item. He stops in mid-motion at Le Klueze's next words.

"However," the commander says pleasantly, "I should inform you that while the liquid will indeed cure your illness, it will also temporarily lower your capabilities."

"What does that mean?" Athrun snaps with more emotion that Kira would readily show Captain Ramius or Ensign Badguriel.

"Athrun," the blond admonishes lightly, and the blue-haired boy obediently bows his head in apology, but the demanding stare does not waver. "In short, it is a potion that will leave its taker with the abilities of a natural, gradually wearing off for about a fortnight. Provided, of course, that the taker is a Coordinator. A natural would hardly be able to function during the first days."

Kira would laugh at that, if he hadn't been so stunned. The distinction hasn't ever seemed that important to him, never been essential to his self-image. During his childhood it never came up because everyone knew he was a Coordinator; in Orb he wasn't supposed to talk about it but let people assume he was a natural. Then came the war and saw his superior DNA as a reason to put him in the Strike and made him start to hate the manipulation that has filled his mind with so many nightmares.

"Give it to me," he croaks when Athrun merely stares at the opaque liquid with disgust painted over his features.

"I can't," his friend protests. "It's sick."

"We can't very well have him hijack one of our machines and take off," Le Klueze states, blunter than Kira would have expected from someone who obviously spends his life with elegance wrapped carefully around his person. "I would think it kinder to drug him than to lock him up."

Kira could tell him that he would do no such thing, that there's no way in hell the luck that has carried him this far would be enough for such an immense feat, especially when he lacks both back-up and an earnest desire to accomplish the escape. It's so much easier to just stay placid, so much better to remain with Athrun. He's obligated to help his poor natural friends out, but he's so tired, has done what he can. Is it too much to ask to be allowed to simply be here now?

"Give it to me," he repeats. "Please."

"Yes," the commander agrees. "Do it, Athrun."

"He's not an enemy!" Even so, and however reluctant, when Kira starts shaking a little the sharp tip of the needle punctures the skin of his arm and searing cold pours into him. Are they going to kill him after all? The initial reaction soon wears off though, the potion just as efficient as one would expect it to be, made as it is by a species that has bent nature itself at least partially to its will. Less than ten seconds after the syringe has left him Kira is completely clear-headed, all traces of illness washed away. He feels clumsy, though, in mind and body both, as though molasses has flooded his nerves, making the connections between them slow and faulty. Is this what it's like to be a natural? What is natural in choosing to remain on a lower stage of evolution?

But perhaps it's not so bad, because now nobody will expect him to do things like fight what should rightly be a hopeless battle, or force-eject himself into empty space. And whatever else has happened to them, his nerves are still quite adept at broadcasting Athrun's nearness. He can't want to leave, even with frustration and fear burning through him like a phantom pain.

"That remains to be seen," Le Klueze says, replying to Athrun's long-ago outburst. "Are you an enemy, Kira Yamato? Which side are you truly on in this war?"

"Neither," Athrun says for him. "He's already told us that!"

"Leave the answers to mr Yamato, please," the blond orders. "Now, I'm aware that you're not properly a part of the EA, but you have fought on their side. I've been told that this is because you are somehow being deceived."

"My friends are on that ship." The comment, well, you obviously have at least one very good friend here as well is so given that he continues before it can be uttered, pushing down any speculation as to just what he and Athrun are to each other anymore. As far as he knows, people don't usually refer to someone they've just frenched as a 'friend'. "Since they're naturals, all of them… It's like… I have to protect them, since they can't take care of themselves."

"Like children," Le Klueze concludes.

"No!" Kira immediately protests. There's nothing childish in what he has seen on the Archangel, no innocence or naivete allowed to prosper. Then again, being a child constitutes of more than being pure. "Yes."

"I have no intention of killing them," Le Klueze informs. "We want the ship, and now that you are no longer opposing our taking it that should be rather easily accomplished with few casualties. ZAFT treats prisoners well."

The commander might be right, Kira muses. The Archangel has remained undefeated, but scarcely, and both the mothership and Zero must be damaged. The idea, while initially revolting, isn't really any worse than the prospect of being trapped on a doomed ship or taken into custody at a base like Artemis. Ironical, that he was treated no better by the side he fought for than he is now by the ones he fought against.

"Is that what I am?" he asks. Couldn't blame them if it is, and in a sense it'd be easier that way. No need to feel a betrayer if in the same grim situation as those he has let down. If he can ever truly be in the same situation as naturals; he's wanted, they're interchangeable. It's a reality he's cursed, but not one he can deny any longer.

"Preferably not," answers Le Klueze. "In view of the drug and Yzak's report, I trust I can leave you in Athrun's care. Just a few more questions, if you'll indulge me. You don't want war; none of us does. However, what started this one?"

"Junius Seven." It's not what he wants to say, not enough to cover it all, but it's irrefutable truth.

"Precisely. Several hundred thousand innocent lives taken without reason. And how did we reply?"

"With the N-jammers." Perhaps, after all, there are good and bad sides in this war somewhere above the dying and humanity and terror.

The blond nods with an air of satisfaction; a teacher giving approval to a student having done his homework. "Exactly. Instead of retaliating, we ensured that no such destruction can ever take place again by preventing not only the naturals but also ourselves from using nuclear attacks. Do you find this reasonable?"

"Yes." Obviously.

"Do you find it reasonable for the EA to declare war on us on account of this?"

"No."

"Then do you find it unreasonable for us to defend ourselves upon being attacked?"

"…No."

Le Klueze smiles again under the mask, an expression so cheery and arrogant it makes Kira's stomach lurch. "Excellent. We seem to understand each other quite well. Athrun, I'll leave himin your care."

Kira stares at his retreating back, sick to his stomach with guilt at how happy that makes him.

xxxxx