Aurora Borealis
Marks of Life
Nicol hates this, he really, really, does. Maybe his subconscious was right and he is in love with Athrun, because there's really no other way to explain his emotional state, and he's never used to be very insincere, not with others and not with himself.
Because of that he's left with no way around it; he hates watching Athrun and Kira all wrapped up in each other, laughing and smiling and touching, whispering and hugging and just looking at one another in that blasted silly-stunned manner. He hates how on the surface the conversation is between all three of them when in reality he's nothing but a bystander listening to hidden nuances clear and obvious to the two of them. Every normal word somehow gains a special meaning though being exchanged between lovers, and Nicol is helplessly cut off. He feels like a character from an old story he read once, a poor lonely streetwalker standing outside the window and regarding happy, loving company on the far side of the glass.
It isn't so much the references to memories he has no part of, talk of their mutual experiences at the prep. school and from holidays spent together – no, that could happen with anyone and doesn't bother him greatly. What eats at him is how even conversation about the ship they're on or replies like "can you hand me that piece of bread" turns into something intimate and incomprehensible. It is as though he's right back during that first afternoon when he crowded the doorway to Kira's hospital room with Yzak and Dearka, and this time he doesn't need the Buster pilot's remarks to feel embarrassed and alienated.
Worst of all, yes clearly worst of all, is when they reach a subject about him and he's still not part of it.
"You play the piano?" Kira inquires politely.
"Yes," Nicol nods.
"Really well," Athrun adds, and from the way Kira looks at the blunette it's clear that he's paying closer attention to the mouth forming the words than to what is actually said.
He remains a bystander as they put Kira in a wheelchair and give him a tour of the ship, walking beside them like a stranger. Of course they can't exactly venture to the machine hall or any of the technical equipment rooms, and so have to satisfy themselves with corridors and their rooms. While Athrun ventures to the far side of a doorstep to get some fresh clothing, Nicol stands awkwardly beside Kira before allowing his knees to buckle, practically falling into a sitting position on what has to be Rusty's old bed. Ordinarily he might have taken the opportunity to choose Athrun's, but right now the idea of occupying the blunette's sleeping area strikes him as unbearable. He doesn't want the other's sheets under his palms, doesn't want to breath in the faint residue of his comrade's scent lingering to his beddings or see a stray piece of blue hair clinging to the pillow.
Instead he's sits desperately erect on a dead boy's bed, the almost painful cleanness of which announces that it's not used, never will be used again by Rusty, announces it so clearly that Nicol's chest contracts, aches. If it were not for Heliopolis, his comrade would still be alive and well. Had things gone according to plan, he would be Strike's pilot now, instead of the boy with stick-thin limbs only partially obscured by bandages and adorned with purplish bruises. Most of those are familiar in placement and size, the kind of marks you inevitably get from being thrown around inside the cockpit during battle. Nicol has ample practice with these, despite strappings and protective space suit, and he experiences a twinge of sympathy for the poor guy who's been through more than his share of rough piloting conditions. He himself has never fought in a mobile suit in civilian clothing, nor against so many opponents or with so little training, and even so his shoulders are decorated with a number of colorful bruises from last time he operated Blitz.
What disturbs him, though, catches his attention and doesn't let it escape, what he's rudely staring at with some kind of sick fascination, are the marks he remains convinced are not caused by struggle. Nothing in the cockpit that he can think of would leave that kind of delicate bruises upon impact. Several years in locker rooms and lounges among other male teenager have, however, taught him that love bites might.
It sickens him that the signs of affection should bother him more than those of war, but he's gotten depressingly used to the latter, and somehow can't help but feel a little like Kira deserves them. He has done nothing worse than Nicol himself, but then Nicol isn't unhurt either.
Even so his stomach cramps with the sudden realization that he doesn't hate the pilot of Gundam Strike. Yesterday eve he was ashamed to wish he'd been able to kill the other; now he is uncomfortable with not wanting to harm him. More disconcerting still is the continuation of that pondering – all those that I have taken down, would I have felt compassion for them as well, could I have sat with them like this, if circumstances were different? Had I, given the slightest possibility, grown to see them as humans, with all the care and protectiveness that that implies, if I'd spent just the briefest time with them?
Looking down, he contemplates his hands, which lay placid on his knees. Small, slender fingers the pads of which are as intimately familiar with piano keys as with keyboards and triggers. Since he was little he's been regarded as a peaceful child, yet here he is, an elite solider, so different from the diplomat his mother envisioned that he would become. Those ideas he abandoned the day Junius Seven fell, when he realized that in this case being a warrior is to be a diplomat, since it means talking to the EA in the only language they seem capable of comprehending.
Awkward silence interrupted by the blunette's return, he puts his musings on hold and politely averts his eyes as Kira exchanges the pajama top, which lack several buttons, for one of Athrun's shirts. Rather than a piece of the standard issue uniforms it's civilian clothing, of pale rose silk and a little too long for Kira, whose inexperienced and unconcerned fingering on the material leads Nicol to once again conclude that one has to be rich to fully recognize expensive things. He's fairly certain that no one in the Le Klueze team has ever owned a single piece of clothing bought for less than a hundred dollars.
Conversation picks up again but remains strained, flowing easy only when it's between either Athrun and Kira or between Nicol and Athrun. Knowledge of their respective roles in the war lies heavy between him and the brunette, and he doubts it can be breached without common experiences. The only such they have are of battle, and Kira hasn't yet said a word connected to that subject. For now, Nicol won't bring it up either. Eventually the conversation drifts to school, something they've all attended.
"I remember being kind of surprised when I met your parents," Athrun says. "That they were so pacifist and natural, though they'd sent you off to a Coordinator school with military overtones."
Shrugging a little, Kira replies, "I assume they figured that enrolling me in an academy for naturals wouldn't have been…"
His voice trails off, and apparently both Nicol and Athrun are too polite to fill in any of the expressions that present themselves, such as challenging, educational or worthwhile. Instead they exchange light-hearted anecdotes – which, as they should have anticipated, leads to questions about what, more precisely, they do now that they've left school.
"I pilot the Blitz G-unit."
Something flitters over the brunette's face, and violet eyes stare into Nicol's. Evidently he is no longer the only one experiencing flashbacks from the battle at Artemis when looking at his then-opponent.
"The other two?" Kira asks at length. "The ones operating Duel and Buster?"
"Yzak and Dearka aren't here," Athrun says. "I assume they're spending the holiday together or with their families. They're our age too."
"When are they coming back here?" Nicol inquires. "Will they meet…?"
"I hope we'll be elsewhere by the time they return," Athrun replies, face somewhat tight.
"Athrun?" Kira's tone betrays a beginning worry. "Why? Where? Wasn't it one of them who brought me here?"
"Yes," the blunette concedes. "I suppose Yzak did do that. However, neither he nor Dearka is exactly the easiest person to get along with."
If you touch him, if you hurt so much as a hair on his head, I swear I'll kill you.
"If you continue to feel better, I thought we might visit the Clynes tomorrow. After that we'll know more. All right?"
Kira nods, and Nicol echoes the motion. "I assume I'll be coming with you?" he says.
"If Commander Le Klueze doesn't change your directives until then, I'm afraid so, yes," Athrun replies. "I suppose either of us might inquire about it; I need to call and make sure Miss Lacus and her father are home anyway."
"I'll do it," Nicol volunteers, wondering whether he will be required to accompany the others to the Clyne mansion, to watch his love interest not-precisely-break-up-with his fiancée in favor of another boy. Given how much their commander appears to trust Athrun he might consider it unnecessary with an escort; then again, that probably wouldn't look so good.
When the day draws to a close Nicol has to make some decisions. He shouldn't have to, really – he's here on Le Klueze's orders, to observe the other two and not leave room for any confidences on part of his comrade. He's also (and has started to realize that it wouldn't completely surprise him if the commander suspects it; after all, even dense Dearka has teased him about it forever though he himself and, fortunately, Athrun too, remained oblivious) rather in love with a certain blunette. How ironical isn't it to find that the boy of his dreams certainly wouldn't reject him for being gay through the revelation that he already has a boyfriend?
No, it isn't much of a decision to make. Smiling tightly he says his goodnights and leaves the two of them in the infirmary room. The sudden impulse to kick the wall in frustration as he walks back to his own bed startles him.
xxxxx
Opening his bleary eyes, Dearka sees a whole lot more Yzak than he did when he closed them. Given the fact that the other boy is practically sleeping in his arms, this is hardly surprising, nor is it strange that he also feels and smells more of Yzak than he's used to.
Although the question of how they came entangled like this, curled like kittens in their nest of blankets, is answered by a simple few tosses and turnings, the why remains, and Dearka has no doubts that his friend's demands for explanations will be both loud and rude. Knowing this, and fairly uncomfortable with the situation himself, the Buster pilot opts to discreetly scoot away. Not unusually, however, it seems Yzak has his own ideas, and the escape is cut short by the arm and leg thrown over his retreating form. Mumbling something mostly incoherent that appears to end with "…rka", the silver-haired boy snuggles closer again, and Dearka has little choice but to let him.
Okay, so this is weird, but so was pretending to make out in the park yesterday, and that turned out rather well. It's nothing he can't handle. He's half anxious, half turned-on, but he can handle it.
Yzak may yell at him later (unreasonably, since Dearka is no more guilty than he is, but Yzak is always unreasonable, to the point when it can almost be considered part of his charm) but right now all he hears is the soft sounds of the other's breathing and the pounding of his own pulse. There's also a distinct possibility that Yzak may hit him, but he's suddenly very certain that any contact with his friend's knuckles will be a cheap price for the present sensations; heavy warmth draped around his side, half atop him, soft hair tickling his neck. The thin fabric of the pajama Yzak favors and normally borrows while sleeping over fails to obscure the bold, bony lines of his thin body; were it not for the layer of muscle, he'd look anorectic.
Dearka lets his hand trail down the other boy's back, excruciatingly softly since he's well aware almost any touch will probably hurt. Perhaps he ought to take a look later – the bruising must be fairly spectacular for Yzak to have allowed himself to falter on account of it yesterday. Too bad he's so set on the slightly too large, baggy black nightwear – if he like Dearka had kept to the standard undershirt and boxers issued with the uniforms, the view would be a lot clearer. Still, the thought of arrogant, showy Yzak being shy about mere nudity is amusing, especially since it's a misconception on part of the Duel's pilot that the pajama he presently hides in is his comrade's. Dearka wonders, just wonders, who would be the most shocked if his mom ever found the nightwear she's been looking all over the place for. The idea of his friend in his mother's pajama should be weird but is kind of sexy.
While he manages to keep his chuckle from leaving his mouth, it still makes his chest shake – just a little, but enough to have Yzak stir. Holding his breath, Dearka watches his bedmate lift his head and focus two sleepy blue eyes on him. It strikes him how beautiful his companion is – not the photo-model looks or the way the light paints him a revelation of warm colors as much as the indefinable expression characterizing him as… just Yzak. One of his teeth has a jagged end, from when a punch broke off a little part of it long ago; Dearka remembers his eight-year-old self wondering how anyone his age ended up in a fight that serious. Now, knowing his friend as well as he does, he can very well image how that might have happened, but has also started to suspect that "beating" might be closer to the truth than "fight", a thesis reinforced by the way the topmost button of Yzak's pajama has fallen open to reveal a few pale scars. Right beside the pulse-point where neck meets chest are three thin lines, as though someone has stabbed him with a fork and proceeded to force it downwards.
Unlike with the small discolored splotch on his hand from a minor explosion and the scars lining the inside of his thigh and outside of his hip and stomach, Dearka has no idea where the ugly little marks come from, and they disturb him far more than the larger ones he's seen made.
Yes, they really disturb him. Can that be regarded as a fair reason for him to push himself up on one elbow and press his mouth to them?
No screams the way Yzak jerks, and the fashion in which he attempts to knee Dearka between the legs.
The pale boy is flushed, though, and perhaps because of it he misjudges where to aim, the attack slamming into Dearka's thigh instead of crotch. They grabble desperately for a few silent moments before Yzak collapses atop him. Buster's pilot feels himself tremble, for a moment wishing desperately that his friend were a girl so that he didn't need to fight so hard to keep still, hold off the urge to crush the other against him and push his hips upward. Next second, though, Yzak squirms, one of his legs between Dearka's, and suddenly Dearka doesn't give a shit that it's definitely evident they're both male.
When the first blinding wave of excitement has washed over him, he manages to ask himself what the hell he's doing. Seriously, writhing half-naked on his bed with another boy lying over him has never exactly been one of his goals for life. His body appears to have developed a mind of its own, however, for it's certainly not by his conscious volition that his hips continue to strain against the warm weight above him, nor does he remember giving his hands permission to explore underneath Yzak's borrowed pajama. His friend, in turn, seems close to panicking, with the way his eyes have gone wide above his wildly panting mouth and how he grabs desperately at Dearka's arms, neck, chest.
At length he freezes as Yzak's hand fits itself over his mouth, a glimmer of zealousness beneath the lust in his blue eyes. There's something else there too, something Dearka cannot quite decipher…
"Must determine what it means," the pale boy breaths eagerly. "Must determine that it doesn't mean anything."
His hand is gone from Dearka's face in the blink of an eye, replaced by his mouth. Yzak kisses him as though he's trying to lap up his essence, and he retaliates with equal heath and depth. He groans in despair as a loud knock prompts Yzak to release him, but though the most immediate connection is broken they remain painfully close, staring in bewilderment.
"Master Dearka?" The maid's voice is neutral and familiar. "Ms Juhle has called; she's on her way home and wants young mr Juhle to meet her there. She asked me to make sure you respond immediately. I'll be coming in now."
Unfortunately, since they're aware he isn't exactly a quick riser, Dearka's parents have likely authorized such conduct; wordlessly Yzak rolls off him and they're both sitting up when the young woman enters. Under her mild gaze the paler boy drapes a robe around himself and collects his clothes.
"Yzak…!" Dearka cries as his friend follows the servant through the doorway.
He pauses but does not turn. "I'll be seeing you around."
xxxxx