Aurora Borealis
Together, then, we'll Live
The day is ever so much brighter when they leave the Clyne mansion. Ridiculous as the notion may seem, Kira is fully convinced that birds are singing and flowers blossoming that weren't before, simply as a reflection of his own elevation. His relief, the dismissal of tension, is making him all giddy as he practically clings on Athrun. They're giggling and… well, touching… in the backseat, Nicol having taken over the role as driver after remarking that he didn't trust his comrade at the wheel when said comrade only spared the road a mere ten percent of his attention. There was enough sincere concern in the comment to have them move over instead of just shrugging the jokingly uttered words off. Wouldn't it have been just incredibly ironical if an elite battle pilot died in a mundane car accident? Which might jolly well have happened, since Nicol was right – Athrun isn't looking at anything but Kira, and he certainly doesn't keep his hands were they should be. And the roads on PLANT certainly have higher speed limits than those on earth – Nicol drives at almost three hundred kilometers per hour, and he chided Athrun for speeding. With Coordinator reflexes, perhaps it's to be expected, but it doesn't feel all that safe; somehow this is vastly different from operating Strike.
An hour or so later, the proposition is brought forth and eagerly accepted that they stop at one of the roadside cafés for a snack dubbed belated lunch.
"I think I can walk, if you steady me," Kira says. Only a few meters separate the car from the establishment, and he really does feel a lot better. His leg hasn't hurt since the first day he woke up, and though he can't move it at all freely nor put much weight on it, it should be all right. Plus he's sick of the wheelchair. Not only is it uncomfortable, but though the absence of duties caused by his sudden lack of ability is welcome, the lack of ability in and of itself very much isn't.
"Are you sure?" Athrun inquires, a faint line visible at the bridge of his nose. "It's only three days since it was bandaged. I'd rather you stay off it for a bit longer."
"Would you?" he asks mildly in return, sporting a small smile. "Would you expect one of your comrades to?"
Of course the blunette wouldn't let a wounded leg rest, and they both know it. Athrun's walked around with worse injuries than this, insisting that he's fine though everyone with eyes can see he might faint any moment. "Only the worthless are helpless," mr Zala says in Kira's memory. While insisting on doting over every minor bruise and cut on Kira, Athrun has always stubbornly refused to let himself be hampered by anything, be it a forty-five degrees Celsius fever or five broken ribs.
"That's different," he says now, distant gaze breaking the sunny mood as effectively as his quiet, shadow-laced tone of voice. "We've chosen to participate in the cause of our wounds."
"Well, I guess, but then in a sense so have I."
"Really?"
I never wanted to! I never meant to! I didn't have a choice! So he has said, and in many ways it's true – it was fight or die from the start. But, "I could have done things differently. Anyway, if I hadn't got hurt when I did I wouldn't be here now." He has to speak the words slowly, choose carefully between all the phrases crowding his tongue. He won't lie, and he needs to tell Athrun that he'll be perfectly fine so long as they're together, but he can't allow himself betray his friends any more clearly than he does through what he says now. If I hadn't got hurt when I did I wouldn't be here now, so I'm glad I was shot down when I was. I'm glad I'm here, instead of where I was – with you instead of with them. Certainly he can't let himself say that, but he doesn't have to; he's never needed to spell his emotions out in order to have Athrun to understand them. Like he knows what's needed now, and leans forward to enclose Kira in a hug.
"Let's go, then," he says, pressing a kiss on the top of the brunette's head and exiting the car.
"Need any help?" Nicol asks, straightening; having gotten to his feet almost at once they stopped, he's had to wait for them for ten minutes at least.
"I think it'll be okay," Kira replies, feeling a bit guilty for forcing the green-haired boy to wait. Especially since Nicol's been exceptionally kind, providing quiet support and lots of privacy that he very likely isn't supposed to grant them.
Slowly edging his way over the backseat and to the open car-door, Kira then gingerly places his feet on the ground, letting Athrun take most of his weight as he carefully proceeds to stand up. Pain spikes through his injured leg, but no worse than it would from a spraining, and he's gotten used to being perpetually beat up since he started piloting Strike. With one of Athrun's arms around his waist and one of his own slung over the blunette's shoulders, he manages to limp with relative ease through the door Nicol holds open for them. Grateful he is to slump down onto a seat at one of the small tables, but if need be he's fairly certain he could walk by himself. Which does not mean that Athrun lets him get up and order for himself, nor that he really minds the familiar tendencies towards over-protectiveness.
The teenaged girl who brings them their orders fifteen or so minutes later is followed by two little boys who stare in awe at Nicol's uniform and the gazes of everyone in the café.
"Here you are," the girl smiles. "It's on the house."
"That's kind," Nicol says, "but really, there's no need."
"But of course," she insists, still beaming. "We can't very well demand payment from those protecting us. Are your friends soldiers too?"
Athrun nods, returning her glad expression with a forced smile of his own. Kira too manages a miniscule affirmative dipping of his head.
"Then are you all elites? You're so young! But I can see the red uniform, of course." Her gaze shifts to Kira. "It must have taken some nasty naturals to injure you."
Laughter pools in his throat, though this is everything but funny. Most unhappy of all is the realization that he sort of wishes she were right – that he was indeed a Coordinator among other Coordinators, a welcome part of a group in which he can melt in and belong. With Athrun, even war might have been endurable. Thus comes the realization that he really isn't part of the Archangel anymore. Previously the separation was physical and out of his control, but he wouldn't go back now if he had the choice. If need be he'll protect his friends, he'll try and stand up for them, but home is where Athrun is.
That insight is what freezes him, causing the blunette to turn to him worriedly. Vaguely he registers Nicol saying something to the girl about not being at liberty to disclose details and allowing the two kids to touch the uniform; what's important is Athrun's voice and Athrun's touch.
During this entire crazed time since he was pulled into the war he's lacked all possibility to make any decisions for himself, has been forced by circumstances to do all kinds of things, and this choice before him now between his lover and his natural acquaintances is no exception. His heart has determined, without leave from his conscious will, that he can't function without Athrun. I'll die before I'm separated from you again.
And so, despite a little sadness and a tingle of somberness, the meal passes without incident – indeed, in happiness, one made all the keener by the knowledge of pain in both past and future.
"She was very nice," Kira remarks between two bites on a cookie. "Her father too."
Athrun merely nods, obviously uncomfortable with the subject, though or perhaps because he knows them vastly better than either of his companions.
"She really was," Nicol agrees instead, amber gaze on his soda. "I've seen her on television and heard her sing thousands of times, naturally, but that just can't compare to meeting her in person, even briefly." He pauses, still staring at his drink. "I'd like to play with her someday."
Shortly thereafter they leave the café and drive back to the shuttle station. There, however, a phone call reaches them. As they stand in line to enter one of the transportation devices that'll bring them back to the correct colony, a middle aged man in uniform approaches and knocks on one of the car's windows.
"Yes?" Nicol asks, having rolled down the glass-barrier.
"My apologies, Sir," the man says, saluting. Kira doesn't know what rank the cut and color of the stranger's clothing signifies, but judging by his reverent behavior it can't be high. "Commander Le Klueze-sama wishes to speak to Athrun Zala-sama."
"Thank you," the blunette says, accepting a phone. After another salute and a quick bow, the stranger walks away, leaving Athrun to take the call. "Hello?"
A number of "yes", "I see," "thank you, commander," "quite well", "I understand, "no," "indeed," "goodbye" follows before he turns the machine off.
"He's spoken to mr Clyne," Athrun informs, "and they want Kira and I to go to Atlantia to pick up some paperwork and visit their specialist hospital. We'll be taking a small shuttle from here."
"I take it I'm not to accompany you?" Nicol says. Kira would've expected his tone to be coated in faint relief, but what emotion he can detect is rather more like disappointment.
"No," Athrun says. "You know Atlantia is about as far away from here as PLANT reaches, and they want you back in time to start work when the holiday ends. Thank you for everything, and well, see you later."
Helped out of the car and once again standing unsteadily and supported by his lover, Kira pauses to offer Nicol a small bow rendered awkward by how he has to lean on Athrun. "Thank you for your trouble, Nicol-san."
"Not at all." The thin, crow-like voice sounds just a tad choked. "Later."
The transportation device he and Athrun are directed to really is very small, looking for all the world more like a life-pod than a proper shuttle. Heat and light are seemingly the only functions that can be controlled manually from within; the rest is on autopilot. Two wide, couch-like seats line the walls, the seatbelts fastened on which indicating that the shuttle is intended for a maximum of six people. Now there's only him and Athrun, and Kira certainly isn't complaining. On the contrary, he's quite content to curl up with his lover as they take off, resting his head against the other's shoulder.
"Nicol is very likeable," he says, a bit sleepy. A moment's pause as he snuggles into a more comfortable position, wishing the blunette weren't quite so bony. "Ne, tell me about your comrades, the people around you."
Athrun obliges, fingers treading absently through soft brown hair, tempting its owner to purr. "Nicol you met yourself. I don't know him all that much better than you do, really, but we get along. He's shy and calm, does what he thinks is right. I was surprised to see him in the military, since mostly everyone expected him to become a professional musician. But he pilots the Blitz well enough.
As for the others, Le Klueze is an exceptional commander. He's a genius, his battle record is spectacular, and even so he's very… considerate. He offered to let me not launch, you know, in Heliopolis. Since you where there."
From Nicol he could have expected that, as his views on the green-haired boy are much the same as Athrun's, but that the arrogant, intimidating blonde would do such a thing is rather more of a surprise. Then again, the commander has been gracious; there's just some subtle, too-smooth quality about him that makes Kira uneasy.
"The other two in my unit, that you haven't met, Yzak Juhle and Dearka Elthman, well… I don't know them all that well either, and I don't precisely get along with them. We were in the same class during the last phase of our education, after I left the prep. school. Yzak is… very devoted. We have, or at least he has, this rivalry thing going on. Dearka, first and foremost, is Yzak's friend, so I've never gotten closer than to form a picture of a laid-back person. He's good at piloting Buster, though."
So, placing Yzak in Duel, he now knows the pilots of every G-unit. About time, after he's been one himself and fought against the others for what feels like so very long."They almost sound a bit like us," he remarks.
"They do?"
"You're the one who knows them best. But that way of being really close only to each other."
"You're right," Athrun cedes. "I suppose they are a bit similar to our situation."
He remains thoughtfully quiet until Kira gently prods him, "There's only the four of you?"
"For now. We were five with Rusty. Nice guy. My roommate. Died in Heliopolis."
Nausea pumps through him; why did he ask anyway? What was he expecting? Some sweet story where everyone lived happily ever after?
No, he didn't, and he wants all of Athrun, and this is part of him. "I'm sorry," he says, knowing that the words are so insufficient they border on meaningless but hoping that his hard, warm grip around the other isn't. Surprisingly, the reply makes him feel a little better – he is sorry, they both are, but he'll do what he can to alleviate that emotion.
"I knew him just well enough for his death to make me furious. It was in the machine hall, just before I went after that woman. He was supposed to capture Strike. It feelstraitorous to say that in a way I'm glad he didn't." Kira understands; if Rusty had succeeded, then he and Athrun might have met in other circumstances – or they might not have, and the risk of the latter is too high. The blunette smiles humorlessly. "Then again, he always said the war was all about the survival of the fittest."
"As in the Coordinators?"
From the way the other's muscles tense and then relax under his cheek, Kira gets the impression Athrun was about to shrug before calling to mind the fact that his lover is using his shoulder as a pillow. "As in whoever made it."
The concept disgusts him, probably to a large extent due to its inescapable logic. Unfortunately there's only hope that righteousness or innocence should avoid and cause injury easier than their opposites, not fact or even strong hypothesis. Still, he'd like to believe.
"Your father?" he asks, approaching a subject that once appeared dark and unseemly.
"Died with Junius Seven." The chipped voice is swift. "With Mom and all the others. There's only Commander and Councilman Zala left now." He wasn't much of a father to begin with, but it does pain me, and surely everyone can see it isn't normal to run to your fiancée's family to protect your affair with your boyfriend from the people who regard your father as their leader?
That, right when Kira has straightened up a little to be able to fully embrace the other, is when the shuttle rocks. Violently. And through the thick walls come the sounds of… yes, it's unmistakable, he's heard too many explosions to fool himself into believing that these noises have any other cause. Same goes for Athrun, obviously, since after a muttered but heart-felt "shit!" the blunette is up and typing away frantically at the controls. Kira's first instinct is to follow him, but his injured leg and the fact that he can clearly hear everything Athrun says make him remain where he is, holding onto the edge of the seat to prevent being thrown to the floor by the persistent shaking.
"ZAFT forces," his lover calls. "This is Athrun Zala of the Le Klueze Team requesting information on the situation."
The reply is littered with static and code-names, but the fact that they've happened upon a battle is very clear, and apparently it doesn't look so good for the Coordinator forces.
"Do you have any unused mobile suits?" Athrun asks. "I need to protect the person in this shuttle."
"Sorry, Sir." The blunette looks tempted to curse vehemently, but relaxes at the next reply; "But we'll make sure to send you out of harm's way. Just give us time to fasten the equipment on the shuttle, and we'll protect your retreat." Static. "For the sake of ZAFT."
"For the sake of ZAFT," Athrun echoes, cold, solemn and saluting.
It takes Kira a few moments to decipher that, and even then he wishes to believe his conclusion faulty. "Wha? Athrun, you can't, you…you're – letting them die for us!"
"Correct," his lover states calmly. "They will make sure to catapult our shuttle away into space, and that nobody follows us. There are only very few EA ships in the area we're likely to end up in, so we should be fine. Now put on your seatbelt."
He obeys, even as he argues, "But there are too many EA vessels here for any of the ZAFT soldiers to make it if they have to worry about us and covering our flight! They'll die!"
"Yes," Athrun says, fastening himself to the seat. "We're aware of that, and so are they."
"But why would they do that? They don't even know us!"
"No, they don't," the blunette agrees. "And if they did, we'd die here. You don't think we'd survive without their sacrifice here, do you? And do you really believe they'd make it for one elite comrade and a half-traitor? No doubt they assume the person I needed protect is some fancy commander or politician."
"That just makes it worse!" Kira cries. "Tricking them into dying for us – we're as good as murdering them ourselves!"
The shuttle wobbles and shakes violently before suddenly, prompted by a grand explosion, rocketing off, away from the sounds of battle. He hangs on to the seatbelt, the seat itself, Athrun beside him, anything that can be interpreted as steady.
"Do you want us to die?" his lover argues, upset too at this point. "I've killed before and so have you, and they were no more innocent that either of us! Would what you have done!"
He can't answer until the shuttle has stabilized, an unknown amount of time later. He has no idea where they are now and feels vaguely queasy; he also still holds on tightly to Athrun's hand.
Weird, that it should be somehow reassuring that his lover doesn't have the answers either. No one does, not really, and it has long frustrated him, but the feeling creeping over him now is tenderness. Two heads are better than one, right, so they'll figure it out, between the two of them.
"Together, then," he says, "we'll live?"
"Together we'll live." A moment's pause, then, wryly with a touch of honest worry, "Which I suspect would be a lot easier if we weren't stuck in here with pretty much no supplies and no idea where the hell we are."
There's undeniably something to be said for that.
xxxxx