Aurora Borealis
Voulez-vous Coucher avec moi ce soir?
Dearka lounges lazily on his bed, studying his nails with one eye and keeping the other trained on Yzak. Said silver-haired youngster is pacing back and forth in the room while speaking on the phone, a smallish black thing he carries around with him. Normally it might have been quite interesting to eavesdrop on the conversation, which is why normally Yzak would have thrown him out before taking the rare call, but now Dearka is content to let his gaze linger on the elegant figure of his friend, and Yzak is content to let him.
After all, Dearka doesn't speak French.
He's never had much of a talent for languages, and Japanese is quite enough for him. Councilwoman Juhle, on the other hand, is known to insist that French is the supreme language of love, hence all men to be invited into her home need to have mastered it. Needless to say this also means that her son speaks it with perfect fluency, effortlessly rambling words Dearka wouldn't even dream of pronouncing.
There is something slightly off about the talent, though, some memory or association that causes Yzak to never willingly use it. In particular, Dearka recalls a certain occurrence back in school. His own class had ended early, so he'd walked over to the classroom used for French to wait for Yzak.
"So, then," he hears the teacher say through the not-quite-closed door, "what would be the correct translation of sentence fourteen, page one hundred and thirty? Zala-san?"
Athrun sprouts something with an awful lot of consonants that Dearka comprehends absolutely nil of.
"Not quite," the teacher replies. "Anyone else? Come on, now! Admittedly this is hard, but you are supposed to be elites! Juhle-san, let's hear your thoughts on the subject."
Turning his gaze from the textbooks to the teacher, Yzak uses a cold, monotone voice for something that, as far as Dearka is concerned, sounds pretty much exactly like what Athrun just said, earning himself a glance of surprised approval from the teacher.
"Yes, exactly. Perfect pronunciation too. Well, time's up. Au revoir, mes élèves."
Okay, Dearka remembers thinking in shock, so Yzak could have shown Athrun up and didn't volunteer to do it? The hell…?
But his friend's expression didn't invite any questions, and Dearka's still not sure what is behind his aversion for the French language that he only ever uses when talking to his parents. Like now. It's vaguely annoying that Dearka isn't even sure which one of them his comrade is speaking to, since Yzak voice changes so much by switching language that Dearka can't use the tone to orient among his friend's feelings.
Now there's a last blur of, oui, non, bien sûre, oui, oui, excusez-moi, au revoir before his roommate lets out a deep sigh and clicks off the phone.
"Ne, Yzak…"
"Ta goule!" his friend sneers.
One doesn't exactly need to be fluent in French to equate that with "shut up". That, however, Dearka has no intention of doing. "C'mon," he whines. "I'm bored stiff here. Talk to me. Who was that anyway?"
"En francais, s'il-tu plaît," Yzak says with a haughty look containing just a hint of amusement.
That particular phrase Dearka has heard enough times to puzzle out as a request (well, order, given the speaker) to speak in French. Ever obedient, he scrambles his brain for something appropriate; he wants company, and Yzak will leave right away if he pisses him off, his temper is frequently short after talking to his parents like this. Finally he comes up with a line from an old song that was mostly in English; he never understood the one French sentence, but it stuck in his head with the rest of the lyrics. Worth a shot, isn't it? So, taking careful note of his not-so-splendid pronunciation, he opens his mouth to say, "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?"
"Veux-tu," Yzak corrects automatically before freezing up. Finally he lets out, "Qu'est-ce que tu vas faire si je dis oui?"
"Huh?" Okay, what the fuck did Yzak just say? No, scratch that – what the fuck did he just say?
"Bais-moi," his friend sneers a few seconds later and storms out of the room, leaving Dearka sitting in confusion on the bed. It feels like a light bulb goes on in his head when he suddenly remembers that Nicol took French too. He has no idea whether the Blitz pilot is any good at it, but it's worth a try.
He finds the green-haired boy in his single room and squeezes through the doorway without waiting for an invitation. It's not a big room to begin with, and the piano doesn't precisely bring out what little space there is. What catches and holds his attention, though, is Nicol sitting curled up on the bed with his face buried in some sort of cloth. His head whips up at Dearka's arrival, expression caught and teary, and the blond recognizes the fabric to be a shirt, one he's seen before but not on Nicol. Something familiar lingers over the cut and color of it, but it isn't until several strained seconds of staring that he realizes it's Athrun's.
Nicol plainly expects Dearka to tease him for it, but the normal temptation isn't there, not when it dawns on him that he probably was more right than he thought when he mocked the younger boy about being in love with the blunette.
What would I do if Yzak went MIA?
The lack of answer in regards to the unwelcome question is profound – such a world can't exist, or at least; Dearka can't exist in a world without Yzak. It's just not possible. And so for the first time he feels a stirring of genuine sympathy for the green-haired boy who, now that he comes to think about it, has been even more quiet and withdrawn than usual since Athrun disappeared. "Yo," he says, slumping down a few feet from Nicol on the bed.
"Hey," his comrade replies, still guarded but not hostile.
"You see," Dearka begins, "I kind of got lost in translation and seem to remember that you know some French so I figured maybe you could help me."
"I'll do what I can," Nicol says, "but I'm warning you now that I'm not very good. Actually, I think you should rather ask Yzak, he speaks it as though it were his native language."
"I know," Dearka interjects dryly, "But now I'm asking you."
"Fine by me. Shoot."
Once again he makes an effort to get the sounds out right; it's probably no real problem if he gets it a little wrong with Yzak, whose grip on the language is so much better, but with Nicol he'll need to do it correctly to be understood. "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?"
"No!" Nicol snaps immediately. "I don't! Get out!"
"What?" What the hell did I say? And to Yzak to boot. I'm fucking dead. He didn't seem that angry, though. Probably just saving it up till I get back. I am so fucking dead. "I'm just asking you to tell me what it means!"
"Oh." His comrade blushes. "Sorry. But… I take it you said this to someone?"
"Yes," he bites out. "Now hurry up and translate it."
The red tint to his face deepens just a smudge as Nicol says, "I quote: Would you sleep with me tonight?'"
Okay. Take it easy, Dearka Elthman. Breathe. It could have been worse. Closing his eyes he bangs the back of his head against the wall. Who am I kidding? How the hell could it have been any worse than that?
And the very worst part, as the cheerfully evil masochist voice in his mind gleefully reminds him, is that the corny French pick-up line isn't quite as far from the realm of things he might have wanted to say to Yzak as he wishes.
'Must determine what it means', the Duel pilot told him before starting to snog him senseless, 'Must determine that it means nothing.'
Unfortunately the only thing the action clearly determined was that Dearka wants more, longs, aches for more of Yzak.
"Whom did you say it to?" Nicol asks. Has he always secretly been nosy? "Someone who knew French? Wait…! You didn't want to ask Yzak – it was him, wasn't it?"
"No," Dearka sneers, "it was Le Klueze." Judging by the expression on the younger boy's face, Nicol isn't sure whether or not to believe him and Dearka sighs in exasperation. "Anyway, there's more." But for the life of him he can't remember the exact words Yzak used in response. "Something with a lot of 'k' sounds in it?" he offers at length.
Nicol shrugs apologetically. "That narrows it down to about the entire French vocabulary."
"Dammit. Wait." Yes, that last parting word, that he remembers. "Basmoa."
"Bais-moi? Okay, I've got three possible meanings for that. I did warn you that I'm not very adept at French. The verb, 'baiser', means either 'kiss' or …well, having sex… so with the 'moi', that's 'me', it becomes either 'kiss me' or 'do me'. However, I think it's also slang for 'fuck off.'"
Right. Told you it could get worse.
Too bad there's not much need to wonder what Yzak intended it as.
xxxxx
Given that he's already occupied with a heated discussion with a very persistent and equally annoying voice in the back of his own mind, Yzak is rather grateful that for once Dearka hasn't returned to their room yet as he starts changing for the night.
Three meanings, he argues with himself. 'Bais-moi' has three different meanings.
Yeah, the voice agrees. Too bad there's not much need to wonder what you intended it as.
Quite right. I asked him to fuck off.
Oh no. Off was not what you asked him to fuck.
How dare you! he mentally sneers before realizing how ridiculous it is to direct such exhortations at oneself.
Fine, I'll let that one slide. After all, why care about such trivialities when you'd already said those other things, hmm? He asks you to sleep with him, either in jest or in ignorance of what he's saying, and what do you go and do? Yes, you ask what he'd do if you said yes. You might as well have outright asked him to fuck you. Oh, wait. You did that too.
Okay, possibly, possibly, I asked him to kiss me, but I sure as hell didn't-
His internal dialogue is halted by the door swishing open and admitting Dearka. Bais-moi, Yzak thinks before he can stop himself, and no, it isn't off that he wants Dearka to fuck. When did he turn gay anyway? Given, his interest in girls was always too small, his interest in his blond friend too big.
They share a long and mutually embarrassed but entranced stare before Dearka turns towards his own bed and starts digging around underneath it for something semi-clean to sleep in. Yzak too forces his gaze back to his own person, only allowing its return to his roommate when said person draws in a sharp breath and hastily approaches. The Duel pilot's acute awareness of how flimsy the pajama pants that are the only thing he's wearing are is only topped by his frantic awareness of how even less shelter the blond's boxers and tank top provide.
"This is new," Dearka says, placing warm fingers against a bruise on Yzak's upper torso. "This too." His other hand makes contact with a welt on Yzak's abdomen, trails the mark over his hip and downwards, fingertips teasing their way underneath the top of his pants. "It continues under here, doesn't it?"
"Don't," he forces out. "Shove off!" The words were intended a gruff demand but come out a panting plea. "I swear, I'll tickle you." His hands shoot out to do precisely that, though somehow they get equally occupied just sensing, taking in the feel of Dearka's torso under the top.
"No, shit, Yzak, not tickle!" But he does his best to reciprocate, and for the first time succeeds in hampering, indeed fully halting, the Duel pilot's attack as, either by design or accident, one tanned, beautiful hand is shown down the front of Yzak's pants.
Hissing for breath, Yzak half stumbles, half falls forward into Dearka's arms which readily receive him. "What the hell are you doing?" he sneers when at last he's regained some semblance of rational thought. Unfortunately the blond's hand still inside his pants threatens to shatter it again.
"Baising toi, of course," Dearka laughs, bending down so Yzak can twine his arms around his neck and catch his mouth in a messy, needy kiss. Distracted by pressing as close as he can get, Yzak isn't certain how they go from standing beside his bed to lying on it, but right now he sure isn't complaining.
Spread out on his backwith Dearka's mouth traversing his chest he isn't returned to here and now until the blonde once more starts paying attention to his newest scar. Yzak is far too far gone to protest as his companion frees him of the pants; he's already ripped the blond's top off, so perhaps it's only fair. Even if it isn't he has no interest in arguing, not when the action lets Dearka follow the mark down over his thigh like this.
"Ch'," the Buster pilot pants. "Who the hell did this to you, Yzak?"
"Mon père," he groans, gripping Dearka's face, raised for the inquiry, between his hands and pulling it down to kiss him violently. Apparently that kiss is the last straw for both of them, for afterwards they are only a tangle of limbs, straining desperately against hands, legs, bodies, anything to get closer, get more. Climax takes him somewhere far away, into a place of molten heat and release of pressure and amethyst eyes above him; it leaves him still lying atop the coverlets, trying to catch up with his pulse and with the smell of Dearka thick in his nose.
They don't look each other in the eye as the blond pushes himself to his knees, rescuing one hand from where it was trapped between their bodies while he collapsed over him. Yzak lets his own hands fall away from the heat of their skin and onto the cooler fabric of the sheets; sweat glistens on both of them, and he can feel semen sticking to his thighs.
He says and does nothing as his friend gives an uncertain cough, then swallows and gets off the bed to pad nude across the room and slip down underneath his own blankets. Closing his eyes and pushing hair out of his face Yzak follows his example, wrapping himself up and turning away from Dearka, staring at the wall.
He's never felt so cold in his life.
xxxxx