Aurora Borealis
The (Gratuitous?) Shower Scene
In regular circumstances Dearka takes every opportunity to gain a little extra sleep, but for some reason he now finds himself wide awake at what his trusty (according to him; Yzak claims it's worthless) internal clock declares to be a very early hour. Before it even consciously registers on him that something's off he's blindly searching the bed for what's missing. Except the rumpled sheets and his own person there's nothing there; and why should there be? he asks himself when the nightmare or whatever that woke him up has faded sufficiently to allow him to reason.
"Yzak?" he says aloud, for that's what's not right – Yzak should be here. Frighteningly light sleeper that the silver-haired youth is, Dearka never even has the opportunity to jerk off and thus ought to have company by now. Nothing can convince him that his recent shuffling and panicked panting left Yzak sleeping, and privacy is a foreign word between them. Why the hell isn't he up?
Probably for the same reason Dearka is simultaneously longing for his closeness and nervously grateful that he isn't getting it.
Did that even really happen?
Sure, there's been a lot of weird shit going on lately, they've gone fairly far, but there's still a rather wide step between that and what his memory insists they did a few hours earlier on Yzak's bed. Their kisses tasted like lilac smells.
Whoa, he admonishes himself, cutting that train of thought off. Tread easily there.
Fevered fantasies aside, he has a hard time believing that he came on to Yzak that way – much less that his comrade let him. Not to mention how they ended up engaging in some sort of hand-job-rub-off-whatever.
His body carries proof of its own foolish actions, though, little cuts from Yzak's nails, a small number of bruises from his harder kisses, and the lips he's absently fingering now are still swollen. Clearest of all, the other pilot is still pretending to sleep. As Dearka has already established, there's no way in hell he isn't awake, even disregarding the too-light breathing, and any other day he'd call his bluff but not tonight, not when he's so unsure what has happened and what will happen. In particular, the whys elude him.
His friend was just being his usual irresistible self when Dearka, also in line with the regular, couldn't keep from sneaking a few glances at him while they changed. And there were new injuries there, markings of indefinable and unexplored bad things on Yzak's near-perfect form, and he had to look, had to touch, to make sure it was all right.
The other didn't hit him this time. No, he certainly didn't, and when he tripped him it was simply in order to pull him down onto the bed.
Holy shit, he even went so far as to answer me when I asked about the culprit…! he belatedly realizes. Now, if only he hadn't been too caught up in the moment to pay proper attention, if only he'd been able to understand panted French. Fortunately or otherwise, he has the inkling he doesn't need to, that his long-ago suspicion is correct. He'll ask Nicol about the French word for father tomorrow – or today, seeing as they have probably passed midnight. Not that such things matter much in space, where they sleep and work in shifts directed by lamps.
The real question is what he'll do about the knowledge he is almost certain to acquire. If Yzak didn't want him to do anything he wouldn't have told him, right?
On the other hand, if Yzak did want him to do something, wouldn't he have told him long ago? Wasn't it just a fluke, a slip during a time when he was ready to say anything for Dearka not to stop what he was doing?
…if Yzak trusted him that much, wouldn't he have wanted him to stay?
But his expression afterwards was unreadable, and that's rarely good sign. Actually, Dearka only ever remembers seeing it on the other's face in connection to certain family issues, such as the very abuse he so recently received an answer about. That sort of blank, vulnerable look is wrong on Yzak, for uncountable reasons and in countless ways, and it twists at Dearka's insides in a manner not so much painful as panicked.
Passivity, too, is all wrong for the hotheaded Juhle heir, and it was rather obviously Dearka's fault it was there, and if Yzak had wanted anything more from him but to leave, surely he would have said or done something to that effect?
He didn't, didn't do anything at all, and hence Dearka had to get away and he did and now he really wishes he hadn't. However, he isn't ready to start deducing the exact nuances of that just yet.
Tomorrow, he tells himself. Tomorrow I'll speak to Nicol and ask him to translate and I'll see how things are with Yzak and if need be I'll fix them. Tomorrow.
When he wakes up again a few hours later the room is deserted; normally he trusts Yzak to get him out of bed in time, either by yelling at him or by dropping his blankets on the floor, but today his roommate has left on his own. Dearka's fortunate there isn't much to be done onboard right now, he reflects as he collects the pieces of his uniform that he strew all over the room last night, or he'd be in quite a bit of trouble for oversleeping this late.
Yzak's bed, pristinely made as usual, taunts him from its place on the far wall, and it is with some satisfaction that he takes in the results of his examination; it's stained.
Nodding absently to a few people saluting him, he makes his way to the cafeteria and gets himself some breakfast before spotting Nicol at one of the tables. Mildly surprised he wanders over and dumps himself in a chair next to the other pilot's.
"Morning," he says. "But here I thought I was the only one who hadn't been up a couple hours already?"
The green-haired boy shrugs a little, toying with his spoon. "I've been up a while. Just didn't feel like eating until now."
"Okay..." While baffled at the idea of not having breakfast immediately after getting out of bed, Dearka nonetheless manages to take this information in stride; he's always known Nicol's a bit weird and possibly somewhat daft as well. "Well, could you translate 'father' for me?"
He's not really requesting so much as telling the other to do it, and Nicol replies, "Into French? Père."
Was that what his… friend… said? He doesn't know, and perhaps it doesn't matter. Mechanically stuffing his face for a bit, he eventually gathers the courage and impatience to ask, "Where's Yzak?"
"Last I saw he was working on Duel. That was right before I left to get some food; twenty minutes ago, maybe," Nicol informs before pausing to take a brief sip of his milk. Bleah. "What's up with you two anyway? You've been acting all strange and awkward lately."
His recent sympathy for Nicol's losing Athrun and appreciation of the younger boy's handy translations aren't enough to counter that. "None of your business," he says coldly, letting his voice go from the rather friendly tone he has recently employed with the Blitz pilot and back to the nasty drawl they're both better used to. Amber gaze stays put on its owner's lap as Dearka abruptly pushes his chair back and leaves, half his meal still on the table.
His hands, fisted in his pockets, are dewed with a thin layer of sticky sweat as he enters the machine hall, ignoring the technicians fluttering about and saluting him to search for Yzak. As expected, the other pilot is seated in Duel's open cockpit, seemingly working on some kind of programming.
Before he's been able to decide whether to approach or flee Dearka finds himself stomping off against the floor and floating towards him. When he catches himself against the edge of the cockpit Yzak looks up briefly, flicking him an apprehensive blue glance before determinedly turning his gaze and attention back to the keyboard under his hands.
"Hey," Dearka says, nervous and all the more irritated for it. What's up with Yzak anyway? First he ignored him when he woke up, then he left him to oversleep and now he's attempting to pretend he isn't here? Well, enough is enough!
The Duel pilot's fingers still for a moment before resuming their typing.
"Hey," Dearka repeats in a slightly louder voice when it's become clear that his comrade isn't planning to reply.
"Hey," Yzak finally echoes. "Go away."
Back on more familiar ground, the blond makes himself comfortable where he is. "You'd like that, huh? I sort of figured that much, given how you sneaked out this morning."
"You complaining?" Yzak says in a chilly, bland tone. "You left rather eagerly yourself last night."
"I didn't," he protests, fighting a surge of illogical hope. "I just did what you wanted."
"What I…!" Giving the technician staring at them his patented Glare-of-Exceedingly-Painful-Death-that-you-will-Beg-to-Receive-for-Years-before-I-Finally-Grant-it-to-you, Yzak lowers his tone a notch or two. "You're an idiot."
Dearka just shrugs, for there's warmth in that. "You've never minded before," he says lightly.
Yzak mirrors his shrug. "I guess not."
Offering a smile and a bit of a wave, Dearka makes his way to Buster in order to get some work done as well. There is that adjustment he's been meaning to try on one of the cannons… Choosing not to make too close an examination of why making up with Yzak is such a relief he finishes the task on autopilot before leaving to lunch with his roommate. They are still a little awkward, shrugging away from each other when their arms brush and giving sudden stares, but it's working and that's all right. The question of whether Yzak said père last night will have to wait. They both seem content to ignore what happened on the Duel pilot's bed, and at least for now that's a great relief; and for now, at least, his inappropriate desire is curbed.
A few days later and they're back to normal, with only a few fading marks and speculative, hesitant glances to remind them that something's changed. Then, one of these calm, regular mornings that he's learned to treasure, Dearka once again wakes up first. This time he's ready to buy that Yzak's still asleep; indeed, he sure hopes that that's the case, since that would mean he didn't say anything aloud while dreaming. Clenching his teeth he carefully pushes his blankets away and fishes around in the heaps of clothing decorating his half of the room for a towel. A shower is in order, and one as far from Yzak as possible.
Not that that's very far, given that their bathroom is of course directly connected to their bedroom, but it's the thought that counts, right? Closing the door behind him, he has the unwanted remembrance that the lock isn't working; Yzak broke it during one of his tantrums, and they've been meaning to replace it ever since but never actually got around to it. Well, it doesn't really matter; he's survived like this for several weeks by now, and this far it hasn't been much of a problem. Getting the water running he frees himself from his nightclothes and steps into the shower.
At pass five minutes later the noise of water hitting the floor of the shower-stall is interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open to admit a sleepy Yzak in his customary too-large pajama and with a toothbrush in one hand. Not for the first time Dearka is exceedingly grateful that the shower-stall walls are only semi-transparent from the outside (of course, when Yzak's the one cleaning up he usually curses this fact) for bleary or not blue eyes are fixed unblinkingly on him.
"I'm trying to shower here," he calls over the water-sounds and the hammering of his own heart. "Get out."
"No way," Yzak replies flatly. "Lazy bum that you are, the bathroom has gotten used to having me in it first, and I'll certainly not suffer waiting just because you woke up at an agreeable hour for once. Plus you've been in here lots of times when I'm still doing my hair."
"That's only because you're so slow about it!" Dearka argues.
"I'll have you know that that's my warm water you're wasting," Yzak declares in a huff. "And if there's none left for me you'll be sorry, so get out of there this instant!"
"You want your warm water? Well, you're welcome to come in here and get it." What the fuck is he saying? Sure, he's not about to give up the argument, but if his roommate were to actually take him up on his offer one doesn't need to be a genius to realize that the evening on Yzak's bed won't be the last thing they do. "I'm not leaving."
"Yes, you are," Yzak insists. "I'm not going without my morning shower, and I'm not sharing with you."
"Though." He plasters on a cocky smirk. "Is widdle Yzak-pooh afraid of big bad men in the shower? Never knew you were such a chicken."
"I am not," Yzak bites out.
"Prove it," Dearka challenges, and is more surprised by the other pilot's momentary hesitation than by his entering the shower, still dressed in the thin, loose nightclothes. It takes only moments for the water bearing down on them to turn said nightclothes into a soggy second skin; whether the heat glowing on both their cheeks is brought about by the temperature or this fact he chooses not to speculate in as he tugs lightly at Yzak's pajama shirt.
"Shouldn't you take this off?" he manages through a throat that is suddenly thick and tight.
Blue gaze caught by purple, Yzak stares mutely but rather expressively at him before slowly reaching to unbutton his top. The action makes Dearka's pulse speed up desperately; he can't breath or think and Yzak has got to have noticed how turned on he is and is making it worse and dear god Yzak is undressing in front of me.
'Beautiful' is a word he knows his comrade wouldn't take kindly to being associated with, and it doesn't begin to cover it anyway so Dearka doesn't say it; instead he simply swallows and can't stop staring as the shirt flutters to the floor.
Yzak's face is rosy and his eyes trained on the floor, only occasionally sneaking peeks at Dearka; then he snorts and straightens and reaches past Dearka for the soap, and the movement has his arm brushing against Dearka's side. Triggered by the touch, Dearka wounds his arms around Yzak and draws him in, flush against his own body. There's no time to moan before he bends and presses a kiss on the other's parted lips, not needing to ask for permission before drowning his groan in Yzak's welcoming mouth.
Said roommate's hand mold themselves around Dearka's hips, fingers splayed open and gracing more of his skin by the second. In return he lowers his face to pay homage to Yzak's jawline, gratified to have the other's now-free mouth spill out increasingly frantic sounds. "Ah…!" he exclaims sharply as Dearka's hand curves around his buttock, then sneaks around to the front of his body. He offers no resistance, merely clings and parts and presses close as Dearka nudges him back against the wall and bends further, reacquainting himself with neck and chest and abdomen before going even lower.
It's strange but not unpleasant and Yzak's wailing is rewarding, like the pale fingers tightening around Dearka's scalp though in a less painful manner. "…rka!" he cries, and shudders, and sags against the wall. Searchingly trailing the tip of his tongue around his own lips to catch the last of the foreign substance, Dearka hesitantly gets to his feet again. Yzak's face is lowered, wet silver bangs clinging to it and obscuring most of it from view, his breathing slowly evening itself out. Did I go too far?
Idiot, the damn voice in his head replies rather angrily. You just blew your best friend in the shower, and you need to ask if you went too far?
But that voice can shut right up again, because Yzak's lifting his face, and while he isn't smiling he doesn't look angry either. One pale hand fits itself around Dearka's face, pulls it down upon the Duel pilot's mouth and if he weren't okay with everything he wouldn't kiss him like this, would he?
Suggestively glancing downwards, Yzak whispers, "Want me to…?"
If he wants; he's boiling, coiling, hardly able to nod. The other flicks him a smirk before dropping to his knees, and then there are… no words at all to describe anything. Wet heat and suction are good enough, no, good doesn't even begin to cover it, and on top of it there's the silver hair, the identity of his partner. Oh god, explodes in his head, whether in bliss or horror he can't tell, Yzak is…is…!
Seconds later he's leaning weak and spent against the wall, feeling his roommate tug at his hand and obediently pulling him to his feet. He shouldn't speak, not now when everything's so brittle, but the sex seems to have loosened his tongue, for he says, "I think I know whom you told me about before, but I'll ask again to confirm: who beats you up?"
With a little shrug Yzak removes his hand from Dearka's chest and reaches for a towel, pausing to turn off the water. "Mon père," he says and wraps himself up in the cloth.
"Your father?" Dearka asks, pulling forth a towel of his own.
Yzak flicks a lock of wet hair out of his face and opens the shower-stall door. "My father," he replies, turning to speak over his shoulder as he leaves for the bathroom proper, his face unexpectedly calm. "It's okay; I can handle it. Wanna get some breakfast?"
xxxxx