Aurora Borealis

I'm So Fucked

This isn't happening, is his first thought as Yzak all but runs away. Please. It can't be.

"I don't care," Yzak said. "Go fuck yourself."

Dearka tried everything, from a denunciation of his sexuality to the implied threat of gossiping, to no avail whatsoever. Stricken and hurt he grabs onto the wall for support, like the prissy little sissy he still feels like when referring to himself as… that… even in his thoughts. He sorta has to be gay, though, for desire and love and perfect has nothing at all to do with magazines and weddings but everything to do with Yzak smiling and in his arms.

However, he's also known the Duel pilot for a great many years and is thus very well aware that you don't start the dreaded Morning After with anything along the lines of, "Hey, Yzak, I'm in love with you."

Especially not when you're shocked and scared yourself, at the realization of overwhelming emotions that you never wanted to have. And while perfect is nice, he clearly remembers both how acutely awkward everything got after certain other things they did and how extremely clumsy and cautious Yzak can be about feelings – there's no use trying for romantic or serious when the threat of losing his friend is breathing so heavily down his neck. Hence he needed to turn it into a joke, into something that just happened, something that didn't mean anything, and he had to do it quickly, before the coldly searching blue gaze turned distant or disgusted.

Ridiculous idea, of course – how could sleeping with Yzak not mean the world? And how can that leave him not-gay?

Whether the other believed him or not, the explanation evidently didn't satisfy. And now Yzak's gone, after appearing just long enough to establish how incredibly hurt he was – white-faced and strained, blazing and vulnerable and so guilt-inducing that it's tearing Dearka apart on the inside.

Quietly he makes his way to their room in order to gather his belongings. They're spread out everywhere as usual, and he lacks the energy or incentive to pick most of them up. He throws some clothes onto his bed, along with a book and the most essential of his toiletries, leaving the rest for Yzak to do with as he pleases. Right now Dearka doesn't care for them, and the situation is too surreal to be truly processed. Hell, they've been roommates since they were kids, since always. It can't… can't just end like this.

Okay, he tells himself sternly (which is kinda ludicrous since he's allowed himself to collapse on Yzak's bed and bury his face in the familiar-smelling pillows) I'm not a little girl, I don't cry, I've no reason to, I did not recently destroy my life through losing Yzak because I'm pretty sure I love him, which I don't, that's just too soap opera.

All right, so he's gonna fix it. Feeling better now that his mind is made up, he sits up comfortably and waits for the Duel pilot to return. It seems like it takes forever but eventually he does, and stops in the doorway, stares at Dearka with eyes that are still much too large and dark in the death-pale face.

"Yzak… Look, shit, I'm sorry."

He doesn't understand why, but that reply appears to cause even more damage than his panicked denial this morning, as the other's face freezes, then slowly cracks, mouth open, lower lip bit into so hard it bleeds, and Dearka's on his way up and towards him before he knows it.

"I hate you," Yzak says very slowly and deliberately and Dearka thinks he's going to cry. The Buster pilot stumbles, stops.

This is not happening.

But it is and he goes to grab the stuff he left on his own bed previously, gives Yzak time to move away so that Dearka can slink through the doorway; he wants to look back but can't, for he's fucking leaving and – and –

This isn't fucking happening. Please. I won't let it be. But… No. No, no, no, no, no.

He throws himself on an unknown and thus uncomfortable bed.

Isn't there any way back?

xxxxx

This isn't happening, is his first thought as La Flaga's hands close around his shoulders none too lightly. Please. It can't be. But he's seen the signs, of course – first the beeps and flashes from the machinery, then a few button-pressings later the actual images, more strangers fighting and dying not all that far from them. And that is just the immediate prompting, the catalyst.

The real clues, those that should act as warnings now, are Fllay's screamed and not-contradicted accusations, La Flaga's fist in Athrun's face, Captain Ramius' kindly worded ultimatum of Us or Them. With all these occurrences taken into consideration, he shouldn't be surprised that the lieutenant's hands are on him now, heavy and commanding, but he still doesn't want to believe it.

Then those hands force him to stand and denial would take more energy that it's worth. After all, they've even gone so far as to admit that he might have to act as a hostage, that they're ready to use him as such.

And now, he realizes, that's just exactly what they're doing.

For what precise purpose he is not yet certain; considering that they feel it necessary to lay physical hand on him he probably doesn't want to know.

Now La Flaga leaves him momentarily alone, concentrating on a screen and a keyboard – more specifically, the devices used for communication with Strike. So what is he up to? Telling Athrun to come back? Not to attack the EA?

No, not only that, there must be more or Mu La Flaga wouldn't deem it necessary to nod to his men, to thereby apparently order them to grab hold of Kira. Hampered by shock and denial and not wanting to hurt anyone, both because he still cares and because violence is rarely a good thing when it comes to maintaining a non-aggression pact, he doesn't hinder one of the petty officers from locking his arms behind him.

"Sorry, kid," La Flaga mumbles, and there aren't just several people clinging to him, weighing down and restraining, there's also the lieutenant's gun pushing into his check. His flesh is hot and soft in comparison to the oil-smelling metal biting into it.

Kira has nothing at all to reply, feels as sick and empty as most of the others look – the captain staring sadly into space, Sai studying his nails, La Flaga focusing on the little screen in front of him, adjusting the headset before speaking, "Zala. You know what to do."

Athrun doesn't respond, doesn't need to respond. His eyes go crystal, hard and brittle, and then he very calmly shuts the communication off.

Kira knows beyond any doubt that the barrel in his own face assures that the blunette will do anything and everything at all.

Being involved in the war is bad, terrible, horrific. Sacrificing certain ZAFT soldiers for their escape prior to the arrival on the Archangel was too. So was the prospect of being used to threaten Athrun into negotiating with his ideals and letting the EA go – then what is it to have him turn now on his own principles, people that might jolly well be his friends?

Kira happened upon, stumbled into the war because he didn't want to die, didn't want to watch others die, because of simple, immediate cares without connection to the reasons beyond the battles, but Athrun is in it because he believes and they're taking that from him now.

"You sick cowards," he says in bitterness, for he doesn't want this on his conscience, no more than he wanted peoples' lives there, and at the same time there's the tiniest hint of happiness that Athrun will do even this for his sake. "Can't you even kill for yourselves?"

He can't imagine there would still be war if all those top-shots and quietly supportive civilians had to do the dirty work themselves. Whose hands is the blood truly on, the one obeying the order to kill or the one giving it? Which one is the killer? Both?

"We can't move around among the debris or we'd connect and sink," Sai says, still staring at his hands, voice raw, a pained and humiliated challenge. "You know that."

Which, of course, he does know. That piece of fact simply didn't seem important, not for someone whose highest priority is Athrun rather than the Archangel.

"Just try to take it easy," La Flaga tells him and Kira obediently slumps against his captors. Why waste his energy being on alert, and why not take advantage of the surprise he might gain from sudden action? Momentarily frivolous he wishes he were heavier so they'd have to struggle with his mere weight. Now his relaxation merely results in the man holding his arms loosening the grip a little; good enough, he supposes. He could break free. He'd have to fight, possibly break a couple of bones, but he could do it.

It's not even ten minutes later that the demolished main spacecraft from the EA docks to the Archangel, releasing its commander and his handful of soldiers into the larger ship.

Waving the other captors away to take their places against the wall, La Flaga slings a firm but not hurtful arm around Kira's shoulders, free hand kept close to his now-sheathed gun but not touching it. The strangers marching onto the bridge as though they owned it provide a safer constriction than any physical force they have henceforth employed against him.

Kira doesn't listen as intently as he should to what next occurs; he ought to pay full attention, to register all clues regarding the strangers' morals and weaknesses, but Athrun isn't here, he should be coming, what have they done to him, why can't I see him, I want to, please, nothing serious has happened to him, has it, how damn stupid am I he just killed his own and he did it for me and –

The new commander appears to be of the same self-righteous kind that the leaders of Artemis and, much like them, he unfortunately also has higher rank than their own Captain Ramius, who therefore sees herself forced to back down for him.

What abruptly snatches Kira's focus, robs it from panic-tinted speculation on Athrun and on how La Flaga persistently clings to him, is the annoyed, half-bellowed, "Haven't you got the Coordinator boy here yet? Hurry it up!"

Likely sensing his captive's once more suddenly increased tension, La Flaga tilts his head minutely, just enough to be able to murmur into Kira's ear, "Don't do anything stupid. Blue Hair can handle himself." A reminder and a warning, and truth as both – Athrun can indeed handle himself perfectly well, but he might be troubled if Kira too gets himself into danger needlessly. He dips his head a millimeter or two, knows the blond has correctly interpreted it as a nod when they both relax a little.

"Here he is, Commander," one of the new EA soldiers call then, and Kira has to apply considerable conscious effort to stay put and calm and not stare at Athrun being led onto the bridge. The blunette's features are perfectly neutral, carrying a non-expression that Kira has only occasionally glimpsed, to a lesser degree, before certain uncomfortable confrontations with people against whom he's helpless. Athrun once carried it while disappearing into the school's main office for a "talk" with his father and the principal regarding the normally peaceful blunette beating the crap out of some bullies who couldn't take a hint. That too, as a painful consistent irony, was mainly Kira's fault; Athrun wouldn't have gotten into trouble for his own sake.

It's like a movie how the strangers walk his lover towards the commander, all theatric and surreal. The two guards who continue to flank the blunette after the rest of the escort steps away lock his arms behind his back and stand around practically posing, one of them with his gun out.

"Well," the commander drawls with apparent distaste. "This is the Coordinator? I heard these ridiculous stories about a teenage monster piloting our Gundam on Artemis, but… Nevermind. You are this… Kira Yamato?"

Kira does not like his name in this man's mouth, which transforms it into something much dirtier than "monster".

"Yes," Athrun replies tonelessly, and remembering La Flaga's whisper is the only thing keeping Kira from revealing the bluff. "I am."

Smug smirk making alarms go off in Kira's head before the man actually nods, the commander proceeds to gesture for one of the guards to belt Athrun one in the stomach. The not-so-long-ago warning isn't enough anymore, it takes the lieutenant hardening his grip a little to prevent the brunette from charging forward as the ZAFT Coordinator falls forward, stumbling down to his knees. Then (nonono!) the commander produces a gun, unlocks the safety, lovingly caresses the black device before pointing it at Athrun, letting the barrel kiss the blunette's fronthead.

"Sir!" the captain protests but Kira hardly hears, doesn't register anything but Athrun's obediently fallen figure.

"Monstrosities," the commander says. "We're at war here, normal humans against monstrosities like this one. You can't have missed that part of the education, can you – about taking care of the freaks whenever one has the opportunity?"

Someone is holding a gun to Athrun's head, and judging by what he's saying there's a very real possibility that he might fire it.

Fury and desperate terror hunts down and makes the process short with that remains of the drug that has been incapacitating him; like lightning, like a snake, like Athrun he moves, twists, takes, fires. Less than thirty seconds after the commander's placing his firearm against the blunette's head Kira has forced his way out of a surprised La Flaga's grip, taken custody of the blond's pistol; in a blurry of movements he unlocks the safety, points it at the offender, hugs the trigger.

Surprise underneath the blood rapidly pouring out and obscuring his face, the commander topples over. There's no time to stop and think; before he's even hit the ground Athrun is up, attacking the closest guards while Kira forces himself not to cry and shoots those further away.

The two flanking Athrun are down with a kick and a hit, lying slumped and bleeding on the floor. Three more fall before they've had time for resistance, bullets fitted snugly into their heads. Without hesitation though with a touch of anxiety coloring the non-expression Athrun plucks a pistol from one of his former guards and pads over to the doorway, leans out and aims. The noises of first another shot and then a thick thud announce that he's done away with what is presumably the last newcomer.

Shock no longer roots the Archangel crew to their spots; they're moving around, shouting, arguing, but Kira doesn't care. Almost blind for the tears flooding his aching eyes he stumbles over to Athrun, allows himself to literally fall into the other's arms. Hulking and sobbing he buries his face in the blunette's shoulder, leaving the rest of the world behind.

"Kira," Athrun says and tilts the brunette's head up to kiss him hard. "Come on. We're getting out of here."

Forced to concentrate on pushing horror, disgust, shame, guilt and fear down below the relief and love, Kira obediently lets Athrun tug him along. No one stops them, whether because of the bodies on the floor or the gun still clutched in the blunette's hand.

Two more stranger soldiers guard the machine hall, and quite unceremoniously Athrun pushes Kira in behind a corner, then offs them both. The one mechanic placing himself in their way is efficiently and ruthlessly kicked aside and before anyone else has come near Athrun stomps off against the floor, and his grip around Kira's wrist bring them both floating up towards Strike.

The cockpit is cramped with two of them in it but right now he's only grateful for the almost painful closeness, snuggles into Athrun and continues to sob quietly as the ZAFT elite activates the Gundam. A vicious kick later the portal gives way and they're out in space.

(Inside the G-unit cockpit is like a womb, where they are reborn in/with/for each other. "I love you," Kira says. "I love you so I think I'll die from it.")

xxxxx