Aurora Borealis

The Less Appreciated Shower Scene

The room isn't as familiar as it should be. While Athrun has never much cared for it or invested any true emotion in it, always considered it merely a convenient place to rest up in on occasion and never anything approaching home, it still ought to give more comfort than it does. The claustrophobia-tinted smallness, the sparse and durable furniture of mostly plastic, the light indefinite colors and what few personal artifacts he's stored in it –they should provide some semblance of relief but instead only serves to remind him of the room they inhabited on the Archangel. In a sense even more irking is the fact that that comparison and likeness doesn't disturb him. Rooms, regardless of locations, are merely rooms. What matters is what happens in them.

Hands twitching closed at that thought, he half-involuntarily whips around to face his companion, who is thankfully still smiling. Athrun drinks in the sunny expression as he might down an elixir.

Next second the elation evaporates, though, for something has evidently shown on his face that chases every semblance off happiness off of Kira's features. Haunted and hungry for assurance they are, and yellowishly pale – the brunette might be better now than during and immediately after their flight, as is Athrun himself, but it is quite clear that the figurative scarring still aches.

Seemingly perpetually emotionally drained as of late, Athrun finds that he... has absolutely nothing to say to that.

They moved beyond the realm that words can express or find meaning in long ago. Certainly he can summarize, can pluck phrases from his memory that used to be strong and important but now seems curiously disconnected from their underlying meaning, but that's all it would be, mere words.

I turned traitor and killed my own.

You murdered people with little more than your bare hands.

I love you. Sometimes I come close to wishing that I didn't, because everything was so much easier when I wasn't so ruled by emotion, but you were right, I love you, I love you so I think I'll die from it.

Fluent in four languages and quite verbally gifted from birth, Athrun has very seldom had trouble expressing himself. On the contrary he's rather adept at all kinds of communication, from speeches to lectures to military conversation. It gets trickier when the talks turn personal, when the words go from being a wall between him and the others to become a shaky sort of bridge.

He holds his hand out, a silent offer of everything he is.

Immediately, before it's even fully extended, Kira grabs hold of it, weaving their fingers together. Wordlessly still they step closer, gingerly yet unavoidably, like wild animals having caught sight of a fire. "Athrun," Kira chokes then, and inside the other's arms Athrun feels the agony that has this far been too great to be handled slowly peel asunder, fall into leaden but bearable pains inside him.

A tentative but hurried couple of steps later they arrive at the bed, curl up on it all tangled in each other, seeking comfort to ease the neediness as kittens might seek warmth. In the dusky room, buried under bedsheets and in Kira's embrace, mind reeling under the pressure of guilt and hatred, most of which directed at himself, Athrun feels large parts of himself slip away, heedless of his uncertain attempts to stop them. The Athrun of the last few years, the Athrun that he can no longer stand, the accomplished and cold soldier, the well-raised son of Councilman Zala, the falsely sociable loner – they tone away, peeled away by hurt and shame.

Left underneath, uncovered and unrestricted now, is a frail person, a memory of a person, achingly pure as only the new can be, the Athrun that started digging his own grave that day among the cherry trees that wept pale petals all over them. A vulnerable idea of a person that is nursed by Kira snuggled into him, so tightly and completely on so many levels that it's tempting to regard the two of them as a single entity, or possibly two entities with a single soul. Ridiculous and badly poetic the notion might be, but the new-old Athrun now firming his hold on reality, on his existence, can afford that.

It's all right. Kira's here, and so is he, and it's all right to wax cheesy romantic.

What to his muddled senses feels like approximately an hour later, when they have both found some sort of peace, Kira absently scrubs his hands against Athrun's chest. "Blood on them," the brunette mutters, sounding sleepily grumpy rather than outright despaired and horrified as has previously been the case.

"It matters," Athrun says, echoing Kira's words that drugged evening on the Archangel, the absolution given. One of his lover's hands is caught in his and he firms his hold around it, breaths a kiss over the knuckles, "but not half, not a tenth so much as other things." Then, because they live in a world where it seems to need to be said a lot, and because he wants to say it, can't help speaking it aloud, "I love you."

Kira smiles at that, not the sickeningly empty expression he was wont to feature during their journey in Strike and which Athrun was tempted to slap off his face, nor even the shallowly though honestly glad expression Nicol's lighthearted gossip brought forth – no, this is a real, deep, private smile so sweet that it eats away at Athrun with an almost painful intensity.

Before Kira's response has completely given way for silence a knock resounds through the room, affirming quite firmly what has been made all right just recently, that they are no longer cut off from time or the rest of the world. "Zala-san, Yamato-san, the commander requests your presence in his office effective immediately."

"Thank you," Athrun calls. "We'll be there shortly."

Getting up is a slower process than normal, one craving considerably much more effort and thought. It is as though he has not stood up in a long time, long enough that his legs aren't sure they remember how to work anymore. He inwardly shakes his head; he might cling to this newfound purity, but the world isn't an easy place to keep anything in and there are more valuable things to protect than that. Their fingers intertwine again, linking them, acting as a single limb of flesh in different hues – he stares at it for several seconds before gently tugging Kira to his feet. The brunette's face is elfish in the dim light, hollow and dazed.

"You don't have to come with me," Athrun says, freeing his hand and turning partly away to liberate a uniform from the closet. There, he grabs the closest one on its hangar and drops it on the rumbled bed; the distinct feel of the red fabric is almost unfamiliar to him. Not entirely so, though, and there's no hesitation in the movement as he starts unbuttoning the shirt he shrugged into after abandoning the space suit. He ought to have showered, he belatedly remembers, it's not fitting to appear before one's commander with sweat and dirt still clinging to one's person. Le Klueze has never been petty, but on the other hand Athrun has never seen the blond in anything less than impeccable attire. Well, no use worrying about that now.

"I'll go," Kira mumbles, arms trembling their way around Athrun's waist. "I think I'd rather face it up-front." An exhalation-verging-on-sigh hits Athrun's left shoulder. "Should I… change or something?"

"I see. Yes, you might want to do that."

Kira reluctantly releases him, allowing him to lean into the wardrobe again. Neutral black pants suitable for political dinners in fine restaurants, a white shirt of the model normally worn below the red jacket; Athrun might not have much of a sense for fashion, but you can't grow up the son of important politicians and not gain a rudimentary idea of what's appropriate. They change in silence, still touchy-feely enough button up each other's shirts as though it was the most natural thing in the world to do.

Le Klueze's office hasn't changed, nor the man commanding it. Athrun remembers his lover once referring to the blond as that creepy mask-guy, but to the Aegis pilot the older man is a good commander, no more and no less. Certainly it would have been a considerable nuisance to be put under the command of someone like Eirhen or Yurgen.

"Commander Le Klueze," he says, salutes. Beside him Kira gives a polite bow, the respectful but not humble greeting of a civilian.

"At ease," the blond says, nodding at the two chairs in front his desk before sitting back in his own. "Now then, please enlighten me as to what occurred during your absence."

"Sir. During our travel to Atlantia we happened upon a battle; I regret I'm still not aware of the causes or participants. I communicated briefly with our side, and we were catapulted away from the site."

"You knowingly sacrificed our troops, I take it?" Le Klueze interjects.

"Yes, Sir," is the only answer Athrun can give. "Not many of them would have made it out in any case, so I believe it was the strategically correct decision."

"Quite true," the commander smiles. Kira squirms in his seat. "Go on."

"Yes, Sir. We ended up in the outskirts of the Debris Belt. After an estimated fifteen hours of drifting, the shuttle's main power systems broken beyond repair, we discovered, and simultaneously were discovered by, a ship that turned out to be the Archangel. It seems that was where they'd been hiding since our last battle against them." In which, unbelievably, he fought Kira. It's all he can do not to lean over and wrap his arms around the brunette. "Unable to communicate, they nevertheless took us in. However, as the shuttle was opened one of them fired at us. This was later revealed to be accidental, but at the time being I interpreted it as quite seriously meant and returned the attack. They were greatly understaffed and I made the mistake of underestimating them, leading to Kira having to warn me about an individual attempting to shoot me. This interference caused him to take a bullet in the leg, which, in turn, prompted me to take the captain hostage and work out a temporary non-aggression pact. One of the naturals needed a blood transfusion and, at Kira's insistence and in order to establish some goodwill after killing several of their men, I agreed to donate. Following this they attempted a drugged questioning but to little avail considering the circumstances." Breath. "They had been getting their supplies from Junius Seven."

"Oh?" Le Klueze almost-drawls. "That must have disgusted you."

"Yes, Sir, it did. However, the idea of starving to death did not greatly appeal to me either. That is why I agreed to pilot Strike and help out on one occasion. We were… interrupted… by a fight between some EA and some ZAFT vessels nearby. With Kira still on the ship and under rather definite threat, I followed the recommendation not to attack the EA. My original intention had been to wait until Kira had fully recovered, then for the two of us to liberate Strike and leave, but after a few EA survivors of fairly high rank boarded things took a different turn." He pauses for a moment, wondering if he'll be so lucky as to avoid further questioning about the battle. He does not plan on lying, doesn't think he could pull off fooling Le Klueze, but the notion of him fighting ZAFT is so ridiculous that it likely won't be brought up. Silence is gold. "The EA commander saw fit to threaten me and had his underlings play around a bit. They did not get very far before Kira got ahold of a pistol and shot the immediate offenders." He dares not look at the brunette, knows too well that he couldn't resist comforting him should he look like he needs it, equally aware that this is not the time nor the place. "Following that we got rid off the remaining new arrivals, during which the original Archangel crew stayed passive, and used the Gundam to leave."

"I see. And your conclusions?"

"It is an interesting ship. If put in the hands of someone who could properly handle it, the systems are quite promising. As for the naturals, they did not strike me as anything out of the ordinary. There's the undermanned crew, plus about a hundred civilians from Heliopolis – the only ones worthy of notion would be Mu La Flaga and Fllay Allister, daughter of the late politician Allister. I was made to understand that a number of the current crew members were recruited from the civilians, and even the captain is merely a subordinate whose superiors have met untimely ends. She was, however, a kind and competent person."

"And these special individuals, La Flaga and Ms Allister?"

"The lieutenant is competent, certainly, though perhaps not all he is cracked up to be. On the other hand I did not encounter him during circumstances that were favorable for him; he's famous for his skills with Zero, but nobody's ever claimed he's exceedingly adept at physical combat. As for the girl, she's frankly hysterical with grief." A cold way to dismiss her emotions, but the best that he can manage. He does not want to go into her accusations and acid tears; he doesn't want to sympathize, to have far too good an idea of how she feels.

"Very well. Then, about you, Yamato-kun – what is your current relationship to the Archangel and its crew?"

Through the corner of his eye Athrun sees Kira stare straight ahead as he says, calm and collected, "My association with any part of the EA is over."

"Is that so? I'm glad to hear it. However, I do not want to stress you or force any decision from you at this state; I remember quite well how adamantly you denied any offer to assist us previously. Just remain here for a bit, and time will tell. You may both go."

"Commander Le Klueze," they say in chorus, pay their respects, leave.

"Oh, dammit," Kira whispers as fast as they've rounded the corner, turning to lean his face against Athrun's shoulder, sighing in mixed contentment and distress as the blunette wraps his arms around him. "It's… very kind of him, and that's sort of disturbing because in a sense it would be so much easier if I was forced to make a final decision. I would do it, you know, I mean I guess I would join ZAFT if that was what I had to do – it's no worse than what I did for the EA, after all, and I can't stay close to you if I don't, can I?"

"Probably not in the long run," Athrun agrees. "Technically I could quit, but I'm a legal adult only so long as I'm part of the military and given that my father will probably be furious when he learns about you I'm not sure how we'd be able to support ourselves."

"I don't want to, though," Kira confides. "I don't want to be part of a war. He's right that it's silly to think such things at this point but I still don't want to be part of it."

"Of course you don't. You're too good for this. But, concerning what you said about the Archangel…?" It can't be nearly as simple as Kira made it out to be to Le Klueze.

"On the one hand I want nothing to do with them, detest them for everything that happened, even if it wasn't completely their fault they still made all those things happen to us, to you…!" He pauses, swallows. "And on the other I don't deserve for them to even want me to be associated with them because of what we, what I, did to them. I killed those people and it's just… It's just over. There's been too much blood under the bridge. I mean, I wish them all good but I wouldn't go out of my way to help them about it. We're… finished."

It is rather much like it was on the Archangel, after that. Oh, for Athrun it's a relief – he can do things again, can accomplish something, and is surrounded by friendly, familiar faces. All right, "friendly" might be something of an overstatement when it comes to Yzak, but even the Duel pilot's agitation is familiar and comforting and as of late he's been unusually calm, hasn't once approached them willingly and is even civil to Kira, during what few minutes they've been in the same room.

But his own situation is only half the picture, and to Kira a ZAFT vessel provides no more sense of belonging than the Archangel did. It works, though; the tension is buried far below the surface and with Yzak absent and Nicol friendly and easy-going as per his habit, the integration is smoother than they had any right to expect.

This, of course, does not mean that he is at all positive about the little visit from the Council that is soon to come about. They engage in a brief, informal inspection every now and then, the politicians, and many delegates take the chance to see their children. Patrick Zala has rarely ever bothered to, for which Athrun has been both melancholy and grateful, but after the whole Archangel deal he can't very well refrain from coming. He'll want to see Le Klueze at least, and it would look too weird if he didn't spend some minimum of time with his son too.

Athrun does not know how much Mr Clyne or the commander has informed his father of, concerning his relationship with Kira, nor is he certain of what to say if the subject is broached. Thank god that the Clynes will be there as well – not that he wants to see them, particularly not his former fiancée, for it is a very uncomfortable thing to meet her guileless blue eyes knowing what a sinner you are, but she and her father will hopefully be able to act as a buffet between Kira and Patrick Zala's rage, should he find out something he doesn't like.

Well, at least there's still a good while before he'll arrive; he and the others are scheduled to come knocking at about two PM, two hours from now. Fortunate, that, since they haven't managed to get out of bed yet, much less make themselves presentable; between some very persistent EA fighters and repairs on several of their own units last night dragged out quite late. Athrun wasn't asleep until somewhen around four-thirty AM, and Kira didn't fare much better.

"You awake?" he mumbles now into the mop of chocolate-colored hair resting on his shoulder.

"Mmh. Guess we should get up."

"Yeah, nice as it is to sleep out…"

"C'mon then," Kira says, climbing out of bed.

Discontent with the sudden lack of warm weight against him, Athrun fights down a yawn and follows the brunette into the bathroom. It's comfortably warm in here, and the sight of Kira disrobing for the shower does wonders to wake him up. Obviously they are both tense about the approaching arrival of Patrick Zala, but two hours is a long time, at least in a nicely private bathroom.

Engaged in quite distracting pleasant activities, he dismisses the low creaking noise, barely distinguishable over the sounds from the running shower and the current cherished chaos of his mind; it isn't until his head turns sideways, pressed against the mostly-transparent wall, that he catches sight of the person that should most definitely not be here. Not for another hour at least, and even then preferably not in their bathroom – and especially not under present circumstances. How not to come out to your murderous and homophobic father, he thinks distractedly, staring in horrified denial at the man even as his body shudders with helpless release.

Taking a deep, steadying breath he straightens, offering Kira a grim smile; the brunette too has evidently noticed the forbidding figure glaring daggers at them. Okay. This is it. We'll get through it. So calm that it surprises even himself he turns the water off, brushes wet hair out of his face, wraps himself in a bathrobe, hands another one to Kira, then steps out of the shower stall and walks over to face his father, Kira standing uncertainly behind-beside him.

He doesn't bother dodging the punch; though perhaps undeserved it's definitely not unexpected, and the more and faster his father can vent some of his anger, the sooner he'll be something approaching reasonable. It's not the first time he's been hit, nor even the first time his face has aquatinted a fist, but Patrick Zala is quite considerably stronger than a natural or teammate, least at this close proximity, and he'd have fallen if Kira hadn't reflexively caught him. Trying to convince himself that the left half of his face is not one big throbbing pain, he dimly realizes that his father is about to continue the assault. Kira's arms, still supporting him, tense in clear affirmation that the brunette too has registered as much and is not going to quietly accept it and how the hell can Athrun prevent this from becoming a complete disaster and thank god that the door glides open again to admit Mr Clyne who takes one look a the scene and places a hand on his furious co-worker's arm. Patrick Zala shakes it off but clearly calms, steps back a little.

"I have no authority over, nor any interest in, limiting the personal practices and relationships of our soldiers," he says, rather solemnly. "My son, however, does not do this sort of thing."

"I see," Athrun replies, surprising himself with the evenly though faintly spoken words; startlingly his father's statement hurts worse than the hit (he'd thought he was over that but apparently isn't) and he feels strangely light-headed, almost drugged. Too bad – or is it a blessing? – that he doesn't actually have a choice at all. He can't live, doesn't want to live, without Kira, and that's that. "Would you prefer I changed my name?"

"It is of no consequence to me," his father says, giving a hint of a shrug, face perfectly expressionless. "After all, you and I are not related in any way."

As Councilman Zala stalks away Athrun closes his eyes against unexpected tears and ignores whatever Mr Clyne's saying in favor of focusing on Kira still holding most of his weight, slender olive fingers sympathetically stroking his face.

xxxxx