Aurora Borealis

Upsy Daisy

Yzak seats himself Indian style on the bed, staring down at the mirror laid out in front of him on the coverlet. Old habits die hard, and they have a tendency to resurface in times of distress. He's engaged in this odd little quirk hundreds of times through his childhood, as a sort of distraction, a way of emptying out an overabundance of emotion. As a kid he could sit staring like this for hours, and apparently he still hasn't grown tired of the practice.

The light, the source of which embedded in the ceiling, creates fascinating, psychedelic patterns on the mirror's surface, reminiscent of the sights one might witness if one presses a fingertip against a closed eye. If he leans just a little further, his own reflection will gradually start intruding upon the firework of colorful sparks.

Sometimes he just looked at those colors, concentrating on using them as a medium for escapism so he could shut down memories he didn't want. At other occasions he studied his face, tracing with morbid fascination every line and bruise and cut. He had a lot of those as a child, both from wild play and… certain other incidents.

True, his mother threw his father out immediately after the man had first beaten him up, but it's considerably harder to cut off long-standing emotional bonds than to stay away from someone physically. And, believing both that children have a right to both their parents and that even children ought to be allowed and expected to make their own decisions for themselves, his mother always left it up to Yzak whether to have any contact with his father. For whatever stupid sentimental masochist reason he still does, every now and then, and she never says anything about it, merely cleans his cuts and calls the hospital when that's necessary.

And now… he knows, intellectually, that it's all psychological. Heck, he's in his older teens and an elite solider well versed in physical combat, whereas his father is a wasting man in his late forties with no training whatsoever. Technically, Yzak could beat him to a pulp without even breathing heavily afterwards. Unfortunately he also knows, emotionally, that he will do no such thing.

He can handle things as they are. His father abuses him, and while it's not okay it's still normal. If the man did something truly outrageous Yzak would do something, probably, but… so long as it isn't worse than this it just isn't worth braving the well and truly conditioned mental blocks limiting his actions around his father.

Yeah, come on, he tells himself. Big boys don't cry.

But they do, evidently, throw mirrors at walls in childish fury. It shatters with a sharp clink and Yzak closes his eyes and swallows.

Worst of all is the fact that he isn't primarily upset about his father, though the situation with the man, prompted into his thoughts by the impending visit from the Council, has probably had its part in souring his mood. No, the real cause for his sullen irritation and gnawing self-pity is the fact that he's sitting on his own bed. And that makes one for the list of things more pathetic than crying my eyes out in the shower. He wanted to use Dearka's sleeping area but wouldn't let himself give in to the obvious weakness.

Now, after already having demonstrated his helpless childishness through breaking the mirror, he contemplates the other bed for a moment, pouting, before sneaking over to it. Dearka hasn't slept in it for what feels like a very long time, but somehow it's still very much his, and Yzak knows it isn't his imagination that the bedclothes still smell of his former roommate. After all, Dearka rarely bothered to wash them. With a low sigh he allows himself to collapse, buries his face in the pillow, snuggles into the coverlet like a baby in the womb.

When he's felt particularly emotionally sore, when loneliness and missing and cold have gotten the better of him, he has actually slept in it. Normally he forbids himself from straying into what used to be Dearka's half of the room, not intending to betray himself by forlornly touching the blond's old things, but the decision has often wavered, to the point when it's equally common for him to indulge as to scorn. Exactly eleven times, carefully counted, he has given in to the point of searching the bathroom for Dearka's left-over products and smearing thin layers of them on his own fingers so that the familiar smell will stay with him; four times he has spent the night in this bed instead of his own; five times he's slept in Dearka's clothes.

Letting out a shaky sigh he gradually pushes himself up; the Council delegates will be here soon, and he had better meet them in one of the public areas. After all, he is not overly interested in trying to explain why he and Dearka are no longer roommates.

The open, room-like space with the huge windows is as good a place as any to wait, and tensely he prepares himself to do just that, staring out into space.

Less than ten minutes later a familiar, under the circumstances unexpectedly bright and confident voice exclaims, "Yzak. Yo!"

Turning, he finds himself facing a rapidly approaching Dearka who waves at him and presents him with a big grin the exaltation of which does not quite manage to cover the underlying apprehension. Next second he finds himself hoisted up into the air, Dearka's hands a steadying warmth on his waist. "Upsy daisy!" the blond calls, twirling him around.

Breathless and startled Yzak lacks even the most rudimentary idea of what a proper reaction would constitute of. His hands fist themselves around Dearka's shoulder for support, but whether he clings so ardently because he wants to strangle the blond or because he wants to hug him he has no clue. Perhaps a little of both.

When Dearka finally lets him down he doesn't bother to step away, remains standing scant inches from the blond though it infuriates him that he has to tilt his head backwards to look the other in the face. "What the hell was that all about?" he inquires evenly.

Lifting a hand to scratch the back of his head in quite a sheepish fashion, Dearka replies, "Well, it's hard to put in words, really, but I guess I wanted to say that… I don't know, that we're okay, or I hope we can be okay. I… you're important to me, you know." His hinted smile is very uncertain.

"Is that so? Then again, I can't say I'm surprised to hear it. You always do talk a lot of shit, you know?"

"Wha? Yzak, what are you…?"

This has gone too far. If he wants to run because he wants so badly what Dearka might be offering that it'd hurt too badly not to get it, then the time for caution is over. One way or the other, this has to end. "You're not gay, remember?" he asks scathingly. "Well, I might have believed you before we fucked!"

The answer interrupting the brief quiet isn't of Dearka's making. Yzak isn't sure what he expected or even wanted the blond to say, only that he has to hear it, whatever it is, can't leave until he's listened, however much he might want to. And so he stands there immobile until suddenly there's a sharp thunk over by the pseudo-doorway. With slow, shocked movements, he and Dearka both turn to stare in horror at the pair of Council delegates staring right back at them, they too pale and wide-eyed.

Mr Elthman's mouth works soundlessly; his formerly pristine pants are stained with coffee from where the mug lies broken at his feet.

"Hi, Dad," Dearka finally says, daring death.

Yzak's mother takes a breath and smoothes her skirt. "Come with me, please, Yzak," she says, for all appearances perfectly composed and greeting him with the same calm happiness as usual. "Good day, Mr Elthman, Dearka."

"Yes, Mother," Yzak replies with the same expressionless tone, one he has learned long ago but rarely uses. Before he goes, however, he tilts his face a few centimeters to the side, tells Dearka in a low, collected voice, "I'm allergic to daffodils."

It'll be his little test – his mother is brining him off ship briefly, for some kind of gathering, and he can hardly avoid meeting his father. This will hurt. It will hurt quite badly, and very probably land him in the hospital. In all likelihood they'll have to bring him to the closest one, not the one he normally frequents. There they will not know of his allergy, and so will probably adhere to PLANT custom and stuff his room with daffodils.

He follows his mother in silence.

xxxxx

Nicol turns in surprise as someone speaks his name. He's been tinkering with the Gundam systems for a while now and it isn't exactly fun, but he never would have believed he'd get bored enough to fall asleep and start seeing some strange dream. And a dream it has to be, because there is no way a beautiful female voice would say "Nicol" somewhere behind him in the machine hall on the ship. Then he turns to look, for he's faintly curious as to what his subconscious has come up with this time and it would be rude to ignore whoever it is, and realizes that the experience might be quite real.

Lacus Clyne waving and smiling at him might be an unexpected sight, but it is not an impossible one. Truth be told, he reminds himself acidly, it is a whole great lot more credible than most of his current dreams sequences.

"Clyne-san," he says, concluding that she isn't an illusion after all when the rest of the crew don't give him odd stares but simply continue to concentrate on her. Pushing the keyboard away he climbs out of the cockpit and lets himself down on the floor.

"Clyne-san," he repeats after approaching, stopping just barely far enough away to be able to give a respectful nod without knocking into her. Why did he step so close anyway? "What a pleasant surprise." Though they're true the words are such an abused cliché that he wants to kick himself even as they leave his mouth. They remind him of garden parties from his childhood, of playing on the smaller white piano that was normally situated in the living room on the first floor but had been moved outside for the occasion, of roses and sunshine and gentle winds. They smell of grass so fresh and bright that it hurts to look at it, and of sugar-drenched cakes and thick whipped cream. He always was a prodigy, and his parents liked to show him off as one. No, that comes out all wrong in his thoughts; it sounds like they used him, and while that might be partially true he also knows that they love him and would never have done it, had he not enjoyed the experience more often than not.

Certainly he was bored to death waiting on the grownups to finish their talks and actually start eating, especially with the tempting treats to close at hand and yet forbidden until the adults started digging in. Even then he was only allowed to eat a little, maybe six cookies over the course of an hour. Sometimes his mother let him stuff his face after the guests had departed, but it was still a trying experience.

Nor did he much like getting his cheeks pinched by elderly women telling him what a cute and nice little big boy he was.

He did, however, enjoy playing the piano in the always-lovely weather in the splendid garden. PLANT has never had a rainy spring or chilly summer; every day is metrologically perfect. Playing with the other children, and being cuddled by the less condescending adults, also made for pleasant memories.

What a pleasant surprise, not at all, you're quite welcome, the pleasure was all mine – that's the kind of phrases he learned to use. At the time he still didn't understand them as anything less than sincere and thus found them courteous and lovely. Later, when he grew older, he realized that imbued falsehood and took to detesting them, though he is still quite adept at using them. When he's confused they have a tendency to spill through.

"Nicol-san," she smiles, that eternal, seemingly unruffable and utterly sweet smile that he remembers so well. Not only from commercials and broadcasts, though it stuck in his memory even from that, but particularly from the occasion at which he visited her home with Athrun and Kira. She was kind and indulgent then too, despite what news they brought her; he isn't sure whether or not he ought to be surprised at that. It depends, he supposes, on what her feelings for Athrun are, and judging by what little he's seen those are benevolent but not passionate in any form or way. It's not unreasonable to speculate that she might even be glad that their engagement will never bear fruit.

So what will happen to her now? Is she to be married off to some other young man of fine family?

Nicol cannot imagine her wedding anyone she doesn't like, nor can he believe that her father would ever try and make her. Lacus Clyne is simply the kind of person for whom it is inconceivable not to live happily ever after. She is their guarantee that despite the war, despite Junius Seven, there's still goodness and happy endings abundant in the world. Through her mere existence she proves it, every second that sees her breathing is evidence that there's light – a universe capable of creating someone as utterly perfect as her couldn't be anything but good at the core. Everything dark in the world is transformed into something beautiful through her coming in contact with it – even Junius Seven and the war didn't succeed in corrupting her, instead she made beauty of it through her songs, through her miraculous hope for and belief in peace.

Athrun never saw that in her, Nicol knows.

"I hear that you are quite the musician," she says.

She is standing in the machine hall of a battle ship, surrounded by forbidding units and rough soldiers, a revelation of softness, of color, of brightness, and for the first time Nicol feels less than blindly admiring of Athrun. Obvious emotional stress and the affair with Kira didn't manage to lessen his dedicated infatuation, but somehow the idea that Athrun didn't notice the glorious loveliness that was his fiancée does.

"Not like you, Clyne-san," he says. "But yes, I do play."

Her smile blinds him like the sunrise never has. "Please call me Lacus," she says and at his uncertain, ludicrously grateful and probably blushing nod continues, "Then, would you join me in a song?"

"I'd be delighted," he breathes, and they walk together to his room, where he has explained that his piano is situated.

On the way they pass Yzak trailing behind his mother, expression so empty it doesn't look like more than a shadow of his normal face. He doesn't notice that Cly- that Lacus-san is a revelation either.

A minute or so later Patrick Zala brushes past them, not deigning to acknowledge their existence. He doesn't seem able to notice anything of beauty in the world right now so perhaps it's no surprise he doesn't appear to see Lacus-san.

"Oh," she says softly. "I suppose his meeting with Athrun-san did not go well, then."

"Indeed," Nicol agrees. Worry stabs at him suddenly, but the blunette ought to be all right, doesn't he? It's not like Patrick Zala would have really hurt him, and he has Kira there to pick up the pieces.

Nicol's own parents weren't able to come, and while he would have liked to spend more time with them than he currently does he's also grateful that they won't see him in these surroundings, see him as the solider he hasn't fully become even yet. Come to think of it, he's grateful that he has parents, and especially such kind ones. He can barely imagine what it must be like for Athrun or Yzak.

"Here we are," he informs, pressing the appropriate button to open the door. "I apologize for the lacking accommodation."

"Not at all." She steps inside without hesitation, graces his living quarters with a fleeting glance before walking over to give the piano keys the lightest of caresses. They hum in response to her touch, not quite silent, not quite making a sound.

"Please," she says politely, gesturing for him to take a seat in front of the instrument.

"Is it really all right?" he asks.

"Of course," she replies, and he plays.

Talented he has always been, has made every melody he plays his own. He isn't sure how that will work now that he tries his hand at her songs – will they be his or hers or just ruined?

Then the tones spill out and he realizes that it's their music.

"I find myself where the stars fall," she sings, and he takes quiet comfort in the thought that she's not alone there. Neither is he, right now.

xxxxx