Firebird
—
Lacus smells like summer phlox.
When she leans close to refill a cup of tea, Cagalli can smell it in her hair, in the air she stirs up—over the distant sweetness of wisteria that drips down from the pergola above them in bunches, and every bit as elusive. It is an aura of violet that surrounds the young woman with the curious pink hair, calm and pure.
Given that, when Cagalli isn't looking directly at it, it is sometimes difficult to fathom the violence that has left the once grand mansion that looks down on the PLANT in its current state. It is still grand, however in the way that ancient ruins or the burned-out remains of a place of worship still hold on strongly to their dignity.
The garden is overgrown; living things still thrive here after the human inhabitants have all gone, and in vibrant explosions of color. Man may have cultivated space, but nature needs no invitation to take care of its own. Underneath the heaving waves of blooming wisteria vines, the two young women righted the table and chairs, and took tea. Lacus made a hastily picked bouquet of summer flowers for the center of the table in shades of lavender and rose and white, and it sits there now like an offering to the dear departed, in a porcelain pitcher the cracks in the mouth of which are covered discretely by the spread of foliage.
What cracks reopened by revisiting this place is that radiant smile on Lacus's lips covering up, Cagalli wonders.
Until she breathes in that undefinable scent, that magnificently transient but remarkably girlish scent of sweet pollen and clean earth, and blushes because she can't get enough of it. Because Lacus has pressed close enough for her to catch it, and Cagalli isn't at all ashamed like she knows she probably should be that her natural reaction is to lean into that scent and follow it in longing.
Like a moth to a flame.
Triggering all manner of images and sensation that burn from the pages of Cagalli's memory. The moments Lacus would lay a soft hand on her elbow, a reassuring and understanding presence at her side when she needed it most, banishing all her aches and worries; and the sudden rise and disappearance of a faint aroma of phlox in a crowded place would make Cagalli thankful she had been born a woman. . . .
The fire that singed her lips and proceeded to spread fast through her bloodstream as they braved the leap to a kiss; how it had taken her by surprise and yet had not been completely unexpected, just that she had never thought the warm press of Lacus's generous breasts against her chest, or the way those lips that formed such beautiful melodies could mold so perfectly to hers, could feel so completely and utterly natural. . . .
And how quickly all her insecurities had melted away in that tiny ship's cabin, as they lay tangled in the sheets—unable to tell who was on top anymore in the paltry gravity that made Lacus's hair rise off her bare shoulders and wave in the dark like a flickering flame. How dark her eyes had been as she moaned Cagalli's name and touched her in places Athrun had never dared, or never knew how—those deceptive eyes that were so generous to the world, yet so consuming in a single night of disoriented intimacy.
Yet Cagalli was left feeling like the greedy one, because no one else has given her so much pleasure, such understanding—though Athrun and Kira, in their own earnest ways, have tried the best they know how.
As Cagalli traced a trail of kisses from her companion's slender throat to the glistening valley between her breasts where her heartbeat resonated the strongest, the sweet garden that was Lacus's skin beneath her lips, that made her tingle with need all over again, from the tip of her tongue to the tips of her toes, overwhelmed everything else. . . .
Perhaps Cagalli stares too long, or is too long in finally breathing a word of thanks, but Lacus either does not notice or pretends not to for the sake of her companion. Haro is acting strangely, she remarks instead, as she sits the robot in her lap and gently strokes it to sleep: she will have to ask Athrun to look at it later.
Her voice wavers as she says so, and at that moment Cagalli does know shame—shame that her own train of thought was so selfish, so ignorant of what lies just behind her companion's brave smile and has since they set foot inside the ruined house.
The deactivated Haro's eyes cannot bear witness to a kiss that tastes like tea leaves and lavender.
Or the tears that slip out of the corners of Lacus's eyes despite her every effort to remain strong, just as she has so often been Cagalli's strength in her moments of doubt. It is all right for a daughter to cry when she has lost her father, Cagalli wants her to know; she just thought perhaps her lips could express that best by touch.