Banadiya and environs
Their aircraft landed in the desert outside Banadiya next day. It disgorged Duel, Buster and some ZUOOTs. The latter were all Transport Command had been able to produce in the end, to replace Waltfeld's lost BCOWs.
Yzak and Dearka stepped straight back into the harsh environment of war, but in a new and alien landscape. Things went badly, right from the first.
The desert itself was a shock. As he stepped out of the aircraft into the baking heat, and a face full of sand blown by an equally hot wind, Dearka couldn't repress a comment about the appalling nature of the place. Waltfeld was there to greet them with one of his officers; Dearka could tell from his tone that the comment hadn't gone down too well.
Not one of those bastards with a T. E. Lawrence-complex? thought Dearka, carefully keeping his face expressionless.
They had barely made themselves known to him, when Waltfeld commented on Yzak's scar, which Dearka thought was damned rude, superior officer or not. And the man was as laconic and unhelpful in person as his reports had been, when asked directly by Dearka for details of his clashes with the Strike. Despite his formal words of welcome, it was apparent that he resented their presence for some reason.
At least he showed that he was ready to face the enemy head-on; he revealed plans for an imminent attack on the Legged Ship which was now on the move. However, his orders for Duel and Buster to remain atop the Lesseps during the assault seemed totally incomprehensible. Yzak went so far as to nearly loose it right there in front of the Commander. Getting a smart remark from Waltfeld's female gunner about their 'losing experience' didn't help. Mercifully, Dearka's hands on Yzak's shoulders once again headed off an explosion of the Joule temper; Waltfeld was not somebody they could afford to alienate. They got out of the situation without an official reprimand, though Waltfeld was glowering as they saluted and left to take up their positions.
The events of that day would always remain with Dearka as a chaotic mix of calamity and shock. They were outfought and outmanoeuvred. The atmosphere shortened the effective striking distance of their beam weapons. And they were overwhelmed by the alien environment of the sand, which sucked at the feet of the mobile suits when they left the Lesseps.
If Dearka hadn't jumped Buster for his life at the last second when a big strike took out the Lesseps, he wouldn't have survived. Waltfeld came off even worse in his final encounter with the Strike. It and the Legged Ship got clean away. It was not one of ZAFT's most shining days of Earth-based warfare.
The day finished on a note of personal horror for Dearka. He saw a group clustered round the remains of Waltfeld's command unit, what little the Strike had left of it. He noted that Waltfeld's deputy officer was directing the group. He stopped Buster and dropped down on the zip line, to report to the now acting-commander for orders.
The scene was pretty sickening. The command unit had exploded; the interior must have been a maelstrom of fire and shrapnel in those last seconds. Dearka got there just as they uncovered the corpses. They were intertwined. It looked as if they had either been embracing, or perhaps one of them had attempted to protect the other with their body. The female gunner had taken the brunt of the fire and was obviously dead. When they pulled her away from Waltfeld's body, somebody suddenly yelled: "DaCosta - he's still breathing!" It hardly seemed possible, even for a coordinator, that a body with that level of injury could still be functioning. His face was a mess, and the limbs on one side seemed to have been blasted away.
What had been body retrieval suddenly became an urgent medical rescue and the place boiled with running men. DaCosta, evidently the name of the acting-commander, was screaming orders, and there was general pandemonium. Dearka decided that he would do best to stay in the background. If somebody wanted him, it was not as if the Buster wasn't easy to find.
Eventually the distracted DaCosta gave orders for the mobile suits to mount one of the remaining ZAFT land battleships. They withdrew to Banadiya in the best order that they could, given the circumstances. DaCosta had Waltfeld flown ahead to Banadiya for urgent medical treatment at ZAFT headquarters. Everyone was on high alert all the way back to Banadiya; the likelihood of a follow-up attack from the Resistance or even Blue Cosmos, was quite high, according to DaCosta.
The sun was setting by the time Dearka and Yzak tiredly made their final descents from the Buster and Duel. They had positioned them within the courtyard of the converted grand hotel which served as ZAFT headquarters. From there they could easily be reached from inside the building, and would provide strategic coverage against any night attack.
Pairs of GINNs would be on patrol all night, DaCosta informed Dearka, in his final hasty exchange with him. He had ordered the transport planes to take Duel and Buster off at dawn. He had enough resources to protect headquarters without them, and now the Legged Ship and Strike had slipped past, there was no need to delay their return to Gibraltar. He himself was going back out to the Lesseps, to see if there was any chance of salvage, before the Resistance or other vultures might descend on the vessel.
Dearka could see DaCosta was obviously under great strain; it appeared he had been deeply affected by what had happened to Waltfeld. Maybe the Commander was all right when you got to know him. He had to have had some admirable qualities: there was a general air of grief and depressed disbelief amongst the other soldiers as well.
Before he left, DaCosta told Dearka that he had not corrected his initial report to Gibraltar, that Waltfeld had been killed. It was probably true, anyway, but if there was any chance of his survival, then DaCosta was not going to endanger him further by sending any kind of communication that he was still alive. Waltfeld was top of the local Blue Cosmos hit list. If they knew he still lived, they might try to attack Banadiya's ZAFT headquarters, in its present state of comparative weakness, in order to finally take him out. DaCosta asked Dearka to not mention Waltfeld still being alive when he got to Gibraltar. If there was anything different to report, they would hear soon enough. Dearka readily agreed.
He didn't have much time to give thought to the matter, he had more immediate concerns. Both Yzak and Dearka had stayed at the ready in Buster and Duel on the ride back to Banadiya, and chatter over the radio was not encouraged when on high alert. Even so, there had been an alarming lack of communication from Yzak all that time. When Dearka saw him after he came down on the zip line, he grew even more worried.
Yzak was white-faced, even by his pale standards, with a burning patch of red over each cheekbone. There was a feverish glisten to his eyes; or maybe they were unshed tears. His lips were compressed and shoulders hunched. He did not greet Dearka and followed him silently up the stairs and into the grand-looking old building.
They were hastily escorted by a distracted soldier, to an upper floor. He handed them the small bags with their personal items, and pointed down the hallway. "There are some spare bedrooms with bathroom facilities down there. Excuse me. I have orders to join the detachment for the Lesseps." He saluted and hurried away.
Dearka walked down the hallway, trying the doors. A couple of the rooms looked occupied, but the third one he found was empty, with a large already made-up bed. Yzak had dawdled behind, putting one foot slowly in front of the other, hands clenched into fists, staring at his feet as he walked.
"Hey, we're in here!" called Dearka. Yzak caught him up and they entered together.
The air was warm and little stale, but the place seemed clean and the bed fresh.
Dearka tossed his bag on the floor and turned to Yzak. "Are you OK? You've not said anything."
"There's nothing to say." The tone was flat but rage simmered in that voice.
"We did our best, Yzak. That bloody sand…."
"Fucking sand…fucking place! I hate this whole fucking planet! I can't…yaaaaah!
The rage, when it started to erupt, seemed to overwhelm Yzak totally. He turned to the nearest wall and began to punch. Dearka was afraid he'd hurt himself badly. He grabbed at his arm but was shaken off with an outburst of profanity. In desperation, Dearka whirled him round and backhanded him across the face.
The force slammed Yzak back against the wall. He seemed transfixed for a moment. Then his arms came up and pulled Dearka into an engulfing embrace, a devouring rough kiss.
Hands pulled frantically at flight suits. They stumbled across the room together, shedding clothing, finding the hot frantic flesh beneath. They crashed onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. Suddenly the panting Yzak was gripping Dearka's upper arms and staring into his eyes. "You know what I want!"
"Yzak!"
" Now! - I want you to do it to me now, Dearka!"
In all the times they had been together, there was one act of love they had not shared. Dearka had never felt sufficiently attracted to the notion to try it with a girl. He had shrunk from doing it with Yzak, synonymous as it was with the homosexuality that somehow in his secret mind, he had trouble identifying with himself. And above all, he was scared of hurting Yzak. He didn't think he could cope with that. Yzak had tried a couple of times to get him interested, and each time had accepted his lame excuses and let him off the hook. There were many other ways to enjoy each other, after all. But now, Yzak was forcing the issue.
"We don't have any lubricant," Dearka heard himself pleading.
Yzak lay there, panting and dangerous. "There are occupied bedrooms along this hallway. I'm sure you can find some."
"No, Yzak, I-"
"Either we do this, or I go back to the wall and do things my way." Yzak grimaced and closed his eyes; his body was trembling.
Dearka fled, naked. He was lucky the place seemed deserted, apart from them. In the bathroom of the first room he tried, he found what he sought. He noticed women's things scattered about the bedroom as he left. He wondered if the room had belonged to Waltfeld's gunner. He mentally apologised to her spirit for his theft. If she was Waltfeld's lover as well as comrade, she'll understand….
He returned, and presented the bottle for Yzak's inspection.
"Come here," said Yzak, spreading a generous amount on his hand. And mesmerised, Dearka gave himself up to Yzak's touch, which had grown skilled and knowing in recent days.
Heavily aroused, aching with need, Dearka still hesitated.
"Dammit, Dearka, do it!"
His voice had the whip-crack of command, and just like on the battlefield, Dearka reacted instantly to the tone in the voice. He thrust himself inside.
Dearka's own groan of pleasure could not drown out Yzak's cry of pain and triumph.
With a massive effort of will, Dearka stopped the second stroke of his hips which every nerve in his body cried out for. "Yzak, are you all right?"
"Just do it…" Yzak moaned. His eyes snapped open and he twisted to stare up into Dearka's worried, tortured face. His hands gripped the bed-sheets in front of him. His body impaled, he was held by Dearka around his waist, against Dearka's thighs.
"Do you want me to beg?" The hoarse plea, so uncharacteristic of Yzak, broke the last strand of Dearka's hesitation. He withdrew and slammed himself back into Yzak, again and again. Deep penetrating strokes that had Yzak writhing and weeping, the tears running down his face to mingle in the sweat of his body. Dearka was mindless now, feeling only the building crescendo. Wave after wave of pleasure pulsed through him, each peak higher than the last, till the final explosion of sensation.
Yzak folded over, agonised with his own pleasure, on the brink, but not quite there. Fighting for control, gasping in air for his oxygen-starved body, Dearka reached round to Yzak's front, and caressed the proud flesh. It gave Yzak that last tiny push into the flames. He gave a raw cry and convulsed.
Dearka slid himself from Yzak's spent body and collapsed, boneless, beside him on the bed. A couple of long deep breaths to find the strength, and then he pushed himself up on an elbow and looked with deepening concern into Yzak's flushed and still slightly breathless face. He lay on his side; his eyes were closed and his hair had tangled across his face. Dearka's gentle hand stroked the silver strands back into place. "Yzak, tell me you're all right! Yzak?"
Yzak's eyes opened and he drew a long breath. "I'm fine. I feel good. That was…I've never felt like that before." He raised a hand to caress the side of Dearka's face. "Thank you for that. I know it wasn't what you wanted, but I needed it, Dearka. I was going out of my mind…if you hadn't; I probably would have done something crazy to myself. Again."
Only partially assured by Yzak's words, Dearka sighed. He shifted a little on the bed, and glancing down, noticed blood spots on the sheets. There was more blood coming from Yzak.
"Dammit, Yzak" he grated. "You're bleeding! I've hurt you inside. This is just what I was afraid of!"
Yzak stretched back into the pillows and shook his head. "Don't panic about it. It's nothing serious, I'm sure." He grinned sardonically up into Dearka's face. "I might develop piles some day and have to sit on a rubber cushion, though! Did you know that piles are an occupational hazard among atmospheric military jet pilots? It's because of the g-force turns in planetary gravity."
Dearka looked at him, totally speechless for a moment, and then burst into peels of laughter, which Yzak joined. When they quieted, he leaned forward and kissed Yzak gently on the mouth.
Dearka locked gazes with Yzak. "Tell me what all this was about then, Yzak."
Yzak's eyebrows rose. He responded in a slightly sarcastic drawl: "Surely you've realised by now?"
"Realised what, Yzak?"
Yzak shrugged. "You must have noticed over the years. Sometimes when I get too angry, I need to feel pain….It gives me release. Sometimes it goes beyond release; the line between pain and pleasure gets blurred for me. Today, with everything that happened, I had reached that stage…I needed the pain, as much as I needed the pleasure…Hell, its hard to explain. My brain is kind of cross-wired like that."
Suddenly Dearka had a flashback to when he was first standing in front of Commander Waltfeld. Was it only that morning? It now felt like years ago. He remembered the thought about T. E. Lawrence – Lawrence of Arabia. Dearka had never been that much interested himself, but he recalled Yzak at the age of about twelve, reading the guy's book. He'd even persuaded Dearka to watch some old classic movie version of his desert campaigns. The bit that a fascinated Yzak had watched over and over, was the scene where Lawrence deliberately burned his hand. Dearka felt a surge of pity, which he sharply suppressed. He knew how badly Yzak would react to any hint of such a feeling on his part.
"Why do you feel this way, Yzak?"
Yzak shrugged again. "I'm not sure of the why. I can tell you the when. It was after my twelfth birthday. Something major happened in my life back then, something that I had to deal with. And it is how I coped."
Dearka felt lost. He had been Yzak's friend and confidante through all the years of their growing up together. He remembered nothing from that time that he could call a crisis in his friend's life. What had happened to Yzak that Dearka had not known about?
"Yzak, what did this to you? I don't remember anything back when you were twelve… what happened to you that I didn't know about? Why didn't you tell me?"
The last question definitely had a tone of hurt.
Yzak shook his head. "It wasn't something I could talk about. It involved my mother and it was pretty shattering. It wasn't a deliberate decision to keep you out; it was simply that telling you would have made it more real. And I didn't want that."
Dearka shook his head. "That doesn't make a lot of sense to me. Can you tell me now?"
Yzak's eyes dropped. "Maybe someday, but not today. I've had just about all I can take today." He was betting that Dearka would understand.
Dearka slowly nodded, and stroked his hand through Yzak's sweaty tangled hair. "Yeah, I guess we both have. It'll keep. We'd better clean up and get some sleep. We fly out again at dawn."
Yzak now looked exhausted, drained of the life-force that usually came off him in waves. He slowly shook his head. "I don't think I've got the energy to drag myself to a shower."
Dearka smiled. "You won't have to."
He got up from the bed without responding to Yzak's demand to know where he was going. After slipping on his shorts, he went back down the hallway to the room which had probably belonged to Waltfeld's gunner. Sure enough, when he went through to the bathroom, he found what he remembered glimpsing there, in his previous foray: a huge bathtub with an extraordinary decorative motif. Was it Assyrian…Persian…? Well, whatever... Dearka mused as he filled the tub. It would do nicely for Yzak. He scavenged towels and soap, and went to carry the poor battered body of his lover to the respite of a hot soak…