Disclaimer: I do not own GS/GSD. R&R please.

Chapter 17

If only the floor would stop spinning, she would walk. But for now, Cagalli waited for the world to stop irritating her, waiting for the pain in her head and in her ears to subside, praying for the ache in her chest to dissipate.

"Work tomorrow," she slurred, "I- I hate you, Athrun."

Then she laughed childishly and cried a little.

He wouldn't come home tonight, she expected. Not after she had treated him the way she had, barely hours ago. And the look on his face had been terrible, no anger or hatred, but just a bitter brokenness. And she had been too proud to forgive him.

But that was so like Athrun- kind-natured, somewhat awkward in his inability to emote, and his disability to understand why women like her needed him the way she did. He had tried, in his own clumsy but sincere way, to make her stand up and fight against the odds, and she had attempted to tell him that it hurt more, but he never understood. And then it had worsened with time, until she had grown too tired, was too tired, to try and keep it intact any longer.

It had been on one of those nights, how long ago she could not remember well, but that night had been like this one, empty house, damned silence, pain in the head, ache in the heart, girlish giggles, floor spinning, glass empty, when she had decided that enough was enough. She didn't want to be near him anymore- it was too painful.

She had tried to avoid Athrun, he had let her, she thought miserably. And he hadn't noticed until recently, that the silence was becoming too accentuated and too obvious, but that had been only for him. 'Him again,' She thought brokenly. He never understood until he felt the effect for himself. And it was no wonder then that it was becoming easier to step across the boundary of love and hatred, because the line was a very fine one in the first place, and the pain made it easier anyway.

"I hate you, you idiot, you stupid-," She trailed off into some unsavory terms and feeling incredibly light-headed but broken inside, she laughed and reached for the glass, but it evaded her. She cursed loudly and tried again, stretching over the counter, her hair tumbling across the top half of her back, she had let it grow long, now it was clearly over her shoulders rather than the initial, signature length of the golden strands teasing the shoulders.

She was still in the black dress, a dress she had put on to spite him in some childish way that she could, her pride allowing the anger to be channeled and directed to him. When she had flagged a taxi and tried in desperation, to recollect whatever sense that remained, she had tripped over something and fell, ripping the hem of the black chiffon and tearing the skin of her knee. She had gone home and washed it in water, wincing slightly at the sting of water on open blood and injured flesh. But she hadn't bothered dot change out of the ruined dress. Besides, when she had worn it, all he had done was to give her a half-glance and look away, and then she had felt as if he had stabbed her. "All the better," she had tried to tell herself, she needed to be distanced from him, but the thought of it seemed hollow now.

And the way he had held her as he had forced her to dance with him had been painful too. He had been insistent in that firm but not entirely forceful way as she had been captured in his arms in the sepia light just hours ago, and it might have been so easy to forgive him and lay her head upon his chest and to forget. But she didn't want to and had spurned him in the moment when the blood had rushed to her head and added a fire to her pride.

She made a last-ditch attempt to get a hold onto the glass, her fingertips magically sending out force fields that made the glass spin beyond and slightly above them, and she sobbed.

"I hate you, you bastard, you imbecile, you stupid-,"

The glass was still slightly further away than her reach, but then her eyes refocused and her heart plummeted to the ground.

"Ran out of insults already?"

Against her better instincts, she looked up and glared at her husband. He was standing above her with no expression or emotion on his face, he was always like that, able to mask his feelings so well, damn him, able to not feel when she had to fight to keep in control. He had come home.

"Give it back."

He merely looked down at her, towering above a pitiful wreck who was flailing for the glass, and his eyes were taunting.

"No."

She lost it then, and sprang out of the chair to execute an action of violent nature, but the floor betrayed her and tilted itself, making her stumble and fall, but he caught her first, before the floor could hit her. She was nestled in his arms in a matter of mere seconds, and found herself abruptly soaking in the sensation and his masculine aftershave. She muttered something that was a combination of a curse and something else, and tried to open her eyes but found she could not.

"If only you'd stop spinning," she sighed, "I'd hit you."

She was suddenly aware then, that he was lifting her tattered hem high above, and across her thigh, and her eyes pulled open and she half-shrieked at his would-be assault, kicking furiously and thrashing about.

It was lucky then, that he had set the glass somewhere and had both hands to restrain the wild, biting animal in his arms. He vaguely noticed her hitting his chest with weak punches in her daze, and he seized the opportunity to kiss her fiercely, almost possessively even. But her eyes widened and she thrashed more vigorously and more wildly than ever.

"Hold still," he snarled, fighting to contain Cagalli, "You're making a mess, and what the hell went on with your leg?"

They both stared at the bloody gash running down, and he muttered an oath or two and ran his fingers gently around the wound itself to test the depth of injury. By this time, the floor had stopped spinning, and she was firmly planted to match the crossed-leg seating stance Athrun had assumed, a leg of hers wrapped around him for him to better view the wound. She squirmed in discomfort, not so much at the pain the wound caused, but at the contact they made. A look of hurt flashed in his eyes, but she was too drunk to see or even notice, and he was too proud to tell her.

A calming sensation worked its way up her back, and she realized in the haze her mind was, that he was stroking her back the way he might have comforted a startled pet, neatening her rather uncharacteristically long hair, putting stray strands behind the tips of her ears, and still holding her quietly, slowly pressing something wet and stinging to her knee, and he hushed her when she let out little muffled cries of pain, clutching him involuntarily, and he holding her still without saying anything, just doing what he did, very like Athrun.

And why did she hate him so?

She tried to remember, but she was far too languid and lazy to recall, what with him holding her and his lips traveling near her throat, around her ears and cheeks, and the pain in her head and stab in her heart. And her knee was now a dull throbbing mass. But she knew she couldn't forgive him, because she couldn't afford to be any more wounded than she already was. And staying like this would break her down so much more, until she would loose all hope of recovery. And Cagalli didn't want to risk that.

"Too painful," she half-sighed, still arching her neck and welcoming his touch, "I want to give up."

He was too occupied to notice what she was rambling on about, and too lost to begin to desire to find out. But she regained the better side of her consciousness as fate might have offered it, and she gradually started to resist more and more, pushing and shoving.

"What now?" He asked irritably, trying to restrain her for the second or third time that night, depending how one saw the way he had made her dance with him.

"Let go," she insisted, "I want to get away."

He wondered what the heck she was talking about but decided that it was the influence of the alcohol, and decided there and then, that he'd play along with her.

"I won't let you," Athrun replied seriously, running a hand through her golden mane, wondering why she had let it grow so long, something so unlike her. No that she wasn't attractive that way, it was just not something he had gotten used to, especially, he thought guiltily, if he hadn't seen her very often in the past one and a half year.

"You don't have a say," She rambled on, clutching at him like a child, "I say I want out and that's that."

She laughed brokenly and let out a dry sob.

"Why, Athrun?" Cagalli sobbed, "Why'd you have to go and be the idiot you are?"

He had a better idea of what she was trotting about now, and in spite of the reservations he he'd of trying to reason with a drunken Cagalli, he sighed wearily and held her, "I couldn't trust my own judgment at that time. It was a mistake."

"No it wasn't, "she forced back, still in a queer stupor that only came from alcohol, he knew her well enough to forward a suggestion that insanity for her came from wine bottle, "It wasn't, don't you see? Nothing's a mistake, but we're the mistake."

"Don't say rubbish like that," Athrun said forcefully, still half-wondering if he was making sense to her in the state they were both in, "You shouldn't say things like that."

"Don't tell me what I can or can't say, or do," Cagalli rasped fiercely, her head still resting against his chest, but mostly because he had forced her to stay that way, "I won't listen."

"You must and you will," he said firmly, not quite caring if she would wake up to remember the conversation they were currently holding, or what could be called of a conversation a sober man was trying to hold with a drunken but very stubborn and achingly beautiful woman like her, "I won't let you go like this, or carry on like this."

"Bastard," she managed, "You're always correct aren't you? No space to make error, no need for apologies, just you and your judgment, you and bloody Infinite Justice, you and your ideals."

She forced herself upright from the former position of being held against him and glared into his face, but two tears forced and leaked their way out of her amber eyes.

"You'll regret what you said sooner or later," he promised her, shaken by the brokenness in her eyes and the way she was looking at him without really looking at him, "Sooner or later."

"Wrong again, Athrun," she said tiredly, slurring her words together, "It's neither of the above. The answer is, never."

She leaned across him and managed to stand in a tattered black dress and reddened heels that had encountered the friction of the high-heeled shoes she had forced her feet into. He silently watched her hobble from the room, knowing fully well that if it was Cagalli, the lack of ability to stand properly and think properly would still not deter her from reaching her bedroom.

And he didn't have to be a psychic to know that she would lock it and cry herself to sleep.

When he awoke, he was sleeping on the couch in the living room, and the vague recollection of stumbling there and half-collapsing made him feel drained all over again. The sun was shining into his face, and with a curse, he sat up rather violently, thinking he was late for work, only to remember that it was a Saturday. And he remembered Cagalli.

It was only then, that he noticed that she was sitting in the opposite chair and staring at him, in a fresh change of clothes that managed to transform her from a completely different person as compared to the wreck she had been the night before.

Which reminded him- he hadn't changed out yet. And the liquor was still present on him, mostly her doing and his decision to kiss her last night. He glanced at her and wondered why she hadn't woken him up, but then he remembered that they weren't exactly on good talking terms at the present.

"Morning," he managed awkwardly, not having the audacity to call it good.

She returned his greeting with a rather wan smile, fiddling with the ends of her hair and staring at it in a strange mixture of wonder, as if she hadn't noticed it had been so long. And truth be told, she probably hadn't and neither had he until last night.

"I was drunk wasn't I," she said rather clumsily, "I think I probably caused quite a bit of inconvenience, sorry for that."

"Forget it," he said hastily, eager for the conversation to keep flowing, anything better than wretched silence and tension amidst them, "It was an excellent opportunity to speak to you when you weren't capable of biting back."

They proceeded to share a wry smile which made his heart flutter madly, and he did not notice, or more accurately, tried not to notice the reluctance she returned it with.

"Did you hear what we said last night," he asked a bit shyly, still seating and laying don wont he couch and gazing at her as she sat across in her own chair, "I think-"

"I did," she interrupted quickly, "But I don't- remember much of it, just that-"

"No matter," he returned immediately, "You don't have to remember. It was nothing, just-,"

"No," she said softly, "It was everything. L-look, I think we've gotten to a stage where it's too late, I don't see how things can ever return to the way they used to be."

She paused, and he felt as if his heart was going to stop, and his expression froze.

"It's better if we just leave it at this, it's better to just leave it before it gets worse, at least now, we have better memories of each other, and that's all that matters now, and-"

She was rambling, finding it more difficult to stop than continue, but he felt as if the air around him had become very thin and very cold. She wasn't looking at him any longer, she seemed to be speaking to the floor and addressing it directly instead of him, and he wanted to bellow and cry out and shatter something or shake her and make both of them wake up from the awful labyrinth they were in.

But he remained frozen.

She looked pitifully at him, "I prepared this a few months ago, but I never knew how to bring it up. It's my fault for not saying so earlier, but at least we could sort out a few things before it had to come to this. The papers, it's best if you take them."

The hand she held out to him with the earth-brown folder, securely tied with white string, was shaking.

He remained rooted where he was, staring but not seeing, and the rush in his ears nearly made him insane. It was unbelievable.

"You don't mean this as some kind of cruel joke, do you?" He asked, and he was ashamed to find his voice unsteady.

"No," she said miserably, "We have to do this."

He got up, more steadily than he really thought he was capable of managing, and found his hand holding the same folder, both of them, touching the same folder, just for a single moment when their eyes met, before her hand dropped to her side, almost lifeless, and he was dashing out with only a coat and the few personal articles he had at that instant, out of the house.

The last he could recall, she had slumped in her chair across where he had previously sat, looking at the place he had previously occupied, with wet cheeks and trembling hands.