He woke up the next morning in Athrun's couch. He groaned as he sat up; his neck was sore, and his right arm had been tucked under him in an extremely uncomfortable angle. He blinked at the blinding sun shining in through the windows before he could remember where he was and why he was there.

He groaned again when he read the clock. It was past noon. But then again, he was not exactly a morning person, and he could not remember the last time he actually got to sleep in. Rebuilding a country after its administration had been torn into pieces was no easy task. He had a new-found respect for Yzak after experiencing the political chaos for himself. Yzak had been the only one out of the gang –with the exception of Cagalli, but then, she was the daughter of Uzumi Nara Athha- who had been there both times, fully committing himself to the welfare of his homeland.

But he did not come all the way over to Orb to worry over his friend.

As he stood up, he saw a note left on the kitchen counter. Dearka smiled to himself. These were the moments when he could not help but doubt Athrun's masculinity; the blue haired boy had every trait a man would want in a dutiful girlfriend. He supposed that suited Cagalli with her distinctive lack of femininity. They complimented each other, in a way.

The note, written in Athrun's neat, even handwriting, told Dearka that he had already left for work. There was some leftover pizza in the fridge if Dearka wanted any, but there was an excellent French bakery down the road. The blonde laughed; it was cute how Athrun seemed to think anyone would choose cold, hard pizza over freshly baked baguettes.

He ruffled his hair while he walked to the window. It was another beautiful, sunny day in Orb –there were children splashing each other in the beach. He smiled. He had almost forgotten how much he loved all of this.

xoxox

After he had sufficiently satisfied his hunger, he took to strolling in the streets.

It was all very familiar, really. While he did not recognize it in the dark the night before, Athrun's apartment was very close to where he and Miriallia used to live after the First War. He knew the streets, the shops and the landmarks by heart. Nothing had changed dramatically, and if he tried hard enough, he could convince himself that he was just taking another walk on the way back to his old apartment.

He laughed at himself. He also did not come all the way to Orb to play pretend.

His walk came to a sobering halt when he passed by a small gallery. He initially could not figure out why it made him stop; there were a good number of galleries in the area, and this one certainly was nothing special. He stared into the window for a few seconds before the realization hit him.

It was the photographs on display.

Dearka ruffled his hair. It was absolutely ridiculous how she seemed to dominate so much of his consciousness even now. Apparently two years was not long enough for him to stop automatically associating every photograph ever taken with her. He scoffed at himself, wondering when he turned into such a girl, but he did not try to fight the temptation to enter the gallery.

The owner of the gallery scowled at Dearka briefly when he entered the door. Dearka could only sigh. He knew he did not look like the type who could appreciate photographs that did not have blonde, busty women on them, but it would have been nice if people gave him the benefit of the doubt once in a while. He almost wanted to approach the man and prove that he knew more about art than most people expected him to, but quickly returned his focus on the photographs on the wall.

They were beautiful, if somewhat generic. Beautiful landscapes, plants, a portraits of beautiful women with very white teeth. He continued to walk along the walls, until he came across one that was clearly different from the others. At first glance, it could have been another picture of a peaceful field. But Dearka knew better than that; he had seen many scenes like this one before.

It wasn't supposed to be a field. Everything that had stood on that ground had just been torn down by a brutal battle. He could still make out the foundations of some of the buildings, and objects that distinctly resembled windows or doors or furniture was scattered around the field. The only thing that remained standing in the picture was a portion of a wall. Below the wall lay an arm of a mobile suit. Just one arm.

It was the aftermath of war.

Dearka involuntarily clenched his fist. Even though he had spent a significant portion of his short life on the battlefield, the concept of war was not something he had exactly come to terms with. It was wrong, brutal and painful. Every single time he put on his pilot suit, every single time he launched his mobile suit, there was always a part of him that believed what he was doing was wrong.

And the photograph in front of him embodied everything that was wrong about it.

War destroyed towns, cities, civilizations –things people had constructed over hundreds and thousands of years, since the beginning of time. In an instant, an entire people could be wiped out. An entire town could be reduced to the ground. And the arm of the mobile suit could just as easily have been the arm of a person. A person like himself, made out of flesh and blood. And it did not matter whose side you were on, or what you were fighting for. The end result was always the same. People died, and people suffered. There was nothing but death on a battlefield.

He was so engrossed in the photograph that he did not notice the owner of the gallery quietly walk towards him.

"Do you like this picture?"

The quiet voice of the owner startled Dearka. He furrowed his eyebrow, not knowing how to respond. Despite the grim subject, the photograph itself was breathtakingly beautiful. But it was not the aesthetic aspect that caught his attention. The photograph appealed to him at a much more intuitive level. Something about it spoke to his soul; the photograph in front of him was not another pretty picture, but it was reality. His reality, his world that he had lived in since he was a sixteen year old cadet in the ZAFT academy.

"This was taken by a local. She's a pretty famous war photographer. Still young, but has real talent. In another decade she'll be known as one of the greatest journalists of all time."

"A local?"

"Yeah, her name's Miriallia Haww. Have you heard of her?"

Dearka froze. Then, a slow wave of realization washed over him. Of course. Not very many people from that peaceful town in Orb voluntarily involved themselves with war. On a subconscious level, he had already known that it was Miriallia. It also explained why he had been so drawn to that one photograph over all of the others.

The realization was followed by regret. Two years ago, when Miriallia first told him that she wanted to become a professional war photographer, the only thing he had felt was horror. They had just lived through two years of war, and lost many people and many things they held dear to their hearts. He could not understand, simply refused to understand, why she would want to relive hell all over again. They had found stability -a normal, peaceful life- and all he wanted was to maintain that normalcy.

Miriallia looked him straight in his eyes and called him out for being the coward that he was.

And she was truly, absolutely right. He knew that she would make a difference –and that he could, too, if he had wanted to. The world needed people like them to recount the war, to make sure that the world did not forget the horror and pain, and yet he shied away from that duty.

Her words stung more than he wanted to admit, and in an attempt to protect his sorry self, he retaliated by accusing her of still being in love with Tolle.

The very second those words left his lips, he wanted nothing more than to take it back. It was a terrible, terrible accusation. The subject of Tolle in itself was like a landmine –Miriallia had grown up with him, and they had basically shared every moment of their childhood until he was killed in battle. Miriallia had not forgotten him, by any means. Dearka knew that she still cried sometimes, late at night when she thought Dearka was sleeping, and it was not too hard to figure out who those tears were for.

But what made it even worse was that Dearka knew that despite all of that, Miriallia did genuinely love him. Even though the circumstances in which they met was far from ideal, they had managed to work through them and form a bond. A relationship based on love.

He had essentially discredited their effort, their trust, her love, in a single sentence.

After that, it was one scathing remark after another. By the end of the night, there was too much that had been said that couldn't be taken back. Miriallia slapped him once, hard, and told him to leave. He could still recall her expression, one of unmistakable pain, and the tears in her eyes.

He still loved her, and he knew that at that moment, she still loved him too. But he ran away from it all. He packed his bag and left, running away from the heartbreak of hurting the person you love most.

"You are mad at yourself for letting her go."

It was exactly as Shiho once so aptly said. He never should have left Miriallia. He should have stayed and apologized for everything that he said that he didn't mean. Explain to her why he was so afraid. Hear why she wanted to head back to the battlefield and fight a different kind of battle.

"Yes, I've heard of her."

"She is absolutely delightful."

Her bright smile and her soft green eyes flashed in his mind, and he felt a longing pain in his heart.

"Yes, yes she is."

Here's the second chapter! Hope it was worth your while, please review!