The full, unedited version of this story, i.e. the one containing the extended "love" scene, violates site rules. If you want to read the full version, and it's not incredibly graphic, it's about a 15, you can go here:

http (colon)(forwardslash)(forwardslash) community (dot) livejournal (dot) com (forwardslash) deayza (forwardslash) 48594 (dot) html

Just take out all the spaces. (Why, oh why does hate URLs too?)

On with the show!

Standing next to him, being in his presence, is like being in the presence of an ominously rumbling volcano just biding its time before it can erupt. You honestly don't know how he does it. That constant energy, the continual bile and vitriol directed at a world around him that so cruelly will not bend to his every whim. He's a brat and everyone except him seems to realise it.

You like Yzak. For all your thickly laid-on nonchalance, life just wouldn't be the same without him. He's full of ideas, even if they are wrong, and full of opinions borrowed from his overbearing mother and constantly, unwaveringly confidant of his own worth. Not that you're particularly lacking in that area either. You're good and you know it. You all know it. After all, you're the Red Coats of your year, all five of you and damn but you're proud little brats each and every one of you. Even Nichol, quiet, watchful Nichol with his gentle eyes and sweet smile has an aura of blissfully unaware dismissal for everyone who is not one of your group.

Separate and distinct from the rest of the world, you are Society's bright up-and-coming, the People's Heroes and all those other enticing and sparkling labels they gave you at Zaft Fleet Academy. Your world, whether or not any of you would ever admit it, or even realise it, is defined by the limitations and strivings of your tiny group.

There's Rusty who mocks, and Miguel who's more of a mentor than anything but who can shoot a cola tin off of Rusty's head even if the other boy is making it more difficult by pulling faces at the time. There's Athrun who is looking concerned and disapproving and Nichol who is watching with wide-eyes and held breath. And there's you sitting at the foot of the fence with arms folded behind your head, laughing as Rusty dances in circles. And finally there's Yzak. Yzak in a blur of white hair and blue slacks, throwing himself on Miguel's back and wrapping his arms around the other boy's neck screaming something that sounds like "How well can you shoot now, bastard!" But maybe not, buried as it is under the cries of alarm from Athrun and Nichol, Miguel's strangled gasping and Rusty's peals of laughter.

You like Yzak.

Yzak makes life interesting.

oOo

Rusty and Miguel die so fast you hardly even know they're gone.

It's not until you're back on board the flagship with Yzak screaming obscenities and throwing things around your quarters that you realise that Rusty and Miguel aren't there to tease the other boy into calm with their mad pantomiming. That the only other person in the room with Yzak is you and that somehow Yzak has managed to throw a plastic drink canister hard enough to crack it and then subsequently stand on it so that now he's shouting in both grief and anger and pain, smears of blood bright across the floor where his feet are bleeding onto the plexisteel.

It's just you and him and the pain.

It's right about then, somewhere between one curse and the echoes that chase it back on itself, that you get up from the edge of the bed and speak his name. Sometime between one breath and the next, when you catch his arm to stop him from sliding to his knees in a streak of his own blood and repeat his name, softly, insistently. Right about then when he looks up at you from beneath sweaty, mussed hair, that you realise that you only have each other.

There's tears in his eyes and tears in yours and the two of you stand there amidst the wreckage of the room, two of you against an awful and heartless world.

oOo

Yzak's always been hard to control.

The only thing Yzak listens to is military authority and even then it has to be someone whom the boy recognises in his head as a superior. Kruz counts. You kindof count, but not really – you're more of a trustworthy subordinate in Yzak's mind – Athrun doesn't count and as for Nichol, the only time Yzak thinks of Nichol these days is when he needs someone else to blame.

You sometimes wonder how the Jule boy doesn't burn himself up in his inner rage because there's so much that makes Yzak angry. And when Yzak is angry, his spine stiffens and his eyes take on that fearsome cast and his fingers dig into the palms of his hands hard enough to leave crescent moon indents in his skin. The only thing you can do at those times is place a hand on his arm or his shoulder, and call his name, something to bring him back to reality through the red haze that surrounds him and skews his vision.

You might be tempted, if you were of a poetic nature - which really you're not, your mind behind that blasé exterior is all angles and theorems and precise clarity, you're a Red Coat after all – to something of a more artistic bent. You might call yourself the calm blue sky that holds the blazing sun, or the cool water that soothes a fevered brow. But you don't because in your head there is no room for anything but precise, accurate reasoning and strength, strength, power, because you've never known anything else.

You're a Red Coat and so is he, and you're both heroes so you'd better damned well live up to it.

oOo

War is very different from training. In war, people really die.

Inside every one of those cold blue explosions is a life snuffed out, cut short, gone for good. You wonder as you scream through the stars in your monstrous war unit just how much of this really exists outside of your cockpit – if this is all perhaps just some kind of movie scrolling across your control panel and the overhead display.

Reality snaps into painful existence with adrenaline-shock claws that bite deep and snatch your breath in a roar of flame and laser-edge sword stroke. The enemy unit is so close that you can see the wide, terrified eyes of the pilot in its cockpit. You see his mouth open in a scream that you will never hear except in your most tortured memories as your blaster rips the middle out of his Zaku and sends him spinning away broken into space.

After that you don't wonder about much at all. The battle is there in front of you and it's real, so real and Athrun is roaring commands over the commlink whilst Yzak screams wild challenges and even sweet Nichol's voice is harsh with battle fury.

You take to the edge of the fray, a long-distance fighter covering your unit of heroes with a fire-spitting laser gun, keeping a grip on your control even as the blood pounds in your ears and the fury rises up within you. You can see Yzak in the distance, his unit slipping deadly between the enemy suits, in desperate pursuit of the ultimate prize, the taunting blue and red of its armour a blur of flawless motion. You hold back, swinging your gun round, taking careful aim in search of that perfect shot.

It never comes. Instead the order to withdraw blazes across the sky and your snarl of frustration is soft accompaniment to Yzak's howl of fury.

You return, empty-handed heroes.

oOo

On the day that Strike's Pilot gives Yzak his terrible wound, you finally figure it out.

Perhaps you've always known subconsciously, but never before formed the concept into a tangible, comprehendible thought. You see it in Yzak's eyes, reflected dark and bloodshot in the steelglass window of the ship.

It fits with what you know of him, what you've experienced beside him in battle and in waiting. It's in the scream of rage and the hot words and the constant, furious striving. It's so obvious that you wonder no-one else ever sees it.

It's not anger. Not really. It's desperation. Constant striving and a deep-seated, honest paranoia. You suppose it's all right though. After all, you're heroes and if you listen to the stories it should be abundantly obvious that all heroes are flawed. Weak.

It's all right to be a bit mad, a touch insane. You need the edge to stay alive.

Yzak sees your reflection shaking its head in the window and his good eye narrows into a glare. Sighing, you give the scowling boy a smile into the glass and lean your forehead against the cool surface, letting your eyes slip closed.

Beside you, Yzak huffs in scorn and you hear the angry scrape of his feet as he turns and stalks away. It's not long before you lift your head from the steelglass and follow him.

What else can you do.

oOo

Yzak isn't always angry, not really. Nobody can be angry all the time. When he relaxes he's actually very good company. Of course, he has his opinions, strong ones, and these days they aren't always the same ones as his mother holds. You don't mind though, you're quite happy to listen to him expounding on an idea and setting the world to rights around you. It's reassuring actually to have someone around so confidant of their place in this world and your place at their side.

On the night of Nichol's concert you eat dinner at the Jule mansion. And it is a mansion. The Jule family are rich, influential and of the very best breeding and it shows in everything they do. Of course, being Coordinators, you're all of the very best breeding, but that's beside the point. There's some things genetics just cannot replicate. Such easy, offhand style seems to be one of them.

Dinner is delicious and so rich that after weeks of freeze-dried campaign rations you're almost sick off the first course alone. Nonetheless you eat as much as is possible whilst still maintaining your dignity and so have to sit through the entire first half of Nichol's piano recital concentrating mainly on keeping your stomach under control.

Athrun and Yzak, united in rare unity of purpose, take it in turns to pass chocolate back and forth in front of you until you close your eyes to keep out their mocking smirks.

That night you stay at Yzak's, spread-eagled on the four poster bed you have to yourself, the window shutters thrown back to let in the darkness. It's cool and peaceful and so very strange.

There is a knock on your door close to midnight and curious, you slip out of bed to see who it is. As soon as you open the door, Yzak brushes past you, a crystal bottle of dark liquid in one hand, two glasses chinking softly in the other. He takes himself over to the wide window seat, arranging himself with his back to the wall and sets his burdens down.

"Father left this for me," he says shortly, pouring a generous measure of the golden liquid into each tumbler . "For god's sake sit down will you?"

Surprised, you laugh a little and close the door. "I wasn't expecting a visit is all," you reply. Pulling your dressing gown closed further around your shoulders you cross over to settle at the opposite end of the window seat and take the tumbler that Yzak hands to you. Sniffing it carefully you raise an eyebrow.

"Brandy?" you ask.

Yzak gives you a dirty look and snorts indelicately. "Whiskey, you idiot."

"Oh, right. Of course," you reply lamely, and then following Yzak's lead, take a sip of the liquid.

It tastes foul. Yzak watches you try to conceal your reaction with an expression of amused disdain. "You're such a peasant," he mocks you good-naturedly to which you merely grimace in return.

You sit there together, both looking out of the window and across the Plant. Yzak is sipping his whiskey steadily and you try to match him but can't quite overcome the taste. After a while Yzak looks thoughtfully down at his nearly empty glass and then back up at yours. Sniffing, he twists his lips into a thoughtful grimace and looks up at you. "It does taste like crap, doesn't it?" he says finally. "More?"

Laughing out loud, you nod and offer him your glass to be topped up. After a while the taste doesn't matter anymore.

oOo

No-one tells Yzak that the fleeing troop shuttle was actually a civilian transport unit. You make sure of it. The soldier that begins a report across the other side of the bridge to you both suddenly finds himself gasping in agony as you twist his arm up behind his back and speak very calmly into his ear, "That will be all, soldier."

Your words are quiet enough that Yzak, leaning over the battle plan at the other side of the room, doesn't hear. The soldiers around you do however, and they blanche noticeably as you propel their unfortunate comrade towards the door with a not-so-gentle shove. As you glare around at the rest of the bridge crew they turn away hastily and busy themselves at their panels. You can feel Kruz's eyes on you as you cross back to stand beside Yzak and you think you see him nod once at you before he turns his attention back to the map. Yzak is proclaiming loudly over the deployment of a particular squad and with a last warning glare around you, you lean in to take a look.

He's a hero, dammit, and you'll see to it that no-one tells him otherwise.

oOo

It doesn't take Co-ordinator intellect to know why Kruz puts Athrun in charge of your unit. The Zala boy is the obvious choice. After four hours straight of coffee and Jule bile you can admit that to yourself even if Yzak can't. Truth be told, after four hours of continual sniping from the other boy your desire to back him up has begun to wear somewhat thin.

Think about it, Yzak, you want to say. Who else is the better leader? No, that would be a bad choice of phrase to use on Yzak. Who is the one that's better suited to hold back whilst everyone else does the important stuff? Yes, that might work. Nichol's too much of a coward, you're too much of a hot-headed prick. And me? No-one listens to me anyway. Bastards.

But you don't say anything. Instead, you let your gaze settle on the television screen across the room and allow Yzak's snarling to fade into the background. After all, you'd never admit it to anyone else, but you're pissed off that you were overlooked for the role too. What's wrong with you taking the lead? Doesn't Kruz value you too? Dammit, as a long-range fighter where taking in the bigger picture is an intrinsic part of the way you fight you're practically perfect for the role.

Yzak's fist hits you around the top of the head with a painful smack and, completely unprepared for the blow, you're knocked sideways, hot coffee spilling over your hands and down the front of your uniform. Yelping in pain you scramble ungracefully to your feet, almost tripping up in your haste.

"What the hell was that for!" Your voice is half an octave too high as you stand glaring at the other boy. He's sneering at you although his expression is swiftly sliding into a mocking smirk.

"Stop fucking ignoring me," he says triumphantly and finally, your patience evaporates.

"Fuck you, Yzak," you snarl, your voice low and tight. His eyes widen and you catch a brief glimpse of silver eyebrows rising in surprise before you turn and stalk away, hurling your half-empty coffee cup into a bin on your way out.

Yzak doesn't follow you. You're almost disappointed.

oOo

You're lying on your bunk when the door chimes. The burning irritation has long ago worn off; you've never been one for staying in a funk for too long. It's not worth the energy. Curious, you key the door open from the pad beside your bed and crane your head round to see the visitor.

It's Athrun.

Surprised, you give him a grunt of acknowledgement. He stands in the doorway until it becomes obvious that you have reached the limit of your greeting capacity and then he sighs and with a half-glance down steps inside and seats himself across the room on Yzak's bed.

"Don't let him come in and see you sitting there," you drawl at him. "He might think you're after his bunk too."

Athrun scowls slightly and leans his elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose between his legs. "The way Yzak goes on, you'd think I was out to get him or something," he says quietly.

You both laugh, awkwardly. It's been a long time since it was like this, since you were allies. Since - and you realise it with a sharp wrench of sadness, right about the time that Athrun apparently realises it too - since you were friends.

You look at each other across the room and your awkward smiles fade. The silence stretches and you watch him, refusing to be the one to break first. He remains steadfastly staring at the floor and you wonder how long he's going to sit there before this gets ridiculous and you're forced to give in and say something to lighten the mood.

Eventually he looks up at you, his head askance and his eyes curiously hard.

"I'll do it," he says with quiet force. "He needn't worry. I will not let everyone down."

You stare at him, lips parted in surprise and raise your head to follow his movement as he pushes himself to his feet and strides across the room. The door whisks open in a rush of air and outside noise, slipping closed soundlessly behind him again as he steps through. Not once does he look back and it's a long time before you cease staring at the closed door and let your head fall back to hit the pillow with a resounding thump.

oOo

Nichol's scream as he dies is a horrible thing.

You watch in horror as Athrun freezes in place, his tortured cry more broken than anything you have ever heard. Yzak howls in disbelieving rage and does nothing, shocked into rare inaction by the scene laid out before you. No-one is doing anything, not even the pilot of the Strike. Someone has to take control. Shaking the echoes of those terrible cries from your ears you ready your gun and call the retreat, your voice hard and commanding, cutting through the others' disbelief with sheer force of will.

Amazingly, they obey you, minds numb and uncomprehending enough that they respond instinctively to the authority in your voice. You guide them back to the ship, skipping backwards over the water, covering the retreat and driving them before you as you guard against any pursuit from your enemy.

There's nothing in your head except the need to keep the rest of your group alive.

Right now, none of you are heroes.

oOo

Yzak is running, feet pounding the plexisteel, sending crew leaping for the sides of the corridor to get out of his way. You follow behind, a last glance over your shoulder as the door closes behind you showing you Athrun's fist arcing towards the locker door.

Crew members' eyes follow you as you pass but you ignore them, you could not stand to see the pity there right now. Calling his name will only make the situation worse, far more unbearably embarrassing, but you need him to stop, to just calm down.

He ignores you.

He runs of course to your quarters and you are glad, there were so many other, more difficult, places he could have fled to. Panting a little, you lean on the door outside for a few seconds to regain your composure before you follow him inside.

Yzak is on his bunk, facedown, fingers clenched tightly in the pillow. His breath is harsh and sobbing and for a shocked second you think that he is crying. He lifts his head and glares at you when you enter and you take a half-step back raising your hands in supplication.

"Yzak…"

His eyes are fierce and alight with rage still, but after a few seconds you realise that the rage is not directed at you. He shoves himself to his feet and stands, shaking with emotion, facing you across the small room.

"Yzak…" you say again, softly, soothingly and his eyes fall from your gaze to glare down at the floor, his fists clenching at his sides.

"Fuck," he whispers harshly. "Fuck, fuck!"

You watch him, unsure of what you can do. This is so familiar and yet so uncertain.

"That bastard, I'll kill him!" Yzak grates, and at first you can't tell who he's talking about, but it can't be Nichol because Nichol is dead.

Carefully, as though he may bolt at any moment, you approach him, slow and cautious, until you're within arm's reach. Then, gently, you reach out and place a hand on his shoulder. The muscles beneath your palm are rigid with strain and Yzak flinches visibly at your touch.

"Christ…" you whisper. "Yzak, I…"

But he cuts you off, shaking his head furiously. "What the fuck was he thinking? What was he doing! To lose to someone like that bastard Strike! To fucking die!"

You stand there together, watching his face as he stares fixedly at the wall and with a cold clench of anger you realise that there are tears in Yzak's eyes. Tears of rage you think, but suddenly you're not sure. But there are tears and Yzak never cries; Yzak hasn't cried since you were six years old and he broke his arm falling off a wall whilst playing.

"Chist…" you whisper again. "What the hell is going on, Yzak?"

He turns to you, his pretty features screwed up with pain and fury. He's watching you, you realise, as you feel the cold thrill of despair creeping through your limbs. You and Nichol haven't been friends for a long time now, though neither of you noticed the change. But he was Nichol, he was an ally, he was part of your group. He was part of what made up your world. That twisted, out-of-focus place in which only you and your squad and your power and your pride exist.

Yzak watches as your jaw clenches and your eyes close and he sees the pain on your face because no matter what you do you can't keep it from him. His hand comes up and grips your arm tightly, a low growl of frustration in his throat. Suddenly, he pulls away from your grasp and reaches under his bunk, pulling out a bundle of clothes. You watch as he sets them on the blanket, hastily unwrapping the object they contain before shoving them carelessly back under the bed.

"Sit down," he commands you, voice raw and strained. Not knowing what else to do, you comply. Yzak scoots himself onto the bunk until his back is against the wall and with a slight scowl of effort, wrenches the stopper from the bottle he has produced.

"No glasses," he whispers. "We'll just have to drink it straight from the bottle."

You can feel your lips twisting themselves into a pained smile as you reply, "How uncouth."

Yzak takes a swig from the bottle and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. "Shut up," he whispers softly and passes you the bottle. You laugh mirthlessly and raise it to your lips to take a swig. The taste hits you full force, sending vapours up your nose that make you cough.

"Not whiskey," you gasp, struggling with the unfamiliar taste.

"Brandy," Yzak replies, taking the bottle from you. "I wanted to bring some for you to try. This is as good a time as any."

"What are we celebrating?" you whisper.

"Nothing, you bastard. Just shut up and drink."

You do, scooting yourself onto the bunk so that you're leaning with one shoulder against the wall, facing him as you pass the bottle back and forth between you. For a long time you don't say anything to each other, you merely drown your pain with alcohol until half the bottle is gone and there is a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach.

Finally, Yzak doesn't pass the bottle back. He turns his head to look at you, blue eyes dull and unfocussed with alcohol and appears to be gauging your condition. You stare back at him blearily. You're not used to drinking so much neat alcohol and your head is spinning somewhat. Yzak appears to be waiting for you to say something, but for the life of you there is nothing worthwhile that you can think of to say.

"Tastes as bad as the last stuff you gave me," you say, confused by the slight slur that has permeated your voice. Yzak's face creases into a sad smile and he lets his head rest against the wall as he watches you.

"Peasant…" he whispers.

You laugh and hold his gaze until suddenly, without warning, his face crumples into pain and his blue eyes begin to moisten. "I should having fuckin' done something, Dearka," he whispers harshly.

The words send a flood of despair through you and hopelessness threads itself through your veins. Pushing yourself off the wall you reach out with both hands and slip them round the back of his neck, gently cradling his head at the base. "Don't…" you whisper and would have said more but you've gone and done something foolish, fuelled by grief and alcohol. You pull him forward from the wall, tilting his head back and cover his lips with your own. He doesn't resist, but a small, choked sound escapes his throat and as you push his head back with your kiss, his eyes close and stray tears creep from their corners to slip down his cheeks.

The kiss is fumbled and messy, but for all your inexperience, neither of you lack passion. Yzak makes a low sound in the back of his throat as though he is crying, but his arms come up to wrap around your shoulders and he pushes himself forward into your embrace. You're thrown a little off balance and you have to use his weight to stop you from falling over backwards. He slides into your arms easily, pressing himself against you and tilting his head to deepen the kiss. One of you parts your lips and the other takes advantage, darting their tongue between bruised lips.

Your leg is cramping, sat as you are, and suddenly it occurs to you through the fog of alcohol, that you are kissing your best friend. Startled a little, you pull back and hold him at arm's length. You are both panting and each of you regards the other with wide, surprised eyes.

Your head is swimming with brandy and something, somewhere, is insisting that this is a bad idea. Yzak's lips are red and swollen from where you have been none-too-gentle in kissing each other, and his blue eyes are dark with something you have never seen there before. You can still see the tear tracks that mark his cheeks and shakily you reach out to touch them.

"Don't…stop," he pants and suddenly, his hand is at the back of your neck and he is pulling you forwards onto him. Caught off balance, you topple over and he pulls you down on top of him. You land across his body, bracing yourself on your knees and one arm, the other tangling in his hair. Yzak slings one arm around your waist and pulls you down into his embrace. For all that he is slight, he is also remarkably strong and you have no balance, sloshed as you are on fine brandy. You fall forwards and end up lying half across him.

"Yzak…" you murmur and he tightens his grip on you, one arm wrapped around your neck, pulling your face down into the crook of his shoulder.

"Shut up, just…shut up," he whispers fiercely. "I don't wanna think…"

You cover his mouth with your own, your aim a little off so that you catch the tip of his nose too, but he doesn't seem to care. His lips are demanding against yours, his mouth hot and full of the taste of tears and alcohol. You kiss, bodies pressed together tightly, fingers tangling in each other's hair, palms trailing down each other's sides, grasping, clinging. Eventually your passion fades, drawn away into a strange miasma of warmth and fatigue that wraps itself round you both.

You lie there in each other's arms and at some point you must drift off to sleep, because when you open your eyes again, you have shifted position so that you are lying more along Yzak's side, your belly pressed against his flank, one leg draped between his own. His head is tilted back and soft snores are scraping from his throat, his breathing made awkward by the angle of his head and the effects of the alcohol.

You close your eyes and drift, feeling the warmth and life of his body beside your own. It's been a very long time since you embraced anyone outside of a fight, even your mother. Zaft Fleet Academy didn't leave much time for romantic liaisons either.

Pressing your nose into the soft crook of his neck you pull him closer and press your body more tightly against his. There is a fuzziness in your head that's making you feel strangely warm and uncaring and you are afraid to focus on it in case your attention drives away the numbness and heralds the return of cold reality.

Drunk on grief and brandy, you both remain in each other's arms until shared body heat becomes too much and you roll away to lie on your back, staring blearily up at the ceiling. There is a sickness in the pit of your stomach that might be from the alcohol and might be from something else.

Suddenly, terribly, you wonder what Athrun would think of this if he were to see you now, and at the laughter that bubbles up unbidden from your throat, Yzak turns his head and stares at you.

"You better not be cracking up, Dearka," he informs you curtly and you can't help it, you simply laugh harder. He hits you once, twice in the shoulder, the second time hard enough to leave a bruise, but you can't help yourself. You can feel his glare burning into your flesh until with a vicious sigh he turns on his side away from you and yanks the blanket up over his shoulders.

"No more alcohol for you," he mutters and all you can do is chuckle helplessly into the darkness.

oOo

By the time morning comes round, the alcohol in your systems has long worn off. Yzak wakes up first; he's in the shower when you open your eyes, look around and realise that somehow you're not in the right place. Memory stirs as you grasp that you've fallen asleep in your uniform, your loose uniform, dishevelled and open at the fly. Your eyes widen and suddenly you're pitifully, profoundly glad of the blanket that has been draped over your body.

Your head feels fuzzy and there's a disgusting taste in your mouth which you try to shake off and regret when the action sets your head to throbbing. You raise yourself on your arms and stare down at the sheets. Carefully, you think back – just how much of what you did last night will he remember? How much do you remember?

You remember kissing him, his mouth hot and eager, his slight body twisting in your arms to find a closer fit. You remember his eyes, glazed with desire and the sharp gasp of his breath in your ear. You remember his hands on you, the sweet sensation that overwhelmed you – and shit. Nichol is dead.

The door to the shower room whisks open and you look up instinctively. He stands in the doorway, towelling his hair dry and watching you with calm, composed features. You stare back at him stupidly.

You've heard of situations like this in the past, where best friends get drunk off their arses and give in to desire and animal instinct and end up all over each other. But those stories usually revolve around men and women, not men and men. Not best friends like you are. Not like this. And of all the stories you've heard, not one has ever worked out for the best.

You think it would be a sweet blessing if all he did was scream at you. You don't think you can handle silence.

He's still towelling his hair, still watching you with that same calm, unreadable expression and you still cannot think of what to say. Finally he slings the towel around his shoulders and pads over to stand beside the bed looking down at you. You stare up at him.

"I need to get in those drawers," he says matter-of-factly, gesturing with his chin to the shelving behind you. You look over at them stupidly and then back up at him. Suddenly your brain engages and processes the request and you almost leap to your feet, dragging the blanket with you. He pushes the trailing ends out of his way so that he doesn't kneel on them and starts pulling out a clean shirt from the drawer. Dragging it on over his head he arranges it neatly and looks sideways at you still standing dorkishly watching him.

"There's a clean towel in the other room. You should go shower."

"Y-yeah," you reply. Yzak shakes his head and gives you a small frown before pulling the blanket from your hands and stuffing it into the laundry basket. Realising that you've been dismissed, you turn and head for the bathroom, one hand keeping your trousers in place. This…sucks. Before reaching the door, you stop and look back at him.

"About last night," you begin, but he cuts you off before you can continue.

"We'll talk about it another time, Dearka. This evening, when we come off duty."

It's not the answer you want to hear and for once it's you who is spoiling for the fight. But it's hard to pick a fight with a voice quite that cool and composed and you look down at the floor, your thumb picking at the side of your nail in distraction.

"Uh…Yzak?" you say.

He makes a small sound in reply and looks up at you, his eyes serious and questioning.

"Are we…okay?"

There is only the slightest of pauses before he gives you a single, reassuring nod. "Yeah," he says softly. "We're fine."

It's not the most profound of statements, but you believe him. Nodding in return, you head on in for a shower.

oOo

When you come out of the shower, he's waiting, pale and beautiful and utterly deadly, staring down at the screen on the terminal by the door. You can see past his shoulder that it's playing a clip of the Strike's movements, over and over. Patterns of attack and defence in slow, graceful quarter time.

It's agreed between you in your silence and the words that neither of you are going to speak. The time for weakness is over. Clear away the bottle and the tears and the warmth of one body next to another. You've washed away the touch of him on your body and the scent of him on your hands.

He taps the screen with a fingernail and looks over at you. You don't need any further explanation. He waits while you pull on a clean uniform and then the two of you leave together, heading for the Bridge.

Somewhere along the way, Athrun joins you. He does not know from your silence what has happened the night before; all he can read is the determination in your strides and the cold, vengeful fury in the set of your shoulders. His eyes harden as he sees you coming and you hold his gaze until you draw level.

And then, because he has not faltered and his gaze has not wavered and for a hundred other reasons you'd thought you'd long since forgotten, you both amend your path so that he can move in and walk beside you.

Crew members move respectfully to the side of the corridor to give you room as you pass and you walk together, the three of you, all that remains of your band of heroes. Side by side against a common foe; united in your resolve and your pain and your fearsome, desperate fury.

oOo

The next time you and Yzak meet, things will be very different. But somehow, nothing at all will have changed.

And, even if you're the only ones that know it, you'll still be heroes.