Being Athrun Zala

Author: pratz

First, let me say THANK YOU! I LOVE YOU! THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH!

This is for fledgling, who voted for Kira as the “Best Supporting Character,” who tolerated my messing up, who was brilliant and all and who stayed.

I'm aware that the first part of this chapter will be somewhat mature and dark, but it's how I want it to be. So you have your warning now. Now, you tell me who your favourite character so is and what you think of BAZ so far. I’ll see you again in the last chapter of BAZ. Oh, and whoever finds who "Neftali Basoalto" really is gets a bear hug from me.

That, and I still have some explanation left. So yeah. Enjoy this chapter, people.

Chapter 12

Athrun always thought himself miserable when it came to sex.

It was not that he did not enjoy sex. He enjoyed sex, but it often turned out ugly because he always felt that he was only using sex as an escape.

The first time he used sex as an escape, he was too drunk to remember it clearly. He spent that night in a Diocuian bar with Heine, a very vivacious friend to drink with, and it seemed that he had been passed out when Heine dropped him into his room. And good Lord, Meer was there. Meer was there in the morning, in his room, in his bed, with him.

Heine gave him a knowing smirk during breakfast that whole day, and poor Lunamaria, who happened to find out about it first, would not look at him in the eyes. He forced himself not to cringe when Meer glued herself to him that following day. He had been glad that not even the slightest memory remained from the previous night. He might have gone crazy if he remembered what happened.

Subsequent episodes were with faceless strangers or strange faces. Some faces he remembered because he, at least, had the decency to take her on a date before crashing into bed; other faces were blurry like the faces of casualties in battle. The last one had even caused a fall out between him and Kira. Kira was just being unreasonable, he thought. He had not done it in his own house for Dietmar’s sake, and if there was anyone to be blamed, it was his co-workers. They thought that he needed to slow down, and they played the matchmaker. Kira had no right to be mad at him.

Or perhaps Kira did.

Because although it was his co-workers who had initiated it, by shoving him into a pub, Athrun later obliged to the arrangement himself.

Probably it was because he felt like he needed it, being tightly wound due to work and dormant self-improvement. Probably it was because he wanted it. Probably it was because he was stupid. And miserable. Or both. In any case, that day, he found a partner who was only a year or two older than himself. She was pretty even with minimalist make up. And she was blond. Sweet, blond Julia. It was a hat-off to his miserable self, in a way. But to be fair, he had enjoyed their good-humoured flirting and enticing foreplay.

But it was not until Julia’s back hit the bed and he hovered above her that the sentimental part of his brain kicked in.

And kick hard it did.

“Alex—slow—er—gentler.”

He had his hand on Julia’s neck, perhaps halfway to strangling her to death. The other hand clutched bodily at Julia’s sternum, the hold so hard he was sure it would leave bruises. He snapped and immediately backed off rather harshly, staggering and making a pathetic show of himself.

What had he done?

But he knew why, oh he really did know why—and there went another misery.

Half an hour later, he came to sit before her on the bed. He was not sure that touching her would be okay, not after what he almost did.

“Was it that bad for you?”

He cringed and could not answer. Thus, he let silence reign for some uncomfortable moments.

Julia snorted. “I wouldn’t mind doing it rough, though, you know. Just don’t go all violent on me.”

He cringed again. “Why are you doing this?”

She gave him an incredulous look. “Why are you?”

He lowered his eyes to her chin. “I’m not sure I could answer that.”

“Here goes another disorientated guy—nice but disorientated.” She sighed. “You see, Alex, I’m here for enjoyment, so if you’re going to whine, I’m not sure I'm the best in the listening department.” Smiling, she patted him on his left shoulder. “You’re a good guy, so I’m going to give you some advice. Go home, return to whoever waits there and don’t look back. You don’t fit in here.”

He smiled, though weakly. “You make it sound like I’m running from home.”

Julia tilted her head, her blonde head, and her shiny, curly blonde hair spilled over one shoulder. “Aren’t you?”

He never answered that, not even after Julia fell asleep on the bed—and him on the couch.

The next morning, he saw her to the lobby where a cab awaited. Kira, who dropped by on a work matter, raised his eyebrows as they passed each other. Athrun only shrugged and signalled for Kira to go to his room first.

“Can we meet again?” he asked before he closed the cab door. He was careful not to phrase it as if he was eager to see her again. “As in for coffee?”

“No, Alex. No.” Julia smiled, still with that indifference in her eyes. “No hard feelings, though.”

“Oh.” He straightened his posture and closed the cab door. “Alright.”

“Don’t stray too long from your home. Bye.”

“Bye.”

It took Kira’s week-long glower and later, Cagalli’s scathing remark of him being a "big bad wolf" (1) to finally make him sober up.

He had thought that Julia would be able to make him unwind, if only for just for a short time. Yet the indifference in her eyes, the superior smile on her knowing lips, and the distant expression on her face took its toll on him, casting a spell so powerful that he could not shake himself free. Why, why did Julia have to have such indifferent eyes, such a superior, knowing smile, such a distant expression and be blonde? It was wrong. He should have received a look of familiarity, or comfort, even affection. He should have, but he did not receive one. And he hated it. And so he had reacted.

It was the pain that wrenched, fisted through, and froze his insides at Julia’s expression that made him stop.

That same pain was reigning in him now. Damn stupid interview relay. Damn stupid conspiracy. Damn stupid war-mongering. Damn stupid long way to the Athha Mansion. Damn this stupid world and all its stupid pain.

So much for being a miserable big bad wolf,he thought. So much for it.

Kisaka was big and strong. But even he was no match for an extremely upset former ace pilot, who also happened to be a former guard of Orb One that knew the exact security procedure within the Athha Mansion. Said guard also happened to be the one responsible for arranging all details of said security procedure in the past.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the colonel.

Not even a dislocated shoulder would erase the murderous fire in Kisaka’s eyes as he glared at Athrun. “You’re a convict.”

“I know,” he said. He repentantly eyed the other two guards leaning against the wall, both knocked out cold. “Give me a little time.”

“You’re a convict with a curfew,” Kisaka rasped angrily.

Good old Mana, who had unfortunately witnessed the break-in, had run to call for more guards. Athrun knew that he only had a limited amount of time. He should not waste it by talking to Kisaka.

But it seemed that the noise had gained the attention of the Mansion’s matriarch, for Cagalli herself appeared from behind the thick door of her study.

“What—”

“Cagalli, don’t!” Kisaka yelled and tried to get to her before Athrun did, but his dislocated shoulder gave him a disadvantage.

Athrun snatched her arm quickly, ignoring her loud gasp.

“You—what—let go!” she snarled, trying to free herself from his hold.

He dodged from a flying fist. “I’m very upset right now, so you’d better cooperate,” he hissed, tightening his hold instead and ignoring her wince.

“You don’t talk in that tone to me,” she shot back.

“Don’t be stupid, Athrun!” Kisaka bellowed.

He glared at the colonel and opened his mouth to speak, but Cagalli beat him to that.

“One hour,” she said to Kisaka. “If no one comes out after that, barge in.”

She pulled him by his collar to get inside her study, and he staggered as she almost knocked him with her elbow. Oh no, his mind said. You’re not getting away now. Still not letting go of her hand, he forcefully jammed his ID card backward into the electronic lock to break the automatic system. It would buy him time.

“What do you think you are doing?” She pressed against his side even though she was the one being cornered and trapped, the book shelves against her back and him against the front.

“What do you think you are doing?” he repeated coldly. “Yes?” She tried once again to pull back her hand, but he did not budge. “Why? The rebuilding of Heliopolis won’t be complete until five to seven years. The parliament won’t quieten down unless you’re there. The world won’t rest in peace unless Orb is present full-force.” He brought his face closer to her. The anger in her eyes matched his, he knew. “And you don’t have a successor yet.”

To his surprise, she turned her face and looked away. “Because Orb has no need for a leader who is half-hearted.”

He made her look at him again, his free hand now half-cupping the back of her head. “You are Orb.”

“Now, don’t be despotic. L’etat c’est moi doesn’t suit me, Athrun.” The line of her mouth twisted into a bitter sneer. “That is how you define Orb. That is all Orb means to you.”

His fingers pressed hard against her nape. “You were not serious.”

She raised her chin defiantly. “I was. I am.” Her free hand crept to his chest, fisting the fabric of his jacket as if she was going to rip it off. “So physical today, aren’t you?”

“Can’t I?” he taunted. “I’ve told you before; you are my anchor. I have nothing else to hold onto.”

“Do you think I forget that?”

“No, you don’t. You just don’t want to remember. You don’t want to remember this—us.”

She looked like she wanted to cry. Or not. “Jerk.”

She was his font of solace, his infinite well of comfort, but if—when—she really did what she said she would, the Cagalli he knew would belong only to his memory. He would not be able to look at her without remembering what she had done.

Love is a verb, Athrun, his mother once said. You show your love in your actions. The Zalas believed so—from Athrun Dan to Patrick to him. It really ran in the blood.

And Athrun cursed his blood.

“Yes,” he breathed helplessly. “This is the me you’ve created.” He knew that it hurt her just as much it did him. “After all, as you said yourself, I have a tendency of being masochistic. I’d rather have you chain me to you than have you let me go. But no. You just let me go. Just like that, and goddamn it, Cagalli, now I just want to just stop feeling.”

“You wanted me,” she shuddered, struggling to breathe, “to chain you to me....”

“And make me yours.” He knew how pathetic it sounded, but it was the truth.

She drew a deep, shaky breath. “You bastard,” she whispered. “When did I ever let you go?”

“But you did.”

“How could I ever let you go? I never—I never did,” she choked, “because you were never mine to begin with.”

And his fury exploded at that, deep, bitter and overwhelming. He pulled away only to tower over her, yelling into her face. “I am willing to die for you, damn it!”

She was upset, but she was not angry enough to throw his anger back at him. “I know you are.” Her hand on his shoulder tightened. “But you’re always too stubborn to realise that it isn’t what I want from you.”

“How is that—”

“I’ve never been reason enough for you to live, Athrun Zala,” she said, raw and hurting. “I have enough deaths on my hands, and you still want to add one more into that number. Of all people, I don’t want that from you. I don’t want to be your reason to die, you jerk. I want to be your reason to live, and I hate that I’m never enough to make you want to live, that I still mean nothing to you after everything.”

One thing was strangely absent from her: screaming. Yet the way she said those words was enough to wound him more deeply than any other pain he had ever experienced.

Painfully slowly, she dropped her forehead onto the dip between his collarbones. She sighed, her breath washing over his skin. “I know it’s stupid of me to wish for that. You never live for me. You live for your past—no—you live in your past. And I understand that. You do because if you don’t, you will forget. You’ll forget your mother, you’ll forget all the pain that’s been forced upon you, you’ll forget all the deaths and you’ll even forget your father. It hurts, and I understand why you do.” She let out a strangled chuckle, so hollow that his ears hurt to hear it. “But didn’t you see that I lost my father, too? I lost my father, who chose to die for me, who never took me as a reason enough to live, right before my eyes. Multiply the pain of losing your mother ten thousand times to know how I feel about my father. And you want me to go through that again. And you almost succeeded. Brilliant, Athrun. That’s so brilliant of you.”

The sarcasm dripping from her lips was nothing compared to the naked pain in her voice. In that moment, he wished he were deaf. “You—you just have to ask.” He did not intend it to be that desperate, though. “Ask me to live for you! Ask me anything! I’m—”

“Ask?” she repeated incredulously, finally getting a little heated herself. “Ask, you say? No, I can’t, damn it! I can’t and won’t ask, because you’re never able to say no to me, and if you do, you do it because I ask you, because I want you to and not because you want it yourself!”

“Then what do you want from me?!” he shot back. “Do you want me to make you my reason to live? I can’t! You know I can’t, because every time I want to do something, I mess up and every time I want to protect, I end up tear everything down!”

“Then don’t do it to me,” she said against his neck. “I know how it feels to want to protect but fail. It’s just anger, all of it. I know how it feels to be angry at yourself and still be angry—because anger feels so much better than the hurt.” She paused, the emotions heavy and choking and desperate. “So don’t do it to me. Don’t make me too angry to forgive myself if anything happens to you. Don’t make me hate myself. Don’t let me hurt my self.”

He scrunched his eyes tightly against the hot tears that were threatening to spill down his face.

And his lips crashed down on Cagalli’s.

She froze. His head spun. They died a little more inside.

The kiss was anything, anything but gentle. It was meant to bruise, to leave scars, to hurt. It was hunger and desperation and pain and a desire for moremoremore. He did not want to care. Let her feel. Let her crumble to your level, his dark mind urged. Let her be as disgusting as you.

But she kissed back. Once. And again. She kissed back.

This is how it feels to fall headfirst into madness, his mind said. And you will drag her down with you. And should he care if she did not? Cagalli had already abandoned the rebuilding of Heliopolis, the one mega project that Orb and the Neo Eurasia-led group of donor countries had been working to complete, had abandoned the messy political conundrum, had abandoned the world, had abandoned Orb. And she did not give a damn.

To hell with everything, eh?

He pulled away abruptly—roughly—breathing hard, wanting to cry out in frustration, wanting to cry blood.

She did not let him go very far, though. “Did you kiss your women like that?”

“I kissed them, slept with them, yes,” he hissed. Her taste lingered in his mouth, his lips tingling, his body aching. He clenched her wrist harder. Let her feel. “But I never hold onto them.”

“The tighter you hold onto me, the faster you’ll be broken.”

“I am broken.” He lowered his forehead onto hers. Something inside him twisted up as he saw her flinching. In fear? Of him? Lord, what had he done? “But it’s you who will suffer me.” And his anger chose that moment to drain him of his temporary strength, leaving him to sag against her. His anchor, his steadfast anchor.

“Leave,” Cagalli said, tormented and quiet. “Please.”

“Please don’t.”

Don’t what? Don’t do this to me? Don’t let me be the one to drag you down? Don’t let me see you crumble? Don’t let me make you fall?

He did not know what he did not want anymore.

Her breath fell on his collarbone, and she let go of his jacket. Her wrist was starting to swell. She pushed at his chest gently. She did not answer; she just pushed him away. She would not return to be the Cagalli in his memory.

The moment he opened the door, a number of handguns rose to greet him, and among them was Kira’s. Mana must have called him too. Athrun knew that Kira would not have thought twice about coming immediately. Predictable, he thought, donning a thin, dark smile. So he raised both hands to show that he was not armed.

“Lower the guns,” Kira said to the guards.

“Siegfried-san, wh—”

“He’s not an enemy.”

What an uncreative repetition of history, he had wanted to say, but he did not have time because Kira swiftly snagged his arms and twisted them behind him. A solid ‘click’ let him know that a handcuff was secured in place.

“I’ll take him back to Hathaway-san,” Kira said to Kisaka and did not wait for an affirmation.

This was the first time his best friend had ever treated him so callously, mechanically. “Get inside.” Kira forced him to duck his head and pushed him into the passenger's seat. Athrun’s muscles protested as his bound hands collided with the backrest. Just as he was about to speak, he found himself facing the cold metal tip of Kira’s handgun.

“One word, Athrun,” Kira hissed through gritted teeth, though there was hurt in the violet eyes. “Say one word, and you’ll give me a reason to once again be a murderer.”

Gritting his own teeth, Athrun knew that Kira had the upper hand. The last thing he wanted from his best friend was for Kira to stain his hands with blood once again. “Just take these handcuffs off. I’m not going to flee.”

“Said a man who once attempted to run away from the ZAFT headquarters, while handcuffed,” Kira said dryly.

He was tired, so tired.

“Why?”

“Because I love her.”

Somehow, he knew that Kira had expected this answer, and he was not surprised when his best friend retorted with the truth that he was too much of a coward to admit:

“No, you don’t. You don’t love her. You protect her because you don’t know what you’ll do if she isn’t there to lead you. You just want to follow.”

“Don’t we all follow those whom we love?”

“But you don’t always love those whom you follow.”

“Well, excuse me if my love life isn’t all melodramatic and such. Unlike yours, my love life had to walk down a via dolorosa and get crucified.”

“So is this it?” Kira sneered, though it only came out half scornful, due to Kira’s personality. “Is this all just about glorifying your... love life?”

And wrath was lethal.

“I want to give her something only I can give, damn it! My life, my death, all of me—it’s all hers to take! I just want to make her happy!” Despite his tiredness, he was shouting. “All I want is for her to be happy, and yet she just has to play the stupid lamb and sacrifice some more! I don’t want that from her! Why can’t she dismiss me for a greater good? Why can’t she just use me, take from me, ask from me my everything? Why can’t she?!”

Kira pulled off the road so abruptly that the wheels screeched noisily against the hard asphalt. Athrun’s left arm pressed painfully into the door. Then, as if having his equilibrium shaken so suddenly was not enough, his head crashed brutally against the window as Kira slammed him against the door.

“Can you ask her to ask for your everything?” Kira shouted, his hold on Athrun's collar nearly choking him. “Can you, Athrun?!”

But he knew the answer to that. And he knew that he could not—would never could.

Kira let go of him as if disgusted by his own unlikely outburst. In these recent years, Athrun had never seen his best friend lose control. “You and Cagalli are too similar; you know that more than anyone. What you want is what she wants. What you can’t ask from her is what she can’t ask from you.” Kira dropped his face into his palms, exhaling loudly, bitterly. “This way, the two of you will only head to ruin.”

But he knew that, too, didn’t he?

And yet you still do it, his dark mind mocked cruelly.

This ruin was his responsibility as well as Cagalli’s, because, just as Kira said, they were too similar. He had once believed that they balanced each other, but he was wrong. They mirrored each other. They were each other’s reflection. This time, Athrun knew, there would be no one, not even Kira, to play the bridge between Cagalli and him.

After all, there was no point in bridging two ruins.

Date: October 9, CE 78

Subject: Athrun Zala

Contender: Reginald Omar Hathaway

Present Occupation: Orb National Domestic Security Affair Office, Orb

Prosecutor: Hart Rajamalela, Winifred Dudek, Neftali Basoalto

“Did you let Alex Dino in the office knowing that Alex Dino was formerly known as Athrun Zala?”

“The decision wasn’t against the Orb Constitution.”

“Did you?”

“Well, if you want to cross a river and someone comes to offer help, will you refuse him?”

“Did you?”

“Yes, yes, I did.”

“Do you remember Alex Dino ever committing any violations of the law?”

“He’s always been responsible and committed. If there was a time he wasn’t, then I forgot when, and you can forgive this old man his sin.”

Date: October 15, CE 78

Subject: Athrun Zala

Contender: Cagalli Yula Athha

Present Occupation: Orb Representative Council, Orb

Prosecutor: Hart Rajamalela, Winifred Dudek, Rikard Weller Caird, Neftali Basoalto

“Did Your Excellency agree to Athrun Zala’s application for an Orb citizenship?

“With due respect, I am no under obligation to clarify our immigration policy.”

“Has Athrun Zala ever participated in any Orb military action?”

“The answer to this question belongs to the confidentiality of our military.”

“Has Your Excellency ever issued any personal approval to Orb citizenship applications submitted by former military members?”

“It’s Orb policy that grants approval, not me.”

“Even if the applicants are terrorists?”

“Orb deals differently with terrorists.”

“With arms?”

“In any way as guided by our constitution.”

Date: October 23, CE 78

Subject: Athrun Zala

Contender: Athrun Zala

Present Occupation: Orb National Domestic Security Affair Office, Orb

Prosecutor: Hart Rajamalela, Rikard Weller Caird, Neftali Basoalto

“Did you take Dietmar Gladys, son to Leopold and Talia Gladys, under your care, and bring him to reside in Orb?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have legal authorization that permitted you to take Dietmar Gladys?”

Athrun could feel his head throb. Dietmar’s face flashed in his mind repeatedly. “No.”

“Did either Leopold or Talia Gladys ask you to take Dietmar Gladys under your ca—”

“Gentlemen, they died in the war,” Young cut in sharply, standing. “If there’s anyone who knows how to gain permission from the dead, I would like to meet him.”

Athrun pulled Young’s sleeve tiredly. He could not stand any more shouting. He did not even care what the previous hearing sessions, Hathaway's and Cagalli's respectively, had been like. Let them all hear what they wanted to hear. Let them all skin him.

Young glared at him, but nevertheless he sat back. “You’re not letting them corner you like this.” His defender was clearly irritated.

He shook his head. “I’m telling the truth.”

“Not if it could kill you.”

“At least I would be an honest dead man.”

Young glared even more but said nothing.

Three hours later, the representative of the prosecutors, Neftali Basoalto, read Athrun their temporary decision; one that left Athrun even more dead than he thought he could be.

Blood was drained from his face.

“Wait,” he tried to argue. “Wait, please.”

Basoalto did not seem to hear him.

“What do you mean you’re going to take him?”

Never, ever, tickle a lion’s snout.

The next moment went by like a movie in slow-motion. He leapt across the table, stumbling a little. He would have fallen if not for Young bracing him, and dashed at Basoalto. He almost made it to the prosecutor’s collar—only an inch further to success—when the butt of a guard’s rifle slammed into his left temple. Hard.

For the only way to handle an angry lion was to kill it.

It happened so fast that he did not even have the chance to cover his face. All he saw was pitch black. His left eye felt like it had been hit by a massive truck, the sudden pain so blaring that he might have passed out for a second or two. He heard curses and yells and footsteps, feeling Young’s hands on his shoulder and back. The floor was cold beneath his palms, and there was the sickening smell of blood.

“This is a serious violation of a subject of law’s rights!”

“Let me remind you, Mr. Young, that it was your client who first tried to violate Mr. Basoalto!”

“He wasn’t trying to do anything!”

“He tried to strangle Mr. Basoal—”

“I apologise,” Athrun promptly interrupted. “My action was spurred by emotion. It wasn’t planned, Mr. Basoalto. I really apologise.” He used Young’s hand to help him sit, though he was still swaying a little. “Talk to them. I’m alright,” he said to his defender.

Young looked at him in doubt. “You sure?”

“I’m sure. Please.”

Young did not look like he bought it, but he left to run after Basoalto anyway. After all, he, more than anyone, understood that it was important not to let the prosecutors add on a minus point due to any erroneous judgements on Athrun.

The commander of the guards came to kneel near Athrun. “Can you stand?” he asked.

“In a minute,” he replied, still dizzy and nauseous.

“Sorry about that.”

“You’re just doing your duty.”

The commander offered him a kerchief. “I’ll ask one of my men to take you to the medical bay before you leave.”

Athrun understood his worry. The critical press would take this as, indeed, a violation the law, and the guards would receive the first of the blame. Athrun should not have cared, but he did not want others to be blamed for his mistake.

As he lay on a bed in the medical bay, the words that Basoalto had spoken returned in full force.

“We have assessed that it is best to have Dietmar Gladys under neutral, standard care—”

Hell to neutral. Hell to standard.

“—until it is time for the International War Tribunal to commence its decision in just and—”

Hell to justice.

“Best to have Dietmar Gladys under neutral, standard care.”

“Dietmar Gladys under neutral, standard care.”

“DIETMAR GLADYS. Under. Neutral, standard care.”

Hell to it all.

Young came to him half an hour later. “Not good,” he murmured. “Aggressive behaviour. Flawed cooperation. Inappropriate reaction.”

Athrun just pressed his pack of ice harder against his temple.

“How is his head?” Young asked the nearest nurse.

“Fine, except for a scratch or two. Still, he’d better go to a hospital to check if he’s got a minor concussion.”

Young grunted. “I’m so going to sue this hearing.”

“Well, things often happen in an interrogation,” the nurse said.

“This is not an interrogation,” Young snarled.

The nurse shrugged uncaringly. “Doesn’t look any different to me.” Then he left.

Young clicked his teeth loudly out of irritation.

“He’s got a point there.” Athrun got up from the bed. This is an interrogation, an undoing of power for me, he thought. If I still have any left, of course. The damn rifle hit had ruined both his face and his suit; his collar was stained with blood. He sighed. There was no way he could meet Dietmar like this. “Will, please go to Erica-san’s house and tell Dietmar I’m sorry I can’t see him today.”

Young gave him a suspicious look.

The stitches on his temple were itchy, but it would not help the wound if he rubbed at it. Hell. “I’ll be fine.”

“There’s no way you can drive in your condition, and I won’t risk the chance of you being hit, kidnapped or killed when you’re wandering around by yourself.”

“Fine,” he snapped. “Since you’re the capable one between us, drive me to a goddamn hospital, give Dietmar my message, and come back to pick me up.”

Despite the circumstances, Young grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

The doctor who had tended to him after Athrun's assassination attack only shook his head as Athrun walked through his door. Later, Athrun was told that he was the only patient who returned to that doctor twice in less than half a year.

“Always ripe with injuries, aren’t you?”

“You can’t imagine, doc,” he replied dryly.

“So,” the doctor began, “What was it this time?”

“I ticked off the court.”

The doctor snorted. “I heard about it, and I can’t say I’m happy about that. Including about you.”

“Yeah, I’m a downright liar. Continue rubbing it in my face,” he countered sarcastically.

“At least this time you’re not running away.” The doctor smiled a little. “The brave men of Orb would be proud of you.”

Athrun was found to have a minor concussion and was not allowed to leave the hospital for two days. The information about the incident in his last hearing had reached Hathaway’s ears, and, no doubt, Cagalli’s, too. Orb officially filed a protest to the Tribunal. A late night news program stated, “Even though Athrun Zala is a war criminal, the appreciation of human rights is fundamental.”

Young came back at two in the morning to tell him that Dietmar had already been taken from Erica Simmons’ house. At 02.15, he was ready to search all over Orb for Dietmar, but at 02.33, Shinn, of all people, came to force him to stay in the hospital.

“Who are you to tell me what to do?”

“Oh, I’m hurt,” his former subordinate mocked. “I thought you’d at least listen to me as an old friend.”

He wanted to say that he could not remember ever being friends with Shinn Asuka, but decided against it.

Shinn grabbed a chair and sat near the door, as if to block Athrun’s way out. He even ushered Young out. “You’re going to stay, and you’re going to listen to me.”

“What? Did Yzak die and make you his successor?”

Shinn scowled darkly. “Someday he will, just we all will. But he will die a proud warrior’s retribution, unlike you—if you’re still going to be stubborn about leaving.” His face darkened. “Dietmar is safe, so there’s no need to worry about your boy.”

“So he is safe, I shouldn’t worry, and I still will die,” Athrun said through gritted teeth.

Shinn put both elbows on his knees. “You know that there are people who would be happier if Athrun Zala doesn’t exist anymore. But, you see, even in your death, as a dead Athrun Zala, you continue to prickle them. I guess that’s why the existentialists say that existence comes before presence. So now that you have come back as Athrun Zala, they won’t be able to sleep peacefully before you... cease to exist.”

“In other words, before I’m dead,” he paraphrased.

“It takes more than just a death to stop you from existing,” Shinn countered. “Athrun Zala must be erased from history. He mustn’t be allowed to exist in any way. How?” Shinn shrugged. “Exile him from humanity. Strip him of his power. Undo all his achievements. Taint his name through a smear campaign. Let him rot all by himself.”

It was almost surreal to listen to Shinn speaking about it; Yzak would suit the role better, he thought. They were speaking about Athrun Zala as if the name’s owner was a third person beyond the conversation, a man too pitiful to be allowed life, too evil to be condoned existence.

“So don’t make it happen faster, you bastard,” Shinn scowled. “There are also people working their asses off to give you this small room to breathe in. If you can’t do it for your own sake, do it for them.”

A minute passed, then, “Are you?”

“What?”

“Are you?” he repeated. “One of them, I mean. Those who want to give me a small room to breathe in.”

Shin grunted under his breath, muttering about a tactless, bold, stupid former commander. “Humans always need something to believe in. Religions, philosophies, ideologies, dogmas, and such. Something to follow. Something to hold onto. Some choose to believe in a person, because it is easier to hold onto an embodiment of beliefs in a person. I am one of that people.” He paused. “We choose to follow not because it’s easier than believing in ourselves. We choose to follow because we don’t know if we’re able to believe in ourselves.”

They did not converse anymore.

At four in the morning, Shinn announced that a joint unit of ZAFT and Orb military had put Athrun under vigilance due to Orb’s request to the Tribunal. In return, the Tribunal demanded that he was not to wander around as freely as before. He was also not to see anyone to discuss anything unless it was related to the Tribunal’s interest.

On October 25, CE 78 evening, Athrun Zala was officially put in a house arrest.

People came and went.

The scheduled hearing sessions ended—for good or bad he did not know. Yzak, his magistrate, came to let him know that there insistence from PLANT to bring him back and put him in a PLANT trial. Others urged to issue a complete annulment of his service in ZAFT even though it had to annul both Patrick and Dullindal’s authorized orders. Some others called for a thorough investigation on PLANT’s agreement on specific asylum policies. You are a Hitler to be erased from history by a Germany-like PLANT, Yzak had said. And even though Lacus Clyne had tried her best to remind PLANT that a nation must not forget her history, the Clyne faction was only one entity. The lack of international power resulting from the Second War had taken its toll on the people’s nationalism, and the newly forged nationalism needed an offering to commemorate its birth.

Given the heavy political pressure in the Tribunal, Athrun had little doubt that all the popular demands would be ignored.

Some sharp-minded individuals on Earth had noticed the power play in the Tribunal, and had asked for a just and fair court for all war deserters. They said that the receptions were exaggerated. They were sure that, particularly in Athrun Zala case, if it were not someone named Zala, the reactions would not be as vast. Even so, they were not willing to take sick men under their roof.

Orb had been divided into two major opinions. Some political opportunists used the issues as their joker card and played a dirty hand. Cagalli, the Athha heir who was Orb’s backbone, was once again forced to keep the nation intact almost single-handedly. On the other hand, she had to deal with low-blow political attacks on her hereditary and her connection with Kira Yamato. So far, it was an internal battle with fellow Orb civilians and external battle with the hungry part of the world.

If not because of the Athha guidance—Athhaism as it was popularly called now—Orb would really be split into two.

If not because of Cagalli, Athrun would not mind falling a little faster.

“‘George Glenn and I remained friends until his brutal death. I was one of the earliest Coordinators on Earth, and I was named The Dawn. If George Glenn said that he was the bridge, the coordinator of all mankind in order to create better order in a better world, I hoped I could serve to be the dawn of our friendship, fellow Coordinators and Naturals. If we Coordinators were to be exiled, we still would not yield. We humans were born for a purpose, and we will advance towards that purpose. The light is tiny, the hope is delicate, but we will move ever onward, and never retreat.’

Young averted his eyes from the book and looked at the single listener in the study room. Said listener was seated before him, looking calm despite the turmoil in his eyes.

“‘Said Athrun Dan Zala in his inauguration speech as the Chairman of the Coordinator Fellowship Committee in CE 47,’ Athrun completed for his defender. “My grandfather. The last Chairman of the Coordinator Fellowship Committee. Before there was PLANT. Before the Coordinators were exiled to space.” He took the book from Young’s hand. “I used to read those lines over and over again, you know.”

“I don’t know why last night I suddenly wanted to reread this book. I’ve read this when I was in uni.” Young raised the book to show him—a hard cover edition of The Legacy of Athrun Dan Zala. “I thought it was nuts, at first. Then again, objectively, he’s far more moderate than your father.”

“Objectivity is the magic word,” Athrun said.

“And it’s the only word that won’t be applied to you.”

“Because when it comes to my name, objectivity is the hardest thing to find.”

Young was quiet for a while. “It was terrible.”

It was, indeed, terrible. During the last three days, news programs broadcasted the current situation in PLANT. A group of people who called themselves The New Patriots had raided the old Zala House. In other cities in PLANT, people had been burning books written by and about the Zalas. Three right-wing members of the PLANT Supreme Council had voiced out their support on bringing Athrun back to PLANT. Athrun Zala is a traitor who sold his country for a safe refugee in the post-war, they said.

Young had been furious. Civilised people don’t burn books, he said openly in an unplanned interview this morning. Most scholars in the world had agreed with Young, but they could not stop the rampage.

In just one night, streaks of grey hair appeared among his dark ones, and there were visible wrinkles on his forehead, below his eyes and at each corner of his mouth. Young even had the wit to compare him to Marie Antoinette, whose face and hair whitened like ash as she tried to escape from the brutal beheading that Paris had planned for her.

“Well, I’m not Marie Antoinette, and I’m not going to be beheaded,” he said. “But you’re right. A lot of things have happened.”

Young knew that he was not going to talk about it. “I only hope it’s for good.”

He donned a thin smile. “We live in a world of evils, Will.”

“But it doesn’t automatically make us evil,” Young countered. He then rose from his seat and took something out from his pocket. “Here.”

Athrun accept it, asking with his eyes.

“A small present.” Young shrugged. “An early birthday gift.”

He looked at the calendar. It was still two days till October 29.

As if knowing Athrun's thoughts, Young said, “I’m leaving for Zurich with your magistrate. The Tribunal ordered so, blah-blah-blah. I won’t be back until November 4, I think.”

“Oh.” He looked at the book-like gift on his hand. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Oh, and don’t open it until your birthday.” Young smiled lightly. Before he left, Young stopped at the door and said, “It won’t hurt to shave, you know.”

People came and went, but on October 29, CE 78, Athrun Zala seemed to be alone on his twenty-third birthday.

Young’s gift was a hand knife, well made, exquisite and polished. Young must have had to order the knife; there was his initial AZ on the grip. There was a small note attached to the box: on it, Young’s handwriting, with the words, ‘Make me a duck, Boss!’

Athrun could not help smiling at that, though a duck reminded him of Dietmar.

Kira called him in the afternoon. Aside from congratulating him, his best friend told him that he would drop by after work to pass on Dietmar’s gift to him. It was enough to put Athrun in slightly better mood the whole evening. At least his boy remembered!

Kira would not arrive until late, he knew. His best friend was currently engaged in the investigation of the murder attempt on Cagalli. Hathaway was in charge of the investigation, and the old colonel had taken Kira along. This last week alone Kira had flown from Orb to Neo Equator and back. Athrun wondered if Kira had been able to find the missing link in his own investigation. He was dying to drag the bastard out himself, but his house arrest limited his access.

At 20.43, he had a visitor.

“Hello, Alex,” Dmitrij Feyedorov said in his thick Neo Eurasian accent, polite and respectful.

This one came and did not seem to go very soon.

Athrun had always known that there was something disquieting about Dmitrij Feyedorov.

It was in his smile; the way he charmed a millions of people across the world. It was in his manner; the way he showed the world that he was a new leader of a new Neo Eurasia, chosen and trusted by his people to lead the once beleaguered nation into a new era. It was in his easygoing nature; the way he preferred using first names with people and humoured them in his presence. It was in his political vision; the way he held onto his principles even in jail and later rose to share his thoughts with the rest of the world. It was in his persona; the way he fitted into the triumvirate of Feyedorov, Lacus Clyne and Cagalli Yula Athha, the world’s most prominent young leaders.

Dmitrij Feyedorov was too perfect of a man.

“I’m dropping by to see how you’ve been doing,” the prime minister said. “They said today is your birthday—Athrun’s birthday, I mean.” He smiled. “Happy birthday.”

“Feyedorov-san, why ar—”

“I told you, didn't I? Call me Dmitrij.”

“Why,” he swallowed, “are you here?”

“Oh, I came on a two-day diplomatic trip to assure Neo Eurasian’s commitment to aid Orb in the Neo Heliopolis project.”

“Why are you here?” he repeated more firmly.

The prime minister looked at him strangely. “Can I have a seat first?” Yet, without waiting for an answer, he pulled out chair to sit across from Athrun. “And would you mind to put that knife away, please? I have enough nightmares with weaponry.”

Although reluctant, Athrun complied.

“Ah yes, thank you.” Feyedorov straightened his posture, leaning back. “Now, where were we? Oh, right. Why I am here.” He paused. “To see how you are, as I said.”

“You know how I am as well as the rest of the world.”

Feyedorov waved a hand impatiently. “Yes, yes, of course. But I want to see—no—make sure of something myself.” He paused again. “Pray tell, Alex, do you remember anything about the liberation of Eurasia, way, way back in the Second War?”

He frowned.

“Back then, there was... forced subjugation in Eurasia. The Eurasian people were downtrodden. They were desperate for justice and freedom, but the Earth Alliance wouldn’t give it to them. And then ZAFT offered its help. The people accepted it, and this Dmitrij Feyedorov was also there, a witness to the Earth Alliance’s repression and its downfall thanks to ZAFT. Liberation had never been sweeter.” A thin smile appeared. “That was the first time we met, Athrun. I was in jail when the Minerva came, but I knew you were with them. Saviour, wasn’t it?”

“How—” Athrun had a feeling that he would not like this. “How did you know?”

If anything, Feyedorov’s smile grew more and more disquieting.

“Why don’t I tell you a bedtime story, Athrun?” He leaned back further onto the chair. “Once upon a time, there was a man who had two sons, the first one being an illegitimate from one of his many lovers. They both should have been born as Naturals, but the man’s antipathy toward his mistress’s son resulted in making his second born a Coordinator. He did it so that his younger son would surpass the elder one.

“The man treated his sons differently. To his elder son, he was cold and distant. He even sent his elder son to reside in a faraway country. This boy in return harboured no respect for his father. But despite that, his younger brother, the Coordinator, loved and protected him. ‘What’s wrong with being born the way he is? He’s still your son and my brother,’ the younger brother said to the man. Thus the elder son began to adore his younger brother, and despite the distance between them, the younger brother was the elder son’s hero. So imagine how the elder son felt when he found out that his younger brother had been killed. His younger brother helped to liberate countries; he should have returned with glory. He shouldn't have returned in a coffin containing only his uniform. The red of his uniform should be the colour of bravery, not the colour of blood.

“At that time the elder son vowed to find out the truth behind his younger brother’s death. Find out the truth behind his death, find out those who were responsible—find them all. And he finally found a person, one who was most responsible.”

Silence.

Feyedorov looked too calm, while Athrun was too numb to speak understanding dawned in him. He tried to speak, but something got lodged in his throat and robbed him of his words.

Feyedorov’s smile was now cold yet remorseful. “My name now, Athrun, is Dmitrij Feyedorov,” he said quietly, “because that bastard father of mine never approved of me as Heimlich Westenfluss.”

Athrun wondered if his new knife would have to perform a gory job tonight.

“Stay in your seat.” Feyedorov waved a hand, his other one reaching inside his suit to take out a small, black revolver. “Even the fastest runner is a loser to the slowest bullet.”

Athrun clenched and unclenched his fists. Wrong, he said. You’re wrong, amateur. In a close-range one-to-one fight, a knife was more efficient than a gun. A gun wielder needed to aim, cock and pull the trigger. Even after the shot, the gun wielder must be prepared for the backward force that jerked his arm and disturbed his balance.

A knife wielder, on the other hand, only needed to coordinate with his knife. Slash, slice, cut open or stab-and-pull. Game over.

But now was not the time to let a knife do the talking. He still had so much to know.

Feyedorov held his revolver as if holding a can of soda. “Oh, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve managed to unravel most of the scenario by yourself. After all, you’re never one to underestimate. So let’s go through it one by one. Why did the Indonesian government change its mind at the last-minute? Because of me. It was so easy to persuade the Indonesian government not to host the conference, saying that the risk was far too great to handle and it was better to leave the tedious work to Orb. Why was there a tapping incident my last visit? Because I wanted to know your capacity in handling the security system—not merely measure it. And I did, thanks to this.” Feyedorov lightly tapped the tip of his revolver to his pretty Eurasian temple.

Athrun gripped the armrests of his sofa so hard.

“Why did your intelligence mission almost fail in Neo Equator, forcing you to fly there to pick up your team? Because your so-called prey had been told, ‘Hey, a monster’s going to sneak under your bed soon.’ Because I knew a man like you couldn’t let others play the saviour. Because, despite your strictness, you’re way too soft to be in an intelligence office. Why did Mr. Walter try to kill you? Oh, he had been suspicious of you since the end of the First War, but it was I who nailed the idea of revenge into his mind more firmly and made him my hands and feet. Poor, poor Mr. Walter and his equally pitiful group of avengers.”

Athrun was shaking. Out of fear? Out of anger? He was not sure.

“Why was that bunch of dirty geezers in PLANT so eager to have you skinned? Why were they suddenly so vocal about PLANT’s sovereignty and glory? Why did I mention belladonna in one of our chats? Oh, yes, I know all about that escapade of yours at that conservation park, Athrun. About what’s going on in your office? About your—I mean you and Miss Athha’s—dirty little secret? About Mr. Young’s plan in the trial? Well, Athrun, let’s say that it’s easy when you have my influence, my brain... and these.”

Feyedorov pulled something from his pants pocket. Several tiny gadgets glittered inside a plastic packet. Athrun recognized the gadget immediately, perfectly. It was the newest transmitter that Erica Simmons had released half a year ago. It was a part of the formal VVVIP security procedure, a part that was now being used to turn against the procedure.

The faux letter to Yzak’s office and the tapping incident made sense now, as did Kaleeb Jay Nkono’s role and the man’s intentional confession. The genuine identification on the faux letter was also easy to understand when he related it to Heinrich Ottmar Walter’s involvement in the Scientific Research and Manufacturing Office of Orb. It was easy for a man of Feyedorov level to play friends with every side of the play. He was a mighty conductor who orchestrated with invisible strings. He used them all well to his own advantage, and he cleverly kept them unaware of his conducting so that he could just dump them when he reached his goal.

What a brilliant enemy to have, Athrun thought. Vicious, but brilliant.

Feyedorov pointed his revolver at him, smiling. “We humans are greedy beings, Athrun. Mr. Walter was greedy for revenge. Too deep in his wrath towards ZAFT deserters. Your mice from Neo Equator are greedy for a blue and normal world. Too deep in their pathetic, imbecile close-mindedness. You? You’re greedy for something to believe in. Too deep in your self-deceit, believing that it is love that you seek, that it is devotion that you give. And me? I’m greedy for the answer to my lifetime’s question. You see, Athrun, we all are greedy, and we all are in this too deep.”

“If so,” he said, gritting his teeth. He could not breathe for crying. He could not cry for breathing. “Why are you targeting her?”

Feyedorov raised both eyebrows, as if Athrun was a student asking a ridiculous question in his class. “Well,” he said softly, “do you know the story of Matias Adukurf?”

He had heard the name somehow, somewhere, but he did not remember.

“Why do you think Logos fell so fast, Athrun? Well, let’s just say that Mr. Adukurf helped to end the Second War,” Feyedorov said. “He sneaked information about Logos to Chairman Dullindal. In his confession, he said he did it for his son, Matisse Adukurf, who had altered so much to being an Extended that the boy couldn’t recognize his father. The leaking was his revenge. When I learned about the Adukurfs, I couldn’t help thinking, ‘Will we take action only after our precious ones have been taken from us? Will we take an action only after it’s too late?’ The crazy light in Feyedorov’s eyes dimmed briefly before it returned harder, colder. “I didn’t target Miss Cagalli, Athrun; my puppets did. I used her to get you. I want you to give me the answer I’ve been searching for since my brother’s death.”

“Fears make us strive forward. Civilisations are led by fear. People fear the dark; they create fire. People fear the unseen; they establish religions and beliefs. People fear the different; they fight and go to wars. And wars are often an honest reflection of our fears.”

Heine’s GOUF had exploded right before his eyes.

“People die, Athrun. Wars kill, and I see soldiers die every day. And I’m afraid. I’m afraid of getting used to it, of getting used to the idea that it makes no difference if they live or die. I’m afraid of not being able to look behind because I’m too used to moving onward.”

No more stupid, easy smiles. No more earnest encouragements. The explosion had taken them from him and proved his own fear.

I’m afraid of my father, so I don’t want to be him. I’m afraid of wanting the unreachable, so I don’t want to know what I want anymore. I’m afraid of losing my important people, so I don’t want to make them more important than they already are. I’m afraid of myself, so I run away from being Athrun Zala.

“Every year I pay a private homage to his grave—an empty grave like your mother’s and Mr. Amarfi’s son’s. Every year I tell myself to find the answer to my question. Why did he, who knew what he wanted, who went to battles because he knew what wanted from wars, have to die while you live?” Feyedorov straightened his back once again. “However, this is not revenge, Athrun. This is merely one in a lifetime of question-and-answer.”

I run away from being Athrun Zala.

“And you,” Feyedorov stood, walking evenly to him, close, so close that he was now standing right before Athrun, revolver steady and thirsty in his hand, “will answer me.”

He raised his face to look at Feyedorov.

“They sent his stuff back home,” Feyedorov said. “His diary, battle notes, photographs of him and his squadron, photographs of us. Random stuff. Dead stuff. He wrote that you’re the most enigmatic soldier he’s ever met. Wanting to fight but not being able to. Not wanting to fight but having to. Janus of the battlefield. And that’s why you’re one of the people whom my brother didn’t want to look behind on just to find dead.”

But why shouldn’t I when I know Athrun Zala has so much to lose?

“Your existence is the one I hate the most.”

I hate my own self, too.

“Because people die and you live and you don’t even know if you’re worth it.”

The black revolver was glinting. It was in his lap. The black revolver was in his lap and glinting.

“You—”

Feyedorov’s fingertips glided along the surface of his revolver. Then his hand let go, smoothly, like his speech and manner and scheme.

It was his now.

So he took the revolver.

Aim, cock and pull the trigger.

Athrun knew that it was only a matter of time before Kira opened the door. He had heard his best friend’s steps in the corridor, and he could imagine the way Kira dashed to get him. He did not want Kira to see him now. Not now. Not when he was like this.

The door opened to reveal Kira, worry and fear of the worst on his face. “Was there a shooting? I think I heard—”

Kira stopped short, stunned and horrified. Blood was pooling under Athrun’s ankle, dark red and so wrong. Rivulets of dark red blood stained Athrun’s left leg from knee down, staining the carpet. On the sofa’s armrest, beside Athrun’s hand, a black revolver lay innocently, as if saying that it was only a witness to whatever had happened in the room. Feyedorov stood beside Athrun, and it seemed that he was still recovering from his own shock.

“Alex!” Kira lunged forward to reach for the revolver. It was still hot to hold. “Was it you?” he snapped at Feyedorov.

“No—I—Alex was asleep when I came, so I tried to wake him up. He started, and during my attempt to calm him, my gun fell.” He swallowed. “I’ll call an ambulance.” He slipped away from Kira to use his cell-phone. From Feyedorov’s frantic conversation, Kira overheard that an ambulance was due to arrive in ten minutes.

Kira knelt before his best friend. Athrun was sweating excessively, and his lips had started to turn white. There was a hole in his left knee, where the bullet had pierced fabric and flesh through to the sofa. It explained the massive amount of bleeding, and, in a way, it was good that the bullet had gone through. I’ve got a hole again in my body, he thought. I wonder if it’ll fit the one in my heart.

“I’m—fine,” Athrun rasped. One did not have to be a psychic to read Kira’s mind. He swallowed a moan and tried to fight the pain that made him want to close his eyes and sleep.

The stench of blood made Kira nauseous, but he had to stay and stop the bleeding. Otherwise, Athrun might pass out before the ambulance arrived. “You—just—just stay with me,” he whispered helplessly.

Despite the pain, Athrun managed to let out a faint chuckle. He could not help it as the panic danced on Kira’s face. Cagalli would bop him on the head for making her brother worried to hell. “Yeah—ow.”

“What happened here? I’m going to kill you if you don't die first, you stupid, stupid man.”

“Yeah.”

Behind Kira, Feyedorov watched. His eyes were not as crazy as before, and when they met Athrun’s, there was something like recognition in them.

White ceiling. White walls. IV in an arm. Steady beep of a cardiogram.

Hospital, his mind concluded, as if wrapping up the fact that one and one were two.

“The bullet severed a lot of his nerves and broke his kneecap. It will take a long time to heal, but even I couldn’t guarantee that it will heal well. It is a miracle already that his leg doesn’t have to be amputated.”

“But he's a—”

“Coordinator. Yes, I’m fully aware of that, Siegfried-san,” the doctor cut in. “But even a Coordinator will need time to fully recover. His kneecap has received such a serious injury, and fissures in bone don’t pull through as fast as flesh does.”

Athrun listened quietly.

“Are you sure this is the right thing to do?”

A soft laugh. “Considering that this time you don’t kidnap me to make me change my mind, yes, it is.” Another soft laugh, though with more sadness. “I don’t know. Pathetic, isn’t it? But I really don’t know. It isn’t in my power to know whether this is the right thing or not. I just know that this is something necessary to do.”

“What about Orb, then? World peace? The future?”

“We build our future on our past and present, Kira.”

A long silence.

“You know how much I love you.”

“I know you love me enough not to let me hurt myself, Kira.” A pause again and a sigh. “But it hurts me every time he hurts himself. And it has to stop.”

Then the exchange ended. Athrun heard the door open, and the sound of departing footsteps. Kira must have exited his room.

“I know you’re awake.”

It was just then that he opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her. “I know you know that I’m awake.” He moved to a half-sitting position. “And I know you know that I listened to that.”

She smiled thinly at him. “I’m not sorry you heard that.”

He averted his eyes to her chin. “I don’t know what to say, because you’re too impossible to begin with.” He smiled bitterly. “If I start thinking that this all is because the Coordinators are a solid cosmic mistake, I can’t face my mother. We Coordinators aren’t Frankenstein’s monster, though we’re born from the same greed of mankind. If I say that this all is because it's only about conquest and subordination between the Coordinators and Naturals, then I really will become my father. And I don’t want that. If I say this is all because I’m too powerless to do anything, then you’ll hate me for pitying myself.”

She seemed considering for a moment. “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Pitying yourself.”

“I’m not. I’m just angry, like you’ve said.”

“Because you’re powerless?”

“Because I don’t know myself anymore.”

“I do that to you.”

He did not deny or confirm it. “When I was in a coma—you know—after your murder attempt, I dreamt. Or rather, I saw my memories in my dream.” He closed his eyes again. “Lots of them. They were random. And clipped. I don’t know.” His shoulders sagged. “Some of them were good memories, and some I’d prefer not to see ever again.” He did not know why on earth he rambled like this. All he knew was that he wanted her to hear him, to hear and comfort him. “I know them—those memories. But I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t.”

A sigh. A shifting on the bed. She had moved to sit beside him on the bed, in the empty space between his arm and hipbone. She took one of his hands in hers. Yet Athrun did not dare to open his eyes yet. Who knew if she would fly the second he decided to meet her eyes.

“I don’t know anything anymore,” he repeated, more softly. He inhaled deeply until his lungs were full with oxygen and her scent and just her, even though he was the cosmic mistake who did not deserve it. “And I really, really don’t know what to say either.”

“Then don’t say anything.”

“But I have to,” he insisted. “Because you’re my everything and you know me all too well.”

A thumb stroked the back of his hand, near the spot where the IV needle punctured the skin. An exhalation of breath. A minute of waiting. “And you, mine. You will only drag me down along with you if you fall, so don’t fall. But if I do fall, know that it’s my decision to do so.” A long, pregnant pause. His hand tightened on hers. “I’m not going anywhere.” A forced, short-lived chuckle. “But as long as you don’t know what you want, you won’t be able to find me.”

“I will find you.”

“I know you will.” Her hand tightened back. “It’s just that we don’t know how long it will take for you to find me.”

“Will you wait?”

He opened his eyes, and her eyes find his. Then Cagalli closed her eyes, and Athrun waited just like she had always been waiting for him.

“For you, I will.”

(1) see Chapter 9, where Cagalli read to the children in Kira’s orphanage.