Being Athrun Zala

Being Athrun Zala

Author: pratz

Disclaimer: duh, must we go all over this again? Alright. Not mine.

Notes: this is a booooring chapter, I warn you, because this chapter elaborates all hints on previous chapters. Maybe you'd want to reread them, hm?

This is for Fledgling, as always, because there’s no Being Athrun Zala without her. It’s as simple as that.

And for you readers who bothered to leave a review for Chapter 8. I’m so amazed that it got a lot of interesting, wonderful and worth-treasured reviews despite my untimely cliffhanger and messy writing. I was so overjoyed that I read and reread your reviews one by one, but hey! There’s no better ego booster than an honest review, right? Oh well... mind me not.

Tons of kisses and hugs to you all!

And a bit more to go down, hm?

Chapter 9

Someone was watching him.

For the first time since the numbness and black-outs, Athrun could feel. Amidst the darkness, he tried to move but found himself denied of the power. No matter how hard he tried, he could not open his eyes to blink—blink, you slothful bastards! he cried at them—or move even the tip of a finger, but at least he could hear. He could hear the shifting of fabric and screeching of a chair beside him. That was how he knew that someone was watching him.

“His eyes flicker.”

He stiffened—in sense only, because his body still showed nothing. That voice. He knew that voice, and he had desperately wished it to be the first voice he heard when he came to consciousness again. Seems that luck is on my side this time, he thought, humouring himself. He did not die—I really didn't die!—having survived the brutal blow. And now this voice was beside him.

He remembered now. His last memories were someway disarrayed, but he could recognize some of them. There was a man with a black revolver. The man’s aim was terrible, but despite that, his bullets were fatal. He remembered taking his own gun and shooting. A guard fell, and Athrun saw the guard’s wide, lifeless eyes beside him. The murderer fell, too. There was a lot of screaming. A lot of sharp pain. And then he fell and swayed between consciousness and eternal sleep. He felt cold. He felt numb.

And that voice was calling him.

I didn’t die, he thought. I’m alive.

“It happens a lot, actually.” Another familiar voice. “It’s been five days after the shooting, and sometimes I’ve found a movement under his eyelids, his eyelashes fluttering or brows furrowing, or something like it. But that doesn’t mean he’s awake.”

A long pause.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be here earlier.”

“I know. I understand. Your Excellency has duty.” There was thick, not-so-well concealed anger and disappointment in the second voice that Athrun could not help noticing. “The doctor said it’s a plain miracle that he's hold on so far. With that hypovolemic shock, that is.”

“Kira, please.”

A sigh. “I’m just—you know—afraid he’s not going to make it—I don’t—he’s too—”

“Brother.”

Cagalli never, ever called Kira with his familial title, not even when her life depended on it. In her voice was a desperate need for strength, a need to cling onto something, anything—and nothing was better than a comfort from one's family. There were broken, strangled sobs muffled against fabric, and a shifting of clothing. His best friend whispered comforting words, also muffled, but Athrun was not sure if those were meant for Cagalli or Kira himself. Athrun wondered if two broken people could really comfort each other. How can one blind person, he thought, lead another blind person?

It was not comfort, he realized then. It was sharing. Sadness could not be left behind and forgotten, but it could be shared. Sharing was the very least thing humans could do to deal with sadness.

But I’m not dead! he tried to shout, frustrated. There’s nothing to be sad about! I’m alive! Can’t you see? Look at me!

The struggle was in vain, he knew. His body would just not listen to his mind—damn Plato and his theory of the separate world of mind and body! It simply would not move, as if his mind and body were two autonomous, detached entities. Indeed, his body demanded that he go back to the darkness. I don’t want to rest, damn it! I want to wake up! But his body insisted still, and he was in no form to deny the much more powerful demand.

So Athrun helplessly gave in again to the darkness.

He was dreaming.

Or rather, he was seeing a series of memories in a series of dreams.

He always knew, when he had a dream or when he saw himself in a dream that he was dreaming—as if he was an omniscient spectator in his dream. He knew that it was strange—I can be a perfect guinea pig for Jung, but he simply knew.

His grandfather, Athrun Dan Zala, put a hand on his head. His big, warm hand lingered there. It was a strong hand of strong person. Athrun wanted to be strong like his grandfather even though the old man was lying on his deathbed.

“I’m leaving the family and this nation into your hands, Patrick. I trust you,” his grandfather said, eyeing his only son, Athrun’s father. His eyes shifted to his daughter-in-law. “Thank you for everything, Lenore.” At last he came to his grandson, Athrun. “Grow up and be a great man, Athrun.” His grandfather’s hand lowered itself to Athrun’s shoulder, clasping it gently but firmly. “Promise me.”

He nodded. He would. They shared the same name; he would not taint the name. “I promise, Grandpa.” But he was not sad. His mother had said that his grandfather would go to a better place.

His grandfather closed his eyes, a content expression on his weary, wrinkled face, and Athrun wondered what 'better place' his grandfather was going to.

Patrick officially became the head of the House of Zala the night after Athrun Dan’s death. The Zalas were a prominent and respected family in PLANT, and Patrick would make sure that Athrun Dan’s death would not stumble its reputation. That same night, Athrun was told that he would have a fiancée. This family must not crumble, Patrick said, just like the Coordinators must not vanish.

The family buried his grandfather in the next morning, and it was a beautiful, stately burial. Being a former ZAFT general and Head Representative of the Supreme Council of PLANT, salvos were shot for Athrun Dan. Athrun stood near Patrick and Lenore, not understanding the whole ordeal but wanting to be there for his beloved grandfather. White was everywhere, despite the black-suited attendees. Athrun saw a white coffin, buckets of white flowers and his dead grandfather's white face.

At that time, Athrun thought that a good death was a white death, and he thought of his grandfather’s resting place as a completely white, pristine place. Yet, as he grew up and the war forced him to open his eyes to see the truth, Athrun could not help but wondering if an artificial human with artificial genes and an artificial physique would have an artificial heaven for an afterlife.

To be honest, it was a rather odd family gathering. Patrick’s face was on the screen. Athrun was waiting. Lenore stood behind him, smiling at her husband with her hands on Athrun’s shoulders.

Patrick coughed once, his eyes on a book on Athrun’s lap. “You’ve got the packet, I see.”

“Yes,” Athrun said. “Thank you, Father.”

“It’s nothing.” Patrick moved like he was going to look away. “Considering I can’t be there for your birthday, it’s nothing.” He paused. “Do you like it?”

“Yes.”

“He’s been reading the book since yesterday,” Lenore piped up. At Athrun’s blush and Patrick’s surprised expression, she laughed softly. “I think ‘like’ will be the understatement of the year. And stop that, Patrick. There’s no need to hide your laugh from Athrun.”

“Mother!” Athrun was blushing redder.

“Lenore,” Patrick chastised gently, but even he could not hide the upturned curl of his lips. He coughed again, more lightly. “I’ll try to be home next week. The Supreme Council’s schedule won't be too busy then.” He reached over, seeming to turn off the call. “I’ll call again.”

The screen went off. Lenore squeezed Athrun’s shoulders lightly, and he turned to look at her.

“You’re right, Mother,” he mumbled, still looking a bit dazzled. “Father didn’t forget my birthday.”

“But of course.” She pulled him gently to his feet. “Your father loves you; don’t ever doubt that. He’s just too serious to show it.”

Athrun clutched his book tighter to his chest. It was rather unusual to give a book about building mechanical kits—titled Make Your Own Toy: An Easy Way to Learn Manual Robotic and Computer Programming—as a birthday gift for a boy who was only seven, but to Athrun, it was the best birthday gift he had ever gotten. His father must have had remembered his flying grade in Engineering Class last semester.

“Athrun,” Lenore called gently, kneeling before her son, “I think your father already knows of what you think.” At the horror in Athrun’s face, she quickly said, “I mean, he has his own regrets for having to work in PLANT while we’re here on the Moon. But you understand, don’t you? Your father works for the good of PLANT, of us Coordinators. We can’t be selfish; our people need your father, too.” She grabbed his hands, squeezing tenderly to calm him. “Besides, there’s always a moment like this for the two of you, hm?”

His mother always had a way of putting sense into him. There was no way Athrun would not have faith in her. Patrick had never been close to him—and Athrun felt that he would never be, but if his mother said that the distance between them was not because his father wanted it, he would believe her.

Lenore affectionately took his hand. “Anyway, the watermelons in the garden are ready to be picked. Mind giving me a hand?” She faked a frown, putting her best thinking-hard face. “And we won't share them with your father. Do we have a deal?”

“Mother, I thought you just said we can't be selfish.”

“Oh, this isn’t selfishness. This is revenge to him for not being home for your birthday.”

“Mother...”

“Ah! A smile finally! Let's go to our watermelons now, shall we?”

With gentle, warm laughter ringing in his ears, Athrun never would have thought that his family would crumble into ruin.

Their mothers were friends, and he was closer to Kira than to any of his classmates. Being the quiet boy he always was, Athrun was balanced by Kira’s loud and carefree nature. Kira was his first best friend, and they did everything together. They even got detention together for getting caught fighting. Lenore and Caridad were not too pleased, but they understood their sons. After all, the two boys did not start the fighting; they were trying to help one of Kira's classmates from a group of bullies.

“She’s pretty,” Athrun said a week after their three-day detention. “You like her?”

Kira flushed. “A little.” Grinning, the happy-go-lucky boy pointed at his own chest with a thumb. “You know, I think she likes me, too. After all, what girl won’t fall for her hero?”

Athrun elbowed him on the arm. “Next time, be the knight in shining armour on your own. She’ll be confused if there are two knights, you know. And no, I don’t like her—I didn't even know her name until the fight—so don’t glare at me like that. I’m not going to take her from you.” That reminded Athrun of something. He took a small box out of his bag. “Here.”

“You... remembered?” Kira’s eyes were wide. Athrun had been right in thinking that Kira would fall for the robotic toy—and fall hard he did. Last week, Kira had mentioned his dream of building a robotic bird that could fly and chirp. It was spoken in casual chatter, but Athrun remembered. “For me?”

He laughed at that. “I'm only lending it to you. Take a good care of it. I’ll take it back someday.”

Kira’s face fell a little, but he recovered quickly. He knew that Athrun was only teasing. “Uh—and the name?”

“You pick one.”

“Oh. Alright then.” Kira scrunched up his face, appearing to be thinking hard. A while later he said, “Torii.”

Athrun raised his eyebrows. “What a birdy name for a bird robot.”

“Well, it is a bird, isn’t it?”

His first robotic creation did not last long. Two weeks after he gave Torii to Kira, he found himself defending Kira from the same group of bullies. Falling to the ground on top of his bag, Kira accidentally smashed Torii, both of its wings breaking with a rather loud crack despite its size. And with that Torii the First died.

Athrun would be a horrible person if he did not try to cheer Kira up. “You’re not going to cry, are you? It’s just a toy, Kira. It’s not that important.”

“It is important!” Kira bellowed, his eyes already watering. “You made it for me; that’s why it’s important!”

He ended up making Kira another Torii, which became his first successfully long-lasting creation. If it had not been for Torii the Second, he might not have been so sure that it was Kira who he fought against once the war came.

“This is my daughter, Lacus.”

Athrun really liked Siegel Clyne, even though in some ways, the man’s ideas differed from his father’s. Siegel’s daughter was his fiancée. She was gentle, well-mannered and beautiful. Athrun did not mind getting to know her better, even though Patrick thought of it as a purely political engagement. Still, Athrun showed her respect and courtesy, for it was a part of being Patrick Zala's son.

Lacus smiled at him and bowed a little. “Pleased to meet you,” she said. Her voice was smooth and melodious; Athrun would never get bored of hearing it.

Siegel left the two of them alone. Athrun did not know what to say; he did not know how to dissolve the awkwardness between them.

“Lacus-san, I—”

“Please call me Lacus,” she cut him off, still very politely, “Athrun-san.”

Athrun. She did not call him Zala-kun or Zala-san like others did.

She seemed to realize his thoughts. “Oh, I’m sorry! I took the liberty to call you by your first name. I just thought it would be confusing if I called both you and your father ‘Zala-san.’

“N-no, it’s fine,” he stuttered. “Actually, I’m rather... happy about it. Please, Athrun is fine.”

Lacus’s eyes brightened. “Athrun, then.”

Even if he could not love Lacus in the way his father wanted him to, he would love her simply for being one of the few people who recognized him as him, free from his father’s shadow.

Mother, don’t go.

Curled up in his bed, he did not want care about time in its days, hours, minutes or seconds. He did not want to care about anything. He wanted to believe that the Bloody Valentine never happened, that thousands lives were never lost. The television had never been turned off since Athrun found out about the extermination, and Athrun felt no interest in leaving his bed, his temporary haven.

Patrick had called yet, but it was alright. He must have had a lot to deal with at the moment; his mother had said that Patrick was working for the good of PLANT. But so had those who had been on Junius Seven, cultivating crops for the Coordinators. So had been those who lost their lives to the nuclear-induced death without knowing why.

Mother, don’t go.

Lacus called. She cried the tears that Athrun was too numb to shed. Siegel called, too, passing on his deepest condolences. Athrun did not want their sympathy. He did not need sympathy. And neither did those who had been on Junius Seven. What they needed was justice, declared the Supreme Council. Thus began the execution of a plan by means of the Coordinators’ well-developed technology; a means of forced retreat for the Naturals. It was decided that Earth would be showered with Neutron Jammer Canceller. But it would only be the first step to justice, the Supreme Council said. It was not a consequence powerful enough to pay back the Naturals for all the lives that had been lost.

People shouted “Death to the Natural bastards!” on streets. Cities and towns everywhere were enraged. Earth itself was split into two contrast factions. A leader from an Earth nation called Orb, Uzumi Nara Athha, campaigned for a sound amity. It was impossible, Athrun thought. There would be no peace without justice. There was no lesson without pain. The other faction was too mulish, too stubborn to hand in the exterminators, who were only called slaughterers. In fact, it even praised them for wiping out the Coordinators, the errors of the universe.

PLANT became a culture that glorified death, while Earth became horrified of a much more advanced existence than itself. It was the daybreak of what would soon become a full-scale war, a world war. Youths were sent to battle—some returned, some did not. The conflict was seen as between Homo superiors and Homo inferiors, though the truth was that both sides were the same species of Homo sapiens.

Mother, don’t go.

He did not hate the Naturals. Or so he believed. He only wanted Justice, with a capital J, and his resulting decision was his first step. After all, he had promised his grandfather to be a great man, and his mother would be disappointed in him if he became a liar.

Mother.

Don’t.

Go.

A week after Bloody Valentine, Cadet Athrun Zala entered the dorm of ZAFT Military Academy and prepared himself for his first soldier day. (1)

Yzak’s foot made a loud connection with the oven’s stainless door. Behind the silver-haired prefect, Nicol watched with concerned eyes. Beside Nicol, Dearka whistled light-heartedly as if nothing had happened. Athrun stood next to the sink. There were eggshells, flour, cooking equipment and even bottles of spices on the floor. The kitchen was, to put it simply, a catastrophe.

“Goddamn you, Zala!” Yzak yelled furiously. “Only yesterday you were doing perfectly fucking fine in that football match, and today you just had to blow this place into shit!”

“It’s not Athrun’s fault he can’t tell between—uh—a frying pan and a saucepan. Or Dearka’s—for using too much oil for omelettes,” Nicol spoke up, though he was trying to hold his amusement in check. Really, there would not be a ‘next time’ for Athrun and Dearka in the kitchen. They just did not belong to the cooking world, period.

“You just shut the fuck up, Nicol! You’re not the one who’s fucking going to be held responsible for this!” The veins in Yzak's temples stood out. “And you!” He pointed at Dearka. “You’re not fixing anything with your stupid whistling, damn it!”

“Oi, Yzak, what the hell—”

“Shut up!” Yzak roared, cutting Dearka off harshly. “You’d better listen to me right now because I fully dislike having to repeat myself. This fucking floor is my responsibility, and that means that this fucking kitchen in this fucking room is also my responsibility. Got that, you goddamned idiots?”

“This is your responsibility, correct,” Athrun said. He would not stay quiet while Yzak rampaged on and on. “But it's not under your authority, o mighty prefect.”

“You—”

“What’s going on in here, cadets?” Yzak’s shouting tirade indeed, called for attention, and it was too bad that one of their instructors happened to pass by their room at that moment. “Prefect, explain!” their instructor, a large man with brush-like moustache and shaven head, bellowed. Yzak, grunting under his breath, stepped forward to explain, and it looked like the instructor had never been angrier. He looked at Athrun and Dearka. “Detention, Cadet Elthman, Cadet Zala. Meet me after this mess is cleaned up. And you, prefect, write a report about this.”

Athrun and Dearka ended up cleaning the ammunition storeroom for the rest of the evening.

It was late when they finished the task, and dinner was long over. Dearka was annoyed at the thought of having to sleep hungry, and he was complaining all the way back to the dorm. Athrun hoped his comrade would stop complaining, but he did not want to create another commotion. Maybe Nicol still has some instant porridge or noodles, he thought to distract himself from the desire to strangle Dearka.

They walked in the dark, ominous corridor, and the dimness magnified the light of the dark red, rusty moon outside. Pausing, Athrun swallowed. From PLANT, the Moon looked closer and bigger. It reminded him of Kira, whom he had not seen or heard from for three years.

Noticing that his comrade had stopped walking, Dearka turned. “Man, hurry up. That walrus of an instructor’s just given us detention; don't piss me off any more.” Athrun was looking at the moon, a sombre expression on his face. “What’s with the moon, eh? You got a friend there?” Then Dearka’s eyes narrowed. “He’s one of us, right?”

“He’s a Coordinator, if that’s what you mean.”

“Did he—you know,” Dearka let it hung. No one in PLANT wanted to talk about the Bloody Valentine.

“I don’t know. We haven’t seen each other for the last three years.”

“You’re such a drama queen, Athrun. Really.”

“Better than a self-centred, stuck-up jerk like our prefect.”

“Oi, watch it, buddy,” Dearka warned. “Wasn’t it only yesterday that the two of you got along so fucking well in that football match?”

“That’s just for the sake of winning,” Athrun reasoned stubbornly.

Scratching the back of his head, Dearka grunted. “Oh, hell if I care. Zalas and Jules should get along, you know. Just like your parents.” He paused. “Well, at least there’s something in common between you two. You both want to prove yourselves. That’s why you’re here, right?”

The moon was not interesting anymore, so Athrun shifted his gaze to Dearka. “The fuck, Dearka.”

Dearka grinned like mad. “Aw... let's see what baby Nicol will say when he hears about this. Athrun Manner Zala the Immaculate swears.” He laughed derisively for a while. “Well, yeah. You should just see Yzak at home. Mommy’s darling boy. Never going to be more than that.”

Athrun did not respond.

“You see, being the children of well-known parents brings a mountain of difficulties. It's troublesome for you and Yzak, and to a lesser degree, for Nicol and me, too. People will see you through your parents. Damn that, but that's how it is. I know because I see them doing it, Athrun.” He knocked Athrun’s arm lightly. “So you’d better climb higher, right? Prove yourself, like Yzak’s been doing—or more like overdoing."

Athrun did not say anything until he reached his room. Nicol was still awake as he entered. If Athrun wanted to talk, he would listen. But he would not be the first to speak. Hunger set aside, Athrun changed out of his cadet uniform and slipped under the blanket. Nicol was still waiting.

“Nicol?”

“Yes?”

“Will we stray? Will I?” It was not really meant to be answered. He just wanted to be reassured that he was doing these things for the good of PLANT. For Justice, Athrun thought. Admit it; you're just one obsessed kid trying to be a Herculean champion—and you know it.

It took a long time for Nicol to comprehend Athrun's question, and finally, answer. “Don’t worry,” his friend said softly. “You won’t.” (2)

A little while later, after he received the Order of Nebula, Athrun went to see his late comrades’ parents. The Aimans were too angry to accept Athrun’s condolences, and they tried to compel him to swear on Miguel’s name that he would avenge Miguel’s death. Their hatred for the Naturals made Athrun feel sick, but it was understandable, though it did not make it acceptable. He understood the hatred well. The Mackenzies were grieving, but Rusty’s mother had been kind to him. Athrun had told her of Rusty’s death and how he regretted not being able to go to Rusty’s aid faster. She said that Athrun should not make his father sad. Please return home in one piece, Athrun-kun, she told him. Live. For Rusty, too.

Meeting Nicol’s parents was the hardest. Nicol’s mother cried as she talked to Athrun about her late son. The whole time, Athrun could not help looking at the grand piano in the corner of the living room. The piano stared back at him, accusing him for its loss. For a moment, he thought he could hear Nicol’s soft voice and his playing. Immediately after that thought, the piano became mute again. It would not forgive him, and even if it did, Athrun would not forgive himself.

“Run, Athrun.”

Athrun scrunched his eyes tightly to clear his mind of Nicol’s last moment, of those simple but doomed final words that would haunt him for the rest of his life. But he could not—would not—run from the guilt. He would bear it all his life.

Nicol’s father, Yuri, eyed Athrun’s hand, which was in a cast, before regarding Athrun again. “You’ve been hurt, too.”

Athrun was not so sure if Yuri was talking about his hand.

“No parents should have to bury their children.” (3) Yuri shook his head forlornly. “And no children should have to bear the mistake of their parents.”

Athrun did not ask if Yuri was blaming himself, too, for Nicol’s death. He knew that ZAFT soldiers had to have legal approval from their parents to join ZAFT. Yuri had to have been the one who gave Nicol permission, Athrun realized. He remembered Nicol saying that he was fighting to protect his parents. If Nicol had told his parents that, it would have only made their wound more painful. No child should have to be in war at all, but that was only an ideal. The reality was the situation today. Adults might have been the one to trigger wars, but their children would inevitably be involved and suffer the consequences. This was the endless circle of war, the mistake of humanity's voracity.

Athrun wondered whether Patrick would be sad and mourn for him if it had been him who died instead of Nicol.

The memories changed themselves in such swift pace that he could not fully recognize them. They blurred and mixed, forming myriads of colours and faces. One moment it was his mother’s smile, the next it was his father’s gun, pointed at him. One moment it was Heine’s exploding GOUF, the next it was his first pair of running shoes in the last five years.

Yet this very memory left Athrun feeling acerbic.

He knew this apartment room, this situation, this memory. This was one of the memories he would rather not see merely because it was too good of a memory—and good things died faster. Because you find reality bit hard, Zala, he said to himself. Can’t this memory remain here, trapped in my Rapunzel tower with no Rapunzel hair to help me reach it?

“Don’t I get my birthday kiss?”

“Nope.” Cagalli tapped the tip of his nose. “Morning breath, you know.”

He faked a stupid grimace. “I’m hurt, Cagalli-sama. Is that how you treat the birthday boy?”

“Well, the birthday boy has to be a good boy first so then he can have his present.” She seized his blanket from him and folded it. Putting the blanket at the foot of his bed, she moved to sit beside him again. “Rise and shine, you sloth. It took a lot of effort to run to your apartment this early, you know.”

Athrun curled himself up next to her, draping an arm across her lap and burying his face in her side. He was only seventeen, and seventeen he was going to be today.

“Stop that. I’m ticklish.”

“Uh-huh,” he mumbled uncaringly. Today was good, and he felt good. All was well, and he did not want to let go. “Can I have my present now, Santa?”

Cagalli kissed the top of his head. “What do you want?”

“You. Here.”

She slapped the back of his head playfully. “Pervert.”

“With me, I mean. Spend today with me or something. Only for today. Forget Berlin or Moscow.” She was quiet, and he started to worry that her duties would take her from him, even today. “Please?”

Sighing, she pushed his head away and made him lie on his back. Holding him there with a palm on his chest, she shook her head but failed miserably to look disappointed. She realized that he knew it, because the smile, genuine and content, reached his eyes. “Spoiled brat.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Cagalli was the Rapunzel whom he would never be able to lay his hands on. She, the Rapunzel of his life, would escape the prison by herself instead of waiting dormant in her tower. In the presence of her bravery, her so-called prince would become too withered to look at her in the eyes.

Contrary to the popular opinion of their friends, they did have a talk about their so-called romantic relationship after the end of the Second War.

The Talk—capitalized for, he believed, the sake of self-appointed importance—happened in Cagalli’s office, the room where no familial photograph but for a small one of the late Uzumi resided. Cagalli’s private life did not belong here, yet it was here they were having The Talk about their private life. In a moment, they would become Her Excellency and her loyal subordinate, a head of state and her subject. She was half sitting on her desk, seeing but not registering him, in her Head Representative's dark uniform. He stood before her, distant, in his black suit. What a set of clothes for mourning, Athrun thought glumly.

Yet their silence had already been doing the mourning.

“What are we going to do now?” He had practiced all night long to sound calm and composed. He did, but it did not mean that he was as calm and composed as he thought he would be. What are we going to be now was what he had really meant, but it was too late to change his question now.

“There’s no going back, Athrun. We can’t turn back time. What's happened has happened.”

So it was decided.

“But,” Cagalli spoke again, “let’s have an agreement on several things. For the future. From now on, we’re not going to talk about my screwed-up almost marriage. And about your... business with the Lacus-wannabe.”

“Her name is Meer, Cagalli. At least please call her that.”

“Whatever.” To be honest, he wanted to catch even the faintest hope in Cagalli’s dismissal—or disapproval, for a better term—of Meer, but it seemed that she did not give him the pleasure. “And my dealing with the Seirans and Orb. And your dealing with Yzak and ZAFT.” Her eyes were on his. “This is our Pandora's jar.”

He forced a smiled. “After Pandora opened the jar and unfortunately released all evils to the world, she managed to keep a single thing from escaping.”

“Hope,” she said, pulling him into a hug.

“Hope,” he repeated. Back then, on that ship, it was he who had pulled her into a hug, but it was only until now that he understood her feeling at that time. Despite his selfishness, this was not how he wanted their separation to be. After all, he dealt better with disappointment than understanding. Her understanding meant she could to see something that he did not see—yet, hopefully.

Being understood surely brought its own pain.

She chuckled against his shoulder, the laughter shaking her body against his. “I hope one day we’ll be as happy as we want to be, Athrun. I hope one day we’ll be able to talk to each other with less pain.” Of course she did not say that it would be painless, because pain lingered, after all. Both of them knew that all too well. “I hope one day we’ll be able to—” she choked a bit but continued nonetheless, “to shake hands and say ‘How do you do’ and really say, ‘I love you.’ I hope one day you’ll smile at me, not for me. I hope one day we’ll—we’ll be able to say, ‘This a wonderful world.’

I hope you’ll be much happier than I will ever be, he wanted to say, but decided against it. There was time for honesty, and there was time for courtesy. What he did not let Cagalli know—though she might have realized it already—would not hurt her. “This is not goodbye,” he said. A little wish would not hurt anyone either, he reasoned.

She pulled back from his embrace but maintained the closeness. “This is not,” she agreed.

They both knew that no matter what, they could not have total closure. They were so interlaced, intertwined, interconnected with each other that it would be impossible to free themselves from the tangled web of their lives. But it went too far to say that there was no Athrun without Cagalli or no Cagalli without Athrun; that was too philosophical, too romantic. There was no perfect love. Humans did not love like that.

The Talk ended, and so did ‘them.’

This isn't a final ‘Farewell,’ but this isn't a promised ‘See you again’ either, Zala, he said to himself. Deep down, he knew that Cagalli knew this, too—knew but could not change it. This way, you two won’t be going anywhere. But he knew that, didn't he?

Or maybe he was just too much of a coward to admit that to himself.

When Meyrin finally answered his call, Athrun had never been more relieved.

“What is it this time?”

“This.” He raised his left hand. “The squirt had the guts to bite me.” He scowled as Meyrin blinked in disbelief before chuckling mirthfully. “All because I interrupted his merry little brawl with the other children in my neighbourhood.”

That got Meyrin’s attention. “Alright. Your squirt, as you have dubbed him, has been involved in two fights a day. Spare me the details, but am I right?”

“What? How come I didn’t know he was fighting in school?”

“Well, his homeroom teacher is going to call you tonight—just wait for it. But,” Meyrin cast him her serious counsellor look, “if this continues, he’ll probably be dropped from the school’s track team.”

He grumbled. “I didn’t know about that either.”

“What? That he'd been selected into the track team?” She rolled her eyes. “Athrun-san, don’t you talk about anything with Dietmar?”

“Well, excuse me if I’m not the best nanny ever.”

“Athrun-san,” Meyrin called impatiently, “should I remind you that it was you who insisted on taking him from Murrue-san and bringing him from PLANT? Should I dig into your old documents and show you that it’s you who initiated the idea of being Dietmar’s foster father?”

Athrun raised his hand again. “I get your point, Meyrin. What’s next?”

“‘What’s next’ you say? Athrun-san, nothing’s going to happen if you don’t start doing something! I’ll speak as a counsellor now; have some time together, sit together and talk. You both need that.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Athrun smiled weakly. “I’ll try to do that. Oh, can you tell Dietmar’s homeroom teacher not to call me tonight? I’m on duty tonight and Dietmar’s with Kira, so there won’t be anyone to answer the phone tonight.” He thanked Meyrin and ended the call.

The black, blank screen looked like it was laughing at him, at his tactless inability to deal with a five-year old boy.

But it was not entirely his fault, was it? How could he, for example, know the way to tie Dietmar’s tie double-knobbed? (4) Patrick had never been around to show him how, and he was too young to remember how Lenore tied his tie. And he did not want to start on his tone—Kira was far more suited to talk to Dietmar than he was. Add some warmth into your voice, Kira once advised. Use a kinder, softer tone. Don’t be too stern. And smile wider, can you?

Well, there was a reason why Kira was an excellent househusband, a fact proven now that baby Elaine was in the picture, and he was not. His best friend’s advice was easier said than done. He still had not yet made up with Dietmar; the boy had gone to sulk in his room after biting Athrun's hand.

Athrun cracked open the door of Dietmar's bedroom. “You’re still awake?”

Dietmar gave a small noise.

He came in. “Meyrin called.” He paused. “You got into a fight at school today?”

“Not your problem.”

Athrun took a very, very deep breath and counted to fifteen—because ten did not work. “It is my problem. You know they will call me to the school.”

“...Like you ever come.”

“Look, Dietmar,” he snapped. “Why don’t we try and be more civil to each other? We’re living under the same roof, and I don’t want to be angry everyday. You will talk to me, and I will listen to you. Talk about anything you want.” He did not mean it to sound like a command, but he did not want to give up the effort so easily. They were going to talk now.

Dietmar moved a bit on the bed, pulling his blanket off of him. “I don’t know what you want to hear.”

“Try school for a start.”

Dietmar looked hesitated. “...I fight.”

“Well, yes, I know that.” He scooted to sit on Dietmar’s bed. “Why?”

“I don’t know. There’s a kid with an ugly face and a fat nose saying bad things about me being a PLANT boy. I kick him. He kick back.”

Wincing, Athrun decided not to comment on that. “Meyrin also said you got onto the school’s track team.”

“Yes!” Dietmar beamed—and Athrun marvelled at how fast the boy’s mood changed. “I’m the most fast runner in class, and Kaname-sensei say I must join the team. She say we’ll win the district tournament next month if I’m on the team.”

Good for you, boy, Athrun thought. The conversation was going rather well. “That’s great. Congratulations. Well then, why don’t we buy shoes for practice? I think I can start jogging a little with you every morning.”

“And basketball shoes, too?” Dietmar was bouncing on the bed. “I really like playing basketball. We can play together, right? Can you?”

He grinned. “Well, I’m quite good at basketball, actually.” There was a reason why Kira hated one-on-one matches with him with a passion, after all.

“We can start tomorrow?”

He could not win against the sparkle in Dietmar’s eyes, the hopeful look in the boy’s face.

The next day, he bought shoes for both Dietmar and himself. They got the same pair of shoes only in different sizes. It was Athrun’s first pair of running shoes in five years and the very first pair of running shoes that he had bought in Orb. At the cashier, he was given a small, yellow duckling figurine as bonus for buying two pairs of shoes in the shop.

Dietmar was holding the duckling tenderly on their way home.

Athrun averted his eyes from the road. “You like it?”

“Can I put it here?” Dietmar touched the duckling to the dashboard. “Your car will be real more cool.”

“Cooler,” he corrected. It was really time he gave the boy a private lesson on grammar. “This car is already cool the way it is, but yes, you can. It’s your car, too. I’ll plaster it there tomorrow.”

Dietmar’s grin was so wide that Athrun thought it would split Dietmar’s face. Still, he liked it better than the boy’s sulking face. “Thank you!”

“One more thing,” Athrun added, “call me Alex when we’re outside the house. Athrun’s not a very cool name, and there are a lot of people who hate my name. Bad guys hate my name, and I don’t want to get into a useless fight. So Athrun is only when it’s just the two of us. Or when we’re with Kira or old man Hathaway. Got it?” He patted Dietmar’s head. He would ask Kira about tying ties, double-knobbed or not, and cooking as soon as he got home. Meyrin and his new but witty secretary, William Herbert Young, would surely be very helpful with tips and tricks, too. “And tomorrow, we’re going to jogging together.”

The yellow duckling seemed to be smiling along with them, Athrun thought.

On the fourth War Memorial Day in Orb, a small ceremony was held at the War Memorial Park. The Head Representative was present and was scheduled to give a small speech. The National Domestic Security guards, including Rene Hathaway himself, were there, too, to make sure that the event would run as scheduled.

He and Young were standing behind many lines of people. He was twenty, and though it had been four years since Uzumi Nara Athha passed away in defence of Orb’s ideals and sovereignty, people still mourned for the dead. The graves might be empty and the bodies lost, but the people still mourned. And Athrun did, too.

“For me, this place is a waste land and I’m a hollow man.”

Though tempted to smile at that, Athrun simply eyed Young. His secretary was looking very grave. Young too, Athrun knew, was a war survivor; he must have experienced a similar loss. “Your name isn’t Thomas Stearns, Will.”

“Well, sure. I’m only a William Herbert who’s terrible at being romantically poetic, but you don’t need to remind me of that.” Young snickered, knowing that Athrun was trying to be sarcastic but failed as he did not even smirk. “See, Boss, one of my professors said that history teaches us lessons, and humans should learn from history. But I don’t think history repeats itself. It’s humans who repeat history. Though war is always a part of history, it’s pointless, meaningless. I don't believe there are any lessons for us, much less for its survivor, to learn.”

Athrun was staring ahead at the heads of the people, some bowed in respect to the dead. Since Cagalli was at the podium, her blonde head was the farthest away. These people must have experienced losing people important to them. But Cagalli had not only lost a father; for her, Uzumi had also been a mentor, teacher and leader. Athrun had not seen his mother's death with his own eyes, thus his sympathy could not help but multiplying when it came to Cagalli. He knew that both of them suffered from survivor guilt; but Cagalli's was different from his.

It was like holding on to the Karnaedis board of ancient Greece, right after the ship was wrecked and its passengers were swallowed in the sea. Uzumi let go of the board so that Cagalli could stay alive, but by doing so, his death somewhat became Cagalli’s burden. It was so unfair, Athrun thought. He could not understand when selflessness leapt over the dividing line and became selfishness. Or maybe the line was too thin. Or maybe selflessness and selfishness were actually one thing that people took for granted to be two different things.

But then again, if he was placed in Uzumi’s shoes at the time, he knew that he would have done the same.

“I think there is,” he said quietly at last. There was one lesson indeed that he learnt best from war. “It teaches me sadness.”

Humans simply did not heal.

It was rare to see Cagalli with the children in the orphanage that Kira ran, but it was rarer still to see Cagalli read to the children.

Athrun leaned against the doorway, waiting for her to finish the story. He was having the second day of his three-day term break, but still he had to know how his responsibility was doing. So he dropped by Kira’s orphanage that afternoon after one of his occasional dates—he did, really, being a healthy man he was. Cagalli was sitting on the carpeted floor, surrounded by twelve children. He could not pick up her words from his place, but her soft voice did not sound very calm and he thought that there was slight trembling at a few parts.

One of the children noticed him. She waved enthusiastically at him. “Alex-san!”

Smiling, he waved back and gave Cagalli a subtle signal to continue. He would not mind waiting a little longer. Cagalli finished the story five minutes later and closed the book. It only took small effort to usher the children to the dining room for lunch. To Athrun, they looked neither excited nor entertained as they passed him.

“Cagalli-san is scary today,” the girl whispered to him. “Alex-san should read to us next time.”

He ran his hand through her hair and smiled widely. “Let’s see if Cagalli-san will give me another day off, shall we? Now, your lunch is waiting. Hurry.”

The girl beamed and ran to catch up with her friends.

Athrun went to sit beside Cagalli. “What a surprise, Cagalli. You never struck me as a storyteller. What did you read?”

“That story of the big bad wolf and three piglets. Classic. You’ve got yourself a boy; you should’ve known the story better.” She looked away. “I told them how I hate the two elder piglets for not building a strong house.” There was no doubt that there was a strained anger in her voice. “The houses are their shelter; they should’ve been cleverer, don’t you agree? What’s the point of building a straw house or a wooden house? They should've known who their enemy was. They should’ve built stronger houses, prepared a trap or two for the enemy, or something like that. Whatever.” She sighed. “The story’s stupid, really.”

“Cagalli,” he began, quiet and glum, “Uzumi-san didn’t just let Orb be burnt away.”

“But he didn’t do enough to prevent Orb from being burnt either.”

Athrun suppressed the urge to wince. Back then during the First War, it was Cagalli who reminded him that he must not give up on his father, because at least his father was still alive and he still had the chance to talk to his father. He had never given enough thought to how much it must have hurt Cagalli to say it, since her own father had just died in front of her eyes. Now he knew.

And above all, he did not want her to stray and take the wrong path like he did. “You don’t hate him.”

“But it doesn’t mean I can’t be angry at him.” She turned to look at him, eyes hard and accusing. He felt uneasy. “Don’t play semantics with me, Athrun. You, of all people, don’t have the right to tell me what I should feel for my father.”

He gritted his teeth. So be it. If she wanted to be unreasonable and bent under the pressure of her duty, so be it. She was right, after all. He did not have any right to lecture her about what being a good father’s child meant. “As you wish then.” He had only walked two steps from her when she called his name in a hoarse whisper. Still with his back to her, he waited.

A loud exhalation. A mirthless chuckle. “I was being ridiculous, weren’t I?”

The last time he had acknowledged it out loud to her face cost him her—and their so-called love life. “No, you’re not.” He sighed. “But I admit sometimes it’s hard to deal with you when you’re playing stupid and making things more difficult than they already are.”

“So now I’m stupid and difficult.”

He wanted to slam his head against the floor. Or rather, he wanted to get inside Cagali’s head and knock some sense into her. “Cagalli.” Turning, he took one of her hands. “Cagalli, I—you know,” he took a deep breath, “I’m not good at this kind of thing. I’m a total stranger to the act of comforting people, and you know that.” He was ashamed to realize how he, in his anger, had just tried to leave her. He might have not been the best person to comfort her—or anyone at that, but at least he could offer her his companionship. Great, Zala. Now you know regret always comes too late. “Come on. Don’t make me feel guiltier, or I’ll splatter my intestines on the floor out of guilt. At least respect my attempts. Please.”

“Well, you fail. Your attempts to comfort me are just as horrible as your attempts to propose.”

“I still insist on trying.” Her tone had become colder and her face had darkened, but Athrun had not yet realized why. He was tempted to roll his eyes at her biting sarcasm. Screw us and our odd sense of humour, he cursed inwardly. “Get some rest. I know the meeting with the Council today was quite fucked up. This time, you’re listening to me. And you will do what I say. I could care less about other things.”

Getting up, Cagalli smacked the storybook to his stomach. “Read that to Dietmar. Tell him about what a big bad wolf you really are.” She paused at the doorway. “And next time, Athrun, don’t go all morality and preach to me about what I can or can’t think with your collars left open wide enough to show those hickeys of yours.”

He hurriedly tidied his collars and buttoned his shirt, but Cagalli had already left the room by the time he finished.

Damn his love life.

The first thing he recognised as he opened his eyes was the ceiling. Then came the clock. 01.30. Midnight, it seemed to be. The room was dimly lit, but the ceiling still looked white. It’s not a white death, he reminded himself. Only a white room. His left arm was stabbed into with an IV tube, and he still could not move. There was no Cagalli, Kira or Dietmar beside him. Of course, he thought, trying not to be disappointed. I’m only dreaming.

He closed his eyes again. Even the dim light was too bright for his not-yet-accustomed eyes. Still hazy from sedatives and sleep, he did not know how long it had been since he was shot. The dreams felt real, but here he was—in reality, with no novelty greetings, with no congratulations for waking up. He had really woken up alone. Battered, weak, disoriented and alone.

Just perfect.

Oh well. At least Cagalli was alright and Kira was with her. At least he could be relieved about that.

A noise from his left made him eye that direction, because he really could barely move his head. What he saw made him want to relapse to his dreams again. What he saw vulgarly reminded him of his father’s gun, the taste of merciless betrayal and naked denial yet again in his mouth, their names on the tip of his tongue. The all too familiar memory slammed back at him, raw and painful in its velocity.

William Herbert Young was aiming a revolver at him, and behind Young stood a solemn-faced Rene Hathaway.

Notes:

(1) Athrun actually joined ZAFT on February 20, CE 70. I just take the liberty of writing.

(2) I’ve written a fic on Nicol and this to-stray-or-not-to-stray thing, As Red as the Blood that Beethoven Cries.

(3) from the speech of Theodén King of Rohan in JRR Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers at the burial of his son.

(4) I’ve never recalled finding Athrun with a tie on. As far as I remember, all of his clothes are turtle-necked, T-shirts or Nehru-collared.