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The Audhumla's crew usually stirs back to life in the early morning. Yelling at each other in the corridors and not caring about making noise is acceptable as soon as the sun rises and is faintly visible through the portholes. Everybody knows and accepts this, and every crew member has found a way to get a couple of extra minutes of sleep as people go on with their day: earplugs, listening to music, moving the beds away from the walls, and so on.
Lieutenant Quattro Bajeena isn't an Audhumla man, and so he's not used to all the rituals the crew performs to get more sleep.
A lively chat just outside the room where he’s sleeping is enough to bring him back to consciousness, and with a groan he grabs the thin pillow and pulls it to his ears to cover them. He turns away from the door and his whole body curls into a tight fetal position, eyes squeezed shut. His head hurts.
Something— Someone? shifts and moves in the room, and before he can open his eyes, the door slides open and the unmistakable voice of Amuro Ray says: "Guys, can you go talk somewhere else?"
"Mr. Ray! Sir! We're sorry, we didn't know you were here!"
He hears footsteps retreating and only then does Char open his eyes and sit up. Just the simple movement makes his head throb, the room swirls uncontrollably and he brings a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes absently. "Ugh,"
"Go back to sleep, Char."
He looks up, moving his hand to rub at his temples. "What," he rasps, then he lies back down to stare at the ceiling, eyelids heavy and tired. His mouth feels dry and his throat hurts. His throat- "Oh god I'm going to vomit-"
"Please don't," Amuro walks to the side of the bed and moves a bucket closer to Char with the tip of his foot. "Use this if you really have to."
Char’s gaze goes from the ceiling to Amuro’s face, and then it trails down to look at the way he’s dressed, because it’s the most casual attire he’s ever seen on him: white undershirt (tightly fitted, coffee-stained) and sweatpants.
Seeing Amuro in the room puts the creeping nausea on hold and replaces it with confusion. What is he doing here? Many things had happened the day before, Char can still remember the uncontrollable shaking of his hands just before the speech, and then: celebrations, the warmth of alcohol, gut-wrenching loneliness, a clink of glasses, "human sacrifice" and laughter, and then, then just Amuro Ray.
The details are a blurred mess and probably a fabrication of his drunken mind, a mere dream, and it’s not like he has thoughts like those usually, he does not, but Earth’s gravity has so many effects, and the pressure must be getting to him. Obviously that, he thinks. Space calls to him, he’ll make his return soon and everything will be back to normal. The role of a simple lieutenant discarded, curtains drawn, standing slightly off-centre on the stage. Back on track.
Amuro seems to have noticed the little change in his expression, confusion and a glint of remembrance, he clears his throat and turns his back to him to rummage through a worn-down bag that was sitting on a dresser; the tips of his ears are burning red.
"Um, you should take one of th-" He starts, coming back to him with a blister pack in his hands, and as he does this Char sits up again, slowly this time, and visibly tries to keep a straight face when he cuts him off, voice incredibly flat with a barely noticeable inquiring tone: "I’m naked?"
"Yeah, um..." Amuro clenches the blister pack, enjoying the crackling sound it makes, and rubs a hand at the base of his neck, awkward. "You don’t remember...?" He immediately realizes how that might sound and, as Char opens his mouth to speak again, he quickly blurts out: "You threw up!"
Oh. "Oh," Char echoes his immediate thought, and Amuro nods with a hum and places the painkillers on the little bedside table. "Yeah, I think you had an allergic reaction or something," He explains while pacing around the room, looking for something to do while avoiding looking directly at the man in his bed. "I’ll get you a glass of water for that."
Char quietly watches him disappear into the cabin’s bathroom and takes it as an opportunity to freely look around. It’s a pretty standard ship room, similar to the one he has assigned on the Argama, bare and anonymous, but he’s sure it is Amuro’s personal cabin. He ends up opening the drawer of the bedside table, curious and oblivious to the quiet freak-out the other man is having in the nearby room. Inside, a crumpled pack of cigarettes (he smokes?), a strip of condoms (sure, the girl), a Swiss Army knife (he’s a practical man), a tangled pair of wired earbuds (so old-fashioned) and other normal people things: empty blister packs, tissues and random papers, his passport, hand cream, an old comic book and a magazine with a shirtless man on the cover (no comment, must be the girl’s).
Looking at the little objects, it is clear just how ordinary Amuro is, and ironically enough all the hints about his personality stashed into his nightstand end up making him even more special to Char’s eyes; for a moment he feels jealous, wonders what would Amuro think of Lieutenant Bajeena’s empty cabin, and then he starts feeling something else, so he closes the drawer and concentrates on the pain thumping in his temples. Much better.
When Amuro returns he sees Char swallow two pills dry and just stops to look at him. What is wrong with you, he wants to say, instead he sighs and hands him the glass. "Please drink this, you must be very dehydrated right now." The knuckles of his right hand are bruised, Char notices it as he takes the glass of water, fingers briefly touching the ruined skin.
All of a sudden he remembers what happened, not all of it, but most of it, so he brings the glass to his lips and hopes the embarrassment doesn’t show on his face.
"So..." Amuro starts, his hands fiddling with the hem of his undershirt. Char’s expression is still hidden by the glass and he wonders if he’s drinking that slowly on purpose. Then, in a spurt of confidence, and maybe also tiredness and a need to get this over with, he sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress squeaks under his weight and, for the first time ever, Amuro thinks that the Audhumla’s beds aren’t so uncomfortable. His back hurts from resting on the floor most of the night, where he kept uneasy eyes fixed on Char’s figure in the dark. Chest rising and then falling... and the faintest snore.
Joining him in bed would’ve been the best choice to monitor his drunken state, Amuro would’ve listened to his heartbeat clearly, put a hand on his chest and follow its steady movements. He had felt a need so vehement to do so that watching over him from a safe distance had felt physically distressing. And yet he couldn’t lie down next to him— it would’ve been invasive: the sight of a man like Char Aznable, always moving and fighting and, more than anything, awake, just sleeping after getting drunk like a regular person does in times of hardships... it already felt like an exceeding concession.
"A change of clothes would be fantastic," Char cuts him off and hands him back the glass, a silent demand for more. If he wasn’t naked, he would’ve stood up and walked to the bathroom himself, but the situation demands him to rely on Amuro again, just a little bit.
It’s not shame. In his life, Char has found himself nude around other men plenty of times, military training and soldier culture stripping away the simple and direct eroticism of a naked body from his mind. There were other things that piqued his interest, sure, but those were not important and Char preferred not to think about that.
In Amuro’s bed, he feels a different kind of nakedness; it’s frightening like everything that is new.
Amuro stares at him in disbelief for a full minute before taking back the glass. Then, as if suddenly realizing the punchline of a joke, he covers his face with the occupied hand, forehead resting on the wet glass, and lets out a sincere laugh.
"Surely it can’t be helped" he comments out loud, mostly to himself, and it is hard to suppress the laughter, so he stands up and disappears into the cabin’s bathroom again, this time for just a few seconds. When he comes back, Char is staring, dumbfounded and shy, and it’s evident that he is pondering wether he’s said something funny or, worse, something wrong. It amuses Amuro greatly and he makes a note to not forget that face and how it’s making him feel. It’s a kind of placid surrender. It feels good.
When he’s satisfied with the amount of water reintegrated into Char’s system, Amuro takes out a sweatshirt from a duffel bag on the floor and wears it over his undershirt. A change of clothes is laid out at the end of the bed, a simple uniform that sits in the closet of every cabin in the Audhumla. "I’ll let you change in peace," he says, a wan smile on his lips. "I need some coffee anyway, maybe it will make you feel better too, so pass by the cafeteria if you have time..." he lingers near the door, the time until their separation thinning out. "Today will be extremely tiring."
"Amuro" Char starts like he’s finally gathered his thoughts, and something in Amuro’s expression changes, making it obvious that he doesn’t want to hear what comes next.
So Char changes paths, and instead says: "Please assist us with the shuttle’s launch today."
[before affection broke into the story, there was alcohol]
After their exchange by the porthole, they return to the common area and disperse in the happy crowd. Amuro loses sight of Char almost immediately, and for a while he thinks that’s probably for the best; he doesn’t want to think about him nor look at his sad eyes. They had joked and laughed at the situation, sure, but something about the look Char gave him, a hand not quite his shoulder, hesitant, when he said "let’s go back" had made him feel deeply uncomfortable. He wishes he would wear the damn sunglasses. It would make things easier.
(Has anything about Char Aznable ever been easy?)
So Amuro drinks, not a lot, but it’s the most he’s had in a long while. The plastic cup in his hand feels comforting— Beltorchika had given it to him with a big smile, and on it she had written his name with a black marker pen, coupled with a bunch of hearts and a smiley face inside the "o" in "Amuro". It’s a sweet and endearing gesture and he clings to the cup even when he finishes his beverage, brain buzzing and a pleasant heat on his cheeks.
He considers another drink for a moment, a voice in his head telling him to chase the tipsy feeling, and so he excuses himself from a conversation he wasn’t really listening to, stepping away from Hayato and some crew members whose names he doesn’t remember. He’s not going to go too hard with the alcohol, just another drink, he thinks, he’ll fill only half of the cup and he’ll stand next to Bel and nod and smile at the people congratulating him for today’s victory. Then he will quietly leave the little party and lay down on his bed, he will close his eyes because his head will spin and he will let himself be wrapped in the dizzy sensation as if it was a comfortable blanket. Alone with the flashes of light and stars behind his eyelids. A familiar feeling from his late teenage hood.
Amuro walks to the table where all the drinks and cups are kept, and just as he’s reaching for a neglected bottle of white wine he sees Char from the corner of his eye. It seems like he’s arguing with a Karaba member, and Amuro can’t help but notice that he ditched the tie and that the first two buttons of his shirt are undone.
Without giving it too much thought, he grabs the bottle and steps closer to the two men.
"Have you ever thought about why they call it horseplay? I mean, I’ve never seen horses do much except just... stand there most of the time"
"What kind of question is that? The word “horseplay” comes from a time before our current century, it’s because the word “horse” used to be associated with anything strong or big."
"So horses play roughly? I don’t think I’ve ever seen horses play together..."
Amuro hums and fills his cup, maybe a little more than half of it, his hands shake lightly and it’s hard to get the desired dosage right with the faint sway of the ship. He shrugs, and without a word or any acknowledgment from Char and the other man, he extends the bottle to fill Char’s empty cup.
"Well maybe it’s because they don’t like you and you don’t have a heart of gold and— what are you doing." Char stops the conversation to look at Amuro, no surprise in his expression; he knew he was there the whole time, listening.
Amuro purses his lips in a goofy smile. "I thought you would like another drink"
Char’s eyes go from his empty cup, as if just realizing he was holding to a useless piece of plastic, to the pilot’s eyes. "Yeah sure. What is this?"
"White wine" he shakes the bottle, a tempting devil.
"Absolutely not. Wine makes my head hurt. Get me a real drink."
Amuro rolls his eyes at the ceiling. "Come on, there’s just enough left for you" He gives Char a nudge with his elbow, his drink shaking with the gesture. The wine overflows from his cup and stains his fingers and the hem of his bomber jacket’s sleeve, but Amuro doesn’t seem to mind.
"I’ll take that-" the other man intervenes, and as he says that Char extends his cup and lets Amuro refill it. It’s just the two of them in the room right now.
"There you go, no need to be so difficult all the time" Amuro smiles at him, cheerful, and makes their two drinks meet in a clink-less toast.
Char’s lips curl up for a second, a reflex, then he frowns. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
Amuro realizes at that moment that he might be more than just tipsy, saying whatever comes to his mind without filtering his words. He stares at Char with his mouth open, the tips of his ears red in embarrassment, and it’s then that Char laughs, an inelegant cackle hidden behind the plastic cup.
"Kamille is right," he coughs, then takes a sip to ease his throat. "You are a bad influence"
"What’s THAT supposed to mean?"
Char gives him a look, intense and unreadable, and after that it feels like they both have been quiet for way too long. Amuro wants to say something, anything, even though he is the one who made a question in the first place and is waiting for an answer. But Char has to be difficult, he just stares, one eyebrow slightly raised, a strand of hair out of place that Amuro wants to brush back behind his ear (what?), the ghost of a smile on his face and long fingers drumming absently on the wine in his hand. The cup!
"The cup," Amuro lamely repeats his thought, and Char tilts his head to look down at it.
"What about it?"
"It doesn’t-" it’s getting hard to articulate his thoughts. "It doesn’t have your name on it?" He tries, pointing at the writing on his own cup. "What if you leave it somewhere for a moment and someone else takes it?" he nods at his words, sounding convinced. What is he even saying? And why can’t he keep his mouth shut?
Char must’ve had a few drinks too, because he hums affirmatively as if Amuro’s point makes any sense. As if he wasn’t just thinking of downing the wine in two big sips and leaving the hall without saying anything. Tomorrow he and Kamille will leave Earth again. The question is on the tip of his tongue, but he won’t ask it.
He gulps down the wine anyway and hands the empty cup to Amuro. The sulphites burn the back of his throat, an unpleasant tingle lingering on his palate, and he fights the urge to spit it out.
"I have to write it?"
Amuro’s stunned face makes drinking the disgusting alcohol worthwhile, Char thinks as he crosses his arm around his chest and nods. He watches the other man struggle at processing the new task given to him, holding the two cups with a puzzled expression. Then, suddenly, he makes a face that universally translates to "whatever, sure" and steps closer to Char to hand him his own cup. "Hold this for a moment," he says in the same tone of an order before walking back to the table.
In a corner sits a little tower of piled-up cups, and next to it a bunch of forgotten drinks, napkins and a shining black marker. Amuro picks it up with determination and pops the cap open, then glances back to look at Char and sees him take a sip of his wine.
"Okay," he tells himself, and the moment the tip of the marker touches the plastic his mind goes blank and he ends up staring at the black dot he just drew. It’s Char, right? He has never directly referred to him as "Quattro" or, it sounds even weirder to think about pronouncing the other name— "Casval". To Amuro, he’s no one other than Char Aznable, and yet he hesitates. Would it feel impersonal? The thought crosses his mind once the letter "C" has already been drawn on the surface. Next comes "H", "A" and the final "R". Amuro looks at his handwriting, usually deemed by other people as scrawly, and likes how neat the name looks in block capitals. Without thinking too much about it, he adds an exclamation point and fills half of the now-branded cup with more wine.
When he joins Char again, Amuro extends the cup to hand it back to him, and it’s then that Char meets it by making the two drinks clink again. "I have to go, I was requested by some A.E.U.G. supporters," Then— faster than lightning and easily missable if Amuro had blinked at the wrong moment, a wink. "Important people." he adds and disappears in the crowd holding the cup with Amuro’s name on it.
[later, in a place where there’s no space or time]
The Hyaku Shiki’s cockpit isn’t as glamorous as the outside of the mobile suit.
Going up on the lift had made Amuro feel dizzy and he’s grateful that he didn’t manage to fall down somehow. The sense of danger of falling from a height of nearly twenty meters has actually sobered him up a little, and as he stumbles inside the tight space he takes off his bomber jacket and puts it on the backrest of the pilot’s seat. Then, with a satisfied sigh, he sits down.
Char had found him in the crowd again at the worst moment, when tipsy had become drunk and drunk had become a mixture of sadness and anxiety. Amuro had never drunk surrounded by so many people, his only memories of an altered state were strictly linked to that Federation cage where he spent the past eight years. The pure definition of loneliness.
Char, on the other hand, seemed like the kind of sober-but-actually-drunk person, and he touched his shoulder and suggested: "Let’s go somewhere quiet, this is killing you"
"This is a stupid idea" Amuro mutters, looking around. It’s almost completely dark except for the safety lights in the hangar, and Char follows him inside the cockpit with ease.
"That’s my spot," Char says, standing on the threshold and Amuro snorts at that, bringing his knees to his chest. The leather of the seat creaks under his weight and Char wishes he would at least take off his shoes.
"One of your stupidest ideas," Amuro continues, slurring a bit, but no malice in his words. "And you’ve had quite a lot of them."
"Careful now," Char starts, still in the cockpit’s entrance. He looks at Amuro for a long moment, the other man fidgeting in his seat, the green lights illuminating his profile, dark pensive eyes, cheeks still flushed with alcohol, teeth grazing his thumbnail. He steps closer and Amuro glances up as Char fumbles with some of the controls until a warm light comes on.
"Better?" Char asks, turning around to face Amuro again, and then he decides to sit on the edge of the control panel in front of the pilot’s seat.
Amuro takes a deep breath and unfolds from his curled position, letting his feet touch the floor of the cockpit again, legs brushing against Char’s. "Yeah," he mumbles, and he is surprised by how easy it is to breathe and be calm again inside a mobile suit’s cramped compartment. The image of a cat hiding between the pipes of a car’s engine comes to his mind, and for a moment he thinks about how he will probably die inside a cockpit like this, one day. He discards the morbid thought and stares blankly at the shiny and modern controls of the Hyaku Shiki.
"So let’s hear them," Char’s voice brings Amuro back to the present, and his intonation is lively and a pitch higher than usual. He is leaning with his arms on the control panel, sleeves rolled up, and with the newly added light, Amuro sees a faint redness spreading on his chest under the wrinkled shirt. He’s got three buttons undone now, four if you count the last one at the end of the shirt, which is also untucked, by the way, Amuro’s brain points out.
"Uh— what?"
"My stupid ideas"
Amuro laughs and waves a hand dismissively. "I don’t know why I said that. I was joking." There it is again, the sad stare. Char really thinks Amuro can’t see it. He must be so used to having half of his face covered by masks or sunglasses or pride he doesn’t even notice how the fake smiles he puts on for every occasion don’t reach his eyes.
"I thought so," Char nods, tilting his head upwards to look at the low ceiling. The gesture makes his neck pop satisfyingly and he brings a hand to rub at the hot skin there. The way he said that stirs something in Amuro, a feeling he still hasn’t figured out the name of, and his fist clenches with the urge to punch him in the face. Break his nose. Wipe the bloodied knuckles on Char’s stupid blue shirt. Stop it.
"You know, actually..." Amuro’s heartbeat quickens and he feels it drumming unremittingly in his own ears as he speaks again. "I know you’re having a really moronic idea right now, but you won’t ever say it."
That seems to catch Char off-guard, and they look at each other for what feels like an eternity. It could be daytime right now, for all that Amuro knows, and everyone on board could be waiting for them to get off the Hyaku Shiki to begin preparations for Char and Kamille’s departure. He isn’t sure, honestly, as he searches for a glint of understanding in Char’s cold eyes. Instead, he sees them twitch, squint and then open wide. A few blinks, a furrowed brow and finally a smile. Not a fake one, but not the kind that makes you want to smile back.
"Oh yeah? Enlighten me" — "No, you say it" they say almost in unison. Char leans forward and places a hand on the seat’s headrest, just above Amuro’s unruly hair. It’s for stability and to intimidate the other pilot, who actually slides down in the chair to evade what he thought would be a touch directed at him. Amuro looks up at the hand over his head, then back to Char. "I want to hear you say it" (I don’t know what I’m going to do if you touch me right now)
"I have no idea what you’re talking about." Char replies, serious. He’s gotten close, and Amuro can perfectly see the pink outline of Char’s scar, a broken blood vessel in one of his eyes, dark circles exposed by melting foundation and dry lips. Dry lips. Amuro stares at them, enthralled, and reads their movement as Char talks, clings to them as if he couldn’t hear a thing the other is saying. He would understand anyway. Whatever language he speaks. He would understand Char. (Please don’t touch me—)
"What makes you think you know me so well?" A stern line forms on his lips. Amuro digs his nails into the chair’s armrests. "Do you even know one thing about me, Amuro?" He’s not sure Char has even pronounced the words, but he feels his name being called and finally looks up to meet the other’s intense stare, blown pupils mirroring one another.
A sudden coolness washes over him, and Amuro grins back, bared teeth, when he says: "I know you’re a coward"
The blow is not a surprise.
However, what Amuro wasn’t expecting is the sting of a hand grabbing and pulling his hair, being forced forward, eyes watering, and then— a direct impact against Char’s forehead. The pain spreads immediately and reaches the muscles of his neck and Amuro gasps as he forces his eyes to stay open. "What the-"
Char snorts and tugs one of Amuro’s curls, gentler now, noses touching, and just as he’s about to loosen the grip and run his fingers through his hair (so soft), Amuro recovers and reaches for his collar to pull him down with force and make him give up the vantage point on top of the control panel.
"Say it. Say it Char" Amuro repeats, frantic, shaking his shoulders as Char falls on top of him, heads colliding again, and this time he welcomes the throb, pleased to know that the feeling, the pain, the confusion is shared. This is real. This is the one thing about Char that is easy. Char struggles against him and Amuro catches his wrist and squeezes it until his knuckles turn white, barely managing to keep him in place on his lap, the pilot’s seat creaking under the weight of both men. "Ask me:" he continues and his free hand lands on Char’s face, fingers digging into his cheeks. "Come with me— Come to space with me."
This is Amuro Ray, Char thinks, and— This is Char Aznable, the other nods. It’s like saying it out loud. Where were you? I was waiting for you.
A flash of teeth, and then Char bites down on the meat between Amuro’s thumb and index finger, making him drop the hold with a scream.
"Why would I—"
The kiss is a surprise.
As their lips crash together, both of Amuro’s palms find their way back to Char’s face, touch his cheekbones, burning skin, his ears, pinch his lobes (this is real), until his fingers make home between the blond locks. And he doesn’t let go.
It’s a kiss unlike the few ones he’s had before, it’s desperate and violent and Amuro’s lungs burn as he exhales through his nose. Char gasps against his skin and the heat of his breath is so intoxicating Amuro feels high.
He tightens the hold on Char and parts his lips, teeth grazing against the closed mouth. Say it. Let me in. I want you to say it. One of Amuro’s hands gives up its spot in Char’s soft hair and moves back to his face to press a thumb on the corner of his mouth, lifting the top lip to reveal a set of clenched teeth. Calm down. It’s only me. It’s just us. Let me in.
Char squeezes his eyes shut and opens his mouth to welcome the thumb inside. No need to be so difficult all the time.
Amuro hums and presses down on a sharp tooth until it hurts, looks at Char with a focused expression as if it were the most fragile and dangerous situation in his life, and maybe it is, maybe it is harder than detonating bombs and piloting mobile suits, winning wars and moving humanity towards progress and enlightenment. Maybe that's the point. His other hand massages Char’s scalp with an inconsistent rhythm and he’s surprised when he feels a hot tongue meet his finger, tentatively, and the gesture, the wetness, the other’s flushed cheeks, he’s so shy, Amuro can’t stop a low moan from escaping his throat, goosebumps rising underneath his sweater as he bends his head back to take a sharp breath. It feels like a victory on Char’s side.
He’s not letting the bastard win this, and so he thrusts on Char’s tongue, teases it with the pad of his finger, and pulls him closer until their foreheads connect once again. Then, Amuro kisses him, properly this time, thumb still deep inside his mouth to the last knuckle, Char’s teeth scraping the skin on the back of his hand. It’s a good kind of hurt.
Amuro bites down on Char’s bottom lip and licks the inside of his mouth, tastes the remnants of alcohol there, and feels his own thumb with his wet tongue. He gets the impression that all of this, whatever is happening between them, is not enough already, and thinking about it overwhelms him greatly. His brain works incessantly even in a situation like this, What are you doing? Is this who you are? Who are you? For a second, Amuro is scared of how easily he is losing himself to Char, how badly he wants this to go on, and how much he wants to be in Char’s blood. I am him. I will reside in his heartbeat.
With a swift gesture he takes the thumb out to replace it with his index and middle finger, and Char hums for a moment, almost needy, before moaning and giving Amuro’s hand a good suck. Char Aznable, of all people, is moaning with two fingers down his throat and Amuro’s breathing is getting a little harder as he smears saliva on his face and imagines crawling inside of him.
Char doesn’t seem to mind, his palms roaming Amuro’s body, his waist, his chest, uncertain of where to stay, has he never done this? Amuro thinks, but then a hand curls around his thigh and another caresses his throat, nails digging into the sensitive skin, Char’s mouth like fire against his, red chest exposed and vibrating with his whines, the sting of teeth breaking skin. And Amuro does not think anymore.
Their lips part just as Amuro’s vision starts to get blurry, and he leans on the seat and melts with it, chest rising and falling uncontrollably. He takes his hand out from Char’s mouth and lets it rest on his cheek, already sticky with saliva from before. Char is looking at him, eyes glassy and half-closed, mouth still open and dark lips, and Amuro wants to kiss him again, and again, but instead he brushes a strand of hair away from his face and lets his bruised knuckles trace the scar on his forehead.
"Char," he says, because what else could he say, and Char’s expression softens as he presses himself against the soft touch and sighs.
Amuro feels an unmistakable erection grind against his clothed stomach and exhales shakily; he is hard too, painfully so, Char’s hand is still on his thigh and it’s very difficult to not succumb to the desire clouding his thoughts. It would be very easy to resume this drunken mistake, that he knows for sure, palm him through the trousers and make him moan again, louder, fuck him against the control panel of the mobile suit he pilots and make him forget all his names, his identities. There will only be me and you.
For once, Amuro wants to be difficult too, and so he stops the heedless petting to speak again. "Ask me," he says, and after studying him with a puzzled look, Char leans to rest his head on Amuro’s shoulder, squeezes his leg lightly, maybe involuntarily, while his other hand plays with a curl of his hair, follows the outline of his ear, rubs at the faint stubble on his jaw. It is very distracting, and Amuro’s arms embrace him and keep him close, feeling the quiver running on his back when he answers, voice raspy: "Why should I?" Then, a breathy grumble— "I’m not having this conversation, Amuro." His skin feels impossibly hot against his palms, even through the cotton of his shirt.
This is so typical of Char and Amuro doesn’t know why he was expecting anything else.
However, this time it does not anger nor frustrate him. He knows that resentment would be the easy path, and maybe Char is waiting for Amuro to take that approach because it’s been so long since he’s been met with softness and understanding. Because maybe that’s what he expects of Amuro— as a past foe, as a soldier, as a man.
He realizes he could ask the same question Char asked him earlier, ages ago before the roughness and the violence, before they both indulged in this stinging desire, an affection that feels like teeth and salt and metal. (Do you even know one thing about me, Char? Years ago, on that neutral land, did you know it was me? She was there— observing, and you loved her like a part of you. Were you kind to the enemy to impress her? I was only a kid, but no one was treating me like one for a long time already. It was only natural, as war does that to people; takes away a certain type of ingenuousness typical of youth. It’s a loss you cannot mourn. When did you lose that pureness? Or is it within you still, hiding in a shadowy spot, choking and flailing for your attention?)
It’s all about assumptions again, all kinds of expectations from different people weighing on him like gravity. Wake up. Stay and fight. Run away. He just wishes Char wouldn’t be so vague about it all, a pained smile constantly clinging to his face as if he were bracing for a sudden impact in battle. He’s asked him the damn question before, approaching a kind of tone that could be defined as nonchalant if you forgot that Char Aznable was the one speaking those words. It must be different now. He won’t ask again. Of course he won’t. That’s not the kind of power he wants to have over Amuro— not like this.
Amuro closes his eyes and shakes his head, then he walks the path that leads to being kind to Char Aznable.
"I want to say no..." Amuro mutters and his fingertips slip beneath the collar of the blue shirt and touch the space between his shoulder blades. The next part, quieter than a whisper: "to you."
He can’t see his expression but he feels Char’s face twist as if it was his own. Maybe he’s making a face too— vulnerability and honesty are terrifying, especially outside the battlefield.
"Can you?"
Then, before Amuro can think of a reply, Char moves his hands so that they both rest on his shoulders and keep him rooted in the pilot’s seat. They feel heavier than gravity on Earth. "I think..." he starts and distances himself from Amuro to look him in the eyes. Char’s gaze is hazy and he’s visibly out of breath, and the thought that something is wrong finally insinuates into Amuro’s sobering brain.
"Are you okay?" he asks pointlessly seconds before Char turns white and empties the contents of his stomach on the floor next to the pilot’s seat.
[afterwards, a reflection]
On the shuttle, after its speed stabilizes and their muscles relax (relatively, as always), Char turns to Kamille to ask him if he’s uncomfortable. As he poses the question he realizes that maybe he should’ve kept it to himself, because the younger pilot shakes his head and gives him a look like he’s asking: "aren’t you the one uncomfortable?".
Uncomfortable might be too strong of a word, but there is a feeling within Char like a realization might catch up to him soon, and then he will be uncomfortable for real. He tries not to focus too much on it and instead holds conversation with Kamille, telling him about the old days when people went out to space enduring g-forces many times stronger than the one they went through moments ago, about space as a promised land and the dawn of newtypes. Let’s get back on track, he says indirectly, and Kamille seems to get it right away. There is a determination in his eyes that shines in a way that he’s never seen in the kid before, and it hurts to watch, so he looks back at Earth— and he aches.
He didn’t even ask him the question.
*
(Following the docking of the Audhumla in a port overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, Amuro stands on a cramped balcony and listens to the waves retract and then crash on the rocks of the coastline. It’s been an infinite day, and he hasn’t even bothered to turn on the lights in his hotel room.
He lights up a cigarette he’s been thinking about smoking since the night before and rests his elbows on the rusted railing. In the dark, the moon casting a faint light on his outlines, he looks at his hand; the bruising on the knuckles is barely visible, a darker shade of blue on his dimly lit skin, and Amuro brings the cigarette to his lips and holds it there for a moment without taking a drag, so that the other hand can freely touch where Char’s teeth have left their mark. It’s a superficial scrape and it doesn’t really hurt to poke at it, but Amuro wishes it did— still, he smiles.
He tries to inhale the smoke and realizes the cigarette has gone out, so he lights it up again turning away from the ocean’s wind a little, and after smoking mindlessly for a minute and just letting the nicotine numb his brain, he allows himself to remember about sitting completely clothed, socks off, in the shower with Char and washing his hair.
The man was conscious but completely stunned by the whole situation, so it’s not like he talked a lot, except for grumbling, every once in a while, "I told you wine makes my head hurt" or, in a serious tone that would’ve made Amuro laugh if he wasn’t busy feeling guilty about offering the alcohol in the first place, "White wine is the devil".
Amuro just nodded and hummed at his complaints, and soon the guilt faded to be replaced with a feeling of dutiful care and, he realizes only as he looks at the ripples forming on the surface of the ocean, affection.
Char let Amuro handle him however he pleased, silently complying with his requests as if they were orders and he was just a cadet doing whatever he was told without reflecting too much on it. Raise your arms, now turn your back to me, tilt your neck, be still... good.
When Amuro took the shower head and washed the soap away from his body, a clue that he was almost finished putting him back together, Char looked up at him and asked, barely audible over the sound of water, "Will you come to space with me?"
The question made Amuro stop his meticulous work, a hand still on Char’s chest where the redness was finally waning. He felt as if he was drunk again and his exhausted mind worked on coming up with an answer to a question he had been chasing all night.
Why not? Why shouldn’t I?
No, absolutely not.
She’s out there and I don’t know if I can face her again.
I’m scared and I don’t want to.
But everyone is out there, not just her.
I don’t like the person I become without the pull of gravity.
But this is what we’re fighting for, right?
People change. But it hurts and it hurts and it hurts before it starts feeling good.
Then Amuro just hummed and washed away the last remains of soap. He helped Char stand up and step outside of the shower, where he wrapped him in a towel and worked on drying his hair, his shoulders, his abdomen and his legs. After discarding the wet towel by just throwing it on the floor, he brushed back a strand of blond hair and cupped Char’s face, not to kiss him but to get his attention.
"It’s inevitable, I think. You will make me.")