Deep Emotion [ dearka x yzak ]

Secret Santa
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For marmaladecat: "Blood, angst, loss and the two of them, together." It's rushed in places, pretty crappy overall, and somewhere along the way the train of thought I had writing this was derailed, but I hope it's still decently readable.

Yzak's mind has never held room for anything beyond pride.

Even knowing this, at times Dearka still finds it difficult to wrap his head around the concept.

It's not that he doesn't comprehend pride itself--- something even the average Coordinator, if there ever was an average Coordinator, seems to have in liberal doses--- but one cannot live on pride alone. Or hatred. Sure they make life more interesting but the implication there is that there has to be life to begin with, so one would think that keeping that life intact above all else would be, well, priority number one.

Once or twice he brings it up in conversation. Very casually. Yzak just shoots him one of the looks that from any other person speak figurative volumes but in his case merely means it's time to shut up, and you don't survive long around the notorious son of Jule without learning how to pick up at least that cue.

Still, at those times when he's watching him fixate on the scoreboards, and the new cut or two those perfect nails of his are digging into his palms, he's tempted to ask whether maybe it would be wiser for him to set his aspirations a little closer within his reach. The temptation is fleeting because Dearka knows by now that what matters to Yzak isn't the number of people below him, but above, and screw wisdom and everything else that won't line up with what he wants--- if they won't obey him he'll bend them all by sheer force of will, or so he believes.

And so only when the others have left and the two of them remain alone in the hall does Yzak grit his teeth and stalk angrily away to yet more training and practice for that extra edge that will finally, for certain, take Zala down next time.

***

They hear stories all the time, of course. The usual pieces of legend and fact about soldiers who did this heroic deed and that brave act and how their names will be or have already been honored in military history and lore, the line between being rather blurry at times but either way puffing up aspirations of others to glory, and Dearka notes more often than not those heroes tend to be either very dead or out of active service indefinitely. He likes pointing that out. The more naive faces tend to blanch quickly. Yzak just smirks.

It's like a private joke that they both understand but only he seems to laugh at and the derision he holds is clear as the spoken word.

Their mistakes won't be mine.

Yeah, maybe you'll just make new ones.

Naturally, the second half goes unheard.

***

As for him, he's always preferred those ledges he can reach. Those you can keep a firm grip on for a leap to safety on solid ground, a place neither too high in the heavens nor low in the depths but with a great enough view of both to satisfy him.

Then he looks beyond, higher, where Yzak is already grinding nails through rock and hauling himself up to ram another fist into the mountain, creating a trail of his own-- all his own— in each strata more brittle than the last but still holding him up indefinitely. Flesh crushes stone and mud and quartz and in exchange flesh is broken, torn and discarded, for even the strongest will can only bend the laws of nature, not destroy them, and one cannot obtain something for nothing but he refuses to surrender anything but that which belongs to him and him alone; for therein lies the sweetest victory and the only kind that will satisfy the fire burning within him on a fuel distilled from his own blood.

And so Dearka follows since the path is already open and thinks about how it isn't a matter of if so much as when the man will be consumed by his own fire at last; if the gods have a sense of humor it will probably be the moment he reaches their gates.

There's always the chance that the fall will come sooner than that. But if he has to throw his lot on anyone with the likeliest odds of making it far he chooses Yzak, because he never will see anyone with the same single-minded intensity to reach the pinnacle of glory again-- the weakness of others was the briefest hesitation at the wrong time, and that was enough to bring them and the castles they built in the air down for good.

Which is why Dearka sticks close behind, since there's something unquestionably wasteful about this pride unlike any other falling too soon.

***

Things get a lot harder once the true fighting starts. Before the knowledge has enough time to sink in two of their number are already gone and suddenly it dawns on the rest of them that this isn't just a game anymore, that they're playing with real stakes of life and death and no one's climbing back up from the depths once they fall.

It's easier on those who didn't know the deceased well. Just another name to a list or a statistic filed away in the records, a brief epitaph of ones and zeroes to sum up the erasure of existence. But for those who have grown used to Miguel's arm around their shoulders, Rusty's carefree laughter, the absence is all the more jarring when they realize consciously or not that if two people so full of life and energy and strength can just disappear like that there's no reason why they can't either.

Dearka can see it on the faces in the corridor. The way one jaw trembles a little more than it used to and a thin sweat gleams on another pale forehead and mouths alternately press into a thin line or snarl curses and vows of revenge, the tiniest quaver in those voices exposing their bravado for what it is at the core; a formality of honor. Passing a window he glances briefly and notes with surprise that the reflection he sees wears something of a darker color that was never there before.

When he finally arrives at the door to his quarters the lack of noise is another surprise. Wondering if anyone is even in the room he keys in the code and the door slides open, revealing the debris of a small battle strewn over the floor and Yzak standing with his back to him and feet apart over the ruin, unmoving, like the Colossus. His knuckles are turning an unnatural shade of black and purple and blood oozes slowly out of a cut on one hand.

He can't tell if the other boy has even noticed his presence in the room and takes a step in, boots crunching on something plastic and broken, when the curtain of hair jerks aside abruptly so their eyes meet and Dearka freezes for the sheer rage burning in that stare.

They were weak, how dare they pretend to be strong and prove it for an illusion, the bastards. Not even having the decency to die like heroes but shot down like prey by an enemy that had no right to that kind of power in the first place.

How dare they.

Only then does he notice the way his fists are shaking--- from the rage or pain or fear, it's hard to tell--- but it's enough for him to close the remaining distance and move both hands onto his shoulders and squeeze, lightly, holding on to him.

Steady gesture.

They stay like that for a little while longer.

***

Battle follows battle and each time they come back with hands empty of victory but stained with disgrace. And each time the fire in Yzak's eyes grows stronger and it takes Dearka a little longer to bring the fury down to stable levels.

Hatred makes Yzak careless. He knows it and the scar is a constant reminder but if anything it only serves to enrage him further, to the point where it becomes less and less about pride and more about revenge at any cost. It's not possible that this barrier exists that even his will cannot break through and so his conceptions of victory slowly narrow down to that one target alone.

Despite the nagging feeling that this isn't the way things should be there's nothing Dearka can do but keep following.

***

Nicol dies and the earth crumbles that little bit further beneath them both.

***

And then he makes his mistake.

Buster crashes into the forest and he jerks the controls as far as they'll go over and over again to get the machine to move, damn it, panic rising in his gut despite his best efforts to keep it at bay. His fingers pound a frenetic dance over the keyboard but he's not looking at the data screens because he's finally noticed that the legged ship itself is barely half a klick away with the cannons meant to blow ships apart pointed at him and he's already as screwed as fish in the goddamned barrel. The pride in him roars an order to end it himself, now, before the enemy does it for him and there's no way he's going out the same way as the others because Yzak would never forgive him---

---better a live dog than a dead lion---

---his fingers turn away from the keypad and the self-destruct code and jerk the emergency hatch release beside it. Tropical humidity rushes in like the tide as he fumbles with the straps, finally rips them off him and lunges at the opening where he can already see the telltale shimmering of air and ozone around the ship's cannons pointed at him and Buster and thinks don't you shoot just yet, boys, don't you fucking dare--

They don't, and he's still breathing.

He puts his hands up.

***

When they finally meet again some things have changed, or maybe it's just Dearka who has.

He doesn't flinch when the gun aims at his face this time. Instead he looks Yzak in the eyes and tells him, bluntly, that everyone else can keep going the same route they've been on but he can't do it anymore because he's seen what lies just ahead of them. A road to tainted victory not worth the dishonor received or the ruin inflicted, is one way of putting it, but the reality comes down to the fact that none of them will survive if they don't break free of their roles as mere pawns moving to the whim of kings or gods.

You're a fool, Yzak replies, and doesn't shoot.

Wonder who the real fool is. Don't you?

And Dearka turns his back to him and makes a trail of his own.

He wonders if Yzak will follow, for once, if only to overtake him again.

***

The battlefield is all the more chaotic now that he's with neither black nor white and the targets aren't outlined for him anymore. The radar is of little help, considering it tells him that the people whose help he receives are trying to kill him and likewise that the suits shooting at Buster are his allies. In the end it's easier to just ignore the readings and rely on what he's seeing through the viewscreens to tell him who or where to aim for.

So when the shadow of Providence looms above him he's a fraction too slow to react. By a stroke of luck or deliberate calculation the lasers miss the cockpit but fry just about everything else instead, leaving the machine dead in space amidst the biggest firefight of the entire war to date.

Things can't get any worse, but they do, because the forward cameras are still working and giving him a front-row view of that vulture of a mobile suit already coming for him-- the situation is unpleasantly familiar but he doubts surrender is an option this time, which means he's going to fall for good--

someone grabs his hand

--his name screamed over the comm lines and something pulls him aside as the beam sears past and he's not dead yet. Duel's phase shift armor is already powering down even as he turns to stare at it, at the impossibility next to him, because what Yzak is doing makes no sense at all, this reckless life-for-life gamble that neither of them would have considered before--

-- let go or we'll both go down like the rest, you bastard, and all because of --

---not when you've come this far--

--and a trigger is pulled and someone dies, but it's neither of them because they're both still breathing.

***

Later, much later, there's time to talk.

Yzak finds him easily enough. Next to the exit, back curved in the illusion of leaning, a blue cylinder revolving slowly half an inch above his knuckles. As if sensing his gaze the blonde head turns to face him, his fingers uncurling to close around the bottle before sending it sailing through the non-gravity. Yzak plucks it from its course with ease.

Around them the clamor of mechanics and heavy equipment at work reverberates from one end of the hangar to the other; not that many of their charges need letting loose anytime in the immediate future, or so they hope, but the first few hours of peace after war are tenuous as spun glass. All the while the airlocks are opening and closing to let in more casualties from both sides. Not too far away they can hear a blowtorch spitting fire on steel and the acrid smell wafts over on an artificial breeze.

Neither of them wants to be the first to speak up so for a while they stand next to each other in silence.

It's not poison, you know.

A half-hearted snort. He shoves the straw through the cap a little harder than necessary and drinks, giving Dearka a few more moments to think. The cut on his forehead still itches something distractingly fierce and he raises a hand to scratch through the gauze, but lets it drop when blue eyes narrow at the act.

Finally he settles for the simple question. Why?

Yzak flicks the bottle back at him.

Why not?

That's not an answer, Dearka considers retorting, but catches the bottle anyway.

I thought the reason'd be pretty obvious.

Coincidence. My thoughts exactly.

You could've been killed.

And?

He takes a sip, chewing on the straw. Could've been killed for helping a traitor.

And?

Not to mention disgraced.

There are worse things to be ashamed of. Yzak folds his arms and looks out at one of the docks, where two or three mechanics are maneuvering the remains of an ambiguous suit into place. Dearka follows his gaze, twirling the empty bottle on a fingertip.

Didn't think you'd spend a lifetime working your way up to the top only to give it all up just to try and save my ass.

Hmph. You honestly think I'd be crazy enough to do that if I couldn't see something worth saving?

The bottle freezes in motion. He stares at Yzak for a while before the sides of his mouth curl upward in a wry smile.

You do a lot of crazy things, Jule.

Idiot. Speak for yourself.

Already have.

A gruff voice-- Murdoch's, Dearka figures-- crackles over the speakers above them, paging for Duel's pilot to report to the docks, because his machine's ready to go and it'd be a great idea to get it out of here before the ceasefire bureaucracy snares it for an indefinite duration. Yzak unfolds his arms before turning to leave.

Dearka watches him go, still unmoving and maybe a little uncertain, until Yzak grabs a bar to stop and glances at him impatiently.

Are you coming?

...Yeah. He grins in a way he hasn't done for a long time and comes up beside the other, throwing an arm around his shoulder. We've still got a long ways to go, after all.