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You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
- Wild Geese by Mary Oliver
The remark comes out of the blue (the way it often does with Garma), on a summer evening where the undulating shrill of cicadas ebb to muted cries with the setting sun.
“You’re more reserved than I’d thought.”
A puzzling observation by his partner, to which Char replies with more of a question than an answer:
“...Am I?”
He’s never considered himself to be reserved—granted, Char’s transition from an underground mercenary to a civilian handyman had confirmed, in rather unfortunate, embarrassing ways, that the infamous Red Comet’s understanding of ‘normal’ social interactions left much to be desired.
When it all comes down to it, there is little he can add to his initial musings. He decides to remain quiet, but Garma takes his silence as a request for elaboration.
“I just thought that you would have wanted more things,” the young Zabi says, twirling a strand of hair between his forefinger and thumb. It’s a nervous habit, though for what exactly remains another question added to Char’s growing list of curiosities.
As for his answer, or lack thereof, to Garma’s question—Char concludes that it is the natural consequence of his prior livelihood. It is but the plain and simple truth that the ex-mercenary barely knows what is expected of a partner: a partner with constancy, someone to grow together to see the sun rise and set until the skin on the back of their hands wrinkle with age. Char Aznable had never done anything like this before—that is, to think of things beyond securing the day’s necessities for survival.
Pushing the whispers of anxiety down with well-practiced control, Char asks: “What exactly do you mean?”
Garma hums, pensive.
“I thought you’d want more things from us. From me.”
“...I don’t need anything else,” Char replies. It’s the best response that he can offer in all his shortcomings. Evidently lacking, however, as the corner of Garma’s lips dip into the beginnings of a frown.
That’s not good, Char thinks, and tries to amend it in the only way he knows:
“Unless you were talking about sex…?”
A crude tactic, though the question achieves its intended purpose. Garma hisses an indignant “Char!” and smacks him on the shoulder, looking flustered. A pretty shade of pink dusts the young man’s complexion. “You know that’s not what I meant!”
Here is a reaction Char knows well. Char allows himself a quiet chuckle, slipping into the familiar dance of tease-and-banter. “I’m fine,” he says, reaching for Garma’s hand and squeezing it in reassurance. “You’ve given me more than enough.”
Garma stares at him, unconvinced. The crease of his brows reveals his thoughts—ever worried, for someone who has the whole of Char’s heart in his hands. But as always, like clockwork, the young Zabi relents with a reluctant smile.
“You’ll let me know if that changes, right?” Garma asks, twining his fingers through Char’s own, locking them together as if he meant to weave the promise between their palms.
Char nods—for what else could he say?
Does he confess that every morning, the sun carries with it an overwhelming dread—that he’d been living a wonderful, terrible dream, stitched together on borrowed time? Char knows there are too many skeletons in his closet, too little he’s done in his life to deserve the fragile peace in his hands. Asking for more would only tempt fate, and Char is certain he’s used up his lifetime’s worth of good fortune.
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“Char, wake up,” Garma murmurs from beside him. Slender fingers trace the veins along Char’s arm, mapping the constellation of scars etched onto his skin.
Char hums in response—a noncommittal answer, lost in the gentle sensation that travels from the soft pads of Garma’s fingers to the top of his head. It’s as if Garma is caressing the folds of his brain instead of his forearm; feeling heady under the pleasant buzz that washes over him, Char finds himself content to drift back to slumber, chasing the warmth that expands in his chest with the curious sweep of Garma’s fingers.
“Don’t go back to sleep...!” Garma chastises him with a small huff of laughter. “We have to get ready for work.” Fond exasperation carries over to his ears as Garma lifts his hand to brush away the curtain of gold that has fallen over Char’s eyes.
Char frowns, leaning into the soft press of Garma’s touch. He doesn’t want the day to begin, would much rather stay in the comfort of their home, protected from the whispers of early frost—fingers splayed over Garma’s stomach, tracing I love you along the inside of pale, trembling thighs with his mouth. Wonders if his desire to spend more time with his partner falls within reason—
—within reason, given that ever since the housing project had been greenlit by the city council, Garma had (rather ironically) been everywhere but home. All in preparation for the coming winter, the young Zabi had explained with an earnest grin, though Char understands how underneath all his cheer and bravado, Garma struggles to offset the legacy of his family. As such, the extent of Garma dedication to the project—to the point of self-imposed overtime—was expected.
And yet.
Will you be sleeping out again? rests at the tip of Char’s tongue—though as quick as the question had surfaced from the back of his mind, he jams it back down with a metaphorical hand. The longest Garma had been out was a week; what was a week to the months, or even years, really, that Char had flitted in and out of people’s lives?
Unaware of his internal struggle, Garma continues to coax Char awake with a gentle murmur. “Come on, now, you know I can’t stay in bed too long.” There is a soft kiss pressed onto the back of Char’s neck before he feels the weight of the mattress shift, followed by the telltale pitter-patter of footsteps on the hardwood floor.
When he is certain his partner has slipped out of the room, Char exhales quietly into his pillow.
It is difficult to understand why he feels the way he does. Long periods of solitude had never been an issue for the ex-mercenary before; being on the run, staying in one place for no more than a couple of months—such routines had been part and parcel of his past. Had always been, ever since the untimely death of his parents at the tender age of seven... he’d never known anything else, couldn’t afford to know, to linger on such sentiments with a bounty on his head. Was it normal to feel such acute pain in his chest, as if someone carved a hollow cavity there—even when he knew Garma would return home in time?
Unease prickles under his skin, but Char chooses to ignore the sensation. What good would it do to grapple with something he has no control over, he reasons.
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Except it is always easier said than done to pretend that this novel state of uncertainty doesn’t have the same effect on Char’s emotional well-being as tumbling gravel in a glass jar.
Char has never been good with moving forward under conditions of prolonged unknowns. Unknowns meant delayed schedules at best—the loss of one’s life at worst.
Though hardly a stranger to this piece of truth, the ex-mercenary is given a reality check three weeks in when the gaping hole in his chest seizes like a collapsing star, twisting into a tight coil of misery that suffocates him from the inside out. Intangible in its form, the constricting sensation mirrors a wretched tangle of barbed wire that wraps around his lungs. Every laborious draw of breath serves as a painful reminder of the slow crawl of time in Garma’s absence.
Being a sad creature of habit, Char throws himself into convenient distractions. Anything is preferable to being forced to contend with his thoughts, thus he extends an invitation to Amuro Ray—an old acquaintance of sorts—for a friendly spar (as friendly as it would get between them, given their history as mercenary-and-interpol pilot, of playing cat-and-mouse).
The spar goes about as well as anyone would have imagined.
It happens in the blink of a second: Char’s fist connects with Amuro’s face with more force behind the blow than appropriate. Cartilage gives way beneath his knuckles with a comically wet pop; Amuro lets out a cry of pain as he stumbles backwards onto the ring floor, hands scrambling over his broken nose.
Dumbstruck at his loss of control, Char stands frozen in place, eyes staring blankly at the flush of burgundy over white knuckles. Static fills his ears, trickles through his veins like carbonated acid in his bloodstream.
He doesn’t miss the way Kamille shoots him a strange look before rushing to Amuro with an ice pack and first-aid kit.
“Are you all right, Char?”
The rumbling voice that calls him to attention belongs to Ramba Ral. Char respects the old martial arts instructor, would appreciate his warm concern on a different day, but it’s another pair of worried eyes at a time he doesn’t want to be seen. An unpleasant feeling curdles in his gut, dreadful and familiar.
“I’m fine,” Char replies, smooth and controlled. He makes a pointed effort to look the part.
Before Ramba can respond, Amuro cuts in from the ground:
“You didn’t seem fine with that haphazard aim.”
A note of concern lies under the jab. Amuro intends to make him talk, busybody that he is— going so far as to throw the metaphorical glove at Char’s feet. However Char responds, whether in silence or redirection, will tip off the young brunet that Char is, indeed, not very fine.
He dislikes being read like an open book.
Even so, an appropriate response is due. Char owes Ramba an explanation for the ruckus, even if the only thing he can manage right now is a quiet nod in the old man’s direction—a gesture of reassurance that he has the situation handled. His future self will smooth over the day’s faux-pas, hopefully in a candid conversation over a bottle of aged wine and a free tune-up of Ramba’s old truck.
Amuro, on the other hand, is not so easily deterred—but Char likes to think he’s still a few steps ahead of the young pilot when it comes to diversions.
“You should be more diligent with your sidestep. Next time might not be a practice spar for you,” Char says mildly.
Amuro glares at him behind the bulk of his ice pack.
“You’re such a fucking dickwad,” the brunet mutters after he stuffs rolled-up tissue into his nostril. Seated next to Amuro, Kamille muffles a small snort of laughter behind the back of his hand. “I don’t know why I even felt the tiniest smidgen of worry for someone like you.”
“I appreciate it. Shall I set your nose back?”
The pilot scowls. “Don’t bother. I don’t want your clumsy fingers anywhere near me.”
“Very well, then.”
“‘Very well, then,’ says the grown adult approaching their thirties,” Amuro snarks. “What’s the deal with you today? Will the great Char Aznable grace us with an account of his problems instead of using someone five years his junior as his punching bag?”
Excellent question, Char is tempted to say. “I didn’t realize our sparring session was one-sided enough to count as a beating, Amuro,” he replies instead, adjusting the frame of his glasses.
“ Oh, you— ”
“And I do talk about my problems,” Char concludes. The statement is more of an afterthought, and doesn’t sound half as convincing out of his mouth as it was intended to be. In hindsight, his comment should have stayed in his head, given the way Kamille stares him down with an incredibly unimpressed expression.
“That’s a rather grand understatement considering your track record of dropping off the face of this planet every time something upsets you, only to reappear months later like nothing happened,” the blue-haired medic intones, closing the lid of the first-aid kit with a resounding snap.
Before Char can object, Kamille adds with a thoughtful hum: “Though, to be fair, this is the longest you’ve ever stayed in one place.”
“Longest since that incident with Lalah, you mean,” Amuro adds—then grimaces as soon as the words leave his mouth.
The reaction is involuntary. Young as he is, Amuro isn’t able to hide the shock of ice that comes with the name. Char is quicker to school his expression.
He’s debating whether he should say anything at all, when Kamille delivers a sharp smack to the back of Amuro’s head. Amuro lurches forward from the weight of the slap, dropping his ice pack onto the floor.
“Ow, what the hell?!”
At the brunet’s indignant expression, Kamille replies with a click of his tongue.
“That was four years ago. Besides, I don’t think this has to do with the botched rescue mission—the one where you nearly killed Miss Lalah Sune, if I might add.”
Amuro flushes. “Oh, shut up.”
An awkward silence falls over them.
In another universe, Char might have antagonized Amuro to hit him back, hard enough to leave a purple-green mark on his face. The opportunity is there—they don’t discuss it much anymore, but Lalah Sune (a front for their underlying issues) remains a sore subject for them both. All it would take is a low dig at Amuro’s own traumas to set the spark alight; Kamille might try to step between them, then catch a stray hook to the side, and all three of them would devolve into a pile of wayward fists with half the malice and direction than they’d started out with.
But Char isn’t living in a melodramatic space opera (and Garma would worry about the bruise that would bloom across the curve of his cheek), so he extends a hand to the brunet before him in a show of peace.
“...One more round? Dinner is on me.”
Amuro grumbles, but takes his hand to stand up again (this too, is a familiar comfort).
“Fine, but only if we get fried chicken.”
“The spicy kind?”
“As if there’s any other option,” Amuro says with a sniff.
“...I want pudding,” Kamille chimes in not long after. The young medic is letting the topic slide for another day. Char is grateful for the small mercies as they come.
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The hour clocks at roughly half-past eleven when he comes back home. To his surprise, Garma is waiting for him by the front entrance, smiling in fond exasperation.
“You’re home tonight,” Char remarks. Warmth bubbles in his chest, until he connects the dots together:
“...The boys told you about today.”
It’s a statement that doesn’t need an answer, though Garma lets out a snort of laughter all the same.
“Char, you’re getting a little too old to pick fights with the neighbourhood kids,” he teases, resting a hand on his hip.
Char hums.
“It was a practice spar, and Amuro is hardly a child. He’s twenty-three with a license to fly over international waters.”
Garma raises an eyebrow at his response. Char can tell there is something Garma wants to say—and a fair idea about the topic of interest. He isn’t sure if he is ready to have that conversation right now (or ever at all). Char averts his eyes. Though hardly visible through the shaded lens of his sunglasses, shame directs the blonde to evade Garma’s inquisitive stare, to count the woodgrains of the hardwood flooring instead.
“...I set his nose and paid for dinner,” Char offers lightly. The drain of the past few weeks have taken a toll on his ability to play pretend—which means, as expected, his ever-perceptive partner catches the minor inflection in his voice.
“You promised you would talk to me if you needed something,” Garma says.
“Yes, but I didn’t need anything,” Char counters.
Garma crosses his arms, silent. Char takes the momentary lapse in conversation to leave his shoes by the doormat and step inside the narrow entrance hall, squeezing past Garma towards the wall rack. He feels the young Zabi staring holes into the back of his neck, likely parsing through his internal catalogue of appropriate questions to ask.
“Aren’t you tired from work?” Char tries, slipping out of his jacket with a shrug of his shoulders. He hangs the leather jacket on an empty hook. “You should head in and rest.”
A sorry excuse for a diversion, and he knows it, too. Garma proceeds to ignore his verbal sleight of hand.
“Don’t change the subject.”
The response comes too reserved in tone to feel like the rebuke it is meant to be. Char knows Garma is only trying to curb the disappointment in his voice, but the consideration somehow makes it worse.
“...I’m sorry,” Char replies. There is no denying that the frayed conversation is entirely of his own making—a conversation that could have been avoided if he’d just been a little more attentive (of what?)
For better or worse, Char doesn’t get a chance to mull over the what-ifs and could-have-beens as Garma calls out: “Look at me, Char.”
Was it laughable to prefer breaking out from a dingy containment cell equipped with nothing but a sharpened plastic spoon, than to face Garma without his usual repertoire of pretty half-truths? Sweat gathers at Char’s palms as he suppresses the instinctual desire to flee, to squirrel away to a place where no one can see him. He can almost hear Kamille’s disappointed chiding (one of the many) in the back of his head— you always run from your problems, Char—but he doesn’t, not as much, anymore.
Not since he’d met Garma.
Char turns around, then lowers his head—slow and stilted in his movements, the effort it takes to perform the act is herculean. His fingers curl into fists, nails biting against the center of his palm to ground himself as his shades are lifted from his face. Char holds his breath, counts the woodgrains on the floor as he waits for anything—a rebuke, a sigh, the confirmation of the voice in his head that this was the last straw, that there was no denying he just couldn’t keep up the act of a lover—
“...You look exhausted.”
His eyes flicker up at the somber remark.
Garma sounds—and appears—upset. His brows are furrowed the way they get when Char tries to hide evidence of scuffles with bounty hunters and old enemies that try to seek some sort of recourse with the ex-mercenary. Infrequent as the incursions are, the occasional ambush does come his way. Regardless, the situation now is different—and for all his distress, there is no visible mark on his form to show for it.
“Nothing happened, Garma. It’s fine,” Char says.
“You wouldn’t have had an accident in a friendly spar if ‘nothing happened’.”
“Nothing that was worth mentioning, then.”
They fall into a tepid silence, discomfort rearing its ugly head from the chasm of Char’s gut. It was easier when they had been together more frequently, he thinks, but who was he to say? What could Char Aznable possibly know, when he’d spent the past two decades making a living out of treachery in a world that sought to eat him alive.
If it was up to him, Char is sure he would have stood there for an indefinite amount of time, paralyzed by his thoughts. Garma, however, has other plans; he leans in close, raising a hand to thumb the bag under Char’s left eye.
“Char,” the young Zabi says, “tell me what’s been going on.”
Concern seeps through the gentle brush over the swell of his cheekbone. There is a quiet kindness to the touch, prodding at the rigid coil in his chest, smoothing over the rusted wire that has settled in his ribcage. Something in Char gives, unravels like an oiled spring coaxed to yield—he exhales, quiet and low, leaning into the press of Garma’s fingers. How was it that such minute contact could ease him, so that the rise and fall of his chest no longer felt like a war of attrition?
The volatility of his emotions should concern him, but under such tender attention, Char finds it difficult to care.
“Char…?” Garma asks again.
“I…” Char says—or tries to say, but the rest of his words get caught in his throat as the feeling of weariness catches up to him at last.
A flicker of understanding passes through brown eyes. Garma raises his other hand to cup Char’s face in both of his palms. Soft and warm, like candlelight that stays through the winter chill, the gentle heat rounds the jagged edges of Char’s nerves.
“That’s okay,” Garma says, “I’ve got you now.”
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Garma wordlessly tugs Char into the bathroom.
He provides no explanation as to his plans for Char; the young Zabi only urges him to strip and step into the bathtub. When Garma follows suit, he reaches down to turn on the faucet—Char grimaces, flinching from the blast of scalding water that rains down on him.
“You bathe under lava,” he remarks.
Garma snorts.
“Keep your mouth closed, you’ll get water in it,” he replies smartly, then adjusts the temperature to a less intensive heat and pulls Char under the stream of water. When he deems the blonde appropriately drenched, he turns off the tap, then uncaps the shampoo bottle to squeeze some of the fragrant mixture into his palm.
“Lower your head for me.”
Char stares at Garma, confused.
“...Why?”
Garma huffs, staring up at Char with an expectant look, but does little else. Not that he needs to—there’s a kind of mysterious draw to the request that compels the ex-mercenary to lower his head.
A quiet murmur of close your eyes in his ear serves as his only warning before Char is met with the cold shock of shampoo in his hair. Deft fingers work the mixture into his scalp with slow, methodic circles; Char tracks the sensations in his mind’s eye as slender digits slip behind his ear to line the base of his skull, suppressing a shiver with the gentle drag of blunt fingernails against his crown.
How strange. Garma was only washing his hair, but the surface of Char’s skin feels overwhelmingly hot and alive, as if someone had lit every end of his nerves with fire. They had been intimate before, but—perhaps intentionally— he’d always focused on achieving Garma’s pleasure with little concern for his own.
There is no chance of such neglect here, as Garma asks him softly:
“Does it feel good?”
The question hangs in the air, suspended in the narrow space between them, and Char—
Char almost laughs.
To say he feels good is an understatement. Char feels right again, as if all the fraught muscle and sinew of his body weave together in place, no longer disjointed, having found their center. He takes in a shuddering breath; a stunted nod is all he can manage, but Garma accepts his paltry response with a gentle hum.
In the closed confines of the shower stall, the passage of time becomes difficult to discern. Seconds fold themselves along ivory tiles as Garma works in silence, rearranging the fibres of Char’s heart with every press and pull of his fingers. It takes Char his all to hold himself together, feeling like a beached whale as he wills the erratic beating against his ribs to subside.
Moments later, he hears Garma reach for the faucet again. A steady stream of water follows quickly after, raining down over Char’s head, washing away the suds from his hair, collecting at the corner of his eyes. The sting of shampoo catches him off-guard; his hands twitch at his sides with the desire to rid himself of the mild irritation.
Garma’s fingers are there before his.
“Didn’t I tell you I’ve got you?” The young Zabi asks, chuckling softly as he wipes at the soapwater with his thumbs.
Ah.
The world comes to a halt as an unnamed emotion crashes into Char’s chest, flooding the brittle cracks of his heart and filling the hollow that had long-nestled there, as if the emptiness had always been a natural truth since Char’s conception. He wants— he wants for something , heeds its call as he dips down to press his forehead against Garma, feeling the warmth of his partner’s breath brush against his lips like a phantom kiss—grounding and safe. The words he’d been chasing after for these past few weeks finally settles on his tongue at last—he’s home, Garma is home.
“Garma,” Char starts, low and reverent, the name rumbling in his chest. He lifts his hands to brace Garma’s shoulders; the pads of his fingers knead the curve of soft muscle, testing the give of sinew and skin as if to ascertain that the man before him is more than a fragment of his imagination.
Garma peers up at him. Infinite queries swirl within the golden-brown of his eyes, though they remain just that—unvoiced. Instead of breaking the silence, the young Zabi reaches across his shoulder to rest his palm over the back of Char’s hand, pressing down ever so slightly.
I’m here, he seems to say.
The simple action dredges up a wondrous, agonizing feeling that swallows him whole, consumes him with the battering force of a tidal wave where he is but a lone sailor at the mercy of Garma’s unfailing, unconditional love.
“Garma,” Char repeats; this time, his voice rings hoarse, catching with a desperate edge as a sudden shock of fear grips his heart—
Lalah stares at him, a mixture of pity and sorrow in her eyes. “You’ve never learned how to love, have you, Char?”
—he cranes his neck to capture the corner of Garma’s mouth, missing his lips in an urgency that shakes him from the core.
The circumstances have changed; Char is a different man, from then. He is still crude underneath the paper-thin veneer of charm, but he no longer burns others to stave off the frigid nights. With pointed focus, Char adjusts his hand to better cradle the base of Garma’s head, then aligns his mouth against the plush of his lips. His other hand drops down to the dip of Garma’s waist to draw the smaller man flush against him—as if the mere act of skin-on-skin would be enough for him to meld with his partner, until there is neither beginning nor end to their union.
Under the frantic heat that bears down upon him, Garma makes a small sound, caught between a question and a sigh. His lips tremble as Char coaxes them apart with an insistent, voiceless plea— pliant and forgiving in the face of raw desperation.
Don’t go.
Garma stills in his hold.
“Char...?”
Char starts with a jerk. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken the words out loud, but it’s too late to backtrack—not after he’d just kissed Garma like a drowning man. The bit of tender skinship had pulled a plug from somewhere deep within him, and judging by the expression on Garma’s face, he’d thrown the young Zabi for a loop with his actions.
“You expect me to leave you,” Garma says.
The certainty of the statement stays his feet like caltrops on asphalt.
“...I don’t know how to make something last,” Char replies with a slow reluctance.
Self-defeating as it stands, Char is half-expecting a snort for the confession. It doesn’t come. As petty as Garma can be, the young Zabi is hardly mean-spirited nor cruel.
“It takes two for a relationship,” Garma says, resting a hand on Char’s forearm. The touch burns hot on his skin like an iron brand, the kind that cannot be doused even if Char were to submerge his arm through the seven seas. “You shouldn’t have to feel like the longevity of it rides on you alone.”
How can I not when it’s all that I’ve known, the ex-mercenary is tempted to say. “Old habits,” Char replies instead.
“For something like love?”
Nothing escapes the tight seam of his lips, but Char may as well have spewed venom with the way Garma’s expression crumples at his silence.
A part of him wonders if he is being unfair. What sense does it make to be on guard, to deflect the one person whose sincerity Char has never been given reason to doubt…? But his reluctance to vocalize the fears that crowd his head, to cement into reality the one thing he doesn’t want to admit—
(What if he forgets. What if he forgets how to survive on his own, made mellow by time and comfort…? If Garma leaves Char, after he’d been changed from the inside out —what will be left of him then?)
— this, this is beyond Garma, beyond whether Garma is someone safe enough and more about Char and the years spent shaving off bits of himself to cut his losses.
“This isn’t your fault,” Char eventually says.
Garma blinks. He opens his mouth as if to say something—then, perhaps deciding against it, presses his lips together, soft corners drawn into a weary smile. “Lean down so I can wash your hair properly,” he instructs Char.
He’s far past the point of worrying over the twinge in his gut, so Char does as Garma requests. Slender fingers weave through his hair again, but it’s hard to lose himself in the feeling when he knows their conversation is a long way from over.
When they’ve finished washing off the remains of the soap from their bodies, it is Garma who steps out of the stall first. He grabs a dry towel, then holds it between his hands like a peace offering.
If Char had an ounce of shame, he would have taken the towel to dry his hair on his own. But as always, Char is a creature of habit that chases what few bits of comfort he can snag in his greedy fingers. There is little resistance in his shoulders as he dips down and lets the fabric snowfall curtail his sight.
With the careful pat and press of hand and towel on hair, Garma begins to talk again.
“You know, this whole time I’d been scared I didn't have much to offer you,” the young Zabi says, sounding somewhat rueful. “My family never expects anything from me, so I’d somehow thought that maybe you didn’t expect anything from me either.”
Char raises his head with a start.
“Garma, that’s—”
“Let me finish,” Garma interjects. He loosely thumbs the ends of the towel that has slipped down to Char’s shoulders. “If we were really picking at our own faults, to the point of creating a self-fulfilled prophecy on whatever we have right now—where would that leave someone like me?” With a wry smile, the young Zabi continues, “I’m just starting to walk my own path from a life of being coddled by my parents. There’s so much I’ve yet to learn about the real world, and I’m too much of a coward to worry about the future, to see years ahead and plan my life the way you do.”
Garma lowers his hands, letting them drop to his side. He rests his forehead against the dip of Char’s collarbone; Char feels the flutter of Garma’s lashes against his skin, light and sweet like the man they are beholden to.
“Char, I don’t know how to help you with your demons,” Garma quietly says. I don’t know if anyone can, Char would reply, but the young Zabi stitches his next words together with a kind of earnest desperation that has Char hold his tongue. “I just… I just want us to work things out together, even if we might not have the answers anytime soon.” There is a tender fragility to his voice that tugs at Char, pulls him upright to look, really look, at the man he’d sworn to love.
“...Stay with me?” Garma finally asks—and after everything, who was Char to deny such a simple request?
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Char blinks awake to the sunlight that filters through the blinds and refracts, painting a scattered rainbow over the ceiling. His arm twitches with the desire to shield his eyes from the sun, but not before he comes to an awareness of the gentle weight of Garma’s head that lies against it.
What follows is natural. Char turns his own head ever so slightly to admire the young man sleeping next to him—eyes flickering over the slope of his brows, the soft peach of his lips, drifting down to the rise and fall of his chest.
Beautiful , he thinks. Beautiful, and still here.
It’s uncertain how long this peace will last. In spite of Garma’s words, it is hard not to think of the worst case scenarios, harder still to tell his every instinct carved out of survival to take in the unknowns, one day at a time.
Ah, well. For now, Char supposes he can humor Garma—until the young Zabi’s beliefs become Char’s own truth.