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Ragged breathing pierces his eardrums, scratches on his burning throat like broken glass. His body demands oxygen, each intake of air more powerful than the last, threatening to shatter his helmet’s visor, or so it seems from his point of view. His vision is blurry. Why, he can’t figure. Perhaps it’s the steam from his breath, the huge amount of blood his heart is pumping furiously into his overloaded brain, or the tears of raw anguish wetting his cheeks. Overwhelmed by his senses, he can’t do anything but take it, take it all, everything happens and he’s powerless, he doesn’t even think he’s present anymore, though he is. He’s here, very much here , everywhere, choked by it all.
In his tunnel vision, pulsing in the black void, a flash of red. Cha- !
Amuro wakes up, gasping for air, the name squeezing his throat. In his private cabin’s darkness, if his vision was still blurry, he wouldn’t know. That’s a relief.
By his side, a light sound of ruffled sheets. Amuro rolls his shoulders, taking time to breathe properly.
Char, a light sleeper as any soldier, is watching him. Amuro doesn’t need to look beside him to know it. Call it Newtype cognition, but he believes it has nothing to do with it. Perhaps he has truly developed some basic understanding of human relationships since the One Year War.
Char’s palm goes to his back and gently eases the tension there. It’s always odd to see Char acting all tender. For some reason, it comes to him naturally when they’re lying in bed, and it feels right and true. However, it doesn’t take a genius to notice precisely the moment when this hand starts to get more interested in the curve of his back than to soothe it in any way. His rival’s fingers are tracing his shoulder blade with intent. Amuro chuckles awkwardly. He feels a bit self-conscious after his house arrest.
“Give me a break. I’m all rusty and soft, stop touching there.”
“Well, for a soldier, it’s true you’re not perfectly fit right now, but-”
Amuro bursts out laughing in utter disbelief. Char snorts, sounding impatient.
“Next was about to be a compliment, Amuro.”
“Yeah, and you’re bad at giving those.”
Amuro hears Char’s sigh. He sounds slightly annoyed.
“I wanted to say that it’s quite comfortable to touch you like this. You’re soft and smooth, like…” Char stops himself and laughs. “Alright, compliments are not my forte.”
“What were you going to say?”
The man pauses. Amuro can almost taste his embarrassment.
“Soft and smooth, like…a woman. But that was meant to be a good thing.”
Amuro scoffs, not even surprised.
“You’re the worst. Please don’t date another man after me, or anyone for that matter. They deserve better.”
A little humming sound from Char. Playful, but Amuro knows better.
“Do you wish for an ‘after you’ though?” Char asks after a few seconds, making it sound casual. It’s not.
Amuro turns, searching for his gaze in the dark. It’s fixated on him, catching faint lights, displaying a focused shine.
“If you keep this up, there will be.” The former Gundam pilot drops.
Char frowns a bit but, as usual, he brushes it off and chuckles dismissively. The inquisitive eyes soften – or harden, depending on one’s perspective. He sits behind Amuro and nuzzles the back of his neck, probably convinced he can erase all that has been said.
“It won’t work.” Amuro whispers.
“It will.”
“No.”
“It will.”
Resigned, Amuro tries to relax as Char kisses and bites delicately on his scarred shoulder. The needy pilot's hands are stroking his belly – infuriatingly soft belly –, as pushy as ever. Amuro can’t help but cherish the absolute stubbornness of his rival: it grounds him. If Amuro was given a choice, he would forget everything, everytime, including his lover, be they Char or anyone else. The almost unrespectful manner with which Char displays such relentlessness forces him back into reality. The comet has invented its own form of imperious gravity. It eases the emotional numbness shielding Amuro from the world, strengthening his wavering focus. During the One Year War, it urged him to fight. Now, it’s urging him to give in to more private needs. And to fight. That never changed. Char made sure of it.
Amuro closes his eyes as Char starts to lay soft kisses along his spine. Remaining flashes of his nightmare come to him but Amuro knows he’s not in the Gundam. He’s in his bed, in the middle of the night, with the stupidly over-affectionate man who will complain about his unprofessional tiredness tomorrow when he’ll start to doze off during their meeting with Bright. He inhales deeply, focusing on the physical sensations keeping him away from his overthinking mind.
“What was your nightmare about?”
But of course, if it wasn’t for Char’s impeccable timing. The Red Comet, who understands the momentum of battles better than anyone, certainly has no such talent to read a room.
“You.” Amuro admits.
“Hm.”
Char understands his meaning, it’s not the first time. He knows about the sheer terror that scarred Amuro’s brain in their One Year War’s fights, when his actions forced a teenager Amuro out of his civilian status forever. Char, for all his constant teasing, never mocked that even once.
His right hand scratches the hair at the back of his neck wordlessly, as his left gives one light caress to his hip before leaving him to his thoughts. Amuro takes a sharp intake of air at the loss. Somehow, Char senses it because he wraps his arm around his waist and forces him down on the mattress with him, his back against the blond man’s chest, like Amuro always belonged to him. Amuro’s hand naturally goes to Char’s arm, tracing the muscles there. It takes a while for Amuro to reciprocate when he is troubled, but Char’s arms often manage to stir up a reaction from him. Maybe it’s the way “Lieutenant Quattro” never covers them. It makes it quite intimate to discreetly lean against their warmth during the day. They feel like a promise of comfort. And, surprisingly, they often are.