Title: Resilience (1/1)
Author: Paola
Disclaimer: Resilience is based on characters and situations that belong to Sotsu Agency, Bandai Studios, and TV Asashi (and other production affiliates that have the right of ownership). No money is being made, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Considerations: Similarities to other stories/events/passages are purely coincidental unless otherwise cited.
Rating: Rated M for language and adult situations. You have been warned.
Resilience
She eyes him from across the room openly, and she doesn't care because it's been a long time, and she misses him. She knows she probably doesn't have the right to miss him, but she does, and it spins an angry kind of pang in her chest, and then it becomes his fault because he shouldn't have come, because he should have made excuses and not come down to Orb.
She thinks he knows that she's staring at him, but he doesn't acknowledge her, and she hates him for it because nobody likes being ignored, but then she guesses it's all right, too, because if he does, he'll see through her, he'll see the longing in her eyes, and that can't happen. She has her pride after all.
Finally, she turns away, and she grabs her third flute of champagne that night from the table. She doesn't like champagne, but she's already feeling quite miserable so she figures she might as well drown her sorrows in alcohol, or some other clichés she hates as well.
It's Kira and Lacus' engagement party, and really, she's happy for them, but she's kind of irrationally pissed at them, too, for having to invite him. But then that's too selfish of her. Kira and he are the best of friends, and it's just right that Kira invites him to his party. Besides, she doesn't have feelings for him anymore, does she? No, she shakes her head inwardly, fighting the denial that has started to screw its way to her system. These confusing thoughts in her head are just because she hasn't seen him in ages, and now that she's trying to rationalize her musings, she gets annoyed at him because if he hasn't come, she won't be in her situation right now.
As the sugary taste of champagne slides down her throat, she seeks for him again, finding him talking to a common friend, and she tells herself that she has to stop doing this because it's only making her feel more depressed, but it's like this morbid fascination of watching a car crash, and she can't take her eyes off even if she wants to. Or maybe not, because she realizes she doesn't really want to not look at him.
She has yet to speak a word to him tonight, but she doesn't quite feel the urge to. It will just be too awkward, and she'll sputter and get embarrassed, and he'll see that she hasn't changed, and with her being slightly inebriated, he'll just look at her with misplaced pity. That she'll hate more than anything because she doesn't need his pity. She doesn't need him reminding her that she's still as careless as before, that she hasn't matured because, really, she has, at least, she thinks she has. Besides, she's the one who's supposed to pity him since she's the one who pushed him away; he's the one who got left behind.
The party's almost ending by her fifth glass of champagne, and she curses the floor for not being steady enough. She sees Kira look at her with concern after he says goodbye to some of the people already leaving, and she waves at him with a big smile on her face because she's feeling all tingly inside, and giddy, and happy, and tingly all over again. He walks towards her but is intercepted by other men, congratulating him and shaking his hand, and by the time he has escorted the last of the guests, she has already left the room. No need for him to go big-brother-y on her especially since she still believes that she's the older twin.
It's a relief that Kira and Lacus are not knocking on her door and asking her if she's all right, even though they can and may since she's only borrowing one of their guestrooms. They don't though, and she's very thankful.
For a long while, she just stays in her bed, too dizzy to get up but too awake to keep her eyes closed. Shouldn't the alcohol make her want to doze off until her body decides she needs to heave all the poison she drank? But she's still feeling that wonderful buzz in her head, and she's still very tingly inside, and he still won't get out of her mind.
Smiling for no other reason than the champagne making her want to smile, she slowly gets up, and she praises all the gods she knows that the floor isn't as shaky as before. It's been really quiet outside so all the house help must be done with their chores and asleep already. Good. Good because she feels the urge to drink again, and she giggles because her fuzzy mind thinks its funny, and didn't people use to say that the only way to get rid of one's hangover is to drink again? Sure, she's not suffering from a hangover yet, but she thinks it's better to be a step ahead, like a pound of prevention is better than an ounce of cure — or is it an ounce of…but whatever — and she grins again because she's being so smart.
Stumbling a little down the stairs, she shuffles to the lounge where Kira and Lacus keep a bar. Before she knows it, she's enjoying her second tequila shot. Damn, she feels good. All loose and inhibitions gone, and she does a little happy dance because she finally gets to do something she hasn't done since she took the throne.
The door opens, and she jerks her head to see the intruder, and for a moment, she's frozen on her spot, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and she briefly wonders why buy cookies if kids can't eat them? Just for a short moment, though, because a smile blossoms on her lips when he enters the room. She knows she probably shouldn't be too happy to see him since he doesn't look all happy either, but she is, and she blames the alcohol, and he looks too good to not be stared at.
"You should go to bed."
"Hello, Athrun!" She waves at him and ignores his disapproving look, and instead of doing what he asked, she raises her hand and offers him a drink. "Don't tell me you don't want a drink. I mean, who doesn't, right?"
He just stands there to eye her for a moment before surveying the room and, she thinks, glancing at her every now and then as she downs another shot. She thinks it's his loss that he doesn't want what she's offering, and when she sets her eyes on him again, she sees the slight furrowing of his brow. Her mind tells her that he might be worried, but then why would he be? He doesn't care, at least, she's made herself believe that he hasn't cared in a long while, and she tells herself that he shouldn't anyway because they're not together.
Influenced by the alcohol in her system, she walks away from the bar and saunters towards him, and at the back of her mind, she wills herself to try a disarming sway, just like those she's seen on TV, but he doesn't react, and she frowns for the slightest of seconds before she stands in front of him, looking up a little as he remains taller than her. Reaching her hand up, she smoothes the crease on his forehead, and she wonders why his breath hitches for a second. And then she's running her hand down his cheek and swears to herself she hasn't intended to do that, but she's touching him now, and she can't seem to stop. He remains motionless, and she shivers slightly at his breath when she lets her fingers run across his bottom lip.
Unconsciously, or not very much, she steps even closer, and when her other hand reaches up to rest on his chest, she licks her dry lips because she suddenly has the urge to do something more. She slowly moves her hands to the back of his head because it's one way to make him look at her, and maybe something else.
When she stands on her tiptoes to act on the desire that's growing in the pit of her stomach, his hands shoot up and grab her wrists, and it hurts but she doesn't quite feel it because she's irritated that he has stopped her. Aren't all men supposed to be thankful when a girl comes onto them so freely? Apparently, he's not one of those men.
"Just one kiss." She knows for sure that that's the alcohol talking because under normal circumstances, she won't ask him for such an intimate gesture when they're now only friends.
He keeps his hands locked tightly around her wrists, and he looks down at her with unreadable emerald eyes. "You're drunk, Cagalli."
She tries to shrug off his grip, but he won't budge, and really, is a kiss too much to ask for? "I'm not." She isn't drunk; she's just not very sober. Two very different things.
Still he doesn't move, and she feels the heat pool inside of her in an overwhelming way because he won't let her get what she wants, and she remembers that she's not supposed to cross the line again, but damn it all, she wants a kiss. Alcohol or not, she needs the contact, and she won't even bother denying it to herself anymore. It's been so long, and he makes her mad because he's not supposed to plague her thoughts. He's not supposed to make her feel like a fire is going to burn her from the inside, but he does anyway, and even if she wants to kiss him so bad — or she wants him to kiss her so bad — the dull ache inside her chest intensifies and her dying anger of their unfortunate situation rekindles. So she struggles against him, and when he won't yield, she abandons trying to set her hands free and swiftly stands on her tiptoes to lay a kiss on his lips.
Just a touch, really, that's all it's supposed to be, but it's like the years of loneliness are beginning to catch up, and she continues to kiss him even if he's so unresponsive. The bastard. But she's somewhat surprised that he isn't pushing her away, too, just holding her and letting indecision cloud his mind, and when she moves her arms, his grip falls away and settles on her hips, and she sighs in his mouth because his warm hands feel like heaven against the sensitized skin that has been exposed by her movements.
He finally kisses her back, and she almost laughs at the giddiness she feels. He's always been like a drug, and going on for so long without him makes her craving so deep it hurts. But then he decides to be an asshole and pulls away.
"You don't want to do this."
Who's he to tell her what she wants and doesn't want to do?
"How much have you drunk?"
His breath tickles her lips, and she tries to not glare at him for choosing to talk instead of kissing because talking is far more mundane and boring than satiating the desire that has run a smooth course in her.
"You don't want to do this," he repeats, and he sounds like he's trying to convince himself instead of her. But she's too far-gone to care about his indecisions because he's looking at her in that way that makes the heat in her stomach twist in an almost painful manner. She's seen that kind of look before, and she's only too happy to reciprocate.
Now only if he can shut up.
"Don't I, huh, Athrun? Don't I?" She trails a searing path with her lips from his neck to his jaw. "I wanted a kiss, Athrun, now I want more. I want you, and I know you want me, too." And she continues to drag scorching kisses across his jaw, her hands exploring under his shirt and glorifying at the feel of taut muscles reacting to her touch.
He has to see that she wants it as bad as he does, because he's so near, and he's clouding her senses and intoxicating her with the scent of masculinity that's very uniquely him. The night is long, and she doesn't want to spend it alone, not when she can spend it with him, tangled limbs and all.
"Please…"
Something seems to snap inside, and he finally gives in. He settles his mind and cups the back of her neck and kisses her roughly, and it's a far cry from the almost-gentle lip-lock earlier, but she doesn't mind because she's pushed him this far, and whatever guilt she may feel from this, it won't be until the morning, and morning is still so far away.
And then his hands are all over her, under her shirt, against her stomach, over her breasts. She gives a moan, but he doesn't break the contact, only sliding down her neck and nipping and licking and kissing and she wants more.
She winds her arms around his neck and tangles her fingers in his hair, and she presses even closer, feeling the contours of her body mold against the length of his, and when she inadvertently grinds against his arousal, he groans, and she hisses at the ache that heightens between her legs. Then she feels his hands sliding up her thighs, bringing with them the material of her skirt, and not a moment later, she's clinging to him as he takes on her weight and leaves the room to return to his borrowed chamber, all the while sucking at the base of her throat and leaving her panting and helpless against him.
The feel of hard wood against her back as he suddenly presses her against the door of his room as soon as he closed it is almost a surprising pain, and the cold that seeps through her thin shirt makes her arch towards him, but it's all right because he's there to chase the cold away, the literal and the figural, and, hopefully, the painful longing that has been eating at her for a very long time.
She knows this won't solve her problems, and she knows even better that those problems are hers to keep, but she's not very sober — and not drunk, either, despite what he thinks — so maybe she can relieve some burden and not be branded as selfish for doing so. And he's there, willing to take and willing to offer, forgetting that a while ago, he was being a little hesitant.
He's not being gentle, or soft, or considerate, which is fine by her since it will lessen the guilt and maybe help her pass this one as a drunken mistake. But she isn't drunk. Promise. So she keeps her little giggle to herself because she sounds too childish in her head. Childish, but still wanting. Wanting something only he has because she doesn't have the strength to fully realize that he may just as well be one of the many fishes in the sea, because then that will shatter the illusion and make her tell him to stop.
And she doesn't want him to stop.
Because it feels too good, and she still isn't satisfied yet.
Because it's probably wrong that she's trying to pin him down when he should be free, and she can't find the grace to be concerned about it because he makes her feel.
She needs to feel.
If only for tonight, she needs to feel something else aside from the one that's tearing her from the inside. So she unbuttons his shirt, messily and hurriedly, but it's all right because he's tugging at her blouse, too, in that same hurried, incautious manner, and maybe, she isn't the only lonely heart in the room. And maybe, they can heal each other. Just for tonight.
She finds herself bare in front of him, just like how naked he is in front of her, and when he pauses, something resembling panic swirls inside her head because he's thinking of re-considering things, just like before, always the rational one, and she can't have that, not when the tingling in her stomach is growing too painful. So she pulls his head down and kisses him hard, and his reservations melt away as he returns what she's giving.
She gasps when he touches her down there, and he grunts when she shifts and brushes against him, and she realizes she wants him now, and as if he hears her thoughts, he pushes into her and a moan tears itself from her throat. For a second, they stay still, and she's re-discovering how he feels inside of her, how it feels so right for him to be there, and then he moves, and thoughts of re-discovering forgotten territories flee from her mind. And then it's just him, and her, and the heat, and the intensity of it all is like a tidal wave that wants to drown her and swallow her whole.
The tension in her lower abdomen builds up in a steady tempo, and she tries as much as her position allows to camber towards him and meet him thrust for thrust, and their pace is driving her wild that she thinks she'll go crazy when he suddenly decides to slow down, just a little off their initial beat, but then he progressively lessens their hurried passion, and it somehow frustrates her because he's denying her the release her body's asking for. But he doesn't stop, just going at it at a more leisured pace that she can't understand, can't figure out until he pulls them off his door and brings them to the bed, settling above her in a way so as not to crush her, and when she looks into his eyes, she understands.
She understands the sudden control he's now displaying. She understands the emotion in his eyes, and alongside the fire that burns in her is another little flame that she swears wasn't there a minute before. She's beginning to get angry again, angry while still in bed with him, and she gets confused by the mixed emotions she's currently trying to make sense of.
"Don't, Ath—"
But he doesn't let her continue and he kisses her quiet instead, his hands caressing, and fondling, and touching every bit of exposed skin they can, and even when she wants so much to tell him that this can't happen the way it is happening, she's silenced by his constant rhythm, and the long kisses and sucks he takes on her neck leave her moaning, gasping, and wanting more, still wanting more.
Even as the intense knot in her abdomen grows and grows and grows, she can't help but feel that she's been cheated. She doesn't like that she's feeling guilty as early as now, and that she can't do anything about it because he's still doing very delicious things to her body, pulling a puckered bud to his mouth and kneading the other, and sliding in and out of her so achingly slow.
This is wrong. Wrong because she's already chosen. Chosen her country over him, and he's supposed to resent her, hate her, anything but show that raw emotion in his eyes and in his movements. But she can't stop angling her body just right, can't stop reacting to every touch, every kiss, every thrust, because it's wrong but it feels right, and she thinks that, one way or another, she has won. She's getting what she wants, and maybe she's hurting him in the process, but still he showers her with little glimpses of what he feels, and she can't help being selfish all over again.
She wants to sleep with him, have sex that doesn't mean anything, that shouldn't mean anything, fuck to feel then sleep to forget, but here he is, making love to her like she deserves it when, really, she doesn't. Doesn't because she hurt him back then, doesn't because she knows that nothing can come of this night, doesn't because she can't return his feelings, even if it's all she wants to do. They can't go back to how they used to be because she's all grown up and has a nation to run, a duty to fulfill, and can't go around giving her heart to him when she's already given it to her country.
She's near her end, her muscles taut in anticipation, but even in the haze of sex and sweat, she feels the urge to cry, cry for him, cry for their situation, cry for them, because it's unfair, because all those wars before should have neutralized all Coordinator-Natural issues, because they have suffered enough, and don't they deserve more than a night of passion?
Another thrust and she orgasms, the coils tightly wound inside her springing apart, and she calls his name, and the passage of his name through her lips when she's most vulnerable sends him toppling over the edge. Wave after wave of pleasure wracks their bodies, but he doesn't collapse on top of her, instead he kisses her slow and nice and so like Athrun, and she can't take it anymore so she lets out a sob. He doesn't stop what he's doing, and he kisses her eyes, her tears, and he moves to the side and cradles her body like a fragile porcelain he can't afford to break, and she cries just a little harder.
"It's all right, Cagalli," he whispers, and she wonders what he's referring to. All right to cry? All right to use him for sex? All right to take advantage of his feelings for her? All right to leave him again after tonight? All right to everything?
And just like how she's hating herself since she had pushed him away, she hates herself just a little bit more. He doesn't deserve this. He didn't push her away before, and he isn't pushing her away now, and she crumbles in self-loathing because she can't keep him, because she's chosen, and it isn't him she chose.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry…" and she can't stop apologizing. It's all she can give him now, and he has to know that she really is sorry, that she didn't mean to hurt him then and doesn't mean to hurt him now, and that it's just their situation is so messed up that she ends up paining them both.
He doesn't reply, doesn't offer soothing words other than the ones he's said earlier, doesn't offer promises and nonsense. He just holds her, and somehow, that's more comforting, somehow, she likes that better, because his promises would have meant nothing, empty words that she can live without, nonsense she doesn't need, and when she thinks they can't get anymore closer, he pulls her tighter to him, and she tries to pretend that for now, everything is right with the world, hiccups and dry tears and all.
And when she's all spent and tired, she gets lulled to sleep by the steady beat of his broken heart.
When she wakes up, she finds the space beside her empty, and the warmth that should have still been left in the sheets is nothing but a cool mockery of the night before, telling her that he's been gone for quite a while. She sits up and looks around, and she doesn't see anything that reminds her of him. There's nothing left of him in this room, and though a stubborn pang clutches her chest, she acknowledges that there's really nothing for him to stay here for. And even if it pains her, she's glad that he's not there because he doesn't need to be reminded that he isn't her priority, not anymore.
So she dresses up and tries to smooth out the wrinkles in her clothes and tries to smooth out the wrinkles in her life. She washes her face and comes downstairs, and she's greeted by Kira and Lacus with smiles that she tries to copy but can't quite imitate.
"His flight was early. He left around six," Lacus tells her, and she glances at the grandfather clock and spies that an hour has already passed. "He said you were still asleep when he said goodbye."
A pause ensues, and they probably don't know what to say, and they're probably worried judging by the way they're looking at her, and that's when she realizes that her chest is tight and that she's tense, her shoulders stiff in their defiant set. So she tries to calm down, tries to relax.
"Are you all right, Cagalli?" Kira asks.
Is she all right? She spent the night in the room of someone whose role in her life she can't quite define, two broken spirits who thought that they could fix each other, but it turns out that a night of passion isn't the answer, turns out that two lonely hearts can't heal each other, just like two wrongs don't make a right. One has to not be broken to be able to mend, but she and Athrun are neither, and she thinks that they are hopeless, but even the most hopeless of people can still hope, right? Now just isn't their time. Even after three long years, it still isn't their time, and maybe she's getting impatient. One can only suffer through so much. But she guesses she's still hoping because she isn't one to give up just like that, just like he's not one to act on something if he doesn't see anything good coming out of it.
So is she all right? Maybe, because, if anything, her experience, from having to choose between her country and him to having woken up in the morning to see him gone, has taught her a nifty little thing. One can't go through what she has without learning a thing or two, and though she's taken some time to realize it, she now knows that everyone has the ability to stand up again after falling so hard from somewhere so high. And even if she might have made the wrong choice, the mistake is hers to make and hers to regret, and even if he's gone, he won't stay that way, because he has to know that what they have isn't a temporary thing. Because even if she has hurt him again, he's acknowledged it, and the guilt she thought last night she'd have isn't very present this morning.
So, yeah, she's learned something, all right. She's learned resilience, and so she smiles at Kira and Lacus and tells them she's fine. Because she's resilient like that.
-fin-
…because I've never seen this style of writing in the GS/GSD fandom, and my exams are killing me and I need an outlet, and I know it probably sucks, but the run-ons are there for a reason. Think of this as a first-person-point-of-view thing that was translated into third-person, and you'll see. Promise.
Oh, and sorry for the typos. Stress does funny things.