Brief note: This fic is set straight after Tolle dies.

Flashing Blades

i.

Sometimes, friendships die like slow coals on a fire. And sometimes, they explode into flames and bring the world around them grinding to a halt. Maybe there is despair – probably, they think – but it is lost amid a boiling sea of anger and rage. Something else inside them falls and shatters as they swoop upon each other, their flashing blades keen in earnest.

That's the poetic way of putting it.

The truth is: they just don't fucking give a shit anymore.

ii.

It has been a long time since they last interacted – as in really interacted, without any wars pouring rain and thunder over their heads – and they both have wondered if it all belonged to another lifetime. Maybe they were just dreaming it all. Whatever peace and tranquility they felt then is some kind of artistic oddity now: something to be admired from a distance but forever inscrutable.

Kira wonders if Athrun thinks of him as a friend, and Athrun wonders if Kira thinks of him as a friend. They wonder if their friendship actually meant anything at all, if their memories together have the power to pull on their heartstrings in equal measure. It is something that they will never truly know the answer to, even if they had all the time in the world to tease it out of each other. They are not the same person and they will never understand each other's emotions. This should be obvious, but somehow, when they face each other in battle, it still comes as a shock.

Together to them is a state of being that causes nothing but a fierce stab of misery, like a white hot needle impaling their hearts.

Kira thinks that Athrun is a fool for not understanding, and Athrun thinks Kira is a fool for precisely the same reasons.

iii.

Their flashing blades swing in vicious downward arcs. Kira scores the first hit: his beam sword lops off the arm of Athrun's mobile suit, and as he kicks his opponent to the ground, he wishes he could have sliced off his fucking head too, since that was what Athrun did to Tolle.

Athrun grimaces in pain as much as he does in anger. His scowl spreads like a thunderstorm across his face, and he immediately snaps himself back into action. His Gundam's energy metre is running low and it beeps in protest, but that cannot stop Athrun now. Nothing can.

Everything that comes next is a blur to both of them. It is the colour of blood and passion and stewing rage.

iv.

The foundations had been laid for this conflict long before. It had been there the moment they had left each other in their childhoods, with only feeble half-said goodbyes tumbling past their lips.

They see each other again, and they feel shock, yes.

But somehow, they can keep their heads down and they can fight. Past the visages of their mobile suits, it's not their friend who lies on the battlefield. It can't be.

They turn their backs on each other because it's just another thing that has to end. They are not people to each other anymore – they are distant memories of a past which they must forget. They are caricatures of people now; they are half-formed men who have learned to run before they can walk.

Their encounters with each other are heavy with the scent of long foregone defeat.

v.

They do care.

They're screaming each other's names.

If they weren't strapped tight inside their mobile suits; that is, if they were outside and they could feel the cold slap of wind and rain against their faces, they would be at each other's throats. They would lunge at each other, fierce and snarling, and nothing could stop them.

They feel. Something inside both of them has twisted enough to actually relish the sensation of blinding white hot anger. There is a kind of refuge in it. They are shaking from rage and bottled up frustration, but not with pure, single-minded hatred. They will never manage that, no matter what they fool themselves into thinking.

They want to keep fighting each other. It does not matter how long the fight lasts as long as one of them ends up dead. Suddenly, simply avenging Nicol and Tolle is not what matters to them. Their self-restraint has snapped entirely now, but it's not just anger that pushes them on either.

They launch themselves at each other. They slash, stab, shoot and anticipate each other's blows, and somehow it's because they're doing this that it all feels so goddamn justified. Only they can rile each other up like this.

Somehow, they're seeing in each other's savagery what they truly are.

It doesn't scare them a bit.

vii.

Athrun's retaliation against Kira's strikes is fast and brutal. Kira meets his blows firmly but is caught off guard when Athrun latches onto him.

It is only the limitations of their weaponry that stops their battle short. Athrun slams his hand down on the button that activates his beam gun, but there is only the pitpat of the falling rain to answer him. He seethes.

(DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE)

In front of him, the Strike lifts up its head up, and Athrun can almost see Kira's piercing gaze through it. He is both angry and glad about this barrier between them.

The Aegis uses up the last of its battery and it freezes to the spot.

It takes Athrun less than half a second to figure out – and whole-heartedly embrace – his subsequent course of action.

(DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE THE FUCKER MUST DIE)

(and i'll die with him)

viii.

Kira watches Athrun evacuate his mobile suit and it takes that brief second for everything to click and-

He panics.

He snarls as pulls at his controls – he wants to keep fighting. This can't be the end, he thinks. Never the end. Not for him and Athrun.

He'll kill him.

But in that split second before the earth stops beneath his feet, he understands. He wouldn't end it any differently. They're best friends, that's why they'll always be toge-

Fin