When she kissed him, he was soft and pliant, hands twisting in her grasp - thin fingers and narrow wrists and for one wild moment she thought they were going to snap, splinter (bird-bone hollow frail, bend, bending - are you crazy, Cagalli?). He even tasted sweet - like mint and not a trace of bitterness lingering at the back of his mouth. Dragging him down, scrabbling ineffectively at his collar, feeling him chuckle against her mouth.

"Mou, what a stupid uniform," she said.

"Patience," he said, almost chidingly, as she nearly ripped off his collarpins in frustration.

Those slender hands closed around hers (rough and tan and clumsy, she thought), stilling them. "Cagalli," he said, and she bit her lip at the way he breathed her name. "You don't.... need to rush this. We have all the time in the world."

"That's a lie, Asuran," she said, and regretted it almost instantly. Her hands still clasped in his, feverish as the flush creeping up her neck. She looked up at him. "We have so little time." The words came out hoarse. "So... little time left."

A silence. Damning silence. She shook her head, and made to pull away. "Maybe I should-"

He caught her wrists.

"No," he said, "Don't." His voice was dry, and perhaps, just as tremulous as hers had been.

Then again, softer, "Don't go, please."

"I..."

He leaned over, and caught her full on her lips. And when he kissed her, it was fierce and aching, her throat catching on illegible sounds, sick with desperation and a strange, flickering hope.

This war isn't over yet.

I know. God, I know.

 

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