Notes: Yet another Hamatora fic! Honestly, I wonder why I keep writing for this ship when I was so frustrated with the development of the anime… actually it might be because of that that I keep writing… nevermind.

This is kind of an AU wangsty NiceArt fic (thought don't worry—my definition of wangst doesn't even approach the real definition of the whiny angst…so not really whiny I guess). Also, there are some (slightly more) mature philosophical topics at hand. Namely, discussion of war. Anyways, I don't want to say too much about this, so all other notes are at the end.

Chrysanthemums in November

"Garnet Tower, Mach Foxtrot Six Five Zulu, requesting ITF docking sequence," the pilot spoke into his gear microphone, voice grating a little from the consecutive hours of battle communication which had been both furious in frequency and charged emotionally. He maneuvered the battle-worn mobile suit with years of practiced ease and scanning his three-sixty spherical display of the environment for any unexpected development.

The SIRVA-system, still fully synchronized with his nerves via the billions of micro-fangs that sank into his flesh at the beginning of every launch procedure, alerted him to the withdrawal of EVA, the hive-mind like central control unit that reached out and linked the mind of every pilot on the force.

His jaw tightened as the last bit of EVA's presence flickered out of his mind, and a frown was swiftly settling on his exhausted features.

He'd deal with that later, he promised himself, ire still racing through his body like the burn of dry ice washing itself through his every last nerve ending. His breathing was controlled evenly at barely just, and he forcibly drew in a few deep breaths to smother the last of the prickling anger.

After a few seconds of idle radio silence punctuated by the occasional splashes of whirring machinery, the speaker crackled to life with a reply, "Mach Foxtrot Six Five Zulu, clearance for ITF docking sequence at 1350 hours, docking bay Alpha Quebec fifteen, hanger one, proceed at will."

"Mach F65Z copy."

Down and ahead of him, a section of the mountainside sank to reveal a runway opening. The red and orange control lights flickered to life inside the vast hangar tucked away in the mountain's core. He spawned the autopilot docking sequence once the Mach F65Z's alignment system locked onto that of the hangar's and let it take over as he weaned himself off of SIRVA. He cringed slightly as he pulled his hand loose of the red neuroplasmic gel of the SIRVA interface, flexing his fingers as they touched the cool ventilated air of the Mach Z cockpit. The faint pink rings encircling each of his fingers, courtesy of continuous use of the system, were only a shade darker than his own skin, but carried enough presence to remind him of the scars they bore as pilots.

He hated how rubbery and numbing they felt every time he disengaged.

A final metallic clanking sound from around him notified him to the termination of docking procedure. The cockpit, which shutdown visual upon disengagement, was immersed in darkness save for the faint lights of the machinery controls. He pulled the lever to release the hatch and made his way out.

As he surfaced from the mobile suit, the permeating stench of oil and machinery assaulted his senses. An "Oi, Nice!" from Murasaki, the ALVIS mechanic and engineer, went unacknowledged as the young pilot swiftly and familiarly made his way down the mobile doll, tension clearly framing his body and lines of aggravation settling back onto his features. The hangar echoed with a clang as he dropped to the bridge platform below, and with determination and purpose driving his steps, he whisked past Murasaki without even a glance.

If he were more attentive, he might have actually heard the mechanic's irked comment of "Jeez, what's crawled up his ass and died today…", but there was only one destination in his tunneled mindset.

He made his way around the dozens of identical halls and corridors of the maze-like ALVIS base without much effort, having long ago memorized the routes and layout of this particular sector of the building and since then been able to navigate it without conscious thought. His brisk and impatient pace clattered loudly through the long, empty hallways. The few greetings he received from the few agents along the way, he ignored. As he neared his intended destination, his pace picked up and the urge to clench his jaws and fists could no longer be resisted.

The few people standing outside or around the medical wing knew to move out of the way immediately upon sight of him. One of the younger pilot-candidates paled, muttered a soft, 'senpai…', before he was dragged away by a senior. As the doors to the wing hissed open, a nurse yelped in surprise as he came face-to-face with then quickly sidestepped her.

He pushed his way through another pair of double doors that separated the pilots and users of the SIRVA system from the regular fighters and was promptly stopped by a blond-haired male in a lab coat.

"Now, Nice…" Birthday cautioned, warily holding up two hands in front of him in an attempt to prevent the incensed pilot from doing anything rash. Nice tossed him a withering glare before pushing past the male nurse easily and making his way towards the back of the room, where a pale Art was sitting up on the edge of a bed and being examined by Ratio.

The good doctor had just finished up and permitted Art to button up his uniform again when the EVA-operator took notice of an enraged Nice heading towards him. Art's eyes widened a fraction and he'd only managed to button half of his shirt before whispering "Nice…" and receiving a stinging slap on his cheek from a shaking Nice. "Thanks for holding back…" Art muttered dryly, albeit completely honest.

Birthday, who had quickly followed, was about to step in when Ratio shook his head and, taking the male nurse by the arm, swiftly ushered him out of the room. The doors swung shut behind them, leaving Art and Nice alone.

"You're a real bastard, Art," Nice growled, teeth grinding painfully and groaning under the pressure. He reached out and snatched Art by the collars, fists white and shaking from how tightly he held on.

Art didn't seem to care to argue, only allowed himself to be seized and shook around like a doll, lilac hair falling messily in front of his eyes. The part of his cheek where Nice hit him had started to turn red, but he seemed to pay it no mind. Art looked Nice carefully and patiently in the eye, drinking in the way blazing cerulean orbs pierced his being furiously, and replied softly, "It was a risk that I had to take, Nice… For the sake of our island, I couldn't not—"

"Dammit, Art!" Nice hissed and slammed a hand against a nearby counter. "'For the sake of our island'… " Nice repeated mockingly, disgust at the overused phrase apparent. "You just always have to play the hero, don't you?" he taunted, an age-old argument spilling forth on his lips. "Do you have any idea how badly that could have ended? If the link strained just a little more, it would have rebounded and left you comatose!"

"If I didn't maintain it, the assimilation process would have overtaken Mach-Q, Mach-L and Mach-X, and your precious kouhai would be nothing but dust floating around in space!" Art snapped back, previous front broken and frustration now pouring through in waves.

"Well then maybe you shouldn't have allowed for such a dangerous formation in the first place and shouldered the entire link liability! Fuck, Art… Fujisaki, Reinhardt and Watase are all capable pilots… I trust them. Why the hell can't you trust them enough to let them shoulder some of the crossing link burden? Let them connect with each other too!" Nice bit out in frustration. He pushed a hand through red locks impatiently and gripped the edge of the counter harshly.

"They're too young… if they had to shoulder EVA's links for each other, it would prove too much—" Art sighed tiredly, a familiar ache started to reverberate through his abused nerves and exhausted mind.

"The hell is with that, Art? They're fifteen and sixteen. Fifteen and sixteen. That's six and seven years older than you when you started using EVA. They're not kids anymore except with how you treat them."

"I started early because we had to. They don't have—" Art abruptly cut off with a sharp hiss of pain. He curled in on himself, biting his lip from crying out as the first wave of agony tore through him.

"Art?" Nice asked worriedly, all traces of previous anger evaporated and replaced with immediate concern. Promptly kneeling down by the bed, the SIRVA pilot supported the shuddering frame while trying to get a response out of Art. "Art—" he tried again, only to be cut off by a gasp of pain followed by erratic breaths. "Shit," Nice muttered, brows knit in worry as his eyes darted around looking for the red call button that would summon Ratio back into the room. Before he could manage to locate it however, another throbbing pulse of pain seized Art, causing him to pitch forward onto the ground, taking Nice along with him.

The two of them hit the base of the counter, though Nice shifted to brace himself against the wall while attempting to support an Art too beholden by pain to recognize anything beyond the assault on his entire being, including the way his hands had managed to find their way to Nice's biceps and were clinging on and digging in in a way that wasn't comfortable for the redhead. "Fuck—Art? Art, can you hear me?" Nice called out, wincing a bit himself as Art's nails dug a little too deep. After receiving a few more seconds with only labored breathing as his response, Nice let out another curse and shouted loudly, "Oi Ratio! Ratio!"

"…it's…fine," Art managed through a strained voice, finally aware enough to hear beyond the ringing of memories in his mind. "…s'just…flashbacks…" he pushed the words through gritted teeth.

"Right," Nice murmured, cursing the fact that he forgot Art had these. His friend had been careful to keep this little morsel of secret to himself for the longest time, preferring to suffer through the effects in isolation. It hadn't even been until a few months ago that Nice had realized such side-effects were happening as an over-usage of EVA. It had been a slip-up on Art's part, of course, and the latter had almost managed to pass it off as a one-time thing had Nice not been more wary and pushed the matter further. Since then however, Art had been careful not to let a repeat performance happen, though Nice had been under the impression that it didn't happen all that often.

"Where are your pills?" Nice inquired quickly.

Art shook his head weakly. "Can't," he rasped through heavy breaths, collapsing forward a bit more to rest his head against Nice's shoulder. "…took the max dosage already…" He swallowed heavily and shuddered.

For an agonizing stretch of time, the room was silent save for Art's sharp breaths. Nice ground his teeth in frustration at the side-effect hurting Art, at the machine interface that caused the side-effect in the first place, at Art himself, at the entire stupid war they had to go through, at the mysterious and relentless enemies that they just couldn't understand, whose motivations and desires always remained inexplicable to them… and at himself, who was all but useless when it came to his family's, friends', and Art's suffering.

There was nothing he could do to shield his friend from pain. Even though he knew the cause, knew the cure, knew how to put an end to it…there was no way for that to actually happen. He could only stand by and watch, as he'd always done, as they'd always done when their loved ones, one by one, suffered and died.

Now it was Art.

They weren't blind. Art wasn't ignorant, and neither was Nice. Both of them knew the implications of continued use of the systems. For pilots and EVA-operator alike, the risks for assimilation, where the technology itself eventually consumed its user, were always real. One way to prevent the assimilation phenomenon, just a little bit, was to establish a strong crossing link between users, so if the machine attempted to consume one, it would have to consume all, making it that much more difficult to do so.

That didn't mean it came without consequences however. Aside from the possibility of straining the link beyond the mental capabilities of its host and causing a rebound that would snap the link completely, leaving the mind and psyche of the host potentially broken, the continued usage of the link itself was a strain on the link-bearer mentally, and whatever the pilots felt, experienced, could potentially crawl back across the link to the source. Usually it happened during the most mentally and physically traumatizing moments, where the input via the neuromechanism of the machine synchronized with the neurosystem of its human host completely overloaded the senses, such as when a limb of the mobile suit is cut off and the pain blockers weren't in effect.

Although the EVA system had a defense protocol in place for such link backlashing, it really functioned more as a pain reliever than a pain preventer. Its operator would still feel every ounce of nerve writhing and screaming in the form of flashbacks.

Nice hollowly wondered how many times Art had re-lived certain deaths in this way.

A small whimper that Art couldn't hold back brought Nice out of his reverie. Wanting to thump something hard to stave off his anger, the red-haired pilot forced himself instead to take a deep breath and hold his friend tighter, rubbing soothing circles on the other's back, which was about the only thing he could do.

But then slowly, he began singing. "Ikusen mono koosasuru michi de~ bokura ha deaeta…" he sang slowly and gently, letting the notes resonate through the mostly empty room.

"Hashagiattari~ fuzaketari~ shita ano hi…" he continued, one hand softly stroking Art's back while the other still held Art tightly in support. He gave a sympathetic squeeze when the other drew in a sharp breath.

"Katari akashita yume no asa… ashidori mo karuku…" Nice closed his eyes and let his voice continue to carry, and Art forced himself to immerse in the melody instead of the pain, focusing in on the way Nice sounded as well as the vibrations he could feel from when the other sang through their physical connection.

"Massugu na~ manazashi de,
Mirai wo misueteta…"

The EVA user breathed shallowly, though he forcibly slowed it down. Vivid lilac eyes concentrated sharply on the material of Nice's gray uniform, dissecting the tiny, nearly-imperceptible threads that crisscrossed to form the special fabric. He focused hard, thinking about the details until his mind was no longer on the pain. However, a flash of pain pulled tightly across his features, and Art had to shut his eyes again from that. Nice responded by holding onto him tighter, and letting the next verse come out stronger.

"Nani ga okotte mo,
Tomo ni arukeba
Nandai mono yuuki ga michi afure,
Norikoerareru… mamorareteiru…

Aka ni somatta yūhi ni, chikatta kotoba wa,
Sepia no tsuki ni suikomarete yuku
Haruka musunda, atsui kizuna
Dōka towa ni, tsudzukimasu yō ni…"

Gradually, Art's vice grip on Nice began to relax, and the tension began to recede from his body. His breaths were evening out now, and although the aches were still flashing through him, it couldn't prevent a small smile from reaching his lips. He didn't move yet, still letting his head lay against the crook of the other's neck and shoulder and relaxing to the song.

"Itsumo no yō ni kawaranai machi de itsumo no egao ga
Hibiki attari~ kasane attari~ itoshī basho
Namida nagashita toki mo aru, sonna toki kimi wa
Tada damatte~ yawarakaku soba ni ite kureta ne…

Toki wa nagarete~ michi wa wakarete mo
Mamori tsudzukete hoshī kowasazu ni
Mae mo misuete~ furikaerazu ni~

Akaki chishio no hate ni, kono te ni tsukanda
Tashika na mono ga kagayaki hajimeru
Akiramenaide tadori tsukeru
Itsuka kitto meguri aerukara…"

When Nice finally finished and opened his eyes, Art was sitting in front of him watching with a tired smile. "…I'd forgotten how great it was to hear you sing," he admitted softly.

Nice fought off a blush. "…you better?" he asked with concern still shining in his eyes.

Art nodded. "Your music was the cure," he teased, albeit also completely serious.

Nice shoved against his knee lightly in response. "Meanie. See if I sing for you again, Art no baka," he mumbled.

Art laughed, the lighthearted rings tickling Nice's chest with a flutter.

A pregnant pause filled the room.

"…I'm sorry," Art apologized a moment later. It wasn't for the teasing, both knew. Eyes downcast, he drew his knees up to his chest and folded his arms over them.

Nice sighed. "…you don't have to atone for what happened to Skill, you know…" he spoke quietly, carefully observing the lilac-haired male.

Art frowned, uncertainty and a slew of conflicting emotions clouding over his gaze. "…I…know…" he settled for the response uncomfortably.

"But you don't actually believe. Nor do you want to," Nice accused not unkindly.

"I—" Art cut off with a sigh. "…how could I possibly look at those young pilots, so eager and determined, so full of hope and wonder…and not see my brother? Then once I do, how could I not think back to that day…and how if only I hadn't forced him to take on EVA…if I hadn't expected him to—" Art stopped with a shake of his head.

"You didn't force him into anything, Art. It was his choice," Nice pointed out, not for the first time nor for the last.

Art banged his head lightly back against the mattress edge. "Remember that summer before we found out about ALVIS?" he asked nostalgically, lilac eyes unfocused and lost in memories of a better time.

"The one where we spent almost every day fishing on Nakano-sensei's boat?" Nice asked.

"Hmm," Art confirmed. "…you and Skill somehow formed a formidable fishing team. I think you two were the only ones that managed to catch maguro. Birthday was so mad that he couldn't catch anything," he broke off with a light chuckle. "Even Hajime-chan did better than him. Goodness…the look on his face when he realized Hajime-chan caught something within the first two hours she tried when he had been trying for days?" Art laughed at the memories that flashed through like clips of a movie.

Nice also grinned as images of a frustrated blond boy running around the boat trying to find a 'real' fishing rod flashed through his mind. "Yeah…he was pissed for weeks after that…especially after all that, Hajime-chan didn't even want to eat the fish, opting for a good ol' burger instead!"

The two friends laughed, worries momentarily whisked away by the warm touches of memories from a more innocent time.

Somewhere along the moments of laughter however, Nice realized his throat had seized up and his vision danced with watery film. He swallowed hard and blinked, causing a few drops to fall and stain his uniform. "It's not fair…" he whispered in a thick voice. "It's not… If it wasn't this stupid war, Skill would be creating his own manga series—something stupid like a rabbit hero saving the world or something—" he let out a broken chuckle and earned a sad smile from Art, "—but it'd be his, right? And Hajime-chan would be eating us out of our hamburger ration and we'd all yell at her about being the death of cows in this world…"

Art scoffed at this, easily remembering or envisioning such scenarios, although he could no longer tell if the image that blinked into mind was a distant memory or a wishful future that would no longer come to pass.

"…Ratio would be running his own clinic for regular ailments and small injuries, not being a military doctor who has to watch us inch closer to death each time he sees us and know there's not a damned thing he can do about it… he hates that, you know? He hates it so much, but he's good at what he does and we need him to…" he trailed off with another sigh. Art remained silent. "And Birthday would just be some freelancing god-knows-what," Nice said with a snort. "…but he'd be close to where Ratio was because he couldn't bear to leave him, even if it meant dealing with sick and dying people all the time, which I know he hates because it reminds him of his own uselessness…"

"Master would be running the bar he's always wanted to run instead of running a war that he's so sick of losing, Koneko would be his bartending assistant rather than second-in-command to the destruction and war. Honey would use her brilliant mind and insight to research the next cure for cancer, not to find the best ways to kill and destroy an enemy creature. Three would be teaching six to eight year old children to become teachers, lawyers, doctors… adults with hopes and futures, not soldiers that would most likely not survive past sixteen. Murasaki wouldn't have to design machines that kill and fail to protect their pilots… you'd be a detective. Some big-shot head detective," Nice thought out loud with a grin. "You've got such an annoying sense of justice and workaholic streak, it's perfect for being a detective."

Art rolled his eyes and smacked him. "My sense of justice is no more annoying than your desire to place yourself in dangerous situations," he scoffed, to which Nice just gave him a pointed 'seriously?' glare. Art blushed. "I'm not the only one, is all I'm saying," he finished with a near pout—about as pouty as Art would ever let himself be seen. "And…what about yourself?"

Nice held the glare for another second before letting it drop. "I'd be…" he grinned. "I'd be a freelancing detective that smooches off of you sometimes."

Art snorted. "Well you're honest."

Nice scratched a bandage on his face. "Well…yeah. Yup. Actually…maybe me and Murasaki will run our own detective duo agency!" He struck a victory hand sign and flashed the other a brilliantly cheesy grin. "We'd be partners through the thick and thin dangers of finding lost pets, dealing with good-for-nothing bullies…being the allies of justice for the masses!" Nice declared while striking various poses from his torso up.

Art kicked his knee and frowned. "Why is it you and Murasaki? I would've thought we'd have been partners if anything," he scoffed, pointing out the flawed scenario.

"Silly Art… you would have killed me for driving you crazy, since you like to do everything by the book. Nah. Me and Murasaki would be better off. You'd be the real deal who takes pity on us every once in a while and feed us a bit of job scraps," Nice surmised.

Art didn't know whether to be affronted by the accusation that he was such a goody-two-shoes or be warmed by the belief that he'd be a successful chief in Nice's eyes, so he settled for a harrumph.

Nice's grin darkened to a smirk. "Aww… why Art…are you jealous?" he teased while inching forward on all fours into Art's personal space. He trapped Art by crawling over the other's legs.

"Wha—" Art started, attempting to back away as the other closed their distance with a predatory grin on his face. Not that there really was any room for him to shrink back, considering he was right up against the bed, but he did scoot up tighter against it. "Nice, you—"

Suddenly, the predatory visage softened into something gentle and almost melancholic, and Nice leaned in ever so slightly to place a chaste kiss on Art's lips. But before Art could really process what Nice might have been thinking, he was pulled into a fierce yet desperate hug.

"Nice…"

"Don't. Ever…pull that kind of stunt again. Don't ever…" Nice swallowed, shaking a little, "…risk leaving me behind like that…" he demanded harshly, voice wavering just enough for Art to know. "If you do… I'll… I will…"

"Shhh," Art shushed him, embracing the SIRVA pilot, who was now merely an seventeen-year-old boy scared of losing the single most important thing he still had left after the harsh reality they'd lived in had stripped away everything else. It was times like this that Art keenly felt the difference in their years—that he was three years older. Nice was still young, in many aspects. Then he mentally shook his head. '"A foolish hope is a hope nonetheless, and will be our sole companion to the end, if all else falls along the way.",' he recalled the words from a distant memory. In the end, they both were living on a ticking timer. 'But…' Art thought quietly to himself, '…that's also what keeps us going.'

"Shh… I know. And I won't, not if I can help it," Art promised softly. He felt Nice stiffen, meaning the other knew as well as he did just how empty that promise really was.

Nice finally pulled away and did his best to plaster a grin over his emotionally and physically exhausted features. "Well… I think it's time we get reacquainted with the real world and get out of here before Ratio and Birthday come yell at us for hogging their space, huh?" he joked while standing up.

He offered a hand to Art, which the latter took and stood.

"Indeed," he sighed and stretched a little before smiling. "Shall we?" he asked, to which Nice just chuckled and started heading towards the exit.

As Art watched the other walk off, his smile faded slightly. 'I'm sorry, Nice,' he apologized mentally, but this time for all the future grief he knew he'd bring the other boy.

It was a fool's hope to hope that they would not have to—he would not have to—risk and sacrifice like that anymore. After all, they all were risking and sacrificing just as much, if not more. They already had.

But if both of them could just pretend and hold onto that empty promise… maybe one day…

~End

Notes: And there we are. So a few things below:

1. The setting and background of the story is inspired by/from the anime, Soukyuu no Fafner. It's not an exacty Soukyuu-verse per se, but I did draw very heavy inspirations from it. In case you haven't watched it, it is a mecha anime that is very mature, to the point that it might not be understood the first time around you watch it, but very worth it. It's sort of a combination of the Gundam universe and Ender's Game to me. And it's very, very slashable… to the point where I'd say it might legitimately be canon (not like NiceArt unfortunately). Warning, it is quite depressing though, as all mecha animes seem to be. It does pose some interesting questions to war and conflict, in an Ender-manner. (If you're not sure what I'm talking about, that's alright. Just familiarize yourself with the classic sci-fi novel, Ender's Game.)

2. The song used in the story if 'Circle of Friends' from K Project, sung by the character Totsuka Tatara, my favorite from the anime. You can easily find it on youtube by searching '[K] – Circle of Friends'.

3. I apologize if the techno-military-babble got too much at points. I was going off of Soukyuu no Fafner, but was trying to give my own explanations for things and still trying to maintain a semblance of clarity despite lack of background knowledge…hm.

4. I actually rewrote parts of this over and over again because I wasn't satisfied with it and got stuck. I actually still am not totally satisfied…but ah. I always feel like I run the risk of incorrectly characterizing characters when placing them in an AU situations. As it is, it indeed is difficult. The war environment that they Hamatora characters are in here should have given them a harder edge, so he couldn't be quite as laid back as normally.

5. I also didn't want this to turn into a massive Art-centric angst fest… ok I kind of did because I have a soft spot for Art and want to see Nice shower him with more love always. But yeah. Keeping it realistic while fluffy.

6. On the topic of war and how to view the future… I'm not giving a right or wrong answer. There is no 'moral' to the story on how to live. The only moral that might exist, is that people will live how they choose or don't choose to live. I know most animes and works of fiction like to establish a sense of hope that ultimately helps everyone win out at the end. Realistically, I know that it doesn't work like that. There are plenty of people who die before their hope does. But I also know that's can be a very useless line of thinking. So… sorry about the bit of dark discussion! I'm definitely not saying that 'foolish hope', whatever that is, is a bad thing. Quite the contrary. But ultimately, it is how you take it. So whatever Art decided… don't let that dictate the way you view the world. In fact, don't ever let a fictional character dictate your anything. Inspiration, yes.

7. The title, Chrysanthemums in November, refers to many things. The chrysanthemum flower itself represents both optimism and hope, as well as death, often being used in funerals. It's also an herbal tea, made for the purpose of longevity and health. November (or autumn in general) is the season in which the chrysanthemum blooms, followed by death in the following season of harsh winter. So altogether, it represents many things. It could mean a hope that blooms before darker times arrived, a hope that blooms despite oncoming darker times, death right after the fullest of life… its meaning and interpretation is up to you. :)

Well…that's it! Hope you enjoyed~