I do not own Gundam 00. Beta'ed by sono spiacente.

Comrade/Drowning

Allelujah Haptism went straight to the cell after it happened. After he died. He didn't even bother to take his flight suit off; he just left his helmet in the prep room. The inside of the faceplate was streaked with tiny drops that eventually evaporated to nothing. That is how Allelujah feels now: nothing. His face is blank as he limply holds on to the hallway transport belt. It seems as though he can only stare at the floor as he glides through the stale re-circulated air. His mind is a blur of static. His eyes burn, and it is not from the lack of humidity. A lack of someone. Why can't you be here, one more time?

The automatic door glides smoothly open and whirs shut behind him. This room. The cell's walls, ceiling, and floor are covered in a polyurethane quilting. There is a window that runs half the length of the wall to the right of the door. The tungsten lights in the hallway cast the small room in a soft blue glow. This is his room ―not like the sleeping quarters every crewman is assigned, but a room just for him. Rather, just for Hallelujah. He frequented this room much more often.

And more often than not, Allelujah only woke up here, usually sore, hoarse, and ashamed. But he is still himself now and is not being manhandled into this padded room by Lasse and Lockon. Because Lockon is dead. And he isn't screaming vulgarities at Miss Sumeragi or telling Lockon to "go fuck yourself" as the older man firmly, gently, buckles him into his straight jacket. Because Lockon isn't here and god knows Lasse can't handle Hallelujah on his own.

The muffled hum of the air vents. Allelujah's head feels like it is stuffed with cotton, or the insulating foam that is under these three walls. Should he blow his nose? No, because then the dam straining behind his eye sockets might break. He might flood the whole room, the whole ship. He might drown in it.

He leans against the cushioned wall, feeling his cheek stick a little to it. My face must still be damp. And warm, too, because the surface of the wall feels so cool. He unzips his flight suit, pulls the top half off his body, revealing the black t-shirt he wears underneath. His breathing is steadier now, but he cringes as the lewd sound his flight suit makes when he peels it down his hips and over his ass. His black shorts cling, just like his shirt, to every contour of his sweaty body. For a reason he cannot name, but must surely know, he recalls a moment with Lockon as he gazes down at his bare thighs ―they shine with a thin glaze of perspiration.

Allelujah was never one to bare a lot of skin. He usually attributed it to the fact that his own body didn't belong solely to him. Hallelujah owned it, too, and sometimes Hallelujah said things or thought things that made Allelujah feel dirty for being in that body with him. Occasionally, when he was in the shower, Hallelujah would whisper to him in his head. Their head. He would coerce Allelujah to do things, things that weren't proper.

As a result, Allelujah's showers were very brief. And he showered alone. If he could, he would have showered with his clothes on, or turn off the lights so he wouldn't have to see his body reflected in the mirrors. That dirty body; no one else could ever see it.

Until someone did.

One night, Lockon must have been running ahead of schedule. He usually showered at 10:30 ―Allelujah knew this― but tonight he was in the men's showers at 10:08. He knew in the back of his mind that Allelujah seemed to generally go before him, but Lockon forgot that evening. Unfortunately, Allelujah was having one of those improper nights. Hallelujah was being unusually forceful and now was not the time for somebody to walk in on him.

But Lockon had.

And Allelujah feels something heavy drop in the pit of his stomach. He is going to try to explain himself, because this wasn't something he'd ever, ever want, ever dream to do, ever want anyone ―Lockon― to see, but he can't even look at the other man (who somewhat surprisingly, hadn't said anything yet). In his shame, he cannot meet Lockon's gaze, but when he resigns himself to stare at the floor, he ends up looking right at his half-hard member.

Would Lockon laugh? Would he find it funny that, here, Allelujah looks like he can't believe what his own dick is doing? At this point, having never felt so filthy in his entire life, Allelujah can only stutter what are almost apologies that, by now, must amount to nothing.

"Allelujah," Lockon says, as if he were still addressing a comrade-in-arms and not this filthy thing in front of him. Lockon ―who is naked except for a towel that hung dangerously low on his slim hips― tentatively takes a step toward the younger man.

"Don't ya wish that towel was gone? I bet you wanna trace that trail up and down with your, our, ton―"

"No!" Allelujah suddenly says out loud in what sounds more like a desperate plea than an actual command.

Lockon freezes mid-step as he watches Allelujah cover his ears and shake his head frantically.

"No," he says again, although this time it is drawn out and his voice cracks at the end. Ducking behind the nearest curtain, now, would look pathetic, and Allelujah doesn't think he can handle being any more emasculated than he already is.

"Allelujah?"

The worry ―no, the pity― is evident in Lockon's voice. That feeling in the pit of Allelujah's stomach has worked its way up past his now tight throat and is burning behind his eyes. Never has he felt so vulnerable, so exposed, even when he was out-numbered in virtual training sequences. Utterly defeated, he can only let a long, low keen rip from his throat as he tries to curl in on himself.

"I ―I'm so, so sorry. I didn't, Lockon, I―"

His voice wavers. It is like he is underwater; he feels like he is gasping for air as he hangs his head and lets his hair drip down. Water runs in his eyes and down his face. He doesn't see Lockon's eyes widen, fractionally, for a brief second, but he hears him release a short ―is that a shudder?― breath through his nose.

"I'll wait in the changing room," Lockon says smoothly before he turns and walks out the way he came in: almost silently.

Allelujah can hear Hallelujah laughing cynically when he can only stand there, staring at the tile work, and visibly shaking.

Really, any young man his age would have been embarrassed at having been caught doing what he had, but did it have to be Lockon to walk in on him? Allelujah truly admired him, like a mentor of sorts. Their relationship was platonic (really), and that was more than Allelujah could ever ask for. Now he groans at the thought, the fear, that their delicate relationship might be forever shattered. Lockon was his precious friend, and Allelujah did not want to lose whatever it was they had.

His chest is heavy with anxiety, weighed down with guilt. He turns off the shower and hurriedly towels his hair, because that moisture in his eyes had to have come from his dripping bangs. He tells himself that must be the reason his left eye is shining like liquid platinum, warm and molten and ready to drip, because Tieria said it is unfit for Meisters to cry. Allelujah wipes his eyes before stepping off the warm yellow tile and on to the cold linoleum.

The LED lights are unforgiving, reaching into contours and exposing everything Allelujah has to the world. And right now, the world consists of just two people.

Lockon is sitting on the bench, waiting for him just like he said he would. He has gotten dressed, too. Something small breaks inside Allelujah at the thought that Lockon is too disgusted to bathe.

"I'm really, really sorry," Allelujah begins. "I don't know what I was―"

"You were masturbating."

Lockon is looking right at him. (Allelujah is the one in the towel this time, but at least neither of them is naked.) And again, Allelujah's eyes are drawn to the floor. His vision blurs and the smooth squares of linoleum begin to ripple like ocean waves. It is oddly appropriate, because right now, Allelujah is drowning.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. A whitecap rushes over his head. His last dying breath. He doesn't even notice his eyes are closed until he only hears Lockon rise from the bench. He keeps them closed until he feels a warm hand on his shoulder.

"No need to apologize. It's no big deal."

Allelujah looks up through his half-dry hair like a small child looking out from behind bottle-green curtains. Lockon isn't scowling, isn't angry. His eyes are gentle and they are the color of the sea.

"But it's… dirty," Allelujah manages to get out. He feels heat rising in his face. Lockon senses the younger man's discomfort and gently squeezes his shoulder.

"No it's not. It means you're a normal, healthy guy. Everyone does it."

Oh, his fair skin. Lockon is blushing. The tips of his ears go rosy.

"But, I, I―" Allelujah stammers. I was thinking of a guy.

"Are you okay, Alle?" Lockon cocks his head a bit to one side and leans closer to him. Allelujah can feel his breath lightly on his face.

"Oh. I-I'm fine." Allelujah stammers; he can't argue when Lockon is like this: practically ―implausibly― glowing under the changing room lights. His scent. When he is this close, Allelujah can smell him.

"Good. I'm going to let you finish your shower now. This was all my fault; I interrupted you. I should know you always shower at 10. I'm sorry for embarrassing you like that." Lockon grins awkwardly and scratches the back of his head. He gives Allelujah a firm pat on the arm and leaves.

Allelujah's knees bend as his back slides smoothly down the cell wall. He pulls them to his torso and nests his head in his folded arms. He is looking at the floor again, but this time, Lockon will not be there when he looks up.

A shaky breath. A shudder.

Wet eyes that are not from a shower.

He curls his fingers and lets go.

"Lockon-nnn…"

He struggles not to drown.