#cronusmituna

Everywhere around you is grey.

Not necessarily in a literal sense- though yes, in this concrete jungle, much of your surroundings were of muted tones. But no, you were referring to an emotional grey, a bleakness that could only be described as such. Your world is dirty, polluted, and filled will cruel intent and broken dreams. Every day it seemed, you saw one more join the sea of faces in the shadows, in the alleyways and back roads, begging for food, for change, anything they could get their hands on. It saddened you, but your mother had taught you long ago that not all of the pitiful faces were kind, and that not all tales of woe were more than just that- tales woven to pluck at a kind soul's heartstrings. But even still, you felt an unbearable amount of pity for the worn faces, the men, women, and children doing what they must to survive in this wretched place. As it was, you yourself were rather "privileged", in the sense that your father earned plenty of money, enough so that your mother had never needed a job, and you and your brother were never in wanting. Unless of course, the want in question was forbidden, in which case you would try as hard as you possibly could to have it in your possession. A common theme for people your age, but you'd never tried to shy away from it. Dark clothes, leather, tattoos, and a motorbike you'd had to beg, lie, and even cheat for showed your rebellious nature, and you weren't going to hide it. It worried your mother and angered your father, which amused you greatly. You weren't a bad person, however- you just looked like one. Your most embarrassing secret was that, in fact, you had inherited your mother's soft heart, and seeing someone in need affected you greatly. This was a fact you desperately tried to hide from your peers, with some success. But Heaven forbid you ever come across an injured or stray animal. ---- You actually sort of like school. Well, not your peers- for the most part, they were stuck-up, snotty, and downright obnoxious. You couldn't wait to graduate and get the Hell out of dodge. But you enjoyed learning, and your teachers were rather fond of you, despite your nonchalant attitude. Of course, the group you stuck with were mainly on the other end of the spectrum, barely hanging on and on the verge of dropping out, and often coming to you for help- with the unspoken agreement that it was strictly private and, for the most part, never to be spoken of. You didn't mind, happy to keep them from whatever fate awaited them outside your prestigious private school. Which brings you to the present. You're walking home, as your precious bike was not allowed anywhere near the campus (as said by the Council of Overly-Conservative Middle-Aged women, as you'd dubbed them). Your boots make a satisfying clunk against the asphalt as you go, your uniform hidden by the worn leather jacket that your mother swore had become melded to your body. The stench of car exhaust and cigarette smoke seeps into your nose; when you were younger the smell would make you gag, but years of making your way through the winding city streets had strengthened your stomach against the fumes. As usual, street vendors are loudly marketing their wares, business types power walk around you with their eyes glued to their smart phones, and the poor huddle just inside the alleyways, some holding signs begging for spare change. You force yourself to look away, knowing you would only bring trouble to yourself by trying to help. Too many stories of kind souls being robbed, mugged, or worse had taught you better. But today, something catches your eye. Or rather, someone. Two someones. Two scruffy-looking, dark-haired boys stand just in the shadows across the busy street, their eyes shifty and calculating. The elder of the two, with the longest, wildest hair you've ever seen is the one who holds your interest. He's waiting for something, his eyes flicking from the sea of people along the sidewalk to the vendor selling produce not ten feet from where he stood. At last, something happens- a woman stops to chat with the vendor, and the boy moves with a speed and finesse unlike any you've ever seen. He snatches some of the produce and runs, dragging the younger boy behind him as the vendor shouts and curses. He turns the corner and disappears before you can blink, leaving you stunned. You shake your head and continue on your way, the encounter forgotten in your waking consciousness, but shaggy hair and dual-colored eyes invaded your dreams.

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Your name is Cronus Ampora, and you have been sitting on the edge most uncomfortable chair for two hours now, willing yourself to speak to figure laying unconscious in the hospital bed in front of you. You've pulled out your pack of cigarettes at least ten times now, debating on whether or not to smoke. You've been warned by the nurse at least twice that she would kick you out if you lit up, but you're starting to not care. You smoke when you're anxious.

     You smoke when you're angry, too.

     You think about the words you want to say, but it's a jumbled mess in your head between screaming and murmuring, to even a bit of crying (not that you'd ever do that out in the open, but it's there in your head). You don't know where to start, but your mind keeps circling around to the where it all began, what led you to this moment. And you scratch at the memories, the aches, and you wished so hard you could take it back, all of it.

     Life is a series of moments, actions or inactions that change everything. You've been thinking of those actions, all of the ones that could have been different, that if you had just acted or stayed still, what would be different. It all came back to one point, you could trace it back to one simple thing that, had you just kept your mouth shut, everything would be different.

      Admittedly, the action wasn't what started everything, not completely, it's just what got you to this moment. No, it was your stupid feelings and your inability to bury them deep down where no one, not even yourself, could find them. These stupid feelings that you've had since you could remember, and no amount of booze or sex could cover up. Feelings that made you a hypocrite, because you always preached how the bachelor life was for you, that you didn't need any permanent fixtures in your life, the revolving door of one night stands more than enough for you.

       Your unnecessary, stupid, and pointless feelings for the motionless body in the hospital bed, the one you've been glaring at for hours now. For Mituna Captor and his stupid face.

       You two had grown up together on Osiris, army brats of the Alliance. For the longest time it was just you and Mituna, terrorizing the school simply by terrorizing each other. You exchange licks all the time, and everyone tried to keep you apart, but they didn't understand. All your parents and teachers saw were two kids fighting and coming home bloodied and bruised, but you were rivals in the true and great sense of the word. Every time you landed a hit on him, he learned how to expect it the next time. Every bug he left in your desk, you would leave a booby trap that he wouldn't think about it again.

       They all saw hate between your instense glares. You two saw brotherhood, and a striving to make the other better.

      Eventually, it stopped being brotherhood, at least for you. It was when the girls started hanging out with you, Latula, Aranea, and Meenah (as much of a girl as she was), that something changed. Every time Latula leaned in too close, smiled too big, or laughed too hard on Mituna, your Mituna, you wanted to haul out and deck her, girl or no.

       Aranea was the one to sit down with you, point it out in a way even you couldn't deny (at least to yourself, you told her she was full of shit to her face). You had feelings for him, something that was beyond your friendship/rivalry. She told you to confront him about it, that it would help.

       You told her to stuff it, and neither one of you brought it back up.

       When graduation came, you, Meenah, and Mituna had already signed up for service, a decision made so many years ago. That summer, you all went your separate ways, for some last flings before enlisting. You spent the three months boozing it up and sleeping with whoever you could, burying your wish that it was Mituna you were with deep down, drowning yourself in the false love of others. When you met up with tjhem again, you weren't surprised that Meenah had married Aranea, the two of them inseparable since freshman year.

      You were, however, shocked when Mituna showed off his wedding ring, bragging about his trip to Persephone with Latula. More than shocked, you were angry.

      Your rivalry reached a new level, pushing each other harder than you ever had before. You took your anger out on him during many of the drills, and he had to get better just to fight against your lack of mercy.

     And that's the way it was for years, your rage growing while he fought back, lacking in his usual fervour. You blamed her, for his change in demeanor, for his perceived weakness, for stealing away your friend. He offered you to stay with him and Latula during your leaves, but you declined in favour of sleeping around and getting drunk.

     Nothing changed, not until you were in actual battle. It was two years ago, three years after your enlistment, that you were in the trenches, fighting against the filthy Browncoats, that things turned around. You were pinned down, bullets waiting for you if you raised your head, mortars not far off, and it would only take one throw of a grenade to end you both. You were the last two of your platoon left, only by luck and Mituna's hidden psionic ability that had kept you alive. You had radioed in for back up, but who knew if that would actually happen.

      The sun was setting as you both pressed against the side of the dirt wall, hiding from anyone who realised they hadn't gotten the whole troop. You were huddled together in the slight cold, just waiting to be found, by your own or the enemy. It was when the end looked near that Mituna admitted he made a mistake marrying so young. That he may love Latula, but he felt the rift starting, that she couldn't relate to him, and it was starting to wear on both of them. That he wished things were different, that he hadn't gotten drunk that one night, that he hadn't tried to make it work every time it seemed things were falling apart.

       It was when the end looked near that you laid all your cards on the table when you called him an idiot and kissed him. But you would be damned if in the last moments, when it didn't really matter, that you wouldn't let him know you felt something for him.

       Unfortunately for both of you and your admissions, the Grand Highblood was the one who came to your rescue, meaning no Independent was left alive. You were both brought back for debrieving, and were give awards for your perceived heroics and staying alive.

        You avoided each other the moment you were given six months leave to recover and get your bearings back. It was more on your part than his, but there were some bells that could not be unrung. You hid in your apartment on Osiris, drinking yourself away, only occasionally going out to a bar to get your dick wet.

     Three months into the leave was when you next saw Mituna on your doorstep of all places. He looked confused and depressed, put out and pathetic, and you didn't care why, you didn't want to know what was going on. You just pulled him into your home, kissing him fiercely. That one kiss turned into another, and another, then biting and scratching, and it wasn't long before you were both naked, your mouth on his dick, and then your cock buried deep inside of him.

      And that was before you made it to the bedroom.

      It wasn't a one-time thing, either. With every passing month of his deteriorating relationship with his wife, he found more and more excuses to pull you aside, even when you were away on missions. Not that you were objecting or anything.

       It wasn't just sex, you realised at some point. You were talking and sharing while still pushing each other to be the best. You found it surprisingly easy to be faithful, your need for sex with strangers disappearing as you spent more time with the person you had always cared for. He even admitted to not having intimate moments with his wife anymore.

      And in one of your more serious conversations, he talks about leaving Latula. And in your haze of affection and stupid giddiness, you believe him.

      But things don't turn out like that.

      It's been almost four months now since the battle of Qonfu, where through a row of bad luck, Mituna got shot in the head. His helmet was on, you know he would never take it off, but that damn Browncoat, the one who played down, got a shot off from below, at just the wrong angle. He didn't die, instead he fell into a coma with damage to his frontal lobe. The doctors didn't know if he'd wake up, or furthermore, what he'd be like.

     You stayed in his hospital room for days along with Latula, just waiting for him to wake up. He was only in ICU for a few days before being moved to the long term ward, where the chairs were only slightly more comfortable.

      That was the way it was for months, just waiting for a change. You weren't normally there when Latula was, but one day she caught up with you before you went to see him. You wanted to be by his side for a little longer, it was only a week before the specialized training started, and you'd be gone for a month. She took you by the wrist, leading you outside of his room (like he could hear).

      She asked you why you were always there, why you felt a need to spend so much time with Mituna when you were always so cruel to him. You thought you should tell her the truth, thinking she already knew, that she just wanted it confirmed. But when she went on some tangent about needing him back, that you realise she's just upset and was looking for someone to talk to. You weren't the right person to talk to, even she must know that, but when she's crying, you don't think she cares who it is, as long as she can voice her frustrations. That she needs her husband to wake up, to be with her again, to make everything all right, to take care of her.

      To take care of her unborn child.

      Your world comes to a screeching halt at the news. Latula's calling after you when you wake away without warning, but you ignore it.

      Tomorrow you will report for duty at the Osiris barracks, ready for your five weeks of training. Today, you stare at Mituna, his sandy blond hair still a dandelion hanging around his face. The face you've always cared about, that you used to bloody up as a child, that only a few months ago, you would kiss. But that was something you'd never get back, even if he woke up.

      He lied to you. He was never going to leave Latula, and now he was especially stuck with her.

     You were angry because he made you believe for a moment he was yours and yours alone, never to share with anyone else. You were an idiot for believing it, an idiot for thinking that he'd ever give a damn about you. You were right now to want to settle down: being a bachelor may not be a happy life, but it was better than this actually caring about someone.

       You had been thinking about it for hours now, what to say to him, what you hoped would get through to him. And now you know, the only thing that would work, the only way out of this for yourself that would cause the least amount of torment, even if you didn't really mean it.

     You stand up, not even bothering to touch him as you walk to the door, turning the handle and opening it. As you're about to step out, you say one last thing to him: