Chapter Text
It hurts. Bruises and broken skin light up his awareness thick enough to form an outline of his body. He also has a headache like a hangover.
It's dark. Even when he opens his eyes, he can't see anything. Coarse fabric rubs against his face and irritates a wound on his cheek. He can feel it against his throat, too, chafing every time he breathes. There's a hood over his head, cinched around his neck with something like a collar.
He can't move his arms. Terror flares up and incinerates the fog in his mind as he wonders whether he's permanently lost the use of them. After a long minute or two of straining, he manages to flex his fingers, but he still can't lift his hands or pull them around in front of him. His wrists have been chained, he realizes, and his arms are deadened from the shoulder down by his body pressing them against the back of the chair he's strapped to.
"Where am I?" he asks aloud, then winces at the way his own voice cracks.
"He's awake," someone says.
"That's fine at this point," someone else responds. "Don't take any risks to knock him out again. He'll be easier to move if he can walk, anyway."
No one addresses Amuro directly, let alone answers his question.
"Can I get some water at least?" he tries, consciously avoiding saying please. His captors seem rough and pragmatic. Begging won't do anything but humiliate him. "You don't have to uncuff me or uncover my eyes. Just lift the hood enough to slip a straw in my mouth."
The only answer he gets is a kick in his already-bruised shins. That's something resembling information: wherever he is, it's somewhere full of some real bastards.
What else does he have to go on? It’s somewhere without gravity. Only the straps restraining him keep him from floating out of his chair. And it's cold. He doesn't have his jacket or turtleneck. He doesn't have his boots. He's down to his undershirt, socks, and trousers. His captors must have strip-searched him and then restored him to a semblance of dignity, but he won't get anywhere dwelling on that. What else?
Between the weightlessness, the temperature, and the ambient sounds he can make out through the hood, he thinks he's probably on an in-transit ship. At least two people are guarding him, going by the voices he heard earlier, and he senses that there are one or two others who have been silent.
Much more importantly, one of his captors is a Newtype.
It isn't Char. Amuro almost thinks it could be Kamille, but that wouldn't make any sense.
Didn't he feel something like this not too long ago?
He was on patrol with Londo Bell when it struck him from the next colony over. Not Char. Maybe Kamille, but probably not, because Kamille shouldn't be in space. It occurred to Amuro that this person might at least have met Char, because if Char had ever gotten near enough to sense them, he would have been too intrigued to resist a meeting. But Amuro had no reason to assume that had happened, let alone that the mysterious presence was an enemy, and the last thing he wanted to do was ruin some stranger's life by alerting the Federation to their existence as a Newtype.
So he went alone, without telling anyone. He trusts Bright with most things, since he's had little choice but to trust him with his very life, but Londo Bell is still under the Federation.
Ultimately, Amuro is too. His awareness of that was what stayed him from drawing his sidearm when a pair of men in plainclothes jumped him. That, and also he didn't recognize quickly enough what they were, because he'd been too focused on the Newtype he was tracking. He mistook them for angry civilians and assumed he stood a good chance of beating them without shooting.
By the time he realized his error, he was handcuffed and bleeding on the ground. Then the person he'd been looking for stepped out in front of him, and Amuro realized he'd screwed up even worse than he'd thought. It was a young man, not much older than Kamille had been, with a moody, glowering air a lot like Kamille's. When his eyes met Amuro's, Amuro caught a glimpse of the wiring behind them, the loops of consciousness pulled tight and cold as chain links—more like the girl who'd died in Kamille's arms.
"I never thought you'd just wander right up to my doorstep, but I guess that works," he said. Then, to the men kicking Amuro while he was down: "Don't overdo it. We want him alive, remember?"
After that, there was a needle. Amuro can still feel the puncture in his neck, though he has to focus to pick it out from the general haze of pain. He must have been drugged. That explains the headache.
It also raises some much more alarming questions. Amuro wasn't captured because he got into a fight and just happened not to die. His enemies had plans for him from the start. Why? What could they possibly want?
A hostage? Amuro is a terrible choice for that. Most of the EFSF would gladly be rid of him. It only makes sense if they're targeting Londo Bell specifically, and even then, Bright isn't going to do anything stupid just to keep Amuro alive and whole.
Information? Again, he'll only be useful if they're mostly concerned with Londo Bell. He does know a bit more than the average soldier about the technology behind Federation mobile suits, but if that's what they're after, they would have been better off grabbing an engineer. If they interrogate him, he doubts he'll be able to say anything that will satisfy them, and these people aren't bothering even to put on a pretense of humane treatment. They might end up torturing him until he dies.
Amuro can't think of any better possibilities than those. When he tries, he instead comes up with a worse one: if the Newtype he felt is really a cyber-newtype, he might very well be taking Amuro back to the people who made him that way, either for study or for conversion.
He's helpless. Whatever future is bearing down on him, he has no way to fight it, and while needing to fight is horrible, not being able to is worse. Amuro knows that he isn't allowed to let himself die in vain, that he has to be ready to seize any opportunity that might arise, but it hurts. Staying present in a body that's taken a beating hurts. The terror tightening his chest whenever he thinks about what's coming hurts.
It's so much easier to let himself drift, especially with the static clouds starting to creep back into his head. The drugs must still be affecting him. It's a familiar sensation, and even now, all these years later, his body remembers how struggling against it accomplishes nothing good. Doctors stare and prod at him the way that doctors do, but it isn't for the sake of his well-being, because no one present gives a damn about that, and it makes him feel less than human. Needles like rapier blades pierce to the center of his bones, the second-worst physical pain he's ever felt after Char's blade going all the way through, but unlike that fateful moment it's for nothing and worth nothing and means nothing, nothing, nothing–
Amuro.
He's pulled back into his body and lands sitting up in the same chair from before, with the same handcuffs and hood, but now under gravity. He lost time again. In that time, they must have docked... where? A colony? A larger ship?
A colony, probably. Amuro gets the sense that there are a lot of people not too far away.
"All right, get up if you can." Someone—not the cyber-newtype, one of the others—releases the straps and drags Amuro out of the chair. His head spins when he first tries to stand, and his knees buckle, and suddenly there are more hands on him, rough ones, wrenching his shoulders painfully against his own weight. His stomach twists, and Amuro fights to hold down the bile even as it burns his throat, dreading being trapped beneath the hood with his vomit.
"Come on." A gun barrel jabs into his spine. That's the cyber-newtype. "Aren't you supposed to be tough?"
It takes him a hellishly long minute, but Amuro gets his feet under him, straightens up, and swallows down the burn. In response, the gun barrel presses harder. He has no choice but to start walking, still unable to see what lies ahead.
Three people walk with him, one on each side and one directly behind. When they want him to turn, one of them wordlessly shoves him in the appropriate direction. Occasionally someone offers a terse warning about uneven ground. They guide him across the cement and metal floors of the dock and out onto packed dirt in what passes for open air. Then they come to a stop, and one of them—not the cyber-newtype—says something about getting a car before leaving Amuro with the other two.
Amuro considers that this might be as unguarded as he's ever going to get. He also considers that he managed not to stumble throughout the whole blind trek. Maybe that isn’t entirely thanks to his captors' lukewarm efforts.
If he starts running right now, he might collide with something, or he might trip and fall, or the kidnappers might easily catch up to him and beat him down. But if none of that happens, then what? If he tries for a miracle and seizes one, will he be able to use it?
Amuro doesn't think that anyone has seen him since he disembarked, but he knows that there are other people around somewhere. There are civilians around, probably. Whoever it is that's caught him holds enough sway in whatever colony they've taken him to that they can buy privacy, but not so much sway that they can dispense with privacy altogether. If he could get out in front of a crowd, it might be bad for them. Maybe someone would even help him.
Or maybe his captors would shoot him to keep that from happening.
Maybe getting himself shot would be better than letting them go through with their plans for him.
Amuro! What are you doing?
It hits him like an electric jolt. Amuro's heart jumps almost out of his chest. "Char!"
"Holy shit," one of the kidnappers says.
"It's not a big deal," the cyber-newtype retorts. "Don't act surprised about things you already know can happen."
Amuro tunes them out and focuses on the distant presence.
Amuro, you shouldn't be here. It's too early. Don't come any closer.
Indignation flares up inside him. Not until this moment did he think to wonder whether Char was responsible for his abduction. If Char wanted Amuro hurt, he wouldn't send lackeys to do it for him. But if all this happened as a result of him failing to control his men, that would explain some things.
Amuro sinks his awareness deep into his own damaged body: the stings and aches of his cuts and bruises, the soreness in his throat, the throbbing in his head, the harsh grip of the cuffs around his wrists, and the smothering darkness of the hood. He gathers it all together and feels it as hard as he can at Char.
An echo of his horror from when he first woke up fills him like a returning tide. Everything good in life is over, the last happy moment passed unnoticed long ago, and now all that remains is suffering and death. To Amuro, it’s such a familiar fear that he takes a minute to realize it isn’t his own this time.
Char? What’s your problem? It would make sense if Char felt guilty for his subordinates’ actions—and he does, a little—but the greater part of what’s flooding out of him into Amuro isn’t guilt. Rather, he feels like he’s been plunged into mourning for his own future. What does Amuro have to do with that? You aren’t the one who’s powerless here! If you don’t like what’s happening, pull yourself together and do something about it!
Amuro. Char’s panic coalesces into resolve. I’m coming for you. Don’t die yet, don’t you dare!
You don’t have to tell me that! I’m not dying until I get an explanation out of you!
The mentioned car arrives. Amuro lets his captors bundle him in and belt him down without giving them any trouble. As they whisk him away, Amuro at first tries to get a sense for the path they’re taking, but he quickly becomes distracted by his newly regained connection to Char.
I’m here. I’m here. Your thugs are moving me again. Can you tell where I’m being moved? I’m here. I’m here. Don’t lose track of me.
Char doesn’t exactly respond, but his feelings leak across the divide. He’s frustrated, anxious, excited to see Amuro but also terrified by the prospect because Amuro shouldn’t be here yet, it’s too early, nothing is ready. It isn’t much, but it’s infinitely more than Amuro has heard from him in years.
The car comes to a stop. Amuro’s concentration breaks when the kidnappers drag him out and set him walking again. It leaves him feeling jagged at the edges, another unpleasant sensation piled atop the discomfort of his restraints and the aftereffects of the drugs and beatings, but at least for this he can expect some imminent relief. Char is close by, and soon he’ll be even closer.
It’s not as long of a walk this time, and it ends indoors, with Amuro standing on what feels like carpet. The cyber-newtype says, “Bring that here,” and then some other commands that are meaningless without the context of whatever gestures he’s making. There’s the sound of something being dragged across the floor, and then Amuro is shoved backward into yet another chair. Someone holds a gun to his temple while someone else uncuffs one of his wrists, threads the chain through the chairback and loops it around the middle column, then recuffs him.
It’s an improvement over being strapped down. At least like this, he can lean forward a little to keep his arms from getting crushed against his back.
“I’ve got it from here,” the cyber-newtype says. “You go inform the captain.” Amuro suspects that the captain doesn’t need to be informed of anything, but he wouldn’t object to having fewer kidnappers crowding around, so he keeps his mouth shut.
He hears a door close behind him. For a minute, everything is quiet except for the fading sound of footsteps. Then the cyber-newtype loosens the cinch around Amuro’s neck and pulls the hood off.
Cool air fills his lungs, and his head feels instantly clearer. That’s a relief for all of two seconds before he thinks to be alarmed by it. How long was he breathing air diluted enough to cloud his mind? Oxygen must have been getting in somehow, but slowly compared to the build-up of carbon dioxide. Could that have done lasting damage?
It won’t do any good to worry about it now, so he tries not to. He tries not to think about his father.
“Amuro Ray, the Devil himself.” The cyber-newtype speaks, drawing Amuro’s attention. He’s in uniform now, and it’s definitely a Zeonist uniform, if not exactly a Zeon one. Nobody wore anything like that during the One Year War, but the influence is obvious enough, not least because of the stupidly abstruse rank signifiers that Amuro can’t read. He doesn’t appear a day over twenty, though he was ordering people around, so he might be anything from a petty officer to an ensign. “You look like just a regular guy,” he continues, “but you’re the one who started all of this, aren’t you?”
The way Amuro sees it, he’s never been the one to start anything. He feels like he’s always getting dragged into conflicts partway through and struggling to bring himself up to speed. But he long ago stopped being surprised that other people have different perspectives, and he won’t waste energy arguing with someone who wants to hold a grudge. Instead, he decides to focus on getting his bearings.
They’re in an office, a spacious one. An ostentatiously large wooden desk stands a few paces forward from Amuro’s chair, with the door he came in through another few paces behind him. The wall beyond the desk is mostly one enormous window, though currently it’s shuttered. The carpet is a dark shade of red. Amuro doesn’t know if that’s maroon or burgundy or what, but it’s probably as red as a full-room carpet can get away with being.
On top of the desk sit a few small piles of papers and a digital tablet plugged into a charger. If Amuro could a get a closer look at them, he suspects he might find some clues to what Char has been up to, but for now that isn’t possible. A photo of a uniformed woman with plush, red lips and caramel-colored hair perches on a corner, positioned at such an angle that Amuro in his visitor’s seat has a much better view of it than someone sitting behind the desk would have. Aside from that, there’s only a bare sprawl of polished wood—no paperweights that could be smashed into heads, no letter openers that could be jabbed into eyes.
A few more chairs like the one Amuro is chained to line the wall to his right, providing a useful point of reference. The wooden columns that make up their backs look sturdy enough that he doubts he could break them apart to free himself even if he were left unattended. He might be able to heft the whole chair up and carry it behind him, but it would be cumbersome at best.
“Whatever you’re thinking about, it’s pointless,” the cyber-newtype says. “I’m not going to let you get away, and once I hand you over...” He grins. It isn’t a friendly expression. “I don’t know what will happen to you, but I doubt it will be a quick death.”
If he’d said that an hour ago, it would have been terrifying. Now, it’s just meaningless noise.
Amuro can’t explain why he isn’t scared of Char. Rationally, he should be scared of the man who has wounded him more deeply than any other. But if what he feels about Char is fear, then it isn’t like any other fear he’s ever known. It isn’t a spur, a push, a stirring of desperation to escape. It’s the exact opposite.
“Hey, stop zoning out when I’m talking to you!” The cyber-newtype slaps him hard enough to turn his head. The pain shocks Amuro alert for a fraction of a second, then fades into the collection of aches he’s already mostly ignoring.
“Sorry, I didn’t know we were standing on manners.” His voice sounds terrible, too obviously exhausted for the sarcasm to have any bite. “You haven’t introduced yourself.”
“Oh? You want to know who took you down? I’m Warrant Officer Gyunei Guss.” He’s a preening child. Amuro remembers being this stupidly arrogant, if never quite this cruel, and the memories aren’t fond ones.
Still, there’s something he needs to know badly enough that he’s willing to ask even such a fundamentally embarrassing person. “WO Guss, who was it that put you through those enhancements?”
Gyunei bristles. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lies.
“Was it the Federation? Or Axis Zeon? And then Char helped you escape, or he was there for you after you got out, and the next thing you knew, you were working for him.” That would be a familiar, understandable type of awful. Char has always been irresponsible with his kindness. Even when he doesn’t set out intending to manipulate someone, he never hesitates to take advantage of people’s gratitude.
“Seriously, what are you talking about?” Now Gyunei seems honestly confused. “Where do you get off, making up weird stories to explain the obvious? You should understand better than anyone. Ever since you showed the world what Newtype pilots can do, ordinary humans have been irrelevant.”
“There’s nothing extraordinary about a scared little boy hurting other people to make himself feel big.”
For a blink of a moment, Gyunei starts to curl in on himself, punctured and deflating. Then he puffs himself back up defiantly. “Yeah, well, you’re just old. You’re an old man lecturing younger people like you’re so much better than everyone. What’s extraordinary about that?”
Beneath the awkward defensiveness, he has a point. Gyunei is an enemy soldier. If Amuro can say that his enemies are children, what does that make him? What will it make him if he gets caught up in another conflict, and this time most of the people he fights—most of the people he kills—are kids a decade younger than he is?
His thoughts are interrupted not by the knob on the door behind him turning, but by a jolting awareness of a hand seizing it from the other side, about to turn it, so close. Amuro twists his body in the chair as much as the handcuffs will allow and cranes his neck.
Char enters. He has a new uniform, but it’s still bold red. There’s nothing covering his ice-bright eyes, nothing even partly obscuring the scar on his brow. He’s cut his hair and gelled it back all slick and straight, like some kind of shady businessman, but he’s still Char, and Char is still outrageously beautiful. If Amuro were someone living hundreds of years in the future and found a painting of him titled The Red Comet, he would probably assume the man depicted in it was a literal comet personified as a god.
“Captain!” Gyunei snaps to a salute, then immediately blurts out, “You got here quickly!”
Char’s hand moves, and Amuro’s attention is drawn to it as though called. A sliver of gray metal peeks between his fingers before disappearing under the folds of his coat, like he’s tucking something into an inside pocket.
“Leather caught me on the way in,” he says, eyes locked on Gyunei and very deliberately not dipping toward Amuro. He wears a thin, displeased smile. “I would have been quicker if he hadn’t insisted on telling me more than I wished to hear from him.”
“You’re angry,” Gyunei notices. He should really just leave. Char hasn’t dismissed him, but he obviously wouldn’t stop him. Instead, he demands, “Why are you angry? I thought you might be if I killed Amuro Ray, but I went through all the trouble of taking him alive.”
“You weren’t meant to confront him at all.”
“He came sniffing around with Londo Bell. We knew we couldn’t hide from them forever, right? I had to make a call, and it worked out pretty well, so why are you getting mad at me?”
“That’s not true,” Amuro interjects before he can think better of it. “You were already planning an abduction. I just happened to show up early.”
“Is that so,” Char says mildly. He clearly does not want to be having this conversation, or any conversation that involves anyone but himself and Amuro. But he’s still looking at Gyunei to avoid looking at Amuro, which must make Gyunei think it’s a real question.
“Of course not! He’s the enemy, and he has every reason to hate me! You can’t seriously trust his word over mine!” He lurches away from the chair and takes a couple steps toward Char before catching himself. Amuro can only see his back, now, but it goes visibly stiff, though all Char does is watch him impassively. “If you do, that just proves I was right! Whatever’s going on with you and Amuro, you need to settle it before the fighting starts. I don’t want people dying because you’re distracted. All the Spacenoids flocking to you have signed on to risk their lives for freedom, not for your grudges or weird perversions. So, here he is! I brought him to you so you can do whatever you like! It’s none of my business how you take your revenge, or try to win him over, or whatever it is that’s been driving you–”
Char hits him, backhanded, fist closed. His knuckles connect with Gyunei’s ear, and a metal ornament on the cuff of his sleeve whips across the boy’s face. The impact is hard enough to knock him down, and as he falls, Amuro sees blood.
“That’s exactly right: it’s none of your business,” Char tells the heap on the floor.
Amuro shouldn’t be shocked. Objectively, nothing about this is shocking. It’s such a trivial act of violence compared to the carnage both Char and he himself have caused. Besides, Gyunei was seriously out of line. Bright or Hayato would have responded the same way to a subordinate acting up like that. If anything, they might have hit him sooner.
But it isn’t like Char.
“Char.” The name comes out barely above a whisper, but Char startles and looks to Amuro as though he shouted it.
When their eyes meet, Amuro feels the force of Char’s attention like a wave crashing over him and then pulling him with it as it rips back. For a moment he can see his own reflection, his body held low by the chain, his face swollen and pulped, and an almost unbearable sadness floods him. He thinks that he should tell Char not to pity him, that not wanting pity is a cornerstone of pride that he needs to maintain, but the ache of it feels strangely like warmth. It breaks him open like ice cracking in water.
Char moves as though pulled toward Amuro, then arcs around him instead, resisting collision. Both he and Amuro turn as he drifts, their gazes tidal locked. He stops when his hip bumps against the desk. Amuro feels a spike of irritation, which he would like to believe is all Char’s and not partly his own, that they are stuck in a room with furniture instead of flying through a boundless void.
A door slams. Gyunei has fled the scene. Amuro tells himself, I hope that kid will be okay, but fails to really feel it. Even within his own head, he is going through the motions mechanically.
Char leans back against the desk. It’s almost casual, but Amuro recognizes the way his hands grip the edge like he’ll float off if he doesn’t hold tight to something. His eyes—those pale, hungry eyes that he used to take such pains to hide—rove over Amuro as though trying to capture every detail of him.
The thought strikes Amuro that those soldiers chained him up and left him like they were staking him out for a monster to consume. Like a human sacrifice, Char thinks too. Amuro isn’t sure which of them came up with the idea first.
Finally, after an absurdly long silence, Char says, “Fetters don’t suit you, Amuro Ray.”
Amuro has so many things he wants to say stirring around in his chest, but the only one light enough to make it up his throat is, unfortunately, “Your hair looked a lot better without all that gunk in it.”
Char’s smile widens. For a moment, he seems almost unguarded. “Is that Beltorchika’s opinion?”
Amuro feels his heart flinch. Beltorchika dumped him years ago, and he would be shocked if Char hasn’t been stalking him diligently enough to know it. “You’re laughing at me. Weren’t you supposed to be deeper than that?”
Char makes a face like Amuro just spat at him. Painful awareness of their disconnect echoes between them until it warps into a frustrated harmony connecting them: We’re supposed to understand each other.
“How could I be laughing at you,” Char asks, “when I’m the one playing the clown?” He tries to recover that true smile from a minute ago, but it doesn’t quite work. “This isn’t even my most ridiculous get-up. There’s a dress uniform with a full-length cape and an ornamental sword.”
Amuro wills his mind blank, suppressing all the memories and fantasies that the idea of Char with a sword threatens to awaken, but that leaves space for Char’s own thoughts to fill with ribbons of blood and beads of sweat and bodies pressed together, arms floating just at the edge of an embrace, Char’s reflection in Amuro’s visor casting a ghostly image of his mask over a young face twisted by agony and rage.
It’s all for you, Amuro. What else could be the point of it? Who else would ever get that close? I always think of you when I wear a sword, driving it through you, giving it to you to drive through me.
“You’re in poor shape,” Char says, calm and amiable, like he thinks he can cover up his turbulent thoughts. Does he not realize how deep he is in Amuro’s head? “I should see that you receive medical attention.” He releases his grip on the desk and straightens himself up.
“Char, don’t you dare slip away now!”
“Bold words from a prisoner,” Char scoffs, but he hesitates to make another move. “At least let me fetch you a cold compress, or perhaps a glass of water.”
“Don’t patronize me.” Don’t leave me. I’m not finished with you. I’ve barely had a chance to begin. “It’s too late to play innocent. Whatever you’ve been up to, it’s obviously a change for the worse. Since when do you beat your subordinates?”
“What makes you think that’s a new development?”
For one thing, Lalah trusted him. She knew he was using her, and she still felt safe with him. There’s no way he ever raised a hand to her or did anything that made her think he might.
Fortunately, there are other reasons that Amuro can say out loud. “I heard how you were with Kamille. How you didn’t hit back even when he hit you first. He complained to me once that you ‘let’ your superiors beat him, like he thought so highly of you that he expected you to stop them.”
“And therein lies the crux of the matter: I no longer have anyone above me to handle discipline.”
“That’s a transparent excuse.”
“I don’t need an excuse.”
“You don’t,” Amuro agrees. After all, it’s completely normal, no matter how he feels about it. No matter how Char feels about it. “And yet, you reached for one anyway.”
Amuro senses something like a tug—that’s right! more, see more of me, give me more of you—and the next thing he knows, Char has drawn so close that his feet are between the legs of the chair. He leans over Amuro, monopolizing his field of view, and braces himself with a hand on his shoulder.
The straps of Amuro’s undershirt barely cover anything. He can feel the heat of Char’s skin directly against his own. A thrill sparks between them when Char’s fingertips press into the scar from the old exit wound, which has faded almost to invisibility but can still be found by touch. He moves his thumb to search for the entry wound scar, and his eyes gleam with triumph when he brushes over it. Still there. Still mine.
With his other hand, he grabs Amuro’s chin and tilts his face up. Amuro keeps his neck stiff, so Char has to put some strength into making him move, but that’s as much resistance as he cares to muster. The unfairness of Char being able to place his hands wherever he wants while Amuro’s own hands remain trapped aches like something rotting in his gut, but he has no desire to evade him. If anything, he wishes he could grab him back.
Char stares into Amuro’s eyes, and Amuro can see him thinking about pressing their foreheads together, this time with no helmets in their way. Then his gaze drifts down to Amuro’s mouth, and the backdrop of his thoughts turns from A Baoa Qu to a hallway of the Audhumla, where the golden light of sunset flooded in through the window to wash over them, and the bittersweet taste of whiskey burned on their own and each other’s tongues.
The sunlight or the alcohol could explain the warmth they both felt. Their drunkenness could explain the kiss. Right now, they’re completely sober, so it’s impossible for that to happen again.
It would be dangerous to stay silent any longer. Amuro tries to remember what he was just talking about. “Char, that boy, Gyunei… He’s been ‘enhanced’.”
It’s like a splash of cold water. The light in Char’s eyes is suddenly doused, and he practically steams with exasperation. “Don’t waste your sympathy on him, Amuro.”
In spite of how horrible everything is, Amuro almost laughs. “Are you listening to yourself? I shouldn’t waste my sympathy? Are you sure you want to say that?”
With the hand under Amuro’s chin, Char splays his fingers across Amuro’s face and brushes the wound on his cheek. It’s a gentle motion, and Char’s hands are surprisingly soft, much softer than Amuro’s own, but the salt of his skin draws a line of fire as he traces the cut. “He did this to you.”
Amuro forces himself to focus on the argument, and not on how the hot swell of pain feels almost like it’s welding him to Char. “Whatever he did, you’re responsible.”
“Then you understand the necessity of discipline.”
“Are you going to try to tell me you hit him for my sake?” Char’s only response is a silent, intense stare. “No, of course you aren’t. That would be too much like admitting weakness. You’d rather just imply it.”
“I would rather not spend any more breath discussing Gyunei Guss.” The hand on Amuro’s shoulder moves to his throat. Char’s palm curves snugly over his windpipe, and his thumb finds his jugular and strokes it up and down.
As a distraction, it almost works. As a threat, it’s completely absurd. Amuro doesn’t believe for a moment that Char could kill a defenseless prisoner with his bare hands, especially not if that prisoner is someone he knows personally. And it’s beyond childish of him to try to intimidate Amuro into shutting up. Amuro doesn’t want to have this conversation either. They wouldn’t need to have it if Char hadn’t done so many shady things.
“When I said you’re responsible, I wasn’t only talking about hierarchy. You’re the one who gave the order to make him a cyber-newtype, aren’t you?”
Amuro hopes that Char will tell him he’s wrong. Maybe he’ll laugh at him for being stupid, or maybe he’ll feel genuinely hurt that Amuro thinks so poorly of him. Either one would sting a little. Either one would be so much better than the alternative.
Instead, Char says, “It’s not as though I’ve overridden his will. He volunteered for enhancement.”
Disappointment settles in as a kind of numbness. Really, Amuro already knew. And he already knows that it will get worse, that Char has slipped away from him and gone somewhere dark and untouchably cold, but he presses on after him anyway. “‘Volunteering’ isn’t always a clear distinction, especially when you’re altering someone’s brain.”
“What more do you expect of me?” Char’s hands, still holding Amuro, clench in frustration.
Amuro doesn’t choke, but he comes close enough to make him panic. He kicks Char’s legs, pointlessly. The distance and angle are poor for delivering any real force, and the socks padding his feet cushion the blows.
Char releases Amuro’s neck as suddenly as though it stung him. For a moment, he looks genuinely worried about something. Then he smirks.
“Is that a great fear of yours, Amuro? You’ve lived in space for quite some time. I suppose you’ve seen what lack of air can do to a person, short of killing.” Char radiates smug satisfaction, but Amuro knows he doesn’t mean it as mockery or as a threat. He’s just pleased to have learned something new. Another little piece of Amuro Ray now belongs to him.
Amuro wants to kill him. He wants to lay claim to all of Char, all at once. But it’s too early to let himself think like that. There are still things he has to do.
“Char, what are you planning? If it were anything good, you wouldn’t be hiding from me.”
“You hid from me for just as long,” Char retorts.
“Not by my own choice!” Amuro knows he shouldn’t take the bait, but his indignation overwhelms him. “You asshole, I used to wish every day that you would find me!”
“Oh? And once I found you, what did you imagine I would do with you?”
“That doesn’t matter now!” It didn’t matter much even back then. Amuro’s fantasies used to spin off in wildly different directions. Char would kill him. Char would rescue him. Char would pin him down and kiss his mouth and ride him, ensuring that Amuro’s struggling would only drive them deeper into each other. Char would do nothing at all, because Amuro would subdue him and tie him up to torture at his leisure.
The way Char stares at him—not smirking anymore, no longer satisfied but something almost the opposite, craving, or something beyond craving, less like he’s considering when to pounce and more like he’s about to lose his footing and fall—Amuro knows that he has to get the conversation back on track immediately.
“Char, stop evading. There’s a reason you hid from me. There’s a reason you’re converting people into cyber-newtypes. There’s a reason you’ve commandeered a colony. Say it.”
Char visibly pulls himself together and smiles without feeling. “Sweetwater is a base of operations, not a weapon.”
That’s still evading. But at least it’s some real information and not just a dangerous distraction. “Sweetwater?”
“I don’t mind you knowing where we are. Londo Bell has swept through here before, haven’t they? But they didn’t find anything. Why do you think that is?”
“Lack of cooperation.” It wasn’t even suspicious. There’s always a lack of cooperation, whether or not a colony is hiding anything that Londo Bell would care about. They’re all hiding something, and none of them want to find out if Londo Bell would care. “Yeah, I get it: the people here like you more than us.”
“And not without reason. I may fail to meet their highest expectations, but I won’t harm them. I would never harm people who are living as they should.”
“Who put you in charge of deciding how people should live?”
The plaster smile slips, just briefly. “Among others? You did, Amuro.”
Amuro will not take the bait. He won’t. “Get to the point, Char.”
“We aren’t in the correct positions for you to be interrogating me. Have you noticed that?”
“Char!”
Char closes his eyes for a moment, composing himself and collecting his thoughts. When he opens them again, they seem colder. “The Federation’s greed is insatiable. They devour the Earth like parasites. The planet is dying, and their own children or grandchildren may very well die with it, and they don’t care. Space migration was never an honest attempt to preserve the cradle of life. It was merely a ploy by the elite to let them gorge themselves a little longer while starving the rest of us.”
“I know all that.”
“Then you must understand. Not even the solar system is infinite. It isn’t inexhaustible or unpollutable. How many asteroids have already been dragged into the Earth Sphere, mined for all they’re worth, and then abandoned?” Char’s right hand still cups Amuro’s chin. His fingertips still dip beneath Amuro’s skin where it’s been split across his cheek. They’re so close that the lines between them blur, and this man who can so easily blur into Amuro says, “Just one or two of them falling to Earth could render the planet uninhabitable.”
Amuro recoils violently enough to smack his head on the chairback, but it doesn’t dislodge Char’s grip. “You’re going to make them fall.”
“It’s inevitable, Amuro.”
“What kind of an excuse is that?!” The force of the shout is too much for his throat. Amuro coughs, swallows what he thinks must be spit but can’t help fearing is blood, then breathes deeply to reassure himself he’s breathing at all.
Char watches with concern. He isn’t a monster. Amuro has to remind him he isn’t a monster.
“Char, listen to me,” he says once he can speak again. “I’m sure you know what happened at Dublin. Isn’t that part of what’s made you so angry? If you follow Haman Karn’s playbook, you’ll get the same results she did. The oligarchs will be the first to escape, and they won’t learn anything from having to relocate. Your victims will be ordinary people. The bravest and kindest of those, the ones we would most want to join us in space, will sacrifice themselves trying to save others.”
“I’m glad that you’re speaking to me as a human, in spite of everything, and not just barking like a hound.”
“Then listen to what I’m telling you. This isn’t the way to accomplish what you’re trying to.”
“Oh? What do you think I’m trying to accomplish?” There’s that strange, empty smile again. What is Char playing at? He can’t possibly doubt that Amuro gets where he’s coming from.
“Shouldn’t it go without saying? A fulfillment of the promise that Newtypes represent. The beginning of a better world, where conflict will give way to harmony.”
“Well said. If you’re describing it so eloquently, you must consider it a noble goal.” There’s an edge of mockery to Char’s words that Amuro can’t understand and does not at all appreciate. He feels like he’s failed a trick question. “Your energy would be better spent on that, not on defending those ticks with their heads buried in the Earth’s skin.”
“Kamille is living on Earth right now. So is Mirai Noa, with her and Bright’s kids. And the woman you call Artesia.”
Even with that provocation, Char’s anger remains simmering under his smile. “Are you listing your excuses for staying on the leash?”
“You’re my reason for that! I had a bad feeling when you disappeared after Gryps, and what do you know? I was right.”
“You talk as though I turned coat.” Before Amuro can point out that Char’s coat is always red and he’s never on anyone’s side but his own, he continues, “The AEUG militarized to teach the Federation a simple lesson: if they suppress peaceful protest, the next protesters might not be so peaceful. Back then, you agreed and stood with me. You fought to let the voice of humanity in space be heard.”
“It was the right thing to do.” In the end, nothing good came of it. Amuro has spent years mulling it over like he’s analyzing a simulation playback. Maybe things would have been better if he’d gone to space sooner, or maybe if he’d kept Kamille and Katz with him on Earth and away from Char’s influence. Maybe if he’d tried harder to save that cyber-newtype girl, or maybe if he’d stopped Kamille from trying so hard. Or maybe the rebellion was doomed from the start. It was certainly flawed from the start. Even so, Amuro can’t bring himself to believe that it was wrong.
“You are the one who betrayed that purpose,” Char says. “You and Bright both. I’m your reason? What has Londo Bell done to impede me so far? I don’t believe you’ve prevented any violence at all. You’ve only made innocent people bite their tongues rather than risk getting themselves and everyone they know killed.”
“What are you talking about? We aren’t the Titans, Char.”
“You don’t have to be. The Titans were the Titans, and you have stepped into their shoes. Why would anyone who doesn’t know you like I do assume anything but the worst? Your mere presence in the colonies stifles dissent.”
“You think too little of the average human being. Trust me, plenty of people aren’t afraid to cause us trouble.”
“Not enough trouble.”
“I’d like to hear you say all this to the Federation higher-ups. They never give me anywhere near as much credit as you do.”
“Their egos forbid them from doing so. They use you, then despise you because your usefulness exposes their inadequacy. If you truly had no value to them, they would have disposed of you long ago.”
Char is probably right about that. Still, what is Amuro supposed to do, stand aside and let him have his purge? “Stop changing the subject. You can’t kill hundreds of millions of people just because a minority of them are causing problems. That is acting like the Titans.”
“It’s war or nothing, Amuro. Total war, or total surrender. You yourself helped drive us to this precipice.”
“Bullshit. Are you in charge around here or not? You can lecture me all you like about how much I scare people, but that isn’t an excuse for you. You’ve been taking advantage of it.”
Char lapses into pensive silence for close to a minute. Just when Amuro starts to think he might actually be considering a different perspective, he says, “You asked me why I’m making cyber-newtypes. You haven’t asked how.”
“Why should I care? Axis Zeon remnants, probably.”
Char hums in affirmation. “But there’s a little more to it. Remember, Haman treated with and infiltrated the Federation. Axis Zeon’s labs, in addition to their own research, had intelligence from Augusta. And from Cheyenne.”
“You read it personally,” Amuro realizes. Shame and horror war hot and cold on the back of his neck. “What kind of sick obsession...”
“I know what they did to you,” Char says, still smiling. “I know what they used you to do to children.”
Is Amuro responsible for his own torture? For what his torturers later inflicted on others? For the downstream effects of all that suffering destroying the rebellion’s hope along with Kamille’s mind? He has wondered that before, and always it has made him want to collapse on himself until he’s small enough to vanish.
Strangely, when Char is the one implying it, he instead feels such a rush of anger that he thinks he might explode.
“They did it to Earthnoid children,” he snaps back. “To orphans with no one who could protect them. Right now, there are still kids like that living on Earth. Are they all parasites, Char?”
“At the rate things are going–”
“Don’t you dare answer that! I’ll kill you if you answer! My point is, you have no right to say anything about me while you’re threatening mass murder. Effectively, you’re threatening genocide. The Federation will let you kill off their own undesirables, then they’ll find a way to get rid of you, just like they did to Haman Karn. I won’t discuss anything else before that, so stop deflecting!”
“You’re always so optimistic. What that I’ve said so far makes you think it’s up for discussion?”
If Char were leaning just a little bit closer, Amuro would rip his throat out with his teeth. He decides to settle for biting him wherever he can reach.
Wrenching his chin free proves easy, and Char’s now-empty right hand hovers uncertainly, a perfect static target. Amuro lunges forward and captures it, piercing through the webbing between the thumb and forefinger. One of his upper incisors scrapes against a knuckle bone. Blood fills his parched mouth, warm and wet and cloyingly rich with salt and iron.
Char’s shout is a beautiful, baritone howl. He punches Amuro in the face, then howls again when Amuro’s teeth remain embedded in his flesh even as Amuro’s head turns with the impact. Amuro is beyond caring about the pain of a blow like that. He can feel Char’s pain in the space where they overlap. It radiates up the roots of his teeth and saturates his palate. He can almost taste it on his tongue.
Amuro wants more, so he pulls his legs up close to his chest and plants his heels against Char’s knees, then kicks like a rabbit. Char, still reeling from the initial attack, crumples when he’s struck at a weak point. The knockback topples the chair, and Amuro falls, dragging Char with him, his teeth like hooks under his skin. Char gives another yell, but Amuro resists the instinct. He keeps his mouth shut and tucks his chin to protect his head.
There’s no way to protect the rest of himself. The chair hits the ground, and Amuro’s shackled arms hit the chairback, and the full weight of his body hits his arms. The pain that jolts through him makes him fear he might have broken something. At the very least, he has bruised himself to the bone.
Char lands even less gracefully. His stomach slams into the edge of the seat, and he slumps draped across it, all but bent in half, his upper body dangling over Amuro. Before he can right himself, Amuro wraps his legs around his waist and traps him there.
There’s so much blood that it overflows from Amuro’s lips and streaks his chin, so much that he has to swallow to keep from choking. He refuses to open his mouth to cough or spit. That would be a shamefully quick defeat, and he can’t bear to relinquish the contact with Char.
With his left hand, Char fumbles for and eventually manages to draw his sidearm. “Let go, Amuro!” he demands. There’s no way he’ll kill him just yet, but he will hurt him, probably very badly. If Amuro complies, he can avoid being hurt.
He meets Char’s eyes for a moment, then shakes his head—hard and fast, like a dog with a toy in his mouth. Char curses loudly and slams the grip of his weapon down on Amuro’s shoulder.
A starburst of pain cracks through Amuro’s consciousness. The decade-old wound seems to explode open, and his entire being unravels around it and collapses inward.
When awareness of the rest of his body blinks back on, his throat hurts from screaming and his mouth is empty.
He hasn’t lost his grasp on Char completely; he still has his legs around his waist, and he squeezes them tighter. Char rolls off the edge of the chair seat and lands on the floor to Amuro’s left, and Amuro lets his hips twist to keep hold of him. He can’t fully roll over onto his side, because he’s still chained to the damn chair with no choice but to lie back on it and accept the columns pressing against his bruises, but there’s nothing forcing his lower body to stay in the upturned seat rather than sprawling out alongside it.
Char pants and groans with effort as he pushes himself up on his right elbow and forearm, wincing whenever his mangled hand takes some of his weight by mistake. He hovers over Amuro and grins down at him, a real smile, jagged with adrenaline. “Let go,” he repeats, this time in a tone of triumph, and points his weapon at Amuro’s heart. The safety is on, so he won’t accidentally kill him. It would only take a few extra seconds to kill him on purpose, but Amuro can’t find it in himself to care about that more than he cares about keeping Char between his thighs.
“Never,” he tries to say, but all that comes out is a moan that sounds like nnnuh.
Char touches the barrel to Amuro’s mouth, pulling down his lower lip and letting the metal clink lightly against his exposed teeth. “Either release me, or open for me.”
Amuro doesn’t hesitate. Char is challenging him, and hesitation would feel like failure to meet his challenge. He unclenches his teeth, and Char’s gun slips between them, and Amuro glares up unflinchingly as Char pushes in all the way to the back of his jaw, almost to his throat. The gunmetal isn’t as cold as it could be, with Char’s blood still warming his mouth, and it doesn’t taste much different than the iron from Char’s body.
“What should I do with you, Amuro Ray?” Char looks into his eyes like he’s trying to tear out his soul with his gaze. “I can’t let you wound me without punishment. Should I kill you here and now?”
Amuro feels a spark in his brain stem, right where the bullet would hit. It would only take an instant to silence all the pain below his neck, both the fresh, screaming bruises on his back and arms and the muffled aches from his earlier beating.
Do it, Amuro thinks. Take me from this bound and broken frame. I’ll flow behind your eyes and fill you till you burst. Death won’t stop me from being the one to end you. He’s sure he gets through, because Char’s intent sharpens, honed by excitement to a killing edge as he imagines Amuro’s will and his own hand lifting the smoking gun barrel to his lips, an indirect kiss that sears like a brand.
But then fear creeps in, and Char wavers. Amuro can’t quite grasp the shape of what scares him. Failure, rejection, loneliness. A dead, empty future ticking slowly on. And: What if I’m not pure enough? To Amuro, it’s a jumbled swarm of ideas that don’t coalesce into anything solid. To Char, it’s somehow heavy enough to keep him from disengaging the safety.
Instead, he tilts the gun and levers Amuro’s mouth further open. The edge of the metal cuts into the soft flesh at the back of his palate, and the trigger guard digs into his chin, and the bottom part of the barrel pushes his lower jaw down so far and so roughly that he feels like the joint might dislocate or the muscles around it snap. Drool mixes with the blood at the corners of Amuro’s lips, and tears well up in his eyes—both physical reactions that he refuses to let shame him. His vision blurs, but even when he can no longer see Char’s expression, Amuro still feels the intensity of his stare.
If Char were honest about this being a punishment, he should be satisfied with hurting Amuro and demonstrating his helplessness. But he doesn’t want Amuro helpless. He wants a clash, and he wants connection, and he wants a clear and final consummation of his victory in their scuffle. He doesn’t know how to have everything he wants at once, can’t even imagine what that might entail, but as he watches Amuro’s mouth quiver and drip around his gun, his mind lights up with vivid images of what he could have.
Do it, Amuro thinks at him again. I want you to do it. Kiss me, and I’ll bite out your tongue. Make me kneel for you, and I’ll bite off your dick.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then Char pushes himself up onto his knees, lifting Amuro’s lower body with him. He rocks his hips forward, pressing flush against Amuro’s ass, and Amuro isn’t at all surprised to feel Char’s erection. He would probably be hard too, if he weren’t so beaten down and exhausted. Maybe all the torture he’s gone through today was a mercy in disguise; Char isn’t about to humiliate anyone but himself.
“You really should release me,” says Char. This time, it isn’t a demand. It’s a warning, and one he hopes Amuro will ignore. Beyond this point, Amuro can’t pretend his stubbornness is defiance. To keep holding on is complicity.
He wants to hold on anyway.
Amuro gives Char a quick squeeze with his thighs, signaling he’s made his choice, and Char eagerly grinds against him. It’s an awkward position, Amuro half dangling from Char’s waist and half lying back on his own bound arms, Char crouched above him like a cat pinning his prey, almost on all fours except for the hand still holding the gun in Amuro’s mouth. There’s no way to get any real friction, especially not with both their trousers on and sliding around between them, but the heat and pressure of Amuro’s body must be enough for Char, because he takes just seconds to start moaning.
You really want me that much? Amuro thinks, bewildered to the point of awe. He receives in response a warm, wordless flood of adoration.
Within minutes, before Amuro can fully get his mind around what’s happening, Char shudders and cries out and collapses against him.
The added weight on Amuro’s arms isn’t comfortable, but he’s been cold and exposed ever since he woke up in transit missing half his clothes, and now Char lies draped over him like a blanket. It’s strangely soothing. The rush of Char’s breath and pulse, his leisurely twitching muscles, and his contrastingly motionless limbs all feel somehow reassuring.
With Char’s grip on his weapon relaxed, all Amuro has to do is shake his head, and the gun slides out of his mouth and clatters to the floor beside him. He spits to clear out the slurry of blood and saliva, and though he isn’t really aiming for Char, a glob lands in his hair.
Char just chuckles. That’s fine, there was gunk in it already, one or both of them thinks.
Seeing Char fallen limp and lethargic, radiating contentment even as he oozes blood from where Amuro bit him, even as Amuro messes him up more with the grossness of his own body—though Char just did exactly what he wanted, Amuro feels like the winner of something. A few minutes ago, he was thinking in terms of humiliation, but this is something else. Amuro has the power to make Char happy, happy enough to shut up and hold still for a while. It’s thrilling, almost intoxicating.
It can’t last.
Char moves again, pushing himself up on his forearms and inching forward until his face hovers directly over Amuro’s. Then he dips down and kisses him.
Amuro gasps against Char’s mouth, and Char seizes the opportunity to stick in his whole tongue. The tip of it licks the back of Amuro’s palate, feeling out the divot the gun barrel left there. A different part toward the base of it undulates between Amuro’s upper and lower teeth, grazing both sets with almost enough force to cut.
Amuro remembers what went through his head earlier. Did you hear that back then? Do you want me to bite it off?
As long as you swallow it, Char thinks feverishly. Even if I’m bleeding out, even if you choke, I will hold you down and make certain you swallow. Consume me, Amuro. Take me into yourself. Use me up before anyone else can.
Anyone else. There are other people in the world, Amuro remembers. There are other people nearby, people like Gyunei Guss. If Amuro does what Char wants, what he himself wanted not long ago, what will happen when they find him? Will they have the decency to kill him quickly?
It will be worse if no one finds him, he realizes. He’ll languish alone with his pain and helplessness, withering under the weight of the corpse on his body and the shame on his heart, as Char’s skin grows cold and his soul grows distant. A bit of hot flesh in his stomach won’t be any comfort.
He can’t do it. Turning his head to break the kiss, Amuro finally unlocks his legs from around Char’s waist and lets them fall away.
For a moment, Char stares down at him dumbly, first in shock, then in disappointment. Then he pulls himself together and rises slowly to his feet. He picks the gun off the ground, staggers over to his desk, and tosses it down there instead. He plants his elbows on the wood and his face in his hands and curls over on himself, his hunched back turned toward Amuro.
Amuro thinks to wonder whether Char’s hand is damaged enough to permanently affect his piloting skill. If he at least managed that…
If he managed that, he isn’t happy about it, and it doesn’t even matter. As a pilot, Char has killed dozens, maybe hundreds of people, most of them military men and women who chose to take that risk. As a leader, Char threatens every life on Earth.
Taking his tongue might have made a real difference. Even if he didn’t bleed enough to die, Char would have been so much less dangerous without that golden voice of his. Besides, the nature of the wound would have discredited him. People aren’t so stupid that they wouldn’t guess its meaning.
What a horrible way to win, humiliating Char with his own most human desires. Amuro feels sickened and guilty even thinking of it. And yet, he should have done it. He should have borne that guilt. If he can’t find a better path, he’ll have condemned countless people by avoiding it.
What has Amuro’s life become? How can the fate of the Earth hinge on his willingness to suffer? Why should refusing to martyr himself make him an accessory to murder?
The tears start flowing again. He doesn’t have an excuse this time.
Char lifts his head and turns to look at him. What great timing, Amuro thinks, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to at least not sob.
Footsteps approach. Char grunts, his voice suddenly close enough that he must have crouched down, and the fallen chair shakes, jostling Amuro.
It takes a few minutes for Char to accomplish what he’s obviously going for, and Amuro spends a good chunk of that time lying on a strangely angled chairback, wondering if he’s about to fall again. Eventually, though, both he and the chair land fully upright. Amuro slumps forward, exhausted and grateful for a chance to get the pressure off of his bruises.
Something softer than the wood of the chair settles against his back and arms. Something warm and good-smelling.
Amuro opens his eyes and finds Char stripped down to the red-black turtleneck he wears beneath his coat. The coat itself has been pulled over Amuro’s shoulders.
Amuro glares, and Char gives a fragile smile in return, like he’s relieved to see a sign of life. He runs his hands down the outside of the coat, pressing the fabric that still holds his body heat closer against Amuro in an indirect embrace. “I won’t be gone twenty minutes,” he says. Then he breezes past the chair, and Amuro hears the door open and close behind him before he can turn around to watch it happen.
What was that? What was any of that?
How can you have gentleness to spare for me? Amuro thinks at the wake left by Char’s receding presence. I'm not that special. You’ll kill the Earth, beat your own people, but me…
Nothing. Amuro can’t sense even a trace of a feeling in response.
You have a real reason to hate me, he keeps trying. I’m someone you should hate, someone you should want to hurt, to kill.
Something pricks at his attention, almost like a gleam in his peripheral vision. Amuro lifts his head to get a better view of the desk.
Char left his sidearm lying there.
There’s something else, another almost-flash, this one impossible to mistake for anything external. It’s close by, practically on top of Amuro, or maybe inside his mind, in his memory–
Char slipped something into his coat when he first entered the office. He wanted Amuro to notice.
Amuro flexes his hands. The movement is stiff and painful, but the more he keeps at it, the easier it gets, and the more he feels reassured that at least he hasn’t broken anything. After a few minutes of warming up, he’s able to shift the coat around him by pinching the fabric with his fingers and passing it between them.
It’s easier than it should be. He knows where the pocket he’s looking for is. He knows the shape of what’s inside, even before he slips in a hand and grasps it. And he knows the purpose of the key he withdraws, well before he successfully fumbles through lining it up with and clicking it into the lock on his handcuffs.