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Here we go again , Challia Bull thinks as he heaves a sigh and diverts his attention from the blinking monitors to meet the gaze of the beautiful man now perched on his desk.
It’s late, and despite being a vocal advocate for a healthy work-life balance, the Lieutenant Commander finds himself seated at his desk in his private quarters, reading through reports and signing documents that technically could wait until morning. He has a good reason for this hypocrisy—one that has absolutely nothing to do with improving work efficiency by sacrificing his free time.
‘Captain— ahem, I mean, Lieutenant Commander.’
His superior officer clears his throat, correcting himself after getting the title wrong. It has been two weeks since his return, and he still isn’t used to addressing Challia by his current rank.
It’s a slip of the tongue—understandable, given how naturally the Colonel associates this green-haired man with the title “Captain”. He has always known Challia as “Captain” with a side bang covering half his face, solemn and taciturn. The current Challia—a man in his mid-thirties with slicked-back hair, looking dashing in Zeon’s new uniform and wearing an unreadable smile—is a stranger to him, despite being the same person.
It can’t be helped.
Five years is a long time, after all.
‘Yes, Colonel?’
‘Let’s have sex.’
Challia looks at him, then at the blinking monitor, then back at his superior officer. His expression draws a blank as he speaks.
‘... Could you pass the purchase request you’re sitting on? I think it’s due tomorrow.’
The infuriatingly beautiful man crosses his arms over his chest, scowling at the flat rejection.
‘Don’t you want to hear me out to the end?’
‘With all due respect, Colonel Char, I don’t even want to hear the beginning.’
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How did they arrive at this?
Let’s rewind two weeks, to when Char magically made his reappearance.
The universe operates on certain unspoken rules: energy cannot be created nor destroyed, rain must eventually stop falling, and Char Aznable never stays gone for long. His reappearance was as inexplicable as his disappearance - no grand fanfare, no dramatic debris field. That Tuesday's communiqué had been textbook Char - cryptic, presumptuous, and irritatingly irresistible:
chateau lafite @mokuba 1900 29
Twenty-four hours later, Challia found himself escorting a conspicuously alive Colonel through Sodon's security checkpoints.
Medical evaluation? , Challia had asked during the shuttle ride, scanning Char for signs of... whatever one scans for when miracles appear in your passenger seat.
Char waved a gloved hand. Perfectly operational . As if discussing a mobile suit maintenance report rather than his own impossible entrance. Funny enough, the doctors on Sodon agreed with Char after spending a good long while running tests, scanning MRI and asking him what felt like a never-ending list of questions.
The missing man himself couldn’t explain how he’d come back. It was as if he’d woken from a dream—and when he did, his first instinct was to contact the one person he trusted most in the world.
Maybe the cosmos had simply grown bored of keeping them apart.
Char was still Char, whole and unchanged, picking up their last conversation mid-sentence like Zeknova had been an inconvenient coffee break.
Simple as that.
Anyway.
So, five years.
Five years of carefully cultivated professionalism (Lieutenant Commander now, a fact Char still trips over). Five years of trading battlefield instincts for political ones. The old Challia, that stern captain who hid half his face behind his bangs, had been carefully packed away, replaced by a man who could navigate between Zabi factions with surgical precision and maintain a neutral stance as Colonel Char Aznable’s loyal subordinate without a single crack in his perfected industrial smile.
His subordinates whisper about his refined composure. His peers praise his adaptability and flexibility. Everyone agrees: the war has honed Challia Bull into something sharper, smoother.
More complete.
They are dead wrong.
To Challia, those changes are only superficial.
Fundamentally, he hasn’t changed at all.
How can he be so sure?
His reasoning is factual.
Solid.
Indisputable.
The proof sits before him now in a red, custom-tailored command uniform, golden hair catching the fluorescent light of his private quarters. His smirk still makes Challia’s pulse stutter—just like it did five years before.
That’s how he knows.
The world might have moved on, but he hasn’t progressed an inch since five years ago.
.
That Tuesday night, the night he reunited with his long-lost Colonel, a bottle of ridiculously expensive red wine and two chasers weren’t the only things Challia paid for. In his wallet sits a receipt for a box of condoms, a bottle of lube, and a crumpled bill for a room at a business hotel in the heart of Side 6.
Neither of them had been drunk. Not on alcohol, anyway. Maybe on emotions.
But both were perfectly aware of what they were doing.
What it meant. What it would change.
Challia doesn’t regret that night. Not for a second. If anything, he is grateful.
One night with Char is more than he ever dared to ask for. Before him, Challia had lived a quiet, ascetic life—the very antithesis of indulgence. Until the Red Comet veered into his orbit and altered the trajectory of his fate forever.
For Char, he would walk through fire. In fact, he has—five long years of it. Enduring the whispers, the pitying glances, the quiet judgment of a man chasing a ghost. Now that the ghost is flesh again, he will continue to carry out his duty and make their shared vision an attainable reality.
A friend. An accomplice. A trusted partner. MAV.
The other half of his soul.
The Colonel’s wish is his command.
If he wants Challia to die for his sake, he would. He would do it smiling.
And yet, his actions for the past few days prove him a sordid liar and a contradicting bastard.
‘If you don’t want to hear what I have to say, then care to explain why you’ve been avoiding me?’
Char’s voice is low, accusatory, but there’s something painfully soft beneath it.
He isn’t wrong. With Char’s return, Challia has gotten considerably busy. That’s the truth.
The Colonel is far from safe. Challia has to pull some strings from the background without attracting unwanted attention, while taking care of a person who has slipped in and out of the crack of time.
Challia was unable to postpone the meeting with the Zabis, but the Colonel, ever the tactician, managed to stall and buy them some time. Those tense days on Granada were exhausting. Until they were granted permission to leave, Challia remained constantly on edge.
Only once they returned to Sodon, with the Lunar base reduced to a distant glint of light beyond the viewport, did Challia finally allow himself to breathe.
His relief, however, is short-lived.
At the moment, Challia Bull finds himself facing a different kind of adversary.
‘There’s no such thing—’
Delicate brows furrow as Char cuts him off.
‘Don’t play dumb.’
Ah, even the frown on his face is beautiful, Challia thinks, before offering a nonchalant reply.
‘You’re reading too much into it. I’m merely occupied with work.’
His finger scrolls through reports with the intensity of a man who definitely isn't avoiding eye contact.
Naturally, Char isn’t convinced.
‘I thought you’d rather be occupied with me.’
Challia’s grip on the terminal tightens, but the smile that is plastered on his face stays the same.
‘I’d very much love to. We certainly can schedule that—some other time.’
‘When?’
The terminal is set down. He meets Char’s questioning look this time.
‘Whenever it’s suitable for both of us. I’m sure there are many things you need to tend to now that you’re back.’
Golden lashes lower and Char whispers.
‘... I like you much better when you were honest.’
‘Am I not to your liking now?’, Challia gently prompts, though his question is purely rhetorical.
Melancholy seeps into the blond’s handsome features. Long, bony, ungloved fingers reach out to toy with the tie Challia is wearing. The older man would be lying if that had no effect on him.
‘I’m sure you know that’s far from the truth.’
‘I’m glad. It’d be a problem if you grow to dislike me.’
‘Then have sex with me.’
The younger man pulls on the tie, tugging the swivel chair along with the person sitting on it closer. Challia, however, remains indifferent.
‘If that’s how you want me to prove my adoration,’ he says calmly, ‘then I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.’
Char’s blue eyes widen, then soften into something akin to resignation.
‘I see. So I’ve been demoted to “low priority”. How tragic.’
His voice is low, its damage like a paper cut—sharp and biting in Challia’s conscience. He wants to correct him, to explain that Char has always been his singular priority—that every decision, every sacrifice of these past five years has orbited around his absence. But to yield now would undo everything. He knows Char's tactics too well, how the slightest concession becomes a foothold for his relentless advance.
It is not that he doesn’t want Char. Far from it.
Challia wants him with the same desperate intensity as that night when time itself seemed to pause.
He can still taste the expensive wine on Char's lips, still feel the exact moment when careful restraint shattered into something raw and hungry. The scent of his cologne mixes with sweat and five years of longing was bittersweet as he took his time placing tender promises on alabaster skin. The hollow the Colonel left in his chest five years ago was flooded with a torrential vortex of lust, cherishment, obsession, reverence, and unnamed emotions that had kept him going ever since.
‘It’s not about priorities, Colonel. Please understand that I only have your best interests in mind.’
Challia exhales through his nose, keeping his tone carefully neutral but firm. A subtle signal that this conversation is over.
The blond stares at him. A blink. Surprise, or disbelief, quickly gives way to disappointment. A quiet, self-deprecating smile blooms on his lips as he releases the tie.
‘My best interests, hmm? How generous. Though I don't recall delegating my agency to you, Lieutenant Commander. Honestly, I expected better from you. Since when did you become such a boring man?’
The barb lands precisely as intended. Challia doesn't flinch. He makes no excuse for himself, just sitting there with his gaze downcast like a defendant awaiting sentencing without appeal.
I don't want your pity.
I won't take advantage of your gratitude.
The words are stuck in his throat.
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Five years ago, Char asked him to be his accomplice on this very ship. They became close friends, colleagues and many other things at once.
But never lovers.
Char Aznable at twenty had been brilliance wrapped in vulnerability: orphaned, alone, his sister's whereabouts unknown. He wasn’t even sure if she was alive. Throughout his teenage years, he had no real friends, no one he could truly trust. The first time he met someone of his kind—a Newtype—was when Challia Bull was assigned to his unit.
Char had many reasons to depend on Challia. No matter how cunning, exceptional, or talented Char Aznable was at the time, he had still been immature—lacking the years of experience, meaningful connections, and leverage needed to pose a real threat to the Zabi family.
That was why his gamble hadn’t been wrong when he took a risk and chose Challia.
No family. No attachments. A blank slate willing to burn for someone else's revolution. What began as professional respect had mutated into something far more dangerous—long before he'd recognized it.
By the time he'd understood the nature of his own devotion, the boundaries were already irreparably blurred. And by the time Challia realized what he truly felt for the Colonel, he had already decided to take this wretched, one-sided emotion to his grave. He didn’t want Char to know—not about these impure feelings he harbored for a man nine years his junior. The more Char trusted him, the more he feared betraying that trust.
So he kept it all to himself.
His disappearance had been the one variable Challia failed to account for.
Unrequited feelings, left to ferment in absence, had blended with quiet longing and unshakable loyalty over five years—like the Left Bank Bordeaux they once shared. They shaped him, aged him, distilled him into the man he was now. But the sediments remained—his ulterior motives, his wicked intentions for his superior—settled at the bottom of his heart, undisturbed.
When the message appeared in his inbox, Challia had a hunch. But his heart still stuttered when he spotted that familiar blond head across the bar.
Char looked unfairly pristine in a black dress shirt, half-tucked, and loose white pants, his face partially obscured by an absurd pair of aviator sunglasses. The empty seat beside him might as well have been a spotlight. Challia took it as an invitation.
The reunion was, by all accounts, anticlimactic.
They spoke of nothing consequential—weather, tabloid gossip, the vague tension humming between them. The question, Where have you been? , lingered on the tip of Challia’s tongue but never quite formed.
Char was still Char.
His cadence, his impatient "ey," the way he said "Challia" when he didn't want to call him "Captain"—it was all the same. The connection between them hummed, faint but present, though Challia didn’t dare reach for his thoughts. Or maybe he was afraid of what he’d find.
It wasn’t until the bottle emptied and Char stood—Challia mistaking it as a farewell—that his restraint cracked. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Char’s wrist before he could stop himself.
Char blinked at the desperation on his face. Then, with a slow, knowing smile, he leaned in and murmured, Shall we go somewhere more private?
They made a detour and dropped by a convenience store. The cashier’s gaze flickered between them—lingering on the blond’s careless grin, then on Challia’s stiff expression as he paid for the lube and condoms Char had tossed onto the counter.
A young beauty with his older companion. The script wrote itself.
Sugar baby. Patron. Something transactional.
He could have stopped Char, told him that he shouldn’t—they shouldn’t do this, when they stood at the front desk, where the blond fiddled with the automated check-in machine, selecting a room without even asking for Challia’s preference.
50 Hytes for a night , the blond grinned, that’s cheap .
He wasn’t talking about the room rate.
Challia handed him the paper note without a word. In return, Char passed him the printed receipt, flashing a smile.
The distraction didn’t last.
Five minutes later, Challia found himself pushing Char against the wall, with the door barely shut behind them, stealing shaky breath in a kiss that tasted like wine and long-denied hunger.
Char laughed into his mouth, breathless.
‘Captain—’
It was an act of mercy, that night.
The way he clumsily tried to match Challia’s pushy advance. Hesitant fingers, unsure where to land. Uneasiness flirted across his face, carefully tucked behind lighthearted bravado.
Challia knew. He knew. That Char knew about none of this.
The Red Comet, who commanded battlefields with effortless grace, now yielded under rough hands and clumsy affection.
Challia pretended not to notice.
It’s fine. Take it. I owe you this much.
His heart sang when Char—finally, finally—granted him permission to touch the person who’d haunted his dreams for years.
Haha, no need to rush. I’m not going anywhere. Mhm, you’ve become a fine man.
Fabric pooled at their feet, each discarded garment stripping away another layer of pretense. His hands shook—not from hesitation, but from the sheer force of restraint unraveling. The hunger he'd buried for years now rose relentless, demanding.
He needed Char.
Now. Always. Until death do us apart.
Don’t look at me like that. Do you like to play with me there that much, ah—Challia—hah, ah—
White teeth clamped down on thin pink lips, killing off any sounds that threatened to escape. Challia leaned in, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. His voice was gravel-rough, Colonel, let me hear you , and shyly, at first—then more and more—Char started making those pretty, filthy sounds. Just for him.
Wait… I—I don’t know. It’s not that I want you to stop… just, give me a few sec. Your fingers, hngh, are big—ah, ah! Didn’t I tell you not to move—hiii, eek, Challia… Challia…
Tears spilled from pale eyelashes. Sweat gathered on his temples. His face contorted between pleasure and overwhelm, yet he never once demanded cessation. Brave, beautiful boy . He sobbed into the crook of Challia’s neck, teeth scraping skin when the older man’s lube-slicked fingers pressed down on just the right spot.
The condom was rolled on with trembling haste. A final thread of propriety made Challia growl, please, Colonel, may I? Even now, at the precipice, he asked.
Desperately.
Pathetically.
How despicable.
A man like him, reduced into nothing but a creature that acted on instinct.
Salvation came in the form of the gentle hand cupping his face. Gently, tenderly. So was the small, reticent smile that he showed him.
I’m all yours. This body is the only thing that I can offer you in exchange for the past five years. To think I’ve chained you down this much, ha… you’re hopeless. But so am I. Sorry I’ve kept you waiting all this time.
Legs hooked around his waist. Fingers threaded in his hair, begging for a kiss. Glassy blue locked with fractured jade. They were already past the point of no return.
Guilt pooled bitter on his tongue with every thrust, every gasp torn from Char's lips.
He was a shameful man. Worse than a scoundrel. The basest of men.
Of course, Char would seek to repay him. Of course, he knew what Challia desired. Just as Challia had always harbored his weakness for the Colonel, so too had Char carried his own fondness for his steadfast Captain. He wouldn’t deny his MAV of anything, not that Challia had ever asked, and that unspoken promise had always lingered between them.
But five years changed things.
Five years, and the man who returned could offer nothing—no grand reward, no worthy recompense. Only this. Only himself.
The conclusion had been inevitable from the start.
Between rumpled sheets and a bunched-up comforter, their bodies intertwined until exhaustion claimed them—only to wake a few hours later and do it all over again. When morning came, they reverted to being coworkers, as if the bruising kisses and desperate whispers of “don’t leave” and “I need you” had been nothing more than illusions crafted by the paradoxical labyrinth of their alcohol-induced thoughts.
What a wretched story.
.
In the week that followed, Char sought him out.
In the week that followed, Challia avoided Char like the plague.
Paperwork became his shield—reports to file, meetings to attend—anything to avoid the Colonel's quarters. But now, with the Lunar base looming outside the viewport, he knew his time was running out.
This is not the first time Char had tried to seduce him with that brusque line.
The initial advance came during that first week back, alcohol-glazed and heavy between them in Char's quarters. Do you want to— , those words slipped out of nowhere. Challia had set down his glass with deliberate calm and excused himself.
The second time, they were at the observation deck. Char had closed the distance, his breath warm against Challia’s lips, a heated look in his eyes as he whispered his name. The echo of approaching boots had broken the moment.
By the third attempt—Char's theatrical "slip" into his lap during a routine mobile suit inspection—Challia had perfected the art of disengagement, lifting him with the same detached efficiency he'd use to handle ordinance.
The fourth time, is now.
He isn’t so lucky this time.
The Colonel has no intention of giving him any leeway.
What a cruel man.
‘I’m sorry.’
The silence between them stretches taut. Challia keeps his eyes fixed on anywhere but Char’s face. His apology hangs in the air, its weight no heavier than empty words.
It takes Char a good minute or two, before he exhales sharply, the sound more frustrated than angry. When he opens his mouth again, he asks Challia a question.
‘I thought there wouldn’t be any secret between us.’
Ah.
There it is.
The trump card.
The card that he knows Challia is weak to.
It would have been better if Char had gotten mad at him, punched him or told him what a horrible man he is. That would have hurt less.
‘It’s not—it’s not what this is about—’
I don’t want to hide anything from you.
You are all that I’ve ever cared about.
Char doesn’t let up.
‘Like I’d believe you’ve suddenly developed an allergy to my presence. Given your impeccable immune system, that seems statistically unlikely. I’m at a loss.’
The younger man runs a hand through his hair, visibly trying to stay calm as he glares at him.
‘Colonel…’
‘You spent five years. Five fucking years. Tearing the universe, looking for me. I could have been dead, yet you still looked. I saw the way you stared at me from across the bar. But then you sat down next to me, like nothing was wrong, and we started talking about absolutely nothing. For a moment, I thought… maybe you have changed.’
‘Haha… and do you think so?’, he asks dryly.
Char grits his teeth.
‘What do I think?! You don’t even give a damn about what I think. Challia, we fucked . After a night where neither of us could keep our hands off each other, you suddenly decided to treat me like a mistake . What the hell am I supposed to think?!’
‘That’s exactly why!’
Challia's own voice surprises him—louder, sharper than intended, echoing off the metal walls of his quarters.
‘Colonel Char, I chose to follow you of my own will. I don't... I don't want you to think you owe me anything.’
Char blinks, momentarily stunned. Then, slowly, his lips curve into something dangerously amused.
‘Of course I’m indebted to you,’ Char counters smoothly, ‘It’s only natural that I want to repay—’
‘Colonel, you don’t. Not like this. You don’t have to.’
The interruption is firm.
The moment the realization clicks in Char's mind, it's almost audible—like the metallic clank of their Newtype connection snapping into place. His expression shifts from confusion to disbelief, then settles into something dangerously fond.
‘Challia Bull,’ he breathes, voice laced with incredulous delight, ‘Are you seriously under the impression I slept with you out of politeness?’
Before Challia can react—before he can even process the words—Char's fingers dart out, catching his chin with surprising strength. The grip forces their eyes to meet, leaving no room for escape.
‘Honestly, is the “Zeon’s number one Newtype” title really just for show?’, he murmurs, ’If that’s the case, I must revise my opinion of your “sharp intuition”. For the record—’
In one fluid motion, Char swings a leg over Challia's lap, boots planting firmly on either side of his thighs. The swivel chair groans in protest as Char leans in, close enough that Challia can count the pale lashes framing those endless blue eyes.
‘—did I not make it abundantly clear that I like you?’
‘!!’, Challia's breath catches.
‘Hah, for a man so adept at reading people, you’re painfully slow when it comes to this kind of stuff.’
Laughter ghosts over his lips. All of a sudden, he feels dizzy.
‘C-Colonel Char...?’
‘Ah, must I spell it out? Aren’t you supposed to be the gentleman here?’
Before Challia can respond, Char tugs sharply on his sleeve, forcing him to stand. The position reverses—Challia now looming over Char, who tilts his head up with defiant grace. Yet despite the height difference, Challia feels utterly powerless.
There’s a dazed look on his face as his brain tries to process the information.
Could it be?
‘If you want to avoid me,’ the blond smiles, guiding Challia’s rugged hand to the dip of his waist, ‘do it because you don’t want me. Tell me you feel nothing for me.’
Challia swallows hard.
‘Tell me you don’t miss having me.’ Char presses closer, until their bodies align.
‘Or that you don’t want my lips on yours.’
He tilts his head playfully. From this angle, Challia can see the hollow of collarbone peeking out from under Char’s open collar. His fingers twitch at his sides.
Porcelain skin. White. Unmarred.
That night, he had wanted to ruin it.
To press his mouth to that vulnerable hollow, to mark it with teeth and tongue until the world knew who Char belonged to. The thought coils hot in his gut even now, intrusive and unbidden.
His pulse roars in his ears.
For years, he has dreamed of this. For years, he has imagined countless scenarios where his beloved looked at him that way. As he stands here, lost in the impossible blue of his eyes, the present seems surreal.
Even until now—
‘...I still want you. Always.’
With each word, Challia’s resolve crumbles to dust, fades away with the last of his mental restraint.
‘Are you done wallowing in denial? That’s too bad. I was prepared to be very persuasive.’
The teasing lilt can't quite mask the relief beneath.
‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘Pity.’ A sigh, exaggerated.
Challia exhales, thumb brushing the sharp angle of Char's hip with deliberate care.
‘Sometimes I wonder why you still choose me.’
‘Why not?’, comes the instant riposte. A mischievous finger tracing the insignia on the collar of his shirt, ‘Didn’t you become this kind of man just to stand at my side? I don't share what's mine .’
He would be lying if the possessiveness in Char’s tone didn’t send heat coiling low in his belly.
‘What a selfish person that you are’. There’s no real reproach in his tone.
He can only shake his head in acceptance. It’s his loss this time.
‘I am. And yet?'
'—and yet, I followed you anyway.’
Char's grin is unrepentant.
‘You love me anyway.’
The older man doesn't deny it.
Challia , and he realizes how much he misses the sound of his own name on this person’s tongue. The syllables curling around his tongue in a way that makes his chest ache.
Leaning down, he captures Char's mouth in a kiss—one for being right, another for the smug curve of his smile. Char laughs into it, the sound swallowed between them as hands fist in uniforms.
Work will have to wait.
After all, isn't he always the one advocating for proper work-life balance?
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