Grausame Maskerade
His lesser wounds had healed speedily enough but his body was still recovering from exhaustion, infection and a serious case of pneumonia at its own infuriatingly slow pace. This was the first day that he'd spent entirely lucid since the mission almost three weeks ago, or at least, lucid during the limited hours not stolen by sleep. Omi and Ken had spent much of that waking time today filling in the gaps in Weiß's pre-mission intell for him, along with all of the "excitement" that he'd missed.
Tashi-San had indeed died that night, decapitated in a "bizarre, unexplainable tragedy" that the evening news took a brief, morbid glee in reporting to the world. In related stories, no less than *seventeen* amusement park moguls from around the world had disappeared the same night. It was rumored that all of them were business partners but, oddly enough, no member of their personal staffs could verify a single meeting that more than one of them had attended. Foul play was a given, of course, and the authorities theorized that the missing partners might be among the hundreds of unidentified bodies reduced to bone fragments and ash by the inferno at Dream Land Center. The case would probably never be solved, but a bit of investigation through channels only Kritiker had access to quickly confirmed that all of the "missing" businessmen owned theme parks or theaters where Masquerade had regularly held and/or recruited for their games.
Aya's gratitude for their patience in rehashing weeks-old events for the invalid did not mitigate his annoyance in the least as he felt the hateful cotton comforter sliding up his body. Then came the inevitable hand against his temple, feeling of his aching head as if every mystery of life and health in his personal universe could be deduced by that simple act. It had always escaped him why, when someone was feeling miserable and exhausted and very much like being left alone, others of the household felt this need . . . no, this sudden *right* to invade his personal space with their pestering and prodding. He opened his eyes and grabbed the intrusive hand just as it began to trace the healing ligature mark at his throat, growling something to the effect that he'd like to be left to sleep in peace and with the covers where he'd damn well left them.
The rant stopped before it started. He hadn't expected to find Yoji standing there.
Omi had made a point several times today - unasked - of informing Aya that Yoji had been at his bedside for the entire forty-eight and then some hours that he'd spent unconscious after the mission. Aya had only the vaguest memories of his first days of "consciousness," though even they were clearer than his memories of most of the Hunt. They were impressions, really, nothing more, tainted by twisted fever dreams of masks and compulsions and the heavy antibiotics he'd been dosed with, but Yoji had been a definite part of them. He remembered a warm hand holding his own, remembered feeling like a balloon at the end of a string with only that firm grip to keep him from floating away entirely. It wasn't until today, when Aya had been aware enough to look for him and - if his rattling lungs cooperated - carry on a conversation, that Yoji had been conspicuously absent.
He just kept staring sadly at the mark on Aya's neck, as if he hadn't the nerve to look Aya in the eyes. He had that "how much trouble am I in?" look on his face, an irritatingly familiar expression. Sighing, Aya backed up and motioned him into the bed. If nothing else, it was a good excuse to kick off the blankets again in exchange for Yoji's far less suffocating warmth.
"Ken got his film back while you were . . . sleeping," Yoji said after several minutes, shifting to hold a picture up where Aya could see it without lifting his head off Yoji's chest. "He was especially anxious to show me this one . . ." Yoji chuckled, a comfortable rumble. "He wanted me to show it to you personally."
Aya had a feeling he knew which picture Yoji was referring to even before he saw it and, sure enough, there on the little glossy rectangle was an image of a darkly scowling Aya sitting in front of a darkly scowling penguin that was covered in cactus spit. It was a good picture really, decent composition, the sunlight streaming in at just the right angle to keep the turquoise-stained fountain water from looking too ridiculous. Besides, it wasn't as if there were any photos of Aya in the place in which he *wasn't* scowling, darkly or otherwise. It was just the position his face took when he wasn't thinking about it . . . or when someone near and dear to him was laughing too hard to snap the stupid picture he hadn't wanted to sit for in the first place.
"Lovely," Aya rasped sarcastically, coughing; damn pneumonia.
Still chuckling, Yoji set the photo on the nightstand and curled both arms around Aya in that protective, shielding way he had. Aya simply lay in the circle of those strong arms, quiet and still, drifting a little to the rhythm of Yoji's heart and the familiar scent of him. He hated to admit it - wasn't sure if he was willing to even now - but a major part of his crankiness today could probably be attributed to the lack of this. It made him feel weak, vulnerable, foolish, but he held Yoji a little tighter to him just the same.
"Aya, I'm sorry . . ." Yoji began suddenly.
"Shhhhh . . ." Aya hushed, and kissed him.
It was an idea that belonged to neither of them and to both of them at once but, at some silent decision, their clothing began to disappear piece by piece over the edge of the bed. When the kissing left Aya breathless, still struggling as he was with the pneumonia, it changed to caressing and nuzzling, then to something more intimate still. Yoji's gentle fingers lingered over the few remaining bandages, the healing scars. When they brushed across his throat and the collar's mark there, Aya shivered at some half-remembered pain and Yoji jerked his hand away, reaching down to pull the covers up over them both. Aya let him.
His body was as tired as his soul tonight, too tired to resist Yoji's eternal, needy protectiveness or the wishes of his own too often sublimated heart. When Yoji gently began to stroke the heated stiffness between his legs, Aya let him do that too, turning in his embrace and grinding back against him when he hesitated to go any further. That need to feel something real and true, even if it was pain, even if he was forcing Yoji to cause it, was suddenly overwhelming.
"I can't, Aya," Yoji whispered, "I'll hurt you . . ."
Aya could hear the unshed tears clearly, that terrible fear that he'd already hurt the one he loved by some action he had or hadn't taken, but there was need in his voice too. Words could only ever go so far between them. He needed a physical confirmation that the bond between them hadn't been broken, needed it as much as he feared it, and it would only eat him up inside if Aya didn't guide him to a decision.
"You say that like it matters . . ."
He stroked Yoji's long, soft hair when he wept, guided him inside when he hesitated, moved against him until he picked up the rhythm himself. The first real thrust did make Aya cry out in pain and Yoji tried to pull out with a sobbed apology, but Aya twined their legs together and begged him to stay. If he was gentle and slow, it almost didn't hurt at all. On their sides like this, with Yoji's hand flat on his belly holding him close, Yoji's mouth tracing damp patterns on the back of his neck, it was more like being rocked to his rest by someone who loved him, someone who made him feel safe.
Yoji said it like it mattered, and maybe that was why Aya did love him, as much as his sin-twisted heart was capable of loving anyone. The darkness of the world might be savagely devouring the light all around them but, in here, it was enough just to hold a piece of Yoji inside for as long as it lasted. It was just another day in Heaven before the inevitable fall, he knew, just another night dancing with the lightning . . .
But somehow, for now, it was enough.