Chain a Waterfall
Chain a waterfall to burned and withered skin
No-one else will ever see
And finally I know why you feel like letting go
silverchair ~ the greatest view ~ Diorama
Aya stormed up the back stairs of the Koneko, down the long hallway and into his room, slamming the door pointedly behind him, the sound hopefully loud enough to be heard downstairs. Childish, he knew, but with the rage boiling in his veins he had to do something or explode. Damn that Kudoh, he thought blackly, followed by a muttered "Shi ne!" as he paced over to the window. His fingers worked against themselves in little tics that went unnoticed.
Energy crackled beneath his skin, down his spin, jittering his teeth with the need to act. They would be leaving soon. Without him. Pain built behind his eyes, and he realized that he was grinding his teeth; his jaw popped, and he growled. He could almost hear them arguing downstairs, now that he�d fled the battle, Omi wanting to check on him and Kudoh wanting to stay behind to fucking watch him and Hidaka yelling at them both for sentimental idiots, and he was tired of it all, the bickering and sniping and being handled like he might break at any second and . . .
It just got to be a bit much, at times.
He stared wearily down at the floor where his bedroll would lie for the night, thinking for a moment that he might unroll it and lie down for a bit; his nerves were so frazzled that oblivion sounded heavenly. Hell, even the tatami mats looked comfortable enough for a lie-down.
But he should be out there. With them.
He turned from the spot abruptly, pacing back to the door with quick, urgent strides, clenching and unclenching his fists rhythmically, wishing for his katana. None of this would ever have happened if Omi hadn�t taken his primary weapon and declared him unfit for combat. Aya�s dark thoughts turned to his youngest team member. For all the teen�s adorable mien, he had a core of steel backed by enough technical knowledge to pull rank on any other operative. Kind of annoying, really, but Omi was the voice of authority before every mission. Only in the field was Aya�s word law.
And he wasn�t in the field. Not tonight. All because of Kudoh.
"Shi ne," he muttered again, pacing back to the window. The sun was setting; the too-modern, square buildings spread before him were limned dark gold, and the sky above bled crimson and lavender and pale yellow. Beautiful, really, but he wasn�t in the mood. A car door slammed on the street below, and he heard the distinctive engine of Ken�s Yamaha race off into the night, followed immediately by Yohji�s Seven. And then his Porsche.
His Porsche.
Fuckers. Oh, fuckers.
His nails bit through the skin of his palms, the slight pain bringing him back to himself just as the sun slipped below the edge of the world; the brilliant wash of colors faded to lilac, maroon, navy, and the moon appeared in all its silver glory. Aya tasted blood behind his teeth.
He wanted to kill someone.
And not just because Omi had taken his car, his Porsche, his . . . never mind. The important thing was the mission, and Aya wanted to be there. He needed to be there. Any connection to Estet, however slim . . .
His fist hit the window�s frame; wood splintered; blood spattered from his split knuckles. He shook the pain off slowly, deliberately, watching blood splatter across the otherwise pristine mats. Not like Yohji�s room. He didn�t even have mats, and had a Western bed, of all things, a four-poster Aya had heard it called, with a canopy and sheets that were changed several times a week, every time Yohji brought someone home.
No use to think about it. Nor about his three teammates speeding off into the darkness alone, hunting down the evil beasts while he sat at home and fucking healed . . .
He paced back to the door, intending to go back down to the kitchen now that they were gone, but as he reached for the knob, he paused. Blood had dried brown on his hand, though it still seeped crimson from a few open wounds. Compared to the hole in his side, this was nothing. It felt almost . . . The sensation bright against the insulation of the very expensive painkillers Omi kept insisting he take, the taste of copper bright on his tongue, bitter in the back, his eyes squeezing shut on a sudden rush of lust.
Because damn if Yohji wasn�t beautiful when he was insisting that Aya wasn�t well enough to hold his own sword.
Decision made, Aya paced back to the window, tiger in his cage, and dropped to his knees in the center of the space where his bedroll would lie. He licked a broad swipe up the center of his palm while fumbling open his button-fly jeans with one hand, freeing his rare erection and cupping it gently before it had a chance to breathe. His back arched, his cock strangely sensitive with Yohji�s flashing green eyes in his head, anger bright against his skin like the hand that skated beneath his loose shirt to pinch one nipple, take it between thumb and forefinger and roll it roughly into hardness, rake it with a nail to feel his cock jump in response, a warm, living weight in his hand.
He began sliding his hand slowly toward the hooded head, thumb circling up in a corkscrew motion to caress the foreskin, push at it a little and then pull back, drag it down over the head, his other fingers dabbling in precome to the pulse of his abused nipple.
His mind fixed on a snapshot of Yohji at the kitchen table, sprawled long-legged in the high-backed chair, button-down shirt slipping open to bare a slice of chest, all muscle and warm skin, honey-colored hair slightly mussed and falling over the sun glasses that he would insist on wearing inside.
Aya gasped, and felt for the vein on the underside, running just a finger over the exquisite surface, hips thrusting up to meet the hand that fled his nipple to skirt fresh scar tissue and push helplessly at his pubic mound, a pressure to thrust against until it skittered down to his balls, already high and tight beneath his cock, his fist pumping steadily now, the sensation almost too much and he gathered his balls into long, calloused fingers, the ache in his side fading in the wash of the toe-curling tingle that always preceded orgasm.
His feet arched almost painfully, matching the bow of his back, hips straining forward into nothing as his eyes stared sightlessly at his ceiling and a stitch broke over his seventh rib and his mouth gaped open, gasping as the first pulse crawled up out of his balls and he came
falling immediately forward with a shout to thrust helplessly into the fresh matting, pressing into the tunnel of his hand like he wanted to crawl through it, beneath it, inside the web of flesh and bone and pure beautiful sensation.
After a time his trembling stopped, and he lay quietly on his front, feet kicked out at odd angles, hand still trapped beneath him. He was bleeding, both at hand and side, and he felt fantastic.
It hadn�t solved anything, of course. He still wanted Yohji, and Yohji was still oblivious.
It would stay that way. It had to.
But for all that, he couldn�t bring himself to feel the inevitability with pleasure still crackling through his veins.
He rolled over, breathing sharply at the tug on his wounds, and settled himself against the mats, wriggling a bit to ride out the last shocks of pleasure, feeling above all immensely relaxed. He sighed contentedly. The moon caught his eyes beyond his window, a grinning sliver washed harvest-gold beneath a thin haze of cloud. He smiled back, wearily.
Perhaps staying home during missions wasn�t so very bad, after all.
He poked a finger at the torn stitch, hissed, and relaxed, unwilling to worry about explanations just then. The window frame was evidence enough. Omi shouldn�t be too very angry about having to re-sew the wound.
At least he had an excuse, this time.