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Firefly A 'Weiss Kreuz' story Sephy Timeline note: Between the original series and the Verbrechen and Strafe OAVs. ...requiem... His chest burned. Sparks of fire-pain spiked through his lungs, throbbing as Omi struggled for breath, so hard he felt his stomach churn in response. His legs felt numb, clumsy as he pushed himself onward, past the rubbery feeling, past the acid burn of muscles seizing up and the ache of the wound in his thigh, slick with sweat and blood, torn anew with each step. He ran because he could not stop. He ran because all that lay behind was ruin and death and he wanted no part of either. He'd already done enough this night, too much. He hadn't meant for things to spread so far out of control. The mission had been perfect, flawless in plan but the execution had been one disaster after another. They should have pulled back the instant the target hadn't appeared in the appointed location at the right time. But Manx had been so insistent that tonight was their only window of opportunity and so they had taken the chance that the quarry would show up eventually. And he had, completely tipped off and guns blazing at the slightest provocation He shuddered, remembering blood on cream walls, a girl's body broken and pierced as she lay in her sparkling evening gown near on upturned table. Her date screaming over her body until he too had been hit, his head blossoming with blood, spilling out of every orifice -- eyes, nose, mouth. He might have been crying blood tears had it not been for the slow fall of his body, face wiped clean of all but forced peace, mouth an eternal O of lamentation. Too much blood everywhere, staining the floors and the walls, staining him, his face sticky with brain matter from having been too close to that man, from trying to pull him to the floor. Stupid really. Knowing that didn't make his eyes burn any less as he rubbed at them, determined not to let his vision be blurred. He was the rabbit now and the wolves were on his heels. If he slowed down, he was dead. He wondered about the others, each pushed away from the other until all he'd gotten was one glimpse of Yohji rolling out a window, Ken on his heels. Aya. Well, he had seen nothing of Aya but he knew Abyssinian had to have escaped. Because the thought of Aya being dead... If he let himself stop on that, if he let himself go there, then he really would stop and he would make what happened back there seem paltry in turn. A shadow passed near him, dangerously close, the air displacing as a presence fell in beside him, jumping from overhead. He panicked, trying to pick up speed and unable to halt the indignant squawk as he was near lifted by the seat of his pants into a hold. "Quiet," Someone growled, lethal and impatient and blessedly familiar. Aya. He wasn't sure whether to sag or keep kicking his heels ineffectually at the ground now a few inches below his dangling feet, Aya somehow managing to have lifted him into a hold, arm around his waist, almost carrying him as they moved, swift and predatory. Going completely limp would drag them both down, his dead weight too much even for the redhead, implacable determination and all, to carry quickly under the circumstances. Likewise, flailing his sneakered feet out so wildly was just as likely to tip them over at an inopportune moment. Aya solved the conundrum for him by shoving him harshly back to his feet and dragging him by the wrist over to a manhole covering, steam from below ground filtering upward, wafting unpleasant smells into his face as it was ripped away and he found himself near shoved downward. He cursed, catching himself and the ladder, swinging him in, dark eyes glittering at him from above, aloof and controlled. And the words came. "Don't die, Omi." His eyes widened in realization attempting to wiggle up the ladder when the circular covering was dropped, an impatient stomp on it telling him to get moving, followed by the sound of feet, many sets of them pounding against pavement, and the staccato rattle of gunfire. He clutched the rail guards, unheeding of the darkness and the smells and the way this place seemed to sweat slime. He counted, listening to each shot, sliding down the ladder a little more until he found the bottom, a sticky splash that resounded in the blackness, edging inward, eyes fixed on where he knew the opening to be even though it was covered and he was blind here. Something skittered in the darkness, a squeak and the trickle of water making him whirl, darts ready. But there was nothing and no one and he couldn't even be sure of what his ears told him here -- too many sounds to distinguish, no visual. Damn it. His hand felt until he found the wall, clutching it as he pulled himself along, having stopped long enough for his leg to register that yes, it had taken a bullet and ow, that fucking hurt! Re-sheathing his darts, he patted his pockets, unzipping his windbreaker, his hand running over the tools kept in secret pockets until he found it, fingers closing around a cylindrical tube, twisting it with a quick catch of his teeth. Light sputtered, almost useless in the overwhelming gloom but he was grateful nonetheless. He limped along, feeling the sear of damaged nerves, of blood still trickling and he wondered how much he had lost and how soon he would crash once the adrenaline high wore off. No, better to think about getting out of here and back to the Koneko, to aid of some kind. Not Kritiker though. Kritiker had a leak. Omi realized he was coldly furious, beyond outraged and surprised. Something in him should have been horrified at the thought, that they had been compromised so but all he could muster was a murderous need to hunt, to seek and seek until he found the culprit and then kill them slowly. Very slowly. Possibly with the slowest, deadliest poison he could find. Someone had tried to kill them tonight, someone tried to kill them almost every mission, yes but this was different. This was personal. A family affair. It was odd that he would consider Kritiker as much his family as Weiss but with Uncle Shuuichi's death, he'd felt a responsibility to the organization, to see that it kept to the goals that his uncle had aspired to. More than that, he had a vested interest in the organization staying clean, his teammates' lives hanging in the balance should it not, should Kritiker decide that they were no longer of any use. 'Assassins don't get retirement plans, Omittichi. They get a gold watch and a coffin,' he could hear Yohji's voice chiding him in the back of his mind. 'Not this time,' he thought. Not with the Weiss. Not without his say. Not ever. They'd fought too long and hard, suffered too much to just be discarded. Of course in this case, there was no telling where the weak link had come in. Manx was safe, he felt certain but he couldn't trust that the people around her were which meant they'd have to lie low until they figured out who had betrayed them. The thought that it might have been one of is teammates registered and he hated himself for it, for even entertaining the notion for a second but he had been trained to consider all options. There was no reason any of them would have to betray the other -- not for wealth or power certainly. Short of Aya-chan being kidnapped again, there was no hold to be had on any of them and Manx would certainly said something about Aya-chan disappearing, to say nothing of Abyssinian's seeming preternatural awareness of his sister's well being at all times. No, something else was going on here. "Games in the dark," he muttered and his face knotted. Well, he could play games, too and with far more efficiency than the sloppiness of tonight's attempt. Just give him a couple of days and a computer and he'd have it figured out. He'd hack and par through every scrap of information, every account, and file that Kritiker had and then he'd take care of things. He stumbled, nearly falling into the muck puddling at his feet. The throb in his leg was spreading, a live wire inserted directly into bone, charged with discomfort and agony, threatening to shatter and pulsing in time with each movement. Omi clamped a hand there, feeling the edge of the tear, the soft ball of flesh from where the bullet had entered, just beneath the skin, not close to anything vital he thought but still there, tangible, solid. He considered, tempted to turn to his pen knife and try and remove it but no, that would slow him down too much. Better to keep moving, for as long as he could. Until he found a place to rest, to think. Then he could to do it, could take care of the business of locating and contact the others, ascertaining their well-being before turn his focus to Kritiker. He wiped at his face, tamping down on the shudder that threatened to escape as his bloody fingers swiped at his right cheek, encountering bits of tissue and gore, half-dried along the ridge of his chin. Throat bobbing and tightening, he scrubbed at his face, feeling it flake even as he managed to plaster more streaks of blood all over him. Oh yes, this wasn't going to look questionable topside at all. 'I want a shower,' he started moving again, 'And after that a bath -- a nice, long, hot bath. And I'm going to scrub until my skin peels.' But a bath, indeed personal comfort, was of secondary, even tertiary importance. And if he had to wade through a layer of shit and sludge to get where he needed to be, well, then so be it. 'Don't die, Omi.' His mind drifted back to Aya and he wondered what had happened to his teammate. He didn't believe for a second that Aya had been caught -- his partner was too ornery for that. But he might have gotten hurt, possibly shot. Omi's throat tightened at the thought. He had seemed uninjured when dropping Bombay down into the sewer system but then what if something had changed, what if he had gotten injured in doing that. 'I did hear gunshots...' He squelched the thought, ground it beneath mental sneakers. Aya was fine, they were all going to be fine. He couldn't afford to be defeatist now. 'Don't die, Omi.' He wouldn't, not with so much left to do but beyond that -- he wanted to see them again. Yohji. Ken. Aya. His family. His friends. His... It should have been a smile though it was too dim to see, it should have felt like the corners of his face and mouth were lifting in tandem, wearisome and rueful. Instead he felt his lips quiver for all of a second before he firmed them, drawn in a thin slash that allowed for no weakness. Omi straightened, angry at himself, eyebrows slashing downward as he grit his teeth and pushed himself along the wall. It occurred to him that he must look very much like Aya in this moment and he wanted to laugh. He tried to picture them standing side by side, similar expressions of displeasure and maybe he had lost too much blood because the image was funnier than it should have been. 'Of course,' The thought carried a laconic tinge, 'I'd probably end up looking like a pissy teenager where he comes off as a scary fucker.' But then again, Aya was intimidating, excelled at putting people in their place with a well-timed glance or grunt. He was doing it again, thinking about Aya when he should be concentrating on other things, when the glacial Abyssinian should be at the back, not the forefront of his mind but lately it was all he could do not to dwell on his partner. To puzzle and sift over every gesture, every flick of pomegranate eyes, the elegant curve of his neck and the glint of the earring as it beat against it, vengeance promised and fulfilled. Fighting not to stare at the lean curve of Aya's shoulders and back as he bent over flowers in the shop or drew his sword in an intricate ballet of precise movement and anticipation, muscles bunching and unbunching, sweat glistening and defining shoulders and chest. Omi groaned, feeling hot, almost flustered, his neck burning. 'At least I know I'm not hurt so very badly if I can think like this,' he swiped at his forehead again. But it did no good to think on such things, no matter how pleasant, because all they were was a distraction from the work, from the task at hand. 'Then again Aya's always been a distraction.' And he wondered where that thought had come from, insidious and demanding his attention. There was truth to it. He had always been acutely aware of his partner, at first wanting nothing more than his approval, to work past that layer of ice Aya used to mask everything he felt, to separate himself from the rest of the world and then one day he'd woken up and he'd known. He wanted Aya's approval, yes but more than that, he wanted *Aya.* Wanted to know him and talk with him and sit with him and just...be with him. It was stupid and would probably never happen because Tsukiyono he was by name but he was a Takatori by blood and Aya would never forget that. Forgive it but not forget. There was too much Fujimiya blood spilled by Takatori hands to ever make that all right. And yet... 'Don't die, Omi.' He sighed and trudged onward. *** The Koneko was dark. It put him instantly on guard, wary, because surely one or all of them should have been back by now. Even doubling back, he figured that at the very least Yohji or Ken should have returned. He flicked his hand, wrist sheath unleashing a set of throwing knives, fitting easily between each finger as he struggled with the lock, the street light beneath him sputtering, a dissonant squeal as electronics like everything else, failed. Omi was on edge, light-headed from blood-loss and the unending silence of his journey underground. He longed for a human voice, something mundane like a good evening or some things. Anything. But the street was empty, just a car passing by and a dog howling in the distance. Unreal. Distant. Or maybe that was the blood loss talking. The door turned easily, Ken having oiled it just the other day and he let the door swing inward, before inching closer, reaching for the light switch. The air moved and let the knives fly, rolling away from the door, hearing a soft swear blossom in the gloom. He went for his darts this time and managed to get them to hand when the edge of something sharp found his throat. Checkmate. He went limp, letting his head fall backward, hoping the point of the weapon would easy off but no, it followed his descent, dimpling his skin. The darts he clutched tighter. If he was going to die here tonight, he wouldn't be the only one. He followed the glint of the blade, a bridge of steel that led upward to -- "Aya!" he hissed, and the pressure relented. Just a little. "Are you going to use those on me?" The question was humorless, Abyssinian stepping back and flicking the light switch. Omi blinked, eyes watering and he palmed the darts, recapping them with practiced precision. "Sorry. I thought--you--you're sitting in the dark. Why are you sitting in the dark?" Omi sat up, then winced, his leg screaming anew with pain. Aya knelt beside him, still holding his katana as he ran a hand along the bullet hole in his shorts, Omi flushing as smooth leather gloves slid over his wounded skin. "You know why," his eyes flickered up then back down again. "Someone set us up." He nodded, "Siberian and Balinese?" "Not here. They may have gone to ground elsewhere. Not a bad idea, all things considered." "Then why are you here?" Indifferent amethyst eyes fixed on him. "Because I knew this is where you'd come back to." Omi gaped. There was really no other way to describe it. His mouth fell open and he felt -- giddy? Elated? Irate? Yeah. Pretty much all of those. "If you were worried... Aya, you shouldn't have come back here! Someone could have killed you." The redhead snorted, "They could have tried." "Oh yes, I forgot...You're fucking immortal. Bullets just bounce right off your thick skull!" His earlier anger and fear burned anew, "You shouldn't have put yourself at risk." "And you should?" Up came the eyebrow and down went thin lips into a scowl. "It's my job! I made the plans and someone fucked them up and I need to find out who did so I can find out why and rip their heads off! But you didn't have come back. I can handle myself...I could handle myself back there, too. I don't need you to look after me all the time. I'm not a child." "I know that. But you are my partner and I am going to take care of you whether you like it or not." "Throwing me down a sewer is taking care of me?" "Throwing you down a sewer saved your life," He could see a tremor, a thin crack. Aya was trying very hard for once not to lose his temper and he couldn't for the life of him figure out why. He was being a brat, an ungrateful, pissy brat but he couldn't help it, every frustration bubbling forth and finding release. "I can save my own life, thank you. And if I can't then I don't deserve to be in the Weiss." "Omi," he replied evenly after a lengthy pause. "I'm not leaving you to die. That's all there is to it." He wanted to ask why -- why Aya cared, why it mattered, why /he/ mattered but Omi did none of these things, glowing at the ground and attempting to push himself to his feet. Hands slid underneath his arms, pulling him to his feet. "It's not your fault, you know," Aya's low voice husked, ducking underneath to loop Bombay's arm around his head. "What?" "You couldn't have known." Oh. The mission. The set up. His worst nightmare come to life. "But I should have," he replied sullenly, "It's my job to know. I could have gotten us all killed." "So fix things. Find out who did this and we'll stop them." It was so easy for him to say those things, to simplify and objectify what had happened and Omi wished for an instant that he could put it away so easily. "What if it happens again? What if I screw up and..." "There are no certainties, Omi. None at all. You know that," He could almost hear the glare in Aya's voice as they started limping up the stairs. He leaned heavily against the older boy, comforted by the warmth passing between them, bits of free skin pressing together, through their clothing. "Yeah..." He sighed. "We should probably get out of here." "What's the point? Whoever set us up has had enough time to realize we're here. Nothing we can do about it now and we may as well bandage you up, The bullet still in there?" He nodded, biting his lip. "No anesthetic?" "No," There was an apology in Abyssinian's voice. "I'll make it quick and painless as possible." 'Great,' he thought bleakly. 'Can this night get any--' "And you're going to have to take a bath," Aya paused, nose wrinkling as he looked over him. "You stink." --worse.' "And whose fault is that?!" Aya ignored that, "Think you can get undressed and stand in the shower by yourself or will you need help?" Now there was a train wreck of thought if ever he heard one. Aya. Helping him. In the shower. Without-- And what was worse was that infinitesimal second where he actually entertained the thought. "No thanks," he replied with as much dignity as he could muster. "I think I'll manage." *** An hour later, Omi was trying to remember why he thought a hospital was a bad idea. Certainly the idea of pain-killers was appealing about now. He kept his eyes on the wall, biting his lip bloody as Aya's hand moved, the prick-push of a needle and thread puncturing then suturing his skin followed. He could feel every nerve in his leg, every muscle, and they all seemed to throb and pulse in time with his heart, a painful tattoo that echoed all the way to his head. There was no help for it; the wound had to be closed and simple gauze and bandaging wasn't going to do. Nor were Yohji and Ken here to hold him down, to allow him the luxury of jerking or yelping in pain. There was only Aya and to do either would not only be counterproductive but would disgrace him in the eyes of the other. And so he kept as quiet and as still as possible, flinching but holding himself in place, leg taut and flat. The bullet had gone deeper than he'd initially anticipated, requiring some digging and probing on Aya's part, having to actually peel a few layers of skin back and pry it gently free. He should be, or so the Abyssinian informed him, grateful it hadn't shattered, that there wasn't more than once piece to dig out. At this rate, he'd be grateful if he didn't get an infection, sterilized knife or no. "You can cry out if you need to," Aya's voice was focused, bereft of it's usual stern quality as he sat next to him, bent over and sewing. "It might make you feel better." "I don't think anything outside of a good shot of morphine is going to make me feel any better," Omi winced, letting his eyes rest on the tufts of scarlet hair, mussed and now dampened with sweat. They'd been at this for nearly an hour and though he hadn't let on, Omi knew that Aya was having just as much trouble as he was. "I can get that if you really need it." The offer was sincere and Omi knew if that meant knocking off a hospital or doctor's office, Aya would keep his word, should he make that demand of him. But he shook his head. "I'll live. I'd rather have you here." The words hung awkwardly and he felt his breath catch. "Um. I mean, I think it's better that you stay here. That we stay together. Because separating would be bad and we could be picked off." "Right." The word was brusque, abrupt and almost ... disappointed? No, he was definitely fever-ish. He had to be because there was no way that he could construe that sort of reaction in his right mind. An awkward pause rose up, a lull that he felt more keenly than the stitching of his flesh and he sought to fill it. "As soon as we're done here, I should go down stairs and search the computer, make sure we haven't been hacked from an outside source and then start backtracking. And then we should--" "No." He blinked, looking down to find Aya glowering at him. "Excuse me? And what's with the stare? You look like you're gonna kill me or something. What did I do?" "You are not going to do anything. You are going to lay your ass down and sleep for the rest of the night." "But, Aya, there's things to do and--" Aya yanked the thread and he yelped feeling it tighten. "Damn it, Aya!" Omi yelled. "What the fuck is wrong with you? That fucking hurt!" Snip-snip and the thread fell away, Aya ignored him, neatly tying it off as he lay the needle and thread aside. "You have done enough for one night," Aya said viciously, reaching for the bandaging and starting to unroll it. "You're angry," Omi bit off then calmed down, "Why are you angry?" The roll of bandages stilled and Aya sat there, head bowed and shoulders tense. "Aya," he prompted. "What--" Aya kissed him. There was nothing and then a fluid flurry of movement, his shoulders caught, Aya's head leaning in towards his, lips moving brutally against his, licking and nipping until his mouth parted in response to that unvoiced demand. The taller boy scooted closer, a hand insinuating itself at the base of Omi's spine, immediate and real through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. Chins bumping clumsily, one hand covering the side of his face, Omi moaned, feeling his teeth rattle from the force of it, seeming to pass onto Aya who shuddered, breaking away, his forehead pressed against Omi's. They sat there, breathing together, Omi stunned, burning and aching and not all of it was unpleasant. He couldn't think, couldn't do more than reach blindly, fingers running over Aya's shoulders and neck, feeling the torque of tense muscle as he tried to make sense of the last few seconds. It was too much to hope for, it ... "Damn you," Aya growled, shattering the moment. Well, that evaporated the fuzzy confusion churning in his gut. "I beg your pardon?" he said stupidly. "What do you mean, 'damn you'? "Just shut up." "But..." "Omi, shut up," Aya's hands gripped the sides of his face, then pulling him forward until his face was pressed against the juncture of jaw and neck, a tremor wracking the older boy. He frowned, his hands finding a hold on Aya's arms, chastised and not knowing why he was chastised, not understanding any of what just happened, except that it was better than he'd ever imagined, Aya's lips on him, warm and softer and -- "You weren't supposed to matter," The words were querulous, low and almost�broken? No, but close, as if it were costing Aya to make this admission. "Not like this." And suddenly Omi understood. For so long Weiss and Kritiker, they had been not just a part of his life, but the entirety of his life, his purpose and mission two sides of the same sharply honed sword. Real life, what normal people considered to be real and true, was something he could only watch, wearing the part of Tsukiyono Omi with patent unease when it came to functioning in that real world. He was too awkward, too unsure of himself around normal people, held apart by something they could never understand and he could never breach. He had seen too much darkness in the human soul to ever be fooled by the patina of the mundane that most people spent their entire lives swaddled in. He wasn't sure whether he pitied or envied their obliviousness. Perhaps a little of both. He would never comfortably be Omi the student or Omi the florist. Those were just aspects of the disguise he worse, one he saw mirrored in his teammates' eyes. It didn't mean he didn't have moments where he longed for that life, staring out the Koneko's display glass and watching families walk by, laughing and pointing out shops they wanted to go to. Couples draped all over each other as they bought flowers for each other, sickeningly cute. He wanted those things but he would never have anything like it, so dwelling had always seemed pointless. But how much harder was it for Aya, who'd had one of those real lives, who had been one of those people buying flowers in their shop? Aya knew the other side in a way he never would. Aya had a life with a family and friends and it had been taken from him--with brutal, ruthless abandon. It had been taken but Aya remembered and Omi knew that memory hurt him, almost as much as seeing Aya-chan that one last time from across the safety of the street, watching as she and Sakura took possession of the old shop, laughing and talking. Omi remembered standing next to him, seeing out of the corner of his eye, such a haunted, hungry look before turning away, leaving him to trail along behind, wanting to say something and having nothing he could say that would ease the saddened aura that had settled over his teammate, vengeful fires burning out at last. He had never been sure why Aya stayed beyond the job, beyond the need to prevent more people having to suffer as Aya-chan had, but Omi had been ... grateful? It was more than his need for a family, the members of Weiss the closest to brothers he could ever hope for, with ties to each other that went deeper than blood. Aya was different, his feelings towards the Abyssinian more jumbled, more demanding than what he felt for either Yohji or Ken and he remembered with unsettling clarity the exact moment he'd realized he loved him. Just the sound of bickering, Aya stomping off to deal with a customer with Yohji poking at him in the background, ghostly skin flush, his mouth pursed as he tried to glare down a demanding old lady waving a batch of baby's breath in his face. He had lifted his face and rolled his eyes at Omi, and--something had clicked, some understanding, unspoken, causing Omi to lay his inventory aside and stare dumbly at Aya's back, near flattened by the enormity of the moment. No violins or swelling soundtrack to accompany the realization, just a sudden giddy, stomach dropping awareness. And now he was being given his dearest fantasy, to be something more than a burdensome tool to his partner, sometimes useful, sometimes a hassle but how was there any joy in that if it, if he was hurting Aya? He tried to think, past the sensation of his fingers kneading muscled skin, the curve of a bicep tapering off at the hollow of Aya's elbow, touching as he'd never, ever been allowed to before beyond the obligatory bandaging required by a mission gone awry. He had only turn his face and the flutter of a pulse point would fall between his lips, and he wanted to. Wanted to run his mouth along that patch of skin, to catch and suckle there, and see what would happen, how Aya would react. But he couldn't, because it would be invasive to force himself upon the other when Aya was in so much visible torment. "I-- You weren't supposed to matter either, A-aya," He felt his face flame but he continued, needing to get this out. He wriggled, moving his face so that the words weren't muffled. "But you do." "You do," Omi repeated, more loudly than before, trying to ignore the oddly agonizing sensation of Aya tensing against him, hands stopping their frantic, uncertain mapping of his spine. He caught his breath, half expecting to find himself on the floor with the other stalking past him. "You matter and this matters. To me. " "I don't want this," Aya replied flatly. Oh yes, that hurt. Worse than the bullet, his chest constricting until he felt like he couldn't breathe, as if the air had rushed out of the room and left him with nothing to cling to. He would much rather deal with the other, physical type of pain. It was something he was trained to cope with, had spent much of his young life dealing with. This seemed a betrayal somehow and despite everything, he wasn't equipped to deal with that in anything resembling a rational manner. "I--I'm sorry," Omi was bewildered, staring wildly past the rise of Aya's shoulder, allowing himself a moment more to memorize because after this if Aya as much as looked at him, let alone touched him voluntarily, he would be greatly surprised. He forced himself to breathe and began pushing himself up and away, the Abyssinian's arms tightening in response, holding him. "Aya... Aya, please." 'Just let me go. Don't give me a tiresome speech about how we're friends, how this won't matter because it does. We both know it does.' If he'd wanted that level of well-meaning patronization he could have gone to Yohji, Balinese was far more skilled at this sort of let down than either of them could ever hope to be. The last thing he wanted was to lose every shred of his tattered dignity, what little there was of that left. "I don't want this," Aya repeated, sounding contemplative, "But I don't think I can let it go either." Omi stilled, his hands finding Aya's shirt, fisting the fabric and trying desperately to find some sort of calm. "What do you mean?" The question sounded reasonable, his tone more accusing than was warranted. "Aya, what is it you want from me? What do you want me to do?" It was so easy how quickly the pendulum of his emotions swung back to anger, perhaps it had never truly left, simply shoved to the side, waiting to spark, scraping across his nerves like flint. He was vulnerable and it cried against every instinct in him to lay himself open, to give his partner the chance to emotionally disembowel him like this. "I want--" He heard the instability in Aya's voice, trembling like an early winter day in the face of the sun. "I want." "Tell me," Was that his voice, sounding so commanding and pleading in turn? He heard the words but they fell strangely, pulled from him. "Aya, just -- what do you want from /me?/ There was no admission, not in words. Aya simply turned brittle twilight eyes on him and they were kissing again, part of Omi dissatisfied with this turn of events, with the answer not received but the greater whole too lost in the here and now. He had imagined, had always thought, that Aya would be the one to lead in this situation, taking charge with the same indomitable manner in which he did in everything else. He was wrong. The mouth against his was slow and hesitant, bestowing light lingering caresses, not hard and fast as they had been, less angry and almost�afraid? He tried to wrap his mind around that concept -- that Aya might be afraid -- of anything, of this, of him. It didn't seem possible. Granted, Aya was a human being just as he was but he had never shown anything in the face of impossible odds remotely resembling trepidation of any kind. But this was new territory for the both of them and while Omi probably knew less than Aya did, he found himself taking the lead, desire pushing him to try, seeking to prove to Aya that he -- that this was worthy. That it was something precious and rare and even if nothing came of it beyond this, it was important. Not because it changed the world or would suddenly wipe them clean of every vice and sin they'd ever committed. No, nothing would ever do that. They would be judged on those crimes one day and that boundary he would abide, but being with Aya, like this, feeling him so close, a hand resting lightly on his hip, was like a homecoming. His homecoming. All his life he had been a pawn, moved and ordered to kill at the whim of other people, trusting that they knew best, that they would only steer him to do the work needed but he had never chosen for himself. He had never had a cause or a purpose to rouse or inspire him beyond the mission and that was a cold mistress. It was harsh and unbending. It couldn't touch him or comfort him when he was frightened or tend to him when he was ill. Aya could--had done all those things at one time or another during their partnership. The mission couldn't make him love, but the Abyssinian had, beyond the agape fellowship he'd shared with the others, with previous partners. Aya made him feel -- alive, whole in a way he had never felt before. Because it didn't matter what his past was, it didn't matter who he would be -- all that mattered was now and now he edging closer, trying to crawl into Aya's lap, to straddle the other and whimpering as that jarred his injury. Aya's lips glistened, swollen as he rasped, "We keep this up, you'll tear your stitching." In light of the enormity of his feelings, so many emotions hitting him all at once, that was absolutely the last thing on his mind, Omi laughed, planting another kiss against that pouting lower lip, "Then you'll just have to sew me up again, won't you?" "And you became a masochist when?" Aya's hand idly massaged his hipbone, wringing a breathy gasp from him and he wished that hand would slip past the band of his shorts, under his shirt, so that he could feel those fingers digging and kneading his skin. "I spent the last hour sewing you up, what makes you think I want to do it again?" "Because you love me," And Omi tensed, wanting to kick himself. That was so not the thing to say. If Aya was having a hard time dealing with this, any declaration of love, no matter how teasing, was not going to go over well. But the circular crush of his hand on Omi's hip never wavered, Aya's eyes dark as he tilted his head. It wasn't his habitual "fuck off" face that greeted Omi, the Abyssinian's angular features softening into something more thoughtful lines. He wanted to run his hands over his face, feel the pads of his fingers trace along that strong jaw line, down to cup the curving arch of Aya's neck and the prominent crest of collarbone below it, longing to place his lips against the small basin of flesh there. Maybe he was getting sick with an infection of some kind, because it had to be the workings of a delusional brain to lead him to brush Aya's hair of his forehead, actually playing with bright red strands, if not allowing himself the luxury of the rest of his desires. And still Aya had yet to speak. It made him fidgety. Going with the theory that he was fevered and delusional and therefore could not be held entirely accountable for his actions, he literally and figuratively poked his partner, a finger in his chest, watching the upward rise of a scarlet eyebrow. "What are you thinking?" Omi demanded. "A kiss and you think I owe you my thoughts now?" "It wasn't just one kiss," Omi corrected him, "And I want to know what's running through that brain of yours. I think if you're going to kill me, then you owe me an hour's head start seeing as I'm injured." "Who decided that? And what makes you think I'm planning to kill you?" Omi shrugged, his head light, all the grounding seeming to come from the unrelenting throb of his leg and the body sitting next to him, pressed his hip pressed against Aya's leg. "Don't know. Aren't you?" Aya studied him, his expression odd as he shook his head. "Hadn't planned on it, no." "Then what are you going to do?" "Damned if I know." And it was clear from the way he said that, Aya was more than a little peeved by that fact. For some reason that struck Omi as hilarious and he giggled, not laughed, actually giggled. Maybe he was ill, because he couldn't think of any other reason he would be so drunken. Aya appeared nonplussed, sitting back and running a hand over his hair, mussing it further. "Sorry, sorry," Omi wheezed. "It really isn't funny, I suppose. I just-- Well, you look so pissed." "Uh huh." Was it his imagination or did Aya's normally ivory skin seem a bit... pink? "I'm not angry," Aya continued, sounding cross. "I don't know why you think I am." "Aya, have you met you?" Omi asked incredulous. "Half the time you make me think you're going to lop my head off when I screw up and I'm reasonably sure you like me." "Reasonably," Aya repeated. "You have your moments." He blinked. "Are you teasing me?" "That was my intent, yes." "Aya, that's creepy." "Sorry." "Don't apologize," Omi said, "I think I've just had one shock too many to my system tonight." Aya peered at him, leaning downward to snatch up the bandages that had been knocked to the floor. "We should finish wrapping you and then you should sleep." He'd gotten as far as twining the bandage once around before Omi caught his wrist, Aya shooting him another impenetrable look, which Omi ignored, as he spoke, "We're really going to not talk about what just happened, aren't we?" "What's the point?" 'I will not yell, I will not reach over and bash his skull in,' Omi started mentally counting to ten. The second would be such a shame too, given that it was a rather cute skull despite the cantankerous nature of its owner. "Well, for starters I'd like to know if that's a one time thing or if we going to do it again some time." "Do you want to do it again?" Aya was enjoying this, Omi decided. He had to be -- no one could be that oblique on accident. 'What, does he get off on sounding like a fortune cookie?' "Do you?" Omi bit back the rather immature which leapt to his tongue --I asked you first-- and sighed. "Can we not, okay? I just want a simple, straight answer about where we stand." "I don't think there's anything simple or straight about this situation," Aya replied mildly. Omi stared. "My God, you really just said that, didn't you? I can't believe you just said that." "Omi, I don't understand what you want from me here. What is it you want me to say?" "Aya," He stressed the name, letting the 'A' syllable pick up his discomfort, a thick roll of sound that landed heavily on the ear. "You may like us all to think you have the emotional growth of a stunted cabbage but I know better. I /know/ you give a damn because you're not Yohji. You don't just do things on impulse without something behind it." "What do you know about me?" The words were a hiss of sound, angry, defensive. "I know you feel things -- everything, intensely but you hold it all in and hope that we don't notice. And knowing that I don't think you would have kissed me on a whim, not like that. So what I am asking you is to get your head out of your ass, stop these childish words games, and give me a fucking clue what I'm supposed to do here because I would really like to know!" The last exploded out of him in a desperate, telegraphic burst of pure misery. The whole world had turned in on itself tonight and everything he had trusted in was proving inconsequential, his world trembling, unstable cracks long forming suddenly made known. They were both quiet and he couldn't not try one last time, offering all of his hopes, his desires, in one last gambit. "Aya... Why does it have to be so hard? Can't we-- Can't you just tell me one way or another? I'm not asking for any undying declarations of love. I don't think I'd believe them if you gave them but can't you give me something? An answer. Yes or no. You want me or you don't. We do this or we don't. I won't lie and say I don't care about the outcome but I care about this screwing up our relationship even more. If--if you don't want this, if you can't do this now, then tell me. Because I don't want to spend what time is left wondering." "You know I want you," Aya's dark eyes were intense. "If that hasn't been made clear in the last few minutes, Tsukiyono Omi--" "Then what?" "Then I don't know. This is a bad idea. It could jeopardize the mission, throw off team dynamic. It could get one or both of us killed." Omi nodded, lifting his thumb absently to chew on the nail. "Then why are you still talking about it?" "Because I can't not," Aya admitted, starting with the bandaging again, quick jerky movements that precluded his interference, finishing the job as swiftly as possible and tying the ends off. The Abyssinian's hand lingered on his thigh, finger lightly caressing the linen bandaging and he fought not to keep because he could feel it through the thin stretchy gauze. Aya lifted his face towards Omi, almost apologetic as he said. "Omi, what do you want? Because I really don't know either. And I hate that, I hate not knowing and I hate not being sure and most of all I hate that expression because I know I caused it." His hand moved and cupped Omi's face and Omi struggled not to squeak or turn his face into that. "I want," he began, parroting Aya's earlier words. "I want." "Tell me," Aya's voice was low, rough and almost hoarse. "What do you want from me?" And Omi decided to throw away the script. "You. I want you. I want this. Whatever this is," Omi's mouth quirked in a painful uplift. "Because I have never felt closer to another human being in my life as I do you right now and I don't want to let that go. I want -- because I'm selfish and can't not. Because I thought we were going to die tonight and you were the one thing my mind kept coming back to, because I wanted to see you again. Because I wanted you to be okay." The confession left him drained and waiting, for a beginning, for an ending, for a rejection or acceptance. Anything was preferable to this, dangling by invisible cords woven with hope and desolation, stronger than Yohji's garrote and choking him far more effectively. A thumb stroked gently underneath his eye. "I wanted to you to be okay, too," Aya said. The pendulum swung again and it hurt, God, it hurt worse than the rejection because he had expected that, had believed in it with all his being and now that was dashed against the rocks, Aya's uncertainty mirroring his own, both afraid to make the first move, fearing the cost in life and soul. Well, he was tired of being afraid, of worrying forever about the consequences and thinking. This wasn't something he could predict and maybe he shouldn't even try, seeing how well that had gone off tonight. "Then kiss me," Omi thought he sounded a little breathless. "Don't think, don't -- Just kiss me. The rest -- let it take care of itself." Perhaps later he would regret this, would wish that he had hesitated a little more, had taken the time to consider more fully the cost of his actions. Right now, he really didn�t care beyond the need to make Aya stay. Because if he left after giving Omi a taste of something more, a sliver of the world beyond the dark seamy underside they both inhabited, and he wanted, no, needed more. He needed Aya's strength because he felt his own giving out, too many beliefs betrayed and sacrificed this night, an alter of a lifetime's blood, both his and his own, rendered meaningless in one fell swoop. He needed Aya because of the doubt, chasing around in his thoughts, needed the solid reassurance of his presence, because there wasn't anyone else he trusted like this, with himself. Because Aya saw more than the others did, not because he paid so much more attention than Ken or Yohji but because he seemed to possess some innate sense. He knew -- Omi, sometimes better than Omi knew himself and for all his pigheadedness, Aya wouldn't let him fall. Aya's mouth covered his, satiny flesh and wet warmth, gentle as lips moved, quick and hungry in turn as lips pushing against his. The hand cupping his face sliding until his entire head was cradled, Aya drawing their faces closer together, his fingers moving just underneath the lobe of Omi's ear. The angle was awkward, Aya having to lean almost over him and Omi's head tilted just a touch backward but it didn't stop his lips from drifting apart, his tongue shyly fluttering over the older boy's lower lip, reveling in the tender swell of flesh and sharp top ridge of teeth. Omi had never done this before, never kissed anyone like this, and he could only hope he was doing it right, that he wasn't so terrible and inept as he feared. He let his lips drift upward, running the tip of his tongue along the firm, thin line of Aya's upper lip, Aya's mouth widening, trying to catch him but he feinted so that the kiss fell against the corner of his mouth. Omi painted over his partner's mouth, sculpting and reshaping it with teeth and tongue until he the tremor that had rocked Aya earlier returned, an impatient noise causing him to relent, to part his lips and the Abyssinian pursued with ruthless abandon, his tongue finding Omi's, running above and underneath it, Omi whimpering in response. His back protested the unnatural curving as he sought to align himself with Aya, mirroring his lean, nearly bowed backward and he lay back, tugging Aya down with him, lips never parting, still searching as his hands threaded in red hair. Aya loomed for a moment, lying on his side before his other shoulder came down, completely filling his line of vision as his free hand found purchase under Omi's arm, careful not to put any weight on the lower half of the blond's body. Omi reveled in the sensation, in the feel of lips seducing his, Aya coaxing his way further in, his tongue stroking the palate of hard tissue on the top of his mouth. Omi squirmed, the sensation ticklish, a chuckle made breathy as Aya eased back, allowing him the space and time to breathe. He blinked and stretched, feeling his chest expand, as much due to the emotional rush of warming violet meeting his gaze than an influx of oxygen filling his lungs. "Hi," he said shyly, lazily curving his body towards Aya's, wanting nothing more than to curl around him. His-- Aya's hand passed upward, along his arm, sliding back and forth from shoulder to wrist, and he found himself trembling. "Hi yourself," Aya rumbled, not exactly a purr but there was enough of a hint of smug pleasure that Omi couldn't help but roll his eyes good-naturedly. It really wasn't helped when Aya leaned downward, nuzzling the juncture of his neck and shoulder, placing small lingering licks over his skin, Omi moving restlessly into it, into him, his stomach flaring like so many embers of a fire long banked, flying along his nerves, leaving a desirous languor in its place. There was something really wonderful about that mouth, about the way it moved and took all thought with it, his skin blossoming with sparks until it felt like he was glowing, emboldened with an unstoppable sense of momentum. He couldn't pull away from this, couldn't stop, any more than the tide could stop seeking a shore. His hand found Aya's neck as he had wanted to before, tracing the elegant bow of muscle and bone, his hands dark-gold against the other's ghostly skin. Aya made a small noise, leaning into the semi-circle of his grasp, Omi's fingers automatically flexing and unflexing as they dug into his skin. He arced upwards when Omi shifted, adjusting his arm into a more comfortable position, massaging and feeling the rough beginning knobs of Aya's spine against his palm. His fingers clutched a little harder, and Aya made another sound, helpless and pleading, and Omi lifted his face, fastening his mouth to the exposed flesh of that white throat, worrying the skin just below the tattoo of his pulse point. Aya reared against him, the reaction more than he'd expected, his nose filled with the rich, salty scent of his partner, sweat and underneath that dried blood. He wondered if he smelled the same, like an old kill and the night wind caught in his hair still from their escape. 'More likely, I have lingering sewer smell,' Omi thought and wrinkled his nose. That was so not the happy romantic type thought he always imagined he'd be having at a moment like this. Not that he could have ever entertained the wildest imagining that this could happen. Well, hardly ever. Aya's skin was rough, scratchy with near invisible stubble and hard muscle destroying the illusion of the boyish knit of his frame. His lips rasped against the edge of his lover's chin, then slid downward again, a sloppy path blazed to the wiry frame of his collar, his tongue eagerly darting outward to claim the dimpling hollow between tendon and bone that he had eyed so covetously. He pulled Aya closer, suckling at that particular center, his jaw threatening to pop as he mashed his mouth against the indenture of bone. Aya's hands found his shoulders, not quite pushing away but exerting enough force that Omi grudgingly gave up his hold on that tender column of throat, blue-gray eyes questioning. He felt himself quiver as he caught sight of the reddening bruise left from where his mouth had touched Aya, as if he had marked the older boy and he couldn't deny the flush of pleasure it gave him. Hands dipping, Aya slid Omi's battered t-shirt upward, ancient fabric threatening to tear, the palm of his hand molding itself against Omi's hip where it began upward over his stomach, pushing high enough that half of his chest was exposed before Aya's darkening gaze. White fingers, the tips cold, circled around the edge of his revealed nipple, causing it to stiffen, the touch light enough that all he could feel was a pleasurable chill. Again and again, those fingers traced until all he could feel was that cold, the quick flick of a nail over the nub making him cry out in response, Aya's head lowering swiftly and closing around his teased flesh. Hot, so hot against the imposed winter Aya's fingers had transmitted to him, sweetly painful as he was drawn further in, the harsh braze of a tongue against him as Aya rolled his nipple around in his mouth, sucking hard enough to draw the flesh taunt, away from his body. The world seemed to center down to that point and that of the demanding throbbing between his legs. Omi mewling as he tried to move, to take Aya's hand and press it there, to find some relief. But Aya pinned the hand not laced around his neck, his mouth smoothing over the terrain of golden skin before him, somehow managing to nudge aside with his nose the shirt far enough to find his meandering way to the other nipple, leaving a trail of kisses and love-bites in his wake. Whatever mark he might have left on Aya's neck was more than paid for now, as he pushed upward, groaning as he jarred his stitching, discomfort and pain warring, making him curl in. Throaty whispers filled his hearing as hands rolled soothingly across his stomach, turning him so that his injured leg was facing up, Aya's chest pressed against his back, his rear resting against Aya's hips. Aya's breathing sounded ragged as his lips grazed Omi's ear, one, twice, before planting a kiss just above his temple. "We should stop," Aya said, sounding regretful, arms tightening around Omi as the Abyssinian rubbed his cheek against Omi's. Omi shook his head, closing his hand atop his lover's, sounding more than a little petulant. "But I don't want to." "And I don't want to hurt you." "So you're telling me this is impossible?" Omi snorted. "Please." There was a pregnant pause, Aya sounding both amused and scandalized as he replied, "Are you sure you haven't been looking at those internet sites like Yohji thinks?" "A~ya!" he protested, his face scrunching against the prickle-burn of embarrassment. "You're going to make me beg, aren't you?" Some of his chagrin must have filtered through because Aya's amusement became more subdued, "As much fun as that might be... Okay, I'm going to ask a very stupid, very clich�d question considering the circumstances but have you ever done anything like this before?" Omi shook his head, wondering how he could convey that Aya was only the second person Omi had ever kissed (Ouka being the first and his sister and well... His mind still shied away from the ramifications of that one.). He had never been touched, not like this, with such care and desire, as if he were breakable and precious but Aya wanted to break him in spite of that. "Do you know anything at all?" Omi nodded, plucking at Aya's fingers, patently not meeting the probing stare being directed at the back of his head. He saw no need to come right out and volunteer that just because Yohji was being a jackass when he said it, didn't mean Balinese wasn't onto something about his nocturnal activities. It just wasn't every night and had only been for ... research purposes and he'd only started looking into things after he realized his interest in his red-haired partner was more than strictly platonic. He -- Boy, even his thoughts were starting to sound defensive. "How much?" There was a peculiar quality to the question, dark undercurrents causing him to shudder, unvoiced as his body twitched. "Enough." It was remarkable the equanimity one could summon under such circumstances, his brain still trying to wrap itself around what was happening, while his mouth kept going, sounding almost flirtatious. "How much do you know, Aya?" There was another of those lengthy pauses, ones in which whole futures were created and destroyed, where he felt the silences speaking between them. It left him feeling as if he were only getting half a conversation, or maybe a third, their bodies aligning, sliding this way and that, Aya's erection snug against the seal of their bodies, leaving him with a strange buttery feeling in his stomach. His thin cotton shorts were dampening, dewed with sweat and fluid and he was as thankful for the elastic as he was mortified by how little control he was exhibiting. "Enough," Aya replied frankly. "Probably more than you do." He wasn't sure how to react to that one. On one hand, yay that one of them had had actual practical experience in this area. It made for less worrying about one or both of them hurting the other without meaning to. On the other... Well, he had to tamp down on the insane urge to clutch Aya's arm closer and declare, 'Mine! Mine! Miiiiiiiine!' "So teach me. Show me," He pivoted his head, so that he could meet his lover's gaze, taking the initiative and pushing back, against the hard pelvis and the swell of flesh he could feel through their clothes. Aya sucked in a breath. "I'll get you for that," The words escaped through gritted teeth. The words were dangerous, almost murmured but they struck their target, his abdomen clinching, not in fear but in a very different type of excitement. Aya started moving again, his hands lazy as they strolled over Omi's chest, underneath his shirt, tweaking one nipple, then the other as they moved upward and then south again, tracking over each individual rib and the hollow between them when he inhaled. A short laugh bursting from his lips as he squirmed, nimble fingers finding a ticklish spot -- which Aya exploited ruthlessly, leaving him panting and giggling against the older boy. His breathing grew heavier, the pants coming a little faster as those caresses grew longer, ringing his bellybutton which until now Omi had never even considered an erogenous zone, then lower. His body seized up, forgetting to breathe waiting, Aya tormenting him by the skim of a finger back and forth just below the waistband of his shorts, over the swell of his belly just above... Those fingers dipped lower and his eyes flew open. Oh. Um. Oh. That was about all he could manage before communication between brain and body broke down completely. He had done this before, on himself, in the shower or the dark of his room, biting hard against his lip to keep from giving the game away but it had never affected him like this, never made his entire body feel as if it had just woken up from a long sleep, pulled at by forces beyond his control. One of Aya's arms was wrapped around his waist, hooked underneath and holding him, leaving the other hand to move against him, knuckles curling around his short hairs as Aya gently wrapped his fingers around Omi's testicles, squeezing and rolling them against the palm of his hand. He whimpered, attempting to push into his lover's grasp but prevented by the arm tightening around his midsection. Aya nipped at his ear, lazily continue to roll one sac and then the other, nearly making Omi scream in frustration. "A~ya," he purred, trying to thrust upward again and once again unsuccessful. He wished he could see the other's face, could attempt to read what was going through his lover's mind. The mouth against his ear shifted, slip-sliding over his cheekbones, wet and sloppy as the hold on his erection moved, upward, fingers circling the base of his shaft, fingernails raking along velvety skin causing him to cry and struggle, Aya holding him all the more tightly. A thumb smeared across the rounding head, his head lolling backward, lungs stuttering, unable to breathe in more than the shallowest of breaths. That deft, sure touch continued, feathering over the ridge of his arousal, feeling a fine sheen of sweat break out, his body thrusting mindlessly, the movement as simple as breathing, as old as time, now the whole of his world. And then it stopped, Aya twisting him so that he now lay half atop him, his shorts hastily tugged down and over his hips, legs kicking instinctively to aid the process, the fabric catching around his ankle for a second before being toed off. It was so strange, laying half clothed like this, rough denim riding against his naked skin, itchy-ticklish. His hands came around, gripping Aya's hips for support, panting and aching, wishing for respite and receiving none in spite of the ineffectual rise and fall of his thighs. He wanted to speak, to plead, moredon'tstopayapleasejust--- But all he could manage was wuffling gasps, airy and vulnerable, Aya tender as he pulled at Omi's shirt, easing over his head and shoulders. Aya couldn't seem to get enough of touching him, hands roaming everywhere, igniting tiny eruptions of sensation. "Omi," He couldn't catalogue all the emotions Aya put into his name, the power it gave him. Need, despair, longing and other things, things that went deeper, rippling outward and sifting over his consciousness in recognition. Aya leaned in, a thorough kiss robbing him completely of breath, tongues seeking and finding each other. He let it go on for a second longer then pushed himself over onto the flat of his palms so that he was crouching beside the redhead, peering up at him through a fringe of blond lashes and bangs, ignoring the twinge it sent through his thigh. He wanted nothing more than to crawl up every inch of the Abyssinian's lithe frame, to feel it under hands and tongue until he knew it as well as his own. He reached for the gray turtleneck, cable-knit fuzzy as he bunched it in his hands, carefully peeling it over Aya's shoulders and neck, untamed red-hair sticking out in every direction as the collar came free. Aya was beautiful, whip-chord slender and willowy, with just enough muscle to be discernable, his fair skin made lustrous by the shallow light of the overhead. He was torn between wanting to stare, to devour the feast laid before him with his eyes and the urge to jump the other, fumbling impatiently with the buckle of Aya's belt, fingers tangling with his. Omi smacked at Aya's hands, aware of the other's snort of surprise as he yanked at the rim of his jeans, the button coming unsnapped after a small struggle, each delay making him more and more antsy. He got about as far as the zipper gliding down a notch before he remembered -- boots. Damn. Abandoning that, he crawled or rather lugged himself down Aya's long legs, scrabbling up the edges of his jeans and then positioning himself to tug the boot nearest to him free. It was the laughter that stopped him, throaty and arresting, it gave him pause, the sole of Aya's foot almost resting against his chest as he reached to pull it off. The corners of Aya's mouth were twitching and Omi couldn't think of when he had ever seen Aya so relaxed. It made him feel -- everything, lighter, heavier, more solid and not here at all. "Something funny?" "I wouldn�t say funny," The words seem to trill, thrumming out of Aya's chest in a sensuous sing-song. "More cute really." "Cute?" Omi tasted the word, letting it roll around in his mouth, unsure of whether to be insulted or not. "Really?" "Mhmm. In that I-want-to-jump-your-bones-kinda way," Aya shrugged, sounding so damn nonchalant about things he was certain he had misheard. Or might have been had it not been for that damnable smirk, as if Aya knew something he wasn't telling and part of it had to do with knowing exactly what Omi was thinking. Omi blinked, nearly dropping the foot in his hands. "Oh." Well, that was the understatement of� ever? Yeah. Aya's foot wriggled, nudging his wrist and he jerked, feeling smooth black leather slide free, tossing it negligently to the floor. Bird-like toes wriggling at him as he deposited it on the bed beside him, working on the other boot. It was something of a shock to glance up triumphantly and realize somehow he had ended up between outstretched feet, his legs spread before him, the metal hug of a zipper the only thing keeping his lover's jeans up. Part of him hated to move, fearing that somehow it would spoil the moment, that Aya was going to suddenly come to his sense, shove him head first off the bed and then behead him. The rest of him knew it was real and that was even more frightening than the first, understanding that this was the jump off point. After this, there was no turning back, whatever happened. It made him leery, wary and thoughtful when he wanted no thoughts at all. And if this all went bad, what then? Appearing to sense his indecision, Aya sat up, leaning on his elbows as he stared down the length of his body at Omi, "Aren't you going to help me finish here?" Oh no, there weren't about ten dozen ways he could take that simple sentence. "Maybe. Depends on what you want me to do." "I think you know what I want." "Maybe I want you to say it then." Aya crooked a finger at him, beckoning him. Omi took his time, running a hand along knee and calf as he passed, settling in the semi-circle of his lover's left arm, Aya kissing him slowly, caressing his jaw, asking without a word, waiting. Omi let his nearest hand slide, almost casually walking back to the mouth of Aya's half-jeans, drawing the fastener along metal teeth until he met the end, his fingers almost shaking in reaction as he let them stroke upward, tracing inconsequential designs over the curve of rising flesh. Aya moaned, his tongue lazing against Omi's erratically. He felt --something at that little half-sigh, his hands hooking around the waistband of Aya's jeans and underwear, kissing his mouth hard, one more time, before bending over, following the descent of cloth with another, very different sort of kiss. It wasn't very long a taste really, bitter and salt tang cracking his lips further but it was enough, Aya filling his mouth, daring him to take him further, to feel, to know what it would be like. It was a little uncomfortable, having to work around the reflex to gag, but there was something...tantalizing about it. About his mouth there and Aya trying to make him go deeper, Aya wanting more because /he/ was the one making the Abyssinian's hips lift so mindlessly, a definite pink flush crawling along his lover's translucent skin. He closed his lips around the flesh in his mouth, tight as he pulled centimeter by agonizing centimeter off, making sure to suction in the backward process. He could feel Aya trying to push him back, biting off a whimper but he danced out of the way, taking those bothersome pants down past knee and over ankle, sitting back to survey his handiwork. Aya really was all tapering lines and angles, his hips incredibly narrow, waist small, although his legs seemed to go on forever, the skin paler than what he normally saw, ghostly and ethereal. It made his hair seem darker, less the color of blood and more the rage of a winter fire. His feet were arching, ankles and knees knobby without the protective encasing of leather or denim, more human and accessible. Aya wasn't that much older than himself, but he looked it, would never be mistaken for a delicate teenager. Omi, who was still growing into himself, envied those lines, the muscles and the height that he would never possess. He was small for his age, and if he gained another couple of inches before he was done, he'd be lucky. Mission-wise, it was perfect because it gave him a harmless appearance, would allow him to blend more easily into a crowd than Aya ever would. It was also made people underestimate him in a way they never would the Abyssinian and try as he might to see that as a positive, it grated to be treated like a child. Especially by those around him. He wasn't a child. His childhood had been obliterated in an instant, torn from the arms of a mother he couldn't remember, a gun shoved into his hands for the first time a few weeks later. Takatori Mamoru had died and in his place, Tsukiyono Omi had sprung up -- not born because that would have implied a childhood, the one thing both Omi and Mamoru had been denied. He felt him sometimes, that other boy wandering restlessly beneath his skin, haunting the halls of cracking memory, phantom touches and sensations leaving him shaken upon waking, the old smell of white plum, a dying perfume that he somehow knew belonged to his mother. Omi hated that other boy and all he represented, the helplessness and the innocence that had robbed him of one life, destroyed in order to survive the shadow one that had taken its place. He hated the name and the blood that had hurt so many people, that had abandoned him without remorse or regret. No one had ever wanted Takatori Mamoru. But Aya did want Tsukiyono Omi. "How?" Omi didn't elaborate, praying the inference was clear. It was. Aya patted the sheets beside him, swinging wobbly legs over the side and rummaging through the abandoned first aid kit as Omi scuttled up the bed. Omi couldn't resist the temptation to wrap his arms around Aya's back, darting tiny kisses along his shoulder blades and just below his neck, reveling in the way his lover bent back into those ephemeral touches. "Omi," Aya sighed. Then, "I need you to turn around and lay on your side, with your knees as close to your chest as you can manage." It took a moment to understand and all he could do was nod, a short spin-roll later finding him sprawled on his side, biting the inside of his cheek at every fire bite his wound sent up his stomach and spine. Aya kissed his cheek and then disappeared from his field of vision, his body close enough to sense but not touching, only sharing heat. He tried not to fidget, to wonder what the other was doing and then greasy fingers trailed along the bottom of his spine, just above the curve of his rump and he jerked forward, unused to it and surprised. "Try to stay as still as you can," Aya advised, finding the grooving space and inching forward, careful to let Omi know where he was, what was happening, and Bombay was thankful for that. He gripped the corner of puddling sheets with one hand, closing his eyes. "Take a breath." He did and Aya was -- there-- he squirmed as long fingers found his entrance, massaging until it yielded, sliding in to the first knuckle and then pausing, giving him time. Which he needed, fighting the impulse to skitter away, to struggle at this invasion. He wanted to do this, he wanted Aya to do this, and he could only do that if he kept still. "Omi?" "Go ahead," he said, turning his face into the bed. The finger inside him moved again, prompted by his command, a little deeper than before, a shallow thrust wearing at the tight cling and he tried to relax. He'd read that relaxing helped and -- Christ! His eyes went wide and he felt his body near crack as he arched backward, vision whitening around the edges, feeling as if a million firecrackers had been set off at once inside him. And then it happened again, the wiggle of Aya's elegant finger his only warning. His mouth dropped open and he moved backward in response, a low wail tearing itself from his throat. Another finger joined it and then in some infinite time later that seemed like eternity and nothing rolled into one twist, another did as well, a random dance that went deeper and deeper in, stretching him until he couldn't remember what he had been like before. Everything seemed to spark, flaring and burning along the edges until he was immersed in it, a shell splintering in the rays of a harsh sun. Had he been real before this? He couldn't say save that he was now, that the sensations of pain and pleasure made the word harsh and concrete and demanded him in a visceral way that he had never experience before. "Omi," His name was abrasive, shredding across his nerves as it demanded his attention, Aya's fingers pulling free of his body, a sea bloom of loss spreading through his chest. No. No. He was alone and Aya was -- Pulling his hips backward, the body behind his finding what had to be an odd alignment, Aya dropping a kiss on the back of his arm before flexing once, twice, and then thrusting upward. The world splintered with each tentative push, like the fingers, going a little farther each time than it had initially but this was so different than the other he couldn't catalogue it. Warmer, larger, soft and hard at the same time. His legs opened, one knee sliding past the other in an unconscious attempt to aid, no longer aware of anything but the fire bath picking up momentum in his awareness, cauterizing nerves as it passed, a rain that scalded him, causing him to push back harder, needing more, Aya meeting him halfway, holding him and kissing him wherever he could find a patch of skin, white-hot where those touches landed. He pushed, they pushed, and it was like the tide of a fiery ocean, boiling in on itself, Aya hitting something inside him just a little more each time, the blaze higher than it was the last and he could feel his skin steaming from the inside, baking and churning until there wasn't anything but the two of them, the pace picking up. Aya grunted, tiny gasps that he thought never to hear from his stoic teammate -- no, lover. Aya was his lover now and would remain so if Omi had anything to say about it. He'd thought before he could handle it if the Abyssinian opted to make this a one night stand only but not now, not after this, not with Aya remaking him from the inside out, as sure as a sculptor's hands. He wasn't just Omi anymore and Aya, whether he chose to believe it or not, had a piece of him now. Omi wasn't about to give up either so easily. Aya was thrusting faster now, bodies rending and coming together in an almost violent fashion. His lover's hand sought and found his, lacing together as the undertow threatened to drag them both down. Each smack of flesh came harder than the last, threatening to completely break him, his back bowing, his hair brushing just below Aya's chin as his neck fell back, barely recognizing the desperate sounds falling from his open mouth. Color flared around the edges of his vision, flecks of blue and white and bright gold, and he felt a void looming, without sight or sound and seeming to go on forever and he teetered. "Omi." Oh God, no one had ever spoken to him like that. No one had ever said his name with so much passion, as if he were the only thing in the world that mattered. He shuddered and the bubbling sea within him overturned, boiling over as climax hit, shaking him apart from the inside out, a dampening flood that spilled over his thighs. Aya was just behind, a low groan the only warning he got besides one more powerful thrust forward, something wet and sticky spilling forth inside him. There was nothing, just a spool of warmth unfurling in him and the sound of Aya's breathing in his ears, a heavy, sated languor laying upon him as sure as a storybook enchantment. Hard to think, to do more than just listen and feel, Aya extraordinarily gentle as he pulled up and out, the loss leaving Omi to gasp, hot tears pricking the back of his eyes. He rolled over, disregarding his wound and the startled sound Aya made as he wrapped himself around the Abyssinian, hooking his uninjured leg around Aya's. The older boy curled around him, arms slung low around his waist until he felt much like a baby koala holding fast to its mother. His nose wrinkled, 'That is so not the image I want to be having right now.' Omi lifted his face, Aya chasing after it with a sprinkling of kisses, over his forehead and eyes, smoothing over his skin until they found his bruised lips, coaxing them apart easily, his tongue drifting over Omi's. There was a nuance to each move, a language without words unfolding between them and he could sense the anxiety Aya sought to keep from him, trying to reassure himself as much as Omi. "What now?" Aya asked when they parted, sounding winded and worried. He could feel it, threatening to pass into him, destroying the so-called afterglow, reality intruding in. There was a world still beyond this room, Kritiker to sort out and their teammates and a traitor to find. But for now�for now he wanted nothing of it, wanted to content himself in relinquishing control. It was something he would never have consented to before now, not trusting anyone enough to ever let go this completely but with Aya�With Aya he felt safe. With Aya he was safe because his lover knew the score, he knew how things stood between them, past and present. Aya knew and he still wanted him. It was so extraordinarily simplistic that it shouldn't have mattered but it did. It meant everything to a boy who had been abandoned for the entirety of his life and he didn't know how to convey that, to say thank you and make Aya understand he meant it with all his heart. "I don't know. Maybe we should just wait and see," he sighed, the very idea rankling him. He didn't like leaving things to chance, preferring to plan for every eventuality but in this case what would that get him? He hadn't even been able to predict that this would happen let alone the depth of response it had aroused him, a desperate clingyness that seemed at odds with everything he believed in. "If you want to do this again, I mean." The last was said with far more uncertainty than he'd intended but for all his bravado, he couldn't mask the fear that somehow they would banish this, that it would get swept under the rug like his entire life, and they would both end up pretending that this never happened. For the sake of the team, for each other, for their sanity. It wasn't that he couldn't pretend a lie that large -- his existence was made up of them but he wanted this, wanted the truth between them, the first solid truth he had ever known. "Of course I do." His eyes met bemused amethyst, Aya sweeping back his sweat soaked hair off his brow. "I don't do casual, Omi. I never have. I'm with you or I'm not." "Do you want to be?" "After all this, you can ask that?" Aya shot back, invisible hackles raising. "You need to understand, I can't just trust that you're going to be there," Omi snapped. "I can't trust that this won't just vanish in an instant because you say so because nothing has ever worked that way for me. Nothing lasts, Aya, and whether you want to admit it or not, that includes us." "So what do you want me to do?" Aya asked shortly, "Promise you forever?" "I'm not that na�ve. I just-- promise me tonight. Promise me you won't leave tonight. Stay with me," he turned imploring eyes on his irate lover. Aya softened visibly, tucking Omi's head underneath his chin, sounding exasperated as he said, "Of course. Where else would I go?" Omi burrowed closer, his face buried in Aya's chest, content to lay there, the feel of Aya's hands stealing up and down his body, making comforting circles. He felt tired, worn and drowsy, lulled by the warmth between them. "I think," Aya sounded contemplative. "That I will not leave tomorrow night either." Omi's eyes widened and he wanted to pull back to stare up at his lover but Aya held fast, effectively cutting off any continuing of the conversation and he wondered if his teammate knew what he had just promised. Probably, Aya tended to take things like that very seriously. The question was could he trust to that promise, to put hope in something so tenuous as someone's word when it had never meant anything before now? "Let it go, Omi," Aya commanded. "I can practically hear the gears turning in your head. Just--let it be." He could practically hear the unspoken 'Trust me' implicit in that and he wrestled with himself, with his doubts and his fears, with the sins that hung heavy on his back and whether this might prove to be better punishment in the long run than anything the law could devise. "Aya--" "Mhmm." "Nothing." ***End .::BACK TO ARCHIVE::. |