WeissKreuz
– Eating Fandom:
Rating:
M/NC-15
Warnings:
references to male male affection,
bleakness, food
Pairs: Yohji and Aya, Ken and Omi, Schwarz
(sticking together but too dysfunctional to sort them out)
Summary:
Aya and Yohji having a meal, Ken and
Omi in the kitchen, Schwarz trying to live by the saying that we are
what we eat...
xxx
Yohji and Aya, sitting in a discreet booth at an exclusive tea house – Yohji has used his connections, thinks Aya, and of course his charm. Somehow, that stings, but he controls himself well enough not to let the white-hot spark of jealousy boil to the surface.
Because he can feel Yohji's stare. Enraptured, watching Aya eat, small hard fingers using a pair of fine lacquered chopsticks, and Aya would bet his katana that it is no coincidence that they bear a pattern of ruby-red roses and gold webbing on black ground. The roses glow like droplets of blood on silk.
The chopsticks click as he picks up bite-sized pieces of raw, translucent white fish, apricot-coloured salmon with white marbled flesh, deep blue-pink tuna, silvery slivers of squid. In between, pink lips settling on the rim of the tiny sake cup or the larger, handle-less cup with steaming, smoky-tasting green tea. The mug is glazed white and painted with cherry blossoms. The tea shimmers the shifting colour of Yohji's eyes.
Aya is wearing a most formal black kimono ensemble of glossy silk. Yohji is in a crisp white dress shirt, complete with brushed gold cufflinks, and a fine cream linen suit. The shirt collar is unbuttoned, showing off his collarbone and light tan. He has forgotten about his food, his long hands playing idly with a cucumber rose that he rudely crumbles into soggy green strands.
Aya can fell Yohji's gaze like a warm caress, summer heat, carefully banked away.
And then, because Aya keeps his eyes on his food, Yohji catches him unawares after all: a calloused, wire-scoured fingertip stroking his lower lip, to catch a droplet of tea. Yohji holds it out to him.
A tear, quivering on Yohji's fingertip.
Aya stares at it, sees a tiny mirror of himself, upside down and trembling...
Darting out his tip of his tongue, he licks it up, swallowing tear and mirror and Yohji's finger down his throat, suckling softly at first, then biting a bit firmer.
Yohji's eyes cloud over; he gasps softly. "Pay?" His voice is a low, breathless rasp.
Aya lets go of Yohji's finger with a wet plop and gives Yohji a small, rather wicked smile.
xxx
Ken looks up from his soccer magazine time and again, distracted by the gulping, slurping noises Omi makes. Omi is wolfing down his breakfast noodles while trying to rehearse last-minute for a test he has to sit later, in school. He is still in his pyjamas, striped blue and white, with grey and pink kitty paw print all over, and he is pale, with deep shadows under his red-rimmed eyes, his wheatblond hair a messy nest. He pays no attention to what he is eating, or to Ken.
At last, Ken slaps the magazine onto the kitchen table.
Omi blinks up at him. Cheeks stuffed with noodles, a few carrot crumbs sticking to his lips and one to his chin, he manages a quick smile before returning to the textbook.
Ken puffs out his cheeks, then he slowly lets go of his breath as he gets up to rummage around in the fridge.
Omi nearly floors him when Ken covers Omi's eyes from behind with his hands, but a quick soothing rumble stalls Omi's swift attack and saves Ken's ribs from being broken by a sharp elbow. And then a wet, sweet, cold swish over Omi's cheek to his lips has Omi clucking.
"Melon?"
"Chilled," confirms Ken, a sparse smile playing over his dark face.
Omi relaxes back into Ken's warmth, closes his eyes, and eats the pieces of fruit from Ken's fingers.
xxx
Nagi picks on a microwaved dish of fried rice. He sits in the kitchen of their current bolthole, a small space that has room for a couple of kitchen units, a microwave, and a square table just large enough for four. He is keenly, uncomfortably aware of Farfarello, who crouches on the chair next to Nagi's, so close that Nagi can feel his body heat.
Farfarello is busy cutting a barely-through burger into thumbnail-sized slivers that he skewers with the tip of one of his thin-bladed knives, an affair of grey, brushed carbon steel, ten inches long and half an inch wide, profiled like a willow leaf and laser sharp on one side.
The slices of ground meat ooze bloody juices. Farfarello places each of them onto the tip of his tongue, to press them against the roof of his mouth and suck out the juice, before swallowing the rest.
Nagi feels sick.
Farfarello smiles softly and takes his time, his amber gaze languidly following the boy.
xxx
"Open," Crawford tells a groaning Schuldig. Schuldig, naked, on his stomach on Crawford's rumpled bed, crawls into a crouch and presses his hands against his temples as if he wanted to squash his skull. His eyes are bleary, glazed and watery. He is groaning with pain as he obediently sticks out his white-pelted tongue.
Crawford drops two white pills on it, then shoves them down Schuldigs throat with his long fingers even as he grabs a fistful of fiery copper hair to hold him still, like a force-fed dog.
Schuldig gags; Crawford pulls back his head some more and holds a mug of hot coffee to Schuldig's pallid lips, watching Schuldig's bony adam's apple jump as he downs the syrupy, bitter-black brew.
"There," Crawford says calmly and lets go of Schuldig's hair. He sets the half-full mug onto the rickety bedside cabinet of white fibreboard, and rakes roughly through those wild copper-bright strands. Only once, before he gets up. "Now sleep."
xxx
By the time Crawford gets to the kitchen, Nagi has gone to his room, Farfarello into town. Crawford leans against the window sash. He eats, quickly and thoroughly, a leftover burger, plus orange juice and coffee, strong and black as sin.
He is alone, his meal over in less than five minutes.
xxx
THE END