My feet make no noise on the hardwood floor as I make my way silently as a mouse across the hall. It's dark here even though there's a full moon tonight, but I don't need any light to see where I am going. I've made my way to his room too many times to count.
When I reach his door, I slide it open with the slightest rumble. I step quietly inside and then slide the door shut. He doesn't move but I know that he hears me – he has a cat's hearing, after all.
His room is brighter. The moonlight spills through his window, painting the walls silver. I move quietly to his bed where he's laying. Wordlessly, I slip underneath the covers, my pajamas making the slightest rustle against his sheets.
His back is toward me, like always. His head is pillowed against his arm, completely ignoring me. His bed is only made for one, so I try and make myself as small as possible so as not to touch him. Not yet. He doesn't move an inch as I settle in next to him.
I stay there next to him, on my side, facing him, saying nothing. I can see the outline of his shoulders, his back. I wait just a little longer.
Almost against my will, my hand reaches out to touch him. It settles lightly on the side of his head, into his bright hair, and I feel him tense. Gently, I trail my hand down his neck to his shoulders. He doesn't react. My touch moves down his arm until it reaches his side. I go no further.
My hands ache to touch him, restless in their search for his warmth.
When I can't stand it anymore, my voice speaks. "Kyo," I whisper, breaking the silence.
Finally, he moves. He shifts slowly onto his back, and then turns to face me. We lay there, side by side, watching each other. His gaze is wary, guarded, and a tad fearful. Like always.
With his back to the moonlight, his face is in shadow, but I can still see his eyes searching mine. Questioning.
I touch his cheekbone gently with a finger. His brow furrows slightly, but he offers no other resistance.
My resistance, on the other hand, wears thin. I move closer, bringing us face to face. For a heartbeat we stare at each other until I close the distance between our mouths. At the very last second, he turns away slightly, and my lips land on his cheek.
It doesn't matter here, now. Not when I'm like this. Tomorrow is a different story. But right now, I press little kisses against his face, moving lower to trace his jaw with my lips. I move farther away from his mouth until his earlobe is against my lips. I nibble it gently, and his breath hitches slightly.
Encouraged, I move lower, tasting his neck, grazing his pulse point with my teeth. He gasps a little, the loudest sound he's made tonight. I nip his collarbone underneath the t-shirt he's worn to bed.
I feel him shudder and he turns more fully toward me with his mouth parted slightly. Now, I think. I press my mouth against his, hungry for his taste. My eyelids are half-closed as we trade heavy kisses.
My hands begin moving again over his body, no longer gentle. They slip underneath his t-shirt and his grip on my shoulders tightens. I palm his stomach, feel the hard planes of his chest, and caress his lower back. He shivers.
I quickly strip him of his shirt, leaving him half-naked. I close my eyes so I don't have to see the fear I know is there. I'm too far gone now. The place between my legs is hot and heavy, pressing up against his hipbone. I can't stop now.
I want him, I think. And with the thought my hands move to take off the sweatpants he's worn to bed.
"Yuki!" he says, a note of panic in his voice. The sound of my name makes me pause. "Yuki, no," he whispers.
And with those two words, all the feeling drains out of me. I pull away from him, clenching my fists so that my fingers won't touch him anymore.
When I finally get myself under control, he's staring at me with wide eyes. He's shaking violently. And, like all the other times before, he curls up into a ball, his back again to me, and trembles.
It's over for now. He won't let me touch him anymore, and I'm in anguish. I know why he trembles. It's not because of shame for me, or shame of what we do and do not do. He's ashamed of himself. He thinks that he's a monster, something unfit to be touched the way that I want to touch him. The way that I want him to touch me.
I know I can't change his mind about this, not with words. So I do the only thing I can. I slip out of bed as quietly as I came. I open the door, step outside, close it and make my way down the hall to my room. I leave him.
In the morning, he'll change, as will I. With the sunlight, he becomes brash and brazen again. Fearless. I, on the other hand, wake up angry and unfulfilled. I can't sleep until I've touched him, but he never lets me into his room until very late at night when everyone else is sleeping. I'm sleep deprived. I resent him for denying me. I don't blame him, but I resent it. And I resent myself for resenting him.
And so, in the morning, when he shouts at me, threatens me, I react. I punch him, kick him. I want to punish him, even as I know that he only starts a fight with me in a semblance of an apology. He won't let me touch him at night, so to make up for it in the morning, he touches me. Harsh. Without any kind of gentleness, but with the same urgency. I can do nothing but retaliate. I hate him for refusing me, and I hate myself even more for pushing him to give me something he can't.
But I can't stop. I'm addicted. I can't help going to him. Every night, I make my way to his room. Every night, I touch him. And every night, I wait for him to tell me "yes".