Irritated. Fragmented. Pieces of an irreparable whole. Each flit of light maintained the appearance of a simple piece disconnected from the puzzle.
From beneath closed lids the unseen eyes rolled. Left to right, up and down…. They circled as though dreaming, vainly trying to find something just beyond the lid. The music in the background dimly reflected emotions boiling inside a heaving chest. Something was wrong… and there was something terribly right about that.
Everywhere. He could feel hands everywhere. They came at him from all sides and the pattern was erratic. Sometimes the hands and fingers tweaked, pulled, teased and sometimes the soft gentle strokes were so full of longing and sadness. Each touch, each stroke, each attempt to get through pulled at his consciousness. He arched his back, mouth working on its hinges. There were people all around, watching, urging… he could feel their eyes locked on him, some of them pursed their lips and licked at them hungrily. Others stood, staring, cold and contemplative. The smiles on their faced were the only clue to the scene.
There were sounds. Garbled sounds from the others around him joined with a single, repeated word, a murmur on one pair of lips. Unfocused moans and throaty growls mixed with the heavy pounding of music; each beat of the bass guitar strummed along with fingers and hands and breaths, of these he didn't know which were his own.
He swallowed, breath catching in his throat at last. The cold sweat breaking out on his lower back and his feet numb in the oncoming rush. He teetered, holding back—stretching the time, the feeling, the single moment that he'd been striving for these long minutes with the crowd surrounding; his show lasted far longer than he'd expected.
Sharply a gasp was drawn from behind him and his ministrations abruptly stopped. Blue eyes shot open to catch a hazy view of his cluttered room, empty of all the stares and reactions of onlookers…. Save one.
The only one he had wished had not been there to see.
The gruff baritone escaped the intruder's throat unevenly, as though forced through. "Omi…."
That one name on his lips had been the only clear cadence in the fantasy preceding. Omi's mouth worked silently as his head leaned back over his computer chair—so far lounged back, in fact, that he may as well have been lying down save for the irregular arching of his spine.
"I'm sorry," the trespasser murmured distractedly as he turned away. His broad shoulders and open chest were clearly tense and his movements were shuffled, off-balance. He'd been stunned.
"Yohji…." Omi began dumbly, but the door to his room had been closed before he could find the words to say more. Slowly, his dilated eyes drifted to the computer screen where pictures of numerous sizes—different situations, settings, garb, and attitude—of a blonde man with chin-length hair and sleepy green eyes had been arranged.
"Yohji…."
(-)
Yohji sat stiffly on the couch and stared into his scotch glass, not really seeing it. His green eyes reflected back, troubled, while tousled hair curled up against his cheek, tickling but ignored.
Did I really see what I think I saw? He replayed the scene in his mind. He'd come home after an uneventful night researching and walked in—
No. Back up a bit. Yohji complied with his internal voice.
The door was locked when he approached it, so he'd used his key to unlock it—not abnormal since the apartment was the base of operations. Yohji had taken off his jacket and slung it sloppily over the back of a chair. Aya would be mad if he left it out, but for all that he cared, their red-headed leader could piss off. He was tired. He was sick and tired from scooping out the same corner hour after hour without the arrival of his "research." He'd reached into his pocket to pull out a cigarette and matches only to find that he'd already used the last stick.
It wasn't until then that Yohji had heard the music from Omi's room. At least someone had been home, or at least these had been his musings and also the highlight of his long and very uneventful day. As was custom, Yohji didn't knock. Omi never did anything out of the ordinary. He was, simply put, the single most uninteresting assassin youth the world had ever seen. His high study habits and impeccable moral attitude was as perfect as any fifties son could hope to be….
That was when Yohji had opened the door on a quest to collect a light when his gold-flecked eyes had seen what he had never expected: Omi, sweet and innocent as a fucking cupid was stretched out over the back of his computer chair backwards, seriously driving it hard into his hand. Yohji had been under the impression that Omi hadn't even dropped his balls, much less masturbated.
Omi's great blue eyes had opened, staring hazily at him in the quintessential gaze of pure lust. The face he'd so long seen as "innocent" and "girlish" was suddenly bAyaded into his mind as something he'd much more expected from any of the girls at any of his clubs, but so much more effective than any single one of them to invigorate the little voice inside of him that said, "THIS is what you're looking for." Even the memory of Asuka had been banished from his mind. The images of him sprawled out on Omi's computer screen had driven the note home. Suddenly personal, Yohji hadn't even been able to put the pieces together for what seemed like an eternity of moments. (Those annoying ones that trail one right after the other with the simple purpose to piss you off and remind you how absolutely human you are.) And despite Omi's pleading face and all the evidence pointing to the invitation to join, he abandoned his normal character and turned his back and left.
Now Yohji sat, staring into his glass.
(-)
Omi opened the door to his room. It was either now or never and he couldn't let this situation just sit. There was no reason to let such a situation sit and fester until the rest of Weiß caught wind. Aya wouldn't want to deal with it and who knew what Ken's reaction would be…. He was having a hard enough time even thinking about what Yohji must look like.
Still, he shuffled out of his room in his pyjamas. He'd at least taken the time to close out of his computer windows and change clothes. It took that long for him to build up confidence to even talk to himself about bringing anything up to Yohji. He listened hard as he paused right before the corner into the community room. There was no sound. Was Yohji even there or had he stormed off into his room, disgusted?
It had taken Omi long enough to even admit to himself that Yohji's constant teasing had bothered him for any reason other than simply being annoying. That little throb in his chest and the jump in his abdomen whenever the older blonde said anything wasn't just coincidental. For the past few months he'd been working with the idea of Yohji, but it had just been today that he'd decided "hey, what could happen?"
Well, a lot could happen.
Yohji could come home early and just so happen to need something.
It couldn't have been any of the others, could it? At least Ken had an inkling about what had been bothering Omi. As his best friend, there were some things that you could just read… some things that you knew without anyone needing to tell you.
Omi held his breath and stepped around the corner.
Yohji was sitting on the sofa, his long legs crossed as he leaned on one arm of the chair, staring blankly into the glass of his choice liquor of the day. He was thinking intently. The slight wrinkle between his eyebrows and his lightly pursed lips showed this clearly. Omi took another step when Yohji didn't move and then another.
"Yohji," Omi began shakily, "I'm sorry." The older man didn't move, lounged like a cat frozen in place. "I'm sorry you had to see that. I never meant for you to find out… especially not like this."
The older man continued to stare, but finally, once Omi had almost decided to give up, he opened his mouth and asked, "Why?" He paused. "Why me? If anyone, why not Ken? He sees you."
Omi's breath caught in his throat and his heart fell. Why had he thought that Yohji might just accept him? Why couldn't he even just laugh him off and say it must have been a joke? "I—"
"I still thought you were a kid," Yohji continued, finally his eyes peeled away from the amber liquid to stare through Omi's soul. Certainly they couldn't see that far! "You were still just a kid to me and now…." He gestured with a hand, "You're grown up and I didn't even see you." The older man gave a small laugh and pushed back his hair, "I'm an idiot."
The younger man took a step forward. He forced himself to get closer. "Yohji, if anyone's the idiot, it's me. I mean, I never should have taken you so seriously. You're in love with Asuka and she…."
"Asuka?" Yohji frowned. "She's been gone a long time. She was the first woman I really loved."
Omi nodded. "Yeah. You like women. So, forget about what just happened, okay?" The young man forced a smile. "It was nothing."
Yohji shook his head. "No. No, it's not nothing, Omi." He put aside his drink and for the first time since entering, Omi saw that it hadn't been touched. The chunk of ice had partially melted and the water floated at the top, very clear against the amber. "Even if it's just infatuation, your emotions are never 'nothing.'" Yohji pushed against his knees and stood from the couch. "Especially your emotions."
"What do you mean?" Omi was reeling. Something was going on inside Yohji's head that he'd never expected.
Yohji took a step towards Omi and gestured for the younger to do the same. "Come here." When Omi opened his mouth, the elder shook his head. "I want to know something."
Heart beating fast, Omi obeyed. His hands were shaking, his eyes not quite looking anywhere clearly. On wobbly legs, he closed the last few feet between the two of them. He could smell the tobacco, warm and comforting, on Yohji's clothing. His cologne was spicy against his personal musk and everything was so real. Omi could see the softness of Yohji's cotton shirt and the slight stubble on his face. He wanted to reach out and touch it, feel the grain of it like sandpaper against his hands. He wanted to inhale the same breath, taste his lips….
Then suddenly, Yohji warmly put a hand on Omi's waist and pulled him in. He leaned down the small distance between their faces and smiled against the softness of Omi's lips. The younger nearly pulled back from surprise, but sighed and leaned in, one hand grasped the light fabric of Yohji's shirt while the other rested against his arm. Slowly, reluctantly, Omi pulled away. His blue eyes were wide as they searched for a reason.
"You were so reckless…." Yohji said, confusion wavering his voice. "Why did you leave your room unlocked?"
Omi shifted uneasily. "What about you? What if I only wanted your body."
The elder laughed suddenly, his chuckle deep in his chest. Omi could feel it rumble pleasantly against his hands. "I don't think you could be so shallow. My Omitchi? Impossible."
"Since when was I yours?" He asked questing, the butterflies in his stomach fighting to get out.
"You never answered my first question," Yohji pointed out smoothly. He rubbed, urging, at the base of Omi's spine.
Blue eyes turned downward slightly. "I guess… a part of me wanted you to come home. I wanted for you to find me… I wanted closure. I wanted…. Something."
Yohji could see that same innocent face thinking hard about his question. Omi was serious, trying his hardest to be honest without really knowing the answer, himself. It was then that Yohji felt his heart swell. This boy had been the brunt of his nagging, his poor humour, his drunken stupors and still, despite his vices could care so deeply. Omi had been able to work his way out of a life with no family, no friends and become someone so loving and amazing. His compassion was something that Yohji still couldn't grasp and the mystery… He wanted to know Omi completely and hold on to this feeling of having something dear so tightly in his grasp.
"I want to try this." Omi finished, suddenly. His bright blue eyes returned to meet Yohji's green firmly, decisively. "I don't care how reckless this is. I want to try to make things work."
Yohji smiled. Omi's words had reflected his thoughts so perfectly that he couldn't help but agree. "So let's try this. Let's be reckless."
"But not too reckless," Omi interjected.
"Right…. I don't ever want to see the look on Aya's face."
Owari