AN:: I am addicted to this pairing. I've broken away from my Naruto fanfiction long enough to write a little oneshot with them. That shows how much I love 'em. XD

. : C a ' c a n n y : .

This was a game.

I knew it, and he knew it. I saw it in the way he twirled a piece of my auburn hair around his finger, briefly, only just enough to please—or perhaps tempt further—his senses. I was certain he knew it, too, by the slight intake of breath at his close proximity, and the tightening of my grip on the pencil I held to control my breathing. Through each other we watched this game played out, taking turns and slipping cards up our sleeves and putting on just the right face at just the right time—just enough to keep things interesting, but not out of control.

This was a game of life.

It was debatable which of us knew this better. I understood that if I played too drastic a move at this stage of the game, I would lose. I would lose, and he would lose simply because I'd lost and I knew that not-so-deep down he wanted me to win. I saw it now, as his lovely, thin fingers traced my jaw line delicately, his flesh barely there, hardly on mine at all but burning my chin with a fiery feeling that I didn't quite feel because it wasn't quite there, either.

This was a game of love.

It was made all the more difficult because he was so intelligent, so observant and so very, very good at acting. His false expressions were as well put-together as the ones I myself could switch between at a second's notice, and I found myself agonizing over that layer of lies he kept over his face because it was not him, and he was exactly what I wanted to see and never could. Now, his eyes were sharper than ever, as he knew they needed to be to play this game we bet our lives on, our hearts on. If either of us went too far, we knew, we could die. If either of us allowed ourselves too much, we could lose.

This was a game of trust.

I sighed shakily because his fingers had not left my face and yet I could scarcely tell they were there. I had to reach up and touch them to make sure they were still really on me, make sure my imagination fueled by my desire for him was not playing tricks on me. I felt the smooth, cold skin that was his fingers and slipped my hand over it, pressing it to my face like my life depended on it, when really I knew that only my death would be brought about by these fingers. I let go, because I could not let myself be overcome, could not let myself forget that I was to hide from him, not submit to him.

But oh, how lovely his skin felt against mine.

He stood up, out of his chair and slunk closer to me, cautiously, so as not to break the glass shield that lay under me, the shield that was my lies, lies that he knew would cut him just as much if broken. Because in this game, neither of us could let ourselves get too close to the other. In this game, we both had to restrict our brief touches, our rare kisses, for if we did not, one of us would see through the other. I knew that would lead to cataclysmic events. I knew it, and he knew it.

So in this game we played, delicately, cautiously, we each tried to play our affection just the right way to get the other to submit, to break, while at the same time not letting ourselves capitulate as well. I knew that he was playing the game only because I saw him close-up, every day, as he played without letting me see that he was playing. Up came the masks, the boundaries of true and false, to hide him from my eyes and make it seem like he's not playing the same game as I am.

But I know he is.

I know because I felt his lips ghost over mine, only the most meager of contact, but just enough to send ripples through the senses on my lips, a fluttering reaching my heart and stomach. I had scarce control over my hand as it rose to his head, entangling it in his rich, soft midnight locks. The sensation it catapulted through my fingers and up to my nervous system was enough to make my breath catch in my throat. It was all I could do to keep from tackling him to the floor, devouring his mouth and hips and shoulders…

Endless charcoal eyes stared curiously at me, as though he had never had his hair caressed like this, and that only made the impulse stronger. To distract myself, I ran my hand through his too-long tendrils of black, easily, tenderly, all my twisted love concentrated into my hand and fingers just for him as I attempted not to let my emotions go out of control. His eyes, fathoms deep with theories and feelings and neglect and love, slipped half closed as my deprived digits came back to stroke his scalp again. He was losing the game now, myself gaining the upper hand as he melted into my touch.

He knew it. And I knew it. But I was not about to stop.

I rose to my feet to reach him easier, and pushed my lips to his, carefully, not passionately or affectionately. Carefully, cautiously, like each move in this game must be played.

But he did not seem to remember the game. In quite the show of passion, he kissed back, without hesitation, and snaked his arms around my neck.

If his sparse kiss had sent ripples through my senses, this was sending tremors, thunderous, erratic earthquake spasms through my nervous system, heart, and every other part of my body. I felt a fissure of emotion break free and could not help but kiss him back with every fiber of my being.

At this point, the game was long forgotten and would remain so until morning's light interrupted our dreams with its stabs of sun through the only window in the room. I did not think about my next move as my hands snuck feverishly under the hem of his baggy white shirt. I did not think about how I would lose the game if he realized what wicked shivers his hands on my bare back sent cascading down my spine. My every coherent thought was centered on the boy—the man—in my arms, in my mouth, in my clothes…

We were losing now, both of us sailing downhill just as our emotions soared up it.

He knew it.

And I knew it.

But this night, neither cared.