Title: One Last Time

By arashi_no_tenshi

Disclaimer: I don't own d gray man and never will.

There was never meant to be anything between them except perhaps half-formed desires hidden deep in the recesses of their minds. "Us" should never have materialized yet it did. Like those intriguing puzzles sold in trick shops, they fit together perfectly, two twisted but complementary pieces in a demented relationship. Fate dealt out hand after hand of jokers, bringing them together much against their wills…

It would be harsh to say that they hated each other but their mutual dislike was apparent from the first time they met. After all, what good impressions could a teacher's pet and a rebellious prankster leave on each other? But failure and its accompanying insecurities forced them closer. Each tried to be strong for the sake of the others, putting on numerous false fronts. It was only in the darkness of the night that the mask cracked and the naked, wounded personality emerged.

Their first was not due to the influence of alcohol as all clichéd romance stories go. Theirs wasn't much of a romance story. Hell, it wasn't even much of anything at all. It was another one of the times when the group had failed (again) to completely destroy the Akumas and was severely chastised for their acute incapacity. Filled with unspeakable animosity towards the people whom they strove to save, and frustrated by their own inability to perform, they turned to each other in mutual helplessness. For one, violence was the only outlet for the fury seething beneath. The other only blamed his own incompetence. One wanted to punish, and the other begged for punishment.

They met like a clashing of blind wills. Neither would ever be able to pinpoint the exact moment when the platitudes of regular conversation erupted into something unthinkable, something dangerous. There was nothing romantic or gentle about it. Each touch, each thrust, each fierce kiss was neither erotic nor tender, simply a wild slapping of flesh. It was rough and tortured and barely lasted five minutes. When they were done, they rolled apart and stared into the darkness, never touching. The moon cast a faint glow about the room but neither noticed. Their load had been relieved for now.

He zipped up his pants and left without so much as a glance at his counterpart. The other said nothing, continuing to lie motionlessly at the farthest edge of the bed, as though asleep. But as the door shut softly, something within him broke. Tears slid down his cheek, each drop glistening wetly in the dim moonlight. A leak in the dam became an unstoppable flood. He clenched his pillow and sobbed furiously long into the night.

The other man exited the building, his current prison without bars, and settled on the bench nearest to the outskirts of town, feeling drained and weary beyond his years. But sleep eluded him, so he remained motionless till dawn and watched the sky change colours.

* * *

Daylight is harsh. It shines like a torchlight into the corners of our minds, chasing away our ghosts and obliterating night's subtle mysteries. Daylight made them awkward and embarrassed. They averted their gazes, spoke even less than normal, and maintained a good distance between themselves. It was hard for each not to think of the other as someone he had fucked the night before. At any rate, they got through the day without raising any eyebrows. The others noted their newly formed "oil-and-water" relationship and hashed theories of closeted fight. But with such a hectic pace in the Order, it soon evolved to normalcy. Indeed, they were like oil and water, two mutually exclusive substances with clearly defined boundaries designed to keep the other out. But last night had shaken their inviolable boundaries. For a fleeting moment, oil and water had mixed. And in that moment, their fragile world and the laws upon which it was built collapsed. They chose to ignore it, to simply rebuild their fatally flawed world from the ruined debris. After all, they saw one another as nothing more than outlets to be exploited for temporary relief. Like cheap entertainment.

Sex soon became a placatory ritual. In a twisted way, it was just like the sacrificial rites ancients carried out to appease their minor gods after calamities. They rarely spoke. Their ritual was devoid of feelings and words: Immediately after sex, he would zip up his pants and stride off. The other would head for the shower and cleanse himself. And accompanied by the hiss of water in the shower and the soft thud of footfalls down the corridor, the door shuts quietly again…

* * *

Night had fallen by the time their tryst ended. As always, he sat at his usual spot. In the vastness of overgrown vegetation, the lamps glared severely at him, warning him that he could not hide in a cloak of darkness. They seemed to magnify a part of him he did not want to look at, because it made him feel flawed and afraid. When it became too much, he would retreat into the security of a closed building. But sometimes the chilly air coupled with the discomfort of wood and sting of insect bites made him sit up and think. What was he doing?

In a strangely symmetrical coincidence, his counterpart would also sit at the exact spot, but in the evenings, before their meetings. He always arrived early (way too early) and waited there. This exposure used to thrill and unnerve him: What if the other caught him sitting like some kind of stalker? But the other never noticed, so it became a habit. He would stare out of his window and wait for him to arrive, a cloaked silhouette in the darkened surroundings. A shadow against the dotted stretch of lamps. Probably wondering if he had made the right choice in turning up, in continuing this madness. He fidgeted a lot, as though nervous or irritable. With him, it was hard to tell which.

Wasn't the symmetry ironic? His so- called lover sat there, waiting for dusk to arrive so their tryst could begin in the cloak of darkness. And once it was done, he too sat, mulling over his life and waiting for darkness to recede. Wasn't it ironic that they both chose to brood at the same spot under a changing sky?

* * *

He wasn't a particularly religious person (in fact, he was not supposed to be religious) but he wore the cross the Vatican issued. It was to remind him about the dangers of wanton abandon, to steer him away from the precipice of no return. Although he might not have believed in a God or a specific religious entity, he nevertheless felt that his life was governed by some external force.

His partner (for lack of a less intimate term) also wore a cross but for entirely different reasons. He carried his faith close to heart to remind himself that God forbids acts of gross indecency. What he was doing was wretched and amoral. The cross was a constant reminder that he had to pull himself away from this decadence and debauchery. On the other hand, it gave him hope that at the end of all things, God would grant him forgiveness and salvation.

* * *

The zipping of pants.

The click of a lightswitch.

The hiss of a shower.

The thudding of leaving footfalls.

Another atypical meeting.

* * *

Since when did he have such feelings? He could not place it. The nights were all the same. But something in him had changed overnight. Sometimes he thought about his counterpart without thinking about sex. It was strange how his face would drift into his thoughts without any warning, and right in the middle of the most mundane of activities. It annoyed yet intrigued him. What was this? Affection? Surely not. Why now, after all those years of sex? And besides, he was supposed to be detached and objective. There was nothing special about now. This was getting ridiculous. Maybe it was a sign that the end was near. It was time to stop.

So he lied the next time his counterpart called to arrange their next secret rendezvous. "Bookman has been hounding me lately. He seems to be suspecting something."

"We should stop meeting then," the other spoke quietly, "Anyway I'm seeing Lenalee now."

"It's over." Two words. Terse, unforgiving. And he hung up, slamming his golem onto the table with unnecessary force. What was it that irked him? The other's tone, so rational and matter-of-fact? His indifference to their relationship? The fact that he was seeing someone else? No. He was angry with himself. Maybe he did not want to stop. At any rate, there was nothing he could do anymore. It was over.

His counterpart, at first only dazedly aware of what was happening, as though he was an indifferent observer of his own life, felt a strange and distant twinge when the line clicked dead. Part of him felt grateful that he could finally forget the other and return to a path towards salvation, a path he had strayed from so many years ago. He tried to make himself focus on this small, relieved part of him, but it was difficult to ignore the aching presence of the other's absence. Even if the sex had been violent, rough and devoid of the slightest traces of tenderness, something about him had always made him secure, if only for a moment. Weighted down by the warmth of the other's lean, taut body, he had felt protected from time's uncertain, turning wheels. Whenever these thoughts surfaced, he chastised himself for his weakness and turned to fervent prayer instead.

It soon became another routine, like how he had tried to stop drinking. No cigarettes… gum… no cigarettes… gum… But he had failed then. He was weak. He succumbed easily to temptation. And this time was no different. Abstinence… random woman… abstinence… random woman… And ultimately, the pendulum oscillated inevitably back to him.

* * *

It was late and the other would probably be asleep. That did not deter him. He knocked on the door, bringing the man who was once his lover out of his religious reverie. It was late, the other thought. Who would call on him at this hour? Could it be him? Only he would... Hope flooded his heart, but he forced himself to quell it. No, he had seldom initiated their meetings while they were fucking. Besides, they never met at his place. But hope pulsed beneath in places where he could not reach out and smother it. He was tense but appeared calm. Carefully, he opened the door.

Yes, it was him. It always had been him. As usual, he did not speak, not even to explain his sudden appearance, but slammed him against the nearest vertical surface. By way of a greeting, he ravished his neck. Bruises tomorrow, he thought absently, before all his thoughts scattered into incoherence. Buttons flew. He ripped his shirt down the centre. Hands flew urgently over his chest, gripping, pinching, grabbing. Teeth bit into his skin, and not once gently. Lips covered his hotly and devoured, tongue probing, seeking dominance. And he surrendered, to the pain, to the violation, to him.

His lover squeezed his ass, probing the hole roughly through the cloth. He let out a soft moan, rubbing his length against his thigh. The hand invading his posterior reached for the front, for the zipper, and his pants fell to his feet. He wore no underwear and his lover approved silently. Fingers closed around his length and he arched his back involuntarily. Slut, his conscience screamed. Whore. The hand began stroking, pumping and his last coherent thought vanished. It was about time. The hand left and he whimpered. He really was a slut. Fumbling with the other's zipper, he lifted his legs so they hooked around his waist and waited. For penetration.

They did it without lubricant. It was fast and painful like everything between them had ever been. The area around the hole tore and burned, causing him to unwittingly tense his muscles from the sudden intrusion. His lover groaned, relishing the tightness before he withdrew. And then thrust. He was as quick and as violent as ever, never giving the other time to adjust. He would barely be able to sit tomorrow. Tears threatened to cloud his vision as he writhed and moaned, the very last shreds of his dignity disintegrating. His own length dug into his lover's stomach, and the other clawed his back blindly, leaving crimson scratch marks against the pale skin. The friction and the pain brought him close to the brink. From his lover's ragged breathing, he could tell he was close and he squeezed further. It was more than just something he wanted. It was his job, his duty to be the other's vessel. Spurts of semen scalded his insides and with a rough tug, he too reached the edge.

When he had cleared his head from the roar of his orgasm, he found the other still holding on to him, gently stroking his bruised arms instead of dressing and walking away as he always had. It seemed like such a tender gesture, something real lovers do after love- making… No. They were not real lovers and never would be. It was always sex, never love- making. Abruptly, he shoved the other off chest. He could see the other's shock clearly reflected in his eyes, maybe even hurt. Then he slid of the bed, dressed up, all the while with a stolid expression, and walked away. Maybe he had read too much.

He wanted to be far, far away, anywhere he could put a door between them, so those eyes would not be able to linger in his memory, probe into his thoughts and break his resolve. He walked into the bathroom, shut the door, then collapsed onto the floor with his back against the door. He had to stuff his fist in his mouth to muffle the uncontrollable sobs that were shaking his entire body. The tiles were cool against his ravished, abused skin, and they restored some sense of reality. He finally recovered enough to clean up the mess they had left. The emotional mess caused by the fact that he had wavered once again remained untouched. When he found a tube of antiseptic cream that did not belong to him lying on a floor, he realized that the other must have brought it along for him, and he broke down.

He sat at his usual spot, tapping his cigarette against the armrest. Ash flew, pale minute particles soaring cheerfully towards freedom, despite the bleakness of the backdrop. Smoking was a vice, a horrible habit etched into his sub-conscious. So was sex between two men. It seemed that all things he took pleasure in were vices. He was a sinner, displeasing God in everything he did. He took one last drag then dangled the cigarette over the window. Maybe he really should quit.

His counterpart stood by the window, hesitating and let the curtain fall. What if he was indeed sitting there as he always did? Would he relent? It was no use. So what if he was there? Their relationship was impossible in this time and place. Society and religion would never allow it. It was better to snuff out what they had started and live with their regrets rather than fruitlessly build castles in the air and regret it later. Yet he brushed the curtain aside. There he was; his familiar dark shape. Maybe he had not given up. He tried to quell this thought, but a faint smile lifted the corners of his lips imperceptibly. How ironic- he knew this was amoral, that God would never condone what they, two men, were doing in the bedroom. Yet the pale glow of streetlamps gave his shadowed form an ethereal halo, reminiscent of angels.

Screw it, he thought, lifting his cigarette to his lips again with a wry smile. This, not prayer or abstaining from sin, made him feel alive. And that is what life is all about – feeling alive. He reached into his heart and tugged; the chain gave way easily. A slight heft and it flew into the distance. Leaning back against the backrest, he let his gaze fall on the curtained window above as silver glinted and appeared to wink somewhere on the somber ground.

The shrouded figure dropped the curtain immediately as though scalded. He hated those eyes, emerald orbs that were so piercing and intrusive, dark and hard like the stones they resembled. The other seldom spoke, and he did not have to; those eyes told enough to be understood without the need for speech. He hated the fact that one look was enough to bring him to his knees and make him act irrationally; he hated the fact that his laidback countenance (even in lieu of problems) was all a lie, betrayed only by the slight contraction of his pupils. And yet despite all these, he adored them…

"Lavi…" he whispered affectionately, and shook his head. Hard. What was he doing? He should not be thinking of him this way. It was impossible, for god's sake. Society would not condone it, the Vatican would turn its back against them and even their friends would forsake them. The life they had painstakingly gathered would crash, amidst the roar of outrage from the public and cackles of the Noahs; a cacophony of artificial melodies. This would be unfair for the other exorcists. This had to stop. This would stop.

Yet he fiddled with his cross and said to himself, "Keep your heart still and wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing…"

But really, what was he hoping for?

Please do review. First time attempting a Lavi/ Allen fic.