WeissKreuz – Perfume
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Warnings: male/male affection and references to sex.
Rating: M for the above reasons.
Summary: Schuldig follows Yohji and Aya, ends up dancing madly, and bumps into Crawford on returning home…
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Watching. It never ceases to thoroughly, really, totally piss me off.
To see… Balinese, dressed to kill in his damn tight leather pants and sharply tailored black cotton shirt, complete with a casually loose charcoal silk tie and black blazer, his long, murderous, delicious hands encased in black leather gloves. His pretty face half-hidden behind those green sunshades he favours, his bleach-blond hair a mixture of honeybrown and gold and slicked back with what must be handfuls of gel, a few strands straggling and falling softly around his sharp cheekbones. A whisperfine gold necklace shows off his smooth throat… I would like to bite him there, mark the lightly tanned flesh with my teeth, draw a little blood perhaps…
Abyssinian does not seem to care. Oblivious to Bali's obvious attempts to warm him up, ignorant of the worship in those shiny green eyes. He doesn't deserve any of it. He does not appreciate what he has in Balinese. The blond has managed to drag him out to some club, and I will be there to meet and greet them even though it will mean trouble with Brad, damn him for being so stuck up. I just want some fun.
So here they go – I bet Bali is wearing this scent that makes him even more alluring, his silky flesh perfumed with caramel and sandalwood, warm and earthy and utterly, irresistibly tasty. He is quite some dish, no wonder folk flock around him just to get laid. And does he sleep around? He sure works hard to convey the image, but I know better. I know that he tends to dupe his dates at the last moment, leaving more than one broken or angry heart behind, how sweet… only to wait for this frigid redhead to bestow his favours upon him when the mood strikes.
Not very often, apparently. Abyssinian cannot enjoy himself, let alone what is on offer so blatantly and for him alone, and Bali ends up high 'n dry or wanking in the shower. I would like to help out, if he'd only let me…
I am close, slipping after them. Abyssinian makes a point of staring ahead, displaying utter disinterest while Bali is talking at him… but Balinese has always been perceptive, and when he casts a swift glance over his shoulder, I know he can sense me.
Close. I like being close to him. In the wake of his scent, this dizzying aroma of life. I am cold and burning inside, he is warm and steady, with Abyssinian as dead as a fish on land, especially in places like that one…
A club, not one of the best but noisy, filled with the thumping of rock music, interspersed with the odd slow-poke huddler. Flashing strobes blasting into the murky mix of dry-ice fog and darkness, laserlights fingering the masses of barely covered flesh heaving and convulsing on the dance floor. I can see, and relish, Abyssinian cringe with discomfort, though he makes a show of keeping his cool. But I can read the signs and wonder, yet again,why Bali refuses to accept them – the stiffening of Abyssinian's neck, the almost imperceptible thinning of his pale lips and narrowing of purple-lensed eyes.
Balinese pays the entry fee for both of them, and then he plunges in, past the bouncers, grabbing Abyssinian's bare white hand to haul him along.
Istay close, right on Bali's heels. Pay my due, let the bouncerspet my hair a little, even allow the few brazenly stolen touches to my backside and neck. They put me in the mood. They appreciate my looks, the feel of my body, slim and tall, and how my hair slides against their skin like living fire, bright and whisperfine.
Bali likes my hair too. He shares that foible with Brad, who thinks pulling at it is a great way of showing that he owns me.
Why the hell am I thinking of Brad now? He was glaring at his computer when I left the house, and even though he tried to act all cool and superior, I knew he was seething.
"Hi Schuldig."
Their chibi is right behind me at the bar where I have elbowed my way, and his soccer boyfriend brings up the rear, shooting me glares that do not suit his pretty hazel eyes. I like Siberian's eyes because somehow, in a rather distant way, they remind me of Brad.
Damn him. I tried to imagine Brad going out with me, and failed. Doesn't happen often, but seeing him the other day in a pair of black jeans and a grey turtleneck, as casual as he'll ever get, nearly blew me out of my mind.
Okay, perhaps that's not exactly a feat. But it gave me ideas, and I had to go to the bathroom, only for Brad to catch up with me there and pin me back against the basin, my bum on the cold ceramic and my back pressed up against the mirror…
Snap out of it. Siberian's hand settles possessively on Bombay's slim shoulder. Okay, okay, I don't go for chibi's anyway. "Hi there, sweetheart," I say, and – predictably – Bombay blushes wildly and glowers at me.
"Wanna spoil the party?" Siberian snaps at me. Ah, temper, temper, he's hot and fierce, very much like my dear friend and colleague Farfarello, only that my snow angel is good at shrouding these things with thick layers of calm, smothering and suffocating... Siberian's mind is too uncomplicated to bother.
"How so?" I prod,beckoning the bartenderso I can order drinks. I am feeling generous: it's beer for them, something sharper for me – whisky will do just fine for now. Bali and his icicle have made it too, belatedly taking notice of me and their team mates. Bali always gets caught up by someone coming on to him, girl or guy, and he always takes his time, drinking in their compliments, soaking up their innuendos, replying nicely with a few of his own – he is enjoying it, deploying his charm liberally and receiving it back manyfold.
Abyssinian's coldly handsome face darkens with a black scowl, and he is so tense by now that it will take little effort to shatter him.
Bali ignores my order, and pays for their drinks. It still is beer for the youngsters, but he has whisky, like me, and for Abyssinian it has to be the most expensive sakeavailable in this place. Balinese tugs redhead's sleeve and presses the sake bottle and cup into those small, hard hands. Plants a quick kiss onto the top of the red head even as he lances a cool glance at me.
He doggedly insists on spoiling his ice doll rotten, with not a hope in hell of ever melting this frosty, empty mind.
Abyssinian leans against the bar and fills his cup, tossing back the iced drink as if it were water. Once, twice, three times. Stiffening, then growing mellow by tiny degrees, his posture slackening ever so slightly as the alcohol heats his blood. He is bad at holding his drink.
"Cheers," I say, lifting my glass.
Bali drinks up without a word; Bombay is trying to analyse me with those sharp blue glares of his, with Siberian hovering behind him protectively. And Abyssinian still is like some island in the middle of a stormy sea. He winds me up just by being there.
So I go dancing. Close my eyes and let the rhythm take me, allow the chaos of emotions and thoughts to soak into my mind without trying to resist, losing myself for a while along with the pounding headache that drills into most of my waking moments. I wear simple stuff – plain black jeans, nice 'n tight but not too restrictive, pale blue shirt to match my eyes and set off my hair colour, and smart black boots. Nothing special, not like them who dress up as if there were no tomorrow when they go out. Those chibis look like poured into their gear, too much latex and netting for my taste though I will admit that they are tasty little morsels.
Nothing like him though. No one is like Bali who oozes effortless sensuality with every move he makes, no matter what he's dragging over his butt.
Not to mention the effect when he's not wearing anything...
I know what is going to happen. I've seen it before, and it never changes, the pattern of their evenings out. The chibis will go dancing. They will get drunk and high, not enough to drop their guard entirely, but they'll be all over one another before long, enjoying themselves in a rather shameless way. Bali will waste most of his time here trying to talk Abyssinian into dancing with him. Redhead will go through his stages:steely ignorance, strained denial, outburst of temper, angry argument, and then he'll try to skewer Bali with glares when the blond is finally exasperated enough to decide to stuff it and slip onto the dance floor anyway.
Into the press of bodies.
Closer to me.
So very close.
We always end up dancing close to one another.
xxx
I had hoped to get into our house without trouble. I just never learn.
"Why do you bother?"Bradhurls at me, his voice cool and low, but I know he is seething because I can sense it. He skulks in the dark at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread before him, his hands clamped around a mug of cold coffee. His face eerily lit by the pale blue shine from his laptop screen, glasses glinting at me from the table, his eyes red-rimmed and angry. He is still hanging on to his pretense of being oh-so-cool.
Outside, dawn is rising. I smell of stale smoke and booze, and of hot caramel. Balinese had been hard against me, pressing me close, his hands fisting in my hair while he was frenching me when he thought his team mates were too far gone to notice.
Abyssinian saw. And instead of fighting, the idiot upped and left in a huff.
I have no idea whether Balinese realised. We danced some more, sweet Bali and I, until he had enough, his token resistance to Abyssinian's wrath duly delivered, and he stumbled off to search for his ice prick of a lover. He did not look happy, his jaw set grimly, his eyes dull and oddly resigned.
He is dumb that way.
I could have done without Brad making a scene, but then, it was… good, somehow. To know he'd been sitting here all night, waiting, fretting, fuming. Not enough to come after me, but I take that as a compliment – he trusts my skills, and I know my trade well enough. I am capable of defending myself, even though I prefer to worm my way out if things go awry, much like Balinese would do… I wonder whether he killed more people than I ever will…
Brad does notwaste time with rhethoric questions. He expects an answer. I shrug, edging towards the coffee machine. "Dunno. It's sorta fun?"
"I'll give you fun," Brad growls, yanking back his chair. He is behind me in a flash, his hands heavy on my upper arms, his grip hard and not friendly at all as he pins me against the cupboard and bites my ear. "You stink," he snipes.
"I do not. I like his perfume," I goad him, bracing myself on the worktop.
"Whores smell like that. It cloys." Brad nudges his leg between my thighs.
"He is no whore," I snap rebelliously over my shoulder. Not because I'm overly concerned about pretty Bali's honour, but Brad is questioning my taste. I don't like that.
Brad rubs one hand up over my shoulder, cups the back of my neck, winds his fingers into my hair. He has this thing for my hair. Just as Bali. How would it be to have them in bed together? No, not good, I suppose they'd bicker and insult one another instead of applying themselves to the obvious – me – and quite likely end up murdering one another. I would get nothing; the linen would be sticky and smelly with blood, and I'd have to spend ages cleaning up their mess, not to mention the cost.
Though they would make pretty corpses, laid out neatly side by side, smartly clothed and surrounded by flower arrangements, courtesy of the Koneko… I cannot help a smirk at that. Farfarello would enjoy this. He adores rituals, perhaps he could conduct the funeral service and Nagi could be our cute little choir boy… though the brat should be less sullen. Well, I'd be playing the grieving widow, crying my eyes out… that should cheer him up, he needs that sometimes. I nearly laugh out loud at the image that slips into my mind, me in a skimpy black chiffon rag with my legs sticking out like only a guy's legs can from a dress, my hair bound up, face hidden beneath black lace,and I'd be melting into sobs and tears…
"Bed," Brad commands, staring mistrustingly into my eyes. He can tell when I wander off, but not where I'm going. But who am I to argue? We'll spend a stormy hour or so with him reasserting himself of his possession, and me enjoying myself while he screws me into the mattress. He is predictable that way, he knows it, it annoys him no end because he finds it irritating that other folk could predict him when foreseeing events is his domain of expertise. For all his cunning and practical genius, he forgets that there's a very basic aspect to this, something mere mortals – unlike himself – can manage just fine, especially when he's hard as hell against my thigh.
He drags me off, tearing my rags off me on the way to the shower, where he's going to douse me with water so hot it leaves me gasping, with him still fully clothed and getting thoroughly soaked, his expensive suit ruined, the fabric clinging breathtakingly to his broad frame. Then he'll allow me to unbutton his shirt – though I'd like to rip it off him, tried that once, and had my hide to show for it – and help him out of his clothes. Leaving a trail of wet stuff behind us that I'll have to pick up later.
Later, when he is sated and as happy as he can be, half-asleep, and bushed from screwing and having spent a night with fruitless worrying.
About me.
It makes me mellow and mushy and dizzy, and that gets me bristling again. I hate him for this. But he is content now that I smell of him and not of Bali, and we have some respite from one another.
Even though I'm not sure whether this is what I wanted.
"Yes it is," he grumbles, clamping his arm across my chest. Did I babble?
"Yes you did. Now, be silent for FIVE MINUTES so I can go to sleep." He sounds grouchy, but his lips move against my temple, and I guess that he is smiling.
Well, perhaps he is right. I cannot know that, because my mind tends to fall apart and wander. Brad knows what I want, what I lack, where I am in those dimensions others feel as space and time. He grounds me, something I am unable to do for myself. So I trust him. I worship him. I'll lick his feet if he'd ask me, and he might just do this on a whim because then he feels in control, full of power, and it helps him keep his confidence in himself. His belief that he can save us. Schwarz.
But I need, utterly, desperately, madly need him, and the thought of having to manage without his containing presence shakes me with bouts of panic.
He created me; he holds the key to who I am.
And this is why I cannot have Balinese.
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The End