I posted this in the nabari livejournal community at the end of September, in case you find this familiar.
As usual, it's not mine, I'm still broke.
A kiss in the wind. It sucked the air from Kouichi's bones, which made him feel dry, brittle, and old. His lungs gasped when he did. Raimei's battle-scarred hands were touching his cheek, his shoulder, the back of his neck, where the lightest brush made him weak; useless fluttering graceless caresses. The crumbling autumn leaves stirring around them were, at present, more resolute than he—now, as she slipped her arms over his shoulders and then he was shuddering forward, nearly pouring himself into her, and everything was a dizzy, lovely mess. He tried to tell her this against the hot and sort of wet juncture of their mouths, but Kouichi couldn't breathe fast enough to get the words out. He couldn't even think straight. It was all why were they doing this? and they most likely shouldn't be doing this. But it felt so nice and comfortable and she could hit him for it later if she wanted to, because right now it was happening and he was falling, like ships sinking on the sea with ruptured hulls, like a sparrow with a shot wing, like he had been pushed or tripped or yanked on. She wasn't trying to hit him, stop him, or keep him afloat.
Her hands were cool against his skin, which surprised Kouichi. Her personality, her eyes, her hair—they were warm to look at and bask in. Her mouth was warm, too, and also very damp, slippery, but then her hands—her hands were so chilled as they moved and grazed, gathering up courage in each individual finger to do the adventurous and slide down and under. And, oh, how he shuddered, thinking, gomen nasai, gomen nasai, gomen. gomen, gomen, gomen nasai when they did. Raimei's nails were what he felt folding and and scritching at his spine, calloused fingers be damned. "Don't—" he said, and truthfully, Kouichi didn't know what he was requesting. What he heard was how hoarse he sounded, and the clear break in his voice. It wasn't as embarrassing as he'd have thought. He also did not want her to listen. In fact, she didn't stop at first, and for that, he made a noise drenched in please's that weren't words, a noise that he didn't like to recognize as human, which was just as well, he supposed. Raimei stopped then.
She said, "Are you—" and he replied, "No—yeah—" The trees bent, sighed, and straightened. The wind played and disturbed the skeletons of brittle leaves. Raimei bent, too, retrieving her hat, which lay innocently in the dirt as if it had not witnessed a thing.
Are you okay?
Kouichi stood still, cold and warm and all sorts of feelings—the kinds of feelings that coloured his face sunset pink. Raimei's cheeks were sunrise pink. He knew because he peeked. They were two very different shades. "I'm sorry," he said. Sorry for peeking.
No—yeah—I'm fine.
"Don't worry—" She smiled at him, and her smile was warm, too. "Don't—don't worry—it's okay. It's—fine. It's fine."
She was wringing her hat. Kouichi fidgeted with his glasses.
Then he bent like the trees bent, bent like Raimei bent, bent like a gentleman about to kiss a lady bent, and touched her cheek with his lips, pretending like they weren't still wet and that her skin wasn't very, very hot. She let him.