Howl by Florence and the Machine
Stein shouldn't have been surprised that Spirit ended up at a church.
The weapon styles himself with all the trappings of religion, and Stein has not been able to determine yet if this is an affectation or actual spirituality or both. He himself has never felt the draw of belief in a higher power; God has always seemed distant and unlikely to him, certainly not worth following even in the event of his existence. Faith in something or someone else never made any sense to him until he met Spirit. Stein would follow Spirit anywhere.
As he is tonight. The weapon left their shared apartment and Stein waited only the barest handful of seconds before throwing himself into the darkest clothes he owns (black jeans and a grey T-shirt) instead of the usual light-catching white of his lab coat and leaving after the other boy. He didn't even realize he had left shoes and socks at home until his feet hit the rough paving stones of the main street, and beyond brief irritation at the inconvenience he disregarded the pain in favor of trailing his partner.
When Stein realizes where Spirit is going, he has to laugh, and when the older boy steps into the churchyard proper Stein dispenses with the trappings of secrecy. Even so it takes Spirit longer than it should to realize he has company. Stein's pale hair catches the moonlight but the unusual darkness of his clothes grants him some camouflage, and his bare feet are entirely silent against the well-kept grass of the yard. As he's coming up behind Spirit, Stein feels briefly as if he is stalking prey, like his approach will culminate in the splash of warm blood across his skin and the rush of victory over another. Then Spirit turns and sees him and the illusion retreats, not entirely but back from the edge of almost-reality.
"Stein." The weapon is surprised but not as much as the meister expected. His eyes flick up and down Stein's body, dark eyebrows raise against pale skin. "What did you do with your shoes?"
Stein shakes his head. He is close now, almost within arm's length. "I didn't need them."
"Yes you do, you're bleeding -"
"Spirit." Now he's close enough. He reaches out to grab the front of Spirit's shirt before the weapon can pull away. The older boy looks up at him, his eyes catch the light, but he doesn't move back out of Stein's personal space. "I don't need them." He leans in over the minimal distance between them. Spirit tips his head up in anticipation of a kiss, but Stein slips sideways to ghost his lips against the edge of the other boy's cheekbone instead. Spirit huffs a sigh of surprise and pleasure and Stein is pulling at the buttons of his shirt, working his way down the front so it only takes a few seconds of hot breath against Spirit's jaw and hairline and cheek before his shirt is open and Stein can push him stumbling backward until his shoulders hit a tree and the weapon comes to a halt.
Spirit is staring at him with wide eyes; in the shadow the tree casts Stein can't make out the color but the expression in them is crystal clear, fright and confusion and, yes, pleasure, an intrigued interest that sends Stein's blood pounding fast through his veins as if demanding freedom. He advances on Spirit, stepping well within the other boy's space so the weapon is trapped between Stein's body and the tree at his back, and then he rests his forehead against the rough bark and lets his hands slide against the night-chill skin so newly exposed. Spirit shivers, gasping warm against Stein's shoulder, and the sound speaks of excitement and arousal far more than of the fear that was there a moment ago. When Stein tightens his fingers to press hard against the weapon's ribcage Spirit sucks in a breath and tips his head back and that's it for the fright entirely, for the fright and for Stein's fragile self-control. He is on his knees, pressing Spirit hard against the tree, and his mouth and tongue and teeth are against the weapon's chest, pressing hard so he can feel the older boy's heartbeat speed against the sensitive skin of his lips and so the sharp edge of his teeth scrape a narrow line against the canvas of Spirit's flesh. Spirit's hands are in his hair, stroking through the fine strands, gentle even now. It takes Stein's breath and flares his frustration at once as his body demands this tender affection and the satisfying pain of reciprocated aggression simultaneously.
He is on his feet again, pressing himself against the sharp edge of Spirit's hip, and Spirit is clutching at his shoulders and panting against his shoulder and Stein's not even doing anything, just threading his leg between Spirit's so he can push the other boy back against the trunk at his back. His fingernails are bitten short with the carelessness of distraction but if he angles his fingers like this he can get purchase on Spirit's shoulder or stomach or hip, and when he drags like that Spirit will arch into his leg and curl away from his hand at the same time with a hiss that is a little pain and a lot pleasure. Stein can't keep his head straight when Spirit's mouth is on his, so he tips his head against the tree just to the side of Spirit's so he can breathe in the smell of Spirit's red hair and feel the warmth from the weapon's panting breath condense against his skin. When Spirit maneuvers a hand down the front of Stein's jeans the other boy's touch is almost enough in and of itself, and when Stein pulls his fingernails in a jagged path down Spirit's glowing skin to the top of his own pants the weapon's stuttered breathing promises that neither of them will last very long.
Stein doesn't know what it is about his weapon that draws him in so thoroughly. Usually his interests are intense but brief; the obsession lasts as long as it takes to pull whatever the object is apart and gain entire understanding. But the closer he gets to Spirit the worse his obsession becomes. The more time he spend trying to memorize every color in the weapon's eyes or taste every corner of the other boy's skin, the less he understands Spirit's odd tenderness, his gasping response to the pain Stein's teeth and fingers inflict, the softness in his eyes when he looks at the meister. Stein is beginning to suspect there is no going back from this, there is no recovery to be had from this particular fever, and at times like this, with Spirit shuddering against him and his own satisfaction curling up to wash over him, he can't care at all.