Chapter Nine: Lovely Terror

Kamui stared at the black letters scripted elegantly on the stiff paper. His fingers nervously frayed its edges as his eyes scanned the contents of the words again and again. The paper, once neatly folded thrice, was now flat enough to lie against the table by itself due to his incessant reading. Kotori had given the letter to him after she'd dropped him off. The only clue she'd given him as to what was written within was a smile, a wink, and a kiss on the forehead.

He was beginning to wish he'd dropped the letter in a random puddle while he still could and call it an "accident". Even though he knew that he shouldn't be complaining. Anyone else would have given him all their worldly possessions to have that letter addressed to them. Especially any writer. But no. This was addressed to Kamui, and he knew he'd complete it. No matter how much he wished he'd never gotten this, he'd complete it.

Still, Kamui couldn't help but wonder what he'd ever done for Kotori that had pulled him to her heart. He'd always heard of her, definitely—heard her sing, seen her perform, thought she was amazingly pretty and talented and kind. But he himself hadn't actually…held a conversation with her. He didn't know that much about her as a person, either. Other than the fact that she was Fuuma's cousin—he knew that she adored Fuuma, certainly. But Kotori was the kind of girl that adored everyone. Perhaps she adored Kamui even more so.

Either way, before him, lying on his desk, amidst the trillions of papers—crumpled and otherwise—and spiral notebooks and composition notebooks and battered copies of Gone With the Wind and The Scarlet Letter and Romeo and Juliet and Animal Farm and pens and pencils and sharpies and tape…was his task. As soon as he'd read the task, he'd nearly laughed at first. The reason was because it was such a writer's task. Such a writer's task. And it was specifically designed not only to test his talents, but to test the exact horror that'd had him bundled into a little ball in the corner of Ashura's dorm during college weekend.

He wanted to get this over with as soon as possible, and he'd already waited about a month since receiving the letter. It wasn't as if he hadn't yet tried already, but even when he came up with something decent, maybe even considerably good…it just never seemed right. There was something missing—something vitally crucial. Kamui picked up his pen and suckled the tip thoughtfully, furrowing his eyebrows. He pressed his tongue against the cold metal side and widened his eyes at the realization. Indeed, there wasn't something missing.

Someone was missing.

Watanuki wanted to cut off his ears. He wanted to tear them off so he could never hear again. He placed his book bag against the footboard of his bed and sat gingerly on the edge, leaning forward and resting his arms on his knees. He pulled off his glasses and stared at them blurrily. Was he…would he really let himself be influenced by what they'd said? Was he really that spineless? No…it wasn't just because they'd said it. He'd already been thinking about this for a long time to come. Ever since summer vacation had begun, this had been on his mind, and it'd refused to fade.

It'd always been on his mind: He was gay.

He hadn't quite known how to treat it. At first, it was just a passive thing, but the more it resided at the side of his mind, the bolder it became in everything he thought about. Nearly every morning since, he'd awoken and thought of that only. In everything he'd done, somehow, the fact that he was gay worked itself into it. Everything. Ironically, the only time he forgot was when he was with Doumeki. When with Doumeki, all thoughts were wiped clean.

Meaning?

Watanuki always had some way to pull Doumeki into sex—never talking, never anything else. Just sex. Because if they talked, Watanuki was terrified that that thought would come back…he was terrified to…if it was sex…anyone could have sex with anyone. But talking? Flirting? Laughing? Then he'd truly be gay. Gay. Not normal. Not straight. Bent. It was just…

And then, of course, there'd been that group. That group of freshmen. Watanuki knew their faces—he'd seen them at parties towards the end of summer. It was general knowledge these days that they were children of a group of people who'd recently moved in to the town—nouveau rich. And if you were a socialite born and bred as Watanuki was—as Doumeki, and the Fluorites, and the Sumeragi, the Aoi, the Ou, the Sakurazuka (especially so), , the Kinomoto, the Tsukishiro, the You-ou, and so on. If your family was one that rolled in old money, then you'd have been brought up knowing that nouveau rich was synonymous with unequal, not one of us, bad, unworthy, slimy.

Although that was somewhat…mean, Watanuki complied, it was somewhat true. Nouveau rich all had one thing in common, and Watanuki had thus far never seen it proven wrong: They didn't know how to spend their money. They simply didn't. There were two types of nouveau rich—only two. The first type was so shocked that they'd been this fortunate, that they didn't spend at all. They merely clutched their purses to their chests and hid away; only coming out to attend balls and galas in clothes that hardly showed their affluence. The second type was equally awful; they were the exact opposite. They, too, were shocked with their fortune, so this type spent it all lavishly. Not more lavishly than the born and bred socialites, just not…wisely. They didn't know what to buy; they thought that because they had acquired wealth, they no longer needed class and style.

Money cannot buy everything. Class and style were just two of those things. But nouveau rich also were not used to the almost…reckless lifestyles that the young socialites all gave way to. Their children had all been brought up in regular homes, in regular neighborhoods with regular schools filled with regular children. Coming to a town like this, Watanuki thought dryly, was like moving to the desert after living in the arctic.

He'd already watched at least five of the girls in that clump of nouveau rich freshmen fawning over the Fluorite twins, the Sumeragi twins, and the Maestro. And possibly Fuuma. And all five of them also claimed that the objects of their affections loved them back. And they planned to ask them out. Soon. It was clear that at their old schools, they'd all been the Circus. They'd soon find out that here, the Circus was life and death, and there was no net beneath the tightrope. Daddy's new money could buy you a new Yves Saint Laurent, but it won't buy you what you really want.

More importantly, regular childhood = conservative childhood. These freshmen weren't used to seeing beautiful young boys and beautiful Amazonian girls. Much less beautiful gay boys and beautiful lesbian Amazonian girls. And it was human nature to fear what was different and unknown, and to disguise fear with dignified hate.

Leading to Watanuki's point: He'd walked past the group—huddled together—at free period, and heard them bluntly (and unwisely) talking in loud, unashamed voices about the unnaturalness of gays and how their newly-in-power fathers would have to make a lot of changes "around these parts" to fix things.

To say the least, Watanuki knew that more than three-quarters of the boys in the group were pummeled by Doumeki himself, not to mention that Kurogane and Mioru soon came a-running to beat the boys. And then, as if to worsen things, Kurogane and Mioru began making-out in front of the female portion of the group, just to spite the ones who thought they'd have a chance with either of the two—reducing three girls to near tears. Fuuma also had to drag Kamui along, listening to the girls' pleas, before grimacing and kissing Kamui—following Kurogane and Mioru's leads suit.

Although, Watanuki would be lying if he'd said that he hadn't felt great satisfaction at the sight of the teachers listening to the boys' protests at why Doumeki, Kurogane, Mioru, and Fuuma hadn't received detention, and the teachers' haughty replies of, "I don't see these boys doing anything upsetting to the educational atmosphere" and promptly hauling them off to the office. After all, old money stretched to the Board of Education. Which was run by the parents. In short, Watanuki thought that it was probably better to remain regular than risk becoming nouveau rich.

But there words till bothered him. He couldn't forget the way they'd spoken them—so sure, as if they truly hated gays. As if gays had honestly done them some personal wrong—as if gays were…evil. Unnatural. Disgusting. Awful. Horrible. Mistakes. Freaks.

Watanuki wanted to know what went on in their heads. Was it just jealousy that'd spurned those freshmen along? Or did they actually feel that way—were they actually opinionated so strongly against gays? He just…he held his head in his hands…how was it so wrong to love who you loved? No…in fact…why did he have to be gay? And if he…never talked…with Doumeki…never really…did anything with the forward…how could he even be sure he was gay?

What if…he wasn't?

Fuuma looked around the dark room; he closed the door behind him. The air whizzed with the low hum of the computers, the master computer, and the printing equipment. Row after row of monitors he searched until he located the full head of mussed dark hair, pouring over the master computer at the teacher's desk. The athlete stood behind the swivel chair, placing either hand on the edge of the table, trapping the person on the chair. Fuuma pressed his nose in the nook behind the writer's ear.

Kamui swiveled the entire chair around, so that he was backed up against the desk, just inches separating the two boys. He smiled and wordlessly pushed himself up, touching lips to lips lightly. "Good. You're not late."

Fuuma grinned, curling one finger beneath Kamui's chin, and hooking another through the writer's empty belt loop. He tipped the writer's head to the side, and leaned down to inhale along the pale column of the senior's throat; Kamui's hands rode up on Fuuma's shoulders, up into his hair. "So what inspired this?" the athlete inquired bemusedly. "It takes me tooth and nail to get you to do it in the comfort of your own house, and now you want to do it in the computer lab at school? My school, too."

"Are you scared?" Kamui challenged. "There's no lock on the door. Any of your classmates could walk in on us any time. Are you afraid they'd hate you for being gay?" He smirked, knowing full well the answer he was about to get.

"You're a bastard," Fuuma said, rolling his eyes. His lips twitched, as though restraining with utmost difficulty not to burst out laughing. "You know that if they see you alone, they'll get boners, and if they see us together, they'll start trying to jump in—no pun intended." He brought up Kamui's face and kissed him again—long and deep.

Kamui followed after Fuuma when the athlete begin to draw away for air, hounding him with swift, brief kisses—short, but intense; tempting him, catching him. When the need for oxygen finally became a true necessity, and they were staring at each other, gasping, Kamui frowned teasingly. "You don't seem very enthusiastic. Maybe you're just not up for it?" He arched an eyebrow.

Fuuma answered, not with a cleverly infuriating retort as usual, but by ramming Kamui into the chair with full force, and capturing the writer's lips so roughly that Kamui gasped subconsciously before being silenced. The chair was about to capsize with the full-on force that Fuuma was attacking Kamui at. The writer's arms entwined tightly around the sophomore's neck, to keep from being flattened completely. He could hardly breathe, even between the hard contact of their mouths and tongues, but Kamui had a great suspicion it was more to do with what Fuuma was doing in the journalist's mouth and less to do with the fact that he was being slammed repeatedly against the chair.

But this was what Kamui wanted to happen. At Maikeru, with no one that he knew well to bother him—to stray his thoughts—in the darkness of the computer room…explicitly at school, Fuuma ravaging him without a care…this was perfect. After this, while Fuuma slept it out or left, Kamui would write. He would write rapidly, because as Fuuma tore their clothes off and knocked the teacher's desk empty before pushing Kamui atop it, the senior could already hear the words circling in his mind.

The athlete pressed his body against Kamui, between the spread, pale thighs. But Kamui didn't want this to be the passive school sex that it was seemingly heading for. He needed this to be wildly enticing. With one hand on Fuuma's chest, he placed the soccer player at a standstill while he pulled out a joint from his discarded pants and set it alight. Fuuma's eyes watched with temptation so strong, it could easily be mistaken as pain, as Kamui put the joint between his lips.

Kamui circled around, and pushed Fuuma on to the table, reversing their positions. He went down on all fours between Fuuma's legs on the table, blowing smoke lightly into the athlete's face, his eyes speaking an unspoken dare. Fuuma's mouth opened slightly as he watched Kamui remove the joint, the writer's one finger tracing the sophomore's bottom lip, inserting the joint between Fuuma's lips.

As Fuuma inhaled the heady pot, closing his eyes, he felt a jolt and his head threw itself back instinctively as he felt Kamui's lips trace a path down from his chest…over his stomach…down…down…down. The athlete held the joint between his fingers, as he looked on, mesmerized at the sight of the delicate lips and the slender tongue devouring his cock. Kamui steadied himself with one hand on either of Fuuma's thighs, as the athlete's wiry body shook and Fuuma's eyes closed and his head snapped back in a sound that flitted between a sigh and a moan.

Kamui spat the fluids to the side, hearing the infinitesimal splatter, and promptly taking back his joint. He replaced it into his own mouth and smiled angelically at Fuuma. The athlete grinned back, wrapping his fingers around Kamui's thin wrist and pulling the writer toward him, tangling their lips together for another kiss. The kiss morphed into a shotgun, and Kamui blindly reached down to his floored pants once again. The minute they drew apart, Kamui ripped open the square wrapper in his hand and pushed the rubber material down over Fuuma's member.

Fuuma was hot—hot. It was time he retake the reigns. Yes, it was interesting at times when Kamui took them in his childish hands, but they both knew it was Fuuma who rode hardest. The athlete flipped their standings again, turning Kamui beneath him, and pressing himself against Kamui's back. Fuuma placed himself at the ready, and placed his lips against the nape of Kamui's neck. There was no lubricant, and at this point, neither of them cared—neither of their minds knew any logic. It was simply movement—simply need and desire.

With every thrust, Kamui would shiver and shout and sigh, and Fuuma would whisper into his ear, lips at his throat, and steady them both. Kamui closed his eyes and let himself feel. This was what he was going to write. Everything—all these sensations—Fuuma inside of him, Fuuma's hands ravaging him, Fuuma's lips marking him, Fuuma's body dancing with his…it was not nearly as captivating, but he'd turn all of this into words and paper. Into black and white in a Word document. He would paint it onto the page.

They knew each other's bodies so well now—they knew each other so well now. The command to hurry—to rush—just barely began to form on Kamui's lips, when Fuuma had already done so. Before Fuuma could even tell Kamui that he'd almost reached his peak, Kamui had already replied. Before they could steady each other to climax simultaneously, they'd already done so. And before Kamui could ask Fuuma to stay, Fuuma had already wrapped his arms around the writer and kissed his lips.

By noon on Sunday of that same week, college socialites were staring open-mouthed at their phones. High school socialites were staring shocked at their copies of Addictive. Adult socialites were staring scandalized at their copies of Elite. And Fuuma Sakurazuka was staring like a corpse that had just been brought back to life at a text his cell phone, and copies of the latest issue of Addictive and Elite—which had all been sent to him through his father's office from a business card signed: bWitch. But regardless of how all on the social scene had received the knews, their eyes all read the same thing--the exact same thing.

Lovely Terror

By: Kamui Sumeragi, senior at Fuki Institution of the Arts for Young Gentlemen

I love you, and you love me

If only that was all that mattered

But it's not, so after every one night,

I'm terrified about if it shattered.

So what to do from now on,

When the one I love terrorizes me?

And even though I still await and want,

Another of my heart is too terrified to see.

No. Not for reasons that cross a mind.

Rather mine come from tragedy unrelated.

But he continues to return and to persist—

Are we coincidence or are we fated?

Control no longer belongs to me.

It slips and refuses to return near.

Though, likely, it's because I don't deserve it.

Since for control, you can't have fear.

Extremely, I'm confused—I'm fully lost.

Is love supposed to heal and soothe?

But this thing hurts and aches…

I think all sense I'll definitely lose.

Wait, though, this love is not all dark.

He touches me sweet; his lips speak kind.

But, even then so, there is still some ink—

I still can't decipher this type of bind.

And yet, maybe perhaps I have.

Maybe it's just as it appears, none else.

Perhaps there is nothing more to seek—

I've just been making more of less.

So steal from me a sigh, steal from me a tremor…

Steal anything but my heart, my lovely, lovely terror.

Kamui Sumeragi has completed his Task.

Welcome to the Trinity, Deary K.

A/N: Wellll.......I wrote that sex scene at like midnight, so forgive me if it kind of sucks. Plus, I'm not good at writing thorough ones like that, anyway. I can't do hot and steamy--romantic and figurative, sure, but not the heavy stuff that gets you wetter than Niagra falls. Anyway, also excuse that awful innuendo/orwhateveritis, since the boys who sit around me seem to be approaching mating season. So, the Watanuki part was another part of GG and another high society series called the Luxe (that's the first book anyway), which is basically like GG only back in the very late 1800s, with the Vanderbilts and stuff like that. Er, so yeah, old money is important. Also, yes, I did write that poem that Kamui used to complete his task. I'll have the letter Kotori wrote to him when assiging his task in the next chapter, hopefully.

Oh, and I don't know if it was made clear or not, but when you complete your Task, is when you get your "bWitch name". Like until then, or until you're in college, whenever you're mentioned in bWitch's blogs, you're just "this person" or "there is this girl" or "this guy", like that. So when you get your "welcome" text, that's when you first have your "letter" used by bWitch. You've got to be major like Seishiro to have a "name" before you're in the Trinity or college.