Chapter Twenty: Nightlife
Kamui glided his fingers over the glossy photographs spread messily out on the huge wooden dining table. The photo spread had taken up all of yesterday, and they'd been called in to Yuuko's basement studio in small groups of three and two. Most of them were down there at least five different times during the day. The actual photographs that were to be used for the spread were in Yuuko's master laptop and then saved again in at least three of her many assorted thumb drives. But she'd printed the ones chosen so that they could look at them—as if she'd allow anyone to touch her equipment.
He'd never before seen a photograph of anyone he knew done by Yuuko, but now he knew why she didn't hire her own photographer, and why her magazine photo spreads were as famous as the articles themselves. He didn't have a clue how Yuuko managed it, but somehow—some way—she was able to capture the truth of everyone in that one picture…in that one pose and position…with the clothes she chose for them to wear…the setting…just everything, really.
It was like all the secrets they'd kept were in vain once these pictures were developed and done. Everything was revealed in them—without a single word…everything was there. Yuuko had said that the pictures would be on the dining table until tomorrow morning for any of them to look at if they felt like it. Dinner had already been eaten, which meant until breakfast, the table would be occupied with the pictures.
The pictures weren't in any order on the table—just randomly spread all over. But the ones of certain people were all together, and everyone had at least one photo by themselves, and a few photos with some others. Kamui gazed at the ones with the Fluorite twins—Fai and Yuui taken in the villa's sunroom. The two had been put into not identical, but similar sort of beach clothes—white t-shirts and airy linen pants.
Fai was sitting on a wicker ottoman, his head thrown back, and his mouth open in a laugh. Yuui sat on the wooden floor, facing toward Fai, one leg propped up and a lively smile on his face as he watched his brother. It was brilliant photography on Yuuko's part—perfection in the way she'd told them to wear their expressions. To any outsider who would be reading this magazine—the socialite children weren't the only ones, as there were some normal civilians who read it, too—it would look like a simple (and amazing) photo of a pair of twin brothers, who just happened to be paranormally beautiful, laughing and enjoying life in general together.
To Kamui, it looked like a picture of complete sibling tragedy. Yes, Fai's stance…his laugh was so full of life, that it was almost like you nearly expected to hear his laughter ringing like bells in your ear. But Kamui could see the infinitesimal way his shoulders were hunched, the forced way his mouth was parted in that almost painful laugh—even a bit cynical. And Yuui. Yuui looked exactly the way he'd been coming off to Kamui. Guilty. Guilty for everything that'd happened to Fai—and it showed in the way he smiled at the violinist in the photo. As though he wished so dearly—so hard—for his brother to actually be able to laugh like that.
Kamui put the photograph down and moved on to the next piece. A picture that was so filled with…well…filled to the brim with potential disaster, that the writer was shocked how none had yet struck. It was Fai, and Ashura and Yuui. Altogether in one set. Really, this was what Yuuko was infamous for. In the photo, Ashura was sitting at an easel, supposedly painting the twins—Fai and Yuui were spread out on a mess of Batik blankets out on the wooden floor before the artist.
There was a smile on Ashura's face, but Kamui could see that his smile wasn't focused on either of the twins—and neither were his eyes. No. Instead, to the writer—who knew the people in his life like he could dissect his own characters—Ashura looked as if he was trying to choose. Trying to decide which twin—which one should I love? Which one do I love?
"Are they any good?"
Kamui turned halfway, still holding the photograph. Fuuma stood in the double doorway that led in from the pool's patio. He stood in his swimming trunks, dripping chlorinated water from ever contour of his body. The writer tried to look away, but he couldn't help but notice how low the trunks were hanging. "The pictures, you mean? Of course. She's brilliant."
Fuuma began walking, and said, "I haven't seen them yet."
"Do you want to take a look?" Kamui held the photo up, as the soccer player reached him. Fuuma took the picture and looked at it briefly—three seconds at best—and tossed it back onto the table with a face of mock boredom.
"Now," Fuuma said, half laughing at the look of indignation on the writer's face, "Let's look at something hotter, shall we?" He seemed to whip one of the photos of Kamui and Subaru from thin air. "Ah. Perfect, wouldn't you say?"
But for a change, Kamui didn't scream at him. He looked at the photograph, one hand subconsciously sliding up onto Fuuma's broad shoulder. Kamui and Subaru were poised differently from Fai and Yuui—a more appropriate setting for their dark appearance had been chosen as the pool. Or rather, in the pool.
Kamui distinctly remembered being woken up before the sun had risen, and being stripped and then shoved in to the freezing water, and then watched Subaru being thrown in as well. It was a miracle that the photograph turned out like it did—it was more of a miracle that they didn't look as stupid as they'd felt, three-quarters naked, half-awake, and drenched wet. Yuuko had apparently thought that it would look better if the Sumeragi twins looked royally pissed in their sibling photograph…and…well…it did. "I look like a drowned cat," Kamui said.
Fuuma moved his eyebrows up and down. "Nah. And even if you did, you'd be the most fuckable drowned cat I've ever seen. But it…kind of works—weirdly enough. The whole what-the-hell look you two have got going on. She's smart to have known that."
Yuuko was. She'd told the writer and trumpeter to angle themselves towards each other—and to make sure they were both slicked completely with water, and then she'd had them slicked with a bit of oil—and have their backs almost facing the shot. It'd been a slight angle shot, and with the sky barely light and the signature large, immature eyes, it made Kamui and Subaru look like tragic water children at the start of the world. "You can see the difference, can't you?" Kamui asked quietly, looking up into Fuuma's face—gauging his expression.
"I can," Fuuma agreed in an echo of that quiet tone. He looked down at Kamui over the signature tea-shade sunglasses, but the writer had already looked away. Kamui continued to stare as hard as he could—keeping his eyes firmly planted—on the table of pictures. He was scared shitless of the look he'd glimpsed on Fuuma's face. He'd already rejected the athlete…hadn't he? That time at his house…that was a rejection, right? It had to be…
Kamui didn't think he'd be able to repeat those words. It wasn't something he could manage more than once. It had to be completed successfully on the first try, meaning that had to be a rejection. It just had to be. "What's the difference?"
"Subaru's hurt is there." Fuuma put the picture down, and slid one of his hands casually into the left pocket of his trunks. "You can see it—you can see what he's feeling. You…on the other hand…" Fuuma smiled strangely. Kamui felt something burn just beneath the surface of his face. "I'm not going to say it isn't completely obvious to me what you're feeling…but…unlike Subaru…when you try to hide it…you try way too hard."
Kamui looked away. "Everyone tries their hardest to make sure no one can see how they really feel. What makes it any different for me?"
The writer felt Fuuma's hand come down on his hair, the fingers gripping slightly, and the athlete said in a hushed tone, his lips against Kamui's ear, "You try so hard it looks like it hurts more than whatever you're hiding."
Fuuma's hand had started to drift to the back of Kamui's neck—the junior slapped it away and backtracked until there was at least a foot between them. "Don't touch me," Kamui said, breathing hard. His heart had thudded forward with a surge of speed and he didn't even now how it could've gotten started that quickly. Just one touch—one bit of skin contact.
And even though Kamui knew that—without medical assistance—no one could hear your heart except for you yourself, he was starting to doubt that scientific fact. Fuuma began to cover the distance between them, cornering Kamui into the crevice in the wall right before the doorway that lead into the sunroom. "Really?" Fuuma's smile had almost completely faded. "Is that really what you want?"
Kamui's lips parted…so slowly and hesitantly, it was like a strip of footage slowed to the minimal movement. His eyebrows had risen in the middle, and had Fuuma known any better, the athlete would've thought that the writer was about to start crying. "I don't want to want you," Kamui whispered—Fuuma had to lean in and strain his ears in order to hear. The journalist's voice was that soft.
"But do you?" Fuuma persisted quietly.
Kamui's eyes shot open and he stared up at the freshman. The writer shook his head profusely, his eyes clenching shut, and his teeth visibly pressed together as if he was resisting the immense need to speak. "Do you?" Fuuma asked again, his hands gripping Kamui on either forearm.
Kamui looked at Fuuma one more time—terror, and need and want and so much more—before he tore himself out of Fuuma's grip and ran outward. Out to the patio. Fuuma's eyes followed him. Fuuma's feet began to move—almost without his permission. They followed Kamui. After that…after Fuuma's tainted gold eyes caught the slim figure, the ruffle of wind playing with the tousled dark hair…everything followed like a movie. Like both boys weren't even part of what happened next.
Fuuma's hand curled its fingers over Kamui's thin elbow, pulling the writer around and tipping his face up so their lips met. Kamui's arms fell at his sides limply—the writer simply stood there, face tilted upward, lips moving with Fuuma's, and the athlete's arm around his slender waist, and his other hand immersed in the junior's hair.
"Stop," Kamui whispered, when Fuuma paused to take a breath. But Fuuma soon pressed his lips back onto Kamui's mouth. Kamui shoved at Fuuma's chest uselessly. "Get off." Fuuma's arm was like an iron vice around the writer's waist. "Fuuma—shit, seriously—wait—just—FUCK—" Kamui shouted, as he knocked Fuuma into the water. Kamui cautiously went to stand at the edge of the pool when the splash had quieted and there was no emergence. "Fuuma—what the—"
A hand grabbed Kamui's ankle and yanked him into the water. The angle he was pulled left no chance for injury, but then again, it left Kamui no chance to save himself by holding onto the edge, either. It was just pure fate that Kamui was already wearing his own swimming trunks and no sandals—although his shirt was now going to be a bundle of damp mush. Kamui thought he'd hit the bottom of the deep end and possibly run out of air before he managed to regain himself, but strong arms caught him almost immediately and tossed him lightly back up.
Kamui blinked away the water, and tried to breathe as normally as he could—which would've worked out better if Fuuma didn't have both arms trapping Kamui against the pool's underwater ledge, and if the soccer player didn't have his head thrown back laughing. "What the fuck, Fuuma?" Kamui yelled, slightly hysterical.
Fuuma stopped laughing long enough to look at Kamui with his eyes like dark pools of syrup. "I was just kidding—it was a joke, okay?" Fuuma reached up to touch Kamui's cheek, but the writer leaned away, grey-blue eyes furious.
"I thought you were seriously going to do something to me." Kamui hiked himself up onto the edge of the pool, keeping his legs in the water, and stripping off his wet shirt. He wrapped his hands around himself and slowly slid back into the warm water. The only lights that penetrated the dark were the bulbous underwater lights, and the faint glows from the villa.
The writer watched Fuuma's face—watched as that smile…that certain, strange, almost sincere smile that Fuuma always seemed to reserve especially for Kamui, watched as it came onto the athlete's face. That smile where one side of Fuuma's mouth pulled up into a half-grin, and his eyebrows peaked at the center. "Never," Fuuma said quietly. He kissed Kamui briefly on the lips, and then pulled himself out of the pool.
Kamui spun around so fast, he almost lost grip of the ledge and fell back in. "Where're you going? Why…" It just didn't make sense to him. Fuuma would make-out with him like that—practically assault him to a point where Kamui wouldn't have been surprised if he'd been raped, and then just—just sort of…walk away.
Fuuma grinned—almost sadly…resignedly—from where he stood at the double doorway into the villa. "See you 'round, Kamui."
Kamui could only float there and watch Fuuma walking in to the soft illumination of the villa lights—watch him walk with a heavier gait toward the stairs that led up to the set of rooms. The writer covered his face with a wet hand. "Shit," he said into his palm, eyes huge. "Shit. I hurt him."
Ashura went in to the living room—slowly step by step. His eyes found the mess of pale blond hair above the edge of one of the Batik covered sofas. The envelope in his pocket seemed to weight a thousand pounds, but he had to do it. He had to do it soon, before he was too caught up in Fai to remember. "Yuui?"
The mop of hair jerked and turned around. Yuui was curled up in one corner of the settee and he had a long sarong cocooning his minimized body like a kidnapping sack. The pianist's eyes tiredly took Ashura in, and a smile forced itself onto the musician's face. "Hi, Ashura. What's up?"
Yuui's…his entire being looked so completely limp…lifeless that Ashura almost wheeled all the way back around and walked out. He wanted to throttle Karen. There were at least twenty-two reasons why this wouldn't work, and one of them was the fact that Yuui loved Fai more than he'd ever love Ashura, and that was really how it was supposed to stay.
And even if Ashura did love Yuui…he'd be betraying Fai. Ashura couldn't love Yuui. First, Ashura had to—needed to—figure out Fai. Yuui was more complex than Fai, and if the artist couldn't decipher one brother, he'd have no chance of even getting near the other. Both of them were keeping something from him, and Ashura was going to know. Ashura was going to help them—even if he couldn't do anything about whatever secret they kept, Ashura would certainly keep it for them.
He was just too intrigued to back away at this point.
Ashura took a seat opposing Yuui, and returned the smile. The artist had always wanted to draw Yuui. He'd only ever drawn Fai, which anyone would probably have thought was well and good since they were identical twins—down to the very last strand of hair. But they weren't. Yuui was different. And so was Fai. They had different allures. Different ways of holding themselves up. It was a subtle difference only an artist could notice.
"I have to give you something," Ashura said quietly. "You know the rules."
"What is it?" Yuui let his head hang to the side, resting on the soft cushion behind his back.
"My task. It involves you. So…I got another copy from Karen—this is your copy. You need to burn it after you read it. Please." Ashura took out the envelope and handed it to Yuui. "You can refuse, if you want. I'll understand."
Yuui gingerly accepted the envelope, and stumbled with opening it—it was odd. He usually did everything with grace and elegance reincarnate. Everything was beautiful when he did it—everything was like a performance. But now…in front of Ashura…it was like everything was coming undone. Ashura's eyes were on him—they were alone. He glanced down to read the letter:
Darling, Ashura…how are you? I never did have a chance to properly thank you. I would love to thank you now, but now wouldn't be a time for expressing gratitude. Right now, I have to deliver business. The business of choosing someone to take the place I'll leave when I graduate from dear Akamizu. And darling, I've chosen you.
Now, here's what you have to do—listen closely, all right, darling? It's simple. Simple as walking, if you follow my instructions.
Acquire these materials: An empty DVD, a camcorder, and a bedroom.
Then, sleep with Yuui Fluorite.
You must be wondering at this point…why? Why would Karen Kasumi—the socialite princess—why would the task she assigns me be something as ordinary, and clichéd as sleeping with the brother of my current boyfriend?
Darling, every task must have a point, a cause—you must understand that rule.
And mine has an important one—a valuable one:
To have been born as what we are—as whom we are—it can happen because fate springs a lucky star over our heads before we're fetuses in our mothers' wombs. But to earn whom we are—to earn what we are for ourselves…well…that's a little bit harder, now, isn't it?
You have to want it—you have to want it more than anything in the world. More than whom you love, more than hurting anyone, or more than comforting them or staying loyal to them. Because if they want to be with you—they'll have to understand, and understand that secrets will be kept, intrigue will allure without forgiveness, and impulses never die. They must. Otherwise, you can't be with them.
So prove to me, darling—prove to yourself…do you want it?
Yuui thought he might actually die—he really did believe he could've had some sort of instantaneous heart attack and die right there and then. This was Ashura's task? Karen Kasumi had given Ashura Ou the task of cheating on Fai Fluorite with Yuui? Well, there had always been a reason Karen was the princess of the socialites. At this rate, she'd become the queen.
And Yuui would be the first one to hail her at the coronation. He looked up at Ashura. The artist's dark eyes were waiting to measure Yuui's reaction. Yuui didn't quite now how to react—if at all. He would…have to…sleep with Ashura? Do something that was in his wildest dreams only? Only…only this would be real. Yuui could really be with Ashura—could really touch his face, and kiss him, and hold him and—
And Yuui could really be the worst brother ever—could betray Fai.
"You don't have to tell me now," Ashura said softly, still smiling. He stood up and walked past Yuui, walked out the door.
Yuui held the letter in loose fingers—he felt numb. What was he supposed to do? What did he want to do? Should he…no, he couldn't. That one was certainly out of the question—whatever decision he made, he couldn't tell Fai. It was forbidden. If he told Fai—it didn't matter if they were brothers, it didn't matter at all—he'd be breaking the rules, and he would probably die a social death, and bring Karen and Ashura along with him. And the higher they were, the harder they fell. In that case, it was a long way down for all three of them.
Meaning there was absolutely no one. No one he could talk to, and no one he could discuss it with. Not even Kamui. Just Ashura and Karen—and he hardly knew the latter, and Ashura wouldn't be useful at all. Ashura was just…Ashura was just the complete ruin of Yuui and Fai. That was all the artist would serve to be.
Yuui looked at the letter. He inhaled deeply and let the air out slowly. First things first—he had to get rid of the letter. Preferably incinerating it into ashes. He would do that tonight before he went up to his room since his roommate was a total asshole. Next. Next…next he would…he'd have to think on this one a bit more. The one thing that killed him the most was that he had no one to talk about this to—he was completely, and utterly on his own. At this rate, it wasn't just Ashura who had a task to complete. It was Yuui, too.
But really, how was he supposed to…was…was there even an actual right choice in this situation? Was he supposed to choose Fai, his brother who gave everything to him, or was he supposed to choose Ashura, whom he wanted to give everything to?
When it was spread out like that…the choice was obvious—the right choice. But, Yuui laughed to himself, pulling his free hand through his hair, he really didn't want to choose the right one. He really, really didn't want to. He wanted so much—so badly to choose the wrong choice. The choice that would make him a traitor—an ungrateful little shit that didn't care who fucked their lives up just to save him.
And he didn't want that. He had no way of doing anything that would even come close to amounting to what Fai went through for him. Letting his brother keep Ashura was all that he could do. And now…now he couldn't even do that. But then, this wasn't just a matter of what he wanted either. If he didn't agree, Ashura might not become a Sacred.
Yuui closed his eyes. So now it wasn't just a matter of what he wanted and what he should do—now, it was actually a matter of Ashura or Fai.
This was fantastic. Really, it was. Why didn't the deities just part the clouds and strike him with a lighting bolt while they were at it? It'd be subtler than what they were doing to him now.
Watanuki shut the door behind him, and leaned against it in immense relief. As if he didn't already have enough on his plate, it seemed that this villa—after the photo spread—had turned into some sort of homosexual haunted house. He'd come out of his room in order to use the bathroom at the other end of the floor—the only one that wasn't in a bedroom that had a shower and a bathtub—since Doumeki was showering in theirs (and a naked Doumeki only equated to more unnecessary drama). But as soon as Watanuki had gotten close enough to the door to open it, he'd heard extremely…explicit speech and other audible…audio coming from inside.
From one of the two voices, Watanuki had hazarded an educated guess that Touya was having a little too much fun playing King and Servant with Yukito, and everything else, the goalie just shoved out of his mind and ran for the bathroom downstairs.
Or maybe Slave and Master would be more accurate, don't you think, W?
And somehow, as if to add insult to injury, when Watanuki had made to cross the dining room—that was the only way to reach the bathrooms near the patio—and maybe even take a look at the photos that were supposed to be on the table, he'd come face to face (hypothetically, speaking, as it wasn't their faces that faced the goalie) with the Maestro pounding into Subaru Sumeragi on the dining table, the photos scattered on the floor (along with their clothes) and some even being crushed between them and the wooden surface.
Which meant, Watanuki had surrendered and wheeled right around to use the bathroom at the other end of the villa—at this point, he thought it was incredibly dimwitted of him not to have taken the long way in the first place, because at least he got the exercise, and that was ten times better than having to see Seishiro Sakurazuka—
Oh God.
Watanuki had flicked on the lights to whatever room he was now in—he'd gotten a little lost after relieving himself—and he was apparently now in the kitchen. But he wasn't the only one. Yuuko Ichihara was sitting on the island, her legs propped up and her hair draped around and about her form like liquid. Oh. And she was wearing lingerie.
Why did it seem like everything always happened to him?
Yuuko smiled at him. "You should only be so lucky," she said. "There are some boys like you who never get to see a woman like me in clothes like this in their entire lifetimes."
"Lucky them," Watanuki muttered.
"No." Yuuko swung her legs off the island surface, and slid off. She crossed her arms—somehow, suspending her cleavage further—and leaned back against the cool marble. "Lucky you, darling. A boy your age should have his hormones all in a fuss after seeing me. Of course, there is one explanation why they wouldn't be." She tilted her head.
"I'm not gay," Watanuki said loudly. He wanted to head for the door, but for some reason—probably because politeness was inbred into his genes, or he didn't want to reject a lady or something like that crap—he couldn't move from where he stood. His eyes wouldn't move either. Although they did shift enough to canvass how short the silk and gauze skirt of Yuuko's barely-there negligee was.
Yuuko raised an eyebrow. "Really." It wasn't a question. It was a statement. She was mocking Watanuki. "Then it must've been a figment of my imagination—an absolutely vapid fantasy—that I had of you and darling Shizuka the other day almost doing the naughty near my swimming pool? It probably was—you know…the heat and all." She smiled.
Watanuki's mouth opened. "Why do you call him by his first name?"
Her smile widened. "Well, because I figured that although most call him by his last name—so do you. And I wouldn't want to intrude on that, now would I, love? Let's just leave it at that. It's a me thing." She took a step. "But…really, why is it so awful to consider the fact that you might be gay?"
Watanuki's mind went blank at the simple sight of Yuuko. Whereas elsewhere he would've been able to put up a solid brick of defense at this sort of inquiry, in her presence, he could do absolutely nothing at all. It was like trying to run against a hurricane. It was impossible. So he said the only thing he could put together. "It's unnatural."
Yuuko's other eyebrow went up. "It's unnatural to love someone?"
Watanuki's face contorted in concentration. "I don't…I don't know. I just…I already like someone—I might even love her. Doumeki…we argue…we fight…but he's on my team, and we've…we're friends, but…he still aggravates me to no end."
"And yet you were jealous when he began to go out with Yuui Fluorite." It was uncanny how she could simply state something, and it made it true—not that everything she said was true (because he sure as hell wasn't jealous) but everything that came out of her mouth sounded like it could never be a lie.
"No!" Watanuki's eyes widened. "I'm not jealous of a—"
"A what?" Yuuko looked expectant. "Jealous of a what? Of a whore? Of a slut? Of someone with absolutely no morals, who simply sleeps with anyone who happens to come calling, be they man, woman, or even otherwise? Someone who takes advantage of how they were born? Someone who has everything? Someone who's beautiful? Someone who's—"
"Perfect!" Watanuki yelled. "Perfect." He forced his voice to quiet. "Yuui fucking Fluorite is fucking perfect. There. Happy?"
Yuuko smiled. A smile that shocked Watanuki—a sympathetic smile. A sincere smile. "How do you know he's perfect? How do you know he smiles inside as much as he does outside?" Yuuko took three more steps and touched his cheek. "You somehow know that an expressionless person like Doumeki has to have feelings inside…but you never expected that a smiling person like Yuui Fluorite could have real feelings inside."
"I…" Watanuki closed his eyes. He opened them. "He's beautiful."
Yuuko kissed his lips, and her smile was no longer present. "When a person is truly beautiful—as beautiful as Yuui is—most of the time…they don't believe that they are."
Kamui sighed bracingly, opened his eyes, and opened the door. The lights were already off. He flicked them on. The sleeping form stirred and sat up slowly, blinking his eyes. Fuuma stared at him. "Kamui?" The athlete's eyes were wide—Kamui was right to believe that Fuuma couldn't possibly have been asleep at this hour. Not after what'd happened.
The writer had changed into dry clothes—by sneaking into Subaru's room, which was strangely empty—and sat in the living room for about an hour and a half doing nothing but thinking. He walked slowly, padding across the wooden floor with bare feet, toward Fuuma's bed. Fuuma's eyes followed him—the surprise hadn't yet left his face. Kamui stopped and stood beside the bed, facing him, and waiting.
Fuuma softened his expression when he realized what Kamui meant. The freshman slid to one side, and pushed down the sheets, allowing a space for Kamui to move in. Kamui glided onto the bed, moving up onto his knees. The athlete's eyes watched him intently—waiting to see what he'd do next. Kamui gave a small smile, and began unbuttoning his shirt. He let the material plop onto the bed and slip towards the floor. His hands moved toward his waistband, intending to undo—
Larger hands stopped his. Fuuma held him by his wrists, pulling Kamui toward him. The freshman caught Kamui's lips with his own—a short kiss, brief and clean. "Do you want to?" Fuuma said gently.
Kamui shut his eyes. He could feel hot liquid gathering at the fringe of his eyes. Holding his eyes closed that tightly seemed to make his head pound, and his chest hurt further. "Hey, hey." He heard Fuuma laugh softly, and warm fingers sweep away the preparing tears. "C'mon, don't do that. Didn't I say they're too nice to cover up?" Kamui opened his eyes, and Fuuma ducked down and looked up playfully at the writer. "Much better."
With that, Kamui felt he might actually—ridiculously, and stupidly—cry for real. Which Fuuma seemed to notice. The athlete looked like he was trying not to laugh again. "Look, you know how you'd kill Seishiro for Subaru? Well, I'm pretty sure that if Little Boy Blue found out I made you almost cry, I'd probably be packed nice and tightly in the ground." Fuuma traced the area around Kamui's eyes with his fingers, and then followed the same path with his lips.
"I'm sorry," the writer finally whispered.
Fuuma grinned. "Do mine ears deceive me? You must be dead tired—you're spouting things you'd usually rather stuff needles through your tongue than say." When Kamui only lowered his eyes, Fuuma's grin became that smile that he saved only for the writer. "Here." The athlete took the junior's hand and placed it against his chest—over Fuuma's heart. "Feel that? It's alive and kicking. So stop pulling shit like this and scaring me, all right? Really, Kamui Sumeragi apologizing to me—I thought I'd die from pure shock."
Kamui hung his head until his bangs completely covered his eyes. Now he really would rather stick needles through his tongue than let Fuuma see his expression. Although his hand remained gently residing over Fuuma's heart. "You're awfully quiet now," Fuuma smiled. "You must be tired." As if in response to that, Kamui slid back to the left pillow and slid down onto his back. His body jerked slightly ever few seconds from the hiccoughs.
Fuuma stayed sitting up. He stroked back the writer's hair until Kamui's eyes closed, and the slightly violent breathing eased into quiet, steady, baby breaths. The athlete leaned down and kissed the parted lips. He pulled the sheets up until they covered the writer just below the shoulders. "I can guarantee that it won't stop beating for a long time to come," he whispered, smiling that strange smile. "But with you around…I'm not sure if it's going to stay unharmed."
A/N: Whew. This was a long one. And I had to type it within the span of two days and a few hours this morning. I would've had more time, but I had a birthday outing sort of thing to go to Friday night. I probably gained fifty pounds eating what we did that night. Anyhoo, I think I had too much fun looking up KamuixFuuma scenes in X/1999, which resulted in what you just read. This chapter was supposed to be all the couples doing stuff at night (thus the chapter title), but it ended up being mainly KamuixFuuma. I'll be sure to fix this next chapter. And, I'm starting to infuse X-Kamui and TRC-Kamui with each other, which wasn't supposed to happen either. But y'know, I figured that in my Secrets universe, TRC-Kamui is what everyone else gets and sees, and X-Kamui is only what Fuuma sees and gets. Pretty fair deal, right? ........0_0 Okay.
A long review would be nice. 0_0
(And did any X reader maybeperhapsbyanychance notice the little scene I (attempted to sneak) snuck in of Fuuma and Kamui? The part with the hand over Fuuma's chest?) .......0_0 Got it.