The door closed with a snap, and Aki's shoulders slumped, his hands hanging limply in the second dresser drawer.
I imagined that, didn't I? That was all in my imagination.
The physical force of eyes on him, the tint of newness to those eyes.
The staring.
He shuddered slightly, feeling a cold finger along the nape of his neck, while at the same time familiar heat infused his blood, flushed his cheeks.
I imagined that. I had to have. Aya would never look at me like that. Never see me as...more...
And while most of him fully believed that, a large part of him...hoped. It was that part of him that grew every day, that slowly ate away his resistance, until he found himself doing things like this.
He glanced down at the damp towel knotted tightly at his waist, then sighed. Reaching in, he lifted the pair of boxers folded neatly on the top, then closed the drawer. Shaking them out, he laid them across the bed, then paused, his eyes tracing up to where she had left her sheets in a tangle. Hearing the water switch on, he reached out and lifted up her pillow, petting his left hand over it slowly, his mind conjuring up the image of her gold hair spread across it in sleepy tangles.
She was so beautiful, so special. And it wasn't even her physical beauty that held him so captive. It was her...character. Her energy...her spirit, if you wanted to be hopelessly romantic. The way she moved, the way she spoke. The unique and strangely logical paths her mind took.
The way she tried, the way she played. The way she needed him, though she was strong enough to take care of herself.
The way she looked at him sometimes, as if he were...essential. As if they weren't separate people, but the same person only in two bodies.
The way she looked at him this morning...
He brought the pillow up to his face and breathed deeply, imagining that look again. Had he imagined it the first time? Did he want her so badly that his mind was beginning to play tricks on him?
No. It was real. But it couldn't have meant...could it?
Dropping the pillow, he neatly placed it back at the head of the bed, absently smoothing down a crease across its middle.
Then he turned, and with a familiar shift of his hip, the towel landed in a crumpled puddle at his feet. Mechanically, he pulled on his underwear, then retrieved his clothes from the dresser, not really noticing what he chose.
He imagined making that move while she was still in the room. What a warped pleasure, knowing that the whole time he was standing there talking, all he had to do was twist his hips just right and then he would be naked before her.
Nudity was vulnerability, but gods he wanted to be vulnerable to her. He wanted to be completely at her mercy-half the time it felt as if he already was, anyway.
On went the shirt, dragging over his damp hair, he combed his fingers through to the ends, settling it back into somewhat place. His eyes were still hazy though, still trained on that inner-stage.
A tiny shift, and the barrier fell, useless cloth at his feet. She had been sitting there, balanced on the edge of the bed and giving him that look. But then her eyes widened, her fingers curling reflexively into the coverlet. She stared for a long moment as he stared back, then she turned her head, maidenly, modest. A surprised blush brightening her cheeks.
But she couldn't ignore him. He took a step forward and her eyes flicked to him. Then away. Then back again. Her legs slowly drew together, her knees turning in as her hands tightened into fists. Then her eyes lifted to him out-right, her presence saying, 'I'm not afraid'. Ready to face anything. And she held his eyes pointedly, not wavering to look at what was so readily on offer.
Another step forward, and he saw her will dither, the uncertainty spark in her eyes. But she quickly smothered it, not allowing that match to be struck in her mind. Her chin raised, a perfect line of beauty and stubbornness, even as her knees remained pressed hard together.
Have you ever wondered, he asked, if touching me is like touching yourself?
His breath deepened at the thought...of her touching herself.
He didn't speak it, but since this was his own fantasy, she still understood. She tilted her head curiously, her eyes weaving against her will over the familiar paths of his body.
He knew when she reached that part of him, because he could feel it like a touch, her attention reaching with hands to grasp, to understand. Slowly he felt the skin drawing tight, stiffening, throbbing. Slowly he watched her eyes widen again, seeing, feeling.
She looked away, with surprise and parted lips, shifting slightly on the bed. Her hands opened and closed, then opened again. She crossed them tellingly over her stomach, pressing down hard as more shallow breaths escaped her lips. She shifted again.
Aya, and her shoulders twitched, teeth pale and perfect as they sank into her bottom lip.
Aya. Another step. And another, as she tried not to notice him closing in.
Now he was close enough to reach, and he didn't hesitate. With his hands he combed her tangled hair back from her face, felt his heart beat more heavily when she slowly closed her eyes and turned into his hand.
Tilting her head back, she opened her eyes and looked up at him, several strands of her hair tangled around his fingers. There was a haziness, a dreaminess swimming in her eyes, like she was seeing him, but not seeing him, like emotion was clouding her head to reason.
Her hand lifted, curling soft fingers around his wrist. And it rested there, not pushing nor pulling, but resting in complete trust. And the desire to touch.
He leaned down, and she rose up, and somewhere in the middle their lips met.
The water in the bathroom shut off, and he roused slowly, like waking from a deep sleep. He was standing beside the bed with his pants still in his hand, and his boxers uncomfortably tight across his hips.
With swift, controlled movements, he pulled on his pants, buttoning them with care and closing his eyes momentarily as the unyielding zipper dug slightly into just as insistent flesh. He rubbed his fingers gently over the ache and knew he didn't have the time.
Still, he savored this particular pain, using it to remind himself of where exactly he was.
Forcing his hand down, he swept up the towel then dropped it into the basket, forcefully turned his thoughts away from such unrealistic images. From relief, and a return of emotion that would never come.
Pushing aside all the lust, he found himself then consumed with worry once more. As he habitually went about making the bed, Aya's face returned to the forefront of his mind, subtle marks of distress thinning her lips.
And this morning...his chest tightened painfully...the dimness to her eyes...the deadness. The absolute surrender, as if she was just going to lay there and give up.
He had never seen her like that, and he hoped to never see her like that again. Aya wasn't meant to be quiet and resigned, and to see her wear such a costume-even momentarily...well, that was just unnatural.
And scary, he silently thought to himself, smoothing down the covers so they lay even and perfect over the bed.
He wished she would talk to him. He could tell something was bothering her. He could always tell, no matter how she tried to hide. Aya just wasn't good at the whole 'hiding' thing.
His mind flashed back to that 'look' again, and he forcefully pushed it away. He wouldn't even entertain that thought.
That thought would drive him insane.
She's hiding something, but it's not that. Why won't she talk to me?
Pain, a stinging pain behind the eyes as that...'young'...thought surfaced. Unwillingness to confide implied a lack of trust. Not always true, but it still stung, nonetheless.
He wanted to just stop her, stop everything, until she told him. Whatever it was, it was powerful. And destructive. He could see it breaking things apart in her eyes.
Is that where that 'look' came from...?
Again, he pushed that image, and anything connected with it, away. It would poison his perception, weaken his resolve.
Though he found himself weakening anyway. Despite his best efforts.
Like the towel...
The touches...
The illicit thrill of some secret game.
He loathed and loved it, all at the same time.
If he concentrated, he was okay. But it was the 'not thinking' that was getting him in trouble. When he didn't think, when he didn't pay attention, when he was himself...he found himself doing these things, playing these one-sided games.
Sometimes he caught himself in the act, and he grew so furious he could hardly keep from screaming. Sometimes he realized what he was doing...and he didn't stop. Sometimes he purposefully looked away so this...other side of him could come through.
Guilt was so much easier to ignore in retrospect.
The guilt was getting easier to ignore, period. Every day, another part of it fell away, fell into dust as if it had never been. More and more, he became accustomed to this strange love, acceptant of this...uncanny desire.
More and more he was relaxing into his own skin, learning to know this more self-aware person.
Edging closer to a willingness to...try.
But that was one line he was still holding himself back from. Aya was more important than anything, more important than himself. And as long as she...never gave him reason to believe she felt, or could feel for him in such ways-then he was never going to cross that line.
No matter how much he loved her.
No matter how bad it hurt.
If...by some strange twist of fate, she did share some of his feelings...if she ever looked at him and saw more than her twin brother...
His hand fisted, wrinkling the cover he had just smoothed to perfection.
If she ever looked at me that way...
...
I'd make her mine.
TBC...