An Almost Romance.
Fye knows that he is the type of person Kurogane most despises. Light and airy and empty, a walking symbolisation of purposeful purposelessness. He can feel the anger in Kurogane's caress; can see the annoyance shining behind lustful, dark eyes. Theirs is hardly a tale of two lovers swept up in a passionate romance, if this can be called a romance at all.
There seems to be too much anger and hate, for it really to be a romance.
But Fye enjoys it, all the same. And sometimes when it's dark and he's tangled in the embrace of his sleeping partner, he likes to pretend that it is kind of a romance, just one that is not all that normal or filled with romantic type gestures and instances.
There is certainly sex. Lots of it. Fye enjoys that as well. There is nothing elegant or perfect about their moments sprawled across a bed or spent crushed against a wall, there is nothing in their tumbling actions to remind him of Ashura at all. Ashura, who was beautiful and gentle and would make sure never to bruise. Kurogane doesn't seem to care, and Fye is hardly china, really.
Somehow, he prefers it this way. Rough and rushed and far from romantic, yet better than being a possession or a pet that needs to be protected and well cared for, although only to ensure it keeps doing tricks. When he looks into Kurogane's eyes, Fye doesn't find himself drowning in an all-consuming passion that seeks not to nurture but destroy. He sees only Kurogane.
Strength. Power. Loyalty. Desire. Intelligence. Fire.
Anger.
Only Kurogane. Fye may not demand a high price for his own life, but he quite likes his sanity.
Calloused hands work painfully slowly at removing his shirt. Not because Kurogane wishes to take his time – the mere notion of any actual deliberateness makes Fye almost scoff out loud. But the buttons are overly fussy and there are far too many of them, a popular style in this world, if not in the bedroom.
It comes as no surprise when Kurogane gives up with a growl, ripping the flimsy material easily before throwing it to the side.
Ashura would never have done that. But then, everything Ashura ever did was always very much on purpose, and what purpose could shredding the front of Fye's shirt really have, other to show desire or want or need - or even simple annoyance?
No other purpose, at all.
And then cold hands come in contact with bared flesh, and Fye finds himself no longer in a state where he can draw comparisons. He can only focus on Kurogane, whose mouth can do the most amazing things and who takes and takes and takes …
… yet gives just as much in return.
The bed seems so less crowded when Kurogane's anger and the ghost of Ashura are not sharing it with them.
Fye is not the only one who forgets, once passion takes over.
But passion is not love, just as sex alone does not quite equate to romance. When the heat of their actions cool, there is nothing left other than to watch the muscles in Kurogane's back tense up as he slips a shirt over broad shoulders, not bothering to meet Fye's eyes. That is probably for the best, as Fye is not overly fond of what stains dark eyes black when desire is no longer present to balance out the other emotions.
Sometimes, on occasions like this when Kurogane so obviously regrets everything that has just passed, regrets it all to such an extent that he will not even spend the remainder of the night by Fye's side, Fye almost finds himself apologising. He can never find the words however, ones that aren't absurd and utterly laughable.
How is he to apologise for being weak?
"Well, see you in the morning then!" Fye farewells Kurogane with a smile that doesn't falter until long after Kurogane slams the door, leaving Fye alone.
How is he to apologise for becoming the other man's weakness?
Fye never knows who Kurogane despises more, himself or Fye.
He wonders if, on the rare, lonely occasion, Kurogane wishes that this was an almost, kind of romance as well.