Special Gifts II – Wearing It

Thank you very much for reviewing. Slight change of plan now: this chapter seemed to fit too nicely between the first and the one I had planned next, so here goes.

Cultural notes/terms at the end. Hope you enjoy, and please feel free to point out glaring errors. Perhaps drop me a line if you liked it?

Cheers
Aabunai

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Warnings/Disclaimer: NC-15/M. Shonen-Ai, I'd say, with lime tendencies. And they never watch their language, damn them, though Aya at least should know better. Don't own, though I regret that. I'd love to own them all. All rights with their original creators.

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Yohji had managed to get an introduction for one of the best tea houses around, an exclusive place with extortionate prices. It was tucked away amid a few more houses that had retained the flair of the old city, and walking the cobbled alleyway, narrow and shady under the wide eaves, was akin to stepping back in time.

He had even been able to convince Aya to come along with him without telling him where they would go. This left Yohji a bit queasy because it was very much unlike Aya as he knew him, and this would mean trouble. Or stillness.

If he had to choose, Yohji preferred trouble.

He could not help but cast long glances at Aya. In his formal outfit of rustling silk, the katana tucked into his belt and his hand curling lightly around the hilt, he looked like an apparition from another century. Perhaps he did have an idea where they were going after turning into the old streets for he strode ahead, his zori tapping firmly over the stones, and Yohji trailed after him, in a somewhat trance-like state of awe and lust. Dressing Aya up had been good. Dressing him down...

He bit his lip to bite back a moan and reached for his cigarettes. He had made an effort to match Aya's appearance by putting on a beige summer suit, though the starched, immaculately white dress shirt itched his skin in the muggy heat of the summer evening, the trousers felt too tight even for Yohji's taste, and the sharp jacket too much like something Brad Crawford would enjoy wearing. He had drawn the line at donning a tie – the thing was coiled up in his pocket, a loop of dark brown silk to match the suit and his hair. Well, there had to be limits.

Yes, Aya had figured out where they were heading. Yohji was playing high and fast, for he knew that Aya's father had been a valued guest at this select establishment where an evening of classical entertainment cost a fortune, and that in all likelyhood Aya was familiar with the place too. Yet Aya did not let on, his face pale and serene as usual, and this unsettled Yohji more than a fit of temper could have.

The house was two storeys high, with high eaves and a tiled roof, and a willow nodding over the seven-foot wall of hewn stones that presented a blind front to the street. He halted by the tiny door that was the only means to enter this enclosure of secrets, and gave Yohji a glance over the shoulder. He did not even want to guess what favours the whole arrangement might have cost Yohji, or which other means he might have employed.

Yohji decided not to smoke, after all. It did not seem proper, and he felt uncomfortable under this strange, measured gaze, scrutinizing and a little calculating. Yohji pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket but dragged them out again when the door opened and a woman in a plain dark kimono beckoned them inside, bowing and greeting him deferently, acknowledging Aya with even deeper bows and leading them the short path to the entrance of the tea house. Gravel ground under their feet as the outer door was securely locked again. The faint scent of roses laced the heavy evening air, driving away the stink of exhaust fumes, and the soft murmur of water all but blotted out the distant hum of traffic. Bamboo higher than Yohji framed the path, screening out the real world, a stone lantern with a lone candle blinked by the step that led up into the house itself.

Theirs were the only shoes left at the entrance, Yohji noted contentedly as they padded after the mistress of the tea house into the small room he had hired. The paper sliding doors were pulled slightly open to allow a narrow view of a small garden, the source of the scent of roses.

Yohji had hired a couple of pretty geisha too; the whole affair could not have been more traditional and would have cost him a house had he owned one.

Elegant and charming like exotic flowers, the geisha flitted about, seating Aya in front of the calligraphed scroll in the niche opposite the door, and Yohji at the side of the low table, to his right, then the food was brought, left by the threshold where the ladies picked up the elaborately set trays to present them to their guests.

As it was, the women – a maiko in typically flamboyant outfit and a more mature lady in a simply expensive dark kimono – did their best to entertain him and Aya with light banter while serving them, but half way through the ozashiki Yohji began to feel sorry for the girl. For try as she might, Aya remained mute, his eyes firmly on his food, the dainty dishes with rice and pickles, tofu, neatly cut vegetables, fish and other small delicacies, or staring into his tea cup after he had refused even to touch the sake the maiko poured for him.

Yohji took pity, drank and distributed his charm evenly between the two ladies. He did not want to lose his good name with the okasan, and professional pride would forbid the geisha to switch places for the older woman to cope better with their stony guest, but Yohji had no such inhibitions and felt an odd mix of embarrassment, pride, growing lust and rising anger. Aya was being his typical assy self. Instead of enjoying what was possible in their life, he had decided to sulk and mope, spoiling the lot not only for himself, but for Yohji and their pretty company.

He was radiantly beautiful in his formal attire, and hopelessly inept at this. An occasional glare or scowl were all the reactions he deigned to show, he rudely refused to say a word in reply to the girl's banter, until she withered and looked annoyed to tears.

"I think," Yohji said, "my lover here is not in the mood."

That got him daggers and a low snarl. Ah, a reaction after all.

"I wonder whether the okasan-" and Yohji leaned over to the older geisha to whisper theatrically into her ear, "would have the room ready for us?"

A tremor ran through Aya as he froze, his teacup lifted half-way to his lips.

The geisha clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes going round, and faked a coy giggle. The maiko squeaked a little. "He's a good lay," Yohji kept pushing his luck, anger and irritation finally winning through, "you know, really ti-"

Aya set down the cup with a hard clank and got up, his right hand clenching and opening near the hilt of his katana. "I am leaving," he announced in a clipped tone. "You can go fuck Schuldig."

Although the geisha were not letting on, beneath their professional veneer Yohji could spot discomfort. He smiled sweetly and grasped Aya's hand before he could jerk it out of reach. "Come with me, lover, for a word or two before you go."

He dragged Aya along, and to his surprise, the redhead did not struggle. The girl scurried ahead, and the okasan appeared before Yohji and Aya crossed the threshold. "Dozo," she said, all smiles and bows, "this way, please, I hope the room will suit you but of course it's only very modest."

They followed her up the wooden staircase and she knelt to slide back the paper door to their room. It was a pleasant place, no more than five mats wide, intimate without being stuffy. It smelled faintly of ripe grass and wood polish, and even here, on the upper floor, a whiff of roses. The fading light of the late summer evening trickled lazily through the slatted bamboo blinds of the window and slanted beams of melting honey over the silk-edged tatami, pale green contrasting with midnight blue. Specks of dust danced in the warm air, glittering like myriads of tiny diamonds. A futon, covered in crisp white sheets, was the only furnishing, and the pale cream walls were adorned with a single scroll – a calligraphed kanji for beauty.

Aya stayed by the threshold while Yohji assured the okasan that the room was wonderful. As soon as the door slid shut behind them, he rounded on Aya. "Fuck Schuldig, huh?" Aya glared up at Yohji as he pressed his hands flat against the wall to both sides of Aya's shoulders. "You have no reason to bitch at me like this," Yohji snapped. "What about you and Schwarz? What about this ridiculous stuff anyway – I don't do scenes, yanno, let alone dramatic jealousy."

Aya's eyes narrowed and grew dark. "Ee," he said, his voice low and deep, "I noticed."

For a moment, Yohji gaped at him, his tongue sliding over his upper lip before bulging his cheek. He pushed back and lit a cigarette after all, then waved vaguely at the room and shrugged. "Hey, looks like the evening went to hell." He puffed out a stream of smoke and grinned lopsidedly. "Thought it was worth a try."

Aya leaned against the wall. "No, it was not. You wasted your money. You treated me like a whore."

Yohji's mouth fell open, and his green glasses slipped down his nose, allowing him to peer at Aya over the rim of the lenses. For a hearbeat, he said nothing, then he drew in another lungful of smoke and let it curl out through his nostrils. "You'd be a thing of beauty if it weren't for all that venom you keep spewing, Aya."

A shadow ran over Aya's face, but he made no reply.

Yohji smoked in silence while he slowly turned to take in the simple beauty of the room, lingered a little on the scroll, a sad smile tugging at his lips. "Yanno," he said quietly over his shoulder, "I never thought I'd care 'bout you hitting and spitting. It never bothered me that much 'cos I knew you were hurting... more than me."

He finished his scrutiny of the room and sought Aya's gaze, but Aya hid behind his red bangs. "Now I hurt." He stepped close and raised his hand to carefully smooth away the tousle of crimson strands. Aya still refused to look at him. Yohji grasped his free hand and pressed it to his chest. "Feel," he commanded, without softness. Aya tried to twist away, but Yohji held him fast, Aya's long fingers clawing into his chest over the pulse of his heart.

He gave up and lifted his head to meet Yohji's green gaze. "It won't work," he said calmly. "You and I are too different. I have no time for this."

"I do."

"You've been trying to buy me back tonight," Aya accused, his tone cool, his eyes unreadable. "And you insulted me down there but I am not in the mood to create a scandal. It is not my idea of fun, and it would embarrass the ochaya and whoever trusted you enough to introduce you here."

Yohji opened his mouth to protest, but Aya shook his head. "You treated me like a toy. I am no one's toy. I will pay for the things you bought for me, and you will take the money and put it back into your account." Meaning he would have to borrow the funds and accept extra missions to repay the debt for months to come. Aya had no savings. Aya had for a long time been paying medical bills for his sister.

Yohji let go of Aya's hand and took a step back, ruffling through his hair in exasperation. "I won't!"

"I'll make you," Aya hissed softly.

Yohji possessed enough wisdom not to ask how that would happen. Instead, he growled, "Hell, Aya, whatever I do seems fuckin' wrong. What is it you want? I know plenty of things you don't want... can't you give me a friggin' break and tell me what's up?"

"I did, but you refused to listen." Slowly, Aya's voice rose in pitch and heat, and a glimmer entered his eyes. "In fact, I told you often enough. I do not appreciate you going out to fuck someone else, for whatever shoddy reason. And if I sound like a stupid jealous faggot, then that's what I fucking am, to hell with it all!"

Aya swearing like a sailor and actually losing his precious cool as he finally let slip the obvious, and Yohji snagged it after all. Stupid, he berated himself as a wave of guilt and grief overwhelmed him, oh so stupid... He caught his breath and forced his mouth to work. "I thought... man, Aya, you never said... when we got together first, it didn't seem to matter, now did it... it was... well, comfort... ne?"

Nervously, he stubbed out the cigarette and stuffed it back into the packet, his appetite for nicotine gone. Stupid. Every word made it worse; he could see the latent heat in Aya's eyes rise in a flame of pain and betrayal. How could he have been so utterly stupid. He had declared his affection for Aya but not thought of this. It should have been him ending all this playing about, and a damn long time ago. No wonder Aya would not trust him, and how could Yohji even begin to explain?

Knocked into silence for once, he dropped to his knees and scooted across to Aya to wrap his arms round his legs and dig his face into the silken folds of the hakama. "I'm such an idiot, Ayan," he murmured.

Aya did not shift, not speak, but leaned back against the wall and looked down at the tousled head that pressed against his thighs. He could feel Yohji's breathing warm and sharp through the stiff fabric and imagined the pulsing of the vein at his neck, the heartbeat of life, of lust and pleasure and love. He drew a slow, deep breath. "And I was never good at sharing, Yohji."

Yohji just stayed put. Aya waited, but he would not move. Trying to wait Aya out. Aya tensed. "Yohji," he said wistfully, "I don't want you on your knees like this."

Yohji shuddered, then shifted, and Aya saw a glint of green peer up at him. "Oh? But I thought..."

Aya groaned. "With your dick, as always! Exactly what I mean: it's not gonna work; I'd only try to cut you down one day."

"You had a pretty good go at that already," Yohji commented glibly from his warm, snug place.

Aya hated Yohji being glib. He tried to shake him off one leg, but only succeeded in lodging him closer to something very warm and completely ignorant of jealousy and long-term plans. "Yesss," he hissed, resentful at having to grab Yohji's shoulders to push him back because that meant he had to touch him, feel muscles shift beneath the fine woollen fabric of the jacket as Yohji only clamped harder around his legs. Had to feel him.

"I can change," Yohji said, and this time he did not sound smug. "I will."

"And Schuldig?" Aya snapped, kicking at Yohji. His foot would have landed in Yohji's middle had it not been caught by one lightning-fast hard hand that merely slipped off the zori and began to massage his flesh. Too good to pull away, Aya decided, angry at his own weakness while he was watching Yohji's fingers press and knead his foot, amber skin contrasting warmly with pale white.

"Yes, Schuldig." Yohji looked up at him now, seeking, holding his gaze, questioning. "What did he do to you, Ayan?"

Aya's face went blank, his eyes still and flat. "Nothing."

"You did not look like nothing when I picked you up. How about some honesty on your part, hm?" Yohji set down Aya's foot and reached for the other one that was willingly granted and rewarded with the same treatment. "He told me a few things..."

Aya's eyes blazed briefly, then shuttered again. "Whatever... it won't work for us, Yotan. He sought me out, told me they had you. Told me he'd show me what was happening, what they were going to do to you. He kept his promise, and when he was done, I realised what I felt. I tried to cut it away because I couldn't stand it. Because it would destroy what I've become, what I must be so I can complete my only task in this life. They only watched, and did what I asked them to do. Until I was blank inside, and still."

"And full of nightmares, you idiot," Yohji murmured, his hand tightening on Aya's foot with bruising force. Aya winced, and Yohji quickly loosened his grip.

Aya gave him a hard, measuring stare. "You only returned to fulfil an obligation. I assume they told you a heap of lies, too. It was logical. That's why this is wrong. We cannot afford to be led so easily."

"I was already on my way back, Ayan," Yohji declared softly, "when Omi got hold of me, god knows how, and said they needed me to fetch you 'cos Schwarz wouldn't talk to anyone else. I was on the train from the airport when the mobile rang."

Aya's eyes went wide, then suddenly closed and he sagged a little.

"Couldn't stand it any longer, Aya," Yohji went on. "I was coming home for you."

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NOTES:

ozashiki – (formal) tea party with geisha
okasan – proprietor ('mother') of the tea house
ochaya – tea house; money is not enough to buy time at a good one, an introduction to the okasan by an existing and valued customer is essential; they are the classic place for high-powered business deals and political engineering
maiko – apprentice geisha

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