Author's Note: This isn't a song fic but "Angkor Wat Theme II" by Michael Galasso from the In The Mood for Love soundtrack was a huge inspiration and was listened to repeatedly while I wrote it. For now it's a one shot but that might change.
We pass each other in the hall and exchange hesitant glances. I frequently wonder, is he reflecting what I feel or am I merely seeing what I want to see? Does he notice those moments where we surreptitiously brush against one another? Does he pause and relish in the brief sensation of physical contact? Feeling the onslaught of goose bumps, that clenching in the throat, the dryness on the lips? There is certainly an awkwardness there, a pained cordiality deep within that stoic exterior, that I carefully take note of. I meticulously watch it, awaiting the briefest slip from which I can take advantage.
When we part ways at night, pausing at our respective apartment doors, I sense a hesitation, perhaps a longing to draw the moment out. I wonder what he'd say if I invited him in. I wonder what he'd taste like, if I'd ever get to graze those stern lips, how his glossy hair might feel winding through my fingertips, how smooth that pale skin actually is.
I try to explain this with the way I look at him behind my typical, insouciant smile. I silently plead with him during our furtive moments alone together. Pained, I wonder, is he reflecting this back at me? Or am I deluded with the bias of infatuation? You'd think Kudou Youji, who never outwardly expresses anything but blithe unconcern, unbridled hedonism, cocksure ease in everything he does, would never be tormented like this by just one man. It's so devastatingly preposterous. But beyond my veil of subjectivity, I believe that it's there, the pain thinly shielded behind violet eyes, the slightest recognition of understanding. He knows. He must know.
I hesitate. It's past two in the morning but I know he's awake. I can tell by the creaking of the floorboards in his room and the incandescent glow slicing underneath his door. I try to formulate some excuse, like some pubescent virgin, desperate for some way to cajole our distant and callous leader out of his hardened shell. After two gentle knocks the door swings open – surprise? Bafflement, marring those exquisite features?
Abruptly skipping the formalities he asks what I want, his smooth, baritone voice carefully guarded, facial expression classically aloof. I smile playfully, try to ease the stiffness in my shoulders and compose myself as the nonchalant playboy. I slip inside his room; bare save for a few scattered volumes – whose contents and authors I care nothing about – and a modest bed, immaculately made. I sit myself down; it's just as rigid and unforgiving as he is. Fitting.
He asks again, what I am doing here? Arms folded across his chest, that shock of red framing his perfectly oval face. I say I can't sleep. I say I'd like some company. My answers are met with a raised eyebrow which shortly turns into a frown as he tells me to leave if I have nothing better to do. I ask him, don't you want some company once in a while? I remind him that it's not healthy to be so isolated. He tells me he doesn't need company, that he prefers his solitude, that if he were to choose someone to spend time with, it certainly wouldn't be me. His hand grasps the doorknob and the other waves me out. I remain seated when, not without hurt in my voice, I respond that if I were to choose someone to spend time with, I'd like to choose him. Why? Is his retort and I feel pleasure in the fact that, at least for the moment, I've caught his attention, grasping hopefully at his curiosity.
I stand up, make my way towards him, look down at his long, sculpted nose and smile an unusual, rueful smile. My answer is one word, because. He scowls at my unsatisfactory response. I gently run my thumb along his jaw, he jerks back slightly but not enough to shake my hand away. Like a frightened animal, I try to draw him closer, gain his fragile trust. I say, because I can't sleep knowing you're in the room next to mine. He opens his mouth to respond and I act, plunging forward into its depths. At first he is stiff and uncompromising, arms slack at his sides, and eyes wide open in shock. I linger there, one arm cupping the back of his head, the other snaking around his waist. My lips part pleadingly, inviting him in. He doesn't respond right away but soon enough I can feel the approach of a soft and apprehensive tongue.
My hand is flat against his elegantly thin waist; his body is lithe but firm. The other explores the delicate curves and scars underneath his faded black t-shirt. I shouldn't be as amazed at I am that he is warm to the touch; I should be more surprised that he is allowing me this inviolable privilege. But I don't question it. I refuse to acknowledge the futility of my true desires. Tasting the milky sweetness of his lips is one thing but to have him surrender to me is another altogether and the realization that it will probably never happen pains me enough that I have to stop.
We're both breathing heavily. He looks on in disbelief – at me? Himself? His lips are wet with my saliva, his shirt riding up his pale abdomen, a deep scar tracing a thin line along the right side of it. There's something achingly beautiful about it, the evidence of Aya's weakness, his humanity. We say nothing for a while but I know I must do something soon before each of his walls fall into place and he is lost to me again. I try to find my voice but it's not there. I once again get close enough to feel his breath, warm on my face. I lean over to his ear and whisper ever so faintly, let me have you, as I reach for his pant zipper and begin to undo it.
To my surprise, he doesn't fight me. The stubborn and impenetrable Aya is now compliant, following my every move like some awkward, un-choreographed dance. He's hard and I can feel the same constriction in my unforgiving jeans. I feel drunk, almost completely out of control, as I tear his clothes off him. Soon enough he is grabbing at mine and we collapse onto the bed in a sweaty tangle of limbs and sheets, clawing at each other, waves of desperation ripping through us. I can't kiss him hard enough, yank his hair roughly enough, nip enough bruises down his porcelain neck. I roll over so I'm on top of him, blunt nails attempting to dig into his thin shoulders. I bite his ear, hard, and ask him if he's ready. His body stiffens slightly but he doesn't say no. I'm too far gone to consider that this might be his first time and push as far as I can inside of him. His eyes shut tightly and I slow down when I notice a few hot, angry tears slip down the sides of his face. I pull him closer to me, kiss them away, and ease back in, exploring him until I hit just the right place and he faintly gasps in amazement. I grasp his erection in my hand and start stroking him to the same rhythm as my thrusts. It isn't long before I am assailed with a violent orgasm and I collapse on top of his wiry body, feeling his sticky ejaculate, wet between us.
I kiss him, softly this time but already there is a rigidity to his composure. I look at him searchingly and immediately I can tell that he is withdrawing into himself. I cup his face in my hands and whisper his name hoarsely. He looks away and I simply can't bear it. I pull out of him and with shaking hands hurriedly pull my jeans on. He lies back on his bed and stares at the ceiling, a look of sheer indifference on his face. I don't understand it. Not two seconds ago was I kissing away his salty tears. My throat constricts but I refuse to cry. Aya, I venture, my voice pleading. His response is cool, apathetic. Just go, he says. Dumbfounded, it takes a while for me to move my feet, to force my way out of his room, which by now smells of sweat and sex. But that, too, is fading, slipping through my fingers. I gaze at him helplessly as he moves to get dressed. He insists that I leave and I don't have it in me to hear it for a third time. I step into the cool, dark hallway and search my pockets for a smoke.