Aurora Borealis
Baiser
How the hell did they end up like this?
Yzak has no idea. Not the slightest inkling, actually, and he's pretty damn sure Dearka doesn't either – he's also unnervingly certain that right now he doesn't care about the why or even how, just that it is.
That he cares about a tad bit more than is strictly advisable, truth be told.
So yeah, he is pathetically clueless as to how he got himself into this situation, but currently he's poised above Dearka, straddling his hips. The blonde is on his back, once again on Yzak's bed in their room in darkness. They are both quite nude. Sweat glistens on Dearka's skin below him, its earthly hue making his own figure all but otherworldly in its pallor despite the hot blood coursing through it.
He leans forward a little; the movement is small but sufficient to have Dearka curse-beg-sob, and Yzak's reflecting that not all stickiness is due to sweat, and can't wait, doesn't want to wait, grabs what he desires and sinks down on it.
He doesn't know the reason for that either, but he's never needed anything so badly as he needs Dearka inside him now.
He gasps through the pain, not because of it, for pain he can control; he's gasping helplessly for the pleasure underneath and within.
Dearka was possibly the first person in Yzak's world. Not the first human, not even nearly that, but his mother was simply his mother, his nanny his nanny, rather than individuals of their own. There were Adults, Children, Servants, and some of them occasionally switched roles and gained names, but Dearka alone demanded the space and attention of a person, carried too many importances to be sorted as anything other than simply Dearka.
After all the incidents lately, perhaps he shouldn't be surprised that they're going all the way now, without even a clear idea of what destination they hope for. Just a few days ago there was that occurrence in the shower, frantic heart pounding flaming blood through him, and the awkwardness afterwards was lesser than that which had proceeded what they did on his bed an additional couple of days before. In other words, nerves were henceforth insufficient to prevent their touching, snuggling, snogging, like they did during the holiday, in the car and the park and on the floor in Dearka's room.
As late as yesterday evening Yzak didn't think, couldn't allow himself to think because then he would forbid himself but still be unable to help it – didn't think at all, just walked up to his roommate, wrapped his arms around him from behind, rested his face between the blond's shoulder-blades, basked in the scent and sensation and warmth.
Only hours previously Dearka had tripped him, they'd wrestled, though not at all like they'd used to, not at all like they were supposed to. The straddling and holding and pressing remained the same, the heavy pants and hard pulses, but instead of kicks there were kisses, wet and sloppy, instead of punches there were gropings, caressing, and Yzak will definitely kill the idiot who interrupted by rapping on the door and calling that they were to attend some sort of briefing.
The meeting wasn't very important, and since Nicol was the only one who actually did arrive on time Yzak doesn't feel too bad about skipping the first part – what does irk him, and quite a lot, is the fact that even with ten minutes or so to try and get himself presentable he looked fresh out of bed; a button missing from his uniform, a few strands of hair still mussed, flushed, swollen lips, a hickey not completely obscured by his collar.
To make matters worse, Dearka was proper enough that Yzak probably seemed a tad sloppy in comparison, but not sufficiently to erase the very likely forming suspicions of what they might have been doing to be late and in this absurd condition.
And then, fuck knows how or why, their silly argument ended in fists ending in both of them falling into his bed, became rough, frantic kisses, hot hands without finesse but with much ardor, ripped clothes, naked, Yzak moving up and down, Dearka matching, or perhaps it's the other way around, in either case it's movement with a life of its own, compelling higher and faster and harder and more, and then there is more, oh how much more, and when he comes fully to again he's sprawled over the blonde, stuck together by the same sweat that sticks his bangs to his face, ragged breathings matched. It should be too hot but it isn't, the very idea of moving away chases freezing shudders down his spine even as he sleepily realizes that Dearka's mumbling something. "Mmh," he replies, not caring what he says, then inches sideways so he can bury his face in the pillow.
Dearka doesn't leave this time.
Soon enough, no far too soon, it's morning and Yzak's waking up with the soreness of someone who's slept in a very uncomfortable position. If he ever has sex with and subsequently shares a bed with someone again, then they're using one bed for the shagging and another for the actual sleeping, to avoid smelly, tangled sheets and lying all over each other, which is killing his neck. Cursing rather incoherently he pushes himself into a sitting position, turns to stare intently at the still-asleep Dearka.
He did not like it when the other left; he doesn't like being all cramped because he stayed. He didn't want to tell him about his father; he didn't want to obscure it anymore. He never wanted to want him but he reflects now, I slept with him. As in had sex with. Fucked. Or got fucked by, whatever. Had him inside me, and realizes that he still wants him, and quite badly at that.
It is often said, both in so-called fine literature and in the soap opera-type books that Yzak would never admit to even glancing at, that everyone's cute when asleep. This is not true. Yzak knows that most people are not even remotely sweet with drool in the corner of their half-open mouths, unstyled and chubby-looking. The brighter authors therefore state that it's just your loved ones that are adorable in their sleep.
Dearka's kinda ugly.
Short blond hair muffed, handsome face relaxed, soft lips parted around what Yzak knows to be a fairly pleasant morning breath, lean torso covered in smooth dark skin marked by Yzak's pinching.
So he's kinda ugly but hot too, in spite of or perhaps because of it, and that way in which he has one hand curled below his cheek is for some obscure reason breathtaking. Of courseYzak is not in love with Dearka, but if he has to watch sleeping people then the Buster pilot is definitely one of the more pleasant alternatives. That's the sole reason as to why he's bending now, pressing a light kiss to the blond's mouth, then sitting up straight again before Dearka's woken up sufficiently to be aware of what just happened. Years of sleepovers have taught him in no uncertain terms that his comrade simply does not notice anything happening around him until his eyes have been open for about ten minutes.
Today, a day of many firsts apparently, they are misty for only five seconds or so before they open wide in shock, shifting wildly between their owner's naked figure, the messy bed, Yzak's equally nude person, back and forth and panicked.
"I'm not gay," Dearka squeaks.
Yzak merely stares at him for a moment or two, eyebrows somewhat raised, gaze surprised but level. Then laughter takes him, Fall-to-the-Floor-and-Clutch-your-Stomach-and-Fight-for-Breath-type laughter; he bends over, shaking with the hysteria of it.
It departs as abruptly as it came, leaving Yzak staring quietly at his companion for a handful more seconds before he smashes his fist into Dearka's face as hard as he can manage, rage and hurt and incredulity warring within him. He isn't sure why he's doing it.
The force of the blow knocks Dearka down, has him falling halfway off the bed. Coldly, calmly, Yzak gets up after him, ignores the blond's protests and instead takes a firm hold around his shoulders and pushes him forcefully out of the room, locks the door behind him. "Do I look like a girl to you?" he screams, not listening to whatever response might be contained somewhere in Dearka's yelling from outside.
It is as though he's watching someone else pick up a few articles of clothing from the floor, struggle into them, kick the bed viciously in passing. Only when Dearka starts pounding on the door in earnest is he returned to himself, standing stupidly in the middle of the room with half a uniform on.
"Yzak!" Dearka cries. "Open! Yzak, for fuck's sake, I don't have any clothes here! Open! Dammit, there are people coming! Yzak!"
"Yeah," Yzak mumbles quietly to himself. "For fuck's sake." Snatching the rest of his attire from the wardrobe he opens the door, watches Dearka practically fall inside with none of the amusement that would normally accompany the undignified sight. He isn't ignoring the blonde anymore, can't, is transfixed by him, but he hopes to hell that he makes a good show of it as he storms off, not fully dressed but decent and not caring either way. He slams the door button hard enough to break it, so instead of closing properly it makes a few beeps and stops halfway. Fuck that. Fuck everything, come to think of it.
Not encountering more than two or three politely not-staring soldiers in the blessedly deserted corridors he makes his way to the public showers, stomps inside and punches in a lock-code that he really isn't supposed to know about, then rips his clothing off and throws himself into the closest shower stall. Water pounds down on him, as hot as it can get and at full blast, so that it feels like burning bruises. Fine; he needs to clean up, needs to make sure nobody can see or hear him, and he has a lifetime's experience of pain.
Warm wetness washes down his face, and he cries, hard as he hasn't in years, the kind of tears that you choke on, that have you trembling and cold-hot and make your eyes puffy and sore without actually relieving any of the hurt. That's because it's the kind of crying that only happens when that hurt is too great to be remedied or even lessened by tears.
First time he cried like this he was four. An hour or so after he had stopped, when exhaustion had emptied him of everything, his hysterical mother brought him to the hospital, where he spent the night and learned that water tastes much better at home. Next day his father left their house.
Last time he cried like this he was fourteen. That was the one and only time his father returned to the Juhle mansion, the single occasion on which the man braved his former lover's demand for distance, her influence and security guards.
Normally, at least Yzak's prepared that it's going to hurt and so can contain himself. But that particular beating was just too unexpected, too violent, too little time to force himself to forget who hit him. A trip to the hospital later he could walk again, albeit with crutches, and the swelling in his face had gone down sufficiently to allow him to open one eye, and bandage and painkillers made his broken ribs bearable.
That was years ago, and when he told Dearka he can handle things he wasn't lying – so why is he crying now, sobbing his wretched soul out? He does not cry for his father, not before, not now and not in the future. This is a new kind of pain, unlike mostly anything caused by certain incidents within the family; rather more akin to, actually, the childhood stings of his mother declining to spend time with him in favor of working.
"I'm not gay," Dearka said – yeah, right, then what the fuck were they doing? Not like he complained at the time, and not like he can have avoided noticing that pretty or not Yzak is definitely not a girl.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chants, focusing on forming the words, nevermind that the sound of water obscures them, he speaks articulately and clearly, only the syllables are important, not what they mean, certainly not the cause for his repeating them over and over. "Damn fuckwit." Is he talking about himself or about Dearka? "And now everything's fucked up for the sake of a stupid fuck."
Why did he go and sleep with him?
Yes, he wanted to, desperately even, and yes, it was an… extraordinary experience, but one can't get everything one wishes, and when one does there's always a price.
Forget love, forget intimacy and attraction; save his mother none can compare to Dearka in importance – stupid jerk fucker that he is, the blonde has forever been Yzak's only friend, roommate, sparring partner, comrade, punch-bag, opponent, confidante, everything.
All of that, over a decade's, more than half his life's emotional investment, all of it in ruins now for one dumb mistake. It's a high price for a single night of meaningless passion. That was expensive beyond belief, that idiotic act that he regrets so bitterly now. No, he doesn't regret it at all, and that's what he regrets the most.
Throwing a frustrated punch at the wall, from which luck alone prevents his crushing his knuckles, he doesn't fight the dejected sensation that drains him, makes him stumble, has him curled up in the corner in a most utterly pathetic fashion, tears run dry but still sobbing like the lonely child he does not feel like. At all.
He doesn't want to ever leave the shower room, but duty's calling is reinforced by how the water has gone cold; slowly, with effort, he rises, steadying himself against the wall. Suddenly, and for no good reason that he cares to think about, he feels old, as though his body has grown stiff and creaky. Ludicrous, of course – he's a Coordinator elite and it'll take considerably much more than some cramped muscles to bring him down, but he supposes it's a valid psychosomatic reaction in its own way.
He's Yzak Juhle, and psychosomatic reactions do not happen to Yzak Juhle, though today it feels like they do.
While he can't muster the interest or energy to be grateful that his clothes didn't get soaked where he left them in an unsorted heap on the floor, he certainly isn't displeased by their mostly-dryness. Mechanically he puts them on, fastening each button with utmost care and gingerly straightening every piece of clothing. Even so a glance at the mirror reveals that he looks no better than he did when belatedly arriving at the briefing yesterday, though whereas then he carried signs of excitement he now bears marks of exhaustion. The sharp pallor of his skin, not rosy like before but rather ashen, makes the puffy redness of his eyes stand out, highlights how swollen his lips are and that there are lovebites on his neck. This last he manages to obscure by fiddling with his collar, but it has to be obvious to even the most dimwitted idiot that he's been either slapped or kissed quite hard, and that he's subsequently cried his eyes out.
The idea of meeting anyone or doing anything is unbearable, but so is staying in here, so he tells himself he won't scream or stomp or vomit, just act normal, all normal, and everything's normal, right, what has really changed anyway?
Yeah, all right, his life is in smoking ruins, but that's no one else's business and there's no reason for him to announce it. Like he can help it, or cares at this point.
Momentarily he hopes for fighting, to allow him an outlet and new emotions; then he realizes that battle will mean that he has to cooperate with Dearka.
Occupied telling himself sternly that he will not curse, will not stumble, will not flee back to the claustrophobic comfort of the shower room, he does not notice the Buster pilot until they are already upon each other.
Dearka looks good, he decides against his conscious will. A little haggard and definitely stressed out, but his darker skin obscures mostly all marks and he's perfect in the usual red uniform that ought really to clash horribly with his amethyst eyes and dusk skin but doesn't and the only-slightly-more-than-normally-mussed-up hair.
"Yzak," he says. It's a word he's spoken thousands of times before.
"Mmh," Yzak replies. "See that you have your stuff out of the room before dinner time."
"What? Yzak, are you…?" The blond's face is a study in upset, paralyzing shock.
"You're moving," Yzak informs calmly. Can't the idiot see? Did he really think things would simply carry on as before, after… after what they did and what he said. "Take an empty room, share with Nicol, I don't care. Just be gone."
"Yzak…" Dearka pleads, repeating his name for the…what? Third, already? …time. "People will talk, you do realize that?"
Smiling thinly, not stopping the hand that is already subconsciously going to a particularly large hickey just below his jaw, the Duel pilot replies, "I believe they already are." Careful to keep a certain distance, to not be tempted or hurt, he moves past the other, who grabs his arm rather forcefully. Face whipping around to stare hatefully at Dearka who dares to touch him like this after having said what he's said, Yzak spits, "Go fuck yourself!" then rips free and flees.
xxxxx