Monochromatic Whispers

by Avium

[Crawford x Ken] When you strip the act of all its emotions, it's just sex. [COMPLETED]

3. 3rd Note

Monochromatic Whispers ~ Sensual

Disclaimers: Not mine, seriously.

Author: Avium

Rating: PG-13

Pairings: Crawford x Ken

Fic length: 3/5

Timeline: Indefinite

Author's note: I apologise for the sensuality overkill that you are about to face.

Written in Crawford's 2nd person POV.

-@-@-@-@-

You understand that it had always been your rights, your entitlement. No, we are not talking about your privileges to his body. After all, you are the one paying for this room, right? This place barely sees to other uses, the sheets being broken in but once every few moons for a single purpose. Surely there is nothing wrong with testing the bed for its intended purpose – it being a place to rest a weary body?

That had been part of your reasoning when you chose to meet his defiance with such an action.

You stir to the choking silence of the room without him, knowing that he is no longer there even without looking. Automatically you reach for the spectacles on the bedside table, still deciding to risk a brief scan of the room for him.

He is, of course, no longer there. But for a moment, you are thinking… you think… Perhaps…

Yes, there had been a premonition. You won't do anything before consulting your Gift, especially when it came to doing something as reckless as falling asleep in his presence. The vision had been a blurred, confusing one; it only told you to lie down and rest – nothing more and nothing less. In spite of the oddity of the premonition, you had not questioned it and simply went with the flow.

Because you know once you start questioning your visions, nothing will ever be tangible for you again. You do not need that kind of uncertainty taking over your life.

You adjust your glasses, pushing them higher up the bridge of your nose with simple familiarity. He is no longer there – you already know. So why are you still searching out the room?

Stop looking.

Ambers quit their quest and instead turn to glance at the blanket still neatly folded up at the foot of the bed. Isn't he just delightfully caring? Perhaps there is no longer the need for you to keep up with the illusion of dutiful concern?

It is not to say that you had not anticipated such a move from him – nothing can ever escape you, especially when the matters pertain to him. You have seen it in his eyes a few hours ago when he first appeared with the delivery – there had been no greater show of anger from him to date. Even without your Gift explicitly foretelling you the boy's actions, you could read from his movements alone that he didn't want to ease into a slumber so readily today. So perhaps it was out of strange curiosity that you had obliged him. You don't expect yourself to repeat this show of generosity anytime soon.

Now… what has he done in the meantime?

You turn to look at the empty half of the bed, noting a few small specks of dark crimson staining the sheets, with perceptibly more of the fluids smearing the lower half of the mattress. You were not unkind when claiming his body today, but you had been forceful – as always. Rose thorns and soft flesh don't make for a very friendly combination, you decide, even if the sacrifice had exhibited magnificent beauty when marred by the vicious blossoms.

It is therefore only natural that the yellowing paper on his pillow also goes unnoticed amidst the cream-and-red spread – overlooked against the strange draw of his red liquid.

Ah – a note.

How very predictable.

You reach for the small piece of paper, thumbing the words that he had written on it. He had used your fountain pen uninvited – you hope that he had not spoilt the nib through his usual carelessness.

Bringing the note before you, you digest his words quickly – taking more notice of the bloody specks shining through from the underside of the paper. Smirking, you turn the note over; given his straightforward character his words are expected. You choose to read it then as an outright challenge towards the terms of this arrangement.

You will make the boy *want*. Then perhaps he will not be so inclined to label you as the sole instigator the next time. It'll save you much work on the next encounter too.

Amber eyes fall over the flipped paper. You find it intriguing that he had chosen to communicate with you using an old receipt instead of using the hotel's notepad. How very peculiar of him to not want to share writing paper with you even after such intimacies. Such pride the boy has; it is no wonder that he appeals to you.

The machine-printed letterings have faded from the friction generated in his wallet, but it is not hard to make out the finer details on the receipt. It's from a grocery store near his workplace; and you are able to work out from the list of purchases that he does the shopping for his team.

In other words, he is giving you a hint as to where he frequents – to give you an equal chance of seeking him out; to make this arrangement more… balanced.

A deep breathe, effectively filling your lungs with the scent of roses – their essence having bled out from the crushed petals and soaked into all corners of the room. Briefly you wonder how he will explain to his team the overpowering fragrance following him when he returns to the shop. Maybe he will be grateful, for it hides from them the stench of his bloodied flesh; or maybe he will just creep in using the backdoor to avoid any questions.

Attention returns to the paper in your hands, and you convert the address to memory before tearing it into thin strips and disposing it carelessly over the roses littering the floor.

At the moment, your expression is best described as a mixture of curiosity and resentment. Does he expect you to search him out on your own accord, you wonder. Does he derive pleasure from such a possibility?

You make to move towards the washroom by lifting yourself up, and a single thorn slides itself into the soft underside of your foot as you trod over a bent rose. Immediately you squeeze your eyes shut as you utter a low hiss of pain, falling back onto the mattress and lifting your foot up to inspect the injury.

You have had worse than this, but somehow the thought of dislodging the thorn makes you uneasy. A hand moves over the embedded thorn, pressing the flesh around it to ease the foreign object out before you yank it out swiftly. For a moment it looks as if the wound will close off and disappear, but all too soon an obvious red droplet begins to form. You watch the blood flow until the droplet threatens to fall to the ground, reaching out in time to brush the crimson away with a finger. Absentmindedly you squeeze the bedspread with the same hand and blot it with your blood.

Accursed roses.

You lift yourself off the mattress, taking care not to tread on the flowers this time as you make your way over. As you enter the bathroom you observe that it looks as clean as ever. Obviously the boy lacks personal hygiene, but you will overlook the fact for one simple reason – he knows exactly what is yours and what is his, and the only thing that he has claim over in this room is the other half of the bed.

A deft twist of the shower knob, and cold water splatters over your skin instantly. Your body reacts by tensing up briefly at the sudden change in temperature before the muscles relax enough for you to resume the cleansing ritual.

You can smell the floral oil as it slides off your skin and down the drain. There is no doubting the fact that you will carry with you the scent of roses wherever you decide to go today. Perhaps Schuldich will make a snide comment about it, but you are too well shielded against him to worry about his prying nature. The others will wisely say nothing.

A snaking trail of pink among the flowing water – is that blood, or is that the red dye of the roses?

You reach over to turn the shower off, water-heavy raven locks cascading over your face as you watch the last of the coloured liquid drain away. When you are drying yourself off with the towel you find yourself wondering if the white cotton will soak up the blood from his cuts more efficiently than his denim attire.

Of course, it is just out of pure curiosity that you spare brain cells over such a question.

After attiring yourself to leave, you turn to cast a contemptuous look at the shredded paper dotting the ocean of red petals, hoping that the boy will be able to sense your burning glare through the note that he wrote. The boy is being foolish, you decide, as you exit the room.

There is only one thought on your mind for the rest of the day.

You *will* make the boy *want*.

-@-@-@-@-

You know the roads of this area well in spite of the fact that Japan is notoriously hard to navigate to a foreigner. But you have spent over 2 years in the country already, making the task slightly easier.

Besides, even if you don't know your way around, your visions will guide you just as well.

However, you have an address in your head today. You've been running it over your mind in loops for the past few days, simply bidding your time before a vision surfaced. It is a dead useful talent, isn't it? But you find it a bit of a pity that the visions concerning the boy come less frequently, and even then they will appear a little too suddenly for you.

You adjust your spectacles as you stay watch from behind tinted windows within your car – parking by the tree-shaded roadside where you remain cleverly obscured. It is sufficient to shield you from any casual, curious glances while allowing you to watch the on-goings clearly.

A white flash – then a monochromatic image appears before your eyes. Colour seeps into the image, as water will with a piece of fabric. You register a vision of the boy strolling down the aisle of a medium-sized grocery store, picking items off the shelves as he walks past them. Occasionally he will stop, pull out a list from his breast pocket and inspect it before tucking it away again. A gust of strangely warm wind follows that vision, and after blinking your eyes, you fall back into the real world – where the hard folds of the leather slipcover you are sitting on reminds you of where you are now.

You turn your head towards the grocery store across the street from where you have parked your car. The opaque, blue-tinted glass spanning along the entire length of the store intrigues you – obviously these people lack the common sense to place security over aestheticism. It is just begging to be broken into late at night. But you do not mind – their stupidity works to your advantage today because looking past the glass wall you can see what you so seek.

He is in there, just as your vision had shown you – completely oblivious towards your presence.

You watch him as he picks items off the shelves one after another, strolling down the aisles with a bouncing stride of casual abandon. It is the kind of movement that can only be found in young lovers or inspired artists. But there he is – one foot sliding ahead of the other again and again as he… is he humming?

How very curious.

Observing the items that he plucks off the shelves, you come to the conclusion that he is shopping for his teammates at the same time – there is no way he drinks that much beer. There is something about his easy-going nature that makes him the most suitable candidate for such chores, and his teammates do not seem to have any qualms about leaving such a task to his hands.

It is also possible that he never enjoys this chore, but does it without complaint in order to keep the peace. Such self-sacrifice amuses you.

Just as your visions have shown you: he removes a piece of paper from his pocket, checks it against the items in his basket and puts the paper away before moving down to the next aisle. At least he doesn't lack the good sense to shop by the aisles – it makes the process quicker and more efficient. And the sooner the better for you, is it not?

You study his happy gait as he makes his way towards the cashier's slowly and surely, his pace seeming to pick up in spite of the increasing weight of the basket in his hands. Why is he in such a good mood, you wonder?

He grins as he swings the blue plastic basket onto the cashier's table. The movement elicits a smile from the kindly-looking old cashier who proceeds to chat him up. It is clear from his lazy stance and goofball grin that he is on friendly terms with the woman. You watch him as he picks up a tube of candy from the nearby stand and drop it among the groceries. She puts on a mock-chiding expression before he disarms her with his bright grin: basically looking all for the world like the woman's son or grandson.

You cannot fathom why he should be on such friendly terms with the cashier when it is his rights to be served by her – such ties to you are at best empty or pretentious. She makes to bag his groceries for him, only to be stopped when he insists on doing it himself so she can see to the next customer in line. Unblinking amber eyes monitor his movements closely but half-heartedly.

You are merely waiting for the moment to present itself.

Here he comes now – swinging a few weighed-down white plastic bags as he exits the store. You continue to bid your time until he comes within a few feet of your car. It is only then that you lean over to open the door. You will not trouble yourself to rise out of your seat, or your vehicle for that matter.

His light steps turn to lead in the same instant that the door beckons, and he bends over to peer into the car. You detect but the smallest traces of innocent curiosity in his movements, but the moment his gaze falls into yours his body stiffens and his fists begin to tighten around the rustling bags. He is wearing an expression that combines surprise and shock. You pull yourself back into an upright posture before slowly sliding your hands over the steering wheel to grasp it idly. You break your gaze from the boy soon after – you expect him to do nothing less than to accept today's arrangements as it is shown.

A movement is detected out of a corner of your eye, and you risk a sideway glance. Ambers widen under titanium frames as the blue-clad body disappears from your view.

Why? Is he just walking away like this? He is no longer standing outside the door…

You very nearly risk whipping your head around at that moment, but the door to the backseats swings open, and the low thud of groceries against the foot mats follows soon after. Ah – he is just putting his shopping away properly.

You loosen your suddenly tight hold on the steering wheel, and you finally release your caught breath. By the time he moves to the front seat that you've offered him you have steeled your face into cool indifference once again. Avoiding your eyes, he slips onto the cooled leather seat and start pulling at the safety belt. You wait until the grey strap comes within your reach before you stretch your hand out for it, effectively cupping his hand in yours as you assist him in buckling up for the ride. His skin feels pleasantly warm to the touch, and you find yourself a little hesitant to remove your hand from his when a click is emitted from the buckle to indicate that it is safely in place. But you manage to do so without hinting at anything that may be out of place – save for the visible swallow you make as the brakes are removed.

So far, so good.

The black vehicle pulls onto the main road and makes for the trickle of late afternoon traffic leading towards the edge of the city. Out of a corner of your eye you detect motion, and you turn to face him. He is just reaching for the button to turn on the radio. You won't stand for that – not the radio stations, but rather, the fact that he is doing something to your car when uninvited.

Taking one hand off the wheel, you bat his drifting hand away from the button, only to end up knocking the device to life yourself. The interior of the car is instantly filled with the low buzz of news reports.

You scowl to yourself, surprised that you can be so careless. What makes your fumble even harder to swallow is the fact that you have done so in front of the boy. You register a soft chuckle, causing you to turn and grace him with an impatient glare. How dare he derive amusement from your mistake?

No, he is looking at the little red bars on the stereo display, clearly entertained by the jumble of English being broadcasted on the BBC. There is no way that he understands such fluent English, so the reason for his soft laughter escapes you. But at least he is no longer posing as powerful a distraction as previously…

Of course, he is merely being distracting through his laughter; it is not his presence that draws your attention.

Is that really so, Brad Crawford?

Perhaps it is, and perhaps it isn't. But you will not allow this question to bother you any further. After all, the hand that he had placed on your thigh in the meantime is even more perturbing.

Your first thought is to berate him for such an unwelcome gesture, but the green light is forcing you to return your eyes to the road before you cause an accident. That will be far worse than having to deal with his intrusion of your personal space, so you force yourself to look straight ahead before hitting the gas. Knuckles turn a shade paler than usual as your digits squeeze around the steering wheel harder – as if such a movement will make the car go faster and thus bring you closer to a red light or your destination so that you will be able to rebuke him.

You have probably forgotten how useful the gas pedal can be.

A red light – suddenly infinitely more appealing to you than on regular occasions. The car slows to a halt and you finally have the chance to push his hand away. But you choose to shrug against your jacket, sighing in a mock doleful manner as you flex your arms around the shoulder holster that you usually have strapped on. The holstered gun moves a little too obviously even under the heavy fabric, and the boy wisely lifts his hand away. At the same time he turns his head away from you, and for the rest of the drive the only times that you can see his eyes are from the reflections in his side window. It pleases you, but at the same time makes you uncomfortable – because the reflections are too blurred for you to make out his emotions from the darkened glass.

Is he upset? Is he angry? Is he thinking to himself? You find yourself wanting to question him, only to end up mentally reprimanding yourself for merely harbouring the desire to speak to him. After all, you had set the rule down yourself, and neither one of you have ever sought to challenge it:

No words. Just sex.

That is all that will ever be between the both of you. And you will see that it stays as thus.

A familiar grey-dappled building draws into sight, and you can almost feel the tension coursing on his side of the car. It causes a small smile to break out on your lips, and for the first time since he had accepted today's offer you begin to feel confident of a victory. You turn the wheel steadily, driving the car down into the underground carpark. The place is strangely dark – most of the lights seem to have burnt out ages ago, although a few stray bulbs still manage to flicker on and off unpredictably. One has to accept certain inconveniences and sloppiness of location if he wants anonymity to go with his licentious pursuits, I suppose.

You ease the car into an empty parking spot and peel your hands away from the steering wheel. But instead of reaching for the doorknob you turn towards the boy. You can barely make out his silhouette against the grey darkness. The darkened figure seems to grow before your eyes – a trickery of the lack of lighting, you reason, when it becomes apparent that it is simply the boy moving towards you.

A white flash from a faraway bulb, and it illuminates the boy's face for the briefest of moments. You notice first of all his ocean-blue eyes – the intensity in them as they meet your gaze. The sudden brightness had also lit his skin up with a quaint whiteness, and you find yourself reaching over to gingerly brush the back of your fingers against his cheek as if to test for human warmth – he had looked so pale and so distant at that moment that it left you wondering…

It had simply left you wondering.

A soft clicking sound emits from the lower region of the interior, and the scrapping sound of a receding safety belt cuts through the hush. You can also hear slightly uneven breathing coming from him before he embraces you with sudden warmth that you neither welcome nor reject. A puff of warm air against your ear is felt as his face draws a closer; following which he floods your senses with his presence as he slides across his own seat to straddle his weight over your body. As he is lowering himself over you he drags a finger across the stereo to carefully flick off the trail of speech, effectively weaving a spell of silence over the tiny enclosed space.

The whisperings of stiff fabric under his hands becomes unnaturally loud against the black stillness as he settles both hands over your chest. It leaves you feeling exposed; there is no doubt that he can gauge the speed of your heartbeats even with a three-piece suit between his skin and yours. You do not want him to read your body so intimately, so you straighten yourself against the back of your seat, the movement causing his curved palms to pad around your collar instead.

He lifts his fingertips to press against the underside of your jaw, coaxing you to look up to meet his gaze. As you oblige him another stray light flickers, reflecting off the rim of your lenses and casting a shard of pearl-like luminance against the curve of his lips.

You can feel your resolve weakening and your desires for him growing.

But that isn't how things are supposed to turn out, you remind yourself. He isn't supposed to be so meek and gentle in his movements at all. Hadn't it always been hurried and fierce between the both of you? It is the natural pattern that you have fallen into. Why should things change now? Especially since this change had not been foreseen…

Still you decide to taste the exotic fruits first, before you make to release the boat into the too-familiar sun-scorched waters.

You tilt your head further upwards, nudging your nose against the underside of his chin as you do so. He betrays bewilderment as he peers down at you. And you… you give him a smile that is uniquely yours in all its cold calculation. That is how the game usually commences, isn't it?

But the next step surprises you as much as him.

The cruel smirk softens around its edges as you brush your fingers against his lips – silently marvelling at the unbroken perfection. It is something that you pay little attention to, preferring to end each meeting as soon as it begins. But today you find yourself musing over the possibility of embarking on the foreign path of slowly, grating eroticism.

So you ease him down towards your parted lips, sealing the meeting with an open-mouthed, possessive kiss. He must have been surprised by the direction that you are taking him in today – he barely moves for the next few seconds while you do all the work of plundering his mouth with deep kisses. When he responses at last his movements seem almost tentative, perhaps even a little shy.

Such strange games to be partaking in.

You can feel his hands kneading over your suit in the manner of a kitten inspecting its sleeping quarters, but soon the gentility of his movement gives way to fumbling fingers as he sheds you of your formal jacket; a layer less of obstruction. You try hard to focus on the kiss, but as if to match the fervour of his efforts you begin to probe a little harder and more insistently.

The distinction of two bodies fades in the face of heated wantings. It becomes harder to tell his advances apart from your own. Then almost abruptly you jerk to the awareness of his hardness shoved against your stomach. His hands come to grasp at your cheeks harshly before shoving his lips against yours with alien intensity while he grinds himself down against your hips – brutally.

A small part of you starts to laugh.

You pull back from his mouth forcefully, ignoring his baffled expression while you proceed to fold your discarded jacket with measured unhurriedness. Even without looking at him you are aware of the effect that your actions have on him, and as if to torment him further you lift your hips off the seat slightly to press against him with sly intimacy.

He gasps, and the hold on your shoulders tightens.

That darker side of you threatens to burst with cruel laughter. But you grace him with no more than a sneer as you return your gaze to him. He manages to recognise something dangerous in your eyes – just as you want him to. What follows will have you labelled as a tease (if such a coy term fitted his view of you) – with you making a great show of dragging your tongue down his jaw line and towards that sensitive spot on his neck. You can feel the pulsing liquid rushing against your mouth as you descend upon that patch of skin, and it becomes almost impossible to resist piercing the delicate tissue with your teeth. So mark him you do with rough, scrapping nibbles.

He seems to enjoy it, too.

This time you do laugh aloud – a short, triumphant one that he does not seem to hear. The sound seems to disappear into the patch of skin where you have placed your mouth over, making you wonder if he can feel your delight.

The stage is set.

You throw an arm around his waist to pull him closer, thereby interlocking your lower bodies while giving you space to manoeuvre your limbs. The car door opens, and the once private sanctuary becomes not so private any longer when the roar of the ventilation system slices through the warm muteness. You smile at the confused, blinking turquoise eyes before lifting him out of the car. It takes him a moment to find his footing after you release him.

He bears striking resemblance to a cornered prey at this moment, and seems to shy away in the manner of one such creature when you cast him one of your superior glares. Will you waste your time making your wishes known to him?

You begin to make for the back stairway. Of course you will not bother with any explanations. He only has to follow you, and follow you he does. His flustered face and heavy breaths do not escape your senses even when you face your back to him.

There are 5 flights of stairs to ascend before you reach the floor where your room is on. You cover 4 storeys without so much as a glance backwards; you know that he is walking behind you because of his footsteps. But still you decide to risk a peek at him halfway to the 5th floor.

That is when he slams himself against you. And he had not meant it to be a chance event. After all, very few people manage to end up successfully grabbing both their target's wrists when they 'accidentally' force physical contact onto them.

You remember the dull feel of your back connecting with the whitewashed wall. In spite of the dim fluorescent light overhead you can still make out the feral desire in his eyes. You merely smirk to him in reply – as if issuing him a challenge.

He accepts it; and you win.

So easy it was to make the boy admit to his wants.

You do not object to him undoing the buttons of your shirt; you do not object to him raking his fingers down your torso while making his lust known through growling nips against your skin. All that matters is that he has lost – because he *desires*.

Therefore, it is only natural that you hardly notice how far he had gone until a sudden chill around your hips ensnares your attention. You look down in time to catch him swallowing you – whole.

You gasp – whether it is in shock, pleasure or lust it is unclear. But you have made vocal the sensations felt in that single instant, and for the first time in a very long time you feel betrayed… by none other than yourself. Yet it is hard to concentrate on the shame when the boy is so focused on his task, is it not? Hips begin to move on their own accord to meeting the working mouth as vision becomes blurred in the dangerous binding of heat and lust.

Somewhere amidst the dizzying passion you remember where you are.

More importantly, you remember *who* you are.

You force yourself to ignore the pleasure you derive from his determined tasting, and having successfully done so you push him away roughly. He stumbles backwards and lands soundly against the cold concrete floor.

You look dishevelled; if one may be so bold as to point it out to you.

And him? Why, he appears completely innocent of the knowledge of what his expert workings have done to you. You decide to seize the chance when it presented itself to you and quickly replace your flustered poise with a façade of annoyance and anger. The clouded glaze over the boy's eyes only clears a second later, and you fall back into the calm of knowing that you have not given away any signs of your want.

You lean away from him, quickly doing up your buttons and zipper before striding over to him in your usual domineering manner. You grab his arm roughly and yank him to his feet before turning the tables on him by throwing him against the wall. The contact is sharp and sudden, and the force of it straightens the boy's back at once. He utters a high-pitched gasp as pain travels into his bones, but you choose to ignore his plight and tear your gaze away to continue making for your destination. That will be his punishment until then.

The final flight of stairs is quickly covered, and you twist the doorknob without hesitance. You exit the damp-feeling staircase to reach the air-conditioned corridor of the hotel. Looking back, you note that the boy hasn't moved from his spot at all. Instead he had spent the entire time glaring daggers at you – as if it will have any sort of an effect on you.

A hand on your hip, you continue to hold the door open for him while feeling the rush of cold air past your heated skin. He knows how unwise it will be to disobey you, doesn't he?

Of course he does. He isn't stupid. Stubborn, perhaps. But definitely not stupid.

So he obeys – as always.

You watch him as he withdraws the key from his pocket; the metallic object nearly slips from his trembling fingers when it bangs awkwardly against the doorknob. You dig both hands into your pockets while glaring at the boy contemptuously. Can't he ever do anything right?

Safely hidden away from his view, the fingers in your pockets shiver with restrained hunger.

The door slides open with a dispirited creak. He steps into the room first, having been the one who unlocked the door. You follow closely – perhaps a little too close for his comfort. He casts a glance towards you out of a corner of his eye, just in time to see you nudging the door shut and letting the automatic lock take over. The emotions in his eyes do not escape your notice.

He turns around to meet your gaze, the process requiring him to lift his head towards you. It is not to say that the boy is short, but next to him you tend to cut an imposing figure.

And with him… you play the dominant figure.

He knows it as well as: it's another rule of this mating game.

It is in a blur of movements that two bodies meet halfway, each reaching out to pull the other further inwards and towards; when lips and tongue mash together in a demanding dance; and when fingers seem to change to claws in all their violent scrapping and tearing.

Desire ravages; it claims and destroys all in the same instant.

Desire speaks – not in words but in actions.

Such a perilous, treacherous dance.

He takes your act of crushing him into the scratchy carpet without complaint. Actually, it probably has more to do with his inability to form coherent words than anything else. It is already near impossible to remember to breathe, let alone gather enough air in his lungs for human speech. But still he manages to recall the steps – it is evident in his arched back and tight hold around your back as you fall to claim his willing flesh.

It's a push-and-pull sort of coupling; one where both parties seem to have forgotten their roles and simply choose to go with whatever flow they seem to feel.

It's broken.

It's lustful.

It's over.

You gulp down a moan as soon as it forms, instead settling to snarl with savage anger against the crook of his neck. He must know where he belongs in this arrangement even when his desires are stronger.

Yet when you feel him trembling against your embrace you automatically tighten your hold on him.

You remain as thus for perhaps several minutes. At length his breathing steadies and you pull back to look at him. He is close to falling asleep, so you brush the few strands of brown from his eyes so that they no longer irritate his eyelids before you ease out of him.

A soft sigh from him.

It sounds… pained.

Your eyes linger over his face, using the chance to study his features. As far as you can tell, there are no physical manifestations of his hurt. The reason for such a strange noise from him eludes you.

You head for the washroom, expecting the boy to make for the bed on his own. But you end up returning to a slumbering figure still on the carpet, curled up in foetal position as a buffer against the cold. You mutter a curse under your breath – remonstrating his inability to take care of himself while taking the blanket from the edge of the bed. You flick the blanket open, ready to lay it over him when you recall his earlier lack of care for you several days ago.

You hesitate, but finally you drop the cover over him, if a little carelessly. It gathers around his lower body and leaves him exposed waist-up. You make a growling sound at the back of your throat as if annoyed before squatting down next to him to arrange the blanket over him better.

A deliberate brushing of his cheek with the back of your hand – he is still warm from desire.

You rise to your feet victoriously like a champion over his fallen foe.

But the fact that he had made you voice your own pleasure… well, it's still a fact, is it not?

The anger returns to your eyes – cold and sharp. The victory isn't as clear-cut as you have hoped it to be. You walk over to the bedside table where the notepad rests, tearing a sheet off before bringing your pen nib onto the yellow-white surface. Once the note is written you hold it a short distance away as if to inspect it. A satisfied smile touches your lips, and you put your pen away before folding the note up. You then stride over to his side, squatting down to nudge the note under his hand.

His lips move once in the language of dreams, and the hand closes over the note before he curls himself up even harder.

Your chest tightens briefly, but the sensation fades as soon as you turn away from him and exit the room.

The walk to your vehicle had been purposeful – to leave at once. You sit yourself in the car and make to buckle on the safety belt, only to catch sight of something white in the back seats.

His groceries.

You can feel your lips turning downwards; feel your eyebrows knitting as if perplexed. But the course of action is an obvious one.

Almost dutifully you bring the plastic bags to the front desk. The receptionist raises an eyebrow briefly before remembering her manners. You give her but the plainest instructions - that these items belong to the guest in your room, and you will appreciate it if she will remember to hand them over to him when he is leaving the hotel.

Nodding, she notes down your instructions and assures you that she will see that the items are returned to their rightful owner. You don't expect anything less from her at any rate.

It will be very incriminating, after all, if any one member of Schwarz stumbles upon those bags in your car. Usually they take turns to do your shopping for you, and to see you returning with such an assortment of food items... Yes, it will definitely not sit well with them. Especially Schuldich. You will no doubt be questioned, and that is not something you want to face.

There is a niggling at the back of your head – to drop by the room and check on the boy. You no doubt intend the purpose of the visit to be one for gloating or mockery. But there is a small part of you that is… shall we say – uncertain of your own intentions? Besides, what will you do if he is awake?

How will you react then?

You turn sharply away from the front desk and make for the carpark, forcing yourself to walk away with your curiosity unsatisfied.

After all, it will be very interesting to see his face when he wakes up to the note, won't it?

"Because I derive ample amusement from our arrangements."

~ End chapter 3

-@-@-@-@-

Author's note: I swear – with these 2 guys it's only ever going to be sex, sex and more sex.