WeissKreuz – Whim
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Warnings: male/male affection and references to sex.
Rating: M for the above reasons.
Summary: Schuldig and Yohjiindulge a whim...
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Balinese gives me those looks.
He is shifting his weight from one foot to the other, pushing his green sunshades up his nose, and letting them slip down again to glance across the busy, noisy street, thick with exhaust fumes. Green eyes narrowing against the glare of the baking summer sun, he scans the throng of people shoving and pushing, elbowing their way through the afternoon rush hour.
Glimpses of gold and green. I lost track of how long I've been watching him. Trailing after him like an obedient little puppy… okay, perhaps not quite like this, but I've developed a persistent strain that has Brad unsettled, to say the least.
I hang around at the corner opposite their shop. I've been smoking non-stop while observing: Abyssinian misting the displays of flowers in the window, Siberian watering the racks with plants set out on the pavement. Their chibi left this morning to go to school, but I know from the way he moved and looked that he is going to spend half of this day just sitting in the park nearby, staring holes into the simmering air. Nagi tends to space out too, but in a different way – he chills and darkens, like a corpse, and Far just sinks away into his dreams.
Never mind. I will take Nagi for a walk later, when it's cooler and the air lighter, and when he won't cling to me because he is afraid of touching anything else. Right now I am busy.
We had encounters in the past. Professional as well as personal. He surprised me – he was not afraid to look, touch, question. He does not judge me. He does let me close. Why?
Balinese lights up, his long, hard hands cupping the little flame of the lighter, making it visible for a heartbeat in the glare of the sunlit afternoon, then he blows it out. He slips the lighter and packet of cigarettes into the breast pocket of his cream coloured easy shirt and sags against the wall to inhale a deep draught of blue smoke.
Still watching. The dense traffic that rolls over sticky hot tarmac like treacle. The bustle of people, the dusty shop fronts on my side of the road. Still searching then, are we?
I managed to unnerve him. If Brad knew, I'd be toast. If he really, truly knew. But he doesn't. He can't look all the way into me, and when we both realised this, it was a bit of a shock.
Wrong. It was one hell of a shock. Brad was more shaken than I've ever seen him, and I could only marvel. For suddenly, I felt… oddly free, and strangely abandoned. I always thought it would be fun to see Brad's façade cracked. Now I am not so sure anymore…
Balinese starts crossing the street. Long body swaying just so, jeans-clad legs striding out smoothly, soft hair tousled, sticking to his temples a little, sweaty from the muggy heat.
He comes right after me, and I wait.
He doesn't talk when he reaches me. We stare at one another for a moment, a damn friggin eternity, and then he reaches out – I jump, he grabs the back of my neck and yanks me close.
I realise that my hand claws into his hair the same instant I taste him… sweet, sharp, bitter of smoke; he bites my tongue and my lower lip and then soothes the welts with a slow, wet lick. "You're crazy," he snaps, a husky growl that pools right in my crotch.
What can I say? Entire tomes of psychoanalytical shit condensed into three words. He's always like that – perceptive, straight to the point if he wants it.
"My place?" I suggest, dipping my head to suck a little at his jaw.
His gaze lingers, probing, evaluating, weighing… "Only if you're alone."
Without Farfarello hovering by the door, or Nagi nagging, or Brad sending erratic, irritable messages via the answerphone.
"I am." And I do not want to know why he suddenly decided to come on to me, to follow me to my apartment, a cubbyhole in one of the highrise blocks nearby. I like being close to him, and Brad hated me for renting the place because he thought I'd done this on purpose. Subconscious cravings, he had all but flung at me, you're such an idiot…
For once, we don't spend time talking. For once, it's Balinese kicking the door shut behind us and slamming me down on the bed, kissing me madly…
And then he slows down as swiftly as he's powered up, props himself on one elbow and looks down at me. One hand tangling in my hair, the other smoothing down my flank and hip. "Nutter," he says quietly. His gaze is shuttered, shadows pooling in shimmering green depths.
Well, yeah…
His scent… sweet, smoky, a whiff of stale soil and dead flowers, mingling headily with sandalwood and caramel. I unbutton his shirt and slide it back over his shoulders and down his arms. He lets me, sits back, bringing me up with him so I can pull the garment off him and toss it to the floor. He is silent, his smooth chest heaving just a little more than from a fast sprint, his belly clenching and relaxing in quick waves. I kiss the dip of his collarbone, my hair sliding vivid red against tanned skin, and he throws back his head and shudders, a shower of gooseflesh sliding down his trim body.
I lick my way up his throat. He is biting back the groan I can feel rumble in his stomach.
Why is he doing this?
I don't want to know. I really don't. I don't care, right? He is here, pliant, willing, hot. Willing. He is willing to sleep with me.
"Hey…" He smoothes back my hair and tries to tilt up my chin. I bite his finger. "Ouch!" He yanks it back. "What did you do that for?"
"I'm not your pet," I grouse.
"Just tryin' to be nice, dickhead!"
I don't want him to be nice. Well, I do, but not like this. I hate illusions; they hurt me in odd places. Inside my chest, where I can't reach them. Inside my mind, where they burn and prod and sting. Brad told me, now didn't he? You get involved, and you are going to get hurt… I tried to laugh him off.
So what, Braddy Daddy was right yet again. Okay. I hate it.
"Schuldig?"
And why the hell does Bali's voice have to be so… smooth? Soft and almost, almost sympathetic. His hands cupping my cheeks, and this time, when I grab his wrists and angle my knee just so to hit his middle, he is prepared and damn quick. Slams me back onto the mattress and flips me onto my stomach, yanking my arms back quite painfully.
Now that's more like it. We're enemies. Or, at the very least, competitors. Yes, I like that one better. Competitors, companies in the same business, with different styles of management and execution…
Pun entirely intended.
I wriggle experimentally. He sits on my thighs. I kick up and my heels make sharp contact with his lower back, hitting his hipbone with a hard thud. He sways a bit and hisses, but does not let go. Instead, he grips both my wrists with one long-fingered hand – he has hard, surprisingly rough hands that do not seem to match the silky smooth rest of him – and holds on tightly. Bruising my skin. I relish the stab of pain… hoping, longing for it, craving more. But he…
His free hand ghosts over my back. Up my spine, tracing a whisperfine line, smoothing aside my messy hair. He begins to rub my shoulderblades in soft, slow circles, his callous-roughened fingertips scraping gently over my scarred hide.
"Lay still," he orders quietly.
He does not bark at me like Brad, or freeze me out like Nags, or plasters himself all over me like Far. He just sits there, his bum warm and firm on my thighs even though I can feel my blood stall and my feet get cold, and contents himself with massaging my shoulders. Prodding rather expertly at the knots and sinews and poking his fingers into them until I soften and very nearly dissolve under his touch; my mind is pouring from my skull along with the headaches, the darkness, the chill and the fire that always tear at my insides.
Leaving behind…
Stillness.
Calm.
Different from the leaden silence Brad gives me because this is… warm.
And I want more of it.
Whoa, way to go… stop here, now…
"Do not wriggle," he says, leaning forward and clamping his hand over the back of my head for emphasis. If he decides to press my nose into the pillow now, he could smother me. I'm fast, but he's got the advantage of strength so close up and personal, and he is well-versed in killing at close quarters, hugging his targets in a deadly embrace, the wire snare he favours making a mess of their throats…
He leans over me and I can feel his lips on my hair, the top of my ear, my temple. His body heavy and warm on mine. His skin a little damp with sweat on my own dry, burning hide. "You're feverish."
"I'm hot," I quip. I try to lift my bottom, he laughs, his free hand moving up to muss my hair a bit more. He still doesn't let go of my wrists, but I can feel the slight thrust of his hips against mine.
"I can't figure you out," he admits.
I turn my head as much as I can, to catch a glimpse of green eyes, hazy with… yes, it has to be lust. Plain, carnal urges. A little doubt, a lashing of puzzlement, his smile vague as he holds my gaze, long dark golden lashes on halfmast.
He leans down to kiss the corner of my mouth. I buck up, almost knocking him off me, but he is no fool and pins my head to the pillow by wrapping my hair around his fingers. I am very nearly immobilised, and kicking the air seems a bit stupid right not.
I have no choice but to lie still beneath him as he leans in closer, all but draping himself over me, and kisses me again.
Warm, moist lips.
Incredibly tender.
On my mouth. My cheekbone. My closing eyelids.
"Why're you crying?"
"I don't," I manage. "You fuckin' hurt me. My arms."
His grip loosens, hesitantly. Then he releases my wrists. I feel boneless and tense all the same.
"Do you want this?" he asks, breathing into my ear. His hair tickles my neck. He is warm and heavy. "Fight or flight, which one's it going to be, hm?"
"Depends," I grit out.
He ponders this, not sure whether he should dig some more, whether he really wants to know… but he is innately curious, and when I turn onto my back, he barely rises a bit on his knees so that my hardened crotch brushes firmly against his middle. He smiles at my face, his eyes oddly calm as he regards me in silence. I stare back, and something in my glare prompts him. I can see he's giving himself a nudge as he draws a quick, deep breath and slides his hands up my arms and back to my wrists again. "Depends… on what?"
"Whether you want it."
"You."
"Huh?"
He quirks a little grin. "Whether I want you."
Not IT. I am not IT to him.
My breath catches in my throat. "If… if you didn't, you'd not have come along… would you?"
"I could just have complied. Given in, that sorta thing. So you leave Aya alone."
Ouch. Ouch, ouch, ouch.
He rocks his hips against my loins. "Panicking?"
I will not run bawling to Brad. I do not feel like shit now, or like doused with ice water, or royally pissed off, with my dick wilting miserably in its denim confines.
He was watching me too close for comfort. "Don't. Don't go off rambling in this fuzzy head of yours." His hands sliding up my flanks this time, beneath my shirt, over my chest, lingering a little over my nipples. Bang, he's switched me off and on like some lightbulb. Just as Brad does, but with Balinese it's not nearly as raw…
I draw up my knees so that he is cradled between my groin and thighs, his knees hugging my sides. He smiles again, this disconcerting mix of sultryness and cool playing over his handsome features, his eyes luminous, his gaze heated. "Which way round?"
Did he ask me this? "You… screw me," I burst out before he has a chance to think it over. He leans forward languidly, stretching over me at full length, pulling his legs together and wedging them between mine.
"Glad to oblige," he breathes into my mouth.
xxx
When we're through, he starts to get dressed. We don't talk; the room reeks of sex and sweat and stale aftershave. Outside, the hum of the traffic has thinned and trickles faintly through the slatted blinds, along with dusty sunlight. It is still hot, I realise when I recover my senses one by one. The sheets are crumpled up and pressing red creases into my damp skin. I can still feel his fullness, a lingering pressure in my guts, and some wet, sticky stuff trickles down between my buttocks while I just sprawl limply on my bed and watch him.
Moving smoothly, without the slightest hitch. Slipping on his jeans, his shirt, button by button carefully closed by hard, nimble fingers.
So Abyssinian can't tell he's been cheating.
But I know he'll just sense it. No matter how cautious Bali is, how long he's going to scrub under the shower to get rid of our mingled smells… I know when Brad's been eating out, from the slightly sated, somewhat guilty look on his face, how his gaze – usually so steady – will shift and flicker the tiniest bit when we talk, or the purposefully brash, brazen way he moves. I know it does affect him when I sulk, and I'll milk it for all it's worth; he tends to be a tad more yielding then. Until he has enough of his bad conscience tugging at him, and we'll have a row and settle everything with a few good, wild screws.
Abbyssinian will not forgive. Delicious.
Balinese pauses, fumbles distractedly for his cigarettes, and lights two. He sits down on the edge of my bed and hands me one of the smokes. I prop myself on my elbow and blow a stream of smoke into his hair as he leans down to lick one of my nipples. It tickles, I wince, he laughs and gleams up at me. "Basket case," he concludes, but this time, his tone is slightly shaky.
He leaves, and I plop back, flinging out my arms and closing my eyes. The warm, stuffy air of the late summer afternoon caresses my drying skin. The smoke filling my mouth reminds me of how he tastes. The flavour of despair and lust, and something else… I smack my lips trying to catch it, but I fail. Perhaps I want to fail…
To distract myself, I start counting.
The 'phone starts shrilling on nine, and when the answermachine clicks on, it's Brad. Flat, toneless, demanding I come home.
I can hear him replace the receiver with studious care. I turn my head and see the flicker of the little red light that indicates a new message has been recorded.
And when the cigarette has turned to ash, I peel the sticky sheets off my body and start to get dressed.
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The End