Iron, smoke, gunpowder, leather, death, sorrow and loneliness.

These were the 7 scents that surrounded his life. The odors of living as a hired gun. One, two, three. One, smoke after he'd killed off his cigarette. Two, drops of blood that never came out. Three, the fingers with gunpowder residue. Four, five, six, seven. Four, names on his list of victims. Five, the number of bullets left in his gun. Six, feet under they were all going to be. Seven, the number of lilies left at their graves.

That's how it always was. There would be nothing to change that, nothing in this world that had the power to change that, and no being alive to even try. Acting as a lone wolf, the work of a perfectionist is never done. Never time for a break, only minutes to reflect, scents to take in, and words to be left unspoken.

Executioner Gin had no qualms about this life. It was the one he'd chosen. What he did have qualms about, was his commander questioning his loyalty to this choice. Anger coursed through him at the mention of the boy that had caused this lack of faith in him – Shinichi Kudo – High School Detective. He wrought havoc to his constants of life. Decidedly not dead, unlike what he previously believed. What he believed he had accomplished. But no. The dangers of committing murders without a gun. You might fuck it up.

'Executioner Gin' – that was his handle. But turns out more and more of those he thought he killed, pop up alive. He couldn't even trust his own gun anymore, to do the work he'd always had complete faith in. That girl, Sherry, she was supposed to be dead as well. But no, once again, all that's left in their wake, a smokescreen of mirrors he can't quite comprehend. It practically reeks of of something rotten.

That man. The Silver Bullet. FBI, their beloved sniper. His beloved sniper. There was no one like him in the world. Except for Gin himself. He'd told himself many times, 'There can be only one.'

And so he believed that. With a hollow heart, and a calignous outlook. Without an equal in the world, someone to challenge you, life is idle prattle, and you, a deaf man with disinterest.

But all is not lost. There he was again, that brat, that undisputable torn in his professional life. Shinichi Kudo, unmistakably. Wafts of iron filled his nostrils at the mere thought of ripping that kids head off, and showing it to his superiors in a steady walk of glory. He'd made his move – but then. Oh, but then.

A name was uttered. One that should have been in his grave. One, whose grave he had already visited. The aroma of lilies he'd left there still strong in his memory. But then he heard another name. Pieces fit together like a jigsaw without corner pieces, and suddenly the details as to how or why didn't matter. All that mattered was that man. Only him.

His car seemed too slow this time – as if deliberatively attempting to put distance between them. But not this time. Then he was there. Confusion first rose in him, seeing the name "Kudo" by the address, but he was not deterred. He knew there was something going on, and he would not be made the fool. Whatever it was, it came only secondary to his primary motive. Ringing the doorbell, a standstill in his mind. What would he do?

What would it mean?

If he saw him what would he do?

…

The answer frightened the executioner more than anything had ever done. The visible lump in his throat got swallowed down, and there was a click at the door, it opens and reveals—

…

Someone. No one. A student, of sorts. First anger coursed through him, followed by a solemn relief, finally manifesting itself as a mournful smile. The answer he'd hoped for was impossible. All that was left –

Fell apart.

The student gave pause, looked in confusion. He'd already seen too much, but would never know to what capacity. The strange expression made in response to the man at his door's strange smile, only managed to further embitter the silver haired murderer.

But as he turned to leave, as a single drop of rain fell from the clouds, it was as if the clouds in his mind cleared. Looking to the sky as the water poured on him, it seemed serene, and the student couldn't quite tell if the man in front of him was letting tears fall along with the raindrops. The man spoke in the quiet rain, startling the man on the other side of the door.

"There's a word… That's the scent that comes after the first rain during arid weather. I don't recall it, but there was someone that told me once..."

Trailing off, the man suddenly became tightlipped. What was he doing, getting emotional and sappy in front of some stranger. He wasn't even drunk, that was the worst part of it, at least so he thought. But then the student spoke, first by pinching at his collar and then – a terribly familiar voice hit his ears. Just as lightning fell from above, so did a lightning bolt strike through his entire body as realization jumped him, and before the other could even manage a defense, Gin the executioner had forced his way inside the house, and had the other against a wall, anger and murderous intent more than seeping out of his every pore. But much more strongly than that, was the scent of anxiety. It followed in the steps of the anger, and just as he tried to explain himself, rough lips came crashing upon his own, but there was something in the way.

Stepping back, and looking at the student in front of him, knowing he bore a face that was not his own, the demand that left the angry man in front of him seemed more desperate than authoritarian considering how he'd just kissed the other. But complying, knowing the jig was up, seeing his koibito's eyes open wide in amazement, anger, and relief were unexpectedly causing him to feel a bit of remorse. But pushing those emotions aside – considering whose very much at fault for this charade – he felt he had no reason to experience such emotions for this man.

"You're supposed to be dead."

Cut and dry, just as it always was. But in the back of his throat, hidden away by his gruff posterior, he could tell of a certain hard wetness. As if saying the words caused a physical injury.

"You want something done, you have to do it yourself."

Retorted he, knowing full well if the other had such a wish there was nothing to do but pray that heaven was awaiting him on the other side, and not a far more unfavorable alternative.

"Get out of those clothes. It pisses me off, seeing you look like that."

What a lame excuse the newly revealed FBI agent thought to himself. In front of him was nothing less than Gin, the Executioner. His nemesis. His equal. His. His. Complying, there seemed to gather a certain tension in the room, the other not expecting this defiant creature, this son of a bitch, this- Shuichi Akai to comply with his demands. As the last bits of the rotten disguise were torn apart, Gin staked another claim, this time the mans neck was most suitable. It was unlettered with anything, just perfectly calling out to him, mocking him, causing him anger, arousal, and a need to defile it. Biting into soft skin of his neck, all five senses got stimulated at once. Touch, the very action but even more so – his tongue, digging into the wounds he created, tasting the others pain and pruriency. At such a position, it would be impossible to not also smell the other, the very natural scent of the man in his arms, that hint of musk, smoke, the very essence of the man he was – explained in one fell swoop.

As aromatic as a bay leaf, he paid it no mind as soon the sound hit his ears, that pitched moan in fear and surprise. It stirred something deep and dark within himself, a primal lust to force more of that from Akai's lips.

Remorsefully, he thus let go, but a darkness had deepened those silver eyes, staring down at his prey. "Turn around, and prepare yourself. For I. Will. Not." It wasn't a threat. It was a promise. That if Akai didn't take the initiative to lessen the future pain, Gin would happily bring the suffering. A man such as Akai didn't often feel so meek and cornered, but he knew there was no way around it. He'd hurt him, in a way Akai had no idea the other was even capable of hurting. He would take his punishment, and hope to make up for it in the future.

Therefore, when he then did turn around and in no uncertain terms did the prepwork needed for what was going to transpire, he felt blood leave his upper body and go straight to his stomach and below. Anxiousness pitted in his stomach, a pool of tension in his groin – excitement, despite knowing better, and in that moment he uttered the one word he absolutely should not have, before the other had expected it.

"Sorry,"

Is all it took. Gin's rage had almost quelled to nothing at that point, having been too absorbed in the end goal, but that word, that one fucking word brought him back to the reality he was facing. This was no dream, no drunken haze. In anger, he pulled the other flush against his body, and in a uncomfortably dry motion, entered what was once his, but that he'd thought he'd lost forever.

"You're sorry? What can I use 'sorry' for?!"

The rhythmic movement was rough, lacking finesse, lacking love so unfamiliar to the both of them – It hurt and it stung just a little, but Akai could take this pain if it would alleviate a little of Gin's – in the long run. It seemed even Gin couldn't get off to such rough riding, as he had to stop mid-session to add a bit of slick, or his dick would quite literally chafe. At that moment in time, the anger had seeped out of him. Below him was the man he'd – The man who'd – Below him… was a man. The most important man. The only important man. Upon re-entry, it became much smoother for the both of them. Soon, quiet moans were leaving his lips, and as their bodies became so flushed against each other, it created a strange vortex for Akai, who was also flush against a wall. Icy cold wall, and burning warm body, thrusting inside him and pulling at the tension in his loins. His own member was ground between his stomach and the wall, a painful friction on the wrong thrust, but a deliciously stark contrast on either side, that made him twitch and grind back with uninhibited passion.

Soon, thoughts left the both of them. It was no longer an angry fuck – it was no longer about justification and punishment – it was a rhythmic machine that knew how to work itself in the best possible way.

It'd be a shame and a lie to say that it stopped once either of them ejaculated. Akai, the most stimulated of the two, came very quickly after the motions took away the pain and with the angle they were at, had no choice but to stimulate his prostate in such a way that orgasm happened practically within record time. At this point, Gin was in no way shape or form, nearing climax enough to not pick up the other, and move them to the nearest couch, where he then proceeded to grind into his former lover, a piston so hard and furious he could hear the others' hips protest the rough exhibition, but he wasn't done yet.

At this angle now, he had ample opportunity to swallow up each moan and whimper from the other, and he greedily did just that. When Akai finally summoned enough brain cells to tease Gin back, it caused an uproar and resulted in climax in the both of them, a very pleasurable end to a grueling beginning. At this point, the two barely-adults had found their way into a bedroom, a silence combing over them in a gentle breeze. The only comfortable silence Gin had encountered, since last, if he was completely frank. But he never was.

Eventually, Akai broke the silence.

"Petrichor," he spoke. Voice, croaky and perpetually sexed out. Just the way Gin liked it.

"Petrichor?" A low rumble back. Satiated and sound, he bore no memory of what had brought that up.

"The scent of rain after a long time with warm and dry weather. You didn't remember the word for it."

Petrichor. The scent of you, so faint and yet so steady in my memories, but the thought that I might never breathe it in again, caused my world to be arid. You take the constants of my life, and you turn it into something beautiful. You eliminate the gunpowder, death, sorrow and loneliness, you turn it to warm breaths, life, happiness, and fulfillment. Without you, it's so dark. Without meaning, or purpose. Without you, I cannot exist. Without you, I do not want to.

My koibito.