~Oneshot Collection: Loved~
V.
Up The Long Ladder
He feels...a pain. It stretches hot and dry and tight within him; it is furious and deadly and its edges are sharp and light. Nothing, no strength, no power, will ever pull it free from him again. He knew from he moment he took his first step down this path that here, alone in the dark of his own soul was where he would end up.
I gave him everything.
He hears an answering voice, something of himself as yet unconquered.
Not enough.
He wants to strangle his own conscience, his own answer to the question he hasn't yet dared to ask. He knows he was unworthy – that there was no promise – no forever – not even an implicit tomorrow.
But everything – everything -
What more could there be, beyond everything?
I don't know. I don't know!
He clutches his hair, and presses his face against his knees, and cries.
Like the wail of some beast a keening whine escapes him.
The boy had not been like the others. Oh – he had been willing enough, wanton enough...but there had been something...else...
He puts the pipe to his lips, breathes in, tastes the rich, heavy odor of the smoke on his tongue, closes his eyes and remembers.
"I want you, Dokuganryu. I want you...I want you to be my lover. Please, I - "
I think I love you.
"I laughed. I laughed at him.."
His own voice sounds rough and broken in the silence; he inhales again, and the smoke is sweet and smooth this time, as sweet as that pale, tanned flesh -
And the eyes – he remembers the eyes, too, glistening, innocent...fresh. His third breath is winter's edge, the new green odor of spring thrusting through the damp. The boy was so lithe, so supple, so warm in his arms, so responsive to every touch -
"Demanding, too, once I got him into it."
He smirks to himself; the expression fades almost at once.
He had not resisted long; he had not resisted at all. Just that first laughter, so surprised, and then the seduction that had been Yukimura laying down his weapons and taking up love. He had seen it – love. So soft, the shining light in Yukimura's eyes – so open all his cries, so honest every moan, every motion...
"I did warn you, Red. I did, didn't I? That I would destroy you – that I would take everything -"
This is nothing new to him, nothing surprising; his way with all his lovers, the men and women with whom he spends his passion – a night here, a night there.
He is wild samurai; he will not be tied down. Not even if his lover is wild like him – not even then, not even if -
I think I love you.
Deny, deny, deny – and live unsatisfied.
The mantra, the cold, hard steel against his cheek as he leans, sweating in the midday sun, against the solid weight of his own spear -
None of it is enough. He is the opposite of grounded; the heat of his body, the heat of his memory far outstrips the cold press of the blade. For six days, six nights, he has trained himself to exhaustion and now there is no more movement in him.
Not another thrust.
Not another kick.
Not another step -
I burn. Why...why, how, when I barely have the energy to breathe – how can I want him still?
He pulls the spear away from the ground, groans as his muscles stretch and twinge in protest, and falls back, lays splayed with his arms wide and stares up at the sky. It is not just his body that is tormented, though he cannot quench his memory, cannot keep that single night from unfolding in his mind
His eyes squint at the bright blue day, and he sees in it a smile, a stare -
"I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I -"
He stops mid-shout, and thumps his head against the grass. He closes his eyes, closes out the blue, closes out the light.
Deny, deny, deny – and live unsatisfied.
The woman is soft beneath him, warm curves and lush thighs that are willingly, easily parted. He drives into her and listens to her gasp and moan beneath him, watches her turn her head and bite the edge of her silk robe to quiet herself. She is beautiful, and noble, and proud; an excellent conquest. She is lusty, too, and knows what it is she has gotten into – he need feel no sorrow upon leaving her, no guilt, but...
She is not Yukimura.
The thought strikes him sharply as a spear, and he pants, thrusts faster, harder, tries to pour all his attention into the woman below him – the shape of her face in her climax, the feel of her body beneath him, the shape of her hips, the warmth of her breasts in his hands, the grasping, slick heat that pleasures him.
But the more attention he pays, the worse the thought attacks him. In flashes, he sees a different lover – another face, another ecstasy. He closes his eyes, and gives in for just one moment, indescribable; how tight around him, how smooth that skin...how strong the limbs that bent for him so easily, how beautiful, how perfect was that face, in momentary pain, in pleasure -
As sudden as the memory, his climax overtakes him; pleasure thrums through his body, and he groans.
It is a keening, begging sound; he lays his head against the woman's breast and pants, lets his body come down from that painful high.
Afterwards, the woman holds him; her smile is faint, and when she finally speaks Masamune is overcome with terror.
"Who is she, Masamune-sama?"
"Who is...who?"
"The woman you were calling for – Yuki?"
There is a flare of lightning, a crash of thunder, the sound of falling rain.
Before the next flare he is on his feet, half-dressed, wild-eyed, darting out into the storm.
When he is alone on the muddy streets of the city, rain pelting down on him, fear gleaming like a sword in his grey eyes – he knows.
He knows, and does not hold back.
"Red. Red! Yukimura!"
His voice is drowned in the sudden downpour; he stands there still, crying out that name.
He does not know if he is begging gods or demons or Yukimura himself.
He cannot stand the city – he has never been able to stand the city. The sounds of it, the smells, the press of people going about their lives; the cries of women and children, the arguing of men, the occasional clash of weapons, arguing voices, the sound of a woman in pleasure, doors slamming open and shut, feet pounding in the dust...
He stands alone amidst it all, and remembers why he is there, and tries not to care. Sasuke's recommendation: food, sake, perhaps some other lover. Even the thought is pain. He is sure that Dokuganryu has no such problem, no such difficulty; he is sure that this agony belongs to him alone.
He wanders dusty streets with one hand on a spear and the other shading his eyes; he tastes the food of street vendors, stumbles into a cool, dark room at midday, and drinks fine, expensive sake, cool and floral on his tongue. The afternoon grows dark; clouds drop from high in the sky like lead weights and spread, melting along the horizon.
By the time the thunder and the lightning begin, Yukimura has drifted into a black haze of thought.
How discarded...how empty I feel now. Is this what it's like to be one of those women who wait? To be unsure, to be faithful to a dream, a memory...to hurt, all the time?
"Damn...Dokuganryu. Couldn't just...keep his hands...to himself."
"My lord...my lord, perhaps you should wait out the -"
"Damn you Dokuganryu! Get – get...your hands..."
The bartender backs away and holds up his own hands, placating, fearful of the sharp tone and the samurai armor and the youth of this man who has been sitting in one spot, suffering, all afternoon. Yukimura staggers out into the rain, and the cold shock of it penetrates the drunken fog covering his thoughts. He stands with his head down and his fists clenched, and lets the water run into his hair and soak through his clothes and slip down the dark, tanned skin of his chest.
He hears his own name them, a harsh, desperate shout; at first he thinks it is the rain – the thunder – a hallucination. Then he wonders if it is Sasuke, come to retrieve him – but it hasn't been that long, and Sasuke would never be shouting like that, never.
Slowly, he makes his way down the street – until he can see the man making the cry, hear the anguish in it, sharp and soothing as suicide.
Dokuganryu.
"Dokuganryu!"
His head whips to the sound of his name, to the sound of that voice, and he sees Sanada Yukimura standing in the rain, with his head thrown back and the hate and the love and the pain all painted clear and lovely on his face.
He wants to run to him, but pride restrains him – a samurai's dignity. He wants to open his arms and wrap them tight around Yukimura, wants to make promises of forever and forever and never again -
He is not prepared for Yukimura's fist to drive into his face, turning his cheek aside, sending him head-over-heels into the mud. He is not prepared for the cold, wet shock of the ground splashing up around him, and he is not prepared for the smooth, muscled heat of Yukimura's body over him, those strong brown arms holding him down.
Instinctively, he wrestles against that hold; he smells sake on Yukimura's breath, and the indefinable odor of Yukimura's own skin.
He feels the rain change, grow hot instead of cold, tastes salt falling on his lips and looks up wide-eyed at tears streaming from Yukimura's eyes, at the agony there – so much more than he himself has suffered, so much more than he expected.
"Red. Red – enough, Red!"
He has to dodge another fist, slower this time; he catches it and hears the murmur that has been flowing from Yukimura's lips this whole while -
"Love you. Love you, love you, hate you...Hate you! But I love you..."
A shiver flickers across Masamune's skin.
He reaches up with both hands and cups Yukimura's cheeks, pulls him down, down, down and presses his lips against Yukimura's muttering mouth.
There is stillness; and then those soft lips moving against his, all other sensation fading – the cold mud beneath them and the cold rain above them.
"Red – Red, I've been such a fool. I will never, never, never -"
"I know. I know – but I should have said it before -"
How much I love you.
And then they are whispering nothing, nothing and love.
Premise: Masamune takes his pleasure where he chooses. Yukimura is desperately in love with the one-eyed dragon. What is the price for a dream fulfilled? What is the consequence of a rival despoiled?
Prompt: Outsides
A/N: Well, it's been a while, hasn't it! But, onward towards a goal of 100 fics! As always, be sure to check out Naqaashi's Beloved, the twin series to Loved. And keep an eye out for more in the soon!
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