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A Castle of Silence and Bones
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018.
this is a story of hello
(it is a curious thing how easily our wants change)
"Not now," Yao says - just barely above a whisper (his lips are on the shell of Kiku's ear; a shiver running down; quick-quick-slow). Kiku's hand, pale and cold and not blood-splattered today, has crept up the slit of his nighttime robes, lightly grazing the soft inside of Yao's thigh.
Kiku, in response, raises an eyebrow - curious and a little bit bemused, before turning his head and almost, almost, almost narrowing his eyes at the person standing in the doorway to their shared chambers. The palace has changed so little, despite the fact that Asahiko is now of fifteen years of age, lithe and pale, entombed in dark blue robes, with dots of imperial red (bloodstains; so much blood) on his sleeves.
"Not now..." Yao repeats, softer, moving away from Kiku. Kiku reverts his attention, choosing to slide his hand up even higher, delighting in how quickly Yao stiffens, arches, and then stiffens once more. "Asahiko-kun..." Yao tries, limply tossing his hand in some direction, as Kiku buries his head in the crook of Yao's neck. Asahiko makes no motion, to either come closer or go.
He just stays, at the medium between entry and exit, as Yao feels that he has for the past eight, nine, ten years.
"No," Kiku murmurs, licking and nipping (he's still too scared to outirghtedly bite) as his hand grabbles about on the sweaty moistness of Yao's skin. They're both, in the most literal terms, completely dressed at this point - Yao in his usual flowing kimono, butterfly-knotted with matching silver hair pendants; Kiku in the standard military-issue dress, white and gold and no red in sight.
"You have to - " Yao starts and stops, because Kiku has shifted his other hand, ghostly and cold like Kiku himself, intruding (poking, prodding, placating) as it parts the various folds on the kimono. Yao arches, and then turns his head, burrowing itself into Kiku this time around; refusing to continue looking at Asahiko - looking at them.
Kiku, for his part, does not acknowledge Asahiko's presence at all - keeps his eyes focused on Yao and only Yao.
Asahiko: fifteen years old and on the cusp of prepubescence, watches, faltering between disgusted, entranced, and fascinated. Watches Kiku-sama, whose world is Yao-hime, kiss and touch and take and defile, his lips moving, tongue darting out every so often to taste and lay claim. This is, he realizes, their everyday world - by the look of Yao-hime's limp arms and dull expression, cut short in that fleeting moment, as Kiku-sama's fingers (and Asahiko can see them crystal-clear through the four layers of silk) and mouth make Yao-hime's treasured golden eyes snap open.
A single moan, soft and low and just that little bit strangled, cuts through the silence.
Kiku looks over his shoulder, as Yao is panting, his eyes locked onto Kiku's figure; an alien mix of humiliation and malice, and Kiku finds that he likes it this way. (This way, at least Yao is still looking at him, at least Yao is still looking only at him.)
He turns to let Yao rearrange his robes, to give him the privacy that he has always been given after the act. Kiku looks at his hands, sweaty, and just the slightest bit filmy with substance, and walks camly over to the adjoined bathroom the two of them share, running the tap.
German engineering, he thinks, as the steam clouds the mirrors (and still, does not obscure his sight) and the tub is halfway-filled. He neatly undresses, crisply folding his uniform on the steps nearby, and steps one level at a time, into the scalding water. It is, in its suffocating heat, almost reassuring - he can feel the bloodstains that are not there wash themselves away.
And like this, with the lapping, running water and the army miles and miles - seas and seas - away, he can almost lose himself to want.
"Kiku," Yao pronounces, shaking the other abruptly, and fully, awake. Kiku's eyes are wide, his entire body is tense; wondering if this is a dream, and why would he dream of this, except that Yao has never come into the bathroom with him. "I want more," he says, as Kiku notices that the other is wearing only the undermost layer of his nighttime kimono.
That, too, is soon shed, as Yao climbs in, sinking into the water, sitting across the tub from Kiku.
"What are you - ?" Kiku starts, before Yao gets the better of him, reaching across to cup his face, kiss his cheek - gently, sweetly, softly. And then the hardness of his length is pressing up-too-close against Kiku's hip, and he's reminded, with the starkness of absolute reality, that Yao is still a man; will always be a man, regardless of his style of dress or length of hair.
(He does not know if he minds - only that he wouldn't have it any other way.)
"I love you so much," Kiku says, and this time, he is the one who is using a different (using the wrong) tongue, as he reaches his hands towards Yao, and - finding only a hand, delicately places a kiss on the center of the palm. He kisses the tip of each finger; exalting, exalted - in what he believes (and this is, sadly, the only truth in can find in the ruins on their worlds) to be love.
"I love you too," Yao says - in Kiku's tongue, as he presses up close - needy, needy, greedy. His legs are already parted, the water sloshes and slops around them; it's reached the three-quarters mark on the tub. Kiku presses in, hesitant at first, because this is - Yao is - it must be a dream. And then Yao whimpers - "ai, ai, ai"; 'love, love, love' - one of their few shared words, and Kiku is all too ready - shoving and pushing, as the miniature waves create a dull, thudding rhythm around them.
The draws are slow, steady; Yao clenches his legs around Kiku, jerking his hips up as his eyelids flutter, and Kiku thinks of eternal, irresprisable beauty, once more - as Kiku thinks of forever and eternity.
And when he comes, Yao is whispering, over and over and over again - the wrong name.
Oceans away, so far apart (oh you generations of mortal men - how can you pretend to see the sky?), a tattered white flag rises above the ground; the final surrender of the enemies. And for the first time in twenty years, Ludwig lets out a laugh - barking and stilted, like Gilbert would have laughed. Feliciano - blood on his face and an empty smile in his eyes - laughs too, despite the knowledge that none of this will last.
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