On Top
Youji read the newspaper every morning. Cover to cover, chimney of smoke rising from behind it, hand darting out from time to time with an empty coffee mug waving which Ken dutifully refilled. No sugar, because men didn't like sweet things. No milk because it disagreed with him (Aya was the only one in the house who could tolerate milk in any great amount). Youji read each article thoroughly, skimmed the classifieds and read the public notices, the birth and wedding announcements and obituaries. Then he folded the paper into a rectangle and frowned at the crossword for a few hours. Ken would try to help and Aya would finish it later in the afternoon when nobody was watching.
Youji always read the paper. He would have seen the graduation announcement.
Ken wasn't much for newspapers, or press of any kind, for that matter; he had a good memory, though, and a long one. Omi was sure he had mentioned something, at some point back before the Takatori building burned, told Ken the date set for the ceremony. Ken would remember. He would show up late because he couldn't find a clean t-shirt, sit down in the back row and manage looking both awkward and pleased at the same time.
There was no telling with Aya.
The senior class president was saying something long and typical about work, honor, and the importance of being successful; a practiced nuance to his voice that spoke of hours in front of a mirror repeating these words over and over until they lost all meaning. Omi fidgeted in his seat, dying to turn around and look back at the scatter of people watching, middle-aged mothers radioactive with pride and salarymen preparing their own carefully practiced speeches for their sons on being good men and husbands and fathers and climbing the corporate ladder. Ordinary people with their ordinary successes, confident that their brood would continue on to college or into the workforce and bring honor to their family name.
For Tsukiyono Omi, the document he was about to receive meant something totally different: an end to the practiced normalcy of his public life. He could have gone to college, could have continued on with the mask and the pleasantries and playing the role of the good, kind boy that everyone liked. But the fact was that school cut into his professional life; homework and extracurriculars on top of the hours in the classroom spent valuable time. Planning. Lengthy hacks. Late missions. Sleep. He needed that time, now, because soon Kritiker was going to call him back.
Any day now.
When they did, Tsukiyono Omi would become the brilliant student who wasted his many talents by choosing to work in a flower shop for the rest of his days. As he had no family to begrudge this decision, he figured sooner or later everyone else would disperse and forget about his career choices.
His fingers folded and bunched the hem of his jacket into fan-like shapes through the speech, and the one after it (school principal), and the one after that (deputy mayor). His heels rubbed and scraped against the chair legs all throughout the agonizingly slow reading of names, students filing and shuffling forward through the taut and fragile non-silence, orchestra keeping up a tempo of background noise that reached his ears as static. He was jiggling one knee, he was shuffling with the rest, then there was cool leather in his hands and somehow it was all over--everything, and he was staring down the hallway with laughing faces streaming by on either side of him, someone thumping him on the back and pulling him along, Omi smiling automatically and saying something conformative.
Everything--and sitting in homeroom for the last time, fingers twisting around the diploma in his hands and listening to (oh please god tell me this is the last speech I have to sit through), he realized he'd forgotten. Standing on the stage with the principal and the deputy mayor all official and white-gloved shaking his hand, with the spread of the auditorium before him, he'd forgotten to look--way in the back amongst the curtains and the stragglers and the slightly-estranged family members who snuck in to watch.
It was probably better to have forgotten than to look and see nothing.
The walk home seemed longer than usual, sun angling bright through strategically-placed trees without warming anything. The world was too still and muffled at this time of the afternoon--he was used to walking home later, with the rush of students around him, bicycles passing and early commuters filling the streets.
Hollow clang of the stairs under his feet, neat row of doors and he paused, just like always, keys in his hand and held a breath for a moment before pushing his door open, closing it firmly behind him before looking down in the mail slot. One day--one day he would look down and there it would be, thick manila stamped red. Orders. Something to fucking Ido/I.
He could see it in his mind's eye, word for word, stiff format on limp printer paper--reactivating Weiss, all accounted for and present at 1400 hours to accept your target assignment--could smell the ink, feel it crinkle in his fingers.
Omi licked his lips and opened his eyes, because one day imagining it would make it real--and there, in the bottom of the box, was a plain, blank, off-white envelope.
He frowned; that couldn't be it.
The envelope was parchment, unsealed, the card inside was as well, artfully torn on the edges. Classy, brown-black calligraphy proclaiming To the Graduate: Congratulations. The sort of simple, elegant card that had been left in his mail slot for years now (always on the 28th, until you roll you eyes and tell him it's a leap year).
It was the sort of card that was blank inside, and it fell open with the ease of having sat that way for far too long; a few pen scratches followed by a simple and inexplicably awkward Love, Ken.
Ken might have sat at a table for hours, pen poised and almost forming that first, tentative hiragana, the beginnings of "Hi, how are you" or "We're really proud of you; really" or "Youji sends his regards" or a long and rambling discourse on what he'd been doing and contemplating peppered with random, unanswered questions, the kana squishing further and further as he ran out of room and finally finished on the back, apologizing profusely for doing so. Ultimately he gave up and signed his name with the kind of improper affection only Ken could get away with.
Omi set the card, half-open to prop itself up, on the windowsill, facing in, and watched it for a few minutes as though judging if it looked appropriate there or if it would catch a breeze and fall.
The box below his mail slot was empty again.
Omi turned his back finally, shrugging off his backpack and dumping its contents out on the unrolled futon taking over the majority of the apartment's floor space. Shook it until the last few pens tumbled out with a clatter on the textbooks, then grabbed some clothes and started packing.
He'd been eighteen for two weeks and a high school graduate for two hours, and already he couldn't stand being in his own space.
He shouldn't have been moving in daylight, not to this particular place. He rationalized it well, the unlikeliness that anyone was tailing him, that no one on the street knew or cared who he was or who was on the other side of this door, cold wood against his knuckles as he knocked. He tried to feel secure in that but didn't entirely, but did feel certain that once this door closed behind his back, he would no longer feel concerned about whether or not Kritiker was watching.
The door flew open after a moment, Schuldig leaning lazily against the frame, hair in wet hanks around his shoulders and a toothbrush in one hand. He tossed a towel over his shoulder and smirked, looking Omi over like he was an intriguing and delicious-looking oddity. There was arrogance in that smirk, like Omi was frowning at a puzzle that Schuldig already knew the answer to.
"Hi." Omi said, and it sounded stupid; better than nothing, though. "Can I come in?"
Schuldig seemed to be expecting something like that; he stepped back and stuck the toothbrush in his mouth, turning away and leaving the door hanging open. Walking away. "Close the door behind you." And that was it.
Omi slipped inside and closed the door silently, toed off his shoes and dropped his backpack on the bench before moving into the living room. Still familiar but not, somehow, like everything had been shuffled a few inches from where he remembered. It was the mess, though, that threw him--it looked like Schuldig hadn't taken a single moment to clean since Omi left back in February.
Schuldig had disappeared into the bathroom and the distinct sound of gargling was emanating from the partially open door. Omi took a seat on the couch, knowing there were probably drinks in the fridge but this time, as he was clothed and had no reason to kick propriety to the curb in someone else's home, he would wait until he had permission.
The faucet turned off and Omi closed his eyes, arm propping his head up and waiting, the stray thought that Schuldig looked rather good with his hair wet flitting across his consciousness.
He opened his eyes at the sound of footfalls, Schuldig pausing en route to the kitchen. "So, what exactly are you here for?"
He did not just ask that. He didn't. A telepath asking the obvious as though it wasn't already on Omi's mind and wasn't exactly what happened whenever the two of them ended up in the same general vicinity. On two occasions, at least, though admittedly before that there was no way in hell. "You know," Omi responded after what he knew was an extended moment of bemused staring, "they say there's no such thing as a stupid question, but... I think that was it."
Schuldig raised an eyebrow, a mocking, cockeyed expression but there was something deeper there, something irritated at Omi's retort. "I asked a stupid question, you avoided giving an answer. So, unless you've got a reason to be here that's going to interest me, I was getting ready to go out."
"Oh," Omi murmured, all the confidence from his previous statement draining away. Probably wasn't such a great idea coming here, after all. Schuldig didn't seem to care much what he said after that and walked into the kitchen. Omi jumped up and followed, not quite ready to give up yet, standing in the doorway and watching Schuldig rummage through the fridge. "Where are you going? If you can tell me."
Schuldig snorted, and it did actually sound amused, half a laugh as he straightened with a bottle of Ramune in his hand. "I was going out to get laid, thus my interest in your reason for being here." Looking at Omi again, eyes straying from his face momentarily.
It felt hot, for a moment, or like something had tingled up his spine. "Well. I guess you don't have to go out, then."
"Guess not."
A small eternity passed. Schuldig set his drink down on the counter but otherwise didn't move, refrigerator door swinging closed behind him. Omi's mouth felt dry and he attributed it to the long walk from the metro station without thinking overlong on the phenomenon. He shifted away from the doorframe a bit, certain but uncertain, appraising Schuldig with what he knew was probably a look completely unlike how one ought to look at someone to whom one was offering sex. Critical and discerning; if he was lucky it looked attractive on him.
He's waiting--standing there waiting to see what you'll do. He's not going to make the first move, this time.
Omi hesitated for all of two seconds, more of an ingrained reaction than a lack of assurance--nothing you haven't done before, with him, not like he's going to change his mind when he's got you right here--and practically lunged forward, hands grappling with Schuldig's shoulders to pull him down within reach, nothing gentle about it either. And his mouth--
Wet hair clinging to his arms and Schuldig's hands on his waist, nudging just so. Some kind of vocal protest vibrated against his tongue, probably at the uncomfortable angle, and Omi felt the fridge against his back, cold and rumbling through his shirt. His elbow jammed against the handle but he didn't give more than half a whimper, misinterpreted, and then Schuldig pressed hard against him and it was warm--
Omi wriggled, missed where his hands had ended up and every move rubbed--hands in Schuldig's hair now, sticky, mouth pressing harder and fuck--felt good. His fingers curled, long shiver passing through and Schuldig made another, hungrier sound.
Know where this is going--knew that long before he even knocked on the door.
Damn boy was damn short. (Stop complaining when he's there and eager; and made the first move.) Yes, Schuldig appreciated that; hadn't really expected it even if Omi thought he was here for sex. Still, kissing him was easier when he didn't have to stoop down quite so far. (You never did learn to accept good things.) No, he accepted it, warm body against his, hands in his hair, and the feel of Omi's mind nice and eager.
Schuldig bent down a little, hand curling under Omi's thigh and his other arm wriggling its way behind his back. Felt Omi arching off the fridge; shoulders back against it and hips moving forward, pressing against his. Boy already knew what he was going to do. (Good, brains and a good lay.) Schuldig straightened, lifting Omi up, still pressed against the fridge—(makes it easier to hold him up, doesn't it?)—his legs hooking around Schuldig's hips.
(How exactly you gonna do it this time, pet him, coax him, rub him—nice and slow and—) No. That sort of shit required patience and acting like a nice little beaten dog for the arrogant fucks had sapped whatever patience he would otherwise have possessed. Nothing slow and easy about it, pressed his hand against Omi's back, worked it under the hem of his T-shirt, and up, around his back, hand around his shoulder and pulled him off the fridge.
(Time to put the table to use?)
He could feel Omi's thighs around his waist, tightening, and the pull as that arm around his shoulder flexed and held onto him more tightly. (That's a lack of faith right there.) Lull in the kissing, some kind of concern in Omi's mind that he was going to get dropped somewhere unpleasant. (Serious lack of faith; one that seems justified in light of the fact you cannot remember where the hell the table is, exactly.) No, he remembered where it was. Eleven short steps, like shuffling, and Omi broke the kiss, head turning to look where they were going; Schuldig's free hand reaching out instinctively, felt the edge of the table and smiled. Stumbled the last step and lifted Omi just a bit higher so he slid onto the table. Heard the sound of papers being pushed out of the way, a few of them hitting the floor, and he leaned forward, pressing close against Omi and swept the papers off the table—dust flying in the air at the movement.
Omi's hands on his arms, sliding up and petting his shoulders, one dipping forward to his collarbone as the other hand went around his back and pulled the towel. Schuldig felt it sliding off, dragging over his skin and then heard it when it hit the floor with a wet smack. (Enough housekeeping—)
Kissing again, Omi's fingers stroking his skin wherever he could reach. Warm and short pets and his legs still wrapped around him, hips moving just a little. Schuldig curled his hands around the hem of Omi's shirt; fists tightening down and pulled it up, made it to his chest. (Gotta stop kissing him to get the shirt off.) Liked the kissing, liked the feel of Omi's mouth, eager and hungry kisses, little noises and— He tugged on the shirt, pulling it tight across Omi's back, and up more, under his arms now, lingered there; enjoying the taste and the feel of the kiss. Tongue against his and warm and—(More to be had with less clothes on.)
True.
Little thoughts in Omi's head: (Mmm, that's nice… Ohhh, yes, more of that—) Schuldig yanked the shirt up, pulling back, away from Omi's mouth and fingers and balled the shirt up when it came free and tossed it over his shoulder. (What? Oh, shirt off now, in a hurry are we?) Spent a minute there, looking at Omi: blue eyes open just a little, looking at him, eyebrows just starting to pull down, lips parted and wet.
(Oh, yes, he's gorgeous and wonderful and perfect and—if you stop looking at him there's a very strong chance you can fuck him.)
Schuldig moved forward again, palms against Omi's shoulders, fingers curving around and then down to his arms, and kissed him again. Tightened his grip and pulled Omi forward more, felt his head tip back, changed the angle of the kiss—(Good, like that)—fingernails were digging into his shoulders and Omi pressing back up into the kiss. Murmured little mmm sound, felt it in the kiss; echoed it back in the rocking of his own hips. (Really, might want to move it along.) Felt fingers working their way into his hair again and the press of Omi's leg as he curled it around him again.
And in his head: (Fast might be good, this time.)
Nice to know that everyone agreed. Schuldig pulled out of the kiss, ran his tongue across his lips, hands off Omi's arms and moving down, grabbing the button of his pants. Half-murmured, "Glad you think so." The button was open and shoved the zipper down, green waistband of Omi's boxers visible now. (You'd think he'd have better manners and not wear underpants when he intended to—) Whatever, complaining took time, took the pants by the belt loops and pulled them down; Omi dropping his hands away, down to the table, flex of muscle as he lifted himself up enough to let the pants slide off. (Ever the helpful one.) Heavy sound when the pants hit the floor, shuriken he had hidden in there making their presence known. (He wears fucking boxers and brings weapons, now that is the way to turn a guy on.)
Schuldig moved back, hands on Omi's thighs, thumbs rubbing under the hem of his boxers; watched Omi as he pulled at the button on his pants. Thoughtful crease between his eyebrows, open mouth and warm breath—watched his tongue. (Doesn't take this long to get a button undone.) He moved his hand up, fingers under the hem, the fabric against the back of his hand, and wrist—warm and soft skin under his fingers as he pulled Omi forward on the table, all but dangling off the edge now, something warm to rub against.
Button undone and the sound of the zipper, then Omi looking back up at him, pink tongue across his lips and something in his expression that could have been a smile—kissing again. Urgent and noisy. Schuldig's pants starting to slip, Omi's hand around his back and the other down between—(the lube, you actually have some this time, left pocket, remember?)— He had to pull his hand back out of Omi's boxers and shoved it down into the pocket, curled his hand around the tube and pulled it out, pants now noticeably lower than before. Wash of cool air and the heat of Omi's fingers—palm, hand wrapping around him, short stroke. Nipped at Omi's mouth, short little groan for the feeling (go ahead, admit that you've haven't been laid in all this time, he won't think less of you.)
Pressed his forehead against Omi's mess of hair caught between them and lifted the lube up, caught the edge of the tube between his teeth. Time for the boxers to go. Hands around his back, fingers under the waist band of the damn things and tugged them down. Omi shifted his weight to help, the motion changing the stroke of his hand and Schuldig sucked a breath in between his teeth. Those damn boxers down to Omi's thighs now, pulled them as far as they would go—(Gonna have to move to get them off.) They could wait just for a second or two.
Change in Omi's mind, annoyance, impatience—(Get much more distracted and I'll be doing this myself.)—as he grabbed the tube of lube that had been bumping against his face and pulled it out from between Schuldig's teeth.
(Bitch.)
Omi, pushing the boxers down with his empty hand and pulling his leg up to get it free, that little crease back between his eyes, and Schuldig watched him as he did it. Just waiting, watched the boxers as they slipped free of Omi's foot and the only thing still holding them on was the bend of his other knee. Pressed his hand under Omi's thigh and pushed it up, felt Omi tense and his balance as it shifted back, hips coming forward ever so slightly more, one elbow hitting the table to keep himself from falling backward. Schuldig could see him, through his bangs, watched him blink and didn't care; didn't care about the thought in his head trying to figure out how much of this was annoyance.
(—Thought you wanted this hard and fast—)
Then a hand wrapping around Schuldig's arm and tugging on him, trying to pull him down. "Come on," Omi's voice, like a murmur. Didn't quite know what it was supposed to sound like.
Gave a little, let the hand pull him forward just enough, nipping at Omi's mouth, and down, his jaw. (Move along, the critic is impatient.) Moved his hand up, out from under his knee, grabbed Omi's hand where it was curled around his arm, and pushed it up, over his head and down against the table. Hard tension of muscles as Omi laid back against the table, stomach flexed and eyes narrow, looking at him. Schuldig looked back, hips pressed to his, grinding against him, bit of a smirk across his face as he curled his right hand around Omi's, thumb pressing against the lid of the lube he was holding. The sound of the top popping open loud even over the sound of their breath. Held his hand out and Omi squeezed it, awkward tilt to his wrist (and you would care, honestly, just not now.)
Schuldig thought he saw Omi smirk—couldn't tell, didn't stop to look at his face long enough to be sure. Hand down between them, curling his own fingers around and bit back shiver at the coolness of the lube. (Should have been warm, had it in his damn pocket for the past ten minutes—) Short stroke, and then rubbed his thumb against Omi—slick and warm now (oh, of course, warm for him.) Didn't matter, shook his head, trying to get the hair back over his shoulders—useless thing, it fell around his face anyway, clinging to his neck and his cheeks. Looked up at Omi again, through the fringe of his bangs, saw him watching, eyes just barely open.
Pressed against him, Schuldig's fingers around his thigh now and fingernails digging into skin. Hips moving forward, Omi's little thought (Well fina—), thrusting in—watched his face, watched Omi as his mouth opened, short noise; white teeth clenched and the muscles in his arm pulling taut under Schuldig's palm. (Oh fuck, yes.) Could have counted the seconds, like his pulse, as the tension eased and panted a sigh. Felt fingers against his side, moving around, pulling at him—grabbed Omi's wrist and pinned it down just the same as the other, leaning over him now, table making some kind of protesting sound as he rocked his hips.
Could hear the rest of the papers flutter—(fuck the papers; fuck the boy.)
Yes; that. Schuldig moving, pulling back—teeth bared and hair sticking to his lips—and forward again. Movement short and fast. Omi's stuttered sigh and his legs around him. Liked his face, liked his mind, liked the feel of him there, under him, around him— Another move, the table objecting, Omi's knees digging into his side—(didn't matter, not one little bit)—and his head falling back, length of his neck exposed, another of his little gasping sighs. Schuldig flexed the grip he had on Omi's wrists, tightening down. Felt his hair swaying, long as it was, dragging against Omi's belly, chest in time with the movements of his hips. Pressing in, again and again— Harsh tone of his own breath, something like a curse hissed out between his teeth.
Table moved, back, hit the wall—Omi startled jerk at that, some half-thought there, (glad he—) lost the rest and it didn't matter. Moving faster, table making loud sounds against the wall—Omi's knee slipping on the sweat and changed the tilt of his hips. Schuldig grabbed his thigh, pulled it back up. Omi's back arching, face turned to the right, free hand in his own hair and then up, over his head so his palm pressed against the wall, using the leverage to push back against the thrusts.
Noises, sound of their hips meeting and gasping, murmured little pants and moans.
"Fuck," all but spat the word. Shivering and some instinctive demand to crawl onto the table—couldn't happen, didn't stop the urge, Schuldig let go of Omi's other wrist, wrapped both of his hands around those slim hips and pulled him back against the thrusts. Felt his eyes when they closed, felt Omi's mind tipping out, almost there, the sharp pinch of fingernails when Omi grabbed his arm.
Shuddering and it was hard to tell, could have been either of them, or both—felt it and it didn't matter as he pushed forward again, head tipping back, too loud sound and it didn't matter how ridiculous it would have sounded otherwise because—fuck, yes.
Seconds of the feeling, white and hot; tipped his head back down, watched Omi, felt him moving still, the flex of his arm, his throat as he swallowed and whined something, hand falling down off Schuldig's arm and moving down.
(Selfish beast; what's that you're always telling Crawford about bad manners and coming first?)
The legs around his hips tightening and pulling, Omi rubbing back against him as his hand curled around himself.
(You are not going to leave him like that—) Could. (Not if you want another go later.) True.
Schuldig grabbed Omi's hand, hard to pull it away, nasty little protest of thoughts in his head. Would have been funny but laughing would be completely misunderstood. Pulled back—another protest and a fresh snarl of thoughts. Tipped his head down, free hand sliding down Omi's thigh slick with sweat and trembling. Licked his lips and took Omi in. (Look, suddenly he likes you again.) Pressed two fingers back in, rubbing Omi inside in time with the movement of his head.
Omi's free hand in his hair, fingers tangled in the wet mass of it and tightening into a fist. The sharp pants and moans loud in the air as he writhed, pressing up against Schuldig's mouth and back against the fingers. Trying to pull his other hand free and then—back arching, hips jerking up and his mind—
Schuldig pulled back—or tried, that hand in his hair wasn't quite ready to give up its grip yet. Stayed there, elbows against the table now, kind of felt stupid with his chin against Omi's ribs now and legs half-bare. (It's called afterglow, you should enjoy it.) Enjoy, yes, enjoyed the feeling of cooling sweat and bare legs, and that hand in his hair. Hook his fingers around the hair sticking to his face and pulled it away.
(What the hell are you going to say now? Sorry? Get out? If you tell anyone I came first—especially Crawford, not that he would ever ask or want to know—I'll mind fuck you into a drooling idiot?)
Omi moved first, hand down out of his hair, elbows back on the table as he pushed himself up a little, tipping his head down to nip at the corner of Schuldig's mouth. "Thanks."
(Yes, thanks for the blow job, you still came first.) Omi's mind, in fact, was conspicuously blank of any thoughts related to matter. Tactful and polite, that. Schuldig smirked, pushed himself up more, still leaning over Omi. "My original plan for this evening involved getting food before sex," he said.
"Oh," Omi said, smile playing at his lips. "Well," pushing himself up so he was sitting, and Schuldig moved back, giving him space so he could get down off the table. "That explains things nicely." Wry smile on his face, watching him as he said it and then looking down, grabbing the waistband of the green boxers that had been stuck tangled around his ankle all this time, and pushed his other leg into them.
(Might want to pull yours up too.) Yeah, Schuldig tugged his pants back up, pulled the zipper up and left the button undone. "It's a theory; if your ego needs a boost you can always chalk it up to your prowess." (Yes, let's just keep talking about it.) "More to the point I was aiming for a polite way to suggest you order food; I'm going to go rinse out my mouth." Smirk across his face. "Unless you suddenly have to run away."
Omi looking back at him—at his mouth. (Nope, running away is not in his plans.) "What do you want? Ramen, Chinese, pizza?" The tip of his tongue running along the edge of his mouth just briefly and then he was looking down, at the floor. Omi stepped around Schuldig to get to his pants and shook them.
Schuldig watched him for a minute, half bent over, stepping into the pants, watched the muscles in his legs and back. Nice pink mark going diagonal across his lower back, the edge of it rising above his boxers. (And as nice as he looks, the taste just doesn't compare.) Never did; but he didn't have mouthwash in the kitchen. Ran his hands through his hair again, all of it falling in his damn face. Needed a hair tie for that while he was at it. He was half out the door: "Whatever will get here the fastest."
Morning—and all the same thoughts that it brought. The woman in the apartment above his was dreaming—fog, fish and house slippers, whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean—Mr. Kobayashi had gotten up thirty minutes late again and was obsessing over what hair he had left and how he must be in such bad standing at his job. Someone walking on the stairs, vague thoughts about nothing significant, just enough noise in those thoughts to make a whispering sound—Schuldig hated that.
He opened his eyes. (Fucking normal people.) Spent a moment just looking at his hand, loosened his fist and pressed his hand down against the bed. He was still tired and not at all interested in being awake; too bad that because fucking Kobayashi down the hall was better than an alarm clock—it made him wonder how much money it would take to get Nagi to suffocate the bastard. (Tried to figure out if there were anything he could trade, mind-fuck for silent death?)
Schuldig pushed himself up to his elbows, shook his head and spit the hair out of his mouth. Didn't work, it never did, he pulled the last few strands of hair away from his mouth and pushed the whole mess of it over his shoulder. Lost that hair-tie he had the night before, probably on the couch and he'd find it the next time he had to go searching for the damn lube.
(Speaking of—)
Omi was still sleeping, not very deeply but his mind was all soupy gray nothing. Schuldig looked over at him--wrapped up in the one blanket he had managed to keep to himself--and snorted. (Smart kid, already knows you're a blanket hog.) Some things were obvious enough that everyone knew them. (Yes, convince yourself that he's just a common little moron.)
Schuldig moved, rolling onto his back and kicking the blanket down, sudden wash of cool air that made his skin prickle. Omi reacting to the movement, hands tightening around the blanket as his legs pulled up and he muttered something in his sleep. (Kid's got survival instincts.) If he did, he might need to get them rechecked; whatever this thing was it couldn't have seemed like a great idea. Showing up here—while being convenient and sparing Schuldig a trip to whatever nightclub seemed most likely to produce a fuckbuddy—seemed (does it matter what it was?) out of character.
His neck itched, Schuldig scratched at it and hissed when he ran his fingers over a sore spot. Rubbed at it while he frowned at the ceiling. Little bastard left some kind of mark there—Schuldig pushed himself up, standing on the bed and two steps to the end, down off and grabbed his pants off the floor as he walked out of the room. Omi behind him rousing into something like consciousness and not at all inclined to move, grumpy thought about whoever it was making the bed jiggle when he was sleeping.
Schuldig stepped into his pants in the hallway, shivering in the cold. Paused when he got his pants up to his hips, the long strings on the sweatpants hanging loosely. There were teeth marks on his stomach. He pressed a finger against one, swiped his thumb across it (what, expecting it to still be wet? Quite a while ago...) The bathroom door was already open and he looked up, caught his reflection in the mirror and saw that nice red mark on his collarbone even from the hall.
(Hungry little bastard, isn't he?) Apparently the boy could not survive on ramen alone. (That or he remembers that little comment you made about audience participation.) Schuldig frowned at the mirror--the three marks on this stomach weren't even worth wasting time worry about. But that one up on his collarbone--that one might show. (What, afraid you'll have to gloat about having a sex life again?) As fucking pointlessly polite as the Japanese were, there had to be some kind of unspoken understanding that you didn't leave hickies where they'd show. (Wear a higher collar.)
And the boy was just in the other room, wrapped up in his cocoon, hanging onto his sleep and completely unrepentant. (Yes, because he should be anxious to apologize to you for leaving marks--You. The man that shot him.) Schuldig turned, out of the bathroom and back to the bedroom, across the room to the bed and stepped back up onto it--balance wavering just a bit, enough to make the bed shake again and Omi frown in his sleep. Watched him shift and roll onto his back, some half-thought about maybe he should get up now--and Schuldig moved up, one foot on either side of Omi now and dropped down to his knees, leaning forward to stare at Omi as he opened his eyes.
Felt the instant reaction in Omi's mind like an echo to his actions--hand on Schuldig's throat, one on his hand, and Omi pushing him down into the bed--then the thoughts, why and who and how. (And aren't you lucky he was naked and there's nothing sharp and pointy within grabbing distance?)
Schuldig raised an eyebrow, cocked his head to one side and rested his heels against the bed so his knees were raised on either side of Omi. "You bit me." Slow kind of smile on his face as he said it.
Omi said nothing, looked at him for a moment and let the full weight of the unspoken 'duh' settle before he pulled his hand off Schuldig's neck and leaned back. (This of course means that you--oh Mastermind--are no threat at all.) He pushed the hair out of his eyes and shifted a bit, tugging at the sheet he had gotten wrapped too tightly around him.
(What exactly were you attempting to prove?) Schuldig was still for a moment, watching Omi struggle with the sheet, counted the seconds by tapping his finger against his thigh and then pushed himself up so he was sitting, all but bumping noses with Omi when he did. "So, were you hungry or just trying to score points for enthusiastic participation?"
Omi stared momentarily, tongue tracing the edge of his teeth. "You don't like it?" Paused, leaned down to closer inspect his handiwork, eyes traveling over Schuldig slowly. "And you woke me up to bitch at me about it? Maybe I should give you another one."
(Interesting thought there.) Because getting laid three times in less than five hours is totally not enough. Schuldig tipped his head back and looked at Omi, felt his hair sliding off his face, falling to the sides and smirked back at him. "Maybe I should give you one." Still holding himself up on one arm, lifted his other hand up to wrap around Omi's shoulder, his thumb running across the raised edge of his collarbone. "Right here," he added.
"You think?" Omi tipped his head to the left as he said it, leaning in against Schuldig's hand, pushing him back so he fell back on his elbow. Warm breath against his mouth and one of Omi's hands on his arm, just below the shoulder, sliding down toward his elbow as those lips brushed his. Too close, Schuldig could see Omi's eyebrows and his half-closed eyes. Felt lips against his softly, barely brushing his, dampness of Omi's tongue as he wet his lips-- Brief kiss, teasing little thing, and then Omi pulled back, up on his knees and finally managed to get the sheet loose enough to move.
Schuldig watched him as Omi leaned back and yanked the sheet off, left it on the bed as he scooted to the edge. "I'm gonna take a shower," said over his shoulder. (Are you really going to let him get away?) No; Schuldig moved, one arm around Omi, under his arm and across his ribs, and then pulled him back. Instant resistance against the move, Omi's mind working around the impulse to break free and relaxing into the motion. The bed squeaked when they fell back, Omi hit the bed next to Schuldig's shoulder, looking over at him with all the lazy curiosity in the world. (You could be anyone—anyone but who you are.) Strange that look on Omi's face, strange the way Schuldig moved, pushed himself up and grinning back down at the look. Had his hand on Omi's chest, palm sliding down over his ribs, felt goosebumps under his touch—from the coolness of the room of course—moved one leg between Omi's, and curled his fingers around his waist, thumb dragging across his belly.
Quiet little space of breath there, Omi still hadn't quite figured out what was happening. Schuldig smirked at him. "Or maybe," he said, tipping his head to one side, leaning down close, his bangs falling against Omi's forehead, across his eyebrows—made the boy blink up at him. Then he moved, same smirk on his face. (Now he gets nervous.) "Here." The word like a laugh, Schuldig ducked his head down, teeth against Omi's shoulder and biting down.
Funny little sound, like a half-strangled squeak as Omi moved under him, trying to pull his shoulder away, one hand up on Schuldig's arm and the other against his ribs, belly dipping down under Schuldig's thumb. (Squirming I believe they call it.) Would have smiled but it wouldn't have made a difference, Omi couldn't see his face, now with all his hair falling down like it was—pressed his teeth against the skin harder and sucked on it. Another attempt to pull away and then Omi pushing his shoulder up against Schuldig's mouth, trying to get him off that way—(sorry, not going to work.)
Restless movement, Omi shifting. The fingers on Schuldig's ribs running light across his skin and he shivered at it. Omi grinning (felt it in his mind, strange feeling all things considered), wiggling to one side enough to get his other arm under Schuldig's and then fingers against his ribs, light and ticklish little touches, moving up and down his sides, looking for just the right place and there--
Fuck. (There goes your last deep dark secret.)
--Clumsy; the instant reaction. Schuldig bit down harder and then moved back, shoving himself up away from Omi's hands and choking on the laugh, trying to grab Omi's damn hands but they pulled away from his and there was a laugh. Omi's laugh, the grin on his face. (Little bastard.) Managed to get one hand on Omi's wrist and pulled his fingers away, pushed that hand down against the bed--laughing now, tasted his own hair in his mouth and still trying to grab that other damn hand. Wriggling under him--distracting that--almost caught Omi's hand but it moved, down lower on his ribs, just below and sliding in toward his belly. (Oh yes, he'll love the sounds you make there. How long has it been exactly?)
Schuldig got his hand, and pushed it down, over Omi's head--breathing heavy and Omi just giving him the most innocent look in the world, like he had done precisely nothing. (Yeah, right. Sure.) Something self-satisfied about the way his head was tipped back and the part of his lips, had one of his legs pulled up and Schuldig could feel it brushing against his hip. (Smug little bastard, isn't he? Think of all the people he'd tell if he could.) Felt the frown between his eyebrows and knew he was just staring at Omi—(after fifteen seconds most people tend to stop liking that)—and shivered again, like an aftershock.
(You could get rid of him. Once and for all. Send him out that door right now and he'd never come back. You could do that and it wouldn't even bother you tomorrow.)
Movement under his palms, Omi leaning up, awkward balance to it, the muscles of his stomach contracting and Schuldig could feel that as close as they were. (--Could find a new boy to fuck.) Warm breath against his lips, blue eyes looking back at him and the most fleeting touch of lips against his. (Could.) Tipped his head, his own hair falling into his eyes, against his cheeks and the long strands of it working its way closer to his mouth.
(Could.)
Omi's quiet sound, low in his throat; his eyes were half closed now, lips parting just slightly and—
Schuldig kissed him, one hand sliding up Omi's wrist to press their palms together, the other moving, fingers curling around Omi's neck, thumb on his cheek and fingers in his hair. Valiant quiver as Omi tried to stay up, some attempt to get his elbow under him made useless as Schuldig pushed down against him and the quiet sound as they fell back against the bed. Fingers stroking against Schuldig's chest, slow movement, warm skin, working their way up to his shoulder as Omi stretched under him, his knee pressing harder against Schuldig's hip.
Rubbing together now, bellies thighs and hips, not quite right, needed to shift a little. Had to let go of Omi's hand, his weight balanced to the right, and reaching down, caught Omi's thigh down low by the knee, and pulled it up--gasp of breath as the kiss broke. Omi moving and his other hand on Schuldig's arm, tight grip, licking his lips again. Patient for all the time it took Schuldig to get settled against him, and then pulling him back down to kiss again. Better rub, smooth thighs against his hips, Omi pressing back up against him--eager sound low in his throat at it, Schuldig murmuring something back.
The phone ringing.
Dampness of sweat between their bodies, wiggled one of his hands under Omi, up and curled around his shoulder, pulling just a little. Perfect there--Omi's fingernails digging into his arm just hard enough to feel it, one of his legs curling around his hips and the tilt of his head--absolutely perfect.
(Except for the phone ringing.) If the condescending bastard really wanted the phone answered he would have used the other number. (Right.)
But Omi, under him, pulling away from the kiss, breathing heavy and his fingers petting his skin softly as he cast a glance over toward the sound of the phone. "Um... You gonna get that?"
(Fuck--) "--No." A short shake of his head to add emphasis.
Omi considering this as the phone rang again, caught between the feeling that Schuldig probably ought to answer the phone (Kritiker trained him well, didn't they?) and shrugging it off. He tapped one of his fingers against Schuldig's shoulder, some kind of nervous gesture, counting the seconds, waiting to see if the phone was going to ring, just silence and then: "Ok."
Schuldig smiled, repeated the word in a breath. Felt fingers back in his hair, pulling it away from his face and Omi's tongue against his, shiver between the two of them. Heat everywhere their skin touched, sweat against the back of his neck and slipping down his spine as his hair started to stick down.
The phone rang--different tone, delightfully cheerful that fucking ring tone. The smug-ass bastard had picked the fucking thing out himself. Some kind of irony that only the fucking American asshole could really appreciate, doubtlessly.
He pulled away from Omi, heard the soft tone of his words. "Ummm... Now are you gonna get it?"
Spat a curse word--in German--as he shoved himself up to his knees, climbing over Omi to get to the edge of the bed and all but fell out of the damn thing. Managed to get his feet under him and grabbed the phone from where it had fallen to the floor the night before. The little caller ID screen turned blue, the phone vibrated as it played out that stupid fucking tone. Schuldig stood up, flipped the phone open and all but shouted into it.
"What?" (Because nothing could be more important than what you were doing, right? Nothing at all.)
Could all but hear Crawford's smirking little smile and the smugness of his raised eyebrow. Didn't have to be near him to know what he was thinking (of course not, not after all this time). "What did I interrupt?"
(Smug fucking bitch.) "You damn well what you fucking interrupted, what do you want?" Looked back over his shoulder, saw Omi sitting up now, watching him, trying to figure out what he was saying. Knew it was German, or figured it was, sounded like it.
Crawford's sigh. "You do realize that if you had answered the phone the first time I called this whole process would have taken far less time. Its very possible you would have been returning to your previous activities already--if you had answered the phone the first time."
Frown on Omi's face, eyebrows drawn down, some kind of realization dawning in his brain--strange how easy he had forgotten it the night before and all this morning until this moment, listening to Schuldig shout in German. He was at his enemy's, sitting in his enemy's bed, listening to his enemy shout--(Oh, they trained him damn well.)
"Crawford. What?" Turned his back to Omi again, didn't have to watch him to know the progression of those thoughts. Security breach and Kritiker would eventually want him back and he shouldn't have come in the first place. (Well, too fucking bad because you did.)
"Wear a high collar." The words were almost a let down. Spoken so plainly--in English--and it seemed so ridiculous. All the things that the words should have implied were absent, it was just syllables and wasted minutes and Crawford's fucking smug voice. (I know you let him bite you.)
"Why the fuck do you care?"
Omi on his feet behind him, looking for his clothes.
"I don't, Schuldig. Except that you will care very much if you show up in your usual clothes and Pelagatti--" (There are those implications you said weren't there. How do you like them now?) There was give in Crawford's voice, just enough that any other man would have thought there was room for sympathy. (No, nothing like that, it was carefully planned. You have to care to sympathize.)
"Fine." Schuldig lowered the phone, snapping it shut and tossed it back on the bed. Ran his fingers through his hair to get it off his face, felt it sticking to his fingers and the backs of his hands. He pushed it back and felt it falling forward again before he even moved his hands out.
Omi was picking his socks up off the floor, had one in his hand and was looking for the other one under the fallen sheet. Already had his shirt on, long sleeves and his mind moving around, no order to it--(thoughts made sense in the head they belonged in, right? That's the way it works.) Some repeating image of a card on a windowsill and the definite knowledge that Omi was not supposed to be there anymore. Stray thought about where his pants ended up.
(Second chance to make him go and never come back. Kind of deserves it now.) Fucking Pelagatti-- (Go on. Do it.)
The second sock was under the bed, Omi had to get down on his knees to get to it, and didn't like that--turning his back on Schuldig--strange that. (Do it now.) And it would be so easy now, with Omi uneasy. He didn't understand the words but he knew the tone and maybe it wasn't such a great idea to be here in the first place--
Schuldig sighed, waited for Omi to stand up again and looked at him. "You," he said, tone even and almost neutral. "Have affected my wardrobe." Smirk there at the end, maybe more like a grin. More like that thing it had been before the phone rang.
Omi stood there, the sock dangling from his hand, "I--" A full stop there, his thoughts suddenly blank and then starting again, trying to figure out what it was exactly that Schuldig had just said and what it was supposed to mean. "--What?"
"You" he repeated, "and your teeth have affected my wardrobe."
Sound almost like a hiccup--stilted laugh, cut off before it could even make noise in the air, Omi blinking at him and: "...I'm sorry?" The urge to laugh rich in his mind and held back because he hadn't quite figured out if he was supposed to.
(Sure, let him laugh at you.) "Good." Schuldig moved, two steps and he was in front of Omi again, not touching but close, looking down at his shirt and the one sock still dangling from his hand. "Get cold?"
"No, I just thought that--" Speaking the words and leaning toward Schuldig, hands curling up a little and then he pulled back. "You know what I thought. I should go." And turned, hand fisted around his sock now and full of the intention of walking out of here.
Schuldig grabbed his wrist. "No, you shouldn't." (Why? Because you won't have another chance to get laid for a week? Let him leave.) Omi stopped, looked at Schuldig's hand on her wrist and then up at his face. Blank disbelief or dumbfounded or he just didn't know what-- "I want you to stay." (Of course you do.)
"You," disbelief in Omi's voice, loud and clear and echoing in his head. Time passing, and then Omi moved, closer to him and away from the door. "Okay." And he sat on the bed.
Smile across Schuldig's face, grabbed the end of Omi's sleeve and tugged on it. "Good."