Undefined
A 'Weiss Kreuz Gluhen' ficlet
Sephy

'We twist and turn
With pains unmentioned
To speak is suicide
The hunger fades
With malnutrition
When tears and tongues collide.'
--Mad at Gravity

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Mamoru tells himself this over and over again as lips trail over his throat, hot and demanding, lapping at the nook just below his chin. Teeth close over his skin, nipping and rolling it around and he shudders, his fingers digging in the base of Aya's neck, just below his now shorn hairline. The ends were ragged, feather soft, curling around his fingers so easily as he moves against the strong body pressing him against the wall. He's lost here, not knowing quite who or what he is, fire and blood behind him and ahead… He doesn't know and that frightens him more than death, this in-between time. Tomorrow it won't mean anything, tomorrow everything will be settled but tonight he's drifting, a spirit half-made and clinging to the only anchor he knows.

And Aya has always been that. His surety of purpose, his convictions and drive -- even when they failed the man, they had never failed Omi and Mamoru found himself trusting that, respecting that sense of strength, however flawed it might be. More than that, Omi trusts Aya, more than he trusts himself, an assessment that Mamoru isn't sure is entirely wise but reluctantly finds himself agreeing with, placing his faith in someone who has spent much of his adult life opposing the Takatoris at every turn. It's ironic that but he extracted a promise from Aya not so long ago, a surety of a sort because he's afraid, both Omi and Mamoru, of following in those footsteps etched in blood, of the taint and shadow in his soul, passed down through DNA. He's afraid that when the time comes, he won't be able to fight it, and he'd rather die than succumb. Maybe that's why he's allowing this now, trying to gain a hold on his former teammate and now subordinate, so that when the time comes, Aya won't hesitate. No, there's more to it than that, desire a ghost long haunting, echoing with each touch along his senses, twin selves merging into one, a persona with no name or face just yet. He doesn't know if it bodes well, this knowledge of another possibility, maybe it's just his tired mind working overtime, grieving and pulling things that simply aren't there.

Mamoru wonders what Aya sees, what Aya is looking for in him, if he's looking for anything more than a warm body, than solace and rest from this night's work. Night…it's not night anymore, daylight filtering through the blinds but for the two of them-- Well, he can't speak for Aya, not fully but he has a feeling that Aya's still in between too, wandering a realm of shades, the voices of the dead carried on each rustle of the wind outside. Too many dead, too many lost. Blood on their hands, staining them. Omi can see it the ivory fingers that push at his coat, toying with and untying his cravat, lost in the melee of shifting clothes and bodies. It's thick on his hands as he runs them across Aya's throat, cupping the muscle there, bringing their lips together, the taste rich and warm between them as tongues touch tentatively, his mouth parting and inviting Aya inward. He's never kissed like this before, not with Aya, not with such a tender brutality, lips ravaging lips, drowning in wet heat. It's more real and immediate, the pleasure sharp, almost painful, a fever he doesn't want to shake, leaving him lightheaded as he feels Aya's leg fall between his. Mamoru thrusts upward and they both gasp, his fingers tightening around Aya's slender hips, his open coat falling around them like a blanket, too warm and comfortable. Omi is wary of that comfort while Mamoru takes it in stride, his right and not necessarily the privilege the other makes it out to be.

He doesn’t hate Omi. Far from it but he can't be Omi anymore. There's too much at stake, too much he could lose, and too many lives at risk. In the mission room earlier, he'd stated his intent to kill Tsukiyono Omi but he can't seem to let go no matter how hard he tries. Mission failed. Mamoru knew it the second Aya returned, Yohji all but slung over one shoulder, bleeding and broken, shattering the calm that had stolen upon him since their escape. He could be Aya, he could construct a careful façade of ice and illusion and be someone else, outwardly erasing all traces of Omi but he could not banish the boy, his pain Mamoru's, crying tears that he should never have allowed. Maybe it was like that for Aya, how he dealt with being Ran. He hadn't let go of Ran; he'd seen enough intelligence reports indicating the Abyssinian was keeping tabs on his beloved sister to believe otherwise. Part of him wanted desperately to ask, to know, but he held his tongue, realizing just how rude it would be to take a confidence not freely given.

He tugs Aya's overcoat downwards, missing the warmth but feeling as if his fingers are scalding. Is that possible? To feel fingertips ignite and melt from simple touch? His fingers are more nimble than he could have dreamed possible in the situation, lazily picking at the buttons of Aya's shirt, the other man picking him up and settling him against the wall, tongues twining with each other, cutting off his gasps as the leg between his rides higher.

Omi had always wanted this, a private daydream in the back of his mind, one locked away when he'd left the Weiss, but he'd never pushed. No, Mamoru had done that for him, finding the skittish Abyssinian intriguing with his skin the color of finely skimmed milk and faceted amethyst eyes, cracks beneath their glinting surface, hinting at things he could only speculate on. Mamoru wondered, just as Omi had, at the man's control, if he ever truly let it go long enough to entrust himself to someone else's care. It wasn't that Aya didn't trust them all. He did when it came to the mission but there was something deeper than that, a core to him that no one touched.

Omi knew that one well, recognizing from the first a kindred spirit but the fracture in Aya was more pronounced, more visceral. He'd caught glimpses of Ran, a hint about the eyes, a softening of his expression at odd moments, and Mamoru wonders how much of his masquerade at the Academy was pretend and how much was something of Ran surfacing. Mamoru felt a certain sense of guilt and responsibility for Ran, for the family that was torn from him and the life that he could have had, obliterated in an instant.

He wonders if there isn't something of Ran in this moment, if the lines between each hasn't blurred and the man looking back at him with such desperate, almost broken regard is the person Ran might have been, before Aya, before so many deaths had touched him. He wondered if it was this person Aya chased after with such recklessness, his need for a reason, for something more concrete blinding him to what was truly there. He hopes not. It almost seems too cruel, this unwitting foresight, the knowledge that even if it were true, Aya would never accept it. Because it was given to him -- by a Takatori of all things. No, he would never accept it, thinking only the only way such a thing could happen, such a reason could exist, had to be eked out in blood and pain, preferably his own.

But Mamoru can give him this, this moment, his body, the comfort of knowing that he--that they aren't alone, that they don't have to be alone. There's an offer being made, communicated as his hands slide down now bared flesh, sighing as Aya's mouth toys with the hollow of his throat, his teeth nipping at tendons. It's not one he expects to be taken up -- not now, maybe not any time soon. It's open-ended and Mamoru is careful not to ask anymore than Aya can give, knowing that it's Aya he will have to eventually face, to defeat if he's ever to know anything more of Ran.

And he's starting to wonder if Omi isn't bleeding into his thoughts again because that's starting to seem like not such a bad thing.

Not a bad thing at all.

***End

 

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