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The Rules of Engagement |
Rain pounds on the roof. The room is warm, dark, quiet. He senses Aya nearby, all is right with the world, so Yohji’s eyes flutter shut again. In the next heartbeat, his assassin senses jolt him awake, skin crawling with the sense of wrongness in the room. "Aya? Aya!" Yohji rolls off the bed, landing hard on the floor; blood forms an evil frame around Aya, holding him captive. Yohji’s eyes refuse to believe even as his instincts kick in. Gently touching his shoulder, Yohji is screamingly aware of Aya’s quicksilver reactions and his lethal katana within reach. "Aya?" Nothing. No reaction, no movement; cold dread crawls across Yohji’s skin, real as the rain. With shaking hands, he finds a faint pulse and lingers there while relief floods his body. He gives a weak laugh at his panic, pulls Aya from the pool of blood onto his lap to hold close while he calls Omi. Nothing. No answer, no connection; Yohji feels unusually alone. Aya’s silence, though not unfamiliar, now troubles him. Omi’s inaccessibility, rare indeed, leaves him vulnerable. "Just the storm," he thinks, then says it aloud to dispel the silence. Aya stirs at his voice. "It’s just the storm, Aya," Yohji says, mostly to reassure himself. "Only the rain. We’ll wait it out. Omi and Ken will be here in the morning." Annoyed with his momentary panic, Yohji shakes himself and reverts to mission mode. He secures the room, takes stock of their position and resources. He tears a section of curtain and holds it out the window, wets it in the rain to clean away the blood and to augment the meager first aid kit in his coat pocket. He returns to Aya’s inert body. Pulls off Aya’s boots and begins undoing the buckles of his heavy coat, using sight and touch to determine injuries. "Hurts," Aya’s voice is weak, barely a whisper, as Yohji’s hands quickly run down limbs and along flanks. He cleans and bandages the worst cut across Aya’s ribcage, and lifts him onto the couch. "Hurts." Aya breathes; his body contracts with minute tremors. Yohji swallows hard to dislodge the lump forming in his throat. For Aya to admit it only amps up the unreality of their situation. He climbs onto the narrow couch, gingerly arranging Aya’s form to his, just for warmth, he tells himself. "I know it hurts, Aya, I know." Yohji’s voice seems to calm Aya. Yohji realizes he too feels better to have a human voice counteracting the rain and the thunder and the isolation, so he continues. "Remember the first time you said that, Aya? The first time you said, ‘hurts’?" Yohji smiles at the memory and it warms his voice. Aya’s breathing calms, his body relaxes. "You were pretty new to Weiss, but we had been on enough missions to know you were one of us. We were at an old warehouse. Ken and Omi had gone on ahead. You and I were cleaning up." Yohji shifts to get an arm under Aya’s shoulders. "It was one of those incredibly intense encounters and we were flying, remember, Aya? We could do no wrong, we were in tune, like we were one body. Jesus, I had never worked with anyone like you before. We were still on an adrenaline rush when suddenly you stalked out of the room, muttering, ‘hurts.’ Remember that?" *** Yohji stopped in the middle of the room, watching Aya’s back. He tried to slow the excitement still coursing like a drug through his veins. Had Aya been hurt? He didn’t think so, they were fucking untouchable during the fight, lethal, quick, practically invisible. Was Aya just feeling it now that the rush was fading? Leaning against the wall, Aya was a man in pain: eyes closed tight, slightly doubled over, breathing hard. Yohji relieved Aya of his sword, then quickly felt his arms and legs, looking for blood, bones, flinches. Nothing. "Aya, where does it hurt? I can’t find anything." Aya pulled away, pushing Yohji’s hands off him, but Yohji had no intention of losing a valuable teammate because of prickly pride. If Aya was injured, Yohji needed to know. He pushed Aya back against the wall, did another sweep through his hair, across his chest, down his arms, around his back. Aya was moaning now. Nothing. Yohji felt down his legs, more puzzled than ever. It was on his way back up those long legs when enlightenment came to Yohji. Aya was diamond-hard. Killer Cock, Ken had named it, Assassin Afterglow. Every one of them had experienced it at one time or another: heat of the battle, taking, dominating, controlling, the power of life and death, the final release. Yeah, it was bloodlust plain and simple. Yohji himself had been half-hard since the third target’s body convulsed against his in its final death throes. Only one cure, too. If Aya thought he was somehow immune to it, thought he could defy it with some archaic sense of propriety, he was sadly mistaken. Knowing just what Aya needed even if he didn’t, Yohji started slowly, firmly stroking Aya’s cock through his tight leather pants, pressing him hard against the wall and just holding him in place. Aya was writhing, hot and swollen with need. Panting breaths exploded from his parted lips but still he pushed Yohji away. If looks could kill… "Don‘t move. Let me," Yohji ordered. Aya shook his head, crimson hair hiding his confused eyes. "Hurts." Yohji stripped away the pants just far enough. Wrapped one hand firmly around Aya’s cock, up and down, with a slight twist of the wrist that was Yohji’s special move. Brushed lightly under his balls with the other hand, then held them gently in contrast to his powerful strokes, weighing them in his warm palm. "Yeah, but it’s gonna feel so much better soon." Aya bucked up again and again, fucking himself on Yohji’s hand. Iron control had completely evaporated, he was unable to stop himself now if all of Schwarz entered the room. Yohji’s hands gave both pleasure and pain. Aya tried to stifle a ragged moan, still unaccepting, pushing at Yohji’s shoulders at the same time he thrust up into the warmth of Yohji’s hand. "Stop. Stop!" he gasped, though scalding desire rocketed through his brain, spreading outwardly through his blood, and surging to his cock. Yohji ignored him. With relentless rhythm, he rubbed his thumb through the pearly fluid at the tip, down over the flared head and hard against the throbbing vein. "No, Aya, no stopping," Yohji leaned forward to whisper in Aya’s ear. Aya shivered with pleasure, as though Yohji was tracing his spine with Aya’s own katana. With his palm continuing to press and hold Aya’s balls, Yohji slid his fingers further back to tease and caress. Aya’s knees nearly buckled and if not for Yohji’s hard thigh thrust between his legs, he would have crumpled to the ground. His grip tightened on Yohji’s shoulders to the point of pain. He was almost, not quite, begging, humping Yohji’s leg in a blind frenzy for more contact, thigh muscles straining. Groaning as if in agony, Aya froze, violet eyes fixed on Yohji for a moment in sheer disbelief. Then arching up and thrusting hard, he spilled into Yohji’s hand. Yohji watched in amazement, paralyzed by the sight. Aya was beautiful, though he’d never say it out loud, beautiful and so fucking hot under all that ice. Surely, he did that for himself, had done it before, done it with someone else. This couldn’t have been the first time. Thunderstruck, Yohji barely noticed the rapidly cooling stickiness in his own pants. His heart was no longer his own. *** Though the memory is warm now, back then Yohji had actually feared for his life. As fast as Aya’s heat had melted his customary cold exterior, once it was over, he revert to his usual icy status quo. He had pushed Yohji away, stalked off and hadn’t spoken an unnecessary word to him for nearly a year. "You were some cold bastard, Aya," Yohji teases, though there is no response. He lapses into silence, lost in thought. It was a near thing, Aya staying with Weiss after that night. His disdain for Yohji radiated with his every move. He desired no human connection, no close friendship, no intimate contact. Particularly from Yohji. For his part, despite his playboy behavior, Yohji hungered for the very things Aya abhorred: someone who knew what he was, yet still considered him worthy of real affection, true trust. Not someone, Yohji corrected himself, he wanted Aya. Yohji was not suicidal. He guarded his heart very carefully. Particularly from Aya. All the same, Yohji suffered. He replayed that night over and over. Was desperate to have Aya again, anywhere, any time, on any basis, but Aya had cut him dead. Alcohol, warm bodies, clubbing night after night – nothing had brought Yohji the oblivion he sought. He needed Aya. Aya grows restless without Yohji’s voice to anchor him. His head rocks back and forth on the pillow, not quite awake, fingers plucking at the bandage across his ribs. Yohji snaps back to the present. "Tight," he complains. "To stop the bleeding," Yohji explains, but Aya isn’t soothed. He throws off the coat Yohji has draped over him as a blanket. "Hot." He fretfully brushes his hair back, tries to get up. Yohji uses the damp curtain scrap to cool Aya’s forehead. He is hot, but in that erratic, feverish way that makes Yohji wish for daylight so they can move. "Ssshh…, Aya, easy," Yohji pulls the coat back over Aya’s now-shivering body, pulls him close to rub his back. Croons to him and Aya quiets again, arm over Yohji’s chest, moving closer as though to hear his words. "Tight and hot," Yohji muses. "That I remember, Aya. You do, too, don’t you? The two words that saved us." Though Yohji knows Aya’s near unconscious, he can’t help but believe Aya gives him a slight hug at that. *** Despite Aya’s resolute indifference to Yohji on a daily basis, they had never lost their ability to absolutely dance together when working. It seemed to Yohji that even their molecules bonded. Yet, when the mission was complete, Aya would pierce Yohji with a death glare, whirl around and leave him alone, aching and sad. He had dealt with myriad instances of his own Assassin Afterglow since, but never one without the imprint of Aya’s confused expression giving way to incredulity as Yohji stroked him to relief. "Why, Aya, why can’t we have that again?" he would think, as he pulled himself off to a cold, empty climax. "You must need it, too." It was a frigid night and a complex mission that came to a bloody end when Aya finally thawed. They were to take separate routes back to the safe house, so each had left at a different time. Still breathing hard and battle-high, Yohji volunteered to clean up, be the last to leave. He could barely wait to be alone. As soon as it was quiet, Yohji fumbled with his zipper, yanked his pants down around his thighs and leaned against the wall. He sighed with relief at the first stroke, tight at the base, sliding fast up to cup the head, swirl around, then back down hard. At first he tried to keep his mind blank, concentrating only on the sensation of his rough fingers gliding along his eager length. But as always, no matter how he fought it, Yohji’s thoughts turned to Aya. His face in passion. His molten heat. His astonished surrender. Yohji groaned at the pain that pleasure brought. "Aya," he whispered, hand speeding up. "Aya." Yohji rolled over to face the wall, arm braced, head down. With little effort he could envision Aya there, face lifted to Yohji’s, breathing hard, aching need heavy in Yohji’s hand. So close now, so close. So close the dream-presence of Aya seemed incredibly real, pressed warm and solid against his back. So close that all he could do is blink, trying to make sense of strong, katana-callused fingers entwined with his, their hands wrapped together around his cock. "Aya?" Yohji’s hips bucked as he said it. "Ssshh." Fingers warm and strong, breath rasping in Yohji’s ear, Aya was already hard, hips flexing. Fumbling with buttons, he slid his pants down just far enough to expose his cock. Settled between Yohji’s legs and just rocked in time to Yohji’s moans. Aya’s hand urging him on, slender hips surging slowly, rhythmically, nudging his balls with every stroke; Yohji went into sensory overload. "Oh, Aya, I'm going to," he panted, "can’t hold out, can’t wait. I can't. I'm coming. Aya." And he did, shuddering, moaning Aya’s name, pushing hard to empty himself into Aya’s hand. Aya held him through the shudders, the little hitches in his breathing as Yohji came down slowly. Unwilling to fracture this fragile truce, Yohji didn’t move, didn’t speak. Those would be Aya’s rules, he figured. He knew Aya was still hard, barely dared to hope that Aya was actually slicking his cock with Yohji’s cum, although the sounds, the moves seemed right. He braced himself against the wall with both hands, spread his legs in response to a nudge to his thighs and Aya’s command: "Don’t move. Let me." Yohji was sure that Aya had never done this before; in fact, Yohji hadn’t been on the receiving end recently, and it was going to hurt. But he had been hurting for a year now, and it was Aya asking, so one more night of pain seemed a small price to pay. For now, Yohji was just going to go with it. Aya aligned himself against Yohji’s tight opening, pushed slowly but inexorably at first, then thrust in deep and hard. Yohji gasped sharply, suppressed a moan at the brutal speed and painful angle of entry, struggled to open for him. Aya found his rhythm, grabbed Yohji’s hips to hold him in place and fucked him hard. No foreplay, no finesse, no real skill, but Yohji was very sure this was the fulfillment of every wet dream he had about Aya. Thrusting with enough force to lift Yohji up on his toes, Aya pressed close. With one hand tangled in Yohji’s hair to pull his head back, Aya bit his neck hard. "Tight," he panted. Yohji arched, gasping, pleasure mixed with pain. "Yes, oh, yes, Aya," he moaned. "Hot." No more words from Aya after that, just hungry gasps. Bucking up with aching need, his breathing stuttered and he was just pounding into Yohji with sharp snaps of his hips, twisting and pushing like he couldn’t get deep enough. Just as in the heat of battle, Yohji could feel the adrenaline rush intoxicating him, panting like he hadn’t just come minutes ago. But, some rational part of his brain cautioned, it was too rough. He reached back with one hand, the other still braced to protect his head from bouncing off the wall. "Easy, Aya, you’re almost there, come now." Aya’s rhythm became more erratic. With one last, hard, fast thrust, he just froze, pulsing deep, so hot Yohji could feel it inside. Knew what he looked like, too, at the moment of release, that precious memory polished to shine like a diamond in his mind. Shuddering, sides heaving, Aya rested his head against Yohji's sweat-slicked shoulder. Yohji eased them against the wall, needing support. He was going to ache tomorrow. Aya had much to learn about being a considerate lover, about kissing, deep and wet and long. Foreplay with tongue and hands and mouth. Time, lots of time, and a bed. And lube. But for the moment, Yohji was at peace. But it was only sex, only a response to a mission, only Killer Cock, Yohji reminded himself, shaking off his reverie; he held out no hope for more. Tonight it was enough, enough until Aya shifted. "Don’t go, not yet. Stay with me," Yohji pleaded silently, although he prepared himself. He knew Aya’s rule, no attachment, but he wasn’t quite ready to let go, couldn’t regain his equilibrium. Eyes closed, breath held, heart pounding, Yohji waited for Aya to don his armor of ice and stalk off, leaving Yohji to deal. It promised to be so much harder this time. Instead, Aya wrapped his arms tightly around Yohji, pulling him close. It was Yohji’s turn to freeze. Aya steadied himself against Yohji’s back. Traced his face, fingers learning, memorizing. If there was a more sensual end to a fuck, Yohji sighed, he had yet to experience it. His heart was lost. They separated, pushed away from the wall, suiting up to face the world again. Yohji risked a glance at Aya and was caught by Aya’s patented death glare. His face was impassive, empty, closed, and Yohji’s heart contracted painfully. Then, haltingly, as if it was an alien gesture, Aya smiled. *** Yohji warms at that memory. And remembers other nights, nights when Aya, always silent, came to Yohji’s bed and let Yohji teach him about kissing, long and deep and wet. About foreplay, slow and sweet, with tongue and hands and mouth. About taking time, lots of time. In a bed. With lube. New rules. And in that dark, safe space together, they were at peace. He dozes off, Aya warm against him, storm still raging. Dreams come and go. Later, he jerks awake. "It’s the rain," Yohji murmurs. "The rain has stopped." Aya is even closer to Yohji, if that’s possible, pressed against his side. Yohji’s relieved that the feverish heat has faded, but Aya remains distressingly pale and still. He attempts to disentangle himself. Aya gives a displeased grunt and holds tighter. "Gotta let go, Aya." Yohji gently pulls away, repositions Aya on the couch so he’s secure. "Let me try the phone again." Yohji reaches for his coat, locates his phone and sits on the edge of the bed. Aya’s curled up around him again and Yohji absently rubs his back. Calls the safe house, Omi’s phone, even Ken’s, but gets only clicks and static. Figuring the reception might be better by the long windows, Yohji tucks Aya’s long coat more tightly around his shoulders and gets up. "Stay with me," Aya mumbles. "Don’t go." Yohji just stops. That’s a first. They’ve done many things, he and Aya, but making demands, asking for something of each other is not one of them. No demands, no commitment, no talking; anything they want to share must be conveyed through touch in the dark. Those are the rules and that’s okay with Yohji, he can’t touch Aya enough. He’s smart enough to stifle anything that smacks even remotely of need, of love. He tries to say it all with his hands, his mouth, his cock. All the while, he walks a fine line between protecting his heart and wearing it on his sleeve. "Yohji, please." Though his breathing hitches at that, he can’t delay. They must get to safety, so he goes to the window and leans out at a precariously angle. The rain hasn’t stopped completely, but it’s soft and gentle now. The reception’s much better. Omi’s frantic voice comes through loud and clear. He turns back to the couch to find Aya watching him, eyes over-bright, crimson ear-locks brushing his cheek. Yohji’s heart convulses, suddenly aware of just how fragile life can be and that the way they live practically ensures an early death, how Aya could be lost to him in the blink of an eye. "Love makes us so vulnerable," pops unbidden into his mind. He shakes his head and firmly banishes such thoughts, turns back to practical matters. Yohji gives Omi their approximate location, based on landmarks he can see, reminds him to bring the med kit; the car ride will be hard on Aya without better bandages to hold that slash closed. There’s time before they need to attempt the stairs and meet Omi and Ken on the street. Yohji returns to the couch. Aya closes his eyes in relief and Yohji slips along side him. "Yohji?" "Right here, Aya," he brushes back hair to plant a kiss on Aya's cheek, quick, before he gets all stiff and stand-offish. Yohji takes what he can get, when he can get it. Aya starts to say something, but stops, settles in closer. Mumbles against Yohji’s neck, words muffled, but if Yohji were pressed to it, he would swear it sounds like "love you." Aya is highly unlikely to say that, but Yohji hungers to hear it, something, anything like it. He pushes Aya back a bit, means to ask him to repeat it. Aya's eyes are wide, still rather fever-glazed, like glassy violet magnets. So intense. Yohji can't look away, is being drawn in. Whatever he was going to ask is lost. Aya reaches up to cup Yohji's face, cold fingers skittering over his skin, caressing his face, tracing his features like a blind man. "Mine," he says, touching Yohji’s face. "Mine." He brushes Yohji’s mouth with his fingers. "Mine," as he runs his hand down Yohji’s ribs, rests briefly on his cock. "Mine." Yohji’s heart bangs painfully against his ribs. Something's changing between them and he’s not sure what the rules are now. Aya takes Yohji's hand. Places it on his lips, slides it over his throat, down to his collarbone, grazes the bandage, and presses it warm against his cock. "Yours," he says to Yohji, "yours." Yohji's glad Aya can't see his expression. He manages to nod, doesn‘t dare to speak. He slips his hands under the coat and rubs Aya's bare back, from sinewy shoulders down the sensitive spot at the tip of his spine. Aya does a slow roll of his hips and the contact with Yohji's cock is electric. He backs up, nearly off the couch. Aya rocks his hips against Yohji's warmth again, bumping and nudging. Yohji thinks Aya's hard, knows he is, wants it so much. He lowers his mouth to Aya’s, nuzzles, brushes, licks gently. Aya's suddenly fierce in response. "Take me," Aya whispers. "No," Yohji says, shocked but hard, so hard. "Yes," Aya insists, cradling Yohji's face and kissing him deeply, even as he's rolling them. He grimaces at the pain but won't let go. Yohji’s entire being is flushed and trembling with desire for Aya. "I just -- we shouldn’t -- your ribs…" but even as he says it, they both know Yohji denies Aya nothing. Ever. That’s Yohji’s rule. His breath is catching, his arms shaking at the strain of holding himself off Aya’s body, then Aya touches his face again. "Yohji, please," he whispers. Slides his hands down the soft skin, hard muscles of Yohji’s back, makes him arch softly, so gently into Aya’s warmth. Aya loosens Yohji's belt, undoes his pants, pushes them down. Reaches for his own, but can't get them further than his hips. "Don’t move. Let me." Yohji slowly, almost reverently, removes them. Aya watches him intently, eyes glittering, as he glides back up, licking and nipping. Aya spreads his legs, cants his hips. Yohji hangs over him, between his thighs, cock heavy and flushed, glistening with arousal. What happens next is slow, dream-like, with no barriers, no struggle for dominance, no hurry. The light is soft, the rain patters against the roof, the room is warm. Old rules have been, are still being broken. "Aya, please." Yohji fumbles to find the lube in his coat. Aya bends one knee, presses his heel into the couch for leverage. Just moans at the feel of Yohji’s wet, warm fingers sliding up his thigh, stroking gently between his legs, rubbing the skin right there. He arches up a little more, welcoming Yohji's finger slipping inside him. "Don’t move," Yohji whispers. Soon Aya’s undulating beneath Yohji, panting and lifting and pressing down. A knee against his thigh and Aya’s spreading his legs wider, bracing himself against Yohji’s arms, remembering to protect his ribs. "Let me." Barely moving, Yohji pushes softly, with great concern and control, watching Aya’s face for any sign of pain. He balances on one arm, the other slides Aya's long leg up onto his hip. He's in, home. Aya's making little breathy sounds, soft moans, slight thrusts. They rock together, small careful movements, a slow build to a sensuous climax. Feelings all the more powerful for care taken, for acknowledgement of what they mean to each other, for the momentous change occurring in the silence. Aya comes with a small cry, Yohji follows, thrusting gently. Aya sighs, touches his face in wonder and Yohji’s eyes close against the intensity of the moment. Aya touches Yohji’s heart. "Mine." He presses Yohji’s hand over his own. "Yours."
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All text © Paddy 2004 - The end of time
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