Of Grey and White

Fic: Tangled in Waiting (4/?)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 06:41:48 GMT

Title: Tangled in Waiting (4/?)
Author: Atthla
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Pairing: Vaan/Ashe, Larsa/Penelo
Warning: SPOILERS for the end of the game.
Rating: T or PG-13
Disclaimer: FF series belongs to SquareEnix
Previous Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

-----

The sky was bleeding.

Penelo sighed, her eyes taking in the red-painted scenery laid before them with barely unconcealed disappointment. What people said about distance, that it put things into perspectives, was absolutely true. She hadn’t realized how much in love she was with Dalmasca until she left its soils and skies and found herself alone in a foreign land where everything seemed less vibrant, less beautiful. Here in Archadia, the setting sun doused the orderly city in bland red, a dull monochrome compared to the twilight of Rabanastre she had always enjoyed watching since before she could even remember. She loved the burst of colours – gold, flame, purple, tan – and the smooth, almost imperceptible transition as light surrendered to the first shadows of the night.

Another sigh escaped her lips as she watched a flock of birds flew past, the tip of her fingers touching the warm windowpane. It had been a week since she had arrived in Archadia. While she was not exactly a prisoner, Larsa had mentioned that it was best to stay low for a few days. She had been provided a house, a small but comfortable one at the edge of the city, and a maid to see to her every need.

She knew that Larsa meant well and had done everything within his power to ensure her safety, but, Penelo realized guiltily, all she could feel was weariness. Shadows of ennui were eclipsing her gratitude and being cooped up for so long between these unfamiliar walls did not help. Unwelcome thoughts started to fester inside her mind, those thoughts that would have mortified her had her mind not been so clouded.

If only Vaan had never visited Ashe.

If only she hadn’t let her best friend gone to the Royal Palace that day three years ago.

If only they had never met at all.

Penelo bit her lips. She hated being here, in this cold, snobbish empire that appreciated lineage more than true wits or skills. And she missed Vaan, missed his smile and easy grace, missed his inexplicable talent to make everything seem better and brighter for her. With Vaan, she wouldn’t have felt this miserable.

“Would you fancy some tea, Miss?”

She turned around on reflex, her train of thought brusquely cut off by the voice. On the doorway stood her maid, Feria, a tray on her hands and a slightly apologetic look on her face. Penelo forced herself to smile.

“Yes, thank you,” she replied and left the window, her yellow Archadian-style gown rustling and sweeping the floor. She was never used to these long dresses, both her situation back then and line-of-work at present not allowing her much choice in regard of variety of wardrobe. And it wasn’t as if she enjoyed wearing them in the first place, but she couldn’t exactly be picky in this situation.

The tea was sweet and had a slice of lemon in it, just how she liked it best. Penelo enjoyed it in silence, inwardly debating with herself whether or not to throw the question this time. It was almost redundant, the way she asked Feria everyday if she had heard any news regarding Dalmasca – and most importantly, one of the most notorious sky-pirates around – and the same reply she would get every time. Always the same answer. No, Miss, I’m afraid not. I will tell you as soon as I get wind of something.

It wasn’t as if she suspected that Larsa was deliberately withholding information from her, but this feeling of solitude didn’t help to keep the sinister thoughts at bay. He cared for her, that was certain, but…

The knocking sound was soft but sharp against her wandering mind. Penelo felt every muscle in her body tensing immediately and her gaze flew to the direction to the door, dread catching up not a moment later. Feria was already on her feet, eyes quickly scanning about the room.

“Please stay here, Miss,” she said in a low voice. Penelo managed a small nod and the other woman quickly left the room. It wasn’t that she was unable to defend herself – being an accomplice to a very much active sky-pirate had easily taken care of that – and Feria herself had revealed that in addition to being a maid, she had been extensively trained in martial arts in case something undesirable should happen. However, there had never been any visitor to their dwelling and her paranoia at being in an unfamiliar territory definitely did not help to soften the situation.

She did not have to wait long. When Feria returned, a tense look on her face, Penelo knew at once who the guest was. Behind her was Larsa, attired in a glorious white-gold ensemble which suited him perfectly in the crimson glow of the deepening dusk. Penelo found herself quickly rising to her feet. His name was on the tip of her tongue, but the stately look on his face and the sight of guards he brought with him, following his shadow closely, abruptly reminded her to their respective position.

It was almost like a slap to her face. Of course. He was the Emperor of Archadia, not a mere traveling companion anymore. The thought forced her to curtsey hastily and murmured, “Your Majesty.”

She sensed, more than saw, the swell of his disappointment, like a curtain of mist had set in and the air between then suddenly became denser, colder. He waved a hand to dismiss his guards and nodded at Feria, an action which sent the maid retreating to the door swiftly. Penelo could not help but feel anxious. His presence, she realized, was imposing, no longer comforting like it had been long time ago.

“Please sit down, Penelo,” he motioned toward the couch she had vacated and took the one opposite hers. “I hope you do not mind the suddenness of my visit.”

“Oh,” she halted, stumbling over the twist and delicate meandering of words. They had never been her forte and in his company, her inadequacy only stood more conspicuous than ever. “No… of course not,” she finally found her wits to speak again. “Not at all.”

Larsa smiled, even if it was small and a little too tight. “I apologize for not being able to come sooner,” he said again. “Too many matters demand for my attention. Are you comfortable enough here?”

“Yes, you have been very kind,” Penelo answered quietly, lowering her gaze toward the table between them. She suddenly found herself unable to look at him.

The Emperor seemed to realize this as well because at the next moment he said softly, “Penelo, I do not want our relationship to be awkward. I am here as a friend who wishes to help, not the ruler of an empire.”

“I know, but it’s...” she bit her lips, losing her weak, pitiful grasp on her limited vocabulary. The fingers on her lap, she discovered, were slowly destroying her dress in their nervousness, leaving the shimmering material heavily creased and rumpled.

When she raised her eyes, Larsa was still looking at her, eyes grave and face set in a stony solemnity. No boy of his age – he was not even sixteen –should ever wear that kind of look, but then again, he was not a sixteen-year-old boy. He was so much more than that.

An emperor.

Penelo shook her head slowly, helplessness, desperation shrouding her like a blanket of mist. “It’s still awkward.”

“But I’m still Larsa.”

“Who bears the name Solidor and is the Emperor of Archadia,” she stated, looking straight into his eyes.

The ensuing silence settled heavily between them, like an invisible wall built out of stone, thick and insurmountable. Larsa had his chin set on top of his tightly interwoven fingers, arms two rigid structures rising from their pedestal on his knees. He was a very intimidating man, with a commanding presence and speech and conduct, but despite all those, Penelo realized that she had never seen him so lost or vulnerable.

“I see,” he then murmured, his voice echoing hollowly in the darkening chamber.

“No, I don’t mean it in a bad way,” she hastily said. “It’s just… I don’t know. This situation, it’s a little intimidating.”

“You were not quite intimidated a few years ago,” he reminded her quietly and Penelo wondered whether she was only imagining the injured note in his level voice. But she pushed the guilt aside and shook her head, stubbornness building inside her.

“Things were different back then,” she explained, and immediately realized how true it was. The living proof was here, sitting across her with eyes of a brewing storm. Larsa had been no more than a child back then – a prince perhaps, but he had seen not thirteen summers yet and, as inconsequential as this might sound, she had stood taller than him. While his manners had already been those of an adult, it had been much easier for her to regard him as a friend, or even a younger brother.

But this young man, he wasn’t the Larsa she knew. They had continued their correspondence all through these years, sharing stories of wild adventures and palatial life, but she had not realized how much he had changed until she met him in person. Or maybe he hadn’t changed at all. Maybe this was the real Larsa, the side he had chosen not to show her three years ago, the side his youthful façade of a boy could have still hidden.

“Do you know that I love you?”

Penelo felt the sharp intake of breath she unconsciously took, her eyes quickly darting to his hard face. Her heart was beating loudly against her chest as the most uncontrollable panic she had every felt ambushed her out of nowhere. There was no way she could answer that.

“You know, don’t you?” He held her gaze steadily, no inflection of any kind in his voice. “But you love Vaan.”

She shook her head wildly, her teeth sinking into dry lips. “I don’t know. Please don’t ask me again, I...” she trailed off and looked down to her tightly clasped hands, shaking slightly.

“Penelo,” he spoke again, his tone of voice compelling her to look at him once more, “I confess my heart to you as a man. Do not mistake it as a demand from an emperor. I respect your feelings and I shall respect your choice, no matter what it is.”

“But it isn’t fair,” she answered edgily, some of the tremors already trickling into her voice. “You say those things to me while I’m here, living at your mercy. It…”

“Penelo–“

“It isn’t fair!” she heard herself shouting, found her entire body shaking, either at the impact or her own uncontainable misery. He flinched slightly but his face, if it was even possible, only grew stonier under her continuous onslaught. It was an intense silence between them, minutes lapping after minutes until one of them – he – ventured to speak once more.

“I apologize if my confession caused you any uneasiness.” A hint of remorse, but formality was all she could detect. “It was not my intention at all.”

“I believe you wish to know about Vaan,” his voice had returned to its normal level of composure and Penelo suddenly felt that she could breathe again. Larsa was looking at her with his grey eyes, almost dark in the dimming wash of light as the sun descended even farther into the west. “As far as I know, his name has once again been cleared as the Queen has regained her consciousness three days ago. His life is in no immediate threat as of now, but I have reasons to believe that he is still in Rabanastre.”

“Of course he is,” she murmured, bitterness reflected only too palpably on her tight voice and, she imagined, her face too. This, of course, did not escape him.

“Then I shall take my leave.” He rose to his feet and Penelo found herself following the action without thinking. Again she was struck at the difference of their height, more than noticeable now it stood as he kept his distance across the table. “You can speak to Feria if you need anything else,” he added and the eyes which stared into hers were contrite, almost rueful. “And please, Penelo, do not burden yourself with my whims or any other selfish impulses I might have exhibited this evening. I shall not speak of it anymore if you so wish.”

Penelo wished she could bring herself to smile, but all she could manage was a small nod.

“Thank you.”

-----

The chamber was warm. Too warm, in her opinion. The air was stifling, stagnant, as if the lingering darkness had chased away every little wisp of wind and filled the space left behind with endless void and silence. Night usually had its own voices, subdued though they might be compared to daylight, but tonight everything only fell dead to her ears.

Ashe rolled over to her side, sighing quietly. Perhaps she had been too used to the static cacophony in her head after days and nights of endless fever as she slipped in and out of consciousness. The silence was nearly unbearable now, only broken every now and then by the distant sound of footsteps, pacing in the hall. Her security had been quadrupled since the second incident, including her access to any food, water, or medicine and this time, she knew that she did not have any reasonable grounds to protest.

Or perhaps it was due to the deprivation of her nocturnal habit. Her muscles felt lethargic after almost two weeks without any strenuous activity, but her mind had gained its old sharpness back. Several glasses of fine Rozarrian wine usually helped to lull her consciousness to sleep, but since she was still under medication, any alcoholic beverage was off-limits. The queen sighed again, longing for the sweetness twisted with a faint hint of bitterness to soothe her dry throat, lend her just the distraction she needed.

She slowly sat up, repelling the incoming wave of lightheadedness the action resulted, and reached for a goblet of water situated on the low table next to her bed. Her fingers had just touched its cool, metallic surface when a heavy, muffled sound came from the direction of the balcony and stilled her hand. On the next second, she had found the dagger under her pillow and grasped it tightly, the glinting blade poised in front of her chest as she waited in tense silence.

The footfalls were light and faint, leather against woven carpets – the intruder was being extremely careful. Ashe thought about the guards in front of her door, panic catching up a moment later when she realized that she could no longer hear any footstep in the hall. Had they been also taken care of? Why hadn’t she heard anything?

It wouldn’t be the first time, a part of her mind reflected grimly. A ruler could not always please everyone and sometimes the dissatisfaction was great enough for them to resort to more drastic measures, such as trying to assassinate her. Perhaps it was just her luck that she had trouble sleeping this night. Her body had not forgotten its training, but her senses had evidently been dulled somewhat.

The intruder moved further into the royal chamber and Ashe was ready to lunge forward and make the first move when a patch of pale light streaming down from the window fell on his features. She gasped, recognizing the trespasser as Vaan. The tension straining her muscles and nerves dispersed immediately and her hand fell to her side, the hilt of the dagger from her limp fingers to embroidered sheets.

“By Raithwall, Vaan, you frightened me,” she said faintly, her voice weak from overwhelming relief.

The young sky pirate stopped just next to her bed, rubbing the back of his head in a moment of awkwardness. “I’m sorry. I… just want to see if you’re okay. It’s a bad time, I know, but…” he made a helpless gesture, head bowed low to his chest, and then repeated, more sincerely, “I’m really sorry.”

Ashe closed her eyes for a moment, calming her erratic heartbeat before looking at her uninvited guest once more. “There are two guards out there in the balcony.”

Blue eyes flickered toward her face, a familiar glint in them. “Yes.”

“You attacked them.”

“I made them sleep for a little while, yes,” his voice held a trace of apology but the curve of his grin was anything but repentant.

“I cannot believe you, Vaan,” she reproached, trying to sound indignant but knew very well that her lips were smiling. It was difficult not to, especially when seeing that grin on his face. “How did you do it? There is a magic barrier in the palace ground.”

“With a more conventional method,” he admitted with sheer lack of compunction.

“Indeed.” The queen brought a hand to her temple, feeling the beginning of a headache. There would definitely be questions tomorrow, which she completely had no idea how to answer. After all, two healthy grown men could not just pass out without reason. And then suspicions would follow and she would have the head of her Royal Guard breathing down her neck about this… extraordinary phenomenon.

Feigning ignorance seemed to be her best choice to avoid any more problems. Inwardly sighing, she motioned for him to sit at the edge of her bed, deciding that to drag a chair would entail having unnecessary sounds which might attract her guards’s attention now that she knew nothing had happened to them. Vaan only hesitated for a moment before taking up her offer and carefully sitting down.

“You look better than I thought,” he said quietly, keeping his voice as low as possible.

“Yes, my conditions have vastly improved since yesterday.” She bit her lips and held his gaze. “I really apologize for the inconvenience these incidents have caused you, Vaan. I have instructed Minister Pavarell to withdraw every charge he has placed on you.”

His eyes narrowed slightly at her words. “And your minister doesn’t disagree?”

She gave him a wry smile. “You do not have to worry about it.”

“No, that’s my problem too,” he declared and leant closer to her. “I know I can be stupid sometimes, but I do realize that you are the Queen. I’m a sky pirate. You can’t endorse me publicly.” A pause and then he added softly, “Don’t do it.”

Ashe felt her fingers squeezing each other on her lap, the beginning of helplessness building on the parched, barren surface of her heart. “But you are innocent,” she argued.

He smiled – a smile which was so gentle that it almost seemed strange on his face. “As long as you believe it, I don’t care about anything else.”

The words had their immediate impact. Ashe could only stare at him, heart dancing wildly, uncomfortably, painfully in her chest. For one brief instant, she was seeing Balthier again, his easy smirk and grace and velvety voice – because I’m the leading man, Princess – and it brought such immense agony to her that she had to look away. Wave after wave of memories crashed against the shore of her mind, angry at being suppressed for so long. Love did not tolerate. It overwhelmed, hurt, destroyed. It was mindless. It was vengeful.

“Ashe?” The anxious tone riddling her name pulled her back to present. Vaan’s face was too close and it took all her restraint not to overreact and hysterically push him away. Or draw him close and feel once more what human warmth was. He was not Balthier, he was not Rasler, but things were not that simple either.

Don’t fall into the same hole twice, she reminded herself sternly, shaking her head to clear her mind. Gods only knew how long it had taken for her to recover from the last fall. She could not afford dealing with the same pain, not under this shadow of threat to her life.

“Larsa sent words that Penelo is fine,” Ashe diverted the subject of the conversation once she had found the courage to speak again, ignoring the slight tremor in her voice. “He asked me to deliver the message if I met you.”

Another smile, fraught with relief, brightened his face. “That’s good. I know she will be much safer with him.”

She raised a curve of eyebrow, already regaining her equilibrium with the focus of their discussion pulled away from her. “Than with you? Vaan, she is your partner.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Still, I don’t want her to get hurt. This is my own problem. I brought this to myself and she shouldn’t have to suffer because of it.”

“Indeed she will be safer in Archadia,” she finally admitted. “Larsa will make sure of that.”

“What about you?” His blue eyes were once more on her and Ashe fought down a grimace when she realized that the topic had returned to her.

“What about me, Vaan?” she inquired, maintaining the evenness of her voice.

“I was thinking,” he began thoughtfully, “about what I did tonight, how I got in here. Have you ever thought having a personal bodyguard – I mean, a female bodyguard? You know, to stay with you all the time in case something happens.”

“The idea crossed my mind once,” the queen replied, “but before I could express it to Minister Pavarell, I, as you know, had been once again poisoned.”

“You really should get one,” Vaan said decisively. “So far, they’ve failed twice through poisoning. There’s no guarantee they won’t resort to a more vicious tactic. Hell, if I can slip in without making too much ruckus, why can’t they?”

Ashe allowed herself a thin smile. “Then perhaps it is my security system which is in dire need of an evaluation.”

“Still, better safe than sorry,” he continued to press on. “Do you think you can find someone good enough for the job?”

“I don’t think it is the problem, Vaan,” she finally acknowledged the subject, struggling to keep her voice level. She hated being powerless, but she obliged herself to continue, “I must admit that these recent incidents have made clear of certain points I have constantly tried to overlook. I… right now I do not know who I still can trust.”

His blue eyes widened a fraction. She could see the battle in them – guilt, shame, a sprinkle of anger at himself – and felt them mirrored in her own heart.

“I never thought…” he breathed out, his voice quivering slightly. “If I have known–“

“There was nothing you could do,” she interrupted him smoothly, a feeling of numbness starting to spread. “Besides, I am the ruler of my people. I should have known better.”

Even though it hurt all the same.

Even though everything had been unfair from the start.

Justice was a subject she often reflected upon, especially in the darkest hours when despair was only a hair’s breadth away. And then she would be tempted to blame her entire predicament to injustice. To be a ruler was not an easy matter, let alone to rule wisely. She had not been extensively trained in politics and governmental matters. She was a princess with eight older brothers – who had ever thought that in the end they would have to rely on her to run the kingdom? But she had done everything she could, since the time of her hiding as Amalia, learning from her uncle and her people, scraping every bit of knowledge and weaving them together into this delicate tapestry which could barely hold together, let alone the entire system of Dalmasca.

But here she was, a queen with nothing to believe in but the cold embrace of a long dead husband and a love that would always be a little out of reach.

“Aren’t you afraid?” Ashe looked up, finding Vaan looking at her with such intensity that she couldn’t help a shiver. An unreadable look was painted on his face, but the question was another matter entirely.

“I…” she trailed off and then realized that she didn’t know the answer.

She didn’t know the answer.

It was a cold realization, of something she had long since recognized and yet never dared to admit. Ashe felt the desperate laughter bubbling up her throat.

“You’ve been poisoned twice,” he said again, a hard note entering his voice, “and both were almost successful. Aren’t you afraid for your life? Or even at all?”

She realized she almost answered ‘no’.

That was what she had been trained in – white lies, pretend, smile, because politics had no use for emotions unless they could serve one’s cause. A safer route, but a lie nonetheless. She was tired of lies.

“Yes.”

It was almost foreign, the taste of honesty on her tongue.

The hard lines on his features softened and he suddenly reached for her trembling hands, clasping them in his. “I’m sorry,” the words left his mouth in a rush. “After saying all those stuffs to you, friends forever and that rubbish, I…” He bit his lips, anger twisting his face. “Some friend I am. I–“

“Don’t say that, Vaan,” Ashe heard her own quivering voice and wished that it didn’t sound so weak. “I shut you out too – and everyone else in that matter. I am partly to blame.”

The warm fingers around hers tightened. “I will never leave you again,” he said quietly, solemnly, earnestly. “I swear on my brother’s name.”

His words echoed in her ears, making her heart twist painfully in her chest, but the queen forced herself to smile.

End Chapter Four

-----

Fic: The Half-Fallen Prologue (C!Syaoran x R!Syaoran)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 00:37:17 GMT

Title: Dirge in the Night (The Half-Fallen Prologue)
Author: Atthla
Fandom: Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle
Pairing: Clonecest
Rating: M for the entire story. R for this chapter.
Warnings: See Pairing and Rating above. Angst. Classic angel-and-demon AU.
Summary: Light and dark. Angel and demon. That they have the same face is only the beginning of the problem.
Challenge: 30_angsts #9. Hide-and-Seek (~shattered heart)
Word Count: 791

Notes: The utter seme-ness of C!Syaoran in the deluxe cover of volume 23 is entirely responsible for the birth of this fic. Hope everyone enjoy!

-----

Syaoran closed his eyes and felt his muscles gave away as he collapsed onto the bed with a low moan, the crushing weight of his clone following on top of him. He heard himself groaning softly in protest, but otherwise made no attempt to budge or urge the other to move away. The chest against his back was warm and slick with sweat and the harsh, shallow breathing on the back of his neck made his fingers curl against the cold blanket.

It was almost unfair, the way he could make him feel.

Seconds, and then minutes, met their silent death without a fuss, drifting into passing with each wasted breath. Syaoran felt oddly alive. Without the hum of magic in his blood. Without the ornate hilt of his sword clasped between too-tight fingers. Without duty, or any obligation to stand in anyone’s way, least of all the person he had come to love much more than he should. He lay there and felt, the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of the other’s breathing, and listened, to the voiceless confessions whispered to his senses, to the subtle change in the voice of the wind, blending with so many other nocturnal sounds.

He could almost smile, and pretend that the world had not taken from them more than it should.

When his clone finally shifted, lips brushing his nape in passing, Syaoran couldn’t help a shiver. The sudden absence of warmth invited wisps of night breeze to dance across his naked skin as a finger slowly trailed its way down his spine. A pair of lips followed, first resting on his shoulder blade before moving southward, slow, lazy kisses marking their quiet journey. Syaoran bit down a gasp when something hot and pliant grazed the patch of coarse skin on his back, the flimsy seal – the only one – to his charcoal-black wings.

“Wait,” he whispered, voice rough though certainly not from lack of use, considering the amount of moaning and screaming he had done in the last hour. He turned around and caught his clone’s wayward hand, feeling the fingers coil instinctively around his. The look on the other’s face made his stomach clench painfully and it took his entire willpower not to look away. Those raw emotions, strained against a hard, expressionless mask in the field of emptiness. It was obvious that they were fighting this battle in vain.

“Tomorrow,” the clone started, but seemed to have lost both the head and tail of his sentence before he could continue. The blank, unyielding façade slipped a little and for a fraction of a moment, he wasn’t the merciless Archangel of War, only a boy who had no idea what to do with these emotions wreaking so much havoc in his chest.

“Is tomorrow,” Syaoran heard himself responding calmly – as calmly as his trembling voice allowed it. It was already past midnight, but if the difference between tomorrow and today was only made by one small, insignificant second, why would it matter?

It would. He closed his eyes, swallowing a bitter laugh. Oh but it would.

There was a light kiss to the corner of his lips and he found the mismatched eyes regarding him closely, silently, a slight frown on the otherwise flawless mask. Syaoran tried to smile. He could almost delude himself that there was a ghost of affection in those eyes, a loving caress to his blackened soul. He wanted to speak, but the heavy lump which had suddenly settled in his throat rendered speech beyond his reach. Words tightly wound into knots, impossible to unravel, and it was only because tears were the bane of every demon that he forced himself to speak again.

“Tomorrow is tomorrow,” he repeated, his voice faltering at the end, and crushed his clone’s lips against him to stifle a sob that was threatening to break away from his throat. His chest felt like it was about to burst, but he only pulled the other closer, allowing no room for notions like battles or angels and demons between them. It was a night that belonged only to them. Now. This moment.

Sunrise would mark the beginning of their war.

But it was not until the hours of the night had further deepened, until the only sound echoing in his ears had softened into a low set of breathing, quiet against the base of his neck, until his fingers had gently threaded themselves in the mass of much-too-familiar brown hair, that he dared to lend his thoughts once more the barest voice.

“I love you,” he whispered, an admission to shatter centuries of battle and burn bridges of long-standing enmities.

But the words, without witness, only fell dead against the silence of the room.

End Dirge in the Night

-----

Fic: All That Matters (Kurogane x Tomoyo)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 15:31:45 GMT

Title: All That Matters
Author: Atthla
Fandom: Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle
Pairing: Kurogane x Tomoyo
Rating: PG at most
Disclaimer: CLAMP owns all.
Word Count: 2159

Summary: A place between a master and her servant.

Timeline: I think this happens after everything which happens Tsubasa. While we don't know yet how it will end, let's just pretend and go with the story, shall we?
Notes: A birthday present for dreamzworld. The first time I’ve ever written this pairing, but I hope you enjoy it! Happy birthday!

-----

It was the silence.

Tomoyo sighed quietly and let her hand fall from the window sill to her lap. She generally found silence enjoyable, if only for the reason that it usually heralded the advent of the night and that peace had persevered for another day. It meant a lot in a country as chaotic as Nihon. Too few had the days seen not a drop of blood, or taken not a life, those dear to her country and her people. Night was like a mother who embraced them all with her unconditional tranquility – a blanket of protection, however frail or transient.

It was not to say that night did not have its dangers. She knew well of its threats, the dark opportunities shadows offered to those who meant harm to others. She had been the target of some of those malicious intents herself, far too often for her to remain ignorant of the dangers, but silence, as it was, continued to be something she allowed herself to indulge in.

This silence was different. It filled her with dread, tendrils of fear coiling around her fingers, cutting into her skin. The castle was no longer thrumming with life, the absence of its mistress more marked than ever as snow fell quietly to the ground, draping the white shroud of death across everything that was mortal. It drove her crazy.

“Tomoyo?”

Like he did.

The princess slowly tore her gaze from the drizzle of snowflakes outside and looked at the man kneeling before her, her voice easily gliding over the silence. “Yes, Kurogane?”

“The men are ready, I must leave as soon as possible,” he said, impatience rumbling low in the air, shattering the silence to pieces. He was never a patient man, Tomoyo reflected with a sigh. Always ready to charge into battles, to protect those he had chosen to protect, to defend his personal sense of justice.

And she was a stubborn woman. Never a good pair, they were.

“Don’t you think tonight is beautiful?” she said tranquilly, her eyes already shifting toward the window again. The snow remained a slow drizzle in the castle ground and she almost frowned at the sight. She usually liked snow. What was it about tonight that made it different?

“Beautiful?” The word left Kurogane’s mouth like a curse, and she didn’t need to look at him to see the emotions spattered on his face – astonishment, disapproval, sharp spikes of anger, sparks of incredulity. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s a full moon,” she answered softly and raised her hand to watch the pale glimmer of light slip and slide between her fingers. “I love full moons.”

It was an old game. Patience was his weakness and she took delight in shredding it to pieces, often with something as small as words of no importance. He would explode and she would smile pleasantly, all innocence and amiability, and somehow, it was the balance of their world. The only balance she knew how to maintain.

“Your sister is waiting at the frontline,” his reply was sharp, a sign of an impending storm, “and I have a kingdom to protect. Do you think you can skip the small talk and just get on with it?”

It was only then when she turned to look at him again. “You have protected that kingdom,” she told him, a hint of firmness in her voice. “Many times. Over and over again.”

“And I will continue protecting Nihon,” he declared and the determination in his eyes made her heart clench painfully. “And you.”

Tomoyo felt a smile touch her lips. “Why, Kurogane, I’m very flattered.”

“Like you don’t know that,” he growled, red eyes glaring in the dark veil of the night. She could sense his embarrassment, but the light was too dim for her to make sure of anything. Pity. She was almost certain that the line had served its purpose – which was to make him bristle or blush, either a chief source of her entertainment regardless of the circumstances.

But the war, Tomoyo reminded herself and closed her eyes, escaping from the wave of helplessness which was threatening to rise and swallow her. The ever-so-despicable war. The never-ending war. Her homeland had suffered from its malice for as long as history could remember, ravaged by its hatred, its eternal chain of killing-or-be-killed. She was just another soul – they were just another soul – caught in the whirlwind of destruction as Fate slowly weaved her grotesque, blood-stained tapestry with the blood and tears of fallen warriors and priestesses.

Life, she discovered, went on.

“I will only allow you to go under one condition,” the princess heard herself murmuring.

“What?” he barked, the rough inflection of his voice scratching the surface of the silence like a jagged knife. It should have cut her, Tomoyo thought silently, and then perhaps she wouldn’t feel so numb.

“You have to promise…”

…that you will come back safely.

“…that you will bring back the snowdrop flower for me,” she finished, her voice almost flat at the end.

Another silence occurred, and then he deadpanned, “The snowdrop flower.”

“Yes,” Tomoyo realized that she was smiling placidly, an utter contrast to the shrill, hysterical voice echoing in the back of her mind, laughing at her defeat – cowardice. “The snowdrop flower. And I will be very happy if you can find more than one for me.”

“I don’t have time for your jokes.” Anger had resurfaced – everywhere, not only on his strained countenance.

“Jokes are when I ask you to bring me the severed limbs of your enemy, Kurogane,” she told him calmly. “This is perfectly serious.”

“The enemy is drawing near to our border by the minute,” he retorted and it was clear to anyone who cared to listen that he was fighting against his all instincts not to strangle her, “and you ask me to bring you a damn flower?”

“You have no sense of humor at all,” Tomoyo said with a sigh, surprising even herself with this unperturbed charade she still managed to continue.

“It’s a total waste of time. Like yours.”

“It will make you live longer,” she reasoned but her voice was weak. Something in that sentence grazed the truth a little – a little, but also much too close than what she was comfortable with. Of course she wanted Kurogane to live longer – these things went without saying.

Why did it suddenly matter tonight?

“You said the men were ready?” Tomoyo turned her attention to the kneeling ninja, running away from her own question.

“Yes.”

“Then we should make haste,” she rose to her feet and stood in front of him, looking down to his tempestuous eyes. Eyes of a warrior in the eve of battle. Eyes to be feared, to be respected, to be worried of because they were the eyes of a man ready to die for an honourable cause. She might have teased him about it every now and then, but she knew better than to laugh or make fun of it. Principles had killed more valiant men and women than any other cause. They were something worth dying for.

How pitiful of her to deprive him of his chance to defend his principles. Even a master had no right to do that. And a master was all she would ever be to him. Someone to serve. Someone to pledge loyalty to. Someone to protect. Someone to die for.

But not someone to love.

She closed her eyes, quelling the pain which had suddenly erupted in her chest. Again, this was unusual. She was not usually bothered by this, as it should be for one in her position. It wasn’t about weakness or propriety or anything else equally mundane. It was just something that was not. None. Never.

Lifting her hands to rest against her breast, fingers forming a pyramid against each other, she began the ceremony. It was a brief and simple one, from a master to her servant in order to bestow blessing and protection, as tradition had continued to withstand through the ages. A matter of formality, but it was always personal for her – it had to be, if the one thing she was guarding her subjects against was death itself.

“My brave and faithful servant,” she spoke quietly, “the oaths you have taken, fulfill them all and go with my blessing.”

A circle of light materialized around her fingers, bathing the room in a pale, mellow glow, and then dispersed into thousands of golden threads. Gliding across the expanse between them, the thin wisps wound themselves around him, disappearing at the first contact with his skin, followed by another, and then another. She watched as light and shadow danced across his face, eyes reverently closed, and couldn’t help but wish that she could give him something more, something that wouldn’t disappear with the slightest gust of air.

Tomoyo frowned as the last glowing thread dissolved against the darkness. Those were forbidden thoughts, she reproached herself. What good was a protection spell if the caster had no faith in it herself ?

Kurogane rose to his feet, the dark fire in his eyes making her shiver, and she couldn’t hold back saying, “I know you will succeed.”

“Of course,” he snorted and turned toward the door, his heavy footsteps an ominous tandem to her heartbeat. She stood silently, her eyes already watching the slow descent of snow outside once more. It was always the hardest part of being ‘Tsukuyomi’, letting the people she loved ride to war and face the enemy head on while she stayed behind, carrying out her duty to guard the kekkai. Someone had to do it for the sake of their country and it was not as if she could be of much use in a real battlefield, but sometimes Tomoyo wished that she could do something more for those she loved. Her sister. Him. Her people.

“This snowdrop,” Kurogane’s voice suddenly echoed in the deathly silent chamber, pulling her away from the mourning side of loneliness, and she realized that he had stopped at the threshold, glancing back at her over his shoulder, “what kind of flower is it?”

There was a brief moment of silence before the princess could answer. “A small one,” she said, a faint tremor in her voice she couldn’t quite cover. “White, blooming in a field of snow.” A pause, fingers curling on her dark kimono. “Beautiful.”

“All flowers are beautiful to you women,” the comment was uttered callously, followed by an unsympathetic huff, and before she could find an appropriate response, he was already gone.

The emptiness of his departure almost overwhelmed her. It had probably been hours before she fell back to her seat, hands powerless on her side, eyes all but seeing in the frozen darkness. Time dragged on, painted by memory long since buried but not forgotten. She hadn't forgotten, not the moment when he had returned from this journey she had sent him to. The first time, he had lost an arm. The second time, he had lost much more than that.

A friend. And he had come back to her a complete mess. Angry. Miserable. Broken. Barely, barely alive.

Her intake of breath was sharp and shaky as she shook herself out of the grasp of those harrowing memories. Death wasn’t something she was unfamiliar with. Unpredictable. Merciless. Omnipotent. Like so many others, Kurogane was only another mortal. She thought of those times she had spent in his company, teasing him, taking delight in watching him boil in anger – or even better, embarrassment – as he continued to protect her and she him. A complete circle of balance, but it would only take Death one flick of its finger and what was left between them would only be chances left untaken and endless regrets.

And suddenly she was already on her feet, running across empty halls and murky corridors lit by flickering torches, the sound of her footfalls eclipsed by her thundering heartbeat. The cold night air whipped across her face, biting her cheeks ad burning her lungs, but she could only think of him and these unspoken words she had withheld too long.

It was in the snow-covered castle ground where she finally found him, in the middle of his final preparation. He looked surprised to see her, as well as his soldiers, but Tomoyo could hardly spare her attention on matters like appearances or decency as she clutched to her chest, her eyes only seeing him.

“Promise me that you’ll come back safely,” she whispered, her voice faint amidst gasping breaths and thick curtains of desperation.

To me.

“To me.”

There wasn’t an emotion on his stony face for a long moment, but when those rigid lines around his mouth dissolved into the slightest of smiles, Tomoyo thought that she had never seen anything so beautiful.

“I will,” he muttered, awkwardness and sincerity blending in his voice. “I must bring you the flower anyway.”

“I shall be waiting,” she replied, a smile on her slightly trembling lips – a mockery of better laughs in better times. But for the moment it was enough, and she stood there, alone yet unwavering, as he passed through the castle gate to greet the red dawn.

End

Fic: Point of No Return (Kurogane x RSyaoran)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Sun, 02 Mar 2008 06:03:11 GMT

Title: Point of No Return
Author: Atthla
Fandom: Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle
Pairing: Kurogane x RSyaoran
Warning: Angst. Spoilers.
Rating: T or PG-13
Disclaimer: CLAMP owns all.
Challenge: 30_romances #19. Home Body ; Bubbles ; Stay
Word Count: 3246

Summary: Dealing with guilt is never easy, especially when both of them are running away. Sequel to Oubliette.

Notes: This takes place directly after Oubliette, so you may want to read it first before proceeding with this one.

-----

Syaoran had never felt more lost in his life.

And that was saying something. After what had happened in Tokyo, topped with the cold treatment he had subsequently received from the group, he thought that he had made ‘lost’ a good acquaintance enough.

Obviously he was wrong – Kurogane had proven that much to him.

His face burned at the mere thought of the man and Syaoran rolled over to his side, recoiling from what he could only describe as shame. He wished that the disturbing memories could stop pestering the measly remnant of his sanity and just let him die in peace. There was no way he could live with this mortification, let alone come to terms with it.

And the worst hadn’t arrived yet. He hadn’t met Kurogane again after that… incident which made him want to dig a hole and hide from the world for the rest of his miserable life.

Syaoran buried his face in the pillow with a groan. Imagining the meeting alone already scared him beyond his wits that going through the entire ordeal concerning his clone once more was actually a less daunting thought. It had felt like a walk in the park compared to this.

No, maybe not so much, but still. He was surprised that the embarrassment hadn’t killed him yet.

Or maybe it was a dream, some kind of nightmare conjured by high fever and too much sleep. He couldn’t exactly tell where reality had ended and the dream begun – and his fever, while it had ebbed a little, remained a misty obscurity hanging over his brain – but the theory wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. In fact, it was a rather plausible explanation, because why else would he allow something like that to happen? The idea that he was having a dream about that was disturbing enough, but it was still vastly better than having the whole deed carried out in reality.

Yes, it must be a dream.

Syaoran would have been able to convince himself if not for Kurogane’s vanishing act since early morning.

It wasn’t hard to put two and two together, especially seeing how attentive the ninja had been only the day before and suddenly, this out-and-out disappearance. Mokona had been with him the entire day, Fay had come in once or twice to deliver the meal and make some inquiry about his condition, but there was no sign of Kurogane at all. Like, at all. Hours drifted in and out, as well as his waking moments as the day grew old, and there was still no sign of him.

Sighing, Syaoran rolled over again, now facing the window which shone bright gold in the setting sun. The light hurt his eyes, but he welcomed any kind of distraction as long as it could make him stop thinking about the night before. Nothing good would come from it, not when the only thing he could think about was how wonderful the older man’s hand had felt on his burning skin.

He couldn’t really describe it. Those things he had only ever heard about in passing, through his clone, merely in disjointed whispers and pieces. It had made the other boy blush bright red back then and now Syaoran understood why. Of course. It had felt too good, much too good to possibly be anything but sinful. The way he begged. The way he made those whimpering sounds. The way he squeezed his eyes in something more than just humiliation. The way he clung to the ninja as his hips continued their relentless rhythm. And then the way that sharp, crushing wave of pleasure made his entire body convulse, made the air leave his lungs in one violent gush, made him scream.

And they left him vulnerable. Helpless. Like he was in pieces, detached from each other, mere lifeless parts of a broken doll. It was a mistake and what was left of his brain, still thickly hazed by that sickening pleasure, knew it.

But he wanted to see Kurogane. The thought made his insides curl in fright and the reason why he must see the older man completely eluded him, but needs were not something you compromised. And this was need, a dire one, curling around his neck to choke the life out of him. He could hear the desperate voice in his head – pleading, screaming, because if he had to lose the only person who didn’t flinch or look away when they saw him, he would go mad.

A few minutes had passed before Syaoran realized that he was shaking, arms wrapped tight around himself, hot tears stinging his eyes.

-----

He was running away.

Anyone could tell that he was running away. Kurogane, being a constant practitioner of the art and artistry of denial, just didn’t want to admit it.

It felt like he had been running away forever. Last night had been bad enough, but there were situations which offered no choice but one. He didn’t return until sunrise, until he was sufficiently cold and numb from the lashing downpour. The kid was still asleep when he came in, looking so peaceful and utterly without concern in the cradle of oblivion, his chest rising and falling quietly with the rhythm of his breathing. The picture twisted and knotted Kurogane’s stomach and it felt so damn hurt that he couldn’t look away.

It had been the sound of a door opening somewhere outside that roughly jerked him out of his trance and sent him scrambling toward the second running-away sequence. After mumbling something about getting medicines for both Syaoran and Sakura to Fay’s carefully blank face, he was out of the door within seconds.

The town wasn’t that far and there really was no reason for him to stay out the entire day, but he did it anyway. It had nothing to do with the kid, of course, or even Fay in that matter. He was only not particularly interested to find out why he did what he did.

Because people in denial would always deny that they were in denial. It was just how the law went.

Fine. Yes. Okay. It was about the kid.

The same one he had jerked off last night.

And yes, it was also why he had found himself spending the whole day in a goddamn bar. Kurogane didn’t think he could screw up worse than this.

It all had started with the other Syaoran and this twisted journey they had embarked on. Two adults and two kids, all complete strangers except for the latter pair – and even that was one-sided – traveling together hunting for feathers. It couldn’t sound more surreal than that.

It proved to be not as surreal or ridiculous in reality. They were spending days and hours and minutes being together, which didn’t exactly allow their unfamiliarity with each other to last. Their first and highest barrier, language, had crumbled instantly with Mokona’s aid, and slowly but surely, the rest began to follow. They learned to recognize their respective roles, if only for the sake of making this impossible arrangement work, and before he knew it, he was the protector of the group and the kid’s mentor, and this small, dysfunctional family was born.

Well, it could have been a lot worse.

Syaoran was… impossible to dislike. Maybe his I’m-her-knight-in-the-shining-armour tendencies grated on his nerves sometimes, but he generally liked the kid. And as unwilling as he was to admit it, he had enjoyed spending his times with Syaoran. Talking with him, answering his questions, teaching him how to be a real man – just like real fathers would. Or sometimes big brothers. It was an odd balance between them, the thing which had kept them going at difficult times. Because there was no one he would trust with his back more than the boy. Because there were secrets only the two of them could keep. It was a precarious balance, but it worked nevertheless.

And then Tokyo happened.

Kurogane sometimes wondered if they would have been less miserable had the newcomer possessed fewer similarities to the boy he was playing substitute for. The same face, the same voice, the same fucking stubbornness, but he could tell that there was something different. Something more innate than physical qualities or personality traits. It was driving him crazy. This other kid didn’t quite fit the equation he had set to keep their balance in check. He didn’t know how to look at him, what to think of him.

It still didn’t justify what he had done to the boy last night though.

Both of them. He wasn’t talking about the hand job only.

Night had long since settled in when he finally gathered enough courage to leave the bar and return home, slightly tipsy from the amount of drink he had gulped down. The trip was uneventful, which was unfortunate because with his current state of mind, a long silent walk was an absolute torture to his sanity. A few monsters would have been able to distract him from the unwanted thoughts but no, they had to choose this night to hide in their fucking hole. It didn’t help that the bag of medicine, tightly gripped between his fingers, kept reminding him to the sick boy, and the bed with it white sheet twisted in one hand, and the fact that there were some things that should never, ever be.

After what felt like both an eternity and a flash, flattened together into one highly screwed-up impact, the house stood dark and quiet in front of him, almost dead in the silence of the night. It must be past midnight already. The air felt different on his skin, not comforting but slowly crawling and spreading chill as wind traveled across its intangible surface.

Fay had left the front door unlocked and he pushed it open only to find the inside of the house as dark as the outside. To say that he was relieved would be a total understatement. Kurogane was a man of principle and hated cowardice to the point of disgust, but the relief was so overwhelming that such scruples failed to bother him. Quietly, his feet making only the slightest sound, he went straight to the bedroom he was sharing with Syaoran, steadfastly ignoring the sudden increase of his heartbeat.

Which came to an abrupt stop once he realized that he was looking at an empty bed.

Panic seized him and he rushed to the kitchen, half wishing to see the kid for whatever reason standing in the middle of a broken glass again, but discovered it to be empty. His mind took a turn to many darker scenarios, but before he could act on any of them, the door to the bathroom opened with a definite creak and walked out Syaoran, hair wet, eyes widening at the sight of him.

“Kurogane-san,” his name left the boy’s mouth in a breathy gasp and the sound instantly wreaked havoc to his equanimity – or what remained of it after the panic attack earlier. At the same time, a needle pricked the inflating balloon of dread in his chest because nothing worse than the kid going to the bathroom actually happened and it left him slightly weak on the knees.

That was until he found another subject to pin his attention to. Namely the less-than-dry state of Syaoran’s hair.

Disbelief, anger, horror caught up faster than the earth-shattering waves of tsunami. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, witnessing how the tone of his voice made the boy flinch involuntarily. He seemed to be doing that a lot these days. Especially to Syaoran.

“I was–“

“Never mind,” he cut the boy short and dragged him to the bedroom, blood boiling in his veins. The skin under his fingers was cold, colder than it should have been possible because the kid had a fucking fever. The word ‘cold’ shouldn’t even come within a-hundred feet of him.

But it was easier like this. Annoyance had chased off that stupid jumble of misery and concern. He knew his grounds here – it was more familiar, more comfortable to go through all the mechanical haze of wrapping the kid in every piece of clothing he could find and using a towel to dry his hair with festering anger. Syaoran never looked up even once, sitting silently on the edge of the bed with his gaze pinned to the floor. The silence dragged on, almost painful in the field of the unspoken as he tried not to pull away every time those brown locks brushed his fingers.

When Syaoran finally looked at him, there was this determination in his eyes which told Kurogane that he was about to enter what would have to be the most uncomfortable discussion in his life.

“About last night…”

And damn he was right.

Syaoran trailed off, quickly looking down again as the first shade of crimson stole over his face. Kurogane was a fearless warrior and he was damned proud of being one, but at this very moment, he very much wanted to escape from the room. Before the kid could find his courage again and say something that would haunt them both until the end of the world and beyond.

But the thing about being a man of principle was that said principle would never, ever allow him to run away from a battle. Especially when his opponent turned out to be a miserable fifteen-year-old boy with miserable eyes and miserable life and against whom he had committed a mistake with miserable outcomes. He knew that this conversation would end up in the ugliest way possible, but he could not run away. He could NOT run away. Imagine what it would do to the kid.

Kurogane could literally feel how the thought served its purpose and slowly nudged him to a point where he knew he would abandon all reasons and just give up. Guilt had its own conscience and for some unfathomable reasons, his seemed to be the most sensitive when it came to the boy.

The hell with it. He was walking straight to his doom anyway. Might as well be running into it.

“What?” he finally asked, only the barest hint of frustration in his voice.

“It was…” Syaoran began again and then paused, cheeks flaming, and Kurogane felt his heart drop into his stomach. “It… felt incredible. I mean–”

“It was your first time,” the ninja growled, resisting an urge to bang his head on the wall. Of course it was the boy’s first time. He had been trapped in a glass tube half his fucking life.

“Yes,” the admission was a weak, wretched whisper and Kurogane could see that the kid was ashamed of it. “But it was–“

“A mistake,” he interrupted, throat constricting around the word. It was a mistake. Nothing but a mistake. He could convince himself that and then perhaps he didn’t have to acknowledge that stunned, devastated look in Syaoran’s eyes. The look which told him that he had taken more than he should have. The look that twisted and squeezed his heart until it was impossible to feel anything but immense pain.

Somewhere in a distant part of his mind, it made him wonder. The kid had spent most of his time around them being reserved and aloof, never parading his emotions around and keeping them locked tight deep in a secret safe instead. But here they were, free for the entire world to read like an open book, to ridicule, to laugh at. It was almost like he had no control over them anymore, and this disturbed the ninja.

And then it hit him. Hard. Like a huge-ass boulder coming down the hillside.

Shit. Of course.

Last night had been about him succumbing to his darkest desires. And he had done it twice. The hand job wasn’t the only tool to destroy he had used. Words. Anger. Sheer desecration of self-control.

Disgust wasn’t even close to describe what he felt about himself right now.

Kurogane turned around, murmuring some inaudible excuse to escape from the room. He didn’t even know if it was guilt or something else. To run away had always been the easiest choice. It needed nothing but cowardice. He hated cowardice, but adding some more disgusts to the towering pile wouldn’t make much difference now.

He heard the rustles of the sheet, and then the sound of bare feet hitting the floor, but before he could figure out what they meant, Syaoran had caught up with him, trapping him in the circle of his arms. It shocked Kurogane so completely that he didn’t even flinch, only standing rooted to the floor because the only thing he could feel was those trembling fingers desperately digging into his stomach.

“Don’t leave me,” the kid’s voice was a wretched echo of a whisper – small, frail, shaky, like the whimpers of a scared, helpless animal. “Please.”

Kurogane was not an affectionate man. Anything remotely related to affection made him bristle like the brutal epitome of male dignity that he was, but when he felt the kid trembling like that, arms a pair of locks around his waist – as if afraid that he would disappear if they let go even for one second – he realized that things weren’t that simple. This was no longer about pride or dislikes. This was something more.

He turned around, pushing Syaoran’s arms down and holding them in his hands. The kid was a total mess, eyes red, pleading, begging, unashamed – or maybe just unable to handle anything as complicated as shame at the moment – of the tears running down his face and Kurogane realized that it was him who had reduced the kid into this.

He suddenly felt very sick.

“I’m sorry,” Syaoran whispered, raw, hurt, afraid, probably noticing the look on his face. “I’m really sorry. Please don’t leave me. Just… please…”

“No one’s going to,” Kurogane heard himself answering flatly, callously. His entire system seemed to have gone numb and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. “And what the hell are you sorry for?”

“For messing things up,” the desperation in the kid’s faint voice almost swallowed up everything, as well as the misery in his eyes. “You’re angry. Everyone’s angry.”

“No one’s angry,” he retorted, his voice suddenly sounding strangled. What the hell was happening to him?

“But I–“

“Shut up,” Kurogane snarled and pressed that tears-streaked face to his chest, his fingers digging into damp hair. He couldn’t look at it anymore. “Shut up. Just shut up.”

A choked sob escaped the kid’s mouth. He buried his face deeper and Kurogane didn’t let go, not even when he felt the dampness soaking through his shirt. Or when those arms came around his waist again, holding on to him like a fucking lifeline. Or when the sobs turned worse and violently wrecked that small body, so bad that the tremor reverberated in his muscles and made him draw Syaoran closer, tighter, if it was even possible.

He had so much to pay. So much to amend. Some of them were impossible to change, but he knew that he would spend the remaining of his life patching up the rest. Or die trying.

But for the moment, he just wanted to let the boy cry on his chest and hold him and pretend that nothing had broken so utterly beyond repair.

End

-----

I… made Syaoran cry a lot, didn’t I?

Fic: The Ballad of White and Pink (Kurogane x R!Syaoran)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Tue, 12 Feb 2008 10:34:08 GMT

Title: The Ballad of White and Pink
Author: atthla
Fandom: Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle
Pairing: Kurogane x R!Syaoran
Warning: Bad fluff and lame-ness. Also constant abuse of pinkness. This fic seriously makes me want to tear my hair out because oh God the fluff… OOC-ness can be expected too because… well, it’s way too fluffy for a story as angsty as Tsubasa.
Rating: T for language and a kiss.
Disclaimer: CLAMP owns all.
Challenge: 30_romances #07. Think pink ; Blow
Word Count: 3473

Summary: In which Kurogane wears pink and dances with Syaoran (and Fay laughs at them).

Notes: This is for the sake of fluff because I’m writing way too much angst lately. And for rufustehshinra’s Valentine challenge and prompt #7 in 30_romances too. Happy Valentine!

-----

“What the fuck is that?”

Fay, who was expectantly holding out a pink tuxedo and an equally pink necktie to him, answered cheerfully, “Your outfit for tonight’s ball. What’s the event called again? Ah, right. Valentine.”

“It’s pink.”

“Oh yes,” he nodded, the blinding smile unchanging, and held up that… hideous thing next to Kurogane’s face. “See? The colour suits your eyes.”

It was hard for the ninja not to curl his fingers around that flimsy neck and violently yank the other man back and forth. “Do you want to die, mage?”

“Whatever it takes you to wear it,” the blonde tried to imitate the brave, selfless look of martyrs in general, in which he failed spectacularly.

“Over my dead body.”

The smile on Fay’s face lost a little of its brilliance. “But Kuro-pon, this is for Sakura-chan’s sake,” he said - whined. Kurogane resisted an urge to scream at this display of unmanliness and satisfied himself by clenching and unclenching his fists instead. “We have to attend the ball, but only couples are allowed entry and the dress code is that one has to wear white while the other pink. And since we are a couple–”

“What couple? We’re two fucking men.”

“We aren’t.”

“Oh, you’re suddenly a damn woman now?”

The smile was still infuriatingly there. “I mean yes, we’re men, but we aren’t fucking,” Fay replied, all too cheerful for a subject as serious – disturbing – as this. And of course then he had to mildly add, “For now at least.”

Kurogane was a breath away from reaching for his katana when the mage shoved the tuxedo under his nose. “Do this for Sakura-chan.”

“Why don’t you wear it?” he bit out.

“It’s your size.”

“Why don’t you ask one with your size?”

“There’s no time, Kuro-pii,” Fay’s voice had risen another notch. “Oh, come on. I personally had it made and now you want to ditch my efforts?”

“I don’t give a fuck about your efforts,” the ninja growled. “I’m not wearing that thing.”

The mage’s face fell and for one triumphant moment, Kurogane let himself wallow in the sweetness of hard-earned victory. But good things never last long and this one was over all too quickly when Fay heaved a long-suffering sigh and started whispering to the general direction of the door.

“Kuro-sama is so stubborn. Poor Sakura-chan will have to fight for the feather alone tonight. Well, Syaoran-kun will be there to help her for sure, but what if something goes really wrong? They’ll have no one to help them, but of course there’s nothing we can do since we aren’t going to be there. Oh well,” he sighed, dabbing the corner of his eyes, and Kurogane swore that he saw tears. “I’m really sorry, Sakura-chan. It isn’t that Mummy doesn’t want to go. Mummy has tried his best, but Daddy just won’t–“

The ninja wrenched the disgusting piece of – God forbid – clothing from the mage’s hand and snarled, “Get out.”

“Oh, Daddy! I know you won’t abandon our lovely little da–“

Kurogane slammed the door on his face.

-----

Damn him to hell.

Damn them all to hell.

One would think that silently suffering this mortal blow to one’s masculinity was bad enough. After all, the great ninja Kurogane was wearing pink.

But no. It had to get worse, so much that ‘worse’ was too mild a word, much better used for describing things like fighting twenty-feet-tall monsters with bare hands or completely naked or something.

As it appeared, the entire ballroom had to be splashed and decorated in pink – and white. The guests all wore pink – or white. The food and drink all screamed pink – and white.

Kurogane was certain that the end of the world would appear less daunting compared to this.

He sauntered about the crowd, fuming in silence at the injustice of it all. Maybe his mood wouldn’t be this bad if he wasn’t wearing these apparatus from hell. Or maybe not. Any chance, minuscule as it might be, to find the night bearable had pretty much gone to hell when he had ignored Fay’s suggestion for a dance. Which had resulted in the mage shrieking at the top of his lungs about cold heartless husbands who didn’t care about their lovely spouse and wouldn’t protect said spouse from many bloodthirsty men and women by not having this obligatory dance. How the latter could influence the former was unclear, but Kurogane was already too angry – and mortified – to notice this. He just pulled that poor excuse of a man to the dance floor and yanked him around in order to shut him up.

Thankfully, with a few combinations of threatening growls and equally menacing glares, he had managed to forgo the rest of the dances so far. The mistress of ceremony, however, was a very determined young woman who never gave up trying to pair him with somebody despite his hostile, bordering violent reaction at each attempt. The fact that she shared the same face – and voice and personality and hell, just about everything – with a certain sadistic princess from his country only boosted his degree of violence. So far, he was still winning.

So far.

The long table in front of him was laden with various kinds of refreshments and Kurogane steeled himself to take a glass of not-so-pink beverage, whatever it was, before making another round about the room. He had come to the conclusion that to be always on the move considerably decreased the possibility of him being targeted by the evil princess-look-alike. Not completely, but at least he hadn’t been harassed for the last two dances. For the life of him he couldn’t understand why that woman didn’t set her mark on someone less unwilling. Sakura, for example, would be able to appreciate her attention more than he ever could.

Then again, the princess never missed a dance. She was sufficiently busy as it was, with or without any external help. Kurogane was no connoisseur of beauty, but he could appreciate what he was looking at right now. She looked beautiful in that pink dress – at least the colour genuinely suited her – and her kindness made her unable to turn down anyone who asked for her hand for the next dance. And the next. And the next.

Kurogane tried not to think about the surge of protective jealousy which had risen in his chest at this. It was probably just the side effect of seeing too much pink.

Looking around once more, his gaze fell on Syaoran. And he had thought that there was no one as miserable as him. The kid had been steadily refusing every offer for dancing except the first one with the princess, but he seemed to be getting quite an opposition this time. A man, about thirty or so, dressed extravagantly in an ensemble of white suit complete with cape and other whatnots, was talking animatedly to the boy. The sight of that man alone was enough to make Kurogane grimace, but seeing how close they were standing and the redness on Syaoran’s face simply threw every coherent thought out of the window.

The same surge of protective jealousy lanced through him. Only sharper. Darker. Hotter. He had never suspected that overdosing in pink could affect him this bad.

Gulping down his drink, he slammed the empty glass down onto a nearby table and moved to approach the kid. The tiny, sensible part of his mind demanded what the hell he was doing. Syaoran was probably the last person in the world he needed to play hero for.

It didn’t prevent him from stopping in front of them and making a good use of his extensive arsenal of glares and glowers. The man had the guts to return the hostile volley with a brand of his own for a few seconds, but then Syaoran moved closer to Kurogane and hooked his fingers around the ninja’s arm, eyes carefully looking at the floor.

It was hard for him not to smirk. Which then became plain impossible when the obnoxious man’s face turned into an angry shade of red. The fingers around his arm tightened marginally and this gesture was no doubt noticed because the man immediately stomped away, although not before throwing Kurogane a particularly nasty look. It made his blood boil again, but the unfamiliar weight on his arm kept him in check and he glanced down, finding the kid looking back at him, his expression unreadable.

“Thank you,” the words fell quietly, quickly overwhelmed by the glory of violins as the dance drew to an end. Syaoran let his hand fall back to his side and Kurogane made a noncommittal sound before any part of his mind could deliver unacceptable comments over this unusual feat of altruism. He wasn’t being nice. He was just…

…wearing pink.

The ninja repelled a violent urge to run to the door and save what was left of his dignity for probably the thousandth time since the night had begun. Clearing his throat, he looked at the kid again and asked, for the sake of keeping his mind occupied on another task, “You’re not going to dance?”

Syaoran looked a little surprised by the question, but his answer was ambiguously short and definitely not answering anything. “Kurogane-san too.”

“I can’t dance.”

“That is not true,” the remonstrance was immediate. “I noticed that you danced with Fay-san.”

Kurogane snorted, recalling the slapdash movements and hectic cadence. “If you can call that a dance.”

“You were angry,” the kid reasoned, face brightened by a little smile that made his stomach rebel wildly like he had just eaten something bad. “Maybe you can give it another try. Look, the next dance will start.”

“My coming here in this stupid outfit is enough,” the ninja growled, his eyes quickly taking in the preparation. Maybe it was time to recommence his guerilla tactics. Before that evil replica of a princess could find him among the crowds and renew her duress to make him participate in the dance.

“But it looks good on you,” Syaoran told him, his tone perfectly honest and with absolutely no string attached. It roused a different kind of irritation in him, something close to discomfort, or maybe embar–

No. No way. Anything but that.

“You want to die, don’t you, kid?” he growled, his regular line of threat and yet his voice hitched slightly. Syaoran instantly looked apologetic.

“I didn’t mean anything. It’s just–”

The rest of his words were lost in the enthusiastic shouting erupting among the crowd as every source of light in the room gave way to total darkness. Kurogane blinked, his muscles tensing as hordes of nasty possibilities sprang up from every corner of his mind. One of his hands automatically grabbed the kid to make sure that he was all right, but before he could do anything else, a beam of light, strong and almost blinding, pierced the darkness and showered him with too much brightness at once that he could only repeatedly blink his eyes for a few moments.

“Congratulations!” the Tomoyo-look-alike suddenly appeared before him in the circle of light, bright and cheery and her sparkly white dress absolutely didn’t help. Neither did her giggly voice. “The two of you have been chosen to lead this dance! Please step down to the dance floor!”

Kurogane let go of Syaoran’s hand and glared at her. “I don’t dance,” he snapped, wishing that he had his katana somewhere nearby. It would have shut her up quickly.

“But it’s the last dance before the main event,” she told him, smile all innocent but suspiciously a little too wide. “I trust you will do this young man the honor?”

Whether said young man desired the ‘honor’ or not seemed to be completely irrelevant for her. But then he glanced at Syaoran and noticed how he looked a little lost and decidedly uncomfortable with the attention they were attracting, and somehow, that made his decision.

Oh, why the hell not.

After throwing the young woman a nasty look, he dragged Syaoran to the dance floor, pointedly ignoring all the clapping around them. It wouldn’t do to cause a massacre before they got the feather. After all, this was just one dance, and then the main event would begin and the sponsor of this entire white-pink affair would reveal the grand prize for the night. They would win it one way or another – coercion was definitely included in the list as one of the possible techniques – and the princess would receive the feather and they would be off once more, away from any memory of pinkness and every bit of humiliation that came with it.

As simple as that.

Having made up his mind, Kurogane managed to restrain himself from murdering the conductor of the orchestra when a slow romantic music floated in the ballroom. Of all kind of music to play! He gritted his teeth and awkwardly settled a hand on Syaoran’s waist. The kid, already blushing from ear to ear at this point, refused to look anywhere but at his feet as he held onto Kurogane’s right arm, his height making it impossible to reach the older man’s neck.

They started a clumsy rhythm, feet stepping one another, knees bumping, thighs brushing. Kurogane started to think that his earlier method with Fay worked much better. The boy clearly wasn’t used to follow another person’s lead, but neither was he in that matter, which doomed their whole effort to failure because hell would have to freeze over first before the ninja allowed himself to follow anyone’s lead.

Stubbornness obviously wasn’t a good partner to one another. And even if in the end Syaoran decided to back down from the competition, his body still wasn’t used to move but the way it wanted to. This frustration was palpably shown on the boy’s face as he continually tried to tune their movement with one another. Which was fruitless at best so far.

Kurogane inwardly sighed in relief when people stopped staring at them and began to crowd the dance floor to indulge themselves. He could feel Syaoran immediately relaxing under his arms although his concentration was still wrapped on the way their feet moved. It almost made him smile. Almost, because on the next second his eyes caught the sight of Fay grinning all-too-widely as he twirled about the room, conveniently paired with the princess who was smiling not-so-innocently herself.

He heaved a deep breath, suppressing homicidal thoughts. Not yet. They hadn’t gotten the feather yet.

“I’m sorry.”

Kurogane looked down, at the kid who was glancing nervously at him after whispering the apology.

“What for?” he grunted. It should be impossible for his mood to plummet any worse than this, but hearing that one word from the kid somehow managed to do just that.

“You don’t want to dance,” Syaoran murmured, eyes cast down, looking entirely too miserable for someone whose greatest sin was wearing that white tuxedo and looking very good in it.

And he so hadn’t just thought about that.

“And how can that be your fault?” Kurogane heard his own voice rising, out of either impatience or annoyance or frustration, he wasn’t sure which.

The kid bit his lips. “Well, I–“

“Don’t answer that,” he brusquely cut Syaoran short, sensing the coming of a long litany of why he shouldn’t exist or something equally absurd. The kid was very good at inventing things like that, especially since his guilt over the whole ordeal with his clone was still haunting him like a hungry ghost.

Syaoran looked surprised and the fingers in his hand twitched ever so slightly. Kurogane stared back, unflinching, until a tiny smile appeared on the boy’s face and it made his insides go watery.

“You remind me of my father, Kurogane-san,” Syaoran said quietly, an unreadable look in his eyes as the light in the room lessened in intensity, casting a soft glow on his features. The ninja really didn’t know what to say to that. Not only that it was the first time the kid had ever mentioned any member of his family, the thought of being compared to his father actually made Kurogane feel a little sick.

“He must be a good man,” he said at last, if only for the sake of saying something. He really couldn’t believe this. Making small talks was never his habit. Why this night included more exceptions than it should ever be possible was unknown to him, but he had this nagging suspicion that the pinkness of the entire situation must be responsible somehow.

“He was.” That tiny little smile appeared again and Kurogane knew he hadn’t imagined his heart skipping a beat. He growled silently in frustration. The person this kid had reduced him into.

They drifted into beats of silence, movement no longer a complicated pattern of footsteps – just listening to the music, moving against each other. When Syaoran suddenly looked down and rested his head on Kurogane’s chest, it took him all his might not to push the kid away. It wasn’t only a matter of invading his personal space. It was that knowledge of being compared.

“I’m not him,” he croaked, the words scraping his throat like pins and needles all rolled together into a ball. He tried not to think about the painful prickle in his chest, or the faint smell of shampoo wafting up from the mess of brown hair on his chest.

“I know,” the muffled reply was so softly spoken, an intangible note in it, something close to desperation. Kurogane found his arms tightening around the kid as the light dimmed even more, leaving the ballroom in a state of shadowy half-light. They stayed like that as dancing pairs swept around them, mere blurs and rustles now in the blooming darkness.

When Syaoran finally pulled away and looked at him again, it was with a determined face. “Kurogane-san is Kurogane-san,” he said, voice equally firm and honest. “I never think of you as a replacement of my father.”

“Good,” the ninja growled and it might be that look on the kid’s face, or the feeling of him slipping away from his arms, or something else entirely Kurogane didn’t know and for now didn’t care to know what, because he suddenly bent down, low enough to brush his lips against Syaoran’s. The boy immediately tensed, probably shocked, but his arms came quickly around Kurogane’s neck to anchor him down as he pressed their lips together again.

Kurogane was… lost. He knew that there was something else he should be thinking about because he was kissing a fifteen-year-old boy in the middle of a dancing crowd, but his mind couldn’t seem to proceed any further past that point. His thought process simply stopped at how good that mouth felt against his – so sinfully hot and wet and soft and it was entirely too unfair that it belonged to a boy who had been locked in a tube for the better part of his life and thus depriving the world of something as good as that and… what the fuck was he thinking about?

Who the hell cared. He could always blame the pinkness if someone asked.

“Your father can’t do that to you,” he muttered when they had pulled apart, and watched Syaoran’s face gain a shade of red, faint though it was in the muted glow shrouding the ballroom.

“I guess,” the boy murmured and looked down again, avoiding his eyes. Kurogane was torn between being extremely amused and extremely frustrated. It wasn’t as if he knew what to do or say in this condition, but they were saved from any awkward silence in-the-making when light suddenly flooded the room. It was then when he realized that the music had ended and the crowd was dispersing.

“It isn’t the feather,” he heard the princess’s voice and noticed that she was standing with Fay not far from them. Her eyes were fixed on the stage where the mistress of ceremony was busily preparing for the main event, and at a silver crown sitting in a glass case, at the middle of the stage.

“Seems like we’re back at square one,” Fay said, sounding far too cheerful for someone who was supposed to be disappointed with the way their hunt had turned out. His eyes flickered to the ninja and that ever-present smile widened slightly. “Well, no. Not completely at square one, I see.”

Kurogane didn’t remove his hand from Syaoran’s shoulders and stared back at the mage, daring him to say something.

And the mage didn’t disappoint him.

“Well, Mummy doesn’t mind to share if Daddy’s sure he can make our sweet, adorable son happy–“

Fay was already at the door when Kurogane started running after him.

End

-----

Don’t ask me to explain where this came from. Please. I just want some fluff because every fic on this pairing seems to be either angsty or very dark.

Thank you for reading and please leave a comment ~~to encourage the pinkness~~.

Fic: Insufferably Together (1/10)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 05:16:21 GMT

Title: Insufferably Together (1/10)
Author: atthla
Fandom: D.Gray-Man
Pairing: As if I ever write any other in this fandom. Lavi/Kanda.
Rating: T
Warning: A classic, highly uncreative plot.
Disclaimer: D.Gray-Man clearly isn’t mine.
Word Count: 623/623

Summary: Suffering an injury to his eyes, Kanda was left in Lavi’s good hands as they struggled through winter in a remote village.

-----

Chapter One

-----

“What do you mean ‘wait here’?”

There was a deep sigh and then the sound of lazy footsteps across wooden floor. Kanda felt his body stiffening when the sound stopped and Lavi’s voice once again rose above the silence, his tone patient and wheedling.

“You can't go anywhere in your condition, Yuu. The doctor strictly forbade you to take off those bandages around your eyes. And in case you've forgotten, you have this huge-ass gash on your torso that is still bleeding.”

Kanda cursed under his breath and tried to get out of the bed, an attempt resulting only in a flash of searing pain in his chest and a string of louder curses. His head fell back onto the pillow but not without hitting the headboard halfway. The assorted expletives streaming out from his mouth became more colourful and a concerned hand on his shoulder was swatted away violently.

“We can’t stay here,” he hissed at his companion while rubbing the back of his head. He wanted to punch Lavi, certain that the idiot was sporting a big grin on his face. For some inexplicable reasons, the other boy always liked to see him suffer.

“Since you clearly hadn’t listened to a word I said–“

“Our mission here is done,” he interrupted brusquely, wishing that he could rip the bandages off and claim that his sight was perfectly all right. “I don’t want to get stuck here in this middle of nowhere during winter.”

Lavi didn’t miss a beat to offer an argument. “The problem is, Yuu, we are stuck. There is a snowstorm raging outside, I know you can hear it. Even if it stops then, the train station will still be at the other side of the mountain and you are nowhere near ready to walk the distance. I would love to carry you, but that gash is going to pose some problems, yeah?

“I can heal fast,” the swordsman muttered.

“The gash probably,” Lavi admitted, “but your eyes?”

“I can manage.”

There was a moment of indecipherable silence – how he hated the fact that he couldn’t see anything right now – and then Lavi spoke again.

“No.”

Kanda opened his mouth, ready to make a perfectly ruthless comeback when he felt the hand returned to his shoulder. “And don’t fight me, Yuu. I’m perfectly ready to tie you to the bed for the rest of the week if needs be.”

“Just try, bastard,” he snarled. “I swear you will get acquainted with Mugen better after that.”

Lavi’s laugh was by no means uncomfortable. In fact, he sounded thoroughly amused. “That’s why we don’t have to resort to the worst possible way, right? You’ll listen to me and be a good boy and I won’t try anything. Agreed?”

Kanda snorted. “Like you can even begin to try something.”

“Well, I’ve never actually put much effort into it before,” the other exorcist’s reply was perfectly carefree. “But if you want me to, I certainly don’t oppose the idea.”

“You’re welcome to try if you want to lose a few fingers. I’ll happily help.”

Lavi let out a dramatic, long-suffering sigh. “You’re always so hostile with me,” he murmured and Kanda could almost hear the pout in his voice. “Oh well, I guess it doesn’t matter as long as you agree to stay put. I’ll tell the innkeeper that we’ll be here for some time.”

And before the Japanese could say anything about any agreement, he had opened the door and left, footsteps echoing cheerfully down the stairs. Kanda was left in the room seething all by himself and throwing volleys of curses at the thoroughly unresponsive wall.

Winter in this remote village. With his eyes unable to see.

And Lavi.

It couldn’t be good.

End Part One

Fic: A Question of Choice (RSyaoran x Sakura)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Sat, 02 Feb 2008 10:02:34 GMT

Title: A Question of Choice
Author: Atthla
Fandom: Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle
Warning: SPOILERS to the most recent chapter of Tsubasa (181 as of now). Turn back right now if you mind any. Angst. One-sidedness. Very short.
Rating: G (unless the angst count for something)
Pairing: This is the reason why I put the Warningfirst. R!Syaoran x C!Sakura
Word Count: 444
Challenge: 10_whores #03. Freedom

Summary: Falling in love is not something foreordained or destined. It’s a choice.

Written for challenge#3 theme set 3 in 10_whores where I’ve claimed R!Syaoran.

-----

“Because I don’t love her.”

Her eyes widened in shock and it made Syaoran think if it was really that strange. For him, it was a simple concept. A mere question of choice. Destinies and the likes never really suited him – he had tried fighting against them his whole life.

“But she is your Sakura,” she whispered, alarm, disappointment, almost fear lining her words. “I’m…not.”

“Because you’re a clone?”

“No,” her answer was quick and sharp and he wondered if he had struck a nerve somewhere. “It isn’t about that. I…I love him too much.”

It should have been painful, hearing those words from her, but Syaoran barely registered anything but the spreading numbness. It almost felt like dying, like fading into nothingness, her detached eyes the only thing that kept him here.

“Because he’s just like you?” the question had left his mouth before he realized it.

“Because he is the one I’ve spent my whole life loving,” she replied fervently, passionately. “He was the one I made memories with. He was the one… oh. Oh.”

The small, half-strangled gasp told him that the realization had just dawned on her. That they were not different after all. That the same thing had happened to him.

“Exactly,” he said softly, the ghost of a smile flitting across his face. “If it is really why you love him, then you should understand why.”

Just like her with his clone, she was the one he made memories with.

“But I can’t– I…” she cried and the one step back she took was not lost on him. She had one hand covering her mouth and when she spoke again, she was pleading, almost desperate, almost in tears. “This isn’t right. This shouldn’t happen.”

“A lot of things shouldn’t,” Syaoran murmured and looked away. He couldn’t look at her. The tangled webs around him were constricting, suffocating, an illusory prison he could never escape from. He only wished for a small happiness. This wasn’t even happiness. Only a freedom to choose, to love. And it was denied from him.

But to fight back had always been his choice. Going against the whole world never stopped him.

He looked at her again and said, voice a breath away from a whisper, “But I love you.”

The choice was his after all.

End

-----

Notes: I really don’t like the way Sakura said “I’m not your Sakura” to R!Syaoran in Chapitre 178. This ficlet largely spawns from there. Please tell me what you think.

Fic: Ghosts in The Mirror (1/2) (CSyaoran x RSyaoran)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Sun, 20 Jan 2008 18:17:29 GMT

Title: Ghosts in The Mirror (1/2)
Author: Atthla
Fandom: Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle
Rating: P for porn and plotless-ness. You get the idea.
Warning: Spoilers up to Chapitre 177 (because I refuse to acknowledge 178 and 179) and well, pr0n. Also the dorkiness that is Syaoran. And I may or may not have lent him Kurogane’s potty mouth.

Pairing: Clonecest. Technically, it’s C!Syaoran x R!Syaoran (as shall be divulged in the second chapter) but I don’t think there’s any definite seme/uke role for them because… well, they’re one and the same, aren’t they? There’s also a smattering of SyaoSaku to notch up the angst, and a tiny, little, minuscule bit of KuroSyao only because I can’t deny myself the pleasure (and the angst. Just so. That pairing practically screams angst at me.)
Challenge: 30_angsts #16. Appropriate; Are you sure? (~against temptation)
Word Count: 4265

Summary: (Sequel to In The Still Watch of The Night) Denial is always the worst combination of fear and need.

Disclaimer: Not mine, because if it is, Sakura would be a lot less important and would appear MUCH less often, allowing more space for hot, heavy clonecest loving. Although I must admit that CLAMP is kind enough so far. Brandywine, on the other hand, is a definite rip-off from Lord of The Rings despite this fic having absolutely nothing to do with the phenomenal trilogy. I use the name only because Tolkien is awesome. Nuff said.

Note: This mainly plotless story is a tribute to the awesomeness that is OVA 2. It’s a continuation of my other clonecest fics. Which means that it probably won’t make much sense until you’ve read its two predecessors: Burned and In The Still Watch of The Night.

Additional Note: I refuse to acknowledge everything that happens in Chapitre 178-179 (yeah, like I can do that for long). I felt like I’d just swallowed something awful after reading those two chapters. Let’s just pretend that they don’t exist. That said, enjoy the read.

-----

For at least the thousandth time this morning, Syaoran found himself wishing that he hadn’t gone after his clone that day in the burning village.

Of all the things to drive him to the brink of insanity, he had never really expected his other self as the one who finally carried out the whole deed. Sure, they shared this complicated relationship that would make every grown-up man clutch at the last straws of their sanity and scream on daily basis like some damsel in distress, let alone teenage boys growing up in a bloody aquarium, but he had always thought that the worst would be Fei Wong Reed. That twisted uncle of his was, after all, the source of practically every problem, fault, glitch, and dilemma that littered his desolate fifteen years of existence.

It used to be that simple – pragmatically speaking. His uncle was the big villain and it was his duty to prevent any of the old man’s evil schemes from being successfully accomplished. That the mission would cost him every drop of his sanity was something Syaoran had never doubted from the start. He just hadn’t expected that somewhere along the way, things would change so drastically that he had no choice but to question everything he had believed in so far.

Yes, everything.

It hadn’t been difficult to think of killing the other boy not too long time ago. As a matter of fact, it had been his only intention when he had stepped down from that glass platform and asked for the Witch of Dimension’s help. He must pay for his mistakes, the greatest of which allowing his twin to be born in the first place. He hadn’t been strong enough to prevent it and there it remained, an unpaid debt, lingering, festering like an ugly, rotting wound.

But things steered from their intended course. It wasn’t surprising now that he thought about it. Plans, no matter how well-plotted, tended to deviate in the most disagreeable ways. In the most inopportune moments. This wasn’t an exception. He hadn’t planned to be swayed by Sakura’s desperate pleas. He hadn’t planned to travel with this group. He hadn’t planned to fill the painful gap his other self had left. He hadn’t planned… for lots of things to happen.

After years of preparing himself – physically, magically, emotionally, and the last one was especially difficult – it was a rather anticlimactic conclusion for a supposedly glorious end. His clone, despite missing as integral a part as a heart to function as a normal human being, was still alive and kicking.

Literally.

He honestly couldn’t say what went wrong, or what had changed and when, if such was the case, it had occurred. It could be all those long years watching the world unfolding through the other boy’s eyes, loving and hating the fact that a part of him was still able to enjoy many small fragments of happiness the rest had forfeited. His consolation, but also his own personal hell. The most vivid that Syaoran remembered was that he had spent every drawn breath trying to fortify his heart, because as much as it ached when he felt his clone smiling or laughing, this was the person he might have to kill once he had broken out of his confines. Pity wasn’t something he could afford, affection even less, but he didn’t really have any choice. All he could do was hope, that he would win the gamble, that his other self would be able to escape the tangled web of pain and betrayal fate had wound around him.

That Sakura wouldn’t have to lose her smile.

But he had lost. His clone surrendered to his fate, leaving the princess begging and crying at his feet, and despite everything Syaoran had done to arm himself against that kind of situation, it still hurt him. Immensely.

And then, of course, came the kiss. The intolerable, frustratingly inexplainable kiss, which regardless of the manner of its execution, had been his first, ever.

Syaoran wasn’t exactly a romantic person – what chance did he have with romanticism anyway, after having practically no contact with anyone or anything but bubbling liquid for years. That was why, for the life of him, he couldn’t fathom why it should matter. Why he was making a big deal out of a single kiss, first or not. Why, why, and oh why it should bother him to the point of losing hours of sleep when the taker – despicable, ungrateful stealer – had been his own self anyway.

All right, maybe that sounded wrong. And admittedly disturbing, but still. It shouldn’t matter that much.

The kiss had been his first mistake. And most likely also the worst since it played as a prelude to a series of plights that only got worse with each occasion. The height of his stupidity so far was two nights ago, when his clone had stopped being his clone and become this enigmatic source of turmoil which made his body react very, very uncomfortably every time he as much as looked at himself in the mirror.

How very disturbing that was.

Syaoran was so angry at himself for letting it affect him, for giving in to something as base as lust when everything else had started to look up. Sakura had been able to smile at him – really him, not the mere shadow of his clone. Fay had been able to look at him in the eye for more than a quarter of a second. The world no longer seemed as dark as it had been and he had begun to believe that happiness, elusive though it might be, was not a lost cause in his case.

And yet he had yielded, so very easily, once the clone had touched him. Touched. Him. One touch, a thumb on his lower lip, and everything else had ceased to be important.

Yes, Syaoran was thoroughly livid.

It was therefore in this mood that he found himself walking down the streets of Brandywine, a busy little town the group had decided to settle in while they were looking for the feather in this dimension. The heavy morning bustles had calmed down to a steady hum as midday approached. Which was better for him because in addition to having lost sleeps since weeks ago, he practically hadn’t had a wink in the last two days. Clamours and other raucous noises would only irritate him further in this state, and Syaoran really didn’t need any more encouragement in that department. The glaring sunlight had already done the job well enough, he thought sullenly, shielding both eyes with one hand.

This felt more like a blind chase than anything. Mokona had announced that there was a feather in this world, but its exact location was hard to pin down. Sometimes it felt near, sometimes far, but before they could do anything about it, the presence had disappeared without a trace only to reappear on the next hour or so at the opposite direction, like it was constantly on the move. Their only hope was the rumour circulating among the town populace about a white ghost that was often seen by travelers at night. As far as they were concerned, it could be the feather.

How to find it, however, turned out to be a more difficult question to answer than they had expected. Each witness had glimpsed the ‘ghost’ on different locations to the others. They had checked every single place but found nothing helpful so far. It was almost like the feather didn’t want to be found.

Mokona hadn’t felt anything all morning, but Syaoran decided that he would take his chance and walk around the town. He really couldn’t wait with his hands and feet idle, not if he wished to avoid any kind of thought related to his clone, no matter how distant or innocent. They seemed to occupy a large portion of his mind lately – especially the not-so-innocent ones – and right now he only wanted to get away as far as possible from them.

Which was a little difficult, seeing that he had come face to face with the actual subject of those thoughts himself.

Syaoran didn’t even realize that he had stopped walking. Or breathing. Those eyes, blue and amber, literally nailed him to the spot. They stood rooted there, unmoved by the flood of emotions crashing against his senses. His entire concentration narrowed and focused on that figure standing under a tree at the other side of the street, identical to his own save for a pair of mismatched eyes that were looking straight at him.

Just looking. Not staring, because one needed some kind of emotion to stare and his clone had absolutely naught.

A very strange mesh of coldness and heat swelled in his stomach. It rapidly spread across every plane of muscle, nerve, down to the tip of his fingers, nails, everywhere. The other boy hadn’t reacted to his presence, still casually leaning against the tree with both arms folded in front of his chest. He was dressed in the same black attire he had worn when they had fought each other inside the dream, only now there was a beige traveler cloak to tone down his sinister appearance. Syaoran felt like he was seeing a ghost, like every time he saw himself in the mirror, only this time it was real and try as he might, he couldn’t look away.

But then someone bumped against him from behind, shaking him out of his trance, and Syaoran did the only reasonable thing he could think of.

He turned around and ran away.

-----

“He’s here.”

The dim light in their small rented room flickered slightly, as if affected by his solemn, quiet announcement. Kurogane’s shoulders had gone rigid and his hand gripped the door handle tightly before letting it go to look back at him. His eyes were smoldering red, demanding explanation from the boy sitting on the farther bed.

“You met him? When?”

A light night breeze, coming from the half-opened window, wafted across his skin and Syaoran felt his fingers dig into the edge of the mattress. “This morning.”

“And you’re only telling me now?”

It sounded like an accusation, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be offended. It wasn’t as if he had withheld the information for any malicious intent. He only wished to spare the princess the pain. Her reaction to his twin’s appearance, be it in the dream world or real, hadn’t stopped haunting the recesses of his mind. And no, it had nothing to do with the bitter feeling that rose in his chest every time he caught her looking at him and yet not looking at him. He just hated to see her like that – heartbroken, in tears, begging for love that wasn’t even there.

“I don’t want her to know,” he murmured, voice quieter than a whisper, blander than the infinite silence flattening the night. “But I think Kurogane-san has to.”

Kurogane was silent for a long moment. Syaoran briefly wondered if the older man heard everything he had left unsaid. Maybe he did. The ninja was uncanny like that. He looked like he didn’t care, but the things he noticed far surpassed that of the rest of the group combined.

“It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him in this world, was it?”

Although he was somewhat hoping that Kurogane wouldn’t notice that one. He glanced up, more than a little wary, and knew at once that lies were as good as useless.

“No.”

The ninja exhaled loudly through his nose and Syaoran thought that he could hear all the frustration and irritation directed at him in that short, sharp sound. He lowered his face, determinedly looking at his feet, and wondered silently where he had messed up. Or where his twin had messed it up for him.

There was the familiar spark of anger again. And then the guilt. A bottomless ocean. Deep. Overwhelming. A place he had gotten too used to, so much that any intrusion on this sacred ground – or private hell, because that was what it essentially was – made him flinch.

The touch was solid, but almost gentle in a way, and it stubbornly stayed there on top of his head despite his involuntary cringe. Syaoran looked up through slivers of dark bangs which had fallen over his eyes, at the tall silhouette towering over him, and found himself engulfed in a certain memory. Painful, intangible in the blur of alcoholic haze and cold haughtiness of Infinity. It felt like centuries ago, but the hand, hard and callous, calmed him like it had once, pulling him away from that vast black nothingness, back to reality.

“I’ll tell the mage to stay close to her,” the ninja said, voice and eyes heavy with something Syaoran could almost identify as grudging compassion. “Just get some sleep. You look like hell.”

He tried to smile, but the effort dissolved like grains of sand sinking into water, and so he settled with a quiet nod. When Kurogane had disappeared behind the door, he lowered his head onto the pillow, listening to the steady rhythm of distancing footsteps. The part of his head where the older man had put his hand on still tingled slightly.

Syaoran wasn’t sleeping. He was drifting in that desolate, colourless realm of half dream, with most parts of his awareness still very much active. They took note of every sound, flash, motion, but didn’t process any – just took in and filed it away in some old, rusty drawers inside his mind. The lure of sleep was strong, but his body was already too familiar with every step of the opposite procedure that resisting had become a matter of habit.

The silent minutes dragged on for a few moments, none of them blissful but at least comforting enough. Shapeless thoughts kept milling about in his head and he let them pass, a mute spectator chained to the back seat. It felt like everything he had done his entire life. Watching. Regretting. Doing nothing.

He didn’t respond at the first sign of disturbance in the air. Things always seemed stranger from behind this curtain of half sleep, and Syaoran did what he had always done, sensing and dismissing them right away. They didn’t disappear, but it wasn’t until his bed made a loud protest against the arrival of an additional weight that everything made perfect sense to him.

Syaoran felt his heart stop beating, constricted by panic. His eyes flung open and he found the mismatched pair which had haunted him all day long looking down at him. They were almost glowing in the wash of pale light coming from the only lamp in the room, as if mocking him, and this sight violently broke him out of his stupor. Growling, he tried to get up, but his clone beat him to it and had pinned his waist down with his own weight before the original could even blink.

This position, Syaoran reflected with growing alarm, was becoming increasingly familiar.

He felt helplessness clashing with vehemence in his chest, fear underlining everything. It was, he realized with some surprise that felt a hair’s breadth too far, how the other boy had always made him feel. This incongrous mishmash. It didn't help that the clone's not-exactly-uncomfortable weight was making him think of things he really shouldn't be thinking in this situation. Or any situation at all in that matter.

But Syaoran had always been a rebel at heart. He didn’t take things lying down, no matter what challenge they possessed. Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes, channeling his entire concentration into one point, and on the next second, the room had glowed bright gold as a magic circle appeared on the sheet beneath them.

The succeeding scenes unfolded with uncanny precision, like pages of the same story being turned again and again. The familiar fingers. Pressing the exact same spots on his neck. He could almost feel the heat of fire as the memory rose unbidden in his mind.

“Do we have to do this every time?”

Apparently he wasn’t the only one who remembered. Flickers of magic dying away, Syaoran opened his eyes slowly, pros and cons weighing every millisecond. The clone’s face was perfectly blank, but he kept seeing that flash of surprise. The little crack he had managed to inflict on that solid, flawless mask two nights ago. And remembering how it affected him. How his whole body tingled with need. How good that slow, agonizing rhythm felt.

“What do you want?” It was worse than a whisper. A deaf person could pick up that he was losing the battle.

“What we haven’t finished,” the flat voice drawled, suddenly too close. The weight on his stomach slid lower as his twin bent down to claim his mouth. Syaoran could almost hear the gears in his brain screech to an abrupt halt.

He was losing. Fast. And almost immediately, the thought restored the rebel in him back to life. Breathing out sharply, he jerked his lips away and hissed, “Stop it.”

The other boy did. For two seconds. On the third, he was back to the deliberate grinding they had left unfinished. Hips against hips. Things were coming back to Syaoran faster than a deluge. He couldn’t suppress the gasp, and then the hitched edge of a moan. His clone started pressing more insistently and it was between don’t and yes and don’t and yes and he had given up before he could decide.

The escape felt horrible. It was cowardly, nothing to be proud of, but the feel of his twin’s mouth on his rapidly eclipsed everything else. His ability to think was slipping. His control was slipping. Somewhere along the way, his legs came around the other boy’s waist, drawing him closer, and he was lost in that sensation of sinking guilt and smoldering pleasure. There must be some code of unwritten law somewhere which publicly stated that to feel as good as this was wrong by some moral conception or others. Things like this shouldn’t happen. It felt so good that it scared the hell out of him, but he couldn’t stop falling and drowning and giving a part of him a little every time they rubbed and moaned against each other.

The friction was no longer enough. His hands, which had roamed all over the other’s back, slinked lower, following the circle of his own legs to their glued hips. Syaoran suddenly decided that he knew what he wanted. His clone’s eyes were glazed, little fire burning in them, and they flared to life when his fingers slipped in between heated skins and found what they had sought.

It wasn’t emotion. Not in the heartfelt sense. It was nevertheless there and he realized that he needed to look at it. For some reasons, this need was stronger than the aching stiffness between his legs. His mind was in a blur. He pushed the constricting pants down and tried to focus on the way his hands worked. The grip of his fingers. The twist of his wrist. It was almost abstract the way such details fell into perspective. The hardened flesh was pulsing in his hands and every single pulse was mirrored on his twin’s face. The rigid, impassive lines melted into something more intangible and yet more pronounced and the effect was almost breathtaking. The usually unsmiling mouth was slightly open, allowing sharp gasps to fall out not-so-quietly and paint the silence in the room.

It was the most gut-wrenching sight he had ever seen.

The feeling was awful and his heart felt like it was about to explode, but he was already too far gone to stop. The clone was still looking at him, the black fire in his eyes making him shudder. Hips were jerking fast into the tight ring of his fingers and Syaoran dimly realized that he was imitating the motion, seeking friction for his own unattended arousal through his pants. He wanted to touch himself, but for some unfathomable reasons, he couldn’t stop pleasuring his other self.

Not when he looked like that. Not when that strained expression and the wet heat in his hands were the only real things in his world right now.

The air became heavy. The small noises became desperate. The thrusts became frantic. He could feel the end approaching, grazing his skin, straining his muscles.

Syaoran thought that he was also coming when the other boy released all over his hands, eyes squeezed shut, mouth falling open to let out a deep-throated moan. It was like looking at himself, and yet not, and the conflicting emotions were horrible enough without the painful throb between his legs. Simple breathing, he discovered, had suddenly become a labour. The fact that the clone had slumped on top of him didn’t help.

He could feel the slow passing of time, could feel it crawl on his skin like a bundle of thorns. The ceiling was unclear, streaked by dark strands of hair in front of his eyes and blurred by something else he didn’t particularly want to know what. His hands were trembling so badly. It felt like a dream, some nightmare conjured by exhaustion and continuous lack of sleep. The sound of his twin panting against his neck was the only proof that it wasn’t.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to hold the other boy closer, wanted to push him away, wanted to pretend that he didn’t exist, wanted to pretend that he wasn’t there lying on him and making him feel too much at once that things like common sense was only an echo of a distant past.

Complicated was no longer adequate to describe their situation. Horribly fucked-up would be more like it.

He closed his eyes and lay there unmoving, trying to block everything out. They were too sharp, too overwhelming. He barely twitched when his clone rose slightly from the bed and took his hands, slowly licking the digits to clean the mess he had caused. His tongue was warm and pliant and his lips were as soft as Syaoran remembered. He couldn’t stop the shudder reverberating in his muscles, or the quiet whimper rising from the back of his throat as the slick tongue dragged across his palm. He was getting impossibly harder by the seconds. The veil of darkness over his eyes was the only barrier left standing and he was clutching at it like dear life. Biting the insides of his cheek so hard that he could taste the tang of blood. It was the only thing he could do to keep himself from giving in.

Or maybe he already did. One way or another. Either way, he realized that he was almost beyond caring.

Until something hot and wet engulfed his length.

Syaoran couldn’t tell if the scream left his throat or not. He couldn’t breathe, so maybe it didn’t, but he was unable to do much to hold back the rest. They slipped past his lips in fragmented chains of throaty moans and ragged breaths as his twin’s mouth gave his burning arousal its full, long-denied attention. His frenzied mind was repeating a string of mantra, desperately clinging to it because it was the only thing that stood between him and total abandon.

Fay-san’s in the next room Fay-san’s in the next room Fay-san’s in the next room Fay-san’s in the next…

The clone sucked him hard once and the jolt of pleasure successfully derailed his concentration. His mind practically went blank. Everything was too much, far too intense to make sense. He couldn’t think, only feel and feel as the other boy’s mouth deliberately tightened and released around him, again and again, making him writhe and trash wildly. His fingers were fisting the sheet and grabbing the mattress and the sounds he was making were impossible to mistake as anything but what they really were.

Syaoran tried not to look down because he knew he would climax as soon as he saw that familiar head between his openly spread legs. He was nothing but a crumpled mess of heat and need. The world ceased to exist. All he knew was that his clone was responsible for this blinding pleasure that felt so incredibly wrong and yet incredibly right at the same time. And that he was close. Too close. So close that his entire body was aching and screaming and he didn’t know what he’d do if his twin didn’t let him come in the next two seconds…

And suddenly it stopped.

The loss actually made him choke. Syaoran heard a groan of protest escaping his mouth and before he knew it, he had grasped at the other boy frantically. But the clone had already risen to his feet, out of his arm’s reach. Almost white blind with fear and need and fury, Syaoran was all too ready to summon a bolt of lightning or two if that was what it took to force his twin finishing what he had started when his ears caught a faint sound. Heavy footfalls on wooden stairs. And sure enough, on the next second he could hear Kurogane speaking in a low voice to someone he didn’t recognize.

Syaoran felt frustration burst inside him. That. Was. Fucking. Unfair.

He had no time to think. The voices were drawing closer, but when he looked around, still immeasurably, irrationally angry, the other boy was nowhere in sight. Of course. The coward. Stifling overwhelming urges to destroy everything around him, he grabbed the folded blanket which had fallen off the bed sometime during the heated encounter, and draped it over himself, feigning sleep as the door opened with a soft creak.

The next time they met, he was going to kill the clone.

To Be Continued

-----

Please don’t kill me. I promise I’ll give Syaoran what he wants (eventually). No! I mean in the next chapter. Really.

Fic: Oubliette (Kurogane x RSyaoran)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Sun, 30 Dec 2007 13:40:35 GMT

Title: Oubliette
Author: Atthla
Fandom: Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle
Pairing: Kurogane x RSyaoran with a dash of KuroFai and maybe SyaoSaku.
Warning: TONS of SPOILERS throughout the series until the most recent chapters. So many that it’s safe to say that if you mind any amount of spoiler at all, get away from this fic. Like, right now. Oh, and this story is dark and slightly lemony and has swearwords everywhere. Don’t say I haven’t given a fair warning.
Rating: R to NC-17. You know what to expect, don’t you?
Challenge: 30_romances #01. Cold hands ; Cold feet
Word Count: 5123

Summary: Kurogane was torn between his wish to protect and his need to destroy.

Timeline: Not set in any universe that appeared in the manga, but I’d like to think that it’s somewhere after Tokyo but before Infinity. I know there shouldn’t be any gap there (except that detour to the village Syaoran has destroyed), but let’s just pretend that there is. The new group has been traveling together for a while and Sakura is still okay (woah, SPOILER), Kurogane still has Souhi, Fay’s eye still blue…

Fanfic-wise, this should be set after The Worth of A Smile but Infinity-Celes-Nihon is, in my opinion, one tightly-knitted arc. I can’t really break them down and have something happening in between, so this is an entirely different story. I just want to bring over that semi-affection I have implanted in Kurogane from my last fic. I hope it isn’t too confusing.

Notes: This is my attempt, however poor it might be, to encourage every closet KuroSyao fan out there to come out and openly profess their love to this rare but hot pairing because, hey, new year is dawning. CLAMP may have decided on SyaoSaku and KuroFai, but if KuroSyao is hot, then it’s hot. Let’s repeat that together.

KuroSyao is hot.

-----

The hammer fell on them harder than he had anticipated.

Kurogane threw a furtive glance to the other side of the room. Sakura hadn’t stopped shaking and the side of the couch she curled in was soaked wet from her drenched clothes. She held herself tightly, both arms winding around her frail form as if trying to shield her from an onslaught of brutal attacks. Next to her sat Fay, his hips close to her back but not touching. The mage never strayed far from her side – always there, not a word falling from his tightly pressed lips – but Kurogane suspected that he needed the comfort of another person just as much as the princess.

It felt like he was looking at a picture, or a tragic act being played on a stage. He was an outsider, watching from sideline as the main actors faced the storm of life and drowned themselves in misery. This strange impression really bothered the ninja, but he realized that at least one member of their twisted, little group had to stay sane on the wake of this…

…disaster.

Kurogane mentally cringed and returned his attention to the raging storm. Souhi was a comforting weight on his arm as he stood in front of the window, watching the angry torrents continue to wreak havoc outside. He hated to feel indebted, even to something as omnipotent as nature, but he knew that the storm helped to keep the demons away. And as much as he hated to admit this, Kurogane realized that he wouldn’t have been able to deal with them all, what with their coming in that large number of groups and focusing their attack on the princess who was unable to protect herself at the moment.

Not that he could blame her. Maybe he didn’t know much about love, but he could pretty much guess how it felt to see someone you loved coming at you with nothing but intention to seize and destroy, the sword on his hand no longer an instrument to protect but to kill.

The ninja was angry. He should have been able to fend the demons off alone, but no, the kid’s presence had distracted him. That and he had noticed how it was affecting Fay. The mage stood in front of a paralyzed Sakura, shielding her body with his own but doing practically nothing.

It was yet another reason why Kurogane was so angry with himself. He had underestimated the power of fear. He hadn’t realized that Fay had never really gotten over the shock at having his magic taken away in that brutal way. The mage wore the same false smile, the one he despised so much and yet he couldn’t say anything this time because he knew it was him who put that smile back on Fay’s face. They had never really talked again, not after what had happened in Tokyo, and despite how he appeared in front of others, Kurogane was scared shitless.

He didn’t regret it. He didn’t do regret. If he could go back and repeat the whole process, he would have offered himself and saved Fay’s life again. That it cost the mage his humanity was a price Kurogane would pay for the rest of his life. He didn’t mind. There were always certain sacrifices to gain something – the witch had made it very clear.

It didn’t make him hate the whole situation any less though.

Everything had been so wrong since the moment they had arrived in this country. It wasn’t a pretty place, infested by beasts and demons and cursed by a succession of unfriendly weathers. But it would have been nothing. Injuries were not new acquaintances for them, the princess included. Continuous battles and lots of blood, tears, sacrifices had toughened them a great deal. They could plough their way through and just go on with the feather business as usual. It would have been nothing.

If not for one tiny little detail.

Or not so tiny maybe.

In fact, it wasn’t tiny at all, because Kurogane had learnt through the hard way that dealing with heartless clones seldom begot anything but mountain-sized problems. Add to the mix a horde of sharp-clawed, teeth, tongue, whatever, monsters and they had the perfect example of a debacle at its worst.

Oh, and the other kid too. Mustn’t forget him. He was that last touch of perfection as everything had simply gone from worst to hopelessly irredeemable once he had appeared on the scene. For some strange reasons, clones tended to be ten times more vicious around their original and when you talked about this particular clone, vicious was a bolded word with seven capital letters.

But then the storm came and the monsters grew panicked, fleeing here and there or just going berserk and generally creating a greater pandemonium from the already existent chaos. Seeing their chance, Kurogane grabbed the princess and the petrified mage and shouted for the boy and the white manju to follow him because as unbeatable as he was, someone had to be not only retarded but also completely out of his mind to challenge Mother Nature.

What he then discovered once they were already save behind the walls of their home was that the boy – and the manju – hadn’t fucking followed him.

Sakura was upset. Fay didn’t look at him, but they never really looked at each other anymore. They would have gone back out there in a heartbeat but the wind – or gale, because winds weren’t supposed knock you off your feet – didn’t allow them to. And so the princess slumped to the couch, too shaken, too defeated, and the mage sat next to her, silently offering and taking what he could. It left Kurogane to stand alone by the window and mentally mutilate himself with anger, hatred, frustration, anxiety.

If the kid didn’t return.

If the kid was found dead.

If the kid…

“You know,” a voice, low enough to cover the tremors it might contain but also loud enough to override the howling storm, startled him. He turned away from the window, too eager to run from his unfinished thought. He didn’t want to finish that thought. Fay was looking at him from across the room, single blue eye glassy in the darkening light. “The storm is letting up,” he said slowly, all too tentatively to Kurogane’s liking. “Maybe we can start looking for him.”

The suggestion seemed to rouse the princess from the depth of her depression. Her eyes flicked up, searching his hard gaze, and Kurogane was glad to have an excuse to look away to the window. He knew she didn’t blame him – it wasn’t in her nature to blame anyone but herself. Guilt, however, was a stubborn mistress that lived in her own world and utterly impervious to the opinion of others. If he had failed, then he had failed and she said screw what everybody else was thinking.

Kurogane did exactly just that.

“It’s still too dangerous,” he finally said, his tone decisively flat. The downpour might have let up a little, but he couldn’t say the same about the fierce, howling gale. Sakura and Fay wouldn’t be able to do anything against it. Perhaps he could, but as much as Kurogane wanted to go and ease that painful throbbing in his chest for leaving Syaoran behind – or worsen it, depending on what state he would find the boy in later – he couldn’t leave the princess and the mage as they were now. Uglier things might happen and wasn’t it better to lose one than three?

The overwhelming urge to curse, condemn, doom himself returned with a vengeance. He would have succumbed to one of them if the corner of his eyes hadn’t caught something.

What the…

Every muscle in his body screamed and sprang into action, and the next thing he knew, he was already out there battling the storm. Raindrops were whipping his skin like cold talons and the wind was ferociously pushing him back, but he only had to see the kid, hunched, almost nothing against the wrath of nature and yet still stubbornly stumbling forward, to feel that surge of power thickly mingled with shame and forget about the wind altogether. Kurogane didn’t say anything when he finally reached the boy – too fucking unbelievable – and only pulled the smaller body close to his, feeling cold fingers desperately holding onto him as they stumbled back to the house.

The mage was already waiting at the doorstep, ready to close the door once they already got in. Inside, the warmth was almost suffocating and the unreadable look on Fay’s face didn’t help. Neither did the silent tears running down Sakura’s cheeks. Syaoran was a shivering mess, his face too pale, his skin too cold, and Kurogane had to struggle with all his might not to holler at him.

“You’re fucking crazy,” he hissed, insides numb with cold relief. Waves of guilt quickly overcame every other expression on the kid’s face, but before the word ‘I’m sorry’ could leave his mouth, something wriggled under his shirt and Mokona jumped out.

“Syaoran!”

“I’m okay.” It was definitely a lie. His voice was too faint and he hadn’t stopped shivering, but the kid didn’t seem to care. His amber eyes were focused on the princess, on the wet tracks on her face, on the question she had not even given voice to.

“He got away,” he murmured and it would have been a prelude to an apology had it not sounded so dead. “I couldn’t…”

The words trailed off and the small body swayed forward once before Kurogane caught it. He barely heard Sakura’s surprised gasp or Mokona frantically calling the boy’s name, his whole concentration spent on the attempt to keep panic down and let common sense come first. The kid’s breathing was shallow and he was impossibly cold, but the ninja couldn’t find any life-threatening injury, only a few bruises and small cuts. For someone who had just survived his clone’s brutal assault and a long walk through the storm, he was relatively unharmed.

“He’s all right,” Kurogane said, letting the breath he had unconsciously been holding go. “Probably just tired. He should rest.”

Fay nodded and Sakura bit her lips. He could see the guilt in her eyes, haunting and weighing her conscience like one of those dark clouds outside. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but the deed was done anyway. Kurogane decided not to say anything. He picked the boy up, the wet clothes a cold, dead weight in his arms, and murmured before heading to an empty bedroom, “You should too.”

They were a complete, fucking mess.

-----

It was already late at night when Kurogane discovered that the kid had a fever.

Not just any fever. It was the kind that made him flinch and curse loudly because no one should have been able to live with body temperature that high. Syaoran, however, once more proved himself to be a living anomaly as he lay there, burning up but still maintaining a regular – if slightly too fast – set of breathing.

One eye cracked open, followed a moment later by its counterpart, and Kurogane found himself swearing again – inwardly this time. Misted by both fever and remnants of sleep, they slowly focused on him. The ninja waited, letting the boy process everything by himself. The bedroom. The angry storm beating down the roof. The steady thrum of unpleasantness in his body.

“I’m sick.” It was not a question, not a statement, only an echo of raw disbelief in rough, scraping voice.

“Yeah.” Kurogane swallowed, not liking his tone of voice at all. Too much emotion in that one word. It was only a fever.

An unnaturally high fever, but that wasn’t the point.

The room fell silent. Syaoran seemed to encounter some difficulty in accepting the fact that a fever had managed to bring him down and the quiet mull on the subject was reflected on his face. Kurogane was drowned in his own thought. They didn’t have any medicine. He could go find a doctor in a town nearby, but since this abandoned house they currently dwelled in was a little out-of-the-way, he wasn’t sure he could get the doctor, if he found one, to come with him in this weather.

But the kid needed medical treatment. Kurogane glanced at the flushed face and got up from his chair, intent on bringing back a doctor whatever the hell it took when warm fingers reached for his hand.

“Don’t,” the voice sounded broken. Syaoran looked up at him, his eyes almost pleading. “Don’t tell them.”

He didn’t answer and the sick boy didn’t wait before slipping back into unconsciousness.

-----

Fay’s tongue lapped across his skin in what could be considered a sensual gesture, or an affectionate one. Kurogane knew that it meant absolutely nothing. The mage was only making sure that not a drop of blood was spilled and if it reawaked old memories or long-suppressed desires, it was his own business.

He felt numb. It wasn’t the usual sluggishness that always set in every time they finished the feeding ritual. It was the other side of helplessness. He knew he should be doing something – looking for a doctor maybe, or a medicine to help Syaoran fighting against his illness. Anything. But the storm was releasing its greater fury yet and he couldn’t even open the door without getting blasted off his feet. The healthiest person in the group and he couldn’t do a fucking shit. So fucking useless.

At the first drop of anger, Kurogane closed his eyes, concentrating on the feel of Fay’s mouth sucking his blood, drawing wisps of life out of him. He wanted that numbness again. He didn’t want to think about the kid. For just a moment, he didn’t want the whole world to exist.

But the mouth left him with one final lick. The ninja opened his eyes, a string of curses on the tip of his tongue. In front of him, Fay slowly stood up from his kneeling position, too graceful to be human, and his eye, gradually returning to the softer shades of blue, was focused on him.

“He’s sick, isn’t he?”

Kurogane decided that he didn’t want to know how the mage had obtained that knowledge. He hadn’t said anything about Syaoran, but this ‘bond’ he shared with Fay seemed to benefit one party more than the other.

Benefit. He cringed. It wasn’t even the right word. He was disgusted that he had thought of it as anything but a curse.

“The kid’s coming down with a fever,” he answered blandly and got up from the couch, fending off the wave of dizziness that came with the action. Fay’s eye never left him and Kurogane, out of some sick, twisted sense of sympathy, or maybe self-pity, he really didn’t know anymore, added, “There’s nothing you can do.”

He knew he didn’t imagine the flash of… something in the other man’s eye. A part of him rejoiced. The rest died. Falling from the top of his towering guilt with a sickening crash.

“I…” Fay finally looked away and gazed down at his linked hands, his voice tight, “if I could–“

“Don’t worry about him,” Kurogane cut him, brusquer than he intended, because he was losing his control everywhere. “You just take care of the princess. I’ll handle the kid.”

“I don’t hate him,” Fay whispered, a note of desperation in his voice, so painfully intense that it was obvious who he was trying to convince.

“I know.”

But no one forgave that easily.

-----

The next day passed like a blur to Kurogane. The storm hadn’t let up and he spent the better part of the morning watching the kid and the showered window alternately, often spending more than he should have on the former, tracing those flushed cheeks with his eyes. He didn’t even try to catch himself doing it again. It wasn’t a question of control. It was the kid, there, lying sick and not looking at him with those usual fierce brown eyes.

Just before noon, Mokona came. Kurogane relinquished his post to watch Syaoran for a couple of minutes and wandered to the kitchen. Fay was there, filling four empty bowls with stew from a bubbling pot. He politely asked if Syaoran was getting better, careful not to look at him, not even when the other man gave his answer in an icy manner. Sakura also had a little fever, he said, but that wasn’t what worried him the most.

“She’s really taking it hard,” the mage said, putting the pot back on the stove, and turned to look at him, anxiety reflected in his eye.

“Because it’s hard for her,” Kurogane heard himself replying flatly. A mere stating of truth. Sometimes he really hated the fact that he could sound so callously indifferent, especially when he didn’t want to.

“But she is blaming herself,” Fay’s voice gained a hard, almost accusing edge in it. “She feels that… she deserves it. To be forgotten because she has forgotten.”

A raw, icy coldness pierced the insides of his stomach and settled in his bones, mixing with the more familiar sparks of anger. To be forgotten because she has forgotten. That was the stupidest thing he had ever heard. And he had thought that the princess was at least intelligent.

“It wasn’t her fault,” he snarled, the heat already eclipsing the chill. “The kid couldn’t even think for himself! He’s a fucking doll!”

“We both realize that,” Fay said with a degree of calmness that seemed so inappropriate for the moment, “but Sakura-chan doesn’t.”

Kurogane hissed angrily and started to stomp off to the princess’s bedroom when a strong grip on his upper arm stopped him.

“Not now,” the mage told him, quietly but firmly. “She needs to sort this out by herself. You can talk to her later, when the wound isn’t bleeding anymore.”

And when would that be, he wanted to retort, but the stern look on Fay’s face shut him up. The other man knew Sakura better, and yes, he would be lying if he said that this fact didn’t sting, but it wasn’t the time for such gripes. He breathed out noisily, itching to hit something. They were walking on this narrow bridge, crafted from crystals and beams of ice, and with each step the bridge gave away a little. Measured caution didn’t suit him. It scraped against his skin, made him bleed with stinging impatience, but he was now here, with some of the very few people he didn’t mind suffering for.

He forced himself to wait. Imagine what Tomoyo would say if she saw him now. Although she probably would just titter and leave him to stew in his own mortification alone.

“They’re both equally hurt,” Fay added with a wistful tone, his eye staring off into distance. Kurogane felt the familiar wave of irritation again. Lately the mage didn’t have to do much to piss him off.

“And you’re not?”

And that smile he hated so fucking much made another appearance.

“What are you talking about, Kurogane? Of course I’m fine.”

The ninja grabbed two steaming bowls from the table and left the kitchen. He couldn’t look at it.

-----

“What the hell are you doing?”

The kid was standing next to the sink with a lost expression when he rushed in, sharp splinters of glass surrounding his bare feet. Kurogane hadn’t known what to expect when he heard the breaking sound coming from the kitchen. He had just arrived, cold to the bone from the rainstorm outside and mood sullen since the only apothecary in town had told him that they had run out of fever medicine. He had been ready to jump to the worst conclusion when he closed the front door and heard that sound.

“I…” Syaoran looked like he had lost his entire ability to react. Then his eyes darted to his feet and the glass-strewn floor. “The glass–“

“Fuck the glass and don’t move,” Kurogane stormed into the dark kitchen, splinters crushed under his shoes as he approached the stupefied boy. Why hadn’t he called for someone if he wanted a drink? He shouldn’t even leave the bed, let alone walk around with that kind of fever.

“What happened?”

Fay appeared on the doorway, eye clouded in concern. He wasn’t looking at Syaoran but at the mess on the floor. “Oh my.”

“The kid broke a glass,” Kurogane muttered and almost hit himself when the brown eyes looked away, hiding a flash of pain. Why was it that everything he said never failed to either offend or hurt someone? Swallowing the frustration, he reached down and hooked an arm around the boy’s torso, ignoring the immediate tensing of the small body. “You should return to your bed.”

Syaoran seemed to decide that he had created enough trouble and said nothing, only securing his arms around the ninja’s neck. Kurogane tried not to think about a pair of legs that came around his waist and focused his attention on sidestepping the scraps of glass.

“I’ll clean it up,” Fay told him and for the first time in… probably ever, he looked at the kid and smiled slightly. “Don’t worry, Syaoran-kun. I’ll bring you some water later.”

It was one of his fake smiles. Kurogane wasn’t sure what to make of it and decided that he didn’t want to know right now. He only nodded at the mage before leaving the kitchen with long, heavy strides. The boy felt light in his arms, his skin still too warm, and Kurogane was all too aware that he was still soaking wet from the rainstorm. He tried to move Syaoran away slightly, but his arms felt numb and the boy was warm and the fact that he was hiding his face in the crook of Kurogane’s neck wasn’t helping.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were so faintly whispered that he thought he was only imagining it at first, but the warm breath ghosting over his skin was as real as hell and it made his hair stand on its end. There was suddenly a lump in his throat and Kurogane stopped, arms tightening a fraction around the boy.

“Why do you have to be so fucking miserable?” he accused. He almost didn’t recognize his own voice – so raw, angry, hurt.

Syaoran stiffened in his arms, and then laughed, the sound weak, but harsh and painful. “Because I deserve to be?”

“You don’t,” Kurogane growled, trying to ignore the cold hand that was cruelly twisting his stomach. He kicked the bedroom door open and dumped the kid onto the bed, red eyes glaring. “Don’t even think about it.”

He didn’t wait for any reaction before turning around and stripping his wet jacket and shirt, leaving only a relatively dry undershirt on. He could almost hate the kid – pathetic, pitiful, a disgrace to masculinity with that miserable look which practically wrenched Kurogane’s heart out of his chest. The thing was he couldn’t. He doubted he ever could, even if he wanted to.

“He was…” Syaoran’s voice was small, echoing emptily in the room as the words trailed off, but it was enough to make Kurogane look at him again. The boy was staring at the yellow-glazed ceiling, the expression on his face wistful. Longing. Then he closed his eyes, and the ninja was expecting tears when he suddenly picked up his discarded sentence with newfound bitterness. “He was happy, right? Here, with the princess, you, everyone. And he made her happy.”

I couldn’t.

The kid didn’t even have to say it. It was written all over his face.

Kurogane felt his jaw clench. He marched to the bed and pinned Syaoran to the mattress, reveling at the shocked look his unexpected action reaped from the boy. The fever made him less guarded, less in control of his reactions, and it felt so fucking good to rip and shred that thick sheet of self-control.

“You are not him,” Kurogane hissed, blood sizzling in his veins. “Face it, kid, you two are different. He smiles and laughs. You brood and sulk. He fights for the princess. You fight for your-fucking-self. You can never be him.”

It was too easy. He almost forgot what it was like – to kill, maim, destroy beyond repair. He still loved the feel of it, of life being choked out of a body through the tip of his sword, of the stale, pungent air of something dead under his feet. He could tell that he had just broken the boy. So completely. In more ways than one. And it felt so good that it made him sick.

“I…” the boy whispered, voice broken, eyes broken, “…just want to be accepted…”

His last barrier collapsed.

It was one of those urges, the ones that you could only get rid of by succumbing to it, and Kurogane acknowledged this as he pressed his mouth to the boy’s, loving the way it gasp, open, surrender. So quickly. So utterly without restraint because there was none left in him. There was only need, sharp and crude and intense because void must be filled. The kid melted into his arms – perfectly, beautifully – and there was no escape.

He climbed to the bed, breaking the kiss for a moment, and immediately there were limbs clinging, latching onto him with what could only be interpreted as desperation. The kid was desperate, and the thought, for some sick, twisted reasons, satisfied him. He started kissing again, plundering, rubbing, taking everything he could. The kid accepted it all. Not silently. Vocally – whimpering, moaning, whining, and in some distant corner of his mind, Kurogane wondered if this was the first time he had ever experienced this kind of pleasure. The thought quickly faded to the realm of unimportance once the kid arched his hips and made a firm contact with his groin.

The noises coming out from that mouth was unbelievable. Kurogane swallowed his own groans and focused on pressing his knee between Syaoran’s readily parted legs. It made him writhe and trash against him, hips twitching, hands grabbing at his shirt. Pleased with the uninhibited reaction, he left the boy’s lips and started sucking on his neck, enjoying the full, unrestrained moans that now filled the room. The boy was trembling, pleasure lancing through his body as the man above him continued his not-so-gentle assault on his growing hardness.

“Kurogane-san…”

The sound of his name, whispered in that breathless, needy way, jerked him back to reality. He looked down, horror catching up with his lust-hazed mind as he realized what the hell he was doing. He flinched away, leaving the hot, yielding body, completely ignoring the kid’s vehement protests at this sudden loss of contact.

He was just about to rape a fifteen-year-old kid. A fifteen-year-old kid he had just broken and smashed and screwed so badly.

Fuck.

And then, on that highest peak of his most screwed-up moment, he made one final, stupid-beyond-reckoning, definitely-stealing-the-crown mistake. He glanced back. Once. Just a little glance to the boy’s flushed face and the ninja quite literally dropped his jaw because Syaoran was gasping openly, touching himself through his pants, hand rubbing insistently as he arched and moaned, desperately pleasuring himself.

The fever must have lowered his inhibitions, was the longest line of thought Kurogane could process before his brain stopped working completely. He found himself staring, gaping at this sinful picture of seduction. His own inhibitions – or what was left of them – disappeared faster than a group of bunny rabbits chased by the big bad wolf, and before he knew it, he already wrenched the boy’s hand away, lowered the front part of his pants, and curled his fingers around the hard length.

The sharp, strangled hiss coming from the boy was enough of an encouragement. The ninja continued to watch in some kind of trance as his hand worked a set of harsh, steady strokes. The kid’s eyes were shut, brown locks plastered at the sides of his cheeks, and the look on his face was that of a pure, wild ecstasy. His fingers were twisting the sheets, and he kept bucking into the older man’s hand, moaning softly, the sound pulsating through the air like a hot swirl.

And suddenly it wasn’t so softly anymore. Syaoran was burying his face in the pillow, trying to muffle those obscene sounds leaving his mouth as his hips jerked and twisted frantically. Kurogane found himself following the erratic rhythm, loving the sheer discarding of control so unashamedly displayed before his eyes. He caught his name amidst a plethora of disjointed words and feverish mumblings, each syllable sending a dangerous jolt straight to his groin. Groaning, he increased his speed, pressure, everything he could give to bring the end closer because the boy was so desperately fucking his hand and moaning his name.

Kurogane’s entire body shuddered when the kid came with a spasm, crying out loudly against his shoulder, hot fluid spilling again and again onto his palm, fingers, everywhere. For his whole fucking life, he had never known that his name could be said quite like that.

The next few moments were spent in quiet gasps and breathing calming down. His hand was still stroking slowly and Syaoran was still whimpering faintly, fingers clutching his arm in a painful death grip. Then reality came crashing down and the kid looked at him, eyes a blizzard of questions, uncertainty, fear, and something else that Kurogane didn’t even want to know what. He chose to ignore it, pressing small kisses on the sweat-damped temple, murmuring encouragement to sleep. Sleep and forget every fucking thing because it’s all one big, stupid, fucked-up delusion.

It wasn’t until he had finished cleaning the boy and fixing his pants in some kind of mechanical haze that the real extent of what he had just done hit him like a hundreds-ton rock.

He practically ran out from the room, from the kid, from his own aching hardness, from the memory of what he had just done. It followed him nonetheless. He felt sick, disgusted, sicker than he had ever been his entire life.

Just outside, sitting on the floor next to the door was a tray with two drinking glasses on it, one filled with warm milk and the other plain water. Kurogane fought against an impulse to bury his fist in the wall or kick the tray, and headed to the front door, wanting nothing but the cold, numbing downpour to drown him.

He had screwed up. Totally. And any hope to repair was already too far beyond his reach.

End

Okay, that obviously isn’t finished. I’ll try to do a sequel for this later after the finals. Oh God finals.

Edit: Sequel: Point of No Return

Fic: In the Still Watch of The Night (CSyaoran x RSyaoran)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Sun, 23 Dec 2007 06:49:21 GMT

Title: In The Still Watch of The Night
Author: Atthla
Fandom: Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle
Warnings: Spoilers. MAJOR SPOILERS to Chapitre 120 and above. Even the pairing is a spoiler.
Pairing: CSyaoran/RSyaoran
Timeline: Unidentified. In some random universe which exists only for the sake of this fic…
Rating: R, I guess. It goes slightly further than kissing.
Challenge: 30_angsts #12. Chemistry (~electric shock)
Word Count: 1561

Summary: This time Syaoran proves to be more cooperative, but then things get slightly out of hand.

A short and possibly strange one, but I want to write it. It mentions some things from my other fic, Burned but you don’t have to read it to understand this ficlet. Enjoy, everyone.

-----

Syaoran took one step back and tried to evaluate the whole situation.

Hypothetically speaking, that was. Seeing that he currently had his clone pushing him to a tree and kissing him senseless, both actions mentioned above were quite impracticable at the moment.

And it wasn’t as if he had not contributed most willingly in their process of… devouring each other. Even though his mind was in a chaotic whirl, Syaoran could tell that he was kissing back and his tongue was doing things he couldn’t have imagined it doing a few minutes prior. His fingers were curling around tattered fabric which wrapped the body so close to his, much too close that it almost felt like they were molding into one. The back of his head dug into hard, rough bark behind him as an involuntary moan left his mouth, yet another after so many during this small encounter of theirs.

Syaoran had lost count on how many times they had parted only to join their lips again after a second of hurried intake of breath. The feeling of his clone’s mouth on his was addicting and he knew he wouldn’t be getting over it anytime soon. He would be lying if he said that something like this had never occurred to him, particularly since that day in the burning village. He kept reliving the moment in his mind, behind the curtain of his dream – the kiss, the smoldering touch, the feeling that in some obscure, twisted way, he was indeed alive.

It was an irony and the most agonizing of all, that he needed his clone to convince himself that he did exist. His only consolation was the fact that the other seemed to want him as much. The hands on his body. The insistent mouth on his lips. The little, muffled sounds. The heat.

Emotionless as he was, apparently lust still stood a little higher above others. Despite how wrong it sounded, Syaoran could spare none of his attention to care, not when every drop of it was already taken by a significantly more urgent matter. Like trying to keep his voice down. Which was a nearly impossible task when his mouth was being pleasured like that. Whoever said that copies couldn’t exceed their original clearly had never been kissed by his clone. For the life of him Syaoran couldn’t figure out where and when the other boy had learnt how to use his lips and tongue like that. This particular skill hadn’t been in his bank of knowledge before.

With all his concentration or not, Syaoran still couldn’t suppress a strangled groan when the other boy’s hips came in contact with his own. His eyes snapped open immediately and he pushed his twin away, the motion sharp and impulsive. For once, there was no opposition. His clone’s body withdrew and they were left there staring at each other, breathing against each other’s face. Syaoran swore that he had seen a ghost of emotion in those mismatched eyes – a semblance of surprise, only fainter, duller. Or maybe it was the moonlight playing tricks on him.

His hands were trembling slightly, strained muscles taut under his skin as shock spread all over his nerves like ice on sizzling fire. He had never felt anything quite like that, and from the other’s reaction, he could tell that he wasn’t the only one. The knowledge didn’t make him feel any better. He was afraid, frustrated, because he was aching all over and he wanted more but he couldn’t because the way his body reacted was frightening – the spasm, the jolt, the moan ripped off from his throat – and he had no control over it and the thought was disturbing but ohyeshewantedmore…

It was his clone who made the decision for him.

The lips returned and he was suddenly being kissed again. Roughly. Uncaringly. For a few moments, Syaoran stood there frozen, opposing sides screaming in his head, one the calm, measured voice of reason and the other low, seductive, insistent, dripping with sweet, sweet poison. But then a knee pressed between his legs and every thought of pride, caution, inhibition flew out of the window, leaving him gasping and writhing and pressing back almost desperately.

Somewhere far away, teetering between half-hearted life and eternal defeat was his losing conscience. Syaoran grasped and held onto it, before forcing himself to look at this person he had become. What he saw disgusted him. A weak, whimpering mess at his clone’s mercy. Where was the fierceness, the determination to protect, to right the wrongs, to fulfill his oath. Only because of that one kiss a few weeks ago and now he was reduced to this.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he managed to say through heavy pants, eyes still squeezed shut to spare him the mortification of having to see the world laughing at him. His final attempt to save the last bits of his pride. Or the last bits of himself. The Syaoran he knew – the only Syaoran he had ever known how to be. His twin’s response was a nip on the juncture of his neck and a growl that ordered him to shut up.

Syaoran found himself obeying. It was easier to surrender. It had always been. What he had just discovered was how good it also felt. Dumping his responsibilities, down to the last specks of them, to a trash bin somewhere and forgetting about them. Only the ‘now’ mattered, those lips, hands, the hard trunk behind him, how good the other boy was making him feel with his slow, almost methodical grinding.

Syaoran had never have considered himself pathetic, but there was no other word that could describe him right now. Pathetic. His body hummed with want, with need. The kind that made him beg, whimper, plea, and only want more and more. His hips arched forward and he threw his head back when the clone gave him the friction he sought, again and again, faster and harder. His throat was eliciting sounds he didn’t know existed and right now didn’t care. He felt like he would explode. His entire world narrowed into this frenzied rhythm and sweet, agonizing pleasure. There was only him and this hot, hard body pressed against his. No feathers of memories to chase all over the different dimensions. No Clow Reed. No evil uncles with evil intentions to take over the world. Only him and this person who made him feel, breathe, alive.

“Hey kid!”

His heart felt like it had plummeted into the pit of his stomach. Syaoran quite literally wrenched himself away from the clone once the shout had registered in his mind. In that frantic hurry, he lost his coordination and fell to the grass-carpeted ground. There was a hand holding his upper arm and his twin’s mismatched eyes were dark, boring into him when he looked up. Syaoran felt his mouth going dry. The insistent throbbing between his legs intensified and for a split of a second, he wanted nothing more than to press the other boy against the damn tree and continue what they had been doing.

For some reason, the idea terrified him. He scrambled to his feet and pulled away, running as fast as he could from his clone and his dark eyes and the grim shadow of the trees along with the nightmare they had carried. His heart was hammering violently in his chest as he climbed up the slope, back to the small road he had steered out from earlier. Kurogane was standing at the other side of the road, looking enormously pissed off, red eyes glaring and hands fisted tightly on his side.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“I…” Syaoran started but couldn’t think of any lie to concoct. He was shaking so badly and he still could feel his twin’s body against his. At least it was dark. He couldn’t imagine how he must look right now.

“You’re all right?” The question sounded anything but concerned, but the hand on his shoulder spoke otherwise. Syaoran was torn between being grateful and panicked and the fact that he still couldn’t think straight was definitely not helping.

“Yes,” he forced himself to nod, his voice harsh and strangely shrill. “It’s just… I ran all the way here when I heard Kurogane-san’s voice.”

He couldn’t tell if the older man bought it or not – technically it wasn’t a lie – but the subject was dropped and it was all that mattered to him. A muted sigh escaped his lips when Kurogane finally took his eyes off him.

“We should go back. We’ll continue our search tomorrow morning.”

He gave a very slight nod and the ninja turned around, walking with fast, long strides to the other direction. Syaoran knew that he should follow but couldn’t resist a glance toward the cluster of trees on his left. He could feel it. Somewhere in the shadow his clone was still watching him.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine and he looked away. He didn’t want to think about what had happened, or what would happen when they met again. But even as his feet trailed after Kurogane’s distancing footsteps, he knew that there was no escape. His clone would haunt him forever. Like always. In reality. In dreams. In between.

Because in the end, they were one.

End

I couldn’t resist. I just had to make Kurogane interrupt them. If I manage to frustrate anyone (except Syaoran, that is), do tell.

Edit: Sequel: Ghosts in The Mirror

Fic: The Worth of A Smile (Kurogane x RSyaoran)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Mon, 03 Dec 2007 09:20:57 GMT

Title: The Worth of A Smile
Author: Atthla
Fandom: Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle
Pairing: Kurogane/Syaoran, almost Syaoran/Mokona. I’m serious. Or not. Maybe it’s just Kurogane’s head playing with him.
Rating The safest of all. Yes, that means G.
Warnings: Heavy SPOILERS, especially for the Tokyo and Infinity Arc. Some language too, since this is Kurogane we’re talking about.
Timeline: During Infinity Arc.
Challenge: 30_romances #11. Mission Impossible ; Limitation
Word Count: 1914

Summary: “It was hard to look at him, even Kurogane had to admit that.”

Notes: SPOILERS BEGIN HERE. Okay, so it’s Kurogane/RSyaoran, my alternative fav pairing in Tsubasa because CSyaoran/Sakura is so canon that it hurts. And so is KuroFai. Makes me sad that there aren’t many KuroSyao fics out there. The agony of a fan of crack pairings… Anyway, enjoy the read.

-----

The most amazing thing about the kid, in Kurogane’s opinion, was his ability to stay quiet.

Like a damn statue. Or some lamppost on the fucking sidewalk. Which was ridiculous because with that much power and magic rippling under his skin, all he could manage was to stick out like a sore thumb.

Admittedly, it was rather disturbing to a degree. He would speak up when he needed to make a point and contribute a line or two on the ongoing conversation, but never for any idle chitchat. Most of the times, he would be content to stay at the sideline, watching everything through placid brown eyes, an invisible seal over his lips. After spending months traveling together with a cheerful, warm-hearted, sometimes overenthusiastic Syaoran, this was clearly a drastic change.

The princess understood this best. The mage was trying to – Kurogane knew how hard he was trying – but forgiveness had always been a complex, if not perfectly unfathomable issue. The fact remained that someone he had trusted had betrayed him in a way so horrible that it seemed unlikely that these wounds would ever stop bleeding. Like him, to Fay trust did not come easily. Thousands of rusty gates and barriers, wrought by past scars and an instinct to protect oneself, rendered ‘trust’ almost impossible. He armed himself with a scowl and viciousness, the mage with a smile and constant elusion. They weren’t too different, really, because in the end, all boiled down to one point. It had always been safer to doubt, question, suspect – and pretend.

An automatic defense mechanism.

While it had proven to be useful many many times, against the trusting, oftentimes naïve children, it simple fell dead at their feet – absolutely useless. Until now, Kurogane honestly still couldn’t say why, but there was enough suspicion that it had something to do with innocence.

Innocence. Ha.

Whatever it was, all he knew was now it had gone, blown away by cold, angry gusts of reality. The princess lost the person most precious to her. The kid lost his own heart, common sense, and overall his humanity. What little balance their odd, twisted group had managed to build around never-ending fear and doubts, crumbled into dust.

Then, as if fate hadn’t gotten enough laughing from them, another kid came along.

To be fair, nobody wanted to see him as a replacement of someone who was already very close to their heart – or from another point of view, someone who ripped off and ate eyes of powerful, blonde magicians – but it wasn’t easy. That they shared the same face was only the tip of the damn iceberg. The same heart, the same kindness, the same fierceness in passionate brown eyes. The list could go on and on until the end of the world and still, there would be some things they hadn’t mentioned yet. It was hard to look at him, even Kurogane had to admit that. And to make things worse, the kid knew this.

And what was his reaction? An easy question. Like his clone, this kid had no objection at all on becoming a martyr and taking the burden of the whole world alone on his small shoulders. Silently. Bravely. Unflinchingly.

Stupidly.

If Kurogane hadn’t been already too concerned about the current fragility of their group, he would have beaten some sense into the boy. Like, literally. The persistent silence and I’m-too-guilty-to-smile attitude didn’t help. In fact, it only convinced him even further that something had to be done quickly. The kid needed serious help.

He might not be the one who could give it though. As if transfixed, the ninja listened silently to the faint voices floating out from Syaoran’s bedroom. One was cheery and bright and… cute – the kind of ‘cute’ that made you want to tear your hair out if you listened to it too long. The other one didn’t sound exactly happy, but the door was half-ajar and from where he was standing, Kurogane could see that the kid was smiling.

If the sight wasn’t so mindboggling, the ninja might realize that for the first time ever, Syaoran lowered enough of his guard down to allow somebody coming close to him unannounced. Usually, no one could go within twenty metres from him without alerting him in any way. Spending half of their fucking life in some damn aquarium really could turn someone paranoid.

And the kid was smiling. Sure, it wasn’t the the-world-is-full-of-birds-and-flowers-and-I’m-so-inordinately-happy smile, but it was a smile nonetheless and Kurogane found himself staring. It wasn’t the first time he had ever seen a smile on Syaoran’s face. After all, the Syaoran he used to know wore a smile like he wore his heart. On his sleeves, honest, open for the world to see – before he lost it anyway. It was different for this Syaoran. It looked different – restrained, a little sad, almost guilty, as if the wearer felt that he didn’t deserve it.

Which might be the real case now that he thought about it. Kurogane felt his hands fisting as the idea rolled in his head. This kid was unbelievably stupid. Feeling guilty over the whole mess he couldn’t really do anything about.

He was still smiling as Mokona continued to chatter and bounce happily around the room. The ninja watched silently when the smile widened a little, losing the touch of melancholy in it, and for the briefest moment, he thought that the kid would laugh at last.

He did.

Something inside him must have died or malfunctioned because Kurogane suddenly felt his heart stop beating. The laughter brightened the boy’s solemn face, making him look younger, much more relaxed, and for one horrifying moment, the ninja found himself thinking of how beautiful it was. He caught the disagreeable thought on time and tied it down firmly before throwing it out of the proverbial window. ‘Beautiful’ was a term used for princesses, like Tomoyo-hime. Or Sakura who was currently sleeping in the next room. Definitely not for angsty pretty bo– damn it!

It took him his entire willpower not to bang his head on the door or some other conveniently-accessible hard surface. The kid would drive him crazy, he just knew it. And to worsen things, he realized that he had been discovered. Syaoran spared a glance at the door and his laughter ceased, the smile dimmed, replaced by instant frigidity and silent wariness.

Kurogane cursed under his breath. Of course, knowing him, he was bound to screw up sooner or later. He only wished that it had been the latter.

“Kurogane-san.”

Even the way he addressed him was distant, a far cry from the gentle sound of his laughter. It must be automatic, the ninja thought resentfully, that glaze of iciness and courteousness coating the boy’s voice. He barely acknowledged Mokona’s overly energetic greeting as he stomped into the room, glaring at nothing in particular because he sure as hell couldn’t glare at Syaoran when everything about that smile, that laugh was fresh still in his mind.

“Is… there something wrong?” the boy spoke again, a trace of hesitance in his question.

“No,” his answer came out curt and positively harsh. Kurogane fought against a particularly strong urge to hurt himself when his unsympathetic retort diminished the last bits of emotions from Syaoran’s face, leaving it even stonier than before. Okay, so it was a wrong move. Not his fault though. Hadn’t expected the kid to be so fucking sensitive.

Trying to ignore the sardonic laugh echoing in the back of his mind, the ninja cleared his throat. “You should get some rest,” he said again and was as pleased as he was displeased at how indifferent he had managed to sound. “Tomorrow’s going to be rough. Better save your energy while you can.”

There was a flash of surprise in the boy’s eyes. What Kurogane hadn’t expected, however, was the faint curving of lips – an almost smile – as Syaoran nodded. “Kurogane-san too.”

No, it didn’t affect him, the ninja thought determinedly, but quickly realized that he was not convincing anyone, least of all himself. Discomfort and frustration mounting, his only option was to look away. “Yeah,” he mumbled gruffly and turned around, leaving the room just as quickly as he had come in. He had to get out from there.

“Good night, Syaoran! Sleep tight!”

Oh, right. He almost forgot about that stuffed animal. Kurogane waited until they were a good distance away from the boy’s room and then caught the bouncing little ball of energy which was humming cheerfully on his shoulder.

“She’s already asleep.”

The creature waved one small, white hand – or paw, whatever it was. “Don’t worry, Mokona will come in quietly–“

“No,” the word rumbled at the back of his throat and his stomach suddenly clenched uncomfortably. “You stay with him.”

Talk to him. Listen to him. Make him smile.

Kurogane hadn’t realized that his eyes, his voice held such intensity until Mokona gave him a half-confused, half-wary look. “But what about Sakura?”

“I’ll be on watch,” he answered quickly. Nothing new. He had been on constant alert since what had happened to the mage. The fact they had been continuously spied on since they had arrived here didn’t help to ease his high-strung nerves.

Apparent disapproval, however, was what he got as the result of his careless answer. “Kurogane should have some rest. Syaoran said so too.”

He was thisclose to blurting out ‘really?’, but luckily the word refused to leave the tip of his tongue in any manner. Getting a grip on himself, he pushed Mokona to bounce off his hand. “Shut up and go, shiro manju. You’re bothering me.”

“Kurogane is mean!” Mokona pouted. “Syaoran will be upset if he knows you’re planning not to sleep again!”

Will he really?

The ninja swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Just go,” he growled, hating how weak and unsteady he sounded. The kid really screwed him up. And the damn rabbit-look-alike seemed to know it too, because a look of realization dawned on its face and damn if it didn’t make him want to kill and destroy something, preferably the closest living thing around at the moment.

“Kurogane should talk to Syaoran,” Mokona said sagely, multiplying his homicidal urges by the hundreds. “Really talk. He’ll be very happy if you do that. It will make him feel less like a stranger.”

“Maybe later,” the ninja responded evasively. He heard the disbelieving sniff but didn’t say anything, only intensifying his glare by the second until Mokona huffed and went to the direction of Syaoran’s room. He was left there standing in the empty corridor, trying to figure out why he still felt like a total trash.

Perhaps he really should talk to the boy. He wasn’t that good with words, but Mokona was right. This Syaoran didn’t know what to do with himself, had no place in the world after disappearing from it for so long. He might act all cool and brave, but in the end he was still a fifteen-year-old boy searching for something he didn’t exactly know what.

And for the ninja, it was a good enough reason to protect. They fought, they hurt, they cried, and life threw every kind of bitch and bastard it could at them, but Kurogane wanted to think that as long as he could still smile like that – this boy who probably didn’t have any reason to smile at all – it meant that they hadn’t lost yet.

End

Fic: Burned (CSyaoran x RSyaoran)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 07:59:15 GMT

Title: Burned
Author: Atthla
Fandom: Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle
Pairing: CSyaoran/RSyaoran
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: MAJOR spoilers. Don't read past this point if you mind any spoiler.
Challenge: 30_angsts #29. Fire; Water; Earth; Metal; Wood (~one last dinner)
Word Count: 1041

Summary: A poor excuse for Syaoran to get a kiss from his clone.

Note: SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER! MAJOR SPOILERS!!! Thanks to piggyhoho and rufustehshinra now I know that they meet again on chapter 174. Which makes this fic contradict the canon (of course it does! Look at the pairing!) Anyway, the summary explains all. Enjoy this little ficlet.

-----

It was the scent of blood.

How he could separate one from the rest was unclear to Syaoran, but he turned around and started to run to the opposite direction. Rows of thatch-roofed houses were burning on his right and left, the heat furiously licking his skin. There were screams in the background, faint against the crackling noises all around him, and he briefly thought about the princess. Fay was with her, he assured himself and increased his pace. This was more important right now.

He couldn’t feel the feather, but he knew that his clone was here. And there was only one reason why he would be here.

The pattern of his breathing had become fast and erratic when Syaoran finally came to a stop. His lips thinned when he noticed an old woman lying motionless at the feet of a burning house, blood soaking her clothes from a fresh wound. His clone was here. There was no doubt about it.

He turned around in time to see a blurry shadow dashing to his direction, but reacted a second too late. It hit him square on the chest and he tumbled backward at the impact. The hard, dusty ground welcomed him, but before he could get a proper look at his attacker, a weight had settled on his stomach, firm, almost cold fingers curling around his neck.

“You always follow me everywhere.”

Snarling, Syaoran tried to throw the other boy off him, but the weight and the hand kept him in place. He glared at a pair of mismatched eyes, ignoring the intensifying heat all around him. That he was lying next to a burning house was the last of his worries right now. He was more concerned with the fact that he had let his guard down and allowed his twin – who was little more than a feather-radar-cum-killing-machine at the moment – an opening to attack him.

And then he noticed the feather. White and delicate, faintly glowing in the tight grip of his clone’s left fingers. A surge of new strength flooded his veins at this sight, along with a mishmash of unpleasant emotions that made him grit his teeth. His hand shot upward in an attempt to snatch the feather, but his twin was faster and the target narrowly escaped his grasp.

The same, however, could not be said about the other boy’s wrist.

“Let go.”

The voice was devoid of any emotion and the fingers around his neck increased their pressure, making Syaoran gaped for air. He could feel anger starting to build inside him, even though the source was unclear. It could be the sadness that always lined Sakura’s face and the fact that her most precious person didn’t care in the slightest for her tears. It could be the blank, detached eyes, this emotionless doll the world had created to fulfill its selfish desires. It could be his pathetic self, unable to do anything but watch from behind glass as the person who mattered the most to him walked straight to his doom.

His twin. His mindless, brutal, heartless twin.

Syaoran opened his mouth, but no voice could make it past his constricted throat save for a faint, unintelligible squeak. He glanced around frantically, looking for something to distract the clone and free himself, but all chances seemed to have gone hidden behind the curtain of smoke and heat. In that frenzied haze, he caught a glimpse of the feather again and Sakura’s tearful smile flashed in a dark corner of his mind.

“It…” he closed his eyes, trying to gain a semblance of control over his failing vocal chords, and simply shouted when he realized that control was a far-fetched illusion for his chaotic mind, “…isn’t yours!”

“Then it isn’t yours either,” the other said tonelessly, completely unimpressed by his strangled holler. “After all I am you.”

Through blurring eyes, Syaoran glared at him and tightened his fingers around the bony wrist. He could feel blood pulsing under the skin, the same red, human blood which surged from his heart and rushed in his ears. His twin responded in kind, the assault to his neck increasing painfully, and Syaoran found himself trashing wildly about, his other hand clawing at tattered and bloodied cloak. He had to live to put an end to this twisted journey – existence. He couldn’t die in the hand of his clone. Not yet.

The thought, the blazing determination slipped from his mental grasp the moment said clone sealed his mouth with a kiss.

Syaoran registered shock, the complete cessation of his heartbeat, and then warmth. Odd, stifling warmth that burned his lips and set his nerves on fire. Panic came bursting in pursue a second later, violently reviving his other senses, and he was forced to remember his current predicament. To remember, however, was the most he could do once lack of air made its presence clear to him. Syaoran could feel his grip weakening, his eyes sliding shut, and the rest of the world bled into nothingness.

It was not long until his hand fell powerless to his side, a dull thud on the dusty ground. The lips against his mouth continued to move with agonizing slowness, but the fingers around his neck didn’t let go. Syaoran knew that he was losing his consciousness, that he once again was letting Fei Wong win, but for one strange, breathless moment, he realized that he didn’t care.

And then they were gone. It was abrupt, utterly unexpected, and Syaoran found himself gasping at the loss, hot air rushing into his lungs painfully. He was vaguely aware of his clone’s weight shifting from his stomach, but his entire concentration was wasted on another task – gathering the scattered pieces of his brain and making sure that he didn’t break down with every breath taken, every sense gained back.

When he finally opened his eyes, his other self had disappeared.

Syaoran wanted to laugh, the bitter emotion swirling in his chest, crashing like an angry storm against a defenseless shore. The house continued to burn but he only stared at the starless night sky, the sound of distancing footsteps echoing in his mind. His twin had gone, once again leaving destruction in his wake.

End

Okay. Now tell me whether it’s a poor excuse or not…

Edit: Sequel: In The Still Watch of The Night

Fic: Awake (Lavi/Kanda)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Wed, 15 Aug 2007 06:30:43 GMT

Title: Awake
Author: Atthla
Fandom: D.Gray-Man
Pairing: Lavi/Kanda
Rating: T
Word Count: 1239

Summary: Lavi loved and hated nighttime.

Disclaimer: Not mine. I’m only playing with them and adding a healthy dose of angst.

Lavi had spent many kinds of night awake. There were, for example, nights during his childhood when he had been too excited to sleep and seconds had felt like hours because tomorrow would be his first this or that. Or nights during strenuous missions when he couldn’t let his guard down and had to keep his eyes opened or risked a surprise attack while he was sleeping.

There were also bitter lonely nights during which he dreamt about endless corridors and mazes he couldn’t get out from. And these came often, especially after one of his friends almost got killed – which happened to occur in daily basis nowadays – or his stubborn master finally succumbed to old age and fell sick. He hated these nights, but they would always come back to him, again and again.

He had many memories of sleepless nights, but Lavi’s favourite had to be those warm nights looking at his lover’s face after a wonderful lovemaking. He would stay silent, motionless for hours just to gaze at Kanda’s face, which in his opinion was entirely different without the strains the swordsman always wore side by side with wakefulness, though of course no less beautiful. These were his special moments, because he could drape an arm over pale, almost skinny waist without having Yuu reacting violently at this affectionate gesture – like punching him to oblivion or unsheathing a dangerously honed katana – or simply look at him without receiving a glare, a snap and, usually, a walkout.

Luckily for him, this night belonged to the last group – although sadly sans the lovemaking part. They were on their way back to Home after a mission and things actually had been looking a little bit gloomy with the constant downpour outside. They had been forced to spend the night in a rather dilapidated inn among so many other stranded travelers. How Kanda had finally managed to secure a room for them was unknown to Lavi, but he was perfectly content to let the other exorcist threaten and flaunt Mugen around as long as they could keep themselves dry for the night.

Night, he felt, also suited Kanda very much. Cold whispers of the night wind made him curl slightly to Lavi even though he was still too proud to fall completely into his embrace. His posture might be a little defensive, but at least he wasn’t trying to grab his sword every five minutes or so like a few months ago when they had been still too unused to each other’s presence.

Before, he had always wondered about the perpetual scowl on Kanda’s face, if he had worn it to his sleeps. Now, he found it amusing to discover that certain muscles apparently did not forget their training because even now they maintained some kind of a small frown on his lover’s face. Yuu-chan was still Yuu-chan even in the deepest slumber and Lavi loved every side of him.

Loved. Lavi loved Yuu.

It made his heart clench just to think about it. To him, loving Kanda felt like falling into a bottomless abyss, both exhilarating and frightening. Lavi always liked challenge and Yuu-chan was one of the toughest nuts to crack. It gave him pleasure, a sense of contentment to see that he could make his friend bristle – or at very rare times, blush. Anything, as long as he was not ignoring him. True that the Japanese often made him feel frustrated, but in the end, he treasured those moments all the same. Like the old man said, struggles made victories taste sweeter.

And suddenly they were too close. Kanda wouldn’t admit it for his life, but Lavi could see it, could see in the way pale hands would cling tightly to him in the middle of their lovemaking, in the way dark eyes would gain fire in them every time he came back bloodied and battered. Kanda might be in denial, but Lavi knew very well what they were getting into. And he was afraid.

If one of them died, the other would be broken. In their line of work however, nothing was certain and death was entirely too possible. It came in package with that cool black coat, he used to say and make fun of when they had been younger.

But lately it didn’t sound funny anymore. Death preyed on his mind like demons would feast on souls and this only got worse at night when he had no barriers from dark, terrible thoughts. He would picture a flower, once beautifully shining and now losing its last petal to time and endless fights. The single pink petal would fade into lifeless grey and he would scream because he knew what that meant.

He had always hated that lotus. Kanda must have too, because every time they spent a night together, it would be in Lavi’s room, away from its sickly, ominous glow. All of them were mortal, but Lavi couldn’t imagine how it felt to always be reminded that you had a clock ticking, drawing your death nearer and nearer with every drop of blood spilled.

Maybe he wasn’t the only one aware that they were only looking for troubles by doing this. Kanda, for all his standoffish airs and brusqueness, must know better than anybody else.

And Bookman too.

Lavi felt his arm automatically tightening its hold around his lover’s waist at the thought of his master. He had gotten a few harsh words about getting too close with anyone, first Allen and now Yuu, but the more he tried, the more he found it difficult to disregard his friends. Allen was the first one who reached out to him. Yuu was the reason he kept trying to reach out. Lavi needed him.

Naturally his master disagreed. The old man had even gone as far as pressuring Komui not to partner them together ever again. But Lavi, being a rebel at heart, decided that he didn’t like this arrangement and went in search for Yuu at the first chance he got.

He knew the risks. He knew what kind of hell waiting for him in the end of the tunnel, but he didn’t want to let Kanda’s hand go. If he was allowed to be selfish, just this once…

“Sleep, asshole. We’re leaving at sunrise.”

Lavi withdrew his arm, trying not to grimace at the totally unaffectionate way of addressing him as Kanda burned a hole somewhere between his eyes. Trust the ice princess to ruin his angst-ridden moment.

“Sorry,” he murmured in what he deemed a politely apologetic tone. “Did I wake you up?”

“I can hear your thoughts from miles away.”

“That means we’ve formed a psychological connection, Yuu-chan,” he informed Kanda cheerfully.

“Like hell,” the swordsman growled. “Who wants to be connected with you?”

“You already did.”

“Shut up.”

Lavi obeyed and returned his arm to its original position. Kanda glared at him, but other than that didn’t make a more useful effort to resist him and simply went back to sleep, leaving him to stare at closed eyes adorned by long lashes.

There were many reasons why Lavi loved and hated nighttime, but above all, it was because he could feel optimistic in this shelter of darkness. Time and space had suddenly expanded and he had them, limitless, within his grasp, and it was, although able to give him this little frail thing called hope, too painful.

Very, very painful.

End

Comments are very much appreciated. And if there’s anyone who can help me in some details about Kanda’s healing ability, I’ll be very much obliged. Is this ability his to use as he sees fit or it simply will react every time he gets injured regardless of his wish? I’m a little behind in the manga so I don’t know if this information is already available or not. I’m gonna need it for another fic, so please help me.

Thank you for reading!

Fic: Harbour (5/?) (Tamaki/Kyouya)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Sat, 11 Aug 2007 19:00:50 GMT

Title: Harbour (5/?)
Author: Atthla
Fandom: Ouran Kokou Host Club
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. Bisco Hatori owns all these pretty boys.
Pairings: Tamaki/Kyouya, Hikaru/Kaoru, a little Hikaru/Haruhi and Kaoru/Haruhi
Rating: PG-13
Warning: OOC-ness maybe, but considering that they are older in this story, there bound to be some character developments. And since this is an angst fic, the portrayal of the characters may be darker. Not to forget, some spoilers.
Summary: They were twenty-four and ambitions, want, responsibilities got in the way.

Previous chapters: One Two Three Four

Crossposted to ouranhost_slash and kyouyatamaki

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Chapter Five: Rise and Fall

-----

Haruhi didn’t think that she had ever been trapped in a more uncomfortable situation.

It was Sunday afternoon and the restaurant painted a busy but high-classed picture with its well-dressed patrons and mellow decorations. Waiters and waitresses in dainty black suits flurried around quietly, ready to provide any kind of service wished by the guests. Unfortunately, she reflected, these goings-on lay at the other side of the door while she was here, shut inside a private chamber with her friends. Such occasion might be perfectly all right a few months ago, but now, with none of her companies speaking or smiling, it was pure torture.

The atmosphere inside the room could only be described as hostile. There were others like her who felt merely uncomfortable – Honey-senpai, and possibly Mori-senpai although the slight frown on his face didn’t say much – but the rest were busy holding a glaring contest with each other across the circular table they were sitting around. Hikaru was the closest to a winner with his angry blazing eyes and equally angry features – Haruhi remembered that the only time she had ever seen him that angry was when he had heard about but Kyouya-senpai’s engagement. Kaoru’s expression, a little thoughtful after what had just been proposed to them, was not as fierce as his twin’s, but Kyouya-senpai with smouldering ice in sharp brown eyes proved to be a serious challenge to the older Hitachiin.

She had dreaded this since they had stepped into the restaurant. Getting Hikaru and Kaoru there was one thing, but to expect that they would be happy meeting Kyouya-senpai was a little too far-fetched. As the only buffer in the room, she had been enormously relieved when Honey-senpai and Mori-senpai had arrived. However, Honey-senpai had quickly and astonishingly quieted down after a perfunctory greeting, which once again left the room in painful silence. Haruhi had started to wonder if Kyouya-senpai had actually dared to invite their only missing member when he suddenly spoke up.

His presentation had been brief but clear. He intended to create a fund which purpose was to help impoverished people who were in need of immediate and crucial medical attention financially, and he couldn’t do it alone. The plan was neat and meticulous, which was to be expected from Kyouya-senpai, the greatest plotter she had ever known. It even involved her and made use of her position as an associate in the most prominent law firm in town. She was not invited to be a mere spectator, but as one of the team players. She was there not only as a friend, but also a lawyer who could oversee every legal procedure which would ensue after a certain agreement was reached.

It made her want to smile. Despite his polished, icy exterior, Kyouya-senpai was not a heartless bastard he had always presented him to be. He paid attention to small things like this, and he did it without allowing others to notice. Haruhi knew that she was one of the very few exceptions who actually noticed, but she appreciated it all the same.

Unfortunately, she seemed to be the only one who had a positive opinion on Kyouya-senpai right now. No one had said anything after the presentation and the tension in the room was so thick that it was enough to suffocate anyone in the vicinity. Luckily, Haruhi thought sarcastically, this was a private chamber, so should anything worse happen, there would only be six victims at most. Too bad one of them had to be her.

But before worrying about that, she should do something about this silence.

“So that’s why, eh?”

It seemed that someone had decided to seize the task from her hand. Haruhi let out a quiet grateful sigh, but her momentary relief quickly dissipated when she noticed the vindictive look on Hikaru’s face.

“I’ve been thinking what you actually want with us,” he drawled, hostility nothing but evident, “but really, Kyouya-senpai, I never imagined that it would be for something so... altruistic.”

The dangerous silence left after those words enveloped them like a heavy black curtain. Haruhi eyed the older twin warily before shifting her gaze to the dark-haired man who had just received the verbal slap. Kyouya-senpai did not show any reaction to the implied insult, which she knew very well would only aggravate Hikaru even more.

And of course she was right. Hikaru suddenly rose to his feet and put both of his palms on the table, leaning forward slightly toward Kyouya-senpai who was sitting opposite him. If anything, he looked even angrier than before.

“Tell me one thing, Kyouya-senpai,” his voice came out harsh, almost like a snarl. “Is this about those people, or is this about you not wanting to see yourself helpless?”

Haruhi was almost certain that an all-out fight would break out when Kaoru reached out to touch his twin’s hand. Like a spell breaking, anger dissolved quickly from Hikaru’s eyes, leaving only cold resentment lingering behind golden irises.

It was not unexpected. After all, she knew what Kaoru really meant for Hikaru, but it still didn’t alleviate the sudden pain erupting in her chest at the sight.

“Is it for real?” The younger Hitachiin asked, his tone not as aggressive as his brother but no less unfriendly.

Kyouya-senpai looked like he had just been asked if he was certain a cow couldn’t jump over the moon. “Would I joke about something like this?”

There was a smile on Kaoru’s face, but it was mirthless. “Who knows, Kyouya-senpai?” he said in what Haruhi knew to be mocking cheerfulness. “Your sense of humor has always been beyond us.”

The temperature in the room had quickly dropped again to a freezing zone. Kaoru, she realized with a wince, apparently was no better than Hikaru. He only used a subtler method and in this case, silent thrusts could wound as much as an open insult if not more, because it was Kyouya-senpai who stood at the receiving end.

With the silence, it only got worse. She could find nothing to crack the ice, and even Honey-senpai only sat stoically without a word. It made her wonder if Mori-senpai’s gloomy personality had finally rubbed off to his smaller friend.

“Sorry I’m late, everyone.”

She heard Hikaru’s sharp intake of breath and saw Kaoru narrowing his eyes when the familiar voice echoed in the room. At the door stood the last person she could expect to be there and he strode in like nothing, except his lateness, had happened. Kyouya-senpai seemed to be the only person who was not shocked by this apparition – even Mori-senpai dropped his jaw a little.

“I had a meeting I couldn’t cancel,” Tamaki-senpai spoke again, using a complaining tone that painfully reminded Haruhi to their Host Club years. “And this is Sunday, imagine that. Well, what are we discussing here?”

“A fund to help impoverished people who need certain medical aids like surgery.”

The jovial mask quite simply cracked at the sound of Kyouya-senpai’s voice. Bits of emotions – longing, uncertainty, misery – poured out from the single fracture, but not the smallest trace of hate. That was the amazing thing about Tamaki-senpai, Haruhi reflected with a tiny pang in her heart. He could never hate someone he loved, not even when that someone had deeply wounded him.

“A fund?” There was a slight tremor in his voice, but he had recovered enough to plaster another smile onto his face.

Kyouya-senpai proceeded to explain in the same impersonal manner he had just done to all of them, completely ignoring the incredulous looks he was getting from all directions. He was the better actor compared to Tamaki who repeatedly bit his lips to suppress his emotions, but the utter formality of his voice told Haruhi that he wasn’t as unaffected as he seemed.

This wasn’t the first time she had thought ‘why must it be this way’ and she was sure it wouldn’t be her last. Kyouya-senpai’s proud stubbornness and Tamaki-senpai’s firm persistence would make sure of that. She glanced to her left, noting the identical frown the twins were wearing, and silently prayed that they wouldn’t attempt anything which might worsen the situation. As much as she wanted things to change, their plans had a tendency to bloom into calamities rather than useful support.

But looking at them like that, pretending as if there never existed a deep passionate love between them was painful. Because their eyes, their body language spoke differently. Haruhi thought of herself and the role she played for – and ironically between – the twins, and couldn’t decide which was better.

Tamaki-senpai looked thoughtful after Kyouya-senpai had finished his explanation. Knowing the former Host Club King, he should start spewing nonsense in a second, but the look on his face remained solemn.

“That’s a nice plan,” he said slowly and Haruhi realized that this was Suoh Tamaki dealing with business, not some idiotic Host Club games. “But I want to know how we can sort out the people. You don’t plan to use a detective or something to investigate them all, do you?”

For a moment, it looked like Kyouya-senpai was about to snort like he often had done every time Tamaki-senpai said something stupid, but the expression cleared from his face quickly. “The degree of illness will be the most defining factor in making the priority list,” he answered calmly. “Medical diagnoses will be made by doctors who have agreed to join the program. Investigations to each applicant’s financial background are of course imperative, but my family’s private investigators will be able to handle them well. As for the person to sort them out, I will take the role for the time being until I’ve trained several candidates who not only have extensive knowledge in medicine, but also know how to to organize well.”

“So we only have to make a monthly donation to the fund?”

“There will be reports sent to you, of course,” Kyouya-senpai’s reply was sharp, “and annual meetings to discuss results and possible improvements. This is a professional organization after all.”

There was a moment of breathless silence, during which Haruhi feared that one – or maybe both – of them had finally broken under pressure and snapped. But on Kyouya-senpai’s face was only his usual cool composure and Tamaki-senpai did nothing more drastic than a nod.

“I think it’s great,” he said, his voice a little tremulous but calm enough. “All right, I’ll join in. I can help with publicity too if you want.”

For the first time, uncertainty crept into Kyouya-senpai’s voice. “Publicity?”

Tamaki-senpai nodded again, more excitedly this time. “Yes. I know your doctors will advise patients who cannot pay to submit an application to the program and words will eventually get around, but if we can get there faster, why not? Hikaru can handle the newspaper and I have some influence on the television. Oh, and medical journals too. Who knows if other doctors want to join? We can split some of these tasks.”

Before Kyouya-senpai could response, he had already launched into another train of ideas. “And what about people from remote areas? Tokyo does have the best hospitals but not everyone will check up their illness here. There should be doctors in those areas too. And what if the sick person cannot travel far? Or what if he can’t pay the transportation fee? Don’t you think we should be able to organize everything once we accept an applicant?”

A very familiar expression flitted across Kyouya-senpai’s face. Haruhi remembered that he used to make the same face every time Tamaki-senpai had gotten carried away with his infinite, often ridiculous ideas.

“It isn’t as easy as it sounds,” he pointed out matter-of-factly, but this only earned him a little smile from Tamaki-senpai.

“I know. That’s why we have to try hard, right?”

Another familiar expression appeared – this one gentler but raw, like it had been wrenched out of him from a secret safe stored deep within his heart, unseen and should-be-untouched. Haruhi was forced to hide a smile. With the rate this was going, she wouldn’t be surprised if Tamaki-senpai would come out as the winner in the end, his lack of self-possession notwithstanding.

Meanwhile the blonde had started on another plan. “Listen, Kyouya, we should get others to join. With the right publication, it should be easy. I’m sure I’m not the only one with so much spare money lying around. I have no idea what to do with them and isn’t it better to spend them for something like this?”

“It’s a wonderful idea, Tama-chan!” Suddenly Honey-senpai exclaimed, eyes glittering like he had just seen a tableful of cake. “My cousins and friends will want to contribute!”

“Right?” His smile was brilliant. “That way we can collect more money to help more people. Maybe we’ll even have enough funds to build a new hospital somewhere remote. Oh, and we can provide scholarships for medical schools too. The graduate will have to participate in this program and…”

Ignoring Tamaki-senpai’s ranting, Kyouya-senpai brought a hand to his temple, a gesture Haruhi had only seen only too often. The edges of his lips were quivering slightly and she was willing to bet her entire career that it was a smile being suppressed. The tension, she realized with a touch of astonishment, had disappeared.

“So we’re doing this, everyone?” The blonde got to his feet and looked around the table.

“Of course!” Honey-senpai was nodding eagerly. A more subdued one from Mori-senpai confirmed his choice.

Hikaru was not smiling, but she could sense that under his mask of displeasure, he was utterly at lost with this development. His voice however, was still colder that she would have preferred when he answered, “I will join the plan. If they need help, then they need help. Kaoru?”

The younger twin leant back to his chair, his eyes flickering toward Kyouya-senpai and away again so fast that Haruhi wondered if she was imagining it. In the end he chuckled and put his hand on top of his brother’s. “Why not? Maybe I can organize a fashion show or two as a fundraiser.”

“A great idea!” Tamaki-senpai agreed. “I always know you’re smarter than you look, Kaoru!”

A strange look settled briefly on Kaoru’s face, a crisscross of a wry smile and unwilling resignation. “That should be you, milord,” he said and his voice was soft, softer than Haruhi had ever heard in public.

She wanted to cry.

–

Kyouya was tired. Dealing with his friends nowadays wearied him out more than a triple marathon would, especially with his current eating problem, but he knew that he should not complain following the current turn of events. That his idea would be accepted so enthusiastically was beyond his wildest expectation. Getting himself to do this alone already required so much courage that he hadn’t dared to hope for anything. Not with Hikaru and Kaoru in the picture.

But Tamaki. Tamaki.

Kyouya inhaled sharply, demanding himself to stay calm before realizing that he couldn’t stop the slight tremor that ran through his body. Seeing his former lover again after almost two months wrecked him more than he had anticipated. Tamaki always looked good but the moment he had appeared on the doorstep, Kyouya had stifled a sob.

He knew it would be hard. He just didn’t expect that it would be this hard.

How he had managed not to break down completely was beyond his comprehension. But, he closed his eyes to block out the pain, it had been close. Too close. Tamaki’s presence had made him defensive and he knew that it had shown in everything he did – colder, stiffer, brusquer. The other man must have been equally affected if not more, but Kyouya had learnt not to look into his eyes. Maybe that was how he had managed.

Tamaki. Gods, Tamaki.

“Kyouya-san?”

Kyouya grimaced. Great. He was thinking about an ex-lover in the company of his fiancée. Again. As much as he wanted to blame his inattentiveness to exhaustion and her untimely visit, this was really getting out of line.

And how could he just slip off like that? Usually he could maintain a track on what his interlocutor was saying, even when most of his attention was held prisoner by other subjects. That this one occasion was different didn’t surprise him, but it definitely vexed him.

“Forgive me,” he apologized to his fiancée but did not offer an explanation. “You were saying?”

Sitting in a very correct position next to him, Fujieda Ageha displayed a small timid smile which for some reason only made him feel worse. “About my wedding gown, I wonder if I can have your help,” she said politely and Kyouya had a strange wish that he was engaged to a more… violent woman. Someone more evil – but preferably not quite on par with his cunningness – or maybe someone who hated him and wasn’t reluctant to say so. That way, he could hurt her without feeling the slightest bit guilty.

But those eyes didn’t hate him, as much as he hoped for the otherwise. In fact, he realized with a sinking feeling, they were trying very hard to love him, trying to make this loveless arrangement work despite everything. That was the worst part about her and against this wholehearted, honest determination, Kyouya felt utterly powerless.

She was the worst kind of fiancée he could ever have. Kyouya wondered if this was a part of his father’s plan – this weakness, used against him without the smallest hesitation – and felt the old anger stir. Because if it was true… if this was how his father treated his son and heir…

Kyouya cleared his throat, banishing the thought from his mind when he felt her eyes on him again. “Your wedding gown?” he repeated.

“Yes. My mother told me that at this summer bridal show in Paris, there was a very beautiful dress designed by one of your friends. Hitachiin Kaoru-sama, if I am not mistaken?”

“Kaoru,” he deadpanned, picturing that cold smile behind his eyes, and suppressed an urge to massage his temple. This was getting better and better.

Her smile withered as if she had sensed his uneasiness, but she went on. “Yes. Wasn’t he present at our engagement party?”

Kyouya could almost hear the gods laughing down at him. “So you want him to design your wedding dress?” he asked with forced calmness which sounded so fake that he was amazed Ageha had not noticed it.

“If he is willing of course,” she said softly.

That was exactly the problem, Kyouya thought bitterly but only said, “I’m afraid I will have to ask him first. Someone like him must be quite busy.”

“I understand,” she smiled and an uncomfortable mishmash of emotions swept him. There had been a time when he and Kaoru were so close that this kind of request would hardly matter. A former member – or even patron – of the Host Club would find it strange to hear him say so, but luckily for him, Ageha was neither.

They descended into an awkward silence and for once, Kyouya was truly at a loss on how to proceed. A carefully-planned list of topics he had reserved specifically to deal with his new fiancée seemed to have disappeared without a trace. Meeting with Tamaki was bad enough, but this request from Ageha really sent him tumbling over the cliff.

Kyouya hated this, hated how he had become. Weak. Easily swayed by emotions. Helpless.

That was why when a train of polite knocks broke the silence, he felt immensely relieved. Kyouya could not remember the last time he was so glad to see the impassive face of his family butler.

“Young Master, pardon me for interrupting, but there is phone call for you.”

Murmuring a vague excuse to his fiancée, he stood up and departed to receive the call in another room. His butler would only interrupt his time with a guest for two people, his father or his mother. Seeing how the latter seemed to have forgotten that she still had four children in Japan, it should be from the former. Still, either way, he preferred not to hold any kind of conversation which might cast a darker light onto him in front of her, not when they had yet to be husband-and-wife.

So when his father’s gruff voice answered to his careful greeting, he had been appropriately armed with speculations on the subject of the call.

“Kyouya, about your meeting with Ashiwara Daisuke from Centrist Inc. tomorrow night, tell your secretary to reschedule.”

“Reschedule, Father?” he repeated, not allowing a hint of confusion to seep into his voice. Rescheduling was not unusual, but considering that the deal they were making with Centrist Inc. was reaching its closing stage, it was unusual.

“The night after should be fine. I want you to go with me tomorrow night to a business dinner.”

Kyouya was about to make an obligatory response when his father added.

“With the Suou family.”

End Chapter Five

-----

This is fun XD

Thank you for everyone who has commented on the last chapter. I hope this one is enough to satisfy you a little before we get to the next, which is of course, the dinner. I do love torturing Kyouya…

By the way, does anyone know the name of Tamaki’s father and Kyouya’s father?

Fic: Top of the Tower (Lavi/Kanda)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Sun, 08 Jul 2007 08:33:09 GMT

Title: Top of the Tower
Author: Atthla
Fandom: D.Gray-Man
Character(s): Lavi, Kanda
Rating: T for Kanda’s foul mouth
Word Count: 486

Summary: ‘Princess, oh Princess. Please let down thy hair for me...’ [Lavi/Kanda]

Disclaimer: Kanda and Lavi aren’t mine *sobs* Rapunzel isn’t mine either. I only own this small drabble.

Once upon a time, there was a princess who was locked in a tower deep inside a forest by an evil sorcerer. She had long beautiful hair, dark like the colour of the deepest night, and eyes as cold as a winter morning. The hair she had grown out so long that it could reach the foot of the tower unbraided. She was waiting, hoping that one day a handsome prince would come and rescue her from the creepy, glittery lotus that was her only company in the dark four-walled room.

One day, a red-haired prince rode through the forest. He passed by the tower and heard the faint wailing ‘save me, save me’ from somewhere nearby. Looking up, he noticed a small window near the top of the tower and called out.

‘Princess, oh Princess. Please let down thy hair for me because even though I have my hammer–‘

The window was opened with a slam, followed by a formidable crash. Lavi stared in horror as the wall five-story high where said window was located cracked and then burst, showering him with debris of all size and variation. He moved to a safer distance only to find himself as a very visible, very convenient target to the vengeful Mugen. It was reflex and reflex alone that allowed him to react in time and dodge the bloodthirsty attack.

There was nothing to aggravate Kanda Yuu like reciting love poems and fairy tales under his window.

“What the fuck do you want?” the swordsman snarled at him, eyes – to his literary disappointment – not cold as a winter morning but burning with black fire instead.

“You ignored my knocking at the do–“

“WHAT DO YOU WANT.”

“It’s Lenalee!” Lavi hastily explained as he eyed the nearing sword warily. “She won’t allow me into her birthday party unless I bring you with me! What else can I do?”

“Is that all?” Kanda’s voice was bursting with unconcealed menace and Mugen’s pointy tip was still gleaming under the moonlight.

“...Umm, Komui will definitely charge you for that damage, you know.”

Apparently the longhaired exorcist didn’t appreciate this smart observation. He drew back his katana, preparing for another quick thrust. In a split of a second, Lavi calculated his chances, their rather close distance, Kanda’s inhuman speed, and reacted. He leaped forward, rendering the distance nonexistent, and caught both Kanda’s slender wrists.

“Wait, Yuu-chan.”

The Japanese jerked away to free his hands and when this effort was proven futile, growled, “Why should I, asshole?”

“You have destroyed your room.”

“SO?”

“You may have to sleep in mine tonight.”

“I’d rather sleep at the top of the tower,” Kanda snapped viciously. Lavi grinned at him.

“Then I’ll climb to the top of the tower, with or without the aid of your hair, and–“

The agonized scream that echoed in the night told Lenalee that Lavi had, once more, failed.

End

...and a wallpaper! Thanks to roughxdivide for the link to the beautiful arts, so this one is for you!

Original Picture © SAVORY
Brushes © Celestial Star
Wallpaper made by atthla

Fic: Harbour (4/?) (Tamaki/Kyouya)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Mon, 02 Jul 2007 04:36:32 GMT

Title: Harbour (4/?)
Author: Atthla
Fandom: Ouran Kokou Host Club
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. Bisco Hatori owns all these pretty boys.
Pairings: Tamaki/Kyouya, Hikaru/Kaoru, a little Hikaru/Haruhi and Kaoru/Haruhi
Rating: PG-13
Warning: OOC-ness maybe, but considering that they are older in this story, there bound to be some character developments. And since this is an angst fic, the portrayal of the characters may be darker. Not to forget, some spoilers.
Summary: They were twenty-four and ambitions, want, responsibilities got in the way.

A/N: Finally, after so long contemplating what I should do with this story, here I come bearing chapter four.

Previous chapters: One Two Three

Chapter Four: Withering

Kyouya hated money.

Especially during times like these. The Ootori might be rich but even they had their limit somewhere and so here he was, sitting in front of sixty-seven applications, in his hands the right to choose which lucky fifteen would win the jackpot and earn the free ticket to surgery.

At this moment, Kyouya really, really hated money.

This must have been one of the reasons why his father had sold one of their companies years ago, the one he himself had bought. He had thought of it as a grand victory, never imagining that something else beside his father’s occasional slip-ups might have caused the small catastrophe. Until this morning at least, when his father had called him to his office and laid before him these… options.

Kyouya leant back to his high-backed office chair, its welcoming luxury offering no comfort to him at the moment. He hated to admit this, but he felt like he was no more than a little child, wanting five flavours of ice creams when his mother only allowed him two. If only he had the money. That was the point. Money.

None of the people who had submitted these applications owned the amount of money large enough to pay for a single simple surgery, let alone the multistage, complex ones. Each had their own sad story, their own reasons, and for the thousandth time Kyouya sent a hateful glance toward the telephone sitting innocently on his desk. His father expected a list of fifteen names before three o’clock this afternoon, a stack of selected applications on his desk, and Kyouya really wanted to give him a call and say that he should smear the blood on his own hands, not his son’s.

But he didn’t. Despite his growing irritation, Kyouya knew exactly why he had been given this task. He was the heir. In times, it would be his obligation to make these choices and his father simply let him have a taste, to make him used to it – although he doubted very much that he would ever feel at ease doing this job. It felt no different to sending innocent people to the guillotine, in his head this knowledge that to save one would kill the other was echoing.

For probably the fiftieth time, Kyouya skimmed over the applications, re-reading information about each surgery and applicant he had actually committed to memory, just to make sure. They were usually brain and heart surgeries, those destitute commoners had no hope to pay except by borrowing money from banks that obviously would turn their request down after seeing their income balance. Every single applicant had been thoroughly inspected and Kyouya knew for sure that these were truly desperate peoples waiting for his decision.

There must be some other way. He could try to negotiate with some of the doctors, but that might not be a foreseeable option the next time he had to make another choice, perhaps in the next two or three months. He would plunge into the same hell and at that time, he might not have anything to claw his way out with.

Kyouya hated being helpless. He wondered how it felt for the family of the applicants.

There were still two hours before the deadline, he told himself after a weary glance to his watch. It was better trying to loose his mounting tension by having lunch than holing himself in here, and Kyouya stood up after throwing a last painful look toward the papers. His steps were slow and slightly unsteady when he wandered down the deserted corridor leading from his office. Must be the result of not eating breakfast. Again.

Kyouya lifted a trembling hand to run through his immaculately-combed hair. Even if he had told himself sternly that feelings had no right to meddle in his life, his body seemed to have a mind of its own. It had been a month since his last confrontation with Tamaki and during that time span, his appetite had pretty much dwindled to nonexistence. His body ceased to crave anything but warmth left tingling on his skin since that moment many nights ago. He wanted it. He could feel it when he lay down on his bed wide-awake at night, hiding inside the cocoon of his thick warm blanket; when he sat in a meeting and shivered when the air-conditioner ghosted a touch on the back of his neck; when he faced a plate full of delicacies and could think nothing but a pair of miserable violet eyes.

He had tried to fight back, to regain his old proud self. The idea that he was being defeated by mere emotions did not sit well with him and he had actually succeeded in his endeavours for one full week. And then he just stopped to care. Willpower could only do so much and why should he be bothered if he missed breakfasts. Or lunches. Or only ate at dinner because his father’s eyes were boring into him. It was just one of life’s little ordeals. Like everything else, it would pass eventually.

After three seemingly-endless weeks, however, the new dietary arrangement had started to take its toll on him. Kyouya could be patient if he wanted to and he had actually armed himself with supplements to make amends for skipping his meals, but once again it was proved that the mind could not always control the body. He tired out more quickly and his concentration easily frayed. Not to mention that lack of eating was not improving his mood, which had never been good in the first place

Except when he was with his friends. With Tamaki.

It shouldn’t be like this. Kyouya hated to admit it, but he didn’t understand. His life was perfect, flawless, orderly, just like how he had always wanted it to be. Spick-and-span but, he realized bitterly, without a force of life. It was silent, barren, empty.

He missed the havoc, the typhoon Tamaki had brought into his life. It had been his constant – often irksome – companion for years and without him realizing, it had merged in, becoming an integral part of him, so much that now that it had disappeared, his world tumbled off its axis. Very few things could catch him off-guard but this one certainly did.

Stopping in front of the elevator, he pushed the ‘down’ button and waited, glad that there was no one around to see the strained expression on his face. He knew that he was slowly walking to his doom, but Kyouya refused to go back. He had made a choice. These were the consequences and he had to live with them. And so he kept walking down this bleak lonely path, watching his world lost a shade of its colours every day.

It was when the elevator had arrived that he was greeted by a familiar voice.

“Kyouya-senpai.”

A friendly, familiar voice. Which was rare to come and visit him these days. God knows that his father was a veritable iceberg, his brothers hated him and his closest friends shunned him now.

“Haruhi,” he returned the greeting, a smile slipping easily to his face, and joined the young woman inside. “Visiting your father?”

She made a sound somewhere between an exasperated sigh and an amused snort. “Yes. He always asked me to bring him some homemade food and the doctor said that he was getting better, so I thought why not? Oh, and thank you for spending your time with him, Kyouya-senpai. He just told me about it. My father enjoys your company very much.”

“He has an interesting personality,” Kyouya answered mildly but not untruthfully. For some unknown reasons, he had never found Ranka’s histrionic persona annoying. As casually as possible, he sent an appraisal glance to his friend and asked, “Have you had lunch, Haruhi?”

“Yes, just before I went here.”

“Then it should be called breakfast,” he said dismissively. “Join me for a cup of coffee.”

Her eyes widened and she looked hesitant for a moment, long enough to allow Kyouya to wonder if he actually had lost the only ally he thought he still had. But before he could reach a definite conclusion, she had shrugged her shoulders.

“Well, sure.”

It surprised him how the little gesture lifted so much burden off his sullen mood. She didn’t smile. Her expression was one of resigned acceptance. Of a friend, Kyouya realized with sharp pang in his chest, of a good friend who decided to do something she didn’t particularly wanted but would do it nonetheless because it was a request from another friend. Haruhi had never been one for false modesty and empty smiles. Kyouya pressed his lips together, saying nothing.

Their short journey was spent in silence. He only nodded when white-uniformed doctors and nurses bowed and greeted him as the heir of the Ootori. Curious glances were thrown at the young woman by his side, but Haruhi paid no heed to any of them. Kaoru chose his bride well, was what crossed Kyouya’s mind when he perceived this with a slight smile.

He had always thought that it would be Hikaru. His crush to Haruhi was obvious although the latter did not show any special affection toward him. She always regarded all of them – the Host Club boys – equally. That in the end it was Kaoru who had won her hand was a mystery Kyouya had yet to solve.

“Is something bothering you, Kyouya-senpai?” Haruhi suddenly asked when they had sat down in one of the private rooms designed exclusively for receiving important guests. He returned her questioning gaze steadily, aware that he was on for a good challenge. She was one of those few peoples who could read him a little deeper than he would have liked.

“I always have some things bothering me,” he answered coolly, his tone just a little above a warning. “Your question is a good example.”

The worried look on her face broke into a more amused one. “Then maybe you want to lessen one burden by answering my bothersome question.”

Kyouya chuckled and decided that he could let her win the first round. “There are always things, Haruhi,” he replied, carefully maintaining his answer vague. “For one, running a hospital is hardly an easy feat and that is only the beginning of the list.”

“I hope Hikaru and Kaoru aren’t on that list,” she muttered, suddenly looking and sounding annoyed.

He arched his eyebrows, amused. “If I say yes, are they going to be in a big trouble?”

She smiled back at him, her expression so innocent that Kyouya couldn’t even begin to believe it. “No, not a big trouble. A calamity will be more like it,” she declared calmly.

“Then yes, they are on the list.”

Haruhi raised her cup of milk tea to her lips, smothering a grin. “Your evil ways never change, Kyouya-senpai,” she remarked after a small sip, smiling noncommittally, and he wondered how a plain commoner could bloom to such magnificent lady. Then again, this was Fujioka Haruhi.

“You are not too bad yourself,” he murmured, commending her on the skill she had employed to orchestrate the conversation. It almost felt like they were working on tandem. He sometimes wished that his fiancée could do the same and maintain a fascinating discussion with him. She was a sophisticated lady, but her timidity simply eclipsed everything that it was a wonder if she was really the firstborn of an illustrious family. He decided that they needed to work on that before she officially became the wife of Ootori Kyouya.

“I need to practice if I want to become a first-class lawyer,” Haruhi replied easily, “but I never dreamed of getting a praise from you, Kyouya-senpai.”

He allowed himself a little smirk. “Kaoru doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into, does he?”

“Oh, he knows all right,” she shook her dark, long-haired head. “He is no fool, Senpai, and I think you know about it best.”

Kyouya made no reply to this. His old relationship with Tamaki was still a taboo subject for him to be openly discussed, even with someone as close as Haruhi, but he admitted that she had said the truth. Kaoru had been one of the main reasons why there had existed a relationship beyond friendship between him and the Suou’s family heir. A scenario, neatly planned, had been carried out by the rest of the Host Club members during the winter holiday of Kyouya’s second year. They had been bold enough to involve him and surprisingly had succeeded to keep him oblivious from the real objective of the real scenario, which were Tamaki and himself. Haruhi, the false objective, had played her clueless role with such perfection that Kyouya was more convinced than ever that their only female member was much more than what met the eye.

A trained observer himself, Kyouya hadn’t missed the fact that Kaoru was the mind behind the scenario, even if it had been heavily embellished by Hikaru’s many designs of prank. He had sensed many little nudges from the younger boy now and then, but of course those subtle methods only fell dead before Tamaki’s insensitiveness. Hence the bold scenario.

But Kyouya understood. Like him, Kaoru also spoke the language of the unspoken and the Ootori had to admit that he was very fluent in it. He could read between the lines and interpret them correctly, a skill which had only matured over the years. It was then when Kyouya had truly begun to appreciate the difference between the twins, and what they meant to each other.

But now there was Haruhi to be added into the equation. He silently regarded the young woman sitting in front of him, wondering if she knew where her position actually was. She must have. Haruhi didn’t even need to learn to understand the unspoken, because she could practically see through all pretenses they had fortressed themselves with. There were no lines for her, no in-betweens.

Then why? She must know who Kaoru was truly in love with. Or were they playing a charade just as he was?

And the brothers spurned him for being engaged. Kyouya didn’t know if he should laugh or scoff at this impressive display of hypocrisy. After all, they were only luckier because the girl was Haruhi.

Still, he saw no reason for her to accept the proposal. It was certainly not love and if it was for the sake of having a rich fiancé who could help paying her father’s hospital bills, certainly there were better candidates around. Kaoru was the last person he could see falling in love with Haruhi. Mori would have been a vastly smarter choice. So why?

“You can ask me a question if you want, Kyouya-senpai,” the young woman suddenly said, her tone gentle but enough to rouse him from his deep contemplation.

He mentally scolded himself for this little slip but acknowledged her perceptiveness with a small smile. “I still don’t understand why you refused my help in your father’s case,” he said. “You accepted Kaoru’s proposal instead, even with the knowledge that my family owns the best hospitals in the world and I can easily help you.”

She was silent for a long moment, her face drawn in a serious thought. Kyouya had his own guesses flitting across his brain, hundreds of guesses, but none of them even came close to the answer which quietly tumbled out of her mouth.

“It’s because I couldn’t give you any merit, Senpai.”

And he remembered a long time ago, a very long time ago, when she had given him the same reply, with the same nonchalant expression on her face. He couldn’t help but to wonder why everything seemed so simple to her. Maybe it was the commoner’s blood in her.

“So it was merit?” he drawled and deliberately put a pause there while taking a sip from his coffee. Haruhi offered no further explanation, but her large brown eyes were still fixed on him, expecting him to say more. And so he did. “Do you even love Kaoru?”

This new question seemed to have taken her off guard, but her quick wits saved her. “I do, in my own way,” she answered hastily but couldn’t help to avert her eyes, and Kyouya knew that he had not imagined the uneasiness which had slipped into her voice. For one brief moment, he felt like he saw a black ugly spider, spinning an intricate design of glittery webs as it maliciously watched a number of butterflies tangled within the silvery clutch. They were the butterflies, trapped, helpless.

He didn’t want to guess who – or what – the spider was.

“I thought all girls dreamt of a prince riding a white horse to come and sweep her off her feet,” he spoke again, more softly this time.

“No.” The firmness in her voice surprised him and he could see that some of it leaked into her eyes as well. “That is incorrect, Kyouya-senpai. Not only girls. Everyone. Everyone wishes for a person to love with all their heart.”

Kyouya felt his mouth tightening into a thin line and told himself not to read too deeply into her words. She might mean nothing, only stating facts. With a practiced ease, he moved the spotlight away from him to her.

“You haven’t found one, have you? That person you will go into the fire and cross the seven seas for.”

“I probably never will,” she said slowly, her voice devoid of any sadness that usually accompanied such statement, “if it is about finding one. But I feel that I have found that person in all of you. One part in Kaoru, another in Hikaru, and the rest in all of you. I cannot love one better than the other.”

He stared curiously at her. “Really?”

She once again shrugged. “Do you think I like wearing pretty gowns and having a smile ready on my face wherever and whenever? Or wasting precious times attending parties when I should be able to study? But Kaoru’s mother expects those things from me and after all she has done for me and my father, how can I say no?”

Kyouya tried to conceal his amusement at this blunt honesty, but then realized that she probably could see it all the same. “If those things burden you that much, why didn’t you simply accept my help? I’m sure it would be easier not to trouble yourself with my judgment in merits.”

Haruhi sighed and her smile was affectionately tolerant when she mumbled, “You don’t understand, do you?”

Kyouya was unsure if he should feel offended by the softly-spoken accusation but only found bewilderment thrumming in his veins. In the end he settled for a faintly interested ‘oh?’

“You rich people are so shallow,” she said without any real malice and Kyouya’s eyebrows rose at this supposed-to-be insult. “But Kaoru always knows better. I already received too much help from you guys and I simply couldn’t have more for my father. I know you said money wasn’t a problem,” she quickly added when he was about to open his mouth. “And maybe it shouldn’t be since we are friends after all. But it is a problem to me, Kyouya-senpai. It’s a debt and I don’t like being in debt. Kaoru understood and it was why he made that offer.”

The last word rang a bell somewhere inside his head and he looked straight at the young woman. “So, an offer it is?”

“Yes,” Haruhi declared, her gaze steadily holding his. “An offer.”

So much for the engagement of the century, he thought to himself. Kyouya had never believed that it was love, but now that he had heard the dirty details from her own mouth, he couldn’t say that he understood Haruhi’s logic. Or Kaoru’s in that matter. Or even Hikaru’s to let this happen. There were too many things here, too many underlying emotions and unspoken thoughts, and even Kyouya himself couldn’t proclaim that he grasped a quarter of the whole picture.

He wanted to do something about it, to make sure that everything didn’t go wrong, like he always had during their Host Club times. But at this moment, his brain refused to conjure even the simplest scheme, let alone one worthy to stand against Kaoru’s shrewdness. Could be the side-effect of not eating right, he berated himself.

“Well, that is your life, I shall not interfere,” he declared, but silently promised himself that he was going to find out as soon as possible. However, a sad smile on her face told him that it might be not as simple as that.

“You expect me to do the same, don’t you?”

His hand almost, almost stopped in its mission to bring the cup of coffee to his mouth. He realized that this was the one reason which had always kept him from completely liking Haruhi. She was not only too sharp, too shrewd to miss any undertone, but also too blunt to hesitate stabbing someone in the very spot most sensitive to them. Almost like Kaoru.

They would certainly be a fearsome pair, he reflected dryly. Then again, it might be good for them both.

“True, that is your life, Kyouya-senpai,” she suddenly spoke again, her voice gaining its firm quality back, “but I cannot promise you anything. We are a family, aren’t we? And in a family, we’re supposed to help one another.”

The memories came unbidden to his mind at the mentioning of family. The game they used to play – one big, twisted, nevertheless happy family. He ignored the little tug in his chest and turned his attention toward the window that overlooked the hospital’s garden instead.

“The bond is broken,” Kyouya murmured, taking little heed that his voice had lost its imperturbable timbre. It sounded thin and weak, especially in this cheerful sunlit room.

“Not too late if you want to repair it,” she replied airily, like it was an easy thing to do. “That is what you do in this place, right? Repairing, mending, so no one should cry over their loved ones.”

His mind immediately turned to the despicable pile of applications on his desk. Kyouya looked at his companion and made a mental calculation. Haruhi was raised as a commoner. She was no stranger to poverty and had just faced a similar situation with his father’s illness. While none of the applicants could possibly employ the same method she had, she might be able to give him more insight in this matter.

Kyouya decided to give it a try. “Haruhi,” he began, his tone light but cautious, “if someone comes for your help and you don’t have the money to help him, what will you do?”

She seemed surprised by this abrupt change of topic but followed his lead without protest. “Is he a good person?” she asked.

“Assuming so?”

“Then I’ll help him make enough money,” she answered without a moment’s hesitation. “There are angels in this world who know better than anyone how poverty feels. I’ve met some of them myself. But on the other hand, there are also a plenty of rich people. Maybe not all of them will care, but I’m sure there will be some who are willing to lend a hand.” She paused and then suddenly grinned. “There must be something I can do to help him. What is the use of having so many rich friends and a rich fiancé anyway?”

“Indeed,” he remarked dryly which only served to widen her grin.

To ask for help. The idea had never crossed his mind. In fact, it could be said that one of the top tens in Kyouya’s list of ‘no, no, and once again NO’ was to ask for help. He had come so far without anyone’s help. To go against his policy now for something like this was completely absurd. Ridiculous.

But he still remembered that helpless feeling back in his office – how his body trembled with anger at his own incapability. He could do nothing, only silently watching his hands slowly but surely being soaked in blood. And Kyouya liked to win.

“Is that one of the things on your list, Kyouya-senpai?”

Once again he was forced to admit the prowess of her inner eyes. “You don’t miss a thing, do you?” he wondered half to himself.

“I like to watch.”

Kyouya smirked but didn’t pursue the subject and said instead, “I may give you a call in a few days. Do you think you can drag your fiancé and his brother along if you come out to meet me?”

Haruhi’s smile was small but clearly saying that she was satisfied. “I can give it a try.”

They said their farewells after that mainly because Haruhi had to return to her workplace. She had just begun an internship in one of the most prestigious law firms in town and despite the Hitachiin being the biggest client of the firm, she was treated no differently from the other junior associates. Kyouya watched her leave, noticing her well-worn bag and dress, and amused himself for a moment with speculations when Kaoru would finally insist to replace them with something more fashionable. That would definitely be a show worth watching.

But for now, he had a plan to develop.

“Is that Fujioka Haruhi?”

He almost jumped from his seat when his father’s stern monotone echoed in the room. The older Ootori was standing in front of the connecting door leading to another private chamber, his expression as inscrutable as usual. Kyouya inwardly scolded himself for letting his guard down but rearranged his composure quickly.

“Yes, Father.”

“A very exceptional young woman,” the older man murmured without turning his gaze from the opened door left behind by Haruhi.

Unsure of the direction this conversation was taking, Kyouya stayed silent. He had the same odd feeling with the one he had felt when his father was about to tell him about his engagement – and his appointment as the family’s successor. His manner had been quick, straightforward, almost abrupt, and Kyouya had been left nursing a painful pounding in his chest after the announcement as the memory of Tamaki’s cheerless smile floated in his mind.

For his father, marriage was business. He didn’t recall if there was any love at all between his parents. His mother was a beautiful woman, the first daughter of a rich, powerful family, just as Fujieda Ageha was. He wondered if they would end up just like his parents in a few years, living oceans apart after she had dutifully given him an heir. Even now, her affinity to London was already evident.

“It is unfortunate that she is already engaged to one of the Hitachiin brothers,” his father observed, still with the same deep monotone, and Kyouya felt like his heart had suddenly stopped beating.

“What do you mean, Father?” he inquired, his voice coming out a little too thin than he would have preferred.

The older Ootori finally turned to his heir, dark eyes looking at him from behind thick gleaming lenses. “It was once my intention to have her as a daughter-in-law,” he elaborated flatly but not without a touch of deep-rooted disappointment.

“Oh.” His stomach clenched at this, but Kyouya opted to put the blame on his carelessness for taking a strong coffee with an empty stomach. Although it probably didn’t quite explain why his voice wavered slightly afterward. “You mean, you didn’t mind her lack of status at all?”

“She can see you,” his father declared, back already half-turned toward him, “for who you are, not only what you are. It is a very important quality for a wife.”

Kyouya almost said, “Tamaki understands me better than anyone else.”

But he didn’t.

End Chapter Four

-----

Oh, Kyouya......

Fic: Harbour (3/?) (Tamaki/Kyouya)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Fri, 12 Jan 2007 17:14:36 GMT

Title: Harbour (3/?)
Author: Atthla
Fandom: Ouran Kokou Host Club
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. Bisco Hatori owns all these pretty boys.
Pairings: Tamaki/Kyouya, Hikaru/Kaoru, a little Hikaru/Haruhi and Kaoru/Haruhi
Rating: PG-13
Warning: OOC-ness maybe, but considering that they are older in this story, there bound to be some character developments. And since this is an angst fic, the portrayal of the characters may be darker. Not to forget, some spoilers.
Summary: They were twenty-four and ambitions, want, responsibilities got in the way.

The third chapter, in which the twins are not as in synch as they always seem. Dedicated to those who want some HikaKao moments.

Previous chapters: One Two

Chapter Three: Three of A Kind

“Kaoru.”

He thought it was a dream, the soft affectionate voice, until he felt a hand caress the top of his head. Stirring from his sleep, Kaoru struggled to open his eyes and found himself staring blearily at the half-frowning face of his brother.

“What are you doing? Why did you fall asleep on the desk?” Hikaru asked, the hand moving lower to rest on his cheek as Kaoru raised his head from the hard pillow which, he realized a moment later, was the surface of said desk.

“I must have fallen asleep,” he mumbled, smiling sleepily at his brother, and straightened up, unaware of a piece of paper which was making its way to the floor from the top of the desk.

“Well, that’s obvious,” Hikaru rolled his eyes and bent down to pick up the paper. His eyes widened and suddenly Kaoru remembered why he had fallen asleep on the desk in the first place.

“Hikaru, that is not finished!” he exclaimed and stood up, trying to seize the paper from his brother’s hand, but Hikaru distanced it away from his reach and hooked an arm around his waist instead, effectively anchoring him. Kaoru found himself pressed against dark blue suit, the faint whiff of cologne his twin had put on before he had left this morning caressing his nose with its tantalizing fingers.

“But I can see its exquisiteness already,” Hikaru whispered with a smile and landed a soft kiss on his lips. “You are so much better than me in these things. I can’t produce a half-decent design if my life depends on it.”

“Right, like you don’t have things you yourself need to deal with,” Kaoru mumbled, trying to sound indignant despite the loud drumming his heart made in his chest. What the hell was wrong with him anyway? This was Hikaru, the twin brother he had spent his twenty-three living years with.

“Give it back,” he insisted.

His brother’s eyes gleamed. “Not yet,” he said and put the unfinished sketch away before pushing his twin down to the long couch conviniently placed next to the desk, grinning at the sulking face. “One thing that I am certain of is, with your designs at the front line, our success this year is assured.”

“Don’t exaggerate, I’m still learning,” Kaoru replied with a pout before proceeding to pull his brother down into a slow, languid kiss. He felt Hikaru smiling to his lips and smiled back, letting the other to gain the upper hand for a little while as his mouth enjoyed a thorough plundering. His own fingers traced a line down Hikaru’s jaw, finding the knot of his tie, loosening – playing – with it until Hikaru made a frustrated noise at the back of his throat. He grinned and pulled their lips apart gently but firmly, looking straight at lust-glazed eyes.

“So how’s the meeting?”

Hikaru gave him a disbelieving look. “You want to know about the meeting?”

“But of course,” he answered nonchalantly, working at the knot with deliberate slowness that he knew driving not only some parts of his anatomy mad.

“Now?”

Kaoru raised twin perfectly innocent eyebrows. “When else?”

“Are you sure?”

He opened his mouth to answer but only a groan made it out of his throat as Hikaru ground his hips down, the impact coursing through his body with a speed that should be impossible. But of course. This was Hikaru. Kaoru was willing to bet his very soul that there was someone who knew his body better than he himself did and it was Hikaru.

“That is not fair,” he accused, glaring at his smirking brother.

“Your rules, little brother,” Hikaru pointed out and did another trick with his hips which forced Kaoru to suppress another groan. “Now, still want to know about the meeting?”

“I’m dying to,” he answered with mock seriousness but his fingers had already reached the knot again. Hikaru grinned down at him.

“Then I’ll happily oblige,” he played along, allowing Kaoru to throw the tie to the other side of the room and reach down to a column of buttons. “It was boring as hell but it went rather well so I shouldn’t complain. Can you believe that old man Hamada brought his daughter to the stock meeting? She looked so dumb sitting there without understanding a thing.”

“Ah, talking about hidden intentions, are we?” Kaoru teased lightly as he helped his brother to divest himself of the thick suit.

Hikaru made a face at him. “Obvious intentions are more like it.”

“Mm,” he made an approving noise, partly because his brother had slipped a hand under his shirt and entertained him with slow, lazy caresses. “That is to be expected, isn’t it? After all, you should be engaged now that I already am. Tell me, dear brother, how many proposals have been made to you during the last six months?”

Hikaru stopped whatever he was doing and stared at him in disbelief. “You are not being jealous.”

Kaoru gave him a noncommittal smile. “Maybe I am.”

“You’re impossible, Kaoru. After all I’ve gone through for you?”

“Hikaru,” he held his brother’s face between his hands, voice stripped of all mirth, and said will all seriousness he could muster, “I really think you should marry.”

His twin gave him a blank look. “What?”

Kaoru swallowed, his throat suddenly thick and heavy, and repeated, “You should marry.”

Those golden eyes, identical to his own, narrowed dangerously. “That’s not what you think. That’s what Mother thinks.”

“But Hikaru–“

“No.”

Kaoru fell silent as his brother got up and sat at the far end of the couch, a disgruntled expression on his face. The line was crossed, he knew, but he had to say it. There was a thought which had lurked for too long at the back of his mind. He was getting tired of it whispering to him unfair,you have betrayed him, at least free him from your dirty little fingers, you cheater.

Sometimes, Kaoru wished that there was a line between them. It would make things much easier, not to mention simpler.

“Do you want me to get married?” Suddenly Hikaru asked, hisvoice blunt and harsh, as were his eyes which were looking straight at him.

“No,” he said flatly, meeting the fierce gaze, “but do you want me to get married?”

“Kaoru, I’m–“

“No,” he held up a hand, the other cradling his suddenly throbbing head, “no, please don’t start again. We’ve gone through that already.”

Hikaru did not say anything for a long time but his lips thinned and Kaoru recognized a silent plea of truce when he saw one, particularly when it came from his older brother. It wasn’t Hikaru’s fault, he inwardly cursed. Hell, it was his fault. It was him who came with the original plan and God knows he had broken Hikaru’s heart when it had been carried out and approved by no other than their mother.

But that was his brother. He would sulk for one day and express his full support on the next. And it was for Haruhi, someone who was actually on the list of people-worthy-enough-of-their-concern. Both of them had accepted it, fully and unconditionally. Still, sometimes reality – jealousy, pain, selfishness – just reared its ugly head and reminded them of what could have been.

Actually it wasn’t that bad. At least he would marry Haruhi, not some other girl he barely knew and most likely could not tolerate. Kaoru was aware that she was probably the one for so many others and it was his insightfulness only which had won her. He was the most perceptive in their small circle of friends, second only to Kyouya-senpai who unfortunately had a grave disadvantage in this round. Kaoru understood Haruhi and she knew that he did. It was only that, understanding. Doubtless, affection was there at some degree, but it would never ever be able to hold a candle to what he felt to his brother.

“You know Mother clearly states that we must have a child,” suddenly Hikaru said, his voice heavy but frank.

“We can always adopt,” Kaoru replied, silently wondering why it was him who was waving the red flag now but still accepting the role without protest. The white flag, the signature at the end of their treaty was not without sacrifice, which they only knew too well.

Hikaru fully looked at him at last, a small mirthless smile on his lips. “I’d rather have your son inheriting the business, Kaoru.”

“He won’t be my son. He will be our son.”

It was obviously a sneer on his brother’s face now and Kaoru prepared himself for a remark no less than vicious.

“You mean see whose sperm can beget the child?”

“Hikaru–“

“Damn it,” the older twin hissed, face buried in a pair of trembling hands. “This is just so sick.”

A long silence stretched between them. Kaoru felt the bitter taste of loss, hopelessness, guilt rising in his throat but didn’t say anything. It was not Hikaru, he tried to convince himself, it was disappointment speaking, cursing this whole ordeal they were too scared to change. Or maybe he was too scared to change. If he had not come to that benefit in Paris with his mother a year ago, he might not feel this way.

Hikaru had not been there because of a mild cold, resting at their hotel room as he and their mother attended the event. The whole night, he had felt off, unused to the absence of an only-too-familiar presence at his side and everything had come brighter, sharper to his senses. Kaoru had been in the verge of snapping at a fat balding man who hadn’t stopped jabbering for the last five minutes about a topic which obviously didn’t catch his interest when his mother had suddenly appeared at his side and suddenly the conversation had taken turn to heirs and marriages.

Kaoru was familiar with his mother’s inclination to matchmaking – after all, it was not her first attempt – and had been ready to unobtrusively excuse himself when wives and children came into the conversation. It had been her smile, brilliant and proud, as she talked about the yet unborn grandchildren she would undoubtedly have from her two handsome sons that had stayed Kaoru at his place and left him more miserable than he had been in years since that little crush Hikaru had had for Haruhi. It hurt to look at his mother’s smile and the feeling that he couldn’t do anything about it was suffocating.

But he couldn’t choose. People said it was sick – twins falling in love with each other – but they had never cared much about others in the first place. Unless that person really mattered to them.

Unfortunately, his mother, no matter how strange she was as a parent to a set of twin sons, was one of them.

She might not know but she undoubtedly had guessed. As the head of the Hitachiin family, she had not said anything, not even when she had personally told them about who was to be the heir of their empire and his main obligations as said heir which involved even more heirs. But as a mother, there had been this one look, not admonishing, only a thoughtful look sent his way and Kaoru felt like he understand more than he should. It had never really occurred to him but apparently their mother knew her sons better than he thought.

The look said ‘let him go.’

It might be some kind of a twisted revenge from him, the thing between him and Haruhi. He couldn’t help but to feel angry at the whole world and… wasn’t his mother supposed to give him, her own flesh and blood, her full support? And the thought that Hikaru was unaware about all of these silent wars going right in front of his eyes only disappointed him further.

“Kaoru, I’m sorry.”

He felt like kicking himself over the head. Hikaru was doing it again, those eyes drowned in total guilt and apology written all over his face. Kaoru had admitted to himself a long time ago that Hikaru and anything remotely related to apology was a deadly combination. And if there was anyone who knew how hard it was for the older Hitachiin to say ‘sorry’, it was his younger brother.

He must feel really, really sorry.

“I don’t want to involve her either,” Kaoru finally said with a sigh, his voice gentle, almost coaxing and he wondered how the hell he could do that. “You know I meant to break the engagement once her father had recovered from the surgery. It was her who proposed this idea to us.”

“She knows I can’t live without you,” Hikaru muttered, in his eyes gentleness that only felt cold to his younger brother, “but we’re only hurting each other like this. You’re engaged to her and here we are kissing behind doors.”

Kaoru gave him a bland look. “Actually there is another option. We can continue living like the lord and Kyouya-senpai and wait until the same thing that is happening to them happens to us.” He looked away, ignoring the wince on his brother’s face, and added quietly, “I know I’m selfish, Hikaru, but I really don’t want that.”

The long couch suddenly felt smaller when Hikaru moved closer and wrapped his arms around Kaoru’s waist, lips pressed to the back of his neck and warm, shaky breaths ghosting over his skin. Kaoru involuntarily suppressed a shudder.

“Me neither,” Hikaru murmured, burying his face in the crook of his brother’s neck. “I love you, Kaoru.”

There were things – their teacher’s long preach, commoner’s lifestyle, other people’s problems, mushy proclamations – that should went unacknowledged by him and still Kaoru felt his heart breaking into myriads of splintered pieces.

End Chapter Three

-----

A/N2: Argh, I have a headache. There are too many underlying things in this chapter. Anyway, this thing between Kaoru and Haruhi will be explained more in the next chapter and we’ll be back to Kyouya, so stay tuned and please review. Thanks for reading!

Fic: Changes (Atobe/Shishido)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Mon, 13 Nov 2006 12:51:06 GMT

Title: Changes
Author: Atthla
Fandom: Tennis no Oujisama
Pairing: Atobe/Shishido
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Un-beta-ed. Angst.
Disclaimer: Konomi-sensei owns the boys. I only play around with them.
Summary: Changes come and go, but some are more difficult to accept than the rest.

Written because I have a writer’s block for my Ouran fic.

---

On his seventeenth birthday, for the first time in his life, Atobe Keigo wished that he was not so used to sleeping alone.

His bed was an extensive king size and he had been used to have the whole area to himself since he had been able to remember. He was so used to complete privacy that to have the presence of another, to hear another set of breathing beside his own, was extremely unsettling.

But it was the result of his own doing, so he could not blame anyone but his selfish whims.

The birthday party, held in the ballroom of the Atobe mansion, was splendid. His classmates and teammates, immaculately dressed, were there to celebrate the event, also some of his father’s business partners. He smiled all night long, sometimes smirked, because it was what he had been taught to do in such occasion, but his attention continuously drifted to one of his teammates. Shishido was there, looking a bit out of place in his jeans and black shirt, but Keigo found himself unconcerned by this trivial detail, his mind occupied by memories of husky moans and whispers of seduction.

When he said ‘I want you’, Shishido laughed, surprise nothing but well-hidden, his eyes bright with something Keigo didn’t recognize at that moment, and he said nothing.

But he didn’t leave after the party and Keigo pulled him upstairs, the last half of their journey spent with their hands and lips on each other. When he heard those husky moans and whispers of seduction in his bed, he knew that something had changed.

---

On their first anniversary, they had their first big – colossal – fight.

Shishido was very touchy in the subject of money and the fact that Keigo had spent probably a fortune to make this day memorable for them didn’t sit well with him. It was nothing, Keigo reflected irritably, only a dinner and perhaps a small orchestra to play for them in a restaurant he had rent for themselves and a row of waiters ready at their service and a simple list of menu that might have carpeted their way twenty-six floors down. Shishido was just being difficult.

But he was polite enough to postpone the main stage of the fight until they had returned to the car. And once they were alone, all hell broke loose.

Sometimes Keigo wondered why he bothered to put up with his aggressively rude boyfriend. It was staggering, the amount of patience he had to apply to smooth his way in this relationship and Atobe Keigo didn’t usually put that much care in anything unless it was very important to him.

Which, he realized two seconds later, might be the case after all. That it was important to him.

And the reason why he put up with all these was probably there all along. He said ‘I hate you’ but there was this splintered intensity in his eyes, and Atobe Keigo didn’t need that to tell when he saw lie looking back at him.

It was the sort of thing that changed over time. Importance maybe, like how a person or something started to matter to him when it hadn’t even been a speck of dust a few months prior, and he realized that he had fallen to that same abyss so many other – more common people – had. Shishido. It probably didn’t make sense, but he kissed his boyfriend anyway. It was best not to dwell on some things when they concerned this rebellious thing he called his heart.

---

On their third anniversary, he asked, as casually as possible, if Ryou would be interested in sharing an apartment with him.

Those chocolate eyes darkened and Keigo anticipated another round of temper tantrum about those heathen things called money and hell no, you rich bastard, I’m not going to lick your feet just for a big shit mansion. But it didn’t come, only a simple ‘why’, and Keigo didn’t answer because he wasn’t sure if he wanted to say just exactly why.

Two days later, Ryou moved in with him and Keigo knew that it was one of those things that should be left unspoken in their case.

---

On their sixth anniversary, Ryou left him after he tried to explain about this engagement news that was on everybody’s lips.

But Keigo didn’t let go because and no, you stupid, I’m not leaving you for some girl I barely know. Keigo knew what he wanted and perhaps it was unfortunate that it turned out to be Shishido Ryou, but once he was sure of it, he was not going to back down at all costs.

On the day after, Keigo said to his father that he had no intention to marry any girl anyone shoved to his face. The older Atobe glared at him and Keigo thought that maybe he knew after all, but he refused to stand back because there was this one name at the back of his mind, this one person he had no intention to let go no matter what.

That night, if he ever knew complete surrender, utter devotion, if he ever knew love at all, he was certain it was the mirror of that expression on Ryou’s face as they kissed, touched, bruised each other like there was no tomorrow.

He said ‘I love you’ and Ryou hid his face, breaking into thousand of silent sobs.

---

One year later, he found himself standing in front of a plain grey headstone, the same name he had always kept at the back of his mind carved on it.

He buried his lover on their seventh anniversary, how sick was that.

There were friends and acquaintances, even his father was there. There were pats on his shoulder and he thought Gakuto had given him an awkward embrace at some point, but it was hard to notice. There was just this big emptiness in his head, because something, a very important part of him, had just been violently ripped out of – he didn’t know – probably his very soul.

Their – his – room felt empty, dead as night deepened and he sat by the window all night, staring at the bed and the memories playing again and again inside his head, ignoring tears he never knew he still had. To him, everything was dead, including the world and himself, and he blended into the dark silence, the sound of clock ticking the only thing that kept a shred of his awareness there because there were fragments of that voice he knew so well, those whispers he had loved since he-knows-when and still couldn’t let go.

He didn’t move when the first tears ran down his cheeks. They barely had any meaning anymore, because for the rest of his life he would live in that dark, empty room, unable to leave even if he wanted to.

Because oh God, oh God, oh God, I want you to be here.

On his twenty-fourth birthday, for the first time in his life, Atobe Keigo wished that he was not so used to not sleeping alone.

End

Uh, yeah. I did mention angst, didn’t I?

Ouran Icons

renhfee@yahoo.com — Tue, 17 Oct 2006 09:06:21 GMT

13 Ouran icons

Teasers:

1. 2. 3.

4. 5. 6.

7. 8. 9.

10. 11.

All images are captured and cleaned by me. Textures from aethereality.net and some brushes made by contradictz from carbon_paper

Please credit if you take.

Fic: Harbour (2/?) (Tamaki/Kyouya)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Mon, 16 Oct 2006 06:49:49 GMT

Title: Harbour (2/?)
Author: Atthla
Fandom: Ouran Kokou Host Club
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. Bisco Hatori owns all these pretty boys.
Pairings: Tamaki/Kyouya, Hikaru/Kaoru, a little Hikaru/Haruhi and Kaoru/Haruhi
Rating: PG-13
Warning: OOC-ness maybe, but considering that they are older in this story, there bound to be some character developments. And since this is an angst fic, the portrayal of the characters may be darker. Not to forget, some spoilers.
Summary: They were twenty-four and ambitions, want, responsibilities got in the way.

The second chapter. Angst and fluff and weirdness thrown into one. Enjoy, everyone.

The previous chapter: One

Chapter Two: Two Fools

She was very beautiful.

Ever since he was a child, Kyouya had always been surrounded by pretty girls and beautiful women. To be a connoisseur of beauty was a qualification the sons of the Ootori family undoubtedly must possess and he indeed had successfully mastered the skill. For him, to apply the skill whenever he needed to smooth his way was easy and he knew when and where to use it, unlike a certain former Host Club King who–

Kyouya pushed his eyeglasses higher up the bridge of his nose, banishing the thought from his mind. This was his engagement party and thoughts about a former lover were highly inappropriate in such occasion. His fiancée, Fujieda Ageha, was a shy, demure young woman of twenty-one and she seemed pleasant enough to him so far. It often made him wonder when he made acquaintances with one or two women who suited his tastes very well, that if he had not met Tamaki that day – or had not responded when Tamaki had kissed him the other day, or when the devil reincarnation had put that hand on his–

Again. Kyouya almost let out a frustrated hiss. This was becoming intolerable.

His sight drifted toward the silent lady next to him. She was smiling, in a way which made him feel like he was courting a fine china doll. Her smile was small, distant but oddly befitting on her white porcelain face. She stood upright, gloved hands put atop each other with the one displaying a gleaming sapphire ring on top. Her peach-coloured gown was a wonderful complement to her skin and her contrastingly dark long hair, which was adorned by a white ribbon.

A doll indeed. Kyouya fought down an urge to sigh. At least she was polite and fine to look at, in addition to other valuable plus points on the business side. A very suitable bride for the successor of the Ootori family.

If only she wasn’t so silent.

On second thought, it was better than being engaged to a replica of Renge. Imagine what his married life could turn out to.

A small commotion stirred his attention to life. Some of the guests had started whispering among themselves, a habit he found very distasteful but unfortunately was embraced full-heartedly in his circle of acquaintances, at the entrance of several new guests. No wonder, Kyouya’s lips thinned into an almost invisible line, it was the Hitachiin family.

The announcement had been six months away but the effect lasted until now. The cause? A beautiful lady who was presently escorted by the Hitachiin Brothers.

It took him a moment to remind himself that the beautiful lady was Haruhi and that she had already been engaged to Kaoru. It was where the talk had come from, especially since Hikaru had been announced as the successor of the family. Twin brothers competing for the love of one girl. Kyouya had had to force himself not to laugh then and he was currently undergoing the same process now.

Rumours and tittle-tattles. If only thou know how misleading thy voice is.

But that was not what concerned him. It was that look in the two brothers’s eyes, one that said to whoever unfortunate enough to have it directed at them ‘yes, you are in a very big trouble, man, so you better prepare yourself to feel hell’s own wrath’, one he would come face to face only when those two were extremely upset – no, livid. He usually would just lie back and enjoy the show but not now, when that look was most likely going to be directed at him.

His engagement was not popular among his own friends it seemed, Kyouya reflected to himself dryly.

His father and brothers were exchanging pleasantries with the senior members of the Hitachiin family, but the younger ones directly advanced toward him and his fiancée, the look not disappearing from their faces. Haruhi didn’t have any choice but to follow them with a frown, seeing that both of her arms were linked with each of the brothers.

The twins congratulated him politely but didn’t make an effort to be friendlier. Kyouya was not expecting anything more, so he was hardly surprised. It was Haruhi who tried to make amends for their behaviour.

“Don’t mind them, Kyouya-senpai,” she said when the brothers had left in search for food, “they were having a bad day.”

And apparently with his engagement party as the cherry on top, he almost retorted but managed to maintain a firm control over his tongue. It wasn’t Haruhi’s fault that the twins had decided to be hostile. Far from that, he was grateful when Haruhi tried to engage his wife-soon-to-be in a conversation, certain that Ageha was in the best hands – and partly relieved that she was apparently capable of a normal speech. No wonder though, he felt himself slipping into one of his tiny rare smiles, this was the same girl who could handle a bunch of colourful rich guys with problematical backgrounds at once and had not gone mad in process.

“Your friend is very kind, Kyouya-san,” his fiancée said timidly when Haruhi had left her company to look for the twins.

He nodded, smiling slightly. “Yes, she is.”

“She said the two of you were in the same high school. Ouran, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Kyouya replied quickly, trying hard not to let some of those high school memories wreak havoc to his current mood, and exhibited one of his most pleasant smiles. “It was unfortunate that you had to undergo your education in England, Ageha-san.”

“Oh,” she seemed startled, slight pinkness spreading across her cheeks. Kyouya suppressed an urge to wince. This was the most annoying part about girls beside their high-pitched voices; blushes. For some reasons, he couldn’t stand blushes, except when they decorated Tama–

Again!

At this point, Kyouya had begun to feel the onset of a particularly nasty headache. And to his utmost dismay, before he could put everything in order once more, the next guests had made their entrance. The Haninozuka and Morinozuka had arrived – almost simultaneously as usual – and he felt the apprehension rapidly returning, which had absolutely nothing to do with meeting two clans that had had a particularly close history with martial arts for as long as he knew.

“Ah! There you are, Kyou-chan!” A young man with deceptively small stature separated himself from the group, followed by a tall shadow he only knew too well. Kyouya readied a smile, ignoring the small unpleasant voice in his head which had been very kind to inform him that it was his business smile, not the one he usually reserved only for his friends.

Both heirs of the families were not behaving any differently, the ultra cute Honey-senpai wishing him the best with a big grin on his face and Mori-senpai being his usual stoic, silent self. It had made him feel relieved for a moment until Kyouya noticed that the smaller of the two walked past a table laid with various sweet desserts without a single glance.

Now he was certain that his decision was not popular at all. To the people he cared enough about at least, and unfortunately, it was one of the very few things that mattered to Kyouya.

But he was chosen to succeed the Ootori family, wasn’t he?”

The subject was removed from his thought when yet another set of guests approached him. They were people he recognized strictly for their business importance but for the moment, Kyouya welcomed the distraction even if more empty small talks had to be made. Anything was better.

The party itself was splendid. His father had made sure that to honor the engagement of the family’s successor, nothing short of a grand celebration was in order. And of course it held other significance – at least for him – because it also marked his final triumph in the fight for the throne. It wasn’t as if he hated his brothers, but living in their shadows ever since he had been born really could make even the most magnanimous little brother less sympathetic in certain things.

He had worked hard. He deserved it.

There were still two hours before the party would end, he discovered with a sigh, and looked around to check his mental list of important guests. It seemed that all of them had made their appearance – yes, he was not counting that one family, but what idiot would expect him to anyway. He turned toward the main door and his breath was caught in his throat.

No way in hell.

The world felt like it had suddenly stopped spinning. Kyouya restrained himself from rubbing his eyes but still blinking several times to make sure, to make really sure that they were transmitting the right visual input. To his complete alarm, the apparition didn’t vanish and had proceeded to greet his father instead.

Tamaki.

Kyouya closed his eyes for a moment, sorting his thought. He had sent the other man an invitation, yes, but it was only for appearance’s sake – from an Ootori to a Suou so to say. He – or everyone with a sane mind in that matter – naturally couldn’t expect that Tamaki would show up, right? Not after everything that had happened between them. It was just plain impossible.

And then he remembered that most things concerning Tamaki were impossible and found himself suppressing the urge to hit his head on a nearby wall.

“Is that Suou Tamaki-sama, Kyouya-san?” Ageha asked from his side.

“Yes,” his answer came out through gritted teeth and she looked uncertainly at him. Kyouya compelled himself to smile and said with a kinder voice, “Our families are business partners and we have been together since junior high school.”

Together indeed.

After reprimanding his inner thought to behave itself for the umpteenth time that night, he returned his gaze toward Tamaki who was being held in conversation by his two brothers, trying to impress the heir of the Suou family no doubt. His friend was smiling amiably and suddenly Kyouya felt suspicious.

It was impossible, the reasonable part of his mind said, but then he remembered his earlier reflection about the blonde and impossibilities, and took back his words.

Everything was possible.

But Tamaki was not vindictive, the same part reasoned again, and to this Kyouya had to agree. It had always been his job to be the vindictive one, he was raised like that. Still, looking at that smile, he couldn’t help but to think that he had done a very big mistake. Not that the man would crash his party or something, but the Ootori and the Suou often crossed path in their line of business and seeing now that he was the successor of his family, there was little doubt left that he would have several if not many dealings with Tamaki in the future.

His father might as well have destroyed the family’s chance to prosper accordingly by choosing Kyouya as his successor.

Warily, he watched the blonde man crossing the room toward him, still with that smile on his face. With each step taken, Kyouya felt his heartbeat speeding up rapidly.

It was a very bad idea to invite Tamaki.

“Congratulations, Kyouya,” his friend’s voice sounded surprisingly cool when he extended a hand out to him.

“Thank you,” he replied tightly, keeping his voice as steady as possible, and accepted the offered hand. It felt strange, not a shred of Tamaki’s usual exuberance was there to detect, but then again, he reminded himself dryly, it was to be expected. It was even surprising that his former lover had not attempted anything else which was in line with his usual dramatic flair.

“And Lady Ageha,” the blonde had turned toward his fiancee with one of his charming smiles on, taking her hand to bestow a kiss on it. “To think that a lady as breathtakingly beautiful as you is now engaged pains my heart deeply, but please accept my sincerest goodwill to congratulate you. Oh, love is such a beautiful but cruel thing.”

Kyouya, despite his earlier shock at the other man’s appearance, couldn’t help but to roll his eyes. This was, after all, Tamaki. He and the word ‘drama queen’ had been born together and would always continue to be coexist intimately, as verified by another exaggerated bow he made that left Ageha blushing a deeper scarlet.

It was when Kyouya realized that something was wrong. With him.

He frowned, unsure what to make of the discomfort he felt at the small scene as his friend continued uttering nonsense. When he finally found out what it was, Kyouya saw it fit to reproach himself for being jealous not for his lovely fiancée, but at said fiancée who by now had been giggling in her own timid way. Or maybe for letting himself to be jealous in the first place would be a better term. He thought his tolerance to let feelings get in the way had ended with his relationship with Tamaki.

No, it was still there, as proved by his overwhelming displeasure to see those lips which were usually tracing every inch of his skin once more applied a kiss to the pale back of her hand. Kyouya looked away and glowered to the general direction of the guests but found himself being scrutinized by Honey-senpai’s big chocolate eyes which, for once, looked more shrewd than innocent.

This was just getting worse and worse.

Seeing that Tamaki would not quit his flirting anytime soon, he excused himself with a polite murmur and made his way toward the long banquet tables under pretense of getting himself a drink. He took a glass of champagne and left the room for the balcony, anger boiling within him.

So that was what Tamaki was trying to do, wasn’t it? Trying to make him jealous. And his small attempt was not unsuccessful to say the least, because what else could his irritation mean?

Kyouya hated defeat and to see that the victor was Tamaki didn’t improve his mood.

“What are you doing here, Kyouya-senpai?”

He almost dropped the glass he was holding and turned around so quickly toward the source of the low, unfriendly voice that a little champagne was spilled to his fingers. Alarmed, he found himself face to face with the Hitachiin brothers, Hikaru with one arm circling his brother’s waist and Kaoru leaning toward the older twin much too close than brothers normally should, probably in the middle of engaging each other in activities he would rather not know.

Or perhaps they had been waiting for him here. This did look like an ambush and the twins did possess an uncanny timing, as witnessed by the obscene number of their successful pranks.

“The beautiful fiancée may get lonely without you, you know,” the younger of the two informed him pleasantly, in contrast with the apparent aloofness in his eyes. Kyouya felt his stomach made an uncomfortable flip at the sight.

“My fiancée is currently being entertained so thoroughly that she can’t possibly notice my absence,” he replied coolly and took a sip from his glass, wishing no one had noticed that his fingers were less steady than they should.

Hikaru disentangled himself from his brother and advanced toward him, an identical coldness in his eyes. “Kyouya-senpai,” he said, his voice hard. “What are you doing?”

Well, he had expected a confrontation – if not this soon – so better get it done and over with. One thing for sure, he was not going to let himself be defeated twice in a row. Kyouya set his glass aside and returned the glare indifferently.

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Hikaru.”

“Oh, you know what I mean alright,” the older twin snapped and drew even closer, forcing him to take one step back. “What are you doing being engaged to that girl?”

Adjusting his glasses, he let the think silence linger for a moment before answering, his voice carefully devoid of any emotion, “We are both the successors of the family. I’m pretty sure you understand my situation.”

Clearly annoyed by the answer, Hikaru opened his mouth again but his brother beat him to it.

“So that is why, eh? The successor of the family problem,” Kaoru drawled, his voice dripping sarcasm as he also sauntered forward. Between the two, Kyouya found himself uneasily cornered, the cold railing digging into his back.

“Well, I’m sure we have mentioned this before,” Hikaru said, his intonation slow and deliberate, an odd glint in his eyes.

“We won’t forgive anyone who hurts our lord,” Kaoru followed, the smiling lips dangerously close to his ear as his brother took position at his other side.

“And that’s including you, Kyouya-senpai.”

“So think very carefully,” the younger twin withdrew, leaving a shiver running down his spine, and returned to the circle of his brother’s arm still with the same aloof smile. “Do you really want to do this?”

Despite the oppressive feeling in his chest, Kyouya found himself giving the twin an indifferent look. “Are you two threatening me?”

“Who knows?” they replied in perfect synch and the way they looked so much like the other was, for once, utterly disturbing to him. “We can make someone’s life very miserable, you know. If we really want to.”

Kyouya had no doubt of it, but his attention was currently drawn to a small sound coming from the door which he had left slightly ajar. The twin turned around and they found Tamaki standing before the door, a stern look on his face.

It felt like the temperature had dropped for several degrees and Kyouya knew it had nothing to do with the deepening night. He couldn’t see the twin’s expression but knew that their alarm was no less than his because Tamaki for once looked like the king he had always proclaimed himself to be.

He took a step forward, the sound echoing in the cool, silent night air. Kyouya discovered that it was getting harder to breathe properly, sensing the impending doom.

“That wasn’t nice,” Tamaki finally said, displeasure ringing in his voice.

Another round of silence followed and no one moved as if afraid to break the spell, as if Tamaki’s presence brought everything but the wind to a standstill. Kyouya remembered one moment exactly like this, the intense pressure, the suffocating atmosphere, when Tamaki had confronted his father, angry but still calm enough to state his opinion politely, when the head of Ootori family had brought up once more the subject of a third son.

At that moment, Kyouya had realized that Suou Tamaki did not just suffer a severe case of crush with him.

It was Hikaru who stirred first, dragging Kaoru toward the door, and stopped just before their lord. “That wasn’t fair either,” he retorted, glancing back at the dark-haired man, and disappeared with his brother behind the door.

And so they were left alone.

It was the worst possible scenario, Kyouya realized with a grimace. They had not parted in the best term – no one would be able to part in the best term under any circumstance like that – and yet here they were. The other man’s violet-hued eyes were fixed on him and under that melancholy gaze, Kyouya didn’t know whether to feel flattered or trapped.

Because Tamaki was still in love with him.

He tried not to think whether the feeling was mutual or not.

Suddenly Tamaki smiled, even if it was small and hesitant, and his voice was no longer as confident when he spoke, “I’m sorry for what they did, Kyouya. If I knew they were going to blame you, I would have stopped them.”

Kyouya reached for his forgotten glass and sipped the champagne, relieved that he had something to douse his dry throat before looking up again.

“Why are you here?”

Even from that distance, he could see Tamaki’s eyes darkening. “I think I understand your reasons now,” his friend murmured.

“You come today to say that?” he asked blandly, ignoring the emotions which were too busy contradicting each other in his chest. He was grateful that Tamaki understood, really, but the selfish part of him – the one which was still very much in love with his blonde friend – cried at the loss.

He was proving himself a worse and worse hypocrite with each passing second.

“Yes,” the other man answered frankly. “I understand what you meant, but there is one more thing I need to say.” He paused and heaved a deep sigh before continuing with a braver tone of voice, “I really think you should stop the engagement.”

Kyouya felt his throat tightening at the last sentence and once more he ignored the roars and screams of his contradictory emotions. “You said you understood,” he growled, demanding for an explanation.

“I did,” Tamaki insisted, suddenly speaking very fast, “but listen, Kyouya, I’ve been thinking for a while and if it’s a wife that you want I can probably get a transsexual surgery and–“

“Are you insane??” Kyouya cut him off, horrorstricken, and forgot altogether about the glass in his hand which, courtesy to his carelessness, soon fell down to the ground below with a startling crash. But at the moment, Kyouya just couldn’t bring himself to care.

He must have gone out of his mind!

Tamaki looked apologetic but definitely not ashamed. Instead, he breached the distance between them with a few long strides and quickly said again, “Think about it, Kyouya. It’s easy and don’t you think it’s better if we marry each other? Well, I know I’m usually on top but–“

“That isn’t the point!” he shouted, finding himself getting more and more frustrated with each second. “You’re just so incredibly stupid!”

Tamaki seemed hurt by the accusation, almost like he didn’t understand why – which might be exactly the case because this was the idiot of all idiots Kyouya was facing. And as if he wanted to prove the point, the blonde said again, “But I thought it was a brilliant idea!”

“You are Suou Tamaki!” he no longer cared if he was shouting in the top of his lungs at this point. “You can’t just do anything so unbelievably stupid like that!”

Not for me at least.

Kyouya inwardly snarled at that little voice in his head. He really didn’t need that right now.

But he should have known that it wouldn’t end just like that. Instead of withdrawing, Tamaki narrowed his eyes and at the next second, Kyouya had found his wrist being held prisoner by his friend’s strong grip.

“I don’t want to be Suou Tamaki,” the blonde stated, graver, angrier than Kyouya had ever seen in his whole life. “I want to be the one you love.”

Inwardly Kyouya cursed. Always, always he would react to that word. And the fact that he had the other man so close to him didn’t help. It was almost too much, and he could feel his body shuddering already from the heat and Tamaki probably didn’t even know that. And those lips. Kyouya resisted the urge to bring his hand up and trace them with his fingers.

Two whole weeks. Had he actually been trying to survive without all these? It seemed absurd, out of the question, completely impossible.

But then he remembered his father, and his body stiffened.

“Kyouya?” Tamaki called out tentatively, probably unsure of the ground he was treading.

He felt a sob threatening to escape from his throat. It was stupid. He was still in love with his friend, but there was a fiancee waiting for him in the ballroom. Kyouya was an egoist, yes, but there were things he would never allow himself to do.

But Tamaki.

“You are very selfish, do you know that?” he said, no longer caring if his voice betrayed everything he felt.

Tamaki looked crestfallen and something in his face just broke Kyouya’s heart. It was unfair.

Then again, love always was.

“Is that why you stop loving me?” he asked, the question falling out a broken whisper.

“That is not the point,” Kyouya snapped, leaving out the part which vehemently contradicted the other man’s question.

It had never been a question in the first place. He had not stopped loving Tamaki.

And it was a good thing that his friend didn’t know that fact.

“I know I often make you angry,” the blonde said again, looking so rueful that Kyouya felt like he had just kicked a lost puppy. “And I’m sorry for being an ass last time. I was just so mad but–“

“You are NOT apologizing,” Kyouya cut him off, black fury, desperation burning in his veins, his mind screaming that yes, I deserved it, idiot, don’t you dare take it back because if you do, what will remain to save me?

“But I–“

“Enough!” his voice rose and Tamaki looked, if nothing else, surprised at his outburst. Kyouya winced. He had long since coming into term with the fact that his blonde friend was the only one who could crack his mask of perpetual coolness, but it still didn’t stop him from hating himself for it.

“I will not hear any of this nonsense anymore,” he deadpanned and walked past the other man

Tamaki was being a stupid egoist and he was being unfair. They were going around in a loop, two fools that would never meet.

It was just plain impossible.

But Kyouya still felt his heart stopping when a pair of arms reached out and enveloped him from behind, effectively stilling his movement. He couldn’t pretend not to notice the tremor running in his friend’s body and Tamaki’s voice, the one he had often heard whispered to the ears of their many designees, only much thinner, much shakier, now caressed his own ears as he whispered, “Kyouya, I need you so much that it hurts. I know I‘m being selfish but is there really nothing I can do? I just want us to stay like we always did. Is that too much to ask?”

It was. Kyouya knew the answer since millisecond one, but to actually put a voice into it was an altogether different matter, especially since his power of speech seemed to have went into hiding under the close warmth of Tamaki’s trembling arms.

This is where you belong, it said.

Ootori Kyouya had never felt smaller in his entire life.

“If only I’m a girl,” Tamaki suddenly spoke again, sounding vexed at the entire situation he wouldn’t be able to change even if the sky fell down. Kyouya couldn’t help a very little smile, and if he leant in just a little bit closer, he was very willing to blame it on the champagne.

“But I’m not, so we have to do something,” his friend concluded, claiming a spot on his left shoulder to rest his chin.

So this was it. Kyouya closed his eyes briefly, savoring the precious little moment with a quiet intake of quivering breath, and murmured, hating how small his voice sounded compared to the loud sound that couldn’t be anything else but his heartbeat. “Everything comes with a price, Tamaki. We are not commoners, and with that come every privilege and curse all of us must live with. This,” he turned around to face Tamaki, his hand settled on top of the blonde’s chest where the heart was beating frantically under his palm, “this isn’t for us.”

“I can renounce myself from the family,” the blonde said, stubbornness etched on every inch of his face.

Kyouya gave him a small, forlorn smirk. “You said that, but can you actually live without having your every little whim fulfilled? After so long living with everything your family could give you?”

Tamaki’s face hardened slightly, as well as his voice when he answered, “Do you forget that I wasn’t always a Suou?”

“But you are a Suou through and through now,” he replied, slowly releasing himself from the blonde’s now loose grasp, and gazed calmly into the wild violet eyes. “This is what we are, Tamaki, and this is what I want. I’ve made my choice.”

He turned around and reentered the ballroom, right on cue as the music suddenly came to life.

It was the time for a dance.

To be continued

-----

I want a happy ending, really, but to write a happy but believable one is so hard when I don’t even have any idea how. Anyway, it will be the twin’s turn on the next chapter. Behold my prowess to make these boys miserable.

Fic: A Two-way Road (Atobe/Shishido)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Mon, 28 Aug 2006 02:19:36 GMT

Title: A Two-way Road
Author: Atthla
Fandom: Tennis no Oujisama
Pairing: Atobe/Shishido (though it can be classified as friendship) with mentioning of Tachibana/Fuji and past Atobe/Sanada
Rating: G to PG. Nothing really.
Warning: Un-beta-ed
Disclaimer: Not mine (read A/N)
Summary: It is Shishido’s birthday and Atobe is dealing with more than just presents and celebrations.

A/N: I remember reading something like twenty facts about Shishido (or something like that) which mentioned that he had a dog named Atobe. If anyone knows who wrote it, please tell me. I’ll properly give a credit, or if the writer is offended because this fic also mentions that little tidbit, I’ll take this story off.

---

Birthday. A word that spelled obligation to Atobe Keigo.

His father’s birthday meant an obligation to sit down through a five-course dinner and many glasses of wine afterward during a business-laden conversation. His mother’s birthday obliged him to accompany her to every performance she wished to see, be it an opera or ballet, be it in Milan or Moscow. His grandmother’s birthday required him to order two large boxes of chocolates directly from Switzerland, one rum-filled and the other cognac, while his grandfather’s birthday meant a visit to his majestic grave with the rest of his family and a bottle of scotch to pour on the gravestone ceremoniously at the end of the occasion.

Shishido’s birthday equaled...many things. It could be pandemonium and yet could also lead him to a firm conviction that life was indeed beautiful. The factors which influenced the outcome were various, but Atobe had learned throughout years of befriending the impetuous but compassionate Shishido that most of it depended on how he behaved himself on that day and the present he brought with him. That the former was more of a problem than the latter had been proved ten years ago when he had given the other boy a tennis racquet as a birthday present and acted so proud of the good deeds he had done. The seven-year-old Shishido had dumped the racquet onto his head and even though the other boy had apologized sullenly afterwards, Keigo had learned his lesson all too well.

To consider such things before this day arrived every year was a kind of obligation too. This matter did not usually come to weigh his mind but now that he had come into terms with the attachment he knew he felt for his loud and brash teammate, Keigo was aware that he at least had to make sure that his gift was suitably satisfactory.

The hassle of suffering an attachment.

At least the matter of gift would not worry him any further at this point. Shishido, contrary to popular belief, had a passion for reading, especially manga and historical books and now nestled in Keigo’s left arm was a thick – expensive – book about World War II concealed beneath layers of purple wrappers and red ribbon. Again contrary to popular belief, Shishido did like red and purple even though he might, deliberately or not, have tried to hide the fact.

The book, added with a battle his conscience had lost against a small evil voice in his head this morning and thus compelled him to put on a pair of ‘normal’ clothes – as Shishido had called them when he gave the black t-shirt and blue jeans last year – made him certain that he had done splendidly in preparing the present. He had also kept this day clean from every other schedule and filled it with plans others less superior may call ‘Sunday dates’. Really, Shishido would never be able to ask him to behave more nicely.

The things he did for...

That stupid attachment of his.

So it was understandable that after all of these careful preparations, Keigo felt supremely annoyed when Shishido answered his call to the door and upon seeing him, looked like as if he had just met a three-headed monster. And as if it wasn’t enough, the astonished look then vanished from his face only to be replaced by a grin. Not the kind of thank-you-for-coming or oh-I’m-so-happy-and-I-want-to-kiss-you grin, but one which spelled so-the-great-Atobe-Keigo-has-finally-crumbled-eh right to his face.

A vein popped on Keigo’s temple. His pride should not lose two battles in a row and yet there Shishido stood as if he had just crushed it beneath his feet and felt supremely smug about it.

“You are the most obnoxious and uncivilized person I am unfortunate enough to meet,” he stated and felt none more pleased when Shishido‘s grin only widened a notch at the tone of voice he used. Atobe narrowed his eyes, a small action which usually sent every grownup shriveling in fright but unfortunately had no desirable effect on his idiot of a love interest, and growled, “Don’t you dare laugh at ore-sama.”

“I will laugh at you if I want to laugh at you,” was Shishido’s offhand retaliation before he stepped aside and feigned a courteous bow. “Do come in, Atobe-sama.”

A curse lingered at the edge of his tongue for a moment and Keigo was grateful that his refined upbringing was fine enough to stop said curse from being spoken out loud. Still with a frown, he accepted the invitation, wondering for the umpteenth time how that little voice in his head had convinced him to do – and wear – something so utterly ridiculous.

“So what’s the big plan?” Shishido asked, closing the door behind him, but then looked as if he was about to laugh again at the sight of his outfit. What irritated the Hyoutei captain even more was the fact that he did laugh a moment later. “You know what? I didn’t really expect you to wear those when I gave them to you.”

“If you’re done laughing, you can have your present,” Keigo said dryly and held out the wrapped gift.

“Another puppy?” Shishido’s eyes widened a little, noticeable eagerness seeping into his voice.

“No,” he answered with an acid tone, the mere mentioning of the present he had given the other boy last year reminding him of things he would rather forget. He had never quite forgiven Shishido for naming the dog ‘Atobe’. It might have a sweeter meaning behind it if one tried to consider carefully but he was too offended to think that his noble name has been abused to that level. On the day after, he had been particularly vicious to Oshitari who had suggested the gift in the first place.

Suspicion flashed across Shishido’s face. “If you dare to give me something like frilly shirts or–“

“You may want to open it to find out,” the Hyoutei captain suggested matter-of-factly.

It was to be expected, but Keigo couldn’t help but to smirk seeing the other’s reaction once layer after layer of purple wrappers were shed, slowly but surely exposing the stately gift. Probably Shishido had been seriously thinking about frilly shirts because his surprise was so obvious once he found out what the present was. Keigo remained consciously silent, watching many expressions shifting on that stunned face and long fingers absentmindedly weighing, caressing the book as if it was the ultimate treasure in the world. This was exactly what made the hassle of getting the present seemed completely insignificant.

“Thanks,” Shishido’s voice was gruff, as if the owner was battling extreme embarrassment, and Keigo found out that it was another thing which could restore his good mood rapidly beside an interesting shade of red on his friend’s tanned cheeks. Said good mood lasted long enough that he didn’t particularly complain when Shishido mentioned the parts of the city he wanted to go to. And even though Shishido laughed out loud when he used the word ‘hang out’, he kept it for later retaliation because it was the only day he could pardon every single sassiness his friend made.

In a way, it made him feel lighter, less burdened. Like roaming around places where not everyone whipped their head around when he passed and worshipped the ground he walked upon. He seldom went to this area and it felt odd not to have anyone coming to his every beck and call, but Atobe Keigo had never recoiled from new experiences.

Their first stop was the arcade and Keigo was the first to raise an argument.

“I’m not playing.”

An eloquent arching of twin eyebrows and Shishido smirked lazily. “Says who?”

A thousand remarks or more flashed in his mind, ranging from the most polite to those downright offensive, and he only had to choose one he was certain would trigger a fight and they would be off. But there was this one look Shishido was wearing, which Keigo suspected he had mastered solely to make him feel spectacularly insulted, and that seemed to settle the matter.

Never recoil from new experiences.

Three tokens later, his skill had risen so far above the standard that even Shishido had to stop throwing amused insults at him and start hissing at every hit his character suffered. When Keigo finally beat him for the first time, the gathering onlookers cheered and he smirked at the outright incredulity on his companion’s face. But of course Shishido wasn’t one to accept defeat quietly and neither was he in that matter. Before he knew it, they had spent every token from Shishido’s enormous stack in that single game only.

Keigo never beat him again and the Hyoutei captain had to admit grudgingly that experience truly made a difference. But, he frowned, following the swaying ponytail and its owner who was still too intoxicated by continuous victories and now was grinning like mad, he didn’t have to gloat so much.

“Don’t sulk. You’re a damn big boy already,” Shishido said, his voice sounding far too cheerful to Keigo’s current mood.

“I do not sulk,” he replied indignantly, fully knowing that it would only feed on his friend’s greed to see him irritated and be smug about it. Shishido chuckled, generously proving his point, and he followed the trailing laughter into a record store, silently fuming.

This was exactly why he didn’t want an attachment in any sense. And to an awfully inconsiderate, uncouth ruffian no less.

There was a certain ritual every time they happened to stop at a record store together. He would visit the Classical section and Shishido would roam in Rock and Pop, occasionally stumbling in reggae, and they would snort or wince at each other’s choice when they met again at the cashier. Obviously they were different, but perhaps it didn’t really matter, because there were things called influences and Keigo knew he was starting to etch his deep into the other boy, whether it was welcome or not. At least now Shishido knew who and what Strauss was, much obliged to Radetzky March, and didn’t complain as much when for the umpteenth time Tchaikovsky demonstrate his virtuosity from the excellent sound set established in his car.

If only influences and their issues could stop at that. However, he must admit, not for once or twice he found Shishido smirking at him because of a tune he hummed, and belatedly realized that it was a song his friend often played in full blast when they were together in his room. Keigo frowned, but of course nothing could stop Shishido from making a snarky comment about it.

Influences indeed. He sighed; perhaps it was that two-way road sort of thing. A rule of equivalence so to say, although he had not the slightest idea why he let the other boy to affect him in any way.

Most likely it had something to do with him being attached to Shishido. Not that he would admit it. Keigo knew how stubborn he could be, but Shishido was also doing an awfully good job in competing with him in this department. Like the small havoc that broke out when they looked around for a place to have lunch. And after they had settled nicely in a fast-food restaurant – Shishido’s victory, no doubt – another quarrel had to take place when the birthday boy insisted on paying for both of them.

When he followed his friend for a game of pool, Keigo had pretty much given up in trying to argue over anything else with the other boy. Shishido was in his mood to win and no one, Keigo had to smile to himself at this, no one could prevent him from having his way.

Their first game was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of Fuji from Seigaku with Fudoumine’s Tachibana, the former carrying his own case of cues. Shishido’s eyes lit up at this and Keigo fought down the urge to groan at the familiar look on his friend’s face. The match which ensued afterwards pretty much revolved around the two and he soon found himself conversing lightly with Tachibana about tennis as the game progressed, both of them practically earning no chance to hold the cue in front of such splendid display of prowess.

“It’s Seigaku again.”

“Yes,” he tried not to let an undignified frown spoiling his elegant countenance. “Unexpected, but it was the end result.”

“Hyoutei put up a great fight in the final, but I must admit that lineup was really solid.”

“Exactly the same as three years ago,” Keigo said tartly. He was not a sore loser, but still.

Tachibana smiled at him. “I didn’t really have the chance to play you.”

Keigo arched an eloquent eyebrow. “Oh? Is that a challenge I hear?”

“So what do you think?”

Never one to back off from a challenge, he smirked back. “Certainly. Shall we say, two weeks from now? I’ll make sure that the courts will be available.”

The smile on Tachibana’s face widened slightly. “Ah, the enemy’s playground.”

“Surely you will not let that little fact bother you.”

“Not in the least.”

The two captains smiled predatorily at each other.

When the match finally ended, they separated with Tachibana and Fuji – who had been smiling ominously by now. Shishido, clearly in a high spirit, chuckled. “He’s good, that genius Fuji Shuusuke. And he obviously doesn’t like the fact that I beat him. He wants a rematch another time.”

“I’m certain it will be the same the other way round,” Keigo said dryly.

His friend didn’t seem to be listening and was staring at the other pair with a thoughtful frown instead. “Are they together?”

“Don’t talk about others,” he reproached.

Shishido shot him a dirty glare. “I was only asking, jerk.”

The next argument came up when he suggested for tea and Keigo began to wonder if they could not even spend ten minutes without any while his friend stared at him, horrified.

“Tea? You sound like an old hag.”

“English nobilities never miss an afternoon tea,” he said haughtily.

“And you actually believe that bullshit?”

“Even street rats use better language than you do,” he shook his head in disgust.

“I’m fucking seventeen,” Shishido snarled back, “and you’re not my mother.”

“You can be a magnificently more refined seventeen-year-old. Like ore-sama.”

Shishido let out a snort which was torn somewhere between amused and disgusted. “I rather die first before getting reduced to anything remotely like you. And you’re not seventeen yet,” he added with a triumphant note.

“Too bad that I’m the more mature one, eh?”

Instead of glowering and throwing a hissy fit, Shishido only jabbed a forefinger to his chest and pointed out carelessly, “You call this attitude of not wanting to lose any argument mature?”

Keigo began to wonder if age did matter at certain levels. His friend’s skill in talking back seemed to have developed. Or perhaps it was his own influence.

When he had finally agreed to an outdoor cafe instead of another fancy place he would have preferred and they had settled behind one of the many tables, he used the time to ponder if something had indeed changed while Shishido showered a glass of chocolate sundae his full attention. There were things the old Atobe Keigo would never allow and some of the things he was doing right now were exactly them. Even if it was the power of attachment, he found them increasingly unbelievable.

Shishido didn’t have the grace of many young ladies his parents had deliberately introduced to him, and neither had he the careful consideration and austerity Sanada Genichirou constantly displayed – and he had once used to love and respect. He was all sharp tongue and quick wit, obstinacy and guts. There was nothing elegant in Shishido Ryou, like now when he caught him staring and asked ‘what?’ with a frown and a voice a little too harsh as if to conceal his embarrassment

Keigo felt a smile threatening to quirk the edge of his lips. “Ore-sama was wondering if you will agree to wear a dress for my birthday,” he said coolly, relishing every word that came out of his mouth. “To return my consideration in kind so to say.”

Shishido’s eyes narrowed. “Over my dead body.”

Keigo chuckled and raised a cup of Darjeeling to his mouth, pretending to ignore the scowl on Shishido’s face. And he thought if this was probably what Sanada Genichirou – or simply anyone else, in that matter – couldn’t quite establish with him.

A two-way road.

End

---

Notes: My second AtoShishi fic. This may have been placed after Attachment, but it pretty much stands alone. Comment, anyone?

Fic: Faded (James/Sirius)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Tue, 07 Mar 2006 04:01:51 GMT

A fic I wrote for gelasmus's request

Title: Faded
Author: Atthla
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13 for language and kissing
Summary: When attraction and hormones clash at the age of sixteen.

---

If sin could be personified, it must damn look like this.

James Potter gritted his teeth, suppressing yet another surge of frustration as his eyes surreptitiously kept following the slow, languid movement of one long slender leg being crossed above its equally head-turning counterpart. No one should be allowed to affect someone else that much with a mere action of crossing one’s legs. In fact, no one should be allowed to do anything which could affect someone else this much at all.

Except that Sirius Black was reading a book.

He was READING a book for Merlin’s sakes!

“James?” A flick of long fingers in thick, raven hair and a slight tilting of a regal, oval-shaped face. James supposed he could pretend that he had just looked up from his own book and accordingly armed himself with a properly curious look. If Sirius noticed the whole deliberateness in his act, he certainly covered it pretty damn well.

“Hear this: On the seventeenth day, precisely thirty-three hours after the brew has turned into the colour of silver, add a drop of human blood and stir sixty-six times anticlockwise. By now, the Veritaserum should have gained a transparent quality. Leave it for another eleven hours for proper congealment.” A pair of dark eyes looked up from old pages of the thick, leather-covered book to his carefully interested look. “That day we didn’t add any blood and Remus still admitted that he had slept with Fabian Prewett.”

“It wasn’t compulsory then,” James shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “Where the hell did you get that book from anyway? Looks like something Snivellus would own.”

Sirius’s eyes twinkled. “As a matter of fact, he lent it to me.”

There was a long silence while James, torn somewhere between disbelief and pure astonishment, stared hard at his best friend. Sirius maintained a calm smile on his lips, which nearly bereft James’s mind of the current track of their conversation and entertained him with much more interesting thoughts regarding said best friend’s lips. It was the sound of page turning which returned him to his senses, and Sirius’s voice saying, “He left it on my desk this evening after Transfiguration when I was talking to McGonagall.”

James felt his eyebrows twitch. “Do I sense a murderous intent here?”

A scrape of parchment fell from the book and Sirius stopped from turning the pages, grinning to his friend. “You may be right, mate.”

“Ten galleons that it will hex you as soon as you touch it.”

There was a flash in Sirius’s eyes that reminded James why exactly Sirius was a member of the Marauders though he could not exactly name what the flash was. “You mean it, my friend?” the black-haired boy drawled and a small voice told James that he did not want to stand at the other side of the line, opposing his best friend when he was looking like that.

James remained silent – though not without a very childish pout – when Sirius picked up the piece of parchment and displayed victoriously that his state of health did not drop a bit compared to a second ago. Grinning widely, he waved the parchment in front of James’s face. “You’ve just lost ten precious galleons, Jamey. Snivellus’s method isn’t this obvious.”

“Ten galleons that it isn’t a love letter,” James declared again, still stubborn not to lose his ten galleons.

Sirius’s grin was now impossibly wide. “As much as I love getting easy money, I do think someone has to put a stop to your brave but stupid conjectures, Prongs.”

Five seconds were needed for the sentence to fully sink in into James’s head. “It is?? What the hell–?” he snatched the problematic piece from between Sirius’s fingers and began to read it. At the end of the short letter, he raised his eyebrows at his friend who was waiting patiently with fingers forming a pyramid in front of his mouth. “I won’t call this a love letter. This sounds more like a death threat. Who is this L.M. anyway?”

“Lucius Malfoy.”

That dropped a bomb onto James’s head. “That Lucius Malfoy?”

“Yes, my cousin’s fiancé,” Sirius’s nodded with the nonchalance of McGonagall transforming a bird into a goblet. James was under a heavy impression that more seriousness was needed in handling this matter, which he obviously didn’t get from his friend right now. They were talking about the Lucius Malfoy!

“Are you out of your mind, Sirius?” he demanded, his voice rising. Fortunately they were alone in the common room since it was nearly eleven at night. “No, I’ll rephrase that. Who are you the stranger who is impersonating my best friend? Sirius Black never wants to have anything to do with the Malfoys, least of all that bigheaded jackass Lucius.”

In certain extents, it might also be an excellent explanation since James did not recall being attracted to his best friend before their sixth year. Sirius was not this...captivating might be the word, although he had to admit that Sirius had always been charming.

As a friend of course.

“You’re overreacting, mate,” Sirius pointed out as he edged near to the fire which was crackling merrily in the hearth. “I met Malfoy during the vacation and, let’s just say that we did things I’m sure you don’t want to know.”

James stared at his best friend, trying to gauge the gravity of those words to Sirius himself, and finally said, “So you’re dating him.”

The black-haired boy snorted. “Of course not. I don’t want to get involved with the Malfoys.”

“But you said you slept with him.”

“Yeah, but why does it matter?” his best friend replied, impatience brightening his eyes with small flickers. “I was bored and so was he and both of us had no objection to one night stand and there we go.”

“He is writing a letter to you, Sirius,” James tried to point out kindly and logically, all the way ignoring the angry talons of jealousy scratching his insides.

“So? I’m sure as hell won’t respond to it,” Sirius shrugged and reached out a hand to ruffle James’s already messy hair. “Relax, mate. I’ll make sure you like the one I’m sleeping with.”

James felt his eyes narrowing and words tumbling out of his mouth in the shape of a question before he could hold a grip on himself. “Does that mean you are sleeping with someone right now?”

Sirius was eyeing him suspiciously now. “No, but why are young being paranoid about it? As long as I remember, you’re the one trying to get Lily Evans to your bed.”

It felt like cold water being poured all of a sudden to his fiery head. He had forgotten entirely that he was, in fact, chasing Lily Evans. Yes, was, James reminded himself, what with his unhealthy infatuation with Sirius these days. Now that he thought about it, chasing Lily seemed to be a hell lot easier than dealing with the fact that his best friend looked a bit more too attractive than best friends should. Or perhaps something was really messing around with his head.

“Are you still there, Prongs?” Sirius asked him, a pair of thick, elegant eyebrows raised. “Or your mind is currently and blissfully invading Evans’s bed right now?”

James groaned at that subtle accusation. “I’m nowhere near successful.”

“Don’t whine, James,” his best friend reproached, long fingers starting to skim the pages of the thick, ancient book again. “To be honest, I don’t see you even trying these last few weeks and by the way Peter said Frank Longbottom is making a move on her already. You don’t want to lose our Miss Prefect, don’t you?”

“I’m trying,” he mumbled, his eyes still set on Sirius’s skeptical gaze, painfully aware that his friend had the absolutely wrong idea about what he was trying. The longhaired boy only shrugged and returned to his book, searching for a subject that might capture his interest.

And again, James was captivated.

Sirius always said that he hated his family, that he defied their every way of thinking and their sheer arrogance. But James wondered, while he was sitting there looking at the young heir of the Black and appreciating many little things about his best friend – the way he tilted his head, the way the tip of a finger waltzing leisurely at the rim of the book, the way utter distaste was being expressed with slight pulling of certain facial muscles without ruining the aristocratic lines – if Sirius was aware that they were betraying his lineage. He might hate his family, but the upbringing of one of the oldest wizarding families, the quality of the nobilities that had molded with his flesh and bones, could not be easily concealed.

James sighed, still unable to tear his gaze away.

“Yes, I’m trying.”

----

“It was sold out.”

Sirius arched an eyebrow. “Impossible. Are you trying at all, Prongs? Do I have to use my charms in order to get us a few Fizzing Whizzbees? You’re pathetic, really.”

Now sporting a very offended look on his face, James crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Why are you currently under the impression that your charm exceeds mine, Padfoot?”

“Because in fact, mine does,” Sirius ran a hand through his hair with a grin. It was a sort of bet he had made with James, that the other boy wouldn’t be able to buy them a bucket of Fizzing Whizzbees at half their price – an amount they needed in order to try a new prank. He sighed dramatically and spoke again, “I’ll give you a second chance before I take this matter into my hand, mate. And perhaps you should ask for Moony’s help because you obviously can’t do it alone.”

“You’ll be the first to test it because I’m so gonna win this,” James stated with a determined air before running back to try his luck.

Sirius only smirked.

Now, to the matter he had to attend.

A soft curse fell from his mouth as Sirius reached back to rub the sore spot on the back of his neck again. It was the third time the small prickly sensation bothered him with the persistency of snow falling during winter and slipping into his shirt. Sirius gritted his teeth but not because of winter hovering in the air. He knew very well what and who caused this.

A little walk to the direction of Shrieking Shack brought him to a small, deserted clearing, draped in pristine white snow. One man, his white-blond hair falling like curtains of silk past his broad shoulders, stood in the middle of the clearing silently and haughtily, dressed in a set of black attires which only sullied the sanctity of his white surrounding – or so it seemed in Sirius’s eyes. His lips thinned at this sight, not because it was unexpected but rather because of the utter unpleasantness of the matter. This man was one he preferred not to meet under any circumstance save for those of most urgent inevitability.

The other man’s lips curved slightly at his arrival but Sirius spoke up first. “There are less crude ways to inform me of your presence, Malfoy.”

“Certainly,” the lips turned into a Malfoy dry smirk. “Ways that may go unnoticed by such uncivilized head as yours, Black.”

Sirius looked at the other man coolly, not bothering to be bothered by the typical insult. “What do you want?” he asked in a tone so impeccably nonchalant that he had to refrain himself from grinning widely for his accomplishment.

“I recall that I have informed you about this meeting,” Lucius said formally.

“Yeah, let’s just say I ignore that letter,” Sirius replied with a lazy grin, his earlier nonchalance developing into full-blown insolence. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Ministry business. I met Dumbledore earlier this afternoon.”

Sirius tilted his head to one side, torn between the urge to laugh out loud and to imitate one of those Malfoy smirks he had learned from the other man. “How convenient that it falls on the same day with our Hogsmeade visit.”

“I prefer to kill two birds with one stone.” Yes, that smirk.

“And? Do I get to know why I’m being called out here?” Sirius crossed both of his arms in front of his chest and arched one curve of thick eyebrow. “Surely you don’t plan to fuck me here, do you, Malfoy?”

Lucius clicked his tongue – and to Sirius’s endless wonder, he managed to do so without ruining the image of an aristocratic bastard that he was. “Such crudeness. You are exceedingly unbefitting for a son of the well-regarded Black family.”

If there was anything Sirius loathed to the point of extreme and certainly didn’t want to hear on a fine day such as Hogsmeade visit, it was the mentioning of his family, least of all from the mouth of a Malfoy. The flame of anger which he had tried to subdue since his arrival there broke out of its containment in full force. He could already hear its ugly shadow in his voice when he spoke, “Can we just skip the preamble? What do you want, Lucius?”

When the blond man didn’t say a word, Sirius thought that he should have expected such reaction. After all, no one could beat a Malfoy in making everything tremendously difficult.

“I’ll answer that for you if you’ve suddenly lost your voice,” he said again, his voice low and dangerous, outlined by anger and dark malice he often heard coming from his mother’s mouth. But Sirius’s mind was too full of other things to care, among them his burning desire to just lash out at the other man, and he did just that.

“My cousin is very beautiful and undoubtedly a wonderful choice to be the wife of Lucius Malfoy. But lo and behold! There is a little problem. You don’t love her. You aren’t even attracted to her! Instead, you find a young man quite enchanting, who to your utmost aversion was the black sheep of the Black family no less! You’ve slept with him once but you cannot forget him. You want to feel him again and again despite the approaching of your wedding and finally succumbing to your desire, you walked your feet to the ground of Hogwarts and–“

“Crucio.”

At first, Sirius had no idea what hit him. He stared, more surprised than horrified, the rest of his words dying on his lips as the curse clasped its familiar thorny fingers around his body. A moment later he had crumbled to his knees and soon after to the snowy ground, bending in pain, his breaths coming out short and ragged for it hurt to even draw in air. The cool blanket felt more like a field of thorns, and he growled when firm fingers reached for his chin and forced him to look into laughing blue eyes through unshed tears.

“And where is your eloquence now, Black?” Lucius purred, running his thumb along Sirius’s jaw line, etching deeper pain to his throbbing skin.

“Fuck you, Malfoy!”

A dangerous flash crossed the blond man’s face and Sirius had to bit his tongue in order not to cry when those fingers descended to his neck, digging into his flesh. Amidst the pain he heard low murmuring sound in front of his ear but he couldn’t make sense of them – neither had he cared to. Lucius’s lips were on his but they had already gone before he could bit them and he hard that quiet, mocking laughter again. Anger seethed in his veins but to his horror, he found out that he could not move even a finger.

Malfoy’s unpleasant voice pealed in his ears again, followed by a pang on his lips and shadows shifting in front of his blurred eyes. It took him moments before he realized that the pain was ebbing and he was listening to sounds of footsteps, many of them coming and only one leaving. The latter was sharper, etching their sound to the depth of his mind, leaving a dull, throbbing ache in their wake.

There were many noises he could not distinguish arriving but he recognized one coloured with panic and just the slightest shade of rage.

“Sirius! Are you okay?”

He reached out, finding James’s hand clasping his trembling fingers, and smiled weakly at the new warmth.

“Finally there is something I can be grateful about having a father like mine,” he croaked out, his voice sounding tight as if he was afraid to speak and he tasted blood in his mouth.

“Don’t speak, Siri–”

“He made me used to Cruciatus.”

And he fell to the darkness.

----

It almost felt only like a nightmare.

When he finally opened his eyes, it was the white ceiling of Hogwarts’s infirmary which greeted his hazy eyes and, being there just a little more too often than a student normally should, he immediately knew that he was still alive. Dumbledore looked less cheerful and more somber than usual when he questioned him about the attack, but all Sirius let him know was that he had been attacked with Cruciatus curse. He did not mention Malfoy but he had a distinct impression that the piece of fact had not been lost to the Headmaster.

He had seen none of his friends so far, night had fallen so thick and dark that he supposed it was probably well nearing midnight. Sirius huffed when Madam Pomfrey fixed his pillows for the umpteenth time, but quickly smiled once she shot him a particularly stern look.

“Thanks, Poppy.”

“No student is allowed to address me with that name, Mr. Black,” she said with an austere face even though her voice pretty much betrayed her attempt to look less motherly than usual. “But assuming that you are recuperating, I can let you off this once. Sleep now or I’ll take my words back.”

“No gentleman – and woman – should take their words back,” he pointed out seriously.

“Sleep.”

Sirius couldn’t help but to grin and nestle deeper into the blanket to humor her. When you had a mother who would only scoff when you were down with an illness, someone who would nurse you patiently to health seemed too dear. She closed the infirmary door with a soft ‘goodnight’ and he closed his eyes.

Sleep would not come to him easily. One hour might have passed when Sirius finally gave up on his attempt and let his still sober mind to take over. A curse fell from his mouth for he wanted sleep badly instead of feeling his skin prickle again and again every time the word ‘Cruciatus’ or ‘Malfoy’ flitted across his mind. He should have been used to the curse, but perhaps it took more than familiarity to properly deal with it. He knew what kind of person Lucius was and yet he continued to play around, deliberately hitting the other man’s nerves only because he knew he could.

Lucius was good because he made Sirius forget about James. He could not have James so he would take Lucius despite his cold, harsh touches.

The sound was sharp in the silence and had it been some other student and not Sirius Black, he would probably have fumbled around for his wand in fear. But Sirius grinned to the darkness and stared at the source of the noise, declaring loudly, “You can definitely use a little stealth, buddy.”

James’s messy dark hair emerged first, followed by a pair of glassed eyes which seemed dark under the scarce light and a grinning mouth. His friend’s entire body followed a moment later and the Invisibility Cloak was tossed aside. James’s grin was bright despite the darkness and Sirius felt himself shuddering when the other boy halted just next to his bed, close enough for him to feel his warm presence.

“So, how are you, mate?”

Sirius made a face at him. “You mean apart from suffering post-Cruciatus syndrome? Of course I’m perfectly fine.”

James wasn’t sure what to say to that. He had never seen the Cruciatus curse actually being put into use, not beyond the pages of textbook, and although he had been naturally curious about it, to see his best friend as a victim to one certainly wasn’t what he had expected. James was not sure which was more upsetting: the wry confession Sirius had made about his father’s appalling antics or the fact that the culprit had been nowhere to be seen when he had arrived. Sirius hadn’t said a word but he could very well guess who it was.

His thought must be painted on his face because Sirius looked at him quietly, something not unlike mortification in his eyes when he suddenly murmured, “It was horrible, wasn’t it?”

Again, James didn’t know what he felt – or should feel. The flickering heat of anger touched him, raw and scorching amidst other less intense emotions. Sirius should not have come to Malfoy. He knew what kind of man he was. Sirius should know better.

“I don’t like you seeing Lucius Malfoy,” he said, his voice coming out harsher than he intended.

Sirius laughed, a short bark of wry laughter that sent shivers down James’s spine. There was dark fire flickering in his eyes and he shot back, “I don’t like you chasing Evans either.”

Surprised was too bland a word to describe how James felt at the statement. Sirius was still eyeing him sharply, silently, his lips pursed in aloof stillness which set every alarm inside James’s head. It didn’t allow him to give in to the glint of hope that had just been rekindled again inside him, many times it had been now and never long enough to set anything in stone.

“You don’t like her?” he spoke up again at last.

A tight smile appeared on Sirius face. “I don’t have any problem with her, Prongs. It’s you liking her which I have problem with.”

This was different, James realized after a moment. Sirius looked, more than anything, tired, his long bangs covering almost half of his face as if there was something in it to hide from the world. It was the face James had glimpsed years ago when he had been but a boy in his twelve eager to attend his first year in Hogwarts and Sirius an antagonistic traveling companion who glared at the wor

Fic: Those Left Behind (Hiyoshi/Shishido)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Thu, 05 Jan 2006 23:42:32 GMT

Title: Those Left Behind
Author: Atthla
Fandom: Tennis no Oujisama
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Hiyoshi/Shishido, past Ohtori/Shishido and Hiyoshi+Ohtori
Warnings: A little bit of angst and of course, male/male pairings...
Summary: Shishido and Hiyoshi reminisce about Ohtori and days that have passed.

Notes: This fic had been sitting in my computer for so long and one day I just decided to finish it and here it is. A tribute to the victims of many bombings who seem to occur more and more often nowadays. You’ll know what I mean after reading it.

-----

It is one of the usual mornings, regular comings and goings that have happened for the past two years. Shishido blinks to wakefulness, eyes still hazed by clouds of sleeps, and stares drowsily at the empty side of his bed. The small groan which leaves his dry mouth is hoarse, almost frustrated, but given his profession, he doesn’t have that many options. An early start is absolute for a high school teacher, more so since he is a member of the eminent Hyoutei Gakuen’s teacher squad, where unpunctuality is utterly intolerable.

After successfully kicking his blanket to pool at the floor, feeling the cool morning air greeting his skin, Shishido sits up on his tangled coverlet, half-awake eyes slanting to his empty side. A pile of nightclothes has been neatly stacked at the other side of the pillow. A curse from his mouth spoils the peaceful chirps of morning birds; how he hates that morning-fanatic fad, but really, one should not love morning that much.

He finishes his bath in a flash and ties his long hair neatly into a ponytail. A quick look to the clock orders him to hurry as he passes the dining table, glancing mournfully at the untouched stack of toasts. Another morning without breakfast and Shishido is not happy.

In his rush, he almost bumps into Hiyoshi who has just returned from his daily morning routine – which stands for running around the block five times and doing a ridiculous amount of push-ups and god knows what other exercises. It sure is a hassle to run a dojo, but since he is staying at said dojo, Shishido doesn’t think he should protest much.

The other man is frowning at him, which is not a good sign. “I set the alarm myself before I went. Didn’t it work?”

Shishido offers him a guilty grin. “Um, yeah, I think I didn’t hear it. Or maybe I did but then I thought it was annoying and you know,“ he pauses, but then thinks the better of it when Hiyoshi seems about to say something really scathing, and hastily continues, “In any case, we should get another alarm clock. But I really have to go now.”

Hiyoshi opens his mouth again but Shishido doesn’t wait around to find out what his lover is going to say. He can still see Hiyoshi’s frown as he waves back in the middle of his run, and grins to himself.

The day passes without so much as an event – just a few students trying to outsmart him by asking him the most absurd of questions. Probably it has to do with the fact that he is still relatively young for a teacher but Shishido won’t be surprised if the actual cause is his decent amount of female fans all over the school. That still amuses him nonetheless. The boys remind him of a time when he and Atobe were competing to ask as many questions their teacher couldn’t answer as possible in the high school. They must be a nightmare for every teacher back then.

During lunch break, his cell phone beeps and Shishido smiles when he sees the message.

“I’ll see you there at four. Love, Hiyoshi.”

His smile dims a little after he reads it, but then the bell rings and he wonders if Hiyoshi deliberately sent it just before the break would end. It seems just like something Hiyoshi will do.

At half-past-three, he dashes from the teacher lounge in full speed. His pace slows down a little when he passes the tennis courts and he thinks of his younger years and his strong passion for tennis. It still makes him wonder how he could beg to someone only in order to return into the regular team back then. Just for tennis.

But if he didn’t, he probably wouldn’t know the boy Ohtori Choutarou was beyond the exterior of teammates. He probably would never know what it meant to rely on somebody and to be relied upon.

Shishido throws a final glance to the lines of white-grey jackets and turns to follow the deserted path to the school gate. He walks quickly, not wanting to be late, because the appointment is important for both of them.

Hiyoshi is already there when he arrives, dressed in black formal suits like he did four years ago. Shishido almost winces; he doesn’t like the picture. He doesn’t like this day, but the day keeps coming year after year. Hands coiling into tight fists, he inhales deeply and approaches the other man. His feet halt next to Hiyoshi and he smiles quietly at the sight of white camellia sitting starkly against the green clusters of grass and the slab of grey stone. Hiyoshi has never forgotten. Probably it is impossible for Hiyoshi to forget.

“Hey, Choutarou.”

He feels the man beside him stiffen. Shishido puts a hand on the tombstone and squats down, doing the speaking as it has always been. Hiyoshi never speaks. He will only stand there until Shishido suggests that they should return.

And so he starts talking. Every subject that comes into his mind is shared with Choutarou and Choutarou will listen politely and silently, never responding to any of it. He talks about Hyoutei and his teaching job, about the most recent violin concert he attended, about the newest theory in Physics, and occasionally also about wars and politics. Sometimes Shishido wonders if he only hates the silence because more often than not, he doesn’t know what he is talking about. Words just pour out endlessly.

Hiyoshi remains silent.

“This is this boy in my class that plays violin,” Shishido continues talking. “He’s almost as good as you, but you know what amuses me? He’s dating the tennis club’s captain. I mean, I can never, for the life of me, picture you dating Atobe! I said that to him and you can guess what his reaction was – ore-sama this and ore-sama that. Our Atobe never changes.”

Hiyoshi still hasn’t said a thing and Shishido feels that his sight is becoming less and less clear with each word.

“Speaking of that bastard, he is now dating Fuji – you remember him, right? That prodigy guy from Seigaku. But he still has that habit to bother me at two in the morning. Oh, and there was this one time when Hiyoshi picked up the call and he didn’t know it was Atobe and he yelled at him for calling at such unearthly hour. I was still half-asleep but I think I almost died because of laughing back then. Just imagine Atobe’s face! That really served him right–”

The last word breaks and Shishido, no longer bothered to suppress his sobs, hides his face in the fold of his arms.

Speaking to Choutarou always does it to him. He misses his Choutarou. Choutarou was so nice, so kind, so caring. The world was being unfair by taking him, a very young man who had a bright future waiting ahead of him, away only because of there was a group of narrow-minded people who thought that the world would be a better place by blowing a concert hall into pieces. Shishido was angry. He is still angry, but he has long accepted the fact that he cannot do anything about it. His Choutarou has gone.

And he cannot do anything about it. Perhaps it is what makes him angry.

A hand touches his shoulder and Shishido has to suppress another surge of tears. He peeks from behind dark-brown fringes, unwilling to show Hiyoshi the face of Shishido Ryou not in its best, and he looks at the other man who is still staring at the tombstone in stony silence. Hiyoshi never talks and he never cries either. Shishido is the one who always cries.

He wipes the wetness in his eyes with the back of his hand and rises, murmuring to his companion, “Don’t you want to say something to him?”

Hiyoshi looks at him for a moment and then returns his silent gaze to the tombstone, looking more reluctant than ever. Shishido waits, but then gets a little bored and is about to leave the younger man – in case privacy is what he needs – when Hiyoshi suddenly speaks up.

“Ohtori,” he begins in a tone so serious that it brings a smile to Shishido’s lips. Hiyoshi gives him a sidelong look and then continues with a softer voice, “There is this important matter I need to talk about with you. I want to propose your Shishido-san but it seems impossible because–“

“What the hell are you talking about!?” Shishido bursts out, a sudden wave of panic overwhelming him.

But Hiyoshi is looking at him with a pair of very serious eyes. He is not joking, Shishido realizes with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Yes, they have been sleeping together since two years ago, but that doesn’t mean that marriage – or proposal in this case – is an option. There will always be Ohtori between them. Years ago, they almost killed each other because of that young violinist.

Shishido loves Choutarou and he has no doubt that Hiyoshi does too.

So where does that idea come from?

Hiyoshi has never said anything and Shishido never thinks what it will feel like if Hiyoshi loves him, not even during those nights of them together. Hiyoshi never holds him the way Choutarou did and he never asks why. There are too much never. They will never work out.

But.

Hiyoshi is still looking at him and Shishido suddenly realizes that he has been so used to waking up to those honey-brown eyes that it will be strange not to. And even if they slightly remind him to Choutarou, who cares? Hiyoshi isn’t as nice, kind and caring as Choutarou, but Shishido has been able to put up with him until now. If Hiyoshi wants him to replace Ohtori, Shishido thinks that probably it’s okay because neither of them will be able to forget Choutarou.

But.

Hiyoshi is still looking at him but Shishido can see his lips thinning and he wonders. Maybe Hiyoshi isn’t that low. Maybe Hiyoshi does love him in a way and that is where the proposal comes from.

Maybe it’s okay to give it a try. After all, Choutarou will not want him depriving himself of happiness when there is one waiting so obviously within his arm’s reach.

“I never say that it’s impossible,” he finally mutters, very faintly that it is almost inaudible.

He almost can hear Choutarou laughing softly at him. Damn. He can’t give a dead man a hard smack in the head, no matter how much he wants to.

Hiyoshi only becomes even more rigid. Shishido wonders why – and realizes with more than slight uneasiness that probably Hiyoshi isn’t as ready as he appears to be – when the younger man speaks up again in a very tight voice.

“It’s not impossible?”

Shishido thinks of smiling and he does just that. “Not really. If you do it properly, I mean.”

For the first time in who-knows-how-many-years Hiyoshi looks genuinely surprised. Shishido’s smile widens into a grin, though – much to his frustration – a little timid it still is. Well, he finds himself defending his dignity, a man should be allowed to feel embarrassed once in a while, especially in such situation that involves a proposal. It isn’t his fault, really.

After a long silence, Hiyoshi manages to murmur, “Okay.”

Shishido smiles at him again.

It shouldn’t work. It’s weird. It’s uncomfortable. It isn’t right.

But they are here and Hiyoshi is looking at him with a trace of a smile at the corner of his lips. Shishido, feeling happier but in a way also sadder than he has been during these years, thinks that probably he also loves Hiyoshi more than he thought he did. Hiyoshi is not Choutarou and neither is Shishido, and none of them can replace the young man who was only too kind and endearing, who has been taken away from them in a way so sudden and cruel.

But, Shishido thinks as he takes Hiyoshi’s hand in his, both of them can live with that.

--End--

End Notes: This is too sweet, too mushy to my liking, but for some reasons it just turns out that way. I really hate to use the word ‘tears’ but it just can’t be helped, ne? Comments are very much appreciated. Now, back to my AtoShishi obsession...

Fic: Attachment of the Proud And Ignorant (Atobe/Shishido)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Fri, 30 Dec 2005 13:01:03 GMT

Title: Attachment of the Proud And Ignorant
Author: Atthla
Fandom: Tennis no Oujisama
Rating: PG to PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Atobe/Shishido, hints of Ohtori + Shishido and Sanada/Yanagi
Warnings: Shounen-ai (isn’t that obvious…)
Summary: Atobe wonders if he really owns everything

Note: Kinda a companion fic to ‘Privilege’, but this can be read as a stand-alone.

Every time you hear the name of Atobe Keigo – often Atobe-sama – spoken somewhere within your range of hearing, your initial reaction is always a flick of your magnificent ashen tresses, followed by an equally impeccable smirk.

What you hear, however, doesn’t always please you. But you have learned that rule well through many occurrences when you accidentally overhear a conversation –not the slightest bit your fault that they are so recklessly loud, perhaps too excited from talking about your superiority, which of course, cannot be helped. Still, those many experiences don’t quite prepare you to what you’re about to hear.

“Eh? Shishido Ryou from the third grade? The one in the tennis club right? I thought you came to see Atobe-sama.” It is the voice of a girl. You know that voice from somewhere but can’t really place it where and when.

There is a sigh chiming as an answer, very dreamy-like and girly, those sighs of admiration you hear only too often, and a high-pitched voice following after one or two moments. “Yes, that Shishido-sama. You have no idea how hard my whole night effort was to make these cakes. But I did it. I just don’t know how to give these to him, he was such a popular guy. Even there are guys in my class admitting that they like Shishido-sama.”

You cannot help but to widen your smirk. Of course, given his pretty look and long hair, Shishido is quite eligible as the most popular boy for boys, despite his decent share of fans from the other sex as well. Their affections to him, you figure, is not quite the same as the reverence and respect you receive from most of Hyoutei’s male population. Yours is attained mostly due to your incomparable achievements in nearly every subject you care enough to touch, but his, you recognize, carries with it a lot more. Friendship is one among them and you know it isn’t only his looks that make it so wide in range and strong in compassion.

It is one thing that is unfathomable about him. For one, it is always lost to you the reason why people forge friendship, as you hardly see the need to. What it brings is evidently less respect. This is confirmed every time he is around you and the presence of you two, of course, is nothing ignorable. When others address him, many of them will discard the tone of reverence they have applied when they greet you, sometimes giving him a small friendly pat in the back as he throws a joke or two at them. To make it worse, you often see them exerting even less respect to him when they assume you are not around and every so often one of them will settle an arm around his shoulders. You find this gesture unacceptable since it strongly implies ownership while it should have been known throughout Hyoutei that Shishido Ryou is no one’s but yours.

In a few words, there is nothing desirable about petty friendships.

“Doesn’t he have a boyfriend?” you hear the first girl speaks again, a thoughtful edge in her voice. A considerate girl, but you have never minded much the fact that he has fans all over the school. On the contrary, it is playing as a plus point to your eyes.

“I saw him with Ohtori-kun from the second grade at the movie last weekend.”

The sentence freezes your hand on the grip of your racket for a second, but you quickly send the numbness away. It isn’t like Shishido is practicing aestheticism himself and you, of course, is the one who knows it best. Then, to rephrase your earlier statement, he isn’t yours – probably he is, in several meanings, but never entirely yours – and therefore, to make the whole things make sense, no one else should own him either.

As your right hand automatically searches for your jersey to finish the uniform-altering ritual, the other one reaches out to close the small window at your right. Only accompanied by the soft, monotone hum of the air conditioner, your mind is allowed to roam freely without restraint. It begins with a look into the wide mirror on the wall across the room, followed with a note to self that an appointment with your hair salon should be made before this week ends, and then to a violin recital you have promised your mother to escort her to. The train of thoughts has increased much in length and variety before a sharp realization dawns that every bit of them has at least a slight connection to two of your teammates.

Well, well, isn’t it disagreeable?

Your tongue makes an impatient sound and your feet start to stride forward, fully intending to leave the incommodious silence before your mind decides to visit even less acceptable subjects. Strategically located at one end of the lines of tennis courts, you can hear the raucous sound of morning practice as soon as you open the door of the clubhouse. One should not expect a quiet training in a club with more than two hundred members, a number you only smirk at.

It takes you a while to notice that the shouting is not one used for cheering or expressing amazement. Not long after, it quiets down into thick murmurs and whispers, occasionally sprinkled with panicked shouts. You still stand in front of the clubroom, listening, ignoring a nudge somewhere inside you that you should find out.

Then suddenly, amidst the disarray of voices, you catch his name being mentioned once. No, shouted as if in distress. And once again. And again.

It is probably curiosity, but a moment later you find yourself first pacing, and then sprinting to the source of commotion. Your feet deftly climb a flight of stairs leading to the tennis courts and you have barely managed to breathe properly when your eyes sweep a quick glance across the courts and find Shishido among that many people.

With his eyes closed. Limp. Immobile.

In Ohtori’s arms.

The tall second-year meets your gaze and immediately rises to his feet, his former double partner still in his arms. You hear him explaining in succinct words about severe and continuous lack of sleep in lieu of studying Physics and faintly recognize the subject Shishido hates the most. Unprepared to say anything coherent enough, you only nod when Ohtori puts forth a suggestion that his unconscious senpai should be taken home to rest properly. For a moment you watch him rushing quickly, dark brown hair draping his arms like a layer of silk, to the parking lot, to his car, before then turning to your silently watching team, releasing a firm order to return to practice.

And so it begins again, swiftly and orderly, and you would have managed to put the incident aside – at least for the time being – have you not glanced at the lines of regulars and caught Oshitari regarding you with shrewd eyes, quiet mischief dancing in them. You rise to his challenge and return it with a glare, yet finding no satisfaction albeit he is the one who looks away first, aware that you have lost since the moment he noticed the silent war going on inside you.

Oshitari has always been perceptive, you admit grudgingly, and even though his keenness will never hold a candle before your insight, it alarms you nonetheless. There are things, raw, little facts concerning you which ought to remain unknown to anyone but yourself.

Like the fact that the recent incident bothers you slightly more than it appropriately should.

Which results in a slightly less than perfect day to follow.

No one realizes this, of course, since you still appear as faultless as expected. However, you cannot help a little slip when during the programming class, while every attention is focused to the screen in front of each student, your eyes accidentally glance at the empty seat next to yours. And you are reminded of those days in the second year, when for the first time since the elementary school, Shishido and you attended different classes, how odd – even wrong – it felt.

Friendship does have its effects, but like your have stated before, you don’t believe in friendship, and so you simply make use of your appeal and lure him not to stray too far from your grasp.

He is not an easy target, that much at least you are convinced, especially since he thinks he knew you too well. But then again, who will not fall under your charm? He proves to be quite a challenge, and yet still not immune to your unmatched grandeur.

Like you, he has his pride – a very high one that is – but with it also comes the strength to not let it dominate him. You know how high the price he had to pay to earn it, that he had to taste the bitter humiliation of losing to learn that much and how hard he worked and toiled thereafter. It is not easy, being Shishido Ryou, and yet he survives.

And you respect him for it.

But Ohtori. What is it about Ohtori that bothers you? He is gentle, kind, although a bit indecisive at times, and unfortunately also always tries to be the good man, and if it involves Shishido, he often looks like a devoted puppy wagging its tail to its master... and somehow you feel the need to stop at that. It is no longer an objective evaluation to a teammate who has done so much for your team in the last five years. Perhaps it is true, that you are not comfortable at how closely the former double partner are – regardless that it was you who brought them up together as a double pair in the first place – but you have always behaved the same towards everything in your possession. It is not as if you love Shishido or something.

Jealousy is not your thing – you simply don’t have the time and chance to know what jealousy is – and yet you wonder if the tiniest spark of jealousy has eventually managed to get into you. And you think perhaps it is acceptable to put the blame on this annoying little germ as to why you find yourself standing in a small florist right now, facing a teenage girl who has a very unsightly blush on her face.

You have never liked blushes and luckily for you, Shishido never blushes. Or if he does, you find that on him it is rather appealing.

And where does that thought come from?

“C–can I help... I mean, is there any–anything I can do for y–you, Sir...?”

And why does she have to stutter? It irks you now, which is odd too for some reasons. There is a very good explanation why some call you the embodiment of vanity and you reckon it is the way you handle those who worship you and the earth you walk upon. You do not repel them, as Shishido always does, but welcome them with elegance – an art he pitifully cannot master until now.

But to ignore the anomaly for now is a wise choice. Determined on leaving the small shop as soon as possible, you randomly choose several flowers just for the sake of combining various colours and hastily return to your car, the small bouquet placed carefully at the empty seat by your side as you give further instruction to your chauffeur. To be admired because of your good looks is all and well, but it is hardly the point now. The point is to give the flowers to Shishido without looking too concerned about his well-being.

Suffering such petty emotions is one thing, but displaying them is another matter entirely.

Your car rounds a corner and cruises along the road where your destination is and you order to halt just in time to catch a glimpse of a tall, silver-haired young man walking into the entrance of Shishido’s house. A young man you know quite well in fact.

Sometimes, at really rare times, you hate the insight you master, because it allows you to read others underneath of the underneath, and what you discover more often will upset you than not. You have noticed, the way Ohtori looks at his former double partner and the way he behaves around him, how he stutters more often but smiles brighter and plays better. The last is a good thing and you usually do not mind the rest, but again there is something about Ohtori that bothers you. Continually. Again and again.

Scowling at the darkening cloud, you consider driving away and keeping the flowers to yourself since waiting for a turn is not something Atobe Keigo does. You will not disgrace yourself with waiting, but you also find the idea of misusing your time in a three-way conversation disagreeable. You like the idea of abandoning the flowers even less because after all you have wasted your time to buy them. These contradictions has continued for several minutes until you realize that you are debating trivialities you have never imagined your eminent self would ever put second thoughts on.

Some say that idiosyncrasies indicate that the subject in question is either under a lot of pressure or in love. You consider yourself immune to the first and yet you also immensely dislike the idea of the latter solely because it is too absurd. Love happens to less significant mortals and Atobe Keigo is far too superior to be plagued by such object of trifling nature. Of course you appreciate delicate, complex things, but love, despite its renowned ability to bring down many kingdoms and leave the bravest knights mourning for their fate, even thinking of suicide, is not one of them.

You asked Sanada once, after the usual session you two had in a five-star hotel, if he had any idea what love was. His response at that moment was a non-committal sound very much resembling a snort and so you dismissed it as a phrase of haughtiness to conceal his lack of knowledge.

Probably it was just him who didn’t realize, because when you looked into his face when the news that his best friend had an accident reached his ears, you thought of love. You were probably being delusional – after all, it was Sanada – but it entranced you and it compelled you to offer him a ride to the hospital. The relief that washed his face when he saw Yanagi breathing and still capable of smiling at him surprised you. You knew that they were bedmates, just like you and Sanada, but perhaps he meant much more to the fukubuchou than you did.

After the accident, Sanada firmly told you that he wouldn’t engage in any relationship with you above rivals on court. You shrugged it off with sheer nonchalance – after all, the Rikkai vice-captain was not someone you could not live without.

But then you started to wonder if you too, have someone much more precious to you than others. You have never let anyone to be really close to you, but now you are slightly concerned if you have made a grave mistake by sleeping with Shishido Ryou. That and the fact that since Sanada, you have not slept with anyone but Shishido.

Perhaps you should take another bed partner soon. Very soon.

And for one reason or another, it doesn’t feel quite right.

You are spared from yet another need to contemplate an unpleasant subject when a figure emerges from Shishido’s house. You stare, half-surprised, at Ohtori who is now walking toward where your car is parked – you suppose – quite conspicuously. He passes quietly with long strides, face unreadable, but the brown eyes linger only a moment longer on your car to make an impression that he in fact notices you there.

Again you are confronted with the question why the second-year bothers you so much.

There was a moment, somewhere at the beginning of your third year, when Shishido cornered you in the clubroom after the first interschool ranking tournament and said that he wanted to play doubles again. With his Choutarou.

You pointed out that the club had too many good double pairs already and they lack a satisfactory player to fill the single slots. Of course you didn’t divulge that those pairs were probably nowhere near the level of playing the Ohtori-Shishido pair had displayed during your junior years. They still managed to win though, except against a certain Golden Pair.

But, you found yourself defending what might have been your first not-so-objective-centered decision, Shishido was too good at Singles. His dash made nearly every shot his opponent attempted returnable. And with that thought you pushed him down to the couch, paying no heed to his complaints that he had just taken a bath. It didn’t really matter because you knew exactly what to do to make him think of nothing else but your touch.

You knew that he had a date – no, not a date, just an appointment because they were not dating, at least to your knowledge – with Ohtori to celebrate the second-year success to join the regular team. And he still remembered it then, even after everything you had done to distract him.

It was very unsettling indeed.

Eventually aware that nothing would pass – except time – from recollecting past failures, you descend from the car. With an umbrella shielding you from the first drops of rain – courtesy of your chauffeur – you stand in front of his house, flowers in one hand, and feel that this must be the most stupid thing you have ever done. There is no such thing as Atobe Keigo visiting a sick lover.

No, teammate.

But his mother has opened the door – you haven’t touched the bell, what a coincidence – before you can decide between your pride and finding out about a thick discomfort somewhere inside your heart, and she raises her eyebrows at the sight of the bouquet. You smile charmingly and yet somehow still feel uncomfortable because she is one of the very few persons who can make you feel like you have done something wrong. She returns your smile, a hint of warmth which reminds you of her son in it, and you have to suppress a relieved sigh before following her to Shishido’s room.

He is lounging in his bed, his untied long hair sprawled all about the pillow, his face concealed by the newest volume of ‘Shounen Jump’. He doesn’t look up when you open the door, but mumbles instead, “Just a minute, Mom, and then I’ll go to sleep. I promise.”

Flowers hidden behind your back, you silently and deftly crossed the room, and in one fluid moment, take the magazine from his hand, slip your free hand behind his neck, and kiss him.

He stares, shocked, and you smirk.

“There are things a mother will never do to her son that I have done, which makes it unwise of you to call me ‘mother’.”

He still stares at you and you continue to smirk at him. There is a sort of warmth – perhaps – trickling to your insides as you automatically tangle your fingers in his soft mahogany hair, vaguely aware that you have not done so today. To feel it is not a good sign, obviously, but you let it pass for now, contented only to savor his presence in front of you.

A minute later, he finally opens his mouth. “I think my fever has gone up again. I’m hallucinating.”

You arch a well-shaped eyebrow, even more amused, and put the bouquet into his empty hands. “Is that so? Then my visit ought to be the most precious medicine you’ll be able to get, Ryou.”

Perhaps it is the name or the fact that you have given him flowers, because your smirk widen as an interesting shade of red begins to spread on his face. “What the hell?? Do I look like a girl to you!?”

You are tempted to say ‘yes’ – especially with that angry flush – but then are suddenly reminded to a certain contemplation about blushes in general fifteen minutes ago, and you frown. How come your mind makes so many slips today? This is becoming intolerable.

“It is rather unsurprising that you are unable to appreciate my exquisite gift,” you eventually replies and to distract yourself from the previous thought, picks up his dropped magazine with a superior air, flipping through the pages casually. It never ceases to perplex you how he likes these things so much, but your hand freezes for the slightest moment upon the first page where two rows of small writings catch your attention. You don’t recognize the handwriting, but there is only one person in the universe who calls him ‘Shishido-san’ and apparently cares enough to buy him a get-well present.

One can easily compare them: flowers and a comic magazine. You try not to think which one he likes more.

He is still looking at you with blazing eyes, clearly unaware of your momentary surprise. “Does it ever occur to you, Atobe, that we have a very different perception about ‘exquisite’?”

Another smirk curves your lips, your rhythm recovering fast. “Yes, of course, but since yours is undoubtedly far more inferior than mine, it shouldn’t be a problem,”

“You snobby, self-loving bastard.”

A chuckle rises from the depth of your chest as you watch his scowl deepening significantly. No one can make you feel as easily amused as Shishido does, a fact which irks him so much because more often than not, he will end up losing and sacrificing himself for your amusement. Setting the magazine aside, you reach forward and touch his long strands again, murmuring a little too softly to your own liking, “You may want to refrain yourself from cursing, Shishido. It can worsen your cold and a regular should not be absent from practice because of cold. By the way it is cold, isn’t it?”

Now it is his turn to raise those thick eyebrows. “And now you bother to ask?”

“Obviously your illness is rather negligible or you wouldn’t be able to show that level of sarcasm,” you remark dryly.

Again, his temper flares in a matter of second and your amusement swells even bigger. “You called that sarcasm? You better watch your own sorry mouth, you insufferable, hypocritical jerk.”

“But I must remind you that you have slept with that insufferable, hypocritical jerk,” you bequeath another light kiss to his lips and is pleased when he does not pull back. But he is looking at you oddly, amidst the traces of impatience a question clear in his eyes, and your guard is alert once again. You rise from the bed – a little too quickly – and after summoning one of your finest smirks, you inform him with a busy air, “It seems that time demands me to leave now. Get well soon, Shishido. I expect none of my regulars to miss practices more than once.”

He opens his mouth to speak but you are faster and soon you have descended the stairs in quick, long strides, not looking back. After exchanging swift pleasantries and expressing your gratitude to his mother for her kind hospitality, you are out of the house, under the drizzles of rain once again. You chauffeur hastily approaches with an umbrella but you wave a dismissing hand, leaving him stand rooted in bewilderment at your unusual antics. Perhaps it is indeed unusual.

You only smile to yourself.

This is not the first time he almost reads you thoroughly and most likely it won’t be the last if you don’t do anything soon about the troublesome attachment you feel for him lately. You sigh, wondering why among so many nondescript creatures it has to be the foul-mouthed Shishido Ryou. It is not his foul mouth that matters though. Well, probably a little, but what really annoys you is the fact that along with his existence, there always is Ohtori Choutarou. Always. And there is nothing you can do about it.

He was the boy who pulled your Shishido from the miserable pit he fell in three years ago. He was the partner your Shishido depended on so much to make him a better tennis player. He was the one who was willing to sacrifice his regular spot for your Shishido in return of nothing. And you start to wonder what Shishido is doing being yours now.

It shouldn’t matter so much. In fact, nothing should go as far as matter to Atobe Keigo, but this one does bother you. You suppose it actually means something to be with someone for eleven years. You are not sure you want to picture a college life without him. Sure, you can go through the rest of your life without him quite smoothly and comfortably – your greatness will make certain of it. You just don’t want to.

And then you wonder if he wants a life without you, now that you are staring into his brown eyes as he stands there before you under a blue umbrella, scowling fiercely.

“Are you going to standing there all evening like an idiot?” he finally asks.

You look at him, standing wordlessly among surprise and more than a little disapproval, and realize that he has managed to read you after all. You raise twin arcs of eyebrows, ignoring cold drops of rain that are slithering down your face and the heavy coat that is clinging to your skin, and try to smirk. Surprisingly you fail to do so, either because of the rain that has numbed your muscles or the simple fact that he is there in front of you. He shouldn’t know. It isn’t his place to know that there is something that can trouble you.

“Do you realize that you are wearing your pajama? And that you are sick?” is what you say at long last, yet again refusing to follow the train of thoughts to its end. You almost wince. Turning blind eyes to the problem at hand seems to be one of your new fortes of late.

His scowl deepens, his temper rises, and yet he says nothing. You should have suspected that there is something wrong in the picture and suppress a fresh surge of panic when he suddenly steps forward, now close enough to let his umbrella shield you without shifting it. He still glares at you and you once again think of prides with the strength to overcome them.

But that is not the end of your surprise. Not a second later, you feel his fingers reaching for your hand, not quite linking with your fingers but circling your wrist in iron grip, and before you can question the questionable act, Shishido has turned around and headed back to his house with your hand still chained with his. A moment before he pushes the front door, a grumble falls from his mouth, loud enough for you to hear. “This is our last year. I don’t want us to lose just because our captain doesn’t know how to take a good care of himself.”

You let Shishido’s words to roll in your mind for a while as you stare at his fluttering hair. You don’t care if he is lying, but you do care for the reason why he says it in the first place. Not that you think he is lying. Shishido isn’t a person who deem such things worth lying about.

And then you wonder again if he wants a life without you. Or you without him. Because it seems – though peaceful and practical – absurd, uneventful.

Lonely.

You raise your other hand and touch the irregular ends of his hair, your feet still following his footsteps with their own quiet eagerness. You don’t mind loneliness – in your place, sometimes it is inevitable – but you take a look at him, and you decide to accept the fact that perhaps you are also attached to him as he to you. You don’t like the suffocating feeling, to be attached with anything, since it limits the freedom of your mind and soul. But you hate even more the helpless pain you suffer when you feel like he is slipping away.

He stops and turns around, ready to say something, but you beat him to it.

“I will lead us to victory.”

Something is lit in his eyes, something that softens his earlier wave of anger, something that pleases you for some reasons. He still doesn’t smile but he steps forward and grabs your collar, entirely unaware that his usual strength is temporarily disabled, and growls, “Do it, Buchou, or I’ll never forgive you.”

Your balance rapidly returning, you smirk and make the full advantage of your position to kiss him, ignoring his protest that an idiot captain will get sick because of his own idiot doings. For once you find yourself unable to care. You are here, he is here, and loneliness is out of your reach. After all, you have always chosen to handle the right matter in the right time and place.

Just for a moment, you don’t want to think of anyone else but Shishido Ryou.

~ The End ~

Notes: This is so damn hard. Atobe is so damn hard to write and writing from his second POV doesn’t help, but I finally give in because... well, because if I didn’t, the plot bunny would kill me. And I like AtoShishi. That’s all. Do tell me if you have any comment. Thanks for reading!

Fic: Holding Back (Kyouraku Shunsui/Ukitake Juushirou)

renhfee@yahoo.com — Fri, 20 May 2005 05:26:04 GMT

Title: Holding Back
Author: Atthla
Fandom: Bleach
Pairing: Kyouraku Shunsui/Ukitake Juushirou
Rating: PG for kissing
Warning: Grammatical mistakes and OOC-ness
Disclaimer:v Bleach belongs to the brilliantly talented Kubotite-sensei and will never, under any condition, be in the possession of this unprivileged author except in her pathetic dreams.
Summary: There is a reason why everything concerning Ukitake feels different to Kyouraku, which he doesn’t quite realize.

--

There is no one who can puzzle Kyouraku Shunsui as much as Ukitake Juushirou.

Ever since in the living world, Kyouraku has been aware of his virtue of being able to read someone’s nature, which has led him to many other merits. By understanding a character, he could predict one’s reaction to certain circumstances and eventually, learn to take the situation at his own accord. He was so seldom wrong in his guessing that there was barely anything which came as a surprise to him. Slowly, he began to get used to things progressing the way he wanted them to.

It was agreeable – and amusing – at first, but gradually he began to long for more surprises. He always knew how this girl or that girl would react to his flirting, or how this instructor would react to his slacking-off, and that one to his undeniably high score. What he needed was a little time to observe and he could play the situation as easily as a girl would with her dolls.

Only Ukitake could defy this principle.

He came months later than Kyouraku to the academy and immediately became popular with his good looks and excellent grades. That, and his manner, even though a bit timid, was no less than impeccable. Ukitake was a sort of persona no one, not even the most wicked, would be keen to hate, and Kyouraku appreciated him for that. He was a valuable classmate to work with and a pleasant friend to have around.

One thing he disliked from the handsome newcomer was the predictability of his reaction. As a matter of fact, it was the one thing he disliked about almost every of his acquaintance.

Or so he had thought at first.

The first anomaly happened during Ukitake’s first zanpakutou training, and as the only shinigamis who owned twin blades, they were naturally assigned together. As easily as in other fields, Kyouraku could predict how an opponent of his would move with a fairly abundant knowledge about said opponent, since one’s personality also affected one’s style of combating. From this understanding, he managed to remain unbeatable save for the few times he had favored losing, or when Genryuusai-sensei decided to handle his most unmanageable student by himself.

Concisely said, with his ability, everything was convenient.

It was then when Ukitake proved his theory wrong. Kyouraku spent the whole training wondering if he had mistakenly read something somewhere while repeatedly dodging the attacks his partner provided him. If he thought of a downward slash, it would be a sharp thrust to his chest or a knock by the other zanpakutou that came. If he predicted a feint, the attack always turned out to be real. The more he thought about it, the more frequent his judgment ended as a miscalculation.

Fortunately, their practice had come to an end before a victor could be decided, since Ukitake too was unfamiliar with his fighting style. The result hardly did anything to lessen Kyouraku’s curiosity though. Entirely fascinated, he then decided to spend more time with the white-haired young man.

What he then found baffled him even more. Ukitake did show many incongruities, but whenever Kyouraku was so convinced that his friend’s reaction would outshine everything he had in mind, Ukitake would respond in a way that was so mundane that he almost grimaced. However, it wasn’t rare either that he would be rendered speechless by a rather harmless remark the other man sent casually at his direction since he had no idea of it coming.

It was just another definition of unpredictability. His theory did have a flaw. Apparently.

After several months, instead of becoming appeased, his curiosity only swelled even more. They quickly became best friends, since Ukitake himself didn’t seem to mind his almost constant company. Sometimes Kyouraku wondered about that, whether it was just the benevolence the other man was so used to, or in fact Ukitake did enjoy their friendship. He was very kind, but that sort of kindness – or, Kyouraku ought to say, that inability to refuse – could be rather insulting at times.

To say simply, it was another thing he didn’t quite like about his new best friend, along with one more else.

His frail health.

While it was obvious that he couldn’t blame Ukitake for this, the health issue still bothered him from time to time. Days when the other man had to abstain classes and practices were inconvenient for him as his partner. He didn’t quite understand how a soul still could be so prone to illness. Maybe the white-haired man couldn’t even get up from bed when he was still alive.

Of course, perhaps he just didn’t want to admit that his sort-of-objection was – most likely – rooted on anxiety.

These subjects aside, Kyouraku thoroughly enjoyed the presence of Ukitake Juushirou. He began to learn that his friend, even though a bit unfortunate in the health department, had something much more in him to recompense this negative point. Obviously he couldn’t take the other man lightly when it came to battle since the number of his victory maintained the same tally as his losses. Neither he could expect an easy win in lessons, which seemed to be the strongest point of his friend. It almost despaired him to search for just one facet Ukitake wasn’t good at, not to favor his ego but merely to satisfy his inflating curiosity.

Oddly, for one who possessed too many plus points than humanly tolerable, there seemed to be no – or so little at most – envy ever directed to the light-haired man. Even if there was, it wasn’t hostile, more of a part of pure admiration than malicious hatred, which made Kyouraku form an even higher opinion of his new classmate.

And then slowly, he began to realize that perhaps it was the frank kindness what others saw Ukitake, not the good looks or excellent grades. The kindness was the reason why no one could ever really hate him.

On second thought, probably he didn’t really hate that part of Ukitake. Kindness might be a double-edged sword, but the frail young man was so sincere that it was practically impossible to be offended by it.

Kyouraku still remembers when Ukitake first defeated him at training and vice versa, or when they got their first scars as a shinigami, or when he first used his charm to flirt with his friend, as with everyone else. But he cannot point out clearly when actually his feelings began to change, or when the flirting suddenly started to feel like an insult instead of praise if he directed it to Ukitake.

He remembers clearly when he breached the boundary for the first time though.

It was a beautiful night, cool and soothing with gentle zephyr drifting about. It was also a night of full moon and the round sphere hung majestically from the cloudless sky, her pale light barely subdued by those artificial ones. His friend was working diligently in his own quarter, but being a laid-back personality that he was, Kyouraku deemed that it was an insolence to spend such night confined by four walls, and decided to drag said friend to pleasure and restfulness.

But Ukitake, hardly sparing a fraction of his concentration from whatever he was working at, simply apologized. “I’m sorry, Kyouraku, but I still have this list to finish for tomorrow.”

Undeterred by the polite but negative response, Kyouraku invited himself inside and took a place next to his friend. “Isn’t that the list of freshmen?”

“Yes,” Ukitake did not look up as he answered, one hand holding a brush just above the list, skimming through a variety of names as the other was set pensively under his chin. “Genryuusai-sensei told me to divide them into groups of three. Starting this year, he wants to try introducing field practice for first-year students in the curriculum.”

Kyouraku only hummed in response, familiar with the fact that his friend knew all students in their school almost as well as he knew his zanpakutou. Of course it was also the reason why their sensei trusted Ukitake with the task.

He managed to keep quiet for a while, silently indulging himself by alternating his gaze from the list to the serious features of his friend, but then grew somewhat bored with the obscure names which he barely recognized save for the girls’. More out of desperation to evoke some kind of reaction from the other man, he asked, “Plan to have a rest anytime soon?”

It was then when Ukitake eventually looked up, a solemn look on his face and an apologetic tone in his voice. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

“I want to,” Kyouraku shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant because the seemingly casual phrase actually made him feel a good deal more anxious than the blatant flirting he did almost regularly. He began to suspect that it had something to do with the fact that his interlocutor no longer remained as a mere best friend for him.

A little smile fleeted across Ukitake’s lips at the short, unhelpful explanation. “I suppose it will be futile to ask why.”

“Oh, but I do have a veritable reason,” the taller man replied without missing a beat, and was surprised at his own calm voice despite his heartbeat which became more erratic with each second. He astonished himself even more when for some unknown reasons, so sudden without a single warning, he put a hand on Ukitake’s shoulder, pulled him forward a bit, and met his lips with a kiss.

It was brief, and before he had the chance to come back to his senses, his body had retreated to a safer ground. They stared at each other for a moment, both speechless and waiting for the other to budge first when a mellow but clear sound of a bell from somewhere in the dormitory trickled into the chamber, piercing the silence with the precision of the sharpest knife. Ukitake was the first to break out of his stupor and as he carefully avoided Kyouraku’s intense gaze, his hand reached for his zanpakutou and he murmured, “I think we need to practice our fighting skill.”

Kyouraku forced out a short laugh. “Is this how you react every time someone kisses you?” He paused, and then offered a smile he wished did not seem too hopeful. “Or do I miss an underlying suggestion?”

Somehow it delayed the other man from immediately leaving as he settled back to his seat, obviously contemplating the question. Kyouraku had to resist the urge to raise his eyebrows when Ukitake turned to him, a serious frown creasing his smooth forehead as he replied slowly, “I don’t know. Care to try again?”

Damn him, was what Kyouraku sometimes really wanted to say to his best-friend-now-becoming-something-more. He laughed again, this time genuinely. “Damn, you’re really something, aren’t you?” and then added with a playful wink, “I’ll keep the offer in mind so don’t blame me if I kiss you again.”

Ukitake seemed to be calmed somehow by his frivolity and returned the laugh with a serene smile. “Do you like me that much?”

Like? It was an understatement. “I’m obsessed with you, Juu,” Kyouraku declared solemnly.

“Don’t call me that.” Now, that was a reaction he was familiar with, thankfully. He wasn’t sure he could cope with his friend’s unpredictability in this kind of situation.

“Would you like it better if I called you ‘my love’?” he then asked sweetly, putting the control under his hand again.

“That’s what you always say to every girl you’re flirting with,” Ukitake’s reply bore an unmistakable sound of disapproval as his frown deepened noticeably.

This brought a quick reaction from the taller man and he averred with as much disapproval if not more. “Don’t put yourself in the same class as them, Juu.”

Something flickered in the white-haired man’s eyes, something that Kyouraku would unhesitatingly entitle as amusement if his best friend had discarded the frown from his thoughtful face. “Then, in what class should I belong?”

“It’s called ‘mine and mine only’,” Kyouraku announced promptly and proudly.

Confusion had taken over for the shortest moment before realization lightened Ukitake’s expression. Shortly after, laughter accompanied by little minions of incredulity seized for the throne and the white-haired man smiled broadly, no longer restraining his glee. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me all this pointless talking are because you’re jealous of Byakuya.”

“You’re spending more time with him,” Kyouraku pointed out, noticeably trying to appear as wounded as possible at his friend’s allegation. “And they are not pointless.”

“He looks so lonely, Kyouraku, that’s why,” Ukitake reasoned, amusement still coloring his voice.

“I would call that anti-social.”

“Don’t be sarcastic,” his friend chastised, the frown returning. “He’s just a poor boy.”

Kyouraku raised skeptical arcs of eyebrows at the verdict. “Born in the Kuchiki family? You must be kidding, love.”

“I don’t mean ‘poor’ literally,” Ukitake replied dryly, completely ignoring the appellation his friend was addressing him with. “He’s brought up that way as a noble, but it’s pitiful to see him without a friend like that.”

“Always the compassionate senpai,” Kyouraku smiled affectionately, his hand reaching out to play with the end of Ukitake’s short hair. “I need to point out one thing though. This Byakuya kid doesn’t seem to be bothered with his companionless state, even though...yeah, it’s hard to tell with an iceberg like him.”

Silently Kyouraku congratulated himself when the lines on his friend’s brow smoothed – and the fact that Ukitake did not seem to raise petty objections over the whereabouts of his hand. The slighter man only suggested with a significantly more convivial tone, “If you really is that bothered with this whole issue, why don’t you come with me when I pay him a visit?”

“Nah, I think I still love myself,” Kyouraku declined a bit too cheerfully. “They say that boy is dangerous and I believe it. He can mutilate me from a kilometer away.”

“I thought you were confident enough with your own skill.”

“However,” he conveniently ignored Ukitake’s comment, trying to look as somber as possible, “it is an entirely different matter if we are to speak of your well-being.”

“My well-being?” Ukitake sounded amused.

Kyouraku nodded sincerely. “Yeah, I need to make sure my best friend is going to be okay fooling around with a dangerous sort like that Kuchiki boy.”

Ukitake leant back slightly, one hand propping his slender build as the other one reaching out to feel his friend’s rough chin under the tip of his fingers, returning the earlier favor. “So, to put simply, you agree to come with me,” he concluded with a deliberately low and languid voice, which somehow made the other man shudder even so slightly.

“To put simply yes, but it’s not as simple as that,” Kyouraku evaded, persistently playing his part as an unwilling but altruistic friend, although it was more to avert his thought from the fingers that were tauntingly latching themselves to his skin.

This was bad. Really bad. He had never ever seen this side of his friend.

“Alright, we have a deal then,” Ukitake affirmed, the firmness in his voice leaving no room for later annulment. He looked appraisingly at the other man for a moment, before adding amusedly, “You’re just trying to be difficult, aren’t you?”

“Where’s the fun in it if I’m not?” Kyouraku sighed, finally discarding his so-called role and grinned. “Well, I guess I have to make the utmost of this chance to make fun of the young master.”

“Didn’t you say he could mutilate you from a kilometer away?” his friend nicely reminded him.

“And then you asked if I was confident with my own skill. Of course I am.”

At this, Ukitake just stared at him, hardly suppressed amusement visible on his handsome face, and out of the blue, Kyouraku thought of a ridiculous image of himself being a prey to a too cunning wolf. He was wondering where the hell the thought had come from when suddenly his friend – the supposed wolf – leaned in to kiss his cheek.

Well, maybe the image wasn’t that ridiculous, if he thought about it again now.

Ukitake pulled back as quickly as he had leaned in, smiled sweetly – was that a sheep or a wolf disguised as one? – and said, “Thanks anyway, Shunsui.”

It was from that night on, that Kyouraku has given up on reading his best friend’s next reaction. But he has never let his eyes to stray far from the frailer man, constantly guarding, looking out for him. Always there is something related to Ukitake playing a part to every big and small episode in his life and often it makes him wonder if he will ever break away from the spell.

Even though perhaps he doesn’t mind that much if he will never be able to.

But looking at his best friend now, leaning down closely to his desk, working at something just like that night years ago, long white hair flowing past his shoulders, covering the embroidery of ‘thirteen’ on his back, Kyouraku questions with a pang deep in his heart if Ukitake will still be there the next time he walks his feet to the office of the Thirteenth Division. It sounds absurd, but he rarely sees the other captain not within the definition of resting nowadays, and yet never has enough courage to ask how grave the illness actually is.

He simply stands at the threshold, uncertain about his own emotions when Ukitake turns around and greets him with no little surprise and equally considerable delight. “Kyouraku! How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough,” he tries to grin and with an uncomfortable sense of de javu, realizes that he has invited himself inside again. Shoving the thought away, he diverts his gaze at the enormous stack of paperwork on his friend’s desk. “Busy?”

Ukitake smiles amiably, even though there is a hint of melancholy in it. “Ah...yes. I feel bad to ask for Sentarou or Kiyone to help me again. They are busy enough.”

Kyouraku chooses to sidestep the fact that speaks of the absence of the Thirteenth Division’s vice-captain and merely hums noncommittally. However, there is something about Ukitake that doesn’t permit him to look away, perhaps because of that emptiness in his eyes which explains so much more than he will ever be honest enough to, and a moment later, Kyouraku realizes that he has said, “Come with me.”

Very little surprise appears on the other man’s face. Instead, Ukitake strikes immediately to the point.

“Nanao-chan?”

Nanao-chan... Kyouraku wonders about her too. He flirts with her – as with everyone else – but is also aware that her coolness has successfully caught his interest, although it isn’t that unpredictable. Silently he laments about that fact. If Nanao-chan is more similar to Ukitake, maybe, just maybe...

“Nanao-chan is Nanao-chan,” he eventually answers, prudently keeping it ambiguous, “but you are irreplaceable, Juu.”

Ukitake’s eyes narrow at the mentioning of his first name, one he has not heard for ages, but still smiles even if it’s a little too tight to Kyouraku’s liking. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit too unfair?”

“To her, yes,” the captain of the Eight division admits compliantly, but then sends a glance at his friend’s direction. “But I don’t know about your case. Is it also unfair for you?”

It is a dejectedly wry smile that acts as a prelude for the answer he will accept. “You are not supposed to use that word in my case,” Ukitake tells him, voice still steady despite his contradictory expression. “I don’t belong in their class, remember?”

The calm reply makes Kyouraku tremble with anger and at once he takes hold of his friend’s shoulders, spinning him around, and shouts vehemently – or rather desperately – to the person who has thrown him off-balance from day one, pouring out all of his frustration, “Because you mean so much more, Juu! It isn’t because you’re less important! It has never been! Can’t you just see that?”

Ukitake’s face remains unchanged. “It’s rather difficult to overlook several facts we undoubtedly cannot ignore.”

Like the incontrovertible truth that we both are men. Kyouraku can still clearly hear the words his best friend has wisely decided to leave unsaid and it annoys him even more. No longer favoring cool reasoning, he pulls the other man to his direction – or maybe he simply throws himself forward – and buries his face on the slighter shoulder, unaware of the tumbling of his hat or the minor protest Ukitake is launching at him.

“Kyouraku! What do you think you’re doing?? What if someone–”

“Does it really matter?” he whispers, voice clearly spelling desperation as just behind his closed eyelids, a series of grim prognosis is being played, telling him a story of a man who has lost a friend – or a lover, he isn’t sure – he loves too deeply. He shudders and draws the rigid body closer to his own. “Does that fact really matter to you?”

There is a pause as Ukitake finally stops fighting back, his fingers tightly clutching the front fabric of Kyouraku’s robe. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, very softly. “Does it?”

At this, Kyouraku releases a bitter laugh as he withdraws slightly, only far enough to look at his friend in the face. “Why do you always want me to answer the hardest questions?” he demands, weary and annoyed, and yet unable to prevent affection from trickling back into his voice. When Ukitake doesn’t offer him an understandable reply, he tugs the pointed chin and announces, “I’ll answer that question of yours if you let me kiss you once.”

The other captain still carefully keeps his face devoid of any emotion, even at the blatant proposition. “You haven’t used your chance from that time.”

It is those defensive words that make Kyouraku completely withdraw and disentangle himself from Ukitake’s vulnerable hold. He glances around, mostly to avoid looking at his friend, and eventually settles his gaze on a painting at the far side of the office wall, mumbling to no one in particular.

“Sometimes I miss the old days.”

If Ukitake is bewildered by the sudden change of subject, he doesn’t show it. He responds quietly instead. “The old Byakuya too?”

For some reasons, the mentioning of their long-standing subject of quarrelling makes the taller captain smile slightly. “He hasn’t changed that much, but I think Abarai-kun is a good influence for him.”

“He likes Byakuya, you know,” Ukitake continues, his own smile developing gradually. “Really likes him, I mean.”

Probably it is the chance, or just his sheer desire to find out what his friend feels, but the next moment he has asked, very quietly, “Like the way you like me?”

The smile freezes on Ukitake’s lips and he notices them quivering even so slightly. Myriads of expression are shifting on his face, each so subtle and almost too brief to be noticeable, and on that very moment, Kyouraku can finally see that his feeling for the other captain, his friend of the very best, in fact is not entirely one-sided.

And it’s also on that moment when he becomes aware at last, that it isn’t Ukitake’s reluctance which has always prevented him from kissing the white-haired man all this time.

But he smartly covers his shock and only grins apologetically. “Don’t take it too seriously. It’s only a stupid question. Just finish your work and we’ll get some drink afterward. You can even drag your Byakuya with his Abarai-kun to go out with us.”

Ukitake looks at him oddly but says nothing and merely does as is told. Kyouraku follows his movement from the corner of his eyes and with a sinking heart realizes that his sudden discovery is true.

It has never been a fault at Ukitake’s side.

It is to selfishly protect himself, because he doesn’t know what he will do if he ever kisses his best friend only to lose him to an opponent he cannot battle, a rival he can never challenge squarely. If Ukitake’s illness really cannot be cured...

Kyouraku almost laughs.

And he is just not strong enough to face that simple truth.

--End--

--

Notes: This pairing really fascinates me especially after I read chapter 151-152. I know I just have to write a fic for them. At first, I intend to post this much, much later but the most recent discovery about our Byakuya-sama in chapter 179 devastates me and I just have to finish my Renji/Byakuya story, no matter what. This fic is kind of a prelude of that one, that’s why. Anyway, thank you for reading. If you have any comment, please leave a comment. I will appreciate it greatly :)