Unsaid

fourth in the Found Series
scribblemoose

Aya took care not to intrude, those first few days after Yohji came back. Partly because, if he was honest with himself, it gave him a little room to adjust. As wonderful as it was to have Yohji back - and it was absolutely, indescribably wonderful, in a way that filled him speechless every morning when he woke up and felt the warm press of Yohji's body next to his - it was painful, too. Aya had carefully constructed a wall around himself when Yohji was lost, and it didn't fall to rubble on command.

But mostly, Yohji wasn't talking. Aya knew from long experience that there was no point asking him for information he wasn't already freely giving. Far better to bide his time and watch, and let Yohji work things out for himself.

Just as long as he could keep Omi at bay.

Most afternoons Aya came back from his tour of the shop fitters, electricians, estate agents and flower stalls to find Yohji sitting in the window, gazing out at the London skyline. He seemed to like it there, squashed comfortably on the window sill, nearly as much as he liked the bed Aya had left him in, long golden body swathed in soft white sheets, arms wrapped around the pillow that still had a few strands of scarlet hair clinging to the cotton cover.

He didn't want to do much, it seemed, except to stare out of the window and smoke, make love and sleep. He could be coaxed to eat, but only at Aya's insistence, and not nearly enough for the shape he was in.

The fifth day after Yohji came back was a Thursday. As usual Aya found Yohji sitting in the window, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his fingers. Aya had refused to buy him cigarettes, but Yohji had simply sweet-talked the maid while Aya was out. Aya chose not to comment, but he noticed that Yohji tended to blow his smoke out of the window and didn't smoke in bed, even after sex. A consideration he'd never shown before.

"I bought you something." He dropped a carrier bag in Yohji's lap.

"For me?" Yohji turned his golden smile on Aya, a habitual impish gleam in his eyes. He was pleased. Yohji loved presents. He eagerly opened the bag and rustled through the tissue paper inside. "Wow." He tugged out a handful of purple fabric, a confection of mesh and silk. "Shit, Aya, it's beautiful."

"You'll be too big for it soon, Kudoh. So you'd better get some wear out of it. There's a club around the corner, gay night on Thursdays."

"And we're going?" Anyone else would have seen just the eagerness in Yohji's eyes. It was years of experience and understanding that revealed the slightest tinge of reluctance there to Aya.

"Yes," he said, firmly. "We're going. And before we go, you're taking me for dinner."

"I don't have any-"

"I'll loan you some money."

Yohji grinned at him. "You've really thought this through, huh?"

"Of course. I always do."

"Come here."

"What?"

Yohji patted the sliver of windowsill at his side. "Come here."

Aya obediently crossed the room and perched one knee on the sill. Yohji wound his arms around Aya's neck, and kissed him. Kissed him again. Kissed him long and tender and wound his fingers in Aya's hair.

When Yohji kissed him like that, Aya wanted to cry. Nearly had, once or twice. Yohji may not have been saying much, but there was no mistaking those kisses. Love. Wanting. Fear. And a need so deep it made them both tremble.

"I'm going to take a shower," whispered Aya.

"What a co-incidence." Yohji nuzzled his neck, gave him a heated smile. "So am I."

Illustration by PL Nunn