Desire

by scribblemoose

Aya looked across the staff room at Yohji, and watched him draw.

He was concentrating hard, completely absorbed in his task. One hand held the pad straight on the desk in front of him, the other moved his pencil swiftly across the page. His tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth, just a bit, and it made Aya's heart lurch.

He dragged his eyes back to the computer terminal in front of him, but he couldn't focus on the words he found there. He knew that it was a worksheet on the shifting relationship between the allies during world war II, but he couldn't actually make the words make sense. His heart pounded in his chest, and he was having trouble breathing. He pushed his pointless glasses up his nose, and inevitably found his eyes drawn back to Yohji.

He couldn't tell what he was drawing; at first he'd thought it was one of the female teachers - that would be Yohji's idiom, after all. But he rarely looked up from his pad, and when he did it seemed to be to look into space, considering some line or blurring, rather than to look for inspiration.

Aya could see the pulse at his throat, throbbing in time with his heart. So alive, so breathing, so vibrant, his Yohji.

His?

Aya retreated to his screen once more, frightened that Yohji would see him, that someone else would see him looking, and guess, know that they weren't just new colleagues; would realise that he and Yohji went back as far as time. He was sure it must show on his face when he looked at Yohji, plain as day, that he'd had this man naked, writhing under him and screaming his name. That they'd clung to each other and cried and laughed and come together; that their bodies knew each other so well land wanted each other so much that Aya and Yohji had no choice but to be together. However painful, however stupid, Aya could no better imagine not wanting Yohji than he could imagine not breathing.

No matter how much it hurt.

And it always did hurt, one way or another. Especially now. The heat was still there between them, but Yohji was preoccupied, lost in a pain he refused to share, at least with Aya. And he wouldn't share anything else, either. He had been distant - not cold, Yohji could never be cold - but distant, cruel, even, in shutting himself off. Yet still Aya wanted him, more than anything, more than Weiss, or justice, or life itself.

He was watching him again. He couldn't stop, not even when Yohji raised his eyes and noticed him. Smiled, his tongue popping back inside his mouth. Returned Aya's desire a hundred fold. But just as Aya was considering alternatives, maybe a cupboard, or his car, or a deserted classroom, all risks that the cold-hearted Fujimiya Aya should never contemplate, Yohji broke eye contact again, and he was alone, bereft. He turned back to the worksheet in front of him, and tried to breathe

Yohji took a last look at the drawing in front of him, satisfied at last. Plaits were a bitch to draw right, and he could never get those eyes. There was something in them that defied description or graphics. He signed the bottom, a sudden moment of vanity, and ripped the sheet from the pad. He added a note to the reverse, and dropped it in Aya's lap as he stalked from the room.

Aya read the note with growing amazement and a growing heat between his legs.

"The art room. 10 minutes. Let your hair down."

Aya turned to look over his shoulder at the retreating Yohji, his pulse racing, cock hard, limbs trembling.

It had started again.