Empty

by scribblemoose

Somewhere along the line, Yohji had begun to dread the knock on his door after missions.

It hadn't always been that way. For weeks after that first night it had been the biggest buzz he'd ever known.

That Aya wanted him. Sought him out. He'd practically seduced him; Yohji had been taken so much by surprise he was mostly out of his clothes and fucking before he registered what was happening. That Aya had come by his room, fresh from the shower, blood just washed from his skin; not to bawl him out over some mistake or other he'd made during the mission, or for drinking too much or compromising their security with his whoring around, not even to deliver orders or tell him to get his ass down to work.

Aya had come into his room and asked him to fuck him. Not in so many words - just as well, or Yohji might have died of shock - but he'd stood there in that doorway, the one Yohji was now willing to stay silent and closed, his shirt falling off one pale shoulder, and asked him why he liked women so much

Totally unlike Aya. Aya never asked anything, except perhaps for the odd bit of information, or some sarcastic rhetorical question. Although the question carried all the authority of his usual requests.

Yohji had mumbled something about soft bodies and comfort, closer to the truth than he would have done if Aya hadn't taken him so much by surprise. And then the real stinger came.

Had he ever had a man, Aya wanted to know.

If he'd had his wits about him, Yohji would have known what was going on then. That was the sign; if it had been anyone other than Aya he'd have recognised the come-on straight away, and because it was Aya, he'd have dodged it.

Would he?

Yes. Because in his heart of hearts, Yohji knew.

But it wasn't like that at the time; it seemed so impossible that Aya would ever even think about sex that Yohji didn't give it a thought, and he answered naively 'yes, once or twice', and then there had been that gleam in Aya's eye that Yohji should have recognised, but didn't, thinking it to be anger or scorn.

He hadn't even turned the question back. He's just waited, like a fool, for the next.

It never came. Aya strode across the room, held Yohji still with both hands on his hips, and kissed him. No affection, no tenderness, no asking. Just want and need and lust.

Yohji's body understood those things, very well, and responded instantly. They fell on the floor - didn't even make it to the bed, just fell to the ground and fucked like animals. Short and brutal, and afterwards Aya left him there, and Yohji didn't care, made absolutely sure he didn't care.

It happened again, the next mission night, and again the one after that. And again and again. And he'd liked it.

Until tonight. He'd saved Aya's ass, been there with his wire just as Aya was about to get shot in the back, and the feeling as he pulled it tight around the target's neck was so bright and sharp and good that he couldn't lie to himself any more. It shouldn't mean that much, the killing. It was dangerous when it meant that much. He'd wanted the man dead and not because of whatever evil he'd brought to the world. He'd wanted him dead because he'd tried to hurt Aya. Because Yohji wanted Aya to live; more than that, Yohji needed Aya to live. To be with him. He needed Aya's tiny excuse for a smile; he needed Aya's arms around him to get to sleep at night; he needed for them to fight back to back and it felt as though if they did the world would fall at their feet.

The worst of it was, Yohji realised as Aya's would-be killer fell dead at his feet, he had never had those things.

All he had with Aya was sex and sweat and whatever companionship a person could wring out of lying next to someone who was as empty and wretched and damaged as he was. Cold comfort. Once he'd seen the illusion it vanished in a puff of self-awareness, and Yohji couldn't get it back. He couldn't enjoy the sex as sex, not with the cold look in Aya's eyes; he couldn't enjoy his beautiful body when every touch was deliberate, driven by the response Aya wanted from him, not from any expression of himself.

And worse of all was knowing that a cold, empty Aya was better than no Aya at all. That's how pathetic this whole thing was, how pathetic he had become.

So Yohji stared at the door and willed it not to open, because he had no liquor to soften the blow, and he couldn't bear the ending that was about to happen.

* * * * * * *

By the time the door did open, he was asleep. He must have been, because one minute he was hating himself and Aya and Weiß and every step of the road that had brought him here, and the next he was looking up into shadowed eyes, more grey than purple in the thin light, and without even thinking he'd threaded his fingers through Aya's hair and was waiting to be kissed.

"I can't do this any more, Yohji."

Not his voice. Not his thoughts, even, it was Aya, Aya saying that to him, which was wrong, it was his line, the one he'd rehearsed and rejected and dug up again over and over, and never actually thought he'd hear.

"Do what?" he said, stupidly.

Aya shifted awkwardly, bumped down on the edge of the bed and twisted his head out of Yohji's reach. "Sex," he mumbled. "Not right."

"You never complained before." Yohji realised he was leering. Muffling the voice inside him that wanted to beg Aya to stay with a layer of pointless arrogance.

"Things have changed," said Aya, ignoring him. "It's not right anymore. I shouldn't... it's not right."

He must know, Yohji thought, he must have seen right inside me and know that I've fallen in love with him. Bastard.

"So I won't be... not anymore." Aya squared his shoulders, drew his back straight. Resolute. Bracing himself for arguments or begging, maybe.

"Okay," said Yohji, feeling sick inside. "Whatever."

"I'm sorry."

"If you want to go without the best fuck you'll ever have, it's your choice." Because if he didn't say something normal, something Aya could bristle at and hate him for, it hurt too much.

Aya glared at him.

It could so easily have ended there. Yohji could sense that Aya was about to move, and he was about to let him. He was all ready to watch Aya leave the room while he counted to a hundred so he wouldn't fall apart until he'd left. Part of him even wanted it, wanted the hurt because then it would be over with and he wouldn't have to dread it any more.

But as Aya began to pull himself up and away his glare softened just a little, and something sparked in Yohji, and made him grab Aya's arm and yank him back onto the bed.

"What's going on, Aya?" He ignored the anger in Aya's eyes, looked deeper. "Why now?"

Aya didn't say anything. Just looked at him. Trying to get control, Yohji guessed, trying to cover his tracks. But it was too late. Aya gave things away so rarely that when he did there was no missing them. Like the time he'd finally told them about Aya-chan, and the love, the tenderness in his voice and his eyes had been so fierce it hurt to look at it.

"The mission," said Aya, coldly. "I'm losing my focus."

"You were outnumbered." Yohji ran his tongue over dry lips. Adrenaline fizzed through him, stealing his breath. "I had your back. It was okay."

"I..." Aya made a kind of tortured, whimpering noise in his throat. "It doesn't matter. It-"

Yohji reached out again, and this time he tugged on Aya's eartail, hard enough to get a yelp of pain, and pulled Aya down and kissed him, savage, like they always had, teeth and lips pressing hard and hungry. Aya tried to push him away, even as he was kissing back, but Yohji ignored him and kept kissing way beyond when they would normally have stopped, just kissing and kissing until eventually Aya stopped struggling, and even then he kept their mouths locked together, but he made it soft, and tender, and damn if Aya didn't respond, his mouth suddenly lax and warm and his tongue nestling and sliding around Yohji's own. And when finally they came up for air, Aya's fingers were clenched tight in his hair, and his shoulders were shuddering as he gulped breath, and Yohji was so full of feelings he didn't know where to start expressing them.

"It means too much," Aya gasped. "I didn't want... I... we mustn't.."

"Yes," said Yohji, firmly, finally letting the reckless hope and love course through him, his hands sliding under Aya's shirt, smooth across his naked back, not for sex, not just for sex. "I think we must."

Then Aya tugged Yohji to him, hugged him so hard he couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Kissed his neck, his hair, and when he lifted his eyes to meet Yohji's the laid-bare feelings in his gaze set Yohji's soul on fire.

"You really..."

Aya ran his fingers lightly over Yohji's cheek, and whispered. "Yes."

"Then let me in," said Yohji.

And slowly, through the need that left them a tangle of limbs and sheets and fingers stroking lines on sated flesh, Aya did.